Chapter V (2)

'KEAN's manner in the first part is that of the miserly,
calculating Jew; and it is not until the entrance of Antonio,
that we suspect him of aught worse than usury. The sight of
Antonio kindles his hatred, and he exclaims, 'Cursed be my
tribe, if I forgive him!' We tremble for the merchant, and
shudder, as with a sudden change of countenance he smooths the
wrinkle of hate from his brow, and turns to his victim with,
'Rest you fair, good Signior.' The speech in which he recounts
the bitter scorn, the personal indignities he has received from
Antonio, was finely given. It was not said entirely in anger;
beneath his indignation could be discerned a malignant pleasure;
and when he said, 'Well, then, it now appears you need my help,'
his eyes seemed to flash with ferocious joy. The conciliating
and jesting manner he assumed while settling the terms of the
contract, was admirable, and the performance of the whole scene
was without a fault. The passage most deserving praise, in the
next act in which he appears, is the trembling eagerness with
which he receives the news of Antonio's loss, as he exclaims,
almost breathless: 'What, what, what! Ill luck, ill luck?' And
even, while in his impious rapture, he thanks God, he still
doubtingly asks, 'Is it true; is it true?' But it is in the
trial scene that this gifted actor puts forth his strength.
With what an unmoved air he listened to the Duke's exhortation
to be merciful! His reply was not spoken with violence, in the
loudness of anger, but with a horrid calmness in a subdued but
chilling manner; and he asked, 'Are you answered?' in a tone of
bitter irony. So fiendish a countenance we wish never to look
upon, except when we know it is assumed, as when he sharpened
the ready knife, and cried with a serpent hiss, 'To cut the
forfeiture from that bankrupt there!' We almost quaked before
the glance of his demon eye, as he seemed to gloat upon his
victim. As he gazed on Antonio, his lips were slightly curled
by the bitter smile of satisfied malice; his eyes were bright
and distended with the joy of his revengeful anticipations;
yet he neither spoke nor moved. We pass over many points, to
notice his answer to Portia's suggestion, of sending for a
surgeon, lest Antonio bleed to death. 'Is it so nominated in the
bond?' And the expression with which he raises his eyes from
the paper, and says, with a smile which a devil might own, 'I
cannot find it--'tis not in the bond.' As the court proceeds to
award the sentence in his favor, his face becomes lighted by
exultation; his whole form seems to throb with joy; he bares
his hands, and grasps the knife, with convulsive eagerness. But
who can do justice to the sudden transition of his manner, the
horror-struck, doubting air, the fixed rigid countenance, with
which he hears the forbidding clause? When he finds utterance,
it is but a sentence of four words which he pronounces. But how
are they pronounced! The fingers which had clenched the knife
gradually unloose their grasp, and fall nerveless and slowly by
his side; the disappointed, dejected, almost exhausted tone,
in which he with difficulty articulates 'Is that the law?'
Surely this was the perfection of acting. We have beheld COOKE's
representation of this character with delight, and have dwelt
upon it with pleasure. But, great as it was, compared to KEAN's,
it appears a cold performance. Indeed, Mr. KEAN approaches
nearer to GARRICK than any actor since his time. KEMBLE has more
majesty; COOKE possesses more physical power, and though not a
good, yet a finely-modulated voice. COOPER has great advantages
both of person and voice; but they are all deficient in that
astonishing variety of expression, that power of reaching men's
hearts, and causing them to tremble, which distinguishes Mr.
KEAN.'

KEAN's power over the feelings of his audiences seems scarcely to have been surpassed by any actor that ever trod the stage. Hosts of admirers speak of him even now with unabated enthusiasm.

* * * * *

THE subjoined beautiful reflections and yet more admirable poetry are from an essay based oddly enough upon a version of one of the monosyllabic poems of AUSONIUS; a string of verses, in which the last monosyllable of each line forms the first of the next, and the first is the same as the last; so that they may be read over and over again without end. 'We take it,' writes SANDS, 'as a good motto for a paper which we mean to write, without having any precise notion on what subject we shall descant. We mean to make, on something or other, 'a few plain and practical remarks,' as the Rev. Mr. ---- says, when he means to preach a sermon five quarters of an hour long.' The paper thus lightly commenced, closes as follows:

'A MAN who lives out his threescore and ten years, or lingers
beyond that period, must, in the common course of events, see
the ordinary revolutions affected by time and death. At the
middle of his career, he sees a flourishing family around
him; friends and connections formed in his advancing course;
attachments begun in sympathy, and cemented by interest. He
lives on; and his children are scattered by the accidents of
mortality, and their graves are in different countries. His
friends have vanished from their former haunts, and the places
that knew them, now know them no more for ever. 'He asks of the
solitudes, where are they? and the hollow echo answers, Where?'
There is no one to sympathize with his remembrances of the past;
his infirmities become a grievance, or he thinks them so, to
those around him; and he still feels that lingering attachment
to life, which answers the philosopher's question, _an mors
malum sit_, with the powerful evidence of consciousness. Hope
and Memory delude the pilgrim in his journey, by the false
colors with which they paint the scene before and behind him.
'Man never is, but always to be blest;' and as the future,
depicted by the fancy only, presents unmingled visions
of delight, the past, mellowed by time, loses the little
inconveniences which jarred discordantly with the passing
music of pleasure; and its remembrance makes us regret what
when present we neglected. It was under the influence of such
reflections, that the following lines were composed. They were
written in a prophetic hour by one who died young, and willing
to depart:

DELUSIVE world! whose phantom throng
Still flit, with juggling smiles, along,
To cheat the aching sense;
Where, as in man's primeval tongue,
Joy hath no present tense!

Joy, decked in unsubstantial hues,
The impatient fool for e'er pursues,
Till when the form is nigh,
The enchantress fair no more he views,
And all her colors fly.

But lo! 'tis there! 'tis there, again!
He starts anew, on quest as vain--
The enchantress is not there!
But like a vampyre from the tombs,
Behind, once more, the form assumes
Its station in the air.

Thus Hope and Memory still delude;
Now with the future's fancied good,
Now with the fancied past;
Till comes eternal night to brood
Above them both at last!

While thus I mused, I heard a voice
Of sweet and solemn tone:
'O child of clay!' it said, 'rejoice,
Nor woo despair alone.

'For know thine age hath reached its prime:
There is a race of men
Who do but hail life's summer-time,
And sink to earth again.
With one swift flame their being burns,
And soon their dust to dust returns'--
Blest Spirit! tell me--when?

Again the voice of music spoke:
'There is a happier sphere,
Where neither hope nor memory mock,
Yet joy is present there;
And dreaming souls to bliss have woke'--
Blest Spirit! tell me--where?

'Thou may'st with equal eye behold
Hours, days, and years behind thee rolled,
Grasping each present Now;
Nor dread the moment yet to come,
Nor weep o'er pleasure's mental tomb'--
Blest Spirit! tell me--how?

* * * * *

ALTHOUGH we find ourselves 'at the end of the tether,' we cannot resist the inclination to present the following forceful lines. Possibly the sentiment may be deemed heretical by the very imaginative and the young; but even such, if tasteful and discriminating persons, cannot choose but admire the melody of the verse, and the beauty of the imagery:

THE POETICAL CHARACTER.

IN fiction's devious wilds the heart misled,
To dull reality ungrateful turns;
Substantial earth's fair plains untempting spread,
And day's blest beam with light unlovely burns.

Yet not all Fancy's dreams, most wild and bright,
Are worth one day of Comfort's calm routine;
And simple Truth, attired in vestal white,
Transcends her starry front and garments' sheen.

And constant woman's fond and glowing kiss,
And heaven's own workmanship of mortal charms,
Are worth whole ages of imagined bliss,
Lost in ideal Beauty's airy arms.

The monster brood that cloudy spectre bore
To rash Ixion, deem not half so vain
As the fond progeny of minstrel lore,
Nursed in the womb of a distempered brain.

Why float these visions of delusive birth
Before the wanderers on the wastes of time,
Ordained to tread the firm, unyielding earth,
Nor yet the spires of heaven forbidden climb?

Is it that the soul divine, imprisoned here,
Beyond its dungeon bars essays to roam,
O'erleaps the due progression to its sphere,
Sees forms and shadows of its destined home?

Or, lost to innocence, to truth, to Eden,
Did our dark curse not quench each early ray,
But leave its broken beams, to light unbidden
The checkered mazes of the exile's way?

WE have not exhausted the stores which our obliging friend of 'the Confederacy' has placed at our disposal. When we have more space, we shall resume the desultory series which we are compelled to bring abruptly to a present conclusion.

GOSSIP FROM AN AMERICAN LADY IN PARIS.--We derive the subjoined pleasant gossip from a young and gifted American lady, at present resident in the French metropolis. We hope to be similarly favored, whenever our fair correspondent shall find leisure from the demands of society to transcribe her fresh 'jottings-down' for our pages: 'WE went to the Hotel des Invalides this morning to see the plans in relief of the fortified towns of France. They are exhibited to the public only during one month in the year. The plans of those cities I have visited interested me particularly. They are so minute that Miss L----, who accompanied us, had no difficulty in finding the country-house near Toulon where she spent some months last year. I was much struck by the plan of Embrun, in Dauphiny, that little town celebrated in both history and romance by the pilgrimages so frequently made to it by devout Catholics. It is strongly fortified and built on a rock of semi-circular form, which rises so perpendicularly on one side from the meadows which lie below, that one would suppose it must have been hewn away by the hand of man. I was much interested, too, by the plan of Mont St. Michel, in Normandy, the celebrated prison, built on a rock, which the tide separates twice a day from the main land, and where the political prisoners condemned after the _émeuté_, in May, 1839, are confined. We were looking at the plan of a fort, on the pedestal of which the name had not been labelled as on the others, when a soldier standing near informed us it was that of Ham, where the nephew of NAPOLEON is now a prisoner. It is in Picardy, which I am told is the most arid and unfruitful province in France. It is built around a quadrangular court, or I should rather say there are three buildings and a terrace which form a hollow square. The prince, who is said to be a remarkably good horseman, is allowed to ride on this terrace, which is not shaded by trees; indeed, if this plan be correct, which I suppose it must be, as it has just been made, there is but one tree within the precincts of the fortress.... In the evening, my friend, Madame D---- took me to the house of the Polish Princess CZARTORYSKI. Prince ADAM CZARTORYSKI is from his birth, his wealth, and his character, one of the most illustrious of the Polish refugees. His life has been checkered by every extreme of good or ill. In early youth, he served in the army of the republic of Poland. He was at one time the captive of CATHERINE II., and in 1831 was at the head of the provisional government of Poland. After the total defeat of the Polish army, Prince and Princess CZARTORYSKI with some difficulty made their escape, with their three children, the youngest of whom was not a year old. The Princess had not even a change of linen with her, and no time to collect her jewels, which were brought to her after she had reached the Austrian frontier, by a soldier, whom she had never seen before, and who refused to tell his name. It is impossible to imagine a greater contrast than that offered by the present mode of life of the Prince and Princess, and the splendor by which they were formerly surrounded. Prince ADAM was one of the richest proprietors, and possessed not one, but several, of the most magnificent palaces in Poland, and was accustomed from childhood to every comfort and luxury which wealth could devise. The house he now inhabits is as simple as possible; but he remains at home every Monday evening for the purpose of seeing his friends and countrymen; and his _salon_ is always crowded with the most learned men and most fashionable women in Paris. These weekly receptions are attended with but very little expense here, as tea and lemonade are the only refreshments it is the custom to offer. Prince CZARTORYSKI is a most venerable-looking man of about seventy. The expression of his face is habitually melancholy, but at times he is very animated in conversation. Like most Poles, he speaks low and very slowly. I remarked that he was particularly polite and attentive to young people, which in a man, who, from his various misfortunes and trials, can take but little interest in general society, is, I think, very striking. The Princess, who must be almost thirty years younger than the Prince, is very lady-like and prepossessing in her manners. She is much beloved by her _compatriotes_: her efforts to relieve those who are in distressed circumstances being unceasing. She employs all her leisure hours in embroidering; and her embroidery, which is more beautiful than any thing of the kind I have ever seen, is sold at a bazar, which is opened during the last week of every year; new-year's day being the time when the French make those presents to their friends which in England and in our country are made on Christmas day. All the ladies of the Princess's acquaintance of course contribute to her bazar; and those who are remarkable for their beauty or their talents, are invited by her to keep the stalls. * * * MRS. B----, whose son, a lad of about sixteen, is now engaged in attending the _cours de religion_, or religious lectures of M. COQUEREL, one of the clergymen of the Reformed Church of Paris, took me this morning to hear one of the lectures. M. COQUEREL is the nephew of the celebrated HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS, by whom he was educated. He is the most eloquent, and I believe the most learned, clergyman in Paris. I had been much pleased with his sermons, and was therefore very glad to have an opportunity of hearing one of his lectures. His class was composed of about thirty young men, of different ages, from sixteen to twenty-five. He has written a little book called '_Cours de Religion_,' which he makes use of in his lectures. The method he adopts is this: He reads a paragraph from this little volume, and then comments upon it, and explains or developes it, often relating interesting anecdotes suggested to him by the subject, or asking questions which the foregoing lectures enable the scholars to reply to. The young men take notes, write them out at home, and bring these papers to Mr. COQUEREL at the next lesson. The lectures for young men take place twice a week, from October to May, and those for young ladies at different hours during the same period. The scholars are admitted to take the sacrament at Pentecost. M. COQUEREL is a most active and industrious man. Beside several volumes of sermons, and innumerable papers for different religious journals, he has published a very useful work, called '_Biographie Sacrée_,' in which every name mentioned in the Bible is to be found. His manner is very animated; and as each lecture lasts but an hour, it is impossible that the attention of the young hearers should become weary.... 'APRIL 19th. Went to the exhibition of paintings by living artists, which is now open at the Louvre. The most beautiful picture there, is one by M. COGNIET; 'TINTORETTO painting his dead Daughter.' The biographers of the great master inform us, that he had a daughter who evinced great talent for painting, to whom he was devotedly attached, but who died when young. M. COGNIET has chosen the moment when TINTORETTO, rising from his easel, on which rests the unfinished portrait, stands gazing on his beloved daughter, who is lying on a bed in the fore-ground of the picture. The father is almost _de face_, but the lower part of his figure is concealed by the bed. A crimson curtain falls behind him, and forms a rich but not gaudy back-ground to the picture and, by throwing a slight reflection on the daughter's face, relieves the whole from that disagreeable effect, which, with less judgment and good taste on the part of the artist, it must have produced, without taking from it the solemnity which the subject required. This is, on the whole, almost the only picture of the modern French school which pleases me entirely; in which there is no exaggeration of expression or gesture, and which deserves to be compared to those of the modern school of painting in Germany. I have no doubt that the circumstance of an exhibition taking place every year is a great disadvantage to young artists, who hurry to finish a picture for that occasion, in order that their names may be mentioned in the journals, and that they may obtain a celebrity which lasts but a few weeks. If the exhibition took place but once in five years, I am convinced we should see more fine pictures at the Louvre. Among the portraits I remarked one of Major POUSSIN, who resided for so many years in the United States. It is painted by Mademoiselle GODEFROID, a pupil of GERARD, and is a very good likeness. I was struck by a portrait of M'lle de FAUVEAU. This lady is of a noble family of Brittany, and is well known for her devotion to the cause of the DUCHESS DE BERRI, and for the talent she has displayed in the art of sculpture. She is neither young nor handsome; she is dressed in the costume of a peasant of Brittany, a sort of _blouse_ or loose frock, with her hair cut short in a strait line across her forehead, as we sometimes see it in the portraits of the early French kings. There is a portrait of the DUKE OF ORLEANS at the Louvre. It was painted from memory by SCHEFFER, a very clever artist. Some of the fruit-pieces and portraits, _au pastel_, in colored chalks, are very beautiful. Indeed, the French excel in this style of drawing. Among the paintings on porcelain we particularly admired a Holy Family, copied from one of the old masters. It is a perfect bijou. The day after our visit to the Louvre, Mrs. R---- took me to the _atelier_ of Mr. HEALY, the young American artist. His portrait of WASHINGTON, copied from one by STUART, gave great satisfaction to LOUIS PHILIPPE, and has been placed in one of the historical galleries at Versailles. Mr. HEALY has now a beautiful picture of two of Colonel THORNE's daughters, which he is retouching, at his room. The attitudes, particularly that of the eldest of the young ladies, are very graceful, and the whole picture in very good taste.'

* * * * *

THE IRISH SKETCH-BOOK.--This capital work by 'Mr. M. A. TITMARSH,' otherwise W. M. THACKERAY, Esq., author of 'The Yellowplush Correspondence,' has just been published by Mr. WINCHESTER, at the 'New World' office, in a very neat little pamphlet-volume, illustrated with numerous engravings, from the pencil of the author. Our readers have had repeated evidences of the high estimation in which we hold the writings of Mr. THACKERAY; and they may trust our judgment in this, that they will find the volume before us to be second to no previous work of the writer. It is, in fact, Ireland on canvass; its various cities and towns; its ludicrous modes of travel, and more ludicrous travellers; its wretched poverty, its generous hospitality; its suffering, and its indomitable good-humor. We were not until now aware that Mr. TITMARSH was 'given to song' as well as to romance and painting; but his 'Peg of Limavaddy,' a handsome kettle-scrubber, who handed him his 'rummer' of ale, and laughed so joyously at an accident which befel it, establishes the 'soft impeachment:'

'PRESENTLY a maid
Enters with the liquor
Half a pint of ale
Frothing in a beaker.
Gods! I didn't know
What my beating heart meant,
Hebe's self I thought
Entered the apartment.
As she came she smiled,
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honor,
Lighted all the kitchen!

'With a curtsey neat
Greeting the new-comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg
Offers me the rummer;
But my trembling hand
Up the beaker tilted,
And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it;
Spilt it every drop
(Dames who read my volumes,
Pardon such a word,)
On my what-d'ye-call 'ems!

'Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster,
Out began to laugh
Missis, maid, and master.
Such a merry peal,
'Specially Miss Peg's was
(As the glass of ale
Trickling down my legs was)
That the joyful sound
Of that ringing laughter
Echoed in my ears
Many a long day after.

'Such a silver peal!
In the meadows listening.
You who've heard the bells
Ringing to a christening;
You who ever heard
Caradori pretty,
Smiling like an angel
Singing 'Giovinetti,'
Fancy Peggy's laugh,
Sweet and clear and cheerful,
At my pantaloons
With half-a-pint of beer full!'

We repeat, the 'Irish Sketch-Book' is a _capital_ work, and cannot fail of very general popularity. The author possesses a delicate appreciation of the beautiful, as well as a lively perception of the ridiculous; a felicitous combination of faculties, since the union of fine taste and strong humor seldom takes place in the same individual.

'MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE.'--Some twenty-five years ago, a work in two or three volumes, under this title, was republished in this city from an English edition. One of these volumes lies before us; and if it be a fair representative of its companions, an American publisher would not find it amiss to put forth a new issue of the book; for it abounds in keen satire, playful wit, and pleasant humor. We have segregated from its numerous divisions a few passages for the entertainment of our readers. A good deal of what is termed 'criticism' upon works of art has lately been expended in this meridian upon an undiscerning and unheeding public; yet we propose to add to the amount, by copying the remarks of one Mr. NED TESTY upon an exhibition of paintings and statuary, similar, we may suppose, to the annual collections of our 'National Academy of Design;' similar, certainly, in many of the points touched upon by the critic. After a consideration of the Landscapes, 'with their meagre subjects, lying perspective, and timid handling; their frittered lights, lumpy shadows, indigo skies, and saffron sands; their forward back-grounds, and backward fore-grounds; with trees and meadows carefully colored from an emerald, and water of such an hue and surface, that forgetting for a moment the season represented, one looks narrowly after the _skaters_!'--after a discussion of these, _en masse_, we are favored with the subjoined 'hits' at a particular '_Family Piece_:'

A YOUNG man who 'wants encouragement,' had immortalized family
affection, by representing papa standing up at one end of the
picture, ('his lips glued to each other, and his bullet eyes
wide open, though evidently seeing nothing,) and mamma at the
other; the peace being kept between them without the loss of an
inch of space, by their endless progeny, whose heights and ages
the artist has most accurately registered, by stringing them
strait out, closely linked together in a descending series, like
the reeds of Pan's pipe, which they farther resemble in the lank
uprightness of their figures, and the billious deadness of their
complexions. The _next_ of these Domestic Scenes reproaches the
idleness so remarkable in the foregoing, by the great variety
of employment which it exhibits, with the additional advantage
of allowing more elbow-room to the fancy of the painter; who
in the first place has contrived to record, in the mother of
the family, a truly exemplary instance of notability, combined
with maternal tenderness; for she is seen, at the same point of
time, engaged in nursing one child in her lap, rocking with her
foot the cradle of another, hearing the task of a third, and
eyeing the frolics of a fourth; and all this without seeming
at all distracted from her needle, which she has just drawn
out at the utmost stretch of her arm. The remaining children
are all liberally supplied with such occupations or amusements
as, when followed at proper times and places, must be allowed
to become their sexes and ages, but which we are not exactly
prepared to see going on as here, all at once in the same
parlor. The young ladies of this extraordinary family can study
their maps and globes, pore over their books, and even practice
their music-lessons, without appearing once to know that those
boisterous and unruly little dogs, their brothers, are cracking
their whips, beating their drums, scampering about the room
with their wagons, etc.; the very baby in the cradle, instead
of being frightened out of its wits, as might reasonably be
expected, only appearing to be lulled into a still sounder
sleep, by the riotous gambols going on.'

Outraging nature is as common in art now as it was in the era of NED TESTY. Here you may see the picture of 'a lady in full length, gayly and archly tripping out in a hurricane by herself, in thin fluttering muslin, without cap, hat, or bonnet, by the side of a raging sea; where, if one may judge by the disposition of her limbs, and the archness of her countenance, she is practising an _allemande_ to the music of the thunder-claps which seem bursting over her in all directions; yet without the slightest mark of concern in her looks, or apparent apprehension of taking cold, after dancing under such discouraging circumstances of dress and weather; there stares a young miss strait out of the picture, with one hand grown to her side, and the other to the monstrous head of a Newfoundland dog, _sitting_ up exactly as high as she _stands_; and near by, in another frame, a parcel of Months or Hours, in petticoats, are smiling and dancing jigs round an emblem, in the shape of a good-looking woman in green, who is supposed to be Spring.' The critic wonders 'why they haven't got to changing the Minutes, Seconds, and other inferior parts of clock-work into little fluttering urchins.' But pause for a moment, reader, with hushed respiration, while we set before you a specimen of _the Awful_! There is an appropriate 'power of words' in the description of the 'grouping,' and doubtless the coloring was 'in keeping;' as much so, perhaps, as in DICKENS'S picture of the Wise Men of the East worshipping in a pink manger, or the Prodigal Son coming home in red rags to a purple father and a sea-green calf, waiting to be roasted:

'HERE is a piece equally stupendous in size and subject, bearing
the semblance of having been furiously thrown upon the canvass
in the dark, from the disordered pallets of all the painters in
the Universe; a sort of maniac's vision, embodied into a rolling
chaos, turbulently brewed up out of the warring rudiments of
smoke! blood! fire! night! whirlwind! earth! and water; a
ruinous huddle of every thing spiritual and material, real
and conjectural, within and without the precincts of possible
Nature; and of every mingling shape, shade, color, quality,
and consistence; the whole congregated mass of discordances
tumultuously wheeling, dashing, boiling, and thundering
together, in one giddy storm of--NOTHING!' The figures of this
landscape are entirely in keeping with it; 'ambiguous and
reserved innuendos of beings, fluctuating somewhere among the
shadowy and unsettled nomenclatures of incantation; demon,
wizzard, griffin, goblin, demi-gorgon,' etc.

After a few more examples of 'single criticism' in this kind, we are favored with a 'running commentary' upon the ostracised paintings which adorn the upper tiers, and spaces over the doors: 'An upward glance of your eye introduces you to those poor creatures in reduced sizes, who are sent to Coventry at the top of the room, and strung along, by way of cornice, close under the ceiling; figures! but what language can adequately report them!--their wooden features, their mortified complexions; their sneaking, disconsolate, condemned looks; their quizzical head-dresses, and paste-board draperies; their brick-dust curtains, increasing by contrast the chalkiness of their cheeks; and that general and inveterate hardness of manner which instantly chases away all idea of the elasticity of the flesh, and the flexibility of cloth or linen. Hard!--adamant is _pap_ to it!' The _Crayons_ 'afforded striking examples of worse styles, by the help of worse materials;' there were still-born efforts in black-lead pencil, from the hands of academical tyros; wan historical sketches in water-color, by young ladies; imaginary elevations of bridges that will never be built; naked fronts of huge white houses, that sicken all eyes but those of the architect and the owner; and chuckle-headed busts in plaster, of obscure, pudding-faced moderns; likenesses in India-ink, '_done in this manner_' for almost nothing; etc., etc. An exhibition of this sort is certainly proved to be one of the miseries of human life, 'by good witness.' But other miseries are enumerated; and chief among them, the _humbugeousness_ of quack advertisers, and the gullibility of the public; and a medical sample is cited, which would do honor to any 'pill' or 'sarsaparilla' puff, of the present day:

'I SHOULD be the most ungrateful of mankind, were I to delay
for a moment to return my heart-felt acknowledgments for the
blessings I have derived from your inestimable pill. Before I
was so happy as to hear of its miraculous effects, life had
long been a burden to me. I was an object no less horrible
than piteous to behold, being so entirely covered, or rather
crusted, from head to foot, with the most virulent blotches
and humors, that I ought rather to have been called an _Ulcer_
than a man. I was at the same time so miserably emaciated,
that my bones rattled audibly as I moved, and my head itself
seemed to hang to my shoulders by a thread. In short, to such a
condition was I reduced, that, on being carried to my own door
upon a litter, on my return home after a short absence in the
vain search after ease, my wife, who chanced to meet me in the
passage, insisted that they had brought me to the wrong house,
for that she had never seen me before! The sound of my voice,
however, but too cruelly undeceived her; and I was then conveyed
to the bed on which I continued to lie, without stirring hand
or foot, for more than thirty years. During this awful period
matters were constantly and rapidly going on with me from bad
to worse; scarcely an hour passed but some new and still more
deplorable disease was added to the complicated list of maladies
which were devouring me up piece-meal, in a manner; and it was
a lucky day when I could say that one or more of my bones had
not dropped clean out of the socket! Sleep at one time, I had
none, for sixty-nine successive nights, unless I may call by
that name a series of swoons, brought on by my agonies, and
the weakness consequent upon my reduced condition. About this
period, the flesh began to drop in large collops from my back
and shoulders; and from one hollow which formed exactly beneath
my left pap, my heart was absolutely naked and visible, by which
my inquisitive surgeon was gratified, at my expense, with a
living display of the whole process of _systole_ and _diastole_,
as I think he called it. In this state of things, my case having
been pronounced absolutely hopeless by every physician in the
land, my friends began to think it was high time to call your
invaluable remedy to my aid: and invaluable indeed it proved to
me! No sooner had I begun to use it, than the most surprising
alteration came on: while I was swallowing the first pill,
I could plainly feel, to my inexpressible astonishment and
delight, that a new and perfect growth of healthy flesh was
rapidly forming in every part of the skeleton to which I was now
wasted down; and before I had taken the third, I had reason to
suspect, from certain strange and indescribable sensations, as
if of some hard substance pushing or shooting forth in different
places, that the numerous cavities left by the bones I had lost,
were about to be filled up by a new process of ossification;
which, sure enough, was presently found to be vigorously and
prosperously going on. My appetite, too, very shortly became
so dangerously keen, that it was reckoned prudent to refuse me
a third fowl at my dinner. But not to trouble you with too many
particulars, (which to you, indeed, must be mere shadows of a
thousand still more extraordinary cases,) I will simply say,
that by persevering in the course for one week more, I felt not
only that every symptom of disease had absolutely vanished as
if by magic, but that I was suddenly able, (which I had never
been in the best days of my youth and strength,) to perform the
most athletic feats in leaping, wrestling, boxing, etc., without
the slightest sensation of fatigue. To express the full extent
of my gratitude to you, my dear Sir, for this almost incredible
restoration, is a task which I must give up in despair; suffice
it to say, that to Providence (under your pill) I shall ever
acknowledge myself indebted for the felicity I now enjoy.' 'P.
S. Please send me without delay, by the next coach, six dozen
of the largest boxes of your Scorbutic Pills; though, indeed, I
have not the smallest apprehension of ever having occasion to
use them again.'

It would puzzle few of our readers, in town or country, to make a familiar application of this satire upon the prevailing style of quack advertisements.

* * * * *

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--In an admirable paper upon '_The Poetry of the Bible_,' written for the KNICKERBOCKER some years since by Rev. WILLIAM T. BRANTLEY, President of the 'College of South Carolina,' there was an incidental allusion to the proofs of the authenticity of the Sacred Word, as contained in the fulfilment of the 'prophecies concerning the nations.' A dilapidated book-stall volume before us, with the title-page gone, and the author's name nowhere to be met with, (facts in themselves noteworthy in this connection,) thus illustrates the position of our valued correspondent: 'The primitive Christians regarded the Scriptures as their chief and dearest treasure; and often laid down their lives rather than deliver the sacred records to their enemies, who used every art of terror to seize and destroy them. Then, as now, different parties and sects existed, who all appealed to the Scriptures for proof of their several opinions; and these must have been so many checks upon each other, to the general exclusion of mistake and fraud. But aside from this, look at their predictions, in the case of the 'chosen and peculiar people.' The separation of the Israelites from the rest of mankind, not for their own sakes but for the sake of all, and their preservation amidst their enemies, what a display is it of the divine power! This great scheme of wisdom and goodness was carried on by its omnipotent Author 'with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm.' 'He sent a man before his people, even JOSEPH, who was sold to be a bond-servant. He increased his people exceedingly, and made them stronger than their enemies. He sent MOSES his servant, and AARON; and these showed his tokens among them, and wonders in the land of Ham. He sent darkness, and it was dark, and turned their waters into blood. Their land brought forth frogs, yea, even in their king's chambers. He gave them hail-stones for rain, and flames of fire in their land. He spake the word, and locusts came innumerable, and devoured the fruit of their ground. He smote all the first-born in their land, even the chief of all their strength. He brought forth his people from among them. He spread out a cloud to be a covering, and fire to give them light in the night season. He rebuked the Red Sea also, and it was dried up: so he led them through the deep as through a wilderness. At their desire he brought quails, and filled them with the bread of heaven. He opened the rock of stone, so that rivers ran in dry places. Yet within a while they forgot his works, and tempted GOD in the desert. Then the earth opened and swallowed up DATHAN, and covered the congregation of ABIRAM. The plague also was great among them. Then, being chastised, they turned to their GOD. He led them over Jordan: the waters divided to let them pass. He discomfited their enemies. At His word the sun abode in the midst of Heaven; and the moon stood still, and hasted not to go down for a whole day; so He gave the kingdoms of Canaan to be an heritage unto his people; that all the nations of the world might know that the hand of the LORD is mighty, and that they might fear the LORD continually.' Such was the result of a scheme determined by divine goodness, planned by divine wisdom, foretold by divine knowledge, accomplished by divine power. 'The things of the earth were changed into things of the water, and the thing that did swim went upon the ground. The fire had power in the water contrary to his own virtue, and the water forgat his own kind to quench. Thus the elements were changed among themselves by a kind of harmony, as when one tune is changed upon an instrument of music, and the melody still remaineth.' How graphic also is the description of the 'gift of tongues,' conferred upon the Apostles! 'And they were all amazed, and marvelled, saying one to another: 'Behold, are not all these which speak, Galileans? And how hear we every man in our own tongue, wherein we were born? Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea, and Cappadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia in Egypt, and in the parts of Lybia about Cyrene. And strangers of Rome; Jews and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians; we do hear them speak in our tongues the wonderful works of GOD!' * * * MOST likely many of our readers will remember this 'vexed question' in logic: 'It either rains or it does not rain: but it does _not_ rain; therefore it rains.' This used to puzzle us hugely; as did also the mathematical problem, in simple equations, which ensues: '_A cat_ has one more tail than _no_ cat; no cat has two tails; ergo, _a cat has three tails_!' The conclusion is irresistible. Here is something, however, which is of deeper import: 'JOHNSON studied law with DOBSON, under the agreement that he should pay DOBSON, when he (JOHNSON) _gained his first cause_. After a time DOBSON got tired of waiting for the conditions of the contract, and sued JOHNSON for his pay. He reasoned thus: 'If I sue him I shall get paid at any rate, because if I _gain_ the cause, I shall be paid by the decision of the court; if I _lose_ it, I shall be paid by the conditions of the contract, for then JOHNSON will have gained his first cause; therefore I am safe.' JOHNSON, on the other hand, being prodigiously frightened, sought counsel, and was told to reason thus: 'DOBSON reasons well, but there must be a flaw in his argument; because _I_ and not _he_ will gain the victory. If the suit goes in my favor, I shall gain it by the decision of the court; if it goes against me, I shall gain it by the terms of the contract, not having yet won my first cause. Of course I shall not have to pay him!' _Vive la Logique!_ * * * This fine picture of the Arabian Desert is from the pen of the late lamented N. H. CARTER, Esq., formerly editor of the _New-York Statesman_, a daily journal long since discontinued. We thank 'C. P. D.' for his offer, which is gladly accepted:

'No verdure smiles; no crystal fountains play,
To quench the arrows of the god of day;
No breezy lawns, no cool, meandering streams,
Allay the fervor of his torrid beams;
No whispering zephyrs fan the glowing skies,
But o'er long tracts the mournful siroc sighs.
Whose desolating march, whose withering breath,
Sweeps through the caravan with instant death.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

''Tis night: but here the sparkling heavens diffuse
No genial showers, no soft distilling dews:
In the hot sky, the stars of lustre shorn,
Burn o'er the pathway of the wanderer lorn,
And the red moon from Babelmandel's strand
Looks, as she climbs through pyramids of sand,
That, whirled aloft, and gilded by her light,
Blaze the lone beacons of the desert night!'

A CORRESPONDENT, well known to our readers, in a note to the Editor, remarks as follows, upon the passage of our May 'Gossip' which touched upon COLERIDGE and his conversations: 'I am glad of your remarks on COLERIDGE and WORDSWORTH. I have been for years sick of the interminable cant about those two men. Their admirers have too long exalted them above all that is human. And would you know the reason? In discovering more depth, and pure humanity, and high inspiration, in _their_ school of the prophets than the _rest_ of the world have seen, they think the world will give them credit for deep penetration, high and refined sense, and a large share of the same or a kindred humanity and inspiration. Witness a sixty pages' laudation of WORDSWORTH, opening a number of the 'New-York Review,' by a writer who doubtless thought his own fame was thereby planted like an eternal light-house on the rock of his idol. Now I hope I am Christian enough to admire greatly the genius of COLERIDGE; and I am yet to find any thing in English or elsewhere more movingly and musically beautiful than 'Genevieve,' or more wizard-like and solemn than the 'Rime of the Antient Mariner.' I also plead not guilty to a contempt of 'Christabel' and 'Wallenstein.' Nor am I such a rebel to reason, or heretic in taste, as not to see surpassing beauty in many of WORDSWORTH's minor poems, and lofty grandeur in his 'Ode to Childhood,' and 'Stanzas on the Power of Sound,' and a high, philosophical, and musing mind in his great 'Excursion.' I have read him twice in the last two years, and my admiration has not at all diminished. But I choose to deny that he or COLERIDGE _invented_ poetry, or carried it farther, or as far, as some others before and with them. I choose to deny that they have struck the great chord of humanity, unstruck before, or have sympathized more deeply or more sweetly with the joys and sorrows of the lowly million, than the great poets before them have done. I choose to assert, what has been abundantly proven, that they were both great egotists, eaten up by self, which the great poets have rarely been; and that COLERIDGE in particular often knew not what he meant himself, but between opium and metaphysics, frequently tied the tail of one idea to the head of another, and called the monstrous and unintelligible coalition a _theory_; a mixture of Platonism, Spinozaism, and the d----l knows what 'ism. And for believing this, the Coleridgeites and Wordsworthites, who are the most intolerant of bigots, would call me an earthy blockhead, and for expressing this, an ignorant, blaspheming fool. Why, I once had almost broken with a friend, because I would not admit that WORDSWORTH was superior to BYRON, and that BYRON stole almost all his beauties from him! And the secret was, that the poor fellow thought he had the Wordsworthian gift, and undeifying WORDSWORTH was undeifying him!' * * * ARE not the circumstances narrated in the following communication from a truly veracious correspondent, 'very remarkable,' to say the least? Can their truth be _doubted_ for a moment, however, by any intelligent reader? Yet 'it's curious, isn't it?' In a note to the Editor, our friend writes: 'I have an uncle 'down East,' a retired sea-captain, who having nothing else to do, frequently writes me long gossipping letters. Sometimes they are very amusing: an extract from one of them I now send you. The story appears almost incredible; but knowing my correspondent to be a strictly conscientious man, who would scorn to draw the long-bow on any occasion, I have no hesitation in believing every word of it, whether others are willing to credit it or not. I give it to you in his own language, for there is a strait-forward simplicity about it, that should command belief:'

* * * 'ALL these things, dear S----, happened in my younger
days, of course. As I have still a white page before me, I
will detail to you one of my youthful adventures. I had one
night been to a convivial party, which did not break up until
nearly morning, when, on arriving at my boarding-house, I found
the doors closed. Not wishing to disturb the inmates at that
unseasonable hour, I proceeded in search of temporary lodgings,
not doubting but that I should get accommodated at some one of
the numerous hotels. In this however I was disappointed; every
place was shut as tight as an oyster. It happened to be a wet,
drizzly night; and after wandering about the streets for some
time, and getting pretty well soaked, I began to feel rather
disagreeable. What added not a little to my discomfort, was the
fact that within a few nights there had been committed several
daring highway robberies, in the very heart of the city, in one
of which the victim was murdered; and as a natural consequence,
no watchman dared to venture out from his hiding-place; thus
making my situation doubly lonesome. In this dilemma, finding
all legitimate places closed against me, I began to consider
the expediency of seeking shelter at least, if not sleep, in
any place that might seem to offer it. While in this mood, I
found myself abreast of the ---- church; and leaning against
the lightning-rod a moment, the query occurred to me: 'Why
not 'shin up' this rod into the belfry? I have slept in worse
places than that, no doubt, and can do so again.' Now I had been
a great climber in my boyish days; and feats which to others
seemed difficult, if not absolutely impossible, were to me often
matters of mere pastime. I therefore hesitated but a moment in
such an emergency, but slipping off my boots and swinging them
round my neck, I commenced the ascent; and in less than five
minutes I had mounted a hundred feet or more, and got safely
into the belfry. My accommodations here were much better than I
could have anticipated. Some carpenters had been to work a few
days previously, repairing the railings on the outside of the
tower, and had left a quantity of shavings, which lay scattered
on the floor. Placing these together in a heap, I threw my weary
limbs down upon them, and was soon in a deep slumber, but not
a quiet one. My horizontal position enabled the fumes of wine
to reach my head, which before they had been unable to do, in
consequence of my extreme height, for you know I am six feet
three, and I soon began to have all sorts of fantastic dreams.
Strange wild shapes flitted around me, and loud unearthly
sounds filled my ears. But prominent over all, was an incessant
ding-dong of apparently distant bells, which reached me in
every variety of volume and tone; now low and sweet, and anon
loud, startling, and many-toned, as if the thousand steeples
of Moscow were again pouring forth lamentations over the ruins
of their beautiful city. Suddenly, a single stroke, that sent
its vibrations through every limb, startled me from sleep; and
lifting my head slightly, I at the instant received a blow upon
the back of it that sent me quivering against the frame of the
belfry. I lay stunned for some moments; and on recovering my
consciousness, the bell of the steeple was just closing, with a
strange jangle, the peal for seven o'clock in the morning!

'I now comprehended the whole. The edge of the bell, on its
return revolution, had come in contact with my head at the
instant I had lifted it, on being roused by the first stroke.
I placed my hand upon the back of my scull, and the proof of
that fact lay there too prominent to be denied. A bump had been
raised as big as a hen's egg. I paid but little attention to
it, however, as the pain was but slight, and I was moreover
exceedingly anxious about the mode of extrication from my
present unenviable predicament. Sliding down the lightning-rod
of a meeting-house, in broad day-light, was not quite so
pleasant a performance as 'shinning up' one at midnight. While
considering this matter, in a sort of a 'quandary way,' as
brother JONAS used to say, the scuttle-door slowly opened, and
the sexton of the church made his appearance. He did not observe
me, but went immediately to the bell, which he began to walk
round, and to inspect very minutely. At last he stopped: 'It's
just as I expected,' said he to himself: 'the bell's cracked!
Now what upon airth could ha' done it? I am sure I felt it hit
something hard.' Here I mechanically placed my hand to the
back of my head, and coughed slightly. The man turned, and
observing me, started back with affright. I immediately stepped
forward, and told him my story in a few words, taking care to
make it as lucid as possible by the aid of a little silver,
and saying nothing, of course, about the bump on my head. The
man appeared satisfied, and told me I could go down with him.
Before starting, however, I bestowed a hasty glance upon the
bell, and perceived that it was indeed cracked, longitudinally,
from the flange to the crown, and that a lock of my hair was
firmly inclosed in the crevice, just on the outer edge. This of
course was enough to remove from my mind all doubt, had I had
any, as to the cause of the mischief; but I said nothing, and
followed the sexton down the scuttle. In a few moments I was
once more in the streets, with my hat under my arm, for I found
it impossible to place it any where near its true position on
my head, in consequence of the new phrenological development
already mentioned. But now, dear S----, comes the most wonderful
part of my narrative. This little incident happened twenty years
ago; and to my certain knowledge, since that date, the bell in
that steeple has been replaced four times; and yet to this very
day, whenever I pass within hearing of its tones, my ears begin
to ring, my head violently to oscillate, and straitway I am
seized with a stupor and dizziness that continue until I can get
beyond the reach of its sound. You will recollect you once asked
me why old Major N---- called me sometimes 'Captain Hardhead,'
and sometimes 'Captain Waghead?' You have now the answer.'

* * * * *