Chapter I: HAD a vision, love, last eve, (4)

'HULDAH was by no means so strict a disciplinarian as her father, and she was guilty of some wide departures from the rules of her sect, which would have given the conscientious farmer much concern of mind if he had witnessed them. For instance, she had twice accompanied Jeremiah to a Presbyterian meeting; and once she had even entered the precincts of a public garden where there was much profane music elaborated by fiddles and cornets-a-piston; and she had looked with a manifest liking upon a gentleman and lady, decorated with a wicked profusion of spangles, and quite an unnecessary economy of clothing, who performed certain mysterious and highly figurative evolutions, the object of which she did not fully comprehend; but they were called in the bills a '_grand pas de deux_.''

SAGE ADVICE TOUCHING MOTHERS-IN-LAW.

'IT is a matter of great mortification to me, my son, that in so important a transaction as marriage I am incompetent to give you any advice. But I hope that advice will not be needed by you and Julia: you will no doubt be happy in each other; yet there is one thing that an old gentleman used to tell me when I was of your age, which I think you will do well to bear in mind. 'Why don't you get married my boy?' he used to say to me: 'Because,' I would reply, 'I don't know how to choose a wife, and I am afraid of getting a bad one.' 'Poo! poo!' he would say; 'any wife is good enough, if her mother don't live with you, but the best wife will not be good enough if she should.''

LOVE-LETTERS.

'I NEVER liked the looks of letters from young people,' said the old man, drawing a long whiff at his pipe. 'I don't suppose that Mr. Tremlett would write anything out of the way to my grand-darter, but I never liked the looks of letters. They have a suspicious look. I am now rising my seventy-sixth year, and I never wrote a letter to a young woman in my life; never; and I don't think I ever shall.'

We have but one remark to make, in concluding our notice of 'The Haunted Merchant.' It is printed with large types upon clear white paper; but the punctuation is 'most tolerable and not to be endured;' and there are other evidences of carelessness in the proof-reading, which we hope to find removed in the next edition.

HISTORY OF EUROPE FROM THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION IN 1789, TO THE RESTORATION OF THE BOURBONS IN 1815. By ARCHIBALD ALISON, F. R. S. E., Advocate. In four volumes, 8vo. pp. 2426. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

THIS transcendant work is at length completed, and in four well-bound and well-printed volumes, may be obtained of the publishers at one tenth of the price charged for the English copy. It certainly is unnecessary for us to enlarge upon the many and various merits of this great work. They are every where, and by all classes of readers and critics, cordially conceded. Certain mistakes there were, indeed, in the chapters upon Great Britain and this country, to the commission of which the monarchical and aristocratical predilections of the author naturally led him; but when pointed out to him by Chancellor KENT, he had the candor to acknowledge them, and the justice to correct them, in the edition before us. Another great defect in the European edition has here been supplied. The original work was issued without any Index, so that any particular document or fact could with difficulty be discovered by the reader. The very copious Index which is now supplied, adds largely to the value of the work, and so facilitates the references which may be necessary, that every prominent occurrence and record amid all its multitudinous subjects can be traced throughout the history. A series of explanatory notes, tending materially to rectify the author's principal errors, and to enhance the value of the narrative, leave little to be desired in this monument of historical research, which will be as lasting as it is unrivalled.

THE ROSE OF SHARON: A RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR, for 1844. Edited by Miss SARAH C. EDGARTON. pp. 304. Boston: A. TOMPKINS AND B. B. MUSSEY.

HERE is a modest but very pleasant annual, which contains, aside from its embellishments, matter which would far more than repay the small cost of its purchase. Of its engravings, however, we may say in passing, that the first is a charming view, exquisitely drawn and engraved, of 'Sabbath-Day Point' on Lake George; the third, a capital engraving of LIVERSEEGE'S 'Good Resolution;' the fourth, 'JEPHTHAH'S Daughter;' and the fifth a pleasant 'Scene on the Hudson.' The volume opens with an essay on 'Human Life,' from the pen of HORACE GREELEY; a paper which we should be glad to copy entire, but for the 'tyranny of space.' It is written in an easy, graceful style, and is replete with thought and feeling. 'Emma,' by Miss L. M. BARKER, deserves all the praise of the Editor, and will that of the public. The overflowings of a bereaved heart are visible in the almost _sobbing_ 'Lines on the Death of an only Daughter;' and to the writer, as well as to others who have suffered the loss of near and dear friends, we commend 'The Happy Thought' which succeeds it, the conclusion of which will forcibly remind the reader of the close of Rev. Mr. DEWEY'S unrivalled and inimitable discourse upon the 'Natural Dread of Death.' The Editor's portion of the volume is by no means the least of the attractions of 'The Rose;' and her fair collaborateurs have lightened her task by the excellence of their own contributions. With variety and excellence in its prose and verse; unexceptionable in all its inculcations; well printed and tastefully bound; we cannot choose but commend the volume to the favor of the public, in the holiday season which is approaching.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

VISITORS AT THE 'HOME DEPARTMENT.'--'I cannot make a speech myself,' said a wag, when suddenly called upon to address a political assemblage, 'but if any body else wants to speak, I'll hold his hat!' This was an obliging person; and we here ask leave in some sort to imitate his example. While we are making out the Index to the twenty-second volume of the KNICKERBOCKER, our readers will permit us to introduce to their acquaintance our thoughtful friend 'HANS VON SPIEGEL,' and our imaginative and mercurial correspondent 'JULIAN,' whose '_Top of New York_' in our last number, by the by, we placed to the credit of a new contributor to this Magazine, whose hand-writing greatly resembles his own. These gentlemen came too late to sit at the regular board; so an' please you, reader, make them welcome, as we do, to our round-table. We have 'taken their hats;' and while the one addresses you, upon a theme _seasonable_ at this present, and fraught with reminiscences of golden days, and the other enlightens unwedded people on the subject of 'matrimonial gettings-up of a morning,' permit us to accomplish our ungrateful task of composing a 'curtailed abbreviation compressing all the particulars' of the various matters contained in the last six numbers of the KNICKERBOCKER. Ladies and gentlemen, 'HERR VON SPIEGEL,' in an 'Epistleized Reverie:'

'While I mused, the fire burned.'

'THE gorgeous autumnal sun had just sunk behind the line of the Jersey shore as HANS, an hour since, turned homeward. He had it in his thoughts, dear EDITOR, to give thee a desultory train of reflections which the quiet loveliness of the scene suggested: the hills of Long Island stretching away to the eastward, with their wooded sides yet mantled with the many-colored foliage, that brightened in the evening glory of the sun; the radiant surface of the Narrows, dotted here and there with sails, their swelling bosoms spread to the land breeze; the white gulls returning in many a gyration to find their resting-places among the rocks on the beach; as they had done ages before; when the red man, who harmed them not, alone and happy, paddled his canoe around the head-lands which now are crowned with the tasteful dwellings of civilization; the gray sky bending over all, and arching in the landscape. He thought to discourse with thee of these; but now, seated before a coal-grate, all a-blaze and cheerful, he has changed his mind. Through the window-blinds of his chamber he can see the cold twinklings of the Northern Bear; and, if he would, the star that looks so brightly down on the Arctic Sea. There, now he _does_ gaze upon it--sadly though, and tearful. Thou mayest not know _why_ that star makes him sad. Again his eyes are turned away from his window, and his heart from sad thoughts. He pusheth the table a hair's breadth farther from the fire; presseth the cushion of a comfortable chair with a pair of curious slippers, in which his feet are encased; adjusteth himself at an easy angle; droppeth his head upon his breast, and wooeth the enchantress FANCY, lustrous-eyed and beautiful.* * * Hast thou never felt, gentle reader, while enjoying the first cold evening of the season, beside thy glowing hearth, a sudden influx of fresh life; a flow of quiet joyousness, as mysterious as pleasant; the melancholy gloominess with which thou beheldest the approach of winter, all at once disappearing to trouble thee no more for a whole year?--the dread of snow-tempests, and keen winds, and hurrying, gray clouds, on the instant giving place to a longing love for merry sleigh-bells, jingling in the frosty air? Well! HANS _thought_ he was not the only one who experienceth the like.

Give us thy hand, Old WINTER! Thou art welcome! Thou awakenest visions of other days, when HANS, in the simplicity of his childhood, believed that 'Thanksgiving' and 'Christmas,' some how or other, came into town in an old-fashioned double-seated sleigh, with racing gray horses and cracking whip, wielded by an invisible Jehu. How the idea got into his head, is more than he can tell. Exquisitely happy were those days of uncareful childhood; when the winter school called scores of rosy-cheeked urchins, hallooing on the morning air, through the snow to the old red school-house in the village of HANS'S nativity. The larger boys all with their sleds, on which sat their sisters, with the 'dinner-basket' in their laps; and their smaller brothers floundering through the drifts which they sought, contrary to the last injunctions of their mothers, along the fences. The huge box-stove roared a 'good morning' to them, as the boys stamped off the ice from their shoes, and the girls untied the strings which kept down their pantalettes. As there were no unlucky flies to inter and imprison in transparent quills, nor coke-berries wherewith to paint the sides of their noses farthest from the master's eye, the boys, perforce, studied their tasks; and the girls, as _girls_ always are, were equally the objects of pedagogical favor. Was the day 'thawy,' the noon-time witnessed magic castles erected; and the numberless streaks of bare turf showed where the huge balls of snow of which they were constructed had been rolled into unwieldy masses; and the wet mittens under the stove in the afternoon amply compensated for the want of water in the iron basin on the top of it. Shouting when four o'clock released them, they hurried home, only to prepare for the evening's sport of 'riding down hill.' HANS would give worlds to be a boy again, and for one single moonlight evening slide down 'Furnace-hill,' as of yore! * * * When a few winters had passed over your boyish head, beloved reader, and you first knew that magnetic feeling which told you what gave the charm to rosy lips, and you _guessed_ what kissing was, did you not feel all ecstasy while the bell-bedizzened horses and the belle-enlivened sleigh scoured with half a score of you over hill and through dale; the thick hood of the maiden next you being excuse unquestionable for telling her pretty lips what her ear could not so well apprehend? You needn't be ashamed to confess it; for those were, let HANS tell you, the golden days of your life. Before the wide fire-place of thy father's kitchen, thou hast, days long gone by, arranged the pippins just outside the andirons, and placed the gallon-pitcher of good brisk October on the coals, and cracked hickory nuts, (yes, and the more _accessible_ butternut,) for thy semi-circle of smiling, grown-up sisters and sweet blooming cousins, until the apples were roasted and the cider warmed. Then, when nine o'clock came, and thy spectacled and pious grandmother had read a chapter in the Holy Book, and thy father had knelt in prayer, didst thou not, as HANS does now, while thou laidst thy head upon thy pillow, and heard the whistling wind shaking thy window, bless Old Winter for making you so happy? * * * Courteous reader, HANS, while he draweth up the bed-clothes, biddeth thee 'Good Night!'

IT is not possible that the foregoing can be read by any one who has enjoyed the blessed privilege of passing his early years in the country, without 'kindling the flame of memory,' and placing before him, as in a backward-moving panorama, the hallowed associations of childhood and youth. Listen now to 'JULIAN.' He keeps a late appointment with a friend, with whom he is once more to look down upon 'the top of New-York.' He is certainly highly colloquial, and very familiar; but you'll find _thought_ enough in him, expressed and suggestive, albeit at the first glance he may seem rambling and desultory:

'MY dear Sir, how are you now? Hope you haven't been waiting. Possible? Been here all the morning under an umbrella! You must have breakfasted very badly. I should have been up sooner, but my wife----Ugh! how the wind blows! Won't you have part of my cloak? There goes your umbrella inside out. Ah, well; it's better than a collapse. This 'falling inward,' as the women call it, is frightful. This, then, is December. Chimney-tops pirouetting, tiles on the wing, and clouds pouring out of the North, legion upon legion, as though all the winds of Heaven had been gathering them for the last month, and were now bound to the tropics with the momentum of the world's motion. The top of New-York, Sir, is very well of a warm day; but allow me to say that there is air below, now--plenty of it. Suppose we step down and look out of the window? * * * Well, Sir, how have you been? Down in the mouth again! Ah, Sir, you have been looking at something too long. Never should do that. In a world that's whirling a thousand miles an hour, every thing should be taken at a glance. Get the wit of a thing, and have done with it. I give you five minutes every day to look at the stars, but don't particularize; for some in those far-off places send their light down long after they have been knocked out of existence, and you may be looking at a blank. Look out for such delusions, and _act_, remembering that the poetry of the hour, like the cream of your coffee, should be fresh every morning. Oh, Sir! in a world that never halts for a single moment in its everlasting round of changing amusement, your small agony is unpardonable. Why, the clouds and darkness are part of the play. Certainly--part of the play. Rain and snow, and chilling winds, pain, trouble, and torment--these are the variations for which you may thank GOD. If there were not plainer faces and worse figures, your little wife would soon be a fright to you--a perfect fright. Find your bubble and blow, but never stop to look at the colors. Let them burst; no matter for that, while your wind lasts. Blow away; there's nothing like it. If you are tired, like myself, and would like to look on, I can only say that the moralities of such speculation are hazardous; and if you have any wind left, it's better to die with a round cheek than a hollow one. A man without a bubble is flatulent; and a woman without one--but that's impossible. Take my advice, Sir, and let the world wag. If it choose to run off the track, _let it_, and if any comet is amind to take us _en route_ to the sun, why, blaze away! There are thousands of better dots in creation than this old concern; and whether we go up, down, or sideways--rocket, earthquake, or thirty-two pounder--we shall land somewhere; can't get lost. In short, Sir, you have no right to grumble, unless you are----But that's my secret. Shall I confess it? Mind, a _secret_; for if my wife should hear of it, she would tease me to death. Of course you will dine with me to-day; beg you wouldn't hint this in the remotest manner; not a whisper. * * * Sir, I am _nervous_--a solemn truth. Been examined by a double-combined microscope, and found to have two sets of nerves. I can see double, hear double, think double, and sleep double; and yet with such nerves, I have this very day been outwitted by a woman with only a common set. 'Nothing remarkable about that,' you say. Perhaps not; we shall see. * * * Speaking of nerves; now a day like this is endurable. People, you observe, are in earnest. There is what the new school would call a 'oneness' in the public mind to get out of the rain; and cloaks, handkerchiefs, umbrellas and skirts are used for the temporary shelter, because one can't stop to be nice. But of a warm day, when people can afford to dally and act their part, my nerves are troublesome, and I mount to the top of New-York. Did you ever look at a crowd of faces, when, under some dull lecture or sermon, the mind is comparatively at rest, and the character stands out upon the countenance? the smile, and all the other acted poetry of the face, gone for the moment, leaving only the impress of the slow march of years, the crows'-feet, the hieroglyphic, the line upon line of the devil's own hand-writing? If you could forget that you have looked at such things for a life-time; say for instance, you were a modest individual, just dropped from the moon, or any star that may be a part of Heaven; what would be your first impression? Why, Sir, you can't make your own dog look you in the face. There are different ways of viewing things, and in this light, one would be disposed to say that if the sun _is_ the bad place that some people think, why, the farther planets may not, after all, be such outside barbarians as we generally imagine. There may be a reason, a very convenient reason, why _we_ are not farther off.

'But, Sir, I was speaking of my wife. As you are a man of family, and I am only experimenting a little, _nervously_ so to speak, return the compliment by giving me a little advice upon a matter of my own. How is it, Sir, about getting up first? We can't agree. She insists (my wife) that the man should rise first, as the sun before the moon, the useful before the ornamental, etc. Now, if I am gifted in any one thing, it is the half-hour dream after the first rouse in the morning; but my wife, Sir, in that particular is a perfect genius. Talk about sympathies! Let me tell you that people must not count upon married happiness from unanimous likenesses. The likes may be _too_ like, and they may like _too well_. They may. I have decided that point. Well; this morning I was roused from the half-hour dream by the breakfast-call, and was provoked to find my wife still asleep; that is, she pretended to sleep; and I must confess that she had studied her attitude, so far as longitudinal position would admit, with no little skill. Having this important engagement with you, I gave her a little shake. 'Fanny! Fanny!' said I; but she didn't move a dimple. So I gave another shake. 'Eh?' said she; 'what's that? mercy! how you frightened me!' and then dropped away again. 'I say, _Fanny_,' accenting it a little. 'Ah, _don't_, dear, you are so rude!' She opened her eyes the merest trifle, and then lapsed away again into perfect oblivion as any one would suppose, who didn't know all about it. Putting on another emphasis, I sung out again, '_Are_ you going to get up?' She raised her eye-brows a trifle: 'Why, my dear child, you know it's your turn this morning.' _My_ turn! and 'my dear child!' I knew from the manner of her saying that, that she would lie there all day before getting up first; but as I was determined to give her a trial, and am always easy at a nap, I thought of my interrupted dream, and sliding gently into the continuation, was soon fast asleep. When I woke again, it was twelve o'clock, but there was Fanny, just as before, the arm perhaps a little more _à la Grecque_, and a tinge on her cheek that looked a little _saucy_; but that might be the thought of her dream; the fit of a cap, or a new bonnet, any of those innocent little things that make up the burden of women's night-thoughts in the way of dreams. Any one would have sworn it was sleep, deep and profound; a child asleep after a day's frolic would not have been more perfect in the 'doing' of it. By this time, people were beginning their morning visits; but of course, Mrs. Julian was 'not at home.' People came and went for an hour; and I was about despairing of my breakfast, when the sleeping wife sprang suddenly from the bed and ran out of the room.

'What now?' said I; but I didn't get up, for I knew there was some mischief a-foot; and sure enough, back she came in a jiffy, and got straight into bed, _munching a large piece of ginger-bread_!

'Now, Sir, what is the _law_ in such a case?

JULIAN.

LIFE AND TIMES OF THE LATE WILLIAM ABBOTT: SECOND NOTICE.--This entertaining work, from the MS. of which we quoted several admirable passages in our last number, is now in the hands of the BROTHERS HARPER; and when it shall appear, it will be found to sustain, and more than sustain, the character we have given of it. We annex one or two additional extracts which were prepared for our November issue. In the following incident, we rather incline to the opinion, Mr. ABBOTT 'had the worst of it;' his evident self-satisfaction to the contrary notwithstanding:

'ON my return to London from Paris, the farewell engagement of Mr. _Kemble_ took place; and in the play of 'Cato,' Mr. YOUNG had relinquished the toga of 'Portius,' which fell most unworthily upon my shoulders. A rehearsal was called on my account; but all the adjuncts of trumpets, drums, etc., were not considered necessary. My usual exuberance of spirits would have placed me in a most awkward position, but for the extreme simplicity of the great tragedian. When CATO is seated in council, an announcement is made of ambassadors from the senate, through the medium of a flourish of trumpets. Without a moment's hesitation or thought, I gave an imitation of the required instrument, to the perfect astonishment of all the performers. They looked at me, to see if there was any appearance of sanity left in me. I hung my head in dismay, fully expecting a severe lecture from the chief; the actors of course enjoying the anticipated censure; but to the astonishment of all parties, Mr. KEMBLE looked up with evident surprise, and said: 'Well, I declare, that is one of the most extraordinary things I ever heard in the whole course of my life. My good boy, do it again.' I naturally felt that this was meant as a kindly reproof, and with some little hesitation, I repeated it. The actors now began to chuckle; but Mr. KEMBLE retained his gravity, and was again astonished by my performance. He then made an asthmatic attempt to do the same, but his wind would not fill the instrument; and with an effort amounting to 'Pooh! I can't do it!' he said: 'Well, now we will go on with our rehearsal.' It was quite evident, from his general manner, that he really did look upon it as an extraordinary effort. I triumphed, consequently, and had the laugh against those who were exulting in the prospect of congratulating me on the loss of a week's salary.'

The annexed anecdote of 'old MATHEWS' occurs in a description of the dinner given by JOHN KEMBLE, soon after his retirement from the stage, to some of the principal actors of Covent-Garden Theatre, at which TALMA was present, as already recorded:

'AT this dinner but one feeling prevailed; and the only alloy was the thought that perhaps we looked upon our host for the last time; an anticipation soon too painfully realized.[A] The inventive talents of MATHEWS were of the highest order; nor were they merely confined to the common peculiarities of the individual in whom he took an interest, but he had the art of throwing his whole mind and spirit into the very _genius_ of the man. I had lived on the most intimate terms with that fine-hearted and most eccentric creature; indeed, my acquaintance with him commenced at Bath, and very soon after I entered the profession: I was consequently inducted into all the peculiar bearings of his oddly-constructed mind. In the course of the evening, in the midst of the most social gayety, and flashes of wit that would have enlightened the dullest of mortals, I arose, and asked Mr. KEMBLE'S permission to propose the health of a distinguished friend, which was immediately accorded. In a few brief remarks, I stated how gratifying it must be to the whole party, on such an occasion, to be honored with the presence of the late Master of the Rolls in Ireland, Mr. CURRAN. This was quite sufficient; for a great majority of persons at the table were aware of the wonderful powers of MATHEWS, although little prepared for so brilliant an exhibition of them. The extraordinary peculiarities of Mr. CURRAN were sufficiently characteristic, to give effect even to a common-place imitation; but MATHEWS was able to enter into the disposition and thoughts of his subject as effectually as if he had been changed into the very man. BURKE, speaking of the imitative powers of a person of his acquaintance, said, that whenever he thought proper to penetrate into the inclinations of those with whom he had to deal, he composed his face, his gestures, and his whole body, as nearly as possible into the exact similitude of the person whom he intended to examine, and then carefully observed what turn of mind he seemed to acquire by the change. Such a man was MATHEWS. He immediately arose, and made a brilliant oration. He scattered the flowers of poesy with the most lavish hand; not a metaphor did he lose, that could in the slightest degree illustrate the departure of KEMBLE from the stage; the brilliancy of the setting sun, the tears of MELPOMENE, the joys of THALIA at the prospect of her undivided reign, etc. There was no hesitation, no pause; and he concluded with a peroration which was perfectly electrifying; for he concentrated all his powers, and when he did this, he was irresistible. I scarcely ever witnessed so glowing a scene; and Mr. KEMBLE seemed lost in utter astonishment. It must be perfectly understood that no previous arrangement had taken place, and that my proposition was made at hazard, and without communicating with an individual.'

[Footnote A: MR. KEMBLE retired soon after to Lausanne, where, after a short residence, he was seized with an apoplectic fit, which was soon followed by another and fatal attack. By the same malady fell also his friend and fervent admirer, Mr. ABBOTT.

ED. KNICKERBOCKER.
]

Here is a very pleasant anecdote of Le MERCEIR, the distinguished author of the 'Tableaux de Paris,' a remarkable old man, whose daughter was the wife of KENNEY, the author of 'Raising the Wind,' 'The World,' etc.:

'ON one occasion, he crossed over from Paris to London to visit his daughter, who a few months previous had given birth to a pair of fine boys. 'On arriving at the house in Bedford-Square, he found, to his great mortification, that she had left that day with her husband for Brompton, leaving behind the nurse and one of the twin-children, to join them on the following day. The old gentleman's distress was extreme, and greatly increased by his slight knowledge of English, and the almost utter impossibility of making himself understood. The servant, with the infant in her arms, came to his relief. She had fortunately been living there during the time of his previous visit. The old gentleman's agitation was intense; and the tears rolling down his time-worn cheeks, made the interview quite affecting. He clasped the unconscious child to his heart; and anxious to see the other, gave vent to his inquiries in the following words: '_Oh, mon petit! my dare!--ah! you littel rog!--where is--ah! yaas, where is--de oder piece belong to dis!_' At length with some difficulty he found his way to Brompton; and when he arrived at his daughter's lodgings, the family had retired to rest. After knocking for a long time, a head was thrust out at the window, demanding to know who was there. '_Opane, opane de door! I am de fader of all!_' was the comprehensive reply, which of course procured him instant admittance.'

MR. GOULD'S ABRIDGMENT OF ALISON'S HISTORY OF EUROPE.--We have good reason to believe, both from our knowledge of the capacity and industry of Mr. GOULD, and an examination, at considerable extent, of the abridged work before us, that the main and important points of ALISON'S History are here preserved with great care and fidelity; and that as a work of accurate historical record, of _wonderful_ cheapness, it will doubtless command the 'patronage' not only of many general readers, but more especially of colleges, academies, and other seminaries of learning, for which, as we may infer, it is deemed particularly appropriate. The editor claims, and we have no doubt justly, to have 'extracted every material _fact_ from ALISON'S work, adding nothing of his own in the way of opinion, argument, or assertion, and endeavoring to present the original narrative in the _spirit_ of the author,' but _without_ endeavoring to preserve his language, which a condensation so great rendered quite impossible. The work is presented upon good paper, with a large, clear type, and reflects no little credit upon the 'New-World' press of Mr. J. WINCHESTER.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--WE have been profoundly impressed by reading in a late English periodical a dissertation on the nature, origin, and destination of the SOUL, written in 1793, by the Right Hon. WARREN HASTINGS. He commences with the argument that our attachment to this life is grounded on delusion, to the end that we may be compelled to fulfil our allotted course through it, and that it may serve as a preparative to a better state reserved for us in another. How forceful and philosophical are the following sentences: 'In health all the allurements of sense strongly attach the mind to that state of present existence which furnishes the means of their gratification, and quicken the relish of those enjoyments which are purely intellectual; while, on the other hand, an instinct, infinitely more powerful, imprints on the soul a fixed horror of its dissolution. Without these coöperative principles, man would give himself no care about his preservation or existence. They were, therefore, ordained by nature as necessary to both. When sickness or the infirmity of age has exhausted all the powers of life, and the dread of death has nothing left to excite it but the last parting pang, the illusion of instinct, no longer necessary, disappears, and leaves its place to be occupied by reason alone, encumbered, perhaps, and enfeebled by the bodily weight which oppresses it, but free from all desires or fears except those which it derives from its conceptions of futurity.' In relation to the _necessity_ of immortality--if we would not derogate from the power and wisdom of the DEITY, or controvert our own experience of the laws by which he regulates all his works--the writer remarks: 'Can we for a moment believe that a Being of infinite perfection has made us for no other purpose than 'to fret our hour upon the stage' of mortality, and then vanish into nothing? that He has quickened us with sensations exquisitely susceptible of happiness and misery, to make the latter only our general portion? that He has endowed us with intellectual powers capable of extending their operations beyond the bounds of this narrow sphere which we inhabit, and of penetrating into the regions of infinite space, which we are destined never to see but in contemplation? and that He has stimulated us with desires of future bliss which we are never to enjoy?' No! He has made nothing in vain; He has made nothing without ends adequate to its means; and though all things may change, nothing perishes. Man was made susceptible of happiness that he might be happy; he was made capable of receiving but a small portion of happiness here, that its completion might be made up in another state; and he had given him the conception and hope of another and better state, that he might qualify himself for it, and that he might hereafter possess it.' This is felicitously and forcibly put, and will perhaps remind the reader of the fine lines of BOWRING:

'IF all our hopes and all our fears
Were prisoned in life's narrow bound,
If, travellers in this vale of tears,
We saw no better world beyond;
Oh! what could check the rising sigh?
What earthly thing could pleasure give?
Oh! who would venture then to die?
Oh! who would venture then to live?

'Were life a dark and desert moor,
Where mists and clouds eternal spread
Their gloomy veil behind, before,
And tempests thunder overhead:
Where not a sunbeam breaks the gloom,
And not a floweret smiles beneath,
Who could exist in such a tomb?
Who dwell in darkness and in death?'

Touching the future destination of the soul, Mr. HASTINGS observes:

'IT must either remain in its unmixed and elementary state, or be united to some body, and endowed with new powers in participation with it. In either way, its existence is secured. But we may reasonably conclude that, as it was necessary in the order of Providence for its prior state to have been an incorporate one, its next will be of the same kind, however varying in the form, character, and quality which it may derive from those of its new associates. I do not mean by this supposition to reject the possibility of the soul existing independently of a bodily support. I believe such a state to be possible, and, if possible, certainly probable; but as our present is a mixed state, and as it is very unlikely that if our souls are destined to exist for ever, they began to exist in their present state, and yet more unlikely that they should have originated in a perfect and proceeded in an imperfect one, it will be most reasonable to suppose that a pure spiritual essence is to be that of our ultimate destination.'

WE have remarked in one or two of our weekly and daily journals elaborate defences of Mr. FORREST, the distinguished American actor, against charges of ingratitude to early and devoted friendship, and of a lack of generosity in spirit, and of liberality in practice. We had almost said that these defences were wholly unnecessary. We have known Mr. FORREST for fifteen years, and during that period have been intimate with those who have known him for twice that length of time; and we _know_ that the very virtues in which he is now declared, in certain quarters, to be deficient, are the very attributes of his character for which his friends have the most ardent esteem. Where a man _lives down_ such calumnies as we have cited, it really seems like supererogation to defend him from them. TRUTH isn't slipping on boots, while FALSEHOOD of _this_ stamp is running away unscathed. * * * THE old adage that 'Habit is second nature' was well exemplified in a case cited by a friend of ours, of an old sea-captain living in a small town on the coast of the Bay State. He had followed the seas for forty years and upward, during which time he always shaved himself on ship-board, in storm or calm, without the aid of a looking-glass, or of any thing by which to steady himself. So accustomed had he become to this mode of shaving, that when he finally left the seas, he found it impossible to remove his beard without keeping himself in motion the while; and if he attempted to look in a glass, he invariably cut himself. His most usual method, while performing this operation, was to run about his room, and occasionally tumble over a chair, to preserve his equilibrium, as he said. Sometimes, however, when there was a storm without, and a heavy sea rolling, even this was too tame; and he then varied his exercise by trotting up and down stairs, and once in a while sliding down the ballusters! * * * THERE is _another_ 'RICHMOND in the field!' Scarcely have we done chronicling the thousand-and-one attractions of the KNICKERBOCKER steamer, than we find 'our good name' and the portrait of old DEIDRICH arresting the eye over the Gothic entrance of the Masonic Temple in Broadway. Enter that imposing edifice, walk along the vaulted passages, and ascend to the great saloon. 'What a scene!' exclaims every visitor: '_six ten-pin alleys in Westminster Abbey!_' And this is the description, precisely. The majestical roof, with its mingling arches and rich and elaborate tracery, overhangs a hall profusely ornamented, and 'illustrated' with several fine paintings, and which contains six of the best ten-pin alleys in the world. Here the 'KNICKERBOCKER CLUB,' composed of 'O. F. M.', (our first men,) and their non-resident guests, drop in ever and anon, to develope their chests and strengthen their lungs, in 'a bout' or two at the healthful game of bowling. There, too, do we occasionally 'expand and bourgeon,' when we have over-wrought brain and hand; an example which persons of sedentary pursuits would do well now and then to imitate. Other apartments there are, for billiards, whist, and dominoes, (as well as for conversation, reading, refreshment, etc.,) which are in a kindred style of elegance and comfort; and attractive to those who, unlike ourselves, are not confined in their exercise to 'ball and pin.' The proprietor's care for the convenience and enjoyment of his guests is such as might be expected of a tasteful KNICKERBOCKER, from the classic region of Sleepy Hollow. By the by; he suggests a most important addition to the pictorial 'features' of the great saloon; namely, the Nine-pin Players whom RIP VAN WINKLE found bowling among the Kaätskill mountains one thundery afternoon. A capital suggestion, and worthy of heed. * * * WE are in the receipt, at too late an hour, we regret to say, for adequate notice, of '_An Address to the People of the United States in behalf of the American Copy-right Question_,' recently put forth by a committee of the 'American Copy-right Club.' We earnestly commend it to the attention of every American reader, who has a desire to enhance the prospects, and increase the value, of our native literature. The address, we are informed, proceeds from the pen of Mr. CORNELIUS MATHEWS; and we take great pleasure in stating that it is what we ventured in our last number to hope that it _would_ be, clear, simple, and direct in its arguments; forcible, and with two or three exceptions, not _forced_ in its illustrations; and occasionally touched with a quiet but not the less affective satire. We shall refer to this address, and present certain extracts which we have marked for insertion, in an ensuing number. * * * THE lines upon '_My Mother's Grave_' are from the heart; _that_ we can easily perceive; but yet they are _not poetry_, we are unfeignedly sorry, for the young writer's sake, to be compelled to say. For the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth stanzas, pray read these few lines of SCHILLER. It is all embodied here:

'IT is that faithful mother!
Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted,
From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted.
Far from those blithe companions, born
Of her, and blooming in their morn;
On whom when couched, her heart above,
So often looked the Mother-Love!

'Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band,
And never, never more to come!
She dwells within the shadowy land,
Who was the Mother of that Home!'

IN the course of a concert given lately by Mr. HENRY RUSSELL at Washington, (D. C.,) the following affecting incident occurred. The vocalist had just finished singing the little song of our friend 'the General' MORRIS, '_Woodman! spare that Tree!_' which was received with the customary applause; upon which Mr. RUSSELL arose, and begged permission to 'relate a remarkable circumstance connected with that song.' He had but just executed it, he said, at a concert given by him at Boulogne sur Mer, when a gentleman, in a state of alarming excitement, arose from the midst of the assembled multitude, and in a voice trembling with emotion, exclaimed: '_Was the tree spared?_' 'Never,' said Mr. RUSSELL, 'can I forget the glow which bu'st out all over that man's face, when I answered: '_Yes, it was!!_' If that 'inquiring mind' did not belong to a wicked wag, then the probability is, that we are rather mistaken than otherwise. * * * WE have before us, in pamphlet-form, taken from the last number of the 'Southern Quarterly Review,' a '_Sketch of the Character of the Hon. Hugh S. Legare_,' which we have perused with a satisfaction unmingled, save with a melancholy regret, that one so preëminently gifted as the subject of this article, should have been so early called away. The lamented deceased was a man 'affluent in learning, whether it regarded the useful or beautiful in life; delicate and exquisite in his tastes, elevated in character, and sensitive in his affections; true to his public trusts, and exemplary in his relative duties.' Our country may well lament his loss. The 'Sketch' is in the main well written: it irks us, however, to encounter in a description of Mr. LEGARE'S dress the term '_pants_' instead of pantaloons. The word is a vulgarism almost as gross as the substitution of '_gents_' for gentlemen, after the manner of Mr. TITTLEBAT TITMOUSE; no model, certainly, for a grave reviewer. * * * OUR readers will doubtless recollect a marriage between a Mr. LONG and Miss LITTLE, which went the rounds of the papers some years ago, and to which some wag had appended the well-known lines:

'Man wants but _little_ here below,
But wants that _Little_ LONG.

A few weeks since in B----, a Mr. JONATHAN GOODEAL was married to Miss HONORA LITTLE. After the ceremony, one of the company rose and uttered the following, which he considered a decided improvement on the original couplet:

'Man wants but little here below,
But wants that _Little_ a GOOD'EAL!'

A 'VERY anonymous' correspondent, who signs himself 'J. B.' (none of our KNICKERBOCKER 'J. B.'s, as we have with some trouble ascertained,) writes us the annexed notelet: 'In your 'Gossip' for December, why not, in relation to WEIR'S picture, commemorate the courtship of MILES STANDISH and Mr. BRADFORD? BRADFORD'S wife, as the picture-pamphlet tells us, fell overboard the day after the arrival, and Mrs. ROSE STANDISH deceased the same autumn. MILES (Query Latin?) it seems looked with complacency upon a Mrs. ALDEN, but being no hero on a carpet, desired his friend BRADFORD to act as his second, and carry his offer. BRADFORD complied, and pleaded warmly for his friend. The lady, however, listened to him with much impatience, and as soon as he had finished, said, very demurely: 'And now why do you not speak for yourself, Master BRADFORD?' And history informs us that Mr. BRADFORD _did_ speak for himself, and ALDEN BRADFORDS still extant verify the chronicle. You would also do me a favor by anathematizing one FLAGG, who publishes VICTOR HUGO'S plays, prefaces and all, under the name of FLAGG, without giving the great Romanticist any credit therefor.' Mr. FLAGG, who, if 'these be truths,' ought to be ashamed of his reputation, may consider himself 'anathematized.' * * * SOME afflicted gentleman, with whom we deeply sympathize, has lately shown up in one of the London magazines a specimen of the genus PUNDIT; one of those persons who, having acquired the reputation of a wit, lives in a constant agony of endeavor to keep up the character; who lends nothing of a rational kind to the general entertainment during a whole evening, but watchfully 'bides his time' for the infliction of his own especial annoyance. In the present instance, the 'pundit and stock-joker' was caught at dinner by his host, during a shower of 'original puns' which accompanied the various courses, in this wise:

'HAPPENING to possess some fine old Madeira in pints, a bottle of it was produced with an appropriate puff of its age. Taking up the bottle, Mr. PUNDIT remarked, 'that it might be old, but it was very little of its age.' FRANK was in raptures at the joke, and laughed till tears came to his eyes. On recovering himself, he was surprised to find that my countenance, instead of being spread out into an approving smile, was fixed in something not much short of a frown. I expressed my regret that Mr. PUNDIT'S admirable _memory_ should be so unprofitably employed, while he interposed an appeal in behalf of the originality of the joke; but I hoped he would forgive me, if I proved to the contrary. 'Be good enough,' I told my son, 'to fetch me the fourth volume of Erasmus. It is,' I continued, turning to Mr. PUNDIT, 'the Leyden edition, and I shall have the pleasure of showing you _your_ joke in a collection of ancient aphorisms, which was originally published several centuries ago.' FRANK having brought the book, I found the passage, which runs thus: 'Gnathena, when a very small bottle of wine was brought in, with the praise that it was very old, answered, _it is very little of its age_.' Mr. PUNDIT was confounded, and confessed to a glimmering remembrance of having seen the joke before. 'The wonder would have been,' I replied, 'had a gentleman of your erudition in witticisms not met with it, for it has, since Erasmus's time, found its way into nearly all the jest-books of various ages and countries. I must, however, give you credit for its apt application to my diminutive modicum of Madeira.'

The old gentleman subsequently adds, by way of salvo: 'I know you err from innocence; you little thought that all the puns you were making were current when I was studying for the bar thirty years ago, and originated, I doubt not, amidst the al-fresco festivities of the Saxon heptarchy.' A capital 'recipe' is given for silencing the series of 'dinner-puns' proper: 'Should the Pundit begin at meal-times, attack his first effort; request the company's attention, and rattle off the whole string. Thus forestalled, he will allow the meal to pass off pleasantly, and the conversation to flow on.' * * * SURELY 'C.,' if he has perused the 'Gossip' of our last number, will not think that it is from any lack of 'sympathy' with him, that we decline his '_Autumnal Thoughts_.' What _he_ felt, looking upon the 'glorious decay of Nature' from her sublime mountain pinnacles--over a scene which 'lay bathed in the smoky light of an October day and an Alleghany valley'--we ourselves felt, perhaps at the same moment, in gazing upon the frost-painted heights along the Hudson, and the calm beauty of the Long-Island shores. _We_, too, 'saddened by the solemn monitions of fading loveliness, went back to the past, and to the dear friends in whose light we saw all that the heart _can_ see, of vanished days;' and with an unutterable longing to know the mystery of life, and the greater mystery of death and the grave, have asked, with a poet too gifted to be so little known:

'WHERE are ye now!--though Fancy's flight
To you my soul doth sometimes bear,
Departed Time's eternal night
Re-echoes back the question, 'Where!'
Nature, in simple beauty drest,
Still dances round the restless year,
And gazing on her yellow vest,
I sometimes think my change is near!

'Not that my hair with age is gray,
Not that my heart hath yet grown cold,
But that remembered friendships say,
'Death loves not best the infirm and old.'
As many a bosom knows and feels,
Left, in the flower of life, alone,
And many an epitaph reveals
On the cold monumental stone.'

But the lessons of autumn may partake of a sober gladness as well as of melancholy thoughts; and this is beautifully illustrated by a friend and correspondent, whose _nom de plume_ in the 'New World' cannot divert attention from the characteristics of his style. He too has been looking at the 'glorious autumnal-forest display on the hills,' which were 'bedabbled like a painter's palette.' 'Ah!' he exclaims, 'the frost has done it! And now the outward life of the trees is killed. That beautiful spectacle is Death. Equally lovely does the soul appear when the frost has touched its outer covering. You see what a variety of colors has been produced by the same cause acting upon different natures, for the spiritual life in trees is as various as among men. So it is when our natures are touched by the chills of adversity, or death even; some of us, like the hemlock, will look sad and pale; some, like the wild cherry, will become red and fiery; and others, like those hardy cedars, the good and patient, will retain their primitive greenness and beauty.' * * * THERE is evidently a political or some other conspiracy hatching at this moment in the 'little people's' apartment adjoining our sanctum. Beside the good vrouw's, there are three other female heads together, and one of them belongs to a delegate from the High Priestess of Fashion; and through the two open doors, we can hear, in earnest but broken tones, such exciting words as these: '_White feather_,' '_piece_,' '_piping_,' '_set in all round_,' '_bias_,' '_the skirt_,' '_brought round to the front and fastened_,' '_single bows_,' '_busts_,' '_bugles_,' '_purple_,' '_gore_,' '_when it's made up_,' etc. Now what can all this portend? Putting 'that and that together,' we are led to think that the ladies are about to follow certain sage advice from a _very_ sage quarter, touching the 'rights of women!' These words are doubtless only 'parts of speech'-es to incite to action; fragments, very like, of what runs something in _this_ connection: 'We have shown the 'white feather' long enough! Let us throw away our 'bias' for the gentler virtues, and 'set in all round' for Mr. JOHN NEAL'S paradise of our down-trodden sex! We have been kept on 'the skirt' of society since the days of EVE; it is high time we were 'brought round to the front and fastened' there by public opinion! They think (the 'single beaux' as well as the married men) that we are only fit for 'piping' times of 'peace;' but we will let them know that we are not unfit for war; that we can stand by and see a shell 'bu'st' without winking; that we neither fear 'purple' nor any other 'gore;' and that the blast of an hundred 'bugles' would have no terrors for us. Our resolution, 'when it's made up,' cannot be shaken!' But we _may_ do the ladies (GOD bless them!) injustice. It has just occurred to us, that perhaps after all it may be only the Eleusinian mysteries of millinery and mantuamaking that we are seeking to penetrate. 'Like as not!' * * * WHAT a thoughtful, feeling, truthful poet JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL has become! Not erroneously did we predict, from one of his early poems in the KNICKERBOCKER, 'Threnodia on the Death of an Infant,' that 'to this complexion would he come at last.' Are not these stanzas from '_The Heritage_,' one of Mr. LOWELL'S latest efforts, every way admirable?

'THE rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
And he inherits soft, white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old:
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.

'The rich man's son inherits cares;
The bank may break, the factory burn,
Some breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft, white hands would hardly earn
A living that would suit his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One would not care to hold in fee.