the opinions of some musical people,) played without his inspiration the last night he played at the Park, and so I stated. At the Tabernacle on Tuesday night his violinfiend (or angel) was at home, and so completely did he search every chamber of my sense of musical delight, and so triumphantly drive out all unbelief, and fill me with passionate admiration and wonder at his skill and power, that I feel a certain compunctious reproach for ever having qualified my homage. One of his themes was a rhapsody of religious music, composed by himself, and, without irreverence, it seemed to me that St. John, in the Apocalyptic vision, could scarcely have been within the compass of music more rapt and unearthly. Nearly four thousand people held their breath in ravished ecstacy with this performance, and the only drawback to my own rapture was the conviction that, transparent and articulate as was the meaning of every note, to translate it into language the poet must first be himself translated to the sphere and capabilities of an angel. You will think that I, too, am "bit by the dipsas"-but I, at least, gave up my soul to this Olé Bull-madness with some reluctance. Genius-like, the Norse-magician is journalier, as the French say; but I pray that when he shall play at Washington he may "give a rise" to the embodied intellect There is an article afloat upon the raft of fugitive literaof the capital which will show them a heaven above politics.ture ("a stick of timber among the flood (—) trash,” as they The Hibernia has brought me a gossiping letter or two from England; and, by way of letting you down softly from the balloon-flight of the paragraph foregoing, I will quote you a passage from the clever hand of our friend S, the artist, now resident in London, and fully employed in transferring aristocratic beauty to ivory. Buckwheat and molasses, it should be premised, are undiscovered luxuries to the Londoners, and it is pleasant and apposite, at this particular season, when these friandises are in conjunctive culmination, to see how they loom in the traveller's memory. Says our friend

one of those who "crowd a year's life into a day." My friend adds:

"You had some expectation of seeing D'Orsay in America, but he never had any intention of going out. He has been a prisoner for the last two years in Lady Blessington's house, at Kensington. There is an acre or two of garden, as you know, in the rear, shut in with a wall high enough to keep out creditors, and here D'Orsay takes his exercise on horseback. He devotes himself entirely to painting, making portraits of his friends and receiving money for || them—in short making a profession of it. Every Saturday night, at twelve o'clock precisely, his cab is at the door, and he drives to his club, and on Sundays he is to be seen in the Park, driving with Lady Blessington and her two exquisitely beautiful nieces, (the Misses Power)-taking care to be home again, like Cinderella, before twelve o'clock at night. Not long ago, a meeting of his friends took place, and an effort was made to relieve him. They subscribed twenty thousand pounds, which would have given his creditors four shillings in the pound. The proposal was made, and the creditors refused to accept. The subscription was consequently abandoned."

"So you have taken up your abode at the Astor. You have done well. There are many good things at the Astor; above all, the buckwheats; and I can fancy you at this moment, while I am breaking my fast upon a flabby 'French roll,' (so called because no bread of the kind was ever seen in France,) with a pile of them smoking before you, and pouring over them, with a liberal hand, copious libations of that exquisite, delicate, transparent molasses which the Astor alone provides, and which has always reminded me of the wine of the veiled prophet

"No juice of earth is here,

say on the Susquehannah) which is worth hauling ashore and preserving-Parke Godwin's Essay on Shelley in the Democratic Review. It comes from a mind of the finest powers of analysis and the warmest glow of poetical appreciation, and if we had in our country the class of well-patronized sober magazines which they have in England, this writer's pen, and Whipple's would be the two best worth paying in the country, for that kind of article.

Ticknor & Co. have re-published a volume of devotional poetry by Dr. Bowring, called Matins and Vespers. It is pure, even, moderately-inspired, and scholar-like poetry-of the best quality for family reading. The Doctor's pursuits are all on a lofty level-philanthropy, patriotism, emancipation, and religion-and if his other faculties (all of which are of more than respectable calibre) were as largely developed as his veneration, he would be the moral Washington of his era. The last time I saw him he was in a great rage with a certain Yankee, who, upon very cool acquaintance, had drawn at sight upon his hospitality, by having himself and his baggage set down in the Doctor's entry, and sending in the servant to borrow money to pay his coach-fare from Liverpool! With the exception of this private-life “repudiator," however, he is a great admirer of America and Americans.

But the pure treacle of that upper sphere, Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow, Catching the gem's bright colour as they go."" Green corn and sweet potatoes, hickory nuts and hominy, are also unknown to the trans-frog-ponders, and some enterprising missionary of succulents should turn his attention to the enlightening of these pagans of pabulum. Major Brigham's list of drinks, by-the-way, (which I copied from his carte in one of my former letters,) has been sent to the Comoro Islands in a despatch containing pictures of steamboats and other indices of advanced civilization; and, bythe-way second, I was lately in Boston, and was presented by a couple of literary friends to this renowned compounder of things to drink. In a private letter, and in less teetotal times, I should grow eloquent on what I saw and tasted. Here and now I can only commend Major Brigham's ac-it, is very enjoyable. You must excuse me for the delay. qnaintance to the Apician.

The Langleys have got up a most presentable and elegant edition of the poems of Eliza Cook-the most fireside and home-like of modern poets. There is a great deal in this volume that will touch the "business and bosoms" of the many. Mrs. Osgood (herself a poetess of the affections, and wanting nothing but a little earth in her mixture) gives a sketch of Miss Cook in the preface, which is as good as a personal introduction.

A letter from a literary friend in London informs me that Lady Blessington is suffering from a lethargy from which she finds it next to impossible to arouse herself for literary labour. The society she lives in draws very exhaustingly upon her powers of attention, and she has been all her life

Friday. I began this letter on Wednesday, and the first part of it may have got cold. Pay, praise, and a beginning without ending, are the first, second, and third best of an author's luxuries, and the latter, though I can seldom afford

P. S. I have had an indignant letter from a friend for not returning a call made on me lately at Gadsby's. Perhaps you will lend me a line's room to say to him and others that I have not been there, and that there is another person of exactly my name travelling "with his lady," and lately a guest at that hotel.

Here is a scrap written with a sort of ploughshare energy
that we like. It is by Hon. George Lunt, and dedicated
(when set to music) to Miss MARY WILLARD.

Oh, 'tis merry and free, by the wild, wild sea,
Where the tumbling billows dash and howl;
But we, who are boys of the greenwood tree,

Love the tossing bough and the forest growl;
And over the Prairie, away, away,

What wave so swift as our forest steeds! We sling out our rifles ere peep of day,

And off! for the glades where the wild-deer feeds!

At the wintry morn, when, with circling flow,
The dancing blood in the keen air springs,
We're up and away o'er the tinkling snow,
That under our tread with a music rings!
And the silvery sparkles flash and fly

From the iron hoofs that are fleet and strong,
And the grey quail darts with her whistling cry,
And the partridge whirrs as we pass along.

And over our saddles, while day is bright,

We fling the dun-deer and the prairie bird,
And hey! for the eyes that will dance in light,
When the homeward tramp of our steeds is heard!
Oh, this is the life of the woodman free,

In his hut by the clearing wild and rude,-
Though 'tis merry and free, by the glad, glad sea,
Yet ours be the life of the green wild-wood!

EGOTISM AND LIBEL.

And if the making of this physiognomy visible be egotism, then is egotism in an apothecary's sign or in the maker's name in your boot-leg.

There is, of course, a nice line to be drawn, between the saying that of editorial self, which every reader would like to know, and the incurring the deserved charge of egotism; and it was by that line exactly that we were trying to navigate in the dilemma with which we started. Should we,— or should we not-bother the reader's brain with what was bothering ours? To a limited and bearable degree, then, we will.

We determined to live by periodical literature, and we came to New-York prepared of course to unship the wings of our Pegasus and let him trot-if trotting is "the go"quite sure that if he is worth keeping, his legs are as sound as his feathers. It is one thing to be " willing to come to the scratch," however, and another thing to find out definitely where the scrutch is. We were prepared to turn owl and armadillo-be indefatigable in our cage, and abroad only by night to live on one meal a day-to be editor, proof-reader, foreman and publisher, and as many other things as we could get out of life, limb and twentyfour hours-prepared for any toil and self-denial, in short, to quash debt and keep up the Mirror. Excellent virtue entirely thrown away! The Mirror rose as easy as the moon, WHEN the "last page" morning arrives, dear reader, we, went on its way rejoicing, and is now out of the reach of for the first time in the week, pull the "stop politic" in our kites, rockets and steeples! Which way lay-then-the many-keyed organ of livelihood-making, and muse a little dragons to vanquish? This brings us to the head and front on expediency while the ink dries upon our pen. This of our dilemma. Personal slander is the only obstacle in morning, this particular morning-we chance to have American literature. "belayed," as the sailors say, "a loose halliard" in our rig- SO BE IT! We do not complain of it. We have not the ging, and in casting an eye "a-low and aloft," to see how presumption to be above our country. America demands it draws upon the canvass, we have determined to alter a of her literary children that they should submit to calumny little our trim and ballast. You are our passenger, dear-demands it in the most emphatic of all voices, by her supreader, and our object is to make the voyage agreeable to port of the presses which inflict it. We agree. We cannot you, and the query is, therefore, how much you would be make shoes, though to that trade there is no such penalty. interested in these same details of trim, ballast and rigging. We should throw away our apprenticeship, if we attempted Our coffee stands untasted, (for we write and breakfast, as to live, now, by any but the one trade whose household gods an idle man breakfasts and dawdles, all along through the are outlawed. We honour our country. We will live by up-hill of the morning,) and our omelette must cool while American literature, with its American drawback. We can we amputate one horn of this dilemma. suffer as much as another man. We are no coward. We We have never explained (have we?) that as an artist will step into the arena, and let the country, that looks on, needs a "lay-figure" whereon to adjust drapery and pre-decide upon the weapons and terms of combat. Yet still pare effects, an editor in the fancy-line (our line) requires a personification, from the mouth of which he may speak with the definite identity of an individual. There are a thousand little whims and scraps of opinion kicking about the floor of common-place, which, like bits of cloth and riband, might be pinned on to a drapery with effect, though worthless if simply presented to you in a bundle. A periodical needs to|| be an individual-with a physiognomy that is called up to the mind of the subscriber, and imagined as speaking, while he reads. An apple given to you by a friend at table is not like an apple taken from the shelf of a huckster. An article on the leading topic of the day, in a paper you are not accustomed to, is not read as the same article would be in your favourite periodical. The friend's choice alters the taste and value of the apple, as the individual editor's selection or approbation gives weight and value to the article. The more you are acquainted with your editor,-even though, in that acquaintance, you find out his faults,-the more interest you feel in his weekly visit, and the more curiosity you feel in what he offers you to read. What made the fortune of Blackwood but "Christopher North's" splendid egotism! A magazine without a distinct physiognomy visible through the type of every page, has no more hold on its circulation than an orchard on the eaters of apple-tarts.

there is a dilemma.

We have tried for fifteen years the silent system-the living down slanders, as the watchman wakes down the stars that rise again in twelve hours. The only exception to our rule occurred in England, where an English pen assumed a few American misstatements-and being "among the Romans," we did as they do in such cases—got the necessary retraction through the "law of honour." Lately, as perhaps the reader knows, we have taken a fancy to see whether there was any difference between public opinion and the law, as to the protection of literary men against slander. The author of the particular set of slanders we chanced to light upon for the experiment, is, we understand, a clergyman and an abolitionist, and though we have literally proved that he published seven or eight direct lies against our private character, we are condemned by many of the press for what they call "Coopering an editor," and one paper in Philadelphia attacks our defence of our own character as a shallow piece of ostentation, got up for effect! We humbly ask which is most agreeable to the public? Do they like it submitted to silently, or do they prefer it defended, by dragging our private life with all its details into the street? We will accommodate them-for we must live in the country we were born in, and live by literature!

**PP3 4* Svདས་ད མཚ ཐ་ས་ད4J0་, སཿBས ད Ittvalue ac•

costed the emperour. When Rapp approached Napoleon,
the latter gave his aide-de-camp a severe look, and, in a re-
proachful tone, which no one else could hear, said:
"Again you have not had patience to wait."

In the long abode which Marshal Serrurier had formerly made at Rome and different parts of Italy, (from 1795 to 1799,) he never had the opportunity of seeing the pope.

This lady gave the security of fifty-three thousand francs, which was not surprising when we reflect that the materiel in the lingerie of

Then, stepping forward, he said, in the most affable the Invalides was worth more than two hundred thousand francs. At

manner:

the School of St. Cyr the widow of a colonel or even field-marshal fills this office.