System a great gate to the public heart. I add this gratuitous mite of speculation to the unused data that have been long waiting for a compiler of the statistics of metropolitan momenta.

rand, as you probably know, has turned painter, after having reputable. I say again, that to add to the social induce. long been the first engraver of our country. He is patientments of this attraction would be to make of the Lecture of labour, and has approached landscape painting by a peculiar education of hand and eye, and the probability is that, if he live twenty years, he will have no equal in this department of the arts. If you remember, I mentioned my great surprise at the excellence of two of his landscapes in the last exhibition of the Academy here. To see pictures with an appetite in the eye, one should see them singly, however, and but two or three, at farthest, in a day. Artists who would be deliberately appreciated, should make their houses morning-resorts, as they are, and very fashionable ones, in France and Italy. There are people (and those, too, who can afford to buy pictures) who yawn for some such round of occupation during the summer mornings of the travelling

season.

Broadway is novelty-fied a little from its wintry sameness by a sprinkling of the English officers of the VESTAL-the ship of war just arrived, bringing the British Minister.

We have had a week of spring weather, and the upper part of New-York (all above the pavements, ca va dire) has been truly enjoyable. Most persons who do not wear their beards for a protection to the glands of the throat, have got the mumps-on dit. Writing in a warm room with the throat pressed down upon a thick cravat, and going into the open air with the head raised and the throat of course suddenly left exposed-is one of those provoking risks that "stand to reason." By the elaborate inventions to keep the feet dry, there seems to be a "realizing sense" of the danger of wet feet also.* Mr. Lorin Brooks's invention for expeditiously throwing an iron bridge over every small puddle(that is to say, of making boots with a curved metallic shank under the hollow of the foot)-has the advantage of adding to the beauty as well as the protection of the exposed extremities.

I see in Graham's Magazine for February a portrait of the author of "Charcoal Sketches"— -a man who is unlike most magazine writers in not belonging to a group. Mr. Joseph C. Neal has a niche to himself in the temple of merit. Let me commend to your perusal the very clever biographical and critical sketch which accompanies the portrait. It says of him what I think quite true, that in humorous sketches of character, Mr. Joseph C. Neal is by no means

February 17. THE want of an excuse to put on bonnet, and go out, somewhere in the evening, with father, husband, brother or lover, is doubtless the secret of most audiences, whether in church or lecture-room. I arrived at this conclusion sitting and watching the coming in of an audience at a popular lecture a night or two ago. The subject was of a character | that would only draw listeners (you would think) from the more intellectual and cultivated classes-dry and of remote interest-and one too that could be "read up," to perfect mental satisfaction by sending a shilling to a library, or buy-inferiour to Dickens. I have, for some time past, looked ing a bit of the cheap literature of the day. It was a cold, upon him as the most pay-worthy of American magazineraw night, the lecturer was no orator, and the benches of writers. the lecture-room had no cushions. With these premises, you would look to see anything but a pleasure-loving and youthful audience. Yet this was just the quality of the comers-in till the room was crowded. There was scarce an unappropriated-looking damsel among them, and not one bald head or "adust" visage. That the young men would have been there without the ladies, I do not believe-nor, that the ladies came there with any special desire to know more of the subject of the lecture.

SIGNOR PALMO Continues to pay his way and his prima donna, and not much more--for the upper gallery is so constructed that, though you can see the stage from every part of it, you can only see the dress circle from the front row; and people go to plays a little to see and hear, and a great deal to be seen and heard of. The price of places being the same all over the house, few will take tickets except for the lower tier. The best evidence that the opera is growing on the public liking is the degree to which the

On this necessity for ladies to go somewhere of an even-piques and tracasseries of the company are talked about in ing is based, of course, most of the popular enthusiasms of the day--for they are never got up by individual reading, and would fail entirely but for the opportunity to give, in one moment, one thought to many people. This fact seems to me to indicate in what way the inducements should be heightened when audiences fall off, and, instead of cheapening tickets or spending more money in placards, I think it would be better to treat the ladies to an interlude of coffee and conversation, or to minister in some way directly to the tastes of those in whom resides the primum mobile of attendance.

society. Quite a Guelph and Ghibelline excitement was raised a few nights ago by the basso's undertaking indig. nantly to sing as the critics advised him-with more moderation. Signor Valtellina is a great favourite, and has a famous voice, ben martellato. He is a very impassioned singer, and when excited, loses his flessibilita, and grows harsh and indistinct-(as he himself does not think!) By way of pleasing the carpers for once, he sang one of the warmest passages of the opera with a moping lamentivole that brought out a hiss from the knowing ones. His friends, who were in the secret, applauded. Valtellina laid his hand on his heart and retired-but came back, as the millers say, with a head on," and sang, once more, passionately and triumphantly. Excuse the fop's alley slang with which I have told you this momentous matter-quite equal in im. portance (as a subject of conversation) to any couple of events eligible by Niles's Register.

I presume there are thousands of families in New-York that are not linked with any particular round of acquaint-" ance-very worthy and knowledge-loving people, who can afford only a few friends and shun acquaintances as expensive. People in this rank are too moderate-minded to || be theatre-goers, but the wife and daughters of the family must go somewhere of an evening. Parties are costly, public balls both costly and unadvisable, and there are eight months in the year when it is too cold for ice-cream gardens and walks on the Battery. Lecture tickets for a family are cheap, the company there is good, the room is warm, and so well-lighted as to show comeliness or dress to advantage, and the apparent object of being there is creditable and || to let in water!

Nothing else new, that I know of, except that the dandies are subscribing to send out Barry, the stage manager of the Park, for Mrs. Nisbett and a French corps de ballet, exclu. sively female.

proof shoe made of the skin of a drunkard's mouth-warranted never

* I have somewhere seen waggish mention of an approved water

OUR LIBRARY FARISH.

OUR heart is more spread and fed than our pocket, dear reader of the Mirror, with the new possession of this magic long arm by which we are handing you, one after another, the books we have long cherished. Almost the first manifestation of the poet's love, is the sending of his favourite

yourself at any time from the world, or from care, and recover the dreams, built over these books in the rare hours

dream-visited. More valuable still, it gives you—when you begin to love, and want the words and thoughts that have fled affrighted away-a thread to draw back the truants, and an instant and eloquent language to a heart otherwise

dumb.

"Sybilla" wants a poetical colour given to the "transition state" from the "uncertain age" to the "sad certainty of youth gone by." We can only give her a verse from a piece of poetry written to a delightful and fascinating old maid whom we once had a passion for:

What though thy years are getting on
They pass thee harmless by,

I cannot count them on thy cheek
Nor miss them in thine eye.
The meaner things of earth grow old,
And feel the touch of Time,

But the moon and the stars, though old in heaven,
Are fresh as in their prime.

books to his mistress, and no commerce of tenderness is more like the conversance of angels (probably) than the sympathies exchanged through the loop-holes of starry thoughts (so like windows twixt soul and soul are the love-expressing conceptions of poetry!) The difference between an hour passed with friends and an hour passed with strangers, will be some guide to you in forming an estimate of the difference between writing for our readers without, and writing for them with, the sympathy of books in common. The Mirror becomes, in a manner, our literary parish-we the indulged literary vicar, with whose tastes out of the pulpit you are as familiar as with his sermons of criticism when in; and you, dear reader, become our loved parishioner, for whom we cater, at fountains of knowledge and fancy to which you have not our facility of access, and and whose face, turned to us on Saturday, inspires us like the countenance of a familiar friend. This charming lite. rary parish (now rising of eleven thousand) we would not exchange for a bishopric nor for the constituency of a congress member, and we hold our responsibility to be as great We have excellent poetry on hand-enough to last the as the bishop's and our chair better worth having than "a seat" in the Capitol. Few things gratify us more than the Mirror for a year. How well how many people write!calls we occasionally get from subscribers who have a wish (if we may double a wonder.) Excuse delays, oh kind conto see us after reading our paper for a while-and this feel.tributors! "E. G. J.'s" lines are truthful and touching, but we have not room for them at present. They are laid aside ing of friendly and personal acquaintance is what we most aim at producing between ourselves and the readers of the for possible use hereafter. Mirror. We shall seldom be more pleased hereafter than in taking one of our parish by the hand—relying more upon the sympathy between us, by common thoughts, than upon any possible ceremony of introduction.

Let us beg our readers to have the different numbers of THE ROCOCO bound with blank letter-paper between the leaves, and to read always with a pencil in hand. There are such chambers within chambers of comprehension and relish in repeated readings of such sweet creations, and the thoughts they suggest are so note-worthy and so delightful to recal! We have sent a poem to the printer this morning (to be published in the same shilling number with The Rimini,) which we do not believe ten of our readers ever saw-(a poem never reprinted in this country, and apparently quite lost sight of in England)-but which exercised upon our imagination, when in college, an influence tincturing years of feeling and reverie. An English copy was given us by an old man curious in books, and it was soon so covered with pencil-marks that we were obliged to rebind it with alternate leaves of white paper, and we carried it with us for a travelling companion through Europe, and re-read it (once again, we well remember) sitting on the ruins of the church of Sardis in Asia. It is a narrative poem of inexpressible richness and melody, and of the loftiest walk of inventive imagination. It is so sweet a story, too, that it would entertain a child like a fairy tale. We could go on writing about it for hours-for it brings back to us, days spent with it in the woods, green banks where we have lain and mused over it, lovely listeners who have held their breaths to hear it, and oh, a long, long chain of associations steeped in love, indolence and sunshine! And this it is to have a favourite author-to have a choice and small library of favourite authors. It makes a wreath wherein to weave

for memory the chance flowers of a life-time! It gives Memory a sweet companion. It enables you to withdraw

Thanks for the many kind letters we receive, expressing satisfaction in our enterprise of the "Mirror Library." We have not time to answer them all, (we do answer, on an average, ten a day!) but we trust that all unanswered correspondents will find an apology for us in the busy vocation.

Spring is close behind us, dear reader. What think you of this bit of poetry, touching Spring flowers:

is.

The flowers are nature's jewels, with whose wealth
She decks her summer beauty;-Primrose sweet,
With blossoms of pure gold; enchanting rose,
That like a Virgin Queen, salutes the sun,
Dew-diadem'd; the perfumed pink that studs
The earth with clust'ring ruby; hyacinth,
The hue of Venus' tresses; myrtle green,
That maidens think a charm for constant love,
And give night-kisses to it, and so dream;
Fair lily! woman's emblem, and oft twined
Round bosoms, where its silver is unseen-
Such is their whiteness;-downcast violet,
Turning away its sweet head from the wind,
As she her delicate and startled ear
From passion's tale!

A country subscriber writes to know who "Mrs. Grundy" She is the lady who lives next door, Madam!—the lady at whose funeral there will be but one mourner—the last man! We are not sorry that we know her, but very sorry that she must needs know us, and have her "say" about us.

A nameless friend has wasted sundry sheets of paper in a vague and rambling discussion of an argument that has been compressed into a nutshell by Ugo Foscolo. As, vide :—

"It is indubitably true, that passion cannot be very strong when we are at leisure to describe it. But a man of genius feels more intensely and suffers more strongly than another, and, for this very reason, when the force of his passion has subsided, he retains for a longer period the recollection of what it has been, and can more easily imagine himself again under its influence; and, in my conception, what we call the power of imagination is chiefly the combination of strong feelings and recollections."