Upper Lakes in the HENDRICK HUDSON' steamer, who will be remembered, we suspect, by all who saw him. He was designated as Tittlebat Titmouse,' whom in his various and frequent dressings,' his ignorant presumption, and his peculiar air, he much resembled. He escaped us at Mackinaw, where he made his way into a hospitable resident's private mansion, into which two or three gentlemen had been invited, and called for 'smrum' to 'treat' a gentleman whom he was anxious to honor. Fancy a peacock in a poultry-yard:

an obliging friend with the perusal of two or three manuscript sermons by the late Rev. WILLIAM B. O. PEABODY, of Springfield, Massachusetts. From one of these, a funeral discourse, we take the annexed touching and beautiful passage:

IF you have ever dwelt in the house of sorrow, you know how it is with them that mourn. It is sympathy alone which finds its way to their hearts. The consolations of Heaven are sent by one who was HIMSELF a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. There HE stands and knocks at the door of the desolate habitation. If it is opened to him, he enters, and says to the agitated spirits within, Come unto me, ye who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Immediately there is a calm, and they say, 'What manner of person is this?-for he speaks to the storms of the soul, and they obey him.' Look over his history, and see how earnest and unalterable his sympathy was displayed, in almost every action of his life, and unchilled by the gloom of the grave. At the tomb of LAZARUS he wept in sympathy with the mourners; mourning himself, perchance, that when the bitterness of death was past, he must recall his friend to the living, to suffer and die again. In the moment of his triumphant entrance to the guilty city he has tears for those who are soon to become his murderers. In the last evening of his life he sits with friends at the table, and while the bread and the wine pass untasted by him, he entreats them not to let their hearts be troubled, while a heart-breaking burthen rests on his own. As he walked with them in the pale moonlight to the place where they separate for the last time, he implores GOD to bless them, in an earnest and affecting prayer. It was sympathy with their sufferings which made him forgetful of his own; for as soon as this duty is done, as soon as he disappears in the shadows of the garden, you hear him fall to the ground; you catch the broken accents of his prayer, 'Oh! FATHER, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me!' and the sweat, as it were great drops of blood, is wrung by the agony from his brow. He could speak peace to them when his own cup was filled with anguish till it drowned the brim. Where two or three are gathered in the lonely dwelling, weeping over hearts divided and hopes destroyed, he is in the midst of them, with more than the kindness of human love. He is present to the soul, though unseen by the eye; and his words, 'I will give you rest,' though unheard by the ear, fall like angel-whispers upon the heart.'

In closing a similar discourse, on another occasion, Mr. PEABODY said: 'We shall soon depart from this house of God; the shades of evening will soon fall, and silence will be within its walls. We are all passing away. In a few years we shall yield our places to others, and another voice shall be calling here on another assembly to remember that their days are but few.' In the language of the Rev. Mr. GANNETT at Mr. PEABODY's funeral, Do not his affectionate words come to us now with an authority and persuasion greater even than they had when they dropped from the living voice?' The Doomed Bride' is a very long and very lugubrious story. The most that we can say of it is, that its sentiment is falsetto, and that it borders upon a decent mediocrity. We never saw passion spiritualized to such a shadowy tenuity, except in the dreams of Platonism. And then the physical accessories - how mawkishly multiplied and protracted they are! We thought, as we read, of the latitude offered in this kind by SYDNEY SMITH, if we remember rightly, in one of his essays.

That there should be a reasonable allowance of illness in every love-story he was quite willing to admit; indeed, he would cheerfully allow the heroine to be once given over, and at the point of death; but he could not consent that the interest which ought to be excited by the feelings of the mind should be transferred to the sufferings of the body, and a crisis of perspiration be substituted for a crisis of passion.' And we are of SMITH, his opinion. ... The Teachings of History' is well written; but we think we see that it is from the 'copy' of a forth-coming work. We ask whether this be indeed so, for we should not like to be anticipated, nor scarcely to publish original' matter simultaneously with another. The paper is suggestive and comprehensive. If men would learn from history, what lessons might it not teach the world; but passion and party blind the eyes of successive generations; and the light which experience gives is but a lantern on the stern, which shines only upon the waves behind us,' It is all up with the fair lady whom our correspondent had in his eye' at the concert, where the Reciprocal Glances' were exchanged on behalf of WIDOW MACHREE,' in LOVER's charming song of that name. We see through it all. It is no common fervor that fires the affectionate electrictelegraphic report before us. Take the sage advice given in the old black-letter Song upon the Wooinge of a Widowe,' and 'go a-head :'

.

'HE that will wooe a widow must not dally;

He must make hay while the sun doth shine;
He must not stand with her 'Shall I shall I?'

But boldly say, 'Widow, thou must be mine!'
Maids are inconstant, widows are unkind;
The best of all is fickle as the wind:
'Tis vain to wooe a widowe over-long-

In once or twice her mind you may perceive.
Widows are subtile, be they old or young,

And by their wiles young men they will deceive.
Strike home at first, and then she will be kind,
Else you shall find them fickle as the wind:
Maids they are cross- the proverb so doth tell-
Young men must flatter them all the while;

But widows, they love a bold spirit well,

And if you please her, then on you she 'll smile.'

...

We make no stipulations. At this early stage of the proceedings such a course would be manifestly improper; but we do look forward with some confidence to a piece of the cake. . . . We cannot permit the death of the late Peter G. STUYVESANT to pass without record in these pages. He was of one of the oldest KNICKERBOCKER families in the metropolis, of which his great ancestor was the fourth Governor; and he has commended himself to his fellow citizens by the steady exercise of those old-fashioned virtues which we trust may never grow altogether out of fashion, even in a city of new-fanglednesses and commercial and social change. After a long career of life he has in full maturity sunk at last into rest. He had, in the language of BLAIR, seen families and kindred rise and fall; he had seen peace and war succeed in their turns; the face of his country undergoing many alterations, and the very city in which he dwelt rising in a manner new around him. After all he has beheld, his eyes are now closed forever. He was becoming a stranger amidst a new succession of men. A race who knew him not had arisen to fill the places of his companions. Thus passes the world away! . . A FRIEND and correspondent, recently admitted to orders in the ministry, writes us: 'Yes, I am indeed 'wagging my pow i' the poopit,' and what I think I intend to speak with all plainness. A mask I cannot abide, and I shall never put one on. 'Homo sum' (which I take to mean, 'I am something of a man,') is my motto. Professor PARK of Andover once told his

classes that the American clergy went about with a sneaking air,' while the clergy of Europe carried themselves like major-generals.' There is more truth in this than meets the casual glance: obscuris vera involveus.'. . . OUR old friend the 'Transcendental-Orphic Profile-Cutter,' out of whom we have extracted some food for merriment heretofore, is back again to Boston' Here is his last announcement:

PROFILES.

REATOR. SOUL. SPIRIT. BRAIN.

CHuman Face in true Form.

Whoever Profile Taken: may have a Wise
Answer for a Wise Question!

Questions and Answers Lovelily!

W. FANTON.

SOME old writer in describing chaos, says it was so dark at one time that the cats ran against one another! Dark as it must have been at that early period (for this was before it had 'rained cats and dogs,' as at NOAH's great shower,) it could n't have been darker than · F. T.'s essay upon 'The Spiritual Essence, or Soul in the Concrete.' The writer is altogether above us. As a friend once remarked, in relation to a somewhat kindred metaphysician, his sublime conceptions are so much beyond any glimmering glimpses' of our own, that we feel like a star beside the sun, or a short man in a theatre behind a fat woman with a big bonnet, that hides every thing from view. If F. T.' will permit us to write a parody on his article, it may perhaps appear. Otherwise, otherwise. . . . The following opinion of our Great Metropolis is recorded with a diamond on a pane of glass in a room of the Astor House, which commands BARNUM's Curiosity-Shop' in front, and is 'right fernent' "'York Meetin'-'ouse' on the other. The writer rang for his boots one morning about day-light, paid his bill and left, vowing that he had made his first and last visit to New-York. From his wild look and used-up' manner (nothing farther having been heard of him,) it is feared he has made way' with himself:

'O GOTHAM! thy eternal roar
Keeps me in constant pain;
I never was in 'York before,
And I'll never come again!

Small blame to him;' for it is enough to set even the sedatest countryman crazy to enter the great thoroughfares of a city that is full of stirs, a tumultuous city.' How sober soever his mind, the prevailing excitement will seize him, and he will mingle with the conflicting currents like a straw revolving in the hurrying eddies of a running stream. In the evening, especially, when

all the spirit reels

At the shouts, the leagues of light,
The roaring of the wheels,'

WE

the town, to one unused to its busy scenes, is absolutely overwhelming. . take the liberty to commend the annexed remarks of one who knew (and felt) whereof he spoke,' to the heedful consideration of all who are, or who aspire to be, contributors to this Magazine: 'It is next to impossible to retain the melody of a stanza, or the drift of an argument, while the mind has to scramble through a patch of scribble-scrabble. The beauties of the piece will as naturally appear to disadvantage, through such a medium, as the features of a pretty woman through a bad pane of glass; and without doubt many a tolerable article has been consigned, hand over head, to the 'Balaam'-box,' for want of a fair copy. Wherefore, O ye Poets and Prosers, who aspire to write in established Magazines, and above all, O ye palpitating untried,

who meditate the offer of your maiden essay, take care, pray ye take care, to cultivate a good plain, bold round text. Have an eye to your pot-hooks. Some persons hold that the best writers are those who write the best hands, and we have known the conductor of a Magazine to be converted by a crabbed manuscript to the same opinion. Of all things, therefore, be legible. If you have never learned to write, take lessons. Be sure to buy the best paper, the blackest ink, the best peus, and then sit down and do the best you can; as the school-boys do, put out your tongue, and take pains ;' so peradventure ye shall happily escape the rejection of a jaded EDITOR.... WE are afraid 'B's compliment' ('B -' of Alabama, not of Boston) is ambiguous, and 'catamount to none.' It is certainly capable of two readings; although it may be as candid and well-meant as the one paid by the rustic who had never before tasted ice-cream, to a lady who at an evening-party had helped him to a plate of ' unsuccessful frigid milk,' under its usual simple designation of 'cream.' 'Your cream is very sweet,' said he, but aint it a leetle tetched with frost?' It was a commade considerable laugh at the time.' . . . We gave, in a brief passage from the Welch, some few numbers since, a condensed synopsis of the 'Characteristics of a true Gentleman.' The ensuing paragraphs from 'The Gentleman's Academie, or Book of Saint Albans,' set forth more at large the characteristics referred to, and also the views with which they are contrasted in the persons of those who are 'no gentlemen:'

6

pliment over the left,' but it

'OF THE NINE ARTICLES OF GENTRIE.-There are nine articles of Gentrie, of which five are amorous and four sovraigne. The five amorous are these: lordly of countenance, sweet in speech, wise in answere, perfitte in government, and cheerfull to faithfulness. The foure sovraigne are these few: oathes are no swearing; patient in affliction; knowledge of his own birth, and fear to offend his sovraigne.

NINE VICES CONTRARY TO GENTLEMEN. Five interminable, viz: to be full of slouth in warre; to bragge of his prowesse; to be cowardly to his enemy; to be lecherous in body, and to be alwaies drinking and ever drunk. The four determinable are: to revoke his own challeuge; to kill his prisoner with his owne handes; to runue away from his colours in the field; and lastly, to tell his sov. raigne untruth or lies.'

THESE were the criteria of gentlemen in 1595; a good while ago, to be sure, but a gentleman is a gentleman in all time. . . . MESSRS. APPLETON AND COMPANY have published a superbly-printed and illustrated edition of Halleck's Poetical Writings. We have looked over the volume with delight that at length we have our accomplished poet's works in a dress befitting their high character. ELLIOTT's noble picture of the author, a perfect likeness, admirably engraved by CHENEY, faces the title-page. By the by, we fear HALLECK is not so generally known as he ought to be, if the following extract from a private letter to the EDITOR be veritable, as it claims to be: 'I must tell you a little anecdote before I 'turn in.' The other evening I was conversing with a gentleman, when the discourse turning upon poetry, I remarked casually that HALLECK was my favorite poet. 'Yes,' said he, 'HALLECK has written some very fine things; the Star-Bangled Spanner,' in particular, I think is grand!' I had n't the heart to set him right, he spoke so patronizingly.' . . . We rather think that our vernacular language is good enough for all general purposes of speech and writing; a fact of which the lady-writer (no?) of the 'Letter from Newport' does n't seem to be quite aware; for in her otherwise very clever and gossiping epistle,

'OUR poor English, striped with foreigu phrase,
Looks like a zebra in a parson's chaise.'

Shall we amend the defect we have indicated, and publish?

that we should be able to inform an inquisitive reader, if he were to ask the question, what it is that is rather amusing than otherwise, in the ensuing passage, which is

taken from a work older by scores of years than any one who peruses these lines will ever be; but this we know, that it made us laugh consumedly' when we encountered it: In the reign of OLIVER, Protector of England, there dwelt in the famous city of London, the chief metropolis thereof, a gentleman who, being well skilled in the art of physic, first got practice, then a wife, and then children. His name was CRISPE; some say, of the ancient family of CRISPUS SALUSTIUS; though antiquity hath quite worn away SALUST, and left one CRISPE behind. Among the rest of his issue he had three sons; the elder christened TOBY, the younger y'cleped SAMUEL, and the youngest surnamed RowLAND. It is reported that his mother, while she was with child of these two striplings, dreamt that she brought forth two lumps of chalk and a pound of pomecitron; upon which she went to an astrologer, who did thereupon portend the sweetness of the young men's dispositions, and that they should be longed after by young virgins.' Our natty' and volatile actor may have descended from Dr. CRISP, of the CROMWELLIAN era.' Who knows? ・ ・ ・ Wɛ have just been reading in a daily journal the suicide of a clever actor, to whom we have sometimes listened with pleasure. A brave man, perhaps; yet struggling with the storms of fate, he has 'wilfully scuttled his own hold, and gone at once to the bottom.' Pecuniary fears, it is said, caused the act. How sadly this fact contrasts (we speak it not lightly) with the vast sums of money which one may see nightly given away on the stage by

• THOSE Comedy gentlefolks always possessed
Of fortunes so truly romantic;

Of money so ready, that right or wrong,
It is always ready to go for a song,
Throwing it, going it, pitching it strong,

As if they had purses as green and long

As the cucumber called the Gigantic.'

But poor M has left the stage; the curtain has fallen upon his drama of life; and nothing can touch him farther.' No, S-1-R-R!' we did not 'decline your piece,' courteous L,' 'because it was blank-verse,' but because it was blank 'blank-verse;' nor have we ever intimated that we' consider rhyme recessary for poetry.' Blank-verse! Why, BRYANT's blank-verse is the perfection of poetry; and a more susceptible rhythm can hardly be found. It rises gracefully into the sublime; it can slide happily into the familiar; hasten its career, if compelled by vehemence of passion; pause in the hesitation of doubt; appear lingering and languid in dejection and sorrow; is capable of varying its accent and adapting its harmony to the sentiment it should convey and the passion it would excite, with all the power of musical expression. But this is not your blank-verse,' Mr. L——, ‘if you ever noticed it;' as we can illustrate, if you very much desire it. WHEN Earl ST. VINCENT read to Sir R. CALDER, (a good professional officer, but lacking judgment,) his account of the battle which bears the noble admiral's name, and in which NELSON's name was mentioned with high praise, CALDER observed, ́ Do n't you think he disobeyed orders?' 'Perhaps he did,' replied the EARL; ‘but when you do so with the same effect, I will praise you as highly.' Recent events in our own country make the application' of this by no means difficult. We do not remember ever to have seen a more appealing look than one which was given us the other day by a Green Turtle at the door of a popular restaurant in Broadway. How he had effected so much, passes our comprehension; but he had actually backed up against the wall to an angle of about forty-five degrees; and his head was out, and bent round, apparently to see how the land lay. He regarded us with evident