Is not the following illustration of ‘The Affections,’ by Rev. Geo. B. Cheever, ‘beautiful exceedingly?’ ‘On a bright day in summer, while the west wind breathes gently, you stand before a forest of maples, or you are attracted by a beautiful tree in the open field, that seems a dense clump of foliage. You cannot but notice how easily the wind moves it, how quietly, how gracefully, how lovingly, the whole body of it. It is simply because it is covered with foliage. The same wind rustling through its dry branches in winter, would scarce bend a bough, or only to break it. But now, softly whispering through ten thousand leaves, how gently the whole tree yields to the impression! So it is with the affections, the feelings. They are the foliage of our being, moved by the spirit of God.’ ••• The annual Festival of Saint Nicholas, beloved of all good Knickerbockers, was celebrated on the sixth ultimo at the City Hotel, by a crowded assemblage of the members of the Society, and their invited guests. The new President was invested with the orange-badge and venerable cocked-hat of his ‘illustrious predecessor,’ and new subordinate officers were installed into their several stations; after which ceremony a sumptuous repast, served in the well-known style of Messrs. Jennings and Willard, was discussed with universal goût. For the toasts regular and volunteer, and speeches voluntary and involuntary, we must refer the reader to the daily journals ‘of that period;’ while we simply add, that from soup to Paäs eggs, schnaaps, and pipes, every thing passed off with unwonted hilarity and spirit. May we live to see fifty kindred gatherings of the votaries of our patron saint! ••• ‘You don’t like smokin’, ’taint likely?’ asked a lank free-and-easy Yankee, as he entered a room where four or five young ladies were sewing, puffing a dank ‘long-nine.’ ‘Well, we do not,’ was the immediate reply. ‘Umph!’ replied the smoker, removing his cigar long enough to spit, ‘a good many people don’t!’—and he kept on smoking. We know of one reader of the Knickerbocker, a thousand miles from the hand that jots down this anecdote, who will enjoy it hugely; and indeed it is mainly for him that we record it. ••• This is Thanksgiving Evening in the Empire State; and as there is a fair-haired, hazle-eyed little boy pulling at our ‘sword-arm,’ (too fatigued with writing to offer any resistance) suppose we read to you, while he sits ‘throned on his father’s knee,’ this timely and admirable passage from the pen of Charles Hoover, Esq., of New-Jersey, a fine scholar, and a writer of as pure Saxon English as the best among us:

We have little to chronicle of The Drama proper this month. Music, vocal and instrumental, has kept this branch of the fine arts somewhat in the back-ground. We have had the pleasure to see Mr. Macready once only at the Park, on which occasion he personated the character of Melantius in ‘The Bridal’ with transcendent power. We have seen this fine actor in no part, if we except perhaps that of Werner, in which his genius shone so conspicuous. He was admirably supported by the scarcely subordinate characters represented by Wheatly, Rider, Miss Cushman, and Mrs. H. Hunt. Mr. Wheatly has evidently much of ‘the heavy business’ at the Park upon his broad shoulders, for he appears in two or three pieces almost every night. On the occasion alluded to, no sooner had the curtain risen after ‘The Bridal,’ than we found him making Stentorian love (‘in a horn’) to the ‘Dumb Belle’ of the evening, in which he excited shouts of uproarious laughter. At the Bowery Theatre, as well as at the Chatham, ‘The Mysteries of Paris’ has run a most successful career. The Olympic has been crowded nightly by the mingled attractions of opera and travestie; while the Bowery Amphitheatre and Rockwell’s Circus at Niblo’s, have shared abundantly in the favor bestowed now-a-days upon popular entertainments. ••• ‘Dress always and act to please your partner for life, as you were fain to do before the nuptial-knot was tied.’ This is an old maxim, and here is ‘a commentator upon it.’ A newly-married lady is suddenly surprised by a visit from a newly-married man, when she straightway begins to apologize: ‘She is horribly chagrined, and out of countenance, to be caught in such a dishabille; she did not mind how her clothes were huddled on, not expecting any company, there being nobody at home but her husband!’ The husband meanwhile shakes the visitor’s hand, and says: ‘I am heartily glad to see you, Jack: I don’t know how it was, I was almost asleep; for as there was nobody at home but my wife, I did not know what to do with myself!’ ••• The beautiful lines by Mrs. M. T. W. Chandler, elsewhere in the present number, illustrate, or are illustrated by the following passage from Warren Hasting’s eloquent reflections upon the changes to which the SOUL is destined hereafter: ‘When the hour is at hand which is to dissolve the mortal tie, the soul parts without regret with those delights which it received from its sensual gratifications, and dwells only, dwells with a fond affection, on the partner or pledges of its love; or on friends from whom it seems to be cut off for ever; and if it looks, as it must look, to futurity, these are the first objects of its wishes connected with it, and the first ingredients in its conceptions of celestial felicity. For my own part (and on a subject like this, where can we so properly appeal as to ourselves?) although my reason dictates to me the hope of a future happiness, whatever may be the mode of it, yet my heart feels no interest in the prospect when viewed as a scene of solitary, selfish enjoyment. It recoils with horror at the thought of losing the remembrance of every past connexion, and even of those whom it loved most dearly, and of being forgotten by them utterly and for ever. Is this too, it asks, one of the delusions of life? No; for all its other passions expire before it; but this remains, like hope, ‘nor leaves us when we die.’’ ••• The ‘Anglo-American’ literary journal has just issued to its subscribers one of the finest counterfeit presentments of Washington that we have ever seen. It is a print almost the size of a full-length cabinet portrait in oil, engraved in a masterly manner by Halpin after Gilbert Stuart’s celebrated picture. If this superior engraving is a sample of what the patrons of the ‘Anglo-American’ are hereafter to expect from its publishers, it is easy to foresee that that spirited journal has entered upon a long career of popularity. ••• ‘T.’s ‘Stanzas’ await his order at the publication-office. They are far from lacking merit, but are in parts artificial and labored. Lines eked out with accented letters, in which

always seem to us to come rather from the head than the heart. We shall expect, nevertheless, to hear from our friend again, according to promise. ••• We ‘stop the press’ to announce that Mr. Punch has just dropped in from England, bringing the latest intelligence from ‘the other side.’ He has lately visited several places on the continent, not so much to see them as to be enabled to say, like other English travellers, that he had been there. ‘Mr. Punch, having arrived at Rouen late at night, left it very early the next morning, much impressed with the institutions of the city, both civil and architectural, as well as its manners, customs, and social life, which he is about to embody in a work called ‘Six hours and a half at Rouen,’ to be brought out by a fashionable publisher.’ From the reports of one of the learned societies, we derive the following important scientific information: ‘Mr. Sappy read a paper, proving the impossibility of being able to see into the middle of next week, from known facts with regard to the equation of time. He stated that, supposing it possible for a person to ascend in a balloon sufficiently high for his vision to embrace a distance of seven hundred miles from east to west, he would then only see forty minutes ahead of him; that is, he would see places where the day was forty minutes in advance of the day in which he lived. Thus he might be said to see forty minutes into futurity. It has also been proved that, in sailing round the world in one direction, a day’s reckoning is gained; so that the sailor on his return finds himself to be ‘a man in advance of his age’ by one day. This one day, however, is the farthest attainable limit; and it is therefore impossible to see into the middle of next Week!’ ‘Mr. Tite, proprietor of the ‘Metropolitan Bakedtatery’ brought forward his new ‘Low Pressure Potatoe-Can,’ upon an improved principle. It was constructed of tin, and warranted to sustain a pressure of twenty potatoes upon the square bottom. Mr. Tite explained that the steam had nothing to do with the warmth of the fruit, but was quite independent of it.’ ‘Mr. Flit brought forward his new and improved Street Telescope for looking at the moon. It was most ingeniously constructed, being to the eye a fine instrument of six feet long. Mr. Flit explained, however, that the telescope itself was only an eighteen-inch one, the case being manufactured to increase its importance, in which the real glass was enclosed. The chief merit of this invention was, that the moon could be seen equally well on cloudy nights, or when there was none at all, the case enclosing an ingenious transparency of that body, behind which a small lamp was hung. Mr. Flit could always command a view of any of the celestial bodies by the same means.’ Here are a few items of law from ‘The Comic Blackstone:’ ‘The statute of Edward the Fourth, prohibiting any but lords from wearing pikes on their shoes of more than two inches long, was considered to savor of oppression; but those who were in the habit of receiving from a lord more kicks than coppers, would consider that the law savored of benevolence.’ ‘Unlawfully detaining a man in any way is imprisonment; so that if you take your neighbor by the button, and cause him to listen to a long story, you are guilty of imprisonment.’ Punch’s idea of ‘Woman’s Mission’ differs somewhat from other reformers of the times: ‘To replace the shirt-button of the father, the brother, the husband, which has come off in putting on the vestment; to bid the variegated texture of the morning slipper or the waistcoat grow upon the Berlin wool; to repair the breach that incautious haste in dressing has created in the coat or the trowsers, which there is no time to send out to be mended; are the special offices of woman; offices for which her digital mechanism has singularly fitted her.’ Apropos of ‘Missions:’ we perceive that Dickens understands this vague verbal apology for eccentricity or humbugeousness, if we interpret aright his frail and tearful Moddle; ‘who talked much about people’s ‘missions,’ upon which he seemed to have some private information not generally attainable,’ and who, ‘being aware that a shepherd’s mission was to pipe to his flock, and that a boatswain’s mission was to pipe all hands, and that one man’s mission was to be a paid piper, and another man’s mission was to pay the piper, had got it into his head that his own peculiar mission was to pipe his eye, which he did perpetually.’ ••• A curious volume has recently appeared in Paris, entitled ‘Poésies Populaires Latines antérieures au Douzième Siècle;’ and as sequels to the work, are certain satires upon the avarice and corruption of the papal government in the twelfth century, among which is the following curious parody:

The corruptions of this era are equally well illustrated by a very amusing anecdote of ‘a handsome Italian friar, teres atque rotundus, about thirty, and extremely bold and eloquent;’ doubtless one of that class so felicitously limned by Thomson:

One day at a remote confessional of the church he declared an unholy and forbidden passion to a young and beautiful married lady, whom he had long ‘followed with his eyes,’ and begged permission to visit her at her residence. Struck with surprise at this new revelation of his character, she evaded reply, being secretly minded to inform her husband, when she returned home, which she did, word for word. He told his wife to contrive to let the friar come, alone and in secret, the next evening, which chanced to be that of Saturday, and the night before the Sunday of Saint Lazarus, on which occasion the friar was to preach. The appointment was made; the friar came, true to the late hour which had been designated; was received at the door, and shown into the lady’s bed-room by a servant, who informed him that she had desired him to request the good man to retire to rest, and to say that ‘she would be with him straight.’ The friar prepared to comply with the direction, and was about stepping into bed, when the door opened suddenly, and the lady entered in great apparent trepidation, exclaiming: ‘My husband is knocking at the door! For heaven’s sake slip into that chest,’ showing him a double one in the apartment, ‘and lie there until I see what may be done! Meanwhile I will hide your clothes somewhere or other, as well as I am able. Heaven knows I fear more for your holy person than I do for my own life!’ The unfortunate wretch, seeing himself reduced to such a pass, did as the worthy lady desired; while the husband, presently coming in, retired to rest with his wife, who had first locked the friar safe in the chest. The poor prisoner uttered sundry involuntary noises in the course of the night, and was in the direst terror at the inquiries which they awakened on the part of the husband. Daylight at length came, and the church-bells began to ring for prayers, which greatly annoyed the captive, who was to preach at the cathedral. The husband having risen, ordered two servants to carry the chest to the church and place it in the middle, saying they were ordered to do so by the preacher; and that unlocking the chest without raising the lid, they should leave it there; all which the fellows did very neatly. Every body stared, and wondered what all this could mean; some said one thing and some another. At last the bell having ceased to ring, and no one appearing in the pulpit, or any other part of the church, a young man rose and said: ‘Really, the good friar makes us wait quite too long; pray let us see what he has ordered to be brought in this chest.’ Having said this much, he before all the congregation lifted up the lid, and looking in, beheld the friar in his shirt, pale, almost frightened to death, and certainly appearing more dead than alive, and as if buried in the chest. Finding himself discovered, however, he collected his mind as well as he could, and stood upright, to the great astonishment of all present; and having taken his text from the Sunday of Lazarus, he thus addressed his congregation: ‘My dear brethren: I am not at all astonished at your surprise in seeing me brought before you in this chest, or rather at my ordering myself to be brought thus: ye know that this is the way in which our holy church commemorates the wonderful miracle our Lord performed on the person of Lazarus, in raising him from the dead who had been buried four days. I was desirous in your favor to present myself to you as it were in the form of Lazarus, in order that seeing me in this chest, which is no other than an emblem of the sepulchre wherein he had been buried, you might be moved more effectually to the consideration of what perishable things we are; and that seeing me stripped of all worldly decorations, thus in my shirt, you may be convinced of the vanity of the things of this world, the which, if only duly considered, may tend greatly to the amending of our lives. Will you believe that since yesterday night I have been a thousand times dead, and revived as Lazarus was; and considering my dreadful situation, remember (as it were with the memory of a similar penance in your hearts) that we must all die, and trust to Him who can bestow upon us life eternal: but first ye must die to sin, to avarice, to rapine, to lust, and all those sinful deeds to which our nature prompts us.’ In such language, and in such manner, did the friar continue his sermon. The husband, astonished at the extraordinary presence of mind which he displayed, laughed heartily at his success; and in consideration of the adroitness of the culprit, did not attempt any farther revenge; ‘but,’ it is added, ‘he took very good care to shut his door in future against all such double-faced hypocrites.’ ••• Reader, what are you thinking of at this moment? ‘Nothing.’ Indeed! and so were we, and of how much a clever man once said upon the subject; observe: ‘Philosophers have declared they knew nothing, and it is common for us to talk about doing nothing; for from ten to twenty we go to school to be taught what from twenty to thirty we are very apt to forget; from thirty to forty we begin to settle; from forty to fifty, we think away as fast as we can; from fifty to sixty, we are very careful in our accounts; and from sixty to seventy, we cast up what all our thinking comes to; and then, what between our losses and our gains, our enjoyments and our inquietudes, even with the addition of old age, we can but strike a balance of ciphers.’ Happy are they who amidst the variations of nothing have nothing to fear; if they have nothing to lose, they have nothing to lament; and if they have done nothing to be ashamed of, they have every thing to hope for. ••• Sententiousness, let us inform ‘S.’ of Cambridge, and antitheses, do not consist of short sentences and inversion of words merely; and even the most felicitous examples in each case often sacrifice the sound to the sense. Here is an instance which is unobjectionable: ‘I knew the old miser well. He amassed a fortune by raising hemp; and if he had had his deserts, would have died as he lived by it.’ ••• Just as the sheets of this department were passing to the press, we received the announcement of a public exhibition of two collections of pictures, which we have seen, and to which we cannot resist the impulse of directing the public attention. At the rooms of the National Academy, corner of Broadway and Leonard-street, may be seen Mr. Cole’s allegorical pictures of ‘The Voyage of Life,’ heretofore noticed at length in these pages; ‘Mount Ætna, from Taormina, Sicily,’ one of the most noble paintings that ever came from this eminent artist’s pencil; ‘Angels ministering to Christ in the Wilderness;’ ‘The Past and the Present;’ ‘A View of Ruined Aqueducts in the Campagna di Roma,’ and other pictures; altogether, an exceedingly fine collection. Indeed, the superb view of Ætna alone, with its vast and sublime accessories, is of itself an exhibition worth twice the price of admission. At the rooms of the Apollo Association, nearly opposite the Hospital, in Broadway, Mr. Harvey’s series of Forty Historic or Atmospheric American Landscape Scenes are to be seen for a short time. It needed not the high patronage of Queen Victoria, the praises of English royalty and nobility, nor the warm encomiums of Allston, Sully, Moore, and others, to secure attention to these graphic sketches from nature. They are their own best recommendation. Trust our verdict, reader, and go and see if they are not. ••• ‘Terpsichore’ is the title of a very spirited satirical poem read at the annual dinner of the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Cambridge University in August last, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, and copied in ‘Graham’s Magazine’ for January. We subjoin a passage which although abundantly poetical contains yet more truth than poetry. It ‘bases’ upon the Dickens dinner:

Under the similitude of a German-silver-spoon, ‘used by dabblers in æsthetic tea,’ we have the annexed palpable hit at the small-beer imitators of Carlyle, and copyists after the external garb of the German school, who have occasionally shown themselves up in the pages of ‘The Dial,’ a work which formerly ‘indicated rather the place of the moon than the sun:’

We should exceedingly like to hear Mr. A. Bronson Alcott’s opinion as touching the faithfulness of the foregoing. ••• There is a fearful lesson conveyed in the annexed communication from a metropolitan physician, who assures us that it is in all respects an accurate statement of an occurrence to which he was an eye-witness: ‘Duty impels me, Mr. Editor, to lay before you one of the little incidents which my situation as a medical man has brought to my notice. There is no class of men who are led with keener perceptions to investigate human nature than enlightened practising physicians. They have a hold upon the affections and confidence of every class of society; and for this reason they should feel it incumbent upon themselves to act the part of moral as well as physical agents. For myself, I think it would be well if medical men were so far constituted missionaries, as to make it a duty to point a moral whenever it would be likely to be well received. I am aware that attempts of this sort with many persons would be vain or injudicious, and sometimes nauseate perhaps, like the accompanying drugs; but eventually it might prove salutary to the soul; and although cursed for good advice, is it not in the end a blessing? But to my story: I was called a short time since to a youth about twenty years of age: he had been only a few months in the city, and I had occasionally seen him, but had little acquaintance with him, being much his senior. When I entered, one of his fits of raving, occasioned by fever, was just coming on. I approached and took his hand: ‘What do you want?’ said he; ‘you look so mild and yet so penetrating. I have not got any.’ ‘Any what?’ said I. ‘Any money,’ he replied; ‘the drawer was locked, and I could not get any without being seen; so go away!’ ‘I came to cure you, not to take your money,’ I replied. ‘Ah!’ said he, ‘did I not take some from you? Look! look! There they come! sixpences, shillings! See! see! how they tumble from the wall! Look! there is a piece of gold! See! look! there they keep coming! I never took all this!—at first I only took enough to get a cigar with, now and then. See! the room is filling! I shall suffocate!’ ‘What does this mean, young man?’ said I; ‘be calm.’ ‘Did they not tell you to come and feel my pulse and see if there was not a sixpence in it?’ ‘No, no; I came to make you better.’ ‘Better? better? BETTER? Here, hide these; don’t let my friends know of them; they were stolen! I cannot look at them now. Ha! ha! ha!—I cannot!’ I was induced to remain until the frenzy of the fever had passed off, and found the young man had intervals of reason. He was now in deep despondency. I inquired his name. He had dropped it, he said; he could not debase it. ‘Debase it?’ said I. ‘Yes!’ he answered, with a groan like a howl. The next day the young man sent for me again. He appeared much altered; said that he did not wish to live; that he had ‘a gnawing at his soul.’ I remarked that he was very young to be tired of life; that if he had been guilty of any crime he should desire to live to expiate it. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘the stain will always last!’ I told him, not so; that if he heartily repented and turned to the right source for consolation, it would be vouchsafed him. ‘I feel that I cannot live,’ he replied, ‘and my friends will be better satisfied to know that I am repentant in my last moments, and that I am gone, than they would be to think of me as a vagabond, let loose upon society: they will at least feel that I shall ‘cease from troubling.’ I have not the excuse that many delinquents have pleaded, early initiation into vice. My childhood was passed with pious relatives, who labored to instil religious principles into my mind; but I ‘would none of their reproof.’ My friends not being wealthy, I was left at a proper age to my own resources. I found a situation where my talents were appreciated by my employer, and perhaps too highly estimated by myself. I had a brother who was ten years my senior, whom I loved and esteemed—may Heaven keep him in blessed ignorance of my fate!—but I thought less highly of his intellect when I saw him excited by some sublime hymn, which angels might listen to, than I did of my own, when I turned from the devotions of the Sabbath to join my idle companions. In the situation I held, I might have gained respectability; but my besetting sin betrayed me so often, that the kind indulgence of a good master could no longer conceal my crimes. I now see that the sting inflicted by vice must and will remain! We may repent, we may be forgiven; but the mind will not part with its bitter recollections!’ I was here called away for a few moments, and when I returned, the unhappy young man was in the land of spirits! I learned that he was engaged to a highly amiable young lady, who relinquished him, and shortly afterward died of a broken heart. Her sad fate threw him into a brain-fever, and as you perceive, decided his likewise. Incidents like these I am aware have often been narrated; yet if the tragedy which I have depicted should be blessed to the use of any young man abandoned to temptation and addicted to small crimes, and lead him to reflection, it will be a gratification to feel that my feeble effort, with Heaven’s help, has proved ‘a word in season.’’ ••• There are inequalities of merit in the ‘Dirge’ of ‘D. D.’ of Hartford, though the spirit of the verse is tender and touching. We annex a few stanzas, in illustration of our encomium:

It is a sad sight to look upon the corpse of a laborer, cut down in the midst of a toilsome life; his hard, knotty hands clasped upon the still breast, and the strong limbs laid in serene repose. And yet how happy the change! No longer does he ask leave to toil; no longer is he at war with poverty, for death has made it a drawn battle. He ‘rests from his labors’ where the rich and the poor meet together, and he hears no more the voice of the oppressor. ••• Perhaps our readers will have observed that the Sketches of East Florida are from no common pen. The description which has been given by the writer, of the delicious climate in that sunny region, may to many ‘Northeners’ seem exaggerated; but such is not the fact. A friend writing recently from St. Augustine, thus playfully alludes to the effect which the climate produces upon a New-Yorker: ‘If a business-man could be caught up from the whirl of Broadway, and dropped in a warm climate, say that of St. Augustine, and left under a fig-tree to his own reflections, his first thought doubtless would be for an omnibus ‘right up.’ ‘Rather queer!’ he would say; ‘a hot sun, sandy street, and not a carriage to be seen! There’s a man out in his slippers, and a woman with her head tied up in a handkerchief—may-be a night-cap; probably some old Dutch settlers that went to-sleep with Rip Van Winkle. Wild turkeys, as I live, all about the market!—and oh, Lord! there’s a little nigger with only a shirt on! Halloo there! you little nigger! tell me the way to the Broadway coaches! No coaches? no omnibii? Well, where’s your five-o’clock boats?—where’s your Harlaem rail-road? I want to go back to town!’ Such would probably be his first go-off; and the next impulse would be to run, shout, cry fire! or murder!—any thing to produce a sensation; but unless very soon about it, he would find himself yielding to some strange influence hitherto unfelt; and it would be amusing to notice how soon the fretting restless man of the forty-second latitude would be tamed down in the thirteenth to the equanimity of a child asleep. The climate enters within the man, and brings out one by one some hidden and better impulse, at the same time laying a gentle hand upon his rougher humors; so that when he would shout, he hums, and when he would laugh, he smiles only; and in undertaking to run, he is caught about the waist; and goes floating smoothly around in the ground-swell motion of the Spanish-dance.’ ••• We perceive that the Copy-right Question has been thus early brought before the National Legislature. From the present aspect of things we may indulge a well-grounded hope that authors who have worn themselves out in making other people happy, will not hereafter be left to perish amidst age and infirmity, unrelieved by the fruit of their labors. There is one argument exceedingly well illustrated in the recent address of the ‘Copy-right Club.’ In allusion to the floods of trash which have for months inundated the Atlantic cities and towns, the writer, addressing himself to American citizens, observes: ‘In all other circumstances and questions save that of a literature, you have taken the high ground of freedom and self-reliance. You have neither asked, nor loaned, nor besought, but with your own hands have framed, what the occasion required. Whatever stature you have grown to as a nation, it is due to that sole virtue; and by its exercise may you only hope to hold your place. In almost any other shape than that of silent books you would have spurned the foreign and held fast to the home-born; but stealing in quietly at every opening, making themselves the seemingly inoffensive and unobtrusive lodgers in every house, they have full possession of the country in all its parts; and another people may promise themselves in the next generation of Americans, (as the question now goes,) a restored dominion which their arms were not able to keep. The pamphlet will carry the day where the soldier fell back.’ ••• We derive the annexed stanzas through a Boston correspondent. He assures us that the work of art which they commemorate is most honorable to the genius of the sculptor, who has been winning laurels ever since his removal to the tasteful city:

LINES

WRITTEN ON COMPLETING A MARBLE BUST OF THE LATE WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

BY M. A. BRACKETT.

We should like to see in some appropriate journal a sketch of the Progress of Mechanics in the United States. Without any question, the Americans are, in respect of that branch of science, behind no nation or people on earth. And yet no longer ago than 1791, a clock-maker from London, after public advertisement of his arrival from England for that purpose, visited our scattered cities and towns to repair clocks! ‘Yankee ingenuity’ was not then as now synonymous with the accomplishment of any thing that can either be fabricated or ‘fixed’. ••• We have no remembrance of the communication referred to in a note from a correspondent at Albany, in which we find the following sentences: ‘If received, I hope it was not amenable to the censure in a late number of the Knickerbocker, of certain correspondence, for having been written ‘too carefully.’ Now I do flatter myself upon so writing, that compositors can have no excuse for blunders, though I am well aware that to be esteemed a Genious, one’s chirography should very nearly approach unintelligibility. If this be true, the patience and good nature of an Editor must be severely tried; but I incline to the opinion that a man of Genious need not model after Byron’s facsimile,’ and so forth. Our correspondent does write a good hand; so good indeed, that we lament, as we gaze at it, that he does not know how to spell. A man may certainly be a ‘Genious’ without being able to write a clerkly hand; but a man who is not a ‘Genious,’ ought at least to be able to spell the word. As to writing ‘too carefully,’ our censor has mistaken the letter for the spirit of our remarks. ••• The lines ‘To my Mother’ are replete with the poetry of feeling. Their literary execution however is marred by deficiencies, which although slight, require amending. Our correspondent we are sure has the true poetical vein; and we shall not despair of hearing from her again. ••• A very ‘inquiring’ correspondent desires to know ‘whether there is any thing below a quartette, in music?—a pintette or a gillette?’ He is also anxious, he says, to ‘ascertain whether Puffer Hopkins is any relation to the pious poet who was in partnership in the psalm and hymn way with old Uncle Sternhold, a great many years ago.’ Moreover, he considers it ‘a little curious’ that a black hen should lay a white egg; and states that he ‘would give something handsome to be certain whether or no Nebuchadnezzar’s hands, when he was out on grass, grew six-penny or ten-penny nails!’ His remaining queries are profane; indeed, the last one goes somewhat too near the edge. ••• ‘Ever anxious to please,’ as the advertisements have it, we have placed the original department of the Knickerbocker in a larger type; and it seems to us that we may ask with some confidence whether our readers ever saw a Magazine in a neater garniture than ‘this same?’ Only have the consideration to reciprocate our endeavors to please you, good Public, and you ‘shall see what you shall see.’ There are certain delinquents upon our books, to whom we would venture to insinuate, in the most delicate manner conceivable, that ‘it is high time somebody had a sight of somebody’s money.’ ••• A new style of frames for drawings, engravings, paintings, looking-glasses, etc., has recently been brought to great perfection, and into very general favor, by Mr. Weiser, at No. 43 Centre-street, near Pearl. They are composed externally of glass-veneerings, beautifully painted and shaded, so as to resemble different-tinted woods, tortoise-shell, or indeed any other colors that may be desired. These are painted on the inner side of the glass, which is so firmly cemented to the wood-frames as to be little liable to injury from jarring or even falling. With a gilt beading, they have a very beautiful appearance, by reason of the admirable lustre of the glass, which gives to them a polish finer than that of the most susceptible woods. They are, in short, exceedingly handsome, easily kept clean, always new and fresh, and what is worthy of mention, much cheaper than wood or gilt.