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remarked, that the prisoner, by a heavy blow, raised a 'large tumefaction' upon the head of the complainant. I suppose,' said the justice, that by tumefaction' you simply mean a swelling?' 'Yes, my lord.' 'Then,' replied the justice, 'it would be much better for you to use plain English, than to speak in a sort of mongrel Latin.' We hope our 'ladycorrespondent' at Troy, (whom we suspect to be studying Italian,) will take the London justice's hint. Does she remember the remarks of the Mohawk warrior upon the same theme? Listen: Wahhonniron, orighwiyu ne radinaghskwa yakhinhodon yaghthadeyuderyentharah, nokhony eghradikennyade jikanhokaghrondon dehhadinhohhanonghne: nok ji-nenth wakwanhodonko, yahhonka nonkweh deyakhiyadatshenryonh.' Now this remark, although not particularly relative to our correspondent, will be understood by her as clearly as six out of ten of our readers would understand the unnecessary Italian phrases with which she has interlarded her otherwise pleasant enough sketch. ... OUR old friend LAURIE TODD' is doing us and himself injustice by publishing as original in the 'NewWorld' articles which were written for and long ago published in the KNICKERBOCKER. Was it for this, that we mended his 'awful' spelling, corrected his 'dreadful' grammar, and re-wrote his 'terrible' manuscript? Ungrateful Scotchman!' WE think we

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never saw a better description of an honorable' chevalier d'industrie than YELLOWPLUSH gives in his portrait of the younger son of the Earl of Crabs,' Hon. ALGERNON PERCY DEAUCEACE, Esq. There are sitters,' by the by, for the likeness, every where: The young gnlmn was a gnlmn, and no mistake. He got his allowents of nothink a year, and spent it in the most honorable and fashnable manner. He kep a kab; he went to CROCKFUD's; and moved in the most xquizzit suckles. Those fashnable gents have ways of gittin money, which common pipple doant understand. Tho he had only a third-floor apartmint, he lived as if he had the wealth of Creashus. The ten pun-notes flew about as common as haypence; clarit and shampang was with him as vulgar as gin; and very glad I was, to be sure, to be a valley to a zion of the nobility. He had in his sittin-room a large pictur on a sheet of paper. The names of his family was wrote on it: it was wrote in the shape of a tree, a-groin out of a man-in-armer's stomick, and the names was on little plates among the bows. My master called it his podygree. I do bleev it was because he had this pictur, and because he was the Honrabble Deuceace, that he mannitched to live as he did. If he had been a common man, you'd have said that he was no better than a etrocious swinler. For it's no use disgysing it - he was a gambler. For a man of wulgar family, that's the wust trade that can be; for a man of common feelinx of honesty, this purfession is quite impossible; but for a rale thuro-bred genlmn it's the easiest and most prophetable line he can take.' AN affecting account is given in a late English work, of the last interview which the good Bishop PORTEOUS had with the dissolute Prince of Wales. It seems his Royal Highness had sent out a summons for a great military review which was to take place on a Sunday. The Bishop had long been very ill, and did not hope nor wish ever in this world to go out again. He ordered his carriage, however, upon hearing this, proceeded to Carlton House, and waited on the Prince, who received him very graciously. He said, 'I am come, Sir, urged by my regard to you, to your father, and to this great nation, who are anxiously beholding every public action of yours. I am on the verge of time; new prospects open to me; the favor of human beings or their displeasure is as nothing to me now. I am come to warn your Royal Highness of the awful consequences of your breaking down the very little that remains of distinction to the day that the AUTHOR of all power has hallowed and set apart for Himself." He continued in this strain of solemn reproof for some minutes, concluding with: 'And now, were I able to rise, or were any one here who would assist me, I should, with the awful feeling of a dying man, give my last blessing to your Royal Highness.' The Prince upon this burst into tears, and fell on his knees before the Bishop, who bestowed upon him with folded hands his dying benediction.' The Prince attended him to his carriage; but the exertion had been too great for the venerable prelate. The 'good and faithful servant entered into the joy of his Lord' on the fifth day after. We have not been so greatly regaled by 'PUNCH,' since the very

warm weather set in. Here are a couple of new ingredients, however, which we commend to the reader's risibles. The first are parliamentary Notices of Motion:' Colonel SIBTHORPE, to move that an inquiry should be made whether the Mr. GUNN, who married the Duke of Sussex to Lady AUGUSTA MURRAY, did not, as a clerical Gun, place himself in direct opposition to the canons of the church. Mr. W. WILLIAMS, to move for a copy of the passage in which the Duke of Sussex declares GUNN to be the parent of all his (the Duke's) happiness; and whether the phrase, 'Son of a GUN,' may trace its origin to this circumstance. Mr. BROTHERTON, to move that an inquiry should be instituted as to the secret intrusted to Gunn, and whether an explosion would have been the consequence of Gunn's having let out the important matter with which he was loaded.' Here is a 'Receipt for making an Irish Stew.' It hits cleverly the incidents of the recent Dublin trials: 'Take several 'traversers,' the more the better, if your hash is to go far. Shut them up in a close place with eight Irish barristers. Those with the loudest voices and longest winds are the best. Then take a bench of judges, with an infusion of strong political opinions. Throw in some personal spite, which gives piquancy to the dish. Lard your barristers with posteas, writs of error, motions in arrest of judgment, and any other condiments, to your liking, and shake all well together. You will then have an Irish stew which will go a great way, and is very easily made.' The Stanzas to a Bride who died on the Eve of her Nuptials' are sorrowful, but notwithstanding the nature of the theme, their execution leaves them scarcely pathetic. Moreover, the theme has been better treated, we think. These lines run in our mind; but whence they are taken, is more than we can remember:

'AND long-for this heart is but human

The desolate bridegroom shall grieve;

And that sweet face, half child and half woman,

Still haunt him at morning and eve.

At the sound of her light footsteps falling,

He shall murmur and smile in his sleep,

In dreams he shall hear her voice calling,

And wake, to remember and weep.'

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OUR Contemporary of the Democratic Review,' being upon the confessional, thus discourseth: Literary criticism has been our hobby, a little over-ridden of late; and we must confess we begin to tire of the trade. Say what we may, there is a certain cant of criticism, a species of scholastic slang, into which one is apt to fall. We get after a while into the habit of reading books almost solely for the sake of writing upon them, and lose all relish for works that do not make a constant appeal to the judgment, and critical analysis. Short, incidental critiques, written from fulness of knowledge, in a sincere and hearty spirit, and with a clear eye, are certainly more grateful than long, formal, set criticisms.' Frank, sensible, undeniable, and our views exactly.' Of all bores in the infinite region of Boredom, save us from the man who, never producing any thing himself, gives up his mind and pen to eternal comment, long drawn out.' The public at large,' says Mrs. GRANT, 'is an excellent judge of literary merit: some very fine things indeed are too much refined for its great wide ear; but, when it is much and long pleased, there must be excellence;' and it needs no tedious dissertation to convince the reader that he is delighted, or to show him that he ought not to be.... AN incident in My First and Last Duel,' by an Ex-Editor,' (which bides its time for insertion) reminds us of the blustering fellow who, when kicked from a high door-step upon the side walk, turned and addressed the man who had administered the coup de pied, with: Mister, who tapped your boots? They were probably well done, from the feeling; and the Ejected was doubtless desirous of giving the cobbler his custom. THE following passage from a lecture by Mr. ELIHU Burritt, 'the learned blacksmith,' must have been suggested by a very spirited poem entitled The Iron Horse,' published in this Magazine five years ago. Many of the thoughts are quite identical: 'I love to see one of these huge creatures, with sinews of brass and muscles of iron, strut forth from his smoky stable, and saluting the long train of cars with a dozen sonorous puffs from his iron nostrils, fall gently back into his harness. There he stands,

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champing and foaming upon the iron track, his great heart a furnace of glowing coals; his lymphatic blood is boiling in his veins; the strength of a thousand horses is nerving his sinews; he pants to be gone. He would snake' St. Peter's across the desert of Sahara, if he could be fairly hitched to it; but there is a little sober-eyed, tobacco-chewing man in the saddle, who holds him in with one finger, and can take away his breath in a moment, should he grow restive and vicious. I am always deeply interested in this man, for, begrimed as he may be with coal diluted in oil and steam, I regard him as the genius of the whole machinery, as the physical mind of that huge steam-horse.'... WE avow an honest pride in our present number. The paper on Esthetic Culture,' and the 'Walks and Colloquies in Oxford' will arrest the attention and sustain the interest of the reader. The highly dramatic narrative of The Advocate Loubet' is brought to a close; and Dominie ZIMPEL in search of a Bride' tells his amusing story in language befitting a Dr. DRYASDUST, or JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM. His is a tale which should be devoured by the ladies. We commend it to all persons already married, all that are going to be married, all that expect to be married, all that mean to be married, all that wish to be married, all that ought to be married, and all that have any influence over those that are married. There are other articles that as much deserve mention as the foregoing; but let them speak for themselves. SOMETIMES it happens the other way, let us inform you, Sir (or Madam?) 'INCOGNITA.' Your Tale of Domestic Life' is a good one, though its incidents are trite. Yet, as we have said, the great evil begins at home. Mrs. SHUM'S Husband,' by Mr. YELLOWPLUSH, has a fruitful passage on this point: Finally, they had reg'lar quirrels. Werry different, I can tell you, from all the hammerous billing and kewing wich had proceeded their nupshums. Master could n't stand this eternal scoldink; he went out, slamming the door in a fury. If I can't have a comforable life,' says he, 'I can have a jolly one;' and so he went off to the hed tavern, and kem home that evening beesly intawsicated. Wen high words begins in a family, drink ginrally folos on the gen❜lman's side; and then, fearwel to all conjubial happyniss!' THERE will be no little

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difference, doubtless, between our own and the reader's appreciation of the following lines. They are not included, however, in the poetical writings of the author, recently published; and we have thought them not unworthy a place in these pages:

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And oh, shall these pictures that gladden my brain,
Forever in void unsubstantial remain?

No, no! let me hail them as something to come,
When the earth-fettered spirit shall soar to its home,

...

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THAT was an intelligent youth who, according to PUNCH, was examined before a 'Committee to Inquire into the Overloading of Thames-River Steamers: Has been in the naval profession two months, but has been many years accustomed to the water, having been employed by the water company as a turn-cock. Never served any apprenticeship as a sailor, but has seen Mr. T. P. COOK play William in Black-Eyed Susan.' Understands the different parts of a vessel. The companion is the mate; the painter is a respectable plumber, who gave her a fresh coat at the beginning of the season; and the captain's gig, if he happens to keep one, is a tilbury. Going before the wind, is starting off rather early when a breeze is expected; and a ship's papers are the tickets given on the payment of their fares to the passengers. Boxing the compass is putting the compass away in a box until it is wanted.' WE are obliged for the kind intentions of the correspondent who sends us, in three numbers, the paper upon Education.' We have already published several articles on this theme, and do not consider any others a desideratum at this moment. Children, as well as the world,' are 'governed too much.' Education, says one, whose remark is recorded in our note-book, does not commence with the alphabet. It begins with a mother's look; with a father's nod of approbation, or a sign of reproof; with a sister's gentle pressure of the hand, or a brother's noble act of forbearance; with handsfull of flowers in green dells, on hills, and daisy meadows; with bird's nests admired, but not touched; with creeping ants, and almost imperceptible emmets; with humming bees and glass bee-hives; with pleasant walks in shady lanes; and with thoughts directed in sweet and kindly tones and words, to nature, to beauty, to acts of benevolence, to deeds of virtue, and to the source of all good, to God himself. We do not know who the author of the gossipping papers entitled ' Bon Gaultier and his Friends' may be, but he is almost equal to CHRISTOPHER NORTH in the Noctes.' In his last colloquy he has a hit, as pleasant as it is palpable, at the mania for rail-roads and other improvements, now raging in Scotland. Every body seems to have been bitten by the tarantula of speculation. Three railway lines from England to Scotland are in the market. Night and day the bellows of prospectus are kept in perpetual puff. Strata of coal are discovered, which have not been worked since the days of JULIUS CÆSAR; and pigs of lead with the stamp of the Twentieth Legion, are fished from morasses, to testify to the exuberance of galena. A population starts up on each side of the rail as miraculously and more rapidly than the harvest of the serpent's teeth.' BON GAULTIER, however, shunning canal and rail-road stocks, sets about him for a new enterprise, which he at length hits upon: 'I have it! THE GREAT NATIONAL UNION JOINT-STOCK WHISKEY-TODDY COMPANY OF SCOTLAND, with a Reservoir on the Calton Hill, calculated to mix and project seven thousand gallons of that incomparable fluid, per minute, through pipes to be conveyed to every house in the city and suburbs, and a main pipe direct to Glasgow! Our fortune is made! What a splendid idea! A toddiometer in every cellar, and tumblers piping with perennial hotness! Methinks I see the great piston of the central steam-engine go crashing through the hills of sugar!' There is a sort of maudlin grandeur in the very conception; and as a 'winter-stock,' we think the 'Whiskey-toddy fives'. would be at a premium. THACKERAY is even a more skilful painter with his pen than with his pencil. His 'Yellowplush Correspondence' is a succession of graphic pictures, and as MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH' he has hung upon the walls of our 'memory's mansion' many an admirable sketch. Observe this toofaithful limning of one WAGSTAFF,' a species of husband and father, who may be as often found, we doubt not, in the London of America' as the London of England:

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'He has promised to take his little girl to ASTLEY's circus-theatre any time these four years. She could hardly speak when he promised it. She is a fine tall lass, and can read and write now; and though it was so long ago, has never forgotten the promise about ASTLEY'S. When he is away from

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Editor's Table.

home, Wagstaff talks about his family with great affection. In the long, long days when he is away, their mother, GoD help her! is telling them what a good man their papa is; how kind and generous, and how busy he is; what a pity! he is obliged to work so hard and stay away from home! Poor creature, poor creature! Sure Heaven will pardon her these lies if any lies are pardonable. Whenever he says he will walk with her, Arabella dresses herself in the gown he likes, and puts on her pink bonnet, and is ready to the very minute, you may be sure. How often is it that he is ready at the minute? How many scores and scores of times has he left the heart-sick girl?-not forgetting her in the least-but engaged elsewhere with a game of billiards, or a jolly friend and cigar, and perhaps wishing rather to be at home all the time; but he is so good natured, such a capital fellow! Whenever he keeps his appointment-Heaven help us! she brightens up as if it were Paradise coming to her. She looks with a triumphant air at the servant who opens the door, and round about at the neighbors' windows as if she would have all the world know that she is walking with her husband. Every now and then as she walks, (it is but twice or thrice in a year, for Wagstaff has his business on week-days, and never gets up till one of a Sunday,) every now and then as she walks with him, the delighted creature gives a skip, and squeezes his arm, and looks up in his face, she is so happy. And so is he too, for he is as good-natured a fellow as ever breathed; and he resolves to take her out the very next Sunday-only he does n't. Every one of these walk-days are noted down in the poor soul's little Calendar of Home as saint's days. She talks of them quite fondly; and there is not one of her female friends whom she wont visit for weeks after, and to whom she will not be sure to find some pretext for recounting the wonderful walk.'

Mr. TITMARSH draws two companion-sketches,' one of the simple, white-robed, spotless wife, thinking about her husband, amidst her children at home, and he at a Partie-Fine, among tawdry good-for-nothing opera-dancers, guzzling wine and talking infinite nothings with foreign nobodies, whose legs have run away with his head; not his heart, for he has

none:

'Fizz! there goes the first champagne cork, Mr. Wagstaff is making a tender speech to Madame Virginie. At that moment Arabella is up stairs in the nursery, where the same moon is shining in, and putting her youngest boy to bed.

Bang! there goes the second cork. Virginie screams; Fitzsimons roars with laughter; Wagstaff hob-nobs with the old lady, who gives a wink and a nod. They are taking away the fish and putting down the entrées.

At that moment Arabella has her second child between her knees (the little one is asleep with its thumb in its mouth, and the elder even is beginning to rub her eyes over her favorite fairy tale, though she has read it many scores of times.) Arabella has the child between her knees, and just as Wag is clinking his glass with the old lady in London, his wife at Bognor says something to the child, who says after her,

"Dod bless my dear popa:" and presently he is in bed too, and sleeps as soundly as his little sister. And so it is that these pure blessings are sent, yearning after that fellow over his cups. Suppose they reach him? Why, the spotless things must blush and go out again from the company in which they find him. The drinking goes on, the jokes and fun get faster and faster. Arabella by this time has seen the eldest child asleep in her crib, and is looking out at the moon in silence as the children breathe round about her a soft chorus of slumber. Her mother is down stairs alone, reading Blair's Sermons; a high-shouldered, hook-nosed, lean, moral woman. She wonders her daughter don't come down to tea; there is her cup quite cold, with the cream stagnant on the surface, and her workbasket by its side, with a pair of man's slippers nearly done, and one lazy scrawl from her husband, four lines only, and ten days old. But Arabella keeps away thinking, thinking, and preferring to be alone. The girl has a sweet soft heart, and little sympathy with the mother's coarse, rigid, strongminded nature. The only time they quarrel is, when the old lady calls her son-in-law a brute: then the young one fires up and defends her own like a little Amazon.

After a slight dissertation upon the secret of that love of woman which no indifference can estrange and no neglect can kill, Mr. TITMARSH proceeds:

WAGSTAFF, so splendid with his dinners and so generous on himself, is not so generous at home. He pays the bills with only a few oaths; but somehow he leaves his wife without money. He will give it to anybody rather than to her; a fact of which he himself is, very likely, unaware at this minute, or of the timidity of his wife in asking for it. In order to avoid this asking, the poor girl goes through unheard-of economies, and performs the most curious tricks of avarice. She dresses herself for nothing, and she dresses her children out of her own frocks. Certain dimities, caps, pinafores, and other fallals have gone through the family; and Arabella, though she sees ever such a pretty thing in a shop-window, will pass on with a sigh; whereas her Lancelot is a perfect devourer of waistcoats, and never sets his eyes on a flaring velvet that strikes his fancy, but you will be sure to behold him the next week swaggering about in the garment in Pall Mall. Women are ever practising these petty denials, about which the lords of the creation never think.

I will tell you what I once saw Arabella doing. She is a woman of very high breeding, and no inconsiderable share of family pride: well, one day, on going to Wagstaff's house, who had invited a party of us to Blackwall, about a bet he had lost, I was, in the master's absence, ushered into the drawing-room, which is furnished very fine, and there sat the lady of the house at her work-table, with her child prattling at her knee.

'I could not understand what made Mrs. Wagstaff blush so; look so entirely guilty of something or other; fidget, auswer à travers, and receive an old friend in this strange and inhospitable way. She, the descendant of the Smiths of Smithfield, of the Browns of Brown Hall, the proud daughter

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