to progress as developed in the radicalisms of our day. The number was embellished with a portrait of the American De Staël who contributes to its columns. Have you ever seen 'Cora Montgomery,' alias Mrs. S, alias Madame C-? for she is now emerged from widowhood, and married to General C —, whilom high in Texan office. You ought to know her, if you do not, L. G. C., as the most masculine-minded woman in America; a perfect political Juno in petticoats, and more than a master of diplomacy and tricks of state than any five statesmen living. She writes clearly, to the point, and always with vigor. She loves to fight abolition fanatics and aristocracy in government. She is democratic to the core, and all over a Southerner in feeling. She is one of the women who are literary without being pedantic. She never bores you with discourse on that point; you might talk with her as a stranger for half a day, and take her for a most conversationable nun. I like such women, as I hate the eternal reciters and gabblers about what they have written.' Most of our literary women manage to unsex themselves; they don't positively put on breeches, but they lose all modesty, and forget duties which women should most remember. Be sure that the children of 'blue stockings' go as ragged and dirty as the preacher's. They cannot compose stories and see that the pot boils and the babies are washed. Madame C(or De Staël, for that name well belongs to her, without the personal ugliness and scandalous faux pas of its original bearer,) is not one of these. She is a true, modest woman, with a masculine-thoughted mind; and her thoughts will one day form a text-book of political clevernesses, if not truths. But most of all, and with gusto, did I read a number of 'Old KNICK.' It matters not what number, for they are as like in marrow and fatness, in humor and wisdom, as a circle of sausages made in the same stuffer. By the way, 'L. G. C.' loves sausages; he emulates therein a dignitary of the capital; and if I might liken a good intellectual thing to a sausage, I should call 'Old KNICK.' a tremendous string of sausages! Yes, I read 'Old KNICK.;' always racy, and sometimes, in its jokes-vide Editor's Table'-like ‘J. B.,'' devilish funny and devilish sly!' Why does n't the Editor gather up from that Table' of his a volume of pearls and gems, and cast them before us as sausagemeat? Let not his modesty deter him. Is he not past his minority, and installed, of his own good worth, among the worthy, to stand clean out of a niche somewhere, at least in the Pantheon of Gossip'-ers? For one, I call on him to rake over the coals, (they have been in ashes long enough to test them,) and give us the live ones in a string. And the reading of these books suggests how wonderful is the revolution created and going on by that machinery which scatters books as dust

the

press. The press is the Atlas, the Titan of Our age. The press bears

the world on its shoulders, and heaves it into the light. It creates mind; it makes opinion, and guides it. It is a heart in harness of iron, steam and lightning, filled with free and fiery thought, and it throbs against chains and dungeons and thrones, making the earth freer with every revolution of the sun. Warriors and statesmen hear it and fear it, and priests and hierarchs tremble at its pulsations. Wherever it exists, the seed of light and freedom is planted, and can never be rooted up. Tyrants nor crafts can stand before the press, for the press

is the forlorn-hope of the people; their apostle, their fortress, their invulnerable rock; and around it they rally in the strength and majesty of millions of GOD's images. Fifty years hence, and types instead of soldiers will fight the battles of the nations; types will supersede bayonets and cannon, and the trade of the man-butcher will be a hideous memory.

But during all this time, this jaunting through four chapters, tiresome enough to me, and to the reader too, I doubt not, I have forgotten the word I would say for labor. Among the beautiful things I saw on every road-side, in every valley, were the grain-fields, which I call the grand signet of toil, and the best title to aristocracy on this round earth. Indeed I care not in what honest guise labor appears, it is transcendently beautiful; for it fulfils one of the great laws of nature and providence, and answers to the first necessities of man. The ploughman or the goatherd is a lord in his own right; a lord of the soil, paramount to all swindling lords of parchment and all robber kings. I care not who disputes his title or beats him back with violence, no man can annul his patent, or degrade a nobility gotten by him directly from GOD! However estimated in courts or camps, he shall be, as he has been, the basis of states and societies, and his monuments shall be wherever temples and palaces and pillars rise; wherever the earth yields ores and grains; wherever white wings cleave the seas; wherever art and science rear a trophy, and wherever humanity is exalted, or Christianity exemplified in the practice of its precepts.

The Bunkumville Chronicle:

DEVOTED TO THE PRINCIPLES OF NO. 1, AND NOTHING ELSE.

'GOD GIVE THEM WISDOM THAT HAVE IT, AND THOSE THAT ARE FOOLS LET THEM USE THEIR TALENTS.

In the vast charnel-house of TIME all in my dreams stood I;
The gathered dust of ages past I see around me lie-

All in their marble cere-clothes clad, grim DEATH's cold panoply!

Farther than mortal eye may scan, down the sepulchral hall,

Sleep by-gone years in long array, and o'er them, one and all,

Begrimed with dust and stained with rust, hang trophies of their age;
Old pennons torn, old spears war-worn, swords dulled with battles' rage.
There, too, unfurled, that o'er a world had waved in victory,

Many a hero's banner hung-full low the owners lie!

I heard a toll for a parting soul, a wailing shriek swept by:

Old Forty-Nine, that sough was thine! and straight a feeble cry;
An infant's wail comes on the gale; for, see where draweth near,
A youthful heir to claim the throne of the departed year!

A long and sad procession moves adown the dusky aisle,
The parted year is borne along to his funereal pile;
And all around, before, behind, flit figures of the past,
Dim shadowy things of human form

-the year had been their last!

Amid the hosts of pallid ghosts, by phantoms dire led on,
CONSUMPTION, with her hectic cheek, marshals a goodly throng;
An AZURE FIEND, all hollow-eyed, counts millions in her train,
Gathered from city and from field, from mountain, hill and plain :
Pale FAMINE, with her shrunken form, her sad, lack-lustre eye,
Foul DROPSY, with his bloated limbs, fierce FEVERs too, pass by.

The bloody car of ruthless WAR leads on its myriads now:
Oh! had ye but have seen the sight, your cheeks had paled, I trow!
The wheels whose creak 's a dying shriek roll on the trembling stones,
The ghastly hubs were grinning skulls, the spokes were dead men's bones.

Here come the patriots of Rome, slain by false-hearted Gaul;
The deepest, darkest, damning blot on her escutcheon fall!
Freedom for her? No, God forbid; for her, the living lie?
Oh lay on France the stripes and chains, and pass the Magyar by !

But see,
from once proud Hungary what thousands swell the tide;
Not all were slain on battle-plain-these on their hearth-stone died,
And these by cord, and these by scourge, doomed by base Austrian law,
That found a hangman fit in thee, Oh! world-accursed HAYNAU!

Ye Christian men and Christian realms, that stood so passive by,
And saw the horde of Northern slaves o'errun doomed Hungary,
Raise now the voice, raise now the arm, lest such fate be your own,
And check the foulest murderers the world ere this has known!

CALIGULA, thou heathen brute! thy name shall be forgot!
Thine from the page of history shall Time, Oh! NERO, blot!
While pen may write, while tongue may tell, or ear drink in a sound,
HAYNAU, O vilest of the vile! wide shall be thy renown!

And with thee live thy master's names, more hated yet than thine,
Could but a lower depth be found in catalogue of crime;
Oh! for a pen of living fire, deep dipped in bitter gall!
To record all the curses dire, I pray upon ye fail!

The world methinks is growing old; the yellow leaf and sere
Is falling to the wintry blast- the end sure draweth near:
How long, how long may such things be, until a wasting flood
Of earth-devouring flame shall cleanse the monster stain of blood?

The morning sun is shining now, and with its earliest ray
The direful phantoms of the night affrighted fled away:

Oh! may this young time so dispel these deeds of blood and fear,
And usher to a sorrowing world a peaceful, Happy Year!

Yet what better can we expect?-for is it not written, Ex nihilo, nihil fit? Which, reader, which is here the eagle and which the buzzard? Dixi: we have said.

OUR OWN COURSE AND THAT OF OUR AD- ing midst the rejected dust and trash of VERSARY.-Let the adventurous eagle, him ages; disinterring the buried remains of of the piercing eye and sturdy wing, pur-pestiferous jests; dabbling in the muddy sue his quarry in the pure expanse of waters of pseudo-philosophy; our adversaether, putting a final clause to the career ry poisons the wretched few who patronize of many a bright-winged and glad-voiced him, and rankles an ever-festering sore wanderer of upper air, wherewith, to upon the fair bosom of our country's literafill the wide-agape throats of the eaglets of ture; a disgrace to humanity, to himself, his eyrie; let the bold fish-hawk of the iron and to his readers! beak and relentless purpose dive swift as bolt of Jove, deep, deep into the crystal bosom of the lake, bearing away in triumph from their parent waters the mottled trout, the bright-scaled perch or silvery pike to appease her clam'rous brood; let the king of beasts roam dauntless through the tangled maze of the pathless forest, or o'er the sandy sea of Afric's burning plains, and ruthless seize the quivering prey to feed the ravening cubs; still will the resurrectionist jackall prowl midst the cadaverous remains of decayed mortality; the disgusting buzzard flap her heavy wing o'er filthy carrion, and the vile tumble-bug gloat o'er her accumulation of ordure-ous matter!

KNOWLEDGE FOR THE PEOPLE.

NUMBER FOUR.

GASTRONOMY.

GASTRONOMY, properly speaking, is the science of the table, but among seamen it is known as panthology, their food being always served up in pans.

We have no institution in which this art is taught, but in England they have an Eaton College.

The feeding establishments connected with our literary institutions are termed commons,' in consequence of the inferior quality of food served up.

Starvation or absence from food is a very