on his childhood, who smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness;' a sister, tenderly beloved, sleeps there; a fair flower, nipped too early by the untimely frosts of death; there too is buried a brother, whose place was never, never supplied; and there would he rest; there, while the slow-counted hours of illness were notching the progress of his earthly decline, he turned ever his thoughts of final repose. He knew he was soon going to renew the childhood of his soul in the undiscovered country; and he would rise, at the last great day, to the consciousness of a new existence, on the very spot where God first breathed into his earthly body the breath of life, and he became a living soul.'. We began this, to introduce an amusing anecdote of a child; but we could n't do it. It shall be done, though, some time, if life and health are spared. . . . Dickens's 'David Copperfield' increases in interest as it advances. The characters are admirably depicted and most artistically discriminated. What can be better, for example, than the sad picture drawn of poor AGNES's father gradually giving way to the demon of Inebriation; or the sketch of 'Mrs. DARTLE,' with a 'new feature' in her face; a scar on her upper-lip, the shape of which it has altered, and in which the emotion of foiled curiosity or of anger comes and goes, in a sort of purple light, 'like a mark in invisible ink brought to the fire, or the old writing on the wall.' Observe, too, the faithful touches which give you 'all the mother' in 'Mrs. STEERFORTH'S thoughts and acts regarding her son - of whom more hereafter,' evidently: 'She seemed to be able to speak or think about nothing else. She showed me his picture as an infant, in a locket, with some of his babyhair in it; she showed me his picture as he had been when I first knew him; and she wore at her breast his picture as he was now. All the letters he had ever written to her, she kept in a cabinet near her own chair by the fire.' . . . FROM the great prairie, that, like the round ocean girdled with the sky,' spreads in one direction from the goodly and flourishing city of Chicago, there are before us at this moment a generous Christmas supply of the delicious grouse peculiar to that region, fresh as if just laid prone upon the plain' from the shot of the sportsman; and a noble wild-goose, (six feet from tip to tip of his beautiful pinions,) from the same 'free and independent' locality. To-night the 'little people' in the sanctum, each with a characteristic expression of individual delight, have many a time and oft buried their faces in the luxurious soft plumage which has so often flashed in the sunshine or breasted the storm on that unshorn field, boundless and beautiful, 'for which,' as BRYANT says, 'the speech of England hath no name.' Thanks to the spirit which dictated, and the remembrance which insured, the forwarding of so acceptable and timely a present! More anon.' . . . WE have before us, from the press of Mr. J. S. REDFIELD, Clinton-Hall, the work upon 'Cosmonography,' prepared by our lamented friend, the late FRANCIS FAUVEL GOURAUD, author of the system of Mnemotechny,' or Artificial Memory. It would require much more space than we can now devote to the volume to set forth at large its peculiar principles and developments. Suffice it for the present to say, that it contains the exposition of a system of writing and printing all the principal languages, with their exact pronunciation, by means of an original Universal Phonetic Alphabet, based upon philological principles, and representing analogically all the component elements of the human voice, as they occur in different tongues and dialects, and applicable to daily use in all the branches of business and learning. It is illustrated by numerous plates, explanatory of the calligraphic, steno-phonographic, and typo-phonographic adaptations of the system; and it is confidently predicted by the editor, that the sequel of the work will demonstrate, that there is no human tongue, ancient or modern, that cannot be

written, upon the plan here developed, with mathematical accuracy in all its peculiar sounds and articulations.' A work of such a character as this will not be long in finding its way to the American public. . . . THERE was a good deal of satire in a reply we lately heard given to a question asked by a friend sitting at the dinner-table of a steam-boat, of the second class: What have you told the waiter to bring you?' 'I told him to bring me some 'hash' and afterward some 'bread-pudding.' I always ask for hash and bread-pudding on board a boat like this, because then I know exactly what I get! Not unlike the retired London dairyman, who remarked confidentially to a friend that it was not chalk that they put in the milk.' He said it was 'something else.'... 'Greenwood Leaves' is the pretty title of a collection of graceful and gossipping letters and sketches furnished at different intervals to various periodicals by Miss SARA J. CLARKE, under the pleasant nom de plume of 'GRACE GREENWOOD.' To an evident heartfelt love of nature this agreeable writer adds a keen sense of the beautiful in the soul of humanity,' and a pure affection for the domestic virtues evolved at home. Her book, to adopt a slight catachresis, will be taken cordially by the hand, and welcomed at once into the snuggest room in the house, without taking off its gloves! . . . L- - 's 'Reminiscence of Boyhood' was a positive treat. Well do we remember the 'Execution of the Ground-Mice,' as performed by 'OLLAPOD' and the writer hereof, when we were 'wee things.' The prisoners were caught in the act of theft, under a 'shock' of cut-corn, after an ineffectual attempt at escape, and were confined in a square stone prison, 'digged i' the earth' of the meadow. We slept but little the first night of their confinement; we thought of them during the night-watches, and talked of them, as Giant DESPAIR talked with his wife of CHRISTIAN and HOPEFUL, shut up in Doubting-Castle. In the morning we visited the prison betimes, and fed the 'plaintiffs' and 'examinationed' them as well as DOGBERRY himself could do. We continued to visit them for several days afterward; and their bearing evincing no penitence, they were condemned to be hung, and a day was appointed for their execution. We had seen a model of a gallows on the cover of the 'STORY OF AMBROSE GWINETT,' and 'OLLAPOD' constructed a very secure 'institution' of that kind; and when the fatal morning arrived, with all due privacy the culprits were brought forth, the thread of death which was to clip the thread of their lives being round their necks. They were addressed in moving terms by OLLAPOD, and assured that all hope of reprieve was ridiculous; it could not be thought of by 'the authorities' for a moment. They must prepare to mount the scaffold! They walked, 'supported' partly by the 'rope' around their necks, with firm hind-legs, up the ladder, and the 'fatal cord' was adjusted to the 'tranz-verze' beam. It was a moment to be remembered. At a signal given by the jotter-down hereof, the trap-door fell, and they were launched into— liberty! For the thread broke, and the 'wretched culprits' were soon safe in the long grass of the meadow. It was a narrow escape for 'em!... MESSRS. EDWARD DUNIGAN AND BROTHER, an unassuming but correctly-judging and enterprising publishing house, at Number 151 Fulton-street, have sent us, together with three or four excellent issues of their 'Popular Library of Instruction and Amusement,' replete with admirable moral stories for children and youth, a little volume, beautifully illustrated with thirty-two engravings from original designs by CHAPMAN, entitled 'The Crocus, a Fresh Flower for the Holidays,' edited by SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. It is pronounced by our little people, who by much handling have reduced it to an 'old book' already, to be one of the most charming story-books of all the year.' 'I HAVE,' writes a correspondent, a pretty, bright

6

little juvenile friend, some five years of age, named Rosa. Some days ago she was teazed a good deal by a gentleman who visits the family, who finally wound up by saying: 'Rosa, I don't love you.' Ah, but you've got to love me,' said the child. 'Why so?' asked her tormentor. 'Why,' said ROSA, 'the Bible says you must 'love them that hate you, and I am sure I hate you! Was that bad, 'for a child?'

"THANKS for the sympathies that ye have shown!
Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token,
That teaches us, when seeming most alone,
Friends are around us, though no word be spoken.'

EVERY one, sitting silent in his own apartment, and looking thoughtfully into his grate, will apply these lines to his own individual case.

was fame,' B

So do we. We look to see

what's o'clock. WHO was that most kind, unknown friend, who has enabled us, for nearly five years, to consult a beautiful golden horologe' for that purpose? Does he know let him know it now - that never has that beautiful present been consulted, without a mental blessing upon the noble spirit which dictated the doing of that kindness 'by stealth' which, performed openly, the doer would 'blush to find too, and D. -, and E―, and P―, and R—, and S, and good 'BELLACOSCA,' whom so oft we remember, (may his shadow never be less!) and Y —, how can we pause for a moment, and look around us, without being filled with grateful emotions? FRIENDS! it is Christmas-eve; and let us say to you, in the simple but fervent words that from a little crib in an adjoining apartment have just died upon as sweet and innocent lips as ever gave utterance to human aspiration, 'God bless you! -God bless you! Pleasant dreams! — pleasant dreams!'. 'Sacred Scenes and Characters' is the title of a handsome volume from the press of Messrs. BAKER AND SCRIBNER, printed in the best manner, upon large, open types, and written by J. T. HEADLEY, the popular author of 'Sacred Mountains,' a somewhat similar volume widely circulated last year. It is illustrated by a dozen fine engravings, from designs by DARLEY, and the text itself is composed of a series of wood-pictures, in painting which the author has come justly to be regarded as preeminent among all our modern native writers. 'HAVE you,'

said an inquiring-mind'ed and slightly worldly gentleman recently, to an 'evangelical bookseller' in Broadway, 'have you ' Christ's Sermon on the Mount?' CHRIST'S Sermon on the Mount!' exclaimed the bookseller, with not a little surprise. 'Yes,' said the other; it was mentioned yesterday in a very charming discourse at our church as an admirable thing; but perhaps it is n't out yet!' The anxious inquirer was not corrected, but was permitted to go his way for he had great possessions.' . . . OUR friends Messrs. TICKNOR, REED AND FIELDS, Boston, have issued a very handsome new and revised edition of 'The Poetical and Prose Writings of Charles Sprague.' It were as superfluous to praise BRYANT, OF HALLECK, as to eulogise SPRAGUE. He is one among the most natural, truthful and fervent of our American poets. His writings are good, they do good,' and that continually.' . . . 'MR. J. G. Buckley,' travelling lecturer, is a great and eke a modest man. He pledges himself, for thirty dollars, to prove, among other things, that 'spirit is material; that mind is a substance; that God did n't and could n't create all things out of nothing; that electricity is an atmospheric emanation from GOD, and the substance out of which He made all things, and the means by which He governs the universe!' Mr. BuckLEY also lectures upon the 'cultivation of memory and matrimony,'' intemperance and tight-lacing;' and likewise upon tobacco, tea, coffee, meat, spices, and for aught we

know to the contrary, putty also. He is 'an immense man, Sir-equal to MOORE's Melodies!' 'Motherless Mary,' by Miss GEORGIANA M. SYKES, will reach every mother's heart. It refers to the death of an infant daughter of WILLIAM B. BRISTOL, Esq., of New-Haven, (Conn.,) that survived its mother but a few months:

SHE could not know no mother's breast
Might pillow her young head,
That on her brow, with mingled tears,
Baptismal dews were shed:

And yet the baby seldom smiled,
Or glowed with infant glee,

As conscious that each fond caress
Was given mournfully.

But when, one autumn day, I brought
The wild-flowers I had found,
Aster and golden-rod, that grew
Beside a burial mound:

She could not know from whence they came,
And yet a spring she gave,

To grasp within her tiny hand
Those flowerets of the grave:

And smiled, as if she there had won
Her rightful joy at last;

As if her soul from shadows dim
To sudden sun-shine passed.

Scarce were those wild-flowers faded, ere
The babe had won its rest;
Beneath that mound, its fair young head
Had found its mother's breast.

WE would call especial attention to BRADY's 'Gallery of Illustrious Americans,' advertised on the third page of the cover of the present number. It will prove to be one of the most superb works of the kind ever issued from the American press. The advertisement renders farther reference to the proposed enterprsie unnecessary. . . . We have but just returned from bearing the pall of an early and esteemed friend. The coffin was borne through rain and sleet, and the last remains of the loved one were laid in the cold ground with many tears. Ah, departed J. T. S.! no warmer or more generous heart now beats than that which lies so calm and still in St. THOMAS's church-yard! Rest in peace, friend of our youth, as of our earliest manhood!—and may HE who 'tempers the wind to the shorn lamb' comfort and protect the bereaved mother and child whom he has left behind, inconsolably to mourn his irreparable loss ! The night is dark and dreary; the rain patters upon the windows; the wind, in long-drawn 'soughs,' wails without; and Memory is busy amid the friends and scenes of the past. We are all bound for eternity, and we sail in this mortal life with contrary winds; sometimes there is a tempest, and anon cometh a calm; but we are speeding on our voyage! It is good sometimes to think on these things.' . . . A FRIEND and correspondent, from whom our readers may expect to hear frequently, and always 'to edification,' writes us, among other matters, as follows, from 'Leon de Nicaragua,' under date of the twelfth of October 'last past: This is really a most magnificent and interesting country; abounding in all the beauties of the tropics, and yet so moderated in climate by a variety of causes as to be really delightful. I concur fully with an old vagabond priest named GAGE, who wrote about it a couple of hundred years ago. He called it 'MAHOMET's paradise.' The houries, however, are a shade or two too dark for my taste. I intend to send you a description of my trip up the San Juan and through Lake Nicaragua ; we were eight days at it, in a burgo, with twelve stark-naked oarsmen! I understand now fully what is meant by GoD's image carved in ebony!' Then the quaint old cities of Grenada and Leon, where the reprobate old pirates used to come to fill up their purses; the massive castles on the lake and river; verily I say unto you there is no lack of material to write about. Imagine twelve tall volcanos in sight at one time! Imagine blue lakes, set in a forest that looks as if it might be carved in emerald; imagine all that is grand and beautiful in nature, and you have a picture of Nicaragua.'. . . READER, when you see, while writing, as we did just now, a little insect, so small that'naught could live 'twixt that and nothing,' running across the great Zahara desert of a small sheet of note-paper, think of these lines by

ELLIOTT, not the great American portrait-painter, but his namesake, the English 'Corn Law Rhymer :'

man.

O God of marvels! who can tell
What myriad living things

On these gray stones unseen may dwell-
What nations, with their kings?

I feel no shock, I hear no groan,
While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone,
A hundred ruined realms!

Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,
Impelled by wo or whim,

May crawl some atom-cliff to see,
A tiny world to him.

Lo! while he pauses and admires

The works of Nature's might, Spurned by my foot, his world expires, And all to him is night!'

Never kill a harmless insect; 'give him a chance;' but don't mind being' death on 'skeeters.' . . . SOME months ago, how many it is scarcely necessary to state, two Presbyterian doctors of divinity, one an 'Old School' man, the other 'New,' were seen trudging arm in arm down Broadway. The afternoon being a very rainy one, and the gentlemen having but one umbrella, this 'goodly fellowship' was one of moral necessity, if not of theological affinity. The pedestrian divines had reached Fourthstreet, when Dr. C― exclaimed, with that enthusiastic animation for which he is notorious: 'Here comes Rev. Mr. H- ! That's the author of Napoleon and his Marshals.' Do you know him?' 'I never saw him before,' rejoined the 'Old-School' An introduction ensued, and after a brief colloquy between Dr. C— and the distinguished author, the worthy pair resumed their downward course, while Mr. H― proceeded to enter the region of the 'silk-stocking gentry.' 'Well,' inquired the Doctor eagerly,' what do you think of him?' 'To tell the truth,' answered the other, 'I did not think much about him, my attention having been engaged by something which interested me far more than even NAPOLEON and his Marshals.' 'Indeed! and what might that be?' 'Do you see that venerable mother?' rejoined Dr. B-, pointing to an animal of the 'porcine genus,' who, surrounded by her bristly progeny, was reposing on the shilling-side of the great thoroughfare. While you were conversing so earnestly with Mr. H-, an omnibus ran over one of the poor little creatures, and injured it so that it could not walk. The mother, perceiving that her offspring was in imminent danger in the middle of the street, went to work and rolled it with her snout toward the side-walk. But she had not made much progress, when a young baker came along, and seeing what had happened, stopped his cart, got out, took up the pig, and carrying it to the curb-stone, laid it down very carefully, the parent meanwhile following with the rest of her little folks, and testifying her gratitude by an abundance of gruntings, of a peculiarly tender tone.' 'Wonderful! wonderful!' exclaimed Dr. C—, who forthwith commenced, as he proceeded down Broadway, to descant, in his own admirable way, on the cropyn, or maternal affection, as evinced in the case before him; while the Old-School man philosophized no less gravely on the humanity of the young baker, whom he would fain have recommended as a worthy candidate for the 'prix montyon.' . . . We have no great partiality for books on medicine, but on turning over the pages of 'The Graefenberg Manual of Health,' we were struck with the large amount of sound practical information which it contains. It is a 'progressive' production, and is 'down' upon the abuse of lancet and leeches. A correspondent alludes to the work on the twenty-fifth page of the present number. . . . THE singular mistake mentioned in our last as having been made by an ignorant minister, touching the purpose of those who cast their garments and branches of palm in the way of our SAVIOUR, when he rode into Jerusalem 'on a colt, the foal of an ass,' has brought to mind a circumstance which occurred at Panama last spring, and which was witnessed by a friend who was there, and who