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The fame of Murillo out of his native country, has risen within these last ten or fifteen years to the highest rank, and his historical pictures are now classed with those of the greatest masters of the Italian school: as a colorist he is admitted to stand without a rival. This sudden extension of his merits is in some degree owing to the cheap acquisition of eight of his finest works by Marshal Soult, when he was Napoleon’s governor of Andalusia. These pictures have been seen and admired by all the world in Paris. Two of them, the Return of the Prodigal Son, and Abraham Receiving the Angels, have passed from the gallery of the illustrious Marshal to that of the Duke of Sutherland, for a consideration. The fine collection of pictures of the Spanish schools, purchased by Baron Taylor for Louis Philippe, and now exhibited in the Louvre, has contributed to the same effect. It contains Murillo’s Virgin de la Faxa, a perfect master-piece of coloring, which cost one hundred and thirty thousand francs.

None of his great compositions are taken from profane history or mythology. He was in a manner interdicted from using subjects derived from those copious sources, by a decree of the Holy Inquisition of Andalusia, which prohibited painters and sculptors, under the penalties of fine and excommunication, from displaying in their works any lascivious or naked images. His landscapes and flower-girls are painted in the highest style of beauty; and his beggars have never been excelled in all the loathsome attributes of misery and disease. The fact of his never having been out of his native country, disposed critics to believe that his works must be deficient in that highest order of merit which exclusively belongs to the classic schools of Italy: they would not admit that species of excellence which knew how to adapt the highest subjects of art to the unlearned. Yet such was Murillo’s influence over the human heart, that his genius enabled him to embellish truth, and to present it with all its graces and attractions to the understandings of all those who are endowed with an innate love of the beautiful. His pictures, like Gray’s Elegy in a Country Church-yard, may with equal truth be said ‘to abound in images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo.’

It is true that there is nothing academic to be found in his groups; no mysterious allegory; no theatrical display of the passions; very little of what is more talked of than understood, the beau-ideal. Nevertheless, he is always original, and never vulgar; his drawing is nearly faultless; his compositions are instantly felt and understood by all who have read the Scriptures, because they convey to the mind more of the evangelical character and attributes of Christianity than those of any other painter. On this subject some very characteristic remarks are made by the late Sir David Wilkie, in his letters from Jerusalem.²

‘His Madonnas, his saints, and even his Saviours, have the Spanish cast; all his figures are probably portraits, and all his forms have a national peculiarity of air, habit, and countenance; and although he often adopts a beautiful expression of nature, there is generally a peasant-like simplicity in his ideas. He gives occasional instances of great sublimity of expression, but it is a sublimity which neither forces nor enlarges nature: truth and simplicity are never out of sight. It is what the painter sees, not what he conceives, which is presented to you. Herein he is distinguished from his preceptor Velasquez. That great master, by his courtly habits of intercourse, contracted a more proud and swelling character, to which the simple and chaste pencil of Murillo never sought to aspire. A plain and pensive cast, sweetly attempered by humility and benevolence, marks his canvass; and on other occasions, where he is necessarily impassioned or inflamed, it is the zeal of devotion, the influx of pious inspiration, and never the guilty passions which he exhibits. In short, from what he sees, he separates from what he feels, and has within himself the counter-types of almost every object he describes.’

If it be true, (says his biographer, Bermudez,) that painters put their own portraits in their works, that is to say, that they exhibit their own genius, their propensities, affections, and the dispositions of their minds in them, the pictures of Murillo bear a great analogy to his virtues, and the gentleness of his character. He was distinguished above all others of his profession by the mildness with which he instructed his pupils; by the urbanity with which he treated his rivals; by the humility with which he excused himself from becoming the painter of the Camara to Charles the Second, which was offered to him by the court; and for the charity with which he distributed the most liberal alms to the poor, who afterward deplored his death. But those who were most affected by it were his beloved scholars, who, overwhelmed with grief and anguish, could find no consolation for the loss of a father who loved them most dearly; of a master who instructed them with the utmost kindness, and of a protector who encouraged them by giving to each such portions of employment as enabled them to maintain themselves. This affectionate tribute to the character of Murillo, must recall to the minds of our readers that beautiful passage in the letter of Baldassare Castíglione to his brother, which is said to express the feelings of all the artists in Rome upon the death of his friend Raphael: ‘Ma non mi pare esser a Roma, perchè non vi è piu il mio poveretto Raffaello.’

Murillo was born at Magdalena, near Seville, on the first day of January, 1618, and died on the third of April, 1682. He was buried in the church of Santa Cruz at Seville. The immediate cause of his death, although he had long been worn out by the anguish of his infirmities, was a fall from a scaffold while he was painting the Marriage of Saint Catharine for the Convent of Capuchins at Cadiz. Notwithstanding the many pictures which he painted, he died possessed of only a few rials, and some property which he had acquired by his wife.

Gossip with Readers and Correspondents.—We would respectfully ask the reader’s attention to the advertisement of the ‘Knickerbocker Library,’ on the second page of the cover of the present number. ‘Our best exertions shall not be wanting’ to make the series all that the publishers hope for it. That the matériel is good, our readers, we think, need not be informed. The plan has been cordially welcomed by the press, with a single exception; and in that, the quo animo was so apparent as to neutralize the slur intended by the writer. We shall be enabled to secure the earliest literary rarities on both sides of the water for the ‘Knickerbocker Library,’ and the style in which they will be presented will be unsurpassed. ••• We lament in the recent death of Willis Gaylord, the loss of a beloved relative, who was our elder companion in childhood and youth, and our faithful friend and correspondent, to the close of his useful and honored life. Mr. Gaylord died at his beautiful residence of Limerock Farm, Onondaga county, on the 27th ultimo, after a brief illness. ‘Few men,’ says the Albany Argus, ‘were better known throughout the agricultural community than Mr. Gaylord. He was for many years one of the editors of ‘The Genesee Farmer,’ and since the death of Judge Buel, has been the senior editor of ‘The Cultivator.’ As an agricultural writer, it is not too much to say, that his equal is not left to mourn his loss. He was also favorably known by his contributions to our literary and scientific journals. He was distinguished as a warm-hearted philanthropist, and few men have more largely benefitted the community by their labors. His social virtues endeared him warmly to all by whom he was known. In the pathetic language of one by whom the intelligence of his death is communicated, he was truly ‘the friend of the farmer—the friend of humanity.’ We have the proceedings of a meeting of the New-York Agricultural Society, held in the State-House at Albany, on receiving the intelligence of the death of Mr. Gaylord. The President, John P. Beekman, Esq., of Columbia county, passed a high and deserved eulogium upon the character of the deceased. ‘The judgment of every intelligent farmer in the State,’ he observed, ‘will respond to the assertion that to no man whatever, excepting perhaps Judge Buel, is the agriculture of the State more indebted than to Mr. Gaylord. For myself, I can declare in all sincerity that there is no man whose writings caused within me a greater desire to be honored with a personal acquaintance. The character of Willis Gaylord was in all respects what might be expected from his writings; benevolent, enlightened, elevated; yet plain, practical, unassuming. Every day of his useful life was marked, not merely by the exercise of his versatile talents on the multifarious subjects embraced by agriculture and the domestic arts, but by the acquisition and promulgation of knowledge in the wide range of science.’ He was cordially esteemed by all who knew him; he had not an enemy in the world. Hon. Calvin Hubbard, of the Legislature, offered resolutions in testimony of the deep regret which the death of Mr. Gaylord had created in the public mind, copies of which were ordered to be transmitted to the relatives of the deceased; after which, as a token of respect to his memory, the meeting was adjourned. ‘A scholar, a gentleman, a christian, a friend of man, Mr. Gaylord lived universally beloved, and died universally lamented.’ ••• It has been assumed lately by certain of the political and financial enemies of the late Nicholas Biddle, Esq.,—an accomplished gentleman and scholar, whose pen has often entertained and instructed the readers of this Magazine—that he had little power of style, and that his intellectual rôle was a limited one. Nothing could be farther from the truth. That point however we are not now to discuss. We merely wish to ask the reader’s attention to the subjoined remarks of Mr. Biddle upon the besetting sin of our American style, oral as well as written: ‘A crude abundance is the disease of our American style. On the commonest topic of business, a speech swells into a declamation—an official statement grows to a dissertation. A discourse about anything must contain every thing. We will take nothing for granted. We must commence at the very commencement. An ejectment for ten acres reproduces the whole discovery of America; a discussion about a tariff or a turnpike, summons from their remotest caves the adverse blasts of windy rhetoric; and on those great Serbonian bogs, known in political geography as constitutional questions, our ambitious fluency often begins with the general deluge, and ends with its own. It is thus that even the good sense and reason of some become wearisome, while the undisciplined fancy of others wanders into all the extravagances and the gaudy phraseology which distinguish our western orientalism.’ A specimen of this ‘orientalism’ we gave in our last number. Here is another example of a somewhat kindred character. A western orator recently delivered himself of it from the summit of a sugar-maple stump at a political barbacue:

‘Whar, I say whar, is the individual who would give up the first foot, the first outside shadow of a foot of the great Oregon! There aint no such individual. Talk about treaty occupations to a country over which the great American eagle has flew! I scorn treaty occupation; d—n treaty occupation! Who wants a parcel of low-flung, ‘outside barbarians,’ to go in cahoot with us, and share alike a piece of land that always was and always will be ours? Nobody. Some people talk as though they were afeard of England. Who’s afeard? Haven’t we licked her twice, and can’t we lick her again? Lick her! Yes! just as easy as a bear can slip down a fresh-peeled sapling! Some skeery folks talk about the navy of England; but who the h-ll cares for the navy? Others say that she is the mistress of the ocean. Supposin’ she is? aint we the masters of it? Can’t we cut a canal from the Mississippi to the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, turn all the water into it, and dry up the d–d ocean in three weeks? Whar then would be the navy? It would be no whar! There never would have been any Atlantic ocean if it hadn’t been for the Mississippi, nor never will be, after we’ve turned the waters of that big drink into the Mammoth Cave! When that’s done, you’ll see all their steam-ships and their sail-ships they splurge so much about, lying high and dry, floundering like so many turtles left ashore at low tide. That’s the way we’ll fix ’em. Who’s afeard!’

We have often thought, that if the various similes employed in the Scriptures were thoroughly understood, that their appositeness and beauty would be themes of increased admiration. Observe how the latent meanings of the following passage reveal themselves to the heart:

THE REFINER

BY MONTGOMERY

‘He is like a refiner’s fire, and like fuller’s soap. And he shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver: and he shall purify the sons of Levi, and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness.’—Malachi iii. 2, 3.

A few ladies in Dublin, who often met together to read the Word of God, one day occupied their attention with the passage now before the eye of the reader. One of the ladies expressed her opinion that ‘the fuller’s soap and the refiner of silver’ were only the same image to convey the same view of the sanctifying influence of the grace of Christ. ‘No,’ said another, ‘they are not the same image; there is something remarkable in the expression, ‘He shall sit as the refiner and purifier of silver.’’ On going into the town, this lady called on a silver-smith, and desired to know the process of refining silver, which he fully explained to her. ‘But do you sit, Sir,’ she asked, ‘while you are refining?’ ‘Yes, Madam, I must sit with my eye steadily fixed on the furnace; since if the silver remain too long, it is sure to be injured.’ She at once saw the beauty and comfort of the expression. Christ sees it needful to put his people into the furnace, but He is seated by the side of it—His eye is steadily fixed on the work of purifying—and his wisdom and his love are both engaged to do all in the best manner for them. As the lady was returning to her friends, to tell them what she had heard, as she turned from the shop-door, the silver-smith called her back, and said, he had forgotten one thing, and that was, he only knew the process of refining to be complete by seeing his own image in the silver.

When Christ sees his own image in his people, the work of purifying is accomplished.

It may be added, that the metal continues in a state of agitation, until all impurities are thrown off, and then it becomes quite still; a circumstance which heightens the analogy of the case; for how

 
‘Sweet to be passive in His hand,
And know no will but His!’
 

Does ‘M.’ well to be angry? We ‘referred publicly’ to his query touching our choice of prose or poetry, at his own request, in a playful, but certainly not in an intentionally ‘offensive’ manner. And now, a ‘good that was intended us’ is clean gone forever! Very well—we must submit, with what grace we may.’ ‘My ’spected bredren,’ said a venerable colored clergyman, on a recent occasion, ‘blessed am dat man dat ’spects noth’n, ’cause he an’t gwine to be disapp’inted!’ We solace ourselves with this scrap of Ethiopian philosophy. ••• The experiments alluded to below, in the happiest vein of the amusing ‘Charcoal-Sketcher’ of Philadelphia, have been frequently tried in this city, we understand, but with very infrequent success. Pulling teeth while the patient is asleep is not ‘practised to a very great extent in this community;’ for no sooner is the glittering instrument of torture ‘placed in communication’ with the jaw, than it is found to ‘disturb the Mesmeric function’ to an extraordinary degree:

‘Many who would be valiant in battle, turn pale at sight of the dentist’s chair. To stand up to be shot at in a duel is unpleasant to the nerves, and to storm a breach requires a considerable modicum of determination; but to pull the dentist’s bell and not to run away; to walk boldly in and not to request a postponement, though it gains one no laurels and probably would not help to secure a political nomination on the score of heroism, is pure unadulterated valor; intrinsic—deriving no aid from association or example; nothing from the instinct of discipline or the thirst for glory. In encountering other dangers, there is a large hope, too, of impunity. An expectation of survival, a fond trust to be with the unhurt, always exists. But here, in that morocco throne, so grotesque, so mystical, so strange in all its aspects; your mouth wide open and your head thrown back—what hope can there be? To be hurt is an inevitable thing. We are in the clutches of a fate, and must realize our mortal frailty. To march to this with a whistle; neither to kick the smaller dogs on our route, nor to thrust little children aside spitefully; to take our usual interest in the occurrences of the street as we pass along to execution; to laugh, to jest, to talk of the weather with the identical man as he rattles his glittering instruments and smiles upon their brightness; to shake hands with him and to make a tolerable pretence of being glad to see him, is an effort, though we may have never encountered a war, equal to that which wears medals and puts pensions in its pocket. There is some comfort, however, to the afflicted in the fact that there have been of late symptoms of a combination of animal magnetism with dentistry, which affords a gleam of consolation. The exhibitors in New-York frequently have teeth extracted from mesmerised patients, to prove that in many cases they are insensible to pain—a thing which has been done very often in private in this city, and in many instances with complete success. What a cause for rejoicing would it be then, if the proper degree of ‘impressibility’ were general with those who have failing and recreant teeth, that the dentist and his magnetiser might be one and indivisible? Surgery in all its branches would be benefitted by the same connection; but this strange physical condition is not an invariable concomitant of the mesmeric state; so that valor, such as that to which we have already alluded, cannot go completely out of use, even if all could be subjected to the nervous influence of the magnetiser.’

‘Phazma,’ the cleverest of our western poets, who has written so many beautiful things for the New-Orleans ‘Picayune,’ presents us lately with the subjoined tender sonnet. He has ‘discharged’ it as well as if he had previously read the directions of our eastern ‘manufacturer of the article,’ in our last issue:

MATERNAL TENDERNESS

 
A mother bends above her weeping child,
Her bosom heaving with convulsive throe,
Her large eye lighted with expression wild,
That, ah! too plainly speaks maternal wo!
The tearful infant, lost in bitter grief,
Thrills forth its plaintive call for tender care;
While from a mother’s trembling hand relief,
Alas! can answer no imploring pray’r.
Swift-falling tears! and piercing cries of pain!
Maternal passion kindling into glow!
Peace banished from its sweet domestic reign!
Stricken with grief!—ah! sad and cruel blow!
Behold the matron in a fury blue,
Beating her screaming Bobby with a shoe!
 

Our esteemed friend, John Sanderson, the distinguished ‘American in Paris,’ whom the readers of this Magazine have known so long, and regarded so highly, is no more! Sad indeed is the task of recording the demise of a scholar so profound, a gentleman so accomplished, and a man so widely admired and beloved. Sanderson was a delightful companion; and as we record this hasty tribute to his memory, we cannot help recalling the many pleasant passages, personal and epistolary, that we have had together. A correspondent of the Philadelphia Gazette, who knew him well, furnishes the following notice of the deceased, in the justice of which all who knew him will cordially concur:

‘John Sanderson was a man of genius, a man of talent, a man of feeling. He was a Philadelphian, and by his life and writings he added to the good reputation of his country. To natural abilities of a high order, he added a calm, chaste scholarship, an intimate knowledge of mankind, a singularly amiable disposition, and a frank and high-bred courtesy. His departure is lamented not alone by those who enjoyed his society and his friendship; he is mourned by our republic of letters; America as well as our city, has lost one of her most accomplished sons. Mr. Sanderson has long been known as a writer. His first publication was the collection of Memoirs of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence, in nine octavo volumes; a work embracing a vast amount of original and authentic information; and his last, excepting contributions to the literary journals, was ‘The American in Paris.’ He was a man of most excellent humor, blending happily the characteristics of Rabalais and Sterne and Lamb. When with his chosen associates, we doubt whether even Coleridge was more entertaining or instructive. Turn to his Parisian letters and see the union of wit and humor, of playful satire and nice observation which pervade them. Examine all the pleasant books of travel of which this age has been so prolific, and answer whether they have been surpassed. ‘You know Sanderson,’ we said a few weeks since to a French Deputy who was travelling here. ‘Know John Sanderson? I derived from him my knowledge of Paris.’ ‘But you are a Parisian?’ ‘Je ne sache pas qu’il y ait eu un Français qui ait plus connu Paris et son monde.’ In that home of the gay, the brilliant and the profound, of all that in life or art attracts the man of genius, or learning, or taste, Mr. Sanderson was the favored guest of the most celebrated savans and wits, many of whom since his return to the United States, have waited anxiously for his restoration to their circles. And he himself looked forward with happy anticipations to the renewal of his old friendships. In a few months he was to reöccupy his apartments in the Rue Rivoli. ‘There,’ he said to the writer of these recollections but a week ago, ‘there with congenial spirits I shall spend the residue of my days.’ How much those friends will sorrow when they learn that John Sanderson is no more!

He was a wit; he had a most delicate perception of the beautiful, and a keen sense of the ludicrous. But those who knew him can tell with what care he directed his powers. He never summoned a shadow to any face, or permitted a weight to lie on any heart. He was as amiable as he was brilliant. He was no man of the world. He knew society, its selfishness and its want of honor, but he looked upon it less in anger than in sadness. He was no cynic, no Heraclitus; he deemed it wisest to laugh at the follies of mankind. Through all his experience he lost none of his natural urbanity, his freshness of feeling, his earnestness and sincerity. The late Theodore Hook, the first humorist and most celebrated bon-vivant of our day, was employed by his publisher to edit Mr. Sanderson’s ‘American in Paris.’ He read it, adapted it as well as he could to the English market, and returned it with the observation that ‘there was never a book which suffered more from slightest change.’ Had the author devoted the chief portion of his time to letters, he would have been little less distinguished in the same department than his famous friend. But he lived a quieter and happier life; he died a happier death, suddenly, but in a home, and with his friends about him.’

The following ‘Lines to a Bouquet of Flowers,’ are from the pen of the lamented Governor Dickinson, whose melancholy suicide will be fresh in the minds of many of our readers. We learn from the friend through whom we derive them, that they were handed to him by the author, while sojourning for a short time in Albany:

 
Emblem of life and loveliness,
Welcome, sweet harbingers of Spring!
Clad in thy beauteous summer dress,
And wafted on Time’s fairy wing.
 
 
Would thou wert fadeless as the sky,
All redolent of hope and gladness,
But soon, alas! thou’lt lonely lie,
Emblem of Death, of Grief, of Sadness.
 
 
Emblem of Life! thing of an hour,
How soon thou’lt hang thy sickly head,
And bow beneath the conqueror’s power,
And lie among the sleeping dead!
 
 
Emblem of Life! beyond the tomb,
Thy flowers again shall form a wreath;
Shall germinate amid the gloom.
And triumph o’er the monster Death!
 

D. S. D.

We have repeatedly in these pages ‘borne testimony’ in behalf of a more general cultivation of the fine arts, and especially in the department of architecture. We have had too much reason to concur with Jefferson in the opinion that ‘the genius of architecture never yet condescended to visit the American Republic.’ The Count Renault St. Jean D’A– was wont to say, while residing among us, that ‘more was to be learned by viewing Grace-Church in Broadway, touching the state of mental culture among us in the science of architecture, than by all the methods of reasoning which philosophy could furnish on any abstract point of knowledge;’ and yet we believe the plan of this edifice was the result of a confederation of intellectual powers! Moreover, as our old friend, the late Gen. Morton, was wont to say, we must bear in mind that beside the several recognized orders of architecture, we have also an order by the corporation! We may have more to say on this theme on another occasion. We have been led to these incidental remarks, by the recent death in this city of a man of rare genius, and unwearied effort in the promotion of a kindred branch of art—Thomas Horner, of England, the well-known draftsman and painter of the wonderful panorama of London, which constitutes the attraction of the great collosseum in that metropolis. The labor to affect this great work, the result of years of toil and severe exposure to the inclemencies of a noxious atmosphere, doubtless predisposed to that prolonged suffering which wasted his physical strength; while sad disappointments, and the precarious means of existence which he derived from his art in this country, may be justly regarded as concurring causes in hastening his final departure from among us. For a period of about fifteen years, he had devoted himself to the taking of sketches of numerous rural views and edifices in different parts of our northern states, and of the public buildings of our prominent cities. His delineation of the city of New-York is perhaps the most conspicuous of the efforts of his pencil. He died in this city on the morning of the 18th of March, aged about sixty years. It may be gratifying to his relatives and friends abroad to know, that there were not a few of our citizens who were ready at all times to aid him by their benefactions; and that in his illness he found in Dr. Francis, whose name is a synonyme for considerate kindness, a constant friend and faithful medical adviser. His funeral was attended by some of our first citizens, among whom it was gratifying to observe Mr. Fowler, the President of the St. George’s Society, and other well-known countrymen of the deceased. ••• Our correspondent, Mr. Thos. Copcutt, has opened the present number with an admirable paper, compiled from Carlyle, on the never-tiring theme of Napoleon. We always associate, and at once, with Napoleon’s name, the dreadful scenes presented by his deserted battle-fields; such for example as marked the sanguinary contests of his Russian campaign. Here is a sketch of one, from the pen of an eye-witness: ‘The battle-field presented a terrible picture of ruin and carnage, especially on the left and centre, where the greatest efforts had been made to take, maintain, and retake the redoubts. Corpses of the slain, broken arms, dead and dying horses, covered every elevation and filled every hollow, and plainly indicated the progress of the action. In the front of the redoubts lay the bodies of the French; behind the works, showing that they had been carried, lay the Russians. On many points the heaps of corpses told where squares of infantry had stood, and plainly pointed out the size of the closely formed masses. From the relative number of the slain, it was easy to perceive that the Russians had suffered more than the French.’ And this is but one of hundreds of similar scenes! Yet, ‘had these poor fellows any quarrel? Busy as the Devil is, not the smallest! Their Governors had fallen out!’ If one could indulge a ‘grim smile’ at any thing in relation to Bonaparte, it would be at the potential military standard to which he reduced every thing. Do you remember his order on the appearance of the Mamelukes in Egypt? Form square; artillery to the angles; asses and savans to the centre!’ Characteristic; but complimentary that, to the ‘learned savans!’ ••• We have bestowed but little of our tediousness upon the reader in this department of the present number, whereat he may felicitate himself, since our excellent correspondence will be found a welcome substitute for much that we had written, and which ‘lies over’ until our next. The Quod Correspondence will arrest the attention of every reader. No two chapters of the entire series excel the present in power of delineation, or depth of interest. For ‘Babyhood,’ addressed to ‘Julian;’ ‘Excelsior,’ a parody upon Longfellow; ‘Punchiana, with clippings,’ and various Gossip with Correspondents, whose favors were intended for the present number, we must refer all concerned to our next issue. ••• We have received the following works; and to such as we have found leisure to read, we shall here briefly advert: From the Brothers Harper, the first two numbers of a ‘pocket edition’ of select (and old?) novels, containing ‘The Yemassee,’ by Mr. Simms, and ‘Young Kate, or the Rescue:’ of the ‘Library of Select Novels,’ three issues—‘The Heretic,’ from the Russian; ‘The Jew,’ and ‘The Grumbler,’ by Miss Pickering: From Lea and Blanchard, Hugo’s ‘Hunchback of Notre-Dame:’ From J. S. Redfield, Clinton Hall, ‘Napier’s History of the War in the Peninsula and the South of France:’ From Leavitt, Trow and Company, ‘Poems by William James Colgan:’ From John Allen, 139 Nassau-street, ‘The Lady at Home, or Leaves from the Every-day Book of an American Woman:’ and from Little and Brown, Boston, Lives of Patrick Henry and La Salle, commencing the second series of Sparks’s ‘American Biography.’ Miss Pickering’s ‘Grumbler’ is one of the best and most interesting novels we have read for many a day; ‘The Hunchback’ of Hugo is too well known to our readers to require mention; and the same may be said of Napier’s excellent history. ‘The Lady at Home’ will commend itself to all readers, for its truly admirable lessons to American women. Colgan’s poems deserve more space than we can devote to them. The writer has the true poetical feeling, and his execution is often very felicitous, and always creditable. ••• The ‘Nile Story’ of our Boston correspondent; a notice of the Phreno-Mnemotechny of Professor Gouraud; of the Re-publication of English Magazines and Reviews; of New Music, and other late publications; are all unavoidably postponed, for reasons already stated, until our next number.