In old Destruction's work, and fain would
sink

Within myself, no more to make response
To winds, or thunders, or the voice of Death,
But weep into a silence and a dream,
Listening the hush of mine eternity.'

To come down into the more familiar world of everyday life, we have, in a budget of pleasing matters from a fair contributor (one of a partnership of contributors) at Mabbottsville:

THE THREE MAXIMS.

A maxim for a Louis d'or

A sonnet for Dollar!

1. Keep aye the road that looks before:
2. Never o'er stangers' business pore:
3. Postpone, if longer you're in store:

Is not each worth a Louis d'ore,

Brave Talker of The Dollar? ELIHU. Like the pure ore which lies in the mint and which we know will not rust, we have laid away our other treasure from the same liberal hands, against our hour of need.

| seller politely presented us with Kugler's
"Handbook of Painting." We shook our head
and demanded a volume more intimately con-
cerned with life and the world.
We were
offered "Kosmos." "Something less univer-
sal," said we, "befits the London traveller."
"Prescott's Mexico,"
We were answered by
"Modern Travel," and " Murray's Handbook
of France." We could not get rubbish, what-
ever price we might offer to pay for it. There
were no Eugene Sues" for love or money, no
cheap translations of any kind, no bribes to
ignorance or unholy temptations to folly.
You'll soon be in the Gazette," we said com-
miseratingly to the bookseller. The bookseller
smiled. "You never sell those things," we
added mildly. "Constantly! we can sell
nothing else." "What! have you nothing for
the million ?" "Certainly. Here is Logic for
the Million,' price 6s.; will you buy it?"
"Thank you; but surely books of a more
chatty character
"Chatty; oh, yes!

Coleridge's Table Talk' is a standard dish here, and never wants purchasers."

APPLETON & Co. have issued various works of fiction in attractive binding in book form, so that they may be worthy of the library shelf: as in quality and excellence they are. They also continue the "Mechanics' Magazine," and other valuable scientific publications.

BARNES & Co. present a new volume

GOULD & LINCOLN publish a volume of "Lectures" by W. R. WILLIAMS, who is known as one of the ablest moral and theological writers of the country. The work stands in no need of praise-for the reputation of Dr. Williams is solid and general. They also issue another sterling work, Hopkins's " Guiding Star."

HARPER & BROTHERS pour out a full stream of novels, histories, serials, including two of particular merit, Mayhews' " London Labor and London Poor," and Lossing's "Pictorial Field-Book of the Revolution."

The London Times occasionally in the summer months waxes sportive,-always, however, mingling instruction with entertainment, as in a late article entitled "The Literature of the Rail." The writer, desirous of ascertaining the kind of literature sold at the various railway stations in London, visited them all, and, with few exceptions, found the bookshelves encumbered with " unmitigated rubbish." of the Colton series. Here and there crouched some old friends, who looked very strange indeed in the midst of such questionable society-like well-dressed gentlemen compelled to take part in the general doings of the Rag-fair. In one corner was a small thin volume, always to be gratefully remembered on account of an incident which is likely enough to lead to a thorough reformation of the cruel abuses to which we refer. The little volume was "The Narrative of the Insurrection of 1845, by Lord Mahon." It caught our eye, as it had already fortunately arrested the attention, at more than one railway station, of Mr. Macaulay, the historian. The sight of it suggested to that brilliant writer the idea and title of a "Travellers' Library," and at his instigation-for which we here tender him our thanks-Messrs. Longman commenced the cheap and popular series known by this name, and adorned by Mr. Macaulay's own charming productions. As we progressed north, a wholesome change, we rejoice to say, became visible in railway bookstalls. We had trudged in vain after the schoolmaster elsewhere, but we caught him by the button at Euston Square; and it is with the object of inducing him to be less partial in his walks that we now venture thus publicly to appeal to him. At the NorthWestern terminus we diligently searched for that which required but little looking after in other places, but we poked in vain for the trash. If it had ever been there, the broom had been before us and swept it clean away. We asked for something "highly colored." The book

NEAFIE, CORNISH & Co., in their Lives of the Musicians, by Mrs. E. F. Elett, furnish one of the best published books of the season; elegantly printed, bound, and illustrated ; the matter attractive, like all the productions of the pen of its popular author.

REDFIELD maintains his position by the publication of the Second Series of " Episodes of Insect Life," in the same high style of finish and excellence as the first, which is as much as could be said in behalf of any book.

There were two or three errors in printing the beautiful poem in our last number, addressed to " Mrs. M. B. E." The principal was the substitution of "frosts" of death for "forests;" one an emblem of life, and the other of death. Our rather "frosty" introduction scarcely did justice to the glow of genius which evidently inspired them, and which should have melted all attempt at criticism out of us. If the writer bear any resemblance in excellence and beauty to her own composition, she must indeed be

one of those angels who are supposed to visit the earth at long intervals. We hope, however, that unlike such spirits she will live long to delight us with her fair handiwork of verse, at least.

by the mute gestures with which he ever and anon illustrated his mental dreamings. All at once-it must have been towards the climax of the prose or verse which he was working up in his mind-Mr. MACAULAY seized a massive deThe New York correspondents to the canter, held it a moment suspended in the air, country newspapers would make a curious regi- and then dashed it down upon the table with ment, we are quite confident, if they were drawn such hearty good will that the solid crystal flew up in a line. We should see all sorts of heads about in fragments, while the numerous parties and fronts and no doubt some strange "mask- dining round instinctively started up and stared ing." Among the spiciest of the class is one at the curious iconoclast. Not a whit put about, David Copperfield (so signed), who "furnishes" however, Mr. Macaulay, who was well known for the Buffalo Republic. In a late letter he to the waiters, called loudly for his bill to be whales "The Wizard" (Prof. Anderson) with so made out at the bar, and pulling, with a couple cudgel-like a quill, that we meant to have pre-of jerks, his hat and his umbrella from the stand, sented the passage to our readers as a specimen of energetic comment. Fortunately for the Professor (although he, too, would, no doubt, have been greatly amused) the paper has been carried off in the great basket, the way of all newspapers, and we fear the Wizard himself, with all his powers of conjuration, could not bring it back again.

clapped the one carelessly on his head, and strode out flourishing the other."

Now for another tilt of the spice-box by an American hand: one "Viridicus," a clever and trenchant contributor to the Philadelphia Sunday Mercury, who has just opened in that paper a series of "Cool Critiques on

'I

Home-made Books and Home-bred Bookmakers." No. I., according to the caption of his chapter, is devoted to "The writer, at the confessional, acknowledges the humbuggery of criticism, and the Munchausenism of critics." He strikes against certain (as he alleges) unpraised publications, in behalf of the meritorious periodicals of our country, which are, he asserts, "seldom mentioned, or if noticed at all, the greeting is marked by chilling brevity, and the praise is of that kind which Junius says will wear well,' being well earned and sparingly bestowed. The same perversity is observed in criticisms of a higher order. Our best authors and their works are seldom commended with anything like cordiality, but every vile scribbler has compliments showered upon him, with a profusion like the scattering of sugarplums at a Roman carnival. I once heard a critic of some mark give a reason for this apparent inconsistency, and a very execrable reason it was. am ready,' said he, to bestow any amount of praise on a good-for-nothing writer, because I know he can never come in competition with myself; but save me from the folly of recommending an able author, and helping to build up a rivalship that I may have every reason to dread.' The effect of this detestable policy is, that scarcely any author occupies his true position before the American public. The greater number of our writers are elevated above their proper level, and a very few, perhaps, are underrated. To correct this abuse, in a measure, is the object of these off-hand criticisms, for which the writer claims no credit on the score of superior judgment or a more refined taste. Any man who has dabbled in the literature of the day could make such revelations as I have designed, but perhaps not every one would be willing to incur the responsibility of uttering facts which will not He be any less offensive because they are true."

We need just here, in our "Talk," the seasoning of a literary anecdote. Where is a richer to be found than this graphic account of a celebrated writer? If these statements be true, we should not be surprised to hear of the great English historian in a strait jacket before long:-"There is a common pedestrian of London streets, well known to all who are acquainted with their notabilities. He is a short, stout, sturdy, energetic man. He has a big round face, and large, staring, and very bright hazel eyes. His hair is cut short, and his hat flung back on the crown of his head. His gait is firm and decided, with a little touch of pomposity. He is ever provided with an umbrella, which he swings and flourishes, and batters on the pavement with mighty thumps. He seems generally absorbed in exciting and impulsive thought, the traces of which he takes no pains to conceal. His face works, his lips move and mutter, his eyes gleam and flash. Squat as is his figure, and not particularly fine the features, there is an unmistakable air of mental power and energy, approaching to grandeur, about the man. He is evidently under the influence of the strong excitement of fiery thought. People gaze curiously at him, and stop to stare when he has passed. But he heeds to no one-seems, indeed, to have utterly forgotten that he is not alone in his privacy, and pushes on, unwitting of the many who stare and smile, or of the few who step respectfully aside, and look with curiosity and regard upon Thomas Babington Macaulay. Occasionally, however, the historian and the poet gives still freer vent to the mental impulses which appear to be continually working within him. A friend of mine lately recognized him dining in the coffee-room of the Trafalgar Hotel at Greenwich-a fashionable whitebait-house, which, it appears, he frequently patronizes. was alone, as he generally is, and the attention of more than one of the company was attracted by his peculiar muttering and fidgettiness, and

Among the men of enterprize of" our town" are to be ranked Messrs. DEWITT & DAVENPORT, who are constantly sending works

Among the publications which have of late stirred the waters, has been a pamphlet on Milk," by Dr. A. K. GARDNER, as chairman of a committee of the Academy of Medicine on that topic, which, developing skillfully all the processes of the subject, has awakened special attention in the press and throughout the country. Dr. GARDNER is among the foremost of the younger members of the faculty in New York, and has an ambition, not uncommon in the New York profession of medicine, to be of service in his day and generation.

of entertainment into the world with light-jackets, | pable man, and from the gusto with which he to circulate by thousands all over the land. dwells on the im-peach-ment of the crop of the They have just issued "Reveries of an Old season, we strongly suspect under Yorkel's Maid," and announce Mr. GREELEY'S letters head, the face of an all-alert and quick-footed from Europe; also a new work (with an extra- assistant District Attorney of the Criminal Courts ordinary title) by Mr. FOSTER. of this county. One sometimes makes a HALL unexpectedly, even from the Commercial surface of the Bulletin: I was amused this morning while going from the Park to the Post-office, through Nassau street, in watching the rank and file of pedestrians who came up eating peaches. Like your Post-office, ours has become a fruit market, although on a larger scale than the Creole patronizers of your city would dream of. The early walker of a morning to the Post-office will find some amusement in watching their fragrant and perishable stock. There are fifteen stalls beginning in Cedar street, and environing the Nassau street side of the building in Liberty street. Each stall will commence of a morning with four bushel baskets full. All day long the busy crowd swarm around them, and the stall-men and stall-women have not a moment to spare between rubbing the down from the fruit, piling it into pyramids, and exchanging coppers and silver. Some buy under the temptation of the smell; some under that of the sight; some are desirous of change. Thus on an average (as I have found very few baskets remaining over at night), fifty bushels of peaches are eaten in the street from these Post-office stalls. Say about seven thousand five hundred peaches-taking an average; allowing three to each person, nearly three thousand people eat peaches from the Post-office stalls in one day. What then is to be said of the peach traffic all over the city? Where is FELIX HOUSTON and his orchards landed by such a calculation? Think of the peaches and milk at breakfast and tea! of the peach pies, peach puddings, and peach fritters! of the peach marmalades and brandy peaches! All in a city of half a million of stomachs. Who shall call Gothamites a scurvy set, if Dr. STONE be correct in his advice. Why " Hans" is enthusiastic, you say. Hans must have been drinking "peach" brandy. Or been retained by the peach growers? Or perhaps he is a lover of the fruit beyond all measure? I confess and plead guilty to the latter soft im-peach-ment. I do like them beyond all measures. you speak of the quantity of the peach, I think me of the mint-julep amateur who made his loved drink in fire buckets and sucked it through a hose. But alas! peaches are somewhat more costly this year than usual. Bushels reach from $1 25 to $2 50, which last year were tallied at half those prices. Nevertheless, ten cents' worth will furnish a dessert for a family of of six (including the small boy, who always eats what is left). Peaches are not so large this year as usual. There was too much dry weather in July. Nor was Pomona in 1851 so lavish of her guardianship in any vine yard or garden."

That keen, handy, well-printed, and admirably edited quarto, the Boston Transcript, makes a proposition in regard to the protection of authors, which would, if the pride of authorship would but allow it, bother "the enemy" not a little. This is the modus operandi: "In alluding to the subject of an international copyright, we have, several times, suggested a plan by which English authors could secure the copyright of an original work in this country without any alteration of the present law. The plan was simply to employ an American author to write a page or two of the work, without specifying the particular passages from his pen, but stating the fact in general terms in the preface. The American would thus be authorized to copyright the entire work in the United States. To make our meaning more plain : let Mr. Dickens or Mr. Thackeray request Washington Irving or some other American to append a few original sentences to some chapter in the work of either, and this being done, the profit of a copyright in the United States could be made to enure to them without any difficulty. We see from an announcement in an English paper, that a London publisher is about to test this plan in a new work by Lamartine- The History of the Restoration.' Certain essential passages will be written in the English language. Priority of publication will take place in England, so that the circulation of any other English version, professing to re-translate from the French edition the facts and opinions substantially comprised in the interpolated passages may be at once restrained. Undoubtedly the restraint will be sufficient; and there is nothing to prevent the adoption of a similar process to prevent the pirating of English and French works in the United States. The author could always reserve to himself the privilege of marking the interpolated passages at some future time; so that he need not be troubled with the idea of adopting the language or sentiments of another without specific credit."

That HANS YORKEL correspondent of the New Orleans Commercial Bulletin, is a ca

In the words of a familiarly sounding aphorism, a man is made according as a certain word is spelled!

I am very clear that as the world rotates now-a-days (saying nothing of Monsieur Foucault's new demonstration), manors "make the man" whether in the general appreciation of the world manners make the man," I am prepared to dispute with an excellently authenticated instance; one taken from my own note book of reminiscence.

66

But before coming to that I submit to the reader whether he has not seen a man with the most perfect manners not a man: that is to say, a gentleman; for this is what the aphorist meant by the term man--the gentle' being added since

Adam delved and Eve span."

I remember my friend Tom Larkspur (the most noted and most agreeable about-towner in Gotham) was once a passenger in the splendid packet ship Independence, when Captain Nye was not so nigh the immortality of a seaman's fame as he now is through his Pacific idol. The ship was crowded with passengers, and nearly every one on the first morning out sick in their state rooms; "Tom" was, however, astir, and not at all bilious or choleric. It was about half an hour after sunrise of the morning of a summer's day, and habited in white trowsers and a short white jacket, Tom stood examining a beautiful bit of moulding in the cabin, with his back to stateroom No. 10.

TWO SIDES то

"Steward," cried No. 10.

The steward was yet asleep, dreaming out a capital recipe for making the mutton chops of six old wethers supply thirty passengers during a probable long passage.

66

Steward," repeated No. 10, to the supposed officer in the figure of Tom.

The latter was getting very deep into the mysteries of ornamental architecture, when a boot hit him in the back, and caused him to turn suddenly around..

"Scoundrel," was the word which rose to Tom's lips: but when he saw the comical figure of a Jerseyman, with red whiskers, and a blue night-cap at the stateroom, window, his wrath was supplanted by mirth, and his anger by a hearty guffaw.

"This is infamous," cried No. 10: "to be but to be despised and scoffed is abominneglected by one's own steward was enough,

able."

10 with his politest bow. "My poor invalid, Tom approached the irate inmate of No.

you are mistaken."

valid? How do you dare to know I'm an "Invalid! How do you know I'm an in

invalid?"

be, for a more mealy-hearted man I never Well, if you ain't steward you ought to saw let's me hit him with a boot and returns me never a curse, but a laugh;" and so saying No. 10 retired to the solitude of his misery.

Now stateroom No. 10 had been going on dreadfully all night; he had been rolled, and jumbled, and tossed, and hustled by old Now there's no gentleman of better standNeptune, until his bones creaked in unisoning than Tom; but what availed his manwith the timbers below and the cordage ners, his polite bow and suavity of deportabove; therefore by daylight he was in a beautiful humor. His head was empty, his ment under the seeming dress of a steward. But to my own reminiscence. stomach emptier, and his bottle of soda water was emptiest. In want of more soda water was No. 10; and so putting his nightcapped head out of the little window by the door, and nearly severing his jugular vein against its sharp corner, he espied Tom, and with that readiness of logic peculiar to landsmen at sea, he concluded Tom was a steward

at least.

chelor loafer at a country watering place of Some four years ago (when I was a basome repute, and an inmate of a private boarding house), I was owner of a little skiff, with which I paddled about a fairy lake hard by, in an earnest "communication with nature," discovering her "varied forms." One morning I was returning from my water ramblings, habited as usual in the oldest.

Not so bad as 'twould seem; or, two Sides to a Character.