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are the result of a want of physical exercise. Why do n't students think more of this undeniable fact, and ' act accordingly?' For our own poor part, (and, by the blessing of Heaven, we know not what ill-health is,) we know that exercise is indispensable to one engaged in a sedentary pursuit. We walk the distance of seven miles every day, 'rain or shine,' Sundays excepted; and if at all disinclined to do so, we consider that as the very reason why we should not omit to do it. Mens sana in corpore sano' should be the motto of every student. The tasks are too hard, we are well aware, in many American colleges; but so much the more reason that their effect should be counteracted, no matter at what cost of time, by healthful physical exercise. Try it, boys, you who read us in the numerous collegiate institutions of this republic, and then tell us whether these things indeed be so.' They' be,' any how, and no mistake.' Nor the least of the enjoyments of a semiresidence in the country, during the oppressive heats of Summer, is the pleasure of going and returning on the steamers which at all hours vex the majestic Hudson with their foaming wheels. Many a pleasant chat have we had, during the fervid season now passing away, with our friend Captain MAYBIE ('may-be' he is n't a true man!) of the ERIE,' and not a few with Captain JOHNSON, of the THOMAS POWELL, who seems as 'dry as a remainder-biscuit,' but who still knows what's o'clock' as well as the best of his compeers. His 'hits' are from the shoulder,' and 'tell' at once. For example: What do you think of our stock?' said a rather pompous director in a new rail-road company to him the other morning. Think of it?' said the captain; why, it's a laughing-stock! I would n't give three cents for six thousand shares of it!' We kind o' laäfed' at the remark, but the director did n't; and not caring especially to witness his mortification, we went forward.' Coming down the next morning on the 'ERIE,' Captain MAYBIE, in an interval of nothing to do,' related an occurrence which we are not going to be so selfish as to keep to ourselves. 'When I was a boy,' said he, 'up in C'lumbia county, I remember one winter we lost a good many sheep. We could n't tell where they went to, but they went. Finally, we suspected a big house-dog, belonging to a neighbor, as being the real culprit; but his owner, who stuttered painfully, repelled the idea with some difficulty, but with decided fervor. 'That d-o-og,' said he, ne-e-ver to-o-uch-ed a sh-sh-eep o' y-o-ou'rn in his l-l-i-fe— n-e-ever !' But suspicion was soon so strongly fixed upon the four-footed poacher that he was arrested, and brought before his master, who was however as incredulous as ever touching his delinquency. But the sufferers by his depredations were bent on action.' Tie him up by the heels,' said one, and if he's guilty he 'll soon disgorge his last night's plunder!' 'Ve-e-ery wà-wa-ell,' stammered his master, 'd-o it as s-s-oon as you l-l-i-ke; I'll r-r-isk him!' So 'BOSE' was suspended, as was suggested, and at first without effect. 'I t-t-old you s-o,' said his master; 'he's had n-n-o fresh m-m-m-utton.' But while his owner was yet speaking, the unfortunate animal began to exhibit some internal uneasiness, and presently there was palpable evidence, in the discharge from his mouth of certain woolly' secretions,' that he was a guilty dog. The old man looked on a moment longer, with a very blank expression, and then exclaimed, with a NAPOLEONIC terseness, 'Ch-ch-ch-ange ends, b-o-o-ys, d―n him! ch-ch-ch-ange ends!' and the wretched culprit' was then and there, between the hours of eight and nine o'clock A. M. suspended by the neck until he was dead-dead!' .. WHOSE bad taste was it that suggested the insertion of a text of Scripture, in a printed card, in front of the pews of a certain church in Rochester, suggestive of Keep your feet off the

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top of your neighbor's pew during service? Who deliberately wrote this, had it printed, read the proof, and employed a man to nail it on the back of each pew:

'I will make the place of my feet glorious.' — ISAIAH, 60: 13.

'WILL the brethren please make this Scripture applicable to themselves; and especially refrain from getting their feet against the upper board of the pew in front of them?'

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Good gracious! do they sit in the Rochester churches with their feet on the upper boards of the pews in front of them? In this position we should think an occasional cigar among the worshippers would not be out of 'keeping.' 'WE saw,' wrote lately the editor of ‘The Sun' daily journal from the 'Ocean House' at Shrewsbury, we saw KNICKERBOCKER CLARK there, devouring roast beef and fresh vegetables at no small rate. The report was, that being a little afraid of the cholera, and in delicate health, he breakfasted that morning on three mutton-chops, three cups of green tea, plates of toast, and four boiled eggs! We saw him some time afterward in the surf, floundering like a turtle; and fancied him, with his hair full of sand, repeating again SHELLEY'S Lines written in Dejection at Naples.' Fact: we were down there, with the appetite of Sir GILES OVERREACH'S gourmand, and the digestive powers of an ostrich; but the amount of provant devoured by us is we think over-stated. Such a surf as 'ruled' on that occasion has not been seen for years in a still day on the Jersey coast. 'Ho! how the breakers roared!' Yet the ocean was smooth to the very outer line of the foam. There had been a great storm at sea, doubtless, and we were having the reflex of its waves, mountain-high.' Walking along the shore, with the hollow sound of the 'trampling surf' in our ears, we did think of, and repeat, the beautiful poem of SHELLEY, above referred to; and when we came to the lines

'I COULD lie down like a tired child,

And weep away this life of care,
Which I have borne and still must bear,
Till death like sleep should steal on me;
And I could feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea

Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony,'

our respected contemporary bowed down his face and wept, but presently lifted up his head and departed thence, being minded to go a-fishing: and he went that same hour. . . WE rather gather, through a passage quoted from a letter of THOMAS CAMPBELL, in the new 'Life' of that great poet by his life-long friend and physician, Dr. BEATTIE, that a residence in the house of a Scottish lord is not the most pleasant thing in the world to an independent, sensitive spirit; although it strikes us that the poet evinces the possession of a little of the very hauteur which he himself condemns in his host's guests:

'A LORD's house, fashionable strangers, sofa'd saloons, and winding galleries, where I can hardly discover my own apartment, make me as wretched as my nature can be. Every one it is true. is civil to me; the very servants are assiduous in putting me right when I lose my way in the galleries; but, degraded as I am to a state of second childhood in this new world, it would be insulting my fallen dignity to smile hysterically and pretend to be happy. Lord MINTO'S Company is uniformly agreeable; his conversation, when you get him by himself (though he affects neither wit nor learning), is replete with sincere enthusiasm and original information. But still this is a lord's house-although his. His time is so much employed with strangers-fashionable proud folks who have a slang of conversation among themselves, as unintelligible to plain, sober beings as the cant of the gipsies, and probably not so amusing if one did understand it.' It has astonished me to see what a cold repulsive atmosphere

that little thing called quality can spread around itself, and make us believe that it exists at least as a negative quality -like that of cold. But like all other little passions, this hauteur is cow. ardly a little indifference on the side of the vulgar makes those minions of fashion open their eyes, half sbut with affectation of pur-blindness.'

CAMPBELL should have felt and demeaned himself as an equal, alike with his host and his guests. You ask now, 'Who was Lord MINTO?' and who answers?

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ask 'Who was THOMAS CAMPBELL?' and the round world makes reply! 'will ah-not ah-Do it!' young gentleman JUVENIS' of Harrisburgh. If your piece had not received the careful revision which you could wish,' why did you send it? We had not asked for it; we were not waiting for it; not by considerable! Look at the true poet, a man like the author of The Pleasures of Hope,' for example; what he did with his eye set on immortality, was first thrown out with vehement throes, half pain, half rapture, and then polished with anxious and timid toil; but 'JUVENIS' can't spare time for careful revision' of a piece which evidently might have been good enough, with due care, to have repaid the trouble. Whip us such half-made-up literary aspirers! KITTY, bring.us up a pitcher of iced Croton: we are excited!' A FRIEND in whose judgment, in this instance, we should be well pleased to confide, takes us to task for opening our last Gossip' with an apology for a number that has seldom been excelled in interest.' Very well, then we'll 'change the tack' in regard to the present issue, and say: 'Reader, if you want a better number than this made in the oppressive month of August, going and coming to and from town and country, make it yourself!' How 'll that do? A WRITER in the London Quarterly Review,' after remarking upon the generally indifferent character of BYRON's juvenile productions, adds: There are, however, prose letters of BYRON'S, from his sixth year onward to his entrance at college, which, if ever they should be published, would claim a very different place among the examples of precocity. We never saw any thing to equal the contrast between the childish feebleness of the hand-writing (within pencilled lines,) and the flow and pith of the language, in which thoughts and sentiments, often generous, sometimes fierce and scornful, but all unmistakably BYRONIC, are set down in some of the very earliest of these epistles.' Apropos : See the advertisement, in the present number, of Byron's Unpublished Letters, by his Son, Major Byron. THESE are quaint thoughts from an old English collection, 'The Rural Friends,' printed in 1632. They were copied by an esteemed friend in the British Museum some twenty years or more ago:

'BUT why

Doe the winged minutes flie
So fast away?

Stop your course, yee hastie howers,

And solicite all the powers

To let you stay:

For the earth could ne'er shew forth

An object of a greater worth.

OUR friend Professor LONGFELLOW once mentioned to us the very expressive remark of a Frenchman, in his hearing, who had just received certain melancholy intelligence. On being asked what had affected his spirits, he said: 'I am ver' moche

dissatisfied: I just hear that my father he die!' Not unlike the Chinaman's remark to Mr. TIFFANY, whose work is elsewhere noticed. When asked why he was dressed in white, the color of Chinese mourning, he replied: My son have die; tomorrow I be very angry inside;' meaning that he should be greatly grieved on the day of the funeral. . . A GIFTED lady correspondent, from whom, whether abroad, or at home in Gotham, it is always an equal pleasure to hear, writes us as follows from the Literary Emporium: Your counterfeit presentment' (how I hailed it!) met me in Boston, in the ancient dwelling-house of that great and good JOHN HANCOCK, where I had been receiving for some weeks the hospitality of its present occupants. From this house was driven the fair and noble-looking lady whose portrait hangs in the drawing-room below, that the PERCY, who

man,

'Fought for King GEORGE at Lexington,

A major of dragoons,'

might here establish his quarters. As I sat there, in what was formerly the state chamber, conjuring up thoughts of that past time, I could almost fancy that I heard the measured tread of the red-coated sentinel in the grand old entrance-hall below, and saw the glancing bayonets in the remains of the British entrenchments. on the Common, nearly opposite the house. And oh, LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY! how could you, with an English woman's heart in your breast, as you ought to have, write all that nonsense in the KNICKERBOCKER about England and America being 'yoked' together by love, as if such a state of affairs were possible; and as if — granting that the old hatred may at some distant period of time be overcome — as if America, whose motto is' Go ahead!' would ever submit to be 'yoked' to any nation under the sun! And oh, LADY EMMELINE! when you go home and write a book about us, be careful how you speak about things; for travellers are sometimes misled by want of proper knowledge of things as well as people. Had DICKENS known the appearance of that wild plant, the burdock, he would never have told his English readers that the sacristan of King's Chapel, in the Tri-mountain City, cultivated cabbages in a corner of the ancient burial-ground!' By-the-by, before I close, let me record my admiration of your new contributor's (Mr. BEDLOW's) poem with the unpronounceable name, in your last number. It is picture-writing as well as poetry.' . . . LAMENTED WILSON! We can scarcely think of the departure of this sweet minstrel of Scottish song without a pang. It seems but yesterday, that with cherished friends he assisted to surround the 'family mahogany,' and made us all happy with his bon hommie, his good sense, his agreeable manners, and his exquisite music. But he has gone to the abodes of the blessed; for the singers, as well as they that play upon stringéd instruments, shall be there.' He has left a name behind him which shall live in the recollection of all who love the 'concord of sweet sounds,' and a void in the hearts of his friends which can seldom if ever be filled. We perceive in a popular London journal a very graphic description, from his own pen, of a visit which our departed friend paid, in company with his gifted daughters, to the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky. What would we not have given to have been present, when his melodious voice, attuned to even more than its wonted sweetness in the soft bland atmosphere of the vast aisles and vaulted domes of the Cave,' breathed out those touching airs which he had made his own in two hemispheres! Mr. WILSON kept, both in Great-Britain and in this country, a daily journal, which he continued up to the last day but one before his death. We have had the pleasure to examine portions of it, and hope hereafter to be able to make our readers acquainted with at least

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FATHER MATHEW, we are glad to see,

a selection from its attractive records. is laboring nobly in the Eastern States; where, strange to say, in contradiction of what is the popular belief, he finds abundant matériel upon which to operate. May his labors be abundantly blessed! We commend to his attention the annexed capital temperance-toast:

THE TEMPERANCE ARMY: The only army ever known where each volunteer is a regular, and every private an orderly: May it soon become an army of occupation' throughout the world.'

'Drank in cold water, and standing;' which is more than can be said of all toasts drank at public dinners. Habitual drunkenness is a sad, sad evil; but are there not other intoxications equally to be avoided? Read this little anecdote of an Arabian merchant, who, having hired a waterman's boat, refused to pay the freightage. The waterman, in a violent passion, appealed several times to the government of Muscat for justice. The governor as often ordered him to come again; but observing him one day present his petition with coolness, he immediately granted his suit. The waterman, surprised at this conduct, demanded a reason why he did not sooner grant his request. 'Because,' said the judge, 'you were always drunk when I saw you.' But the waterman declaring he had not been overtaken with wine for many years, the judge replied: The drunkenness with which you were overtaken is the most dangerous of all: it is the drunkenness of anger! There are many kinds of intemperance, not included in Father MATHEWS' pledge, which are hardly less prejudicial to society and to individuals than the sin of drunkenness. THE measure of C. B.'s

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'Lines' is 'irregular,' like the legal proceedings which they record; reminding us not a little of the kindred lines on a murder-case at Buffalo, by a distinguished western bard:

First ISRAEL with his gun he shot him,
Then ISAAC with his axe he chopt him,

• Tel there was n't any life left into him, as they could perceive!'

We always hail with gratification the establishment, in different sections of our country, of Ornamental Rural Cemeteries. We have before us the plan in detail, and the elevation of a lodge and garden, of one for Richmond, Virginia, which can scarcely fail to do honor to the public spirit and good taste of that beautiful city. 'The Rockland Cemetery,' upon the noble wooded heights above Piermont, at the commencement of the New-York and Erie Rail-Road, offers superior advantages and beauties as a place of sepulture. The grounds are elevated, dry, and beaut fully laid out; the appropriate edifices and entrances are of a tasteful architecture; the grounds are accessible at all times in little more than an hour from the metropolis; the price of plats is reasonable; and the cemetery has this crowning and preeminent advantage over many other kindred burial-grounds; it cannot but remain forever a permanent place of sepulture. A trip to it, of a pleasant autumnal day, will reveal to the visitor a succession of the finest and most varied views, riverward and inland, to be found on the Hudson. 'The Passage,' from the German of UHLAND, sent us by G. F. M.,' is the translation of our friend Professor LONGFELLOW, and has already appeared in these pages. It is the most felicitous version we have ever seen of that beautiful poem. We venture to copy from our correspondent's letter the following amusing passage, suggested to the writer by some of our gossipry touching New-England ministers of the olden time:

'Dr. EMMONS, of Franklin, (Mass.) with whose reputation you are no doubt familiar, 'ruled his flock' in all things, spiritual and temporal, and seldom failed to enforce ob dience. He was