thanksgiving. An abomination is committed, and — so wonderful are the means of apprehension; so sure and so astounding in their operation and guilt has but a few gasps of fancied freedom, and lo! guilt is captive. Considering the certainty, the fate that travels the wires, we take hope that from the self-conviction of discovery, from the disheartening belief that there is no escape, no evasion from the consequence of crime, the miserable wretch tempted to evil will turn in his mind the many odds, and refrain upon the lowest principle-that of calculation. This is something. The murderer in mind who would not be stayed in his guilt by the thought of after-lightning — may pause, awed by the thought of lightning ready- the unerring telegraph.

'And, in the present hour, there is another cause of mournful pride to the English nation. It was a solemn business, a stern and awful work begun, when the FIRE QUEEN, with her black flag of smoke, stood out from Portsmouth; bound to cross the Atlantic if need were, to stay and overhaul the VICTORIA, freighted with the curse of Murder. There is a fine, stern lesson in this; a noble sermon, preached extempore to embryo crime. Justice at the Home Office makes the wires speak, saying to a certain Admiral: 'Send a fast sailing ship to sea, that retribution may be done upon bloodshedders.' There is something solemn, awful, in the warning uttered in this. It says to crime: 'Though the sea encompass you; though you have balked pursuit, and Justice, like a hound at fault, beats and gropes confounded; though you have begun to count the profits of blood, and how to make the most of them; how, in your new country, to live a life of impunity and ease, nevertheless, give up the dream; dismiss the vision, and awake to horrid truth! For there, in the horizon miles away, is a thin dark vapor; the man at the mast has seen and reported it; and, with every ten minutes, it becomes more distinct; and now the distant gun is heard across the water, booming command; and the ship's yards swing round; she lays to ; and -how rapid the ceremony, how brief the time! and Murder, aghast and mana

cled, is made again to turn its face toward the land it has outraged with the sacrifice of blood.' It is the gift of true genius to draw a picture with the force and clearness of this; 'leastways,' that is, our opinion.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.-On the evening of the Fourth of July we jotted down the following pencil-passage in our note-book, and never happened to think of it again till this blessed moment, when we chanced to meet it in the receptacle aforesaid: 'Came to-day, with wife and weans,' to Piermont. As we left the metropolis, every thing seemed to partake of the general joy. Little boys were even thus early popping their pistols in the ears and under the noses of citizens hastening to the steamers; flags were flying from the forests of shipping and all the heights on the shores; and as we passed up the river, schools of porpoises, in long Indian-file, were rolling lazily over in the brine, a regiment of black oblong semicircles, and now and then a sturgeon would dart erect from the flood and fall back with a splash into the eddy which it made, widening in widening rings to the shore. The trees on the banks waved in the cool morning breeze, the distant mountains, like holy towers, rose calm and blue; and, in short, Nature herself seemed generally aware that it was the Sabbath-day of Freedom.' After repairing to the noble residence of a friend, crowning the apex of the mountain from which Piermont derives its name; after a sumptuous repast, and much frolicking with the little people on the green, interspersed with lessons in Lilliputian gunnery; we took our way, along the pleasant valley of the Sparkill, to Tappaan Town; our object being to visit the spot where Major ANDRE was confined previous to his execution, the place where he was executed, and where for so many years his remains reposed. After a pleasant walk, we reached The 'Seventy-Six House,' a low-roofed, one-story structure, of time-stained stone, and were presently seated in the very room from which the accomplished ANDRE went forth to meet his melancholy fate. We sat long gazing at the dark

colored beams which supported the ceiling, and thought how often, during his confinement, ANDRE, absorbed in his sad musings, might have looked upon every inequality or knot-hole in their surface. An old lady living near the "Seventy-Six House,' upon being questioned concerning ANDRE, said, 'General WASHINGTON Went by a good many times while ANDRE was in confinement, but he never looked toward the house. He did n't love to think about his being executed, I expect. The morning ANDRE was hung, a beautiful October morning it was, I brought him four nice peaches. He took them with a sweet smile, for he was a beautiful man, but he did n't eat one of 'em, but broke one open, though he did.' On the brow of a hill on the west of the house, now a peach orchard, ANDRE was executed; General WASHINGTON Witnessing the scene from the door of a quaint crumbling old red brick house, which we visited, and which is fast sinking into irremediable decay. We conversed for some time with an old gentleman who saw the remains of ANDRE when his body was disinterred, under the direction of the British government, through their consul, Mr. BUCHANAN. There was one of the handsomest boxes to put 'em in,' said our informant, that ever I see. When they opened the decayed white-wood coffin, I see him lyin' there as plain as day. He had a very handsome forward, and lay as straight as an arrow in his coffin. His hair was fine and brown, and when the sun struck it, it was shiny and smooth. Where it was tied in a club behind with a black ribbon it had separated from the head, and that lock lay there in a lump. It's cur'ous, but there was n't a button to be found - not a single one. Nobody would ha' known where he was laid at all, if had n't a-been for Lawyer MAXWELL, that lives to Nyack, who a'ter his remains was took away to England, and there was n't nothing left but a rough hole where they had staid so long, hired a negro to roll a big stone up to the top of the hill, put it at his grave, and put writin' onto it, tellin' all about it.' We left a few exhilarated' country-militia at the 'Seventy-Six House, an appropriate place, it struck us, for Fourth-of-July rejoicings, and walked thoughtfully home in the gloaming; sorrowing most of all, that WASHINGTON could not have deemed it proper to accede to the unfortunate ANDRE's last request, that he might die the death of a soldier instead of that of a murderer. 'READING in the Gossip' for September,' writes a friend, the 'Lines for Angelica's Album,' by the Hon. WARREN R. Davis, one of the most gifted and lamented of the sons of the sunny South,'' as your correspondent truly says, I was moved to send you the following parody on Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch,' written in the album of the lady of the late Senator JOHNSON, by Mr. DAVIS :

'JOHNSON'S wife of Louisiana !
JOHNSON'S wife of Louisiana !
The fairest flower that ever bloomed
In southern sun or gay savanna:
The Inca's blood flows in her veins,

The Inca's soul her bright eyes lighten,

Child of the sun, like him she reigns,

To cheer our hopes, our sorrows brighten.

JOHNSON'S wife of Lousiana!
JOHNSON'S wife of Lousiana!

She hath a way to win all hearts,

And bow them to the shrine of ANNA.

Her mind is radiant with the lore

Of ancient and of modern story,

And native wit in richer store,
Bedecks her in its rainbow glory.
JOHNSON's wife, etc.

'JOHNSON'S wife of Louisiana !

JOHNSON'S wife of Louisiana!
The hapless bard who sings her praise
Now worships at the shrine of Anna.
"T was such a vision, bright but brief,
In early youth his true heart rended,
Then left it like a fallen leaf,

On life's most rugged thorn suspended.
JOHNSON'S wife of Louisiana!

JOHNSON'S wife of Louisiana !

The hapless bard who sings her praise
Wept tears of blood for such an ANNA.

RECENTLY, at a 'justice's court' in a certain town' down east,' an "'Ebrew Jew' was presented as a witness, and the presiding magistrate ruling that he must be sworn upon the Old Testament, a Bible was brought into court, and offered to the witness, when the attorney for the party against whom the Jew was called exclaimed: That'll never do, your honor; there's the New Testament as well as the Old.' 'What of that?' replied the justice; 'it's merely surplusage!' .. MESSRS. CROSBY AND NICHOLS, Boston, have published in a small pamphlet-volume the brief essays entitled The Stars and the Earth, or Thoughts upon Space, Time and Eternity,' to the remarkable illustrations of which we have recently alluded in these pages. The developments given of the power and operations of light between the heavenly bodies and our earth, and the arguments deduced therefrom, are astounding. The little book will be right welcome to the bold-minded student who dares to grapple with problems the most intricate, and who aspires after that higher knowledge which is found above the region of sense, and can only be even glanced at as the result of a complete and continued abstraction of the soul from all meaner and lower associations. Many of the thoughts are striking in themselves, and will become suggestive of ideas yet more novel in the intelligent reader's mind.' PUNCH has been making a cheap excursion down the Nile. He saw the Sphinx in Egypt, 'the greatest blockhead that was ever known.' As no phrenologist has ever examined the bumps of the Sphinx, PUNCH recommends the British Association in Egypt to hold its next sitting expressly on that head: If disappointed with the Sphinx,' he adds,' they might have a Matinée Musicale with MEMNON, and listen to his singing 'I dreamt that I dwelt in Marble Halls! We have been informed there is but one fault in the style of MEMNON's singing, and that is, like many of our singers, he sings too much from the head; otherwise when he is in good voice and has not a cold, he goes higher than any one else. He has never broken an engagement yet, or refused once during his long career to sing in his proper time and place, for he has ever held himself above temptation, and would never plead a 'sudden indisposition' when he was invited out to dinner or a lobster supper.' These reflections upon the pyramids and other tomb-structures of Egypt are in PUNCH's best vein:

'A CURIOUS race of people these Egyptians must have been! Their great end of life was Death. They were no sooner born than they thought about dying. The whole nation seemed to live in a sort of forcing Pyramid. An Egyptian did not care so much where he lodged, so long as he knew where he was to be buried. His greatest comfort was the idea of being made a nice mummy of. His card was an epitaph. He was walking about with a tombstone continually in his hand. In fact, the largeness of the Pyramids is a standing proof, if proof be wanting, what a set of tremendous undertakers the Egyptians were! Their Present was the Future. This may partly account for their being so much in advance of other nations. To speak extravagantly, they seemed to calculate Time with a death-watch, which they wound up with a skeleton key! They made themselves, in fact, so familiar with Death, that they invited him to all their feasts, and put him at the head of the table at all their weddings, anniversaries, pic-nics, and grand dinners.'

'WHEN the hitherto free girl, trembling in her finery, with anxious, pious eyes,

which for the last time and the loveliest shed their tears on the mother's bosom; when standing adorned on the scaffolding of joy, she celebrates so many partings and one sole meeting; and when the mother turns away from her and goes to her other children, abandoning the anxious girl to a stranger—this hour, I say, touches me. ‘Thou joyfully-throbbing heart,' I then think, ‘not always wilt thou beat thus!'' These are the words of JEAN PAUL FRIEDERICH RICHTER; and lest they should awaken a momentary pang in some true heart about to be joined to another, we suggest the reading of the following lines by the bride to the new lord of her affectious, while yet the strife-apple of marriage hangs red and soft on the sunny side of love,' and listen well to the responses which he shall make thereto :

An unfortunate wife, chancing to pull out of a drawer, long years after marriage, her bridal dress,' while all the tears she had shed in those years over her sweet delusions press into her eyes at once,' is a painful spectacle. Make it a less frequent one, ye of the lovely, tender, affectionate sex, by 'stipulating,' as above. ... WE were somedele amused the other morning, coming down in the THOMAS POWELL' steamer, with an odd specimen of personification, perpetrated by the colored brother' who in the blandest possible manner insinuates, from day to day and from time to time,' to all forgetful passengers, that the steamer's books are now open for all those disposed to come forward to the captain's office and set-tle.' We were passing a steam-craft (something like the old 'Shrewsbury' which used to ply up and down the river of that name) at such a speed compared with hers that she seemed quite stationary on the water, notwithstanding the great fuss and splash made by her clumsy wheels. The sable sub-collector leaned for a moment over the taffrail, with his bell upturned, watching the craft aforesaid, and then quietly observed: E’yah! e'yah! 't's no use her tryin' to be a steam-boat; she ha n't no 'call' that way, any how!' Any one who has not been accustomed, like the speaker, to regard every thing assuming to be a steam-boat as possessing an individuality entirely its own, will perhaps smile at the idea that a steamer might mistake its vocation, and 'stand in its own light' in not turning its hands (or wheels) to something else. . . WE have before us a little work, entitled 'The Distant Hills, an Allegory,' from the press of the

...

6

General Protestant Episcopal Sunday School Union, whose depository is at Number 20, John-street. It is a most touching and tender allegory, and is altogether worthy of its predecessor, The Shadow of the Cross. Over the pages of these narratives there is shed an aroma of purity suited to the pictures which they so exquisitely paint. Indeed the pictures themselves seem to be rather breathed than painted. We know not how to express our sincere admiration, as we believe it would be impossible to meet with works of this kind more charmingly conceived and finished. They ought to be widely circulated among the young, in whose pure hearts they would be engraved indelibly in days when the feverish novel would interest them no more. As allegories they possess the highest merit. The outlines are distinct, the accessories replete with classic grace, and the embodiment of the TRUTH palpable. The DISTANT HILLS bedecked with green, and rife with melody; the CRUMBLING RUIN crawled over by the green lizard, and given to decay; these are symbols which a child's heart may interpret, and over which a man's eyes may weep. And it is delightful to see ever in the fore-ground of the pictures, whether meandering in the meadow or gushing from the rock, the purifying waters of that flood over which

-The eternal dove
Hovers on softest wing.'

For the christian parent, these works, so pure and happy in influence, so exquisite in embellishment, so compressed in compass, are most desirable for gifts. They would be received with smiles and perused with tears, and gratitude would be returned by the intermingling of both. 'THE course of true love never yet ran smooth,' SHAKSPEARE tells us; but the reader of the annexed rhapsody of a French artist de cuisine will find that nothing could run smoother or be more successful than the 'courses' which represented his 'true love :'

"I DECLARED myself to her,' said ALCIDE, laying his hand on his heart, 'in a manner which was as novel as I am charmed to think it was agreeable. Where cannot Love penetrate! CUPID is the father of Invention. I inquired of the domestics what were the plats of which Mademoiselle partook with most pleasure, and built up my little history accordingly. On a day when her parents had gone to dine in the world, the charming Miss entertained some comrades; and I advised myself to send up a little repast, suitable to so delicate young palates. Her lovely name is BLANCHE. The veil of the maiden is white; the wreath of roses which she wears is white. I determined that my dinuer should be as spotless as the snow. At her accustomed hour, and instead of the rude gigot a l'eau which was ordinarily served at her too simple table, I sent her up a little potage a la Reine-a la Reine BLANCHE' I called it- as white as her own tint, and confectioned with the most fragrant cream and almonds. I then offered up at her shrine a filet de merlin a l'Agnes, and a delicate plat which I have designated as Eperian a la Sainte-Therese,' and of which my charming Miss partook with pleasure. I followed this by two little entrées of sweet-bread and chicken; and the only brown thing which I permitted myself in the entertainment was a little roast of lamb, which I laid in a meadow of spinaches, surrounded with croustillons representing sheep, and ornamented with daisies and other savage flowers. After this came my second service: a 'Pudding a la Reine Elizabeth,' who was a maiden princess; a dish of opal-colored plover's eggs, which I called Nid de tourtereaux a la Roucoule;' placing in the midst of them two of those tender volatiles, billing each other, and confectioned with butter; a basket containing little gateaux of apricots, which I know all young ladies adore; and a jelly of marasquin, blaud, insinuating, intoxicating as the glance of beauty. This I designated 'Ambroisie de Calypso a la Souveraine de mon Cœur. And when the ice was brought in, an ice of plombrere and cherries, how do you think I had shaped them? In the form of two hearts united with an arrow, on which I had laid, before it entered, a bridal-veil in cut paper, surmounted by a wreath of virginal orange-flowers. I stood at the door to watch the effect of this entrée. It was but one cry of admiration! The three young ladies filled their glasses with the sparkling Ay, and carried me in a toast. I heard it; I heard Miss speak of me; I heard her say, Tell Monsieur MIROBOLANT that we thank him—we admire him—we love him !''

Would that SANDERSON, the witty author of the 'American in Faris,' were alive to appreciate this thoroughly French declaration of love! . . . ́Aт a social tea table the other evening, Mr. S- ——— was complaining of the irregularity of the mail delivery at certain post-offices, and intending a compliment to the ladies present,