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?'

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 cowardly: a little indifference on the side of the vulgar makes those minions of fashion open their eyes, half shut 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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WE

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 man, 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

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'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 Englishwoman'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 stringed 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

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

'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 wasn'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 beautfully 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

no great lover of sweet sounds, and religiously excluded from his meeting-house all instrumental music, except a little mahogany-colored wooden pitch-pipe of the size of an 'eighteenmo.' book. A member of his choir had learned to play the base-viol, and anxious to exhibit his skill, early one Sunday morning most unadvisedly introduced his big fiddle into the 'singing gallery.' When the first prayer was ended, and the Doctor began to handle his 'Watts,' the base violer lifted up his profanation, and trying the strings, instantly attracted the Doctor's attention. He paused, laid down his hymn-book, took his sermon from the cushion, and proceeded with his discourse, as if singing was no part of the public worship, and finally dismissed the congregation without 'note or comment.' The whole choir were indignant. They staid after 'meeting,' and all the girls and the young men resolved not to go into the 'singing-seats' at all in the afternoon, and the elders who did go there, bore the visages of men whose minds were made up.

'Services began as usual in the afternoon. The Doctor took his psalm-book in hand, looked over his spectacles at the gallery, saw only a few there, but nothing daunted, read a psalm and sat down. No sound followed; no one stirred; and the 'leader' looked upward in utter unconsciousness. After a long and most uneasy silence, the good man, his face somewhat flushed, and his manner rather stern, read the psalm again, paused, then re-read the first verse, and pushing up his spectacles, looked interrogatively at the gallery. The leader could bear it no longer, and half rising, said decidedly; 'there wont be no singing here this afternoon.' 'Then there won't be any preaching !' said the Doctor, quick as thought; and taking his cocked hat from its peg, he marched down the pulpit-stairs, through the broad aisle, and out of the house, leaving his congregation utterly astounded. This anecdote is told as having occurred before I was born, but I know the wooden pitch-pipe was the only instrument used during the Doctor's time; for I well remember one town-meeting day I stole up to the gallery, found the mysterious pipe, and timidly and reverently sounded from A to G, every note of its screaming falsetto. 'When the old Doctor retired, as he did voluntarily, from his ministrations of more than fifty years, the ordination of his successor was a stirring event, and all the leading ministers of the Hopkinsian Calvinistic' faith, assembled to assist in the solemnities. Old Mr. Howe of Hopkinton, an eccentric and somewhat celebrated man in his time, gave the 'charge.' He had strong sense and feeling, but his manner was familiar and colloquial, and his pronunciation of the deöwn east' kind. I sat in my grandfather's square pew, with the turn-up seats, and heard him. He concluded his charge somewhat in this way: And now, my young brother, I wish to impress particularly upon you the propriety and necessity of cultivating the affections of the children of your charge. Attend to them always. Win them to love you. Let them always be overjoyed to meet you. I will tell you how it was when I was a child. Our minister was a stern, erect, red-faced man, who wore a large white wig, carried a tall cane, and when he walked, looked neither to the right nor to the left. He never noticed us, except to reprove us when we failed to make our manners to him.' We were all afraid of him. Well, one day I heard he was sick, but I didn't care; and the next day I heard he was worse, and then I did n't care; and pretty soon I heard he was dead, and I was glad on 't! My young brother, don't let the children be glad when you die.'

PA

We hope the lesson conveyed by this last anecdote will not be lost upon those hard vinegar-faced ministers who seem to think that religion consists in a solemn visage and may be accurately measured by a corresponding length of countenance. RENTS, if you have boys whom you wish educated, send them by all means to Rev. Mr. VANKLEEK, at Flatbush, Long-Island. He will whip them 'black-and-blue in welts, from top to toe,' and save you all such disagreeable duty.' It's a part of his system.' We are glad to perceive that the reverend scoundrel has been arrested for beating, as above,' a fine boy of twelve years, son of a gentleman named LawRENCE, an estimable citizen of Brooklyn. We take pleasure in extending to some twenty thousand American parents a knowledge of the kind of treatment which their children would be likely to receive at the hands of the Rev. RICHARD VANKLEEK, Principal of the Flatbush Institute for Boys, Long Island. . . 'I HAVE eaten my morsel alone, complains Job, patient as he was. He knew the discomfort of it; and so do we now. 'No wife, no weans;' no chatting, no laughter and babblement of the little

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