wardly. There are a great many exogenous plants in the garden of the literature of to 'Do you know that very delightful book, 'Nuga Critica; or, Papers written at the Sea-Side,' by SHIRLEY? Of course I wish that every body knew it. Well, if you will turn to page two hundred and eighty-four of of that most naturally wooing and win ning collection of recent essays and to my taste no essayist of the day equals 'SHIR LEY'—you will find the following verse: 'To Light,' from COWLEY: "FIRST-BORN of Chaos, who so fair didst come Which when it saw the lovely child, The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled.' This,' says SHIRLEY, 'is very lamentable. We can see at a glance that the man who wrote these lines was not in earnest, that he was not engrossed by his subject, that he did not care whether he spoke the truth or lied, that he was only trying how dexter-/ ous and ingenious he could be; and that in consequence, wanting tact, restraint, and imaginative fervor, he made an idiot of himself, and soiled and degraded his subject.' 'There I feel easier now that I have shown that one good man and true is with me, and one who never writes 'on a subject on which he is not engrossed.' Let me beg of all our young writers, who have not been vulgarized by second-rate French novels, and poisoned by the snobbishness of French chic and smartness, to follow SHIRLEY'S example, and if possible avoid the risk of earning such an epitaph as: 'He wrote equally well on all subjects.' OUR ever welcome and genial QUONDAM gives us this month a pleasantly rhymed version of a tale which LESLIE the artist was fond of telling, and which will be 'good for a laugh' to all time: Experimentum Maris, or The Court-Nabal. 'O NAVIS ! referent in mare te novi A rope too short will answer with a splice ; "T WAS a long time ago, I ken No steamers crossed the Atlantic then; But they are gone!those days and captains, too A Yankee girl, then, had been sent And when she nothing more could learn, She was a comely lass, 't is said, In all accomplishments complete; You'd fancy her a smart coquette. But so much of the world she'd seen, That few surpassed her voice or touch; Was quite as rich as she was pretty; No wonder there were many sought her. How proud the Captain well might be Their fair and joyous young ship-mate, All were agreeable, vastly so, He ever since on board they came, Is given by the Apostle PAUL, 'Oh! man's conceit, how very droll! She left the mate somewhat perplext; I was just going to relate The Captain's answer to Miss KATE: 'You want me, then,' said he, 'to test The matter I'll soon fix for you. My darling from a watery grave. Then come on deck: will be there, Where your three lovers smoking are, And draw them to the very spot Best suited to perform our plot. Then boldly jump into the sea; And he who first springs after thee, Will be the man of all the rest, You may be sure, who loves you best!' KATE was delighted!--off she ran And soon on deck again was seen The merriest of the group, I ween. Good humor's gay, enlivening banter Made Time ride off upon a canter; Although the ship droned lazily Upon the quiet, sluggish sea. When, in a moment apropos, The experiment to undergo, KATE, like the brave Lord ULLEN's daughter, Sprang from the ship into the water! i A GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. - Dear reader, let it be ever borne in mind that whoever in these times writes aught, though it be a mere paragraph, which encourages others to act directly or indirectly in the great war-cause, does a good act which will be remembered in days to come. In a serious struggle, when it is the duty of every one to cast about and see wherein he or she may act a full share, the influence which may be brought to bear through the press should not be neglected. Did you, dear reader, for instance ever reflect how far a printed word goes? You know not, no one knows; it is beyond all surmise or calculation. Who shall say how far the simplest thought may vibrate through the eternity of humanity? It wends its way here and there; some one is sure to love it, some one will be more deeply moved than you yourself were in writing it; your simple appeal to do something for the good cause will always exist a monument to the kind heart and zeal of the one who raised it. Write, friends -you who can tell the world what is doing in your homecircle for the war; let us know that you have fought and served, given and prayed, for God's own good cause. Let the world know that the world is ever awake; that there is no let or hindrance; that we are determined, and that the fighting and resisting power of the North, like that of Prince Arthur of Little Britain, that 'moste brave knyghte and stalwarte warrior,' increases the more the longer it is called into action. And wishing thus that all who do not fight would work or write, we cheerfully find place for the following most kindly letter from ABBIE: 'March 3d, 1862. 'A NEW Editor in the time-honored chair of the KNICKERBOCKER. Just that bare annunciamento and nothing more, might startle one, but on looking closely and finding there the veritable SLOPER, he who was so associated with its occupant heretofore, we are quite content. Strange, wild days have come upon the land, O beloved of the readers of Maga! since a couple of twelvemonths gone, our country at peace, I wrote verses for the KNICKERBOCKER. How dark the cloud fell; you, who leaned above the storm from your watch-tower of the nation, know full well. And now it seems lifting. Tell us not, O watchman! of the night, but sing us prophetic peans of the morning. 'Many idlers, rhymers and dreamers have in these days become workers. Some of the throng, brave and true, are shouldering muskets and learning the use of steel in a form quite different from the pen, and whose mission is, to point truths rather than sentences. Others and we have been not less in earnest - have fought, all unused though our fingers were to such weapons, with knitting-needles and quiltingframes. Only a woman's work weak hands and willing hearts. Yet into the gray stockings have been knitted tears that made solemn responses to silent prayers; tears whose falling stifled the flames of selfish, personal wishes; tears that nourished the blossom of brave hopes for the right. And in this hour wherein I sit and write, the first flush of victory over, the public pallor which speaks of fearful suffering is brightened a little by such simple comforts as woman's hand has gathered. "May I add to the touching story you gave in your February number, one or two Western incidents of woman's devotion? They possess, I think, almost an equal signifi cance: 'A soliciting-committee in this newly-settled country, came in their circuit to a lonely shanty, whose exterior gave little promise of help from within; but, conscious of that |