Our pharisaical contemporary seems to glory alike in his ignorance and his stupidity; and we think our readers will agree with us, that he has a great deal of both to be thankful for. But one cannot be angry with such a commentator. We do not greatly affect that obstreperous patriotism which is always obtruding, without hint or cause, a tone of national vain-glorying into all circles; but we are pleased to see now and then a well-aimed home-thrust made applicable to those who are perpetually sneering at Americans and American institutions. A capital hit was lately given by the 'Courier and Enquirer' daily journal to a Montreal editor, who in noticing the demise at that city of an old Hessian who was in BURGOYNE'S army when he surrendered, remarked, that while he was one of the last relics of the old war to be found in the British dominions, 'every man that lived in the United States at that time must have been a soldier, as revolutionary heroes' enough had died here since then to form an army as large as that of XERXES.' The Courier rejoins: 'The Montreal editor seems to be very much astonished that so many revolutionary heroes' should have died in the United States since the war, whereas but very few are to be found in Canada. Perhaps the latter died during the war! We offer the suggestion for the Courier's consideration.' In the way of patriotic satire in this kind, however, we have seen nothing better than a cool little poem addressed 'To John Bull,' in a late number of the St. Louis (Missouri) Gazette.' We annex a few very provoking

stanzas:

I WONDER, JOHN, if you forget, some sixty years ago,

When we were very young, JOHN, your head was white as snow;
You did n't count us much, JOHN, and thought to make us run,
But found out your mistake, JOHN, one day at Lexington.

And when we asked you in, JOHN, to take a cup of tea,
Made in Boston harbor, JOHN, the tea-pot of the free,
You did n't like the party, JOHN, it was n't quite select,
There were some aborigines, you did n't quite expect.

You did n't like their manners, JoHN, you could n't stand their tea,
And thought it got into their heads, and made them quite too free;
But you got very tipsy, JOHN, (you drink a little still,)
The day you march'd across the Neck, and ran down Bunker Hill.

You acted just like mad, JOHN, and tumbled o'er and o'er,
By your stalwart Yankee son, who handled half a score.
But now I hope you 're sober, JOHN, you 're far too fat to run,
You haven't got the legs, JOHN, you had at Bennington!

You had some corns upon your toes, CORNWALLIS, that was one,

And at the fight at Yorktown, why then you couldn't run;

You tried quite hard, I will admit, and threw away your gun,

And gave your sword, fie JOHN, for shame! to one GEORGE WASHINGTON.

Another much-loved spot, JOHN, such sweet associations,

When you were going down to York to see your rich relations;

The Dutchmen of the Mohawk, JOHN, anxious to entertain,

Put up some 'GATES' that stopped you, JOHN, on Saratoga's plain.

That hill you must remember, JOHN, 't is high and very green;
We mean to have it lithographed, and send it to your Queen;
I know you love that hill, JOHN, you dream of it a-nights,
The name it bore in '76, was simply Bemis' Heights.

Your old friend ETHAN ALLEN, JOHN, of Continental fame,
Who called you to surrender, in 'Great JEHOVAH's' name;
You recognised the 'Congress,' then, authority most high,
The morn he called so early, JOHN, and took from you Fort Ti!

I know you'll grieve to hear it, JOHN, and feel quite sore and sad,
To learn that ETHAN 's dead, JOHN, and yet there's many a lad,
Growing in his highland home, that's fond of guns and noise,
And gets up just as early, JOHN, those brave Green Mountain Boys.

'Oh no, we never mention it;' we never thought it lucky,
The day you charged the cotton-bags and got into Kentucky:
I thought you knew Geography, but misses in their teens
Will tell you that Kentucky lay, just then, below Orleans.

The 'beauty' it was there, JOHN, behind the cotton bags,
But did you get the booty, JOHN?-somehow my memory flags;
I think you made a 'swap,' JoHN, I've got it in my head,
Instead of gold and silver, you took it in cold lead!

The mistress of the Ocean, JOHN, she could n't rule the Lakes;
You had some GANDERS in your fleet, but JOHN, you had no 'DRAKES;
Your choicest spirits, too, were there, you took your hock and sherry,
But, JOHN, you could n't stand our fare, you could n't take our PERRY!

And so forth; all which we thought of, and repeated the other day, while standing omnes solus on the green old fortifications thrown up on Brooklyn Heights, near East Brooklyn, when the ground now occupied by our noble sister city had scarcely a dwelling on it. As we looked down upon the hundred steeples, turrets and domes of the combined cities, looming through their pale-blue smoky canopy; upon the forests of masts and 'carnival of flags;' upon ships sweeping seaward, and vessels entering our unrivalled bay; and the vast inland stretching on either hand- excuse us, but we could n't help exclaiming: Thank Heaven, we are an American! — that this is our own our native land!'-this glorious' Empire' our native State!'... A TOWN CORRESPONDENT writes us, in reply to an inquiry in our last, that CHARLES LAMB originated the term, 'He is n't any thing else,' in his memorable answer to the question of COLERIDGE: CHARLES, did you ever hear me preach?' To which LAMB answered: 'I never heard you do any thing else.''. . . The 'Montreal Herald of a recent date says that ' A member of the 'free and enlightened' was fined five pounds at a Liverpool police court, for beating a black boy. Here's a pretty land of liberty,' said the enraged and disgusted Yankee; here's a pretty land of liberty, where a man can't larrup his own nigger! To which the 'New-York Express' retorts: Almost as bad, this, as a free-born Briton we ken of, who, taking his wife out into the streets of New-York, with a rope round her neck, offered her to the highest bidder. Being arrested by the police for his brutality, Here's a pretty land of liberty,' said the outraged and disgusted JOHN BULL, ‘here's a pretty land of liberty, where a man can't sell his own wife! A man was brought before a magistrate not many months since in London, for kicking his donkey so long and so severely that he dropped down in the street. Things now-a-days,' said the enraged offender, 'have come to a pretty pass, if a man can't kick his own ass when he likes! The magistrate thought differently, and mulcted him in a heavy fine for his cruelty. We observe too that in

Boston recently a person named JACOB CLOUGH was fined eighty dollars and sentenced to four months imprisonment for cruelly whipping a pair of horses which he had overloaded. A most righteous retribution. . . . THERE is a curious document in a late 'Fredonia Censor,' describing the progress of common school education in Chautauque county, particularly in Busti, (' BUSTI!' what an euphonious name!) from the pen of Mr. WORTHY PUTNAM, County superintendent of common schools. Mr. PUTNAM may be a very 'worthy' man, but he had better give over writing reports. His style is not quite equal to ADDISON's, although a good deal more ambitious: Hear him: 'Where was the Ellington Center school, that day? Echo answers where! Where is the interest that should be felt in that village in its Common School? Echo answers not there! Where is the school-house, the temple of science, of that village? Echo says, away up by the side of the road, an old, dirty, crazy, ragged, rotten thing ;

a place where the noble and intelligent children of Ellington Center are educated at. How many elegant churches are there in that district? Echo replies four, surrounding the public square, adding dignity and beauty to the village. The parent might exclaim, as he wends his way to the church: Here I worship my God, and away up there I educate my children!' Worthy PUTNAM!'. QUR Wilmington (Del.) correspondent's letter might have been written in the Castle of Indolence. Wake up, man! or your promise, which you are so capable of fulfilling, will never be performed:

'THE dial-plate warns you that minutes are fleeting;

Each pulse but wears out the heart that is beating;
Each tick of the clock is ever repeating,

Up and be doing! for Night draweth on!''

PUNCH has not seemed to us quite so sparkling lately as he was aforetime. Here are a brace of paragraphs, however, which partake of the old leaven.' The first is termed 'A Glut of Comets,' and the second is among the items embraced in the latest "Comet Intelligence:'

'CONSIDERABLE confusion is likely to arise from the recent increase in the number of comets. Almost every arrival from abroad brings intelligence of some continental astronomer having discovered a new comet. The public ought to receive with considerable caution all announcements of this nature; for nothing is easier than to palm off a flash of lightning, or some other eccentric piece of luminous matter, on the generality of the public as a genuine and bona fide comet. Beside, there are many persons who never trouble themselves to look farther than the newspaper report; and if they see a little descriptive jargon about latitudes and degrees, with s. s. E. and N. E. mysteriously interwoven with the account, they take it for granted that the whole account is accurate. We should advise that every new light, alleged to be a comet, should be regularly brought up for examination before a committee of qualified astronomers, as a preliminary to its admission among the rest of the recognized luminous bodies. We remember a light on a very elevated position in Vauxhall Gardens enjoyed for a whole season the reputation of a newly-discovered fixed star, in consequence of some noodle having detected it at the end of his telescope, and written to the papers to announce the result of his nocturnal observation. It was not until the close of the season that the mistake was discovered. We should not wonder at some of the new comets turning out to be something of the kind alluded to.'

'COMET INTELLIGENCE.-The telescope in Leicester-Square has been reaping a good harvest lately, owing to the rush into the market of so many new Comets. The astronomer at the head of it is to be heard of an evening calling out, 'Just up, a new Comet, in capital condition. There is likewise, Gentlemen, a tail after the Comet, in very good cut. A fine fresh Comet also ready at eight o'clock, and another will be served up, with the milky-way, at ten. The charge is only one penny.' The customers at this Comet-ordinary are very numerous. It is not unusual to hear a gentleman say, 'I'll take the Comet after you, Sir.'

MESSRS. HENRY LONG AND BROTHER have established at No. 32 Ann-street, near the Mirror' office, an agency for the supply of all country orders for every article in the Book and Publication Line, at publisher's prices. Their New-York and Philadelphia references are of the highest respectability; and we can answer for them, that all business entrusted to them will be faithfully and expeditiously transacted. They are honorable and enterprising young gentlemen, who will deserve all the encouragement they may receive. .. WHY did you speak,' writes a towncorrespondent, of Mr. F. W. EDMONDS as an 'amateur artist?' Although not a 'professional painter,' in the strict sense of the term, (for his arduous financial duties as chief officer of one of our first banking institutions preclude the necessary devotion to his art,) Mr. EDMONDS can yet hardly be called an amateur,' for his pictures are always speedily demanded, and all that he has consented to sell have brought high prices.' We stand corrected. . . . A CORRESPONDENT writes us from Danville, in our Empire State:'Miss NANCY HINKS, and the anonymous author of 'Lines on Niagara Falls,' are doubtless well enough in their way; but their empire in western New-York must be farther divided with the author of the enclosed stanzas. You may add them to your cabinet of poetical curiosities if you choose. If you think proper to gossip' the fame of the author, he deserves the immortality you would

6

confer.' The lines referred to are entitled: 'N. N. HERRICK a short Scetch of his Expiecnce and on the death of two wives and his beloved Daughter Sarah. F. who was drowned April 2. Windham. L. M.' As you have the tune, reader, suppose you proceed to sing the subjoined stanzas:

If any one of the numerous families in the metropolis, upon whose parlor-table this Magazine 'disports' itself during the month, should be desirous of adding choice and tasteful accessories to their dinners of state, they will find in Mr. Rowe, at his new and popular establishment, 507 Broadway, a most valuable and competent caterer. He is not second to the best of his class in town; being au fait to all the secrets of the art de cuisine, and in the matter of beautiful ices, creams, jellies, blancmanges, etc., is esteemed preeminent. He has covered himself with glory' by being the first artist in town who made that matchless 'beverage,' as a friend of ours terms it, Charlotte de Russé.' Mr. Rowe will deserve, and deserving, we doubt not will receive, a liberal share of public patronage. As a set-off to the lines in preceding pages, Death on the Battle-Field,' we beg leave to offer the following admirable stanzas; regretting only that our readers in all parts of the Union cannot be favored to hear our friend JOHN WILSON, the young Laird o' the Wallabout,' (a worthy representative of the country and the musical powers of his namesake of blessed Amilie' memory,) sing them in the spirit and the understanding.' It would enable them to appreciate what we, in common with many other equally

delighted and far better musically-informed auditors, have often richly enjoyed. Both the words and the air are 'beautiful exceedingly :'

'IT is not on the battle-field

That I would wish to die;
It is not on a broken shield
I'd breathe my latest sigh:

And though a soldier knows not how
To dread a soldier's doom,

I ask no laurel for my brow,
No trophy for my tomb!

It is not that I scorn the wreath

A soldier proudly wears;

It is not that I fear the death
A soldier proudly dares:

'When slaughtered comrades round me lie,
I'd be the last to yield;

But yet I would not wish to die
Upon the battle-field!

'When faint and bleeding in the fray,
Oh! still let me retain
Enough of life to find my way
To this sweet vale again!

'For like the wounded weary dove
That flutters to its nest,

I fain would reach my own dear love,
And die upon her breast.'

ONE of the most admirable miniatures we remember to have seen for many months is the portrait of a young and lovely daughter of a distinguished scientific Professor' of this metropolis a man of infinite wit and most excellent fancy.' It is from the pencil of Mr. THOMAS S. OFFICER, and in drawing, tone, color, general likeness, and sweet disposition of drapery, is a performance so faultless as to reflect the highest honor upon the artist. It has none of the brushy,' scumbling' appearance of miniatures in general, but more resembles a finished oil-painting.. THE Grimalkin Ballad' is something too long for the subject. A single stanza we think will suffice for the public in general?'

'ITTE is the witchynge houre of nighte,

The moone ande starres are beamynge brighte,

A CATTE sittes on a house-top high,

And wrathfullye dothe gleame his eye:
His taile hee wisketh thorough the aire,

Erecteth on his back his haire;

His voice is hearde in a lowe deepe yelle,
That riseth againe with a stronger swelle:

Miaou oo! oo!-waou! oo! 00! oo!'

ONE of the sights' of the city, and by no means the least attractive one, is the National Miniature Gallery, at the corner of Broadway and Murray-street. What an array is there of heads!-poets, painters, statesmen and heroes; the evidence of truth stamped on each likeness. Messrs. ANTHONY, CLARK AND COMPANY have recently made some very important alterations in their modus operandi, which are deserving of especial notice, as they supply all that daguerreotypes have hitherto lacked an artistic arrangement of light and shade. The National Miniature Gallery' is one of the metropolitan 'lions,' and will as well repay a visit as any museum in town. THE following original lines were recently copied by a friend from an album in Philadelphia, in which they were written by the great tragedian, EDMUND KEAN, in 1826, more than twenty years ago:

'THE actor's life, a sea of ceaseless trouble,
The actor's fame, an empty, child-blown bubble;
Wafted by Folly's breath into the air,

Destroyed by blasts of Envy or Despair;
Floats on the breeze like Nautilus on the main,
Bursts into air, and ne'er is seen again!'

SEVERAL new publications were received too late for notice in the present number. Among them is MUMFORD'S superb edition of HOMER'S 'Iliad,' Mrs. FARNHAM'S Life in Prairieland,' and HADDOCK's Addresses and Miscellaneous Writings.' Mr. HEADLEY'S volumes, NAPOLEON and his Marshals,' together with the above, will receive attention in our next issue, as well as five or six pages of deferred 'Gossip,' in type.