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social preeminence? Does he not know that even in this town, there are circles of the highest distinction, into which mere wealth, with the most facile obsequiousness, could never enter? Such, let him be assured, is the fact. But if it could, what would be the result, in the case of a successful TITMOUSE? At the table, for example, of a man of intellect and refinement, whose manners are a happy conjunction of freedom, ease, and sincerity; who enters largely into the commerce of entertaining or instructive discourse; who adds, moreover, to each guest a new spiritual enjoyment of himself; brought thus into the real aristocratic ranks of society, can it be doubted that Mr. MONEYMAN-conscious of the doubtful ground upon which he stood, and fearing to deviate from a certain set line of conduct, lest he should lose his way, and betray the nature of his pretensions — can it be doubted, we say, that such a person would find his true position and our correspondent's essential mistake at the same moment? But aside from this view of the case, we should decline our correspondent's article, and repel his inculcations, on the ground that wealth is sufficiently the god of idolatry among us, without the specious advocacy of any of its ultra votaries. The universality of an undue love of money is sufficiently apparent, when it is found to reign in the hearts of these whose christian duty it is to proclaim it the 'root of all evil;' and as a proof that it does thus reign, we take the liberty of transcribing a paragraph from a proof-sheet of the 'Home Missionary,' a religious periodical of wide repute, which has been read in our hearing, while penning these hurried remarks. It is an extract from the clerical correspondence of a district in Michigan: 'Ministers who come west, and have money, need to know well how to manage it, or they are likely to fall in with sharpers, who will get it away. And what is more distressing, these sharpers are likely to be in the church. A Presbyterian minister, who a short time ago was independent, in consequence of a patrimony which he brought to Michigan, is now reduced to want, by a bargain which he was induced to make with an elder in his church. The impression is strong in the public mind, that the elder has greatly defrauded him.' Let us ask our antagonist to fancy this devout seeker after 'an object of universal desire' to have met with the success in his aims which this bit of sharp practice would seem to foretell. He hath lank hair, and no starch in his linen; he speaketh through his nose, and ever and anon he exhibiteth the whites of his eyes; yea, and perchance his children are named Assurance and Tribulation. Yet would such a personage, with Mr. McGOOSELY, Mr. S. TUPID, and Mr. MONEYMAN, form that 'just foundation for aristocratic distinction' of which our correspondent speaks? Such an aristocracy would be greatly inferior to that vaunted by degenerate sons of worthy English ancestors; sons whose only claim to distinction is, that like potatoes, 'their best parts are under ground.'
EXHIBITION OF THE APOLLO ASSOCIATION. - Our advisement of the public opening of this fine collection came at so late an hour, that we are compelled to postpone a review in detail of the paintings, etc., until our next number. Leaving, therefore, numerous attractive efforts of our native artists agreeably to surprise the reader who may early visit the exhibition, we shall for the present barely indicate a few of the more distinguished paintings, which would of themselves insure the attention of the town. Number 14, 'the Chess-Players, or the Game of Life,' that remarkable allegorical picture of RETZSCH, the only copy in oil ever made by the artist himself of this celebrated subject, will attract immediate admiration. It requires an hour's study, to imbibe an idea of its sublime beauties. Many pictures from the gallery of the Boston Atheneum will be found to possess marked attraction. Among these, are the 'Interior of a Gallery, exhibiting the Buildings and Monuments of Modern Rome,' by PANNINI, a painting wherein the eminent artist has transferred to the canvass a sort of small Louvre-gallery, preserving each picture which it contains in perfect proportion, and with wonderful minuteWASHINGTON ALLSTON exhibits in Number 55 his remarkable power of indivi
duality. Let the visiter who remembers our artist's 'Isaac of York,' examine closely this Sketch of a Polish Jew.' JOHNSON, our Cruikshank, has two or three admirable sketches. One, Number 101, 'The Drunkard's Home,' is an effective moral picture, which we surveyed with the more interest, that we had just passed into the gallery from the Park Temperance Meeting, where we had been listening to the stirring addresses of the reformed drunkards from Baltimore. All good Whigs will of course pause at Number 59, a portrait of General HARRISON, by HOYT, a Boston artist of reputation. We heard it pronounced by a good judge, one of the best likenesses ever taken of the President; and indeed, aside from its many merits as a painting, it bears evident marks of being extremely life-like. But we are travelling out of the record; though INMAN, BIRCH, the 'Marine,' DOUGHTY, and the lave,' are at our pen's end. Briefly, reader, 'go and see!'
HINTS TO AUTHORS. - We have alluded incidentally, in another place, to the satirical 'Hints to Authors,' which appear from time to time in Blackwood's Magazine. The last number is devoted to a consideration of the dramatic style; and after a few sententious observations upon the main theme, the reader is treated to very close imitations of what passes for poetry with modern play-wrights. In the introductory remarks, we have a forcible example of theatrical distinctions; the illustrations being JOHN KEMBLE and EDMUND KEAN. 'For twenty years past,' says the writer, 'there have been but two heroes. One the majestic, or six-foot-one hero; the other the vivid, or five-feet-three hero. Ten inches made all the difference; but what a difference it was! In every thing it was apparent. All heroes are of course disdainful: so we will take it in the expression of disdain. The six-feet-one hero annihilates his adversary with a contemptuous wave of his arm; the five-feet-three hero runs his enemy right through his body with a withering glance of his eye. The arm of the one is long and graceful; the eye of the other is very bright. Therefore let the big fellow utter his threatenings in long tens and Alexandrines; but the little one must accompany his scowl with a short and powerful expression, such as 'Dog!' 'beast!' 'brute!' or 'liar!' as the case may be. The difference is equally palpable in the manner of making love. The big man must bluster and roar like an amorous volcano; the little one whisper and wheedle like a sentimental haberdasher disposing of French gloves; for the voice of the one is as a soul-inspiring trumpet to the gallery; and the voice of the other soft and musical-a syren's song to the stage-boxes and four front rows of the pit. Shakspeare, though an ass on the whole, had some faint glimmering of this important fact; for he never would have made Coriolanus turn round and answer the announcement of his banishment with the great words, 'I banish you!' unless Burbridge had been six feet high. It needed that height, at least, to enable a man to banish so majestic a city as Rome: it would puzzle a hero of fivefeet-three to banish the village of Currie; and as to Highgate or Hempstead, they would laugh at him.' It is essential, we are informed, that there should be but one six-foot-one hero in the play; the rest should be but dwarfs and cripples; and a scene is given between Brutus and Cassius, in which the latter takes all the words out of the mouth of the former, after the most approved modern mode. The writer contends, that in 'holding the mirror up to nature,' you must hold it upside down, or hold up one that has no quicksilver at the back, and in which the audience, instead of seeing themselves, will see nothing but the actors. This justifies an actress in singing a song or dancing a fancy-dance on the way to the block, thus giving the carpenter time to arrange the scaffold. She might even be made to dance herself to death on the tight-rope, by a vindictive Mussulman; the dramatist explaining in a note that in some districts of Turkey this is a very common punishment. We have a specimen of a modern subject treated in an antique manner; and a quotation is made from a tragedy nearly finished, in which a murderer is represented as impelled by a hidden power working upon his mind, and converting him into a mere instrument to the performance of an inevitable
act. He is pure and innocent in all other respects; in fact, a blind agent in the hands of Destiny. This, it will be perceived, is a 'hint' for the author of 'Ion;' and here ensues an illustration of the difference between the styles of the Greek and Roman copyists:
"The difference between the Grecian and the Roman styles is very great. When you deal with a Greek subject, you must be very devout, and have unbounded reverence for Diana of the Ephesians; you must also believe in the second sight; and be as solemn, calm, and passionless as the ghost of Hamlet's father. Never descend to the slightest familiarity, nor lay off the stilts for a moment; and far from calling a spade a spade, call it
That sharp instrument
With which the Theban husbandman lays bare
but always warlike: one is like a The Roman, on the other hand, may occasionally be jocular miracle-play in a church the other a tableau vivant in a camp. If a Greek has occasion to ask his sweetheart if her mother knows she's out,' and 'if she has sold her mangle yet' - he says:
The Roman goes quicker to work:
Tell me, my Tullia, does your mother know
The Composite, or Elizabethan, has a smack of both :
Conradin. Ha! Celia, here! Come hither, pretty one.
Most people have, sir.
No, not gadding.
Out, sir she knows I 'm out.
She had a mangle;
Faith 't was a huge machine; and smooth'd the webs
A right good mangle.
Then thou 'rt not in thoughts
We should have been pleased to see an imitation of some of SHERIDAN KROWLES' prose-twattle, divided into lines of an equal number of syllables, and each commencing with a capital letter, which is the only distinctive mark of much of his poetry.
"THINGS THEATRICAL.'- We must condense the communication of our excellent correspondent 'C.' into the mere announcement that the opera of 'Zampa' is being played at the PARK THEATRE, by the best operatic performers in the country, and with a liberality of expenditure on the part of the worthy manager, which cannot be too highly commended. 'Zampa' will be followed by other popular operas, involving the same distinguished support. Navigation all around us is opening; the city is filling with strangers; and better days are destined now to dawn upon OLD DRURY-a consumma'The National' has closed, irrecoverably tion which has long been devoutly wished. immersed in debt, as we hear. Mr. WILSON should endeavor to retrieve his broken
fortunes by playing once more himself. This course had an effect on one memorable occasion; for although the journals of the city, out of envy or charity, passed the performance by with total silence, yet it gratified the manager's affection for number one, and induced the accomplished editor of a weekly print to inquire, with great earnestness, Where is Shales?'
WE commend the subjoined epistle to the attention of all house-keeping readers. There is another phase of the multiform subject, which has perhaps escaped our hapless damsel's experience, but which a recent English essayist has felicitously sketched; we mean the 'Friends' department in the kitchen. If one would chance upon a veritable Friend's Meeting, let him descend on some unexpected evening errand into his kitchen, what time his cook and chambermaid, their labors done, are entertaining their distant relatives for there never was a well-looking female servant that had not five or six 'cousins,' who were privileged to visit her of an evening, if not at all other hours. Our English victim was startled by a something, which in the dim light he had grasped behind the kitchen door, where he was reaching after a napkin to dry his hands. It was the nose of 'a Friend at court' in the kitchen, who had retired thither at the instance of his mistress, to escape the scrutiny of her employer, whom she heard approaching. 'Who's there?' he demanded; but the Friend was not called upon to answer, for 'Who's there' was nobody's name. On a similar occasion, the Friend sought security in another quarter; where, may be best inferred from the ready reasoning adopted by his discoverer, on ascertaining the secret of a grievous annoyance to which he had been subjected. 'A kitchen chimney,' says he, with confidence, 'will smoke, when there is a journeyman-baker in the flue!' But we are keeping the reader from Miss BUNKER'S letter.
DEAR OLD KNICK: My mother, who is at present making me a visit in the city, received a letter from Sister Tabitha the day before yesterday, which I enclose. Sister Tabitha is a promising girl of fifteen years or thereabout, and the picture she draws of her domestic troubles at Worreytown strikes me as worthy of your notice.
'MY DEAR MOTHER: You surely could not have been aware of the Herculean labors I was to undergo, when you took your departure. If you had been, you certainly would not have left your poor daughter here alone, to take care of a great house and a set of unruly servants. I have had nothing but troubles since you went; and in order to insure your sympathy, I suppose I must narrate my difficulties. The new waiter that you engaged, did not arrive until two days after you had left. He is a short, pursy man, immensely fat, and as dirty as that little animal which perambulates the streets of our place so much. His face is the color of our front parlor curtains; he wears creaking boots, and is always in such a hurry that he is continually out of breath, and puffs and blows in your ears like an asthmatic porpoise. His name is Washington-a very inappropriate one, for I doubt very much whether he undergoes that useful operation more than once a week, if he does that. I call him Wash., but he does not take the hint. I caught him devouring sweetmeats in the closet the other day. I should not have minded that, but he replaced the spoon in the dish after he had finished. I gently remonstrated, but he flew out of the room in a rage, wheezing all the way down stairs. Since then, he has entered into a conspiracy with Martha Meck, the housemaid, and they try my patience in every manner. I always told you that Martha was a sly, hypocritical thing, notwithstanding all her assumed humility. Her real character has now shown out. You know that I keep the key of the tea-closet myself. The other night I went to a small party down town, and was in the midst of dancing, when word was sent me that I was wanted at home immediately. I was obliged to hire a conveyance to carry me, and when I arrived, Martha opened the door, and said that she wanted a little tea, and thought she had better send for me. You can imagine my wrath-but it did no good. Martha is out all day, and when I scold, she puts on a doleful expression, and says her mother is so sick! I don't believe it, for when she first came, she told me she had no mother. However, I can relieve my mind by scolding her, but I am afraid to employ that method with Washington. I sent him out yesterday with a note across the street: he returned this morning, and said that he had lost
the note, and had been looking for it ever since, but was unable to find it. While he was gone, I went into his room and found it, looking like a small lake of oil. I was in a rage, but was only laughed
Martha just then going up stairs, spilled a coal-scuttle full of coal, (intentionally, I am sure,) and as she refused to clean it, it lies there now, and probably will until you return. I get on very well with Dorothy, for although she is continually in the kitchen, yet her impudence never exceeds mutterings; and with the exception of once, when having asked her to throw some coal on the fire, she muttered something about throwing me into it, she has been very quiet.. Nevertheless your return is very necessary, for I cannot command these servants at all; and were it not for the fear that I could not get any more, I would turn them all away. I am sorry to inform you that Jack has been expelled from college for throwing a snow-ball at the president's head. He is now at home, and has taken to drinking, and abusing me. Do come back quickly, or you will not see me, for I expect to expire under such a load of difficulties, about the middle of next week. "Your Affectionate Daughter,
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. -We are indebted to an accomplished contributor, whose facilities and leisure we trust often to find employed in the service of the KNICKERBOCKER, for the opening paper of the present number. It is translated, as we are informed in a note, from a volume entitled 'Précis des Guerres de César,' which owes its recent publication to M. MARCHAND, one of Napoleon's attendants in the island of Saint Helena. Connected with the Précis des Guerres de César,' is an appendix of Fragments by the Emperor, on other subjects, and from these 'fragments' the criticism and remarks on suicide are chiefly extracted. That portion of the latter which refers to Cato and to Cæsar, is taken from the body of the work, and is added to the rest for the purpose of exhibiting more fully the views of Napoleon, and as an application by him, to particular cases, of the general principles laid down in what precedes. M. MARCHAND, in his preface to Précis des Guerres de César,' observes: The nature of my service, which kept me constantly near the Emperor's person, occasioned me the honor of being called sometimes to read to him, and sometimes to write what he dictated. In this manner the notes on Cæsar's Commentaries were dictated entirely and almost uninterruptedly in long periods of sleeplessness, when, as he observed, the exertion brought relief to his sufferings, and scattered some flowers in the path which led to the grave.' And in his preface to the 'Appendix,' our amanuensis says: 'Every thing coming from Napoleon excites so strong an interest, that I have thought it my duty to rescue from oblivion even these trifles- thrown off as they were without revision, in the leisure moments of the illustrious captive.' 'Anti-Porson' is an earnest, but not a
very courteous, controversialist. He desires, in irony, to know whether the Latin was ever a vernacular in this country, and whether our New Contributor' would n't like to have it so; and he then proceeds to condemn the language, and the labor devoted among us to its acquisition. In the course of his article, he quotes the following, as being 'the deliberate opinion of one of the finest minds in England: 'He gratefully acknowledges the obligations which mankind has owed to the remains of antiquity; but in reply to the remark of an eloquent scholar, that ancient literature was the ark in which all the civilizaton of the world was preserved during the deluge of barbarism, he says: This is very true: but we do not read that Noah thought himself bound to live in the ark after the deluge had subsided.' When our ancestors first began to consider the study of the classics as the principal part of education, little or nothing worth reading was to be found in any modern language. Circumstances have changed, and a change of system is therefore desirable. The vocabulary of the Latin tongue he considers miserably poor, and its mechanism greatly deficient in power and precision. Cicero, its great master, felt this evil, and in his familiar letters was continually compelled to resort to Greek works. The literature of Rome was born old. All the signs of decrepitude were on it in the cradle. We look in vain for a single creative mind—for a Homer or a Dante, a Shakspeare or a Cervantes. In their place, we have a crowd of fourth-rate and fifth-rate authors, translators, and imitators, without end. In most of their works there is scarcely any thing spontaneous and racy; scarcely any originality in the thoughts, scarcely any idiom in the style. Their poetry tastes of the hot-house. It is transplanted from Greece, with the earth of Pindus clinging round its roots. The effect of its use, he contends, is in general pernicious. All persons who are in the habit of hearing public speaking, must have observed that the orators who are the fondest of quoting Latin, are by no means the most scrupulous about marring their native tongue. No person doubts that much knowledge may be obtained from the classics. It is equally certain that much gold may be found in Spain; but it by no means follows that it is wise for all to work the Spanish mines.' New veins of intellectual wealth, as well as new and rich veins of gold, have been laid open; a new world of literature and science has been discovered; and it is no longer necessary to delve for a few glittering grains in the dark and laborious shaft of antiquity. There is not a greater object of compassion than a fine boy,