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'My son, if thou wilt wear tight boots, there are three bad things thou wilt inevitably suffer, namely, a bad corn, a bad gait, and a bad temper.

It is the last air on the hurdy-gurdy that gets the player's head broken. 'How fleeting in the holidays is a leg of mutton! Still, a prelude of hard dumpling is an antidote to appetite.

It is said that necessity knows no law. This accounts for people making such a virtue of necessity.

'My son, when cabmen take the pledge, and the police will not take supper when on culinary duty; when an omnibus half-empty goes the same pace as a full one; when the laws of private property extend to umbrellas, and a case of confiscation may be dealt with as a theft; when your laundress gives up taking snuff, and abstains for four-and-twenty hours from touching any body's gin-bottle; when a bachelor in lodgings finds a shirt without a button off, and has his shaving-water brought without ringing more than five times for it; when the beef-eaters are all of them confirmed vegetarians, and no alderman will take a second plate of turtle-then, O my son ! thou mayest chance to find a wife who will not object to travel without eight-andtwenty packages, and who will show herself possessed of such angelic self-denial as even to refuse thy offer of a dress because she finds and confesses that she does n't want it.'

CAN any of our friends inform us who is the author of the subjoined lines? They seem to us wonderfully melodious, and in thought extremely felicitous. We have consulted six different collections of poetry, American and English, without being able to find either the lines, or the name of their author:

'ONE eve of beauty, when the sun

Was on the stream of Guadalquiver,

To gold converting, one by one,
The ripples of that mighty river;
Beside me on the bank was seated

A Seville girl, with auburn hair,

And eyes that might the world have cheated

A wild, bright, wicked, diamond pair.

'She stooped and wrote upon the sand,
Just as the loving sun was going,

With such a soft, small, shining hand,
You would have sworn 't was silver flowing:
Her words were three, and not one more;
What could DIANA'S motto be?
The syren wrote upon the shore,
'Death! not inconstancy!'

' And then her two large languid eyes
She turned on mine, the devil take me!

I set the stream on fire with sighs,
And was the fool she chose to make me.
Saint FRANCIS would have been deceived
By such an eye and such a hand;
But one week more, and I believed
As much the woman as the sand!'

If that is n't mellifluous, what is? AN esteemed friend and an old contributor, writing from Illinois, thus adverts to our late lamented associate: 'So, since I saw you, our kind-hearted and genial friend, Mr. HuESTON, has gone upon his long journey. Of course, residing at this distance from the city, I could not know him intimately; but in my brief visits to the Metropolis, I saw enough of him to convince me that he well answered the comprehensive description of an 'unpretending gentleman.' We cannot review the decrees of HEAVEN; but men of Mr. HUESTON's stamp are not so numerous that we can lose even one, without feeling that the world's stock of nobleness has been sensibly diminished. I hope the MAGAZINE is prospering under its new and evidently energetic management; for in the literary circle its loss could be hardly less felt, than the departure from a fire-side of a long-loved face.' The

'Chicago Daily Journal,' in a few desultory reflections, pays the following tribute to the same kindly spirit: They must miss his honest smile and quiet presence in the office where he sat so long: his cordial welcome and his earnest word. All that pertained to the KNICKERBOCKER were numbered among the household of his heart: its EDITOR, its Contributors, Itself. To him, it seemed in some sort a child; he would have gone sleepless and hungry for their sake and the MAGAZINE'S. Its plain blue cover was transmuted in his eyes to rich brocade; and the newly-printed pages, bright from Mr. CLARK'S revising eye, seemed to him sinless, like a new-born child. While other and more pretentious periodicals, that thrived in green, have wilted, his charge kept on the even tenor of its way. No GARRICK to make an alphabet of faces,' it wore the old expression that we learned, so long ago, to love; and so, and so far, it was like him whose death we now deplore. Mr. HUESTON was neither brilliant nor eloquent, as the world has it; but better than either, he was a good and true man. Simple in his heart as in his habits, sincere, earnest, and honest, he attracted friends who loved and respected him while living, and who will remember and regret him now that he is no more.' DID Our correspondent, KNIGHT-ERRANT,' really suppose that we could 'find among our manuscripts' his 'Lines to -: an Invocation,' sent us, by his own showing, very nearly five years ago? Why, we should as soon think of looking for a black cat in a deep cellar, on a dark night, with a blind nigger holding a dark lantern, with the light out. We have received perhaps five thousand similar pieces since that was sent. Two of 'our' boys, (writes a western friend) HI ANGEL and DICK WALKER, emigrated to the wilds of Minnesota. During the long winter evenings, they went to work and made up a lot of axehelves. Being 'raw' hands at the business, the helves were any thing but saleable. Going to the nearest town, they tried in vain to dispose of them at the different groceries and stores. There was but one shop left, and HI, giving DICK instructions, went in alone. Inquiring of the shopman if he had any helves, he was informed that he had not. Blustering up, he inquired why he did not keep such things, and told him to buy the next dozen he came across and put them one side for him. After he had been gone some time, DICK went in and sold the helves. The shopman is undoubtedly keeping them. WE cannot oblige our CROCKET (Texas) correspondent in full, but we annex a few stanzas of the piece sent us, which will afford a 'taste' of the elegiac poem which adorned the poet's-corner of the 'Crocket Printer' for January 15th, 1858:

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'NOVEMBER is long to be remembered,

For the death of little LEVI CALVERT DUPREE,
It was on the twentieth day of November
In the year eighteen hundred and fifty-seven.

'Adieu! little LEVI: Heaven is your prize,
And JESUS your king for e'er praise in glory,
And we of this vain world lives in hope of Heaven
The golden streets of the New Jerusalem ?

"'T was in Eden that ADAM was doomed to die
For his disobedients in serving GoD:
And we of ADAM's family must follow,
For dust we are, and to dust we must return.

'The day of resurection is drawing nigh,

When we must rise from the tomb to meet JESUS

In the heavenly skies of eternal blyss.
And there to read titles to the mansions.'

And much more of the same sort. Doubtless Mr. 'KING D. D. SHIFFLETT' fancied he was writing 'poetry' when he penned these lines. Of all places

in the world seems to us that the CHURCH should be the very last for the exhibition of 'pride' and 'vain-glory.' 'LORD, have mercy upon us miserable sinners!' appears to be a supplication misplaced, when we behold such things. It is not a long time since, that we saw, in a metropolitan church, a stalwart, burly person, with head erect, 'eyes right,' and heavy tread; with squeaking boots, a fat wife, and a lean boy, (he had red hair, 'cow-licked' to a point over his scanty strip of forehead, like an incipient conflagration,) sweep down the aisle, enter their pew, open their gold-embossed, velvet prayer-books; and 'kneel before the LORD their MAKER!' That robust, 'pompious' father seemed to us to consider Physical Devotion the 'most acceptable service:' and yet, in the Psalter of that very day, the responses of which he pronounced with a most sonorous voice, looking around furtively now and then, upon the bending congregation, was this passage: 'He hath no pleasure in the strength of an Horse, neither delighteth HE in any man's legs.' WE desire to state, in justice to our old friend and correspondent, the author of 'The Hut,' Mr. HENRY J. BRENT, the distinguished landscape-artist, that the discontinuance of that interesting serial in these pages, arises in no respect from any fault of his own. Its suspension began when a good many other suspensions began; and its secretwas, curtailment, or 'cutting one's coat according to one's cloth :' in other words, the publisher who was to succeed Mr. HUESTON, did not 'see his way clear' as to the expense of the requisite engravings for every month: nor does the present publisher. But 'The Hut' will be completed, with all its intended illustrations, and published in book-form, in the coming season: and our readers shall hear of it, and from it. AN exceedingly simple and a most 'vivid picture in little'—is the following, just received for the KNICKERBOCKER from our old friend, JAMES T. FIELDS, of Boston. It is a translation from the German:

beautiful poem

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'IN the old Cathedral resting,
Two coffins press the stones;

One holds the great King OTTMAR,
And one the Poet's bones.

'High in his power, the monarch
Ancestral glories led:

The sword lies in his right hand,
And the crown upon his head.

"The minstrel near the proud king
Is laid in quiet sleep;
His lifeless hands enfolded,
His gentle harp to keep.

'Castles and towers are falling-
The war-cry thrills the land;
But the sword it moveth never
In the dead king's hand.

"Through valleys, sweet with blossoms,
Mild breezes float along,

And the poet's harp is sounding

In never-dying song.


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I write her name with tears, and lay down my pen, and think. My mind drifts off into a sea of love and sorrow. I feel the presence of a spirit near me. I close my eyes, and see a sweet but pallid face, a vague but beautiful form. I hold them by my will, and live over a thousand solemn recollections. Stay with me a little longer, Elma, if only in a dream. Remain, I implore you! In vain, in vain! The figure vanishes: the dream is past. I awake, and find myself alone.

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I have been thinking of my past life a great deal lately, and trying to understand it: but I cannot. It is a strange, dark mystery-an appalling night-mare. My friends try to persuade me that I am ill, and melancholy. You have lived and thought too much,' they say: 'you need repose and society. What seems to you a reality, is only a dream. You have but dreamed: nothing more.' You mean well, my good friends: but you are mistaken. I am not the man you think me:

'My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful music: it is not madness
That I have uttered: bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word, which madness
Would gambol from.'

No: I am not mad; I am sane: too sane, alas! to be happy.

I foresee a difficulty in writing this narrative: it faces me on the threshold of it, and thrusts me grimly back. I am to recount my past life: but which life shall I recount? For I have lived two lives: one common to the race, the other peculiar to myself alone. Shall I describe my inner or my outer life? If I describe my outward life, I fear I shall be too common-place: if I describe my inward life, I shall be too subtle and metaphysical. If I blend the two, I may be successful.

The book of my youth opens in a city by the sea. I behold in the neighborhood of the wharves an antique dwelling, of yellow

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brick. It stands at the end of a paved court-yard, with its front facing the street, and its back the wharves and ships. From my back-window I saw tall masts and black spars, with here and there a half-furled sail, and, beyond, the bright belt of the sea: from my front-window, I saw the paved court, the stony street, and the brick walls opposite.

My favorite walk lay among the wharves. I loved to stroll past the coils of rope, the pyramids of rusty chains, and the tar-barrels which cumber the side-walks of maritime neighborhoods, and past the great anchors, and the noisy forges, luminous with red-hot iron. The streets were filled with heavy drays, loaded with casks and bales and around the doors of groceries and taverns stood groups of sailors, just come home from sea. I often picked my way down the crowded wharves, jostling authoritative stevedores and sweaty laborers, and reaching the water, sat down on the edge of the pier, and dreamed. In thought I unmoored the black hulls of the ships, and drifted out to sea, piloted by the winds. I tried to imagine the mysterious sea an illimitable waste of waters, under a brooding sky and hanging clouds, and conjured up the winds that drove the billows. I saw the sky black with thunder, the forked lightning cleaving the air, and the billows, mountains high, crested with hissing foam. Anon the moon came, and the good ship sailed by its light. I pictured the tropic islands that sleep on the ocean like sea-birds: their coral reefs, their graceful palms, and the dusky savages that inhabit them, paddling their long canoes through the roaring wall of surf, or basking in front of their huts. But I soon came back to the pier, and the strata of civilization around me.

From my earliest years, I loved my fellow-men. I felt that they were my brethren, and my heart longed to embrace them. I peered curiously into the faces that I passed in the streets, and wondered who they were, and where and how they lived. I wondered whether the men had sweet-hearts and wives, or were alone on earth. Whether the women had husbands and children, or only lovers. Whether the children had parents, or were orphans, like myself. There was no end to the questions that flitted through my mind in my city walks. I have hardened my heart since then, and now I can look on mankind coldly. I passed a beggar on my way home to-night — an old, gray-headed man. Did I help him? I fumbled among the small change in my pocket, and withdrawing my hand, left him sitting there penniless in the rain.

Night has always been a happy season with me— a season of calm and peace. Year in and year out, I have sat for hours by my solitary lamp, plucking my thoughts as they budded, and binding them into little posies of song. Or I have pored over quaint old folios, until my eyes blinked with sleep. Having but few books in my youth, I used to while away my night hours at the open window. My favorite seat was at the back-window, which looked out on the harbor. Opposite the city was a small town, the lights of which were reflected in the water. When the night was calm, and the

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