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friends, Pomona has brought aproos full of her choicest apples, and emptied them upon the old woman's fruit-tables at the corners of the streets; the sickie of Ceres has been put to the golden grain; botiled-Dose Baccbus sits by the way-side, feasting on grapes and wine, avd Nature's table is loaded down with the rarest of luxuries. Tu-morrow the festival will be over; tbe leaves, stems, oud scattered fragments, will be strewn over the fields in the wildest confusion; but they wont lie there long. No; Boreas with his broom will sweep them all into the corners of the fences, and keep on sweepiog till the while vapkin of winter is spread for the season. ... Oh! there is sotething so fascinating in the first blush of evening, just after the run has shakem his last golden feathers upon the bill.1008? It's enough to make a mun strip off his jacket of mortality, ano swim the gulf of time, for the sake of reaching the splendors that decoraie the opposite shore! I bave seeu somne evening twilights, my friends, that take the shine off of every thing below, aud clay on a few extra touches of their own. I have sat and admired the western firmament, when it seemed as though ten thousand dye-pots of glory had been upset in the chamber of heaven, a hile their gorgeous contents leaked through and stained the fleecy clouds beneath with colors not to be mocked by the daubing pencil of art. Then my imagination would taku wings and play truant up aluft, like a Wayward child; but was always sure to return with a sprig of comfort, plucked from the evergreen of ideality. Oh! there is an inviting peace in yon ocean ot blue tranquility! I can't look upon it, my brethren, without feeling my suspenders strelcb. I'm sure, if they were to give way, I should go up like a balloon, and leave nothing but my breeches and boots behind! Those clouds are living things. The lesser ones are gold fishi, swimming about in the celestial sea. The larger ones are the dying dolphins of heaven, disclosing vew beauties with every wave of the fin, and brightening as they expire in the dark billow of night.'

Like many gossiping preachers of the clerical school, Mr. Dow JB. has a great deal to say concerning himself, and his experiences.' Hear him:

•What a precious piece of goods I am! - hardly fit for a mock-auction shop; a damaged rem. nant of youthful ambition ; moth-eaten by linse, grown flimsy by age, and scratched to pieces by the cares, disappointments, and trials of a vexatious world. I leel rhyself to be nothing more than a soup.bubble, blown into existence by the breath of Omnipoteace; and I expect to be blown out of it by a puff from the same source.

When my old coal gives evidence of decay, I can get it scoured and mended ; a superannuated pair of boots can find renovation in the lap of the cobbler ; but when the body grows the worse for wear, no mortal hand con stay its destruction. Time has used me pretty well, however, considering the liberties I have sometimes laken with it. It has gently brought me to the calm evening of ny days, where life's second twilight gathers rouad, and us it deepens, discloses the band-writing upon the golden wall of the west: 'A FAIR TO-MOKROW FOR THE WEARY PILGRIM.' I have not descendedd, my friends, into o gloomy vale. Not a bit of it! I have reached the summit of a glorious hill, wbere the eterval suu of Hope shipes dowu and warms my back, as an offset to the chill winds that whistle in my boxom. Here I cau moont a stump, and look over the whole landscape of past existence. I can point to the dim-blue horizon, and say: • There, behind that misty veil, lies the region of infancy, where I first pecked the shell, and came squalling into the world with an eloquence that foretold niy future callmg: a little this side, I behold the blooming gardeu of childhood, in all its pristine loveliness, where i plucked the roses of joy, sucked all the sweet cider of life, mocked at care, and drove sorrow away with a single boo-boo; this side of that, are the green pastures of youth, over wbich I bounded with the blood of young ambition boiling in my veins, striving to imitate and emulate; bearer still, cxtend the broad plains, fertile valleys, rugged hills, and wooded lawns of manhood, with an extensive variety of prospect; here a gleam of sunshine, and there a glooiny shadow.'

Now and then we are treated to brief philosophical speculations. Here is an extract which will remind the reader of Dr. Metcalf's theory, in his papers on 'Life,' in this journal :

"Life is like fire. Fire, like lise, is in all bodies, and is every where -- even in the air itself. The effects of fire, like life, are only seen while operating on soine substance, which it gradually consumee. Fire exists without air the same length of time as life. A candle placed in a cellar that contains fixed air, will burn as long as life cau exist, and no longer; and when the blaze and life both expire, they return, together, mysteriously back to the state from whence they sprung. You must not believe, however, with some foolish aiheists, that wben the body dies, the soul or life dies with it. This is all an error. I tell you that the soul will live for ever, in souie form or other; for natural philosophy leuches us that not a single particle of matter can be destroyed; it only undergoes changes. Then wby does not reason tell that the soul can't be destroyed, but simply undergoes a change also? When the body dies, the naterial that composes il dissolves, and returns to its uative dust; and the soul also goes back to the element that gave it birth.'

Mr. Dow Jr. takes special cognizance of social abuses and fashionable follies; and however he may trench upon the reigning taste, always speaks his mind with great freedom. For example, he does not much affect the waltz:

When I see a chap bugged up to a girl, performing constant revolutions, at the rate of ten to a minute, I can't help suspecting ihat be is irying to get round her in a very nonsensical way. 0, tbis walizing is a siliy piece of business! A puppy whirling round after his tail, makes a more respectable appearance than a couple of our heavenly Father's images in the ludicrous position of waliziug. li dancing must be done at all, I say let it be done deceutly and in order.'

In running over these 'patent' discourses, we have always been struck with the resemblance which many of their odd conceits bear to those of the personages drawn by our

"Charcoal Sketcher,' the Dickens of America. These conceits abundantly abound, and are often remarkable for terseness and originality, while their tendency is for the most part unexceptionable. Observe a cluster of them: 'Avoid prodigality, my friends; be content to travel slowly on the plain road to happiness, rather than ride on the rail-road to misery.' 'Take care of your moments. Moments are the small change of time, small in their individual amounts, but of immense importance in forming hours, days, months, years, and ages.' 'You have only to make a good use of whatever has been Joaned you by Providence; for when these things are returned, they will be closely examined, and you will have to make reparation for all the injuries they have received. You own nothing here; you are only tenants of this lower world, and the rent is enor. mous!' 'I preach up strict virtue; and if there is no religion in virtue, there is no virtue in religion,' etc. With the following satire upon the sublime statistics sometimes introduced into religious discourses, we take our present leave of Mr. Dow Jr. and his patent sermons: 'Eternity! why you don't know the meaning of that word, nor I either, hardly. It is for ever and ever and ever, and five or six everlastings a-top of that. You might place a row of figures from here to sunset, and cypher them all up, and it wouldn't begin to tell how many ages long eternity is. Why, my friends, after millions, billions, and trillions of years had rolled away in eternity, it would then be a hundred thousand years to breakfast time!' This is a clever burlesque upon that species of vague minuteness which is sometimes a feature in the discourses of ignorant and 'powerful speakers,' and which is well satirized by one Columns, author of the 'Geography of Hades,' who lays down the limits of the infernal provinces as gravely as if he had taken a trigonometrical survey of them; gives the statistics of the inhabitants, and the natural history of the productions; and allots a warm corner to those who refuse to pay their tithes.

*The Dial'— The second number of The Dial' is a decided improvement upon its predecessor. The quaint Thoughts on Modern Literature include many fine ideas, and a very good criticism of GÖETAE. There is poetry in 'First Crossing the Alleghanies, but its form is nought. It would make a pleasant and picturesquo prose sketch. There is no lack of thought, and souud philosophy, in “ The Art of Life. The utilitarian tendencies of the age are well set forth. The highest life, the writer contends, the highest enjoyment, is the life of the mind, the enjoyment of thougbt. The world is too much with us. We live out of doors. An all-present publicity attends our steps. Our life is in print. Society has become a chamber of mirrors, where our slightest movement is brought home to us with thousand-fold reflections. The consequence is, a morbid consciousness, a habit of living for effect, utterly incompatible with wholesome effort, and an earnest inind. No heroic character, no depth of feeling, cau ever come of such a life.' •The WoodFire' is a thouyhtful piece of verse, and the associatioos it awakens, natural and pleasing. 'A Lesson for the Day' impressed us favorably, especially the comprehensive sketch of the progress of Christianity: The priest, the philosopher, the poet, and the king – all who have a love for the past, or an interest in present delusions-join forces to cast down and tread into dust these Jewish fishermen and tent-makers. They fetter the limbs, they murder the body. So the world went on for two ages; but in less than three centuries, this faith goes from its low beginning on the Galileao Lake, through Jerusalem, Antioch, Corinth, and Alexandria ; ascends the throne of the Cæsars; and great men, and temples, and towers, and rich cities, and broad kingdoms, lie at its feet.' This is eloquent; and partakes not a little of the spirit of Rev. Mr. Bascom's discourse upon the same theme, as given originally in these pages, as well as of counsellor Phillips's celebrated address before an Irish Bible Society. The enthusiastic admiration of the editor for the .New. Poetry' of his correspondent, will scarcely be endorsed by his readers. Some portion of it is tuinid and tumultuary in its structure, and barely respectable rhyme. We see no more of the ‘Orphic Sayings,' and rejoice at the good taste of Mr. Emerson in clipping them at. Number One. Such papers have but once-readers.' There was not a balf-dozen clear ideas in the whole performance. The main impressiou of the reader was, that the writer had gone out of his wits, and that he had had no great jouruey to go, to get past their confines. Mounted on airy stilts of abstraction, he walked in the clouds, illumined by a sunshiuy flash and a moonshiny haze. He was one of that class of wordy sciolists who now and then offer a safety-valve for literary eccentricilies; who oply

think they tbink; and who, so far from making others think, awaken but one idea ; which is, that had they been born with four legs, and carried panniers, their line of life' would not have been mistaken. The Boston journalists, we perceive, are ever and anon putting forth pungent burlesques upon articles in the Dial, and particularly upon papers after the style of the New Poetry,' and the Orphic Sayings.' The ‘Gastric Sayings' which follow, are a capital imitation of the 'popular Genesis,' quoted in a former notice of The Dial :'

The popular cookery is dietetical. It addresses the sense, not the soul. Two principles, diverse and alion, interchange the soul, and sway the world by turns. Appetite is dual. Satioty is derivative Simplicity halls in compounds. Mastication is actual merely. The poles of potatoes are integrated; eggs globed and orbed: yet in the true cookery, flour is globed in the material, wine orbed in tbe transparent. The baker glohes, the griddle orbs, all things. As magnet the steel, so the palate abstracts matter, which trembles to traverse the inouthis of diversity, and rest in the bowels of unity. All cookery is of hunger: variety is her form, order her costume.'

The subjoined is an equally felicitous imitation of that vague ó longing after the Infinite and the Unattainable,' of which we hear so much in the writings of the inferior Transcendentalists :

Why is it that the proboscis of the individual man protrudeth itself so far forth toward the 106nite? Is it not that he may thereby essay even to obtain, as it were, a fore-smell of the Illimitable? Whence comes it, that that organ, in each generation of its being, preserves its proper individuality, distinct from that of its fellows? Is it not that they may thereby assuredly feel that they do follow ever in the wake of the Infallible? It matters not if the extreme of each individual proboscis be, as it were, sui generis, touching its tendeocy upward, into the Sublime, or downward, toward the Unfathomable; seeing that both are alitse to be found in that divine path, made by the footsteps of Nature, iu lier passage to the all-perfect.'

The 'Chowder CONTROVERSY,' in so far as the KNICKERBOCKER is concerned, closes with the annexed rejoinder of Joun WATERS, which should have reached us from abroad in season for our last number. A profound conception of the ars celare artem, and a style prëeminently delicate and sui generis, are deep mysteries, it should cem, to one who abjures all art, and 'speaks the plain language;' yea, verily, and they be edged tools, also, which whoso handleth, not knowing the uses thereof, shall assuredly be harmed thereby.

ONE WORD ON CRITICISM.

WRITTEN FOR THE PRIVATE EYE

OP

THE FRIEND STARBUCK.

SCENE, A DARK CHAMBER.

PHYSICIAN. — Poor man! what can have reduced him to this wretched state!
PATIENT, soliloquizing. - Ob Criticism! criticism!
PHYSICIAN. -Criticisin! In all my vast practice, I have never heard of the disorder before!
PATIENT. — Death, Sir! a disorder! It is a noble art! I am myself a follower of Longinus !

I do not know whence this dramatic passage comes from that I have chosen for my motto, and I certainly shall not give myself any trouble of research to find its origin or test the accuracy of the quotation ; but it entered forcibly into my thoughts, when, descending from the purple haze of the lower Alps into one of the capitals of Europe, I laid my hand upon thy cumbrous article in the KNICKERBOCKER Magazine for August last, and rend it to the end, oh thou HEzedah STARBUCK, third mortal existing man, as thou averrest thyself to be, of that – Phæbus, what a name!'

Really thou deservest praise for the industrious collection of thy machinery! -- first, for this thine own name; then thine Obed Macy; thine Amaziah Greeo, that Newport friend removed from the Island ; thine eleven daughters, Rhoda, Hepsabeth, and the Muses; thy befrizzled Mounseer ; thy house in Coflio-street; thy ship upon the stocks; and thy son Libni mounted upon an albatross and sailing in the rear! Saint Luke preserve thee in thy remaining wits! how thou must have felt delivered when thine article was writ out, and thine additional onion, (almost the only idea in the whole piece, by the way, germave even to the supposed subject,) had been at length brought forth in safety!

I thought at first not to have replied to thee at all, saying to myself in the bright words of our Master Geoffry Crayon, he has • satisfied the sentiment,' let him rest; reflecting also, that with many other honest persons beside thyself, an attempt at a joke is no laughing matter, and that thy failure therefore was not remarkable, nor to be noticed by me in any manner that might andoy

the perfect self-complacency that seems to form the reigning characteristic of thy mind. Bat the apprehension lest silence on my part might be misconstrued by thee into an admission that there is either relevancy or force of expression in thine attempt, and encourage thee into the criticism (as I suppose thou considerest it to be) of works of a standard far more elevated than the slight opuscula with which I occasionally amuse a lonely hour, I approach thee in the sprit of the physician of the motto, desiring thy cure, and to inform thee that thou hast in thy disorder mistaken metaphysics for chowder; the remote variation upon the chords of an air, for the words of the song to which it was originally married ;* and the woodland echoes of the resounding horn, for the metal of which the instrument was made. If I had been writing a recipe as thou supposest for the cooking of chowder, there are certainly some details into which I should have entered that were not touched upon by me; but this was not my purpose, and there were reasons, scrutable perhaps even to thy perceptions under this explanation, for not placing a fryingpan in the hands of my friend Jim.

I could have wisbed, if thou really hast any intelligence in the Science of Cookery as applied to fish, that instead of commenting upon my religion and everything else in the world, thy paper had reflected some glimpse of light upon the construction of the dish thou professest to admire so much, and which thou hadst chosen for thy subject; but — Adieu! I counsel thee in all friendliness to think more and write less; and instead of coining names, and living upon the wits of other men, to endeavor to extract some one useful or amusing idea from thine own.

JOHN WATERS.

EXHIBITION OF THE Appollo Gallery – We hope none of our town readers will infer, from the compulsory brevity of our reserence to the Apollo exbibition, that it is not in the main a most attractive collection ; for such it assuredly is, and one which will as well repay repeated visits, as any similar exhibition which has been presented in this metropolis for many months. Designing to recur to the subject again, our present glance will be a very cursory one.

Number 26. Fishmarket at Rome.' We are not distinctly aware who Mr. H. GREENE, the artist, may be, but this is one among the very best pictures in the gallery. Massive architecture, of various orders and ages, cruinbling to majestic ruin, and beneath it Italian fishwomen disposing their piscatory treasures. What contrasts! and the painter has felt and depicted them. ... No. 19. Isaac of York,' the Jew in Ivanhoe,' by WASHINGTON ALSTON. This is a study. We can only ask the reader to appreciatingly regard the forehead, the gray-brown, protruding eye, the compressed lip, the beard, and the hand in shadow that grasps the staff. Could any thing be more cool and natural, subdued and beautiful? - unless indeed it be the portrait of West, by the same artist, which is imbued with kindred characteristics.

Observe the several sea-views of THOMAS BIRCH, & the first marine painter in America. One can almost hear the roar of the breaking wave, aud the hiss of the salt sea brine, as it dissolves and sinks away, while the distant sail Aits into dimness, in faint relief against a cloudy coast.

No. 33 is aFlorentine Girl,' by HUNTINGTON. We have already alluded to this picture, and ask the visiter at the Apollo to justify the praise which it elicited at our hands. ... No. 49. View of Schroon Lake,' by Thomas COLE. You will sit by this picture a half an hour, if you are a lover of nature, admiring the perfect water, and the shadows which rest upon it from the bold shore near by, the purple mountain in the distance, and the cloud which clips its pinnacle. How deep the repose!-how solemn the stillness! This little picture is a poem. ... No. 29. Portrait of a Lady and Child,' by Page. Warm, expressive, and rich, like a great portion of this fine artist's efforts. Mr. Page, or we greatly mistake, is slowly winning his way to distinguished eminence.

No. 79. · View of Pittsburgh,' etc., by J. Shaw. Is not this picture (and one or two others, that we recognize as its fellows,) cold, raw, gray, and daguerreotype-ish in color? We'only ask for information.' No. 107. View of St. Paul's and part of Blackfriar's Bridge, London.' A very striking picture, by V. G. AUDUBON. It has the merit, also, of being a faithful transcript of the scene. "That's very like old Paul's and Ludgit'ill,' said a fresh Englishman near us; and the 'Friars is not amiss, but the river is too empty. Where's the w'erries ?' Mr. Audubon is entitled to this cockney criticism. Nos, 123 and 131: Views of Nero-York,' from Weehawkeu and the Greenwood Cemetery, by Mr. HAVELL. As these pictures will come up for consideration in another form in these pages, we merely direct to them the notice of the visiter.

We find many other pictures, including several portraits, checked and pepcilled in our catalogue, to which we may hereafter find leisure to do justice. In the mean time, we cordially commend the 'Apollo Gallery' to the admiration and patronage of the public.

• Music married to immortal verse.'

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PARK THEATRE. – Mrs. Wood, our Queen of Song, is again among us, with all her imperial powers undiminished. Opera is at this writiog the order of the night, and crowded houses testify that it is an order which they have no wish to break. What can we say in praise of this exquisite songstress, which has not been said and sung by her admirers over and again? Who that has listened to the tones of ber heart-moving voice, but has testified to its power! If there be one with soul so dead,' let him not be trusted. • Treason, stratagems, and spuils,' these is be made for: the sweet humanities live not with him; bis inner man is as sole leather; his fingers are pickers and stealers,' and he is exactly the individual we would not trust behind us in a crowd! There is a sort of inspiration in the singing of Mrs. Wood, which we often wonder does not carry her away altogether beyond the measured notes of the song: she seems so enwrapped in the enchanting tones which she creates, that like the singing bird, ranging at its own sweet will, we have almost expected a vocal voluntary, even in the midst of her most studied songs. But it is not in music alone that Mrs. Wood is almost witbout a competitor. As an actress, her powers are sufficient to entitle her to a prond rank in the histrionic art. We can safely say, that we have never bebeld a great singer possessing such attractions as an actress. The lamented MALIBRAN was admired before she left this country for the beauty of her acting; but even long afterward, io her best days, she could not give more pleasure in this branch of art to an English audience, thau can Mrs. Wood at the present day. Her 'Rosetta,' in 'Love io a Village,' is a performance finished and perfect in every respect. Simplicity and archness combined, render this character in itself almost unapproachable by a performer of ordinary capacity. The smallest minutiæ of the scene are given by Mrs. Wood with as much truth as if the events were truly affecting herself. There appears to be po acting about it; it is nature's self; and it possesses that rare charm – in acting as in every other art – the utter absence of apparent effort. So it is with Mrs. Wood's execution of all other parts in opera; and we have heard it stated, by one who was himself a witness of the performance, that Mrs. Wood did herself great honor, in the latter days of the elder Kean, by playing the part of Desdemona to the Othello of that lamented son of genius.

Mr. Wood has decidedly improved since his last visit. His voice is more round and full than ever, and there seems to be more of life and spirit, albeit there was more than a modicum before, in his siuging and acting, thao was perceptible during his previous visits. The uviversal call for this gentleman on the first night of the appearance of Mrs. Wood, in ust have been as gratifying to him as it was worthy of the just and bonorable feelings of the audience; but the loud. Hurrah !' wbich greeted his first appearance, two nights afterward, was the worthy tribute of an American public to one who had unrighteou s'y suffered, and a cheering evidence of their determination to give him a warm welcome, and a hearty support. . . . Mr. LeFler, who has come before us upon the introduction of the Woods, is a singer of great merit. His voice is round and full, and of that peculiar character of expression that finds its way at once to the heart. Mr.LEFLER is as yet but little practised in stage singing ; but his knowledge of music, and the extraordinary character of his voice, with his own goud sense and the direction of such teachers as Mrs. and Mr. Wood, will soon place him first among the eminent. ... Mr. Brough, an old favorite, and every body's favorile, is so coanected with our recollections of the Woodr, that to meet him with them again, is like bringing the past before us. That same majestic voice, for wo cau give it no other name, which enthralled us then, is as perfect now as ever. Unlike many performers whom wo wot of, his sojourn in the South and West, and among the 'Hoosier’ tribes of this our blessed country, has not deteriorated his style. Back again among his old friends, he seems hardly to have left us at all; but sings and acts with the same spirit — although a little pervous at times, that he did in. days long vanishes. The operas of. Cinderella,'' Fra Diavolo,'' Love in a Village,' and 'La Sonnambula," have been already presented and repeated with all their old success; and the 'Fidelio' and Don Giovanni' will probably have been produced before these words receive the diguity of type, but too late for a notice of their performance. We hope often, during the winter and spring, to recur to these chiefly well established favorites of this good public.

THE New NATIONAL' did not open well. Mr. Horn's new opera, which has been highly commended for many merits, was hurried before the publie by the go-ahead' management, and of consequence proved a failing card. We fear it needs at least a Wallack to resuscitate a theatre in the low and unfashionable quartier of Church-street and its adjacent localities. The house, however, is well arranged, so far as comfort is concerned, being spacious, and 'roomy' in its seats,

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