purpose, splintered right down to the lock. But with the tiger's strange howl, came to see what was the matter. the barrel I succeeded in giving him two or three more blows which brought him down again, and then, my knife, and finding the jugular vein, ended the battle; though, ere the victory was gained, I had many more lacerating scratches from my dying foe than I would willingly have counted on.

A MOUNTAIN STREAM.

"They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy."

THINGS WE TALK ABOUT.

In Smith's engraving room, Ann street, near Broadway, hangs a Crucifixion, by Crull, so said, who flourished near about two hundred years ago. We are in the habit of stopping occasionally to look at this picture as it is one that we have always admired. The artist we know nothing of, but in our poor judgment, such as it is, we consider this production eminently fine in many particulars, and if we could afford to be a virtuoso should certainly add it to our collection. Mr. Smith has in his rooms, in addition to the above, several curious and interesting works of art, such as rare engravings, &c.

-WE have no Art Gallery worthy such a name-but it is | which we never pass without stopping to take one more a want we individually care little for. We confess to a dis- look. It pleases us exceedingly. like for pictures in masses or groups-with all the confusion of color and form, and all the bewildering glitter of showy frames and dazzling gas lights. We prefer isolated pictures with harmonious surroundings. We like to step into Williams & Stevens', or Goupil's little shut-off closets, where usually some fine production is hung, with proper care as to light, and careful avoidance of everything distracting or conflicting in effect. Here one can sit quietly and calmly, and with real pleasure examine and take in the beauties of the picture before him. Some of the pleasantest hours we have ever passed before the canvas, have been spent in these places. Landseer's, Vernet's, Delaroche's, and Fraed's, finest At Williams & Stevens' the latest exhibitions are "The efforts have honored them. Recently at Goupil's we had Order of Release," an engraving from a work by the cele"Marie Antoinette before the Revolutionary Tribunal "brated pre-Raphaelite painter, Millais, and two productions -one of the noblest and ablest historical paintings the country has ever seen. At the same time Cole's celebrated series of the "Voyage of Life" were open to inspection at Williams & Stevens' and at either place could be seen an engraving of Fraed's last production-Longfellow's Evangeline. It is much to be regretted that the original of this picture was not sent over. It is a beautiful conception, one that could only have sprung from the brain of a poet, and does us, as well as Longfellow, immeasurable service, in heightening and deepening our apprciation and love of the poem. Whoever reads Evangeline with this sweet ideal of the heroine in his mind's eye, will find a profounder pleasure in its perusal than he otherwise could have done. Could Art do more than this? Has it a higher aim?

We like to go about, and we do go about, picking out pictures that please us. They turn up at times in odd places, and obscure places. But very frequently some rare gem for a brief period makes its appearance in a Broadway window, unhceded by the crowd that rushes by. We have noted down several that have arrested our attention.

For some months, though we believe now removed, there hung in one shop window, "The last Supper of the Girondists." This was a remarkably fine picture, with a peculiar and effective management of light, and a grouping of figures full of dramatic power, expression, and contrast. You saw those men who went singing and rejoicing to the guillotinethe jest was on their lips, which the awful shadow of the coming moment could not dissipate. Their reckless, even sublime, philosophy gleamed from their eyes. One or two were sinking for a moment under a flitting sadness-their fingers relaxing the grasp of the wine cup-some dream of youth, of broken and shattered hopes clouding for an instant their unnatural mirth, but you looked to see the vain sentiment disappear, and the song break from their lips again. The painter we do not know.

from the pencil of the poet-artist, Buchanan Reed, The Lost Pleiad," and "The Knight bearing off Undine." These pictures of Mr. Reed's while open to criticism in several particulars, present many claims to our admiration. Undine is marked by warm, rich-toned color, but the composition of the picture does not altogether please us. The Lost Pleiad is in a dreamy, poetic style, in its details full of exquisite grace and feeling, but the dense blue of its background strangely mars its effect as a whole. A propos of Mr. Reed, we are glad to perceive that the London Athenæum has given a laudatory review of The House by the Sea," and concludes its remarks by saying: "We may congratulate America on the advent of another poet destined to share the laurels of Longfellow and Bryant."

Before leaving this art subject let us say a word or two in behalf of the very beautiful design by Mr. Dallas which we take pride in presenting to our readers in this number of the magazine "Flowers and Thorns." Mr. Dallas is an artist who is rapidly attaining a position second only to the great Darley. He has fine creative talent, and a genius strongly tending in the poetic and allegorical direction, which this picture of "Flowers and Thorns" sufficiently indicates. We have seen in his studio several designs of a similar character, and we are confident that he needs but to give publicity to this vein (Pencil-poems we might call them), to at once obtain for him a general and wide recognition as a master in this branch of art effort.

-FROM the contemplation of Art subjects let us turn our glass of observation upon life-for the study of life, after all, is the greatest of studies, and we have no sympathy for that dilettanteism which reserves all its ecstasies for the "counterfeit presentment" of things, and has neither eye nor ear for the things themselves. To true taste and true cultivation every scene is a gallery, which the eye divides, combines, and sets in pictures. And these pictures, these In Goupil's window hung, or hangs, a crayon sketch by fragments of beauty, that lie about us everywhere, whether Darley. No American's collection can be considered satis-only in a shifting cloud, in the fall of a ray of light, in the factory without one of Darley's sketches. What a pity it is that his genius is thrown away (in every sense but a pecuniary one) upon bank note designs, when productions like the one above, if more frequent, would give him fame, wide, universal, deep. The sketch we speak of is a rural one full of Darley's peculiarly charming touches.

In another window, near Bond street, is a little watercolor landscape, not much bigger than our magazine page,

play of shadow, in the chance picturesqueness of a street scene, or the coming together of fine or effective contrasts, are abundantly evident to the artist-eye of an appreciative observer. There is many a pretty scene which town walks afford-many a little, pleasant, gem-like setting-if we have only the philosophy and the wisdom to find them out. If when we walk abroad we will consent to forget ourselvesour grand schemes, our plans of aggrandizement, our self

taste and bad judgment control them. The children appear to have been carefully educated in the worst style of the worst theatres. They strut and spout in a puny, unintelligible, and unendurable imitation of the noisy bow-wow school of acting, disdaining nature and common sense; and their plays are selected from the most degraded specimens of low melo-drama, audaciously dubbed "moral." What are we to think of innocent little girls acting “The Six Degrees of Crime?" Master Marsh has some cleverness, but he has been taught the winking, face-making, and contortions of East side comedians, until he is fairly spoiled.

pleasures to let the central sun of self around which we so complacently gather and dispose the rest of mankind, for a brief period to hide his light, and leave us only the eyes to see what others do, it would be wise and well. We like that nature which gathers in rich stores by its "penny of observation," to which life is a grand old drama, where every episode, however insignificant to the whole, has its own strong interest-that nature which looks out upon life with genial charity and modest self-abnegation. We see such a one in our mind's eye now. His capacious white vest folds voluminously over his big heart, and his nankeen pantaloons, "a world too wide," hang loosely about his limbs. Key and seal dangle at his fob; a hat, broad brimmed, shades his greyish locks. A blue coat with sleeves down to his finger nails; a white neckcloth; a stick, crooked and awry, but a time-honored companion. He walks slowly and looks to the right and left. He stops to pat an urchin's curly head, to look at some portrait finely set in the frame work of a window, to admire the pretty faces of roguish school girls, to laugh at the antics and tricks of frolicksome lads, to gaze (0 unfashionable!) in the showy and tempting shop windows. He pauses in the square to watch the shadows on the grass, or to chuckle cherub little ones in nurses' arms. There is no beauty he will not notc-no face into which he will not look with kindliness and interest. The beggar's thin hand closes upon his gifts; the weary hearted as they sweep by catch his quick glance of sym-ance. Mr. Fleming is a gentleman of fine talent, whom we pathy, and bear it with them.

This is the kind of a man we like-the happiest and the noblest better than genius or talent advancing only Selfbetter than wealth pampering only Self-better than Power which is bitter, or Fame, which even while it feeds, stimulates the appetite, and leaves the pursuer always hungered and up-stretching for more!

Charming Laura Keene, it is said, will have a new theatre. Buckley's new structure, it is gossipped, is likely to be bought for her. Laura wants a small theatre. Vaudevilles, and the triffes she performs, are better adapted to a small building than so vast a place as the Varieties. If she succeed in obtaining Buckley's, surrounded by a good company, with new, spirited, brilliant comediettas, she would soon be at the head of as popular and agreeable a place of theatrical resort as any in our city. We hope to see it. Laura Keene ought to be encouraged. She is a brilliant woman, and is the mistress of exactly that school of acting which we trust to see supersede the old, stilted, stalking style-the school of nature.

Mr. Fleming has opened Burton's Theatre for a summer season, but with heavy plays, and we fear inadequate attend

should like to see permanently located in New York.

-Ir is absurd to confine the infirmitics of Justice to mere blindness-she is lame, deaf, and insensible. She is a laggard, who comes halting and limping slowly up-behind the age, common sense, and her sister principles of Truth and Mercy. She is in rags. Her scales have false weights, she knows the ring of gold, and will smell it out with unerring instinct. She sold herself to Quibble, Trick & Co., long ago. There is one little act of justice which a certain class have long demanded—which any child (but the offspring of a lawyer) could see the equity of, which is so clear and simple that merely to state the question carries, conviction, and yet wise legislators, wise judges, and wise jurists fuddle the matter bravely, and shroud it with their awful arms to the utter exclusion of a ray of common sense. Some few years ago a wiseacre decided that the acting of a play was not the infringement of the copyright, because it was merely a public reading and not a publication of the work. Everybody, excepting Messrs. Quibble, Trick, & Co., knows that to all intents and purposes, and in fact, the acting of a play is the publication of it-that it is usually the only publication for which a play is designed—that the law in spirit and meaning (though not technically) ought to and does cover this, as well as all other modes of publication. But Quibble can't see it. Quibble disdains the meaning of things

-THE theatres are flourishing. Even the summer solstice, which usually seals their doors, has been unable this season to keep the dramatic light under its bushel, and brick walls filme in the hot sun with showy announcements of treats passing and promised. Wallack's, for a brief season, has been opened by Bourcicault and charming Miss Robertson, with a new dog-day sponsorial appellative, "The Summer Garden." Honest country folk might scratch their heads and puzzle their simple brains in an attempt to reconcile the fitness of this title, but we citizens used to "Castle Garden," and "Niblo's Garden, without a vestige of greenery about either, will accept the name in behalf of the few pots of flowers and shrubs with which Mr. Bourcicault has adorned the pl ce. Miss Robertson is a charming and delightful actress; and if we have not yet seen her during this engagement, it is because we recollect Wallack's as an exceedingly warm place, and we haven't faith enough in names to believe ourselves less susceptible of the melting mood. under even the cooling influence of "Summer Gar--the object of things. Quibble studies words. Quibble den" in big letters.

John Brougham, the brilliant and delightful, has absolutely gone over to the Bowery-where he will be sure of making money, if nothing else. He has renovated the structure, put a first-rate stock company on its boards, and means to give the theatre a better reputation than it has recently borne. He will succeed.

We went recently to see the Marsh juvenile troupe. We advise our readers not to do likewise. In the first place, juvenile theatricals is wrong in the abstract; in the second place, the performances of this company are bad. Bad

thinks that laws are framed especially for him to find loopholes in them, and for nothing else. But as Quibble is a potent personage in our courts, as he sits on the bench, upheld by all the satellites of law, it is necessary for the dramatist to go to law-makers and not law-expounders for a solution to his difficulty. He asks the addition of a single line to the law already existing, which shall simply and authoritatively declare that the acting of a play is the publication thereof in the spirit and meaning of the act. But time passes by and even this is not done. Senators, who are supposed to possess a fair degree of intelligence, are

importuned to assist this simple but important act of justice | full of motion and being, rich with color and beauty, gor-but still it lags, halts, and possibly in the pressure of more important matters, such as a duel or so, it will be lost sight of altogether.

Does the reader understand this question? Suppose he writes a comedy which Mr. Wallack undertakes to produce. He wishes to publish it in pamphlet form because successful plays always sell-and he wishes moreover to be enabled to | dispose of the right to act it to various managers through out the country-for provincial managers are always eager for a play which has received the stamp of a New York audience. But he suddenly finds himself checkmated. If he publishes, managers have the legal right to act (i. e. publicly read) his production, wilhe nilhe, and he can do nothing but submit with what grace he can. Or if he does not publish, the managers, if sufficiently tempted by the success of the play, will attempt to gain possession of copies illegally, by a reporter and short hand, by treacherous prompters, by the theatre copyist, in all of which ways the thing has been frequently done-for, no matter how obtained, stolen or not, the poor author cannot prevent his property being used in any way these magnates of the stage choose, because it's all a mere public reading, and no infringement of his copyright. Can injustice be more clear than this? And yet up to this day the dramatist has been enabled to obtain no redress. Of course, in the face of these things authors can't and won't write dramas, unless, which is rarely the case, the profit from a single theatre gives promise of adequately remunerating him for his labor. Justice may some day arrive to a sense of the peculiar evil existing in this matter-but while we hope we strongly doubt it.

geous with the spoils rifled from every clime, gay with equipages, fashion, banners—with jewels Cleopatra could not wear-with silks, gems, and precious wares the world has emptied into its vast mart! This is what Broadway is. Why make it less than this? Why destroy its carnival-like aspect? While it remains the gay centre of animation and fashion, it will necessarily be a crowded and thronged thoroughfare, and no plan can make it otherwise, unless it first succeeds in destroying the attractiveness and value of the street. No New Yorker wants to hear of the Decline and Fall of Broadway. So let us be rid of these suggestions for parallel avenues, for second story railways, for underground railways, and other absurd emanations of, doubtless well meaning, gentlemen with sanguine imaginations and weak judgments.

Clown.

What hast here? Ballads?

Mopsa. Pray now buy some; I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

*

Autolycus. Here's a ballad of a fish that appeared upou the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thous and fathoms above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids: it was thought she was a woman, aud was turned into a cod fish. The ballad is very pitiful. Mopsa. Is it true, too, think you? Autolycus. Five Justice's hands at it.

Ballad-selling flourishes as well to-day as it did in the time of Shakspeare, and doleful ditties are hawked about and dashing as their distinguished original, are scarcely less our streets by young Autolycuses, who, if not so picturesque shrewd and roguish. They hold forth usually upon the stone base of church railings, where they spread out in long array, their tempting wares, sundry bricks and rocks secur

-SCHEMES to relieve Broadway of its crowd of travel are continually urged upon our citizens through the daily papers, many of which we cannot help suspecting to haveing them against sudden flirtations with the wind. The been dated at the lunatic asylum, while even the best of them are suggestive of weak good nature on the part of their authors. The fact is Broadway does not want relieving-if we except one or two points where the tide of travel encounters and is interrupted by the cross-travel from river to river. Look at it for a moment. If Broadway is relieved of its crowd, its business bustle, its press of yehicles, as

"to and fro

Its double tide of chariots flow."

the street is destroyed-the value of its property is depreciated, its characteristics as an animated, spirited, gay, and thoroughly alive street, are removed, its charm and interest as a resort and promenade cease-and Broadway-as we know it, as we delight in it, as it is celebrated the world over, becomes a matter of history-a second or third rate affair ranking with Bowery or Canal street. People go to Broadway for its noisy, bustling, gay commotion; the shop keepers live by it; the property owners grow rich by it; all the world (in Manhattan Island) like it, saving and excepting certain nervous, restless busybodies who can't let well enough alone. The points where travel in Broadway is seriously incommoded are Canal street, Chambers street, and Fulton street, and in each of these places the difficulty is in the cross travel. Open avenues, therefore, from river to river, and the difficulty is removed. But as for turning out of Broadway its tides of travel, the very source of its splendor and attraction, the thing is preposterous. We want Broadway as it is not the dull, slow, half filled avenue of a third rate town, but the brilliant, dashing panorama of life,

collections usually afford a greater variety than Autolycus could display—including the doleful, the pitiful, the merry, the patriotic, the amorous, the heroic, of various degrees of interest, and ascending from the positively silly to the comparatively good. We stopped the other day to glance over a collection, and nearly the first our eye alighted upon, was one, set forth as follows:-" The Fate of a False Lover; or, The Successful Triumph of Margaret Garity, who was Tried for Stabbing her Seducer with a Carving Knife, at Newark, New Jersey." This was a glorious beginning. We could do no less than read :

"Come all who feel for innocence,
And learn what I shall say,
Concerning acts of violence

That took place the other day.

""Tis of a fiend in human shape,

Whose name I cannot tell,

He played his tricks some like an ape,
And then did boast and swell."

The ballad proceeds to state how," This fiend did court an
Irish dame" and "brought her to disgrace," and then

"He did engage another lass,
And to her he was wed,
But awful was his fate, alas,
This comfort from him fled.

"For Margaret met him on the way,
And took a carving-knife,
She stabbed him then without delay,
By which he lost his life."