'During my sojourn, I one day stepped into the office of 'Squire COLGROVE to listen to the proceedings in a trial then and there pending, in a suit which a certain citizen, 'liber et legalis homo, had brought against another, to recover damages for the value of a certain dog which the latter had, under circumstances of peculiar atrocity, with force and arms, unlawfully shot, killed, wounded, injured and destroyed, to the damage of said plaintiff in the sum of forty-five dollars; ' at least so said the declaration. COLGROVE, the Justice, had a very red head; the attorney for the defence was BEATTIE MCCLELLAND, an Irishman, whose countenance furnished indubitable evidence that its owner had had the small-pox: the attorney for the plaintiff was one ZACHARY PUCKETT, formerly Probate Judge. PUCKETT had offered to introduce some evidence, which the Justice decided was inadmissible, whereupon he made a long speech to convince the Justice that his opinion was erroneous. COLGROVE told him that The Court,' as he loved to call his onehorse tribunal, had settled that point, and wished to hear no more argument. Thereupon PUCKETT arose from his seat, walked slowly up to the Justice, and fixing upon him an eye of fire, broke forth in this wise:

May it please The Court: The principle which I have asserted is as old as the everlasting granite hills of Ju-dar; it are a principle high as heaven, and low down as hell. It is innate to the feelin's of every man, across the great Sahara of whose bosom the sun of civilization have shot its vivifying rays! The finger of PROVIDENCE have written it onto the human heart in indelible colors; and the very winds that soar at evening through the sycamore boughs bears this great truth upon their wings. This principle is solemnly sot out in the Declaration of American Independence, and as solemnly re-i-terated in the Constitution of the United States, and secured by Bills of Rights in the twenty-seven glorious States of this Union, which our eroic fathers wrested from the thraldom of the British lion, like a brand plucked from the burning of a fire that is not quenched! But what, Sir, becomes of this glorious principle, if I who stand here to assert it am to be insulted by a d-d red-headed 'Squire, and a pock-marked Irish son of a!' But I won't finish the sentence. Suffice it to say, that about that time Judge PUCKETT was seen lying upon the floor, and the Justice standing over him, with hair stiff-bristling and excited eye!'

PEOPLE who have been accustomed to live in the quiet, unostentatious country are not a little astonished, we have observed, on coming to the city, to hear the terms 'crack-churches' and 'fashionable preachers,' which are so frequently made use of in the social conversation of the metropolis; and no marvel, when we think of the sad discrepancy which the very words themselves imply. Our old correspondent HENRY,' now principal editor of 'The Picayune,' a lively weekly of this city, has so well described the difference between a 'crack-church' and one that is n't, that we venture to lay his sketch before our readers:

'THOSE Who can't pay eight hundred or a thousand dollars in a fashionable or crack-church' are obliged to stay at home, unless they are humble enough to go to some of GoD's temples where Christianity is not only preached but practised. We found our way into a crack-church' last Sunday, in the upper part of the city. Casting our left eye, as we entered, on a magnificent prayer-book, we observed in gilt letters the name of a millionaire with whose early history we were fully conversant. He started life as a clam-boy, and the old clam-boat to which he belonged used to be stationed near Washington-market until all its cargo of clams were sold out. He first acquired a few dollars capital. This he invested in the fish trade; speculated in eels, porgies, and other fish; made a large sum of money, and finally succeeded in cornering on shid ; bought up all the stock of the season, both in and out of the water, and sold them afterward at his own prices, and made fifty thousand dollars. He cut his market associations, bought lots up town, now lives in the Fifth Avenue, and is a big dog. As wealth increased, he found himself at the head of the cod-fish aristocracy,' to which of course he had access, from his former business. PHALON, the barber, was sent for; his daughters had their hair combed out and dressed for the first time; teachers of music, drawing, Italian, French, etc., were hired; and old Mr. PORGIE joined the church, and took a costly pew. We happened to get into it; but we no sooner discovered where we were, than we made up our minds to vacate. We were too late. Old Mr. PORGIE came sailing up the aisle with his wife and daughters, dressed as though they had known what was what all their lives. To our a tonishment, instead of shutting the pew-door in our face, he asked us to keep our seat.' And did n't we have a nice time of it! The mother looked at us so did the daughters; and they snuffled, and smelt their salts, wriggled about as though one of their father's shad was in the slip. We felt annoyed, provoked; forgot our prayers; didn't hear a blessed word of the sermon, and came away disgusted with hypocritical upstarts, and with a determination next Sunday to go to a free church. Our ideas of pure, undefiled religion are drawn from the recorded life of our LORD and SAVIOUR, JESUS CHRIST. He was a living example of humility, charity, love; in fact, of all that was good and lovely. Some of his chosen disciples were very close imitators of their LORD and MASTER; and though they were by profession fish-catchers (we are not aware that they were clam-catchers or fish-speculators) like Mr. PORGIE they were not above other men because of their success or money. We wonder whether there will be any upper places, best seats, private pews in the great temple above, where the souls of

rich people may be at their ease, and where poor folks can't intrude? Christian churches! Christian rich men! We will say nothing more, and then we shall have less idle words to answer for at the day of judgment. Our costly churches are filled with Dives sorts of people, and are no places for the poor LAZARUS.'

'HENRY' had premised that he was well dressed, and his manner appropriate to the place and the occasion, and hence his annoyance and anger. On the following Sabbath he visited a church of a different character, the services at which we shall permit him to describe in our next number. WE were called for the other day, by a public spirited and benevolent citizen, to accompany himself and our friend DEMPSTER, the well-known Scottish vocalist, upon a visit to the Asylum for the Blind. It was an occasion of great interest to us; and our town-readers are little aware of what they miss, in not paying an occasional visit to this noble institution. Its officers are courteous and obliging, and seem to emulate each other in unobtrusive attentions to visitors. Mr. DEMPSTER sang several of his sweet and tender songs, and it was deeply interesting to watch the emotions which were excited, as displayed in the varied expressions of the upturned faces of those who sat in darkness' before him. "Tears, silent tears' gathered in the sightless orbs of many of the children; and when Mr. DEMPSTER had finished, Miss CYNTHIA BULLOCK, a young, gifted girl, of great simplicity and purity of character, came up on the dais or platform, and in a singularly sweet and well-modulated voice addressed him in these lines of her own composition:

'SOFTLY trembling, sweetly playing

O'er the heart's enraptured string,
Are the tuneful notes of gladness

We with joy thy coming sing.

"Yes, with heart-felt joy we greet thee,
For thy tones are lingering yet
In the flowery haunts of mem'ry:
Can the ravished ear forget?

"What is music? To the sightless

'Tis a world of beauty bright; Thought enriched by sound may gather More than rainbow-hues of sight.

'Music hath a voice of gladness

When the heart is crushed with care:

6

Hath a plaintive note of sadness,

Wooing erring ones to prayer.

'Sing the merry songs of Scotland,

Sing thy plaintive strains once more; Let the gushing tears of pity

Fall as they have fall'n before.

"May the buds of hope celestial
Blossom in thy soul for aye;
Son of music, may life's evening
Like a sun-beam pass away.

'Sing when Love is weeping o'er thee,
And the white-robed throng rejoice;
Open wide the gates of glory,

Sing to GOD, who gave thee voice!"

We should have premised that Mr. DEMPSTER had previously sung before the blind pupils, and that they now welcomed his second visit with unusual demonstrations of delight. The case of one of these unfortunate children, a pleasant and interesting little girl of fourteen, was so peculiar, that we cannot forbear mentioning it here. When about three years old, a sliver from a board, which her father was cutting for some domestic purpose, flew into her eye, and put it out. Some two years after, an angry hen, one of whose chickens she was endeavoring to catch, flew at the little girl, and before she could prevent it, literally picked her remaining eye from its socket. Think of this! We thought of it, this cool October night, with the first small fire of the season glowing in the sanctum-grate, and dark lustrous eyes — large, bright, and healthful — looking up at us from the just-restored fur-rug whereon the little juveniles aforetime flourished, and are now flourishing yet again, with abundant glee.

GLORY to THEE, O GOD! this night,
For all the blessings of the light!'

should be the grateful tribute of every father and mother looking into the dear eyes of their children. Who made them to differ' from the poor innocents with whom we so deeply sympathize? . . . SOME of our 'cheap and nasty literature' is offered to the public under rather doubtful endorsement. Our friend of the 'Albion'

weekly journal seems to question this 'extravagant praise of trashy volumes.' And no wonder. Think of an indifferent half-bound pamphlet-book, badly printed and

worse written, going forth with such recommendations as these:

'A FIRST-rate book, and no mistake! Its pages is full of instructive amusement and entertainment.'- London Times.

'We don't know as we ever seen a book more amusing.'- London Quarterly Review.

A MOST pleasing work, of unqualified perception and an indefinable interest, that excites while it instructs all classes of individuals in community.' - London Examiner.

'PERHAPS one of the best books of its kind that have appeared since The Mysteries of Paris' Mr. DICKENS, JOHN BUNYAN, and MACAULAY's style is embodied and personified in its glowing and good pages.' London Spectator.

The public will begin to call for data by and by, if these gross impositions are continued. THIS passage came to mind just now, as we were bidding an old friend 'good-night' at the door, and looking up at the stars that gemmed the deepblue October sky: 'The stars, with their all-eloquent silence, seem to reduce all our schemes into nothing; to make our short-lived perplexities ludicrous, ourselves and our ways like a 'tale told by an idiot.' What a cold reply they seem to give to all human works and questionings!' A YOUNG correspondent sends us some lines beginning, 'Let it pass, let it pass, let it pass!' We repeat with him his third line, in respect of his 'poetry:''Let it pass, let it pass, let it pass-let it go!' Seriously, 'H-;'

You're not a poet,
And you'd better know it:

and this advice we give in all friendliness. Moreover, you'll live to thank us for it, we are quite sure. Your name and address are safe with us, of course. . . . IT was Dr. JOHNSON, we think, who said, that the most unpleasant ten minutes of the day was when a man was waiting for his bill after dinner at an inn. Mr. SHELLEY the popular restaurateur in Broadway, has obviated this unpleasantness entirely When your order is completed, for whatever luxury his abundant larder may contain, and it is served smoking hot before you, a servant lays quietly down a small colored card, on the underside of which is the simple amount of your bill. This card is handed at the office-bar with the money, without trouble as to making change, or from the stupidity, not to say dishonesty, of waiters, etc. .. How much wit, how much genuine bonhomie, there is in our American newspapers! We verily believe that there is more 'fun' in one of them, as a class, than in any twenty of any other country. We have been more and more impressed with this since we have begun to receive exchanges. Now in a single number of a far-western paper, which we have just opened, from the 'Keokuk' region, we find these remarks: We have three times put on a clean shirt to call upon the Governor, but could n't see him. Now the Governor is respectfully informed that we cannot afford to make another such a run upon our linen; and if we are to have the honor of making his acquaintance, he will have no reason to complain if we are not altogether in trim!' This, from the same paper, is almost as 'off-hand' and characteristic: The remark that 'There is more pleasure in giving than receiving' is supposed to apply chiefly to medicines, kicks, and advice.' . . THE exhibition of The New-York Gallery of the Fine Arts' is again open. The interest of the collection has been much enhanced by the addition to it of several fine works of art. The Knight of Seyn,' by LEUTZE, is one of these, and is a picture which embraces all the excellences of his pencil. Another is a portrait of Lady BELLHAVEN, by RAEBURN, and is worthy of study by all those who limn the features of the gentler sex.' The Gallery owns the master-pieces of 30

VOL. XXXVIII.

COLE, MOUNT, INMAN, EDMONDS and FLAGG, beside other pictures of great merit; to which may be added BROWN's statue of RUTH, which has never received a tithe of the admiration it deserves. Apart from the intrinsic merit of the works of art belonging to the Gallery, and as a farther motive to excite the interest of amateurs in its favor, the Gallery is the only monument to the memory of a noble man, LUMAN REED. The present condition of art in this city is largely owing to his active and judicious patronage; and by his individual example alone he gave an impetus to the cause, the force of which is still apparent. Nor should we omit to add, that to his son-in-law, Mr. JONATHAN STURGES, is the public much indebted for a kindred appreciation, and liberality of spirit. THE lines in our last number commencing ‘Give me old music,' etc., we find are by H. F. CHORLEY, Esq., of Liverpool, now departed this life. Mr. CHORLEY was the editor, at one period, of an English annual of repute, and was for some time a correspondent of the late WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, who was a contributor to the work under his charge. Is N'T this a very beautiful translation of a felicitous thought from the French? It is from the pen of an esteemed eastern correspondent, and was addressed To Marie:'

WINDS of heaven kiss the showers;
Gentle zephyrs kiss the flowers;
Little streams the rivers kiss;
LOVE and every thing does this:

Then let us be kissing, too,

You kissing me, I kissing you;
Till both our mingling souls are blest,
And both our beating hearts at rest.

In a new and rare work, for which we are indebted to a most kind and excellent lady-friend, entitled 'Historic Fancies,' we find the following graphic 'picture in little :'

In a sumptuous chamber of Versailles two ladies are sitting. The younger of the two is very beautiful, and in the prime of her charms. The elder has not yet outlived hers. There is something very winning in the aspect of the first, so pale and pensive is her face, so beseeching and timid her eye. In the second there is also much that is inviting. A beautifully-rounded bust, arms exquisitely turned, the most graceful of white hands, and the smallest of feet. Her looks too, carry with them more of command than her gentle companion's. In the studied light of the apartment she does not look too old for a JuNo. A flatterer might have told her that, like the goddess, age to her was but an immortality of beauty. What do these ladies talk of? The time is of LOUIS the Fourteenth; the scene, Versailles. One is very young, with beauty to set the world at her feet; the other not so old but that her person is still full of fascination. Of what do they speak? Is it of balls or lotteries, of masques or scandal? Of this rival's invariable luck at basset, or that rival's 'unfortunate affair?' Is it of hoops or patches, of rouge or diamonds? Of Marlis or of Trianon? They are speaking of misfortune. Nay, they have a title to their theme. Of misfortune and privation, of poverty and dependence. They are therefore querulous and complaining, full of envious wishes and ineffectual regrets? Listen. Is it BOSSUET or BOURDALOUE who speaks? The elder lady bids her fair hearer el joy in her distress. Her eyes light up with the memory of a thousand triumphs, as she tells of her own sufferings, and denials, and mortifications, and abasements, and self-mastery. Tales of penance and vigil, of night-watches and fasting, of sore trials and the world's harshness, are interchanged. And these not with tears or stifled sobs, but as if each victory over self, each conquest over will was more glorious than the victory of Fleurus, or the conquest of Alsace. What unto them are the deeds of LUXEMBOURG OF VILLARS, of BERWICK OF VAUBAN? These belong to the world's vulgar army of heroes; but they belong to a far nobler army; to the host of those who have wrought and suffered for the holy Church. And their hope is, that when the SPOUSE of CHRIST shall have summoned her glad array to meet the BRIDEGROOM, among the humblest of her hand-maidens may be numbered the names of FRANCOISE DE MAINTENON and MARIE of Modena and England.'

Several passages, in spirit-stirring verse, from this admirable work, await early insertion in these pages. We cannot even now refrain from presenting the subjoined

beautiful canzon from the Spanish, translated by Lord Viscount STRANGFORD. It is

the very pathos of despair:

'O WEEP not thus!- we both shall know
Ere long a happier doom;

There is a place of rest below,
Where thou and I shall surely go,
And sweetly sleep, released from woe,
Within the tomb.

'My cradle was the couch of Care,
And Sorrow rocked me in it;
Fate seemed her saddest robe to wear
On the first day that saw me there,
And darkly shadowed with despair
My earliest minute.

'E'en then the griefs I now possess

As natal boons were given;
And the fair form of Happiness,
Which hovered round, intent to bless,
Scared by the phantoms of distress,
Flew back to heaven!

'For I was made in Joy's despite,

And meant for Misery's slave;

And all my hours of brief delight
Fled like the speedy winds of night,
Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight
Across my grave.'

A FRIEND of ours from the South (whose 'favors we respectfully solicit,') mentioned the other day a funeral sermon which he heard in North Carolina not long since, that set even our associate OWL a-winking. Parson S, a rather eccentric character, was called upon to 'preach the funeral' of a hard case named RANN, which he did in the following unique style: My beloved brethren and sistern: ef our dear departed brother RANN would a-wanted somebody to come here and tell lies about him, and make him out a better man than he was, he would n't a-chose me to 'preach his funeral.' No, my brethren, he wanted to be held up as a burnin' and a shinin' light to warn you from the error of your ways. He kept horses, and he run'd 'em; he kept chickens, and he fou't 'em; he kept women, and there sits his widow who can prove it. (The widow sat directly in front of the pulpit, and here gave an affirmatory nod.) Our dear departed brother had many warnin's, brethren. The first warnin' was when he broke his leg, but he still went on in the error of his ways. The second warnin' was when his son PETE hung himself in jail; and the last and greatest warnin' of all was when he died himself!' The preacher enlarged on these topics until he had sunk RANN so low that his hearers began to doubt whether he would ever succeed in getting him up again, and, as is usual in 'funerals,' landing him safely in ABRAHAM's bosom. This was the object of the second part of the sermon, which started off thus: 'My brethren, there'll be great meracles, great meracles in HEAVEN. And the first meracle will be, that many you expect to find there you won't see there. The people that go round with long faces, makin' long prayers, won't be there: and the second meracle will be, that many you do n't expect to find there, as perhaps some won't expect to find our dear departed brother RANN, you'll see there: and the last and greatest meracle will be, to find yourselves there!' There is not one single word of exaggeration,' said the narrator, in this. It is a literal transcript.' . . . A NOTICE of the excellent and well-arranged 'New-York Directory' of Mr. DOGGETT was crowded out of our last number. No similar work is any thing like so complete in all the essentials of such a volume. The same publisher has issued the new 'Poor Richard Almanack for 1852;' of which it is enough to say, that it retains all the praiseworthy features that characterized its predecessor, which have already been set forth at large in these pages.

'FRIEND after friend departs:

Who has not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts,
That finds not here an end!'

We cannot permit the death of such a man as the late JOHN NEILSON, Jr., of this city, to pass unrecorded in these pages. The first notice of his decease, the first knowledge even that he had been ill, came in the mourning-note of the sexton of St.