us.

DEST and well-written preface to a handsome little volume before us, introduces us to the Ballads and Songs of William Pembroke Mulchinock,' a young Irish exile, of marked talent, whose name has been mentioned with praise, and whose poems published with good effect, in this Magazine. We commend this volume, upon which we cannot at present enlarge, to the generous favor of the public, and especially to the thousands of his own countrymen who are in flourishing circumstances among GREAT men, great philosophers, are sometimes beaten on their own ground, by the simplest minds and the least-instructed intellects. We've laughed a hundred times at an illustration of this, which occurs to us at this moment. We have heard, or have read somewhere- but where we have not the slightest notion that upon one occasion NEWTON, the immortal philosopher, was riding over somne English plain or 'down,' when a boy who was keeping sheep called out to him: 'You'd better make haste on, Sir, or you'll get a wet jacket.' The sky was clear; there was not a cloud, nor a speck of cloud, to be seen; and the philosopher, considering the remark a hoax, or at least an impertinence, rode quietly on; but he had not advanced six miles before a rain-storm suddenly arose, which wet him to the skin! Saturated as he was, he nevertheless rode back, to ascertain how an ignorant lad had attained a precision in, and a knowledge of, elemental calculation, of which the wisest philosopher might well be proud. 'My lad,' said NEWTON, when he arrived where 'fed his flock, the rural swain,' 'I'll give you a shilling if you'll tell me how you foretold the weather so truly? Will ye, Sir?' said the boy, scratching his head, and holding out his hand for the shilling. Having received it, he pointed to his sheep, and thus expounded his 'theory:' 'When you see that black ram turn his tail toward the wind, it's a sure sign of rain within an hour!' Now,

་

'NEWTON'S apple, FRANKLIN's kite
Gave laws to lightning and to light:'

but either philosopher would as soon have consulted a hydraulic 'ram' as the best merino, for the keen practical knowledge got by Observation' out of Experience,' which was exhibited by the 'Shepherd of Salisbury Plain;' for, if we remember rightly, it was on Salisbury plain where the incident which we have narrated occurred. OUR friends Messrs. STANFORD AND SWORDS have published ‘The Angel's Song,' by CHARLES B. TAYLER, M. A., an English clergyman of distinguished talent; a charming religious work, which bids fair to win its way to a permanent popularity. . . . ARE these lines original?- -or did the correspondent who sends them to us as from his 'port-folio' intend to imply a common-place book, into which they had been copied? We ask, because, without being at all sure, we think we have encountered the stanzas before; although when or where, we cannot now remember:

THERE is a state, unknown, unseen,
Where parted souls must be;
And but a step doth lie between

That world of souls and me.

The friend I loved has thither fled,
With whom I journeyed here;
I see no sight, I hear no tread,
But may not she be here?

"The SAVIOUR, whom I long have sought,
And would, but cannot see,

Can Hɛ be here?-oh, wondrous thought,
And will He dwell with me?

'I ask not with my mortal eye

To view the vision bright,
I dare not see THEE lest I die;
Yet, LORD! restore my sight!
'Give me to see THEE, and to feel
The mental vision clear;
The things unseen, reveal - reveal!
And let me know them near.

"Illume this shadowy soul of mine,
That still in darkness lies;:
Oh, let the light in darkness shine,
And bid the day-star rise!'

COOKE, the great tragedian, (whose person and manners will still be remembered by many in New-York,) endeavored on one occasion, at the table of a friend, to make his host guess at the representation of certain passions, from the assumed expression

of his features. His 'power of face,' however, was too much lessened by the wine he had drank, to be successful. The misconception of ' Fear' for 'Anger,' and of 'Sym pathy' for 'Jealousy,' on the part of his host, roused COOKE's ire. Look again, Sir! he exclaimed, making up a face that was at the same time malignant and leering. 'What is that, Sir?' It was pronounced to be 'Revenge.' 'Re-venge!' ejaculated the great actor-AR-RE-VENGE!! you dolt!- that's Love! Look again: don't y t you see that it is LOVE?' The attempt to heighten the doubtful passion by additional distortion was 'the last hair that broke the camel's back. The host incontinently fled the table, leaving his guest alone in his maudlin glory. Harpers' New York and Erie Rail-Road Guide' should be in the hands of every traveller on that magnificent thoroughfare, which has conferred such immortal honor upon its originators, and those enterprising 'brave men' who have successively prosecuted it to completion. The work contains a description in detail of the scenery, rivers, towns, villages, and most important works on the road, accompanied by one hundred and thirty-six engravings, by Messrs. LOSSING AND BARRITT, from original sketches by Mr. WILLIAM MACLEOD. Of these sketches we are compelled to say, that while some of them, and especially of the larger ones, are faithful, their general characteristics are feebleness. Surely no one could recognize the beautiful and populous villages of Binghamton and Owego from the meagre transcripts in this book. Perhaps, however, as the artist remarks of the little village of Waverley, these towns have changed their appearance so much since the sketches were made, that they would be unrecognizable by the traveller. We looked to see some engravings of the scenery and towns near and at the western terminus of the road, but were disappointed. Doubtless these will form the attraction of a second and more complete edition. They should do so. ... ISN'T this a felicitous little 'Anacreontic,' which has just been translated for us out of the Swedish of TEGNER, by an old contributor to these pages? Read it, young and fervent 'lov'yers,' and let us know what you think of it. Isn't it a 'sweet-pretty-piece?' The lines are entitled 'Near Thee,' in the original:

OUR readers, at least all who have felt an interest in the late vexed question of copy-right in England, will recollect that some time since a very stupid Judge of the Court of Exchequer, in the case of BooSEY vs. PURDAY, decided that 'a foreign author residing abroad was not an 'author' within the meaning of the statutes of ANNE and GEORGE III., and could not have a copy-right in his works; which acts were intended for the 'encouragement of British talent, by giving to British authors a monopoly in their literary works, dating from the period of their first publication here!' Shortly after, a similar decision was pronounced respecting BELLINI'S 'Sonnambula. Both cases were taken up on error, and we have now to announce the gratifying intelligence, that in the Exchequer Chamber, sitting in Error: Present,

Lord CAMPBELL and Justices PATTison, Maule, Coleridge, Creswill and TALFOURD, and before a crowded court, judgment of reversal was given, which puts the rule on its former footing, namely: That a foreigner, first publishing his work in England, is entitled to his copy-right therein, and can assign a work in like manner to the assignee, who shall be entitled to copy-right. We cannot forbear quoting from the opinion of Lord Chief Justice CAMPBELL, who has rescued the English bench from the disgrace of attempting to pervert law, by way of petty retaliation upon America for not passing an international copy-right act. That we ought to pass such an act, this Magazine was the very first to contend, and has continued to contend, with such ability as it could command, from the time that the late WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK first opened the subject by a correspondence with Mr. CLAY, at Washington, down to the publication in the KNICKERBOCKER of Mr. WASHINGTON IRVING's letters to the EDITOR, on this theme, including our own efforts, such as they have been, in the matter. Now that the English bench, with all its original dignity, has delivered impartial justice, surely we ought, at the eleventh hour, to retrieve our national good name, and yield honor and profit to those laborers in the field of Mind to whom profit, as well as honor, is due. But to our quotation:

'THE question really is, whether a foreigner, by sending to a publisher his work here, acquires a copy-right. Upon this depends his right to transfer his right to another. It is admitted that a foreigner, if he composes a literary work here, may acquire a copy-right, and Mr. PEACOCK Would not deny that if a foreigner, being here for a temporary purpose, while here, wrote a poem, he might publish it, and acquire a copy-right in it here. If he had composed it in his own coun try, and brought it over in his memory, and produced it here for the first time, or if he had written out a book in manuscript, would it have made any difference as to his rights? Can his personal appearance within our realm be essential to his right as an author, if he does that by an agent which it is not disputed he might do in his own proper person? The right is, to acquire a monopoly in England for the sale of his work; the right is personal property, which he carries with him wherever he is; and all that is to be done to negotiate it he may do by another. Where, then, can be the necessity of crossing from Calais to Dover before giving instructions for the publication of his work, and entering it at Stationer's' Hall? The law of England will protect his property, and recognize his rights, and give him redress for wrongs inflicted on him here.'

Premising, for the information of our British contemporaries, that the noisy and pretentious advocacy here of an international copy-right by certain of our smallest * authorlings' has had the worst effect upon the question, we would in this connection pay a well-deserved tribute to the labors of that eminent publisher, RICHARD BENTLEY, Esq., whose amenity to American authors is proverbial, and who has year after year, and almost single-handed, battled against the pirates; year after year he has waged an unflinching warfare against them; and when even MURRAY, and other distinguished London publishers, gave up in despair, BENTLEY 'held on,' like a brave 'BULL'-dog as he is. We are permitted to make the following extract from a letter of this gentleman to our old and esteemed friend and correspondent, RICHARD B. KIMBALL, Esq., of this city, which was received by the last English steamer:

CONGRATULATE me in regard to the recent decision as to the right of a foreigner to a copyright in his works in Great-Britain, which was delivered on Tuesday last in Westminster Hall by the Lord Chief Justice, Lord CAMPBELL, and five other Judges. On all accounts I am glad of this; and for the sake of America, I do hope Congress will at once pass the international copy-right bill. It would be gracious, coming after this decision; it would make our literary men well-disposed toward America; and you will agree with me, that the greater number of interchanges of good offices the better.'

We believe that at the next session of Congress an international copy-right act will assuredly be passed. Such an act is demanded at our hands as a matter of jus

tice and right, and therefore of national good faith and honor. Let us add, in conclusion, that in our judgment Mr. BENTLEY deserves the warmest thanks of every real author in this country, and we hope soon to see some appropriate public expression of them. THERE is a touching picture of A Mother Watching over her Dead Babe' in the ensuing lines. They are from the pen of a favorite correspondent of this Magazine:

"T is sad to fix the moistened eye

On the loved form that DEATH hath prest,
Though other hearts are bleeding nigh,

For one so beautiful and blest;

But sadder far, when all are gone,

Save thou, and the dear sleeper there,
To gaze upon the dead, alone,

Till Memory sting thee to despair!'

HE was an accurate observer and a sound reasoner, who said: 'Mankind are always happier for having been happy; so that, if you make them happy now, you make them happy twenty years hence, by the memory of it. A childhood passed with a mixture of rational indulgence, under fond and wise parents, diffuses over the whole of life a feeling of calm pleasure; and, in extreme old age, is the very last remembrance which time can erase from the mind of man. No enjoyment, however inconsiderable, is confined to the present moment. A man is the happier for life for having made once an agreeable tour, or lived for any length of time with pleasant people, or enjoyed any considerable interval of innocent pleasure, which contributes to render old men so inattentive to the scenes before them, and carries them back to a world that is past, and to scenes never to be renewed again.' . . . The Jenny Lind GleeBook' has been published by Messrs. BENJAMIN B. MUSSEY AND COMPANY, Boston. It contains all the various popular songs of the fair Swede, arranged for all musical divisions of the human voice. In appearance the work resembles one of the oldfashioned blue-covered Presbyterian singing-books. Not very good taste, as it strikes us. . . . WAKE snakes!' is a western phrase; but, reader, did you ever see a snake wake? It is a dark and unlovely sight. We once heard a friend, a lady who lived in the country, describe her first sensation at seeing a serpent. Her brother, a、 cruel wag, who 'would have his joke,' had killed, as he supposed, a rattle-snake, by running over it with two wheels of a light wagon, one of those old-fashioned vehicles with a box, a kind of catch-all,' behind. The snake, after being run over, lay dormant in the road: he picked him up and laid him in the box aforesaid. When he arrived home, he sent his sister out to bring in some purchase or other from the wagon-box. She opened the lid, and up rose the flattened head of the rattle-snake, his glassy eyes darting pale lustre,' and his forked tongue playing like a blue flame about his jaws, while his tail, slightly elevated above the coil, was rattling with a sound like the patter of a rain-shower upon a sky-light. Heavens! what a horrible sight! She dropped the lid - -ran to the house fainted at the door, and for a period of three weeks was confined to her bed with a dangerous nervous fever. She came within one of ‘dying of a joke,' a cruel joke, which was little short of a positive crime. . . . 'REX' tells a good story of a country genius who had gained considerable celebrity in his neighborhood in the concoction of a medicament, which he entitled 'The Ne plus ultra North-American Itch-Ointment.' Its 'popularity' induced him to enlarge his 'sphere of usefulness;' and accordingly he called upon all his old customers for their 'certificates.' His neighbor, Judge R- an excellent, kind

hearted man, promptly certified that he had used the said medicament in his family for the last nine years, and that it gave him great pleasure to bear witness to its efficacy, in the most difficult cases! He did n't see the bearing of his certificate, until

it was printed in half the newspapers of the Union, with his name and residence prefixed! He was 'mad'-very mad, 'they say. AMONG the inedited works of the late Rev. WALTER COLTON, now in preparation by Rev. HENRY T. CHEEVER, and to be published by Messrs. BARNES AND COMPANY, is an elaborate manuscript poem, from which we take the following Funeral Song at the Grave of Eve. It will commend itself to every reader:

'SWEET Solace of my life! my gentle EVE!

The idol of this heart thy beauty blest!
More than for Eden's early loss I grieve,

To close the earth above thy narrow rest.
What now to me fair sky, or sparkling wave,
Or day or night - since thou art in the grave?

Forgive the frown that darkened on my brow,
And fell on thy sweet face, like an eclipse,
When the fair, fatal fruit was plucked its bough,
And turned to ashes on our pallid lips:

Thy thirst for knowledge triumphed o'er thy fears,
And prompted crime, since cancelled by thy tears.

"When I remind me of the noontide hour

I first beheld thee, near Euphrates' stream,
And led thee, sweetly blushing, to my bower,
The ills that we have felt appear a dream;
So warm and blest the memory of the time
When thou wert faultless-I without a crime.

'How freshly on our slumbers broke the morn!

How sweet the music of the mountain stream!
How all things seemed of bliss and beauty born,
And bounding into life with day's young beam!
Alas, the sin that could such joys forego,
And fill an infant world with guilt and woe!

'But mine the fault, for I stood silent by,

Nor sought dissuasion by a look or sign;
But dazzled by the Tempter's gorgeous lie,
That we should be than gods scare less divine,
Assented, fell, and found, too late to save,
This virtue guilt-its only gift the grave.

'But Eden lost, this heart still found in thee

A depth of love it else had never known:

As clings the vine to its sustaining tree,

When 'gainst its form the tempest's strength is thrown,
So thou, as each new care or sorrow pressed,

The closer clung to this unshrinking breast.

"The birds still sing to wake thee from thy rest,

The young gazelle still waits to greet thy glance;
The flowers still bloom thy early cares caressed,
Thy shallop's sails still in the sun-beams dance.
O that on these unheeding things were spread
The deep and tender thought, that thou art dead!
'But now, to whom can my deep sorrows turn?
Where find in others' tears for mine relief?

I only live to dress thy gentle urn,

And shrine thy virtues in a widow'd grief,
Till near thy side I seek my native dust,

And wait that signal-trump that calls the just.'

DICKENS has one of his inimitable papers in a recent number of his 'Household Words,' giving a minute description of The Metropolitan Protectives,' or London police. Observe with what perfect word-painting a drunken man, who has been robbed of his watch by a woman, is depicted:

"And what are you?-what business are you, Mr. BAT?'

"Fesher,' says Mr. BAT, collecting his dignity.

"Profession, is it? Very good, Sir. What's your profession?' "Solirrer,' returns Mr. BAT.