knowledge a matter of supererogation, and therefore saves himself a great deal of trouble, all of which he generously bestows upon the prompter. Whether it is Mr. JOHNSON or Mr. NEXSEN who is to be considered the substitute of JOHN MASON, we are somewhat perplexed to ascertain. Mr. Johnson is quite an old favorite, and so is Mr. Nexsen; and in that respect, neither can be said to have the advantage. In comparing the individual qualifications, however, we are decidedly of opinion that Mr. Johnson has the most spirit of the two. He is not afraid to speak above his breath, and therefore we think that in heroic tragedy he would be more like his predecessor than would Mr. Nexsen. But in light comedy and farce, in those dashing, genteel characters, which Mr. Mason knew so well how to personate, such as Capt. Absolute, the gentleman in 'P. P.,' Benedict, perhaps Charles Surface, and many others, Mr. Nexsen has decidedly the advantage over his contemporary. In sentimental comedy, also, Mr. Nexsen must succeed. There is a soft melancholy in his air and appearance, he is gifted with a subdued and particularly mellow tone of voice, which admirably fits him for such parts as Clifford, The Stranger,' and Jacques, in 'As you Like It.' With such advantages, indeed, even Hamlet might be tenderly dealt with. It is particularly in the exhibition of deep sentiment, that Mr. Nexsen chiefly excels. We have remarked the expression of his intellectual countenance, upon such occasions, with peculiar interest. Nothing can be more touching, for instance, than his manner, when in the act of making a declaration of the tender passion. With a solemnity of aspect which would make the fortune of an undertaker, his hat gracefully disposed under his left arm, his right hand either most sentimentally laid upon that part of his outer garment which lies nearest his heart, or oratorically extended from his side, with all the emphasis of a tin kettle unbroken in the spout, he casts his eyes upward with the soul-subduing expression of an unsophisticated duck in a thunder-storm. But this rather enthu siastic encomium must not in any wise detract from the merits of his rival. Both have their peculiar beauties. Perhaps Mr. Johnson produces his greatest effects, when he speaks the least. Not that his voice lacks melody, but because, like other great artists, he has a language in his face a silence that speaks.' Mr. BEDFORD has not been so long before us, as either of the brilliant spirits just named, though long enough, perhaps, to give us an idea of his great merit. There is a martial bearing, combined with the ease of old gentility, which fit him sweetly for the personation of dashing military characters. His personation of a general officer, in St. Patrick's Eve,' is a thing to be remembered. He seemed the identification of chivalry. The sword clung naturally to his hand, and flew from its scabbard as if it would emulate the giant rapier wielded by the Douglas, or the no less trusty weapon of the gallant Cœur de Lion. It seemed, indeed, rather unwilling to return to its sheath, and when there, testified that sort of uneasiness which Jacques of the Honey Moon' so aptly compares to the trick of a monkey's tail.' But we have said enough. Such men combine the useful and ornamental, to a most accommodating extent; and any stage, even a metropolitan, is fortunate in possessing such rare adornments. Long may they grace the Park! C. NATIONAL THEATRE.- Mr. WALLACK, himself a host, has opened the theatrical campaign with abundant vigor, at this establishment. To Mr. FORREST Succeeded DE BEGNIS, an eminent musical actor and vocalist, of the highest reputation in Europe. He established his rank here at once, and won deserved applause. WALLACK's first appearance chanced to be to merely a respectable audience. We say chanced,' because the benefit of the wonderful RAVELS at Niblo's and the first benefit of MATTHEWS at the Park, operated adversely for his interests. He has lost none of his great popularity, let us assure him, with the New-York public, who have seldom met his equal, in his particular line. 'Rolla, Massaroni,' and 'Dick Dashall' were never better sustained on the American boards. As we write, CELESTE is crowding the theatre, to the very street, with her performance in St. Mary's Eve,' a piece which had an extraordinary run in England and France. Miss SHIREFF, a distinguished vocalist, with other 'stars' of celebrity, in their various walks, are to follow in their turn. Judicious stage-management, beautiful scenery, and the best stock company in the United States, have elevated the National Theatre to a high place in the regards of all theatre-goers. 6 THE SIMPSON BENEFIT, as we predicted, crowded the Park Theatre with the chief beauty and fashion of the town. The performances were by all the most prominent actors and actresses in the country, and went off with unusual eclat. The Address,' from the pen of EPES SARGEANT, Esq., was spoken with admirable effect by Miss TREE. It was a beautiful production, and in excellent taste. Its arrangement would seem to have been suggested by the lines of SWAIN, if we remember rightly, on the death of Scorr, wherein the characters of romance and poetry, drawn by the great novelist, move by in solemn procession, at Dryburgh Abbey. FOREIGN LITERARY INTELLIGENCE. -AMERICAN WORKS ABROAD. - We are indebted to the considerate kindness of a friend in London, for some late and gratifying literary intelligence. He tells us that Miss MARTINEAU has published a new work entitled 'How to Observe, or Morals and Manners.' Its title is ominous, and smacks of the female philosophress. The American reader, conversant with the discursive habits of the politicoeconomic writer, will exclaim with Sir HUGH EVANS: I spy a great peard under her muffler; I like not when a 'oman has a great peard.' This work has been just published by the Messrs. HARPERS. BOSWORTH's Anglo-Saxon Dictionary, in a large octavo, which has been fifteen years in preparation, has just appeared, and is the only complete work of the kind extant. The 'Letters from Rome,' familiar originally to the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER, have been published by BENTLEY, under the title of 'The Last Days of Aurelian, or the Nazarenes of Rome.' It is pronounced, by the English critics, to be even superior to Zenobia, or the Fall of Palmyra,' our Palmyra Letters,' which have become so widely popular abroad. The same publisher aunounces as in press, 'Eve Effingham, or Home,' the English title, doubtless, of COOPER's Home-as-Found,' now passing through the press at Philadelphia; and, in connection with the London house of Messrs WILEY AND PUTNAM, Mr. STEPHENS' last Incidents of Travel.' The transAtlantic reputation which his first work acquired, will cause the present to be sought after with eagerness. Mrs. JAMIESON has in press a new work on the United States and the Canadas, entitled Winter Studies and Summer Rambles.' It will be re-published here by Messrs. WILEY AND PUTNAM, by contract, from the early sheets. The lady speaks, we are informed, with much enthusiasm, of her visit to the United States, and of the great cordiality with which she was received among us. The American in Paris,' by our sprightly and clever countryman, SANDERSON, has been published by Bentley, and received with deserved applause. The 'Civil Engineering,' by Prof. MAHAN, of West Point, has been reprinted in Glasgow, and is every where spoken of in terms of the highest commendation. Last, and perhaps least, but not to us, our own poor labors are in enhanced demand with the trans-Atlantines. Fifty additional copies of the KNICKERBOCKER are ordered per the Great Western,' by our London publishers. TO CORRESPONDENTS. We have an Editor's Drawer' in prepararation for an early number, to embrace the favors of several correspondents, which demand to be accompanied by a word or two of affirmative or negative comment. To 'C. M.,' however, who requests 'an immediate publication or notice,' of his poetry, we may say at once, that his lines are not to our taste. Aside from certain cheap and sterile artifices, which seldom accompany meritorious compositions, there is, in the terminating syllables, such a Procrustes-like forcing of unruly words into services for which they have the utmost repugnance, as we never remember to have encountered before. One or two stanzas brought forcibly to mind the lines of the German lover-student: -- Oh, where is my companion true, HALE'S NEWS ROOM. This establishment demands a word of praise. It is supplied with papers from every quarter of the world; English, French, Scottish, German, Russian, Spanish, Italian, Grecian, etc.; together with all the principal newspapers and literary and scientific periodicals of our own country. The room is well conducted, and affords, moreover, a convenient resort for the interchange of commercial and other business information. *** NOTICES of the following works, although in type, are unavoidably omitted: A tale of the Huguenots,' Ellen Clifford,' 'The Mothers' Monthly Journal,' 'Health and Beauty,' 'Life of Black-Hawk,' 'PEERS,' 'American Education,'Stone's Life of Brant,', Religious Souvenir,' and Jorrock's Jaunts and Jollities.' a • Where is the American epic ?' is a question daily asked. The WHERE ? man who answered, 'In our mountains,' was not so far from truth. We are no disciples of the school which teaches that an epic bursts at once to life, without any connection with the times, the taste, or the manners of a people; for though Genius can do much, she is scarce omnipotent, and is herself the creature of surrounding circumstances. The days of miracles have passed. The spirit of the age is stamped on the Æneid, and no one but a puritan and a controversialist, as well as a poet, could have written Paradise Lost. A people may, therefore, possess genius for every other task; they may even give birth to minds which, if educated amid poetic associations, would light the world with their brilliant phantasies; and yet, if destitute of these associations, that same people may in vain hope for a son of 'the immortal lyre.' We do not, in fine, deny the existence of a germain genius for poetry; but we look in surrounding circumstances for the soil to nourish the undying shoot, and if it be not fit, we lay the matter over to posterity. Heaveu grant they may be more poetic than we are now! We are broaching no new doctrine, when we say, that the present age is incapable of the epic. In all the arts and sciences which are either practical or demonstrable, our young republic has displayed talents and genius as yet unsurpassed. In mechanics, in bold, daring inventions, in new and tremendous influences in the moral world, and in all the more popular fields of human intellect, her rank is high. Her strides have been gigantic. So peculiarly fitted have her institutions been, for the development of useful mind, and so rapid and startling have been these triumphs, that we have seemed to breathe a magic atmosphere of intellect, from out of which, whenever the wants of her people have invoked them, spirits vast and powerful have started at her call. But in the finer and more beautiful workings of the mind, she is as yet a tyro. The condition of herself, the character of her people, and the circumstances which enervate her literature, forbid the most sanguine to hope for a triumph in poetry. There is no flight of genius so near the sun, as that of the epic. It demands an eye of fire, and a wing of iron nerve. Every power of the mind; every aid from knowledge; the most exquisite taste ; VOL. XII. 48 and the nicest choice of language; and the divinest inspirations of genius, are necessary for, and called into full play in, the struggle. Few, therefore, have ever dared the flight, and fewer still have gained the empyrean. Homer, Virgil, Tasso, and Milton, are almost alone in their sublime and boundless supremacy. Perhaps, too, every century increases the difficulty; for as nations rise in civilization, their fastidiousness increases, their minds become enlarged, they hold communion with loftier spirits, and call for more magnificent results. The poet of to-day must burst through the overshadowing of his predecessors. His chances of success are consequently lessened. Beside, the epic has always followed in the train of other poetry. It seems, indeed, as if the worlds of poësy and intellect are like the moral universe; that progression is the law of each ; that great events are always heralded by those of lesser note ; and that every successive attainment serves only as a vantage ground to descry the next. Thus Chaucer, Spenser, and Shakspeare, foreshadowed the coming of Milton; and doubtless many a lost fragment of lofty poetry ushered in the immortal Iliad. Virgil, too, and Tasso, first drew from the delicious spring, and then, fresh from the fountain, poured forth upon the world their tide of mellow song; many an epoch will pass in our history, before we can have works like theirs. Our country, at the outset, is destitute of the proper feeling, without which no poetry, much less the epic, can flourish. We are too utilitarian for the muses. The wants of a new people monopolized the talents of our fathers, and, as was natural, produced a belief that the necessaries of existence were the only things desirable. They had no time, generally, even for the elegancies of life; and there were few hereditary families of wealth and taste to keep up, by their patronage, a pure estimation of poetry and the finer arts. Left to themselves, therefore, the belles-lettres, after a fruitless struggle, fell into the hands of a solitary few; and the great body of the nation was whirled away by the desire, now become universal, of amassing wealth. The consequence was soon felt in literature ; and we are to-day without any extensive class of literary men, who, like those of England, light the world with their deep thoughts. But poetry suffered most. We became a grasping, trading, and produc- . tive community; public opinion, that silent but tremendous tyrant of the mind, went over to the side of wealth ; and it soon began to be regarded by wise utilitarians as mad, Quixotic, and ridiculous, if not disreputable, to sacrifice a competence for poetry. The muse was literally ostracised ; and the young, diffident writer, sneered at by what the world calls your substantial men, and encouraged by scarcely one, began to question his own wisdom, and soon left Parnassus in despair. No matter what were his talents ; the same cynic spirit crushed alike the mighty and the small. The wings of the young eagle were clipped in his eyrie; and the cold blast withered the lily, even in the bud. Some, however, conscious of the immortal fire within them, and believing early neglect to be the lot of poets, maintained the battle against every odds, and dared even to vacate the magazine for a hotpressed octayo from Carey or Harper. But, poor mortals! their pre 6 sumption was soon checked. They had brilliant talents, it is true, but they had committed the unpardonable sin; and who would pay a half eagle for American poetry, when they could get English, equally as good, for half the price? A little encouragement might have fixed their bent, but the spirit of utilitarianism was too coarse to appreciate, and too niggard to purchase, their works. Their publishers frowned, their editions decayed on the shelf, and every fat tradesman jostled them contemptuously in the streets. What could be done ? Before them, on one hand, was poverty, and that queer thing called posthumous renown; and on the other, wealth, respectability, and influence. A man, after the enthusiasm of twenty is past, does not long hesitate between a parlour and a garret; and so they took to trade, got rich, lost all their fire, and now instead of getting fou,' like Burns, 'on twa-penny,' do so like gentlemen, on Burgundy and champaigne. Such, alas ! has been the fate of the American harp. Our poets, one by one, have passed away. Halleck, Percival, Bryant, and Dana, where are they? Their history is short. A few wild bursts in youth, a few glorious triumphs in later days, and then they ceased. At most, a few melancholy notes wail, at intervals, from their deserted lyres. This universal and distempered taste, which condemns the American poet to silence, is at the root of the evil, and affects poetry, even in the germ; for if slighter pieces, of acknowledged merit, are neglected, how will it fare with the more delicate works of taste } How, in short, can our poets ever rise to the epic, if they are struck so remorselessly from lower fields, where they might gain strength for a loftier reach? It is impossible. The eagle breasts not the thunderbolt, till he has shaken for years the dew-drops from his wing. Our people must, therefore, imbibe a taste for true poetry, patronise and study something else than a partisan newspaper, and foster a more iron literature, and a more national spirit, before they can hope for a laurelled muse. When this, however, shall be attained, they will be but at the threshhold of the epic. They may have the body, but they will still want its nerve - hallowed moral associations ; for they, more than any thing else, give birth to the poësy of a people. Thus in Scotland, that land of song, the very air breathes poetry. Not a mountain but has seen a skirmish ; every plain has thundered with a battle; her glens are full of wild and shadowy traditions; her cairns are haunted with her plaided chieftains; ages ago, her rivers sang back the verses of her bards; and even her brown moorlands are the homes of fairies. Born and nourished amid such thrilling memories, if there exists a latent spark in her sons, it is struck forth. The peasant cannot cross his farm, without beholding some spot famous in song. Hoary traditions and mossgrown baronial ruins, the border fields of Wallace, and the fame of ancient triumphs, kindle her genius into enthusiasm, until it breaks forth in her old mournful ballads, or the sweet and touching pathos of Burns. You can hear in Scott, the rattle of her armor, and see in Ramsay, the gentle waving of her plaids. But we have none of these. We are not rocked unconsciously into poets. Time has not hallowed our border conflicts; and every thing in our history is comparatively modern, and matter-of-fact. Perhaps our only materials are a |