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GOSSIP BY DUDLEY PERKINS, LL.D. William Howitt is a pleasant book-maker. Without any originality, depth of idea, or other prominent or peculiar feature, he is a racy collector and arranger ; a wellstored gossip, a rather industrious reader, an admirable road-side talker, with a manner comprehensive, flowing, hearty, sometimes rich in illustration, and always genially egotistic. Leigh Hunt has a happy vein of egotism-Howitt's, while it is less happy is more self-important. The latter says things more with Quaker strength than epicurean polish ; while Lamartine's egotism is equally polished and obtrusive.

In the same respect as Mr. Gilfillan is a literary portrait paiuter, Mr. Howitt is a literary landscape gardener–in some instances a landscape painter. And he does paint a landscape in words--its clustering foliage, rich and heavy, when the summer is gliding into autumn; its genial sky tinged with a warm glow, like a balf conscious beauty in the presence of her admirer; the brown hills floating in a sultry purple vapor, like rich grapes in a cup of wine; or Wordsworth's inatter-of-facı surrouuded with Coleridge's thoughts. The streamlet in the foreground whimpering along the edges, and laughing over the stones and pebbles like youngsters gamboling at leap-frog—and the distant homestead, with shining gable in judicious relief, and the blue smoke melting off into the limber ash trees and sheltering elms behind—such a landscape can he paint with almost the richness of color and condensed variety of a Wilson, while his farm-yard, and country lads and lasses, with their yellow hair, laughing eyes, and rosy checks, remind one ot Gainsborough and Morland. After he bas presented you with the tout ensemble of his landscape, he takes you through every green lane, through his every favorite copse, down by the hedge side, and up the mountain, to tell you of the primrose, and the sweet briar, and the woodbine, and the forget-me-noir, and blue bells, or the honeysuckle, blue campanula, white convolvulus, or thu orange berries of the mountain ash. He brings you to listen to the first coo of the ring-dove in March, or the flying twitter of the swallow in August--to look at the tawny-breasted king. fisher flitting along the river bank in May, or the welcome red-breast in December,

When we had finished glancing through his last work, “ The Country Year Book,'' and while yet the pictures of favorite spots in his country were in our "mind's eye." and while we grew young again thinking over early days and scenes in our own, we relit our pipe and smoked ourself into a forgetfulness of the present, and the winds that shook our brown curls at eighteen, fanned our forehead again, and the burly echoes that answered our balloos through the glen, awoke on the tympanum of the mountain solitude as fresh and vigorous as ever.

We were young again-a manly likeness of our boy, D. P., junior, who sits yonder by the stove, busy in delight over “Gulliver's Travels,” and wondering why his school geography does not say something of the kingdoms of Lilliput and Brobdignag, for he has in vain sought out their whereabouts. Well, we were, say, an eighteen years' like ness to him, and we dwelt on one of the hill-sides of a glorious valley. A wild river, hissing and sparkling like fresh champaigne, wound through its centre, and from which at either side the land rose, first in sloping table lands, and then in rough and barren grandeur. A green and yellow verdure plaided its way nearly half-way up several of the hills around—one or two were green to the summit at stated seasons, while others, the loftiest, rose rough, brown and gloomy into the very sky. Oft have we watched the sun dying off behind the western hills, and bronzing the summit of the taller unes

with the hue of the red man, or its native mountaineer; and in the morning, we have often thought of the fair face of Desdemona reclining on the brown shoulder of the Moor Othello, as the beautiful clouds, clear as porcelaiu, dimpled their fullness resting on the mountain's breast. Up through ike valley, an occasional clump of trees denoted where the tiller of the soil pitched his camp, and, enjoying his health and mountain air, felt as happy in his cabin as if it was the siateliest city palace. We felt much happier; and the bumble farmer would feel so too, had lie our bitter experience. Here in our mountain solitude have we studied Milton-here have we ranged the armies of Paradise and perdition, and viewed the war for eternal life. Here have we almost worshipped Lucifer for his daring and ambition. You know, saintly reader, youth is ambitious and daring, and it was less our fault than Milton's. We loved Eve then-rash youth-and if shhad offered, would have eaten as many apples as it is recorded gave Świst the illness from which he never recovered. We don't mean to say that he means would have effected the end any way the more particular, for in both instances, that of Switz's basketful, and Adam's single one, the eating was irreparable ; but we mean to say, a bushel of pippins should never have measured our passion for the first woman. The " sin of our first parents" is a standing theme for popular wail, but Dud. ley Perkins doubts very much, if our last parents were in Eden, that any serious alteration would have to be made in the book of Genesis.

Here, in this valley home of the turning point of our life, have we lived in the glorious air-castles of imagination—in fabrics Miltonic, Dantesque, Byronic, wil it became almost a transition to some purgatorial world, when we had to enter into the strifes, tarmoil and unhealthy prose of what is termed civilized life. Cruel, beartless existence! And there was one, fair reader, who dwelt (in my ærial palace-houses, who looked on the wild brocken through the eyes of a poetess, and gave a dreamy reality to the mansions we conjointly raised for the shelter of our love. Who worship ed nature with me till her heart was as simple and as grand as heaven's productions ever are. Who, when she wished to view hersell, looked at me, for I reflected her-and in her alone I saw myself. The same grass which bent not beneath her feet in its eagerness to touch it as she iripped along, kissed mine, for that I followed her as much as to whisper, “ God speed." And I always thought the rongh breeze coming off the mountains was a messenger of love, when he iwined her raven tresses and my brown locks as I sheltered her from his kiss, or lifted her over some mimic cascade or ambitious bramble. Those were the " Paul and Virginia' days of our existence. How fair she was, how graceful! Perkins dare not task his heart to describe her at this far date, wlien his head is gray unto whiteness, and his limbs unsteady. He has already thought too much on such a iender subject, and must take refuge in the world of words. Like most unfortunate inen, that wbích harasses his feelings most be loves to dwell upon. But milih can divert, though it cannot annihilate ; and Dudley Perkins, LL.D., has for his motto the Italian proverb :“A hundred years of melancholy will not pay a farıhing of debt.” Experientia docet. It is a good one. Under the head, “ The Old Lodge of Queen Elizabeth," Howitt discourses thus:--

" Away! but whither? To the Old Lodge of Queen Bess. Old Lodge, we salute thee for thy venerable antiquity; but we owe thee no respect as the one-time resort of the boasted virgin queen! No! We revere not the den of the assassin-we have no worship for the hand of the murderer, whether clad in royal, or in ragged apparel. Foh! The blood of a queen and of a consin is on the hands of that wretched old woman! Let the interested courrier doff his hat, and fing his mantle in the way of that ancient hag, and Jezebel. We owe more respect to bat and mantle, and to our own self, than thus to desecrate them! Foh! She thought Sir Amias Paulett a dainty fel. low, because he would not take off her captive cousin privily at her cominand. She kept Sir Ralph Sadler as her royal commission of murder at Berwick. She imprisoned and ruined poor Secretary Davison as her scapegoat, for the foul murder of her captive rival. Shall I lift my hand to do the royal tigress homage? The bloody stump of the printer who dared to print a pamphlet against her projected Spanish marriage rises up and warns me. Get thee behind me, Satau ; and all those who have painted thee, as a noble moiher in Israel."

" Howitt's Book" is a very pleasant one. He is a first-rate gossipper about th country: When I read a few pages of him, I almost catch the fragrance floating off the wild thyme and sweet meadow--and hear the little birds twiitering and lovemaking about the corn. It makes me melancholy--for it brings back youth and joy, and I never can reach those early days without passing over a stygian era-a gloomy, comfortlees, solitary moor with nought to cheer, but every thing and every ihought on and about it depressing and rayless.

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ITALIAN OPERA, CASTLE GARDEN. The principal operas performed during the month have been, “ Lucia di Lammermoor," “ Don Giovanni," · Lucrezia Borgia,” “La Favorita," and “ Marino Faliero." The last was never before performed in New-York. All must admit that it was a triumph—a finer opera has never been presented to the American public. Marini, as the Doge, won for liimself a great reputation, making the part his own; Beneventano, as Israele, and Truffi-Benedetti, as Elena, maintain their popularity. We would allude more fully to this opera, did our space allow it; but, as it is, can only mention the duett and chorus at the conclusion of the second act, and the grand finale, as being the finest portior.s of " Faliero." Concerning “ Don Giovanni," the musical critics are waging war: one side insists that Marini's personation of Leporello has in it too much buffoonery, and the other side maintains a contrary opinion. We will not strive to settle their quarrel, but, for our own part, will say that the opera, Marini included, gave us great satisfaction. Max Maretzek deserves much credit for his untiring efforts, and we do not doubt but that he will be amply rewarded.

BROADWAY THEATRE. The principal attraction during the inonth has been the grand spectacle “Azael, the Prodigal.” It is, we believe, a translation from the French, and, as its title indicates, is a version of the Prodigal Son. The scenery is very elegant, although marks of haste may easily be traced ; the ballet and groupings were quite picturesque. Its poetical merits are beyond what we usually find in spectacles. Miss Anderton, Mrs. Abbot, and Mr. Conway, support the principal characters.

NIBLO'S GARDEN. During more than twenty years Niblo's Garden has been one of the chief attractions of the city of New York. Its performances have always been of a high character, and, for many years, the establishment, under the control of Mr. William Niblo, has held the first rank among the public amusements of the metropolis. The able manager has held a situation in the public esteem similar to that occupied physically by the garden. Twenty years agn it was "out of town," but a point of atıraction; the dwellings of the citizens have gradually passed it, and spread upon the upper portion of the island, un:il the garden is “ down town," but a greater point of attraction than ever. So it has been with the performances; they have always presented the highest amusement for the less fashionable classes, without ever losing the recognition of the highest fashion. Whether the Ravel family, or the Rossuets, or Burton's admirable company, occupy the stage, the same brilliant and crowded assemblage graces the beautiful building erected upou the site of that destroyed by fire some years since. During the present summer ihc Ravel family and Burton's company of comedians play on alternate vights of each week. Gabriel Ravel, after many years retirement, bas again appeared with more than his wonted eclat. On the front of the lot formerly occupied by the garden exclusively, Mr. Niblo has erected a block of buildings, which forms one of the chief architectural ornainents of the city. Its symmetry, beauty, and general appearance, bas scarcely an equal in any other city of the Union.

BROUGHAM'S LYCEUM. As the city of New-York swells in numbers of residents, and experiences an annually increasing influx of strangers, not only the variery, but the style of amusements, requires multiplic&tion; and Mr. Brougham, with much enterprise, detected, not only the want, but the mode of meeting it Single-handel, and backed by nothing but his energy and popularity, he purchased a site and built a theatre, which, from the start, was successful, and has been since gaining upon public esteem. The manager him. self, a most successful “playwright," is indefatigable in the production of noveliy, and has a happy manner of working up the foibles, follies and fallacies of llle duy into most amusing, satirical sketches, which please without fatiguing, and hit without wounding. This style of things seems to penetrate through the “heavy business” of the latier nges, and reach the classic era, when existing men and manners were correctly reflected by the mimic art.


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This magnificent edition has been increased beyond the compass of the origiual plan, by the addition of the Miscellaneous Works of the great poet. To facilitate the completion of Shakspeare's Works, the publishers thought i: advisable to issue the Poems in three large Parts-each one containing about three times as much as the average of the preceding numbers. The present number, containing Nos. 39-40-41, with a beautiful portrait of Desdemona, forms the first of this series.

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The Girlhoon of SHAKSPEARE's Heroines. By Mary Cowden Glarke. Tale V.

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This series of well-wrought stories has reached its fifth number, under growing popularity

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This litle work, having the marks of Mr. Willis' editorship, is elegantly printed and illustrated with nine engravings. It is descriptive of one of the most lovely spots of Western New-York.

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This work, written in a very lively and anecdotical style, has great attractions. It describes a country, almost a fairy land, and a people of whom but little is known, comparatively, but which will yet play a very important part in the world's history. The sportive manner of the writer lends a charm to scenes which, although before described, derive a new interest from the attractive garb in which they are now clothed.

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