Part 12

'AT this dinner but one feeling prevailed; and the only alloy was the thought that perhaps we looked upon our host for the last time; an anticipation soon too painfully realized.[A] The inventive talents of MATHEWS were of the highest order; nor were they merely confined to the common peculiarities of the individual in whom he took an interest, but he had the art of throwing his whole mind and spirit into the very _genius_ of the man. I had lived on the most intimate terms with that fine-hearted and most eccentric creature; indeed, my acquaintance with him commenced at Bath, and very soon after I entered the profession: I was consequently inducted into all the peculiar bearings of his oddly-constructed mind. In the course of the evening, in the midst of the most social gayety, and flashes of wit that would have enlightened the dullest of mortals, I arose, and asked Mr. KEMBLE'S permission to propose the health of a distinguished friend, which was immediately accorded. In a few brief remarks, I stated how gratifying it must be to the whole party, on such an occasion, to be honored with the presence of the late Master of the Rolls in Ireland, Mr. CURRAN. This was quite sufficient; for a great majority of persons at the table were aware of the wonderful powers of MATHEWS, although little prepared for so brilliant an exhibition of them. The extraordinary peculiarities of Mr. CURRAN were sufficiently characteristic, to give effect even to a common-place imitation; but MATHEWS was able to enter into the disposition and thoughts of his subject as effectually as if he had been changed into the very man. BURKE, speaking of the imitative powers of a person of his acquaintance, said, that whenever he thought proper to penetrate into the inclinations of those with whom he had to deal, he composed his face, his gestures, and his whole body, as nearly as possible into the exact similitude of the person whom he intended to examine, and then carefully observed what turn of mind he seemed to acquire by the change. Such a man was MATHEWS. He immediately arose, and made a brilliant oration. He scattered the flowers of poesy with the most lavish hand; not a metaphor did he lose, that could in the slightest degree illustrate the departure of KEMBLE from the stage; the brilliancy of the setting sun, the tears of MELPOMENE, the joys of THALIA at the prospect of her undivided reign, etc. There was no hesitation, no pause; and he concluded with a peroration which was perfectly electrifying; for he concentrated all his powers, and when he did this, he was irresistible. I scarcely ever witnessed so glowing a scene; and Mr. KEMBLE seemed lost in utter astonishment. It must be perfectly understood that no previous arrangement had taken place, and that my proposition was made at hazard, and without communicating with an individual.'

[Footnote A: MR. KEMBLE retired soon after to Lausanne, where, after a short residence, he was seized with an apoplectic fit, which was soon followed by another and fatal attack. By the same malady fell also his friend and fervent admirer, Mr. ABBOTT.

ED. KNICKERBOCKER. ]

Here is a very pleasant anecdote of Le MERCEIR, the distinguished author of the 'Tableaux de Paris,' a remarkable old man, whose daughter was the wife of KENNEY, the author of 'Raising the Wind,' 'The World,' etc.:

'ON one occasion, he crossed over from Paris to London to visit his daughter, who a few months previous had given birth to a pair of fine boys. 'On arriving at the house in Bedford-Square, he found, to his great mortification, that she had left that day with her husband for Brompton, leaving behind the nurse and one of the twin-children, to join them on the following day. The old gentleman's distress was extreme, and greatly increased by his slight knowledge of English, and the almost utter impossibility of making himself understood. The servant, with the infant in her arms, came to his relief. She had fortunately been living there during the time of his previous visit. The old gentleman's agitation was intense; and the tears rolling down his time-worn cheeks, made the interview quite affecting. He clasped the unconscious child to his heart; and anxious to see the other, gave vent to his inquiries in the following words: '_Oh, mon petit! my dare!--ah! you littel rog!--where is--ah! yaas, where is--de oder piece belong to dis!_' At length with some difficulty he found his way to Brompton; and when he arrived at his daughter's lodgings, the family had retired to rest. After knocking for a long time, a head was thrust out at the window, demanding to know who was there. '_Opane, opane de door! I am de fader of all!_' was the comprehensive reply, which of course procured him instant admittance.'

MR. GOULD'S ABRIDGMENT OF ALISON'S HISTORY OF EUROPE.--We have good reason to believe, both from our knowledge of the capacity and industry of Mr. GOULD, and an examination, at considerable extent, of the abridged work before us, that the main and important points of ALISON'S History are here preserved with great care and fidelity; and that as a work of accurate historical record, of _wonderful_ cheapness, it will doubtless command the 'patronage' not only of many general readers, but more especially of colleges, academies, and other seminaries of learning, for which, as we may infer, it is deemed particularly appropriate. The editor claims, and we have no doubt justly, to have 'extracted every material _fact_ from ALISON'S work, adding nothing of his own in the way of opinion, argument, or assertion, and endeavoring to present the original narrative in the _spirit_ of the author,' but _without_ endeavoring to preserve his language, which a condensation so great rendered quite impossible. The work is presented upon good paper, with a large, clear type, and reflects no little credit upon the 'New-World' press of Mr. J. WINCHESTER.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--WE have been profoundly impressed by reading in a late English periodical a dissertation on the nature, origin, and destination of the SOUL, written in 1793, by the Right Hon. WARREN HASTINGS. He commences with the argument that our attachment to this life is grounded on delusion, to the end that we may be compelled to fulfil our allotted course through it, and that it may serve as a preparative to a better state reserved for us in another. How forceful and philosophical are the following sentences: 'In health all the allurements of sense strongly attach the mind to that state of present existence which furnishes the means of their gratification, and quicken the relish of those enjoyments which are purely intellectual; while, on the other hand, an instinct, infinitely more powerful, imprints on the soul a fixed horror of its dissolution. Without these coöperative principles, man would give himself no care about his preservation or existence. They were, therefore, ordained by nature as necessary to both. When sickness or the infirmity of age has exhausted all the powers of life, and the dread of death has nothing left to excite it but the last parting pang, the illusion of instinct, no longer necessary, disappears, and leaves its place to be occupied by reason alone, encumbered, perhaps, and enfeebled by the bodily weight which oppresses it, but free from all desires or fears except those which it derives from its conceptions of futurity.' In relation to the _necessity_ of immortality--if we would not derogate from the power and wisdom of the DEITY, or controvert our own experience of the laws by which he regulates all his works--the writer remarks: 'Can we for a moment believe that a Being of infinite perfection has made us for no other purpose than 'to fret our hour upon the stage' of mortality, and then vanish into nothing? that He has quickened us with sensations exquisitely susceptible of happiness and misery, to make the latter only our general portion? that He has endowed us with intellectual powers capable of extending their operations beyond the bounds of this narrow sphere which we inhabit, and of penetrating into the regions of infinite space, which we are destined never to see but in contemplation? and that He has stimulated us with desires of future bliss which we are never to enjoy?' No! He has made nothing in vain; He has made nothing without ends adequate to its means; and though all things may change, nothing perishes. Man was made susceptible of happiness that he might be happy; he was made capable of receiving but a small portion of happiness here, that its completion might be made up in another state; and he had given him the conception and hope of another and better state, that he might qualify himself for it, and that he might hereafter possess it.' This is felicitously and forcibly put, and will perhaps remind the reader of the fine lines of BOWRING:

'IF all our hopes and all our fears Were prisoned in life's narrow bound, If, travellers in this vale of tears, We saw no better world beyond; Oh! what could check the rising sigh? What earthly thing could pleasure give? Oh! who would venture then to die? Oh! who would venture then to live?

'Were life a dark and desert moor, Where mists and clouds eternal spread Their gloomy veil behind, before, And tempests thunder overhead: Where not a sunbeam breaks the gloom, And not a floweret smiles beneath, Who could exist in such a tomb? Who dwell in darkness and in death?'

Touching the future destination of the soul, Mr. HASTINGS observes:

'IT must either remain in its unmixed and elementary state, or be united to some body, and endowed with new powers in participation with it. In either way, its existence is secured. But we may reasonably conclude that, as it was necessary in the order of Providence for its prior state to have been an incorporate one, its next will be of the same kind, however varying in the form, character, and quality which it may derive from those of its new associates. I do not mean by this supposition to reject the possibility of the soul existing independently of a bodily support. I believe such a state to be possible, and, if possible, certainly probable; but as our present is a mixed state, and as it is very unlikely that if our souls are destined to exist for ever, they began to exist in their present state, and yet more unlikely that they should have originated in a perfect and proceeded in an imperfect one, it will be most reasonable to suppose that a pure spiritual essence is to be that of our ultimate destination.'

WE have remarked in one or two of our weekly and daily journals elaborate defences of Mr. FORREST, the distinguished American actor, against charges of ingratitude to early and devoted friendship, and of a lack of generosity in spirit, and of liberality in practice. We had almost said that these defences were wholly unnecessary. We have known Mr. FORREST for fifteen years, and during that period have been intimate with those who have known him for twice that length of time; and we _know_ that the very virtues in which he is now declared, in certain quarters, to be deficient, are the very attributes of his character for which his friends have the most ardent esteem. Where a man _lives down_ such calumnies as we have cited, it really seems like supererogation to defend him from them. TRUTH isn't slipping on boots, while FALSEHOOD of _this_ stamp is running away unscathed. * * * THE old adage that 'Habit is second nature' was well exemplified in a case cited by a friend of ours, of an old sea-captain living in a small town on the coast of the Bay State. He had followed the seas for forty years and upward, during which time he always shaved himself on ship-board, in storm or calm, without the aid of a looking-glass, or of any thing by which to steady himself. So accustomed had he become to this mode of shaving, that when he finally left the seas, he found it impossible to remove his beard without keeping himself in motion the while; and if he attempted to look in a glass, he invariably cut himself. His most usual method, while performing this operation, was to run about his room, and occasionally tumble over a chair, to preserve his equilibrium, as he said. Sometimes, however, when there was a storm without, and a heavy sea rolling, even this was too tame; and he then varied his exercise by trotting up and down stairs, and once in a while sliding down the ballusters! * * * THERE is _another_ 'RICHMOND in the field!' Scarcely have we done chronicling the thousand-and-one attractions of the KNICKERBOCKER steamer, than we find 'our good name' and the portrait of old DEIDRICH arresting the eye over the Gothic entrance of the Masonic Temple in Broadway. Enter that imposing edifice, walk along the vaulted passages, and ascend to the great saloon. 'What a scene!' exclaims every visitor: '_six ten-pin alleys in Westminster Abbey!_' And this is the description, precisely. The majestical roof, with its mingling arches and rich and elaborate tracery, overhangs a hall profusely ornamented, and 'illustrated' with several fine paintings, and which contains six of the best ten-pin alleys in the world. Here the 'KNICKERBOCKER CLUB,' composed of 'O. F. M.', (our first men,) and their non-resident guests, drop in ever and anon, to develope their chests and strengthen their lungs, in 'a bout' or two at the healthful game of bowling. There, too, do we occasionally 'expand and bourgeon,' when we have over-wrought brain and hand; an example which persons of sedentary pursuits would do well now and then to imitate. Other apartments there are, for billiards, whist, and dominoes, (as well as for conversation, reading, refreshment, etc.,) which are in a kindred style of elegance and comfort; and attractive to those who, unlike ourselves, are not confined in their exercise to 'ball and pin.' The proprietor's care for the convenience and enjoyment of his guests is such as might be expected of a tasteful KNICKERBOCKER, from the classic region of Sleepy Hollow. By the by; he suggests a most important addition to the pictorial 'features' of the great saloon; namely, the Nine-pin Players whom RIP VAN WINKLE found bowling among the Kaätskill mountains one thundery afternoon. A capital suggestion, and worthy of heed. * * * WE are in the receipt, at too late an hour, we regret to say, for adequate notice, of '_An Address to the People of the United States in behalf of the American Copy-right Question_,' recently put forth by a committee of the 'American Copy-right Club.' We earnestly commend it to the attention of every American reader, who has a desire to enhance the prospects, and increase the value, of our native literature. The address, we are informed, proceeds from the pen of Mr. CORNELIUS MATHEWS; and we take great pleasure in stating that it is what we ventured in our last number to hope that it _would_ be, clear, simple, and direct in its arguments; forcible, and with two or three exceptions, not _forced_ in its illustrations; and occasionally touched with a quiet but not the less affective satire. We shall refer to this address, and present certain extracts which we have marked for insertion, in an ensuing number. * * * THE lines upon '_My Mother's Grave_' are from the heart; _that_ we can easily perceive; but yet they are _not poetry_, we are unfeignedly sorry, for the young writer's sake, to be compelled to say. For the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth stanzas, pray read these few lines of SCHILLER. It is all embodied here:

'IT is that faithful mother! Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted, From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted. Far from those blithe companions, born Of her, and blooming in their morn; On whom when couched, her heart above, So often looked the Mother-Love!

'Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band, And never, never more to come! She dwells within the shadowy land, Who was the Mother of that Home!'

IN the course of a concert given lately by Mr. HENRY RUSSELL at Washington, (D. C.,) the following affecting incident occurred. The vocalist had just finished singing the little song of our friend 'the General' MORRIS, '_Woodman! spare that Tree!_' which was received with the customary applause; upon which Mr. RUSSELL arose, and begged permission to 'relate a remarkable circumstance connected with that song.' He had but just executed it, he said, at a concert given by him at Boulogne sur Mer, when a gentleman, in a state of alarming excitement, arose from the midst of the assembled multitude, and in a voice trembling with emotion, exclaimed: '_Was the tree spared?_' 'Never,' said Mr. RUSSELL, 'can I forget the glow which bu'st out all over that man's face, when I answered: '_Yes, it was!!_' If that 'inquiring mind' did not belong to a wicked wag, then the probability is, that we are rather mistaken than otherwise. * * * WE have before us, in pamphlet-form, taken from the last number of the 'Southern Quarterly Review,' a '_Sketch of the Character of the Hon. Hugh S. Legare_,' which we have perused with a satisfaction unmingled, save with a melancholy regret, that one so preëminently gifted as the subject of this article, should have been so early called away. The lamented deceased was a man 'affluent in learning, whether it regarded the useful or beautiful in life; delicate and exquisite in his tastes, elevated in character, and sensitive in his affections; true to his public trusts, and exemplary in his relative duties.' Our country may well lament his loss. The 'Sketch' is in the main well written: it irks us, however, to encounter in a description of Mr. LEGARE'S dress the term '_pants_' instead of pantaloons. The word is a vulgarism almost as gross as the substitution of '_gents_' for gentlemen, after the manner of Mr. TITTLEBAT TITMOUSE; no model, certainly, for a grave reviewer. * * * OUR readers will doubtless recollect a marriage between a Mr. LONG and Miss LITTLE, which went the rounds of the papers some years ago, and to which some wag had appended the well-known lines:

'Man wants but _little_ here below, But wants that _Little_ LONG.

A few weeks since in B----, a Mr. JONATHAN GOODEAL was married to Miss HONORA LITTLE. After the ceremony, one of the company rose and uttered the following, which he considered a decided improvement on the original couplet:

'Man wants but little here below, But wants that _Little_ a GOOD'EAL!'

A 'VERY anonymous' correspondent, who signs himself 'J. B.' (none of our KNICKERBOCKER 'J. B.'s, as we have with some trouble ascertained,) writes us the annexed notelet: 'In your 'Gossip' for December, why not, in relation to WEIR'S picture, commemorate the courtship of MILES STANDISH and Mr. BRADFORD? BRADFORD'S wife, as the picture-pamphlet tells us, fell overboard the day after the arrival, and Mrs. ROSE STANDISH deceased the same autumn. MILES (Query Latin?) it seems looked with complacency upon a Mrs. ALDEN, but being no hero on a carpet, desired his friend BRADFORD to act as his second, and carry his offer. BRADFORD complied, and pleaded warmly for his friend. The lady, however, listened to him with much impatience, and as soon as he had finished, said, very demurely: 'And now why do you not speak for yourself, Master BRADFORD?' And history informs us that Mr. BRADFORD _did_ speak for himself, and ALDEN BRADFORDS still extant verify the chronicle. You would also do me a favor by anathematizing one FLAGG, who publishes VICTOR HUGO'S plays, prefaces and all, under the name of FLAGG, without giving the great Romanticist any credit therefor.' Mr. FLAGG, who, if 'these be truths,' ought to be ashamed of his reputation, may consider himself 'anathematized.' * * * SOME afflicted gentleman, with whom we deeply sympathize, has lately shown up in one of the London magazines a specimen of the genus PUNDIT; one of those persons who, having acquired the reputation of a wit, lives in a constant agony of endeavor to keep up the character; who lends nothing of a rational kind to the general entertainment during a whole evening, but watchfully 'bides his time' for the infliction of his own especial annoyance. In the present instance, the 'pundit and stock-joker' was caught at dinner by his host, during a shower of 'original puns' which accompanied the various courses, in this wise:

'HAPPENING to possess some fine old Madeira in pints, a bottle of it was produced with an appropriate puff of its age. Taking up the bottle, Mr. PUNDIT remarked, 'that it might be old, but it was very little of its age.' FRANK was in raptures at the joke, and laughed till tears came to his eyes. On recovering himself, he was surprised to find that my countenance, instead of being spread out into an approving smile, was fixed in something not much short of a frown. I expressed my regret that Mr. PUNDIT'S admirable _memory_ should be so unprofitably employed, while he interposed an appeal in behalf of the originality of the joke; but I hoped he would forgive me, if I proved to the contrary. 'Be good enough,' I told my son, 'to fetch me the fourth volume of Erasmus. It is,' I continued, turning to Mr. PUNDIT, 'the Leyden edition, and I shall have the pleasure of showing you _your_ joke in a collection of ancient aphorisms, which was originally published several centuries ago.' FRANK having brought the book, I found the passage, which runs thus: 'Gnathena, when a very small bottle of wine was brought in, with the praise that it was very old, answered, _it is very little of its age_.' Mr. PUNDIT was confounded, and confessed to a glimmering remembrance of having seen the joke before. 'The wonder would have been,' I replied, 'had a gentleman of your erudition in witticisms not met with it, for it has, since Erasmus's time, found its way into nearly all the jest-books of various ages and countries. I must, however, give you credit for its apt application to my diminutive modicum of Madeira.'

The old gentleman subsequently adds, by way of salvo: 'I know you err from innocence; you little thought that all the puns you were making were current when I was studying for the bar thirty years ago, and originated, I doubt not, amidst the al-fresco festivities of the Saxon heptarchy.' A capital 'recipe' is given for silencing the series of 'dinner-puns' proper: 'Should the Pundit begin at meal-times, attack his first effort; request the company's attention, and rattle off the whole string. Thus forestalled, he will allow the meal to pass off pleasantly, and the conversation to flow on.' * * * SURELY 'C.,' if he has perused the 'Gossip' of our last number, will not think that it is from any lack of 'sympathy' with him, that we decline his '_Autumnal Thoughts_.' What _he_ felt, looking upon the 'glorious decay of Nature' from her sublime mountain pinnacles--over a scene which 'lay bathed in the smoky light of an October day and an Alleghany valley'--we ourselves felt, perhaps at the same moment, in gazing upon the frost-painted heights along the Hudson, and the calm beauty of the Long-Island shores. _We_, too, 'saddened by the solemn monitions of fading loveliness, went back to the past, and to the dear friends in whose light we saw all that the heart _can_ see, of vanished days;' and with an unutterable longing to know the mystery of life, and the greater mystery of death and the grave, have asked, with a poet too gifted to be so little known:

'WHERE are ye now!--though Fancy's flight To you my soul doth sometimes bear, Departed Time's eternal night Re-echoes back the question, 'Where!' Nature, in simple beauty drest, Still dances round the restless year, And gazing on her yellow vest, I sometimes think my change is near!