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22 in preparation, in the shape of selections from their verses, with biographies and por traits. The editors must have a laborious task, for poetesses, with all sorts of noms de plume, are to be found at every corner. Lindsey & Blakiston's proposed volume of this kind, will probably possess as much in terest and value as either of them; for, though less pretending than the others, it will spring from the wand of an amiable and able critic, who will be influenced in her selections and judgments, solely by the guidance of a fault less taste, a poetic heart and nicely discrimi nating mind. Some of our damsels seem to be making good use of the privileges of leap year. Who can venture abroad with any degree of confi dence, when -such incorrigible veterans in bachelordom as Park Benjamin and Epes Sar gent, fall beneath the fire of bright eyes! A Paris correspondent, in a late number of the Courier & Enquirer, writes very beauti fully about the influence of song and poesy, in the cause of liberty and human rights in France. After quoting the memorable words, “let me but write the songs of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws!” he says — “ In that great spectacle, the most imposing which Paris has witnessed tor half a century —the burial of the victims of February — might be seen, walking abreast with the Pro visional government, a little bald-headed, humble-looking old man, whose whole de meanor denoted one unaccustomed to the pomp and circumstance of such scenes. He had no badge of office, no mark of distinc tion, yet there was not one in that vast crowd of half a million, who had a better right to a place among the rulers of the land. It was the poet Beranger! he whose simple lyre had for more than thirty years wielded a greater influence than all the magisterial truncheons in the kingdom. That lyre was first strung at the taking of the Bastile; and under Na poleon, Louis XVIII, Charles X, and Louis Philippe, it has never ceased to ring out in dignant strains against oppression, that thrill ed to the centre of every true-born heart in the nation, The seductions of power could not lull it; the damp of the dungeon could not slacken its chords!” In speaking of the writer of that simple but wonderful composi tion. the Marseillaise, he says: “ Rouget de Lisle, an obscure lieutenant of artillery, one night in 1792, composed in Slrasburg, a song which has been worth more to the cause of French freedom, than one hundred thousand bayonets. For more than fifty years, it has been’the De Profundis of Kings, and the uvi vat of Liberty.” Os Rachel, the great trage dienne, and her singing of the Marsellaise at de la Republique, the writer con tinues —“On the lips of the first tragic ac tress in the world, it ceases to be a patriotic song, and becomes a tragic poem of seven magnificent strophes, each word of which strikes upon the ear like the blast of a trum pet !” In this connection, I will record a happy little incident that occurred at a late dinner party,|at which I had the pleasure to “ assist.” One of the guests proposed the health of a French gentleman present, with the apropos peroration of “ Vive la Republique P ’ Mon sieur, without a moment's hesitation rose, and in a sweet and powerful voice, sang the Marseillaise —the whole company joining in the soul-stirring chorus’ FLIT, FRIENDSHIP ON THE NAIL. When Marigny contracted a friendship with Menage, he told him he was “ upon his nail.' 1 ' 1 It was a method he had of speaking of all his friends; he also used it in his let ters; one which he wrote to Menage begins thus: “ Oh! illustrious of my wat7.” When Marigny said, “you are upon my mw7,” he meant two things-—one. that the per son was always present, nothing being more easy than to look at his nail; the other was, that good and real friends were so scarce, that even he who had the most, might write their names on his nail. §®®Tf SI B S Isl Q* [1 IT BtEA IE ¥ ®A 8 B ITB • ®ur jForeign €orrcspottiience. For the Southern Literary Gazette. LONDON LETTERS—NO. 111. London, April 28, 1848. My Dear R . —A week has elapsed since my last was written, and in this interval a very important question has been decided in France —and the decision is such as to afford lively satisfaction to the friends of Liberty throughout the world. The French Elections have passed off without any remarkable ex citement, and the people have declared, by an overwhelming vote, in favor of the Moderate Party, under Lamartine —a triumph of the moral over the physical —of law and order over Communism and confusion. There is now hope for France. The cry “Vive la Republique," 1 is not altogether a vain one. For the first time in the history of Europe, a nation has attempted the grand experiment of universal and unlimited suffrage—affording indeed, the only parallel in the world to our own glorious country. And this experiment has been, so far, proudly successful, contrary to the expectations of thousands in our land, who contemplated the event with apprehen sion, by no means causeless, when the spirit of the Communists —the French mobocrats, was considered. I congratulate France, and especially the noble Lamartine, upon the happy denouement , and earnestly hope it is the initial step to the progress and glory of the young Republic. It is true, all is not yet accomplished, nor are there wanting sources of continued fear for the new State. She has done so nobly of late, however, that the friends of France and Liberty may well take heart. There is something alarming in the very idea of nine hundred delegates in one deliberative body. Among these, there will be many self-imagined Solons who may create distur bance in the proceedings. A vast amount of prudence, good sense, and a liberal infusion of the spirit of concession will be required to harmonize such a mass of legislative author ity. It is useless to speculate on what the assembly will do : so I will not waste time or paper. It is stated that out of the 210,000 votes actually polled in Paris, (only two thirds of the voting population,) over 180,000 were cast for Lamartine —leaving the Socialists a fragmentary minority—that must be fatal to their hopes of ascendancy. I think 1 shall visit Paris in a few days, and if I do, you shall have the results of my observations on the state of society there at this time. The “Clubs” of Paris are now the only assemblies worthy of mention.— These are very numerous, and thronged con tinually by their enthusiastic members. But I will not retail to you the stories of our let ter-writers. Let us bid adieu for the present, to Paris, and return to London. Things move on much as usual in this mighty Babylon. One tires of the everlasting din of the great city, and sighs for the woods and freedom to move and breathe. If you would enjoy a moment's sense of quiet in London, you must be up and about the streets before day, and even then, in the vicinity of the great markets, there is bustle enough to bewilder a back woods-man, could he be put down suddenly in the midst of it. These London markets, by the way, are a decided feature of the great metropolis. One of the first feelings of which I was distinctly conscious, after I had seen London for the first time, was admiration at the vastness of its population, and I involun tarily exclaimed, “ Where do all these people get food to eat ?” After I had seen the great markets, and the wonderful supplies they ex hibit, my surprise ceased, or rather, was be stowed upon the fertility of the gardens in the vicinity of London, and the industry of those who cultivate them. I wish I could give you an idea of the sin gle market—Covent Garden—its vast extent —its admirable arrangements —its wonderful variety of commodities. This celebrated gar den is proverbial for having every delicacy of fruit and vegetable “in season and out of sea son.” I often indulge myself with a sail on the Thames, in one of those fairy-like skiffs that are seen at all times dotting its surface, and looking at a distance like large gulls skim ming its weaves. They are to be had, all to yourself, except the boatman, for a small con sideration ; and it is delightful indeed on a lovely Spring morning, like that which is now beaming and smiling upon “Cockaigne” to step into one of these tiny vessels, and giving the word to the sturdy but polite boatman, glance off into the stream, and with the sin gle sail up, glide along the sun-bright sur face of the noble old river—shooting the bridges, over which gay equipages, heavy wagons, and hundreds of pedestrians are pass ing at the moment. There, close on our right is a black looking steamer —what a contrast in her appearance and speed, to the serial pal aces that seem to fly over the blue waves of the majestic Hudson! There again is anoth er steamer with flags flying, and a merry crowd upon her decks. They are bound for Richmond, and a delightful time will they have of it; with a charming pic-nic amid the delicious green and flowers that bedeck the classic banks of old father Thames in that vicinitv. I shall prate to you some of these days, of the beauty of the Thames. You know that Englishmen, and especially Londoners, wor ship this river, so insignificant in size, when compared to our own majestic streams. But the “ Thames” is a river to be proud of, from its ten thousand classic and historic associa tions, as Nvell as its vast commercial interests. More of it anon, perhaps. I have but little or nothing to communicate this w'eek, in the way of literary intelligence. The world has been too much occupied writh “ Revolutions” in governments, to give birth to intellectual prodigies. The Republic of Letters is not progressing among us with strides equal to those of the Republic of the People in France. We shall wake up by and by, however. The Rail Road travel has been greatly diminished for some days past, in consequence of the excitement that has prevailed. The celebrated tragic-actor, J. Hudson Kirby, died in this city on the Bth in stant, at his residence. He is called, as you know, the “American Tragedian”—but he was an Englishman by birth, and emigrated to the United States in the year 1829,1 think. Your namesake here, the London Literary Gazette , maintains its enviable position. It is subject, however, to the same mishaps that befal all printed matter—to wit: mistakes of the types. In a recent number it apologizes for a mistake in a previous issue—in which, speaking of the Queen's Theatre, the term “ magnificent” was substituted for “ insignifi cant,” which “ altered the entire sense of the passage.” Most likely! To such a pitch of excellence have the pro fessors of Photography in England arrived, that some of them have sent to the London Art-Union daguerreotype representations of a sunbeam! Others have succeeded in fixing on a metal the picture of a cloud-bank driv ing before a high wind! The duty on newspapers is to be reduced, it is rumored, to one farthing, and the tax on auvertisements to be vastly diminished. When the wise legislators of England reduce both these duties to nothing, they will do some thing worth while. One item of literary news I must not alto gether pass over. We are likely to have at last the defence of Sir Hudson Lowe’s conduct towards his illustrious prisoner at St. Helena. Lowe’s literary executor, Sir H. Nicholas, will prepare this defence from the voluminous MSS. left by the Governor. It will be eager ly read—but whether it will clear Sir Hudson of the charge of ungenerous treatment of the exiled emperor or not. remains to be seen.-r- For myself, 1 doubt. What shall I say of Irish affairs'? The as pect of things in that distracted country is not more encouraging. The British Government are pouring in, by every channel, troops and police to meet any emergency that may arise, and the question is constantly iterated, What will be the issue? Wait patiently as I do, and you shall hear. I shall post this letter to-morrow in Liver pool, as I design to go up in the afternoon mail-train —a journey of 200 miles, now ac complished, thanks to the power of steam, in half a working day! I shall take a peep at the Cambria while there, for it will be some thing like seeing my country, to see w T hat had so recently been there; and I will leave on board of her my kind regards for those I love on the shores to which she will hasten. Till I write again, adieu; and believe me, Ever yours. E. F. G. Jnnmj WHERE IS MY THERMOMETER? In a certain town a certain military gentle man regulates his dress by a thermometer, which constantly suspended at the back dcor of his house. Some wucked wag once stole the instrument, and left in its place the fol lowing lines:— When M n to Tartarus got, That huge and warm gasometer ; “ (rood lord !” quoth he, “ how wondrous hot 1 O, where is my thermometer I” GRAMMATICAL CONSTRUCTION. A farmer’s son, just returned frem a board ing school, was asked if be knew grammar. “Oh yes, father!” said the pupil, “I know her very well; Grammer sits in the chair fast asleep. A “ NO-LICENSE ” .MAN. A political citizen, not remarkable for his acuracy of language, but rather distinguished for that “undue celerity in the circulation of the bottle which has produced Father Math ew,” said during the late election, “ I shan’t vote for Mr. B ;heis a demi-god and a licentious man, and I do it!” He was a “no-license” candidate, it will be un derstood, most likely; and therefore the objur gation of his “fellow-citizen.”—Knickerbock er. THE PULICAN. They were exhibiting not long since in Boston, (as we gather from a friend in that ’cute city,) a nondescript animal which was called “ the Pulican,' 1 ' 1 and which was espec ially remarkable for having no hair on its bo dy. It turned out to be a bear that was regu larly shaved with soap and razor every morn ing ! Several attempts were made by learn ed naturalists in the “Modern Athens” to classify his genus; but just as a “report” was about to appear, the hoax was discovered.—• The “Pulican” was speedily absent, and sev ural consecutive hats were claimed by the eoubters, who had laid wagers with the cred dlous touching the real character of the show. CAMBRIDGE WIT. When Dr. Jeggon, afterwards bishop of Norwich, was master of Bennet College, Cambridge, he punished all the under gradu ates for some general offence; and because he disdained to convert the penalty-money in to private use, it was expended on new whiten ing the halls of the college. A scholar hung the following verses on the screen : “Dr. Jeggon, Bennet College master, Broke the scholars’ heads, and gave the walls a plas ter.” The doctor, perusing the paper wrote un derneath, extempore:— “ Knew I but the wag that writ these verses in bra* very. I’d commend him for his wit but whip him for his knavery. Not Exactly.— A juvenile friend of ours would argue with us that he was a supporter of royalty, since he had the prints of whales on his back. “Pomp, why am de sun like a loaf oh bread ?” “ Cause he am round, eh, Cuff ?” “No; you gub it up?” “Yes, I aint done noffin else.” “Well, den cawse he rises in de y east.' 1 ' 1 “Yah, yah! nigger, you been sweepin’ out a school room, aint yer.!”