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196 up through the conduits of dialectic induc tion ; they concerned themselves not with FACTS —THEY REASONED.” Similia similibus cUrrentur will do very ] well to build a beautiful and airy fabric up on —but in medicine we can never practice upon theory, while we may theorize ad. lib. upon our practice and experience. Yours, faithfully, BAYARD. To Col. N. J. B. fjomc tforrcsponirencc. For the Southern Literary Gazette. NEW-YORK LETTERS—NO. 25. Ratiibun Hotel, New York , ) Oct. 18, 1848. j My dear Sir —A friend was the other day expressing to me his surprise that the old English show of Punch and Judy had never made its appearance in our streets; and I could but think that the wonder was, rather; that so much patronage for parallel itinerant shows should be found among so sober and business-engrossed a community as ours.—■ Though the amiable Mistress Judy and her loving lord do not vex the ear of night or day with their little domestic confabs, the strolling harper and the tuneful organ-grind er, with the puppet-dance and that sine qua non , a monkey in a red jacket, are to be met at every hour. We have “ Buy-a-Brooms,” too, in abundance, and tambourines ad libi tum. i with now and then a Walking telescope, through which Jupiter and his moons may be seen for a copper. Among the musicians is a little Italian vagabond, whose intelligence and interesting appearance have attracted much attention. Three or four years ago he was quite a celebrity as the “ White Mouse Boy” ; the ladies petted him, the artists paint ed him, and the poets did him up in rhyme. A portrait of the little fellow, by Mr. Flagg, is now in the possession of Mr. N. P. Willis. Though he has grown older since those hal cyon days of his fame, and has abandoned the mice for the hand-organ and the monkey, he has lost none of his peculiar genius, which enables him still to gather in a comfortable harvest of pennies and picayunes. He is personally acquainted with most of the poets and painters, and having, among his accom plishments, some talent in the profession of the latter, he is a sort of privileged character with them—enjoying the entre of their stu dios and the use of their brushes and colors. One knight of the pencil very generously of fered to educate him as an artist, but he de clined the proposition, preferring his free, va grant life to the labor and confinement of the atelica , or in his own%ords, “like his coun trymen in Italia, he loved better la libertaV I met him a few evenings ago, for the first time since my return to town. It was dark, and I was chatting with a friend in Broad way, when someone gave me the evening salutation, and returning it, with the offer of my hand, I observed the merry phiz of the “ Mouse Boy.” “Ah !” said I, “is it you, you little vagabond My misplaced po litesse amused him very much, as he rejoined, “Ha ! Signore, you take me for de gentle mens !” “Well,” said I, “are you not a gentleman I” “ Ah! Signore, I try to do like de gentlemens; and if everybody do so, I shall get plenty money!” Upon this inge nious hint, I fumbled in my pocket, and in return, got the promise of a speedy visit, with a sight of the new Jocko. This is the season for new books, and they are pouring in upon us very freely. Among those issued since*my last letter, are the illus trated edition of the “ Sketch Book,” and Reed’s “Female Poets of America.” Mr. Irvings made its appearance, from the press of Mr. George Putnam, on Monday, and is now selling as such a w T ork, in “such a dress, should sell. The illustrations, you are aware, are by Darley, the most distinguished artist in his department in this country. These §®®ira giEei luif{s&aisTnna* pictures are twelve in number, all most ad mirably done, and many of them perfect gems. Look at that of Old Rip, during his terrible snooze, at the amiable face of Ichabod Crane, at the Angler, the Pride of the Village, etc., and you cannot help sharing my admiration. Mr. Darley is now busy with the drawings for Old Deidrich Knickerbocker, the second volume of the series. Mr. Reed’s book is of the same kind as that by Miss May, of which I recently dis coursed to you. They are rival volumes I presume. When Mr. Griswold gives us the ponderous tome on the same subject which he is now busily preparing, we shall be ab solutely surfeited with the biographies of our lady writers, and selections from their rhymes. But to return to Mr. Reed l his volume is presented in a most beautiful gift-book dress, and is embellished with portraits (so-called) of eight of the legion of authors represented in its pages. The “publisher’s advertise i ment” tells us that the book is a “specimen of American Literature and Art.” Os the lit etature, that is to say, the lady literature, of the land, I suppose it must be, necessarily, a fair sample; but touching the “specimen of American art,” God forbid! None of the pictures “walk in beauty like the night,” etc., although, as far as 1 know’ the originals, they are as unlike them as possible. The engra ving with Mrs. Sigourney’s name, looks ma tronly and moral enough to be a likeness. I have never seen her, and of course cannot say, but the presumption is certainly against such an inference. How do you like the “ Literary World,” under the auspices of the Messrs. Duyckinck? Two numbers have appeared since the change in the administration, and everybody is de lighted with the greatly increased interest and attraction of its pages. With the distinguish ed ability, as Journalists, of the present pro prietors, and the facilities of every sort, lite rary and financial, which they, above most editors, have at their command, we may con fidently expect from their bureau a work of the highest character and interest. You will notice in the last week’s issue, a number of elegant illustrations. These we are hereaf ter to have, more or less, in every paper. In looking over the late issues, you cannot fail to be struck with the high character of their contents, and more particularly with the ar tistic grouping, so to speak, of the whole.— It is long since we have had such pleasant and sparkling sketches of travel, as those just commenced under the title of “ Out of the wray places in Europe”; and then, too, besides a host of other able writers, Mr. Hoff man, the late editor, is to contribute an arti cle to every number. Mr. Foster’s proposed “Drawing-Room Journal” has not yet developed. Mr. F., as you know, perhaps, was the editor of “Yan kee Doodle” and “John Donkey,” and is the author of the popular series of papers, now publishing in the “Tribune,” entitled “New York in Slices.” The new monthly, which is to be conduct ed by Mr. Webber, author of “Old Hicks, the Guide,” etc., will soon make its debut. — The illustrations will be from the pencil of the Audubons, and will touch exclusively upon birds, beasts, and kindred subjects.— These pictures, and the text accompanying them, wall form the distinctive feature of the work. Mr. Webber has, during the past season, published an exceedingly graphic se ries of letters in the “ Courier & Enquirer,” from the sporting haunts of Hamilton Coun ty. These sketches well deserve the more permanent book form, which they will pro bably soon receive, Mr. Hudson, the popular lecturer on Shaks peare, is spoken of in connection with the Professorship of Moral Philosophy in our new Collegiate Free Academy. The chair could not be better filled. The great French painting, by Paul De la Roche, of “ Napoleon crossing the Alps,” is at the rooms of the Academy of Design, where it more than realizes the high expec tations of the public. It is truly a noble work, every way worthy of the theme and of the eminent author. We have never had a picture here, which has so completely w T on, I may say commanded , the admiration of all lovers of the Arts. Le Grand Empereur is, in this interesting and important incident of his life, usually depicted by the Arts as bounding over the giant Alps upon a pranc ing and gaily caparisoned charger. In this manner did David paint him, in the original of the thousands of prints which flood the country; when, in truth, as Thiers says in his “Consulate and the Empire,” “he as cended Mount Saint Bernard, mounted on a mule, dressed in the grey coat which he al ways wore, conducted by a guide of the country, displaying in the most difficult path the abstraction of a mind occupied elsewhere, discoursing with the officers whom he met here and there upon the road; and then at in tervals conversing with the guide who ac companied him, making him talk of his life, his pleasures, and his troubles, like to some idle traveller who had no better occupation.” In this simple yet truthful manner has De la Roche dared to depict the greatest and most beautiful incident of Napoleon’s life. Such an attempt, in less able hands, might certain ly have proved excessively bathetic, but un der the pencil of true genius, how triumphant the result! In the midst of frowning moun tain-tops, which are braving the anger of the elements and the drifting snows, we have here nothing more than the simple figure of the ambitious conqueror, mounted upon a jaded mule, led by an honest guide unconscious of the high character of his charge. Napoleon, in all the pride and pomp of glorious war, at the head of an invincible army, would be to every one a subject of lofty wonder and ad miration. How much more is the mind im pressed with such emotions, when we see him bent on such momentous deeds, through the agency of such simple means. The fast nesses of the Alps look doubly wild and drear in the sullen and storm-charged atmosphere; the black clouds touch the huge overhanging rocks, fringed with the cold icicle; the howl ing winds dash the snow in the faces of the lonely travellers; the officers dimly seen in the distance, are exerting every muscle against the violence of the tempest; the over-tasked beast moves listlessly and doggedly on his perilous path, guided by the careful hand of the weather-beaten peasant; and amidst all this danger and desolation, there sits Napo leon, with a countenance expressive of utter insensibility to all the physical discomforts around him ; every feature speaks of a great and daring soul, and plainly reveals the mighty mind and the indomitable spirit of the man. The abstracted air, the slightly compressed lips, and above all the piercing, almost unearthly, expression of the eyes, leave a deep and solemn impress upon the mind of every beholder. It is scarcely worth while to speak of the details and the mechanical execution of this great picture. They are in every point fault less, and worthy of the high thought which they serve to develope. This is the latest picture of De la Roche, and is exhibited in this country for the first time, never having been exposed even in Pa ris. It is not on this account less interesting to us. It is consigned to the New York branch of the French house of Goupil, Vibert & Cos., celebrated as the most extensive and liberal publishers of engravings in Europe. I think I referred to this establishment last Spring, at the time of the opening of its fine Gallery of Pictures by living European mas ters. The Paris branch sells engravings an nually to the extent of more than two mil lions of francs, and every year it pays to ar tists, for their works, not less than a hundred thousand dollars. The American branch is every way disposed to act on the same enter prising and liberal plan. Mr. Schaus, the resident partner here, is continually adding valuable pictures to his Exhibition* and has in progress at this moment, no less than three National publications. The first, an exqui* site engraving from Mr. Mount’s picture of the “Power of Music,” which will be ready for subscribers in a few weeks; the second*a volume of eight engravings of Niagara Falls, from drawings by Regis de Trobriand, and accompanied by text from the pen of the ar tist J the third, a great work, embracing beau tifully engraved and tinted views of the most attractive landscape and architectural scenery of the United States. I have looked over some fifty of the drawings for this latter se riesj and a few proofs of the engravings, re ceived from Paris by the last Steamer. The sketches are remarkably truthful, and the en graving is in the first style of art. This work will be published in numbers, of six pictures each, at the low price of tw r o dollars a sett, or five dollars for the same* exquisitely tinted. The original sketches in oil for Mr. Tro briand’s work, are now in the Gallery of Messrs. G., V. & Cos., where they receive de served commendation. There is in this Ex hibition an exquisite picture by Waldimdler, of “ Children Coming out of School,” of which I must speak to you on another occa sion. One word more. It is whispered about town that the beautiful and large edifice known as the Rackett Club, is to be convert ed into a Temple of Art, for the accommoda tion of the National Academy of Design, the New York Gallery of Fine Arts, and the Eu ropean Exhibition of Goupil, Vibert & Co.—• So mote it be. FLIT. ©aural ®*Uctic. From Neal’s Saturday Gazette. THE STORY OF THE BELL. BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.* The village was small, and the church was not a cathedral, but a quiet, unostentatious stone chapel, half covered by climbing plants, and a forest of dark trees grew around it.— They shaded the interior so completely in the summer afternoons that the figure of the al tar-piece^—painted, the villagers averred, by Albrecht Dyer—could scarcely be distinguish ed, and rested upon the broad canvass amass of shadowy outlines. A quaint carved belfry rose above the trees, and in the bright dawn of the Sabbath a chime sweet and holy floated from it, calling the villagers to their devotions; but the bell whose iron tongue gave forth that chime, was not the bell that my story speaks of—there was another, long before that was cast, that had hung for many years, perhaps a century, in the same place. But now it is no longer elevated, its tongue is mute, for it lies upon the ground at the foot of the church tower, broken and bruised. It is half buried in the rich mould, and there are green stains creep ing over it, eating into its iron heart; no one heeds it now, for those who had brought it there are sleeping coldly and silently all a round in the church-yard. The shadow of those dark trees rests on many graves. How came the old bell to be thus neglect ed 1 Anew generation arose—.“ See,” they said, “ the church where our parents wor shipped falls to decay. Its tower crumbles to dust. The bell has lost its silver tone — it is cracked, it is broken. We will have a new tower, and another bell shall call us to our worship.” So the old belfry was destroyed, and the old bell laid at the foundation ; it was griev ed at the cruel sentence, but it scorned to com plain, it was voiceless. They came weeks after to remove it—-the remains would Still be of use ; but strive as they would, no strength was able to raise the bell ; it had *This charming little story has enjoyed a wide popularity under the disguise of a “ Translation from the German, by Clara Cushman” —and we do our fair friend the real author, only a simple act ot justice by divesting it of its foreign appearance, and presenting it in its true character. It was a conceit of hers which sent it forth anonymously and“ from the German,” of which it is only a felicitous imita tion—illustrating both the flexibility of our noble Anglo Saxon tongue and the genius of its author. [Ed. So. Lit. Gazette.