This

detect a sentence, wherein the worthy monk, discoursing of the extinct luxuries, uses the words 'morens umbra,' and I conceive the phrase to mean, an umbrella. conclusion has met with a strong opposer, in the person of Dr. Gulnatius, the celebrated antiquary, who very decidedly asserts the true translation to be, a passing cloud, which casts a shade. In contravention to some other assertions of the learned Doctor, I have the following from Horace, who in his ixth Satire, in which he speaks of the reprehensible effeminacy of the Roman youth, makes one of the exquisites ask another: 'Quamdiu tenebat umbellam mihi? The article was certainly countenanced by the Romans, but perhaps not until luxury had been imported from the East. Egypt first gave employment to the class of artisans who made these necessary evils. But it matters little when or where they had their origin. We know that they have been in the world sufficiently long, to harass and plague full half of the human family, and to sour many a pan of the milk o' human kindness.'

It is fair weather with us, and we close the umbrella.

THE annexed is sufficiently smooth and flowing, but it belongs to another era. The age of chivalry is past; and Don Quixotte himself, the most renowned of knights errant, would meet with small honors in this age of brawny, muscular utility. The authorwho is not unknown to the public has this pretty apology for the ancient and sombre character of his theme: 'I wish my harp had a livelier string; but from my boyhood, it has flung gifts of mournful melody to the wind, and it would be marring its original construction, to string it 'full high to notes of gladness :'

Mrs. Stickney, in her 'Poetry of Life,' dwells at much length upon the power of the tender passion to 'awaken glowing emotions of divine poësy.' Here is one who will not dispute an inch of her ground. Connected with this song- -or we misinterpret its fervor there is One, for whose sake the writer has often longed, with the Oriental, to be

like the skies,

To look upon her with a thousand eyes.'

A common error mars the second line of the second stanza, and the second line of the last verse is rather artificial and infelicitous:

'Gastronomy, by a Professor,' is an imitation, by some amateur gourmand, of Professor Wilson's carnal refinements, in the Noctes Ambrosiana of Blackwood's Magazine. The article has some good points, but its English exhibits several examples of what the writer's great exemplar has termed 'palpable fractures of the skull of Priscian;' and we have no time, even if the subject were acceptable, to attempt its emaculation. No one moralizes more frequently than Christopher North; but in the matter of sensual gratification, fluid and solid, over a dinner-table, he forgets what manner of person he would be of; and is not unlike a Catholic Father, of whom we have somewhere read, who, when reproached by the Pope for not living more abstemiously, replied that his soul was Catholic, but his stomach was Protestant. It would be but a just retribution, were the Professor at last made to realize the ancient curse—imprisonment in Purgatory, with the privilege of seeing the blessed eat, while he remains fasting. Some French author says of appetite, that it is a relish bestowed upon the poor, that they may like what they eat, but seldom enjoyed by the rich, though they may eat what they like. Truth, every word! Why? Because there are not wanting writers, and those of eminence too, who would render gluttony fashionable, with those who have the ability to practise it, and exalt it to a science, or a fine art. Spirit of Abernethy! — how many have eaten themselves into the places where they are eaten — ' where a certain convocation of worms are e'en at them!'

THERE is a species of poetry-so-called- of which not a little may be seen in these scribbling days, against which we desire especially to guard the reader. Like most shallow impostures, it is smooth and insinuating, yet valueless, utterly - full of sound, but signifying nothing. Poor departed Sands, in the fine portrait which he drew of the author of 'The Antediluvians,' under the similitude of Mr. Green Bice,' has given one or two brilliant specimens of this prevalent species of composition; but they are scarcely equal to the subjoined, which has actually been sent us for publication. The writer's wish is hereby gratified. The effusion is denominated 'The Lovely One,' and thus it

runs:

AN airy smile of roseate hue

Upon her bright lip lies;

The glare of ocean's radiant blue,
When orient with the evening dew,
Glows in her sun-like eyes.

Her brow is like the sculptured light

That flashes from the breathing stone;
Her flaxen curls like clouds of night,
Through which the silent zephyrs moan!
Her cheek displays the fragrant tinge
The lovely bees of Hybla drain,
And waves her eye-lids' glowing fringe,
Like sunlight on the Western main!

Her step is like the shadowy knell

That echoes from the soundless flowers,
When peals the Nereid's verdant shell
Softly throngh Morning's coral bowers!
And oh her voice! her glowing voice!
E'en Music pales before its flow;
It makes Earth's central core rejoice,
And blossoms on the pall of woe!
Her form has all the pictured grace
That breatheth through the waning air,
When smiling winds, with blushes, chase
The startled moonbeams here and there!
And all her separate charms combined,
In loveliness-alone- unmixed,
Seem like bright echoes of her mind
Eternal, and for aye unfixed!

In all our miscellaneous reading, we do not remember ever to have encountered any thing which partook more largely of the misty-sublime, than the preceding. The

nearest approach to it may be found in the following stanzas by Rosa Matilda, in Horace Smith's 'Rejected Addresses :'

Thus fell Drury's lofty glory,

Leveled with the shuddering stones;
Mars, with tresses black and gory,
Drinks the dew of pearly groans!

Where is Cupid's crimson motion?
Billowy extacy of wo!

Bear me safe, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow!

'Trials of a Schoolmaster,' is, in some respects, a very good paper; but its tedious episode, and extreme length, spoil it for our purpose. The descriptions of the schoolhouse the first punishment and the evening spelling-school, though too minute, show the hand of a close observer, and an accurate limner. We extract the following dialogue, which lives, we think, in our memory. Still, it may have originated with 'T. D. M.'

MASTER. 'Boys,

Noah had three sons was the father of Noah's three sons?'

Shem, Ham, and Japhet. Now who

(The boys of the 'third class' pause-look dubiously at their teacher - but there is no reply.)

MASTER. 'What!- can't you tell? Let me illustrate. Here is Mr. Smith, our next door neighbor: he has three sons, John, James, and Joseph Smith. Now who is the father of John, James, and Joseph Smith?'

Boys. (All together, in eager, emulous strife,) 'Mr. Smith.'

MASTER. Certainly!

that's correct. Well, now let us turn to the first question. Noah had three sons - Shem, Ham, and Japhet. Now who was the father of Noah's three sons?'

Boys. (Unanimously, after a little hesitation,) 'MR. SMITH!'

A late Dublin magazine has a story somewhat akin to this, save that the teacher and pupil were alike thick-headed. An Irish tutor is examining a lad in Scripture History: TUT. 'Is there any account given in Scripture, Phelim, of a dumb baste speaking?' LAD. 'Yes.'

TUT. What dumb baste was it that spake?'

LAD. 'It was a whale!'

TUT. 'Yes. To whom did the whale speak?'

LAD. TO Moses, in the bull-rushes!'

TUT. True. What did the whale say to Moses in the bull-rushes?'

LAD. Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian!'

TUT. Very well. What was Moses' reply?'

LAD. Thou art the man!'

Could there be any thing more broadly burlesque than this?

LANGUAGE.The capabilities of our vernacular are not duly appreciated. Without going back to the simple strength and sublimity of the mater languarum, or discussing the merits of any other tongue that has prevailed since the bricklayers and stonemasons of Babel fell into a state of strike-either for want of order, or for higher wages - we venture to observe that the English tongue is the richest in the world. Its sublimity is' compounded from many simples,' and sources, as any one may know by consulting the pages of that burly and bilious philologist, Sam. Johnson. Latin, Greek, Saxon, German, and eke the French, may specially be found in the garner of its circumscription. It is capable of infinite diversity. The multitude of its synonyms, the full array of its adverbs and adjectives, render it, indeed, the best of languages. We have said thus much, in order to pave the way for a few specimens of the graceful expansion which a short phrase in English may be made to undergo. Refinement seems to be the increasing passion of the time, and language is forced to partake of its prevalence. Several of our contemporaries have caught the polishing mania,

and the clothing of common thoughts in holiday suits, and of setting some dwarf of a phrase upon the stilts of embellishment, have become universal.

We think that we were the first to give an impetus to this innovation on the occidental side of the Atlantic. It is not so generally bruited as it should have been, either on the continent of America, or throughout the boundaries of Europe, or in Ispahan, Jeddo, Jerusalem, or Bagdad, that we first refined that well-known adage of 'proceeding the entire swine' - the indivisum porculum. That stupendous conception was our own; and to whomsoever may charge us therewith, we own the soft impeachment, looking to the public to protect our bays.

Hereunto we append some fresh doings, of a similar kind. Two of the saws have exotic trimmings; the others are indigenous. We grew them:

ORIGINAL. Go to the Devil and shake yourself.

IMPROVED. Proceed to the Arch-enemy of Man, and agitate your person.

OR. Of one who squints. He looks two ways for Sunday.

IMP. One who, by reason of the adverse disposition of his optics a natal defect

is forced to scrutinize in duple directions for the Christian Sabbath.

OR. Don't count your chickens before they are hatched.

-

IMP. Enumerate not your adolescent pullets, ere they cease to be oviform.

OR. Sauce for the goose, is sauce for the gander.

IMP. The culinary adornments which suffice for the female of the race Anser, may

be relished, also, with the masculine adult of the same species.

OR. Let well enough alone.

IMP. Suffer a healthy sufficiency to remain in solitude.

OR. None so deaf as them that won't hear.

IMP. No persons are obtuse in their auricular apprehension, equal to those who repudiate vocal incomes by adverse inclination.

OR. Put a beggar on horseback, and he will ride to the devil.

IMP. Establish a mendicant on the uppermost section of a charger, and he will transport himself to Apolyon.

OR. Accidents will happen in the best of families.

IMP. Disasters will eventuate even in households of the supremest integrity.

OR A still sow drinks the most swill.

IMP. The taciturn female of the porcine genus imbibes the richest nutriment.'

OR. The least said, the soonest mended.

IMP. The minimum of an offensive remark, is cobbled with the greatest promptitude.

YOR. 'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good.

IMP. That gale is truly diseased, which puffeth benefactions to nonentity.

OR. A stitch in time, saves nine.

IMP. The first impression' of a needle on a rent, obviateth a nine-fold introduction.

OR. A nod's as good as a wink, to a horse that is n't blind.

IMP. An abrupt inclination of the head, is equivalent to a contraction of the eye, to a steed untroubled with obliquity of vision.'

OR. 'Tis a wise child, that knows its own father.

IMP. That juvenile individual is indeed sage, who possesses authentic information with respect to the identity of his paternal derivative.

OR. There's no accounting for taste.

IMP. The propensities of the palate defy jurisdiction.

OR. Two and two make four.

IMP. (As per Sam. J.) The number four is a certain aggregate of units; and all

numbers being the repetition of an unit - which, though not a number in itself, is the parent, root, or original of all number-four is the denomination assigned to a certain number of such repetitions.

OR.-Three removes are as bad as a fire.

IMP.-The triple transmission of a household, with chattels, from one domicil to another, is as vicious as a conflagration.

Here we pause. For the nonce, our speculation has done its worst.

THE DRAMA.

PARK THEATRE. MR. REEVE. - If theatrical people are to receive commendation according to their merits as legitimate actors of Tragedy or Comedy, then, we are sorry to say, Mr. JOHN REEVE can lay claim to only a very small share of approbation. In the true sense of the word, he has no right to call himself an 'Actor.' His forte is Burlesque, a line of acting so broad, that there is seldom any thing like it 'on earth, in the heavens above, or in the waters beneath.' And yet, in some characters, so very low that they have nothing but their coarse vulgarity to distinguish them, Mr. Reeve certainly does seem the very animal itself. Yates must have been, in this particular, his prototype: else could he not have suggested to Churchill these biting lines:

'In characters of low and vulgar mould,

Where Nature's coarsest features we behold,-
Where, destitute of every decent grace,
Unmannered jests are flouted in your face,
There Yates with justice strict attention draws,
Acts truly from himself, and gains applause!'

The worst compliment that can be bestowed upon a performer, who pretends to be the representative of a humorous character, we feel compelled to pay Mr. Reeve- he keeps a part of his audience constantly in a roar, not at the wit of the author, as displayed in the character he is supposed to represent, but at himself. They are not forced into a laugh because they behold the vivid representation of some droll original, but are compelled to roar at the grotesque tricks and grimaces of the caricaturist before them. Nor is this the only method by which Mr. Reeve shows his contempt, both for the author and the audience. He is constantly mangling the text, and distorting its meaning, by the substitution of words and ideas of which he alone is the legitimate father, thereby declaring his author a fool, and gently insinuating the conviction, that the individuals composing his audience are not much better. Let such a man attempt 'Falstaff,' and the part might as well have been written by any Grub-street penny-a-liner, as by the immortal bard himself, for all the respect the performer would pay to the words or ideas of the character. It is true, that in most of the pieces in which we have seen Mr. Reeve, he may be as capable as the authors of saying a good thing, and as much to the purpose; but when for the whimsical notions and peculiar phraseology of Sheridan's 'Bob Acres,' he substitutes his own, we are not willing tamely to suffer the infliction. As a mimic, Mr. Reeve is, in some particulars, the best we have ever seen. His portrait of poor Mathews was a perfect likeness, and, considering the great natural difference between the two individuals, in voice and personal appearance, the imitation seemed truly wonderful. As 'Cupid,' in the Burletta of that name, he excited the cachinnatories' of the audience to no small degree. His dance, à la Taglioni, was a curiosity in its way; and indeed in all the extravagant burlesque of character, in which he appeared, he made great fun. His 'Paul Pry' was good: to say it was better than poor Hilson's, however, would be paying it a compliment it does not deserve. The medley song in 'Catching an Heiress' was admirably given, and was almost worth the trouble and fatigue of sitting out the abundant nonsense of that execrable farrago of dulness. The pieces which Mr. Reeve has brought out are certainly, one and all, the worst of the bad, a fact that should be taken into