iety for the morrow, their poverty is not too sa- | This very plea refutes itself, by quoting the heathen cred in our eyes to prevent our hoping to make as precedents for neglect of provision for the minit much less, and wishing, as the best thing that istry, whereas the true precedents to be quoted are can befall them, that they may have their deserts. the primitive Christians, who provided for their This wish might be more severe than merciful if own spiritual guides and supplied the heathen applied to some classes of visitants to our city, but fields likewise. Many an affluent man, who soit means only mercy to these hard-working and laces his miserable parsimony toward the Church ill-paid reapers of our spring harvest of faith and by quoting the hardships of the primitive clergy, humanity. is unconsciously defining his own true position, and taking his place in the ranks of the heathen who caused those hardships. In one respect our voluntary system is peculiarly unmerciful, and awaits the day of reform. It sets a high bounty upon youth and its quick blood, and In fact there needs to be a thorough revision of has too little honor for age and its tranquil wis- the whole matter of labor and its reward. The dom. While the faithful minister is in the prime true principle will show that a due maintenance of his judgment, not a few impatient ears begin to of the teacher of spiritual religion, instead of itch for some more tingling voice; and when in- impairing, rather secures the spirituality of his firmities creep upon him, his gray hairs are not al- service, and leaves the heart as much a debtor as ways a crown of honor, nor a guaranty of kindly before. The mind that is emancipated from servcare. Herein America can not boast of her vol- ing tables is freer to preach the Gospel with a love untary system in comparison with the religious which no gold can repay. Indeed, all the more exestablishments of Europe, that often make up for alted forms of intellectual and social service illusthe slender support of their common clergy by the trate the great truth that, whatever the external stability of the office, and some tolerable provis- reward may be, the heart only can requite the ion for old age. There, moreover, where the Church heart's tribute. We pay the author, for example, is regarded more as a fixed institution, and less as for a noble history or poem, but who looks upon a variable means of popular excitement, old age the price of the volume as an equivalent for the wears something of the stable dignity of the sanc-wisdom or eloquence which it contains? We give tuary, and the gray head and tremulous voice are a fee for visiting a gallery of pictures, but who is not wholly out of keeping with the time-hallowed such a churl as to think the paltry pittance a disliturgy and the ivy-mantled tower. Many acts of charge from the debt of gratitude to the artist who cruel neglect of aged ministers lie at the doors of has brought so much of divine beauty to our visour churches; and no aspect of American religion ion? A noble fellow saves our child's life by the is more cheering than the recent movements to exposure of his own, and we give him some token correct this evil, by some systematic provision for of our gratitude, and insist upon repairing his the aged and indigent clergy. The new charitable losses, but who of us dares insult such heroism by societies may do much good, but the best charity pretending to balance the sacrifice with money, or begins earlier, and endeavors to enable every faith-pay the heart's dues in the world's coin? The gift ful preacher to secure, in his days of vigor, a frugal competence for the season of decline. This whole matter is one of so delicate a nature, that our clergy can not agitate it conspicuously for themselves, and there is something always ungracious in a minister's complaining of his stipend, and asking for an increase. The less he complains of personal grievances, and the more fervently he tries to kindle a humane and spiritual temper among his people and the churches, the better for him and his whole profession. The more effectively the ministry does its own sacred work, and keeps the world in its own place, and gives the Church its own true dignity and power, the greater will be its ability to command justice for its own needs. It is generally quite true that the congregation that is educated by the pastor to be most generous toward Christian charities, and most zealous for the Christian faith, will be least ready to allow him to suffer at their hands. has the chief value from the sentiment that prompted it, and repeats God's declaration that while we are to owe no man any thing, but to love one another, we can never cease to owe this debt of love. Much more does this principle apply to the highest spiritual service, and the just support of the Christian ministry should but serve to make more prominent the unbought and priceless worth of the wisdom and zeal, the piety and charity that should animate its ministrations. We are not in favor of magnificent establishments and luxurious endowments, for we do not think them favorable to the best vitality of the churches. But the other extreme is quite as bad, and quite as little friendly to the spirituality of religion. The laborer in the Lord's vineyard is worthy of his hire, and to give it to him justly is to speed his work, and to refresh the branches of the heavenly vine through his nurturing care. We may believe in the Ten Commandments and Some of our readers may think that we are very the Lord's Prayer without forgetting the Ledger carnally-minded in taking this pecuniary view of and Multiplication Table, and Christian moralthe American clergy, and in talking of pence in-ity can have no quarrel with good mathematics. stead of spirituality. But we are quite ready to bear the reproach, and are very sure that a fair judgment of the case will turn the reproach toward the other side, and prove those not abounding in spirituality who throw a cruel weight of worldly anxiety upon men who ought to be free for sacred thought and service. It is evident that sometimes the most arrant selfishness hides itself under the protection of great self-sacrifice, and the men who are too mean to give the laborer his due, urge upon him the glory of laboring without his due, as was the manner of the Apostles among the heathen. He who has numbered the stars and balanced the heavens does not bid us exalt his glory by slighting the rules of fair dealing between man and man. The Church will be a great gainer by converting the world's far-seeing calculus to the service of its divine faith, and we could heartily desire that, among the new lights who may be raised up to illuminate the opening ages, kind Providence would send some constructive organizing intelligence who can bring into the administration of religion the same largeness, method, and consistency that have done such marvels in the world of mechanism and commerce. The counting-room needs to learn | awe, and delight, and intense satisfaction? There many things of the Church, but the Church has were interest, at least, and pleasure? something to learn of the counting-room. To pay our debts when we can is quite as much a duty as to forgive the debts that can not be paid. When the new song of the Apocalypse rings through the earth, the music of its harmonious numbers will have no mean response from the rhythm of the more utilitarian numbers that mark the measure of justice and peace in the daily relations between fellow-men. Editor's Easy Chair. IF any intelligent friend of this Chair, an, iusto see foreign cities without being sea-sick, should pay two shillings for the privilege of looking at the representation of them in Barnum's Diorama, and should then find that a neighboring individual ceaselessly waved a yellow pocket handkerchief between the picture and his eyes, what would the intelligent friend do? He might slap the neighboring individual's face, or kick him, or insult him in some other manner; or he might call the police, and have the offender and the yellow handkerchief removed; he might write to the newspapers; or he might submit. Now there are plenty of people who are constantly guilty of this gross and indecent conduct; who go to dioramas only to wave yellow pocket handkerchiefs; who, if they were only children, would be scolded, spanked, and sent home, for disturbing those who wished to enjoy what they had paid for enjoying. The other afternoon we stepped in to hear the rehearsal of the Philharmonic Society, in Niblo's Saloon. You know this Society; you know that they play the finest German music, and that those who like such music are dependent upon these concerts and rehearsals for hearing it; and you also know how few the concerts are, and how rare the opportunities of hearing such music, It was a lovely day, and the room was crowded. Upon seeing the great multitude we were conscious of an emotion of exulting pride in the taste and æsthetic accomplishment of our fellow-citizens. "They are reproached," we said to ourselves, "with a want of love for art, a want of appreciation for the beautiful. Let the scoffers come to the rehearsals of the Philharmonic, and see a people which loves the loveliest of arts, and honors its ministers." We surveyed the throng in the concert-room with inward satisfaction, and saw, to our joy, that it was largely composed of young persons-youths of tender age, , and of both sexes. We could hardly repress our delight. We wished to ascend to the balcony appropriated to the orchestra when there are balls, and to say to the audience, "Let us congratulate ourselves upon being here, and upon the prospects of music in our free and enlightened country. Let us, in particular, take a survey of the progress of the art upon this continent from the earliest ages, with a glance at the general history of music since the expulsion from Paradise, and-" But at this point of our imaginary harangue of congratulation the squeak of tuning fiddles ceased, and the performance of a sublime symphony commenced. There was perfect silence, and a sympathy of attention which made it a pleasure to be there? There was a true sensibility to the grand and tender changes of the work? There were wonder, and Not at all. None of them. There was only an incessant waving of that yellow pocket handkerchief. Only, as it was a matter of the ears this time, and not of the eyes, the yellow handkerchief was an incessant whispering and giggling; and before we were driven from the room in despair, by the noisy chattering, we perceived that the youths of tender age, and of both sexes, were assembled without the remotest interest in music; but only to flirt and gossip, and disturb their neighbors, and they did so. Without the slightest regard to those who came to hear, and with the most selfish obstinacy, they buzzed through the grand movements of the symphony, making a perfect Babel of the concert-room. We marked especially Bobbs, certainly the possessor of the smallest feet in town. Bobbs reposes upon his feet with sublime complacency. Bobbs gives to fashion all he has-a stare, and gains from fashion all he needs-a bow. He stood at the door and looked calmly in while the instruments were tuning. He bowed, with that easy grace which is Bobbs's charm, to Cobbs and Hobbs and Dobbs, who were looking calmly in from the side of the room; and as he stood leaning superbly against the side of the door, we only wished we were a young lady, that we might admire Bobbs, and believe him to be the most ennuied youth in town, with a profound knowledge of the world, and of such great talent. Not being a young lady, we were forced to know that Bobbs's knowledge of the world was only a knowledge of bar-rooms and gaming-houses, and that his elegant repose of manner was mere vacuity. Still we were glad to see his interest in music, and, before the rehearsal commenced, thought more gently of Bobbs than ever before. When the music began he came in and seated himself by Belinda Grigs, and talked and talked, buzz, buzz, buzz, until we said "hist!" in a low tone, and they stopped for a moment, but immediately began again. When the allegro ended we turned to Bobbs, whom we have not the advantage of personally knowing, and said, with as much mildness and politeness as we could put into our manner, "It would be a great gratification to those of us who wish to hear the music if you would not talk during the adagio." Now had we been of small figure, a gentleman of the Bobbs kind would probably have insulted us; had we been a woman, such a gentleman might very likely have struck us; but being apparently able to take our own part in any quarrel, Bobbs turned from us contemptuously, and tattled incessantly through the rest of the rehearsal. We could not have changed our place if we had wished to do so, the crowd was so dense; and even had we done so, we saw and heard Bobbses all over the room. The next evening we went to hear "Don Giovanni" at the Academy. No opera requires closer attention, or rewards it more entirely. We sat comfortably in the middle of the parquette. During the overture there was a great rustling and bustling in the seat just behind us, a great adjusting of hoops and skirts, and little giggles and talk. Our heart sank, for we knew that Bobbs and Belinda had arrived. When the curtain rose, and the beautiful music began, they began also. They had noisy, giggling quarrels about the singers and their dresses, and who was who, and what was what; and read aloud out of their opera-book, and laughed loud and long whenever Leporello winked, | pay to hear Beethoven, we will NOT hear Bobbs, and bet half pounds of sugar-plums that the figure whom we can hear gratis whenever we choose. on the horse in the cemetery was not a man, and thought the velvet masks so funny, and wondered in the midst of the trio why Sarah Bates, up there in the second circle, had daisies instead of violets in her spring bonnet; and during all the sublime music in the cemetery scene laughed hysterically at the fright of Leporello-and so rattled on, while we "hished" and "pished" at them until we were as great a nuisance as they; and in the very last scene, where the Commendatore's statue comes tramping into the hall of Don Giovanni, and that wild, supernatural wail sets in in the music, and crash upon crash of thrilling chords smite the heart with awe and terror, Bobbs, in an ecstasy of delight, shouted out to Belinda, who was continually rustling the leaves of the libretto, and saying she could not find the place, "Oh, Miss Belinda, jest you see them fiddles!" How much of this is it necessary to endure? When may a man summon the usher, and tell him to put Bobbs out? You know we don't suffer other puppies to snarl and bark during performances of any kind; why then should Bobbs be tolerated, who makes much more noise, and more incessantly? The Philharmonic Society has done one good thing in printing upon its concert programmes that there will be an opportunity offered to the audience to go out just before the last piece. This was done because so many persons indecently marched out of the hall-squeak, squeak, squeak-while some exquisite overture was played by the orchestra. The great joke of the whole was, that these people went out innocently staring and blandly squeaking and rustling as if it were the most natural and decent thing in the world. It was like starting out of church when the sermon is done, and complacently slamming doors and studying bonnets during the last prayer and benediction. Nothing is so silly as for people who have no fond ness for music to go to concerts-except to come away during the performance. Margaret Fuller once sat at a concert near a party of boys and girls, who talked and laughed the whole evening. Upon coming out she beckoned to one of the girls, who left her friends and came toward her. "Young woman," said Miss Fuller, "I hope you may never lose so much pleasure as you have made others lose to-night by your idle talking." It was a severe lesson; but who that goes to public places does not know how necessary such a lesson is? We have seen royal princes hissed in their own realms for coming late to concerts and disturbing the audience. What do you suppose would be done to any body who should chatter at a concert of the Conservatoire in Paris, or of the Sing-Akademie in Berlin? But whether they talk there or not is of no consequence. It is gross bad manners any where. Bobbs is called a gentleman because his feet are small and he wears the English shirt-collar. But Bobbs has not the rudiments of good manners. Politeness is instinctive kindness. It is consideration for others, not the mere expression of that consideration. And since there never will be any police regulation of these matters, and since those of us who like music like it too well to listen to Bobbs's talk, and since Bobbs will talk, let us all agree to hiss him down, and to insist that when we "THE newly-elevated Duke of Norfolk, when Earl of Arundel and Surrey, was traveling in Greece, when he was attacked with fever, and his life was despaired of. He was removed to the house of the British Minister, Sir Edmund Lyons, at Athens, when a 'ministering angel,' in the person of Sir Edmund's daughter, became his nurse, and, by her devoted attention, was believed to have saved the life of the young heir of the oldest ducal house in England, at the hazard of her own. The gratitude of the young Earl to his fair preserver took the usual shape; but as soon as Sir Edmund found reason to suspect what was going on, he wrote to the Earl's father, informing him of his son's convalescence, and begging that he might be removed, since he knew that his daughter had no pretensions to mate with such illustrious lineage. Sir Edmund's letter displayed so much honorable feeling, and the young man's attachment seemed so insurmountable, that the consent of the parents was obtained." This lovely morceau is from a late English pa per. How pleasant to read of the domestic relations of the beautiful Britons, who never, never, never will be slaves! Here is a gentleman whom England thinks fit to represent her name and dignity in a foreign country, who is also a Baronet by birth or creation, yet whose daughter has no pretension to mate with such an illustrious personage as a prospective Duke of Norfolk. Poor young man! his attachment was insurmountable. The awful house of Norfolk was obliged to accept a daughter who was only a lady, and a noble, capable friend. That such things should be, is terrible; but that they should get into the newspapers, that it should be known to the unfeeling world that the son of an English Duke fell in love with the daughter of an English Baronet, and married her, must be a cause of the truest grief to every rightly constituted British mind. Sir Edmund, excellent man! hastens to sacrifice his daughter to the pride of the oldest ducal house in England. The embryo Duke must be saved from marrying the woman he loves, and she may go hang or break her heart. What is she, that she should be thought of? She merely did all that a woman could do for a stricken man, and was nothing but a Baronet's daughter. Would you mix the crockery clay with the porcelain ? How about "our glorious institutions," if you allow dukelings to marry where they happen to fancy? How pleasing it must be for the venerable John Bull to have his eyes so clear from beams that he can detect the minutest motes in those of other people. The Reports of the Factory and Mining Commissions-the pamphlets of Mayhew about London-the stories of Dickens and Mrs. Gaskell, show us what freedom from poverty and suffering and crime there is in the lower ranges of English life; and the tales of Thackeray and the novels of society expose the same condition of Christian amity in the higher circles. And now we catch this waif of illustration of the same manly, generous spirit which animates that society. No wonder that our Uncle Bull's eyes are so sparkling. Surveying his own condition, we must pardon his complacent condemnation of that of all others. Even that dull old Tory, Blackwood, was lately really facetious over the Life of Horace Greeley; and the joke of jokes was that it saw nothing but a joke in the book. Mr. Parton it regarded as the ridiculous biographer of a ridiculous person in a ridiculous country. Let us cry peccavi. Let us haste to concede that Mr. Greeley had no more pretension to claim such illustrious notice than the daughter of Sir Edmund Lyon to mate with the Earl of Arundel and Surrey. When Mr. Thackeray wrote his Book of Snobs what a singularly inappropriate criticism he made. THE painters have been sorely criticised this year. Every newspaper has opened upon them with the most relentless bark. The critics have been in a fine fury, and the only unconcerned people have been the painters themselves. Why not? said one of them, we have all plenty to do, and we are no more starving than you authors. So we thought at Cropsey's sale. One of the most famous of our landscape painters is going to Europe for an uncertain time, and so sells all his pictures, sketches, and portfolios before he sails. His rooms were crowded; the pictures were conveniently arranged; many a connoisseur wanted a Cropsey; many a friend wanted a memento; and the bidding was brisk, and the sales satisfactory to the artist and the purchasers. Yet it was easy to fancy that the painter was sad as he saw his darlings depart. A poet prints his song, and he has it in his own hands as his readers have it. But an artist sells his picture, and it goes from his sight, sometimes forever. His heart and fancy yearn for their children; and if somewhere they meet again, when the painter has grown old, perhaps, can you not see him bending his eyes wistfully upon that blossom of his younger life, saluting through the tears of age the beautiful promise of his youth. There is another event in our realm of art besides the Exhibition and Cropsey's sale, and that is Edwin White's picture of the Signing of the Contract in the cabin of the Mayflower. It was not finished in time for the Exhibition, and stood for a few days in his studio. Those who were fortunate enough to see it saw a beautiful picture. The gentleman who was fortunate enough to buy it, bought one of the best works ever painted in this country. The artist selects the moment at which the pilgrims unite in prayer, led by Elder Brewster, who stands at the table holding the document they are about to sign. Miles Standish is there, and Carver, and Winthrop, and Rose Standish. They kneel, or bend reverently as they stand and sit, while the pastor, raising his face and his hand to heaven, commends that little company and their hopes to heavenly care. The grouping of the picture is perfectly natural and unobtrusive. The expression, which is fully indicated in all the faces and forms, culminates in the fervent look and figure of Brewster. There is no touch of melodramatic feeling in the picture, and this is one of its great excellences. It is admirable for what it mon action without making it strained and stiff, or unduly exaggerating the chief figure. Mr. White has felicitously eluded this snare. His picture has all the simplicity of reality. It is rich and affluent in detail; the light happily falls through the hatchway full upon the face of Elder Brewster and upon the Contract, which is the centre of interest. The likenesses are good, the costumes accurate, and the whole is full of repose and feeling. It is without doubt one of the best historical pictures ever painted in this country. It is to be engraved, and is quite as worthy that honor as many of the pictures which have recently become so popular through that means. Then, when it comes fairly before the public, it will be criticised. Will it be judged by what it is, or by what it is not? We have been led to meditate this question by the recent criticisms upon the Academy Exhibition. How many people are capable of criticising a picture? We gently stirred this inquiry last month. It would be hard to trust the answer to the artists; for it was only the other day that Bistre told this Easy Chair that, if a man, speaking of his works in the papers, would only say, "Bistre has not hit the true shade of brown for that Sorrento girl's cheek, and his drawing of the orange-tree is wrong, and his picture is not in harmony because he has fallen from his original key -as witness this and that, and here and thereand if the man would prove all this, why, that is a criticism by which I could profit, and which would be worth while," said Bistre; and he speaks, doubtless, for many painters. But what he says is as if a poet should say: "If Mr. Editor Owl would only show me where my rhythm is wrong, where I have made false rhymes, or any where convict me of bad grammar, I will avail myself of his corrections, and confess the imperfection of my poem.” Now Bistre being a man of sense and intelligence, he will surely understand that a criticism must be something more than technical. A picture is a work of art addressed to the human mind and heart. That work is performed by certain technical processes, without which it can not be executed, and which can only be mastered by great labor. Those processes, in their detail, can only be known to the initiated. But when the means are mastered we come to the matter. Every work of art is the elaborate expression of a thought. A man can not write a poem without having something to say, nor can a man paint a picture of dignity without having some meaning. If he intends to make a study of color, of drawing, or of effect, that is well and essential to his profession; but it is not a picture, any more than such curious and beautiful performances as Poe's "Raven" and "Sleigh-bells" are poems. They are ingenious experiments upon the sound of words; and they convey no other meaning than that remote sadness excited by the association of the words and the rhythm which the true artist uses with their significance in some real connection elsewhere. The triumph of the work of art is in the relative success with which it expresses the thought of the artist; and that depends primarily upon the fact that he has a thought, and then upon the treatment; for there is often a perfectly well-painted picture which means nothing; and a very badly painted and crude work which is full of interest and fascination. "Academic" excellence is understood selves to the philosophic mind-"such as yours, my dear Sir," as Thackeray would say and Moal, having a philosophic mind, has already proposed them to this Chair. "Did the enthusiasm with which the suggestion that wine should be omitted was received, proceed from wine ?" asks Moal. to be any thing but real excellence. If the critic follows Bistre's advice, he must commend the picture if he find the details correct; if he can not trip the artist over his own crooked lines, or confuse him in his own composition. But surely he has to deal with something else than this. If Romeo goes to see the portrait of Juliet, what does he care that the lace upon her dress looks like scalloped leather, if he can find in the face the charm that makes his life a dream? and what does he care if the flesh tints are perfect, and the shadows transparent, and the gradations exquisite, and the drawing faultless, if he does not find the light in the eyes which lies softer upon his heart than sun-confer no choicer exhilaration than that of wine ?" shine upon June meadows? Bistre must grant that if a painter uses his pallet to say nothing, it is not to be called a good picture because nothing is well said. "Did the remark imply that men, if they had wine for dinner, were sure to become improper company for ladies ?" asks Moal. "Did it insinuate that ladies must not be trusted with wine?" asks Moal. "Did it mean that the presence of ladies would asks Moal. "Did it mean that at a banquet ladies were only a dissipation like wine ?" asks Moal. "What did it mean?" asks Moal. Fearful as are the woes of intemperance, and heartily as we sympathize with every humane effort for their alleviation by the extension of the temperance reform, we do not suppose every man or woman who drinks a glass of wine to be a brute and a ruined, lost soul. But we certainly have no such respect for wine that we should consider it other than a graceful insult to suggest that ladies should be a substitute for it upon festive occasions. That such a thing should have been said at all, is clearly the best proof that something should replace wine at those particular banquets: that the ladies were proposed as that something, shows that the wine had done its perfect work. The Easy Chair is very anxious to hear more from that reverend Sir. His name is not much known to the public mind. It will be curious to remark how he behaves at the next dinner; and, indeed, how all the company behave, and to see if they receive the ladies in person with the same enthusiasm without wine, that they receive them in fancy, touched by the merry magic of the grape. Yet if, in vino veritas, if truth indeed be hidden in the wine glass (although of old it was held to be in a well of water), surely we ought to accept, and every woman should accept, with gratitude, this involuntary homage to the sex. In moments of sad sobriety that whole dinner-company might have wondered whether, at table, the grape or the goddess of the grape should be preferred. But in the glow of the happy hour, when already the Champagne was removed, and the Bourdeaux and Burgundy were briskly flowing, the same company hipped with ecstasy, a little irregularly, doubtless, as beseemed the hour, But then, on the other hand, it does not follow that the thought is not expressed because Owl does not happen to see it. It is very easy for such a facile and sprightly writer as Owl to make a telling article about the Academy and the Exhibition, wanting to know what the Institution has done for the progress of art in the country, and complaining that the pictures indicate no aspiration nor inspiration. In one of his articles this spring, Owl criticises in this lucid and sparkling manner: "No. 10,002. Portrait of Richard Roe, by John Doe.' Who is Mr. Richard Roe, and who is Mr. John Doe? that is all we have to say of this picture.' Bravo, Owl! what a wonder, as you say, that art does not flourish among us. It certainly is not because it does not enjoy the benefit of astute criticism. With what subtle discrimination Owl impresses the reader with the fact that not only is the painter nobody, but the individual who had the temerity to sit to him is equally an imbecile. You see how comprehensive the criticism is. It is not only the artists whom Owl benefits by his candid and kindly observations, but the lovers of art and of artists who buy pictures. In his impartial regard for the dignity of art and the character of mankind, he should not have weakly spared the gentle sex. In the same discriminating and intelligent strain he should have added: "3010. Portrait of a Young Lady, by Vandyke Brown.' As to this person's being a lady opinions may differ, for the fools are not all dead, but as to the youth, it is a deliberate falsehood upon the catalogue, which is undoubtedly to be attributed to Mr. Brown." That would settle the claims of that artist and subject without delay. It would show clearly that Brown knew nothing of his business, and conclusively prove that the sitter (not the critic) was an old woman. It is so encouraging to have critics of the Owl species. If art does not flourish with us, criticism does; and it is consoling, when the Painters' Exhibition is not entertaining, that we may go and see the very amusing fer. exhibition that the critics make of themselves. "Let the draught! let the draught be dear woman!" "Do you think," asks Moal, as a last question, and with a pensive skepticism in his eye; "do you think that the next dinner of the society, and the next year's speech of the reverend Sir will be as enthusiastic as the last?" People of philosophic minds will probably dif AT a recent celebration in a great city, a rever-long before it came in the country, the spring lookend Sir proposed, in the fullness of his heart, that ed out of the open city windows in the flowers that hereafter, at the anniversary banquet of the socie-bloomed there in the May sunshine, and sang from ty, women should take the place of wine" at the festive board. 66 This very extraordinary proposition was received with enthusiasm, and widely reported in the morning's papers, and we impatiently await the next anniversary feast and the inauguration of the new era. Meanwhile several questions present them them in the voice of the birds in their cages in the warm air. It is one of the alleviations of city life, which we hear from our country friends is so very disagreeble, that the spring comes earlier and in a much neater and cleaner manner than beyond the sound of city bells. We poor Cockneys are not without some compensation for our condemna |