To those whose good fortune it has been to see and hear Mr. RUSSELL, we need not say that the portrait contained in the present number is an almost speaking likeness of the gifted original; and to none is it deemed necessary to add any thing in praise of the superior execution of the engraving.

CRITICISM. That was a charming trait in SCOTT's character, which prompted him to 'set an author upon his legs,' by quoting the better passages of his works, as an offset to the objectionable portions, which a censor of the meat-axe school was dwelling upon with characteristic gusto, to the exclusion of every thing of an opposite character. No critic should read for mere occasion of censure, and for the sole purpose of dragging forth lurking errors; nor should he be ambitious to act the part of a judge who determines beforehand to hang every man that may come before him for trial. Such censorial dogmatism is both unjust and injurious. We do not object to severe criticism, so that it be just and honest; but we devoutly eschew the captious, cavilling strain of quibble, in which it is getting to be so much the fashion to indulge, and that without any exertion of thought, or labor of investigation, in the discussion of the work condemned. Unfavorable criticism should be so tempered as to be instructive and consolatory, yet at the same time just, to the youthful aspirant. We have been led to these remarks, by noticing the wholesale condemnation which has been poured out upon a small volume of poems, by a young graduate of Yale College, WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON, which was briefly reviewed in our last number. Now we do not know Mr. Bacon, nor any one who does, nor did we ever receive a line from him, or any of his friends, nor from any body else, in relation to his book. The qualified praise which we rendered to his little work, was therefore wholly disinterested, unsolicited, and sincere; and to prove that it was just, we annex the omitted extract, referred to in our last:

'How many years have passed away,
Since on this spot I stood,

And heard, as now I hear them play,
The voices of the wood,

Green boughs and budding leaves among,
Piped low in one continuous song?

How many years have passed, since here
Upon this bald rock's crest,

I lay, and watched the shadows clear
Upon the lake's blue breast;
Since here, in many a poet dream,
I lay and heard the eagle scream?

The seasons have led round the year
Many and many a time,
Aud other hands have gather'd here

The young flowers of the clime,
The which I wove, with thoughts of joy,
About my brows, a poet boy.

And there were voices too lang syne,'
I think I hear them yet;
And eyes that loved to look on mine,
I shall not soon forget;
And hearts that felt for me before-
Alas, alas, they'll feel no more!

"I call them by remember'd names,
And weep when I have done;
The one, the yawning ocean claims,
The distant church-yard, one;
I call the wood takes up the tone,
And only gives me back my own.

'Still from the lake swell up these walls,
Fronting the morning's sheen;
And still their storm-stained capitals
Preserve their lichens green;
And still upon the ledge I view
The gentian's eye of stainless blue.

And far along in funeral lines,
Sheer to the higher grounds,
Touch'd by the finger of the winds,
The pines give out their sounds;
And far below, the waters lie,
Quietly looking to the sky.

And still, a vale of softest green
Th' embracing prospect fills;
And still the river winds between
The parting of the hills;

The sky still blue, the flowers still found,
Just bursting from the moist spring ground.

So was it many years ago,

As on this spot I stood,

And heard the waters lave below

The edges of the wood,

And thought, while music fill'd the air,

The fairies held their revel there.

*

'I ask these scenes to give me back
My fresh, glad thoughts again;
Alas, they lie along the track

Which I have trod with men!
The flowers I gather'd here, a child,
I pluck'd, it seems, to deck a wild.'

A very young writer, capable of lines like these, is met with scarce a word of encouragement, but contrariwise, forced satire and second-hand denunciation; and this often from critics unable to produce any thing half so creditable as many of the effusions in the volume in question.

POLITICS AND LITERATURE. We regret to perceive that our contemporary, the 'American Monthly,' has pushed out upon the stormy sea of politics. We believe with DANIEL WEBSTER, that our literary periodicals ought rather to constitute a happy restraint upon the asperities which political controversies engender, than to aid in creating them. Let us keep literature and politics distinct. We need a kind of neutral ground, on which men of all creeds and all politics may meet, and forget the bitterness of party feeling. Literature should be this ground; and the only prominent objection to this position, that we have yet seen, is that the English periodicals are some of them political, and that therefore ours should be so too! To say nothing of the independent, republican spirit evinced in imitating foreign works, as if we were incapable of originality in any thing, let us look at the different circumstances of the case. In America, politics are in every body's hands, in the newspapers of the day, large and small, for the merest trifle of cost. In Great Britain, on the contrary, it is the very reverse. The metropolitan daily journals cost so much, that thousands are wholly unable to procure them; and national politics are conveyed to a large proportion of the public through the less frequently published magazines, one number of which frequently passes into fifty or an hundred hands. How small the necessity or demand, on the other hand, in this country, for an admixture of politics in our literary periodicals, when the partizan may take his daily political dish for a single penny, or at most, three! Beside, premeditately long political disquisitions are universally considered as sad bores, at the best. They are rarely read by more than one side, and make no converts. Let no sinister motive be ascribed to these remarks; for, in our own case, this Magazine possesses the good will of all parties, and has neither the indifference nor the opposition of any. We speak but for the common cause of American literature.

THE FINE ARTS. Some months since, an eminent American writer attempted to set forth in these pages the fact that liberty and a republic were no barriers, as had often been alleged, against the progress and perfection of the fine arts in this country; and this position he maintained and supported by triumphant argument. His train of reasoning has since been frequently brought to our minds, by corroborative testimony which has fallen under our own observation; all going to establish the truth, that the enjoyment of a rational freedom, such as we of the United States are blessed with, associated with a general liberal diffusion of property and intelligence, which always carry with them an improvement in taste, is more favorable to the cultivation of the fine arts, than the patronage of kings, princes, and nobles. We were forcibly impressed with the correctness of this assumption, in a recent visit to the studio of the Brothers THOMPSON, whom many of our readers doubtless now hear named for the first time. The elder of the two, C. GIOVANNI THOMPSON, has but recently removed to this city. He has pursued his art with great industry, and his efforts have been marked by gradual yet constant improvement, during a residence of some years in Boston and Providence. His pictures in the Athenæum Gallery, in the former city, won for him a high repute, and brought to his easel several of the first citizens of the New-England capital; and we can speak in terms of high commendation both of the faithfulness and skill with which he has transferred to the canvass many of the élite of the city of Roger Williams. The portrait of President WAYLAND, of Brown University, would be sufficient, were other evidence wanting, of the distinguished talents of the artist, whose success, since his arrival in New-York, has been no less decided. Of his portraits in general, we may say, that they are animated and well-colored, while the attitudes are unconstrained, natural, and agreeable. There is great merit, too, in the pervading tone of his pictures, and especially in the grace, spirit, and expression of his female portraitures.

Of the efforts of JEROME THOMPSON, whose stay has been more prolonged among us, and who has acquired a metropolitan reputation from those of our citizens who have

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sat under his facile pencil, it may not be necessary to speak, farther than to say, that we know of no young artist whose improvement has been more regularly progressive. We have marked him from the beginning, and think we can appreciate the study and taste which have made him favorably known to the New-York public, and even procured for him honorable and profitable engagements in England, whenever he may deem it expedient to turn his face thitherward. He is remarkable not less for the excellence of his likenesses, than for the professional qualities he possesses in common with his brother, which we have already enumerated. The success of these young gentlemen, as we have already hinted, has impressed us with the truth of the remark of the distinguished contributor alluded to, in the commencement of this paragraph, that 'our artists need no longer to go abroad to earn a livelihood, or gain a name. Those who have talents and industry, meet with employment and liberal compensation, and receive quite as much, and sometimes a great deal more, than is given for similar productions in Europe.'

GULLIVERANA. —Lying is a bad practice at best; but there is a species of sportive 'white lie,' which, when well managed, has an 'ear-kissing smack' in it that is quite delightful. Gulliver's talent in this line has seldom been approached. Whether in Lilliput or Brobdignag, he never forgets himself. The keeping of every thing is admirable; and if any one deems such skeptical relations an easy matter, let him try to sustain a kindred specimen, in all its parts. He must have the eye of a painter, and be well versed in the management of contrasts, to succeed at all in the undertaking. By the way, that was a good story of a man travelling in a stage-coach, who had been listening for an hour or more to the marvellous tales of personal adventure, told by two inflated bucks from the city. My uncle,' said he, had three children; my father had the same number; all boys. There was some property in dispute between the families; and after a protracted quarrel, it was agreed that the question should be decided by combat between the six sons. My eldest brother fought first, and his antagonist was mortally wounded, and carried off; my next eldest cousin was successful in slaying the brother next before me; and it was with great trepidation that I took my position in front of my youngest cousin. We fired, and

Here was a pause for a moment; and the excited cockneys eagerly inquired, 'Well, what was the result?' 'Why, I was killed on the spot! was the reply; my adversary's bullet pierced my heart, and I expired without a groan! My murderer became possessed of the property in dispute, which he soon dissipated, and is now a mountebank conjurer. It was only yesterday that I saw him at his tricks, in a little village through which we passed. He had placed a ladder in the open street, its top in the air; and when I lost sight of him, as the stage wheeled away, he had reached the uppermost round, and was drawing the ladder up after him!' The town-bred Munchausens reserved their marvels, during the remainder of the journey. This undoubted narrative is akin to the following story, which we have from the best authority. Two passengers, coming down the Mississippi in a steam-boat, were shooting birds, etc., on shore, from the deck. Some sportsman converse ensued, in which one remarked, that he would turn his back to no man in killing rackoons; that he had repeatedly shot fifty in a day. 'What o' that?' said a Kentuckian; 'I make nothing of killing a hundred 'coon a day, or'nary luck.' 'Do you know Capting Scott, of our state?' asked a Tennessean by-stander. 'He now is something like a shot. A hundred 'coon! Why he never p'ints at one, without hitting him. He never misses, and the 'coons know it. T'other day he levelled at an old 'un, in a high tree. The varmint looked at him a minute, and then bawled out: 'Hello, Cap'n Scott!- is that you?' 'Yes,' was the reply. 'Well, do n't shoot!' says he; it's no use! 'Hold on; I'll come down; I give in!' - which he did!' It is unnecessary to add, that this was the last hunting story.

BROWN VS. KIRKHAM. We have received from Mr. GOOLD BROWN a rejoinder to the article of Mr. KIRKHAM, published in our last number. We are reluctant to extend this controversy, in which we fear a great proportion of our readers take little if any interest; and having just now, moreover, but narrow space, we are compelled to decline the publication of the article in question. It is proper to say, however, that Mr. Brown denies that Kirkham's works have ever ascribed to Rush, Murray, and Walker, the contradictory passages quoted against himself; and that if they had so ascribed them, the ascription would have been untrue; that the brackets, the removal of which was so vehemently complained of, would neither abate the error alleged, nor make Kirkham's version of the text good grammar; and that he never in his life spoke in favor of the grammar of his antagonist. With this 'curtailed abbreviation compressing the particulars' of a syllabus, we take our leave of the matter, trusting that each lingual belligerent will hereafter revolve in his own cycle of declensions, conjugations, syntaxes and prosodies.

OUR PORTRAIT OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 'Why,' says an esteemed foreign correspondent, 'have you, in the frontispiece of your cover, represented the venerable and benevolent author of the right veritable 'History of New-York' with such a rigid and austere expression of countenance? Surely, the painter or engraver has belied his character. I have had his counterfeit presentment for many years in my mind's eye; and whenever I look at yours, I think, with CHARLES LAMB, 'Alas! what is my book of his countenance good for, which I have read so long, and thought I understood its contents, when there comes your heart-breaking errata,' to rob me of my beau ideal?' To all this we answer, in the usual Yankee manner, by asking our friend, if he does not remember, that when DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER was writing his renowned work, at the Columbian Hotel, his literary labors were often interrupted by his landlady coming into his room, and 'putting his papers to rights,' in such wise that it took him a week to find them again? Think of these untimely intrusions, while the melancholy historian was writing as follows: 'Grievous and very much to be commisserated is the task of the feeling historian who writes the history of his native land. * * I cannot look back on the happier days of our city, which I now describe, without a sad dejection of the spirits. With a faltering hand do I withdraw the curtain of oblivion, that veils the modest merits of our venerable ancestors, and as their figures rise to my mental vision, humble myself before the mighty shades. Such are my feelings when I revisit the family mansions of the KNICKERBOCKERS, and spend a lonely hour in the chamber where hang the portraits of my forefathers, shrouded in dust, like the forms they represent. With pious reverence do I gaze on the countenances of those renowned burghers, who have preceded me in the steady march of existence; whose sober and temperate blood now meanders through my veins, flowing slower and slower in its feeble conduits, until its currents shall soon be stopped for ever! These, say I to myself, are but frail memorials of the mighty men who flourished in the days of the patriarchs; but who, alas! have long since mouldered in that tomb, toward which my footsteps are insensibly and irresistibly hastening! As I pace the darkened chamber, and lose myself in melancholy musings, the shadowy images around me almost seem to steal once more into existence - their countenances to assume the animation of life their eyes to pursue me in every movement! Carried away by the delusions of fancy, I almost imagine myself surrounded by the shades of the departed, and holding sweet converse with the worthies of antiquity! Ah, hapless DIEDRICH! born in a degenerate age, abandoned to the buffetings of fortune-a stranger and a weary pilgrim in thy native land— blest with no weeping wife, nor family of helpless children; but doomed to wander neglected through these crowded streets, and elbowed by foreign upstarts from those fair abodes, where once thine ancestors held sovereign empire! Now we have it from the

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best authority, that while these melting sentences were not yet dry upon the paper before the historian, his pestilent landlady bustled into his apartment, and after an uneasy stay of a minute or two, began to indulge in oblique allusions to 'her little bill' for board, and finally observed, that 'she thought it high time somebody had a sight of somebody's money!' It is at the moment of this inopportune dun, that our sketch is taken; and who could look benign under such circumstances? Is our friend answered?

THE QUARTERLIES. We have before us the last North-American, American Quarterly, and New-York Reviews, and should be gratified to afford our readers a taste of their several contents; but the tyranny of space forbids other than a brief reference to some of their more prominent papers. The 'New-York' has an admirable article upon the writings of JEAN PAUL RICHTER, and a laughable and well-reasoned satire upon 'Dietetic Charlatanry,' or the 'Modern Ethics of Eating.' In some of the short critical notices, there is less research, and more flippancy, or mere ipse dixit, than might reasonably have been expected from such a quarter. The number is a good one, natheless, although inferior to its predecessor. Miss Martineau's 'Society in America,' Lockhart's Life of Scott, the Military Academy at West Point, and the poems of Grenville Mellen, are among the reviews of the American Quarterly, which is a large as well as very able number. In the North-American, that philosopher in petticoats, Miss Martineau, is most happily served up. The irony is keen but smooth, and the spirit mild, though unflinching. Gallantry has nothing to do with such a subject. The 'Palmyra Letters' are reviewed with discrimination, and high but just praise. Of the existence of 'Miriam, a Dramatic Poem,' we are here for the first time informed; but the production can scarcely remain long unknown to the American public. We may refer more in detail to these able American periodicals, in a subsequent number.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM. But for the fact that COL. STONE'S Letter on Animal Magnetism, containing an account of a remarkable interview between the author and Miss LORAINA BRACKETT, of Providence, (R. I.,) while in a state of somnambulism, is the theme of conversation and newspaper comment, in every section of the country, we should be tempted to occupy three or four of these pages with the extraordinary facts therein narrated. As it is, we shall simply run the risk of being the first to apprize some half dozen American, and an hundred or two foreign readers, that the work records, in easy and exciting detail, an imaginary visit of Miss BRACKETT to this city, while in a state of somnambulism, portions of which she describes with astonishing accuracy; that she accompanies the author to his own house, where she describes, with wonderful minuteness, localities, furniture, pictures, etc.—and all this, without ever having been in New-York in her life, or hearing or knowing any thing in relation to the scenes and objects visible to her mind's eye! We are not believers in animal magnetism — oh, no! Yet we are not exactly skeptics, either. A'state of betweenity' aptly expresses our situation in regard to these strange matters.

A NEW THEORY OF ANIMAL MAGNETISM. Since the above was placed in type, Messrs. WILEY AND PUTNAM have issued a coarsish volume, of some two hundred and twenty pages, entitled, 'Exposition of a New Theory of Animal Magnetism, with a Key to its Mysteries: Demonstrated by Experiments with the most celebrated Soninambulists in America;' together with 'Strictures' upon the Letter noticed above. By C. F. DURANT. At the present writing hereof, we have but time and room to say, that so far as we have advanced in the work, Mr. DURANT seems to be probing the whole matter quite thoroughly, and to have recorded his proceedings in a style of laughable mockirony, though in language generally not a little careless, and sometimes - shade of Priscian! sadly ungrammatical; the result, doubtless, of hasty publication.