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zine, at once universal in its sympathies and national in its tone; but the success thus far achieved is the best possible proof that the task has been in some degree fulfilled. It has been impossible to avoid censure at all times, because it was not possible, with an equal regard for the liberty of the author and the good sense of the reader, to trim all articles to a certain level. It has been the design of the editor in the past, as it will be in the future, to avoid every thing partisan in its tendencies, to ignore utterly, sectarian prejudice in whatever garb it may seek to clothe itself, and to make THE NORTHERN MONTHLY the repository of American literature, pure and simple. How well we have succeeded, and are likely to succeed, you, O reader! shall be the judge.

IT is astonishing what pleasure some folks seem to enjoy in finding fault with whatever is. Even the irregularities of the earth's surface are to these individuals a source of annoyance, and nature is constantly "hauled over the coals" for not having made terra firma perfectly smooth and level. The grumbler approves not of hills, they take away his breath; and he hates pebbles and stones, they wear his shoes out. What's the use of them?

If nature takes it into her head to water the plants for the service of man, the grumbler complains; he can't endure rain, it spoils his clothes, or prevents him from taking a stroll just when he most requires it. Besides, it always manages to rain when he has forgotten his umbrella, or when he goes to a ball, or the opera, or a picnic, or joins in a fishing or other ex

cursion.

And then the sun shines to ripen the corn and the fruit, and to add fresh beauty to the varied flowers and all such stuff; but the heat of the sun is unbearable; if the plants can bear it, that's their business, they have no feel ing; he has a very thin and sensitive

skin. If the sun must shine, why don't it shine in the night when he's abed, then he would not be inconve nienced by its horrid glare?

And as for the moon, she is all very well in her way; but people write songs about her, and she invokes serethey keep him from sleeping while the nades, and he don't like serenades; fool of a lover is amusing his lady-love with his nonsense and his " bosh." He don't mind the stars; but for his part he can't see what earthly use they are; if they were intended to be useful and to show us light by night, why were they not placed nearer to us?

Wearied after his day's avocations in compelled to walk home because the the city, the grumbler is invariably cars are all full-of course it's only when he's too tired to walk-that's always the way, confound the cars! have a seat by paying for it? Then what good are they when one can't these horrid stairs! Why can't rooms be built on a level with the ground, then no stairs would be wanted? But people will build houses after their own stupid fashion. He wishes he had the building of them, that's all!

Peace indeed! There's no peace for him. Even on Sunday, that boasted day of rest, he must be disturbed at early morn by the ringing of that confounded bell in yon church. If people want to go to church, why can't they go quietly? What's the use of letting all the world know it? He'd have the man who made that bell hanged in its place, and the metal of which it is composed re-melted, and cast in the shape of a huge mortar to blow all other bell-makers to Beelzebub. You may laugh, but he would!

You are rich, and, in the pure spirit of philanthropy, you freely expend your money and your brains to benefit society. Immediately the grumbler is down upon you, and you are denounced as either a knave or a fool. Don't do so, and he calls you a goodfor-nothing money-grub. Mayhap you possess (or think you do, it's all the same thing) a taste for literature, and, in your zeal to encourage literary culture and impart knowledge, you, with laudable liberality, start a magazine, like, for instance, THE NORTHERN MONTHLY. You secure the most popu

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lar writers, and spare no expense to render the publication in every sense A 1; and some scribbling grumbler at once writes you down as an ambitious "greenhorn," with more money than wits. Don't make those sacrifices or exertions, and he will be among the first to pooh, pooh, at your literary bantling, and designate yourself the chief of humbugs. And thus he goes on-and thus all grumblers go onnever satisfied, always growling.

From growlers to canines is an easy transition, and we, therefore, without further preface, proceed to lay before our readers a report of the special meeting recently held by the New. York canines: The announcement that Marshal Tappan had reduced the premium paid on dogs brought to the public pound, from fifty to twenty-five cents, was received with great pleasure in Dogdom. A meeting of canines was accordingly held in a sunken lot on Fifty-ninth street, for the purpose of affording New-York dogs an opportunity of expressing their sentiments in the matter. Among the notables present were the Hon. Towser, Mr. Pincher, Mr. Belcher, Mr. Squelcher, Mr. Mangle, Mr. Bull, Mr. Teaser, Fido, Jr., and Messrs. Rover, Ceaser, and Kur. Among the fair sex were Misses Topsey, Gipsy, Fanny, and Flora. Mr. Bull presided. Mr. Squelcher offered the following preambles and resolution:

"Whereas, We have noticed with sorrow the grievous outrages perpetrated on our race by various hang-dog individuals, who, on pretense that their victims were unmuzzled, have forcibly seized (growls) and led to death (howls) relatives of ours, without regard to breed, sex, or color; and,

"Whereas, We joyfully hail any movement that tends to put an end to the wholesale depletion of our race; therefore, be it

"Resolved, That, while we can not approve of the style in which things are done at the pound, nevertheless we desire to render hearty thanks to Marshal Tappan for reducing the blood money' paid to the enemies of canines."

The resolutions were carried amid much wagging of tails.

Mr. Bull said the war upon the canines was owing, in a great mesure, to the want of spirit among them; nobody ever attempted to lead him to the pound, and he had frequently been in the vicinity.

Mr. Towser said he never got on

that side of town much; he thought pounds were good, in so far as they got rid of the "riffraff" of society. (Growls of disapproval.)

Mr. Kur said he got pounded enough home. (Wagging.)

At this point a delegation from Brooklyn and Jersey City arrived, and were granted the privileges of the lot.

Rover, Esq., related a very touching incident of the abduction of a young relative of his, whose ears and tail had just healed, who had just got over the distemper, when he was ruthlessly snatched from his own doorstoop one day and led to destruction. (Howls.)

A little black-and-tan egotistically remarked that he never heard of any of his breed being drowned at the pound.

The majority seemed to think it very wrong that any distinction in color should be made.

Growler, Jr., of Jersey City, said he had a long tail to unfold, and without pawsing to

Here" Watchim," an out-post, came running in, and reported a young man coming up the road, bearing a rope with a noose at one end of it, and it was decided to adjourn immediately.

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ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

ISAAC.-Your article on frogs is good, but not exactly in our line. Your idea that frogs might be increased by propagation is bully. That frogs grow more bob-tailed as they advance in years is admitted by the most distinguished naturalists. You are wrong, however, in attributing the discovery of frogs to Christopher Columbus in 1429. Professor Pumpkin, in his Pursuit of Nonsense under Difficulties, asserts that they migrated to this country when compelled by St. Patrick to skedaddle from Ireland, in the fifth century. Consult Pumpkin.

ASTRONOMER.-The reason cats climb to the roof is, that they want to lay hold of the Milky Way. MEDICUS.

--

- It was Abernethy who gave the prescription to which you allude. An Irishman called upon the doctor in great haste, exclaiming: "Be jabers, docther, me boy!

Tim has swall'd a mouse!" "Then, be jabers," said Abernethy, "tell your boy Tim to swallow a cat." HORACE.-Your Recollections of a Dizzy Life is not quite up to the mark for the pages of THE NORTHERN MONTHLY. Try Bonner.

LITERARY GOSSIP.

Encouraged, perhaps, by the success of THE NORTHERN MONTHLY, a number of new magazines have made their appearance within the past few months, the more mentionable of which are Cassell's Monthly and The Broadway. The former is entirely trans-Atlantic in its design and management, being merely reprinted for circulation in this country, and is characterized by few original or striking features. The latter claims to be an international publication, a claim that must be based wholly upon its would-be American title, for as yet no writer in this country has appeared in its pages. The Broadway is illustrated after the manner of The Cornhill Magazine and London Society, and in other respects resembles those periodicals. In contradistinction to such stranger candidates for favor, we are pleased to ob serve that Mr. George P. Putnam, the veteran New-York publisher, and one of the sturdy pioneers in the field of early American literature, will shortly begin anew the publication of Put nam's Monthly, a magazine than which none superior has ever been established in the United States. It will be revived under the old auspices, retaining all its former features, with many additional attractions, and can not fail of meeting with a genuine "Highland welcome" from its former friends and admirers. Its old-time style of cover, the well-remembered green, will still be adhered to-a color peculiarly symbolical of its memory in many hearts. Success attend it!

The United States Musical Review has begun its history. A good periodical engaged in the interests of the divine art ought to be-and it ought to find support. If the publishers will

engage real talent, not necessarily professional musicians, upon The Review, it will meet success at the threshold. If otherwise, then otherwise; and the long catalogue of the dead will be increased by one more. We hope to see this made worthy of success; then, and not till then, will it meet with it.

We note with pleasure the marked degree of favor with which the recent republication, in a cheap and conve nient form, of the works of Dickens and Thackeray is meeting in this country. The time has gone by when even the most orthodox of creed can longer sneer at, much less intelligently condemn, the legitimate writer of fiction. For, not to speak irreverently, the novelist is the prophet, priest, and king of modern literature. Says an able writer: " 'It was long since discerned by penetrating eyes that the novel would have a tendency to swallow up other forms of literature; but the velocity with which the goodly herds of the literary plains have of late been undergoing the process of trituration between the huge jaws of the lean cow of fiction has been startling to the beholder. It is some consolation that any thing can be put into a novel, from the most rigidly accurate chronicle of facts to the most visionary flight of imagination, and that the most successful cultivators of fiction in recent times have shown a decided tendency to lean upon the element of fact rather than upon that of fancy, and to be historians of domestic life rather than reproducers of the hackneyed romances of passion. The simple fact is, that what the lays of minstrel and troubadour were to the young knights and dames of chivalry; what the classic page was to the ardent

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try, is Anthony Trollope, a sort of Thackeray minor. Of this gentleman, Mr. Peter Bayne, one of the best of the British critics, has lately written to an American publication some pleasing personal gossip. "The name of his books is legion," remarks Mr. Bayne, "and I am not aware whether any subject has yet been discovered on which he is incompetent to write. I am bound to add that I have never read any thing from his pen which appeared to me to be poor or commonplace. At the same time I have never, in reading his books, felt myself brought to a pause with the exclamation, That is genius! His face, it must be confess

most ardent admirer could construct a striking description. The eyes, indeed, sparkle with keen vivacity, but there is a general impression of grayness about the abundant whiskerage, and the features are large and blunt. But for the eye and an indefinable expression of refinement which reigns over all, the face might be pronounced vulgar. Mr. Trollope's books are, I have said, legionary in multitude. They are also extremely popular, more so, presume, than those of any living au

student of the period of the revival of | lish novelist, very popular in this counletters; what the counsel of her confessor was to the devout maiden in the palmy days of Jesuitism, that is the fashionable novel to myriads of the youth of both sexes to-day in England. What the novel teaches them, that they know; what the novel extols, that they admire; what the novel makes them, that they are." That the former insatiate appetite for what is known as "yellow-covered literature" is dying out in this country, and giving place to a more healthful, intellectual tone, is evident from the increasing demand for the works of the best authors. Thackeray's works sell largely, and furnish business for three of our most enterprising publishing houses. Weed, has nothing in it from which his doubt if Thackeray is so well appreciated in his own country as in AmeriHis reputation rose in the lull which followed in the public mind after its first intoxication of delight with the early works of Dickens. It is asserted, and justly, perhaps, that his genius was of a less flowing and fertile kind than that of his brilliant confrère; but so soon as a piece was produced in which the idiosyncrasy of the writer could be distinctly traced, it was seen by judges that he might do something of rare excellence. Cri-thor. The amount he writes is proditics have said much of the Luck of Barry Lyndon as a characteristic production of the young author. But in his more ambitious efforts, such as Pendennis, Vanity Fair, and The New combs, Thackeray has evinced a power and skill equaled by few if any writers, either living or dead. The Newcombs is looked upon by many as his best book. It is a family history with all the confessions, doublings, cross purposes, and misunderstandings of real life. It has been said that an essay might be written on Thackeray's language. In his earliest works it was in no respect remarkable, but he went on improving, every year of his life, and every paragraph of his recent writing is a study. It is full of capricious, inimitable graces, cunning touches which only the master hand could give, and the Horatian point and polish, which are always present, are suffused, in the warmer passages, with a chastened splendor of coloring which Horace did not attempt. Another Eng

gious. Several tales in magazines, a weekly serial of his own, articles in a daily paper, these represent an amount of literary productivity equaled only by that of Scott, and by him only on particular occasions. Mr. Trollope is, besides, fond of society, a fluent talker over his port, and a bold rider across country. He hunts two days in the week. His producing so much I have heard accounted for in literary circles by the statement that he rises at five in the morning, and, having learned by experience how much he can produce in a certain time, lays his watch on his desk before him, and writes against the minute-hand. The substantial truth in this probably is, that he is methodic in his habits, careful in laying out his time, and diligent in the cultivation of his moments."

An eccentric literary prophet, unknown in his own country, who signs himself Walt Whitman, has recently had greatness thrust upon him, by way of a joke, we fear, through several

laudatory reviews in the English mag-suited for the expression of Mr. Whitazines. Sancho Panza, as the prospec- man's great thoughts; such, for intive governor of a famous island yet stance, as pulling beans and digging to be conquered by the valiant Don potatoes. Speaking of potatoes, reQuixote, never bore his honors more minds us of other pommes de terre, becomingly than this same Whitman, namely, pumpkins and squashes. Who whose previous outrageous efforts in said Whitman was one of these? verse (?) may possibly be remembered The History of New-Jersey in the by those who are not ashamed to ac- War for the Union is now being knowledge themselves his readers. So pushed rapidly forward toward comgreat a horror did his Leaves of Grass pletion by the State Historian, John produce in the mind of one of the cabi-Y. Foster, of Newark, and the Ms. will net officers in Washington, that among be ready for submission to the Legis his first acts was the dismissal of lature at the opening of the next sesWhitman from the department in sion. Negotiations are already pendwhich he held a clerkship. This bard's ing with several publishers with a productions are-are-well, very pecu- view to immediate issue after its acliar. His respect for moral teachings ceptance by the Legislature. It will is not remarkable, and he is inclined constitute a volume of between seven to regard the so-called requirements and eight hundred pages, printed on of modern society as a mere bagatelle small pica type, and will be embelhardly worth mentioning. Mentally lished with a fine steel portrait of the he is of the brute brutish. He affects gallant general and patriot soldier— originality and despises grammar; he the pride of New-Jersey-Philip Keartalks nonsense, and, strange to say, ny. Possibly the portraits of other finds fools enough to declare it wis deceased officers will also be added. dom. His last published what-d'-you- Opening with some preliminary chapcall-it, he calls A Carol for Harvest, ters on the causes which led to the refor 1867, and we strongly suspect was bellion, it will embrace the history of originally intended for an agricultural all our troops by regiments, followed catalogue. Here is some of it: by chapters on the legislation of the war period, the work of our women in

"Under Thee only they harvest-even but a wisp the war, the attitude of the church to

of hay, under Thy great face only; the war, the remarkable escapes by Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin-New-Jersey troops, account of our every barbed spear, under Thee;

Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Ten

nessee-each ear in its light green sheath, Gather the hay to its myriad mows, in the odorous tranquil barns,

Oats to their bins-the white potato, the buck-
wheat of Michigan, to theirs;
Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama-
dig and hoard the golden, the sweet potato of

Georgia and the Carolinas,

Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania,
Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp or
tobacco in the Borders,

Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from
the trees, or bunches of grapes from the
vines."

Mr. Whitman, we presume, would like to be a second Ossian; but why chop his irregular sentences up into lines with initial capital letters? By all means ought he to ignore every rule of versification. "What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba," that he should retain the capitals? Why not write in Greek, (if he knows it,) or what is better, Sanscrit? It is plainly evident that English undefiled is not

An

State troops serving in the regiments of other States, and will close with sketches of all the general officers and naval heroes from New-Jersey. edition of one thousand copies will be printed for the exclusive use of the State; and the publishers are required to print two thousand additional copies for sale: The preparation of this invaluable work has been intrusted to able hands, and, we are confident, will reflect great honor both upon the historian and the State at large. No more fitting monument could be erected to the valor, fidelity, and patriotism of New-Jersey, in the evil days of anarchy and internecine strife than this noble tribute to her soldiery-the gallant living and the heroic dead.

The irrepressible Mrs. Beecher Stowe has written another novel, we hear, and placed the manuscript thereof in the hands of her Boston publishers. It is said to be a sort of chro

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