M. About has tried the matter with an old tale of Charles Bernard at the Odeon; but whether from want of dramatic skill, or by reason of certain political opposition to the author of "Tolla," his new drama of "Gaetana" has been hissed on three successive nights, and finally provoked such uproar that the play was stopped half through, and its representation abandoned. The circumstance has a little significance, from the fact that M. About has been heretofore regarded as a special literary pet of the Emperor. The Odeon is by no means the chiefest theatre of Paris, in any point of view; and its parterre is crowded largely by the unkempt medical students of the provinces; but we may suppose that a trucu-Berryer. lent hiss is not pleasant even there.

While upon literary topics, let us correct, on the authority of the Bulletin du Bouquiniste, an error of M. Thiers; who, in his nineteenth volume (of "The Consulate"), makes the Marshal Drouet d'Erlon son of that famous Drouet postmaster who recognized and caused the arrest of Louis XVI. on the fatal day at Varennes. The fact is, there was no relation-court, the largest questions of justice that ever came ship whatever between the Marshal and the man whom Carlyle calls the "old dragoon Drouet."

Court is this: "Is the young Windham, by reason
of insanity, incapable of managing his estates ?"
The monosyllabic answer Yes or No will cost, in
all probability, a quarter of a million the letter.
If one may judge from the occasional outbreak of
applause in the court-room, the populace is strongly
enlisted for the defendant. The prominent journals
have cautiously reserved their judgment.

while showing a sincere satisfaction at the result of the Trent question, are full of speculations regarding the ultimate effect of the American difficulty. The question of possible involvement of European nations stands where it did before the Trent seizure. Only the most wanton blindness can ignore the fact that a great party in Europe, as well on the Continent as in England, urge not only recognition of the Confederates, but military intervention, as the speediest and most effective means of putting an end to a war which embarrasses the commerce of the world. It would be madness to ignore the fact that the principal Governments of Europe (whatever the people may think) bear the United States no love. And our opinion is now, as it has been from the first, that if intervention is decided upon in the diplomatic con-art-culture of the empire. England will show her clave of Europe it will come from the leading Powers united.

THE palace of the World's Exhibition is steadily progressing, under the hands of an army of workers who count by the thousand. Its Art show will be particularly remarkable, and far in advance of that of 1851. Russia is to send forward from her private princely collections whatever will best illustrate the

Hogarth, Wilkie, Reynolds, Bonnington, Gainsborough, and Turner. Belgium will olaze out in the most brilliant coloring of Europe, and France has promised the best types of French art from the Imperial and private collections.

THERE is not much to say of new literature in England. The excellent lectures of Mr. Marsh on English literature are to be published by Murray, with an introduction by Dr. Smith. Young Philip progresses under Thackeray's pen, with a revival of all the audacity, and nerve, and cleverness of "The Newcomes." "Orley Farm," with Millais's drawings-each one a study of grace, thoroughness, and naturalness-glides on with charming ease. We confess to a love for the Trollope-not that he is

THE grief and the mourning for the late Prince Consort in England is real. The universal opinion | is that he filled one of the most difficult positions imaginable for a man of cleverness and of sensibility, and that he filled it with a most rare discretion and honesty of motive. The monument in Kensington Gardens, in commemoration of the World's Exhibition of 1851, is to be crowned with a statue of the late Prince instead of the proposed statue of the Queen. Her Majesty has herself, with great sagacity, suggested the change; and the Prince of Wales, in making her Majesty's wishes known, has written his first public letter, under a weight of grief which bars all criticism. London and Edin-ever very witty or very brilliant; not that we are burgh, both in their corporate capacities, have set on foot subscriptions for city monuments in honor of Prince Albert.

THE great Windham lunacy case burdens so far the late British papers that we venture to epitomize its leading points.

The name of Windham is known upon the American side of the water: a great statesman who was a contemporary of Fox once bore it, and a General Windham won renown at the capture of the Redan. This last, General Ashe Windham, in concert with other relatives, has instituted proceedings against young Windham (a nephew), of Filbrigg Hall, in one of the eastern counties, on the ground that he is a lunatic, and unfit to manage his estates. Those estates are large, equal to some £15,000 a year, and, in the event of the death of young Windham without direct heir, would fall to General Windham and other plaintiffs in this suit.

Young Windham, if we may believe the testimony, is certainly a most extraordinary character. He delights in driving railway engines; brutalizes himself with drink; consorts with cab-drivers and gamblers; amuses himself by counterfeiting the howl of animals; is afflicted by a malformation of the mouth, which makes him drivel like a man in his dotage; and has recently crowned his life of eccentricities by marrying a woman of the Magdalen stamp (without the repentance), and has bestowed upon her jewels to the amount of sixty thousand dollars.

There is a great array of counsel upon either side, and the witnesses count by the hundred-being summoned from every quarter of England, and even from Italy and Malta. The expenses of the suit, if closed to-day, would amount, it is estimated, to the sum of three hundred thousand dollars. But it is not near its close. The simple question before the

startled by any bursts of passion, or ever overcome by his sentiment; not that we think of the author at all; but his stories have, all of them, that wavy, easy, harmonious continuity which revives recollections of the old and early days of romance-reading, when "after-school" hours were lighted up with the griefs of Thaddeus of Warsaw, or the loves and battles of William Wallace and the Earl of Mar.

THE playing of a foreign actor, M. Fechter, in several of Shakspeare's tragedies, has created a sensation in the dramatic world of England. M. Fechter is a feeble man, physically; his pronunciation is strongly foreign; his alteration of the great text utterly willful; his stubborn attachment to his own views unconquerable; all regard for the traditions of Kean and Garrick absolutely ignored; and his treatment of the later conventionalisms of the English stage quite contemptuous. Yet in spite of this, he has drawn the most intelligent, and curious, and interested houses of the season.

What is the secret?

Not altogether the novelty of his rendition; but an attention to detail and accessories, with a stubborn, homely naturalness that charm just as the painstaking and finely-wrought simplicity of the Pre-Raphaelites charm. The strut and rant and mouthing of traditional Shakspearian actors are set aside. Heroes lounge as other men lounge; they twirl their fingers in a fit of thoughtfulness as other men do; they bite the quill-end of the pen as other men do. And the women are somehow, amidst all the tragic verse, only women, with womanly embarrassments and hesitancy.

Of course all the subordinate actors are under the strict tutelage of M. Fechter, and by long training are brought down to the quiet level of his intent. Nothing is harder to unlearn than an unnatural and

purely conventional counterfeit of nature. Fancy Poussin forswearing his shady purples and his classic attitudes for the glow of a real sunshine or the easé of an artless posture! Fancy Dryden abjuring all rhythmic cadence for the mettle and homeliness of live speech!

Yet there is a splendor about M. Fechter's scenic representations; in Othello, there is the blaze of the old Venetian glory-in upholstery, in architectural adornment, in vesture. And it is all worn-not for stage effect, but as a part of the life of the time and of the play. The brocade is limbered to every passional movement; the gold of the scabbard cɔvers a sword that will cut. M. Fechter is the PreRaphaelite reader and interpreter of Shakspeare.

Editor's Drawer.

archs of philosophy in the various ages of the world's existence, and from their writings cull the brilliant passages that extol the merits of good-humor, and see what a constellation is set in the heaven of the Drawer.

Open the thin leaves of the massive tome in which the old father of moral science in the empire of China taught the Celestials, in time so far back that neither Greek nor Roman history makes mention even of his name-the venerable Ching Te Sechingtanand read:

"The flower of existence is the bright flashing of wit in the social circle; it cheereth the heart of man like the celestial beverage which groweth in the gardens of the blessed, and is transplanted to the plains of this everlasting empire. Be witty, O sons of men, if you can; and if you can not be witty, rejoice that you can be wise!"

The thousandth anniversary of the Russian EmSCOTCH Reviewer says that the perception of pire is to be celebrated during the present year, and

A says the productipt of it. What to be the press year, and

On this principle he holds it to be the fault of the reader, and not of the writer, when the point of a joke is invisible. Long live the Scotch Reviewer! The Drawer will honor him while he lives, laugh merrily over his bones, and build him a monument as high as the sky. The same learned authority continues:

"Some persons are color-blind, and can not discriminate between red, green, and blue; and many persons are humor-blind, and can not discern, or understand, or enjoy a touch of fun or a stroke of humor. We think such persons are to be pitied. To them the spring of much hearty and innocent enjoyment is dried up, and they are not the better, though much the duller for the want of it."

That's a fact. Now you see, O stupid reader of the Drawer! why it is that you do not burst the buttons of your vest when you invest a quarter in a Magazine. You don't see the fun of it, and that is no fault of yours; it isn't in you—that's all. These stories are very funny, and if you only had any fun in you, your fun and our fun would rush into contact, and then there would be an explosion. That is the laugh which you often hear when a good joke is let off in company. You don't see what they are laughing at, but no matter for that; because you are a fool all the world is not to be sober.

This theory of the Scotchman is very broad Scotch, and the author of it goes on to say: "Many of the best men we have ever known-the best in the highest sense of the term, with the best heads and the best hearts-have been men who thoroughly appreciated and heartily enjoyed true humor... That a sense of humor and an appreciation of fun is implanted in many of us by nature that it is a source of great enjoyment, and that it is consistent with worth and truth and purity, can not be denied; and therefore the part of wisdom is not to stifle but to guide it."

So much for the Scotchman. He is the man for our money! If we had his address we should send him the Drawer full of our kind regards.

that highly literary people-what name is more familiar to the great masses of American readers than that of the learned Rohankonosofki, the profound metaphysician and poet-like our English Coleridge more than any other man living or dead. Hear him :

"In the deep springs of the true soul there is a vein of living water that leapeth suddenly to the surface, and gladdeneth the world with its life and sweetness. Such is wit in the fountain of human thought. It is more than medicine, for it is a vital force that tendeth to the joy of immortality."

The last line is somewhat obscure; perhaps we have not caught the idea in the original Russ, but the tenor of the author is not to be mistaken, and his commendation is worthy of his fame.

Just on the borders of the sea where the city of Alexandria reaches down to embrace her, and hard by the spot where the Queen for whom Antony lost a world was wont to embark in her gorgeous ship of state, lies one of her needles, half-buried in the sand. If you will take it by the point and lift it up high enough to read the hieroglyphical inscription on the side that now kisses the earth, you may find this sentiment expressed in characters which Sir Gardner Wilkinson or Champollion never saw: "LIFE IS BRIEF; WIT IS FOREVER."

No older record than this exists in stone which the pundits of the Drawer have ever found. And what more is required?

A BALTIMORE correspondent says: "The following actually occurred at the general delivery' of our post-office. A genuine Irishman approached the window, and handing the clerk in attendance a letter remarked, in the richest brogue,

"Plase, Sir, and will you send this lethur to brother Tim, who lives two miles be-yant the Re-lay House?'

"The clerk, taking the letter, replied that he would send it to the post-office at that place.

"Sure, Sir, how will brother Tim get the lethur if you send it there? Don't I tell you that he lives two miles be-yant the Re-lay House!'

"The clerk smilingly answered that as there was no post-office nearer to him than the Relay House, he would be compelled to send it there. The Irisher still appeared to be bothered and dissatisfied; but, after scratching his noddle a while, a bright idea seemed to strike him, and approaching the window again with a beaming countenance, says, |

"I have it now, Sir! Write on the back of it,

Brother Tim will plase call at the Re-lay House and get this lethur!'"

THE FIRST RECORD OF CORPORAL PUNISHMENT. MY DEAR EDITOR,-You are quite right. I have your February Magazine before me, and the Conundrum is not there. Like my friend Jefferson Smith, I"own the corn"-which puts me in mind that I promised to tell you the origin of this phrase:

Speaking of lecturers, I ought to thank you for the ticket which you gave me the other day, when I happened to be in town, to Colonel Thorpe's capital lecture on the "Inside View of the Great Rebellion." The anecdotes which he tells so capitally really give a clearer view of persons and things than a whole volume of disquisitions. I remember how the audience was moved by the one which he told of Mrs. Van Loo, of Richmond. This lady, who is one of the F. F. V.'s, in every sense of the word, made it her business to visit our prisoners in Richmond, and encourage and succor the sick and wounded. Her high social position enabled her to gain admittance in spite of strict orders to the contrary. What guard could resist when a lady elegantly dressed, with manners the most high-bred, smiling

Many years ago the good farmers in my neighborhood began to be sorely annoyed by the mysterious disappearance of pigs, turkeys, chickens, and portable property in general. These losses began just about the time when one Joab Strong took up his abode in the vicinity. Putting this and that together, it was inferred that Joab knew more about the matter than an honest man should. A com-ly put aside his bayonet with her daintily-gloved mittee was formed to interrogate him; and he was one moonlight night taken into the woods for that purpose. He stoutly denied all knowledge of the matter; whereupon he was laid, face downward, over a log, in position for further proceedings.

"Now, Joab," asked the Chairman, balancing a supple twig in his hand, "can't you really tell us any thing about Mr. Brown's turkey?"

"I told you I didn't know nothin' about it." Down came the rod, once, twice, six times. "Hold there!" cried Joab. "I remember now. I seen him a-roostin' in the cherry-tree, and he went home with me."

"Very well, Mr. Strong. Now about Mr. Smith's pig?"

"Don't know nothin' about it. Didn't know he had any pigs."

The reminder was applied, as before; and at the sixth blow Joab's recollection was aroused.

"Oh, yes! I was a-goin' along by there, and the pig he followed me home, and got eat up."

And so on through five "counts" of the indictment, the last of which related to chickens.

"Well, yes," said the culprit, at the usual point, "I did take them chickens and mighty poor ones they was too-and-and-you needn't flog any more. I know what you're goin' to ask about next. Major Green's corn. I did steal it. I own the corn. It's in my house now, and the Major can have it if he wants it."

It's

The joke of the matter was that Major Green did not know that he had lost any corn, and the committee had finished their examination when Joab owned up, without being asked.

I promised also to tell you how the Yankee clergyman went to the House of Lords; which I will do as soon as I have written down a little incident which happened to Mr. Milburn, the "Blind Preacher," when he was in England:

He was to deliver a lecture before some association-one, I believe, whose object was to promote the early closing of shops. At any rate, the Chairman was a young man who had evidently been accustomed to spouting at free-and-easy clubs. He exasperated his h's most unpityingly. His duty was to introduce the lecturer to the audience, which he performed as follows:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,-I 'ave the honor to hintroduce to you the horator of the hevening, whose heloquence is famous on both sides of the Hatlantic -the Reverend William Ennery Milburn. His subject is Hamerican Mind, its Manifestation and CharNo man can do better justice to this than the heloquent gent, for he has been all around and among it."

acter.

hand? They could for a long time not do otherwise than shut their eyes and let her pass. And an angel of mercy she was. She would pass along by the beds, bestowing a smile or encouraging word, now smoothing a pillow or arranging a covering. And not unfrequently the poor fellow would find, where her hand had been, a half dollar or some little luxury. At length the orders against her admission became so strict that the guards dared not let her pass. Then she would pass along the front of the prison, and, watching her opportunity, would fling silver coins, wrapped in her handkerchief, through the grated windows. All honor to such noble women, be they of the North or the South! It was a capital lecture, and I trust that many of us countryfolk will have an opportunity of hearing it.

But about the Clergyman and the Peers: In King Street, London, is, or was some years ago, "Randall's Commercial Boarding-House," a favorite stopping-place for American travelers. Many Englishmen also frequented it, finding the table d'hôte more agreeable than the usual private dinners of the English hotels. Some years ago among the guests was the genial and eloquent Dr. M'Clintock, with a party of friends, and our clergyman, whom I will call the Rev. Luke Robbins, though that was not his name. One day "Mac""-as he is familiarly called, Doctor of Divinity though he be said to the Reverend Luke:

"Mr. Robbins, I had hoped to have been able to offer you a treat this evening. A "field-night" is expected in the House of Lords. I expected to have had three orders for admission to the gallery, one of which was to be for you. Unfortunately I could get only two, so I can not ask you to join us."

"I am much obliged to you, but I am going to the Lords this evening."

"Indeed! How did you get your order?"
"I have no order."

"Then you can not be admitted to the gallery." "I am not going to the gallery. I shall go upon the floor."

"Impossible. No one is admitted there unless specially introduced by a Peer."

"Oh, I've traveled before; and I never found any difficulty in going where I wished. You'll see me there."

After infinite crowding and pushing, Dr. M'Clintock and his friend made their way to their places in the gallery. They were hardly seated when, looking down upon the floor, they saw the Reverend Luke walk in, as calm as a summer morning, accompanied by an elderly gentleman, with the ugliest nose and the worst-fitting pair of plaid trowsers in the Three Kingdoms. There was no mistaking

that nose. It was Lord Brougham. All the even-hardly worth relating, as I told you in the begining his Lordship appeared much more attentive to ning." his American friend than to the proceedings of the House. At length, among the small hours, Brougham arose and delivered a short but fiery philippic. At its close the clergyman shook hands with his Lordship, and walked out.

"SOME time ago, when we were all troubled in St. Louis with the Illinois currency, on account of its depreciation, a bright little girl of four summers, "I was stopped once or twice more before I reach-playing with her doll, became tired, and came to her ed the ante-room; but I merely said, 'My card has been sent to Lord Brougham.' Nothing more was needed. I had waited but a few minutes in the ante-room when Brougham came in. I knew him from his portraits. He had my card in his hand, and was reading it through his eye-glass. I advanced to meet him.