Magazine Notices

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MAGAZINE NOTICES.

The KNICKERBOCKER¹ for September has paid us its welcome visit. Overflowing with wisdom, wit, and humor, we welcome it, and, as usual, introduce our readers to a small portion of the feast of good things which it spreads before us:

Tom Moore one day had stolen a lock of hair from a lady’s head. Upon being ordered by her to make restitution, he caught up a pen and dashed off the following lines—

“On one sole condition, love, I might be led

With this beautiful ringlet to part;

I would gladly relinquish the lock of your head,

Could I gain but the key to your heart.”

The ‘Guide-Book to New-York,’ calls the City Hall the most imposing edifice in Manhattan—

The most imposing! oh! how well

The outside suits its inward mission!

Inside and out our pockets tell,

It bears the ‘front of imposition.’

From the French—

“Our God requireth a whole heart, or none,

And yet He will accept a broken one.”

It was not convenient for us to be present at the ‘Parting Supper’ given to our friend, the Hon. H.C. Murphy, of Brooklyn, our new Minister at the Hague. The temptation was rare. There were our old friends whom we were wont to meet once a-week for years, in social conclave; the ‘Laird o’ Wallabout;’ genial H——R; rough and ready W——N; Recorder T——; Farmer M——, jolliest of the jolly; sometimes fat and burly M——LL. Friends! those were pleasant times, were they not? But this is neither here nor there. We have been laughing loud at the remembrance of a thing that Mr. Murphy did one night, at the hospitable house of our friend W——N in Broome-street. We were all there, with our wives and families; and a most pleasant time we had. (We remember that ‘Maggie’ sang ‘The Three Ages of Love’ with such a delicious voice, and such true emotion, that she filled the eyes of all her hearers with tears.) Well; by-and-by the folding doors were opened to the supper-table, and the company proceeded to discuss the good things upon the board, after helping the ladies: and (let us say it sotto voce) a more beautiful corps we never encountered in our metropolis. After all the glasses were filled with sparkling champaigne of the choicest brand, Judge G——D rose at the head of the table, and in the blandest tones, (wonderful mellifluousness) began a short speech, in honor of the fair sex. He was near the apex of his tower of soft oratory, when Mr. Murphy, who was sitting by our side upon a sofa, said, with an air of commiseratory emotion that we shall never forget, and just loud enough for the Judge to hear, looking the while with half-averted eye; as if he was more grieved than surprised: “Let him go on: he will stop before long: he is intoxicated!” Never saw we any thing like the result. The Judge (strictest of temperance men) sipped his champaigne: looked daggers at his friend: but not another word could he bring forth. It was in all respects a “stunner.”

THE MOTHER’S MAGAZINE.—Messrs. Stearns & Co., of Nassau street, N.Y., are the publishers of the sterling little periodical above-named. They deserve the thanks of the religious world and of the community at large for the care and discrimination with which the contents of this magazine are selected.

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