Now that “Opinions of the Press” are so profuse and so _worthless_, (especially to the book-buyer,) I have thought a word of unsought, _unpaid for_ praise, might not be received unkindly from A Subscriber. * * * * * A Fine Lithograph.—We have received from Messrs. Fetridge & Co., of Boston, one of the finest specimens of the lithographic art that ever commanded our attention. It is decidedly a credit to the artists and to Boston. The subject of the picture is a representation of Miss E. Kimberly, the celebrated Shaksperian reader and actress, in the character of Isabella in “The Fatal Marriage.” It is from a Daguerreotype by Southworth and Harvey, of Boston. Our readers will recollect that this gifted young lady made her _debut_ as a Shaksperian reader in this city (Philadelphia) some two and a half years ago. Since that time she has appeared in various cities, before large and intelligent audiences, with entire success. Her reputation is fully established on a remarkably intellectual and correct delineator of the leading characters in the higher drama. She has now fully adopted the stage as her profession; for, with the approbation of such a veteran in histrionic matters as Thomas Barry, Esq., of the Broadway theatre, New York, (who was her instructor,) there can be no question of her fitness for the avocation. Her friends are sanguine that she will reach the highest round in the ladder of histrionic fame. The likeness of her, now before us, portrays the intensity of sorrow more vividly than the portrait of any female actress, in character, we ever beheld. * * * * * The writer of the following asks us to forgive him for venturing into the regions poetic, and begs us not to clip his wings. Well, we wont; and shall say in his defense that there is a very sober and serious vein of prose in his poesy, which it becomes some delinquents to study. Clapping our hand upon our pocket, we can say with the wag,—“You’ll find no change with us;” so, if the following only induces a few of our subscribers to “do better,” the change will be duly recorded. “Dear Graham, how ‘heavenly-minded’ you seem, Slicing your steel through the poet’s young dream, For you off with his wings, as you say, with a sweep, And then push him over the dangerous leap; Where wingless he falls through the phantomy air, Shrieking his wail o’er the gulf of despair. “You’re ‘tender to poets,’ God grant it be true, For what would they be if it wasn’t for you, Who seem made to carve poets, by slicing away The parts they need most when upward they stray, For what, my dear sir, could one do without wings To carry aloft every lay that he sings.