“Mrs. Howitt, or whoever attends to that journal, has not done quite the proper thing—having left out many of the paragraphs in my piece, and married together sentences which were not intended for matrimony, and moreover, and what is quite too bad, she, or he, or _it_, has taken a liberty quite unpardonable, in leaving out of the piece the place where the scene, if it may be so called, is laid, Broadway, New York, etc., obviously intending that it shall not appear the work of an American. In a matter so light as this, of course one can but laugh—if it were a production of more moment, one might still laugh, but would still have to remember how outrageously Mrs. H. came down on the American who ventured to translate and publish one of Miss Bremer’s works.” It is not necessary to comment on this piece of British impudence. * * * * * THE GOLD FISH.—A new artist, Henry A. Stevens, Esq., furnishes “Graham” this month with a spice of his quality, in “The Gold Fish”—the first of a series of drawings illustrative of Natural History, very pointedly discussed. The sketches in pen and ink, from writers of fine satirical powers, which will hereafter accompany these drawings, will undoubtedly prove quite attractive thus illustrated. * * * * * Messrs. Lindsay & Blackiston, have in press, and will publish during the summer, “The Broken Bracelet and Other Poems,” by Mrs. Esling, formerly Miss Waterman, who is well known to many of our old subscribers, by the beautiful poems she formerly contributed to the Casket, and afterward to Graham’s Magazine. * * * * * We have received from Messrs. Long & Brother, just as we are going to press, a romance by W. Harrison Ainsworth, entitled “Windsor Castle,” which we shall refer to again. * * * * * THE MELODIES OF MANY LANDS. WRITTEN BY CHARLES JEFFERIES, COMPOSED BY CHARLES W. GLOVER. Presented by Lee & Walker, 120 Walnut Street. [Illustration: musical score] The melodies of many lands Ere-while have charm’d my ear, Yet [Illustration: musical score continued] there’s but one among them all Which still my heart holds dear; I heard it first from lips I loved, My tears it then beguiled, It was the song my mother sang, When I was but a child. It was the song my mother sang, When I was but a child. Its words, I will remember now, Were fraught with precepts old; And every line a maxim held Of far more worth than gold; A lesson ’twas, though simply taught, That cannot pass away; It is my guiding star by night, My comfort in the day.