the steeples of the metropolis, and strive to arouse a people who slumber on the confines of volcanoes, while thieves, and rapes, and incendiaries, and midnight assassins are softly crawling towards their throats. Your perjured alienage we might extenuate, but your robbery of the honest and laborious masses we will expose and combat, if we rot in the dungeons of Blackwell’s or Sing Sing. The purest editors of this thievish age are too pliable, and politic, and mercenary for the public welfare; but we will dissect your robbery, if we are crucified with spikes, and our limbs are chopped and hacked with a butcher’s axe, and our flesh, blood, bones and marrow burned to cinders, and our ashes cast upon the whirlwind for annihilation. The axe and faggot we defy. God only do we fear. So, come on, ye teeming caverns of infernal thieves, and seize, and incarcerate, and butcher, and strive to annihilate our mortal scabbard, but you shall not have the soul, which will elude your wicked and revengeful grasp, and have eternal succor in the realms of purity and bliss, if, in its mortal pilgrimage, it be true to God and his pilfered, oppressed, and misanthropic children. Ice Cream. Under the genial, affable, and generous Joseph Gales, of the National Intelligencer, James Watson Webb is the senior editor of our country, and James Gordon Bennett is close at his heels, whose venerable and majestic forms will soon descend the dismal steps of the tomb, and their extraordinary souls appear in the awful presence of a Judge, from whom there is no appeal. Solemn thought! and almost paralysing in its contemplation. Webb was born in America, and Bennett on the mountains of Scotland, where one of his parents survives, to enjoy the success and protection of her faithful son. With James Watson Webb we never exchanged a word, which we can scarcely realise in view of our intimate relations, for twenty years, with other metropolitan editors. But with James Gordon Bennett we have had the closest relations, and we proclaim, with no ordinary emotions of pleasure, that he has treated us more like a brother than a stranger. In our memorable mnemotechnic controversy with Professor Francis Fauvel Gouraud, in 1843, when almost every editor in America was arrayed against us, and eternal ruin seemed inevitable, James Gordon Bennett came to our rescue, and, with George W. Kendall, of the New Orleans Picayune, George D. Prentice, of the Louisville Journal, and Mrs. Walters, of the Boston Transcript, we were sublimely victorious in that scholastic disputation. In consideration of his magnanimous conduct, we wrote to the _Herald_ about one hundred columns from Panama and California, when the civilized world was rocked, to its profoundest basis, with the dazzling gold discoveries, and on our return, he gave us money, and ever cheered us in our illness and penury. When we wrote the inflammatory Report of the noble Alfred Carson, against the Common Council of 1850, we gave it to Mr.