The superintendent prefers a classification founded upon the faculties of the mind that appear to be disordered; and he thinks he could place all his patients in one of the three following classes: _Intellectual Insanity_, or disorder of the intellect without noticeable disturbance of the feelings and propensities; _Moral Insanity_ or derangement of the feelings, affections, and passions, without any remarkable disorder of the intellect; and _General Insanity_, in which both the intellectual faculties and the feelings and affections are disordered. The State Asylum is a fine imposing edifice, delightfully situated near the pleasant village of Utica, in Oneida county, and is becoming greatly distinguished for success in the treatment and cure of insanity. . . . WE heard a little anecdote at a _bal costume_ the other evening, (whether from the dignified and stately HELEN MACGREGOR or the beautiful MEDORA, we 'cannot well make out,') which is worth repeating. A retired green-grocer, rejoicing in the euphonious name of TIBBS, living at Hackney, near London, sorely against his will, and after warm remonstrance, finally yielded to his wife's entreaty that he would go in character to a masquerade-ball, given to the 'middling interest' by one of his old neighbors. He went accoutred as a knight, wearing his visor down. What was his surprise on entering the room, to find first one and then another member of the motley company slapping him familiarly on the back, with: 'Halloa! TIBBS! who thought to see _you_ here! What's the news at Hackney?' In dismay that his ridiculous secret was out, he hurried from the scene, and hastened home in a state of great excitement from the mortification to which he had been subjected. 'I _told_ you I should be known,' said he to his wife; 'I _knew_ I should!' 'No wonder!' she replied; 'you've got your name and residence on your steel cap: 'Mr. TIBBS, Hackney!'' He had forgotten to remove the address which the London costumer had affixed to it as a direction! . . . HOW many thousand times, in thinking of the onward career of our glorious and thrice-blessed country, have we felt the emotions to which our esteemed friend and contributor, POLYGON, gives forceful expression in the closing lines of a beautiful poem of his, which we have encountered to-day for the first time: 'Oh! long through coming ages, born When _we_ shall slumber cold and still, The sultry summer will adorn The verdant vale and hazy hill; And Autumn walking even and morn Through bearded wheat and rustling corn, See Plenty from her streaming horn His largest wishes fill. 'Europe's rich realms will then admire And emulate our matchless fame, And Asia burn with fierce desire To burst her galling bonds of shame! Greece will resume th' Aonian lyre, And Rome again to heaven aspire, And vestal Freedom's quenchless fire From the pyramids shall flame!' * * * * *