Inversion should be naturally suggested, not forced. . . . IT is to be inferred, we fear, that the late 'principal editor' of the '_Brother Jonathan_' does not take it in good part that the new proprietors of that now popular journal saw fit to arrest its rapid decadence, by a removal of the inevitable cause of such a consummation. Lo! how from his distant down-east ambush, with characteristic phrase, he denounces them as 'cowards' and 'puppies!' Whereupon, in a response appropriately brief, the 'brave few' of the 'principal editor's' old readers who have 'endured unto the end,' are informed by the new incumbent, that the tabooed ci-devant functionary 'seems disturbed because he was not suffered to kill the 'Brother Jonathan' as he had killed every journal in which he was permitted to pour out his vapid balderdash. He is a perfect BLUEBEARD among newspapers. He no sooner slaughters one, than he manages to get hold of another, and butcher that with the same remorseless indifference.' The editor adds: 'He once enjoyed the honor of some connection with the 'New World,' and would have consigned that well-known sheet to the tomb of the Capulets, had not the publishers foreseen the danger, and escaped in season.' We merely note these facts, as corroborative of a remark or two of our own, in our last issue. . . . '_An Incident in Normandy_', we shrewdly suspect, is _not_ 'from the French;' if it be, all that we have to say is, that such pseudo-rhapsodists as the writer could never by any possibility _love_ nature. The thing is altogether _over-done_. A Frenchman's opinion, however, COWELL tells us, should never be taken where the beauties of nature are concerned, _unless they can be cooked_. There is another grave objection to the article; which consists in the undue frequency of Italian and French words and phrases, foisted into the narrative. We have a strong attachment to plain, perspicuous _English_. Ours is a noble language, a beautiful language; and we hold fully with SOUTHEY, who somewhere remarks that he can tolerate a Germanism, for family sake; but he adds: 'He who uses a Latin or a French phrase where a pure old English word does as well, ought to be hung, drawn and quartered, for high treason against his mother-tongue.' . . . '_The Song of the New Year_, by Mrs. NICHOLS, in a late number,' writes a Boston correspondent, 'is an excellent production, and a fair specimen of the improved style of our occasional American verse. Suppose a book-worm should light on poetry of equal merit among FLATMAN'S, FALCONER'S, PRIOR'S, or PARSELL'S collections? Would it not shine forth, think you? Indeed our lady-writers are wresting the plume from our male pen mongers unco fast.' 'That's a fact.' Mrs. NICHOLS has a sister-poet at Louisville, Kentucky, who has a very charming style and a delicious fancy. A late verse of hers in some '_Lines to a Rainbow_,' signed 'AMELIA,' which we encountered at a