We depart for once from our uniform practice of silence, in relation to newspaper comments upon articles which appear in the KNICKERBOCKER, to correct one or two errors of the correspondent in question. In regard to the honors received, and the studies pursued by Mr. RUSSELL, 'Honestus' will perceive, by reference to the article in our last number, that the entire paragraph touching his personal and musical history, is quoted from an article in the 'New-York Mirror,' far more laudatory and elaborate than the one which embodied it, as an extract. The _onus_, therefore, in so far as these statements and the remarks which they elicited are concerned, rests not with this Magazine. As to the remaining charges of 'Honestus,' _if established_, we shall be found not less ready than himself to counsel one capable of such deception, to lose no time in bringing down his pretensions to the level of his talents; and farther, commend him to a serious reflex upon the folly of a course so unworthy of his reputation. In the mean time, however, let it not be forgotten, that there are _two sides_ to this matter, and that Mr. RUSSELL is extant, to reply for himself to these anonymous accusations.[17] The opinions we expressed of Mr. RUSSELL's singing, are entertained by the great majority of those who have heard him; and our remarks in regard to the musical _affectations_ of the day were not lightly hazarded, nor did they fail, as we have good reason to know, to strike an answering chord in the hearts of our readers. Italian effeminacy, elaborate ornament, (often known in musical parlance by the term 'difficult execution,') interpolated upon the simplest airs, demanded reprehension. It was ridiculous _imitation_, pressed by Fashion into the service, and was lamentably infectious, from the _prima donna_, down to the tawdry damsels who flirt at the tail of a chorus, and the piano-strumming miss, redolent of bread-and-butter. It would have irked even Aristophanes, the quintessential, to have heard, as we have heard, some such melody as 'John Anderson my Joe' garnished with attenuated and circumfused skeletons or shades of notes, in endless progression and recurrence, by your 'difficult execution'-er, bent on wreaking all the tones of his voice upon a single word. Bells jangled out of tune, and harsh, or 'the spheres touched by a raw angel,' would have the advantage, in comparative execrability, over such refined tinkerings of simple melody. It was this misplaced ornament, (rendered for a period _fashionable_, by the affected ecstasies of 'genteel' young men without brains, and small travelled amateurs, who voted it 'the thing,') that we condemned, and _not_ music, cultivated and improved by the great masters of the art.