for several years I dieted on Greek and Roman and early English literature. Once more I devoured all then published of EDGEWORTH, BULWER, JAMES, MARRYAT, and I know not how many others, rolled up in one monstrous mass. I wonder it had n't killed me; but the process of digestion brought me again to a state of healthful depletion, and my natural appetite revived. So, although I am delighted with genius, or talent, or wit, or mere taste, no matter when or where I encounter it, yet I cannot forget my youthful worship, or forego my early gods. The death-scene in '_The Young Englishman_,' I do declare, went to my very heart. I have had since continually before my eyes the poor youth, flying from his destroyer, whose unerring dart was already in his bosom. What a mournful comment on that most affecting passage of Virgil, where the wounded deer flies from the pursuer, (who is in truth her companion,) with the arrow for ever in her side--_hæret lateri lethalis arundo_--flies through the summer forests, all heedless of their greenness, and lies down by some blue streamlet, helpless and hopeless to die! Seeing the other day a number of 'GRAHAM's Magazine,' I read in it an article by E. A. POE, who comes down on your old correspondent 'FLACCUS' like a mountain of lead! It is clear that 'FLACCUS' has in many places exposed himself to the charge of unmelodious rhymes, incongruous figures, and occasionally faulty taste. But there is a difference between a POPE that sometimes nods, and a CIBBER that _never wakes_! I am not easily moved, in the matter of poetry; I _think_, at least, that it must have merit to please me; and I well remember that FLACCUS's metrical love-tale in your pages seemed to me very sweet and original, and strongly redolent of the early English odor. His 'Epistle from my Arm-chair' was in good hexameters, and his 'Address to the President of the New-England Temperance Society' had a TOM MOORE-ish spice of elegant wit about it, and might have been written by Mr. POE in about a century of leap-years.' * * * THE venerable NOAH WEBSTER, full of years and full of honors, has gone down to his grave, 'like a shock of corn fully ripe in its season.' Our very earliest associations, like those of millions of others, are associated with his name. That blue-covered spelling-book of his, with its progressive lessons of learning and morality; its pleasant fables and pretty pictures; its large type and dingy paper--the very _smell_ of that spelling-book--all are as vivid in our mind as when we first took it to bed with us, in an ecstacy of enjoyment, some score and a half of years agone. And then his great philological work, which is now so well known in both hemispheres, what a monument it is of careful research, discriminating judgment, laborious industry! It will die only with the 'land's language.' Mr. WEBSTER has been a frequent and always a welcome contributor to these pages; and we have even now in our