'THE sun is now uncovering The mid-Atlantic--scattering The mists, with many a toss and fling Of dangling skirts and weary wing; Half frantic, as they knew not where To hide them from his fiery glare; The iceberg from his ocean-bed Lifts loftily his glittering head, But shakes not off one burnished spear, To ring in the frosted atmosphere.' PERHAPS we _are_ amenable to the criticism of our New-Haven friend. Certain it is, however, that 'the lightness which predominates in our cogitations and gatherings' is often to us a veritable relief; and if we may trust the candor of many friends, it has been grateful to them also, ... 'when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of the heart.' We are not all constituted alike, dear Sir; yet what is one man's meat we would not have another's poison. 'The amiable qualities of cheerfulness and good-humor,' says an old writer, 'cast a kind of sunshine over a composition, and resemble the gentle smile that often lights up the human countenance, the never-failing indication of a humane temper.' As for wit, we consider it a species of poetry. It amuses and delights the imagination by those sudden assemblages and pleasing pictures of things which it creates; and from every common occasion can raise such striking appearances as throw the most phlegmatic tempers into a convulsion of good-humored mirth. We fear our censor will consider us 'past mending.' We must still hold with the excellent FLETCHER, that 'a little mirth now and then is a great purifier:' ''Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood, More than wine, or sleep, or food; Let each man keep his heart at ease, No man dies of that disease. He that would his body keep From diseases, must not weep; But whoever laughs and sings, Never he his body brings Into fevers, gouts, or rheums, Or ling'ringly his lungs consumes; But contented lives for aye-- The more he laughs, the more he may.'