THE comparison between '_New-England Men and Scotchmen_' is in many respects a correct one, but not in all. 'We are not a nation of gentlemen, thank GOD!' says a plain-speaking Scottish writer, 'but the greater part of our population is vulgar, intelligent, high-cheeked, raw-boned, and religious.' The article, however, will appear so soon as we can find space for it. * * * WE are bound to accept the apology of 'M.,' whose 'curt notelet' we adverted to in our last. He trusts that after his explanation we shall 'not think hard of him.' We do not; on the contrary, we think very _soft_ of him. Don't do so again--that's all. * * * THE lamented OLLAPOD, in one of his admirable salmagundis in these pages, once endeavored to represent the sound of _a kiss_; and it was conceded, we remember, that he was successful in the attempt. Next to that effort, we have seen nothing better than the following _transcript_ of fire-works, by a London wag: 'First of all, the rockets go up. Then something is lighted, and turns slowly round with a _whisk!-ish-ish-ish_; this increases its time, and changes to _oosh-sh-sh_; gives a _bang_, and goes round another way, with an _ash-sh-sh!_ till squibs open all round it in a prolonged _phiz-iz-iz-iz!_ and then it concludes with a _phit! crack! bang-bang! bang!_ and the incandescent centre of the wheel is all that remains, revolving in a dull circle of light upon its axis.' If this be not 'speaking description,' we know not what is. * * * READER, when in the providence of GOD it shall be your fate to stand by the cold form of one whom you have loved; to gaze upon lips, oh! how pale and motionless; upon hands thin and wasted, crossed upon the silent breast; upon eye-lids dropped upon cheeks of clay, never to be lifted again; then haply you may think of these beautiful lines of the good WESLEY. Amidst remembered hopes that vanished and fears that distracted, weeping in unknown tumults, 'like soft streamings of celestial music' comes to your aching heart this serene Evangel! HOW blest is our brother, bereft Of all that could burthen his mind! How easy the soul that has left This wearisome body behind! Of evil incapable thou, Whose relics with envy I see; No longer in misery now, No longer a sinner, like me. This dust is affected no more With sickness, or shaken with pain; The war in the members is o'er, And never shall vex him again; No anger henceforward, or shame Shall redden his innocent clay; Extinct is the animal flame, And passion is vanished away. The languishing head is at rest. Its thinking and aching are o'er; The quiet, immovable breast Is heaved by affliction no more. The heart is no longer the seat Of trouble or torturing pain; It ceases to flutter and beat, It never will flutter again!