The number before us commences with No. XI. (continued) of the _Tripolitan Sketches_. We can add nothing to the public voice in favor of this series of papers. They are excellent--and the one for this month is equal to any in point of interest. _The Classics_ is a most admirable paper--indeed one of the most forcible, and strange to say, one of the most original defences of Ancient Literature we have ever perused. We do not, however, altogether like the sneers at Bulwer in the beginning of the article. They should have been omitted, for they are not only unjust, but they make against the opinions advanced. Bulwer is not only a ripe scholar, but an advocate of classical acquirement. _A Loan to the Messenger_, is beautiful--very beautiful--witness the following-- Sonnets and serenades, Sighs, glances, tears, and vows, Gifts, tokens, souvenirs, parades, And courtesies and bows. A purpose, and a prayer: The stars are in the sky-- He wonders how e'en hope should dare To let him aim so high! Still Hope allures and flatters, And Doubt just makes him bold: And so, with passion all in tatters, The trembling tale is told! _Readings with My Pencil, No. 2._ is a fine article in the manner of Colton. A true sentiment well expressed is contained in the concluding words: "I am one of those who are best when most afflicted. While the weight hangs heavily, I keep time and measure, like a clock; but remove it, and all the springs and wheels move irregularly, and I am but a mere useless thing." _Halley's Comet_----so, so. _Epimanes_. By Edgar A. Poe--an historical tale in which, by imaginary incidents, the character of Antiochus Epiphanes is vividly depicted. It differs essentially from all the other tales of Mr. Poe. Indeed no two of his articles bear more than a family resemblance to one another. They all differ widely in matter, and still more widely in manner. _Epimanes_ will convince all who read it that Mr. P. is capable of even higher and better things. _To Helen_--by the same author--a sonnet full of quiet grace--we quote it in full. Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That, gently, o'er a perfum'd sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the beauty of fair Greece And the grandeur of old Rome. Lo! in that little window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand; The folded scroll within thy hand-- Ah! Psyche from the regions which Are Holy land! _On the Poetry of Burns. By James F. Otis_--a good essay on a threadbare subject--one, too, but very lately handled in the Messenger by Larry Lyle. _Change_--has some fine thoughts, for example, ----My little playmate crew Have slept to wake no more