My tranquil frame then sinks to sleep, "Besides poems, Dr. Bethune has made some valuable contributions to literature, both in theological and scientific paths. His orations and occasional discourses, says one of his reviewers, show that "he is a man of large and generous views, uniting to the attainments of the scholar a profound knowledge of mankind. In discourses prepared for public occasions, it is almost impossible that allusions, more or less direct, and more or less connected with the occasion to the institutions, the policy, the legislation of the country, and the duties of its citizens should not often occur. Dr. Bethune's political philosophy is liberal and enlightened; it is the uncompromising application of Christian morality to public life, and there is no nobler and truer political philosophy than this. One of the most remarkable discourses in this volume is that entitled "The Claims of our Country on its Literary Men.' We could wish that it might be read attentively by all those in our country who devote themselves to letters, whether in the retirement of our academic institutions, or in the hours snatched from other pursuits. Its wise counsels are expressed in a manly style, and sometimes with eloquence. "The Doctor is the author of the Introduction to Walton and Cotton's Angler, which is prefixed to the best American edition of that charming work, and few are able to "whip the water" with more success than the pastor of the Dutch Reformed Church in Brooklyn. In this 'contemplative man's recreation,' as good quaint old Izaak hath it, he is not, in my opinion, overstepping the proprieties of parson-hood, for were not Peter and James and Simon fishermen? Some caviller may say-'Aye, but they were piscatorial for a living.' No matter, we think Dr. Bethune may preach all the better for an occasional ramble by the running brooks, for such souls as his can find 'good in everything.' Doubtless he has studied many a sermon with rod and reel in hand, and quite as useful ones as if they had been painfully composed with some of the musty old Fathers on one side of him, and a heap of dusty Commentators on the other. As I have intimated, Dr. Bethune is the pastor of a Dutch Reformed Church, in Brooklyn, N. Y. The edifice is new and handsome, and the congregation rather fashionable, I believe, but of such matters I know little and care less." E. P. WHIPPLE. DURING the past week the weather has been summer-like. It seemed as though the sky stooped down to clasp the earth in its blue arms, and when night came with its thousand eyes, it seemed but a step from sod to star. Winter paid us a visit to-day, and furnished us with a pattern of the white dress she intends to wear this season. Owing to the unwalkable condition of the streets, and the threatening aspect of the skies, the audience was not so large as usual at the Music Hall. By the time the first comers had devoured the contents of the evening papers, E. P. Whipple, the justly celebrated critic, essayist, and lecturer, made his appearance. I had often seen him in my walks about the city, and wondered who he was. I knew by his step and look, that he was no ordinary man. He is a short, slender person, with a superbly developed head, a white, high, broad forehead, smooth brown hair, parted carefully and brushed behind his ears, large star-like eyes, flashing with magnetism, a thin, pale, sickly face, written all over with thought-marks. A little strip of white collar turned over a black neck-cloth, having the appearance of a large snow flake fresh from the clouds, was about his neck, the black neck-cloth was rounded as gracefully as one of his own periods, and tied as handsomely as though some of his rhetoric had been woven into silk and fastened there. Mr. Whipple speaks distinctly, in a sharp, nervous, energetic manner, with a graceful, yet monotonous gesticulation, emphasizing every dozen words with a jerk of the head and a swing of the arm, as though he were pumping the blood from the vitals to the brain. Indeed, his head is a large reservoir of a stream of vitals, too slender to supply the demand of the brain. If one could just chop off Van * * * * head (it would be a small loss, you know), and put Whipple's cranium on his broad shoulders, under his great heaving lungs, there would be animal power sufficient to work the mental mill, which at present has too much machinery to operate well. (It would be necessary to change hearts also.) Then how his voice would ring, and chime, and toll—startling, cheering, and aweing his hearers. How his great eyes would flash with human lightning. How he would wing his thunder-bolts with electricity. Now his weak voice staggers under the heavy load of his Titan thoughts. Now his white cheeks cannot call sufficient blood from his heart to redden them in the midst of a storm of excitement. He thinks too much, and acts too little. Were he to study less and ramble more, he would not thus offer his body a living sacrifice on the altar of literature. Let him exchange Parnassus for Wachusetts-the Elysian fields of belles lettres for Boston Common, the fount of Helicon for Cochituate Lake, the society of the Gods for the society of Men, he would enjoy better health and have a stronger body, and propelling power enough to work his brain-mill to better advantage. Mr. Whipple is an effective writer, an honest critic, a brilliant essayist. Although not more than thirty years of age, he has eaten more libraries than a University could digest in one generation. He is an encyclopedia individualized, and seems to be thoroughly familiar with history, science, art, agriculture, geology, theology, poetry, and almost everything else desirable to know. This evening he gave us a splendid lecture on Heroism. Were I to give you its beauties, I should have to quote the whole of it. It was packed full of meaning, terse, vigorous, classical, and original; beautiful in language and mighty in thought. He is an earnest man—who speaks with the authority of a prophet, and labors with the zeal of an Apostle. He says Milton was a hero, who plucked out his eyes and laid them on the altar of his country's weal. So I say Whipple is a hero, who tears out his vitals and offers them a sacrifice at the shrines of science. The interest enkindled at the commencement of his lecture is constantly kept up by the beauty and grandeur of his images, and the life-like pictures that hang up on the walls of his memory. We see Jupiter nodding on the summit of Olympus. Hercules lifting his club. Apollo stringing his bow. Neptune swaying his trident. Bacchus draining his goblet, and Mammon grasping his gold. The fictions of mythology, the facts in history, and the truths of religion, are skilfully employed to interest and inform the listener. Mr. Whipple is a man of ardent enthusiasm and vivid imagination. He has a keen relish for the elegancies of art, and the |