him.

haps, some future explorings abroad, may bring a specimen or two from the mine of treasures. Never did any creature watch for its prey more unceasingly than do those of our Sanctum autographialists for an old manuscript or an eminent signature; and whenever one of them obtains a treasure in this way, it is funny to see with what delight he announces the fact to his fellow-chiffoniers. THE CONCERTS OF “LE PETIT OLE BULL" Have been, in point of credit gained by him, as a performer on the violin, very brilliant. He certainly is a lad of rare musical genius; and we have every reason to believe, if he continues on as he has begun, there will be, five years hence, few violinists to surpass He executes the most difficult compositions of the masters, and with both ease and grace. His performances of " Artot's arrangement of "Sonnambula," De Beriot's, "Tremolo," and the famous " Carnival," of Paganini, were surpassing fine. He has had the best of teaching, at the hand of his excellent father, Mr. J. Goodall; himself, not only a superior pianist and violincellist, but also a very fine performer on the violin. Mr. G. sings, we would add, very tastefully, and treated the audiences at his son's soirées with exquisite ballads. The entertainments were also enriched by the vocalism of Madam Julien, a new but welcome artiste. A complimentary benefit to Mr. Goodall is talked of, when his brilliant son and Madam Julien will again have an opportunity of appearing. Some of the leading gentlemen of the press are engaged in this movement, as creditable to them, by the way, as it is also one highly honorable to the beneficiary. Apropos one of the critics talks about young Goodall's violin being a poor instrument. The ear, we think, must be at fault with this knight of the quill. Certain it is, that the very violin in question, is a genuine Cremona, and has been in use upwards of half a century! For sixty years, at least, it was the property of young Goodall's grandfather, a performer who enjoyed high repute abroad. It is indeed a gem of an instrument: an old Cremona, friend critic; do you hear? an old Cremona! Played upon so long has it been that its every pore is filled with delicious melody.

A CANDID CONFESSION.

- BIZARRE had occasion the other day to wait on a bustling bookseller of our city, when he had the pleasure of holding a confab with him, touching a multitude of subjects, among which that of magazines and newspapers was included. Our friend was candid in all he said-very candid; and we heard the wisdom which dropped from his lips, with pleasure, if not profit. He spared no one, not even ourselves, in his censures. He could'nt endure Harper's Magazine; but he gloried in

Putnam. He revelled in the pages of the Literary World; but he never read BIZARRE ! " Phancy our feelinx!" Did we get up and leave the presence in a huff, when this candid confession was made? Not at all. We still sat, quietly sat, toe to toe, face to face, with our plain-speaking friend, looking him anxiously and earnestly full in the eye. We rather think he set us down as a person who could listen to disagreeable-truths shall we say?-announcements, about ourselves, as cooly and philosophically as any man livand,-what really did hurt our feelings,—he ing. After a time our magnifico concluded: did'nt give us an advertisement. Booksellers thing they like; nay, they may pronounce our may call BIZARRE "weak," "stupid," any little darling as big a humbug as Harper: only let them give us their advertising, for this very nicely makes the pot boil. What do we care if they do not like our catering. So long as the aforesaid pot belongs to us, we shall fill it with meat or vegetables, just as suits us. Send along your fuel, and call us what you please.

A VALUABLE WATCH.

At a soirce given by Mr. Weld at the apartments of the Royal Society in London, the "Newton Collection," lately bequeathed to the Society by the Rev. C. Turner, was exhibited for the first time. Among the articles is the philosopher's gold watch, in a richlychased ease, bearing a medallion with Newton's likeness, and the following inscription: "Mrs, Catharine Conduit to Sir Isaac Newton, Jan. 4, 1708." NEW MUSIC

- We are indebted to J. E. Gould, successor to A. Fiot, for the following late music: "Les Fleurs des Dames," a brilliant waltz, composed by Madam Hertz, and dedicated to Mons. E. R. Scherr,-" Adonis Polka," dedicated to Miss Harriet Taylor, by Herman L. Schriener,-"Les Etincelles," six melodious fantasies, variations and rondos for the piano, by Frederick Burgmuller,-" Valse de Salon," dedicated to Madam Franklin Peale, by Francis Groebel,-and "L'Entree au Salon," a collection of elegant merceaux from favorite operas. All these pieces are beautifully printed.

NEW STORE.

COL. WILLIAM H. MAURICE has removed his stationary establishment from the old and time-honored stand at 108 Chestnut street, to a store below Fourth, on the opposite side. He has a beautiful place, and it is fitted up with elegant taste, peculiar to the Colonel, as well as with that regard for utility, with which he always makes his business arrangements. Col. M. enjoyed an immense trade at 108, and it will, doubtless, be greatly increased where he now is.

Bizarre.

FOR THE WEEK ENDING

SATURDAY, MAY 14, 1853.

SPIRITUAL DIALOGUES.

DIALOGUE XV.

TIMON-SWIFT.

Tim. (aside.) Confound this old fool of a fellow, for disturbing me in this way! (to W. the Elder.) Well, mortal, here I am, and be hanged to you! What, in Pluto's name, do you want of me?

W. the Elder. (somewhat agitated.) Really I-I-feel-profoundly

Tim. Bah, bah! None of your humbug. I ask again,-what do you want, and why have you invaded my spiritual right, in this most unwarrantable manner? A plague upon you!

W. the. Elder. I beg ten thousandTim. Pshaw! Curse your impudence! W. the Elder. But, my dear friend,Tim. Friend, say you? How dare you name that word, in my presence? I have no friend no, not in the wide universe; and you know it, you old coxcomb.

W. the Elder. Come, come, Mr. Spectre: I am not used to such language as this. A little more civility, if you please. I should think you were talking to Apemantus.

Tim. Apemantus be, and you with him! (Here one Judy, a pet terrier, entereth and barketh vehemently.)

W. the Elder. Come away, Judy, come away. How dare you

Tim. This is your yankee hospitality, is it? Ah, if I had only served my guests in that way! Never mind, though, old fellow; let her talk-let her talk.

W. the Elder. You young hussy! I am perfectly ashamed of you.

Judy. Bow, vow, vow, vow, vow, (continueth her vocalization till put out.)

W. the Elder. You must excuse the slut, Timon; she's not well to-day.

Tim. Poh, poh! what made you turn her out? I prefer her music to your's, any time. W. the Elder. Well, you are, by all odds, the crabbedest ghost I ever encountered.

Tim. But what made you send for me? Come, come, explain yourself, without further delay.

W. the Elder. Oh, only for a bit of spiritual chat: nothing more. Besides, I thought a little change might be agreeable to you.

remunerative, you know.

Tim. Swift, Swift; who's Swift?

W. the Elder. What! don't you know the ghost?

Tim. Not I; by Cerberus.

W. the Elder. Indeed! You must have been having a pretty quiet time of it, since death, not to have heard of him.

Tim. That may be. Meanwhile, I know no wretch of that name.

W. the Elder. Wretch, say you? Marry, come up! What! the brilliant Dean of St. Patrick's, the wit, the moralist, the classic, the

Tim. He might be all that, old man, and yet be supremely wretched. But, I say again, I have not the pain of his acquaintance.

W. the Elder. Fie, Timon, how perverse you are! The pain of his acquaintance? Is it possible, then, that your nature is so completely soured as this, that you must twist the commonest expressions of civility into their opposites? Do you really mean to say, then, that you still harbor, at the distance of more than twenty centuries, the same horrible feelings that you died with? Have you, indeed, turned your back forever and ever on all the sweet charities of the universe? I can't believe anything so shocking as that.

Tim. And who the deuce are you, pray, to presume to cross-question me in this style, and to pry thus into the misteries of eternity? You had far better be minding your own little earthly business, let me tell you. The idea of a shallow mortal's pretending to comprehend spiritual experiences, or to measure their duration by the paltry time-pieces of earth! Bah!

W. the Elder. Well, well, old rapper and tipper, you need'nt be so infernally crusty about it. I meant no offence.

Tim. Who cares whether you did or not? But where is this same waggish spectre, whom you consider such valuable company! Is this the way he keeps his appointments?

W. the Elder. Well, he certainly ought to have whizzed in sight before this time. Holloa, by Jupiter, there he is now. (Enter Swift.) Ah, my dear brother Jonathan, I am delighted to see you. I was afraid you were going to give us the slip.

Swift. Brother Jonathan? What do you mean by that? Do you take me for a yankee?

W. the Elder. Well, what do they call you in spirit-land? Doctor, Dean, Lemuel, Yahoo, perhaps; eh, old fellow, how is it?

Swift. You are mighty familiar on short acquaintance, I must say. But who, in the name of Heraclitus, is that old sour-krout? Of all the vinegar-visaged ghosts that ever set schoolboys scampering, he certainly bears the bell. Who is he-who is he?

W. the Elder. Quite an historical character, let me tell you.

Swift. I dare say: but who, who? W. the Elder. A famous giver of good dinners, in his day. But he overdid the thing, poor fellow, got cornered, had to sell out his Athenian Fancy Stocks, at a frightful sacrifice, hoisted the red flag; in short, Doctor, the old story.

Swift. Yes; but you have'nt told me who he is, all this time.

W. the Elder. And instead of facing it, like a man, or turning Diddler, in self-defence, fell to cursing, made for the woods, peeled off his garments, and went about, for the balance of his stay on earth, in naturalibus, and blaspheming every man, or beast, that came within bow-shot of him.

Swift. Come, come; what nonsense is this, and why do you tease me me in this impertinent style? If you don't introduce me forthwith, I'm off; that's all.

W. the Elder. Why, Dean, Dean, how dull you are this morning.

Tim. (aside.) What are those infernal old fools chattering about, I wonder.

W. the Elder. Not to know, after all these broad hints! Why, who should it be, but the great Timon, himself.

Swift. What! Timon of Athens? You don't tell me so.

W. the Elder. Even so; the mighty monarch of misanthropes; he, whose magnificent imprecations will live and glow, through all time, in the pages of the divine bard; whose epitaph will be shuddered over, while a grave is left to dig on earth.

Swift. Well, you need'nt be so grandiloquent about it. Come, come, introduce me. W. the Elder. Allow me, dear Timon, to make you acquainted with that most exemplary friend and pitcher of a ghost, Jonathan Swift, Ex-Dean of St. Patrick's, and author of the famous Drapier Letters, The Tale of a Tub, Gulliver's Travels, and other pious volumes; composer, moreover, of some of the very finest, perpetrator of some of the very filthiest verses in our languarge;—

sa,

Swift. What's that-what's that?

W. the Elder. He who humbugged Vaneswho mal-treated Stella, who

Sift. Lies, Timon,-most infamous lies. W. the Elder. In short, a tip-top good fellow, and a ghost after your own heart.

Swift. Out upon you, for such an absurd presentation as this! I say, old fellow, I'm right glad to see you. How are you-how have you been?

Tim. You be hanged!

W. the Elder. Timon, Timon; do be civil. Tim. I shall do no such thing. I don't like his looks. I never saw a worse eye in a head, in all my spiritual days.

W. the Elder. But he's my guest, remem

ber. Come, come, now, Timon; do forget yourself, for once, and be decent; that's a good ghost.

Tim. Well, well, as you will. What have I got pleasant to say, though? I'm no company for any body; no, and never shall be again, I fear, through all eternity.

W. the Elder. Why, what a sigh was there! Cheer up, cheer up, old boy. Come, brother Swift, can't you manage to make yourself agreeable to our old Athenian friend here? Suppose you preach us a sermon, now, by way of a change. You used to be a good deal of a wag, you know, in your time, both in and out of the pulpit. Swift. Why, you profane old wretch! I joke in the pulpit? never did such a thing in all my life.

W. the Elder. You never did anything else. Oh, you need'nt stare so, ghost; I have your own biographer's word for it, on the shelf yonder. Swift. What, Mat? Hang the fellow :fellow he was terribly given to fibbing.

W. the Elder. Sir Walter throws out the same idea, too.

Swift. Well, perhaps I was somewhat flippant and frivolous, at times; but I had❜nt so bad a heart, after all, as some of my traducers have ascribed to me. But that's neither here nor there. Come, brother Athenian, and king of good haters, do brighten up. You actually look as if yon had been dining on unripe persimmons, for the last fifty centuries, and washing them down with red ink. Surely you must have a bit of spiritual news to tell a ghost.

Tim. Not a thing-not a thing.

Swift. Why, where have you been all this while? Why have'nt we stumbled over each other before?

remember, is that when your infernal planet hove in sight, I naturally made for Athens, of course, and from there, blundered along, as best I could, to this dust-hole of a town of yours.

W. the Elder. But why did'nt you come direct to Gotham?

Tim. Gotham? What the deuce did I know about Gotham? Was'nt it all America, terra incognita, when I had the dyspepia on earth?

W. the Elder. True, true. Well, you found some charming improvements, in and about Athens, did you not, and a corresponding rise of prices, since your last visit? How were all your old creditors? You stopped at the Themistocle House, I suppose; or, at the Revere, may be?

Tim. You're sarcastic, old gentleman. W. the Elder. Well, then, in plain English, you were delighted, were you not, Timon, to see the filth, misery, degradation, ruin of the city, that you died cursing? It did your bitter old soul good, did'nt it, to behold such a complete realization of all your maledictions?

Tim. It certainly was gratifying; though not so much so as I expected.

W. the Elder. (aside.) What an old savage! Swift. But, is Athens really in such a shocking condition?

Tim. It is so; a thorough wreck, alike in trade, architecture and morals; the old town, indeed, where I used to keep house, as dead as a door-nail, and its modern name-sake is a very dog-hole, presided over by a pig-headed Bavarian, plundered (under the name of protection,) by a set of beer-swilling Austrian mercenaries, and inhabited by the veriest loafers and chicken-thieves.

Swift. What! no art there, whatever, or science, or literature, or prospect of any? Tim. Bah! But hang Athens! Why the devil did you introduce the subject, land

lord?

W. the Elder. Well, well, let's change it. But, brother Jonathan, where are you from last, yourself?

Swift. Oh, I've been knocking about America here, for the last three months.

W. the Elder. Indeed! You must have frequented many of our best rapping and tipping circles, then.

Swift. Yes, all over the Union.

W. the Elder. Well, Dean, how do you like us Yankees, on the whole?

Swift. To be candid with you, not overmuch. The old country for me-ghost or mortal.

W. the Elder. But, surely, you see something agreeable and commendable in our manners and institutions; some bonafide improvments, do you not?

Swift. Precious few, old fellow.

W. the Elder. What, not in our unterrified democracy-our universal suffrage-our voluntary system-our

Swift. Oh, you need'nt run over the list; I consider them, one and all, mere high-sounding humbugs, that will never stand the test of time, or of a crowded population. Bubbles, bubbles, just as sure to burst and to give way to the old regime again, both in government and religion, as they uniformly have, in all past ages.

W. the Elder. Why, you hardened old Tory, you! But, politics and theology apart, you certainly like our climate, doctor, don't you-and the scenery, and the women, and the oysters?

Swift. Out upon your climate! No language can express its caprices. As to your scenery, I have been most fearfully disappointed in it. There are some pretty girls scattered about, I confess; and here and there a healthy, well-developed oyster.

W. the Elder. You do condescend, then, to admire our shell-fish, do you? (Aside.) The old crab!

Swift. Yes, your oysters are as good as your manners are bad.

W. the Elder. What?

Swift. I repeat it. Wherever I have been, I have found a very low style of manners, alike in the social circle, the sanctuary, the parliament, and the halls of justice. Ninetenths of your young men, that I have seen, have been swaggering and dissipated; and of your young women, hoydenish and extravagant; while the old people have, almost invariably, been thrust aside, like so much cracked crockery, or broken down furniture. There is a terrible lack of reverence among you; aye, and of truly reverend objects. Nobody seems to look up to anybody or anything. Dollars and cents-dollars and cents; they are, at once, your peerage, your art, your science, your religion.

W. the Elder. You atrocious old libeller, what do you mean? You'll be saying next that Niagara is a humbug.

Swift. I don't see much in it:-a good enough cascade for unwashed democrats: but the scenery about it is terribly flat and insipid.

W. the Elder. What the deuce would you have there? Mont Blanc? How absurdly you talk, doctor! As if mountain scenery would'nt only injure the effect! What other arrangement could half so well set off the beauty and majesty of the cataract? Ah, you're evidently bilious, Dean, and out of humor; or perhaps you have'nt been received with that eclat, that you think was due to your genius.

Swift. Oh, no, no; I have been pretty well received, upon the whole.

W. the Elder. Something sticks in your