ure
domestic feeling, and hearty appreciation of whatever is most genial and
hopeful in human nature, entitle him to the distinction he enjoys of
being one of the truest "poets of the heart."

* * * * *

In a sketch of the artist ANDREW WILSON, who died in Edinburgh two years
ago, the _Art Journal_ gives the following postscript of a letter from
Sir David Wilkie to Wilson:

MADRID, _Dec. 24th, 1827._

MY DEAR SIR,--Having been employed by our mutual friend, Mr.
Wilkie, to copy the above, I cannot let the opportunity pass
unimproved of speaking a word in my own name, and to call to
your mind the pleasant hours we occasionally passed together
many years since. Let me express, my dear sir, my great
pleasure in thus renewing, after so long an interval, our
acquaintance. You, of course, if you can recollect any thing of
me, can only remember me as a raw, inexperienced youngster,
while you were already a man, valuable for information,
acquirements, and weight of character. With great regard, my
dear sir, believe me, truly yours,

WASHINGTON IRVING.

* * * * *

MR. ALISON, the historian, at a recent meeting of the Glasgow section of
the Architectural Institute of Scotland, delivered an address in which
he reviewed the state and progress of architecture, and its general
influence on the mind and on the progress of civilization, from the
period when it first became identified with Art to the present time.

* * * * *

The diet of Denmark has just voted to three poets of that nation a
yearly pension of 1,000 thalers each. Two of them were H. Herz and
Puludan Mueller; the name of the third we do not know.

* * * * *

The book of the month in New-York has been _Lavengro_ (published by
Putnam and by the Harpers in large editions.) Its success was a
consequence of the fame won by the author in his "Bible in Spain," &c.,
and of clever trickery in advertising. Generally, we believe, it has
disappointed. We agree very nearly about it with the London _Leader_,
that--

"It is worth reading, but not worth re-reading. A certain
freshness of scene, with real vigor of style, makes you canter
pleasantly enough through the volumes; but when the journey is
over you find yourself arrived Nowhere. It is