and fifty-two millions of other products—which he assumed as the maximum export-would make one hundred and sixty-five millions. He then says:

"If the present rate of duties be applied to that amount, we should receive from the customs only $37,950,000, and the amount of revenue required for the present and succeeding years, would fall short of the estimates for the current year by a fraction over seven millions."

He does not quite ask for a new loan, but wants to increase the taxes so as to make consumers of goods pay more into the treasury for the benefit of Galphin claims, and also into the pockets of the corporate millionaires.

If the California mines yield fifty millions per annum, why may it not all be exported after the channels of circulation are full? After we have got enough to circulate, the remainder has no value, except in the exchange for consumable articles-unless Mr. Corwin wants to pave the streets with it.

The imports for the present year of dutiable goods will be very nearly two hundred millions, and the rates of exchange show, independent of collateral and anomalous causes, no adverse balance; that is to say, they remain very nearly the actual par, and money rather increases in abundance at all the commercial

centres.

In a country like ours, of great natural wealth, generally distributed among an enterprising people, a great deal of money may be extracted from them by high rates of taxation; but those rates of taxation will depress the general trade, and make the products of industry less productive, while they enhance the proportion of wealth which the protected capital draws from the producing many. In extracting a revenue from consumers through the agency of indirect taxes, the object should be to raise it from as large an amount of trade as possible. Thus we may compare the year 1831, or "twenty years ago," with the official returns for 1850, and the estimates for 1851 :

The export value is that of the invoices cleared at the custom-house here; the import value is that of the foreign cost. Now 36,000,000 of dollars extracted in 1831 from 12,000,000 of souls, who sold only $61,000,000 of produce, was a far heavier burden than $39,000,000 extracted from 23,000,000 of souls, who sold $137,000,000 in 1850: that is to say, in 1830 the exports of the country were $5 per head, and the tax $3 per head-difference $2. In 1850 the exports were $6 per head, and the tax $1 75-difference in favor of producer, $4 25. But this is a small part of the matter. If the duty imposed for the protection of manufacturers has the effect they desire, and compels the consumers to pay as much more for the home articles as the amount of the duty imposed upon the competing foreign one, and the proportion of these latter is admitted to be onethird of the whole consumption, although the census of 1840 should be only one-fifth, then the tribute paid by productive industry to inanufacturing capital amounted in that year to $73,192,236. The account stands, then, thus-1831:

Now the tribute to manufacturers and the tax of the government amount to $109,788,354. The rate of duty was then reduced to 25 per cent., and the imports have doubled. The account, then, stands thus-1851:

Thus the government gets twelve millions more money, and the people pay nearly twelve millions less, at the same time they export three times as much produce. If the profit on sixty-one millions exports is estimated at twelve millions, that on one hundred and seventy millions may be put at thirty-five millions. Thus they make twenty-three millions more profit, and pay twelve millions less tribute-making thirty-five millions-while the government gets twelve millions more revenue. It is thus that comparative freedom of trade counteracts that tendency of capital to accumulate in a few hands at the expense of the many, which, during 150 years of protection in England, produced that state of things that strikes the stranger with horror when he visits their cities for the first time: Under a diminished tariff, the disparity in the prices between foreign and home productions is less, and the tribute thus levied by law upon consumers for the benefit of capital is less. The profits of agricultural producers by means of larger sales are greater, and the expense of encouraging manufactures is less; consequently, labor retains to itself a larger portion of what it has itself produced. Capital complains because it accumulates less rapidly; but the silent prosperity of the many manifests itself in general content. The financial evils attributed to the operation of low tariffs, belong exclusively to the credit system, operated upon by high tariffs. The high tariffs of 1828, by checking importations, produced an unnatural state of the exchanges, on which the bank-paper system expanded rapidly under the spur of the political struggles of the late national bank, causing prices to rise on a paper basis, encouraging imports, and discouraging exports. This cannot now happen. The admirable independent treasury system preserves that specie test of prices which neither permits of an unnatural elevation in the value of imported goods, nor prevents an excess of produce from finding such a level as stimulates exports until the surplus is sold.

GOSSIP BY DUDLEY PERKINS, LL.D.

WILLIAM HOWITT is a pleasant book maker. Without any originality, depth of idea, or other prominent or peculiar feature, he is a racy coliector and arranger; a wellstored gossip, a rather industrious reader, an admirable road-side talker, with a manner comprehensive, flowing, hearty, sometimes rich in illustration, and always genially egotistic. Leigh Hunt has a happy vein of egotism-Howitt's, while it is less happy, is more self-important. The latter says things more with Quaker strength than epicurean polish; while Lamartine's egotism is equally polished and obtrusive.

In the same respect as Mr. Gilfillan is a literary portrait painter, Mr. Howitt is a literary landscape gardener-in some instances a landscape painter. And he does paint a landscape in words--its clustering foliage, rich and heavy, when the summer is gliding into autumn; its genial sky tinged with a warm glow, like a half conscious beauty in the presence of her admirer; the brown hills floating in a sultry purple vapor, like rich grapes in a cup of wine; or Wordsworth's matter-of-fact surrounded with Coleridge's thoughts. The streamlet in the foreground whimpering along the edges, and laughing over the stones and pebbles like youngsters gamboling at leap-frog-and the distant homestead, with shining gable in judicious relief, and the blue smoke melting off into the limber ash trees and sheltering elms behind—such a landscape can he paint with almost the richness of color and condensed variety of a Wilson, while his farm-yard, and country lads and lasses, with their yellow hair, laughing eyes, and rosy cheeks, remind one of Gainsborough and Morland. After he has presented you with the tout ensemble of his landscape, he takes you through every green lane, through his every favorite copse, down by the hedge side, and up the mountain, to tell you of the primrose, and the sweet briar, and the woodbine, and the forget-me-nots, and blue bells, or the honeysuckle, blue campanula, white convolvulus, or the orange berries of the mountain ash. He brings you to listen to the first coo of the ring-dove in March, or the flying twitter of the swallow in August-to look at the tawny-breasted kingfisher flitting along the river bank in May, or the welcome red-breast in December,

When we had finished glancing through his last work, "The Country Year Book," and while yet the pictures of favorite spots in his country were in our mind's eye,"

and while we grew young again thinking over early days and scenes in our own, we relit our pipe and smoked ourself into a forgetfulness of the present, and the winds that shook our brown curls at eighteen, fanned our forehead again, and the burly echoes that answered our halloos through the glen, awoke on the tympanum of the mountain solitude as fresh and vigorous as ever.

We were young again-a manly likeness of our boy, D. P., junior, who sits yonder by the stove, busy in delight over "Gulliver's Travels," and wondering why his school geography does not say something of the kingdoms of Lilliput and Brobdignag, for he has in vain sought out their whereabouts. Well, we were, say, an eighteen years' likeness to him, and we dwelt on one of the hill-sides of a glorious valley. A wild river, hissing and sparkling like fresh champaigne, wound through its centre, and from which at either side the land rose, first in sloping table lands, and then in rough and barren grandeur. A green and yellow verdure plaided its way nearly half-way up several of the hills around—one or two were green to the summit at stated seasons, while others, the loftiest, rose rough, brown and gloomy into the very sky. Oft have we watched the sun dying off behind the western hills, and bronzing the summit of the taller ones

with the hue of the red man, or its native mountaineer; and in the morning, we have often thought of the fair face of Desdemona reclining on the brown shoulder of the Moor Othello, as the beautiful clouds, clear as porcelain, dimpled their fullness resting on the mountain's breast. Up through the valley, an occasional clump of trees denoted where the tiller of the soil pitched his camp, and, enjoying his health and mountain air, felt as happy in his cabin as if it was the stateliest city palace. We felt much happier; and the bumble farmer would feel so too, had he our bitter experience. Here in our mountain solitude have we studied Milton-here have we ranged the armies of Paradise and perdition, and viewed the war for eternal life. Here have we almost worshipped Lucifer for his daring and ambition. You know, saintly reader, youth is ambitious and daring, and it was less our fault than Milton's. We loved Eve then-rash youth--and if sh had offered, would have eaten as many apples as it is recorded gave Swift the illness from which he never recovered. We don't mean to say that he means would have effected the end any way the more particular, for in both instances, that of Swift's basketful, and Adam's single one, the eating was irreparable; but we mean to say, a bushel of pippins should never have measured our passion for the first woman. The sin of our first parents" is a standing theme for popular wail, but Dudley Perkins doubts very much, if our last parents were in Eden, that any serious alteration would have to be made in the book of Genesis.

Here, in this valley home of the turning point of our life, have we lived in the glorious air-castles of imagination-in fabrics Miltonic, Dantesque, Byronic, till it became almost a transition to some purgatorial world, when we had to enter into the strifes, turmoil and unhealthy prose of what is termed civilized life. Cruel, heartless existence! And there was one, fair reader, who dwelt in my ærial palace-houses, who looked on the wild brocken through the eyes of a poetess, and gave a dreamy reality to the mansions we conjointly raised for the shelter of our love. Who worship ed nature with me till her heart was as simple and as grand as heaven's productions ever are. Who, when she wished to view herself, looked at me, for I reflected her-and in her alone I saw myself. The same grass which bent not beneath her feet in its eagerness to touch it as she tripped along, kissed mine, for that I followed her as much as to whisper, "God speed." And I always thought the rough breeze coming off the mountains was a messenger of love, when he twined her raven tresses and my brown locks as I sheltered her from his kiss, or lifted her over some mimic cascade or ambitious bramble. Those were the "Paul and Virginia" days of our existence. How fair she was, how graceful! Perkins dare not task his heart to describe her at this far date, when his head is gray unto whiteness, and his limbs unsteady. He has already thought too much on such a tender subject, and must take refuge in the world of words. Like most unfortunate men, that which harasses his feelings most he loves to dwell upon. But mirth can divert, though it cannot annihilate; and Dudley Perkins, LL.D., has for his motto the Italian proverb:"A hundred years of melancholy will not pay a farthing of debt." Experientia docet. It is a good one. Under the head, "The Old Lodge of Queen Elizabeth," Howitt discourses thus:

44

Away! but whither? To the Old Lodge of Queen Bess. Old Lodge, we salute thee for thy venerable antiquity; but we owe thee no respect as the one-time resort of the boasted virgin queen! No! We revere not the den of the assassin-we have no worship for the hand of the murderer, whether clad in royal, or in ragged apparel. Foh! The blood of a queen and of a consin is on the hands of that wretched old woman! Let the interested courtier doff his hat, and fling his mantle in the way of that ancient bag, and Jezebel. We owe more respect to hat and mantle, and to our own self, than thus to desecrate them! Foh! She thought Sir Amias Paulett a dainty fellow, because he would not take off her captive cousin privily at her command. She kept Sir Ralph Sadler as her royal commission of murder at Berwick. She imprisoned and ruined poor Secretary Davison as her scapegoat, for the foul murder of her captive rival. Shall I lift my hand to do the royal tigress homage? The bloody stump of the printer who dared to print a pamphlet against her projected Spanish marriage rises up and warns me. Get thee behind me, Satan; and all those who have painted thee, as a

noble mother in Israel."

"Howitt's Book" is a very pleasant one. He is a first-rate gossipper about the country. When I read a few pages of him, I almost catch the fragrance floating off the wild thyme and sweet meadow-and hear the little birds twittering and lovemaking about the corn. It makes me melancholy-for it brings back youth and joy, and I never can reach those early days without passing over a stygian era-a gloomy, comfortless, solitary moor with nought to cheer, but every thing and every thought on and about it depressing and rayless.

MISCELLANEOUS.

ITALIAN OPERA, CASTLE GARDEN.

THE principal operas performed during the month have been, "Lucia di Lammermoor," "Don Giovanni," Lucrezia Borgia," "La Favorita," and "Marino Faliero." The last was never before performed in New-York. All must admit that it was a triumph-a finer opera has never been presented to the American public. Marini, as the Doge, won for himself a great reputation, making the part his own; Beneventano, as Israele, and Truffi-Benedetti, as Elena, maintain their popularity. We would allude more fully to this opera, did our space allow it; but, as it is, can only mention the duett and chorus at the conclusion of the second act, and the grand finale, as being the finest portions of "Faliero." Concerning " Don Giovanni," the musical critics are waging war: one side insists that Marini's personation of Leporello has in it too much buffoonery, and the other side maintains a contrary opinion. We will not strive to settle their quarrel, but, for our own part, will say that the opera, Marini included, gave us great satisfaction. Max Maretzek deserves much credit for his untiring efforts, and we do not doubt but that he will be amply rewarded.

BROADWAY THEATRE.

The principal attraction during the month has been the grand spectacle "Azael, the Prodigal." It is, we believe, a translation from the French, and, as its title indicates, is a version of the Prodigal Son. The scenery is very elegant, although marks of haste may easily be traced; the ballet and groupings were quite picturesque. Its poetical merits are beyond what we usually find in spectacles. Miss Anderton, Mrs. Abbot, and Mr. Conway, support the principal characters.

NIBLO'S GARDEN.

During more than twenty years Niblo's Garden has been one of the chief attractions of the city of New-York. Its performances have always been of a high character, and, for many years, the establishment, under the control of Mr. William Niblo, has held the first rank among the public amusements of the metropolis. The able manager has held a situation in the public esteem similar to that occupied physically by the garden. Twenty years ago it was "out of town," but a point of attraction; the dwellings of the citizens have gradually passed it, and spread upon the upper portion of the island, until the garden is " down town," but a greater point of attraction than So it has been with the performances; they have always presented the highest amusement for the less fashionable classes, without ever losing the recognition of the

ever.