In the introduction to his historical details, Mr. Davis indulges in a few brief speculations on the subject of toleration, in which he seems to us to regard the antagonism between Church and State as far more fundamental and irreconcilable than is really the case. The great contest of the future-not unaccompanied by the shedding of blood--he thinks, will be between that atheism which is the proper groundprinciple of the state, and that faith which is the essence of ethics. In the view of one party, the perfect state will ignore all merely religious considerations, while in that of the other, a perfect state and a perfect church are identical conceptions. But this statement overlooks the aid man has a right to expect from the progress of science, which, as soon as it shall have established the merely natural sciences on a basis of true philosophy, will advance towards the solution of social problems. That there is a law for the organization of society, and all its powerful institutions such as the state, the church, the university, the family, the workshop-cannot admit of a doubt; and we have no more doubt, that man will attain to the knowledge of this law. moral and social sciences are yet in the condition that astronomy was before Copernicus; but, in spite of their greater complexity and difficulty, will be reduced to the same order that astronomy has since been. As soon as it is once seen that these are sciences, and not collections of arbitrary dogmas, the world will proceed to reduce them to practice. Now, in science, there is no place for the question of toleration -which implies uncertainty of opinion, and the consequent necessity of enduring all opinions, till the truth is demonstrated. When that appears, the question is eviscerated of its importance. Truth is positive and imperative, and asserts itself without debate.

Our

-Life of Washington. By WASHINGTON IRVING. Vol. II. On the appearance of the first volume of this agreeable biography, we spoke at some length of its general plan and execution; and, when it is completed, we shall have something further of the same sort to offer. Our present object is, merely to call attention to the second volume, which issued from the press a month or two since, and to give a brief statement of its contents.

The first volume embraced a period of forty-three years, from Washington's birth

to his assumption of the command, by the appointment of the Continental Congress, over the New England army, then lying before Boston. The period embraced in the present volume is much more limited-so limited, indeed, as to rouse some curiosity how, consistently with the rules of proportion, the remainder of Washington's life is to be compressed into a single volume. This second volume embraces a period of a year and a half-from the 3d of July, 1775, the morning after Washington's arrival at Cambridge, till his retirement, in January, 1777, to the heights of Morristown, after having recovered the Jerseys from the enemy. But, if the period is short, it includes many events, and those of great and stirring interest-the siege and recovery of Boston; the first formation of a Continental army; the expedition against Canada, so romantic and brilliant in its commencement, and so disastrous in its ending; the loss of Long Island and New York; the melancholy retreat across the Jerseys, during which the American army seemed on the point of annihilation; and the reestablishment of the hopes of the country, by the brilliant successes of Trenton and Princeton, and the retirement of the British to New Brunswick and its neighborhood. In the severe test to which Washington was put, in the course of these rapid and shining events, his character and abilities were fully brought out, and those rare qualities displayed, which qualified him, in a peculiar manner, for the great services which, then and subsequently, he rendered to his country; so that his biographer has ample excuse for the prominence which he has given to this period of his life, and the minuteness with which its events are related. In his method of treating those events, Mr. Irving has judiciously consulted the bent of his peculiar genius. He makes little attempt at generalization, or at the detection of what lay under the surface. He aims, rather, at a vivid and picturesque narration of external events, at once mellowed and warmed up by that genial humor which gives so much both of life and grace to whatever comes from his pen. Of course, he has furnished a narrative, which, regarded in this light, far excels any embracing the same period, that has hitherto appeared, and which, it is almost superfluous to say, is not likely to be very soon surpassed.

through which the snow, gently descend

ing,

-in stillness falls, like dew, On temple, roof, and cedars fair,

And moulds itself on pine and yew," or in the wonderful spectacle which follows, when the artist whips away the veil from his work, and displays the marvels of delicate sculpture and rich relief, which his cunning has wrought, and leaves the toiling hand of man to

"Mimic in slow structure, stone by stone, The frolic architecture of the snow."

Yes, snow in the country is as beautiful as it is useful.

But in the city, snow is useless, and, therefore, hideous.

We have no seeds of corn, or wheat, or turnips in Broadway to be blanketed from the frost; our only subterranean treasures are the gas-pipes and the mains of Croton water, and these are independent of the snow. The snow cannot help us. So it hinders us horribly, and beclogs and befouls our ways.

How ugly it soon becomes! The streets look as if they had been traversed by illmade carts filled with damp brown sugar; the pavements are blistered all over with irregular blotches of dirty white.

Here and there to be seen on a steep roof, or on the crockets and finials of some pseudo-Gothic church, the high-piled white looks picturesquely enough. But the picturesque is dearly purchased by the peril of one's life, from masses suddenly falling, or still more suddenly thrown off these impending heights. We shall never admire the snow-clad roofs, till we are assured that the guardians of the public safety have really made up their minds, that it is inexpedient to allow quiet citizens to be put out of the way by city avalanches, and that the avenues ought to be almost as secure as the passes of Switzerland.

When that time-that Saturnian agewill come, who can venture to predict? Two weary months have witnessed the gradual accumulation in our highways of snow-mountains, which the boldest charioteer trembles to attempt.

The Napoleon of our St. Bernard has not yet appeared, nor even a Hannibal, armed with vinegar-cruet, to dissolve these dangerous Alps.

They rise on every hand, so solid, so threatening, that we do not wonder at the

popular superstition, which makes them the receptacles of all manner of dreadful evidences of all manner of dreadful crimes. Who can say what an array of horrors shall be revealed, if these mighty mountainranges should ever really melt away?

Hateful is the snow, hateful the winter that brings it.

And therefore, once again we say, welcome is March, harbinger of spring, though he sniffle and whine his lamentable carol of better days a-coming.

Yet the dreary days that are past, have not been without their consolations. The social world has acted on Mark Tapley's conviction, that "it was creditable to be jolly under the circumstances."

And it certainly was so. We lost, to be sure, our bright and beautiful Opera House (not the building exactly. but the use and behoof thereof) just when we were beginning most to need it. Madame Lagrange, our most satisfactory prima donna, departed, not exactly singing the "nunc dimittis," but yet, we hope, not without feeling, that her admirable gifts, and her faithful use of them for our profit and pleasure, had not been utterly unappreciated. Philadelphia, in its meek, complacent fashion, and Boston, with its usual fanatical extravagance, have since been enjoying the "pluie de perles" which fell so long about us-the ungrateful. Our Hensler (but for us the Bostonians would never have heard her), our Brignoli, our Rovere, and our fascinating Didiée, have been winning applause and laurels from the excitable Athenians. They will come back to us once more, in this same muchabused month of March; and, if we are good, we shall have plenty of good things in the pleasant spring nights. Arditi will give us a new opera, of which even the KnowNothings speak amiably; and it is to be hoped that we shall have learned, by two months' experience, how very unwise it is to throw away our good fortune, and to suffer our Academy doors to be closed.

But though Rossini and Meyerbeer have been dumb to us so long, we have not been utterly deserted of the tuneful throng. Our Philharmonic concerts have, so far, been radiantly successful. With one exception, so admirably balanced, so harmoniously proportioned an orchestra has never before been heard in America; and it is no slight indication of the hold which music, as an art, is winning upon our people, tha

the Society should have been obliged to desert the long, narrow, resonant hall of Niblo's saloon, for the large and pleasant spaces of the theatre.

Classical Berlin (saving the presence of Dwight's Journal of Music) must bow to us this winter. Those amiable sectarians, who secretly cross themselves in expiatory horror, when they inadvertently hear a strain from Il Trovatore or Il Barbière, have never enjoyed such renderings of Beethoven and Mendelssohn as have now been given us. If we persevere, we shall soon have them coming here for the season, and then we may be able to give them some hints towards a kindly catholic culture, which we are sure will not be thrown away on ground so good.

The Philharmonic Society have not produced many novelties. The overture to Tannhäuser, which was received rather dubiously in Boston a year or two since, was very successful, and is certainly full of striking and even impressive passages. The advance of the pilgrims, chanting their holy chant along a way that is haunted by siren songs, and seductive strains from sinful beauties, is marvelously imaged forth to the ear. As we listened, a vision rose in our minds of that grand old print of Albert Dürer's, which gave to La Motte Fouqué the hint of his exquisite story of Sintram.

Do you know the print?

A Christian knight, war-worn and weary, but with a face serene and strong, rides calmly, on his steadfast charger, through the valley of the shadow of death. Fiends of every shape beset him, lures are laid for him before and behind; but on and on he rides, unassailable, invincible, saddened, but sublime.

We have had a symphony, too, from Mr. Bristow, the production of which, by the Society, is, perhaps, a proper tribute to native art; the production of which, by the composer, strikes us as a serious mistake. It will hardly add to whatever reputation he may have gained by his opera of Rip Van Winkle. There is a dash of originality, and of something very like power in the scherzo of the symphony; but persons afflicted with an over action of the memory must have found themselves unpleasantly familiar with too many of our "tone-poet's" imaginations. The truest, and sweetest, and loveliest novelty we have had, was Sterndale Bennett's overture to the "Wald

Nymph." Sitting there in the theatre, as we listen to its fresh and fanciful movements, we saw such scenery upon the stage as Allegri himself never designed-visions of woodland glades, of sunny forest-aisles. Summer came to us, with the soft murmur of streams, and with the song of birds.

It was a good gift, too, which Mr. Mason gave us in one of his agreeable matinées, of a trio by the famous young Russian Rubenstein. One thought constantly of Mozart, and we have heard no new composition, in a long time, which seemed so full of varied promise. Half a dozen Rubensteins will do more for Russia, if she wishes to convince us that she is really a civilized and civilizing power, than an army of Menschikoffs, and Gortschakoffs, and Orloffs, "and all the others that end in off." Nor can we forget, among the compensations of the winter, our southern poet, Gottschalk. This rare and exquisite pianist, who wields the fingers of De Meyer, in the spirit of Chopin, has been charming our chilly hours with dreams of tropical beauty. The monotony of the most monotonous Creole airs sparkles beneath his touch-the gayest and most brilliant compositions take upon them a tinge of tenderness and pathos in his interpretations. He has the organization of a poet, and the culture of an artist, and we cannot spare him, even although the opera should come back to us in all the plenitude of its resources.

The opera will recombine for us our music and our drama.

Of music pure and simple, we have had, as you see, our good share. Nor have we been stinted quantitatively at the theatres.

The Varieties, Wallack's, Burton's, and the Broadway, have all been in full operation, and, so far as we can judge, with no ordinary success.

Yet we really cannot say a very strong word in praise of the quality of the dramatic entertainments of the winter.

We have had neither striking novelties nor very brilliant presentations of familiar favorites. Things do not seem to be well combined.

Miss Keene has the best theatre in town, and Mr. Wallack the best company; yet Mr. Wallack has no actress equal to Miss Keene, and Miss Keene's stage is not so available and effective as Mr. Wallack's.

Mr. Burton is playing the part of Atlas, and carrying Chambers street on his shoul-

ders. The Broadway, which numbers some really excellent serious performers on its roll, is following the fate of old Drury, and seems rapidly becoming a succursale of the Hippodrome. Spectacles have banished Shakespeare, horses triumph over Hamlet, and humanity deserts the boards, to walk, head downwards, on the ceiling.

Athletes and antipodeans! Are we ancient Romans or modern New Zealanders, that we must be regaled with such barbaric shows?

Mr. Lenton, we are informed, by devoting himself for years to this sole object, and giving his whole mind to it as did the young man, in Punch, to the tying of his cravat has succeeded in finding out a contrivance which enables him to walk, like a fly, on a board, twenty-eight feet long, fastened to the ceiling. Well, what if he has? Is it a pretty way to walk? is it a pleasant way to walk?

Why should we go to see Mr. Lenton reversing his brains and his stomach, and pouring all the blood in his body backwards through his veins?

Mimes and pantomimes at Christmas, Punchinello in the streets, a peripatetic pleasure. accessible to children, who live in dingy courts and dreary alleys-to these we have no objection. These, with all our heart, we welcome. But how very glad we should be to see a really good play, really well performed; and why are we never to have that satisfaction?

We don't wish to be understood as grumbling inordinately, or as denying that we have had anything good at any of our many theatres, through these Arctic months.

On the contrary, we have spent not a few merry nights in the dramatic world, ⚫ this winter.

Mr. Wallack has given us some very sparkling little farces and comediettas, for one of the gayest and cleverest of which, “Duke Humphrey's Dinner," we are indebted to a member of the metropolitan press-a brother of the quill. It was but a trifle, yet a lively, gentlemanly, agreeable trifle, such as one likes to laugh over, after dining. not with Duke Humphrey ; a pleasant picture of imaginary woes, which, you are sure, will end in a dissolving view of prospective and plentiful felicity.

Then we have had some good revivals.
She Stoops to Conquer," that model

light comedy, shining in every line from Goldsmith's Midas-touch (did Dr. Johnson, by the way, mean his famous epitaph to be what the heralds call "a punning motto?") has been produced both at Wallack's and the Varieties, though more satisfactorily at the former theatre than at the latter. Miss Keene is capable of playing the part of Miss Hardcastle better than any woman on the New York stage; but Tony Lumpkin is the life of the comedy, and Mr. Walcot's Tony Lumpkin was so very brilliant a piece of acting as to weigh the balance down in favor of Wallack's cast.

Not that Mr. Walcot looked the part exactly. He was well made up; but his face is too refined in its forms, as well as in its expression, and his age is too distinctly marked a point, for him to be a perfectly successful representative of the rosy young bumpkin squire.

But the character was admirably conceived. The mingled archness and fatuity, the stupidity and sharpness, the astute impertinence and gross willfulness of the riotous hobbledehoy, were given by Mr. Walcot with exquisite truth and felicity. He is decidedly an actor without a superior among us, in his line of characters; and deserves to be recognized as distinctly as the inimitable Burton.

The few attempts at playing Shakespeare that have been made, cannot be said to have been crowned with absolute success; and for this, we-who do not really believe, with one of our contributors, that Shakespeare was a disreputable impostor-are unfeignedly sorry.

If it should be made a test for actors, by our managers, that they should be able to render the comedies of Shakespeare satisfactorily (we do not ask for tragedians, for we are reasonable, and know that a Kean or a Siddons comes by grace, and not by breeding), and if a certain number of performances of these comedies should be given every season, our theatres would become, at once, capital schools for actors, and for the public, too.

Then we should see such a steady improvement in the capacity of our performers, that the profession would begin to rise in public estimation, and dramatic literature would be stimulated into an activity somewhat proportioned to the activity of other branches of intellectual production.

As things are, what inducement to dra