EDITOR'S TABLE.

EDITORIAL NARRATIVE-HISTORY OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE: NUMBER SEVEN. - We closed the last short and incomprehensive chapter of this desultory narrative with a reference to JOHN SANDERSON, author of the 'American in Paris,' and with an implied promise to advert briefly thereafter to the characteristics of that gentleman's literary manner, as indicated in his numerous and various communications to the KNICKERBOCKER. We proceed to fulfill that promise, by presenting one or two brief extracts from his Familiar Letters from London, a series of epistles addressed to the EDITOR hereof. And what we wish to call especial attention to, is the 'full mind' from which he writes: the scholarly richness, yet man-of-the-world ease, which distinguish his lucubrations. We quote almost entirely at random: for 'Selections from SANDERSON,' as 'samples,' would be a hopeless task. Our three short 'specimens' shall represent our correspondent at a Theatrical Rehearsal, at an Ancient London Church, and vis-à-vis with a French Baron, at a London Eating-House:

'AFTER breakfasting with KNOWLES, where I passed an hour agreeably in looking over the departed heroes of the stage who tapestry the walls of several of its large rooms and entries: the next hour we spent alone, in a box of the Covent Garden Theatre, overlooking a rehearsal. It was the first time I had seen the two muses in their dishabille. A sham exhibition of the passions is close on the ridiculous, at best; and when the mummery is exposed in this manner without the prestige of costume and decoration, it is ridiculous, outright. Imagine only a number of men and women rushing from behind a scene, making arms, and throwing themselves into comic or tragic attitudes. 'Oh, that's horrid!' says the manager; 'Good GOD!' And then he casts himself into a situation, by way of model. They go out and rush in again, upon the same sentiment; and then he jumps three feet in the air with joy, at the excellence of the imitation. I would rather see any comedy than this. I strolled, afterward, in

the immense space filled with the apparatus of the scene. How interesting to see here the human passions reduced to their elements, in pots of rouge, in dishes of tallow, and burnt cork! Groves are here leaning sentimentally against the wall, and others, erect upon the area, are breathing with Arcadian freshness. I walked through the forest of Arden, and made 'the babbling gossip of the air cry out OLIVIA.' I saw the thunder quietly reposing at the side of a snow-storm, and CUPID's wings fast asleep with PSYCHE's petticoat. I studied, too, the customs and manners of the artists, who have here their social observances; exacting, rigorously, a respect corresponding with their rank in public favor. The prima has a large room, and several distinctive articles of furniture, and takes especial care not to admit you, a second-rate, to the dignity of her acquaintance. If, by the necessities of the play, she does embrace you tenderly before the world, this is no reason why she should own you in private. Queen CATHARINE is crying here at her mirror; RICHARD attitudinizes: ANNE being a bonnet, with a petticoat on a bed-post. 'Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman!' You have seen HOGARTH's Theatricals;' this is the original. . . The tragedy in rehearsal was ION, which had its first representation here, a few nights ago. ION, MACREADY; IANTHE, Miss TREE. It was received with great favor, by a full house. I had the advantage of seeing the author, who was called out by the audience. He stood up in his box, amidst rapturous applause, and made an infinity of bows, and expressed as much gratitude as was possible for a man of his size. There was a lady of a middle age, who also stood up at their bidding, to receive her share of the plaudits; she who told us of RIENZI, and the FOSCARI, before BULWER or BYRON, and makes us hang over the scenes of 'Our Village' as CLAUDE over the sunny landscape. A neighbor, in mercy to American inquisitiveness, told me it was Miss MITFORD. I read her RIENZI, for the first time, on the brow of a rock overlooking the tiny Schuylkill, how little supposing I should one day see the accomplished authoress upon the banks of the Thames!'

Now we know of writers, whom we 'have heard others praise, and that highly, too,' who would have taken three leaves of this Magazine to describe what is here so graphically depicted in less than half a page. But let us change the scene:

'JUST Over London Bridge, there is a venerable antiquity, called SAINT MARY OVERIES. It is so old that it is haunted. Any fine moonlight evening, you can see here the ghost of MARY AUDERY, an ancieut maiden lady, who, with the profits of a ferry she kept before the existence of the bridge, founded a house of sisters, now the uppermost end of the church. A college of priests it became afterward, and was in good Catholic odor up to the Reformation. It then mouldered away in neglect, and the foul bird of night rooked in its spire. A part of it, the Chapel of the Virgin, or as they called it, the 'Lady Chapel,' was leased by the corporation for a bake-house, and another part, (the Presbyterian, I presume,) was let out for making starch. But in time, it was whitewashed,' so says the history, at the expense of the parish, and with modern additions, nearly devouring the ancient structure, it is now one of the largest of the London churches; three hundred feet long, with a reasonable width. There are remaining many curious decorations, a mixture of monkish and episcopal art, and numerous monuments. The first I noticed was of GOWER, the friend of CHAUCER; and FLETCHER and MASSINGER lie here, in the same grave! It was immediately by the door of this church, and down the Kent Road, that CHAUCER'S Pilgrims, telling those immortal stories, which you have read, to lighten their journey, bent their way to the shrine of Saint THOMAS

of Canterbury; the swaggering sailor, the sergeant 'busier than he was,' the thin cook, and thinner scholar, upon a lean horse; and on this very road, too, it was, that Madam BLAZE was so run after by the king, and so bitten, poor woman! by a mad dog. I have visited this spot thrice; and one evening sat here while the wan cold moon fell upon the marble, until I could fancy the light-footed ghosts skipping about the tombstones, till the hair bristled, and the blood ran chilly in my veins. Rhe is the Saxon for river; so you see the etymology of this church: it is also called Saint SAVIour. 'I spent an agreeable hour, lately, in and about an old church called STEPNEY, at the east extremity of London; and enjoyed, in some sort, the company of Mr. ADDISON, in reading over the same grave-stones. This one is given in the Spectator, as an example of the simple, and if I recollect rightly, of the pathetic. It is of THOMAS SAF"Aн why,

FRIN:

Born in New-England, did in London die.'

'No pleasant matter, after the dignity of being born a Yankee! This for the 'simply;' and now for for the 'pathetic.' He was:

THIRD Son, of right begot upon

His mother MARTHA, by his father JOHN.''

With the following exposition of the miseries of an English Eating-House, in the eyes of a French gourmet, we take leave of our most amusing correspondent: with the added remark, that we have presented this little 'taste of his quality' not only briefly to illustrate the 'characteristics' of which we have spoken, but to give a new zest to certain rich and quaint passages of epistolary correspondence, with which we hope to enliven our familiar Gossipry' by-and-by:

'I was faithful to my engagement with my French Baron, to meet him at his lodg ings in the Quadrant at twelve; and we passed the dejeuné, which was badly served by a cross-grained and ill-looking maid, in abusing English coffee, English omelettes, English books, in a word, every thing English; and we agreed it was apropos to quote the old line of JUVENAL, which must have been made in a spirit of prophecy:

"Miserum est aliena vivere Quadra.'

'The truth is, that the entertainment of ordinary boarding-houses and eating-houses, which first offer themselves in London to strangers wishing to practice the inexpensive virtues, is mean in comparison with the French. Mutton and beef are excellent, but the sore evil is the want of variety in the preparation, and neatness in the service. The children of Israel were tired of manna, though it fell from the heavens, and longed for 'the leeks, the onions, and the garlics.' Always manna! always mutton! If condemned to eat alone, which is one of the traveller's miseries, in a French café, you have a lively, well-furnished room, and the spectacle of an animated company about you. A London eating-house is darkened and deformed by stalls, and you are set in your niche, and the curtain is drawn, and you wait there unseen, until a grave personage in sables, and having the air of an undertaker, brings you your mutton chops. ‘L'Angleterre a produit de grandes hommes dans les sciences! mais helas!' 'MARY, I entreat you,' said the Baron-'you are a pretty girl bear this steak, with my compliments, to the cook, and bid him submit it once more to the process of roasting.' ''Why, we don't never roast it no more, Sir; the juices

''MARY, we had a cook once in France, who, for having served a dish underdone, ran himself through the body. His name was VATEL; he was unwilling to outlive the disgrace. Do have his picture hung up in your kitchen, and never mind the juices.' 'Here MARY took the dish, with much surliness, muttering something about 'done.' ''Well dressed!-done! Sacré menteuse! You have nothing done or well dressed upon your island. The pork squeals when you put your fork into it, and the mutton cries 'bah!''

'This last monosyllable, pronounced in its native Scotch accent, sent MARY into the kitchen, to return no more.'

While it would be proper for us to introduce in this connection, and to comment upon here, the writings of such popular contributors to the KNICKERBOCKER as Rev. F. W. SHELTON, our Long-Island and 'Up-River' correspondent; Rev. WALTER COLTON, author of 'Ship and Shore;' Hon. Robert M. CHARLTON, the 'myriad-minded' ' Georgia Lawyer;' the author of 'HARRY FRANCO,' that most humorous and original American work, whose 'Haunted Merchant,' 'Gimcrackeries,' and other contributions to our Magazine were always looked for with eagerness, and devoured with avidity; while, we say, it would be proper for us to introduce these and other equally attractive correspondents, in this place, we yet reserve the consideration of them for another number, (and we hope not to fail to render them the honor which they deserve,) and pass to the one great writer, of world-wide renown - a 'beloved author,' in the full sense of the word - who was more cordially welcomed to our pages than any other man who ever put pen to paper, to enhance the literary enjoyment of our readers.

From earliest boyhood - from the time that we had listened to the humor of KNICKERBOCKER's immortal history from the lips of an appreciative father, 'dead and gone,' we had longed, of all things else, to look upon the lineaments, and once to take the hand, of WASHINGTON IRVING. The subsequent perusal (how many times repeated!) of 'The Sketch-Book,' 'Bracebridge-Hall,' 'Tales of a Traveller,' only served to intensify the desire to 'behold the face' of this master of quiet humor, the truest pathos, the most adroit satire, and the utmost charm of style, since the days of GOLDSMITH, of ADDISON, and of STEELE. Imagine then our pleasure, when one morning, after an almost sleepless night of excitement, we accompanied our partner, Mr. EDSON, at the appointment of a near relative of ‘Mr. G. CRAYON, Gent.,' to complete stipulations, by which he was to become a contributor to each and every number of the KNICKERBOCKER! The interview was not a prolonged one: the preliminaries, easy of adjustment, were soon settled: and we left, for once impressed with the fact, that an author's gentleness, kindness, and cordial sympathy, may be truly represented in his works.

We awaited the 'copy' of the first of 'The Crayon Papers' with an anxious interest, which was almost painful. It was not long, however, before it came: and when it did arrive, it was so characteristic, so especially applicable to the Magazine, itself, for which it was to serve as an avant-courier of succeeding papers, that it literally 'filled us with rejoicing.' If we read it once, we must have read it through twenty times, before it passed into the hands of the printer. This was a long time ago over twenty years: and as the 'Epistle to the EDITOR,' be

ing merely introductory, was scarcely considered as one of the subsequent ‘Crayon Sketches,' since collected into volumes, an extract or two, we are confident, will please our old, as we are sure it will delight our present readers. 'Sir,' said GEOFFREY CRAYON, addressing the EDITOR:

'I HAVE observed that as a man advances in life, he is subject to a kind of plethora of the mind, doubtless occasioned by the vast accumulation of wisdom and experience upon the brain. Hence he is apt to become narrative and admonitory, that is to say, fond of telling long stories, and of doling out advice, to the small profit and great an noyance of his friends. As I have a great horror of becoming the oracle, or, more technically speaking, the 'bore,' of the domestic circle, and would much rather bestow my wisdom and tediousness upon the world at large, I have always sought to ease off this surcharge of the intellect by means of my pen, and hence have inflicted divers gossiping volumes upon the patience of the public. I am tired, however, of writing volumes: they do not afford exactly the relief I require; there is too much preparation, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of coming before the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious for any thing that requires labor or display. I have thought, therefore, of securing to myself a snug corner in some periodical work, where I might, as it were, loll at my ease in my elbow-chair, and chat sociably with the public, as with an old friend, on any chance subject that might pop into my brain.

'In looking around, for this purpose, upon the various excellent periodicals with which our country abounds, my eye was struck by the title of your work-THE KNICKERBOCKER.' My heart leaped at the sight!

'DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, Sir, was one of my earliest and most valued friends; and the recollection of him is associated with some of the pleasantest scenes of my youthful days. To explain, this, and to show how I came into possession of sundry of his posthumous works, which I have from time to time given to the world, permit me to relate a few particulars of our early intercourse. I give them with the more confidence, as I know the interest you take in that departed worthy, whose name and effigy are stamped upon your title-page, and as they will be found important to the better understanding and relishing divers communications I may have to make to you.

'My first acquaintance with that great and good man, for such I may venture to call him, now that the lapse of some thirty years has shrouded his name with venerable antiquity, and the popular voice has elevated him to the rank of the classic historians of yore, my first acquaintance with him was formed on the banks of the Hudson, not far from the wizard region of Sleepy Hollow. He had come there in the course of his researches among the Dutch neighborhoods for materials for his immortal history. For this purpose, he was ransacking the archives of one of the most ancient and historical mansions in the country. It was a lowly edifice, built in the time of the Dutch dynasty, and stood on a green bank, overshadowed by trees, from which it peeped forth upon the great Tappaän-Zee, so famous among early Dutch navigators. A bright pure spring welled up at the foot of the green bank; a wild brook came babbling down a neigh boring ravine, and threw itself into a little woody cove, in front of the mansion.'

In a straight line from our sanctum, 'as the crow flies,' across the Tappain-Zee, we see this 'bettered' mansion, almost concealed by its vari-colored and overabounding foliage, and the 'wild babbling brook' which runs thereby, spanned by a little culvert in the white marble wall of the Hudson River Rail-Road, ere it