That the mind of the reader may not become hopelessly dazed by contemplating this last paragraph, I will stop.

Mother goose.

I cannot close these memoirs without a simple tribute to this remarkable woman, who has probably done more to mould the destinies of this Republic than any other man put together.  She was an eminently pious woman, devoted body and soul to Foreign Missions, and to the great work of sending the gospel to New Jersey.

But it was as a composer that her brilliant talents stand preeminent.  Mozart, Beethoven, and a host of others excelled in this respect, but they all lack that exquisite pathos and graceful rhetoric which so distinguished this queen of literature.  The beautiful creations of that fruitful brain are as a passing panorama of constant delight.  Her style is singularly free from affectation, and, while we are at one moment rapt in wonder at her chaste and vigorous description of the annoyances of a female in the autumn of life, training up a large family in the limited accommodations afforded by a common shoe, we cannot but feel a twinge of compassion for the singular Mrs. Hubbard and her lovely dog, who “had none,” only to have those tears chased away by the arch and guileless portrayal of the eccentric John Horner.

That we cannot to-day gaze upon the classic lineaments of her who welded such a facile pen, is a source of the most poignant regret.  It is a crying shame, for I think I am correct when I say that there does not exist on the civilized globe a statue of this peerless woman, but she will always live as long as there are infant minds to form, or tender recollections of childhood to remember.

P.S.—­I forgot to say that I hold a copyright of old granny GOOSE’S works.  I have just got it renewed, and it is as vigorous as a kicking-mule.  Send in your orders.  Contributions to the old gal’s statue will be duly acknowledged, and deposited with my tailor.

* * * * *

The plays and shows.

JANAUSCHEK is a Bohemian, and with the Bohemian propensity for picking up things, has picked up the English language.  The public is somewhat divided in its estimate of her skill in speaking English.  One-half of her average audience insists that she speaks better English than nine-tenths of our native actresses:  the other half asserts that she is at times nearly unintelligible.  Neither of these statements necessarily contradicting the other, they might both be easily true.  The fact is, however, that she speaks English like a foreigner.  Mud itself—­or a Sun editorial—­could not be plainer than this definition of her exact proficiency in our unmelodious tongue.