’We do not pretend to give this in the language or manner of Mr. Polk, which is said to be inimitable; neither do we claim him as a ‘Union man.’  He has remained quietly at home, and taken no part in the contest; but we are indebted to him, or to some one who has reported it as coming from him, for a genial and laughable account of the exit of what once promised to be very injurious to our State, and still more for his characterization of that wise, pushing, incomprehensible character, George N. Sanders, Member of Congress from the Seventh District of Kentucky to Richmond.’

We have long wondered what became of Sanders, the illustrious author of that excellent term, ‘the Tobacco States,’ which so exactly defines the Southern border.  The last time we saw him was while talking with Arctic Dr. Hayes, a few days before his departure for the Unknown Sea.  Just then Sanders went by arrayed in all the glory of a perfectly new pareil partout suit of spring clothes.  Days passed by, and we heard of him as frantically endeavoring to galvanize the C.S.A. at Montgomery, Alabama, into faith in his exceeding Southern proclivities.  It was up-hill work, as we were told—­almost as hard as several other small renegade literati and politicians found it, when they, too, went over into Dixie about a year ago.  In vain did George N. Sanders utter the largest size secession words—­no office rewarded him, no foreign mission fell into the fat fingers of the deserter.  The change from the comfortable quarters of the New-York Hotel to hurried war-marches and wild retreats must have been indeed trying; only that so many politicians have of late fared quite as badly, that pity would seem wasted.  Meanwhile we would suggest, as a good question for youthful democratic debating-societies:  ’When we catch the enemy, what shall be done with George N. Sanders?’

* * * * *

Notwithstanding our war—­to say nothing of our want—­we have had the OPERA this winter; had it in great variety and perfection, and, as many a reader can testify, with by no means thin houses.  Grau has been busy—­the most courteous and indefatigable polyglot and active of impresarios, with the good-natured Gosche, heralding a troupe of all the stars, D’Angri, Hinckley, Kellogg, Brignoli, Susini, and all the rest, including divers new singing birds.  Maretzek has led, and we have had a range from Mozart to Verdi, which was, on the whole, well-chosen.  We have had Brignoli singing, if possible, better, and acting, if possible, worse than usual—­a nightingale imprisoned in a pump; Mme. D’Angri, with her embonpoint voice, pouring forth like an inexhaustible fountain of Maraschino; Miss Hinckley, pleasant and pretty as ever, steadily singing her way star-ward; and Susini, who combines German strength with Italian fire—­a true Tedesco Italiana-zato.  Something, too, we would say of Mancusi, whose clear and rapid execution, in Figaro, and whose real Spanish