of the facts of the war, which they peddle out only by subscription, they can give the public but little of the secret history of the Fort Sumter affair. That remains to be written, while WELLER and I remain to write it. The Ex-Secretary has gracefully left it to me to describe the midnight session of the Cabinet at which I chanced to be present.

I was boarding at the White House at the time, and as President LINCOLN assured me it would be rather interesting, I was persuaded to attend. "The fact is, the crisis reminds me," said he, of a little story of a horse-trot in Arkansas—"

"Sir," interrupted I, "it reminds me of a dozen stories, one of AEsop's fables, and two hundred lives of CHAUCER."

He was afraid to continue.

As the clock struck twelve, he called the meeting to order and remarked: "Gentlemen, ANDERSON is in Sumter. The question now is,—what will he do with it?"

South Carolina was out. BUCHANAN had done nothing. Everywhere was distrust. (That very day they had refused, on Pennsylvania avenue, to trust me for a spring overcoat.) STANTON was getting his dark lantern ready for nightly interviews with SUMNER and WENDELL PHILLIPS in a vacant lot upon the outskirts of the Capitol. Universal gloom prevailed.

SEWARD opened the discussion. He said it was contemplated to throw four thousand men into Fort Sumter. We couldn't do it. If we did, it would only be one of the first throes of a civil conflict, a war long and bloody, which he would venture to predict might be protracted even to the extent of ninety days. Were we prepared for that? He would like to hear from that pure patriot, the Secretary of War, on this point.

Amid murmurs of applause, Gen. CAMERON rose to say that he was wholly unprepared to make a speech; but he owned a lot of condemned muskets, which he stood ready to dispose of to the Government at four times their original cost. He should advise that the Fort be covered with several thicknesses of Pennsylvania railroad iron. It would protect our gallant troops, and he was now, as he had always been, in favor of protection. Besides, he knew parties who could get up a ring in the way of army blankets.

Mr. CHASE spoke rather thick and fast, but I understood him to pronounce in favor of that platform which would get the most votes. "If the people think it ought to be done, why, do it. The country needs taxation, and is anxious to have me President. I think I can borrow money enough in Wall street to pay the passage of a moderate number of men to Charleston, but they mustn't on any account be CHASE men. I don't want any of my friends killed off before the next Presidential election."

"What the Administration lacks," chimed in BLAIR, "is backbone. Powder and ball, and blood are my sentiments. Fill all the army and navy offices with the BLAIR family, and secession is dead."

SEWARD again: "Strengthen Pickens, and let Sumter go. Our soldiers will find it healthier and more commodious at Pickens. I'll have the Powhatan sent there forthwith."

Hereupon Mr. GIDEON WELLES woke up and remarked, in a strain of apology, that be hadn't read his commission yet, but it was his impression that he was the head of what was called the Navy Department. Coming from an inland town, he didn't exactly know whether the Secretary of State or himself had the ordering about of our national vessels; but he rather thought he would relieve his friend SEWARD of that burden. He had talked with several old sea-dogs. They all agreed that the success of the plan depended on its feasibility. Capt. Fox, a private citizen of Massachusetts, had been down there with a horse and buggy, and reports that a squad of marines could do the job up in good style.

Mr. BATES was called upon, and stated that strengthening Sumter, without giving the Southerners four weeks' notice of our intention, would not, in his opinion, be unconstitutional.

At this juncture Mr. FLOYD (who, having acquired the habit of attending BUCHANAN'S cabinet meetings, had not quite got over it) put his head in for a moment to suggest, that if the Black Republican Government would evacuate all the forts on Southern territory, remunerate his friends for their expenses, and execute a quit-claim deed of Washington and the national property to JEFF. DAVIS and other Southern leaders, the proposition might possibly be accepted, and trouble avoided.

Mr. SEWARD rose to add only a word, and that word was "Pickens."

The Secretary of the Interior observed, that as Charleston harbor wasn't in his department, he would say nothing.

Mr. BATES urged that the people of his section were loyal to the flag; in fact, they not only wanted the flag but the Capitol itself, and the national buildings (except the monument), removed to St. Louis; if they couldn't get that, they might be satisfied if Fort Sumter were towed around there, up the Mississippi. It would certainly be a good deal safer there.

Mr. GIDEON WELLES wanted it distinctly understood that Gen. SCOTT, Gen. HOLT, Capt. FOX and the Powhatan could save the country if Mr. SEWARD would let them; otherwise he would make a minute of these deliberations, and if his friend Mr. YOUNG (whom he was pleased to see present) didn't expose it, he himself would put it in the shape of a lively sketch, and send it to the magazines.

"Well—now," said Mr. LINCOLN, after patiently waiting, "this reminds me of the man in Pomeroy, Ohio, who kept what he called an 'eating saloon.' One morning, a tall hoosier came in and called for ham and eggs. 'Can't giv 'em to ye, stranger,' said the proprietor, 'but what'll ye hav' t'drink?—don't keep nothin' but a bar.' 'Yer don't? Then what'n thunder yer got that sign out thar for?' for the fellow was a little mad. 'Why yer see I call her a eating saloon, 'cos I reckon she eats up all the profits."

This beautiful and appropriate anecdote, which seemed to throw a flood of light upon the critical State question under consideration, pleased every one except FLOYD, who swore it was ungenerous and unchivalric. Hastily withdrawing, he threatened to telegraph it verbatim to the insurgents; it would fire the Southern heart.

SEWARD said he was going home, as he had already sent the Powhatan to PICKENS.

Mr. LINCOLN yawned, and turning to me, inquired: "Well, SARSFIELD, you see what a man's got to do to run this machine,—now what's your advice?"

"Your Excellency," I replied, "there's a man in the tanning business at Galena, in your State. Telegraph him at once. His name is GRANT, and if you give him the tools to work with, he'll straighten everything out for you as neat as a pin."

The meeting dissolved without taking heed of my suggestion, and the world knows the result. However, there's one thing I am proud of. I claim to have discovered GRANT four years before WASHBURN did. That's the secret why I can have any office I want under the present administration.

SARSFIELD YOUNG.

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

he popularity of opera among fashionable people in this city varies inversely as the intelligibility of the language in which it is sung.

To illustrate! The Italian opera is fashionable, though not one in ten of the people composing an average audience understand a word that is said or sung. The French opera is less fashionable, but perhaps one-third of the audience can understand the less ingenious of the indelicate jokes. The English opera is not fashionable, but every one can understand every word that Miss RICHINGS or Miss HERSEE pronounces. These facts undoubtedly stand in the relation of cause and effect. Wherefore the axiom with which this column begins.

To be sure, the words of an opera are a matter of very little consequence, the music speaking as plainly as the clearest of Saxon sentences. But the fashionable public knows less of music than it knows of languages, and would be quite capable of mistaking "Gran Dio" for a comic song, and "Libiamo" for a lover's lamentation, were not the translated libretto of Traviata at hand to supply them and the critics of the minor papers, with the cue for the display of appropriate emotion. Singers, especially, understand the full force of the above stated axiom. Hence, those who are deficient in voice avoid the English stage. Miss KELLOGG, for example, never attempted English opera, because she knew that people who had heard ROSE HERSEE or CAROLINE RICHINGS would laugh at her claim to be "the greatest living Prima Donna," should she compete with those birds of English song. Wherefore, she wisely confined herself to the Italian stage, sure of pleasing a public that knows nothing of music, but is confident that a lady who enjoys the friendship of Madison avenue must be a great singer. PAREPA, on the contrary, turned from the Italian to the English stage,—but then PAREPA had a voice.

How many years is it since CAROLINE RICHINGS first sung in English opera? It is an ungallant question, but the answer would be still more ungallant were it not that Miss RICHINGS is an artist; and with artists the crown of youth never loses the brightness of its laurel leaves. At any rate, she has sung long enough to compel the recognition of her claims to our gratitude and admiration. She is not faultless in her method, but she differs from other great American prime donne in the important particular of possessing voice enough to fill an auditorium larger than the average minstrel hall.

At present she is filling NIBLO'S GARDEN with her voice and its admirers. We go to hear her. PALMER and ZIMMERMANN, clad in velvet and fine linen, flit gorgeously about the lobby, and are mistaken, by rural visitors, for JIM FISK and HORACE GREELEY—concerning whom the tradition prevails in rural districts that they are clothed in a style materially different from that affected by King Solomon at the period of his greatest glory. We find our seats, and mentally remarking that NIBLO'S is the one theatre in this city from which it would be possible to escape with whole bones and coat in case of fire, we await with contented minds the lifting of the curtain.

In time the opera begins, and a select company of young men who are standing in the rear of the audience improve every possible opportunity for breaking into rapturous applause. Their zeal occasionally outruns their discretion, and they finally ruin the attempt of Miss RICHINGS to execute a florid cadenza at the end of one of her arias. An intelligent usher is therefore detailed to curse them into a comprehension of their duties, after which they applaud with a discretion which produces almost exactly the effect of spontaneous enthusiasm.

Remarks a young lady near us, who is dressed with much wealth of contrasting colors:—"This isn't half so nice as the Italian opera. Miss RICHINGS can't dress half so nicely as Miss KELLOGG, and then you don't see any fashionable people here. The DAVIDS, the ABRAHAMS, the AARONS, the NOAHS, that handsome Mr. JACOBS, and that delightful Mr. MOSES,—all these elegant young men with beautiful eyes and curly hair that dress in velvet coats and diamond studs—there isn't one of them here. Our best society never goes to any opera but the real Italian opera."

LIGHT-HAIRED YOUNG MAN.—"But, my dear, it seems to me that your best society must consist chiefly of Jews—judging from the names you mention."

YOUNG LADY.—"Well, what if it does? They are rich, are they not? What more could you want?"

LIGHT-HAIRED YOUNG MAN.—"What, indeed! But the music is just as good as it would be if the fashionable Israelites were here,—isn't it?"

SHE.—"The music as good! Why, Charles, everybody knows that the Italian opera music is perfectly lovely. This is only English, you know."

HE.—"It is precisely the same. Here the Somnmabula is sung with English instead of Italian words. That doesn't alter a single note."

SHE.—"You are too ridiculous! The idea of attempting to make me believe that this is just like the Italian Opera! Don't you suppose I knows anything about music?"

OLD GENTLEMAN.—"I heard CAROLINE RICHINGS sing in 1808,—I think it was. I tell you she sings better now tan she did then, but the stupid public never appreciated her. I recollect saying to KEAN—not CHARLES, you know, but the KEAN—that I knew a young lady that would be a splendid singer some of these days—meaning CAROLINE, of course. 'Well, sir,' says KEAN, 'what of it; you can't drink her, can you?' Gad! he was the best man for repartee I ever knew. To give you an instance; one night KEAN and I, and old SMITH,—you don't remember old SMITH, I presume; he played old men at the Boston Theatre sixty years ago; I never met a jollier fellow,—I remember his saying one night when JUNICS BOOTH was playing—let me see, what was the play; it wasn't the Apostate, I hardly think, for—"

Here the orchestra mercifully strikes up, and the big drum drums the garrulous monologue of the veteran theatrical observer. We have another act of the opera, sung far better than any opera has been sung at the Academy for years. Pretty ROSE HERSEE—when have we had a voice as pure, or a manner as charming as hers?—sings in this act, and her tones so closely resemble those of NILSSON in their exquisite purity, that we wonder how she has escaped the abuse of that "independent critical journal," the Season, until we notice a middle-aged gentleman sleeping quietly with a copy of the Season on his lap, and remember that at NIBLO'S GARDEN the proprietor of the independent critical journal is permitted to distribute his mental soothing syrup, while at STEINWAY HALL a rival sheet is the only admitted programme.

And I say—still thinking of NILSSON—to an experienced theatre-goer,—"Why does WATSON abuse NILSSON?"

And he answers, with the contemptuous, but obviously honest inquiry—"Who's WATSON?"

Really appalled by the suggestion that there exists a man with soul and things so completely dead as not to have heard of the great WATSON, I change my question and ask him: "Why does the Season abuse NILSSON?"

HE.—"The Season, my young friend, is a programme paper that is circulated gratuitously and depends for support upon its advertizing patronage. A few managers permit it to be circulated in their theatres; the remaining managers will not admit it. Among the latter are Mr. WALLACK, and MAX STRAKOSCH. Consequently, the Season abuses WALLACK'S Theatre and NILSSON'S concerts—asserting that Mr. WALLACK has a wretched company, and that Miss NILSSON has no voice. The Season is also a comic paper, and its best joke is its assertion that it is an 'independent critical journal.'"

YOUNG LADY IN COLORS.—"This opera is dreadfully stupid."

LIGHT-HAIRED YOUNG MAN.—"But, MARY ANNE, it is one of Mozart's—the Marriage of Figaro. It is one of his most famous works."

SHE.—"Then I don't like Mozart. There was an Italian who wrote an opera that was all about Figaro,—the Nossy di Figaro was the name of it. Oh, it is perfectly splendid; ever so much prettier than this."

HE.—"Why, my dear girl, the Nozze di Figaro is the identical opera you are now hearing."

SHE.—"There is young Mr. NATHAN ISAACS. Isn't he perfectly splendid?"

HE (sighing sadly).—"Whenever you wish to go home, I am ready."

SHE.—"You are real disagreeable to-night, and I'm sorry I came with you."

RURAL PERSON.—"Well, if this is the opery, I don't mind sayin' I like it. Susan said I couldn't understand a word of the gibberish these opery folks squawked, but it's just as plain as psalm-singing. Miss RICHIN and that HERSY gal are just the tallest kind of singers. If we had 'em in our choir, the Baptist folks might shut up their meetin'-house to wunst."

ZIMMERMANN.—"When are we going to revive the Crook—did you ask? What do we want to revive it