Godey's Lady's Book 1846-07: Vol 33 Iss 1

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GODEY’S AIX’ S BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1846. THE DECLARATION. (See Plate.) Tue best manner of making this important de- claration has never been satisfactorily settled. Some eminent writers have counseled the viva voce fashion as the most sure of success; others advise the epistle, especially if the swain is at al] nerv- ous or the lady of his love inclined to coquetry. Dr. Johnson said the fervor of speech was more persuasive than any written profession of love. He was a good talker. Addison preferred that the pen should interpret. He wrote better than he spoke. After all, the settlement of this question is not material: circumstances often decide the manner, whatever may be the wish of the parties. But a gentleman, when he writes his proposal, must have made up his mind strongly on the subject, as our brave patriots did when they made their ** Decla- ration.’? No secret reservation must be in the heart of the lover, no waiting to receive a little more encouragement from the eye or the smile, or blush of his beloved, before he speaks out all his heart. ‘* Try and trust’? must be his motto; and if his chosen is like the fair lady of our picture, she is worth any risk he can run. ** What a long letter!*’ thought Aunt Julia, as she waited nearly an hour for her niece, Ellen Moore, to appear and communicate the contents ; so she stole on tiptoe to the room, and there sat Ellen stil] poring over the sheet, and Sir Isaac himself, while studying his theory of light, could not have been more abstracted from the outward circumstances around him. Was the letter so very VOL. XXxlI —! difficult to read or comprehend? It might have been in Sanscrit for all the curious aunt could dis- cover; she dared not step near enough to read it, and so the good nurse is creeping round to try her skill. They both fancied it was from Charles Wiley. And what would Ellen’s father say if his daughter should be wooed and won while he was absent? Would he not blame those who had charge of Ellen ? weighing every sentence and examining every They did not know that the fair girl was word, with the thought, ‘*‘ What will my father think of this, and this??? She read it over and over, now determined to send it that very evening to her father and ask him what she ehould say in re- turn; and then her heart would tremble with emo- tion lest he might not think of Charles as she de- sired. Still she never dreamed of concealing her attachment or the declaration of her lover from her father. A model of truthfulness she was, one of those pure-minded beings that seem always to live in the eye of heaven. Her portrait was thus taken by one who knew her well— “ Her heart was all humanity, Her soul al] God’s—in spirit and in form, Like fair. Her cheek had the pale, pearly pink Of sea-shells, the world’s sweetest tint, as though She lived, one half might deem, on roses sopped In silver dew; she spoke as with the voice Of spheral harmony. And then her dark, Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave Might search for gold, and searching find.”

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A WAY TO BY T I have fir **Atways busy and always singing at your This was said by the customer of an industrious hatter work ;—you are the happiest man I know.”? named Parker, as he entered his shop. **T should not cal] the world a very happy one if I am the happiest man it contains,’’ replied the hatter, pausing in his work and turning his con- the **T think I should gain some- tented-looking face towards individual who had addressed him. thing by an exchange with you.” ** Why do you think so?” ** You have enough to live upon, ] and are not compelled to work early and late, as I am.” **T am not so very sure that you would be the gainer. One thing is certain, I never sing at my work.”? ** Your work? What work have you to do?” ** Oh, I'm always busy.” ** Doing what ?°? ** Nothing; and I believe it is much harder work than making hats.’’ ** 1 would be very willing to try my hand at that kind of work if I could afford it. be no danger of my getting tired or complaining There would that I had too much to do.”’ ** You may think so; but a few weeks’ experi- ence would be enough to drive you back to your shop, glad to find something for your hands to do and your mind to rest upon.”? ** If you have such a high opinion of labor, Mr. Steele, why don’t you go to work ?” *¢ ] have no motive for doing so.’’ **Is not the desire for happiness a motive of sufficient power? You think working will make any one happy.” **] am not so sure that it will make any one happy, but I believe that all who are engaged in regular employments are much more contented But no one can be regularly employed who has not some than are those who have nothing to do. motive for exertion. A mere desire for happiness is not the right motive ; man, when reasoning on the subject, may be able for, notwithstanding a to see that unless he is employed in doing some- thing useful to his fellows he cannot be even con- tented, yet when he follows out the impulses of his nature, if not compelled to work, he will seek for relief from the uneasiness he feels in almost anything else: especially is he inclined to run into excitements instead of turning to the quiet and more satisfying pursuits of ordinary life.’ ‘¢ If I believed as you do I would go into busi- ness at once,’’ said the hatter. ‘* You have the 2 8s. BE HAPPY. ARTHUR -proof perennial enjoyments, called employments.—RicuTeR means, and might conduct any business you chose to commence, with ease and comfort.’’ *<] have often thought of doing so; but I have lived an idle life so long that I am afraid I should soon grow tired of business.’ **No doubt you would, and if you will take my Enjoy As for me, I hope to see the day when I can retire from advice you will let well enough alone. your good fortune and be thankful for it. business and live easy the remainder of my life.” This was, in fact, the hatter’s highest wish, and he was working industriously with that end in view. He had already saved enough money to buy a couple of very good houses, the rent from As soon as he could accumulate sufficient to give him which was five hundred dollars per annum. a clear income of two thousand dollars, his inten- tion was to quit business and live a ** gentleman’”’ all the rest of his days. He was in a very fair way of accomplishing all he desired in a few years, and he did accomplish it. Up to the time of his retiring from business, which he did at the age of forty-three, Parker had passed through his share of trial and affliction. One of his children did not do well, and one, his favorite boy, had died. These events weighed down his spirits for a time, but no very long period elapsed before he was again singing at his work— not, it is true, quite so gayly as before, but still He had, like- wise, his share of those minor crosses in life which fret the spirit, but the impression they made was with an expression of contentment. soon effaced. In the final act of giving up, he felt a much greater reluctance than he had supposed would be the case, and very unexpectedly began to ask him- self what he should do all the day after he had no longer a shop in which to employ himself. The feeling but It was forced back by the idea of living at his ease; of being able to come and go just as it suited his was momentary, however. fancy ; to have no care of business, nor any of its perplexities and anxieties. This thought was de- lightful. ‘¢If I were you I would go into the country and said a friend to ory employ myself on a little farm, the hatter. ‘* You will find it dull work in town, with nothing on your hands to do.”’ The hatter shook his head. ‘** No, no,’’ said he, **T have no taste for farming ; trouble. I am tired of work, and want a little rest during the remainder of my life.’ Freedom from labor was the golden idea in his it is too much

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A WAY TO mind, and nothing else could find an entrance. For a few days after he had fully and finally got clear from all business, and was, to use his own words, a free man, he drank of liberty almost to intoxication. Sometimes he would sit at his win- dow, looking out upon the hurrying crowd, and marking with pity the care written upon each face; and sometimes he would walk forth to breathe the free air and see everything to be seen that could delight the eye. Much as the hatter gloried in this freedom and boasted of his enjoyments after the first day or two, he began to grow weary long before evening closed in, and then he could not sit and quietly enjoy the newspapers as before, for he had already gone over them two or three times, eveu to the advertising pages. Sometimes, for relief, he would walk out again after tea, and sometimes lounge awhile on the sofa, and then go to bed an hour earlier than he had been in the habit of doing. In the morning he had no motive for rising with the sun; no effort was therefore made to overcome the heaviness felt on awaking, and he did not rise until the ringing of the breakfast bell. This ** laziness’? of her husband, as Mrs. Parker did not hesitate to call it, annoyed his good wife. She did not find things any easier—she could not In fact, the new order of retire from business. things made her a great deal more trouble. One half of her time, as she alleged, Mr. Parker was under her feet and making her just double work. He had grown vastly particular, too, about his clothes, and very often grumbled about the way came on the table, what she had never his food before known him to do. The hatter’s good lady was not very choice of her words, and when she chose to speak out, generally did so with remark- able plainness of speech. The scheme of retiring from business in the very prime of life she never approved, but as her good man had set his heart on it for years, she did not say much in opposition. Her remark to a neighbor showed her passive mind—** He has earned his ho- state of money nestly, and if he thinks he can enjoy it better in this way, I suppose it is nobody’s business.’? This was just the ground she stood upon. It was a kind of neutral ground, but she was not the woman to suffer its invasion. Just so long as her husband came and went without complaint or in- terference with her, all would be suffered to go on smoothly enough, but if he trespassed upon her old established rights and privileges, he would hear it. **T never saw a meal cooked so badly as this,” Mr. Parker said, knitting his brow one rainy day at the dinner table. He had been confined to the house since morn- ing, and had tried in vain to find some means of passing his time pleasantly. The color flew instantly to his wife’s face. ** Perhaps if you had a better appetite you would ” see no fault in the cooking,” she said, rather tartly. *‘ Perhaps not,’ he replied. ‘*‘ A good appetite helps bad cooking wonderfully.” BE HAPPY. There was nothing in this to soothe his wife’s temper. She retorted instantly. ‘¢ And honest employment alone will give a good appetite. I wonder how you could’ expect to relish your food after lounging about doing nothing all I°ll be bound that if you had been in your shop ironing hats or waiting on your cus- the morning. tomers since breakfast time, there would have been no complaint about the dinner.” Mr. aback. speaking out plainly ‘* with a vengeance.”’ This was Since Parker was taken all his retirement from business his self-estimation had arisen very high compared with what it had pre- viously been: he was, of course, more easily of- fended. To leave the dinner table was the first impulse of offended dignity. So broad a rupture as this had not occurred be- tween the husband and wife since the day of their marriage—not that causes equally potent had not existed, for Mrs. Parker, when anything excited her, was not over-choice of her words, and had frequently said more cutting things; but then her husband was not so easily disturbed ;—he had not so high an opinion of himself. It was still raining heavily, but rain could no He went forth and walked aimlessly the streets for an hour, longer keep the latter at home. thinking bitter things against his wife all the while. But this was very unhappy work, and he was glad to seek relief from it by calling in upon a brother craftsman, whose shop happened to be in his way. The hatter was singing at his work as he had used to sing—he never sung at his work now. ‘¢ This is a very dull day,’? was the natural re- mark of Mr. Parker after first salutations were over. ‘““Why, yes, it is a little dull, replied the tradesman, speaking in a tone that said, ** but it didn’t occur to me before.’’ ** How is business now ?°? asked Mr. Parker. *¢ Very brisk ;—I am so busy that, rain or shine, it never seems dull to me.”’ ** You havn’t as many customers in.”? *“No; but then I get a little ahead in my work, and that is something gained. Rain or shine, friend Parker, it’s all the same to me.’? ‘* That is certainly a very comfortable state of mind to be in. I find a rainy day hard to get through.” ‘¢{ don’t think I would be if I were in your place,’ “If I could do no better I would lie down and sleep away the > said the old acquaintance. time.’’ «© And remain awake half the night in return for it. No; that won’t do. To lie half-asleep and half-awake for three or four hours makes one feel miserable.’? The hatter thought this a very strange admission. He did not believe that, if he could afford to live without work, he would find even rainy days hang heavy upon his hands. ‘¢ Why don’t you read ?”’ he said. ** 1 do read all the newspapers—that is, two or

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4 GODEY’s three that I take,’ replied Parker; ‘* but there is not enough in them for a whole day.” ** There are plenty of books.’ ** Books! I never read books; I can’t get in- terested in them. They are too long: it would take me a week to get through even a moderate- sized book. I would rather go back to the shop again. I understand making a hat, but as to books, I never did fancy them much.’? Parker lounged for a couple of hours in the shop of his friend, and then turned his face homeward, feeling very uncomfortable. The dark day was sinking into darker night when he entered his house. There was no light in the passage nor any in the parlor. As he groped his way in, he struck against a chair that was out of place, and hurt himself. The momentary pain caused the fretfulness he felt on finding all dark within to rise into anger. He went back to the kitchen, grumbling sadly, and there gave the cook a sound rating for not having lit the lamps earlier. Mrs. Parker heard all, but said nothing. The cook brought a lamp into the parlor and placed it upon the table with an indignant air; she then flirted off up stairs, and complained to Mrs. Parker that she had never been treated so badly in her life by any person, and notified her that she should leave the moment her week was up; that, anyhow, she had nothing to do with the lamps— lighting them was the chambermaid’s work. It so happened that Mrs. Parker had sent the chambermaid out, and this the cook knew very well; but cook was in a bad humor about some- thing, and didn’t choose to do anything not in the original contract. She was a good domestic, and had lived with Mrs. Parker for some years. She had her humors, as every one has, but these had always been borne with by her mistress. Too many fretting incidents had just occurred, how- ever, and Mrs. Parker’s mind was not so evenly balanced as usual. Nancy’s words and manner provoked her too far, and she replied—*‘ Very well; go in welcome !”? Here was a state of affairs tending in no degree to increase the happiness of the retired tradesman. His wife met him at the supper-table with knit brows and tightly compressed lips. Not a word passed during the meal. After supper Mr. Parker looked around him for some means of passing the time. The newspapers were read through; it still rained heavily without; he could not ask his wife to play « game at back- gammon. ** Oh, dear!’ he sighed, reclining back upon the sofa ; and there he lay for half an hour, feeling as miserable as he had ever felt in his life. At nine o’clock he went to bed, and remained awake for half the night. Much to his satisfaction, when he opened his eyes on the next morning, the sun was shining into his window brightly. He would not be con- fined to the house so closely for another day. A few weeks sufficed to exhaust all of Mr. Par- MAGAZINE AND LADY’S ’ BOOK. ker’s time-killing resources. The newspapers, he complained, did not contain anything of interest now. Having retired on his money, and set up for something of a gentleman, he, after a little while, gave up visiting at the shops of his old fellow- He did not like to be seen on terms of intimacy with working people! Street-walking did very well at first, but he tired of that; it was He would have ridden out and seen the country, but he had tradesmen. going over and over the same ground. never been twice on horseback in his life, and felt rather afraid of his neck. In fact, nothing was left to him but to lounge about the house a greater portion of his time, and grumble at everything ;— this only made matters worse, for Mrs. Parker would not submit to grumbling without a few words back that cut like razors. From a contented man, Mr. Parker became, at the end of six months, a burden to himself. Little things that did not in the least disturb him before, He had lost the quiet, even temper of mind that made life so now fretted him beyond measure. pleasant. A year after he had given up business he met Mr. Steele for the first time since his retirement from the shop. ** Well, my old friend,” said that gentleman to him, familiarly, ** how is it with you now? I un- derstand you have retired from business.” ** Oh, yes; a year since.” I only heard of it a few weeks ago. Well, do you ** So long? I have been absent from the city. find doing nothing any easier than manufacturing good hats and serving the community like an honest man, as you did for years? What is your expe- rience worth ?”” ** I don’t know that it is worth anything, except to myself, and it is doubtful whether it isn’t too late for even me to profit by it.” ** How so, my friend? Isn’t living on your money so pleasant a way of getting through the world as you had supposed it would be ?”” **] presume there cannot be a pleasanter way ; but we are so constituted that we are never happy in any position.’’ ‘* Perhaps not positively happy, but we may be content.’’ ** J doubt it.*? ** You were once contented.”’ ‘*] beg your pardon; if I had been I would have remained in business.”’ ‘* And been a much more contented man than you are now.”’ **]T am not sure of that.’ *<T am, then. Why, Parker, when I met you last you had a cheerful air about you. Whenever I came into your shop I found you singing as cheerfully as a bird. But now you do not even smile; your brows have fallen half an inch lower In fact, the whole expres- I will lay a wager than they were then. sion of your face has changed. that you have grown captious, fretful, and disposed to take trouble on interest. Everything about you

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A WAY TO declares this. A year has changed you for the worse and me for better.’ ** How you for the better, Mr. Steele !*? ** T have gone into business.”’ ‘You have! I hope no misfortune has over- taken you ?”? ** T have lost more than half my property, but I trust this will not prove in the end a misfortune.”’ ** Really, Mr. Steele, I am pained to hear that reverses have driven you to the necessity of going into business.”’ ** While I am more than half-inclined to say that I am glad of it. I led for years a useless life, most of the time a burden to myself. I was a drone in the social hive; I added nothing to the common stuck; I was of no use to any one. But now my labors not only benefit myself, but the community at large. My mind is interested all the day; I no longer feel listlessness ; the time never hangs heavy upon my hands. I have, as a German writer has said, ‘ fire-proof perennial enjoyments, called employments.’ ” ** You speak warmly, Mr. Steele.” ** It is because I feel warmly on this subject. Long before a large failure in the city deprived me of at least half of my fortune, I saw clearly enough that there was but one way to find happiness in this life, and that was to engage diligently in some useful employment, from right ends. I shut my eyes to this conviction over and over again, and acted in accordance with it only when necessity compelled me to do so. I should have found much more pleasure in the pursuit of business had I acted from the higher motive of use to my fel- lows which was presented so clearly to my mind, than I do now, having entered its walks from some- thing like compulsion.”? **And you really think yourself happier than you were before, Mr. Steele ?”? ** | know it, friend Parker.”? ** And you think I would be happier than I am now if I were to open my shop again ?”’ **I do, much happier. Don’t you think the same ?”? **T hardly knew what to think. now is not very satisfactory. I cannot find enough The way I live to keep my mind employed.” ** And never will, except in some useful busi- ness, depend upon it. So take my advice, and re-open your shop before you are compelled to do it.?? ** Why do you think I will be compelled to do at 799 ** Because it is very strongly impressed upon my mind that the laws of Divine Providence are so arranged, that every man’s ability to serve the general good is brought into activity in some way or other, no matter how selfish he may be, nor how much he may seek to withdraw himself from the common uses of society. Misfortunes are some of the means by which many persons are compelled to become usefully employed. Poverty is another means.”? 1* BE HAPPY. 5 ‘* Then you think if I do not go into business again I am in danger of losing my property ?”? *¢T should think you were ;—but I may be mis- Man can never foresee what will be the If you should ever re- taken. operations of Providence. commence business, however, it ought not to be You should act from a higher and better motive. You should reflect that it is every man’s duty to engage in some business or calling from this fear. by which the whole community will be benefited, and, for this reason, and this alone, resolve that while you have the ability you will be a working bee and not a drone in the hive. It is not only wrong, but a disgrace for any man to be idle when there is so much to do.”’ Mr. Parker was surprised to hear his old cus- tomer talk in this way: but surprise was not his only feeling—he was deeply impressed with the truth of what he had said. **I believe, after all, that you are right and I am wrong. Certainly, there is no disguising the fact that my life has become a real burden to me, and that business would be far preferable to a state of idleness.”’ This admission seemed made with some reluct- ance. It was the firet time he had confessed, even to himself, that he had committed an error in giving up his shop. The effect of what Mr. Steele had said was a resolution, after debating the pros and cons for nearly a month, to re-commence business; but before this could take place the kind of busi- ness must be determined. Since Mr. Parker had ceased to be a hatter and set up for a gentleman of fortune, his ideas of his own importance had considerably increased. To come back into his old position, therefore, could not be thought of. His wife argued for the shop, but he would not listen to her arguments. His final determination was to become a grocer, and a grocer he became. No doubt he thought it more worthy of his dignity to sell rice, sugar, soap, candles, etc., than hats. Why one should be more honorable or dignified than the other we do not understand. Perhaps there is a difference, but we must leave others to define it—we cannot. A grocer Mr. Parker became instead of a hatter. Of the former business he was entirely ignorant, of the But he would be a grocer—a merchant. He commenced in the retail line, with the determination, after he got pretty well acquainted with the business, to be- fuiter he was perfect master. come a wholesale dealer. That idea pleased his fancy. For two years he kept a retail grocery store and then sold out, glad to get rid of it. The loss was about one-third of all he was worth. To make things worse there was a great depression in trade, and real estate fell almost one-half in value. In consequence of this, Mr. Parker’s in- come from rents, after being forced to sacrifice a very handsome piece of property to make up the deficit that was called for in winding up his grocery business, did not give him sufficient to meet his current family expenses.

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6 GODEY’S There was now no alternative left. The retired hatter was glad to open a shop once more, and Mr. Steele saw his announcement that he had resumed busi- look out for some of his old customers. ness at his old stand, and asked for a share of public patronage. About two weeks after the shop was re-opened, that gentleman called in and or- dered a hat. As he came to the door and was about reaching his hand out to open it, he heard the hatter’s voice singing an old familiar air. A smile was on the face of Mr. Steele as he entered. ** All right again!*? he said, coming up to the counter and reaching out his hand. “ Singing at MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. your work as of old! This is better than playing the gentleman, or even keeping a grocery store.’ ‘¢ Oh, yes, a thousand times better,” the hatter replied, warmly. *‘ Performing your true use to the community **] am now in my right place.”’ and happy in doing so.”? **T shall be happier, I am sure. already. My hat-blocks and irons, and, indeed, everything around me, look like familiar friends, and give me a smiling welcome. When health fails or age prevents my working any longer, I will give up my shop, but not a day sooner. I am > I am happier cured of retiring from business.’ OO ee OF Fe THE FIRST FRIEND. (See Plate ) Tue history of Paradise Io Woman’s faith is clear, For happy childhood ever brings The Eden vision near; The vision when the Earth was sway’d By Innocence and Love, That summon’d, with an equal trust, Ihe tiger and the dove. And happy Childhood stil) retains This impress from above— The power to sway by innocence, And conquer strength by love— To bow the hearts of stubborn men, And 'mong the brutes to find A friend that, like the mother’s thought, Is ever true and kind. Nor could the mother’s loving eye More patiently attend, Than did the stately blood-hound watch To guard his little friend: An only and a cherished child W as pretty Ellen Gray, And fairer than the fairest flowers She gathered on her way. But she has wandered fast and far, Till, by the heat oppress’d, The faithful hound, reclining, seems To beg the child to rest: Her arm she twines around his neck, Confiding in his care ; She does not hear the thunder growl, Nor see the lightning glare. Her thoughts, like birds at eve, have flown To nestle in her home; There, at the door, her mother stands, And beckons her to come ; And she will tell that mother dear How she and Fido played, And how, along the river’s bank, With her “ First Friend” she strayed. Ah! when a few more summers o’er, The gentle child will reign, A maiden in her conquering charms, With lovers in her train ; Then may she find a heart as true As Fido’s to attend And guard her through life’s pilgrimage, Faithful as this “ First Friend.” $8 S&S DOD C0 IDEAL STANDARDS. BY MRS. E. OAKES SMITH, Lo! the pale artist in his chamber bends With pallid brow, and wrapt and burning eye Intently fixed upon a vision nigh— A shape of heaven-born grace, which, beckoning, blends Into the azure space, and onward wends, With wavy hand held back. It flitteth by Intangible, with look serene and high, That half bemoans the mockery it lends In shapeful loveliness it will not stay, But takes a fairer, still a higher grace, As nearer and more near the form appears; Vainly may pencil, pen or thrilling lay, The soul’s ideal semblance hope to trace— It mocks our upward reach and smiles amid our tears.

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A TRIP ON AN ENGLISH RAILROAD. BY THEO. LEDYARD CUYLER. An English railway is the perfection of traveling. Other modes have, indeed, their peculiar advan- tages. Thus, to a pvetical tourist or a gentleman lounger, there is nothing like an ‘‘ outside’? on the coach, where he can reconnoiter fine prospects, and listen to the gossip of the coachman about Lord Such-a-one or Sir Somebody Something who lives in the great stone castle to the right. The true jockey prefers ‘‘ the mail,’ with its fiery steeds and guard in flaming coat, winding a long blast from his bugle as the ‘‘ turn out’? rolls into some little market town and brings everybody in gaping ad- miration to the windows. But the true delight of jockeys has passed away. The genuine “‘coachey” is well-nigh extinct since the introduction of rail- ways between the principal places. A French diligence is a pleasant and ludicrous novelty for half a day, but no nerves or patience could endure it longer; and to the man who enjoys drowsiness and a meerschaum, there is nothing like a Dutch Treckshuit. 'To the young collegian during vaca- tion, who has a particularly agreeable companion to Niagara, I would recommend the Erie canal packets, where they can have quite a promenade and confidential téte-d-téte between the different warning cries, ‘‘ Bridge! bridge! very low bridge!” For a confirmed dyspepsia, the only specific is a stage-coach ride over a corduroy road on the Wa- bash ‘‘ reservation.’? Now, all these modes of conveyance have their undisputed advantages, but the ne plus ultra of speed, safety and comfort, is an English railway. Let the reader, if he doubts it, try a short trip with me on one of the finest roads in the kingdom—the ‘**Birmingham and London Railway.”? Once ar- rived within the capacious station-house and the fare paid, we have no farther care for the rest of the journey. A porter in the uniform of the com- pany comes up with a tip of his cap and very po- litely inquires your destination, and then takes charge of your luggage, to be delivered when you leave the road. He has a number on his collar, so that if he treats you with the slightest incivility or ventures to ask a fee, you can report him to one of the superintendents within, and he is discharged. These porters are paid by the company, and I al- ways found them extremely civil and obliging. Which class will you take? Those bright, ver- milion painted cars, farthest from the engine, are the ‘‘ first class.” They are carpeted and cushion- ed, separated into small apartments, hung with silk curtains, and there are, besides, most luxurious rests for the elbows and pillows for supporting the head. The fare to London in these cars (one hun- dred miles or little more) is about six dollars, which is double the usual rates in our own country. If you feel the smallest anxiety about your reputation for gentility, I would advise you by all means to take the first class, for no man whose rank in so- ciety is not fixed dare take any other. A nobleman may go in the ‘‘ stand ups” along with the colliers and cotton-spinners if he likes. I have noticed, by the way, that our countrymen here generally go in the first class and stop at the most expensive hotels—for Brother Jonathan is equaled by no man under the sun in his untiring anxiety to make money, or his bountiful liberality in spending it when he has got it. Next in front are the ‘‘second class,” very comfortable conveyances, covered above and open at the sides. Here are the ‘‘ honest yeo- manry,’? the farmers, the tradesmen, the par- sons of forty pounds a year, and the ‘‘ commercial travelers,” who go up and down the kingdom making collections for the mercantile houses. This is the place for true sociability; here everybody talks to everybody else, as in a Yankee stage- coach. Further on, close to the smoking loco- motive, are the ‘‘ stand ups,’ rude pens without seats or covering. A tatterdemalion regiment of laborers, ditchers, colliers, factory operatives, poor women and screaming children, all shouting, swearing and crowding, are pouring into them and stowing themselves away as thick as they can stand. England has within her borders a few mil- lions of such characters—the great subterranean mass of molten lava which ever and anon makes the mountain of her strength tremble with its tumultuous heavings. The time is up, and English coachmen and rail- way conductors ‘‘ wait for no man.”? There is a white signal flying far ahead on the track, and the engine is off at once at its highest speed. These signals are hung out at every mile or two on the principal railways to insure perfect safety. A green flag means caution, ared flag great danger, and a white flag means all right, or, as we Yankees say, goahead! ‘This is only one of the many precau- tions which render English railway traveling the swiftest and safest in the world. ‘To guard against the danger of running off, the roads are perfectly straight, or as near as can be. If a hill stands in the way they tunnel through it. On the Leeds and Manchester road there are nine tunnels in forty miles, and one of them is two miles long! Lamps are burning constantly in the first class cars for the convenience of the passengers during their subter- ranean excursions. The tracks, too, are always double, as you see here, which obviates any dan- 7

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8 GODEY’s ger of collision, or what is almost as bad to an American, of Instead of permitting wagons and carriages to trundle over the rails, as detention. we do, at every crossing, the highways are all arried over the railroads on stone arches. Before we reach London we will have passed under more han a hundred of these arches, all of them finished with the most beautiful masonry. ‘To complete the precautions, the roads are fenced in, and no wwimals of any kind are permitted within the en- sure; if any biped is found there he is fined ten dollars! With such capital arrangements it is much easier for the locomotive to stay on the track than to get off, and there is no obstruction to the highest speed. If you will look at your ‘‘ patent lever”? now, you will find we are flying at the rate ‘This is not f a mile in one minute and a half! uncommon traveling here, and I see it stated that Prince Albert is frequently transported ‘‘ to town”? mn the Great Western Railway at the rate of a mile er minute! This affords but small opportunity to siudy the beauties of English landscapes. parks, groves and cottages whirl by in undistin- ruished confusion. Look at that man ploughing ut the foot of the high embankment over which we Houses, ire whirling like a meteor through the heavens: vefore he will have reached the other side of the tield we will be at Coventry, five miles ahead! Hark! there is something coming—a whizz! a erash! a momentary darkening of the windows, ind it is gone. ‘That was the train from London, and before we are recovered from our surprise they ire out of sight again. Presently the engine checks its speed, and we enter another depot, large enough for a western barbecue. A guard in crimson coat walks down the line and informs all the passengers that this is he ‘‘Coventry station,” where we will stop ten Who has not heard of Coventry ? and of ‘Peeping Tom,” and that hopeful regiment of John Falstaff, who ‘‘ marched as if they had gyves m.?? From the depot nothing of the town can be seen but the smoking tops of houses. When I passed over this road last I stopped here and took 1 coach for Warwick and Kenilworth, which lie ibout a dozen miles distant, and a trifle beyond is minutes, Stratford-on-Avon. Warwick is in glorious pre- servation, and is the finest castle by all odds in the kingdom; Kenilworth is an ivied ruin, and Sirat- ford has all that it ever had (or need to have)—the marble slab under which sleeps William Shak- speare. If we have no time to see the town, we can at least refresh ourselves by a stroll about the On the other side of the building is another Behind the cars for depot. train just up from London. passengers are a number of tracks on which are placed the private carriages of the gentry who are ust leaving town for the country at the close of ‘the season,’ and prefer the privacy of their own conveyances to the crowded cars. ‘This is a new uxury, unknown to their stupid ancestors. ‘To sit in their own carriages and cut the leaves of the last ‘* Blackwood” or new romance, while they J MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK ~— are rolled over the country at the rate of forty miles an hour, was reserved for this nineteenth century. That plain-looking gentleman of about forty-five who just left his carriage and is walking towards the coffee-room, is Lord Lenox, the eldest son and future heir of the Duke of Richmond. Like most of the nobility he dresses with the utmost plain- ness, hardly above the substantial Yankee ‘‘squire’’ in his Sunday best. The valet here is always more showily dressed than his master. At the farther end of the line a knot of gentlemen are casting sidelong glances into a carriage which has on its panel the well-known crest of the Duke of Suther- land. He is the richest man, and what is more, his wife is the most elegant woman, in the king- dom. She was for a long time ‘‘ mistress of the robes” to Her Majesty, and is beyond question a most magnificent woman. She is not tall, but her figure is exceedingly fine, and she has a bearing worthy of a queen. Her complexion is beautiful even for England. Rich brown hair and a brilliant eye are all that are wanting to complete the por- trait of true beauty, and these have been given her in their full perfection. ‘The Duchess is one of a remarkable family—the Howards. Her father is the old Earl of Carlisle; one of her brothers is the talented Lord Morpeth, popular on both sides of the water; and a sister, the late Countess of Bur- lington, was one of the most beautiful and accom- plished women of her time. But we have no time to stand gazing at ‘‘the lairds.”? ‘The train is off, but not until we have had a chance to buy a bunch or two of grapes from a poor soldier, who wears the medal of Waterloo on his breast, and supports himself by selling fruit to the passengers. We have received at this sta- tion a pleasant addition to our company in the per- sons of a rosy old gentleman, the very impersona- tion of John Bull, with his equally capacious wife and two stout children, who, with ourself, fill up the whole apartment. He is some rich ‘old square-toes”’ going up to town to place that awk- ward lad at Eton; and the flaxen-haired, modest blonde by her mother’s side, who looks like a child suddenly expanded to the dimensions of a woman, is for some finishing school in the West End. The boy would be full five feet eight without those huge thick-soled shoes he has on, and would look like a man but for his nursery-looking jacket, covered all over with gilt buttons, and his younkerish air. In America a lad of that size would have a swal- low-tail coat, a cigar in his mouth, a bundle of papers in his pocket, and be talking largely about ‘‘the spring business” and the tariff. ‘There is nothing more surprising to a stranger visiting our country than the multitude of little men. Boys who in England would yet be at ‘‘ Viri Rome” and Sallust, are with us ‘‘ overhead and ears’ in their offices and counting-rooms—which is all on the same principle we have of beginning early, rushing forward rapidly, and dying sooner by many years than our phlegmatic brethren across the water.

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SONNET.—TO BALTIMORE. 9 Perhaps if you approach this old gentleman adroitly, he may tell us a great deal about our rout and the places through which we are pass- ing. Tell him at once that you are an American on a tour of observation, so that he may not be afraid of compromising his standing by talking to a countryman whom he does not know. If you want to gain his full confidence, pat him a little by eulogizing the road, the scenery, and English com- fort in traveling, and don’t thrust your ‘‘ demo- cracy’’ too often into his face: by this mode of ———~ treatment you will probably find him (as I have always found his countrymen in such circum- stances) an agreeable, gentlemanly and instructive companion. I would like to repeat some of our delightful conversation with the old gentleman, who tells us that he has spent much of his life in India, but the cloud of smoke that hangs before us in the air warns us that we are approaching the great me- tropolis, and I must close my long, rambling letter. Thine, ever. we OOS Ce — SONNET. BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. “T have quaffed Life from the lips of beauty, and shall I, W ho’ve banqueted like a god, be now content W ith meager fare, or trust to mortal drugs, And run, a common idler, through the world, With not a heart to own me?” Ay, thou art powerful in beauty’s might, Instinctive sweetness and divine repose, Pliant to win, unyielding for the right, Armed with all spells luxuriant nature knows; Yet, my fair queen, as in all human skill, There is a limit to thy regal sway, J can exult o’er thy majestic will, And smile thy pride triumphantly away ; Yes, even I, so humble, am thy peer, Matchless in heart as thou in conscious grace, As strong, by virtue of a face sincere As thou in noble form and ange! face ; Others a whim may fetter or release, But I will love in spite of my caprice. Beauty in shapes more brilliant, rich and wild, Has thrilled me with a sorrowful delight— I grew bewildered like a wondering child, As if made happy in my own despite: But thy ingenious charms, like mountain air, With calm enjoyment all my senses fill— When near, I seem thy very life to share, SONNET.—TO BY J. N. M, Farr City of blue Chesapeake, That heav’st thy monumental pile So proud in air—with aspect meek And mild of Freedom’s son—the while I linger here I seem to hear Thy brooks and leafland’s minstrelsy Breathe out the majesty of thought. And here Barry CoRnwALt. And absent, revel on thy memory still! Ah! passion is not blind, when with it glows Mind, heart and confidence serene and deep, When sympathy dissolves all custom’s snows, And with mild touch invades love’s fevered sleep; hen nature’s highest mandate we obey, And our whole being vibrates to its sway. Lurked there no stars behind each shifting cloud, The pearly skies would be but what they seem— Wert thou with lesser qualities endowed, I could more easily renounce my dream; But having seen the veil drawn half aside, That from the world thy noble heart conceals— And passed within the battlements of pride To know as truth what love’s own dream reveals— And momently thy glorious being felt Mingle with mine spontaneous and bold, As if their very elements would melt, And heaven’s own blessedness at once unfold— Can I to meaner objects stoop the wing In quest of what thy love alone can bring? 3ALTIMORE. HARDING. I'd pause, ’neath twilight’s canopy. 7% To pay my feeble, votive rhyme To—neither hill nor spire nor dome ;— ’ They'll proudly woo the eye of Time: ) I ) 3 Far floating down his stream will come The wrecks of many a wonder gone; Rest to thy maidens—though I name but one.

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THE ** Goop even, fair Edith;—just glance from the page which for these ten minutes has absorbed all your faculties, and give a word of welcome to your friend,’? was the gay salutation of Marina Sand- ford as she entered the parlor of her cousin, Edith Morton, whom she found sitting in an arm-chair, one hand supporting her head, the other grasping the Lady’s Book, in which she was so engaged that the somewhat noisy entrance of Marina and her prolonged gaze of ten minutes were unheeded. ** Your pardon, dear Marina; your visits are ever welcome. This interesting tale must be my ex- cuse for not seeing you. It has, indeed, been a skillful magnetizer, and I a willing subject. Have you read it ?”? **“No; I do not read love stories. I really thought you had too much sense to throw away vour time on such stuff—not only your time, but for the while yourself. I think for your own benefit you might as well have been in a magnetic sleep. If there be any truth in that would-be sci- ence, you then might have benefited others.”’ ** Very good, Miss Marina, What a fine lecturer you would make. scorn beamed from your eye and curled your lip as you exclaimed, ‘ I never read love stories!’ To be serious, how long since you have been so wise ?”’ ** Why, tion, and have learned that Jove and constancy are since I have arrived at years of discre- idle dreams of youth.” ** So you are sure that ‘ constancy lives in realms above,’ and £ love is but an idle flower, that blooms and dies the self-same hour?’ ”’ ** Yes. servation show, affection such as your favorite tales So far as my own experience and ob- portray exists not, save in the imagination. There- fore I think we should not peruse such writings as picture-things that are never realized.” ‘‘ There we agree. It would be worse than folly to spend our precious hours in reading the description of characters, of events that are not ind may never be. Here we differ. You say the stories of the heart which I occasionally read have no counterpart in real life ;—to this conclusion you have irrived by your own observation and expe- rience. Then I must think you have never loved, ind that your observations have been incorrect— at least partial.”? ‘* True, I have never been in love according to your story-telling acceptation of the word, but it would seem you have, or, albeit I am somewhat older, you have looked on things with different eyes from mine. Pray, do you know of all our acquaintance a single case of matrimony all for love, or, what would be stranger still, one of sin- gie-blessedness for the sake of an early love?’ 10 BROKEN What a beautiful expression of PROMISE. ** Yes, my memory is full of such, and had you lifted the veil that shrouds the thoughts of even some of your friends from the prying world, you would have said with Willis— ‘Oh, if there is one law above the rest Written in wisdom — If there is anything that keeps the mind Open to angels’ visits, and repels The ministry of ills, tis human love!’ Our good and noble Uncle Geoffrey—did it ever occur to you why he was an old bachelor ?”’ “Uncle Geoffrey? You surely do not mean to say that he has been a votary of celibacy all for love ?”? ** Most sure I do, my incredulous coz. You will yet learn by your own experience, or put me down for a false prophetess, that true affection is not romance, but reality.’? **May your prophecy prove true if you can prove to me, by any of your tales of observation, that the love of your story-tellers finds an abode on this earth among the bipeds called men and women, But first, Uncle Geoffrey’s history—that could not have been one of your observations, for, from his age, it must have happened prior to your birth.’? **1 did not witness it, but my knowledge of the circumstances is the result of my observations. I had long noticed the readiness with which Uncle G. reads the tales you stigmatize as stuff; that he is as deeply absorbed as I was when you found me. After the perusal of some, he would throw his head back in his great chair, while an expres- sion of sad abstractedness would pass over his countenance, as if he was looking back to other times; a heavy sigh would escape him, which would rouse him from his reverie: he then would arise and go forth, whistling or humming some These little things at- On one of my visits to Aunt lively air, to his business, tracted my curiosity. Maria, I, much to her surprise, inquired if Uncle G. had not in his youth been the hero of some little romance. She then gave me the history I’ll now relate, if you are not tired by this long pre- face.” ** Pray, proceed; I am all patience and atten- tion.”? ** That large, old-fashioned brick house oppo- site Aunt M. Denton, his wife, a son and daughter. Susan Den- was formerly the residence of Dr. ton was the companion and schoolmate of Aunt Maria. While at school a youthful attachment sprang up between Susan and David Haughton, a bright, handsome lad from a neighboring town. He was a wild, reckless fellow, ever ready for sport, and where danger might be found, the first

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THE to meet it was David H. Ever ready was he to rescue the girls and save the weak and the fearful from the reproofs of the teacher. Susan was amiable and intelligent, yet, timid beyond her mates, so more often called for the youth’s protec- tion. She was generally loved, yet some of the older ones might be occasionally heard to say, ‘ What a pity Susan Denton hasn’t a little more firmness and decision of character;? and many a fear was ex- pressed (it might afterward seem prophetic) that her want of fixedness of purpose would be her ruin. At the age of fifteen she and Aunt Maria, with a few other young ladies, left the academy and attended a select school, where they learned music, drawing, and some other et ceteras of polite learning. There ceased all communication be- tween Susan and David H. He went to his home, and rumor reported him a son of dissipation. ‘¢ At eighteen Susan was a charming girl, and attracted many suitors, among them our own Uncle Geoffrey, then just returned home after six years absence. He we may well suppose was handsome beyond his companions—for where now do we see a finer-looking man than Geoffrey Morton? He was much loved by her parents—much they wished to see him the husband of their beloved daughter. Their wishes were vain: for once was she decided in her opinion, and she rejected him. It would seem his whole heart had not bowed to the shrine of love, for, engaged in business, he appeared little to mind the rejection. ** About this time David Haughton returned to the village, again met with his old companions, and soon selected his former favorite, Susan Den- ton, from among the youthful maidens, as the su- preme object of his attentions. His early promise of beauty was well fulfilled, and there was some- thing peculiarly fascinating in his manners that was well calculated to please the heart of one al- ready prejudiced in his favor by the remembrance of youthful kindness. They separated acknow- They had not Could they expect he would cheerfully bestow his daugh- ledged lovers, though not affianced. dared to ask the approval of Dr. Denton. ter on a gambler, however much her wayward heart might feel? ** Months passed. Mrs. Denton fell sick—ah, very sick. She was ardently loved by her husband and children. Day by day and night after night found them anxious watchers by the couch of the sufferer. In vain were all their efforts for her recovery; her hour of departure arrived. Then it would seem the spirit and strength of health came upon her as she summoned her family and friends to receive her last farewell. None present will ever forget the affectionate words she bestowed on all, nor the courage that sustained her as she bade adieu to all her early friends, her husband and her children. Her voice faltered not till she turned to address the weeping Susan, who knelt beside her bed. She placed her wan and withered hand upon the head of that loved one, and all a mother’s heart gushed forth—‘ Heaven bless thee, beloved one. BROKEN PROMISE. 11 My husband I leave with the full assurance of our soon being reunited I have felt no pang like this. where the ‘ weary are at rest... To James I bade farewell, with the consciousness that he will act well his part in life and be ready for a heavenly inheritance. But you, my daughter, how can I leave you to the guidance of your own wayward spirit? Would that you had given your heart to Geotirey Morton: he would cherish you and lead Now I tremble for my child. Yet Heaven’s will be done. you aright. But one request—remem- ber, *tis your dying mother asks it; and would you see her die in peace, promise, my daughter, that you never more will see David Haughton; that if again the noble Geoffrey Morton should woo you for his wife, you will be his.’ ** She raised her dying head from off the pillow and bent her piercing gaze upon that fair girl who knelt beside her, whose pale face was hid beneath her hand; yet you could see by their convulsive grasp how great was the struggle within. She raised her head; her cheek was deadly pale; her lip quivered as she, in low but distinct voice, ut- tered, ‘My mother, be happy—I promise; I will obey your last request.’ ** Had you but seen the flush of joy that spread across that dying mother’s brow, you would have said that bliss was cheaply purchased. That hour she died. ** The rumor of that death-bed scene, that last request and Susan’s promise, soon reached the ear of Uncle Geoffrey. His heart was touched with pity for her grief; he strove to allay it by every By de- grees she learned to look to him as to a friend, for means his generous heart could devise. never by a hint did he recur to that last request of her dying mother. Though now he felt that he loved most deeply, that in soothing her afilictions he had made it become his happiness to minister to hers. At length her father died. Her brother was away. Who but Geoffrey Morton stood ready now to comfort the desolate orphan? Very grate- ful, too, was she for his kind sympathy. He dared to whisper love and hope for its return. He was accepted! Blithe and happy were the hearts of their young friends when their engagement was announced. None seemed happier than the fair girl herself, for all remembrance of her former love seemed to have been buried in her mother’s grave. ** Preparations were making throughout the vil- lage for the bridal festivities. As Susan Denton, the daughter of their most loved and lamented physician, was to unite her fate with one of their most wealthy, noble and handsome youths, each one determined to outvie the other in their contri- butions to the general hilarity. The morning of the wedding-day arrived. Uncle Geoflrey received a note stating that his intended bride had that morn been married to another, and that other Da- vid Haughton! ** It seemed that for some days past he had been secreted in the village, and had frequently visited Susan D, at the hours he knew that Uncle G. would

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE not be there, and by exciting her pity for his mis- fortune in being forever deprived of his first and only love, beseeching for the little pleasure of seeing her an hour each day till she should be for- ever another’s, when he could no more see her, that she was induced to forget her promise to her dying mother. Having committed one error, she proceeded to another, concealing his visits from him to whom she had promised her heart and hand. Having obtained thus easy his first wish, *twas easy to persuade her that her mother’s last re- quest was most unjust, that a promise made under such circumstances could not be binding; also, that his character had so changed, that were her parents now alive their consent would readily be given to her union with her first love. He also had the hardihood to affirm that the love of the noble, generous Geoffrey Morton was weak in comparison with his; that he had meanly won her consent by her remembrance of her dying mother’s last request. His specious words too well suc- ceeded. She married him, and they removed to the far west, where they now live in misery and woe, he a miserable drunkard and gambler, she deprived of the comforts, at times of the neces- saries of life for herself and little ones—he, the heartless man, even reproaching her for breaking her last promise to her dying mother. Sure some crimes receive their punishment even in this life! ** Wonder not if the head of Uncle Geoffrey reeled at the unlooked-for termination of the day erro ® jirst love. AND LADY’S BOOK.

which promised so much happiness. He had given all his heart to one unworthy of it, who had thrown it back wounded and almost broken. His friends with their kind sympathy crowded around him. Their sympathy he could not brook ; he hastened from them and wandered away alone. His former gay and happy spirit had departed. He left his business, his friends and home, and journeyed hither and thither, examining the beautiful works of nature and art. He returned a sadder yet a happier man. As we see him now, Years passed. attentive to his business, devoted to his aged mo- ther, kind ready to alleviate the wants of those around him, and affectionate to his friends, ever yet the remembrance of his heart’s trial is ever with him—has ever prevented his bowing at another shrine ! ** That is the tale she told me. What says my cousin—have you now any faith in human love ?”’ ** There truly seemed more reality than romance in Uncle Geoffrey’s attachment, or he would not But all are not like him.”’ *< True ; yet there are hearts as constant to their now be a bachelor. Enough for the present: it always pains think there could be a woman like Susan Another time I may relate some of my me to Denton. own observations.’ ** You will find your cousin a ready listener, and she in the meanwhile will use her optics more cautiously, and see if she can make some dis- coveries.”’ E. 8S. D.

THE ORPHAN BOY’S SOLILOQUY. (FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.) BY AUSTIN T. EARL Wry stand I brooding thus o’er what has been, Or linger ’mong those scenes that must recall Each happy day and hour that [ have seen, And spent with joy among those groves so tall, Where often I, to find the nuts that fall, Would come, and then, with boyish pride, woald climb The huge old trunks, and next the limbs so small They scarce would bear my weight, and ofientime Would bend full low, while I was list’ning to the chime Of birds and brooks and merry tinkling bells, And squirrels feeding where the nuts had grown, And bleat of sheep, then wandering through the dells, And all the thrilling music— Nature’s own— And felt not then, as now I am, alone? The ties that once could bind me here are broke; The joys that oft among those scenes I’ve known Have fled; stern Fate my future doom hath spoke, And I from all my pleasant dreams at last have woke. All poor and lone and friendless as I stand, The wide world lies before me now, for me To choose my future course. A distant land Shall be my home, and strangers, too, shal! be My friends. Henceforth I am too proud and free To crave one favor from the hands of those That once I called my friends—but who must be As strangers that I have not seen, or foes I would forgive, and e’en forget, and thus would close Beneath Oblivion’s veil, the past, as doth The actors of the drama when their play is done And yet, to part with all I am full loth; For ’mong my childhood’s friends there still is one To whom my heart doth cling—for still that one Hath ever been my friend in poverty and woe. To her my heart doth fondly turn—her son Can ne’er forget that she hath shared his woe— Nor I forget that he to her his birth doth owe. The past is but a troubled dream—a strange And wayward one, that long will haunt me yet In waking thought and midnight sleep, and change Into a thousand forms I would forget. But see! ‘tis night; the sun long since hath set; The moon smiles on me now as she was wont, In childhood’s happy days, to do, ere yet I felt her love; and thou, my well-loved haunt, Art dark and gloomy now—thy birds have hushed their chaunt.

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THE LITERATI OF OPINIONS AT RANDOM SIONAL SOME HONEST BY EDGAR A. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. Tue name of Halleck is at least as well estab- lished in the poetical world as that of any Ameri- can. Our principal poets are, perhaps, most fre- quently named in this order—Bryant, Halleck, Dana, Sprague, Longfellow, Willis, and so on— Halleck coming second in the series, but holding, in fact, a rank in the public opinion quite equal to that of Bryant. as above made may, indeed, be questioned. The accuracy of the arrangement For my own part, I should have it thus—Longfellow, Bryant, Halleck, W illis, rather the poems actually accomplished, there are three or and, the Sprague, Dana; estimating poetic capacity than four comparatively unknown writers whom | would place in the series between Bryant and Halleck, while there are about a dozen whom I should as- sign a position between Willis and Sprague. Two dozen at least might find room between Sprague and Dana—this latter, I fear, owing a very large portion of his reputation to his quondam editorial connection with ** The North American Review.” One or two poets now in my minds eye I should have no hesitation in posting above even Mr. Long- fellow—still not intending this as very extravagant praise. It is noticeable, however, that, in the arrange- | ment which I attribute to the popular understond- ing, the order observed is nearly, if not exactly, that of the ages—the poetic ages—of the individual poets. Those rank first who were first known. The priority has established the strength of impres- sion. Nor is this result to be accounted for by mere reference to the old saw—that first impres- sions are the strongest. Gratitude, surprise, and a species of hyper-patriotic triumph have been blended, and finally confounded with admiration or appreciation in regard to the pioneers of Ameri- can literature, among whom there is not one whose productions have not been grossly overrated by Hitherto mood to view with calmness and discuss with dis- his countrymen. we have been in no crimination the real claims of the few who were first in convincing the mother country that her sons were not all brainless, as at one period she half affected and wholly wished to believe. Is there any one so blind as not to see that Mr. Cooper, for example, owes much, and Mr. Pauld- ing nearly all, of his reputation as a novelist to Is there any his early occupation of the field? VOL, XXXIII.—2 NEW RESPECTING WORDS OF YORK CITY.—NO. III. THEIR AUTORIAL PERSONALITY. MERITS, WITH OCCA- POE. one so dull as not to know that fictions which neither of these gentlemen could have written are written daily by native authors, without attracting much more of commendation than can be included in a newspaper paragraph? And, again, is there any one so prejudiced as not to acknowledge that all this happens because there is no longer either reason or wit in the query, ‘* Who reads an Ame- rican book ?°? I mean to say, of course, that Mr. Halleck, in the apparent public estimate, maintains a somewhat better position than that to which, on absolute grounds, he is entitled. There is something, too, in the bonhommie of certain of his compositions— something altogether distinct from poetic merit— which has aided to establish him; and much, also, must be admitted on the score of his personal With all still be found a large amount of poetical fame to which he popularity, which is deservedly great. these allowances, however, there will is fairly entitled. He has written very little, although he began at His ‘<juvenile’? works, however, have been kept very Attention first called to him by his satires signed ** Croaker’’ & Co.,’? published in “‘ The New York Evening Post,’’ in 1819, with the signature ‘‘Croaker § Co.? were the joint an early age—when quite a boy, indeed. judiciously from the public eye. was and ** Croaker Of these the pieces work of Halleck and his friend Drake. The politi- cal and personal features of these jeur d’esprit gave them a consequence and a notoriety to which they no other without a species of drollery, but are loosely and are entitled on account. They are not no doubt carelessly written. Neither was ‘* Fanny,’’ which closely followed the ‘* Croakers,’’ constructed with any great de- liberation. ‘* It was printed,’? say the ordinary memoirs, ** within three weeks from its com- mencement;”? but the truth is, that a couple of days would have been an ample allowance of time for any such composition. If we except a certain gentlemanly ease and insouciance, with some fancy of illustration, there is really very little about this poem to be admired. There has been no positive avowal of its authorship, although there can be no He. I presume, does not esteem it very highly. It is deubt of its having been written by Halleck. a mere extravaganza, in close imitation of ** Don Juan’’—a vehicle for squibs at cotemporary per- sons and things. 13

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE 14 Our poet, indeed, seems to have been much im- pressed by *‘ Don Juan,’’ and attempts to engraft its farcicalities even upon the grace and delicacy of ** Alnwick Castle ;”’ as, for example, in— } “ Men in the coal and cattle line, From Teviot'’s bard and hero land From royal Berwick’s beach of sand From Wooler, Morpeth, Hexham, and Newcastle upon Tyne.” These things may lay claim to oddity, but no more. They are totally out of keeping with the tone of the sweet poem into which they are thus clumsily introduced, and serve no other purpose than to deprive it of all unity of effect. If a poet must be farcical, let him be just that; he can be nothing better at the same moment. To be drolly sentimental, or even sentimentally droll, is intole- rable to men and gods and columns. *¢ Alnwick Castle’? is distinguished, in general, by that air of quiet grace, both in thought and ex- pression, which ia the prevailing feature of the Halleck. Its this muse of second stanza is a good specimen of manner. The commencement of the fourth belongs to a very high order of poetry. * Wild roses by the Abbey towers Are gay in their young bud and bloom— They were born of a race of funera fi vers That garlanded, in long-gone hours A Templar’s knightly tomb.” This is gloriously imaginative, and the effect is singularly increased by the sudden transition from The passage is, I think, Halleck, and | be at a loss to discover its parallel in all American iambuses to anapwsts. the noblest to be found in would poetry. ** Marco any great amount of ideal beauty. Bozzaris’’? has much lyrical, without Force is its prevailing feature—force resulting rather from well- ordered metre, vigorous rhythm, and a judicious disposal of the circumstances of the poem, than from any of the truer lyric material. I should do my conscience great wrong were I to speak of ** Marco Bozzaris”’ as it is the fashion to speak of it, at least in print. Even asa lyric or ode it is surpassed by many American and a multitude of foreign compositions of a similar character. ‘* Burns”? has numerous passages exemplifying its author’s felicity of expression; as, for instance— “Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines— Shrines to no code or creed confined— The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind.” And, again— “There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy’s Purer and holier fires” But to the sentiment involved in this last quatrain I feel disposed to yield an assent more thorough AND LADY’S BOOK. than might be expected. Burns, indeed, was the puppet of circumstance. Asa poet, no person on the face of the earth has been more extravagantly, more absurdly overrated. ‘© The Poet’s Daughter’? is one of the most cha- racteristic works of Halleck, abounding in his most distinctive traits, grace, in- expre ssion, re pose, souciance. The vulgarity of “I'm busy in the cotton trade And sugar line,” has, I rejoice to see, been omitted in the late editions. [he eleventh stanza is certainly not English as it stands, and, besides, is quite unin- telligible. What is the meaning of this— “ But her who asks, though first among The good, the beautiful, the young, The birthright of a spell more strong Than these have brought her.” The “ Lines on the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake”’ is, as a whole, one of the best poems ot its author. Its simplicity and delicacy of senti- ment will recommend it to all readers. It is, however, carelessly written, and the first quatrain, ve thee, lays— None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise,” although beautiful, bears too close a resemblance to the still more beautiful] lines of Wordsworth— “She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to pra se And very few to love.” In versification Mr. Halleck although in this regard Mr. Bryant has paid him nu- is much as usual, merous compliments. ‘* Marco Bozzaris’’ has cer- tainly some vigor of rhythm, but its author, in short, writes carelessly, loosely, and, as a matter of course, seldom effectively, so far as the outworks of literature are concerned. Of late days he has nearly given up the muses, and we recognize his existence as a poet chiefly by occasional translations from the Spanish or German. Personally, he is a man to be admired, respected, but more especially beloved. His address has all the captivating bonhommie which is the leading feature of his poetry, and, indeed, of his whole With friends he is all ardor, enthusiaem and cordiality, but to the world at moral nature. his large he is reserved, shunning society, into which he is seduced only with difficulty and upon rare occasions. The love of solitude seems to have become with him a passion. He is a good modern linguist, and an excellent belles letires scholar; in general, has read a great deal, although very discursively. He is what the world calls «tra in most of his opinions, more particularly about literature and politics, and is

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THE LITERATI OF fond of broaching and supporting paradoxes. He converses fluently, with animation and zeal; is choice and accurate in his language, exceedingly quick at repartee and apt at anecdote. His man- ners are courteous, with dignity and a little tinc- ture of Gallicism. His age is about fifty. In height he is probably five feet seven. He has been stout, but may now be called well-proportioned. His forehead is a noble one, broad, massive and intellectual, a little bald about the temples; eyes dark and brilliant, but not large; nose Grecian ; chin prominent; mouth finely chiseled and full of expression, although the lips are thin ;—his smile is peculiarly sweet. In ‘‘ Graham’s Magazine’? for September, 1843, there appeared an engraving of Mr. Halleck from a painting by Inman. The likeness conveys a good general idea of the man, but is far too stout and youthful-looking for his appearance at present. His usual pursuits have been commercial, but he is now the principal superintendent of the busi- ness of Mr. John Jacob Astor. He is unmarried. ANN S. STEPHENS. Mrs. Stephens has made no collection of her works, but has written much for the magazines, and well. Her compositions have been brief tales with occasional poems. She made her first ‘ sen- sation” in obtaining a premium of four hundred dollars, offered for ‘*the best prose story’? by some one of our journals, her ** Mary Derwent”? proving the successful article. The amount of the prize, however—a much larger one than it has been the custom to offer—had more to do with the éclat of the success than had the positive merit of the tale, although this is very considerable. She has subsequently written several better things— ‘‘Malina Gray,” for example, ‘*Alice Copley,” and ““The Two Dukes.*? These are on serious subjects. In comic ones she has comparatively failed. She is fond of the bold, striking, trenchant—in a word, of the melo-dramatic ; has a quick appreciation of the picturesque, and is not unskillful in delineations of character. She seizes adroitly on salient inci- dents and presents them with vividness to the eye, but in their combinations or adaptations she is by no means so thoroughly at home—that is to say, her plots are not so good as are their individual items. Her style is what the critics usually term ** powerful,’? but lacks real power through its ver- boseness and floridity. It is, in fact, generally turgid—even bombastic—involved, needlessly pa- renthetical, and superabundant in epithets, al- though these latter are frequently well chosen. Her sentences are, also, for the most part too long; we forget their commencements ere we get at their terminations. Her faults, nevertheless, both in matter and manner, belong to the effer- vescence of high talent, if not exactly of genius. Of Mrs. Stephens’ poetry I have seen so very NEW YORK CITY. 15 little that I feel myself scarcely in condition to speak of it. She began her literary life, I believe, by editing ‘* The Portland Magazine,’’ and has since been announced as editress of ‘* The Ladies’ Compan- ion,’? a monthly journal published some years ago in New York, and also, at a later period, of ** Gra- ham’s Magazine,’ and subsequently, again, of National nouncements were announcements and no more; ** Peterson’s Magazine.” These an- the lady had nothing to do with the editorial con- tro] of either of the three last-named works. The portrait of Mrs. Stephens which appeared in ‘¢Graham’s Magazine’? for November, 1844, can- not fairly be considered a likeness at all. She is tall and slightly inclined to embonpoint—an English figure. Her forehead is somewhat low, but broad; the features generally massive, but full of life and intellectuality. The eyes are blue and brilliant; the hair blonde and very luxuriant. EVERT A. DUYCKINCK. Mr. Duyckinck is one of the most influential of the New York /Jittérateurs, and has done a great Not the least important service rendered by him was the deal for the interests of American letters. projection and editorship of Wiley and Putnam’s ** Library of Choice Reading,’? a series which brought to public notice many valuable foreign works which had been suffering under neglect in this country, and at the same time afforded un- wonted encouragement to native authors by pub- lishing their books, in good style and in good company, without trouble or risk to the authors themselves, and in the very teeth of the disadvan- tages arising from the want of an international copyright law. At one period it seemed that this happy scheme was to be overwhelmed by the com- petition of rival publishers—taken, in fact, quite out of the hands of those who, by * right of dis- covery,’ were entitled at least to its first fruits. ; A great variety of ‘‘ Libraries” in imitation were set on foot, but whatever may have been the tem- porary success of any of these latter, the original one had already too well established itself in the public favor to be overthrown, and thus has not been prevented from proving of great benefit to our literature at large. Mr. Duyckinck has slyly acquired much fame and numerous admirers under the nom de plume of ** Felix Merry.’? have attracted attention everywhere from the ju- The various essays thus signed dicious. The style is remarkable for its very un- usual blending of purity and ease with a seemingly inconsistent originality, force and independence. *¢ Felix Merry,’’ in connection with Mr. Corne- lius Matthews, was one of the editors and origina- tors of ** Arcturus,’ decidedly the very best maga- zine in many respects ever published in the United States. A large number of its most interesting

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16 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S papers were the work of Mr. D. The magazine was, upon the whole, a little too good to enjoy ex- tensive popularity—although I am here using an equivocal phrase, for a better journal might have been far more acceptable to the public. I must be understood, then, as employing the epithet ** good” in the sense of the literary quietists. The general taste of ** Arcturus’? was, I think, ercessively taste- ful; but this character applies rather more to its external or mechanical appearance than to its essential qualities. Unhappily, magazines and other similar publications are in the beginning judged chiefly by externals. People saw ‘* Arcturus’? looking very much like other werks which had failed through notorious dullness, although admit- ted as arbitri elegantiarum in all points of what is termed taste or decorum; and they, the people, had no patience to examine any farther. Cesar’s wife was required not only to be virtuous but to seem so, and in letters it is demanded not only that we be not stupid but that we do not array our- selves in the habiliments of stupidity. It cannot be said of ** Arcturus’ exactly that it wanted force. It was deficient in power of impres- sion, and this deficiency is to be attributed mainly to the exceeding brevity of its articles—a brevity that degenerated into mere paragraphism, preclud- ing dissertation or argument, and thus all perma- nent effect. The magazine, in fact, had some of the worst or most inconvenient features without any of the compensating ‘advantages of a weekly literary newspaper. The mannerism to which I refer seemed to have its source in undue admira- tion and consequent imitation of ‘‘ The Spectator.”’ In addition to his more obvious literary engage- ments, Mr. Duyckinck writes a great deal, edi- torially and otherwise, for ‘* The Democratic Re- view,”? ** The Morning News,” and other peri- odicals. In character he is remarkable, distinguished for the bonhommie of his manner, his simplicity and single-mindedaess, his active beneficence, his ha- tred of wrong done even to any enemy, and espe- cially for an almost Quixotic fidelity to his friends. He seems in perpetual good humor with all things, and I have no doubt that in his secret heart he is an optimist. In person he is equally simple as in character— the one is a pendent of the other. He is about five feet eight inches high, somewhat slender. The forehead, phrenologically, is a good one; eyes and hair light; the whole expression of the face that of serenity and benevolence, contributing to give an idea of youthfulness. He is probably thirty, but does not seem to be twenty-five. is in full keeping with his character, scrupulously neat but plain, and conveying an instantaneous His dress, also, conviction of the gentleman. He is a descendant of one of the oldest and best Dutch families in the state. Married. BOOK. MARY GOVE. Mrs. Mary Gove, under the pseudonym of ** Mary Orme,”’ has written many excellent papers for the magazines. Her subjects are usually tinctured with the mysticism of the transcendentalists, but are truly imaginative. Her style is quite remark- able for its luminousness and precision—two quali- ties very rare with her sex. An article entitled ‘* The Gift of Prophecy,’ published originally in **The Broadway Journal,’ is a fine specimen of her manner. Mrs. Gove, however, has acquired less notoriety by her literary compositions than by her lectures on physiology to classes of females. These lec- tures are said to have been instructive and useful ; Mrs. G. has also given public discourses on Mesmerism, I f they certainly elicited much attention. believe, and other similar themes—matters which put to the severest test the credulity or, more pro- perly, the faith of mankind. She is, I think, a Mesmerist, a Swedenborgian, a phrenologist, a homeopathist, and a disciple of Priesstnitz—what more I am not prepared to say. She is rather below the medium height, some- what thin, with dark hair and keen, intelligent black eyes. She converses well and with enthu- siasm. In many respects a very interesting woman. JAMES ALDRICH. Mr. Aldrich has written much for the magazines, etc., and at one time assisted Mr. Park Benjamin in the conduct of ** The New World.’ He also originated, I believe, and edited a not very long- lived or successful weekly paper, called ‘*‘ The Literary Gazette,’ an imitation in its external ap- pearance of the London journal of the same name. I am not aware that he has made any collection of his writings. His poems abound in the true poetic spirit, but they are frequently chargeable with plagiarism, or something much like it. True, I have seen but three of Mr. Aldrich’s compositions in verse—the three (or perhaps there are four of them) included by Doctor Griswold in his ‘‘ Poets and Poetry of America.’’ Of these three, (or four,) however, there are two which I cannot help re- garding as palpable plagiarisms. Of one of them, in especial, ** A Death-Bed,’’ it is impossible to say a plausible word in defence. Both in matter and manner it is nearly identical with a little piece entitled “The Death-Bed,’? by Thomas Hood. The charge of plagiarism, nevertheless, is a purely literary one; and a plagiarism even dis- tinctly proved by no means necessarily involves any moral delinquency. This proposition applies very especially to what appear to be poetical thefts. The poetic sentiment presupposes a keen appre- ciation of the beautiful with a longing for its as- similation into the poetic identity. What the poet intensely admires becomes, thus, in very fact,

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THE although only partially, a portion of his own soul. Within this soul it has a secondary origination ; and the poet, thus possessed by another’s thought, cannot be said to take of it possession. But in either view he thoroughly feels it as his own; and the tendency to this feeling is counteracted only by the sensible presence of the true, palpable origin of the thought in the volume whence he has years, it is impossible not to forget, should the thought itself, as it often is, be forgotten. But the frailest association will regenerate it; it springs up with all the vigor of a new birth; its absolute suspicion; and when he has written it and printed it, and on its account is charged with plagiarism, there will be no one more entirely astounded than himself. Now, from what I have said, it appears that the liability to accidents of this character is in the direct ratio of the poetic sentiment, of the susceptibility to the poetic impression; and, in fact, all literary history demonstrates that, for the most frequent and palpable plagiarisms we must search the works of the most eminent poets. Since penning the above I have found five qua- trains by Mr. Aldrich, with the heading ** Molly Gray.”? These verses are in the fullest exempli- fication of what I have just said of their author, evincing at once, in the most remarkable manner, ¢ Ye both his merit as an imaginative poet and his un- I quote the conquerable proneness to imitation. two concluding quatrains. “ Pretty, fairy Molly Gray ! What may thy fit emblems be? Stream or star or bird or flower— They are all too poor for thee. “No type to match thy beauty My wandering fancy brings— Not fairer than its chrysalis Thy soul with tts golden wings!” Here the ‘ Pretty, fairy Molly Gray !*? will put every reader in mind of Tennyson’s * Airy, fairy Lillian !?? by which Mr. Aldrich’s whole poem has been clearly suggested; but the thought in the finale is, as far as I know anything about it, original, and is not more happy than happily ex- pressed, Mr. Aldrich is about thirty-six years of age. In regard to his person there is nothing to be espe- cially noted. THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. I have seen one or two brief poems of con- siderable merit with the signature of Thomas Dunn English appended. For example— “ AZTHENE. “ A sound melodious shook the breeze When thy beloved name was heard: LITERATI OF derived it—an origin which, in the long lapse of originality is not with the poet a matter even of NEW YORK CITY. 17 Such was the music in the word Its dainty rhythm the pulses stirred. But passed forever joys like these. There is no joy, no light, no day ; But black despair and night alway, And thickening gloom: And this, Azthene, is my doom. “Was it for this, for weary years, I strove among the sons of men, And by the magic of my pen— Just sorcery—walked the lion’s den Of slander void of tears and fears— And all forthee? For thee !—alas, As is the image on a glass So baseless seems, Azthene, all my earthly dreams.” I must confess, however, that I do not appre- ciate the “‘ dainty rhythm’ of such a word as ‘* Azthene,” and, perhaps, there is a little taint of egotism in the passage about ‘* the magic’”’ of Mr. English’s pen. Let us be charitable, however, and set all this down under the head of * pure imagination”? or invention—one of the first of po- etical requisites. The inercusable sin of Mr. F. is imitation—if this be not too mild aterm. Barry Cornwall and others of the bizarre school are his especial favorites. He has taken, too, most un- warrantable liberties, in the way of downright pla- giarism, from a Philadelphian poet whose high merits have not been properly appreciated—Mr. Henry B. Hirst. I place Mr. English, however, on my list of New York literati, not on account of his poetry, (which I presume he is not weak enough to estimate very highly,) but on the score of his having edited for several months, ** with the aid of numerous col- a monthly called ** The This work, although professedly a laborators,’’ magazine Aristidean.”’ ** monthly,’? was issued at irregular intervals, and was unfortunate, I fear, in not attaining at any pe- riod a very extensive circulation. I learn that Mr. E. is not without talent; but the fate of ‘* The Aristidean’? should indicate to him the necessity of applying himself to study. No spectacle can be more pitiable than that of a man without the commonest school education busying himself in attempts to instruct mankind on topics of polite literature. The absurdity in such cases does not lie merely in the ignorance displayed by the would-be instructor, but in the transparency of the shifts by which he endeavours to keep this ignorance concealed. The editor of ** The Aris- tidean,”? for example, was not laughed at so much on account of writing ‘* lay’? for ** lie,”’ etc. etc., and coupling nouns in the plural with verbs in the singular—as where he writes, above, «_. so baseless seems, Azthene, all my earthly dreams—” he was not, I say, laughed at so much for his ex- cusable deficiencies in English grammar (although an editor should certainly be able to write his own name) as that, in the hope of disguising such de- ficiency, he was perpetually lamenting the ‘* typo-

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18 GODEY’S MAGAZINE graphical blunders” that *‘ in the most unaccount- Nobody was so stupid as to suppose for a moment that able manner would creep into his work. there existed in New York a single proof-reader— or even a single printer’s devil—who would have permitted such errors to escape. By the excuses offered, therefore, the errors were only the more obviously nailed to the counter as Mr. English’s own. I make these remarks in no spirit of unkindness. Mr. E. thirty-five—and might, with his talents, readily is yet young—certainly not more than mprove himself at points where he is most defect- ive. No one of any generosity would think the worse of him for getting private instruction. Id He is, I believe, from Philadelphia, where he was formerly o not personally know Mr. English. a doctor of medicine, and subsequently took up the profession of law; more latterly he joined the ryler party and devoted his attention to politics. About his personal appearance there is nothing very observable. I cannot say whether he is mar- ried or not. HENRY CARY. doctor Griswold introduces Mr. Cary to the Mr. Henry Carey, and gives him credit for an Anacre- uppendix of ‘* The Poets and Poetry,”? as ontic song of much merit entitled, or commencing, **Old Wine to Drink.” Mr. C. He has composed little verse, if any, but, under the nom de plume of ** John Waters,’ has This was not written by 1cquired some note by a series of prose essays in ‘© The New York American” and ** The Knicker- bocker.*”? These essays have merit, unquestion- ! but ibly, some person, in an article furnished ** The Broadway Journal,” before my assumption of its editorship, has gone to the extreme of toady- This Briggs) thinks that John Waters “ is in some sort ism in their praise. critic (possibly Mr. 1 Sam Rogers’’—‘* resembles Lamb in fastidious- *—** has a finer artistic taste than the *Sketch Book?’ ?°—that tences are the most perfect in the language—too ness of taste’ 1uthor of the his ** sen- perfect to be peculiar’’—that “* it would be a vain task to hunt through them all for a superfluous conjunction,” and that ‘‘ we need them (the works »f John Waters!) as models of style in these days of rhodomontades and Macaulayisms!” The truth seems to be that Mr. Cary is a viva- cious, fanciful, entertaining essayist—a fifth or sixth rate one—with a style that, as times go—in view of such stylists as Mr. Briggs, for example— What the critic of the B. J. wishes us to understand by may be termed respectable, and no more. a style that is *‘ too perfect,”’ * the most perfect,”’ etc., it is scarcely worth while to inquire, since it is generally supposed that “ perfect’? admits of no degrees of comparison ; but if Mr. Briggs (or who- ever it is) finds it ‘a vain task to hunt’ through AND LADY’S BOOK. all Mr. John Waters’? works “for a superfluous conjunction,” there are few schoolboys who would not prove more successful hunters than Mr. Briggs. ** It was well filled,’? says the essayist, on the very page containing these encomiums, ‘‘ and yet ** We paid our the number of performers,” etc. visit to the incomparable ruins of the castle, and then proceeded to retrace our steps, and, examin- ing our wheels at every post-house, reached,” etc. ** After consultation with a mechanic at Heidel- The should read, ** Finding, after consultation,’’ etc.— Those in the berg, and finding that,’ etc. last sentence the *‘ and’? would thus be avoided. two sentences first quoted are obviously pleonastic. Mr. Cary, in fact, abounds very especially in super- fluities—(as here, for example, ‘‘ He seated himself at a piano that was near the front of the stage’*)— and, to speak the truth, is continually guilty of all I repeat that, in this respect, he is decent, and no more. kinds of grammatical improprieties. Mr. Cary is what Doctor Griswold calls a ‘* gen- *» He is wealthy and much addicted to letters and For time he was President of the Phenix Bank of New tleman of elegant leisure.’ virti. a long York, and the principal part of his life has been devoted to business. There is nothing remarkable about his personal appearauce. CHRISTOPHER PEASE CRANCH. The Reverend C. P. Cranch is one of the least intolerable of the school of Boston transcendental- ists—and, in fact, I believe that he has at last ‘come out from among them,’ abandoned their doctrines (whatever they are) and given up their company in disgust. He was at one time one of the most noted, and undoubtedly one of the least to ** The Dial,’’ but his habits of thought and speech, domi- absurd contributors has re- formed ciliated himself in New York, and set up the easel of an artist in one of the Gothic chambers of the University. About two years agoa volume of ‘‘ Poems by Christopher Pease Cranch’’ was published by Carey & Hart. critics, and much injustice, in my opinion, was It was most unmercifully treated by the done to the poet. He seems to me to possess unusual vivacity of fancy and dexterity of expres- sion, while his versification is remarkable for its accuracy, vigor, and even for its originality of effect. I might say, perhaps, rather more than all this, and maintain that he has imagination if he would only condescend to employ it, which he will not, or would not until lately—the word-com- pounders and quibble concoctors of Frogpondium having inoculated him with a preference for Imag- ination’s half sister, the Cinderella, Fancy. Mr. Cranch has seldom contented himself with harmo- nious combinations of thought. There must always be, to afford him perfect satisfaction, a certain amount of the odd, of the whimsical, of the affect-

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THE ed, of the bizarre. He is as full of absurd conceits as Cowley or Donne, with this difference, that the conceits of these latter are Euphuisms beyond re- demption—flat, irremediable, self-contented non- sensicalities, and in so much are good of their kind; but the conceits of Mr. Cranch are, for the most part, conceits intentionally manufactured, for conceit’s sake, out of the material for properly imaginative, harmonious, proportionate, or poetical ideas. We see every moment that he has been at uncommon pains to make a fool of himself. But perhaps I am wrong in ‘supposing that I am at all in condition to decide on the merits of Mr. C.°s poetry, which is professedly addressed to the ‘* Him we will seek,’’ says the poet— few. ‘Him we will seek, and none but him, Whose inward sense hath not grown dim; W hose soul is steeped in Nature’s tinct, And to the Universal linked; Who loves the beauteous Infinite With deep and ever new delight, And carrieth where’er he goes rhe inborn sweetness of the rose, The perfume as of Paradise— Phe talisman above all price— rhe optic glass that wins from far The meaning of the utmost star— Ihe key that opes the golden doors Where earth and heaven have piled their stores— The magic ring. the enchanter’s wand— The title-deed 10 Wonder-Land— The wisdom that o’erlooketh sense, The « » of Innocence.’ sairvoyanec This is all very well, fanciful, pretty and neatly turned—all with the exception of the two last lines, and it is a pity they were not left out. It is laugh- ble to see that the transcendental poets, if be- } guiled for a minute or two into respectable English ind common sense, : re always sure to remember their cue just as they get to the end of their song, which, by way of salvo, they then round off with a bit of doggerel about “‘ wisdom that o’erlooketh > It is especially observable that, in adopting the cant sense”? and ‘the clairvoyance of Innocence of thought, the cant of phraseology is adopted at the same instant. Can Mr. Cranch, or can any- body else, inform me why it is that, in the really sensible opening passages of what I have here quoted, he employs the modern, and only in the final couplet of goosetherumfoodle makes use of the obsolete terminations of verbs in the third per- son singular, present tense ? One of the best of Mr. Cranch’s compositions is undoubtedly his poem on Niagara. It has some natural thoughts, and grand ones, suiting the sub- ject; but then they are more than half-divested of their nature by the attempt at adorning them with LITERATI OF NEW YORK CITY. 19 oddity of expression. Quaintness is an admissible and important adjunct to ideality—an adjunct whose value has been long misapprehended—but in picturing the sublime it is altogether out of place. What idea of power, of grandeur, for ex- ample, can any human being connect even with Niagara, when Niagara is described in language so trippingly fantastical, so palpably adapted to a purpose, as that which follows? “T stood upon a speck of ground; Before me fell a stormy ocean. I was like a captive bound; And around A universe of sound Troubled the heavens with ever-quivering motion. “ Down, down forever—down, down forever-—— Something falling, falling, falling; Up, up forever—up, up, forever, Rest ng never, Boiling up forever, Steam-clouds shot up with thunder-bursts appalling.” It is difficult to conceive anything more ludi- crously out of keeping than the thoughts of these stanzas and the petit-maitre, fidgety, hop-skip-and- jump air of the words and the Liliputian parts of the versification. \ somewhat similar metre is adopted by Mr. C, in his *¢ Lines on Hearing Triumphant Music,’? but as the subject is essentially different, so the effect is by no means so displeasing. I copy one of the stanzas as the noblest individual passage which I can find among all the poems of its author. “That glorious strain ! Oh, from my brain I see the shadows flitting like scared ghosts. A light—a light Shines in t -nignt Round the good angels trooping to their posts, And the black cloud is rent in twain Before the ascending strain.” Mr. Cranch is well educated, and quite accom- plished. Like Mr. Osborn, he is musician, painter and poet, being in each capacity very respectably successful. He is about thirty-three or four years of age; in height, perhaps five feet eleven; athletic; front face tellect, and the smile pleasant; but the profile is not unhandsome—the forehead evincing in- marred by the turning up of the nose, and, alto- gether is hard and disagreeable. His eyes and hair are dark brown—the latter worn short, slightly inclined to curl. Thick whiskers meeting under the chin, and much out of keeping with the shirt- collar @/a Byron. Dresses with marked plainness. He is married.

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FROM DESCRIPTION OF Paris, 1846. My pear M——:—lI promised in a former letter to give you a description of one or two balls that I have attended. To proceed: last Monday we were at the ball given by our minister, Mr. King. *Twas Washington’s birthday. It was a very hand- some affair, and said to be very select. There were eight rooms thrown open, all large and hand- some—one room with a counter in, *“‘as I call them ;’? the French call them * buffets’? I believe. It was filled with ices, cakes, tea, coffee, choco- late, etc. etc., to go to at will. At one o’clock a supper room was opened, which the ladies entered We had hot filet de beuf, salmon, aspara- gus, etc.—things we never have;—besides those, } alone, ull the different patés that one can imagine, and ull kinds of jellies and preserved fruits; plenty of champagne and other wines. The ladies did jus- tice to everything; and the clatter both of tongues and knives and forks, would give any one an ex- cellent idea of Babel. After the ladies retired the gentlemen were served. till after four o’clock. The dancing was in a The ball continued room that was hung in crimson. There was a arge oval room hung in blue, which was extremely sandsome. It had quantities of flowers tastefully urranged through it, which adds so much to the ippearance. The flowers here are in such beauty and so reasonable, that you do not see any salon without them. In this room the ladies who were not dancing or had just finished sat down. It looked beautiful: the rich dresses and handsome coiffures added to its beauty. Young T and his wife from your city were She is rather pretty. there. Do you know her? Your friend Mrs. L—— wore a pink satin dress trimmed with three flounces of Brussels point lace, like that on a cap you have, with a berthe of the same style of lace, diamond tiara, and three dia- mond pins fastening the berthe. Mrs. Moulton, the American lady of Paris, was there. She is rather pretty, small, and inclined to be stout. She wore a pink satin, very long, open on each side; white satin under skirt—a rich lace on either side of the opening; diamonds in her hair. Mrs. H—, of New York—you know her well; she wrote letters from abroad; she is called very beautiful—wore a blue dress with one fall of superb lace from waist to knee ; from that to the bottom of the skirt was trimmed with a full puff- ing of tulle, same colour as the dress. It is an entirely new fashion. There were several there of the like style, but she had a fall of the same rich lace round the neck of the dress which hid 20 “OUR PARISIAN FANNY.” HIGH LIFE. the corsage entirely. At a little distance it had the effect of a short gown, the lace being of a thick pattern. There were others of same style, the lace being much lighter; they were much hand- somer. I have no doubt hers was the most costly dress in the room. There was a Mrs. R——, of your city, the wife of a physician. She makes a great display. She is a large, stout lady; some call her handsome. She dresses immensely—better at this ball than I } before. She wore a blue silk, with lace flounces the same style as Mrs. H——-; d But I must tell you how have seen her ja- monds without number. she was dressed at a ball at Mrs. G——’s, three nights before Mr. King’s. I must first tell you she is a lady of a certain age; as tall as our good friend Mrs. H——-+y, but not quite so stout ;—she has a short, full face, large mouth, very black eye- brows, low forehead and black hair. She wore a white silk dress, with one tulle skirt, up each side of which was a puffing of tulle, through the centre of it a fine wreath of flowers—the same around the bottom of each sleeve; and on her head a mass of roses—I should think at least twenty in number! I never saw such a show—the dress of a girl of sixteen. Her dresses are made by the most Paris; but she being very wealthy loads herself too much. fashionable dressmaker in I must say, for the taste of the ladies—she is the only over- dressed person I have seen at any of the balls. As I shall not have time nor room in this letter to tell you about the palace ball, I shall c! ose by telling you about Miss H——’s marriage, which took place on the twenty-third. We received printed invitations to go to church to witness the ceremony. There were a large number of friends present. The bride was dressed in a rich white Like all bridal with long sleeves. watered silk with a satin stripe. dresses here, it was made high,* A tulle veil crossed over the top of the head, and } blos- confined with a wreath of roses and orange soms, coming to the edge of the forehead ;—a bouquet de corsage to match, with lace collar, cuffs and mouchoir. She looked very handsome. Her mamma wore a blue glacée silk, white crape shawl and white hat and feather. After the ceremony they insisted on my accom- panying them home and dining with them en I went. We had a beautiful dinner. seemed more than happy, and during y his wife as if he were used to and I undressed the bride, and ar- Samilie. Mr. G dinner called J it. Mrs. H * See Fashion Plate.

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THE rayed her in a rich plaid woolen dress for travel- ing. They left at five in the Malle Poste. I had nearly forgotten to mention that our mu- tual friends, the L

*s, have very handsome ipartments near us. The furniture for their salon is not finished ;—they have only their bed-rooms ind dining-room arranged. Her bed-room, like all French rooms, ‘* where the lady receives except on regular reception days,’? is very beautiful, the FAREWELL.™DECEITFUL BLUE. 21 ~~ eee furniture richly carved, the bed and window cur- tains of blue silk with inner curtains of white lace; covering of the bed the same, blue silk and white Mantle clock Their dining-room is lace. I assure you it looks superb. and candelabras very rich. all heavy carved oak covered with velvet. The furniture for their salon is to be the richest and Adieu. most recherche. NAIA O ye IT Fr THE FAREWELL. BY MRS. HALE. HE comes not, oh! he comes not— And the sun is setting now; I read his parting promise On the mountain’s blushing brow— His pledge that on the morrow There again his smile shal] dwell; Will my lover so remember? Will 1)? y he come to say “ Farewell The parting, oh! the parting— Can I live to see him go? Why should “ farewell” be spoken, When ‘twill steep my soul in wo? Yet joy is gained from sorrow, As the pear! from out the deep, And the last fond words are treasures For the lonely heart to keep. He's coming! he is coming! Down the valley, far and dim, I see a torm advancing, I am sure it moves like him; It has reached the drooping willow, And the mist that veils the stream— A *tis gone like airy phantom, Or the heart’s delusive dream. he shadows! long, dark shadows, With the stealthy step of fear, And breathing gloom around me, Like grim foes, are creeping near; And winds, whose soft wings fan me, Have they borne him from the shore? Ah! their sighing seems to whisper I shall see him never more The never—oh! the never— How like frost upon the rose— It checks love’s opening blossom, Or it blights the flower that blows; But hush my sad complaining, He is gone, nor thinks of me— ¥ t my prayers, if these could follow,

Should protect him on the sea. And slowly, oh! how slowly, She then turned her to depart, As though an iceberg shadow Chilled her young and loving heart; One forward step was taken,

When she, wildly shrieking, fell—

’Tis her lover’s arm has caught her— He is there to say “ Farewel Vt AD MS ODD Ge DECEITFUL TRANSLATED FROM THE On the OC an diue— isted iInysell upon it, 100; jeneath there lay a shining sky, Vv ith moon and stars, just as on high— But it deceived m I sprang into that ocean fair— I found no moon, no heaven there; Wild, raging All—al!l deceived me waves received me; <i myseli beneath 00,

3 80 clear, it was so br A streaming sun poured down its light; gut it deceived me: BLUE. GERMAN, BY A. FLEMING. The sun blazed hot, and fierce, and red—

Dark clouds collected overhead— A thunder storm came down and grieved me All—all deceived me I gazed into two eyes so blue— I felt myself under their power, too They seemed so true, they seemed so pure, I thought their truth would e’er endure— But it deceived me: eir truth was but d eir mildness hid an angry glow; I 1 elusive show ; hou art not what I conceived thee

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GOSSIP BY MRS. S&S. C. ** Have you seen Miss Fanny Murray ?” inquired Mrs. Spooner of her grand neighbor, Mrs. Caunter. ** Not yet,’ was the reply. ‘¢ Well, you have no loss; she is a keen, clever girl, I am sure of that, and that is odious enough. Moreover, she is little, and, I think, a /eetle crook- ed; red-haired, gray-eyed, and such a nose! down at this end and up at that. her pretty! Why, she’s a positive fright. The idea of calling I don’t Then her manners are so forward; she would sit and know when I saw so plain a young woman. sing by the hour before a roomful of company without the smallest hesitation. It isa great pity, poor thing, she rouges so badly. Ifa woman, par- ticularly a young woman, must rouge, I think she owes it to society to put it on decently.”’ ‘** Perhaps,’’ urged Mrs. Caunter, good naturedly, ** it was the heat of the weather that provoked her complexion.’’ ** Oh, not at all, ma’am; I could not be mis- Indeed, I thought I would tell Mrs. Lilly, but after all it was wiser to hold taken. her friend, of it; my tongue, and, as I had daughters of my own, she might say I was jealous. Jealous, indeed, for Anne and Louisa, of her, Miss Murray !”’ The informant paused, glanced suspiciously 1round the room as if she fgared there was some the the her chair a little closer to one hidden behind curtains or beneath sofas, and then drew Mrs. Caunter, and ventured upon what few dared venture with that stately lady—a more confidential communication than usual. **T don’t care to busy myself, not I, about what is no concern of mine, but I assure you, ma’am, she is not the heiress they talked about. Our man and he told Mr. Spooner she was left very badly off, and what she of business knows her affairs, really has is involved.” ** Indeed,’ said Mrs. Caunter, interested, per- haps, for the first time in Mrs. Spooner’s conversa- tion, from the fact of her having two marriageable sons. ** Yes, indeed; he told Mr. Spooner that our Miss daughters were better provided for than Murray.”’ *‘ Very injudicious,” observed Mrs. Caunter, ‘¢ for a man of business to talk about his client’s affairs.”? ** Oh, it was in confidence to Mr. Spooner, you know ; gentlemen talk over their wine sometimes: only I like everything straightforward, and I do not, therefore, like a girl to be cried up as a beauty and an heiress who has no pretension to either.” Mrs. Caunter did not encourage the conversa- 99 ~< HALL, Of STINGS. LONDON. tion, though too fond of observing and combining not to be also fond of what is technically called **news.’? Mrs. Caunter was a high-minded gen- tlewoman, enriching the noble blood that flowed in her veins with many noble thoughts, and though by no means uninterested in the question of a pretty girl’s fortunes, she scorned to owe her in- formation to a person she despised; and so Mrs. Spooner, having got rid of a portion of inconve- nient bitterness in what she considered a judicious place, bade Mrs. Caunter good morning with a smile that was unreturned, and went her way. In a few minutes after her departure Mrs. Johnes entered, and as Miss Murray was the last arrival in the country town where the ladies resided, she was immediately brought again upon the tapis by a talkative but kind visitor. ‘* | think,”’ y, * I have seldom dwelt with more pleasure upon any face than on that of Miss Murray. number of beauties you discover. said the la The longer you look the greater Then her man- ners are so fascinating, kind and cheerful, without a particle of forwardness; and when you ask her to sing, instead of making a fuss about it, like most young ladies, she sits down immediately and will sing you song after song without the slightest affectation. I am sure you will admire her com- plexion ; it is the purest and fairest I ever saw. The faint rose color that tinges her cheek is like the blush on the most delicate monthly rose.”’ her com- ** But,’? suggested Mrs. Caunter, * plexion ought to be very delicate, for she has red hair ??? ** Red of mingled horror and astonishment; ‘‘ who could hair !*? exclaimed Mrs. Johnes, in a tone have told you that? Her hair is of a pale brown but still a brown, harmonizing so well with her dark —a warm shade of brown, decided blue eyes.”” *¢ Gray,’’ interrupted Mrs. Caunter. ** They are of so deep a blue as to be almost violet,’ persisted Mrs. Johnes. ‘* Now, who was malicious enough to call them gray ?”’ ** Different opinions may be formed of eyes as well as of other things,’? replied Mrs. Caunter. ‘* But, pray, tell me if Miss Murray is little, crooked and cock-nosed ?°? Mrs. Johnes cast up her hands and eyes indig- nantly. somewhat recovered from her displeasure—*‘ she **She is, madam,’’ she answered, when is an inch taller than I am, and I suppose no one little. she is as straight as it is possible for any one to be. would call me As to her being crooked, Her nose is, indeed, retroussé, but only enough so

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GOSSIP to give expression to a face that would be tame were it not for the peculiar turn which gives an arch look when she pleases.” Mrs. Caunter took especial note of the two sides of the question of Miss Murray’s being a beauty or the contrary. The only point the fair reporters seemed agreed upon—not in words, but in fact— was that the young stranger had a turned-up nose. Mrs. Spooner called it *‘ cocked,” Mrs. Johnes termed it ‘* retroussé,’? but both signified nearly the same thing. The top of the lady’s nose, then, might be termed neutral ground, and that was all. In this instance there were, as there generally are, motives for the conflicting opinions of the two la- dies. Mrs. Spooner was the rejoicing parent of four grown or growing-up daughters; to her, there- fore, the introduction of a ** new young lady’? was anything but desirable. Mrs. Caunter was, as I have said, the proud mamma of two marriageable sons; and Mrs. Spooner had paid her visit that morning determined to color her report as highly as possible, and yet honestly believing that she told no decided untruth. Mrs. Johnes was an ex- ceedingly kind-hearted woman; she knew that Miss Murray was an orphan, and not as rich as had been at first reported, and she wished to interest the great lady of the neighborhood in her favor. ‘* Poor thing,”? she whispered to herself as she went along, ‘‘ who knows if she were to ask her to her house what might happen ?”’ Mrs. Caunter was a clear-sighted woman, and she very wisely endeavored to take up a medium opinion. She decided in her own mind that Miss Murray’s hair was neither what is vulgarly called ‘¢ fiery’? nor a simple pale brown, but a reddish- brown, a deep auburn; that she was neither tall nor short; that she did not rouge; that she was guiltless of the affectation of refusing to sing when requested to do so, and, perhaps, from a desire to make herself very agreeable, sung rather too much; and that, both sides considered, she was calculated to be a pleasant rather than an un- pleasant addition to the neighborhood. Neither did she place much reliance upon the on dit of any professional man who would make an observation as to the pecuniary means of any of his clients, but particularly those of an orphan girl. Still, in this instance, the ‘‘money matters’? were really the only ones that weighed with Mrs. Caunter. She was too prudent to hint this to Mrs. Johnes, but resolved to wait and listen. I do cer- tainly believe that, sooner or later, an ill-natured or raalicious report is visited with ten-fold bitter- ness upon its originator, but in the meantime it does great harm, even if promptly contradicted. Hundreds, in this rapidly passing state of society, hear one side of the question without hearing the other, partake of the bane without the antidote— the evil impression is made and remains. Few have the power of cool comparison that was possessed by Mrs. Caunter, and yet, though she knew and saw clearly through Mrs. Spooner’s motives, though she had heard both sides of the question within a 23 STINGS few minutes of each other, and was not by any means a harsh judging or unkind person, yet, de- spite her resolve, there is no doubt that sundry queries presented themselves to her mind with regard to Miss Murray which never would have arisen but for Mrs. Spooner’s spite, and which al! the milk of Mrs. Johnes’s good nature could not wash away. And yet few possessed such powers She had suffered for a number of years from an illness of accurate comparison as Mrs. Caunter. which confined her to her house, and having little to do, and, as I have said, a strong propensity to observe, she was much amused by the living pano- rama that daily presented itself in her handsome and hospitable mansion. When remarks from such a person as Mrs. Spooner had the power to make her think even a second time over what was said, knowing them also to be from interested motives. what would their effect be upon those who hear, repeat, and not unfrequently exaggerate without the But Mrs Spooner did not begin and end her communications reflecting upon consequences ? at Cauntwell house, and as she was a more light and active person than Mrs. Johnes, she had the advantage two to one, to say nothing of a predis- position in idle minds to listen to highly-seasoned ill nature rather than plain, wholesome, but not as amusing, encomiums on the gentleness and ama- bility of a young girl. Mrs. Caunter’s next visitor was a person who, in the language of the town, was ‘ highly talented.’ The greatest misfortune that can befall a human being had befallen him ;—he was the oracle of a country clique; wrote a little occasionally for the poet’s corner of the county paper, perpetrated sonnets, with now and then an essay, which, as few people would read, he saved them the trouble by reading to them. There was one particular all other half literary men—he would not write in an album; feature which distinguished him from he also believed that the greatest evidence of hu- man knowledge was finding fault. But this was in no degree peculiar to Mr. Hennet; there are numbers of literary pretenders who think the same — indeed, there are many who establish a reputa- tion for talent solely by the boldness of their abuse He was the author of two plays and a farce unacted, and a novel in three volumes, which might, with more truth than belongs to terms in general, have been called ‘* The Rejected!’ Still, of others. though every one in the town knew these facts, and ought to have known that a person so circum- stanced must be naturally inclined to give unkind had him in the race, such is the mental laziness of the multitude opinions of those who distanced who are not self-thinkers, that they were general], content with Mr. Hennet’s one-sided opinion, and set a book down as bad or indifferent according to his dicta. He entered the room with the air of an oracle—first a bow, then a pause, which gave him time to observe if his entrance had produced the effect he desired. It is always a disappointment to your provincial /ittérateur to deliver his opinions

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24 GODEY’s except before an audience, but as Mrs. Caunter was the first woman in the country, it became worth while to speak to her. His delivery was the reverse of enthusiastic; it was weighed and measured and dried, and he never anticipated a contradiction : if such a thing did come, he thought he said he liked to think well of human nature) that it proceeded from ignorance. Mrs. Caunter asked her visitor the usual ques- tion of ** What is the news ?”’ ** News,” replied he, in an oracular tone: * alas, madam, there is none in literature! There was a wise man once, who said ‘there is nothing new under the sun.’ Madam, if he had lived in these days he would have couched that opinion in stronger language ;—there has not been a readable book published these twelve years.” ‘*T hear there is a good article in the ‘ Quar- terly.’”? ** Indeed; I have gone through it and not felt myself richer by a single idea.”’ ** Oh, I wanted to ask your opinion of a poem by a neighbor of our’s, in ‘ Blackwood.’ I have not read it yet, but I hear it is as pretty a lyric as Moore ever wrote.’’ ‘A lyric? A folly—a bad imitation of a bad poet. Call Moore a poet, indeed! A song writer. He has a pretty way of putting things. I am not easily moved, but the praise bestowed upon mo- dern poets rouses my indignation; and as to that particular one, madam, it is a farrago of nonsense from first to last: there is not a line well measured, not a feeling well defined, not a sentence well turned; the rhythm is false, the ideas are false, and the thing altogether——”’ Before the wholesale critic could finish his cri- ticism, a lady was announced of so opposite a cha- racter to the last speaker, that Mrs. Caunter could not avoid smiling. Softly and mincingly she glided through the room like an embodied shadow, floated herself into a seat by the side of her hostess, and after mincing forth a few inquiries and a few com- pliments in a low and affected voice, placed the last number of “‘ Blackwood” upon the table before her; then bowing and smiling at Mr. Hennet, she took it up again, opened it where a long marker, embroidered with a sentence, ** Sweet sympathy of souls!*? betokened a favorite passage, and inti- mated that she had brought the ‘* exquisite lyric’ she had told her of, to read for her morning’s amusement. Before any one could say a word, and all the time casting the most imploring looks upon the vinegar face of the gentleman who had already expressed so decidedly opposite an opinion from what she was stating in so insinuating a manner, the young lady burst forth into one of those torrents of unmeaning enthusiasm which carry away the fool- ish and disgust the wise. The poem, condemned almost within the same moment as “‘ unmeasured,” *¢ unfeeling,’ “‘ undefined,”’ *‘ ill-turned,’’ * false in rhythm and idea,’? was now eulogized for its ‘* sweet metre, exquisite feeling, graceful expres- MAGAZINE -AND LADY’S BOOK. sion, and purity and truth of idea.’ This was al! done with a rapidity of utterance and in a low, moaning voice that prevented interruption, but in the pause between the first and second verse, Mr. Hennet thundered forth, in a voice rendered stronger and sterner by contrast, his adieu to Mrs. Caunter, without deigning a look upon the fair one, who hoped that her enthusiasm and feeling would have predisposed the great critic of the town in her favor. She finished the lyric in a flood of tears; but Mrs. Caunter, as in the former case, came to the conclusion that truth lay be- tween both—that it was neither so bad as repre- sented by the one nor so good as made out by the other. When this young enthusiast departed and Mrs. Caunter was left once more alone, her thoughts reverted to Miss Murray. It would be very un- natural if a mother did not look with considerable anxiety upon the introduction of a young and ac- complished woman into her house when her sons were avowedly ‘looking out.’ That she was young and accomplished was confessed; and she was wondering where her eldest son was all the morning, when the servant announced two gentle- men who had long been the antagonists of the town, determined ultras on their own sides—the % one opposed to all *‘ innovation,’? which was his term for improvement; the other running afte: everything that was new, which was his idea of perfection. Mr. Hamilton was the advocate for railroads, steam engines, factories, education schemes, ma- chinery, universal suffrage and vote by ballot; Mr. Saville, of coach-traveling, hand-looms, re- stricted instruction and close boroughs. One would have no established religion, the other de- clared there was no religion except that establish- ed. Though both well-bred, and, generally speak- ing, kindly persons, they never could be in the same room, even in the society of ladies, for five minutes together, without, not trenching merely, boldly forward but stepping upon debateable ground. Each conceived himself so strong in the right, that he boldly said no rational man could entertain for a moment an opinion in opposition to his, and neither would allow that there could by any possibility be ‘* two sides to a question.”’ Poor Mrs. Caunter was on thorns; she started the weather as a sort of neutral topic upon which there could be no dispute—at least so she thought ; but Mr. Hamilton hinted that even the sunshine seemed influenced by Tory mismanagement, as rain was particularly necessary just then for the poor man’s crop. To this Mr. Saville replied that he was quite of the opposite opinion. This led, of course, to further parley, and the disputants were beginning to ‘sir’? each other, an evidence of increased bitterness, when Mrs. Caunter, who had not time to turn the conversation, boldly started another topic—the stage. This turned out as badly as the former, for one upheld a great tragedian because his politics were

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GOSSIP STINGS 25 known to be liberal, while his opponent ran him down because he was neta Tory. Each referred his proofs, as he considered them, to Mrs. Caunter for approval, until, at last, worn out by their con- tinued clamor, she, in a little fit of irritability, declared that she was weary of argument. Each exclaimed, looking triumphantly at the other, “I do not wonder at it!*? And yet, poor lady, she offended both! She was again left alone, a comfort after so much turmoil. Her thoughts, doubtless, would have reverted to Miss—‘‘ Fanny Murray’’—had not her footman announced that the mistress of a school for the education of poor children, which she had charitably endowed, wished to speak to her. Mrs. Caunter was too just a woman to delay the hearing of a dependent’s cause, and former experience had taught her that it was better in all things connected with her school, to judge for her- self, rightly supposing that Mrs. Cooke had a com- plaint to make of some one or something. The days of dames’ schools are over. of the plain and neatly arranged old woman, at- tired in a snowy cap, whose plaited border fitted over a forehead seamed with many cares, and whose brown-black silk shawl was pinned at the point behind and then tightly confined by the broad tape string of her apron, over which her lean arms folded with geometrical precision, you have a woman rather young than old, active, clever, in- Instead telligent in routine, and understanding, if not the power of ideas, the use of words; as great a mar- tinet in her way as the King of Prussia was in his, and expecting, without regard to the diversity of dispositions, to make all ** her children’? under- stand the same things in the same way and by the same means. Mrs. Cooke entered the presence of her patron- ess with a very different air from that she assumed on entering the pretty school house. ‘I am sorry, ma’am,’’ she said, at the commencement of a slid- ing courtesy, “‘ to intrude upon you, but there are one or two points I wanted youradvice upon. The little girl you placed as a boarder with me has had a pain in her ankle and instep which has made her very lame; so I thought I would just ask Dr. Dodd what I should do with it, and he told me to steep it in bran and water as hot as she could bear it.”? ** Well, Mrs. Cooke ?”” ** Dr. Wellcote, ma’am, was passing by about an hour after Dr. Dodd left, and I was preparing the bran and water. Dr. Wellcote, you know, takes a great interest in the school, so he just looked in, and I thought I would also ask his advice; and he told me on no account, if I valued the child’s limb, to touch it with hot bran and water, but to let it stand in cold brine. If you please, ma’am, whose advice am I to follow? I thought, perhaps, before I did anything for the child, you might like to hear the two opinions yourself.” Mrs. Caunter sighed: the two doctors were as obstinate in their one-sidedness as the gentlemen VOL. XXx111.—3 RAR nnn she had just offended, but before she had deter- mined what to do, Mrs. Cooke continued :— ** And then, ma’am, there is another thing—that weary Alice Allen.” ** Poor Alice !—what is the matter now ?” said Mrs. Caunter. ** Ma’am, she is never still.’’ ** Mere animal spirits; they will wear themselves out if you have a little patience.” *« She breaks off all her strings and buttons.’ ** Does she refuse to sew them on, again ?’’ ** Oh, law, no, ma’am; but then they are off the next minute.’’ Mrs. Caunter smiled ; she knew that Alice Allen had talent and restlessness enough to torment half- a-dozen school teachers, but she also knew she was worth the trouble she gave. **] was very angry with her this morning, ma’am, for I had every reason to believe she told an untruth, and I accused her of it. She told me plainly it was I who lied, (begging your pardon,) and that she would complain of me; and so, ma’am, I thought I might just as well come to you and tell you, for she is, indeed, ma’am, a vicious little minx, and if she is not put down I shall not be able to command the school; they will take ex- ample by her unless you support me.”’ ‘*T shall certainly,”? said Mrs. Caunter, * not permit any child to insult you; and if all you have said is correct, I shall punish Alice severely.” The school-mistress bridled and looked per- plexed; she did not make a deliberate answer, but murmured something about her “ being more worthy of credit than a child.’ ‘* Mrs. Cooke,” replied her patroness, ** when the clerk of the church complained of you, you would have thought me very unjust if I had not listened to your story as well as to his.’’ *€ Oh, ma’am,’’ said Mrs. Cooke, “ that is quite a different case, 1 hope. Snarely there is some difference between me and little Alice Allen ?”? ** There is,’? observed Mrs. Caunter; ** you have a husband, father, sisters and friends; she has no one on earth but me. I undertook to protect her, and I will endeavor to fulfill my duty—until the grave closes over me—to her and to all, and I can only do that by adhering to my country’s laws and hearing both sides of the question.’? *¢ ] am sure, ma’am, I would not tell an untruth of her nor of any one else for the world.” ‘* Intentionally, I believe you would not; but we are al] guilty of unintentional untruths—we all lie to ourselves.’ Mrs. Caunter had overrated poor Mrs. Cooke’s power of comprehension, but she was too much occupied with her own thoughts to perceive it, and continued :— ** You yourself heard that the physicians recom- mended, each, different modes of treatment for the same disease—one saw one side, the other the other. Do you not perceive the analogy ?”’ ** No, ma’am; I perceive nothing but that little minx’s face peeping in at the window; she has had

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GODEY’s 26 the audacity to come on the terrace to try to see you.”’ Mrs. Caunter beckoned the child which she did, trembling and in tears. to advance, **] hear, Alice, that you presumed to tell Mrs. Cooke she said what was not true.’’ Alice replied—*‘ I did, ma’am.”’ ** There !”’ «* That was very wicked, Alice.” exclaimed Mrs. Cooke. ‘* Indeed, ma’am,”’ sobbed the child, *‘ it was true. If you will but hear me I will tell all. She accused me before the whole school of stealing Percill Burton’s apples, and when I denied it, I told the truth, she said I was a story-teller as well as a thief, and I know continued without waiting for me to show then I did say that she was the liar, not me. —I know I was wrong to speak so,” the little girl, with bitter earnestness, ‘‘ but Kate Turner, who took the apples, came forward to clear me, and I was broken-hearted at being told I was a thief and a story-teller before the school.” ** You who was very apt to speak her own thoughts with- see, Mrs. Cooke,’ said Mrs. Caunter, out considering whether they were or were not suited to the comprehension of the person she ad- dressed, “there are two sides to every question. I have never seen the proverb more strongly illus- trated than to-day—in low life, in physic, in po- litics, in literature ; and before night comes I may have examples in law, in divinity, in art, in all things; so that it becomes us all to see both sides, to hear both sides before we determine which is right or which is wrong.’’ ‘*] am sure, ma’am, when I said she had stolen ” + Caunter— the apples I had proof she had done so. Mrs. And above all things it is ne- *<One-sided proof,’ observed ** one-sided proof. cessary to hear both sides in childish quarrels, or fail to and love of justice. you impress children with a knowledge There must be no ex parte statement in a school-room; the effect without the cause, Mrs. Cooke, is not justice. But nothing should have urged Alice to use such language ; she must apologize, and you—follow me into the next room.”’ What passed there is of no particular import to Mrs. Caunter talked a great deal to the school-mistress, one-half of which she did not un- my story. derstand ; but she did fully comprehend that her patroness convinced her that there was no use in coming to her with a one-sided story, as she meant in this and in every case to investigate for herself, and that if a second attempt were made to develop (as she called it) only partial truth, she would be under the necessity of obtaining a less partial Thus it is evident that Mrs. Caunter, in matters where she was not personally concerned, teacher. had a clear, crystaline mind and a strong love of justice. She was impartial as far as, perhaps far- ther than, most women; she was benevolént and beneficent; her mental organization was well pro- portioned, healthy and active. She was fond of analyzing, and enjoyed the greatest luxury, the MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. greatest strengthener and the greatest advantage a thoughtful mind can enjoy—hours of solitude ; time not only to investigate the thoughts and mo- tives of others, which, however interesting, is rather painful and curious than pleasant or profit- able, but time—oh, how precious and valuable! —to be with herself, to analyze herself, to live over the past with all the advantages of the pre- sent. She had ample time and quiet for all this. Her delicacy of health gave her the delicious privi- lege of being alone exactly when she pleased, and her position in society the power of calling all she This is the most enviable position in which a human being desired around her in a few moments. can be placed, and Mrs. Caunter was by no means so ill as not to enjoy it. Still it is extraordinary that the most clear-sighted persons, those who can look the events in which they are not personally concerned, with firmest and steadiest eyes upon who can judge, and weigh, and investigate, and compare all they hear and see; who have time, even as this lady paramount had, to see into them- selves; who are as much aware as she was that we unwarily * lie unto ourselves’’—is it not extra- ordinary that while we know we are self-deceivers, we persist in a course which our lips most elo- quently condemn? Despite Mrs. Johnes’ enco- miums on Fanny Murray, despite her utter and entire contempt for Mrs. Spooner and her highly- seasoned scandal, despite her determination to be- heve that the young Fanny was neither the angel painted by the one nor the mental and bodily fright depicted by the other—despite, I say, her resolve to believe that Fanny Murray was a clever, pleas- ing, blue-eyed girl, with chestnut hair and a com- plexion of mingled rose and lily, gifted with an unusual quantity of accomplishments even in these days of display, of which she was not selfish—de- spite all this, when she had dismissed her protégée with much kind counsel, and told the footman that she should not be at home for the rest of the d LY, she could not avoid wishing most sincerely that neither Edward nor Harold should see Miss Mur- ray before she had an opportunity of putting them on their guard. Not that she had anything to say against the young lady—oh, no, nothing; but they were tired of all the girls in the neighborhood, had a mortal antipathy to the red elbows and un- der-bred, over-sized hands of the fair Spooners, declared the only difference in the young ladies all around existed in the fact that some wore blue and others pink, and that she feared any pleasant, amusing, unaffected, lady-like girl, would captivate them both. the belief that it was the fear lest both should be captivated by the same lady (and then who knows She absolutely reasoned herself into what might happen ?) that made her so anxious to put them on their guard. Had any one whispered to that usually clear-headed and stately lady, at- tired in the half sables of a long widowhood, as she reclined in her fauteuil of crimson velvet—if any one had whispered to her that “ it was the de- spised poison of Mrs. Spooner’s small talk that

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GOssIP ——eeeeer PLP PPP LLP LPP was curdling the free and generous current of her °° thoughts,’? she would have spurned them as she did her footstool when reading a line from her son Edward, saying that they were both going to dine in a friendly way-at John Lilly’s, “to meet Miss Murray in a friendly way” at the house of her friend and cousin, who, of course, knew how to set her off to the best advantage before the ‘* two best matches in the county !”” A ‘friendly dinner,’? indeed! admitting of all the ease and delicacy of a demi-toilette, which an ** artful girl’? knows how to use gracefully—surely some one had said ‘* Miss Murray was artful.” But this was not all ;—at ten o’clock Harold sent for the in for his flute, and at eleven Edward music of **I Puritani.’? It had struck one before the young gentlemen returned home, and to their real sorrow—for they loved their mother tenderly She did not like to betray her anxiety on the subject by —they found she had sat up for them. asking their opinion of Miss Murray, and a certain something prevented Harold—who, though the youngest, was the news-te!ller—from saying a word about the young lady ; and Edward, seeing that his brother had absolutely, calm and quiet though he was, fallen truly in love with the fair stranger, spared any observations from kindness to him—so the trio parted in a constrained manner. **T see,” thought Mrs. Caunter; *‘ Mrs. Spooner, vulgar though she is, and prejudiced, I dare say, still she was right upon one point. I am sure that Miss Murray is one of your keen, clever girls.” How dangerous is the scratch of a poisoned arrow! Miss Murray was, in reality, neither the de- formity described by Mrs. Spooner nor the perfec- tion represented by Mrs. Johnes. She was an affectionate, unaffected, gentle girl, with the capa- bility of remaining firm and steadfast in a good cause, and yet had the power of adapting herself to the ways and manners of those with whom she associated. The neighborhood she had just en- tered was new and amusing to her in every respect. She had spent her early days in the deep and holy retirement of a country house, where right thoughts A two years’ residence in London had generalized her and right feelings had time to take root. ideas without impairing their strength, and render- ed her, perhaps, inclined to laugh at the petty in- tolerance and overweening vanity of such as imag- Yet her laugh was so musical of good nature that it was as pleasant to the heart as to the ear, and if Mrs. Spooner’s observations had not been circulated, ine a country town to be *‘ the world.” Fanny Murray would have been decidedly as po- pular as the favorite candidate is always before his election. But I have not met in a score, per- haps not one person in a hundred, who, however convinced of the worthlessness of the source from which an evil report springs, can, nevertheless, disabuse his or her mind at once of its influence, and be in feeling as if the evil had never tainted the heart. tues, and the more we feel inclined to doubt the We all want faith in each other's vir- 27 STINGS. ~~. “ PRAPL LPL LD LDA LALLA truth or purity or justice of our fellows, so much the more should we feel inclined to doubt the truth and purity and justice of our own hearts. Mrs. Caunter was not far out in her judgment when she thought that both her sons would most likely be captivated, at least for a time, by the Edward was won by her playing and Harold by her singing, and both by her general fascination. Edward, grave and sedate by nature, and full of the dignity new face that had come amongst them. ; of **the son and heir,’ the light-hearted mirth that paid no respect to his ‘¢ position in society,’? and seemed to think all his was somewhat piqued by attentions were matters of course, while Harold, the youngest, was touched by the deep-toned feel- ing not only of her voice but conversation, which replied to his accomplished words as if she appre- ciated the mind of a younger as fully as that of an elder brother. Mrs. Caunter by breakfast time had regulated her ideas so as to draw forth those of her sons, Edward replied to her question thus—** Yes, cer- tainly, a lovely and a clever girl—and she knows 8.7? *¢ Well,”? exclaimed Harold, ** I wonder you can say so; I think her the most unconscious girl of her own merits I ever met. And did vou see how she endeavored to draw Miss Lumley out without thinking of herself?’ ‘* Miss Lumley! she knew very well Miss Lum- ley was little more than a foil to her in every re- spect,’? answered Edward, stirring his chocolate more rapidly than usual, and looking, his mother thought, more bitterly than she had ever seen him look before. ** Miss Murray is not the sort of a girl to need a foil, consequently would hardly calculate upon its necessity,’’? replied Harold, while his eyes flashed fire. ° ‘¢ Gently, my dear boy,’’ said his mother; ** gen- tly: surely Edward must understand motives better than you.’ , oh] ‘* Pray, do not call Harold ‘ boy,’ mother,’ ob- served Edward; ‘‘I assure you he made love to Miss Murray last night in anything but a boyish manner.’? ‘¢ Now, Ned,” laughed the younger, somewhat triumphantly, ‘that is envy. You know very well you were piqued at my success with our new beauty.”’ Edward unfolded the newspaper and folded it again, muttering something which his mother did not hear and which made Harold’s eyes again flash fire. Mrs. Caunter remained silent: more than once Mrs. Spooner’s slanders rose to her lips, but her sense of justice prevented her giving them voice, and she quietly resolved to see for herself; and if Miss Murray dared to aspire to her eldest son, or become foolish enough to think of her younger, then—then—why, then, despite all Mrs, Caunter’s sound sense and observation, and right thinking on points where her own personal interest was not concerned, then, indeed, I very much fear

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE 2s she would incline to Mrs. Spooner’s side of the As to Harold, of course, Mrs. Caunter thought it was very question instead of that of Mrs. Johnes. likely he might fall in love; and if he did, so much , the better—it kept “* boys’? out of mischief; and neither Edward nor herself seemed to have an idea that the slight, graceful, enthusiastic youth, whose fair curling hair and bright blue eyes took three or four years off his appearance, would really be two-and-twenty his next birthday. All the gossips in the town and its immediate neighborhood —and in a country town who are not gossips ?—were alive with how the two Mr. Caunters had spent the evening at Mrs. Lilly’s, and how both admired Miss Murray; and it was won- derful to see how Mrs. Spooner, upon being told this at a very early hour by good-natured, inju- dicious Mrs. Johnes, declared, while every hair on her head bristled with indignation, “* that Mrs. Johnes must have been misinformed ; that she had every reason to know better; that Mrs. Caunter had teo much good sense to trust her sons within the vortex of a syren—a girl without a penny, whose very expectations were involved.”’ Mrs. Johnes, dear, kind, pretty Mrs. Johnes, at this shook the ringlets round her rosy cheeks, de- clared that Miss Murray was ‘a fortune’? as well as “a beauty,” and that as Mrs. Spooner doubted her assertion, she would go straight to Mr. Lilly’s house of business and have his authority for con- tradicting the statement. Then Mrs. Spooner de- termined to accompany Mrs. Johnes on her em- bassy, which Mrs. Johnes said, tartly enough, ** she might if she liked.’? And so the ladies set forth—hardly together, for Mrs. Spooner, imme- diately after their exit, strode across the street, as she said, to put a letter into the post-office; and they bobbed their parasols at opposite sides the entire length of the way, until they came to a square called the Grass Market, where Mr. Lilly lived, and then Mrs. Johnes was obliged to cross over to Mrs. Spooner, as his house was on her side of the way. The ladies found the man of law at home and at his desk, and very much astonished he was as his fair visitors, interrupting each other while they stated their wishes in a confused and incoherent style, feeling for the first time that they were act- ing in a very impertinent, unjustifiable manner, The solicitor was a person held in high respect, for he prying into any one’s pecuniary resources, AND LADY’S BOOK. was very rich; he was also a suave man, clear- sighted, and aware of the value of silence. ** You told Mr. Spooner, my dear sir, that Miss Murray’s expectations were involved,” said Mrs. Spooner. ** 1 do not remember saying so, my dear lady,”? he replied ; ‘* but all expectations are involved— in doubt, you know.”? ** But, sir, all I wish you to say is, that Miss Murray has a fortune, that she is independent!’ *© You know all about her, and, of course, know that this is the case; exclaimed Mrs. Johnes. and reports to her disadvantage have been so maliciously spread abroad’*—(a glance at Mrs. Spooner, which Mrs. Spooner returned with com- pound interest, and a question, *‘ What do you mean by that?”? which made their unwilling host exclaim, ** Ladies—ladies !*? while both the ladies turned to him to set the matter right.) ‘*T assure you, Mrs. Spooner, that either your husband misunderstood my words or you misun- derstood his. I have studiously avoided, though very closely questioned as to Miss Murray’s posi- tion, making any reply. In fact, I am so placed as to be totally bound in honor not to give an answer to either; so, as to the fact of her being rich or poor, there—there must, for some time, at least, be evil report and good report concerning the matter.” **T told you so, madam,” said Mrs. Spooner, as the clerk closed the door, while her face glowed between the bands of her black hair like fire in a bath stove—‘‘ I told you so. Of course, if the girl had a penny he’d be glad enough to say so.”’ ** Not at all—not at al],”* said Mrs. Johnes; *‘ he has the best reasons for keeping the amount of her fortune a secret, poor thing: every mother with half-grown sons would be endeavoring to trap her immediately.”? . Mrs. Spooner had “ half-grown” sons, and con- sequently it was no wonder that hard words— words harder than blows, followed this insinuation. Miss Murray’s wealth or poverty, beauty or plain- ness, accomplishments or ignorance, became the engrossing topic of the day; and like many others, the bitterness of her enemies rather than her own claims to that species of distinction, brought her into notice. Edward still at Mrs. Lilly’s—Harold continually, Edward by fits and Harold visited and starts. (To be continued.)

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THE SOLITARY

Tue felon sat in his dungeon deep, Weary and wretched and lone, With nothing his company sad to keep sut those four walls of stone; There And one on either side, as one behind and one before,

That met below to form his floor, And above the sun to hide. Andt With his head bowed low on his knee, ere he sat in nis narrow room, Thinking, in lonely, desolate gioom, Of the hour when he was free— VW he oud on his ear a cannon boomed, the and gay, W ith music To te the doomed in his liv ro the world to ng tomb ‘twas a fesial day. And he heard the music’s loud note drowned

in th oyous and noisy shout That came to his ear, with a sickening sound, From the light, w | troop without; And his he grew sick at thet ght that he, Though he lived for a lifetime long, Might never be free again to see hat happy and thoughtless throng. For ten long years had rolls As each ney buried 2d around, ‘ fetime long, isa him here above the gcroun ind him with fetter Or even had he¢ For none there were who ever « To.sneer at a felon’s shi: < me to his list And all that came os ening ear, ice he had been shut in there,

To tell } His Ww As the foo nis ¢ he And the weary Of one that he never knew. m that somethil was near as the ja rew— ry tread, heard faint o’erhead And oftentimes when his wearied soul ad sought, but had sought in vain, the sound of the j: l’s toll, Gainst the wal! he would clank his chain, And wonder why the sound which fell More harsh ipon the ear Than the wailing knell of a funeral bell, Ilo him shou!d be so dear. And oft he thought, in sorrow and tears If aught in the world remained As things had been. in earlier years, Before he was prisoned and chained If stood there still the cliff which rose To shadow his cottage home: d rose If t woodbine with In rows the sweet w the glens where he used to roam CONVICT. If still the sun shone fair and bright If the rose still had perfume: And if Of the soft and chastening moon: earth ever basked in the silvery light If the birds still warbled as gay and sweet In the groves and hedges of thorn: I men still greet as friends they meet, Or pass with a look forlorn: If mother and sire were still on earth For his brothers and sisters to care, Aud if As in earlier d And if With her calm and heavenly smile, ever they gathered around their hearth, iys, for prayer ; ever that mother, as long ago, When bending low her God before, ber prayed him to bless her cl

If she to whom his heart still ciung

As a son’s to his mother must cling, lad ever yet had her kind breast wr By knowing the abject thing That he had become—the dearest of a!! The children she called her own,— Or if his fall had cast grief’s pall O’er the peace her heart had known And he thor t he saw her pallid cheek

Grow dayly more sunken and pale,

ottering form grow wasted and weak i eyesight dali a Till str&ken at last re fata ow No human skill could save That head of snow from lying low In the cold hallowed grave. And he wondered if she to whom in youth So often he reathed his vows, Had clung to him s W er spirit’s tr Or had sunk ath woes Which woman’s heart must ever feel When those around whom ‘tis twined, And whose fair name, thought free from stain All blackened and viie they find. Or it might be her vows were lightly made, As words that were carelessly spoken, And soon by another her tears were stayed, other those vows were broken; Fora But the thought was worse than to know her dead p quivered with pain, buried his head As he And strove n his wretched bed yot to think again But now the music came light and gay, And the shout of the rabble crowd And the horseman’s tramp on the stony way, A Andt Pill ity Nor recked Lay ux ud the roar of the cannon loud ; 1e song of triumph rose shrill and clear, erced tha tone, that prison dre t made moa 90 ~.

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GODEY’S MAGAZINE 30 Shout, shout away”—he muttered as low As despair can make man’s voice— “ Be joy mus and giad if aught you know At which you may still rejoice; For your hours of pleasure may be like mine, On quick wing fleeting away, Mid the dungeon’s slime you too may pine Ere another festal day once more to pass that door— broad snnlight— : dungeon-floor— oO castmy sigh - rain on a@ human tace, | to grasp a human hand, Though I saw no place but a desert waste, And none but a hostile band— } To be free once more to gaze and roam Over the tace of my mother earth, Though I never should see my once-loved home, Or vi Would be better, oh! better t sit the land of my birth— an what I bear In this endless and living grave, Where my flesh I tear in very despair, And nothing but death can save AND L ADY’sS BOOK. “Oh God! once more for the open air— For an hour from this prison free— To leave this dungeon so cold and bare, Though it were for the gallows-tree— To meet and mingle with man again, Though not a friend was nigh, And the crowd that came made sport and game Alt seeing a felon die. “Butoh! my grief must shortly end, For endurance’ fire And the s} *Neath too heavy a load of woe; is low, rit strong begins to bend Already wild thoughts will o’er me ste With And I can feel my warped brain reel, And madness wrap my soul.” a power that I cannot control, * * > * _ * The morning came—and the felon still Remained in his gloomy cell— But the limb was palsied, the brow was ch And the sweat-drops heavily fell; And the eye Around on the walls of stone— s gleaming with vacant g/ar But no more care had he to bear, For reasou had lett its throne.—J. AID LIL OC mm CAROLINE. BELOVED and sainted sister! what can earth give to me Since thou art gone, the object of my heart’s idolatry! Thou wert my guide to heaven—oh! who will lead me now? Where shall I find another, a lovelier than thou? Twas a sad day, sweet sister, when, many months ago, We heard a tale of gladness, that filled our hearts with woe ; When we knew that to a stranger thy pure young love When, for the first time, dearest, our household ties were riven But true love is not selfish, and thou wert happier far With him whose fond affection was thy bright, guiding star; And though we missed thee sadly, yet in a little while The life smiie came back into our hearts, and to our lips the rhen followed welcome letters—’twas almost joy to part, When absence brought such treasures from thine own guileless heart; For though new objects claimed thee, thou never didst forget The loved and loving circles, where thou art cherished yet! Still, though we could not murmur, sad thoughts would often come, As we looked happy home ; Thou wert its sunbeam, sister, and through the long, long around and missed thee from our once day, How could we but feel lonely when thou wert far away? But oh! this transient sadness, we feel twas happiness— That parting scene was gladness, was joy, compared with this; My sister! oh! my sister! how could I bear to think rhat of this bitter, biter cup I was so soon to drink? It was a day of darkness, that my sou! doth yet retain, When we knew that on thy living face we ne’er shou look again *T was my first, only sorrow, descending like a blight O’er a!l my young imaginings, all o’er my hopes so bright; And thou art gone, sweet sister—and must | never hear That gentle voice soft plead ng in my oft careless ear? Alas! One word from those dear lips, now hushed—and I must none know how sadly my spirit yearns to gain long in vain! Oh! none who have not truly mourned can know the dreary feeling That often in my solitude comes o’er my sad heart stealing; When I think that thou, my gentle guide in every good endeavor, Hast passed away from sense and sin, from this dark world for ever But as I muse, all lonely, far better thoughts will come, When I lift my eyes to heaven, thy bright and glorious home ; I know thou’rt there, my sister, amid that happy throng, Thy lovely face more beautiful, thy voice in strains of song. And [ would not recall thee —thou art with Jesus now; I would not rend the halo from off thy angel brow; ; to look to Him who loveth, And I do try submissively Who only in his mercy our idols hence removeth. Perhaps we loved too fondly, and lest our hearts should siray, God took thee, dearest sister, from our fond eyes away. We will not blindly murmur, as those who know Him not, “ He chasteneth whom he loveth,” would we then be for- got! We will not mourn as hopeless, yet we can ne’er forget The thousand winning actions that linger round us yet; se to love thee, far distant as thou art— We will not cez Thy loveliness is living in every saddened heart. Oh! let us but remember the lessons thou hast given, footsteps, meet thee at last in heaven M. H. R. And, treading in u

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MY JOURNAL. BY HORTENSE LE H——. Yes, my journal, to thee will I confide my thoughts—on thy page will I transcribe my plea- sures, my sufferings, my temptations and my guilt—all originating, as they always do, in our own hearts. I can tell thee all, even while my heart is bursting with its bitter recollections, and never fear reproof or contempt. I look not upon thee as so much paper and ink, but as some living, breathing being. I have impersonated thee with a vitality and a character that make thee my inti- mate confidant and friend; and those thoughts which would hide themselves from the very brain that gave them birth, shall be held up as a mirror to thy face and thou shalt reflect them truly. I am a coquette—naturally and thoroughly. More—a married coquette. Oh, miserable spirit of coquetry!—a curse—a curse—a curse! ‘The coquette, with her longing for admiration, her envy of all who even momen- tarily eclipse her, and the restless seeking for ex- citement, together with the repentance, shame and remorse that follow in the train of her pleasures, carries in her bosom a more ingenious tormentor than was ever found in the inquisitorial halls of Spain. I will describe myself;—I must be my own heroine. Do not think me egotistical, dear J.: this mode of writing necessarily has that ap- pearance. [ cannot avoid it; I cannot write in the third person. The incidents that I shall relate, the feelings describe, and the faults confess, belong to myself. I can attribute them to no other. I should blunder were I to equivocate. But to my description. I am rather above than below the medium height; dark complexion, (I hate a blonde—it speaks of imbecility, mental and physical, and scrofula;) eyes of what color I know not—black, blue, green and gray have been at- tributed to them; but they answer my purpose— the purpose of a coquette—admirably. I should be weaponless were it not for them. I have no beauty. So much for my person. For my head, whatever it may contain inwardly, it is covered without with long dark curls. The curling pro- pensity is spontaneous. I should soon weary of the nightly toil and morning dishabille attendant on forced ringlets. For my tastes, I love beauty— physical beauty. I worship intellect—ay, even in Satan, as I see it represented in paintings and poetry. I can sympathize with the feelings that induced Robert Burns to carry a copy of Milton’s ** Paradise Lost” in his pocket, that he might study the character of Milton’s devil. For my heart, it is naturally large and warm; it sends out a thousand feelers, and would embrace all within its affections but for an ever-watchful sen- tinel—Pride—that draws it back within itself, through fear of its love being unappreciated or un- reciprocated. But I have peopled its chambers with many an object, inanimate to others but im- bued by my fancy with life and love. I have an old clock—it was my father’s and his father’s. Its plain old face, I fancy the face of a friend looking kindly down on me. ‘The ticking of its pendulum is to me the workings of a heart that beats for me alone. Its hands point out to me the moments as they pass, and say, ‘‘ beware of misspent time.” Its somewhat ostentatious striking of the hours warns me that I have one less to live. Why should I not love it? It lives and labors for only me. It occupies a nook in my little library—an apartment sacred to my use, into which even my husband enters not without the ceremony of a knock—yet it is as faithful and punctilious as though performing its functions before a critical multitude. Oh that I were as true and faithful and as free from an unhealthy longing for admira- tion and excitement as my good old friend—my clock! And my music-box—the little mystery ;— it is a beautiful thing. It was the gift of my hus- band on our last wedding-day. It plays a dozen tunes: they all speak to me of the love that gave the little musician for my enjoyment; and as I silently listen to its melody, I could clasp the little creature to my heart, were it not for the foolish- ness of the act, and bless it for its sweet tones. I often think that my music-box, with all its mys- terious workmanship hid beneath a calm, quiet external, yet busy, busy, busy, resembles my own heart. There is this difference—one is ail harmony, much discord in the other. And my books—that feed both heart and head, that are the very life of my life—how much do I not owe them? What care I though excluded from the companionship of the rich and the great? ‘‘ lf Milton will cross my threshold and sing to me of Paradise, and Shakspeare open for me the myste- rious volume of the human heart,” and Scott with his inexhaustible genius will still delight, instruct and exalt my fancy, I am rich and great myself. My well-stuffed easy chair, that adds so much to my daily comfort; my splendid writing-desk, the gift of one early loved and early lost, replete with everything for my use that the most thoughtful affection could supply; the table at which I sit, each and everything have a place in my affection and remembrance. For my situation, I have resided in the family of my uncle since my early orphanage. My Cousin 31

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GODEY'’S§ 32 Ellen, their eldest daughter, is my favorite com- panion of all their large family. To be sure, three of the sons have been or fancied themselves in love with me—two at the same time—and I shame to think of the arts and deceptions practiced upon them—deceptions in actions only, never in words, but none the less deceit. It required all my gene- ralship to keep them both assured of my regard, yet ignorant of the other’s claim to it. Their business avocations afforded facilities for my de- They were both engaged in their father’s It was kept open till late in the evening; and as the business of attending the store during those hours, usually devoted to social intercourse and pleasure, was equally irksome to both my lovers, they alternately relieved each other of the I fear I could not have managed them both together. The excitement attending the overcoming of difficulties that dayly, almost hourly, presented themselves, was pleasant to me, besides a real pleasure I always feel in being the object of any one’s love, whether I can reciprocate the affection or no. But I wearied of my sport and of the thraldom to which it subjected my naturally inde- pendent mind; and it required all my skill in tactics to preserve my neutral ground and to effect a retreat honorably and gracefully. I hope they have not since made confidants of each other. Methinks it would effectually eradicate any linger- ing regard they may feel for me. I had been three years a wife: the novelty of my situation, the unceasing attentions and devotion of my husband, and the love I really felt for him, filled my cup with happiness. But the spirit of coquetry, though it may slumber, never dies ;—it awoke in my heart but the stronger for its long rest. It was in the warm days of summer. I had been greatly debilitated ;—my husband insisted on my obtaining medical advice. He accordingly, at the recommendation of my uncle, engaged the services of Dr. George N——, whose father was the intimate and early friend of my relative. He was a young physician, who had just commenced practicing on the good people of our good city, probably with the view of correcting any errors in theory that he might have adopted, and to render himself perfect in his art—for practice tends to this end, namely, to make perfect. I had seen this Dr. N once, though he had never seen me. He was a handsome, fair-haired young man, with very blue eyes. He had enjoyed every advantage of education that time and money could bestow; had spent the last five years in Europe in, as he termed it, perfecting himself. He was quite a linguist, had much learning, but, as I afterwards found, little wisdom. He had an overweening opinion of his own acquirements, I of his uncommon advan- tages. I anticipated some profit from his erudition, and some pleasant excitement from our intercourse, which I left to my management to continue as long as I received pleasure from it; and as neither profit nor pleasure is to be had here without some return sign. store. onerous duty. MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. on the part of the recipient, I resolved I would become to him something more than an ordinary patient; I would flatter him by my preference and deference—in short, I was determined to win, though it were impossible to wear the jewel of his heart. I therefore consented that the young phy- siciary should be summoned; and when, by my re- quest, my uncle introduced him into my library, I was struck with the innocent, child-like expression of his face. The thoughts that had but now formed themselves into a settled plan of action, caused the blood to rush to my cheek and deprived my eyes of their usual powers of endurance. He shook me kindly by the hand, and seated himself by me on the sofa. I really felt the confusion I showed, and I cannot now but with an effort raise my eyes to his face. I had set my heart on subduing him; I believe I was somewhat subdued myself. He touched my burning cheek, and said he thought he perceived some febrile symptoms. He felt my pulse. It takes a long time for a young doctor to feel a young lady’s pulse. He held my hand so long and looked at his watch so intently, that I was almost fain toask him if there were no second- hand to his repeater, thinking he might be count- ing the pulsations by the quarter of an hour. But at length he desisted from both occupations, and thinking he had arrived at the very acme of a cor- rect calculation, I asked him concerning his dis- coveries. It was his turn to be confused. ‘* Why, really,” he stammered, and again took my hand and drew out his watch, and in a minute The ex- He wrote pronounced my pulse ‘‘ rather excited.” citement, thought I, is at least mutual. a prescription and took his departure. A long and dangerous sickness followed. For months I was confined to my bed. He visited me dayly with most untiring kindness and interest. He preached me many a clinical lecture, more agreeably interesting, I suspect, than such lectures usually are. The effect of these interviews on me was visible even to my old nurse, who would peer at me over her glasses, and exclaim—‘‘ You always have a fever turn after the doctor has gone—and, indeed, I believe it begins while he is here. It is strange,” she would continue, as she approached me more closely, expatiating on the redness and heat of my cheeks and the vivacity of my eyes; ‘‘I don’t see through it.” I could have enlightened you, good nurse. The weakness of my body had communicated itself to my mind and heart, and I could not resist as I could have done in health the fascinations of his kindness and tenderness of manner. I attach- ed an undue importance to his dayly visits: they were an epoch in my day, the green spot in the desert—either side was a blank or filled with an- ticipations and remembrances. There was no music to my ears like the sound of his footsteps ascending the stairs, and nothing that caused such a throb of pleasure as his gentle knock at my chamber door. I knew that he sometimes saw this. He one day laid his hand on the anatomical

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MY JOURNAL. 33 region of my heart, and exclaimed, (looking at me the same time, for I felt his eyes, though I saw them not)—‘‘ Why, how your heart beats ; it goes pit-pat like a frightened bird, and your face is as red and feverish ;—it was not so when I came in.”? If this was meant to calm the throbbings of my heart or cool the fever of my cheeks it signally failed of its purpose. I was provoked with the weakness that had thus exposed my feelings, and impatient, too, of the irresistible influence which his presence always had to fetter my tongue and my eyes; I was determined to wage war on this I raised my eyes boldly, and was about to reprove him for his impertinent in- invisible bondage. quisitiveness, but he had bent his face aver me with such a concentration of expression, which I cannot even now define, as to cause an instant ces- sation of arms on my part. I was fain to beat a retreat as quickly as possible. It was in the letter of truth, though in the spirit of falsehood, that I answered my Cousin Ellen’s query of—‘‘ How do you like the appearance of your young physician ?”’ ‘** Indeed, I should not know him were I to meet him in the street,’ said I carelessly. ““Why, you unfeeling woman!” said she, laughing. Ah, Cousin Ellen, it was no lack of feeling, but excess ! He would often bring his prescriptions in his pocket in the very agreeable form of an interesting book, or in his head, and deal them out to me as I This latter mode of administering either anodynes or stimu- lants, as the case required, whether recognized or wished, in beautifully recited poetry. not in the Pharmacopa@ia, was certainly very ef- fective. I was at length, after a three months’ confinement to my bed, able to be dressed. The first morning after this somewhat wearying opera- tion had been performed, I was reclining on the same couch and dressed in the same manner (in a crimson wrapper open at the throat) as when I re- ceived the first visit from young Dr. N . J was momentarily expecting him. I waited not My heart kept pace in its beatings with his approach, and when he knocked at the door of my library, it seemed striving to leap from my bosom to meet him. ** Why, Laura,” exclaimed he, (it was the first long; I heard his ring at the street door. time he had called me by my name,) in tones of glad and affectionate surprise, ‘‘ you look now as when I first saw you.” They were simple words—‘‘ but words are well when he that speaks them pleases them that hear.” He seated himself by me, and drew me towards him. ‘* But you are a hundred fold dearer now than then,”? he murmured. ** Hush—hush!*? exclaimed I. I did not wish him to commit himself; I did not wish to feel obliged to discontinue our intercourse altogether, as I knew I ought if it should result in any serious declaration like this. But he was not at all intimi- dated. ‘*T love you, Laura,’ he continued, more earn- estly still, ‘‘ truly, dearly.” And when I should have repulsed him firmly, decidedly, I merely whispered in his ear that was bent towards me—‘‘ Do not, doctor, I entreat you, do not say anything that must separate us.” It was with an effort that I pronounced these words. I did not wish to crush his hopes alto- gether. ‘*Call me George, dearest—call me George,” was his only reply. He seemed not to heed my prohibition, but my formal manner of address. I was satisfied with having pronounced it. He sat by me long that morning, and when I look back on those hours which were then so pleasant to me, I re- member in bitterness of spirit the price I paid for them. I think on the grave of my husband, and mourn with unavailing regret the kind and gentle heart I thus thoughtlessly cast from me. I live but to weep, a prey to remorse and repentance that came too late. But I was happy then. With one hand he held mine, and the other was wandering amid my hair. He had been begging a curl of me. ‘* Ah, this one that nestles so lovingly behind your ear—give me this one,”’ said he, holding it apart from its fellows, ‘‘and I will promote it to a place near my heart.’’ I did not see which one he touched, and I am glad I did not. I laughed and shook my head so quickly that the curls flew about like a flock of startled pigeons. ‘* Ah,” said I, ‘‘ you have not that delicacy of feeling that Mr. Willis gives one of his heroes. He would have a tress of hair, but he would not have it severed—oh, no! he would have it dedi- cated to him in the heart of its fair owner, dressed for him, cared for for his sake, and when the wind wafted it against her cheek, it should be to her the breathings of his voice, the kiss of his love.’? ‘*T am too mundane for that,’ said he, laughing. ‘But, nevertheless’”—and he seemed singling out one which should be thus dedicated to him. ‘* No, no,” said I, and removed my head farther from him. Amidst this playful rencounter we heard the step of my husband on the library stairs. He started—I started, but not outwardly; my blood leaped to my heart as if to recall its guilty wander- ings. He pressed my hand, left one long, burning kiss upon it, and with the single word ‘‘ farewell,” left my room by one door as my husband entered by another. My husband looked very pale and sad, as, indeed, he had for some time past. I don’t know why I should have connected in my mind his dejected appearance with Dr. N , 8 My intellect was probably brightened by my conscience. I never dreamed that he suspected me. I would not willingly have wounded his heart fora moment. His external appearance was visits. of that quiet, calm nature, which I, in my nervous enthusiasm of feeling, could never help couplirg with indiflerence, or at least a lack of that ardor

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GODEY’S 34 which was necessary to keep my own love bright and warm. But his was the quiet of deep waters. My own experience of his unfailing and unwearied kindness should have taught me differently. It did. As I noticed for the first time particularly the heart-broken expres- I knew he doated on me. sion of his face, I bitterly reproached myself for the wrong I had done him. He must have felt this wrong in some change, unconscious to myself, of my manner to him. Perhaps he observed, as did my nurse, the bright eye and blushing cheek that the docter ever left behind him, and more acute than she, attributed them to the right cause. I resolved I would quit this foolish, dangerous path I had been so long treading—I would lose the passing pleasures of coquetry for the certain joys of happy wedded love. In a few days Doctor N called again. He He kissed my forehead, and when I forcibly released myself from was more importunate than ever. his embrace, he knelt at my feet and implored me in the most passionate language to be his. I was terrified at his vehemence. ** Yours ?”’ said I. I am the wife of another.” I cared not now how soon his hopes were crushed. sé ‘* Be mine-—be mine,” said he, ‘‘ in love, though his in name!’? And when I should have spurned him from my feet—should have spurned had I consulted but my own inclinations—I but pushed back his hair from his childish brow, and bade him rise and cease his pleadings. When he had left me I paced my room in im- potent anger; I scorned myself for the part I had ‘The bitterest pang a proud spirit can feel, I, who acted. the pang of lost self-respect, was mine. had always valued my own opinion of myself more than that of any one else, how had I fallen! That I should live to be so insulted! I could have put out mine eyes that they had looked on him so kindly. I could have torn out my tongue that it had spoken so calmly when it should have heaped coals of fire upon his head. I could have bitten my lips that had left open the gate through which MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. those weak, wavering words had escaped. I cursed my heart for the cowardly impulse it had afforded my actions. I threw myself on my couch and wept for sheme and mortification for many an hour. But my thoughts were soon turned into another painful channel. My husband became so emaciated and debilitated as to be unable to leave his room. He resisted for a long time our entreaties that. he would take medicine or medical advice. ‘* A doctor has caused this sickness—no doctor can cure it,’”’ said he one day to me. I did not then understand him. Dr. N I would have proposed some other physician, for now I never wished to see Dr. N But I felt that I could not make a change without assigning some reason, and I was not prepared to do this. He came, and after long and reflection he left the room. I » ask his opinion. Said he—‘‘I He pressed my hand and whispered lower—‘' We may be happy yet.” was, however, summoned. again. examiunation followed him t do , can nothing for him.’ I shook my hand from his grasp as though it had been the touch of a serpent. Without a word, I left him and returned to my husband. I threw myself on the bed in an agony of tears. Every wandering thought and affection came rushing back to my dying husband, clinging with double tenacity that they were so soon to be severed from him. I never wish to Ah, how happy was I till I warmed that serpent in my bosom that so cruelly stung me! But I blame myself—myself. week’s time my heart had If sincere repentance, if long-continued I never saw Dr. N—— after. see him; I never will see him. In one husband’s broken. and unceasing sorrow and regret can wash away my guilt, then are my sins, though they were as scarlet, become whiter than snow. My eyes are dimmed with tears, my cheeks I long for the I long for that meeting in another world when my husband, for- blanched with remorse and grief. grave as for a quiet resting-place. getting the suffering and wrong sustained here at my hand, shall fold to his breast his loving and beloved one. NOD Wy ODD A BIRTH-DAY SONG BY MISS A. A sone for thy birth-day! A song full of glee! For brightly life’s streamlet Flows onward for thee. Above it are branches, W hose fruits never : On its banks are sweet flow’rets Perfuming the gale, Which *Mid music and mirth: s wafting thee onward 4 song for thy birth-day! A song full of mirth! -—FOR A D. DEAR CHILD. WOODBRIDGE. A song for thy birth-day! A song from the heart! Ah! The feelings which start litte thou knowest From the heart’s hidden fountains They linger above, Around, as to bless thee— Let the song be of love! Of love never failing, Of hopes not of earth; A song, true and tender, For the day of thy birth!

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CHARACTER AND OPINIONS OF THE LATE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. BY WILLIAM KIRKLAND. WHEN a great man is inearthed, there usually springs up such a crop of memoirs, eulogies, de- famations, and what not, that it would seem as if the mortal seed had been committed to the ground only to reappear, even in this world, in a more etherealized or intellectual form. When a con- spicuous man dies, there is a somewhat kindred tendency to supply the blank he leaves in the public eye by notices and discussions of his claims to public attention. Sydney Smith certainly was not a great man, but his pungent and ready wit made us ever sensible of his presence, and of late his hard hits at Ame- rican repudiation drew our attention to him pecu- liarly. We had learned almost to regard him as the exponent of English feeling on this sore sub- ject. When he died, those Pennsylvanians whom he had praised as behaving with great decorum and refraining from any attempt to pick English pock- ets at the queen’s coronation dinner, must have felt somewhat relieved. He threw stones with great dexterity where the object was vulnerable, and those who suffered from his blows suffered in silence, forgetting, through the boldness of their assailant, that his house was of glass if they chose to retaliate. The glory of Sydney Smith is to have set on foot the Edinburgh Review—his shame, that after having contributed to it some of the most impu- dent and illiberal articles, he should have said, when all was over and hot blood cold, that he saw very little to alter or repent of. He who saw other people’s prejudices and littlenesses so keenly, was even thus lamentably blind to his own. He who could rebuke with such scorching causticity what he considered as pecuniary dishonesty, was capable of dishonesty of another kind quite as dis- graceful to the perpetrator and far more ruinous to the sufferer. That there has been a vast progress in the po- litical condition of Great Britain within the present century is undeniable. That the Edinburgh Review has advocated with steadiness and ability the lead- ing beneficial changes, is equally true. It is im- possible to assign to this or to any one cause the precise degree of merit to which it may be entitled, but from the talent with which that journal has been conducted from the outset, the high place it has maintained in the literary and political world, and its large circulation, we may safely award it the first place. This is only saying that Brougham, Jeffrey, Sydney Smith, Macaulay and their asso- ciates, have unitedly done more than any other set of men in effecting what may be termed the second English Revolution. Some of these men have, it is true, figured in Parliament; but we doubt much whether their influence individually has been as great, even there, as in the Review— collectively we are very sure it has not. They are men of the closet and the pen, far more powerful in the silent page than in the animated debate, which calls for personal qualifications possessed by so few scholars. Very properly, then, may Sydney Smith pride himself, as he does in the preface to his works, on having set on foot such a journal and con- tributed to it for so many years. Many a man has passed for a hero on account of achievements or happy accidents of far less importance. But a part of his self-glorification on this topic makes us smile, and we hardly know whether the witty canon can be in earnest or is merely playing off a joke that may take in at least the uninitiated. He says, ** To bear patiently the reproach and poverty which it caused, and to look back and see that I have nothing to retract and no intemperance and violence to reproach myself with, is a course of life which I must think to be extremely fortunate. We would gladly have been informed of the dura- tion of this martyrdom. We have a hint of oat- meal commons at the outset, to be sure, but we of being the > think before long the ‘* reproach’ associate of Brougham, Jeffrey and Macaulay, and the * poverty”? of two guineas a page or fifty pounds an article, must have been ‘* boiled peas”’ in comparison with any real sacrifice. Peter Plymley’s Letters, too—a pretty good sized book and not particularly clerical—twenty thousand co- pies sold!—good picking for somebody, and we do not believe the reverend gentleman one likely to let it all fall into other hands; at least his Penn- sylvania groans never seemed to us quite disin- terested virtuous indignation. A few years after the ‘* poverty”? complained of, and subsequent also to the fall of Pennsylvania stocks, we find this vic- tim’s estate sworn under the value of seventy thousand pounds. To American perceptions, at least, this is very tolerable poverty—one that would console most men like Sydney Smith for a good deal of reproach, Old Lord Stowell once said to him—*‘ Mr. Smith, you would have been a much richer man if you had joined us;°? and he claims not a little merit that he did not act on the old lord’s hint. We 35

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36 GODEY’S know not how rich the Tory clergy usually are, but we think most of them would be content to pass from the tutorship of a juvenile member of the squirarchy to an estate of £70,000. As to the other boast, of having no intemperance and violence to reproach himself with, we think many years’ enjoyment of the tithings of this world’s fatthings must have dulled the good man’s memory, or the near approach to that other state of being when sincerity and earnestness in religious matters will stand us in better stead than church preferment, would have brought to his mind, with some « ompunctious visitings, the many bitter things he had written against the Methodists, Take an instance : ** We shall use the general term Method- ism to designate these particular classes of fana- ‘*‘Arminian and Calvinistic Methodists the Church of England’’—*‘‘ not troubling ourselves to point out tics’’—i, ¢. and the Evangelical clergymen of the finer shades and nicer discriminations of lu- nacy, but treating them all as in one general con- spiracy against common sense and rational ortho- dox Christianity.””. The class thus disposed of, it will be remembered, includes, among a host of eminent persons, Wilberforce, Hannah More, Leigh Richmond and Lord Teignmouth. It includes those who built up the British and Foreign Bible Society, and those who put down the slave trade. Yet after thirty years’ interval, the Reverend Syd- ney Smith finds no cause to wish such things un- said. And again: ‘* Not that they preach faith without works, for if they told the people they might rob and murder with impunity, the civil magistrate must be compelled to interfere’*—that is, fear of the civil magistrate prevents the preach- ing of robbery and murder by the Methodists! No intemperance and violence here against Whitefield and Wesley, who “‘did not run naked into the streets or pretend to the prophetical character— and therefore were not committed to Newgate !”? The preaching of Whitefield and Wesley did certainly differ somewhat from that of Mr. Smith. Two of the four sermons* he has given us with the essays are addressed to lawyers, and one to a mayor and corporation. The occasions were what is called extraordinary, and the sermons are cer- ** And behold, a certain lawyer From tainly no less so. stood up and tempted him, saying,” & this text a sermon was preached ‘‘ before the Hon. Sir John Bayley, Knt.,°? and we pity Sir John. *“We must not forget,’ says the witty priest— ‘we must not forget the question, and we must not forget who asked the question, and we must not forget who answered it, and what that answer was.”’ He must have a hard heart who does not sympathize with a writer who, having a reputation to support, is put to such shifts for sentences * These remarks do not apply in general to the volume of sermons published since Mr. Smith's death, of which the writer entertains a high opinion. He can abate no- thing, however, of what he has said concerning those selected for publication by Mr. Smith himself and incor- porated by him with his essays MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. wherewith to occupy the orthodox “just fifteen minutes.’? He tells the lawyers he shall address them on their particular duties. Very wel!—all right and proper. The first paragraph centains an appeal to them as living flesh and blood lawyers, whether they do not find their devotion interfered with, their taste for devotion lessened, their time for devotion abridged. Trying questions—for the preacher himself allows, in the same paragraph, that *‘ rivals are to be watched, superiors are to be cultivated, connections cherished’’—evident!y the nine points of the law. But there is a tenth— ‘* what time for the altar—what time for God ? Then the * particular duties.” ‘* The genuine and unaffected piety of a lawyer is of great advantage to the general interests of religion, inasmuch as to the highest member of that profession a great share of church patronage is entrusted.”? A lawyer, then, ought certainly to be genuinely and unaffect- edly pious, for—he may get to be Lord Chancellor! The Rev. S. S. breeches memory) must have his joke even in the not Sinner Saved, of leather pulpit. Then follow more * particular duties’’ fo: such of his hearers as may come to the woolsack, of which zeal for the church as by law establishe is first, second and third—and, in fact, no other is alluded to. Mr. Smith does not tell us that he was the pro- poser of the motto of the Edinburgh Review, but no one construed it more strictly, as its earlier pages abundantly testify. Impaling of authors was a favor- ite sport with him, as well as with other reviewers of that period. They and their brethren have been taught better manners since. Some of Smith’s ar- ticles abound in abuse and insult, and descend even to the most disgusting allusions to accomplish Even his wit would hardly make such The Reviews have the object. coarseness taking in our day. assumed a tone more earnest and more conciliating, recognizing the probability that an author possesses human feelings, and the possibility that he may be inclined to appease them by retaliation. Mr. Smith’s wit is not of the highest order, but it is abundant—more like the incessant heat lightning of a summer evening than like the dazzling ribbons that split the clouds asunder at intervals, blinding the beholder so that black looks white for a while. He is not a little indebted to quaint and funny words, such as anserous, armigeral, mumpsimus, Surfurous, agricolous, plumigerous—a class of ad- jectives, which it would require but a schoolboy’s knowledge of Latin to enlarge indefinitely. He is still more indebted to that entire unscrupulousness which generally becomes the characteristic of the professed wit—a freedom which holds nothing sa- cred, and which overleaps all the nice and delicate boundaries that prevent other men of equal ability from acquiring the reputation of wit. But with all allowances he is‘rich in genuine fun, and holds some of the abuses of his country up to ridicule with all the hilarious abandon of a boy who has stolen a few moments in which to kick a prohibited foot-ball. He seems not so much determined to

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CHARACTER AND OPINIONS OF get the laugh on his side as to enjoy it himself— not so desirous of making the absurdity in ques- tion odious as of extracting all possible amusement out of it. The subjects which he handles in this temper are fair game ce rtainly: witness ‘* the Persecuting Bishops” and others of like character. On subjects which touch his kinder feelings he can be serious. With the Methodists he keeps no- where any terms either of justice or decency. Mr. Smith’s opposition to the ‘* godly” school is accounted for by the way in which, as he tells us, he formed his conceptions of true, practical piety. We always suppose the Bible to furnish the means by which all men, and clergymen in . 6d But there is, it seems, a more excellent way: “It has particular, were to be guided on this point. been our good fortune to be acquainted with many truly religious persons—and from their manly, ra- tional and serious characters, our conceptions of These To the same source, it is to be presumed, we are to true practical piety have been formed.”’ models must have been Edinburgh reviewers. trace the morals of the reverend critic. What are those morals? The morals of the only parson in that powerful body—the high priest of that despotic junto—become a matter of no little consequence. The utilitarianism of Paley lies evi- dently at the root of them. Expediency he owns, Paley’s white lies **] have always denied the authorship of the Plymley let- ters,” &c. The Bible cept to draw from it some ludicrous image; and, in fact, we should think he had studied Roche- in almost all cases, for his god. form, consistently, a part of the code. he seldom alludes to, ex- fuucault much more. Like most persons of the merely practical school, he rarely ascends to prin- Gifted that honesty is the best policy, and advocates it be with keen sagacity, he perceives ciples. because it is so, and just so far as it seems to so, but no farther. Accordingly, like other reason- ers of that school, he stops short when policy ap- pears to stop—at the point where the doctrine begins to affect themselves. This political parson, therefore, argues most strenuously and ably for Catholic emancipation—it will be sound policy, and—it will help the established church. reform in the state with great vigor—he opposes He urges reform in the church with at least equal force. Humanize your game laws, amend your poor laws, reform your House of Commons, remove the crying abuses of the state; but lay no hands on cathe- drals—especially on that of St. Paul—and diminish no church patronage, least of all, that of the re- verend canons of that foundation. They enjoy each a sinecure of fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds per annum, but let that alone! And you, my lords bishops, beware how you sanction such an attempt, for your own £15,000 or £20,000 will be endangered by the precedent. ‘‘I ask the Bishop of London—does he think, after reformers have tasted the flesh of the church, that they will put up with any other diet? deans and chapters are but mock-turtle—that more Does he forget that VOL. XXXIII.—4 THE ; 37 LATE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. delicious delicacies remain behind ?”? Such are the arguments of a man who prides himself on being 4 reformer—an old reformer, all his days a reformer: Reform is good so long as it keeps within proper bounds ; let it pass these, and it will unsettle the foundations—it will mar the superstructure of so- ciety! Is it proposed to abolish a church sinecure Think of the oaths of the archbishops! (the coronation after the death of the present incumbent? oath had been abundantly ridiculed in the case of Catholic emancipation)—think of the sanctity of private property! think of the danger of innova- tion! So clamors the reverend moralist who had for years been contending against all these bug- bears, and meantime reached the fat canonry of St. Paul’s. ’ burgh Review,’ ** The honest boldness of the Edin- > says he, ** effected much;’’ but honesty becomes folly when it would lead to the lessening of church revenues, however enormous. Time and space allow us to touch only on the more striking points in the character of this able No man labored more zealously or more efficiently in reviewer and most widely influential writer. the cause of Catholic emancipation, or with a more generous and at the same time caustic warmth in the defence of humanity against certain barbarities in English law -and English custom. His papers on the latter class of subjects are eminently pun- while those and striking, the Catholi« question are equally admirable, sparkling with wit, gent on and, what in a popular argument is of great prac- tical importance, level to the comprehension of every one. He does not, it is true, advocate mea- sures on the highest ground, but on the ground best calculated to produce conviction in the minds of those whom he addresses. He was no man to throw away his pearls. Sydney Smith was far from possessing a mind o! the highest order. He effected much, not through any extraordinary reach of thought, but by strong common sense, aided by a lively wit and a keen sense of the ludicrous, all directed against certain But he maxims, not of principles—one who aimed at no- popular errors of his day. was 4 man of thing higher than people’s conduct, and that by means of the head and not the heart. Another proof that his mind was not of a high order is, that he was infinitely more engaged in pulling down than in building up. He attacks ex- isting abuses with eagerness and success, but even where the occasion calls for it, (and the occasion does sometimes call for it,) he offers no substitute, He attacks the Me- thodists with a virulence and vulgarity altogether proposes no remedial plan. inexcusable, and bewails their influence over the middling and lower classes, but he considers the case hopeless. ‘* A man of education and a gen- tleman—cannot contend against such artists’°— ‘the regular clergy—are too dignified ;°—but ** something may be done in the way of ridicule,’ and in allowing members of the establishment to open chapels without the consent of the rector. Education might do something, but * none of these

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38 GODEY’Ss things will be done.’ No great fertility or re- source here, and no very admira’ le boldness, since some discussion of the reasons why ‘* Methodism” grew out—a huge scion—from the establishment, and some suggestions as to the mode of preventing further secessions by the offer of spiritual bread rather than polished stones, might have come very properly from a professed Reformer. It is the same with East India missions. The duty of Christianizing those countries is admitted, but the plan adopted is bad, and the men concern- ed are not to be trusted. Yet no other method is proposed, and it is even said that suitable persons cannot be found to undertake it. Some severe at- tacks and many bitter innuendoes against the clergy of the established church are found in the writings of our political reformer, but not a hint as to how they shall be made better. Our conjecture that as an Originator or supporter of positive measures he was held in but little esteem, is confirmed by the fact that he scarce appears at all as a politician after his party obtained the chief power in the state. His vocation was gone. He was a potent assailant of old abuses, but not fitted to bring for- ward and defend the new measures which the times demanded. His views of education are marked by sterling sense and judgment. His papers on the subject deserve to be studied by every enlightened person in this his natural acumen triumphs over all the prejudices country as well as in England. In them of his time and country, and they are as well suit- ed to the democratical side of the water as to the other. In al] matters of morals and religion, Sydney Smith appears to have been a good deal of a Mr. Worldly Wiseman—wise, truly, for himself and others—as regards worldly matters, but not pos- sessing nor caring to possess other wisdom. His opinion of human nature was evidently low, and he looked to low means for influencing mankind. He was a warm friend to the established church, for it made himself and many other gentlemen very comfortable, giving them, besides abundant means, rank, influence and consideration, which they could hardly have found anywhere else. But he was apparently no warm friend to the estab- lished clergy,¥itled or otherwise, if we may judge from the innumerable slurs which he casts upon them in his writings. He allows them, to be sure, the credit of calmness, moderation and dignity, nevertheless, as What a satire upon se No rks them, abundantly but m dronish, selfish and grasping. them is contained in the following remark: orthodox clergyman can do so (open a church without the consent of the parson of the parish, who always refuses because he does not choose to have his monopoly distarbed ; and refuses in pa- rishes where there are not accommodations for one half the persons who wish to frequent the Church Fit persons, truly, to be entrusted Though Mr. of England.’ with a monopoly in such things! Smith seems to have annexed to the term “‘ sound MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. religion,”’ (a favorite term with him,) only the idea of adherence to the established church, yet nobody deals the clergy harder blows. He inverts the rule of Mrs. Ranby, who was all sin without a single fault; for he credits the clergy with all ex- cellence as a body, while he allows them individu- ally no merit under Heaven but decency. Mr. Smith attributes an extraordinary efficacy to money. He speaks of ‘the English curse of po- verty,”’ but he certainly shows himself in this point as in many others, a true Englishman. He does not, indeed, say that the gift of the Holy Ghost may be purchased with money, but he comes as near it as anybody since the days of Simon Magus. To give one example. In the Letters to Archdea- con Singleton, he states that he had found out the capital possessed by seven clergymen taken pro- miscuously in his neighborhood, and he finds it to be £72,000, while the average income from the livings is £400 per annum. And he draws the conclusion ‘from the gambling propensities of human nature, and the irresistible tendency to hope they shall gain the highest prizes, you tempt men into your service who keep up their credit and yours, not by your allowance, but by their own capital,”? &. Keeping up the credit of the church by large fortunes! Americans are thought to place a high estimate on money, but it may be doubted whether any clergyman or layman among us would consider four hundred pounds a year in- sufficient to keep up the credit of the religion founded by our Saviour and his Apostles. But Mr. Smith in this case only echoed the sentiment of the mass of his countrymen. He says—* It is always considered a piece of impertinence in Eng- land if a man of less than two or three thousand a year has any opinions at all upon important sub- jects.” True—and evidently no less an imperti- nence in Mr. Smith’s eyes than in those of others of his class. Witness his advocacy of the church as it is, because it attracts men of wealth; and his dread of anything approaching to an equalization of livings, because the average would be only £285, or $1400 a year! His whole argument is based upon the supposition that riches are indis- pensable to the respectability and influence of the clergy, and his unmeasured abuse of the Method- ists turns in part upon their poverty. That Mr. Smith was no friend to the Reform Bill we infer with confidence from the absence of all allusion to it in his long gratulatory list of the beneficial measures accomplished by ‘‘ the talents of the good and able men”’ of his time. In short, he was a genuine English aristocrat, a term which we use not at all in an invidious sense. He was a friend to the middling and lower classes, but there is nothing in his writings which would lead us to think that he regarded them as fit depositaries of political power. He was an enemy to all op- pression of the poor by the rich, but he had at least an equal dread of the beggar on horseback. He could commend in our land of equality certain qualities which agreed with his own natural bias—

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FIRST GLIMPSE OF NIAGARA. ~ economy, industry, common sense, enterprise—but he had a supreme contempt for the democratic character, and was never better pleased than when he could find room for a fling at the Yankees. The aristocratic feeling of England is, in our view, still more strongly inherent in the church, the army and the navy, than in the hereditary wealth and station of the country. Whoever belongs to either of the first-mentioned classes, in a place above the rank of subalterns, has a position from which he derives a certain respectability, and by which he is somewhat linked to the higher classes. All are paid “once in money and three or four °° times in hope,’? and the zeal of expectants is al- ways greater and their appreciation of the desired good more intense than those of actual possessors. Hence a sort of official and officious loyalty to the established institutions of the country, always ob- servable in British clergymen and officers in both services. These are the very people, generally speaking, who have honored us by visits of ex- ploration, and their report has usually been such as would prove satisfactory at home, and furnish racy articles about America to such reviewers as Mr. Smith. evinced such a sensitiveness to opinions thus con- We regret that our countrymen have cocted. In the Council of the Beasts, (says Lessing,) which met to determine their respective claims to rank and consequence, the nobler animals declared the decision a matter of no moment, as each had FIRST GLIMPSE A BY W Berore us, and far off in the distance, rushes a distracted ocean of water. For a long distance from the precipice where the furious rage of the flood has commenced, each whirling torrent seems striving for the mastery, and rushing with redoubled speed as each slight descent of the rapids increases its awful power. Now, perchance, they divide round an intercept- ing rock, which throws out its jagged arms to arrest them; now, again, these struggling forces rush to- gether—the barrier cleared—and join and wrestle in a deadlier conflict than before. **Give me but the first leap!’? is the almost audible language of these irresistible torrents as they bound along in their desperate and devoted race; then, as they reach the verge, one last con- vulsive effort is made to rise over the projecting rocks, and forthwith, as shapely torrents of water, nay, as water itse If, they seem for the moment an- nihilated, while, immediately from the abyss, their E. 39 its own claims, good and substantial, whether al- lowed by others or not. All acquiesced in this view of the matter except the ass and the ape, who took it much to heart that no decision was pro- nounced. Upon the whole, we conclude Mr. Smith to have been a keen-witted and sensible worldling, more capable of discerning the faults and absurdities of others than desirous of correcting his own; having a glimmering perception of how things ought to be, but lacking courage to recommend unpopular means of making them such. We regard him as a poor teacher of morals, and of religion no trodden humanity less through sensibility and sym- teacher at He pleaded the cause of down- pathy than through acute perception of wrong. He can characterize as ‘‘ holy poltroonery”? an unwillingness to examine religious or political te- nets, but no man shows more weakness when the temporalities of the church are called in question. He hated the Methodists because they pretended to a warmth of piety which, if sincere, must put to shame the lifeless ministrations of the establish- ment, and he advocated the emancipation of the Catholics because it secured the foundations of his own church. He occupied the position of a pro- fessed servant of God, and he lived and died em- phatically a man of this world. At another time we may attempt some detailed examination of his writings. OF NIAGARA. FRAGMENT. GARRETTSON, spray arises, changed into spirit form, and soars brightly to the skies! It is like the resurrection of the hopes of man, which, after his own self-sought fall, rose in lofty aspirations to the promised happiness of a future state ! But here we are at the very verge, looking, wondering and feeling, but feeling that which we can never describe. Some brief and broken excla- mation, perhaps, escapes the lips, and the para- lyzed tongue then sinks into a kindred silence with that of the soul. There is nothing to disturb that silence—nothing but the continuous roar, which has already become, as it were, a part of our- selves, a kind of inward music, destitute of noise, which serves, by its uniform and all-pervading in- fluence, to bind and mingle together every thought and emotion, making but one idea of the whole, and that idea deep, incomprehensible, inexpressible —God!

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FRAGMENTS. FROM Trutn.—Truth is the daughter of a peaceful y; she flies from the noise of passion and strife ; she dwells with those who love her with the whole heart and can deny themselves for her sake. To such she gives quiet nights and joyful days. FrienpsHip.—There cannot be true friendship without sympathy, and where this exists friendship will spring up spontaneously. Like feelings, like wishes, like hopes always unite, and the deeper ind more noble these feelings, wishes and hopes ire, so much the stronger, so much the more ele- vated is the friendship that grows out of them. THE INWARD vorce.—Within us dwells a judge who deceives not, and whose approbation is more important to us than the applause of the whole world or the wisdom of the Greeks and Egyptians. Resolve to do nothing contrary to the voice of this inward monitor, and take counsel of it in all your ways. At first it will speak but softly, in the lisp- ing voice of an innocent child, but if you reverence its innocence and heed its monitions, by degrees its tongue will be loosened and it will speak ' clearly. THE GERMAN OF CLAUDIUS. New YeAR’s Day.—This is, indeed, a glorious day! At other times I am willing that men should be patriotic, but on New Year’s day my patriotism is stone dead. On that day I feel that we are all brothers, the children of one Father who is in Heaven, and that all the good things of the world are as water that God has provided for all. I accustom myself every New Year’s morning to sit down on a stone by the wayside, to scratch in the sand before me with my staff, and to think on this and on that—not on my readers; I regard them as worthy of all honour—but New Year’s morning, on the stone by the wayside, I think not of them, but there I sit and think how often in the year that is gone I have seen the sun rise and the moon; how many flowers and rainbows I have seen; how often I have breathed the fresh air and cooled my thirst in the running brook; and then I cannot look up, and I take off my cap with both And then I think of the friends who have died during the year, and hands and bury my face in it. that now they can talk with Socrates, Numa, and others of whom I have heard so much that is good —and with John Huss, too; and the graves of these holy men seem to open around me, and I see their venerable shades arise. Good old men, to your memories, a happy—happy New Year. Cc. $A OS ye OOF 00 AGNES. Beavrty is felt, not seen, the eye That opens on earth’s imagery Is but the window of the mind, Where Fancy sits, and, unconfined, Upon the pensive soul portrays All things without that meet her gaze— And, clad in colors of her own, That must be fair she gazes on I mind me of a winning one That once my heart thus looked upon ; She was a lovely girl—so bright And beautiful that all was light Around her; and, whene’er she spoke, Her voice such thrilling raptures woke, That he who heard would almost deem He lay in some delicious dream, While heaven’s own rapturous strains were flowing From angel choirs around him glowing A being formed fo love or bless, She was made up of loveliness ; 40 And yet you might in vain assay To tell wherein her beauty lay. *T was not the form—’twas not the eye— *T was not the soul’s deep witchery: You might not praise a single feature Of this enchanting, winning creature ; And yet, when near her, you would | Captive to charms you could not see. I know not where she lingers now; But he who gazes on that brow, And feels the sunshine of her smile Gladden his throbbing heart the while— Who hears the music of her song Floating melodiously along, And reads upon her dimpled face All that he ever dreamt of grace— Oh, let him guard that heart full well From the sure magic of her spell! The charm once wove is broken never— The chain once forged endures for ever!— Lino.

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WHY SHOULD WE LET A NAME ALONE DIVIDE TWO HEARTS? ANZONET. WORDS FROM MORA CARMODY. MUSIC BY PROFESSOR F. W. HORNCASTLE. [Written expressly for Godey’s Lady’s Book.} Pra. , Qa ae SEE am hel et Moderato. -2- FO — +. Why should we let a name a--- lone Di - - vide two hearts by love made one ? Though different names on earth we bear, And different be our forms of prayer, — — ee ie] = aw a cowee | c= . e-—|--—}— et Se: NY cee er ve =f ae Saees aoe SESE eee eeomeolled — —_—-@--9 —— ner ts See © coe —@ -—Eo — a oe ee Tis the same God who doth us hear, And answers as we are sin - Qe —;—s— F- —s TEAS: EM HN mat ae asi eagaein -coeneneementinn mma (Sa See — fae — a —,| e ——— ee ~-o— ee ee ee ie Sta SS a ee ela —— | . nae ft Lele Li es —=— Eee =. -- = = = SaaS wf e- ~ 6 &" a

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2 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. | | ae ee eT Os on ME: cmc: be ate tine ee oe = et a —|— reece ey REPENS es eS — — i i i. mee cere; Then do not let a name a- lone Di - vide two hearts by love made +? i oso = SSS -#_ | 5- + —| —_@—_ __ —_j 7. ft AA SUES ST — oo o xX mew | ad 6 ——_ —— —— a ee F ante: ciumiianiaineiemiepammne LS A A a A CS A Fl WR Oke on SS Se See eS SS seams LS coms med oe mY aes eee -_——s_ 4 — eS Cc Se Ee ~ ————— a : FE A A A AT A a I sca » et ED ORR A am ee owe ee a e-— a a —ep—t e—j—_ > — a a eondetone: a et ee A Co A Me ee ae me A Se ad “ SY ~) an } one. Then do not let a name a---lone Di--- vide two hearts by love made one. Di - vide two hearts by ean -=- tS oe eee be el “f+ = se eee —=—=> -g-9-2--t-—I- —po Bey =a eS eS 5 Saas r a aod ON SEEING THE MINIATUR PAINTED BY MISS Like fairy-work this magic picture seems! Or was it painted in some clime of dreams, Fair artist maid! where thou couldst dip thy brush In a bright rainbow, or the morn’s first blush? What cloud that sails across a summer sky Is softer, sweeter, than the shades that lie Upon the neck, so round and purely fair, Beneath the clustering ringlets of her hair? What pearly pinkness of a bright-lipped shell— What blushing hues that in a rose-heart dwell— What evanescent and transparent glow, At evening seen, on sunset-tinted snow, Gives to the eye such exquisite delight As that soft blush, so eloqueitly bright! E OF A YOUNG LADY. FREEMAN. But ‘tis the mind—tis the enchanting grace Like “ music breathing” from that pictured face, In which the playful sweetness of a child Is blent with firmness, womanly and mild— Tis the sweet, earnest tenderness, that lies Within the depths of those clear, fountain eyes— The stainless purity, which marks the whole With the bright impress of the painter’s soul — Which sheds o’er all a beauty half divine, And stamps with Genius every deathless line! Yes! Genius only could have thus combined Beauty of form with that of soul and mind; By Genius only could be thus portrayed The angelic nature of that heaven-bound maid!

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LADIES’ ORNAMENTAL NEEDLEWORK. “The use of sewing is exceeding old.” So said the amiable Jane Taylor many years ago. Yet still it stantly putting forth new germs of usefulness and new We are intending to present to the 8 con- flowers of beauty. ladies who honor us with their favor a series of drawings and descriptions, which will enable those who wish, to take up these new kinds of needlework without a teacher. We begin with CROTCHET. Shawls, table-covers, pillows, ottomans, chairs, rugs, carriage mats, slippers, bags, purses and a variety of other articles may be worked in crotchet, using silk, wool or cotton. The wool used is called fleecy, of a six-thread The work is very easy; invalids and ladies with The manner size. weak eyes can perform it without trouble. of beginning is thus:— Wind a skein of wool, make a loop at the end, through this draw another loop, through this second another, and so on, moderately tightening each as it is drawn through, until a chain of sufficient length is made to serve as the foundation for the article it Pass ast loop of this foundation, and s intended to make. the needle through the catching the wool, draw it through, repeating the same at every successive loop ; then, returning along this row, repeat the same to form a second. Thus go on, back- left, and left to right. s is the first and easiest lesson. The Then proceed to make, say, a sofa- wards and forwards, from right to Th alike on both sides. work will be pillow or table-cover. Here is the pattern for a needle, either of steel or ivory, for six-thread wool fleecy. The number of stitches must depend on the length of the article wanted. Sixty-five stitches of this kind of wool makes half a yard in length. Instead of working the rows backwards and forwards as before describ- ed, begin each row separately at the same end. When the last stitch of each row is finished, draw it through and cut it off, leav- ing an end of three or four inches. The following is an easy pattern:— First—two rows in black, one dark scar- let, one bright scarlet, one light scarlet, one reverse the same to the black, which hi will form a pretty shaded stripe. Second—three distinct blues, and one row white; of white, reversed, as before, to the black. Third—three pretty stone-colors or drabs, and one white, reversed, as before, to the black. Commence again as with first stripe. with 6 scarlet, repeating the three alternately. For a moderate sized pillow, one ske'n of each colored fleecy will be required. WORK DEPARTMENT. Cover or Pillow. This is an easy pattern—the same needle and six- thread fleecy. The grounds are formed of white, scarlet, black, gold-color and blue. Make the chain, in the usual way, with black. Then, with black and scarlet together, work alternately two stitches of each, keeping the wool not in use on the top of the chain; bring it backwards and forwards, as required in the pattern; the wool not in use will be concealed by the stitches made over it. The colors on the white stripe are scarlet, blue, orange and lilac. On the scarlet stripe— green, white, lilac and claret. On the black stripe—green, scarlet, gold-color and lilac. On the gold-color—blue, claret. drab, and green. On the blue—lilac, white, claret and gold-color. All the stripes to be divided by the two stitches up and down of black. Another Turkish Pattern for Table Cover. This also makes a pretty counterpane, pillow cover for an ottoman, rug or bedside carpet. Six-thread fleecy ; steel needle; divid ng line two cla- rets; stripes white, gold-color, blue and scarlet, The pat- tern in the white stripe is worked in two greens, two scarlets, two blues, brown and yellow. On the gold color On the blue stripe—two scarlets, two greens drab, white, brown stripe—two blues, claret, white, lilac and green. and orange; and on the scarlet—green, white, two blues, claret and bright yellow. 43

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44 GODEY’s Here is another pretty Pattern. Six-thread fleecy; stee! needle. Two plain rows black, then one row straw-color for the border—the nine rows of which are in shades from the straw-color to dark two yel ow, two gold-color, two amber, two the last extends one row orange, thas orange, two light-red browns; The ground of the center is a rich below the border. drab—one row plain, then commence with the pattern thus :— On the first row light blue. fourth rows middie blue—the three center stitches in the On the fifth row Waterloo blue. On the second, third and third row being black On the sixth, light yellow; and on the seventh row dark yellow. Repeat the pattern. Another Table Cover. MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. Commence with four plain rows—first claret, then mid- dle blue, then claret, then scarlet. The pattern of the first border is in three shades of blue, lightest at the top. The outer ground of the border is in scarlet; the inner, white. The three wools are worked at the same time. One row of plain white finishes the border. The pattern of the second border is thus :— First row white and middle green; second row white and dark green; third row claret and light green; and fifth row claret and middle green; then two rows of plain claret. Then on the claret ground commence the pale: pattern as follows :—It is in eight rows: first and second rows two bright greens; then bright searlet, scarlet and white, blue and white, blue, deep gold-color, bright yellow. Small Pine Pattern Table Cover. Same thread and needle. The chain and first row gold- color, second row black, then green, then go!d-color. In- side ground of the border rich drab. The pattern has three shades of Saxon, green and black. The smal! pine pattern in the center has four rows—deep gold-color, blue, scarlet and white. The reversed row of the pattern may be varied thus :—first scarlet, green, lilac, white Crotchet table covers are made by turning in the edges neatly and sewing on a spread fringe of the color of the stripes, and a head either of the color of the dividing line The fringe should be three or four inches deep. But rugs and mats or carpets should or black. No lining is needed have a firm inside lining All striped patterns may be done in narrow widths, and then sewn together There are four kinds of crotchet work :—1, plain, single ; 2, plain, double; 3, plain stitch, open; 4, open with one, two or three stitches. We shall describe hereafter all these varieties. Wool and silk are the threads most used; but chenille and gold or silver cord may be work- ed, and gold or steel beads, strung on silk, giving a beau- tiful effect. EDITORS’ ‘ Mixp makes itself like that it lives amidst And on—and thus "mong dreams, imaginings, And scenes of peace, of purity and beauty, Grows pure and beautiful.” Come, gather to our Table, ladies fair, and we will show you choice specimens of the beautiful. We will favor you with a descriptive glance at the gems in the “Na- tional Academy of Art” at New York. Ladies are, or should be, arbiters of taste in the fine arts, as well as of fashion in dress. Genius wears his crown most proudly when accorded him by the sweet voice of woman, and placed on his lofty brow by the fair hand of beauty. Come, TABLE. then, all you who love the Lady’s Book, encourage our artists, by your smiles, to persevere. Tell them you, who are still in single blessedness, that when you do marry, your “best parlor” shall be graced by one of their pic- tures. And you, who now have the ordering of a house of your own, hasten to order a picture by an American artist to adorn it. So shall you show that true devotion to your country’s fame which is in sympathy and harmo- ny with the noblest deeds of the hero and patriot. Extract from a private letter to the Editor, by ——, of New York. “You ask me to describe the most beautiful paintings

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iY EDITORS’ wer © in the exhibition of the National Academy. I herewith send you a slight sketch of those which have interested me most. “ First, a ‘Landscape,’ by Durand. I think it by far the best picture he has ever painted. It is a kind of picture the artist delights in—a warm noonday scene in an open wood. Upon one side a little sheet of water skirts a winding road. The eye rests with much pleasure on some large noble trees in the foreground, and, as it ad- vances, the distance from one object to another is charm- ingly truthful. The artist paints with great truth to nature, and at the same time with much ideality. There are more boldness and freedom in this than in any of his former compositions. In another of his pictures, a companion to this, there is great beauty in the atmosphere before a storm in the spring of the year. Indeed, representing atmosphere is one of the artist’s greatest excellences. The gathering clouds, and the playing of the lights and shadows over the distant fields— the grouping of a herd of cattle—all show the skill of a superior artist. “There are in the room several pictures by Cole more pleasing than those he exhibited last season. One is called an ‘Iialian Sunset.” It is peculiarly rich in Italian scenery—mountains, crumbling arches and falling tem- ples, overgrown with vines, flowers and luxuriant foliage. In the distance there is a long line of arches of a broken aqueduct, over which a flock of birds are settling. The effect of the light on the peasants, and the reflection in the water in the foreground, are exceedingly beautiful. The richness of the sky, and the gorgeousness of the setting sun, are such as is only seen in Italy and Spain. Another of his paintings is the, ‘Lake of Nemi, near Rome. This is a beautiful little sheet of water lying at the foot of a mountain, quiet and retired, and seems as if the sun might never reach it. The most interesting and pleasing part of this picture is a shrine of the Virgin, before which is kneeling a peasant girl at her devotions. “Mount has a characteristic picture, called ‘ Fishing along Shore. It represents the residence of a gentleman on the shore of Long Island, with a pleasant lawn stretch- ing down to the water’s edge. On the water in a small boat stands a stout hearty wench, who, with much eager- ness, is spearing— what kind of fish is more than I can say. Seated in the boat are a boy and dog; both appear to be much interested in the sport. The picture is quite successful. “We have a landscape painter here by the name of Cropsey, who promises well. He exhibits two or three Is the ‘ Nameless River” There are pictures. One he ec many separate beauties in it. He evidently paints nature in her strongest lights. In the noonday scene there is, in the foreground, some beautiful depicting of decayed trees and shrubbery, which is quickly recognized by any one familiar with American scenery. If the artist would only idealize more, and not crowd quite so much into his pic- tures, he would please better. “T have also been pleased with a painting by Talbot, * Valley of the Winoski River, Vermont.’ In the background rises up a mountain not unlike Etna—but the cold aumo- sphere of Vermont does not deceive one. “Huntington, young as he is, stands deservedly at the head of his profession in this country. He sends some seven or eight paintings this year. The first I wi!l name is called ‘Alms Giving.” There are three figures— an aged and infirm man, with flowing hair and beard, seated against a crumbling wall by the side of his daughter, who is holding out her hand for charity. There is perfect resignation to the will of Providence in the face of the former, while there is a deep expression of sadness in the sickly and care-worn face of the latter. The giver of alms is a matronly woman, who appears to sympathize with the beings before her. I admire very much the TABLE. 45 drapery of this figure. It is after the old masters—and artists may study it toadvantage. The tone of the picture is serious, deep and profound: there is no striving for effect—no broken limbs, rags and dirt. The artist appears to appeal to the kind feelings of the spectator for sympa- thy with the unfortunate, without exciting a feeling of disgust, which is often the case in highly overwrought pictures. The painting is of the highest order of art, and requires study to be appreciated. ‘The second picture is called ‘Students.’ It is quite popular. There are three figures—an old man, a young girl and boy, studying and illustrating illuminated manu- scripts. The painting is more artistical than the other— “that is, it contains more works of art. Books, slate, etc., and the whole three figures are painted in very rich and varied costumes. “But what pleases me most by Huntington is ‘Italy.’ What is this? you ask. It is a female, say of 25 or 30 years of age—an age I have always been partial to in the life of woman. The face is completely Italian—full of soul; enthusiastic; dreamy, liquid eyes, and showing much feeling; not what you would call regularly hand- some, but a great deal more; a face that one would never tire of, such as one often meets in Italy, and whom to forget would be to forget one’s self. There is a sweet me- lancholy expression in the features, that has brought out every enthusiastic feeling that has lain slumbering in my bosom for years. There is rich, dark hair, and a veil falling gracefully behind. She is robed in dark olive silk —seated with pencil and book, perhaps sketching the melancholy ruins which are around her, or penciling thoughts of Italy in days gone by, which rush upon one whilst gazing at the ruined temples and crumbling arches in the death-like ailence that reigns upon the Campagna. A beautiful campanile rises up against the clear sky, re- vealing the bell which reminds one of the vesper hour. There is beautiful harmony in the figure, the sky and the ruins. The picture is a poem; but to understand it fally one should have been in Italy, and have some sympathy with the Land of Dante and Raphael “The artist has another picture, called the ‘Sacred Les- son.” It is an old priest pointing to a crucifix, while a young Italian girl is looking up to him with all the pecu- liar earnestness and fervor of the race. The composition is exceedingly pleasant, and the drapery is very like Raphael “The ‘Landing of the Northmen, by Leutze, is a large, bold and vigorous picture. The armor is exceedingly well managed, and the drapery of the female figures very beautiful. I cannot say I admire the face of Gudrida, the principal female figure; yet her coarse, light hair is appropriate to one of her clime. “The best water-colored drawing in the room is a ‘Group of Cattle” by Cooper, an English artist. It is quite effective, and claims a good deal of attention. “Once in every ten or fifleen years, among the hun- dreds of portrait painters in this country there will rise up one who is great—worthy of the name. Such an one s E rooms—full of nature, life-like resemblances, and grace- jott. His portraits are decidedly the best in the fully executed. “T will close my slight sketches by saying that the gem of the exhibition is by Blaas, a German artist residing in Rome. It illustrates one of the beautiful fables of Roman Catholic history— Angels bearing St. Catharine to Mount Sinai” I searcely know where to begin a description, There are some five angels bearing through the air the martyred remains of the beautiful virgin. They are alone, ere are a few dark clouds hang- high in the silent air. ing over a sea of dark, still water, which is skirted by sombre mountains. The sea, the rocks, the air—all are hushed, subdued and silent. The angels @re truly angelic,

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46 GODEY’S MAGAZINE AND LADY’sS BOOK. calm, beautiful, heavenly creatures. I think the artist s highly imbued with a religious and poetic tempera- ment. He has chosen a beautiful subject, and his hands have not failed him in its execution. I do not remember a picture where more attention has been paid to detail. Everything is in harmony, delicate in the highest degree, yet painted with the greatest freedom. The wings of the angels are perfect studies. The artist has evidently stu- died Overbeck, but is not quite as spiritual. There is more sensuality in the coloring than in Overbeck. cution of two or three of the heads reminds one of the The exe- head of Gabriel by Delaroche, only they are more spiritual. The arrangement of the hair is quite similar. “ The exhibition is thought to be the best that has ever ”° taken place here. The rooms are nightly crowded. A great drawback to the pleasure of going is the immense flight of stairs necessary to reach them. Once there, the rooms are admirable. They are divided into six or seven compartments—which is much more agreeable than if A great hall filled with three or four hundred paintings. rather fright- the paintings were in one great gallery. ens one. Wandering from one room to another is far more pleasant. It will close on the 4th of July, and I trust you will visit here before then.” Sincerely do we respond to the wish of our kind cor- respondent. We love beautiful pictures. They seem like the friends of our youth, and are always welcome. Another year we hope to have the record of a Philadel- phia Gallery of Art to vie with any in the Union. The hint about the advantages of having separate rooms for the pictures in the academy we trust will not be lost on those who have the ordering of the new gallery in this ety. Ovr Deap Letrer Orrice.—We have been favored with a plan for galvanizing “dead letters,” making them as good as new of this important invention: we have patented it for the use, exclusively, of the Lady’s Book. Al! who wish to obtain copies of missing or lost letters may apply to us, In our next number will appear specimens post paid ; or if there are letters on any particularly inte- resting subject desired by young ladies or gentlemen, let such subseribe for our work, paying in advance, (or pay- ing up. if an old subscriber,) and the letters shal! forth- with appear in our pages. Ovr New Votvme.—This number commences the thir- ty-third volume of our “ Book.” It goes forth with renewed strength, uniting, as it now does, the friends of Arthur's Magazine with our ever true and noble list. There is only one smal! cloud in the horizon around us, and that is formed by the unpaid bills of those subscribers who have doubt- less forgotten that “drops form the river,” and so have neglected to pour in their small tribute. We hope the cloud will soon dissolve in a golden shower, and so fill the stream that bears on our work, that our course will be more rapid and joyous than ever. Eriqvetre —We have received the following note, evi- dently from a very young lady: “ Please answer, through the Lady's Book, the following question: Is it proper for a young lady to ask a gentleman to call on her, if she has had no acquaintance with him previous to spending an evening with her at a friend’s, and he walked home with her?” No, we say, decidedly no. Let the gentleman show that he wishes to cultivate the acquaintance by calling once at least. (itis very proper he should do so the next day, to inquire after the health of the young lady he escorted.) before he receives the encouragement of an invitation to call. Prince DwaRkaNautn Tacore’s Fete.—The man with this hard name is a celebrated Hindoo banker from the East Indies, now in Paris astonishing the fashionable world with the splendor of his hospitalities. By the de- scription given in the London Court Journal, this féte was beyond any dream of an European imagination—beyond even Persian legends, or the power of Aladdin’s genie. One unique arrangement will give some idea of the magnificence. Each lady, on entering the “Salon of Roses,” received a bouquet, in the midst of which glit- tered, on a silver stem, a ruby or sapphire, or an emerald; upon one of the silver leaves which surrounded this novel All the apart- ments, galleries and gardens had been traversed—but one fiower were traced black characters, &c. room was closed—and of course great curiosity was ex- cited to know what this Blue Beard apartment contained. “Suddenly the music ceased, the doors were opened, and a rush was made into the mysterious apartment; where, heaped up upon tables of exotic woods, Cachmeres, Indian stuffs, Chinese and Japanese porcelains, jewels, and cu- riosities of every description, were disclosed to the sight. An immense silver urn, placed on a bronze tripod, con- tained tickets corresponding to the mysterious signs which were engraven on the silver leaves of the ladies’ bouquets ; and a young girl, in Bayadére costume, was stationed there to draw them. Immediately the ticket issued from the urn, the character it bore was traced upon the pavi- lion in letters of fire; so that each lady knew directly if fortune had favored her. There were eight hundred prizes; and amongst them the Baroness de Ma—— gained a teapot in porcelain; the Marquise de Pastoret, a dress of India muslin; the Countess d’O , a superb piece of stuff, embroidered in gold; Madame Ronconi, a splen- did Cachmere, worth 8,000 frances.” We have not room to give further particulars, but it struck us as being a real heathen feast, where the gods of this world held undivided sway. We thought, with the poet,— ‘We cannot live too slowly to be good And happy, nor too much by line and square ; And any heart turned God-ward feels more joy In one short hour of prayer, than e’er was raised By all the feasts on earth since their foundation.” To CorresponpENtTs.— We have accepted the following articles: “The Third House,” “Country Walks,” “ Me- zoramia,” “Love and Ambition,” “My Teachers,” and “ Pencilings.” We must decline “ Parting Admonition of a Lover,’ “The two Pictures,” “ To the Early Loved,” “A Sketch.” “ Morning,” “ Rural Pleasures,” and “ Friendship,” in two sonnets.

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EDITORS’ “Tears on the Diadem,” by Mrs. Anna H. Dorsey, is an interesting story of the times when the war of the “ rival roses” wasted the best strength of Old England. The history of that period is so wel] known, that but litle novelty could be given. The amiable author has made the most of her plan; she excels in description, and the book is like a rich painting of the scenes she brings before the reader. Published by Dunigan, N. Y., who has also sent out “Father Felix,” a tale by the author of “ Mora Carmody.” Both works for sale by J. Cunningham, Phila. “ Pocket Maps.” 8S. A. Mitchell has become so cele- brated for his maps, that it is almost superfluous to speak of theirexcellence. But the series of pocket maps, com- prising one of every State in the Uaion, lately issued, is superior, we think, to anything of the kind in the market. The new State of Texas, comprising, as it does, in the same map, the whole of Oregon and nearly al! California, with a large slice of Mexico, the present battle grounds of our army, will be of great service to al! who wish to obtain accurate notions of that now interesting portion of this continent. Messrs. E. Ferrett & Co. have published “Lovers and Husbands,” by T. 8. Arthur, one of those touching and instructive domestic tales for which the author has become so justly celebrated. Messrs. Carey & Hart have published “Jistory of the Bastile,” by R. A. Davenport. Complete in one volume. With a ground plan of the Bastile. This is an instructive and highly entertaining book. It originally appeared in Mr. Murray’s “London Family Library,” and proved highly acceptable to the British public. It now serves to commence the series entitled “Carey & Hart’s Library for the People,” which in style surpasses Mr. Murray’s series—and for printing, paper and type may challenge competition with the most beautiful products of the Lon- don press. The History of the Bastile will be followed up by other popular books. The same publishers have issued the second volume of Mr. Cooper's “Lives of Distinguished Naval Officers,” an exceedingly valuable and useful biographical work, which wil! have the effect of awakening the public to the merits and services of our gallant navy. Messrs. Carey & Hart have also published the “Miseel- laneous Works of Talfourd and Stephen,” forming one of the volumes of their invaluable “ Modern British Essay- ists,” the cheapest publication of the day, considering the quantity of matter and its variety and value. Messrs Harper and Brothers have published No. 53 of Harpers’ “ Pictorial Bible,” which comprises a portion of the index to subjects in the Old and New Testaments—a most important part of this edition of the Sacred Scriptures. The same publishers have issued “The Female Minister, or a Son’s Revenge.” Translated from the original, by Eugéne Liés and Eugéne Plunkett. These books are for sale by Messrs. G. B. Zieber & Co. Messrs. D Appleton & Co. have published “The Stand- ard Pronouncing Dictionary of the French and English Languages. In two parts. Part First—French and En- glish. Part Second—English and French. The first part comprehending words in common use, terms connected with science, terms belonging to the fine arts, 4,000 his- torical names, 4,000 geographical names, 11,000 lately BOOK TABLE. published. With the pronunciation of every word ac- cording to the French Academy and the most eminent lexicographers and grammarians. Together with 750 critical remarks, in which the various methods of pro- nouncing employed by diferent authors are investigated and compared with each other. The second part con- taining a copious vocabulary of English words and ex- pressions, with the pronunciation according to Walker The whole preceded by a practical and comprehensive system of French pronunciation. By Gabriel Surenne, F.A.S.E., French Teacher in Edinburgh, Corresponding Member of the French Grammatical Society of Paria, Lecturer on Military History in the Scottish Naval and Military Academy, and Author of several works on Edu- cation.” Of such a dictionary as this, it is sufficient to read the plan as set forth in the above title page, in order to perceive its manifest advantages. By dint of small but clear type we are furnished with the usual contents of a royal octavo dictionary at the price and within the com- pass of a large 12mo. The plan is excellent, uniting many excellent features, such as pronunciation, explana- tion of idioms and phrases, and clear elucidation of the definitions. The book will be very extensively used by all classes of French students. The same publishers have issued “The Life of Martin Luther.” Gathered from his own writings. By M. Miche- let, author of the “ History of France,” “ The People,” &e. Translated by G. H. Smith, F. G.S., translator of “ Miche- lev’s History of France.” This mode of writing lives, by taking them from the writings of the man himself, making him a sort of unintentional autobiographer, is excellent. Carlyle’s Cromwell is somewhat in this fashion; but this work is far more explicit and truthful than Carlyle’s, be- cause it often gives the words of Luther taken down in writing without his knowledge. “In these records,” the author justly remarks, “we have Luther's veritable con- fessions— careless, unconnected, involuntary, and, there- fore, the more veritable confessions. Assuredly, Rous- seau’s are less ingenuous; St. Augustin’s less full and diversified.” We should not be surprised if this book should become as popular as d’Aubigne’s famous “ His- tory of the Great Reformation.” The Messrs. Appletons have published another book of M. Michelet’s, which is not less attractive, since it con- tains at the commencement his own autobiography—his own confessions. It is entitled “The People,” and forms No. 12 of Appleton’s “ Literary Miscellany,” and it is one of the freshest, most vigorous and explicit developments of the true national! character of the French that has ever appeared. M. Michelet’s position in the ranks at once of the people and the literati. gives him singular advantages, and his profound acquaintance with French history ren- ders his work rich, valuable and authoritative in the highest degree. The book is full of instruction which is applicable to the condition and wants of the American as well as the French people. The Messrs. Appletons have also published “History of the Later Roman Commonwealth, from the end of the Second Punic War to the Death of Julius Casar; and of the Reign of Augustus; with a Life of Trajan.” By Thomas Arnold, D.D. This is an extremely impértant publication, as it serves to finish the Roman History of Dr. Arnold, bring- 47

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48 GODEY’S ing it down to the time of the emperors. His whole Fall of will now form a pretty complete course of Roman History The book is elegt the previous volumes of Roman History by Dr. Arnold, work, and Gibbon’s * Decline and the Empire,” reading on the antly printed to match he same irm published by The M lished “The Oregon Territory. its History and Discovery.” including an account esers App etons have also pu Eseur : ilso the treaties and of the convention of the negotiations between the United States and Creat Britain, ' held at various times, for the settlement of a boundary line, and an examination of the whole question in respect to facts and the law of nations. By Travers Twiss, D.C.L., F.R.S., of Oxford, and Advocate in Doctors’ Commons. This is Professor of Political Economy in the University a very learned, able and temperate work, giving the British view of the question. It will be read with great interest at the present time, especially as it goes very earnedly into the history of the question as well as its relation to the law of nations Mr. George 8S. Appleton has just published “ Three Expe- riments in Living: Living within the Means; Living up to the Means; Living beyond the Mean wenty-first edi- tion. This is one of the most ce rated and useful books hor, Mrs. H. F. Lee, Wor!ld before ever published in this country. Its au stands very high among our litera Her you, or the Log Cabin,” published by Mr. Appleton, is extremely popular, and has been reprinted in London ; but the “Three Experiments in Living” is unrivaled in popularity Mr. Appleton has also published “Elinor Fulton,” by the author of “ Three Experiments in Living,” twel{th and “Rich Enoug a Tale of the Times,” by the same author—both works of the same class, full of excel- edition lent instruction in domestic management and the general conduct of life. Her works have, in addition to their high moral value, the recommendation of a chaste and beauti- ful style, and that embellishment which is derived from a richly-stored and highly-cultivated mind. Messrs. Harper & Brothers have completed the publi- cation of Harpers’ “Illuminated and New Pictorial Bible.” It ends with No. 54—and the frontispieces for the Old and New Testaments, contained in the last number, are most splendid specimens of engraving. E:ther of these prints is richly worth two dollars to an amateur of art; and yet the two are contained in one o two shilling numbers The same firm have published “The Bush Ranger of Van Dieman’s Land,” by Charles Rowcroft, Esq., author interesting ales of the Colonies,” &c. &c., a very novel, abounding with fresh scenes and adventures in a region hitherto untouched by writers of fiction. It is for sale by G. B Zieber & Co The same publishers have issued Nos. 77 and 75 of Har- pers’ “Jilustrated Edition of Shaks; é Sold by Zieber. They have also commenced the publication of “ The Pictorial History of England.’ on a magnificent scale This history is on an entirely new plan, including not only civil and military events, but the history of national industry, religion, literature and the fine arts; and all these subjects are illustrated by engravings, executed by first-rate artists from original and authentic designs. Sold by G. B. Zieber & Co. Messrs. Carey & Hart have commenced the publication of a series of books which will be found extremely useful and entertaining. It is called “Carey and Hart's Library for the People,” and is to consist, as the programme in- forms us, of “the best productions of the day, from the British press, in the several departments of standard lite- rature. Popular histories, memoirs of eminent persons, voyages and travels, where such are found to possess peculiar interest and value, will form the staple of this MAGAZINE AND LADY’S BOOK. *Lrprary,’ although other works will be embraced in the range of selecton. Fiction will be excluded from the series; which, while it is intended for all readers, will more particularly aim to form, and at the same time sup- ply, the tastes of those who have heretofore had but limited ; pportunities of acceas to books of the description therein presented. Each work will appear in its integrity: the publishers will omission or alteration of the text.” “ History of the Bastile,” scrupulously refrain from the slightest Among the works | aiready announced are ments of the Knights of Malta.” * Achiere- “Curiosities of Physical Geography,” “Holling’s Life of Gustavus Adolphus,” “ Cor- ner’s India and China” Proctor’s Italy.” “* Palgrave’s Anglo-S. ‘ History of the Conquest of Mexico,” * Life of Hernan Cortez.” Of these, the first two have already appeared. The edi- axons,” and others of equa! value and interest torial care of this undertaking, we happen to know, is in the hands of one of the best read and most accomplished belles-lettres scholars in this country Mr. J. W. Moore has published No. 4 of Moore’s “ Se- It is “A Summer's Jaunt across the Water. lect Library.” including Visits to England, Ireland, Scotland, France, J. Jay Smith, Librarian of the Philadelphia and Loganian Libraries. Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, etc An elegant work, the production of a gentleman and a 8 ng the most interesting scenes and frequent- noiar, visit ing the best society in Europe, and penning the result of his observations in that easy, off-hand, piquant style which itis d rhtful to read Mr. Charles J. Gillis, No. 464 Walnut street, has just published No. 16 of “Frost's Pictorial History of the World.” This namber contains a very lively and eloquent account f the famous controversy between the popes and € mpe- rors on the right of ecclesiastical investiture, in which the triumph of the former raised the papal power to its It also commences the chapter on the greatest heiglit Crusades. The number is embellished with unusual splendor of pictorial effect Messrs. Harper & Brothers have just published “Lifein Prairie Land,” by Eliza W. Farnham. This work, No. 12 of “ Harpers’ New Miscellany s a lively, graphic descr ption of the we stern country ; its sc¢ nery, manners, customs and people, by a very accomplished and sensible , , ty of observation and description, and l Her facu her vein of well-bred humour, remind us strongly of Mrs. Kirkland; and the fidelity of her descriptions will render ; ! | who are desirous to her book highly acceptable ? to al know what life in the western country really is. The book is sold by Messrs. G. B. Zieber & Co Messrs. Harper and Brothers have published “Emel Wyndham.” by the author of “Two Old Men’s Tales.” Mount Lovel,” &c. This author is well known as among the most powerful of the living writers of England. Her Admiral’s Daughter” has never been surpassed in inten- I nterest. This book is for sale by Messrs. G. B. Zieber & Co. The same firm have published “ The Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.” Complete in one volume. This edition is got up in a very neat style at fifty cents per copy. It comprises Voices of the Night, Earlier Poems, Translations, Ballads Poems on Slavery, The Spanish Student, The Belfry of Bruges and other Poems. Of the author’s eminence among American poets it is superfluous tospeak. The volume is for sale at Zieber's. An amusing incident occurred on the Ist of last April (All Fools’ Day). street was accosted by a small Quaker girl with “ Miss, A young lady promenading Chestnut thy shoe is untied.” Not suspecting a trick, she looked down, but what was her astonishment when the litle *“ Friend” exclaimed, “Thee is a Fourth Month dunce.”

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BAA) a, ant «od MAG a See _—, . S S — Se NS

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Phe Messrs. Aj s have als [he Oreg il J ' Eseur « ‘ I t s i | eld at vas 2 : ; « ' ie, a Lexa ation ¢ “ I ) san law oO s. By Tra Iw pct F.R.S., Professor « I ail t ersity Ox 1, and Advoca n I ( { s. This is a Vv y learned bie i g ¢ ] sh v.ew of t . Itw t rest at the pres ie, ¢ “ ry urnedly to the history o i SS $ ils t or iw i Mr. George 8S. Appleto jus f 1 Er} ts im Li ! gt I tot Means; Living bevon Mea we ! Prhis is one o most ce : s ever publishe n scoul I \ 1.1 stands very i g our lite ! \ you, or the I ( \ ni s extremely y : ! ii ‘ Three Exper) ! s unrivaled popu y Mr. Appleton has also | shed “E Fult * by the author of “ Three Experiments in | g.”? iw edition d“R Enowsg 17 ] y the sau i ri workso e sure “ ‘ xe nt struction in comes I I nta I conduct of life. Her works have, ina tion to their high moral value, the recommendation of a chaste and beaut ful style, and that embellishment which is derived from a r.chly-stored and highly-cultivated mi Messrs. Harper & Brothers have cor 1 the pu cation of Harpers’ “J ) ated and N Pictorial B It ends with No. }44—and the frontispieces for Old and New Testaments, contained in the la nut r. are most splendid specimens of engravin Ether of these prints s richly worth two col.ars to an 2 eur ol art; and yet the two are contained in one ott tw ng mobers The same firm have published “7 I Ranger of Van Dieman’s Land.” by Charies Row Fa t or of “Tales of the Colonies,” &c. &« V t sting novel, abo ng with iresh s s res ina region hitherto untouched by writers von. It is for sale by G. Lb. Zieber & Co Phe same publishers have issued Nos. 77 and 7S of Har pers’ “Jilustrated Edition of Shakspea Soid Zieber They have also commenced the publication o 7) Pict al History « England on a magnificent seale This history is on an entirely new plan, including ne only civil and military events, batt siory of national nduétry. religion, literature and the hine arts; and a nese 8 ects are strated y engraviisg xecuted by first-rate artists from original and authentic designs. Soid by G. B. Zieber & Co Messrs. Carey & Hart have commenced the publication of a series of books which w be found extremely usetul and entertaining. Itis called Carey and Harts Library id is to consis for the People,”

as tne programme in- forms us, of “the best product ons of the day, from the British press, in the several departments of standard lite- rature. Popular histories, memoirs of eminent persons voyages and travels, where such are found to possess peculiar interest and value, will form the staple of this i i pres ] j ‘ . | al ( 1 © il i i oO ‘ l : res oO t rors ¢ r ereates Crus s I splen of | customs an u i her n \ Kirkland; a OOK *‘Admiral’s D sity ol pathet G. B. Zieber rransiations Student, The ~ I IOR vorks mbrace . ' rs. W S « ( ‘ ‘ i ‘ t \ wor i | A $ V ( s § / H I fi ldoly ‘ ( ( P s It I 1 17 é st VW ] 1 rs o vaiue and rest i ure 1 rhe ed s tak Ww en know, is in e best read mos ompiis < irs in sco \

It is is s Ja ta $ it ; } g ad 1 , j x 1 j I mm" I By J. J Su I i I un Libra s ‘ < L ae I ia s res = sa r I ‘ e res s , ( it sivie wl s J.¢ s. No. 43 Walnut street. } P l s] wl tory of the Vi say y a oquent aeccc s ee! popes t eC sias i s \ r raise pay pow s Ita comm 8 chapter t number is embellished wih unus i i t lect er & Bro rs have just p s 5 “+2 1 v i i W. Fan m This work, No New Misc ’ sa ve i < S co \ ts s ry.t s ivery accomplis la sens observation ! s« ( i r nour, rem ! s sir of Mrs | ty of her descriptions w render ic bile O ail who are cesirous ! e western country rea s I Messrs.G B Zeber & ¢ per and Brothers have published “EF i e author o 'wo Olid Men's ‘Tales «& his author is well known as among of the living writers of E und iH ! ier’ has never been surpassed in inten c interest. This book is for sale by Messrs & firm have published “The Poems of Henry gf ” Complete in one volume Phis 1 avery neat style at fifty cents per ses Voices of the Night, Earlier Poems Ballads Poems on Slavery. The Spanish Beliry of Bruges and other Poems. Of 1) author’s eminence among American poets it is superfluous to speak. The volume is for sale at Zieber’s. An amus n neident occurred on the Ist of last Apr (All Fools’ Day). A young lady promenading Chestnut Street was ac cos ted by a smai!l Quaker girl with * Miss, thy shoe is untied.” Not suspecting a trick, she looked down, but w “ Friend” ex: hat was her astonishment when the little laimed, “Thee is a Fourth Month dunce.”

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