The poor cow, too, listens with dismay to the retreating footsteps of

the party, and has already made some furious plunges to free herself

and rejoin the rest of the kine, who have been driven off, nothing

loth, towards home. Watch her: how intently she stares along the path

by which the people have deserted her. Were it not for the occasional

stamp of her fore leg, or the impatient side-toss of the head, to keep

off the swarming flies, she might be carved out of marble. And now a

fearful and anxious gaze up the bed of the nullah, and into the thick

fringe of Mimoso, one ear pricked and the other back alternately, show

that _instinct_ has already whispered the warning of impending danger.

Another plunge to get loose, and a searching gaze up the path; see her

sides heave. Now comes what we want--that deep low! it echoes again

among the hills: another, and another. Poor wretch! you are hastening

your doom; far or near the tiger hears you--under rock or thicket,

where he has lain since morning sheltered from the scorching sun, his

ears flutter as if they were tickled every time he hears that music:

his huge green eyes, heretofore half-closed, are now wide open, and,

alas! poor cow, gaze truly enough in thy direction; but he has not

stirred yet, and nobody can say in which direction giant death will

yet stalk forth.

Which ever of my readers who has never had to wait in solitude, in a

strange room of a strange house, has not indulged in that idle

speculative curiosity peculiar to such a situation, gazing on the

pictures, and counting perhaps tables and chairs with an absurd

earnestness of purpose,--will not understand how I spent the first

half hour of my solitude; how I idly counted the stakes that formed

the framework of the hut, or watched with interest the artful tactics

of another Shikaree, in the shape of a slippery-looking green lizard,

who was cautiously "stalking" the insects among the rafters.

The cow, tired with struggling and plunging, appears to have become

tolerably resigned to her situation, and has lain down, her ears,

however, in continual motion, and the jaw sometimes suddenly arrested,

while in the act of chewing the cud, to listen, as some slight noise

in the thicket attracts her attention. Gracious! what is that down the

nullah to the left? A peacock only. How my heart beat at first! what a

splendid train the fellow has. Here he comes, evidently for the water;

and now his seraglio,--one, two, four, five, buff-breasted,

modest-looking little quakeresses. What a contrast to his splendid

blue and gold! All to the water--dive in your bills and toss back your

heads with blinking eyes, as you quaff the delicious fluid; little do

you dream that there is a gun within five paces, although you are

quite safe. But stop! here are antics. The old boy is happy, and up

goes his tail, to the admiration of his hens, and the extreme

wonderment of the cow, who with open eyes is staring with all her

might at the glories of the expanded fan; and now slowly goes he round

and round, like a solemn Jack o' the Green, his spindle shanks looking

disreputably thin in the waning light.

They quit the water-side, and disappear; and I can hear their heavy

wings as they one after another mount a tall tree for the night.

The moon is up--all nature still; the cow, again on her legs, is

restless, and evidently frightened. Oh! reader, even if you have the

soul of a Shikaree, I despair of being able to convey in words a tithe

of the sensations of that solitary vigil: a night like that is to be

enjoyed but seldom--a red-letter day in one's existence.

Where is the man who has never experienced the poetic influence of a

moonlit scene! Fancy, then, such a one as here described; a crescent

of low hills--craggy, steep, and thickly wooded--around you on three

sides, and above them, again, at twenty miles' distance, the clear

blue outline of the Neilgherry Hills; in your front the silver-sand

bed of the dry watercourse divides the thick and sombre jungle with a

stream of light, till you lose it in the deep shadows at the foot of

the hills,--all quiet, all still, all bathed in the light of the moon,

yourself the only man for miles to come; a solitary watcher, your only

companion the poor cow, who, full of fears and suspicions at every

leaf-fall, reminds you that a terrible struggle is about to take place

within a few feet of your bed, and that there will be noise and

confusion, when you must be cool and collected. Your little kennel

would not be strong enough to resist a determined charge, and you are

alone, if three good guns are not true friends.

Let me, good reader, give way to the pleasures of memory,--let me

fancy myself back again, seated in my dear little hut, full of hope

and expectation, now drinking the ice-cold coffee from one of the

soda-water bottles, re-corking it, and placing it slowly and

noiselessly in its corner. Hark to the single ring of a silver bell,

and its echo among the hills! a spotted deer--why does she call? has

she seen any thing? Again, and again, and answered from a long

distance! 'Tis very odd, that when one should be most wakeful, there

should be always an inclination to sleep. A raw nip of aqua-vitae, and

a little of the same rubbed round the eyes, nostrils and behind the

ears, make us wakeful again.

Oh! that I could express sounds on paper as music is written in notes.

No, reader, you must do as I have done--you must be placed in a

similar situation, to hear and enjoy the terrible roar of a hungry

tiger--not from afar off and listened for, but close at hand and

unexpected. It was like an electric shock;--a moment ago, I was dozing

off, and the cow, long since lain down, appeared asleep; that one roar

had not died away among the hills when she had scrambled on her legs,

and stood with elevated head, stiffened limbs, tail raised, and breath

suspended, staring full of terror in the direction of the sound. As

for the biped, with less noise and even more alacrity, he had grasped

his "Sam Nock," whose polished barrels just rested on the lower ledge

of the little peephole; perhaps his eyes were as round as saucers, and

heart beating fast and strong.

Now for the struggle;--pray heaven that I am cool and calm, and do not

fire in a hurry, for one shot will either lose or secure my

well-earned prize.

There he is again! evidently in that rugged, stony watercourse which

runs parallel, and about two hundred yards behind the hut. But what is

that? Yes, lightning: two flashes in quick succession, and a cold

stream of air is rustling through the half-withered leaves of my

ambush. Taking a look to the rear through an accidental opening among

the leaves, it was plain that a storm, or, as it would be called at

sea, a squall, was brewing. An arch of black cloud was approaching

from the westward, and the rain descending, gave it the appearance of

a huge black comb, the teeth reaching to the earth. The moon, half

obscured, showed a white mist as far as the rain had reached. Then was

heard in the puffs of air the hissing of the distant but approaching

down-pour: more lightning--then some large heavy drops plashed on the

roof, and it was raining cats and dogs.

How the scene was changed! Half-an-hour ago, solemn, and still, and

wild, as nature rested, unpolluted, undefaced, unmarked by

man--sleeping in the light of the moon, all was tranquillity; the

civilized man lost his idiosyncrasy in its contemplation--forgot

nation, pursuits, creed,--he felt that he was Nature's child, and

adored the God of Nature.

But the beautiful was now exchanged for the sublime, when that scene

appeared lit up suddenly and awfully by lightning, which now

momentarily exchanged a sheet of intensely dazzling blue light, with a

darkness horrible to endure--a light which showed the many streams of

water, which now appeared like ribbons over the smooth slabs of rock

that lay on the slope of the hills, and gave a microscopic accuracy of

outline to every object,--exchanged as suddenly for a darkness which

for the moment might be supposed the darkness of extinction--of utter

annihilation,--while the crash of thunder overhead rolled over the

echoes of the hills, "I am the Lord thy God."

The hut, made in a hurry, was not thatched (as it might have been),

and the half-dried foliage which covered it collected drops only to

pour down continuous streams from the stem of every twig.

So much for sitting up for tigers! will most of my readers exclaim,

and laugh at the monomaniac who would subject himself to such misery;

but the thorough-bred Shikaree is game and stanch to the backbone, and

will not be stopped by a night's wetting. For myself, I can only say

in extenuation, that I was born on the 12th of August.

A heavy and continuous down-pour soon showed its effects, and although

I had lots of big coats, and was not altogether unprepared for such an

emergency, an hour had not elapsed before I was obliged to confess

myself tolerably wet through. The matress just collected the water and

made a good hip-bath, for there was no other seat. The nullah,

heretofore as I have described, was now a turbid stream of red water,

which falling over a slab of rock into the small basin before

mentioned, kept up an unceasing din. Tired and disgusted, I rolled a

doubled blanket, although saturated with water, tight round me, and

was soon warm and asleep. About two o'clock in the morning the clouds

broke and the rain ceased; the boiling stream ran down to half its

size, and a concert of thousands of frogs, bass, tenor, and treble,

kept up a monotonous croaking enough to wake the dead.

The moon appeared again, and I attacked both cold coffee and brandy,

and made myself as comfortable as possible under existing

circumstances--to wit, wringing the water out of my jacket and cap,

and putting them on again warm and comparatively dry. The cow even

shook herself, and appeared glad of the change of weather, and I had

no doubt that she would go back with me to the tent in the morning to

gladden the eyes of her young calf and all good Hindoos. The nullah

had run dry again, and even the infernal frogs, as if despairing of

more rain, had ceased their din: damp and sleepy, with arms folded and

eyes sometimes open, but often shut, I kept an indifferent watch, when

the cow struggling on her legs and a choking groan brought me to my

senses! There they were! No dream! A huge tiger holding her just

behind the ears, shaking her like a fighting dog! By the doubtful

light of a watery moon did I calmly and noiselessly run out the muzzle

of my single J. Lang rifle.

I saw him, without quitting his grip of the cow's neck, leap over her

back more than once--she sank to the earth, and he lifted her up

again: at the first opportunity I pulled trigger--snick! The rifle was

withdrawn, and big Sam Nock felt grateful to the touch. Left

barrel--snick! Right barrel--snick, bang!

Whether hanging fire is an excuse or not, the tiger relinquished his

hold, and in one bound was out of sight. The cow staggered for two or

three seconds, fell with a heavy groan, and ceased to move. Tiger

gone!--cow dead!--was it a dream? Killed the cow within five paces and

gone away scathless.

For a long time I felt benumbed; I had missed many near shots, even

many at tigers, and some like this at night, but never before under

such favorable circumstances. Why, I almost dreaded the morning, when

my Shikaree and people would come and find the cow killed, and I

should have in fairness to account for the rest. The first streak of

daylight did shortly appear, and every familiar sound of awaking

nature succeeded each other, from the receding hooting of the huge

horned owl, to the noisy crowing of the jungle cock and the call of

the peafowl. The sun got up, and soon I heard, first doubtfully and

then distinctively, the approach of my people. A sudden start, and

stop, when they came in full view of the slaughtered cow; and then, a

look up and down the nullah, as if they had not seen all. The reader

must spare me the recollection of a scene that vexes me even at this

distance of time, as if it had occurred but yesterday. The next

half-hour was spent sitting on the carcass of the cow, staring at the

enormous and deeply indented prints of the tiger's feet, and looking

with sorrow and vexation and some compunction at the poor little calf

which had been driven back to its mother, neither to see her alive nor

her death avenged.

It was quite evident that the tiger had not been hit, for there was

neither hair nor blood to be seen, and one or two small branches in

the jungle beyond the cow showed, either by being cut down or barked,

that the ball had passed over the mark. So on the pony and back to the

tent to sleep or sulk out the next twelve hours.

Somehow or other that pony, generally so clever and pleasant, was

inclined to kick his toes against every stone, and be perverse all the

way home; at any rate I fancied so, and am ashamed to say that I gave

him the spur, or jerked the curb rein on the slightest pretence. My

people, like all Indians, read the case thoroughly, and trudged along

without hazarding a remark on any subject. We passed under the

identical banian-tree and by the disgusting little black image

described in the commencement of the story, and never did I feel more

indignant against all idolatry, or more inclined to smash a Hindoo

god. We also had to pass a small jungle village, and, as if on

purpose, it appeared that every man, woman, and child were posted to

have a good look. Several of them who knew some of my party, asked a

hurried question, and I could hear, though I would not look, that the

answer was given--"Had a shot, but missed." "Yes," said I to myself,

"quite true--why should I be angry?" "Here goes the man that missed an

animal as big as a bullock at ten paces,--more power to his elbow!"

The tent gained, I was soon lying on my back on the bed kicking out my

heels, calling for breakfast, and appearing to be very hungry, or very

sleepy, or very any thing but what I was--mortified and disgusted.

Breakfast over, my good old Shikaree was sent for, and the whole

affair gone over again. The rain, the unexpected time of night, and

above all, the two first shots _snicking_, and the third hanging fire

being considered, we two being judge and jury, it was decided that not

the slightest blame attached to the defendant, who was too well known

as a very fine shot to regard a mistake of this kind; and, moreover,

that as it was certain that the tiger was not hurt, but only

frightened, there was strong reason for hoping that he would return at

nightfall to the carcass. Men were therefore sent out to watch that

the place should not in any way be disturbed, or the dead cow touched

or moved, and I resigned myself to a pleasant sleep. I awoke about

three in the afternoon; the guns had, thanks to a good Shikaree, been

washed, dried, and slightly oiled, and were all laid on the table,

looking as if a month of rain would not make them miss fire. A bath,

clean clothes, guns loaded, pony saddled--and once more off to try my

luck.

The pony was active and cheerful, and even the beastly image under the

banian-tree did not look so grim. On our arrival at the ground, the

half-wild fellows who had watched all day, dropped down from their

trees, and reported that nothing had happened during the day, and that

the place had been undisturbed. A few vultures appeared about midday

and settled on the carcass, but had been driven off; further they had

nothing to say.

They were referred to the tent for payment for their day's work, and,

in due course, took their departure with my people.

Once more left alone!--this time quite alone, for my poor companion of

last night lay stiff and stark in the position I saw her fall, when

the tiger relinquished his hold.

Alarmed by the already slightly smelling carrion, or finding water

elsewhere, left by the down-pour of last night, no peaceful or other

living thing paid me a visit, if I except some few crows, who with

heavy wings swept past, or perched on neighboring trees, cawing, and

winking their eyes, and peering cautiously and inquisitively at the

dead cow. Only one among the crew hovered and lighted on the dead

beast's head; but although he made several picks at the lips and eyes,

opening and shutting his wings the while on his strong, sleek,

wiry-looking body, and cawing lustily, nobody heeded him; so,

appearing to be alarmed at being solus in the scene, he took his

departure.

Night succeeded day, and the moon, in unclouded beauty, made the dark

jungle a fairy scene. There was but one drawback; the cow lay dead,

the tiger had been fired at, and experience whispered, 'the

opportunity has gone by.'

By-and-by a jackal passed, like a shadow among the bushes, so

small-looking, so much the color of all around, that it remained a

doubt; more of these passed to and fro, and then a bolder ventured on

the plain sand, and up to the rump of the dead beast, took two or

three hard tugging bites, and was gone. As the night grew later, they

became less fearful, and half-a-dozen of them together were tugging

and tearing, till breaking the entrails, the gas escaped in a loud

rumbling, which dispersed my friends among the bushes in a moment; but

they were almost immediately back, and the confidence with which they

went to work, convinced me that my hope was hopeless.

It must have been eleven o'clock when my ears caught the echo among

the rocks, and then the distant roar--nearer--nearer--nearer; and--oh,

joy!--answered. Tiger and tigress!--above all hope!--coming to

recompense me for hundreds of night-watchings--to balance a long

account of weary nights in the silent jungle, in platforms on trees,

in huts of leaf and bramble, and in damp pits on the water's edge--all

bootless;--coming--coming--nearer, and nearer.

Music nor words, dear reader, can stand me in any stead to convey the

sound to you; the first note like the trumpet of a peacock, and the

rest the deepest toned thunder. Stones and gravel rattled just behind

the hut on the path by which we came and went, and a heavy stey passed

and descended the slope into the nullah. I heard the sand crunching

under his weight before I dared look. A little peep. Oh, heavens!

looming in the moonlight, there he stood, long, sleek as satin, and

lashing his tail--he stood stationary, smelling the slaughtered cow.

No longer the cautious, creeping tiger, I felt how awful a brute he

was to offend. I remembered how he had worried a strong cow in half a

minute, and that with his weight alone my poor rickety little citadel

would fall to pieces. As if the excitement of the moment was

insufficient, the monster, gazing down the dry watercourse, caught

sight of his companion, who, advancing up the bed of the nullah, stood

irresolutely about twenty yards off. A terrific growl from him,

answered not loud but deeply, and I was the strange and unsuspected

witness to a catawauling which defies description--a monstrous

burlesque on those concerts of tigers in miniature which are

occasionally got up, on a cold, clear night, in some of the squares in

London, when all the cats for half a mile around get by some queer

accident into one area.

Whether it is an axiom among tigers that possession is nine points of

the law, or the other monster was the weaker vessel, I know not, but I

soon perceived that as _my_ friend made more noise, the other became

more subdued, and finally left the field, and retired growling among

the bushes. The bully, who was evidently the male, after smelling at

the head, came round the carcass, making a sort of complacent

purring--"humming a kind of animal song," and to it he went tooth and

nail. As he stood with his two fore feet on the haunch, while he

tugged and tore out a beef-steak, I once more grasped old "Sam Nock,"

and ran the muzzle out of the little port. The white linen band marked

a line behind his shoulders, and rather low, but, from the continued

motion of his body, it was some moments before eye and finger agreed

to pull trigger--bang! A shower of sand rattled on the dry leaves, and

a roar of rage and pain satisfied me, even before the white smoke

which hung in the still air had cleared away, to show the huge monster

writhing and plunging where he had fallen. Either directed by the

fire, or by some slight noise made in the agitation of the moment, he

saw me, and with a hideous yell, scrambled up: the roaring thunder of

his voice filled the valley, and the echoes among the hills answered

it, with the hootings of tribes of monkeys, who, scared out of sleep,

sought the highest branches, at the sound of the well-known voice of

the tyrant of the jungle. I immediately perceived, to my great joy,

that his hind-quarters were paralyzed and useless, and that all danger

was out of the question. He sank down again on his elbows, and as he

rested his now powerless limbs, I saw the blood welling out of a wound

in the loins, as it shone in the moonlight, and trickled off his

sleek-painted hide, like globules of quicksilver. As I looked into his

countenance, I saw all the devil alive there. The will remained--the

power only had gone. It was a sight never to be forgotten. With head

raised to the full stretch of his neck, he glared at me with an

expression of such malignity, that it almost made one quail. I thought

of the native superstition of singing off the whiskers of the

newly-killed tiger to lay his spirit, and no longer wondered at it.

With ears back, and mouth bleeding, he growled and roared in fitful

uncertainty, as if he were trying, but unable, to measure the extent

of the force that had laid him low.

Motionless myself, provocation ceased, and without further attempt to

get on his legs, he continued to gaze on me; when I slowly lowered my

head to the sight, and again pulled trigger. This time, true to the

mark, the ball entered just above the breast-bone, and the smoke

cleared off with his death groan. There he lay, foot to foot with his

victim of last night, motionless--dead. My first impulse was to tear

down the door behind, and get a thorough view of his proportions; but

remembering that his companion, the tigress, had only vanished a short

time ago close to the scene of action, I thought it as well to remain

where I was; so, enlarging the windows with my hands, I took a long

look, and then jovially attacked the coffee and brandy bottles,

without reference to noise, and fell back on the mattress to sleep, or

to think the night's work over. "At last, I have got him: his skin

will be pegged out to-morrow, drying before the tent door." When my

people came in the morning, they found me seated on the dead tiger.

Coolies were sent for to carry the beast, and I gave the pony his

reins all the way back to the tent.

After breakfast, the sound of tomtoms and barbarous music greeted our

ears; for the Gooroo and half the little village had turned out, and

were bringing in the tiger like an Irish funeral. I had a chair

brought out, and under the shade of a fine tree superintended the

skinning of the tiger; and as I had had no sleep for the last two

nights, I determined to make holiday. Dined at half-past six, and had

a bottle of _Frederick Giesler_, and the fumes of his glorious

champagne inspired me: "The first rainy day, I will put last night's

adventure on paper, and send it home to my old friend Regina."

From Bentley's Miscellany.

A VISIT TO THE "MAID OF ATHENS."

BY MRS. BUXTON WHALLEY.

"_Buon giorno, signora! Vi e veramente una bella citta! Ma, dov' e la

Fenice?_" Such was the morning salutation of the Venetian captain in

command of the Austrian Loyd steamer which had conveyed us up the Gulf

of Corinth, as he pointed derisively to a collection of huts about a

stone's throw from the shore, and wondered what could induce any one,

voluntarily, to abandon his "sea Cybele" for such as these! So few

were they in number, and so small in size, that they had hitherto

eluded our notice; nevertheless, they constituted, insignificant as

they appeared, the town of Lutraki. The captain's interruption,

awakening us from a dream of "Gods and god-like men," was as

disagreeable as all such interruptions must be, alike indicating

ignorance, and that want of sympathy, which is its natural result. But

to the English traveller, who now scarcely dares to hope to find a

spot left on Europe where he may look on Nature, unseared by

cockneyfied sights and sounds, it ought not to form a very serious

subject for complaint. To such an one, sick of Italian cities, where

his countrymen assemble but to parade their _ennui_ and their vices,

as of German steamboats, on the decks of which they listlessly throng,

dividing their glances pretty equally between castles and cutlets--a

rock and a _ragout_--how invigorating is the first sight of Greece, in

all its primitive and majestically tranquil simplicity! And what a

strangely felicitous epithet does that seem of "voiceless" bestowed by

Byron on those shores where nothing is heard, save occasionally the

plaintive cry of a sea-gull, and the very gentlest murmur from the

waves. There, may be observed in perfection the truth of

Chateaubriand's remark, that, "_le paysage n'est cree que par le

soleil; c' est la lumiere qui fait le paysage_."

However, our present purpose is to narrate a short episode in modern

Athenian life, rather than to dwell on scenes with which genius even

can but imperfectly familiarize the world, either by pen or pencil.

Near the solitary palm-tree, which grows in the middle of the highway

affecting to communicate[11] between Athens and the Piraeus, a

polygonal structure has been built, which is entered through a dark,

narrow passage leading from the road in front to a yard at its rear. A

ladder fixed against the wall forms the usual mode of ingress to a

very small room, which on a certain carnival night, not long ago, was

crowded by hats, cloaks, and Greeks, both male and female; the former

busily occupied in smoking, the latter in concocting some

indescribable liquid intended as a light refreshment to wearied

dancers. For the Maid of Athens--the quondam Mariana Macri--the actual

Mrs. Black, was about to give a ball. From the before-mentioned small

entrance-room the guests passed into the principal saloon, exactly

coinciding in its strange shape with the exterior of the house. At the

upper end an open door revealed a bed, on which shortly afterwards the

orchestra, consisting of two fiddlers, took up their position, with

knees protruding into the ball-room.

Every thing was of the rudest, the most unadorned, and Robinson

Crusoe-like, description. At the first glance it became evident that

the "geraniums and Grecian balms," which an enthusiastic traveller

once endeavored to magnify into "waving aromatic plants," had long ago

withered from the hostess's possession, never to be replaced. But she,

the fairest flower of all, with her two sisters, still retain no

inconsiderable remnants of beauty; which is the more remarkable in a

country where good looks vanish, and age arrives, so speedily. Indeed,

good looks at all are rare among the continental Greek women; the

celebrated beauties being usually islanders, and chiefly Hydriotes.

Mrs. Black was attired in her coquettish native costume, consisting of

a red fez, profusely ornamented with gold embroidery, placed on one

side of the head; a long flowing silk petticoat, and a close-fitting,

dark velvet jacket. A similar dress was worn by her sister, Madame

Pittakis, the wife of the celebrated antiquary, and _guardian of the

Acropolis_; in virtue of which magnificent title he receives two

drachmae (about 1_s._ 7_d._) per head for admission to the Parthenon.

The third Grace, being a widow, was dressed entirely in black. The

company comprised a motley assemblage in Frank, and the varying

provincial Greek costumes, diversified here and there by personages in

King Otho's uniform. But the dancers of the _beau sexe_ were extremely

few, and, to say the least of them, very indifferent performers.

However, what they needed in skill and energy, was amply made up by

the vivacity of their graceful and vainglorious lords; who, despite

the clouds of dust from the dirty floor, and equally dirty shoes,

continued an almost ceaseless round of their national dance, the

Romaika, only pausing at intervals to recruit their strength with

glasses of burning rakee, the beverage most in demand. Those bowls of

Samian wine which figure so charmingly in poetry, form, alas! but

sorry items in prosaic matter-of-fact repasts; and one feels, indeed,

disposed to dash them any where _but_ down one's throat. Of the

dancers, one of the most active was Mrs. Black's son, a handsome

youth, apparently about eighteen years of age; together with her

husband, who, from being a Norfolk farmer, is now elevated to the

somewhat anomalous position of English Professor at the Athenian

University. The fair Mariana herself is quiet and retiring; and

seemingly little anxious to profit by the factitious interest with

which Byron's transient admiration continues to invest her; for, in

reply that night to a blundering Englishman's point blank queries

concerning the poet, she answered, "_Non mi ricordo piu di lui_."

Soon after midnight the guests departed, at the imminent hazard of

breaking their necks, either down Mrs. Black's ladder, or in the

numerous holes that intervened between her residence and their

respective abodes. But we could not help thinking, that, uncouth as

had been the entertainment, it was more in accordance with the social

position of a people whose Ministers are not always competent to read

or write, and whose legislators occasionally enforce their political

arguments by flinging their shoes in the faces of the opposition, than

the exotic civilization of the gaudy little court, presided over by

that loveliest of royal ladies, Queen Amalia.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] At the period of which I write, this road, although the principal

approach to the capital, was impassable, and passengers pursued,

instead, a devious and uncertain track through corn-fields, ditches,

and the rocky bed of the Cyphissus.

From the French of Eugene de Mirecourt,

THE HISTORY OF A ROSE

The gallery parallel to the course of the Seine, and which joins the

Palace of the Tuileries to the Louvre, was designed by Philibert de

l'Orme, and finished towards the end of 1663. On the 15th of January,

1664, Louis the Fourteenth descended into the vast greenhouses, where

his gardener, Le Notre, had collected from all parts of the world the

rarest and most beautiful plants and flowers.

The air was soft and balmy as that of spring-time in the south. At the

right of the great monarch stood Colbert, silently revolving gigantic

projects of state; at the left was Lauzun, that ambitious courtier,

who, not possessing sufficient tact to discern royal hatred under the

mask of court favor, was afterwards destined to expiate, at Pignerol,

the crime of being more amiable and handsomer than the king.

"Messieurs," said Louis, showing to his companions a long and

richly-laden avenue of orange trees, "are not these a noble present

from our ancient enemy, Philip the Fourth, now our father-in-law? He

has rifled his own gardens to deck the Tuileries; and the Infanta, we

hope, when walking beneath these trees, will cease to regret the shade

of the Escurial."

"Sire," said Colbert gravely, "the Queen mourns a much greater

loss--that of your majesty's affections."

"_Parbleu!_" exclaimed Lauzun, gayly; "in order to lose any thing, one

must first have possessed it. Now, if I don't mistake,--"

"Silence! M. le Duc. M. de Colbert, my marriage was the work of

Mazarin--quite sufficient to guarantee that the _heart_ was not

consulted."

The minister bowed, without replying.

"As to you, M. de Lauzun," continued the king, "beware, henceforward,

how you forget that Maria Theresa is Queen of France, and that the

nature of our feelings towards her is not to be made a subject of

discussion."

"Sire, forgive my--"

"Enough!" interrupted Louis, approaching a man, who, unmindful of the

king's presence, had taken off his coat, in order the more easily to

prune a tall flowering shrub.

This was the celebrated gardener, Le Notre. Absorbed in some

unpleasant train of thought, he had not heeded the approach of

visitors, and continued to mutter and grumble to himself, while

diligently using the pruning-knife.

"What! out of humor?" asked Louis.

Without resuming his coat, the gardener cried eagerly--"Sire, justice!

This morning, the Queen Dowager's maids of honor came hither, and, in

spite of my remonstrances, did an infinity of mischief. See this

American magnolia, the only one your Majesty possesses. Well, Sire,

they cut off its finest blossoms: neither oranges nor roses could

escape them. Happily I succeeded in hiding from them my favorite

child--my beautiful rose-tree, which I have nursed with so much care,

and which will live for fifty years, provided care be taken not to

allow it to produce more than one rose in the season." Then pointing

to the plant of which he spoke, Le Notre continued: "'Tis the

hundred-leaved rose, Sire! Hitherto I have saved it from pillage; but

I protest, if such conduct can be renewed.

"Come, come!" interposed the monarch, "we must not be too hard on

young girls. They are like butterflies, and love flowers."

"_Morbleu!_ Sire, butterflies don't break boughs, and eat oranges!"

Louis deigned to smile at this repartee. "Tell us," he said, "who were

the culprits?"

"All the ladies, Sire! Yet, no. I am wrong. There was one young

creature, as fresh and lovely as this very rose, who did not imitate

her companions. The poor child even tried to comfort me, while the

others were tearing my flowers: they called her Louise."

"It was Mademoiselle de la Valliere," said Lauzun, "the young person

whom your Majesty remarked yesterday in attendance on Madame

Henriette."

"She shall have her reward," said Louis. "Let Mademoiselle de la

Valliere be the only maid of honor invited to the ball to be given

here to-night."

"A ball! Ah, my poor flowers!" cried Le Notre, clasping his hands in

despair.

Colbert ventured to remind his Majesty that he had promised to give an

audience that evening to two architects, Claude Perrault and Liberal

Bruant; of whom, the first was to bring designs for the Observatory;

the second, a plan for the Hotel des Invalides.

"Receive these gentlemen yourself," replied the king; "while we are

dancing, M. de Colbert will labor for our glory; posterity will never

be the wiser! Only, in order to decorate these bare walls, have the

goodness to send to the manufactory of the Gobelins, which you have

just established, for some of the beautiful tapestry you praise so

highly."

Accordingly, to the utter despair of Le Notre, the ball took place in

the greenhouses, metamorphosed, as if by magic, into a vast gallery,

illumined by a thousand lustres, sparkling amid flowers and precious

stones. Each fragrant orange-tree bore wax-lights amid its branches,

and many lovely faces gleamed amongst the flowery thickets; while

bright eyes watched the footsteps of the mighty master of the revel.

The cutting north-east wind blew outside; poor wretches shivered on

the pavement; but what did that matter while the court danced and

laughed amid trees and flowers, and breathed the soft sweet summer

air?

Maria Theresa did not mingle in the scene. Timid and retiring, the

young Queen fled from the noisy gayety of the court, and usually

remained with her aunt, the Queen Mother. On this occasion, therefore,

the ball was presided over by Madame Henriette, and by Olympia

Mancini, Countess of Soissons. The gentle La Valliere kept, modestly,

in the background, until espied by the King, beneath the magnolia,

which her companions had so recklessly despoiled of its flowers, and

which had cost them exclusion from the _fete_.

The next moment the hand of Louise trembled in that of her sovereign;

for Louis the Fourteenth had chosen the maid of honor for his partner

in the dance. At the close of the evening, Le Notre, who had received

private orders, brought forward his favorite rose-tree, transplanted

into a richly-gilded vase. The poor man looked like a criminal

approaching the place of execution. He laid the flower on a raised

step near the throne; and on the front of its vase every one read the

words which had formerly set Olympus in a flame--"To the most

beautiful!"

Many rival belles grew pale when they heard the Duc de Lauzun ordered

by Louis to convey the precious rose-tree into the apartment of

Mademoiselle de la Valliere. But Le Notre rejoiced, for the fair one

gave him leave to come each day and attend to the welfare of his

beloved flower.

The rose-tree soon became to the favorite a mysterious talisman by

which she estimated the constancy of Louis the Fourteenth. She watched

with anxiety all its changes of vegetation, trembling at the fall of a

leaf, and weeping whenever a new bud failed to replace a withered

blossom. Louise had yielded her erring heart to the dreams of love,

not to the visions of ambition. "Tender, and ashamed of being so," as

Madame de Sevigne has described her, the young girl mourned for her

fault at the foot of the altar. Remorse punished her for her

happiness; and more than once has the priest, who read first mass at

the chapel of Versailles, turned at the sound of stifled sobs

proceeding from the royal recess, and seen there a closely-veiled

kneeling figure.

The fallen angel still remembered heaven.

Thus passed ten years. At their end, the rose-tree might be seen

placed on a magnificent stand in the Palace of St. Germain; but

despite of Le Notre's constant care, the flower bent sadly on its

blighted stem. Near it the Duchess de la Valliere (for so she had just

been created) was weeping bitterly. Her most intimate friend,

Francoise Athenais de Montemar, Comtesse de Montespan, entered, and

exclaimed, "What, weeping, Louise! Has not the King just given you the

_tabouret_ as a fresh proof of his love?"

Without replying, La Valliere pointed to her rose.

"What an absurd superstition!" cried Madame de Montespan, seating

herself near her friend. "'Tis really childish to fancy that the

affections of a Monarch should follow the destiny of a flower. Come,

child," she continued, playfully slapping the fair mourner's hands

with her fan, "you know you are always adorable, and why should you

not be always adored!"

"Because another has had the art to supplant me."

Athenais bit her lip. Louise had at length discovered that her

pretended friend was seeking to undermine her. On the previous

evening the King had conversed for a long time with Madame de

Montespan in the Queen's apartments. He had greatly enjoyed her clever

mimicry of certain court personages; and when La Valliere had ventured

to reproach him tenderly, he had replied--

"Louise, you are silly; your rose-tree speaks untruly when it

calumniates me."

None but Athenais, to whom alone it had been confided, could have

betrayed the secret. And now, at the entrance of her rival, la

Valliere hastened to dry up her tears, but not so speedily as to

prevent the other from perceiving them. Her feigned caresses, and

ill-disguised tone of triumph, provoked Louise to let her see that she

discerned her treachery. But Athenais pretended not to feel the shaft.

"Supplant you, dear Louise!" she said in a tone of surprise; "it would

be difficult to do that, I should think, when the King is wholly

devoted to you!"

Rising with a careless air, she approached the rose-tree, drew from

her glove an almost invisible phial, and, with a rapid gesture, poured

on its footstalk the corrosive liquid which the tiny flask contained.

This was the third time that Madame de Montespan had practised this

unworthy manoeuvre, unknown to the sorrowful favorite, who, as her

insidious rival well knew, would believe the infidelity of the King,

only on the testimony of his precious gift.

Next morning, Le Notre found the rose-tree quite dead. The poor old

man loved it as if it had been his child, and his eyes were filled

with tears as he carried it to its mistress.

Then Louise felt, indeed, that no hope remained. Pale and trembling,

she took a pair of scissors, cut off the withered blossom, and placed

it under a crystal vase. Afterwards she prayed to Heaven for strength

to fulfil the resolution she had made.

The age of Louis the Fourteenth passed away, with its glory and with

its crimes. France had now reached that disastrous epoch, when famine

and pestilence mowed down the peaceful inhabitants, and Marlborough

and Prince Eugene cut the royal army to pieces on the frontiers.

One day, the death-bell tolled from a convent tower in the Rue St.

Jacques, and two long files of female Carmelites bore, to her last

dwelling, one of the sisters of their strict and silent order. When

the last offices were finished, and all the nuns had retired to their

cells, an old man came and knelt beside the quiet grave. His trembling

hand raised a crystal vase which had been placed on the stone; he took

from beneath it a withered rose, which he pressed to his lips, and

murmured, in a voice broken by sobs:--

"Poor heart! Poor flower!"

The old man was Le Notre; and the Carmelite nun, buried that morning,

was _Sister Louise de la Misericorde_, formerly Duchesse de la

Valliere.

From the London Times.

THE STORY OF STUART OF DUNLEATH.[12]

The story is truthful, plaintive, and full of beauty. At a very early

age Eleanor Raymond loses her father, who has held a high appointment

in India, and news of his death is brought while she is still a child

to her mother's house in England. The bearer of the sad intelligence

is David Stuart, of Dunleath, the penniless representative of a ruined

Scottish house. David had been secretary to Sir John Raymond, whose

eyes he had closed, and he comes to the widow recommended to her

sisterly love, and the appointed guardian of her youthful daughter.

Lady Raymond, it must be added, had been previously married, and is

the mother of a burly sailor, promoted by Sir John's interest, and at

sea at the time of his stepfather's death. We need not stay to dwell

upon the feeble helplessness, physical and mental, of her Ladyship, or

to contrast it with the overbearing disposition of her son, whose

strong attachment to his mother is the redeeming feature of his

character. The young ex-secretary and present guardian proceeds to the

fulfilment of his duty, as it seems, with a conscientious mind. His

ward is an heiress, and will be surrounded with trials of many kinds.

She is fair to behold, ingenuous, trustful, is neglected by her

surviving parent,--less from want of affection than from lack of

interest--who, then, so suited for monitor and instructor both, as the

highly-disciplined and well-informed Stuart himself? David has been a

great traveller, has read much, and observed more. His intellect is

commanding, and he is noble in form. He notes the quickness of his

ward, is captivated by her girlish enthusiasm and untiring zeal. He

will engage no masters when he can teach so accurately himself. She

requires no instructors but the master from whom she learns so

willingly and so well. Perilous devotion of a teacher (it may be of

twenty) with so fond a pupil, though her years number but ten! What

man of twenty-eight ever thought himself old in the presence of a

maiden of eighteen? What girl of eighteen ever deemed herself too

young to be wooed and won by a man of twenty-eight? For eight years

guardian and ward live under one roof, partaking of the same

influences, the same pleasures, the same daily occupations, and

divided from all around them by the superiority of their own minds and

the congeniality of their pursuits. Pity the poor country girl in

constant presence of that cultivated intellect, fine understanding,

and beaming countenance, never weary of smiling on her life. What

wonder that as the flower expands in beauty it gradually unfolds to

blissful consciousness? Eleanor secretly loves her guardian, and

glories in the passion. He is poor, but she is rich beyond her wishes,

did her wishes comprehend aught else but the desire to make him

happy. Dunleath has passed from David Stuart's family. Eleanor has

listened a thousand times to her guardian's fond regrets for his lost

inheritance, and to the descriptions of that once happy home, the

memory of which Stuart carries about with him to darken his best and

brightest hours. What privilege to restore the coveted possession to

its natural owner, and to enrich herself by parting with the gift!

What happiness for the wife of David Stuart to bring back the smile to

his cheek, and to purchase a joy for him for ever! Sweet dreamer! She

dreams on, until reality begins. Her education ends. She goes at the

instance of her mother and half-brother to London. She takes up her

abode with a friend of her guardian's, the Lady Margaret Fordyce, and

enters upon London life. Lady Margaret is a widow, young, benevolent,

and beautiful. The fame of Eleanor's wealth is soon known to

fortune-hunters, and suitors crowd about her. One, Sir Stephen

Penrhyn, a coarse, sensual, and brutal personage, captivated by her

beauty, and sufficiently wealthy himself, proposes in proper form.

Godfrey, the half-brother, explains to David Stuart that Eleanor's

family approve the match, and require his formal consent to the union.

Stuart sends for Eleanor. He points out to her the advantages of the

marriage and the wishes of her friends. The child trembles. She cannot

marry, she hurriedly says, a man whom she does not love, and moreover

she has seen another whom she prefers. Stuart has only one question to

ask. "Is that other rich?" "He has no more," replies Eleanor, "than my

father bequeathed to you." Stuart's heart beats guiltily as she speaks

of her father's bounty, and, with a meaning which the girl fails to

interpret, he anxiously bids her mention the favored man's name. The

effort is too intense--her heart is nigh to bursting--she faints, and

her mother enters her apartment to find her senseless in the arms of

her tutor. The last object Eleanor beholds from her window that night,

is David Stuart, looking up, with folded arms, to her room.

She rises the next morning to find that Stuart has suddenly quitted

the house, having left a sealed letter for her perusal. She reads it.

The whole brilliant fabric of her girlhood tumbles down to earth long

before she reaches its close. David Stuart loves her not. He is

ignorant of her strong affection. He has dissipated her whole vast

fortune. With the hope of realizing a sum sufficient to win back

Dunleath, he has been tempted to speculations which have beggared his

confiding ward. He recommends marriage with Sir Stephen Penrhyn, and

takes leave of her for ever, for he has resolved upon self-murder. He

asks her to approach the adjacent river on some day of peace and

sunshine hereafter--the river which they have so often visited

together in sunshine before--to breathe out forgiveness for him there,

if she will, and then to forget him. A search is made near the spot

indicated. A torn handkerchief hangs on one of the leafless branches;

the river is dragged, but the body is not found. Eleanor knows David

Stuart is dead, and the knowledge gives color and shape to her

remaining days.

Ruin has overtaken the family of Eleanor Raymond, but Sir Stephen

Penrhyn is still content with his bargain. He proposed for the person,

not for the fortune of Eleanor, and he will take her, beggared as she

is. Eleanor's mother needs a home. To give her a sanctuary, Eleanor

consents to become Lady Penrhyn. What blessing can attend the union?

She gives birth to twins, one a sickly boy, the other ruddy, strong,

and full of health. They grow up to become the mother's last and best

consolation, and then she loses both by a violent death at one and the

same moment. Sir Stephen has a remedy for parental sorrow, which but

increases the great woe of Eleanor. What need to refer to it? Eleanor

passes the lodge gate on her estate one day to be made aware of her

husband's gross infidelity, and to behold living evidences of his

guilt. Is her cup of sorrow full? Not yet. She utters no complaint,

but bears her yoke of suffering meekly and resignedly, waiting

patiently and beseechingly, rather than with murmurs, for the hour of

dismissal. Light, however, is to gleam upon the checkered path before

the journey closes. Another eight years may have elapsed since David

Stuart took his last leave of Eleanor, and a stranger presents himself

with unexpected news. Sir Stephen is from home, and a traveller has

arrived at his house, with a letter from a distant country. Wondrous

disclosure! Stuart lives! Mercifully saved on the night on which he

attempted suicide, he proceeded to America, where by dint of years of

steady exertion and co-operation with the authors of his former great

calamity he contrived to re-establish the affairs of the bankrupt

house with which he had connected himself, and to recover the whole of

Eleanor's sacrificed patrimony. The bearer of the letter, Mr. Stuart's

confidential agent, is authorized to restore her fortune, and to

communicate all particulars respecting his past history. Oh, to see

the man who had lately seen him living and safe in far off America!

She hurries to meet him, and grasps the hand of--David Stuart. When

Sir Stephen comes home, at Mr. Stuart's earnest request and against

the wish of Eleanor, the guardian is introduced as Mr. Lindsay.

"Nothing," he says, "is to be gained by self-betrayal," the more

especially as he intends shortly to return to his adopted home. But

before Stuart can make up his mind to departure, he is made aware,

first of a circumstance which it is much to be wondered has never

occurred to him before, viz.: the former perfect uncalculating

devotion of his ward; and then of the more poignant fact that misery,

suffering, insult, and cruelty had attended her whole married life.

Intolerable injury reaches its height! Sir Stephen brings his bastards

into his house, and commands his wife to show them respect. Wild with

sorrow and indignation, she is advised by Stuart of Dunleath to leave

her home, to go to London, to seek a lawyer of eminence, and to sue

for a divorce. That obtained, _then_ will come, after much delay, that

"happier future," of which the counsellor dares not trust himself to

speak. The resolve is taken, the journey is made. But time brings

reflection, and reflection, reason. It is not her husband's sin that

took her from his roof, but the visionary sin of her own love; it was

"the desire to swear at the altar of God to be true to David Stuart

till death, that prompted her to plan her breaking of her first vow."

She will not undo that vow to indulge her own undying love. Still

urged by David Stuart to the act, she resists the great temptation,

and retires meekly into solitude, to pay the full penalty of her

submission to the call of virtue. To return to the pollution of her

husband's house is not to be thought of. To partake of sin with David

Stuart is a suggestion not more to be tolerated in her pure and

agitated soul.

One other drop, and the cup is full indeed. We have spoken of Lady

Margaret Fordyce, but we have thought it unnecessary to mingle the

history of that admirable person with the main current of our

narrative. Lady Margaret, as we have said, is an old friend of Mr.

David Stuart. She has taken a sisterly interest in the career of

Eleanor, but has never ascertained from her the secret of her early

and pure affection for her guardian. Inheriting a goodly fortune, the

first care of Lady Margaret is to purchase the estate of Dunleath. She

is not long mistress of it before the recovered property is in the

hands of the man who, in his youth, became a criminal in order to

possess it. David Stuart marries Lady Margaret Fordyce. Eleanor

receives the intelligence while she is languishing abroad under the

care of her foster-brother and his wife. The news goes silently to her

heart as a lancet might travel thither, giving no external indication

of the mortal wound inflicted. But the blood flows unseen within, and

life stops, as it needs must, from the cruel laceration. Eleanor

dies--still without a murmur. She had borne daily outrage from her

husband, and confined the knowledge of her wrongs to her own bosom.

She owed her sufferings to the first great fault of her guardian, yet

she would never listen to one unkind word against his memory when she

deemed him lost, and her love for him suffered no tarnish at any time

for his offence. Shall she complain now that he is happy, and is

master of Dunleath? She dies indeed broken-hearted, but good, gentle,

uncomplaining, and forgiving, to the last.

The characters that move in the various scenes that make up this

melancholy play are sketched out with a skilful and well disciplined

hand, and are creditable to the authoress's creative powers. Great

knowledge of human nature is indicated throughout the work. There is

nothing overdrawn; the plot is natural, and the style fluent and

poetical.

A word or two are necessary before we close, with reference to one

remarkable phenomenon in connection with a leading personage in the

drama. By a singular coincidence, not only Mrs. Norton, but every

person in the book, is in perfect ignorance of a fact that is present

to our mind almost from the first page to the last. David Stuart, of

Dunleath, we grieve to say, is not only a very selfish gentleman, but

a most accomplished rascal, yet not a human creature, but the reader

and ourselves, has the least idea of it. Just look at him! Appointed

the guardian of a helpless girl, he makes away with her fortune in a

fruitless endeavor to enrich himself. He hears from the maiden's own

lips that her heart is irrevocably bestowed upon a man whom she

adores, yet he coolly recommends her to form an alliance with a brute

for whom she cares nothing at all, in order that she may recover the

wealth of which he, the adviser, has deliberately robbed her.

Returning to England, and taking up his residence with the husband of

his ward, he places the poor girl in a cruelly false position, and all

but blasts her reputation, by compelling her to keep a secret, the

communicating which could at the worst only occasion him a very

trifling inconvenience. Quitting the husband's house, and learning

quite soon enough for the lady's happiness that he had been the object

of Eleanor's early choice, he advises an action for divorce, promising

his hand in the event of a triumphant verdict. Finding the wife more

honest than himself, he smothers his affection and looks elsewhere for

crumbs of comfort. He finds them at the table of Lady Margaret

Fordyce, whom he condescendingly weds, because, we are compelled to

suppose, she has Dunleath to throw into the bargain. That Stuart is

unnaturally described we will not say; but that Mrs. Norton should be

so profoundly ignorant of his faults--should take such pains to hold

him up as a high-minded gentleman--that Lady Margaret should imagine

him a paragon of perfection and positively adore him--that her

brother, the Duke of Lanark, should be "fond of him,"--and that an

incalculable amount of respect and love should be thrown away by all

parties concerned upon so worthless an object is, we must confess,

somewhat disgusting in an age when even the highest merit fails too

often of securing its deserts. One good action alone saves David

Stuart from utter detestation. He recovered and restored the fortune

of Eleanor Raymond--but many a transported forger has been capable of

heroism as lofty, with incitements to honesty about as pure.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] _Stuart of Dunleath_: by Mrs. Norton. New-York, Harpers, 1851.

_Authors and Books._

The student of classic mythology, who loves with Hammer Purgstall and

Kreutzer to dive into the oriental depths of ancient myths, will

welcome the recent appearance of a work by LUDWIG MERCKLIN, entitled

_Die Talos-Sage, und das Sardonische Lachen_. The story of Talus, and

the Sardonic Laughter--a contribution to the history of Grecian legend

and art--St. Petersburg and Leipsic, 1851. In this work we learn that

the Cretan Talus was beyond doubt the Phoenician sun-god, and that

he was identical with the Athenian of the same name. The Cretan Talus,

according to the mythological account, was a brazen image, which

Vulcan gave to Minos, or Jupiter to Europa. He defended the island by

heating himself in the fire and embracing his enemies. More literal

commentators have attempted to prove that Talus was a brazen statue or

beacon, like the Colossus of Rhodes, placed by the Phoenicians on

the Cretan promontory. The Athenian Talus, inventor of the compass and

saw, was slain by his uncle Daedalus, who was envious of his talent.

The gods changed him to a partridge. After identifying the twain,

Mercklin attempts to prove that the elements of this myth are to be

sought in the ancient dogmas of lustration, and that they may be still

further referred to the worship of Apollo. In connection with this

Talus legend, he closely scrutinizes the account of the so called

Sardonic laughter, and its relation to the same religious rites. "In

conclusion, he discusses those ancient works of art which illustrate

this subject, namely, the medals of Phaistos and the celebrated vase

of Ruvo, of which he gives a new, and on the whole certainly correct

account." In connection with this work we may notice another which

appeared in April, entitled _Bellerophon_, by HERMAN ALEX. FISCHER.

From the subject we infer that this Fischer is identical with

_Vischer_ who published three years ago one of the best _AEsthetics_ on

philosophies of art, ever written even in Germany. We are told in a

short notice, that the author attempts, by a study of the myth of

Bellerophon and those works of art relating to it, including the

etymological signification of the name, to establish the identity of

Bellerophon with the sun-god. [Greek: Phontes] is by him derived or

varied from [Greek: Thantes] and [Greek: Bellero], explained as

identical with [Greek: Helios], [Greek: ele], [Greek: selas], and

[Greek: selene].

* * * * *

Some anonymous scribbler in Berlin has recently put forth a treatise

on free trade, entitled _Tempus omnia revelat_: of which a reviewer,

in conjecturing the cause of its publication, remarks, that "as it

treats generally of every thing else besides free trade, it is

probable that the Free Trade Union have not deemed it worth while to

hear him through."

* * * * *

Among the more recent curiosities of German medical literature, we

find that JOS. HEINRICH BEISEN of Quedlinburg, has written a work on

homoepathy as applicable to the diseases of swine. J. HOPPE of

Magdeburg, has set forth another, entitled _Linen and cotton Garments

considered in a medical light_, which is highly recommended by a

competent judge. C. GEROLD, of Vienna, publishes for the Count (and

physician--we know not which is the more honorable title)--VON

FEUCHTERSLEBEN, a singular book, entitled _Zur Diaetetik der Seele,

Valere aude!_ which is not, however, as one might infer from the

title, a theory of the method whereby the health of the soul itself

may be preserved; but the art of regulating our physical well being by

a correct management and strengthening of our mental powers. Count

Feuchtersleben had already attained a reputation as a writer, and the

work referred to, though in many particulars superficial, is not

without merit. Last and least, Dr. GIDEON BRECHER, hospital physician

at Pressnitz, publishes through Asher & Co., in Berlin, an octavo on

_Transcendental Magic, and the supernatural methods of curing Disease,

as given in the Talmud_, in which he enters largely into Theo-Daemon

and Angelology; as well as dreams, visions, biblical seraphims, cosmic

and magic influences of the soul, with a scattering fire of amulets,

spells and charms. We congratulate the medical faculty on this

important addition to the literature of the healing art.

* * * * *

No department of ancient art is more interesting, or indeed more

necessary to the student, than that relating to theatres and other

aids to the practical illustration of dramatic art. No characteristic

of modern continental life, is so striking to the traveller as the

earnestness with which the opera is discussed by all classes, and its

powerful influence upon social life in nearly every relation. But even

the earnest attention which is directed at the present day in Naples

or Vienna to some new incarnation of the all governing spirit of

amusement, is nothing when compared with the same as it existed among

the ancients, to whom it was literally _life_. '_Panem et

circenses_'--bread and the public games--with these the Roman citizen

of the later empire, like the modern lazzarone, with his maccaroni and

San Carlino, could dream away life and be happy. Mindful of the

importance of this branch of ancient art in its manifold relations,

FRIED. WIESELER has recently set forth a book,[13] declared by

competent authority to be the best in the world on this subject. He

has chosen judiciously from the immense mass of material extant; and

according to the prescribed limits conveyed all the information

possible. "The first part of the work embraces a series of well

executed plans and outlines of ancient theatres, of different

countries and ages, with every requisite detail, followed by

engravings and descriptions of every particular pertaining to the

representation of plays. This is succeeded by an admirable collection

of masks, scenes, figures and costumes, illustrative not only of the

ancient drama, but also of its subdivisions of comedy, tragedy, the

satyr-drama and the Italian phylace, with singing and music. The

illustrations are admirably accurate--more particularly the colored

plates of the Cyrenaean wall paintings, and the mosaics of the Vatican,

by which the rare and costly work of MILLI is rendered unnecessary."

More than one eminent German authority speaks in terms of high praise,

of the accuracy and unwearied erudition which characterize the

accompanying test.

* * * * *

The second and third parts of the _Holzschnitte Deruehmter Meister_, or

woodcuts of celebrated masters, have made their appearance,

containing, 1st. smaller woodcuts by Hans Holbein the younger (A. D.,

1498-1554), being selections from the Dance of Death, and the

Peasants' and Children's Alphabets; 2d. a large engraving after

Michael Wohlzemuth (1434-1519), being the Glorification of Christ, and

a Madonna and child of Hans Buerkmayer's; also, from the Dutch school,

after Dirk de Bray (ob. 1680), a portrait of the artist's father, and

the celebrated engraving of Rembrandt's, known as the philosopher with

the hour-glass. For the information of artists we mention that these

copies are executed with exquisite accuracy, and that the work, though

gotten up in every particular in the most elegant manner, is afforded

at a very moderate price.

* * * * *

Recent German poetry offers little for remark. TELLKAMPF has published

a poem in hexameters in the style of Goethe's Hermann and Dorothea,

founded upon an incident in the battle of Leipsic, called _Irmengard_.

It has passed into a second edition. EMIL LEONHARD, a poet not

unknown, has written a poem upon Buerger, whose wild life had already

furnished Mueller subject for a romance and Mosenthal for a drama, and

which is too unpleasant to be made attractive even by the poetic

talent of Leonhard. We note, however an interesting work, entitled

_Prussia's Mirror of Honor_, a collection of Prussian national songs,

from the earliest period to the year 1840. They have much allusion to

old Fritz, and are interesting as an indication of the popular

feeling, which is always expressed in such songs, toward that national

hero.

* * * * *

An interesting contribution to contemporary history is I. VENEDY'S

_Schleswig-Holstein in 1850_. A diary.

* * * * *

HERMAN FRITSCHE, of Leipsig, has recently published a work by one

SOHNLAND SCHUBAUER, entitled _Consecrated souvenirs of the virtues of

our earliest ancestors: Collected with the aid of a Philologist_. This

book we are told contains (though we should never have inferred it

from the title), a collection and explanation of old German proper

names, both masculine and feminine. The author in his preface gives it

as his opinion that since the introduction of Christianity "a dreadful

thousand-year-long night has brooded over Germany, and that the best

method of dissipating this darkness, would be to revive the old German

proper names!" "The poet discovers the sanctity of these primitive

German names in the holy star-night, and he will, the higher these

rise to the ideal, find in them a full accord with holy nature." His

principal sources are the verbal assertions of Dr. ALEX. VOLLMER: for

example in page 1st, where he questions whether "ANNO" signifies a

year, and decides that it is originally German, from _an_, _un_ and

_unst_; to which add a G, whence results _Gunst_, meaning good

fortune, success, or favor!--a bit of ingenuity which reminds us of

several scraps of Horne Tooke's comic philology, as well as the

glove-maker's motto, _Kunst macht Gunst_--skill makes (or wins)

success. Dr. Vollmer is an amiable and hard-working scholar of immense

erudition, and possessed of a boundless enthusiasm on the subject of

early German and Gothic dialects. We regret that his learning should

be lent to the support of such singular vagaries.

* * * * *

CARL GUTZKOW, who seemed by his first literary failure, the _Walley_,

in 1835, to have sunk irretrievably, but has since risen to a

brilliant eminence by the publication of _Uriel Akasta_, the _Zopf und

Schwert_, and other writings, has recently put forth another, noticed

as the _Ritter von Geiste_. G. REIMER at Berlin, has published the

first volume of a second edition of BOeCKH'S inestimable work, _Die

Staatshaushaltung der Athener_--the political economy of the

Athenians. Prof. ANT. GUBITZ, the celebrated wood engraver, publisher

of an annual comic almanac, and in fact the father of all the popular

German illustrated almanacs of the present day, has written and

published three dramas, entitled _The Emperor Henry and his Sons_,

_Sophonisba_, and _Johann der Ziegler_.

* * * * *

_Macchiavelli und der Gang der Europaeischen Politik_ (Macchiavelli,

and the Course of European Policy), by THEODORE MUNDT, is the last

discussion of the political system of the "Regent of the Devil." The

doctrines of _The Prince_ Herr Mundt supposes have influenced the late

reactionary events in Germany, and he thinks that work will again be

the favorite text-book of despots. His exposition of the character and

doctrines of Machiavelli, and his influence on European policy, is an

interesting historical study.

The German press is no less prolific of novels than that of England

and America. We observe the last month _Stories and Pictures from the

Bohemian Forest_, by JOSEPH RANK, a romance of provincial life, not

without interest; _The Children of God_, by MAX RING, a story of the

court of Augustus the Strong, and of the origin of the sect of the

Herrnhutters. Its sketches of character are called sprightly and

successful. _The Castle of Ronceaux_, from an old manuscript, is an

episode from the history of the Huguenot war. A piquant title is that

of Madame IDA VON DURINGSFELD'S book, _A Pension_ (boarding-house)

_upon the Lake of Geneva, two Romances in one house_, which recalls

the stories of the Countess Hahn-Hahn before she ceased writing

pleasant tales for us, and began histories of religious experience.

But with less talent, the present author has more knowledge of men.

The book is _sent la Politique_ a little too much. But German ladies

who write books love to say a word in them about every thing.

_A Pilgrim and his Companions_ is still another romance, by LORENZO

DIEFFENBACH, not of a religions tone, as the title suggests, but

purely political. It is a story of the German "March-Days," the days

of Revolution. The author is bold and large in thought, but the want

of sharp outline in his characters indicates the poor or unpractised

artist. _The Oath_ is the appropriately melodramatic title of a

romance of the Venetian Inquisition, by DAVID. It is well written,

simple and natural. Remarkable qualities with so passionate a theme.

* * * * *

LUDWIG BAUER has published through G. Jonghaus of Darmstadt, a work

which reminds us of the _Chronica Jocelini de Brakelonda_, being the

_Urkundenbuch des Klosters Arnsburg in d. Wetterau_, containing as yet

unprinted documents of the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth and

fifteenth centuries, relating to the history of the monastery. We are

happy to observe that notwithstanding the check given to general

literature by the recent political troubles in Germany, this

department of mediaeval antiquity is rapidly advancing. When we

remember the immense amount of material as yet unavailable which is

still requisite to form an accurate history of the middle ages, with

_reliable_ accounts of its varied literature and customs, or when we

reflect on the spoil and devastation which every day brings to the

ancient hoard, we should feel grateful to those untiring antiquaries,

who thus rescue a few literary gems from the flood of time.

* * * * *

The _Manuscripts of Peter Schlemil_, naturally awakens attention, but

proves to be an extravaganza of LOUIS BECHSTEIN, humorous and

intelligent withal. But the humor is not intelligible, and the

intelligence is not humorous, says a sharp reviewer.

* * * * *

PROF. O. L. B. WOLFF, well known to every amateur German scholar in

this country and England, as the publisher of the celebrated

_Poetischer und Prosaischer Hausschatz_, or Poetic and Prosaic Home

Treasury, has edited and published by Otto Wigand of Leipsic, that

singular romance of _Caspar von Grimmelshausen_, first printed in

1669, which is, as a picture of German social life during the period

of the thirty years' war, extremely interesting. We need, however,

hardly caution our lady readers against its perusal. Its title is as

follows: _Der abenteuerliche Simplicius Simplicissimus_. The

adventurous Simplicius Simplicissimus. That is the true, copious, and

very remarkable biography of an odd, wonderful and singular man,

STERNFELS VON FUCHSHEIM, how he passed his youth in Spessart, of his

varied and remarkable destinies in the thirty years' war, and of the

numerous sufferings, sorrows and dangers which he experienced, with

his ultimate good fortune.

* * * * *

A German critic, who of course belongs to the conservative party,

writing under date of June 16, says of Miss HELEN WEBER, the inventor

of the hybrid costume which _Punch_ satirizes as an _American_

absurdity, that "except in a certain disregard of public decencies

there is nothing by which to distinguish her from the mass of vulgar

women of the middling classes; she is about thirty-five years of age,

and appears to be willing to do or say any thing that may be required

for the attraction of observation; from her writings, throw out what

is stolen or compiled, and there is nothing left to evince even a

mediocrity of talent." This is less favorable than an account we

published in an early number of the _International_ (vol. i. 463), but

it may be quite as just.

* * * * *

When Professor ZAHN sojourned in Naples, he took an active part in the

excavations of Pompeii--studies which eventually led to the

publication of his meritorious work on this subject. At the same time

he faithfully reported the progress of these operations to old Goethe.

The poet's replies to these communications on the ancient paintings of

Pompeii, its theatres, and other buildings, were replete with those

sparks of genius he exhibited on every occasion. This rather

voluminous correspondence, long laid up at Naples, has been lately

discovered, and will be published by Professor Zahn.

* * * * *

_Geschichte der Deutschen Stadte und des Deutschen Burgerthums_

(History of the Cities of Germany, and of German Citizenship), by F.

W. BARTHOLD, is the first of a series of painstaking and exhausting

books of German historical materiel, in course of publication by

Weizel, of Leipsic. The style of treatment resembles that adopted in

_The Pictorial History of England_, which will make the work easy of

reference.

* * * * *

DR. CORNILL publishes a dissertation upon Louis Feuerbach and his

position toward the religion and philosophy of the present time. The

author finds in every thing the famous professor does a farther

religious development. But it is very doubtful if Feurbach has

advanced at all since his memorable essay in the Halle _Book of the

Year_, upon the relation of philosophy to theology. Since then he has

only varied this theme, and his last work, upon the transcendental

thesis _Man is what he eats_, in which the worthy Professor with

Teutonic energy seeks to seduce the immorality of the age from the

potato disease, the German critics declare to be totally devoid of

that bold and thoughtful spirit which formerly fought so well for the

emancipation of the understanding from its long scholastic thraldom.

* * * * *

A most mystical and metaphysical treatise is that of ERNST, _A new

Book of the Planets, or Mikro and Makrokosmos_. It sings with

Klopstock of the souls of the stars. It speculates with Jacob Boehme,

with Retif de la Bretonne, with the Rabbins, and other mighty mystics,

upon the origin of thought. The essential difference in speculative

science between ether and thought, the unity of matter and spirit, the

eternity and evanescence of matter, the thoughts, feelings, and

sensations of God, and the final explication of the trinity. All this

and more. In fine, says a German critic, it is a very jocose book,

strongly to be commended for the consolation of political prisoners.

* * * * *

WALDMEISTER'S _Bridal-Tour_, a story of the Rhine, Wine, and Travel,

is the pleasant and appropriate title of the last book of OTTO

ROQUETTE. It is the story of a spring tour along the Rhine. The fire

of its wine, the golden gleam of its vineyards, the faint, penetrant

delicacy of the grape-blossom, the luring look of the Love-Lei, the

mystery of ruins, the distant baying of the wild huntsman's

pack,--they all breathe, and bloom, and sound through the little book.

It is a genuine song of spring. The poet is young,--he feels, dreams,

and sings--what needs poet more?

* * * * *

A German version of Copway the Indian's work is announced under the

title of _Kah-ge-ga-gah-bouh, Hauptling d'Ojibway Nation: Die Ojibway

Eroberung_: Translated from the English, by N. ADLER, and published at

Frankfort-on-the-Main. This we presume is an after-shot from the Peace

Convention.

* * * * *

Among the new books announced in Germany we see _The Institutions of

the United States, and their Lessons of American Experience to

Europe_. It appears to be anonymous. One or two other German works on

this country we shall notice particularly in our next number.

* * * * *

Russian literature is gradually made accessible to the general student

by German and French translations, and we shall soon begin to learn

more of the mysterious despotism that towers like a fateful cloud

along the eastern horizon of Europe, in its influence upon social and

artistic life. The publisher Brockhaus of Leipsic has recently issued

a collection in three volumes of the Russian novelists. Yet, whether

from the want of tact in the selection or from the absence of

characteristic qualities in the tales themselves, the authors are

weakest in their delineation of popular life and manners, in this

resembling fine society in Russia, which ignores _Russianism_, and

believes in Parisian manners, language, and life, every thing but

Parisian politics. Among the authors whose works are quoted we note

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN, the pride of Russian literature, born in 1799, and

died in a duel in 1837. HELENA HAHN, born in 1815, who, married at

sixteen to a soldier, travelled through a large part of Russia, and

died in 1832. Her novels were first published after her death, but

seem to be not of the highest merit. ALEXANDER HERZEN, born in 1812,

has zealously studied Hegel, and written a series of humorous tales,

the best of which is called _Taras Bulwa_. Since 1847 he has been a

wanderer, pursued as a democrat, and now proposes to visit the United

States.

* * * * *

The Emperor of Austria has appointed AARON WOLFGANG MESSELEY, a Jew,

Professor of Criminal Law at the University of Prague. M. Messeley had

long filled the chair of the Hebrew Language and Literature in the

same University. The numbers of Jews now attached as professors to the

different universities and educational establishments in the Austrian

states is seventeen; of whom fifteen were named by the late Emperor,

and two by the present.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER DUMAS, who, as a simple story writer is perhaps deserving of

the highest place in the temple of letters--whose _Three Guardsmen_,

with its several continuations, making some twenty volumes, is the

most entertaining, and in certain characteristics the best sustained

novel written in our days,--announces in Paris a new tale, _Un Drame

de '93_, and he occupies the _feuilleton_ of the _Presse_ every week

with another, _Ange Pitou_, of which the scene and time are also

France during the first revolution.

* * * * *

MADAME CHARLES REYBAUD, authoress of _The Cadet de Calobrieres_, has

just published another story, _Faustine_, wherein provincial life in

France is daguerreotyped.

* * * * *

Among the announcements in Paris we notice one of the tenth volume of

THIERS'S _Histoire du Consulat_. The eleventh volume is also said to

be nearly ready.

* * * * *

M. MIGNET has nearly completed his _Life and Times of Mary, Queen of

Scots_, the third work on the subject produced in France within a year

and a half. Mignet, however, is the most eminent person who has ever

essayed this service, and he has had some peculiar and important

advantages. He has made use of the collection of letters published by

Prince Labanoff; of researches made in the State Paper Office of

England by Mr. Tytler, and of other unpublished documents which he has

himself collected, in order to form more correct opinions with regard

to some of the darkest and most controverted events in the queen's

life. These documents, chiefly from the archives of Spain, (to which

M. Mignet was enabled to obtain access only at the express request of

the French Government,) are of much importance, for they bring to

light the negotiations carried on with Philip II. for the deliverance

of Mary from her imprisonment--a part of her history to which previous

biographers have paid little attention.

* * * * *

In the political literature of France a new pamphlet by CORMENIN is

remarkable. It is entitled _Revision_, and its substance is this:

Having recounted the history of the Republican Charter, elaborated

during many months by men especially delegated to the work, and by a

suffrage really universal, debated long and earnestly in the

committee, amended by the eighteen delegates of the assembly, reviewed

by the commission, deliberated by the chamber, discussed by the

press,--M. Cormenin establishes that this constitution, so elaborately

matured, if it has nothing which promises eternal duration, yet

satisfies all the conditions essential to present permanence, and will

well lead the nation to that moment, when, personal passion being

somewhat allayed, it may be wisely and conscientiously reviewed. This

is the pith of the pamphlet. It appeals to no passions, and justifies

no excess, and is a notable and intelligent effort at the resolution

of the question.

* * * * *

M. DE MARCELLUS, an old French ambassador, has published two volumes

entitled _Literary Episodes in the East_. His oriental travel dates

back as far as 1818, but the beautiful vision has pursued him ever

since, and he knew no better way to lay it than by painting it, and

making it real. The volume opens with a confession that all travel and

all scenery have only reminded him most strongly of his eastern

experiences, and that now, chilled with age, and hoping nothing of the

future, he has especial pleasure in recurring to the past. It is a

series of colloquial, familiar sketches and anecdotes, and will

doubtless be a pleasant companion for the eastern tour. M. de

Marcellus will follow this work with _A Collection of Popular Songs in

Greece_.

* * * * *

VICTOR HUGO, who has always been opposed to the punishment of death,

and whose _Last Days of Condemned_, one of his most powerful fictions,

had a large influence every where against the death penalty, was

lately before the Court of Assizes in Paris as an advocate in behalf

of his son, who was on trial for publishing an article calculated to

bring into disrespect the administrators of the law. The veteran poet

was allowed to deliver an elaborate and characteristic harangue in

defence of the article. He tasked himself for his most brilliant

antithetical rhetoric, denouncing the scaffold, and the legislation of

death. The son, however, was convicted, and sentenced to a fine of

five hundred francs and imprisonment for six months.

Victor Hugo has published a volume containing twelve speeches

delivered on various occasions while he has been a _representant du

peuple_. They are on the Bonaparte family, the punishment of death,

universal suffrage, the liberty of the press, the affairs of Rome,

&c., and are all written with the author's customary fine rhetoric;

indeed in thought and style they are among his best performances.

* * * * *

MADAME BOCARME, who probably was a party to the late murder of her

brother, for which her husband the Count de Bocarme is to be executed,

was an intimate friend of Balzac. The great novelist dedicated one of

his works to her, and another of them was written in the Chateau de

Bitremont. Balzac, while on a visit to the chateau, was taken to see a

farmer, and, as usual, interested himself so much in the cattle, that

after an hour's conversation he was amused to find that, the farmer

had taken him, H. de Balzac, the brilliant Parisian, for a cattle

dealer! The forthcoming memoirs of Balzac will perhaps contain

something about this woman, who seems to have won for herself the

execration of all France.

* * * * *

The Paris correspondent of the _Literary Gazette_ affirms that, on the

whole, the French press has gained by the regulation requiring

signatures to original articles. The abler class of contributors have

profited greatly, as they have obtained a position in popular esteem,

and consequently a claim on their employers, which years of anonymous

drudgery would not have secured. Nor have readers, it is remarked, any

cause to complain; for "men, remembering that 'those who live to

please must please to live,' take far greater pains with the articles

to which they have to attach their names, than to those which are

unsigned."

* * * * *

M. ARAGO, the great astronomer, who is passing the summer at the

mineral springs of Vichy, is nearly blind, and probably will entirely

lose his sight. His brother, who is likewise a man of extraordinary

abilities, has been blind many years.

* * * * *

GEORGE SAND dedicates her last performance to DUMAS, "because," she

says, "I wish to protest against the tendency that may be attributed

to me of regarding the absence of action as a systematic reaction

against the school of which you are the chief. Far from me such a

blasphemy against movement and life! I am too fond of your works; I

read them and listen to them with too much attention and emotion; I am

too much an artist in feeling to wish the slightest lessening of your

triumphs. Many believe that artists are necessarily jealous of each

other. I pity those who believe it, pity them for having so little of

the artist as not to understand that the idea of assassinating our

rivals would be that of our own suicide."

* * * * *

_A Critical History of the Philosophical School of Alexandria_ is the

title of a work of serious philosophical claims, by M. VACHEROT. He

had already published two volumes analyzing and developing the

doctrines of the Alexandrian philosophy. In the present volume he has

traced its influence upon the subsequent schools, passing in review

Plotinus and his successors. The scope of the work invites and permits

a discussion of the profoundest problems that now agitate the world of

thought, and M. Vacherot has the credit of acquitting himself

adequately and admirably of his task.

* * * * *

ROUSSEAU, on his death, left several papers to his friend Moulton, and

the heirs of that person, in 1794, caused them to be deposited in the

public library of Neufchatel, in Switzerland. There they have remained

unknown until a few weeks since, when M. Bovet, of that town, examined

them, and found that they embraced an essay entitled _Avant-propos et

Preface a mes Confessions_, which has just been printed. Of course it

will appear with all future editions of the Confessions.

* * * * *

BALZAC, besides his _Memoirs_, which are soon to appear in Paris, it

is now stated left two other works, one a romance called _Les

Paysans_, finished only a short time before his death, the other a

collection of confidential letters to a lady, in which, it is said, he

took pleasure in laying bare the secrets of his heart, and his real

opinion of men and things.

* * * * *

M. NISARD was a few weeks ago received into the _Academie Francaise_.

He succeeds the late M. Feletz, and has written a history of French

literature, a book of _etudes_ on the Latin poets, and superintended a

translation of all the Latin writers.

* * * * *

M. GAUTIER, formerly a deputy from the Gironde, a peer of France,

Minister of Finance, and sub-governor of the Bank of France, has

published a volume _On the Causes which disturb Order in France, and

the means of Reestablishing it_.

* * * * *

GUIZOT is about to publish the _Histoire des Origines du Gouvernement

Representatif_. This is a new work, being the revised issue of his

lectures from 1820 to 1822, which have never yet been printed, except

in the imperfect _comptes rendus_ of the _Journal des Cours Public_.

* * * * *

_Le Drame de '93_, by ALEXANDRE DUMAS, turns out to be a narrative of

the Revolution, in his rapid dramatic style.

* * * * *

M. PIERRE DUFOUR is publishing a work of great value entitled the

_History of Prostitution among all Nations and at all Times_.

* * * * *

A cheap edition of the chief writings on affairs, by EMILIE DE

GIRARDIN, is published in eleven volumes.

* * * * *

_Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_, written by Dumas for Mademoiselle

Mars--a sprightly, dissolute comedy, full of the life which animates

the _Memoires_ of the time, and complicated in its construction with

the skill of a Lope de Vega--was translated in New-York a year or two

ago by Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler, and brought out at the Astor Place

Opera House. Our theatre-going people, however, declined a piece so

broadly licentious, and it was soon withdrawn. We see that another

version of it has been made in London, and that it has been played

there very successfully.

* * * * *

The London editors lack something of the honesty of the Americans:

they never give credit for an article, but if making up an entire

number of a periodical from American sources, would permit their

readers to suppose it all original. _Sharpe's Magazine_ is

particularly addicted to this infirmity, and the July issue of it

contains our excellent friend the Rev. F. W. Shelton's paper on

_Boswell, the Biographer_, which appeared originally in _The

Knickerbocker_.

* * * * *

The REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY, Jr., rector of Eversley, best known to

American readers as the author of the Chartist novel of _Alton Locke_,

and _Yeast, a Problem_, has been an industrious writer. He is now

about fifty years of age, and besides the above works and a vast

number of papers in _Fraser's Magazine_, he has published _The

Christian Socialist(!)_, _Politics for the People_, _Village Sermons_,

and _The Saint's Tragedy_--in point of art the best of his

performances. We see by the English papers that he preached a sermon

lately in Fitzroy Square, London, on the "Gospel Message to the Poor."

It was so full of "socialistic" thoughts, and so severe on the richer

classes, that the rector of the church, when he had finished, arose in

his pew, and protested vehemently against its doctrines. The

congregation dispersed in great disorder.

We doubt whether any living Englishman is capable of surpassing Sir

Bulwer Lytton's version of the Ballads of Schiller, but Mr. EDGAR

ALFRED BOWRING, a son of the well-known Dr. Bowring who has published

translations from so many languages, has just published a volume

entitled _The Poems of Schiller complete, including all his early

Suppressed Pieces, attempted in English_. The word "complete"

expresses its difference from the many Schillers in English that have

previously appeared. An _Anthology_ edited by Schiller in 1782, when

he had just commenced his career, contains several poems which the

critics recognize as his. This remained unknown, however, except as a

literary curiosity, till a few months ago; and several of the poems

had been omitted in all the collections of Schiller's works. But the

republication of the _Anthology_ has brought to light the suppressed

poems (in number twenty-eight, comprising nearly twelve hundred

verses), and those are translated for the first time by Mr. Bowring,

whose versions are much commended.

* * * * *

Among the new books of English verse, some of the most noticeable are

_The Fair Island, in Six Cantos_, by EDMUND PEEL: in the Spenserian

measure, with passages of fair description; _Ballad Romances_, by R.

H. HORNE, author of "Orion," &c.--a book containing genuine poetry;

_The Reign of Avarice_, an allegorical satire, in four cantos;

_Philosophy in the Fens_, in the style of Peter Pindar; and _Marican_,

a Chilian tale, by HENRY INGLIS.

* * * * *

WARREN, the author of "Ten Thousand a Year," has just published a new

novel under the title of _The Lily and the Bee, a Romance of the

Crystal Palace_. The name savors of the huckster, and we shall look

for a more melancholy failure than his last previous performance.

* * * * *

MR. LEVI WOODBURY'S _Miscellaneous Writings, Addresses, and Judicial

Opinions_, will be published in four octavo volumes, by Little &

Brown, of Boston.

* * * * *