_Dolabella._ She sleeps fast—

Will answer nothing more—hath no more lusts

For passion to persuade—nor art to breed

Any more combats. I have seen her laid—

As for a bridal—in a pomp of charms,

That mocked the flashing jewels in her crown

With beauty never theirs. Her bridegroom one

Who conquers more than Cæsar—a grim lord

Now in the fullest possession of his prize,

Who riots on her sweets; seals with close kiss

The precious caskets of her eyes, that late

Held—baiting fond desire with hope of spoil—

Most glorious gems of life; and, on her cheek,

Soft still with downy ripeness—not so pale,

As sudden gush of fancy in the heart

Might bring to virgin consciousness—he lays

His icy lip, that fails to cause her shrink

From the unknown soliciting. Her sleep

Dreams nothing of the embrace, the very last

Her eager and luxurious form may know,

Of that dread ravisher.

_Augustus._ If it be true,

She still hath baffled me. My conquest sure—

My triumph incomplete! I had borne her else,

The proudest trophy of a myriad spoil,

In royal state to Rome. Give me to know

The manner of her death.

_Dolabella._ By her own hands,

That conscious still, commended to her breast

The fatal kiss of Nile’s envenomed asp;

That subtle adder, that from slime and heat

Receives a gift of poison, whose least touch

Is a sure stoppage of the living tides.

_Augustus._ Her death commends her more than all her life!

’Twas like a queen—fit finish to a state,

That, in its worst excess, passionate and wild,

Had still a pomp of majesty, too proud

For mortal subjugation! She had lusts

Most profligate of harm—but with a will,

That, under laws of more restraint, had raised

Her passions into powers, which might have borne

Best fruits for the possessor. They have wrought

Much evil to her nature; but her heart

Cherished within a yearning sense of love

That did not always fail; and where she set

The eye of her affections, her fast faith

Kept the close bond of obligation sure.

This still should serve, when censure grows most free,

To sanctify her fault. In common things

Majestic, as in matters of more state,

She had besides the feminine arts to make

Her very lusts seem grateful; and with charms

That mocked all mortal rivalry, she knew

To dress the profligate graces in her gift—

Generous to very wantonness, and free

Of bounty, where Desert might nothing claim—

That Virtue’s self might doubt of her own shape,

So lovely grew her counterfeit. O’er all,

Her splendor, and her soul’s magnificence.

The pomp that crowned her state—luxurious shows

Where Beauty, grown subservient to a sway

That made Art her first vassal—these, so twinned

With her voluptuous weakness, did become

Her well, and took from her the hideous hues

That else had made men loathe!

I would have seen

This princess ere she died! How looks she now?

_Dol._ As one who lives but sleeps; no change to move

The doubts of him who sees, yet nothing knows,

Of that sly, subtle enemy, which still

Keeps harbor round her heart. Charmian, her maid,

Had, ere I entered, lidded up the eyes,

That had no longer office; and she lay,

With each sweet feature harmonizing still

As truly with the nature as at first,

When Beauty’s wide-world wonder she went forth

Spelling both art and worship! Never did sleep

More slumberous, more infant-like, give forth

Its delicate breathings. You might see the hair

Wave in stray ringlets as the downy breath

Lapsed through the parted lips, and dream the leaf

Torn from the rose and laid upon her mouth

Was lifted by that zephyr of the soul

That still kept watch within—waiting on life

In ever anxious ministry. Lips and brow—

The one most sweetly parted as for song—

The other smooth and bright, even as the pearls

That, woven in fruit-like clusters, hung above,

Starring the raven curtains of her hair—

Declared such calm of happiness, as never

Her passionate life had known. No show of pain—

No writhed muscle—no distorted cheek,

Deformed the beautiful picture of repose,

Or spoke th’ unequal struggle, when fond life

Strives with its dread antipathy. Her limbs

Lay pliant, with composure, on the couch,

Whose draperies loosely fell about her form,

With gentle flow, and natural fold on fold,

Proof of no difficult conflict. There had been,

Perchance, one pang of terror, when she gave

Free access to her terrible enemy;

Or in the moment when the venomous chill

Went sudden to her heart; for from her neck

The silken robes had parted. The white breast

Lay half revealed, save where the affluent hair

Streamed over it in thick disheveled folds,

That asked no further care. Oh! to behold,

With eye still piercing to the sweet recess,

Where rose each gentle slope, that seemed to swell

Beneath mine eye, as conscious of my gaze,

And throbbing with emotion soft as strange,

Of love akin to fear. Thus dwelling still,

Like little billows on some happy sea,

They sudden seemed to freeze, as if the life

Grew cold when all was loveliest. One blue vein

Skirted the white curl of each heaving wave,

A tint from some sweet sunbow, such as life

Flings ever on the cold domain of death;

And, at their equal heights, two ruby crests—

Two yet unopened buds from the same flower—

Borne upward by the billows, rising yet,

Grew into petrified gems, with each an eye

Eloquent pleading to the passionate heart

For all of love it knows! Alas! the mock!

That Death should mask himself with loveliness,

And Beauty have no voice, in such an hour,

To warn its eager worshiper. I saw—

And straight forgot, in joy of what I saw,

What still I knew—that Death was in my sight,

And what was seeming beautiful, was but

The twilight—the brief interval—betwixt

The glorious day and darkness. I had kissed

The wooing bliss before me, but that then

Crawled forth the venomous reptile from the folds

Where still it harbored—crawled across that shrine

Of Beauty’s best perfections, which, meseemed,

To shrink and shudder ’neath its loathly march,

Instinct with all the horrors at my heart.

_Augustus._ Thus Guilt and Shame deform the Beautiful!

* * * * *

THE FAIRIES’ SONG.

BY HEINRICH.

Stars are twinkling bright above us,

Music calls us on;

Shades of eve that guard and love us,

Veil the hallowed lawn;

Hand in hand,

All the band,

Dance we till the breaking dawn!

Hark! the gently swelling measure!

Twine the magic rings!

Dance, while lasts our nightly pleasure,

While the bluebells ring;

And above,

’Mid the grove,

Nightingales in chorus sing.

Far away all human voices!

Spirits far away!

Naught but Fairy Elf rejoices

Where the Fairies play;

Play and dance,

’Neath the glance

Of the moon’s reflected ray!

Faster! Faster! Night is waning;

All must end with night.

Russet clouds of morn are staining

Phœbe’s silvery light;

Sisters, hark!

’Twas the lark!

Fairies! Fairies! Take to flight.

* * * * *

THE TWO COUSINS;

A MAS-SA-SANGA LEGEND OF WESTERN CANADA.

BY G. COPWAY, OR KAH-GE-GA-GAH-BOWH.

There lived among the hills of the North two most intimate friends, who

appeared to have loved each other from the hour of their earliest

childhood. In summer they lived by a beautiful lake, in autumn on the

banks of a noble river. In appearance they were nearly similar,

apparently of the same age as they were of the same size. In their early

days a good old Indian woman attended to their wants, and cared for

their wigwam. Together they strolled among the green woods and shared

the results of their ramblings. Years passed by, and manhood came. They

used larger bows and arrows. One day the old lady took them by her side

and said—“The nation to which we belong fasts, and now I want you to

fast, that you may become great hunters.” So they fasted.

As spring advanced they killed a great many wild ducks, and kept the old

woman of the wigwam busy. In the latter part of the year they killed

large numbers of beavers, with the furs of which they clothed their

grandmother and themselves. In their journey one day they made an

agreement, to the effect, that if when they fasted the gods were kindly

disposed toward one, he would inform the other.

In the fall they were far from the rivers, but yet moved toward the

north, where, as they knew, the bears most resorted.

During that winter they killed a great many, as also during the month of

March ensuing.

At the close of one of their hunting expeditions, they turned their feet

toward their home, at which they arrived at a late hour. As they

approached, they heard the sound of several voices besides that of their

grandmother. They listened. They knew that strangers were in the wigwam,

and entering beheld two young and beautiful damsels, seated in that part

of the room in which they generally rested during the night. To the

young hunters the young women appeared very strange and modest. At

length the old lady said to the young men—

“Nosesetook—my children—I have called these two young women from the

south, that they may aid me in taking care of all the meat and venison

you bring home, for I am getting old and weak, and cannot do as much as

I used to. I have put them by your sides that they may be your

companions.”

When the last words were spoken they looked upon each other, and soon

left to wander by themselves in the forest around. They consulted

together as to whether they should comply with her request. One said he

should leave the wigwam. The other said that if they left there would be

no one to supply their aged grandmother. And they finally agreed to

remain in the wigwam and pay no regard to the new-comers.

They slept side by side every night, and agreed that if either should

begin to love one of the young strangers they would inform the other,

and would then separate forever. In February they obtained a vast amount

of game, as the bears having retired to their winter-quarters were

easily found and captured.

It was observed one evening that one of the young men gazed very

intently at one of the strangers, and the next morning as they went out

he asked the other whether he did not begin to love the young damsel who

sat on his side of the birchen fire. He replied negatively.

It was observed that one of the cousins appeared to be deeply absorbed

in thought every evening, and that his manners were very reserved. After

a fortunate hunting-day, as they were wending their way home with their

heavy burden of bear and deer, one accused the other of loving the young

woman. Tell me, said he, and if you do, I will leave you to yourselves.

If you have a wife I cannot take the same delight with you as I did when

we followed the chase.

His cousin sighed and said, “I will tell you to-night as we lie side by

side.” At night they reasoned together and agreed to hunt. If they did

not meet with success, they must separate.

The next morning they went to the woods. They were not far distant from

each other. The one who was in love shot only five, while the other

returned with the tongues of twenty bears. The former was all the time

thinking of the damsel at home, while the latter sought out his game

with nothing else to divert his mind.

On their return home the lucky man informed his grandmother that he

should leave the next day, and that what he should kill on the morrow

must be searched after, as he should not return to tell them where he

had killed the game. His cousin was grieved to find that his mind was

made up to leave, and began to expostulate with him to change his

determination, but he would not be persuaded to do so.

The next day, the young man who was to leave bound a rabbit-skin about

his neck, to keep it warm, and having painted himself with red and

yellow paints he left; his cousin following just behind, entreating him

not to go. “I will go,” said he, “and live in the north, where I shall

see but four persons, and when you look that way you will see me.”

They walked side by side until he began to ascend, and as he did so, the

other wept the more bitterly, and entreated him more perseveringly not

to leave him. The cousin ascended to the skies, and is now seen in the

north, Ke-wa-din Ah-nung (North Star,) still hunting the polar bear;

while the other wept himself to naught before he could arrive home, and

now he answers and mocks everywhere everybody. He lives in craggy rocks,

and his name is Bah-swa-nay (Echo.)

The young maidens lived for a long time in the south under ambrosial

bowers, awaiting the return of their lovers, until one fell in love with

mankind, and the other yet lives in that country, awaiting the return of

her lover, where

——“she looks as clear

As morning roses, newly washed in dew.”

* * * * *

UNFADING FLOWERS.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

Thirty years ago, a small, barefooted boy, paused to admire the flowers

in a well cultivated garden. The child was an orphan, and had already

felt how hard the orphan’s lot. The owner of the garden, who was

trimming a border, noticed the lad, and spoke to him kindly.

“Do you love flowers?” said he.

The boy replied, “Oh yes. We used to have beautiful flowers in our

garden.”

The man laid down his knife, and gathering a few flowers, took them to

the fence, through the panels of which the boy was looking, and handing

them to him, said as he did so,

“Here’s a nice little bunch for you.”

A flush went over the child’s face as he took the flowers. He did not

make any reply, but in his large eyes, as he lifted them to the face of

the man, was an expression of thankfulness, to be read as plainly as

words in a book.

The act, on the part of the man, was one of spontaneous kindness, and

scarcely thought of again; but, by the child, it was never forgotten.

Years went by, and through toil, privation and suffering, both in body

and mind, the boy grew up to manhood. From ordeals like this, come forth

our most effective men. If kept free from vicious associates, the lad of

feeling and mental activity becomes ambitious, and rises in society

above the common level. So it proved in the case of this orphan boy. He

had few advantages of education, but such as offered were well improved.

It happened that his lot was cast in a printing office; and the young

compositor soon became interested in his work. He did not set the types

as a mere mechanic, but went beyond the duties of his calling, entering

into the ideas to which he was giving verbal expression, and making them

his own. At twenty-one he was a young man of more than ordinary

intelligence and force of character. At thirty-five he was the conductor

of a widely-circulated and profitable newspaper, and as a man, respected

and esteemed by all who knew him.

During the earnest struggle that all men enter into who are ambitious to

rise in the world, the thoughts do not often go back and rest,

meditatively, upon the earlier time of life. But after success has

crowned each well-directed effort, and the gaining of a desired

position, no longer remains a subject of doubt, the mind often brings up

from the far-off past most vivid recollections of incidents and

impressions that were painful or pleasurable at the time, and which are

now seen to have had an influence, more or less decided, upon the whole

after life. In this state of reflection sat one day the man we have here

introduced. After musing for a long time, deeply abstracted, he took up

his pen and wrote hastily—and these were the sentences he traced upon

the paper that lay before him.

“How indelibly does a little act of kindness, performed at the right

moment, impress itself upon the mind. We meet, as we pass through the

world, so much of rude selfishness, that we guard ourselves against it,

and scarcely feel its effects. But spontaneous kindness comes so rarely,

that we are surprised when it appears, and delighted and refreshed as by

the perfume of flowers in the dreary winter. When we were a small boy,

an orphan, and with the memory of a home forever lost too vivid in our

young heart, a man, into whose beautiful garden we stood looking, pulled

a few flowers, and handed them through the fence, speaking a kind word

as he did so. He did not know, and perhaps never will know, how deeply

we were touched by his act. From a little boy we loved the flowers, and

ere that heaviest affliction a child ever knows—the loss of

parents—fell upon us, we almost lived among them. But death separated

between us and all those tender associations and affections that, to the

hearts of children, are like dew to the tender grass. We entered the

dwelling of a stranger, and were treated thenceforth as if we had, or

ought to have, no feelings, no hopes, no weaknesses. The harsh command

came daily and almost hourly to our ears; and not even for work well

done, or faithful service, were we cheered by words of commendation.

“One day—we were not more than eleven years old—something turned our

thoughts back upon the earlier and happier time when we had a true home,

and were loved and cared for. We were once more in the garden and among

the sweet blossoms, as of old, and the mother, on whose bosom we had

slept, sat under the grape arbor while we filled her lap with flowers.

There was a smile of love on her dear face, and her lips were parting

with some word of affection, when, to scatter into nothing these dear

images of the lonely boy, came the sharp command of a master, and in

obedience we started forth to perform some needed service. Our way was

by the garden of which we have spoken; and it was on this occasion, and

while the suddenly dissipated image of our mother among the flowers was

re-forming itself in our young imagination, that the incident to which

we have alluded occurred. We can never forget the grateful perfume of

those flowers, nor the strength and comfort which the kind words and

manner of the giver imparted to our fainting spirit. We took them home,

and kept them fresh as long as water would preserve their life and

beauty; and when they faded, and the leaves fell, pale and withered,

upon the ground, we grieved for their loss as if a real friend had been

taken away.

“It is a long, long time since that incident occurred; but the flowers

which there sprung up in our bosom, are fresh and beautiful still. They

have neither faded nor withered—they cannot, for they are unfading

flowers. We never looked upon the man who gave them to us that our heart

did not grow warm toward him. We know not now whether he be living or

dead. Twenty years ago we lost sight of him; but, if still among the

dwellers of earth, and in need of a friend, we would divide with him our

last morsel.”

An old man, with hair whitened by the snows of many winters, was sitting

in a room that was poorly supplied with furniture, his head bowed down,

and gaze cast dreamily upon the floor. A pale young girl came in while

he thus sat musing. Lifting his eyes to her face, he said, while he

tried to look cheerful,

“Ellen, dear, you must not go out to-day.”

“I feel a great deal better, grandpa,” returned the girl, forcing a

smile. “I am able to go to work again.”

“No, child, you are not,” said the old man, firmly; “and you must not

think of such a thing.”

“Don’t be so positive, grandpa.” And as she uttered this little

sentence, in a half playful voice, she laid her hand among the thin gray

locks on the old man’s head, and smoothed them caressingly. “You know

that I must not be idle.”

“Wait, child, until your strength returns.”

“Our wants will not wait, grandpa.” As the girl said this, her face

became sober. The old man’s eyes again fell to the floor, and a heavy

sigh came forth from his bosom.

“I will be very careful and not overwork myself again,” resumed Ellen,

after a pause.

“You must not go to-day,” said the old man, arousing himself. “It is

murder. Wait at least until to-morrow. You will be stronger then.”

“If I do not go back to-day, I may lose my place. You know I have been

home for three days.”

“You were sick.”

“Work will not wait. The last time I was kept away by sickness, a

customer was disappointed; and there was a good deal of trouble about

it.”

Another sigh came heavily from the old man’s heart.

“I will go,” said the girl. “Perhaps they will let me off for a day

longer. If so, I will come back. But I must not lose the place.”

No further resistance was made by the old man. In a little while he was

alone. Hours went by, but Ellen did not return. She had gone to work.

Her employer would not let her go away, feeble as she was, without a

forfeiture of her place.

About mid-day, finding that Ellen did not come back, the old man, after

taking some food, went out. The pressure of seventy years was upon him,

and his steps were slow and carefully taken.

“I must get something to do. I can work still,” he muttered to himself,

as he moved along the streets. “The dear child is killing herself, and

all for me.”

But what could he do? Who wanted the services of an old man like him,

whose mind had lost its clearness, whose step faltered, and whose hand

was no longer steady? In vain he made application for employment.

Younger and more vigorous men filled all the places, and he was pushed

aside. Discouraged and drooping in spirit, he went back to his home, and

there awaited the fall of evening, which was to bring the return of the

only being left on earth to love him. At night-fall Ellen came in. Her

face, so pale in the morning, was now slightly flushed; and her eyes

were brighter than when she went out. The grandfather was not deceived

by this; he knew it as the sign of disease. He took her hand—it was

hot; and when he bent to kiss her gentle lips, he found them burning

with fever.

“Ellen, my child, why did you go to work to-day? I knew it would make

you sick,” the old man said, in a voice of anguish.

Ellen tried to smile and to appear not so very ill; but nature was too

much oppressed.

“I brought home some work, and will not go out to-morrow,” she remarked.

“I think the walk fatigued me more than any thing else. I will feel

better in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.”

But the girl’s hope failed in this. The morning found her so weak that

she could not rise from bed; and when her grandfather came into her room

to learn how she had passed the night, he found her weeping on her

pillow. She had endeavored to get up, but her head, which was aching

terribly, grew dizzy, and she fell back under a despairing consciousness

that her strength was gone.

The day passed, but Ellen did not grow better. The fever still kept her

body prostrate. Once or twice, when her grandfather was out of the room,

she took the work she had brought home, and tried to do some of it while

sitting up in bed. But ere a minute had passed, she became faint, while

all grew dark around her. She was no better when night came. If her mind

could have rested—if she had been free from anxious and distressing

thoughts, nature would have had some power to react, but as it was, the

pressure upon her was too great. She could not forget that they had

scarcely so much money as a dollar left, and that her old grandfather

was too feeble to work. Upon her rested all the burden of their support,

and she was now helpless.

On the next morning Ellen was better. She could sit up without feeling

dizzy, though her head still ached, and the fever had only slightly

abated. But the old man would not permit her to leave the bed, though

she begged him earnestly to let her do so.

The bundle of work that Ellen had brought home, was wrapped in a

newspaper, and this her grandfather took up to read some time during the

day.

“This is Mr. T——’s newspaper,” said he, as he opened it, and saw the

title. “I knew T—— when he was a poor little orphan boy. But, of

course, he don’t remember me. He’s prospered wonderfully.”

And then his eyes went along the columns of the paper, and he read aloud

to Ellen such things as he thought would interest her. Among others was

a reminiscence by the editor—the same that we have just given. The old

man’s voice faltered as he read. The little incident, so feelingly

described, had long since been hidden in his memory under the gathering

dust of time. But now the dust was swept away, and he saw his own

beautiful garden. He was in it and among the flowers; and wishfully

looking through the fence stood the orphan boy. He remembered having

felt pity for him, and he remembered now as distinctly as if it were but

yesterday, though thirty years had intervened, the light that went over

the child’s face as he handed him a few flowers that were to fade and

wither in a day.

Yes, the old man’s voice faltered while he read; and when he came to the

last sentence, the paper dropped upon the floor, and clasping his hands

together, he lifted his dim eyes upward, while his lips moved in

whispered words of thankfulness.

“What ails you, grandpa?” asked Ellen, in surprise.

But the old man did not seem to hear her voice.

“Dear grandpa,” repeated the girl, “why do you look so strangely?” She

had risen in bed, and was bending toward him.

“Ellen, child,” said the old man, a light breaking over his countenance,

as though a sunbeam had suddenly come into the room, “it was your old

grandfather who gave the flowers to that poor little boy. Did you hear

what he said?—he would divide his last morsel.”

The old man moved about the room with his unsteady steps, talking in a

wandering way, so overjoyed at the prospect of relief for his child,

that he was nearly beside himself. But there yet lingered some embers of

pride in his heart; and from these the ashes were blown away, and they

became bright and glowing. The thought of asking a favor as a return for

that little act, which was to him, at the time, a pleasure, came with a

feeling of reluctance. But when he looked at the pale young girl who lay

with her eyes closed and her face half buried in the pillow, he murmured

to himself, “It is for you—for you!” And taking up his staff, he went

tottering forth into the open air.

The editor was sitting in his office, writing, when he heard the door

open, and turning, he saw before him an old man with bent form and snowy

head. Something in the visiter’s countenance struck him as familiar; but

he did not recognize him as one whom he had seen before.

“Is Mr. T—— in?” inquired the old man.

“My name is T——,” replied the editor.

“You?” There was a slight expression of surprise in the old man’s voice.

“Yes, I am T——, my friend,” was kindly said. “Can I do any thing for

you? Take this chair.”

The offered seat was accepted; and as the old man sunk into it, his

countenance and manner betrayed his emotion.

“I have come,” said he, and his voice was unsteady, “to do what I could

not do for myself alone. But I cannot see my poor, sick grandchild wear

out and die under the weight of burdens that are too heavy to be borne.

For her sake I have conquered my own pride.”

There was a pause.

“Go on,” said T——, who was looking at the old man earnestly, and

endeavoring to fix his identity in his mind.

“You don’t know me?”

“Your face is not entirely strange,” said T——. “It must have been a

long time since we met.”

“Long? Oh yes! It is a long, long time. You were a boy, and I unbent by

age.”

“Markland!” exclaimed T——, with sudden energy, springing to his feet

as the truth flashed upon him. “Say—is it so?”

“My name is Markland.”

“And do we meet again thus!” said T——, with emotion, as he grasped the

old man’s hand. “Ah, sir, I have never forgotten you. When a sad-hearted

boy, you spoke to me kindly, and the words comforted me when I had no

other comfort. The bunch of flowers you gave me—you remember it, no

doubt—are still fresh in my heart. Not a leaf has faded. They are as

bright and green, and full of perfume as when I first hid them there;

and there they will bloom forever—the unfading flowers of gratitude. I

am glad you have come, though grieved that your declining years are made

heavier by misfortune. Heaven has smiled on my efforts in the world. I

have enough, and to spare.”

“I have not come for charity,” returned Markland. “I have hands, and

they would not be idle, though it is not much that they can accomplish.”

“Be not troubled on that account, my friend,” was kindly answered. “I

will find something for you to do. But first tell me all about

yourself.”

Thus encouraged, the old man told his story. It was the common history

of loss of property and friends, and the approach of want with declining

years. T—— saw that pride and native independence were still strong in

Markland’s bosom, feeble as he was, and really unable to enter upon any

serious employment; and his first impulse was to save his feelings at

the same time that he extended to him entire and permanent relief. This

he found no difficulty in doing, and the old man was soon after placed

in a situation where but little application was necessary, while the

income was all-sufficient for the comfortable support of himself and

grandchild.

The flowers offered with a purely humane feeling, proved to be fadeless

flowers; and their beauty and perfume came back to the senses of the

giver when all other flowers were dead or dying on his dark and dreary

way.

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

[Illustration]

LABRADOR AUK, OR PUFFIN. (_Fratercula Arctica._)

We have already remarked that there are but two species of the true Auk.

The Puffin belongs to the sub-genus Fratercula. Of the singular figure

of this bird our engraving gives a true representation; of its habits,

Selby gives the following account, which is corroborated by other

writers who have described it.

“Although the Puffin is found in very high latitudes, and its

distribution through the Arctic Circle is extensive, it is only known to

us as a summer visitant, and that from the south, making its first

appearance in the vicinity of its breeding stations, about the middle of

April, and regularly departing between the 10th and the 20th of August.

Many resort to the islands, selecting such as are covered with a stratum

of vegetable mould; and here they dig their own burrows, from there not

being any rabbits to dispossess upon the particular islets they

frequent. They commence this operation about the first week in May, and

the hole is generally excavated to the depth of three feet, often in a

curving direction, and occasionally with two entrances. When engaged in

digging, which is principally performed by the males, they are sometimes

so intent on their work as to admit of being taken by hand, and the same

may also be done during incubation. At this period I have frequently

obtained specimens, by thrusting my arm into the burrow, though at the

risk of receiving a severe bite from the powerful and sharp edged bill

of the old bird. At the farther end of this hole the single egg is

deposited, which in size nearly equals that of a pullet, and, as Pennant

observes, varies in form; in some instances one end being acute, and in

others equally obtuse. Its color when first laid is white, but it

becomes soiled and dirty from its immediate contact with the earth: no

materials being collected for a nest at the end of the burrow. The young

are hatched after a month’s incubation, and are then covered with a long

blackish down above, which gradually gives place to the feathered

plumage, so that at the end of a month or five weeks they are able to

quit the burrow, and follow their parents to the open sea. Soon after

this time, or about the second week in August, the whole leave our

coasts, commencing their equatorial migration. At an early age the bill

of this bird is small and narrow, scarcely exceeding that of the young

Razor-bill at the same period of life; and not till after the second

year does this member acquire its full development, both as to depth,

color, and its transverse furrows.

“In rocky places, they deposit their single egg in the holes and

crevices. The length of the bird is about twelve inches. The half of the

bill nearest the head is bluish; the rest red. The corners of the mouth

are puckered into a kind of star. The legs and feet are orange. The

plumage is black and white, with the exception of the cheeks and chin,

which are sometimes gray. The young, pickled with spices, are sometimes

considered dainties.”

[Illustration]

THE LITTLE AUK. (_Mergulus Melano Leukos._)

The Little Auk, or Sea Dove, is an example of the genus Mergulus. It

braves the inclemency of very high latitudes, and is found in immense

flocks on the inhospitable coasts of Greenland, Spitsbergen, and

Melville Island. Here they watch the motion of the ice, and when it is

broken up by storms, “they come down in legions, crowding into every

fissure, to banquet on the crustaceous and other marine animals which

lie there at their mercy.

“The Little Auk is between nine and ten inches in length; the bill is

black and the legs inclining to brown; the plumage is black and white;

and in winter the front of the neck, which is black in summer, becomes

whitish. It lays but one egg, of a pale, bluish green, on the most

inaccessible ledges of the precipices which overhang the ocean.” Such

are the accounts of the naturalists and voyagers who have visited the

arctic regions. With its name of Sea Dove, its apparently delicate

structure, and its daring and heroic habits of life, it affords a most

inviting theme to the poet.

* * * * *

PLEASANT WORDS.

BY CAROLINE MAY.

Pleasant words are as an honey-comb, sweet to the soul, and

health to the bones. PROV. xvi. 24.

Many truths the Wise man gives

To his sons and daughters,

As pure and useful, strong and bright,

As streams of living waters;

But one I choose from all the rest,

And call it now the very best.

Pleasant words, he says, are like

A comb of fragrant honey;

The savings-bank of thriving bees,

Whose cells contain their money,

Where they, in little space, lay up

The gains of many a flowery cup.

“Sweet to the soul,” they gently soothe

In days of bitter anguish;

“Health to the bones,” they cheer the sick

And lift the heads that languish;

And with their care-dispelling chime,

They touch the heart at any time.

O! let us then ask God to plant

In us His flowers of beauty,

And teach us to watch over them

With humble, patient duty;

Sweet flowers that grace both age and youth,

Love, meekness, gentleness and truth.

For, as honey is not found

Where no flowers are blowing,

So, unless within our hearts

Love and truth are growing,

No one upon our lips will find

“Pleasant words,” sincere and kind.

But, unlike the fragile flowers,

Who die—as soon as ever

They have given their honey up—

The more that we endeavor

To lavish kindness everywhere,

The more we still shall have to spare.

“Pleasant words!” O let us strive

To use them very often;

Other hearts they will delight,

And our own they’ll soften;

While God himself will hear above,

“Pleasant words” of truth and love.

“Pleasant words!” The river’s wave

That ripples every minute

On the shore we love so well,

Hath not such music in it;

Nor are the songs of breeze or birds,

Half so sweet as “pleasant words!”

* * * * *

DIRGE.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

Mournfully toll the bell:

Gently bear earth to earth;

Solemnly chant the knell;

Death claims a mortal birth.

Virgins, strew early flowers,

Plucked from the snow in spring;

Emblems of her sad hours—

Smiling while withering.

She was a gentle one:

Pure as a seraph’s tear;

Too soon her task was done;

Born but to disappear!

Low chant her requiem;

Close o’er her breast the sod;

Angels, teach her your hymn,

While winging her way to God.

* * * * *

PASSING AWAY.

BY ANNIE GREY.

’Tis written on the early flower,

By a single faded leaf;

’Tis written with terrific power

Upon the burning cheek.

’Tis written with an iron pen

Upon that old man’s brow;

And mark its tyrant impress when

It touched thy darling now.

’Tis written on the fleeting smile

And on the falling tear;

’Tis seen upon that old quaint dial,

And in the grave-yard near.

’Tis written in thy mother’s touch,

And in thy father’s care;

These may not—though they love thee much—

They may not linger here.

Here, too, we see on friendship’s bond

Its shadowy impress laid;

The love we deemed so true, so fond,

Its own dark grave hath made.

Yet surely there is one thing here

Which may not pass away—

’Tis early love, so fond, so dear,

It cannot yield its sway?

Oh! mark the eye averted now,

And list to that scornful word,

And see the cherished broken vow—

E’en this hath the mandate heard.

’Tis written, then, on all things here,

On smiles, on tears, on joy, on wo,

On that we prize, on that we fear,—

All teach alike that we must go.

* * * * *

THE UNDIVIDED HEART.

AFTER THE MANNER OF AN EARLY ENGLISH POET.

BY MYRRHA.

When the rich merchant sendeth out his store,

To multiply in foreign lands and seas,

He scattereth it to every friendly shore,

And spreads his sails to every favoring breeze.

Then, if one bark, more luckless than the rest,

Should chance make shipwreck on some fatal coast,

Seeing he is of many more possest,

He comforts him, although that one be lost.

But one rich argosy holds all my store—

If harm befall that one, what comes of me?

Must I in beggary wander evermore,

Subsistence craving of cold charity?

How should I bear to think upon the day

When Fortune’s gifts were showered upon my head

Would not my misery more heavy weigh.

In view of happiness remembered?

Then let me rather trust my life also,

In that one ship where all my riches be,

That wheresoe’er she goeth I may go,

And toss with her upon the faithless sea.

Then, if the tempest bow the sturdy mast,

And horrid billows sweep the shuddering deck,

When every help and every hope is past,

Calmly I’ll perish with my treasure’s wreck.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

THE PARTING YEAR.

[Illustration]

“Why sitt’st thou by that ruined hall,

Thou aged earl, so stern and gray?

Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it passed away?”

“Know’st thou not me?” the deep voice cried:

“So long enjoyed, so oft misused;

Alternate in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused!

“Before my breath, like blazing flax,

Man and his marvels pass away!

And changing empires wane and wax;

Are founded, flourish, and decay.

Redeem mine hours, the space is brief,

While in my glass the sand grains shiver;

And measureless thy joy or grief,

When time and thou shalt part forever.”

WALTER SCOTT.

The waning year is, to most minds, a season of reflection. And it is

good to pause and think, occasionally; to glance along the receding

vista of months, and review our actions ere too great a distance makes

their memory indistinct. Time seems to linger on his journey, to pause

by the crumbling ruins of earthly things, and point us to the past, that

we may gather therefrom lessons of wisdom for the future.

And now, as we stand on the verge of the parting year—as the last line

in its record of events is about being written, it is but to obey the

dictate of reason to let our thoughts run back. Time we cannot recall,

nor change the past. What we have done is done forever. Then, why, it

may be asked, turn our thoughts thitherward? Why not look in hope to the

future? It is that we may look to the future with brighter hopes, made

more certain through repentance and good resolutions.

What we are is of more, far more importance to us than what we seem to

others, or what we have gained in worldly goods. Our thoughts, then, as

we review the days and weeks in the closing circle of months, should

linger rather upon the purposes and acts of our moral life, than upon

the impression we have made upon others, or the amount of earthly

treasure we have gathered in from the harvest-fields of the world. A

good reputation may be lost through slander; riches may take to

themselves wings and fly away; but of the heart’s conscious rectitude no

event external to ourselves can rob us. It is true gold, which neither

moth nor rust can corrupt, and of which not even death itself can rob

us.

In turning back our thoughts upon the past, then, let us examine all our

acts in the light of their prompting ends. There is no act without a

purpose, and the purpose gives quality to the act. A selfish and bad end

makes an act evil, which might be innocent if done with a good end. A

man may pursue his worldly business with the same energy and success

that marks the course of his neighbor, and be all the while laying up

treasure above, while the latter gains nothing but the treasure on

earth, which, in a few years, passes into the coffers of another, while

he, naked and poor as he came into the world, recrosses the mortal

bourne, and is seen no more among his fellows. The great difference lies

in the end with which each prosecutes his daily calling. A good end

keeps in view what is just to the neighbor, while a selfish end causes a

man to disregard and even trample upon others’ rights.

As time points his trembling finger to the past, let each one, then,

carefully review the history of the year, so far as himself is

concerned, and, in reviewing it, look earnestly at the purposes which

have governed his various actions. These, in their accumulations, are to

make the future happy or miserable. Gold gained in a total disregard of

others’ rights or feelings, never has nor never will bring happiness;

for, in the acquisition, the mind takes an evil form in accordance with

its purpose, and such a form precludes the possibility of happiness.

Honor and fame acquired in like manner, will as certainly bring pain and

disappointment.

The great question then is—How far have I advanced in the year toward

that true humanity which is built up into a beautiful form, through good

purposes coming forth into good deeds? Just so far as this true humanity

has been attained, _and no further_, has the waning year been a well

spent and profitable year.

Is your mind not satisfied with the review measured by this standard?

Let the fact be wisely improved by a better life in the future. Begin

the next year with this higher standard in your mind, and resolve to

live up to it as far as is in your power.

There is one reflection connected with this theme that should produce a

strong impression. It is our present that makes our future. What we

purpose and do to-day throws forward its effect upon our coming years.

And this is the result of every day’s life. What would not some of us

give if we could change the rebuking past? But, alas! what is done is

done forever. The present with its deeds flits by and becomes the

unchangeable past. We may repent of our wrong doings, but repentance

cannot extract the sting from memory. With this thought, which should

alone prompt to right living in the future, we close our brief sermon;

commending its teachings to the wise and simple, the rich and the poor,

the old and the young, the learned and the unlearned, with the hope that

it may be like a nail in a sure place, or, like apples of gold on

pictures of silver.

THE POLITICAL WORLD FOR 1849.

BY J. R. CHANDLER.

It seems meet that we should take some note of the times in which we

live, and not allow a whole year to pass without a record of some of

those startling incidents by which it has been distinguished. We do not

pretend to publish “the news”—we do not mean to make commentaries upon

the political changes which are constantly occurring. There are papers

specially devoted to such matters, and they do their duty with fidelity

and satisfaction. We, however, think it proper (useful we mean, and

therefore proper,) to give a simple abstract of great political changes

and convulsions that have occurred in 1849. It may instruct some; it

will probably send many more to the records of the times to gain minute

information of such startling affairs. Some it may lead to reflect upon

the mutability of human productions, and the causes which have wrought

out such remarkable effects. Others will probably be ready, while they

mourn over the suffering and kindle at the bold steps and courageous

conduct of the uprising oppressed, abroad, to rejoice at the peace and

happiness secured to our own beloved country by the institutions of

republicanism which we enjoy, and to inquire whether such signal

advantages are not worth a vigilance that shall detect the first

movement, or the dangerous neglect that may jeopard the liberties of the

people and the peace and prosperity of the country.

We desire to sit down and make a small daguerreotype view of the nations

abroad, that our Magazine may close the year 1849 with such a picture as

would make ordinary readers, even the ladies, who are only ordinary as

they are the _general_ readers of our book, understand the changes which

are yet to take place. But we are compelled to write nearly a month

before we nominally publish, so that much may transpire between the

inkstand and the reading-desk; much that may change the whole

complexion, the features even of European politics, and cast either a

shade or a light across the Atlantic. Again, while we sit down to adjust

our instrument to catch the manners living as they rise, to receive and

fix the forms of nations upon our plates, they, instead of awaiting

their little moment, to give a perfect image, start into some revolution

and thus mar the picture which we would have strong, clear and distinct.

The troubles which beset the whole of Italy a year ago are, if not

settled, at least becoming less. The affairs of the various independent

governments seem to be so directed as to insure a return to something

like the position they held more than two years since.

In ROME, whence the Pope had been driven by the revolutionary power, the

French army in Italy established itself, after a free use of its heavy

batteries. For a moment it seemed that nothing more was intended than

the restoration of the Pope to his temporal power. But either the

President of France had a concealed motive in sending Oudinot with an

army into Italy, or the uplifted voice of the liberal portion of Europe

caused him to declare that he wished to prevent Austria and Spain from

gaining influence in Rome, and he desired with the return of the Pope,

to see the government (under his holiness) secularized.

Meantime the Pope, at Gaeta, apparently enjoying all the distinction

which his elevated position as spiritual and temporal chief could claim,

has been far from happy. He has seen into the motives of France, and

cannot be ignorant now of the spirit, the interested spirit, likely to

influence other nations which may undertake to restore him to Rome with

all his former power. Nay, it is evident that he is now weighing the

consideration whether it is best for his spiritual mission, and his

temporal comforts and honors to receive back such rule—he sees that the

times have changed, and he is evidently pausing to see how he may change

with them without exposing himself to the outrages to which his former

liberal movements exposed him.

VENICE that held out against the Austrian forces was compelled to

capitulate. She loses the distinction which she had retained, and her

condition as a free port is lost. Austria has even desired to build up

Trieste at the expense of Venice. It should be remarked, however, that

the political offences of the Venetians have been more leniently dealt

with than had been anticipated. The leaders of the revolt were removed

to Corfu by the French before the Austrians entered the city. Venice and

Venetian Lombardy are again the appanages of the Austrian crown.

There was an attempt at a revolt in the IONIAN ISLANDS, a quasi republic

under the protection of Great Britain. The disturbance took place in

Cephalonia, and the political outbreak was the occasion for a band of

ruffians to undertake to plunder and assassinate. A leading citizen of

Argistile was, with his family, burnt to death. Vigorous measures were

adopted by Mr. Ward, the high commissioner of the British government for

the Ionian Islands, and finally order was restored.

FRANCE—The year 1849 opened upon France in the enjoyment of the

_fierce_ youth of Republicanism, with a President elected almost

unanimously by the people, and with a National Assembly almost ready to

expire by its own peculiar organization. A new Assembly was elected and

was organized in May, and early in June the President, Louis Napoleon

Bonaparte, sent to that body his message, which, for the first time in

European history, contained a statement of the situation of the country

minutely set forth, and was thus far republican. Unfortunately the

President took occasion to set forth his own views and determinations in

a tone far more in accordance with those of his uncle, the Emperor

Napoleon, than like that of those who should supply his model—the

Presidents of the United States.

It may be noted that the revolutions of France have been very costly,

and her debt has been fearfully augmented by the convulsion that drove

Louis Philippe from the kingly throne and placed Louis Napoleon in the

presidential chair.

The election of Louis Napoleon to the presidency did by no means secure

the tranquillity of France; so many men leading various sections, that

united only _against_ one portion, were unprovided with power when the

union was to be in _favor_ of one man, that no sooner was the president

installed than those who had done most to make a place for him were

willing to do more to get him out of a place. And it cannot be denied

that the movements of France, or rather of Louis Napoleon, for really he

seems to be France, upon Rome, were not at first calculated to

conciliate the Red Republicans, and are now as little likely to satisfy

the opposite party; each will remember its peculiar cause of dislike,

but neither will keep in mind its occasion for approval. The truth is,

France is not yet essentially republican in its system. The people of

France would, by a large majority, vote to fight for a republican form

of government for their country, but they do not seem to comprehend the

true policy of a republic, and it may be doubted whether the tendency of

a single legislature, and the weight of Paris is not toward

centralization—most anti or at least unrepublican. France must look to

the federation of her departments. The president of France has made

various tours in his republic, and has been received with various

degrees of respect and courtesy, as his principles were more or less

approved, or, perhaps, as the people were more or less republican or

monarchical in their views. And it may be remarked, that every where he

has taken occasion to say that “order, system, and conservatism,” were

necessary to the prosperity of France; an idea well enough in the

abstract, but evidently, considering the speaker and the hearers,

intended to intimate that France needed less revolution among the

people, and more permanency in her executive. When he visited the

neighborhood of Ham, where he had been for a long time a prisoner, on

account of a rebellion against the established government, he was

reminded by some obsequious citizens of his sufferings and his

deliverance. But instead of launching out into a tirade against tyranny

in general, and especially that which confined him there, he took

occasion to preach a homily in favor of established power, and confessed

his error in being one of those who rose against it. Fenelon, when he

ascended the pulpit to denounce his own book, did not assume a more

self-condemnatory air, nor did he more regret his offences against

ecclesiastical rule, than did Louis Napoleon _his_ outrage upon the

kingly government; and this, too, in presence of a people that had

assisted within two years to put down a king, and had, by their votes,

elected him to office, in the place of that king.

France has placed herself, or was placed by her president, in a very

delicate position, with regard to other European powers, by her

interference in the Italian contest. She now complains that the Pope

does not acknowledge the services which she has rendered, (he certainty

seems to be very ignorant of any advantage which France has wrought for

him,) while the president declares that Rome must be secularized, and

must grant a _full_ amnesty to political offenders. France has her

attention now drawn toward the peculiar situation of affairs between the

Porte and the Emperor of Russia, in which England and France seem to

understand each other.

While the continent of Europe has been embroiled for the last year in

all kinds of contests, GREAT BRITAIN seems to have enjoyed unusual

tranquillity at _home_. The imperial parliament repealed the old

navigation laws which had been operative for two centuries. By the new

enactments greater freedom is given to vessels of other countries to

trade between the several ports of Great Britain; and in other countries

where reciprocal commercial treaties are established, the ships of Great

Britain will have similar advantages.

Peace is not productive of historical interest, and we have only to say,

that Great Britain has settled her troubles in the East by defeating the

Indian forces raised against her power; and she has commenced her

troubles in the _West_, by sanctioning certain laws passed by the

parliament of the Canadas to remunerate those who lost property in a

former rebellion. The truth is, there has grown up a strong and violent

hostility between the English residents in Canada and the French; and

the latter, with some of their allies, having a majority, passed the law

for indemnity, which the governor, Lord Elgin, signed; and this brought

against him the English party. The Home Government sanctioned the action

of his lordship, and this has led some of the English party to talk of

throwing off the English yoke, and uniting Canada with the United

States. It is probable that Great Britain has held Canada about as long

as is possible—and perhaps quite as long as is profitable.

The Queen of Great Britain has, with her husband and children, attended

by a numerous court, been visiting to Ireland and Scotland, and has been

eminently successful in conciliating the people of these parts of her

empire, and has done more to restore kind feelings and establish

herself, than all the arms which she could have sent against the

disaffected. She is at once popular and powerful, and sustains a bad

system by her gentleness and her sterling worth.

It is to the glory of Great Britain that in all the disturbances in

Europe of late, she has sought, by her intervention, to save the people

from the consequences of a bloody war, and in all cases she has appeared

as the friend of the weakest side, her mediation was not often accepted.

In the case of the unhappy war between Prussia and Denmark, about the

miserable affair of Schleswick Holstein, her offer was accepted, and

peace was restored.

DENMARK. We have little to say of this kingdom excepting that by her

superior naval force she redeemed her credit, somewhat impaired by the

success of the Prussians on the land; and the effective blockade induced

her enemy to listen to the proposition of Great Britain to mediate. The

result was the settlement of the difficulties about Schleswick Holstein.

PRUSSIA. The attempt to create a federative government in Germany has

not yet proved successful. Various plans have been proposed, and a

constitution, not unlike that of the United States, was nearly adopted.

But when the states which are to compose the federation have been so

long entirely independent, and have exercised the privileges of complete

sovereignty, they do not readily yield up their independence, and hence,

after moving toward a union, they start off, alarmed at the chance of

being lost sight of in the shadow of the larger states. The intention of

forming a confederacy is still cherished, and may be realized. Prussia

must, of course, have a leading voice in such a movement. But the power

of the continental monarchs rests, and must continue to rest, upon the

army, and consequently war, that weakens the nation, must, for a time,

give strength to kings. But as the strength which is imparted to the

human system by the use of opium, it will destroy in time what it was

intended to support.

AUSTRIA has had a sort of triumph; her arms have been successful in

Italy, and, with the aid of Russia, she has put down the rebellion in

Hungary. Yet Austria is weaker now than before her triumphs, and is

regarded with less favor, more hatred, more contempt than formerly. The

necessity of changes in her government; the necessity of destroying her

own rebellious cities; the necessity of applying to Russia for help,

have taught that power to feel that it is not only vulnerable, but that

it is perishable. And a few more such convulsions, even though Russia

interfere, will dismember the Germans, and set free her injured

dependencies.

HUNGARY. The brilliant effort of Hungary to cast off the yoke of Austria

promised for a time to be gloriously successful. The character of

Kossuth was so beautiful, his manners so conciliatory, his plans so

wise, and his power with the army so complete, that the world was

prepared to hail and welcome the old kingdom back to independence.

Austria was defeated. Her armies were beaten, and the rickety old

tyranny appealed to Russia for help—to Russia, the last refuge of

tyranny that exists. And Russia poured her _rubles_ down upon the plains

of Hungary, and corrupted one of the generals that had been entrusted

with power; and then she sent her herds of serfs and generals to receive

the concessions which she had _purchased_. And so Hungary sinks back

into a dependence upon Austria, liable at all times to be claimed and

fleeced by Russia.

We had wished, we confess, that Hungary would have freed herself—but

she must abide her time. Bem, Kossuth, and many other generals, with

numerous companies of soldiery, escaped into the Turkish dominions,

under a pledge of safety from the Sultan. But Russia, true to her

principle of pursuing her offenders, demanded these unfortunate

fugitives. The Sultan became alarmed, and asked the Hungarians to

renounce their faith, and adopt Mohamedism, and then they would become

citizens, and might not be claimed. Some assumed the turban, others

refused. But it is probable that Russia will find occasion in these and

other matters to make war on Turkey; if so, France and England must look

to what they have called the balance of power in Europe.

It is worthy of remark, that while Russia is settling the disturbance in

Hungary, the western principalities of Turkey seem to be uniting with

Greece to assert some of the rights of man. We know not what will

result—but it appears as if there was going forth a voice which is

crying “_war—war_ to tyranny and oppression!” Its denunciation may

indeed serve to make the hand of power clutch more closely the neck of

its victim, but the grasp must be spasmodic—strong, perhaps stronger

than formerly, at least, the neck is growing more sensitive—but the

grasp will be loosed, and the people will be allowed to go and form

their own government and enjoy their own rights.

There have been few changes on this side of the Atlantic. The most

important movements have been in California, where the tide of

immigration attracted by gold and retained by a new feeling of civicism,

has swollen into the materials for a new government. The opinion

entertained at one time that the attempt to form a territorial

government for California would embarrass the National Administration by

giving rise to the question of the extent of slavery, by the application

of what is called the “Wilmot proviso,” seems to have subsided by the

project of inducing California to make application at once for admission

into the Union as a _State_, of course the Wilmot proviso would have no

operation on such an appeal.

No changes of consequence have occurred in South America. Improvement in

the sciences, peace, and order will strengthen republican institutions,

and republican feelings, and we may hope that prosperity and happiness

will ere long be the lot of those whom Providence has placed in a

Heavenly climate and on a most productive soil, but whose stimulated

passions have made a hell of their country, and denied to the soil the

produce which it might have brought forth.

Excepting the fearful prevalence of cholera in various parts of the

country, the UNITED STATES have continued in the enjoyment of political,

moral, and social blessings; and we may hope that Providence will

continue to smile on the efforts of its patriots to sustain the

institutions with which their country is blessed, and to make each

citizen sensible of the vast advantages he enjoys over the subjects of

foreign powers. And if God, who hitherto has poured out his choicest

favors on our beloved land, should vouchsafe his blessings hereafter, we

may see her wielding power for the good of mankind, and teaching other

nations the true use of government. Not doubting but this will be the

case, we think we see down the vista of time our country becoming the

mild dictator to the world, and her peaceful government sheltering the

injured from other lands and correcting the injurer. And while such a

prospect is held out we may look, as the cause and consequence thereof,

for peace and moral worth, and

From Darien to Davis one garden shall bloom

When war’s wearied banners are furled,

And the far-scented zephyr that wafts its perfume

Shall silence the storms of the world.

PROSPECTIVE!—1850.

MY DEAR JEREMY,—Have you ever taken a long-bill on the wing of a July

morning? Not a note at eight months, flying in the market at a heavy

discount—but a genuine long-bill, an old woodcock, springing up at your

feet with whistling and whirring wings, and doing his uttermost to get

out of the way, without waiting for the formality of invitation expended

upon a certain Mr. Tucker? “You have not.” Well, I shall not attempt the

task of teacher after HERBERT, but you can have no conception of the

cool head and steady nerve required to do it well. To an old hand, with

dog and gun, with a constitution inured by exercise, it is the glory of

the world’s excitements, and as far above the lust of money-getting, as

poetry is above note-shaving.

I took my tramp this summer, of three months, among the hills and

marshes where this bird—which is a bore in one way only—loves most to

congregate, and saw our old friend, “the iron pump” of copper notoriety

looking as dry as his purchasers and quite as rusty. I could not resist

the impulse to take a crack at him, at forty yards, with my

double-barrel, as at an imaginary copper-head. The excavations looked

like the ready-made graves of speculators, who somehow or other had not

come there to be buried. The very faces of the rocks had been twisted

into grimaces, and seemed with their yellow eyes to be grinning at one;

so shouldering my gun, and whistling to give strength to an imaginary

band playing

“Over the river to Charley,”

I went down into the valley, and took vengeance for bills long

dishonored, upon bills that I honor long.

But, Jeremy, we cannot submit to the “vagabond propensity,” as the old

farmers call it, of roaming with dog and gun over mountain and meadow,

though the morning dew has made the air redolent of sweets, and from

every bush and blade of grass nature has hung her pearls invitingly, and

lit up, as with the blaze of a torch, the gum and maple trees; though

the pure air and fresh water have given health to eye and cheek and

vigor to the frame, we must away to the turbulent city, and within its

pent up streets and among its crowded artisans and tradesmen wrestle for

bread, and shutting out from the heart its glimpses of heaven and repose

in the country, grapple with toil, work on, and hope on! Yet with a sure

and an abiding trust and faith.

With the opening of the New Year the periodical campaign brings thought

and labor. What a world within itself is this business in Philadelphia

alone—how stirring the competition—how diverse the interests—how

various the success. The unparalleled rise in the business within one

short year has been the result of diligent application. The publishers

have most gloriously bought their own success, and have raised their

works to such a point of beauty and excellence that money can go no

further. The spirit of a just competition has urged each man to do his

very uttermost to give his readers all that can by possibility be

crowded, in the way of beauty and excellence, into his work. Every

dollar received goes back in renewed outlay, in costly embellishments

and articles. Nothing in Europe at twice their price can at all approach

the illustrated American Monthlies in the beauty and costliness of their

appointments. At the head of _all_ stands

“GRAHAM”—Proud—Imperious—Supreme. He has no long line of broken

promises to come up in judgment against him, but for ten long years has

steadily gone on increasing in the face of all opposition, until he now

stands unapproachable and alone, among the highest class of literary

monthlies in the land. There are others of a lighter

class—successful—highly successful—but his is the proud honor of

having lifted the tone of his literature, and the quality of his

engravings, up to the highest European standard of excellence in all

respects. There is yet another class, who deal in promises—and promises

only—whose best numbers come up to the meanest promise only of their

printed circulars, but who go on crowding promise upon failure to

redeem, until the virtues of their acts are lost in the fog they

raise—fortunately their works also. More than a score of such have we

seen entombed—some we have helped to bury—but they come again, like

the locust, annually, and swindling a few dupes out of their money,

annually die. This is the class which does business altogether by

THE SUCTION AND PUMPING PROCESS.

[Illustration]

From this party, we shall no doubt be favored, with very

extravagant-looking show-bills, and plenty of them—long bills drawn

upon the credulity of people who fill an imaginary subscription list,

and are very liberal in remittances, and whose wonderful sagacity in

waiting until 1850, will be duly heralded, and in type announced. The

existence of any periodical of the slightest pretension to elegance or

ability, not having been heard of before, and only known among that

benighted class, whose urgent literary tastes would not allow them to

suffer and to wait.

Having seen our friends of “The Suction and Pumping Process” fairly in

the field, let us survey the ground. On the whole, things look rather

brilliant; a number of “new volumes with superb inducements,” are

already announced, and with the usual cheering before starting, the

entertainments for 1850 promise to be rich and various beyond parallel.

Ingenuity, it seems, is not exhausted, nor are novelties entirely run

out. What have we here?

One of the ladies’ magazines actually promises to “_outstrip_” all its

cotemporaries! A novel sort of assertion, truly, for a genteel ladies’

magazine; yet a proceeding, one would think, that cannot be carried very

far with any sort of propriety. The grace of modesty and the delicacy of

its position alike forbid it. Such things, if really attempted, will

drive the meeker and weaker brethren entirely from the contest. We

may—but scarcely can—tolerate the pretty large liberties which have

been taken with the dresses of ladies elsewhere in engravings and

fashion plates. Let it stop here. Give us models of art, even if they

are a little nude; we can stand that—but this is touching on the

province of the model artists; and as the _elder_ magazine, we cannot

allow it—positively. Jeremy, if you have any influence with these

people, stop this thing, I pray you.

Phew!—but what _is_ this?

It appears that under cover of fire-works, with sky-rockets,

blue-lights, shooting-stars, or something of that sort, we are to have a

grand conflagration, perhaps immolation of fashionable and pretty women;

for another ladies’ magazine, audaciously—in order to offset the other,

we suppose—promises, “_a blaze of beauty throughout the year!_”

Heavens! “can these things be,

And overcome us like a summer cloud,

Without our special wonder.”

And this is actually put out in the bills, before a Christian country,

in the nineteenth century, and the police look on, and are silent!

Ah! this comes home to “our hearts and our bussums.” _What do we read?

“All_ the distinguished writers and authors of this country and Europe

are engaged.” The deuce they are? Oh Lord!—Our office then may be

closed, during business hours hereafter, we suppose.

_Overlooked, by George!_—News! news! “The acknowledged Blackwood of

America, 1850.” Now is that old vagabond coming back again, after having

enjoyed our hospitalities for two seasons—’42 and ’43?

If Blackwood were to come in spirit shape, this I think would be his

story, Jeremy:

“You see I was coming along, when a tall fellow, our old friend, cries,

‘How are you, Mr. Blackwood?’

“‘Come in here,’ says he, seizing my elbow, and in an instant I found

myself deceived, swindled, jostled in among the wrong set. A parcel of

puritanical looking dogs, sitting cheek by jowl, with long gowns, play

actors, medical students, penny-a-liners, seedy old boys and silly

school girls. I suppose they took me for a Mormon or a Shaker, or

perhaps a clown, and dragged me in, to add to the novelty of the

collection. But Scotch manners wouldn’t allow me to be rude, so I said,

very politely, to the tall gentleman, if _that_ is whisky-punch you have

on the stove, I’ll take a tumbler of it. Heavens! you should have heard

the yell that went up, and seen the horrible faces; so seeing the way

the wind set, I gave one or two of them a knock over the skull with

ebony—bestowed my parting benediction upon the whole company—ladies

excepted—and came at once to head-quarters.”

Now, Jeremy, I don’t know what you may think of this business, but I say

I have been silent long enough under various aggressions, and hereafter,

I take the cudgel and trounce any son of a gun who poaches on my manor.

Why do you know that people have the audacity to say that theirs is the

_oldest_ magazine, when the Casket, which we bought, and on which Graham

was based, started in 1826, and had its colored fashions and wood

engravings printed on tinted paper long before any of them opened their

eyes. The mezzotints I was the first to put to magazine use on a large

scale; and Burton’s Magazine, which was incorporated with this, gave the

first that Sartain ever did for a magazine of large circulation; and yet

these young fellows, with the down yet upon their chins, affect the

experience of years, and learnedly talk about teaching their grandfather

how to snuff. I care nothing about this, but that it has gone far

enough; and they will after a while begin to believe their own

stories—a bit of self-deception that it is a pity they should be

subjected to.

But, Jeremy, we live in a funny world, and even with our criminal code,

and prison discipline, I fear me, the moral reformer has a vast work to

do. The shades of right and wrong, as worked up in the woof of practical

life, are not of colors which contrast very strongly. They form rather

the figures of a kaleidoscope. Is there not a little gambling done, in

the way of “specimens” in literature, as well as in “specimens” in

copper? Do the samples shown as “inducements” always honestly represent

the real article afterward put upon the purchaser? Oh! very nice, rigid

and self-complacent moralist, “with good fat capon lined,” why are thy

hands held up in such affected holy horror at thy brother, who has

stumbled and fallen, “because he has done this thing;” when printed

records of thy falsified pledges and assertions, fill the post-towns of

the country, the Union over! The lie in type and upon record, is it less

venal, because multiplied by thousands, than that by word, which palms

upon the unsuspecting a sinking fancy stock! Let the canting, praying

hypocrite, of all trades, go down into his own heart, and clear it of

its “dead men’s bones, and all uncleanness,” before, with bastard

honesty, he casts a stone at his most desperate brother.

Ah, Jeremy, is there not a thriving business done, by men professing to

be respectable, by “The Suction and Pumping Process,” in most of the

trades of life—even in the very honorable business of manufacturing and

selling goods? Ay! in the thousand well dressed, painted living lies,

that stare at you in the streets, and from behind counters, and impose

upon the ignorant—is there no rascality? When goods are put upon the

poor and ignorant hired girls at high prices—the remnants of shabby

gentility—are the shopkeepers honest do you suppose? In the poisoned

rum, that is sold for _good_ (God defend us!) and which sends

destitution, misery, and crime into the hovels of the poor—is there no

weight of damnation, past finding out? Is every marble palace, with

steeds prancing at the door, the monument of a good man’s well spent

life; has every stone and carved niche been paid for by money honestly

earned? Are the laces, and feathers, and gold and jewels, that flash

upon us and glitter in the sun, _all_, always the well-earned rewards of

honest and praiseworthy toil? Much of the money thus lavishly displayed,

and on which an insolent pride fattens and corrupts, may it not be the

legitimate reward of a sin that would taint the fingers of a thief? Hold

up thy head, young brother, and keep thy heart pure; all is not lost!

the courage to dare, the power and will to do are thine! Up! and against

wrong and oppression of every shade, set thy face as a flint, and with

conscious might and truth, press on! The world is before thee where to

choose—it is thy battle-ground! Do nobly, and thou art man—meanly, a

more creeping thing than a worm a upon whom every coward braggart will

set his heel. Aye on! there is yet to come—thank God—a reckoning-day,

of motives and of actions, when assumption shall be stript—deceit

exposed—the hollow heart laid bare, and when the secret sin of pride

and self-complacency, dragged from its hiding-place, shall be thrust,

blazing into its face.

My dear Jeremy, there is a consolation in this—we shall see one of

these times, every man’s motive for the acts he has committed

revealed—whether it is only the poor devils cast down, forsaken,

down-trodden and despised, that die in the ditch, who are damned; or

whether he only is on his way to heaven—the sleek and lucky moralist

who dozes over his wine—who thinks he can pave his way to heaven with

ingots, however got, that shall be saved. That will be a sight worth

seeing, Jeremy, for it will open the eyes of the Universe, and make all

things even. We can afford to wait for even this, can we not? It will

not be long.

G. R. G.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Poems. By Robert Browning, Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 2

vols. 12mo._

This edition of Browning is almost a facsimile of the beautiful London

edition, published by Chapman & Hall, the only real difference between

the two being that the American reprint costs less than half as much as

the London original.

Browning, for the last four or five years, has been steadily advancing

to fame; and having overcome by the pure strength of his genius all

outward and some inward obstacles, is now widely recognized as a new

force in English letters. Next to Tennyson, we know of hardly another

English poet of the day who can be compared with him. He possesses

striking excellences both of thought and diction, but he is so

indisputably an originality, that he is compelled to create the taste

which appreciates him. Like almost all the poets of the new school, he

is “high contemplative,” scorns rather than courts the means of

popularity, and is more pleased by conquering one reader than by

enticing many. In his distaste for the stereotyped diction and ideas of

English poetry, he is apt to go to the opposite extreme of obscurity.

There is a beautiful willfulness, a delicious bit of the devil, in him;

accordingly many of his verses seem thrown off in an imaginary boxing

match with professors of square-toed rhetoric and critics of the old

school. This independence and pugnacity are sometimes carried to that

extreme of recklessness, which indicates self-conceit and supercilious

arrogance, rather than a wrestling with the difficulties of expression.

“Sordello,” a poem which the author has now suppressed, was a tangled

mass of half-formed thoughts and half-clutched sentiments, tottering

dizzily on the vanishing points of meaning; and the publication of such

a piece of elaborate worthlessness was an insult to public intelligence

which would have consigned to deserved damnation, any poet who did not

possess sufficient genius to retrieve his reputation.

In his best works, Browning appears as a poet gifted with a large reason

and a wide-wandering imagination; but his reason and imagination do not

seem to work genially together—are sometimes in each other’s way—and

in their operation they sometimes strangle each other. He thinks broadly

and deeply, and he shapes finely; but the thought does not commonly seem

born in music, but rather born _with_ music; and he often gives the idea

and the illustrative image, instead of the idea in the illustrative

image. Sometimes, in reading him, we wish he would abandon poetry for

metaphysics, so sure and clear is his analysis and statement of mental

phenomena; and then again some magnificent comparison, metaphor or

image, or some exquisite touch of characterization, makes us wish that

he would abjure metaphysics, and cling to poetry. Compared with

Tennyson, his nature would be called hard, and be said to lack

mellowness and melody. That sensuous element in poetry, which proceeds

from fusing thought, sensation, and imagination—the spiritual and

physical—into one sweet product, “felt in the blood,” and felt along

the brain, he does not appear to have reached; but then the burning

words, struck off like sparks from the conflict of flint and steel,

which come from him in his periods of real excitement, seem to the

reader sufficient compensations for his comparative absence of softness

and harmony. He may not delight so much as Tennyson, but he gives the

mind a wider field to range in, inspires a manlier feeling, and

indicates a greater capacity. The very fact that all his works are cast

in a dramatic form, even though the dramatic element is often more

formal than real, shows that his mind has a healthy affection for

objects, and steadily resists its own subjective tendencies.

The first poem in the collection is “Paracelsus.” This is an attempt to

exhibit the influence on character of knowledge disjoined from love, by

a delineation of an aspiring and noble nature, smitten by a restless

thirst to know, and ruined by “the lust of his brain.” The poem is not

poetically conceived; its central idea is not organic, not the

germinating principle of the whole, but rather an abstract proposition

logically developed; and, accordingly, the mechanical understanding not

the vital imagination is predominant throughout. Besides, though it

exercises the brain not unpleasantly, it hardly gives poetic pleasure;

and so far from comfortable is the general impression it leaves, that

the reader recurs to it only for deep or delicate thoughts and

imaginations which are separately beautiful. As a whole, it is not

philosophical enough for a treatise, nor beautiful enough for a poem.

“King Victor and King Charles” is a drama containing four characters

moderately well conceived and discriminated, but evincing dramatic

genius not much above Bulwer’s, though profounder in sentiment, and

richer in imagination. The most dramatic passage is where Polyxena

seizes her husband’s hand, when he is on the point of yielding to a weak

amiability of nature, and conjures him to sacrifice her happiness and

his to duty. It is the passage commencing—

“King Charles! pause here upon this strip of time,

Allotted you out of eternity!”

“Colombe’s Birth Day” is a sweet and beautiful dramatic poem, abounding

in intellectual wealth. The characters of Colombe and Valence are

vigorously drawn. The scene between them in the fourth act, where he

confesses his love, is grand and exhilarating as an exhibition of

character and passion. But the idea of the play, that of representing

the triumph of love over wealth and rank in a woman fully susceptible of

the charms of the latter, is the animating life of the piece. We hardly

know, out of Fletcher and Shakspeare, a play where fidelity to a

sentiment is represented with such ethereal grace.

In “Luria” and “The Return of the Druses,” an intimate acquaintance is

shown with the best and worst parts of human nature, and the development

of the characters indicates that the author’s dramatic skill grows with

exercise. Luria is a noble character, original in conception, and finely

developed from “within outwards.” “A Soul’s Tragedy” has many marked

excellences of thought, and diction, and exhibits one of the most

hateful qualities in human nature, with a blended dramatic coolness and

individual abhorrence, singularly felicitous.

The “Dramatic Lyrics” are very striking, and are full of matter. “Count

Gismond,” “Porphyria’s Lover,” “The Confessional,” “The Lost Leader,”

and “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” we should select as, on the whole, the

best. The latter, written for little William Macready, exhibits the

peculiar vein of humor in which Browning excels, and of which we have

indications all over his works. The commencement we will venture to

extract:

“Rats!

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheese out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles.

Split open the kegs of the salted sprats,

Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women’s chats,

By drowning their speaking

And shrieking and squeaking,

In fifty different sharps and flats.”

But the grandest pieces in the volume are “Pippa Passes,” and “A Blot in

the ’Scutcheon.” The latter, in the opinion of Dickens, is the finest

poem of the century. We think there can be detected in it that hardness

of touch which characterizes the other dramas, but the depth and pathos

of the matter, and the approach to something like impassioned action in

the events, make it wonderfully impressive. Once read it must haunt the

imagination forever, for its power strikes deep into the very substance

and core of the soul. Thorold’s adamantine pride, and Guendolen’s sweet

woman’s sympathy, and Mildred’s awful sorrow, can never be forgotten.

Mildred’s repetition, in moments of agony or half-consciousness, of the

lines—

“I was so young—I loved him so—I had

No mother—God forgot me—and I fell—”

exceeds in pathetic effect any thing in English dramatic literature

since the Elizabethan era.

We hardly know how to express our admiration of “Pippa Passes,” making

as it does the “sense of satisfaction ache,” with its abounding beauty.

In this piece the author’s nature seems for once to have become fluid,

and gushes out in melodious thought and passion. Pippa herself is one of

poetry’s most exquisite creations, and, among her many “passes,” those

she makes into the hearts and imaginations of a thousand readers, ought

not to be overlooked. The design of the play is new, and it would be

difficult to state in an intellectual form the source of its charm. Its

completeness is in its seeming incompleteness. The grandest scene is

that between Ottima and Sebald, the fine audacity of which carries us

back to the elder period of the English drama. The greatest instance of

imagination in Browning’s works is contained in this scene. We give it

below:

“Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;

Swift ran the searching tempest overhead,

And ever and anon some bright white shaft

Burnt through the pine-tree roof—here burnt and there,

As if God’s messenger through the close wood screen

Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,

Feeling for guilty thee and me.”

The dedication of “Pippa Passes” is beautifully ingenious;

“I DEDICATE

MY BEST INTENTIONS, IN THIS POEM, MOST ADMIRINGLY,

TO THE AUTHOR OF ”ION,“—

MOST AFFECTIONATELY TO

MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD.”

We trust that the elegant edition of Browning, which we have here

noticed, will make him widely known in the United States. The volumes

are in Ticknor & Co.’s best style, both as regards type and paper.

* * * * *

_Physician and Patient, or a Practical View of the Mutual

Duties, Relations and Interests of the Medical Profession and

the Community. By Worthington Hooker, M. D. New York: Baker &

Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is a timely production, written by a man who appears to have

sterling honesty as well as sterling sense, and devoted to a subject as

interesting as any which can engage the attention of the community. We

hope it will attract sufficient attention to insure its extensive

circulation, and bring it within the notice of all families. The author

grapples with his subject thoroughly, and almost exhausts it. Owing to

the various forms, genteel and vulgar, which quackery has assumed in our

day, no person, intelligent or ignorant, is safe from some one mode of

its operation, as it has contrivances for every age, disposition, grade

of mental development, and social station. Dr. Hooker has gone

elaborately over the whole matter, and has really given the philosophy

as well as the facts of empiricism, both as it exists out of the

profession and in it. He does not spare those physicians who follow

medicine as a trade, instead of pursuing it as a profession, “and study

the science of patient-getting to the neglect of the science of patient

curing,” while in showing the processes of the quack in experimenting on

the credulity of his victims, he has done an essential service to the

health of the community. We can but reiterate the hope that the volume,

full as it is of practical wisdom, will be extensively circulated, and

do its part toward enlightening the most quack-ridden people on the face

of the earth.

* * * * *

_History of England from the Invasion of Julius Cæsar to the

Abdication of James the Second. By David Hume. Boston: Phillips,

Sampson & Co. Vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 12mo._

This edition of Hume is uniform with the same publishers’ edition of

Macaulay. It is neatly printed in good sized type, and is placed at a

price sufficiently cheap to bring it within the reach of the humblest

reader. It is reprinted from the last and best London edition, and is

prefaced by Hume’s delightful autobiography. It is needless to inform

our readers that the work is a classic, and ranks with the greatest

historical works ever written in this world. But though its fame is

wide, we doubt if the generality of the reading public give it their

attention. This is really abstinence from pleasure as well as

instruction, for Hume is among the most fascinating of narrators. His

style is simple, clear, racy, and flowing, beyond that of almost any

English historian, and being but a translucent mirror of events and

reflections, it attracts no attention to itself, and therefore never

tires. The wonder of the book is its happy union of narration and

reflections and the skill with which every thing is brought home to the

humblest capacity. It belongs to that class of works in which power is

not paraded, but unobtrusively insinuated in thoughts carelessly

dropped, as it were, in the course of a familiar narration of

interesting incidents. “Easy writing,” said Sheridan, “is cursed hard

writing.” The easy style of Hume is an illustration. The reader, at the

end, feels that he has been keeping company with a great man, gifted

with an extraordinary grasp and subtlety of mind, but during the journey

he thought he was but chatting with an agreeable and intelligent

familiar companion.

* * * * *

_Success in Life. The Merchant. By Mrs. L. C. Tuthill. New York:

Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

The present volume is the first of a series of six, in which the

authoress intends to indicate the _rationale_ of the successful

merchant, lawyer, mechanic, artist, physician and farmer, illustrating

each department by biographical anecdotes. We have here, as the leader

of the series, a volume on The Merchant. The style is gossiping, without

much pretension to beauty or correctness, but the matter indicates a

shrewd mind and extensive miscellaneous reading. There is one chapter

devoted almost wholly to Robert Morris, a man whose amplitude of mind

comprehended both statesmanship and commerce, and whom Burke might have

adduced in proof of his assertion, that he had known merchants with the

large conceptions of statesmen, and statesmen with the little notions of

pedlars. Mrs. Tuthill chats very agreeably of Morris, and among other

anecdotes of him, gives a laconic letter he wrote to some French

officers in the American army, on their insolently demanding an

immediate settlement of their arrears of pay. Here it is, and it is a

good example of cutting knots which cannot be untied: “Gentlemen,—I

have received this morning your application. I make the earliest answer

to it. You demand immediate payment, I have no money to pay you with.”

We extract this letter as a model to those of our readers who are often

puzzled, under similar circumstances, to hit upon the right mode of

announcing such uncomfortable demands to perform the impossible.

* * * * *

_Sketches of Life and Character. By T. S. Arthur. Illustrated

with Sixteen Engravings, and a Portrait of the Author.

Philadelphia: J. W. Bradley, 48 North Fourth Street, 1849._

Mr. Arthur’s name, as a delineator of American character and manners,

and an earnest and sincere advocate of sound, uncompromising morality,

is already familiar to the reading public, not only in the United States

but in Europe. His object, in every production of his able pen, is well

understood to be utility—utility in the highest sense of the word, that

which has reference to man’s eternal wellbeing. In his lighter as well

as in his graver effusions, the same exalted object is always kept

steadily in view. He writes to improve the characters and exalt the aim

of his readers. This is the secret of his wide-spread popularity. Men

love and respect those who exhibit a steady, consistent, and persevering

adherence to principle. In the princely mansions of the Atlantic

merchants, and in the rude log-cabins of the backwoodsmen, the name of

Arthur is equally known and cherished as the friend of virtue, and the

eloquent advocate of temperance.

The work before us is a judicious selection made by the author himself,

from his most popular tales. His numerous admirers will rejoice in an

opportunity to possess themselves of so considerable a number of his

best performances, not in the fugitive shape of articles for the

journals, but in an elegant volume of over four hundred octavo pages,

richly illustrated with engravings, and handsomely got up in every

respect. We predict for this volume a very extensive sale, and

particularly recommend it as a highly appropriate gift-book in the

present holyday season. As it is a subscription book, it will be sold

only by agents. Mr. J. W. Bradley, 48 North Fourth street, Philadelphia,

is the publisher, and persons at a distance can order it from him.

* * * * *

_History of the French Revolution of 1848. By A. De Lamartine.

Translated by Francis A. Darivage and William S. Chase. Boston:

Phillips; Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an admirable translation of a work requiring something more than

a knowledge of French to be well translated. The spirit is rendered as

well as the letter. The book itself, will outlive all of Lamartine’s

other productions, from its connection with a great historical event,

even if it were not invaluable as a psychological curiosity. No reader

who penetrates into its animating spirit, curious to discover in

Lamartine’s individual character the source of its miraculous

self-content can resist the impression that the author considers himself

so much a god, that he would not be in the least surprised if a band of

fanatics should erect a temple for his worship. No man, whose nature was

not in his own estimation raised above human nature, could possibly have

the face to present such a work as the present to the public eye. It is

a sentimental apotheosis of the writer. The reader finds the narrative

of the events of the revolution altogether inferior in interest to the

exhibition of Lamartine, and he is lost in wonder as he thinks what must

be the character of a nation in which such a man could be lifted into

power. The author, beyond any man we have ever known through history,

fiction, or actual life, can fasten his gaze on himself as mirrored in

his self-esteem, and exclaim, “thou art beautiful and good.” Old John

Bunyan, in descending one day from the pulpit, where he had preached

with tremendous power, was accosted by an old lady with the compliment,

“Oh! what a refreshing sermon!” “Yes,” replied Bunyan, “the Devil

whispered in my ear to that effect as I came down.” Now this devil is at

Lamartine’s ear all the time, but Lamartine mistakes him for an angel.

* * * * *

_The Puritan and his Daughter. By J. K. Paulding. New York;

Baker & Scribner. 2 vols. 12mo._

We are glad to welcome Mr. Paulding back again to the land of romance,

even though he enters it with a somewhat jaunty air, and a somewhat

scornful toss of his head. There is a bitter, if we may not call it

saucy, brilliancy about our author, which we think is rather a

recommendation than otherwise, and in the present volumes he has

exhibited it to his heart’s and gall’s content. The work is dedicated,

in a humorously reckless and critic-defying preface, to the “most high

and mighty sovereign of sovereigns, King People,” and scattered through

the novel are abundant pleasant impertinences, sufficiently marked by

individual whim and crotchet, to stimulate the reader to go on reading,

even should the interest of the story flag. We have only had time to dip

into the work, here and there, but have read enough to know that it

“means mischief,” and that it has more than Mr. Paulding’s common

raciness and plain speaking.

* * * * *

The approach of the holydays is, as usual, marked by the advent of new

publications.

Among the most beautiful that have been laid upon our table are _The

Life of Christ_, by the Rev. H. Hastings Weld, and a new

edition of Dr. Johnson’s admirable _Rasselas_. These works are published

by Messrs. Hogan & Thompson, in the most finished and

approved manner, conforming in style to _Paul and Virginia_, and the

_Vicar of Wakefield_, issued by the same gentlemen last year. We cannot

speak too highly of the typographical execution of the volumes before

us, or the magnificent binding in which they are enclosed. Both are

superb, and reflect credit alike on the publishers, and the artists who

have invested with new charms, two volumes which deservedly merit a

place in every library.

* * * * *

_The Poet’s Offering_, is the title of a splendid volume of nearly six

hundred pages, edited by Mrs. HALE, and published by Messrs. GREGG &

ELLIOTT. It is beautifully illustrated, and will, we think, prove one of

the most popular gift books of the season—for it is a gift book—as the

fair editor justly remarks, on a new plan, the contents of which are of

more value than the cover, and she does not assume too much, when she

declares that in this volume will be found the most perfect gems of

genius the English language has preserved since the days of Spenser.

More than four hundred authors are quoted, and in the arrangement of the

book, great care has been taken to exhibit the peculiar excellencies of

each writer. That Mrs. Hale has acquitted herself admirably in the

execution of an arduous undertaking, is an unquestionable fact, and her

efforts have been nobly seconded by the liberality of the publishers, in

sparing neither labor nor expense to prepare for the public taste a most

beautiful, valuable, and acceptable volume.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

PARIS, Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61.

_Coiffure de_ Hamelin, _pass. du Saumon, 21—Chapeau de M^{me}._

Baudry, _r. Richelieu, 87_.

_Plumes et fleurs de_ Chagot, _r. Richelieu, 81—Eventail de_ Vagneur

Dupré, _r. de la Paix, 19_.

_Robes de_ Camille—_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul, 2^{bis}_.

Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER’S ROSE.

WRITTEN BY THE LATE

HON. RICHARD HENRY WILDE,

OF GEORGIA.

MUSIC COMPOSED BY

AN AMATEUR.

Presented by Edward L. Walker, 160 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

[Illustration]

My life is like the Summer’s rose,

That opens to the morning sky,

But ere the shades of evening close,

Is scattered on the ground to die;

But

[Illustration]

on that rose’s humble bed,

The sweetest dews of night are shed,

As if heaven wept such waste to see,

But none shall weep a tear for me.

My life is like the autumnal leaf.

That trembles in the moon’s pale ray;

Its hold is frail, its date is brief,

Restless and soon to pass away;

Yet ere that leaf shall fall or fade,

The parent tree shall mourn its shade;

The winds bewail the leafless tree,

But none shall breathe a sigh for me.

My life is like the print that feet

Have left on Zara’s burning strand;

Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

The track shall vanish from the sand.

Yet as if grieving to efface

All vestige of the human race,

On that lone lone shore loud moans the sea,

But none shall e’er lament for me.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been

corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below.

For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to

condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page 323, miserable, loathsame slave! ==> miserable, loathsome slave!

page 329, avoid followiug his victim ==> avoid following his victim

page 329, with hell in in his ==> with hell in his

page 330, and seemed to re-recollect ==> and seemed to recollect

page 344, by the Rue St. Honore. ==> by the Rue St. Honoré.

page 350, was earthly. She sung of love ==> was earthly. She sang of love

page 355, Now, when past away ==> Now, when passed away

page 355, “Again their was a ==> “Again there was a

page 360, played and sung, and ==> played and sang, and

page 366, through the pannels of ==> through the panels of

page 366, “How indellibly does ==> “How indelibly does

page 366, a true home, and was ==> a true home, and were

page 372, trample upon other’s rights. ==> trample upon others’ rights.

page 372, of other’s rights or feelings, ==> of others’ rights or

feelings,

page 374, Napoleon in the presidental ==> Napoleon in the presidential

page 374, that Great Britian has ==> that Great Britain has

page 375, ricketty old tyranny ==> rickety old tyranny

page 377, stone and carved nitch ==> stone and carved niche

page 379, is beautifully ingenius; ==> is beautifully ingenious;

page 379, of mental developement, ==> of mental development,