"There was a young man, a relative of Mrs. ——, with whom this lady resided, that came frequently to the house. I never saw a person apparently more winning in his manner, or more delicate in his attentions; and, as all expected, he proposed for marriage to the young woman. It was thought that there would be objections on the part of his relations—and there were; but they came from the gentleman of the house, who plainly declared that the young man was not worthy of the woman he sought. Her heart, it was evident, was concerned; it was whispered, I know not how truly, that the youth had associations in the city unworthy his relations at home. But when do the young and confiding ever regard monitions of this kind. She, whose good sense had restored order to a family that needed direction, and had sustained her against all adverse circumstances among strangers, could not influence her against the pleadings of her own heart. The young man, more than a year since, received a commission, and joined the army at Mexico. He left with her a sealed paper, and his favorite dog. The animal was already most affectionately attached to her, and now became her constant companion. Never did I see an animal so completely devoted to a human being; never was kindness more reciprocated than was that of the companion of her walks; he patiently awaited at the door of the church for the conclusion of the services, and at night held vigils beneath her window. I think the dog, too, must have understood something of the beauty of this scenery; for I have seen him for an hour together standing wistfully beside his mistress, and gazing up into her face, and then not meeting with an encouraging look, stretching his sight far away in the direction of her eyes, as if determined to share with her whatever contributed to her pleasure or her pain.

"Less than four months ago news reached the family of the death of the young man—I do not remember the exact time, or the place of the engagement in which he fell—but his death produced deep sensation in the family generally, but it went to the heart of the young lady. I saw her once or twice on her favorite place in the field, but I dared not approach her—she had no companion but the faithful dog. In two weeks she was confined to her bed—and shortly afterward the family was plunged in new afflictions by her death. I was inquiring of one of the family relative to the particular disease of which she died, and heard it suggested that it might have been a rapid consumption."

"I think not," said a very little girl, who had shared in the affectionate instruction of the deceased.

"And why?"

"Can the heart of a person break to pieces?" asked the child.

"The heart may be broken," I said.

"Then that is it—for I heard mamma tell sister that Miss Mary's heart was broken."

"I have noticed that the death of an affianced one is more severely felt by a woman, as a severe disturbance of affection, than is the death of a husband. And I suppose this comes from the delicacy of a maiden that shrinks from the utterance of a grief which finds vent and sympathy with a widow. I never hear of such a bereavement without deeper sorrow for the survivor's sufferings, than I have for the mourning wife. God help her who's crushed by a grief that she may not openly indulge; who must hide in her bosom the fire that is consuming her life."

The sealed paper was reopened; it contained a rich bequest to the young woman, and with it was a small piece of paper, containing her request to be buried beyond us, whence she had so often contemplated the scene around us. The field was her own property, by the will of the young man. She relinquished all else of his gift. "We buried her there. I say we—for though my position was far below hers, yet none felt more deeply her loss than those who looked up to admire her. The little paling that surrounds the eminence was erected to keep away the foot of the thoughtless. Shall we go to see the grave?"

I followed the man into the enclosure. The sods which covered the grave of Mary had not yet united; and one or two seemed to be worn, as if they had been treated with some rudeness. I drew the attention of my guide to the abrasion.

"Ah, yes! that is poor Lara's doings," said he. "Poor dog! I looked around for him at the funeral, expecting to see him at the grave, but was disappointed. Every evening since the funeral, just before the sun goes down, and often in the morning—the hours in which Miss Mary was wont to come hither to enjoy the scenery—poor Lara has been seen stretched out upon the grave, uttering his grief in a low wail. I scarcely believe that he will recover from the loss he has sustained; and others might be equally unconsolable, if they did not feel that it is better with Mary now than when she lived."

When I had looked downward to the grave for a time, and almost into it, that I might the better contemplate the character and end of her who rested there, my companion drew my attention to the beauty of what was around us.

"Miss Mary loved to stand here," said he, "and enjoy the rich sunset. Mark, now, how richly its beams are thrown from the windows of yonder Gothic house beyond the turnpike, and on the new dwelling a little this side. A mellowness is in that light, to soothe where it falls; and the whispering of the southern wind that we now hear, is like the cries of spirits communing with their good sister below us."

"You seem now to enjoy the scenery, my friend," said I, "as much as almost any other person."

"Sir, I have felt, of late, a growing fondness for this place and this scene; and last Sunday, when returning from the afternoon service, I stood here almost wrapt in the pleasure which the place afforded to the departed one, and I have since come to believe that there is something more than book-knowledge necessary to the relish of natural scenery."

"May I ask what that something is, which you think assists us to appreciate the beauty of a landscape?"

"Why, sir—perhaps I am wrong, you certainly know better than I—but, it appears to me, my growing sense of enjoyment in this scene is due to the memory of the virtues of her whom I constantly connect with this place, and that enjoyment is fixed and augmented by the frame of mind in which I go to, or come from the place of worship."

"If I understand you correctly, you have come to the conclusion that to enjoy nature, our hearts must be touched, and our affections mellowed by earthly sympathies, and our views expanded and elevated by a sense of religious duties."

"Something like that, sir."

"And is not that what is understood by 'LOVE TO GOD, AND LOVE TO MAN?'"



POETRY.—A SONG.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

To me the world's an open book Of sweet and pleasant poetry; I read it in the running brook That sings its way toward the sea: It whispers in the leaves of trees, The swelling grain, the waving grass. And in the cool fresh evening breeze That crisps the wavelets as they pass.

The flowers below—the stars above— In all their bloom and brightness given, Are, like the attributes of love, The poetry of earth and heaven. Thus Nature's volume, read aright, Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, And all the world with poetry.



THE MOURNER.

BY THE LATE DR. JOHN D. GODMAN.

Why is thy visage o'ershadowed by gloom, Are Nature's enchantments not scattered around, Has the rose lost her fragrance, the tulip her bloom, Has the streamlet no longer its mild, soothing sound? Say what are thy pleasures—or whence is thy bliss, In thy breast can no movements of sympathy rise? Canst thou glance o'er a region so lovely as this, And no bright ray of pleasure enliven thine eyes? Where are there fields more delightfully drest, In a verdure still fresh'ning with every shower? Here are oak-covered mountains, with valleys of rest, Richly clothed in the blossoming sweet scented flower. Why lingerest thou ever to gaze on that star, Sinking low in the west e'er the twilight is o'er? While the shadows of evening extending afar Bid the warbler's blithe carol be poured forth no more, Oh why when the Sabbath bell's pleasantest tone Wakes the soul of devotion in song to rejoice, Are thy features with sorrow o'erclouded alone, While no sounds but of sadness are heard from thy voice?

Listen, while I tell thee, stranger! In a brief and hurried measure: Though my soul drink not of pleasure, Though mine eyes be sunk in gloom; Tis not from fear of coming danger, Nor yet from dread of doom.

The youngest leaves must fall, When summer beams have ceased to play; And may not sorrow spread her pall, When joy, and hope, and love decay? Earth's loveliest scenes; The boons of heaven most cherished; Fields dressed in gladdening greens, Are drear, when hope has perished: Spring's beauteousness, Followed by summer's glory, May fade without the power to bless, As doth a dreamed story.

It gives me peace to gaze at even, Watching the latest, faintest gleam Of yon bright traveler of heaven, Reflected in the silver stream; For she I love has gently leaned— While my fond heart with bliss was swelling— Upon my arm, to see descend That brilliant star in light excelling.

The chiming bells give joy no more, Long since the tones have lost their sweetness; They now but wake me to deplore The bliss that fled with air-like fleetness. Blame not my sorrow: chilling pride Nor clouds my brow nor kills the smile; For loss of wealth I never sighed, But all for her I mourn the while. She was my all, my fairest, dearest, best; I loved—I lost her—tears may speak the rest.



ELSIE.

BY KATE DASHWOOD.

A young white rose-bud—with its leaves Just blown apart, and wet with dew— A fair child in a garland weaves 'Mid glowing flowers of every hue. She sitteth by the rushing river, While the soft and balmy air Scarce stirs the starry flowers that quiver Amid her sunny hair— Thou of the laughing eyes! 'mid all The roses of thy coronal— Thou'rt fairest of the fair.

Ah, bright young dreamer! may thy heart In its early freshness ever be Pure as the leaves—just blown apart— Of the rose thou'rt wreathing in childish glee. Ah, well I know those flowers thou'rt twining For thy fair pale mother dear— For the love-light in those blue eyes shining Is shadowed by a tear; And thy thoughts are now in that dim, hushed room— With the sad, sweet smile, and the fading bloom— Thou'rt all too young to fear.



SONNET TO ——.

The crimson clouds had gathered round the sun, Sinking full slowly to his nightly rest, And gilding with a glory all his own The bannered splendor of the glowing west, Entranced I gazed upon the gorgeous scene That thus so fair before my vision lay; The calm, serene, blue heavens looked out between, And softly smiled upon retiring day. All was so beautiful, I could but feel A shade of sadness that thou wert not nigh, The radiant glory to behold with me; And still the thought would o'er my spirit steal, That all the clouds and mists in my dark sky Would gather rays of glory, my life's sun, from thee! C. O.



GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. VIII.

AMERICAN STARLING OR MEADOW-LARK.

This well-known inhabitant of our meadows like the Partridge, is sociable, somewhat gregarious, and partially migratory. The change of country, however, appears to be occasioned only by scarcity of food, and many of them pass the whole winter with us. They may be bought in our markets when snow is on the ground; and in the month of February, Wilson found them picking up a scanty subsistence in the company of the snow-birds, on a road over the heights of the Alleghanies. Its flight, like that of the Partridge, is laborious and steady. Though they collect their food from the ground, they are frequently shot on trees, their perch being either the main branches, or the topmost twigs. At the time of pairing, they exhibit a little of the jealous disposition of the tribe, but his character vindicated by his bravery, and the victory achieved, he retires from his fraternity to assist his mate in the formation of her nest. The flesh of the Meadow-Lark is white, and for size and delicacy, it is considered little inferior to the Partridge. In length, he measures ten and a half inches, in alar extent, nearly seventeen. Above, his plumage, as described by Nuttall, is variegated with black, bright bay, and ochreous. Tail, wedged, the feathers pointed, the four outer nearly all white; sides, thighs, and vent, pale ochreous, spotted with black; upper mandible brown, the lower bluish-white; iris, hazel; legs and feet, large, pale flesh-colour. In the young bird the color is much fainter than in the adult.



This is the Rice and Reed-Bird of Pennsylvania and the Southern States, and the Boblink of New York and New England. He is of little size, but of great consequence, hailed with pleasure by the sportsman and the epicure, and dreaded as worse than a locust by the careful planter. Wilson has treated of him fully, and from his eloquent account we shall endeavor to select a few points in his history worthy of notice. According to his best biographer, then, three good qualities recommend him, particularly as these three are rarely found in the same individual—his plumage is beautiful, his song highly musical, and his flesh excellent. To these he added the immense range of his migrations, and the havoc he commits. The winter residence of this species is from Mexico to the Amazon, from whence they issue in great hosts every spring. In the whole United States, north of Pennsylvania, they remain during the summer, raising their progeny; and as soon as the young are able to fly they collect together in great multitudes, and pour down on the oat-fields of New England. During the breeding season, they are dispersed over the country; but as soon as the young are able to fly, they collect together in great multitudes, like a torrent, depriving the proprietors of a good tithe of their harvest, but in return often supply his table with a very delicious dish. From all parts of the north and western regions they direct their course toward the south, and about the middle of August, revisit Pennsylvania, on their route to winter quarters. For several days they seem to confine themselves to the fields and uplands; but as soon as the seeds of the reed are ripe, they resort to the shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill in multitudes; and these places, during the remainder of their stay, appear to be their grand rendezvous. The reeds, or wild oats, furnish them with such abundance of nutritious food, that in a short time they become extremely fat, and are supposed by some of our epicures to be equal to the famous Ortolans of Europe. Their note at this season is a single chuck, and is heard overhead, with little intermission from morning till night. These are halcyon days for our gunners of all descriptions, and many a lame and rusty gun-barrel is put in requisition for the sport. The report of musketry along the reedy shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill is almost incessant, resembling a running fire. The markets of Philadelphia, at this season, exhibit proofs of the prodigious havoc made among these birds, for almost every stall is ornamented with some hundreds of Reed Birds.

The Rice Bunting is seven inches and a half long, and eleven and a half in extent. His spring dress is as follows: upper part of the head, wings, tail, and sides of the neck, and whole lower parts, black; the feathers frequently skirted with brownish-yellow, as he passes into the color of the female; back of the head, a cream color; back, black, seamed with brownish-yellow; scapulars, pure white; rump and tail coverts the same; lower part of the back, bluish-white; tail, formed like those of the Woodpecker genus, and often used in the same manner, being thrown in to support it while ascending the stalks of the reed; this habit of throwing in the tail it retains even in the cage; legs, a brownish flesh color; hind heel, very long; bill, a bluish-horn color; eye, hazel. In the month of June this plumage gradually changes to a brownish-yellow, like that of the female, which has the back streaked with brownish-black; whole lower parts, dull-yellow; bill, reddish-flesh color; legs and eyes as in the male. The young birds retain the dress of the female until early in the succeeding spring. The plumage of the female undergoes no material change of color.



The Cedar-Bird, (Ampelis Americana,) is very frequently shot at the same time with the Robin. The plumage of this bird is of an exquisitely fine and silky texture, lying extremely smooth and glossy. The name Chatterers has been given to them, but they make only a feeble, lisping sound, chiefly as they rise or alight. On the Blue Mountains, and other ridges of the Alleghanies, they spend the months of August and September, feeding on the abundant whortleberries; then they descend to the lower cultivated parts of the country to feed on the berries of the sour gum and red cedar. In the fall and beginning of summer, when fat, they are in high esteem for the table, and great numbers find purchasers in the market of Philadelphia. They have derived their name from one kind of their favorite food; from other sorts they have also been called Cherry Birds, and to some they are known by the name of Crown Birds.



REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

The Poetical Works of Fitz-Greene Halleck. Now first collected. Illustrated with Steel Engravings, from drawings by American Artists. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

This volume is a perfect luxury to the eye, in its typography and embellishments. The fact of an author's appearance in so rich a dress, is itself an evidence of his popularity. We have here, for the first time, a complete edition of the author's poems, tender and humorous, serious and satirical, in a beautiful form. It contains Alnwick Castle, Burns, Marco Bozzarris, Red Jacket, A Poet's Daughter, Connecticut, Wyoming, and other pieces which have passed into the memory of the nation, together with the delicious poem of Fanny, and the celebrated Croaker Epistles. The illustrations are all by American artists, and really embellish the volume. The portrait of Halleck is exceedingly characteristic of the man, expressing that union of intellect and fancy, sound sense, and poetic power, which his productions are so calculated to suggest. His great popularity—a popularity which has always made the supply of his poems inferior to the demand—will doubtless send the present magnificent volume through many editions.

The poems of Halleck are not only good in themselves, but they give an impression of greater powers than they embody. They seem to indicate a large, broad, vigorous mind, of which poetry has been the recreation rather than the vocation. A brilliant mischievousness, in which the serious and the ludicrous, the tender and the comic, the practical and the ideal, are brought rapidly together, is the leading characteristic of his muse. In almost every poem in his volume, serious, or semi-serious, the object appears to be the production of striking effects by violent contrasts. The poet himself rarely seems thoroughly in earnest, though at the same time he never lacks heartiness. There are two splendid exceptions to this remark—Burns, and Marco Bozzarris—poems in which the delicacy and energy of the author's mind find free expression. They show that if the poet commonly plays with his subject, it is not from an incapacity to feel and conceive it vividly, but from a beautiful willfulness of nature, which is impatient of the control of one idea or emotion. Halleck's perceptions of the ideal and practical appears equally clear and vivid. His fancy cannot suggest a poetical view of life, without his wit at the same time suggesting its prosaic counterpart in society. A mind thus exquisitely sensitive both to the beautiful and laughable sides of a subject—looking at life at once with the eye of the poet and the man of the world—naturally finds delight in a fine mockery of its own idealisms, and loves to sport with its own high-raised feelings. His poetry is not, therefore, so much an exhibition of the real nature and capacity of the man, as of the play and inter-penetration of his various mental powers, in periods of pleasant relaxation from the business of life. In a few instances, we think, his humorous insight has been deceived from the unconscious influence upon his mind of the sentiment of Byron and Moore. Thus he occasionally falls into the exaggerations of misanthropy and sentimentality. In his poem entitled Woman, we are informed that man has no constancy of affection,—

His vows are broke, Even while his parting kiss is warm; But woman's love all change will mock, And, like the ivy round the oak, Cling closest in the storm.

Here, for the purpose of a vivid contrast, there is a sacrifice of poetic truth. The same piece closes with asserting that the smiles and tears of woman,

Alone keep bright, through Time's long hour, That frailer thing than leaf or flower, A poet's immortality.

Here the thought, redeemed as it is by beautiful expression, is worthy only of a sentimental poetaster of the Della Cruscan school; and we can easily imagine what a mocking twinkle would light the eye of its author, if some one should tell him that Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and Milton were "kept bright" by the smiles and tears of woman. These, and one or two other passages in Halleck, are unworthy of his manly and cant-hating mind; and it is wonderful how they could have escaped his brilliant good sense.

Fanny, and the Croaker Epistles are the most brilliant things of their kind in American literature, full of wit, fancy, and feeling, and in all their rapid transitions, characterized by an ethereal lightness of movement, a glancing felicity of expression, which betray a poet's plastic touch equally in the sentiment and the merriment. No American poems have been more eagerly sought after, and more provokingly concealed, than these. Three editions of Fanny have been published, but the difficulty of obtaining a copy has always been great. Many who were smitten with a love for it have been compelled to transcribe it from the copy of a more fortunate collector. The Croaker Epistles have been even more cunningly suppressed. Now we have both in a form which will endure with the stereotype plates. They evince the most brilliant characteristics of Halleck's genius, and continually suggest the thought, that if the mind of the author be so powerful and various in its almost extempore sport and play, it must have still greater capacity in itself.

Fanny, and the Croaker Epistles swarm with local and personal allusions which a New-Yorker alone can fully appreciate. Van Buren, Webster, Clinton, the politicians and authors generally of the period when the poems were written, are all touched with a light and graceful pencil. Fanny is conceived and executed after the manner of Byron's Beppo and Don Juan. It is full of brilliant rogueries, produced by bringing sentiment and satire together with a shock. For instance,

Dear to the exile is his native land, In memory's twilight beauty seen afar: Dear to the broker is a note of hand Collaterally secured—the polar star Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes, And dear are Bristed's volumes at half price.

The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest; The leaves of Autumn smile when fading fast; The swan's last song is sweetest—and the best Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last.

In a mocking attempt to prove that New York exceeded Greece in the Fine Arts, we have the following convincing arguments:

In sculpture we've a grace the Grecian master, Blushing, had owned his purest model lacks; We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster, The Witch of Endor in the best of wax, Beside the head of Franklin on the roof Of Mr. Lang, both jest and weather-proof.

* * * * *

In painting we have Trumbull's proud chef d'oeuvre, Blending in one the funny and the fine;

His independence will endure forever— And so will Mr. Allen's lottery sign; And all that grace the Academy of Arts, From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's.

In physic, we have Francis and McNeven, Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills; And Quackenboss, and others, who from heaven Were rained upon us in a shower of pills.

It would be impossible to give a notion of the genial satire of the Croakers by extracts. The following, from the epistle to the Recorder, is unmatched for felicity and exquisite contrast:

The Caesar passed the Rubicon With helm, and shield, and breast-plate on, Dashing his war-horse through the waters; The R*d*r would have built a barge, Or steamboat, at the city's charge, And passed it with his wife and daughters.

In the same piece occurs the following fine tribute to Bryant:

Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless The heart, its teachers, and its joy, As mothers blend with their caress Lessons of truth and gentleness, And virtue for the listening boy. Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day Have blossomed on his wandering way, Beings of beauty and decay, They slumber in their autumn tomb; But those that graced his own Green River, And wreathed the lattice of his home, Charmed by his song from mortal doom, Bloom on, and will bloom on forever.

Pope has become famous for his divine compliments, but certainly no poet ever celebrated the genius of another with more felicity and sweetness than in the above beautiful passage.

It would be impossible to notice all the striking poems in this volume—and they are too favorably known to need it. There is one piece, however, which deserves especial commendation, and its merits do not appear to have called forth the eulogy which has been bountifully lavished on many others. We allude to his exquisite translation from Goethe, on the eighty-third page—the invocation to the ideal world, which precedes Faust. It is one of the gems of the volume.

The Poetical Works of Lord Byron. Complete in one Volume. Collected and Arranged, with Illustrative Notes. Illustrated by Elegant Steel Engravings. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

This edition of Byron might bear the palm from all other American editions, in respect to its combination of cheapness with elegance, if it were not the most valuable in point of completeness and illustrative notes. It is a reprint of Murray's Library edition, and while executed in a similar style of typography, excells it, if we are not mistaken, in the number of its embellishments. It contains an admirable portrait of Byron, a view of Newstead Abbey, and also six fine steel engravings, executed with great beauty and finish. It is uniform with the same publisher's library edition of Southey and Moore, contains eight hundred pages of closely printed matter, and includes every thing that Byron wrote in verse. It does honor to the enterprise and taste of the publishers, and will doubtless have a circulation commensurate with its merits. As long as our American booksellers evince a disposition to publish classical works in so beautiful a form, it is a pleasant duty of the press to commend their editions. We cordially wish success to all speculations which imply a confidence in the public taste.

It would be needless here to express any opinion of the intellectual or moral character of Byron's poems. Everybody's mind is made up on those points. The present edition is admirably adapted to convey to the reader Byron's idea of himself, the opinions formed of him by his contemporaries, and the effect of his several works on the public mind as they appeared. It contains an immense number of notes by Moore, Scott, Jeffrey, Campbell, Wilson, Rogers, Heber, Milman, Gifford, Ellis, Bridges, and others, which will be found extremely useful and entertaining. Extracts are taken from Byron's own diary, and from the recorders of his conversations, giving an accurate impression of each poem, as regards its time and manner of composition, the feelings from which it sprung, and the opinion he entertained of its reception by the public. Profuse quotations are made from the first draught of each poem, showing how some of the most striking ideas were originally written, and the improvements introduced in their expression by the author's "sober second thoughts." The opinions expressed of the various poems by the leading reviews of the time, including the criticisms of Scott, Jeffrey, Gifford, Heber, and others, are largely quoted. Added to these are numerous notes, explaining allusions, or illustrating images which the common reader might be supposed not to understand. Taken altogether, the edition will enable almost any person to obtain a clear understanding of Byron and his works, without any trouble or inconvenience. There is no other edition which can compare with it in this respect.

Many of the notes are exceedingly curious, and if not absolutely new, have been gathered from such a wide variety of sources, as to be novel to a majority of readers. We have been struck with the impression which Byron's energy made upon Dr. Parr, the veteran linguist. After reading the Island, he exclaims—"Byron! the sorcerer! He can do with me according to his will. If it is to throw me headlong upon a desert island; if it is to place me on the summit of a dizzy cliff—his power is the same. I wish he had a friend, or a servant, appointed to the office of the slave, who was to knock every morning at the chamber-door of Philip of Macedon, and remind him he was mortal." From Parr's life we learn that Sardanapalus affected him even more strongly. "In the course of the evening the doctor cried out, 'Have you read Sardanapalus?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Right; and you couldn't sleep a wink after it?' 'No.' 'Right, right—now don't say a word more about it to-night.' The memory of that fine poem seemed to act like a spell of horrible fascination upon him." Perhaps from a few anecdotes like this, we gain a much more vivid impression of the sensation which Byron's poems excited on their first appearance, and their strong hold upon the imagination and passions of the public, than we could obtain from the most elaborate description of their effects. If such was their power upon an old scholar like Parr, what must have been their influence upon younger and more inflammable minds?

The editor's preface to Don Juan is no less valuable than entertaining. It contains not merely the opinions expressed of the poem by the reviews and magazines, but those of the newspapers, and enables us to gather the judgment of the English people upon that strange combination of sublimity and ribaldry, sentiment and wit, tenderness and mockery, at the time it first blazed forth from the press. The suppressed dedication of the poem to Southey is also given in full, with all its brutal blackguardism and drunken brilliancy. In truth, the volume conveys an accurate impression of all the sides of Byron's versatile nature, and from its very completeness is the less likely to be injurious. There is no edition of his poems which we could more safely commend to the reader, as it exhibits Byron the poet, Byron the scoffer, Byron the roue, in his true colors and real dimensions; and if, after reading it, a person should adopt the old cant about his brilliant rascalities, and the old drivel about his sentimental misanthropy, the fault is in the reader rather than the volume. For our own part we are acquainted with no edition of any celebrated author, equaling this in the remorselessness with which the man is stripped of all the factitious coverings of the poet, and stands out more clearly in his true nature and character.

The Life of Henry the Fourth, King of France and Navarre. By G. P. R. James. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo.

Few kings have been so fortunate as Henry the Fourth in the reputation and good will they have obtained from the people. By democrats as well as monarchists his name is held in a kind of loving veneration. Much of this popularity is doubtless owing to his superiority, in disposition as well as mind, to the ferocious bigotry of his age, and to his great edict of toleration which healed for a time the horrible religious dissensions of France. Apart from his ability, however, his virtues as a king sprung rather from good-nature and benevolence, than from moral or religious principle. His toleration was the result of his indifference as much as his good sense; and he was not a persecutor, because to him neither Catholicism nor Protestantism was of sufficient importance to justify persecution. He was a fanatic only in sensuality; and if he committed crime, it would be rather for a mistress than a doctrine. The last act of his reign, growing out of his impatience in having his designs on the Princess of Conde baffled, showed that lust could urge him into an unjust and unprincipled war, where religious superstition would have been totally ineffective.

Mr. James's Life of Henry is a careful compilation from the most reliable sources of information, and embodies a large amount of important knowledge. Though far from realizing the higher conditions of historical art, it is more accurate and spirited than the general run of historical works. Mr. James's conscience in the matter of the present book, seems to have been much greater than we might have expected from the king of book-makers. When his history was ready for the press, the French Government commenced publishing the "Lettres Missives" of Henry IV., and Mr. James delayed his book four years, in order that its facts might be verified or increased by comparison with that important publication. His work, therefore, is probably the fullest and most accurate one we possess on the age of which it treats. It is well worthy of an attentive perusal. It abounds in incidents and characters which would make the fortune of a novel, and is an illustration of that kind of truth which is stranger than fiction. The Harpers have issued the work in a tasteful form.

Artist Life. By H. T. Tuckerman. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

Mr. Tuckerman is an author whose productions we have repeatedly had occasion to notice and to praise. They have always a finished air, which favorably distinguishes them from many American publications, the products of mingled talent and haste. Mr Tuckerman does not appear to rush into print, with unformed ideas hastily clad in a loose undress of language—as if the palm of excellence were due to the swiftest runner in the race of expression. His style is clear, polished, graceful, and harmonious, combining a flowing movement with condensation, and free from the tricks and charlatanries of diction. He is not so popular as he would be if he made more noise about his words and thoughts, and called the attention of the public to every felicity of his style or reflection by a pugnacious manner, and a strained expression. Though possessing a singularly rich and suggestive fancy, and a wide variety of information, his use of ornament and allusion is characterized by a taste, an appropriateness, a reserve, which men of smaller stores rarely practice. As a critic, he is calm, clear, judicious, sympathetic, and making the application of a principle all the more stringent, from his vivid perception of the object of his criticism. The present volume is worthy of its subject, and is more calculated to convey accurate information of the lives, character, and works of American artists, than any other we have seen. It is also exceedingly interesting, being full of anecdotes and biographical memoranda of artists who are commonly known only as painters, not as men. In this respect the volume contains much original information, which will be valuable to the future historian of American art. In his criticism, Mr. Tuckerman evinces knowledge as well as taste; and by avoiding technical terms, he contrives to render agreeable and clear what is generally unintelligible to the uninitiated reader of critiques on paintings. The volume contains, among other sketches and biographies, very interesting notices of the lives and works of West, Copley, Stuart, Allston, Morse, Durand, W. E. West, Sully, Inman, Cole, Weir, Leutze, and Brown.

Appleton's Library Manuel: Containing a Catalogue Raisonne of upwards of Twelve Thousand of the most Important Works in Every Department of Knowledge, in all Modern Languages, New York; D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

This is one of the most available and valuable bibliographical works extant. Its object is indicated by its title. Such a book should be in the possession of every student, scholar, book-collector, and librarian. There is hardly a subject which can attract the attention of an inquisitive mind, which is not included in this collection, and the titles of the best books, in different languages, which relate to it given in full, with the various editions, and their price. It would be needless to dilate upon the value of such a work. The compilers deserve the highest credit for the labor, intelligence, and expense they have devoted to it. The cost is but one dollar.

Sybil Lennard, a Record of Woman's Life.

Mrs. Grey is one of the most popular novel writers of the present day, and Sybil Lennard is unquestionably the best of her works. It is published by Mr. T. B. Peterson, by whom the advance sheets were procured from England.

Chambers' Miscellany.

Part No. 5, of Chamber's interesting Miscellany has been published, and the articles it contains are of the highest order of excellence. Messrs. Zieber & Co. are the Philadelphia publishers.

* * * * *

POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS OF JOSEPH C. NEAL, ESQ.—We have several admirable Charcoal Sketches by Mr. Neal—a rich legacy bequeathed expressly to us by our gifted and lamented friend. Now that the fountain, whose outpourings have so often enriched our pages, is forever closed, these gems of genius will have a new and peculiar value. We commence their publication in our present number.

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THE NEW YORK MIRROR.—This journal is edited with surpassing ability; and its continued and advancing popularity is creditable to the taste of the community in which it is published. Spirited, independent, and liberal, it not merely, as its name indicates, reflects the light of the age, but shines with a lustre of its own. It is well worthy its good fortune.

Transcriber's Note:

Some likely incorrect spellings and probable dialect have been left as printed, but the following corrections have been made:

1. page 2—removed extra word 'the' after '...before the windows lounged...'

2. page 6—typo 'Jenning' corrected to 'Jennings'

3. page 9—added missing double quotation mark at start of sentence 'What do I see! My dearest...'

4. page 10—added double quotation mark after 'Nonsense—what payment,'

5. page 10—added double quotation mark at end of paragraph '...and proceedings commence directly.'

6. page 18—added double quotation mark missing at start of paragraph 'Oh I'll soon show you,'

7. page 23—added missing period in sentence 'our prosodies call anapoests'

8. page 28—removed extra 'a' in second line of stanza beginning 'Did he answer guiltless, lo!'

9. page 28—typo 'stife' corrected to 'strife'

10. page 32—added period to sentence '...whither he was going'

11. page 43—likely missing word 'for' inserted in sentence '...off the dangers ahead for a single instant.'

12. page 45—typo 'exhaused' corrected to 'exhausted'

13. page 46—typo 'minuute' corrected to 'minute'

14. page 58—typo 'observatious' corrected to 'observations'

15. page 66—inserted opening quotation mark at assumed start of speech "We buried her there. I say..."

THE END