Lizzie's father was a narrow-minded, selfish man, caring very little for any one's comfort but his own, and at times was exceedingly cross and testy. Unfortunately, he took great interest in politics, and was quite an oracle in the village bar-room. He was bigoted and "set" in his opinions, considering all who differed from him as enemies to their country, and called them rascals and hypocrites freely. His wife had been dead about two years, when a presidential election came on. James Foster, unluckily, had been brought up with different political opinions from Mr. Hall; but, being very quiet and retiring in his disposition, he never had rendered himself obnoxious. Of course, Mr. Hall took great interest in the approaching election. He became very ambitious of his township giving a large vote on the side to which he belonged—and he used every means to obtain votes. Elated with fancied success, he swore one day in the tavern bar-room, that he would make James Foster abandon his party, and vote to please him. Some, who knew Foster's quiet but resolute disposition, bantered and teased Hall, which wrought him to such a pitch of excitement that, on meeting James Foster a little while after in front of the tavern, he made the demand of him. Foster at first treated it as a jest; then, when he found Hall was in earnest, decidedly, but civilly, refused; and in such a manner as to put at rest all further conversation. Enraged, Hall instantly turned, swearing to the laughing politicians that surrounded the tavern steps, and who had witnessed his discomfiture, that he would punish Foster's impudent obstinacy. Accordingly, full of ill, revengeful feelings, he returned home, and forbade his daughter ever permitting Foster to step over the threshold of the door—commanding her instantly to break the engagement. She used every entreaty, expostulated, temporized—all was of no avail; indeed, her entreaties seemed but to heighten her father's anger; and at last, with a fearful oath, he declared, if she did not break the engagement with the purse-proud, hypocritical rascal, she should leave his house instantly. She looked on the terrified children, the youngest only five years old, and who clung weeping to her knees, as her father threatened to turn her out of doors, never to see them again; and she thought of her mother's last words—her decision was made; and with a heavy heart she performed the self-sacrifice.

"Don't say you will never marry me, Lizzie," urged her lover; "I can wait ten years for you, darling."

But Lizzie was conscientious; her father had expressly stipulated there should be no "half-way work—no putting off;" all hope must be given up, she never could be his—and forever she bid him farewell. James tried to argue with and persuade her father; but the selfish, obstinate old man would listen to nothing from him. Poor James, finding both immovable, at last sold off his farm, and all his property, and moved away into a distant state; he could not, he said, live near Lizzie, and feel that she never would be his wife. Men are so soon despairing in love affairs, while women hope on, even to death. Poor Lizzie, how her heart sunk when the sight of her lover was denied to her; and she felt even more wretched than she did at the moment of her mother's death. Nothing now remained to her in life but the performance of stern, rigid duty. Two or three years passed by, and one by one her charges departed from her. One brother was placed with a farmer, and the others were apprenticed to good trades. The little white-headed Willie, who at his mother's death was a tiny, roly-poly prattler, only two years old, was becoming a slender, tall youth. Lizzie felt proud as she looked at her crowd of tall boys, when once or twice a year they would assemble at home; and on a Sunday's afternoon, at twilight, on her way to the evening meeting, she would steal down into the quiet church-yard, and kneeling beside her mother's grave, ask, with streaming eyes, if she had not done well. Such moments were fraught with bitter anguish; but a heavenly peace would descend on her, and she said her trials, after the agony was over, seemed lighter to bear.

"But I was blessed in one thing, dear Miss Enna," she would exclaim, "not one of those darling boys was taken from me, and all bid fair to turn out well. God surely smiled on the motherless, and gave me strength to perform my labor of love."

At last there moved to the village a woman of the name of Pierce; she opened a little milliner's shop, and soon made herself busy with the affairs of others, as well as her own, becoming quite a considerable person amongst the villagers. She was a widow with two or three children—a girl or two, and a boy—little things. She was a stout, healthy, good-looking woman, "rising forty," with a clear, shrill voice, and good, bright black eyes in her head. She soon steadied these bonnie eyes at the widower, Lizzie's father, and not in vain; for after hailing him industriously, as he passed the door of her shop, with questions about the weather, or the crops, he at last managed to stop without the hailing; and after a short courtship brought her and her children to his own home. How Lizzie rejoiced that her brothers were now all out of the way. Her last pet, Willie, had, a few months previous to the new marriage, been sent to a printer in the neighboring city. She never thought of herself, but commenced with redoubled industry to assist in taking care of the new family. But her constant industry and thrifty habits were a silent reproach to the step-mother, I fancy, for she left no stone unturned to rid herself of the troublesome grown up daughter. She tried every means, threw out hints, until at last Lizzie perceived her drift. Even her father seemed restrained and annoyed by her presence; and when she proposed to him that she should do something now for herself, in the way of support, he made no opposition; on the contrary, seemed relieved, saying the times were hard, and he had always had an expensive family. At this time my dear Aunt Lina obtained her for me. Blessed Aunt Lina! how we all loved her for this good act; even Biddy said,

"Well, the owld toad wasn't so bad, afther all. She had some good in her, for she sent the angel to our door—good luck to her forever."

And what parted Lizzie from us? Ah, there is the romance of my story—the darling little bit of sentiment so dear to my woman's heart. Lizzie lived with me five years. In the meantime her father had died; the thriftless wife had broken his heart by her extravagant habits, and Lizzie and her brothers never received a penny of their mother's little fortune. One evening, my father, on handing me the letters and papers, said, "Amongst those, Enna, you will find a letter for Lizzie, which has come from the far West, clear beyond St. Louis—what relations has she there?"

I could not tell him, but gave the letter to Ike, now grown into quite a dandy waiter, to take to her. I did not feel much curiosity about the letter, thinking it might be from some cousin of hers; but when I retired to bed that evening, she came into my room, and throwing herself down on the soft rug beside my bed, by the dim light of my night-lamp, told me all her happiness. The letter was from James Foster—he still loved her as dearly as ever. He had heard by chance of her father's death, and her situation, and said if she was ready to marry him, he was still waiting. He wrote of his handsome farm he had cleared with his own hands, and the beautiful wild country he lived in, telling her he hoped her future life would be free from all care. All this, and even more, dear reader, he told her—in plain, homely words, it is true; but love's language is always sweet, be it in courtly tongue or homely phrase.

And James Foster came for her; and in our house was she married. My father presented the soft mull dress to the bride, which Kate Wilson and I made, and assisted in dressing her, and stood as her bride-maids. Aunt Lina, Biddy, the stamping, good-hearted Biddy, and dandy Ike, were all there, rejoicing in her happiness. Her husband was a stout, strong, hard-featured, but kind-hearted man, and looked upon his poor, care-worn, slender Lizzie as if she were an angel. We all liked him; and her whole troop of brothers, who were present at the ceremony, greeted him with hearty words of friendship. Three he persuaded to accompany them out to the "new home"—the farmer, the shoemaker, and the little white-headed Willie, Lizzie's pet—declaring all the time that his house and heart, like the wide western valley where he lived, was large enough to hold them all. They all went out one after another; and when I last heard from Lizzie, she was very happy, surrounded by all her brothers; and she told me of a little darling girl, whom she had named after her dear Miss Enna. My father and I often talk during the winter evenings, when sitting very cozily together in the warm library, of taking a summer's jaunt to Lizzie's western home. I wish we could, that I might see my lady-help as mistress of her own household; and what is still better, a happy wife, mother, and sister.



LINES

Addressed to a friend who asked "How would you be remembered when you die?"

How would I be remembered?—not forever, As those of yore. Not as the warrior, whose bright glories quiver O'er fields of gore; Nor e'en as they whose song down life's dark river Is heard no more.

No! in my veins a gentler stream is flowing In silent bliss. No! in my breast a woman's heart is glowing, It asks not this. I would not, as down life's dark vale I'm going My true path miss.

I do not hope to lay a wreath undying On glory's shrine, Where coronets from mighty brows are lying In dazzling shine: Only let love, among the tomb-stones sighing, Weep over mine.

Oh! when the green grass softly waves above me In some low glen, Say, will the hearts that now so truly love me Think of me then; And, with fond tones that never more can move me, Call me again?

Say, when the fond smiles in our happy home Their soft light shed, When round the hearth at quiet eve they come, And mine has fled, Will any gentle voice then ask for room— Room for the dead?

Oh! will they say, as rosy day is dying, And shadows fall, "Come, let us speak of her now lowly lying, She loved us all!" And will a gentle tear-drop, then replying, From some eye fall?

Give me, oh! give me not the echo ringing From trump of fame; Be mine, be mine the pearls from fond eyes springing, This, would I claim. Oh! may I think such memories will be clinging Around my name. GRETTA.



GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. IX.



This bird, the marvel of the whole Pigeon race, is beautiful in its colors, graceful in its form, and far more a child of wild nature than any other of the pigeons. The chief wonder, however, is in its multitudes; multitudes which no man can number; and when Alexander Wilson lays the mighty wand of the enchanter upon the Valley of the Mississippi, and conjures it up to the understanding and the feeling of the reader, with far more certain and more concentrated and striking effect than if it were painted on canvas, or modeled in wax, these pigeons form a feature in it which no one who knows can by possibility forget. It is probable that the multitudes may not be more numerous than those of the petrels in Bass's Strait, of which Captain Flinders—who also was a kind of Wilson in his way—gives a graphic description. But vast as the multitude of these was, it was only as a passing cloud to the captain; he was unable to follow it up; and even though he had, the flight of birds over the surface of the sea is tame and storyless, as compared with the movements of the unnumbered myriads of these pigeons in the great central valley of our continent. None of the names which have been bestowed upon this species are sufficiently, or at all, descriptive of it. Passenger, the English expression, and Migratoria, the Latin name, fall equally short, inasmuch as every known pigeon is to a greater or less extent migratory as well as this one. The "swarm" pigeon, the "flood" pigeon, or even the "deluge" pigeon would be a more appropriate appellation; for the weight of their numbers breaks down the forest with scarcely less havoc than if the stream of the Mississippi were poured upon it.

Birds so numerous demand both a wide pasture and powerful means of migration, and the Passengers are not stinted in either of those respects. In latitude, their pasture extends from the thirtieth to the sixtieth degree, which is upward of two thousand miles; and the extensive breadth in longitude cannot be estimated at less than fifteen hundred. Three millions of square miles is thus the extent of territory of which the Passenger pigeon has command; and that territory has its dimensions so situated as that the largest one is the line upon which the birds migrate.

In Canada their numbers are so great, and the ravages which they commit upon the cultivated ground so extensive, that instances are recorded in which the bishop has been seriously and earnestly implored to exorcise them "by bell, book, and candle"—to cast them out of the land by the same means used in days of yore against spirits troublesome to other individuals, men and women. But as the Passengers were material and not spiritual, the bishop had the good sense not to try the experiment upon them. At least, La Houton, who records the matter, is perfectly silent as to the success or failure of the proposition.

Both sexes are beautiful birds; but their value, in an economical point of view, is not, however, in any way equal to their numbers or their beauty. The flesh of the old ones is dark, dry, hard and unpalatable, as is very generally the case with birds which are much on the wing; but the young, or squabs, as they are called, are remarkably fat; and as in the places where the birds congregate, they may be obtained without much difficulty, this fat is obtained by melting them, and is used instead of lard. As they nestle in vast multitudes at the same place, their resting-places have many attractions for the birds of prey, which indiscriminately seize upon both the old and the young. The eggs, like those of most of the pigeon tribe, are usually two in number; but the number of birds at one nesting-place is so great that the young, when they begin to branch and feed, literally drive along the woods like a torrent. They feed upon the fruits which at this time they procure at the middle heights of the forests, and do not venture upon the open grounds. The nests are far more closely packed together than in any rookery, and are built one above another, from the height of twenty feet to the top of the tallest trees.

Wilson says that as soon as the young were fully grown, and before they left the nests, numerous parties of the inhabitants from all parts of the adjacent country came with wagons, axes, beds, cooking utensils, many of them accompanied by the greater part of their families, and encamped for several days at this immense nursery, near Shelbyville, Kentucky, forty miles long, and several miles in breadth. The noise in the woods was so great as to terrify their horses, and it was difficult for one person to hear another speak without bawling in his ear. The ground was strewed with broken limbs of trees, eggs, and young squab pigeons, which had been precipitated from above, and on which herds of hogs were fattening. Hawks, buzzards and eagles were sailing about in great numbers, and seizing the squabs from their nests at pleasure, while from twenty feet upward to the tops of the trees, the view through the woods presented a perpetual tumult of crowding and fluttering multitudes of pigeons, their wings roaring like thunder, mingled with the frequent crash of falling timber, for now the axe-men were at work cutting down those trees which seemed to be most crowded with nests, and seemed to fell them in such a manner that, in their descent, they might bring down several others, by which means the falling of one large tree sometimes produced two hundred squabs, little inferior in size to the old ones, and almost one mass of fat. On some single trees upward of one hundred nests were found. It was dangerous to walk under these flying and fluttering millions, from the frequent fall of large branches, broken down by the weight of the multitudes above, and which in their descent often destroyed numbers of the birds themselves. This is a scene to which we are aware of no parallel in the nesting-places of the feathered tribes. In the select places where the birds only roost for the night, the congregating, though not permanent, is often as great and destructive to the forest. The native Indians rejoice in a breeding or a roosting-place of the migratory pigeon, as one which shall supply them with an unbounded quantity of provisions, in the quality of which they are not particularly chary. Nor are these roosting-places attractive to the Indians only, for the settlers near them also pay them nocturnal visits. They come with guns, clubs, pots of suffocating materials, and every other means of destruction that can well be imagined to be within their command, and procure immense quantities of the birds in a very short time. These they stuff into sacks and carry home on their horses.

The flocks being less abundant in the Atlantic States, the gun, decoy and net are brought into operation against them, and very considerable numbers of them are taken. In some seasons they may be purchased in our markets for one dollar a hundred, and flocks have been known to occupy two hours in passing, in New Jersey and the adjoining States. Many thousands are drowned on the edges of the ponds to which they descend to drink while on their aerial passage; those in the rear alighting on the backs of those who touched the ground first, in the same manner as the domestic pigeon, and pressing them beneath the surface of the water. Nuttall estimates the rapidity of their flight at about a mile a minute, and states among other data for this result, that there have been wild pigeons shot near New York, whose crops were filled with rice that must have been collected in the plantations of Georgia, and to digest which would not require more than twelve hours.



Usually fat, much esteemed as food, and not uncommon in our markets, this beautiful bird may be seen in different seasons ranging from Hudson's Bay to Mexico, and from New England to the Rocky Mountains. They arrive in the Northern and Middle States late in the fall, and many remain through-out the winter. As the weather grows colder in the north, however, they become quite common in South Carolina and Georgia, frequenting the plains, commons and dry ground, keeping constantly upon the ground, and roving about in families under the guidance of the old birds, whose patriarchal care extends over all, to warn them by a plaintive call of the approach of danger, and instruct them by example how to avoid it. They roost somewhat in the same manner as partridges, in a close ring or circle, keeping each other warm, and abiding with indifference the frost and the storm. They migrate only when driven by want of food; this appears to consist of small round compressed black seeds, oats, buckwheat, &c., with a large proportion of gravel. Shore Lark and Sky Lark are the names by which they are usually known. They are said to sing well, rising in the air and warbling as they ascend, after the manner of the sky-lark of Europe.



TRIUMPHS OF PEACE.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

From palace, cot and cave Streamed forth a nation, in the olden time, To crown with flowers the brave, Flushed with the conquest of some far-off clime, And, louder than the roar of meeting seas, Applauding thunder rolled upon the breeze. Memorial columns rose Decked with the spoils of conquered foes, And bards of high renown their stormy paeans sung, While Sculpture touched the marble white, And, woke by his transforming might, To life the statue sprung. The vassal to his task was chained— The coffers of the state were drained In rearing arches, bright with wasted gold, That after generations might be told A thing of dust once reigned.

Tombs, hallowed by long years of toil, Were built to shrine heroic clay, Too proud to rest in vulgar soil, And moulder silently way; Though treasure lavished on the dead The wretched might have clothed and fed— Dragged merit from obscuring shade, And debts of gratitude have paid; From want relieved neglected sage, Or veteran in battle tried; Smoothed the rough path of weary age, And the sad tears of orphanage have dried.

Though green the laurel round the brow Of wasting and triumphant War, Peace, with her sacred olive bough, Can boast of conquests nobler far: Beneath her gentle sway Earth blossoms like a rose— The wide old woods recede away, Through realms, unknown but yesterday, The tide of Empire flows. Woke by her voice rise battlement and tower, Art builds a home, and Learning finds a bower— Triumphant Labor for the conflict girds, Speaks in great works instead of empty words; Bends stubborn matter to his iron will, Drains the foul marsh, and rends in twain the hill— A hanging bridge across the torrent flings, And gives the car of fire resistless wings. Light kindles up the forest to its heart, And happy thousands throng the new-born mart; Fleet ships of steam, deriding tide and blast, On the blue bounding waters hurry past; Adventure, eager for the task, explores Primeval wilds, and lone, sequestered shores— Braves every peril, and a beacon lights To guide the nations on untrodden heights.



EXPECTATION.

BY LOUISA M. GREEN.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Why comes he not? He should have come ere this: The promised hour is past: he is not here! I love him—yes, my maiden heart is his; I sigh—I languish when he is not near. The truant! Wherefore tarries he? His love, Were it like mine, would woo him to my side— Or does he—dares he—merely seek to prove The doubted passion of his promised bride? Do I not love him? But does he love me? He swore so yester-eve, when last we met Down in the dell by our old trysting-tree: Can he be false? If so, my sun is set! No; he will come—I feel—I know he will; And he shall never dream that once I sighed; I hear his step—behold his form: be still, Warm heart; he comes—to clasp his bride.



WOMAN'S LOVE.

POETRY BY ANON.

MUSIC BY MATHIAS KELLER.

COPYRIGHTED BY J. C. SMITH, NO. 215 CHESNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA.

[Music/Illustration:

Allegretto.

Fine.

A Wo-man's love, deep in the heart, Is like the vio-let

flow'r, That lifts its mo-dest head a-part, In

some se-ques-ter'd bow'r. And blest is he who

Ritardando. A tempo.

finds that bloom, Who sips its gen-tle sweets; He

heeds not life's op-pres-sive gloom, Nor all the care he meets

D. C.]

SECOND VERSE.

A woman's love is like the spring Amid the wild alone; A burning wild o'er which the wing Of cloud is seldom thrown; And blest is he who meets that fount, Beneath the sultry day; How gladly should his spirit mount, How pleasant be his way.

THIRD VERSE.

A woman's love is like the rock, That every tempest braves, And stands secure amid the shock Of ocean's wildest waves; And blest is he to whom repose Within its shade is given— The world, with all its cares and woes, Seems less like earth than heaven.



YEARS AGO.—A BALLAD.

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR MRS. C. E. HORN.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

On the banks of that sweet river Where the water-lilies grow, Breathed the fairest flower that ever Bloomed and faded years ago.

How we met and loved and parted, None on earth can ever know, Nor how pure and gentle-hearted Beamed the mourned one years ago.

Like the stream with lilies laden, Will life's future current flow, Till in heaven I meet the maiden Fondly cherished years ago.

Hearts that truly love forget not— They're the same in weal or wo— And that star of memory set not In the grave of years ago.



TO MY WIFE.

BY ROBT. T. CONRAD.

When that chaste blush suffused thy cheek and brow, Whitened anon with a pale maiden fear, Thou shrank'st in uttering what I burned to hear: And yet I loved thee, love, not then as now. Years and their snows have come and gone, and graves, Of thine and mine, have opened; and the sod Is thick above the wealth we gave to God: Over my brightest hopes the nightshade waves; And wrongs and wrestlings with a wretched world, Gray hairs, and saddened hours, and thoughts of gloom, Troop upon troop, dark-browed, have been my doom; And to the earth each hope-reared turret hurled! And yet that blush, suffusing cheek and brow, 'Twas dear, how dear! then—but 'tis dearer now.



ISOLA.

BY JOHN TOMLIN.

I dreamed that thou a lily wast, Within a lowly valley blest; A winged cherub flying past, Plucked thee, and placed within his breast, And there by guardian angel nurst, Thou took'st a shape of human grace, Until, a lowly flower at first, Thou grew'st the first of mortal race. Alas! if I who still was blessed When thou wast but a lowly flower— To pluck thy image from my breast, Though thus thou will'st it, have no power; Thou still to me, though lifted high In hope and heart above the glen, Where first thou won my idol eye, Must spell my worship just as then.



CONTEMPLATION.

BY JANE R. DANA.

[ILLUSTRATING AN ENGRAVING.]

Strange! that a tear-drop should o'erfill the eye Of loveliness that looks on all it loves! Yet are there moods, when the soul's wells are high With crystal waters which a strange fear moves, To doubt if what it joys in, be a joy; Fear not, thou fond and gentle one! though life Be but a checkered scene, where wrong and right, Struggle forever; there is not a strife Can reach thy bower: the future, purely bright, Is round about thee, like a summer sky. And there are those, brave hearts and true, to guard Thy walks forever; and to make each hour Of coming time, by fond and faithful ward, Happy as happiest known within thy bridal bower.



REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Practical Physiology: for the use of Schools and Families. By Edward Jarvis. Philadelphia: Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co.

The popular and practical study of physiology is too much neglected in this country, and we rejoice to see this effort to commend its important truths to public attention. Perhaps no people existing are in greater need of a heedful regard to the lessons of this work than the over-fed, over-worked, and over-anxious people of the United States. The pursuit of wealth, honor, and power, the absorbing and health-sacrificing devotion to advancement, impels our people from the moment they first enter the school-house until they are snatched from the scene of their over-wrought strugglings. At the school, the child is treated as a man. The fresh air, the blue sky, the bright and happy hilarity of boyhood are too often proscribed indulgences. And this is called, not murder, but education. Those who survive it, having been taught that an American youth should never be satisfied with the present, that excelsior should be the only motto, and that all pleasure should be denied, health sacrificed, and time unremittingly devoted to win the eminence struggled for, rush into the business of life before their time. They win wrinkles before they attain manhood, and graves before the wild ambition thus kindled and inflamed can receive its first chaplet. All our literature teaches this unquiet and discontented spirit as to the present, and this rash and impatient determination to achieve immediate success. Now, this is a peculiarity of our country, the land of all others which should cherish a disposition to be gratefully contented with the unequaled blessings with which it is endowed. There is no necessity for this forcing system to expand properly and in due time the real energies of our people. The truly great in every walk of science and literature have been generally patient students, and have lived, in tranquillity, to a good old age. The impatient ambition which scourges our people on to the farthest stretch of their energies in any adopted pursuit, is inconsistent with the permanent and healthful character of a race. It made Rome great; but it left her people, as a race, so physically exhausted that the weakest tribes of the North dictated to her the terms of her degradation. The physical character of a nation moulds its intellectual nature, and shapes its destinies. The study of health is therefore the great study, and it will be found in all things accordant with those loftier truths taught by the Great Physician. Strangers of intelligence often remark that, with unbounded means of happiness, affluence for every reasonable want, security against every danger, and the high prerogatives of conscious and elevated freedom, we are still the most unhappy of the sons of Adam. They assert that we grow old before our time; are restless, excitable, and ever worrying for an attainment, in reference to some ruling passion beyond our reach. Comfort, health, calmness, and content, are sacrificed to grasp at something more. Our cheeks grow pale, our brows wrinkled, our hearts clouded, from a settled, taught, established habit of discontent with any position that is not the highest. There is much of truth in all this, as every one who treads our crowded marts and finds each man, however prosperous, cankered with the thought that he is not prosperous enough, will admit. All this constitutes American energy; all this renders our country great in the world's eye; but does it constitute happiness? It may be gravely doubted. The study of health is essentially the study of happiness. Life is with our people, as a general rule, a thing of little value. Those who think, in a better spirit, and remember its duties and its ends, will come to a different conclusion, and regard the conservation of the even and steady physical energies of the body as superior in importance to any result to be gained by the forced and unnatural efforts from which more is attained than nature sanctions.

A work like the one before us is calculated to be of great service, and especially so if it be placed in the hands of children. It claims, and certainly deserves, no praise as an original work of science; but it has this merit—no ordinary one—that it communicates the most important truths of physiology in language which any intelligent child can understand; and does so in a manner that every moralist will commend.

The Fruits and Fruit Trees of America. By A. J. Downing. Published by Wiley & Putnam, New York.

This work has been known to every scientific horticulturist and pomologist for many years. Its author has devoted a vigorous and enlightened intellect to this purest and noblest of pursuits; and has won a reputation of which this work will form the coronal wreath. The past editions of this work, and they have been many, have elicited the strongest praise here and abroad. The classic poets of every land have valued the praise which rewarded their dedication of the first triumphs of the muse to subjects connected with the cultivation of the soil, to the arts that rendered the breast of our common mother lovely, and wedded the labors which sustain life with the arts that render it happy. The work before us has an established reputation. It is written by one whose labors upon this subject are known as well abroad as here, and who has won the applause of all who regard pomology as worthy of an earnest support. He is the Prose Virgil of our country. This work contains eighty-four colored engravings of apples, pears, cherries, apricots, peaches, plums, raspberries, and strawberries. These plates have been, at great expense, executed at Paris, and are worthy of all commendation. Among those that seem to us worthy of especial commendation are, in the plums, the Columbia, the Coe's Golden Drop, and the Jefferson; among the pears, the Bartlett, the Bosc, the Flemish Beauty, the Frederick of Wurtemburg; among the apples, the Gravenstein, the Yellow Belle Fleur, the Dutch Mignonne, Ladies' Sweet, and Red Astrochan. All the plates are, however, good; and the work is, to all who love nature, invaluable.

The leading horticultural societies of this country have recently endeavored to counteract the confusion which has heretofore prevailed in pomological nomenclature, by adopting this work as the American standard; and we learn that it has been so recognized and adopted, in reference to this country, in London. Horticulture is greatly indebted for the advances it has made within the last few years to the author of this work. He is well known to all those who cherish the science of the soil, as the popular editor of the Horticulturist, and as one of the ablest, most scientific and enthusiastic horticulturists and pomologists in the country.

Tristram Shandy.—Original or not, Sterne gave to the literature of this language that which must last and should last. This edition, published by Grigg, Elliott & Co., is cheap, and should be cheap, for it is got up for universal distribution. It is well illustrated by Darley.

The Medical Companion, or Family Physician, Treating of the Diseases of the United States, &c. By James Ewell.

This is a work long and well known to the nation; and the edition before us, being the tenth, is an enlargement and improvement on those which have heretofore appeared. Dr. Chapman has pronounced it to be indisputably the most useful popular treatise on medicine with which he is acquainted; and a large number of the most celebrated professors of the country, as Caldwell, Shippen, Barton, Woodhouse, and others, have very emphatically commended it to the confidence of the public. The edition before us is a great improvement upon those which have preceded it, having, in addition to corrections resulting from the advance of the science, a treatise on Hydropathy, Homoepathy, and the Chronothermal system. It is published by Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co., Philadelphia, and does, in general appearance and character, great credit to those enterprizing publishers.

General Scott and his Staff. Comprising Memoirs of Generals Twiggs, Smith, Quitman, Shields, Pillow, Lane, Cadwallader, Patterson, and Pierce, and Colonels Childs, Riley, Harney and Butler, and Other Distinguished Officers Attached to General Scott's Army; Together with Notices of Gen. Kearney, Col. Doniphan, Fremont, and Others. Philadelphia: Grigg, Elliot & Co.

This work embodies the floating intelligence which has reached us in relation to the present Mexican war, and is illustrated by wood-cuts worthy of the text. We can say no more. This book is not inferior to others which the curiosity of the community has invited, and will doubtless sell, as they have sold, well.

General Taylor and his Staff. Comprising Memoirs of Generals Taylor, Worth, Wool, and Butler, Cols. May, Cross, Clay, Hardin, Yell, Hays, and Other Distinguished Officers Attached to Gen. Taylor's Army. Philadelphia: Grigg, Elliot & Co.

This volume seems to be as picturesque and as veritable as other works of a like character, and is as well written and as well printed as the best. Perhaps this is not saying much; but can we say more?

Lectures on the Physical Phenomena of Living Beings. By Carlo Matteuci, Professor in the University of Pisa. Translated by Jonathan Pereira, M. D., F. R. S. Phila.: Lea & Blanchard.

This work has passed through two editions in Italy, and one in France. A hasty examination of the volume has excited a degree of curiosity and admiration which a more careful perusal than we can now give it will enable us hereafter to do justice to.

Three Hours, or the Vigil of Love, and Other Poems. By Mrs. S. J. Hale. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.

This beautiful volume is dedicated to the readers of the Lady's Book, (why not to its amiable proprietor?) of which she has long been an able and successful editor. We have not found time to examine the volume page by page—that is a happiness reserved to us, and we feel, in so much, the richer in our capital of future enjoyment; but we know that Mrs. Hale is one of the purest, most powerful, truthful, and tasteful of our writers; and we are certain that the volume before us is worthy of more than praise.

Evangeline.—This beautiful poem has been beautifully complimented by an artist-poet whose contributions enrich our pages, Thomas Buchanan Read, or, as he has been aptly characterized by a contemporary, "the Doric Read." The painting is worthy the subject, the artist, and the poet; and is one of the richest productions of American art.

A Campaign in Mexico, or a Glimpse at Life in Camp. By one who has seen the Elephant. Phila.: Grigg & Elliott.

This work, though, perhaps, beneath the dignity of a formal review, is still good reading, and we have gone through its pages with pleasure.

Principles of Physics and Meteorology. By J. Mueller. First American edition, Revised and Illustrated with 538 engravings on wood, and two colored plates. Phila.: Lea & Blanchard.

This treatise on Physics, by Professor Mueller, is the first of a series of works, on the different branches of science, now passing through the press of Bailliere, in London. The American editor has made many additions and improvements; and the work, as presented to the public, is worthy of all praise and all patronage.

The Primary School Reader—Parts First, Second, and Third. By Wm. D. Swan, Principal of the Mayhew Grammar School, Boston. Philadelphia: Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co.

These volumes have been prepared to supply the want of a system for teaching reading in Primary Schools. The task has been well performed, and the series will be found of value both to the teacher and the taught.

Greene's Analysis. A Treatise on the Structure of the English Language, or the Analysis and Classification of Sentences and their Component Parts. With Illustrations and Exercises adapted to the use of schools. By Samuel J. Greene, A. M., Principal of the Phillip's Grammar School, Boston. Published by Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co.

The title of this volume sufficiently indicates its purposes and character. It is a work calculated to contribute, in a considerable degree, to improve the methods of teaching the English language.

The Grammar School Reader, consisting of Selections in Prose and Poetry, with Exercises in Articulation. By William D. Swan. Thomas, Cowperthwaite & Co., Philadelphia.

This work is well designed to correct prevailing vices of articulation. There is much room for reform in this branch of education, even our best public speakers being guilty of provincial errors, and faulty enunciation. The rules are lucidly explained, and the selections made with taste.

Swan's District School Reader. Same Publishers.

This is a more advanced and more valuable branch of the same series of class books, and is designed for the highest classes of public and private schools.

THE HOME JOURNAL.—This admirable periodical maintains and advances its enviable reputation. With Morris & Willis as its editors, it needs no endorsement from its contemporaries. It must be, with such genius, tact and experience, all that a weekly periodical can be. We invite attention to the advertisement upon the cover of this number of the Magazine. Those who know the Journal will complain that the advertisers have not told half its merits.

Transcriber's Note:

1. page 133—corrected typo 'mizzen-rroyal' to 'mizzen-royal'

2. page 135—corrected typo 'them erchant' to 'the merchant'

3. page 137—punctuation mark at end of paragraph '...not gone the voyage.,' corrected to "

4. page 139—period in sentence '...of a Kentucky rifleman. I brought...' corrected to a comma

5. page 139—typo in '...I get acquaiuted with her?' corrected to 'acquainted'

6. page 139—typo in '...I beg you wont get out' corrected to 'won't'

7. page 140—typo in sentence "'Sartainly, sartainly," said he... changed to "'Sartainly, sartainly,' said he...

8. page 140—typos in sentence '...expect you early, gentlemem. Adieu—and with...' corrected to '...expect you early, gentlemen. Adieu'—corrected spelling mistake and added single quote mark

9. page 140—comma at end of sentence '...Is she so handsome, Ben,' changed to period

10. page 140—single quotes added in sentence "Egad! you don't say so!", so resulting sentence reads "'Egad! you don't say so!'"

11. page 140—later same sentence, corrected typo 'thonght' to 'thought'

12. page 142—added missing single quote at start of sentence "Mr. Stewart,' said Don Pedro...

13. page 143—removed extraneous single quote in sentence ...and answer me frankly. 'Do you really love... sentence is part of a continuing quotation

14. page 144—typo '...make love a la mode?...' corrected to 'a la mode...'

15. page 144—typo 'wont' corrected to 'won't'

16. page 145—single quote added at start of sentence "What!' cried Clara...

17. page 145—double quotes changed to single in sentence "'Oh Pedro!" continued his sister...

18. page 146—corrected typo 'an' in sentence '...but to cut an run, and favored...' to 'and'

19. page 148—typo 'Giacoma' corrected to 'Giacomo'

20. page 158—typo 'hour's' in sentence '...only a few hour's drive from...' corrected to 'hours''

21. page 158—colon at end of line 'At the sunny hour of noon:' changed to semi-colon

22. page 162—typo 'interpretaion' corrected to 'interpretation'

23. page 163—typo 'wtth' in sentence '...much, compared wtth its village-like...' corrected to 'with'

24. page 166—typos in sentence '...je sins un prētre.' corrected to '...je suis un pretre.'

25. page 167—typo in sentence '..."How should I know, monsieur?,' corrected to '"How should I know, monsieur?"'

26. page 167, later—double quote added to sentence "Pretty—very pretty lodgers, said I.

27. page 168—extraneous double quote removed from sentence 'I knew from its position...'

28. page 168—missing initial double quote added to sentence Oui, monsieur."

29. page 169—period substituted for comma at end of sentence '...at length, then?" said I,

30. page 169—same error at end of '...black upon his arm,"

31. page 169—extraneous double quote removed from sentence '...before me, dying!" The concierge...'

32. page 170—added missing quote at end of sentence '...cher?—it is a sad story.'

33. page 171—extraneous " removed at end of sentence '...had not found her friend.'

34. page 171—extraneous " removed at end of sentence '...He is dead, too, then?'

35. page 171—changed comma to period at end of line '..enchanted, wander evermore,'

36. page 172—added quote at start of sentence 'Emma will have it that...'

37. page 173—removed extra 's' from 'disinterestednesss'

38. page 175—added missing quote at end of '...flirts a discretion.'

39. page 180—added 't' to word 'eloquenly'