The deacon passed on with heavy strides to the barn-yard, and left James to hope that their petition was not rejected. It was not many minutes after that Mary came bounding down the stone-steps, heedless of the snow in which she trod; and the instant he looked upon her face he was no longer in doubt.

"Isn't mother good, James! She just called me into her room, and told me that father and she have concluded we can try it at least; and Stephen is not to know any thing about it until next April, when I am to go. We must both of us study very hard this winter, and I shall have such a deal of sewing to do."

Mary spoke with delighted eagerness. One would have thought, beholding her joy, that it was a pleasant journey which she anticipated, or that a fortune had unexpectedly been left to her; and yet the spring so longed for, would find her among strangers, working in a close and crowded room through the bright days. But a contented spirit hath its own sunshine; and the dearest pleasure that mankind may know, is contributing to the happiness of those we love. The less selfish our devotion to friends, the more sacrificing our self-denial in their behalf, the greater is the reward; so Mary's step was more elastic than ever, and her bright eyes shone with a steady, cheerful light, as she went about her daily tasks.

As she said, it was necessary that they should both be very busy through the winter, for James hoped to be able to enter college in August; and Mary, who had heretofore kept pace with him in most of his studies, though she did stumble at "tupto, tupso, tetupha," and vow that Greek was not intended for girls, did not wish to give up her Latin and Geometry. They had such a kind instructor in Mr. Lane, the village lawyer, that an ambition to please him made them at first forget the difficulties of the dry rudiments; and then it was that James first began to dream of one day being able to plead causes himself—of studying a profession. Mr. Lane, unconsciously, had encouraged this, by telling his little pupils, to whom he was much attached, the difficulties that had beset his youthful career, and how he had gained an honest independence, when he had at first been without friends or means. Then he would look up at his pretty young wife, or put out his arms to their little one, as if he thought, and is not this a sufficient reward for those years of toil and despondence. James remembered, when he was a student, teaching in vacations to aid in supporting himself through term time. He had boarded at Mr. Gordon's, and when he came to settle in the village, years after, he had offered to teach James and Mary, as a slight recompense for Mrs. Gordon's early kindness to the poor student. Two hours each afternoon were passed in Mr. Lane's pleasant little study; and though Stephen thought it was time wasted, he did not complain much, for James was doubly active in the morning. Mary, too, accomplished twice as much as ever before; and after the day's routine of household labor and study were over, her needle flew quickly, as she prepared her little wardrobe for leaving home. March was nearly through before they felt that spring had come; and though Mary's eyes were sometimes filled with tears at the thought of the coming separation, they were quickly dried, and the first of April found her unshaken in her resolution.

CHAPTER II.

LEAVING HOME—FACTORY LIFE.

"To-morrow will be the last day at home," thought Mary, as she bade her mother good-night, and turned quickly to her own room to conceal the tears that would start; and, though they fringed the lashes of the drooping lid when at last she slept, the repose was gentle and undisturbed—and she awoke at early dawn content, almost happy. The morning air came freshly to her face as she leaned out of the window to gaze once more on the extended landscape. Far away upon the swelling hill-side, patches of snow yet lingered, while near them the fresh grass was springing; and the old wood, at the back of the house, was clothed anew in emerald verdure. The sombre pines were lighted by the glittering sunlight, as it lingered lovingly among their dim branches ere bursting away to illumine the very depths of the solitude with smiles. A pleasant perfume was wafted from the Arbutus, just putting forth its delicate blossoms from their sheltering covert of dark-green leaves, mingled with the breath of the snowy-petaled dogwood, and the blue violets that were bedded in the rich moss on the banks of the little stream. The brook itself went singing on its way as it wound through the darksome forest, and fell with a plash, and a murmur, over the huge stones that would have turned it aside from its course.

It was the first bright day of spring; and it seemed as if nature had assumed its loveliest dress to tempt the young girl to forego her resolve. "Home never looked so beautiful," thought she, turning from the window; and her step was not light as usual when she joined the family. Mrs. Gordon was serene as ever; no one could have told from her manner that she was about to part with her daughter for the first time; but the children were sobbing bitterly—for they had just been told that the day had come when their sister was to leave them. They clung to her dress as she entered, and begged her not to go.

"What shall we do without you, Mary?" said they; "the house will be so lonesome."

Even Stephen, although when the plan was first revealed to him had opposed it obstinately, was melted to something like forgiveness when he saw that nothing could change her firm determination.

"I suppose we must learn to live without you, Molly," said he; "take good care of yourself, child—but let's have breakfast now."

The odd combination, spite of her sadness, brought the old smile to Mary's lip; and when breakfast was over, and the deacon took the large family Bible from its appointed resting-place, and gathered his little flock about him, they listened quietly and earnestly to the truths of holy writ. That family Bible! It was almost the first thing that Mary could recollect. She remembered sitting on her father's knee, in the long, bright Sabbath afternoons, and looking with profound awe and astonishment into the baize-covered volume, at the quaint unartistic prints that were scattered through it. She recalled the shiver of horror with which she looked on "Daniel in the den of lions," the curiosity which the picture of the Garden of Eden called forth, and the undefined, yet calm and placid feeling which stole over her as she dwelt longest upon the "Baptism of our Savior." Then there was the family record—her own birth, and that of her brothers and sisters, were chronicled underneath that of generations now sleeping in the shadow of the village church. But this train of thought was broken, as they reverentially knelt when the volume was closed, and listened to their father's humble and fervent petition, that God would watch and guard them all, especially commending to the protection of Heaven, "the lamb now going out from their midst."

There were tears even upon Mrs. Gordon's face when the prayer was ended, but there was no time to indulge in a long and sorrowful parting. The trunks were standing already corded in the hall; the little traveling-basket was filled with home-baked luxuries for the way-side lunch; and Mary was soon arrayed in her plain merino dress and little straw bonnet. There are some persons who receive whatever air of fashion and refinement they may have from their dress; others who impart to the coarsest material a grace that the most recherche costume fails to give. Our heroine was one of the last—and never was Chestnut street belle more beautiful than our simple country lassie, as she stood with her mother's arm twined about her waist, receiving her parting counsel.

The last words were said—James, in an agony of grief, had kissed her again and again, reproaching himself constantly for his selfishness in consenting that she should go. The children, forgetting their tears in the excitement of the moment, ran with haste to announce that the stage was just coming over the hill. Yes, it was standing before the garden-gate—the trunks were lifted from the door-stone—the clattering steps fell at her feet—a moment more and Mary was whirled away from her quiet home, with her father's counsel, and her mother's earnest "God bless you, and keep you, my child!" ringing in her ears.

It was quite dark ere the second day's weary journey was at an end. Mary could scarce believe it possible that she had, indeed, arrived in the great city, until the confused tumult that rose everywhere around—the endless lines of glittering lamps that stretched far away in the darkness, and the rough jolting of the coach over the hard pavements, told too plainly that she was in a new world, surrounded by a new order of things. As they drove rapidly through the crowded streets, she caught a glance at the brilliantly lighted stores, and the many gayly-dressed people that thronged them. Again the scene changed, and she looked upon the dark-brick walls that loomed up before her, and knew that in one of those buildings she was destined to pass many sad and solitary days. How prison-like they seemed! Her heart sunk within her as she gazed; the lights—the confusion bewildered her already wearied brain; and as she sunk back into the corner of the coach, and buried her face in her hands, she would have given worlds to have been once more in her still, pleasant home. The feeling of utter desolation and loneliness overcame completely, for the time, her firm and buoyant spirit.

She was roused from her gloomy reverie as the stage stopped before the door of a small but very comfortable dwelling, at some distance from the principal thoroughfares. This was the residence of a sister of Mrs. Jones, to whom she had a letter, and who was expecting her arrival. She met Mary upon the step with a pleasant smile of welcome, not at all as if she had been a stranger; and her husband assisted the coachman to remove the various packages to a neat little room into which Mary was ushered by her kind hostess, Mrs. Hall. She was very like her sister, but older and graver. Mary's heart yearned toward her from the moment of kindly greeting; and when they entered the cheerful parlor together, the young guest was almost happy once more. The children of the family, two noisy little rogues, who were very proud of a baby sister, came for a kiss, ere they left the room for the night; and then, with Mrs. Hall's piano, and her husband's pleasant conversation, Mary forgot her timidity and her sadness as the evening wore away.

"Mr. Hall will go with you to-morrow to the scene of your new life," said her hostess, as she bade her young charge good-night. "We have arranged every thing, and I trust you may be happy, even though away from your friends. We must try to make a new home for you."

Mary "blessed her unaware" for her kindness to a stranger; and though nearly a hundred miles from those she loved, felt contented and cheerful, and soon fell asleep to dream that she was once more by her mother's side.

Again that feeling of desolation returned, when, upon the morrow, leaning upon the arm of Mr. Hall, she passed through the crowded streets, and shrank back as the passing multitude jostled against each other. It seemed as if every one gazed curiously at her, yet, perchance, not one amid the throng heeded the timid little stranger. She was first conducted to the house they had chosen for her boarding-place, and though the lady at its head received her kindly, she felt more lonely than ever, as she passed through the long halls, and was regarded with looks of curiosity by the groups of young girls who were just leaving the house to enter upon their daily tasks. They were laughing and chatting gayly with each other; and poor Mary wondered if she should ever feel as careless and happy as they seemed to be.

Then they turned toward the "corporation," or factory, in which a place had been engaged for her. Oh, how endless seemed those long, noisy rooms; how weary she grew of new faces, and the strange din that rose up from the city. "I never shall endure this," thought the poor girl. "I shall never be able to learn my work. How can they go about so careless and unconcerned, performing their duties, as it were, mechanically, without thought or annoyance. But for poor Jamie I would return to-morrow;" and with the thought of her brother came new hope, new energy—and she resolved to enter upon her task boldly, and without regret.

Yet for many days, even weeks, much of her time was spent in sadness, struggle as she would against the feeling. The girls with whom she was called daily to associate, were, most of them, kind and good tempered: and though her instructors did laugh a little at her awkwardness at first, she had entered so resolutely upon her new tasks that they soon became comparatively easy to her; and she was so indefatigable and industrious, that her earnings, after a time, became more even than she had hoped for.

Still she was often weary, and almost tempted to despond. The confinement and the noise was so new to her, that at first her health partially gave way, and for several weeks she feared that after all she would be obliged to return to the free mountain-air of her country home. At such times she went wearily to her labors, and often might have uttered Miss Barret's "Moan of the Children," as she pressed her hands upon her throbbing temples.

"All day long the wheels are droning, turning, Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, and our heads with pulses burning; And the walls turn in their places! Turns the sky in the high window, blank and reeling; Turns the long light that droopeth down the wall; Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling— All are turning all the day, and we with all. All day long the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, 'Oh, ye wheels,' (breaking off in a mad moaning) Stop! be silent for to-day!'"

Then, when despondency was fast crushing her spirit, there would, perhaps, come a long hopeful letter from her brother, who was studying almost night and day, and a new ambition would rise in her heart, a fresh strength animate her, until at last, in the daily performance of her duties, in the knowledge of the happiness she was thus enabled to confer upon others, her mind became calm and contented, and her health fully restored.

Thus passed the first year of her absence from home. She had become accustomed to the habits and manners of those around her; and though some of the girls called her a little Methodist, and sneered at her plain economical dress, even declaring she was parsimonious, because they knew that she rigidly limited her expenses to a very small portion of her earnings, there were others among her associates who fully appreciated the generous self-sacrificing spirit which animated her, and loved her for the gentleness and purity, which all noticed, pervaded her every thought and act.

Then, too, Mrs. Hall was ever her steadfast friend. One evening in every week was spent in that happy family circle; and there she often met refined and agreeable society, from which she insensibly look a tone of mind and manner, that was far superior to that of her companions. Mrs. Hall directed her reading, and furnished many books Mary herself was unable to procure. Thus month after month slipped by, and our heroine had almost forgotten she was among strangers, until she began to look forward to a coming meeting with those she loved in her own dear home.

[To be concluded in our next.



REVOLUTION.

"Anger is madness," said the sage of old; And 'tis with nations as it is with man, Their storms of passion scatter ills untold— Thus 'tis, and has been, since the world began.

Change, to be blessed, must be calm and clear, Thoughtful and pure, sinless, and sound of mind; Else power unchained and change are things of fear— Let not the struggling to this truth be blind.—ARIAN.



FAIR MARGARET.

A LEGEND OF THOMAS THE RHYMER.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

Old yews in the church-yard are crumbled to dust Deep shade on her grave-mound once flinging; But oral tradition, still true to its trust, Her name by the hearth-stone is singing; For never enshrined by the bard in his lay Was a being more lovely than Margaret Gray.

Her father, a faithful old tenant, had died On lands of Sir Thomas the Seer— And the child who had sprung like a flower by his side, Sole mourner, had followed his bier; But Ereildoun's knight to the orphan was kind, And watched like a parent the growth of her mind.

The wizard knew well that her eye was endowed With sight mortal vision surpassing— Now piercing the heart of Oblivion's cloud, The Past, in its depths, clearly glassing; Anon sending glance through that curtain of dread Behind which the realm of the Future lies spread.

He gave her a key to decipher dim scrolls, With characters wild, scribbled over; And taught her dark words that would summon back souls Of the dead round the living to hover; Or oped, high discourse with his pupil to hold, Old books of enchantment with clasps of bright gold.

The elf queen had met her in green, haunted dells When stars in the zenith were twinkling, And time kept the tramp of her palfry to bells, At her bridle rein merrily tinkling: By Huntley Burn oft, in the gloaming, she strolled Weird shapes, that were not of this earth, to behold.

One eve came true Thomas to Margaret's bower, In this wise the maiden addressing— "No more will I visible be from this hour, Save to those sight unearthly possessing; But when I am seen at feast, funeral or fair Let the mortal who makes revelation beware!"

Long years came and passed, and the Rhymer's dread seat Was vacant the Eildon Tree under, And oft would old friends by the ingle-side meet, And talk of his absence in wonder: Some thought that, afar from the dwellings of men, He had died in some lone Highland forest or glen:

But others believed that in bright fairy land The mighty magician was living— That newness of life to worn heart and weak hand, Soft winds and pure waters were giving; That back to the region of heather and pine Would he come unimpaired by old age or decline.

Astir was all Scotland! from mountain and moor, With banner folds streaming in air, Proud lord and retainer, the wealthy and poor, Thronged forth in their plaids to the fair; Steeds, pricked by their riders, loud clattering made, And, cheered by his clansmen, the bag-piper played.

Gay lassies with snoods from the border and hills In holyday garb hurried thither, With eyes like the crystal of rock-shaded rills, And cheeks like the bells of the heather; But fairest of all, in that goodly array, Was the Lily of Bemerside, Margaret Gray.

While Ayr with a gathering host overflowed, She marked with a look of delight A white-bearded horseman who gallantly rode On a mettlesome steed black as night, And cried, forcing wildly her way through the throng, "Oh! master, thy pupil hath mourned for thee long!"

Then, checking his courser, the brow of the seer Grew dark, through its locks long and frosted, And making a sign with his hand to draw near, Thus the lovely offender accosted— "By which of thine eyes was thy master descried?" "With my left I behold thee!" the damsel replied.

One moment he gazed on the beautiful face, In fondness upturned to his own, As if anger at length to relenting gave place, Then fixed grew his visage like stone:— On the violet lid his cold finger he laid, And extinguished forever the sight of the maid.

* * * * *

NOTE.

I am indebted to Hugh Cameron, Esquire, of Buffalo, N. Y., for this strange and strikingly beautiful legend. Mr. C. informs me that it has long formed a part of the fire-side lore of his own clan; and, from a remote period, has lived in the memory of Scotland's peasantry.

He expressed surprise that men of antiquarian taste, in compiling border ballads, and tales of enchantment, had not given "Fair Margaret" a conspicuous place in their pages; and at his suggestion I have attempted to clothe the fanciful outlines of the original in the drapery of English verse.

The Eildon tree referred to in the poem was the favorite seat of Thomas the Rhymer, and there he gave utterance to his prophecies.



STANZAS.

The rain-bird shakes her dusty wings And leaves the sunny strand, For mossy springs, and sweetly sings, To greet her native land.

The camel in the desert heeds Where distant waters lay, And onward speeds, to flowery meads, And fountains far away.

The freshest drops will Beauty choose To keep her floweret wet, The purest dews, to save its hues— Her gentle violet.

So—may sweet Grace our hearts renew With waters from above, So—keep in view what Mercy drew From this deep well of love. W. H. DENNY.



THE LONE BUFFALO.

BY CHARLES LANMAN, AUTHOR OF "A SUMMER IN THE WILDERNESS," ETC.

Among the many legends which the traveler frequently hears, while crossing the prairies of the Far West, I remember one, which accounts in a most romantic manner for the origin of thunder. A summer-storm was sweeping over the land, and I had sought a temporary shelter in the lodge of a Sioux Indian on the banks of the St. Peters. Vividly flashed the lightning, and an occasional peal of thunder echoed through the firmament. While the storm continued my host and his family paid but little attention to my comfort, for they were all evidently stricken with terror. I endeavored to quell their fears, and for that purpose asked them a variety of questions respecting their people, but they only replied by repeating, in a dismal tone, the name of the Lone Buffalo. My curiosity was of course excited, and it may be readily imagined that I did not resume my journey without obtaining an explanation of the mystic words; and from him who first uttered them in the Sioux lodge I subsequently obtained the following legend:

* * * * *

There was a chief of the Sioux nation whose name was the Master Bear. He was famous as a prophet and hunter, and was a particular favorite with the Master of Life. In an evil hour he partook of the white-man's fire-water, and in a fighting broil unfortunately took the life of a brother chief. According to ancient custom blood was demanded for blood, and when next the Master Bear went forth to hunt, he was waylaid, shot through the heart with an arrow, and his body deposited in front of his widow's lodge. Bitterly did the woman bewail her misfortune, now mutilating her body in the most heroic manner, and anon narrating to her only son, a mere infant, the prominent events of her husband's life. Night came, and with her child lashed upon her back, the woman erected a scaffold on the margin of a neighboring stream, and with none to lend her a helping hand, enveloped the corpse in her more valuable robes, and fastened it upon the scaffold. She completed her task just as the day was breaking, when she returned to her lodge, and shutting herself therein, spent the three following days without tasting food.

During her retirement the widow had a dream, in which she was visited by the Master of Life. He endeavored to console her in her sorrow, and for the reason that he had loved her husband, promised to make her son a more famous warrior and medicine man than his father had been. And what was more remarkable, this prophecy was to be realized within the period of a few weeks. She told her story in the village, and was laughed at for her credulity.

On the following day, when the village boys were throwing the ball upon the plain, a noble youth suddenly made his appearance among the players, and eclipsed them all in the bounds he made and the wildness of his shouts. He was a stranger to all, but when the widow's dream was remembered, he was recognized as her son, and treated with respect. But the youth was yet without a name, for his mother had told him that he should win one for himself by his individual prowess.

Only a few days had elapsed, when it was rumored that a party of Pawnees had overtaken and destroyed a Sioux hunter, when it was immediately determined in council that a party of one hundred warriors should start upon the war-path and revenge the injury. Another council was held for the purpose of appointing a leader, when a young man suddenly entered the ring and claimed the privilege of leading the way. His authority was angrily questioned, but the stranger only replied by pointing to the brilliant eagle's feathers on his head, and by shaking from his belt a large number of fresh Pawnee scalps. They remembered the stranger boy, and acknowledged the supremacy of the stranger man.

Night settled upon the prairie world, and the Sioux warriors started upon the war-path. Morning dawned, and a Pawnee village was in ashes, and the bodies of many hundred men, women, and children were left upon the ground as food for the wolf and vulture. The Sioux warriors returned to their own encampment, when it was ascertained that the nameless leader had taken more than twice as many scalps as his brother warriors. Then it was that a feeling of jealousy arose, which was soon quieted, however, by the news that the Crow Indians had stolen a number of horses and many valuable furs from a Sioux hunter as he was returning from the mountains. Another warlike expedition was planned, and as before, the nameless warrior took the lead.

The sun was near his setting, and as the Sioux party looked down upon a Crow village, which occupied the centre of a charming valley, the Sioux chief commanded the attention of his braves and addressed them in the following language:

"I am about to die, my brothers, and must speak my mind. To be fortunate in war is your chief ambition, and because I have been successful you are unhappy. Is this right? Have you acted like men? I despise you for your meanness, and I intend to prove to you this night that I am the bravest man in the nation. The task will cost me my life, but I am anxious that my nature should be changed and I shall be satisfied. I intend to enter the Crow village alone, but before departing, I have one favor to command. If I succeed in destroying that village, and lose my life, I want you, when I am dead, to cut off my head and protect it with care. You must then kill one of the largest buffaloes in the country and cut off his head. You must then bring his body and my head together, and breathe upon them, when I shall be free to roam in the Spirit-land at all times, and over our great Prairie-land wherever I please. And when your hearts are troubled with wickedness remember the Lone Buffalo."

The attack upon the Crow village was successful, but according to his prophecy the Lone Buffalo received his death wound, and his brother warriors remembered his parting request. The fate of the hero's mother is unknown, but the Indians believe that it is she who annually sends from the Spirit-land the warm winds of spring, which cover the prairies with grass for the sustenance of the Buffalo race. As to the Lone Buffalo, he is never seen even by the most cunning hunter, excepting when the moon is at its full. At such times he is invariably alone, cropping his food in some remote part of the prairies; and whenever the heavens resound with the moanings of the thunder, the red-man banishes from his breast every feeling of jealousy, for he believes it to be the warning voice of the Lone Buffalo.



THE ADOPTED CHILD.

BY MRS. FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON.

"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turned from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary hearted, I languish for thy voice which passed me still, Even as a singing rill."

My gentle child—my own sweet May— Come sit thee by my side, Thy wonted place in by-gone years, Whatever might betide. Come—I would press that cloudless brow, And gaze into those eyes, Whose azure hue and brilliancy Seemed borrowed from the skies.

Thou ne'er hast known a mother's love, Save what my heart hath given; Thy fair young mother—long years since— Found rest in yonder Heaven. Where waves and dashing spray ran high We took thee from her grasp; All vainly had the Tyrant striven To rend that loving clasp.

We strove in vain life to recall, And 'neath the old oak's shade We laid her calmly down to rest, In our own woodland glade. Gently—the turf by stranger hands Was o'er her bright head pressed; And burning tears from stranger hearts Fell o'er that place of rest.

We took thee to our hearts and home, With blessings on thy head; We looked on thy blue eye—and wept— Remembered was our dead. For parted from our lonely hearth Was childhood's sunny smile; And hushed the household melody That could each care beguile.

Thy name—we knew it not—and then For many a livelong day We sought for one, all beautiful— And, sweetest, called thee May. With thee—came Spring-lime to our home, Love's wealth of buds and flowers, Lingering—till in its fairy train Shone Summer's golden hours.

How will I miss thine own dear voice In Summer's soft, bright eve; A blight will rest on tree and flower— The hue of things that grieve; And when the wintry hour hath come, And 'round the blazing hearth Shall cluster faces we have loved— Lost—lost thy joyous mirth.

Another hand will twine those curls That gleam so brightly now; Another heart will thrill to hear From thee affection's vow; For I have marked the rosy blush Steal o'er thy brow and cheek, When gentle words fell on thy ear, Which only love can speak.

Tears—tears!—a shadow should not rest Upon thy bridal day; My spirit's murmurings shall cease And joy be thine, sweet May. They come with flowers—pure orange flowers— To deck thy shining hair; Young bride—go forth—and bear with thee, My blessing and my prayer.



WHEN SHALL I SEE THE OBJECT THAT I LOVE.

A FAVORITE SWISS AIR.

ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE BY JOHN B. MUeLLER.

COPYRIGHTED BY GEORGE WILLIG, NO. 171 CHESNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA.



Not too slow.

PIANO.

Wann wer-de oh wan wer-de ich, Die fer-nen blau-en Hoeh'n, Von

When shall I see, when shall I see, The ob-ject that I love? The

mei-nem Vat-er-land wenn dich, Hel-ve-lien wie-der seh'n? Denk'

friends, the home of in-fan-cy, The mai-den and the grove. The



ich da-ran, Schlaegt, selbst als Mann, Mir meine Brust mil Schmerz und lust', Denn

Val-leys fair, The wa-ter clear, The low-ing herds, The sing-ing birds, When

al-len Freu-den noch be-wust Moecht ich's noch ein-mal seh'n.

shall I see, when shall I see, The things I love so dear?

2.

When shall I see, when shall I see, As I have seen before, The gathering crowd beneath the tree, With her that I adore? And happy hear Her voice so clear, Blend with my own, In liquid tone. When shall I see, when shall I see, The things I hold so dear?

2.

Zwar glaenzt die Sonne ueberall Dem Menschen in der Welt; Doch we zuerst ihr goldner Strahl Ihm in das Auge faellt? Wo er als Kind, Sanft und gelind, An muetter Hand, Sprach und empfand, Da ist allein sein Vaterland Koennt' ich's noch einmal seh'n?



REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Edith Kinnaird, By the Author of "The Maiden Aunt." Boston: E. Littell & Co.

Fiction has exercised an important influence over the public from the earliest ages of the world. Nor is the reason difficult to determine. Where one man takes delight in the subtleties of logic, ten derive pleasure from the indulgence of the fancy. The love of fiction is common to the unlettered savage as well as to the civilized European, and has marked alike the ancient and the modern world. The oldest surviving book, if we except the narrative of Moses, is, perhaps, a fiction—we mean the book of Job. To reach its date we must go back beyond the twilight of authentic history, far into the gloom of the antique past, to the very earliest periods of the earth's existence. We must ascend to the time when the Assyrian empire was yet in its youth, when the patriarchs still fed their flocks on the hills of Palestine, when the memory of the visible presence of the Almighty among men remained fresh in the traditions of the East. The beautiful story of Ruth comes next, but ages later than its predecessor. Then follows the sonorous tale of Homer, clanging with a martial spirit that will echo to all time. Descending to more modern eras, we reach the legends of Haroun El Reschid; the tales of the Provencal troubadours; the romances of chivalry; and finally the novels of this and the past century. For nearly four thousand years fiction has delighted and moulded mankind. It has survived, too, when all else has died. The Chaldean books of astrology are lost to the moderns; but the story of the Idumean has reached us unimpaired. The lawgivers of Judah are no more, and the race of Abraham wanders over the earth; but the simple tale of Ruth preserves the memory of their customs, and keeps alive the glory of the past.

It will not do to despise that which is so indestructible, and which everywhere exercises such powerful influence. Pedants may scorn fiction as beneath them, and waste their lives in composing dry treatises that will never be read; but the wise man, instead of deriding this tremendous engine, will endeavor to bend it to his purposes; and whether he seeks to shape the tale that is to be rehearsed on the dreamy banks of the Orontes, or to write the novel that will be read by thousands in England and America, will labor so to mix instruction with amusement, that his audience shall insensibly become moulded to his views. The moral teachers of both ancient and modern times have chosen the vehicle of fiction to inculcate truth; and even inspiration has not scorned to employ it in the service of religion. The most beautiful fictions ever written were the parables of the Savior. But it is also true that some of the most deleterious books we have are romances. This, however, is no reason why fiction should be abandoned to bad men, or proscribed as it is by many well-meaning moralists. Wesley said, with his strong Saxon sense, that he did not see why the devil should have all the good tunes.

Hence, in criticising a novel, it becomes important to examine the tendency of the work. We utterly repudiate the idea that a reviewer has nothing to do with the morality of a book. We reject the specious jargon to the contrary urged by the George Sand school. A novel should be something more than a mere piece of intellectual mechanism, because if not, it is injurious. There can be no medium. A fiction which does not do good does harm. There never was a romance written which had not its purpose, either open or concealed, from that of Waverley, which inculcated loyalty, to that of Oliver Twist, which teaches the brotherhood of man. Some novels are avowedly and insolently vicious; such are the Adventures of Faublas and the Memoirs of a Woman of Quality. Others, under the guise of philanthropy, sap every notion of right and duty: such are Martin the Foundling, Consuelo, et id omne genus. It is the novels of this last class which are the most deleterious; for, with much truth, they contain just enough poison to vitiate the whole mass. Chemists tell us that the smallest atom of putrid matter, if applied to the most gigantic body, will, in time, infect the whole: just so the grain of sophistry in Consuelo, admitting there is no more, in the end destroys all that the book contains of the beautiful and true. Said a lady in conversing on this subject: "I always find that people who read such books remember only what is bad in them." Her plain common sense hit the nail on the head, while transcendental folly hammered all around it in vain. We have spoken of Consuelo thus particularly because it is the best of its class: and of that enervating fiction we here record our deliberate opinion, that it will turn more than one foolish Miss into a strolling actress, under the insane and preposterous notion that it is her mission.

We do not say that art should be despised by the novelist; we only contend that it should not be polluted. We would have every novel a work of art, but the art should be employed on noble subjects, not on indifferent or disgraceful ones. If authors plead a mission to write, it must be to write that which will do good. A Raphael may boast of inspiration when he paints a Madonna, but not when his brush stoops to a Cyprian or a Satyr. The Pharisees of old prayed unctuously in the market-places: so the George Sands of our day boast of their superior insight into the beautiful and true. We doubt whether both are not impudent hypocrites.

The novel, which has proved the text to these remarks, belongs to a different, and, we hold, a better school. It originally appeared in Sharpe's London Magazine, and has just been republished by E. Littell & Co. Edith Kinnaird is a fiction which the most artistic mind will feel delight in perusing, yet one which the humblest will understand, and from which both may derive improvement. The heroine is neither a saint nor a fool, but a living woman; her sufferings spring from her errors, and are redeemed by her repentance: all is natural, beautiful, refreshing and noble. We rise from the perusal of such a fiction chastened and improved.

Instead of rendering its readers dissatisfied with themselves, with their lot in life, with society, with every thing, this novel makes them feel that life is a battle, yet that victory is sure to reward all who combat aright—that after the dust and heat of the struggle comes the repose of satisfied duty. Yet there is nothing didactic in the volume. Its influence upon the heart is like that of the dew of heaven, silent, gradual, imperceptible. Is not this a proof of its intrinsic merit?

Consuelo herself, as an ideal, is not more lovely than Edith Kinnaird, while the latter, in the eyes of truth, is infinitely the nobler woman. We hope to hear from the author again. Let us have more of such novels: there cannot be too many of them. How can noble and talented souls do more good than by furnishing the right kind of novels. Just as the old religious painters used to limn saints and Madonnas, let us now write works of artistic and moral fiction.

Jane Eyre. An Autobiography. Boston: William D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

Few novels published within the last ten years have made so great a stir among readers of all classes as this. The Harpers have sold a vast number of their cheap reprint, and we have here to notice its appearance in the old duodecimo shape, with large type and white paper. That the work bears unmistakable marks of power and originality cannot be questioned, and in a limited range of characterization and description evinces sagacity and skill. The early portions of the novel are especially truthful and vivid. The description of the heroine's youthful life—the exact impression which is conveyed of the child's mind—the influences which went to modify her character—the scenes at the boarding-school—all have a distinctness of delineation which approaches reality itself. But when the authoress comes to deal with great passions, and represent morbid characters, we find that she is out of her element. The character of Rochester is the character of a mechanical monster. The authoress has no living idea of the kind of person she attempts to describe. She desires to represent a reckless man, made bad by circumstances, but retaining many marks of a noble character, and she fills his conversation with slang, makes him impudent and lustful, a rascal in every sense of the word, without the remotest idea of what true chivalric love for a woman means; and this mechanical automaton, whose every motion reveals that he moves not by vital powers but by springs and machinery, she makes her pure-minded heroine love and marry.

There has been a great deal of discussion about the morality of this part of the novel. The question resolves itself into a question of art, for we hold that truth of representation and morality of effect are identical. Immoral characters may be introduced into a book, and the effect be moral on the reader's mind, but a character which is both immoral and unnatural ever produces a pernicious effect. Now the authoress of Jane Eyre has drawn in Rochester an unnatural character, and she has done it from an ignorance of the inward condition of mind which immorality such as his either springs from or produces. The ruffian, with his fierce appetites and Satanic pride, his mistresses and his perjuries, his hard impudence and insulting sarcasms, she knows only verbally, so to speak. The words which describe such a character she interprets with her fancy, enlightened by a reminiscence of Childe Harold and the Corsair. The result is a compound of vulgar rascalities and impotent Byronics. Every person who interprets her description by a knowledge of what profligacy is, cannot fail to see that she is absurdly connecting certain virtues, of which she knows a good deal, with certain vices, of which she knows nothing. The coarseness of portions of the novel, consisting not so much in the vulgarity of Rochester's conversation as the naive description of some of his acts—his conduct for three weeks before his intended marriage, for instance, is also to be laid partly to the ignorance of the authoress of what ruffianism is, and partly to her ignorance of what love is. No woman who had ever truly loved could have mistaken so completely the Rochester type, or could have made her heroine love a man of proud, selfish, ungovernable appetites, which no sophistry can lift out of lust.

We accordingly think that if the innocent young ladies of our land lay a premium on profligacy, by marrying dissolute rakes for the honor of reforming them, a la Jane Eyre, their benevolence will be of questionable utility to the world. There is something romantic to every inexperienced female mind in the idea of pirates and debauchees, who have sentiment as well as slang, miseries as well as vices. Such gentlemen their imaginations are apt to survey under the light of the picturesque instead of under the light of conscience. Every poet and novelist who addresses them on this weak side is sure of getting a favorable hearing. Byron's popularity, as distinguished from his fame, was mainly owing to the felicity with which he supplied the current demand for romantic wickedness. The authoress of Jane Eyre is not a Byron, but a talented woman, who, in her own sphere of thought and observation, is eminently trustworthy and true, but out of it hardly rises above the conceptions of a boarding-school Miss in her teens. She appears to us a kind of strong-minded old maid, but with her strong-mindedness greatly modified by the presumption as well as the sentimentality of romantic humbug.

Novum Testamentum Domini Nostri Jesu Christi. Interpetre Theodora Beza. Philadelphia: Geo. S. Appleton.

In relation to the character of this version it is scarcely necessary for us to speak. It has for centuries received the approbation of the wisest and the best; and the copy before us seems to us, upon a brief examination, to be accurate. The work is admirably printed, and does credit to the publishers. We confess that we believe that the use of this sacred work, in our seminaries and colleges, in the Latin, is desirable in reference to every interest of religion and morality. While we hesitate to affirm that Theodore de Beza's version of the New Testament Scriptures is a study of the classic Latin, we still believe that, stamped as it has been with the approbation of centuries, it is, in relation to all the moral considerations which should control our direction of the study of youth, worthy of all acceptance. The preface informs us that several editions were published during the lifetime of Beza, to which he made such improvements as his attention was directed to, or as were prompted by his familiarity, as Greek Professor, with the original. Since 1556, when it first appeared at Geneva, this work has kept its place in the general esteem.

The propriety of the use of this sacred volume in schools has been regarded as a question by some persons; but we cannot consider it a subject of doubt. After a careful consideration of every objection, we cannot see a reason why its gentle and holy truths should not be given to the mind and heart at the earliest period. There is nothing so likely to mark out the destiny of man and woman for goodness and honor, and prosperity, as the early and earnest study of the New Testament. Its Divine Inspirer said, "Suffer little children to come unto me;" and one of the great evidences of its heavenly origin, is the fact, that while its sublimity bows the haughtiest intellect to humility and devotion, its simplicity renders its most important teachings as intelligible to the child as the man, to the unlettered as to the philosopher. The work is worthy the attention of all who desire to unite education with religion.

The Princess. A Medley. By Alfred Tennyson. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

The success of this poem is indicated not only by the discussion it has provoked, but its swift passage through three editions. Taken altogether we deem it the most promising of Tennyson's productions, evincing a growth in his fine powers, and a growth in the right direction. It has his customary intellectual intensity, and more than his usual heartiness and sweetness. As a poem it is properly called by its author a medley, the plan being to bring the manners and ideas of the chivalric period into connection with those of the present day; the hero being a knight who adores his mistress, his mistress being a lady who spurns his suit, and carries to its loftiest absurdities the chimera of woman's rights. There is no less fascination in the general conduct of the story, than truth in the result. The whole poem is bathed in beauty, and invites perusal after perusal. In Tennyson's other poems the general idea is lost sight of in the grandeur or beauty of particular passages. In the present we read the poem through as a whole, eager to follow out the development of the characters and plot, and afterward return to admire the excellence of single images and descriptions. In characterization the Princess evinces an improvement on Tennyson's manner, but still we observe the manner. He does not so much paint as engrave; the lines are so fine that they seem to melt into each other, but the result is still not a portrait on canvas, but an engraving on steel. His poetic power is not sufficiently great to fuse the elements of a character indissolubly together.

The Origin, Progress and Conclusion of the Florida War. By John T. Sprague, Brevet Captain Eighth Regiment U. S. Infantry. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

This large volume seems to have been a labor of love with its author. It is full of interesting and valuable matter regarding a very peculiar contest in which our government was engaged; and to the future historian Captain Sprague has spared a great deal of trouble and research. The work is well got up, is illustrated with numerous engravings, and contains full accounts of the origin and progress of the war, the Indian chiefs engaged in it, and a record of all the officers and privates of the army, navy, and marine corps, who were killed in battle or died of disease. Captain Sprague says, "the causes of the difficulties in Florida must be apparent to the minds of careful and intelligent readers; causes not springing up in a day, but nourished for years, aggravated as opportunities offered to enrich adventurers, who had the temerity to hazard the scalping-knife and rifle, and were regardless of individual rights or of law. It must be remembered that Florida, at the period referred to, was an Indian border, the resort of a large number of persons, more properly temporary inhabitants of the territory than citizens, who sought the outskirts of civilization to perpetrate deeds which would have been promptly and severely punished if committed within the limits of a well regulated community. . . . They provoked the Indians to aggressions; and upon the breaking out of the war, ignominiously fled, or sought employment in the service of the general government, and clandestinely contributed to its continuance." In these few sentences we have the philosophy of almost all our Indian border wars. The criminals of a community are ever its most expensive curses.

The Poetical Works of John Milton. A New Edition. With Notes, and a Life of the Author. By John Mitford. Lowell: D. Bixby & Co. 2 vols. 8vo.

Lowell is a manufacturing city of Massachusetts, the Manchester of America, and a place where we might expect every thing in the shape of manufactures except classical books. Yet it rejoices in a publisher who has really done much for good literature. If our readers will look at their American editions of Faust, of Goethe's Correspondence with a Child, of Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, they will find Mr. Bixby on the title page, and Lowell as the city whence their treasures came. We have now to chronicle another feat of the same enterprising publisher—an edition of Milton, in two splendid octavos, printed in large type on the finest paper, after the best and most complete London edition, illustrated with foot notes of parallel passages from other poets, and constituting altogether the best American edition extant of the sublimest of poets, and having few rivals even among the finest English editions. The life of the poet by Mitford, extending to about a hundred pages, embodies in a clear style all the facts which have been gathered by previous biographers, without reproducing any of their bigotries. All the lies regarding Milton's character are disposed of with summary justice; and the man stands out in all the grandeur of his genius and his purity. We hope that Mr. Bixby will be adequately remunerated for his enterprise in getting out this splendid edition. It is an honor to the American press.

Eleventh Annual Report of the Secretary of the Board of Education of Massachusetts. Boston: Dutton & Wentworth. 1 vol.

We strongly advise our readers to procure this document, and not be frightened from its perusal by the idea of its being a legislative paper. It is written by Horace Mann, one of the ablest champions of the cause of education now living, a man as distinguished for industry, energy, and practical skill, as for eloquence and loftiness of purpose. His report, considered simply as a composition, is written with such splendid ability, glows throughout with so much genuine philanthropy, and evinces so wide a command of the resources of expression and argument, that, apart from its importance as a contribution to the cause of education, it has general merits of mind and style which will recommend it to every reader of taste and feeling. The leading characteristic of Mr. Mann's writings on education, which lifts them altogether out of the sphere of pedants and pedagogues, is soul—a true, earnest, aspiring spirit, on fire with a love of rectitude and truth. This gives inspiration even to his narrative of details, and hurries the reader's mind on with his own, through all necessary facts and figures, directly to the object. The present report cannot but shame a mean spirit out of any person with a spark of manliness in him. We wish its accomplished author all success in his great and noble work.

Aurelian, or Rome in the Third Century. By Wm. Ware, Author of Zenobia and Julian. New York: C. S. Francis & Co.

This work has been known to the public for ten years as "Probus," and has now a reputation that promises to be as enduring as it is brilliant. It manifests an intimate knowledge of the manners, customs and character of the Romans; and conveys the most sacred truths through the medium of the most elevated fiction. It is for sale at the store of the Appletons, in Philadelphia.

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