"But how did it come," asked Clara, "that you chose the sacred profession of the ministry?"

"I cannot fully trace the source of the emotions that led me to become a worshiper at the throne of the Holiest, unless it is true that the love of the pure and good of earth is the first pluming of the soul's pinions for heaven. I went to church that Christmas eve, urged only by the wish to look upon your face once more, yet, when there, the words of the speaker won my attention. I had listened to others equally eloquent many times before; but that night my heart seemed more susceptible to religious impressions. I felt a deep sense of the folly and ingratitude of my past life, and firmly resolved for the future to live more worthily of the immortal treasure that was committed to my charge. Prayerfully and earnestly I studied the Word of Life, and resolved to devote myself to the ministry. I wrote to my worthy relative, the rector of Willowdale, for his advice, and found, to my great joy, that he was your devoted friend. He condemned my rashness in the avowal I had made to you, and insisted that there should be no communication between us until I had finished my studies. I consented, on condition that he should write frequently and inform me of your welfare. One year ago I had completed my studies, and would have hastended to you, but my stern Mentor insisted that I should travel abroad, as he said, to give me a better knowledge of human nature, and test the truth of my early affection. I have passed the ordeal, and now, after an absence of five years, returned to you unchanged in heart."

The rest of the conversation was lost to me, as I reached my home; but that it was satisfactory to those engaged in it I know from the fact, that the next day I had the pleasure of congratulating Clara upon her engagement, with the full consent of her relatives. The remainder of the tale is quickly told. The old rector resigned his pastoral charge to Philip Sidney, with the full approbation of his parishioners; and it was arranged that the old rector and his wife should remain at the parsonage with the young clergyman and his bride. Deacon Lee became warmly attached to Philip, and felt a father's interest in the happiness of Clara, though he sometimes chid her playfully for keeping their early acquaintance a secret from him. As for Mrs. Lee, she was so proud of the honor of being aunt to a minister, that she almost forgot her dislike to prelacy. It is true she was once heard to say to one of her gossiping acquaintances, that she would have been better pleased if Clara had married a good Congregationalist minister, even if he had not preached quite so flowery sermons as Philip Sidney.

One bright day in the month of May following was their wedding-day. The bride looked beautiful in her pure white dress of muslin, with a wreath of May-blossoms in her hair. Blessings were invoked on the youthful pair by all, both high and low, and sincere good wishes expressed for their future happiness. Here I will leave them, with the wish that the affection of early years may remain through life undimmed, and that the Christmas Garland, so linked with the history of their loves, may be their emblem.



HEADS OF THE POETS.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

I.—CHAUCER.

——Chaucer's healthy Muse, Did wisely one sweet instrument to choose— The native reed; which, tutored with rare skill, Brought other Muses[1] down to aid its trill! A cheerful song that sometimes quaintly masked The fancy, as the affections sweetly tasked; And won from England's proud and foreign[2] court, For native England's tongue, a sweet report— And sympathy—till in due time it grew A permanent voice that proved itself the true, And rescued the brave language of the land, From that[3] which helped to strength the invader's hand. Thus, with great patriot service, making clear The way to other virtues quite as dear In English liberty—which could grow alone, When English speech grew pleasant to be known; To spell the ears of princes, and to make The peasant worthy for his poet's sake.

II.—SHAKSPEARE.

——'T were hard to say, Upon what instrument did Shakspeare play— Still harder what he did not! He had all The orchestra at service, and could call To use, still other implements, unknown, Or only valued in his hands alone! The Lyre, whose burning inspiration came Still darting upward, sudden as the flame; The murmuring wind-harp, whose melodious sighs Seem still from hopefullest heart of love to rise, And gladden even while grieving; the wild strain That night-winds wake from reeds that breathe in pain, Though breathing still in music; and that voice, Which most he did affect—whose happy choice Made sweet flute-accents for humanity Out of that living heart which cannot die, The Catholic, born of love, that still controls While man is man, the tide in human souls.

III.—THE SAME.

——His universal song Who sung by Avon, and with purpose strong Compelled a voice from native oracles, That still survive their altars by their spells— Guarding with might each avenue to fame, Where, trophied over all, glows Shakspeare's name! The mighty master-hand in his we trace, If erring often, never commonplace; Forever frank and cheerful, even when wo Commands the tear to speak, the sigh to flow; Sweet without weakness, without storming, strong, Jest not o'erstrained, nor argument too long; Still true to reason, though intent on sport, His wit ne'er drives his wisdom out of court; A brooklet now, a noble stream anon, Careering in the meadows and the sun; A mighty ocean next, deep, far and wide, Earth, life and Heaven, all imaged in its tide! Oh! when the master bends him to his art, How the mind follows, how vibrates the heart; The mighty grief o'ercomes us as we hear, And the soul hurries, hungering, to the ear; The willing nature, yielding as he sings, Unfolds her secret and bestows her wings, Glad of that best interpreter, whose skill Brings hosts to worship at her sacred hill!

[Footnote 1: The Italian.]

[Footnote 2: Norman.]

[Footnote 3: The French.]

IV.—SPENSER.

It was for Spenser, by his quaint device To spiritualize the passionate, and subdue The wild, coarse temper of the British Muse, By meet diversion from the absolute: To lift the fancy, and, where still the song Proclaimed a wild humanity, to sway Soothingly soft, and by fantastic wiles Persuade the passions to a milder clime! His was the song of chivalry, and wrought For like results upon society; Artful in high degree, with plan obscure, That mystified to lure, and, by its spells, Making the heart forgetful of itself To follow out and trace its labyrinths, In that forgetfulness made visible! Such were the uses of his Muse; to say How proper and how exquisite his lay, How quaintly rich his masking—with what art He fashioned fairy realms and paints their queen, How purely—with how delicate a skill— It needs not, since his song is with us still!

V.—MILTON.

The master of a single instrument, But that the Cathedral Organ; Milton sings With drooping spheres about him, and his eye Fixed steadily upward, through its mortal cloud, Seeing the glories of Eternity! The sense of the invisible and true Still present to his soul, and in his song; The consciousness of duration through all time, Of work in each condition, and of hopes Ineffable, that well sustain through life, Encouraging through danger and in death, Cheering, as with a promise rich in wings! A godlike voice that, through cathedral towers Still rolls, prolonged in echoes, whose deep tones Seem born of thunder, that subdued to music Soothe when they startle most! A Prophet Bard, With utt'rance equal to his mission of power, And harmonies that, not unworthy heaven, Might well lift earth to equal worthiness.

VI.—BURNS AND SCOTT.

——Not forgotten or denied, Scott's trumpet-lay, and Burns's violin-song; The one a call to arms, of action fond; The other, still discoursing to the heart— The lowly human heart—of loves and joys— Such as beseem the cotter's calm fireside— Cheerful and buoyant still amid a sadness— Such sadness as still couples love with care!

VII.—BYRON.

——For Byron's home and fame, It needed manhood only! Had he known How sorrow should be borne, nor sunk in shame, For that his destiny decreed to moan— His Muse had been triumphant over Time As still she is o'er Passion; still sublime— Having subdued her soul's infirmity To aliment; and, with herself o'ercome, O'ercome the barriers of Eternity, And lived through all the ages, with a sway Complete, and unembarrassed by the doom That makes of Nature's porcelain, common clay!

VIII.-A GROUP.

Shelly and Wordsworth,—Tennyson, Barrett, Horne and Browning;—Baily and Taylor;—Campbell and Moore.

——As one who had been brought, By Fairy hands, and as a changeling left In human cradle, the sad substitute For a more smiling infant—Shelly sings Vague minstrelsies that speak a foreign birth, Among erratic tribes; yet not in vain His moral, and the fancies in his flight Not without profit for another race! He left his spirit with his voice—a voice Solely spiritual, which will long suffice To wing the otherwise earthy of the time, And, with the subtler leaven of the soul, Inform the impetuous passions!

With him came Antagonist, yet still with sympathy, Wordsworth, the Bard of the contemplative, A voice of purest thought in sweetest music! —These, in themselves unlike, together linked, Appear in unison in after days, Making progressive still, the mental births, That pass successively through rings of time, Each to a several conquest; most unlike That of its sire, yet borrowing of its strength, Where needful, and endowing it with new, To meet the new necessity which still Haunts the free progress of each conquering race. —Thus, Tennyson and Barrett, Browning, Horne, Blend their opposing faculties, and speak For that fresh nature, which in daily things Beholds the immortal, and from common forms Extorts the Eternal still! So Baily sings In Festus; so, upon a humbler rank, Testing the worth of social policies, As working through a single human will, The Muse of Taylor argues—Artevelde, Being the man who marks a popular growth, And notes the transit of a thought through time, Growing as still it speeds.....

Exquisite The ballads of Campbell, and the lays of Moore, Appealing to our tastes, our gentler moods, The play of the affections, or the thoughts That come with national pride; and as we pause In our own march, delight the sentiment! But nothing they make for progress. They perfect The language, and diversify its powers— Please and beguile, and, for the forms of art, Prove what they are, and may be. But they lift None of our standards; help us not in growth; Compel no prosecution of our search, And leave us, where they found us—with the time!



HOPE ON—HOPE EVER.

BY H. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

Poor stricken one! whose toil can gain, And barely gain, the coarsest fare, From bitter thoughts and words refrain; Yield not to dark despair! The blackest night that e'er was born Was followed by a radiant morn; Heed not the world's unfeeling scorn, Nor think life's brittle thread to sever; Hope on—hope ever!

Hope, though your sun is hid in gloom, And o'er your care-worn, wrinkled brow, Grief spreads his shadow—'tis the doom That falls on many now. Grim Poverty, with icy hand, May bind to earth with ruthless band Bright gifted ones throughout the land; But struggle still that band to sever— Hope on—hope ever!

Sit not and pine that FORTUNE led Another on to grasp her wreath; The same blue sky is o'er thy head, The same green earth beneath, The same bright angel-eyes look down, Each night upon the humblest clown, That sees the king with jeweled crown; Of these, stern fate can rob thee never— Hope on—hope ever!

What though the proud should pass thee by, And curl their haughty lips with scorn; Like thee, they soon must droop and die, For all of woman born, Are journeying to a shadowy land, Where each devoid of pride must stand, By hovering wings of angels' fanned; There sorrow can assail thee never— Hope on—hope ever!

Then plod along with tearless eye, Poor son of toil! and ne'er repine, The road through barren wastes may lie, And thorns, as oft hath mine; But there was ONE who came to earth, Star-heralded at hour of birth, Humble, obscure, unknown his worth, Whose path was thornier far. Weep never! Hope on—hope ever!



MEXICAN JEALOUSY.

A SKETCH OF THE LATE CAMPAIGN.

BY ECOTIER.

On the 15th of September, two days after the storming of Chapultepec, a small party of soldiers, in dark uniforms, were seen to issue from the great gate of that castle, and, winding down the Calzada, turn towards the City of Mexico. This occurred at 10 o'clock in the morning. The day was very hot, and the sun, glancing vertically upon the flinty rocks that paved the causeway, rendered the heat more oppressive.

At the foot of the hill the party halted, taking advantage of the shade of a huge cypress tree, to set down a litera, which four men carried upon their shoulders. This they deposited under one of the arches of the aqueduct in order the better to protect its occupant from the hot rays of the sun.

The occupant of the litera was a wounded man, and the pale and bloodless cheek, and fevered eye showed that his wound was not a slight one. There was nothing around to denote his rank, but the camp cloak, of dark blue, and the crimson sash, which lay upon the litera, showed that the wounded man was an officer. The sash had evidently been saturated with blood, which was now dried upon it, leaving parts of it shriveled like, and of a darker shade of crimson. It had staunched the life-blood of its wearer upon the 13th. The soldiers stood around the litter, their bronzed faces turned upon its occupant, apparently attentive to his requests. There was something in the gentle care with which these rude men seemed to wait upon the young officer, that bespoke the existence of a stronger feeling than mere humanity. There was that admiration which the brave soldiers feel for him who has led them in the field of battle, at their head. That small group were among the first who braved the frowning muzzles of the cannon upon the parapets of Chapultepec. The wounded officer had led them to those parapets.

The scene around exhibited the usual indications of a recent field of battle. There were batteries near, with dismounted cannon, broken carriages, fragments of shells, dead horses, whose riders lay by them, dead too, and still unburied. Parties were strolling about, busied with this sad duty, but heaps of mangled carcases still lay above ground, exhibiting the swollen limbs and distorted features of decomposition. The atmosphere was heavy with the disagreeable odor, and the wounded man, turning upon his pillow, gently commanded the escort to proceed. Four stout soldiers again took up the litera, and the party moved slowly along the aqueduct, toward the Garita Belen. The little escort halted at intervals for rest and to change bearers. The fine trees that line the great aqueduct on the Tacubaya road, though much torn and mangled by the cannonade of the 13th, afforded a fine shelter from the hot sun-beams. In two hours after leaving Chapultepec, the escort entered the Garita Belen, passed up the Paseo Nuevo, and halted in front of the Alameda.

Any one who has visited the City of Mexico will recollect, that opposite the Alameda, on its southern front, is a row of fine houses, which continue on to the Calle San Francisco, and thence to the Great Plaza, forming the Calles Correo, Plateros, &c. These streets are inhabited principally by foreigners, particularly that of Plateros, which is filled with Frenchmen. To prevent their houses from being entered by the American soldiery upon the 14th, the windows were filled with national flags, indicating to what nation the respective owners of the houses belonged. There were Belgians, French, English, Prussians, Spanish, Danes, and Austrians—in fact, every kind of flag. Mexican flags alone were not to be seen. Where these should have been, at times, the white flag—the banner of peace—hung through the iron railings, or from the balcony. In front of a house that bore this simple ensign, the escort, with the litera, had accidentally stopped.

The eye of the wounded officer rested mechanically upon the little flag over his head, when his attention was arrested by noticing that this consisted of a small, white lace handkerchief, handsomely embroidered upon the corners, and evidently such as belonged to some fair being. Though suffering from the agony of his wound, there was something so attractive in this discovery, that the eyes of the invalid were immediately turned upon the window, or rather grating, from which the flag was suspended, and his countenance changed at once, from the listless apathy of pain to an expression of eager interest. A young girl was in the window, leaning her forehead against the reja, or grating, and looking down with more of painful interest than curiosity upon the pale face beneath her. It was the window of the entresol, slightly raised above the street, and the young girl herself was evidently of that class known to the aristocracy of Mexico as the "leperos." She was tastefully dressed, however, in the picturesque costume of her class and country, and her beautiful black hair, her dark Indian eye, the half olive, half carmine tinge upon her soft cheek, formed a countenance at once strange, and strikingly beautiful. Her neck, bosom, and shoulders, seen over the window-stone, were of that form which strikes you as possessing more of the oval than the rotund, in short the model of the perfect woman.

On seeing the gaze of the wounded man so intently fixed upon her, the young girl blushed, and drew back. The officer felt disappointed and sorry, as one feels when the light, or a beautiful object is suddenly removed from his sight; still, however, keeping his eyes intently fixed upon the window, as though unable to unrivet his gaze. This continued for some moments, when a beautiful arm was plunged through the iron grating, holding in the most delicate little fingers a glass of piñal.

A soldier stepped up, and taking the proffered glass, held it to the lips of the wounded officer, who gladly drank of the cool and refreshing beverage, without being able to thank the fair donor, who had withdrawn her hand at parting with the glass. The glass was held up to the window, but the hand that clutched it was coarse and large, and evidently that of a man. A muttered curse, too, in the Spanish language, was heard to proceed from within. This was heard but indistinctly. The invalid gazed at the window for some minutes, expecting the return of the beautiful apparition, then as if he had given up all hope, he called out a "gracias-adios!" and ordered the escort to move on. The soldiers, once more shouldering the litera, passed up the Calle Correo, and entered the Hotel Compagnon, in the street of Espiritu Santo.

For two months the invalid was confined to his chamber, but often, during that time, both waking and dreaming, the face of the beautiful Mexican girl would flit across his fevered fancy. At the end of this time his surgeon gave him permission to ride out in an easy carriage. He was driven to the Alameda, where he ordered the carriage to halt under the shade of its beautiful trees, and directly in front of the spot where he had rested on entering the city. He recognized the little window. The white flag was not now there, and he could see nothing of the inmates. He remained a considerable time seated in the carriage, gazing upon the house, but no face appeared at the cold iron grating, no smile to cheer his vigil. Tired and disappointed, he ordered his carriage to be driven back to the hotel.

Next day he repeated the manoeuvre, and the next, and the next, with a like success. Probably he had not chosen the proper time of day. It was certainly not the hour when the lovely faces of the Mexican women appear in their balconies. This reflection induced him to change the hour, and, upon the day following, he ordered his carriage in the evening. Just before twilight, it drew up as usual under the tall trees of the Alameda. Imagine the delight of the young officer, at seeing the face of the beautiful Mexican through the gratings of the reja.

The stir made by the stopping of the carriage had attracted her. The uniform of its inmate was the next object of her attention, but when her eyes fell upon the face of the wearer, a strange expression came over her countenance, as if she were struggling with some indistinct recollections, and all at once that beautiful countenance was suffused with a smile of joy. She had recognized the officer. The latter, who had been an anxious observer of every change of expression, smiled in return, and bowed an acknowledgment, then turning to his servant, who was a Mexican, he told him, in Spanish, to approach the window, and offer his thanks to the young lady for her act of kindness upon the 15th of September.

The servant delivered the message, and shortly afterward the carriage drove off. For several evenings the same carriage might be seen standing under the trees of the Alameda. An interesting acquaintance had been established between the young officer and the Mexican girl. About a week afterward, and the carriage appeared no more. The invalid had been restored to perfect strength.

December came, and upon the 15th of this month, about half an hour before twilight, an American officer, wrapped in a light Mexican cloak, passed down the Calle San Francisco, and crossed into the Alameda. Here he stopped, leaning against a tree, as though observing the various groups of citizens, who passed in their picturesque dresses. His eye, however, was occasionally turned upon the houses upon the opposite side of the street, and with a glance of stealthy, but eager inquiry. At length the well-known form of the beautiful "lepera" appeared at the window, who, holding up her hand, adroitly signaled the officer with her taper, fan-like fingers. The signal was answered. She had scarcely withdrawn her hand inside the reja when a dark, scowling face made its appearance at her side, her hand was rudely seized, and with a scream she disappeared. The young officer fancied he saw the bright gleaming of a stiletto within the gloomy grating.

He rushed across the street, and in a moment stood beneath the window. Grasping the strong iron bars, he lifted himself up so as to command a view of the inside, which was now in perfect silence. His horror may be imagined when, on looking into the room, he saw the young girl stretched upon the floor, and, to all appearances, dead. A stream of blood was running from beneath her clothes, and her dress was stained with blood over the waist and bosom. With frantic energy the young man clung to the bars, and endeavored to wrench them apart. It was to no purpose, and letting go his hold, he dropped into the street. The large gate of the house was open. Into this he rushed, and reached the patio just in time to catch a glimpse of a figure escaping along the azotea. He rushed up the steep stone stairway, and grasping the parapet, raised himself on the roof. The fugitive had run along a series of platforms of different heights, composed by the azoteas of houses, and had reached a low roof, from which he was about to leap into an adjoining street, where he would, in all probability, have made good his escape. He stood upon the edge of the parapet, calculating his leap, which was still a fearful plunge. It was not left to his choice whether to take or refuse it. A pistol flashed behind him, and almost simultaneously with the report he fell forward upon his head, and lay upon the pavement below, a bruised and bleeding corpse. His pursuer approached the parapet, and looked over into the street, as if to assure himself that his aim had been true, then turned with a fearful foreboding, and retraced his way over the azoteas. His fears, alas! were but too just. She was dead.



TO GUADALUPE.

BY MAYNE REID.

Adieu! oh, in the heart's recess how wildly Echo those painful accents of despair— And spite our promise given to bear it mildly; We little knew how hard it was to bear A destiny so dark: how hard to sever Hearts linked as ours, hands joined as now I grasp thee In trembling touch: oh! e'er we part forever, Once more unto my heart love's victim let me clasp thee!

It is my love's last echo—lone and lonely My heart goes forth to seek another shrine, Where it may worship pronely, deeming only Such images as thee to be divine— It is the echo of the last link breaking, For still that link held out while lingering near thee— A secret joy although with heart-strings aching To breathe the air you breathed—to see, to hear thee.

And this link now must break—our paths obliquing May never meet again—oh! say not never— For while thus speaking, still my soul is seeking Some hope our parting may not be forever— And like the drowning straggler on the billow, Or he that eager watches for the day, With throbbing brain upon a sleepless pillow— 'Tis catching at the faintest feeblest ray.

Now faint and fainter growing, from thee going, Seems every hope more vague and undefined— Oh! as the fiend might suffer when bestowing A last look on the heaven he left behind: Or as earth's first-born children when they parted Slowly, despairingly, from Eden's bowers, Looked back with many a sigh—though broken-hearted, Less hopeless was their future still than ours.

If we have loved—if in our hearts too blindly We have enthroned that element divine— In this, at least, hath fate dealt with us kindly; Our mutual images have found a shrine— An altar for our mutual sacrifice: And spite this destiny that bids us sever, Within our hearts that fire never dies— In mine, at least, 'twill burn and worship on forever.

Thee not upbraiding—thou has not deceived me— For from the first I knew thy compromise— No, Guadalupe—this hath never grieved me— I won thy love—so spoke thy lips and eyes:— The consolation of this proud possessing Should almost change my sorrow into bliss: I have thy heart—enough for me of blessing— Another may take all since I am lord of this.

Why we have torn our hearts and hands asunder— Why we have given o'er those sweet caresses— The world without will coldly guess and wonder— Let them guess on, what care we for their guesses! The secret shall be ours, as ours the pain— A secret still unheeding friendship's pleading: What though th' unfeeling world suspect a stain, But little fears the world a heart with anguish bleeding.

'Tis better we should never meet again— Our love's renewing were but thy undoing: When I am gone, time will subdue thy pain, And thou wilt yield thee to another's wooing— For me, I go to seek a name in story— To find a future brighter than the past— Yet 'midst my highest, wildest dreams of glory, Sweet thoughts of thee will mingle to the last.

And though this widowed heart may love another— For living without love, it soon would die— There will be moments when it cannot smother Thy sweet remembrance with a passing sigh. Amidst the ashes of its dying embers For thee there will be found one deathless thought; Yes, dearest lady! while this heart remembers, Believe me, thou shall never be forgot.

Once more farewell! Oh it is hard to yield thee, To lose for life, forever, thing so fair! How bright a destiny it were to shield thee— Yet since I am denied the husband's care, This grief within my breast here do I smother— Forego thy painful sacrifice to prove, That I have been, what never can another, The hero of thy heart, my own sweet victim love.



THE FADED ROSE.

BY G. G. FOSTER.

Torn from its stem to bloom awhile Upon thy breast, the dazzling flower Imbibed new radiance from thy smile— But, ah! it faded in an hour. So thou, from peaceful home betrayed, In beaming beauty floated by; But ere thy summer had decayed, We saw thee languish, faint and die.

Extempore. On a Broken Harp-string. Too rude the touch—the broken cord No more may utter music-word, Yet lives each tone within the air, Its trembling sighs awakened there. So in my heart the song I sung, When thou in rapture o'er me hung, Still lives—yet thine is not the spell To lure the music from its shell.



THE CHILD'S APPEAL.

AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.

Day dawned above a city's mart, But not 'mid peace and prayer; The shouts of frenzied multitudes Were on the thrilling air.

A guiltless man to death was led, Through crowded streets and wide, And a fairy child, with waving curls, Was clinging to his side.

The father's brow with pride was calm, But trusting and serene, The child's was like the Holy One's In Raphael's paintings seen.

She shrank not from the heartless throng, Nor from the scaffold high; But now and then with beaming smile Addressed her parent's eye.

Athwart the golden flood of morn Was poised the wing of Death, As 'neath the fearful guillotine The doomed one drew his breath.

Then all of fiercest agony The human heart can bear Was suffered in the brief caress, The wild, half-uttered prayer.

But she, the child, beseechingly Upraised her eyes of blue, And whispered, while her cheek grew pale, "I am to go with you?"

The murmur of impatient fiends Rung in her infant ear, And purpose strong woke in her heart, And spoke in accent clear;

"They tore my mother from our side In the dark prison's cell, Her eyes were filled with tears—she had No time to say farewell.

"And you were all that loved me then, But you are pale with care, And every night a silver thread Has mingled with your hair.

"My mother used to tell me of A better land afar, I've seen it through the prison bars Where burns the evening star.

"Oh! let us find a new home there, I will be brave and true, You cannot leave me here alone, Oh! let me die with you."

The gentle tones were drowned by shrill And long protracted cries; The father on his darling gazed, The child looked on the skies.

Anon, far up the cloudless blue, Unseen by mortal eye, God's angels with two spirits passed To purer realms on high.

The one was touched with earthly hues And dim with earthly care, The other, as a lily's cup Unutterably fair.



THE OLD FARM-HOUSE.

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

I love these gray and moss-grown walls, This ivied porch, and trelliced vine, The lattice with its narrow pane, A relic of the olden time; The willow with its waving leaves, Through which the low winds murmuring glide, The gurgling ripple of the stream That whispers softly at its side.

The spring-house in its shady nook, Like lady's bower shadowed o'er— With clustering trees—and creeping plants That cling around the rustic door, The rough hewn steps that lend their aid To reach the shady cool recess, Where humble duty spreads a scene That hourly comfort learns to bless.

Upland the meadows lie around, Fair smiling in the suns last beam; Beneath yon solitary tree The lazy cattle idly dream; Afar the reaper's stroke descends, While faintly on the listening ear The teamster's careless whistle floats, Or distant song or call I hear.

And leaning on a broken stile, With woods behind and fields before, I watch the bee who homeward wends With laden wing—his labors o'er; The happy birds are warbling round, Or nestle in the rustling trees— 'Mid which the blue sky glimmers down, When parted by the passing breeze.

And slowly winding up the road The wane has reached the old barn-floor, Where plenty's hand has firmly heaped The golden grain in richest store. This 'mid the dream-land of my thoughts With smiling lip I own is real, Yet fancy's fairest visions blend With all I see, and all I feel.

Then tell me not of worldly pride And wild ambition's hopes of fame, Or brilliant halls of wealth and pride, Where genius sighs to win a name; Give me this farm-house quaint and old, These fields of grain, the birds and flowers, With calm contentment, peace and health, And memories of my earlier hours.



"'TIS HOME WHERE THE HEART IS."

WORDS BY MISS L. M. BROWN.

MUSIC COMPOSED BY KARL W. PETERSILIE,

Professor of Music at the Edgeworth Seminary, N. C.

Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chesnut Street, Philad'a. [Copyright secured.]

Expressivo



I've wander'd in climes, where the wild chamois

Con spirito.

strays, Have gain'd the wild height, Where the fierce lightning plays, Seen glory and

crescendo

greatness in power and might, And honor and splendor sink in darkness of night, I've sought 'mid the crowd, pure pleasure, but pain, As the

dolce.

Con Anima.

bee, that sips sweets, the poison too drained; Ah! 'twas all delusive, for sorrows would come, Oh, 'tis home where the heart is, where the heart is 'tis home.

SECOND VERSE.

I've courted the breath of a balm southern clime, Where sweetest of flow'rs, soft tendrils entwine; Have listed the song bird's notes borne on the air, That wakens and wafts the rich odors elsewhere; As tones on the ear so the dream of the past, Softly plays round the heart-green isle of the waste; Yes! 'twas all a life-dream, and still 'tis not gone, Oh, 'tis home where the heart is, where the heart is 'tis home.

THIRD VERSE.

I've cross'd the blue sea, I've sought out a home In the land of the free, freedom beckon'd me come; And friends of the stranger have sooth'd the sad heart, With kindness and sympathy, sweet balm for the smart; The light of the soul, doth play round it still, Like the perfume the urn, in which roses distil; Thoughts of affection forbid me to roam, Oh, 'tis home where the heart is, where the heart is 'tis home.



REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Hawkstone: A Tale of and for England in 184-. New York: Standford & Swords. 2 vols. 12mo.

We were attracted to this novel by seeing the words "fifth edition" on its title page. After reading it, it is easy to account for its popularity. It is at once a most exciting romance and a defence of an unpopular religious body. The author (said to be Professor Sewall,) belongs to the Oxford School of Episcopalians, or to adopt his own view of the matter, to the one Catholic church. The object of the novel is to present the ideas of Church and State held by that class of religionists who are vulgarly called Puseyites. This is done partly in the representation of character and narration of incident, which constitute the romance of the book, and partly by long theological conversations which occur between a few of the characters. The interest of the work never flags, and it is among the few religious novels which are not positive bores to all classes of readers. In respect to its theology, it gives the most distinct view of the doctrines of the High Church party of Oxford which we have seen. The author is as decisive and bitter in his condemnation of Romanism as of dissent. He considers that the peculiar doctrines and claims which distinguish the Roman Catholic church from the Church of England are novelties, unknown to the true church of the apostles and the fathers. He has no mercy for the Romanists, and but little for the young men of his own school who favor the Papacy. Those who are accustomed to associate Puseyism with a set of sentimentalists, who mourn the Reformation, wish for the return of the good old times of the feudal ages, and give Rome their hearts and Canterbury only their pockets, will find that such doctrines and practices find no favor in the present volumes. The greatest rascal in the novel is a piece of incarnate malignity named Pearce—a Jesuit, whom the author represents as carrying out the principles of Romanism to their logical results in practice.

But if the reader will find his common notions of Puseyism revolutionized by the present novel, he will be a little startled at its real doctrines and intentions. The author has the most supreme and avowed contempt for liberal ideas in Church and State; and for every good-natured axiom about toleration and representative government he spurns from his path as a novelty and paradox. There is nothing dominant in England which he does not oppose. The Whig party he deems the avowed enemies of loyalty, order and religion. The Conservatives, with Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington at their head, he conceives destitute of principle, and the destroyers of the British empire. There is not a concession made to liberal ideas within the present century which he does not think wicked and foolish. The manufacturing system and free trade, indeed the whole doctrines of the political economists in the lump, he looks upon alternately with horror and disdain. He seems to consider the State and Church as an organized body for the education of the people, whose duty is obedience, arid who have no right to think for themselves in religion or politics, for they would be pretty sure to think wrong. All benevolent societies, in which persons of different religious views combine for a common object, he considers as productive of evil, and as an assumption of powers rightly belonging to the church. Indeed, in his system, it is wrong for any popular association to presume to meddle with ignorance and crime, unless they do it under the sanction and control of the church. He considers it the duty of a church minister to excommunicate every man in his parish who is guilty of schism—that is, who has the wickedness to be a papist or dissenter. But it is useless to proceed in the enumeration of our author's dogmatisms. If the reader desires to know them, let him conceive the exact opposite of every liberal principle in politics, political economy and theology, which at present obtains in the world, and he will have the system of "Hawkstone."

A good deal of the zest of the novel comes from the throng of paradoxes in which the author wantons. He has a complete system of thought to kill out all the mind of the English people, and render them the mere slaves of a hierarchy, and all for the most benevolent of purposes. In his theory he overlooks the peculiar constitution and character of the English people, and also all the monstrous abuses to which his system would inevitably lead, in his desire to see a practical establishment of the most obnoxious and high-toned claims of his church. He is evidently half way between an idealist and a sentimentalist, with hardly an atom of practical sagacity or knowledge of affairs. The cool dogmatism with which he condemns the great statesmen of his country, is particularly offensive as coming from a man utterly ignorant of the difficulties which a statesman has to encounter. It is curious also to see how extremes meet; this theory of absoluteism "fraternizes" with that of socialism. A person reading, in the second volume, the account of Villiers' dealings with his tenantry, and his new regulations regarding manufactures, would almost think that Louis Blanc had graduated at Oxford, and left out in his French schemes the agency of the church, from a regard to the prejudices of his countrymen.

With all its peculiarities and heresies, however, the novel will well reward the attention of readers of all classes. It is exceedingly well written, and contains many scenes of uncommon power, pathos and beauty. With these advantages it may also claim the honor of being the most inimitable specimen of theological impudence and pretension which the present age has witnessed.

The Planetary and Stellar Worlds: A Popular Exposition of the Great Discoveries and Theories of Modern Astronomy. In a Series of Ten Lectures. By O. M. Mitchell, A. M. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.

Mr. Mitchell is not only an accomplished astronomer, in every respect qualified to be the interpreter of the mysteries of his science to the popular mind, but, if we may judge from the style of his book, is a fine, frank, warm-hearted, enthusiastic man. On every page he gives evidence of really loving his pursuit. By a certain sensitiveness of imagination, and quickness of sensibility, every thing he contemplates becomes alive in his mind, and an object in which he takes a personal interest. This gives wonderful distinctness to his exposition of natural laws, and his delineation of the characters and pursuits of men of science. His Copernicus, Kepler, Gallileo and Newton are not dry enumerations of qualities, but vivid portraits of persons. He seems in close intellectual fellowship with them as individuals, and converses of them in the style of a friend, whose accurate knowledge is equalled by his intense affection. So it is with his detail of the discovery of a new law, or fact in science. His mind "lives along the line" of observation and reasoning which ended in its detection, and he reproduces the hopes, fears, doubts, and high enthusiasm of every person connected with the discovery. His delineation of Kepler is especially genial and striking. By following this method he infuses his own enthusiasm into the reader, bears him willingly along through the most abstruse processes of science, and at the end leaves him without fatigue, and ready for a new start.

In the treatment of scientific discoveries, by minds like Mr. Mitchell's, we ever notice an unconscious personification of Nature, as a cunning holder of secrets which only the master-mind can wrest from her after a patient siege. The style of our author glows in the recital of the exploits of his band of astronomers, as that of a Frenchman does in the narration of Napoleon's campaigns. This is the great charm of his book, and will make it extensively popular, for by it he can attract any reader capable of being interested in a tale of personal adventure, ending in a great achievement. We can hardly bring to mind a popular lecturer or writer on science, who has this power to the extent which Mr. Mitchell possesses it. He himself has it by virtue of the mingled simplicity and intensity of his nature.

One of the most striking lectures in Mr. Mitchell's volume is that on the discoveries of the primitive ages, in which he represents the processes of the primitive observer, with his unarmed eye, in unfolding some of the laws of the heavens; and he indicates with great beauty what would be his point of departure, and what would be the limit of his discoveries. This lecture is a fine prose poem. There is a passage in the introductory lecture which grandly represents the continual watch which man keeps on the heavens, and the slow, silent and sure acquisitions of new truths, from age to age. "The sentinel on the watchtower is relieved from duty, but another takes his place, and the vigil is unbroken. No—the astronomer never dies. He commences his investigations on the hill-tops of Eden—he studies the stars through the long centuries of antedeluvian life. The deluge sweeps from the earth its inhabitants, their cities and their mountains—but when the storm is hushed, and the heavens shine forth in beauty, from the summit of Mount Arrarat the astronomer resumes his endless vigils. In Babylon he keeps his watch, and among the Egyptian priests he inspires a thirst for the sacred mysteries of the stars. The plains of Shinar—the temples of India—the pyramids of Egypt, are equally his watching places. When science fled to Greece, his home was in the schools of her philosophers: and when darkness covered the earth for a thousand years, he pursues his never-ending task from amidst the burning deserts of Arabia. When science dawned on Europe, the astronomer was there—toiling with Copernicus—watching with Tycho—suffering with Gallileo—triumphing with Kepler."

We trust that this volume will have an extensive circulation. It will not only convey a great deal of knowledge to the general reader, but will also inspire a love for the science of which it treats.

Harold, the last of the Saxon Kings. By Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. New York: Harper & Brothers.

This is Bulwer's most successful attempt at writing an historical novel, but with all its merits, it is still rather an attempt than a performance. Considered as a history of the Norman invasion, it contains many more facts than can be found in Thierry, at least in that portion of his work devoted to Harold and William. Bulwer seems to have obtained his knowledge at the original sources, and the novel is certainly creditable to his scholarship. But he has not managed his materials in an imaginative way, and fact and fiction are tied rather than fused together. The consequence is that the work is not homogeneous. At times it appears like history, but after the mind of the reader has settled down to a historical mood, the impression is broken by a violent intrusion of fable, or an introduction of modern sentiment and thought. It has therefore neither the interest of Thierry's exquisite narrative of the same events, nor the interest which might have been derived from a complete amalgamation of the materials into a consistent work of imagination. Considered also as a reproduction of ancient men and manners it is strikingly defective. With many fine strokes of the pencil, where the author confines himself to the literal fact, his portraits, as a whole, are overcharged with Bulwerism. His imagination is not a mirror. It can reflect nothing without vitiating it. He does not possess the power of passing a character through his mind and preserving its individuality. It goes in as Harold, or Duke William, or Lafranc, but it comes out as Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, Bart.

The novel contains much of that seductive sentiment, half romantic, half misanthropic, which is the characteristic of Bulwer's works, and it is expressed with his usual beauty and brilliancy of style. Here and there we perceive allusions to his own domestic affairs, which none but Lady Bulwer can fully appreciate. Every reader of the novel must be struck with its attempt at the moral tone. Edith, the heroine, is the bride of Harold's soul, and Platonism appears in all its splendor of self-denial and noble sentiments in a Saxon thane and his maiden. History pronounces this lady to be his mistress, and it certainly is a great stretch of the reader's charity to be compelled to view her in the capacity of saint. Not only, however, in the loves of Harold and Edith, but all over the novel, there is a constant intrusion of ethical reflections, which will doubtless much edify all young ladies of a tender age. These would be well enough if they appeared to have any base in solid moral principle, but they are somewhat offensive as the mere sentimentality of conscience and religion, introduced for the purposes of fine writing. Suspicion, also, always attaches to the morality which exhibits itself on rhetorical stilts, and the refinement which is always proclaiming itself refined. Since the time of Joseph Surface there has been a great decline in the market price of noble sentiments.

The History of England, from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Reign of Victoria. By Mrs. Markham. A New Edition. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is a new and revised edition of a work which has long been used in the education of boys and girls. Its information is, of course, milk for babes. We think that books of this class should be prepared by persons very different from Mrs. Markham. She, good lady, was the wife of an English clergyman by the name of Penrose, and she wrote English history as such a person might be supposed to write it. With every intention to be honest, her book has many facts and opinions which boys and girls will have to take more time to unlearn than they spent in learning, unless they intend to be children their whole lives.

There is, however, a story in the volume regarding the Duke of Marlborough, which we think few of our readers have seen. The duke's command of his temper was almost miraculous. Once, at a council of war, Prince Eugene advised that an attack on the enemy should be made the next day. As his advice was plainly judicious, he was much exasperated at the refusal of the duke's consent, and immediately called him a coward and challenged him. Marlborough cooly declined the challenge, and the enraged prince left the council. Early the following morning he was awoke by the duke, who desired him instantly to rise, as he was preparing to make the attack, and added, "I could not tell you of my determination last night, because there was a person present who I knew was in the enemy's interest, and would betray us. I have no doubt we shall conquer, and when the battle is over I will be ready to accept your challenge." The prince, seeing the superior sagacity of Marlborough, and ashamed of his own intemperance, overwhelmed the duke with apologies, and the friendship of the two generals was more strongly cemented than ever. The anecdote is of doubtful origin, but it is an admirable illustration both of the character of Marlborough and Eugene.

Letters from Italy: and The Alps and the Rhine. By J. T. Headley. New and Revised Edition. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.

We believe that these were Mr. Headley's first productions, and were originally published in Wiley & Putnam's Library. The present edition has a preface, devoted to the consideration of the new aspect Italy has assumed since the book was written, and a very judicious flagellation is given to that arch traitor and renegade, Charles Albert, King of Sardinia, whom events have transformed from a trickster and tyrant into a patriot leader. We agree with Mr. Headley in thinking that the Italians are more likely to be endangered than benefitted by his position at the head of their armies.

"The Alps and the Rhine" is, in our opinion, Mr. Headley's most agreeable work. The descriptions of scenery are singularly vivid and distinct, and are given in a style of much energy and richness. The chapters on Suwarrow's Passage of the Glarus, Macdonald's Pass of the Splugen, and the Battle of Waterloo, are admirably done. That on Macdonald is especially interesting. Those who doubt Mr. Headley's talents will please read this short extract: "The ominous sound grew louder every moment, and suddenly the fierce Alpine blast swept in a cloud of snow over the mountain, and howled like an unchained demon, through the gorge below. In an instant all was blindness and confusion and uncertainty. The very heavens were blotted out, and the frightened column stood and listened to the raving tempest that made the pine trees above it sway and groan, as if lifted from their rock-rooted places. But suddenly a still more alarming sound was heard—'An avalanche! an avalanche!' shrieked the guides, and the next moment an awful white form came leaping down the mountain, and striking the column that was struggling along the path, passed strait through it into the gulf below, carrying thirty dragoons and their horses with it in its wild plunge."

Principles of Zoology. Touching the Structure, Development, Distribution and Natural Arrangement of the Races of Animals, Living and Extinct. Part I. Comparative Physiology. By Louis Agassiz and Augustus A. Gould Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo.

The name of Professor Agassiz, the greatest of living naturalists, on the title page of this volume, is of itself a guarantee of its excellence. The work is intended for schools and colleges, and is admirably fitted for its purpose, but its value is not confined to the young. The general reader, who desires exact and reliable knowledge of the subject, and at the same time is unable to obtain the larger works of Professor Agassiz, will find in this little volume an invaluable companion. It has all the necessary plates and illustrations to enable the reader fully to comprehend its matter. The diagram of the crust of the earth, as related to zoology, is a most ingenious contrivance to present, at one view, the distribution of the principal types of animals, and the order of their successive appearance in the layers of the earth's crust. The publishers have issued the work in a style of great neatness and elegance.

The Writings of Cassius Marcellus Clay, including Speeches and Addresses. Edited with a Preface and Memoir by Horace Greely, New York: Harper & Brothers.

This is a large and beautiful octavo, and is embellished with an admirable likeness of Mr. Clay. The people of this country are so well acquainted with the peculiarities of Cassius M. Clay's manner, that we will not pause to characterize it; and his views upon public subjects are so partisan that we leave their discussion to the politicians of the country. The eminent abilities of Mr. Greely are displayed in the execution of the duties of editor; and the memoir which introduces the work does full justice to the subject.

The Odd Fellows' Amulet, or the Principles of Odd Fellowship Defined; the Objections to the Order Answered, and its Advantages Maintained. By Rev. D. W. Bristol. Auburn: Derby, Miller & Co.

This is a beautiful little volume, admirably illustrated. It is well written; will be read with interest by the general reader, and should be in the possession of every member of the great and beneficent order which it advocates and vindicates.

The Baronet's Daughters, and Harry Monk.

Mrs. Grey, who is recognized as one of the most accomplished female novelists of the present day, has recently given to the public another interesting volume, bearing the above title. There are two stories, both of which are marked by the ability which characterizes the whole of Mrs. Grey's works, and are well calculated to make a sultry afternoon pass agreeably away. The American publisher is Mr. T. B. Peterson, who furnishes a neat and uniform edition of Mrs. Grey's novels.

TO OUR READERS.

The Proprietors of "Graham's Magazine," desirous of maintaining for it the high reputation it has secured in the estimation of the people of the United States, are determined to spare no pains to increase its value, and make it universally regarded as the best literary publication in the country. To this end they have placed in the hands of several of our best engravers a series of plates, which will be truly remarkable for their superiority in design and execution. As usual, the pens of the best American writers will be employed in giving grace and excellence to its pages, and in addition to articles which have been secured from new contributors of acknowledged ability, they have the pleasure of announcing that an engagement has been effected with J. BAYARD TAYLOR, Esq., whose writings are so extensively known and admired, by which his valuable assistance will be secured in the editorial department of this Magazine exclusively. This arrangement will, we are assured, be hailed with pleasure by the host of friends which the Magazine possesses throughout the Union, as an earnest that no efforts will be omitted to show the sense the proprietors entertain of past favors, by rendering their work still more attractive and deserving of patronage for the future.

Transcriber's Note:

Certain irregularities in spelling and grammar have been left as in the original. Small errors in punctuation have been corrected without comment.

1. page 122—added apostrophe to word 'wont' in phrase '..he wont be my hero...'

2. page 123—corrected typo 'will' to 'well' in phrase 'They are all very will for rich people.'

3. page 125—corrected error in text 'almost wondering at first what Angile meant.' to 'almost wondering at first what Augusta meant.'

4. page 130—corrected typo 'spedily' to 'speedily' in phrase '...fit a mast to it, which was spedily done.'

5. page 143—corrected typo 'brightnesss' to 'brightness' in phrase '...the beauty and brightnesss of that sweet...'

6. page 153—corrected typo 'stong' to 'strong' in phrase '...or some stong emotion...'

7. the notation ñ has been used to designate an n with a tilde above it

THE END