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And when I sit by my little one,

And hold her hand and talk in the sun,

And hear the music that haunts the place,
I know she is raising her eyes to me,
And guessing how gentle my voice must be,

And teeing che music upon my face.

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer,

(I know the fancy is only vain,) I should pray; just once, when the weather is fair,

To see little Fanny and Langley Lane; Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear The voice of the friend that she holds so dear,

The song of the birds, the hum of the street,— It is better to be as we have been,— Each keeping up something, unlicard, unseen,

To make God's heaven more strange and awcet!

Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane!

There is always something .sweet to hear 1 Chirping of birds or patter of rain I

And Fanny, my little one, always near! And though I am weakly and can't live long, And Fanny my darling is far from strong,

And though we can n«vcr married be,— What then ?—since we hold one another so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one can not hear,

And the pleasure that only one can see?

—Good Words.



When my weary spinning's done,
And the shades of eve grow deep,
And by the bright hearthstone
The old folk sit asleep;
My heart and I in secret talk, when none can
see me weep.

Ofttimes the driving rain,
And sometimes the silent snow,
Beat on the window-pane,
And mingle sad and low
With the hopes and fears, the smiles and tears,
of a time long, long ago;

Till they act the tales they tell,
And a step is on the floor,
And a voice I once loved well
Says, "Open me the door."
Then I turn with a chill from the mocking
wind, which whispers "Nevermore !"—

To the little whitewashed room
In which my days arc spent;
And, journeying toward the tomb,
My companions gray and bent,
Who haply deem their grandchild's life not
joyous, but content,

Ah me! for the suns not set,
For the years not yet begun,
For the days not numbered yet,
And the work that must be done,
Before the desert path is crossed, and the
weary web is spun!

Like a beacon in the night,
I see my first gray hair;

And I scarce can tell aright
If it is from age or care,
For Time glides silent o'er my life, and leave*
no landmark there.

But perchance 'tis for the best,
And I must harder strive,
If life is little blest,
Then not for life to live,
For though a heart has nought to take, it may
have much to give.

And they are old and poor,
And bread is hard to win,
And a guest is at the door
Who soon must enter in;
And to keep his shadow from their hearth, I
daily toil and spin.

My sorrow is their gain,
And I show not by a tear
How my solitude and pain
Have bought their comfort dear,
For the storm which wrecked my life's best
hope has left me stranded here.

But I hear the neighbors say
That the hour-glass runs too fast,
And I know that in that glad day,
When toil and sorrow are past,
The false and true shall receive their dne, and
hearts cease aching at last

Chambers'! Journal.



Once in a dream I saw the flowers That bud and bloom in Paradise; More fair they are than waking eyes

Have seen in all this world of onrs.

And faint the perfume-bearing rose,
And faint the lily on its stem,

And faint the perfect violet
Compared with them.

I heard the songs of Paradise:
Each bird sat singing in his place;
A tender song so full of grace

It soared like incense to the skies.

Each bird sat singing to his mate
Soft cooing notes among the trees:

The nightingale herself were cold
To such as these.

I saw the fourfold Kiver flow,

And deep it was, with golden sand;
It flowed between a mossy land

With murmured music grave and low.

It hath refreshment for all thirst,

For fainting spirits strength and rest:

Earth holds not such a draught as this From cast to west.

The Tree of Life stood budding there, Abundant witli its twelvefold fruits; Eternal sap sustains its roots,

Its shadowing brunches fill the air.

Its leaves are healing for the world,
Its fruit the hungry world can feed,

Sweeter than honey to the taste,
And balm indeed.

I §aw the gate called Benntifnl;

And looked, hut scarce could look within;

I saw the golden streets begin,
And outskirts of the glassy pool.
Oh harps, oh crowns of plenteous stare,

Oh green palm-branches, many-leaved—
Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,
Nor heart conceived.

I hope to see these things again,
But not as once in dreams by night;
To see them with my very sight,

And !»Mrl!. and handle, and attain:

To have all Heaven beneath my feet
For narrow way that once they trod;

To have my part with all the Saints,
And with my God.

n. In A Symbol.

Golden-winged, silver-winged,

Winged with flashing flame,
Such a flight of birds I saw,

Birds without a name:
Singing songs in their own tongue

(Song of songs) they came.

One to another calling,

Each answering each,
One to another calling

In their proper speech:
High above my head they wheeled,

Far out of reach.

On wings of flame they went and came

With a cadcnced clang,
Their silver wings tinkled,

Their golden wings rang,
The wind it whistled through their wings

Where in Heaven they sang.

They flashed and they darted

Awhile before mine eyes, Mounting, mounting, mounting still

In haste to scale the skies— Birds without a nest on earth,

Birds of Paradise.

Where the moon riscth not,

Nor sun seeks the west, There to sing their glory

Which they sing at rest, Their to sing their love-song

When they sing their best:

Not in any garden

That mortal foot hath trod,
Not in any flowering tree

That springs from earthly sod,
Bnt in the garden where they dwell,
The Paradise of God.

Christina G. Rossetii. —Englishman's Magazine.


When we were at school together, Jack, There was down on neither'.* check!

Now! —if we look back along onr track—
Which has gained wlmt he would seek?

For the woman you loved is lying
In a churchyard far away,

And the sunset, so swiftly dying,
Seems to you the best of the day.

My picture is in the Academy, Jack,

And they've hung it on the line;
And critics, good lack, discern a knack

Sublime in this daub of mine.
Bnt the eyes I dreamed should see it,

And the lips, whose praise I'd prize,
Have passed from the world. So be it.

But I live when the daylight dies.

For I see over roof and chimney, Jack,

The gold in the western sky.
Though the present's black as the stormy wrack,

The hour of release draws nigh.
For peace will be won when lite is done,—

Beyond the gloom lies the gold.
Oh! the sunset honr has for ns a power

And a charm it lacked of old!

London iioriety.


Triibner's American and Oriental fjterary Record.—No. I. London : Triibner and Co. 1865. We gladly embrace the opportunity of directing attention to this publication. It is a "Monthly Register of the most Important Works published in North and South America, in Indin. China, and the British Colonies; with t )ccnsion;il Notci on German, Dutch, Danish, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Russian Books." The following is the notice prefixed by the enterprising publishers to this first number of their Record:

"We desire to bring the literature of the East and West more fully before the reading public of England and Europe: with this view we purpose presenting to our readers a monthly record of every important work published in North and South America, in India, China, and throughout the Kast. We are not aware of any previous systematic attempt of this kind, but we think the time is ripe for such an undertaking, and we unhesitatingly ask the support of all students and lovers of literature, believing that when our object is fairly understood, we shall neither lack readers nor sympathizers.

"In the United States of America, a large number of really valuable works, written in our language, are yearly issuing from the press, selling there by hundreds and thousands, but hardly known here, simply because there has hitherto been no recognized organ through which their existence could become known to the English reading public. We shall, in our monthly issues, record all such books, and occasionally give what brief comments may lie necessary, to show the qualifications of the authors, and" the nature of their labors. We also purpose occasionally grouping together the books recently published on given subjects, so that the student in any department of science and literature may Ik; made acquainted with the best and most recent American literature on his special branch of study.

"The literatiire of Mexico, and of the Republics and States of Central and South America, has never yet been brought systematically before scholars and students: we have the pleasure of presenting in this number two interesting lists,— one of Peruvian, the other of Brazilian books; the former presents a complete summary of the literature (excluding periodicals) published in Peru, in the years 1863 and 1864. We hope, in early numbers of our publication, to lay before our readers some details of the literature of Mexico, Guatemala, Chili, the River Plntc States, Venezuela, New Granada, and Cuba, and to continue giving a regular chronicle of all books that are issued in these states.

"In India and China an important English literature is gradually springing up. Of this department we now give a specimen, and in our future numbers we shall gire fuller details. Sanskrit literature, as well as books in all the vernacular languages of India and of the East in general, will he fully reported upon from time to time. Having opened up correspondence with native and European scholars in every part of India, and in various parts of China, we hope to render this department of very great interest to all whose studies are in that direction.

"From other fields of literature we shall also supply information of interest to readers of all classes.

"Another feature in our undertaking will be, to present copious notes on the bibliography of North and South America; ample materials for which, the collections of many years, are now in our hands.

"We trust our readers will bear in mind, that our pages are not of mere ephemeral interest. They will contain, in the course of the year, a yast mass of literary information, no where else to he met with; and we hope will be considered of sufficient importance to rank on the library •helves with the very many valuable bibliographies this century has produced."

There is no need for us to add any thing to this clear statement, except that the yearly subscription is the small sum of five shillings.—London Quarterly.

TTte Principal Ruins q/ Asia Minor.—Illustrated I and Described. By Charles Tkxikr, Member of the Institute of France, and R. Poppleweli.! Pullan, F.R.I.B.A., Day and Son, London. Following up the record of Byzantine architecture, the joint production of Messrs. Tcxier and Pullan, a work which we brought to the notice of, our readers two or three months ago, we have i now from the snme authors another handsome folio volume relating to the remains of Greek and Gra;co-Romano architecture on the coasts of ,]''.di-'. Ionia, and Caria, in Asia Minor. This, , far more than the preceding publication, seems i specially for the use of the professional student, i and we must, therefore, leave the full considcru-' lion of it to journals that can afford greater space' to the subject than we can at this busy time of the' year, and particularly to those which make architecture their staple material. It is, in truth, nothing more than on English edition, by Mr. Pullan, of a series of illustrations of some of the finest buildings of antiquity, selected from M. Texier's large work on Asia Minor, the price of which | precludes its circulation among those to whom it would prove mo«t useful. Mr. Pullan has himself gone over the greater part of the ground, where the buildings yet remain, and precedes the illustrations by a short yet interesting narrative of

his travels, accompanying it by historical notices compiled and abridged chiefly from the writings of M. Texicr, whom he believes to be the only traveler who has visited all the sites described. The edifices passed in review are the Temple (Doric) at A.-sos; the renowned Temple of Ai>ollo Brancliidoj, at Poseidon, of which the architects were Daphnis of Miletus, and Peonius of Ephesus, the latter of whom lived in the reign of Alexander the Great, and was the architect chosen to complete the great Temple of Diana at Ephesus; the Temple of Jupiter, and the Theatre, at Aizani, the date of which is probably al>out the second century of our era; the Temple of Augustus at Ancyra; the Temple of Venus at Aphrodisiusj Theatres at Aspendus and Myra; ruins at Patara, and portions of the Basilica at Pergamos. The number of plates is fifty-one, so that it will be evident some of the edifices occupy several plates. For example, the Temple at Aizani has twelve plates devoted to it, mostly showing details of very beautiful ornament.

In the "Battle of the Styles," Mr. Pullun undoubtedly lakes the side of the Classicists. He would not abjure mediaeval architecture, but he loves the other more, and considers we are making a mistake in much of what has of late Iwen done or is now doing. We get at this state of his feeling from some preliminary remarks, and ore by no means disposed to question their truth. "In'the present day," he says, "that important clement in architectural beauty—Proportion—is, for the most part, either altogether ignored, or else completely overlooked, in efforts after tho picturesque, or in the adaptation of buildings to suit the utilitarian and economical requirements of the age. Our ecclesiastical buildings are frequently but im]>erfect imitations of ordinary town and village churches, or" else so-called original compositions in which stunted columns, top-heavy capitals, and windows absurdly elongated, are introduced by way of novelty, or for the sake of contrasts produced by disproportion; and our civic and other public edifices are often but shapeless masses of stone or brick, all wall or all window, without that relation between pier and aperture so necessary to give the appearance of lightness, and at the same rime of stability. In short, we are groping in the dark in search of the trnj principles of design." Yet he thinks a glimmering of light is visible, for architects arc beginning to see that any edifice nviy lw designed and erected according to the eternal rules of pro|>ortion, and, at the same time, may preserve the distinctive characteristics of style. Inasmuch as no nation studied and applied to their buildings these rules or laws of proportion to such an extent as did the Greeks, so would he have their works closely studied by our own architects, that we may practice the some truths of beauty and harmony as are learned from what the ancients have left for our guidance; and among these by no means the most unimportant are the scattered and broken, yet often magnificent, remains on the western shores of Asia Minor.—Art Journal.

Forms of Pur/iose and StttrJum in proxr, of Scottish i'aisrint Life and Chanvler in AM Ijtmg &'/nc, iS'X'tf'cAffj! of Local Scent* and C'iurac/cr*. With a Glossary. By Janet Hamilton, authoress of "Poems and Essays." London: Nisbet & Co. 1865. When Janet Hamilton published the "Poems and Essays," she described herself as "an old woman of threescore and ten, whose only school-room was a shoemaker's hearth, and her only teacher a hard-working mother, who, while she plied the spinning-wheel, taught 'Janet' to read the Bible;" the only education mother or daughter ever received. She adds, "I was never learned and never tried to write till I was fifty years of age, when I invented a sort of caligraphy for my own use, to preserve my compositions till I gave them off to be written by my husband or son." Of this 'caligraphy' a specimen is given in the preface to this little book; roughhewn hieroglyphics are the old lady's capitals (for she writes in a sort of capitals) as were ever seen.

The "Poems and Essays" excited great attention, were praised by the critics as not only remarkable specimens of what native force can achieve in defiance of difficulties, but as full of genuine beauties both of thought and expression, and have passed through two editions. Here is other frnit from the same old tree,—old, but still fresh and lull of sap.

The little volume is dedicated by the old lady, now approaching to the age of eighty years, to her "dear and dutiful son, James Hamilton," and contains many pieces of merit, some of striking merit, while it is full of spirit throughout. We prefer Mrs. Hamilton's Doric to her English: the latter is pleasing, but often too pretty and modish, with talk about Flora and other heathen deities with whom the old Scotch lady ha:> contrived to get up an acquaintance; the former is often singularly racy and forcible, is at times also genuinely pathetic. The prose tales are very characteristic of the "good old times." Nothing, by the way, eould well be more dreadful to poor children than the highest orthodox style of Sabbath-keeping, as here unflinchingly, but, as we think, not quite approvingly, set down. Mrs. Hamilton is quite a politician. Poland, and Garibaldi, and the American war, have two or three poems apiece given to them. Unhappily, like most of her country-people, Janet Hamilton, ignorant of the real political history and of the true condition of the States, and led away with the prevailing current of temper and prejudice, has allowed herself to indulge in bitter injustice to the North. This volnme was published just as the Northern cause finally, and with astartling completeness, stood forth victorious. How much the good old lady must be edified, as, by the light of present facts, "she reads what she so lately published!

"Hac ye come to yer senses yet, Sammy, my man? For ye juist war rid-wud when the war it began, Has the bluid ye hae lost, and the physic ye've


No cool't doun yer fever and sober't yer brain?
What is 't ye hae won? is it conquest and fame?
Is 't honor and glory,—a conqueror's name?
Is 't the South wi' its cotton, its planters, and


It 's nane of them a', it's a million o' graves. What is 't ye hae lost? It's the big dollar bags, An" ye've nocht in yer pouches but dirty green

rags; Of the woll of your men nocht is left but their

banes, An' the kintra is IV o' their widows an' weans.

Ay, "put up thy sword," an'hae dinnewi'yer

game, Ye hae lost a' the stakes that ye played for, gse


Leuk after yer farm, let yer neebars alane,
Ye hae wark on yer han', or I'm muckle mista'en."

This, however, was but the error of a good prejudiced old Scotch lady who could hardly be expected to believe otherwise than her neighbors lent her light. Nor is the untimeliness of such poetical forecasts, in face of complete and decisive victory, a matter of very grave consequence to anybody. Mrs. Hamilton's miscalculations are awkward for her; but amount to nothing in any other respect. They can not but remind us, however, of what comes to light even while we write this notice. On Tuesday, June 6th, the Times published a long letter from its American correspondent, intended to show that in Texas Kirby Smith would be at the head of large forces, and "might make a desperate fight," so that "Texas might possibly become the nucleus of a new Confederacy." Before that letter wag written, Smith had surrendered with all his army! We hope that Mrs. Hamilton's volume may soon come to a second edition; and that then all the effusions relating to American affairs will be left out. They do her, to say the truth, no credit, notwithstanding their spirit and energy; and they unhappily reflect the lamentable injustice to a great nation, in its great agony, fighting for the cause of liberty and right, which has brought so serious a blemish upon the reputation of this country.—London Quarterly.

Henry Holbeach, Student in Life and Philosophy. A Narrative and a Discussion. Twovols. London: Alexander Strahan. This work will be rather puzzling to the critic who is resolved to label and docket it. The discussions pursued through these pages are, de omnibusrelnis et qtiibusdam a/iis, and no brief notice can convey an adequate notion of their purpose. The book professes to be the work of an editor who produces the papers and "controversial letters" of one Henry Holbeach. The anonymous author shifts the responsibility of his meditations to an obscure, crotchety, i)npudent, impracticable person, who feigns impossible conditions, and one-sided correspondence, and other machinery of the bookmaker's craft. It is no easy task to understand the drift of the author. The reader can only perceive him through the reflection of a reflection. However, there are ingots of strong common sense and veins of holy thinking discoverable throughout this new artdigging. The narrative portion is rather too absurd. The formation of the Puritan Bohemian Club, where every possible shade of opinion was to be triumphantly accepted on the condition of unlimited freedom of discussion, entire personal confidence, and—beyond the walls of the club— utter mutual indifference, is hardly done into historical verisimilitude, and the disappearance of the founder of the club, and the legacy of his papers to the editor of these volumes, is scarcely so ingenious as Dickens's various devices for forming a homogeneous whole out of the olln pojridu that he calls his "Christmas number!" The sketch of Gravely "little meeting" is about as realizable as the island of Lapntn. "Calvinistic" " Arinn" "Dissenters," familiar with nil the intcnsest bigotry of Dissent, of Calvinism and Socinianism, seem to us so incognizable, that we suppose the author means to "pooh-pooh " all theological opinion and ecclesiastical action. lie calls himself a political dissenter, but thns affords himself exceedingly little op|mrtimity for the development of his views on the relation of Church to State; and in the "sanctuary" provided for the fresh j growths of opinion and life, within the national church, he exults. The controversial letters addressed to John Stuart Mill, F. D. Manrice, Thomas Carlyle, J. H. Newman, G. H. Lewes, Matthew Arnold, and others, form the most important portion of the work. The style of these letters has to be apologized for by the editor: he | assures us that they are not in the least "rude," I they arc merely intensely "Puritan," and an ex-! pression of individualism and of liberty earned to the extremes! verge of theoretical action. He' gives us, moreover, an interesting analysis of them in some "last words," which may help the attcn-' live render to understand them. We must, how- ) ever, confess, that keen and strong as mnch of the writing is, and that though, as we believe, some of the distinguished men above mentioned will readily confess they have found a worthy nntago- i nist, much of the sharp wit consists of the Punrh-' like habit of saying uncourteous and incongruous! and unceremonious things to celebrated men, without actually wishing to tweak their nose or meaning to be thought rude and unmannerly.

The letters with which we can sympathize most j heartily are those addressed to Carlyle and Lewes. [ The sledge-hammer style in which some of the fallacies of Carlyle on the identification of might and right are demolished greatly churm us, and' throughout the book the brave manner in which I mere Utilitarianism, Materialism, Positivism, and I Authority are grappled with, convinces the reader that he is in the hands of one who has read extensively and thought profoundly on all the terrible questions of the day. But the letters to Mansel and Newman, though containing useful matter, are full of the dreariest and most audacious scepticism. The rock on which all the author's positive faith splits is the doctrine of eternal punishment and sin. "Twenty million times the evidence" would not prove the doctrine. If there were sufficient evidence, it would take away our God. The author for one would neither worship nor obey such a God, who would only be the deification of devil, &c., &c. In a perfectly Satanic manner our unknown author raves at this awful teaching of our holy Christianity, And, instead of falling back on infinite justice, love, and goodness, he proposes suicide and a general and humane resolve to put a term to the world's existence, and bring humanity to nn end. We feel disposed to say, "O Bohemian-Puritan, with thy hand against every man and every god, what effect can your Satanic humor of rebellion against the government of God and immortality of man have upon the facts of the case? Have as you will, you only show what effcetyears of sceptical meditation have produced upon your own nature. You do not help us by saying that you have only to 'hang or drown yoursi-lt;' if sin can be eternal, and probation is limited to earth. Pray do which you please, but remember that the intensity

of your feeling against a future retribution is strangely out of harmony with the fears, the hopes, the experience, and expectations of the whole human race. If you take your ideas to the Hindu vogi or the Buddhist bonze, to the Yorkshire collier or the Italian brigand, to every man who has waked up to the awfulncss of life, will you help him to forget his fears? Believe us, Dr. Newman and Dr. Mansel, Richard Weaver and John Wesley, will succeed better than yon, in spite of your terrible sarcasm." However, the editor of these papers deserves our thanks for his production. In spite of the bumptious manner and the unsatisfactory apology of the real author, notwithstanding that exaggeration of humane impulses which leads him to think that man's judgment is certainly more accurate than what we have every probability to believe is the judgment of the " allconquering goodness ;" though Bishop Butler comes m for a sound thrashing, on the ground of hia main principle, and though Comte is well flogged for his vaunted philosophy, which is declared to be nothing but a barren classification; though everybody is driven into a corner, and nobody is or ever was right but Henry Holbeach, Puritan Bohemian; still we think that the book is worthy of some of the themes which it discusses, and will compel the distinguished men who are addressed to listen and perha]>s reply.—British Quarterly.

Pre-liistorir. Times, as illustrated by Ancient Remains, and tlie manners and Customs of Modern Savages. By Johx Lubbock, F.R.S., &c. London: Williams & Norgatc. 1865. All of us are interested in knowing what were the habits of life and general characters of our early ancestors, and of late years the desire for information upon this subject has increased vastly. The literature of pre-historic man derived its first comprehensive contribution from Dr. Wilson; Sir Charles Lyell's work next appeared in the field, nnd now we find the distinguished president of the Ethnological Society presenting himself as a public instructor. We are glad that Mr. Lubbock has left for awhile the arena of technical science, not because we think he is better in his present capacity, but l>ccanse he is an original observer, enthusiastic in his devotion to his pursuit, and capable of giving us the results of his inquiries in language which is as lucid as it is fascinating. There is another reason, too, why we are pleased to see the volume which he now addresses to general readers, and that is that we wish to see its author as thoroughly appreciated and admired by those external to scientific circles as he is by those within them. His book is a combination of reprints and original matter, and can not fail to be of interest to lM>th naturalists and archaeologists. It differs from Sir Charles Lyell's treatise, in containing less geological matter, and in embracing a more comprehensive and accurate account of those deposits in which flint weapons have been discovered. Firstly, he treats of the use of bronze in ancient times, and the bronze age; then he passes on to the consideration of the stone age, of tumuli, the lake habitations in Switzerland, the Danish shellmounds, North American ar.'h vology, cave-men, the antiquity of the human race, modern savages, and, finally, he concludes with a most jiliilo-npliic and deeply-thought dissertation upon the primi

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