THE EXILE.

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BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.

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Weep for the dead! for him in silence sleeping,O’er whose lone grave the wild winds coldly sweep;Weep for the dead, yet make but little weeping,He lies at peace, unbroken is his sleep.His last fond look of love on thee was resting,His hands last feeble pressure met thine own;It was of thee he made his last requesting,Fell on thy ear his last, sweet, lingering tone.Weep that ye hear his steps no more returning,That he in darkness and in stillness lies;Make not for him a long and bitter mourning,Calm is the slumber that has sealed his eyes.But weep for him who far away has wandered,Whose feet tread painfully some distant strand,Who sad and long life’s dream has vainly pondered,Who mourns, deep longing, for his native land.Faint and afar his heavy burden bearing,No smile, no word, no look from thee can cheer;Once all his cares were lighter for thy sharing,Once all his joys, for thee, were doubly dear.Oh, weep for him! there is no consolation;He liveth, but for thee his life is o’er;Count the slow years with weary annotation,The mocking years shall bring him back no more.Sit by thy hearth-stone in the silence grieving,Take from the past its sweet yet faded flowers;For thee no tree of hope has spring-time’s leaving,The song is silent in thy pleasant bowers.From all thy future him thou must dissever,Poor broken heart! in vain must thou deplore;His feet from that far land shall seek thee never,He shall return no more—to thee no more.

Weep for the dead! for him in silence sleeping,

O’er whose lone grave the wild winds coldly sweep;

Weep for the dead, yet make but little weeping,

He lies at peace, unbroken is his sleep.

His last fond look of love on thee was resting,

His hands last feeble pressure met thine own;

It was of thee he made his last requesting,

Fell on thy ear his last, sweet, lingering tone.

Weep that ye hear his steps no more returning,

That he in darkness and in stillness lies;

Make not for him a long and bitter mourning,

Calm is the slumber that has sealed his eyes.

But weep for him who far away has wandered,

Whose feet tread painfully some distant strand,

Who sad and long life’s dream has vainly pondered,

Who mourns, deep longing, for his native land.

Faint and afar his heavy burden bearing,

No smile, no word, no look from thee can cheer;

Once all his cares were lighter for thy sharing,

Once all his joys, for thee, were doubly dear.

Oh, weep for him! there is no consolation;

He liveth, but for thee his life is o’er;

Count the slow years with weary annotation,

The mocking years shall bring him back no more.

Sit by thy hearth-stone in the silence grieving,

Take from the past its sweet yet faded flowers;

For thee no tree of hope has spring-time’s leaving,

The song is silent in thy pleasant bowers.

From all thy future him thou must dissever,

Poor broken heart! in vain must thou deplore;

His feet from that far land shall seek thee never,

He shall return no more—to thee no more.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Lillian and Other Poems. By William Mackworth Praed. Now first Collected. New York: Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo.

Praed, one of the most brilliant, fanciful and peculiar poets of the century, has met with singular ill-luck in his native land in not finding either an editor or a public for the chance-offsprings of his sparkling muse. To Dr. Griswold belongs the credit of rescuing his pieces from oblivion, of collecting them in a permanent form, and of introducing them with a preface which presents, with condensed felicity of expression, the leading incidents of Praed’s life, and the subtle peculiarities of his genius. Poet, scholar, and politician, Praed was also a most popular and accomplished man of society, and not a little of the raciness of his poems consists in their curious combination of the romantic and the worldly. They suggest one of those modern parlors opening on one side into a greenhouse, with a strange blending in the atmosphere of musk and sweet-briar,eau de cologneand lilies. In such a forced union of the ideal and the conventional we are, of course, all the more piquantly reminded of their essential contrast. With all this clever deviltry, however, in the instinctive action of Praed’s mind, he has still given us some poems which indicate that a stout English heart beats beneath the embroidered waistcoat of the man of fashion, and will sometimes gush out in natural tenderness or passion. But his exquisitely nice perception of the falsehood of cultivated and conventual life, combined with a laughing charity for its pleasant hypocricies, commonly interferes with his poetic faith; and he is continually provoking sentimental readers by raising their serious sympathies only to give the greater force to the flush of sarcasm which dissolves them. This peculiarity springs, perhaps, from a deeper source than mere intellectual mischievousness, and refers to a humorous sadness of mood which is apt to characterize men who are both poets and wits—who see things at once in their ideal and conventional relations, and are fascinated by both. The observing reader will also detect, as a result of this, a certain fine misanthropy in the poems, but a misanthropy which is without malice or hatred. His description of the Troubadour, in his delicious poem of that name, may stand in some degree for his own portrait:

A wandering troubadour was he;He bore a name of high degree,And learned betimes to slay and sue,As knights of high degree should do.While vigor nerved his buoyant arm,And youth was his to cheat and charm;Being immensely fond of dancing,And somewhat given to romancing,He roamed about through towers and towns,Apostrophizing smiles and frowns,Singing sweet staves to beads and bonnets,And dying, day by day, in sonnets.Flippant and fair, and fool enough,And careless where he met rebuff,Poco-curante in all casesOf furious foes, or pretty faces,With laughing lip, and jocund eye,And studied tear and practiced sigh,And ready sword, and ready verse,And store of ducats in his purse,He sinned few crimes, loved many times,And wrote a hundred thousand rhymes!

A wandering troubadour was he;

He bore a name of high degree,

And learned betimes to slay and sue,

As knights of high degree should do.

While vigor nerved his buoyant arm,

And youth was his to cheat and charm;

Being immensely fond of dancing,

And somewhat given to romancing,

He roamed about through towers and towns,

Apostrophizing smiles and frowns,

Singing sweet staves to beads and bonnets,

And dying, day by day, in sonnets.

Flippant and fair, and fool enough,

And careless where he met rebuff,

Poco-curante in all cases

Of furious foes, or pretty faces,

With laughing lip, and jocund eye,

And studied tear and practiced sigh,

And ready sword, and ready verse,

And store of ducats in his purse,

He sinned few crimes, loved many times,

And wrote a hundred thousand rhymes!

Among the best among the many good things in this volume is “The Belle of the Ball,” “The Vicar,” “The Legend of the Teuful-Haus,” “The Bridal of Belmont,” and “The Red Fisherman.” We have but space for a description of Richard Cœur de Lion—a fair specimen of Praed’s dashing manner:

A ponderous thing was Richard’s can,And so was Richard’s boot,And Saracens and liquor ran,Where’er he set his foot.So fiddling here, and fighting there,And murdering time and tune,With sturdy limb, and listless air,And gauntleted hand, and jeweled hair,Half monarch, half buffoon,He turned away from feast to fray,From quarreling to quaffing,So great in prowess and in pranks,So fierce and funny in the ranks,That Saladin and Soldan said,Where’er that mad-cap Richard led,Alla! he held his breath for dread,And burst his sides for laughing!At court, the humor of a kingIs always voted “quite the thing;”Morals and cloaks are loose or lacedAccording to the sovereign’s taste,And belles and bouquets both are dressedJust as his majesty thinks best.Of course, in that delightful age,When Richard ruled the roast,Cracking of craniums was the rage,And beauty was the toast.Ay! all was laugh, and life, and love;And lips and shrines were kissed;And vows were ventured in the grove,And lances in the list;And boys roamed out in sunny weatherTo weave a wreath and rhyme together:While dames, in silence and in satin,Lay listening to the soft French-Latin,And flung their sashes and their sighsFrom odor-breathing balconies.

A ponderous thing was Richard’s can,

And so was Richard’s boot,

And Saracens and liquor ran,

Where’er he set his foot.

So fiddling here, and fighting there,

And murdering time and tune,

With sturdy limb, and listless air,

And gauntleted hand, and jeweled hair,

Half monarch, half buffoon,

He turned away from feast to fray,

From quarreling to quaffing,

So great in prowess and in pranks,

So fierce and funny in the ranks,

That Saladin and Soldan said,

Where’er that mad-cap Richard led,

Alla! he held his breath for dread,

And burst his sides for laughing!

At court, the humor of a king

Is always voted “quite the thing;”

Morals and cloaks are loose or laced

According to the sovereign’s taste,

And belles and bouquets both are dressed

Just as his majesty thinks best.

Of course, in that delightful age,

When Richard ruled the roast,

Cracking of craniums was the rage,

And beauty was the toast.

Ay! all was laugh, and life, and love;

And lips and shrines were kissed;

And vows were ventured in the grove,

And lances in the list;

And boys roamed out in sunny weather

To weave a wreath and rhyme together:

While dames, in silence and in satin,

Lay listening to the soft French-Latin,

And flung their sashes and their sighs

From odor-breathing balconies.

The Howadji in Syria. By George William Curtis. Author of “Nile Notes.” New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

Mr. Curtis has the finest genius for description among the myriad tourists of the day. His observation is clear, accurate and comprehensive, and the picture formed on his own imagination he can transfer to the imagination of the reader without the omission of a single detail. But he also has the poetic faculty of seeing not only the external form and colors of objects, but their inward spirit and meaning; and this makes his pictures alive with thought and feeling, and constitutes their peculiar attractiveness. The reader is literally transported; his eye falls on the page, and at once he is in Cairo or Jerusalem, not only seeing those places, but experiencing the pure and perfect luxury of the feelings they awaken in an imaginative mind. It is this magical power which places Mr. Curtis above all contemporary writers of travels. He has really caught the spirit of the east. Some London critics have objected to his book on account of its characteristic excellence, they being pleased to call his felicity and sureness of insight by the name of idealization, using the word to convey a charge of misrepresentation. We believe that he daguerreotypes both forms and emotions, and is equally true to fact and thought. His faculty of external observation is none the less accurate, because he has in addition the genius which most travelers lack.

We do not know whether Mr. Curtis would succeed as well in describing Western as Eastern life, manners and scenery. In the East he is at home, even the fanciful fopperies with which he pertinaciously bespangles his style, aiding the effect of his pictures. It may be that the sensuous and dreamy atmosphere through which he shows us the forms of Oriental life is native, not so much to hisown mind, as the scenes he represents, and that he could vary it with a variation in his subject. If so, we hope he will not leave a corner of the earth unvisited, for such a representative faculty would make him the Shakspeare of tourists.

One of the most delightful pictures in the present volume is the “counterfeit presentment” of Oriental shopping. We quote it as a specimen of Mr. Curtis’s word-painting. The Howadji enters a bazaar:

“The merchant, gravely courteous, reveals his treasures, little dreaming that they are inestimable to the eyes that contemplate them. His wares make poets of his customers, who are sure that the Eastern poets must have passed their lives in an endless round of shopping.

“Here are silk stuffs from Damascus and Aleppo; cambric from the district ofNablus, near the well of Jacob; gold and silver threads from Mount Lebanon; keffie, the Bedouin handkerchiefs, from Mecca, and fabrics of delicate device from Damascus blend their charm with theAnatolian carpets of gorgeous tissue. The fruits of Hamas hang beyond—dried fruits and blades from Celo Syria—pistacchios from Aleppo, and over them strange Persian rugs.

“The eye feasts upon splendor. The wares are often clumsy, inconvenient, and unshapely. The coarsest linen is embroidered with the finest gold. It is a banquet of the crude elements of beauty, unrefined by taste. It is the pure figment unworked into the picture.

“But the contemplation of these articles, of name and association so alluring, and the calm curiosity of the soft eyes, that watch you in the dimness of the bazaar, gradually soothe your mind like sleep, and you sit by the merchant in pleasant reverie. You buy as long and as much as you can. Have rhymes, and colors, and fancies prices?

“The courteous merchant asks fabulous sums for his wares, and you courteously offer a tenth or a twentieth of his demand. He looks grieved, and smokes. You smoke, and look resigned.

“‘Have the Howadji reflected that this delicate linen (it is coarse crash) comes from Bagdad, upon camels, over the desert?’

“‘They have, indeed, meditated that fact.’

“‘Are these opulent strangers aware that the sum they mention would plunge an unhappy merchant into irretrievable ruin?’

“‘The thought severs the heart-strings of the opulent strangers. But are their resources rivers, whose sands are gold?’

“—And the soft-eyed Arab boy is dispatched for fresh coffee.

“We wear away the day in this delightful traffic. It has been a rhetorical tilt. We have talked, and lived, and bought poetry, and at twilight our treasures follow us to the hotel.”

Paris Sketch Book. By William M. Thackeray. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 18mo.

In these volumes the author of Vanity Fair appears as the social critic of Paris. With an eye that nothing ridiculous or bizarre can elude, he peers into the shady corners of French life, and transfers its oddities to his page. His English sense, it is true, is somewhat too constantly accompanied by his English prejudice; but even where he loses his fairness he never loses his brilliancy.

Among the many attractions of the book are some capital stories illustrative of French manners and character. Perhaps the best chapter is that on Louis the Fourteenth. Its exposition of kingship is mercilessly satirical and remorselessly just. There is a little wood-cut in this part of the book, which the revolutionists should distribute in every country in Europe as an instrument of insurrection. It represents first the royal robes, then royalty without the robes, then royalty in the robes. The inference to the eye is irresistible, that the robes and not the men constitute royalty. The satire is especially directed at Louis XIV., but it might with more justice be fastened on the present sovereigns of the continent of Europe.

The Study of Words. By Richard Cheverix French, B. D. New York: Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo.

This volume has been very popular in England, having passed rapidly through four editions. The author not only considers words as “fossil poetry,” but fossil ethics and fossil history. Many of his speculations are ingenious, tending to impress upon the mind the truth that language is the incarnation of thought, and that words are things. But in all that relates to the philosophy of the matter he is very inferior to one of our writers, the Rev. Dr. Bushnell, of Hartford, who, in his late theological writings has exhibited extraordinary depth and sentences of thought in demonstrating both the vitality and the limitations of language. Mr. French’s work is sketchy and readable, distinguished rather for the value of its detached remarks than for the comprehensiveness of its general plan. Its tendency, however, is to provoke independent thinking on the subject, in which Mr. French’s “Story of Words” may be disconnected from the languid wordiness of Mr. French.

The Works of Stephen Olin, D. D., LL. D., late President of the Wesleyan University. New York: Harper & Brothers. Vols. 1 and 2. 12mo.

An elegant edition, such as the present promises to be, of the works of so eminent a divine as the late Dr. Olin, is a contribution to theological and to general literature. The first and second volumes contain his Sermons, Lectures and Addresses. They are worthy of the author’s extensive reputation as an accurate and practical thinker, and are animated throughout with a tolerant but none the less kindling religious faith. In an age when charity is so common a screen of indifference, it is a refreshment to read an author whose toleration is the result of the depth and breadth of his religious feeling, and whose zeal is as intense as his mind is large. To young men, especially, these volumes are invaluable as guides in the practical duties of life, and the formation of a manly Christian character. Dr. Olin possessed, in no ordinary measure, that wisdom which comes from the union of exalted sentiment with sturdy sense, and his advice is therefore always elevated and always practical.

Claret and Olives; from the Garonne to the Rhone: or Notes Social, Picturesque and Legendary, by the way. By Angus B. Reach. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This little volume, one of the series of Putnam’s Semi-Monthly Library, is altogether the most attractive book on the south of France we have ever read. It is written in a style of great liveliness and point, is full of vigorous descriptions of scenery and manners, and some of the legends are told inimitably. The series of volumes to which it belongs we cannot too cordially commend to the public. Taking into consideration the excellence of the type and paper, it is the cheapest collection of books ever published in the country, the price of each volume being but twenty-five cents. The cheapness, however, of the series is not so noteable as the rare taste which guides the selection ofbooks. The present volume, “Claret and Olives,” is, in point of style alone, a work of high literary merit, and we cannot but think that its author will wake up some fine morning and find himself famous.

The English Family Robinson. The Desert Home, or the Adventures of a Lost Family in the Wilderness. By Captain Mayne Reid, author of the “Rifle Rangers.” With Twelve Illustrations, by William Harvey. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 18mo.

This charming volume belongs to a class of works possessing universal interest. It narrates the trials and experiences of an English family lost in the great desert in the interior of North America. In this desert they discover a delightful oasis, and dwell on it for ten years. The descriptions of their housekeeping and hunting are exceedingly vivid, while there is just enough variety in the characters of the family to add a dramatic interest to the narrative. The volume is mostly devoted to exciting representations of hunting adventures, and we know of few books better calculated to convey to young persons a knowledge of natural history. The author evidently writes from personal observation both of the scenery and animals he describes.

Gaieties and Gravities. By Horace Smith. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 18mo.

Most of the pieces contained in this volume were originally contributed to the New Monthly Magazine, in the old days of that periodical, when it was edited by Campbell, the poet. Smith is now widely known as one of the authors of the “Rejected Addresses,” and as the sole author of numerous admirable novels; but we doubt if any of his works show his genius and character in a light at once so amiable and so sparkling as they are exhibited in the present delightful volume. Full of curious information, brilliant satire, keen observation, and tingling wit, every sentence is a stimulant to attention. The essays on “Noses,” “Lips and Kissing,” “Ugly Women,” “The Eloquence of Eyes,” “The Literary Society of Houndsditch,” not to mention others, are radiant with fancy and wit.

Thorpe, A Quiet English Town, and Human Life Therein. By William Mountford. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 18mo.

Mr. Mountford is favorably known to thoughtful readers as the author of “Martyria” and “Euthanasy.” The present volume will add to the reputation he has already acquired by them, conceived as it is in the same kindly spirit, and admitting of a greater variety of incidents and characters. The whole representation of the town is exceedingly felicitous, combining considerable diversity of topic and subject with a pervading unity of impression. The most attractive portions of the book are the religious and philosophical conversations which are naturally interwoven with its homely incidents—conversations which are characterized by profound spiritual feeling, pure in tone, sweet in sentiment, full of original thoughts and suggestions, and expressed in a style of great clearness and beauty.

Life of Lord Jeffrey; with a Selection from his Correspondence. By Lord Cockburn. 2 vols. Philadelphia: Lippincott, Grambo & Co.

We have read with great interest this admirable life of Jeffrey, from the pen of an intimate friend, who has performed his “labor of love,” in a most admirable and satisfactory manner. The great Edinburgh critic is presented to us in the character of a most amiable friend, and a profound, but somewhat timid statesman. He who put forth, through the “Edinburgh Review,” his fierce and remorseless criticisms of contemporary literature, is here pictured as the agreeable friend, the loving husband and father, and the honest censor of what he deemed pernicious in letters. He stands out from the canvas “a man of gentle amenities, full of all charity, profoundly impressed with the dignity and responsibility of his mission.” Every reader of Jeffrey should purchase these volumes to obtain a fair estimation of the worth and various ability of the man.

A Treatise on a Box of Instruments, and the Slide Rule: for the use of Gaugers, Engineers, Seamen, and Students. By Thomas Kentish. Philadelphia: Henry Carey Baird.

This invaluable little volume is a continuation of a series of useful works, for which the country is indebted to the enterprise of Mr. Baird; and we are mistaken if his efforts to extend the knowledge of the useful do not meet a very ample return. The title of the volume is sufficiently significant; and we have only to add, that the book is admirably adapted to fulfill its purpose.

The Waverly Novels. By Sir Walter Scott. Complete in 12 volumes. Abbotsford edition, vol. 1.—Waverly. Philadelphia: Lippincott, Grambo & Co.

This beautiful edition of the Waverly Novels, has long been wanted by American readers, and the beautiful type and paper of this edition afford a most desired relief to the eye. The publishers announce that they have now ready, Guy Mannering—The Antiquary—Rob Roy—The Black Dwarf—Old Mortality—and The Bride ofLammermoor. The price per novel, in paper, is fifty cents.

Romanism at Home. Letters to the Hon. Roger B. Taney, Chief Justice of the United States. By Kirwan. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

These letters are the production of a vigorous and witty controversialist, who brings the full resources of a firm will, a clear understanding, and an animated rhetoric, to the task of assailing the church of Rome. It is a very stimulating book.

Hearts Unveiled; or, “I Knew You Would Like Him.” By Sarah Emery Saymore. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is what may be called a didactic novel; a kind of composition which we find it very difficult to read. It is, however, replete with shrewd remark, and contains many admirable maxims for the discipline both of the mind and the heart. The question of woman’s rights is very elaborately discussed in the volume, and a strong leaning manifested against the new ideas on that topic.

The Practical Model Calculator. By Oliver Byrne, Civil, Military and Mechanical Engineer. Philadelphia: Henry Carey Baird (successor to E. L. Carey.)

This is another of the series of very highly useful works with which we have been favored from the press of Mr. Baird, and one that will be of great service to the engineer, mechanic, machinist, naval architect, miner and millwright. It is prepared with great care and accuracy, and will be invaluable to all whose business or studies lead them to inform themselves fully of the subjects upon which it treats.

LITERARY GOSSIP.

LIFE OF THACKERAY.

Everybody knows Thackeray, and nobody knows any thing about him. We are therefore glad to help ourselves and our readers to a little knowledge of him, derived from a German authority by theTribune. He was born in Calcutta in the year 1811, and is now consequently 41 years old. His father was a high official of the East India Company, which secured him theentréeof the best society, and a large income. Our author was born a “gentleman.” He went to school in England—experienced all the tyranny of a brutal master, and the misery of that system of fagging, a legalized bullying of the little boys by the larger, which is so repulsive to every noble and decent feeling, and which the Englishmen so stoutly defend, as a process which “takes the starch out of pride,” but which is altogether too unreasonable not to lose temper about in discussing. Thackeray has revenged himself upon this inhuman and disgusting system in his Christmas story of “Dr. Birch and his Young Friends,” and he has a general fling at Boarding Schools in the opening of “Vanity Fair,” in which he exhorts the reader to trust the promise of a school prospectus no more than he does the praises of an epitaph. He left school for the University at Cambridge, where he studied with Kinglake, the author of Eothen—Eliot Warburton, who wrote “The Crescent and the Cross,” and was lost with the Amazon, and Richard Moncton Milnes, a well-known Londonlitterateur, a poet, and biographer of Keats, and an ornamental liberal member of Parliament.

Meanwhile the elder Thackeray died, and the future historian of Vanity Fair, launched himself into its midst with an annual income of about a thousand pounds. He lived according to his whims, drew sharp and clever caricatures, smoked, lounged, feasted upon books of every kind, and opened the oyster of the world at leisure. His mother, a woman of great beauty, and full of talent and tenderness, whose memory is so filially embalmed in the character of the mother of Arthur Pendennis, married again, about this time, and the young man, always the object of the proudest maternal love, came into possession of his paternal inheritance. He immediately returned from the continent where he had been staying a little time, and took up his residence in the Temple. Nascent Jurists and Budding Barristers at Law, who have completed a full course at Cambridge or Oxford, enjoy the privilege of paying high prices for comfortable quarters in the Temple, and of eating splendid dinners in its ancient dining-room. Here Thackeray entered himself as a student of jurisprudence, and in the character of Warrington in “Pendennis,” he has developed the career of the students, and the varied life of the Temple, in some of the best passages he has ever written. Henry Taylor, the dramatist, author of Philip Van Artevelde, is among the residents of the Temple, and is mentioned by the German Commentator as the original of a character in Thackeray’s romance. We are at a loss to determine which, for if Warrington be so intended, he seems to us to lose the point. Warrington is a man of power without a career—Taylor, a man of talent, who has certainly achieved a reputation quite equal to his just claims. However, the Temple not only furnished our author characters, but also the necessity of drawing them; for while there, and when scarcely more than 23 years old, the young man had “fooled away” his property, and was poor. The days of smoking, lounging, and “loafing” were evidently ending, and he betook himself to Paris, conceiving, from his facility in sketching, that he was born for an artist. A brief time among the Parisian ateliers sufficed to remove this idea. But as his step-father at this period established a journal in London, called “The Constitutional,” the artist naturally became its Paris correspondent. Thus, like Dickens, he commenced his literary career as a journalist. In Paris, Thackeray met his present wife, an Irish lady of good family, and married her.

From this time dates his first purely literary effort—the “Yellowplush Papers,” afterward published as “Jeames’ Diary”—in which his characteristic tendency is clearly indicated. The step-father’s “Constitutional” absorbed most of his property, of course, and failed. The son was obliged to return to England, and to begin work in earnest for himself. He wrote forFrazer’s Magazineand literary reviews for “The Times,” in which he ridiculed the early Bulwer style of romance—the interesting burglars and romance murderers. But the public, resolved upon enjoying the fascination of crime sentimentally described, received his strictures coldly. The struggling author turned to the humorous, sketchy style, to win an ear and gain a penny. Literary friends, more fairly favored than he, opened their purses to him; but his wife became insane, and is, at this day, the inmate of an asylum. He worked industriously with his pen—he wrote the “Great Hoggarty Diamond,” “The Snob Papers,” the “Irish Sketch Book,” “Journey from Cornhill to Cairo,” “Our Street,” “Rebecca and Rowena,” “The Kickleburies on the Rhine,” and smaller papers, under the name of Michael Angelo Titmarsh; and Chambers’ Cyclopedia commended him, before he was so universally known, as “a quiet observer.” In all these sketches his characteristic power shows itself. The two last were written after the great fame and success of “Vanity Fair;” but they are only studies for his large pictures—and it may be noted as proof of his genuine genius, that the completed figures are infinitely superior to the designs, and it is in completing the picture from the speech, so that it shall gain in meaning as well as in elaboration and size, that the true artist is shown. Mr. Thackeray offered the MS. of “Vanity Fair” to a magazine. The editor declined it. The author published it, and made his name immortal. It was followed by “Pendennis,” a mellower, riper fruit, to our fancy; but we have no thought of entering upon a criticism of the author. His latest public literary work is the course of lectures upon the wits of Queen Anne’s times, which has been read before literary and fashionable London, and received with the greatest applause. Copious abstracts were published in the leading journals, and there is little doubt that they are quite worthy their author. Mr. Thackeray is now understood to be engaged in completing a novel of which the scene is laid among the persons and the times treated in his lectures.

Of Mr. Thackeray’s intention to visit the United States, we hear nothing said. We think that there could be little doubt of the success of his lectures here.

Tight Lacing.—In “Dickens’ Household Words,” we find a notice of the first Evening School for Women opened at Birmingham for the instruction of young women who labor in the factories during the day. The experiment has been rewarded with complete success. It is solely under the charge of ladies, who, with the most praiseworthy assiduity, devote their evenings to the moral and intellectual culture of these poor sisters of toil, addingthe force of example—even in matters of dress—to the wisdom of precept. The following passage is worthy of the attention of our fair readers.

“As to the matter of dress. There can be nothing but good in telling the plain fact, that the most earnest and devoted of the ladies have found it their duty to wear no stays, in order to add the force of example to their efforts to save the young women who are killing themselves with tight-lacing alone. One poor scholar died almost suddenly from tight lacing alone. Another was, presently after, so ill, from the same abuse, that she could do nothing. A third could not stoop to her desk, and had to sit at a higher one, which suited the requirements of her self-imposed pillory. In overlooking those who were writing, we were struck by the short breathing of several of them. We asked what their employments were, supposing them to be of some pernicious nature. It was not so: all were cases of evident tight-lacing. The ugly walling-up of the figure is a painful contrast to the supple grace of some of the teachers. The girls see this grace, but will not believe, till convinced by the feel, that there are no stays to account for it.

“‘And what have you got on?’ said one of the ladies, feeling in like manner. ‘Why, you are perfectly walled up. How can you bear it?’

“‘Why,’ answered the girl, ‘I have got only six-and-twenty whalebones.’

“The lady obtained some anatomical plates, and formed a class of the older women, apart from the rest, to whom she displayed the consequences, in full, of this fatal practice. At the moment, they appear to disbelieve the facts; but a little time shows that they have taken the alarm—to what extent, the dress of their daughters, as they grow up, will probably indicate.

“The number on the books of this school is about one hundred; the average attendance is about fifty. The eagerness to attend is remarkable; and the dread of losing their place through non-attendance is testified in the strongest ways. Many are detained late at their work on Friday evenings; but they come, if only for a quarter of an hour; or if prevented, perhaps send a supplicating note that their place may not be filled up.”

American Literature in England.—America is rising in literary greatness with startling vigor. The spirit of progressive enlightenment is there ever present, and the motto blazoned in the intellectual escutcheon of the nation is, “Excelsior!” We were aware that a republic with a cheap and unfettered press, and a system of public schools that brings the means of an education within the limits of the humblest class of society, must naturally have a co-existent amount of national intelligence, which other nations with less advantages could not possess. We have long been admirers of the genius of Cooper, Irving, and Bryant; but it is only recently that we have been made acquainted with the weird and subtle efforts of Edgar A. Poe, the remarkable power of Hawthorne, the playful fancy of Holmes and Saxe, the beautiful melodies of Morris, and the ingenious heart-picturings of Grace Greenwood, the sisters Carey, Mrs. Kirkland, and Clara Moreton. The works of these writers have contributed to increase our already formed admiration of the remarkable freshness and vigor of intellect that is daily developing itself in the United States; and it is with a joyous friendliness that we recognize the growing claims of the young country to a place among the literary nations of this era.—London Daily News.

Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.

Among the agreeable letters we have received from many of our subscribers, upon the superior character of our June number, we make room for the following. The remark of our correspondent upon the value of newspaper notices we do not agree with, at least not in their valuelessness, except in cases where they are “paid for” orsolicited. A frank expression of sentiment in regard to “Graham,” we invite, and try sometimes to provoke a little captiousness—but the 1340 editors with whom we exchange, will be honest in spite of us, and pronounce “Graham” a great Magazine; and as these opinions coincide with that of our correspondent, we must submit.

Cincinnati, May 23, 1852.

George R. Graham, Esq.}Philadelphia: }

George R. Graham, Esq.}

Philadelphia: }

The reception of your Magazine for June, with “new type and paper,” and, I may add, new attractions in the shape of an increase of “solid matter,” reminds me of a promise made myself long ago—to write you a letter expressive of earnest sympathy in your efforts, and hopes of your ultimate success, in the publication of a journal worthy of our country and yourself.

From month to month, since you resumed the management of “Graham,” I have noticed a gradual yet sterling improvement in its pages, until the June number relieves me from all anxiety as to its future course andsuccess. I congratulate you, my dear sir.

Now that “Opinions of the Press” are so profuse and soworthless, (especially to the book-buyer,) I have thought a word of unsought,unpaid forpraise, might not be received unkindly from

A Subscriber.

A Fine Lithograph.—We have received from Messrs. Fetridge & Co., of Boston, one of the finest specimens of the lithographic art that ever commanded our attention. It is decidedly a credit to the artists and to Boston. The subject of the picture is a representation of Miss E. Kimberly, the celebrated Shaksperian reader and actress, in the character of Isabella in “The Fatal Marriage.” It is from a Daguerreotype by Southworth and Harvey, of Boston. Our readers will recollect that this gifted young lady made herdebutas a Shaksperian reader in this city (Philadelphia) some two and a half years ago. Since that time she has appeared in various cities, before large and intelligent audiences, with entire success. Her reputation is fully established on a remarkably intellectual and correct delineator of the leading characters in the higher drama. She has now fully adopted the stage as her profession; for, with the approbation of such a veteran in histrionic matters as Thomas Barry, Esq., of the Broadway theatre, New York, (who was her instructor,) there can be no question of her fitness for the avocation. Her friends are sanguine that she will reach the highest round in the ladder of histrionic fame. The likeness of her, now before us, portrays the intensity of sorrow more vividly than the portrait of any female actress, in character, we ever beheld.

The writer of the following asks us to forgive him for venturing into the regions poetic, and begs us not to clip his wings. Well, we wont; and shall say in his defense that there is a very sober and serious vein of prose in his poesy, which it becomes some delinquents to study. Clapping our hand upon our pocket, we can say with the wag,—“You’ll find no change with us;” so, if the following only induces a few of our subscribers to “do better,” the change will be duly recorded.

“Dear Graham, how ‘heavenly-minded’ you seem,Slicing your steel through the poet’s young dream,For you off with his wings, as you say, with a sweep,And then push him over the dangerous leap;Where wingless he falls through the phantomy air,Shrieking his wail o’er the gulf of despair.“You’re ‘tender to poets,’ God grant it be true,For what would they be if it wasn’t for you,Who seem made to carve poets, by slicing awayThe parts they need most when upward they stray,For what, my dear sir, could one do without wingsTo carry aloft every lay that he sings.“There are those, or have been, who need none at all,For their writings are far tooethereal to fall,They soar of themselves to the regions on high,In musical numbers that never can die.But then there are those, dearest sir, who in songSoar not thus aloft, but are plodding along.“Perhaps you will say it is better at onceTo slice off theirlegs, or even their sconce,Than to be badlyboredas you’ve been before:If so, this willboreyou at least one time more;I know this is bad, your censure’d be just,But bore you this once, I shall, for I must.“You say ‘Mr. Reader, we make our best bow,And stand with our cap in our hand even now;If you don’t like our rig, don’t turn up your nose,But suggest us a change, and what’s proper propose.’The change that I’d wish I will give at a glance—It’s I wish all subscribers would pay in advance;Then thetwo dollar fashion-plateswould surely swing clear,Instead of nine forty-five per month by the year.“If Iboreyou much more I shall have to be quick,For a message has come to me now from the sick,And wishing your readers with plenty oftinTo knock at your sanctum and walk boldly in,Andfork outtherhino, three dollars apiece,’Tis the change that I wish you—may it daily increase.“For nothing I’ve found in this vain world of troubleWill suitEdslike having their subscription-lists double;Not only in names, but that each one will payIn advance for the paper, and take it away.Now I wish you, dear sir, in all good to increase,With plenty of readers, and money, and peace.“Orion.”

“Dear Graham, how ‘heavenly-minded’ you seem,

Slicing your steel through the poet’s young dream,

For you off with his wings, as you say, with a sweep,

And then push him over the dangerous leap;

Where wingless he falls through the phantomy air,

Shrieking his wail o’er the gulf of despair.

“You’re ‘tender to poets,’ God grant it be true,

For what would they be if it wasn’t for you,

Who seem made to carve poets, by slicing away

The parts they need most when upward they stray,

For what, my dear sir, could one do without wings

To carry aloft every lay that he sings.

“There are those, or have been, who need none at all,

For their writings are far tooethereal to fall,

They soar of themselves to the regions on high,

In musical numbers that never can die.

But then there are those, dearest sir, who in song

Soar not thus aloft, but are plodding along.

“Perhaps you will say it is better at once

To slice off theirlegs, or even their sconce,

Than to be badlyboredas you’ve been before:

If so, this willboreyou at least one time more;

I know this is bad, your censure’d be just,

But bore you this once, I shall, for I must.

“You say ‘Mr. Reader, we make our best bow,

And stand with our cap in our hand even now;

If you don’t like our rig, don’t turn up your nose,

But suggest us a change, and what’s proper propose.’

The change that I’d wish I will give at a glance—

It’s I wish all subscribers would pay in advance;

Then thetwo dollar fashion-plateswould surely swing clear,

Instead of nine forty-five per month by the year.

“If Iboreyou much more I shall have to be quick,

For a message has come to me now from the sick,

And wishing your readers with plenty oftin

To knock at your sanctum and walk boldly in,

Andfork outtherhino, three dollars apiece,

’Tis the change that I wish you—may it daily increase.

“For nothing I’ve found in this vain world of trouble

Will suitEdslike having their subscription-lists double;

Not only in names, but that each one will pay

In advance for the paper, and take it away.

Now I wish you, dear sir, in all good to increase,

With plenty of readers, and money, and peace.

“Orion.”

Fitzgerald’s City Item.—The other day this beautiful and ably conducted weekly came to us clothed in a new suit of type, and printed upon white and firm paper.The Itemis now one of the largest, handsomest, and certainly one of the ablest of our weeklies. All who take an interest in Business, Literature, the Fine Arts, Music, and the Drama, are recommended to subscribe to it. On these and kindred subjects, it has ever been regarded as first-rate authority. Every family, every gentleman and lady of taste and leisure in the country, should takeFitzgerald’s City Item. It is furnished at the moderate price of $2 a year, in advance. Address Fitzgerald & Co., 46 South Third street, Philadelphia. (Post paid.)

Graham’s Magazine for June is a capital one, as usual. Graham don’t get out any other kind but the best kind. He’s quiet, don’t brag; but he does better, by publishing the best Magazine in Philadelphia.—Perrysburg Star.

Well, yes, brother; we have learned the value of the adage as to “Brag and Holdfast.” Hence our 112 pages wereannouncedand have been carried out in every number since January. Our wood-cuts are engravings.

Church, who has just enlarged his excellent Weekly, enlarges also upon the value of Graham’s wood-cuts.

Wood Engraving.—The beautiful specimens of wood engraving, now beginning to be seen in many of our modern publications, do, indeed, indicate a marked improvement in that branch of pictorial embellishment, over the rough unsightly cuts of a few years back, and at which now the growing taste of the public eye would hardly glance. Nor can we indulge these remarks without bestowing upon the printer his own success in doing full justice to the engraver by clear and beautiful impression, which surely depends uponhim; and when he has the proper material in ink and paper, our fine publications compare well with those from across the water.

Our friendGrahamhas not been relax in his exertions to beautify his agreeable monthly with fine embellishments in wood, and his numerous patrons will be much more gratified with the results of Mr. Devereux’s prolific pencil, than the smoky mezzotints which have so long intruded upon the pages of magazinedom. We go for good legitimate line engravings, either steel or wood, and nothing else. One of “Mote’s” gems is worth a bushel of commonplace truck. We are right glad to see fine wood specimens interlarded in the pages ofGraham. Onward, say we, with your well-stored monthly, rich in literature, beautiful in embellishment. A large list is your sure reward. “To him who wills there is no obstacle.”—Church’s Bizarre.

The New Volume.—The almost universal voice of the American Press, in the notices of our June number, encourages us to great hopes for the volume which commences with the present number. The elevated tone of the work seems to meet with the entire approval of our readers, so far as we can learn from letters received from all parts of the United States, giving us ample warrant for a continuance of our efforts to render “Graham” a Magazine of the very highest order.

If our friends will assist us in extending the circulation of “Graham” for the next six months in their respective post-towns, we flatter ourself that we shall open the volume in January next with a reputation and circulation unequaled by any former volume of this Magazine. A word to a neighbor may secure his co-operation; and as we send five copies for six months at half the yearly club rates, the outlay will be but small for each six months subscriber. Try it, friends!

The Family Friend.—Our friend Godman, of Columbia, S. C., has assumed, we see, the entire responsibility of the publishing, as well as the editorial department of his admirable weekly paper. That he may extend its circulation, with all the rapidity its manifest merits should insure, is our most sincere wish, and, to aid him, we offer Graham’s Magazine and The Family Friend, one year, for Four Dollars, in advance.

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