EFFIE DEANS.

EFFIE DEANS.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Among the delightful creations of the fancy of the great “Wizard of the North,” his story entitled “The Heart of Mid-Lothian” stands conspicuous, and perhaps maintains a higher degree of popularity than any other of the numerous productions of his pen. Of course, every reader is familiar with the narrative, and we think all will be gratified by an examination of the beautiful picture of the unfortunateEffie Deans, which graces the present number of our Magazine. It is from the burin of Mr.T. B. Welch, and is executed in the most finished style of that very superior engraver. The point of time chosen by the artist for the delineation of his subject, is that at which the procurator Sharpitlaw causes himself to be conveyed to the cell of the miserable girl, for the purpose of eliciting information respecting the haunts of Robertson. The great novelist tells us that “the poor girl was seated on her little flock-bed, plunged in a deep reverie. Some food stood on the table, of a quality better than is usually supplied to prisoners, but it was untouched. The person under whose care she was more particularly placed said, ‘that sometimes she tasted naething from the tae end of the four and twenty hours to the t’other, except a drink of water.’ ”

PAINTED BY S. BENDIXEN.EFFIE DEANS.ENGRAVED BY T. B. WELCH FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

PAINTED BY S. BENDIXEN.EFFIE DEANS.ENGRAVED BY T. B. WELCH FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

———

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

———

Flocks of this bird are found during the autumn season in the Middle and Western States, and along the shores of the great lakes. In summer they resort in countless numbers to their breeding places, in the high northern latitudes, from which they are again driven at the return of the arctic winters. These migrations are regular, and extend from the vast plains of South America to the snows of the Arctic Circle.

While performing these immense journeys, the Cranes pass at such a height in the air as to be invisible, stopping occasionally at some favorite resting place in the line of their route. They are frequently seen at those periods in the marshes and rice plantations of the South, and in much smaller numbers near Cape May, where they are known by the name of Storks. At those times they attract much attention, principally of course from sportsmen; and a small number remain at the Cape all winter. Here they wander in the mud, searching for worms; or if on the wing they keep near the shore, sailing from place to place with a low, heavy flight, and uttering a loud piercing cry, which may be heard two miles. From this scream, and its occasional modulations, the bird has received its name. If wounded, the Whooping Crane boldly faces his pursuers, attacks dog or man, and has been known by one stroke to drive his bill through the gunner’s hand. It is, however, a difficult bird to shoot, on account of its shyness and vigilance. When a flock rises from the ground it ascends spirally to a great height, each member sending forth the piercing scream, which, uniting with the others, and ringing through the air, fills the beholder with a feeling approaching to terror.

The favorite localities of the Whooping Crane are impenetrable swamps, salt marshes, and small ponds or lakes near the sea. Here it hunts its prey, passes its social life, feeds and nourishes its young. Their nests are made of long grass, raised more than a foot above the ground, and usually hidden among unfrequented swamps. The eggs are two in number, of a pale blue color, spotted with brown. Thousands are reared every summer at these favorite haunts, the young setting out in the following season with the others, for the more genial climate of the South. This bird is frequently eaten, and is said to be palatable. Its common food is worms, insects, mice, moles, etc. It is the tallest bird indigenous to the United States, measuring four feet six inches in length, and when erect five feet in height. The bill is truly formidable, being six inches long, an inch and a half thick, straight and extremely sharp. The general color, excepting that of the head and the primaries, is pure white, many of the feathers on each side lengthening into graceful plumes, like those of the ostrich. The legs and thighs are black, thick and strong. The tail, in common with that of the species, is covered by a broad flag of plumage, which sets off the gracefulness of this truly graceful bird to full advantage.

It is supposed on good authority that the speciesknown by naturalists as the Brown Crane is but the young of this bird. It appears to extend also across Behring’s Straits and throughout the great part of northern Asia. It has likewise been confounded with the Canadian Crane, whose habits are thus described by Major Long: “They fly at a great height, and wheeling in circles, appear to rest, without effort, on the surface of an aerial current, by whose eddies they are borne about in an endless series of revolutions. Each individual describes a large circle in the air, independently of his associates, and uttering loud, distinct, and repeated cries. They continue thus to wing their flight upward, gradually receding from the earth until they become mere specks upon the sight, and finally altogether disappear, leaving only the discordant music of their concert to fall faintly on the ear, exploring

“ ‘Heavens not its own, and worlds unknown before.’ ”

“ ‘Heavens not its own, and worlds unknown before.’ ”

“ ‘Heavens not its own, and worlds unknown before.’ ”

“ ‘Heavens not its own, and worlds unknown before.’ ”

“ ‘Heavens not its own, and worlds unknown before.’ ”

The distinction, however, between these two species is now clearly ascertained.

This bird is also known by the names of the Crown Bird, and the Cherry Bird. It abounds in the United States, and is found as far south as Mexico, and northward to Canada. During the Summer months flocks of Cedar birds are found in the mountainous tracts of our country, where they find abundant food in the whortleberries with which, at that season, the Blue Mountains, the Alleghanies, and the Cumberland abound. At the approach of autumn they leave these haunts, and descend to more cultivated, to feed upon the berries of the sour gum and red cedar. The latter is their favorite food; a small flock is not unfrequently seen on one small cedar tree; and here they gorge themselves to such an extent that they may easily be taken by the hand. This voracity does not leave the bird even in captivity; for instances have been known of a tame or wounded one gormandizing upon apples or berries, until it choked to death. They are also fond of grapes, ripe persimmons, and almost every kind of berry; but the pursuit of insects, which they sometimes indulge in, appears to originate rather from a love of sport, or of mischief, than from any preference to that kind of food. During the season of fruit they are fat, tender, and much esteemed for the table; but they become almost worthless when obliged to live upon insects.

The Cedar Bird is noted for its graceful figure, the beauty of its plumage, and for the tuft or crown which adorns the head, and which it can elevate or depress at pleasure. The feathers are of the texture of fine silk or down, glossy and beautiful. It has long been confounded by foreigners with the European Chatterer, but is much smaller than that bird, possesses marked differences of plumage, and specific differences of nature. Its usual note is but a feeble lisp, generally uttered while rising or alighting. When flying theymove in parties of fifty or sixty, crowded closely together, and on reaching a tree alight in the same compact manner. Of course the sportsman is enabled to do terrible execution, sometimes destroying half a flock at a single discharge. Their great enemy is the farmer; and when we take into consideration how perseveringly they endeavor to harvest his cherry orchards, even to the last gleaning, in spite, too, of guns and scare-crows, it must be acknowledged that he has better cause for war against them than in many instances of supposed feathered aggressions. The Cedar Bird, however, increases rapidly; and a singular circumstance connected with its habits is the unusually late time at which it begins to build. This is supposed to be owing to a scarcity of food in the spring. The nest is not begun before the second week in June. It is located on a cedar tree, or in some orchard, usually in a forked branch ten or twelve feet from the ground. The bottom is composed of coarse dry stalks of grass, and the whole is lined with very fine threads or blades of the same material. The eggs are three or four in number, white, with a bluish cast, very sharp at the point, and blunt at the other end, the whole surface marked with small round black spots. After being hatched the young are fed for a while on insects, and afterward on berries. If the nest be attacked the parent birds utter no cry, but will sometimes make a show of defence by snapping the bill, elevating the crest, and attack with mimick fury the object which disturbs them.

THE WILLOW BY THE SPRING.

———

BY J. HUNT, JR.

———

Near to my old grandfather’s cot,A small stream murmurs by;And from its bank a spring pours out,Whose waters never dry;Beside that spring a willow stands—A tall and stately tree—Oh, would you learn what charms it hath?I’ll tell its charms to me;The willow by the spring,The willow by the spring;Oh, may it live and strength receive,While Time the moments wing.My mother, on her bridal morn,Two twigs inserted there;And twining them together close,United thus the pair;She left them to the charge of Fate,To flourish or to fade;But taking root, they freely grew,And gave the spring a shade;The willow by the spring,The willow by the spring;Oh, may it live and strength receive,While Time the moments wing.How oft have I, when but a child,And e’en in later years,Sat ’neath that willow’s drooping boughs,And bathed its roots in tears;Not for a sadness which I felt,From pains that pressed my heart;But Mem’ry, with her troop of thoughts,Bade Feeling’s fountain start;The willow by the spring,The willow by the spring;Oh, may it live and strength receive,While Time the moments wing.When on the cultured plains of life,A wedded pair I see,Who, true to each, together cling,I think upon that tree;There, green in age, it broadly spreadsIts branches to the sun—Distinct, two trunks appear in view,And yet, they “twain are one.”That willow of my home,That willow of my home;Oh, may it live and strength receive,One hundred years to come.

Near to my old grandfather’s cot,A small stream murmurs by;And from its bank a spring pours out,Whose waters never dry;Beside that spring a willow stands—A tall and stately tree—Oh, would you learn what charms it hath?I’ll tell its charms to me;The willow by the spring,The willow by the spring;Oh, may it live and strength receive,While Time the moments wing.My mother, on her bridal morn,Two twigs inserted there;And twining them together close,United thus the pair;She left them to the charge of Fate,To flourish or to fade;But taking root, they freely grew,And gave the spring a shade;The willow by the spring,The willow by the spring;Oh, may it live and strength receive,While Time the moments wing.How oft have I, when but a child,And e’en in later years,Sat ’neath that willow’s drooping boughs,And bathed its roots in tears;Not for a sadness which I felt,From pains that pressed my heart;But Mem’ry, with her troop of thoughts,Bade Feeling’s fountain start;The willow by the spring,The willow by the spring;Oh, may it live and strength receive,While Time the moments wing.When on the cultured plains of life,A wedded pair I see,Who, true to each, together cling,I think upon that tree;There, green in age, it broadly spreadsIts branches to the sun—Distinct, two trunks appear in view,And yet, they “twain are one.”That willow of my home,That willow of my home;Oh, may it live and strength receive,One hundred years to come.

Near to my old grandfather’s cot,A small stream murmurs by;And from its bank a spring pours out,Whose waters never dry;Beside that spring a willow stands—A tall and stately tree—Oh, would you learn what charms it hath?I’ll tell its charms to me;The willow by the spring,The willow by the spring;Oh, may it live and strength receive,While Time the moments wing.

Near to my old grandfather’s cot,

A small stream murmurs by;

And from its bank a spring pours out,

Whose waters never dry;

Beside that spring a willow stands—

A tall and stately tree—

Oh, would you learn what charms it hath?

I’ll tell its charms to me;

The willow by the spring,

The willow by the spring;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

While Time the moments wing.

My mother, on her bridal morn,Two twigs inserted there;And twining them together close,United thus the pair;She left them to the charge of Fate,To flourish or to fade;But taking root, they freely grew,And gave the spring a shade;The willow by the spring,The willow by the spring;Oh, may it live and strength receive,While Time the moments wing.

My mother, on her bridal morn,

Two twigs inserted there;

And twining them together close,

United thus the pair;

She left them to the charge of Fate,

To flourish or to fade;

But taking root, they freely grew,

And gave the spring a shade;

The willow by the spring,

The willow by the spring;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

While Time the moments wing.

How oft have I, when but a child,And e’en in later years,Sat ’neath that willow’s drooping boughs,And bathed its roots in tears;Not for a sadness which I felt,From pains that pressed my heart;But Mem’ry, with her troop of thoughts,Bade Feeling’s fountain start;The willow by the spring,The willow by the spring;Oh, may it live and strength receive,While Time the moments wing.

How oft have I, when but a child,

And e’en in later years,

Sat ’neath that willow’s drooping boughs,

And bathed its roots in tears;

Not for a sadness which I felt,

From pains that pressed my heart;

But Mem’ry, with her troop of thoughts,

Bade Feeling’s fountain start;

The willow by the spring,

The willow by the spring;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

While Time the moments wing.

When on the cultured plains of life,A wedded pair I see,Who, true to each, together cling,I think upon that tree;There, green in age, it broadly spreadsIts branches to the sun—Distinct, two trunks appear in view,And yet, they “twain are one.”That willow of my home,That willow of my home;Oh, may it live and strength receive,One hundred years to come.

When on the cultured plains of life,

A wedded pair I see,

Who, true to each, together cling,

I think upon that tree;

There, green in age, it broadly spreads

Its branches to the sun—

Distinct, two trunks appear in view,

And yet, they “twain are one.”

That willow of my home,

That willow of my home;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

One hundred years to come.

WE ARE CHANGED.

———

BY EDITH BLYTHE.

———

We are changed—we are changed—The time was onceThat our hearts were light and free,And the song and the laugh rang out in tonesOf merry, blithesome glee:We are changed—we are changed—for grief and careHave wrought the work of years,And our smiles have fled, and our eyes grown dimWith burning bitter tears.We are changed—for our hearts no longer nowCan echo the songs of mirth,And the sunbeams are few, and the shadows dark,That seem to encircle the earth.The step has grown slow that was buoyant and light,When erst the green forest we ranged;Our fair dreams have fled, and hope’s bright star is gone⁠—And we feel we are changed—we are changed.

We are changed—we are changed—The time was onceThat our hearts were light and free,And the song and the laugh rang out in tonesOf merry, blithesome glee:We are changed—we are changed—for grief and careHave wrought the work of years,And our smiles have fled, and our eyes grown dimWith burning bitter tears.We are changed—for our hearts no longer nowCan echo the songs of mirth,And the sunbeams are few, and the shadows dark,That seem to encircle the earth.The step has grown slow that was buoyant and light,When erst the green forest we ranged;Our fair dreams have fled, and hope’s bright star is gone⁠—And we feel we are changed—we are changed.

We are changed—we are changed—The time was onceThat our hearts were light and free,And the song and the laugh rang out in tonesOf merry, blithesome glee:We are changed—we are changed—for grief and careHave wrought the work of years,And our smiles have fled, and our eyes grown dimWith burning bitter tears.

We are changed—we are changed—The time was once

That our hearts were light and free,

And the song and the laugh rang out in tones

Of merry, blithesome glee:

We are changed—we are changed—for grief and care

Have wrought the work of years,

And our smiles have fled, and our eyes grown dim

With burning bitter tears.

We are changed—for our hearts no longer nowCan echo the songs of mirth,And the sunbeams are few, and the shadows dark,That seem to encircle the earth.The step has grown slow that was buoyant and light,When erst the green forest we ranged;Our fair dreams have fled, and hope’s bright star is gone⁠—And we feel we are changed—we are changed.

We are changed—for our hearts no longer now

Can echo the songs of mirth,

And the sunbeams are few, and the shadows dark,

That seem to encircle the earth.

The step has grown slow that was buoyant and light,

When erst the green forest we ranged;

Our fair dreams have fled, and hope’s bright star is gone⁠—

And we feel we are changed—we are changed.

EDITOR’S TABLE.

THE MEANS OF A MAN’S LASTING FAME.

———

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

———

As a general rule, we must look to the earliest years of a man to ascertain the facts and circumstances which have influenced the conduct and produced the result of his latest years; just as we ascend to the sources of a stream, to find what has caused the color and quality of its water; on looking a little down we find those assisting or disturbing accidents that divert or direct its current.

But while the quality of a man’s mind may be dependent upon the gifts of God or the culture of his infancy—while we may trace up from the last effort of matured greatness to the earliest movement of the nascent powers, the influence of the first directing causes, and see how qualities were improved and greatness achieved; while all the colors of the mind seem to be derived from infancy, and the fame of the youth is made obviously referable to the culture of the nursery and the fireside circle, we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that even in later years, when the tone or the color of the mind becomes fixed, when the qualities have insured fame and eminence, some unseen, and by the world unsuspected, cause operates to disturb the onward course, impede the progress, lessen the influence, and thus diminish the greatness of the gifted one that has been “the observed of all observers,” as a projecting rock divides the current at the mouth of a stream, or an accumulated bar prevents a depth and destroys the usefulness of a river which has flowed steadily, beautifully and profitably from its source in the mountain to its entrance into the sea.

And, not to drop the simile, we see some men moving on in constantly augmenting consequence, swaying public opinion and enlightening public sentiment, and seeming to bid fair to swallow up in their fame the credit of all, by making all tributary to them, when suddenly they sink from observation; drop from the course they have pursued, and are lost to sight, just as the rivers of Florida flow along with augmented volume toward the Gulf, as if to gather themselves into a glorious estuary, when suddenly they sink into the earth, and are lost amid the subterranean caverns that abound in a country of such peculiar geological formation, and like

The Niger escape the keen traveler’s eye,By plunging or changing the clime.

The Niger escape the keen traveler’s eye,By plunging or changing the clime.

The Niger escape the keen traveler’s eye,By plunging or changing the clime.

The Niger escape the keen traveler’s eye,By plunging or changing the clime.

The Niger escape the keen traveler’s eye,

By plunging or changing the clime.

We see around us numerous instances of this kind of autumnal failure. History is full of them. Our country presents cases of remarkable strength. And as it acquires years and augmented numbers, more will present themselves, and as the means of observation increase, and publicity becomes greater, of course attention will be more drawn to the fact; and perhaps the causes, too, will be better understood, I do not know that they will be avoided; if we are right in our conjectures as to their causes, then we fear that they will continue—and while they continue they will produce like effects.

I am about to speak of the disturbing cause of manhood—the hidden influences to harm to which he is exposed—something that comes in manhood to defeat the hopes and expectation of childhood and youth, something that paralyzes the arm lifted in the harvest field, for which seed-time had been appropriately used, and vernal showers and summer suns had done their work of good. I must not, however, be supposed to intimate that all attention is not due to infancy and childhood, to insure the man of worth, or that all of goodness and most of greatness in age are not the consequence of early devotion. We know it is—but we are not hence released from the necessity of inquiry, what it is that defeats the labors given to age—what is it that strikes down the man in his upward march—what is it that suddenly, to the appearance of the world, but perhaps slowly to the sufferer, withdraws the vital stamina of his mind, and leaves him powerless, hopeless,ambitionless! The tree that sheds its deciduous leaves in autumn, may have in itself no powers to renew its foliage in the spring, and if sentient would feel that the sap which was receding from its branches would never again flow, to promote its growth and restore its beauty—but the world would know nothing of the blight until spring had brought out other trees, and exposed its nakedness and death, then it might concern the arborator to inquire what had affected that “which promised ere long to be the pride of the wood and prince among the neighboring trees.” Is man less worthy of consideration than insensible wood? But man does not regard his kind; he acknowledges a law for all of nature beside, but for himself and his, he submits all to chance, and fate becomes the providence of submission. If with the season a single class of birds omit their advent—or come in less considerable numbers than was their wont—forthwith the philosopher peers into nature, compares her laws, and with infinite research comes to guess at the motive which influenced the motion of the feathered tribe. “But man dieth and wasteth away.” The immortality upon which he is seizing fades in his grasp, or his hand becomes palsied—few or none reach the point at which they aim, and there is no one to ask the reason of the failure, or to explain the causes which have disappointed the aspirant of his fame and the world of its advantage.

“Of how much more value are ye than many sparrows!”

I have often in moments of reflection upon the fame and conduct of particular, distinguished men, felt a great anxiety to know something of their private life, that I might be able to judge of the cause of the disappointment which their life’s close had worked for their friends and admirers. I have put the question to some one who might have more knowledge than I of the individual to whom I referred.

“Oh, he drinks too much.”

“That is true—anybody can see that. But how does it happen that such a person should drink too much?”

“The constant demand upon his intellect gave him a habit of stimulating, and that is a good way toward intoxication.”

“But I do not see in his pursuits that kind of demand for stimuli which poets are supposed to have? I think that drinking is rather an effect than a cause.”

Such questions and such answers, with such conclusions, were frequent. Accident at length led me to a closer knowledge of the circumstances of one person, whose fame seemed to pale before the effectual fires of some hidden conflagration.

Blackstone had taken his place at the bar of his native county, and extended his practice to the various courts of the State, so that he seemed, in a few years, to have got possession of a position for which many had given a life time of labor. The amount of his business at the bar did not hinder him from distinguishing himself in the halls of the legislature, and his commanding eloquence commended him to the people of both parties as a representative in Congress, where his career fulfilled all the expectations of his warmest political friends, and justified the vote in his favor of his political opponents.

Years passed away, and the habits of this popular and eminent citizen were less exemplary than the fame of his talents would require, and while his many friends had to confess a bitter disappointment, he seemed dissatisfied with himself, and constantly in need of something which no one seemed able to impart. He lost the high position which he had reached, and the world wondered at the change; all, of course, censured the recusant, and blamed him justly, because there was that in his habits which shocked the temperate. “No man in these days,” it was said with emphasis, “no man can expect to sustain himself in any public position who neglects the proprieties of life by indulging in intemperate use of spirituous liquor.”

Here was a cause for the lapse in the upward course. To drink too much is to be unable to ascend—we do not mean a play upon a vulgar designation for inebriety, when we say that he who drinks too much has in him a too heavy load to take with him to the temple of desirable fame.

But admitting intemperance as the proximate cause of the change in the man’s conduct—may we not be allowed to suspect that there was a remote cause—some less potent influence working the evil, but producing through the agency of liquor? In other words we did inquire into the circumstances of Blackstone and found that there was a remote cause, and we found also what that cause was:

Blackstone’s fine person and commanding talents, gave him the welcomeentréeof the first families of West Virginia: whether these are equal to the real F. F. V. of the eastern portion of the State, we do not know, but they were glad to find Blackstone among them. He married a young woman of good education—we mean of considerable school learning—and she was beside handsome and agreeable. She admired the position which Blackstone had achieved—was pleased with the fame of her husband, and not a little elated at the distinction which his character and popularity conferred on her. The world all saw that Mrs. B. was proud of her husband—the world as usual made a mistake. She was proud of being Blackstone’s wife. The reflected honor was most grateful, and she enjoyed it. She appreciated the distinction which she possessed, almost as highly as she did the abundantsupply of money which her husband’s position at the bar enabled him to supply.

But Mrs. Blackstone never thought much about the manner in which the money was acquired, and never for a moment thought of the ingredients of her husband’s fame. She knew that Mr. B. was a distinguished lawyer, but it never occurred to her that the maintenance of his position demanded as much exertion as did the attainment thereof. She knew by common fame, by the newspapers, and by other tokens, that her husband was one of the most distinguished speakers of that speaking portion of the country, and she knew, because all said, that his speeches in the halls of legislation or at the courts of justice were not merely verbal outpourings, they contained deep thought and persuasive arguments, and constant instruction. But it never occurred to Mrs. B. that these gigantic works of her husband were the result of efforts; that without due preparation he would have failed in the midst of his argument, and that each glorious exposition of the law to the court, each elucidation of the constitution to the Legislature demanded that its successor should be as well sustained, should add to his fame for learning and acumen, and that consequently new study, new labor, new intensity of application, could alone secure to the gifted speaker the fame which his antecedent argument had acquired. To her, we say, such an idea never occurred. She seemed to think, or at least her conduct would warrant the conclusion that she thought, the eloquence and the learning of her husband were as little the result of exertions as was his physical proportion, and that one of his great speeches was as easily made as was a pedestrian movement from his house to the office. The truth is, she thought nothing about it.

A friend whose business calls him frequently to the West, tells us that he was at one time an inmate of Mr. Blackstone’s family for some weeks—that on one occasion the whole town had been wrapt in admiration at one of his magnificent addresses in the court-house—it was a speech which if it had been the only one of any man’s life would have insured enviable fame. Our informant, roused from the deep absorption which the speech produced, hastened at its close to the dwelling of Mr. B., that he might sit and enjoy the rich effect which the language and tone had produced upon his mind. Mrs. B. was in the parlor, and he informed her of the unexampled efforts and success of her husband. She merely remarked that she had heard him speak often before their marriage but never since.

Of course, a lady was not going to laud her husband; she was modest.

Later in the evening, the visiter was sitting in the library, when Mr. B. entered that portion of the house. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He knew that he had done great things, and he desired, as all men do, to have his wife share in the pleasure—nay, to double the pleasure to him by her kind, affectionate, partial commendation of his labors, and hearty rejoicings at his success.

“It was, Cornelia,” said he, “one of my most fortunate hits, and when I summed up the testimony and presented the cause of the injured widow, there was not a dry eye in the court-room; and the gallery was crowded with ladies. Mrs. Campbell sat in front, listening with the most marked attention—”

“Did she—what dress did Mrs. Campbell wear?”

“Dress—but——”

It was ever thus. Whatever effort Blackstone made—whatever applause abroad followed his exertions, there was an entire want of sympathy at home. Not that Mrs. B. was without high mental powers, not that those powers lacked cultivation; but she had no knowledge of what a public man expects of his home, no comprehension of the great fact, that no out-of-door applause, no huzza of the multitude, no approval of even a judicious public is complete in its effect upon the recipient, unless sanctioned and sealed by the council at home—a council the head and chief of which is the wife, but which includes every member of the domestic circle. Distinguished men are not candidates alone forapplause. They receive the censure, the vituperation, and persecution sometimes of those whose views they may oppose. Whose good they can no longer promote—for whom they have done the ninety-nine good acts but failed in their attempt at the hundredth—and that failure cancels all obligations for former success; how prospective is public gratitude!

Blackstone of course had his opponents, and when he entered his house, stung with insults from impeached motives, and felt how faithless had been those upon whom he had leaned, a word or two of kindness, one intimation thathe could and would survive all such attacks. One gentle, soothing strain from a wife who knows or ought to know the most sensitive spot on which the public thong had fallen, and who can apply the soothing ointment of affection—one cheering word would have lifted him over the difficulty and made him feel that in himself he had the material of resistance, and the weapons of final victory. A glass or two of brandy stiffens the nerves and rallies the mind to its wonted tone—that application must, of course, be increased in amount whenever renewed, or the effect will cease—and we need not tell what must be the consequence of such a resort.

The remedy of wife-like sympathy, domestic soothing, may indeed, like the latter, need augmentation by frequency of application—but it comes from a source that is never dried up by use, that increases by drafts upon it—and produces no injurious effects upon the mind or body made recipient of its soothing power.

I know now, because I know more than I have above related, that the errors of Blackstone, his short-coming, the comparative dimness of his once glowing fame which seemed marked to “shine more and more unto the perfect day;” his want of perseverance—his new habits of remissness—his loss of fame—all, all are due to a want ofhome—of that which makes his house his home—makes home—home.

I speak not here of the thousand instances in which incompatability of temper forever precludes family enjoyment—where vice, or what is next to vice, want of domestic proprieties, disturb the peace of home; I cite no instance of the defeat of a man’s high purpose, and the baffling of the noble aims which elevated talents and finished education may form—I quote not shipwrecks like those which may be due to the vulgar mind or the vicious course of the wife—such causes are usually as obvious as their effects. The men of more spirit than judgment breaks away from the destructive cause, and tries to acquire an independence of home. Man is not independent of home, if he has a place which he calls home, and all his life, and all his conduct, and all his experience must and will derive their coloring in no mean degree from that home, however man may treat its condition or seek to place himself beyond its influence.

The distinguished Mr. Coke of South Carolina, seemed to me in some considerable intercourse, to have rather a brilliant fancy, but to lack that severe discipline which goes to make a man truly and permanently great and popular—yet he seldom failed in producing a considerable effect on an audience which he addressed, whatever might be the subject, and nervous as was his system—he rarely evinced on the morning after a defeat any tokens of irritation or discouragement. His wife made it her business, and it became her pleasure to be an auditor of his narrations—to hear his complaints against individuals at the moment of anger and seem to forget his charges when returning equanimity led him to speak in a different tone and temper of his vigorous and sometimes successful antagonist.

He never came from a public exercise of his talents without being willingly compelled to give an account of the whole matter to his family, unless it was unpleasant; in that case his wife was the attentive soothing listener.

The triumph of the forum or the ‘stump’ (pardon the Americanism,) was doubled in the joy which the narration gave to the family, and the unpleasant occurrences of such arenas were never referred to in the family, so that Coke was sure of pleasure at home, whatever may have been the pleasure abroad—he was sure of delicate sympathy at home whatever may have been the vexation abroad. His fireside was the seat of pleasure—his house was his home—his home was a home.

What is the result of all this? The course of Mr. Coke as all know has been onward and upward—not with the swiftness or the sunlike aim of Blackstone—but steadily, constantly, and successfully. Charge Mrs. Blackstone with having impeded the course of her gifted husband, and she would start with anger at, and abhorrence of the charge. She had never disgraced him by misconduct, nor hindered him by interference.

Credit Mrs. Coke with having been the cause of her husband’s success, and she would be not less astonished; she knew nothing of the subjects of which her husband had acquired fame by speaking; she had consequently never assisted in his preparation for public display, nor added an idea to his brief.

The cold negative of Mrs. Blackstone had chilled her husband into indifference or disgust.

The cheering warmth of Mrs. Coke’s affectionate attention and timely attendance had inspired her husband with that proper degree of self-respect which is necessary to self-dependence, and her soothing sympathies had lulled unfriendly feelings toward others, so that he lost nothing of acquired popularity by injudicious utterance of irritated feelings.

It would not be difficult to adduce numerous instances, in divers walks of life, of the good effect of matrimonial sympathy upon the success of the husband and the position of the family. Very little can be expected of a man abroad who lives in a state of constant indifference at home—who has there no encouragement to efforts, and no gentle soothing in failure, no inspiriting by the utterance of confidence in his powers, who gathers no gentle pride by those hearty, warm, open plaudits at the fireside, which would have shocked his feelings if offered abroad.

The merchant needs it, when his adventure is in imminent danger, or his losses exceed his expectations. The mechanic requires it when planning some work from which a kind of fame and a hoped for credit are to flow.

The laborer has as much advantage from the encouraging tone of his wife’s voice as has any other man, and disappointment has its sting poisoned or extracted, just as the woman sees proper to meet the evil.

“If a man would be rich he must ask his wife.” This is an old and a true proverb, and applies as much to the riches of fame and station as to those of pecuniary estimate. And if a man hopes to rise in life, let him as a means of ascent carefully weigh the character of her who is to be his companion—let him investigate closely her habits of sympathizing with others, and her ability to conform to his situation. Wealth, beauty, talents, education, are all desirable in woman, all appropriate to her position, all contribute to her means of true usefulness. But coldness, selfishness, indifference to the tastes and feelings of others, and consequent uselessness as a wife, are all quite inconsistent with those other attractions, and render them worthless—a means of annoyance rather than a source of pleasure.

Constant affection, household knowledge, unfailing sympathy with the wishes, views and efforts of the husband, good common sense, are those jewels of a wife’s inheritance which are infinitely above all others, though eminently consistent with those usually so highly valued.

Let no female reader think the dignity or the rights of her sex invaded, nor the wrongs neglected, and start up to declare what a miserable state a bad husband imposes upon a wife; we are speaking of an independent evil. We know how much misery is brought into families, and how all good is banished by the follies and wickedness of the husband. But our business now is to speak of the errorsof the wife—faults of character which it seems almost impossible to correct in the individual, but which must be looked to and avoided by those who look to marriage as a means of happiness and advancement. The person must be avoided: faults of conduct are more or less easily corrected, as they more or less depend upon the character, condition, or temper of the individual. But, alas! when, after repeated monitions, and as repeated failures, people come to say “it is her way,” then it seems almost impossible to hope for success.

It appears to us, however, worth while for men, and women too, to look at the circumstances to which we profess only to have referred. Let them weigh the value of domestic peace—let them estimate the worth of home attractions and home pleasures, and let some one sit down and look calmly and philosophically at the influence of family peace, family pleasure, family support, upon the character and condition of a man—of the husband—and then see whether whatwehave noticed is not worth the notice of others.

We do not say that the man of learning wants a learned wife, nor that the statesman needs a political partner. But both need a wife who will sympathize in their feelings, will try to improve advantages and mitigate evils, and thus to bring to the house and the fireside the great sources of man’s happiness and man’s triumphs.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

A Second Visit to the United States of North America. By Sir Charles Lyell, F. R. S. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo.

A Second Visit to the United States of North America. By Sir Charles Lyell, F. R. S. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo.

Sir Charles Lyell is the exact opposite of those English tourists who emphasize the little peculiarities of American character, and pass off their caricatures as national traits. He is a rigid man of science, without sufficient humor or imagination to seize upon individual peculiarities, and confines himself altogether to facts and sensible remarks. He is essentially a moderate man in mind as well as in disposition, and thoroughly conscientious, good-natured and unimpassioned. His eye for scenery is that of a man of science, not of a poet; he observes geology and botany, not mountains and sunny slopes of green hills; and through the whole book there is not one example of his mind rising above the dead level of calm observation and classification, even in the presence of the most beautiful and sublime scenes of nature. In regard equally to men, institutions, and scenery, he seems incapable either of admiration or dislike, and from his utter lack of sensitiveness to any impressions, the reader is made to wonder how he can be any thing but a bore to himself. His moderation is perfect. He discusses the copyright question and the question of slavery in a manner so cool and just as to distinguish him from all other English tourists, and also from all American chatterers on those word-flooded themes. If he is thus destitute of glow and enthusiasm, it must be admitted that these defects have their compensations. His statements are always reliable. The geological information the volumes contain is of course beyond cavil, but his observations are almost equally just on the subjects of religion, education, and the practical working of our political institutions. He may not convey much information to an American, but it is but proper to admit that his tolerant and conscientious representations will be sure to dispel many errors and prejudices in the minds of his own countrymen. An Englishman is apt to consider it a duty to believe every thing bad against the United States, and it is pleasant to think that a man with the social and scientific position of Sir Charles Lyell has the disposition as well as the power to present the good side of our society for foreign contemplation.

In the eighth chapter of his first volume, Lyell discusses the Sea Serpent, and comes to the conclusion that it is a Basking Shark. Since his book was published the creature has been seen again off Nahaut Beach, and the shark hypothesis completely overturned. We perceive that Agassiz believes in the Serpent, and his opinion is almost as authoritative as Lyell’s reasonings.

An interesting chapter in these volumes is devoted to the reprints of English books, in the course of which the author gives an account of the mammoth establishment of the Harpers. In the course of the year 1845 the publishers sold two millions of volumes. Their success with particular books seems to have filled Lyell with as much wonder as he is capable of feeling. They sold 80,000 copies of the Wandering Jew, and 40,000 copies of Bulwer’s Last of the Barons. Up to April, 1849, they had disposed of 40,000 copies of Macaulay’s History, at prices varying from four dollars to fifty cents, and they calculated that the publishers of other editions had sold 20,000, making in all 60,000 copies of one book in about three months. The circulation of the same work in Great Britain had been almost unprecedented, considering that the price was thirty-two shillings, and yet during the same period only 13,000 copies were disposed of. Since that period the English circulation has risen to 20,000, and we doubt not the American has nearly reached 80,000. Lyell seems to think, in alluding to these facts, that what the English author loses in money by an absence of copyright in America, he makes up in popularity and fame.

The Liberty of Rome: A History with an Historical Account of the Liberty of Ancient Nations. By Samuel Eliot. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2 vols. 8vo.

The Liberty of Rome: A History with an Historical Account of the Liberty of Ancient Nations. By Samuel Eliot. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2 vols. 8vo.

This work, though composed of two solid octavos, each numbering five hundred pages, is still but the beginning of a series. The adventurous author intends to follow them up with a line of successors, devoting a brace of volumes to the Liberty of the Early Christian Ages, another to the Liberty of the Middle Ages, and still another to the Liberty of Europe since the Reformation. In addition to these, separate works are to be produced on the Liberty of England and that of America. Few, even among the giants of one idea, could contemplate such a vision of labor without despair, but Mr. Eliot has fully made up his mind to undertake the task; and there seems to be in him a power, possessed by few scholars, of unflinchingly looking in the face a prospect of dogged work, which will probably carry him through the business. The present volumes are able, full of learning, inspired by a genuine love of liberty and a genuine sense of religion, and are not deficient in historical sagacity. They reflect great credit on the author’s industry and ability, and, in many respects, are an addition to historical and to American literature. It would be foreign to our purpose to attempt an abstract of his labors, stretching as they do over a vast field of facts and principles, but it can be confidently asserted of his book, that it can hardly be readwithout increasing our knowledge, and inspiring an admiration of the author’s spirit, and a respect for his learning. If Mr. Eliot fails in securing the attention of a large class of readers, it will not be because he has nothing of importance to communicate, but because he does not exactly understand the best mode of communicating it. His style is generally languid, oppressed with words brought in to limit propositions, and the sentences are unconnected by that fusing spirit which gives directness and movement to narration and disquisition. These defects are perhaps the more observable, as the style is ambitious to the extent of suggesting an effort after correctness, and, with little freshness and energy, is replete with images seen through an unimaginative haze of words, and implying the absence rather than the possession of poetical power. The fault of the work, in short, is the fault of a person unpracticed in composition, and substituting a heavy rhetoric for a natural style; the merits are of a kind which the purest and raciest writers might be proud to claim.

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