The Father spake! In grand reverberationsThrough space roll'd on the mighty music-tide,While to its low, majestic modulations,The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside.The Father spake: a dream that had been lyingHush'd, from eternity, in silence there,Heard the pure melody, and low replying,Grew to that music in the wondering air—Grew to that music—slowly, grandly waking—Till, bathed in beauty, it became a world!Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking,While glorious clouds their wings around it furl'd.Nor yet has ceased that sound, his love revealing,Though, in response, a universe moves by;Throughout eternity its echo pealing,World after world awakes in glad reply.And wheresoever, in his grand creation,Sweet music breathes—in wave, or bird, or soul—'Tis but the faint and far reverberationOf that great tune to which the planets roll.
The Father spake! In grand reverberationsThrough space roll'd on the mighty music-tide,While to its low, majestic modulations,The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside.
The Father spake: a dream that had been lyingHush'd, from eternity, in silence there,Heard the pure melody, and low replying,Grew to that music in the wondering air—
Grew to that music—slowly, grandly waking—Till, bathed in beauty, it became a world!Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking,While glorious clouds their wings around it furl'd.
Nor yet has ceased that sound, his love revealing,Though, in response, a universe moves by;Throughout eternity its echo pealing,World after world awakes in glad reply.
And wheresoever, in his grand creation,Sweet music breathes—in wave, or bird, or soul—'Tis but the faint and far reverberationOf that great tune to which the planets roll.
Mrs. Osgood produced something in almost every form of poetical composition, but the necessary limits of this article permit but few illustrations of the variety or perfectness of her capacities. The examples given here, even if familiar, will possess a new interest now; and no one will read them without a feeling of sadness that she who wrote them died so young, just as the fairest flowers of her genius were unfolding. One of the most exquisite pieces she had written in the last few years, is entitled "Calumny," and we know not where to turn for anything more delicately beautiful than the manner in which the subject is treated.
A whisper woke the air,A soft, light tone, and low,Yet barbed with shame and wo.Ah! might it only perish there,Nor farther go!But no! a quick and eager earCaught up the little, meaning sound;Another voice has breathed it clear;And so it wandered roundFrom ear to lip, and lip to ear,Until it reached a gentle heartThat throbbed from all the world apart,And that—it broke!It was the onlyheartit found,The only heart 't was meant to find,When first its accents woke.It reached that gentle heart at last,And that—it broke!Low as it seemed to other ears,It came a thunder-crash tohers—That fragile girl, so fair and gay.'Tis said a lovely humming bird,That dreaming in a lily lay,Was killed but by the gun'sreportSome idle boy had fired in sport—So exquisitely frail its frame,The verysounda death-blow came—And thus her heart, unused to shame,Shrined initslily too,(For who the maid that knew,But owned the delicate, flower-like graceOf her young form and face!)—Her light and happy heart, that beatWith love and hope so fast and sweet,When first that cruel word it heard,It fluttered like a frightened bird—Then shut its wings and sighed,And, with a silent shudder, died!
A whisper woke the air,A soft, light tone, and low,Yet barbed with shame and wo.Ah! might it only perish there,Nor farther go!
But no! a quick and eager earCaught up the little, meaning sound;Another voice has breathed it clear;And so it wandered roundFrom ear to lip, and lip to ear,Until it reached a gentle heartThat throbbed from all the world apart,And that—it broke!
It was the onlyheartit found,The only heart 't was meant to find,When first its accents woke.It reached that gentle heart at last,And that—it broke!
Low as it seemed to other ears,It came a thunder-crash tohers—That fragile girl, so fair and gay.'Tis said a lovely humming bird,That dreaming in a lily lay,Was killed but by the gun'sreportSome idle boy had fired in sport—So exquisitely frail its frame,The verysounda death-blow came—And thus her heart, unused to shame,Shrined initslily too,(For who the maid that knew,But owned the delicate, flower-like graceOf her young form and face!)—Her light and happy heart, that beatWith love and hope so fast and sweet,When first that cruel word it heard,It fluttered like a frightened bird—Then shut its wings and sighed,And, with a silent shudder, died!
In some countries this would, perhaps, be the most frequently quoted of the author's effusions; but here, the terse and forcible piece under the title of "Laborare est Orare," will be admitted to all collections of poetical specimens; and it deserves such popularity, for a combination as rare as it is successful of common sense with the form and spirit of poetry:
Pause not to dream of the future before us;Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;Hark, how Creation's deep musical chorus,Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing;Never the little seed stops in its growing;More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,Till from its nourishing stem it is riven."Labor is worship!"—the robin is singing;"Labor is worship!"—the wild bee is ringing;Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringingSpeaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart.From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower;From the small insect, the rich coral bower;Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.Labor is glory!—the flying cloud lightens;Only the waving wing changes and brightens;Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!Labor is rest—from the sorrows that greet us;Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill.Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;Work—thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow;Work with a stout heart and resolute will!Labor is health! Lo! the husbandman reaping,How through his veins goes the life current leaping!How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.Labor is wealth—in the sea the pearl groweth;Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth;From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;Temple and statue the marble block hides.Droop not, tho' shame, sin, and anguish are round thee!Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;Rest not content in they darkness—a clod!Work—for some good, be it ever so slowly;Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly;Labor!—all labor is noble and holy;Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.
Pause not to dream of the future before us;Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;Hark, how Creation's deep musical chorus,Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing;Never the little seed stops in its growing;More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.
"Labor is worship!"—the robin is singing;"Labor is worship!"—the wild bee is ringing;Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringingSpeaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart.From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower;From the small insect, the rich coral bower;Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.
Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.Labor is glory!—the flying cloud lightens;Only the waving wing changes and brightens;Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!
Labor is rest—from the sorrows that greet us;Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill.Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;Work—thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow;Work with a stout heart and resolute will!
Labor is health! Lo! the husbandman reaping,How through his veins goes the life current leaping!How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.Labor is wealth—in the sea the pearl groweth;Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth;From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;Temple and statue the marble block hides.
Droop not, tho' shame, sin, and anguish are round thee!Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;Rest not content in they darkness—a clod!Work—for some good, be it ever so slowly;Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly;Labor!—all labor is noble and holy;Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.
In fine contrast with this is the description of a "Dancing Girl," written in a longer poem, addressed to her sister soon after her arrival in London, in the autumn of 1834. It is as graceful as the vision it brings so magically before us:
She comes—the spirit of the dance!And but for those large, eloquent eyes,Where passion speaks in every glance,She'd seem a wanderer from the skies.So light that, gazing breathless there,Lest the celestial dream should go,You'd think the music in the airWaved the fair vision to and fro!Or that the melody's sweet flowWithin the radiant creature play'dAnd those soft wreathing arms of snowAnd white sylph feet the music made.Now gliding slow with dreamy grace,Her eyes beneath their lashes lost;Now motionless, with lifted face,And small hands on her bosom cross'd.And now with flashing eyes she springs,Her whole bright figure raised in air,As if her soul had spread its wingsAnd poised her one wild instant there!She spoke not; but, so richly fraughtWith language are her glance and smile,That, when the curtain fell, I thoughtShe had been talking all the while.
She comes—the spirit of the dance!And but for those large, eloquent eyes,Where passion speaks in every glance,She'd seem a wanderer from the skies.
So light that, gazing breathless there,Lest the celestial dream should go,You'd think the music in the airWaved the fair vision to and fro!
Or that the melody's sweet flowWithin the radiant creature play'dAnd those soft wreathing arms of snowAnd white sylph feet the music made.
Now gliding slow with dreamy grace,Her eyes beneath their lashes lost;Now motionless, with lifted face,And small hands on her bosom cross'd.
And now with flashing eyes she springs,Her whole bright figure raised in air,As if her soul had spread its wingsAnd poised her one wild instant there!
She spoke not; but, so richly fraughtWith language are her glance and smile,That, when the curtain fell, I thoughtShe had been talking all the while.
In illustration of what we have said of Mrs. Osgood's delineations of refined sentiment, we refer to the poems from pages one hundred and eleven to one hundred and thirty-one, willing to rest upon them our praises of her genius. It may be accidental, but they seem to have an epic relation, and to constitute one continuous history, finished with uncommon elegance and glowing with a beauty which has its inspiration in a deeper profound than was ever penetrated by messengers of the brain. The third of these glimpses of heart-life—all having the same air of sad reality—exhibits, with a fidelity and a peculiar power which is never attained in such descriptions by men, the struggle of a pure and passionate nature with a hopeless affection:
Had we but met in life's delicious spring,When young romance made Eden of the world;When bird-like Hope was ever on the wing,(Inthydear breast how soon had it been furled!)Had we but met when both our hearts were beatingWith the wild joy, the guileless love of youth—Thou a proud boy, with frank and ardent greeting,And I a timid girl, all trust and truth!—Ere yet my pulse's light, elastic playHad learn'd the weary weight of grief to know,Ere from these eyes had passed the morning ray,And from my cheek the early rose's glow;—Had we but met in life's delicious spring,Ere wrong and falsehood taught me doubt and fear,Ere Hope came back with worn and wounded wing,To die upon the heart it could not cheer;Ere I love's precious pearl had vainly lavish'd,Pledging an idol deaf to my despair;Ere one by one the buds and blooms were ravish'dFrom life's rich garland by the clasp of Care.Ah! had wethenbut met!—I dare not listenTo the wild whispers of my fancy now!My full heart beats—my sad, droop'd lashes glisten—I hear the music of thyboyhood'svow!I see thy dark eyes lustrous with love's meaning,I feel thy dear hand softly clasp mine own—Thy noble form is fondly o'er me leaning—It is too much—but ah! the dream has flown.How had I pour'd this passionate heart's devotionIn voiceless rapture on thy manly breast!How had I hush'd each sorrowful emotion,Lull'd by thy love to sweet, untroubled rest.How had I knelt hour after hour beside thee,When from thy lips the rare scholastic loreFell on the soul that all but deified thee,While at each pause I, childlike, pray'd for more.How had I watch'd the shadow of each feeling,That mov'd thy soul-glance o'er that radiant face,"Taming my wild heart" to that dear revealing,And glorifying in thy genius and thy grace!Then hadst thou loved me with a love abiding,And I had now been less unworthy thee,For I was generous, guileless, and confiding,A frank enthusiast, buoyant, fresh, and free!Butnow—my loftiest aspirations perish'd,My holiest hopes a jest for lips profane,The tenderest yearnings of my soul uncherish'd,A soul-worn slave in Custom's iron chain:Check'd by these ties that make my lightest sigh,My faintest blush, at thought of thee, a crime—How must I still my heart, and school my eye,And count in vain the slow dull steps of Time!Wilt thou come back? Ah! what avails to ask theeSince honor, faith, forbid thee to return!Yet to forgetfulness I dare not task thee,Lest thou too soon thateasy lessonlearn!Ah! come not back, love! even through Memory's earThy tone's melodious murmur thrills my heart—Come not with that fond smile, so frank, so dear;While yet we may, let us for ever part!
Had we but met in life's delicious spring,When young romance made Eden of the world;When bird-like Hope was ever on the wing,(Inthydear breast how soon had it been furled!)
Had we but met when both our hearts were beatingWith the wild joy, the guileless love of youth—Thou a proud boy, with frank and ardent greeting,And I a timid girl, all trust and truth!—
Ere yet my pulse's light, elastic playHad learn'd the weary weight of grief to know,Ere from these eyes had passed the morning ray,And from my cheek the early rose's glow;—
Had we but met in life's delicious spring,Ere wrong and falsehood taught me doubt and fear,Ere Hope came back with worn and wounded wing,To die upon the heart it could not cheer;
Ere I love's precious pearl had vainly lavish'd,Pledging an idol deaf to my despair;Ere one by one the buds and blooms were ravish'dFrom life's rich garland by the clasp of Care.
Ah! had wethenbut met!—I dare not listenTo the wild whispers of my fancy now!My full heart beats—my sad, droop'd lashes glisten—I hear the music of thyboyhood'svow!
I see thy dark eyes lustrous with love's meaning,I feel thy dear hand softly clasp mine own—Thy noble form is fondly o'er me leaning—It is too much—but ah! the dream has flown.
How had I pour'd this passionate heart's devotionIn voiceless rapture on thy manly breast!How had I hush'd each sorrowful emotion,Lull'd by thy love to sweet, untroubled rest.
How had I knelt hour after hour beside thee,When from thy lips the rare scholastic loreFell on the soul that all but deified thee,While at each pause I, childlike, pray'd for more.
How had I watch'd the shadow of each feeling,That mov'd thy soul-glance o'er that radiant face,"Taming my wild heart" to that dear revealing,And glorifying in thy genius and thy grace!
Then hadst thou loved me with a love abiding,And I had now been less unworthy thee,For I was generous, guileless, and confiding,A frank enthusiast, buoyant, fresh, and free!
Butnow—my loftiest aspirations perish'd,My holiest hopes a jest for lips profane,The tenderest yearnings of my soul uncherish'd,A soul-worn slave in Custom's iron chain:
Check'd by these ties that make my lightest sigh,My faintest blush, at thought of thee, a crime—How must I still my heart, and school my eye,And count in vain the slow dull steps of Time!
Wilt thou come back? Ah! what avails to ask theeSince honor, faith, forbid thee to return!Yet to forgetfulness I dare not task thee,Lest thou too soon thateasy lessonlearn!
Ah! come not back, love! even through Memory's earThy tone's melodious murmur thrills my heart—Come not with that fond smile, so frank, so dear;While yet we may, let us for ever part!
The passages commencing, "Thank God, I glory in thy love;" "Ah, let our love be still a folded flower;" "Believe me, 'tis no pang of jealous pride;" "We part forever: silent be our parting;" are in the same measure, and in perfect keeping, but evince a still deeper emotion and greater pathos and power. We copy the closing cantatas, "To Sleep," and "A Weed"—a prayer and a prophecy—in which the profoundest sorrow is displayed with touching simplicity and unaffected earnestness. First, to Death's gentle sister:
Come to me, angel of the weary hearted;Since they, my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,Unto thy realms unreal have departed,I, too, may rest—even I; ah! haste to me.I dare not bid thy darker, colder brotherWith his more welcome offering, appear,For these sweet lips, at morn, will murmur, "Mother,"And who shall soothe them if I be not near?Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowingWith hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,Save that most true, most beautiful—repose.I have no heart to rove in realms of Faery—To follow Fancy at her elfin call;I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary;Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.Paint not the future to my fainting spirit,Though it were starr'd with glory like the skies;There is no gift that mortals may inheritThat could rekindle hope in these cold eyes.And for the Past—the fearful Past—ah! neverBe Memory's downcast gaze unveil'd by thee;Would thou couldst bring oblivion foreverOf all that is, that has been, and will be!
Come to me, angel of the weary hearted;Since they, my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,Unto thy realms unreal have departed,I, too, may rest—even I; ah! haste to me.
I dare not bid thy darker, colder brotherWith his more welcome offering, appear,For these sweet lips, at morn, will murmur, "Mother,"And who shall soothe them if I be not near?
Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowingWith hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,Save that most true, most beautiful—repose.
I have no heart to rove in realms of Faery—To follow Fancy at her elfin call;I am too wretched—too soul-worn and weary;Give me but rest, for rest to me is all.
Paint not the future to my fainting spirit,Though it were starr'd with glory like the skies;There is no gift that mortals may inheritThat could rekindle hope in these cold eyes.
And for the Past—the fearful Past—ah! neverBe Memory's downcast gaze unveil'd by thee;Would thou couldst bring oblivion foreverOf all that is, that has been, and will be!
And more mournful still, the dream of the after days:
When from our northern woods pale summer flying,Breathes her last fragrant sigh—her low farewell—While her sad wild flowers' dewy eyes, in dying,Plead for her stay, in every nook and dell.A heart that loved too tenderly and truly,Will break at last; and in some dim, sweet shade,They'll smooth the sod o'er her you prized unduly,And leave her to the rest for which she pray'd.Ah! trustfully, not mournfully, they'll leave her,Assured that deep repose is welcomed well;The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve her;The brook's low voice no wrongful tale can tell.They'll hide her where no false one's footsteps, stealing,Can mar the chasten'd meekness of her sleep;Only to Love and Grief her grave revealing,And they will hush their chidingthen—to weep!And some, (for though too oft she err'd, too blindly,She was beloved—how fondly and how well!)—Some few, with faltering feet, will linger kindly,And plant dear flowers within that silent dell.I know whose fragile hand will bring the bloomBest loved by both—the violet's—to that bower;And one will bid white lilies bless the gloom;And one, perchance, will plant the passion flower;Then dothoucome, when all the rest have parted—Thou, who alone dost know her soul's deep gloom!And wreathe above the lost, the broken-hearted,Some idleweed, thatknew not how to bloom.
When from our northern woods pale summer flying,Breathes her last fragrant sigh—her low farewell—While her sad wild flowers' dewy eyes, in dying,Plead for her stay, in every nook and dell.
A heart that loved too tenderly and truly,Will break at last; and in some dim, sweet shade,They'll smooth the sod o'er her you prized unduly,And leave her to the rest for which she pray'd.
Ah! trustfully, not mournfully, they'll leave her,Assured that deep repose is welcomed well;The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve her;The brook's low voice no wrongful tale can tell.
They'll hide her where no false one's footsteps, stealing,Can mar the chasten'd meekness of her sleep;Only to Love and Grief her grave revealing,And they will hush their chidingthen—to weep!
And some, (for though too oft she err'd, too blindly,She was beloved—how fondly and how well!)—Some few, with faltering feet, will linger kindly,And plant dear flowers within that silent dell.
I know whose fragile hand will bring the bloomBest loved by both—the violet's—to that bower;And one will bid white lilies bless the gloom;And one, perchance, will plant the passion flower;
Then dothoucome, when all the rest have parted—Thou, who alone dost know her soul's deep gloom!And wreathe above the lost, the broken-hearted,Some idleweed, thatknew not how to bloom.
We pass from these painful but exquisitely beautiful displays of sensitive feeling and romantic fancy, to pieces exhibiting Mrs. Osgood's more habitual spirit of arch playfulness and graceful invention, scattered through the volume, and constituting a class of compositions in which she is scarcely approachable. The "Lover's List," is one of her shorter ballads:
"Come sit on this bank so shady,Sweet Evelyn, sit with me!And count me your loves, fair lady—How many may they be?"The maiden smiled on her lover,And traced with her dimpled hand,Of names a dozen and overDown in the shining sand."And now," said Evelyn, rising,"Sir Knight! your own, if you please;And if there be no disguising,The list will outnumber these;"Then count me them truly, rover!"And the noble knight obeyed;And of names a dozen and overHe traced within the shade.Fair Evelyn pouted proudly;She sighed "Will he never have done?"And at last she murmur'd loudly,"I thought he would write butone!""Now read," said the gay youth, rising;"The scroll—it is fair and free;In truth, there is no disguisingThat list is the world to me!"She read it with joy and wonder,For the first was her own sweet name;And again and again written under,It was still—it was still the same!It began with—"My Evelyn fairest!"It ended with—"Evelyn best!"And epithets fondest and dearestWere lavished between on the rest.There were tears in the eyes of the ladyAs she swept with her delicate hand,On the river-bank cool and shady,The list she had traced in the sand.There were smiles on the lip of the maidenAs she turned to her knight once more,And the heart was with joy o'erladenThat was heavy with doubt before!
"Come sit on this bank so shady,Sweet Evelyn, sit with me!And count me your loves, fair lady—How many may they be?"
The maiden smiled on her lover,And traced with her dimpled hand,Of names a dozen and overDown in the shining sand.
"And now," said Evelyn, rising,"Sir Knight! your own, if you please;And if there be no disguising,The list will outnumber these;
"Then count me them truly, rover!"And the noble knight obeyed;And of names a dozen and overHe traced within the shade.
Fair Evelyn pouted proudly;She sighed "Will he never have done?"And at last she murmur'd loudly,"I thought he would write butone!"
"Now read," said the gay youth, rising;"The scroll—it is fair and free;In truth, there is no disguisingThat list is the world to me!"
She read it with joy and wonder,For the first was her own sweet name;And again and again written under,It was still—it was still the same!
It began with—"My Evelyn fairest!"It ended with—"Evelyn best!"And epithets fondest and dearestWere lavished between on the rest.
There were tears in the eyes of the ladyAs she swept with her delicate hand,On the river-bank cool and shady,The list she had traced in the sand.
There were smiles on the lip of the maidenAs she turned to her knight once more,And the heart was with joy o'erladenThat was heavy with doubt before!
And for its lively movement and buoyant feeling—equally characteristic of her genius—the following song, upon "Lady Jane," a favorite horse:
Oh! saw ye e'er creature so queenly, so fine,As this dainty, aerial darling of mine!With a toss of her mane, that is glossy as jet,With a dance and a prance, and a frolic curvet,She is off! she is stepping superbly away!Her dark, speaking eye full of pride and of play.Oh! she spurns the dull earth with a graceful disdain,My fearless, my peerless, my loved Lady Jane!Her silken ears lifted when danger is nigh,How kindles the night in her resolute eye!Now stately she paces, as if to the soundOf a proud, martial melody playing around,Now pauses at once, 'mid a light caracole,To turn her mild glance on me beaming with soul;Now fleet as a fairy, she speeds o'er the plain,My darling, my treasure, my own Lady Jane!Give her rein! let her go! Like a shaft from a bow,Like a bird on the wing, she is speeding, I trow—Light of heart, lithe of limb, with a spirit all fire,Yet sway'd and subdued by my idlest desire—Though daring, yet docile, and sportive but true,Her nature's the noblest that ever I knew.How she flings back her head, in her dainty disdain!My beauty, my graceful, my gay Lady Jane!
Oh! saw ye e'er creature so queenly, so fine,As this dainty, aerial darling of mine!With a toss of her mane, that is glossy as jet,With a dance and a prance, and a frolic curvet,She is off! she is stepping superbly away!Her dark, speaking eye full of pride and of play.Oh! she spurns the dull earth with a graceful disdain,My fearless, my peerless, my loved Lady Jane!
Her silken ears lifted when danger is nigh,How kindles the night in her resolute eye!Now stately she paces, as if to the soundOf a proud, martial melody playing around,Now pauses at once, 'mid a light caracole,To turn her mild glance on me beaming with soul;Now fleet as a fairy, she speeds o'er the plain,My darling, my treasure, my own Lady Jane!
Give her rein! let her go! Like a shaft from a bow,Like a bird on the wing, she is speeding, I trow—Light of heart, lithe of limb, with a spirit all fire,Yet sway'd and subdued by my idlest desire—Though daring, yet docile, and sportive but true,Her nature's the noblest that ever I knew.How she flings back her head, in her dainty disdain!My beauty, my graceful, my gay Lady Jane!
It is among the one hundred and thirteen songs, of which this is one, and which form the last division of her poems, that we have the greatest varieties of rhythm, cadence, and expression; and it is here too that we have, perhaps, the most clear and natural exhibitions of that class of emotions which she conceives with such wonderful truth. The prevailing characteristic of these pieces is a native and delicate raillery, piquant by wit, and poetical by the freshest and gracefullest fancies; but they are frequently marked by much tenderness of sentiment, and by boldness and beauty of imagination. They are in some instances withoutthat singleness of purpose, that unity and completeness, which ought invariably to distinguish this sort of compositions, but upon the whole it must be considered that Mrs. Osgood was remarkably successful in the song. The fulness of our extracts from other parts of the volume will prevent that liberal illustration of her excellence in this which would be as gratifying to the reader as to us; and we shall transcribe but a few specimens, which, by various felicities of language, and a pleasing delicacy of sentiment, will detain the admiration:
Oh! would I were only a spirit of song,I'd float forever around, above you:If I were a spirit, it wouldn't be wrong,It couldn't be wrong, to love you!I'd hide in the light of a moonbeam bright,I'd sing Love's lullaby softly o'er you,I'd bring rare visions of pure delightFrom the land of dreams before you.Oh! if I were only a spirit of song,I'd float forever around, above you,For a musical spirit could never do wrong,And it wouldn't be wrong to love you!
Oh! would I were only a spirit of song,I'd float forever around, above you:If I were a spirit, it wouldn't be wrong,It couldn't be wrong, to love you!
I'd hide in the light of a moonbeam bright,I'd sing Love's lullaby softly o'er you,I'd bring rare visions of pure delightFrom the land of dreams before you.
Oh! if I were only a spirit of song,I'd float forever around, above you,For a musical spirit could never do wrong,And it wouldn't be wrong to love you!
The next, an exquisitely beautiful song, suggests its own music:
She loves him yet!I know by the blush that risesBeneath the curlsThat shadow her soul-lit cheek;She loves him yet!Through all Love's sweet disguisesIn timid girls,A blush will be sure to speak.But deeper signsThan the radiant blush of beauty,The maiden finds,Whenever his name is heard;Her young heart thrills,Forgetting herself—her duty—Her dark eye fills,And her pulse with hope is stirr'd.She loves him yet!—The flower the false one gave her,When last he came,Is still with her wild tears wet.She'll ne'er forget,Howe'er his faith may waver,Through grief and shame,Believe it—she loves him yet.His favorite songsShe will sing—she heeds no other;With all her wrongsHer life on his love is set.Oh! doubt no more!She never can wed another;Till life be o'er,She loves—she will love him yet!
She loves him yet!I know by the blush that risesBeneath the curlsThat shadow her soul-lit cheek;She loves him yet!Through all Love's sweet disguisesIn timid girls,A blush will be sure to speak.
But deeper signsThan the radiant blush of beauty,The maiden finds,Whenever his name is heard;Her young heart thrills,Forgetting herself—her duty—Her dark eye fills,And her pulse with hope is stirr'd.
She loves him yet!—The flower the false one gave her,When last he came,Is still with her wild tears wet.She'll ne'er forget,Howe'er his faith may waver,Through grief and shame,Believe it—she loves him yet.
His favorite songsShe will sing—she heeds no other;With all her wrongsHer life on his love is set.Oh! doubt no more!She never can wed another;Till life be o'er,She loves—she will love him yet!
And this is not less remarkable for a happy adaptation of sentiment to the sound:
Low, my lute—breathe low!—She sleeps!—Eulalie!While his watch her lover keeps,Soft and dewy slumber steepsGolden tress and fringed lidWith the blue heaven 'neath it hid—Eulalie!Low my lute—breathe low!—She sleeps!—Eulalie!Let thy music, light and low,Through her pure dream come and go.Lute on Love! with silver flow,All my passion, all my wo,Speak for me!Ask her in her balmy restWhom her holy heart loves best!Ask her if she thinks of me!—Eulalie!Low, my lute!—breathe low!—She sleeps!—Eulalie!Slumber while thy lover keepsFondest watch and ward for thee,Eulalie!
Low, my lute—breathe low!—She sleeps!—Eulalie!While his watch her lover keeps,Soft and dewy slumber steepsGolden tress and fringed lidWith the blue heaven 'neath it hid—Eulalie!Low my lute—breathe low!—She sleeps!—Eulalie!Let thy music, light and low,Through her pure dream come and go.Lute on Love! with silver flow,All my passion, all my wo,Speak for me!Ask her in her balmy restWhom her holy heart loves best!Ask her if she thinks of me!—Eulalie!Low, my lute!—breathe low!—She sleeps!—Eulalie!Slumber while thy lover keepsFondest watch and ward for thee,Eulalie!
The following evinces a deeper feeling, and has a corresponding force and dignity in its elegance:—
Yes, "lower to the level"Of those who laud thee now!Go, join the joyous revel,And pledge the heartless vow!Go, dim the soul-born beautyThat lights that lofty brow!Fill, fill the bowl! let burning wineDrown in thy soul Love's dream divine!Yet when the laugh is lightest,When wildest goes the jest,When gleams the goblet brightest,And proudest heaves thy breast,And thou art madly pledgingEach gay and jovial guest—A ghost shall glide amid the flowers—The shade of Love's departed hours!And thou shalt shrink in sadnessFrom all the splendor there,And curse the revel's gladness,And hate the banquet's glare;And pine, 'mid Passion's madnessFor true love's purer air,And feel thou'dst give their wildest gleeFor one unsullied sigh from me!Yet deem not this my prayer, love,Ah! no, if I could keepThy alter'd heart from care, love,And charm its griefs to sleep,Mine only should despair, love,I—I alone would weep!I—I alone would mourn the flowersThat fade in Love's deserted bowers!
Yes, "lower to the level"Of those who laud thee now!Go, join the joyous revel,And pledge the heartless vow!Go, dim the soul-born beautyThat lights that lofty brow!Fill, fill the bowl! let burning wineDrown in thy soul Love's dream divine!
Yet when the laugh is lightest,When wildest goes the jest,When gleams the goblet brightest,And proudest heaves thy breast,And thou art madly pledgingEach gay and jovial guest—A ghost shall glide amid the flowers—The shade of Love's departed hours!
And thou shalt shrink in sadnessFrom all the splendor there,And curse the revel's gladness,And hate the banquet's glare;And pine, 'mid Passion's madnessFor true love's purer air,And feel thou'dst give their wildest gleeFor one unsullied sigh from me!
Yet deem not this my prayer, love,Ah! no, if I could keepThy alter'd heart from care, love,And charm its griefs to sleep,Mine only should despair, love,I—I alone would weep!I—I alone would mourn the flowersThat fade in Love's deserted bowers!
Among her poems are many which admit us to the sacredest recesses of the mother's heart: "To a Child Playing with a Watch," "To Little May Vincent," "To Ellen, Learning to Walk," and many others, show the almost wild tenderness with which she loved her two surviving daughters—one thirteen, and the other eleven years of age now;—and a "Prayer in Illness," in which she besought God to "take them first," and suffer her to lie at their feet in death, lest, deprived of her love, they should be subjected to all the sorrow she herself had known in the world, is exquisitely beautiful and touching. Her parents, her brothers, her sisters, her husband, her children, were the deities of her tranquil and spiritual worship, and she turned to them in every vicissitude of feeling, for hope and strength and repose. "Lilly" and "May," were objects of a devotion too sacred for any idols beyond the threshold, and we witness it not as something obtruded upon the outer world, but as a display of beautified and dignified humanity which is among the ministries appointed to be received for the elevation of our natures. With these holy and beautiful songs is intertwined one, which under the title of "Ashes of Roses," breathes the solemnest requiem that ever was sung for a child, and in reading it we feel that in the subject was removed into the Unknown a portion of the mother's heart and life. The poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables, but a spontaneous gushing of thoughts, fancies and feelings, which fall naturally into harmonious measures; and so perfectly is the sense echoed in the sound, that it seems as if many of her compositions might be intelligibly written in the characters of music. It is a pervading excellence of her works, whether in prose or verse, that they are graceful beyond those of any other author who has written in this country; and the delicacy of her taste was such that it would probably be impossible to find in all of them a fancy, a thought, or a word offensive to that fine instinct in its highest cultivation or subtlest sensibility. It is one of her great merits that she attempted nothing foreign to her own affluent but not various genius.
There is a stilted ambition, common lately to literary women, which is among the fatalest diseases to reputation. She was never betrayed into it; she was always simple and natural, singing in no falsetto key, even when she entered the temples of old mythologies. With an extraordinary susceptibility of impressions, she had not only the finest and quickest discernment of those peculiarities of character which give variety to the surface of society, but of certain kinds and conditions of life she perceived the slightest undulations and the deepest movements. She had no need to travel beyond the legitimate sphere of woman's observation, to seize upon the upturnings and overthrows which serve best for rounding periods in the senate or in courts of criminal justice—trying everything to see if poetry could be made of it. Nor did she ever demand audience for rude or ignoble passion, or admit the moral shade beyond the degree in which it must appear in all pictures of life. She lingered with her keen insight and quick sensibilities among the associations, influences, the fine sense, brave perseverance, earnest affectionateness, and unfailing truth, which, when seen from the romantic point of view, are suggestive of all the poetry which it is within the province of woman to write.
I have not chosen to dwell upon the faults in her works; such labor is more fit for other hands, and other days; and so many who attempt criticism seem to think the whole art lies in the detection of blemishes, that one may sometimes be pardoned for lingering as fondly as I have done, upon an author's finer qualities. It must be confessed, that in her poems there is evinced a too unrestrained partiality for particular forms of expression, and that—it could scarcely be otherwise in a collection so composed—thoughts and fancies are occasionally repeated. In some instances too, her verse is diffuse, but generally, where this objection is made, it will be found that what seems most careless and redundant is only delicate shading: she but turns her diamonds to the various rays; she rings no changes till they are not music; she addresses an eye more sensitive to beauty and a finer ear than belong to her critics. The collection of her works is one of the most charming volumes that woman has contributed to literature; of all that we are acquainted with the most womanly; and destined, for that it addresses with truest sympathy and most natural eloquence the commonest and noblest affections, to be always among the most fondly cherished Books of the Heart.
Reluctantly I bring to a close these paragraphs—a hasty and imperfect tribute, from my feelings and my judgment, to one whom many will remember long as an impersonation of the rarest intellectual and moral endowments, as one of the loveliest characters in literary or social history. Hereafter, unless the office fall to some one worthier, I may attempt from the records of our friendship, and my own and others' recollections, to do such justice to her life and nature, that a larger audience and other times shall feel how much of beauty with her spirit left us.
This requiem she wrote for another, little thinking that her friends would so soon sing it with hearts saddened for her own departure.
The hand that swept the sounding lyreWith more than mortal skill,The lightning eye, the heart of fire,The fervent lip are still:No more in rapture or in wo,With melody to thrill,Ah! nevermore!Oh! bring the flowers she cherish'd so,With eager child-like care:For o'er her grave they'll love to grow,And sigh their sorrow there;Ah me! no more their balmy glowMay soothe her heart's despair,No! nevermore!But angel hands shall bring her balmFor every grief she knew,And Heaven's soft harps her soul shall calmWith music sweet and true;And teach to her the holy charmOf Israfel anew.For evermore!Love's silver lyre she played so well,Lies shattered on her tomb;But still in air its music-spellFloats on through light and gloom,And in the hearts where soft they fell,Her words of beauty bloomFor evermore!
The hand that swept the sounding lyreWith more than mortal skill,The lightning eye, the heart of fire,The fervent lip are still:No more in rapture or in wo,With melody to thrill,Ah! nevermore!
Oh! bring the flowers she cherish'd so,With eager child-like care:For o'er her grave they'll love to grow,And sigh their sorrow there;Ah me! no more their balmy glowMay soothe her heart's despair,No! nevermore!
But angel hands shall bring her balmFor every grief she knew,And Heaven's soft harps her soul shall calmWith music sweet and true;And teach to her the holy charmOf Israfel anew.For evermore!
Love's silver lyre she played so well,Lies shattered on her tomb;But still in air its music-spellFloats on through light and gloom,And in the hearts where soft they fell,Her words of beauty bloomFor evermore!
THEHon. Samuel Young, long one of the most eminent politicians of the democratic party in the State of New-York, died of apoplexy, at his home at Ballston Spa, on the night of the third of November. Col. Young was born in Berkshire county, Massachusetts, in 1778. Soon after he completed his legal studies he emigrated to Ballston Spa, in this State. The following facts respecting his subsequent career are condensed from theTribune.
"He was first chosen to the Legislature in 1814, and was reëlected next year on a split ticket, which for a time clouded his prospects. In 1824, he was again in the Assembly, was Speaker of the House in that memorable year, and helped remove De Witt Clinton from the office of Canal Commissioner. The Fall Election found him a candidate for Governor on the 'Caucus' interest opposed to the 'People's' demand that the choice of Presidential Electors be relinquished by the Legislature to the Voters of the State. Col. Young professed to be personally a 'Peoples' man, and in favor of Henry Clay for President; the 'Caucus' candidate being Wm. H. Crawford. De Witt Clinton was the opposing candidate for Governor, and was elected by 16,000 majority. Col. Young's political fortunes never recovered from the blow thus inflicted. He had already been chosen a Canal Commissioner by the Legislature, and he continued to hold the office till the Political revolution of 1838-9, when he was superseded by a Whig. He was afterwards twice a State Senator for four years, and for three years Secretary of State. He carried into all the stations he has filled signal ability and unquestioned rectitude. He was a man of strong prejudices, violent temper and implacable resentments, but a Patriot and a determined foe of time-serving, corruption, prodigality, and debt. He was a warm friend of Educational Improvement, and did the cause good service while Secretary of State. For the last three years he has held no office, but lived in that peaceful retirement to which his years and his services fairly entitled him. He leaves behind him many who have attained more exalted positions on a smaller capital of talent and aptitude for public service. We have passed lightly over his vehement denunciations of the Internal Improvement policy during the latter years of his public life. We attribute the earnestness of his hostility to a temper soured by disappointment, and especially to his great defeat in '24, at the hands of the illustrious champion of the Canals. But, though his vision was jaundiced, his purpose was honest. He thought he was struggling to save the State from imminent bankruptcy and ruin."
Henry T. Robinson, for many years an active maker of political and other caricatures, by which he made a fortune, here and in Washington, and of nude and other indecent prints, by the seizure of a large quantity of which, with other causes, he was impoverished, died at Newark, New-Jersey, on the third of November. He was born on Bethnal Common in England, in 1785, and about 1810 emigrated to this country, where he was one of the first to practise lithography.
Joseph Hardydied a few weeks ago at Rathmines, aged ninety-three years. When twenty years old he invented a machine for doubling and twisting cotton yarn, for which the Dublin Society awarded him a premium of twenty guineas. Four years after he invented a scribbling machine for carding wool, to be worked by horse or water power, for which the same society awarded him one hundred guineas. He next invented a machine for measuring and sealing linen, and was in consequence appointed by the linen board seals-master for all the linen markets in the county of Derry, but the slightest benefit from this he never derived, as the rebellion of '98 broke out about the time he had all his machines completed, and political opponents having represented by memorials to the board that by giving so much to one man, hundreds who then were employed would be thrown out of work, the board changed the seal from the spinning wheel to the harp and crown, thereby rendering his seals useless, merely giving him 100l.by way of remuneration for his loss. About the year 1810 he demonstrated by an apparatus attached to one of the boats of the Grand Canal Company at Portobello the practicability of propelling vessels on the water by paddle wheels; but having placed the paddles on the bow of the boat, the action of the backwater on the boat was so great as to prevent its movement at a higher speed than three miles per hour. This appearing not to answer, without further experiment he broke up the machinery, and allowed others to profit by the ideas he gave on the subject, and to complete on the open sea what he had attempted within the narrow limits of a canal. He also invented a machine for sawing timber; but the result of all his inventions during a long life was very considerable loss of time and property without the slightest recompense from Government, or the country benefited by his talents.
Major-General Slessordied at Sidmouth, Devonshire, on the 11th October, aged seventy-three. He entered the army in 1794, and served in Ireland during the rebellion, and subsequently against the French force commanded by General Humbert, on which last occasion he was wounded. In 1806 he accompanied his regiment (the 35th) to Sicily, and the next year he served in the second expedition to Egypt, and was wounded in the retreat from Rosetta to Alexandria. He then served with Sir J. Oswald against the Greek Islands, and was employed in the Mediterranean. He also served in the Austrian army, under Count Nugent, and in the Waterloo campaign.
Joseph Signay, Roman Catholic Archbishop of the Ecclesiastical Province of Quebec, died on the 3d of October. He was born at Quebec November 8, 1778, appointed Coadjutor of Quebec and Bishop of Fussala the 15th of December, 1826, and was consecrated under that title the 20th of May, 1827. He succeeded to the See of Quebec the 19th of February, 1833, and was elevated to the dignity of Archbishop by His Holiness Pope Gregory XVI., on the 12th of July, 1844, and received the "Pallium" during the ensuing month.
Dr. Fouquier, one of the most celebrated physicians of Paris, who wasle medecinof the ex-king Louis Philippe, and Professor ofclinique interneat the Academy, died on the 1st of October. His loss is much felt among thesavants.
Lieut.-Colonel Cross, K.H., a distinguished Peninsular officer, died near London on the 27th of October. He served in the Peninsular war from 1808 until its close in 1814, and was at the battle of Waterloo, where he received a severe contusion.
Thomas Amyot, F.R.S., &c.—whose life, extended to the age of seventy-six, was passed in close intercourse with the literary and antiquarian circles of London, participating in their pursuits and aiding their exertions—died on the 28th of September. He was an active and respected member of almost every metropolitan association which had for its object the advancement of literature. He was a constant and valuable contributor to theArchæologia, the private secretary of Mr. Windham, the editor of Windham's speeches, and for many years treasurer to the Society of Antiquaries of London, and a director of the Camden Society. He was a native of Norwich, and obtained the friendship and patronage of Windham while actively engaged in canvassing in favor of an opponent of that gentleman for the representation of Norwich in the House of Commons. A Life of Windham was one of his long-promised and long-looked-for contributions to the biographies of English statesmen; but no such work has been published, and there is reason to believe that very little, if indeed any portion of it, was ever completed for publication. The journals of Mr. Windham were in the possession of Mr. Amyot; and if we may judge of the whole by the account of Johnson's conversation and last illness, printed by Croker in his edition of Boswell, we may assert that whenever they may be published they will constitute a work of real value in illustration of political events and private character,—a model in respect of fullness and yet succinctness, which future journalists may copy with advantage. Whatever Windham preserved of Johnson's conversation well merited preservation. Mr. Amyot's most valuable literary production is, his refutation of Mr. Tytler's supposition that Richard the Second was alive and in Scotland in the reign of Henry the Fourth.
Madame Branchu, so famous in the opera in the last century, is dead. The first distinct idea which many have entertained respecting theGrande Operaof Paris may have been derived from a note in Moore'sFudge Familyin which the "shrill screams of Madame Branchu" were mentioned. She retired from the theater in 1826, after twenty-five years ofprima donnaship—having succeeded to the scepter and crown of Mdlle. Maillard and Madame St. Huberty. She died at Passy, having almost entirely passed out of the memory of the present opera-going generation. She must have been a forcible and impassioned rather than an elegant or irreproachable vocalist—and will be best remembered perhaps as the originalJuliain "La Vestale" of Spontini.
Major-General Wingrove, of the Royal Marines, died on the 7th October, aged seventy years. He entered the Royal Marines in 1793, served at the surrender of the Cape of Good Hope in 1795, the battle of Trafalgar, the taking of Genoa in 1814, was on board the Boyne when that ship singly engaged three French ships of the line and three frigates, off Toulon, in 1814, and on board the Hercules in a single action, off Cape Nichola Mole. In 1841 he was promoted to the rank of a major-general.
The Duke of Palmella, long eminent in the affairs of Portugal, died at Lisbon on the 12th of October. He was born on the 8th of May, 1781, and had, consequently, completed his sixty ninth year. A very considerable part of his life was dedicated to the diplomatic service of Portugal, which he represented at the Congress of Vienna, in 1814; and he was one of the General Committee of the eight powers who signed the Peace of Paris. When the debate respecting the slave-trade took place in the Congress, he warmly opposed the immediate abolition by Portugal, which had been demanded by Lord Castlereagh. He was also one of the foreign ministers who signed the declaration of the 13th of March, 1815, against Napoleon; immediately after which he was nominated representative of Portugal at the British Court. In 1816, however, he was recalled to fill the office of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in Brazil. In February, 1818, he visited Paris, for the purpose of making some arrangements relative to Monte Video, with the Spanish Ambassador, Count Fernan Nunez. After the Portuguese Revolution, he retired for a time from active life. He was next selected to attend at the coronation of Queen Victoria; and his great wealth enabled him to vie, on that occasion, with the representatives of the other courts of Europe. He was several times called to preside over the councils of his Sovereign, but only held office for a limited period. Though a member of the ancient nobility, all his titles were honorably acquired by his own exertions, and were the rewards of distinguished abilities and meritorious services. No Portuguese statesman acquired greater celebrity abroad, and no man acted a more consistent part in all the political vicissitudes of the last thirty years, throughout which he was a most prominent character. It is related of the Duke, when Count de Palmella, that during the contest in Spain and Portugal, Napoleon one day hastily addressed him with—"Well, are you Portuguese willing to become Spanish?" "No," replied the Count, in a firm tone. Far from being displeased with this frank and laconic reply, Napoleon said next day to one of his officers, "The Count de Palmella gave me yesterday a noble 'No.'"
Carl Rottmann, the distinguished Bavarian artist and painter to the King, died near the end of October. He had been sent by King Ludwig to Italy and to Greece to depict the scenery and monuments of those countries. His pictures of the Temple of Juno Lucina, Girgenti, the theater of Taormina, &c., have never been excelled, and the king had characterized them by illustrative poems. The Grecian monuments which Rottmann sketched in 1835 and 1836 are destined for the new Pinakothek; and the Battle-Field of Marathon is spoken of as a wonderful composition. The frescoes of Herr Rottmann adorn the ceiling of the upper story of the palace at Munich.
François de Villeneuve-Bargemont, Marquis de Trans, a member of the French Academy of Inscriptions of Belles-Lettres, and author, amongst other works, of the Histories of King Réné of Anjou, of St. Louis, and of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, is named in the late Paris obituaries.
TheAugsburg Gazetteannounces the death of the celebrated Bavarian painterCh. Schorn, Professor at the Academy of Fine Arts at Munich, on the 7th October, aged forty-seven.
Richard M. Johnson, Ex-Vice-President of the United States, died at Frankfort, Ky., on the morning of November 19, having for some time been deprived of his reason. He was about seventy years of age. In 1807 he was chosen a member of the House of Representatives, which post he held twelve years. In 1813 he raised 1,000 men, to fight the British and Indians in the North-west. In the campaign which followed he served gallantly under Gen. Harrison as Colonel of his regiment. At the battle of the Thames he distinguished himself by breaking the line of the British infantry. The fame of killing Tecumseh, in this battle, has been given to Colonel J., but the act has other claimants. In 1819 he was transferred from the House of Representatives to the Senate, to serve out an unexpired term. When that expired he was re-chosen, and thus remained in the Senate till 1829. Then, another re-election being impossible, he went back into the House, where he remained till 1839, when he became Vice-President under Mr. Van Buren. In 1829 the Sunday Mail agitation being brought before the House, he, as Chairman of the Committee on Post-Offices and Post-Roads, presented a report against the suspension of mails on Sunday. It was able, though its ability was much exaggerated; it disposed of the subject, and Col. J. received what never belonged to him, the credit of having written it. From 1837 to 1841 he presided over the Senate. From that time he did not hold any office.
William Blacker, Esq., the distinguished agricultural writer and economist, died on the 20th of October, at his residence in Armagh, in the seventy-fifth year of his age. Engaged extensively, in early life, in mercantile pursuits, he devoted himself at a maturer period to the development of the agricultural and economic resources of Ireland. By his popularly-written "Hints to Small Farmers," annual reports of experimental results, essays, &c. he managed to spread, not only a spirit of inquiry into matters of such vital importance to his country, but to point out and urge into the best and most advantageous course of action, the well-inclined and the energetic.
Mrs. Bell Martin, the author of a very clever novel, lately reprinted by the Harpers, entitled "Julia Howard" and originally published under the name of Mrs. Martin Bell, died in this city on the 7th of November. Mrs. Martin was the daughter of one of the wealthiest commoners of England. She came to this country it is said entirely for purposes connected with literature. She was the author of several other works, most of which were written in French.
ThePatria, of Corfu mentions the death by cholera of SignorNiccolo Delviniotti Baptistide, a distinguished literary character, and author of several very interesting works.
General du Chastel, one of the remains of the French Imperial Army, died at Saumur, in October, in the seventy-eighth year of his age.
Amongthe other recent deaths in Europe, we notice that of Mr.Watkyns, the son-in-law and biographer of Ebenezer Elliot;Dr. Medicus, Professor of Botany at Munich, and a member of the Academy of Sciences in that capital;M. Ferdinand Laloue, a dramatic author of some reputation in Paris; andDr. C.F. Becker, eminent for his philosophical works on grammar and the structure of language.