Or rests where orange blooms dispense
Their odors o'er the Indian's tent;
Where lutes are touched, and happy songs
Enchant the air with merriment."

'The Churchman's Monthly

This has been three months in type. Magazine,' published in this city, well sustains its reputation as an instructive and agreeable original and selected Miscellany. Among the original articles in the number now before us, we find a pleasant gossipping' Letter from Abroad,' from which we take a paragraph, occurring in the writer's description of his visit to 'Ould Erin,' with which, by the way, he seems greatly pleased:

'EVERY day makes us better pleased with Dublin. There is a life and effervescence about it that I never enjoyed in any other city. This arises, I suppose, from the fact that you do not see people all intent on business. Every day seems like a holiday, every body dressed in their best, and intent on pleasure. You would never know from the physiognomy of the upper classes that you were in the Emerald Isle. The men are fine, fresh looking, and intelligent; the ladies are, as a class, the most beautiful in form and feature I have ever seen. They are not stunted in growth and deformed by artificial appliances; but have the perpetual bloom of health upon their cheeks; of ruby redness. But enough of the Irish ladies. I dare not say more.'

lips I must tell you of an excursion we took on Wednesday of last week, to the vale of Avoca, made famous by the song of MOORE. To visit this charming spot, we travelled by rail to the town of Wicklow, about thirty miles south of Dublin. And we took the mail-coach, a very convenient vehicle for those wishing to see the country, being arranged to carry eight or twelve on the outside, and only four inside. The town of Wicklow is a fair sample of all the old towns in Ireland. The streets are narrow, crooked, and dark; the houses are built either of mud or stone; some tiled, and others 'shingled mit straw;' gin-shops, groups of idlers in rags and tatters, filthy urchins, and children without number, wallowing in the dirt, make up the landscape of the town. But we are soon out of it, and the country, smiling with the growing crops, and herds well-pastured, greets us. The county of Wicklow is said to be one of the finest in Ireland, not only for productiveness, but for beauty of scenery. There was nothing very remarkable in the landscape until we left Arklow, a twin-brother of Wicklow, twelve miles farther south. Here we left the mail-coach, lunched, and took a private conveyance to drive through the vale of Avoca. And here I might as well stop, for to attempt to give you any idea of the beauty of this drive of seventeen miles, I dare not. Had I the words to paint it, and the poetic taste and feeling to select them with justice to the subject, I might give you a sketch; but then it would only suggest the beauties which it could not represent, and make you unhappy with longings to see the original. There was nothing to lessen our pleasure or to interrupt the beauty of the scene; no rough roads, no tree-stumps, no saw-mills, no steam factories, nothing to grate upon the ear, or to offend the eye. And this was the charm of the landscape, its perfection. Like one of COLE's beautiful pictures, his 'Dream of Arcadia,' for example, it was a realization of the ideal in nature.'

'Deferred' from our March number. SEVERAL years since, when we were a mere boy, we well remember a series of brief newspaper-stories, which went the rounds of the PRESS,' as it was then termed a 'press,' however, at that time, was quite different from what it is now, known as 'The American Press.' These stories were published at intervals, in a paper called The Trenton Emporium;' and were from the pen of STACY G. Ports, Esq., of Trenton, New-Jersey, whose acquaintance, previous to his subsequent extensive travels in Europe, we had the pleasure to make. We are reminded of these simple, unpremeditated sketches from real life, by the subjoined communication. That it is not merely a sentimental narrative; that it has nothing stagey' in its details; we hope we need not assure the reader: yet we may say, that every incident, all the details, to the minutest particular, are authentic. Even the names are given to us in

the communication from which we quote. And certain we are, that simple as it is, it will touch a chord in some human heart:

'The Widow Leedom's Last Loaf.

'CALM and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in one heart, if calm at all,

If any calm, a calm despair.

"Calm on the seas, and silver sleep

And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast,

Which heaves but with the heaving deep.' - TENNYSON.

'Ir was evening a beautiful autumn evening. The red leaves yet danced, rejoicing in the mild air; the yellow sun-shine yet gilded the hill-tops, and the soft shadows were creeping silently up the valley, as the gentle widow LEEDOM, with her child in her arms, wended her way homeward. She was tired, for she had toiled all day in Farmer Wood's kitchen, and though it was Saturday evening, she had not been paid for her labor. The kind-hearted house-maid at Farmer WOOD'S had urged her to wait for her supper, but she thought of her hungry little ones at home, and she could not stay. She had no eye for the glory of that superb October sun-set as she walked wearily on, her tired arms scarcely able to hold the little joyous creature that laughed and crowed, and ever and anon peered into her bonnet, lisping his sweet-toned 'mamma, mamma.' She thought only of her expectant little ones, and the means of obtaining bread for them to last over Sunday. As she neared the village, she seemed irresolute whether to enter it or pass on; but a vision of her lonely, fasting children, rose up before her in imagination, and she stopped, her lips moved a moment or two as if in prayer, and then quickening her step, and hurrying on like one who has nerved herself to a sudden resolution, she turned into the main street, and was soon standing before the counter of the baker's shop. The baker was an austere man, but it was not in human nature to resist the widow's pleading tone and touching expression as she falteringly asked him to trust her to a loaf of bread for a day or two. The man handed the loaf reluctantly, and was about to insist on prompt payment, when a glance at the widow's painfully flushed face and embarrassed manner deterred him. With scarcely audible thanks she concealed the loaf under her tattered shawl, and drawing her babe closer to her bosom, hastened home.

Mother's come! mother's come !' cried a couple of young, eager voices, as she entered the gate, and her seven-year-old ROBERT and his little sister came running to meet her. They were pretty children. The little MARY inherited her mother's mild blue eyes and delicate complexion, and the boy his father's handsome face and honest brown eyes. Poor children, they were accustomed to being left alone, for the widow went out to work daily, and the night was always welcome that brought their mother's loved return. They had a thousand things to ask and tell which fell unheeded this time on the ear of the sad mother, though she instinctively answered them yes and no as occasion required. She gave the loaf to ROBERT, and taking little MARY's hand, they entered the house together. The table was already set out by the little expectant house-keepers, but there was nothing on it that could be construed into any thing eatable save a cup of molasses and some salt. The mother cut a slice of bread for each of her half-famished children, and sat quietly by nursing the youngest while they ate it, for she had no heart

to eat herself. She was very sorrowful as she looked at those little dependent beings, and thought of her failing strength, and shading her eyes with her hand, the tears stole silently down her pale, patient face and fell among the bright curls of the little unconscious head pillowed so peacefully on her bosom. She had been sorely afflicted. The husband of her youth had been stricken down by a falling beam while attempting to save a sick child, that had been overlooked in the hurry and panic, from a burning building. The child was saved, but he who perilled his life for it, the strong, brave-hearted man had perished. The fruit of this union, her eldest-born, her pride of heart, the noble boy whose every movement and expression had been so many similes of his buried father, was a wanderer she knew not whither.

'Years after the boy had left her, when ROBERT LEEDOM came often to see her in her loneliness, and ventured to tell her at length how he had loved her from the time they had played together at school, and how he had remained single for her sake, and came back always to the same old port that he might breathe again the same air that she breathed, and besought her to let him sustain and shield her, to` comfort her in sickness and sorrow, she gladdened the honest sailor's faithful heart by consenting to become his wife. No wonder the young sailor loved her, she was so neat in her habits, so gentle and industrious; and her calm, sweet face and holy eyes shone ever with 'the beauty that dwelt in her soul.' She had learned to love her second husband, and had borne him three fair children, when the sad news came that the gallant vessel in which he had sailed was wrecked on the dangerous coast near Absecomb, and in his generous efforts to save others, ROBERT LEEDOM was lost. She had been a widow the second time only six months, and now, as she thought of her utter inability to support her fatherless children, even in the summer-time, and saw no other prospect before her whichever way she looked, and knew that the cold, drear winter was coming gradually on, her heart failed her utterly, and she could only weep. The wondering little ones tried by every endearing art they could think of to attract her attention, but in vain. Impressed by their mother's mournful mood, they ate their bread almost in silence; and when they had finished, she arose mechanically, and laying her babe in its cradle, put them to bed. She heard them their prayers, and bade good night, and GOD bless them, carefully and tenderly as usual, but with that subdued, spiritless tone that emanates from a heart without hope. She continued kneeling by their bed-side long after she had prayed with them, and wept. Bittterly she wept, but there was no pitying eye to see now, no tender hand to caress, no loving voice to soothe, as the cry from her overburdened, despairing heart, 'My GOD, my GOD, why hast THOU forsaken me?' went up over the unconscious heads of the sleepers in that hour of agony. No pitying eye did I say? The EYE that never slumbers nor sleeps was there; the loving kindness that has said, 'I will be a FATHER to the fatherless,' was about her even then, though she knew it not. In the power of the SPIRIT came the blessed assurance, in answer to her despairing cry, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee;' and her soul grew calm, all her old trusting faith returned, and she arose from her knees tranquilly, feeling that 'the LORD is a very present help in time of trouble.' She took down the little worn Bible from the mantel, and as she read on through the closing chapters of St. JOHN, an expression of peace ineffable, 'the peace that passeth understanding,' settled serenely on her sweet face. Putting the Bible reverently back, she took some mending from her basket, and soon the clear tones of a hymn sounded through the stillness of the little cottage; and 'How firm a foundation,' etc., when pealed from lordly organ, and echoed through vaulted

dome, never ascended more acceptably to HIM who sitteth on the great white throne.'

'But other eyes beside the ALL-SEEING had been looking in through the low casement at the lonely sufferer, and now the sweet tones of the holy hymn were interrupted by a knock at the door. The widow opened it and saw before her a weary, travel-stained man, who asked only for a crust of bread and a sup of water. The widow glanced at the loaf which still lay on the table, and then at the sleeping children, and hesitated, but only for a moment; there was something in the tone of the stranger's voice that came gratefully to her soul as the breath of spring over violets, and she thought of her own beloved boy asking for charity in some distant land, and she hastened to place a chair and reach him the loaf, trusting to HIM 'who causeth it to rain on the earth where no man is, to satisfy the desolate and waste ground,' for her orphans.

"My mother! my own precious mother!' cried the familiar voice, in broken tɔnes, and springing forward, she was caught and strained to the beating heart of her long-lost son. 'My son, my son!' she could only murmur, while he exclaimed: 'I am rich, my mother, I have plenty for us all; I have been to California, and have come back rich beyond all I ever hoped or dreamed of my poor famishing mother! I am just in time thank GOD! thank GOD!' and mother and son knelt together in one glad, earnest prayer of thanksgiving.

M. E. T.'

Truth, yet 'strange as fiction.' THE third number of the COSMOPOLITAN ART JOURNAL is the best that has yet appeared. It contains a number of fine illustrations, with a variety of interesting matter. If it were issued sooner after the distribution, and the Magazines sent more promptly to the subscribers, it would save much complaint. We had eight pages of 'Gossip and Literary Record prepared and ready embracing many good things' from correspondents, which fortunately will keep; together with Reminiscences of the late Reverend DERRICK C. LANSING; notices of our friends TICKNOR AND FIELDS' most superb and reasonably-priced editions of the 'Household Waverley Novels,' and LONGFELLOW's 'Prose and Poetical Works;' ELLIOTT's carefully-prepared and extremely interesting History of New-England; CALVERT VAUX's 'Villas and Cottages;' SARGENT'S Arctic Voyages;' REED's 'British Poets;' MOORE's 'Songs and Ballads of the American Revolution;' 'The Days of my Life;' MACAULAY'S 'Biographical and Historical Sketches;' SHEELAH'S 'Bannyshan Castle;' 'Illinois as It Is ;' 'Brittany and La Vendée;' 'Greece and the Greeks;' 'Scampavias;' BARRY CORNWALL'S Dramatic Poems; About Right and Wrong;' (one of those Books for the Young, published by the HARPERS, that deserve to be printed in letters of gold, with pictures of silver;') Mrs. LEE HENTZ's 'Love After Marriage ;' OLE BULL'S, the SCHMEISERS', and Miss MARIA S. BRAINERD'S Concerts; 'New Biographies,' etc. 'Record,' with 'additaments' of all these, are preserved for our June number.

'Indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me, is A most humorous sadness.'-AS YOU LIKE IT.

'What I ses I ses, and what I ses I sticks to.'-MRS. HARBIS.

THERE have been many travellers. Of the more reliable we have Munchausen, whose thoroughly honest nature scorned the similitude, even, of a lie; Riley, whose pious heart knew no deceit; Trollope, the loveliest character since the time of Eve. The worthy Baron (worthy in all things good) has come of late to lose somewhat of the credit which before attached to him: indeed, many have thought it proper to class him with the mendacious nursery historians, whose hurtful fables so deprave the mind. How poignant the regret of all the juster sort, that so much goodness hath been preached against, so much greatness called by other names! His was a character to emulate, his a mind to revere. The sights HEAVEN favored him with, shall others see them? his story, will it ever be surpassed? Why should the mind reject the more marvellous of his tales? That they are wonderful, is to be deemed no common proof of their faithfulness: for to have seen those things, were with a man of sense the strongest inducement to the overcoming of that common repugnance to the making of books, which hath all along hindered the spread of learning. Let us not lightly esteem the man of genius. What though the Baron's fancy lightened somewhat the heavier portions of his task: forgive me, thou insulted Shade! if I have mentioned the Impossible, and thus seemed to sneer: how benevolent the design! how innocent the fond conception! So the great Trollope, mindless of the stricter critics, softened all the sterner 36

YOL. XLIX.