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•rrown ponderous —it defied them—rooted to ihe earth as it seemed. ‘•They cannot make me leave my post,” thought the bell —“ I will still watch over this holy spot; it has been my care for years.” Time passed, and they strove no longetr to remove the relic. Its successor rang dearly from the tower above its head, and the old bell slumbered on, in the warm sunshine, and the dreary storm, unmolested, and almost for gotten. The afternoon was calm, but the sun’s rays were most powerful. A bright, noble boy had been walking listlessly under the whis pering trees. He was in high health and was resting from eager exercise, for there was a flush upon his open brow, and as he walk ed he wiped the beaded drops from his fore head. “ Ah, here is the place,” he said : “ I will lie down in this cool shade, and read this pleasant volume.” The lays of Hans Sachs were in his hand. So the youth stretched his wearied limbs upon the velvet grass, and his head rested near the olid bell, but he did not know it, for there was a low shrub with thick serrated leaves and fragrant blossoms spreading over it, and the youth did not care to look beyond. Presentty the letters in his book began to grow indistinct, there was a mist creeping o ver the page and while be wondered at the marvel, a lowclear voice spoke to him. Yes, it called his name, “ Novalis.” “I am here,” said the lad, though he could see no one. He glanced upward, and around, yet there was no living creature in sight. “ Listen,” said the voice. “ I have not spoken to mortal for many, many years. — My voice was hushed at thy birth. Come, I will tell thee of it The youth listened, though he was sadly amazed. He felt bound to the spot, and he could not close his ears. “ Time has passed swiftly,” said the voice, “ since I watched the children who are now men and women, at their sports in the neigh boring forest l looked out from my station in the old tower, and morning and evening beheld with joy those innocent faces, as they ran and bounded in wild delight fearless of the future, and careless of the present hour. They were all my children, for I had rejoiced at their birth, and if it was ordained that the Good Shepherd early called one of the lambs to his bosom, I tolled not mournfully, but soh emnly at the departure. I knew it was far better for those who slept thus peacefully, and I could not sorrow for them. “ I marked one, a fair, delicate girl, who often separated herself from her merry com panions. She would leave their noisy play, and stealing with her book and work through the dark old trees, would sit for hours in the shadow of the tower. Though she never came without a volume, such an one as just now you were reading, the book was often neglected, and leaning her head upon her hand, she would remain until the twilight tenderly veiled her beautiful form, wrapt in a deep, stillmusing. 1 knew that her thoughts were holy and pure; often of Heaven, for she would raise her eyes to the bending sky, jewelled as it was in the evening hour, and seem in prayer, though her lips moved not, and the listening breezes could not catch a murmured word. “ But the gill grew up, innocent as in her child-hood, yet with a “rosier flush upon her cheeks and and a brighter lustre in her dreamy eye. I did not see her so often then, but when my voice on the bright Sabbath morn ing called those who love the good Father to come and thank him for his wondrous mercy and goodness, she was the first to obey the summons, and I watched the snowy drapery which she always wore, as it fluttered by the dark foliage, or gleamed in the glad sunshine. did not come alone, for her grqndsire ev er leaned upon her arm, and she guided his uncertain steps, and listened earnestly to the words of wisdom which he spoke. Then I marked that often another joined the group, a youth who had been her companion years agone, when she was a very child. Now, they did not stray as then, with arms en twined, and hand linked in hand; but the youth supported the grand si re, and she walk ed beside him, looking timidly upon the ground, and if by chance he spoke to her, a bright glow would arise to her lips and fore head. . “Never did my voice ring out for a mer rier bridal than on the morn when they were united, before the altar of this very church. All the village rejoiced with them, for the gentle girl was loved as a sister, and a daugh ter ; all said that the youth to whom she had plighted her troth was well worthy of the jewel he had gained. The old praised, and the young admired as the bridal party turned toward their home, a simple, vine-shaded cot lage, not a stone’s throw from where thou §®© TF KIB &10 ILII7 ft IE A!E H (BASS TTS 1 £§♦ art lyittg\ They did not forget the God who itad bestowed so much of happiness upon them, even in the midst of pleasure,, and of ten they would come in the hush of twilight, wnd, kneeling by the altar, give thanks for nil the mercies they had received. “Two years —long as the period may seem to youth—glides swiftly past when th'e heart is not at rest. Then once more a chime float ed from the belfry. It was at early dawn, when the mist was lying on the mountain’s side, and the dew hid trembling in the flower bells, frighted by the first beams of the rising day. A son had been given to them, a bright, healthful babe, w ith eyes blue as the moth er's who clasped him to her breast, and ded icated him with his first breath to the parent who had watched over her orphaned youth, and had given this treasure to her keeping. “ That bright day faded, and even came sadly upon the face of nature. Deep and mournful was the tone which I flung upon the passing wind; and the fir trees of the for est sent back a moan from their swaying branches, heavily swaying as if for very sym pathy. Life was that day given, but anoth er had been recalled. The young mother’s deep sleep was not broken even by the wail ing voice of her first born, for it was the re pose of death. “ They laid her beside the Very spot where she had passed so many hours; and then I knew it was the grave of her parents which she had so loved to visit. “The son lived, and the father’sgrief aba ted when he saw the boy growing in the im age of his mother; and when the child, with uncertain footsteps, had dared to tread upon the velvet grass, the father brought him to the church-yard, and clasping his little hands as he knelt beside him, taught the babe that he had also a Father in Heaven. “I have lain since that time almost by her side, for my pride was humbled when they removed me from the station I had so long occupied. My voice has been hushed from that sorrowful night even till now, but 1 am compelled to speak to thee. “Boy! boy! it is thy mother of whom I have told thee ! Tw t o lives were given for thine; thy mother who brought thee into the World—thy Saviour who would give thee a second birth—they have died that thou might live; and for so great a sacrifice how much will be required of thee! See to it that thou art not found wanting w T hen a reckoning is required of thee.” Suddenly as it had been borne to his ears the voice became silent. The boy started as if from deep sleep, and put his hand to his brow. The dew lay damply upon it, —the shades of evening had crept over the church yard; and he could scarce discern the white slab that marked the resting place of his mo ther. It may have been a dream—but when he searched about him for the old bell, it was lying with its lip very near to the fragrant pillow 7 upon which he had reposed. Thoughtfully and slowly the boy went to ward his home, but though he told none, not even his father, what had befallen him, the story of the old bell was never forgotten, and his future life was influenced by its remem brance. ©ltinpo£o of i&Jcro Books. GEORGE SAND. [From “De Vericour’s Modern French Litera ture.” —Just published by Gould, Kendall & Lin coln: Boston.] We now come to the works of the cele brated George Sand ( Madame Dudevant,) w T hich afford a lamentable proof of the aber rations into which a highly gifted mind may be led, that is not fortified by the equanimity and resignation derived from religious influ ences. The heart of Madame Dudevaßt must have, doubtless, been wrung by tortures of no ordinary character. Unfortunate in her marriage, and stung by the treatment of a heartless, corrupt, and hypocritical society, she long devoured her chagrin ; at last, the rancorous feeling engendered became too pow erful for control, the pent-up passions broke from bondage, and the rebellion was signal ized by an outpouring of w 7 rath that appall ed the world. It took the form of direful li centiousness. Conscious of her intellectual powers, and goaded to exasperation by a sense of wrong, it would seem that Madame Dude vant sought to retaliate upon society by de picting it, in one of its holiest pactions, in the most revolting colors. To this cause must be ascribed those pictures of conjugal life, those denunciations against salutary bar riers, those fretful and piercing lamentations of a troubled and vengeful spirit, which, cloth ed in all the graces of the most fascinating style, and impressed with the intensity of ac tual anguish, have harrowed the public feel- ings of France, and scandalized its literature. \et admiration of the extraordinary talent displayed by the author, pity for her suffer ings, and sympathy with many of the senti ments and emotions she evinces, have secur ed her a host of enthusiastic partisans, w 7 ho almost stifle with their applause the voice of censure and reprobation. Thus the assumed name under which she writes, George Sand, has attained a reputation, which, for the sake of morality, is to be deplored, especially w r hen Vre regard her earlier works; although, as We shall hereafter show, she is now atoning in some degree for her misdeeds, by produc tions of an estimable and unexceptionable character. And allow us to remark, that the popularity she enjoys is not to be attributed, as inveterate detractors of the French nation have alleged, to the vitiated taste, the corrupt manners, and irreligious tendencies of mod ern France, but really to the ineffable charms of her Composition, to the inimitable beauties that so abound in her luxuriant pages as to render it difficult for the most austere to re sist their magical and enchanting influence. The works that first appeared under the name of George Sand, were respectively en titled Indiana , Valentine, and Lclia. The latter claims pre-eminence in depravity of tone and character. The two former are, to a certain extent, less reprehensible. They are highly-wrought pictures of the wretched ness of married life, which, although unhap ily Common in France, from the number of inconsiderate and ill-assorted unions, known as manages de convenance , is a theme of so dangerous a nature, that, unless handled with great delicacy and purity, it is unfited for public exposition. The two heroines of these tales, Indiana and Valentine, are represented as women of warm affections, of sensitive and imaginative temperaments, who, chained to husbands of gross and uncongenial habits, pine and languish Under their misery, and escape a premature grave only by plunging into guilt. In a subsequent novel, Jacques , the case is reversed, and the man is the vic tim—a husband of refined taste and cultiva ted intellect is afflicted with a wife whose mind is a vacuum : the result is despair and death. Upon the appearance of Jacques , the author was formally accused of attacking the sanctity of the matrimonial tie, and of dis seminating false and criminal ideas on the nature of conjugal duties. Dudevant repell ed this charge in a letter addressed to M. Ni sard, wherein she asserted her profound re spect for matrimony, such as it is preached by Jesus and St. Paul, but avowed her ab horrence of it under its present characteris tics, destitute as it is of all holy and rational sanctions. And now it becomes our duty to state that two very distinct periods mark the literary life of George Sand. The first embraces the works we have just enumerated, when the mind of the author seems to have been un der an almost delirious influence; theecond is a period of reaction, when more becoming sentiments have arisen in her lacerated heart, and chaster and more benign feelings have prompted her pen. From the dawn of this happier era, her works have borne anew and purer character, untainted with immoral ity, and possessing unalloyed all those match less graces that so decked and embellished even the most flagitious of her earlier pro ductions. We do not find, however, that this signal change has been duly observed and appreciated by the watchful critics of the pe riodical press, or acknowledged by those who had discharged upon the eminent writer the largest measure of indignant execration. It is not the less undoubted, at the same time, and may be first delected in the publication entitled Lettres d'un Voyageur. In these de lightful letters she describes, with pathos and animation, the reminiscences of her youth, the course of her affections, the blight and desolation of her soul under accumulated sor rows; but she no longer speaks in a wrath ful and passionate tone; her spirit is subdued and chastened ; and she pours forth the nat ural and plaintive effusions of one wounded in the tenderest sensibilities, stricken as a mother, a friend, a lover, and a wife. The countries she has visited in her travels are also sketched with great force and vigor of delineation, which leaves a vivid impression on the mind of the reader. Upon the whole, these letters can scarcely fail to suggest a comparison, as to style and manner, with Rousseau’s Confessions , although free from the gross irregularities that so seriously de tract from the merit of the latter celebrated work. In this publication, we are likewise rejoiced to add, Madame Dudevant takes oc casion to express regret at having written Lelia, and to ridicule the exaggerations of character and passion into which she was therein betrayed. We have little hesitation in affirming;, there fore, that the latter works of this author may be read with safety and pleasure,• and may defy objection on the part of those scrupulous moralists, who are so ready to anathematize deviations from the strict letter of their code. The first of them that occurs to us is Simon , which would have attracted greater notice and admiration had it stood alone, and not been eclipsed by more brilliant productions from the same pen. Andre is an interesting tale, founded on the love of a country gen tleman’s son for an orphan milliner-girl; the lovers are amiable and virtuous, but the youth is timid and vascillating, and cannot find cour age either to offend his father by forming an unequal match, or to sacrifice nis own feel ings by breaking it off. The catastrophe, however, we are disposed to censure as un necessarily gloomy and tragical, when there seemed every probability of the whole being wound up to general satisfaction. Mauprat is a masterpiece of descriptive writing ; it frequently reminds us of Rob Roy , and is scarcely inferior to that celebrated novel in many of its descriptions. Les Maitres Mo saistes abounds in charming details, and must be the offspring of some Venetian reminis cence. Im Derniere Aldini does not possess the same degree of perfection as the others. Spirulion is a mystical novel, very much ad mired by a certain class of readers. In conclusion, we fear that George Sand (for under this cognomen Madame Dudevant is universally spoken of) is aiming at too great a fecundity; she is exhausting her pow ers on subjects little worthy, after all, of her genius. Now that her mind has undergone a beneficial reaction, we may hope it will ex tend yet further, and lead her to more eleva ted topics; that she will understand the aw ful responsibilities of those transcendently endowed, and direct the talents so liberally bestowed on her to the enhancement and ex altation of the moral grandeur of man. ©nr Borol of jJuncl). WANTED, A LIBRARIAN—WITH NO PROSPECTS. The National Advertiser (Glasgow) of the 6th inst., was enriched with these golden lines set forth as tidings of peculiar promise to stu dents knowing in Hebrew, Greek, and Ger man i/** WANTED, a LIBRARIAN for LIBRA RY, who will be required to give his whole time and attention to the Business ot the Library. None need apply whose present intentions or pros pects are towards any profession or business that may lead them to retire from the situation at a fu ture period. Preference will be given to a Candi date who can read the Hebrew, Greek, and German characters. The emoluments will be about £6O per annum. Security for intromissions to the amount of <£2oo will be required. Applications, under sealed covers, addressed to “The Lord Provost, President of —-’s Library, ‘ must be left at the City Chamberlain’s Office, on or before Twelve. ’s Library Hall, Sept. 6,1848. Seldom is it, in this world of money-bags, that the student and philosopher, who must eat, has proffered to him such a retreat from the noise and contention of the earth. Here is a bower offered him—a bower planted from slips of the “groves of Academe.” Here may the scholar give his whole time, every wak ing thought, to the delights of a Library.— He may—nay, he must*—spend his every day beneath the “tree of knowledge, rustling its leaves, and now and then taking a bite oi the fruit. And then, how sagacious, how prov ident of the patron or patrons to do the best to insure to the Librarian a life-long employ ment! The future is kindly taken from him. He leaves Hope at the threshold : there it is, with the dirt from his shoes, on the door-mat. He is to have no “prospect” toward “any profession or business!” His “ future” is a dead-wall; and on it written “£6O per an num—no thoroughfare!” He knows at once the worst of life,'and —best. Thus, insured from the vexatious, tantalizing emotions that busy and divert the energy tn man from the time present, luring him, Jack*o’-lantern-like, to the distant, the Librarian with his £6O per annum may exclaim with Wolsey— “ Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ! In the quarterly or half-yearly receipt for his wages is his writteß abdication from all the luxuries and many of the comforts of his vain existence! Thus chastened by salary, our Librarian— his soul going round in the shop like a squir rel in its prison—now and then gathers him self up for Hebrew, Greek, and German.- Happy man! if he may have no prospects in this world, he has comforting glances at the past. For Hebrew takes him back among the Shepherd-kings ; he hears their very words; and his spirit—playing truant from ’s Library Hall, Glasgow—lakes a deli cious draught of the original at Rebeoca’s Well. Greek introduces him to the best in- 197