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ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY. JULY 10, 1875. lift III* D&piSf&fc&i. *5 m MARY E. BRYAN, ... Editress. The Only Hope of the South. The rush of an impecunious population to the already crowded cities of the Union is becoming a serious evil. The active charitable institutions of New Orleans are now taxed to their utmost to keep this class of population from famishing in their midst. Starvation and suicide are occur ring in the str ets nd pestilential recesses of San Francisco, where white emigrants, coming in search of labor and sustenance, vainly attempt to compete in the matter of wages with the thirty thousand Chinese who are already in that city, and who can afford to work for a pittance, since they are willing to “ live in a hog pen and dine on half a rat and an ounce of boiled rice.” We are told that hundreds of white emigrants, recently arrived in that city, are this minute wandering through the streets, “seeking in vain for labor, and going to their beds (which gener ally consist of bundles of straw), supperless and despairing.” * * * * Many of these poor, starving wretches seek to end their misery by laying violent hands upon their own lives, rather than walk the streets in hunger and idleness. It seems hardly possible that there can be such destitution and such impossibility of obtaining employment in a country w T here millions of un used acres lie between the Atlantic and the Sierra Nevada. There are at this moment many hundreds of acres of excellent open land lying in Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi and other States, waiting for human industry to make them wave with yellow grain or gleam with our snowy staple, or yield rich returns of fruits, vegetables and esculents. YY’e know from per sonal observation that there are many rich farms in Louisiana lying idle, or but partially culti vated, because their owners are unable to pro cure hands to cultivate them. The labor is not to be "had. The bone and sinew of the coun try—young, able-bodied men and women—have swarmed to the city to huddle in its pestilential purlieus and swell the record of pauperism and crime. Would it not be better to work upon farms in the free, pure air of the country, at the lowest wages—even for food and shelter ? We are afraid that it is indolence and the desire to get easy places that cause so many drones to swarm to the busy hives of our cities. They dread the hoe and plow as though they were the treadmill and the'torture-wheel, not beiitg wise enough to see that health, virtue and com petence wait upon the honest farmer, who eats the plain, sweet food his hands have earned with the keen relish of hunger and enjoys the refresh ing sleep that is the reward of toil. Ours is an agricultural country. Its climate, its broad lands, its many fertilizing water-courses point to its peculiar destiny. More farms, more tillers of the soil, an improved agriculture, is the only solution we can see to that troublesome problem of poverty, which has now become a question of such vital importance in the South. We want producers, not consumers. The pro fessions are overcrowded. We have an overplus of lawyers, doctors, clergymen and merchants as well. What our country needs just now is farmers, farmers, farmers, with a sprinkling of skilled workmen, educated mechanics who take pride in their trade, engineers and artisans,with as many large-minded, go-ahead capitalists as we can get. who will build flour mills and facto ries, and put into operation upon farms all those new inventions and labor-saving contrivances that will one day make agriculture easy. The Novel as a Teacher. In the earlier days of the novel, its province was merely to amuse. The public was content with a panorama of romantic pictures—the expe riences of the various characters, who were either | fiends, angels, or nonentities. A more earnest age refuses to be amused by such superficial rep- j resentation. The deeper life of the present re- ; quires a profounder mirror. The magic lantern play of incident and sentiment will not suffice. The modern novel takes a higher place in morals as in art. It calls for the insight of the poet, the research of the philosopher; to be as oil to the lamp with which it goes down and searches the human heart, with its spiritual mysteries, its intricate motives, its hidden feelings and shades of feeling, its complex processes of rea son—all the wheels within wheels that direct the course of that outward conduct which alone was the subject of the earlier novels. But the modern novel takes upon itself a yet higher mission. Not content with the clear por traiture of men as they are and society as it is, the novel steps forward in advance of the time and holds up) the torch of noble aspiration, giv ing us ideals such as genius can conceive—grand ideals of freer and higher life—of men and women with larger souls, with broader and more active sympathies, with more enlightened charity, and a less slavish subservience to the narrow restric tions of fashion and conventionalism, —men and women, in brief, moulded after the grand pat tern furnished by the man of Nazareth. Many novelists have given us these glimpses into nobler life—glimpses that draw the soul up from the level grounds of thought and feeling to the heights on which are set these beacons of aspiration. Other novels have given us intel lectual ideals—beings whose enjoyment of art was full and spontaneous, whose love for music, poetry and philosophy was an inspiration—sweet, free and child-like as it was deep. Such a love for art, literature and beauty had Theodora and Mr. Phcrbus, in Disraeli's “Lotliair.” There are novels whose perusal induces an “ The Cruelty of Earthly Love.” unrest, which is not the “noble discontent” Jn Mr Bassett - s n 771tory of “The White that preludes and produces aspiration and pro- CrQf . s )m(l D(W e of Pearls ,” there are some beau tiful passages descriptive of the struggle in the gress. It is rather an aching dissatisfaction, a feverish thirst that can never be slaked at the bitter waters of cynical pihilosophy, which is the only well-spring such authors point to in the desert of human frailty. A recent critic accuses George Eliot of belonging to this class of novel ists, and says that in reading “ Middlemarch ” and “Felix Holt,” one is pursued “by a phan tom of unrest—a shade of disappointment—and at the end, one sighs and says: ‘What did George Eliot create those rare possibilities in Dorothy Brook and the young Doctor for ? What did she make Felix Holt a Radical for ?’ ” “Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade do not display so deep a cynical insight, so profound an analysis of motives, so searching a sweep of worldly wisdom, but their deep-souled faith in human nature is more than a match for philo sophic brilliancy. What has been the bitterness of George Eliot’s life that she has dropped dead- sea apples all through her pages? We shall con tinue to read her books, but not in simple faith that we shall love our kind better for them. But all such books as the ‘New Magdalen ’ leave the impression of faith at the foot of the cross. The true standard of greatness is, after all, in the heart. Christ needed not to elucidate the prob lems of Euclid to enable him to sympathize with sinners. The one pearl of great price is a heart full of love to one’s fellow-sinners, and such a heart do we find in the pages of Wilkie Collins.” A Grand Picture. We hang entranced over pictures painted by the ancient and modern masters; we peer at them in detail through our lorgnettes, and exclaim ecstatically over the grace of form or sumptu ousness of color; yet the pictures of beauty which are daily provided for our enjoyment by the greatest of all Masters, we seldom think it in it. worth while to contemplate. Instance “ The picture that God hangs daily in the West ”— the sunset marvel — ever varying and always beautiful. This evening, it was wildly magnifi- breast of the lovely heroine, between affection for her gifted father, to whom she has been strangely restored, and the love and duty she owes to Christ. Her father is an Earl—an ac complished man of the world, whose heart’s de sire is to.see his daughter queen of the most brilliant society in which his wealth and station can place her, and which her grace and loveli ness befit her to adorn. She is in Paris, tasting for the first time the seductive delights of that city of pleasure. She is drawn into its gay whirl, whose tendency is to drown the still, small voice of conscience. She sees Parisian society, not as it is, but through a soft halo of romance, and she dreams not of its hollowness, its vani ties, its professed adoration of reason and implied disbelief in God. “Its spacious saloons, so much more ample than any she had seen in London, and never overcrowded, gratified her love of freedom; so did the morning and even ing calls to the ladies in their ‘ at homes ’ at their pretty hotels. There was a graceful aban don, an artistic carelessness about these ‘at home ’ receptions which charmed her uncon ventional mind and disposition exceedingly. Her wonderful music and singing were con stantly laid under tribute. Theresa was on en chanted ground, breathing a dangerous atmos phere, but for a time she little suspected it.” At last, she awakes to a sense of her peril. She resolves to withdraw from the danger, and incurs by this her father’s strong displeasure. She says to him; “I am young; I can enjoy life; I have found it very sweet since I have known you until this bitter hour. I am not ignorant of the claim so ciety has upon my father’s drfffjffiter; I would try, if you would let me, in my own way, to enjoy all of the noble, intellectual and refined I simply ask to be kept out of these scenes which are a snare to me. I am fully re solved not to be drawn again into the vortex of dissipation.” She refuses to go to a ball at the Tuilleries, and tenderly but firmly tells her father her rea- Here is the scene that fol- “ ‘Only promise me this, my darling, and to night's disappointment, though a sad one, shall be as it had never been. Let me have my own dear child given back to me. and I shall be too happy in having her restored to remember against her her mistaken but. I would fain be- ] lieve, not undutiful revolt.' “She was silent. The struggle was very se vere, but the inward eye saw more than the father's wistful face. Well that it was so. All color died out of hers, even out of her lips. L Estrange bent low to hear the almost inarticu late whisper: “‘Oh. papa! that it could be on any other terms!’ “‘No.’ “ ‘Then let the worst be what it will, I must endure and meet it.’ ••He took her hands between his own coldly and resolutely, intending to lead her back to her seat: but the momentary faintness passed, and she said again passionately: “‘Oh! you cannot surely mean to exile me from your heart! I am all that you have.’ “ ‘You exile yourself. You are at pains to do so.’ “With cold courtesy he placed her in her chair, looking haughtily down on her as she sat there. He was bleeding inwardly, and his ex pression was that of a man trying to conceal the existence of a wound. She saw it and shuddered; for by this time she understood her father. “ ‘It could not be much harder,’ she said, ‘ to be an exile again, thrown barefoot on the world. Yet better this than that I should be an exile from the presence of the King—banished from the beautiful city and from Him who has bought me and redeemed me with His own blood.’ ” cent. There had been a storm of wind and sons for doing so. thunder, and a brief, fierce dash of rain, leaving ' lows: the clouds piled darkly in the west. Suddenly, j “In the gorgeous drawing-room of their hotel, these were smitten into lurid glory by the blaze Lady Theresa l Estrange was alone with her .. ___ • , ■ -yr father. He was in full dress, but she sat with oi tiiG suu sinking bGninil tiiGin. sun was t \ n • .l ® . slightly disheveled hair, eyes swollen with visible, but the whole western horizon glowed , weeping, and a general negligence and disar- witli a red, vivid light, like that of a burning : rangement of attire, such as betokens a corres- prairie. Around and above this gulf of fire, rolled masses of livid clouds, seeming blacker by the contrast; and in the midst of the glow, low down on the horizon’s verge, were seen the outlined shapes of clouds looming up like Titans, being consumed in some grand auto-da-fe ponding disorder of mind. The mellow light from the agate lamp behind her fell upon her face, revealing while it softened and etherealized its unusual pallor. What could be the meaning of it ? At this very hour she was to have ap peared at a grand ball held in the Tuilleries: this ball was to have been her concluding triumph ere she left the city; but the carriage, after wait- of old gods, occurring out of time, out of space; ; ing long, had been dismissed, and ‘ milord’ fore- or like the dark forms of the fallen angels as goes his intention of appearing in public to- described by Milton, up-rearing their grim heads ni « ht « word of explanation. Evidently J .j. . ° ° j a fierce struggle is taking place within him; his from the lake of fire into which the thunders of j arms are folded across his breast, an.l an expres- Jehovah had hurled them. ! sion of almost Napoleonic daterndnation sits As we^ gazed, the glow of the fiery cavern grew j| j'P 01 ^ hw ^' r °w ani ^ k^iits^tog^ fine,^reso- deeper, and suddenly the sun burst forth in daz zling splendor, and smote steeple, dome and rain-glittering tree-tops with a brief glory of gold and crimson; the mocking-bird in o.ur oak tree gave a musical shriek of delight, and the round eyes of the children playing below looked up in wondering admiration. Longfellow must have watched such a sunset “‘Papa,’ says Theresa, and the tears start anew from the unsealed fountain, ‘ if you will insist on such utter and painful misconceptions of me and my motives, I think it will kill me.’- “ ‘Nothing of the kind,’ he answers dryly. ‘I do not allow the justice of the term misconcep tion; we are told to “judge of the tree by its fruits.” As to killing, you are growing dra matic. Reassure yourself, I beg of you; you have a fine constitution, and withal, a suffi- to have given us the graphic picture contained ciency of nerve power, as this evening’s episode in his last beautiful poem, “Fifty Years of Wed- j goes to prove.’ ded Life:” I am broken- ‘ After a day of cloud, and wind, and rain, Sometimes the setting suu breaks out again, And touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing; Then, like a ruby from the horizon’s ring, Drops down into the night.” Charlotte Cushman. “‘Indeed, you mistake me. hearted. ’ “‘At what? Setting me completely at defi ance, asserting your own will and having it?’ He laughed scornfully. “Nay, then, Theresa, the strong-minded, self-opinionated young lady who can do that is not likely to die of a broken heart. ’ “ ‘ I am not setting you at defiance, papa. I could not, would not do it if I dared. Oh ! why are you not more easy to be entreated ? Do you o „ . .. . not know, will you not believe, that it is all for Some punster ot the press calls Miss Cush- • , , ’ 2 T • . „ F * love of you that I compromised myself so far? man’s farewell to the stage a Charlotte Ruse, j q 0( j will not have it, papa. “Whoso loveth We only trust it may prove so; we should rejoice father and mother more than me is not worthy at the opportunity of seeing yet once again me * This is what I have done. Openly giv- , . , . , . . . ing one hand to the world, secretly giving the America s great tragedienne in her impersona- Qt g er to Him whom I h;u l espoused as the faith- tions ot Lady Macbeth, Queen Margaret, Meg Mer- ful bridegroom of my soul; and therefore, He illes, and other roles suited to her majestic style, has withdrawn Himself, hidden Himself from When Ristori and Cushman have made their me, until I can put both hafiuUwitlun His own . „ ,, . ,, . , and shew that He is more to me even than you. final exit from the stage, there will be none to .-Theresa, if you would not have me speak take their places. We have plenty of histrionic to you, under this unparalleled provocation, as talent; but genius is the “fruit of centuries,” no gentleman should speak to a daughter, for- and it is no. „tob.Me tbs, ,M. 8 ,n OT ,ion sh.ll bSl give birth to another infatuation and enthusiasm. I cannot bear sen- >• spirit weird as hers, to call to life j timental, would-be-sensational vaporings from The wondrous visions of the English seer.” the lips of the child ot whom I thought I had so . . , much reason to be proud, but whose religious It seems a wolul pity that genius (or rather the principles, as she received them from Hugh frame which enfolds genius) should ever grow Wanford, prompt her to disappoint me.’ old. We picture it always as divinely voung “ ‘ Ah ! you reflect upon him. Yet, papa, and beautiful, and can hardly realize that time when J' 011 S1 !- v ^ Imve been proud of me, have J you no word ol thanks tor him ? should dare to mar its fair proportions. .< ‘To-night I have not. I could reward him But if we are to see no more of Charlotte like a prince, but I cannot thank him. Thank the man that has marred my gem in the setting! Nay, I would rather have taken you rough and unpolished from the gypsy camp, a diamond still for my own hand to polish and refine. You would have been passive enough then. Hugh Warnford’s pains have been thankless pains, his generosity has been most cruel.’ “The Earl’s tone was losing its harshness; his voice was full of emotion. Theresa could not restrain her affectionate impulse. He was leaning over the high back of a devotional chair. She darted to his side; with exquisite daring, she put her arm around his neck. But he sor rowfully repulsed her. “•Defiance and caresses in the same hour? No, for I'm a l'Estrange.’ “ 'And I am one, too,’ said she, with a miser able attempt at archness. ‘ Oh, papa! tell me that you will love me still, although I am not what you would wish me to be.’ To Procure Sleep.—Take an easy posture in “ 'My child,’ he said, -what is separating us? bed; with determined effort, direct the thoughts Surely it must be a terrible dream an excite- , . , „ ,, ment into which you me been thrown. You to some subject as remote as possible from all brought it aJ JOUt; jou end it. Promise me vexing cares: invite cordially the visits ot pleas- that you will tight against these early preju- ing, cheery thougnts and anticipations. "Happy dices ot a mistaken education; that you will and calm will be the sleep of those who. on their “°'' e f^ely in the circle to which you were born; ... ,. . . ' , that you will try to redeem yourself trom the pillow, can muse on the consolations of the gos- qisadvantages of that which has been the great pel, and resign themselves implicitly and with misfortune of your life, as it has been for years out wavering into the keeping of a heavenly the greater sorrow of mine.’ Protector and Father.” ' . “, He P. nt arm around her and looked ten derly in her lace. It was a moment of soretemp- tation. Theresa knew that her father was not to be trifled with—that his affections, once disap- Cushman, we have still in our mind the memory of her triumphs, and can say of her: “ Others have trod The Shakspeare world before thee. Some have wept Like Juliet and Ophelia; some have died Like Katharine; some have plotted like Macbeth, Or jested like gay Rosalind in the wood; But thou alone hast eonjured with thy spell All the enchanter's fancies into shape. And made them speak at will, from grave to gay, From lively to severe. W e are most proud To say thou art American; but this Is meagre claim for thee. L'nto no land Nor line dost thou belong; thou shin'st eternal In the fair parthenon of mimetic lore— Pallas Athame—helmeted and throned.” Ax economical girl refused to be married by the clergyman of her lover's denomination be- pointed, would be hard to recall, and she loved cause another parson owed her two dollars for him with all the. strength of her warm and ar- knitting stockings and was too poor to pay cash, dent nature. There was a pause. .My First Experience With “Trains.” In the last number of The Sunny South, a fair “West Pointer” appeals to the editor in re gard to the proper management of her train. Not possessing that august appendage ourselves, and having never given our mind to the import ant subject of its graceful adjustment, we were forced to confess ignorance. A fair correpond- ent, however, steps in to our aid, and in the fol lowing little sketch tells us what she knows about trains and their management: Having three sisters already “out”—not mar ried, but only in the delightful transition state of being “ engaged I was permitted to stay in the background rather longer than usual, and enjoy the freedom of short dresses, broad- brimmed hats, and a school-girl’s insouciant manners until my seventeenth birth-day. Then I made the grand debut, having been ably drilled for the occasion by an aunt, who was to be my chaperon, and who was an undoubted oracle in all matters pertaining to dress and social eti quette. So often was it dinned into my ears that a young lady must do this and refrain from that and be careful to observe the other, that I grew nervous and timid when the important night arrived, and felt as if I were about to un dergo some complete transformation—to be met amorphosed into a new creature as different from my present insignificant self as the splen did butterfly from the ugly chrysalis it lias just emerged from. I had some misgivings that I should not know how to conduct myself in this new state of being—apprehensions which were not altogether dispelled, even by the sight of the splendid ball dress of pink silk and tulle, with its flowing train. That train! It was at once my admiration and my dread. I knew it was the distinctive mark of my new phase of exist ence. It was the wings of my new-fledged but- terflyliood. But would I know how to manage ft? Could L*fever glide and sweep in it like my experienced sisters? But I experienced a rapturous delight when I was fairly appareled in my new robes, and could not refrain from looking back as I walked to watch the floating folds of my train. My oracle’s uplifted finger stayed my ecstacy. “Never do that,” she enjoined; “it is snob bish; it is not ladylike. Nothing marks the so ciety lady so truly as the graceful, unconscious management of her train.” I felt a weight of dignity and propriety at once placed upon my movements. I descended to the parlors, a little fluttered with the new re sponsibilities of dress and position; but when the music began, the light and young life flamed up in cheek and eye, and I forgot everything but enjoyment and dancing. Couples were already filling the floor for the lancers, when somebody asked me to dance. I arose and stepped up very quickly, forgetting all about rules and trains; but alas! in the course of chas- seing and bowing, I felt my steps arrested. Somebody’s foot was firmly planted in my dress and caught in the misty folds of tulle, which, with my own motion forward, caused the calam ity I had been warned against. My dress was partly jerked from the waist, my overdress torn. I felt I had disgraced my aunt’s teachings. In stinctively I turned round with that feeling of disgrace in my eyes, when they met a pair of distressed gray ones locking at me and the ruin he had made. Just then the whole thing came over me, and I couldn’t resist laughing and say ing, in reply to his stammering apology: "Nevermind; 'tis as much my fault as yours. It is the first time I have been in trains; I’m afraid I don't know how to manage them. ” I could say no more, for the dance separated us; but afterwards, when wishing for a partner as Strauss’ inspiring waltzes seemed calling me to come, I saw my “coz” approaching with the identical gentleman I had spoken to in the lancers; but the distressed look had gone from his eyes, and instead, a most quizzical one was there. He asked me to dance, and after the waltz was over, we sat on the sofa and talked in a manner not at all conventional, for I couldn’t think of him as a formidable society gentleman, but as a very agreeable person and a delightful partner. YYe both laughed over the adventure of the dress, and I’m afraid I told him all about myself; just quitting school; my delight incom ing out in society, marred only by the dread of not behaving properly, especially in the import ant matter of the train. I met my aunt next morning, to receive a seri ous lecture on the ruin to my evening dress and my inexcusable awkwardness, winding up with: “The first thing in this morning’s exercises will be a lesson on trains and their proper man agement.” Arrayed accordingly in the most courtly one I possessed, she carried me into the parlor, and standing before the full-length mirror, I began my instruction: “ The present style of dress,” began my aunt, “ with narrow front, is especially adapted to ease in handling a train, which falls gradually to its fullest length at the back. The front and sides being of proper length, what prevents you when on tfie street from drawing the back widths tightly and holding them firmly on the right side? That is the only way they should be held. No unnecessary bending of the arm should be allowed; it should fall perpendicularly from the right shoulder and secure the dress firmly. All otfier curvatures only excite the smile of ridi cule they so well merit. But the proper sphere for the full display of trains is the parlor and drawing-room. It is there alone they are seen to the utmost advantage. A train ought natu rally to excite in a feminine soul that indescri bable and indefinable air of dignity and con scious womanhood which lies dormant in the school-girl, and which should exact the respect due to the train. There is a spirit within the wearer which should direct its course, and I say that no well-bred young lady ever has her dress torn or trampled upon by the crowd around; nor does she need clear space for its preservation that some simple ones suppose. For promenad ing and square dances, nothing is so courtly and i elegant as the graceful train; and for the round dances, they can be very dexterously managed. It is simply ridiculous, all these caricatures and talks in the papers about drawbacks and trains. It is the caricature of what should be that at tracts the critical notice of connoisseurs." There were many difficulties in those first ex periences of my young ladyhood, and I wished ! often to return to the halcyon days of school life, to careless steps, short dresses and freedom; but I was sustained under my difficulties by the novel and very agreeable support I received from the companionship of the gentleman who had been so unfortunate to my first train. Lena. Paul Ha.vne’s New Book. The Mountain of the Lovers. By Paul H. Hayxe. E. J. Hale & Sons, Publishers. For sale by Phillips & Crew, Atlanta, Georgia. A new volume of poems by Paul Hayne is sure to be well received by the higher class of the reading public, with whom the author's classic purity of style and graceful dignity of thought have long ago made him a favorite. The elegant little volume before us (printed on tinted paper, gilt-edged, and prettily bound) is inscribed to Mrs. Margaret Preston, of Virginia, in a charm ing little dedicatory poem, beginning: “ Mine eyes have never gazed in thine— Our hands are strangers; yet divine The deathless sympathy which binds Our hearts and minds. Thou singest along the mountain side,— Thy golden songs are justified By the rich music of their flow; I sing below, Where the lone pine-land airs are stirred By notes of thrush and mocking-bird. The heights befit thy loftier strain; Mine courts the plain.” “The Mountain of the Lovers” weaves into Spenserian verse a pathetic traditional story of a haughty Earl who put the yeoman lover of his only daughter to the cruel trial of being forced, on pain of direst punishment to her as well as to him, to carry his lady-love in his arms to the summit of a rugged mountain. At sunrise on the day appointed for the test, a mighty crowd, called together by the trumpet of the Earl’s high seneschal, assemble at the foot of the mountain to witness the consumma tion of the strange sentence, which is known to mean death, though dashed with a mockery of hope. The young woodsman is there: “ His comely head thrown back, his eyes on fire With hot contempt, fixed on an armed band, Which, stationed near him by the Earl’s desire, His every move o’erlooked, did Oswald stand, Striving his roused anger to command, And lift his clouded aspirations higher Than thoughts reveugeful. Hark! a deepening hum On the crowd’s verge.—the trial hour has come.” The brave and loyal-hearted lover lifts the maiden tenderly in his arms, while she “ Turns her eyes apart From the great throng, and pierced by modest pain, Veils her sweet face upon her lover's heart.” When half-way up the terrible ascent, he pauses “to nerve his soul for what must be done,” and receives a strengthening cordial from this grate ful source: “With a gentle, quivering, flute-like laugh, Holding a sob, the maiden rose and kissed Her hero’s lips, sought through a tremulous mist.” “The Ylountain of the Lovers” ;is succeeded by “ Avolio,” another versified legend, suggest ive of Keats, but with an originality of its own, and a certain warmth and genuineness in which Mr. Hayne is sometimes lacking. The pictures of Southern scenery are exquis itely true, and show that the author has watched the changeful phases of nature with the eye of a lover. Most of these pictures are painted in the contemplative, but thoroughlj' receptive and sympathetic mood, which belongs to the true artist, and we can figure the poet as he describes himself: “In midsummer uplands, free To the bold raids of breeze and bee, Cool-nested in the yellowing grass, To hear the swift-winged partridge pass With whirr and boom of gusty flight Across the broad heath's treeless height; Or just where, elbow-poised, I lift Above the wild flowers’ careless drift My half-closed eyes to see and hear The blithe field-sparrow twittering clear, Quick ditties to his tiny love.” As a contrasting picture to this, we have the “Arctic Visitation,” when “The woful sky slow, passionless tears did weep, Each shivering rain-drop frozen as it fell; The woodman's ax rang like a muffled knell, Faintly the echoes answered, fraught with sleep.” Mr. Hayne has not opened the heart of his “Lowland Muse” as freely to the sympathies of humanity as he has to those of nature; but this may be owing not so much to constitutional coldness as to scholastic reserve and a certain sensitive shrinking from laying bare the emo tions, which accompanies delicacy of nature. That a genuine feeling can melt these restraints at once, and overflow them in a tide of pure and tender passion, is seen in his lament for his brother poet—the sweet, sensitive-souled Henry Timrod. -There is as much feeling and almost as much poetry in this beautiful elegy as in Shelley’s “Lament for Adonais.” YVe have room but for one exquisite verse: “ Death gave thee wings, and lo! thou hast soared above All human utterance and all finite thought; Pain may not hound thee through that realm of love; Nor grief, with which thy mortal days were fraught, Load thee again; nor vulture want, that fed Even on thy heart’s blood, wound thee;—idle then Our bitter sorrowing. What though bleak and wild Rests thine uncrowned head ? Known art thou now to angels and to men— Heaven’s saint and earth's brave singer u.i .-filed.” A max will carry five hundred debars in^his vest pocket; but a woman needs a morocco porte- monnaie as large as a reticule, and too heavy to carry in the pocket, to carry a fifty cent script, a receipt for making jelly-cake, and two samples of dress goods, down town and back every pleas ant afternoon. He blushed a fiery red; her heart went pit-a- pat; she gently hung her head and looked down at the mat. He trembled in his speech; he rose from where he sat, and shouted with a screech “Y'ou’re sitting on mv hat!”