a tear as they come from the bosom, or they are not recognized by the tears of the listener. Mrs. Bishop could not be the artist and actress that she exactly is, without putting her tenderness of nature far, very far, out of reach of easy call, and, though her music is thrilling, startling, and enchanting, touching it is not

As it was a common romance, in olden time, for a fair dame to look sweet upon her lord and master's cup-bearer, we cannot be surprised that the Muse takes the whim of smiling upon the Poet's publisher. FIELDS has handed up to Apollo many a primrose-colored cup of poetry. His ambrosial curls, of course, teem with the aroma. Moxon, the English publisher, whose speciality is the same, and after whom FIELDS is usually called, when named in the talk of poets, has alike had the favors of "The Nine," and is also publisher and poet. Well, we do not know that-(under the Socialist principles that govern Helicon)—we can find any reasonable objection. Take him, oh Melpomene!

But though every body, in the Slate-and-pencil-dom which is bounded South by the Lehigh and North by the Penobscot, knows MR. FIELDS, yet we have six thousand subscribers, West of the Alleghanies and so down stream, who would be pleased to know his stature and complexion. Immaterial as it may be to mere enjoyment of the shade, it is natural to look up at the tree. We gratify this undeniable curiosity for the friendly readers of the Home Journal, whenever it falls in our way.

MR. FIELDS is a young man of twenty-five, and the most absolute specimen of rosy and juvenescent health that would be met with by the takers of the census. His glowing cheek and white teeth, full frame and curling beard, clear eyes and ready smile are, to tell the truth, most unsymptomatic of the poet-not even very common in publishers. He is a leading man in "Young Boston "-the crank of mercantile and moral committees the ambassador of popular thanks and honors to public men—the getter-up of such spontaneous enthusiasms as

K

fill lecture-rooms and "make things go "-in short the man to apply to if you want to know whether Boston can be moved, and how, and where. Mr. Fields finds the orators and poets for public occasions, or, in case of failure, delivers, himself, quite as good a performance, of either kind, as was first expected. He is thus, it will be seen, tricipitous in his functions -publisher, poet, and

we wish there were a name for the third and last described character in a community. It is a kind of detail Governor-" sleeping partner" of the Executive -confidential Secretary of the city's wishes the person every one goes to, who seeks public favor-an unnominated functionary, in short, such as is to be found in every great metropolis, using as much influence as the mayor and two aldermen, yet without any honorary designation.

MR. FIELDS' poems are scholar-like in their structure, musical, genial-toned in feeling, effortless, and pure-thoughted. He has a playful and delicate fancy, which he uses skilfully in his poems of sentiment, and a strongly perceptive observation, which he exercises finely in his hits at the times and didactic poetry. The Wordsworthian poem called "The Ballad of the Tempest" has so gone the rounds of the papers as to be familiar to every reader, or we should insert it here. But we close our incomplete mention of his book by copying a bit of nice imagination with which (in his late tour in Europe) he presented some pressed sea-mosses to the Poet ROGERS:

"To him who sang of Venice, and revealed

How Wealth and Glory clustered in her streets,
And poised her marble domes with wondrous skill,
We send these tributes, plundered from the sea.
These many-colored, variegated forms
Sail to our rougher shores, and rise and fall
To the deep music of the Atlantic wave.
Such spoils we capture where the rainbows drop
Melting in ocean. Here are broideries strange,
Wrought by the sea-nymphs from their golden hair,
And wove by moonlight. Gently turn the leaf.
From narrow cells, scooped in the rocks, we take
These fairy textures, lightly moored at morn.
Down sunny slopes, outstretching to the deep,
We roam at noon, and gather shapes like these.
Note now the painted webs from verdurous isles
Festooned and spangled in sea-caves, and say
What hues of land can rival tints like those,

AN AUTHORESS.

Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of kings
Who dwell beneath the waters.

"Such our Gift,

Culled from a margin of the Western World,

And offered unto Genius in the old."

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We should add, by the way, that Mr. FIELDS' poems are published by TICKNOR and Co., of Boston, the publishing house in which he is a partner.

GRACE GREENWOOD.

MISS SARAH J. CLARKE, the authoress of the "Greenwood Leaves "-("Grace Greenwood" by nom de plume)—is a young lady, of perhaps eighteen, born, with the Ohio, at Pittsburgh, and destined, like this her foster river, to have had a sufficiently distinct and important existence of her own, before merging her name in her destined Mississippi. In personal appearance, she is more like an Andalusian than a child of the Alleghanies-her large Spanish eyes, oval outline of face, and clear brunette complexion, looking to be of a nativity warmer and nearer the equator than the cold Blue Ridge and, with her tall person, and fondness for horses and open air exercise, there seems a persistence of Nature in making her as much a personal as she is a mental exception to the latitude she lives in. Miss Clarke will pardon this flesh and blood introduction to our readers, when she remembers that there is a stage of progress, in the path to fame, where the awarding public insist upon knowing how looks the one on whom they are bestowing so much; and the freedom we have taken is our unavoidable recognition of her now owing that debt to the curiosity of admiration.

Of two classes who may be equally gifted with the almost supernatural perceptions of genius, one may be of reluctant invention, and fonder of running faithful parallels to their own experience when writing, while the other may prefer the mere structures of the imagination, and trust to perceptive instinct to keep them true to nature. These are two scales, however, of which a chance-weight of experience may change the preponderance; and, while a life too tranquil

may have first driven a writer to take refuge in fancy, a thickening of pains and pleasures, in the path of real life, may reverse the attraction and bring the mind to describe joy and suffering of its own. Altogether from fancy, as "Greenwood Leaves " seem to be written, we should not be surprised if the advance beyond the threshold of womanhood should altogether change the character of the writer's mind, and form for her an entirely new fame, in a new field of composition.

We have not time--nor is it the fashion--to criticise analytically. To those who know what love and life are, this book, which is a guess at what they are, is speculatively interesting, and, by the perception of true genius which we alluded to above, its descriptions keep so near to nature that they are always captivating. More fearless than most women in the handling of her topics, the fair authoress certainly is ; but (though her language is vigorous enough, we should fear to subject her "to militia duty,") it strikes us as a peculiarity which she had better cultivate than abate, and one upon which she can form a style well suited to the stronger productions she will yet give us.

Miss Clarke is about to appear as a poetess, by a volume now in press, and it is in verse, we think, that her strong and impulsive genius shows to most advantage. Several of her poems, which have appeared in the Home Journal, are exceedingly fine, our readers need not be told.

FENNIMORE COOPER.

MR. COOPER has been in town for a week or two past, looking, as the Scripture phrases it, "like a tiel tree or an oak, whose strength is in them though they cast their leaves.' By the present promise of his robust frame, and steady eye, he will give us new leaves (of new books) for many a Spring yet to come. In a conversation with the eminent novelist while here, we reverted to the time when we first had the pleasure of seeing him--in Paris, in 1832—and, among other remembrances of the period, he mentioned a circumstance, illustrative of the long-ago gestation of the ambition of

COOPER'S HOSPITALITY.

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Louis Napoleon, which we asked leave to record, as a chiffon of history. Mr. Cooper's house, we should mention, was, at that time, the "hospice de St. Bernard" of the Polish refugees, and, as the nucleus of republican sympathies in the great capital, his intimacy with Lafayette, personal reasons aside, was necessarily very close and confidential. At his daily breakfast table, open to all friends and comers-in, (and supplied, we remember, for hour after hour of every day with hot buckwheat cakes, which were probably eaten nowhere else on that side the water,) many a distinguished but impoverished Polish refugee ate his only meal for the twentyfour hours, and to the same hospitable house came all who were interested in the great principle of that struggle, distinguished men of most nations among them. But to the story: :

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I was calling upon Lafayette, one day (said Mr. Cooper), and was let in by his confidential servant, who, it struck me, showed signs of having something to conceal. He said his master was at home, and, after a moment's hesitation, made way for me to go on as usual to his private room--but I saw that there was some embarrassment. I walked in, and found the General alone. He received me with the same cordiality as ever, but inquired with some eagerness who let me in, and whether I met an old acquaintance going out. I told him that his old servant had admitted me, and that there was certainly something peculiar in the man's manner; but as I had seen no one else, I knew nothing more. Ah," said the General, that fellow put him in the side room. Sit down, and I will tell you. Prince Louis Napoleon Buonaparte was here two minutes ago!" I expressed surprise, of course, for this was in '33, when it was death for a Buonaparte to enter France. "Yes," continued the General, "and he came with a proposition. He wishes to marry my grand-daughter Clementine, unite the Republicanists and Imperialists, make himself Emperor, and my grand-daughter Imperatrice!" And, if it be not an indiscreet question, I said, what was your answer, my dear General? "I told him," said Lafayette, "that my family had the American notion on that subject, and chose husbands for themselves—that there was the young lady-he might go and court her, and, if she liked him, I had no objection.'

Mr. Cooper did not tell us (for of course he did not know)