Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Humbly we bow to Fate's decree; "Do what I may, go where I will, Thou meet'st my sight; There dost thou glide before me still- I feel thy breath upon my cheek, "Methinks, thou smil'st before me now, The hair thrown back from thy full brow I see thine eyes' deep violet light, "The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; A corner holds thine empty chair; Casa Wappy! The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, And though perchance a smile may gleam It doth not own, whate'er may seem, We miss thy small step on the stair; "Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below- But now the green leaves of the tree, ""Tis so; but can it be-(while flowers Revive again)— Man's doom, in death that we and ours For aye remain ? Oh! can it be, that, o'er the grave, "It cannot be ; for were it so Life were a mockery-Thought were woe- Heaven were a coinage of the brain- And all our hopes to meet again, "Then be to us, O dear, lost child! A star, death's uncongenial wild Soon, soon, thy little feet have trode "Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, That Heaven is God's, and thou art there, There past are death and all its woes, "Farewell, then-for a while, farewell- It cannot be that long we dwell, Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; In the biography prefixed to these volumes, Mr. Aird has furnished a most interesting memorial of his friend. Delta's life was singularly uneventful. It served, however, to illustrate the strength of perseverance and of manly worth, which made his character respected by all who knew him. An earnest student-a good husband--a wise and loving father a true friend-most active in a profession, which he practised with honour, and with an amount of unostentatious beneficence towards those who, while they most needed, could least have purchased his help an accomplished man of letters, who contributed much both to the instruction and the amusement of the public, by his works in prose as well as verse, at the same time that he discharged all the duties of a good citizen-David Macbeth Moir may not take rank with the great poets of the world; but he has left behind him the pattern of a life in which all the powers with which he was endowed were used to their fullest extent, and to the noblest ends. This exemplar Mr. Aird has set before his readers with much skill, and with a feeling worthy of his friend. Higher praise he cannot desire. BOOKS AND THEIR AUTHORS. The Life of Marie de Medicis, Queen of France, has been written by Miss PARDOE, and published by Colburn and Co., in three goodly volumes, embellished with portraits of Marie, Louis XV., and Cardinal Richelieu. It is known in the literary world that Miss Pardoe has been exclusively occupied about this comprehensive biography for three years, and that she resided in France during that period, where she was liberally supplied with the necessary documents, and had access, through private influence, to others which have never before been referred to. Of her industry, those who recal her labours can have no doubt; and after the publication of a former work, when she was accused of having quoted "second hand," and drawn her materials from the "historical romances of the day," we chanced to know that she had applied herself with intense pains to select and collate facts; and that, far from having quoted "second hand," she had, in every instance, gone to the highest and best sources for information. Some years ago, history was "hedged in" with so much mystery, that, like the "holy of holies" of the Jews, it could only be entered upon by sacred priests; the historian was a myth, rather than a man-a dweller amongst catacombs, and those closed-up holdfasts of literature, monastic libraries, where the light entered through painted windows, where footsteps fell wearily, and shadows were pale and indistinct. "The dignity of history" was a fine-sounding, sonorous sentence: kings and queens, princes and nobles, passed in array before the reader, sceptred and crowned, and chronicled, until it became difficult to imagine that such creatures were ever endowed with the actual life which animates the pulses of the kings and queens of our time. This opinion has been gradually changing: a belief has gone forth that the records of the past may be rendered interesting without descending to familiarity; and that history, hallowed by time, and dignified by circumstances, does not need the cerements of dry and stately sentences to preserve it to our children. The brilliant and animated history which MACAULAY has given to the world-toned, as all histories must be, by the author's individual belief in what may be true or false-proves that the past can be brought to the present, teeming with the activity and energy, the very life and soul-of our ancestors. But for biography, that pleasant handmaid of the myth, we should really know nothing of the secret springs-the under currentwhich moved the stately machinery of past centuries and yet, with some few exceptions, but for the sacred sake of truth, it would be much more pleasant to admire the exterior, than to dive into the interior of the courts of kings. When closing the last volume of Miss Pardoe's careful biography of the proud, affectionate, impetuous, ill-used, and most unfortunate Marie, we felt that all the bright romance with which, in our youth, we enshrined HENRI QUATRE floated away like a vapour, leaving the gorgeous apostate, despite the vastness of his intellect, the greatness of his conceptions, a heap of sensuality so gross, that only the admirable care and tact of an Englishwoman saves the biography (until Henri is removed by the dagger of Ravillac) from being a catalogue of debauchery and court intrigue. The Duc de Sully stands out in fine relief from the tainted canvas; and the widow, as regent and queen-mother-tossed on the unsettled waters of France-buffeted by circumstances which 'she had neither the power nor the temper to control-abandoned by her family and friends, after having occupied the throne of France, presided over its councils, and given birth to the ancestor of a long line of princes-was indebted to the sympathy and attachment of a foreign artist, of whom she had once been the zealous patron, for a roof under which to terminate her existence ! Well may her generous, yet truthful biographer, say that "Marie's" life was full of startling contrasts, from which the mind shrinks back appalled: "Her active career is so freighted with alternate grandeur and privation, that it is difficult to reconcile the possibility of their having fallen to the share of the same individual; and this, too, in an age when FRANCE, above all other nations, boasted of its chivalry, and when some of the greatest names that ever figured in its annals gave grace and glory to its history." The work, though sometimes overlaid with ornament, is so accurate in its facts, and yet conducted with so much spirit, that it is a living panorama from first to last. The period is as remarkable as the men by whom it was illustrated. The arts flourished amid the beat of drum and ring of trumpet; political liberty sounded her note of preparation for the deadly contests which, in due time, became fatal to the aristocracy and to the instruments of the law,-paving the way to the absolutism of Louis XIV.-to the "saturnalia" of the Regency-to the degrading excesses of the fifteenth Louis, who may justly be said to have prepared by his licentiousness the scaffold of his successor. We cannot close this too brief notice without complimenting Miss Pardoe on the womanly chivalry which has erected a lasting monument over the remains of a great woman and an unfortunate QUEEN. THE POET MOORE.-It has been announced that LORD JOHN RUSSELL (one of the earliest and most cherished friends of the poet) has undertaken the task of editing his memoirs-thus complying with a request contained in his Will. It is known that Moore left a carefully and regularly kept journal-a Diary, in fact-and that for some years past he assiduously collected from his friends such letters as he had, from time to time, addressed to them on topics of importance. It will, therefore, be from no meagre or exhausted mine that Lord John Russell will have to draw the treasure that cannot fail to prove of rare interest and value. He will discharge the honourable duty that devolves upon him with loving kindness to the memory of his friend; and the world will learn-with surprise, no doubt that the most luxurious of all the poets was simple in his habits; almost childlike in his amusements; one to whom the comparatively humble enjoyments of home were the truest of delights, and whose highest hopes, brightest joys, and purest pleasures were centred in "wife, children, and friends." Of all the great men we have ever known, Moore was the sweetest and best "at home;" in his small cottage, at Sloperton, he seemed to have no wish associated with the world beyond; in all his words, looks, and actions there was a total oblivion of self; and of a surety there could be no mistake in believing that he was most happy when pleasing those about him most. It was, indeed, a delicious treat to pace with him up and down the terrace (so to call it) which separated his garden from the adjacent field, and chat with him of the many graceful things that make "joys for ever." Millions owe him gratitude for exceeding delights; but these delights are enhanced a thousand-fold to those who knew the man-the most loveable man, perhaps, that ever lived, judging him in the shade of his own home, apart from the artificial glare of society. But our present business is limited to the announcement of his "Memoirs"-an autobiography, under the editorship of Lord John Russell. It will be a monument more worthy, more honourable, and more enduring than Art can raise. It is cheering, however, to find that a monument, other than his works, is to be erected to his honour: meetings have been held in Dublin, and sums subscribed, after many excellent speeches by the most eloquent of the poet's countrymen. We earnestly hope the project will be carried out to the full. Yet, when some mass of sculptured marble shall be raised -as it ought to be-in the city of his birth, there will be, in the humble and out-of-the-way churchyard of Bromham, a plain stone, that will more truly touch the hearts of all who loved the poet and the man. It contains this inscription : ANASTATIA MARY MOORE, BORN MARCH 16, 1813, DIED MARCH 8, 1829. ALSO HER BROTHER, JOHN RUSSELL MOORE, AND THEIR FATHER, : TENDERLY BELOVED BY ALL WHO KNEW THE GOODNESS OF HIS HEART; THE POET AND PATRIOT OF HIS COUNTRY, IRELAND, BORN MAY 28, 1779, SANK INTO REST, FEBRUARY 25, 1852, AGED 72. GOD IS LOVE. Not many years have passed since it was our high privilege to visit this lonely churchyard, accompanied by the poet, discoursing with him of the good youth who had been interred there but a short time previously, and whose promise had been to do honour to both his names. Now, of his children none remain; and, as with so many other renowned men, the poet Moore is succeeded by no member of his family. His admirable widow survives, to cherish the memory of one she loved with the holiest and most beautiful devotion; whose life she gladdened by a perpetual sunshine; the dearest theme of his muse, the joy and hope of his manhood, and the trust and faith of his age. MISS BREMER's Homes of the New World will be published in the autumn, by Messrs. VIRTUE, A meeting to aid the Dublin Committee has been since held, at the house of the Marquis of Lansdowne, and a committee for England was named there. We fear, however, it is of too aristocratic a character to be in "working order." HALL, and VIRTUE. Part of the M.S. is now in the hands of Mrs. Howitt, who has undertaken the translation. The work cannot fail to excite much attention, both in England and in the United States. It will be original, notwithstanding the many works to which America has given rise; for Miss Bremer saw perhaps more than any living writer has seen of the "domesticity," so to speak, of the Americans. We have reason to know that her impressions were highly favourable: that, indeed, she is greatly attached to the United States, and her warmest affections are with the great people of the New World. Nevertheless, with her keen and inquiring mind, and her justly-balanced faculties-notwithstanding the exceeding charity and amiability of her disposition-she will have seen the faults it will be her duty to examine and dissect. The volumes will, we are sure, be not only interesting, but instructive, and become additions to our literature of the very highest value. Miss Bremer was, altogether, nearly three years in the States; she is now at home, in the neighbourhood of Stockholm, having spent but a few weeks in England on her way to Sweden. Mr. GROOMBRIDGE has published two interesting volumes-Lydia, a Woman's Book, by Mrs. NEWTON CROSLAND, and The Days of Bruce, by the late GRACE AGUILAR. Mrs Newton Crosland, in an introduction-by which much meaning is conveyed in few words-writes that, "as long as the world lasts, each sex will have its separate sphere of trials and temptations, so that many of the lessons of life must be more appropriate to the one than to the other." Mrs. Crosland is essentially a feminine writer she has studied, understands, and sympathises with her own sex thoroughly; the character of "Lydia" is conceived and worked out in the very spirit of truth, not that we consider the heroine a type of women generally, but she represents a very extensive class, brought up as "Lydia" was --beautiful and vain-when loving, loving blindly, but rising against appalling circumstances which awaken all that is right and brave in her nature, and conquering herself at the last with entire heroism. There is more power in this Woman's Book than in any work its author has yet produced: it must add to her reputation as a thinker and a writer. Mrs. Crosland, as many of our readers know, obtained her earlier fame as Miss Camilla Toulmin. She has written much that is of interest and value both for old and young. The Days of Bruce, by the author of the Women of Israel, may be accepted as another proof of the catholic," or universal spirit of the admirable Jewish lady-whose enlightened mind and genuine charity were never limited to the service of sect or class. Her devotion to her own people was simply her first duty; her heart was of "kin" with the whole world. This book was written so far back as 1841, when in the vigour of intellectual strength, she was planning many things-and all for good; it was, we know, her especial favourite : it is full of deep interest, and the characters are well drawn. It is not, however, equal, in originality and power, to those productions of her pen in which she is unrivalled, because they illustrate a "peculiar people;' " but it may be read with profit, and certainly with pleasure. Grace Aguilar died at Frankfort, and is buried in the Jewish cemetery there. Castle Deloraine, a novel, in three volumes, published by Mr. BENTLEY, and written by a cousin of Miss Maria Jane Jewsbury's, (who married the Rev. Mr. Fletcher, and died at Bombay, when all who knew her looked for the fulfilment of the rich promise of her youth,) is a very remarkable book, penned in the fervour and enthusiasm of a frank young spirit, eager to arrive at truth, but mistaking the bubble on the surface for the jewel at the bottom of the well-misled by a desire to say all she thinks, without considering that she may not always think correctly, and that it is possible to argue wrong from right principles. The mere story, though an often told tale, is well conceived, and well developed; the characters are skilfully drawn, and cleverly contrasted; the scenes are natural and forcible; there are occasional passages of great power and pathos, and the interest continues even through long political and religious disquisitions, which recal a passage in one of Lady Dufferin's clever songs "What a pity when charming women Talk of things that they don't understand." The author, MISS MARIA PRICILLA SMITH, makes vigorous war with what she calls prejudices, and doubtless in many cases she has reason on her side; but she is too impetuous and too unskilful to bring about social reformations, even if a novel were the legitimate arena for political contention. Every Christian mother in England would avoid a heroine of seventeen who eulogises Shelley to a young man during their first interview. There is no doubt Shelley would have recanted his heresy ; he had the fashion only of infidelity, and his manly spirit, when he put away his childish and sinful follies, would have acknowledged its error. There is a strange opinion expressed by the young philosophy school-that great minds are prone to doubt. The contrary is the fact-poor minds, uncomprehensive minds, weak minds, "doubt," because they can neither comprehend nor trust. The author of Castle Deloraine has studied, at times, in a dangerous school. She has not been true to her better nature. Her desire to throw off what is old and feeble leads her into the danger of shaking off what is venerable, frequently mistaking boldness for strength, and rashness for bravery. We had almost forgotten to mention her Irish scenes, which are vigorous and life-like. We shall look anxiously for this author's next book, convinced that all she requires to become one of the ornaments of our literature, is a more extensive acquaintance, not with theories, but with life, and greater patience to "mark, learn, and inwardly digest," before she takes up a cause or a party. The publishers of this Magazine have issued a curious volume, and one for which the scholar and the poet must be deeply indebted to them-Specimens of Old Indian Poetry, translated from the original Sanscrit into English verse. We must refer to the gracefully printed little book all those who have the good taste to appreciate the learning and poetic feeling which Mr. GRIFFITH, of the Royal Asiatic Society, has brought to bear upon this "labour of love;" for such it has undoubtedly been. It cannot fail to enlighten and interest those who have hitherto considered Indian poetry-like Eastern flowers "In climes full of sunshine, though splendid their dyes, Yet faint is the odour the flowers shed about." These poems breathe a delicious "odour ;" and those who have tasted Sir William Jones's paraphrase of one of the Persian Hafiz's exquisite songs, or felt the beauty of Professor Wilson's translation of a fragrant little poem-The Cloud Messenger-which is well known at Hailesbury College, will joyously avail themselves of this treasury of Eastern gems. If we should really have no summer this year in "Merrie England," this sweet book may make a sunshine in the shady place of many an English home. We believe it is not generally known that Mr. AGUILAR, who has been gaining so much on the public as a pianiste, is brother to the late Grace Aguilar, whose recently-published tale of The Days of Bruce we have just noticed. Despite the sums we pay for music, we are as yet only on the threshold of this ennobling art: we understand but little of its philosophy, and are seldom thoroughly roused by its humanizing sympathies, our popular idea of an "artist" is connected with painting, and even now-with two Italian Operas, and concerts innumerable-the great body of the English people consider music neither an art nor a sciencesimply a trade. May we not hope for better days! when music, in its highest and holiest sense, will be appreciated as it deserves, and its professors-no longer undervalued as "mere musical men "-take their places amongst "the teachers" of a noble science the propagators of an enlightening art— veritable artists, as in truth they are. We avail ourselves gladly of this occasion, to render to the accomplished brother of our lamented friend homage akin to that he has so abundantly received in Germany-indeed, in all parts of Europe and which he is gradually but surely obtaining in England, as the reward of genius combined with industry. Messrs. ADDEY & Co. are aiming to sustain the reputation which Mr. Cundell, their predecessor, acquired by the publication of juvenile books. We are greatly indebted to those publishers who introduce good taste into our nurseries. We should not have been so far behind our neighbours in Art, had it not been for the distorted quality of the socalled "establishments" of children's books. Well do we remember when the art of such publications taught nothing that was not evil: distorted forms in daubs of colour were the "familiar friends" of the very young, with pernicious lessons to eye and mind. We cannot be over-grateful to Mr. Cundell for largely assisting to introduce a better state of things. In his children's books-those more especially which bear the name of "Felix Summerly"-the best artists were auxiliary to instruction; and those who learned from them had nothing to unlearn in after-life. But the most important step Mr. Addey has yet taken is in the publication of a Magazine, "for boys and girls," and boys and girls "putting away childish things' this being rather a magazine for the schoolroom, with tales which may be read aloud in the nursery. The first numbers are pleasant and profitable. The editor gives an assurance that The Charm, (the title given to the magazine), shall ever have "the charm of PURITY;" that its moral tendency shall be plainly apparent; that it shall inculcate brotherly love, gentleness, and kindness to all God's creatures; that it shall endeavour to instil into young minds the love of the beautiful, and lead them to appreciate "the smiles of Nature and the charms of Art." So far all is well; but, while we would carefully avoid all cant or sectarian teaching, we cannot altogether approve of any publication for the young without a devotional principle pervading and hallowing the whole. It may be "felt, though unseen;" never intrusive, but always influencing; inculcating all the virtues-none of which can ever have a solid foundation, where Religion is not the corner-stone. It will, we are assured, give many of our readers much pleasure to know that AMELIA OPIE is still living and enjoying life, her bright affectionate spirit creating sunshine in the pretty home where she resides, opposite to the time-honoured Castle of Norwich. Mr. WILLIAM HowIrr has left, or is about to leave England, to visit Australia-for a few months to visit the "diggings," to place there two of his sons, perhaps under the charge of his brother, who ranks among the highest physicians of the colony-and, we take for granted, on his return, to publish a book. Such are the wonderful facilities for travelling in modern times, that this voyage, to and from Australia, is about upon a par with what a journey to Ireland was some fifty or sixty years ago. There will be little or no time lost to a busy man-for Mr. Howitt will have pen, ink, and paper in his cabin on board; and he may see, with his practised eye and observant mind, a vast deal in half a year or so on shore. Of a surety, the world will derive much profit from his trip; and we heartily and cordially bid him bon voyage. A very charming book has been issued by Messrs. CONSTABLE, of Edinburgh-Art and Nature under an Italian Sky. There is nothing strictly new in its pages, yet much that is fresh, while all is pure many well-known objects are placed in a novel light. Occasionally it recalled to us passages in that most graceful of all books of travel, in which Mrs. Jameson made her début in literature-The Diary of an Ennuyée. In Art and Nature we have a happy mingling of both: Nature is felt and Art is understood by the writer. The tone of the volume is healthy: the observations are generous and full of true sympathy; and, as a contribution to a class of literature far too scanty, it is of no ordinary value. Moreover, the book is welcome, as again bringing before us the time-honoured name of Constable. The publishers are the representatives, in blood and station, of those whose repute is inseparably associated with that of Sir Walter Scott. England will be inundated with "Christmas Books" at the close of the present year. Information has already reached us concerning at least ten of them. We cannot say that any one of their authors is of the highest literary rank, although they each and all enjoy a share of popularity. There may be so many of these books, however, as to elbow one another out of the way; and the chances that would be very favourable to two or three may be as nothing when divided among a dozen. It may be well to put forth this warning in time. Few books of its class came to us more unexpectedly than did Mistress Margaret Maitland. 66 The author, in many scenes, assumed the wisdom of age; but the freshness of youth at once endeared the volumes to the reader; and, followed as they were, fleetly and bravely, by Merkland, they established an almost new generation of Scotch novels in our hearts and homes. Adam Græme, of Moss Gray, will not be as popular with the general reader" as either of those we have mentioned; though, in many respects, its tone and feeling are higher than the tone and feeling of its predecessors. There is something painful in commencing an acquaintance with the hero of a novel when he is old; the burden falls on memory, and not on hope. It is pleasanter to pass through life, and its adventures with our hero of the hour, than to hear how he suffered and triumphed-won or lost when his oil is nearly burnt out, and the flickering light shows that the world, and the things therof, must soon pass away. Those who read merely for amusement, and enjoy the whirl of "novel life"-going hand in hand with its activity, its hopes, its fears, its miseries, its excitementsmay lay these volumes aside, and declare that the author has "fallen off;" but those who love to trace patiently the workings of the "actual,” and note how this brought that to pass-will enjoy to sit with us at the feet of the Scottish Gamaliel, and learn the gentle, loving, and unselfish lessons of a wellspent life. The author, we imagine, felt that she commenced Adam Græme in an unpopular fashion: the volumes are divided into "books," and, with considerable skill, the second "book" brings forward a new generation, with whom Moss Gray is linked, and to whom, as well as to the conduct of the story, he is necessary. This introduction of new life was certainly indispensable, as the tale was trembling beneath the malediction of three volumes, which has brought many a finely-conceived story to an untimely grave; but, despite the fascinations of the young and the trials of the good, the old man is the hero and the interest. Adam Græme, of Moss Gray, is a perfect treasure to mothers who dread the influence of careless modern novels in their domestic libraries: every page is sanctified by the pure spirit of its author: it might be read on a Sabbath evening, beneath the shadows of the "ivied tower" of an old church. We presume that there is no breach of confidence in mentioning that the author of these books -Miss Wilson-has very recently changed her and is now Mrs. Oliphant. name, We believe it is not generally known that JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, U.S. Consul at Tunis, who died lately, was the author of Home, sweet home,a song that made the celebrity of Mary Tree, now Mrs. Bradshaw, and which Madame Otto Goldschmidt has been singing in America to the delight of all hearers. In his early life Payne was a dramatic performer, and a man of versatile genius. He was appointed consul in 1851, and had just established himself under his flag, when he was called "HOME." When we read in the dedication to The Head of the Family, that it was the "last novel the author would write for some time," we hoped she might not be tempted to break her resolve; yet we learn that another tale, of altogether different construction from those before the public, is nearly ready for the press. This is hardly doing herself justice: her forte lies in the development of sympathies and |