she never surpassed.' These are, of course, inserted, and are referred to by Mrs. Howitt in the following touching and beautiful lines.

Farewell, farewell! Thy latest word is spoken ;

The lute thou loved’st hath given its latest tone ;
Yet not without a lingering, parting token

Hast thou gone from us, young and gifted one!
And what in love thou gavest, here we treasure,

Sweet words of song penned in those far-off wilds,
And pure and righteous thoughts, in lofty measure,

Strong as a patriot's, gentle as a child's.
Here shrine we them, like holy relicts keeping,

That they who loved thee may approach and read ;
May know thy latest thoughts ; may joy in weeping

That thou wast worthy to be loved indeed !
Farewell, farewell! And as thy heart could cherish

For love, a flower, the sere leaf of a tree, -
So from these pages shall not lightly perish

Thy latest lays-memento flowers of thee !

The following stanza is by L. E. L., and accompanies a beautiful engraving entitled 'Kate is Craz’d. It is preceded by an extract from Cowper, well known to all his admirers, in which he paints with such graphic truth the picture of 'a serving maid' whose lover went to sea and died. The beauty of the poetry is lost sight of under the melancholy associations which it recalls to mind.

• How wonderful ! how beautiful ! these words
Are but the usual recompense assigned
To usual efforts of the human mind.
And yet how little jars these mighty chords !
How soon but one uneasy hour affords
Space for disunion and for disarray,
To mar the music of an earlier day !
It is a fearful thing to live, yet be
That which is scarcely life-the spirit fled-
Death at the heart-our nobler self is dead-
The reasoning and responsible, while we
Live, like the birds around, unconsciously.
God! in thy mercy keep us from such doom,

Let not our mind precede us to our tomb ! Such were the musings of L. E. L. a short time prior---perhaps only a few days or hours—to the melancholy termination of her life. They forcibly remind us of her own words, assigned to her first heroine.

• Sad were my shades ; methinks they had
Almost a tone of prophecy-
I ever had, from earliest youth,
A feeling what my fate would be.'*

We pass over the stanzas on Lord Byron at Newstead Abbey, as well as those on the Shrine and Grotto of Santa Rosalia, in both of which the distinctive features of Miss Landon's muse are conspicuous, united in the case of the former with more than ber usual power, to make room for the following accompaniment to an engraving of Thomas Clarkson, Esq., the friend of Africa and of


• Not to the many doth the earth
Owe what she h:ath of good,
The many would not stir life's depths,
And could not if they would.
It is some individual mind
That moves the common cause;
To single efforts England owes
Her knowledge, faith, and laws.


· And yet what grievous wrong is wrought,
Unnoticed and Unknown,
Until some noble one stands forth,
And makes that wrong his own !
So stood he forth who first denounced
The slave-trade's cursed gain ;
Such call upon the human heart
Was never made in vain.

For generous impulses and strong
Within our nature lie;
Pity, and love, and sympathy
May sleep, but never die.
Thousands, awakened to the sense,
Have never since that time
Ceased to appeal to God and man
Against the work of crime.

• The meanest hut that ever stood
Is yet a human home;
Why to a low and humble roof
Should the despoiler come ?
Grant they are ignorant and weak,
We were ourselves the same;

The Improvisatrice.

If they are children, let them have
A child's imploring claim.
• The husband parted from the wife,
The mother from the child
Thousands within a single year,
From land and home exiled.
For what?-to labour without hope
Beneath a foreign sky;
To gather up unrighteous wealth-
To droop—decline—and die !
Such wrong is darkly visited;
The masters have their part-
For theirs had been the blinded eye,
And theirs the hardened heart.
Evil may never spring unchecked
Within the mortal soul ;
If such plague-spot be not removed,
It must corrupt the whole.
• The future doth



Now, for the future's sake,
Oh, England ! for the guilty past
A deep atonement make.
The slave is given to thy charge,
He hopes from thee alone;
And thou, for every soul so given,

Must answer with thy own.' We must restrict ourselves to one more extract, which will furnish no unfavorable specimen of the versification of the present editor.


I love the fields, the woods, the streams,
The wild-flowers fresh and sweet,
And yet I love no less than these,
The crowded city street;
For haunts of men, where'er they be,
Awake my deepest sympathy.
• I see within the city street
Life's most extreme estates,
The gorgeous domes of palaces ;

The prison's doleful grates;
The hearths by household virtues blest,
The dens that are the serpent's nest.
• I see the rich man, proudly fed
And richly clothed, pass by;

I see the shivering, houseless wretch,
With hunger in his eye ;
For life's severest contrasts meet,
For ever in the city street !

* And lofty, princely palaces -
What dreary deeds of woe;
What untold, mortal agonies
Their arras chambers know !
Yet is without all smooth and fair,
As heaven's blue dome of summer air !

· Hence is it that a city street
Can deepest thought impart,
For all its people, high and low,
Are kindred to my heart;
And with a yearning love I share
In all their joy, their pain, their care !

The engravings, thirty-six in number, are selected from the numerous illustrated works published by the Messrs. Fisher, with a few borrowed from other sources, and here reissued, in some cases, with new titles. As they have already been subjected to critical notice it is needless to descant on their merits. On the whole we have no hesitation in recording our judgment, that the present volume is every way worthy of its predecessors, and fully entitled to the same patronage which they enjoyed.

The Juvenile Scrap-Book appears this year under the editorship of Mrs. Ellis, whose recent work on 'The Women of England, has only served to ratify the favorable judgment previously formed of her talents. Some apprehension is expressed in her preface lest the work should be thought wanting in the lighter and more amusing features of such a volume. We have no fear of this kind, for there is a happy blending throughout its pages, of the qualities best suited to fascinate and instruct the juvenile reader. We may refer in confirmation of our remark to 'The *Unwilling Philosopher," "The Bark of Hope,'' Island Wonders,' and Day Dreams.' We are glad that such a work should be placed in such hands, and commend it with the sincerest goodwill to our readers. While furnishing materials for thought, it is adapted to cherish all social virtues, and to spread over the domestic hearth a cheerfulness and hilarity, which while amusing the young, may also gratify and warm the aged breast.

Art. VIII. 1. Speech of the Right Hon. Lord Lyndhurst, delivered

in the House of Lords, August 23, 1839. London. 2. The Ministerial Crisis. By T. GISBORNE, Esq., jun. London.

THE 'HE termination of a parliamentary session affords that kind of

pause which travellers are fond of making on the brow of any isolated mountain they may have just ascended. An extensive prospect perhaps opens before,-behind, -- and around them. Glances are thrown in every possible direction,-eastward, and westward, and northward, and southward; whilst more especially the road, along which their recent course conducted them, comes in for its share of their attention. Next however to this, and soon in a still greater degree, they endeavour to discern with absorbing curiosity, the labyrinth of their future journey. Maps, observations, conjectures, are all in requisition. The longest heads guess the most correctly: yet each guesses something, in the way of inference from the past, or anticipations of the morrow. Colours will be cast upon such sensations according to circumstances. If the panorama be a paradise, or even any thing like a paradise, imagination will light up the woods and vallies, the fields and the rivers, with innumerable sunbeams : overhanging clouds will only reflect irises; and hope will shower into the soul her most delicious pleasures. But if, on other hand, an illimitable wilderness lies outspread before the eye; if spectators can behold little else than wastes of sand scorching under the concave of heaven,—or mounting into pillars of smoke in the distance, whilst mirage after mirage allures to all the bitterness of disappointment;—then will the stoutest heart grow sad, and sigh for a land of rest, where labour will be exchanged for repose, and shadows be swallowed up in realities.

In applying a metaphor of this kind to our present political position, we hold ourselves to be neither croakers nor alarmists. Our wish is merely to see and describe matters as they actually exist. The ultimate result is in the hands of an Almighty Providence, who beyond a question is working out the wisest ends by the best possible means. We are looking, so to speak, on that side of his wonderful processes of performance, which puzzles poor finite creatures, simply because their survey is limited to a very small portion of the whole. Yet we must use our reason, and our observation, in the best manner we can, both to prepare ourselves for the changes of human life, and learn more perfectly such passages, as God may vouchsafe to show us, of his divine and ineffable glory. Time is after all the vestibule of eternity, The present state may in many respects be considered as part of the vast temple, wherein He, who dwelleth not in houses ma de

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