because the English and the Americans-the people of New Orleans a year ago, the people of Aberdeen a week ago-all received and acknowledged with due allegiance the great claims to honor which that lady has who worthily holds that great and awful situation which our Queen occupies. It is my loyalty that is called in question, and it is my loyalty that I am trying to plead to you. Suppose, for example, in America-in Philadel phia or in New York-that I had spoken about George IV. in terms of praise and affected reverence: do you believe they would have hailed his name with cheers, or have heard it with any thing like respect? They would have laughed in my face if I had so spoken of him. They know what I know and you know, and what numbers of squeamish loyalists who affect to cry out against my lectures know, that that man's life was not a good life, that that king was not such a king as we ought to love, or regard, or honor. And I believe, for my part, that in speaking the truth, as we hold it, of a bad sovereign, we are paying no disrespect at all to a good one. Far from it. On the contrary, we degrade our own honor and the sovereign's by unduly and unjustly praising him; and the mere slaverer and flatterer is one who comes forward, as it were, with flash notes, and pays with false coin his tribute to Cæsar. I don't disguise that I feel somehow on my trial here for loyalty, for honest English feeling.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER, 1835-1864.

THIS gifted poetess was the eldest daughter of Bryan Waller Procter, and was born in the year 1835. We know but little of the incidents of her life. She first attracted notice about 1858 by two volumes of poems, entitled Legends and Lyrics, which were followed by A Chaplet of Verse, 1862. She also contributed to some of the monthly magazines, and was one of the writers in the Victoria Regia, a volume containing a collection of poems from living authors, issued from the "Victoria Press." She died February 2, 1864.1

1 The following beautiful notice of her, by Charles Dickens, prefixed to an illustrated edition of her Lyrics, deserves a place here:"In the spring of 1853, as conductor of Household Words, I noticed a short poem among the contributions, very different, as I thought, from the shoal of verses perpetually setting through the office of such a periodical, and possessing much more merit. Its authoress was quite unknown to me. She was one Miss Mary Berwick, whom I had never heard of; and she was to be addressed by letter, if addressed at all, at a circulating library in the wertern district of London. Through this channel Miss Berwick was informed that her poem was accepted, and was invited to send another. She complied, and became a regular

never seen.

and frequent contributor, but she herself was * This went on until December, 1854, when the Christmas number was sent to press. Happening to be going to dine that day with an old and dear friend, distinguished in literature as Barry Cornwall, I took with me an early proof of that number, and remarked, as I laid it on the drawingroom table, that it contained a very pretty poem written by a certain Miss Berwick. Next day brought me the disclosure that I had so spoken of the poem to the mother of its writer, and in the writer's presence," &c. He then gives a beautiful sketch of her fine character, which I wish I had room to insert. Ticknor & Fields, Boston, have published a very hand. some edition of her Legends and Lyrics, 1865.

ONE BY ONE.

One by one the sands are flowing,
One by one the moments fall;
Some are coming, some are going;
Do not strive to grasp them all.
One by one thy duties wait thee,

Let thy whole strength go to each;
Let no future dreams elate thee,

Learn thou first what these can
teach.

One by one (bright gifts from Heaven)
Joys are sent thee here below;

Take them readily when given,
Ready too to let them go.

Do not look at life's long sorrow;

See how small each moment's pain;
God will help thee for to-morrow,
So each day begin again.

Every hour that fleets so slowly
Has its task to do or bear;
Luminous the crown, and holy,
When each gem is set with care.
Do not linger with regretting,
Or for passing hours despond;
Nor the daily toil forgetting,
Look too eagerly beyond.

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, Hours are golden links, God's token,

Do not fear an armed band;
One will fade as others greet thee;
Shadows passing through the land.

Reaching heaven; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done.

"The rest, my child,

When the strife and the toil are o'er;
The angel of God, who, calm and mild,
Says we need fight no more;

Who, driving away the demon band,
Bids the din of the battle cease;

Takes banner and spear from our failing hand,

And proclaims an eternal peace."

"Let me die, father! I tremble, and fear
To yield in that terrible strife!"

"The crown must be won for heaven, dear,

In the battle-field of life:

My child, though thy foes are strong and tried,
He loveth the weak and small;

The angels of heaven are on thy side
And God is over all!"

THE CRADLE-SONG OF THE POOR.

Hush! I cannot bear to see thee
Stretch thy tiny hands in vain;
Dear, I have no bread to give thee,
Nothing, child, to ease thy pain!
When God sent thee first to bless me,
Proud, and thankful too, was I;
Now, my darling, I, thy mother,
Almost long to see thee die.

Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;
God is good, but life is dreary.

I have watch'd thy beauty fading,
And thy strength sink, day by day,
Soon, I know, will want and fever
Take thy little life away.
Famine makes thy father reckless,
Hope has left both him and me;
We could suffer all, my baby,
Had we but a crust for thee.

Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;
God is good, but life is dreary.

Better thou shouldst perish early,
Starve so soon, my darling one,
Than in helpless sin and sorrow
Vainly live as I have done.
Better that thy angel spirit

With my joy, my peace, were flown,
Than thy heart grew cold and careless,
Reckless, hopeless, like my own.

Sleep, my darling, thou art weary;
God is good, but life is dreary.

I am wasted, dear, with hunger,
And my brain is all opprest,

I have scarcely strength to press thee,
Wan and feeble, to my breast.
Patience, baby, God will help us,

Death will come to thee and me,
He will take us to his heaven,
Where no want or pain can be.

Sleep, my darling, thou art weary:
God is good, but life is dreary.

Such the plaint that, late and early,
Did we listen, we might hear
Close beside us,-but the thunder
Of a city dulls our ear.

Every heart, as God's bright angel,
Can bid one such sorrow cease;
God has glory when His children
Bring His poor ones joy and peace!
Listen, nearer while she sings
Sounds the fluttering of wings!

WORDS.

Words are lighter than the cloud-foam | I have known a spirit, calmer

Of the restless ocean spray;
Vainer than the trembling shadow
That the next hour steals away.
By the fall of summer rain-drops

Is the air as deeply stirr'd;
And the rose-leaf that we tread on
Will outlive a word.

Yet, on the dull silence breaking
With a lightning flash, a word,
Bearing endless desolation

On its blighting wings, I heard:
Earth can forge no keener weapon,
Dealing surer death and pain,
And the cruel echo answer'd

Through long years again.

I have known one word hang star-like
O'er a dreary waste of years,
And it only shone the brighter

Look'd at through a mist of tears;
While a weary wanderer gather'd
Hope and heart on life's dark way,
By its faithful promise, shining
Clearer day by day.

Than the calmest lake and clear
As the heavens that gazed upon it,

With no wave of hope or fear;
But a storm had swept across it,

And its deepest depths were stirr'd (Never, never more to slumber}, Only by a word.

I have known a word more gentle
Than the breath of summer air;
In a listening heart it nestled,

And it lived forever there.
Not the beating of its prison

Stirr'd it ever, night or day;
Only with the heart's last throbbing
Could it fade away.

Words are mighty, words are living:

Serpents with their venomous stings,
Or bright angels, crowding round us,
With heaven's light upon their
wings;

Every word has its own spirit,
True or false, that never dies;
Every word man's lips have utter'd
Echoes in God's skies.

7

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 1775-1864.

THE author of Imaginary Conversations was born in Warwick, January 30, 1775. He was sent first to Rugby, and afterwards to Trinity College, Oxford: at both which places he proved insubordinate, and never took a degree. He would not study a profession, but settled at Swansea, Wales, on a small income allowed him by his father, devoting his time to classical and general literature. Subsequently he came into possession of a large estate, which made him entirely independent, and enabled him to indulge his propensity to literature, and perhaps contributed to that defiant species of independence which, somewhat developed in early life, became characteristic of the man. In 1795 he published A Collection of Poems; in 1798, Gebir, a sort of epic poem; in 1860, Poems from the Arabic and Persian; and in 1835, Count Julian, a Tragedy, and other Poems. In 1811 he married, at Bath, a lady of German parentage; but so fierce and irritable was his temper, and so little under control, that they soon separated; and in 1815 he went to reside in Italy, chiefly at Florence.

In 1824 appeared the first series of Imaginary Conversations of Literary Men and Statesmen, three volumes; and in 1829, the second series, two volumes. This is the work on which his fame as a writer must rest. In 1836 appeared his Pericles and Aspasia, two volumes; and in 1839, two dramas, Andrea of Hungary, and Giovanna of Naples. Soon after this, he came back to England and

settled at Bath. In 1846 appeared his collected works, in two volumes, royal octavo, and in 1853, Popery, British and Foreign, and Last Fruit off an Oid Tree. In 1857 he published a pamphlet exposing the conduct of a certain lady of Bath. This was construed into a libel, and accordingly he was indicted, tried, convicted, and sentenced to pay a fine of £1000. He then retired to Florence, where he spent the remainder of his days, and died on the 17th of September, 1864, in the eighty-ninth year of his age. Such are the brief outlines of his varied, eccentric, and in many respects unhappy life.

As a poet of originality and power, Mr. Landor takes a very respectable rank, though he never will be popular. But it is as a prose-writer that he is most favorably known now, as he will be by posterity. His Imaginary Conversations is a very remarkable book. It consists of dialogues between some of the most remarkable personages of all ranks and callings in ancient and modern times. The author, in a surprising manner, throws himself completely into the character he would represent to us, and catches fully the spirit of the age in which he lived. It is a book replete with sound wisdom; and, as to style, all is elaborate, fastidious, and classical.2

The best of the dialogues are those between "Lord Brooke and Sir Philip Sidney;" "Southey and Porson," on the merits of Wordsworth; “Queen Elizabeth and Cecil;" "Roger Ascham and Lady Jane Grey;" "Dr. Johnson and Horne Tooke;" "Marcus Tullius and Quintus Cicero ;""Barrow and Newton;" "Milton and Andrew Marvel;" "Andrew Marvel and Bishop Parker." But, where all are so good, it seems invidious to particularize. The following will give a good idea of Mr. Landor's manner:

ROGER ASCHAM AND LADY JANE GREY.

Ascham. Thou art going, my dear young lady, into a most awful state: thou art passing into matrimony and great wealth. God hath willed it: submit in thankfulness. Thy affections are rightly placed and well distributed. Love is a secondary passion in those who love most, a primary in those who love least. He

1 In 1858 appeared an octavo volume of heterogeneous poems, numbered from 1 to 187, entitled Dry Sticks Fagoted. Some of these poems contained, in anonymous allusions, the gist of the libellous pamphlet.

2" What a weighty book," exclaims the Edinburgh Review, "these Conversations make! How rich in scholarship; how correct, concise, and pure in style; how full of imagination, wit, and humor; how well informed, how bold in speculation, how various in interest, how universal in sympathy! In these one hundred and twenty-five Dialogues, the most familiar and the most august shapes of the Past are reanimated with vigor, grace, and beauty. Its long-dead ashes rekindle suddenly their wonted fires, and again shoot up into warmth and brightness. Large utterances,' musical and varied voices, thoughts that breathe' for the world's advancement, words that burn' against the world's oppression, sound on throughout these lofty and earnest pages."Edinburgh Review, xxxiii. 489.

admired as the nearest approach in England to his much-beloved Florence; and there, among his books and pictures, he passed the autumn and winter months. His figure was known to every one, though his acquaintance was extended to very few. Ill dressed, with a slouch-hat, frowning, absorbed, and silent, grinding Hellenics between his teeth (those white and amazing teeth of which he was so proud), he trudged along the street followed by a sparkling little dog, which snapped and barked at every one to whom its master chanced to give a word."

"A grim and unjustifiable sarcasm launched against a lady who had once been his friend brought him into trouble before a court of law. There is no need to tell the story over again. Landor had to quit Bath forever; his books and pictures were dispersed by the hammer, and the old man found his rest in Florence,his former and favorite abode: he bought more books and pictures, curtained his rooms, reared another dog, trained a vine about his "For several years Mr. Landor spent his windows, and set his writing-desk in order."— winters in Bath,-a city which he thoroughly | Athenæum, October 1, 1864.