But from ourselves, but yet of the truth of whose delineation every one can instinctively be sure, is a rare person in fiction. For creating him there are no infallible rules, any more than there are for painting a good portrait in oils. It all depends upon the writer's brains. if he is successful, if he creates a character with whom we can feel any sympathy, although the feeling may not be one of admiration, we are sure that the writer has done something of which he may well be proud. The great novel is yet unwritten. We hope that he who shall attempt to write it will see the simplicity, the singleness of the problem that lies before him. The surer he is of this, the better will be his work. The less conscious he is of trying to be American, the more truly will he succeed in being so. Selfconsciousness does not make a strong character, and so it is with this quality of the novelist. Lay the scene on the limitless prairie or in limited Fifth Avenue, but let the story rise above its geographical boundaries; let the characters be treated as human beings, not simply as inhabitants of such or such a place, with nothing to distinguish them from the beasts that perish, except certain peculiarities of dress and language. They must dwell somewhere, but they must be something besides citizens. Fantastic creatures dwelling in pure ether are not what the reader demands, but beings true, not to fashion, but to those higher laws and passions that alone are real, that exist above all the petty, accidental caprice of time and place. The real novelist, he who is to write the "great American novel," must be a poet; he must look at life, not as the statistician, not as the census taker, nor yet as the newspaper reporter, but with an eye that sees, through temporary disguises, the animating principles, good or bad, that direct human existence; these he must set before us, to be sure, under probable conditions, but yet without mistaking the conditions for the principles. He must idealize. The idealizing novelist will be the real novelist. All truth does not lie in facts. -North American Review. AUTHORITY. Authority intoxicates, And makes mere sots of magistrates; LIFE'S PILGRIMAGE. [Jorge Manrique, a Spanish poet of the 15th century, whose principal poems were written between 1450 and 1474. In the Edinburgh Review the late George Moir said that the following poem "is surpassed by nothing in the Spanish language, except the odes of Luis de Leon."] O! let the soul its slumber break, Arouse its senses and awake, To see how soon Life with its glories glides away, And the stern footstep of decay Comes stealing on. How pleasure, like the passing wind, How still our present happiness And while we eye the rolling tide, Down which our flying minutes glide Away so fast; Let us the present hour employ, And deem each future dream of joy Already past. Let no vain hope deceive the mind- To-morrow than to-day. Our golden dreams of yore were bright, Like them the present shall delight,Like them decay. Our lives like hasting streams must be, Are doomed to fall: Alike the river's lordly tide, Our birth is but a starting place, There all our steps at last are brought, Say then, how poor and little worth Are all those glittering toys of earth That lure us here; Dreams of a sleep that death must break, Ye disappear. Long ere the damps of death can blight, Youth smiled, and all was heav'nly fair, And where are they? Where are the strength that mocked decay, The heart's blithe tone?- When age comes on. THE FOUNTAIN OF BEAUTY. [Mrs. Lydia Maria Child, born in Medford, Massachusetts, 11th February, 1802. One of the most earnest and successful advocates of the anti-slavery cause, and Towards Sunset; and numerous works on the slave In ancient times two little princesses lived in Scotland, one of whom was extremely beautiful, the other dwarfish, dark-coloured, and deformed. One was named Rose, and the other Marion. The sisters did not live happily together. Marian hated Rose, because she was handsome, and everybody praised her. She scowled and her face absolutely grew black when anybody asked her how her pretty little sister Rose did; and once she was so wicked as to cut off all her glossy, golden hair, and throw it into the fire. Poor Rose cried bitterly about it, but she did not scold or strike her sister; for she was an amiable, gentle little being as ever lived. No wonder all the family and all the neighbourhood disliked Marion; and no wonder her face grew uglier and uglier every day. The Scots used to be a very superstitious people, and they believed the infant Rose had been blessed by the fairies, to whom she owed her extraordinary beauty and exceeding good ness. Not far from the castle where the princesses resided was a deep grotto, said to lead to the Palace of Beauty, where the Queen of the Fairies held her court. Some said Rose had fallen asleep there one day when she had grown tired of chasing a butterfly, and that the Queen had dipped her in an immortal fountain, from which she had risen with the beauty of an angel. Marion often asked questions about this story, but Rose always replied that she had been forbidden to speak of it. When she saw any uncommonly brilliant bird or butterfly, she would sometimes exclaim, "Oh how much that looks like fairyland!" But when asked what she knew about fairyland, she blushed and would not answer. Marion thought a great deal about this. "Why cannot I go to the Palace of Beauty?" thought she; "and why may I not bathe in the Immortal Fountain!" One summer's noon, when all was still save the faint twittering of the birds, and the lazy hum of the insects, Marion entered the deep grotto. She sat down on a bank of moss; the air around her was as fragrant as if it came from a bed of violets; and with a sound of far-off music dying on her ear, she fell into a gentle slumber. When she awoke it was evening; and she found herself in a small hall, where opal pillars supported a rainbow roof, the bright reflection of which rested on crystal walls, and a golden floor inlaid with pearls. All around between the opal pillars stood the tiniest vases of pure alabaster, in which grew a multitude of brilliant and fragrant flowers; some of them, twining around the pillars, were lost in the floating rainbow above. The whole of this scene of beauty was lighted up by millions of fire-flies, glittering about like wandering stars. While Marion was wondering at all this, a little figure of rare loveliness stood before her. Her robe was of green and gold; her flowing gossamer mantle was caught up on one shoulder with a pearl, and in her hair was a solitary star composed of five diamonds, each no bigger than a pin's point. And thus she sung:"The Fairy Queen Hath rarely seen On pearly floor, Inlaid with shining gold. As she concluded, the song was taken up and 1 There was a superstition that whoever slept on fairy ground was carried away by the fairies. between the pauses, the sound of a distant cascade was heard, whose waters fell in music. All these delightful sounds died away, and the Queen of the Fairies stood patiently awaiting Marion's answer. Courtesying low, and with a trembling voice, the little maiden said, "Will it please your majesty to make me as handsome as my sister Rose?" The Queen smiled: "I will grant your request," she said, "if you will promise to fulfil all the conditions I impose. Marion eagerly promised that she would. "The Immortal Fountain," replied the Queen, "is on the top of a high, steep hill; at four different places fairies are stationed around it, who guard it with their wands; none can pass them except those who obey my orders. Go home now: for one week speak no ungentle word to your sister at the end of that time come again to the grotto." Marion went home light of heart. Rose was in the garden watering the flowers; and the first thing Marion observed was that her sister's sunny hair had suddenly grown as long and beautiful as it had ever been. The sight made her angry, and she was just about to snatch the water-pot from her hand with an angry expression; but she remembered the fairy, and passed into the castle in silence. The end of the week arrived, and Marion had faithfully kept her promise. Again she went to the grotto. The Queen was feasting when she entered the hall. The bees brought honeycomb and deposited it on the small rose-coloured shells which adorned the crystal table; gaudy butterflies floated about the head of the queen, and fanned her with their wings; the cucullo and the lantern-fly stood at her side to afford her light; a large diamond beetle formed her splendid footstool, and when she had supped, a dew-drop, on the petal of a violet, was brought for her royal fingers. When Marion entered, the diamond sparkles on the wings of the fairies faded, as they always did in the presence of anything not perfectly good; and in a few moments all the Queen's attendants vanished away, singing as they went "The Fairy Queen Hath rarely seen Inlaid with shining gold." "Mortal! hast thou fulfilled thy promise?" asked the Queen. "I have," replied the maiden. "Then follow me." Marion did as she was directed, and away they went, over beds of violets and mignonette. The birds warbled above their heads, butterflies cooled the air, and the gurgling of many fountains came with a refreshing sound. Presently they came to the hill on the top of which was the Immortal Fountain. Its foot was surrounded by a band of fairies clothed in green gossamer, with their ivory wands crossed to bar the ascent. The Queen waved her wand over them, and immediately they stretched their thin wings and flew away. The hill was steep; and far, far up they went, and the air became more and more fragrant, and more and more distinctly they heard the sound of the waters falling in music. At length they were stopped by a band of fairies clothed in blue, with their silver wands crossed. "Here," said the Queen, "our journey must end. You can go no farther until you shall have fulfilled the orders I shall give you. Go home now; for one month do by your sister in all respects as you would wish to have her do by you, were you Rose and she Marion." Marion promised, and departed. She found the task harder than the first had been. She could help speaking, but when Rose asked for any of her playthings she found it difficult to give them gently and affectionately, instead of pushing them along; when Rose talked to her she wanted to go away in silence; and when a pocket mirror was found in her sister's room, broken into a thousand pieces, she felt sorely tempted to conceal that she did the mischief. But she was so anxious to be made beautiful that she did as she would be done by. All the household remarked how Marion had changed. "I love her dearly," said Rose, "she is good and amiable." "So do I," and "So do I," said a dozen voices. Marion blushed, and her eye sparkled with pleasure. "How pleasant it is to be loved," thought she. At the end of the month she went to the grotto. The fairies in blue lowered their silver wands, and flew away. They travelled on; the path grew steeper and steeper, but the fragrance of the atmosphere was redoubled, and more distinctly came the sound of the waters falling in music. Their course was stayed by a troop of fairies in rainbow robes and silver wands tipped with gold. In face and form they were far more beautiful than anything Marion had yet seen. "Here we must pause," said the Queen; "this boundary you cannot yet pass." "Why not?" asked the impatient Marion. "Because those must be very pure who pass the rainbow fairies," replied the Queen. "Am I not very pure?" said Marion; "all the folks at the Castle tell me how good I have grown." "Mortal eyes see only the outside," answered | seen leaping and sparkling over crystal rocks; the Queen; "but those who pass the rainbow fairies must be pure in thought as well as in action. Return home-for three months never indulge an envious or wicked thought. You shall then have a sight of the Immortal Fountain." Marion was sad at heart; for she knew how many envious thoughts and wrong wishes she had suffered to gain power over her. At the end of the three months she again visited the Palace of Beauty. The Queen did not smile when she saw her, but in silence led the way to the Immortal Fountain. The green fairies and the blue fairies flew away as they approached, but the rainbow fairies bowed low to the Queen, and kept their gold-tipped wands firmly crossed. Marion saw that the silver specks on their wings grew dim, and she burst into tears. "I knew," said the Queen, "that you could not pass this boundary. Envy has been in your heart, and you have not driven it away. Your sister has been ill, and in your heart you wished that she might die, or rise from the bed of sickness deprived of her beauty. But be not discouraged; you have been several years indulging wrong feelings, and you must not wonder that it takes many years to drive them away." a rainbow arch rests above it, like a perpetual halo; the spray falls in pearls, and forms fantastic foliage about the margin of the fountain. It has touched the webs woven among the grass, and they have become pearl-embroidered cloaks for the Fairy Queen. Deep and silent, below the foam, is the Immortal Fountain! Its amber-coloured waves flow over a golden bed; and as the fairies bathe in it, the diamonds in their hair glance like sunbeams on the waters. "Oh let me bathe in the fountain!" cried Marion, clasping her hands in delight. "Not yet," said the Queen. "Behold the purple fairies with golden wands that guard its brink!" Marion looked, and saw beings far lovelier than any her eye had ever rested on. "You cannot pass them yet," said the Queen. "Go home; for one year drive away all evil feelings, not for the sake of bathing in the fountain, but because goodness is lovely and desirable for its own sake. Purify the inward motive, and your work is done." This was the hardest task of all. For she had been willing to be good, not because it was right to be good, but because she had wished to be beautiful. Three times she sought the the golden specks grew dim at her approach, and the golden wands were still crossed, to shut her from the Immortal Fountain. The fourth time she prevailed. The purple fairies lowered their wands, singing, ⚫ Marion was sad as she wended her way home-grotto, and three times she left it in tears; for ward. When Rose asked her what was the matter, she told her that she wanted to be very good, but she could not. "When I want to be good I read my Bible and pray," said Rose; "and I find God helps me to be good." Then Marion prayed that God would help her to be pure in thought; and when wicked feelings rose in her heart she read her Bible, and they went away. When she again visited the Palace of Beauty the Queen smiled, and touched her playfully with her wand, then led the way to the Immortal Fountain. The silver specks on the wings of the rainbow fairies shone bright as she approached them, and they lowered their wands and sung as they flew away Mortal, pass on, Till the goal is won, For such I ween Is the will of our Queen- And now every footstep was on flowers that yielded beneath their feet, as if their pathway had been upon a cloud. The delicious fragrance could almost be felt, yet it did not oppress the senses with its heaviness; and loud, clear, and liquid came the sound of the waters as they fell in music. And now the cascade is "Thou hast scaled the mountain, Rise fair to the sight Go bathe in the fountain!" Marion was about to plunge in, but the Queen touched her, saying, "Look into the mirror of the waters. Art thou not already as beautiful as heart can wish?" Marion looked at herself, and she saw that her eye sparkled with new lustre, that a bright colour shone through her cheeks, and dimples played sweetly about her mouth. "I have not touched the Immortal Fountain," said she, turning in surprise to the Queen. "True,' replied the Queen; "but its waters have been within your soul. Know that a pure heart and clean conscience are the only Immortal Fountain of Beauty." When Marion returned, Rose clasped her to her bosom, and kissed her fervently. "I know all," said she; "though I have not asked you a question. I have been in fairyland, dis guised as a bird, and I have watched all your steps. When you first went to the grotto I begged the Queen to grant your wish." Ever after that the sisters lived lovingly together. It was the remark of every one, "How handsome Marion has grown. The ugly scowl has departed from her face, and the light of her eye is so mild and pleasant, and her mouth looks so smiling and good-natured, that to my taste, I declare, she is as handsome as Rose." THE LOVERS. [Robert Pollok, A.M., born at Muirhouse, Eaglesham, Renfrewshire, 1799; died near Southampton, 15th September, 1827. Educated at the Glasgow University for the ministry; licensed to preach in 1827; but only appeared once in the pulpit. He died on his way to Italy in search of health. Besides his poem he wrote three tales of the Covenanters-Helen of the Glen; The Persecuted Family; and Ralph Gemmell. Professor Wilson said: "The Course of Time for so young a man was a vast achievement. . . . He had much to learn in composition, and, had he lived, would have looked almost with humiliation on much that is at present eulogized by his devoted admirers. But the soul of poetry is there." The poem was received with remarkable favour here and in America. The seventyeighth thousand was published by Blackwood in 1868. The following is from the fifth book.] Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene, When, by a hermit thorn that on the hill Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass, A damsel kneeled to offer up her prayer, Her prayer nightly offered, nightly heard. This ancient thorn had been the meeting-place Of love, before his country's voice had called The ardent youth to fields of honour, far Beyond the wave: and hither now repaired, Nightly, the maid, by God's all-seeing eye Seen only, while she sought this boon aloneHer lover's safety and his quick return. In holy humble attitude she kneeled, | And to her bosom, fair as moonbeam, pressed Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr sighs A tear-drop wandered on her lovely face; O had her lover seen her thus alone, Thus holy, wrestling thus, and all for him! Nor did he not; for ofttimes Providence, With unexpected joy the fervent prayer Of faith surprised. Returned from long delay, With glory crowned of righteous actions won, The sacred thorn, to memory dear, first sought The youth, and found it at the happy hour, Just when the damsel kneeled herself to pray. Wrapt in devotion, pleading with her God, She saw him not, heard not his foot approach. All holy images seemed too impure To emblem her he saw. A seraph kneeled, Beseeching for his ward, before the Throne, Seemed fittest, pleased him best. Sweet was the thought! But sweeter still, the kind remembrance came, That she was flesh and blood, formed for himself, The plighted partner of his future life. And as they met, embraced, and sat, embowered In woody chambers of the starry night, Spirits of love about them ministered, And God, approving, blest the holy joy! A QUESTION OF GRAVITY. BY W. M. PRAED. The advancement of knowledge is the triumph of truth, and, as such, is the eventual interest of mankind; inasmuch as the extension of reason is by its very definition the necessary object of rational beings. Timid theologians have trembled on the confines of some topics which might lead to dangerous discovery; forgetful that religion and truth, if not identical, are at least inseparable. Some nice and sensitive chemists have forborne the search of the ne plus ultra in alchemy, dreading that as gold is the great fountain of wickedness on earth, the indefinite increase of that metal might be the unlimited multiplication of human evil: but forgetting that in all human affairs, from fluids |