on the table an interesting novel, took it in my hand, and sought the garden; under a widespreading acacia-tree, I sat down upon a rustic bench. saw an old female domestic making a fire in the kitchen, and beginning to prepare breakfast; I looked at her as she moved about, and wondered if I should ever live to become as old and ugly as she; if my cheeks, now so round and firm, should become shrivelled and hanging like pieces of dried skin; my form attenuated and hideous; my hair turn gray and fall out; my eyes watery and blinking, like those of a sick lap-dog: yet it was natural to suppose, that in the course of nature all those things would come to pass. If mind is soul, and if the soul is immortal, should we not reasonably suppose that this ethereal principle would preserve itself bright and untarnished from the gathering gloom of years; that time, instead of dimming, would only add new glories to its spiritual splendor?? 'AFTER breakfast, I accompanied Monsieur to the San Carlo opera-house, where he took me, he said, that I might see the actors rehearse, and observe stage-trick and manner. Since then, I have seen tricks enough played off upon the stage of life, independent of the drama. We need not go to the theatre to see actors and actresses. We ascended through the basement story, the passage obstructed by old rubbish, stage furniture, to the green-room-a miserable-looking apartment, draperied with green baize. Several actors and actresses stood in groups, conversing, in their ordinary dress. I looked out behind the scenes; I saw on all sides the rough boards of the theatre, and the large open spaces through which the actors went upon the stage, and the scenes were shifted backward and forward. Every thing looked unfinished and bare; it looked like the skeleton frame of a house, and in no way realized my romantic visions of a theatre. Several of the actors held opera-books in their hands, which they appeared to be studying. Monsieur went around the room, bowing, and shaking hands with all, receiving and paying compliments in return.' 'Secondarily and lastly,' let us now give a specimen of what we have called fervid and 'sensuous' (not sensual, exactly) writing. It is a love-scene, including a declaration and an acceptance: He stopped abruptly, "GENEVRA,' said he, in the low, deep tone of impassioned feeling, taking both my hands in his left hand, and with the other playing with the curls of my hair: GENEVRA, I am about leaving town, perhaps for some months; perhaps from contingency or fatality I may never return. I have come to say farewell. I could, I think, almost feel happy at going, could I for a moment suppose that a heart so pure as yours would cherish toward a forlorn, unhappy being like myself a single sentiment of kindness or regret. Say, Mademoiselle, may I hope I shall not be forgotten?? He grasped my hands fiercely as he said this, and looked closely in my face. I felt frightened, and scarcely knew what to say. At last I stammered out: "You have my best wishes, Monsieur, for your future happiness.' "Best wishes! Is that all? Yes, I see I was a fool to suppose and bending down his stately head to a level with my eyes, riveted his gaze on mine. I could feel his warm breath hotly fan my cheek, and the beams of moon-light showed his broad, full chest, as it rose and fell with contending passions. Nearer and nearer did he draw me to him, till his head sank upon my shoulder, his beautiful mouth sought mine, and with his arms tightly clasped around my waist, I felt myself irresistibly drawn into an embrace, which, by a strange paralyzation of all power of will, I had no strength to avoid. He drew me forcibly off my chair upon his lap, and there imprinted on my lips a hundred kisses before I could summon strength and determination to break away. I forced myself from his iron grasp, and ran to the other side of the room. He followed me, his beautiful face distorted by passion, and falling on his knees, again seized my hands in his, and exclaimed: Pardon me! oh, pardon me, beautiful GENEVRA! but I love you with a wild, intense passion. Forgive me, if I have offended your pride or modesty. Take pity on me, GENEVRA, and encourage me to hope that my love may meet with a return." "Monsieur de SERVAL!' I cried, at length recovering breath to speak, your conduct is incomprehensible, inexplicable; what can you mean by it? Is it gentlemanly is it honorable, thus wantonly to insult the modesty and wound the pride of a defenceless girl?' "By JUPITER, you misconstrue me!' he vehemently exclaimed; and starting to his feet, he again traversed the room with rapid strides. 'Has my bearing toward you ever been any thing save respectful?' "Does not this look marvellously like insulting familiarity?' I indignantly demanded. "I forgot myself for a moment. And are you so remorseless as to refuse forgiveness for an unintentional fault? Yes, here in this very room, I swear I love you, and you alone. With a crazy passion have I adored you, since our first meeting at the Countess's; till now I have stifled it, concealed it as much as possible from your observation; but now, on the eve of departure from Naples, I tell you how I love you, and honorably offer you my heart and hand in marriage. If you will accept me, I will return; otherwise I never shall. "I had sunk into a chair, overpowered by this strange scene. Again, as if impelled by some invisible influence, he came and put his arms around my waist, and kissed me as before. This time, after what he had just said, I did not resist him. "I have sometimes thought,' he whispered, from the expression of your eyes, that you loved me. Say, dearest, is it so? Put your beaatiful arms around my neck, and say, 'Dear RINALDO, I love thee!" Unconscious, almost stupefied, I mechanically complied, and whispered after him, 'Dear RINALDO, I love thee!' Then he remained motionless for some minutes, seeming to have lost all recollection in a delirium of sense, his arms tightly locked around my waist, his head resting in my lap. His wild, impassioned manner had in some degree magnetized and inspired my naturally cold temperament with something like a return of the volcano-like passion which ani mated him. "Monsieur de SERVAL,' I said, finding he made no effort to rise, 'recollect yourself, I beg of you. Come, seat yourself here on the sofa, and let us talk quietly. Why should you rage and storm thus? What is it disquiets you? You say you love me; but surely love is a gentle feel ing. Where is the necessity of these tempestuous emotions? These bursts of passion alarm me. Be composed, and tell me why you are miserable and unhappy, as you just said you were. Explain your grief; and at least let me endeavor to console you.' My quiet manner served to soothe him. He rose from his knees, and sat reclining on the sofa, still holding my hands in his, while I wiped the perspiration from his agitated countenance. I was not exactly in love with him then, but my disposition always prompted me to compassionate the sorrowful. He appeared to be unhappy, and I would have given much to have known, shared, and alleviated his sorrow.' The foregoing passages will indicate to the reader somewhat of the style and character of the work before us. We wish we could say something in favor of the external execution of the volume, but that is impossible. Its course whitey-brown paper, and ragged, unpressed leaves, would belie at once praise so grossly unfounded. SCENES IN OUR PARISH. By a Country Parson's Daughter. To which is prefixed a Memoir of the Author, by her Sister. In one volume: pp. 374. New-York: STANFORD AND SWORDS, Number 137, Broadway. THE publishers of these 'Scenes in our Parish,' a work which has been for some years out of print in this country, have done a good service to the public in reproducing the book at this time. Few works of the kind have achieved a wider or a better-deserved popularity. The pious and gifted author has recently been taken to that heaven toward which she directs the affections of her readers; but although dead, she' 'yet speaketh.' A sister has written a beautiful memorial of the departed, which the publishers have caused to be placed in the front of the book, and which adds not a little to its interest and value. The maiden name of the author was ELIZABETH EMRA, but it was by her married name, Mrs. MARCUS H. HOLMES, that she became known as a writer. Of her younger years, her sister mentions this incident: 'She was blessed with a considerable measure of health; and, though her frame was small and delicate, she was not deficient in strength; but while yet very young, she, together with several of her sisters, was attacked by the small-pox, and, though its virulence was thought to be abated by previous vaccination, it assumed in her case a severe form, exciting painful apprehensions at the time, and long after leaving its traces on a brow and neck which had been so very smooth and fair. Her patience, however, failed not under this severe trial; and some verses, among the first which her manuscripts contain, scarcely wanting the finished elegance of her later compositions, manifest that her fancy already roved among poetic visions, and, what is far better, that she humbled herself under the chastening of what she felt to be her FATHER'S hand. They were occasioned by her being refused water, and may be thought of sufficient interest to be inserted here: HEALTH to the sick, and cordial to the faint, From the green hill, and murmuring glid'st along, Where freshest moss is press'd by fairy feet; And with the wild bee's kiss the dewy primrose bends? Cease, burning fever! beating heart, be still! Soul, meekly suffer, 't is thy SAVIOUR's will! Numerous passages, poetical and others, from her diary, and kindred miscellanies, show Mrs. HOLMES to have been a woman imbued with deep feeling, true piety, and no small share of graceful if not powerful intellect. Her unpretending sketches will be read with pleasure and profit by thousands of the present generation. EDITOR'S TABLE. 'NORTH-AMERICAN REVIEW' FOR THE JULY QUARTER.- The present is a decided improvement upon the last previous issue of this venerable and able Quarterly, which struck us, in a hasty perusal, as being much below the average excellence of the work. Moreover, it came to us with the leaves rough and unpressed, and altogether seemed like a gentleman and a man of character getting sadly careless of his personal appearance. But the number before us, in interior quality and external aspect, reässures us. It contains eleven articles proper, together with three briefer critical notices. The first paper is upon the Life and Correspondence of ROBERT SOUTHEY,' and is well worthy the post of honor which it holds in the Review. It is admirably written, and contains a clear resumé of the daily life and personal and literary character of its subject. We remark, near the commencement of this article, an observation which we respectfully commend to those authors or 'authorlings' who mourn over the bad taste of the public because they do not choose to purchase and peruse their things in books' clothing: to the effect, namely, that no literary man in our day can find his account in standing out against the taste and judgment of his contemporaries. The world is competent to sit upon their claims, nor can prejudice, intrigue, or caprice sway the opinions of the majority. The multitude, therefore, form the tribunal, and their collected verdict is the judgment of truth and nature. We have spoken once or twice recently in these pages of SOUTHEY's idolatry of his books. A passage from one of his own letters pleasantly illustrates this feature in his character: 'You would rejoice with me, were you now at Keswick, at the tidings that a box of books is safely harbored in the Mersey, so that for the next fortnight I shall be more interested in the news of FLETCHER (the name of a Keswick carrier) than of BONAPARTE. It contains some duplicates of the lost cargo; among them, the collection of the oldest Spanish poems, in which is a metrical romance upon the Cid. I shall sometimes want you for a Gothic etymology. Talk of the happiness of getting a great prize in the lottery! What is that to the opening a box of books! The joy upon lifting up the cover must be something like what we shall feel when PETER the Porter opens the door up stairs, and says, Please to walk in, Sir. That I shall never be paid for my labor, according to the current value of time and labor, is tolerably certain; but if any one should offer me ten thousand pounds to forego that labor, I should bid him and his money go to the devil, for twice the sum could not purchase me half the enjoyment. It will be a great delight to me in the next world to take a fly and visit these old worthies, who are my only society here, and to tell them what excellent company I found them here at the lakes of Cumberland, two centuries after they had been dead and turned to dust. In plain truth, I exist more among the dead than the living, and think more about them, and, perhaps, feel more about them.' SOUTHEY was an indefatigable hard-worker, and as methodical as a Quaker. He needed, says his reviewer, no other relaxation than a change of the subject of his literary employment, with which he was always supplied. He gives himself a graphic sketch of his ordinary routine of labor : 'My actions,' he writes about this time to a friend, are as regular as those of St. DUNSTAN'S quarter-boys. Three pages of history after breakfast, (equivalent to five in small quarto print ing;) then to transcribe and copy for the press, or to make my selections and biographies, or what else suits my humor, till dinner-time; from dinner to tea I read, write letters, see the newspaper, and very often indulge in a siesta; for sleep agrees with me, and I have a good, substantial theory to prove that it must; for as a man who walks much requires to sit down and rest himself, so does the brain, if it be the part most worked, require its repose. Well, after tea I go to poetry, and correct, and re-write, and copy till I am tired, and then turn to any thing else till supper; and this is my life- which, if it be not a very merry one, is yet as happy as heart could wish. At least, I should think so if I had not once been happier; and I do think so, except when that recollection comes upon me. And then, when I cease to be cheerful, it is only to become contemplative; to feel at times a wish that I was in that state of existence which passeS not away; and this always ends in a new impulse to proceed, that I may leave some durable monument and some efficient good behind me.' Yes, and at the last he thought so much and so long upon that 'state of existence which passes not away,' that his o'erwrought brain became a whirling realm of phantasy and flame.' We find in SOUTHEY's memoirs, as in WORDSWORTH'S, addi tional illustrations of the noble character of the late Sir ROBERT PEEL. While in power, there was in his benefactions to men of genius a tact and a delicacy which bespoke a true gentleman, with a warm and generous heart. Observe the following: "THERE are two beautiful letters from Sir ROBERT PEEL to SOUTHEY, written during the short period of the former's control of the government in 1835, and when the latter was beginning to sink under the effects of literary toil too intense and long continued, while the future, as his family was imperfectly provided for, seemed darkening before him. In the first, Sir ROBERT offers him a baronetcy, as a public tribute of honor due to a name the most eminent in literature, and which has claims to respect and honor which literature alone can never confer.' In the second, marked private, anticipating that the baronetcy would be declined, as it was, on the ground of a want of pecuniary means to sustain the dignity of advanced rank, the writer asks: Will you tell me, without reserve, whether the possession of power puts within my reach the means of doing any thing which can be serviceable or acceptable to you, and whether you will allow me to find some compensation for the many heavy sacrifices which office imposes upon me, in the opportunity of marking my gratitude as a public man for the eminent services you have rendered, not only to literature, but to the higher interests of virtue and religion?' Nothing could be more kindly or delicately offered. SOUTHEY gave in answer a frank and exact statement of his circumstances, and on the ground only of a failure of his health, and recent severe affliction in his family, his wife had become insane,) from which causes he could no longer feel sure of his own power to continue his literary exertions, he asked for a moderate increase of his pension. The request was granted as soon as made.' The paper upon SOUTHEY is followed by a very long review of A Grammar of the Anglo-Saxon Race,' which we have not as yet found leisure to read. 'FREUND'S Latin Lexicon' and International Exchanges' are also two heavy-looking papers which we are compelled to skip. The articles on 'Sanitary Reform' and on the good deeds of a benevolent Parsee Merchant, named JAMSETJEE JEEJEEBHOY, ('one of the B'hoys' of India, and no mistake,) are well worth reading. We commend to especial perusal the articles on BLENNERHASSET and on 'the Unity of Language and of Mankind.' The first, although upon an old theme, is interesting, on more accounts than one: the second is remarkable for the vigorous treatment of an argument which is supported by great research and with decided ability. We are surprised to hear that this article is from the pen of a lady. The only remaining article of the 'NorthAmerican' which we have read is the scorching review of that book of affected bombast and fustian, GILFILLAN's 'Bards of the BIBLE.' We give a passage or two from this excoriating critique: THE title is certainly in good keeping with the book. If the sound of it is somewhat strange to our unpractised ears, and incongruous with that sober reverence with which we are accustoned to hear the writers of the BIBLE spoken of, it is not more so than the critical poem' which follows. It is from this that we first come to know that the Pentateuch (besides its few poetic fragments and fewer lyric songs) is en masse a piece of poetry; that the historical books in general are poetry; that the Gospels are poetry; and that the writings of PAUL and JAMES are poetry. If this piece of information were of any value, we should be bound to thank the writer for having made such a discovery, and having communicated the knowledge of his achievement to the world. How much the writer values his efforts and his success in writing a poetical critique, is plain from what he says:Many elaborate and learned criticisms,' he remarks, 'have been made on the poetry of the BIBLE; but the fragmentary essay of HERDER alone seems to approach to the idea of a prose poem on the subject. He thinks that a new and fuller effort is demanded.' He says of preceding writers: They seem, in search of mistakes, or in search of mysteries, to have forgotten that the BIBLE is a poem at all.' But to speak of forgetting what was never before known or taught is hardly proper. Surely Mr. GILFILLAN is the first man that ever discovered the whole BIBLE to be a poem; and this discovery has been first developed in this prose-poetic critique. To him exclusively belongs the honor attached to the discovery; and he should not speak disparagingly of others, who do not possess his gift of 'second-sight." We have been in the habit of supposing that the genealogical catalogues in the Pentateuch; and the architectural details in respect to the formation of the tabernacle, which occupy somewhat of a large space in Exodus; and also the whole of the Mosaic ritual directions, and of the laws, civil and social, were something quite distinct from poetry. We have, hitherto, come far short of finding out the poetry of the first nine chapters of the first book of Chronicles; or of the corresponding lists of names in EZRA, NEHEMIAH, and elsewhere. But no matter. It was said, some time ago, in England, that the Muses had never been able to get a passage across the Atlantic.' If so, and if even steam-boat accommodations are not sufficient to tempt those ladies to cross the great waters, then it cannot be any matter of wonder that we of the New World should be quite incompetent to write a 'poetical critique' on the poetry of genealogies, of architectural details, of ritual precepts, and of civil ordinances. Not even in historical narratives, as such, have we been able to discover it.' In concluding his article, the reviewer observes: 'Nothing can be more erroneous, in taste or in fact, than to make all the BIBLE into poetry, as Mr. GILFILLAN has done. Is he not aware that prose, after all, has higher powers than poetry; that poetry is the offspring, for the most part, of a state of society not highly advanced in cultivation; in a word, of that state wherein men's feelings predominate over their intellect? A highly-cultivated state of society usually withdraws somewhat from the cultivation of the poetic art. Such is the state of things at present. We have no more epics in these days; or if they are born, they are consigned to an early grave. Discussion of every kind, history, eloquence, chooses prose. It is impossible that poetry, constringed as it is by metre, should give us the completeness of a prose picture. MACAULAY understands this; PRESCOTT and IRVING know this.' GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. We said a few months ago, to a young American going to England, 'When you get abroad, just jot down for us a record of whatever may impress you as new or odd, and let us have it for the Old KNICK.' He alleged his want of literary ability, taste, etc., but finally consented. His journal, kept in England and France, is now before us; and it contains much that would prove of interest to readers on this side of the Atlantic. We have segregated, here and there, a few passages. The subjoined particular description of the new tubular bridge over the Straits of Menai is interesting: 'AT three P. M. I engaged a 'fly' to take a flying visit to see the Tubular and the Suspension Bridges that cross the Straits of Menai, dividing the island of Anglesea from the main land. The tubular bridge is two thousand feet in length, and weighs upward of twelve thousand tons. It has thus far cost six hundred thousand pounds. The under side of the tubes is one hundred feet above high-water mark. This bridge is yet unfinished: when completed, it will be of the great height of two hundred and fifty-seven feet from its foundation. The land-towers are two hundred feet high. The material is a kind of lime-stone, which is called 'Anglesea marble,' and which receives a high polish. Each end of the bridge is ornamented with two immense lions, couchant, elevated on stone platforms: they are twenty-five feet in length! The suspension bridge is more imposing to look at than even the tubular. A ship of three hundred tons burthen can pass under it, and have plenty of room to spare. The dimensions of this bridge are as follows: Extreme length of chain, seventeen hundred and fifty feet; height of road-way from highwater line, one hundred feet; suspending piers, one hundred and fifty-three feet from high water, and fifty-three from the road. There are two carriage-ways, of twelve feet each, with a foot-path of four in the centre. The length of the suspended part of the pier is six hundred and fifty-three feet. The chains are sixteen in number, consisting of five bars each: length of bar, ten feet three inches. The total weight of iron in this work is four million three hundred and seventythree thousand two hundred and eighty-one pounds! Before leaving this place, I cannot help noticing a splendid monument erected to the leg of the Marquis D'ANGLESEA, whose residence is in sight of the bridge. The monument is built upon an elevated rock, and consists of a plain shaft of great height, from the summit of which a magnificent view of the country is obtained.' The journalist visited Ireland; but his records of this naturally lovely but most |