WAYSIDE FLOWERS: a Collection of Poems. By Mrs. M. ST. LEON LOUD. In one volume: pp. 276. Boston: TICKNOR, REED AND FIELDS.

MR. PARK BENJAMIN, under whose capable supervision this work comes, in elegant guise, before the public, says in behalf of the poems which it contains, what no body who reads them will deny. They do deserve a cordial welcome from all who love terseness and purity of thought, joined to simplicity and grace of expression.' They seem like those wildings of nature from which they borrow their title- the spontaneous productions of a fertile soil-the free growth of an unartificial mind. Far sweeter are those buds and leaves which are wet with the dews of morning, than those on whose surface lie drops of moisture condensed from the steam of a conservatory. More beautiful, too, are flowers of nature's growth than exotics. A great part of the volume was written in the country, to whose mild influences the heart of the writer was captive; at first, in a secluded and beautiful valley of the Susquehanna, and later, in 'the sweet South,' from whose woods and fields she derived that inspiration which is not to be found among the brick walls and dusty streets of cities. Feeling predominates over fancy in the writer's lyrics, and the illustration is generally subordinate to the sentiment. We have room but for two short extracts, the first of which felicitously illustrates the voyage of life:

'THOU art flowing on, bright river!
In gladness, to the sea;

And summer sun-beams quiver
On thy waters joyously:

The graceful willows bending

With their shadow o'er thee thrown,
In murmurs sweet are blending
Their voices with thine own.

Oh! brightly art thou flowing,

Green, sunny banks between;
And many a wild-flower glowing
Is mirrored in thy sheen;
And barks are gliding gaily
Upon thy peaceful breast,
Which skilful hands are guiding
To the haven of their rest.

But ere thou meet'st the ocean

There are rocks and quicksands deep,
And winds, in wild commotion,

Will o'er thy bosom sweep;

And the barks, their sails unfurling

To the zephyrs' gentle play,

Lost in thy waters whirling,

Thou wilt bear as wrecks away.

'Like thee, the heart beginneth

Life when all things are fair;
Alas! it seldom winneth

The goal, untouched by care!
Hope's fairy pinnace, freighted
With dreams of future joy,
Hastes to the quick-sands fated
Its promise to destroy.

'Wrecks of the dreams so cherished
Are floating darkly by,

Lik the gallant ships that perished
When winds and waves were high;
The flowers that bloomed around it
The fount now idly choke,

And the sun-bright hopes that bound it
Are like parted cables broke.

'But soon, O flowing river!

Though wild thy course may be,
Thou 'It merge thy waves for ever
In the deep, unbounded sea;
And to the heart is given

A calm repose at last;

Though sorely it hath striven

With the billow and the blast.'

Very pensive and tender is this little piece, which appears under the modest title of 'A Fragment. It may be a 'fragment,' but it is a fragment from a whole mind :

A calm and thoughtful face, marked, it seems to us, with lines of care or sorrow, the likeness of the author, fronts the title-page. We commend her work to the affections of our readers, as a volume well calculated to elevate the head and heart over the unspiritual influences of this 'work-day world.'

EDITOR'S TABLE.

A VIEW FROM TELEGRAPH-HILL,' SAN FRANCISCO. We invite the reader's attention to the subjoined admirable epistle to the EDITOR, from a friend and correspondent in far-off 'Eldorado.' It is as graphic as a painting, and moreover is imbued with true feeling, which cannot be simulated. The letter was written in April last; and into it we plunge, in medias res: 'The rainy season has fairly commenced, yet the Storm-king is by no means inexorable, but often courteously gives place to the Sun, who readily avails himself of the privilege, and lights up the newlywashed face of Nature with a brilliancy of which the unhappy dwellers in Atlantic cities cannot have the faintest idea. At such times it is my delight to ascend 'Telegraph-Hill,' an eminence of some twelve hundred feet in height, and reclining upon the green slope, with a quiet cigar, to bask in the glorious sunshine, and look down upon this city of magic, and its beautiful surroundings. Though many of the accessories of a fine landscape are wanting, yet the scene is not without its charm. There is a delicious, dreamy haziness in the atmosphere, lulling the senses to repose, and lending enchantment to every thing upon which the eye can rest. Looking westward through the portals of the 'Golden Gates,' I see the mighty swell of the Pacific rolling onward with a dignified good-nature until it reaches the shore, when it loses its equanimity at once, and dashes the foam high upon the imperturbable rocks, proclaiming at the same time its resistless and overwhelming power in its own solemn and majestic tones. Glancing along the opposite shore of the bay, my eye rests with delight upon the graceful outlines of the magnificent' WHITE SQUALL,' peerless among clipper-ships, as she gallantly dashes outward on her fleet career. In the distance I see the long line of green mountains of the 'Contra Costa,' varied only by a single forest of pines, far behind which is visible the summit of Mount Diabolo,' blue in the distance, yet with its outline clear and sharp in the pure atmosphere; before which rises abruptly the small matter-of-fact-looking island of Yerba Buena,' with the ghostly wreck of the ill-fated 'pent-up Utica' at its base.

'And now I look down upon the wonder of the nineteenth century, this miracle of progress and promise, which yesterday was not, and to-day ranks in the first class of cities; in whose history a period of four years carries us back to dim and remote antiquity. How shall I describe it, as it appears to me now, laid out in most scrupulous regularity, but built in every possible style of architecture which the heart of man can conceive, from the stately brick edifice, which would be respectable in any eastern metropolis, down to the most grotesque and nondescript shanty? In the place of innumerable spires that strike the eye of the beholder in more ancient and ad

vanced communities, I see only the quaint belfry of the new Presbyterian church and the modest cupola of the City Hall. We are worshippers of MAMMON here, and there is nothing about his temples to point heavenward. Prominent in view is the Grand Plaza, Portsmouth Square,' tastefully ornamented with ancient boots, broken bottles, and superannuated counters, with the joint indications of an Artesian well in the centre, commenced some time since with great zeal by our city fathers, but speedily discontinued; doubtless on the principle that 'all's well that ends well.' Conspicuous, also, is the high form of the Union Hotel;' not much, certainly, in the way of architecture, but not to be excelled in any land for 'creature-comforts;' the 'Eldorado,' chief shrine of those who 'buck at monté,' and otherwise disport themselves; and the new jail, gorgeous with granite and marble, on which the chain-gang have just commenced work, with most rebellious stomach. Hard by is Pacific-street, so called by reason of numberless rows, and the classic precincts of 'CLARK'S Point,' where the sons of NEPTUNE most do congregate. Even at this far distance come to my ears, on this calm afternoon, the tones of a gloomy fiddle, and a sound of most portentous dancing.

'It is a curious sight to see noble ships engulphed in the very heart of a populous city, but such a remarkable spectacle is presented here. In the olden time they were dragged far up into the mud to serve as store-ships, and the gigantic improvements of the money-making 'Yankees' have surrounded them with sand, and the city has reached and passed them in its wonderful progress. To a sailor it is indeed most pitiful to see these gallant ships doomed to such an ignominious fate, never more to bound 'o'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,' but to rot ingloriously in these 'yellow sands.' At the foot of the hill upon which I recline are the white tents of the peaceful and enlightened 'Sydney coves,' gleaming in the sun-light like virgin snow; emblematic perhaps of the purity of the occupants. On the hills behind the city, I see houses in every stage of elevation, and some of them are of considerable pretensions. We are not civilized enough, as yet, for TUDOR Cottages, but there are some faint imitations of Swiss châlets, standing boldly out from the barren hill. guiltless of foliage. Now I look again upon the noble bay, filled with a vast assemblage of vessels, of every clime and kindred and tongue. 'JOHN BULL' is here, sturdy and dogmatical; the noisy and garrrulous Frenchman; the swarthy Italian; and all the other nations with their appropriate adjectives. The old heathen gods and heroes are here in full force: JUPITER is setting up his back-stays; APOLLO is full of candles; MARS has grown domestic, and holds a choice assortment of furniture; ARIADNE still lies sad and solitary on the shore, while THESEUs rides doggedly at anchor on the other side of the bay, regardless of her woe. Nor is SHAKSPEARE unrepresented, for 'OTHELLO' is here, seeking new adventures to beguile the ear of DESDEMONA; HAMLET' has given up his moody speculations and gone rashly into the lumber-trade; 'BRUTUS' is 'up' for Panama; 'CLEOPATRA' is taking in ballast; and I notice MIRANDA' with her fore-topmast gone, having been roughly treated in a late tempest. 'BYRON' also sleeps here in a muddy grave. Apart from these are anchored the government-vessels, in sullen state, disdaining communion with the common herd. A Dutchman, with an unpronounceable name, is coming up, escorted by one of those fiery and vindictive little iron steamers, shrieking malignantly, as if fretting and fuming within herself that she cannot get on faster; like the workings of a proud and restless spirit in a feeble frame.

'But now I behold the long black form of the mail-steamer, as she threads her way through the mazy throng, rushing boldly outward on her certain though trackless course, regardless of the gathering mist and darkness, bearing her precious freight

that shall move the very heart-strings of mankind. As I gaze upon her receding form, I muse upon the varied contents of those grim-looking mail-bags. What tales of weal and woe do they not contain! -some of them gilded with the bright rays of hope and promise, and many, too many, the dark and despairing sentiments of those who have sunk beneath the influence of a malignant star! What gloomy returns of consignees; what out-pourings of love and devotion from the weary exile to fond hearts at home! All this, in every language, and addressed to every land, is contained within the narrow compass of that long black steamer. God protect that gallant ship, and may no link of the chain that binds millions of warm hearts to the Fatherland ever be broken!

'It is a good thing and a pleasant to meditate at eventide in this calm retreat. I love to withdraw from the plank-roads and bustling throngs, and gain, AntÆus-like, new vigor from every touch of earth. . . . But the blue waters of the bay are fast changing to a dull green; the top of Mount Diabolo' is veiled from mortal eyes; the Golden Gates' are golden no longer; the breeze comes in chill with the evening fog. I leave my 'bad eminence,' and mingle once more with the busy throng.

W. H. F.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. We make the following extract from a letter recently received from an old (nay, by 'r Lady, not old, but ‘venerable!') and esteemed friend, who dates at 'Locust-Farm, Westmoreland county, Virginia :'

'MY DEAR KNICK.: It was only a few days ago that I shook hands with you in New-York. I am now away down here, on the northern neck of Virginia, and not far from the spot on which WASHINGTON Was born; and scattered here and there, and all around me, are the birth-places of MADISON, MONROE, RICHARD HENRY LEE, FRANCIS LIGHTFOOT LEE, etc., etc. Yesterday I was on the ground upon which rest the ruins of the former residence of RICHARD HENRY LEE. All that stands upright of this once imposing mansion is the kitchen-chimney. In front, scarcely half a mile distant, is the shore of the lordly Potomac, here about nine miles across, upon whose beach roll its billows. LEE is gone; his house is in the dust, his garden a wild; but here are the same sky, the same lands, the same Potomac, and the same dirge that of yore broke in murmurs on the shore. The remains of LEE lie in the midst of a corn-field, some five miles distant, over which, I am told, is a small stone, with his name engraven upon it. What a leveller is TIME! Talk of that ancient personage as you may, his foot-prints, although soft as down, crumble the hardest substances, and bury all things. Where is Carthage?'

'My friend, to whom I am indebted for many civilities, in returning from a ride over the grounds once cultivated by LEE, took the road home by the old Yeocomico church. This relic of the past I had seen a few days before. I wish I could send you a drawing of it, inside as well as out. It was built Anno DOMINI 1706,' some twenty-six years before the birth of WASHINGTON. Think, for a moment, of the events that have happened since the sounds of the hammer, the saw, and the trowel were heard at the building of this church, now one hundred and fortyfive years old; of the themes that have been handled in this ancient pulpit; of the hearts that have pulsated within these walls; of the eyes that have shone in hope, or been dimmed by despair; of the trains of sorrowing mourners that have followed, in sad step, one after the other, the beloved ones of whom death had bereft them; of the plighted vows at that altar; of the baptisms in that font ;* - and what crowds of images stand before one! And yet, like some sound in the stillness of the midnight hour, or some vision of the dreaming fancy, all, all are past-all is now vacant and still, and for ever vanished! What a 'ruin' is this church! It would seem, to look at its glazed and unglazed bricks, its massy timbers, and its brick floor and passage-ways, that TIME could not, in a thousand years, have worked so mighty a change in it.

*THIS font, I am told, was long used by a Mr. TURBERVILLE as a punch-bowl. Many hundreds of lips have been regaled by the beverage once prepared in this now sacred appendage o the church.

But it has required only the years I have named to effect so signal a ruin.
COWPER sings:

We build with what we deem eternal brass

How true it is, as

A distant age asks where the fabric stood;
But sifted, alas, and searched in vain,

The undiscoverable secret sleeps."

'I forgot to mention that few tomb-stones mark the spots where the dead lie; and those which remain are so broken up and scattered, and have the inscriptions so effaced, as to render them useless. The name of CARTER' is on the stone that has suffered least. Nor are the graves raised or sodded. How melancholy is all this, friend C ——, and what a lesson it teaches! 'Our fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors.'

THERE is that in the ensuing effusion which cannot fail to rouse the slumbering patriotism of every American heart. It was composed by a western poet, in ‘ 'one hour, by a Connecticut clock:'

"WHAT! bu'st this glorious Union up,

An' go to drawin' triggers,

Just for a thunderin' passel of
Emancipated niggers?

The eagle of Ammeriky,

That flue across the sees,

An' throw'd the bluddy British lion

Ker-slump upon his knees:

Say!-shall we rend him lim from lim,

Wun wing wun way, and wun t'other,
And every sepperit pin-fether

A flying at the other?'

This is the kind of spirit that is going to preserve our 'great and gel-lorious ked❜ntry' from premature dissolution. OUR friend DEMPSTER, the distinguished Scottish vocalist, was very successful in his recent entertainments at the south. This must ever be the case, where true feeling, melody, taste and musical expression are properly appreciated. A Charleston (South Carolina) journal closes a notice of his last concert in that capital with the following tribute: The treat of the evening was certainly the May Queen. Into this song Mr. DEMPSTER threw all the resources of a diversified melody: the strain was prolonged until the ear became entranced with its pathetic sweetness and expressive variety. He has been very happy in marrying the verse of TENNYSON to his own musical strains, making the melody as responsive to the sentiment as the sentiment is worthy of the melody. It must be considered as one of the most felicitous adaptations within the range of musical sympathy or correspondence, while in the execution the vocalist-composer appeared to feel the sweet influence of the voice which is represented to have broke, in melting cadences, from the dying subject of the song. Mr. DEMPSTER possesses fine original capabilities, both as a composer and a vocalist; a voice, if not of the utmost sweetness, yet of varied powers of modulation, and under a complete control; a taste that indicates careful, if not elaborate cultivation; and a talent that we regard as unrivalled for wedding, in happy bonds, melodious sounds to charming poetic inspiration.' . . . A MOST 'extr'od'nary' production is 'Betton's British Oil. It must be, judging from the very remarkable cures which it has effected, as set forth in the proprietor's circular. Do us the favor to remark the following:

JONAS ROBERTS, Tiler, in BLINKER'S Court, St. JAMES, Bristol, was cured of a violent swelling in his right thigh; insomuch that he was obliged to cut open his breeches with a knife, in three times dressing with 'British Oil.' Witness my hand,' etc.

JOHN MITCHELL, of Salisbury: Had a violent pain in my hip, so that I went double in both of my legs' with two bottles. Witness my hand,' etc.

'AN apprentice to Mr. STONE, a Tinker in Taunton: was so deaf that he could n't hear the noise of a drum with three bottles: cured. Witness,' etc.

MR. JARVIS, belonging to the Tall Woman,' at Norwich, had his hand bit by a mad dog with two bottles. Witness,' etc.

'Mr. HUMPHREY COTTERILL, of the 'Royal Tun,' Coventry, by a fall from his horse, which