JENNY sess not the enchanting pathos, the elevated and varied expression of the far-famed Philomel, nor yet those contrasted tones, which, in the solemn stillness of the growing night, fall at times into a soothing whisper, or slowly rise and quicken into a loud and cheering warble. The Cardinal Bird measures eight inches in length, and eleven from the tip of one wing to that of the other. The whole upper parts are of a dull duskyred, except the sides of the neck, head and lower JENNY LIND. BY MISS M. SAWIN. A WORLD'S Sweet enchantress, unbounded in fame, There is glowing within us, all restless, a lyre, O, Jenny, the brightest cynosure below! Like the sear leaves of autumn which shroud the old years, When no temple's proud arches resound with thy strain, But when from thy tomb they despairing return, In lyres immortal thine echoes shall burn. Alas! that thy music should ever here die, Should leave the sad earth and ascend to the sky; There is a tone in my bosom as yet unexpressed, To the charm of thy music we ever would yield, Round the poor and the wretched in bitterness twine- But leads us through tears to the throne of our God. I know that thine own gushing spirit is free As the winds that o'ersweep the high mountains and sea; To its splendor might add the philanthropist's fame, Till many an oasis from deserts shall spring, BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. WHEN the rains of November are dark on the hills, and the pine-trees incessantly roar To the sound of the wind-beaten crags, and the floods that in foam through their black channels pour : Thou shalt hear how the Earth, the maternal, laments for the children she nurtured with tears How the forest but deepens its wail and the breakers their roar, with the march of the years! When the breaker-lined coast stretches dimly afar, through Then the gleam of thy hearth-fire shall dwindle away, and the desolate waste of the gale, the lips of thy loved ones be still: And the clang of the sea-gull at nightfall is heard from the And thy soul shall lament in the moan of the storm, sounddeep, like a mariner's wail: When the gray sky drops low, and the forest is bare, and the laborer is housed from the storm, And the world is a blank, save the light of his home through the gust shining redly and warm: ing wide on the shelterless hill. All the woes of existence shall stand at thy heart, and the sad eyes of myriads implore, In the darkness and storm of their being, the ray, streaming out through thy radiant door. Go thou forth, if the brim of thy heart with its tropical Look again: how that star of thy Paradise dims, through fullness of life overflow If the sun of thy bliss in the zenith is hung, and no shadow reminds thee of wo! Leave the home of thy love; leave thy labors of fame; in the rain and the darkness go forth, When the cold winds unpausingly wail as they drive from the cheerless expanse of the North. the warm tears, unwittingly shed Thou art man, and a sorrow so bitterly wrung, never fell on the dust of the Dead! Let the rain of the midnight beat cold on thy cheek, and the proud pulses chill in thy frame, Till the love of thy bosom is grateful and sad, and thou turn'st from the mockery of Fame! Thou shalt turn from the cup that was mantling before; Take with humble acceptance the gifts of thy life; bid thy thou shalt hear the eternal despair Of the hearts that endured and were broken at last, from the hills and the sea and the air! joy brim the fountain of tears; For the soul of the Earth, in endurance and pain, gathers promise of happier years! REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. The Child of the Sea and Other Poems. By Mrs. S. Anna Lewis, Author of "Records of the Heart," etc. etc. New York: George P. Putnam. A large edition of "Records of the Heart" was sold in a few months, and the fair author stepped at once into a very enviable position. "The Child of the Sea," etc. will add much to her poetical fame. The poem which gives name to the volume, and occupies most of it, is a romantic and passionate narrative, and embodies all the main features of Mrs. Lewis's thought as well as manner. The story is well conducted and somewhat elaborately handled; the style, or general tone, is nervous, free, dashing-much in the way of Maria del Occidente-but the principal ground for praise is to be found in the great aggregate of quotable passages. The opening lines, for example, are singularly vivid: Where blooms the myrtle and the olive flings Where the sad Bird of Night forever sings Meet anthems for the Children of Despair. The themes of the poem-a few lines farther on-are summed up in words of Byronic pith and vigor : youthful Love, Ill-starred, yet trustful, truthful and sublime We give a few more instances of what we term "quotable" passages-thoughtful, vivid, pungent or vigorous: Fresh blows the breeze on Tarick's burnished bayThe silent sea-mews bend them through the spray The beauty-freighted barges bound afar To the soft music of the gay guitar. The olive children of the Indian Sea. That rayless realm where Fancy never beams- Folded his arms across his sable vest Violets lifting up their azure eyes -There are times when the sick soul The dahlias, leaning from the golden vase, While the sweet songster o'er the oaken door merit. Some of them have been public favorites for a long time. "My Study," especially, has been often quoted and requoted. It is terse and vigorous. From "The Beleagured Heart" we extract a quatrain of very forcible originality: I hear the mournful moans of joy— The volume is most exquisitely printed and bound-one of the most beautiful books of the season. The History of England, from the Accession of James II. By Thomas Babington Macaulay. New York: Harper & Brothers. Vols. 1 and 2. 8ro. No person, of whig or tory politics, could in the present age, propose to himself the task of writing the history of England, without feeling the delicacy and responsibility of his undertaking, and the necessity of exercising a different class of powers from those which may have given sparkle and point to his partisan efforts. The importance of the principles involved in the events and characters coming under his view, and their wide applications to contemporary controversies, would be sure to bring down upon the unlucky advocate a storm of moral and immoral indignation. It would seem on the first blush that Macaulay, with all his vast and vivified erudition, was not a writer calculated to experience the full force of a historian's duties, or to display in the analysis and judgment of events that intellectual conscientiousness which is a rare quality even in powerful minds. His historical essays bear as unmistakable marks of partisanship as ability, and are especially characterized, by a merciless severity, which, in the name of justice, too often loses the insight as well as the toleration which come from charity. Sir James Macintosh, toward the commencement of his career, referred to him as "a writer of consummate ability, who has failed in little but in the respect due to the abilities and character of his opponents." Though as a partisan, Macaulay was a partisan on the right side, on the side of liberty and truth, the unmeasured scorn he poured, hot from his heart, on tyrants and bigots, and the fierce, swift sweep of his generalizations, often made his cooler readers suspicious of his accuracy when most dazzled and delighted by his brilliancy. In the present history a great change is manifest. The petulance, the flippancy, the dogmatism of the essayist, are hardly observable, and in their place we have the solid judgment of the historian. There is a general lowering of the tone in which persons and principles are considered, consequent upon the change in the writer's position from an antagonist to a judge. The style, while it has no lack of the force, richness, variety, directness and brilliancy, which characterized the diction of the essayist, has likewise a sweetness, gravity and composure which the essayist never displayed. Though the writer's opinions are radically the same as ever, they are somewhat modified by being seen through a less extravagant expression, and by being restored to their proper relations. In fact, the history presents Macaulay as a wiser and more comprehensive man than his essays, and if we sometimes miss the generous warmth and intensity, and the daring sweep of his earlier compositions, we also miss their declamatory contemptuousness and mental bombast. The volumes which the Harpers have given to us in so elegant a form, (vulgarized a little by Dr. Webster's orthographical crotchets,) close with the proceedings of the Convention which gave the crown to William and Mary. A long historical introduction, containing a view of English history previous to the reign of James II., and a view of England, in its manners, customs, literature and people at the time of his accession, occupy the larger portion of the first volume, and are almost unmatched, certainly unexcelled, in historical literature, for the combination of condensed richness of matter with popularity of style. Then follows the narrative of the three years of folly and madness which produced the revolution of 1688, and hurled James II. from his throne. This narrative is detailed with a minuteness which leaves nothing untold necessary to the complete apprehension of the subject in all its bearings, and it evinces on almost every page not only singular felicity in narration, but great power of original and striking observation. Masterly generalization, and sagacity in seizing and luminousness in unfolding the principles of events. The whole history has the interest of a grand dramatic poem, in which the movement of the story and delineation of the characters are managed with consummate skill. The portraits of Charles II., James II., Danby, Rochester, Sunderland, Godolphin, Halifax, Churchill, and especially William of Orange, are altogether superior to any which have previously appeared. Halifax and King William seem to be Macaulay's favorites, and he has surprised many of his readers by his comparative coolness to Russell, Sydney, and the whig patriots generally. The history closes with an eloquent passage on the "glorious" Revolution of 1688. It appears to us that the meanness and lowness which Macaulay has developed in the actors in the event, impress the reader with a different notion of it. The whole thing has a jobby air, in which no commanding genius is observable, and no himself, in one of his essays, remarks truly that the only sacrifices seem to have been made. Indeed Macaulay sacrifices made in the Revolution, "was the sacrifice which Churchill made of honor and Anne of natural affection." That the Revolution, in its results, was one of the most glorious recorded in human annals, there can be little doubt, but it had its birth in such odious treachery, and was conducted by men so deficient in elevation of mind or even common honesty, that its story is little calculated to kindle sympathy, or awaken admiration. The History of England from the Peace of Utrecht to the Peace of Paris. By Lord Mahon. Edited by Henry Reed, Professor of English Literature in the University of Pennsylvania. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 8vo. The author of this history is an English nobleman of large historical acquirements, who has managed to produce two or three valuable works demanding great study and research, without interfering with his duties as a member of Parliament, though, doubtless with some interference with his pleasures as a member of the English aristocracy. The present work is valuable for its accuracy, and interesting from its giving a connected view of the history of England during a period but little known except by the empty abstracts of stupid compilers, or the brilliant but prejudiced letters and memoirs of contemporary writers and statesmen. It comprehends the administrations of Harley and Bolingbroke, of Stanhope, Walpole, Carteret, Newcastle and Chatham, thus including the latter years of the reign of Queen Anne and the reigns of George I. and II. The period covers a wide field of characters and events, and Lord Mahon has been especially successful in unraveling the threads of the foreign policy of England, and indicating the difficulties experienced by her statesmen in sustaining the House of Hanover on the throne. In a narrative point of view the best portions of the history are those relating to the rebellions of 1715 and 1745. It is almost needless to say that Professor Reed has added much to the value and interest of the work by Democracy in France. By Monsieur Guizot, Late Prime his elucidative notes. But the richness of Lord Mahon's materials and the interest of his subject cannot conceal the fact that he lacks both the heart and the brain of an able historian, and that he is essentially a common-place man. The reflections he appends to some of his narratives are commonly such obvious truisms, or such poor apologies for reason, that the reader is made painfully aware of his being in the company of a mediocre gentleman, who, while he always means well, never means much. Lord Mahon is deficient equally in historical science and historical imagination, and his work equally barren of profound principles and vivid pictures. A moderate tory, he holds the hearsays of his creed with a lazy acquiescence, without sufficient passion to be a bigot, and without sufficient logic to be a sophist. When he is tempted into historical parallels, or disquisitions on the changes of parties, as in that passage where he essays to prove that a modern whig is synonymous with a tory of Queen Anne's day, he adopts the argumentation of Fluellen rather than Chillingworth-shows that "there is a mountain in Wales and a mountain in Macedon," and leaves the reader to mourn over the misdirection of the human faculties. In his estimate of literature he is still worse. The disquisition on the literature of Queen Anne's time, in the present history, is a medley of mingled commonplace, which has been worn to rags, and critical nonsense, which has been long exploded. His history, therefore, must be considered simply as a useful narrative of important events, and carefully distinguished from those of Guizot and Thierrey, of Hallam and Macaulay, of Pres cott and Bancroft. Leaves from Margaret Smith's Journal in the Province of Minister. New York: D. Appleton & Co. This little volume is well worthy the reputation of one of the greatest historians, philosophers and statesmen of the age-in other words, of the reputation of Guizot. It is marked by preeminent ability in statement, analysis, argumentation and composition, and we doubt not will exert some considerable influence on the politics of France. In his preface the author avers that nothing in the volume bears the impress of his personal situation, and he adds, "While events of such magnitude are passing before his eyes, a man who did not forget himself would deserve to be forever forgotten." The book justifies the author's assertion. It is simply an examination of things without regard to persons, and is as philosophic in its tone as in its method. The chapters on The Social Republic and The Elements of Society are masterpieces of analysis and statement, and well deserve the attentive study of all who think or prattle on social science. It seems to us that the present volume is sufficient to convince all candid minds, that whatever may be the faults and errors of Guizot as a statesman, he has no equal among the men at present dominant in France. Since his fall that country has been governed, or misgoverned, by soldiers and sentimentalists, with a pistol in one hand and the Rights of Man in the other, and is a standing monument of the madness of trusting the state to men of "second rate ability and first rate incapacity." The Red Republicans have principles; M. Guizot has principles; the legitimists have principles; but the present dynasty has the peculiar character of being, in an intellectual sense, the most thoroughly unprincipled government that French ingenuity could have formed. Oregon and California. By J. Quinn Thornton. New A pleasant book, well written, and containing much information just now, peculiarly valuable in relation to Oregon and California. Many strange phases of life in the wilderness and prairie, are described by one who knows its peculiar hardships and pleasures. The terrible sufferings, the awful stories told of the early emigrants, are faithfully given, and, if official accounts be true, are scarcely exaggerated. A valuable appendix on the gold country is added, undoubtedly to be relied on. The book is well illustrated in wood. The Parterre, a Collection of Flowers Culled by the Wayside. By D. W. Belisle. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1849. This beautifully printed volume sustains both the reputation of its publishers for printing handsome books, and its reputed author for writing good ones. It is generally attributed to Whittier, and it certainly displays throughout the shrewdness with which that poet observes, and the facility with which he idealizes events. Here is a volume bringing up to the eye with the vividness of reality the scenes and characters of a past age, and making us as familiar with them as if we had ridden by the side of Margaret in her journey from Boston to Newbury, and yet through the whole book runs a vein of pure poetry, lending a consecrating light to scenes which might possess but little interest if actually observed. The quaint spelling undoubtedly adds to the illùsion of its antiquity, but what makes it really seem old is its primitive sentiment A pretty looking volume, very creditable to the puband bold delineations. Margaret herself is a most be-lishers in a typographical point of view, and containing witching piece of saintliness, with the sweetness and purity of one of Jeremy Taylor's sermons, and as full of genial humanity as of beautiful devotion. Placed as she is amid the collision of opposite fanaticisms, the austere fanaticism of the Puritan and the vehement fanaticism of the Quaker, she shines both by her own virtues and by contrast with the harsh qualities by which she is surrounded. The book provokes a comparison with the Diary of Lady Willoughby, and that comparison it will more than stand, being superior to that charming volume in the range of its persons and events, and equal to it in the conception of the leading character. The author has shown especial art in modifying every thing, by the supposed medium of mind through which it passes-the heroine telling the whole story in her own words-and at the same time preserving every thing in its essential life. This is a difficult and delicate process of representation, but Whittier has performed it. a number of poems of various lengths, on a variety of subjects. The longest, Wallenpaupack, is an attempt, and a very creditable one also, to commemorate an incident of the history of the North American Indian, a source of poetical subjects too much neglected. The book is well worth attention. It may not be uninteresting to state that the type has all been set up by the author. Roland Cashel. By Charles Lever. Illustrated by Phiz. This is probably the best novel of one of the most popular novelists of the day. Lever has not much solidity of mind, and accordingly never produces any masterpieces of characterization or passion, but he has a quicksilver spirit of frolic and drollery, and an intensity of mirthful feeling which have made some critics place him on a level with Dickens. The present volume will more than sustain the reputation which his former frolicksome audacities have attained. EDITOR'S TABLE. "GRAHAM" TO "JEREMY SHORT." MY DEAR JEREMY,-In my last I promised you a reminding hint, a sketch reflective and suggestive of mining operations, as an offset to the brilliant visions of "Gold Placers," which haunt the mind, sleeping and waking, of Uncle Sam's children. While multitudes are making haste to grow rich, by going around the Horn, and at the terminus of their long voyage will find themselves coming out of the little end of it, you and I may amuse ourselves over a subject somewhat kindred-a retrospective follyfeeling the while a good deal like the boy on getting rid of the jumping tooth-ache-" a heap better" are we, "now it is over." Copper! You have heard of it before, I believe? and may have about you a memorandum of a few thousands, entered on the credit side, not available now at your bankers. It was a very happy delusion, was it not? I'll warrant me that you had already planned your cottage orné, and had the walks laid out, and the shrubbery planted quite tastefully and imaginatively picturesque. Several castles, with steeples rather airy, of my own, were toppled down, and elegantly bronzed as they were, are quite useless now for purposes of reproduction, so that we may say, that we have had some of the advantages of wealth without a present care in disposing of it. The servant girl who wished for riches "that she might ride in her carriage and feel like missus," had the delights of anticipation only, poor soul! while ours are embodied in the delicious reflection of having passed that "missus" on the road, with a pair of fast trotters-taking the air with quite an air, at the rate of "two forty." "Come easy, go fast," was the remark of an old German Uncle, who, having made a fortune by hard knocks at the anvil, looked with a quiet smile at these thousands in perspective. In regard to the horses, the old gentleman was right but as the money never came, I think his premises were altogether wrong. One thing is certain, real estate rose very rapidly in our vicinity at that time, and as several lots went off at spanking prices, to be kept out of our clutches, we may be said to have been benefactors to the sellers and conveyancers. So that copper-the vilest of metal-may, in some crucibles, be transformed into gold. But not to anticipate. Grubemout had been upon the mountain-side, which overlooks the delightful village of Fleeceington, for a month or more, making careful chiselings from rocks, and excavations at their sides. UPTOSNUFF carried his pickaxe and his basket. The "collection" gradually swelled upon their hands, until it became quite formidable; and the choice specimens," were without number, rich, and without reason, rare. DRAWITWELL, the host of "The Hawk and Buzzard," had his eye upon their movements, and always made it a point to take a peep at their basket when they descended in the evening. He was an open-" eyed sort of an old lark, who had had his own way in the village at election times and at trainings, by virtue of a colonelcy and aidship to the governor-a cheap sort of payment for service rendered--and he felt as if nothing of importance ought to transpire in the place, unless he had a hand in it. Drawitwell did not like the air of mystery with which his lodgers slipped the covered basket up stairs, after they had performed their ablutions; nor the roaring noise made overhead, as the "specimens" were poured into the two great chests, previously prepared; and he was just the man to get at the bottom of a mare's nest. So, by virtue of appliances best known to himself, he contrived to get a look at the collected specimens, and made up his mind at once that the thing was too slily managed by half, and that if there was wealth in the rocks he would have a finger in the transaction. "He would at any rate." Crispin, the village cobbler, had thrown his eyes from his lapstone, across the creek, and up the hill-side, to take note of the motions of "the wandering stone-crackers," as he called them, and his brain was in a pother. The blacksmith had sharpened their pick more than once, which had put on edge his curiosity, and had "contrived to pick their brains, while they pecked the rocks," as he jocosely remarked, and he had smelt metal in their move ments. Over their evening ale, at the tavern, the probabilities and possibilities of gold or silver being found in the mountain, were discussed with various degrees of profundity, and the certainty that something of the kind was there, was most sagely resolved on. Time, in whose crucible all doubts are solved, soon confirmed their sagacity by a "copper button" presented to the landlord with the compliments of Uptosnuff, with hints, but not positive injunctions as to secrecy. He knew his man. "What do you think of that?" asked Drawitwell, of his cronies the same evening, with an air of authority, holding up the copper button. "What do you think of that, my lads?" "Hellow!" exclaimed the bewildered cobbler, "landlord, why-why is that goold?" "Gold, you fool! No, it's not gold-but it's a precious sight more valuable-because there is a great deal more of it used.". "Why what on earth is it, then?" asked the blacksmith, in amazement. "It's Copper! my lads! COPPER!!" "COPPER!!??. "Yes, I reckon it is!-and the genuine metal, too! And the mountain is as full of it as an egg is of meat! Only melt down one of the rocks up there, and you'll see how it will fly out!" To have stopped the spread of such information as this, would have surpassed the ingenuity of our clerical friend, who was opposed to the Magnetic Telegraph, as "a device of the devil." There was a California excitement in a village, with California itself in their own mountain. He would have been a lucky traveler, who could have had his horse shod for a guinea, or a bridle-rein mended for double the amount. "You see, my lads!" says Drawitwell, haranguing the crowd, "they are going to do the fair thing by us, they have bought the land, and are getting their act of incorporation ready, and we are all to have shares in it at a reasonable rate and I reckon I'll have a few, or money must be scarce in Fleeceington. There'll be high times at the "Hawk and Buzzard, now, I should say, when every man in this prosperous village can be an owner, for a small sum, in one of the richest mines on the face of the earth. You see it's going to be most unconscionable high, too-it's now twenty-two cents a pound-for the govern |