to direct them.' He might have added, and as great staring signs to show them where they must not halt.

An early English poet, whose heart was as great as his wit, complaining of a similar degeneracy in the rich country gentlemen of his time, speaks of the towered chimneys' of their mansions, as having originally been - what he thinks they ought to be always 'the windpipes of good hospitality.' We can easily imagine the delight of the tired pilgrim of old, when he came within sight of these towered chimneys,' with their blue flags waving free welcome to warm firesides, where there was a seat waiting for him, and to loaded tables where there was bread enough and to spare. But pilgrims have changed since those hospitable days. So too have the gentry and their gentle daughters, who used to be their entertainers. We find little that is romantic, although occasionally something of the picturesque, in the itinerant begger of the nineteenth century, and not overmuch of which the wandering minstrel would love to sing, in the 'manor lords' of this age of economical philanthropy and fastidious mercy.

That man has missed for himself a choicer happiness than he has failed to impart, who has never seen the smiling gratitude of the destitute adorning his family board; who has never heard the homely though often wise converse of the aged and the unfortunate, as they have warmed themselves at his pleasant fireside; who has not watched with delight the eager appetite of the children of the poor who have feasted upon his stores; who has never stood like an angel of welcome at his door, when the way-farer has knocked for admission; who has never consecrated his house by the ready and cordial entertainment of stran gers; who, if he have wasted any of his goods, has wasted them upon the rich rather than upon the poor.

It is remarkable how a single word, unaffectedly uttered, will sometimes reveal to us, more fully and strikingly than many books, the deep and long experiences of human distress. Not long ago, a friend of ours invited a small party of orphan children from a neighboring asylum to spend an afternoon at his house. They manifested, each in the way that nature prompted, or education allowed, the most eager delight. It was evidently a rich treat to them all. It would have done any body's heart good to have seen and heard them.

As he was distributing among them the contents of a basket of fruit, he overheard one of the little girls whisper to a companion who was standing at her side, 'I know why Mr. has invited us to his

house. It is because we have n't any friends. I haven't had a friend come to see me for five years.' Merciful heaven! Only twelve years old, and not have seen the face of one friend for five long years!

We have heard many a sad tale of orphanage, and thought that we felt pity for the homeless before, but we never heard words that made so palpable the dreariness of the lonesome days and nights that heavily follow one another, unenlivened by a single smile or kindly tone from one living being with whom the heart can claim kindred. We thought, too, that we knew, of old, something of the value of our friends; but never before did our natural relatives seem so precious; never did the heart clasp them with such a tenacious embrace, as since the simple

words of that poor fatherless child have given us an insight into the unutterable melancholy which is the portion of the friendless.

Would it not repay us a thousand fold, if we would open our doors more frequently to those who have no home; if we would sometimes 'make a dinner or a supper for the poor, the maimed, the halt and the blind; if we would distribute our kindly sympathies more freely to those who hunger and thirst for words of affection and looks of friendship?

Boston, Mass.

O. R.

MY EARLY LOVE.

THE correspondent to whom we are indebted for the opening review in the 'Literary Notice' department of the present number, (Mr CHARLES ASTOR BRISTED, of Trinity College, Cambridge, England,) sends us the following lines by ALFRED TENNISON, which he had been permitted to read in the manuscript of the author. TENNYSON,' says the writer, 'is yet young, scarcely thirty-five; so that it may reasonably be hoped that we have not even yet seen the best of him' We can imagine nothing more striking than the contrast between the still country and its associations of love and pleasure, and the turmoil of the great metropolis, with its dizzy influences,' which is presented in these truly admirable lines. ED. KNICKERBOOKER.

VOL. XXV.

OH that it were possible,
After long years of pain,

To find the arms of my true love
Around me once again!
When I was wont to meet her
In the silent woody places
Of the land that gave us birth,

We stood tranced in long embraces,
Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter
Than any thing on earth!

A shadow flits before me,

Not thou, but like to thee;

Oh, CHRIST! that it were possible,

For one short hour, to see

The souls we love, that they might tell us
What and where they be!

It leads me forth at evening,
And lightly winds and steals
In a cold white robe before me,
When all my spirit reels

At the shouts, the leagues of light,
The roaring of the wheels!

Half the night I waste in sighs,

Half in dreams I sorrow after

The hand, the lip, the eyes,
The winsome laughter;

And I hear the pleasant ditty
That I heard her chaunt of old;
But I wake- my dream is filed!

Without knowledge, without pity,
In the shuddering gray behold,
By the curtains of my bed,
That dreadful phantom cold.

Pass, thou death-like type of pain!

Pass, and cease to move about;

"Tis the blot upon the brain,

That will show itself without.

Now I rise; the eave-drops fall,
And the yellow vapors choke

63

The great city sounding wide;
Day comes; a dull red ball
In a drift of lurid smoke,

O'er the misty river tide.
Through the hubbub of the market
I steal a wasted frame;

It crosseth here, it crosseth there,

Through all that crowd confused and loud,
That shadow still the same;

And on my heavy eye-lids

My anguish hangs like shame.
Alas! for her that met me,
That heard me softly call,

Came glimmering through the laurels,

At the quiet evening fall,

In the garden, by the terrace

Of the old manorial hall.

I WILL write a book; I will pour out my heart to you, white paper; we will be companions and confidants. I love to talk, sometimes to think; and you, oh what a patient and acquiescent listener! The bond is complete, the union is perfect. On what firmer basis could a friendship be founded? On one side, affection and implicit reliance; on the other, a silent indulgence, a guarded discretion. Between us there can be neither jealousy, nor recrimination, so that we shall have all the advantages, if not all the endearments of human friendship, and avoid those fatal shoals upon which many a gay galley, freighted with hopes, confidences, protestations, and caresses, has struck, split, and foundered; leaving nothing visible but savage, sharp-pointed rocks, or surging, ugly whirlpools. This attachment might (how in the world did attachment ever creep in as a law term?— those gentlemen of the long robe dearly love to be ironical) — this attachment we say might exist without writing a book; for surely neither of us can lay claim to superior wit or knowledge; and how infinitely beyond our grasp is wisdom, that divine gift, above all human acquirements? We neither want money, that most universal of all civilized wants, for I am economical, and have sufficient; and you are a perfect miser, existing on a thin, pulpy, watery diet, and always wearing the same old coat. Ah! I hear your thin sides

rattling with laughter, at the bare idea that money could result from our partnership; and truly I could join right merrily, when I look over our stock in trade; comprising, not as the merchants advertise, an infinite variety, but rather as the governesses would say, a regulated propriety; truly, truly, pretty decorations for our shop windows, insignificance and vacuity; but then shut up in our drawers, as the most precious wares, we have honesty, devotion to our MAKER, with love and reverence for all that He has created.

Now my fair friend, if we possess these qualities, we must not do as great statesmen do, advance pretexts instead of giving true reasons. No, no; let us frankly confess the cause of our sudden intimacy. The friends that we used to be happy with, those with whom we exchanged familiar thoughts, are dead or scattered; and there is no one to whom we can speak heart-warm words, no one to whom we can confide our thoughts and opinions. An active spirit, encircled by idleness, is in both a pitiable and dangerous state; if it does not find proper employ. ment, it will in time fume itself into nervousness, or harden into selfishness; and so, to avoid either of these dreadful evils; for surely as every day people grow older, and consequently as they hope nearer heaven, they would not wish to become unfitted for its blessedness; so that is the real reason, oh patient white paper! that we will be friends.

OH, MEDON! thou glorious old man! with the head of a sage and heart of a youth; with thy memory, what a crowd of feelings and opinions rush upon me : every noble aspiration, all just and true thoughts. that I may possess, were awakened or instilled by thee. It seems but as yesterday that I sat in our earthly paradise, listening to thy words of heavenly wisdom. What a picture was that sequestered nook; a little spot of quiet beauty, not exceeding ten acres. In front of our chosen seat lay a small meadow of such rich delicious green that the verdure looked like bloom: this was skirted by a grove of young sugar-maples; each tree of exquisite symmetry, perfect in form and foliage, and sufficiently far apart for the eye to reach some distance through the leafyaisles. When illuminated by the setting sun, it looked like a vast natural cathedral; solemn and yet bright. Poetry and reality there met in harmony, speaking feelingly and forcibly to the eye and heart. There reigned that silent beauty filled with holiness; that prayerful incense that inanimate nature sends up to God. At our back rose a high semicircular hill, that curved round and gradually sunk at each extreme until it melted down to the level of the wood in front. The lower part of this bank was covered with wild flowers of every hue, and in such gay profusion that they almost hid the dark green leaves beneath. Here and there a wild rose raised her red clusters, proudly looking down into the eyes of her young sisters, like as we have seen a blooming mother looking into the blue orbs of her little infant. The upper part was covered with the richest red clover; redolent of perfume and musical with bees. Indeed from the numerous birds, butterflies, and bees that constantly glittered, sung, chirped, and hummed, you might have been quite certain it was on this aromatic bank that Queen Flora held her daily court of revels.

At the foot of the hill a little sparkling brook, of crystaline clearness, singing its low song of gladness, ran wimpling over a bed of pebbles, each one so small, bright and clear, that it looked like an oriental pearl. Between the brook and the hill-side there was a path sufficiently wide for two to walk abreast, save in the immediate hollow of the circle, where it left as much of the meadow as the branches of a large plane tree could throw their shade over. Beneath this were two rustic seats, and this we called our bower of repose; for here, after the severe studies of the morning, every fine summer afternoon I used to meet my venerable friend. There we would discuss and investigate opinions; read and admire our favorite authors; I bringing feelings and observations, he drawing inferences and supplying reflections. Oh, Medon! my friend, my father, my brother, instructor, superior, and yet equal, never shall we see thy like on this side of heaven! In thee were united the knowledge of the philosopher, the tenderness of woman, the wisdom of the christian, the benevolence of the philanthropist. Thou wert among men, like Mont Blanc among the mountains; thy serene mind eternally pointing heavenward. There are times when the beautiful has vanished and returns not;' so dark and dreary, that life and all its enjoyments appear but vanity and ostentation: to escape from this incubus, I will make a reality of my feelings; and endeavor, O my friend! to renew thy presence, recall thy opinions, and retrace thy words.

WELL, my son, what have you been doing this morning? What do you know to-day that yesterday you were ignorant of?

CYRIL.

Оn, father, for several days past I have given you the same answer; history, still history.

MEDON.

AND most interesting is history, merely as a study; but it becomes truly noble, if pursued for the high purpose of rendering a man able to understand his duties as a citizen and legislator; so that he can improve and make happier his fellow citizens; for this benevolent intention ought surely to be the aim and result of all human studies. The good man gains knowledge for two important ends; one, that he may benefit and exalt those fellow men less favored than himself in the scale of humanity. The other with reference to his own improvement as a moral, intellectual, and heavenly being; how kind of our Creator so to form us, that those attainments, which in acquiring, yield our highest earthly pleasures, should be the means whereby we can best understand the true interests of man; and also the ones that contribute most essentially toward our own immortal welfare. It is not through the understanding alone, even in physics, however brilliant a man's parts may