From the Athenæum.

A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. A. A. E. C., born July, 1848, died November,


Or English blood-of Tuscan birth,
What country should we give her?
-Instead of any on the earth,

The civic heavens receive her.-
And here, among the English tombs,
In Tuscan ground we lay her,
While the blue Tuscan sky endomes
Our English words of prayer.
A little child-how long she lived,
By months, not years, is reckoned:
Born in one July-she survived
Alone to see a second.
Bright-featured, as the July sun
Her little face still played in-
And splendors, with her birth begun,
Had had no time for fading.

So, LILY-from those July hours-
No wonder we should call her;

She looked such kinship to the flowers,-
Was but a little taller.

A Tuscan Lily,-only white;
As Dante, in abhorrence

Of red corruption, wished, aright,
The lilies of his Florence.

We could not wish her whiter :-her
Who perfumed with pure blossom
The house!-a lovely thing to wear
Upon a mother's bosom!

This July creature thought perhaps

Our speech not worth assuming;

She sat upon her parents' laps,

And mimicked the gnat's humming.


Said "Father, Mother :"-then, left off-
For tongues celestial, fitter!
Her hair had grown just long enough
To catch heaven's jasper-glitter.
Babes!-Love could always hear and see
Behind the cloud that hid them:
"Let little children come to me,
And do not thou forbid them."

So, unforbidding, have we met,
And gently here have laid her;
Though winter is no time to get

The flowers that should o'erspread her.
We should bring pansies, quick with spring,
Rose, violet, daffodilly,
And also, above everything,

White lilies for our Lily.

Nay, more than flowers this grave exacts,——
Glad, grateful attestations

Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts,-
With calm renunciations.

Her very mother, with light feet

Should leave the place too earthy,

Saying "The angels have thee, sweet,
Because we are not worthy!"
But winter kills the orange-buds
The gardens in the frost are;
And all the heart dissolves in floods,
Remembering we have lost her.

Poor earth-poor heart !-too weak, too weak To miss the July shining:

Poor heart!-what bitter words we speak

When God speaks of resigning!

Sustain this heart in us that faints,
Thou God, the self-existent !
-We catch up wild at parting saints,

And feel thy heaven too distant.

The wind that swept them out of sin
Has ruffled all our vesture :

On the shut door that let them in
We beat with frantic gesture :—
To us-us also open straight!
The outer life is chilly.
Are we, too, like the earth, to wait
Till next year for our Lily?
-O, my own baby on my knees,

My leaping, dimpled treasure-
At every word I write like these,
Clasped close, with stronger pressure!
Too well my own heart understands-
At every word, beats fuller-
-My little feet, my little hands,
And hair of Lily's color!

But God gives patience:-Love learns strength,
And Faith remembers promise,
And Hope itself can smile at length

On other hopes gone from us.

Love, strong as Death, can conquer Death,
Through struggle made more glorious:
This mother stills her sobbing breath,
Renouncing, yet victorious.

Arms empty of her child she lifts,
With spirit unbereaven :-

"God will not all take back His gifts-
My Lily's mine in Heaven.

"Still mine-maternal rights serene

Not given to another!"

The crystal bars shine faint between
The souls of child and mother.

"Meanwhile," the mother cries, "content!'
"Our love was well divided:
Its sweetness following where she went,
Its anguish stayed where I did.

Well done of God, to halve the lot,
And give her all the sweetness!
To us-the empty room and cot;

To her-the heaven's completeness.
To us-this grave; to her-the rows
The mystic palm-trees spring in;
To us-the silence in the house;

To her-the choral singing!
For her to gladden in God's view;
For us to hope and bear on :
Grow, Lily in thy garden new,
Beside the Rose of Sharon !

Grow fast in heaven, sweet Lily clipped,
In love more calm than this is;
And may the angels dewy-lipped
Remind thee of our kisses!

While none shall tell thee of our tears-
These human tears now falling-:

Till, after a few patient years,
One Home shall take us all in :

Child, father, mother-who, left out?

-Not mother, and not father :—

And when, their dying couch about

The natural mists shall gather,

Some smiling angel close shall stand,
In old Correggio's fashion,
Bearing a LILY in his hand



A honeymoon cannot forever last; nor sense of my Areopagitica; and I'll put your name down, danger, when it long hath past ;-but one little dif-Kit, for a hundred copies!""" ference from out manie greater differences between my late happie fortnighte in St. Martin's-le-Grand, and my present dailie course in Barbican, hath marked the distinction between lover and husband. 'There it was "Sweet Moll," "My heart's life of life," "My dearest cleaving mischief;" here, 't is onlie "Wife," "Mistress Milton," or, at most, “Deare or sweet wife." This, I know, is master-ter fulle and seemly.

Oct. Though a rusticall life hath ever had my suffrages, nothing can be more pleasant than our regular course. We rise at five or sooner; while my husband combs his hair, he commonly hums or sings some psalm or hymn, versing it, maybe, as he goes on. Being drest, Ned reads him a chapin the Hebrew Bible. With Ned stille at his knee, and me by his side, he expounds and improves leases us both. Before I have finished my dressing, I hear him below at his organ, with the two lads, who sing as well as choristers, hymning anthems and Gregorian chants, now soaring up to y clouds, as 't were, and then dying off as though some wide echoing space lay betweene us. I usuallie find time to tie on my hoode and slip away to ye herb"market for a bunch of fresh radishes or cresses, a sprig of parsley, or at ye leaste a posy, to lay on his plate. A good wheaten loaf, fresh butter and eggs, and a large jug of milk compose our simple breakfast; for he likes not, as my father, to see boys hacking a huge piece of beef, nor cares for heavie feeding, himself. Onlie, olde Mr. Milton sometimes takes a rasher of toasted bacon, but commonly, a basin of furmity, which I prepare more to his minde than ye servants can.

Onlie, this morning, chancing to quote one of his ye same; then, after a shorte, heartie prayer, reowne lines,

These things may startle well, but not astoundehe sayd, in a kind of wonder," Why, Moll, whence had you that? Methought you hated versing, as you used to call it. When learnt you to love it?" I hung my head in my old foolish way, and answered, "Since I learnt to love the verser.' Why, this is the best of alle!" he hastilie cried; can my sweet wife be indeede heart of my heart and spirit of my spirit? I lost, or drove away a child, and have found a woman." Thereafter he less often wifed me, and I found I was agayn sweet Moll.

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This afternoon, Christopher Milton lookt in on After saluting me with y usuall mixture of malice and civilitie in his looks, he fell into easie conversation; and presentlie says to his brother quietlie enough, I saw a curious pennyworth at a book-stall as I came along this morning."-" What was that?" says my husband, brightening up. "It had a long name," says Christopher: "I think it was called Tetrachordon." My husband cast me a suddain, quick look, but I did not soe much as change color, and quietlie continued my sewing.

"I wonder," says he, after a pause, "that you did not invest a small portion of your capital in the work, as you say it was soe greate a bargain. However, Mr. Kit, let me give you one small hint with alle y goode humour imaginable; don't take advantage of our neare and deare relation to make too frequent opportunities of saying to me anything that would certainlie procure for another man a thrashing!"

After breakfast, I well know the boys' lessons will last till noone. I therefore go to my closett duties after my Forest Hill fashion; thence to market, buy what I neede, come home, look to my maids, give forthe needefulle stores, then to my needle, my books, or perchance to my lute, which I woulde faine play better. From twelve to one is the boys' hour of pastime; and it may generallie be sayd, my husband's and mine too. He draws aside the green curtain-for we sit mostly in a large chamber shaped like the letter T, and thus divided while at our separate duties; my end is y pleasantest, has the sun most upon it, and hath a balcony overlooking a garden. At one, we dine; always on simple, plain dishes, but dressed with neatnesse and care. Olde Mr. Milton sits at my right hand and says grace; and, though growing a little deaf, enters into alle ye livelie discourse at table. He loves me to help him to ye tenderest, by reason of his losse of teeth. My husband careth not to sitt over the wine; and hath noe sooner finished the cheese and pippins than he reverts to the viol or organ, and not onlie sings himself, but will "That's fame, I suppose," says Christopher, make me sing too, though he sayth my voice is drylie; and then goes off to talk of some new ex-better than my ear. Never was there such a tuneercise of the press-licenser's authoritie, which he seemed to approve, but it kindled my husband in a .ninute.

Then, after a short silence betweene alle, he suddainlie burst out laughing, and cried, "I know 't is on the stalls; I've seene it, Kit, myself! Oh, had you scene, as I did, the blockheads poring over the title, and hammering at it while you might have walked to Mile End and back!"'

fulle spiritt. He alwaies tears himself away at laste, as with a kind of violence, and returns to his books at six o' the clock. Meantime, his old father dozes, and I sew at his side.

"What folly! what nonsense!" cried he, smiting the table; "these Jacks in office sometimes devise From six to eight, we are seldom without such senselesse things that I really am ashamed of friends, chance visitants, often scholarlike and being of theire party. License, indeed! their li-witty, who tell us alle y news, and remain to cense! I suppose they will shortlie license the lengthe of Moll's curls, and regulate the colour of her hoode, and forbid the larks to sing within sounde of Bow bell, and the bees to hum o' Sundays. Methoughte I had broken Mabbot's teeth two years agone; but I must bring forthe a new edition of

partake of a light supper. The boys enjoy this season as much as I doe, though with books before them, their hands over their ears, pretending to con the morrow's tasks. If the guests chance to be musicalle, the lute and viol are broughte forthe, to alternate with roundelay and madrigal; the old man



beating time with his feeble fingers, and now and neighbourhoode is too hot to holde them; olde then joining with his quavering voice. (By the friends cowardlie and suspicious, olde and new foes way, he hath not forgotten to this hour, my im- in league together. Leave Oxon they must; but puted crime of losing that song by Harry Lawes; where to goe? Father, despite his broken health my husband takes my part, and sayth it will turn and hatred of the foreigner, must needes depart up some day when leaste expected, like Justinian's beyond seas; at leaste within ye six months; but Pandects.) Hubert brings him his pipe and a glass how, with an emptie purse, make his way in a of water, and then I crave his blessing and goe to strange land, with a wife and seven children at his bed; first, praying ferventlie for alle beneathe this heels? Soe ends mother with a "Lord have mercy doomed to destruction as if it helde y plague. deare roof, and then for alle at Sheepscote and For-upon us!" as though her house was as surelie Mine eyes were yet swollen with tears, when my est Hill. On Sabbaths, besides the public ordinances of devotion, which I cannot, with alle my striking, husband stept in. He askt, "What ails you, prebring myself to love like ye services to which Icious wife?" I coulde but sigh, and give him the have beene accustomed, we have much reading, letter. Having read ye same, singing, and discoursing among ourselves. The my dearest? Have we not ample room here for maids sing, the boys sing, Hubert sings, olde Mr. them all? I speak as to generalls, you must care Milton sings; and trulie with soe much of it, I for particulars, and stow them as you will. There woulde sometimes as lief have them quiete. The are plenty of small rooms for the boys; but, if your Sheepscote Sundays suited me better. The sab- father, being infirm, needes a ground-floor chamber, I coulde but look my thankfullenesse and kiss his bath exercise of the boys is to read a chapter in the you and I will mount aloft. Nay," he added, with increasing gentleGreek testament, heare my husband expounde the same; and write out a system of divinitie as he hand. own father without loving and blessing you. Let dictates to them, walking to and fro. In listening nesse, "think not I have seene your cares for my thereto, I find my pleasure and profitt. Let him and his abide with us, Mr. Powell come and see us happie; it may tend to make him soe.

I have alsoe my owne little catechizing, after a humbler sorte, in ye kitchen, and some poore folk to relieve and console, with my husband's concurrence and encouragement. Thus, the Sabbath is devoutlie and happilie passed.

My husband alsoe takes, once in a fortnighte or soe, what he blythelie calls" a gaudy day," equallie to his owne content, the boys', and mine. On these occasions, it is my province to provide colde fowls or pigeon pie, which Hubert carries, with what else we neede, to the spot selected for our camp dinner. Sometimes we take boat to Richmond or Greenwich. Two young gallants, Mr. Alphrey and Mr. Miller, love to joyn our partie, and toil at the oar, or scramble up the hills, as merrilie as the boys. I must say they deal savagelie with the pigeon pie afterwards. They have as wild spiritts as our Dick and Harry, but withal a most wonderfull reverence for my husband, whom they courte to read and recite, and provoke to pleasant argument, never prolonged to wearinesse, and seasoned with frolic, jest, and witt. Olde Mr. Milton joyns not these parties. I leave him alwaies to Dolly's care, firste providing for him a sweetbread or some smalle relish, such as he loves. He is in bed ere we return, which is oft by moonlighte.

How soone must smiles give way to tears! Here is a letter from deare mother, taking noe note of what I write to her, and for good reason, she is soe distraught at her owne and deare father's ill condition. The rebels (I must call them such) have Boe stript and opprest them, they cannot make theire house tenantable; nor have aught to feede on, had they e'en a whole roof over theire heads. The




"But what


at the leaste, till the spring; his lads will studdy your housewiferic, the two olde men will chirp and play with mine, your mother will help you together beside the Christmasse hearth; and, if I find thy weeklie bills the heavier 't will be but to write another book, and make a better bargain for it than I did for the last. We will use hospitalitie without grudging; and, as for your own increase of cares, I suppose 't will be but to order two legs of mutton insteade of one!"

And soe, with a laugh, left me, most joyfulle, happy wife! to drawe sweete out of sowre, delighte out of sorrowe; and to summon mine owne kindred aboute me, and wipe away theire tears, bid them eat, drink, and be merry, and shew myselfe Surelie my mother will learne to love John Milto them, how proud, how cherished a wife! who But she will, she must, ton at last! If she doth not, this will be my secret crosse, for 't is hard to love dearlie two persons esteeme not one another. not onlie respect him for his uprightnesse and magnanimitie, coupled with what himselfe calls "an for his kind and equall temper, (not "harsh and honest haughtinesse and self-esteeme," but like him beautifull; crabbed," as I have hearde her call it,) his easie flow of mirthe, his manners, unaffectedlie cheerfulle; his voice, musicall; his person, his habitt, gracefull; his hospitalitie, naturall to him; his purse, countenance, time, trouble, at his friend's service; his devotion, humble; his forgivenesse, heavenlie! May it please God that my mother shall like John Milton!


eating TO EAT HUMBLE PIE.-Mr. Editor-Your cor- table, inferior of course to the venison pasty which respondent, Mr. Hammach, having recorded Mr. smoked upon the dais, and therefore not inexpresPepys' love of "brave venison pasty," whilst ask-sive of that humiliation which the term ing the derivation of the phrase, "eating humble humble pie" now painfully describes. The "umpie," in reference to a bill of fare of Pepys' age, I bles" of the deer are constantly the perquisites of venture to submit that the humble pie of that period the gamekeeper.-A. G.-Ecclesfield, Nov. 24, was indeed the pie named in the list quoted; and 1849-From Notes and Queries, a new and very but that it was made out of the "um- interesting weekly paper, original in its design, not only so, bles" or entrails of the deer, a dish of the second and hitherto most successfully carried out.—Exam.

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7. Lawyers, Clients, Witnesses, &c. - Third Article,

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Author of Maiden Aunt,



8. The Needlewomen-Great Woman Market, 9. King's Cope,

10. French Opinions of American Literature and Literary World,


11. Excursions in Southern Africa,

12. Voices from the Borders of the Better Land, 13. Story of a Family, Chap. XX.


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Sharpe's Magazine,

14. Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell, concluded, POETRY.-Seeketh not its Own; Life and its Results, 324.-Child's Grave at Florence, 333. SHORT ARTICLES.-The Anglo-Saxon Race, 308.-Strange Instinct of the Deer, 322 —The French President; Atlantic and Pacitic Canal, 325.-Mr. Brunel, 326.-Southey's Common Place Book; Glimpses of Spain; Readings for Railways; Ebenezer Elliot, 327.What Amusements are Admissible; Law of Storms, 332.-Humble Pie, 335.

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WASHINGTON, 27 DEC., 1845.

Or all the Plodical Journals devoted to literature and science which abound in Europe and in this country, this bas appeared to me to be the most useful. It contains indeed the exposition only of the current literature of the English language, but this by its immense extent and comprehension includes a portraiture of the human mind in the utmost expansion of the present age. J. Q. ADAMS.




served, from tradition and other sources, nearly all the particulars of Goldsmith's life, which could by possibility be discovered. We do not wish to disparage the patient research and enthusiastic labors of Mr. Prior, when we speak of Mr. Forster's work as readable, valuable and entertaining; for the diligent compiler and the skilful adapter are in our opinion equally entitled to their meed of approbation. Nor will we quarrel with the work of Washington Irving, because it contains no startling fact that is not to be found in the two preceding biographies. "The life of a scholar," says Goldsmith himself, "seldom abounds with adventure; his fame is acquired in solitude * * but we are fond of talking of those who have given us pleasure, not that we have anything important to say, but because the subject is pleasing."

Of all the laborers in our literary vineyard there is scarcely one whose name has a more familiar, household sound than that of Oliver Goldsmith. There is assuredly no writer of the last century for whom we entertain a stronger feeling of personal regard. His character is endeared to us as much by its innate goodness as by its amiable weakness. "The epithet," says Washington Irving, "so often heard, and in such kindly tones, of 'Poor Goldsmith!' speaks volumes. Few, who consider the real compound of admirable and whimsical qualities which form his character, would wish to prune away its eccentricities, trim its grotesque luxuriance, and clip it down to the decent formalities of rigid Goldsmith appears to us to have been the true virtue. 'Let not his frailties be remembered,' type of an Irishman. The virtues and frailties said Johnson, he was a very great man.' But, of his countrymen distinguished him through life. for our part, we rather say, 'Let them be remein- He had the "happy knack of hoping;" the heedbered,' since their tendency is to endear; and we less charity, the thoughtless imprudence, the habit question whether he himself would not feel grati- of blundering, for which Irishmen are proverbially fied in hearing his reader, after dwelling with ad- famous. He was the descendant of a race who miration on the proofs of his greatness, close the were little learned in lessons of worldly wisdom. volume with the kind-hearted phrase, so fondly "The Goldsmiths," Mr. Prior was informed, and familiarly ejaculated, of Poor Goldsmith!'" were always a strange family. They rarely We are pleased to number the author of acted like other people; their hearts were always Bracebridge Hall," and the "Sketch Book," in the right place, but their heads seemed to be among the biographers of Goldsmith. No man doing anything but what they ought." The folhas shown a more lively appreciation or a more lowing sketch of his immediate ancestor, which exquisite sense of the peaceful virtues and peculiar Goldsmith has put into the mouth of the "Man attractions of English domestic life than the in Black," is, we doubt not, true to the very gifted American; and we must add that no mod-life :-" My father, the younger son of a good ern writer of English prose has more closely re- family, was possessed of a small living in the sembled the author of the "Vicar of Wakefield," as well in his clear, lucid, and flowing style, as in the genial, gentle, and loving thoughts scattered through his pages. In the preface to the present biography, Mr. Irving has gracefully acknowledged his obligations to Goldsmith, and his early predilections for his writings, by addressing to him Dante's apostrophe to Virgil::

Tu se' lo mio maestro, e'l mio autore ;
Tu se' solo colui, da cu' io tolsi

Lo bello stile, che m' ha fatto onore.
Mr. Forster's spirited and eloquent sketch,
though deformed by certain mannerisms, or rather
Carlylisms, which we would rather have seen
avoided, is, unquestionably, a valuable addition
to our standard literary biography; whilst to the
“voluminous and indefatigable" Mr. Prior belongs
the undisputed honor of having collected and pre-
*The Life of Oliver Goldsmith, M. B., from a variety
of Original Sources, by James Prior, 2 vols. 1837. The
Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith: a biography
in four books, by John Forster, 1848. Oliver Goldsmith:
biography, by Washington Irving. 1849.





church. His education was above his fortune,
and his generosity greater than his education.
Poor as he was, he had his flatterers poorer than
himself; for every dinner he gave them they re-
turned him an equivalent in praise; and this was
all he wanted. The same ambition that actuates
a monarch at the head of his army influenced my
father at the head of his table; he told the story
of the ivy-tree, and that was laughed at; he re-
peated the jest of the two scholars and one pair
of breeches, and the company laughed at that;
but the story of Taffy in the sedan chair was sure
to set the table in a roar. Thus his pleasure in-
creased in proportion to the pleasure he gave; he
loved all the world, and he fancied all the world
loved him." What wonder was it that from such
a father poor Oliver should inherit some genial
peculiarities and harmless eccentricities at which
worldly wise men shook their heads !
"Oliver's education".
ington Irving—“ began when he was about three
-we quote from Wash
years old; that is to say, he was gathered under

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