most difficult task of the novelist, and Miss Evans has been very successful in it. Dr. Hartwell, too, is in some respects an excel-lent character; it is, however, greatly marred in some instances. by inconsistencies. In some portions of the story the Doctor plays his part with a wonderful ease, and in others he seems tired of it, and anxious to do what he is charged with, as quickly as possible. He is also a sad specimen of the unhappy wreck of many a heart that has sought truth, but found it not, upon the shores of infidelity.

The yellow fever breaks out and sweeps away hundreds from the city. The description of the prevalence of the fever is not overdrawn-it is truthful and striking. Beulah's noble conduct has frequently been that of others of her sex. The cities of the South, that have been visited by the fearful pestilence, have given to the world hundreds of noble women, whose devotion and heroism is strikingly portrayed in this portion of the life of Beulah. The struggle of Beulah with poverty, and with the fearful unbelief that had begun to seize upon her soul, is finely portrayed. The eager inquiries of a powerful mind, haunted by doubts and fears the painful search for truth-the wanderings amid the beautiful, but dangerous mazes of French and German philosophy, are strikingly illustrated. For one so young, Miss Evans evinces. a wonderful knowledge of some of the most intricate and difficult questions that have ever employed the human intellect. Nor does. this knowledge appear to be cramped or confined, like that of most young writers. Miss Evans is evidently a hard and patient student. While in many instances she has, we think, adopted a wrong view of the questions she brings forward; she discusses them fairly, clearly and forcibly. She evidently misunderstands. Cousin. She accuses him of pantheism. It is hard to reconcile this gross theory with his refined psychology. The idea that "God manifests himself in the universe," and stamps there the attributes of his being, is both beautiful and truthful. Cousin, however, nowhere maintains that He is exhausted in the act. This is directly opposed to his entire theory. Miss Evans has not done Butler justice. She evidently understands and appreciates him, but she spends so much time on the opposite side, that his powerful and eloquent refutations of the theories of the philosophers are passed by with a mere notice. We are not disposed to accept the charge brought against Miss Evans by certain critics-that she

seeks to make a learned display of her knowledge. The questions discussed by her, are those which present themselves to every thinker, and especially to the young-they are brought forward by an ardent and anxious thinker, and ably and modestly discussed.

Eugene Graham returns home, and is indeed a different person from the boy. The authoress has not succeeded in the developement of this character. Beulah and Pauline are the only successful developements presented to us. Clara Saunders is separated from Beulah, and the latter and Mrs. Williams, the ex-matron of the asylum, commence housekeeping. Here, Miss Evans sketches with a bold hand. The death of Cornelia Graham is vividly portrayed. Ah, it is a sad truth, that the inconsistencies of professing Christians make more infidels than all the books that have ever been written. A new character is now introduced: Reginald Lindsay. But this fine character is made to occupy a second place, and to play a minor part.

Beulah has by this time won fame and distinction, as an authoress, and also many friends. Dr. Hartwell, who has loved her from her childhood, addresses her, and is rejected. He goes off to the Orient. He is absent several years, and during that time Beulah discovers that she loves him. Reginald Lindsay addresses her, but he is also rejected. He consoles himself by going to Congress. In the meantime, Mrs. Williams dies, and Beulah gives up her house, and goes to board at Dr. Asbury's. Here we would remark that the character of Mrs. Asbury does Miss Evans great credit. Beulah's infidelity is conquered. Her proud intellect is humbled, and, with the heart of a little child, she clings confidingly to the Word Made Flesh. This triumph of Christianity, is beautifully and forcibly portrayed, and reflects much credit upon the genius of the authoress. Beulah fondly cherishes the hope that her guardian will one day return, and "on his wandering way, daily and nightly pours a mourner's prayers." At last, one stormy evening, sick with care, and with "hope deferred," she seeks comfort in music. The author has exquisitely described this scene, and we transcribe it for our reader's benefit:

"She opened the desk, and taking out a key left her room, and slowly ascended to the third story. Charon crept up the steps after her. She unlocked the apartment which Mrs. Asbury had given to her charge sometime before, and raising one of the windows, looped back the heavy blue curtains, which

gave a sombre hue to all within. From this elevated position she could see the stormy, sullen waters of the bay breaking against the wharves, and hear their hoarse mutterings as they rocked themselves to rest after the scourging of the tempest. Grey clouds hung low, and scudded northward; everything looked dull and gloomy. She turned from the window and glanced around the room. It was at all times a painful pleasure to come here, and now, particularly, the interior impressed her sadly. Here were the paintings and statues she had long been so familiar with, and here, too, the melodeon, which at rare intervals she opened. The house was very quiet; not a sound came up from below; she raised the lid of the instrument and played a plaintive prelude. Echoes, seven or eight years old, suddenly fell on her ears; she had not heard one note of this air since she left Dr. Hartwell's roof. It was a favorite song of his-a German hymn he had taught her—and now, after seven years, she sang it. It was a melancholy air, and as her trembling voice rolled through the house, she seemed to live the old days over again. But the words died away on her lips; she had overestimated her strength; she could not sing it. The marble images around her, like the ghosts of the past, looked mutely down at her grief. She could not weep; her eyes were dry, and there was an intolerable weight on her heart. Just before her stood the Niobe, rigid and woeful; she put her hands over her eyes and dropped her face on the melodeon. Gloom and despair crouched at her side, their gaunt hands tugging at the anchor of hope. The wind rose and howled round the corners of the house; how fierce it might be on trackless seas, driving lonely barques down to ruin, and strewing the main with ghastly, upturned faces. She shuddered and groaned. It was a dark hour of trial and she struggled desperately with the phantoms that clustered about her. Then there came other sounds; Charon's shrill, frantic bark and whine of delight. For years she had not heard that peculiar bark, and started up in wonder. On the threshold stood a tall form, with a straw hat drawn down over the features, but Charon's paws were on his shoulders, and his whine of delight ceased not. He fell down at his master's feet and caressed them. Beulah looked an instant, and sprang into the doorway, holding out her arms, with a wild, joyful cry :

"Come at last. Oh! thank God. Come at last.' Her face was radiant, her eyes burned, her glowing lips parted.

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'Leaning against the door, with his arms crossed over his broad chest, Dr. Hartwell stood, silently regarding her. She came close to him, and her extended arms trembled, still he did not move, did not speak.

"Oh, I knew you would come; and, thank God, now you are here. Come home at last!'

"She looked up at him so eagerly; but he said nothing. She stood an instant irresolute, then threw her arms around his neck, and laid her head on his bosom, clinging closely to him. He did not return the embrace, but looked down at the beaming face and sighed; then he put his hand softly on her head, and smoothed the rippling hair. A brilliant smile broke over her features as she felt the remembered touch of his fingers on her forehead, and she repeated, in the low tones of deep gladness:

"I knew you would come; oh, sir, I knew you would come back to me.' "How did you know it, child?' he said, for the first time.

"Her heart leaped wildly at the sound of the loved voice she had so longed to hear, and she answered, tremblingly :

"Because, for weary years, I have hoped for your retum. Oh! only God knows how fervently I prayed, and he has heard me.'

"She felt his strong frame quiver; he folded his arms about her, clasped her to his heart with a force that almost suffocated her, and bending his head, kissed her passionately."—pp. 498, 499.

Beulah and Dr. Hartwell are married, and the tried and tempesttossed heart of the former finds happiness and rest. The work is undoubtedly one of great originality and power. Its faults and its beauties we have faithfully endeavored to point out, while we have not for an instant sought to rob the fair authoress of any of her well-earned praise. Miss Evans has achieved a success of which we are heartily glad. While she possesses many of the faults of a novelist, she also possesses much true and sterling merit. We congratulate her upon her success, and we trust that it will encourage and stimulate her to new exertions. Two such books as we have thus glanced at, appearing so nearly at the same time, proves that the vitiated character of our literature is not for want of able writers, and the liberal support that has been given "El Fureidis" and "Beulah" encourages the hope, that the long-expected and anxiously wished for literary reform is about to work itself.

ART. III.-1. Os Lusiadas. Polo original antigo agora novamente impress. Lisboa.

2. Os Lusíadas-nova edição correcta, e dada á luz, por D. JOZE MARIA DE SOUZA. Botelho. Madrid.

3. Les Lusiades, ou les Portugais, Poème en dis chants, avec des notes par J. B. MILLIE. Paris.

4. The Lusiad, translated into English verse by Sir RICHARD FANLondon.

SHAW.

THERE is no fact less disputed than that every civilized nation has its golden age-that in which it produces the best intellectual fruit of which its genius is capable. Those who disagree with each other, on almost all other subjects, yield a ready assent to this. But there are few to whom it occurs that this high deve lopement has much more to do with the age of the world than with that of any particular nation; or, perhaps, it would be more

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correct to say that it is more influenced by the growth of a civilization. The civilizations of remote antiquity have not left us sufficient books to enable us to judge, with any accuracy, as to the periods of their greatest progress; but their different styles of architecture and sculpture, seem to confirm the theory by themselves. Much that is curious and interesting could be written on this branch of the subject, passing from Egypt to Assyria, from Assyria to Hindostan, from Hindostan to China, from China to Mexico and Peru, and from Mexico and Peru to Greece, noting the architectural monuments of each, and comparing all with each other, according as they exhibit more or less resemblance. But the Christian civilization will be sufficient for our purpose; since we merely desire to remark in passing, that almost all countries, of modern Europe, have produced their greatest thinkers about the same time—that is, from the middle of the sixteenth century to the middle of the seventeenth.

It is very justly said that the age of gold in England was that of Elizabeth and James the First-the age of Shakespeare, Spenser, Beaumont, Fletcher and Bacon; but if we turn to the other countries of Europe, we shall find that they could boast of their greatest intellects about the same time. Thus, Portugal had her Camoens, the subject of the present article, just forty years before England had her Shakespeare, and twenty before she had her Spenser. Even Milton belonged to the middle of the seventeenth century. Then, turning to Spain, we see that she produced her Quevedo, Lope de Vega, Cervantez and Calderon, within the same period. Passing over the Pyranees into France, we find Corneille, Molière, Racine and Boileau. In Italy, Dante forms an exception; he is peculiar in this as in everything but his humanity, having flourished in the beginning of the fourteenth century; but Tasso, Ariosto, and Michael Angelo, belonged to the golden age. Nor is it alone in works of imagination that we find this simultaneous fertility of intellect in the different countries of Europe; since it is to the same period we owe such men as Kepler, Tycho Brahe, Copernicus, Galileo, Des Cartes, and Machiaveli. In short, the only country in Europe that has not produced its greatest men in or about the time of Shakespeare and Bacon, is Germany; for it was not until the eighteenth century she could boast of a Clopstock, Weiland, Lessing, Schiller, or Goethe.

But to Portugal belongs the honor of having produced the first