ples of religion-so accomplished! The heart of the widow rejoiced in the anticipated triumph of her offspring. Alas! even then the seeds of death were doing their work, stealthily and in silence. A little longer and the body refused to administer to the wishes of the mind. Mrs. La Roche was prostrated on her death-bed, and her children, as already described, were orphans in the fullest and most painful sense of the term.

Amy La Roche, the younger sister, at the period of which we write, was thirteen; Clotilde, the elder, was sixteen years of age. A lovelier pair never mingled their tears together by the cold corpse of a parent. Taught to regard her as the soul and centre of their social world-as the being to whom they must look for counsel and advice next to the Almighty-they clung to each other in their desolation, each striving to soothe the other, and each unconsciously adding to the poignancy of the other's grief. Clotilde wept wildly, but the sorrow of the younger seemed more heart-felt. The one was all feeling and impulse, and her agony of grief was relieved, in some measure, by the violence of the paroxysms— the fury of her despair. The younger was naturally of a thoughtful and melancholy nature, and her mild, blue eyes seemed to mirror, in their gentle lustre, the very depths of her soul. She was too young, moreover, to have a thought of fondness for another being on the earth beyond her mother. No other passion of her nature had been called even into fancied existence, and thus the poor girl pined day by day until she became thin and pale, and the elder found it necessary to conceal her own sorrow, in order to bring back the spirit of girlhood and joy to the fair features of her dearest Amy.

Throughout the crisis of their bereavement they were visited assiduously and constantly by but one individual. Pierre Martien, or neighbor Pierre, as they called him, was intimate with their father in the more prosperous portion of his life, and had, like him, sought this country as a place of refuge during the perils of the revolution-perils which destroyed his family and left him lone and wretched. He had, nevertheless, accumulated a considerable fortune in the United States, and, at the period of the widow's decease, was on the eve of returning to France. Touched, however, by the sad condition of the sisters, he delayed his departure, and called day after day in the noble duty of watching over two fair beings, so entirely helpless and unprotected, and of administering every comfort and assistance in his power. This faithful friend was now is his sixtieth year-still, manly and gentlemanly in his appearance, and exhibiting but little of the weakness or infirmity of age. Week after week he postponed the day of his leave-taking, and yet he steadily persisted in his determination to return, at the same time condoling with the orphans, assisting them as delicately as possible, and hinting a fear that his departure would expose them to annoyance and misfortune. Clotilde saw and admitted all this, but what could she do? She still continued to keep up the little school, which her mother had bequeathed to her as an inheritance,

| but her inexperience and youth unfitted her, in a great measure, to exercise sufficient authority over the pupils, and thus, while she found them constantly diminishing in number, she discovered, with horror, that the health of her young sister was rapidly sinking. The color was fading from her cheeks—the bright light from her eyes. Her existence seemed to have lost its spring and fountain on the decease of Mrs. La Roche, and, although the sweet girl struggled earnestly to assume a degree of cheerfulnes and an air of satisfaction, she could not conceal from the penetrating eyes of Clotilde that there was a canker within.

Neighbor Pierre, also, noticed the change and his heart melted within him at this new source of anxiety and distress. He sent for and consulted one of the ablest physicians of the city-for his nature warmed strangely and unconsciously toward the orphans, since he had visited them so frequentlyand he was told that a change of air would alone save the life of the fading beauty. He pondered long upon this painful intelligence; at first unwilling to communicate it to the elder sister, for he knew that it would strike like an arrow through her soul. What could be done?-what was his duty under the circumstances? He pressed his hand upon his forehead and mused painfully for hours. A thought darted to his brain. But no-he repelled it as unworthy-as unmanly-as treacherous to the friendship he had felt and professed for the dead father of the sisters. And yet it returned again, and grew stronger and stronger, until he had no power to resist its influence.

Accuse him not harshly, gentle reader-pronounce not against him rashly. He was alone in the world, and they were without friends and protectors. He was compelled by circumstances to revisit France, and yet he felt a voice within him assert that he had a duty to perform to the children of his deceased countryman. How could he best perform that duty? To subject two young, inexperienced and beautiful girls to the snares of the vicious and the recklessto desert them in the hour of greatest need-to abandon them to the charities of a cold world-or worse, to the accursed arts of the profligate and libertine-the thought was full of anguish. Again he paused. He ascended to his chamber, and there, kneeling in prayer, he sought advice and counsel from the Searcher of all hearts. He rose from his knees refreshed in spirit, and comparatively calm and resolved. The next hour found him at the dwelling of the sisters. The younger was evidently weaker than on the day before, while the countenance of Clotilde wore a still more melancholy aspect. For a long time the visiter hesitated. He looked steadily into the beautiful features of Clotilde, where all was yet life and hope and youthful splendor, only mel lowed and spiritualized by the tender anxiety of a sacred love, and his heart again misgave him. But he rallied his courage and drew her aside. He announced to her, in as kindly terms as possible, the opinion of the physician; and, as he saw the big tear start to her eyes at the consciousness of her inability

"My brothers!" years have passed away

Since first my childish heart

Was conscious of the sacred tie

That death alone can part.

Then, from your kind, unselfish care,
I learned to know how blest

Is she who owns the love that lives
Within a brother's breast.

Our home was bright and beautiful
With all things rich and fair,
Yet dreary would its halls have been
Had not your love been there;

For who would share a princely home,
Though filled with pomp and mirth,

If sweet affections hovered not
Like angels round its hearth?

But oh, I can remember still

How in the midst of play

You threw, to please your baby pet,
The ball and hoop away.

To teach my faltering lips to speak
For hours you'd linger near,
And hail with joy the faintest sound
That fell upon the ear.

"My brothers!" were the gentle words
That first I learned to name,
And glad was I, each lesson o'er,
The kiss of love to claim.

And now, as looking o'er the past,
Too sadly I repine,

It checks the tear-drop and the sigh
To think you still are mine.

I never knew a mother's love-
That blessing Heaven denied―
My footsteps through the paths of life
It was your task to guide;

And when, amid earth's brilliant hopes,
My happy heart beat high,

You whispered there were sweeter joys
Beyond the azure sky.

"My brothers!" on each brow there dwells
A cloud of thoughtful care,
But may no deed or word of mine
E'er place a shadow there;

And though I never may repay

Your deep and changeless love, The earnest prayer I breathe for you May reach the throne above.

And when mine eyes are closed in death

My spirit shall be near,

For sure I am the dead will watch

O'er those in life most dear;
And in the home to which I go,
Life's errors all forgiven,
Oh with what joy shall I behold
My brothers meet in Heaven!

MARY L. LAWSON.

The Sinless Child, and Other Poems. By Elizabeth Okes Smith. Edited by John Keese, New York, Appleton & Co. The accomplished lady to whom the public is indebted for these beautiful productions is familiar to our readers through her many able contributions to this magazine. We are happy that she has appeared at length to claim the proud seat to which she is entitled on the American Parnassus. The rare purity and grace of Mrs. Smith's mind, the peculiar circumstances which induced her to resort to the pen, and her many personal excellences, have contributed to render her one of the most interesting of our female writers. It appears from the spirited preface to the volume before us, that, like all persons of real merit, she is distinguished by the womanly virtue of modesty. To the good taste and enterprize of Mr. Keese we owe the present collection. His reasons for bringing out the work are stated with great cogency. We congratulate the bards of our country upon the strong hold they have upon the sympathies of one, at least, of the bookselling fraternity. Every one remembers the splendid volumes of American poetry compiled by Mr. Keese, and his delightful Memoir of Lucy Hooper, appended to a selection from her poetical writings, which gained for him the warm approbation of all admirers of early genius. In the present instance he has conferred no slight favor upon the lovers of poetry. In publishing a complete and revised edition of "The Sinless Child," he has supplied a demand long felt and expressed. The additional poems appear to us to be very judiciously chosen. It is long since we have met with

| any thing in this department of literature so worthy of studious regard. The hopefulness and purity of childhood, the high ministry of Nature to the soul, the exalting agency of ideal love, and the spiritual philosophy of human life, are illustrated in the "Sinless Child" by exquisite imagery and flowing numbers. No one can read and feel it without having his faith in the beautiful and holy quickened and renewed. It abounds in ennobling truth. It is addressed to the most elevated perceptions, and like a strain of heavenly music touchingly reminds us of our nature's origin, wants, powers, and destiny. "The Acorn” is a charming effort of fancy. The germ is traced through all the vicissitudes of its development, until it towers a giant of the forest. The sapling escapes the schoolboy's knife and the storm's devastation, to lodge the eagle on its topmost bough, and to quiver, at last, the mast of a noble vessel, on many seas. Sweetly, with a life-like ingenuity, and a cordial emphasis, does the poetess follow the acorn from its cradle of mould to its ocean-grave. With a singular truth to nature, and many a touch of graphic beauty, is its history unfolded; and, of its kind, we know of no poem more successful. The remainder of the volume consists of sonnets, which breathe lofty sentiments and noble language. We have felt no disposition to cavil at any literary defects, so much have we been charmed by the spirit and beauty of these poems. We commend them to our readers, as worthy not only of perusal, but of that earnest and familiar study which the fruits of genius should ever receive from grateful and appreciating minds.

Pictorial History of the United States: By John Frost, A. M. Philadelphia, E. H. Butler.

The vague

As we

Illustrated editions are now all the vogue. Great improvement has of late days been made in the art of woodengraving, which is no longer degraded to rough, coarse black and white caricatures, but elevated to rivalry with steel and copper, by the efforts of Raffet, Gigoux, Hebert and others, employed on the designs of Horace Vernet, Grandville, and their compeers, in France; of Branston and Harvey, in London; and of Adams, in New York, scarcely if any thing inferior to the Europeans, when working upon Chapman's blocks. The work before us-the first and second numbers-is of this order, and the literary portion of it is very well and agreeably executed, pithy and well compiled, and, at the same time, clothed in a flowing and lively style, well adapted to the tastes and intelligence of young and general readers. It lays, indeed, no great claim to profoundness or depth of research, though, in a few instances, we perceive, the author has shown a laudable ambition to appear "original." romances of the Scandinavians are not to be regarded as history, yet he chooses to have as much faith in the Copenhagen antiquaries as in the Spanish chroniclers. have said, however, the history is very well executed in the main, and we would that we could say as much for the illustrative department. The object of these illustrations is doubtless-or at least should be-not to catch the eye, merely, and please the fancy of the reader, but to convey to the imagination clear and more distinct pictures of men, costumes, manners and things, than any words, however graphic, can portray. This can be done only by skill, thorough acquaintance with the subject, deep study, and careful truth in the illustrator. To falsify the truth of history in painting is no less a crime, if wilful, no less a proof of total incapacity, if accidental, in an artist, than the same defects would be in a writer; and, to say honest truth, there is hardly one illustration of the first numbers in the costumes of which historical truth is not palpably and ludicrously violated. First, we have the Norsementhe wild warriors of Scandinavia-whose real armature consisted in casques, with visors, covering the whole head, shirts made of rings, not linked into each other, but screwed edgewise upon leathern jerkins, with sleeves and hose and gauntlets, all to match; whose weapons were twohanded broadswords four feet long, bills or gisarmes, and mighty battle-axes; dressed point device-save the mark!as Roman warriors! Again, we have Columbus discovering the land of America from a ship's stern, thirty feet, at least measure, out of the water!-the Santissimo Trinidad! more likely than the Nina or Pinda, half-decked barques of ninety and a hundred twenty tons, or thereabout. Next we find the French Huguenots and the Spanish Catholics, the early colonists of Florida, dressed in the full costume of no-collared coats with mighty cuffs, immense jack-boots, plumed hats and periwigs, of George the First or Queen Anne! And last we see-oh, most absurd of anti-climaxes-Hernando Soto and his chivalric host, who rode armed cap-a-pie in Milan steel,

"With the chargers barbed from counter to tail,

And the riders armed complete in mail,"

from Florida to Natchez-who made the hammocks and the everglades ring to the Norman kettle-drum and trumpet, and introduced the plumes and burgonets, blazoned shields and gonfalons, of European knighthood, in that most desperate, most romantic of forays, to the solitudes of the American forest-we see Hernando Soto, dressed and armed just as might have been King William the Third when he crossed the Boyne, or fought at Steenkirke. Carelessness such as this is culpable-unpardonable.

And yet our daily press lauds these illustrations as equal to the best English and French pictorial histories. Oh, most unwise and improvident patriotism! It is not talent, nor skill in designing only, nor force of shadowing, nor power of grouping, that will constitute the historical painter. Research is necessary, labor, attention, study. Without these, all the rest is waste of time-useless-nay, harmful, and destructive to the rising hopes of the fine arts in America.

The Columbiad, a Poem: By Archibald Tucker Ritchie. One volume, duodecimo. New York, John S. Taylor & Co. On reading the title page of this very handsome volume, we suspected that some ambitious young American had added to "the national stock of bad poetry" an imitation of the ponderous Epic of Barlow; but the preface imparts the gratifying information that Mr. Archibald Tucker Ritchie is an Englishman. He tells us that parts of the "poem" were written twenty years ago. He should have grown too merciful, in so long a time, to inflict such poor fustian on the book-buying world. The only idea in the work which Mr. Ritchie can call his own, is, that the world for a long period revolved around the unillumined sun, and not upon its own axis! a theory which he, in bad verse, maintains to be the only one by which the discoveries of geologists can be reconciled with the sacred history!

The Neighbors: a Story of Every-Day Life: By Frederica Bremer. Translated from the Swedish, by Mary Howitt. James M. Campbell & Co., Philadelphia.

No novel has appeared in many years which we can more earnestly and cheerfully commend than this. It is a story of every-day life, simple and natural in its incidents and reflections, yet in a remarkable degree interesting. Its tone is pure and healthful; it teaches the superiority of moral and intellectual pleasures, and the dignity and happiness of a serene and virtuous life. The edition of Messrs. Campbell & Co. is very neatly printed, and the work is to be followed by "The House," "The President's Daughters," and "Nina," by the same authoress, as soon as the English versions of them, by Mary Howitt, reach this country.

Judah's Lion By Charlotte Elizabeth: One volume, duodecimo. New York, John S. Taylor and M. W. Dodd. This is a story of great ability and interest, by the cleverest religious writer of her sex now living. The foundation of the narrative is the convesion of a Hebrew to the Christian religion. It abounds with incidents of a most touching and striking character.

The Criminal History of the English Government: From the First Massacre of the Irish to the Poisoning of the Chinese: Translated from the French of Eugene Regnault. One volume, duodecimo. New York, J. S. Redfield.

A book for the mob of gentlemen whose patriotism consists in hatred of every thing which does not pertain to their own country and their own faction. It has much of the easy and enthusiastic impudence of the French partisan about it. Yet Monsieur Regnault tells a good deal of truth of the British government, ever guided by a selfish and unscrupulous policy, and more intent on sustaining a powerful aristocracy than on preserving the liberties or advaneing the interests of the masses.