MRS. ACTON TINDAL'S "LINES AND LEAVES." * How truly, in this rude practical world, are those to be envied whose feelings are fresh, whose emotions are sustained, and whose susceptibilities are so tuned to harmony, that they would rather be humble choristers to the God of truth and nature, than high priests at the altar of Mammon! We can picture to ourselves the form in which such attributes are enshrined as Mrs. Acton Tindal has done that of the wedded "Fairy Ladye," of whom she says, and says truly, that

as a fond and loving wife, Around the dull provincial life A thousand charms she threw.

How full of deep sympathy with human nature is Mrs. Tindal's picture of the brother of La Trappe struggling to do that which is impossibleto separate the spirit from the man? How full of feeling the lonely chant of the widow-mother to her infant? How replete with intellect and imagination the rash wishes of the three youths and their fulfilment ? And then for a ballad that is at once gay and yet solemn :

THE INFANT BRIDAL.

* Lines and Leaves. By Mrs. Acton Tindal. Chapman and Hall.

A life as short, and darker doom,
The gentle boy befel:
He slept not in his father's tomb,
For him was heard no knell!
One stifling pang amid his sleep,
And the dark vale was pass'd!

He woke with those who've ceased to weep,
Whose sun is ne'er o'ercast.

A garland floats around the throne,
Entwined by angel hands,
Of such fair earth-buds, newly-blown,
Cull'd from a thousand lands;
A melody most pure and sweet
Unceasingly they sing,

And blossoms o'er the mercy-seat
The loved babe-angels fling!

"Our Church" is placed in an overgrown suburb, which has neither the repose of a village nor the respectability of a town. Its only trace of a once rural site is an approach shaded by a double row of trees; but, alas! the approach is paved with mortuary slabs, and the house of prayer can only be entered by trampling over whole companies of dead. Laying aside other and greater abominations, this is a state of things that ought not to be. In the United States it is considered an act of desecration to walk heedlessly over a grave. The following eloquent appeal against burial in a city, where, of all others, the dead are least respected, was, Mrs. Tindal says, suggested by a dying American girl, who implored not to be interred in London.

THE BURIAL IN LONDON.

Ah! bury me not in that smoky town,
Where the sunrise is so dim,
And the crowded river flows blackly forth
Through battlements old and grim;
Where no freshness comes with the breath of
morn,

And the weary flow'rets die,

Ah! carry me back to my fatherland,
Beyond the Atlantic wave,

And the pure white snow on my head shall
rest,

And the sunrise gild my grave.

Oh! lay me to sleep in those green arcades
Where the vine, and plane, and oak,

And no stillness reigns with the stars at night, Knit together in verdant brotherhood,
But the human tide rolls by.

For I could not rest in that drear graveyard,
Where no blades of green grass spring,

And no shadow falls from the summer trees,
Nor the wild birds ever sing;

Where the dead are rock'd by the rolling
wains,

As they lie their shrouds within,

And their vaults are rent by the mighty roar
Of the city's toil and sin.

A strange grey mist from those many graves
With the evening gloom steals by;

"Tis a winged plague that is bred from death,
'Tis rank with mortality:

And my heart grows faint, for it seems to me
That the living grudge the dead
The span of earth that should cover them,
And their last deep narrow bed!

Fear never the woodman's stroke!

Where the buds of spring, and the summer flowers,

And the fruits of autumn glow,

In the best-loved haunts of the bird and bee,
Where the streams to music flow.

For in my far land there is room, as yet,

For the living and the dead,

In a virgin-grave may the poorest man
Lay down his careworn head.

Ah! sweetly, my mother, thy child will sleep
Afar from the haunts of life,

From the din of the troubled multitude,
Its passion, and pain, and strife,-

In the peace of the sinless wilderness,
With the glorious works of God,
While the dreamy eyes of the stars keep watch
O'er the grave by man untrod.

Although it will be seen by these extracts that Mrs. Acton Tindal's muse-a name well known to the readers of the New Monthly Magazine -is eminently moral and religious, still there are, in this pretty little volume, varied themes-romantic and historical-treated in verse as sweet and musical as the more meditative portions. Mrs. Tindal seems destined to fill the place in poetry lately occupied by Mrs. Hemans.

VALDARNO; OR, THE ordeal of ART-WORSHIP.

THESE pleasant days did not pass unclouded; and at length a summons, the expectation of which had held me in suspense, arrived from Aula. It was couched in a letter from Pulci, which assured me that my father was in a sinking state, and had secrets of which he desired to disburden himself, for my ear, before he died.

I took a mournful farewell of the marchioness and Melissa; their guests were from home, with the young marquis, on pleasure. My only regret on this head was, that Angus, too, was absent. My parting with Melissa was sorrowful; with her mother even affectionate, for the caress she bestowed upon me at leaving was so genuine, as to appear rather the revival of some painful remembrance, than the exhibition of a new regard. As I rode away, I once more saluted the fair beings, waving my hand gently and with steadfast emotion, while they followed me with their looks.

I had not advanced far when the sound of hoofs roused me from my meditations. I looked, and beheld Angus.

“I shall remain no longer now you have left," said he. "I know nothing of these people; we became acquainted accidentally, and they invited me to their house."

"Your resolution to leave is sudden.”

"I had already resolved to start, and on just now hearing you had left, I did not hesitate to follow."

"What is it that has thus quickly determined you?"

"What is it? Who, let me ask you, could live for any length of time in the same house with that jealous dog Marsino, and his pompous companion ?"

"Have they annoyed you?"

"Not to my face; but I know them well. If such fellows as those have the least preference for one woman above another, they cannot bear a third person to approach her."

"Have they said anything offensive to you?"

"No; they are too well informed as to my character. Had they ventured to do so, I should have flung them both into the lake."

"I entertain as little respect for them as you do, I assure you." "This very morning, as I paced up and down behind the dense foliage. of an alcove, I heard them discuss us both in a tone almost too vulgar to repeat. Savatelli vowed, with a subdued oath, that if Theonoe showed me any further marks of her regard, he would render the place where I was staying intolerable. On hearing them I began to sing, that they might be aware of my presence; but, instead of changing the subject, Marsino in his turn began; and, rising from his seat, declared that if many more of your mild speeches were made to Ethra, you should feel the thrust of his sword."

"Worldly-minded men," I returned, "they are scarcely worth our remembrance: let us turn from them to more pleasant thoughts for the

brief period that we are together. I almost regret your sudden resolution to quit that amiable house. For my part, I leave from necessity, my dying father having summoned me to his bedside."

Angus said nothing for a few moments in place of condolence, then rejoined

"Why should I waste my time in useless pleasure? Have I the same motive as you had to stay? However long I might remain I should never return; not so with you."

The remark touched me thrillingly, and the moment for answering it passed by.

"But she will not finally win you," he resumed; "she is not at her ease in this case. Her station is, I admit, unexceptionable, but she has not the rank which you enjoy, and is clever and proud enough to know that you princely families esteem all your inferiors much alike, and would not admit any of them as equals while you have life in you."

"I have made no pretensions to greatness at any time, I assure you; and do not now."

"Which is a proof to her, and not a bad one, that pride is inherent in blood and bone. If the thing exists, you cannot escape it," he your added, smiling.

"Her family," said I, "is among the highest; but what signifies it? It is her virtues that I regard, and they are beyond all expression."

"What have virtues to do with rank, except accidentally? She would not easily forgive you for thus esteeming her chiefly on account of her virtues. I tell you plainly, that to accept you she would have to rise a grade, which is to stoop, to her mind."

"You mistake her, Angus; women are quick to perceive; she knows that I am a slave to her charms."

66

They are quick of perception, certainly, when not blinded."

"How is she so; and by what?"

Angus smiled pleasantly, drew in his reins, and said—

"She is blinded by pride."

We rode together for many miles. I expressed a desire to meet again; but my companion became taciturn, and scarcely heeded what I said. After a long silence he replied briskly

"Do not trouble yourself about me; we shall meet one day, but not until after your doubts respecting Melissa are set at rest.”

Those doubts I had communicated to no one, but had concealed them in the innermost recesses of my heart, and there he saw them.

My short intimacy with Angus even at this time made me desire to know him well, and see him often. As he took his leave I asked which way he proposed to go. He pointed into space, with a look so expressive, that it gave me a plenary idea of most distant lands; and with the words, "One day we are to meet again," he left me behind.

I long mused on his vanishing image. In the course of this visit I was somewhat startled at a remark he had made to me. He had recently passed through Bolsena with a view to renew acquaintance with Marco Musonio, whom he had met three years before on the Nile. The sage was from home; but he had seen the beautiful Ippolito, whom, he said he had strong reason to suspect was not a boy, but of the female sex.

On reaching the castle of Aula I was ushered into my father's chamber. I found him in agony: pain distorted him. It, however, had its

intervals; but during these I perceived a distress which pertained evidently to the grief-stricken mind. He wished to communicate some secret to me, but no sooner were we alone together than the pangs returned; and so acute were they, that the sufferer's voice became weak as that of a child. Restoratives were given, and not without effect; but the patient no sooner found ease from pain than he fell into a disturbed sleep.

The physician apprehended little danger, but the eye of affection, though deficient in experience, saw death written in his face. My sister saw it as well as I; and she sat by his side mute and tearful,-benumbed into stone by grief.

She was little prepared to lose her parent-her attached, fond father, who had indulged her from her infancy; but she saw that he was going to leave her. She kept his hand in hers, whether he was asleep or watching, easy or in torture, not leaving her hold for a moment, and often kneeling with her head bowed over it in prayer.

In this manner the night passed, when towards morning my father again closed his eyes, and had several hours of repose. Angela, my sister, on seeing him thus tranquil, fell asleep by his bedside. I left her with the attendants of the sick, and requested to be summoned on any fresh occurrence. At an early hour I returned to my father's chamber, and found all asleep. One nurse was in a chair, another on the floor, both slumbering soundly. The sufferer would sometimes start, and then my sister's eyes would open, and close again on perceiving that all was still. I seemed like an intruder upon the quiet of the dawn which had so many passive beings in its possession; the lights themselves seemed sleepy, outshone by the morning. At mid-day I was sent for, and found my father alone with an attendant, to whom he waved his hand to leave. He then commanded me to sit by him.

"O Adonai!" exclaimed my father, with a look of earnestness calculated to transfix the very soul; "I have much to say that concerns you deeply. Know then, my son, that I had always, from my earliest recollection, an earnest desire to be happy. For a long time the pleasures of science and art were enough to fill my heart. When very young my religious opinions were formed. I adopted the Scriptures as my guide, and selected from them the narrative of all that our Saviour himself did and spake, as worthy, in the highest degree, of study. But the divine character of the Redeemer never struck me in its full force. It seemed to me improbable, indeed, that any sacrifice should have been deemed necessary by an omniscient being. The Divinity was the possessor of us all; we were his own works. Why should he atone to himself? It was incredible to my peculiar understanding; and so I allowed it for a length of time to remain. It was some years after I had come to his conclusion that I married your mother. We led a happy life: our difference of character was, in a certain sense, suitable; and we had children, which strengthened the bond between us. Her energetic imagination excited me when disposed to gloom; her love of change roused me when too much inclined to quiet. She made me happier than I had ever been; and was of that type of beauty and character which I knew well was most acceptable to my nature. In the fifth year of our union we went to Valanidi, to pass the spring. A near relative of your