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trees fling down sunny smiles upon groups of violets nestling in the plump moss upon their huge wreathed roots. On the whole, it is rather pleasant. Still it is not the thing. The sunshine is heartless and the nights are decidedly cold. The grass is green and rich, but frequently a chilly wind comes creeping along the air, and has a peculiar faculty of insinuating itself down your back. And how can a man study the picturesque with a cold wind down his back. But wait patiently a few days. Perhaps there is a cold, drizzly, misty rain storm in full operation, and nature looks as if perfectly drowned out. The chill wind rushes through the wet shivering trees, the gray spongy clouds drift heavily and slowly overhead- the near landscape reeks with moisture, and the more distant with vapor. But wait a little, I say. There is an enchantment preparing behind the curtain that will ravish you. Summer is there smiling, on tiptoe, with arms extended, preparing to bound. See, the sun has flashed the signal — a broad, bright, golden ray from the heavens. Ten o'clock in the "forenoon." How the great clouds part, seeming as though rent asunder by a giant's hand. Off they go, and behold the pure soft blue of the naked sky. How bright, how sweet the arch, fit canopy for so beautiful an earth. The cold ague-giving east wind has melted into a balmy fanning liquid south breeze, and the few clouds yet remaining turn out their "silver lining," instead of a grim blackness. Whew! but this broad blazing flood of sunshine is somewhat hot. Hot! yes indeed, for it is the real unmistakeable eye-flash of summer. How it pierces the cold, clammy, rain-drenched ground. How its fine essence penetrates into the myriad pores of our great mother, feeling down at the roots of the thousand flowers and shrubs that e'er long will shoot up their slender heads, and smile in the soft skies and wave in the sweet airs, so profuse for three months at least. The little under-ground fairies that make these structures are busy, very busy. If you doubt it, place your ear to the earth and you will hear a hum that must dissipate every doubt. A growing time for the seeds and roots; all nature rejoices; life is gushing out over the earth upon the air, in the water. Oh June! "Summer's first and loveliest child," thou art indeed beautiful. Like the bright reign of sweet girlhood, in all its virgin delicacy of feeling, in all its cloudless radiance of beauty.

is, in my opinion. It may be I am partial in this matter; early life may have its influence; early impressions may cause me to incline to this side of the question. I am a backwoodsman. I "was brought up in the woods." They are a part of me. They have struck their roots in my soul. Now that I am a denizen of brick walls I dream of them. All the city polishing in the world can't polish out my love for them. Often do the thronging roofs vanish away, and amidst the soft summer sky do I see the green graceful branches tossing in the sun. shine. The hard pavements also glide away, and lo! the delicate and elastic moss. It is not the rattle of the city I hear. No! it is the rush of the wind and the gurgle of the stream. These are not human beings crowded around, and thronging past. They are trees, and thickets, and bushes. They "do not smell of mortality."Money getting is not their object. They do not wear their various tints and colors for flaunting display. In a word they are not human. They are are part of the glorious, glorious wilderness.

Confessing then to my weakness, I repeat, Summer is most beautiful in the forests-and in no forests like those of old Sullivan. Grand shadowy and magnificent, how the leafy mantles of that romantic region spread out before me. What splendor, what beauty, what glory.London, with your leagues of habitations, and your million and a half of people, why you are a mere dot to to one wood I know of in the Delaware mountains. Let all your voices be swelled out in one great shout, and it would be drowned in the roar of those pines when an ordinary gust is passing through them. But let the gale of the Equinox crash along, and then-stop your ears if you don't want to be deafened. The deep sounds thrill down to the very bottom of your soul. The centre of your nature appears to be shaken. Hurrah for the battle shout of the pine wood! Old ocean is its only match when it rears its crest in fury to the tempest.But it is not always in a rage; it is'nt always roaring. A small matter of a breeze, it is true, will set the great league-blackening forest in a sublime and thundering passion, and it is then that it swings out its deep, stern, awful boom, but the single trees will sometimes murmur as gently as the singing of a streamlet. Oh such sweet, soft, thrilling sounds! Oh the delight with which the ear bends to listen! Now the swell, then the melting, melting, melting away, till you are led far into the siWhere is summer the most beautiful? It is a knotty lence, and wonder what has kept you so long spellquestion, hard to answer. Beautiful is she in fields and bound; and then hark! another wave of bee-like melomeadows, in orchards, parks and graveyards. She dy, rising, high and higher, until the ear is again filled brightens the homes of men, particularly those human with the mellow hum. There is the song of the bee-hives, cities. No matter if she only smiles in a rag-pine for you, reader: what do you think of it? Go to ged, struggling plant on the window sill, or the little the neighboring wood to-morrow, and seat yourself grass plot by the porch, she is welcome in her fresh under the tree, upon the green velvet, the moss has glory, amidst those haunts of the "money changers." lined its roots with, and listen. You will hear this same In the rural districts, as I have just said, she is also song before you have counted twenty- and after you beautiful. She sets the whole farm in motion-plough, have heard it, just let me know whether the description harrow and all: she makes the cattle stand knee deep exceeds the reality. One moment, however-let there in clover: she makes the timothy, the rye and the wheat. be no mistake between us. You must find the right bend in the wind as though they were breathing out kind of pine tree. This rich soft music has never swellbroad fitful puffs of smoke: she studs the apple boughs ed forth from the yellow pine-no, no, it is too much of and clothes the winding lanes with thick green velvet, a "loafer" for such sounds. Not that it is dumb-by so that the geese and vagabond cows have a fine time of no means. It " gives tongue" very audibly to every it. But after all she is most beautiful in the forests, that breeze "that's going." But what kind of tongue say

you? Why, really, sufficient to set the teeth on edge. When a soft breeze glides around its rough, contorted limbs, what does it do but yield a sort of airy spluttering-a broken, confused murmur-a sort of short, jerking noise, as though, after all, it was'nt pleased, although it tried to be. And when the blast comes, look out! stop your ears! A thousand serpents, in twining, eyeflashing, fang-bearing rage, could not send forth such hissings. Keen, shrill, piercing, they cut through the nerves without mercy. Ha! ha! the yellow pine tree, how it rocks within the blast! Ha! ha! the hissing pine tree, how its roused up anger seethes.

They 're whispered in the forest gloom,
They 're murmured in the sparkling stream,
They live upon the mountain's bloom,
They shine in summer's golden beam.
The wave that rolls in light along,
Has borne their flag in triumph proud,
Has heard the glad triumphant song,
That victory o'er them poured aloud;
The winds have blown their praises free,
Of those who dared be else than slaves,
And bright the bow that liberty,

Has arched above our father's graves.

Psychological Developments.

BY S. S. RANDALL.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than your philosophy e'er dreamt of."

To an enthusiastic imagination, every new development of the nature and attributes of the human mind has a deep and powerful interest. That it possesses powers as yet untried and unexplained; that this "plant of celestial origin" is capable of indefinite and illimit

But the white pine is a different matter. This is the instrument I mean, whose tones of music thrill upon the ear. Straight, smooth trunk, thick, oval plumage, graceful and beautiful, with its cool blue tint, it towers up, the King of the forest. Its long, slender, delicate fringes wave to the breeze, and give forth their longdrawn, sighing melody. Melancholy is it in some moods, joyous in others. In the sultry summer noon-tide it sounds like the grateful ripples of the shaded rill-in the dark starry night, like the voice of the one best-able expansion, surpassing even its highest and grandest loved and lost. The morning ray leaps first upon its pointed summit- there, lingers the sun-set radiance last. Unchanged through the dark and stormy winter, it bears its dark rich hues, meet emblem of Fidelity and in the merry spring time, how bright is its embroidery of young fresh plumage. The sunshine throws around it a veil of light, a robe of golden gauze, and the shower shrouds it in a silvery mist. The rain hums in its thick branches, so thick by the way, that the young partridge might nestle beneath and have hardly a drop wet its downy breast, pressed closely upon the dry brown withered fringes. All hail, thou monarch of the woods! in all thy grace, thy music and thy glorious beauty.

Our Fathers's Graves.

Our father's graves, the grove, the hill,
Are hallowed by their presence blest;
Their names are whispered in the rill,
That sparkles round their glorious rest.
The winds that fan the mountain side,
Repeat their names, their glories tell,
How in the battle's crimson tide,

They bravely fought and proudly fell.
They fell, and in each freeman's heart,
Their memory lives in brightest light.
Oh! never shall the beam depart,

Oh! ne'er their fame shall sink in night;
But round each high and sacred shrine,

A grateful realm shall bow the knee;
They fought for freemen's rights divine,
For thee they died, blest Liberty.

Go to the field, where once the clang
Of battle filled the startled gale,
Where once the trumpet's music rang

And death hung out his banner pale;
"Twas there our honor'd fathers strove,
Beneath their flag, their rights to shield.
Oh! who can tell the patriot's love,

When country calls him to the field.

Though silence rests upon the spot,

Save murmuring of the leaves and flowers;
Yet oh! their names are not forgot,

Who braved the storm in earlier hours.

aspirations in its present circumscribed sphere, there can exist as little doubt, as of its immense superiority to the masses of material substances with which it is surrounded and measurably connected. There are moments in the life of every rational and intelligent being, when the superincumbent pressure of the earthly nature is unfelt, and the released spirit ascends on buoyant wings to its native and destined element-" shuffles off this mortal coil" and asserts its congeniality to a higher and a purer atmosphere. But the vigilant and restless warders of this " prison house" the body, soon regain their temporary dominion and call us back to companionship with our fellow captives. Were we but capable of sustaining these flights of our better nature, we should need no revelation from heaven to confirm our wavering faith in the soul's immortality. We should anticipate the opening of those iron doors which enclose us in a region of sin, suffering and humanity-the withdrawal of the complicated folds of the dark curtain which separates us from eternity-and enter at once, upon the full fruition of that exalted destiny, which we are assured, is to dawn upon us when "life's fitful fever shall have ended." Of the things which are to be hereafter, it is perhaps well for us, that we can obtain but occasional and uncertain glimpses. There is enough and more than enough, to excite our highest wonder in the developments of the visible world and the ascertained capabilities of our mental and physical energies here. It was one of the decrees of omnipotent wisdom and power, that man should "have do minion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowls of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth." The ascendency over the inanimate as well as the animate creation, has been in a great measure, effectually secured by the uncontrollable progress of intellectual strength. The very elements have been subdued and rendered involuntary agents of the convenience and pleasure and business of our race. In their most angry mood, we are accustomed to approach and to grapple with them, with engines of mortal mould, and to wage with them a not unequal warfare.

zation and refinement, which we would fain hope is ultimately destined to regenerate the world. The revival, in this busy age of science and philosophical research, of the ancient and hitherto exploded doctrine of Animal Magnetism, with its fearful, undefined and occult mysteries, announces the entrance upon another and deeply interesting field of mental phenomena.

Neither the pathless depths of the roaring ocean, nor ty and intellectual power, given that impetus to civilithe desolating march of the hurricane when it sweeps onward in its strength-neither the convulsed heavings of the earth, nor the intensity and fearful energies of the maddening flames, in their apparent hour of triumph, have power over the inexhaustible resources of the human mind. In their ordinary mood, they all and each minister to our instruction and improvement. We approach their deepest mysteries, and penetrate into the The name by which this strange system has been handmost hidden recesses of their vast dominions. On the ed down to us from the dust of ages, is calculated to debroad expanse of the " deep and bounding sea," our ceive us in the very threshold of the investigation, by stately vessel "walks the waters like a thing of life." preparing us to expect something of machinery—of In the giddy heights of air, far above the tabernacles of matter-of substance-of scientific apparatus, when, in the clouds, the frail fabrics of man's invention peram- truth, if the pretensions of Animal Magnetism are bulate fearlessly and gallantly the regions of space. founded in reality, it is the single and unaided power of We invite the forked lightning from its desolating path, one mind, operating by a most astonishing and unpreceand control its electrical shocks at pleasure. We in- dented sympathy upon another of a nervous and sensivade the solitary wilderness, and brave the utmost fero- tive cast-assuming and exercising an irresistible concity of the untamed sovereigns of its desert kingdom, trol over it-conducting it, by the intensity and clearthat we may bend them to our will, and realize long ness and strength of its own conceptions, wherever it before their figurative accomplishment, the beautiful chooses to lead the way-infusing into it its own pecupredictions of scriptural prophecy. We have measured liar energies, thoughts, feelings, and sensations-and the distances of the stars-traced the wandering and rendering it, for the time being, a mere transcript of iterratic courses of the comets--ascertained the grand self, without the ability, or apparently the desire to esand sublime workings of the great system of the hea- cape from the strange and bewildering fascination. It venly bodies, and reduced to a mathematical demonstra- first produces a lethargic species of torper, apparently tion, the vast operations of the external universe. By in the same manner as the eye of the basilisk renders the aid and under the guidance of science and skill, we powerless and benumbed its unhappy victims. In the are enabled to approach confidently and unharmed the modern experiments of Animal Magnetism, however, most terrible and formidable objects of the animate and this may, it seems, be dispensed with—and the mind inanimate world, and to exceed in the merest amuse-alone brought into action. In either event, this torpor ments which attract and gratify the public curiosity, the is succeeded by a sleep so profound and deathlike, that most renowned feats of the ancient magicians and as- its subject is utterly unconscious of any sensations betrologers. Even the marble stillness of death has been yond such as the operator chooses to call into action, or made, by the mysterious operations of the magnetic in- to enable others, by his mere volition to do so-and to fluence, to assume the animation and visible form of these, whatever they may be, the mind and the voice life. respond with a fidelity and accuracy which is truly astonishing, and well-nigh miraculous. Objects, and scenes, and persons, familiar to the questioner, but which the sleeper has never before witnessed or conceived of, are brought vividly and distinctly to view, and assume a form as capable of full and clear description, as though he had temporarily assumed the nature and identity of the individual who is exerting this tremendous power over his faculties and his will.

But the empire of mind stops not here. The control over created matter, was the special gift of Providence -the inalienable birthright of our race. "Before man became disobedient to his Maker, not animals alone, but even the elements themselves, obeyed him." A more important and lasting power remained to be secued, by intellectual and moral ascendency alone-the power of mind over mind. Individuals in all ages have lent their energies to the achievement of literary and philosophical renown; and have handed down the impress of their minds as a perpetual heritage to the latest generations. In the retirement and seclusion of their closet, they have put forth their strength, and left the palm of victory to be announced, and the laurel wreath of fame to be encircled for their brow by future and successive ages. Heroes and conquerors have contested the mastery of mind, surrounded by embattled legionsthemselves the centre and the focus around which the tide of war and conquest circled-indebted far less to the physical means at their command than to the mental resources which directed and skillfully controlled their most minute operations. Statesmen and legislators have presided over the complex machinery of monarchies and republics, and courts and cabinets-have given laws to nations-formed and matured their institutions and by the silent influence of genius and abili

We are all aware of the wonderful ascendancy of the human eye, when fearlessly opposed to the most ferocious beast of prey. Many of us have witnessed, or, at least, have been credibly informed of the fascinating and deadly influence of the serpent when he enthralls his helpless and involuntary victim-but it has been reserved for modern times to witness a power over the volition of our own species, which a century since would have been classed among the nefarious exploits of necromancy. We know the effects of sympathy, we have seen its influence in the crowded auditory-in the midst of affliction, or excitement-in the prevalence of disease-in the progress of superstition-and we are familiar with the creative power of imagination in all its diversified and innumerable forms-but we have but recently learned to multiply ourselves indefinitely by the unaided operation of our mere mental energies-to prostrate the faculties of others, and substitute our own in

their stead, and to wander at will over the domains of mind. Here is a creative energy of a new and peculiar kind-requiring for its full development that perfeet self-possession and self-confidence-that faith, in the full acceptation of the term, which in this instance has power, not only to remove mountains-to exercise control over material substances, present or absent-but to wield at pleasure, and without effort, the immortal, unbounded, limitless capacities of the human mind. We have never before witnessed the unrestrained communion of spirit with its kindred spirit, unaided by those physical organs which have heretofore attended upon its high functions, and ministered to its varied wants,-nor have we before been made fully sensible of that omnipresent power derived from its great Creator, forming an essential part of its divine and etherial nature-destined more fully to expand and mature when divested of the incumbrances of flesh and blood which chain and bind its faculties here.

I do not propose at present to enter into an analytical detail of the principles, pretensions, history or utility of this new manifestation of the philosophy of the mind. Whether its foundations rest on the immutable principles of truth and reason, or are based on partial and isolated phenomena, incapable of being reduced to the certainty and precision of fundamental truth, the facts and results elicited from an immense variety of experiments actually exist, and form a striking and remarkable portion of the history of the human mind, in new and untried fields of action. The palpable evidence of the senses, in the entire absence of all and every possibility of deception, admits of no refined casuistical deduction from established precedents and settled rules. Every thing even remotely connected with the undying spirit of man, is interesting-and everything relating to its origin, capabilities, destination and powers, is involved in a mystery which we cannot yet hope to penetrate.

Goodness of heart is man's best treasure, his brightest honour, and wisest acquisition. It is a ray of divinity that dignifies humanity, attracts admiration, and assimilates him to his creator, but, like pure gold, it is liable to be counterfeited.

The singular beauty of the Hungarian women is the theme of every traveller's admiration. The town of Pesth is peculiarly remarkable in this respect, the proportion of handsome females being greater than in any part of the empire, and the elegance and taste of their dress superior even to those of Vienna.

He, whose first emotion on the view of an excellent production is to undervalue it, will never have one of his own to show.

To a Streamlet.

BY THEODORE T. LAKE.

Again thy verdant banks I greet,
Adorned with blooming flowers,
As summer with her colors sweet,
Illumes the glowing hours;
Again I view the rock, the wood,
That hang thy stream along,
As sparkling to the sun, thy flood
Sounds its Eolian song.

How oft have I, a happy boy,

Lain careless on thy bank,
Where the violet oped its deep blue eye,
And the lily thy waters drank,
Where the wild bee murmured on its wing,
And the west wind shed its breath,
And spring's bright flow'rets blossoming,
Bloomed round in varied wreath.

And who has listened to thy song,
And trod this wooded dell,
Since last I paced thy banks along,

To bid a last farewell?

Has none e'er cull'd thy simple flowers,
That bloom here wild and free,
Or lay within the greenwood bowers,
That throw their shade on thee?
Has not from his woodland depth, the deer,
Gazed on thy mirror'd breast,

And the wild swan laved in thy waters clear,
Her wing and snowy crest?

Has not the wood thrush join'd thy voice
With its own melodious lay,
And bid the traveller's heart rejoice,
As he passed on his weary way?
Has not the child, in his joyous play,
Launched on thy waves his bark,
And smiled as he tracked its gliding way,
By foam and flashing spark?
And beauty too, with her laughing eye,
Sent o'er her dulcet breath,

When eve had twined in the western sky,
The gold and crimson wreath?

But all is past, again I tread

Along thy verdant side,

And touch the well known flowers, that spread
Around in summer pride.

The rock, the wood, the greenwood tree,
All breathe a greeting voice,

That welcome me again to thee,

And bid my heart rejoice.

We hope the appearance of the present number will please our patrons and readers. It is a specimen of what we pledge ourselves the future numbers will be. We intend to spare no pains in making our paper as attractive as possible in its typographical arrangements, as well as its reading matter. Indeed, so far from deteriorating, we intend making greater and greater improvements. It will also have the fur

The hardest trial of the heart is, whether it can bear ther merit of being issued punctually, on the 1st and a rival's failure without triumph.

Life is real! Life is earnest,

And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way, But to act that each to-morrow, Finds us farther than to-day.

LONGFELLOW.

15th of every month.

We send the present Number it being the first of Vol. IV. to all the subscribers to our last volume, as a specimen. The subsequent numbers will be sent only to those who transmit the amount of their subscriptions to us, post-paid, at No. 3 North-Pearl street, Albany, in advance.

Literary Notices.

Observations in Europe, principally in France and Great Britain, by JOHN P. DURBIN, D. D., President of Dickinson CollegeIn two volumes, New-York: Harper & Brothers, 82 Cliff-st.,

1844.

The

of nobility, bestowed upon him by the Emperor, shows the true intellectual dignity of the man. Looking over a drawer of old papers, with a friend, he came across the parchment and tossing it towards him said, "by the way, you did not know I was a baron."

The volume consists of a life of the author, by Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer, and his poems and ballads translated by the same masterly hand. These glorious productions are wrought into English with great skill, ease and beauty, and with an aptitude and faithfulness which show how thoroughly the distinguished translator has entered into the spirit of the original.

"HONORS.

We should suppose that time and space were really annihilated, from the number of volumes issued descriptive of tours in Europe by Americans. Amongst these multifarious books of travels, none has pleased us more than this work by President Durbin. Light, easy and sketchy, it neither fatigues with too much detail, nor burthens the mind with long philosophical disquisitions upon character, manners and government. It would please us much, could we extract liberally author writes in a cheerful spirit, looking at the bright from this beautiful and valuable work; but our limits side of things, and evidently disposed to make the most forbid. We however cannot refrain from quoting the of all he encounters. In this, he offers an example following lines, not because of any superiority they which a few late tourists might follow, with improve-possess over the others, but by reason of their length ment to their works as well as their tempers. Professor being suited to the contracted space of our columnsDurbin brings to his task, a graceful, fluent pen, and an acute well disciplined mind. He describes what he has seen in a spirited and graphic manner; and with a gusto which evidently shows that he enjoyed deeply what he saw. Indeed it would not be easy to repress the enthusiasm which the Old World awakens in a denizen of the New. The aspect of things is so strange — the customs, manners, habits, &c., of the people are so different that it would be singular if the feelings were not aroused. The ancient walled cities-the gray mouldering castles with the ivy clothing battlement and turret, the manifold spots of mountain, wood and stream, haunted by superstitions, and peopled with legends-the great contrasts of society, with its courtly splendor and sordid poverty-all these strike the eye and fill the mind of the American traveller, with deep interest from their perfect novelty. Our author has caught as many of these salient points as his brief tour would allow.

The following is his description of the rural aspect of Old England from London to Birmingham:

"The country was indeed beautiful. It is not the garden of England, but yet the cultivation seemed to be almost perfect. The grass had a deep luxuriance that is rarely seen in America. It seemed like a thick tufted carpet, and the lazy sheep, sleek fat cattle and well conditioned horses like figures wrought upon it. The swells of ground were covered with golden grain. Lines of green hedge diversified the picture. Ranges of elms and groups of other trees abounded every where, giving the whole scene the appearance of a rich pleasure-ground, delightfully varied with light and shade."

The work is beautifully "got up" by the Harpers in the best style of those eminent and enterprising publishers, adorned with several fine plates of St. Paul's, Palais Royal, Wesleyan Theological Institution, the Catacombs, Cathedral at Rouen, &c., besides wood cuts and a very valuable plan of the fortifications of the city of

Paris.

"When the column of light on the waters is glass'd,
As blent in one glow seem the shine and the stream,
But wave after wave through the glory has pass ̧d,
Just catches, and fires as it catches, the beam.

So honors but mirror on mortals their light,
Not the MAN but the place that he PASSES is bright."

Littell's Living Age-Boston: E. Littell & Co., 118 Washington

street.

We have received Nos. 1 and 3 of the above work, and like them exceedingly. The work itself will give the cream of all the distinguished foreign periodicals, and at a price (12 1-2 cts. for each number) which places it within the reach of all. Each number contains 64 pages, and is printed on beautiful white paper and clear open type. The project is a good one, and

we heartily wish it success.

Harper's Illuminated and New Pictorial Bible. No. 4 of this magnificent work is lying upon our table. We have before chronicled our admiration of this noble undertaking, and still possess the same feelings as the work progresses. It is filled with admirable engravings, whilst the letter press is unrivalled. When completed it will be a splendid monument to the munificence and enterprise of the Messrs. Harpers.

The Northern Traveller; containing the Hudson River Guide, and tour to the Springs, Lake George and Canada, passing through Lake Champlain, with a description of all places on the route most worthy of notice-New-York: published by J. Disturnell, 102 Broadway, 1844.

We take great pleasure in recommending this little work to the notice of the public. It contains a description of all places of note on the Hudson River, as well as the various points of interest, upon the route by the way of the Springs, Lakes George and Champlain, to Canada, together with the cities, villages, rivers, bays, &c., of the latter country. Tables of distances between Albany and Montreal, and from the latter place to Kingston and Quebec are also given. The work is not only exceedingly valuable to the tourist, but it is interesting to the general reader. It is beautifully printed by C. Van Benthuysen & Co., of Albany, and affords a good specimen of the neat and handsome manner in which these enterprising and industrious publish

The Poems and Ballads of Schiller, translated by Sir EDWARD
LYITON BULWER, Bart., with a brief sketch of the author's life
-New-York: Harper & Brothers, 82 Cliff-street, 1844.
We regret that we have not more space to devote to
this charming volume. The name of Schiller is world-
renowned. Few men, if any, have surpassed him in
the greatness and choiceness of mental gifts. Ad-
ded to these were high moral qualifications which alto-
gether made up a character which the world seldom
sees. The estimation which he placed upon the patenters issue their volumes.

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