shazzar's Feast! In the incomplete process, the transition-state of an idea from its conception to its realization, we are brought closer to the mind of the artist; we detect its springs and hidden workings, and therefore feel its reality more than in the finished effort. And this is one reason why we are more impressed at beholding the work just left than in gazing upon one that has been for a long time abandoned. Having had actual communion with the contriving_mind, we recognise its presence more readily in its production; or else the recency of the departure heightens the expressiveness with which everything speaks of the departed. The dead child's cast-off garment, the toy just tossed aside, startles us as though with his renewed presence. A year hence they will suggest him to us, but with a different effect. But though not with such an impressive tone, yet just as much, in fact, do the productions of those long gone speak to us. Their minds are expressed there, and living voice can do little more. Nay, we are admitted to a more intimate knowledge of them than was possessed by their contemporaries. The work they leave behind them is the sum-total of their lives--expresses their ruling passion-reveals, perhaps, their real sentiment. To the eyes of those placed on the stage with them, they walked as in a show, and each life was a narrative gradually unfolding itself. We discover the moral. We see the results of that completed history. We judge the quality and value of that life by the residuum. As a prophet has no honor in his own country," so one may be misconceived in his own time, both to his undue disparagement and his undue exaltation; therefore, can another age better write his biography than his own. His work, his permanent result, speaks for him better, at least truer, than he spoke for himself. The rich man's wealth, the sumptuous property, the golden pile that he has left behind him-by it, being dead, does he not yet speak to us? Have we not, in that gorgeous result of toiling days and anxious nights, of brain-sweat and soul-rack, the man himself, the cardinal purpose, the very life of his soul? which we might have surmised while he lived and wrought, but which, now that it remains the whole sum and substance of his mortal being, speaks far more emphatically than could any other voice he might have used. The expressive lineaments of the marble, the pictured canvass, the immortal poem-by it, genius, being dead, yet speaketh. To us, and not to its own time, is unhoarded the wealth of its thought and the glory of its inspiration. When it is gone-when its lips are silent, and its heart still-then is revealed the cherished secret over which it toiled, which was elaborated from the living alembic of the soul, through gainful days and weary nights-the sentiment which could not find expression to contemporaries— the gift, the greatness, the lyric power, which was disguised and unknown so long. Who, that has communed with the work of such a spirit, has not felt in every line that thrilled his soul, in every wondrous lineament that stamped itself upon his memory for ever, that the dead can speak, yea, that they have voices which speak most truly, most emphatically, when they are dead? So does Industry speak, in its noble monuments, its precious fruits! So does Maternal Affection speak, in a chord that vibrates in the hardest heart, in the pure and better sentiment of after-years. So does Patriotism speak, in the soil liberated and enriched by its sufferings. So does the Martyr speak, in the truth which triumphs by his sacrifice. So does the great man speak, in his life and deeds, glowing on the storied page. So does the good man speak, in the charac ter and influence which he leaves behind him. The voices of the dead come to us from their works, from their results, and these are all around us. But I remark, in the second place, that the dead speak to us in memory and association. If their voices may be constantly heard in their works, we do not always heed them; neither have we that care and attachment for the great congregation of the departed, which will at any time call them up vividly before us. But in that congregation there are those whom we have known intimately and fondly, whom we cherished with our best love, who lay close to our bosoms. And these speak to us in a more private and peculiar manner,-in mementos that flash upon us the whole person of the departed, every physical and spiritual lineament-in conse crated hours of recollection that open up all the train of the past, and re-twine its broken ties around our hearts, and make its endearments present still. Then, then, though dead, they speak to us. It needs not the vocal utterance, nor the living presence, but the mood that transforms the scene and the hour supplies these. That face that has slept so long in the grave, now bending upon us, pale and silent, but affectionate still-that more vivid recollection of every feature, tone, and movement, that brings before us the departed, just as we knew them in the full flush of life and health-that soft and consecrating spell which falls upon us, drawing in all our thoughts from the present, arresting, as it were, the current of our being, and turning it back and holding it still as the flood of actual life, rushes by us— while in that trance of soul the beings of the past are shadowed-old friends, old days, old scenes recur, familiar looks beam close upon us, familiar words reecho in our ears, and we are closed up and absorbed with the by-gone, until tears dissolve the film from our eyes, and some shock of the actual wakes us from our reverie;-all these, I say, make the dead to commune with us really as though in bodily form they should come out from the chambers of their mysterious silence, and speak to us. And if life consists in experiences, and not mere physical contacts-and if love and communion belong to that experience, though they take place in meditation, or dreams, or by actual contact-then, in that hour of remembrance, have we really lived with the departed, and the departed have come back and lived with us. Though dead, they have spoken to us. And though memory sometimes in duces the spin. of heaviness-though it is often the agent of conscience and wakens us to chastise-yet, it is wonderful how, from events that were deeply mingled with pain, it will extract an element of sweetness. A writer, in relating one of the experiences of her sick-room, has illustrated this. In an hour of suffering, when no one was near her, she went from her bed and her room to another apartment, and looked out upon a glorious landscape of sunrise and spring-time. "I was suffering too much to enjoy this picture at the moment," she says, "but how was it at the end of the year? The pains of all those hours were annihilated, as completely vanish ed as if they had never been; while the momentary peep behind the window-curtain made me possessor of this radiant picture for evermore." "Whence this wide difference," she asks, "between the good and the evil? Because the good is indissolubly connected with ideas-with the unseen realities which are indestructible." And though the illustration which she thus gives bear the impression of an individual peculiarity, instead of an universal truth, still, in the instance to which I apply it, I believe it will very generally hold true, that memory leaves a pleasant rather than a painful impression. At least, there is so much that is pleasant mingled with it, that we would not willingly lose the faculty of memory-the consciousness that we can thus call back the dead and hear their voices-that we have the power of softening the rugged realities which only suggest our loss and disappointment, by transferring the scene and the hour to the past and the departed. And, as our conceptions become more and more spiritual, we shall find the real to be less dependent upon the outward and the visible-we shall learn how much life there is in a thought-how veritable are the communions of spirit with spirit; and the hour in which memory gives us the voices of the dead will be prized by us as an hour of actual experience, and such opportunities will grow more precious to us. No, we would not willingly lose this power of memory. * Well, then, is it for us at times to listen to the voices of the dead. By so doing we are better fitted for life and for death. From that audience we go purified and strengthened into the varied discipline of our mortal state. We are willing to stay, knowing that the dead are so near us, and that our communion with them may be so intimate. We are willing to go, seeing that we shall not be wholly separated from those we leave behind. We will toil in our lot while God pleases, and when He summons us we will calmly depart. When the silver cord becomes untwined, and the golden bowl broken-when the wheel of action stands still in the exhausted cistern of our life, may we lie down in the light of that faith which makes so beautiful the face of the dying Christian, and has converted death's ghastly silence to a peaceful sleep. May we rise to a holier and more visible communion, in the land without a sin and without a tear. Where the dead shall be closer to us than in this life. Where not the partition of a shadow or a doubt shall come between. T. S. ARTHUR WAS born in 1809, near Newburgh, Orange county, New York. In 1817, his parents removed to J. S. Auther Baltimore, where he lived till 1841, when he removed to Philadelphia, where he has since resided. His boyhood, as we learn from a brief autobiography prefixed to one of his books, was passed with but few advantages of instruction in Maryland. He left school to be apprenticed, when he entered upon a course of self-education. His sight failing him when he became his own master, he abandoned the trade which he had learnt, and was for three years a clerk. In 1833, he went to the West as agent for a Banking Company; the institution failed and he returned to Baltimore. He then associated himself with a friend as editor of a newspaper, and soon became engaged in the active career of authorship, which he has since pursued with popular favor. His writings embrace numerous series of works of fiction of a domestic moral character; pictures of American life subordinated to a moral sentiment. He has published more than fifty volumes, besides numerous tales in cheap form.* GENTLE HAND. When and where, it matters not now to relatebut once upon a time, as I was passing through a thinly peopled district of country, night came down upon me, almost unawares. Being on foot, I could not hope to gain the village toward which my steps were directed, until a late hour; and I therefore preferred seeking the shelter and a night's lodging at the first humble dwelling that presented itself. Dusky twilight was giving place to deeper shadows, when I found myself in the vicinity of a dwelling, from the small uncurtained windows of which the light shone with a pleasant promise of good cheer and comfort. The house stood within an enclosure, and a short distance from the road along which I was moving with wearied feet. Turning aside, and passing through the ill-hung gate, I approached the dwelling. Slowly the gate swung on its wooden hinges, and the rattle of its latch, in closing, did not disturb the air until I had nearly reached the little porch in front of the house, in which a slender girl, who had noticed my entrance, stood awaiting my arrival. A deep, quick bark answered, almost like an echo, the sound of the shutting gate, and, sudden as an apparition, the form of an immense dog loomed in the doorway. At the instant when he was about to spring, a light hand was laid upon his shaggy neck and a low word spoken. "Go in, Tiger," said the girl, not in a voice of authority, yet in her gentle tones was the consciousness that she would be obeyed; and, as she spoke, she lightly bore upon the animal with her hand, and he turned away, and disappeared within the dwelling. "Who's that?" A rough voice asked the question; and now a heavy-looking man took the dog's place in the door. "How far is it to G-?" I asked, not deeming it best to say, in the beginning, that I sought a resting-place for the night. "To G- -!" growled the man, but not so harshly as at first. "It's good six miles from here." 66 A long distance; and I'm a stranger, and on foot," We give a list of most of these writings, though not in the order of their production:-Sketches of Life and Character, 8vo., pp. 420; Lights and Shadows of Real Life, 8vo., pp. 500; Leaves from Book of Human Life, 12mo.; Golden Grains from Life's Harvest Field, 12mo.; the Loftons and the Pinkertons, 12mo.; Heart Histories and Life Pictures; Tales for Rich and Poor, 6 vols. 18mo.; Library for the Household 12 vols. 18mo.; Arthur's Juvenile Library, 12 vols. 16mo.; Cottage Library, 6 vols. 18mo.; Ten Nights in a Bar-Room, 12mo.; Six Nights with Washingtonians, 18mo.; Advice to Young Men, 18mo.; Advice to Young Ladies, 18mo.; Maiden, Wife, and Mother, 8 vols. 18mo.; Tales of Married Life, 3 vols. 18mo.; Stories of Domestic Life, 8 vols. 18mo.; Tales from Real Life, 8 vols. 18mo.; Tired of House-keeping, 18mo.; Novels in Cheap Form, 20 vols. said I. "If you can make room for me until morning, I will be very thankful." I saw the girl's hand move quickly up his arm, until it rested on his shoulder, and now she leaned to him still closer. "Come in. We'll try what can be done for you." There was a change in the man's voice that made me wonder. I entered a large room, in which blazed a brisk fire. Before the fire sat two stout lads, who turned upon me their heavy eyes, with no very welcome greeting. A middle-aged woman was standing at a table, and two children were amusing themselves with a kitten on the floor. "A stranger, mother," said the man who had given me so rude a greeting at the door; "and he wants us to let him stay all night." The woman looked at me doubtingly for a few moments, and then replied coldly— "We don't keep a public house." "I am aware of that, ma'am," said I; " but night has overtaken me, and it's a long way yet to "Too far for a tired man to go on foot," said the master of the house, kindly, "so it's no use talking about it, mother; we must give him a bed." So unobtrusively, that I scarcely noticed the movement, the girl had drawn to the woman's side. What she said to her I did not hear, for the brief words were uttered in a low voice; but I noticed, as she spoke, one small, fair hand rested on the woman's hand. Was there magic in that gentle touch? The woman's repulsive aspect changed into one of kindly welcome, and she said: Yes, it's a long way to Gcan find a place for him." I guess we Many times more, during that evening, did I observe the magic power of that hand and voice-the one gentle yet potent as the other. as On the next morning, breakfast being over, I was preparing to take my departure, when ny host informed me that if I would wait for half an hour he would give me a ride in his wagon to Gbusiness required him to go there. I was very well pleased to accept of the invitation. In due time, the farmer's wagon was driven into the road before the house, and I was invited to get in. I noticed the horse as a rough-looking Canadian pony, with a certain air of stubborn endurance. As the farmer took his seat by my side, the family came to the door to see us off. "Dick!" said the farmer in a peremptory voice, giving the rein a quick jerk as he spoke. But Dick moved not a step. "Dick! you vagabond! get up." And the farmer's whip cracked sharply by the pony's ear. It availed not, however, this second appeal. Dick stood firmly disobedient. Next the whip was brought down upon him, with an impatient hand; but the pony only reared up a little. Fast and sharp the strokes were next dealt to the number of half-a-dozen. The man might as well have beaten his wagon, for all his end was gained. A stout lad now came out into the road, and catching Dick by the bridle, jerked him forward, using, at the same time, the customary language on such occasions, but Dick met this new ally with increased stubbornness, planting his forefeet more firmly, and at a sharper angle with the ground. The impatient boy now struck the pony on the side of his head with his clinched hand, and jerked cruelly at his bridle. It availed nothing, however; Dick was not to be wrought upon by any such arguments. "Don't do so, John!" I turned my head as the maiden's sweet voice reached my ear. She was passing through the gate into the road, and, in the next moment, had taken hold of the lad and drawn him away from the animal. No strength was exerted in this; she took hold of his arm, and he obeyed her wish as readily as if he had no thought beyond her gratification. And now that soft hand was laid gently on the pony's neck, and a single low word spoken. How instantly were the tense muscles relaxed-how quickly the stubborn air vanished. "Poor Dick!" said the maiden, as she stroked his neck lightly, or softly patted it with a child-like hand. "Now, go along, you provoking fellow !" she added, in a half-chiding, yet affectionate voice, as she drew up the bridle. The pony turned toward her, and rubbed his head against her arm for an instant or two; then, pricking up his ears, he started off at a light, cheerful trot, and went on his way as freely as if no silly crotchet had ever entered his stub born brain. 46 What a wonderful power that hand possesses!" said I, speaking to my companion, as we rode away. He looked at me for a moment as if my remark had occasioned surprise. Then a light came into his countenance, and he said, briefly "She's good! Everybody and everything loves her." Was that, indeed, the secret of her power! Was the quality of her soul perceived in the impression of her hand, even by brute beasts! The father's explanation was, doubtless, the true one. Yet have I ever since wondered, and still do wonder, at the potency which lay in that maiden's magic touch. I have seen something of the same power, showing itself in the loving and the good, but never to the extent as instanced in her, whom, for want of a better name, I must still call "Gentle Hand." WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. MR. HOSMER was born at Avon, in the valley of the Genesee, New York, May 25, 1814. He was graduated at Geneva College, and soon after commenced the study of the law with his father, the Hon. George Hosmer, one of the oldest members of the bar of Western New York. Mr. Hosmer was in due course licensed, and has practised his profession with success. Holle Hormer His parents having settled in the Genesee valley while it was yet occupied by the Seneca Indians, Mr. Hosmer's attention was early directed to the history and legends of the race whose home, possessions, and stronghold, had been for a succession of ages in that valley, and whose footprints were yet fresh upon its soil. His mother conversed fluently in the dialect of the tribe, and was familiar with its legends. These circumstances naturally directed Mr. Hosmer in the choice of a theme for his first poem, Yonnondio, an Indian tale in seven cantos, published in 1844. In 1854 Mr. Hosmer published a complete collection of his Poetical Works in two volumes duodecimo. The first contains the Indian romance of Yonnondio, followed by legends of the Senecas, Indian traditions and songs, Bird Notes, a series of pleasantly versified descriptions of a few American birds, and the Months, a poetical calendar of nature. The second contains Occasional Poems, Breathes on the wind his mandate loud, And fitful gleams of sunlight shine Around his throne of cloud: The Genii of the forest dim A many-colored robe for him Of fallen leaves have wrought; No joyous birds his coming hail, For Summer's full-voiced choir is gone, Of dull, gray mist is drawn: A dreary song of dole: Above me bends, as on I stray, And purple, green, and gold, With carmine blent, have gorgeous made The partridge, closely ambushed, hears On swift, resounding wing: The cricket's bugle shrill- Black walnuts, in low, meadow ground, The deep brown chestnut falls. Bright flowers yet linger:-from the morn The germs of fruit they bear, The varied aster tribes unclose Bright eyes in Autumn's smoky bower, And azure cup the gentian shows, A modest little flower: Their garden sisters pale have turned, Right royally arrayed: And phlox, whose leaf with crimson burned While foams the pumice fine- Feed a vast tub, made tight and clean, From wheat-fields, washed by recent rains, The geese, so orderly of late, Fly over fence and farm-yard gate, The habits of a wilder state To memory brought back. Wherewith it welcomed June! Of many a sun-bright day Fair flowers!-more beautiful than dreams Though wild, mischievous sprites of air, Drop on October's brow of care Dead wreaths and foliage brown, Abroad the sun will look again, Rejoicing in his blue domain, And prodigal of gold, Ere dark November's sullen reign Gild stream and forest old. Called by the west wind from her grave, The wan, departing year; In cloudless moonshine clad. The scene will smoky vestments wear, With fragrant fumes, displayed And raindrops falling fast, JOEL TYLER HEADLEY WAS born at Walton, Delaware county, New York, December 3, 1814. He was graduated at Union College in 1839, and studied for the ministry at the Auburn Theological Seminary. Compelled by ill-health to relinquish this calling, he travelled in Europe in 1842 and 1843, passing a considerable portion of his time in Italy. On his return to America in 1844, he prepared a volume descriptive of his foreign tour, Letters from Italy, followed by The Alps and the Rhine. They Witteadly were published in the popular series of Wiley and Putnam's Library of American Books, and were received with unusual favor by the public. In 1846 Mr. Headley achieved a still more decided success in the publication of his spirited biographical sketches, Napoleon and his Marshals, to which Washington and his Generals in the next year was an American companion. A Life of Oliver Cromwell, based mainly upon Carlyle's researches, in 1848; The Imperial Guard of Napoleon, based upon a popular French history by Emile Marco de St. Hilaire, in 1851; Lives of Scott and Jackson in 1852; A History of the War of 1812, in 1853, and a Life of Washington, first published in Graham's Magazine in 1854, followed in sequence the author's first successes in popular biography and history. Headley's Residence. A spirited volume of travelling sketches, the result of a summer excursion in northern New York, The Adirondack, or Life in the Woods, appeared from Mr. Headley's pen in 1849, which, with two volumes of biblical sketches, Sacred Mountains and Sacred Scenes and Characters, and a volume of Miscellanies, Sketches, and Rambles, completes the list, thus far, of his publications. His books, impressed by the keen, active temperament of the author, are generally noticeable for the qualities of energy and movement, which are at the secret of their popular suc cess. Mr. Headley resides at a country seat in the neighborhood of Newburgh on the Hudson. In 1854 he was chosen to represent his District in the State Legislature. WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON. No one, in tracing the history of our struggle, can deny that Providence watched over our interests, and gave us the only man who could have conducted the car of the Revolution to the goal it finally reached. Our revolution brought to a speedy crisis the one that must sooner or later have convulsed France. One was as much needed as the other, and has been productive of equal good. But in tracing the progress of each, how striking is the contrast between the instruments employed-Napoleon and Washington. Heaven and earth are not wider apart than were their moral characters, yet both were sent of Heaven to perform a great work. God acts on more enlarged plans than the bigoted and ignorant have any conception of, and adapts his instruments to the work he wishes to accomplish. To effect the regeneration of a comparatively religious, virtuous, and intelligent people, no better man could have been selected than Washington. To rend asunder the feudal system of Europe, which stretched like an iron frame-work over the people, and had rusted so long in its place, that no slow corrosion or steadily wasting power could affect its firmness, there could have been found no better than Bonaparte. Their missions were as different as their characters. Had Bonaparte been put in the place of Washington, he would have overthrown the Congress, as he did the Directory, and taking supreme power into his hands, developed the resources, and kindled the enthusiasm of this country with such astonishing rapidity, that the war would scarcely have begun ere it was ended. But a vast and powerful monarchy, instead of a republic, would have occupied this continent. Had Washington been put in the place of Bonaparte, his transcendent virtues and unswerving integrity would not have prevailed against the tyranny of faction, and a prison would have received him, as it did Lafayette. Both were children of a revolution, both rose to the chief command of the army, and eventually to the head of the nation. One led his country step by step to freedom and prosperity, the other arrested at once, and with a strong hard, the earthquake that was rocking France asunder, and sent it rolling under the thrones of Europe. The office of one was to defend and build up Liberty, that of the other to break down the prison walls in which it lay a captive, and rend asunder its century-bound fetters. To suppose that France could have been managed as America was, by any human hand, shows an ignorance as blind as it is culpable. That, and every other country of Europe, will have to pass through successive stages before they can reach the point at which our revolution commenced. Here Liberty needed virtue and patriotism, as well as strength-on the continent it needed simple power, concentrated and terrible power. Europe at this day trembles over that volcano Napoleon kindled, and the next eruption will finish what he begun. Thus does Heaven, selecting its own instruments, break up the systems of oppres |