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Emm. It seems an American reprint.

Mrs. M. I should think it is. Many of the instructions apply more to America than to this country; perhaps I should say, more to a "Backwoods" settlement. It was this which led me to think it suitable to an emigrant family.

Aug. Suppose we present these volumes to Caroline Crochet on her marriage. I don't think she knows much of household management; and the honeymoon will last all the longer if the dinners are well cooked.

Emm. I wish husbands would not be so fond of good living. It seems very sensual.

Aug. Quite aldermanish, you think.

Mrs. M. It must be right, my dear, to avoid quarrelling over a burnt chop, or a leg of mutton done to rags; and a sensible mistress of a house will be thankful for such helps as these books, especially if she needs their counsel as much as poor Caroline Crochet seems to do.

Aug. Now, Mr. Editor, here are OUTLINES OF TRUTH,* or, to give the full title, "A Series of Allegorical and Plain Reflections on Forty-nine Moral and Scriptural Subjects, chiefly for the Unconverted and Weak Believers." Our readers will be interested in this book, because it is the production of a working

man.

Ed. Is he really one?

Aug. Yes; he is a porte: in a city house, and cannot have had much time to spare for literary pursuits, for he has been eight years composing this volume.

Ed. How has he been able to print it?

Aug. He obtained a good many subscribers, and the printers -the same who print our Magazine-kindly came to his aid in the shape of type and paper; so that he has been able to lay his book before the public. Its price is three and sixpence.

Ed. What is its literary character?

Aug. It displays some originality of thought and consider. able industry, and shows how much may be done by carefully gathering up the fragments of time. It is evident that Mr. Mendham does not spend his evenings in a public-house.

Ed. We should have a very different race of working men if it were not for that terrible love of drink, which rages amongst them like a pestilence.

Emm. THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE.†

Ed. A Roman Catholic story?

Emm. Which ends better than such stories usually do. The

London: Houlston & Stoneman.

† London: Nelson & Sons.

scene is laid in America, and this communicates some freshness of style and plot. The author's design has been "to lift a voice of warning, and to show the contrast between the pure and peaceable religion ef Christ and that system which is its dangerous counterfeit; and especially to bespeak for the humble, deluded stranger, such kindly Christian treatment as may win him from darkness to light."

Mrs. M. Pray give a favourable notice of the VIOLET'S CLOSE,* by a young friend of mine, who is very anxious to be of use, especially to the young.

Ed. Very laudable. What do you say of it, Emmeline?

Emm. Why, it is a simple, unpretending narrative, sketching the character, illness, and death of "Annie Dale," in a manner calculated to show the reality and nature of the Gospel. The authoress is evidently in earnest; but I should like to be by her side for a moment.

Ed. Why?

Emm. In order that I might say, "Do not make your characters talk as people in real life do not talk. You have a very good notion of writing, but your dialogues are impossible. Take my well-meant advice kindly, and notice how real personages discourse; note down the chief idioms of social conversation; adapt your imaginary conversations to them, and then you will be an efficient writer."

Aug. Well done, Miss Critic. You had better send your advice in a letter, and then this authoress will not know how young you are; and, believing you are a venerable old lady, may be disposed to pay more attention to your instructions.

* London: Hatchards.

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UR designer has taken an usual artist's licence with the above engraving. When we saw the worn-out tombstone" it was by no means in a country churchyard, nor did a rustic group stand by. The tombstone we saw was built into the wall of an old smoke-tinted church in the midst of murky Birmingham. It looked so very old, and had crumbled away so much, that we vainly endeavoured to make out the epitaph. All we could decipher was

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We stood for a few minutes musing. There was nothing very uncommon in a half-effaced inscription; but we were in the mood for reflection, and possibly our reflections may be of use to our readers.

Ah! what becomes of the glory of man? Whose remains lie in dust below? Nobody knows. The very stone which was let into the church wall, as if to render the memorial more secure, refuses to tell. The place that knew him once, knows him no more for ever. He has died. His memorial perishes with him. And is this what men work for, suffer for, die for? Just to gain a worn-out tombstone !

Perhaps he was some great man of the neighbourhood. People knew him as a magistrate, or respected him as a thriving iron-worker, or esteemed him as a sociable neighbour. Perhaps he won a name in the parliament wars by firing bullets, or won a fortune in the workshop by making buttons. Who can tell? He may have been a gay man of the world, or a meek and humble follower of the Lord. "He rests in peace," seems to indicate his piety; but it may only represent the hope which affection sometimes entertains without any foundation. He may have gone down to his grave like a shock of corn fully ripe; or have been snatched away in the vigour of life and health by some sudden disease. He may have pursued the even tenor of his way as a respectable but undemonstrative Christian; or have distinguished his profession by extraordinary efforts for the poor and needy.

But we, standing by the old stone whose record time is busily eating away, know nothing of his history ; and we care nothing about him. "...N.H......A.............. may represent his name, but the battered letters awaken no chord within our hearts. Many tears may have been shed over his grave, but we have no tears to shed. He has gone the way of all the earth, and it is mere curiosity which stops us at his tomb.

Will you live for this, and this only, dear reader? Shall men speak well of you through life, and shall sculptured marble echo their eulogies over your grave? Shall this be all you strive for? Is such renown worth all you would give for it? Look at this crumbling stone, and then ask if such a memorial can satisfy your ambition.

We can assure you that we went away with very humbling views of earthly immortality. It seemed to us a very poor thing to be great and honoured during life, and then to die and be forgotten. We may make a great sensation during the brief space of man's existence, and yet posterity know and care so little about us, as not even to keep our tombstone from obliteration.

Let us be wiser then. Let us rather wish to have our record on high, to get our names inscribed in the Lamb's Book of Life. The memorial never perishes from those annals. The epitaph will be eternal. Never mind if after your decease no human voice ever breathe your name in tones of affection or esteem, if only you can humbly rejoice in believing that at some future day, when man's proudest monument shall have crumbled into dust, YOUR NAME shall be confessed in the presence of the Father and of the holy angels.

"Well done, good and faithful servant"-when Christ shall speak those words-will be worth more than all the wonderful panegyrics of St. Paul's, or Westminster Abbey.

W. M. W.

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