shine of more than fourscore years to give it back in smiles to those whom he has now left in a world less bright since he is gone. So passes from us the last of those three brothers whom many of us remember as honors to their several callings, types and patterns of the best class of American citizens. United in the dearest friendship while they lived, we may hope that they are at length reunited among the good and faithful servants who have entered into the joy of their Lord. As the last of them leaves us we seem to look upon them once more as when we used to see them together in their daily walk. Charles, grave, learned, judicial by nature, gentle, unselfish, modest, whom to have known is the most precious legacy of the past to many of the living; Patrick, great-hearted, impetuous, sanguine, constructive, executive, whose footprints were among the first along the opening track of New England's progress; and with them this teacher of teachers, this healer of the sick, this counsellor of the perplexed, this consoler of the sorrowful, this benefactor of the needy, whose sympathies were boundless as the day, and whose priceless labors extended through twothirds of a century. With all gratitude for his beautiful and most useful life, feeling as we must, that he had filled the full measure of his usefulness, it is yet with sorrowing hearts that we strike from the roll of living men the revered and cherished name of JAMES JACKSON. -Daily Advertiser. H. DR. JACKSON. - Our honored and venerable fellow-citizen, Dr. James Jackson, died in this city on Tuesday, having nearly completed his ninetieth year. He was the son of Hon. Jonathan Jackson of Newburyport and a brother of the late Judge Charles Jackson and Patrick T. Jackson. He was born in Newburyport, October 3, 1777, and graduated at Harvard College in 1796. Of the class of that year he was the last survivor. He was admitted to the Massachusetts Medical Society in 1802, and within three years from that date had won so prominent a position in his profession that he was appointed, in connection with Dr. John C. Warren, to compile a pharmacopoeia for the society. In 1812 he became professor of the theory and practice of medicine in the Harvard Medical School, and held that place for twentyfour years. He was a physician to the Massachusetts General Hospital, of which he was one of the founders; and was several times elected to the presidency of the Massachusetts Medical Society. His contributions to medical literature were exceedingly valuable, and were noticed by medical societies at home and abroad with high commendation. Dr. Jackson's great skill and quick sympathy gained for him in a remarkable degree the confidence and love of his patients, who were loth to release him from their service even after his mental and physical powers had evidently begun to fail. Never of robust constitution, he enjoyed through life an equable health, which he maintained by his regular habits of living and by his cheerful and elastic temperament. About a year and a half ago his mental faculties suddenly failed, while his bodily health was still tolerably good. From that period all his powers gradually declined; but he has only been confined to his house since the beginning of last winter. He had no particular sickness, and suffered but little if any during this time, his death resulting rather from general exhaustion incident to old age, than from any assignable local disease. He leaves five children, numerons grandchildren, and several great-grandchil dren. We need not say that the news of his death will be received with a very sincere and wide spread sorrow. - Boston Advertiser, 29 August. And once- -how well I know the spot- And now, I've nothing more to say; I am not sure, but still I think, His love is mine, and mine is his; Argosy. From the Attic shore. Think ye that those who fought for Greece, their mother, For Christ on Cross, Mid those most sacred hills and vales, where Vanquished and tortured can their soul's love erst, Ere men ruled men, smother, Forget their loss? In arms of Gods the high Gods themselves were They fought unaided, suffered unsubdued, nursed, By Kings betrayed; Base tongues belied them, slander subtle and lewd ON rolled the mighty melody, as though A multitude passed by A sea of sound and sweetness; here and there A glory crept along the vaulted roof, The sunshine stole it from the windows where Below knelt youth and beauty in their pride, And then the heavy oaken door swung back: A woman entered in Wan in the face, and weary in her mien, And, like a blot upon a robe, she stood And youth and beauty drew themselves apart, Still, where the pictured Twelve Apostles stood No. 1215. September 14, 1867. 1. A Spanish and a Danish Novel 2. Mrs. Austin - Miss Sedgwick 3. The Tenants of Malory. Part 5. 4. Shooting Niagara: and After? 5, English for the Portuguese 6. Sarah Taylor Austin 7. Mr. Disraeli's Victory 692 696 8. Washington Irving's Spanish Papers and Miscellanies Saturday Review, 9. Foolish Virgins 10. A Speculation for the City 11. Hymns 11. Life POETRY After the rain, 642. To the Ritualist, 642. : SHORT ARTICLES: Mrs. Austin, 653. Miss Sedgwick, 653. cences, 687. Mr. Dickens's Visit to America, 695. Sir Henry Bulwer's Reminis PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. FOR EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Living Age will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year; nor where we have to pay a commission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series, in Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars. The Complete work 32 "" 50 "" Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. A SPANISH AND A DANISH NOVEL. THE most faultless of novelists was roused to so much indignation by the contempt which it was the fashion fifty years ago to bestow upon novels and romances, that departing from her ordinary position of a dispassionate narrator of the emotions and experiences of fictitious characters, she rushed into a sudden impetuosity on her own account and introduced into her story of Northanger Abbey a vigorous defence of the tribe to which she belonged. not desert one another' she said. an injured body :' 'Let us From Fraser's Magazine, | granting the heart to be the seat of passion. It is true that such knowledge is more fruitful than the bare acquaintance with the dates of battles, or of deaths of kings, or of depositions of popes, but it is not true that most novels contain any such useful revelations. The larger number - and the quantity produced at the present time in England, is in the proportion of one for each day contain little that is profitable to the reader. Bad grammar, bad morality, false sentiment, vapid dialogue, impossible incident, or none at all worthy of record, 'the poison and the bowl, with all manner of extravagance, or the tea table and the urn with all manner of insipidity, an absence of all truth and of all beauty: these are the From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes characteristics, negative and positive, of the are almost as many as our readers, and while works which crowd the fashionable circulatthe abilities of the nine hundredth abridger of ing library, and which the reader turns over the History of England, or of the man who listlessly, under that semblance of occupacollects and publishes, in a volume, some dozen tion to which honest idleness is much to be lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper preferred. On the other hand, the history from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, writing of the nineteenth century has asare eulogised by a thousand pens, there seems sumed many of the qualities of the highest an almost general wish of decrying the capacity, kinds of fiction. The bald manner of narand undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of sighting the performances which have rating facts which so wearied Catherine only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. Morland, or the stilted style which vexed 'I am no novel reader.' I seldom look into her, have almost disappeared. It is no novels.' It is really very well for a novel.' longer thought necessary to tell the events 'Do not imagine that I often read novels.' of the past in a tone altogether different Such is the common cant, and What are you from that in which occurrences of the presreading, Miss?' "Oh, it is only a novel!'ent day are related; the notion of the digreplies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda, or, in short, only some work in which the great est powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are con veyed to the world in the best chosen language. And the heroine of the work in which this passage occurs, is made to say of history me. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing which does not either vex or weary The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all. It is very tiresome, and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention, and inven tion is what delights me in other books. There is, in these strictures, some justice, though they are not wholly just. It is true that the best novels exhibit some of the highest powers of the human mind, and convey in an interesting form a knowledge of life and character in their outward shows, and of the interior mechanism of the heart; nity of history, which was the essence of its dulness, is set aside; language is allowed to be natural, the familiar incidents of daily life are admitted occasionally into the record; nothing is excluded which can help to interpret the past to the present; and the pages of the historian are animated with pictures more vivid, plots more complete, and characters of more intricate interest than are to be found in any but the very greatest among works of fiction. Readers who remember the painful effort with which they struggled up the long hill, the Hill Difficulty in Russell's Modern Europe, or Coxe's House of Austria, the favourite school books of a less happy period, dragging at each remove a lengthening chain, can scarcely believe now, when they glide and float and skim easily along over pleasant waters, or canter briskly through flowery fields, or are carried in an easy lift to the mountain top, that they are engaged in the study of history; they survey a whole universe of wonder and variety through the powerful lens of their guide, they see vividly the long procession, the gay revelry, the pomp of war, the sacerdotal splendour, the soft love meeting, the cruel parting, the |