the nobler conception; the feeling of helplessness is relieved; the craving for sympathy from the ruling power is satisfied; there is a hold for veneration; there is room for hope; there is, above all, the stimulus and support of an end perceived or anticipated; a purpose which steeps in sanctity all human experience. Yet even where this blessing is the most fully felt and recognized, the spirit can but be at times overwhelmed by the vast regularity of aggregate existence,-thrown back upon its faith for support when it refleets how all things go on as they did before it became conscious of existence, and how all would go on as now if it were to die today. On it rolls,-not only the great globe itself, but the life which stirs and hums on its surface, enveloping it like an atmosphere; -on it rolls; and the vastest tumult that may take place among its inhabitants can no more make itself seen and heard above the general stir and hum of life, than Chimbo- | razo or the loftiest Iimalaya can lift its peak into space above the atmosphere. On, on it rolls; and the strong arm of the united race could not turn from its course one planetary mote of the myriads that swim in space; no shriek of passion, nor shrill song of joy, sent up from a group of nations or a continent, could attain the ear of the eternal silence, as she sits throned among the stars. Death is less dreary than life in this view, a view which at times, perhaps, presents itself to every mind, but which speedily vanishes before the faith of those who, with the heart, believe that they are not the accidents of fate, but the children of a Father. In the house of every wise parent may then be seen an epitome of life,-a sight whose consolation is needed at times, perhaps, by all. Which of the little children of a virtuous household can conceive of his entering into his parent's pursuits, or interfering with them? How sacred are the study and the office, the apparatus of a knowledge and a power which he can only venerate! Which of these little ones dreams of disturbing the course of his parent's thought or achieve ment? Which of them conceives of the daily routine of the household-its going forth and coming in, its rising and its rest -having been different before his birth, or that it would be altered by his absence? It is even a matter of surprise to him when it now and then occurs to him that there is anything set apart for him,-that he has clothes and couch, and that his mother thinks and cares for him. If he lags behind in a walk, or finds himself alone among the trees, he does not dream of being missed; but home rises up before him as he has always seen it,-his father thoughtful, his mother occupied, and the rest gay, with the

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one difference of his not being there. This he believes, and has no other trust than in his shriek of terror, for being even remembered more. Yet all the while, from day to day, from year to year, without one moment's intermission, is the providence of his parent around him, brooding over the workings of his infant spirit, chastening his passions, nourishing his affections,—now troubling it with salutary pain, now animating it with even more wholesome delight. All the while is the order of household affairs regulated for the comfort and profit of these lovely little ones, though they regard it reverently, because they cannot comprehend it. They may not know all this,

how their guardian bends over their pillow nightly, and lets no word of their careless talk drop unheeded, and records every sob of infant grief, hails every brightening gleam of reason and every chirp of childish glee,—they may not know this because they could not understand it aright, and each little heart would be inflated with pride. each little mind would lose the grace and purity of its unconsciousness; but the guardianship is not the less real, constant, and tender, for its being unrecognized by its objects. As the spirit expands, and perceives that it is one of an innumerable family, it would be in danger of sinking into the despair of loneliness if it were not capable of "Belief

In mercy carried infinite degrees Beyond the tenderness of human hearts," while the very circumstance of multitude obviates the danger of undue exaltation. But though it is good to be lowly, it be hooves every one to be sensible of the guardianship of which so many evidences are around all who breathe. While the world and life roll on and on, the feeble reason of the child of Providence may be at times overpowered by the vastness of the system amidst which he lives; but his faith will smile upon his fear, rebuke him for averting his eyes, and inspire him with the thought, "Nothing can crush me, for I am made for eternity. I will do, suffer, and enjoy as my Father wills; and let the world and life roll

on !"

Such is the faith which supports, which alone can support, the many who, having been whirled into the eddying stream of social affairs, are withdrawn, by one cause or another, to abide in some still little creek, the passage of the mighty tide. The brokendown statesman, who knows himself to be spoken of as politically dead, and sees his successors at work, building on his foundations, without more than a passing thought on him who had laboured before them, has

need of this faith. The aged, who find affairs proceeding at the will of the young and hardy, whatever the gray-haired may think and say, have need of this faith. So have the sick, when they find none but themselves disposed to look on life in the light which comes from beyond the grave. So have the persecuted, when, with or without cause, they see themselves pointed at in the street; and the despised, who find themselves neglected whichever way they turn. So have the prosperous, during those moinents which must occur to all, when sympathy fails, and means to much desired ends are wanting, or when satiety makes the spirit roam abroad in search of something better than it has found. This universal, eternal, filial relation is the only universal and eternal refuge. It is the solace of royalty weeping in the inner chambers of its palaces, and of poverty drooping beside its cold hearth. It is the glad tidings preached to the poor, and in which all must be poor in spirit to have part. If they be poor in spirit, it matters little what is their external state, or whether the world, which rolls on beside or over them, be the world of a solar system, or of a conquering empire, or of a small-souled village. Deerbrook, a Novel.

DOUGLAS JERROLD, well known as the author of Black-Eyed Susan, The Rent Day, and many other dramas, Mrs. Caudle's Curtain-Lectures, etc., in Punch, and other productions, was born in London in 1803, served for some time in the Royal Navy, and also as a printer, and died in 1857.

Men of Character, 1838, 3 vols. p. 8vo; Bubbles of the Day, a Comedy, 1842; Cakes and Ale, 1842, 2 vols. fp. 8vo; Prisoner of War, 1842, 8vo; Punch's Letters to his Son, 1843, fp. 8vo; Punch's Complete LetterWriter; Story of a Feather, 1844, fp. 8vo; Mrs. Caudle's Curtain-Lectures, new edit., 1846, fp. 8vo; Chronicles of Clovernook, 1846, fp. 8vo; A Man Made of Money, 1849, p. 8vo; The Catspaw, a Comedy, 1850, 8vo; Retired from Business, a Comedy, 1851, 12mo; St. Giles and St. James, 1851, 12mo: Time Works Wonders, 1854, fp. 8vo; A Heart of Gold, a Drama, 1854, 12mo; Comedies and Dramas, 1854, 12mo, new edit., 2 vols. 8vo. To these may be added Nell Gwynne, Cupid, etc., and many papers in The Heads of the People, The Illuminated Magazine, The Shilling Magazine, and Lloyd's Weekly, all of which he edited. After his death appeared The Barber's Chain, and The Hedgehog Letters, cr. 8vo,

Brownrigg's Papers and other Stories, new edit., 1860, p. 8vo, Life and Remains of Douglas Jerrold, 1859, 8vo, The Wit and Opinions of Douglas Jerrold, 1859, 12mo, all edited by his son William Blanchard Jerrold, author of The Life of Napoleon III., 4 vols. 8vo, etc. There are collective editions of Jerrold's Works, Lond., 1851-54, 8 vols. 12mo. and 1863-65, 5 vols. p. 8vo.

"Jerrold was truly a man of a large heart, as well as of a great original genius. He never lost an opportunity of labouring in any act of benevolence that his sense of duty set before him; and his last words were those of affection towards all with whom he had been associated in friendship.to him a sacred relation."-Lond, Gent. Mag., July, 1857, 94, q. v. See also Jerrold, Tennyson, Macaulay, and other Critical Essays, by J. H. Stirling, LL.D., 1868, fp. 8vo: New Spirit of the Age, by R. H. Horne, 1844, 2 vols. p. 8vo; N. Brit. Rev., May, 1859.

CLOVERNOOK AND ITS INN.

We have yet no truthful map of England. No offence to the publishers; but the verity must be uttered. We have pored and pondered, and gone to our sheets with weak, winking eyes, having vainly searched, we cannot trust ourselves to say how many hundred maps of our beloved land, for the exact whereabout of Clovernook. We cannot find it. More: we doubt-so imperfect are all the maps-if any man can drop his finger on the spot, can point to the blessed locality of that most blissful village. He could as easily show to us the hundred of Utopia; the glittering weathercocks of the New Atlantis.

And shall we be more communicative than the publishers? No; the secret shall be buried with us; we will hug it under our shroud. We have heard of shrewd, shortspeeched men who were the living caskets of some healing jewel; some restorative recipe to draw the burning fangs from gout; some anodyne to touch away sciatica into the lithesomeness of a kid; and these men have died, and have, to their own satisfaction at least, carried the secret into their coffins, as though the mystery would comfort them as they rotted. There have been such men; and the black, begrimed father of all uncharitableness sits cross-legged upon their tombstones, and sniggers over them.

Nevertheless, we will not tell to the care less and irreverent world-a world noisy with the ringing of shillings-the whereabout of Clovernook. We might, would we condescend, give an all-sufficient reason for our closeness: we will do no such thing. No: the village is our own, consecrated to our own delicious leisure, when time runs by like a summer brook, dimpling and

sweetly murmuring as it runs. We have the most potent right of freehold in the soil; nay, it is our lordship. We have there droits du seigneur; and in the very despotism of our ownership might, if we would, turn oaks into gibbets. Let this knowledge suffice to the reader; for we will not vouchsafe to him another pippin's-worth.

Thus much, however, we will say of the history of Clovernook: there is about it a very proper mist and haziness; it twinkles far, far away through the darkness of time, like a taper through a midnight casement. The spirit of fable that dallies with the vexed heart of man, and incarnates his dreams in living presences,-for mightiest of the mighty is oft the muscle of fiction, fable says that Clovernook was the work of some sprite of Fancy, that in an idle and extravagant mood made it a choice countryseat, a green and flowery place, peopled with happy faces. And it was created, says fable, after this fashion:

The sprite took certain pieces of old, fine linen, which were torn and torn, and reduced to a very pulp, and then made into a substance, thin and spotless. And then the sprite flew away to distant woods, and gathered certain things, from which was expressed a liquid of darkest dye. And then, after the old time-honoured way, a living thing was sacrificed; a bird much praised by men at Michaelmas, fell with bleeding throat; and the sprite, plucking a feather from the poor dead thing, waved and waved it, and the village of Clovernook grew and grew; and cottages, silently as trees, rose from the earth; and men and women came there by twos and fours; and in good time smoke rose from chimneys, and cradles were rocked. And this, so saith fable, was the beginning of Clovernook.

Although we will not let the rabble of the world know the whereabout of our village, -and by the rabble, be it understood, we do not mean the wretches who are guilty of daily hunger, and are condemned in the court of poverty of the high misdemeanour of patches and rags,-but we mean the mere money-changers, the folks who carry their sullen souls in the corners of their pockets, and think the site of Eden is covered with the Mint; although we will not have Clovernook startled from its sweet, dreamy serenity and we have sometimes known the very weasels in mid-day to doze there, given up to the delicious influence of the placeby the chariot-wheels of that stony-hearted old dowager, Lady Mammon, with her false locks and ruddled cheeks, we invite all others to our little village; where they may loll in the sun or shade as suits them; lie along on the green turfy sward, and kick |

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their heels at fortune: where they may jig an evening dance in the meadows, and after retire to the inn,-the one inn of Clovernook,-glorified under the sign of "Gratis!"

Match us that sign if you can. What are your Georges and Dragons, your Kings' Heads and Queens' Arms; your Lions, Red, White, and Black; your Mermaids and your Dolphins, to that large, embracing benev olence,-Gratis? Doth not the word seem to throw its arm about you with a hugging welcome? Gratis! It is the voice of Nature, speaking from the fulness of her large heart. The word is written all over the blue heaven. The health-giving air whispers it about us. It rides the sunbeam (save when statesmen put a pane 'twixt us and it). The lark trills it high up in its skyey dome; the little wayside flower breathes gratis from its pinky mouth; the bright brook murmurs it; it is written in the harvest moon. Look and move where we will, delights-all "gratis," all breathing and beaming beauty-are about us; and yet how rarely do we seize the happiness, because, forsooth, it is a joy gratis?

But let us back to Clovernook. We offer it as a country tarrying-place for all who will accept its hospitality. We will show every green lane about it; every clump of trees; every bit of woodland, mead, and dell. The villagers, too, may be found, upon acquaintance, not altogether boors. There are some strange folk among them. Men who have wrestled in the world, and have had their victories and their trippingsup; and now they have nothing to do but keep their little bits of garden-ground pranked with the earliest flowers; their only enemies, weeds, slugs, and snails. Odd people, we say it, are amongst them. Men whose minds have been strangely carved and fashioned by the world; cut like odd fancies in walnut-tree; but though curious and grotesque, the minds are sound, with not a worm-hole in them. And these men meet in summer under the broad mulberry-tree before the "Gratis," and tell their stories,— thoughts, humours; yea, their dreams. They have nothing to do but to consider that curious bit of clock-work-the mind-within them; and droll it sometimes is, to mark how they will try to take it to pieces, and then again to adjust its little wheels, its levers, and springs.

The Chronicles of Clovernook; with some
Account of the Hermit of Bellyfulle.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON, the son of a Unitarian minister, was born in Boston in 1803, graduated at Harvard Col

lege. 1821, and officiated for some time as minister of the Second Unitarian Church of Boston. He has for many years been living in retirement at Concord, Massachusetts.

Works: vol. i., Essays, Bost., 1841, 12mo, with Preface by Thomas Carlyle, Lond., 1853, 12mo; ii., Essays, Second Series, Bost., 1844, 12mo, 2d edit., 1855, 12mo; iii., Poems, Bost., 1847, 12mo; iv., Representative Men, Seven Lectures, Bost., 1850, 12mo; v., Miscellanies: embracing Nature [1839], Addresses, and Lectures, Bost., 1849, 12mo; vi., English Traits, Bost., 1856, 12mo; vii., Conduct of Life, Bost., 1860, 12mo; viii., May Day and other Pieces, Bost., 16mo; ix., Society and Solitude, Bost., 1869, 16mo; x., Poetry and Criticism, Bost., 1875, 12mo; xi., Fortune of the Republic, Bost., 1878, 16mo.

In 1851 appeared Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli, by Ralph Waldo Emerson, William Henry Channing, and James Freeman Clarke, Bost., 2 vols. 12mo, Lond., 1852, 3 vols. p. 8vo. Mr. Emerson edited The Dial, Bost., 1840-44, and has contributed to the North American Review, vols. 44: 1 (Michael Angelo), 47: 56 (Milton), 102: 356 (Character), 106: 543 (Quotation and Originality), 124: 179 (Demonology), 125: 271 (Perpetual Forces), and The Christian Ex

aminer.

BEAUTY.

The presence of a higher, namely, of the spiritual element is essential to its perfection. The high and divine beauty which can be loved without effeminacy is that which is found in combination with the human will, and never separate. Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue. Every natural action is graceful. Every heroic act is also decent, and causes the place and the bystanders to shine. We are taught by great actions that the universe is the property of every individual in it. Every rational creature has all nature for his dowry and estate. It is his, if he will. He may divest himself of it; he may creep into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most men do; but he is entitled to the world by his constitution. In proportion to the energy of his thought and will, he takes up the world into himself."All those things for which men plough, build, or sail, obey virtue," said an ancient historian. "The winds and waves," said Gibbon, are always on the side of the ablest navigators." So are the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven. When a noble act is done, perchance in a scene of great natural beauty; when Leonidas and his three hundred warriors consume one day in dying, and the sun and moon come each and look at them once

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in the steep defile of Thermopyla; when Arnold Winkelried, in the high Alps under the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his side a sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his comrades: are not these heroes entitled to add the beauty of the scene to the beauty of the deed? When the bark of Columbus nears the shore of America,— before it, the beach lined with savages fleeing out of all their huts of cane; the sea behind; and the purple mountains of the Indian Archipelago around, can we separate the man from the living picture? Does not the New World clothe his form with her palm-groves and savannahs as fit drapery? Ever does natural beauty steal in like air, and envelop great actions. When Sir Harry Vane was dragged up the Tower-hill, sitting on a sled, to suffer death, as the champion of the English laws, one of the multitude cried out to him, You never sate on so glorious a seat." Charles II., to intimidate the citizens of London, caused the patriot Lord Russell to be drawn in an open coach, through the principal streets of the city, on his way to the scaffold. "But," to use the simple narrative of his biographer, "the multitude imagined they saw liberty and virtue sitting by his side." In private places, among sordid objects, an act of truth or heroism seems at once to draw to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its candle. Nature stretcheth out her arms to embrace man, only let his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly does she follow his steps with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and grace to the decoration of her darling child. Only let his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the picture. A virtuous man is in unison with her works, and makes the central figure of the visible sphere. Nature.

THE POWER OF LOVE.

Be our experience in particulars what it may, no man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and brain, which created all things new; which was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and art; which made the face of nature radiant with purple light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a single tone of one voice could make the heart beat, and the most trivial circumstances associated with one form is put in the amber of memory: when we became all eye when one was present, and all memory when one was gone; when the youth becomes a watcher of windows, and studious of a glove, a veil, a ribbon, or the wheels of a carriage; when no place is too solitary, and none too silent for him who has richer company, and sweeter