brities of the Quaker metropolis and the country at large, in a great variety of aspects, fish, flesh, and fowl, admirably drawn and colored in many cases, with unmistakable humor, and in all with unrivalled neatness and precision. Altogether the work, when completed, must make a volume for the American shelf unique and peculiar, and without a competitor. A special complaint is entered in the London journals against the character of the American daguerreotypes on exhihition in the Crystal Palace. What artists have sent from this country we do not know; but we do know that the daguerreotypes of this country have the credit with judges of leading English productions of that class. We had occasion lately to submit one of these, from the hand of BRADY, to a number of gentlemen who had travelled, and were "picked men of countries." Their unanimous verdict was, that in finish, neat management of accessories and general beauty, this specimen of American handiwork was far in advance of similar London productions. As they are disposed to push us pretty hard just now, on the other side of the water, we wish BRADY would take it into his head to appear in the field, and turn the tide (as he could not fail to) as opportunely as BLUCHER in the rescue of WELLINGTON at Waterloo. In this case it would be, however, not to aid, but to "whip the British" in a friendly encounter. STRINGER & TOWNSEND's International under a wide-awake and industrious editorship, presents a miscellany of great variety and unusual excellence. We can imagine few pleasanter companions under the green trees, of a summer afternoon. Its twin-brother (a little taller perhaps than ours in mere inches) the New Monthly, we are glad to see, has opened a humorous drawer at the end of its July number, so that we may expect to see a good deal of fun, if we will : but wait a while. The solid interests of this publication require no indulgence in their uniform excellence they speak plainly and satisfactorily for themselves. In every month's work from the house of HARPERS-it might be safely predicted that you would have a novelty (like Yeast, a Problem," by the author of Alton Locke), a book of utility (like the New York and Erie Rail road Guide), a cheap readable fiction (like" The Gold Worshippers"), something from a popular hand (as the comedy of" Notso Bad as we Seem," by Bulwer), a school readingbook (for example History of Cleopatra," Queen of Egypt, by Jacob Abbot), a patriotic issue (like Lossing's "Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution"), with what not of readable odds and ends, to fill up the spaces. Something spiced for every taste, the Barons (although not exactly barons of beet), may be fairly considered the SOYERS of the reading public: setting forth their plenteous tables daily, at the Symposium in Cliff street," under the hill." Skipping for a moment to the other side of the water, we have a communication correcting on authority, our statement as to the circula Making, altogether, it would ap pear, a grand total of 84,000 12,000 52,000 7,500 155,500 20,000 175,000 Mr. REYNOLDS (all consideration of the topics and treatment of his works aside) is certainly one of the most active, and at the same time among the most skilful writers of the day. In such of his works as we have had an opportunity to examine, we have found tact, interest, and an extraordinary power over the attention of the reader. If Mr. REYNOLDS is denied a full acknowledgement in any quarter, it cannot be want of talent and all the equipments and accomplishments of an admired popular writer. Its unaffected sentiment will make welcome to our readers this sonnet of THE TWO HANDS. Thy hand, O God, in ministry of pain, Was laid on burning cheek and aching brow, And the quick pulses calmed in mercy now, Poured a fast fever's tide thro' every vein, And wild unrest through throbbing limb and And yet, O God, another hand in thine, brain. Lent by thy goodness to this need of mine, With gentle soothing hath restored again Calm days of health and nights of sweet repose. And through that dear hand's angel ministry, I upward guide my trembling faith to see, What pain forgets, what reason scarcely knows, That God's owu chastening hand itself must be Like the dear hand of love his love bestows. E. P. W. The misapprehensions and difficulties contributors to periodicals encounter, are well touched upon in an anecdote from a spicy (but by no means im-personal) series of papers in the Philadelphia Mercury. We omit the names. "At Mr. G's request I often furnished editorial articles for the" Book," though Mrs. was supposed to have a general superintendence of this department. Mrs. H-, perhaps, thought herself aggrieved by my encroachment on her province, and, it may be, she was right in thinking so. Certainly I had no wish to interfere with her duties, and it was only at the publisher's request, and always with reluctance that I supplied any material for the editorial pages. Whatever may have been the cause, it was soon pretty evident that I was not much in favor with the editress. Mr. G. told me that she very strongly objected to the "tone" of some of my stories; Then simply, but sincerely, In plain unworldly way, They reach you o'er the sea, We are pleased, friend Martin, with that distinct mention of your latitude and longitude, for we always wish to know where to have you. ADRIANCE, SHERMAN & Co. have launched from port in the Astor House, a life of that galtant man of the seas, PAUL JONES; and no better book for patriotic reading in the country, where one's patriotism has a chance to breathe and blossom a little-can be taken in car, coach, or boat. Of JENNY LIND in America, by Mr. C. J. ROSENBERG, we may have something to say hereafter. GOULD & LINCOLN maintain their high character of solid excellence in publications like Plymouth and the Pilgrims, by JOSEPH BANVARD," and it opens a pleasing promise that it is announced that this is but one of a series of volumes of American Histories. Among the projects of the month one of the most curious and, if rightly conducted, one of the most promising, is a newspaper under the title of The American Indian," to be edited by our shrewd friend-a sort of twoheaded fellow like old Janus-to wit, KAH-GEGAH-BOW, better known in the New York Directory as CorWAY. This is certainly a novelty, and a good novelty, if there be no conspiracy of our keen friend at the bottom of it to recover for the Redmen the upper hand of the country, by putting them in charge of our newspapers! Messrs. TICKNOR, REED & FIELDS have issued their second volume of the memoirs of WORDSWORTH, a book, however condemned by critics as a biography, of the highest value to the students of poetry and the admirers of the great poet to whom it relates. From Messrs. APPLETON we have a most curious work in COGGE SHALL'S selection from eighty MSS. voyages, and like everything from that establishment, of substantial value and interest. BAILLIERE, Broadway, has startled the catalogue with the " Physiology of Civilization," of which we shall probably have to speak more particularly hereafter. JOHN TALLIS & Co. John street, continue their elegant and excellent Dramatic Magazine, also their liberally-embellished Scripture National History. Mrs. BROWNING has re-appeared with heroic fire in the eye, and glittering mail on the brow, like another Joan of Arc, to fight the great battle of Italian liberty in the Casa Guidi Windows. Messrs FRANCIS & Co. have issued this in a volume with "Prometheus" and other poems, in neat style and typography. Mr. Saxe, the Vermont poet, is in town to deliver his Anniversary Poem at the New York University, which will, we can safely promise, be shrewd, compact, and with divers home-thrusts will no doubt "stick another pin there," as far as the reputation of our Yankee humorist is concerned. Next month we shall give special and more detailed attention to New Publications, with a liberal table of anecdote and gossip. The sea shore invites us, reader, and we must away: but not before we ask you, Have we not in this July DOLLAR furnished you a handsome variety of entertaining and instructive reading?. DOLLAR MAGAZINE. AUGUST, 1851. ODDS AND ENDS, BY NO. I. HAPPINESS. THERE probably was never an age of the world in which so much pains were taken to make mankind better and happier; and yet, from the experience of a long life, as well as a pretty extensive acquaintance with past generations, derived from history, I doubt whether the present has much to boast of in comparison with the past. In morals we certainly have not improved upon the patriarchs of the Scriptures; and as regards happiness, the outward condition of a large portion of the human race, in countries that boast of the highest degree of civilization and refinement, will derive no triumphs from a comparison with those periods of pastoral simplicity which, however embellished by poetry, certainly once existed in the world. After all, however, happiness, although the universal pursuit of mankind, is not identified with any condition of life, any mode of enjoyment, or any advances in mere human knowledge. It is a creature of the mind more than of the body, and the most common error we commit is that of estimating the happiness of men by their possession of what we suppose the means of being happy. If it were possible for us to be content with our condition in life, without sinking into utter listlessness and apathy, that would probably come as nearly as anything to the summum bonum which so puzzled the ancient philosophers. WRITER. comforts of life that are necessary to human happiness; or dost thou lack the advice of experience, or the consolations of sympathy? Speak, for it is the business of my life to bestow them on my fellow creatures." "Alas!" said the stranger, "I require none of these. I have all and more than I want of everything. I have all the means of happiness but one, and the want of that renders every other blessing of no value." "And what is that?" asked the Dervish. "I adore the beautiful Zulema; but she loves another, and all my riches and honors are as nothing. I am the most miserable of men; my life is a burden, and my death would be the greatest of blessings.' Before Almoran could reply, there approached a poor creature, clothed in rags, and leaning on his staff, bowed down to the earth with a load of misery. He sat down moaning, as if in great pain, and casting his eyes upwards, exclaimed, "Allah! be my star; for I have none other!" The Dervish went to him and kindly said, "What aileth thee, poor man? Perhaps it may be in my power to relieve thy distresses. What wantest thou?" beggar; "Everything," replied the "health, food, kindred, friends, a homeeverything. I am an outcast and a wanderer, destitute of every comfort of life. I am the most miserable of mankind; for in addition to my own sufferings, I see others around me revelling in those luxuries for lack of a small portion of which I am perishing." One day, as the Dervish Almoran, the wisest of all the followers of the Prophet, and the oracle of the chief Mufti of Stam- At this moment a third man approached, boul, was sitting in a shady grove by the with weary steps and languid look, and side of a bubbling fountain, on the shores casting himself down by the side of the of the Bosphorus, trying to find out the true fountain, stretched out his limbs at free road to happiness, in order that he might length, and yawning desperately, cried out, benefit his fellow creatures by communicat-"Allah! what shall I do? what will become ing the discovery, his speculations were interrupted by a man richly clothed, who, approaching, sat down and sighed heavily, crying out at the same time, "Oh! Allah, I beseech thee to relieve me of life, or the burdens with which it is laden." * of me? I am tired of life, which is nothing but a purgatory of wants, that when supplied only produce disappointment or disgust." Almoran approached and asked, "What is the cause of thy misery? What wantest thou ?" "I want a want," answered the other. "I am cursed with the misery of fruition. I have wasted my life in acquiring riches, that brought me nothing but disappointment, and honors that no longer gratify my pride, or repay me for the labor of sus THE village of Taboga, with its hundred houses or so and its white-walled church, is before us, at the opening of the green valley which divides the two loftiest of the hills of the island. From the bay in the distance, as we sail into the harbor, the little brown huts of cane and palm-leaf thatch look like the dwarf-houses of a Dutch toy village; and as they show themselves irregularly scattered about, peeping through the gaunt cocoanut-trees that wave their feathery tops high above them in the air, they seem as if they might have been fixed in their straggling sites, by the caprice of some child architect at play. Some of the huts top the weatherworn rocks which divide the beach, and jut into the bay; here, upon the rocks, the pelicans may be seen full paunched and torpid, dozing after a feast of fish with which they have glutted themselves in the waters below. Some of the huts are thrust back into the valley among the leaves that shade the stream which flows between the hills. Others again are grouped about the margin of the shore; when the tide is out, a wide surface of smooth beach stretches before them; when the tide is at its full, the waves murmur and beat at their doors. This beach is the chief approach to the island; here the boats land from the vessels in the harbor, bringing idle skippers to lounge about the village,--bustling stewards to make their purchases of live stock, fruits, and vegetables, and busy sailors that go. struggling up the beach with great water casks. The heavy ship's boat, with a strong pull of the oarsmen, is driven, lifted upon an advancing wave, high and dry upon the shore, while the native canoe, light and buoyant, with a gentle sweep of the paddle, seems to leap like a supple fish right out of water far beyond upon the sands. Here, upon the beach, the natives embark on their voyages to Panama and the neighboring isles, and here return. Here come from Quibo, the Islands of the King, the Pearl Islands, and other places in and about the Gulf of Panama, large canoes heavily freighted with provisions, pigs, fowls, yams, 1849 AND '50. and fruit of every kind, to supply the steamers and shipping. This beach, too, is the favorite resort of the natives when the cool of the evening breeze invites them to breathe the pure air; here the men lie idly about, smoking their Taboga cigars, and stretched among the fleet of canoes, left by the tide high and dry upon the shore; here the Taboga women lounge about, fanning themselves with the breeze, and cooling their bare feet upon the moist sand; and the naked children, with great glee and noise, sport with the waves, flying from the coming, and running after the going tide. The native inhabitants of the village are a simple minded, quiet, ease loving, enjoying people. Existence subdued and softened into languor by the warm, moist, vapor-like atmosphere of the tropical island, its drowsy repose in the still bay, and its fulness of sensuous enjoyment, and soothed with beauty, and fattened with abundance, seems like a long sleep. The various origin of the people shows itself in the occasional characteristic features of the Spaniard, African, and Indian; but mostly a general harmony of color and form prevails, giving the natives the look of the Egyptian race in their bronzed complexions, rounded limbs, and regularity of feature. The blood of the proud and cruel Castilian conqueror, the wild Indian, and patient Congo slave, mingled together, free of all harshness and bitterness, flows a mild mixture in the veins of the quiet Taboga people. They have all a sleek, well fed look, and are unruffled and happy. The men are lithe and strong, and, though indolent, capable of labor. The women are full formed and graceful, their movement easy and unrestrained, their features smooth and unvaried, and their eyes are large, full, and slumbering. There is little need of work in this well favored island. Food can be got by stretching out the hand to take it, for nature generously supplies an endless store; shelter and clothi g are hardly needed, when summer lasts for ever. The men, however, build cool huts of a native bamboo, and thatch them with the leaves of the palm, | dango dancing parson, the Padre is not uncultivate small fields of maize and yams, mindful of his spiritual duties. Upon Sunscoop out great trunks of trees, and launch days and saints' days, he is always to be their canoes upon the bay to fish, or sail to found at the church, surrounded with an Panama, to barter their loads of fruit for the odor of sanctity, chanting the mass with his coarse cloth of Manchester, for their own oily voice, and he is always at hand to peruse, and, flaunting calicoes, cotton laces, form his spiritual functions at every birth, bright colored Chinese handkerchiefs, and marriage, and death in the village. He has, cheap finery to adorn the women. The however, a little curé, an infant Christ carved women keep at home mostly, swinging in in wood, with golden hair, and red painted their hammocks the live-long day, or busy- cheeks, upon whom devolves much of the ing themselves with their small household parochial duties on the more tedious of cares,-tending their young, if mothers, these occasions. At the earliest prospect of preparing their simple feasts, or plaiting a birth or death, the little painted curépalmleaf baskets, or pounding the maize, who, by the bye, is somewhat the worse for -or otherwise doing the simple duties of wear in the course of his heavy labors, and their simple life. would be the better for a fresh coat of paint As in all villages, there are some notabili--is despatched, to cheer by his blessed ties, who are thought to be somewhat better than their neighbors, and to have more claim upon the notice of the chronicler than others: so there are in the village of Taboga. First of all, there is the Padre, no reverend ecclesiastic of demure face and sombre mien, but a plump, jolly, "oily man of God," without a care or wrinkle, as round, smooth, and unctuous as a Spanish olive,-no ascetic who thinks that the joy of this world must be bartered away to secure the happiness of another, but a right merry fellow,-who never puts off to the morrow any pleasure that may be got to-day, and never giving a thought to the paradise above, seems quite contented with his paradise here below, and makes the most of his merry life among the orange groves and dark-eyed girls of Taboga. He is a happy mortal, beloved of his simple flock, and an especial favorite of the Taboga women. By a free interpretation of the law of celibacy, or somehow or other, he has contrived to become the father of more than his share of the dark faced and black eyed urchins that indiscriminately toddle about the village. There is no better judge in the whole village of the fighting qualities of a game cock, and to see him to advantage, just look at him when he has doffed his canonicals, after saying mass in church on a Sunday, and observe how his smooth, oily face glistens, and how young and spry he looks, with his finely woven Panama hat hung knowingly on one side of his black, crisp hair, and how gay, in his flowing white trowsers, and his bright, red silken sash, and how earnestly he thrusts himself among his cockfighting parishioners, and bets upon the fight. He will outdance, too, any young gallant of Taboga at a fandango, and his presence always puts fresh spirit into the movements of the dancing girls, who think him the most lovable man in all Taboga. Though a cockfighting and fan presence, the suffering and dying, from his place at the high altar in the church where he sits cross-legged at the spangled skirts of the wooden virgin in the worshipful company of painted saints and apostles. On Saints' days, and especially upon the day of the patron saint of the island, Our Lady of Carmen, the Padre, all gilt and spangles, shows to great advantage, leading over the island, at the break of day, his procession of well drilled vestals, all in white raiment and with their dark flowing hair decked with orange blossoms, bearing crosses adorned with flowers, and carrying Our Lady of Carmen, gallanted by that glowing little Cherub, the little curé, under a canopy brilliant with gay blossoms, and odorous with rich perfume. We question whether the people of Taboga, the women especially, would exchange their favorite Padre for the Pope of Rome himself. You may see any day at Taboga, a tall, gaunt, raw-boned, red-haired virago, her fiery hair streaming over her stringy neck and square angular shoulders, and her bony limbs but half covered with her scant robe, with a thin wrinkled face mottled with freckles, like a bit of parchment shrivelled with age and spotted with mould, looking as fierce as the savage Bellona, and sitting as straight as a dragoon upon the back of a bull, that with a slow heavy tread moves its great bulk about the village, guided by a meek Tobago man, old, deaf, and rheumatic. Jupiter and Europa! you exclaim; the imperial and rampant Jove subdued into the tamest of bulls, and the enticing Europa sharpened into the sharpest and ugliest of shrews! The meek Tobago man for one, we have reason to know, would not object to a celestial translation, if the taurine Jove should get up his spirits sufficiently to spirit away his Europa to the heights of Olympus. The red-haired Europa is Dona |