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of her life, she attended with exemplary de. the Fair until it is opened; then you shall votion to the duties of a wife and mother. have all the gossip of all the gossipping When her children had grown up to man

papers of London. hood, and gained an independence for themselves, she then thought herself justified in

THE BOOK WORLD. following a propensity which was in her so powerfully at work, and which prompted In like garrulous humor, I go on to tell her to leave a comfortable home and many you of such books as relieve our town loving friends. She first directed her steps May. The Seven Gables you have read, to Palestine and Egypt. After her return she visited Scandinavia and Iceland. it must be, and found it, as all the world Then she set out on a voyage round the finds it, trenchant in its wit, playful in world, landing in Brazil, surmounting the humor, and delicate to a hair’s-breadth in Parahyby, and penetrating through thick, its description. It comes in well as a quiet primitive forests, to visit the aborigines at

sedative after the rough outlining, and nighttheir own homes; then passing Cape Horn, touching at Valparaiso, she traversed the

mare-ish work of Borrow's, about which we Pacific Ocean to Otaheite and China, Singa have had a very pretty publishers’ quarrel. pore and Ceylon, as far as Kandy; wander - Yeast is the queerish title of a book ing hence to Bengal, Hindostan, and Delhi, turning her steps to the caves of Adjunta

to presently to see the light in this country, and Elora, to Bombay. From that spot she but originally put out in the page of Fraser. sailed through the Arabian and Persian Sea It is written, as the critics say, by that to Bassora, followed the Tigris up to Bagdad, strong-feeling, but not very settle-minded continuing to pass over an immense country

clergyman who gave us not long ago, the to Babylon, Mosul, Nineveh, into Kurdistan, and Persia's second capital, Tabris. Pursu

forcible story of Alton Locke. Its humor ing her course over Tiflis, along the Caucasus,

will be after the same order, and I give you she embarked at Redout Kali for Constan- | here a sprig of his poetry to show how tinople and Greece, whence she returned to his thought runs into a fever of sympathy. her native country. She speaks in glowing | It might be another song of a shirt. terms of the kindness she met with at the hands of some of the tribes who are consid.

A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER. ered to be most backward in civilization,"

“ The merry brown hares came leaping - All the world, they say, is going to Over the crest of the hill, the Fair. In the omnibuses and the steam

Where the clover and corn lay sleeping

Under the moonlight still. boats you hear adieux said, and there are sobbings on all the docks of the town. Even 5 Leaping late and early, now, if the papers are to be believed, a mil Till under their bite and their tread lion of strange men and women are thread

The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley,

Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead. ing the streets of London. The Queen was to be the first to usher in the morning of the “ A poacher's widow sat sighing Exhibition, and there was such display, with

On the side of the white chalk bank,

Where under the gloomy fir-woods out a doubt, as will not fatigue the eyes of

One spot in the ley throve rank. Londoners for many a day to come. Look out for your next numbers of the Illustrated

· She watched a long tuft of clover,

Where rabbit or hare never ran; News for a show of the festivities.

For its black sour baulm covered over Meantime, the little Yacht, that is to

The blood of a murdered man. measure itself with Yarmouth yachtmen, is off from the stocks, and is fast finishing for

“She thought of the dark plantation,

And the hares, and her husband's blood; her long cruise into the waters by Spithead.

And the voice of her indignation The steamers are fitting up, and the pack Rose up to the throne of God.ets are setting out rude state-rooms-made of deal-into the heart of their ships. Little

“I am long past wailing and whining

I have wept too much in my life; side-fairs-like Greenwich fair with its

I've had twenty years of pining booths—are, we are told, to compete with As an English laborer's wife. the greater fair of Hyde Park. Here there will be—if the Greenwich precedent is fol

6 A laborer in Christian England,

Where they cant of a Saviour's name, lowed-unlimited beer-drinking, and plenty

And yet waste men's lives like the verinin's, of fun and policemen. And now I will drop

For a few more brace of game.

* There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, ' “ But the merry brown hares came leaping squire;

Over the uplands still, There is blood on your pointers' feet;

Where the clover and corn lay sleeping There is blood on the game you sell, squire,

On the side of the white chalk hill." And there's blood on the game you eat!

You can hardly say now that I have “ You have sold the laboring man, squire, | given you nothing to think of; for this rugBody and soul to shame,

ged rhyme suggests a world-full of wanderTo pay for your seat in the House, squire,

ing conjectures. And to pay for the feed of your game.

- Yet another sweet half-dozen of “You made him a poacher yourself, squire, verselets—for I feel in poetic humor-I When you'd give neither work nor meat;

t; take from a daily paper, where they should And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden

not lie unnoticed. If you know that sweet, At our starving children's feet;

half-lily-half-pink colored flower called * When pack'd in one reeking chamber, | arbutus, whose fragrance is like that of a Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;

May morning after a shower-you will pin While the rain patter'd in on the rotting bride

ride- | it to the cover of your herbarian, where this bed, And the walls let in the day;

first nestling of the spring lies pressed.

TRAILING ARBUTUS. « When we lay in the burning fever On the mud of the cold clay floor,

“Darlings of the forest! Till you parted us all for three months, squire,

Blossoms alone At the cursed work house-door.

When Earth's grief is sorest

For her jewels gone* We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders ? | Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds What self-respect could we keep,

have blown. Worse housed than your hacks and your poin

“ Tinged with color faintly, ters,

Like the morning sky, Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?

Or more pale and saintly,

Wrapped in leaves ye lie, « Our daughters with base-born babies

Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.
Have wander'd away in their share;
If your misses had slept, squire, where they did

" There the wild wood-robin Your misses might do the same.

Hymns your solitude,

And the rain comes sobbing “ Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking

Through the budding wood, With handfuls of coal and rice,

While the low south-wind sighs, but dare not be Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting

more rude. A little below cost price ?

“ Were your lips fashion'd

Out of air and dew; “ You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,

Starlight unimpassion'd; And take to allotments and schools,

Dawn's most tender hue; But you've run up a debt that will never

And scented by the woods that gather'd sweets for Be repaid us by penny-club rules.

you?

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We have copied from a recent illustrated | graving upon wood. The time has gone edition of Goldsmith's Poems some new de- | by when woodcuts were considered merely signs. They are full of meaning, and in the as picturesque aids to the text. SentiEnglish copy, beautifully rendered. No ment is now conveyed by the joint labor of branch of art is making steadier and richer designer and engraver, as thoroughly as by progress in our day than the art of en language.

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GOLDSMITH is old, but any really good in picture, as in the lines which embody it. presentations of his pathetic or picturesque We may probably take another occasion scenes to the eye, will always carry with for renewing our acquaintance with the them a new interest. Truth to nature in dainty cuts of this new rendering of poor an author, will feed hosts of minds, as well | GOLDSMITH's poems.

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France, like England, has its poets of the ing with the poetic character—they have people—workmen who cheer their toil by heard the lark's song filling the heavens, as happy thoughts, and whose glorious and the happy bird fanned the milk-white cloud triumphant songs are oft-times heard ring with its wing-listened to the purling of ing clear and beautiful, high above the din the brook, the bleating of sheep, the milkand mêlée of the battle of life. You may de- maid's and reaper's song; and their minds tect in their poetic offerings a want of that were daily fed upon the choicest influences classical taste and polish which are the re- of nature. But a barber and hair-dresser, sult of careful scholastic culture; sometimes what poetic associations has he, any more they are obscured by the rude patois of the than a tailor can have? And yet there are remote country district in which these poets poetic tailors too; and why not? Has any grow, as are the Doric effusions of our own one read Gerald Massey's poems? If so, Scottish Burns; and yet you cannot fail at they will see the true and unmistakable once to see that the true fire burns in them poetic fire burning brightly there. And

—that their lips have been touched by the Jasmin is a barber, and disdains not the live coal from the altar, and that their hearts craft, but loves it, for it gives him indepenand souls are inspired with the true spirit dence. He ennobles it, he glorifies it, for the of poetry.

lowliest work is elevated by pure and hapOf such is Jasmin, one of the greatest liv-py thought; it is lifted and lighted up by ing poets of France, though he is—yes ! let the voice of song and the beautiful utterus confess it—a barber! A barber-poet, ances of poetry. one would scarcely expect this! Yet it is Barbers, however, are usually accounted 80. Burns a peasant, Bloomfield and Clare men of spirit and wit in France. Thus ploughboys; these do not seem out of keep- | Beaumarchais makes Figaro the barber, the wit of his famous play; Le Sage, in his “Gil | part of the country. So that Jasmin posBlas," pays the same compliment to the sesses a kind of poetic descent, as he himself craft. In Spain and Italy, the barber is sometimes jocularly boasts. often the one brilliant man in his town or The little child grew; he throve, at the village, and his shop is the place where all bottom of his poor little cradle, all crammed the news of the district circulates, and in with lark's feathers; slender, small, yet which all sorts of delightful intrigues are nourished by healthy milk, and happy as a contrived. But barbers are often men of king's son. Seven years passed; he could intelligence and parts; and those who are now, horn in hand, and paper cap on bis familiar with the life of Moliere, the great head, accompany his father in the charivaris est of French wits, will remember what of the neighborhood. But his great delight, long hours he used to epend with his cher above all, was to ramble among the woods, ished friend the barber of Pezenas.

in the little islands of the Garonne, which But France has also a baker-poet, almost were filled with willow-trees. "Nakedas well known as Jasmin ; we mean Jacques footed, and naked-headed,” he says, “I Reboul, the baker of Nismes. Reboul is, plunged among the green boughs ; I wasn't however, rather a classical French poet, than alone; sometimes there were twenty, some a poet of the people, like Jasmin. He times thirty of us. Oh! how my soul leapt, writes and sings with classic purity and when we all set out together at midday, grace, nothing ashamed of his daily work, singing • The Lamb whom Thou hast given, by which he makes his bread, but elevating (a well-known carol in the South.) The and ennobling it by his pure life, his glorious very recollection to this day delights me. thoughts, and his inspired songs. There is . To the island! to the island !' shouted the a little touching piece of his called “The boldest, and then all made haste to land, Angel and the Child,” which is probably one and each to gather together his bundle of of the most charming eulogies ever written. fagots. The bundle was made up an hour

Jasmin belongs to the town of Agen, on before nightfall; the rest of the time was the Garonne, a fine river flowing across the spent in play. And then the return, so the province of Guienne, in the south of glorious it was ! On thirty heads, tripped France; Agen is there called “the eye of along thirty fagot-bundles; and thirty voices Guienne.” In the distance are seen the peaks sung, as at setting out, the same burden." of the lofty Pyrenees, a range of moun- At last, school was thought of--a word, tains holding in their embrace some of the the very sound of which frightened him. finest scenery in Europe. Jasmin was born His grandfather handed over to his poor in 1798, at the close of that expiring century mother, for this purpose, a small sum of of woe and destruction; he first saw the money, which he had scraped together by light in a dingy ruin peopled with rats, in carrying parcels ; but the family was too the corner of an old street of the town above-poor to use it thus; it was needed to buy named. His father was a hunchback, and bread. One day, when little Jasmin was his mother a cripple; the home was a very playing about the street, he saw an old man poor and miserable one, and the hunchback being carried along in an old chair, by the father, who was a tailor, could with difficulty hospital-porters. He looked; it was his make both ends meet. Little Jasmin was grandfather ! " Whither are you going, brought into the world during the noise of a dear grandfather? Why do you weep? frightful charivari which was being inflicted And why are you leaving your dear little on some unpopular neighbor, and amidst the grandchildren, that love you so q” “My thundering noise of horns, old pans, marrow- child," said the old man, “I am going to the bones and cleavers, what should be the first hospital; it is there that the Jasmins die." sounds to fall on the future poet's ear but Five days after, he died; and from that some thirty couplets of a song, shouted by Monday, the child, for the first time, knew the mob, the composition of his own father ? that the Jasmins were poor. For old Jasmin the tailor, though he could All these touching recollections are brought not read, composed by some sort of born out in a little poem which Jasmin afterwards instinct, the greater part of the burlesque published, entitled, “ Mous Soubenis," (Mes songs sung at the charivaris, so usual in that i Souvenirs,) and which is a graphic piece of

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