is yet a wide gulf which separates her from what we should wish to see her, and what she might yet become; but the woman who has traversed the space which separates "Consuelo" and "La petite Fadette," from "Leone Leoni" or "Indiana," need despair of no other progress. But the fictitious literature of the age in France is marked by another feature far more distressing than its exuberance. It is diseased to its very core. Never before was so much talent perverted to such base uses. It is not only that the tone of sexual morality which it preaches is lax and low; that it expatiates with such complacency in equivocal positions and voluptuous delineations; that its whole tendency is to deaden the sense of duty and impair the vigor of the will; that every-where sentiment is extolled and brought prominently forward while principle is ignored or thrust ignominiously into the background: of all this we have had examples before in literature far less morbid and less dangerous. It is that it addresses itself consciously and glaringly to palled appetites and distorted imaginations; that it proceeds on the assumption-which, of course, it thereby helps to realize that all relish for what is chaste, simple, and serene is extinct in the hearts of its readers; and that recognizing a demand for what is unnatural, extravagant, and bad, it sets to work to provide a supply without compunction and without stint. It is a banquet consisting solely of unwholesome stimulants and more unwholesome sweets. Each writer strives to surpass himself and to eclipse his rivals in the novelty and extravagance of the incidents which he heaps together; in his daring violations of every rule of taste, art, and morals; in his delineations of whatever can most startle, horrify, and shock. No situation is too grotesque, no combination too improbable, no picture too revolting, to be admitted. “Cela emeut: cela fait éprouver une sensation," is the language of praise, by which such writers are rewarded. Now, it is some inconceivable monster of iniquity, who passes in the world's eye as a saint, and receives the "prize of virtue," as in "Atar-Gull." Now, it is some character utterly and desperately vicious, made interesting by some single virtue or some redeeming human affection, as in "Le Roi 'lamuse," and "Lucrecia Borgia," which, however, are not novels, but dramas. Now, it is some angel of purity brought up in a brothel and a cabaret, as in "Les Mysteres de Paris." Now, it is some scene of prolonged and minutely pictured agony, as that of the priest hanging by the leaden spout from the turret of Notre Dame, which slowly bends

under him for many pages. And so on through a catalogue of monstrous, harrowing, unnatural conceptions, fitted for nothing, designed for nothing, but to rouse an exhausted fancy or goad a jaded sensuality.

In one most important and significant respect the tone of French literature in the present century has undergone even a greater modification than its form and direction-in all, we mean, that relates to the religious sentiment. The prevalent spirit of the last age was that not of simple skepticism, but of hard, cold, aggressive infidelity. The unbelief of the men of that time was something more than a negation: it may be said to have amounted not only to a positive creed, but to an inspiring faith. Now, all this is changed; and without any close analysis of the difference, no one can pass from the study of Voltaire, Raynal, Diderot, Helvetius, and their collaborateurs, to the perusal of Madame de Stael, Chateaubriand, Guizot, Lamartine, or even of George Sand, and not be conscious that they are breathing an altogether different atmosphere. It is not that skepticism has become extinct or unfashionable. It is not that these writers or their imitators are believers, in our sense of the word: scarcely one of them belongs to any sect, or would be owned by any Church; but though a creed may be wanting, the religious sentiment is there. The poet felt it stirring in his soul; his muse was arid and cold without it; the historian read indications of its undying vitality in every page of the world's annals; the thinker, now that strife and passion had passed away, discerned how shallow, barren, and incomplete was the philosophy which sought to banish or deny it. But with the great majority of these same writers, even those whose tone is reverential and devout, religion scarcely reaches a more definite form, or a firmer foundation, than a vague instinct, or a strong emotion; it is poetical, not theological; it is the result of impression, not of reflection or research. "J'ai pleure, et j'ai cru," says Chateaubriand. "J'aime: il faut que j'espere," says Lamartine. The religion of this last great poet is a sort of type of that which pervades the better portion of the literary life in France. It is an emotion of the heart-not the guide of life.

The improvement, as compared with the last age, is unquestionable. The feelings and convictions of rational devotion are not outraged as before at every turn: if there is not much more to satisfy, there is infinitely less to shock; and the gain that has been made good may be a step to further progress.

We must conclude this rapid enumeration of the principal distinctive features of the French literature of our day, by calling attention to one of the most obvious and striking-its exuberant, and, what Burke would call, its quadrumanus activity. For one writer of the last century we have a score now. The pen is the sword of the age, which every one considers himself entitled to wear and to wield-often, no doubt, feebly enough; often clumsily; often in a bad cause.

Perhaps, of all the characteristics of the time this tendency is not the least sad or sinister. A restlessness of spirit that knows not what it wants; an ignorance of self that knows not what it can do; a rebellion against wholesome restraints that shrinks alike from mental toil and mental discipline; a boyish vanity, that burns to gain the ear and influence the feelings of the public without preparation and without capacity-these are ill auguries for the peace and progress of the nation. Whence help and rescue are to come we confess we do not see. It is hopeful to know that there still exist many Frenchmen keenly alive to the dangers and defects of their intellectual position, and courageous enough to analyze and stigmatize them.-Edinburgh Review.

DEATH.

BY F. W. TABER.

A WILD bird by a streamlet sung,
And on the wilds its warblings flung;
And as in echoes died away
Its deeply wild, impassioned lay,

It shrieked, and, fluttering from its rest
Its life-blood stained its downy breast.
The quivering wing, the glaring eye,
The heaving breast, the gasping sigh,
The look that spoke imploringly,
Were past, and lone the wild bird lay,
And noiseless as the silent spray,
That wreathes the waves upon the stream
That sparkles in the sunset's beam.
No more, sweet warbler, shalt thou sing,
Or greet the sun with upward wing!
No more shalt cleave the ambient air
Or woo thy mate from deep despair!
No more! no more! thy race is run!
Thy song, thy spirit-song, is done!
And still I gazed, and wondered where
The gushing life which struggled there,
And where the spirit that had been
The living principle within.

I saw a child-a fairy boy:

His look was love-his smile was joy.
The curl that nestled on his cheek
Seemed fondly, lovingly, to seek

Communion nearer with the soul,
That lit with most seraphic grace
The heavenly beauty of his face,
And yet had known no ill control.
Again I saw the child-he lay,
As sunset tints departing day;
The breath of summer gently moved
The flowing curls his mother loved;
His breath came quick, his eye was wild-
The mother bent upon her child.

When man is sealed in youthful bloom
An early victim for the tomb,
While fond, vain dreams of future fame,
An honored and undying name,
And erc requited love's sweet flame
May lance afresh the bleeding heart,
But comfort none can more impart;
The flashing eye can scarce restrain
The gushing tear's unbidden flow,
Which speaks of hopeless, silent woe,
In signs that pride forbids, in vain,
From others' ken should all remain.
The maiden kneeling by the grave
That holds whom deep love could not save,
Hath tasted well the bitterness,
The lonely heart's deep wretchedness,
Which, soon or late, is known to all
Who wear life's ever-deepening pall.
But who shall paint the mother's pain,
While kneeling by her dying child?
She marks his eye grow strange and wild,
And feels she never more shall strain
Her treasure to her heart again.
And thus the fondly loved was lying;
Thus watched the mother o'er the dying.
O death! thou dread and holy thing,
Which prophets preach and poets sing-
Thou deep and dark inanity,
Strange guide to immortality--
What eye can know thee, who can trace
The mystery of thy dwelling-place?
Thou silent messenger between
Two worlds which own thee still unseen,
Say, is thy mission here of pain?
Shall mortals still the goblet drain?
And shall the bitter tear flow ever?
And shall the wounded heart rest never?
Say, art thou not of mercy sent,
To bring the soul from banishment-
To purify from earthiness,
And guide it to ethereal bliss?
And when, with intuition wise,
It joyous treads the upper skies,
Will it not love to linger still
Where mortals strive with human ill?
And will the child not come again
To soothe the mother in her pain?

MAN may dismiss compassion from his heart, But God will never. COWPER.

THER

THE SHEPHERDESS.

A STORY FOR CHILDREN. BY THE AUTHOR OF "CLOVERNOOK," HERE lived once, in a valley all fenced round with green hills, and beautiful with fountains and flowers, a maiden whose name was Myrtala. She was exceedingly beautiful, and rich in gold and silver, and precious stones, and gorgeous apparel, but she was not rich in wisdom. But Myrtala was a princess, and was held in great esteem by the people of the country in which she lived. | Some, alas! were so dazzled by the splendor in which she dwelt, as to fancy whatever she said and did was perfect. To have been permitted to carry her train as she walked abroad would have been esteemed a great privilege by maids as fair as she and much wiser. But though she was a princess, and wore gowns with borders heavy with golden flowers, and had looks of admiration following her wherever she went, she was perhaps as far from happiness as the humblest child in the beautiful valley where she reigned, for in all things she had her will; so that it might be truly said she reigned, though the government was nominally in the hands of another. Nevertheless, Myrtala was sad, discontented, positively wretched sometimes. From all those who fell down and worshiped her, her eyes wandered dissatisfiedly away-the desire of her heart was toward the king's son, but he staid in his own dominion contentedly enough, never so much as sending a message to the beautiful Myrtala.

At last her cheek grew pale, and she feigned an importunate errand into the country of the prince, that she might be assured for herself whether the stories of his wit and wisdom were based in truth. "If I can but see him," she said, "I will bring him home captive;" for she believed herself unrivaled, both for beauty and wisdom; "for who would dare measure herself with a princess?" she said.

There were great preparations in the house of the princess, and after a long time, and the expenditure of more gold than would have bought all the poor of that country a house and an acre of ground, she set forth, accompanied by many attendants and maids of honor to serve as a background to her brilliancy.

All went well: the journey was safe and prosperous, and to crown her expectancy, the young prince, whose name was Salathiel, no sooner heard of the presence of Myrtala in his dominions than he went forth to meet her, and proffer entertainment befitting her condition. The civility might have grown out of self-respect and

propriety; it might have been a ceremonious show of the highest regard for the princess. For the first days of her entertainment Myrtala could not but repeat, "I came, and saw, and conquered," but the feeling of triumph subdued itself by degrees; for though Salathiel was in all things respectful, he was far from yielding her the homage she desired. When he plucked a flower for her she felt that his heart was not in its bright cup, and vexation gave harshness to her voice and a color to her cheek that was like angry fire, and, speaking as the foolish women speak, she said, "He shall not escape from the net I have spread for him; he shall see what authority I have in my own land, and that shall make him love me;" for she was devoid of that simple wisdom which knoweth that love can not be bought nor sold; that it must be won-not compelled, She never once thought, "I will strive to appear more lovely and more excellent in his eyes, and by continual kindness secure his regard." She never thought there was any thing for a princess to do except to receive admiration and flattery.

So the time of her departure came near without the accomplishment of that for which the journey had been undertaken. The prince had said many pleasant things, but he had not once said he could not exist without her; they had walked in the moonlight gardens and conversed in the glittering palace; they had listened to music and joined in dances together; yet Salathiel sighed not that the day of the fair one's departure drew near.

"I have had a dream," said Myrtala, "and I dare not return to my own country alone;" for she thought if Salathiel could see her at home, where she was courted as a queen rather than princess, he would fall down with the rest and worship.

"Five hundred strong men and five hundred armed men shall go with you, the half preceding and the half following," said the prince, but it would not do; the dream of Myrtala was a strange dream, and ten thousand warriors could not guard her so well as the prince alone.

Salathiel was a courteous prince, and when he saw that she would not be otherwise content, he made ready and himself attended her, as her strange dream required. Even yet the princess was not satisfied, for Salathiel talked, now of the beast eating grass by the wayside, and now of the bramble-flower leaning out into the sun; sometimes of his own land, and sometimes of the unseen land-the country from which no traveler returns-a clime Myrtala had thought but little about. In short, though the princess was carrying

Salathiel home with her, she was not carrying him captive, as she had designed to do. She tried to persuade herself, however, that when he should see what power she exercised in her own country, he would be desirous of forming an alliance with her.

thick and fast. She dared not delay, however, and averting her face gave the pretty lambs into the keeping of the princess. So the little black one was left with the mother sheep alone.

The prince frowned, and watched the young girl as she went lonesomely home mourning for the innocent pets she had tended each day of their life till now. He frowned, but said nothing, and the face of Myrtala grew black with anger.

The prince was delighted with the valley, for it was like a garden whichever way he looked; but when they turned aside, and, by the margin of a soft, full brook, went noiselessly on, he grew silent, too, and, locking his hands together, gazed earnestly, almost reverently, upon the glorious summer prophecies April was making; for it was April, and all the air was fragrance and melody.

Suddenly there came into the cheek of the prince a color brighter than the redness of a June rose, and the smile on his lip was as if a beam of the sunshine lay there. Sitting in the faint shadow of a tree that grew on the bank of the brook, her straw hat beside her, her bare feet in the water, and her shining hair dropping in half curls down her cheeks and neck, was a young girl minding a small flock of sheep. Among them, and nearest the girl, was a ewe with three lambs, two of which were white as snow, lively and bright-eyed as lambs may be, but the third was black with a white speckle in its face, altogether inferior to its fellows, both in size and beauty.

Myrtala was vexed, for such light had not once come into the prince's face as he gazed upon her. "I will spoil her pretty pastime," thought she, and directing her postillion to stop, she called to the girl and in harsh tones inquired her name and occupation. The girl replied that her name was Mary, that her mother was a widow who lived hard by, and that her only wealth was the sheep she was tending.

"Give me the two white lambs," commanded the princess, "and go straightway to your home, and should I ever see you sitting immodestly by the highway again, I will punish you with the loss of your silken curls and your head into the bargain."

Pale and trembling with fright the watcher of the lambs took the two white ones up in her arms, and as they lifted their meek faces toward hers in trustful fondness, the tears fell upon them

"He shall not escape me for all his frowning," said the willful princess. "I will show him that my wealth is as unbounded as my personal

about the lambs. She would cause one of them to be fed on pearls and rubies, and the other should live in a garden and eat lilies and all flowers that were dainty and fair, and in her foolishness she thought that by such keeping the wool of the one would grow soft as silk and white as snow, and that the other would have its common lamb's fleece changed to a fleece of gold. She said nothing of this silly device, for she wished to surprise all her household with the metamorphosis of the lambs, and more especially did she wish to surprise the prince.

Accordingly she gave orders that the one should be fed upon pearls and rubies, and all precious stones and gems, and that one of the most beautiful of all the gardens should be set apart as pasture for the other; and after three or four days were gone she invited the prince to walk with her in the garden, that he might see and be pleased with the silky softness of the lamb's fleece. Past beds of tulips they went, and by roses hanging down their red cheeks, through neighborhoods of white lilies, and along walks bordered with flowers more than I can name or know, and at last near a fountain on a little patch of green grass they found a lamb, not with a silken fleece and cropping daisies, but lying stiff and dead. When Myrtala saw it she passed it hastily by and beckoned Salathiel to follow, but he stooped down and softly smoothed the wool of the lamb, and looked upon its dead beauty with a tender pity. Then to excuse herself the princess was fain to explain the royal manner in which the lamb had been fed and kept, and that the little brute owed its death to its own stupidity, and that never a princess in the world gave lamb such excellent and bountiful pasture as she had done. And when she beckoned him a second time he followed her, but with downcast eyes and a thoughtful brow."

Next they entered a chamber with a floor of marble, and ceilings and walls rich with elaborate paintings, and with tall arched windows of so

many dyes that they were like rainbows set in the walls. A golden basin full of wine was in one place, and silver plates were in others, on which shone nectarines and apples, mixed with diamonds and pearls; and, besides the golden bowl of wine and the dishes of fruits and gems, there was a bed of white satin spread softly and sweetly as if for a royal infant, and far away from the bed, lying on the marble floor, was the mate of the dead lamb-another dead lamb.

It needed not that the princess should, a second time, speak her foolishness. Salathiel understood the meaning of the rubies and the wine, and turning to the maiden he said, "Know you not that milk is for babes and meat for strong men, and that for the lamb of the field God provideth? There is no knowledge and no device that will change a dove to a raven, or make the crow cease his crying, or the wren complain like the owl. Learn of the dead lambs that you can not go before nature and say to the beast that looketh down, forego your instincts and gaze at the stars. "Even men, who are made a little lower than the angels, are not able to let go the natures God gave them at first; for to one he hath given the capacity to handle nimbly the stringed instrument, and to another the power to search, and to reason, and to know. As one field brings forth grapes and another thorns, one flowers and another thistles, so are our souls, and only beneath the showery miracle of grace are their barren soils turned to fruitfulness."

Myrtala-being greatly displeased, first, that her lambs had not flourished upon her royal feeding, and next, that they had not yielded fleeces of silk and gold, and last and most, that Salathiel had spoken to her as though he talked to a child and not to a princess-turned away, saying secretly to her heart, "Thou shalt not be thus thwarted and vexed forever."

It was near the sunsetting that the prince heard, as he walked alone in the beautiful valley, a low lullaby song that wooed him like the voice of love-an untaught melody, but passing sweet. It was not like his dreaming of fairy or angel, but exceedingly human as well as sweet. He thought of the voices heard by Milton's benighted lady, but the song linked itself to good and not to evil. So he went forward forgetting the beautiful valley, and walking in a vision of poetry. At length he found himself close by the same brook-side where he had seen the maiden, whose name was Mary, tending sheep, and looking up he saw the ewe with her one black lamb, and close by the pretty shepherdess singing, and, like a rose, blushing at her own beauty. When she

VOL. XV.-20

saw Salathiel she was afraid, for she had seen him with the princess, and knew that he was like her in power. As she retired fearfully and modestly the flowers seemed scarcely to bend under her step, and the black lamb played round her gently and lovingly, and they both looked like a picture in a green ground. The princess, with her two white lambs seemed like an ugly shadow compared with her, having only one black lamb beside her, and being dressed with natural grace and modesty.

When she was quite out of sight the prince sat down on the bank by the full flowing brook, and mused till the roseate shadows of twilight grew purple and then black, but the valley was not beautiful any longer after the maiden was gone. The following day at the same hour he sought the brook-side again, and this time learned that the wisdom of the shepherdess equaled her modesty and beauty. There were gossips in that valley as well as in countries less lovely, and the knowledge of the prince's admiration for the shepherdess was soon brought to Myrtala's ears.

Then it was that her vexation was kindled to wrath, and working secretly as before, she caused the young girl to be seized as she tended her one black lamb, and directed that all her golden curls should be clipped off, and that she should wash and bleach the linen of her royal household. "We will see how the prince will like the seeming of his lady's hands and head," said Myrtala, and as much as she might in her anger, she pleased herself with the thought of his disenchantment.

Sure enough, as she had thought, he went forth on the morrow and found the poor maiden spreading down linen by the brook-side to bleach. To conceal the loss of her curls she had wound a wreath of lilies about her head, her pretty arms were bare, and the blush that came into her cheek when she saw the prince, made her appear even more lovely to him than she had ever appeared till then. But when he knew why it was that she was bleaching linen, and why she wore the crown of lilies, his pity grew to a tenderness that was not pity at all; and taking both her hands in his he told her that she who could be meek, and good, and beautiful in spite of all, deserved a queenly crown in place of a lily wreath, and, despite all the fretting and fuming of the foolish Myrtala, he carried her away to his own country, and after awhile, when he was himself king, she sat by his side dressed in royal robes, as she was with wisdom and modesty while tending the sheep.

We may not all be rewarded as was Mary, the shepherdess, but her story encourages us to per