wreaths about the time the great grandfathers of the present generation were making love to the dear old ladies that have been dust so long, and who still survives to keep him company at the age of 106. We did not see her, as she had gone out for her accustomed exercise, but as we sat and talked to a man who may have marched through London streets while Sam Johnson stood on the pavement to see the troops go by on their way to enforce the doctrine of "Taxation no Tyranny" upon the American rebels, and who had caught a sight of Washington's commanding form across the blaze of battle in the van of the opposing column, we could not but reflect upon how much had been compressed into that one lifetime and regret that Henry Church had not been a man of education for the benefit of history. How many doubtful points might he not have been able to settle! But possibly mental activity might have worn out the springs of the machine and the educated Henry Church might have been in his grave this half a century.

A near railroad neighbour of this aged couple is a fair, modest and graceful young woman, whom we must designate as Miss Anonyma Magistra, whose lonely school-room we visited while waiting for a train to pass. Let us not state the exact spot occupied by this temple of instruction, lest we offend the school-mis. tress by bringing her into an undesired notoriety, but we may say that a more refreshing translation to the period of barefoot steppings up the steep of learning, we have never experienced than when we came into the presence of this brighteyed, soft-voiced creature, regarded with so much awe by the forty or fifty chubby, ragged, stockingless little boys and girls who sat around her. One little fellow there was, who, if there be any truth in physiognomy, will some day make his mark in the world, that struck us all by his resemblance to the youthful Charles in Vandyck's celebrated picture of the family of the unhappy king of England. The face, with the hair coming down upon the forehead and cutting across it in a straight line like a domino, was the very same, and if the Prince of Wales had been painted with his trowsers rolled tightly up above his ankles, and half-a-dozen June apples

in his pocket, we should have had the exact portraiture of our young academician. We had a recitation in spelling, and readings from the Common-place Book, and we left with the school-mistress a handful of quarters to be distributed in prizes at the end of the session, (the largest of which we are sure Charles the Second has received and expended by this time,) and then the train! But O grave Judge Warren, should you ever resume your solitary judicial labours or your sittings in banco, how must the dignity of the court be disturbed when some wicked friend whispers in your ear, B double e, Bee!

But we must forbear. If there be any among our readers who have been inspired with a desire, by these rude sketches, to see the region through which the Baltimore and Ohio Rail Road passes, let us advise them to devote a fortnight or, better still, a month of the hot season to a personal exploration of it-let them look down from Jefferson's Rock, bathe in the delicious pool of the Berkeley Springs, eat trout and venison with Mr. Daily at the Glades Hotel, Oakland, exhaust their superlatives at Tray Run Viaduct, and rejoice with Nature along the Tygart's Valley River, and they will come back with a store of memories that will be enduringly delightful.

We are in receipt of a letter from a lady in New Hampshire, who resided for some years as a missionary in Siam, correcting some alleged errors in the article on "Life in a Palace," which appeared in the Messenger for June. Our correspondent complains that the article is calculated throughout to make a false impression on the mind of the reader, as undervaluing the influence exerted over the mind of the King Chau Fah Yai, and the direction given to his studies by the American Missionaries at Bangkok. Our correspondent refers to the Rev. Mr. Caswell, as one who devoted much time to the instruction of the King in the English language, and she encloses a letter from a friend, who was also several years in Siam as a missionary of the A. B. C. F. M., together with an autograph English note of the King himself, written more than ten years ago, which of course shows the statement in the concluding paragraph

of the article that five years ago the King knew not a syllable of the English language to be incorrect. She adds, as a belief of her own, that Chau Fab Yai had procured a font of English type more than sixteen years ago, and her friend further states that the article is in error in attributing the honour of building the first squarerigged vessels in Siam to Chau Fah Noi, since, upon the authority of Dr. Bradley in his Bangkok Calendar for 1859, it rightfully belongs to Phra Noi Wai. In making these corrections, substantially as they have been communicated to us. (which we do with great pleasure,) a sense of justice to our contributor demands that we should say that nothing could have been farther from her purpose than to detract from the value of the services of the American Missionaries in Siam, nor to ignore the influence of educated Christian sentiment upon the character of the King; nor in fairness do we think that such has been the real effect of her sketches. Our fair contribu tor was herself one of these missionaries, she lived many years at the Siamese capital, she is a woman of acute observation, as our readers must have long ago discovered, and her means for acquiring precise information were ample, so that in the main we must insist that what she has written for the Messenger is worthy of the fullest credit, or at least has only that slight tinge of exaggeration which a person of warm fancy, inspired by a glowing memory of the Orient, might naturally throw over a truthful narrative. The facts, we are confident, can be relied on generally, though in one instance, certainly, she has been betrayed into an unintentional misstatement, and our thanks are due to our courteous New Hampshire correspondent for enabling us to put the matter right in the pages of the Messenger.

We have a favour to ask at the bands of the reader-in a certain contingency. If he has read, or intends to read, the versified essay of "Poesy" (mark you, that we are not so unreasonable as to request that he will do so,) by the Editor, given in the preceding pages of this number of the Messenger, we desire that he will correct a bad typographical error on page 132, 22nd line from the top, and instead of " summer the past," read "summon the past." Only the largest poetical license will permit us to take liberties with the centuries gone-by, but to "summer" them is an indignity that nothing can excuse. Perhaps we should consider ourselves fortunate that the compositor did not make us "simmer" the past, and get at once into hot water.

We are indebted to the author, A. J. Requier, Esq., for a copy of his admirable Address, recently pronounced before the Literary Societies of Howard College, Marion, Ala., on the "True Aims of Life." Mr. Requier is one of those votaries of the Muse and of literature in general, who. under more favourable auspices for literary success, would have stood in the front rank of Southern men of letters as a professional class. Perhaps it is better that he should puruse the law, looking to its substantial rewards, but we have reason to rejoice that devoting himself to that exalted and exacting profession, he has not wholly abandoned the walks of polite learning. The address before us is compact of truth, presented in earnest and eloquent language, and it will strengthen a favourable opinion that his fine Ode on Shakespeare has excited for him throughout the country.

THE IDYLS OF THE KING. BY ALFRED TENNYSON, D. C. L., Poet Laureate. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1859. [From James Woodhouse & Co., 139 Main Street

"The

The last line we had from Mr. Tennyson was that absurd lyric of the War, in which he made so many dactyls of the Riflemen of England, and called upon them with so much earnestness to "form." It is refreshing to turn from such professional exercises, and even from the blare of trumpets and the pæans of victory across the Channel, and hear him sing once again the old song of love and courtesy, of womanly affection and knightly trust. Idyls of the King" is a sweet strain, yet burthened with a deep humanity, and the music speaks rather to certain moods of consciousness than to the ordinary sense of melody in forms of verse. There is less vagueness of expression than is usual with the Laureate, yet to those who have not learned to like him, the very simplicity of of the style may seem open to cavil. The flow of the blank verse is rather Shaksperean than Miltonic, that is, it resembles those exquisite passages in the plays of the great dramatist, in which he strikes the chords of love with such subduing sweetness, more than the organ bursts of the Paradise Lost on which the soul is lifted to "solemn adoration." The art of versifying is successfully hidden from the reader; the thoughts glide along in metre as smoothly and naturally as a clear, unbroken, sequestered stream courses through the meadows, and on the bright surface of the rhythm are reflected the "Idyls" or pictures of that poetic age in which Arthur, legendary King of Britain, moved among his minstrels and necromancers and ladyes faire. We recognize the gift of the true poet in the atmosphere of reality thrown around a realm of impossible creations; as in the "Midsummer Night's Dream" we read of elves and fairies all trustingly, so we follow the story of Vivien and Merlin without a protest against the wizard spell, for the images of the legend are vitalized and humanized by the poet, who detects the play of universal passion beneath the cuirass of the Round Table and the fantastic dress of Queen Guinevere's companions. Camelot is still a part of Britain, and those who walked among its gardens and its halls were akin to the gentlemen and ladies in paletots and crinoline, who wait upon Her Majesty at Windsor Castle, or go out yachting with her from the Isle of Wight.

The poetic vein worked by the Laureate in these Idyls was first struck by him in the exquisite fragment of the Morte d' Arthur-though there are several of his earlier poems which appear to have been "studies" for the more finished and elaborate performances he has now given to the world. The difference is as marked as that between the first sketches in oils of a great artist and his final master-pieces that preserve his fame. In the lighter works there are hints and suggestions of the great triumphs that the master is to achieve, but they lack the breadth and completeness of the grander successes which place the enduring seal upon his genius. That Mr. Tennyson has not exhibited his full power heretofore, we think, is due mainly to the fact that he has suffered himself to be diverted from the true line along which lies its natural direction. He attempted humourous versification in "Will Waterproof's Monologue," but his fun was so subtle that few could discover it. He ventured upon dramatic composition in the "Princess," and again in "Maud," with no better success. It is fortunate that he has become at last fully conscious of his want of constructive ability, and turned to forms of poetry in which he has certainly no equal among living men.

The four legends around which Tennyson has thrown the charms of his fancy and his diction in the present volume, are the story of Enid, the true wife of Geraint, her constancy, her wrongs, and her reward; the myth of Vivien, the lovely siren, who drew Merlin the Wise into her toils, and by cunningly possessing herself of his own enchantments, put him to sleep for years and thus debased his noble spirit; the tale of love and sorrow which narrates how Elaine, a beauteous damsel, conceived a hopeless passion for Lancelot du Lac, pride of Arthur's Court, and died thereof; and the record of the sin, disgrace, suffering and fate of Queen Guinevere.

Each of these Idyls brims with the richest wine of the poet's soul; it is no unworthy simile rather to say that each resembles a crystal goblet filled with the Eau de Vie de Dantzic, that rare cordial in which particles of gold float and sparkle in tremulous brilliancy. Here is a song of Enid's which must serve as an illustration

It chanced the song that Enid sang was

one

Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang:

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud :

the lonely castle of Astolat, where dwelt the fair Elaine with her aged sire. The maiden falls in love with the knight, who suspecting it not leaves with her his shield, which she keeps with hope and pride. In the tourney he wins the diamond, but being severely wounded remains in the hut of a hermit, while the jewel by some chance finds its way to the hands of Elaine. She, under pretext of restoring it to the rightful owner, rides with her brother to the place where Lancelot lies and nurses him in his illness. We will allow the Laureate to tell what ensued, unwilling to break in upon the music of his verses through a long

extract

Her face was near, and as we kiss the child That does the task assigned, he kissed her face.

At once she slipt like water to the floor. "Alas," he said, "your ride has wearied you.

Rest must you have." "No rest for me," she said:

"Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest." What might she mean by that? his large black eyes,

Yet larger through his leanness, dwelt upon her,

Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself In the heart's colours on her simple face; And Lancelot looked and was perplexed in mind,

And being weak in body said no more; But did not love the colour; woman's love, Save one, he not regarded, and so turned Sighing, and feigned a sleep until he slept. Then rose Elaine and glided through the fields,

And past beneath the wildly-sculptured gates

Far up the dim rich city to her kin; There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past

Down through the dim rich city to the fields,

Thence to the cave: so day by day she past In either twilight ghost-like to and fro Gliding, and every day she tended him, And likewise many a night: and Lancelot Would, though he called his wound a little hurt

Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times

Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem Uncourteous, even he; but the meek maid Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, Milder than any mother to a sick child, And never woman yet since man's first fall, Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love Upbore her; till the hermit, skilled in all The simples and the science of that time, Told him that her fine care had saved his life.

And the sick man forgot her simple blush.

Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine,

Would listen for her coming, and regret Her parting step, and held her tenderly. And loved her with all love except the love Of man and woman when they love their best,

Closest and sweetest, and had died the death

In any knightly fashion for her sake.
And peradventure had he seen her first
She might have made this and that other
world

Another world for the sick man; but now
The shackles of an old love straitened him,
His honour rooted in dishonour stood,
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness

made

Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. These, as but born of sickness, could not live;

For when the blood ran lustier in him again, Full often the sweet image of one face, Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, Dispersed his resolution like a cloud.

Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace

Beamed on his fancy, spoke, he answered not,

Or short and coldly, and she knew right well

What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant

She knew not, and the sorrow dimmed her sight,

And drove her ere her time across the fields
Far into the rich city, where alone

She murmured, "Vain, in vain: it cannot be.
He will not love me: how then? must I die?"
Then as a little helpless, innocent bird,
That has but one plain passage of few notes,
Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er
For all an April morning, till the ear
Wearies to hear it, so the simple muid
Went half the night repeating, “ Must I die!"
And now to right she turned, and now to left,
And found no ease in turning or in rest;
And “Him or death,” she muttered, “Death or
him,"

Again and like a burden, "Him or death."

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole,

To Astolat returning rode the three. There morn by morn, arraying her sweetself

In that wherein she deemed she looked her best,

She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought,

"If I be loved, these are my festal robes, If not, the victim's flowers before he fall." And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid That she should ask some goodly gift of him

For her own self or hers; "And do not shun To speak the wish most near to your true heart;

Such service have you done me, that I make My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I In mine own land, and what I will I can." Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, But like a ghost without the power to speak. And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish,

And bode among them yet a little space Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced

He found her in among the garden yews, And said, "Delay no longer, speak your wish,

Seeing I must go to-day:" then out she brake:

"Going? and we shall never see you more. And I must die for want of one bold word." "Speak: that I live to hear," he said, "is yours."

Then suddenly and passionately she spoke: "I have gone mad. I love you: let me die." 'Ah, sister," answered Lancelot, "what is this?"

And innocently extending her white arms, "Your love," she said, "your love-to be your wife."

And Lancelot answered, "Had I chos'n to wed,

I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine : But now there never will be wife of mine." "No, no," she cried, "I care not to be wife, But to be with you still, to see your face, To serve you, and to follow you through the world."

And Lancelot answered, "Nay, the world, the world,

All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart
To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue
To blare its own interpretation-nay,
Full ill then should I quit your brother's
love,

And your good father's kindness." And she said,

"Not to be with you, not to see your faceAlas for me then, my good days are done." "Nay, noble maid," he answered, "ten