to which their baffled enemies might even tween yourself and and Richard. I now betake themselves. But they drove think I know all for which you have any on without interruption. The whole inter- cause to blame yourself. You were opval between Mrs. Ferrier's arrival at that posed to Richard's intentions. There's not gate in the wood, and her return with Miss a mother in the world, who would not have March, had not comprised more than fifteen sought much better things for him. You minutes. They drove to Chelford, and were led to confide your feelings to some stopped at the Calf's Head, the most respect- one who traded on your confidence, and able inn of the place. whose own evil thoughts impelled him to imagine everyone as wicked as himself. And, as soon as you saw how atrociously your trust had been abused, you did your utmost to prevent any mischief; — and, as you see, you entirely succeeded." "Ask for a room, or rooms for the night," said Mrs. Ferrier to the driver. "Tell them we will give any money, if they will but take us in." So the landlord, and landlady, and inferior functionaries of the inn, were knocked up, and a room was got ready. If the people grumbled a little at so unwonted a summons at half-past one in the morning, I only know that they did not grumble when Mrs. Ferrier took her leave on the following day. The driver, after his adventurous expedition, was dismissed in a way which made the phenomenon of a lunar eclipse a joyful remembrance for all future time. At last, Mrs. Ferrier and Eva were alone in the room in which a fire had been lighted, and on the sofas of which they would pass the night. "Let us now thank God," Mrs. Ferrier said, "for having saved you from a fearful death, and me from a dreadful crime." And they paid the tribute of their thanks together; after that they fell into conversation. "Now, Miss March," said Richard's mother; "I must tell you all the deep, deep guilt, which attaches to me. It is true, I never intended so horrid a thing as was all but perpetrated an hour ago. But I have been fearfully wicked, nevertheless, and I deserve to forfeit the esteem of every good person, and the affection of my son, which indeed, I fear is lost to me for ever." "Oh, no, indeed, Mrs. Ferrier. There you are mistaken." 66 Richard will abhor me, when he hears all I have now to tell you. Unless unless, indeed, you could be so much more merciful than I deserve, as to refrain from telling "Indeed, that is true, Miss March. Indeed, all that, in substance, is the whole truth. And can you really forgive my bitter opposition to your happiness?” "Oh, Mrs. Ferrier, how unreasonable it would be in me to think that such a thing was likely to be welcome to you! But I hoped all along I might show you in time that I was at least endeavoring not to be quite unworthy of him." "Well, Miss March; this to me has been a night of great and undeserved mercies. Never, I would hope, will it be remembered by me, without my thanking the Great Deliverer of all. But I owe some thanks to you for your forbearance, beyond my utmost deserts. Will you, now, come home with me to Leamington to-morrow; and let me send for Richard to join us?" Eva said she would joyfully accede to the plan; if Mrs. Torring would but consent to a parting somewhat sudden and unceremonious; and then they had much more conversation. Eva explained who Mr. M'Quantigan was, and whence had arisen that intercourse, which had been so hastily and maliciously interpreted by Mrs. Dowlas. She also explained what had inspired that lady with such angry feelings; and Eva ventured so far, as to hint that she had a hope — a certainty she dared not yet call it that, in point of birth, she might prove no unworthy wife of Richard. Mrs. Ferrier could only say, again and again, that she had now no other wish than to show her sorrow for the past misunderstanding. At an early hour next day, they called upon Mrs. Torring. She jumped at once to the conclusion, unwarranted as yet by any positive evidence, that that Miss Varnish was at the bottom of it all. Mrs. Ferrier confessed to the old lady how averse she had been to her son's connection with Eva, and how greatly she longed to atone for her unjust dislike. Mrs. Torring roundly told the lady that she had acted like a great fool; but she offered no obstacle in the way of her present wishes. morning. Something had happened at the Hall, which left no wonder to spare for her really unaccountable behaviour. But the train was on its way, ere yet she could discover her mistake. Mrs. Ferrier is a happy woman now. And anybody who became the enemy of Eva would find in her mother-in-law, the very fiercest opponent (except Richard) that could be given him. And that night of the total eclipse has no more prolonged its shadows on her spirit, than the shadow of the earth could continue to obscure the brightness of our moon. An affectionate leave was taken by Eva of Mrs. Torring, and a yet more affectionate one of Mary; and they drove together to the station shortly after ten o'clock. While they were taking their seats, they heard one or two persons on the platform discoursing, in a somewhat animated tone, upon some unknown event which had happened at Deverington Hall. Eva guessed that her sudden departure had provoked notice and curiosity, and very glad she felt that she was at once to be borne away out of that ominous neighborhood. Yet her guess was a wrong one. Not her departure, but a departure of another and more striking kind had been the news of that snow. But it left its traces on her mortal body, notwithstanding. She went out of that terrible night with her hair as white as HOW NEWSPAPERS ARE CONFISCATED IN FRANCE. Under the rule of Napoleon, newspapers have always been regarded as bombshells that may blow up the Empire. Accordingly, whenever, a public journal printed anything unpleasant to the Emperor, it was seized, and the person to whom it was sent and the agent who meant to sell it never saw a copy of the offensive number. The Journal des Debats recently ventured to print an exposure of the systematic confiscation of English, Belgian and German papers, which has been carried on uninterruptedly in France for the last fifteen years. The Augsbury Gazette and the London Saturday Review have been the chief sufferers. The Independance Belge has been excluded for whole months at a time. The Journal de Genève, which is daily distributed at Lyons, is not suf fered to reach its Paris sabscribers on an average more than once a week. Punch is repeatedly deemed too strong for France, and nine of every ten numbers are confiscated, and even the Illustrated London News was kept back for twenty-four hours in January on account of an engraving of the night fete of the Skating Club. A Spanish paper, written in French - La Bidassod—having been seized for several months' running, on account of its political summary, lately replaced the offending article by a woodcut representing the good ship Bidassoa "in quarantine before Bayonne." The American papers, when they are not seized, are generally detained for twenty-four hours. FOURTH SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. V. From the Rclectic Review. AMERICAN POETS. A BOUQUET of American poets, composed of flowers new and old, comes to our hand. Golden Leaves from the American Poets. Collected by John W. S. Howes. With an Introductory Essay. By Alexander Smith. (Warne and Co.)-This is perhaps the best little, portable volume of selections from American poetry. There is a very mournful interest attaching to it, as it contains the last literary essay of Alexander Smith. Selections are so purely a matter of taste and temperament, that it is perhaps no reflection upon the judiciousness of the hand which has presided over the compilation, to say that we regret the absence of many which appear to us very superior to snme of those quoted. It is, however, a very beautiful little volume; and, as we have said, of its kind, the best, although probably largely indebted to Griswold's much larger work. Very beautiful, its author's most adventurous but most perfect effort, is The Picture of St. John. By Bayard Taylor. (Ticknor and Fields.) — The story, as in most lengthy poems, perhaps, is very slight. A mere bit of canvas, on which to outline forms of grace, and to lay on colours, moving the heart by their human beauty and fitness; the story is of the love of an artist for woman and child. The author, in his evolution of the phases of story and character, treads along what we always feel to be a perilous way. We like art of all kinds to keep the great human and divine highway. The scenery of the story is near Florence, among the hills and forests of Italy; there the writer reveals "the fret of time, and the frowns of circumstance" a story of love and sorrow. The House of Life hath many chambers. He The measure of the poem has a flow of considerable freshness, and of even more sweetness. He has thrown many new, rich, pictorial adjectives into his verses; that power the poet has of so using the adjective, that it becomes a window through which is presented a new picture. There is so uniform a beauty in the verses, that we can quote scarcely anything as marking opes Its breathing valleys: wait for me! I haste, My trance dissolved at once, and falling prone It says, Farewell! and yonder dawns the day." No more! I said farewell: withdrawn afar, Still faintly came to me, its clasping shore, When morning drowned the wintry morningHer ebbing life; then paused—and came no star, more! And blue the mocking sky, and loud the roar And chill my heart became, a sepulchre were. With cold and changeless face beside her grave gave, IN The Vision of Sir Launfal. By James 'Russell Lowell. With Illustrations by S. Eytinge, Junr. (Boston: Ticknor and Fields.). Some English criticisms appear to have forgotten to recognize one of the earliest poems of the now more celebrated Mr. Biglow; the present edition of this not very remarkable piece, is a most graceful and beautiful little volume. The illustrations are pretty and effective, they are like the words they accompany, pleasantly graphic, but not especially striking; the poet and his sketcher have used one of the fine old myths of the Middle Ages, to point the great lesson of practical Christianity. It is one of the stories of the search so many knights undertook for the Holy Grail -the cup with which the Lord celebrated the last supper with His disciples. He only finds the cup and drinks of it, who loves and ministers to the wronged and the wretched, thus, every soul may seek and find, and not in great enterprises, but in lowly duties of love and faith." Not only around our infancy Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives, Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite ; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea. Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in ; The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, We bargain for the the graves we lie in ; At the devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking: 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only God may be had for the asking, There is no price set on the lavish summer, And June may be had by the poorest comer. Sir Launfal set forth, apparently with pious purposes, to find the holy cup with mail and spear young, rich, and brave. "My golden spurs now bring to me, And bring to me my richest mail, For to-morrow I go over land and sea In search of the Holy Grail; Shall never a bed for me be spread, Nor shall a pillow be under my head, Till I begin my vow to keep; And perchance there may come a vision true Here on the rushes will I sleep, Ere day create the world anew." Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, Slumber fell like a cloud on him, And into his soul the vision flew. said, search. Emptied of pride, he had gained | And the voice that was calmer than silence tenderness and charity; he was a poor unarmed man, but he met the leper again by the old gate. Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, * "For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms;" The Leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, Lo it is I, be not afraid! In many climes, without avail, Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; In whatso we share with another's need, — Himself, his hungering neighbour, and me." Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound :- The story is very slight; but the reader will be pleased to perceive in it the consis Thou also hast had the world's buffets and tency of Mr. Lowell with the famous author scorns, And to thy life were not denied The wounds in the hands and feet and side: of the Biglow papers; the sentiment of the delicate poet of the fancy harmonises with scorching and scathing words of the satirist -they plead for the same great human and divine truth in different forms and ways; and we have great pleasure in introducing Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes this lovely and loveable volume to our read And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he When he caged his young life up in gilded mail And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. The heart within him was ashes and dust; He parted in twain his single crust, He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, And gave the leper to eat and drink ; "Twas a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 'Twas water out of a wooden bowl, Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. ers. WE can scarcely call Flower de Luce, By H. W. Longfellow. (Routledge and Sons), a volume. It is a little collection of Mr. Longfellow's later pieces; they do not show the poet in any new lights, or new modes of metre, but they present the same distinėt individuality, which seems to us the characteristic of most that he has done. We are afraid that we cannot think so contemptibly of Mr. Longfellow as modern criticism demands, as represented in recent notices of his verse in The Saturday Review, Spectator, &c., &c. It is the fashion now, we believe, in most circles, to rate him at a lowly standard, and to speak of his poems as common-place. We believe the truth is, Mr. of a century, has created this very sense of Longfellow's popularity, for the last quarter the common-place of many of his verses. His mode of setting is almost always marked by individual emphasis; while it is no doubt true, that he has an almost funny way of allowing his fancy to run away with him, calling up a succession of pictures out of every subject or thing upon which he sets his mind or his finger. See this in The Grain of Sand, The Visions in the Rope-walk, &c., |