particular about the Liturgy-the child who watches with the anxiety of a surpassing affection, the last slumbers of her aged mother, who dwells, when the parting grief is over, upon "the calm, peaceful countenance; her eyes mostly closed as in sleep; the silvery hair parted upon her forehead;" how "twice or thrice she asked for water to drink, and smiled affectionately upon all around;" (p. 82) this child speaks with no holy indignation, when "the silvery hair" of one as venerable as that mother, is dabbled in his own blood-when the eyes of "this poore old man" (p. 163) are closed, not as in sleep, but upon the terrors and ignominy of a gory scaffold, where the licentious mob, as mobs had done his master aforetime, scoffed at him and reviled him. Now surely this is unnatural;-the womanly sympathy, the generous love, the considerate kindness which win all hearts in the earlier part of the Diary, could never have written the coldly pitying entry of Laud's martyrdom But we did not commence with an intention to criticise, and we go on to our extracts from the domestic portion of the Diary. Of these, no praise could well be extravagant.

There is one observation in which we think most persons will agree, that this marriage does not seem to have been, what is technically called, "a love match." Lord Willoughby appears to be a grave and dignified peer, conscientious in the discharge of his duties, kind to his tenantry, loving to his wife, but not much given to sentiment, and yet withal admiring Sir Philip Sydney, and not forgetful of

"That better portion of a good man's life,
His nameless, unremembered acts of love,"

a much older person than his fair lady, and one of whom she stands, at least in the earlier days of her journal, in no little awe. Indeed, one of the chief beauties of the book, is the gradual unfolding of both their affections; and it is with exquisite grace that the Diary paints, how as one and another of those human stays on which her young feelings had been trained, depart, she finds in the increasing tenderness of her husband an unfaltering support-"Father thou art to me and most dear," etc. But let the Diary speak for itself:

"Arose at my usual houre, six of the clocke, for the first time since the birth of my little sonne; opened the casement and looked forth upon the park; a herd of deer pass'd by leaving the traces of their footsteps in the dewy grasse. The birds sang, and the aire was sweet with the scent of the wood-binde and the fresh birch leaves. Took down my Bible; found the mark at the 103d Psalm; read the same and return'd thanks to Almighty God, that he had brought me safely through my late peril and extremity, and in his great bountie had given me a deare little one. Pray'd him to assist me by his Divine Grace in the right performance of my new and sacred duties; truly I am a young mother and need help. Sent a message to my lord, that if it so pleased him, I would take breakfast with him in the Blue Parlour. At noon walked out on the south terrace; the two greyhounds came leaping towards me," &c.—pp. 1, 2.

We omit much that is very beautiful, and copy what follows, for the exquisite picture it contains:

"My deare lorde set forth at a little past six with only one serving man

who had a led horse and one to carry the baggage. After they had rode some way they stopp'd, and my lord dismounted, and taking a short cut thro' the Park, came up to the window, where I had remained to watch his departure. He bade me call the steward, gave him some directions; then telling me to keep up a good heart, took another tender leave, and followed by Armstrong, returned to the place where were the horses, and he mounting the led horse, they were soone out of sight. Old Britton seemed to understand he was not to follow his master, and came and reared himself up to the window, resting his fore paws on the stone; I patted his broad head, and questioned not that he felt as I did, that his best friend was gone. Tooke a few turns with him on the terrace; the mist cleared off the distant woods and fields, and I plainly discerned the towers of Framlingham Castle, and could heare the pleasant sound of the scythe cutting through the thicke grasse in the fields nearest, and the cuckoo as she fled slowly from hedge to hedge."—pp. 10, 11.

The spirit of the book is, we think, lost, in making extracts, and, to a full enjoyment of its truthfulness, there is perhaps necessary, some familiarity with the public events of the time, which, like stormy and broken clouds, now shadowed with gloom and now cheered with transient sunshine, the quiet spots of social life over which they passed. By far the more touching portions of the Diary, we cannot, however, consent to open out for critical inspection; such passages, for instance, as dwell upon her mother's blessed converse, and renew, with a sorrowful enthusiasm, the solemn glory of her Christian death-or those in which she vainly attempts to preserve some memorial of her first great agony, the loss of her beautiful boy. We know hearts that will throb sadly, and bright eyes that will see dimly, here. We know young people who will lay aside this journal of a woman's life with timid hopes and tender fears, and old people, whose memories will travel back to far off days, and start at forgotten voices, who will not ask, whether all this be true, but with us will utter a benediction on the heart that felt and the hand that wrote, these things.

With one or two extracts, made at random, we conclude. We have opened at page 187, (86 Am. Ed.,) and although it might be excluded under our resolution, we will trust it to our readers' sympathy:

"Sitting yesterday, toward evening, in the bay-window, in great abstraction of minde, oppressed by a sense of my lonely condition, I did weepe unrestrainedly, knowing not that I was perceived by any, until a little hand was put into mine, and Lizzy's face was rays'd up to kisse mee. Sorrowfull thoughts could not be at once set aside, and I did not speake to her for a time, for my heart was heavy. She sate quietly downe at my feet with a gentle, loving looke, and so remained. The raine had ceased, and the sunne shon in through the side casement. The light, as it fell upon her golden haire, made her seeme like to the holy children in the Italian pictures; of such methought are the kingdom of Heaven; thus looketh and haply is even now nigh unto mee, separated only by this veil of flesh, the spirit of my precious child; as the flower of the field, so he perished, and my heart yet yearneth after him, my first-borne. Arose and took Lizzy in my armes and held her to the window. A few pale flowers of the Musk Rose smelled sweetly after the raine. Di and Fanny were running on the terrace; wee went out to them, and they were as

merrie as birds, and I did put from me my own griefe. Very gracious is the Lord unto me, and in him will I trust."

One more, and we have done, and it "points a moral."—

"And the King, deare husband, I asked, is he safe? will he depart the countrey? No man knoweth, he reply'd; he will not be permitted to leave the countrey if guards and strong castles can prevent. He is safe so far as concerns his life; he may be deprived of power or even of his crowne, but on no plea can they take his life, and yet who shall say where they will stop? I would lay downe my life to know him to be safe; we have fought and striven, and have set a stone rolling that haply will crush all that come in its way-Laws, Parliament, or even the King himselfe. My husband leant downe his head on the table, and hid his face on his arme, and so remained overwhelmed by the prospect of misery before us. I ventured not to speake; it is an awful thing to behold the spirit of a strong man shaken, and to hear sobbes burst forth from his over burthened heart."-p. 203.

The closing tenderness of the passage we omit, and, without further remark, commend the volume to all who know how to prize, what the motto to Wiley & Putnam's cheap re-print of this journal, calls "Books which are Books."

T.

DUTY.

WELL hast thou said, that mine was but a madness;
The toys I sought, the pleasant hopes pùrsued,
Sweetly they seem'd to smile, and shapes of gladness,
Gathered in fancy, won as soon as woo'd.
But soothly has the sage denounc'd the pleasure

Thus quickly yielding to the grasp and lure;
How small its worth, how very brief its measure,
How formed to cheat, how little to endure.

There is nought sure but sorrow and transition,
And best he wills, who to his task has brought,
The stern resolve to work in his condition,

Nor to its profit nor its loss give thought.
The duty is not less assign'd to being,

Though not a smile of fortune crowns the toil,
There is no refuge from the task in fleeing,
And wisdom makes it happiness to moil.

Not from the bird or beast we take our moral,-
Man only has the privilege to wear

His crown of thorns, far nobler than the laurel,

And wins his immortality from care.

He forfeits his high destiny, imploring

That freedom which is subject to him still;

The dog that sleeps, the bird that sings in soaring-
These are but lowly vassals at his will.

Greendale, Ala.

BERNARD HILTON.

A FOREIGNER'S FIRST GLIMPSES OF GEORGIA.

BY PROFESSOR J. H. GUENEBAULT

I.

THE traveller who leaves the low and sandy stretches of country which extend along the Atlantic coasts of South-Carolina and Georgia, with an eye accustomed to, and weary of, the eternal horizon of plains, feels himself relieved and delighted, as, passing through Wilkes' County, in the latter State, he approaches Athens. Here the country begins to swell into gentle acclivities, and to assume that more various aspect which delights a lover of the picturesque. If the traveller be a foreigner, as is the case with myself, he will receive, in addition, certain moral suggestions, which will heighten, in his eyes, the charms of the natural world. He will rejoice at the momently increasing proofs which he beholds of the irresistible power of civilization and industry, over the rude and unpliant nature, and the wonderful rapidity with which, in America, the city and the village spring up from the umbrageous cover of the trackless forest. Where, but late, stood the lodge of aboriginal council, he encounters the towers of the Christian church ;-where crouched the wigwam, he hails the portly and the proud hotel; the magic and the mummery of the medicine bag, gives way to the more wholesome and holy mysteries of college and academy; and the public library, embodying the histories and the wisdom of countless ages, usurps the eminence once occupied by the stake of torture, and the stones of a bloody sacrifice. But forty years ago, and two dwellings of the white man held possession of the spot which is now made to smile and triumph in the possession of a lovely town like Athens. Its territory was then the property of the fierce and bloody Muscoghees. And now!-look upon it, where it smiles, sunnily, along the slopes of a gentle eminence the base of which is washed by the rippling waters of the Oconee, from whose quiet surface is glanced back the sweet array of its neat and pleasant cottages. For some distance before you attain the perfect prospect, the eye catches the lofty outlines of Franklin College, which, beheld from afar, reminds one of those silent and ancient castles, which invite us even while they frown, along the banks of the goblin and robber haunted Rhine. The illusion becomes more complete, as the structure rises from a wilderness of embowering trees. It is skirted by showy dwellings, whose glittering white outlines happily contrast with the flushing green of the vegetation that surrounds them.* From Athens, the

* Franklin College possesses a good library, a rich apparatus for natural history, and a fine chemical laboratory. To the patience and perseverance of Dr. M. Ward, formerly one of its professors, it owes a good botanical garden, in a well selected spot, but a short distance from the college buildings. A running stream by which it is watered, assists greatly in the nourishment and prosperity of its aquatic plants, and here the luscious fruits of Europe, and the bright and fragrant productions of the tropics, are found happily associated. The garden

country continues to rise with gentle undulations, until your approach Madison, when the ascent becomes more rapid. This varied and well wooded country presents a series of romantic and lovely landscapes. The road carries you over mountains, of unequal elevations, until you descend to the springs, the waters of which possess a high celebrity throughout the State for their chalybeate properties. They constitute the Bath, the Brighton, and the Brunnens, of upper Georgia, and attract visiters, during the proper season, from other States. Here the Southern amateurs of the far niente make their rendezvous at the calls of summer, and show a reasonable wisdom in preferring this domestic retreat to any of the more notorious and more fashionable of the North. It well deserves their preference. For the solace of the mind and the invigoration of the body, the springs of Madison are unsurpassed, perhaps unequalled, in the United States. The air of that region is remarkably pure and dry, more pleasant than the keen and piercing atmosphere of the higher mountains of Georgia. Health and pleasure, animation and repose, are here offered to the valetudinarian on terms which could scarcely be so moderate were the virtues of the region better known and more generally acknowledged.*

The route from Madison to Carnesville takes you along a road in which the Georgia landscape assumes more majestic aspects. Carnesville, like a thousand of our Southern points, is a name only. It is commended by its scenery. Ere you arrive at Clarksville, the traveller is stopped by the Currahee, the sentinel mountain, the advanced post of a grand army of mountains. The Currahee is composed of three plateaux. On the summit, you find a track which leads you downward some thirty feet, and here you take perch upon a flat mass of rock which overhangs a frightful abyss. A narrow ledge only is allowed you upon which to stand. Looking around from this ticklish elevation, the eye grasps a vast and imposing panorama. A boundless sea of forest encircles you far as the vision can extend, from which, at points the most scattered and remote, you see the slender white smoke creeping out and curling upward, the tribute to the covering sky from the lonely camp of the hunter, or the quite as lonely cabin of the solitary settler. In this charmingly diversified region, over which nature has cast her richest mantle,-where intricate and romantic vallies, stretch away in subjection to towering and is at once an excellent means for the instruction of the students, and a delightful promenade for the inhabitants. Franklin College was not at first successful. For many years, notwithstanding the superior worth and talents of its first president, the venerable Dr. Waddell, the institution made slow progress. There were several causes for this which the abilities of the president would vainly have striven to amend. Since his day, and under that of its present excellent administration, the case is altered. The college is now flourishing and enjoys a high reputation which is constantly on the increase. The local attractions of Athens, the facilities by rail road for approaching it, the liberality of the trustees, and the improving condition of society, are all contributing to increase its claims to patronage.

* The springs of Madison are more largely impregnated with iron than is usual with chalybeate waters. This commends them particularly to those who suffer from debility.