their solid domestic excellences. Furthermore, I told him, that this spirit of domestication, so to speak, this living at home, rather than in fashionable places of public resort, was the grand secret of the high state of moral and intellectual culture which forms the crowning grace of the fair of Boston. Long may it continue such.

In reply to what was said about our romance-loving ladies, I continued to remark, that public walks, like these malls of ours, though surrounded as they were by the most splendid scenery, which the eye ever looked upon, a perfect "rus in urbe," still needed that essential attribute of romance, solitude. In solitude only, can the mind, by self-converse and communion with the mysterious affinities of nature, imbibe those sublime influences of which he had spoken. Our young ladies, I begged him to remember, were not devoid of sentiment; but this they indulged in the quietude of their libraries. This, and much more, was urged in vindication of the course which our ladies have pursued for some time past with regard to our malls. But it was all in vain. In the midst of my eloquent oration be pointed to the noble view, as seen from my favorite walk, the Beacon street Mall, and this striking appeal to one of the most touchingly beautiful landscapes which the sun in his daily career smiles upon, silenced my harangue at once. I then began to think more seriously than ever, that it was 66 strange, 'twas passing strange" that this beautiful place was not more of a resort to our ladies "at the matin and the vesper bell," and that it was a shame that silence should here hold her sway, or give place to the noisy and profane jests of the vulgar.

In rather an excursive manner, as the title of this article may imply, have I attempted to assign a reason for my solitary walks in this favorite spot of mine, from which caprice or fashion keeps the fair away, and therefore one must walk in reverie and alone. My limits forbid my entering upon the real object of this article, that is, the subject which I took my pen to write upon, viz. a sketch of my excursive thoughts during one of my accustomed walks in Beacon street Mall, which I must defer till the next number.

N. L.

THE EARLY DEAD.

He rests-but not the rest of sleep
Weighs down his sunken eyes,
The rigid slumber is too deep,

The calm too breathless lives;

Shrunk are the wandering veins that streak
The fixed and marble brow,

There is no life-flush on the cheek-
Death! Death! I know thee now.

Pale King of Terrors, thou art here
In all thy dark array;

But 'tis the living weep and fear
Beneath thine iron sway:-

Bring flowers and crown the Early Dead,
Their hour of bondage past;

But wo, for those who mourn and dread,
And linger till the last.

Spring hath its music and its bloom,
And morn its glorious light;
But still a shadow from the tomb,
A sadness and a blight

Are ever on earth's loveliest things—
The breath of change is there,
And Death his dusky banner flings
O'er all that's loved and fair.

So let it be for ne'er on earth
Should man his home prepare;

The spirit feels its heavenly birth
And spurns at mortal care.

Even when young Worth and Genius die
Let no vain tears be shed,

But bring bright wreaths of victory,
And crown the Early Dead.

CORNELIA.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE PLAYS OF PHILIP MASSINGER. Adapted for Family Reading and the use of Young Persons, by the omission of objectionable passages. In three volumes.

The Messrs. Harpers are intending to enrich their “ Family Library" by publishing a selection from the plays of Massinger, Beaumont, Fletcher, Ford, Shirley, Webster, Middleton, and others; all, of course, to be refined and purified by the same process which has been applied to the Plays of Massinger, now offered to the public.

Those who have any taste for dramatic literature will be highly gratified with this opportunity of obtaining possession of its choicest antiques in our language.

The Plays of Massinger, preceded by a Life of the Author and a Portrait, contain many beauties: we have selected a passage from each play, partly to have an opportunity of giving their titles, and partly for the gratification of stringing a set of pearls for our work.

I could weary stars,
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes,
By my late watching but to wait on you,
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar,
Methinks I'm singing with some choir in heaven,
So blest I hold me in your company."

It is tyranny

To call one pinched with hunger to a feast,
And at that instant cruelly deny him
To taste of what he sees.

The Virgin-Martyr.

The Great Duke of Florence.

Equal Nature fashioned us

All in one mould. 'Twas odds of strength in tyrants
That plucked the first link from the golden chain.
Should the strong serve the weak? the fair deformed ones?
Or such as know the cause of things pay tribute
To ignorant fools?"

The Bondman.

HAVERHILL; or, Memoirs of an Officer in the Army of Wolfe. By James A. Jones. 2 vol. New York: J. & J. Harper.

The hero of these two volumes is the son of a poor fisherman, bred up, till the age of twenty, in the rough employinents of his father. The aim of the author is to display the manner in which the self-acquired knowledge and sturdy perseverance of one of this class may, in our country, conduct to honor, wealth, and happiness. Few, who have the power of creating a hero, would allow him to pass his whole youth in such employments, and the author has shown much moral courage in elevating his chief personage by virtuous energies only, when the success of Paul Clifford had set an example of vulgarity made fashionable by criminal daring.

Some of the characters are sketched with boldness and felicity; the old fisherman, father of Haverhill, is among the best. He is poor, and ignorant of book-learning, yet observing and shrewd, and has that kindliness of manner which compensates for the want of politeness, or rather is the true politeness of a pious heart. Such a person may be poor and ignorant, but he is never rude and vulgar.

The author has dealt sparingly in fashionable phrases and amusements. His hero is hurried from one labor to another as though he were a Hercules, and he has little time to play the agreeable. The work will not therefore be the rage among those who delight only in courtly scenes, but there are touches which the few, who are willing to study human nature in its working-day mood, will highly approve.

The London Athenæum thus notices Haverhill:

"The author of this work is evidently an informed man, an original thinker, an acute observer, and vigorous writer. He is no imitator, he judges for himself, he puts his trust in his own feelings, and writes as he thinks and feels. He is no mere literary echo. The print which he presents us is indigenous, and bears the aroma fresh and fragrant as its own native soil. The style is chaste and vigorous."