form such exploits as those of Mrs. Bickerdyke. It is bad enough, Gail thinks, that women are not generally allowed to compete with men in obtaining situations, but even, when they succeed sometimes in getting into a handsome position, they get little more than half the salary the men get. There is no doubt that there are men who take an advantage of them in this way, but it is equally true that there are others who pay them not only as much as they pay men, but more. Nay, not unfrequently work furnished by women is accepted and paid for without a murmur, which, if furnished by men, would have been rejected without hesitation. Indeed, we strongly suspect that if the volume before us had been presented to Ticknor & Fields as the performance of one wearing pantaloons, together with beard, mustaches, &c., it would have been declined, though very politely, before the sixth page was read--not a line of it would have been printed; although, of course, this would have been a serious loss to womankind. Dr. Todd remarks, in substance, that since there are seventy-five thousand more women than men in New England, it is not be expected that all the former could find employment in positions usually occupied by the latter, seeing that not a few of the men themselves are out of employment; still less is it to be expected, he says, that these seventy-five thousand woman could get as good salaries as the men, of whom there is a comparative scarcity. Political economists tell us that whatever gluts the market must be more or less cheap; nor are strong-ininded women exempt from the operation of this law. But Gail Hamilton disposes of it in her usual elegant and convincing style. "The seventy thousand women," she says, "may sit on the curbstone and suck their thumbs for any thing he has to suggest," &c. (p. 59). If this handsome brigade were only allowed to vote, all might be right; from this it follows, as a matter of course, that to prevent them is a most iniquitous thing. Gail proves the fact in her usual happy way. "Are American women, as a class," she asks, "more unfit to vote than Irishmen? Are they less capable of, understanding issues involved, and of passing judgment upon measures proposed, than negroes who have been slaves for generations?" (p. 87). This settles the point. Everybody knows that Irishmen are unfit to vote; some think that negroes are somewhat unfit also; but both races are occasionally permitted to vote; ergo the fitness of women is demonstrated! Dr. Todd thinks that the young women of the present day are forced to study too much, since, in addition to ordinary branches, they have to study chemistry, botany, astronomy, rhetoric, natural and moral philosophy, metaphysics, French, often German, Latin, perhaps Greek, &c., &c. (p. 53). But Gail Hamilton sees no difficulty in all this. "I affirm," she says, "that if, between the ages of six and eighteen, a girl cannot get all those things she is a poor thing," (p. 58). Kepler, Newton, and Bacon, as well as Aristotle and Plato, have confessed themselves ignorant of many things. We believe the most learned men of the present day admit also that there are some things which they do not understand. But a modern school-girl who does not know every thing is "a poor thing," according to our author. In La Fontaine's time to learn Hebrew, the sciences, and history, was regarded as an effort somewhat similar to drinking up the sea. "Si j'apprenois l'Hebreu, les sciences, l'histoire, Tout cela, c'est la mer à boire." But this would be only children's play in this enlightened age and country. As for Gail Hamilton, her learning must be unbounded. Nothing is hidden from her that is within the reach of human ken. It is true that this might not be inferred from her style at a casual glance; but a closer examination would readily reveal its classic polish. What can be finer, for example, than the taste she displays, and so unostentatiously, in those quotations, which she has always at hand to give the coup de grace to an impertinent argument? We need only point out one or two instances to satisfy the most stupid or most skeptical, how full of refinement she is in this respect. We doubt whether any logician, but herself, would have hit on the following beautiful lines as a refutation of all the arguments brought against female suffrage (p. 74) :—` "I do not like you, Dr. Fell, The reason why I cannot tell," &c. It is superfluous for us to transcribe the whole quotation, since every reader of taste must be acquainted with that fine morceau. Still more classical, and apposite, perhaps, is the couplet : "Owen Moore has run away, Owing more than he can pay." We trust we shall never again have the disagreeable task of criticising a book of this kind from the pen of Gail Hamilton. We can assure the lady that we should much rather speak of her efforts in the language of approbation than in that of censure. As already intimated, we do not doubt that she can write very interesting magazine stories; but her philosophy is a spurious article; and were her "Woman's Rights" ethics adopted, we might regard modesty and delicacy-those charms of the sex which fascinate us most-as virtually discarded. But, fortunately, there is no danger. It would take far sounder logic than Gail is capable of to induce any sensible woman to accept her theories-indeed, no one would do so who was not rather prone to vagaries before a line of the present volume was written. Highland Rambles. A Poem. By WILLIAM B. WRIGHT. 12mo, pp. 183. Boston: Adams & Co. 1868. We know neither the author nor the publishers of this little volume. It has reached our table without any heralding; not a word are we told about it even in the form of a preface. A dedication, indeed, it has, but a peculiar one; it consists of two or three simple stanzas addressed to nobody in particular, except we regard Love as possessing flesh and bones. From this it might be inferred that the volume is all about love. There is love enough in it; but no excess; nothing mawkish. The author is evidently aware that even love may be made a drug by being thrust forward in all situations. The most beautiful and fascinating woman must not always talk in an amorous strain, if she would retain her hold on our affections. Love has a very wide reign, undoubtedly; but many other passions and feelings enter into the composition of human nature; and, accordingly, the poet who would be natural, must give those other passions and feelings their due proportions in his portraitures. We should not have deemed it necessary to make any remark of this kind were it not so much the habit, at the present day, to exaggerate, ad nauseam, whatever is chosen as a subject, and admitted to be worthy of praise. "Poems" are constantly reaching us constructed on this plan; but none read them. The authors blame the public taste for this; they say poetry is slighted. The age, they complain, is too utilitarian; it has no admiration for the beautiful, only for the useful-what brings the dollar, or helps to get it in some way; whereas the truth is, that the sort of stuff alluded to is not poetry at all, but a kind of jargon which does not express the feelings or aspirations of either men or angels. Now, it is precisely because the public is improving in its taste that it rejects such as this; and we hope it will continue to do so until our would-be Homers, Virgils, Dantes, and Miltons learn that something more than rhyme, or blank verse, sentimentalism, vulgar slang, or highsounding bombast, vanity, and assurance is necessary to constitute poetry. We are so wearied of examining the "Poems" sent to our office, and finding after all our pains and loss of time that they are unworthy of the briefest notice, that, when any thing even tolerable falls into our hands, we are not only willing, but glad to do full justice to its merits. But Highland Rambles" is not merely tolerable; the poem contains not a few noble passages. Many of its simplest strains are at once musical and elevated, and not unfrequently they have all the freshness as well as the Eolian plaintiveness of the Highland breeze when the voice of the pibroch recalls the deeds of other days. But we must hasten to let the reader judge for himself, bearing in mind that no description, however elaborate or graphic, can give as accurate an idea of poetry as a specimen of itself. At the same time, we would not have the reader expect too much; we think it rather our duty to warn him that he must not expect to find every thing in "Highland Rambles" musical and beautiful, or even simply faultless, for our poet occasionally uses expressions which are neither poetical nor appropriate. In general, indeed, his verse lacks polish; but still more generally his thoughts are striking; they are often original, and nearly always in sympathy with the true aspirations of humanity. The poem opens with three young men "strayed spirits," Arthur, Vivian, and Paul, ready to start on a tour through the Highlands. But in order to prepare us for the scenes and incidents that await us, we are presented with some lively stanzas; even these, placed as they are in the vestibule, have truth and nature enough in them to give a foretaste of what we may expect when we reach the interior of the edifice, as one or two of them will show : : Forth, and snap the cunning fetter; Couched in Alpine bower, Thou shalt have thy senses better Where cool-fronted mountains tower. Hearts of men, 'tis said, beat surer In their lordly bosoms, Simpler faiths spring, love flows purer, Life comes out in fresher blossoms.-Page 9. The spirit in which the three sallied forth is well described; at the same time we obtain a bird's-eye view of a beautiful and romantic landscape. They glided over bosomed meads, where now And won with shout and leap the shaggy spurs Of the height, and wrestling with the steepness gained The trembling vapors.--Page 11. After the three had wandered about for some time admiring the Alpine beauties on every side, Paul sings a song which is not unworthy of the land of Campbell and Burns. He had but just finished the last stanza when a footstep was heard, on "a ledge that neighboured." This incident is well conceived, and turned to excellent account. The stranger is old, and he is treated with the respect which age should always receive when unaccompanied with vice or crime; we can only make room for a fragment of the description : Straightway all arose, Startled to sudden reverence by one, Noble in mien, though bowed beneath his years. Some fragment of an antique world, a sage Fit to have fostered kingliest hearts, and shown The old man welcomes the youths in a spirit which is in entire accordance with his character: "Tis mine to welcome, for meseems I read After he has related to them some of the results of his experience, and entertained them with reminiscences, Vivian proceeds to give an account of himself and his companions. This, too, it will be seen, is quite in character; Vivian speaks as an intelligent student who has been trained to think would be expected to do: Three half-blown pedants we, These, however, are not fair specimens; the poet soars much higher; it is certain that he becomes more and more original and eloquent as he proceeds; and need we say that this is a proof of genius in itself. Further on the travellers engage in a lively good-humoured discussion on State affairs. Paul thinks that statesmen and philosophers may be expected to proceed from the woods in certain circumstances, forgetting that they are very scarce even in the capitals of cities; but for this he is duly criticised :— But then Arthur let loose his wonted fierce disdain: Of delicate idealisms." But the reader has yet seen nothing on love from a poem which is dedicated to Cupid. Very properly our poet is in no hurry to make his students fall in love, knowing that once in love it will not be easy to induce thein to return to their studies; he is evidently aware that one who is fully smitten with the tender passion is not in a favourable frame of mind for enjoying even the romantic beauties of the Highlands. Sooner or later they must love, however; and accordingly the case of one is described as follows: Mounting they beheld, Within a rose-plot, Edith, whose sweet smiles |