quently enchanting, from the variety of splendid decorations which it contains; yet it soon palls upon an American's taste. An English house, without pretension to vie with those across the Channel, will please for a longer time, will wear better, and will rather grow in one's good estimation. Perhaps the perfection of a dwelling would be our combining the respective advantages of French and English taste and substance; the gracefulness of the former would be an admirable set-off to the solidity of the latter.

My readers will, I hope, understand that I am not writing a journal, nor intending to weary their patience with a dull, commonplace recital of events which are occurring every day, and which are utterly unimportant to any human being to know or hear. I detest journal writing. I hate to be tied down to a day-book and ledger accuracy, stating exactly when I took a step here or saw the sun shine there, or anything of the sort. Of what earthly consequence are they to anybody else but the individual's self? But I never knew an invalid yet who could endure the fatigue and annoyance of a diary or journal. No money could hire me to keep one. Still, valetudinarians like to write; but it must be when it suits them, on just such topics as fancy may dictate, and at just such times as may be agreeable to their feelings. To be sure, you cannot rely upon them in all things quite so securely as upon the strong, hearty, and vigorous maker of books of travel. They are very apt to look at things with somewhat of a jaundiced or sinister eye, and very likely to express themselves strongly when it is uncalled for, and to be very bitter against those matters which nobody defends or upholds. Allowance is to be made in such cases. After all, however, it may be quite as safe to trust to their representations as to those of professed tourists, for they are honest in general; they have got no purpose to serve beyond that of their own gratification, and they don't feel obliged to be in ecstasies with this palace or that temple, or the other work of art: so, trust the valetudinarian, if you will.

It has rarely been my lot to witness so strong a contrast as is presented by England and France, when seen within a day or two of each other. I had just left England with its green fields, its hedge-rows of hawthorn, its beautiful roads, its pleasant villages, and cottages, and churches. I had been transported some seventy miles in nine hours, in a

coach as remarkable for substantial neatness as for its fine turn-out of horses, in their trappings, most sedulously kept and most carefully looked after; and I was now journeying on the road from Calais to Paris. The diligence was a great lumbering vehicle, of no beauty in shape, and precious little comfort in arrangement. It was dirty, illkept, and ill-attended; the horses were shaggy, heavy, uncombed animals, whose utmost speed was only five miles an hour, and who were driven in many instances by means of hempen ropes in place of lines. But all this was nothing to the marvellous contrast between the two countries. England seemed to me like an extensive garden. France looked like a barren plain. So far as the eye could reach, mile after mile, the prospect was desolate and cheerless in the extreme. The country was entirely open; no fences to mark the separation of fields or farms, hardly a tree or shrub left standing, and scarcely a living object anywhere to be seen. A wretched looking cottage or hovel now and then was visible to break the dull monotony of the view; and once or twice I espied a solitary cow tied by a rope to a stake, and feeding on what was in her reach, or else watched by some stripling to prevent her wandering beyond a prescribed limit. Whence did such a country as this obtain the name of "la belle France ?”—a country as dreary and comfortless in appearance and reality as can be imagined—a country which nothing could tempt me to inhabit, and in which I trust never to be compelled to reside. France, the beautiful! Who ever before discovered beauty in sandy deserts, in dingy mud-walled hovels, in dirty, unkempt population, and in apparently dead and deserted regions? Who but a Frenchman, an enthusiastic, France-loving subject of Louis Philippe, could say and think that the term was well applied, if he ever rode from Calais to Paris? I verily believe that even he might learn to doubt its truth by going through what I did on this occasion.

I must beg the reader to note here that I am speaking only of a small portion of France, and a portion, too, which is acknowledged to be among the least interesting and most unattractive in the whole kingdom. I do not mean to convey the impression that France is not a country abounding in beauties of scenery and cultivation, for that would be contrary to the truth. I do not mean to say that subsequent experience confirmed the feel

ing of dreariness (that is the best term to express it by) which came over me during this first ride in a French diligence; not at all. Since then I have travelled the whole length of France twice over; and though I do not admire it like the native born, who will never see any faults in la belle France," still I have many pleasant recollections of beauty and grandeur-many sweet reminiscences of hours of enjoyment spent amid her mountains and plains, her towns and villages, her cities and works of nature and art.

So much, as far as the surface of the country is concerned, for the contrast between

England and her great continental rival. It will be more interesting, on many accounts, to remark the difference between the people of these two mighty nations, as regards their habits of thought and action, their comparative advancement in social, domestic, or political wisdom, their customs, manners, and such like things. But as I have already talked a long talk for an invalid, I must deferdoubtless with the readers' entire consentany further lucubrations till the succeeding month, when, by their permission, I will try their patience yet again.

THE Convenience and utility of the Parlor Magazine demand a corner, and we are satisfied we shall meet the wishes of our readers generally by yielding the requisite space for such short articles and notices of passing matters of interest as may make up an agreeable melange, giving to the Magazine a variety, which otherwise would be impracticable. Besides, we sometimes receive epistles from correspondents which do not exactly suit as Magazine Articles," and yet contain pithy matter, or valuable hints, and which we should like to introduce, in part or whole, to our readers. And finally, the editor himself occasionally is disposed to have a word with his patrons and friends, and the Miscellany corner will just answer his purpose.

FIRST OF MAY.-The month of May owes more to the poets than do all the months beside, and yet she often fails in this latitude to make a grateful return for their praise and admiration, dallying with winter, and holding the stormy, frigid wooer in her lap when she should be tending the flowers and nursing the tender fruit buds. Still, with all its drawbacks, May is ever a welcome visitor to the lover of the country, of the fields and forests, and of the open face of Nature; and though the old-fashioned forms of welcoming it have well nigh passed away, the silent appreciation of the heart is not withheld.

There is one place in this world where the advent of May can never be welcome, where the mere mention or anticipation of May-day disturbs all equanimity, and provokes a fit of fretfulness and spleen. It is quite unnecessary to say that New York city is the place we refer to. May-day, which has stood the world over, from Eden to Oregon, as the symbol and usher of the bright and beautiful, the fair and fragrant in Nature, is here, by a perverse necessity, associated with universal overturning and out-turning, with infinite cart-loads of household stuff, followed by scolding housewives, sulky husbands, and the squalling pledges of their affection. It is a day of terror to all but the cartmen and raggatherers; and the tyrannical custom which demands this annual deluge of dirt and confusion confounded, should henceforth be declared null and void and of no force whatever.

POETICAL PROSE.-It is a curious peculiarity in the writings of Dickens, that whole passages not unfrequently occur which, though printed as prose compositions, require only to be thrown into measure lines to make very excellent poetry, in blank verse. But what is more singular, we sometimes find a passage which, when thrown into the form of poetry, is found to afford regular rhymes. Whether this is accidental or designed, we cannot certainly say. We give an

example from his last work, "The Cricket on the Hearth."

"It's a dark night, sang the Kettle, and the rotten leaves are lying by the way; and above, all is mist and darkness, and below, all is mire and clay; and there's only one relief in all the sad and murky air; and I don't know that it is one, for it's nothing but a glare of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together, set a brand upon the clouds for being guilty of such · weather; and the widest open country is a long dull streak of black; and there's hoar-frost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track; and the ice it isn't water, and the water isn't free; and you couldn't say that anything is what it ought to be."

This is the form it appears in the tale. Some one has taken the trouble to put it in poetry:

"It's a dark night, sang the Kettle,

And the rotten leaves are lying by the way;
And above, all is mist and darkness,

And below, all is mire and clay;
And there's only one relief in all
The sad and murky air;
And I don't know that it is one,

For it's nothing but a glare
Of deep and angry crimson,
Where the sun and wind together,
Set a brand upon the clouds

For being guilty of such weather;
And the widest open country

Is a long dull streak of black,
And there's hoar-frost on the finger-post,
And thaw upon the track;
And the ice it isn't water,

And the water isn't free;

And

you couldn't say that anything Is what it ought to be."

It is Christopher North, we believe, who rebukes inordinate self-esteem in young orators, by telling a story something like the following:

A certain young clergyman who was by no means disposed to underrate the power of his eloquence, having been invited to preach in a neighboring parish, complied. While preaching he noticed that one of his audience, an interesting looking woman, in mourning attire, appeared to be deeply affected. The young man, when service was over, spoke much to the minister of the parish about the case, with evident gratification at the powerful effect of his discourse, and proposed visiting the distressed hearer at once, at her own house. This was acceded to, and having called upon her, the young man opened the conversation. "I perceived, my dear friend," said he, "that you seemed to feel very much under my discourse this morning; will you give us some account of the exercises of your mind?" "Ah," said the woman, "I did indeed feel very much, as you say. You must know, sir, that I

am a poor lone widow. I had a good husband, and every week he and I would take the old ass and go to the market with our little raisings from the garden, and by our sales could raise enough to keep us comfortable. But three years ago my man died, and then I had to go alone and do the best I could, with the help of the good old beast. But a year ago my dear old ass died too (here she burst into tears), and here I have been alone ever since, and this morning (she continued, sobbing), when I went to church and heard your voice, it sounded so much like the dear old ass, that I couldn't help crying, indeed I couldn't! Hoo, hoo, hoo!"

FROM A CORRESPONDENT TO THE EDITORS.In our quiet and retired village, social amusements are poorly provided for, and our young people feel the deprivation sorely. We are too distant from the city to think of seeking recreation there. It falls therefore to the lot of the more lively and inventive geniuses among us to be and to act as a committee of ways and means; and how to pass off the long evenings of a long winter is the problem which they are kept working at, for the general behoof and cheer of the village youth. At distant intervals a concert is projected, at which times we have entirely dispensed with the aid of Italian, French, and German artistes, showing our patriotism and home partialities by engaging the services of some Yankee schoolmaster, whose notes, searching as the eastern winds that waft him to us, fill every nook of our meeting-house, and dance on every nerve and fibre of the brain.

But a concert is a thing extraordinary, an indulgence not to be thought of more than once, or possibly twice, in the same season; whereas we want some method of socialising ourselves and one another, of at least weekly or semi-weekly Occurrence. Now what, say the aforesaid committee, shall it be but a sewing society! A sewing society then it shall be. The young ladies shall be the working members, the young gentlemen the honorary, that is, the paying members, and the meetings shall be held once a week in rotation, at the members' houses. The proceeds of the labor and subscriptions shall be paid to some benevolent object, say missions or Sunday schools, or the education of some pious but poor young man for the ministry. Thus good will be done in several ways. Besides accomplishing its main object, the society will be a bond of union, a promoter of kindly feeling, among the members and visitors, and will afford excellent opportunity for elevating conversation and mental and moral improvement.

Good, said I, when invited to pay the initiation fee and become an honorary member of the sewing society of the town of B. This trifle of fifty cents was to procure me the entrée to the best society of B for at least one evening of every

week of the season. Of course I became a member, and was happy to find that quite a number of our choice young men, like-minded with myself, had sought society here, instead of spending the evening in questionable company and amuse

ments.

Now I am afraid I shall hardly escape reproach for being ungallant, crusty, and sour, if I even whisper that I am somewhat disappointed in finding so little high culture, so little elevated thought, feeling, and conversation in this society of choice young ladies, most of whom have had much time, and money, and care bestowed upon their education. I have even observed that if a thoughtful gentleman happens to broach a subject out of the range of the common small talk, he is looked upon as a queer sort of person, and a solemn pause ensues, and inquiring looks are exchanged all round the room, as if each and all would ask, "Who is this man, and what can he mean?" Now I am no. enemy to cheerfulness. I relish a good joke or pleasant anecdote. I can laugh as heartily as anybody. I can relish light and lively chit-chat in its season. But I do not like the prohibition of all serious, all elevated reflections and remarks in social intercourse. I don't like to feel that I dare not risk introducing any topic above the grade of mere tittle tattle. And I have at present a repugnance to being obliged to regard young ladies as mere triflers, unable or unwilling to rise higher.

O. P. Q.

TENNYSON'S POETRY.-In spite of the ordeal of ill-natured criticism through which this author's poems have passed, the public seem determined to like them. There are, it is true, poems and passages that are open to criticism; but after all, Tennyson is a poet. There is power and pathos in him, and our hearts, if we have any, are compelled to own his claim, and yield to his influence. We quoted, some time ago, portions of his "May Queen" in exemplification of this, and we might fill many pages with noble passages. Is not his "Miller's Daughter" a sweet little poem ? Look at this picture of the old

Miller.

I see the wealthy miller yet,

His double chin, his portly size; And who that knew him could forget

The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow wise smile that round about His dusty forehead drily curl'd, Seem'd half within and half without, And full of dealings with the world. In yonder chair I see him sitThree fingers round the silver cup I see his grey eyes twinkle yet At his own jest-grey eyes lit up With summer lightness of a soul

So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear, and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad.