choly! As a toilet lotion, the juice mixed with that of Dock leaves and vinegar took away sunburns and freckles, and with gum arabic dissolved in it, was esteemed an effectual depilatory. Nor does this list contain half the hidden virtues of the herb. Winding up the stems of the corn, we find the mischievous but graceful Climbing Persicaria (Polygonea convolvulus), with its broadly arrow-shaped leaves and lateral spikes of four-whorled greenish flowers; it is a near relation of the common Buckwheat (Polygonea fagopyrum), which has recently been brought into cultivation as an excellent food for poultry. The whole habit of this plant so resembles that of the small Bindweed, that it sometimes requires a close inspection to perceive that it is not the parent of the pretty plaited, white, or rose-coloured cups of the Convolvulus arvensis, trailing upon the ground or looping little festoons of its wreathing stems from one plant to other, wherever it can find support. Full of fragrance on sunny days-and it opens on no others-it incenses the air with the peculiar odorous principle known as Coumarin, to which melilot, sweet-smelling vernal grass, the broadleaved plaintain, and the flowers of many other plants, owe their almond-like sweetness. We will not linger over the minor occupants of our cornfields-the common Speedwell (Veronica agrestis), with prostrate stems and small blue flowers; the Corn Salad, or Lamb's Lettuce (Fedia olitoria), which is extensively used as a salad-herb, and on the Continent cultivated for the purpose; or the modest Shepherd's Purse (Bursa pastoris), the "Poor Man's Permacity" of our forefathers, with its diminutive cruciform white flowers, and its flat triangular seed-vessels, from which it derives its name. Nor is it worth while, unless a pet bird awaits our coming home, to gather more than a specimen of the common Groundsel (Senecio vulgaris), with its heads of dull yellow flosculous flowers; or the Corn Sow-thistle (Sonchus arvensis), which is certain to find a home upon the field. The great Yellow Ox-eye (Chrysanthemum segetum), known in Gerard's time as the "Goulden Floure of Valentia," will make a brighter contrast with the showy Corn Rose and the brilliant Blow Blue (for so the old masters of floral lore in England called the Poppy and the Cornflower, and we love to perpetuate these rustic names) than even that glittering member of the Composite brotherhood. Here and there, trailing its branched stems upon the surface of the ground, the variable little flowers of the Heartsease (Viola tricolour) live their sunny life. Its prettiness has rendered it a favourite in every age, and being under the dominion of the celestial sign Cancer (according to the old belief in planetary influences) it was anciently held in high repute for its medicinal virtues. The rose herself has scarcely received more eulogy than this ex are quisite little wanderer, which is found in cul tivated fields, on barren ground, and even on the summits of high hills. Sweetest names have been lavished on it, only Nicholas Culpepper, Gent., has ventured to stigmatise it as that herb which such physicians as licensed to blaspheme by authority, without danger of having their tongues bored through with an hot iron, call Herb of the Trinity." And having thus disburdened himself of his rising spleen against the old religious name its tripart colouring had given rise to, he tells us that it is also called "Three-faces-under-ahood," "Live in idleness" (a probable corruption of Shakspeare's "Love in idleness," yet so exquisitely characteristic of the prone, sunloving habits of the plant, that it sounds very like the original); it was also known as "Culme-to-you," a sweetly significant appellation in reference to its common one of Heartsease; and the old physician and herbalist adds, “in Suffolk we call them Pansies." There are a few more flowers scattered upon our cereal fields that well deserve our notice, especially the Pheasant's Eye (Adonis autumnalis), with its dusk green multifid leaves, its bright scarlet flowers, and its classic story. This is the "Adonis-flower" of the elder poets, who adopted the mythic fable which represented the solitary blood-red flowers, dropped as it were over the whole plant, to have fallen from the wounds of the dying youth beloved of Venus. In France it is called "Drops-ofBlood," which the bright red petals are freshly scarlet enough to resemble. Its beauty frequently introduces it to our gardens; but its pheasants' eyes" glow brightest upon the yellow stubble-fields, in which Nature's hand has planted it-one amongst the fairest flowers with which Peace inweaves her cereal coronal of gold. THE SUNBEAM. BY J. C. TILDESLEY. Gentle ray of sunlight, gleaming Full of light, and life, and joy, Tell me, is it not thy mission On life's gloomy path to shine ?- Of those Heavenly rays divine? LEAVES FOR THE LITTLE ONES. THE LITTLE BREAD-WASTERS. (Adapted from the German.) BY HANNAH CLAY. There were once two little children, named Godfrey and Emma, who lived in a nice house, with kind parents, and had every pleasure that they could reasonably desire. This little brother and sister were very kind to one another, and obedient to their parents. They were seldom corrected, for they had few faults; but one great fault they were constantly guilty of, and that was, that they were wasteful and extravagant about their eating. Their nurse had not been sufficiently strict with them in this respect; and they would leave such untidy plates after every meal that you would have been quite ashamed to see them, Bread especially, that good gift of our Heavenly Father, they crumbled about them, threw aside into corners, or kneaded into all kinds of curious figures. Their father had often taken them into the fields, in spring, summer, and autumn, and had desired them to notice how carefully the corn was sowed, ploughed, and reaped; but I am afraid that while he was talking, instead of listening, they were all the time watching the little birds in the hedges, or gathering the wild-flowers at their feet, or admiring the graceful waving of the ears of corn as they bent their shining heads to the breeze. Then, when the corn was ripe, these two children would follow the reapers in their merry work, drink buttermilk with them, and rub the brown rustling ears of wheat between their little hands to extract the grains, which they would parch at home on a shovel before the kitchen fire, their careless little hearts the while taking small heed of their father's wise words. Thus the pieces of bread were still wasted, wasted, even although the children went to the farmer's barn to see the corn thrashed out by the great heavy flails, and to the miller's to see it ground, and to the baker's to see the flour made into dough, and baked in the large brick oven. They learnt no wisdom from all these curious sights; but the food, and especially the bread, at home, was still wasted as much as ever. The kind and tender mother of Godfrey and Emma tried another plan. She thought to impress their young hearts by showing them the poor pale hungry children who came to the door to beg a bit of bread, and gave a hundred blessings for an old dry crust. At such times Godfrey and Emma perceived for a moment how wrong they were, and promised faithfully to be less wasteful in future; but when they were again satisfied with a good dinner and had a piece of bread before them, they forgot all their resolutions, began to knead it into birds and ships and all kinds of figures, and finally threw it away. One fine day in summer it was Emma's birthday; and the two children were taken by their kind parents for a short excursion into a beautiful wood near their house. There the birds were singing, and the green glades were enamelled with a thousand flowers; while the sunshine flickered through the tops of the tall trees, and made a golden network on the ground. Godfrey and Emma gathered sticks, and assisted their parents to build up a fire near a clear brook that ran through the wood. When they had done this, and had seen the coffee-kettle slung on a pole supported by two forked branches stuck into the ground, the brother and sister were at liberty to run where they pleased until the meal was ready. So they went about hither and thither, plucking wild flowers, until at length they became aware of a pretty reddish-brown squirrel, that sprang from tree to tree, from bush to bush, and endeavoured by numberless antics to attract their notice. "Oh !" said the children to one another, "if we could but catch the pretty creature, and take it home to live with us!" So they ran eagerly after it; but whenever they were apparently on the point of seizing it, it was off again, yards away; and at length it disappeared with a few great springs into the thickest part of the wood. Godfrey and Emma looked wistfully after the provoking little animal, but the wood in that direction appeared so dark and gloomy, that they dared not follow the squirrel; so they gave up the idea of capturing it, and sat down on a fallen trunk of a tree to rest themselves and recover their breath. As they gazed about them, they remarked with alarm that they were in a part of the wood which they had never explored before. They could neither hear the murmur of the stream, nor the voices of their parents conversing with one another; nor could they discern beneath the over-hanging branches of the trees, nor among the tangled underwood any beaten path by which to find their way back again to the place they had left. Poor children! a dreadful fear came over them; and they began to run about and call loudly. on all sides, in the hope that their parents would come to their rescue. It was all in vain, no one replied; and the further they ran through trees and bushes, the more they became aware that they had really lost themselves, The sun had now set, and it began to grow dark. The songs of the birds had ceased; and nothing was to be heard but the hootings of the owls as they called to one another from the tops of the old trees. Tired to death with running, anxiety, and crying; faint with hunger, their clothes and shoes ragged and torn with pushing through the brambles; the wretched little ones seated themselves beneath a tree, and, with their arms round one another, fell into a kind of doze. It appeared to them that they had not slept long, when Emma raised her head and cried, "Look! dear brother, look! is not that a light shining there?” The brother looked, and really thought he perceived something shining through the trees. Full of hope that they might reach some cottage, or find some one who could help them in their sore strait, they stood up, tired as they were, and hastened towards the light. Before long they came to an opening in the bushes; and, looking through, they perceived something so wonderful that they stood stock still with amaze ment. In a great open space in the middle of the trees, sat a tall and very beautiful woman, attired in a dark-green dress strewn with stars, whence shone the light that had attracted the children. Round this splendid queen or fairy were immense baskets, filled to the brim with little broken pieces of bread. All excepting one, which was heaped with grains of wheat, ripe and yellow. Now while the brother and sister still stood gazing and wondering, behold a troop of little ragged children, who advanced in a long procession from the opposite quarter of the wood. Each of these pale, sorrowful, barefooted little creatures carried a basket made of willows, and stopped in his or her turn before the beautiful woman. Then, as each child came opposite to her, the lady took a little piece of bread from one of the baskets, which changed in her white hand into a loaf, and this she placed in the child's basket with a friendly smile. The little ragged creature kissed her hand in token of thankfulness, and took its place in the retiring procession, which departed quietly as they had come. While this was still going on, a rush of wings was heard in the air, and an immense flight of small birds came and fluttered around the beneficent fairy. She extended her graceful foot, and with the pointed toe of her golden slipper pushed over the basket containing grain. The birds flew upon it with joyful chirpings, and in a few moments it was all eaten up. Godfrey and Emma stood and watched this wonderful scene. Hungry as they were, the sight of the bread roused an intolerable desire to eat some of it; and by-and-bye they stole round through the trees, and slipped into the procession of starving children. The nearer they advanced towards the beautiful woman, the louder beat their hearts; until at length, when they stood in their turns before her, they hung their heads, and remained speechless, clinging to one another. 66 bread-wasters?" said the beautiful lady in a "What do you want with me, you little severe voice. Do you know to whom you come? I am the Corn-seed Fairy. I wander through the whole world, and collect all the pieces of bread that careless people throw away, in order to feed the hungry with them. What do you want with me, you naughty children, who have so often spoiled and wasted the good gift of God? To punish you as you deserve you shall now, with hunger tormenting you at the sight of the bread which is denied to you, suffer all the sorrow felt by the poor starving children, who could often have satisfied their hunger with what you threw away." She pointed to a mossy bank; and with flowing tear and conscience-stricken hearts the brother and sister sat down. Thus they remained for hours, watching the endless procession of famished children; and still more tormenting waxed their hunger, and still more sorrowful their little hearts. Godfrey and Emma awoke as from a deep slumber. There were voices calling to them, well-known, beloved voices; and through the trees they saw their parents advancing towards them, accompanied by neighbours with lanterns, who had joined in the search for the missing children. With loud cries of joy, the little ones rushed into the arms of their dear father and mother. Their first delight over, they turned to look for the beautiful lady, but Fairy, children, and baskets had all disappeared. Could it have been simply a dream? Dream or no dream, the effect of the vision remained. Brother and sister alike kept silence as to what they had seen, but from that day they never wasted food; and especially did they respect and honour bread, the best gift of God. OUR LIBRARY TABLE. POE AND HIS POETRY.* "Sic animis natum inventumque poema juvandis." HORACE. poem) which conveys so perfect an idea of the constitution of his mind is this "Thou wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine: All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, To what shall his poetry be compared? To the chime of his own musical "Bells ?" to the The life of Edgar Allan Poe is one of the most striking and the most melancholy on record. Gifted with the brightest genius, and endowed with graceful and tender feelings, he unhappily succumbed to all the temptations which could allure him, and at last fell sud- fresh bloom of flowers? to the ripple of a silver denly struck down in the prime of his life and stream? But no one will find in his outpourgenius. It is not our intention to write a bio-ings any deepness of hidden feeling or solemn graphy of him, but some brief words of intro- inward scrutinies. Non omnia possumus omnes, duction are needful before entering on the and to those who are content to take his poetry consideration of his poetry. He married his as it is, will be offered a noble gift, saddened beautiful and amiable cousin, Virginia Clemm, by the recollection that the mind from which it and she appears to have been possessed of came was so often and so sadly abused. The every virtue which adorns the softer sex. She next quotation we have marked is one which was throughout all his vices and his failings, unites beauty, melody, and sorrow; it is this— the same tender, affectionate, loving wife to the end. Poe loved her, doubtless, with all the strength and purity of which his faulty nature was capable; and when she died, he gave vent to his grief in a little poem, which is, perhaps, one of the loveliest ever written, and which we shall presently mention. The poetical writings of Edgar Allan Poe are remarkable for the love of the beautiful that pervades them, for the deep mournfulness that characterises so many of them, and for the extraordinary word-melody, if we may coin an expression, which they possess. With regard to Poe's love of the beautiful; it is perfectly true though paradoxical, that plunging as he did into excess, no taint of unworthiness can be found in his poetry, which is so delicately ideal and lovely in its creation as to be utterly free from all materialism. While the poet led a life of riotous debauchery with occasional fits of repentance. his genius burned with the purity of its flame unsullied. It seems through all his verses as if the spirit made amends for its earthly errings by soaring upwards into a region of undimmed radiance and ideality where the sweetest hopes are quivering on the verge of tears. The first quotation we will give as showing his love of all that is beautiful, is a verse from a little poem which is a gem of the most polished loveliness. "On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy naïad airs have brought me home, To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome." Can anything more keenly and tenderly express a face which might, indeed, be the inspiration of a poet? Another verse (from a different The poetical works of Edgar Allan Poe. (London: J. & C. Brown, Ave Maria Lane.) "Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung! An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young, A dirge for her the doubly dead, in that she died so young! * * * "For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams, Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes, And so all the night-tide I lie down by the side, Surely never was sorrow of a mourning heart Poe's wonderful command of language, and the manner in which he weaves the melodies of words, cannot but strike the most cursory reader. Like a true poet, he with all his genius was never careless, but each stanza was delicately finished and balanced. Perhaps the most obvious example we can give of this is the following verse from his "Ulalume" "And now as the night was senescent, And nebulous lustre was born; Of the "Bells" it is needless to speak; still more of the "Raven;" for these two poems would require an essay to themselves. It may perhaps be allowed to compare Poe's poetry with that of Keats's, for both seemed only to long for and depict the beautiful, save that that of Keats is the most approaching to voluptuousness and is the more sensuous. As we have said, Poe shows no deep inward communing or religious sorrow. But we would rather not speak of this, but be content to take his verse as radiant with all that is most delicate in beautiful ideality. Sorrow we must feel that such a genius was marred by sin. But he should be judged charitably, and not held up to posthumous reproach by dull scribblers, who-without having a spark of his genius, without knowing his temptations, without comprehending his nature-measure all men by their own standard of dull and pharisaical respectability. Not for one moment would we say a word that could be construed into advocating the pernicious doctrine that "genius must be allowed irregularities;" but remembering that Edgar Allan Poe was gifted and graced with brilliant powers, remembering that he lost his wife who was his better genius, and lastly, remembering that the tomb has closed over him, we would tell all his enemies and detractors that there never was a nobler or a sweeter motto, than that of, "De mortuis nil nisi bonum." Thinking of him with powerful admiration, how can we better finish than with his own words "For alas, alas! with me, The light of life is o'er, improved text, but the pure text of Shakespeare, as far as the experienced and discriminating judgment of one who has studied him so well and thoroughly, will enable her to discover what it really is. It is an edition in which "whatever corrections, undoubtedly proper, or with high probability of being so, have been suggested in the innumerable other editions, are given in the text the reader is spared the process, and has the result." Whatever word in Shakespeare may now be obsolete, or whatever allusion there may be to old-fashioned custom, can, when the reader feels the need, be explained by reference to the glossary (a copious one), in which whatever was good in all the old rubbish of footnotes is given, and the poet is no longer buried under the mass of references with which his commentators have overlaid his text. The sonnets are included in this edition, which, for the convenience of purchasers, is published in one, and in two volumes. THE TEMPERANCE SPECTATOR; THE TEMPERANCE DICTIONARY; ALCOHOL; WHY I HAVE TAKEN THE PLEDGE; THE TEMPERANCE STAR. (Job Caudwell, 335, Strand.)— We take this group of Temperance publications en mass, giving the palm of excellence in a literary sense to the Rev. Dawson Burns' Temperance Dictionary-a work which promises to contain a great deal of information upon other subjects than the one it is written to support. Here and there indeed the author, in his zeal for total abstinence, wrests his illustrations a little to one side; as under the word "Abednego," one of the four young Hebrew princes conveyed to Babylon with Daniel and his companions, where he refused to take the King's meat and wine, and exhibited in his subsequent appearance the healthy effects of an abstinence diet. In the text it is distinctly stated that it was to save themselves from defilement that the Hebrews refused to eat the King's meat or drink his wine, for the food of the heathens was an abomination to the Jews; but the argument pressed out of the passage might equally serve abstainers from flesh, and may be handed over to the Vegetarians. The "Temperance Spectator" we perceive has been for some time before the public. The present number we regret to say is chiefly occupied with intemperate abuse of persons and publications that differ in opinion from those of which it is the organ. It would be ludicrous if it were not painful to observe, in their efforts at one species of perfectability, how the ostensible leaders and supporters of this gracious virtue forget that charity to the weaknesses or mistakes of others which should of right belong to Temperance. Not by hard words, or phrases wrested from their real mean 'No more-no more-no more' (Such language holds the solemn sea, To the sands upon the shore), Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar. W. R. SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS. Edited by Mary Cowden Clarke.-(New York: D. Appleton and Co. London: Tribner and Co.)—At a time when expurgated editions of Shakespeare forings, can the cause of this truly excellent movefamily reading are daily advertised, another edition, scrupulously revised, seemed scarcely called for, even though edited by one who so thoroughly comprehends and appreciates the poet as Mrs. Cowden Clarke. But the editor, in her preface, has reassured us. It is not an ment be strengthened. It is rather singular that teetotalism requires a distinct edition of the Bible "with marginal readings and notes in harmony with the teaching of teetotalism." Hitherto, good men and temperate ones have thought it sufficient to make their lives har |