ANOTHER year. Yet, again, another year well nigh completed with its joys and its sorrows, its good and its evil-gone for ever, indeed, from the eyes of man, but leaving its traces upon the heart, as the ripples of the retreating waves leave their marks upon the soft golden sand-ay, and upon the hard, white, cold rock. Every one of us has the touch of that old year's hand upon us. For some, the down of the boy's cheek has passed away, and he begins to talk, and think, and look the man; the immature form of the fair girl has attained a juster proportion and a fuller development : the gay brile of a twelve-month since is now the sober matron. For others, like us elderly gentlemen, the lines are deepening upon the forehead, and the lustre, it may be, paling in the eye; a few more grey hairs are to be seen on the head, and the foot moves with a somewhat slower and more thoughtful pace. And, in short, every year tells now upon them with double power, while every day seems no longer than an hour of childhood. Well, so be it it cannot be otherwise, and let us, therefore, be sure that it ought not to be otherwise. Come, we will even make the best of our state, as we find it, and go graveward, not with a foolish merriment, but with a wise cheerfulness. December hath ever been a season of joy and relaxation. The slave, ere the symbol of the cross had arisen to rule and to civilise the world, had his revel and feasting in the saturnalia; and the Christian, with a truer joy, rejoices in his release from the slavery of sin. Let us, then, have a cheery heart and a festive spirit; and though the wind may howl without, and the rain patter against the window-panes; though clouds may sweep over the sunlight, and night come down quick and deep upon us— what then? Let us all the more strive that there may be no storm within us, no bleakness, no clouds, no gloom. Come, then, we will be your companion, even if it be but for a half hour. Shut to the door of the closet,

close the window-shutters upon the dark night without, draw out the ample folds of the thick curtains, trim the lamp, and stir up the fire into a kindly blaze, and we shall show you some of the good things and the pleasant, that the season brings to us. We have our Christmas tree; why should we not? Are we purer than children, are we wiser, are we less fond of baubles and toys-ay, or sweetmeats and sugarplums? Let the statesman, and the epicure, and the man of pleasure, answer the question in the negative if they dare. We should prefer to remain silent. But see, here is our Christmas tree-one of our own eververdant fir-trees, and from its branches hang the mimic fruit, ready to our hand. How shall we choose where so much tempts us? Well, there is something beautiful, at least to the eye, glittering in blue and gold, with oak leaves winding all around it, and its leaves gilt and burnished. Let us take it down and examine it, that we may see if it be as sweet to the taste as it is pleasant to the sight. What is this with the "Golden Legend" quaintly lettered upon it? Let us read. Ah!— Pilgrimages to English Shrines.'

66

There are few objects within the domains of literature that present a finer scope to one of taste, feeling and genius, than that which Mrs. Hall has chosen in this beautiful volume. To wander through a land such as England is, replete with the memories of the good and the great; to linger amid the scenes they lived in and made a part of themselves, their personal history, and their very forms of thought; to wander by the pleasant streams, or through the deep forests where they wandered; to sit in the rooms where they sat and meditated, to stand beside the graves where they lie mouldering-and in doing all this, to re-people these haunts with their former tenants; to exhibit them to you as they lived, and where they lived; to interpret them by the very local associations around you-this is, indeed, to give biography its highest

1853.

charm, its most picturesque effect. It is to make topography the handmaiden to history, and to give a grace, and an interest, and a permanency to many a detached incident, that would otherwise have passed, it may be, entirely from the memory. Who is there that has ever traversed the scenes which Burns or Scott has consecrated in their own land, or where Spencer or Moore has sung in ours, and does not feel that he has thereby known, as it were in their bodily existence, those with whose spirits they were then more immediately associated; and has not carried away in his heart and his memory some precious thing which, like the indigenous shell or flower, he could only have found upon the spot?

Mrs. Hall seems to have felt all this that we have been describing, and she evidently set out on her pilgrimage with a genuine enthusiasm, and a most inquiring spirit; and hence it is that she has given us a book at once delightful and instructive, full of learning and research, replete with vivid pictures of life and manners and of scenery, sparkling with lively anecdotes, mellowed often with the finest pathos, and animated constantly with a healthy and a just spirit of reflection. We confess to the weakness of having read it through at a sitting; and we know few books of the present day which could have betrayed us to indulge our appetite so freely without rising from table. And now we shall give you, dear companions, some notion of this fair pilgrim's pleasant converse not, indeed, to satisfy, but rather to stimulate your desire to make a fuller acquaintance with that for which even the little we can afford you shall give you no small relish. The first of Mrs. Hall's pilgrimages was in the footsteps of Izaak Walton, that gentlest of anglers and most delectable of moralisers-the friend of Cotton, and Kenn, and Donne and King-the biographer of Hooker and of Herbert. Most agreeably and most instructively has she led us through the old man's haunts in Derbyshire and Staffordshire, and along the flower-painted banks of the silvery Dove," and so on to the grave of the "compleat angler," in the little chapel in the south transept of Winchester Cathedral. We may not tarry with her by the way, nor yet bear her company while she traces that good patriot,

William Penn, through his eventful life and distant wanderings, till his return to his own land, to lay his bones amongst his own people; yet shall we let you hear our pilgrim tell you, in her own words, her visit to the grave of William Penn:

"The sun had begun to make long shadows on the grass, and the bright stems of . the birch threw up, as it were, the foliage of heavier trees, before we came in sight of the quaint, solitary place of silence and of graves. The narrow road leading to the Quakers' meeting-house was not often disturbed by the echo of carriage-wheels; and before we alighted, an aged woman had looked out, with a perplexed yet kindly countenance, and then gone back, and sent forth her little granddaughter, who met us with a self-possessed and quiet air, which showed, that if not a friend,' she had dwelt among friends. The meeting-house is, of course, perfectly unadorned plain benches and a plain table, such as you sometimes see in 'furniture prints' of Queen Anne's time. This table the little maid placed outside, to enable Mr. Fairholt to sketch the graveyard, and that we might write our names in a book, where a few English and a number of Americans had written before us;-it would be defamation to call it an album 'it contained simply, as it ought, the names of those who, like ourselves, wished to be instructed and elevated by a sight of the grave of Wiliam Penn.

"The burying-ground might be termed a little meadow, for the long, green grass waved over, while it in a great degree concealed the general undulations which showed where many sleep; but when observed more closely, chequered though it was by increasing shadows, the very undulations gave an appearance of green waves to the verdure, as it swept above the slightly raised mounds; there was something to us sacred beyond all telling in this green place of nameless graves, as if having done with the world, the world had nothing more to do with the se whose stations were filled up, whose names were forgotten!-It was more solemu, told more truly of actual death, than the monuments beneath the fretted roofs of Westminster or St. Paul's, labouring, often unworthily, to point a moral or adorn a tale,' to keep a memory green, which else had mouldered!

"The young girl knew the 'lawgiver's' grave among the many, as well as if it had been crushed by a tower of monumental marble. How still and beautiful a scene! How grand in its simplicity; how unostentatiously religious, those green mounds, upon which the setting sun was now casting is goodnight in golden benisons, seemed to us more spirit-moving than all the vaunted monuments of antiquity we had ever seen.

How

we wished that all lawgivers had been like him, who rested within the sanctuary of that green grass grave. We thought how he had the success of a conqueror in establishing and defending his colony, without ever, as was said of him, drawing his sword; the goodness of the most benevolent ruler in treating his subjects like his own children; the tenderness of an universal father, who opened his arms, without distinction of sect or party, to the worthy of all mankind;the man who really wishes to establish a mission of peace, and love, and justice, to the ends of the earth, should first pray beside the grave of William Penn."

Do you know that Anna Maria Hall is an Irishwoman? Of course you do; everybody does. But she is inveterately Irish-not only in her sensibilities and her love of her own land, but even in her love of a blunder now and then. Indeed, the temptation to make a bull cannot always be resisted by any of us; and Heaven forbid, that a domestication with that shocking Saxon, Mr. John Bull, should have rendered her insensible to the charms of any other bull than himself! Now the bull which Mrs. Hall has made is not merely excusable, it is absolutely commendable! Amongst her English shrines, she has given us an Irish one-the shrine where her beloved friend, Maria Edgeworth, is laid. How much should we regret the absence of this chapter on Edgeworthstown, now that we have read it. It is, unquestionably, the best in the whole book; not that it is better written perhaps, indeed, it is less artistic and elaborate than some others which we could point outbut it speaks the whole soul of the writer, as it discloses the soul of her of whom she writes. We have vividly, in Mrs. Hall's picturing, Maria Edgeworth before us, such as she was in society-such as she was in the privacy of her happy domestic life at Edgeworthstown-such as a friend alone could have seen her, or known how to describe her. Here is a lifelike picture:

ble to have. pathy, but it was tempered by a thoughtfulness that was sure to be of value to those who told her their wants and wishes; and her little impromptu lectures,-half earnest, half playful, were positive blessings to those who knew the priceless integrity of her most truthful nature."

She had abundance of sym

And, further on, we have a delineation of her person :

"In person she was very small-smaller than Hannah More-and with more than Hannah More's vivacity of manner; her face was pale and thin, her features irregular; they may have been considered plain, even in youth; but her expression was so benevolent, her manner so entirely well-bred -partaking of English dignity and Irish frankness--that you never thought of her in reference either to plainness or beauty; she was all in all; occupied, without fatiguing the attention; charmed by her pleasant voice; while the earnestness and truth that beamed in her bright blue-very blue-eyes, made of value every word she uttered,-her words were always well chosen; her manner of expression was graceful and natural; her sentences were fequently epigrammatic; she knew how to listen as well as to talk, and gathered information in a manner highly complimentary to the society of which, at the time, she formed a part; while listening to her, she continually recalled to us the story of the fairy whose lips dropped diamonds and pearls whenever they opened.

"Miss Edgeworth was remarkably neat and particular in her dress; her feet and hands were so very small as to be quite child-like. We once took a shoe of hers to Melnotte's, in Paris, she having commissioned us to procure her some shoes there, and the people insisted that we must require them 'pour une jeune demoiselle.'"

beauty of Jane was statuesque, her deportment serious, yet cheerful-a seriousness quite as natural as her younger sister's gaiety. They both laboured diligently, but Anna Maria's labour was sport when compared to her elder sister's careful toil. Jane's mind was of a more lofty order-she was intense, and felt more than she said; while Anna Maria often said more than she felt. They were a delightful contrast, and yet the harmony between them was complete; and one of the happiest days we ever spent, while trembling on the threshold of literature, was with them, at their pretty road-side cottage in the village of Esher, before the death of their venerable and dearly-beloved mother, whose rectitude and prudence had both guided and sheltered their youth, and who lived to reap with them the harvest of their industry and exertion."

The grave of Grace Aguilar, though another blunder of which our fair pilgrim is designedly guilty-for she justifies the misnomer by saying, that though in a foreign city, it was a pilgrimage to an English shrine-gives occasion to a beautiful eulogy on a most gifted woman, which none but a gifted woman could pronounce. And, then, there is Edmund Burke and the great Lord Clarendon, and other worthies, whose tombs she has visited, and whose inscriptions she has deepened with as pious a hand as that of "Old Mortality" himself. And she seems to have fixed her own residence in the midst of the shrines of great and celebrated people; and you shall, towards the close of this pleasant book, wander all through Chertsey and its neighbourhood, and hear of Fox, and of Cowley, till you come to Claremont, and stand beside the tomb of the last King of the French, Louis Philippe. One further claim this volume posesses- -it is beautifully illustrated. And so, dear companions, if you be counselled by us, you will secure to yourselves, as we did, a pleasant afterdinner ramble with Mrs. Hall through the "English Shrines.

Here is a pretty volume, in peagreen. Let us see what it is. "Stories of the Governess."* Is it not a fine thing to see women every day, as we now see them, sharing with men in all the noble and holy labours of advanc

ing and ameliorating humanity. Is it not a glorious and a hopeful thing to know, that if a Herschel has traced the courses of the planets and expounded the laws of the universe, so has a Somerville; that a Howard has had a rival in a Fry; that a Wilberforce has been followed by a more elo quent preacher against slavery in Har. riet Beecher Stowe; and that Dickens finds in Anna Maria Hall one who will labour with him in redressing the social wrongs of classes. These tales, interesting in themselves, are powerful in drawing public respect and public sympathy to a class of the most excellent, the most honourable, the most indispensably useful amongst us-a class to whom we commit our most precious treasures, to guard and to train whom we should fence around with protecting arms, honour with our respect-and thereby teach others to honour-and

treat with all the tenderness and consideration which their position claims from every generous mind, and the many trials and reverses which they often experience, should secure to them from every feeling heart. Dear mothers, and fair daughters, read this book, and such books as these, whenever you meet them. They will improve your hearts, and rescue you from the inost intolerable and the meanest of all vulgarities, that of treating with inconsiderateness or disrespect those who are sometimes your superiors in everything save wealth.

Well, what is that beautiful book, all green and gold, you ask? Take it down, and you shall see, It is "Bartlett's Pictures from Sicily." Now should you be one of those who delight in personal adventure, recitals of hair-breath escapes, brigands, pirates, and all that sort of thing, which is generally comprised in the rather equivocal name of "Travellers' Tales," we advise you, in the outset, to confine your admiration to the outside of the book. You will find within it nothing of the sort. It seems to us, Mr. Bartlett did not meet with a single agreeable misfortune in the whole of his

travels through Trinacria. And yet he did indeed travel to very good ac

"Stories of the Governess." vernesses' Benevolent Institution. † "Pictures from Sicily," by the Virtue, and Co. 1853.

count, as you shall soon understand, if you be a lover of scenery, or an antiquarian, or a historian, or have any acquaintance with the fine arts. For all these Mr. Bartlett has had an eye, and a hand, and a heart; and he has stored his book with the most accurate descriptions of the many singularly remarkable objects, both of nature an i art, to be found in Sicily, and illustrated them with the most extraordinary minuteness of detail, and exquisite power of art. One may linger for an hour over the beautiful engravings, without even turning to the letterpress, from which, however, when he is disposed to address himself to it, he will derive considerable information. Still, as a tourist, Mr. Bartlett is rather an accurate observer than a lively describer. In truth, we do not find in his book much that we have not already met in the works of travellers, from Brydone to the Marquis of Ormond, but we often find that he gives us a more complete, if not a more brilliant, picture than we can perhaps find elsewhere. A very interesting and clearly written summary of Sicilian history is prefixed to the tour, which consider. ably enhances the value of the work. And so, if you have no work on Sicily, this is just the one we would recommend to you.

Ah! here is something that makes one young again"Reynard the Fox," that fable of fables, whose popularity is as boundless as its diffusion is extensive throughout all nations.

For centuries it has been a household possession, perused in the palace and the hall, the grange and the cottage; it has fascinated the young, and amused the old; and, as Carlyle truly says, "It has been lectured on in universities, quoted in imperial council halls; it las lain on the toilets of princes, and been thumbed to pieces on the benches of artisans." What antiquarian in ty pography and black letter does not know of old William Caxton's " Hystorye of Reynard the Foxe?" What scholar has not read Goethe's poem? The present edition is a triumph of art, illustrated with a skill in confer

ring the expression of human passion and feeling upon the figures and faces of animals of the lower creation, that could not be surpassed by Landseer himself. Here, too, are other pretty things, such as Christmas times always produce the winter flowers in the garden of literature. And, chiefly, there is the " Art-Union Journal,"t that most delectable repertory of all that is attractive in the "beaux arts," with the most instructive essays upon art, and pleasant notices of the great masters and their works-all of which good things Mr. S. C. Hall has brought together in a publication which has no equal. If you are fond of looking at pretty faces and fine figures, as indeed we confess we are ourselves, you may spend half an hour in turning over the pages of "The Court Album," and when you have examined the dozen portraits of its aristocracy, you will, perhaps, be of our opinion, that no land can boast of nobler looking matrons and fairer maidens than our own British Islands. And then there is the "Keepsake" which still maintains its ground, almost the sole survivor of annual literature. And yet it is a beautiful volume, with some pleasant tales and lively sketches, and some poetry, which- -But come, this is trenching upon a delicate subject, and we must not trust ourselves to speak upon periodical literature. And so you have but to reach out your hand to take many a gem of beautiful workmanship, ay, and even of intrinsie value, which those most accommodat ing of all people, the great publishers, fling on their counters in gorgeous and tempting disarray, as Christmas presents and New-year's gifts.

Bless us what is this square little book that looks like a blue sky with a golden moon in it? "Love in the Moon." Oh, sweet Cynthia, what a notion! Now are we convinced that there is, of a verity, a "man in the moon," and that the man is no other than Patrick Scott. And a very moonlearned man he is, as you will see, if you read his most interesting selenographical observations; and a very

Version, by David Vedder. Illustrated by 1853.

Hall, Virtue, and Co., London and New