tales all possess a didactic vein, and the poetry appears imbued with the same spirit. The death of the late lamented editor, Dr. BEDELL,-recorded in the last number of this magazine,-is commemorated in a just and pathetic memoir, by the Rev. S. H. Tyng. The following elegiac stanzas on the same theme are copied here, with the impression that they may be acceptable to many of the surviving friends of their subject, among whom the Souvenir may not find its way :

DR. BEDELL.

He has gone to a mansion of rest,
From a region of sorrow and pain;
To the glorious Land of the Blest,

Where he never can suffer again:

The pangs of affliction and sickness are o'er-
The cloud on his spirit will darken no more!

He has gone, like the life-waking sun,
Descending the radiant sky;

Ere the stars have their shining begun,

And are hid by the day-beams on high ;-
The night could not rest on the wings of his soul,
Nor the shadows of earth their uprising control.

The Watchman is missed from the wall,

Where his warnings so often have rung;

No more the affectionate call,

Or remonstrance, will melt from his tongue;
There is dust on his lip, and the shroud on his breast,
And the deep seal of peace on his eyelid is prest.

How oft, when the sanctified air,

Round the altar with music was filled,

Have the words of his eloquent prayer

Gone forth, like rich incense distilled :

Like the breath of Spring roses, ascending the skies-
To God, an acceptable sacrifice.

His heart was a fountain of love,

It stirred in the light of his mind,

Whose glory was caught from above,

Where the pearl of great price is enshrined:

He taught the dark spirit to look to its ray,

And to feel its warm glow in life's gloomiest day.

He knew that our pilgrimage here

Was a dream; he remembered as dust

The throngs that assembled to hear,

And bade them in Heaven to trust:

And armed with persuasion, and pity, and prayer,
He shunned not the counsel of God to declare.

How oft, like the heart-moving Paul,
Did he becken with wavering hand,
Till silence around him would fall,-

Then, echo his Saviour's command;

Till his magical accents the hearer received,-
Their soberness treasured, and hearing, believed.

Who mourns, that his garland is won

That the crown on his forehead is bright?

That his trials and labors are done,

That his spirit rejoices in light?

Who weeps, that our loss is his infinite gain,

Where Death may not enter, and Sin cannot stain ?

September, 1834.

He walks in the smile of his God,

And looks o'er those realms of the sky,

Where Mortality's foot never trod,

Unseen by Mortality's eye;

Where calm, by green pastures and dwellings of gold,
The waters of life all their splendor unfold.

And he sees in the shadowless air,
That lofly and beautiful tree,

Whose blossoms, and fruits blooming fair,
Are spread for the ransomed to see:
He hears the glad harpers that linger beneath,
And feels not the fear of corruption or death.

Oh, leave him to rest with his God,-
To join in that music benign,
Which swells o'er his blessed abode,

Where every sight is divine,

Where flowers immortal wih lustre are fed,
From the source of all glory unceasingly shed!

W. G. C.

The publishers of the Souvenir,-who deserve honorable mention for the general neatness and merit of all the works issued from their establishment, have already made preparations for the continuance of their annual, in a style of surpassing elegance. The loss sustained in the editorship by the death of Dr. BEDELL, will be hereafter supplied by the Rev. CHAUNCEY COLTON, A. M., the able and popular President of Bristol College,-a gentleman distinguished for learning, piety, and taste. Under his control, and through the liberality of the publishers, there is every reason to anticipate for the Souvenir intrinsic worth of matter, and elegance of manner. We trust the publishers will not forget that the time for copying imported engravings has well nigh gone by in this country, and act accordingly. In this respect they have only to continue as they have begun, gradually purging the pages of the Souvenir of every embellishment that is not designed and engraved in America, and they will find their reward in the support and favor of the public.

SKETCHES OF PRIVATE LIFE. BY SARAH STICKNEY. One vol. pp. 356. Philadelphia: KEY AND BIDdle.

WITH a few venial defects of style, and sometimes too much simplicity of narration, this unpretending volume commends itself to attention and esteem, by the pure flow of moral feeling which refreshes its pages, and often by the interest of its incidents, and the rich vigor of its diction. For the enforcement of sound ethics, by the true pencillings of life, Mrs. Stickney may lay claim to much of that admiration which has hitherto been deemed the almost prescriptive right of Miss Edgeworth. Her pictures are neither overdrawn, nor overcolored: she delineates characters and events, to which every-day existence furnishes many a parallel. The two tales of which the present volume is composed, are both forcible and well conceived. The first, entitled Misanthropy, offers a solemn commentary against that morbid distemperature of the mind: the second,

named The Pains of Pleasing, depicts in colors of truth the difficulty, and we may add the evil, of seeking the transient regard of those whose favor is misfortune, by the compromise of honest sincerity and independent feeling. The story is merely the private journal of a young lady, whose childhood had been passed in affluence, and whose education had been thorough, before a reverse of fortune compelled her, in the prime of womanhood, to gain her bread by the very accomplishments which had embellished her better days. She sold the productions of her pencil, and sojourned with her relations alternately, among all of whom she experienced the pains of pleasing,' to a sad degree. We were struck with the truth and beauty of the following sentences, as peculiarly applicable to thousands in Europe, where the unequal distribution of wealth, and the uncertain tenure of possessions render them so alienable and insecure. The reflections are those of the lady, recorded after an unsuccessful attempt to dispose of a few pictures, which had been extravagantly admired by sundry partial acquaintances in the hours of her prosperity, but who, when pressed to purchase them for her benefit, indulged in a train of remorseless condemnation respecting the very efforts which they had before applauded with such vehement, though cheap enthusiasm.

"How little can be known by you, whose days are spent in luxury and idleness, of what is felt by those who depend upon the mercy of your smiles for the very sustenance of life! You can take up the productions of the pen or the pencil, find out each petty fault-laugh, sneer and cast aside, while the author or the artist, whose genius has been exhausted, and whose sensibility tortured for your amusement, waits for his daily bread. You can open the little volume, dedicated by the lowly to the great, and stretched at ease on a voluptuous couch, can peer amongst the pages, to draw forth with critical inspection,' and examine with anatomical scrutiny, the sentiments that have been wrung out from a breaking heart. You can expatiate with all the dignity of a judge who pronounces sen. tence of death against a criminal, upon the want of light and sweetness in the picture of some lonely wretch whose life is all shade and bitterness, and who in attempting to imitate the fair face of nature has not derived his resources from the exuberance of a pampered fancy, but from half-extinguished recollections of beauty and harmony, which the discord of worldly strife, and the harshness of misfortune, are fast obliterating from his weary and distempered mind. You can luxuriate in the realms of Art, light as the butterfly amongst the flowers of summer; but how unlike this happy and harmless being, tasting of innumerable sweets, while it depreciates and poisons none. Before you the works of imagination are spread forth to be contemned and trampled upon. Pause then, for one moment, in your merciless career, and reflect that such are often the productions of those whose labor is carried on at the midnight hour, when you are in your downy beds, and ceases not for the throbbing of the heart that is torn with unkindness, nor the aching of eyes that are blinded with tears."

THE CONNECTION OF THE PHYSICAL SCIENCES. By Mrs. SOMERVILLE. One vol. pp. 356. Philadelphia: KEY AND Biddle.

MRS. SOMERVILLE has acquired the preeminent distinction of a philosopher in petticoats. We speak it not in derision, for she is one of the most remarkable women of the age, and richly deserves the applause which she has received from the great scientific societies and institutions of learning in Europe. To an intellect truly masculine,-grand

in its scope, and varied in its acquirements,-she unites the gentle ways and quiet affections of domestic life. True genius, in man or woman, is always simple, and when brightened by science, and allied to the winning graces of womanhood, it shows with double loveliness.

The work before us, we may venture to say, contains more sound knowledge with reference to the abstruse subjects of astronomy and natural philosophy, than appears in the writings of any male author on these points with the exception perhaps of Farraday-to be found in these latter times. All this large amount of instructive matter, moreover, is presented to the reader without the slightest ostentation-with no vain parade of the sources and means through which it was derived-and no allusions to the elaborate research and deep thought by which its preparation must have been accomplished. On the contrary, Truth is left to speak her own clear language, and shed her vivid lustre on every theme. We should think it time for the small spirits of society to cease their discussions upon the intellectual inferiority of woman, when such works as the one before us come forth to gainsay their stupid dicta. It is fair to believe, that not one half of those who thus volunteer their advocacy of the lords of creation, could properly understand a work like this of Mrs. Somerville, even after repeated readings. Fully impressed with its usefulness, and aware that the best scientific authorities have decided warmly in its favor, we cannot do a better service to learning, than to recommend this volume cordially to public acceptance.

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO: An historical novel of the eighth century. From the Spanish of DON JORGE MONTGOMERY. One vol. pp. 192. New-York: HARper and BrothERS. THE elaborate, demi-poetic prose style of this translation, may detract from its merits as a romance. It belongs to a once celebrated class of novels; but the times of which it treats are nearly forgotten. The days of chivalry are gone, and with them the deep interest which they excited, and the bright hues which they imparted to the history and to the literature of that period. Bernardo del Carpio is mostly free from the wild and absurd scenes which are too often the prominent characteristics of the class of productions to which it belongs; and its pictures of ancient chivalry are vivid and authentic. The reader is carried back, over the ruins of buried centuries; he mingles with the armed knights; he sees the enraged combatants-the leveled lance, and the sunlight gleaming upon the lists. The scenes depicted may not blend so intimately with the more common feelings and passions of the heart as those which make up the romances of the present age; but they are nevertheless stirring and brilliant, and the imagination is never suffered to rest. The language is smooth and flowing, but not always simple. Witness, for example, the florid announcement that it was not yet sunrise, in the opening of the seventh chapter: The smiling dawn had not yet opened to the luminary of day the portals of the east, and nature remained enveloped in the shades of night, when Garcia,' etc. Unlike the larger portion of the productions of the heroic school, the personages of this novel

are not overdrawn, nor are its incidents exaggerated. The portrait of Bernardo and Edelfrida-the discovery of the Count Saldana in the cavern-the description of the battle in chapters xv. and xvi., are exceedingly life-like. The plot is not intricate, and the action is well managed. Aside from the worth of the work, as an aid to the history of the period in which its scenes are cast, it will amply repay perusal by the romantic interest which it excites, and the strong hold it takes upon the imagination.

TRAVELS IN THE EQUATORIAL REGIONS OF SOUTH AMERICA, in 1832: by ADRIAN R, TERRY, M. D. One vol. pp. 290. Hartford: CooK AND COPMANY.

THE merits of the book bearing this title, may be summed up in very few words. It is an uneventful private journal, or diary, eked out into a volume, by the aid of well-known scraps of South American history, and the occurrences of a hasty tour through those parts in the course of one year. The writer has given us some good sketches-as in chapter VI. and VII.,—of the scenes and customs which he witnessed; but in general, we feel constrained to say, after a careful perusal, that his work signifies little or nothing to a reader who possesses the ordinary knowledge of South America.

The author commences with a description of his voyage from NewYork to Jamaica, in which he gives an inventory of the chairs in the cabin of his vessel; the state of the weather; the way he slept; how he was not sea-sick; with an episode on dolphins, and their color. When the ship neared Port Royal, she encountered a smart gust of wind with rain,' which made it bad, and caused the boat to dance on the waves like an egg-shell,'-but finally went off without damage. The sketch of Port Royal and Kingston is given for the one thousand and ninth time, with as much particularity as if those towns had just been discovered, or were on terra incognita. Our author experienced fine beefsteaks, clean sheets, and good mosquitoe-curtains at the house of a Mrs. Clarke, in Kingston, and devotes part of a chapter to the lauding of the same. On the 25th of October, he embarked in a schooner for Chagre. Here he depicts the general character and appearance of a lot of game cocks on board, and their owners; giving, moreover, an account of the noises which they individually made. He learned afterwards that the fowls did not sell well,-a notable fact, which he has thought proper to record, among numerous other particulars of equal importance. At Chagre, which is a miserable village, he visited the castle of San Lorenzo, and gives a pleasing account of some old cannon, on broken carriages, situated about the walls. A catalogue of some of their names is given, and the place where they were respectively placed on each gun. We are gratified to inform the reader-as we do, on the authority of our author-that the location of each name is just in front of the touchhole!' Here also our tourist heard the singing of a ditch-full of frogs, much louder than the bellowing of a herd of bulls;' and this concert is made the text for a desperate attempt at wit on the subject of music,