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Breathes on the wind his mandate loud, And fitful gleams of sunlight shine Around his throne of cloud:

The Genii of the forest dim

A many-colored robe for him

Of fallen leaves have wrought;
And softened is his visage grim
By melancholy thought.

No joyous birds his coming hail,

For Summer's full-voiced choir is gone,
And over Nature's face a veil

Of dull, gray mist is drawn:
The crow, with heavy pinion-strokes,
Beats the chill air in flight, and croaks
A dreary song of dole:
Beneath my feet the puff-ball smokes,
As through the fields I stroll.
An awning broad of many dyes

Above me bends, as on I stray,
More splendid than Italian skies
Bright with the death of day;
As in the sun-bow's radiant braid
Shade melts like magic into shade,

And purple, green, and gold,
With carmine blent, have gorgeous made
October's flag unrolled.

The partridge, closely ambushed, hears
The crackling leaf-poor, timid thing!
And to a thicker covert steers

On swift, resounding wing:
The woodland wears a look forlorn,
Hushed is the wild bee's tiny horn,

The cricket's bugle shrill-
Sadly is Autumn's mantle torn,
But fair to vision still.

Black walnuts, in low, meadow ground,
Are dropping now their dark, green balls,
And on the ridge, with rattling sound,

The deep brown chestnut falls.
When comes a day of sunshine mild,
From childhood, nutting in the wild,
Outbursts a shout of glee;
And high the pointed shells are piled

Under the hickory tree.

Bright flowers yet linger:-from the morn
Yon Cardinal hath caught its blush,
And yellow, star-shaped gems adorn
The wild witch-hazel bush;
Rocked by the frosty breath of Night,
That brings to frailer blossoms blight,

The germs of fruit they bear,
That, living on through Winter white,
Ripens in Summer air.

The varied aster tribes unclose

Bright eyes in Autumn's smoky bower,
And azure cup the gentian shows,
A modest little flower;

Their garden sisters pale have turned,
Though late the dahlia I discerned

Right royally arrayed:

And phlox, whose leaf with crimson burned
Like cheek of bashful maid.
In piles around the cider-mill
The parti-colored apples shine,
And busy hands the hopper fill,

While foams the pumice fine-
The cheese, with yellow straw between
Full, juicy layers, may be seen,

And rills of amber hue

Feed a vast tub, made tight and clean,
While turns the groaning screw.

From wheat fields, washed by recent rains,
In flocks the whistling plover rise
When night draws near, and leaden stains
Obscure the western skies:

The geese, so orderly of late,

Fly over fence and farm-yard gate,
As if the welkin black

The habits of a wilder state

To memory brought back.
Yon streamlet to the woods around,
Sings, flowing on, a mournful tune,
Oh! how unlike the joyous sound

Wherewith it welcomed June!
Wasting away with grief, it seems,
For flowers that flaunted in the beams
Of many a sun-bright day-

Fair flowers!-more beautiful than dreams
When life hath reached its May.

Though wild, mischievous sprites of air,
In cruel mockery of a crown,

Drop on October's brow of care

Dead wreaths and foliage brown, Abroad the sun will look again, Rejoicing in his blue domain,

And prodigal of gold,

Ere dark November's sullen reign

Gild stream and forest old.

Called by the west wind from her grave,
Once more will summer re-appear,
And gladden with a merry stave

The wan, departing year;
Her swiftest messenger will stay
The wild bird winging south its way,
And night, no longer sad,
Will emulate the blaze of day,

In cloudless moonshine clad.

The scene will smoky vestments wear,
As if glad Earth-one altar made-
By clouding the delicious air

With fragrant fumes, displayed
A sense of gratitude for warm,
Enchanting weather after storm,
And raindrops falling fast,
On dead September's mouldering form,
From skies with gloom o'ercast.

JOEL TYLER HEADLEY

WAS born at Walton, Delaware county, New York, December 3, 1814. He was graduated at Union College in 1839, and studied for the ministry at the Auburn Theological Seminary. Compelled by ill-health to relinquish this calling, he travelled in Europe in 1842 and 1843, passing a considerable portion of his time in Italy. On his return to America in 1844, he prepared a volume descriptive of his foreign tour, Letters from Italy, followed by The Alps and the Rhine. They

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were published in the popular series of Wiley and Putnam's Library of American Books, and were received with unusual favor by the public. In 1846 Mr. Headley achieved a still more decided success in the publication of his spirited biographical sketches, Napoleon and his Marshals, to which Washington and his Generals in the next year was an American companion. A Life of Oliver Cromwell, based mainly upon Carlyle's researches, in 1848; The Imperial Guard of Napoleon, based upon a popular French history by Emile Marco de St. Hilaire, in 1851; Lives of Scott and Jackson in 1852; A History of the War of 1812, in 1853, and a Life of Washington, first published in Graham's Magazine in 1854, followed in sequence the author's first successes in popular biography and history.

Headley's Residence.

A spirited volume of travelling sketches, the result of a summer excursion in northern New York, The Adirondack, or Life in the Woods, appeared from Mr. Headley's pen in 1849, which, with two volumes of biblical sketches, Sacred Mountains and Sacred Scenes and Characters,

and a volume of Miscellanies, Sketches, and Rambles, completes the list, thus far, of his publications.

His books, impressed by the keen, active temperament of the author, are generally noticeable for the qualities of energy and movement, which are at the secret of their popular suc

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cess.

Mr. Headley resides at a country seat in the neighborhood of Newburgh on the Hudson. In 1854 he was chosen to represent his District in the State Legislature.

WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON.

No one, in tracing the history of our struggle, can deny that Providence watched over our interests, and gave us the only man who could have conducted the car of the Revolution to the goal it finally reached. Our revolution brought to a speedy crisis the one that must sooner or later have convulsed France. One was as much needed as the other, and has been productive of equal good. But in tracing the progress of each, how striking is the contrast between the instruments employed-Napoleon and Washington. Heaven and earth are not wider apart than were their moral characters, yet both were sent of Heaven to perform a great work. God acts on more enlarged plans than the bigoted and ignorant have any conception of, and adapts his instruments to the work he wishes to accomplish. To effect the regeneration of a comparatively religious, virtuous, and intelligent people, no better man could have been selected than Washington. To rend asunder the feudal system of Europe, which stretched like an iron frame-work over the people, and had steadily wasting power could affect its firmness, rusted so long in its place, that no slow corrosion or

there could have been found no better than Bonaparte. Their missions were as different as their characters. Had Bonaparte been put in the place of Washington, he would have overthrown the Congress, as he did the Directory, and taking supreme power into his hands, developed the resources, and kindled the enthusiasm of this country with such astonishing rapidity, that the war would scarcely have begun ere it was ended. But a vast and powerful monarchy, instead of a republic, would have occupied this continent. Had Washington been put in the place of Bonaparte, his transcendent virtues and unswerving integrity would not have prevailed against the tyranny of faction, and a prison would have received him, as it did Lafayette. Both were children of a revolution, both rose to the chief command of the army, and eventually to the head of the nation. One led his country step by step to freedom and prosperity, the other arrested at once, and with a strong hand, the earthquake that was rocking France asunder, and sent it rolling under the thrones of Europe. The office of one was to defend and build up Liberty, that of the other to break down the prison walls in which it lay a captive, and rend asunder its century-bound fetters. To suppose that France could have been managed as America was, by any human hand, shows an ignorance as blind as it is culpable. That, and every other country of Europe, will have to pass through successive stages before they can reach the point at which our revo lution commenced. Here Liberty needed virtue and patriotism, as well as strength-on the continent it needed simple power, concentrated and terrible power Europe at this day trembles over that volcano Napoleon kindled, and the next eruption will finish what he begun. Thus does Heaven, selecting its own instruments, break up the systems of oppres

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sion men deemed eternal, and out of the power and ambition, as well as out of the virtues of men, work the welfare of our race.

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LAFAYETTE.

He did not possess what is commonly termed genius, nor was he a man of remarkable intellectual powers. In youth, ardent and adventurous, he soon learned under Washington to curb his impulses, and act more from his judgment. Left to himself, he probably never would have reached any great eminence-but there could have been no better school for the fiery young republican, than the family of Washington. His affection and reverence for the latter gradually changed his entire character. Washington was his model, and imitating his self-control and noble patriotism, he became like him in patriotism and virtue. The difference between them was the same as that between an original and a copy. Washington was a man of immense strength of character-not only strong in virtue, but in intellect and will. Everything bent before him, and the entire nation took its impress from his mind. Lafayette was strong in integrity, and nothing could shake his unalterable devotion to the welfare of man. Enthusiastically wedded to republican institutions, no temptation could induce him to seize on, or aid power which threatened to overthrow them. Although somewhat vain and conceited, he was generous, self-sacrificing, and benevolent. Few men have passed through so many and so fearful scenes as he. From a young courtier, he passed into the selfdenying, toilsome life of a general in the ill-clothed, ill-fed, and ill-disciplined American army-thence into the vortex of the French Revolution and all its horrors-thence into the gloomy prison of Olmutz. After a few years of retirement, he appeared on our shores to receive the welcome of a grateful people, and hear a nation shout his praise, and bear him from one limit of the land to another in its arms. A few years pass by, and with his gray hairs falling about his aged countenance, he stands amid the students of Paris, and sends his feeble shout of defiance to the throne of the Bourbon, and it falls. Rising more by his virtue than his intellect, he holds a prominent place in the history of France, and linked with Washington, goes down to a greater immortality than awaits any emperor or mere warrior of the human race.

His love for this country was deep and abiding. To the last his heart turned hither, and well it might his career of glory began on our shoreson our cause he staked his reputation, fortune, and life, and in our success received the benediction of the good the world over. That love was returned with interest, and never was a nobler exhibition of a nation's gratitude, than our reception of him at his last visit. We love him for what he did for us-we revere him for his consistency to our principles amid all the chaos and revolutions of Europe; and when we cease to speak of him with affection and gratitude, we shall show ourselves unworthy of the blessings we have received at his hands. "HONOR TO LAFAYETTE!" will ever stand inscribed on our temple of liberty until its ruins shall cover all it now contains.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE,

THE daughter of the Rev. Dr. Lyman Beecher, was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, about the year 1812. Her elder sister, Esther Catherine Beecher, born in 1800 at East Hampton, Long Island, had established in 1822 a successful female seminary at Hartford, Connecticut. With this establish

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ment Harriet was associated from her fifteenth year till her marriage in her twenty-first with the Rev. Calvin E. Stowe, at that time Professor of Languages and Biblical Literature in the Divinity school at Cincinnati, whither Mrs. Stowe accompanied him, and where, during a long residence, she became interested in the question of slavery, which has furnished the topic of her chief literary production. Mrs. Stowe was well known at home as a writer before her famous publication, which gave her a world-wide reputation. She had written a number of animated moral tales, which showed a quick perception and much earnestness in expression, a collection of which was published by the Harpers in 1849 entitled The May Flower; or, Sketches of the Descendants of the Pilgrims. A new edition, much enlarged, appeared in 1855. Her great work, Uncle Tom's Cabin; or, Life among the Lowly, appeared as a book from the press of Jewett & Co. in Boston in 1852. It had been previously published week by week in chapters in the National Era, an antislavery paper at Washington.

Uncle Tom, the hero of the story, is a negro slave, noted for a faithful discharge of his duties, a circumstance which does not exempt him from the changes in condition incident to his position. His master, a humane man, becomes embarrassed in his finances and sells the slave to a dealer. After passing through various hands he dies at the south-west. The fortunes of two runaway slaves contribute to the interest of the book. The escape on the floating ice of the Ohio from the slave to the free state forms one of its most dramatic incidents. Masters as well as slaves furnish the dramatis personæ, and due justice is rendered to the amiable and strong points of southern character. The story of little Eva, a beautiful child, dying at an early age, is narrated with literary skill and feeling.

Many of the scenes of Uncle Tom's Cabin having been objected to as improbable, the author, in justification of the assailed portions, published

A Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin, a collection of facts on the subject of slavery drawn from southern authorities. These, however, still leave the question of the probability of Uncle Tom's adventures an open one, the opponents of the book asserting that the pecuniary value of his virtues would have secured a permanent home and kind treatment to so exemplary a character, without regard to the confessedly strong feeling of attachment existing in the old settled portions of the south towards trustworthy family servants.

Uncle Tom was originally published in book form in two duodecimo volumes. A handsomely illustrated edition subsequently appeared. The sale of these editions had, by the close of 1852, reached to two hundred thousand copies. In England twenty editions in various forms, ranging in price from ten shillings to sixpence a copy, have been published. The aggregate sale of these up to the period we have mentioned, is stated by a late authority to have been more than a million of copies. "In France," the Review adds, "Uncle Tom still covers the shop windows of the Boulevards; and one publisher alone, Eustace Barba, has sent out five different editions in different forms. Before the end of 1852 it had been translated into Italian, Spanish, Danish, Swedish, Dutch, Flemish, German, Polish, and Magyar. There are two different Dutch translations, and twelve different German ones; and the Italian translation enjoys the honor of the Pope's prohibition. It has been dramatized in twenty different forms and acted in every capital in Europe and in the free states of America."

Soon after the publication of Uncle Tom's Cabin Mrs. Stowe, in company with her husband and the Rev. Charles Beecher, her brother, visited Great Britain. Her observations were communicated to the public some time after her return by the issue, in conjunction with her husband, of two volumes of travels, Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands.

The great reputation of her novel, and the sympathy of all classes of the English people with the views it contained, had secured to the author an universally favorable reception, and we have consequently much in her volumes of lords and ladies, but these fortunately do not "all her praise engross," for she has an eye for art, literature, and humanitarian effort. She expresses her opinion on art with warmth and freedom, without, however, always securing the respect of the critical reader for her judgment.

The Rev. Charles Beecher contributes his journal of a tour on the Continent to his sister's voluines.

UNCLE TOM IN HIS CABIN.

The cabin of Uncle Tom was a small log building, close adjoining to "the house," as the negro par excellence designates his master's dwelling. In front it had a neat garden-patch, where, every summer, strawberries, raspberries, and a variety of fruits and vegetables, flourished under careful tending. The whole front of it was covered by a large scarlet bignonia and a native multiflora rose, which, entwisting and interlacing, left scarce a vestige of the rough logs to be seen. Here, also, in summer, various brilliant annuals, such as marigolds, petunias, four-o'clocks,

⚫ Edinburgh Review, April, 1855, p. 298.

found an indulgent corner in which to unfold their splendors, and were the delight and pride of Aunt Chloe's heart.

Let us enter the dwelling. The evening meal at the house is over, and Aunt Chloe, who presided over its preparation as head cook, has left to inferior officers in the kitchen the business of clearing away and washing dishes, and come out into her own snug territories, to "get her ole man's supper;" therefore, doubt not that it is her you see by the fire, presiding with anxious interest over certain frizzling items in a stewpan, and anon with grave consideration lifting the cover of a bake-kettle, from whence steam forth indubitable intimations of "something good." A round, black, shining face is hers, so glossy as to sug. gest the idea that she might have been washed over with white of eggs, like one of her own tea rusks. Her whole plump countenance beams with satisfaction and contentment from under her well-starched checked turban, bearing on it, however, if we must confess it, a little of that tinge of self-consciousness which becomes the first cook of the neighborhood, as Aunt Chloe was universally held and acknowledged to be.

A cook she certainly was, in the very bone and centre of her soul. Not a chicken, or turkey, or duck in the barn-yard but looked grave when they saw her approaching, and seemed evidently to be reflecting on their latter end; and certain it was that she was always meditating on trussing, stuffing, and roasting, to a degree that was calculated to inspire terror in any reflecting fowl living. Her corn-cake, in all its varieties of hoe-cake, dodgers, muffins, and other species too numerous to mention, was a sublime mystery to all less practised compounders; and she would shake her fat sides with honest pride and merriment, as she would narrate the fruitless efforts that one and another of her compeers had made to attain to her elevation.

The arrival of company at the house, the arranging of dinners and suppers "in style," awoke all the energies of her soul; and no sight was more welcome to her than a pile of travelling trunks launched on the verandah, for then she foresaw fresh efforts and fresh triumphs.

Just at present, however, Aunt Chloe is looking into the bake-pan; in which congenial operation we shall leave her till we finish our picture of the cottage.

In one corner of it stood a bed, covered neatly with a snowy spread; and by the side of it was a piece of carpeting of some considerable size. On this piece of carpeting Aunt Chloe took her stand, as being decidedly in the upper walks of life; and it and the bed by which it lay, and the whole corner, in fact, were treated with distinguished consideration, and made, as far as possible, sacred from the marauding inroads and desecrations of little folks. In fact, that corner was the drawing-room of the establishment. In the other corner was a bed of much humbler pretensions, and evidently designed for use. The wall over the fireplace was adorned with some very brilliant scriptural prints, and a portrait of General Washington, drawn and colored in a manner which would certainly have astonished that hero, if ever he had happened to meet with its like.

On a rough bench in the corner, a couple of woolly-headed boys, with glistening black eyes and fat shining cheeks, were busy in superintending the first walking operations of the baby, which, as is usually the case, consisted in getting up on its feet, balancing a moment, and then tumbling down,-each successive failure being violently cheered, as something decidedly clever.

A table, somewhat rheumatic in its limbs, was

drawn out in front of the fire, and covered with a cloth, displaying cups and saucers of a decidedly brilliant pattern, with other symptoms of an approaching meal. At this table was seated Uncle Tom, Mr. Shelby's best hand, who, as he is to be the hero of our story, we must daguerreotype for our readers. He was a large, broad-chested, powerfullymade man, of a full glossy black, and a face whose truly African features were characterized by an expression of grave and steady good sense, united with much kindliness and benevolence. There was something about his whole air self-respecting and dignified, yet united with a coufiding and humble simplicity.

He was very busily intent at this moment on a slate lying before him, on which he was carefully and slowly endeavoring to accomplish a copy of some letters, in which operation he was overlooked by young Master George, a smart, bright boy of thirteen, who appeared fully to realize the dignity of his position as instructor.

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Not that way, Uncle Tom,-not that way," said he, briskly, as Uncle Tom laboriously brought up the tail of his g the wrong side out; "that makes a q, you see."

"La sakes, now, does it?" said Uncle Tom, looking with a respectful, admiring air, as his young teacher flourishingly scrawled q's and g's innumerable for his edification; and then, taking the pencil in his big, heavy fingers, he patiently re-commenced.

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How easy white folks al'us does things!" said Aunt Chloe, pausing while she was greasing a griddle with a scrap of bacon on her fork, and regarding young Master George with pride. "The way he can write, now! and read, too! and then to come out here evenings and read his lessons to us,-it's mighty interestin'!"

"But, Aunt Chloe, I'm getting mighty hungry," said George. "Isn't that cake in the skillet almost done?"

"Mose done, Mas'r George," said Aunt Chloe, lifting the lid and peeping in,—“ browning beautiful— a real lovely brown. Ah! let me alone for dat. Missis let Sally try to make some cake, t'other day; jes to larn her, she said. O, go way, Missis,' says Ï; it really hurts my feelin's, now, to see good vittles spiled dat ar way! Cake ris all to one side-no shape at all; no more than my shoe;-go way!"

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And with this final expression of contempt for Sally's greenness, Aunt Chloe whipped the cover off the bake-kettle, and disclosed to view a neatly-baked pound-cake, of which no city confectioner need to have been ashamed. This being evidently the central point of the entertainment, Aunt Chloe began now to bustle about earnestly in the supper depart

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"They wanted me to come to supper in the house," said George; "but I knew what was what too well for that, Aunt Chloe."

"So you did so you did, honey," said Aunt Chloe, heaping the smoking batter-cakes on his plate; "you know'd your old aunty'd keep the best for you. O, let you alone for dat! Go way!" And, with that, aunty gave George a nudge with her finger, designed to be inmensely facetious, and turned again to her griddle with great briskness.

"Now for the cake," said Master George, when the activity of the griddle department had somewhat

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subsided; and, with that, the youngster flourished a large knife over the article in question.

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"La bless you, Mas'r George!" said Aunt Chloe, with earnestness, catching his arm, you wouldn't be for cuttin' it wid dat ar great heavy knife! Smash all down-spile all de pretty rise of it. Here, I've got a thin old knife, I keeps sharp a purpose. Dar now, see! comes apart light as a feather! Now eat away you won't get anything to beat dat ar." Tom Lincon says," said George, speaking with his mouth full, "that their Jinny is a better cook than you."

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"Dem Lincons an't much count, no way!" said Aunt Chloe, contemptuously; "I mean, set along side our folks. They's 'spectable folks enough in a kinder plain way; but, as to gettin' up anything in style, they don't begin to have a notion on't. Set Mas'r Lincon, now, alongside Mas'r Shelby! Good Lor! and Missis Lincon, can she kinder sweep it into a room like my missis, so kinder splendid, yer know! O, go way! don't tell me nothin' of dem Lincons!"and Aunt Chloe tossed her head as one who hoped she did know something of the world.

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'Well, though, I've heard you say," said George, "that Jinny was a pretty fair cook."

"So I did," said Aunt Chloe,-"I may say dat. Good, plain, common cookin', Jinny'll do;-make a good pone o' bread,—bile her taters far,―her corn cakes isn't extra, not extra now, Jinny's corn cakes isn't, but then they's far,-but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she do? Why, she makes pies-sartin she does; but what kinder crust? Can she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies all up like a puff? Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be married, and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin' pies. Jinny and I is good friends, ye know. I never said nothin'; but go long, Mas'r George! Why, I shouldn't sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of pies like dem ar. Why, dey wan't no 'count 'tall."

“I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice,” said George.

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Thought so!-didn't she? Thar she was, showing 'em, as innocent-ye see, it's jest here, Jinny don't know. Lor, the family an't nothing! She can't be spected to know! "Tan't no fault o' hern. Ah, Mas'r George, you doesn't know half your privileges in yer family and bringin' up!" Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion.

I'm sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand all my pie and pudding privileges," said George. "Ask Tom Lincon if I don't crow over him every time I meet him."

By this time Master George had arrived at that pass to which even a boy can come (under uncommon circumstances), when he really could not eat another morsel, and, therefore, he was at leisure to notice the pile of woolly heads and glistening eyes which were regarding their operations hungrily from the opposite corner.

"Here, you Mose, Pete," he said, breaking off liberal bits, and throwing it at them; "you want some, don't you? Come, Aunt Chloe, bake them some

cakes."

And George and Tom moved to a comfortable seat in the chimney-corner, while Aunt Chloe, after baking a goodly pile of cakes, took her baby on her lap, and began alternately filling its mouth and her own, and distributing to Mose and Pete, who seemed rather to prefer eating theirs as they rolled about on the floor under the table, tickling each other, and occasionally pulling the baby's toes.

"O! go long, will ye?" said the mother, giving now and then a kick, in a kind of general way, under

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