respect. What Rogers' answer was at the time, I do not know; but he spoke of the charge to me as a cruel slander, and folding the letter, shook his head mournfully, more than once muttering, "Poor Byron! poor fellow, he was hardly used!" And now, Lady Byron is to reside in that beautiful home, to tread the hall that kings and emperors were proud to enter, and dispense cold hospitality from that exquisite breakfast-room which so many remember with pleasure. I, for one, could as soon forget a glimpse of the brightest corner of Paradise as the mornings spent in that beautiful residence. Here is a pansy that he gave me one afternoon as we walked in his tiny flower-garden which lay beneath the windows of the breakfast-room-and here are the volumes of his poems got up under his own eye with so much time and care, miracles of art and genius, all souvenirs of a thousand kindnesses, and many a pleasant hour, which brings sweet thoughts and regretful tears up from the heart together. And so Lady Byron is to succeed Rogers. I would rather hear that the whitest snows of Mont Blanc-cold and icy as she is, but so much more beautiful-were drifting through those hospitable rooms. The very sweep of her garments on that genial floor will be like scattering the icicles of Greenland among the roses of Italy. Could no more suitable purchaser than this be found for one of the most beautiful residences in London ? How false is the idea that men of genius improve their prospects of happiness by marrying common-place women, especially women of narrow hearts. A mind rich in luxuriousness both of thought and feelings, matched with a sterile brain, and a heart whose aspirations never rise above proprieties, must be checked in its own natural developments without having the power to exalt the common-place into companionship. Genius may dispense with great intellectual superiority without an overthrow of happiness, but it must have depth of feeling and warmth of heart, or languish for want of sympathy. Lady Byron was not to blame. She had no idea of the requirements of a nature like Byron's. His fiery passion was met with the most rigid decorum, and she had no idea that anything else was of consequence. She would doubtless have made an admirable wife to any common lord of the aristocracy, but had no idea of that lofty peerage which takes rank from a higher court than that of St. James. She had no sympathy with Byron's excellences, nor forbearance with his faults. The extraordinary and the ordinary came together, clashed, and fell apart. The high-born common-place woman could not comprehend the heart she still had power to torture, and all his genius had not force enough to lift her one step higher than the level in which birth and education had left her. The rashness and the fault were Byron's in thus mating himself; in attempting to gather grapes from brambles, and moss-roses from ice-drifts, he filled his life with bitter disappointment, and died, leaving behind many a record of degraded genius that a true mate would have saved him from. It is a curious thing, but told me as a fact in England, by those who know Lady Byron well-that since Byron's death she has become desperately attached to his memory, and speaks of him with the most respectful fondness. A little of this womanly tenderness might have saved the poet from his early death, but it is of little consequence to the ashes that lie in the shades of Newstead Abbey. Affection that comes too late is but a mockery to the dead. Why did Lady Byron take the house of Samuel Rogers? It was consecrated to genius, and what has she to do with that, except as a warning? -DID you ever see a regular flood in the mountains? a perfect rush and whirlwind of waters leaping down every pass in the hills, and pouring in torrents from the sky? Three days and nights has the water poured down upon us in this lovely mountain region, till the very trees stooped to the force and burden of the storm, and men walked hurriedly to and fro in the village streets under their saturated umbrellas like shanghai's driven from their barnyard shelter. The mountain stream which I could almost have passed dryshod last week, is roaring and swelling and careering through the valley like mad. I can see its amber-hued waves sweeping downward through gardens and corn-fields, but yesterday lifted fifteen feet above its surface, and the rain pours yet. There will mischief come of this. People look excited and frightened. They rush eagerly up and down the street. The waters give a sudden roar and rush on madder than ever. What is it? A bridge has given way up stream, and its heavy timbers are tearing away at the mill-dam. like hunted tigers. Some plunge over and go pitching up and down through the torrents-some batter against the dam. There they run again. Of course, nothing could stand that! the bulk head has given way at the dam, and half-adozen lovely gardens are swept off as a boy would rub pictures from his slate. Here comes a barn straggling and rolling downstream half submerged and with one corner lifted sharply up. A half score of dripping fowls are fluttering about it yet, and a fattened pig is squealing lustily, as he battles with the water. Poor fellow, he's gone before we have time to pity him. The pork for some poor family swept off in a minute, along with the cabbage, and corn with which it was to have been garnished. News from the other end of the village. The tavern stables are under water, and forty horses stand knee-deep in their stalls, sensible of their peril, poor animals, and doing their best to break loose. There is some danger of of the tavern itself. The waves are dancing around the long verandah, and that is filled with frightened travellers. One is an Englishman with his wife, who thinks it very 'orrible to go out a-pleasuring, and 'ave their 'oss drowned before their faces. The Englishman is helpless. He drove his own buggy out a-pleasuring, but don't know how to get his 'oss out of danger, and has no idea how his harness should be put on. Dallas, one of the best designers in the country, is there, and teaches the Englishman, with his own hands, how to 'arness a 'oss. Everybody works manfully, and the animals are saved, Englishman, wife, and all. There comes a boy in great distress, his wet hair flying back, his cap crushed under one arm, the mud splashing around him as he runs. What is it? Why, Big Jake and a colored gentleman have gone over to the point, fishing out floodwood; the river has suddenly made an island of the point; they are prisoners, and-oh! dreadful-without whisky. Nothing to drink-wet through-and nobody daring enough to carry a whisky-bottle over. Something must be done. The boy wants a wooden bottle and a rope; it is just possible that a strong man may fling the bottle within reach that Big Jake and the colored individual may not get out of spirits and give up. News from down stream: the noble tannery over which we walked last Tuesday, is swept away; the torrent is sweltering with hides, sprinkled with leather, and red with tan bark. The dam goes, too, and portions of the cotton factory which we were admiring at our last ride for its picturesque effect in a gorge of the hills. No mail to-day; no news but of broken bridges, and property swept away; poor men made poorer, and rich men disabled from helping them in their misfortunes. The boy goes off, and comes back again, looking joyful | under Maretzek, and what will come of it; the new and greatly comforted. His friends are rescued; Big Jake theatre driving ahead so fast for Laura Keene, with specu waded waist deep into the flood, and holding out his brawny lations as to what it will be like, and what sort of dishes will arms, received the whisky-bottle with shouts of thanksgiv- be served up; the Metropolitan, under Burton, and its prosing, as it came whirling over the torrent. He and the pects, with who he will have, and what he can get; Walcolored individual have removed the stopper, and are imbib- | lack's, so certain of being delightful, and up to the reach of ing its contents, turn and turn, as brothers in affliction its rivals, whatever that may be-all these points, with the should. incredible fact that the Dramatic Copyright Bill has really become a law, and the hope that men of genius will, in consequence, give us some really good plays, renders the coming theatrical season of unusual interest and general discussion. The Broadway, it is said, comes down at the end of the season. As it appears now undermined and propped up, in consequence of building upon the adjoining lot, it looks as though it might come down at any moment. The only matter of dramatic talk that isn't prospective, is Bourcicault's new play of " Victor and Hortense." Bourcicault is an excellent joiner-workman. He cuts, and joins, and fits to perfection, but the product of his labors is frequently like Joseph's coat, of many colors. "Victor and Hortense " is made up of a rag from Don Cæsar, a slip from The Lady of Lyons, a bit here and a fragment there-the result, a very pleasant, smart, agreeable sort of garment. We should like to see Bourcicault and charming Miss Robertson permanently with us. Bourcicault is thoroughly intellectual, perfect in I wish you could see the Fall, back of the fine old country mansion in which the hospitality of dear friends has housed me. Indeed, I wish you could see Prattsville this moment, all in commotion, as it is, like a beautiful woman in a passion. But I see Dallas going up in all the storm with his charming young wife, both artists, and rest assured we shall have a sketch of the Fall, at least, for the Magazine. How fortunate that Dallas should have come this way, on his bridal tour. Monday we all stood around him, as he took a sketch from under the very bridge that has been | swept away. Lucky that we did not venture under it again, and fortunate to have got the sketch before the flood swept it away. -MILLARD FILLMORE is an ill-used man. If we were a Presidential candidate, and as good a looking man as he is, we should certainly withdraw our name from the canvass, if we were compelled to see at every step such ill-looking "counterfeit presentments as some of those which now stare at us from the shop windows, purporting, by the largest artistic license, to be portraits of Mr. Fillmore. The other candidates do not appear to be so badly treated. A Presidential candidate expects to have his good name filched from him by his enemies, but why must he be robbed of his good looks by his friends? -GEORGE SAND has been "deranging," to use her own word, Shakspeare's As You Like It, for the French stage. Her version is not an adaption of that exquisite production, but a monstrous corruption of it. The plot is essentially altered. The melancholy Jacques is made to fall in love with Celia, and these two become the real hero and heroine of the story. Violent incidents and melo-dramatic situations are substituted for the tender melancholy, soft love, and innocent gaiety of the original. The spirit of the play is missed altogether. Its perfect Arcadian beauty, its unsurpassable sweetness, its pastoral simplicity, do not enter into the composition of the French" derangement." But it is not to be wondered at. The French mind never could understand our great dramatist; and of all his plays this delicious story, this sweetest flower, this purest gem in Shakspeare's coronet, is the least adapted to the false glitter, shallow sentiment, and factitious philosophy of the French drama. -Town talk in most circles turns upon matters dramatic and operatic; the new season at the Academy of Music, his knowledge of the stage as an art, and of all men brings the purpose, ambition, attainments and knowledge requisite for the elevation of the drama to its proper and attainable artistic level. -A SUBJECT of universal talk, in both town and country, is Mr. Everett's splendid oration before the Scientific Convention at Albany. We shall not pause to eulogize it. There is not an epithet in the language that hasn't already been exhausted in its praise; but let us congratulate our country. men that Edward Everett is now lifted above all the smoke, the stain, the bitterness and malignancy of political strife, into the clear and higher atmosphere of art and science, where his genius shines effulgent and serene. If the fullness of fame belongs to any man at this moment, Edward Everett is he. In oratory, the loftiest of arts, he has successively achieved triumphs of the most complete and enduring kind, and his efforts are destined to immortality, by the side of the finest productions of the Grecian and Roman forum. For The Scientific Convention, altogether, was a success. a week the public were crammed high with science. Fashion caught it up, and led it a dance; it stalked into every circle; drawing-rooms became suddenly learned; scandal glided trippingly into its abstrusities; beau and belle flirted over it; young misses shook their curls and lisped its biggest phrases; Maretzek and La Grange were temporarily forgotten; fortune-hunters at the watering-places became fossil-hunters; for a week science was the rage. The opera opened-it was shown the back-door, and politely Saratoga, a Tale of 1787, will remind the reader of Cooper. It is modelled upon the novels of that distinguished author, without possessing much of their genius. It is absorbing in interest, almost intensely so, and is certain of carrying those who commence it, through to the end. In descriptive passages, it is remarkably fine; but the invention of the author appears to have exhausted itself upon the character of Wild Jake, and the incidents appertaining to him. Around this character a wild fascination is thrown, but the author's genius never gets beyond him. In no other character is there any successful individuality. Brigham and McCary are weak dilutions of Cooper's backswoodmen; Catfoot and Joe we have had over and over again; and the two young lady heroines are exactly what Cooper's heroines always are very uninteresting, prosy, sedate, overwise young women. This is pretty much the case, also, with the hero, and one keeps wondering how anybody could fall in love with him, or he with anybody. The whole love part, indeed, is weakly managed. It is an attempt to involve that which will not be involved; and, notwithstanding all the efforts of the author to create a satisfactory difficulty, the clouds that arise are perversely transparent, and do not agitate the reader for a single instant. In the conduct of his plot, the author sometimes evinces a lack of ingenuity. You see the "puppet's dallying." The wires that move the scenes are clumsily exposed. Events are continually brought about from the sheer necessity of the plot-forced and strained, to meet the exigencies of the story. But the author depicts with great vividness: he paints with bold, strong colors. His style is of crystal transparency; his incidents, graphic and startling, crowd thickly upon each other, and the reader hurries on from page to page, rapt, eager, and sometimes with 'bated breath. If the first production of a new author, it deserves great credit. (W. P. Fetridge & Co.) -THE second portion of The Angel in the House, under the title of The Espousals, has just been issued by Ticknor & Fields, of Boston. Of the "Betrothal," we spoke in high praise in our July issue, and we are glad to discover in the concluding portion of the poem, the same compact felicity of expression, and happy analysis of emotion, the same delicacy and sweetness, and successful wedding of noble poetry to simple things, which rendered "The Betrothal " famous at a bound. It would please us exceedingly, if our space permitted it, to cull some of the many gems of feeling, fancy, and thought, which are so richly strewn through the pages of this poem, and present them to the reader as justification of our high commendation; but we must content ourself in saying, that we have drawn deep draughts of pleasure from its perusal; that in purity, exquisite grace, delicacy and beauty, we cannot consider any modern production its equal. It is not a passionate nor an emotional poem. does not reach all our capabilities of feeling and passion, but gliding smoothly over a calm and transparent stream, sounds the depths of joy and happiness. It depicts simply the felicities of a successful love. It is the story of a summer's day, with light and feathery clouds chasing over its calm and stormless blue. -The Baked Head, and other Tales, need not alarm our readers. The matter is not near so terrible as the name might imply to a nervous imagination. The volume is a collection of Tales, being the second issue of "Putnam's Library of Choice Stories," put together in a neat form, and selected with fine taste and good judgment. Many of the stories come from "Household Words," which is sufficient assurance of their excellence. (G. P. Putnam & Co.) -T. B. PETERSON has published a new, complete, and uniform edition of the novels of Mrs. Lee Hentz. The novels of Mrs. Hentz possess considerable interest. Her circle of admirers will welcome this neat and satisfactory edition of her works. -Kate Coventry, an Autobiography, is a spirited, dashing, and highly interesting reprint from Fraser's Magazine. Kate Coventry is a sort of Lady Gay Spanker, as far as fondness for hunting and high-blooded horses are concerned, and the story is made up principally of her horseback adventures, and certain love difficulties between two rival suitors. She writes as she rides, boldly, with a free rein, and an easy The little episode of the "Dangerfield Ghost,” is startling and dramatic. (Jewett & Co.) seat. -A SKETCH of the Ecclesiastical History of the Catholic Church in the United States, has been published by Dunigan & Brother, of this city. It is a translation, with additions, from a French work by Henry de Courcy. It appears to appeal more directly to our French residents than to any other class, the work having been prepared for the public of France, the author's interest in the Catholic religion in this country arising from his connection with an ancient French Canadian family, and his descent from officers of the French navy who enlisted themselves under our flag during the Revolution. The need of a work of the kind has long existed, and this appears to supply the want with ability. -FRENCH & Co., of Boston, are just issuing a new edition of Walter March's "Shoepac Recollections," first published a few months ago. Many of our readers may not have read this charming novel-if so, let them not fail to do it. They will find it a delightful picture of American life upon the Canadian frontier; full of pictures delicately limned; of humor exquisitely touched; of character finely shaded—a fresh, spirited, true, and almost perfect book. with the title, "Facta, an Army Memoir." It will be a picThe same author will issue early in October a new work, ture of Army Life by land and sea-graphic, finely touched, full of spirit and power, no reader of "Shoepac Recollections" can doubt. -Life in the Itin rancy, is a history of the toils and triumphs of the Itine.ancy, purporting to be based upon incidents of actual occurrence, in which neither the shady nor the sunny side is depicted, but that faithful intermingling of sunshine and shadow which characterizes the realities of not only life in the ministry, but all other kinds of life whatever. It appears to be a well written, conscientious, interesting volume, with no very high order of literary merit either aspired to or reached. (Miller, Orton & Mulligan.) JAMES HARRINGTON left the breakfast-table with a thought, which filled both his heart and brain with exrestless desire to be alone in the free air. He had not citement. The deep tenderness warred terribly against slept during the night, but spent the silent hours in the strong moral force of his nature, but only as the • Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the U. S., for the Southern District of New York. quick tempests of summer strewn against a rock, beat- | the city, down cross roads and by the shore, sometimes at a sharp gallop, sometimes giving his well-trained horse the head, till both steed and rider flashed like an ing down all the beautiful wild blossoms and moss upon its surface, but leaving it immovable as ever. As he went forth from the breakfast-room, Ralph arrow between the stooping branches. passed him, looking restless and anxious. "Brother James! Brother James!" he said, "I wish to speak with you very much, but not now. I have no heart to say anything just yet!" James smiled, very gravely, but with a look of gentle patience, that told how completely his strong passions were held in control. Few men in his excited state would have proved so thoughtful of others; for he had no idea that Ralph had any more important subject to consult him about, than some shooting excursion in the hills, or a horseback ride with Lina. "I am going out for an hour or two," he said; "I have been suffering with headache all night. The air seems close to me indoors. After I come back, will that be time enough, Ralph ?" "I don't know. Yes, of course it will-there is no hurry," answered the impetuous boy, "only I'm so vexed and troubled just now." "Well, come up to my room. It does not matter much if I go or not—this miserable headache will not probably be driven away." "No, I can wait. You ought to ride out. How pale you are! Why, your face is quite changed! Indeed, brother James, I will not speak another word till you get back. I wonder what has come over us all this morning. Poor mother ill-the General out of sorts -you with a headache, and I, yes, I may as well own up-I have got something so near heart-sickness here, that but never mind-I'll shake it off, or know the reason why. But one word, James, did you ever think my mother an illiberal woman?" "Illiberal, Ralph Your mother!" "Well, I mean this. Is she a woman to reject beauty and worth, and everything estimable, because-" James Harrington cut the question short by laying a hand on his brother's shoulder somewhat heavily. "Your mother, Ralph, is a woman so much above question in all her actions and motives, that even these half doubts are sacrilegious in her son." In this wild way he rode, unconscious of his course, and without any absolute object, save free air and that rapid motion which harmonizes so well with turbulent feelings. The horse took his own way up hill, along shore, up hill again, till all at once he came out ou a green shelf in the hills, upon which a single dwelling stood. He drew up his horse suddenly, for there a little way from the house and some distance before him, stood two women in eager conversation. One had her back toward him, but her left hand was in sight, and in it was an open book, with its leaves fluttering in the wind. The air and dress of this person reminded him so forcibly of Lina's governess, that he remained a moment looking earnestly that way; not that her presence on the hill would have been particularly remarkable, for on glancing around he recognized by its position, that her mother's house must be in that neighborhood. But that very morning he had seen the governess passing toward Mrs. Harrington's room, and her appearance in both these places so nearly at the same time, aroused his curiosity, not to say suspicion. But the object that struck him most forcibly was the female with whom she seemed to be conversing. The stately person, the picturesque costume, composed entirely of rich warm colors, the eager expression of features that must once have been eminently handsome-above all, the air of almost ferocious authority, with which she was evidently speaking, struck him as strangely out of place in that solitary spot. Beyond this, he felt a vague impression, impalpable and formless, of some connection between that woman and former events of his own life. It might have been her dress so foreign to the place, or her humble mode of life. The Madras kerchief, folded in a turban over the black hair falling down each side of her face in the heaviest waves of rippling jet, and the massive earrings that gleamed beneath, were in themselves calculated to awake remembrances of an early youth spent in the South, where The color rushed up to Ralph's forehead. First he this picturesque costume was common among the slaves; had lost confidence in Lina-now, in his mother. "If you have a doubt of your mother, speak it to her," said James more gently, as he drew on his riding gloves. "After that, I will talk with you!" but the woman's face fascinated his gaze more than her general appearance. Some recollection too vague for embodiment, arose like a mist on his brain so powerfully, that he was unconscious of the time thus spent in "I wonder what has come over me-James is offend-gazing upon her. ed; I never saw him so grave before," muttered Ralph, as his brother moved down the hall. "Everything goes wrong. Even Fair Star started, as if she would spring at me, when I looked in to see if my mother was up. I will put an end to this !" At last the woman gave a quick glance toward him, and darting forward, snatched at the book in her companion's hand, talking rapidly. There was some resistance-an attempt to ward her off-but the book was at last yielded to her impetuosity. Thus half-passionately, half in thought, he went He saw it, gathered up under the woman's arm, conin search of Lina. cealed by the folds of an orange-colored scarf, overrun with a pattern of many gorgeous colors, which she wore, and carried into the house. James Harrington mounted his horse and rode away. He wanted the clear air and freedom of expanse, motion, anything that would distract his thoughts, and bring back the self-control that had almost departed from him. He rode at random along the highway leading to Then the person whose back had been toward him, turned and looked that way. It was Agnes Barker. She saw him, evidently without much surprise, and |