better through that birth and the subsequent career of that patient, painstaking, and loyal spirit after development into the full bloom of womanhood. To the literary circles Mrs. Ellet was known as a most prolific and fascinating writer, her works largely partaking of the character of reminiscences and history, wreathed now and then with poetical musings. Her first publication, a poem, in the American Ladies' Magazine, Boston, appeared in 1833, and a translation of Silvio Pellico's Euphemia of Messina, in 1834. This was followed by Poems Original and Selected, in 1835; Teresa and Contarina; a Tragedy acted, 1835; Scenes in the Life of Joanna of Sicily, 1850; The Characters of Schiller, 1841; Rambles about the Country; Evenings at Woodlawn; The Women of the American Revolution, 1848; Family Pictures from the Bible, 1849; The Domestic History of the American Revolution, 1850; Watching Spirits, 1851; Scripture Gift-Book; Pioneer Women of the West; Nouvellettes of the Musicians; Summer Rambles in the West, etc. She was well known as a welcome contributor to the standard periodicals of the day, among which were the North American and the American Quarterly. For critical notices of her writings, see Griswold's Female Poets of America, Mrs. Hale's Women's Record, and the Southern Literary Messenger. An English periodical of considerable authority, the London Athenæum

says: "In treating the Women of the Revolution,' Mrs. Ellet is fair and honest; and the illustrations which might be drawn from a book like this, contain a lesson neither ephemeral in value nor limited in its application."

In closing this sketch of one of the most popular writers of America, we cannot omit speaking of the unselfishness which was a strong trait in the character of our departed friend. She ever felt for and sympathized with frail and suffering humanity, and her open heart and ready hand made many a home happier. As a contributor to this magazine, her last article, " Life with a Kiss; a Historical Incident," published in the May number, called forth some evidences of the good. ness of her heart. In reference to the manuscript, she wrote to the publishers, "if the editor would be likely to accept it, Mrs. Ellet will write it out and send it. What little it may bring she will give to a charity-a poor young mother and her three children under six." Thus her hand was ever stretched out to succor the needy and distressed; and many hearts besides ours will be shadowed by the withdrawal of one of earth's richest jewels and brightest stars from the literary world. We feel sure that such a life as Mrs. Ellet's goes not out, as all that is mortal passes down the valley, but that the potent influences which she put in motion will survive till the end of time.

An Open Page of the Beautiful.—A few days ago we were guided by the iron horse on the North Penn Railroad, while seated in the comfortable coaches assigned for passen gers, from Philadelphia to Bethlehem, and the Blue Mountains, and after having gracefully and rapidly threaded our way through country and village scenery of the most charming character, all speaking of intelligence, taste, culture, industry and the refinement of an ever advancing civilization, the rosy morning, bracing and beautiful, found us seated in a really romantic section of the mountains, at an altitude at once commanding a bird's-eye view of mountain, hill, valley, river, rivulet, meadow and forest, always captivating to the traveller from the densely populated city, with its miles of brick, stone and mortar; but unusually inviting in this leafy month of June. At our feet, half shut out from view, nestled one of those lakes so far famed for trouting, in which were reflected in its clear and placid waters the majestic trees on its borders, some of which seemed to bend so low and near as if they fain would kiss their own dear selves; by our side, feasting on this open page of nature, sat our companion, a gentleman familiar with foreign lands, and especially with the picturesque scenery of England and Scotland. This is as beautiful as Windermere," he said,, "and yet few tourists visit the borders of this lake. The English make the most of their scenery. That cataract of Lodore, near Keswick, for instance, concerning which Southey wrote, is no larger than one of our mill streams, and in dry weather there is no cataract at all. One cannot have a Niagara every day, and I think the English are wise in appreciating to the utmost the romantic scenery of their little island."

Is there not in this a lesson for us all? Few of us but have a bit of woods, a green field, a patch of blue sky, a running stream of water or a still lake that we may not magnify and dwell upon until communion with these various forms of nature gives calmness, repose and peace to our lives. Oleanders and cape jessamines are gorgeous and beautiful and fragrant, but so are wild roses and appie blossoms and blue violets. One sweet blooming rose in the window may fill the house and the heart with suggestions of Eden, if that heart be in tune; all tropical luxuriance is thrown away on him who has no eye to see, no heart to feel its beauty. We grasp after so much-wealth, learning, fame, travel-thinking by-and-by, when the point is reached that elevation is attained, the life-long aspiration is realized, we shall be happy; but genuine happiness comes soonest to those who sift from the passing days every element of enjoy ment, and are chronically and resolutely thankful for what they have. “Let a man count himself worthy of hanging," says Carlyle, "and everything except the rope will be re ceived with gratitude." With this we by no means agree, and certainly think Carlyle in his better moments wosit never have uttered it; yet as an illustration of the effect of deprivation, it doubtless had its end. We cannot accept the theory that as a means to elevate, we must first delase, or make low. A greater truth was enunciated by Mr. Beechet, when he said, "to continually hold up before any people their faults and supreme unworthiness, and rarely their good and noble manifestations is, to educate them for the penitentiary and the almshouse." There however is a truth in Carlyle's statement as applied to some individuals. These count themselves as entitled to so much prosperity of good

une that too often they overlook the diamonds and pphires that sparkle in the dust at their feet. On this it is ell for us to ponder.

Every fair morning the sun rises in glory and sets at evende in splendor. Do we enjoy it? In this season, the first month of summer, when all nature seems to expand into oveliness; when the pink, red, and white blossoms are smilng upon us everywhere; when the balmy air makes even he forest and garden petals sing sweetly to the toiler or the ourist, it is well to pause and ponder; to ask, what all this caches? Here on this mountain top, near this lake silently Seautiful, we hear whisperings in voices more musical than dan's-for the signs and symbols are nature's own-Do we Lead and comprehend the sermon hourly delivered to us in ature's great temple? These discourses, though silent, they -till proclaim from a thousand rostrums, and in mysterious ways the ever-living truths which emanate from nature's God. The lofty trees and infant plant, the babbling brook and roaring cataract, the blushing rose and modest daisy, as well as the roaring artillery and lightning of the shifting clouds, speak of the power, wisdom and goodness of Him who brought forth and peopled the known and the unknowu systems of worlds. While nature rejoices in the life-giving beams of the sun or reposes at night beneath the glowing stars, how many of us open our hearts and minds to these influences, and allow these grand teachers to give us their ever sparkling lessons? The responses from most of us only can tell of neglect or silent indifference. It was not so with some-Wordsworth listened, looked and learned, and the world through him was made better. The open page was daily before him to be read and studied. Likewise Humboldt, Agassiz and others have enriched mankind by the lessons gathered from the pages of nature. From them let us catch a love for the beautiful, and reflect its light on others' pathway.

One sorrow dwelt upon may darken all our lives; even so, a single joy may be made to expand, and increase till it shall brighten all the soul and throw its halo on an ever increasing number of the children of men.

Do not Spoil the Pupil.-The lectures of the Greek philosopher were attended by a young girl of exquisite beauty. One day, a grain of sand happened to get into her eye, and being unable to extract it herself, she requested his assistance. As he was observed to perform this little operation with a zeal which, perhaps, a little less sparkling eye might not have commanded, somebody called to him in Greek: "Do not spoil the pupil."

The English Language.-Bayard Taylor, in one of his recent letters says that he has noticed one striking change in Egypt. This is the astonishing spread of the English language within the last twenty years; resulting both from the numbers of English and American travellers who visit the East, and the use of the language by travellers of other nationalities. French, which until within the last few years was indispensable, has been slowly fading into the backgronnd, and is already less available than English for Italy and all the Orient. I was a little surprised in Rome at being accosted by a native boot-black with, "Shine up your boots ?"

In Naples, every pedler of canes, coral, photographs, and shell-fish knows at least enough to make a good bargain; but this is nothing to what one meets in Egypt. The brightwitted boys learn the language with amazing rapidity, and are so apt at guessing what they do not literally understand that the traveller no longer requires an interpreter. At the base of Pompey's spillar, to-day, a ragged and dirty little girl came out of a fellah hut and followed us, crying, "Give us a ha' penny!" All the coachmen and the shopkeepers are familiar with the words necessary for their business, and prefer to use them, even after they see that you are acquainted with Italian or Arabic. The simple, natural structure of the English language, undoubtedly contributes also to its extension. It is already the leading language of the world, spoken by ninety million people (double the number of the Frenchspeaking races), and so extending its conquests year by year that its practical value is in advance of that of any other tongue.

A Beautiful Sentiment.-Dr. Chalmers beautifully says: "The little that I have seen of the world and know of the history of mankind teaches me to look upon their errors in sorrow, not in anger. When I take the history of one poor heart that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it passed through—the brief pulsations of joy, the tears of regret, the feebleness of purpose, the scorn of the world—that has little charity-the desolation of the soul's sanctuary, and threatening voices within, health gone, happiness gone-I would fain leave the erring soul of my fellow-man with Him from whose hands it came."

Sound Sleep.-Sound sleep is essential to good health. It is impossible to restore and recuperate the system exhausted by labor and activity without this perfect repose. Sleep has a great deal to do with the disposition and temper. A sound sleeper is seldom disturbed by trifles, while a wakeful, restless person is apt to be irritable. A great deal has been written about the advantages of curtailing the hours of repose, and of sleeping but little. We are inclined to think that there is room for doubt whether the benefits of closely limiting the time given to rest have not been exaggerated. Active persons of nervous temperaments can hardly get too much sleep. We know very well that the saving of two or three hours a day from slumber is in one sense equivalent to a considerable prolongation of human life, and we are no advocate of indolence; but the fact still remains that sleep may be so much abridged as to leave the system incapable of as much effective work in two hours as might be performed in a better condition in one.

"Ise nowhar near de Top."-It is generally supposed that the "average American" beats the world in his love of big titles, and in his use of them; but the freed Southern negro beats his white fellow-citizen all hollow. We hear from Texas of one who is Head Centre of a Lodge—exactly of what sort we don't know, but we suppose that it must be a lodge in the wilderness or perhaps, in Solomon's phrase, a lodge in a garden of cucumbers. This "cullud pusson" will spend two months' wages to "report" at a grand junction

"jamboree" of his "lodge." The titles of the officers of these associations are something wonderful. A negro office boy down there asked leave of absence for a day to attend a meeting. "Why," said his master, "Scip, I didn't know you belonged to a lodge." "Oh, yes, boss," replied Africanus, "Ise Supreme Grand King, an' Ise nowhar near de top nuther." Who shall say that the abolition of slavery was not worth all that it cost?

Griswold and Poe.-The Tribune repeats the story published by Mrs. Stebbins of an attachment of Dr. Griswold and Poe for the same ladv, and that the literary and personal animosity of the poet and the critic grew out of their rivalry in love. The Tribune says: "There are enough persons who knew all the parties concerned, still living in this city, to confirm the statement of Mrs. Stebbins." That Poe and Griswold were both friends and admirers of a certain beautiful poetess, whom they had both done a good deal toward rendering famous, there is no denying, and as she and her husband are both dead, there might be no impropriety in naming her, only that she has children living, who would naturally be unpleasantly affected by seeing their mother's name published in connection with such a literary scandal. But the personal and literary encounter between Griswold and Poe commenced in Philadelphia, when they both lived in that city and when one edited the magazine to which the other was a contributor. Poe did not then know the lady in question; but Griswold did. Poe's acquaintance with her commenced after his coming to New York to live, and, as he was married, and the lady was married, and Griswold was married, the attachment must have been of a purely literary nature, as Poe's attachments mostly were. Dr. Griswold was a very much marrying man, he having bad three wives and many other attachments. He and Poe used to say sharp things of one another; but they were really good friends, and Griswold, with his personal knowledge of Poe and all of the dead poet's letters and private papers in his hands, treated him more generously than any other biographer would probably have done. Those who speak ill of Griswold for the evil he said of Poe would doubtless think differently of his motives if they knew what he suppressed.

Destiny.-Zeno, the philosopher, believed in an inevitable destiny. His servant availed himself of this doctrine one day while being beaten for a theft by exclaiming, “Was I not destined to rob ?" "Yes," replied Zeno, "and also to be corrected."

Working Hours of Authors.-The literary habits of a number of London dramatists and novelists are thus set forth in the letter of an English correspondent:

Mr. Trollope asserts that he does all his writing before breakfast. Mr, Tom Tavlor said, at a literary fund dinner, that all his literary work had been done before official hours in the morning. H. J. Byron says he only writes two hours a day, but he takes credit for thinking a good deal. Mr. Hepworth Dixon literally writes from morning to night. George Eliot" is at her desk six or seven hours a day. Mrs. Henry Wood writes every day until dinner time. "How many hours a day do you write?" I asked Farjeon to-day.

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"All the time," was the reply, and it was very nearly true. The late Lord Lytton said that in two hours daily great things in literature might be done.

Why even Walter Scott never, on his working days, wrote less than four or five hours, and he always sat down to his desk primed. There was no affectation of leisure about the authors of "Pendennis" and "David Copperfield," and Bal zac would lock himself up for weeks together, and write hour after hour at a stretch, and would come forth into the world with his book, haggard, careworn and exhausted. Miss Braddon has been in the habit of writing from ten to sixteen hours every day, and only a couple of years ago her labor was so incessant that it turned her brain, and she had to lay down her pen for many months in the middle of a novel, which was finished by a friend.

A laughable story is related of Dunning, an English judge. It is said of him that frequently, in the examination of witnesses, he often displayed great coarseness, and drew upon himself the animadversion of his brethren. On one occasion, wishing to establish the identity of the party through the instrumentality of an unsophisticated old woman (occupying the witness stand), the following highly amusing colloquy is said to have taken place between Dunning and the old

woman.

Dunning." Was he a tall man ?"

Witness." Not very tall, your 'honor-much about the size of your worship's honor."

Dunning." Was he good looking?"

Witness." Quite contrary-much like your honor; but with a handsomer nose."

Dunning." Did he squint?'

Witness." A little, your worship; but not so much as your honor by a great deal!"

These replies produced a roar of laughter in the court, in which Lord Mansfield (who was on the Bench) is said to have joined.

Leisure Hours of Great Men.-Some of the brightest wits have exercised a leisure hour in constructing enigmas full of ingenuity, fertile in idea, and graceful in language.

The following example is attributed to Charles James Fox, and is without much difficulty seen to relate to glass: What is pretty and useful in various ways, Though it tempts some poor mortals to shorten their days, Take one letter from it, and there will appear What youngsters admire ev'ry day in the year; Take two letters from it, and then, without doubt, You are what that is, if you don't find it out. One of the best enigmas of this class was by Lord Macauly, on the word--but we will leave the discovery of it to the reader:

Cut off my head, and singular I am;
Cut off my tail, and plural I appear;
Cut off my head and tail, and, wondrous fear,
Although my middle's left, there's nothing there.
What is my head cut off? a sounding sea;
What is my tail cut off? a rushing river;
And in their mighty depth I fearless play,
Parent of sweetest sounds, yet mute forever.