"will ever be made generally accessible," he states that "permission" has been given "to quote liberally from them." This matter of the "permission" has since been publicly denied, in a communication to the Athenaum, by M. Packenham Edgeworth, one of the editors of the work, in the name of his associates, "who have the sole right to grant that permission." Under these circumstances, it may be questioned whether, for the present at least, that hungry Oliver Twist, the public, who in such cases is "always asking for more," will not have to sit down with the portion thus surreptitiously ladled out by the reviewer. It certainly leaves us with a good appetite; nor can we think that any harm would come from assimilating the whole.

The lesson of Miss Edgeworth's life, like that of her writings, was eminently wholesome and practical. This was known before, and was sufficiently certified to by the admiration of Sir Walter Scott for her personal character, and the general report of her contemporaries who met her in society. It appears at every turn in the reviewer's wellfilled pages; for it will probably be found he has made the most of his opportunity, and, as a good reviewer he was bound to do, squeezed the orange pretty effectually. There is no occasion to follow him in detail in these interesting passages, which will be universally read; but it is worth noting how admirably the author in private meets the expectation which would be formed from her writings, in making the best of a career not without its difficulties, in voluntary self-sacrifice of inclination to the claims of prudence, in all the "prime wisdom" of daily life, its forbearance, its cheerful activities, its unfailing usefulness, its unceasing mental and moral cultivation. Miss Edgeworth's writings do not, indeed, round the whole compass of human thought and emotion; there may be other motives than those which she employs, and other results than those which she exhibits; but their influence is always sound, and they have some sterling practical qualities of humor and good sense-for instance, in illustrating and enforcing every-day duties, which the corresponding literature of the day frequently aimed so high to attain. There is no vapory cloudland in Miss Edgeworth's writings. We walk upon the solid earth, among good and bad boys and girls and good and bad men and women, and learn how to choose our company and strengthen our footsteps. When we look at the productions of the "Minerva

Press," which preceded Miss Edgeworth's books, and some of the sensation novels of our own day which have come after them, we have no reason to be ashamed of the pleasure we once took (and which may be taken again) in those still unsurpassed stories of "Parent's Assistant," the "Moral Tales," "Ennui," and others, artificial as they may in some respects be considered. As for the Irish stories, their humor and character are not to be questioned.

The anecdotes of this Memoir, preserved in her diaries or correspondence by Miss Edgeworth, are charming. Mr. Pakenham Edgeworth certainly must relent before he would deprive the world of such characteristic morsels as those of Mrs. Siddons and Sheridan, Talma and Napoleon. Miss Edgeworth meets Mrs. Siddons at a literary party given by Lydia White, and gets this capital story of the hold traditions have upon the stage, and, for that matter, in a great many other departments of human action:

She gave us the history of her first acting of Lady Macbeth, and of her resolving, in the sleep scene, to lay down the candlestick, contrary to the precedent of Mrs. Pritchard and all the traditions, before she began to wash her hands and say, "Out vile spot!" Sheridan knocked violently at her door during the five minutes she had desired entirely to herself, to compose her spirts before the play began. He burst in, and prophesied that she would ruin herself for ever if she persevered in this resolution to lay down the candlestick! She persisted, however, in her determination-succeeded, was applauded, and Sheridan begged her pardon. She described well the awe she felt, and the power of the excitement given to her by the sight of Burke, Fox, Sheridan, and Sir Joshua Reynolds, in the pit.

The Napoleon story was told by Sir Humphry Davy.

Sir Humphry repeated to us a remarkable criticism of Buonaparte's on Talma's acting: "You don't play Nero well; you gesticulate too much; you speak with too much vehemence. A despot does not need all that: he need only pronounce, 'Il sait qu'il se suffit."" 'And," added Talma, who told this to Sir Humphry, "Buonaparte, as he said this, folded his arms in his well-known manner, and stood as if his attitude expressed the sentiment."

An anecdote of the literary precocity of the present Earl Stanhope, from a letter by Miss Edgeworth's in August, 1813, has a curious interest: "We have just seen a journal by a little boy of eight years old, of a voyage from England to Sicily; the boy is Lord Mahon's son, Lard Carrington's grandson. It is one of the best journals I ever read, full of facts; exactly the writing of a child, but a very clever child."

Mr. HEPWORTH DIXON'S book, Spiritual Wives, fully deserves the reprobation it has received on all hands. Its title is a complete misnomer, since it can hardly be claimed that outrages on morality of Brigham Young in America, and similar outrages on the part of Prince in England, and of certain others in Germany, are in any sense of the word

"spiritual." Mr. Dixon should have had more regard to the ordinary good sense and virtue of the community, than to term any of the adulterous connections which he details, apparently with great relish, too, as spiritual. They are, rather, earthly, sensual, devilish, as the Bible teaches. The book is a strange medley, offensive to decent readers.

THE dinner given at Delmonico's on the 24th of June to the Chinese Ambassadors was one of the rare exceptions to the usual dulness of ceremonial entertainments. It sometimes seems as tedious as a time-told tale to find ourselves marching into the very large and very handsome dining-room where we have so often assisted our "distinguished fellow-citizens," in our humble way, to do honor to famous people from over seas, or from nearer home. But, on this occasion, every thing was delightful. Imagine the smiles that played about the venerable faces of SunsTajen and Chi-Tajen as the waiters placed before their astonished eyes the familiar bird'snest, nid d'oiseau au mandarin, but prepared with a delicacy, such as even the Emperor's Chef never attained to in his moments of highest inspiration! Hardly, too, had they recovered from their surprise when successive dainties familiar to them from childhood, were floated airily over their shoulders by the white-cravated ganymedes; Puppidog á l' Empire, Rat à ravir sauce piquante; —it was a positive pleasure to see the grave Mongolian faces wrinkle into smiles, and their bead-eyes twinkle with delight as they found something they could be sure of in the midst of this wilderness of unknown dishes. As for the speeches, nothing could have been better. Mr. Burlingame showed himself a natural orator, and took the Chinese side so enthusiastically and earnestly that one almost looked to see the national pig-tail sprout from his head. As Chi-Tajen jocosely remarked to Mr. Brown, "he was more Chinese than the Chinese themselves." At least we so interpreted the words as they fell from the Ambassador's lips, though, as is usual in China, they took the form of a proverb. But this seemed to be the sense of the remark,-"The robe that has lain in the musk, is more fragrant than the musk-ball." But, Mr. Burlingame made out his case in a most convincing fashion, and his plea for justice to China in our diplomacy, and justice to her in our judgment of

her claims, was so convincing in its logic, and so persuading in its manner, that the walls of our Caucasian prejudice fell flat before the orator's trumpet. In our own particular case, however, this was not much of a surrender, for we have always had a weakness for the Chinese, and should never have the heart to entertain an evil thought against the nation who gave us the gift of tea alone, to say nothing of other trifles, such as the inventions of printing, gunpowder, and the mariner's compass, with compliments and the Golden Rule. After Mr. Burlingame came Mr. Evarts, whose speech must have astonished those who only knew him by his other speech on the impeachment trial. This was as light as that was heavy, as full of point as that was dull, as sparkling as that was flat. It ran round the tables, that Mr. Evarts was showing the Republicans who had found fault with him for defending the President, how much they were mistaken, for, if he had really meant to defend him, they might now see what powers he could have brought to the task. There was no need of his burying Mr. Johnson under such a mountain of dulness, and in consequence, he did it in the interest of Radicalism, for might he not have met Mr. Butler with wit for wit, subtlety for subtlety, and turned the laugh against him and his cause, if he had been so minded? Our Chinese friends are gone, after having had, no doubt, a right good time. In public and private we have given them a hundred evidences of our good-will, and we most heartily wish that wherever the Embassy may go in its mission, it may meet as warm a welcome as it found in New York.

No doubt many of our readers enjoyed with us the procession of the German marksmen-the Schutzenfest-on the occasion of their annual meeting in the last week of June. There were several things to be noted in relation to that procession. One is the admirable way in which the costumes were got up,

by which it was intended to represent the invention and development of shooting weapons. This portion of the procession was usbered by six mounted heralds in the costume of the Middle Ages representing the nationalities of France, England, Italy, Germany, Spain and Switzerland. Then came the Marshal of the Division and his aids in the dress of the Landsknechte of the time of George von Frondsberg. Six Teuton warriors with tattooed bodies and bear-skin robes picturesquely hinted at barbaric times. Then came William Tell and his Son, this last a most charming boy in a most becomingly beautiful dress, and following close upon them six cross-bowmen in the costume of the eleventh century. This was the second period, and as Tell had introduced that, so Berthold Schwartz, the inventor of gunpowder led in the day that dawned at Crecy. Following him were six men each having the old fire-lock musket with rest, habited in the costume of the Queen's Musketeers of the sixteenth century. Behind these, six Tyrolese in the dress of their canton with short rifles, and at their head Andreas Hofer. Then, with a short skip to this present year of grace, six American sharpshooters with the most approved breech-loading rifles, and last of all the Gatling gun, the last word of murder by the wholesale, that waits its time to speak on the field of war. Now, all these costumes were deserving of something more than a word of passing commendation, for in the first place the notion of the group was apt and ingenious, and the way in which it was carried out was simply perfect. It deserves, what it did not receive, cheers, and flowers, and handkerchiefs, along the whole line. It was a beautiful sight, for the men were picked men of a manly and handsome race, and the costumes were most accurate in cut and color, they reproduced old pictures with a vivid reality. The rest of the procession was like all processions, remarkable perhaps for its order and decorum, and for the bearing of the men, but the best of all was in that little bit of poetry that led the van. When one sees a Saint Patrick's procession-ten thousand men in black suits, black hats and green scarfs, or an American procession, ten thousand men in black suits, black hats and no green scarfs, and then see a procession like this of the Schutzenfest, with color and costume all along the line, and one bright bit of culture, one small but choice fruit of poetry, and learning, in its most conspicuous part, he feels that the German has a lesson to teach him.

·

Not one but many, for the procession was many ways

suggestive. Its motive was a fruitful hint, for it showed a host of industrious citizens who know the value of play, and are not ashamed to make a yearly holiday with no excuse but the love of play to give it authority. And the intelligence of these faces, the order of the whole, the energy without turbulence that ran through this long line like a spinal cord. There was no element of disturbance in it. As was remarked, when St. Patrick leads his line through the street, ladies run in doors and drag their children after them, for who knows on what corner the marshals will lead their men into a bloody fight? These Germans neither broke our Sabbath peace nor defied the week-day law. They were obliged to take the street from us for an hour or so, but they made amends by filling it from side to side with manly men, and manly manners, with gay colors and good music, and made us glad beside, with the conviction that our German fellow-citizens are lovers and defenders of the law, and that our social order has nothing to fear from them either in the present or the future.

RISTORI bade what we suppose will prove a final farewell to America, on Friday the 26th of June, when she played Queen Elizabeth at a morning performance. She sailed for Europe on Saturday. In the course of her two visits to America, she played 349 times, and considering that she spoke a foreign tongue, she certainly showed great power to hold her audience, and gained a remarkable popularity. In our opinion, Ristori cannot be called a great actress, for that title is only earned by genius, and genius cannot be predicated of her. She does not rank with Siddons, and Rachel, and Kean, but with Cushman, and Macready, and Talma, the actors of eminent talent. Nothing can be more unsatisfactory than comparison of Ristori with Rachel, for no comparison is possible between natures so different as theirs, and forms of art so opposite and so opposed. In nearly every thing that Ristori did, there was a taint of vulgarity, and in some of her parts, there was more than a taint of this vice; it permeated the whole conception, and was present every where in the acting. She was, no doubt, herself most strongly drawn to plays of pure melodrama like Marie Antoinette, which is one prolonged butchery, and smells of blood from end to end. Considering how good her nature is said to be, how refined her manners, and how retiring and delicate her private life, one is amazed to see how she goes through

without flinching this most horrible play. Those who have not seen the Marie Antoinette, and who have seen Charlotte Cushman in the last scene of Oliver Twist, when she comes in reeking in her own gore after having been butchered by Bill Sykes, may fancy what a play must be that is full of scenes as horrible as this from beginning to end. So far as art is concerned, it is our duty to say what we believe, that Marie Antoinette and the White Fawn are on precisely the same plane. The one appeals to the tiger in our blood, and the other to the ape and goat that lurk in us. And the evil that is in this play, is one that is in many others in Ristori's list. She chooses subjects that admit this mode of treatment, and she forces it into those to which it does not naturally belong. Nothing can be more repulsive to the sense of art than the last act in her Elizabeth. It is untrue to nature. It is untrue to history. It is a scene at which the delicate mind revolts. But it is also a scene which need not have been so presented. Dalaroche, in his noble picture has made it deeply affecting in its grandeur. As we read the story in history, it stirs the heart with awful pity. But it was perfectly possible to see Ristori act it, and to refrain from either tears or pity. In her hands it was both ludicrous and disgusting. So, in the last scene of her Pia, and in the death of Adrienne, the morbid love of the horrible, in all its details, was exhibited without reserve. It is true that the actress seemed to feel that she had not succeeded in these two parts, and that she did not repeat them after the first few nights, but she played them often enough to show that they were creations beyond her skill to reproduce. She planted herself for judgment on Elizabeth and Medea, on Marie Stuart and Marie Antoinette. And as these parts all depend for their effect on a certain objective treatment, and appeal largely to the material side of our nature, it is to be acknowledged that Ristori earned all the applause that these performances brought her. And if to excel in such personations, appealing not to what is deepest in us, but to what is external, not to our souls but to our senses, if this deserves to be called 'great' acting, then Ristori was great. But we do not so understand the art of Siddons and Rachel. To our thinking, Ristori has not elevated the dramatic art by her career in this country; she has not set an example, by following which, the present diseased condition of the drama here can be surely made healthy and sound. She is, it is true, a most careful,

painstaking, conscientious member of the profession. She cannot have reached her present position without an amazing amount of hard work, and patient industry. But, all this does not make her a great artist; nor do we mean to say that Ristori had not gifts that were worth all this culture. She had great talent. She had a fine face, wonderfully mobile and expressive, and a voice most musical and varied in its power. She had defects that interfered with the presentment of some of her parts. Her figure was far from good, and she was not as tall as was desirable. She had but little taste in dress, though sometimes her dress was admirable, as in the first and third acts of Elizabeth, though when one compared these costumes with the dresses in her Adrienne, and in her Marie Antoinette, we mean the dresses meant to be splendid or merely elegant, it was to be suspected that where the dresses were good, they were dictated to her, and where they were bad, she devised them for herself. Thus even on the side of art, she did not satisfy the severest demand, and she committed so many offences against art and against taste, that we cannot sincerely regret her departure or desire her return.

Now that our relations with China and Japan are growing closer, and it is becoming common to meet with their beautiful, and it may be added, in the case of Japan, with their really useful, manufactures, we recall with pleasure that before the more material trade in merchandise set in, the friendly Japs and Chinamen had sent us several pleasant gifts of shrubs and flowers which are rapidly becoming domesticated in our gardens. The oldest of these gifts is the Japan Quince, Pyrus Japonica, of which we have three varieties, the scarlet, the pink, and the white. Then there is the Salisburia, or Ginkgo tree, first brought to this country in 1791, by Alexander Hamilton, Esq., and planted in his country-seat, "The Woodland," near Philadelphia. The Ginkgo is not so well known as it ought to be; it is an excellent tree for lawns, being very rapid in its growth, elegant in shape, and its leaves, which are very peculiar in their form and delicate in their structure, turn a beautiful golden-yellow in Autumu. Mr. Hoopes, in his recently published, and very valuable, book on Conifers, places the Ginkgo in that class, on the strength of its fruit. So far as we know, this is the first time it has been so classified, or, indeed, classified at all. The Ginkgo tree is planted near temples in China and Japan. We believe its

name is a synonym for the Divinity, and that it is the origin of our vulgar "jingo." But the word "jingo" has been traced to the Basque, and there are other explanations beside. The Ginkgo and Japan Quince are neither of them so well known as their lovely countrywoman, the Camelia Japonica, a plant whose flowers continue rare and high-priced because it is not in the least hardy. We do not understand why this should be, for all the other plants that have come to us from Japan and Northern China stand our climate perfectly; even our last two winters, severe as they were, did not affect the Wisteria, the Forsythia, the Japan Lilies, nor the Weigela. But the Camelia does not flourish with us; even in our greenhouses, it is not common to see a perfectly perfect specimen of this flower

"Faultily faultless, icily regular,

Splendidly null."

Yet, travellers in Japan describe the long hedges of Camelia profusely set with blossoms, white, and red, and variegated; as common there, as the Hawthorn, in England. Of later introduction, quite recent in fact, and only within the last two or three years getting to be found in small gardens, are the Forsythia, named after W. Forsyth, royal gardener at Kensington; the Wisteria, often misspelled Wistaria, with its racemes of pale purple flowers, looking like the ghosts of grapes, now almost as common as the grapevine itself; and the Weigela, a splendid shrub when fully grown and covered with its mass of blossoms of pink shaded into white. Then there is the Dielytra, or, as it is sometimes called, the Bleeding Heart, which is now in every garden, however small, and is a universal favorite. It obeys the earliest call of Spring, and comes like the Daffodil, before the swallow dares.

Last in the list come the Japan lilies, an important addition to our gardens. There are many varieties, but three of them, Album, Roseum, and Rubrum, are sufficient for a small place. Lest we should be accused by our city and suburban readers of bringing coals to Newcastle, we confess that this paragraph is written for our friends in far-off country places, whom these recent settlers in our gardens have not yet reached. Nor should we have omitted to mention the two Magnolias, M. conspicua and M. purpurea, both of which came from China to this country, and also the Pauwolonia, whose delicatelyshaped, delicately-scented purple flowers greet our senses so pleasantly in the opening June.

No one who does not know these plants but will thank us for telling him of them. Of these flowers, the Magnolia purpurea has a faint lemon perfume, but all the rest are scentless. With the exception of the lilies and the Wiegela, the flowers, too, appear, in every instance, before the leaves. This makes them doubly valuable, for they are thus in bloom before the most of our American garden-plants have waked from their winter sleep.

The human animal seems to have a decided leaning to prophecy. Whether an historian's books will sell is always a doubtful question, and, indeed, only those histories do sell whose writers have largely mingled imagination with their so-called facts. A book of prophecies, however, is a steady income to the fortunate writer, and it probably makes little difference whether he prophecy good fortune or bad. Here, on our table, is the latest prophecy; an unattractive, square pamphlet, covered with shiny blue-black paper, with the title in gilt letters: "The Future Great City of the World." It is written by J. W. Scott, and comes to us from Toledo, Ohio; and the future great city of the world is no other than Toledo itself. This position, however, is not to be acquired for a hundred years at least, in which time London and New York will successively have gained and lost the crown of commercial empire. London is nearly in possession of that crown to-day; in thirty years New York will be in a position to dispute its possession with her, and having wrested it from her hands, some city of the Mississippi Valley will in turn wrest it from her, and hold it-forever. We say, some city," for, Mr. Scott is a prudent prophet, and wavers on the tripod between Chicago and his own Toledo. One or the other of these, however, is sure to be the greatest city of the world before a hundred years have passed, and, if we understand the oracle, it will continue to be the greatest, to the end of time. He quotes good Bishop Berkeley, who, our readers, especially if they have ever been at Newport, may possibly remember, said: "Westward the star of empire takes its way; Toledo, Time's noblest empire (unless it shall be Chicago) is his last." The pamphlet is an amusing one, and not altogether uninstructive, but the author's arguments are not of a character to carry inevitable conviction. Where the great cities of the future shall be, it is impossible for the most ingenious to guess, or for the most logi