The lines entitled "The Leaf," by S. G. Goodrich, are, we think remarkably fine, and worthy the good taste of the editor of the Token.

The "Huguenot Daughter," by Hannah Dorset. It is strange enough, that the poetry of our Annuals should be so inferior, for inferior, after all, much of it is, while we get plenty of such well told prose stories as this. The tale is founded, of course, on religious persecution, the incidents are of a grave and affecting character and the whole subject happily handled.

In the "Ode to the Russian Eagle," by George Lunt, we suspect that in the last line but one, "path-bound," is an error of the printer for oath-bound.

"The Utilitarian," by John Neal, is, we are glad to see, freer than is usual with the author's productions, from his more objectionable peculiarities, while it has the same powerful writing, the same startling incident and the same eager and rapid, yet free conversation, which are, we take it, three great merits in a story-teller, and are common to all his prose writings. We object to the introduction of the child's language, and we generally demur to his use of most unheroic Christian names for his heroes, which names are not more common with us than elsewhere,-and, moreover, to the barbarous phraseology, which he sometimes puts into the mouths of New Englanders, as samples of their language, when this mode of speaking is seldom to be heard, even in the remotest parts of New England, now, if it ever were, and certainly deserves not to be kept up.

"The Bubble," by J. O. Rockwell is very pretty and descriptive. The Token concludes with a prose piece by the Rev. John Pierpont. "The fashion of this world passeth away" is his subject, and the commentary is a most eloquent and touching appeal to the desolated feelings which acknowledge and the universal experience which confirms the melancholy truth.

"But there are alterations in the fashion of the world which time is more slow in producing, and which, when we witness them, are more striking, more melaneholy, and of more abiding influence. Who will doubt this? for who has not felt it? and who is he that has ever felt, and has now forgotten it? Surely not you, my friend, who, by the appointments of an overruling Providence, have been compelled to spend your days as a stranger and a pilgrim in the earth. Did you, in your young manhood, leave your home among the hills, the scenes and the companions of your youthful sports or of your earliest toils? Were you long struggling with a wayward fortune, in distant lands, or in seas that rolled under the line, or that encircled the poles in their cold embrace? Did sickness humble the pride of your manhood, or did care whiten your temples before the time? How often, in your wanderings, did the peaceful image of your home present itself to your mind! How often did you visit that sacred spot in your dreams by night! and how faithful to your last impressions was the garb in which, when you were far away, your long forsaken home arrayed itself! The fields and the forests that were around it, underwent no change in their appearance to your imagination.

The trees that had given you fruit or shade continued to give the same fruits and the same shade to the inmates of your paternal dwelling; and even in those objects of filial or fraternal affection, no change appeared to have been wrought by time during your long absence.

"But when, at length, you return, how different is the scene that comes before you in its melancholy reality, from that which you left in your youth, and of which a faithful picture has been carried near to your heart, in all your wanderings! Those who were once your neighbors and school-fellows, and whom you meet as you come near to your father's house, either you do not recognise, or you are grieved that they do not recognise you. The woods, which clothed the hills around, and in which you had often indulged the vague, but delicious anticipations of childhood, have been cleared away; and the stream that once dashed through them, breaking their religious silence by its evening hymn, and whitening as it rushed through their shade, to meet the sun upon the upland lawn,' now creeps faintly along its contracted channel, through fields that have been stripped of their golden harvest, and through pastures embrowned by a scorching sun. The fruit trees are decayed. The shade trees have been uprooted by a storm, or their hollow trunks and dry boughs remain, venerable, but mournful witnesses to the truth that the fashion of this world passeth away. More melancholy still are the witnesses that meet you as you enter your father's house. She, on whose bosom you hung in your infancy, and whom you had hoped once more to embrace, has long been sleeping in the dark and narrow house. Your father's form, how changed! Of the locks that clustered around his brow, how few remain! and those few, how thin! how white! His full toned and manly voice has lost its strength, and tremThe sister whom you left a child, is bles as he inquires if this is indeed his son. now a wife, and a mother; the wife of one whom you never knew, one who looks upon you as a stranger, and one towards whom it is impossible for you to kindle up a brother's love, now that you have found so little in the scenes of your childhood to satisfy the affectionate anticipations with which you returned to them.

"While you are contemplating these melancholy changes, and the chill of disappointment is going through your heart, the feeling comes upon you, in all its bitterness, that the mournful ravages which time has wrought upon the scenes and the objects of your attachment, will not, and cannot be repaired by time, in any of his future rounds. Returning years can furnish you with no proper objects for the fresh and glowing affections of youth; and even if those objects could be furnished, it is too late now for you to feel for them the correspondent affection. The grove The song of your mountain-stream can never more soothe your ear. Another that you loved shall invite you to meditation and to worship no more. may, indeed, spring up in its place, but you shall not live to see it. It may shade your grave, but your heart shall never feel its charm. Your affections are robbed of the treasures to which they clung so closely and so long, and that forever. The earth, where it had appeared most lovely, is changed. The things that were nearest to your heart, have changed with it. The fashion in which the world was arrayed when it took hold on you with the strongest attachment, has passed away; its mysterious power to charm you has fled, all its holiest enchantments are broken, and you feel that nothing remains as it was, but the abiding outline of its surface, its vallies where the still waters find their way, and the stern visage of its everlasting hills."

Who does not feel the sad and solemn truths of this language? Who could not weep, as it forces itself into his very heart? So fleeting are the vanities of the world :-so pass its idle fashions and its heartless follies; and, sorrowing not for their decay, we might say, without regret,

"Pass on relentless world!"

But so passeth not whatever is truly valuable and excellent. The monuments of man's pride may crumble; the temples of his glory may decay; his navies may be thrown upon a barren beach, his armies

whelmed in eternal snow; the wayward dreams of youth, the daring hopes of manhood and the crafty schemes of worldly old age may utterly fail and perish; but though his bones be buried beneath a moun tain avalanche, or rest under the broad bosom of the unfathomable sea, -no generous impulse, no lofty action, no ardent and virtuous aspiration shall pass away: his fervent enthusiasm, his noble deeds, his magnificent thoughts, his pure life, his charity to man and his high trust in God, may gladden the hearts of millions to come, till time is a lost and forgotten thing, and be recorded for eternity where the fashions of the world have no part nor lot.

66

We have thus examined, as well as we were able, the literary matter of the Token, and would now say a few words of the plates. They are generally above all praise, and might fearlessly be compared with the best plates in the English Annuals. The first plate, "The Doomed Bride," ought, we think, to be an exception to this remark. Good as it is in parts, the attitude of the figure, together with the drapery, are extremely stiff, and the drawing of the left arm, especially, very bad. Of the vignette title-page we have seen only an unfinished copy, but from that can determine that the design is full of truth to nature and beauty, and that the execution will be excellent. Perhaps our favorite among them all is "The Sybil." The drawing is perfect, and the whole plate executed with remarkable softness and felicity. Mr. Goodrich recommends, in the preface, a consultation with this Sybil. We fear he means to flatter us with vain hopes; but we should delight, above all things, to have our fortunes read to us by such eyes. The next plate, Innocence," has the common faults of Westall's designs, and is not deficient in their beauties. The engraver has executed his part well. "The Lost Children" is one of the most beautiful things we ever saw. The improvement of Mr. Cheney is astonishing. We hardly know if he need now fear a rival anywhere. The introduction of portraits into works of this class is new, but there can be nothing more proper than to preserve the features of a poet, dead, alas, as he is, amidst the trophies of his country's literature. The likeness is said to be faithful, and the work is beautifully done. Wherever we had happened to meet Meditation," and "The Banks of the Juniata," we should have had no hesitation in setting them down as the productions of the most distinguished English artists."Grandfather's Hobby" is delightful. "Chocorua's Curse" is grand, striking, and well managed in all its details. A great and desirable improvement is manifested in the delineation of minute human figures, wherein our plates have generally been very faulty.

They are much better done, however, in the "Juniata" than in this. "The Schoolmistress" is one of those pictures which must suit and satisfy every body. The patient and placid expression of the ancient dame, (blessings be on her head,) the puzzled and anxious air of the youth on the stool, and the thoughtless hilarity of the other urchins, at their own momentary freedom from the task, are all inimitable. But "Genevieve," the bright, beautiful, laughing Genevieve,-reclining amongst roses, as is her due,-how shall we speak of her? It is exquisite indeed. Her taper,-no!-We can hardly avoid cutting up our lines into verse, in which we always feel at liberty to give more minute descriptions than in homely prose; but we forbear. This, with the "Greek Lovers," which is on the whole, remarkably well designed and executed, and which we like very much, notwithstanding some obvious defects, complete the list of embellishments. It is got up," as the saying is, with great taste and beauty, in a manner highly creditable to the editor and publishers.

We had almost forgotten to mention that the Token is not yet published, but will be out, about the first of October. Before closing, we wish also to make a few remarks upon a subject adverted to above; namely, How is it that the poetical articles in all our Souvenirs are generally so inferior in sterling value to the prose? How is it that, while our writers of legends and the multitudes of tales, with which our press annually teems, need not fear competition with writers of the same class in any country, we have little poetry to compare with the productions of the mighty masters of the rhyme on the other side of the Atlantic? Have we no claim upon the mantle sent down from the great bards of old? Have we no eyes to see the chariot of Israel and the horsemen thereof?' Have we, in fine, no souls to drink in the inspiration which bounteous heaven has showered upon all men of all ages and climes? Let us not so believe. The fault is in ourselves. With the blush of shame and conscious inferiority upon our cheeks, at the unfeeling lash of a foreign reviewer, we have still turned a deaf ear to our own native wood-notes wild.' Instead of looking with a favorable eye upon our young aspirants for literary excellence, we have been too apt to turn upon them the face of cold and severe rebuke and they, instead of holding on their way with undaunted energy, regardless of present praise and renown, and careful only to fulfil with zeal and courage the high purposes of their being, have idly suffered our censure, like a deadly spell, to benumb their faculties and chill their hearts. But if we do not encourage and foster the talent of our youth, what right have we to look for the ripe fruit of

maturity? It is a common but injurious notion, that young men should be cautious of publishing before a certain period of supposed excellence in mental cultivation before the mind becomes subject to severe selfcontrol under the discipline of the world. But we are far from thinking so. There are certain subjects, indeed, asking a knowledge to be acquired only by long continued and judicious observation: but that man will not, probably, be eminent in literature at forty, who could think nothing worth telling through a score of summers. At this first blush of manhood, the young poet does not and ought not to wield worldly maxims for his weapons: he knows nothing of their use in the social system and cares little for their value. Poetry is with him but an overflowing gush from a heart-spring of noble and generous thoughts and nicely-toned sensibilities. But he has not lived without much of that communion which must make us wiser. He has conversed most with himself. He has thought, long and frequently, of the secret springs of his own impulses,—of the wild play of human passion,-of the emotions of heart,—of the capacity of mind,-till startled and bewildered in speculations, which have astonished the very wisest, he has gone out amongst the "liberal elements," to ask of Nature to unravel the mystery, and she was herself a marvel. But she, bountiful forever, has poured at his feet the glorious current of tumbling rivers; shown him the gorgeous drapery of autumnal forests and the broad verdure of green fields. He has looked on the blue distant hills and felt that they were his; and the song of birds was his own, and the tremendous ocean, with its terrible foam, or calm and golden with departing glory; and the jewelled ether and the revolving brightness of the silent course of Night. And he has then sought the companionship of books; the converse of those unchanging friends, whose silent but eloquent thoughts, whose soothing and comfortable welcome are ever at his command. He has read of the times, when monarchs loved to tune the lyre; when the valiant champion did his devoir none the worse, because he could frame a tender lay to his ladye-love; when poets, by their songs, raised woman from her state of savage degradation in a barbarous age and gave her her rightful place in the scale of being he has gone back still farther, and thought of the days when the best and the wisest,-the magnificent and mighty princes of the house of Israel, drank large inspiration at Siloa's fount and sung the high praises of God, to the psaltery and harp. And so, rich in an unbounded treasury of thoughts and affections, he goes out into the world, with life before him, lovely as a summer's day, with a fresher morning about him than the hackneyed world ever saw,—and then, may be, one