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lish sympathies is quite incalculable. The peculiar feature of his works is, that their scenes are always placed in the ordinary walks of life. It is the character of all fiction now. The Clarissas and Grandisons of past ages have disappeared, and the life exhibited to us now is that of the lower classes of society. Men who by reading the works of Cooper had learned to feel that there was a real human life in the heart of the red Indian of the prairie, and who, by reading the works of Scott, learned that beneath the helmets and mail of iron which rust in our armories, human passions and affections once beat warm, were insensibly taught by the works of Dickens to feel that in this country, close to their own homes, there was a truth of human life, the existence of which they had not suspected. We all remember the immense sensation those works made at first. If you asked the lady who was getting out of her coroneted carriage at the bookseller's shop what it was she wanted, you were told she had come to inquire if the new number of Dickens's last work were out yet. If you saw a soldier on the turnpike road with his knapsack on his back, reading as he went, and stepped up behind him and looked over his shoulder, hoping, perhaps, to see that it was a tract, you saw it was the same everlasting Dickens. From the throne to the cottage this was true. What was the result of this? Imperceptibly, one which all the pulpits of the country would have been glad to combine in producing. The hearts of the rich and poor were felt to throb together. Men came to find that the rustic altar binds together two human hearts of man and woman with exactly the same feelings and anxieties and loves, as the marriage performed in the drawing-room, which unites peers and peeresses. They discovered that when death enters into the poor man's hovel, it is just as much a rending asunder of soul and body as if a spirit had been breathed away beneath a coverlet of silk. They came to find, too, that the lower classes have not a monopoly of all the simplicities of life, nor the upper classes the monopoly of all its absurd pride. People who lived in the highest ranks of life were startled to find that their own foolish jealousies had their exact repetition in the life which was going on beneath them. The ridiculous scorn with which the ancient family looks down upon the newly ennobled, and the newly ennobled looks down on the newly rich, has its exact counterpart in the sovereign contempt with which the small shopkeeper in his shop six feet square, looks down on the poor apple-woman who has dared to bring her barrow too near the sacred neighborhood of his aristocratic board. This was the achievement of these works of fiction. It was a lesson to us all, of humbleness, and sympathy, and mutual toleration; one step towards expanded love.

AMELIA OPIE, 1771-1853.

MRS. AMELIA OPIE was a daughter of Dr. Alderson, an eminent physician of Norwich, and was born in that city in 1771. At a very early period of her life she evinced talents of a superior order, composing, while still a child, poems, descriptive pieces, and novels, though, with the exception of some poetical pieces in the Monthly Magazine, none of them were published before her marriage, which took place in May, 1798, with Mr. John Opie, the celebrated painter. One of her first publications, The Father and Daughter,1 a tale, appeared in 1801, which at once drew upon her the public attention. This was succeeded, in 1802, by an Elegy to the Memory of the late Duke of Bedford, and a volume of other poems; and in 1804 she gave to the world her tale of Adeline Mowbry, or the Mother and Daughter. This was followed by Simple Tales, in four volumes; Dangers of Coquetry; and the Warrior's Return, and other Poems. In 1807 she lost her husband, and wrote, soon after, that beautiful piece entitled The Lament.

Mrs. Opie's subsequent publications are-a novel, entitled Temper, or Domestic Scenes; Tales of Real Life; Valentine Eve; New Fables, in four volumes; and The Black Man's Lament, in praise of the abolition of slavery, which appeared in 1826. But that which has made her name most known is her Illustrations of Lying in all its Branches. It exposes to view much of the hypocrisy and heartlessness of what is called the " fashionable world," and of the various tricks and deceptions resorted to by men of business to "succeed," as they call it, in making money; and, by numerous interesting and illustrative stories, she sets forth in their true light the various lies of "Flattery," of "Fear," of "Convenience," of "Interest," of "Benevolence," &c. It is a book which every one, but especially the young, might read with much profit. A short time before the publication of this work, Mrs. Opie joined the "Society of Friends," and soon retired from general society, of which, for a quarter of a century, she had been a cheerful and attractive votary. She died on the 2d of December, 1853. Of her character, one who knew her remarks, "She was true in heart and true in life; generous, confiding, and faithful. Her cheerful heart shone through her bright face, and brought comfort and pleasure into every house she entered; and her deep reverence for all lofty and sacred things was as remarkable as the cheerfulness itself. We shall ever regard her life as one of the healthiest and happiest we have known."2

Mrs. Opie's poetry exhibits pure taste and great depth of feeling,-such as are shown in the following song, which Lord Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review, pronounced "one of the finest in the language."

FORGET ME NOT.

Go, youth beloved, in distant glades

New friends, new hopes, new joys to find!
Yet sometimes deign, midst fairer maids,
To think on her thou leav'st behind.

1 An appalling piece of domestic tragedy, and perhaps the most deeply affecting of her writings."-Edinburgh Review, li. 540.

& Gentleman's Magazine, January, 1854.

Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share,
Must never be my happy lot;

But thou may'st grant this humble prayer,
Forget me not! forget me not!

Yet, should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,
Nor ever deign to think on me;
But, oh, if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,
Forget me not! forget me not!

HYMN.

There's not a leaf within the bower;
There's not a bird upon the tree;
There's not a dew-drop on the flower,
But bears the impress, Lord, of Thee.
Thy hand the varied leaf design'd,
And gave the bird its thrilling tone:
Thy power the dew-drop's tints combined,
Till like a diamond's blaze they shone.
Yes: dew-drops, leaves, and birds, and all,
The smallest, like the greatest things,-
The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball,-
Alike proclaim Thee King of kings.

But man alone to bounteous Heaven

Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise;
To favor'd man alone 'tis given

To join the angelic choir in praise.

LIES FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE.

These are lies which are occasioned by a selfish dread of losing favor and provoking displeasure by speaking the truth, rather than by real benevolence. Persons, calling themselves benevolent, withhold disagreeable truths and utter agreeable falsehoods from a wish to give pleasure or to avoid giving pain. If you say that you are looking ill, they tell you that you are looking well. If you express a fear that you are growing corpulent, they say you are only just as fat as you ought to be. If you are hoarse in singing, and painfully conscious of it, they declare that they did not perceive it. And this, not from the desire of flattering you, or from the malignant one of wishing to render you ridiculous, by imposing on your credulity, but from the desire of making you pleased with yourself. In short, they lay it down as a rule that you must never scruple to sacrifice the truth when the alternative is giving the slightest pain or mortification to any one.

I shall leave my readers to decide whether the lies of fear or

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of benevolence preponderate in the following trifling but characteristic anecdote :

A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS.

Most mistresses of families have a family receipt-book, and are apt to believe that no receipts are so good as their own.

With one of these notable ladies a young housekeeper went to pass a few days, both at her town and country house. The hostess was skilled not only in culinary lore, but in economy; and was in the habit of setting on her table, even when not alone, whatever her taste or carefulness had led her to pot, pickle, or preserve for occasional use.

Before a meagre family dinner was quite over, a dish of POTTED SPRATS was set before the lady of the house, who, expatiating on their excellence, derived from a family receipt of a century old, pressed her still unsatisfied guest to partake of them.

The dish was as good as much salt and little spice could make it; but it had one peculiarity: it had a strong flavor of garlic, and to garlic the poor guest had a great dislike.

But she was a timid woman; and good breeding and what she called benevolence, said, "Persevere and swallow," though her palate said No. "Is it not excellent?" said the hostess. Very," faltered out the half-suffocated guest; and this was lie the first. "Did you ever eat any thing like it before?" "Never,” replied the other, more firmly; for then she knew that she spoke the truth, and longing to add, "and I hope I shall never eat any thing like it again." "I will give you the receipt," said the lady, kindly; "it will be of use to you as a young housekeeper; for it is economical as well as good, and serves to make out when we have a scrap-dinner. My servants often dine on it." "I wonder you can get any servants to live with you," thought the guest; 'but I dare say you do not get any one to stay long!" "You do not, however, eat as if you liked it." "Oh, yes, indeed, I do, very much" (lie the second), she replied; "but you forget I have already eaten a good dinner!" (lie the third. Alas! what had benevolence, so called, to answer for on this occasion!)

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"Well, I am delighted to find that you like my sprats," said the flattered hostess, while the cloth was removing: adding, "John! do not let those sprats be eaten in the kitchen!"-an order which the guest heard with indescribable alarm.

The next day they were to set off for the country-house, or cottage. When they were seated in the carriage a large box was put in, and the guest fancied she smelt garlic; but,

"Where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wise."

She therefore asked no questions, but tried to enjoy the present regardless of the future. At a certain distance they stopped to bait the horses. There the guest expected that they should get out and take some refreshment; but her economical companion, with a shrewd wink of the eye, observed, "I always sit in the carriage on these occasions. If one gets out, the people at the inn expect one to order a luncheon. I therefore take mine with me." So saying, John was summoned to drag the carriage out of sight of the inn windows. He then unpacked the box, took out of it knives and forks, plates, &c., and also a jar, which, im- : pregnating the air with its effluvia, even before it was opened. disclosed to the alarmed guest that its contents were the dreaded sprats!

"Alas!" thought she, "Pandora's box was nothing to this! for in that, Hope remained behind; but at the bottom of this is Despair!" In vain did the unhappy lady declare (lie the fourth that "she had no appetite, and (lie the fifth) that she never ate in a morning." Her hostess would take no denial. However, she contrived to get a piece of sprat down, enveloped in bread; and the rest she threw out of the window when her companion was looking another way,-who, however, on turning round, exclaimed, "So you have soon despatched the first! let me give you another; do not refuse because you think they are nearly finished; I assure you there are several left, and (delightful information! we shall have a fresh supply to-morrow!" However, this time she was allowed to know when she had eaten enough; and the travellers proceeded to their journey's end.

This day the sprats did not appear to dinner; but, there being only a few left, they were reserved for supper!-a meal of which, this evening, on account of indisposition, the hostess did not partake, and was therefore at liberty to attend entirely to the wants of her guest, who would fain have declined eating also, but it was impossible; she had just declared that she was quite well, and had often owned that she enjoyed a piece of supper after an early dinner. There was therefore no retreat from the maze in which her insincerity had involved her,—and eat she must; but, when she again smelt on her plate the nauseous composition, which, being near the bottom of the pot, was more disagreeable than ever, human patience and human infirmity could bear no more: the scarcely-tasted morsel fell from her lips, and she rushed precipitately into the open air, almost disposed to execrate, in her heart, potted sprats, the good breeding of her officious hostess, and even benevolence itself.

Some may observe, on reading this story, "What a foolish creature the guest must have been! and how improbable it is that any one should scruple to say, 'The dish is disagreeable;' and 'I hate

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