POETRY.-To a Lady I know, aged One, 514. Baby's Shoes, 514.

SHORT ARTICLES.-Women's Wages in California, 528. The King of Siam and the French Mission, 548. Death of Joseph Addison Alexander, D.D., 569. The Dead of 1859, 569. The Bishop at the Richmond Convention, 574. Death of Mrs. Eliza Lee Follen, 574. Ages of some Living English Writers, 576. Death of Hon. Henry D. Gilpin, 576.

The continuation of the "Luck of Ladysmede" or, the conclusion of "Holmby House," will probably arrive from England in season for our next number. We gave Hopes and Fears" a good start before we began to reprint it, but so rapidly does The Living Age, in its once-a-week appearance, outrun the monthly publications, that we have used up all our accumulation, and had none of it to put into this number.

In the next number we shall have a very interesting article on Cowper,—and, strange to say, it contains much new matter,-which appears to be upon good authority. We propose also to reprint the entire pamphlet which has shaken the world-The Pope and the Congress. The war with Austria was small compared with that which impends between the Emperor and His Holiness.

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From The National Review. MR. KINGSLEY'S LITERARY EXCESSES. Miscellanies. By the Rev. Charles Kingsley. 2 vols. J. W. Parker.

to preach a crusade of vengeance on their authors, the other a crusade of rescue and deliverance for their victims. Mr. Kingsley's earnestness as a social philosopher and reformer develops itself mainly in the direction of action and of sympathy; Mr. Carlyle's exhales itself, for the most part, in a fierce contempt against folly and weakness, which is always unmeasured and usually unchristian. The earnestness of Carlyle, though savagely sincere, never condescends enough to detail or to knowledge to make him a prac

THERE are two living English writers who, wide as the poles asunder in many points, have yet several marked characteristics in common, and whom we confess to regarding with very similar sentiments-Mr. Carlyle and Mr. Kingsley. Both are eminent; both are popular; both have exercised, and are still exercising, a very unquestionable influence over their contemporaries: unquestion- tical reformer; that of Kingsley is so restless able, that is, as to degree; questionable as to allow him no repose, and sends him enough, unhappily, as to kind. Of both we rushing, tête baissée, at every visible evil or have frequently had occasion to speak with abuse. The one has stirred thousands to bitrespect and admiration. We read them terest discontent with life and with the world, much, and recur to them often; but seldom but scarcely erected a finger-post or supplied without mixed feelings, provocation, disap- a motive; the other has roused numbers to pointment, and regret. We constantly lay buckle on their armor in a holy cause, but them down outraged beyond endurance by has often directed them astray, and has not their faults, and mentally forswearing them always been careful either as to banner or to in future; we as constantly take them up watchword. again in spite of vow and protest, drawn back into the turbid vortex by the force of their resistless fascinations. In short, we feel and act towards them as men may do towards women whom they at once delight in, admire, and condemn; who perpetually offend their purer taste and grate against their finer sensibilities, but whose noble qualities and whose meretricious charms are so strangely vivid and so marvellously blended, that they can shake themselves free from neither. For Mr. Kingsley we have long ago expressed our hearty appreciation; but there is a time to appreciate, and a time to criticise. Standing as he now does at the zenith of his popularity, it is the fit time to speak of his shortcomings with that frankness which is the truest respect.

The historian of Frederick the Great and the author of Hypatia have many points of resemblance, but always with a variation. They are cast in the same mould, but fashioned of different clays and animated by different spirits. Both are terribly in earnest; but Kingsley's is the earnestness of youthful vigor and a sanguine temper, Carlyle's is the profound cynicism of a bitter and a gloomy spirit. He is, if not the saddest, assuredly the most saddening of writers,-the very Apostle of Despair. Both seem penetrated to the very core of their nature with the sharpest sense of the wrongs and sufferings of humanity; but the one is thereby driven

Both are fearfully pugnacious; indeed, they are beyond comparison the two most combative writers of their age. Nature sent them into the world full of aggressive propensities ; and strong principles, warm hearts, and expansive sympathies, have enlisted these propensities on the side of benevolence and vir tue. Happier than many, they have been able to enlist their passions in the cause of right. But their success or good fortune in doing this has led them into the delusion common in such cases. They fancy that the cause consecrates the passion. They feel

"We have come forth upon the field of life To war with Evil;"

We compre

and once satisfied that it is evil against which
they are contending, they let themselves go,
and give full swing to all the vehemence of
their unregenerate natures.
hend the full charms of such a tilt. It must
be delightful to array all the energies of the
old Adam against the foes of the new. What
unspeakable relief and joy for a Christian like
Mr. Kingsley, whom God has made boiling
over with animal eagerness and fierce aggres
sive instincts, to feel that he is not called.
upon to control these instincts, but only to
direct them; and that once having, or fancy-
ing that he has, in view a man or an institu-
tion that is God's enemy as well as his, he
may hate it with a perfect hatred, and go at
it en sabreur! Accordingly, he reminds us of

nothing so much as of a war-horse panting | utterance. It is as though, like the prophet for the battle; his usual style is marvellously of old, "he was mad for the sight of his eyes like a neigh—a "ha! ha! among the trum- which he saw." Gloomy and phrenetic by pets;" the dust of the combat is to him the temperament; full of enthusiasm for what is breath of life; and when once, in the pleni- noble; keen in his perceptions of what ought tude of grace and faith, fairly let loose upon to be and might be; bitterly conscious of the nis prey, human, moral, or material,-all the contrast with what is; sympathizing with alRed Indian within him comes to the surface, most painful vividness in the sufferings of the and he wields his tomahawk with an unre- unhappy and the wronged, but perversely generate heartiness, slightly heathenish, no showing that sympathy rather by contemptdoubt, but withal unspeakably refreshing. uous anger than by relieving gentleness; It is amazing how hard one who is a gladiator richly endowed with warm human affections, by nature strikes when convinced that he is which yet he is half ashamed of, and would doing God service. Mr. Kingsley is a strange fain conceal; little accustomed to control himmixture of the spirit of the two covenants. self, and never taught to respect others,—his He draws his sympathy with human wrongs spirit is in a perpetual state both of internemainly from the New Testament; but his cine and of foreign war; and his tenderness, mode of dealing with human wrong-doers instead of being like oil upon the troubled altogether from the Old. Mr. Carlyle bor-waters, seems to be only one more incongrurows little from either division of the Bible; ous and fermenting element cast into the his onslaughts are like those of one of the northern gods; he wields Thor's hammer righteously in the main, but with a grim and terrible ferocity, and often mangles his victims as though absolutely intoxicated by the taste of blood.

Both writers-and this is one of their most serious offences-are contemptuous and abusive towards their adversaries far beyond the limits of taste, decency, or gentlemanly usage. Both indulge in terms of scorn and vituperation such as no cause can justify and no correct or Christian feeling could inspire. Their pages often read like the paragraphs in the Commination Service. Their holy wrath is poured out, as from teeming and exhaustless fountains, on every thing they disapprove, and on every one who ventures to differ from them or to argue with them. Since the days of Dean Swift and Johnson there have been no such offenders among the literary men of England. Still, even here there is a difference: Mr. Carlyle slangs like a blaspheming pagan; Mr. Kingsley like a denouncing prophet.

seething caldron. But whenever he will let it beam out unchecked, it not only spreads a rare sunshine over his pages, but communicates at once elevation and sobriety of tone. It is this which makes his Life of Sterling far the most pleasant as well as one of the truest of his books.

Mr. Kingsley's tenderness is of a different order. Like, all his excellencies and defects, it springs from his physical temperament; and is therefore manly, prompt, and genuine, but not profound. Indeed, we think the special peculiarity of Mr. Kingsley's nature, as of his genius, is that it wants depth. It is as sound as a bell, thoroughly healthy, indescribably vigorous; but, if we must speak our thought, a little superficial. Perhaps it is too healthy to be deep. Still it is very pleasant, because so bubbling, lively, and sincere. We will quote one passage in illustration: it is rather long; but, as we do not intend to quote much, and as it is in his best manner we will transfer it to our pages.

"Was there no poetry in these Puritans, because they wrote no poetry? We do not mean now the unwritten tragedy of the bat tle-psalm and the charge; but simple idyllic poetry and quiet house-drama, love-poetry of the heart and hearth, and the beauties of every-day human life. Take the most com

Mingled, too, with this unseemly fury, and piercing through all their unmeasured and lacerating language, there is discernible in both men a rich vein of beautiful and pathetic tenderness. This is most marked in Mr. Carlyle, as might be expected from his farmonplace of them: was Zeal-for-Truth Thores deeper nature; and if considered in connection with the irritations of an uncomfortable and nervous organization, goes far to explain, if not to excuse, his outrageous ferocity of

by, of Thoresby Rise in Deeping Fen, because his father had thought fit to give him an ugly and silly name, the less of a noble lad? Did his name prevent his being six feet high? Were his shoulders the less broad for it; his

cheeks the less ruddy for it? He wore his | from Heaven, second only in his eyes to that flaxen hair of the same length that every one Red-Sea one. Was there no poetry in his now wears theirs, instead of letting it hang heart at that thought? Did not the glowing half-way to his waist in essenced curls; but sunset, and the reed-beds which it transfigured was he therefore the less of a true Viking's before him into sheets of golden flame, seem son, bold-hearted as his sea-roving ancestors, tokens that the glory of God was going before who won the Danelagh by Canute's side, and him in his path? Did not the sweet clamor settled there on Thoresby Rise, to grow of the wild-fowl, gathering for one rich pæan wheat and breed horses, generation succeed-ere they sank into rest, seem to him as God's ing generation, in the old moated grange? bells chiming him home in triumph with He carried a Bible in his jack-boot; but did peals sweeter and bolder than those of Linthat prevent him, as Oliver rode past him coln or Peterborough steeple-house? Did with an approving smile on Naseby field, not the very lapwing, as she tumbled softly thinking himself a very handsome fellow, wailing before his path, as she did years ago, with his mustache and imperial, and bright seem to welcome the wanderer home in the red coat, and cuirass well polished, in spite name of Heaven? of many a dint, as he sate his father's great "Fair Patience, too, though she was a Puriblack horse as gracefully and firmly as any tan, yet did not her cheek flush, her eye grow long-locked and essenced cavalier in front of dim, like any other girl's, as she saw far off him? Or did it prevent him thinking, too, the red coat, like a sliding spark of fire, comfor a moment, with a throb of the heart, that ing slowly along the strait fen-bank, and fled sweet Cousin Patience far away at home, could up-stairs into her chamber to pray, half that she but see him, might have the same opinion it might be, half that it might not be he? of him as he had of himself? Was he the Was there no happy storm of human tears worse for the thought? He was certainly and human laughter when he entered the not the worse for checking it the next instant, courtyard-gate? Did not the old dog lick with manly shame for letting such carnal his Puritan hand as lovingly as if it had been vanities' rise in his heart while he was 'do-a Cavalier's? Did not lads and lasses run ing the Lord's work' in the teeth of death out shouting? Did not the old yeoman father and hell: but was there no poetry in him hug him, weep over him, hold him at arm's then? No poetry in him, five minutes after, length, and hug him again, as heartily as any as the long rapier swung round his head, other John Bull, even though the next moredder and redder at every sweep? We are ment he called all to kneel down and thank befooled by names. Call him Crusader in- Him who had sent his boy home again, after stead of Roundhead, and he seems at once, bestowing on him the grace to bind kings in (granting him only sincerity, which he had, chains, and nobles with links of iron, anc. and that of a right awful kind), as complete contend to death for the faith delivered 10 a knight-errant as ever watched and prayed, the saints? And did not Zeal-for-Truth look ere putting on his spurs, in fantastic Gothic about as wistfully for Patience as any other chapel, beneath 'storied windows richly dight.' man would have done, longing to see her, Was there no poetry in him, either, half an yet not daring even to ask for her? And hour afterwards, as he lay bleeding across the when she came down at last, was she the less corpse of the gallant horse, waiting for his lovely in his eyes because she came, not turn with the surgeon, and fumbled for the flaunting with bare bosom, in tawdry finery Bible in his boot, and tried to hum a psalm, and paint, but shrouded close in coif and pinand thought of Cousin Patience, and his father ner, hiding from all the world beauty which and his mother; and how they would hear, was there still, but was meant for one alone, at least, that he had played the man in Israel and that only if God willed, in God's good that day, and resisted unto blood, striving time? And was there no faltering of their against sin and the Man of Sin? And was voices, no light in their eyes, no trembling there no poetry in him, too, as he came pressure of their hands, which said more, and wearied along Thoresby dyke, in the quiet was more, ay and more beautiful in the sight autumn eve, home to the house of his fore- of Him who made them, than all Herrick's fathers, and saw afar off the knot of tall pop-Dianemes, Waller's Sacharissas, flames, darts, lars rising over the broad, misty flat, and the one great Abele tossing its sheets of silver in the dying gusts, and knew that they stood before his father's door? Who can tell all the pretty child-memories which flitted across his brain at that sight, and made him forget that he was a wounded cripple? . . . And now he was going home to meet her (Patience) after a mighty victory, a deliverance

posies, love-knots, anagrams, and the rest of the insincere cant of the court? What if Zeal-for-Truth had never strung two rhymes together in his life? Did not his heart go for inspiration to a loftier Helicon, when it whispered to itself, My love, my dove, my undefiled, is but one,' than if he had filled pages with sonnets about Venuses and Cupids, love-sick shepherds and cruel nymphs?