pole, I knox. They says, "Come in," and openin uv the winder I see a heap uv lookin glasses, two or three likely m'latter boys, with kombs in thar har and apurns on, and a feller standin befo a glass tyin uv somethin round his neck. "Are this the Inquirer Offis?" I says. The m'latter boys they lafft, but the feller at the glass says,

"Yes, this is the Inquirer Offis. What kin we do for you?" he says.

"I want to see the editor."
"Well, he aint here."
"Whar is he?"

"He's ded and berrid-berrid bout a fortnit ago."

That flustrated me a good eel, and I didn't know what to do, but jest to be sayin somethin, I says:

"What did he die uv?"

"Well," he says, "I can't say that I izzackly kno, but ef you want to suscribe, I'll take yo munny jest as ef he wus livin."

I tole him, "No, I didn't rede mighty well, and hadn't no money to spar."

With that follerd a cunsiderbul uv talk betwixt us; he apeerin verry ankshus to find out my bizniss, and I not lettin on. I has sense learnt that that warnt no Inquirer Offis atall, but a barber's shop. So I didn't see the Guvner, nor Mr. Richy nuther.

Arfter I left the barber's shop, I reckin I went into 20 bear rooms lookin fur edters, and bein constantly fooled; fur the peepil uv Richmun has no better cents than to think it mighty funny to fool foax from the kuntry. But I did git to see some edters, and had some chat with um, but as wus afraid to let out about my skeam, I didn't learn nothin what I wanted.

Bein satisfide I couldn't do no bizniss, I started roun to sea the curostes. They tole me Rockits wus a pritty plais, and I went thar, and seen a number uv sale vessils, which is amuzin to a man what nuvver seen nun befo, but aint so mighty pritty ether. The merchunt's mills, in my apinyun, is the best lookin things in Richmun. By George! they is busters. Billy, thar is mo brix in one uv them

mills than in Fomvil and Ciry put together.

I heerd thar wus some fine grave-yards in the subbubs uv the city, but I didn't go to nun uv um, prefearing a sircus which thar warnt enny in town.

The Captul bildin, whar they make the lors, aint is hansum is the Ixchaing. Inside uv it thar is a likeniss in white rock uv Ginrul Washingtun, with a kane in his han and a plow pint, and some mo things at his feat. I seen no objeckshun to this likeniss, exceptin they have drawd his stock ruther tite, givin uv a choked look to him. On the fur side uv the Captul I foun two tremendus brass men, histed on the bottom part uv the bannisters uv the steps. One wus Potric Henry, and the uther wus Tom JeffePotric Henry wus an orrytur, and Tom Jeffesun he wus the fust demmycrat, except one, which is Abraham, which didn't beleeve in no guvvermint at all, but went wharever he dirn pleased and didn't pay no taxis.

sun.

In lookin at these gentilmen, I was struck by the fac how much bigger peepil used to be than they is now. And I atribated the fallin off on our part to the use uv bad sperrets.

Goin on a leetil further from the brass men is what they calls the Washingtun monumint, and on the rite side uv it the biggest box I uvver heerd uv, tilted up agin the monumint. Inside uv this box they tole me wvs anuther likeniss uv Ginrul Washingtun, straddlin uv a rarrin hoss. I reflectid apun the suckumstance a good eel, and come to the detummination that of the ole Ginrul wus alive to sea the wickidniss uv these times, he'd be rarrin instid uv his hoss. But I dunno,-peepil always thinks these times is wuss'n them times.

Thar is a crowd mo uv things, Billy, to tell you uv Richmun, but I shill not tell you uv now. When we all gits to gether agin, I shill tell you. But the wust uv it all come about by my runnin aroun to sea the things, and the fust thing I node it were night. I had dun miss my dinnir, which they made me pay fur all the same as if I had eet it. This is cheetin uv the wust kind. But

S'e, "Fur yo helth?"
S'I, "Skeersly."

He shet up agin. Pretty soon
S'e, "Sold yo mules?"

S'I,

"How in the name o' sense did you no I had enny mules?"

S'e, "Oh, we foax in town nose everything. Did you git a good prise ?"

S'I, "Only far." But how he uvver come to no about them mules I sold yo pa, is a mistry to me. He walkt off like he wus goin away, but all uv a suddin he turned roun and says:

S'e, "How'd you like to take a littil turn this ev'nin ?"

"Turn at what?"

S'I, S'e, "Tapistry, velvit." S'I, "I don't ketch yo meenin." S'e, "Gran plazzer, copper in the vessil, froshus anemil in the jungil. You no." S'I, "Mistur, I don't understand French, and you no it, and ef you think you're goin to redikewl me, you'll find you've got the rong sow by the year. I'm a mighty chicken-hearted man, but thar is some things I won't put up with, as you'll find out pritty dirn quick ef yon keep a foolin arfter me."

Then he beg'd my pardon,-sed he did'nt mean to hirt my feelins, and all that. But I told him to clear out, I didn't want to have no mo to do with him. And I didn't, fur you no, Billy, that when I'm mad I'm mad.

That wus the last I sean uv him, and the last advencher I had in Richmun, from which I shuck off the dust uv my feat the follerin mornin, takin the North car a leetil arfter sun up.

Yo afecks'nit fren, trooly,

MOZIS ADDUMS.

A

"What's in a name?" asks Juliet; but the poor girl had soon sad cause to find that names have a great and sometimes terrible significance. Nor do they affect mankind only. They affect book-kind fully as much, and with more reason. man is in no degree responsible for his name. It is like Iago's purse, "Twas mine; 'tis his; and has been slave to thousands." But a book is part of the author's mind-a scrap of his individuality; and the name is the label which tells us what scrap it is. It may be a bit of the head-it may be a bit of the heart -an eye-an ear.

"TWIN ROSES" is evidently of the heart, and though other titles, perhaps more attractive to the mass, might have been found, none more appropriate than this could be selected. So far, so well; but then again the book is called, " a Narrative;" and a juster description could hardly be given; for it is neither a novel, nor a romance, a play, a poem, or a history. There is enough of reality apparent, to take it off the fairy ground of fiction, enough of dream-life to bring it forth from the hard dry realm of history. It is a narrativea narrative which leads us through scenes and circumstance, new probably to most of us, but which yet bear about them the garmenture of truth-a narrative sweetly and poetically told, which carries along with it the heart of the reader as well as the mind, and from the perusal of which both come refreshed and purified—a narrative with a moral.

We know that this is giving great praise; but we write the last words deliberately, after having read the whole book. Perhaps the devourer of novels and romances may not think the commendation so remarkable, although none probably will deny that it is deserved; but when we say that it is a narrative with a moral, we mean that it all has a moralthat every word which it contains tends to what is pure and good. Now where can we lay our finger upon works of which we can affirin the same? In lone

and solitary places, far apart. We little think we seldom very strictly examine, what are the subtler tendencies of the books we read ourselves-nay nor even of those which we are more imperatively bound to scrutinize; the books which we give to our children; and yet upon these are formed or modified habits of thought, by which the whole stream of conduct is affected through life. We generally take it for granted that, if an author have a good name, the work cannot be detrimental. If there be no glaring vice in it, we accept a great deal, without repugnance, which sullies the purity of the young mind, as the slightest touch of a hot hand brushes the bloom from the ripe fruit, or begins the withering of a fresh flower. If the conclusion be all virtuous and right, we care not much through what muddy paths, youth wanders to reach it. Nay, more, a funny story, or an exciting scene carries our perceptions of the moral effect away, and induces us too often to read and recommend that which leaves upon the rest of life the worst impression which any writing can produce: a carelessness of wrong. Even the very fairy tales which we give to the merest children, from Jack the Giant Killer to Puss in Boots, are, nine times out of ten, calculated to pervert the moral sense, and to show that success is, here below, attained by fraud and wrong.

We are no puritans in literature. We are not of that bitter school which has affirmed that even the novel Telemachus, written by an Archbishop for the instruction of a Prince, is an impure work; but we do wish that we could say of all, or even of many of the books which the press daily furnishes to the world, as we can say of this, that purity breathes from every page.

But in the eye of the general world this commendation, did it stand alone, would do little to recommend. It would be poor praise to those who think that. good books are always dull; and there are many who think so. But that this is

a great mistake, Mrs. Ritchie has sufficiently proved in the pages under our view.

"TWIN ROSES" has its defects, and we shall presently point them out; but nobody can call it dull. A light, dancing, brilliant style, poetical allusions playing through the pages, like little rippling waves in the sunshine, with, every now and then, a keen and witty but good humoured stroke at some passing folly; and some beautiful paintings of scenery, amuse and interest us as we go, without withdrawing the mind from the tale or the characters.

With the tale we shall not deal closely. Every author has a right to demand that no critic should forestal the effect of his plot upon the reader's mind, by giving even a sketch of a book's contents. Nevertheless it is perhaps with the tale that, in one respect at least, we are the most inclined to quarrel. Let us say it in a word. The conclusion is too sudden-too rapid. The mind of the reader is not sufficiently propared for it. Not that there is anything unnatural in it, except in its quickness. Was the author weary of her labor of love? Could she not spare us five-and-twenty pages more? We can assure her, we should have read them with great pleasure.

With the characters we may use our functions more legitimately. Nothing on earth can be more sweet than the picture of the twin sisters-the roses, though one has more the character of the violet; and we confess that we love the violet best. The shade of misfortune that hangs over her path from the very first, cheered by only one earthly light, (too soon to be extinguished,) engages the sympathy more strongly than the happier daylightthough not unclouded daylight-of her sister, Jessie Garnet. Then again, the self-denying, unmurmuring, placid spirit, which triumphs over misfortunes and disappointments by the strength of love and faith, sheds an almost angelic lustre round the character.

We cannot admire the hero, however. We never did admire handsome fools. It is true there was a necessity for his being handsome, and for his being a fool; other

wise the story would not have been written, and neither Jeanny nor Jessie could have been placed in those circumstances which give the deepest interest to the narrative. The character of Mr. Landon, his father, however is charmingly depicted; and Mrs. Ritchie has shown great skill and judgment in avoiding all those common places which generally bedaub opposing fathers in love-stories. He may be a little too credulous, perhaps; but he is a good old man, God bless him! The son, also, amends in the end; and obtains, under the rough handling of the world, a sufficient portion of sense to make, perhaps, a tolerable husband; but not one worthy of the sweet being, with whose fate, his fate is linked. At all events he has this superiority over most romance heroes; he is not one of the "faultless monsters that the world ne'er saw;" but such a frail piece of flesh and blood as we see too often in nature.

The two sisters, with Herman, and his father, are the characters most largely dwelt upon; but the picture of stage life of dramatic society, has its deeper shades also under Mrs. Ritchie's hand, and the character of Hawkwood, the sneering malicious villain is very powerfully sketched. There may be persons who will think that there is not sufficient cause shown for the persevering evil that he does; but those who live long in the world will learn that the malignity of a black heart is always cause sufficient for calumny, and will recognize many a trait of Hawkwood amongst all orders of society. The other characters, and there are many, are drawn gracefully and truthfully, though lightly, so as to amuse as we go, but not to withdraw attention from the principal group in the foregroud.

We do not altogether approve of the very common practice of writing reviews with paste and scizzars rather than a pen; but after having spoken of the many beauties of this work, we must justify ourselves by a few extracts. The following short passage affords a fair specimen of the author's power of blending in harmony, poetical thought and moral reflection.