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THE RETURN OF SUMMER.

OCTOBER, 1854.

WHEN Autumn, lusty, vigorous, and gay,
Was garnering the increase of the year,
Sweating with cheerful toil, and, day by day,
Plucking the orchard's fruit, the corn's ripe ear,
The grapes that clustered 'neath the foliage sear,
And all his harvest plentiful and wide, —
With drooping head and dropping tear on tear,
The Old Year stood the fading woods beside,

And wrung his withered hands, and feebly moaned and cried.

Not the glad earth with boundless foison teeming,

Not the unclouded glory of the sky,

Not the warm sun, so brightly on him beaming,
Nor the fresh breeze so gently blowing by,
Could win to smiles his sorrow-shadowed eye;
For well his boding heart foresaw the doom
Which every passing moment brought more nigh,
And that dread night foresaw, whose cheerless gloom
Should yield to deeper night, the darkness of the tomb.

"Ah me!" he sighed, "the happy hours are dead That strewed my path in Spring with fairest flowers; And joyous Spring is fled, and Summer fled,

The birds that ne'er were silent in the bowers
And fragrant woods, the sunshine and the showers,

Paving with green the hills and valleys low, —

All vanished! all! the coming tempest lowers,

And Autumn's pleasaunce does but mock my woe,

Sharpening my shuddering dread of Winter's whelming snow!"

Even as he spoke the breeze more mildly blew,
And the stirred leaves a softer anthem sung;

In the brown fields the grass sprung up anew,

Starred here and there with blossoms bright and young;

Through the rich air the quavering music rung

Of many a bird, that in the woodland wide
Had sat with folded wings and silent tongue.

The hoary Year the change with wonder eyed,

When lo! in smiling mien stood Summer at his side.

ANONYMOUS BOOKS.

A GREAT many books now-a-days are published either anonymously, or (equally provoking to the curious) with a mysterious nom de plume. If the book is a failure, the author, of course, says nothing of his connection with it, and is free to make another trial, unembarrassed by the past mishap. But if, on the contrary, it “has a run," the strange and romantic pseudonyme is apt to undergo a sudden metamorphosis, and staid Miss Bronte or commonplace Mr. Mitchell takes the place of the fictitious and fanciful "Currer Bell " and "Ik Marvel." During the past year or two, we have from time to time jotted down these names as they were acknowledged by the blushing debutantes, and now hand them over to the printer, with the hope that they may interest those readers of the Harvard Magazine, who, like Thomas Gradgrind and ourselves, insist upon "Facts, sir, nothing but facts."

And we cannot help remarking, as we notice the announcement of two more new books upon that vexed question, which has come to rank with the philosopher's stone, the elixir vite, and the quadrature of the circle, namely, Who was Junius? a problem which would seem to be susceptible of as many solutions as the most “indeterminate one in mathematics, since every man of the last century of any distinction has been successively proved to be the only original and genuine Junius; we cannot help remarking, we say, what a world of ill feeling would have been prevented, what an immense number of useless books we should have been saved from, could some periodical of the time have given us the real name of the writer of these too-famous letters.

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We will begin with Eothen, or Traces of Travel brought Home from the East, a book which succeeded in deceiving most of its readers into the belief that they were reading a record of actual Oriental wanderings. We are told, however, that the author's peregrinations were all done in his study, on the back of a gray goosequill, and that for those vivid descriptions of scenery and climate he was solely indebted to his imagination. It was written by William Kinglake of Bristol.

The Diary of Lady Willoughby, published in 1844, Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell, Colloquies of Edward Osborne, Household of Sir Thomas More, and the Diary of Lady Adoyle

(sometimes erroneously ascribed to Lady Charlotte Pepys), were written by Mrs. Rathbone of Liverpool. They are all in the quaint style of the period from which they purport to come, and are so happily executed, that one feels unwilling to consider them other than as bona fide journals. These books have been issued in several forms by different publishers, and are great favorites. It is probable that they suggested to our poet, Whittier, the idea of writing Margaret Smith's Journal, which was first published in the National Era, and is written in a style similar to those of Mrs. Rathbone.

Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation, a strange compound of old and new philosophical systems, has been ascribed to various persons, but it is now considered to be from the pen of William Chambers of Edinburgh.

Alton Locke, Yeast, and Hypatia, are well known to be written by Rev. Charles Kingsley, Rector of Eversley, Hants, England.

The Philosophy of the Plan of Salvation, a religious work which has met with a large sale, was written by Rev. James B. Walker of Cincinnati.

It is a matter of general surprise, that the author of such a work as the Plurality of Worlds should have published it anonymously. Written to controvert the commonly received opinion that other planets are inhabited, it has called out an elaborate reply from Sir David Brewster (More Worlds than One, &c.), in which, it is said, the philosopher's temper often gets the better of him. The writer is Dr. Whewell, the author of the Bridgewater Treatise on Natural Theology.

The principal author of the Ballads of Bon Gaultier is Professor W. E. Aytoun, son-in-law of Professor Wilson, and his successor in the editorship of Blackwood. The other authors are Theodore Martin, Esq., and John Leech, who illustrated the book. These laughable parodies appeared originally in Tait's Magazine.

The name of Mrs. Gaskill, the wife of a Unitarian minister at Manchester, England, must be added to the formidable array of female writers who have contributed, within the last few years, so much that is valuable to our literature. Mary Barton, Ruth, Cranford, and North and South (now publishing in Household Words), are by this authoress.

Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret Maitland (published in 1849); Caleb Field, Esq., by an Opera-goer; Harry Muir; Adam Graeme of Moss Gray (1852); and, still later, Merkland, are by Mrs. Oliphant, the wife of an artist in London.

Lorenzo Benoni, or Passages in the Life of an Italian, a book of remarkable power, was written by Giovanni Ruffini, a friend of Mazzini, who appears in the work as Fantasio.

The series of small but popular books, comprising, A Trap to Catch a Sunbeam, Old Jolliffe, Star in the Desert, Silver Lining to a Cloud, Merry Christmas, Influence on the Evil Genius, Only, and we know not how many others, are by Matilda Planche, a daughter of "J. R. P." the dramatic writer, London.

Peter Schlemihl in America, though still unacknowledged, is known to be from the pen of George Wood, of Washington. The original Peter Schlemihl was written by Adalbert von Chamisso of Berlin.

Sunny Side was written by the wife of Professor Phelps of Andover. Her other writings are A Peep at No. 5, Tell Tale, and The Angel over the Right Shoulder. The Last Leaf of Sunny Side has been published since her, death, about a year since.

Shady Side, which the author says was not suggested by the preceding work, was written by Mrs. Hubbell. Its portraits are from life, and so truthfully drawn, that they were instantly recognized, and the authoress has suffered no little persecution in consequence.

For The Wide, Wide World, and Queechy, we are indebted to Miss Susan Warner. Dollars and Cents was written by her sister. Owl Creek, and The Old House by the River, are from the pen of Mr. Prime of the Journal of Commerce.

Salt-Water Bubbles, by Hawser Martingale, which was recently published, was written by Mr. Sleeper of the Boston Journal. Wensley, a Story without a Moral, republished by Ticknor from the pages of Putnam's Magazine, was written by Edmund Quincy, Esq.

If there is any subscriber to this Magazine who has not read Wensley, we would suggest to him that it is an exceedingly pleasant story; and if he should be so unfortunate as to get into a row (this is taken from the story and ought to be quoted), and be sent to spend a few months in the country, we can wish him no better fortune than that he will be rewarded with as pleasant companions as Frank Osborne met with.

SAVONAROLA.

오.

F. Fisher.

Ir is Lent in the year 1482, and in the Church of San Lorenzo, in Florence, there is a young Dominican friar preaching to the pi ous, but ignorant, minds of a Florentine rabble. No learned and haughty noble of the house of Medici, no refined and profligate adherent of that house, is among that scanty congregation. The church looks sombre, for the upturned faces of the few listeners wear an expression of sorrow and sternness, sorrow at the triumph of vice in the tyranny of Lorenzo de' Medici, sternness arising from a religious conviction that the vengeance of Heaven is near. The preacher is an advocate of political and religious reform, but, even while addressing these uneducated few, who think in unison with him, he falters. His naturally searching eye is abashed; his gesture is ungraceful, his voice unmusical; his sentences are cumbersome, and convey no meaning, and the matter itself of his discourse, though indicative of extraordinary intellect and piety, is rendered distasteful by his precipitancy or tardiness in introducing his ideas.

The congregations of the young monk rapidly dwindled, until, disheartened by his total failure, he quitted Florence, with the resolve never again to appear in the pulpit.

But the little seed he had so imperfectly sown was destined to take root, for he had sown it in the hearts of the men of the faction called Piagnoni (the Weepers); men who wept over the scandalous abuses of the Church of Rome, and were destined to number among their partisans the most respectable citizens of Florence.

More than seven years have elapsed since the unsuccessful preacher left Florence, and a weary and foot-sore monk is slowly approaching the little village of Pianora. His garments are dusty and disordered, his knees tremble, as he painfully drags one foot after the other, and his sharp features look worn with fatigue, for he has come from far. See, he can go no farther: his exhausted limbs refuse to obey the indomitable will which yet glimmers in his closing eye, and the way-worn traveller sinks down by the road-side. He is motionless, and it seems as if God would let the poor man, and the purpose which has supported him for long miles, die there together. But no,- the monk's career is not yet closed; a good Samaritan is fast approaching, and now has lifted up the lonely traveller, and hurried, with his burden, into the neighboring lodging.

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