lis astro_.

This retreat was enclosed on three sides by a wall, and on the east side
came nearly to the house. A few laurel-bushes separated the two. At
night it was shunned religiously, on account of the ghosts. Even by
daylight it was little frequented, except by one person,--and she took
to it amazingly. That person was Mrs. Gaunt. There seems to be, even in
educated women, a singular, instinctive love of twilight; and here was
twilight at high noon. The place, too, suited her dreamy, meditative
nature. Hither, then, she often retired for peace and religious
contemplation, and moved slowly in and out among the tall stems, or sat
still, with her thoughtful brow leaned on her white hand,--till the
cool, umbrageous retreat got to be called, among the servants, "The
Dame's Haunt."

This, I think, is all needs be told about the mere place, where the
Gaunts lived comfortably many years, and little dreamed of the strange
events in store for them; little knew the passions that slumbered in
their own bosoms, and, like other volcanoes, bided their time.

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

_Snow-Bound: a Winter Idyl._ By JOHN G. WHITTIER. Boston: Ticknor and
Fields.

What Goldsmith's "Deserted Village" has long been to Old England,
Whittier's "Snow-Bound" will always be to New England. Both poems have
the flavor of native soil in them. Neither of them is a reminder of
anything else, but each is individual and special in those qualities
which interest and charm the reader. If "The Deserted Village" had never
been written, Whittier would have composed his "Snow-Bound," no doubt;
and the latter only recalls the former on account of that genuine
home-atmosphere which surrounds both these exquisite productions. After
a perusal of this new American idyl, no competent critic will contend
that we lack proper themes for poetry in our own land. The "Snow-Bound"
will be a sufficient reminder to all cavillers, at home or abroad, that
the American Muse need not travel far away for poetic situations.

Whittier has been most fortunate in the subject-matter of this new poem.
Every page has beauties on it so easy to discern, that the common as
well as the cultured mind will at once feel them without an effort. We
have only space for a few passages from the earlier portion of the idyl.

"The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning mo