to remove from its foundations the rock of
Oppression, that was sure to crumble in the refining fires of a
Christian civilization, and establish in its place the stone of
LIBERTY,--unchanging and eternal as its Author. Let us rejoice in the
hope, already brightening into fruition, that out of these ruins our
temple shall rise again, in a fresher beauty, a firmer strength, a
brighter glory,--and above it again shall float the old flag, every star
restored, henceforth to all, of every color and every race, the flag of
the free.

* * * * *

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

_Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation in 1838-39._ By FRANCES
ANNE KEMBLE. New York: Harper & Brothers.

Those who remember the "Journal of a Residence in America," of Frances
Anne Kemble, or, as she was universally and kindly called, Fanny
Kemble,--a book long since out of print, and entirely out of the
knowledge of our younger readers,--will not cease to wonder, as they
close these thoughtful, tranquil, and tragical pages. The earlier
journal was the dashing, fragmentary diary of a brilliant girl, half
impatient of her own success in an art for which she was peculiarly
gifted, yet the details of which were sincerely repugnant to her. It
crackled and sparkled with _naive_ arrogance. It criticized a new world
and fresh forms of civilization with the amusing petulance of a spoiled
daughter of John Bull. It was flimsy, flippant, laughable, rollicking,
vivid. It described scenes and persons, often with airy grace, often
with profound and pensive feeling. It was the slightest of diaries,
written in public for the public; but it was universally read, as its
author had been universally sought and admired in the sphere of her art;
and no one who knew anything of her truly, but knew what an incisive
eye, what a large heart, what a candid and vigorous mind, what real
humanity, generosity, and sympathy, characterized Miss Kemble.

The dazzling phantasmagoria which life had been to the young actress was
suddenly exchanged for the most practical acquaintance with its
realities. She was married, left the stage, and as a wife and mother
resided for a winter on the plantations of her husband upon the coast of
Georgia. And now, after twenty-five years, the journal of her residence
there is published. It has been wisely kept. For never could such a book
speak with such power as at this moment. The tumult of the wa