HAVEN, ALICE (EMILY BRADLEY), an American juvenile writer, born at Hudson, N. Y., September 13, 1828; died at Mamaroneck, N. Y., August 23, 1863. Her father died on her third. birthday, and she was adopted by an uncle, but returned to her home after her mother's second marriage. A disease of the eyes which threatened to result in total blindness interfered with her early studies, but her vigorous mind overcame what might have been a serious obstacle to improvement. She was educated at a girls' school in New Hampshire. While very young she began to contribute to newspapers and magazines. A story, The First Declaration, published by her under the signature of Alice G. Lee, in the Saturday Gazette of Philadelphia, led to her acquaintance with the editor, Joseph C. Neal, and to her marriage with him in 1846. At his request she dropped her own name, Emily, and assumed that of Alice, which she always retained. After her husband's death in 1847, she assumed charge of the Gazette, which she conducted successfully for several years, editing the Children's Department under the name of "Cousin Alice." In 1853 she married Mr. Samuel G. Haven. In 1850 she published The Gossips of Rivertown, with Sketches in Prose and Verse, and a book for children entitled No Such Word as Fail, one of a series of tales

goose-pond, and to pump up unintelligible gutturals at one another. Others, again, are ranged abreast beneath the bluffs on the river bank; a straggling footpath dodges crookedly through them, scrambling here over a front door-step, there crossing a back-yard. Women, bare of foot and head, peer curiously forth from low doorways and cramped windows; soiled children stare, a-suck at muddy fingers; there are glimpses of internal economies, rustic meals, withered grandparents who seldom get farther than the door-step; visions of infants nursed and spanked. A strip of grass intervenes between the houses and the Elbe river; through trees we see the down-slipping current, bearing with it interminable rafts and ponderous canal-boats, and sometime a puffing steamer with noisy paddle-wheels. At times we skirt long stretches of blind walls, from the chinks of which sprout grass and flowers; and which convey to us an obscure impression of there being grape-vines on the other side of them.

Or, once more, and not least picturesquely, our village alights on a low hill-top, where trees and houses crowd one another in agreeable contention. The main approach winds snake-like upward from the grass and brush of the valley, but on reaching the summit splits into hydra heads, each one of which pokes itself into somebody's barn-yard or garden, leaving a stranger in some embarrassment as to how to get through the town without unauthorized intrusion on its inhabitants. Besides the main approach, there are clever short-cuts down steep places, sometimes forming into a rude flight of stone steps, anon taking a sudden leap down a high terrace, and finally creeping out through a hole in the hedge at the bottom. The houses look pretty from below; but after climbing the hill their best charm vanishes, like that of clouds seen at too close quarters. In Saxony, as well as elsewhere, there is a penalty for opening Pandora's box.-Saxon Studies.

FREE-WILL.

Strength of the beautiful day, green and blue and white; Voice of leaf and of bird;

Low voice of mellow surf far down the curving shore;

Strong white clouds and gray, slow and calm in your flight,

Aimless, majestic, unheard:

You walk in air, and dissolve and vanish forevermore! Lying here 'midst poppies and maize, tired of the loss and the gain,

Dreaming of rest, ah! fain

Would I, like ye, transmute the terror of fate into praise.

Yet thou, O earth! art a slave, orderly, without care, Perfect thou knowest not why;

For He whose word is thy life has spared thee the gift of will,

We men are not so brave, our lives are not so fair,

Our law is an eye for an eye;

And the light that shines for our good we use to our ill.

Fails boyhood's hope erelong, for the deed still mocks the plan,

And the knave is the honest man,

And thus we grow weak in a world created to make

us strong.

But woe to the man who quails before that which makes him man!

Though heaven be sweet to win,

One thing is sweeter yet-freedom to side with hell! In man succeeds or fails this great creative plan;

Man's liberty to sin

Makes worth God's winning the love even God may not compel.

Shall I then murmur and be wroth at Nature's peace? Though I be ill at ease

I hold one link of the chain of his happiness in my hand.

MURGATROYD.

Perhaps Murgatroyd was his father's least comprehensible manifestation. He appeared commonplace. The animal was prominent in him. It glowed in his cheeks, thickened his lips, lowered his forehead. His eyebrows were thick and all but met across the root