escends,
And, as a moment turns its slender rill,
Each widening torrent bends,--

From the same cradle's side,
From the same mother's knee,--
One to long darkness and the frozen tide,
One to the Peaceful Sea!

* * * * *

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

_Sixty Years' Gleanings from Life's Harvest._ A Genuine Autobiography.
By JOHN BROWN, Proprietor of the University Billiard-Rooms, Cambridge.
New York: Appleton & Company. 1859.

We are all familiar with that John Brown whom the minstrel has
immortalized as being the possessor of a diminutive youth of the
aboriginal American race, who, in the course of the ditty, is multiplied
from "one little Injun" into "ten little Injuns," and who, in a
succeeding stanza, by an ingenious amphisbaenic process, is again
reduced to the singular number. As far as we are aware, the author of
this "genuine autobiography" claims no relationship with the famous
owner of tender redskins. The multiplicity of adventures of which he
has been the hero demands for him, however, the same notice that a
multiplicity of "Injuns" has insured to his illustrious namesake.

We have always had a pet theory, that a plain and minute narrative
of any ordinary man's life, stated with simplicity and without any
reference to dramatic effect or the elegances of composition, would
possess an immediate interest for the public. We cannot know too much
about men. No man's life is so uneventful as to be incapable of amusing
and instructing. The same event is never the same to more than one
person; no two see it from the same point of view. And as we want to
know more of men than of incidents, every one's record of trifles
is useful. A book written by a Cornish miner, whose life passes in
subterranean monotony, sparing none of the petty and ever-recurring
details that make up his routined existence, would, if set down in the
baldest language, be a valuable contribution to literature. But we
rarely, if ever, find a man sufficiently free from vanity and the demon
of composition to tell us plainly what has happened to him. The moment
the working-man gets a pen into his hand, he is, as it were, possessed.
He is no longer himself. He has not the courage to come out naked
and show himself in all his grime and strength. The instant that he
conceives the idea of putting himself on paper he borrows somebody
else's clothes, and, instead of a free, manly fig