Ah! young ladies! we wish you could 'realize' how greatly gratified we are to find you so much improved! We say 'improved,' because it can scarcely be possible that you could have written such charming compositions, before you had experienced the benefits of the system of instruction pursued at the institution upon which you reflect so much honor. We say this in no vain spirit of compliment, but in all candor. The address of the President, Miss M. Robinson, of this city, is not only excellent in its inculcations and tendency, but is written with great perspicuity and freedom. The prize poem by Miss Eliza Whitney of Philadelphia, has many of the elements of true poetry, while its trifling defects are merely mechanical. The committee who awarded the prize, one of whom we observe was Mrs. Sigourney, seem to have hesitated in their choice between this and three or four other poems of kindred excellence. 'Mary Grafton' need not have sheltered herself under a pseudonyme. Her essay on 'What should be the intellectual education of Woman, to fit her for the duties of life,' is worthy of a strong and disciplined mind and a practised pen. The honor of the best essay in French was assigned to Miss M'Cormick of Oswego, in this State; yet the committee selected it in preference to three others, only 'because they were forced to choose;' a fact which precludes the idea of 'rejection.' The capital tale entitled 'Home Education,' by Miss Mary E. Field, of Haddam, (Conn.,) must certainly have deserved the honor which it won among its rivals. We have rarely seen a story, the lessons of which were so valuable, in a national point of view, kept up with so much spirit, and eliciting so much interest, in the narrative. On the whole, so favorably are we impressed with these 'exercises' of the alumnæ of the Albany Female Academy, that we begin to peer into the 'onward distance,' and to see our own little people winning honors in that popular institution. 'So mote it be!'

The Crowning Hour, and other Poems. By Charles James Cannon, Author of 'The Poet's Quest.' etc. With a Portrait of the Author. In one volume, pp. 132. New-York: Edward Dunigan.

Thus is entitled a neat little volume which we find on our table. Without being a 'great gun' in literature, or destined to make much noise in the world, Mr. Cannon is yet a clever versifier, and occasionally 'goes off' with good thoughts very agreeably; while 'the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds him' is quite apparent in his compositions. The 'crowning hour' is the period when Columbus first discovers land from the quarter deck of his vessel. Certain incidents of the voyage, and the emotions of the 'world-seeking Genoese,' form the staple of the main poem; but the prose of Irving is far better poetry than the verse which here records them. The remainder of the volume is devoted to the republication of several minor effusions from certain periodicals of these times, and from a previous volume of the author. The 'Dogberryotype' portrait of Mr. Cannon, in the opening of his book, strikes us as being in bad taste. We are loath to interfere with such an exhibition of harmless vanity; but the picture being what is negatively termed 'no beauty,' we must adopt the advice of Holmes to the plain gentleman whose portrait graced the Athenæum exhibition: 'Don't let it be there any longer! Take it home, and hush the matter up!' It is but justice to add, however, that the portrait which fronts the volume under notice does not do justice to the features of its author. Engravings from Daguerreotype miniatures have never impressed us favorably, either as faithful likenesses, or specimens of pictorial art.

[EDITOR'S TABLE.]

'The Mysteries of Paris.'—A 'friend and fellow-citizen' of ours has translated, so far as published, a serial novel, just now making a great noise in the literary circles of the French capital, entitled 'Les Mysteries de Paris,' by Eugene Sue. Premising that our readers will soon have an opportunity of perusing in an English translation some of the most striking of the very remarkable sketches of this Dickens of France, we shall content ourselves for the present with a single extract, embodying a simple, but as it strikes us, a very touching and impressive scene. The Rodolphe of the passage below is a German prince, who has come to Paris, and who goes forth in disguise to seek out worthy objects of benevolence. He encounters in 'La Cité,' a quarter of the town occupied by the most abandoned classes, a girl of a beautiful, melancholy countenance, called in the peculiar language of the inhabitants, 'La Goualeuse,' or 'Fleur-de-Marie,' who turns out, in the subsequent progress of the story, to be a child of his own, whom he supposed to be dead, but who had in fact been left in the streets by her nurses. He proposes to take her into the country with him; and the effect which rural objects produce upon her mind is very beautifully described in the little episode of 'The Rose-bush,' which will be found in the opening of the story. The whole tale forcibly illustrates what a French metropolitan contemporary terms the 'inépuisable imagination' of Eugene Sue:

'I believe you, and I thank you; but answer me frankly: is it equally agreeable what part of the country we go to?'

'Oh, it is all the same to me, Monsieur Rodolphe, as long as it is the country; it is so pleasant; the pure air is so good to breathe! Do you know that for five months I have been no farther than the flower market, and if the ogresse ever allowed me to go out of the Cité, it was because she had confidence in me?'

'And when you came to this market, was it to buy flowers?'

'Oh, no: I had no money; I only came to see them; to inhale their rich perfume. For the half hour that the ogresse allowed me to pass on the quai during market-days, I was so happy that I forgot all.'

'And when you returned to the ogresse—to those horrid streets?'

'I came back more sorrowful than when I set out. I choked down my tears, that I might not receive a beating. I tell you what it was at the market which made me envious, oh! very envious; it was to see the little 'ouvrières,' so neatly clad, going off so gaily with a fine pot of flowers in their arms!'

'I am sure if you had only had some flowers in your window, they would have been companions for you.'

'It is very true what you say, Monsieur Rodolphe. Imagine: one day the ogresse at her fête, knowing my love for flowers, gave me a little rose-bush. If you could only know how happy I was! I was no longer lonesome! I could not keep from looking at my rose-bush. I amused myself in counting its leaves, its flowers.... But the air is so bad in La Cité that at the end of two days it began to fade.... But you'll laugh at me, Monsieur Rodolphe?'

'No, no! Go on! go on!'

'Well then, I asked permission from the ogresse to take my bush out for an airing; yes, as I would have taken out a child. I brought it to the quai: I thought to myself, that being in company with other flowers, in this fine and balmy air, would do it good. I moistened its poor withered leaves with the pure water of the fountain, and then I warmed it awhile in the sun. Dear little rose-tree! it never saw the sun in La Cité for in our street it comes no lower than the roof. At length I returned; and I assure you, Monsieur Rodolphe, that my rose-bush lived perhaps ten days longer than it would have done without the airings.'

'I believe it; but when it died!—that must have been a great loss for you.'

'I wept for it; I was very sorry.... Beside, Monsieur Rodolphe, since you understand how one can love flowers, I can tell it to you. Well, I felt grateful to it. Ah! now this time you are laughing at me!'

'No, no! I love, I adore flowers; and thus I can comprehend all the foolish things they cause one to commit, or which they inspire.'

''Eh bien!' I felt grateful to this poor rose-bush, for having flowered so prettily for me—such a one as me!' The goualeuse held down her head and became purple with shame.

'Poor child! with this consciousness of your horrible position, you must have often ...'

'Had a wish to put an end to it? Is it not so, Monsieur Rodolphe?' said la Goualeuse, interrupting her companion. 'Oh! yes; more than once I have looked at the Seine from the parapet. But then I turned to the flowers, the sun, and I said to myself, 'The river will always be there.... I am only sixteen ... who knows?'

'When you said, 'Who knows?' you had a hope?'

'Yes.'

'And what did you hope for?'

'I do not know. I hoped—yes, I hoped, 'malgré moi.' At those moments, it seemed to me that my fate was not merited; that there was some good left in me. I said to myself, 'I have been very much troubled, but at least, I have never harmed any one ... if I had only had some one to counsel me, I should not be where I am. That dissipated my sorrow a little. After all, I must confess that these thoughts occurred oftener after the loss of my rose-bush,' added la Goualeuse, in a solemn manner, which made Rodolphe smile.

'This great grief always ...'

'Yes; look here!'—and la Goualeuse drew from her pocket a little packet, carefully tied with a pink favor.

'You have preserved it?'

'I think so! It is all I possess in the world.'

'How! have you nothing you can call your own?'

'Nothing.'

'But this coral necklace?'

'It belongs to the ogresse.'

'How! do you not own a rag?—a hat, a handkerchief?'

'No, nothing; nothing but the dry leaves of my withered rose-bush; it is on this account I prize it so much.'

'At each word the astonishment of Rodolphe was redoubled. He could not comprehend this frightful slavery, this horrible sale of soul and body for a wretched shelter, a few tattered clothes, and impure nourishment.

'They arrived at the 'Quai aux Fleurs.' A carriage was in waiting. Rodolphe assisted his companion to get in, and after placing himself at her side, said to the coachman:

'To Saint-Denis; I will tell you directly which road to take.'

'The horses started; the sun was radiant; the sky without a cloud; but the cold was a little sharp, and the air circulated briskly through the open windows of the carriage.

'At this moment they drew near to Saint-Ouen, at the juncture of the road to Saint-Denis and the Chemin de la Revolte.

'Notwithstanding the monotonous appearance of the country, Fleur-de-Marie was so delighted at seeing the fields, that forgetting the thoughts which sad recollections had awakened in her mind, her charming face brightened up; she leaned out of the window, and cried:

'Monsieur Rodolphe! what delight!... Fields! and thickets! If you would only let me alight! The weather is so fine! I would like so much to run in the meadows!'

'We will take a run, my child. Coachman, stop!'

'How! you also, Monsieur Rodolphe?'

'I also! yes, we will make it a holiday.'

'What happiness! Monsieur Rodolphe!'

'And Rodolphe and Fleur-de-Marie, hand in hand, ran over the new-mown field until they were out of breath.

'To attempt to describe the little gambols, the joyous shouts, the fresh delight of Fleur-de-Marie would be impossible. Poor gazelle! for so long time a prisoner, she breathed the pure air with intoxication. She came, she went, she ran, she stopped, always with new transports. At the sight of several tufts of daisies, and some marigolds, spread by the first frosts of approaching winter, she could not refrain from fresh exclamations of delight. She did not leave a single flower, but gleaned the whole meadow. After having thus ran over the fields—soon tired, being unaccustomed to so much exercise—the young girl, pausing to take breath, seated herself on the trunk of a tree, which lay prostrate near a deep ditch. The fair and transparent complexion of Fleur-de-Marie, ordinarily too pale, was now shaded with the most lively color. Her large blue eyes shone sweetly; her rosy mouth, half open, disclosed her pearl-like teeth; and her heart throbbing under the little orange shawl, she kept one hand on her bosom as if to compress its pulsations, while with the other she extended to Rodolphe the flowers she had gathered. Nothing could be more charming than the innocent, joyous expression which shone in that lovely face.

'As soon as she could speak, she said to Rodolphe, with touching naïveté:

'How kind is the Bon Dieu for having given us such a fine day!'

'A tear came to the eyes of Rodolphe, as he heard this poor abandoned, despised, lost creature, without home, without bread, offering thus a cry of joy and thanks to the Creator, for the enjoyment of a ray of sunshine and the sight of a meadow!'

How do you like that, reader? 'Ithn't it thweet?' Excuse the levity; but we are trying to divert away two or three persevering drops of salt-water. 'You shall see more anon: 'tis a knavish piece of work.'