4 NOTICES OF "PUDDLEFORD, AND ITS PEOPLE." "This neat volume of 269 pages is the most entertaining book for 'Western life' and human nature in general, that we have read for many a day. The names are fictitious; but it is plain to see that the characters are drawn from real life by one who has seen the men and women he describes with so much piquancy, humor, and spirit. Mr. Riley has a keen eye for the ludicrous, the quaint, and the characteristic, and reproduces them on paper with remarkable fidelity and force. We hope he will write many more books as pleasant and wholesome as 'Puddleford and its People.'"-Burlington Sentinel. "This is a story of Life in the West. Life where small bonnets and patent leathers are never seen; where humanity oozes out in the manner which comes easiest, and men and women pray to a better deity than Fashion. Its characters are most queer customers; many of them much too queer to justify the supposition of an archetype; and yet the author so besprinkles them with nature, that whether they lived or not one must believe them real. The man who fathers this book has humor in him, and never opened his eyes to dyspepsia or jaundice. We advise those who are in the habit of wrinkling their foreheads, to take a trip to Puddleford through this easy and admirable medium. We promise them a smooth brow when they arrive at their journey's end.”—Buffalo Morn. Express. "It will create many a smile in its readers. There is no malicious scandal in it, but a quiet, genial satire that expends itself sometimes upon the expectations and disappointments of fastidious Eastern people visiting the West. It has a number of characteristic illustrations."-Hartford (Conn.) Courant. "Puddleford is a township of the Far West, though its precise locality has not yet been ascertained. It would, doubtless, be difficult to find its name on the most improved map of the United States. Still its veritable history is recorded in this volume. Its leading people have sat for their likenesses, which are here given to the life. They may be recognized at once. Now and then the frisky pen of the writer runs into caricature, but usually, his portraits are faithful as daguerreotypes."-N. Y. Tribune. "The author's characters are skillfully depicted, not in tediously elaborated essays, but by a few happily chosen words which place all their salient points within the scope of a single glance, and in less than no time you know them like a book.' So with his pictures of scenery, they are not produced by the slow process of painting, but are daguerreotyped as by a flash of sunlight."-Commercial Republican, Toledo, Ohio. "This is an original work of great humor and 'showing off' some of the characteristics of certain classes of the American people, with the greatest possible success."-Troy Budget, N. Y. "Puddleford, now first introduced to the public in this volume, seems to be a town in the extreme far West, which contains some noted characters; noted hereafter if not hitherto, by the place they occupy in the volume before us. If the auther will not apologize, we shall not for him, but shall insist in holding him responsible to the letter for all ribs that may burst by force of laughter over his history of Puddleford. Those who will venture with the above caution, to learn of Puddleford and its people, can do so by getting the book."-Daily Union, Rochester, N. Y. "Each character is an original, quaint, and not in the least tame. They are people who have come up' like wild burdock and elbowed their way to the distinction which this author has conferred upon them. 'Squire Longbow is a type of a class of home-made Justices of the Peace, such as we read of. Ike Turtle is a lawyer of the most natural growth, and those who have never known 'Jim Buzzard, who wouldn't allow the doctors to get any of their stuff down his throat, and if he couldn't stand it as long the agur, would give in,' should at once be introduced to that stubborn personage. Sonora Brown, Aunt Graves, and the 'Citizenesses' of Puddleford sat for their pictures to this artist, and he has drawn them to the life."-Daily Democrat, Rochester, N. Y. "Whoever has lived in the West, has seen Puddleford; its Tavern, 'Squire Longbow, Ike Turtle, Bates, and other characters, which appear in the ludicrous scenes enacted in Puddleford; and which are narrated by the author with a witticism equal to Dickens, the well-known English author. It is a work which will be read and appreciated by every one."-Western Chronicle, Centreville, Wis. "Puddleford and its people' is one of the most amusing books of the season. Not satirical after the manner of the 'Potiphar Papers,' or the 'Fudge Family,' it is yet full of racy humor, which will make a 'hit' where it was designed, while at the same time the reader's face is kept in a broad smile from the caricatures and fancy depicted on every page."-Morning Register, Sandusky, Ohio. » "This is a book of life in the backwoods; sometimes very natural in its descriptions of incident and character, and sometimes exaggerated, yet always interesting. The work follows the village of Puddleford, and all its interests and concerns through its infancy, and through the marvellous changes introduced by the passage of the railroad through the town."-Republican, Springfield, Mass. "This is a humorous description of a Western village with broad caricatures of its principal inhabitants, in Church and State. The minister, deacon, chorister and choir, justice of the peace, shopkeepers, etc., etc. We prescribe the preparation as an infallible cure for ennui and the blues."Boston Traveller. "This work is descriptive of life and scenes in the far West. It is written with great humor and originality, and judging from the few chapters which we have read, have no doubt that it will be classed among the most amusing and interesting literature of the day."-Berkshire Courier, Mass. "A capital mirth-provoking volume which we commend to all hypochondriacs and lugubrious people, who fret about the times or the weather, instead of shaking their sides and giving their cheeks a holiday.' The author has a rich vein of fun in his composition, and his satire is sometimes as subtle as Swift's, sometimes as broad as 'broad Scotch.' Buy the book, and take it with you during the dog days to Nahant, or the notch,' and if you can get through its kaleidoscopic views of Puddleford and its politics, its social wars, educational efforts, trainings, philanthropy, and camp-meetings without cracking a rib or two, you are made of sterner stuff than flesh and blood,”— Yankee Blade, Boston. ART. I. MY CAMPAIGN REMINISCENCES. PAPER THIRD, 331 II. STANZAS: 'TWENTY-ONE.' BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR, 835 337 IV. LINES: WERE THERE NO SONGS.' BY JOHN K. HOLMES, V. SUN AND RAIN. BY H. COPPEE, U. S. ARMY, . . . . VI. A DAY IN CANTON. BY AN OFFICER OF THE U. S. NAVY, VII. KITTY LEE. BY A NEW CORRESPONDENT, 354 355 356 361 VIII. THE SISTER OF CHARITY. BY 'SIGMA,' IX. LETTERS FROM POPLAR-HILL. CONCLUDED, X. LINES: TO MY SOUL, 362 363 866 XI. THE TEMPLE OF WAR AND THE TEMPLE OF PEACE, 367 368 XIII. STANZAS: 'IT IS ALMOST MORNING.' BY J. L. BATES, XV. THADY MULLIGAN, THE CONFIRMED TOPER: A FRAGMENT, XVII. SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY: A 'SKETCH FROM THE COVE,' XVIII. LINES: TO A MUSQUITO. BY MERCY MORE, XIX. FLEUR DE SILLERY. BY J. M. LEGARE, XX. THE WAYFARER, XXI. INDIAN JUSTICE: AN AUTHENTIC SKETCH, XXII. STANZAS: THE RAIN, LITERARY NOTICES : 1. NOLTE'S 'FIFTY YEARS IN BOTH HEMISPHERES,' 373 874 378 • 379 380 389 890 400 402 404 2. NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ:' EDITED BY DR MACKENZIE, 8. FASHION AND FAMINE. BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, 4. HILLS, LAKES, AND FORESTS; OR, A TRAMP IN THE WOODS, BAYARD TAYLOR'S 'JOURNEY TO CENTRAL AFRICA,' 5. 6. SPENSER AND THE FAIRY QUEEN. BY JOHN S. HART, EDITOR'S TABLE: 405 407 410 410 411 412 2. OUR UP-RIVER CORRESPONDENT ON HIS TRAVELS, 3. A BRACE OF SEA-SHORE SKETCHES.' BY H. P. LELAND, ESQ., GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS,. 4. 415 420 424 428 BONES' OR 1. PROFESSOR JULIUS CESAR HANNIBAL IN EWROP.' 2. THE ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1954, ar SAMUEL HUESTON, IN THE CLERK'S OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE UNITED STATES FOR TE JOHN A. GRAY PRINTER, 97 Cliff, cor. Frankfort St., New-York. THE huge doors of the great granary of Los Portales were flung wide open. How significant a name! The Gates. From the long grove of silver poplars which skirt the avenue leading to their antiquated mansion, the lords of the hacienda had often admiringly beheld the busy husbandmen, as they gathered in the rich harvest; and then those portals were flung open just as wide. The almost gigantic maize still waved green on the surrounding fields, and the equally luxuriant crop of wheat and other grain remained standing, except where trampled or mown down in gaps; and yet a more than usually insatiate reaper had been busy with his sickle. Truly he had gathered into his garner a proud yield. Amid the bright verdure burnished steel had darted forth its brighter rays from spear and blade; and the whilom carols of the blithesome rustics were surpassed and forgotten in the clangor which blended with the rustling of the ripening corn. Over the temporary inhabitants of that place the twin brothers, Death and Sleep, held dominion; and from the similarity of their lineaments it was hard to distinguish between them. In the graceful languor of soft repose, the veiled eye and its veiny guard bespeaking absolute quietude; and, again, the rigid angular position of limbs and body, livid, swollen lips, pinched nostril, and fallen jaw, what criteria were there to guide the judgment to a just conclusion? None. The transparent eye was perhaps sightless, and the full-measured breathing often proceeded from those who were mutilated beyond the reach of identification. Short-chopped straw was deeply strown on the floor of the roomy building, as a bed for blue-uniformed figures who, stretched for the most part in rows, garnished either side; and in the aisle thus formed, a promiscuous group or single recumbent form lay in a state of suspended volition. All wore the same chastened aspect. A cloister like stillness reigned throughout, save when some pang extorted a confession of unendurable agony in sharp exclamations; or low mutterings, disjointed, and at times incoherent, testified that the intellectual faculties of one of the sufferers were disordered by an indented skull. Poor fellow! He ran on in rhapsodies in the ideal presence of friends afar off; and his dull and listless looks illy comported with the air-castles which in his delirium he reared and as speedily demolished. Under the influence of opiates, but oftener from exhausted nervous power, the majority of the for the most part youthful assemblage slumbered. To me, as I wandered about, the whole was stimulated to an elaborated waking dream, a dazzling phantasm; so abrupt was the transition from the late volatility of town quarters, and the later turbulence of strife. A profound calm succeeded the storm. How peaceful was the scene! So little stirring about was there that the motes in the sun-beams which strayed through crack and cranny scarce moved, and the twittering birds had returned to their wonted haunts under the eaves. My mess-mate, the amiable Lieutenant C calm as a lake on a summer's morn, scarce looked like the recipient of a staunchless wound; but so it was. In strolling voiceless by, a solitary in that crowded, cob-webbed hall, I refrained from more than a nod to my friend; for the one he most loved among his brethren of the sword bent fondly over him, during a whispered intermingling of fervid thoughts. The fingers of the stricken man, more delicate and slender than beseemed such a ruthless calling, slowly drew from his bosom what appeared to me to be a locket, secured by a ribbon around his neck, pointed to, and replaced it as they again whispered. Not many seconds had winged their flight away, when by chance I again looked. The golden bowl was broken! Aye, it was true. The wheel stood still at the cistern! In Greenwood, where we laid all that was mortal of the young officers on our return, I have sometimes wondered if there were any mystical connection between the above-related incident and the chaplet of flowers that periodically decks his grassy mound. Is there not one who can tell? In a smaller sort of out-building was Colonel B. A perforated limb induced him to a temporary state of quiescence ill suiting his active temperament. Some objects leave a more vivid impress on the memory than others, as any body knows from experience. There lay M —, a lad whose pranks had often procured a sound rating, or a lodging in the guard-house. From a ghastly jagged wound in his face the crimson bubbles rose and burst at each respiration; and even in the torpor which chained him, the tossings of his well-knit frame indicated a high fever; and unconsciously he had rolled or writhed from the dusty pallet of straw on to the hard floor. The trappings of war were so thickly scattered about that I inadvertently stumbled against a prostrate officer who had usurped the middle of the passage-way for a couch, and a knapsack for a pillow. He had selected dismal house-mates. What seemed singularly out of keeping was the segar he smoked the while. Neither of us was disposed to bandy meaningless compliments, nor to make apologies. After a brief interval of time, but a very few moments, I re-passed him. His |