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Mrs. CHILD is passing the summer near Boston, and is still occupied with a book upon the History of the Religious Element in Society, which has several years engaged her attention.  A new edition of her novel of The Rebels has just been published, and the degree to which it has been known is illustrated in the critical announcements of it.  The Albany State Register, like other journals, seems to think it a fresh book, and observes of the writer:—­“The author of Hobornok has always been a favorite with the public, though it is a long while since we have had the pleasure of welcoming anything from his pen.  The present work, however, bears the impress of the talents which have always marked his writings!”

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[FROM THE LEADER.]

OLD FEELINGS.

  Once in my childish days I heard
  A woman’s voice that slowly read,
  How ’twixt two shadowy mountains sped
  Four colored steeds, four chariots whirr’d.

  I watched until she laid the book
  On the white casement-ledge again;
  My heart beat high with joyful pain
  On that strange oracle to look.

  Day after day I would ascend
  The staircase in that large old house,
  And still and timorous as a mouse
  I sat and made the book my friend.

  I saw the birth of seas and skies,
  The first sweet woman, first brave man;
  I saw how morning light began,
  How faded—­over Paradise.

  I stood with the first Arab boy;
  I saw the mother and the child,
  Of Oriental vision wild,
  Laugh by the well for utter joy.

  I saw the youth go forth at morn,
  A traveler to the Syrian land,
  And in the lonely evening stand
  An exile weary and forlorn.

  I saw him by the roadside lay
  His sunken head upon a stone,
  And while he slumbered, still and lone,
  A dream fell on him, fair as day.

  I saw a golden ladder reach
  From earth to heaven among the stars,
  And up and down its gleaming bars
  Trod stately angels, without speech.

  What wonders did I not behold! 
  Dark gorgeous women, turbaned men,
  White tents, like ships, in plain and glen,
  Slaves, palm trees, camels, pearls, and gold.

  Ah! many an hour I sat and read,
  And God seemed with me all day long;
  Joy murmured a sweet undersong,
  I talkt with angels, with them fed.

  It was an old deserted room;
  There was a skylight strait above,
  And the blue sky lookt thro’ like love,
  Softening and coloring mortal gloom.

  No playmate had I, knew no game,
  Yet sometimes left my book to run
  And blow bright bubbles in the sun—­
  In after life we do the same.

  That time is gone; you think me weak
  That I regret that perisht time,
  That I recall my golden prime
  With beating heart and blushing cheek.