There is a work to which many of our readers are probably strangers, but which has roused the enthusiasm of the New World. It is a work of immense labour, which in writing and correcting proofs occupied its author sixteen years. This author is a lady, and the production on which she bestowed so much unwearied patience and perseverance, during a space of time equivalent in most cases to an entire literary life, is a Concordance to Shakspeare. 'Her work,' says Mr Webster, the American Secretary of State, 'is a perfect wonder, surprisingly full and accurate, and exhibiting proof of unexampled labour and patience. She has treasured up every word of Shakspeare, as if he were her lover, and she were his.' But Mr Webster and his countrymen were not satisfied even with such generous praise: they determined to present Mrs Clarke with an enduring testimonial of their gratitude and respect; and, accordingly, the ceremony has recently been performed by Mr Abbot Laurence, the American minister. The list of subscribers, we are told, 'contains names from Maine to Mexico. Even the far, far west, Wisconsin, Michigan, and Illinois, have contributed; whilst Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Maryland, Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and South Carolina, swell the list of the most distinguished American literati, embracing a fair sprinkling of fair ladies. There is even a subscriber from the shores of the Pacific.' The testimonial is an elaborately carved library chair, bearing on the top rail a mask of Shakspeare, copied in ivory from the Stratford bust, wreathed with oak-leaves and laurel, and shaded by the wings of two of 'Avon's swans.' Although an elegant and costly gift, however, in itself, there is attached to this testimonial a meaning and a value which we trust will make its due impression in the native land of Shakspeare--in that mother-country to which the eyes of her western descendants are thus turned in the lofty sympathy which binds together throughout the whole world the children and worshippers of genius. TO WORDSWORTH. The voice of Nature in her changeful moods Breathes o'er the solemn waters as they flow, And 'mid the wavings of the ancient woods Murmurs, now filled with joy, now sad and low. Thou gentle poet, she hath tuned thy mind To deep accordance with the harmony That floats above the mountain summits free-- A concert of Creation on the wind. And thy calm strains are breathed as though the dove And nightingale had given thee for thy dower The soul of music and the heart of love; And with a holy, tranquillising power They fall upon the spirit, like a gleam Of quiet star-light on a troubled stream. M.A. HOARE. INTELLECT DEVELOPED BY LABOUR.