We repeat that Cherubina is a book which should be upon the shelves of every well-appointed library. No one can read it without entertaining a high opinion of the varied and brilliant talents of its author. No one can read it without laughter. Its wit, especially, and its humor, are indisputable--not frittered and refined away into that insipid compound which we occasionally meet with, half giggle and half sentiment--but racy, dashing, and palpable. Some of the songs with which the work is interspersed have attained a most extensive popularity, while many persons, to whom they are as familiar as household things, are not aware of the very existence of the Heroine. All our readers must remember the following. Dear Sensibility, O la! I heard a little lamb cry ba! Says I, so you have lost mamma! Ah! The little lamb as I said so, Frisking about the fields did go, And frisking trod upon my toe. Oh! And this also. TO DOROTHY PULVERTAFT. If Black-sea, White-sea, Red-sea ran One tide of ink to Ispahan; If all the geese in Lincoln fens Produced spontaneous well-made pens; If Holland old or Holland new, One wondrous sheet of paper grew; Could I, by stenographic power, Write twenty libraries an hour; And should I sing but half the grace Of half a freckle on thy face; Each syllable I wrote should reach From Inverness to Bognor's beach; Each hair-stroke be a river Rhine, Each verse an equinoctial line. We have already exceeded our limits, but cannot refrain from extracting Chapter XXV. It will convey some idea of the character of the Heroine. She is now at the mansion of Lady Gwyn, who, for the purpose of amusing her friends, has dressed up her nephew to represent the supposed mother of the Lady Cherubina. CHAPTER XXV. This morning I awoke almost well, and towards evening was able to appear below. Lady Gwyn had invited several of her friends; so that I passed a delightful afternoon; the charm, admiration, and astonishment of all. When I retired to rest, I found this note on my toilette. _To the Lady Cherubina_. _Your mother lives!_ and is confined in a subterranean vault of the villa. At midnight two men will tap at your door, and conduct you to her. Be silent, courageous, and circumspect. What a flood of new feelings gushed upon my soul, as I laid down the billet, and lifted my filial eyes to Heaven! Mother--endearing name! I pictured that unfortunate lady stretched on a mattress of straw, her eyes sunken in their sockets, yet retaining a portion of their youthful fire; her frame emaciated, her voice feeble, her hand damp and chill. Fondly did I depict our meeting--our embrace; she gently pushing me from her, and baring my forehead, to gaze on the lineaments of my countenance. All, all is convincing; and she calls me the softened image of my noble father!