Part 11

We need scarcely say to the student of nature, that the form and functions of fishes are as admirably adapted for easy movement through the water, as are those of birds for that aërial motion called flight. Suspended in a liquid element of almost equal specific gravity with themselves, external organs resembling those of birds in size, would have been disproportionate and unnecessary; but the air-bladder (the functions of which, by no means entirely understood, have never been satisfactorily explained in all their bearings) is known to possess the power of contraction and dilatation, the exercise of which is followed by a corresponding descent or ascent of the animal’s body. Thus a small central and inconspicuous organ effects, in the easiest and most simple manner, the same object which even the soaring eagle or giant condor can only accomplish by great exertion of the wings, and after laborious and frequently repeated gyrations. We shall ere long, however, have occasion to remark in more detail, that the air-bladder, although essential to the economy of such species as possess it, is by no means indispensable as a general attribute of the class, as in many tribes it is entirely wanting. It is not even a generic characteristic, as it does not exist in the red mullets of the British seas, though possessed by the corresponding species of Asia and America—while of our two kinds of mackerel, the so called Spanish species (_Scomber colias_) is distinguished by a swimming bladder, and the common mackerel (_Sc. scomber_) does not possess that organ.

Fishes being without a neck, and the portion called the tail being usually equal at its origin to the part of the body from which it springs, the prevailing shape is somewhat uniform and continuous, diminishing gradually towards either extremity. Of this, the most elegant and characteristic form of fishes, the salmon and mackerel exhibit familiar examples. Yet a vast variety of shape, as well as of size and colour, is naturally presented by a class which now contains some seven or eight thousand known species; and no further illustration of the subject will be deemed necessary by him who has seen and remembers the difference between an eel and a skate.

The mouth of fishes either opens from beneath, as in the rays, or at the extremity of the muzzle, as in the great majority of species, or from the upper surface, as in a small foreign group called _Uranoscopus_, or moon-gazer—an odd name for species, some of which have been alleged to bury themselves to the depth of twenty feet in sand—a bed not easily obtained, and in no way fitted for astronomical observation. It also varies much in its relative dimensions, from the minute perforation of the genus _Centriscus_, to the vast expanded gape of the ugly angler-fish. We mean nothing personal in the last allusion.

The teeth of fishes are frequently very numerous, and are sometimes spread over all the bony parts of the interior cavity of the mouth and pharynx, that is, on the maxillary, inter-maxillary and palatal bones, on the vomer, tongue, branchial arches, and pharyngeal bones. In certain genera they exist on all those parts; while in others they are wanting on some, or are even entirely absent on all. The denominations of the teeth are derived from their position, that is from the bones to which they are attached, and are consequently as numerous as the varieties of their situation. In the upper portion of the mouth of a trout, for example, there are five rows of teeth. The single middle-row is placed upon the central bone of the mouth called the _vomer_; a row on each side of it is fixed on the right and left _palatal_ bones, while the outer-rows or those of the upper-jaw, properly so called, are situate on the _maxillary_ bones. In the under portion of the mouth there are four rows, that is, one on each side of the tongue, and another external to these on each side of the lower-jaw. As to the form of teeth in fishes, the majority are hooked and conical, and more or less acute.

In the majority of osseous fishes, besides the lips, which, even when fleshy, having no peculiar muscles, can exert but little strength in retaining the aliments, there is generally in the inside of each jaw, behind the anterior teeth, a kind of membranous fold or valvule, formed by a replication of the interior skin, and directed backwards, of which the effect is to hinder the alimentary substances, and especially the water gulped during respiration, from escaping again by the mouth. This structure does not, as formerly supposed, constitute a character restricted to the genus _Zeus_, but exists in an infinity of fishes.

The food seized by the teeth of the maxillæ, and detained by the valve just mentioned, is carried still further backwards by the teeth of the palate and tongue, when these exist, and is at the same time prevented by the dentations of the branchial arches from penetrating between the intervals of the branchiæ, where it might injure those delicate organs of respiration. The movements of the maxillæ and tongue can thus send the food only in the direction of the pharynx, where it undergoes additional action on the part of the teeth of the pharyngeal bones, which triturate or carry it backwards into the œsophagus. The last-named portion is clothed by a layer of strong, close set, muscular fibres, sometimes forming various bundles, the contractions of which push the alimentary matter into the stomach—thus completing the act of deglutition.

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“AWAY, THEN, TO THE MOUNTAINS:”

WRITTEN AND ADAPTED TO A FAVORITE MELODY FROM Amilie,

BY JOHN H. HEWITT.

_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns’ _Copyright, 184 Chesnut Street_.

Away then to the mountains, While the morning sun is shining; The mist has left the fountain, And the herds in shade are reclining.

Up the rocks we’ll climb, To the top sublime, And we’ll

The hunter dreads no danger, While along steep locks wending; From youth a mountain ranger, With the wind and snow contending.

From the peak he looks On the valley brooks, While his

watch the light deer bounding; While the Sun wades through the Sea of blue, And the Alpine horn is sounding.

Away then to the mountains, While the morning sun is shining; The mist has left the fountains, And the herds in shade are reclining.

heart for home is bounding; And he marks the maid On the valley glade, Who lists to his wild horn sounding.

Away then to the &c. &c.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_A Grammar of the English Language, in a series of Letters, addressed to every American Youth. By_ Hugh A. Pue. _Philadelphia: Published by the Author._

This is the title of a queer little book, which its author regards as “not only necessary, but urgently called for,” because not only “the mass of the people are ignorant of English Grammar, but because those who profess great knowledge of it, and even those who make the teaching of it their business, will be found, upon examination, to be very far from understanding its principles.”

Whether Mr. P. proceeds upon the safe old plan of _Probe meliora; deteriora sequer_—whether he is one of “the mass,” and means to include himself among the ignoramuses—or whether he is only a desperate quiz—we shall not take it upon ourselves to say; but the fact is clear that, in a Preface of less than two small duodecimo pages (the leading object of which seems to be an eulogy upon one William Cobbett), he has given us some half dozen distinct instances of bad Grammar.

“For these purposes,” says he—that is to say—the purposes of instructing mankind and enlightening “every American youth” without exception—“for these purposes, I have written my lessons in a series of letters. A mode that affords more opportunity for plainness, familiarity, instruction, and entertainment, than any other. A mode that was adopted by Chesterfield, in his celebrated instructions on politeness. A mode that was adopted by Smollett, in many of his novels, which, even at this day, hold a distinguished place in the world of fiction. A mode that was adopted by William Cobbett, not only in his admirable treatise on English Grammar, but in nearly every work that he wrote.” “To Mr. Cobbett,” adds the instructor of every American youth—“to Mr. Cobbett I acknowledge myself _indebted_ for the greater part of the grammatical knowledge which I possess.” Of the fact stated there can be no question. Nobody but Cobbett could have been the grammatical Mentor of Mr. Pue, whose book (which is _all_ Cobbett) speaks plainly upon the point—nothing but the ghost of William Cobbett, looking over the shoulder of Hugh A. Pue, could have inspired the latter gentleman with the bright idea of stringing together four consecutive sentences, in each of which the leading nominative noun is destitute of a verb.

Mr. Pue may attempt to justify his phraseology here, by saying that the several sentences, quoted above, commencing with the words, “A mode,” are merely continuations of the one beginning “For these purposes;” but this is no justification at all. By the use of the period, he has rendered each sentence distinct, and each must be examined as such, in respect to its grammar. We are only taking the liberty of condemning Mr. P. by the words of his own mouth. Turning to page 72, where he treats of punctuation, we read as follows:—“The full point is used at the end of every complete sentence; and a complete sentence is a collection of words making a complete sense, without being dependent upon another collection of words to convey the full meaning intended.” Now, what kind of a meaning can we give to such a sentence as “A mode that was adopted by Chesterfield in his celebrated instructions on politeness,” if we are to have “no dependence upon” the sentences that precede it? But, even in the supposition that these five sentences had been run into one, as they should have been, they would still be ungrammatical. For example—“For these purposes I have written my lessons in a series of letters—a mode that affords more opportunity for plainness, familiarity, instruction, and entertainment than any other—a mode, etc.” This would have been the proper method of punctuation. “A mode” is placed in apposition with “a series of letters.” But it is evident that it is _not_ the “series of letters” which is the “mode.” It is _the writing the lessons_ in a series which is so. Yet, in order that the noun “mode” can be properly placed in apposition with what precedes it, this latter must be either a noun, or a sentence, which, taken collectively, can serve as one. Thus, in any shape, all that we have quoted is bad grammar.

We say “_bad grammar_,” and say it through sheer obstinacy, because Mr. Pue says we should not. “Why, what is grammar?” asks he indignantly. “Nearly all grammarians tell us that grammar is the writing and speaking of the English language correctly. What then is bad grammar? Why bad grammar must be the bad writing and speaking of the English language correctly!!” We give the two admiration notes and all.

In the first place, if grammar be only the writing and speaking the _English_ language correctly, then the French, or the Dutch, or the Kickapoos are miserable, ungrammatical races of people, and have no hopes of being anything else, unless Mr. Pue proceeds to their assistance:—but, let us say nothing of this for the present. What we wish to assert is, that the usual definition of grammar, as “the writing and speaking _correctly_,” is an error which should have been long ago exploded. Grammar is the analysis of language, and this analysis will be _good_ or _bad_, just as the capacity employed upon it be weak or strong—just as the grammarian be a Horne Tooke or a Hugh A. Pue.

But perhaps, after all, we are treating this gentleman discourteously. His book may be merely intended as a good joke. By the bye, he says in his Preface, that “while he informs the student, he shall take particular care to _entertain_ him.” Now, the truth is, we have been exceedingly entertained. In such passages as the following, however, which we find upon the second page of the Introduction, we are really at a loss to determine whether it is the _utile_ or the _dulce_ which prevails. We give the italics of Mr. Pue; without which, indeed, the singular force and beauty of the paragraph cannot be duly appreciated.

“The _proper_ study of English grammar, so far from being _dry_, is one of the most rational enjoyments known to us; one that is highly calculated to rouse the dormant energies of the student; it requiring continual mental effort; unceasing exercise of mind. It is, in fact, the _spreading of a thought-producing plaster of paris upon the extensive grounds of intellect_! It is the parent of idea, and great causation of reflection; the mighty _instigator of insurrection in the interior_; and, above all, the unflinching _champion of internal improvement_!”

We know nothing about plaster of Paris; but the analogy which subsists between ipecac and grammar—at least between ipecac and the grammar of Mr. Pue—never, certainly, struck us in so clear a point of view, as it does now.

But, after all, whether Mr. P.’s queer little book shall or shall not meet the views of “Every American Youth,” will depend pretty much upon another question of high moment—whether “Every American Youth” be or be not as great a nincompoop as Mr. Pue.

* * * * *

_Powhatan; a Metrical Romance, in Seven Cantos. By_ Seba Smith. _New York: Harper and Brothers._

What few notices we have seen of this poem, speak of it as the production of _Mrs._ Seba Smith. To be sure, gentlemen may be behind the scenes, and know more about the matter than we do. They may have some private reason for understanding that black is white—some reason into which we, personally, are not initiated. But, to ordinary perception, “Powhatan” is the composition of Seba Smith, _Esquire_, of Jack Downing memory, and _not_ of his wife. _Seba Smith_ is the name upon the title-page; and the personal pronoun which supplies the place of this well-known prænomen and cognomen in the preface, is, we are constrained to say, of the masculine gender. “The author of Powhatan,”—thus, for example, runs a portion of the prolegomena—“does not presume to claim for _his_ production the merit of good and genuine poetry, nor does _he_ pretend to assign it a place in the classes or forms into which poetry is divided”—in all which, by the way, he is decidedly right. But can it be that no gentleman has _read_ even so far as the Preface of the book? Can it be that the critics have had no curiosity to creep into the _adyta_—into the inner mysteries of this temple? If so, they are decidedly right too.

“Powhatan” is handsomely bound. Its printing is clear beyond comparison. Its paper is magnificent, and we undertake to say (for _we have_ read it through with the greatest attention) that there is not a single typographical error in it, from one end to the other. Further than this, in the way of commendation, no man with both brains and conscience should proceed. In truth, a more absurdly _flat_ affair—for flat is the only epithet which applies in this case—was never before paraded to the world, with so grotesque an air of bombast and assumption.

To give some idea of the _tout ensemble_ of the book—we have first a Dedication to the “Young People of the United States,” in which Mr. Jack Downing lives, in “the hope that he may do some good in his day and generation, by adding something to the sources of rational enjoyment and _mental culture_.” Next, we have a Preface, occupying four pages, in which, quoting his publishers, the author tells us that poetry is a “very great bore, and won’t sell”—a thing which cannot be denied in certain cases, but which Mr. Downing denies in his own. “It may be true,” he says, “of endless masses of words, that are poured forth from the press, under the _name_ of poetry”—but it is not true “of _genuine_ poetry—of that which is worthy of the name”—in short, we presume he means to say it is not in the least little bit true of “Powhatan;” with regard to whose merits he wishes to be tried, not by the critics (we fear, in fact, that here it is the critics who will be tried), “but by the _common_ taste of _common_ readers”—all which ideas are common enough, to say no more.

We have next, a “Sketch of the Character of Powhatan,” which is exceedingly interesting and commendable, and which is taken from Burk’s “History of Virginia:"—four pages more. Then comes a _Poem_—four pages more—forty-eight lines—twelve lines to a page—in which all that we can understand, is something about the name of “Powhatan”

“Descending to a distant age, Embodied forth on the deathless page”

of the author—that is to say, of Jack Downing, Esquire. We have now, one after the other, Cantos one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven—each subdivided into Parts, by means of Roman numerals—some of these Parts comprehending as many as six lines—upon the principle, we presume, of packing up precious commodities in small bundles. The volume then winds up with _Notes_, in proportion of three to one, as regards the amount of text, and taken, the most of them, from Burk’s Virginia, as before.

It is very difficult to keep one’s countenance when reviewing such a _work_ as this; but we will do our best, for the truth’s sake, and put on as serious a face as the case will admit.

The leading fault of “Powhatan,” then, is precisely what its author supposes to be its principal merit. “It would be difficult,” he says, in that pitiable preface, in which he has so exposed himself, “to find a poem that embodies more truly the spirit of history, or indeed that follows out more faithfully many of its details.” It would, indeed; and we are very sorry to say it. The truth is, Mr. Downing has never dreamed of any artistic _arrangement_ of his facts. He has gone straight forward, like a blind horse, and turned neither to the one side nor to the other, for fear of stumbling. But he gets them all in—every one of them—the facts we mean. Powhatan never did anything in his life, we are sure, that Mr. Downing has not got in his poem. He begins at the beginning, and goes on steadily to the end—painting away at his story, just as a sign-painter at a sign; beginning at the left hand side of his board, and plastering through to the right. But he has omitted one very ingenious trick of the sign-painter. He has forgotten to write under his portrait—“_this is a pig_,” and thus there is some danger of mistaking it for an opossum.

But we are growing scurrilous, in spite of our promise, and must put on a sober visage once more. It _is_ a hard thing, however, when we have to read and write about such doggerel as this:

“But bravely to the river’s brink I led my warrior train, And face to face, each glance they sent, We sent it back again. _Their werowance looked stern at me,_ _And I looked stern at him_, And all my warriors clasped their bows, And nerved each heart and limb. I raised my heavy war-club high, And swung it fiercely round, And shook it towards the shallop’s side, Then laid it on the ground. And then the lighted calumet I offered to their view, And thrice I drew the sacred smoke, And toward the shallop blew. And as the curling vapour rose Soft as a spirit prayer, I saw the pale-face leader wave A white flag in the air. Then launching out their painted skiff They boldly came to land, And spoke us many a kindly word, And took us by the hand. Presenting rich and shining gifts, Of copper, brass, and beads, To show that they were men like us, And prone to generous deeds. We held a long and friendly talk, Inquiring whence they came, And who the leader of their band, And what their country’s name. And how their mighty shallop moved Across the boundless sea, And why they touched our great king’s land Without his liber_ty_.”

It won’t do. We cannot sing to this tune any longer. We greatly prefer,

“John Gilpin was a gentleman Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town.”

Or—

“Old Grimes is dead, that good old man, We ne’er shall see him more, He used to wear an over-coat All buttoned down before”—

or lines to that effect—we wish we could remember the words. The part, however, about

“Their werowance look’d stern at me, And I looked stern at him”—

is not quite _original_ with Mr. Downing—is it? We merely ask for information. Have we not heard something about

“An old crow sitting on a hickory limb, Who winked at me, and I winked at him.”

The simple truth is, that Mr. Downing never committed a greater mistake in his life than when he fancied himself a poet, even in the ninty-ninth degree. We doubt whether he could distinctly state the difference between an epic and an epigram. And it will not do for him to appeal from the critic to _common_ readers—because we assure him his book is a very _un_common book. We never saw any one so uncommonly bad—nor one about whose parturition so uncommon a fuss has been made, so little to the satisfaction of common sense. Your poem is a curiosity, Mr. Jack Downing; your “Metrical Romance” is not worth a single half sheet of the paste-board upon which it is printed. This is our humble and honest opinion; and, although honest opinions are not very plentiful just now, you can have ours at what it is worth. But we wish, before parting, to ask you one question. What _do_ you mean by that motto from sir Philip Sidney, upon the title-page? “He cometh to you with a tale that holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney-corner.” What do you mean by it, we say. Either you cannot intend to apply it to the “_tale_” of Powhatan, or else all the “old men” in your particular neighbourhood must be _very_ old men; and all the “little children” a set of dunder-headed little ignoramuses.

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_Miscellanies of Literature. By the Author of Curiosities of Literature. 3 vols. J. & H. Langley, New York: 1841._

These volumes remind us of Coke upon Lyttleton, with which whilom we were wont to be delighted; for they are full of the same odd conceits, and present the same crude mass of undigested learning. Facts which no one else would ever have hunted up from the shelves of dusty libraries; theories which hitherto no man thought of substantiating by a reference to biography or history; ideas, which are oddities in themselves, and which are presented in the quaintest style; and illustrations of notions that no one else would ever have thought of, or which, if thought of, would not have been dressed up in so outlandish a manner, are all marshalled together here in disorderly array, pushing, jostling, and crowding each other until they remind one of Falstaff’s valorous regiment, or a militia training in a midland county.

Seriously, however, these miscellanies embody a vast amount of out-of-the-way intelligence, interesting to the general, but absolutely necessary to the literary reader. No man but D’Israeli would ever have had the patience to compile such a work. His ideas on the literary character; his observations on men of genius; and his sketch of King James the first, embody a vast body of undigested facts that must have consumed years merely in their collection. Industry, however, is the only merit of these volumes: in arranging this vast mass of truths, D’Israeli has shown anything but a comprehensive mind.