CHAPTER II.

When a young man, Mr. Hopkins arrived upon the spot where now stands the village of ——, with his bundle upon his stick, his sole fortune. He became what may be termed a squatter. It was then a dreary waste of girdled trees, and patches covered with black stumps. But his untiring perseverance and systematic industry were rewarded in time by beholding, from his cottage door, the fields of waving corn and the golden wheat, where once lurked the savage and prowled the ravenous beast.

In course of time, the place became settled; the present village sprang into existence; Mr. Hopkins “grew with its growth, and strengthened with its strength;” in short, Mr. Hopkins became a rich man, and consequently a man of consequence.

Mrs. Hopkins (poor good soul) died ere she could enjoy the wealth that her patient labors had assisted her husband in accumulating. She left one daughter, christened Dinah, and two sons. Upon the death of the “old man,” the sons moved to a strange land, (that is, about a hundred miles from their native vale.) Miss Dinah, or rather Diana, as she chose to be called, after the immortal Die Vernon, remained upon the “old place,” to uphold, as she properly said, the dignity of the Hopkinses.

Thus years wore away. Miss Die became the tyrant of fashion in her own village. She read Shakspeare, doated on Byron, and was subdued by Sir Walter Scott’s works. She languished and quoted poetry for nearly forty years. In youth, she scorned the rustic beaux that kneeled at her shrine; and, as years sped onward, none “bowed nor told their tale of love,” until, at length, Miss Die began seriously to think of a visit to her brothers, when the kind _fates_ brought Mr. Micalf to the village, and there left him to the mercy of Cupid.

The _major_ (as he was familiarly called) was rather short of stature, with an alderman’s corpulency,—famous for his good-nature, intolerable indolence, and devotion to whiskey-punch and the noxious weed. Being asthmatic, he seldom had recourse to any exertion—a long walk would cause him to puff and blow at least for a minute, ere he could catch breath to utter a word. Still Mr. Micalf found breath enough to become a successful wooer—and Miss Die persuaded her swain to elope with her by moonlight, as she could never survive the stare of the plebeians by the light of “gaudy day.”

It ever remained a doubt in the village, what was the exact age of the major. Many were of an opinion that sixty winters had frosted his brow. Others again asserted that he did not number, by a score, as many years as his bride. These latter, however, were the ladies.

Thursday arrived—and, after a weary watching from many a beaming eye, the sun at length disappeared behind the distant mountains, and twilight gently threw over the glowing sky its mantle of sombre gray. Lights flitted to and fro through the houses; an unusual bustle hummed through the quiet streets; the horses, disturbed after a day of labor, to be brought forth and harnessed to whatever vehicle their masters could boast of possessing, hung down their weary heads, with slow and measured steps patiently submitting to the yoke of bondage.

The sudden glare of lights, that streamed through the casements of the white cottage over the gravel walks, announced that preparations had ceased, and that visitors were momentarily expected.

There was the bride, her tall gaunt figure arrayed in white, flitting from room to room, not knowing where to station herself to make the best impression, and inwardly chafing at the perfume of tobacco that met her olfactory nerves, and the loss of her reticule, wherein were the keys of sundry closets and so forth, when the door opened and Mr., Mrs., and the four Misses Potts, with Miss Clapper, beheld the bride upon knees and hands, looking under an immense old-fashioned settee for her lost treasure.

Mrs. Micalf looked up, sprang to her feet, uttered a faint scream, and for a moment hid her face—then yielded her cheek to the salutations of the six ladies, and with much coyness permitted Mr. Potts to touch the tip of her ear.

“Well, I declare, I think you served us a pretty trick, Mrs. Micalf—a lady of your years to make a moonlight flitting—oh, fie!” cried Miss Clapper, in a querulous voice.

“Oh, spare me, dear friends; I feel the full force of the imprudence of the step. But be this my excuse, ‘I’ve scanned the actions of his daily life,’ and flatter myself I have secured happiness.”

“And Mr. Micalf to steal away so—he who hates walking so. Why, I thought it would almost have killed him to walk so far.”

“You are right, old lady,” cried the groom, who had entered unperceived, and slapping Miss Clapper upon the shoulder; “I can’t believe it yet; I haven’t drawn a long breath since—wheugh!—But Die would not be married any other way, though I told her we were making a couple of old fools of ourselves—wheugh—u—u—Never mind, Die, don’t be cast down at being called old—we all know you were young once! ha, ha! wheugh—u! Come, Potts, let’s go and drink good luck to midnight walks.”

“Mr. Micalf is so boisterous when he is in good spirits, and he does so love to plague me!” cried the bride, the quivering of her nostrils and upper lip expressing the workings of the inward passions.

Knock succeeded knock, and the influx of visitors, with the oft-repeated “wish you joy, wish you joy,” soon restored harmony to the spirits of the bride, who was in extacies at the crowd that had gathered around her. She quoted poetry, right and left; forgot, for the moment, that tobacco and punch existed; and some assert that even the major was forgotten! That was but scandal, however. Nevertheless, the major enjoyed seven pipes and five tumblers of punch, without once hearing the sound of Die’s voice; a luxury which, in the warmth of his feelings he solemnly whispered to Potts, had not been permitted him since his moonlight trip.

The hours sped onward—the merry laugh that rang so loud and clear from the midst of a group of young folks who were playing “hunt the slipper,” “my lady’s toilette,” &c. caused the heads of the matrons to turn from each other in high displeasure at the interruption of some tale of scandal!

The happiest moments, still the fleetest!—the hour arrived—the guests departed, and the mistress of the _fairy_ scene began to wonder what had become of her lord. Looking through the empty rooms, peering in every corner by the aid of a feeble night-lamp, and almost suffocated with the vapor of candle-snuff, she was startled by the sonorous notes from her husband’s nasal organ. “I do believe the ass has gone to bed,” she mentally ejaculated. Rushing into her room, she beheld the head of the major, with his blue and white night-cap snugly resting upon her fine linen _day_ pillow-cases. Jerking the pillows from under the offending head, she screamed:

“Major! why, Micalf, you are sleeping upon my beautiful cases with real thread-lace borders!”

“Bless me, what is the matter? Is the house on fire? O Lord, I smell smoke—fire!—fire!”

“Do be quiet now, and don’t make a fool of yourself; it’s only the pillow I wanted.”

“Oh, Die! is that you? You have frightened the very life out of me. Give me something to put under my head; my neck is almost broke.”

“There, my dear, is the night pillow. Now, never presume to go to bed again, until the cover is turned down and the day cases removed, and—bless me, how you have tossed the bed! Why, major, major, are you asleep already?”

“What is it, for heaven’s sake? Am I never to know what rest is again?”

“But, my dear—major, I say, shall I tuck you up snugly?”

“No! the devil! I don’t want to be reminded of my coffin every night by being tucked up,” and away went the clothes from the foot and side. “Oh, how I wish——” groaned the major, as Mrs. Micalf again patiently smoothed them down. The wish died upon his tongue, but it was embodied in his dreams:—Once more he was the quiet possessor of the snug little room, and no less snug little bed, at the “Full Moon,” the atmosphere dense with tobacco-smoke and the vapor of whiskey-punch regaling his nose—when the shrill, sharp voice of his help-meet, at dawn of day, dispelled the illusion, and, with the sun, he arose with the comfortable thought that he was not the only being that had sold peace and happiness for _gold_. And, ere the honey-moon had expired, Mr. and Mrs. Micalf began to perceive that they had made a great mistake in their moonlight flitting.

* * * * *

I NEVER HAVE BEEN FALSE TO THEE.

A NEW SONG.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

I never have been false to thee! The heart I gave thee still is thine; Though thou hast been untrue to me, And I no more may call thee mine! I’ve loved, as woman ever loves, With constant soul in good or ill:— Thou’st proved, as man too often proves, A rover—but I love thee still!

Yet think not that my spirit stoops To bind thee captive in my train!— Love’s not a flower, at sunset droops, But smiles when comes her god again! Thy words, which fall unheeded now, Could once my heart-strings madly thrill! Love’s golden chain and burning vow Are broken—but I love thee still!

Once what a heaven of bliss was ours, When love dispelled the clouds of care, And time went by with birds and flowers, While song and incense filled the air!— The past is mine—the present thine— Should thoughts of me thy future fill, Think what a destiny is mine, To lose—but love thee, false one, still!

* * * * *

A CHAPTER ON AUTOGRAPHY.

BY

Under this head, some years ago, there appeared, in the Southern Literary Messenger, an article which attracted very general attention, not less from the nature of its subject than from the peculiar manner in which it was handled. The editor introduces his readers to a certain Mr. Joseph Miller, who, it is hinted, is not merely a descendant of the illustrious Joe, of Jest-Book notoriety, but that identical individual in proper person. Upon this point, however, an air of uncertainty is thrown by means of an equivoque, maintained throughout the paper, in respect to Mr. Miller’s middle name. This equivoque is put into the mouth of Mr. M. himself. He gives his name, in the first instance, as Joseph A. Miller; but, in the course of conversation, shifts it to Joseph B., then to Joseph C., and so on through the whole alphabet, until he concludes by desiring a copy of the Magazine to be sent to his address as Joseph Z. Miller, Esquire.

The object of his visit to the editor is to place in his hands the autographs of certain distinguished American _literati_. To these persons he had written rigmarole letters on various topics, and in all cases had been successful in eliciting a reply. The replies only (which it is scarcely necessary to say are all fictitious) are given in the Magazine, with a genuine autograph fac-simile appended, and are either burlesques of the supposed writer’s usual style, or rendered otherwise absurd by reference to the nonsensical questions imagined to have been propounded by Mr. Miller. The autographs thus given are twenty-six in all—corresponding to the twenty-six variations in the initial letter of the hoaxer’s middle name.

With the public this article took amazingly well, and many of our principal papers were at the expense of re-printing it with the wood-cut autographs. Even those whose names had been introduced, and whose style had been burlesqued, took the joke, generally speaking, in good part. Some of them were at a loss what to make of the matter. Dr. W. E. Channing, of Boston, was at some trouble, it is said, in calling to mind whether he had or had not actually written to some Mr. Joseph Miller the letter attributed to him in the article. This letter was nothing more than what follows:—

Boston, ——.

Dear Sir,

No such person as Philip Philpot has ever been in my employ as a coachman, or otherwise. The name is an odd one, and not likely to be forgotten. The man must have reference to some other Doctor Channing. It would be as well to question him closely.

Respectfully yours, W. E. CHANNING. To Joseph X. Miller, Esq.

The precise and brief sententiousness of the divine is here, it will be seen, very truly adopted, or “hit off.”

In one instance only was the _jeu-d’esprit_ taken in serious dudgeon. Colonel Stone and the Messenger had not been upon the best of terms. Some one of the Colonel’s little brochures had been severely treated by that journal, which declared that the work would have been far more properly published among the quack advertisements in a spare corner of the Commercial. The colonel had retaliated by wholesale vituperation of the Messenger. This being the state of affairs, it was not to be wondered at that the following epistle was not quietly received on the part of him to whom it was attributed:—

New York, ——.

Dear Sir,

I am exceedingly and excessively sorry that it is out of my power to comply with your rational and reasonable request. The subject you mention is one with which I am utterly unacquainted. Moreover it is one about which I know very little.

Respectfully, W. L. STONE. Joseph V. Miller, Esq.

These tautologies and anti-climaces were too much for the colonel, and we are ashamed to say that he committed himself by publishing in the Commercial an indignant denial of ever having indited such an epistle.

The principal feature of this autograph article, although perhaps the least interesting, was that of the editorial comment upon the supposed MSS., regarding them as indicative of character. In these comments the design was never more than semi-serious. At times, too, the writer was evidently led into error or injustice through the desire of being pungent—not unfrequently sacrificing truth for the sake of a _bon-mot_. In this manner qualities were often attributed to individuals, which were not so much indicated by their hand-writing, as suggested by the spleen of the commentator. But that a strong analogy _does_ generally and naturally exist between every man’s chirography and character, will be denied by none but the unreflecting. It is not our purpose, however, to enter into the _philosophy_ of this subject, either in this portion of the present paper, or in the abstract. What we may have to say will be introduced elsewhere, and in connection with particular MSS. The practical application of the theory will thus go hand in hand with the theory itself.

Our design is three-fold:—In the first place, seriously to illustrate our position that the mental features are indicated (with certain exceptions) by the hand-writing; secondly, to indulge in a little literary gossip; and, thirdly, to furnish our readers with a more accurate and at the same time a more general collection of the autographs of our _literati_ than is to be found elsewhere. Of the first portion of this design we have already spoken. The second speaks for itself. Of the third it is only necessary to say that we are confident of its interest for all lovers of literature. Next to the person of a distinguished man-of-letters, we desire to see his portrait—next to his portrait, his autograph. In the latter, especially, there is something which seems to bring him before us in his true idiosyncrasy—in his character of _scribe_. The feeling which prompts to the collection of autographs is a natural and rational one. But complete, or even extensive collections, are beyond the reach of those who themselves do not dabble in the waters of literature. The writer of this article has had opportunities, in this way, enjoyed by few. The MSS. now lying before him are a motley mass indeed. Here are letters, or other compositions, from every individual in America who has the slightest pretension to literary celebrity. From these we propose to select the most eminent names—as to give _all_ would be a work of supererogation. Unquestionably, among those whose claims we are forced to postpone, are several whose high _merit_ might justly demand a different treatment; but the rule applicable in a case like this seems to be that of celebrity, rather than that of true worth. It will be understood that, in the necessity of selection which circumstances impose upon us, we confine ourselves _to the most noted among the living literati of the country_. The article above alluded to, embraced, as we have already stated, only twenty-six names, and was not occupied _exclusively_ either with living persons, or, properly speaking, with literary ones. In fact the whole paper seemed to acknowledge no law beyond that of whim. Our present essay will be found to include _one hundred autographs_. We have thought it unnecessary to preserve any particular order in their arrangement.

Professor Charles Anthon, of Columbia College, New York, is well known as the most erudite of our classical scholars; and, although still a young man, there are few, if any, even in Europe, who surpass him in his peculiar path of knowledge. In England his supremacy has been tacitly acknowledged by the immediate re-publication of his editions of Cæsar, Sallust, and Cicero, with other works, and their adoption as text-books at Oxford and Cambridge. His amplification of Lemprière did him high honor, but, of late, has been entirely superseded by a Classical Dictionary of his own—a work most remarkable for the extent and comprehensiveness of its details, as well as for its historical, chronological, mythological, and philological _accuracy_. It has at once completely overshadowed every thing of its kind. It follows, as a matter of course, that Mr. Anthon has many little enemies, among the inditers of merely big books. He has not been unassailed, yet has assuredly remained uninjured in the estimation of all those whose opinion he would be likely to value. We do not mean to say that he is altogether without faults, but a certain antique Johnsonism of style is perhaps one of his worst. He was mainly instrumental (with Professor Henry and Dr. Hawks) in setting on foot the New York Review, a journal of which he is the most efficient literary support, and whose most erudite papers have always been furnished by his pen.

The chirography of Professor Anthon is the most regularly beautiful of any in our collection. We see the most scrupulous precision, finish, and neatness about every portion of it—in the formation of individual letters, as well as in the _tout-ensemble_. The perfect symmetry of the MS. gives it, to a casual glance, the appearance of Italic print. The lines are quite straight, and at exactly equal distances, yet are written without black rules, or other artificial aid. There is not the slightest superfluity, in the way of flourish or otherwise, with the exception of the twirl in the C of the signature. Yet the whole is rather neat and graceful than forcible. Of four letters now lying before us, one is written on pink, one on a faint blue, one on green, and one on yellow paper—all of the finest quality. The seal is of green wax, with an impression of the head of Cæsar.

It is in the chirography of such men as Professor Anthon that we look with certainty for indication of character. The life of a scholar is mostly undisturbed by those adventitious events which distort the natural disposition of the man of the world, preventing his real nature from manifesting itself in his MS. The lawyer, who, pressed for time, is often forced to embody a world of heterogeneous memoranda, on scraps of paper, with the stumps of all varieties of pen, will soon find the fair characters of his boyhood degenerate into hieroglyphics which would puzzle Doctor Wallis or Champollion; and from chirography so disturbed it is nearly impossible to decide any thing. In a similar manner, men who pass through many striking vicissitudes of life, acquire in each change of circumstance a temporary inflection of the hand-writing; the whole resulting, after many years, in an unformed or variable MS., scarcely to be recognised by themselves from one day to the other. In the case of literary men generally, we may expect some decisive token of the mental influence upon the MS., and in the instance of the classical devotee we may look with _especial_ certainty for such token. We see, accordingly, in Professor Anthon’s autography, each and all of the known idiosyncrasies of his taste and intellect. We recognise at once the scrupulous precision and finish of his scholarship and of his style—the love of elegance which prompts him to surround himself, in his private study, with gems of sculptural art, and beautifully bound volumes, all arranged with elaborate attention to form, and in the very pedantry of neatness. We perceive, too, the disdain of superfluous embellishment which distinguishes his compilations, and which gives to their exterior appearance so marked an air of Quakerism. We must not forget to observe that the “want of force” is a want as perceptible in the whole character of the man, as in that of the MS.

The MS. of Mr. Irving has little about it indicative of his genius. Certainly, no one could suspect from it any nice _finish_ in the writer’s compositions; nor is this nice finish to be found. The letters now before us vary remarkably in appearance; and those of late date are not nearly so well written as the more antique. Mr. Irving has travelled much, has seen many vicissitudes, and has been so thoroughly satiated with fame as to grow slovenly in the performance of his literary tasks. This slovenliness has affected his hand-writing. But even from his earlier MSS. there is little to be gleaned, except the ideas of simplicity and precision. It must be admitted, however, that this fact, in itself, is characteristic of the literary manner, which, however excellent, has no prominent or very remarkable features.

For the last six or seven years, few men have occupied a more desirable position among us than Mr. Benjamin. As the editor of the American Monthly Magazine, of the New Yorker, and more lately of the Signal, and New World, he has exerted an influence scarcely second to that of any editor in the country. This influence Mr. B. owes to no single cause, but to his combined ability, activity, causticity, fearlessness, and independence. We use the latter term, however, with some mental reservation. The editor of the World is independent so far as the word implies unshaken resolution to follow the bent of one’s own will, let the consequences be what they may. He is no respecter of persons, and his vituperation as often assails the powerful as the powerless—indeed the latter fall rarely under his censure. But we cannot call his independence, at all times, that of principle. We can never be sure that he will defend a cause merely because it is the cause of truth—or even because he regards it as such. He is too frequently biassed by personal feelings—feelings now of friendship, and again of vindictiveness. He is a warm friend, and a bitter, but not implacable enemy. His judgment in literary matters should not be questioned, but there is some difficulty in getting at his real opinion. As a prose writer, his style is lucid, terse, and pungent. He is often witty, often cuttingly sarcastic, but seldom humorous. He frequently injures the force of his fiercest attacks by an indulgence in merely vituperative epithets. As a poet, he is entitled to far higher consideration than that in which he is ordinarily held. He is skilful and passionate, as well as imaginative. His sonnets have not been surpassed. In short, it is as a poet that his better genius is evinced—it is in poetry that his noble spirit breaks forth, showing what the man is, and what, but for unhappy circumstances, he would invariably appear.

Mr. Benjamin’s MS. is not very dissimilar to Mr. Irving’s, and, like his, it has no doubt been greatly modified by the excitements of life, and by the necessity of writing much and hastily; so that we can predicate but little respecting it. It speaks of his exquisite sensibility and passion. These betray themselves in the nervous variation of the MS. as the subject is diversified. When the theme is an ordinary one, the writing is legible and has force; but when it verges upon any thing which may be supposed to excite, we see the characters falter as they proceed. In the MSS. of some of his best poems this peculiarity is very remarkable. The signature conveys the idea of his _usual_ chirography.

Mr. Kennedy is well known as the author of “Swallow Barn,” “Horse-Shoe Robinson,” and “Rob of the Bowl,” three works whose features are strongly and decidedly marked. These features are boldness and force of thought, (disdaining ordinary embellishment, and depending for its effect upon masses rather than upon details) with a predominant _sense of the picturesque_ pervading and giving color to the whole. His “Swallow Barn,” in especial (and it is by the first effort of an author that we form the truest idea of his mental bias), is but a rich succession of picturesque still-life pieces. Mr. Kennedy is well to do in the world, and has always taken the world easily. We may therefore expect to find in his chirography, if ever in any, a full indication of the chief feature of his literary style—especially as this chief feature is so remarkably prominent. A glance at his signature will convince any one that the indication is to be found. A painter called upon to designate the main peculiarity of this MS. would speak at once of the _picturesque_. This character is given it by the absence of hair-strokes, and by the abrupt termination of every letter without tapering; also in great measure by varying the size and slope of the letters. Great uniformity is preserved in the whole air of the MS., with great variety in the constituent parts. Every character has the clearness, boldness and precision of a wood-cut. The long letters do not rise or fall in an undue degree above the others. Upon the whole, this is a hand which pleases us much, although its _bizarrerie_ is rather too piquant for the general taste. Should its writer devote himself more exclusively to light letters, we predict his future eminence. The paper on which our epistles are written is very fine, clear, and _white_, with gilt edges. The seal is neat, and just sufficient wax has been used for the impression. All this betokens a love of the elegant without effeminacy.

The hand-writing of Grenville Mellen is somewhat peculiar, and partakes largely of the character of his signature as seen above. The whole is highly indicative of the poet’s flighty, hyper-fanciful character, with his unsettled and often erroneous ideas of the beautiful. His straining after effect is well paralleled in the formation of the preposterous G in the signature, with the two dots by its side. Mr. Mellen has genius unquestionably, but there is something in his temperament which obscures it.[3]

[3] Since this article was prepared for the press, we have been grieved to hear of the death of Mr. Mellen.

No correct notion of Mr. Paulding’s literary peculiarities can be obtained from an inspection of his MS., which, no doubt, has been strongly modified by adventitious circumstances. His small _a_s, _t_s, and _c_s are all alike, and the style of the characters generally is French, although the entire MS. has much the appearance of Greek text. The paper which he ordinarily uses is of a very fine glossy texture, and of a blue tint, with gilt edges. His signature is a good specimen of his general hand.

Mrs. Sigourney seems to take much pains with her MSS. Apparently she employs _black lines_. Every _t_ is crossed, and every _i_ dotted, with precision, while the punctuation is faultless. Yet the whole has nothing of effeminacy or formality. The individual characters are large, well and freely formed, and preserve a perfect uniformity throughout. Something in her hand-writing puts us in mind of Mr. Paulding’s. In both MSS. perfect regularity exists, and in both the style is _formed_ or _decided_. Both are beautiful; yet Mrs. Sigourney’s is the most legible, and Mr. Paulding’s nearly the most illegible in the world. From that of Mrs. S. we might easily form a true estimate of her compositions. Freedom, dignity, precision, and grace, without originality, may be properly attributed to her. She has fine taste, without genius. Her paper is usually good—the seal small, of green and gold wax, and without impression.

Mr. Walsh’s MS. is peculiar, from its large, sprawling and irregular appearance—rather rotund than angular. It always seems to have been hurriedly written. The _t_s are crossed with a sweeping scratch of the pen, which gives to his epistles a somewhat droll appearance. A _dictatorial_ air pervades the whole. His paper is of ordinary quality. His seal is commonly of brown wax mingled with gold, and bears a Latin motto, of which only the words _trans_ and _mortuus_ are legible.

Mr. Walsh cannot be denied talent; but his reputation, which has been bolstered into being by a _clique_, is not a thing to live. A blustering self-conceit betrays itself in his chirography, which upon the whole, is not very dissimilar to that of Mr. E. Everett, of whom we shall speak hereafter.

Mr. Ingraham, or Ingrahame, (for he writes his name sometimes with, and sometimes without the _e_,) is one of our most _popular_ novelists, if not one of our best. He appeals always to the taste of the ultra-romanticists, (as a matter, we believe, rather of pecuniary policy than of choice) and thus is obnoxious to the charge of a certain cut-and-thrust, blue-fire, melodramaticism. Still, he is capable of better things. His chirography is very unequal; at times, sufficiently clear and flowing, at others, shockingly scratchy and uncouth. From it nothing whatever can be predicated, except an uneasy vacillation of temper and of purpose.

Mr. Bryant’s MS. puts us entirely at fault. It is one of the most common-place clerk’s hands which we ever encountered, and has no character about it beyond that of the day-book and ledger. He writes, in short, what mercantile men and professional pen-men call a fair hand, but what artists would term an abominable one. Among its regular up and down strokes, waving lines and hair-lines, systematic taperings and flourishes, we look in vain for the force, polish, and decision of the poet. The _picturesque_, to be sure, is equally deficient in his chirography and in his poetical productions.

Mr. Halleck’s hand is strikingly indicative of his genius. We see in it some force, more grace, and little of the picturesque. There is a great deal of freedom about it, and his MSS. seem to be written _currente calamo_, but without hurry. His flourishes, which are not many, look as if thoughtfully planned, and deliberately, yet firmly executed. His paper is very good, and of a blueish tint—his seal of red wax.

Mr. Willis, when writing carefully, would write a hand nearly resembling that of Mr. Halleck; although no similarity is perceptible in the signatures. His usual chirography is dashing, free, and not ungraceful, but is sadly deficient in force and picturesqueness.

It has been the fate of this gentleman to be alternately condemned _ad infinitum_, and lauded _ad nauseam_—a fact which speaks much in his praise. We know of no American writer who has evinced greater versatility of talent; that is to say, of high talent, often amounting to genius; and we know of none who has more narrowly missed placing himself at the head of our letters.

The paper of Mr. Willis’ epistles is always fine, and glossy. At present, he employs a somewhat large seal, with a dove, or carrier-pigeon, at the top, the word “Glenmary” at bottom, and the initials “N. P. W.” in the middle.

Mr. Dawes has been long known as a poet; but his claims are scarcely yet settled—his friends giving him rank with Bryant and Halleck, while his opponents treat his pretensions with contempt. The truth is, that the author of “Geraldine” and “Athenia of Damascus” has written occasional verses very well—so well, that some of his minor pieces may be considered equal to any of the minor pieces of either of the two gentlemen above-mentioned. His longer poems, however, will not bear examination. “Athenia of Damascus” is pompous nonsense, and “Geraldine” a most ridiculous imitation of Don Juan, in which the beauties of the original have been as sedulously avoided, as the blemishes have been blunderingly culled. In style, he is, perhaps, the most inflated, involved, and falsely-figurative, of any of our more noted poets. This defect, of course, is only fully appreciable in what are termed his “sustained efforts,” and thus his shorter pieces are often exceedingly good. His apparent erudition is mere verbiage, and, were it real, would be lamentably out of place where we see it. He seems to have been infected with a blind admiration of Coleridge—especially of his mysticism and cant.

H. W. Longfellow, (Professor of Moral Philosophy at Harvard,) is entitled to the first place among the poets of America—certainly to the first place among those who have put themselves prominently forth as poets. His good qualities are all of the highest order, while his sins are chiefly those of affectation and imitation—an imitation sometimes verging upon downright theft.

His MS. is remarkably good, and is fairly exemplified in the signature. We see here plain indications of the force, vigor, and glowing richness of his literary style; the deliberate and steady _finish_ of his compositions. The man who writes thus may not accomplish much, but what he does, will always be thoroughly done. The main beauty, or at least one great beauty of his poetry, is that of _proportion_; another, is a freedom from extraneous embellishment. He oftener runs into affectation through his endeavors at simplicity, than through any other cause. Now this rigid simplicity and proportion are easily perceptible in the MS., which, altogether, is a very excellent one.

The Rev. J. Pierpont, who, of late, has attracted so much of the public attention, is one of the most accomplished poets in America. His “Airs of Palestine” is distinguished by the sweetness and vigor of its versification, and by the grace of its sentiments. Some of his shorter pieces are exceedingly terse and forcible, and none of our readers can have forgotten his Lines on Napoleon. His rhythm is at least equal in strength and modulation to that of any poet in America. Here he resembles Milman and Croly.

His chirography, nevertheless, indicates nothing beyond the common-place. It is an ordinary clerk’s hand—one which is met with more frequently than any other. It is decidedly _formed_; and we have no doubt that he _never_ writes otherwise than thus. The MS. of his school-days has probably been persisted in to the last. If so, the fact is in full consonance with the steady precision of his style. The flourish at the end of the signature is but a part of the writer’s general enthusiasm.

Mr. Simms is the author of “Martin Faber,” “Atalantis,” “Guy Rivers,” “The Partisan,” “Mellichampe,” “The Yemassee,” “The Damsel of Darien,” “The Black Riders of the Congaree,” and one or two other productions, among which we must not forget to mention several fine poems. As a poet, indeed, we like him far better than as a novelist. His qualities in this latter respect _resemble_ those of Mr. Kennedy, although he equals him in no particular, except in his appreciation of the graceful. In his sense of beauty he is Mr. K.’s superior, but falls behind him in force, and the other attributes of the author of Swallow Barn. These differences and resemblances are well shown in the MSS. That of Mr. S. has more slope, and more uniformity in detail, with less in the mass—while it has also less of the picturesque, although still much. The middle name is Gilm_o_re; in the cut it looks like Gilm_e_re.

The Rev. Orestes A. Brownson is chiefly known to the literary world as the editor of the “Boston Quarterly Review,” a work to which he contributes, each quarter, at least two-thirds of the matter. He has published little in book form—his principal works being “Charles Elwood,” and “New Views.” Of these, the former production is, in many respects, one of the highest merit. In logical accuracy, in comprehensiveness of thought, and in the evident frankness and desire for truth in which it is composed, we know of few theological treatises which can be compared with it. Its conclusion, however, bears about it a species of hesitation and inconsequence, which betray the fact that the writer has not altogether succeeded in convincing himself of those important truths which he is so anxious to impress upon his readers. We must bear in mind, however, that this is the fault of Mr. Brownson’s subject, and not of Mr. Brownson. However well a man may reason on the great topics of God and immortality, he will be forced to admit tacitly in the end, that God and immortality are things to be felt, rather than demonstrated.

On subjects less indefinite, Mr. B. reasons with the calm and convincing force of a Combe. He is, in every respect, an extraordinary man, and with the more extensive resources which would have been afforded him by early education, could not have failed to bring about important results.

His MS. indicates, in the most striking manner, the unpretending simplicity, directness, and especially, the _indefatigability_ of his mental character. His signature is more _petite_ than his general chirography.

Judge Beverly Tucker, of the College of William and Mary, Virginia, is the author of one of the best novels ever published in America—“George Balcombe”—although, for some reason, the book was never a popular favorite. It was, perhaps, somewhat too didactic for the general taste.

He has written a great deal, also, for the “Southern Literary Messenger” at different times; and, at one period, acted in part, if not altogether, as editor of that Magazine, which is indebted to him for some very racy articles, in the way of criticism especially. He is apt, however, to be led away by personal feelings, and is more given to vituperation for the mere sake of _point_ or pungency, than is altogether consonant with his character as judge. Some five years ago there appeared in the “Messenger,” under the editorial head, an article on the subject of the “Pickwick Papers” and some other productions of Mr. Dickens. This article, which abounded in well-written but extravagant denunciation of everything composed by the author of “The Curiosity Shop,” and which prophesied his immediate downfall, we have reason to believe was from the pen of Judge Beverly Tucker. We take this opportunity of mentioning the subject, because the odium of the paper in question fell altogether upon our shoulders, and it is a burthen we are not disposed and never intended to bear. The review appeared in March, we think, and we had retired from the Messenger in the January preceding. About eighteen months previously, and when Mr. Dickens was scarcely known to the public at all, except as the author of some brief tales and essays, the writer of this article took occasion to predict, in the Messenger, and in the most emphatic manner, that high and just distinction which the author in question has attained. Judge Tucker’s MS. is diminutive, but neat and legible, and has much force and precision, with little of the picturesque. The care which he bestows upon his literary compositions makes itself manifest also in his chirography. The signature is more florid than general hand.

Mr. Sanderson, Professor of the Greek and Latin languages in the High School of Philadelphia, is well known as the author of a series of letters, entitled “The American in Paris.” These are distinguished by ease and vivacity of style, with occasional profundity of observation, and, above all, by the frequency of their illustrative anecdotes, and figures. In all these particulars, Professor Sanderson is the precise counterpart of Judge Beverly Tucker, author of “George Balcombe.” The MSS. of the two gentlemen are nearly identical. Both are neat, clear and legible. Mr. Sanderson’s is somewhat the more crowded.

About Miss Gould’s MS. there is great neatness, picturesqueness, and finish, without over-effeminacy. The literary style of one who writes thus will always be remarkable for sententiousness and epigrammatism; and these are the leading features of Miss Gould’s poetry.

Prof. Henry, of Bristol College, is chiefly known by his contributions to our Quarterlies, and as one of the originators of the New-York Review, in conjunction with Dr. Hawks and Professor Anthon. His chirography is now neat and picturesque, (much resembling that of Judge Tucker,) and now excessively scratchy, _clerky_, and slovenly—so that it is nearly impossible to say anything respecting it, except that it indicates a vacillating disposition, with unsettled ideas of the beautiful. None of his epistles, in regard to their chirography, end as well as they begin. This trait denotes _fatigability_. His signature, which is bold and decided, conveys not the faintest idea of the general MS.

Mrs. Embury is chiefly known by her contributions to the Periodicals of the country. She is one of the most nervous of our female writers, and is not destitute of originality—that rarest of all qualities in a woman, and especially in an American woman.

Her MS. evinces a strong disposition to fly off at a tangent from the old formulæ of the Boarding Academies. Both in it, and in her literary style, it would be well that she should no longer hesitate to discard the absurdities of mere fashion.

Mr. Landor acquired much reputation as the author of “Stanley,” a work which was warmly commended by the press throughout the country. He has also written many excellent papers for the Magazines. His chirography is usually _petite_, without hair-lines, close, and somewhat stiff. Many words are carefully erased. His epistles have always a rigorous formality about them. The whole is strongly indicative of his literary qualities. He is an elaborately careful, stiff, and pedantic writer, with much affectation and great talent. Should he devote himself ultimately to letters, he cannot fail of high success.

Miss Leslie is celebrated for the homely naturalness of her stories and for the broad satire of her comic style. She has written much for the Magazines. Her chirography is distinguished for neatness and finish, without over-effeminacy. It is rotund, and somewhat diminutive; the letters being separate, and the words always finished with an inward twirl. She is never particular about the quality of her paper or the other externals of epistolary correspondence. From her MSS. in general, we might suppose her solicitous rather about the effect of her compositions as a whole, than about the polishing of the constituent parts. There is much of the picturesque both in her chirography and in her literary style.

Mr. Neal has acquired a very extensive reputation through his “Charcoal Sketches,” a series of papers originally written for the “Saturday News,” of this city, and afterwards published in book form, with illustrations by Johnston. The whole design of the “Charcoal Sketches” may be stated as the depicting of the wharf and street _loafer_; but this design has been executed altogether in caricature. The extreme of burlesque runs throughout the work, which is, also, chargeable with a tedious repetition of slang and incident. The loafer always declaims the same nonsense, in the same style, gets drunk in the same way, and is taken to the watch-house after the same fashion. Reading one chapter of the book, we read all. Any single description would have been an original idea well executed, but the dose is repeated _ad nauseam_, and betrays a woful poverty of invention. The manner in which Mr. Neal’s book was belauded by his personal friends of the Philadelphia press, speaks little for their independence, or less for their taste. To dub the author of these “Charcoal Sketches” (which are really very excellent police-reports) with the title of “the American Boz,” is either outrageous nonsense, or malevolent irony.

In other respects, Mr. N. has evinced talents which cannot be questioned. He has conducted the “Pennsylvanian” with credit, and, as a political writer, he stands deservedly high. His MS. is simple and legible, with much space between the words. It has force, but little grace. Altogether, his chirography is good; but as he belongs to the editorial corps, it would not be just to suppose that any deductions, in respect to character, could be gleaned from it. His signature conveys the general MS. with accuracy.

Mr. Seba Smith has become somewhat widely celebrated as the author, in part, of the “Letters of Major Jack Downing.” These were very clever productions; coarse, but full of fun, wit, sarcasm and sense. Their manner rendered them exceedingly popular, until their success tempted into the field a host of brainless imitators. Mr. S. is also the author of several poems; among others, of “Powhatan, a Metrical Romance,” which we do not very particularly admire. His MS. is legible, and has much simplicity about it. At times it vacillates, and appears unformed. Upon the whole, it is much such a MS. as David Crockett wrote, and precisely such a one as we might imagine would be written by a _veritable_ Jack Downing; by Jack Downing himself, had this creature of Mr. Smith’s fancy been endowed with a real entity. The fact is, that “The Major” is not _all_ a creation; at least one half of his character actually exists in the bosom of his originator. It was the Jack Downing half that composed “Powhatan.”

Judge Hopkinson’s hand is forcible, neat, legible, and devoid of superfluity. The characters have much slope, and whole words are frequently run together. The lines are at equal distances, and a broad margin is at the left of the page, as is the case with the MSS. of Judge Marshall, and other jurists. The whole is too uniform to be picturesque. The writing is always as good at the conclusion, as at the commencement of the epistles—a rare quality in MSS., evincing _indefatigability_ in the writer.

Lieutenant Slidell, some years ago, took the additional name of Mackenzie. His reputation, at one period, was extravagantly high—a circumstance owing, in some measure, to the _esprit de corps_ of the navy, of which he is a member, and to his private influence, through his family, with the Review-cliques. Yet his fame was not altogether undeserved; although it cannot be denied that his first book, “A Year in Spain,” was in some danger of being overlooked by his countrymen, until a benignant star directed the attention of the London bookseller, Murray, to its merits. Cockney octavos prevailed; and the clever young writer who was cut dead in his Yankee habiliments, met with bows innumerable in the gala dress of an English _imprimatur_. The work now ran through several editions, and prepared the public for the kind reception of “The American in England,” which exalted his reputation to its highest pinnacle. Both these books abound in racy description; but are chiefly remarkable for their gross deficiencies in grammatical construction.

Lieut. Slidell’s MS. is peculiarly neat and even—quite legible, but altogether too petite and effeminate. Few tokens of his literary character are to be found, beyond the _petiteness_, which is exactly analogous with the minute detail of his descriptions.

Francis Lieber is Professor of History and Political Economy in the College of South Carolina, and has published many works distinguished by acumen and erudition. Among these we may notice a “Journal of a Residence in Greece,” written at the instigation of the historian Niebuhr; “The Stranger in America,” a piquant book abounding in various information relative to the United States; a treatise on “Education;” “Reminiscences of an intercourse with Niebuhr;” and an “Essay on International Copy-Right”—this last a valuable work.

Professor Lieber’s personal character is that of the frankest and most unpretending _bonhommie_, while his erudition is rather massive than minute. We may therefore expect his MS. to differ widely from that of his brother scholar, Professor Anthon; and so in truth it does. His chirography is careless, heavy, black, and forcible, without the slightest attempt at ornament—very similar, upon the whole to the well-known chirography of Chief Justice Marshall. His letters have the peculiarity of a wide margin left at the top of each page.

Mrs. Hale is well known for her masculine style of thought. This is clearly expressed in her chirography, which is far larger, heavier, and altogether bolder than that of her sex generally. It resembles in a great degree that of Professor Lieber, and is not easily deciphered.

Mr. Everett’s MS. is a noble one. It has about it an air of deliberate precision emblematic of the statesman, and a mingled grace and solidity betokening the scholar. Nothing can be more legible, and nothing need be more uniform. The man who writes thus will never grossly err in judgment, or otherwise; but we may also venture to say that he will never attain the loftiest pinnacle of renown. The letters before us have a seal of red wax, with an oval device bearing the initials E. E. and surrounded with a scroll, inscribed with some Latin words which are illegible.

Dr. Bird is well known as the author of “The Gladiator,” “Calavar,” “The Infidel,” “Nick of the Woods,” and some other works—Calavar being, we think, by far the best of them, and beyond doubt one of the best of American novels.

His chirography resembles that of Mr. Benjamin very closely; the chief difference being in a curl of the final letters in Dr. B.’s. The characters, too, have the air of not being able to keep pace with the thought, and an uneasy want of finish seems to have been the consequence. A vivid imagination might easily be deduced from such a MS.

Mr. John Neal’s MS. is exceedingly illegible and careless. Many of his epistles are perfect enigmas, and we doubt whether he could read them himself in half an hour after they are penned. Sometimes four or five words are run together. Any one, from Mr. Neal’s penmanship, might suppose his mind to be what it really is—excessively flighty and irregular, but active and energetic.

The penmanship of Miss Sedgwick is excellent. The characters are well sized, distinct, elegantly but not ostentatiously formed, and with perfect freedom of manner, are still sufficiently feminine. The hair-strokes differ little from the downward ones, and the MSS. have thus a uniformity they might not otherwise have. The paper she generally uses is good, blue, and machine-ruled. Miss Sedgwick’s hand-writing points unequivocally to the traits of her literary style—which are strong common sense, and a masculine disdain of mere ornament. The signature conveys the general chirography.

Mr. Cooper’s MS. is very bad—_unformed_, with little of distinctive character about it, and varying greatly in different epistles. In most of those before us a steel pen has been employed, the lines are crooked, and the whole chirography has a constrained and school-boyish air. The paper is fine, and of a bluish tint. A wafer is always used. Without appearing ill-natured, we could scarcely draw any inferences from such a MS. Mr. Cooper has seen many vicissitudes, and it is probable that he has not always written thus. Whatever are his faults, his genius cannot be doubted.

Dr. Hawks is one of the originators of the “New York Review,” to which journal he has furnished many articles. He is also known as the author of the “History of the Episcopal Church of Virginia,” and one or two minor works. He now edits the “Church Record.” His style, both as a writer and as a preacher, is characterized rather by a perfect _fluency_ than by any more lofty quality, and this trait is strikingly indicated in his chirography, of which the signature is a fair specimen.

This gentleman is the author of “Cromwell,” “The Brothers,” “Ringwood the Rover,” and some other minor productions. He at one time edited the “American Monthly Magazine,” in connection with Mr. Hoffman. In his compositions for the Magazines, Mr. Herbert is in the habit of doing both them and himself gross injustice, by neglect and hurry. His longer works evince much ability, although he is rarely entitled to be called original. His MS. is exceedingly neat, clear, and forcible; the signature affording a just idea of it. It resembles that of Mr. Kennedy very nearly; but has more slope and uniformity, with, of course, less spirit, and less of the picturesque. He who writes as Mr. Herbert, will be found always to depend chiefly upon his merits of _style_ for a literary reputation, and will not be unapt to fall into a pompous grandiloquence. The author of “Cromwell” is sometimes wofully turgid.

Mrs. Esling, formerly Miss Waterman, has attracted much attention, of late years, by the tenderness and melody of her short poems. She deserves _nearly_ all the commendation which she has received. Her MS. would generally be considered beautiful; but formed, like that of most of her sex, upon a regular school-model, it is, of course, not in the slightest degree indicative of character.

Mrs. E. F. Ellet has published one or two books, exclusively of a volume of poems, but is chiefly known to the literary world by her numerous contributions to the Magazines. As a translator from the Italian, she has acquired an enviable reputation. Her hand, of which the signature above scarcely conveys a full idea, is clear, neat, forcible and legible; just such a hand as one would desire for copying MSS. of importance. We have observed that the writers of such epistles as those before us, are often known as translators, but seldom evince high originality or very eminent talent of any kind.

Judge Noah has written several plays which took very well in their time, and also several essays and other works, giving evidence of no ordinary learning and penetration on certain topics—chiefly connected with Israelitish history. He is better known, however, from the wit and universal _bonhommie_ of his editorial paragraphs. His peculiar traits of character may be traced in his writing, which has about it a free, rolling, and open air. His lines are never straight, and the letters taper too much to please the eye of an artist, and have now and then a twirl, like the tail of a pig, which gives to the whole MS. an indescribably quizzical appearance, and one altogether in consonance with the general notion respecting the quondam Major, and present Judge, than whom no man has more friends or fewer enemies.

Professor Palfrey is known to the public principally through his editorship of the “North American Review.” He has a reputation for scholarship; and many of the articles which are attributed to his pen evince that this reputation is well based, so far as the common notion of scholarship extends. For the rest, he seems to dwell altogether within the narrow world of his _own_ conceptions; imprisoning them by the very barrier which he has erected against the conceptions of others.

His MS. shows a total deficiency in the sense of the beautiful. It has great pretension—great straining after effect; but is altogether one of the most miserable MSS. in the world—forceless, graceless, tawdry, vacillating and unpicturesque. The signature conveys but a faint idea of its extravagance. However much we may admire the mere _knowledge_ of the man who writes thus, it will not do to place any dependence upon his wisdom or upon his taste.

This article will be concluded in our next number, and will embrace the autograph of every writer of note in America.

* * * * *

THE KING’S BRIDE.

BY J. H. DANA.

There is no scenery in England more beautiful than that to be found in portions of the New Forest. Huge gray old oaks, gnarled, and twisted, and aspiring to heaven; deep glens, overshadowed by canopies of leaves, through which the light but faintly struggles; vast arcades, stretching far away in the distance, and buried in religious gloom; wild wood roads, that wind hither and thither among the giant trees in fanciful contortions; and open, sunny glades, intersected by sparkling streamlets, waving with verdant grass, and now and then disclosing a fairy cottage nestled in the edge of the forest, are to this day, the characteristics of this favorite hunting ground of the conqueror and his immediate successors. There is a solitude about this old labyrinthine chace, which is perfectly bewitching. You may travel for miles, in the more secluded parts of the forest, without meeting a human being, or seeing the smoke of a single cottage curling among the foliage; but on every hand you will behold trees growing in the wildest luxuriance, and tread on a sward as soft and thick as the richest velvet. You will, for a space, hear nothing but the sound of a nut rattling to the ground, or the song of some wood bird down in a brake; and then you will rouse the deer from their retreat, a rustle will be heard down in the under-growth, and you will catch a sight of the noble herd, perchance, as they go trotting away into the darker recesses of the forest.

Such is the New Forest now, and such it was eight centuries ago, on a bright sunny morning, towards the end of summer. The hour was still early, for the dew yet sparkled in the grass, or pattered down from the foliage as the wind stirred among the forest branches. The scene was one of the loveliest the chace afforded—a bright glade embosomed in the most silent depths of the forest. The whole of this open space was carpeted with the thickest and greenest grass, varying in hue, at every breath of the balmy wind over the undulated surface. On one side, the glade was bounded by a gentle elevation, covered with stately oaks, whose giant branches, spreading out far and wide, buried their trunks in the obscurity of a constant twilight—and on the other three sides the ground either extended itself in a plain, or sloped so gently off, that the descent was nearly imperceptible. Thousands of wild flowers spangled the surface of the glade, some flaunting proudly on the air, and some modestly hiding under the long grass, yet all sending forth the most delicious perfume—while innumerable birds, of every variety of plumage, hopped from twig to twig, or skimmed across the glade, filling the air with untold harmonies,—and high in the heaven, a solitary lark, lingering there long after his fellows had departed, poured forth his lay with such sweet, such liquid harmony, that a stranger, unaccustomed to his song, and unable to distinguish his tiny form far up in the sunny ether, might well have fancied those unrivalled notes the breathings of an unseen cherubim.

Such was the scene on which there now gazed two beings, both beautiful, but one surpassingly so. The elder of the two might have been one and thirty, and both his face and figure were moulded in the noblest style of manly beauty. His broad brow, chiselled features, and commanding port, bespoke him one born to rule, although the simple and somewhat mean garb he wore argued that he was not rich in this world’s goods. The attire of his companion was richer, but less gay, and she wore the veil of a novice. Her face, however, made up in loveliness for whatever absence of ornament there was in her dress, and indeed she might well have challenged the world to produce her rival. The fair delicate skin through which the blue veins could be seen meandering, the snowy brow that seemed made for the temple of the loveliest and purest thoughts, the golden hair that lay in wreathes upon the forehead, and the blue eye whose azure depths seemed to conceal mysteries as pure and rapturing as those of heaven, made up a countenance of overpowering beauty, even without that expression, so high and seraphic, which beamed with her every word, and threw over each lineament of her face a loveliness almost divine. Her figure was like that of a sylph, yet full and rounded in every limb; and beneath her dress peeped forth one of the most delicate feet that ever trod green sward. She was perhaps eighteen, though she might have been younger. She sat now on a low bank, at the very edge of the forest, while her companion reclined at her feet, holding one of her tiny hands in his broad palm, and gazing up into her eyes with a look of the deepest, yet most respectful passion. Nor were the maiden’s orbs averted from his gaze, for ever and anon she would twine her fingers playfully yet half sadly in his locks, and return his look with all a woman’s tenderness.

“Yes, sweet one,” said the hunter, as if continuing a conversation, “I have sometimes, during our separation for the last six long months, almost desponded, especially when I heard how urgent my brother was that you should wed his favorite Warren, and when I reflected that your aunt, the good abbess Christiana, was so hostile to my suit. But I did you injustice, dear one, and thus,” and he kissed the hands of his companion again and again, “I sue for pardon. God only knows,” he added in a sadder tone, “whether I shall ever have my rights. They sneer at me now as a landless prince, and that purse-proud Surrey hath no better name for me than Deer’s-foot, because I am not always able to follow the hunt with a steed. But so long as thou art true to me, sweet Maud, all these will be as nothing; and the time may come when we shall yet be happy.”

“Fear not, Beauclerk,” said the princess—for it was Matilda of Scotland who spoke, and he whom she addressed was the younger son of the conqueror, the penniless dependent of him whom men called the Red King, “fear not—all, as you say, will be well. I feel it, I know it. Do you believe in presentiments, dear Henry?” and pushing aside her lover’s thick locks, she held her hand on his forehead, and looked with her sunny orbs full into his eyes, as if she would playfully read his very soul.

“Presentiments trouble me not much, despite what the books say thereof,” answered the frank hunter, “I trust rather to my sword and my good right arm, though forsooth, they availed me little when I was cooped up in St. Michael’s Mount by my two kingly and loving brothers. Aye! presentiments and prophesies, and such things, trouble me but little, or I would e’en have consolation now, in all my troubles, in calling to mind the words of my father—the saints assoilzie his memory!—since dying, he said, ‘that I should be inheritor of all his honors, and should excel both Robert and William in riches and power.’ By St. George, the riches had best come soon, for I gave my last mark away this morning. No, kind Maud, I place little faith in presentiments. But you sigh. If it pains you that I credit them not, why, then I am the most devout believer in all England,” and again he pressed that fair hand to his lips, “why do you ask the question?”

“Because,” said the princess, blushing at his eagerness, “I have had a presentiment that we should yet be happy, and that full soon. I know not how it is to happen; but of this I am assured, we shall live for brighter days. The abbess threatens me with the veil if I do not wed Surrey, and even now forces me, in her presence, to wear a tissue of horse-hair; but though I can as yet see no escape from the alternative, I am not the less certain that it will never be mine to choose. So now, despond no more, dear Beauclerk.”

“Thanks, thanks, for your cheering homily,” said the young prince laughing, for her sanguine words had affected him with an unusual gaiety. “I can hunt now with some spirit. Little does Surrey think, while he is getting ready for the chase and perhaps sneering at me as a laggard for not being up to set out with the rest, that I have stolen out into the forest to meet her for whom he would give the whole of his broad lands.”

What answer the princess might have made to this somewhat vain-glorious speech, we know not, but at this instant a party appeared on the scene in the guise of a knight, somewhat advanced in years, and as he approached hastily, he said:

“You must forgive me, my dear lady, if I urge you to take horse. The abbess knows your journey will have consumed but a day, and that you should have reached Wilton last night, and I shall have a hard task to excuse your protracted stay without betraying you. The men-at-arms are drawn up but a little space off, and, though they are all my servitors, it is best that they should know nothing to reveal. The prince here will understand me.”

“Assuredly, Sir John; and if he they call Beauclerk ever attains power, he will not forget those who befriended the landless prince. I will bring up Maud in an instant.”

The knight bowed, and retreated into the wood. A few parting words were exchanged betwixt the lovers, a few tears were shed by Maud, which were kissed off by the prince, and then, with one long, last embrace, they tore themselves asunder, and in a few minutes the princess had rejoined her train. Prince Henry stood looking vacantly in the direction where she had disappeared, until the sound of her beast’s tramp had died in the distance, when, slowly mounting his steed, who had awaited its master in a neighboring copse, he entered one of the forest roads, and proceeded leisurely onwards. He had journeyed thus about half an hour when he heard a hunting horn sound close by him, and directly he beheld approaching the gallant array of his brother.

“Ha! my good cousin Deer’s-foot, well met,” said the Earl of Surrey; “we have been looking for you. I told your friend here, who swore you were yet abed, that we should meet you afoot in the forest before the day was over—and thereon we have laid a wager. I trow we have neither won. It would be but fair to give you the bet, would it not?” said the gay Earl with a half concealed sneer, as he glanced from his own rich suit to the prince’s garb.

“You may both want yet, fair sirs, all you can spare,” answered the prince; “but let us see who will be first in at the death. You were always apt at that, my lord,” and he turned to the royal treasurer.

“Ay, and shall maintain my reputation, your highness,” said Breteuil, recollecting he addressed almost a beggar; “and, if I may judge by your steed, even against yourself.”

“We shall see—we shall see,” said the prince. “I lay you a new steed, my lord, I distance you to-day.”

“Done,” said the treasurer, laughing; “you have thrown away your horse. But here is the king, and lo!” and as he spoke the horn announced that a stag had been roused, “the game is afoot.”

At the word the eager sportsmen gave spur to their steeds, and the cavalcade swept gaily off in the chase.

Never had a more gallant array than that which now followed the royal stag, woke up the echoes of the forest. Knights and squires, priests and pages, warriors and ecclesiastics, princes of the blood royal and high officers of state, pressed forward in the chase, now scouring along the level plain, now dashing away through the arcades of the forest, and now plunging recklessly through brake and dell, as the hounds dogged the flight of the noble animal into his once secure retreat. Yet it was well worthy of note how compactly the hunters kept around the king, none venturing to outstrip him, and only a few of the oldest maintaining an even rein with him.

Often during the chase the prince and Breteuil passed and repassed each other, and at every recognition Henry would gaily remind the treasurer of his wager. At length, however, the pursuit became more hot, the king gave rein to his steed and pressed on, and in passing some broken ground the royal party became separated, and those who were younger or better mounted than the rest swept on ahead. Among these was Prince Henry, who, though his steed was none of the best, kept up a not ignoble pace, until at length his arbalast caught against a tree, and he was nearly thrown from his horse. He checked his steed at once, and recovered his cross-bow, but the string was broken, rendering the weapon useless.

“Ha! My gallant prince,” said the treasurer, as he swept by; “you can scarcely hit your game now, even if you keep on. I trow your steed is mine.”

“A malison on the string,” said the prince bitterly; “there is nothing left for me except to sneak back to Winchester. But, no! I bethink me now there is a forester’s hut somewhere nigh here. Ah! yonder is its smoke curling over the tree-tops. I will hie me there, and get a new string. If the stag turns at the dell below, he will head up this way, and I may yet win my wager, for, the saints know, I can ill afford to lose my only steed.”

With these words the prince again gave spurs to his horse, and was soon before the forester’s hut.

“Ho! there, within,” he exclaimed; “a string for the prince. Marry, old mistress, have they never a keeper here better than you?”

These words were addressed to an old woman who met him at the threshold of the hut as he dismounted, and who appeared to be the only human being inhabiting the cabin. And she was one who might well occasion the prince’s exclamation of surprise. Her skin was like that of a corpse; her eyes were sunk deep into her head; her hair was grizzled and gray; her long bony fingers might have been those of a skeleton, and when she spoke, her hollow sepulchral tones made even the courageous prince shudder. She seemed to pay no regard to her visitor’s inquiry for a string, but fastening her basilisk-like eyes upon him, she said or rather chaunted, in Norman French, a rude lay, of which the following verses are a translation:

“Hasty news to thee I bring, Henry, thou art now a king; Mark the words, and heed them well, Which to thee in sooth I tell, And recall them in the hour Of thy royal state and power.”

For the space of almost a minute after she had ceased, the prince gazed speechlessly on this novel being, awed alike by her strange demeanor, and her sepulchral eye. Nor were the words she chaunted without effect on her hearer. It was a superstitious age, and though few men of his day were less influenced by the supernatural than Henry, there was something in the sybil’s look which chilled his heart with a strange feeling, half fear, half awe. He had not recovered from his surprise, when a horseman rushed wildly up to the hut, and the prince had scarcely recognized one of his warmest friends, Beaumont, when that gentleman breathlessly exclaimed:

“The king is slain!—Tyrell’s arrow glanced from a bow and struck your royal brother to his heart!”

The words of Beaumont acted on the prince like the charm which dissipates a spell. He started, as if aroused from some strange dream, looked a moment in wild surprise at his companion, and gradually comprehending the strange and sudden transition in his fortunes, he sprung with a bound into his saddle, and plunging his rowels up to the heel in his horse’s side, exclaimed:

“Then this is no place for me—follow to Winchester, Beaumont,—and now for a crown and Maud!”

The next instant his horse’s hoofs were thundering across the stones, as he galloped furiously to the capital.

History relates how he reached Winchester, with his steed bathed in foam, and, without slackening his pace, dashed up to the door of the royal treasury, a few minutes in advance of Breteuil. History also tells how the energy of the young prince broke through the meshes of the wily traitor, and secured for Beauclerk the crown; but it does not add that, after the unwilling treasurer had surrendered the keys of the regalia, his new master said, half laughingly and half ironically, to the haughty peer who had so often neglected him when only a prince—

“Ah, my lord! did I not say I would win the race? I trow your steed is mine!”

The discomfited Breteuil bit his lip and was silent, but that night his best charger was sent to the royal stables; while the rest of the hunters, who were now fast pouring in from the chase, with the populace which at the first news of the Red King’s death had begun to shout “King Henry,” gathered around their young monarch and filled the air with their acclamations.

“Maud is right,” said the king to himself, as he beheld the enthusiasm displayed by his people, “to say nothing of the old sybil. Ah! what will my sweet one think when she hears this?”

Three months later and all the chivalry of the realm was gathered in the church at Westminster, while the populace without thronged every avenue to that princely cathedral. Never indeed had a prouder assemblage met at any royal ceremonial. The church blazed with jewels. Nobles in their robes of state; bishops and archbishops with mitre and crozier; countesses whose beauty out-dazzled their diamonds; knights and squires and pages of every rank; burghers with their chains of gold; men-at-arms encased in steel; halberdiers and archers; yeomen with quarter staffs, and foresters with arbalasts; men of every situation of life, and bright ladies, whose loveliness was beyond compare, were gathered in the gorgeously ornamented church, amid the waving of banners, the sound of music, the rustling of costly robes, and the smoke of ascending incense, to gaze on the marriage of their monarch to his fair and blushing bride. And there she stood before the altar in all her virgin beauty, her fair blue eyes suffused with tears of joy; while her manly lover stood at her side, the proudest cavalier in all that bright array. And when the archbishop ascended the pulpit, and demanded if any one there objected to the union, the whole audience shouted aloud “that the matter was rightly settled;” then again pealed forth the anthem, and again the incense rose in clouds to the fretted roof. The music ceased, the words were said, the crown was placed on the brow of the princess, and the hunter of the forest, amid the acclamations of his people, pressed to his heart the King’s Bride.

“Do you believe in presentiments now?” said the young queen, half laughing, to her royal husband when they reached the palace.

“I am a convert to your faith whatever it may be, sweet one. Nay! you shall preach no sermon over my retraction, for thus I forbid the homily,” and the king drew the blushing Maud towards him and fondly kissed her.

Many an iron monarch has, since then, sat on the English throne, and many a fair princess has been led by her lover to the altar, but never has a happier or more beautiful pair wore the regal crown in the realm of our ancestors.

* * * * *

MERRY ENGLAND.

BY J. R. LOWELL.

Hurrah for merry England, Queen of the land and sea, The champion of truth and right, The bulwark of the free! Hurrah for merry England! Upon thy seagirt isle Thou sittest, clothed in righteousness, Secure of Heaven’s smile!

When ruled the fairhaired Saxon, Yes, thou wert merry then; And, as they girt their bucklers on, Thy meanest serfs were men; And merry was the castle-hall With jest and song and tale, When bearded lips with mead were white And rang the loud Washael!

And, when grim Denmark’s black-browed prows Tore through thine Emerald sea, And many a wild blue eye was turned In savage lust on thee,— When, in the greenest of thy vales, The gusts of summer air Blew out in long and shaggy locks The sea-king’s yellow hair,—

Yet Alfred was in England, And merry yet again Thy white-armèd Saxon maidens were When, on the drunken Dane, The sudden thunders of thy war With arrowy hail did pour, And grim jaws dropt that quivered yet With savage hymns to Thor.

Thy merry brow was fair and free, Thine eye gleamed like a lance, When thy good ash and yew did crush The gilded knights of France; When Paris shook within her walls And trembled as she saw Her snow-white lilies trampled down Beneath thy lion’s paw.

Queen Bess’s days were merry days, Renowned in song and tale, Stout days that saw the last brown bead Of many a tun of ale; Queen Bess’s days were golden days And thou full proudly then Did’st suckle at thy healthy breasts The best of Englishmen.

Thou hast been merry, England, But art thou merry now, With sweat of agonizing years Upon thy harlot brow, Grimed with the smoke of furnaces That forge with damned art The bars of darkness that shut in The poor man’s starving heart?

Oh free and Christian England! The Hindu wife no more Shall burn herself in that broad realm Saint George’s cross waves o’er; Thou art the champion of the right, The friend of the opprest, And none but freemen now shall tread Thine Indies of the West.

But thou canst ship thy poison, Wrung from lean Hindu slaves, To fill all China with dead souls That rot in living graves; And, that thy faith may not be seen Barren of goodly works, At Saint Jean D’Acre thou sent’st up To Heaven three thousand Turks.

Fling high your greasy caps in air, Slaves of the forge and loom, If on the soil ye’re pent and starved Yet underneath there’s room; Fling high your caps, for, God be praised, Your epitaph shall be, “Who sets his foot on English soil Thenceforward he is free!”

Shout too for merry England Ye factory-children thin, Upon whose little hearts the sun Hath never once looked in; For, when your hollow eyes shall close The poor-house hell to balk, (Thank God for liberty of speech) The parliament will talk.

Thank God, lean sons of Erin, Who reverence the Pope In England consciences are free And ye are free—to hope; And if the Church of England priest Distrain—why, what of that? Their consciences are freer still Who wear the shovel-hat.

The poet loves the silent past, And, in his fruitful rhyme, He sets the fairest flowers o’er The grave of buried time; But, from the graves of thy dark years, The night-shade’s ugly blue And spotted henbane shall grow up To poison Heaven’s dew.

Woe to thee, fallen England, Who hast betrayed the word, And knelt before a Church when thou Shouldst kneel before the Lord! And, for that scarlet woman Who sits in places high, There cometh vengeance swift to quench The lewdness in her eye.

Woe to thee, fallen England, Who, in thy night-mare sleep, O’er a volcano’s heart dost toss Whence sudden wrath shall leap Of that forgotten Titan Who now is trodden down That one weak Guelphic girl may wear Her plaything of a crown!

That Titan’s heart is heaving now, And, with its huge uprise, On their sand basements lean and crack The old moss-covered lies; For freedom through long centuries Lives in eternal youth, And nothing can for ever part The human soul and truth.

* * * * *

MARRIAGE.

BY RUFUS DAWES.

The inmost region of the mind, where dwells The essences of unborn thought,—those _ends_ In which Effects, through Causes, dwell in power, Opened. ’Twas in vision, and I saw A palace of vast size—such as the eye, The natural eye of man, never beheld. Its massy walls of unhewn agate towered, Girt by a colonnade of crysolite; And there were ninety columns of huge bulk, Sustaining an entablature of gold, Diamond and ruby, glittering like the sun.

The windows were each one a double plate Of spacious crystal, sliding from the touch Each side in golden frames. The portico Hung o’er a flight of alabaster steps, Extending to a lawn of delicate moss, Where browsed a flock of innocent, white lambs, That little children garlanded with flowers. Around the palace, orchard-trees were seen, Laden with fruit celestial, that hung down Like gems among the gold and silver leaves. Majestic vines, heavy with clustering grapes, In large festoons swung gorgeously between The opulent boughs that dropped with nectarines.

’Twas on a mountain’s summit, high and broad, Commanding a magnificent expanse, Where Art, in its essential excellence, Glowed in potential forms, where Nature, too, Un-ultimated in terrestrial things, Bloomed in angelic beauty. To the east A river, brinked luxuriantly with flowers, Lapsed silently. The deep-enameled dome, Whose measureless horizon knew no bounds, Was draped with clouds that broke celestial rays, Shining down shadowless. Turning, I saw A pair of Consorts, whose exalted home Was in this paradise. No forms of earth, No mortal lineaments—no reach of thought Poetic, when imagination wings Homeward to Heaven, could in the least compare With their angelic radiance;—they were Beauty itself in form,—two, and yet one,— One angel male and female—a true Man. He was her Understanding, she his Will; Thence, but one mind in heavenly marriage formed. Her love was cradled in his thought, that loved Her love and nursed it—as the tender drops Clasp the warm sunbeams, while the smile of Heaven Breaks in the rainbow. Such is genuine love. He in his form more radiantly shone Than that sublime achievement of fine art, That shows the power of luminous Truth to kill Sinuous Error;—she, than Guido’s gem More beautiful, more human, and more true.

I saw, and lo! two dromedaries, each Bearing a golden basket, one of bread, The other of ripe fruit; they came and knelt. Each took and gave the other,—he the bread, She the ripe fruit. The dromedaries then Rose and departed. I beheld them kneeling Beside the river, and when they had drunk I saw them rise again and kiss each other, And then depart. I looked again, and lo! The consorts had withdrawn. They were the first Of the new birth of Marriage here on earth— A promise for the future, when a Time, And Times, and half a Time shall be fulfilled.

* * * * *

INDIAN TRADITIONS.—No. II.

FORT POINT.

BY D. M. ELWOOD.

“His spirit wraps the misty mountain, His memory sparkles o’er the fountain; The meanest rill—the mightiest river— Rolls mingling with his name forever.”

The beautiful towns and villages of Connecticut, bordering on Long Island sound, are not surpassed in quiet loveliness by any others in New England. The loveliest, perhaps, of them all, is Norwalk, situated in the western part of the State, on a river of the same name, which flows sweetly along through the centre of the town. The title, we confess, is neither euphonious nor romantic: but we would not have it changed even for the sweetest word that ever passed human lips. It was given it by the Aborigines on the day when the territory was first purchased from them, and refers, if we mistake not, to its extent northward from the sound, called by the Indians the _North walk_. It is, indeed, one of the most lovely spots in Nature. Its quiet harbor is studded with verdant islands of every size and form, while across the green waters Long Island is seen, its dim outline scarcely distinguishable from the blue expanse beyond. The sound through its whole length is spotted with sheets of snowy canvass spread to catch the breeze, and anon the majestic steamer, like some huge leviathan, comes laboring on her way, proudly dashing aside the foaming waters from her prow, and leaving far behind a whitened, widening track. But when the Storm King is abroad, the crested waves pursue each other in continual chase, and the long, swelling billows break upon the shore, sending forth their rich music in the deep organ tones of nature.

On the eastern side of the river, and directly opposite the present steamboat landing, is a large circular mound, some twenty feet high, and covering a surface of about an acre. It is perfectly level on the top, and bordered with large, tall cedars. It is now commonly known by the inhabitants in the vicinity as Old Fort Point.

There is a tradition respecting the object and the erection of this mound, which I have with difficulty procured, and which maybe interesting to many who have visited the place, if not to strangers. For its truth, in all particulars, I will not vouch, but give it substantially as it has come down to us.

About two centuries ago, there lived, on the level country about what is now Fort Point, but what was then called Naumkeag, one of those large tribes of native Indians, which, at the time when this land was first visited by Europeans, were scattered over the country from the shores of the Atlantic to the great valley of the west. The Indians had not then been degraded by their intercourse with the whites. The peculiarities of their nature had not been modified by the influence of civilization. Their tastes had not been pampered, nor their appetites excited by the fatal “fire water” introduced by their destroyers, nor their bodily strength wasted by diseases, loathsome and deadly, and till then unknown among them.

From the feathered flocks of the forest and the finny tribes of the sea, they derived an ample subsistence; the shores, too, abounded in shell fish, and the forests with game, so that want and famine were never dreamt of by the happy and proud inhabitants of Naumkeag.

Many years before the time of this sketch a large colony separated from the principal tribe and moved northward, settling themselves in the mountainous regions of Massachusetts. This colony embraced about a quarter of the whole tribe at Naumkeag—and being composed mostly of young men and their wives, they soon became nearly as powerful as the people whom they had left.

Although many miles lay between them, these two tribes long kept up a friendly intercourse with each other, and forgot not that they had sprung from the same common stock. Miles were passed over almost as easily by those hardy foresters as they are by us at the present day, even with the help of iron roads and steam carriages. Great power of endurance was natural to their constitution, and especially was the fatigue of a long and rapid journey borne without inconvenience.

There was one of the Wannamoisetts, as those who had removed from Naumeag now called themselves, who was more frequent by far in his visits to the sea shore than any other of his tribe. Every second moon found him treading the forest with his face toward the south. His journey usually occupied from two to three days. Occasionally he remained at Naumkeag for a week at a time, though for the most part, his visits were less protracted.

Mononchee had of course some object or incentive for being thus frequent and regular in his attendance at the home of his ancestors. His very distant relationship to the tribe would hardly demand such an excess of filial affection. The truth was, there was a magnet of attraction in the person of a young maiden of Naumkeag, the sister-in-law of the chief, Wappaconet; and a powerful magnet it was too,—for there was not another in the whole village that possessed a brighter eye or a more perfect form. Her step almost realized the description of the poet,

“————and fell, Trembling and soft, like moon-light on the earth.”

Noalwa was not insensible to the attentions of her constant swain; on the contrary, his wooings were quite successful. His bravery and his manly strength—his tall and well formed person, and flashing eye, were well calculated to win the admiration, and, in due course, the affections of the gentle being upon whom his own desires centered; and the many soft things that he whispered in her ear, (for even an Indian _in love_ can utter the sweetest phrases with a honied mouth,) found a deep lodgment in her heart. And it was noticed that when the period of his visits was near at hand, her step was still lighter than usual, and her eye danced with a new, but soft fire, though at such times she spoke less, and seemed thoughtful but not sad.

One evening—it was in the beginning of June, that season so favorable to young lovers—Mononchee surprised Noalwa sitting under a large tree close upon the shore. The hour and the place seemed as if under the influence of enchantment. The scene was like a fairy land. The broad sound was spread out before her, upon whose surface the clear moon shed her softened rays, which, as from a mirror, were reflected back on every side, giving to all things around an unnatural and unearthly brightness. There seemed a spell upon the air. It stirred not—but hung over the earth and the sea as if to heal every imperfection on the face of nature by its bland and genial influence.

Noalwa had not been long there. An unwelcome intruder had invaded the hour which she had set apart for solitude and for communion in spirit and in fancy with her absent but adored lover. The intruder had hardly left her sight ere he was banished from her thoughts, and as it was about a week earlier than the customary time of Mononchee’s coming, she was thinking how long the days would be till she saw him, when she felt a warm kiss upon her cheek. She screamed not—spoke not—for a deep-seated feeling at her heart told her that those were no forbidden lips that could kindle such raptures in her soul.

She gazed up at the face and form that was bending over her with all the fondness of a first love, and the young Indian placed himself by her side and gently drew her to his bosom. Then followed a conversation in low, deep, earnest tones, that both came from, and reached the heart.

“The Wannamoisett is good—very good, to come so soon and gladden the heart of Noalwa,” murmured the girl as he pressed her to his breast.

“Who would not come early and often if Noalwa loved him?” replied he. “Her beauty is brighter than the sun! Her eye is clearer and softer than the moon which leaves a broad trail of light upon the water. She sings more sweetly than the Tichanet,[4] and when she laughs the whole air is full of pleasant sounds.”

“Did the Wannamoisett see any of my people as he came hither?” asked she.

“None—for I came down by the shore. Ah! yes, I did see one—Annawon, the Namasket.”

Noalwa hung her head.

“Where did Mononchee meet him?” said she.

“I saw him here!” vehemently replied the warrior, “here—standing on this very spot. I saw his hand grasp yours; nay, kneeling at your feet. I saw his eager look whilst you poured into his ear words which should have been kept for Mononchee!”

“Be it so then,” cried the maiden, her lips quivering with insulted pride, and her heart torn with the agony which the unjust but perhaps reasonable suspicion of her lover caused, “be it so! for I told him to go—ere he told me a tale of love—to his tent and behold the wasted form and the sunken eye of Tituba, his wife, once loved and cherished—now neglected. I told him that I could never be his, and that any one who suspected Noalwa would so dishonor herself as to break her faith with another, could not be worthy of her love. Mononchee suspects her, and to him let her words be applied.”

“But why suffer the Namasket to hold your hand? Why play with the serpent just ready to strike deep his fangs?”

“Mononchee is a keen-eyed warrior,” said the maid in irony, “he saw the hawk, but not the wren that drove _him from her nest_. He saw Annawon at the feet and holding the hand of Noalwa, but did not observe with what scorn she looked upon him—did not mark how she spurned and drove him from her.”

“I was deceived,” answered the repentant lover; “Noalwa has a pure heart, and never again will I distrust her. Seest thou that moon hanging yonder over the clear water? When it is again round and full, as it is to-night, Mononchee will come to take Noalwa for his wife. Will she be ready to go with him then to dwell where the hills are high and the deer are plenty?”

“I am yours—yours only,” and her blushing face was hid in his bosom.

After sitting for about an hour, the young man arose. “I must return,” said he, “to my people. Remember the full moon, Noalwa,” and he strode rapidly away.

A few days after the above occurrence the Namaskets were invited by the Wannamoisetts to partake of a grand feast of deer and bears’ flesh at their village in the mountains. Accordingly a large party of the active men of the tribe started one morning, and the evening of the next day found them with their friends at Cohammock. The Wannamoisetts had made their preparations on a grand, and, for them, magnificent scale. Piles of plump deer and still richer bears’ meat lay around, while kettles of dried sweet corn and beans, of the last year’s growth, were already simmering over the small fires, that the hard kernels might become well softened and ready for use on the morrow.

With the gray dawn of morning, all was bustle and activity in the village of Cohammock. The Indian matrons were early bestirring themselves that nothing might be left undone to mar the festivities of the occasion. Innumerable fires were kindled—the wooden spit and the seething pot, the two indispensable and almost the only culinary implements in use among them, were put in requisition. Whilst the preparations were going slowly on, the men of the tribe as well as their guests were idling listlessly about, their appetites every moment rendered sharper by the odor of the smoking viands that were soon to form their savory meal.

And truly the banquet was not unworthy the occasion. Just as the sun had reached the “middle point in the heavens,” piles upon piles of boiled and roasted flesh were spread under the shade of the tall sycamores that grew undisturbed in all parts of the village. A large bowl of the finest _succotash_ was placed before each guest, and if the quantity eaten be the standard of quality, never was there served up a better dinner than was that day disposed of in the rude village of Cohammock.

At length the repast was finished. Both guests and entertainers, with a prudence truly commendable, ate as if expecting a famine for a month, at least, to come, and nothing remained but to indulge in that supreme of Indian luxuries, tobacco. Pipes were brought, but alas! there was not a particle of the weed to be found. Some miscreant, a fair representative of that variety of our race at the present day—ever ready to engender strife, had stolen and destroyed all that was to be found in the village.

This was a deficiency that could be supplied by no other article. Venison or succotash or any other part of the edible entertainment could have been dispensed with, but the burning propensities of an Indian must be indulged. The Wannamoisetts were as much mortified as their guests were offended at this unfortunate occurrence, but it was with difficulty the Namaskets could be persuaded that it was not an intentional insult; so jealous were the natives of their own honor! Contrary to their previous intention, they left their kinsmen in the early part of the same afternoon, not caring to remain till morning with those who had, in their view, been so parsimonious in their hospitality.

Let us return again to the sea shore at Naumkeag. A month after the feast of Cohammock, a party of the Wannamoisett warriors were present at a grand collation, prepared by Wappacowat, the Namasket chief. Much were they gratified by this expression of his friendship, for they had always regretted the affair at their own village, and feared that an open rupture would be the consequence. They dreaded this, still cherishing some little spark of fraternal affection for those whom they had unmeaningly offended.

During the banquet, so busily were the Wannamoisetts engaged in despatching the shell and other fish which their friends had made ready, that they did not observe that Wappacowat and his followers partook but sparingly, so that by the time they had eaten almost to suffocation, and were illy prepared for the least exertion, the Namaskets had taken only what was just sufficient to stimulate them for any enterprise.

At length Wappacowat gave the signal to his followers to bring the calumet, and as he did so, a close observer might have discovered a gleam of gratified animosity shoot across his iron features and glisten in his snaky eye. Quickly moved his warriors, and the devoted guests half stupified by the vast quantities of food they had taken, saw the pipes well filled with the luxurious plant, but did not discover the tomahawk and the knife which they had concealed under their deer skin robes. They sat not smoking long, for suddenly the Namaskets rose and each one buried his tomahawk into the brain of the Wannamoisett next him. All—all were slain. So well had the treacherous, fratricidal plan been matured, that not a single one was left to carry to the desolate village of Cohammock the tale of blood and guilt. Ah! yes, there was one—Mononchee—the betrothed of Noalwa, who having neglected the feast that he might spend the time apart with the fair one, came into the village just as the last reeking scalp had been torn from the cloven skull. Looking an instant on the appalling spectacle, he uttered a furious yell and sprang like a deer towards the river. A dozen tomahawks flew after him, and as many dark warriors started in pursuit, but in vain, for with a few powerful strokes the brave youth gained the opposite bank, and bounding into the woods, effected his escape.

They were buried on the spot where they fell. Perhaps no shade of remorse passed over the minds of the murderers, but they could not leave the victims there for their flesh to rot and their bones to whiten in the sun. They were buried several feet below the surface, and the gloomy shades of night fell thick around before the last mangled body was hidden from the sight. And as the rising wind swept through the thick-topped pines and tall buttonwoods around, it wailed and sighed mournfully, as if singing a melancholy dirge over the graves of the gallant dead. And by the midnight hour it blew in hoarse and awful tones, and the death shouts and groans of the dead were heard commingling with the blast; and when the night was darkest, and all save the growling of the wind and these unnatural noises, was still, a lurid flame sprang up from the centre of the spot where the feast had been, and cast a sickening light on all things, and the earth opened around, and the bodies of the Wannamoisett warriors, bloody and mangled as they were, arose and danced around it, singing their war songs in unearthly tones, together with their wild requiem for the dead. Ghastly and horrible they looked, and as they danced, the blood flowed from their opening wounds, till it reached the strange fire, which instantly shot up in one lurid column of flame till it attained the blackened clouds, when it disappeared as suddenly as it had burst forth; the spectral revellers sank back again into their fresh graves, and all was dark and silent as before.

But when the morning broke the Namaskets beheld a spectacle scarcely less hideous than that of the preceding night. Their victims had been buried, as their custom was, in a sitting posture, and during the night they had all risen, so that their heads were fully visible above the surface of the ground. The bloody mark of the tomahawk was still there, and every scalp was torn off—and the eyeballs, projecting far from the sockets, were fixed and glassy, but of a burning red,—glowing like living fire. And from them rays of dingy red streamed all over the village,—and wherever one of the murderers went, those rays followed him, and pierced him, and seemed as if they were burning out his heart.

Reckless with fear and rage the murderers tore the bodies up from the ground and dug the graves still deeper and again they placed them in. But at midnight the red flame burst forth and the tempest howled fearfully. The phantom forms sprung up as before, and this time their flesh, from their shoulders downward, dropped off and was consumed by the fire, and a dense smoke arose, and a red cloud slowly gathered in the air, and hovered round and hung over the spot like a minister of vengeance. And in the morning their gory heads and glaring eyes had again struggled up above the surface. And when the fratricides saw them, a deadly terror crept over them and the demon of remorse began to prey upon their souls.

On the third night the scene was changed. The moon did not set at her accustomed hour, but hung just above the horizon, red as a sea of blood. And in the midst of the fire that shot forth from the earth at midnight, a form was seen like that of Wappacowat, the chief. But the ghostly images were there again, and they gathered round the form in the centre, and with their skeleton fingers tore off its flesh as fast as it was seared in the fire, and ground it in their teeth with ravenous appetite. When in the morning the dismayed villagers sought their chief they found him not, but tied to a stake where the midnight revel had been held was a skeleton, the bones all picked clean except the head, which had been cloven with a tomahawk, and from it the scalp was also torn, and in its features, distorted as if they had stiffened under the keenest tortures, they recognized the countenance of their king.

Dismay sat upon every guilty face, and a sullen gloom enshrouded every heart. The tribe finding it useless to bury deeper the bodies of their slain kinsmen now began to build over them—but every night one of their number disappeared, and in the morning his fleshless bones were found tied to the fatal stake; and still the heads rose, but every day there was one less than before. Then the dreadful truth flashed upon them that one of their own number must die in that fearful manner, for every one of the Wannamoisetts they had slain. As the number of their dead increased, which it did by one for every midnight hour, so did the number of spectre heads diminish. One murdered spirit was every night appeased, and appeared no more.

Still they kept on building that huge pile, and the dreadful occupation to which they clung as affording the only ray of hope that they might be delivered before their turn should come round, so wrought upon the guilty ones that they soon became almost as ghostly as the phantoms of the night which tortured them. But they faltered not in their task. Every day the heads were covered and every morning they were found in sight. And on the seventieth morning that mound was far higher than it now stands. There was then but one head remaining, for just seventy of the Wannamoisetts had been slain and just seventy were the murderers. At midnight of that day the strange revel was, for the last time, visible, for when the skeleton of Mononton, the last and most bloody of the fratricides was found, the last head had disappeared forever.

The remainder of the tribe left soon after in search of a more auspicious residence. Since the treacherous act of their brethren, famine had weakened them and the terrible plague laid many of their forest children low. But wherever they wandered, the curse of the Great Spirit followed them, and they dwindled away until finally there was no place left for them on the earth.

One fair evening in the next summer, two forms sat upon the very mound which forms the principal subject of this tale. One was a female of fairy proportions, and she looked abroad over the landscape with the eye of one to whom its beauties were familiar. Her companion’s face was buried in his hands, and his whole frame shook as if the recollection of some terrible scene were passing over his memory. And as the eye of Noalwa rested on him she, too, divining his thoughts, shuddered, saying,

“Mononchee! let us go hence, never again to return! I cannot bear to look upon these scenes where my people lived and where yours so sadly perished. These trees that we have planted around the mound which covers them will bear witness that their memory is still dear to us. Let us go, Mononchee!”

They went to dwell with those that were left of his people. Many and bright were their days. Plenty surrounded them. The tribe grew again and Mononchee became their chief. The trees which he planted around “Fort Point” sprang forth and flourished luxuriantly, and the large junipers that still remain are doubtless descended from that parent stock. But scarcely any other green thing will grow there; it seems a devoted place. Devoted let it be; sacred forever to the shades of those who are sleeping in its bosom.

[4] A wild forest bird.

Unionville, Mass.

* * * * *

NEVER SHALL MY HEART FORGET THEE!

BALLAD—SUNG BY MR. SINCLAIR, COMPOSED BY GEORGE O. FARMER.

_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.

Never shall my heart forget thee, Come what may of joy or ill; Love, the hour when first I met thee, Lives in mem’ry still. Beauty’s hallowed light was o’er thee!

Music’s spell was on thy tongue, Oh, to see was to adore thee, Maid of Avinlonge, Oh! to see was to adore thee, Maid of Avinlonge.

Maid, the shades of night are falling, The blest hour of love draws nigh; Like the voice of beauty calling, Floats the bird-song by. Tho’ our fond hearts fate should sever, Darkly doomed to pine alone; Still as first they loved, forever Should our souls love on.

Though from dreams of hope awaking. I can scorn Fate’s ire to me, Smile, tho’ my own heart be breaking, If Fate wounds not thee! Never shall my lips deceive thee, My devotion ne’er decline, Dearest, until life shall leave me, My whole heart is thine.

* * * * *

Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE.

THE LOCK—THE PERCUSSION SYSTEM—TRIGGERS—WADDING—AMMUNITION, ETC.

The flint and steel lock, like the matchlock, has had its day; and the one is as likely as the other to supersede the detonator. There were some sportsmen who long retained the flint in preference to the copper-cap. Their partiality for the old system arose from their inability to depart from the manner of taking aim to which they had been accustomed—they fired too forward! It was said, too, that a barrel fired by a detonating lock, did not throw shot so efficiently as the other. That objection is now obviated by making barrels perfectly cylindrical throughout the whole length of the tube. We prefer the copper-cap lock for its simplicity, to any other system of firing by percussion.

A bad lock, in these _march-of-improvement_ days, is rarely fixed to a gun. Since the use of detonators has become general, the quality of the lock is not of so much consequence to the sportsman as it was previously. The quickness of firing with the old flint and steel locks depended so much on the workmanship of the lock, that a properly-tempered and well-filed one was invaluable. The introduction of detonators has by no means improved the quality of the workmanship of the lock—it has rather deteriorated it. The fact is, the master gunmakers, finding the lock not so much looked at as formerly, are become indifferent to obtaining the assistance, or unwilling to incur the expense of first-rate workmen. The hardening and filing of a lock in an artist-like manner, requires no common skill. The best locks ever turned out were those made on the flint and steel principle, at the time when detonators first came into vogue; the smartness with which the percussion locks fired, obliged the makers of the flint and steel locks to bestow double diligence and labor on their work, conscious that a rival was in the field with whom it required no ordinary pains to compete. Flint locks, whether as applied to the fowling-piece or the musket, will soon be forgotten, or remembered only to give a romantic interest to some tale of other times, as the arbalast and long-bow serve only to remind us of our Norman and Saxon ancestors! It requires some mechanical knowledge and some experience, to decide on the merit of a lock. The vulgar method of trying one is this:—The operator draws back the hammer with his thumb, not touching the trigger with his finger, and if the works in the interior catch and snap smartly at the half-way, and when the hammer is drawn back, he may rely on the main-spring being sufficiently strong and free to fire the caps: then, with his thumb still on the hammer, he draws the trigger and lets the hammer glide slowly down upon the pivot. With a little practice he will be able, in some degree, to discriminate between a good lock and a bad one. To prove the difference in quality, he should take up a well-finished lock; that is, one of hard material, well filed, and having springs of a suitable and corresponding strength, and compare it with an inferior lock; by a nice touch he will perceive the difference: the hammer of the former slides backwards and forwards with a smooth, even force; whilst that of the latter runs rough and gritty, as if clogged with sand. If this somewhat uncertain mode of trial serve no other purpose, it will enable the shooter, when he takes up a gun that has been used since being cleaned, to discover whether the lock is sufficiently free from rust and dirt as to be fit for the day’s service; for most assuredly, if the lock be clogged, when thus worked backwards and forwards, it will not snap, or in sporting phrase _talk_; and in that case it would be unsafe to use it. A detonating lock that will bear this trial, and will invariably fire the cap, may be pronounced quite good enough for any sporting purpose.

The triggers should be what are technically termed _box-triggers_, and should be taken from the stock and cleaned at least once during the season, and oftener if very much exposed to dust, rain, or a damp atmosphere. They should be adjusted with scrupulous nicety, so as to require only a slight touch to draw them: they should not, indeed, fire as easily as the hair-triggers of duelling pistols, but should be fixed so firmly as that the sportsman should not be liable to discharge his piece, while bringing it up to his shoulder cocked, with his finger upon one of the triggers. The triggers may sometimes be regulated by filing, hardening, or softening the scear spring, or filing the wedge-like part of the scear which falls into the notches of the tumbler: and sometimes it is necessary to file that part of the trigger which comes in contact with the scear, but this operation requires to be carefully performed. A valuable lock should not be placed in the hands of an unskilful workman for the apparently trifling purpose of regulating the triggers, nor yet for any other purpose.

The wadding we should recommend is that made of felt, and anointed with some chemical preparation. We are not sure that this is the very best description of wadding, but we know of none better. New waddings are constantly invented. The metallic wadding, concave wadding, punched cards, or punched hat wadding, are any of them good, as regards shooting. The chief reason why we bestow a preference on the anointed wadding is, because the barrel is kept less foul, and may be fired so many times oftener without requiring cleaning, than when any other description of wadding with which we are acquainted is used. We are not partial to a tight wadding, but it should fit so that when the barrel is clean and smooth within, the charge will not stir. There is little fear of the charge stirring after a barrel has been fired a few times, as the place where the leading or foulness accumulates in greatest quantity is just above where the charge of shot lies.

Considerable improvement has been made in copper-caps since they were first introduced. The composition in all of them is now good; that which possesses the anti-corrosive principle is perhaps best. There is much difference in the copper of which they are made, but that is of little consequence when good locks with concave or well shielded hammers are used, otherwise those made of bad copper are said to be dangerous. We never heard of an accident from them. The shooter should be particular in procuring copper-caps of a proper size; for if they do not fit the pivots, considerable inconvenience will be experienced. When too small, they will not explode; and when too large, the cap on the second pivot is apt to fly off when the first barrel is fired. The shooter will find it convenient to carry a quantity of caps loose in his waistcoat pocket, with a reserve in a box (a metal box water-tight is best) to have recourse to should those in his pocket become wet. He should take care that there be nothing in his pocket to choke the caps; and by way of precaution, he should, before putting a cap on the pivot, see that there be no dirt in the cap, and that it be perfect.

The best powder does not soil the gun so much as inferior powder. After using good powder, a redness will be observed round the orifice of the pivot. After using coarse powder, a white or black appearance will present itself. The purer the powder is, the oftener may a barrel be fired without requiring to be cleaned.

When the measure on the flask is regulated as it ought to be, it will hold the requisite charge for a clean barrel on a warm dry day. It behoves the shooter, then, when the atmosphere is moist and the wind boisterous, to increase the charge of powder in each barrel in a trifling degree. However stormy the day may be, the shooter may prevent the particles of powder from being blown away while he is charging; but he cannot prevent them adhering to the damp leaded interior of the barrels. Indeed, if the barrels be damp, as they cannot fail to be if the air be so, and there be no wind at all, they cannot be held quite perpendicular, so that the whole charge of powder shall find its way to the breech. One-fifth of the charge will sometimes adhere. Doubtless, when tight wadding is used, the whole, or nearly the whole, of the charge finds its way to the bottom: but in what state? A portion of it is wet!—and the result is, that, when the piece is discharged, only four-fifths ignite!

The fowling-piece should be put by clean, oiled, and the barrels corked or stopped, and with the hammers upon the pivots. It should be kept in a cloth or woolen case, in a dry room, and, when not in constant use, occasionally rubbed with linen dipped in olive oil. The inside of the barrel should be frequently oiled, the oil being immediately wiped out with a dry cloth wrapped round the cleaning rod. Neat’s-foot oil is best for the lock, and linseed oil is recommended for the stocks, but it is so offensive that we prefer olive oil.

Large-grained powder is generally stronger than small-grained. It is well to be cautious that the grain is not so large as not to fill the nipple freely, or misfires will be the consequence. Powder which suits one gun may not suit another; the larger the bore of the gun, the larger should be the grain of the powder. An instrument for trying the strength of powder should not be trusted to: the best trial is with the gun in which the powder is intended to be used, and there can be no better target for trying the comparative strength of different powders, than an unbound book fixed firmly against something solid.

The heavier and harder the metal of which shot is made the better.[5]

[5] As shot is numbered differently by different manufacturers, we give the number to the ounce of the sizes to which we have referred:

A. A. about 40 A. — 50 B. B. — 60 B. — 75 1. — 80 2. — 110 3. — 130 4. — 180 5. — 220 6. — 270 7. — 350 8. — 600 9. — 1000 10. — 1700

CHARGING THE FOWLING-PIECE.

It is not usual to charge the gun until arriving at the shooting ground. When there, however advisable on the score of caution it may be, flashing off a quantity of powder to clear out, dry, and warm the gun before loading, has certainly a cockney appearance; the more sportsman-like practice is,—the party having reliance on the person who cleans his gun,—merely to permit the ramrod to fall lightly to the bottom of each barrel. The barrels are then held as perpendicularly as possible while the powder is poured in, so that nearly the whole charge may reach home, and not adhere in its descent. The barrel is then tapped with the ramrod, or the gun slightly shook against the foot, that powder may find its way into the pivots,—that is the more necessary when coarse-grained powder is used. A wadding is then gently pressed down. The shot is next poured in, and a slight shake of the gun in an upward direction causes it to lie evenly;—a wadding is pressed upon it. The shooter next removes the remains of the caps, and looks whether the powder has found its way to the orifice of the pivots, and if it has, he places fresh caps on; if powder is not visible at the orifice of the pivots, he removes any obstacle with a pricker, and contrives to push down a few grains of powder. It is very material to attend to this point, to prevent miss-fires.

THE WIRE-CARTRIDGE.

The wire-cartridge was invented, in 1828, by Mr. Jenour. It consists of a cylindrical case or network of wire, the meshes of which are somewhat more than an eighth of an inch square; at the lower end the wire partially closes; the wire case is then enveloped in fine paper, and at the upper end a cork wadding, cut so as to fit the gauge of the gun, is affixed, the case is then filled with shot and bone dust. The first cartridges made, though ingenious in construction, were defective in operation. It was a matter of no ordinary difficulty to fabricate them in such a manner that the shot should leave the case at the precise distance required. This at first could not be done so that they might be trusted in every instance; every alternate cartridge might fire well, but the rest would fire irregularly, being liable to ball,—that is, the shot would not leave the case until fifty or sixty yards from the gun, and such cartridges were, of course, not only useless but dangerous. They have been from time to time improved, and almost every difficulty has been overcome. The sporting cartridges now made never ball, they act with a considerable degree of precision and certainty, and that they may be safely trusted may be inferred from the fact that they are often preferred by persons engaged in pigeon matches. Various materials were used experimentally to fill up the interstices between the pellets, but nothing seems to answer so well as the material now used. Another difficulty in their construction presented itself. It was requisite to accommodate them to the various methods of boring used by different gunmakers, and the unequal length of barrels, the object in view being to produce a cartridge that would suit all barrels of the same gauge, and this has been in a great measure, if not wholly, accomplished. The liability to ball, notwithstanding various improvements made in them, was not effectually obviated for many years, during which they were tried, and in many instances prematurely condemned, either from real defects, or from the parties not knowing how to use them. They were not brought to perfection until the year 1837.

The wire-cartridges possess two principal advantages over loose shot; they are propelled with greater velocity, and thrown more evenly. A loose charge is always thrown in patches; the shots of a cartridge, as seen on a target, are comparatively equi-distant from each other.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Guy Fawkes; or The Gunpowder Treason. An Historical Romance. By_ William Harrison Ainsworth, _Author of “The Tower of London,” “Jack Sheppard,” &c. Philadelphia. Lea and Blanchard._

What Mr. William Harrison Ainsworth had been doing before he wrote “Rookwood” is uncertain; but it seems to us that he made his literary _début_ with that work. It was generally commended; but we found no opportunity of perusing it. “Crichton” followed, and this we read; for our curiosity was much excited in regard to it by certain discrepancies of critical opinion. In one or two instances it was unequivocally condemned as “flat, stale and unprofitable,” although, to be sure, the critics, in these one or two instances, were men of little note. The more prevalent idea appeared to be that the book was a miracle of wit and wisdom, and that Ainsworth who wrote “Crichton,” was in fact Crichton _redivivus_. We have now before us a number of a Philadelphia Magazine for the month of April, 1840, in which the learned editor thus speaks of the work in question—“Mr. Ainsworth is a powerful writer; his ‘Crichton’ _stands at the head of the long list of English novels—unapproachable and alone_. . . . This great glory is fairly Mr. Ainsworth’s due, and in our humble opinion, _the fact is incontrovertible_.” Upon a perusal of the novel so belauded, we found it a somewhat ingenious admixture of pedantry, bombast, and rigmarole. No man ever read “Crichton” through twice. From beginning to end it is one continued abortive effort at effect. The writer keeps us in a perpetual state of preparation for something magnificent; but the something magnificent never arrives. He is always saying to the reader, directly or indirectly, “_now_, in a _very_ brief time, you shall see what you shall see!” The reader turns over the page in expectation, and meets with nothing beyond the same everlasting assurance:—another page and the same result—another and still the same—and so on to the end of the performance. One cannot help fancying the novelist in some perplexing dream—one of those frequently recurring visions, half night-mare half asphyxia, in which the sufferer, although making the most strenuous efforts to _run_, finds a walk or a crawl the _ne plus ultra_ of his success in locomotion.

The plot is monstrously improbable, and yet not so much improbable as inconsequential. A German critic would say that the whole is excessively _ill-motivert_. No one action follows necessarily upon any one other. There is, at all times, the greatest parade of _measures_, but measures that have no comprehensible result. The author works busily for a chapter or two with a view of bringing matters in train for a certain end; and then suffers this end to be either omitted—unaccomplished—or brought to pass by accidental and irrelevant circumstances. The reader of taste very soon perceives this defect in the conduct of the story, and, ceasing to feel any interest in marches and countermarches that promise no furtherance of any object, abandons himself to the investigation of the page only which is immediately before him. Despairing of all amusement from the _construction_ of the book, he falls back upon its immediate descriptions. But, alas, what is there here to excite any emotion in the bosom of a well-read man, beyond that of contempt? If an occasional interest is aroused, he feels it due, not to the novelist, but to the historical reminiscences which even that novelist’s inanity cannot render altogether insipid. The turgid pretension of the style annoys, and the elaborately-interwoven pedantry irritates, insults, and disgusts. He must be blind, indeed, who cannot understand the great pains taken by Mr. Ainsworth to interlard the book in question with second-hand hits of classical and miscellaneous erudition; and he must be equally blind who cannot perceive that _this_ is the chicanery which has so impressed the judgment, and dazzled the imagination of such critics as he of the aforesaid Magazine. We know nothing at all of Mr. Ainsworth’s scholarship. There are some very equivocal blunders in “Crichton,” to be sure; but _Ainsworth_ is a classical name, and we must make _very_ great allowances for the usual errors of press. We say, however, that, from all that appears in the novel in question, he may be as really ignorant as a bear. True erudition—by which term we here mean only to imply much diversified reading—is certainly discoverable—is positively indicated only in its ultimate and total _results_. We have observed elsewhere, that the mere grouping together of fine things from the greatest multiplicity of the rarest works, or even the apparently natural inweaving into any composition of the sentiments and manner of these works, is an attainment within the reach of every moderately-informed, ingenious, and not indolent man, having access to any ordinary collection of good books. Of all vanities the vanity of the unlettered pedant is the most sickening, and the most transparent.

Mr. Ainsworth having thus earned for himself the kind of renown which “Crichton” could establish with the rabble, made his next appearance before that rabble with “Jack Sheppard.” Seeing what we have just seen, we should by no means think it wonderful that this romance threw into the greatest astonishment the little critics who so belauded the one preceding. They could not understand it at all. They would not believe that the same author had written both. Thus they condemned it in loud terms. The Magazine before alluded to, styles it, in round terms, “the most corrupt, flat, and vulgar fabrication in the English language . . . a disgrace to the literature of the day.” Corrupt and vulgar it undoubtedly is, but it is by no means so _flat_ (if we understand the critic’s idea of the term) as the “Crichton” to which it is considered so terribly inferior. By “_flat_” we presume “uninteresting” is intended. To us, at least, no novel was less _interesting_ than “Crichton,” and the only interest which it _could_ have had for any reader must have arisen from admiration excited by the apparently miraculous _learning_ of the plagiarist, and from the air of owlish profundity which he contrives to throw over the work. The interest, if any, must have had regard to the author and not to his book. Viewed as a work of art, and without reference to any supposed moral or immoral tendencies, (things with which the critic has nothing to do) “Jack Sheppard” is by no means the _very_ wretched composition which some gentlemen would have us believe. Its condemnation has been brought about by the revulsion consequent upon the exaggerated estimate of “Crichton.” It is altogether a much better book than “Crichton.” Although its incidents are improbable—(the frequent miraculous escapes of the hero, for instance, without competent means) still they are not, as in “Crichton,” at the same time inconsequential. Admitting the facts, these facts hang together sufficiently well. Nor is there any bombast of style; this negative merit, to be sure, being no merit of the author’s, but an enforced one resulting from the subject. The chief defect of the work is a radical one, the nature and effect of which we were at some pains to point out in a late notice of Captain Marryatt’s “Poacher.” The story being, no doubt, written to order, for Magazine purposes, and in a violent hurry, has been scrambled through by means of _incident_ solely. It is totally wanting in the _autorial comment_. The writer never pauses to speak, in his own person, of what is going on. It is possible to have too much of this comment; but it is far easier to have too little. The most tedious books, _ceteris paribus_, are those which have none at all. “Sir Charles Grandison,” “Clarissa Harlowe,” and the “Ernest Maltravers” of Bulwer embody instances of its superabundance. The genius of the author of “Pelham” is in nothing more evident than in the interest which he has infused into some of his late works _in spite_ of their ultra-didacticism. The “Poacher” just mentioned, and “The Arabian Nights” are examples of deficiency in the commenting principle, and are both intolerably tedious _in spite_ of their rich variety of incident. The _juste milieu_ was never more admirably attained than in De Foe’s “Robinson Crusoe” and in the “Caleb Williams” of Godwin. This latter work, from the character of its incidents, affords a fine opportunity of contrast with “Jack Sheppard.” In both novels the hero escapes repeatedly from prison. In the work of Ainsworth the escapes are merely narrated. In that of Godwin they are _discussed_. With the latter we become at once absorbed in those details which so manifestly absorb his own soul. We read with the most breathless attention. We close the book with a real regret. The former puts us out of all patience. His marvels have a nakedness which repels. Nothing he relates seems either probable or possible, or of the slightest interest, whether the one or the other. His hero impresses us as a mere chimæra with whom we have no earthly concern, and when he makes his final escape and comes to the gallows, we would feel a very sensible relief, but for the impracticability of hanging up Mr. Ainsworth in his stead. But if “Jack Sheppard” is a miserably inartistical book, still it is by no means so utterly contemptible and silly as the tawdry stuff which has been pronounced “_the best of English novels, standing at the head of the long list unapproachable and alone!_”

Of “The Tower of London” we have read only some detached passages—enough to assure us, however, that the “_work_,” like Yankee razors, has been manufactured merely “to sell.” “Guy Fawkes,” the book now lying before us, and the last completed production of its author, is positively beneath criticism and beneath contempt. The design of Mr. Ainsworth has been to fill, for a certain sum of money, a stipulated number of pages. There existed a necessity of _engaging_ the readers whom especially he now addresses—that is to say the lowest order of the lettered mob—a necessity of enticing them into the commencement of a perusal. For this end the title “Guy Fawkes or The Gunpowder Plot” was all sufficient, at least within the regions of Cockaigne. As for fulfilling any reasonable expectations, derived either from the _ad captandum_ title, or from his own notoriety (we dare not say reputation) as a novelist—as for exerting himself for the permanent or continuous amusement of the poor flies whom he had inveigled into his trap—all this, with him, has been a consideration of no moment. He had a _task_ to perform, and not a duty. What were his readers to Mr. Ainsworth?—“What Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?” The result of such a state of affairs is self-evident. With his _best_ exertions, in his earliest efforts, with all the goadings of a sickening vanity which stood him well instead of nobler ambition—with all this, he _could_ do—he _has done_—but little; and without them he has now accomplished exactly nothing at all. If ever, indeed, a novel were _less_ than nothing, then that novel is “Guy Fawkes.” To say a word about it in the way of serious criticism, would be to prove ourselves as great a blockhead as its author. _Macte virtute_, my dear sir—proceed and flourish. In the meantime we bid you a final farewell. Your next volume, which will have some such appellation as “The Ghost of Cock-Lane,” we shall take the liberty of throwing unopened out of the window. Our pigs are not all of the description called learned, but they will have more leisure for its examination than we.

* * * * *

_The Gift: A Christmas and New-Year’s Present for 1842. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia._

This volume of “The Gift” is superior to any yet published. Mrs. Embury has an entertaining story, and Miss Leslie’s account of a “Family that Didn’t take Boarders” is also quite amusing. Mr. Simms has a well narrated tale—Mr. Seba Smith has another—Professor Frost another—Mrs. Ellet, also, and the author of “A New Home.” We ourselves have one which is not ended so well as it might be—a good subject spoiled by hurry in the handling. The poetry, in general, is insipid. Mrs. Sigourney has not done herself justice. Lieut. G. W. Patten, U. S. A. has three effusions, neither of which do credit to the Annual. This gentleman, who writes frequently, and should therefore write well, is singularly remiss in his metaphors, and often grievously deficient in his grammar. What does he mean, at page 309, by

As sleep the brave so thou _should_ sleep (?)

or, at page 165, by

The storm is on the sea—I hear its _wings_ In _thunder fretting_ o’er the lifted wave (?)

This is surely a most singular instance of metaphor run mad! Here are three conflicting images at one time in the brain of the poet. By the word “wings” the reader is made to understand the prosopopeia of the storm as a _bird_; by “thunder” (a _natural_ accompaniment of tempests) he is brought back to the impersonified storm; by “fretting” he is left in no doubt that the writer’s ideas are running upon a _horse_—and all this in the compass of one line and a half!

The “Stanzas” by Park Benjamin have a rich simplicity which of all literary qualities is the most difficult of attainment, and of all merits the most uncertain of appreciation; but we are sorry to say that they are the _only_ good verses in the volume.

The engravings are very fine. We will speak of them briefly one by one.

The “Country Girl,” by Cheney from Sully, is a _truthful_ picture. The design is perfect. The only fault of the execution lies in the undue breadth of the face; this defect would be remedied by deepening the shade beneath the left ear. The work of the engraver is well done.

“Vignette Head,” by Cheney from Sully—one of the latter’s favorite heads—the face that of a pouting hoyden. The hair is beautifully _massed_. The _vignetting_ is carried too low as regards the bosom, from which half an inch should be taken off at bottom, or otherwise some lines of shading introduced to relieve it of its blank appearance. The arm is execrable—the hand worse—both are too massive and sinewy.

“Dulcinea,” by Cheney from Leslie. No fault can be found with this picture, which is admirable in every respect. The right arm, in especial, is exquisitely rounded and foreshortened.

“The Tough Story” by J. J. Pease, from W. S. Mount. Mr. Mount’s merits are those of acute observation and fidelity. These merits, although not of the highest order, have the advantage of being universally appreciable. This is an advantage which he secures—_clinches_—by dealing only in homely subjects. If he has ideality (a question which as yet we have had no means of deciding) and would employ his peculiar talents upon loftier themes, he might attain a very desirable eminence indeed.

Nothing could be more true to nature than the picture before us; but the painter has sacrificed to this truth (at some points) artistical effects of superior value. What can be more displeasing, for example, than the unrelieved nakedness of the wall in the back ground, or the situation of the group precisely in the centre of the design, or, especially, than the tall regular stove pipe, running up parallel with the back of the standing figure, and dividing the apartment exactly in two?

“The Gipsy,” by Cheney from Sully, is altogether out of drawing as regards the face, which is, again, too broad to the left. This is a very usual error in side faces. The fingers are badly engraved, particularly those of the right hand, which look as if covered with a net or pic-nic glove. The foliage in this picture is not very well executed.

“The Sled” by W. E. Tucker, from Chapman, is a most effective design, evincing the well-educated artist. The idea of rapid motion is skilfully embodied in the countenance of the boy, in the peculiar falling curve of the hill, and exquisitely _corroborated_ in the whirl of the clouds. This is the true artistical keeping. The limbs of the boy are too small for his head and body, and the left hand appears to have been cut from a turnip. This latter defect is chargeable to the engraver.

“The Raffle” by A. Lawson from Mount. This is another of Mr. Mount’s idiosyncrasies, and is absolute perfection _in its way_. The defects of the work (considered as a mere picture) which we pointed out in the “Tough Story,” are not observable here. The grouping of the figures and the arrangement of the design generally, are as admirable as the varied expression of the Yankee faces. The light, however, is too equally disposed about the room, and, in especial, upon the three middle personages. It is difficult, moreover, to imagine these three persons so illumined, and the back of the foreground figure at the same time so fully in shade. These are petty objections—but it is right they should be made.

“Portia,” by Forrest from Sully, is an engraving in which the mere mechanism is excellent; and, in fact, the work is, upon the whole, highly creditable to Mr. Forrest. The hands, however, are badly done; the left especially. Some knowledge of drawing is absolutely essential in one who copies. This knowledge cannot be supplied by even Chinese fidelity in depicting dot for dot and line for line. The picture, altogether, we prefer to any in the book. Were we in the habit of purchasing paintings this “Portia” by Sully is the only one here which we would purchase.

The paper of “The Gift” for 1842 does not seem to us sufficiently good. The binding is certainly magnificent, but would have been vastly improved by the use of a thicker board.

* * * * *

_Amenities of Literature, consisting of Sketches and Characters of English Literature. By_ J. D’Israeli, _D.C.L. F. S. A. 2 vols. I. & H. G. Langley: New York._

The reputation of the elder D’Israeli as scholar and philosopher is at least as well founded as that of any man of his age. He has given to the world a series of _peculiar_ books—books in which the richest variety of _recherché_ detail and anecdote about literary affairs, is made subservient to the most comprehensive survey and analysis of letters themselves, considered in respect to their important spiritual uses. He is the only _savant_ upon record who has busied himself, without pedantry, among the _minutiæ_ of classical lore. His works will last as long as the language in which they are written. The “Curiosities of Literature,” the “Literary Character,” the “Miscellanies of Literature,” the “Calamities of Authors,” and all but the present “Amenities of Literature” are, however, but incidental labors arising from a more extensive design—a “History of English Literature”—of which he thus speaks. “It was my intention not to furnish an arid narrative of books and of authors, but, following the steps of the human mind through the wide track of time, to trace from their beginnings the progress and the decline of public opinions, and to illustrate, as the objects presented themselves, the great incidents in our national annals.” In this magnificent project the philosopher was arrested by blindness. The “Amenities of Literature” is a portion and in fact the beginning of the great scheme which can now never be completed. We need say no more to recommend it to the reader. The two volumes before us are issued in the customary careful and tasteful style of the Langleys.

* * * * *

_The Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer, author of “Pelham,” &c. 2 vols. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

We have read these volumes with the highest pleasure. They embrace all of the known minor writings of Bulwer, with the exception of his shorter fictions; and we recognize in the collection several very excellent articles which had arrested our attention and excited our curiosity while their authorship was undivulged.

Mr. Bulwer is _never_ lucid, and seldom profound. His intellect seems to be rather well balanced than lofty—rather comprehensive than penetrative. His taste is exquisite. His style, in its involution and obscurity, partakes of the involution of his thoughts. Apart from his mere intellect, however,—or rather as a portion of that intellect—we recognize in his every written word the keenest appreciation of the right, the beautiful, and the true. Thus he is a man worthy of all reverence, and we do not hesitate to say that we look upon the charges of immoral tendency which have been so pertinaciously adduced against his fictions, as absurdly _little_ and untenable, in the mass.

The volumes now before us are plain evidence of the noble spirit which has constantly actuated him. The papers here published were written at various epochs of his life. We look through them in vain for anything false, as a whole, or unchivalrous, or impure, or weak, or tasteless, or ignoble. Were we addicted _jurare in verba magistri_, there lives no man upon whose faith we would more confidently rely than upon that of Bulwer—no man whose opinion upon any point involving a question of truth, or justice, or taste, we would be more willing to adopt unexamined.

We have been especially pleased with an article (in the volumes now before us) entitled “Literature Considered as a Profession,” and with another “Upon the Spirit of True Criticism.” Some remarks in the latter paper are quite as applicable to our own country as to Great Britain.

“‘To say this is good and that is bad,’ says La Bruyère, ‘is not morality.’ Very true, neither is it criticism. There is no criticism in this country—considering that word as the name of a science. A book comes out—it is capital, says one—it is detestable, says another. Its characters are unnatural—its characters are nature itself. On both sides there is affirmation, on neither proof. In fact no science requires such elaborate study as criticism. It is the most analytical of our mental operations—to pause—to examine—to say _why_ that passage is a sin against nature, or that plot a violation of art—to bring deep knowledge of life in all its guises—of the heart in all its mysteries to bear upon a sentence of approval or disapprobation—to have cultivated the feeling of beauty until its sense of harmony has grown as fine as the ear of a musician—equally sensitive to discord—or alive to new combinations:—these are no light qualities, and these are not qualities, it may be answered, to be lightly lavished away. Every new book, it may be said, does not deserve that we should so honor it. We need not invoke the Past, and summon all Nature to hear us praise a butterfly, or crush a bug. We may on slight works arrogate the censor—yes, but we must first have been chosen the censor, by the acumen we have testified on great ones. Now, when an author who has risen into eminence, who begins to produce an effect upon his age, whose faults it becomes necessary to indicate as a warning, whose beauties we should illustrate as an example—when such a man produces a new work, what is the cant cry of the critics? ‘The peculiar merits and failings of Mr. So and So are too well known for us at this time of day to repeat them. The present work has all the characteristics of the last—if it does not increase, it will not diminish the well-earned reputation of the author.’ Then come the extracts, and a word or two at the end as precise and lucid as those at the beginning, and——there’s THE CRITICISM!

“For my part, I please myself sometimes with drawing the ideal picture of a good critic, as Bolingbroke drew that of a patriot king. What a crowd of accomplishments, not easily seen by the superficial, belong to that character! Literature and morality are so entwined that you rarely find the real critic unless he is also the moralist. The union is almost necessary. In Quinctilian how beautifully the deduction closes the dogma! and even in Johnson the habit of moralizing gives dignity to his criticisms. In both sciences the study of mankind, of the metaphysical nature within us, alone insures a sound judgment: in both, without a delicate yet profound perception of the harmonious, the beautiful, the august, no commanding excellency is obtained. The goodness of a man and the goodness of a book are not such different qualities as people suppose. A person, however, _may_ be, though he is not often, a good moralist without being a good man: to preach and practice are faculties not inseparable. But I doubt if a man can be a great critic who has not, at least, the elementary qualities of a good man. I consider that he must keep the intellectual sight clear from envy, and malice, and personal dislikes. He must examine the work above and remote from all the petty considerations that attach to the man. He must be on the alert for genius, ready to encourage even a rival to himself. Where this largeness of mind is not visible, there is always something petty and crippled in the mind of the professional critic. He may make one great criticism, but he cannot criticise with greatness habitually. Perhaps he reviews some dead author—for the dead interfere not with the living; or he wastes a world of generosity, like Southey, in praising some rhymester of the pantry, who is little enough while he attracts honor to the praiser to plunge into forgetfulness the praise. The good critic—that rare ideal, must have in him courage to blame boldly, magnanimity to eschew envy, benevolence to search for obscure merit. He must have genius to appreciate, and learning to compare: he must have an eye for beauty, an ear for music, a heart for feeling, a mind for reason. ‘We are conscious of excellency,’ says some author, ‘in proportion to the excellence within ourselves.’”

We wish also to call attention to a very excellent article on the subject of “International Copyright.” The only paper in the collection which we could have wished omitted is one entitled “A Letter to the Quarterly Review,”—an attempt at vindictive retaliation upon Lockhart. We admire this gentleman quite as little as Mr. Bulwer can possibly do, but we grieve to see an attack which has neither vigor nor wit, and which proves nothing beyond the writer’s wrath and utter incapacity for satire.

* * * * *

_The Pic Nic Papers. By various Hands. Edited by_ Charles Dickens, Esq. _author of “The Pickwick Papers,” &c. 2 vols. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

The “Introduction” to this work gives us its history. “The premature death of a young publisher (Mr. Macrone) inspired some of those who had known him personally, or had been connected with him in business, with an earnest desire to render some assistance to his widow and orphans. They produced among themselves this work.” In the English edition there were three volumes; the third consisting of the “Charcoal Sketches” of Mr. Joseph C. Neal, of Philadelphia. This edition we have not seen; but have been astonished to hear that the London publisher has been so discourteous as to print Mr. Neal’s compositions, and the engravings which accompanied them, without the _name_ of the writer, or any farther acknowledgment than a few words speaking of the whole as “from an American source.” Comment upon such meanness seems altogether a work of supererogation; but, in truth, we are in the habit of setting our brethren across the water very bad examples in matters of a somewhat similar kind. That Mr. Dickens had any thing to do with the wrong now perpetrated, we will not, however, believe for a moment.

The contributors to the two volumes reprinted in Philadelphia are among the most celebrated _literati_ of England. We have, for example, articles from Dickens, from Leigh Ritchie, Allan Cunningham, Thomas Moore, W. H. Ainsworth, G. P. R. James, Agnes Strickland and several others. It might be supposed, of course, that the collection would be one of high interest: but we are forced to say that it _is not_. In a case like this, authors (who for the most part are unburthened with pecuniary means) are called upon to furnish _gratuitous_ papers. It is not surprising that, under such circumstances, they content themselves with bestowing whatever MS. they may have at hand, of least value. Scraps from memorandum-books; effusions of early years kept only as mementos and never destined for publication; fragments of tales or essays definitely abandoned by the author, who has become dissatisfied with his subject or the mode in which it was progressing—matters such as these form invariably the staple of compilations such as this. There is, moreover, another important consideration—one involving a very remarkable truth. The _refuse_ labor of a man of genius is usually inferior, and greatly so, to that of the man of common-place talent:—very much as the dregs of the _Côtes du Rhone_ are more viscid than those of Sherry or _De Grâve_. It is only necessary to suggest this idea to have it at once fully appreciated and understood. The man of talent pursues “the even tenor of his way.” He is at all times _himself_. With the all-prevalent law of action and reaction he has nothing to do. Never excited into wild enthusiasm, he never experiences its consequent and inevitable depression. Never boldly soaring, he never sadly sinks. To write well, the man of genius must write in obedience to his impulses. When forced to disobey them—when constrained, by the fetters of a methodical duty, to compose at _all_ hours—it is but a portion of his nature—it is but a condition of his intellect—that he should occasionally grovel in platitudes of the most pitiable description. And this fact will go farther than any one hitherto adduced, to explain the character of a fatality which has so constantly attended genius as to have become a sure index of its existence:—we mean the fatality of alternate high eulogium and virulent invective. Few men are conversant with the _whole_ works of an author. Now, in the case of two critics of equal ability, it may happen (and we know it _does_ frequently so happen) that the opinion of one may be based solely upon the author’s best efforts, while that of the other is deduced from some mere task-work labored out in hours of the most utter inappetency and exhaustion. The dissent of the latter (a dissent just if we regard only the means of judgment) will, of course, be extravagant in denunciation, precisely in the ratio of his astonishment and indignation at what he supposes the corrupt panegyric of the former.

Therefore, it should not be a matter for surprise that these “Pic Nic Papers” are very great trash, although written by very clever men. Their general merit, in our opinion, is below that of the mere _make-weight_ of our commonest newspapers and magazines. One or two of the articles are not _very_ bad:—Leigh Ritchie’s “Marcus Bell,” for example; a tale entitled “Aunt Honor;” and “The Lamplighter’s Story,” by Mr. Dickens. This last, however, is only tolerable through the manner in which it is told. There is not a single paper of _real_ value; and more consummate nonsense than the greater portion of the collection we never encountered in any respectable-looking book.

We cannot conclude our notice without a protest against the title-page. To call this paltry publication the “Pic Nic Papers,” and affirm it to be _edited_ by Mr. Dickens—thus inducing ideas of the popular Pickwick, is a piece of chicanery which not even the end in view can sanction. No body of men are justified in making capital of the public’s gullibility for purposes of charity, public or private—for any purposes under the sun. We do not hesitate to state the present case _plainly_. The title affixed to this work has been designedly so affixed, that purchasers, hastily glancing at it, may suppose it a book upon the same plan as the “Pickwick Papers,” and _written_, as they were, by Mr. Dickens. No one who reflects an instant can suppose the intention to have been anything else. Now what is this but the worst species of _forgery_?

* * * * *

_History of the War in the Peninsula, and in the South of France, from the year 1807 to the year 1814. By_ W. F. Napier, C. B., Colonel, _&c. From the Fourth Edition. Complete in Four Volumes. With Numerous Engravings. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia._

Colonel Napier’s “History of the Peninsula War” is a work whose general features are sufficiently well understood. In the thoroughness of its survey and in the minute and exact particularity of its details, if not in more important and comprehensive regards, it is equalled certainly by no other book on the subject discussed, and perhaps by few histories of any kind. The author’s extensive political acquaintance with the events agitating all Europe at the period investigated, and especially the part he bore in some of these events, with his obvious enthusiasm for military affairs, rendered him as fitting for the task which he has undertaken as any individual of his age. It may be said, indeed, and not altogether paradoxically, that he was somewhat _too_ well qualified for this task. The agitating incidents _quorum pars magna fuit_ have so forcibly impressed his imagination as to mislead his understanding in respect to the _relative_ importance of these incidents. He discourses of the “Peninsular Campaign” (pretty much, by the way, as all Englishmen discourse of it) as if _it alone_ were the proper subject of all human deliberation. No one will be willing to deny the interest which appertains to it, nor the magnitude of the results to which it led. We mean to say, however, that, except to Colonel Napier and the Duke of Wellington, it is not the only important topic in the universe.

Hitherto the American reader of history has been able to procure this work only from our public libraries, and the enterprize of Messieurs Carey and Hart in placing it within reach, is worthy of all commendation. They must have been at unusual expense in this undertaking. The volumes are thick octavos, and are illustrated by no less than fifty-five lithographed plans, (which, by the way, are not very well executed.) At the same time these publishers can scarcely expect remuneration from a very extensive sale. By public institutions and military men the work will be valued and purchased. But beyond these, with few exceptions, the public will content itself with the means already in its power of referring to the history in our libraries. The gentlemen in question are, of course, the best judges of their own affairs; but it does seem to us that they have erred in permitting the _foreign_ value and reputation of the work to influence them in making an American reprint.

* * * * *

_Ten Thousand a Year. By the Author of The Diary of a London Physician. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia._

There are several circumstances connected with this book which render it an important topic for the critic. We mean its unusual length—the previous reputation of its author—the peculiarity of its subject—the apparent under-current of _design_ which has been attributed to it—the wide difference of opinion existing in regard to its merit—and, especially, the fact of its being, if not precisely the first, yet certainly the chief of the class of _periodical_ novels—the peculiar advantages and disadvantages of which it will afford a good opportunity for discussing. We much regret, therefore, that we have left ourselves no room, in the present number of the Magazine, for an extended analysis of the work. This we may possibly undertake in December; contenting ourselves, in the meantime, with a few observations at random.

It appears to us that a main source of the interest which this book possesses for the mass, is to be referred to the _pecuniary_ nature of its theme. From beginning to end it is an affair of pounds, shillings, and pence—a topic which comes home at least _as_ immediately to the bosoms and business of mankind, as any which could be selected. The same _character_ in the choice of subject was displayed by Doctor Warren in his “Passages from the Diary of a London Physician.” The _bodily health_ is a point of absolutely universal interest, and was made the basis of all the excitement in that very popular but shamefully ill-written publication.

“Ten Thousand a Year” is also “shamefully ill-written.” Its mere English is disgraceful to an L.L.D.—would be disgraceful to the simplest tyro in rhetoric. At every page we meet with sentences thus involved—“In order, however, to do this effectually I must go back to an earlier period in history than has yet been called to his attention. If it [_what?—attention?—history?_] shall have been unfortunate enough to attract the hasty eye of the superficial and impatient novel-reader, I make no doubt that by such a one certain portions of what has gone before, and which [_which what?_] could not fail of attracting the attention of long-headed people as being not thrown in for nothing (and therefore to be borne in mind with a view to subsequent explanation) have been entirely overlooked or forgotten.” The book is full too of the grossest misusages of language—the most offensive vulgarities of speech and violations of grammar. The whole _tone_ is in the last degree mawkish and inflated. What can be more ridiculous that the frequent apostrophising after this fashion—“My glorious Kate, how my heart goes forth towards you! And thou, her brother! who art of kindred spirit, who art supported by philosophy and exalted by religion, so that thy constancy cannot be shaken or overthrown by the black and ominous swell of trouble which is increasing around thee—I know that thou wilt outlive the storm—and yet it rocks thee! What indeed is to become of you all? Whither will you go? And your suffering mother, should she survive so long, is her precious form to be borne away from Yatton?” &c. &c.

There is no attempt at plot—but some of the incidents are wofully ill adapted and improbable. The moralising, throughout, is tedious in the extreme. Two-thirds of the whole novel might have been omitted with advantage. The character of Aubrey is a ridiculous piece of overdone sentimentality—and in character generally the writer fails. One of the worst features of the whole is the transparent puerile attempt to throw ridicule upon the ministerial party by dubbing them with silly names, supposed to be indicative of peculiarities of person or character. While the oppositionists, for example, rejoice in the euphonious appellations of Aubrey, Delamere, and the like, their foes are called Quirk, Gammon, Snap, Bloodsuck, Rotgut, Silly-Punctilio, and other more stupid and beastly indecencies.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 5, November 1841_, George R. Graham, Editor]