CHAPTER XIX.

To sum the whole—the close of all. DEAN SWIFT.

The morning of the next day dawned on few who had pressed their customary couches in the house of Henry Elmore, for the aged sufferer, on the night that intervened, had breathed his last beneath its roof. The body extended on the bed, exhibited, even in death, that mildness and serenity of expression that had characterized his face during the latter portion of his life.

Sorrow could scarcely grieve that one who had outlived the full term of years allotted to man, and drank so deeply of earth’s cup of trial, should, at last, in a moment of unhoped for joy to cheer his exit from life, have finally departed; and Alice felt, as she kissed his cold brow, ere the coffin-lid had closed upon it forever, that her deepest feelings of filial affection could not inspire the wish within her to recall his departed spirit. Tears, many and heavy, it is true, were shed over him, but they fell rather for the sorrows he had passed, than because he was thus summoned in the fullness of time to a world where sorrow could never come.

He was followed to the grave, not only by his relations, but by Henry Elmore and his wife, whose feelings on the occasion were scarcely less deep than their own. In them, the deceased as well as his unhappy companion, had found true and sympathizing friends; and to their unremitting care and attention it was that they had not both sunk, long ere the return of Alice, into the same grave to which the one had now finally departed. Governor H. and his excellent lady likewise attended the funeral with much sympathy, and returned afterward to the house of their niece, to rejoice with Alice on her return, and congratulate her husband on the pardon of which he had been the bearer.

An interesting scene ensued, in which Jessy wept upon the necks of those generous friends, and returned her thanks to them for having so long sought to shield her from the misfortunes of her family. Between Lucy and herself a still more affecting embrace followed. The former, through the strict secrecy of her uncle and aunt, had never suspected that the tender name of sister by which she had known Jessy, was only assumed. But though she received the intelligence in some sorrow, it was scarcely of a heartfelt kind; for both had a consciousness that it was in the name alone that a change could take place, and that in feeling and affection they would ever remain sisters still.

Stanley, too, was present on this occasion. His meeting with Jessy at such a season of deep feeling for her had been tender in the extreme; and although he had not as yet had time for many words in private with the object of his affection, she read in his manner and countenance his deep and ardent sympathy.

The rumor of the strange reunion between the parents and child; of the long seclusion of Lisle and Heath in the wing of Henry Elmore’s house, thereby explaining all the mystery formerly attached to it, soon spread throughout the colony. But it scarcely excited the astonishment which such a romance in real life would create at the present day, for those were periods of tragical confusion and strange catastrophe, for better or for worse, when the rendings asunder of domestic charities were often without an hour’s warning, and where reunions were as dramatic as any exhibited on the stage.

It created little surprise, therefore, when Heath removed to Boston with his gentle and lovely wife, there to reside permanently, or when Jessy Ellet appeared as an inmate of their family.

It was just three months after this removal that Stanley and Jessy were united in marriage. No wedding-party was invited to grace the occasion; but Governor and Mrs. H. and Henry Elmore and his wife were the only guests.

We will now bid the reader adieu, leaving him to imagine that henceforth the fortunes of all of our characters ran in as smooth a tide as is possible in this world. We all know that the stream of actual life flows in an even course with but few. With most it is—romance aside—as our tale has shown it, a confused succession of alternating sensations, sometimes dark and dull of hue, like the clouds of winter, at others, breaking out into the glowing splendor and bright illusions of a dream.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE JOLLY RIDE.

[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

OH! for those rides, those jolly, jolly rides, When my sister and I were young, When our hearts were bright and our spirits light, Of sorrow and sin unstung.

When Neddy we bestrode, with our double load, As good at our need as an Arab steed; And merrily pricked, though he sulked and kicked, O’er rivulet, rock and mead.

Alas! for those rides, they are gone, they are past; Ned and we are grown old and gray; But thoughts of those times, like Christmas chimes, In our hearts must ever be gay. H.

* * * * *

BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. V.

BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

WE lay at AQUA NUEVA, sullenly, in stern repose, Awaiting, with anxiety, the onset of our foes:— We were few; but what of that? We were men, not one of whom But was ready, when his country called, to meet a soldier’s doom, And, looking toward the approaching fight with something like despair, We were deadly as the lion when the hunter treads his lair.

Our foes, so said our scouts, when they came, at set of sun, Were led by SANTA ANNA, and were more than five to one;— They were more than twenty thousand, we, little more than four; But deadlier fights, we knew, were fought by our ancestors of yore, When, hand to hand, with axe and bill our fathers clove their way At Agincourt, and Cressy, and purple Poitiérs.

Our general’s brow was care-worn; his eye leapt like a hound, Seeking, wherever it rested, the advantage of the ground: Between us and SALTILLO lay a craggy mountain pass, With sierra on sierra in many a granite mass— The plain of BUENA VISTA, where, afterward, we stood And fought till its ravines and sands were purple with our blood.

When the foe reached AQUA NUEVA—when they found our army gone, They pressed in marshaled masses, in solid thousands, on; And noon beheld that river of human souls, for miles, Like one of their own torrents, sweep through the wild defiles— So, conscious of their strength, they came, while we, in mute surprise, Looked wistfully and earnestly in one another’s eyes.

The foe had wedged us in, when a flag approached our ranks, While the hovering enemy pressed on whence they might turn our flanks; ’Twas a summons to surrender—a summons unto men Who had beat their bravest generals, and could do so once again: We laughed in hearty scorn, for the rawest volunteer Had grown so anxious for the fight he never thought of fear.

Then came a little pause, and we raised our eyes to heaven, And prayed in silence that our sins and crimes might be forgiven; For well we knew that many a heart which now beat high with pride, Would lie ere night in icy rest along the mountain side. And then we thought of WASHINGTON, whose spirit, from above, Was gazing on his children with looks and eyes of love.

In our own green sunny land we were wont to mark the day Which gave him to his country with many a mimic fray, And now the thought ran through our souls that this, henceforth, should be One which our children after us should hail with songs of glee; And we gazed in one another’s eyes, and silently we swore To do such deeds as history had never heard before.

We stood, each in our places, when, on our left, arose The rattling roll of musketry from our advancing foes;— They were mounting, troop by troop, the steep sierra’s side: A moment! and our comrades, with hearty cheers, replied;— Shot after shot, peal after peal, and we saw their scattered men Rolling, like leaves before the storm, in terror, down the glen.

The night was cold and damp, but we scarcely felt a chill As we lay, beside our arms, on the bleak and naked hill; For our hearts were full of fire at the promise of the fray, Which, we felt, would try our courage on the fast-approaching day, While the murmur of the enemy, whose thousands hedged us round, Came fitfully down the freezing wind, in gusts, along the ground.

At last the dawn arrived, and as the sun began To kiss the summits of the hills, a thousand sparkles ran Along the cliffs, like fire-flies on a sultry summer night, And on the instant, every where was heard the din of fight— On, like the sea, wave over wave, the army of our foe Rolled toward our left, and pierced our ranks, and swept the red plateau.

We paused; we turned; some of us—fled, as the foe in thousands came, And our guns in vain made breaches; and the air was red with flame: We were staggering; we retreated; we were beaten; we would yield; But TAYLOR’S eye shone every where at once along the field, And the Mississippi volunteers, with BRAGG, dashed madly on;— We turned, and charged; and once again the purple field was won.

On our left the day was ours, when SANTA ANNA pressed On our centre, now so weak, with his bravest and his best; Once more our men retreated, when BRAGG again came on, And swept their ranks, but vainly; and every hope seemed gone: Again—again—his cannon roared; again our rifles played, And we hurled the beaten enemy in horror down the glade!

Night gathered round, and once again we made our bivouac On BUENA VISTA, whence our foe had failed to drive us back. On the morrow, wan and worn, but with spirits proud and high, We would once more win the day, or, like soldiers, fall and die; And we sunk in silent sleep, with an honest trust in God, Where we lay the night before, on the cold and cheerless sod

But when the morning came, when the welcome sun arose, We saw—each seeming in a dream—the files of flying foes; And we lay on one another’s breasts—clasped one another’s hand, And wept with joy, for God had saved our gallant little band— God, and our courage, for we fought like heroes all will say Who read in coming centuries the records of the fray.

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.

ANALYSIS OF ROMEO AND JULIET.

BY H. C. MOORHEAD.

THE judicious critic, whilst insisting on the great and manifold beauties of the plays of Shakspeare, has felt himself constrained to admit that they are marred by grievous faults. Some of these have been laid upon the times in which he wrote; some upon the circumstances of his life; some upon the corruptions of his editors; whilst for others, the most ingenious of his apologists have, with all their zeal, been able to make no rational excuse. Conspicuous among these admitted faults are his “quibbles” and “conceits.” He is charged with marring all his fairest pages with them; and so introducing them as often perversely to destroy the most beautiful creations of his fancy, and in a moment convert the pathetic into the burlesque, and the sublime into the ridiculous. “A quibble,” it has been said, “is the golden apple for which he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight that he was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of reason, propriety, and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world and was content to lose it.”

Those commentators who have deemed it a duty to vindicate their author at all points and at all hazards, have not failed to repel this strong charge with characteristic earnestness. The great German critic Schlegel, for example, speaking on this subject, offers the following defense, if defense it can be called: “Shakspeare, who was always sure of his object, to move in a sufficiently powerful manner when he chose to do so, has occasionally, by indulging in a freer play, purposely moderated the impressions when too powerful, and immediately introduced a musical alleviation of our sympathy.”

That is to say: Shakspeare, fearing that evil consequences might result from the overwrought sympathies of his auditors, mercifully threw in a quibble here and there to check the dangerous flow of sentiment! as if Paganini or Ole Bull had deemed it necessary to introduce an occasional jar in the midst of their most exquisite strains, lest the sensitive ear should be too powerfully ravished. But this defense is still more injurious than the charge itself; inasmuch as it substitutes for that oblivion of self, that apparent unconsciousness of the great things he was doing, which has been regarded as the highest proof of the serene majesty of his mind, an intolerable arrogance and presumption. Shakspeare, however, we may be sure, was governed by no such motive; he had no apprehension that his nectar would prove too intoxicating, and took no such pains to adulterate and weaken it.

The charge referred to is, in truth, applicable, in any great degree, to but a small number of his plays, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” is one of these, and “Romeo and Juliet” is another, and the chief one. I shall confine my remarks at present to the latter play; and here, it must be confessed, quibbles are introduced into almost every speech: not only the wit, but the sentiment also is every where seasoned with them; and the different personages, “however distressed, have a conceit left them in their misery, a miserable conceit.”

Now this feature, though not peculiar to Romeo and Juliet, is not found in any of the other great tragedies of Shakspeare, it cannot therefore be ascribed to inveterate habit. Neither is any trace of it found in the poem from which the main story, and many of the details and expressions of the play were copied: it was not therefore imitated from his original. The doctrine of Ulrici, however, affords a rational explanation. Quibbles and conceits are a part of the argument of the play, and therefore they are introduced. If they mar its beauties, they help to illustrate its theme, and to this purpose every other consideration is subordinate: for Shakspeare is not content, like other poets with simply moving his readers; but is careful also to cause all the currents of all the emotions he awakens to flow toward a common centre.

What then _is_ the theme of this play? It is not easy to frame a definition strict enough and comprehensive enough to embrace it in all its aspects, and to embrace nothing more; but, in general terms, I believe the subject of the play may be thus stated: _The unrestrained pursuit of the ruling passion or caprice of the moment._

This is the general subject of the whole play, and it is the particular subject of every scene and of every speech. All the winds of passion are let loose, and they blow where they list. Love and hate, hope and fear, courage and despair, and with them the wildest vagaries of fancy and caprice—all are in the field together; yet all move in subordination to the “central idea,” even as the ocean tides are governed by the moon.

All the personages of the play are made to illustrate this subject, each according to his own nature and circumstances. _Romeo_ and _Juliet_ tossed on the stormy sea of ill-starred love, pass from the summit of bliss to despair and death. The hatred of _Montague_ and _Capulet_ is drowned in tears, and from their grief springs reconciliation and friendship. _Mercutio_ is a courtier and a wit, his spirits are always brim-full, and sparkling; and he pursues and runs down every phantom that happens to flit across his mind. His wit, and all his speeches are _entirely_ of this character. He never opens his lips except to utter something fantastical. The _Nurse_, by following _her_ impulses wherever they lead, presents a most ludicrous specimen of _garrulity_. Wherever the “fiery” _Tybalt_ sees any one belonging to the house of Montague his sword instantly leaps from its scabbard. Friar _Laurence_ and the _Prince_ discourse on the subject, and all the inferior characters, as we shall see, adapt themselves to it.

For the purposes of a more minute examination, it will be convenient to group the chief passages under several heads.

1. _Suggestives of the fancy; viz., quibbles, conceits, etc._

The play opens with a dialogue between Samson and Gregory, two servants of Capulet’s. I quote the first few lines:

_Sam._ Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not _carry coals_. [that is, _bear injuries_

_Greg._ No, for then we should be _colliers_. [An ancient term of abuse.

_Sam._ I mean an we be in _choler_ we’ll _draw_.

_Greg._ Ay, while you live _draw_ your neck out of the _collar_.

_Sam._ I _strike_ quickly, being _moved_.

_Greg._ But thou art not quickly _moved_ to _strike_.

_Sam._ A dog of the house of Montague _moves_ me.

_Greg._ To _move_ is—to _stir_; and to be valiant is to _stand to it_; therefore, if thou art _moved_ thou _runnest away_.

_Sam._ A dog of that house shall _move_ me to _stand_, etc. etc.

And so they proceed until certain followers of the house of Montague entering, an affray ensues. Now two things are to be observed here. The servants reflect the temper of their masters, and quarrel the moment they meet; and their conversation is a mere quibbling upon certain words, pursuing the fanciful suggestions of sound or meaning. Thus the whole subject is presented in the first page.

Very similar to this, though a little more refined, in accordance with the characters of the speakers, is the contest of wit between Mercutio and Romeo, (Act 2d, Scene 4th,) and the former’s description of Benvolio’s aptness to quarrel, (Act 3d, Scene 1st,) “Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast _hazel_ eyes—what _eye_ but such an _eye_ would _spy out_ such a quarrel,” etc. etc.

The servant who was sent to invite the guests to the supper at Capulet’s, having a paper with a list of their names, talks in the same style about the difficulty of finding out the persons writ there, when he could not read the names that had been writ there; and his misquotations of maxims is every way characteristic of the theme and of the clown. (Act 1st, Scene 2d.)

The _Nurse_ makes her first appearance in the conversation with Lady Capulet about the age of Juliet. (Act 1st, Scene 3d) Instead of answering the question of her mistress directly, which she might have done with a monosyllable, she runs into a long reminiscence respecting her own daughter, her husband, and the “weaning” of Juliet, all matters connected with the subject, and suggested by it, but absurdly minute and complex. She resembles Mercutio in the recklessness with which she pursues her whims, albeit they are of a somewhat different character.

At the first interview between Romeo and Juliet, (Act 1st, Scene 5th,) Romeo happens in addressing her to use the word “pilgrim;” and the whole subsequent conversation consists of quibbles upon this word. In like manner the word _volume_, in Lady Capulet’s description of Paris, suggests all the remainder of her speech:

Read o’er the _volume_ of young Paris’ face And find delight _writ_ there with beauty’s _pen_. . . . . . . . And what obscured in this fair _volume_ lies, Find _written_ in the _margin_ of his eyes. This precious _book_ of love, this _unbound_ lover, To beautify him only lacks a _cover_. . . . . . . . That _book_ in many eyes doth show the glory, That in gold _clasps_ locks in the golden _story_; etc. etc.

The famous garden scene, (Act 2d, Scene 2d,) opens with Romeo’s speech:

He jests at scars that never felt a wound,— [_Juliet appears above at a window._ But soft! what light from yonder window breaks! _It is the East, and Juliet is the sun._

This conceit leads to others about the sun, and moon, and stars, and Juliet’s eyes, which occupy the whole speech, and the remainder of the scene is either of a similar character, or distinguished by sudden revulsions of feeling, which I shall notice hereafter. The whole scene is highly illustrative of the theme.

Beautiful as some of the “conceits” of the garden scene are, Mercutio’s description of Queen Mab caps the climax of fantastical analogies:

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs, The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces of the smallest spider’s web; The collars of the moonshine’s watery beams, etc. etc.

He represents her as galloping in this state through lover’s brains, o’er lawyer’s fingers, etc., when the former straight dreams of love, the latter of fees; and each according to his character, that is, their dreams are shaped by the influence of the moment, which is agreeable to the “central idea.” Indeed, this speech is not more remarkable for the exquisite ingenuity and propriety of its comparisons and allusions, than for its perfect adaptation to the general subject of the play.

Similar conceits and quibbles abound throughout the play, in the most beautiful passages, and in the most heart-rending scenes. When Juliet hears that Romeo, her “three-hours husband,” has killed her cousin Tybalt, her _conflicting emotions_ find vent in a string of _antitheses_: “Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical, dove-feathered raven,” etc. In like manner Romeo’s group of contrasts in Act 1st, Scene 1st, is suggested by the juxtaposition of the words “love” and “hate.” Both Romeo and Juliet quibble when relating their griefs to Friar Laurence. The Friar himself quibbles whilst attempting to console them; there is quibbling in the beautiful chamber scene, and in the scene so full of horrors at the church-yard.

Leaving the reader to follow up these suggestions at his pleasure, I proceed to notice some of the passages in which this spirit of _abandonment_ is exemplified in reference to,

2. _Passion, Impulse, etc._

I have already alluded to the _affray_ in the first scene. Romeo’s love for Rosaline is strongly painted in the subsequent part of that, and in the following scene. Benvolio persuades him to go to the feast at Capulet’s, where Rosaline is to sup, promising that by showing him other beauties he will make him “think his swan _a crow_.” Romeo, in reply, makes loud protestations of fidelity to Rosaline, and declares that “the all-seeing sun ne’er saw her match;” and when he finally consents to go, expressly declares his purpose:

I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendor of mine own.

That is, in contemplating the beauty of Rosaline. In this, Shakspeare has departed from the original story, in which Romeo goes to the feast, not to _see_, but to endeavor to _forget_ Rosaline. Inasmuch as it presents his fickleness in a stronger light, this variation has been thought to injure the effect of Romeo’s character—for he no sooner sees Juliet than Rosaline is utterly forgotten; her image expelled from his heart, and replaced by the more beauteous image of Juliet. Shakspeare’s object in the variation, in this as in other instances, undoubtedly was, in pursuance of his theme, to make the transition as sudden and as conspicuous as possible. The effect being favorable to his main design, he cared little how it operated in other respects.

Old Capulet, as the revels progress, is filled with the spirit of the occasion. His heart overflows with genial hospitality; and inspired by the array of beauty around him, he descants on the time when he himself “could tell a whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear.” Tybalt, recognising Romeo, a Montague, among the guests, instantly calls out, “Fetch me my rapier!” On this, as on all occasions, the sight of a Montague is with him a sufficient signal for battle. But Capulet, whose ruling passion now is hospitality, rebukes and restrains him:

Let him alone! I would not for the wealth of all this town, Here, _in my house_, do him disparagement.

The unrestrained outpouring of the heart in the garden scene, needs only to be referred to. Whatever thought or feeling occurs at the moment drives out all other thoughts and feelings. Juliet dismisses Romeo with a thousand good-nights; then recalls him with passionate exclamations, and then says, “I have forgot why I did call thee back.” Her impatience to hear the Nurse’s report of Romeo’s message, with the Nurse’s tantalizing circumlocutions, (Act 2d, Scene 5th,) and her tumultuous emotions on hearing that her husband, Romeo, had killed her cousin Tybalt, (Act 3d, Scene 2d,) are equally in keeping with the general subject.

The first scene of the third act opens with a quibbling conversation. Presently Tybalt meets Romeo, and on the instant challenges him to fight; but Romeo (who before this has been secretly married to Juliet) declines the challenge, when Mercutio takes up the quarrel, and is slain. Mercutio was a zealous partisan of the house of Montague; but after he receives his mortal wound, yielding to a new influence, he becomes sensible of the folly of the dispute which he has so long helped to maintain; “A plague o’ both your houses!” is his dying exclamation. Romeo, finding his friend killed and his own reputation stained through his forbearance, can restrain himself no longer. The sudden transition of feeling and conduct here, from tame submission to fierce defiance, is one of the finest of the many instances of the kind in the play. When Morok touched the crouching lion with his flaming rod, he instantly bounded up in wrath, and stood erect, majestic, and fearful to look upon. Not less sudden and complete is the change produced in Romeo by the re-entrance of Tybalt.

_Ben._ Here comes the bloody Tybalt back again. _Rom._ Alive! in triumph! and Mercutio slain: Away to heaven, respective lenity, And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now.

The chamber scene (Act 3d, Scene 5th) is filled with the expression of spontaneous and characteristic emotions. The dialogue between Romeo and Juliet at the beginning is the most exquisitely beautiful passage of the play; and there is none more illustrative of the theme. The art with which the contending passions are depicted is only surpassed by the beauty of the imagery and the melody of the diction. In the same scene Capulet urges the marriage between Juliet and Paris, and on her refusal, forgetting his former declaration that his consent would lie “within her scope of choice”—alive only to the rebellion against his authority—displays a degree of rudeness and violence which the pride and the habit of dominion alone can account for. The Nurse being consulted by Juliet in this emergency, and not being moved by either passion or principle, considers very literally what course would be most _expedient_ under all the circumstances; and, since Romeo is “as good as dead,” advises her to marry Paris. Juliet’s reply to this advice comes like a flash of lightning—

Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! . . . . Go, counsellor, Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.

By the Friar’s advice, Juliet at length consents to marry Paris, and then Capulet is filled with impotent glee—being as absurd now in his joy as he lately was in his anger. When Juliet the next morning is found apparently dead, the lamentations of the several persons present (each of whom indulges his own proper emotions) are singularly in character. Capulet—the “rich” Capulet, as he is often styled in the play—bewails the loss of his “heir;” Lady Capulet mourns for her “only child;” Paris for his “love in death;” whilst the Nurse indulges her grief in boisterous and empty vociferation—

O wo! O woful, woful, woful day! Most lamentable day! most woful day That ever, ever I did yet behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day.

The musicians who had come to play at the wedding are about to retire, when Peter enters and engages them in a quibbling conversation; and in the course of it recites the following verses, which are also made to inculcate the great sentiment of the play, _the readiness with which the mind submits to passing influences_:

When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music, with her silver sound, With speedy help doth lend redress.

The same idea pervades the scene in which the Apothecary is introduced. Romeo’s description of him is prefaced by this pertinent reflection:

O _mischief_! thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of _desperate_ men!

The word “desperate” here refers to his own circumstances, but he immediately applies it to the Apothecary, and describes his _desperate poverty_: and hence infers his readiness to do a _desperate_ deed:

Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, And fear’st to die?

The next scene (Act 5th, Scene 2d) is a very short one, and is wholly occupied with a conversation between Friar Laurence and Friar John, in which the latter relates that he had failed to carry the letter to Romeo, as he had promised, because the “searchers of the town,” suspecting that he had been in a house where “the infectious pestilence did reign,” locked him up, etc. The “central idea” is found here also—in the allusion to the pestilence, and the alarm which the mere rumor of it inspires.

_Dreams_ are several times introduced in the course of the play, and in every instance the dream is shaped either by some passing influence, or by a coming event, which thus “casts its shadow before.” In Mercutio’s description of Queen Mab, the “fairies’ midwife,” she is represented as “delivering” the dreamers of their various fancies. In the closing scene Balthazer tells the Friar that as he slept under a yew-tree he dreamt that his master (Romeo) and another fought, and that his master killed him; which was the fact. And this bearing in sleep, and dreaming of what is actually passing, is a phenomenon which, I presume, has happened to every one. Again, Romeo says, (Act 5th, Scene 1st,) “I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,” etc.—which afterward happened. In our day, this, I suppose, would be called clairvoyance.

But I must hasten to notice another point of view in which the subject is presented.

3. _Didactic expositions of the theme._

With a mere reference to Montague’s description of his son’s _humors_, in the first scene, I pass to the following speech of Benvolio in the second scene:

Tut man! one fire burns out another’s burning, One pain is lessened by another’s anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cure with another’s languish; Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die.

And thus throughout the play one passion, sentiment, or whim, is constantly _succeeding_ and _driving out_ another.

Friar Laurence, as becomes his sacred character, preaches moderation wherever he appears, and constantly labors to restrain the headstrong passions of others. He first appears (Act 2d, Scene 3d) soliloquizing in his cell. After describing “flecked darkness” as reeling like a drunkard “from forth day’s path-way,” he falls into reflections on the constitution of nature. He finds a principle of good and a principle of evil in every thing that lives on the earth. And according to its fair use or abuse the one or the other of these principles prevails. Deliberation and reserve are inculcated; his mission is, to endeavor to stem the impetuous torrent that dashes around him. Thus when Romeo threatens to kill himself (Act 3d, Scene 3d) the friar paints his inconsiderate folly in most graphic and animated language.

What, rouse thee man! Thy Juliet is alive For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead; There art thou happy; Tybalt would kill thee But thou slewest Tybalt; there art thou happy too; The law, that threatened death, becomes thy friend, And turns it to exile; there art thou happy; A pack of blessings lights upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench, Thou poutest upon thy fortune and thy love; Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.

Very similar to this is his speech to the mourners over the body of Juliet, supposed by all but him to be dead.

The prince acts a similar part, and in the last scene, declares his determination to inquire into all the circumstances, “And know their spring, their head, their true descent,” before passing judgment; whereupon the friar recapitulates the whole story. As he tells nothing but what was known to the reader before, his long speech would seem to be superfluous; but does not the moral of the piece consist in this deliberate investigation after so much impulsive and inconsiderate conduct; and the final reconciliation of the rival houses, when grief has brought them to _reflection_?

If this imperfect sketch should induce the reader to take up Romeo and Juliet, and study it in the point of view I have indicated, he will find a thousand illustrations of the “central idea,” which it has been impossible, in this brief paper, to notice; and he will find a principle of order in this seeming chaos—that all these quibbles and conceits, these headlong passions, and conflicting emotions are made to harmonize and serve a common purpose.

* * * * *

JACOB’S LADDER.

E. J. EAMES.

OH! beautiful ascending, and descending, Were your bright footsteps ’twixt the earth and sky; Celestial visitants, in love attending On the tired trav’ler, to whose dreaming eye Came radiant glimpses of that far Elysian, Whose glories now are hid to mortal vision. A gleam of pinions—solemn harmonies— The stony pillow—the dim haunted sod— And to the sleeper—what dread mysteries Awe his high heart? How sinks the _Voice of God_ Deep in his soul! Yes, God in veiled glory Appears, His “ancient cov’nant” to renew; And angel-tongues record the sacred story Which o’er the Patriarch such rich splendor threw!

But never more, as in the days departed, Will ye return to gladden this dull earth: What burning tears to human eyes have started Since last ye moved ’mid forms of mortal birth. And though no more, in glorious raiment clad, May God, or angel-guest, to man appear, Unseen they walk the world, and hov’ring near Their _spiritual presence_ makes earth’s children glad. And still the mystic ladder is erected, Whereon bright missioned spirits come and go— Bearing unto the worn and world-dejected, A precious balm for all life’s want and wo. Still unto us high promises are given, And holiest hopes, to lead our hearts to Heaven.

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BASS AND BASS FISHING.

BY FRANK FORESTER.

THE STRIPED BASS. (LABRAX LINEATUS. _Cuvier._)

ROCK FISH. _Southern States and Delaware River._—BARRE FISH. _St. Lawrence._

THIS noble fish, a member of a tribe known in almost every region of the globe, is, as an individual, peculiar to the waters of North America, not being found in any other part of the world; while his geographical range here, being very extensive, covers most if not all the rivers, bays, lagoons and beaches from the Capes of Florida to the Estuary of the St. Lawrence; in which great frith he is found, slightly modified from the Atlantic type, and known as the Barre Fish.

He must not be confounded with the Sea Bass, as he has been by Dr. Smith, the author of the Fishes of Massachusetts, who takes Dr. Mitchell severely to task for naming him _Bodianus Mitchilli_; accusing the Doctor of extreme arrogance and presumption in assuming the discovery and right of naming a fish, which he—Smith—alledges to be known to every fisherman and naturalist of every European coast; whereas, in reality, the fact is precisely as stated by Dr. Mitchell.

The Striped Bass is a very beautiful fish, of the order _Acanthopterygii_, or thorny finned fishes, and of the family _Pereidæ_; which may be distinguished from the soft finned tribes, by having the whole of the first dorsal fin supported by strong, sharp, spinous rays, by a single strong spine in front of the second dorsal, one in front of the ventrals, and three in front of the anal fin. The operculum, or gill-cover, has a serrated edge and two flat spines. Its dental system is very complete and formidable, on the maxillaries, palatine-bones, and tongue, as it is essentially a carnivorous fish, preying indiscriminately on most of the smaller finny inhabitants of the waters, as also on their spawn, and on some of the smaller crustaceæ, as crabs and shrimps.

In color he is bright and silvery, bluish brown, with copperish reflections on the back, and eight, or sometimes though rarely nine, parallel stripes of dark brownish purple—the fourth of these is ordinarily consentaneous with the lateral line, though sometimes the fifth. Those above it run from the head to the origin of the tail, and are by far the darkest; those below are fainter, and die away at about two-thirds the length of the belly.

The pectoral fins have sixteen rays, the ventrals one spinous and five soft rays, the anal three spinous and eleven soft rays, the first dorsal nine spinous, the second one spinous and twelve soft, the caudal seventeen soft rays.

The Sea Bass, which is of the same order and family, _Pereidæ_, is purely a sea fish, never entering estuaries or rivers, and never being taken in other than salt waters, on the outer bars and sea-banks, whereas the Striped Bass, like the Salmon, though salt water is necessary to him, in order to give vigor to his constitution, and perhaps to enable him to reproduce his species, is taken without distinction in the clear cold spring-waters of the river-heads, in the brackish slack-waters of the broad estuaries, in the strong, whirling salt eddies of sea-channels, such as Hellgate, and the inlets from the ocean to the inner bays, and lastly in the tumbling and flashing surfs on all the outer beaches, from those, I believe, of Hatterns, alone all the coasts north-eastward to those of Jersey and Long Island; on which they are taken with the squid and the seine from July to November, of rare excellence, and in great abundance.

The river runs of the Striped Bass are very singular, and though I will not say unaccountable—by no means accounted for. So soon as the Smelt, Shad, and Herring enter the river-mouths and estuaries, the Striped Bass is found following them; and in every different water it appears that he acts on a peculiar and instinctive principle. Where, when, or how he spawns no man knows or has written.

Our rivers he enters from the Delaware eastward from the first of March and later as the season offers, and makes up to the clear, cool spring-waters of the rivers near their heads. At that time he may be fished for, in the Delaware and in all the rivers in which the Shad run up and spawn, with _shad-roe_ FATALLY.

In waters up which the Shad does not run this bait is useless.

Thus, for instance, at Macomb’s Dam, Kingsbridge, and all the Harlæm River and Hellgate, in the neighborhood of New York, shad-roe is _useless_; because the Shad do not spawn there, and the Bass _know_ it. While in the Passaic, at Belleville Bridge and Acquanonck, up to both which places these fish run, there is a certainty of taking them with this bait, because Shad do spawn in the Passaic.

Therefore, in all rivers up which Shad run, the true and best bait for the Striped Bass is the shad-roe.

This must be prepared thus. The roe of the female fish—that is the _hard_ roe—must be taken, cleaned, washed, and washed again, and then potted down with two ounces of salt to every half pound of roe, pressed close into a stone pot and hermetically sealed. After three months it will be fit for use; when it must be cut out of the pot like cheese, fastened on the hook in a small lump, and tied to it by a lapping of light-colored floss silk, or raveled hemp.

At this same time, in tideways such as Hellgate and the like, crab is the best and most killing bait on a line by rod and reel fishing, with weight enough to keep your crab within three inches of the bottom; thus you shall take abundance of moderate sized fishes—the best by all odds on the table—but if you aim at the thirty and forty pounders, you must take that hideous and disgusting fishy reptile, _the real squid_, armed with a strong cod-hook, on a heavy hempen line, trolled from the stern of a boat slowly pulled against stream.

The Bass will strike at a gaudy fly, or a spun minnow, at the latter every where, at the first seldom, and I believe casually; though if you do hook him look out, for he shall try your line, and strain your tackle to the utmost, and if you land even a three pounder on a single gut with fly or minnow trolled, you have done great work.

The favorite haunts of the Striped Bass, whence his provincial name of Rock Fish, are stony, gravelly, or rocky reefs, or sunken piers and dams which cause eddies, in the vicinity of which his prey are to be found darting about in the greatest abundance, and in such localities he is often taken with the rod and reel in great numbers, running from two and a half to seven pounds in weight, which is the best size for the table.

The Bass is a bold and fierce biter; and when he takes the bait he does it with a will, and there is no occasion for giving him line or time wherein to pouch the bait before striking, as you must do with the European Pike, and the American Pickerel and Mascalonge.

In the Harlæm river he is fished for with a stout rod and reel, a strong line of at least three hundred feet, and crab or shrimp bait, or sometimes a shiner or spearling hooked through the back-fin with a large-sized Limerick hook armed upon gimp. A sinker is used in this mode of fishing, and the bait should be suspended at some distance from the bottom, and allowed to swim about at his own sweet will.

When _struck_ the Bass does not leap out of water, like the trout or salmon, but he is decidedly a run-away fish, taking twice as much line—pound weight for yard length—as the Salmon, and, though not so fierce or furious, requiring as much skill to handle. You must give him your line inch by inch, as sparingly as possible, heading him _down_ stream if you can, and wearing him out always by concession and persuasion.

So much for him in the spring. How far he goes up the rivers in his spring run, we know not, nor presume to say. Killed he has been in October at Milford, Delaware, prime, and in good condition, but I think not running up to spawn himself, but rather to eat the roe of the shad which do run thitherward up to spawn.

After July and from thence to September they disappear from among us of the rivers, and during that period they are taken constantly by _squidding_, as it is called, that is to say, by using a large sized Limerick-hook, _shanked_ with a piece of bright tin, mother-of-pearl, or ivory, attached to a long cod-line wound upon a card, in the rapid swirling eddies among rocks in the great outer tideways, and yet more readily in the wild, thundering surfs of the outside beaches. I have seen them taken thus off Shrewsbury Inlet, near Sandy-Hook, to the weight of sixty or seventy pounds; but it is a laborious, wet, and dirty toil, and cannot in anywise be regarded as a sport.

The line, without a rod, is whirled round the head, and the squid delivered, without a splash in the water, if it so may be, and then dragged in hand over hand, the fish striking with his whole power, and being mastered by main force.

Late in the autumn the Bass run in again, for what purpose we know not, save this, that the growth and comparative size of the fry as taken not justifying our believing that they breed in fresh rivers—we must consider them to be in pursuit of prey.

In the Delaware they are trolled for gnostically and rightfully, with a minnow, shiner, or young shad, baited on a double hook, armed on a treble gut with two swivels, a trolling-rod, and good Conroy’s reel—this is the true and scientific way of doing it.

The best rod for this sport is the regular trolling, or, as it is otherwise called, _barbed_ rod. It should be twelve feet long, the butt of stout ash, the second and third joints of hickory, and the fourth of lance-wood. It should by no means have rings, but the new patent rail-road guides, five in number, exclusive of the funnel guide at the tip. It is a very good plan to have a double set of guides, on the opposite sides of the rod, for the stress is so great in this kind of fishing that in time the best rods will acquire a curvature, and lose their elasticity. This is easily counteracted by changing the line from side to side, and thus reversing the action.

The best trolling-rods are made by George Karr, of Grand Street, and Ben Welch, of Cherry St., New York.

The reel should be a simple one, large enough to contain one hundred yards of line.

This truly sporting mode of killing the Striped Bass is not used in New York, where, in fact, there are few fishermen, except _fly_ fishermen—some very good, although, like angel visits—or pot fishermen.

There the crab and the shrimp, with a _dobber_, as the pot fishermen call it, is the weapon, and the best wielder of it is he who brings the most and heaviest fish to _pot_, with the most violence and the least skill.

The autumn being past, the Striped Bass retires for the winter to the mud-holes, which he loves, the soft, warm coves at the mouths of rivers and estuaries, wherein he lurks requiescent until spring again calls his prey into the rivers, and himself out of his lurking-places.

These be his times, his seasons, his baits, and his places; as to his local habitation, and the place where he deposits and brings up his children, nobody distinctly knowing, we shall be exceeding glad to receive facts whereon to constitute something approaching to that which is unwritten—the complete natural history of the Bass.

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THE SMOKER.

BY THOMAS S. DONOHO.

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

I SAW him after dinner, And his face was like the sun, When wearily he goes to rest, His long day’s journey done. The beef had made it hot, And the wine had made it red, And a cloud was all around it, Like a curtain round a bed.

His chair was tilted back, And his feet were on the wall, And the sorrows of the world Did not trouble him at all! For though he toiled and puffed, Like an engine, or a stove, Yet smiled amid his labors This “cloud-compelling Jove!”

Again I passed his dwelling, In the darkness of the night; And still I knew the Smoker, Like a glow-worm, by his light. His head was still thrown back, And his feet were still on high, And he had a most peculiar look From out his half-shut eye.

’Twas morning; and I saw him, This great _Vesuvius_ man, And o’er the news-full paper His misty vision ran; For still the fire was there, And still the smoke was thick: And I remembered me the tales, Whose hero was—Old Nick!

I wondered if he slept? Or ever went about? Or was he only some machine— For what? Ah, there’s the doubt! Though puffing, always puffing, He never seemed _to go_: What good he did by staying there Is more than yet I know.

A beggar-boy craved charity— The Smoker “blessed his stars!” And said, “_he had no change to spare_”— Then sent for more cigars! The patient wife at last complains; He gruffly bids her cease: “My home’s a bell; it’s very hard I cannot _smoke_ in peace!”

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THE MAIDEN’S COMPLAINT AGAINST LOVE.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

ONCE, on a sunny day, Love came to dwell with me, I stroked his downy wings, And gave him kisses free.

How joyous sped the hours, While Love with me did stay; The fluttering tiny thing, Drove Care’s dark form away.

I laughed, I danced, I sang— How mad and wild my glee, While blesséd little Love Dwelt willingly with me.

Alas! one gloomy morn, The wicked, willful fay, That I so fondly cherished, Took wing and fled away.

I shed sad, bitter tears, While Care looked on with scorn; At last I sped to Venus, To tell my grievous wrong.

The goddess frowned upon me, And Psyche blushing wept, When saucy little Cupid My charges sad thus met.

“She wearied me with kisses, And held me pris’ner fast, Blame not, O mother Venus, I broke her bonds at last.”

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See Page 410.

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THE FINE ARTS.

EXHIBITION OF HUNTINGTON’S WORKS.—One of the halls of the Art Union Building in New York, has been occupied for some time by an exhibition of the collected works of Mr. HUNTINGTON. They are about one hundred and twenty in number. Some of them are his very earliest efforts, necessarily crude, having been executed in his college days, when his incipient passion for art, interfered materially with his progress in the classics. But as the artist himself observes, “the early blundering attempts of beginners in art, are not as painful as those of musical performers, or as insipid as the stammerings of incipient poets. The lamest groupings of a young painter are often amusing, and sometimes show what INMAN used to call ‘good intentions.’” It appears to us a very interesting feature in this exhibition, that we are able to trace the progress and development of Mr. HUNTINGTON’S talent. Thus we have “_Ichabod Crane flogging a Scholar_,” his first attempt at composition in 1834, which we may contrast with “_Mercy’s Dream_,” or the “_Christiana and Children_” the two paintings upon which his fame most securely rests. The gradual formation of his present pure style may be distinctly traced through his successive works.

We find in the collection more landscapes than we thought Mr. H. had painted, but he explains the matter by stating that during his early professional career, while engaged as an assistant to a portrait painter, “putting in back grounds,” he was seized upon by an enthusiastic speculator who was about to erect a city on the Hudson river, at Verplanck’s Point, then a wooded retreat of great beauty. This enthusiast was a generous lover of art, and kept HUNTINGTON during an entire summer, in that vicinity, taking views, and in his close study of nature was then fostered a love for landscape, which he has never forgotten. The artist himself says, of his subsequent works of this kind, that they will not bear the test of a close comparison with nature. They are rather hints and dreams of situations and effects, which he beseeches the visitor to look at lazily and listlessly, through the half-closed eye, and not to expect that truth and reality, which should be found in the works of the professed landscape painter. We cannot agree with the modest artist in his criticism upon himself—on the contrary, we think _there is_ much of that marvelous force and brightness which rivets the attention to COLE’S paintings; of the freshness and atmosphere in which lie the fertile meadows—far stretching distances—the sturdy oaks and beeches, with rich masses of foliage, in DURAND’S calm, expansive compositions, and all of the silvery lightness in moving clouds and transparent running brooks, which the veteran DOUGHTY would magically call into being on the canvas.

We think the true passion of boyish love and first devotedness pervades all the occasional outbreaks which have led him from the dull routine of portraits to the green fields, the blue skies, and the silvery streams. The Rondout Scenes, painted three or four years after the modern Cecrops, would have carried art, learning, letters, and men to Verplanck’s Point, and the two elegant Ramapo views (most unfortunately not in the collection when we saw it, but in the possession of JAMES ROSS, Esq. of New Orleans) are living evidences of this. And then the “Moon Light and Fire Light,” drawn in an annual distribution of the Art Union, by the late much lamented Dr. JAMES MILNOR, is one of the most fanciful and artistic combinations of light and shade that could be imagined. Under these circumstances we will not allow Mr. HUNTINGTON to escape the charge of being a very admirable and forcible landscape painter.

But it is in historical and allegorical painting that HUNTINGTON has made the reputation which will live the longest; although he says, the class of pictures which were painted with the greatest interest are those which were meant to convey a moral lesson, and were ideally treated, such as the “Sacred Lesson,” “Alms Giving,” “Piety and Folly,” “Faith,” “Hope,” etc. This we can very easily imagine; for it must be to the spirit of a painter, like the enlargement of a caged bird, to escape the confines of buckram, broadcloth, and modern costume, and feel that “no pent up Utica” confines the powers, and they can range from the trammels of the real to the delicious _abandon_ of the ideal. To transfer to canvas the feelings of our nature, and embody, as it were, the moral sentiments must indeed be a triumph to the artist, and we think it has been achieved by HUNTINGTON.

The picture which has acquired the most extended reputation for this artist, is by no means his best or even one of his best. It has become popularized by having been engraved for the American Art Union two years since, and is the “Signing of the Death Warrant of Lady Jane Grey.” We think it fortunate that the lovers of art in our country, who do not enjoy the privilege of visiting the large collections in our cities, are to have a better specimen of HUNTINGTON’S talent, and his peculiar ideality of composition in the engraving of his “Mercy’s Dream,” by the Philadelphia Art Union. This will, we think, be one of the most popular plates ever distributed.

To enter upon a critical analysis of HUNTINGTON’S style would be but a historical sketch of his artistic career; for his advancement in finish, and his impressiveness in composition, are marked and graded on each succeeding painting which he has started from the canvas. There is “no retiring ebb” to his genius—he always improves upon himself, as the result of close attention and indefatigable study. So happy is he in his historical, dramatic, and allegorical subjects, that they associate themselves with the very facts they intend to delineate, to the exclusion almost of the records of the past—his ideality takes the place of the written chronicle; and it seems as if the olden tradition glowed beneath his pencil. HUNTINGTON is as graphic on historic canvas, as MACAULAY is on the historic page. We must accord to him a high rank, for he has merited it. In every department of his art, from the dull routine of portrait painting to the study of the Florentine Sybil, or to his latest inspirations, “St. John the Evangelist,” and the “Marys at the Sepulchre,” there is the same loveliness of composition, boldness of handling, and delicacy of conception.

We should feel great gratification in referring minutely to some of the more elaborate and important works in this collection, but our purpose, at the outset, was to make only a general notice, and call attention to the interesting fact, that nearly all HUNTINGTON’S works can now be seen in one gallery, collated as they have been from every quarter of the Union. The success which has attended the exhibitions of the labors of ALSTON, INMAN and HUNTINGTON, will, we trust, lead to subsequent efforts among our other artists to get up corresponding displays of their works. By producing emulation it will have a good effect, and these galleries opened with such attractiveness, will lead to the formation of a taste for art, which will soon direct itself to the encouragement of artists through many private channels of munificence.

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DEATH OF JAMES THOM.—On the 17th of April, James Thom, the sculptor, died in New York. He was emphatically a self-made man, and his “Tam O’Shanter and Souter Johnny” first raised him from his obscurity as an humble stone-cutter, to a rank among our sculptors. He had no previous education, and enjoyed no opportunity of studying schools or models. THOM first reached this country about 1836-7, in search of an agent, who had been sent here by the proprietors to exhibit his “Old Mortality” and “Tam O’Shanter;” Thom found the delinquent and obtained a portion of the money for which these works had been fraudulently sold. After remitting these proceeds to the just owners, he determined to remain in this country. His first efforts were directed to finding a free stone suited to his work, which he soon discovered at Little Falls. From this he made copies of his two most celebrated works. The Old Mortality Group is now placed opposite the entrance to Laurel Hill Cemetery, near Philadelphia, including the pious antiquarian Presbyterian, his rugged poney and the faithful likeness of Sir Walter Scott. The “Tam O’Shanter” is the property of Roswell L. Colt, Esq., Patterson, N. J. The statue of Burns, also from his chisel, was an excellent specimen of his skill.

Thom obtained an advantageous contract to perform the stone-cutting for Trinity Church, New York, and made a handsome profit from it, although he left the work before its completion, and retired to a farm in Rockland County. He has since occupied his time as an architect, more, however, for the filling up of his leisure hours, than for probability of profit, as none of his designs have even been executed. The genius of Thom was peculiar—his fame may rest safely upon “Old Mortality,” and “Tam O’Shanter,” though some of his busts and ornamental garden designs possessed great merit.

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PHILADELPHIA ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS.—The spring exhibition of this society promises to be unusually attractive. The liberal prizes offered by the managers to induce competition, have awakened the spirit of not only our own, but foreign artists. We shall next month have an opportunity to notice these works in detail, and hope to find some home productions which will compare favorably with those received from abroad. Among the latter is a magnificent piece of coloring by VAN SCHENDEL of Brussels, representing Ahasuerus king of the Persians and Medes, in the midst of his gorgeous court, as described in the Book of Esther. SCHOTEL of Medembled, Holland, has sent out two marine views, a department in which he is justly celebrated. One of these, entitled “Wrecking and Succor,” possesses much energy, and the other, “The Schelde by a fresh gale,” will be highly prized by all the lovers of art. There are also two works by Carl Hubner of Dusseldorf, called “The Recovery,” and “The Happy Moment,” which evince high artistic excellence. G. F. DIDAY of Bremen, has sent over two beautiful views of the High Alps in Switzerland, and J. SCHOPPE of Berlin, a scene descriptive of a Spanish comedy by Moneto, which he entitles Amphitrite and Donna Diana. All these, and others of minor excellence, will be noticed more fully hereafter.

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THE AMERICAN ART UNION.—The walls of the new gallery of this institution already present many beautiful specimens of art. A picture by LEUTZE, called the “Knight of Sayn and the Gnomes,” is particularly admired. The story, as described by G. G. FOSTER, Esq. in his spicy little paper, the Merchants’ Day Book, is of a knight who fell in love with a beautiful damsel, whose father would consent to the match only on condition that the lover would ride up the steep rocks on which his castle was built. This was clearly an impossible feat; but the king of the Gnomes came secretly and offered, if the knight of Sayn would fill up a silver mine that had been opened on his domain, to assist him in crossing safely the bridge of love. The action of the picture is at the moment that the knight rides over the last frightful fissure, upon a bridge composed of rocks, supported and held in their places beneath his charger’s hoofs, by the sturdy gnomes, while the king of the earth elfins stands proudly on the other side with his royal sceptre in his hand, to welcome his _protégé_ safely over. Far above is the father’s castle, with the lady and her attendants, watching the dauntless rider and waving their scarfs over his head. The whole of this picturesque and charming scene is handled in the most admirable manner. The gnomes couching like little atlases, under the heavy rocks across which the knight is passing—the irresistible comicry of the burly gnome king—the fiery prancing war-horse—the knight himself, waving his cap gallantly to his mistress, while he sits his steed with the air of a perfect conqueror, each seems better than the other. The entire composition and action of the piece are spirited and graceful, while the happy choice of subject equally betrays the accomplished artist.

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HENRI HERZ.—The celebrated pianist has finally settled for the rest of his days in Mexico. The supreme government has established a musical conservatory, at the head of which Mr. Herz has been placed, with a handsome salary.

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IVES THE SCULPTOR, since his return from Italy, has completed a plaster cast of Major General SCOTT, the mould of which he proposes to take with him when he again visits Italy, and reproduce the head in marble. The bust is true in its character, both in lineament and spirit, and is looked upon with universal approbation.

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POWER’S STATUE OF EVE.—It is stated that this statue, executed by Mr. POWER for the Hon. WILLIAM C. PRESTON, of South Carolina, has been lost by shipwreck on the coast of Spain. It had been generally conceded to be his chef d’oeuvre, and its loss is a real calamity, not only to the artist but the entire world of art. We trust sincerely that the original cast remains, from which a new statue may be produced.

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“MERCY’S DREAM.”—A copy from this original picture by HUNTINGTON has been executed by Mr. MCMURTRIE, of Philadelphia, with a general fidelity in tone, style, color, expression, and atmospheric effect, which is truly remarkable. This copy will constitute the first prize at the next drawing of the Art Union of Philadelphia, which will take place on the evening of the 31st of December, 1850.

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MARTI’S OPERA TROUP, from the Tacon Theatre, Havana, has recently been singing at Niblo’s Garden, in New York. Signor Salvi is acknowledged to be the only perfect tenor heard in this country since the days of Garcia. Signorina Steffanone, the new soprano, is also warmly praised. The orchestra is admirable, and all the appointments excellent.

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EARLY ENGLISH POETS.

POEMS OF THOMAS CAREW.

IN the history of early English literature, we find little mention made of the productions of Thomas Carew; “that sweet poet and most witty gentleman,” as he was quaintly styled by Sir William Davenant. With the exception of one or two of his songs, to be found in “The English Anthology,” we do not remember to have seen any mention made of his verses. This neglect cannot be accounted for by attributing it to his want of merit as a poet. The melody of his verse, the genuine spirit of poetry pervading his songs, and the happy conceits sparkling through them, entitle him to a position not many removes from that occupied by Sir John Suckling, whose sweet numbers and mellifluous verse are familiar to every lover of early English literature.

If the testimony of contemporaries is any test of poetic ability, the subject of our notice seems to have had his full share with the lighter poets and wits of his age.

Thomas Carew was descended from one of the first families in Gloucestershire, England; many of his ancestors having filled high and responsible stations in the preceding reigns of Mary, Elizabeth, and James I. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where he did not remain to finish the usual collegiate course, having been expelled for some youthful indiscretion. He afterward made the tour of Europe, visiting some of the most polished courts, and perfecting himself in all those accomplishments then so necessary for the complete education of a courtier. On his return from his travels, his fine person and polished manners attracted the attention of Charles I., who gave him the appointment of gentleman of the privy chamber, and was in the habit of constant social intercourse, esteeming him one of the most polished gentlemen and refined wits of his court. By the poets of his day he was much respected, claiming Ben Jonson and Sir William Davenant among the most devoted of his friends, and the warmest admirers of his verse. It redounds, however, much more to his praise that he was intimate with the youthful Hyde, afterward so distinguished as Earl of Clarendon—who speaks highly “of his amiable qualities, and his talent for light poetry, of the amorous kind, in the elegance and fancy of which he had few superiors.” Carew died in the prime of life, some time in the year 1639, thus fortunately escaping the troubles that even then “were casting their dark shadows before,” and which eventually overwhelmed his royal master. The only edition of his poems ever published appeared in 1630, edited by himself; and it is from this work we propose to introduce to the reader’s attention a few of the most beautiful of his songs and fugitive pieces.

An earnest desire to rescue from oblivion the many beautiful thoughts and curious conceits pervading the verses of this poet, has induced the preparation of our article. These songs served to lighten the cares of the troublesome reign of Charles I., and, set to music, were the favorite melodies of his time. In an age when gallantry was the chief of virtues, and the smiles and encouragement of the gentler sex the sure reward that awaited every laudable undertaking. Carew seems to have devoted his talents to the ladies. In smooth and gentle verse he celebrated their varied charms—or in ardent strains declared his own impassioned admiration and love.

The cruel glances of the eyes of his mistress he deprecates in lines like these—

I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers, Which, pleased or angered, still are murderers, For if she dart, like lightning, through the air, Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair, If she behold me with a pleasing eye, I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

And he mourns in touching melancholy verse the death of the loved one, and in sweet strains laments

The purest soul, that e’er was sent Into a clayey tenement, Informed this dust, but the weak mould Could the great guest no longer hold, The substance was too pure, the flame Too glorious, that hither came.

Does he celebrate the beauties of the natural world, he is sure to institute a comparison of those beauties with the charms of his mistress—and in his glowing language, “winter’s snow-white robes” “and blue-eyed spring” welcomed to the earth “by a choir of chirping minstrels” shrink into insignificance by the comparison. Does he pine away, banished from the presence of his mistress, he compares himself with happy conceit “to one far from the shore in a storm-beaten boat, where love is the pilot,”

but o’ercome with fear Of her displeasure, dares not homeward steer.

Indeed, the warmth of his verse, and its flow of happy conceits, induced Sir William Davenant to call him “our English Anacreon”—but this perhaps is going too far; although adopting the words of Moore, applied to Anacreon, we might say of Carew—“That his descriptions are sometimes warm, but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words; he is often sportive, without being wanton, ardent, without being licentious.” Still, the distance between Carew and Anacreon is immeasurably great—the singular beauty of “The Tean Bard”—his copiousness of expression, his easy and joyous gayety—the enthusiasm of the grape pervading his songs,—has never yet been equaled by his numerous pretended imitators; who too often have sought in grossness of allusion, and the vulgar rant of intoxication, for sources of resemblance.

It is indeed to be regretted that among the poems of Carew there are many that might tinge the cheek of modesty, and repel every reader by their gross physical impurities—and those, too, containing in their grossness thoughts of most exquisite beauty. The existence of these impurities, however, was the fault more of the age than the poet—custom sanctioned, society relished the use of language and sentiment that now would be exceedingly abhorrent to “ears polite.”

The polished courtiers, the fair dames of the court of Charles, perceived nothing in these songs of Carew that could call the blush of shame to the cheek, or excite even an impure thought. But custom,

“That despot, whose behest each age obeys,”

has in this our day otherwise ordered; and the civilized world now believes with the poet Roscommon—

Immodest words admit of no defense, A want of decency is want of sense.

My object in the preparation of this article being to rescue from oblivion some of the verses of this sweet poet, Carew, I propose to make such selections from his poems as shall prove, incontestably, his claim to a high rank among the earlier English poets.

We do not claim that the poems of Carew evince the highest order of poetic talent, but generous sentiment, and a glow of happy conceits running through, and sparkling in them, often exhibit unexpected beauties. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, applied to a poet of the same age and nation,

“If the conceits are sometimes far-fetched, they will be found oftentimes worth the carriage.”

It has been before remarked, that if the greatness of the poetic writers of this age seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises us—and noble sentiment and genuine wit will often be found buried beneath strange illustrations, and far-fetched conceits.

In Headley’s introduction to his “Select Beauties of Ancient English Poetry,” he bestows unqualified praise upon the amatory poets, who flourished in the reign of Charles the First, giving a decided preference to the poetry of the age of Elizabeth and Charles over all that has been written since their day. And he considers the poets, the amatory poets of those reigns, as forming a constellation far superior in poetic lustre to any that have succeeded them.

This indeed is no faint praise, coming from so refined a critic; but with all due deference we cannot but agree with Drake, that it is for the most part too highly colored. The exquisite simplicity of style and thought, so attractive in the productions of our modern poets, will be looked for in vain in the verses of the poets of that early day; such simplicity being the result of systematic refinement, and the progress of language toward perfection.

But to return from this apparent digression; as the most beautiful pearls are often found in the roughest shells, so in the songs of Carew the reader will oftentimes be delighted to discover rare conceits, sparkling with wit, and genuine poetry, but incased in rough inharmonious verse.

But often, as in the beautiful lines to a primrose, Carew seems to break loose from the trammels that fettered the versification of his day, and in tuneful, and well measured song expresses so aptly the ideas of his muse, as to give peculiar softness to his rhyme.

That little song, To a Primrose, commencing,

Ask me why I bring you here This firstling of the infant year.

And the one entitled The Compliment,

My dearest I shall grieve thee When I swear, yet, sweet, believe me,

are almost equal in beauty to that exquisite song of Fletcher’s, commencing

Take, oh, take those lips away.

Or that complimentary song of Sir John Suckling’s, beginning

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy bears comparison, Who sees it, is undone For streaks of red were mingled there Such as are on a Catharine pear, The side that’s next the sun.

In all the poetry of the age in which Carew flourished, there is to be found a straining after resemblances, and too often the sense is sacrificed in the effort; personification is too often used, without judgment, or taste. It is this fault which, more than any other, has called down upon the poets of the age in which Carew flourished, so much severe, and oftentimes unjust criticism.

But without offering these songs of Carew as models, without denying that according to the rigid canons of polished criticism, many glaring faults may be found in them, we still insist that their beauties are many, and to the eye, which brings not every thing to the narrow measure of a stern critic’s scrutiny, will more than compensate for unquestioned blemishes. The blemishes are the offspring of the distorted taste of the age in which our poet flourished—their beauties, the triumph of the poet’s genius over the difficulties in his pathway.

THE SPRING.

Now that the winter’s gone, the earth has lost Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream; But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth, And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee. _Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring_ _In_ triumph to the world, the youthful spring. The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array, Welcome the coming of the longed for May. Now all things smile, only my love doth lower; Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold. The ox which lately did for shelter fly Into the stall; doth now securely lie In open field, and love no more is made By the fire-side; but in the cooler shade Amyutas now doth with his Chloris sleep Under a sycamore, and all things keep Time with the season; only _she_ doth carry June in her eyes, her heart is January.

PERSUASION TO LOVE.

Think not, ’cause men flattering say You’re fresh as April, sweet as May, Bright as is the morning star, That you are so; or though you are, Be not therefore proud, and deem All unworthy your esteem; For being so, you lose the pleasure Of being fair, since that rich treasure Of rare beauty, and sweet feature, Was bestowed on you by nature To be enjoyed, and sure ’tis sin There to be scarce, where she hath been So prodigal of her best graces; Thus common beauties, and mean faces Shall have more pastime, and enjoy The sport you loose by being coy. Starve not yourself, because you may Thereby make me pine away; Nor let brittle beauty make You, your wisest thoughts forsake. For that lovely face will fail; Beauty’s sweet, but beauty’s frail; ’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner done Than summer rain, or winter’s sun; Most fleeting when it is most dear! ’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here. These curious locks, so aptly twined, Whose every hair a soul doth bind, Wilt change their auburn hue, and grow White, and cold as winter’s snow. That eye which now is Cupid’s nest, Will prove his grave, and all the rest Will follow, in the cheek then froze, No lily shall be found, or rose. And what will then become of all Those who now you servants call? Like swallow’s when your summer’s done They’ll fly, and seek some warmer sun. Remain still firm, be provident, And think before the summer’s spent Of following winter; like the ant See plenty hoard for time of scant. Cull out amongst the multitude Of lovers, seeking to intrude Into your favor, one that may Last for an age, not for a day. For when the storms of time have moved Waves on that cheek, now so beloved, When a fair lady’s face has pined, And yellow spread, where red once shined, When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her. Love may return, but lovers never. And old folks say, there are no pains Like itch of love, in aged veins. Oh, love me then, and now begin it, Let us not loose a precious minute, For time and age will work that rack, Which time or age shall ne’er call back. The snake each year, fresh skin resumes, And eagles, change their aged plumes. The faded rose, each spring receives A fresh red tincture on her leaves: But if your beauties once decay, They never know a second May.

LIPS AND EYES.

In Celia’s face, a question doth arise Which are more beautiful, her lips or eyes; We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed darts Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts From us, replied the lips, proceed those blisses Which lovers reap in kind words, and in kisses Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour Of liquid oriental pearls, a shower. Whereat the lips moved with delight and pleasure, In a sweet smile _unlocked their pearly treasure_; And bade Love judge, whether did add more grace Weeping, or smiling, to fair Celia’s face.

A BEAUTIFUL MISTRESS.

If when the sun at noon displays His brighter rays, Thou but appear He then all pale with shame, and fear, Quencheth his light, Hides his dark brows, flies from thy sight And grows more dim Compared to thee, than stars to him, If thou but show thy face again, When darkness doth at midnight reign, The darkness flies, and light is hurled Round about the silent world.

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me, why I send you here This firstling of the infant year? Ask me, why I send to you, This primrose, all bepearled with dew? I straight will whisper in your ears The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me, why this flower doth show So yellow, green, and sickly too? Ask me, why the stalk is weak, And bending, yet it doth not break. I must tell you, these discover That doubts and fears beset your lover.

MURDERING BEAUTY.

I’ll gaze no more, on her bewitching face, Since ruin harbors there, in every place; For my enchanted soul, alike she drowns With calms and tempests, of her smiles, and frowns. I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers, Which pleased or angered, still are murderers; For if she dart (like lightning) through the air Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair; If she behold me with a pleasing eye I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

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REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Lectures on Art and Poems. By Washington Allston. Edited by Richard H. Dana, Jr. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

The admirers of the greatest of American painters will need none of our advice to read this volume, placing as it does its accomplished author among the greatest of American writers. The Lectures are four long and elaborate essays on art; and they evince a depth and delicacy of insight, a concentrativeness and continuity of thought, a finely harmonized action of reason and imagination, and a command of subtle expression, which entitle them to a high rank among the best critical compositions of the century. The lectures treat of the highest and most exacting principles of creative art, and the passage from them to the poems is a hazardous descent. Though some of these poems have gleams of the author’s genius, they are generally characterized by a penury of imaginative expression which is painful to a reader fresh from the Lectures.

The merely literary reader will find much to delight him in the Lectures, even if he is indisposed to pay much attention to their profound discussion of principles. They contain many specimens of that word-painting which gave such popularity to Ruskin’s “Modern Painters.” The following passage on Vernet is one out of many splendid descriptions. “Now let us look at one of his Storms at Sea, when he wrought from his own mind. A dark, leaden atmosphere prepares us for something fearful; suddenly a scene of tumult, fierce, wild, disastrous, bursts upon us; and we feel the shock drive, as it were, every other thought from the mind; the terrible vision now seizes the imagination, filling it with sound and motion: we see the clouds fly, the furious waves one upon another dashing in conflict, and rolling, as if in wrath, toward the devoted ship; the wind blows from the canvas; we hear it roar through her shrouds; her masts bend like twigs, and her last forlorn hope, the close-reefed foresail, streams like a tattered flag; a terrible fascination still constrains us to look, and a dim, rocky shore looms on her lee; then comes the dreadful cry of ‘Breakers ahead!’ the crew stand appalled, and the master’s trumpet is soundless at his lips. This is the uproar of nature, and we _feel_ it to be _true_; for here every line, every touch, has a meaning. The ragged clouds, the huddled waves, the prostrate ship, though forced by contrast into the sharpest angles, all agree, opposed as they seem, evolving harmony out of discord. And this is Genius, which no criticism can ever disprove.”

The criticisms in these lectures on Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Titian, Poussin, Claude, are as unrivaled for discrimination as appreciation. No one has a quicker and deeper eye to detect the excellencies of great works, and no one seizes with more fatal sagacity upon their defects. Everybody has seen copies of Raffaelle’s great picture of the Madonna di Sisto, but few have dared to express their dissatisfaction with the seemingly beautiful figure of St. Catharine. Allston says it is an “evident rescript from the Antique, with all the received lines of beauty, as laid down by the analyst—apparently faultless, yet without a single inflection which the mind can recognize as allied to our sympathies; and we turn from it coldly as from the work of an artificer, not of an Artist. But not so can we turn from the intense life, which seems almost to breathe upon us from the celestial group of the Virgin and her child, and from the Angels below; in these we have the evidence of the divine afflatus—of inspired Art.”

Among the aphorisms written by Allston on the walls of his studio, and published in the present volume, we extract the following:

“Some men make their ignorance the measure of excellence; these are, of course, very fastidious critics; _for knowing little, they can find little to like_.”

“A witch’s skiff cannot more easily sail in the teeth of the wind, than the human _eye_ lie against fact; but the truth will oftener quiver through lips with a lie upon them.”

“The most common disguise of Envy is in the praise of what is subordinate.”

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_Southey’s Common-Place Book. Second Series. Special Collections. Edited by his Son-in-Law, John Wood Warter, B. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This volume contains the extracts which Southey made from the world of books, relating to special subjects of study. The general topics under which the extracts are grouped, are Ecclesiasticals, the Age of Cromwell, Spanish and Portuguese Literature, the History of the Religious Orders, Orientaliana, American Tribes, Natural History, and Curious Facts. The range of reading that the volume indicates, considered in connection with the number of Southey’s original works, is sufficient to astound a regular book-cormorant, and places Southey fairly among the “laboring classes.” The present volume is more racy in its matter than the preceding, while it does not yield to it in the amount of curious information given. The following passage, taken from Percival Stockdale’s Memoirs, conveys a capital idea of an English military commander. “When Lord George Germains commanded the camp near Brompton, and at Chatham in 1757, Whitfield went to Chatham, sent his respects by Captain Smith to his lordship, and requested permission to preach in the camp. Lord George replied, ‘Make my compliments, Smith, to Mr. Whitfield, and tell him, from me, he may preach any thing to my soldiers that is not contrary to the articles of war.’” From the same book Southey extracts an equally edifying paragraph, relating to the view entertained of the Christian religion, by the English naval captain of that time. Percival was appointed chaplain to Capt. Ogle’s ship Resolution, but, he says, “the duty of clergyman was very seldom required of me. One day, however, when I met my naval commander in a street of Portsmouth, and paid my respects to him, he proposed that I should do my duty on the ensuing Sunday on board. I replied that it was my wish to receive such a command more frequently. At all events, replied he, I think it is right that these things should be done sometimes, _as long as Christianity is on foot_.” The simplicity with which religion is patronized in both of these instances, makes them richly humorous.

* * * * *

_Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A New Edition. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 2 vols. 10mo._

This edition of Longfellow contains all his poems, and makes two finely printed volumes of some five hundred pages each, at about half the original price. In their present tasteful form they will doubtless have a large circulation, for their author is the most popular poet of the day on both sides of the Atlantic. His poems sell better in England than those of Tennyson, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Bailey or Milnes. This wide popularity he has fairly won by his merits, as he has not lacked carping critics or envious defamers to obstruct his path to success. The source of the fascination he holds equally over cultivated and uncultivated minds is partly owing to the fine humanity and sweetness of his spirit. Good nature is a portion of his genius; without this good nature, man, says Bacon, is but “a better kind of vermin;” but we are sorry to say that it is not a prominent characteristic of many minds largely gifted with the poetic faculty. Longfellow, in addition to this heartiness, full of seriousness which does not exclude cheer, has a broad and imaginative mind, which has assimilated and inwrought into its own substance the spirit of many literatures; and this gives a vital richness to his thought which no other contemporary poet but Tennyson can be said to possess. Probably few poets ever excelled him in the difficult art of preserving an equilibrium of ambition and capacity, so that nothing is attempted which is not satisfactorily performed. Many poets who aim higher than Longfellow, please less, because we are conscious of the stir and sting of great aspirations which are unaccompanied by sufficient imagination to give them adequate form and expression, and the result is that the mind is disturbed rather than exalted. In Longfellow aspiration and inspiration are perfectly harmonized.

* * * * *

_The Angel World, and Other Poems. By Philip James Bailey, author of “Festus.” Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._

“Festus,” a monstrous agglomeration of irreconcilable opinions, lit up with fancy, and seasoned with warm sensations, was Mr. Bailey’s first bantling—

“Got while his soul did huddled notions try, And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.”

“The Angel World” is his second product, the result of the slow gestation of many years, with fewer faults and fewer merits than “Festus”. Many persons who would hesitate in calling “Festus” a poem, discerned in it a chaos of poetical matter; and they supposed that the author’s unquestioned fertility would be forced into form when his powers matured. In “The Angel World” we find an approach to form with a decay of fertility. This seems to prove that anarchy is not so much the precursor of art as the destroyer of vitality, and that Bailey’s mind found in anarchy its fittest expression. There is not enough greatness in the man to make a great poem. Coleridge, in his remarks on Love’s Labor Lost, says that “true genius begins in generalizing and condensing; it ends in realizing and expanding. It first collects the seeds.” Bailey’s process is the reverse of this; he first expands, then condenses—and his expansion accordingly lacks substance, and his condensation richness. But though “The Angel World” is inferior to “Festus,” it still exhibits sufficient wealth of imagery to give it prominence among contemporary poems, and to exact the attention of all poetical readers. A poem which contains numerous thoughts as fine as the following cannot be justly condemned:

In one A soul of lofty clearness, like a night Of stars, _wherein the memory of the day_ _Seems trembling through the meditative air_.

The “other poems” which follow “The Angel World” are of various degrees of merit, indicating that the author is a man of moods, and is rapt or muddled, according as his sensibility rises or falls. A few of the poems are almost ecstatic, and equal the most striking passages in “Festus.”

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_The Ways of the Hour: A Tale. By the author of “The Spy,” “The Red Rover,” etc. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Cooper is a philanthropist of a peculiar kind. He makes an inventory of popular errors and vices, some of them thoroughly inwoven in the affections or manners of the people, and then daringly drives at them with the whole might of his pen. We honor his courage, and sympathize with his hatred of cant, even when we are disposed to doubt his judgment, and to regret his fretful way of presenting his opinions. Opposition seems to have deepened some of his dislikes into antipathies, and a man with antipathies is always unreasonable even in his assaults upon error and vice. There is one thing, however, for which Mr. Cooper cannot be too highly praised, and that is, his keen perception of the real faults which, in a democracy, should come under the lash of the moralist and the satirist. Far from pandering to popular delusions, he expends all his force in exposing and attacking them. The present novel is full of thrusts at the political bubbles of New York, some of which really subside into their “elemental suds” under his treatment. The general object of the novel is to exhibit the injustice which results from our system of trials by jury—an injustice which Mr. Cooper thinks is the necessary consequence of that system in a democracy. This we deem a monstrous paradox, though the story which illustrates it is ingenious and interesting, and will well repay perusal.

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_Gallery of Illustrious Americans. Brady & D’Avignon, New York, 1850._

Daguerreotypes by Brady—Engraved by D’Avignon, with Biographical Notices by C. Edwards Lester, assisted by other literary men. This is announced by the publishers of this work, and is sufficient alone to recommend it. It will be a noble Gallery when completed, if carried out as commenced. Two numbers are before us. The first number contains a fine portrait of Gen. Taylor, with a short clear notice of his life. The second number has a striking life-like head of Mr. Calhoun, which is particularly valuable now, that we are all called upon as countrymen to mourn the death of this great and good man. The biographical notice of Mr. Calhoun is well written and interesting.

We have but one fault to find with this work. The interior of the cover is used as a sort of journal—“Fly Leaf of Art and Criticism,” as it is called, but its _piquant_ notices, and clever short articles of poetry and prose are too valuable to be thus thrown away on a mere cover. However, it proves that the liberal publishers wish to make their work as attractive as possible.

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_Posthumous Works of the Rev. Thomas Chalmers, D. D., L.L.D. New York: Harper & Brothers. Vol. 9._

This volume of Chalmers is as valuable as any in the series, and, to us, the most interesting of the whole. It contains Prelections on Butler’s Analogy, Paley’s Evidences of Christianity, and Hill’s Lectures in Divinity, and affords some test of the great clergyman’s real merit in the science of theology. Although the volume does not place Chalmers in the first class of theological thinkers, it indicates sufficient originality, independence and force of thought to give him a high position in the second class.

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_Downing Street. (Latter-Day Pamphlets, No. 3.) By Thomas Carlyle. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. New York: Harper & Brothers._

We do not see as these pamphlets decrease in impudence and raciness as the author proceeds; they are among the most exhilarating of contemporary publications, and however mad in parts, are calculated to give a sharp shock to English dogmatism, if they do not succeed in ameliorating English institutions. In “Downing Street” Carlyle makes an assault on the executive department of the English government. The attack has more reason in it than the substitute proposed for the present system. In speaking of the inadequacy of Parliamentary government to obtain the best men for rulers, he refers to Robert Burns, the noblest soul of his time in England, and yet one for whom the government could find no fitter employment than to gauge ale. “And so,” remarks Carlyle, “like Apollo taken for a Neatherd, and perhaps for none of the best on the Admetus establishment, this new Norse Thor had to put up with what was going; to gauge ale, and be thankful, pouring his celestial sun-light through Scottish song-writing—the narrowest chink ever offered to a thunder-god before! And the measure Pitt, and his Dundasses and red-tape phantasms (growing very ghastly now to think of) did not in the least know or understand—the impious, god-forgetting mortals—that Heroic Intellects, if Heaven were pleased to send such, were the one salvation for the world, and for them, and all of us. No; ‘they had done very well without’ such; did not see the use of such; ‘went along very well’ without such; well presided over by singular Heroic Intellect called George the Third; and the Thunder-god, as was rather fit for him, departed early, still in the noon of life, somewhat weary of gauging ale!”

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_King René’s Daughter: a Danish Lyrical Drama. By Henrik Hertz. Translated by Theodore Martin. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 16mo._

This drama cannot boast any remarkable imaginative power, but it is still a most exquisite creation, conceived in the spirit of the finest human sympathy, and purifying the mind which it seemingly enters merely to please. We trust that the American, as well as the English public will, in the translator’s words, have the taste to “appreciate a drama which owes its effect solely to the simplicity of its structure, the ideal beauty of its central character, and the atmosphere of poetry and old romance by which it is pervaded.” Iolanthe, the character thus indicated, has a clear and vital sweetness at the heart of her being, which wins every reader’s affection. The genius of the author may be likened to the nightingale in his own lyric—

The eagle we tell By his sweep full well, As proudly afar in the clouds he soars, And the nightingale, By the trilling wail Her throat in the dewy May-time pours.

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_The Petrel, or Love on the Ocean, by Sir Ameral Fisher. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson._

This is one of the most spirited sea novels that we have read since Cooper witched the world with his Red Rover. It is full of intense interest throughout, and must find a wide sale among all lovers of nautical adventure. The heroine, _Norah_, is a beautifully drawn character, as is also the bold, dashing Herbert, her lover. The attack upon the pirates has all the freshness and daring of Tom Cringle’s Log.

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_Sketches of Minnesota, the New England of the West. With Incidents of Travel in that Territory during the Summer of 1849. By E. S. Seymour. With a Map. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an useful book, making no pretensions to elegance of style or vividness of description, but giving the history and topography of Minnesota, its past and present condition, in a plain, dogged way. To those interested in the subject, the book will reward perusal, but we can hardly commend it as having any charm for the common reader.

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_The Life of John Calvin, Compiled from Authentic Sources, and Particularly from his Correspondence. By Thomas H. Dyer. With a Portrait. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Here we have, for the first time, a biography of Calvin, based on original materials, and written by one who does not belong to the Calvinistical sect. The volume is well written, is laden with important information, and is exceedingly impartial. The digests given of Calvin’s works in the order of their composition, and the copious extracts from his private correspondence, conduct us close to the character of the man. The real greatness of Calvin is more apparent in this work than in any we have seen written by professed followers of his creed. The chapters relating to Servetus have a dramatic interest as well as a religious significance. It may be generally said in praise of the volume, that no one who has not read it, is entitled to give a confident opinion of the character of its subject.

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EDITOR’S TABLE.

FASHIONS FOR THE MONTH.

EVENING DRESSES.—Blue satin robe, trimmed with six flounces, disposed in threes, and raised with bouquets of blue tinted feathers. Low body; in three pieces, with a point; berthe of two rows of lace; a bouquet of three marabouts on the body; marabouts in the hair. Robe of white moire, plain skirt: tunic of crape lisse, descending a little lower than the knee, open in front, rounded at bottom, and trimmed all round with a small wreath of roses; low body, with a point; crape berthe, rounded in front, trimmed all round with a wreath, to match that on the skirt; a bouquet in front; a coronet of roses in the hair.

A dinner dress, much in favor, is a robe of pink and white glacé taffetas. The front of the skirt is trimmed with small ruches of narrow pink and white ribbon, interlaced one with the other, forming an _échelle_ of narrow _pompons_ wreaths. This trimming is carried up each side of the body, which opens square _à la Louis XV_, and tied in front with _Montespan_ bows in pink and white ribbon; the same kind of bow fastens up the pagodes sleeves, which are trimmed with a double wreath of ribbons; from the edge of the sleeve a double row of lace falls over the naked arm. A lace, half the width, trims the top of the body above the ruche. A rose is placed on the side of the head, or a little puff of pink gauze ribbon, or a bouquet of marabouts on one side, and long ends of ribbon on the other.

Before we have done speaking of fashions, we must mention some coiffures. Nothing can be prettier than the evening coiffures now worn; they are made of blonde and flowers, feathers, and rich materials; the small oriental turbans of gold or silver tissue, indeed every thing that is rich and elegant, is employed for these _parures_. We have also seen some charming little caps, the coquetry and caprice of which makes the wearer indisputably pretty. The little _Marie Stuart_, descending slightly over the forehead, rounding over the bandeaux, and edged with a very light and narrow ruche of blonde; over the crown a long barbe of blonde. The width of ribbon forms a bow, the ends falling on each side of the neck. On each side of the bandeaux these barbes are slightly raised, with a bouquet of roses or heath, or a _chou_ of ribbon, in the middle of which a large diamond pin is placed. The same style of cap, made entirely of pink or blue gauze ribbon, edged with a very narrow and light blonde, slightly fulled, produces a coiffure which is extremely becoming; a triple ribbon, which on either side, in guise of a barbe, descends gradually upon the neck, is fastened behind the ear with a rose without leaves. _La Mode._

* * * * *

J. M. LEGARE.—The sketches of Mr. Legare, “Life on the Prairies of the Farthest West,” which appeared in the April and May numbers, of Graham, were written for us some two years since, and are no evidence of the maturity of style, since acquired by this elegant writer—ably as they were written. We hope soon, to lay before our readers a series of articles from his pen, which place Mr. Legare in the front rank of the contributors to Graham. South Carolina, with three able writers, Legare, Simms, and Godman, is ably represented in “Graham.”

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T. A. GODMAN.—Our readers will gladly welcome back to our pages the accomplished editor of the Laurensville (S. C.) Herald, whose admirable sea story of “The Slaver,” was so warmly received by them two years since. An article from his pen will appear in the next number, entitled “For’ard and Aft.” It is written with great power, and must add to the high reputation of its author. If the Herald is not one of the most popular newspapers of South Carolina, it will not be the fault of Mr. Godman. He brings to his task a mind thoroughly educated, a nervous style, and a fine imagination, and writes with the power of genius unmistakable. We shall be glad to hear from him frequently.

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COOL IMPUDENCE.—The 309th number of “The Living Age,” contains an article from “Howitt’s Journal,” entitled “Three Pictures, Sunrise—Noonday—Night.” In the last December number of Graham’s Magazine our readers will find the original. The writer of the article says:

“Mrs. Howitt, or whoever attends to that journal, has not done quite the proper thing—having left out many of the paragraphs in my piece, and married together sentences which were not intended for matrimony, and moreover, and what is quite too bad, she, or he, or _it_, has taken a liberty quite unpardonable, in leaving out of the piece the place where the scene, if it may be so called, is laid, Broadway, New York, etc., obviously intending that it shall not appear the work of an American. In a matter so light as this, of course one can but laugh—if it were a production of more moment, one might still laugh, but would still have to remember how outrageously Mrs. H. came down on the American who ventured to translate and publish one of Miss Bremer’s works.”

It is not necessary to comment on this piece of British impudence.

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THE GOLD FISH.—A new artist, Henry A. Stevens, Esq., furnishes “Graham” this month with a spice of his quality, in “The Gold Fish”—the first of a series of drawings illustrative of Natural History, very pointedly discussed. The sketches in pen and ink, from writers of fine satirical powers, which will hereafter accompany these drawings, will undoubtedly prove quite attractive thus illustrated.

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Messrs. Lindsay & Blackiston, have in press, and will publish during the summer, “The Broken Bracelet and Other Poems,” by Mrs. Esling, formerly Miss Waterman, who is well known to many of our old subscribers, by the beautiful poems she formerly contributed to the Casket, and afterward to Graham’s Magazine.

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We have received from Messrs. Long & Brother, just as we are going to press, a romance by W. Harrison Ainsworth, entitled “Windsor Castle,” which we shall refer to again.

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THE MELODIES OF MANY LANDS.

WRITTEN BY

CHARLES JEFFERIES,

COMPOSED BY

CHARLES W. GLOVER.

Presented by Lee & Walker, 120 Walnut Street.

The melodies of many lands Ere-while have charm’d my ear, Yet

there’s but one among them all Which still my heart holds dear; I heard it first from lips I loved, My tears it then beguiled, It was the song my mother sang, When I was but a child. It was the song my mother sang, When I was but a child.

Its words, I will remember now, Were fraught with precepts old; And every line a maxim held Of far more worth than gold; A lesson ’twas, though simply taught, That cannot pass away; It is my guiding star by night, My comfort in the day.

It told me in the hour of need, To seek a solace there, Where only stricken hearts could find, Meet answer to their prayer; Ah much I owe that gentle voice, Whose words my tears beguiled; That song of songs my mother sang, When I was but a child.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious type-setting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page 353, first filled by Boccacio. ==> first filled by Boccaccio. page 354, “Lesciate ogni speranza ==> “Lasciate ogni speranza page 354, speranza voi ch’ intrate.” ==> speranza voi ch’ entrate.” page 371, as the Rock of Gibralter ==> as the Rock of Gibraltar page 378, against the mantle-piece, ==> against the mantel-piece, page 382, “Ada’s pompous apostacy ==> “Ada’s pompous apostasy page 390, Cowper; but Shelly, Keats, ==> Cowper; but Shelley, Keats, page 391, an unwordly degree of purity ==> an unworldly degree of purity page 393, how warily must it ==> how wearily must it page 397, the accomodation of invalids. ==> the accommodation of invalids. page 399, hand accidently touched ==> hand accidentally touched page 404, Paganinni or Ole Bull had ==> Paganini or Ole Bull had page 412, chef d’ouvre, and its ==> chef d’oeuvre, and its page 417, than to guage ale. ==> than to gauge ale. page 417, going; to guage ale, and ==> going; to gauge ale, and page 417, weary of guaging ale ==> weary of gauging ale page 417, Drama. By Henrick Hertz. ==> Drama. By Henrik Hertz.