Part 14

Mr. WALLACE, the great musical _Wonder_, is not now in town, but, reader, should he return among us, be sure to neglect no opportunity to hear him. In his hands, the piano seems like an instrument hitherto unknown. It has the chant of woodland birds, the silver sound of dropping waters, and 'all voices of nature and of art.' We have heard no resemblance to Mr. WALLACE, as a pianist. But it is his violin which _speaks_ to us; and on this instrument no approach to Mr. WALLACE has been met with in this country. How exquisite the notes, pathetic, joyful, or in 'linked sweetness long drawn out' which he conjures from that most facile of all instruments! We would travel ten miles to hear him play, in his style, that ravishing melody, 'The Last Rose of Summer.' We shall have occasion, we hope, again to advert to the performances of Mr. WALLACE. He is yet a young man, and possesses the characteristic modesty of true genius; and has hardly yet learned that 'the world meets nobody half way;' in _his_ case, however, not a necessary lesson. * * * IF any of our town readers are fond, by way of literary variety and contrast, of disinterring the intellectual treasures of the buried Past, they will find 'pleasant employment and liberal wages' in glancing over the antique stores of Messrs. BARTLETT AND WELFORD, under the Astor House. We have been indebted to the courtesy of these gentlemen for sundry communings with authors who have been in their graves for five or six centuries. Every _ancient book_ is an argument in favor of the immortality of the soul. 'Fancy a deep-buried Mastodon, some fossil Megatherion, Icthyosaurus, were to begin to _speak_ from amid its rock-swathings, never so indistinctly! Yet the most extinct fossils of Men can do, and does, this miracle--thanks to the letters of the alphabet!' * * * THE friend who sends us, for 'a fragment of Gossip,' the anecdote of the verdant field-preacher who spoke of Saint PAUL's having 'sat at the foot of _Gammel-Hill_,' is informed that it has already appeared in the KNICKERBOCKER. The following specimen of kindred ignorance, however, is quite new to us, and worthy of repetition. It is a precious bit of ignorant bathos, which occurred in a discourse upon the sufferings of CHRIST: 'The blessed SAVIOUR, my hearers, was dreadfully persecuted. Once, when going to Jerusalem, the Jews put him on a wild young jack-ass, and scattered branches in the road, and put clothes onto 'em, in order for to scare the little colt, and make him break the blessed Redeemer's neck!' The speaker actually preached this _three times_, till one of his congregation corrected him!' * * * THE articles in the Edinburgh Review, and other eminent European periodicals, against the custom of the _duello_, would seem to be but the echoes of a prevalent public opinion. We perceive by late English journals that an _Anti-Duelling Association_ has recently been formed in London. 'It consists of three hundred and twenty-six members, including twenty-one noblemen, thirteen sons of noblemen, sixteen members of Parliament, fifteen baronets, thirty admirals and generals, forty-four captains R. N., twenty-three colonels and lieutenant-colonels, seventeen majors, twenty-six captains in the army, twenty lieutenants R. N., and twenty-four barristers. They denounce duelling as 'sinful, irrational, and contrary to the laws of GOD and man;' and pledge themselves to 'discountenance the practice, both by example and influence.' The association includes, says a London journal, many members who have been successful heretofore in 'killing their man.' * * * ONE of the most delightful as well as most accessible places of summer resort in the vicinity of New-York, is the 'HAMILTON HOUSE,' a spacious and elegant _palace_ of an edifice, situated on the south-westernmost extremity of Long-Island, on the picturesque bluff at the ocean-entrance to the Narrows, commanding a wide view of the sea, the lower bay, Staten-Island, and the rich and cultivated fields of Long-Island; a combination of scenery unsurpassed on the Atlantic sea-board. Here, amidst healthful and invigorating sea-airs, and charming views; with spacious and well-ventilated apartments, public and private; 'tables richly spread;' wines of the best, and the means of recreation, natural and artificial, in abundance; what could one want more?--save perhaps the ready attention and courtesy of the proprietor, Mr. J. R. CURTIS, and these are 'matters of course.' Go to the 'Hamilton House,' ye invalids and pining wights 'in populous city pent.' * * * WE find the annexed charming translation in the hand-writing of Mr. LONGFELLOW, among the papers of the late lamented WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK:

SUMMER TIME IN GERMANY.

FROM JEAN PAUL.

THE summer alone might elevate us! Heaven! what a season! In sooth, I often know not whether to stay in the city, or go forth into the fields, so alike is it every where, and beautiful. If we go outside the city gate, the very beggars gladden our hearts, for they are no longer a-cold; and the post-boys can pass the whole night merrily on horse-back; and the shepherds lie asleep in the open air. We want no gloomy house. We make a chamber of every bush; and so have my good industrious bees before us, and the most gorgeous butterflies. In gardens on the hills sit school-boys, and in the open air look out words in the dictionary. On account of the game-laws there is no shooting now; and every living thing in bush and furrow and on the green branches, can enjoy itself right heartily and safely.

In all directions come travellers along the roads. They have their carriages, for the most part, thrown back. The horses have branches stuck in their saddles, and the drivers roses in their mouths. The shadows of the clouds go trailing along, and the birds fly between them up and down. Even when it rains do we love to stand out of doors, and inhale the quickening influence; and the wet does the herdsman harm no more!

And is it night, so sit we only in a cooler shadow, from which we plainly discern the day-light on the northern horizon, and on the sweet, warm stars of heaven. Whithersoever I look, there do I find my beloved blue; on the flax in blossom, on the corn-flowers, and the godlike, endless heaven, into which I would fain plunge as into a river!

And now if we turn homeward again, we find only fresh delight. The whole street is one great nursery; for in the evening after supper, the little ones, though they have but few clothes upon them, are again let out into the open air, and not driven to bed as in winter. We sup by day-light, and hardly know where the candle-sticks are. In the bed-chambers the windows are open day and night, and likewise most of the doors, without danger. The oldest women stand by the window without a chill, and sew. Flowers lie about every where; by the ink-stand, on the lawyer's papers, on the judge's desk, and the tradesman's counter. The children make a great noise, and one hears the rolling of nine-pin alleys. Half the night through, one walks up and down the street, and talks loud, and sees the stars shoot in the high heaven. The foreign musicians, who wend their way homeward toward midnight, go fiddling along the street, and the whole neighborhood runs to the window. The extra posts arrive late, and the horses neigh. One sits in the noise by the window, and drops asleep, and the post-horns awake him; and the whole starry heaven hath spread itself open. Oh, GOD! what a joyous life, on this little earth!

_Cambridge, July 20._

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

The following we derive from the same source with the above. It is placed in type from the MS. of Mrs. FANNY KEMBLE BUTLER:

THE PARTING PLEDGE.

I.

YET once again! but once, before we sever, Fill me one brimming cup--it is the last, And let those lips now parting and for ever, Breathe o'er this pledge 'The memory of the Past!'

II.

Joy's fleeting sun is set, and no to-morrow Smiles on the gloomy path we tread so fast; Yet in the bitter cup, o'erfilled with sorrow, Lives one sweet drop--the memory of the Past!

III.

But one more look from those dear eyes now shining Through their warm tears, their loveliest and their last. But one more strain of hands in friendship twining, Now farewell all, save memory of the Past!

'WHAT is more ridiculous to a dandy than a philosopher, or to a philosopher than a dandy?' We thought of this query, while reading a description, in a communication before us, of a knot of fourth-rate dandies, the 'apes of apes,' _which_ the writer encountered in the bar-room of an inn, in one of the fourth-rate towns of Maryland. Doubtless these artificial 'humans' looked upon our friend as quite to be pitied that he was not '_one of us_:' 'In their ultra dress, affected manners, drawling tones, and whey-faces, you might read the foolish inanity of an existence parallel in every respect to that of BEAU BRUMMEL, except that his was original absurdity, and theirs was folly on loan. It was Parisianism adulterated in London, qualified in Broadway, weakened in Chestnut-street, reduced in Baltimore, and at last in these provincial decoctions diluted to the lowest possible degree of insipidity, with scarce a perceptible tincture of the original liquid. These had no souls by nature; and the only idea they could inspire was one of humiliation, that apes were permitted to wear the likeness of GOD's image.' * * * WE annex below a few random comments from an old and favorite contributor, (a 'scholar ripe and good,' who holds a felicitous pen,) upon three or four papers in our May number: 'JOHN QUOD is beyond all praise. I read the May chapters throughout with unqualified delight. The passage describing the old lawyer's affixing his own name, in his confusion, to the blind man's will, aroused me to unseemly, uproarious laughter; and the _painting_ of Kornicker's manner, particularly his laugh, is scarcely inferior to COOPER's account of Leatherstocking's noiseless, inward laugh, the impression of which could not fade from my fancy in a thousand years. I'll wager my head that the May number of no Magazine in the world contains a sketch of more power and humor. As for the '_Lay of Ancient Rome_,' I cannot praise it too highly. The imitations of ancient manners, and the _keeping_ with ancient ideas, is excellent, _excellent_ indeed; far better than the efforts of BULWER, in his 'Last Days of Pompeii,' or than any other late imitations which I just now remember to have seen. Fresh from the perusal of ANTHON's 'Horace,' (ANTHON's classics are entirely unequalled,) and with LIVY in my reach, the verisimilitude strikes me as almost perfect. You cannot fail either, to observe that, as in the '_Three Passages in the History of a Poet_,' there is a great deal of sweet poetry scattered about among the jewels of delicate criticism and mirthful wit. I believe my love for the old Greeks and Romans is a little unreasonable; but it is my first love. I often woo other mistresses, but I always return to my 'prima donna.' Twelve or fourteen years ago I ingorged all of SMOLLET, FIELDING, RICHARDSON, SCOTT, and COOPER, at one intemperate meal, and then lay some months inert and drowsy, like a huge boa-constrictor after swallowing a bullock. Then again for several years I dieted on Greek and Roman and early English literature. Once more I devoured all then published of EDGEWORTH, BULWER, JAMES, MARRYAT, and I know not how many others, rolled up in one monstrous mass. I wonder it had n't killed me; but the process of digestion brought me again to a state of healthful depletion, and my natural appetite revived. So, although I am delighted with genius, or talent, or wit, or mere taste, no matter when or where I encounter it, yet I cannot forget my youthful worship, or forego my early gods. The death-scene in '_The Young Englishman_,' I do declare, went to my very heart. I have had since continually before my eyes the poor youth, flying from his destroyer, whose unerring dart was already in his bosom. What a mournful comment on that most affecting passage of Virgil, where the wounded deer flies from the pursuer, (who is in truth her companion,) with the arrow for ever in her side--_hæret lateri lethalis arundo_--flies through the summer forests, all heedless of their greenness, and lies down by some blue streamlet, helpless and hopeless to die! Seeing the other day a number of 'GRAHAM's Magazine,' I read in it an article by E. A. POE, who comes down on your old correspondent 'FLACCUS' like a mountain of lead! It is clear that 'FLACCUS' has in many places exposed himself to the charge of unmelodious rhymes, incongruous figures, and occasionally faulty taste. But there is a difference between a POPE that sometimes nods, and a CIBBER that _never wakes_! I am not easily moved, in the matter of poetry; I _think_, at least, that it must have merit to please me; and I well remember that FLACCUS's metrical love-tale in your pages seemed to me very sweet and original, and strongly redolent of the early English odor. His 'Epistle from my Arm-chair' was in good hexameters, and his 'Address to the President of the New-England Temperance Society' had a TOM MOORE-ish spice of elegant wit about it, and might have been written by Mr. POE in about a century of leap-years.' * * * THE venerable NOAH WEBSTER, full of years and full of honors, has gone down to his grave, 'like a shock of corn fully ripe in its season.' Our very earliest associations, like those of millions of others, are associated with his name. That blue-covered spelling-book of his, with its progressive lessons of learning and morality; its pleasant fables and pretty pictures; its large type and dingy paper--the very _smell_ of that spelling-book--all are as vivid in our mind as when we first took it to bed with us, in an ecstacy of enjoyment, some score and a half of years agone. And then his great philological work, which is now so well known in both hemispheres, what a monument it is of careful research, discriminating judgment, laborious industry! It will die only with the 'land's language.' Mr. WEBSTER has been a frequent and always a welcome contributor to these pages; and we have even now in our possession late communications from his pen, of which our readers will know more hereafter. NOAH WEBSTER was an honor to his country. He was a scholar; a 'gentleman of the old school,' who lived a life void of offence toward GOD and toward man; and he died in the full assurance of a blessed immortality. May he rest in peace! * * * '_Poetry run Mad_' is inadmissible, on two accounts. In the first place, it strikes us we have met _parts_ of it at least before; and in the second, the style has 'outlived our liking.' Nobody but HOOD manages well this ragged species of verse; a very clever specimen of which is contained in his '_Custom-House Breeze_,' the story of a lady-smuggler who would not go ashore at Dover, because there was 'a _searching_ wind' blowing, which might expose the lace-swathings of her person:

'IN spite of rope and barrow, knot, and tuck, Of plank and ladder, there she stuck! She couldn't, no, she wouldn't go on shore.

'But, Ma'am,' the steward interfered, 'The wessel must be cleared. You mus'n't stay aboard, Ma'am, no one don't! It's quite ag'in the orders so to do, And all the passengers is gone but you.' Says she, 'I cannot go ashore and won't!' 'You ought to!' 'But I can't!' 'You must!' 'I sha'n't!''

WE have given no notice of CARLYLE's '_Past and Present_,' for the reason, let us inform the publishers, that we received no copy of the work. We have perused the book, however; and are compelled to say that in its style it exhibits no improvement upon the previous writings of its distinguished author. It is even less clear, to our comprehension, (or perhaps from the _lack_ of it,) than any of his former productions. We are sorry to see, moreover, that he is obliged to _repeat himself_ so frequently. Yet is there much matter for deep thought in his pages, and sometimes a whole sermon in a single sentence. His heart bleeds for his suffering fellow-men in England, Ireland, and Scotland; 'twelve hundred thousand workers, their cunning right hand lamed, lying idle in their sorrowful bosoms; asking only for work, and such return for it in food, clothes, and fuel, as shall enable them to live, that they may still work on;' yet we do not see that Mr. CARLYLE points out any means by which these many 'workers' may obtain redress of the 'crowned, coronetted, shovel-hatted, quack-heads' whose rule he stigmatizes so severely. Here is a fine passage illustrating the fact that he only is successful who is 'fortunate for good:' 'Success! If the thing is _unjust_, thou hast not succeeded, no, not though bonfires blazed from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote leading articles, and the just thing lay trampled out of sight, to all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing. Success! In a few years thou wilt be dead and dark; all cold, eyeless, deaf; no blaze of bonfires, ding-dong of bells, or leading articles, visible or audible to thee again for ever! What kind of success is that?' It is not possible for Mr. CARLYLE to write a stupid or an unreadable volume; and it can only be affirmed, in dispraise of the present work, that it is less forceful and attractive than one or two of its immediate predecessors. * * * YOU are wrong, Sir 'P. F.,' _altogether_ wrong. The 'competence' of the tiller of the soil, the 'abundance' of the successful mechanic, and the 'sufficiency' of the tradesman, we conceive to be better calculated to promote happiness than 'great wealth,' even when unencumbered. We are not insensible to the value of money. Our remark was pointed as to the _wants_ that wealth brings; but the _cares_ of it are not less exacting. 'Don't you _know_ me?' said a western millionaire, soon after 'the crisis,' to a friend of ours, with whom he had formerly been intimately acquainted; 'don't you _remember_ me? My name is ----.' 'Good heavens! it can't be possible!' exclaimed our friend; 'why, what has wrought such a change in your appearance? Where's your flourishing head of hair? where's your flesh gone? what's put that bend in your back?' 'The times! the times!' replied the 'poor rich man;' as for my back, I broke that last year, _lifting notes_; some of them were very heavy.' A grievous and unnecessary burden no doubt they were; and how much better was the rich man's 'wealth,' with its carking cares, than the 'abundance' of the contented mechanic?' * * * A MOST forcible warning to 'nations that know not GOD' is contained in the following passage from a recent discourse by Rev. GEO. B. CHEEVER:

'THIS world has been the theatre of a mighty experiment--whether nations could be prosperous and permanent in pride and sin. The result has been overwhelming. Empire after empire has fallen to the ground. I have passed over the ruins of dead and buried kingdoms; have seen the shades of departed monarchies, and conversed with them, haunting the spots of their former glory; and the hollow voice, as if the wind were moaning from earth's central sepulchres, has spoken in the words of Scripture, deep unto deep, in my hearing, THE NATION AND KINGDOM THAT WILL NOT SERVE THEE SHALL PERISH; YEA, THOSE NATIONS SHALL BE UTTERLY WASTED! It is a solemn thing to stand in the Colosseum at Rome, beneath the shadow of the Parthenon at Athens, within the crumbling shrine of the temple of Karnak in Egypt, and to listen to the echo of those awful words. These historical materials and monuments are so many intelligent chords, which men's iniquities have wrought for that great harp of the past, across which God's Spirit sweeps with its majestic, awful utterance! GOD grant that the history of our nation may not add another tone of wailing to the melancholy voices of dead empires!'

We are glad to perceive that the '_American Book Circular_,' recently put forth by Mr. GEO. P. PUTNAM, of the Anglo-American house of WILEY AND PUTNAM, London, has been received with a becoming spirit by the English press. It has been most favorably noticed in the 'London Review,' 'Examiner,' 'Athenæum,' 'Literary Gazette,' and other influential journals; and its publication has secured to the writer the attention and friendship of several of the most distinguished literary and scientific gentlemen of the British metropolis. This timely pamphlet, in fact, has opened the eyes of the English people to the progress of science and belles-lettres in America, and has served to enlighten them as to the extent of their literary obligations to this country. Widely noticed by the press, and stitched in all the principal reviews and periodicals of England, the 'American Book-Circular' has already been productive of great good to the reputation of our vigorous but infant 'republic of letters.' * * * 'FLANEUR,' whom we welcome, has made sundry inquiries in preceding pages concerning certain terms and sayings which have long and generally obtained among pen-and-ink writers of romances and novels, native and foreign. There are other common sayings and comparative-adages, toward one or two of which we should be glad to direct the researches of the reader, 'on the present occasion.' 'Poor as JOB'S turkey,' has always puzzled us. Is there any authentic record of the personal condition of that afflicted bird, or of the causes which threw it into a decline? Why has it been handed down to us as the very CALVIN EDSON of its tribe? 'Not worth a Tinker's d--n' is another adage, whose origin is involved in mystery. When was the standard of value established for that intangible commodity of this particular artizan? Was there ever a 'sliding scale' for it, or such a thing as a 'first-quality' article in its kind, before it became a synonym for _nothing_? We have already asked who that 'DICK' was, who wore such an 'odd hat-band' that its memorial has been perpetuated even unto this day? 'We shall resume this important subject in our next discourse.' * * * THE sudden death of WILLIAM ABBOTT, Esq., of the Park Theatre, has been announced in nearly all the public journals of the United States. We had the pleasure to know Mr. ABBOTT well. He was first introduced to us, on his arrival in America, by a private letter from Miss LANDON, who spoke of his literary and social qualities in terms of cordial admiration and praise, which subsequent acquaintance convinced us were well deserved. To marked amenity and cheerfulness of manner, Mr. ABBOTT united literary acquirements of great extent and variety; a thorough knowledge of society; and a frankness of deportment which won, and a sincerity which retained, many friends. He was a most gentleman-like actor; and will be missed and mourned not less by his professional brethren than by those whose acquaintance with his talents and many good qualities was unconnected with his dramatic career. * * * HOW very prettily this little Love-passage is rendered! Our correspondent lets us hear from him quite too seldom:

TO ALMEDA: FROM THE SPANISH.

THINK you, my love, if ever fate Should cast a shadow o'er our bliss, That you or I could e'er forget In darkest hours our _Good-night Kiss_?

Ah no! though hopes should melt in tears, And fade for ever days like this, Sad memory through the longest years Would hover round our _Good-night Kiss_.

_Boston, June, 1843._

J. T. F.