Part 12

OH! in these colored shades it were too blest To roam with thee the hill-side and the plain, When in each passing moment we retain The moral of the great truth here impressed. See! how the woods in green and gold are dressed, As if apparelled for a conqueror's reign; Nor less yon maple groves, whose blood-red stain Trickles far down the distant mountain's crest. Gorgeous October! in thy golden gleam I see the tender light of loving eyes, Which to thy sweet days give an added beam; Nor would it be to me a vain surprise, If sometimes thy low-whispering winds should seem To be the music of her tender sighs.

SONNET V.

THE less of life, the less account is seen: The less account, the less of ill is known: And Beauty, ere its flower be quite full-blown, Is ofttimes nipped by sudden frosts and keen; And thus the course of life with me hath been, For, living among men, I dwell alone: Till now, life's goodly tree well-nigh overthrown, Doth wear the yellow leaf, and not the green. Yet even as Autumn is the proper rest, The sweet and gentlest season of the year; So in the mellow Autumn of thy breast, May my name last, to life and memory dear; Nor less upon my thought be thine impressed, For thou hast ever proved a friend sincere.

SONNET VI.

LIKE Summer-birds, when Summer-hours are fled: Like Summer-skies when Autumn-clouds are nigh: So from my heart did Hope, the watcher, fly, When in thy arms my darling girl lay dead. O fatal bolt! and all too surely sped: Yet sadder far when in her love-lit eye I saw the smile of recognition die, And felt the death-damp on her fair young head. If Love renewed have ever safe return To its far bourne, what matters it which way Our scarce-fledged hopes and blighted joys have fled? Or why is it that we cannot discern This last great truth, that our best treasures lie Beyond the silent barriers of the dead?

SONNET VII.

CREAK, ye black forests! and ye mournful forms That flit like hooded monks across the bare And desolate wilderness, urge through the air Your cloudy legions, O ye gloomy storms! Dark ministers of Night! I hear the roll Of rising winds, and in the lonely vale The melancholy Autumn breathes her wail, Yet pleasant is her sadness to my soul. See! where the Old Year bears her in his arms: The pale CORDELIA and the trembling LEAR: Will he not strew with heather her sad bier, And keep her safe from Winter's rude alarms? 'Vex not his ghost!' his life will soon be o'er, The 'sweet, low voice' he loved he hears no more.

SONNET VIII.

OH! when shall love to THEE be my best guide, REDEEMER, SAVIOUR! ever blessed LORD! By all the powers in earth and heaven adored? When flowed the dear blood from THY wounded side-- By heaven forsaken and by man denied-- Why were its crimson streams so freely poured, If man by love was not to be restored? O mighty theme! that doth debase my pride, And pour contempt on all the things of earth: If angels are not faultless in THY sight, How much less we who travail from our birth, Walking apart from Love and its clear light? Yet not for them, but us, was HE once slain, That we, redeemed from sin, might live again.

SONNET IX.

MOURN, mourn, voice of the wilderness! For HIM who shed HIS precious blood for me: JESU REDEMPTOR! LAMB OF CALVARY! The heir of glory, anguish and distress; Oh! how shall mortal tongue the love express With which THOU didst so love us, as to be Our sacrifice upon the accursed tree, Bearing the burden of our wickedness. O ye wild winds! and wilder blasts that wail Amid the ebon darkness, have ye known Man's dark iniquity that thus ye moan In hollow accents through the lonely vale? Alas! my soul, thy sins slew GOD'S dear SON: _Kyrie eleeson! Christe eleeson!_

SONNET X.

TRISAGION.

'Therefore with angels and arch-angels, laud And magnify HIS great and glorious Name, Who, to redeem the world from ruin, came, Saying: Holy, holy, holy LORD GOD! Heaven and earth made clean by Thy dear blood, Are ever full of THY great majesty: All glory be to THEE, O LORD, Most High!' So sang the angelic choir, the while I stood Listening the far response: 'Not unto us, Not unto us, O LORD! but unto THEE Be all the glory, LAMB OF CALVARY! _Quoniam tu solus Dominius!_' So Love doth rule--the high behest of heaven: And Love is ten-fold Love that waits on sins forgiven.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE KING OF THE MOUNTAINS. From the French of EDMOND ABOUT, Author of 'The Roman Question,' 'Germaine,' etc. By MARY L. BOOTH. With an Introduction by EPES SARGENT, Esq. In one volume: pp. 300. Boston: J. E. TILTON AND COMPANY, Number 601 Washington-street.

MONSIEUR ABOUT is said to have scared HIS HOLINESS, the POPE, the kind and benevolent PIO NONO, (if we may trust _any_ of all the numerous portraits and drawings which we have encountered of him,) in his book upon '_The Roman Question_.' The author's very name may have had something to do with it. He was 'about'--he was 'areöund': and the 'French' of his cognomen, as pronounced by his countrymen, was in itself suggestive of at least a signal of alarm--'_Ah-booh!_' But this aside: the book is a remarkable one, in many respects: and like its predecessors from the same pen, it will make an 'abiding mark' among the artistically-transferred literature to our own, from a foreign tongue. This narrative of '_The King of the Mountains_' is not at all complicated. Regarded as an artistical picture, we may say with truth that 'the canvas is neither confused nor crowded.' The story is supposed to be told by a young German botanist. He proceeds to Greece with the purpose of herbalizing in the mountains. 'Carried away by a scientific enthusiasm--the most common and the most pardonable--he becomes the prisoner of a remarkable brigand, HADGI-STAVROS, the King of the Mountains. He is not alone in his captivity. An English lady and her daughter--the former a striking portrait of a class of weak and consequential tourists, and the latter a thing to be admired and loved by any German, or any American, for that matter, under the circumstances supposed--are the hero's fellow-prisoners. The greater part of the book is taken up with a description of the character, positions, resources, habits and influence of the brigand chief; the temporary captivity of the party, who are made prisoners for the sake of a large ransom, actually in view of Athens, (such is the state of the government and police of that thriving kingdom!) and their final ransom and escape. But there are other _dramatis personæ_ beside MRS. SIMONS, who is a sort of MRS. NICKLEBY, an _Anglaise pour ire_, and MISS SIMONS, who does not take after her mother. There are down at the Piræus an American named HARRIS, a young Athenian girl, hight PHOTINI, and a Frenchman whose ruling passions are archæology and philanthropy. 'He had been rewarded by some provincial academy for an essay on the price of paper in the time of ORPHEUS. Encouraged by his first success, he had made a journey to Greece to collect materials for a work on the quantity of oil consumed by the lamp of DEMOSTHENES while he was writing the second Philippic.' HARRIS, the American, is evidently a favorite character with M. ABOUT. He invests him with all the best attributes of our countrymen, and makes every adventure in which he is a participator honorable to his gallantry and sagacity: 'The first time I dined with this strange fellow I comprehended America. JOHN was born at Vandalia, Illinois. He inhaled at his birth that air of the New World, so vivacious, so sparkling and so brisk, that it goes to the head like champagne wine, and one gets intoxicated in breathing it. I know not whether the HARRIS family are rich or poor; whether they sent their son to college or left him to get his own education. It is certain that at twenty-seven years he depends only on himself; trusts only to himself, is astonished at nothing, thinks nothing impossible, never flinches, believes all things, hopes all things, tries all things; triumphs in all, rises up again if he falls, never stops, never loses courage.' One of the best of our American critics, Mr. BRYANT, remarks of this book: 'No work of modern times, even in an English dress, serves to convey so capital an idea of the style which made VOLTAIRE famous, as this last agreeable romance of the author of 'The Roman Question.' It is just such a story as TALLEYRAND would have told over his chocolate, and SYDNEY SMITH relished and decorated with impromptu comment.'

THE LITERARY AND PROFESSIONAL WORKS OF FRANCIS BACON, Baron of Verulam, Viscount St. Albans, and Lord High Chancellor of England. Volume II. of the 'Literary and Professional Works': pp. 454. Boston: BROWN AND TAGGARD.

OUR first praise of this series of BACON'S works must be paid to that feature which first appeals to us through the eye--its typographical execution, by HOUGHTON, of the 'River-side Press' at Cambridge, near Boston, which may be pronounced fully equal to that of the first English printing in choice library editions of kindred standard works. The volume before us contains, with translations, BACON'S eulogium upon HENRY Prince of Wales, and the characters of JULIUS and AUGUSTUS CÆSAR--the original Latin, with translation. Also amendments and corrections inserted by BACON in a manuscript copy of CAMDEN'S Annals. Then follow, prefaced by a curious bibliographical note by Mr. SPEDDING, the 'Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral,' published from 1597 to 1625, (the year before his death,) which exhibit 'the earliest and the latest fruits of BACON'S observation in that field in which its value has been most approved by universal and undiminished popularity. These fifty-eight Essays, so wise and so eloquent in their simple yet forcible diction, occupy the greater portion of the volume, and the editor has translated the Latin quotations and added some necessary notes. There is an appendix to the essays, containing a Fragment of an Essay on Fame; reprints of the first edition of 1597, containing only ten, and of the second edition of 1612, with thirty-eight essays, and two essays attributed to BACON without authority; but, notwithstanding some similarity of style, marked by Mr. SPEDDING as spurious. There is, also, BACON'S treatise _De Sapientia Veterum_, itself a curiously learned book, the translation of which will appear in a future volume. 'BACON was one of the most remarkable men the world has ever seen. His character is a remarkable compound of the greatest nobleness and the most contemptible meanness. But of his _intellect_, no two opinions have ever been expressed. If we knew BACON only by his works, we should be bound to esteem him to be as good as he was undeniably a great man.'

GUESSES AT TRUTH. By TWO BROTHERS. From the fifth London edition. Boston: TICKNOR AND FIELDS.

THE PROVERBS and ECCLESIASTES are still without rival or peer, notwithstanding that LACON has given us some good apothegms, and MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, who undertook to render King SOLOMON into polite English, has had an amazing 'run.' A good proverb is always acceptable: a poor one vexes us always, because the maker assumes the position of teacher, and has no right to be either stupid or mediocre. To set one thinking is more difficult, and indeed more laudable, than to furnish one with thoughts; as it is more praiseworthy to put one in the way of earning a living, than merely to bestow a charity. It is easy, however, to assume the air oracular; in fact there is more or less strength, _prima facia_, in a pretentious position; and a platitude let off under cover of high-sounding words may be very imposing. We have in 'Guesses at Truth,' a book of five hundred and fifty-five pages, originally published in England more than thirty years ago by two brothers, clergymen, we believe, and now reprinted by the respectable house of TICKNOR AND FIELDS. We have looked carefully through the volume; and for once are forced to differ with the publishers as to the taste of reproducing the book here. With the exception of some very fair criticisms on SHAKSPEARE, MILTON, and one or two others, borrowed a good deal from GOETHE and SCHLEGEL, and certain extended disquisitions absorbed evidently from WORDSWORTH and COLERIDGE, the book is utterly common-place. A good deal of it we remember to have met with in our various newspaper clippings--a good deal we confess never to have before encountered. In 'Guesses at Truth' the French come in for very severe hits from the 'TWO BROTHERS' whenever opportunity serves: they are full of the English prejudices of the last century. Mark the following sagacious comparison: 'The French rivers partake of the national character. [We should think it would be just the reverse.--ED.] Many of them look broad, grand and imposing, but they have no depth; and the greatest river in the country, the Rhone, loses half its usefulness from the impetuosity of its current!' Hear this precious piece of intelligence: 'France--the only region between Lapland and Morocco where youth is without bloom, and age without dignity!' Here is something new about the 'best talkers in the world:' 'Talk to a dozen Englishmen on any subject: there will be something peculiar and characteristic in the remarks of each. Talk to a dozen Frenchmen: they will all make the very same remark, and almost in the same words.' But let us give the reader a specimen of the more abstract 'Guesses:' 'What a pity it is there are so many words! Whenever one wants to say any thing, three or four ways of saying it run into one's head together; and one can't tell which to choose. It is as troublesome or as puzzling as choosing a ribbon or a husband.' Read the following. It is Blackstonian: 'A use must have preceded an abuse properly so called.' The next strikes us as exceedingly original: 'A little management may often evade resistance which a vast force might vainly strive to overcome.' And this: 'Children always turn toward the light. Oh! that grown-up people in this world would become like little children!' The art-world owes much for what follows: 'A portrait has one advantage over its original: it is unconscious; and so you may admire without insulting it. I have seen portraits which have more.' (_Sic._) Here is something worthy a place in the 'Rules of Etiquette:' 'A compliment is usually accompanied by a bow, as if to beg pardon for paying it.' We have puzzled over the following and 'give it up:' 'What way of circumventing a man can be so easy and suitable as a period? The name should be enough to put us on our guard; the experience of every age is not.' Further on we read: 'Truth endues man's purposes with _somewhat_ of immutability.' This reminds us of the cautious writer who stated that '_most_ men were mortal!'

For further examples of senseless platitudes dictatorially expressed, we refer the reader to the work _passim_. There is nothing more ridiculous than the deliberate sitting-down to write a book of proverbs and reflections. How unlike the genuine flow of the table-talk of some of our best men or the words of wisdom forced, as it were, from the lips of experience. In short, we are sick of pompous mediocrity on stilts: of that placid egotism which complacently assumes the office of guide and teacher, though incapable of aught but the tedious common-place. We do not want the thoughts of great men passed through such alembics--in fact, we much prefer to dilute our own proverbs if they prove too strong for us.

'Guesses at Truth' is beautifully printed on fine paper with clear type; after the newest style of the accomplished publishers. We regret to say the text is marred by the change of spelling of words ending in _ed_. Thus we find: reacht, lookt, discust, toucht, fixt, packt, etc., etc.--instead of reached, looked, discussed, touched, fixed, packed. 'As the body to the soul, so the word to the thought,' and we do not believe in thus mutilating what we are led by habit at least to consider a fair proportion.

PROFESSOR VALENTINE MOTT'S SURGICAL CLINIQUES IN THE UNIVERSITY OF NEW-YORK. Session 1859-60. Reported by SAMUEL W. FRANCIS, M.D.

THIS volume, which is gotten up in the best style of typography, and illustrated with many superior engravings, embraces a report of nearly one hundred surgical cases treated by the eminent surgeon, Professor VALENTINE MOTT, M.D. The treatment of the cases is simple and judicious, and they are narrated clearly and concisely. The work is of great practical value and interest to the medical profession, and reflects credit on its able reporter, Dr. SAMUEL W. FRANCIS. It is embellished with a very accurate portrait of Professor MOTT.

WA-WA-WANDA: A LEGEND OF OLD ORANGE. In one Volume: pp. 280. New-York: RUDD AND CARLETON, Corner of Grand and Crosby-streets.

This is a book seriously written, containing the narrative of an old Indian called WINTER PIPPIN. The author, declining the trouble of giving us a measure of his own, which certainly the originality of his work demands, has modestly employed that of Mr. LONGFELLOW'S HIAWATHA, for which Mr. LONGFELLOW ought to be very grateful.

The book before us--the work, a-hem!--on our table--reader, it's no use; we can't write prose after reading it. We are alone in our sanctum--no friend present to hold us in. We are wound up to a pitch of excitement, the case is desperate, it must come. O shade of WINTER PIPPIN, listen!

HERE'S a poem as is a poem, Poem writ for all the ages; Poem sung by WINTER PIPPIN, 'Winter Pippin--Piping Pippin.' Should you ask us, gentle reader, Is it twaddle, sorry twaddle? Is it bosh and utter nonsense, Nonsense all, not worth the paper, Or the ink with which 'tis printed? We should answer, we should tell you, Buy the book and read it, read it, Pay your last red dollar for it, For this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.' Say no more, O carping critic! That our time hath borne no poet; Poet born to chant the chorus, Chorus of the mighty Present; Sing the age--its living genius, Sing the age--its grand upheavings, Sleepy nations slow awaking, Crownless kings with ague shaking; Sing the night, chased by the morning, Sing the day that now is dawning. Mourn no more, O wailing critic! For HE's come. His name is PIPPIN, Winter Pippin--not a Greening, Not a Golden, but a Pippin-- And he sings in sweetest measure, Sings this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.' (How it rhymes with 'goosey gander.') Shades of HOMER, SHAKSPEARE, MILTON! From your graves rise up and greet him, Greet him with your heads uncovered, Beavers doffed, with low obeisance, All your hats off in his presence.

Minstrel! thou who now art singing, Singing through this mighty nation, (Greatest nation in creation,) HENRY WADSWORTH, long-drawn FELLOW, Ye who sang of HIAWATHA, Sang the charming golden legend, Sang the voices of the darkness, Cease your singing, hush your fiddle, Hang your jews-harp on the willows. WHITTIER, too, and tuneful LOWELL, Funny HOLMES, and graceful STODDARD, Ye who soar in upper ether, Feel at home the while you're up there-- Down at once, and fold your pinions, Fold them, for the EAGLE soareth, Soareth where ye cannot follow. All ye poets, Yankee poets, Go to bed and sleep upon it, Ere again ye sound the cymbals, Sound the cymbals, wake the echoes Which have floated o'er the waters, Floated sweetly o'er the waters, Till far-distant climes have heard them. Time and space would surely fail us, Were we now to show the beauties, Show the beauties of this poem, Poem writ for all the ages; How there lived a cider-maker, 'He, the first of cider-makers; How his cunning built a saw-mill, Sawed right through the Western country, Into cask-staves sawed the forests, Threw the slabs in the Pacific, Threw the scrags in the Missouri.' How he squeezed the juicy apples, How he loved the juicy cider, How he thought the world a barrel, Bound together by a cooper, Filled with cider to the bung-hole; How he feared 'twould 'burst its hoops off, Burst its hoops and split asunder;' How it didn't split asunder, But on fire was set one evening, When the careless sun, retiring, 'Went to sleep and left his candle, Slept and left his candle burning; And it caught the chamber-curtains, Caught and set them all a-blazing.' How he thought, in month of August, DRACO the meridian straddles, 'Elongates himself to northward, Nine degrees and twenty northward; And then thirteen more to westward, Takes another twist, and downward Slaps his tail of starry spangles In the face of URSA MAJOR.' How, one day, 'AURORA opened Not as wide as wont her portals; And the day-king, PHÆTON driving, Ran against and brake the gate-posts: Day of dash and dark disaster; And with sun-dogs set, the heavens Frowned affronted, scowled and scolded.' 'Hold! no more! in mercy spare me!' Thus the reader now is pleading. Can it be that taste poetic From the world has fled forever? Can such lofty, moving numbers, Tire the reader in a second, Tire him in a fleeting second? Ere we part, O mighty poet! Poet of the tuneful numbers, Hear, oh! hear, our meek petition: Hear an ancient KNICKERBOCKER! Greatly long we once to see thee, Once to gaze upon thy visage, Once to hear the voice that sung _it_, Once to press the hand that wrote _it_, Once to feel the bumps that thought _it_, Once to clip the hair _it_ came through; (Clip a lock off for a locket.) Once to tell thee all our wonder, All our joy at this thy music, Music sweet as 'Goosey-Gander,' Music sung of 'Wa-Wa-Wanda,' Music sung of apple-cider. Call on us, O mighty Pippin! At our snug and quiet sanctum, Sanctum in the second story, Of the building fifth in number, Fifth in street that men call Beekman, In the city known as Gotham; And--our word is now at stake, Sir, You our beaver hat can take, Sir, Take our hat, our cherished beaver!

LEWIS' NEW GYMNASTICS FOR LADIES, GENTLEMEN AND CHILDREN: AND BOSTON JOURNAL OF PHYSICAL CULTURE: a Monthly Journal: pp. 16. Edited by Dr. D. LEWIS of Boston.