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The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 4, July, 1851

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Title: The International Monthly, Volume 3, No. 4, July, 1851

Author: Various


        
Release date: September 28, 2010 [eBook #33965]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY, VOLUME 3, NO. 4, JULY, 1851 ***




Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by Cornell University Digital Collections.)








THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

_Of Literature, Art, and Science._

Vol. III. NEW-YORK, JULY 1, 1851. No. IV.




FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

[Illustration]


The author of _Fanny_, _Burns_, _Marco Bozzaris_, etc., was born at
Guilford in Connecticut, in August, 1795, and in his eighteenth year
removed to the city of New-York. He evinced a taste for poetry and wrote
verses at a very early period; but the oldest of his effusions I have
seen are those under the signatures of "Croaker," and "Croaker & Co.,"
published in the _New-York Evening Post_, in 1819. In the production of
these pleasant satires he was associated with Doctor DRAKE, author of
the _Culprit Fay_, a man of brilliant wit and delicate fancy, with whom
he was long intimate. DRAKE died in 1820, and his friend soon after
wrote for the _New-York Review_, then edited by BRYANT, the lines to his
memory, beginning--

    "Green be the turf above thee,
      Friend of my better days,
    None knew thee but to love thee,
      Nor named thee but to praise."

Near the close of 1819, Halleck published Fanny, his longest poem, which
was written and printed in three weeks; in 1827 a small volume,
containing Alnwick Castle, Marco Bozzaris, and a few other pieces, which
had previously appeared in various miscellanies; and in 1836, an edition
of all his serious and more finished compositions. The last and most
complete edition of his works appeared two years ago in a splendid
volume from the press of the Appletons.

It was Lord Byron's opinion that a poet is always to be ranked according
to his execution, and not according to his branch of the art. "The poet
who executes best," said he, "is the highest, whatever his department,
and will ever be so rated in the world's esteem." We have no doubt of
the justness of that remark; it is the only principle from which sound
criticism can proceed, and upon this basis the reputations of the past
have been made up. Considered in this light, Mr. Halleck must be
pronounced not merely one of the chief ornaments of new literature, but
one of the great masters in a language, classical and immortal, for the
productions of genius which have illustrated and enlarged its
capacities. There is in his compositions an essential pervading grace, a
natural brilliancy of wit, a freedom yet refinement of sentiment, a
sparkling flow of fancy, and a power of personification, combined with
such high and careful finish, and such exquisite nicety of taste, that
the larger part of them must be pronounced models almost faultless in
the classes to which they belong. They appear to me to show a genuine
insight into the principles of art, and a fine use of its resources: and
after all that has been said and written about nature, strength, and
originality, the true secret of fame, the real magic of genius is not
force, not passion, not novelty, but art. Look all through Milton; look
at the best passages of Shakspeare; look at the monuments, "all Greek
and glorious," which have come down to us from ancient times, what
strikes us principally, and it might almost be said only, is the
wonderfully artificial character of the composition; it is the principle
of _their_ immortality, and without it no poem can be long-lived. It may
be easy to acquire popularity, and easy to display art in writing, but
he who obtains popularity by the means and employment of careful,
elaborate art, may be confident that his reputation is fixed upon a sure
basis. This--for his careless playing with the muse, by which one time
he kept the town alive, is scarcely remembered now--this, it seems to
me, Mr. Halleck has done; Mr. Halleck, Mr. Bryant, and Mr. Poe, have
done above all our authors.




THE BENEVOLENT INSTITUTIONS OF NEW-YORK.


No city in the world is more justly entitled to consideration for
active, judicious, and liberal benevolence, than New-York, though it
must be confessed that in some respects others may make a more splendid
display of the machinery of philanthropy, and even seem in the
subscriptions made every year to particular charities to be more
liberal. This is easily explained, by the fact that, while the people of
New-York are behind none in thrift and virtue, the great commercial
capital has nevertheless more than twice as much pauperism and crime,
from emigration and importation, as any other city in the world.
Foreigners who come here of their own will, foreigners who pay their own
passages to our country, are always welcome; but those who are banished
from their native places for crime, or deported for idleness,
imbecility, or any cause that renders them a burthen to the public,
should be shut out from our ports by some more efficient means than have
yet been devised for the purpose. This class alone demands of the
organized and individual benevolence of New-York a larger amount of
money every year than is paid for the relief of human wretchedness in
any other city.

The benevolent institutions of New-York are remarkable for their number,
so that in no department does an establishment indicate the attention
given to the particular necessities to which it is devoted; and not only
do the Quakers and the Jews, as in other places, take care of their own
poor, but almost every church, no matter of what denomination, is here a
well organized society for the relief of the unfortunate among its
members, and to a degree, within the sphere of its influence. Where
wealth has been acquired by its possessor, there is apt to be a generous
consideration for the less fortunate, and no city had ever so many of
the philanthropic merchants, of whom the late Samuel Ward was a type,
who are as judicious as they are liberal in shielding the oppressed,
strengthening the weak, and guiding the unwary, in pointing out ways and
furnishing means to the young who seem born to the inheritance of
degradation, and in saving others from sufferings caused by improvidence
or inevitable misfortune.

We propose no account of the humane societies of New-York, but only a
brief mention of some few of those whose edifices are most likely to
arrest the attention of strangers, as from several directions they
approach the city.

The Institution for the Blind is in the square bounded by Eighth and
Ninth Avenues and by Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth Streets, and is
built of marble. The society was founded by Mr. Samuel Wood, aided
largely by Dr. Samuel Ackerley, and was incorporated in 1831. In the
spring of the following year the managers reported that they had made
arrangements for instructing two or three blind children, "by way of
experiment," and from that period the increase of its action and
resources has been constant. Pupils are received for one hundred and
thirty dollars a year, and the State has made provision for the
maintenance at the institution of one hundred and twenty-eight indigent
blind persons, so that it is always nearly full. The system of
instruction includes the common English studies, with philosophy and the
higher mathematics, mechanics, vocal and instrumental music, and, when
desired, such trades as the blind can advantageously practise. The
library contains more than seven hundred volumes in raised letters,
besides a considerable collection printed in ink. The occasional
exhibitions of the pupils have excited much attention, and the
institution may be regarded as altogether one of the most successful of
its kind in the world.

[Illustration: THE INSTITUTION FOR THE BLIND.]

In 1797 the celebrated Isabella Graham founded the Society for the
Relief of Poor Widows with Small Children, and in the spring of 1806,
Mrs. Alexander Hamilton, the widow of the great statesman, and Mrs.
Bethune, a daughter of Mrs. Graham and the mother of the Rev. Dr.
Bethune, with several associates, established, as a branch of that
institution, the Orphan Asylum of the City of New-York, which was
incorporated in 1807. Its first edifice was in Bank-street, but the
enlargement of its activity and resources in 1836 led to the purchase of
the ample and beautiful grounds near Eightieth-street, five miles from
the City Hall, from which the edifice described in the engraving looks
down on the Hudson, and forms one of the most picturesque views which
greet the traveller who approaches the city by the river from the north.
The eminent women whom we have mentioned continue, after nearly half a
century, to be active in its management.

[Illustration: THE ORPHAN ASYLUM.]

There is also a Protestant Half-Orphan Asylum in Sixth Avenue, a Roman
Catholic Orphan Asylum, conducted by Sisters of Charity, in Mott-street,
a Roman Catholic Half-Orphan Asylum in Eleventh-street, a very large
Colored Orphan Asylum in Twelfth-street, and several other
establishments of the same description, supported by public or private
charity, in different parts of the city. New-York is second only to
Philadelphia in the liberality of its provision for orphan children: the
college founded by Stephen Girard places the latter city in this respect
before any other in the world.

[Illustration: NEW-YORK INSTITUTION FOR THE DEAF AND DUMB.]

The Institution for the Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb was
incorporated in 1817, the first pupils were received in the following
year, and in 1827 the foundation was laid for the edifice now occupied
by the institution in Fiftieth street, near Fourth Avenue. Since 1831,
the President, Harvey P. Peet, LL.D. has had the chief direction of its
affairs, and its income, the number of its inmates, and its good
reputation, have rapidly increased.

The New-York Hospital in Broadway, the Bloomingdale Asylum for the
Insane, the Marine Hospital, the Seamen's Retreat, the Sailors' Snug
Harbor, and the numerous establishments (several of which have large and
splendid edifices) under the control of the municipal authorities, we
may describe at length hereafter. The illustrations of this article
evince the liberal style as well as the extent of the institutions which
the position of New-York has rendered it necessary for her citizens to
establish and support.

[Illustration: LUNATIC ASYLUM, BLACKWELL'S ISLAND.]




ADVENTURES AND OBSERVATIONS IN NICARAGUA.


We have already announced in these pages that Mr. SQUIER, who was lately
representative of the United States in Nicaragua, had in preparation for
the press an account of his residence in that interesting country, and
expressed an opinion that his work would surpass in interest and value
the entire library of English and French publications on the subject. An
examination of some of the sheets justifies our expectations; Mr. Squier
must hereafter be ranked among the most successful travel-writers as
well as antiquaries of the time; he knows what to observe and how to
observe, and his relations with the Nicaraguans were such that no
traveller had ever better opportunities for the acquisition of facts or
the formation of judgments. His work will soon be published in a
profusely illustrated octavo by Mr. Putnam. A pleasant specimen of the
author's style is afforded by the following sketch of an evening ride on
the banks of the lake of Granada, and of the signoras of that
metropolis.

"After a pleasant interview of half an hour we bade Don Jose "_buena
tarde_," and galloped down to the shores of the lake, just as the sun
was setting, throwing the whole beach in the shade, while the fairy
"Corales" were swimming in the evening light. The shore was ten-fold
more animated than when we landed the day previously; men on horseback,
women on foot, sailors, fishermen, idlers, children, and a swarm of
water-carriers, mingling together, gave life to the scene; while boats
and graceful canoes drawn up on the beach, barges rocking at their
anchors outside, the grim old fort frowning above, and the green border
of trees, with bars of sunlight streaming between them, all contributed
to heighten and give effect to the picture. We rode up the glacis of the
old castle, through its broken archway, into its elevated area, and
looked out beyond the broad and beautiful lake, upon the distant shores
of Chontales, with its earthquake-river, hills, and rugged volcanic
craters. Their rough features were brought out sharply and distinctly in
the slanting light which gilded the western slope of the gigantic
volcano of Momobacho, while its eastern declivity slept in purple
shadow. We were absorbed in contemplating, one by one, these varied
beauties, when the bells of the city struck the hour of the "oracion."
In an instant every voice was hushed, the horseman reined in his steed,
the rope dropped from the hands of the sailor, the sentinel on the fort
stopped short in his round; even the water-jar was left half filled,
every head was uncovered, and every lip moved in prayer. The merry waves
seemed to break more gently on the shore in harmony with the vibrations
of the distant bells, while the subdued hum of reverential voices filled
the pauses between. There was something almost magical in this sudden
hush of the multitude, and its apparent entire absorption in its
devotions, which could not fail deeply to impress the stranger
witnessing it for the first time.

"No sooner, however, had the bells ceased to toll and struck up the
concluding joyful chime, than the crowd on the shore resumed its life
and gayety, while we put spurs to our horses and darted through their
midst on our return to the city. The commandant and his companions would
only leave me at my door, where we were saluted by our host with, "Saved
your distance, gentlemen, dinner's ready!"

"An evening visit to the Senorita Teresa, finished our first entire day
in Granada. This young lady had been educated in the United States,
spoke English very well, and was withal a proficient in
music--accomplishments which we never before learned to estimate at
their true value. It was worth something to hear well executed passages
from familiar operas, amidst tangible and not painted orange trees and
palms, and in an atmosphere really loaded with tropical perfumes,
instead of the odors of oil-pots and gas lights. Eight o'clock was the
signal for general withdrawal from the streets, for then commenced the
reign of the military police, and the city became at once still and
quiet. The occasional barking of a dog, the tinkling of a distant
guitar, the soughing of the evening wind amongst the trees of the
courtyard, the measured tread and graduated "alertas!" of the sentinels,
were the only interruptions to the almost sepulchral silence. While
returning to our quarters we were startled by the "Quien vive?" of the
sentinel, uttered in a tone absolutely ferocious, and as these fellows
rarely parleyed long, we answered with all expedition, "La Patria,"
which was followed on the instant by "Que gente?" "Americanos del
Norte." This was enough--these we found were magic words which opened
every heart and every door in all Nicaragua. They never failed us. We
felt proud to know that no such charm was attached to "Ingleses,"
"Alemanes", or "Franceses."

"The day following, in accordance with the "costumbres del pais," the
customs of the country, we returned the visits of the preceding day, and
began to see more of the domestic and social life of the citizens of
Granada. We found all of the residences comfortable, and many elegant,
governed by mistresses simple, but graceful and confiding in their
manners. They were frank in their conversation and inquired with the
utmost _naivete_ whether I was married or intended to be, and if the
ladies of El Norte would probably visit Granada, when the "Vapores
grandes," the great steamers came to run to San Juan, and the
"Vaporcitas" steameretts, to ply on the lake and river. They had heard
of a Mr. Estevens (their nearest approach to Stephens), who had written
a book about their "pobre pais," their poor country, and were anxious to
know what he had said of them, and whether our people really regarded
them as "esclavos y brutes sin verguenza," slaves and brutes without
shame, as the abominable English (los malditos Ingleses) had represented
them. They were also very anxious to know whether the party of
Californians which had passed through, were "gente commun," common
people, or "caballeros," gentlemen, upon which point, however, we were
diplomatically evasive, for there was more in the inquiry than we chose
to notice. Our lady had heard that I was a great antiquarian, and,
anticipatory to my visit, had got together a most incongruous collection
of curiosities, from "vasos antiguos," fragments of pottery, and stone
hatchets, down to an extraordinary pair of horn spectacles and a
preposterously distorted hog's hoof,--all of which she insisted on
sending to my quarters, which she did, with some rare birds, and a
plate of dulces! At every house we found a table spread with wines and
sweetmeats, and bearing a silver brazier filled with burning coals, for
the greater convenience of lighting cigars. I excited much surprise by
declining to smoke, on the ground that I had never done so; but the
ladies insisted on my taking a "cigarita," which they said wouldn't
injure a new-born babe, and paid me the compliment of lighting it with
their own fair lips, after which it would have been rank treason to
etiquette, and would have ruined my reputation for gallantry, had I
refused. I at first endeavored to shirk the responsibility of smoking by
thrusting them into my vest pocket, but found that as soon as one
disappeared, another was presented, so I was obliged "to face the music"
in the end. In every sala we found a large hammock suspended from the
walls, which was invariably tendered to the visitor, even when there
were easy chairs and sofas in the room. This is the seat of honor.

[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF THE UNITED STATES CHARGE D'AFFAIRES, SAN
JUAN DE NICARAGUA.]

"The women of pure Spanish stock are very fair, and have the
_embonpoint_ which characterizes the sex under the tropics. Their dress,
except in a few instances where the stiff costume of our own country had
been adopted, was exceedingly loose and flowing, leaving the neck and
arms exposed. The entire dress was often pure white, but generally the
skirt, or _nagua_, was of some flowered stuff, in which case the
_guipil_ (_anglice_ vandyke) was white, heavily trimmed with lace. Satin
slippers, a red or purple sash wound loosely round the waist, and a
rosary sustaining a little golden cross, with a narrow golden band, or a
string of pearls extending around the forehead and binding the hair,
which often fell in luxuriant waves upon their shoulders, completed a
costume as novel as it was graceful and picturesque. To all this add the
superior attractions of an oval face, regular features, large and
lustrous black eyes, small mouth, pearly white teeth, and tiny hands and
feet, and withal a low but clear voice, and the reader has a picture of
a Central American lady of pure stock. A large number of the women have,
however, an infusion of other families and races, from the Saracen to
the Indian and the Negro, in every degree of intermixture. And as tastes
differ, so may opinions as to whether the tinge of brown, through which
the blood glows with a peach-like bloom, in the complexion of the girl
who may trace her lineage to the Caziques upon one side, and the haughty
grandees of Andalusia and Seville on the other, superadded, as it
usually is, to a greater lightness of figure and animation of
face,--whether this is not a more real beauty than that of the fair and
more languid Senora, whose white and almost transparent skin bespeaks a
purer ancestry. Nor is the Indian girl, with her full, lithe figure,
long, glossy hair, quick and mischievous eyes, who walks erect as a
grenadier beneath her heavy water-jar, and salutes you in a musical,
impudent voice, as you pass--nor is the Indian girl to be overlooked in
the novel contrasts which the "bello sexo" affords in this glorious land
of the sun."

Some of the pleasantest incidents related in the book are those which
befell the author in his dealings with the Indians, in prosecuting his
archaeological investigations. These Indians are all passionate admirers
of the United States, and of the "hijos de Washington"--the sons of
Washington. Mr. Squier was waited upon officially by the authorities of
several of the Indian pueblos or towns, and among them by the
municipality of the Indian pueblo of Subtiaba, headed by a great friend
of our author, Don Simon Roque, first alcalde, who presented him with an
address in the aboriginal language, of which the following is a literal
translation:

     "SIR: The municipality of the Pueblo of Subtiaba, of which
     we are members, entertain the highest enthusiasm in view of
     the relations which your arrival induces us to believe will
     speedily be established between Nicaragua and the United
     States, the greatest and most glorious republic beneath the
     sun. We rejoice in the depths of our hearts that a man like
     yourself has been chosen to convey to us the assurances of
     future prosperity, in the name of the sons of Washington;
     and we trust in the Almighty, that the flag of the United
     States may soon become the shield of Nicaragua on land and
     sea. Convey our sincerest thanks for their sympathy to the
     great people which you represent, and give to your generous
     government the assurances of that deep gratitude which we
     feel but cannot express. We beg of you, sir, to accept this
     humble evidence of the cordial sentiments which we entertain
     both for you, your countrymen, and your Government, and
     which are equally shared by the people which we represent

                 JOSE DE LA CRUZ GARCIAS,
    (Signed)     SIMON ROQUE,
                 FRANCISCO LUIS AUTAN."

Our author returned the visit, and gives us the following account of his
reception:

     "The reader may be assured that I did not forget my promise
     to the municipality of Subtiaba. A day was shortly
     afterwards fixed for my visit, and I was received with great
     ceremony at the cabildo or council chamber, where I found
     collected all the old men who could assist me in forming a
     vocabulary of the ancient language, which I had casually
     expressed a desire to procure. It was with difficulty that
     we could effect an entrance, for a half-holiday had been
     given to the boys of all the schools, in honor of the
     occasion, and they literally swarmed around the building. We
     were finally ushered into an inner room, where the archives
     of the municipality were preserved. Upon one side was a
     large chest of heavy wood, with massive locks, which had
     anciently been the strong box or treasury. A shadow fell
     over Simon's animated face as he pointed it out to me, and
     said that he could remember the time when it was filled with
     "duros," hard dollars, and when, at a single stroke of the
     alarm bell, two thousand armed men could be gathered in the
     plaza of Subtiaba. But those days were passed, and the
     municipality now scarcely retained a shadow of its former
     greatness. Under the crown it had earned the title 'leal y
     fiel' (loyal and true), and in reward of its fidelity it had
     received a grant of all the lands intervening between it and
     the ocean, to hold them in perpetuity for the benefit of its
     citizens. And Simon showed me the royal letters, signed "Yo,
     el Rey" (I, the King), which the imperial emperor had
     thought it not derogatory to their dignity to address to his
     predecessors in office, and notwithstanding his ardent
     republicanism, I thought Simon looked at them with something
     of regret. I inquired for manuscripts which might throw some
     light upon the early history of the country, but found only
     musty records of no interest or value.

[Illustration: INDIAN HOUSE, SUBTIABA, NICARAGUA.]

     "My attempts to fill out the blank vocabulary with which I
     was provided created a great deal of merriment. I enjoyed it
     quite as much as any of them, for nothing could be more
     amusing than the discussions between the old men in respect
     to certain doubtful words and phrases. They sometimes quite
     forgot my presence, and rated each other soundly as
     ignoramuses, whereat Simon was greatly scandalized, and
     threatened to put them all in the stocks as "hombres sin
     verguenza" (men destitute of shame). 'Ah!' said he, 'these
     old sinners give me more trouble than the young ones'--a
     remark which created great mirth amongst the outsiders, and
     especially amongst the young vagabonds who clung like
     monkeys to the window bars. The group of swarthy, earnest
     faces, gathered round the little table, upon which was
     heaped a confused mass of ancient, time-stained papers,
     would have furnished a study for a painter. It was quite
     dark when I had concluded my inquiries, but I was not
     permitted to leave without listening to a little poem, 'Una
     Decima,' written by one of the school-masters, who read it
     to me by the light of a huge wax candle, borrowed, I am
     sure, from the church for the occasion. My modesty forbids
     my attempting a translation, and so I compromise matters by
     submitting the original:


              DECIMA.

         Nicaragua, ve harta cuando
         Cesara vuestro desvelo,
         Ya levantara el vuelo
         Hermoso, alegre, y triunfante;
         Al mismo tiempo mirando
         De este personage el porte,
         Y mas sera cuando corte
         Todos los gradeciamentos:
         Diremos todos contentos
         Viva el Gobierno del Norte.

                            D. S.

"As I mounted my horse, Don Simon led off with three cheers for 'El
Ministro del Norte,' and followed it with three more for 'El Amigo de
los Indios' (the friend of the Indians), all of which was afterwards
paraded by a dingy little Anglo-servile paper published in Costa Rica,
as evidence that I was tampering with the Indians, and exciting them to
undertake the utter destruction of the white population!"




THE CONSPIRACY OF PONTIAC.


_A History of the Conspiracy of Pontiac and the Wars of the North
American Tribes against the English Colonies after the Conquest of
Canada_, is the title of a new work to be published during the summer by
Francis Parkman, Jr. of Boston. Mr. Parkman, in introducing himself to
the public two or three years since, by a volume of sketches of western
travel, _The Oregon Trail_, betrayed not alone his strong natural fancy
for the wild life of the Indian, but a sensitive and sagacious eye for
character and scenery, and a style of nervous simplicity which in the
present undertaking have more perfect play in a much wider and worthier
sphere. The narrative proceeds clearly, and with simple grace. Many
figures, familiar by name, but by name only, pass sharply defined before
the reader's eye. The author has not lost in the lore of the historian
the feeling of the poet, but he does not compromise the dignity of
history, nor mistake its purpose, by indulging too much in luxuriance of
picturesque description. We congratulate Mr. Parkman that his tastes
have led him to the exploration of a subject in which we are all so
interested, a subject whose historical romance has never been before
attempted. The consultation of all the authorities, personal
observation, and the want of any unfair gilding of events or character,
fix the reader's faith in the severe integrity and justice of the
author's results. This history will materially mitigate the complaint
that American literature has so little honored the singular charm of the
aboriginal American race, and we cannot hesitate to predict for it a
position of authority to the student and of honor to the author, which
the works of few men so young in the literary career have attained.
Little estimate of its value, or of the value of any history, can be
formed from extracts, but the following will indicate the freshness and
poetic simplicity of the style, the author's exact eye for
characteristic life and scenery, and just appreciation of historical
truth and character.

Here is a glance at the life of the Iroquois:

     "The life of the Iroquois, though void of those multiplying
     phases which vary the routine of civilized existence, was
     one of sharp excitement and sudden contrast. The chase, the
     war-path, the dance, the festival, the game of hazard, the
     race of political ambition, all had their votaries. When the
     assembled sachems had resolved on war against some foreign
     tribe, and when, from their great council-house of bark, in
     the Valley of Onondaga, their messengers had gone forth to
     invite the warriors to arms, then from east to west, through
     the farthest bounds of the confederacy, a thousand warlike
     hearts caught up the summons with glad alacrity. With
     fasting and praying, and consulting dreams and omens, with
     invoking the war-god, and dancing the frantic war-dance, the
     warriors sought to insure the triumph of their arms; and,
     these strange rites concluded, they began their stealthy
     progress, full of confidence, through the devious pathways
     of the forest. For days and weeks, in anxious expectation,
     the villagers await the result. And now, as evening closes,
     a shrill wild cry, pealing from afar, over the darkening
     forest, proclaims the return of the victorious warriors. The
     village is alive with sudden commotion; and snatching sticks
     and stones, knives and hatchets, men, women, and children,
     yelling like fiends let loose, swarm out of the narrow
     portal, to visit upon the miserable captives a foretaste of
     the deadlier torments in store for them. And now, the black
     arches of the forest glow with the fires of death; and with
     brandished torch and firebrand the frenzied multitude close
     around their victim. The pen shrinks to write, the heart
     sickens to conceive, the fierceness of his agony; yet still,
     amid the din of his tormentors, rises his clear voice of
     scorn and defiance. The work is done; the blackened trunk is
     flung to the dogs, and, with clamorous shouts and hootings,
     the murderers seek to drive away the spirit of their victim.

     "The Iroquois reckoned these barbarities among their most
     exquisite enjoyments; and yet they had other sources of
     pleasure, which made up in frequency and in innocence all
     that they lacked in intensity. Each passing season had its
     feasts and dances, often mingling religion with social
     pastime. The young had their frolics and merry-makings; and
     the old had their no less frequent councils, where
     conversation and laughter alternated with grave
     deliberations for the public weal. There were also stated
     periods marked by the recurrence of momentous ceremonies, in
     which the whole community took part--the mystic sacrifice of
     the dogs, the wild orgies of the dream feast, and the
     loathsome festival of the exhumation of the dead. Yet, in
     the intervals of war and hunting, these multiform
     occupations would often fail; and, while the women were
     toiling in the cornfields, the lazy warriors vainly sought
     relief from the scanty resources of their own minds, and
     beguiled the hours with smoking or sleeping, with gambling
     or gallantry."

A glimpse of Indian winter life:

     "But when winter descends upon the north, sealing up the
     fountains, fettering the streams, and turning the
     green-robed forests to shivering nakedness, then, bearing
     their frail dwellings on their backs, the Ojibwa family
     wander forth into the wilderness, cheered only, on their
     dreary track, by the whistling of the north wind, and the
     hungry howl of wolves. By the banks of some frozen stream,
     women and children, men and dogs, lie crouched together
     around the fire. They spread their benumbed fingers over the
     embers, while the wind shrieks through the fir-trees like
     the gale through the rigging of a frigate, and the narrow
     concave of the wigwam sparkles with the frostwork of their
     congealed breath. In vain they beat the magic drum, and call
     upon their guardian manitoes;--the wary moose keeps aloof,
     the bear lies close in his hollow tree, and famine stares
     them in the face. And now the hunter can fight no more
     against the nipping cold and blinding sleet. Stiff and
     stark, with haggard cheek and shrivelled lip, he lies among
     the snow drifts; till, with tooth and claw, the famished
     wildcat strives in vain to pierce the frigid marble of his
     limbs. Such grim schooling is thrown away on the
     incorrigible mind of the northern Algonquin. He lives in
     misery, as his fathers lived before him. Still, in the brief
     hour of plenty he forgets the season of want; and still the
     sleet and the snow descend upon his houseless head."

Here another leaf from Penn's laurels:

     "It required no great benevolence to urge the Quakers to
     deal kindly with their savage neighbors. They were bound in
     common sense to propitiate them; since, by incurring their
     resentment, they would involve themselves in the dilemma of
     submitting their necks to the tomahawk, or wielding the
     carnal weapon, in glaring defiance of their pacific
     principles. In paying the Indians for the lands which his
     colonists occupied,--a piece of justice which has been
     greeted with a general clamor of applause,--Penn, as he
     himself confesses, acted on the prudent counsel of Compton,
     Bishop of London. Nor is there any truth in the
     representations of Raynal and other eulogists of the Quaker
     legislator, who hold him up to the world as the only
     European who ever acquired the Indian lands by purchase,
     instead of seizing them by fraud or violence. The example of
     purchase had been set fifty years before by the Puritans of
     New England; and several of the other colonies had more
     recently pursued the same just and prudent course."

The deaths of Wolfe and Montcalm:

     "In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of
     the grenadiers of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist;
     but he wrapped his handkerchief about the wound, and showed
     no sign of pain. A moment more, and a ball pierced his side.
     Still he pressed forward, waving his sword, and cheering his
     soldiers to the attack, when a third shot lodged deep within
     his breast. He paused, reeled, and, staggering to one side,
     fell to the earth. Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers,
     Henderson, a volunteer, an officer of artillery, and a
     private soldier raised him together in their arms, and,
     bearing him to the rear, laid him softly on the grass. They
     asked if he would have a surgeon; but he shook his head, and
     answered that all was over with him. His eyes closed with
     the torpor of approaching death, and those around sustained
     his fainting form. Yet they could not withhold their gaze
     from the wild turmoil before them, and the charging ranks of
     their companions rushing through fire and smoke." "See how
     they run," one of the officers exclaimed, as the French fled
     in confusion before the levelled bayonets. "Who run?"
     demanded Wolfe, opening his eyes like a man aroused from
     sleep. "The enemy, sir," was the reply; "they give way every
     where." "Then," said the dying general, "tell Colonel Burton
     to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River, to cut off
     their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised, I will
     die in peace," he murmured; and, turning on his side, he
     calmly breathed his last!

     "Almost at the same moment fell his great adversary,
     Montcalm, as he strove, with useless bravery, to rally his
     shattered ranks. Struck down with a mortal wound, he was
     placed upon a litter and borne to the General Hospital on
     the banks of the St. Charles. The surgeons told him that he
     could not recover. "I am glad of it," was his calm reply. He
     then asked how long he might survive, and was told that he
     had not many hours remaining. "So much the better," he said;
     "I am happy that I shall not live to see the surrender of
     Quebec." Officers from the garrison came to his bedside to
     ask his orders and instructions. "I will give no more
     orders," replied the defeated soldier; "I have much business
     that must be attended to, of greater moment than your ruined
     garrison and this wretched country. My time is very short;
     therefore, pray leave me." The officers withdrew, and none
     remained in the chamber but his confessor and the Bishop of
     Quebec. To the last, he expressed his contempt for his own
     mutinous and half-famished troops, and his admiration for
     the disciplined valor of his opponents. He died before
     midnight, and was buried at his own desire in a cavity of
     the earth formed by the bursting of a bombshell."

We conclude with a sketch of Pontiac:

     "Pontiac, as already mentioned, was principal chief of the
     Ottawas. The Ottawas, Ojibwas, and Pottawattamies, had long
     been united in a loose kind of confederacy, of which he was
     the virtual head. Over those around him his authority was
     almost despotic, and his power extended far beyond the
     limits of the three united tribes. His influence was great
     among all the nations of the Illinois country; while, from
     the sources of the Ohio to those of the Mississippi, and,
     indeed, to the farthest boundaries of the wide-spread
     Algonquin race, his name was known and respected. The fact
     that Pontiac was born the son of a chief would in no degree
     account for the extent of his power; for, among Indians,
     many a chief's son sinks back into insignificance, while the
     offspring of a common warrior may succeed to his place.
     Among all the wild tribes of the continent, personal merit
     is indispensable to gaining or preserving dignity. Courage,
     resolution, wisdom, address and eloquence, are sure
     passports to distinction. With all these Pontiac was
     preeminently endowed, and it was chiefly to them, urged to
     their highest activity by a vehement ambition, that he owed
     his greatness. His intellect was strong and capacious. He
     possessed commanding energy and force of mind, and in
     subtlety and craft could match the best of his wily race.
     But, though capable of acts of lofty magnanimity, he was a
     thorough savage, with a wider range of intellect than those
     around him, but sharing all their passions and prejudices,
     their fierceness and treachery."




DR. STARBUCK MAYO, AUTHOR OF "KALOOLAH," "THE BERBER," &c.

[Illustration]


If there is any satisfaction derivable from a long and clear lineage,
the author of _Kaloolah_ ought to be a very happy man. Seven successive
generations of reputable ancestry connect him with the Rev. John Mayo, a
divine of distinguished piety and learning who in the year 1630 came to
this country, and after settling in the town of Barnstable, transferred
his residence to Boston, and became the first pastor of the South
Church. The English pedigree of this John Mayo is one of the oldest
among the gentry of Great Britain. On his mother's side Dr. Mayo also
traces his descent for several ages through the Starbucks, one of the
primitive families of that most primitive of all places, the island of
Nantucket.

The parents of Dr. Mayo removed to the village of Ogdensburg on the St.
Lawrence under the circumstances very similar to those described in
Kaloolah, and he was there born in the year 1812. His early intellectual
training was under the pedagogueism of the Rev. Josiah Perry, one of the
few men formed by nature for school-masters, who has left as marked a
memory in a smaller sphere as did ever Parr or Burke in theirs. Never
was instruction better given in all the elements of a thorough English
education than for many years in his well-known school, which has
produced several of the most distinguished men of the present time. From
this the subject of our memoir was transferred, at the age of eleven or
twelve, for the purpose of pursuing classical studies, to the academy at
Potsdam, which enjoyed for a number of years the superintendence in the
office of its principals of a succession of very eminent men, among them
the present Rt. Rev. Bishop of North Carolina. His successor, under whom
Dr. Mayo's pupilage occurred, was the Rev. Mr. Banks, a Presbyterian
divine from New England, of learning, taste, and refinement, such as
were rarely met with even in that day among men of his class.

The description of the early life of Jonathan Romer is in the main the
history of the author himself. At the age of seventeen he commenced the
study of medicine, which he pursued with ardor and success. In 1832,
having attended for three years the lectures of the College of
Physicians and Surgeons in this city, he underwent his examination for a
degree, but did not receive a diploma till the ensuing term, not having
attained the legal age of twenty-one. After spending several years in
the city hospitals and in private practice, he abandoned brilliant
professional prospects to go abroad, partly for the benefit of his
health and partly urged by the spirit of adventure, which had long led
him to form plans for the exploration of Central Africa. Perhaps it is
to be regretted that he was prevented by the infirmity of
short-sightedness from emulating the achievements of Park, Clapperton
and Ledyard, for which his moral and physical constitution eminently
fitted him. He travelled extensively in Spain and Barbary however, and
we have the results in Kaloolah and in The Berber.

Anonymously, in various magazines, Dr. Mayo had written much and well,
but he was scarcely known as an author until the appearance of the work
upon which his fame still chiefly rests, _Kaloolah, or Journeyings to
the Djebel Kumri_, in the spring of 1849. It has frequently been said
that Kaloolah was suggested by the popular works of Herman Melville, but
it was written and nearly printed before the appearance of Typee, the
first of Mr. Melville's productions; and we see no reason for another
opinion, that it was an offspring of the author's love for Defoe; if it
was not an altogether spontaneous and independent work, its parentage
was probably less famous; we know of no composition so nearly resembling
Kaloolah as the pretended _Narrative of Robert Adams, an American sailor
who was wrecked on the Western Coast of Africa, in the year 1810,
detained three years in slavery by the Arabs, and afterward several
months a resident in the city of Timbuctoo_. This was a piece of pure
fiction, though brought out in London in a splendid quarto under the
endorsement of the Lord Chancellor, the President of the Royal Society,
and many other eminent persons in literature, science, and affairs, and
elaborately and credulously reviewed in the Edinburgh, the Quarterly,
and other Reviews. The hero of this performance, after various
adventures, was married to a dusky princess in the _terra incognita_,
and made almost as many marvellous discoveries as are recorded by
Jonathan Romer. Another and a very different writer, who selected
central Africa to be the field of somewhat similar inventions, was the
learned and ingenious Richard Adams Locke, whose astonishing history of
revelations in the moon was not more creditable to his abilities than
his singularly recovered MSS. of a lost traveller by the borders of the
Niger and in middle Africa, published in the _New Era_ journal in this
city about the year 1838. But we do not suppose Dr. Mayo was indebted to
either of these works for the idea of his story. And just as erroneous
as the charge of plagiarism, and much more absurd, is the notion that he
designed Kaloolah as a "satirical criticism on life and manners in
New-York." A writer in the _North British Review_ declares that he
"could not help laughing aloud," though seated quietly by himself, at
the "description of a musical entertainment of the court of the hero's
royal father-in-law, heaven knows where in Africa, and intended as a
burlesque on the sheer noise which is the predominant element" in all
our orchestras. We assure the shrewd critic most positively that the
author never dreamed of such a thing. Kaloolah is too well known to need
much description; its success was certain and immediate, and not many
original works have ever been published in this country which have had a
larger circulation. It evinces remarkable fertility of invention, is
exceedingly interesting, and abounds in clearly defined, spirited, and
occasionally well finished portraitures. Kaloolah, the heroine, is a
fresh and beautiful creation, worthy of any of the masters of fiction.
The hero, Romer, is designed merely as a type of the determined Yankee
adventurer, drawn with only the exaggeration demanded in works of art;
and half the seeming of extravagance in the narrative and the sketches
of nature would have disappeared if the author had not, to reduce his
volume to the size deemed by his publisher most promising of profit,
omitted all his numerous and curious notes.

Kaloolah was followed in 1850 by _The Berber, or the Mountaineer of the
Atlas_, a story of Spain and Morocco, about the close of the seventeenth
century. As a novel it is decidedly better than Kaloolah; it displays
greater skill in narration, and is written in the same pure, distinct
and nervous English. Dr. Mayo thoroughly understood from observation as
well as study all the accessories of his subject, and we are mistaken if
any recent book on northern Africa gives a more clear, spirited or just
impression of its scenery or of the character and manners of its people.
The hero is of the highest style of the half-barbarian chiefs of the
country and time; born a Christian, educated a Mohamedan, and ambitious
to free his tribe from the domination of the Moors, and to found a new
empire, with a higher civilization than was ever known to the race he
leads; and other characters have enough adventures, dimly sketched, to
fill the circles of a dozen tragedies if brought more near the eye. The
faults of the book are, an excess of incident, discursiveness preventing
proper unity and proportion, and a confessed failure of the story to
evolve all the intended moralities, which the author therefore in some
cases brings forward in his own person.

The last volume we have had from the hand of Dr. Mayo is, _Romance Dust
from the Historic Placer_, a collection of shorter stories chiefly
founded on historical incidents. In these he exhibits the fresh feeling,
occasionally the humor, and always the bold drawing and effective
coloring which distinguish his more ambitious performances. The volume
contains also a poem, but not one of such striking qualities as to
induce regret that the author has commonly chosen to write in prose. The
style of his novels, especially in the narrative parts, is uncommonly
good, but with its many excellencies it does not seem to us that it
possesses a poetical element.

Dr. Mayo has commenced a brilliant course, in which we trust we shall
have occasions to record still greater triumphs than those by which he
has won a place in the first rank of the young writers of English.

The portrait at the beginning of this article is very truthful; it is
from a recent daguerreotype by Brady.

[Illustration: THE CRYSTAL PALACE.]




_Original Correspondence._

     LONDON, _May 23, 1851._

     Historical Sketch--Why England was the most appropriate
     location for Exhibition--First impressions--Contrast between
     barbaric and civilized industry--Use and beauty--Moral and
     social influences.


The Great Exhibition constitutes the one absorbing topic in which, for
the time being, all other topics are merged. Go where you will, nothing
else is thought of, talked of, or heard of, from one end of London to
the other--this magnificent display of the achievements of art and
industry forms the sole theme of conversation, calling forth the most
animated descriptions, the most energetic discussions, the warmest and
most enthusiastic praise. Nor is this interest confined to London alone;
the whole kingdom shares in the excitement, and seems to be only waiting
for warmer weather, and the approaching reduction of the entrance fee,
to march upon the metropolis, and satiate its curiosity within the walls
of the Crystal Palace. As the season advances, and the brilliant success
of the enterprise becomes known, foreign nations, who have contributed
so largely to the splendor of the show, will send over hosts of friendly
visitants; and the World's Fair, so veritably cosmopolitan in design and
execution, will become equally so in its social character and results.

As the activity of the present age developes itself mainly through
productive and commercial industry, this collection of the choicest
industrial products of all the nations of the globe, is not only in
perfect accordance with the spirit of the epoch, but seems indeed to
belong so properly to the present day, that it may be doubted whether
such an event could have taken place at any earlier period: while the
political and social conditions of Great Britain, her friendly relations
with all other powers, together with the perfect security for property,
the commercial freedom, and facilities of transport, which are here
enjoyed in a pre-eminent degree, combine to indicate this country as the
most appropriate arena for this first pacific contest of the nations;
the only one, perhaps, in the actual state of Europe, in which it could
have taken place at this time.

The traditions of the English people, also, are such as would naturally
suggest to them the idea of an enterprise of this kind; for not only
have Fairs (which may be regarded as a rude attempt at a more general
exhibition of wares than that afforded by the mere ordinary display of
shops) been common here, as elsewhere in Europe, for many centuries, but
exhibitions more nearly resembling the present Institution, in which the
palm of excellence, rather than direct commerce, is the primary object,
have taken place here frequently during the past century, through the
enterprise of individuals, or societies, independently of any assistance
from the Government. As early as the year 1756, the "Society of Arts" of
London offered prizes for the best specimens of various manufactures,
tapestry, carpets, porcelain, &c., and held public exhibitions of the
works which were offered in competition; while about the same period,
the Royal Academy, as a private society, patronized by George the Third,
rather in a personal capacity than as the head of the legislature,
organized its exhibitions of painting, sculpture, and engraving; and
during the last thirty years exhibitions of machinery and manufactures,
gotten up entirely through the efforts of private individuals, have
taken place not only in the metropolitan cities, in London, Edinburgh,
and Dublin, but in all the principal towns of the United Kingdom.

The earliest national exhibition of industrial products in France,
occurred in 1798, and was followed by others at irregular intervals
until 1819, since which period they have taken place every five years,
and have exercised a marked effect upon the industrial development of
Europe. The brilliant character of the two last of these exhibitions (in
'44 and '49), led to several ineffectual attempts on the part of the
Society of Arts, and others, to interest the British Government in the
getting up of a similar exhibition of the products of British industry,
to be held in 1851.

At length in 1849, Prince Albert, who, as President of the Society of
Arts, had known and sanctioned all these proceedings, took the project
under his own personal superintendence, enlarged upon the original
design by proposing to invite the co-operation and competition of all
foreign nations, and proceeded to settle the principles upon which the
enterprise, thus modified, should be conducted, and the mode in which
it should be carried out.

The first steps toward the realization of this new plan, were made in
the name, and under the auspices of the Society of Arts; but so
universal was the interest which this noble project called forth
throughout the country, that it was thought advisable to make it a
national concern, by taking it out of the hands of the Society, and
intrusting its execution to a body of royal commissioners, appointed for
that purpose by the Government, with Prince Albert as its President; the
Government, meantime, giving its sanction only to the undertaking, and
merely lending its aid when it was absolutely indispensable, as in
correspondence with foreign countries, providing a site for the
building, organization of police, and the cost of such assistance
whenever it entailed expense, being defrayed from the funds of the
Exhibition, thus leaving all the responsibility of the attempt,
pecuniary or other, with the commissioners themselves.

The subsequent history of the "rise and progress" of the undertaking;
the promptitude with which the requisite funds were subscribed by
private generosity; the selection of Hyde Park as the site of the
projected Industrial Palace; the various plans proposed for the
building, and the final adoption of the design of Mr. Paxton, after the
model of a conservatory by him erected for the Duke of Devonshire; the
admirable manner in which this design has been carried out by the
architects, Messrs. Fox & Henderson; the cordial response with which
England's friendly challenge has been answered by all the peoples of the
globe, from her next-door neighbors across the channel, to the far-off
denizens of Orient, and remote islands of sunny southern seas; the
imposing ceremonial which, on the appointed day, threw open the vast
Museum to the gaze of an impatient public; the crowds of titled dames
and potent seigneurs, of the "wealth, beauty and fashion" of the
aristocratic world, that fill, day after day, the immense area,
wandering from one magnificent display to another, and marvelling at the
richness, perfection, and variety of the countless objects that meet
their eyes at every turn; the probability of a somewhat formidable
thronging of less elegant, but equally interested visitors, when the
"shilling days" begin; the fabulous wealth flowing, week after week,
into the treasury of the royal commissioners at the various entrances of
the buildings; and the growing desire on the part of the public, that
the funds, thus arising from the Exhibition itself, should be
appropriated to the formation of a "Permanent Museum of the Art and
Industry of all Nations;" all this is too well known to call for further
comment.

The first impression created by the interior aspect of the Crystal
Palace, is one of admiration. Magnificent indeed is the lofty dome of
the transept, arching over glorious old trees, oriental shrubbery,
statuary, fountains, and masses of gorgeous flowers; the brilliant
perspective of the central aisle, with its double lines of galleries,
stretching away on either hand, and traversed by countless avenues,
every point of the vast expanse presenting its own special subject of
interest, and challenging the beholder's gaze. But so extensive and
various is this great collection, so striking are the contrasts of form,
color, and use, presented by the endless succession of objects that meet
the eye in every direction, that the sentiment of admiration soon gives
place to a feeling of hopeless bewilderment. A careful study of maps and
catalogues, and many visits, spent in making a general survey of the
various departments of the building, are indispensable preliminaries to
a more intimate acquaintance with the admirable objects contained in
each. But the topographic and distributive arrangements of the building
understood, the chaos of one's impressions becomes gradually into order;
and the work of examination goes on with more success.

The transept and the western wing are occupied by Great Britain and her
colonial possessions; the eastern wing is appropriated to foreign
nations, the countries lying nearest the tropics being ranged
immediately round the transept. Objects of art and artistical industry
occupy the central portions of the building; raw materials, machinery,
hardware, and carriages being placed nearest to the walls. The objects
admitted to the exhibition come under four general categories: raw
materials, machinery, manufactures, and fine arts, and are divided into
thirty classes, an arrangement which greatly facilitates the business of
investigation and comparison.

Many of the Oriental nations are very fully represented, especially
India; it would be difficult to cite any department of Indian life and
industry not illustrated in the ample collections of her natural and
manufactured products, gathered together with the utmost care. China,
Tunis, Persia, and the islands of the Indian archipelago, are also here
in great force, and make a very brilliant display. The exquisite texture
of many of their woven fabrics, the richness of color and effect, the
incredible _fineness_ and delicacy of workmanship displayed in many of
their manufactured articles, prepared with the aid only of the rudest
tools, often surpass all that the enlightened skill of European artisans
can accomplish, and may furnish western industry with many valuable
models and precious suggestions for future use. But the beauty of
eastern productions lies solely in perfection of detail; there is
nothing large, generous, or comprehensive in barbaric industry. All that
its resources can accomplish is lavished on objects of parade and
luxury, often absolutely useless, and always destined for the privileged
few; the element of ordinary existence, all that goes to make up the
daily life of the masses, is coarse and rudimentary. These shawls,
which, for fineness of texture, richness of color, and beauty of design,
leave the choicest productions of European looms at an immeasurable
distance; these muslins and gauzes, finer than gossamer, yet covered
with exquisite traceries in gold and silver thread, fabrics that seem
too etherially light to be worn by others than the ladies of Titania's
court; these silks and satins, and damasks of admirable texture, and of
richest dyes; these magnificent garments, stiff gold embroidery, with
precious stones and with tinsel whose glancing hues produce an effect
quite as brilliant as that of the jewels; how strangely they contrast,
these splendid things intended for the few, with the coarseness of the
fabrics destined for the ordinary use of the many. Compare these
magnificent housings and accoutrements, these saddles of velvet, stiff
with gold, these reins, and swords and daggers, full of pearls and
jewels, with those clumsy implements of labor, and those uncouth, heavy
utensils of domestic life. Compare the elaborate workmanship of screens,
cabinets, vases, lamps, and tables, with the primitive candles and
suspicious-looking soaps; the magnificence of carriages and palanquins,
luxuriously cushioned, and hung with velvet and gold, in which lazy,
bloated grandees are lounging, laden with jewels and finery, with the
naked, emaciated bearers, human brutes that replace beasts of burden,
and contrast, unfavorably, with average European horses!

In European industry, on the contrary, an ascentional, out-reaching
movement is every where visible. Beauty remains no longer in scornful
isolation, divorced from use, but descending into the domain of
every-day existence, incorporates her divine essence in all the forms of
common life, pervading the lowliest spheres, raising and ennobling the
humblest details, by her purifying and vivifying presence. This
tendency, visible in the industry of all European nations, is still more
clearly evident in the manufactures of France and England, whose
productions, standing at the head of all others, constitute the highest
expression of the industrial spirit of the age. Here the hardest and
heaviest materials, wood, iron, and stone, become plastic under the
workman's hand, assuming the most brilliant polish, the lightest and
most elegant forms; grates, fire-irons, and kitchen-ranges, rival, in
lustre and beauty, the attractions of diamonds, goldsmiths' work, and
flowers. The admirable construction of machinery shares in the
enthusiasm excited by the beautiful fabrics woven by their tireless
fingers; and the "Golden Marriage" of use and beauty is every where
celebrated under varying forms.

They who imagine that art has died out of the world, and sigh for the
chisel of Praxiteles, the pencil of Apelles, and the glorious
conceptions of the masters of the middles ages, would do well to visit
the Crystal Palace, and contrast the rudeness which shaped all the
elements of ordinary life in former periods, with the elegance and
beauty which the simplest objects of common use are beginning to assume.
Not, however, that the one necessarily precludes the other, or that we
are fated to produce no more fine statues and paintings, no more
monumental temples and palaces, because we now have, at lower prices
than were paid in ancient times for inferior articles, beautiful
carpets, and fabrics of silk, wool, and cotton, furniture, porcelain,
and glass, in which the thought of the artist and the craft of the
artisan are so admirably blended that they seem to be identical. Art is
not dead; it is throwing out wider and deeper roots, and will bear
richer fruits in the garden of the future, enriched by the mingled
detritus of by-gone ages, than it has ever borne in the primitive
formations of the past.

One of the most interesting features of the present exhibition, the one
which constitutes its distinguishing character, is, undoubtedly, its
universality, and the interest which it excites among all nations, and
all classes. And it was time that the results of human activity in its
various departments, should thus be gathered together from the four
corners of the globe, for the world is cut up into so many small
fractions, and each fraction lives so much within the limits of its own
narrow circle, ignoring, for the most part, all that is going on outside
of it, that it is in the highest degree desirable that people should
begin to see something of what their neighbors are doing.

It is time that nations met elsewhere than on the field of battle, and
measured their strength and dignity by some more rational standard than
the relative force of their cannon; time also that the various classes
of society, so widely separated by the artificial divisions of caste and
fortune, should look, at length, into each other's face and recognize
the band of a common nature and of common needs; that the world's, as
yet, unhonored workers, beholding the glorious fruits of their prolific
energy, should perceive the sublimity of their mission and take fresh
heart and fresh hope; that the rich should learn, from the grand results
of labor, to appreciate more justly its nobleness and worth.

That the exhibition of 1851, successful as it is evidently destined to
be, should fully realize this most desirable end, is hardly to be
expected; but that it will do much toward creating a better
understanding between classes and countries, and thus pave the way for
the bringing in of a future era of universal helpfulness and good-will,
may be very confidently predicted.

    STELLA.




FRENCH FEUILLETONISTES UPON LONDON.


The leading Parisian journals have correspondents in London during the
Great Exhibition, and as the _corps_ of Parisian feuilletonistes
comprises much of the richest and rarest talent of the great French
metropolis, there is a piquancy and brilliance in these daguerreotypes
of London life and the impressions of English character, which is very
entertaining. No traveller who remembers dining at any of the recherche
cafes upon the Boulevards with a Frenchman, and chatting with him of
England and London, can forget the cold chill that curled through the
Parisian's conversation, as if he were a Pole, gossipping of Siberia, or
the glances of intense satisfaction and pride which he cast upon the
lively and lovely groups in the street, inly thanking God that he was
not born a child of _perfide Albion_.

But these gentlemen talk not alone of the Exhibition, but of the "town"
in general. Their articles wear the air of the journals of heroic
adventurers who have penetrated into barbarous lands. They are clearly
home-sick, these sybarites. We extract the following from a translation
in the London _Literary Gazette_, prefaced with a few editorial remarks.
Speaking of the variety of their topics the reviewer says: "Thus the
great Jules Janin, in the _Journal des Debats_, notwithstanding the
interest of portions of his article, some of which have been translated
into our journals, makes the infamy of French republicans, and his own
fervent love and devotedness to the royal family of Orleans, the burden
of his lucubrations. M. Blanqui, the historian of political economy, and
translator of Adam Smith, faithful as becomes an economist to his _idee
fixe_, bewails in the _Presse_ the folly of France in rejecting the
doctrines of free trade, and clamors loudly for an immediate reform of
French tariffs. M. Jules de Premary fills column after column in the
_Patrie_ with descriptions of English manners, customs, and
peculiarities; and yet he admits that he knows nothing of our language,
and has only resided amongst us for a few days. Parisian _litterateurs_
pride themselves on being men of imagination, poets, _penseurs
fantasistes_; and it is clear that it would be as reasonable to chain an
eagle to a dog-cart, as to expect _them_ to deal with a plain,
practical, matter-of-fact thing in the methodical business-like way of
the English journalist. Of these, the lines of Miss Fanny Fudge are
strikingly true:

                          "Vain, critics, vain
    All your efforts to saddle wit's fire with a chain!!
    To blot out the splendor of fancy's young stream,
    Or crop in its cradle the newly-fledged beam!!!"

But though our worthy _confreres_ of the Parisian press have thus let
their wits go a wool-gathering, and left the poor Exhibition in the
lurch, it is but just to state that one and all display on the whole a
most friendly feeling towards the English; and even in quizzing us, as
most of them do, display great good nature. They feel, perhaps, a little
sore at having been outstripped by us in the establishment of the first
great Universal Exhibition; but this was only natural, and they console
themselves by stating that it was in France that the idea was first
conceived, and by solemnly promising that France will some day _prendre
sa revanche_. The most amusing of the _feuilletonistes_ is
unquestionably M. Jules de Premary, of the _Patrie_; and we have thought
it worth while to translate a portion of his last letter, as a specimen
of what an intelligent man of letters feels on visiting us for the first
time, and before he becomes well acquainted with us:

     "One of the principal causes of surprise to me in walking
     along the streets of London, has been to see myself all at
     once become a curious animal. I did not think that I had any
     of the qualities necessary for such a thing, being neither
     humpbacked nor club-footed, neither a giant nor a dwarf.
     Thus, then, on the day of my arrival I went along Regent
     Street, and heard the exclamations and laughter of the crowd
     on seeing me, I examined myself from head to foot, to
     ascertain the cause of the unhoped-for success which I
     obtained in England. I even felt all up my back, thinking
     that perhaps some facetious boy might have transformed me
     into a walking placard. There was nothing, however; but I
     had moustachios and a foreign air! A foreign air! That is
     one of the little miseries on which you do not count, O
     simple and inexperienced travellers!

     "At home you may have the dignity and nobleness of the
     Cid--you may be another Talma: but pass the Channel--show
     yourself to the English, and in spite of yourself you will
     become as comic as Arnal. Arnal! do I say? why, he would not
     make them laugh so much as you do; and they would consider
     our inimitable comedians Levassor and Hoffmann as serious
     personages. Do not be angry, then, or cry with  Alceste,--

        'Par la sambleu! Messieurs, je ne croyais pas etre
         Si plaisant que je suis!'

     They would only laugh the more. In this respect the English
     are wanting in good taste and indulgence. Their astonishment
     is silly and their mockery puerile. The sight of a pair of
     moustachios makes them roar with laughter, and they are in
     an ecstasy of fun at the sight of a rather broad-brimmed
     hat. A people must be very much bored to seize such
     occasions for amusing themselves. However, all the
     _travers_, like all the qualities of the English, arise from
     the national spirit carried to exaggeration. They consider
     themselves the _beau ideal_ of human kind. Their stiffness
     of bearing, their pale faces, their hair, their whiskers cut
     into the shape of mutton chops, the excessive height of
     their shirt collars, and the inelegant cut of their
     coats--all that makes them as proud as Trafalgar and
     Waterloo.

     "In our theatres we laugh at them as they laugh at us, and
     on that score we are quits. But in our great towns they are
     much better and more seriously received than we Frenchmen
     are in England.

     "At Paris now-a-days nobody laughs at an Englishman; but at
     London every body laughs at a Frenchman. We do not make this
     remark from any feeling of ill-will; in fact, we think that
     to cause a smile on the thin and pinched-up lips of old
     England is not a small triumph for our beards and
     moustachios. After all, too, the astonishment which the
     Englishman manifests at the sight of a newly disembarked
     Frenchman (an astonishment which appears singular when we
     call to mind the frequent communications between the two
     nations), is less inexplicable than may be thought.
     Geographically speaking, France and England touch each
     other--morally, they are at an immeasurable distance.
     Nothing is done at Calais as at Dover, nothing at London as
     at Paris. There is as much difference between the two races
     as between white and black. In France, the Englishman
     conforms willingly to our customs, and quickly adopts our
     manner of acting; but in England we are like a stain on a
     harmonious picture.

     "Our fashion of sauntering along the streets, smiling at the
     pretty girls we meet, looking at the shops, or stopping to
     chat with a friend, fills the English with stupefaction.
     They always walk straight before them like mad dogs. In
     conversation there is the same difference. In England it is
     always solemn. Left alone after dinner, the men adopt a
     subject of conversation, which never varies during all the
     rest of the evening. Each one is allowed to develop his
     argument without interruption. Perhaps he is not understood,
     but he is listened to. When he has ended, it becomes the
     turn of another, who is heard with the same respect. The
     thing resembles a quiet sitting of the Parliament. But in
     France, conversation is a veritable _melee_--it is the
     contrary excess. A subject is left and taken up twenty
     times, amidst joyous and unforeseen interruptions. We throw
     words at each other's heads without doing ourselves any
     harm; smart sallies break forth, and _bon mots_ roll under
     the table. In short, the Englishman reflects before
     speaking; the Frenchman speaks first and reflects
     afterwards--if he has time. The Frenchman converses, the
     Englishman talks: and it is the same with respect to
     pleasure. Place a Frenchman, who feels _ennui_, by the side
     of an Englishman who amuses himself, and it will be the
     former who will have the gayest air. From love, the
     Englishman only demands its brutal joys; whereas the
     Frenchman pays court to a woman. The Englishman, at table,
     drinks to repletion; the Frenchman never exceeds
     intoxication.

     "A difference equally striking exists between the females of
     the two countries. I do not now speak of the beauty of the
     type of the one, or the elegance and good taste of the
     others; but I will notice one or two great contrasts. In
     France, a young girl is reserved, is timid, and as it were
     hidden under the shade of the family: but the married woman
     has every liberty, and many husbands can tell you that she
     does not always use it with extreme moderation! In England,
     you are surprised at the confident bearing of young girls,
     and the chaste reserve of married women. The former not only
     willingly listen to gallant compliments, but even excite
     them; whilst the latter, by the simple propriety of their
     bearing, impose on the boldest.

     "The boldness of young girls in England was explained to me
     by the great emigration of young men--in other words, by the
     scarcity of husbands. The French girl who wants a husband is
     ordinarily rather disdainful; the English girl is by no
     means difficult.

     "A Frenchwoman walks negligently leaning on our arm, and we
     regulate our steps by the timidity and uncertainty of hers:
     the Englishwoman walks with the head erect, and takes large
     strides like a soldier charging. An accident made me
     acquainted with the secret of the strange way of walking
     which Englishwomen have. I was lately on a visit to the
     family of a merchant, whose three daughters are receiving a
     costly education. The French master, the drawing master, and
     the music master had each given his lesson, when I saw a
     sergeant of the grenadiers of the guard arrive. He went into
     the garden, and was followed by the young ladies.

     "'Ah! mon Dieu!" I cried to the father, 'these young ladies
     are surely not going to learn the military exercise!'

     "'No,' said he, with a smile.

     "'What, then, has this professor in a red coat come for?'

     "'He is the _master of grace_."

     "'What! that grenadier, who is as long as the column in
     Trafalgar-square?'

     "'Yes, or rather he is the _walking master_.'

     "I looked out of the window, and saw the three young ladies
     drawn up and immovable as soldiers, and presently they began
     to march to the step of the grenadier. They formed a
     charming platoon, and trod the military step with a
     precision worthy of admiration. I asked for an explanation
     of such a strange thing.

     "'We in England,' said my host, 'understand better the duty
     of women than you Frenchmen do. We cannot regulate our
     manner of walking on that of a being subjected to us. Our
     dignity forbids it. It is the woman's duty to follow us.
     Consequently she must walk as we do,--we can't walk as she
     does.'

     "'_Ma foi!_' said I, 'I must admit that in progress you are
     decidedly our masters. In France the law, it is true,
     commands the wife to follow her husband; but it does not, I
     confess, say that she must do so at the rate of a _quick
     march_!'

     "The contrasts between the two countries are in truth
     inexhaustible. Indeed I defy the most patient observer, to
     find any point of resemblance between them. In France,
     houses are gay in appearance; in London, with the exception
     of some streets in the centre, such as Regent-street or
     Oxford-street, they are as dark and dismal as prisons. Our
     windows open from the left to the right; windows in England
     open from top to bottom. At Paris, to ring or knock too loud
     is vulgar and ill-bred; at London, if you don't execute a
     tattoo with the knocker or a symphony with the bell, you are
     considered a poor wretch, and are left an hour at the door.
     Our hack cabs take their stand on one side of the street; in
     England they occupy the middle. Our coachmen get up in front
     of their vehicles; in England they go behind. In Paris,
     Englishmen are charming; at home they are--Englishmen. One
     thing astonishes me greatly--that the English don't walk on
     their hands, since we walk on our feet."

But the French gentlemen do not have it all their own way. The London
_Leader_ attacks them pleasantly in a similar spirit, yet it is always
tinged, upon both sides, with a shade of caustic feeling: "Jules Janin,
who has fallen in love with our fog and kindliness, announces to all
France the joyful news that there will be no Waterloo banquet this June:
the flag of France floating over the Crystal Palace suggests to the Duke
that the banquet would be a breach of hospitality, because it would
recall such "cruel souvenirs!" Janin believes that report; or at least
prints it, which is to give journalistic credence to it. We are sorry to
think how "cruelly" France will be disappointed; and we are amused at
the excessive pre-occupation of Frenchmen with this said battle of
Waterloo. It is the ineradicable belief of every Frenchman that we in
England are in a perpetual self-swagger about Waterloo. We are prodigal
of the word upon omnibus, shop, street, and road, because we wish to
humble France at every corner. Waterloo-house is an insult!
Waterloo-bridge a defiance! Wellington boots an outrage! Every step you
take you trample on the national pride of France, for with "insular
arrogance" you walk in boots named of Wellington or of Blucher! We are
intoxicated with our success at having beaten the French--never having
drubbed them before, from the times of Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt,
down to the Peninsular Campaign! This one success of Waterloo--(which,
after all, was _not_ a success, as France clearly gained the battle,
only she quitted the field in disgust!)--we cannot forget; we cherish
it, we riot in it; we blazon the name everywhere to flatter our national
pride and humiliate the foreigner. And, curious enough, the foreigner
_is_ humiliated! He turns his head away as he passes Waterloo-house; he
declines crossing Waterloo-bridge, or crosses it in a passion; and even
his national dread of rain cannot induce him to ride in a Waterloo
omnibus. Of all the many profound misconceptions of English society
current in France, none, we venture to say, is more completely baseless
than the belief in the English feeling about Waterloo. Though it would
be impossible to persuade a Frenchman that omnibus proprietors, hotel
keepers, and builders were guilty of no national swagger in using the
offending word 'Waterloo.'"




SCHALKEN THE PAINTER.--A GHOST STORY.


We take the following from a volume of of ghost stories, with
illustrations by Phiz, which has lately been published in London. One
Minheer Vanderhausen, through the means of a certain persuasive
eloquence, backed by money, becomes the husband of Rose, the niece of
Gerard Douw, and with whom Schalken, the celebrated painter's pupil, was
in love. Vanderhausen and his wife set out ostensibly for Rotterdam, but
receiving no communication from either for a long time, Gerard resolves
upon a journey to the city. No such individual as Vanderhausen is known
there, and the fate of the poor wife is told as follows:--

     "One evening, the painter and his pupil were sitting by the
     fire, having accomplished a comfortable meal, and had
     yielded to the silent and delicious melancholy of digestion,
     when their ruminations were disturbed by a loud sound at the
     street door, as if occasioned by some person rushing and
     scrambling vehemently against it. A domestic had run without
     delay to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, and they
     heard him twice or thrice interrogate the applicant for
     admission, but without eliciting any other answer but a
     sustained reiteration of the sounds. They heard him then
     open the hall-door, and immediately there followed a light
     and rapid tread upon the staircase. Schalken advanced
     towards the door. It opened before he reached it, and Rose
     rushed into the room. She looked wild, fierce, and haggard
     with terror and exhaustion; but her dress surprised them as
     much even as her unexpected appearance. It consisted of a
     kind of white woollen wrapper, made close about the neck,
     and descending to the very ground. It was much deranged and
     travel soiled. The poor creature had hardly entered the
     chamber when she fell senseless on the floor. With some
     difficulty they succeeded in reviving her; and on recovering
     her senses she instantly exclaimed, in a tone of terror
     rather than mere impatience, 'Wine! wine!--quickly, or I'm
     lost!"

     "Astonished, and almost scared, at the strange agitation in
     which the call was made, they at once administered to her
     wishes, and she drank some wine with a haste and eagerness
     which surprised them. She had hardly swallowed it, when she
     exclaimed, with the same urgency, 'Food, for God's sake;
     food at once, or I perish!'

     "A large fragment of a roast joint was upon the table, and
     Schalken immediately began to cut some; but he was
     anticipated; for no sooner did she see it than she caught
     it, a more than mortal image of famine, and with her hands,
     and even with her teeth, she tore off the flesh, and
     swallowed it. When the paroxysm of hunger had been a little
     appeased, she was on a sudden overcome with shame; or it may
     have been that other more agitating thoughts overpowered and
     scared her, for she began to weep bitterly, and to wring her
     hands.

     "'Oh! send for a minister of God!' said she; 'I am not safe
     till he comes; send for him speedily.'

     "Gerard Douw dispatched a messenger instantly, and prevailed
     on his niece to allow him to surrender his bedchamber to her
     use. He also persuaded her to retire there at once to rest:
     her consent was extorted upon the condition that they would
     not leave her for a moment.

     "'Oh, that the holy man were here!' she said; 'he can
     deliver me: the dead and the living can never be one; God
     has forbidden it.'

     "With these mysterious words she surrendered herself to
     their guidance, and they proceeded to the chamber which
     Gerard Douw had assigned to her use.

     "'Do not, do not leave me for a moment!' she said; 'I am
     lost for ever if you do.'

     "Gerard Douw's chamber was approached through a spacious
     apartment, which they were now about to enter. He and
     Schalken each carried a candle, so that a sufficiency of
     light was cast upon all surrounding objects. They were now
     entering the large chamber, which, as I have said,
     communicated with Douw's apartment, when Rose suddenly
     stopped, and, in a whisper which thrilled them both with
     horror, she said, 'O God! he is here! he is here! See, see!
     there he goes!'

     "She pointed towards the door of the inner room, and
     Schalken thought he saw a shadowy and ill-defined form
     gliding into that apartment. He drew his sword, and raising
     the candle so as to throw its light with increased
     distinctness upon the objects in the room, he entered the
     chamber into which the shadow had glided. No figure was
     there--nothing but the furniture which belonged to the room;
     and yet he could not be deceived as to the fact that
     something had moved before them into the chamber. A
     sickening dread came upon him, and the cold perspiration
     broke out in heavy drops upon his forehead; nor was he more
     composed when he heard the increased urgency and agony of
     entreaty with which Rose implored them not to leave her for
     a moment.

     "'I saw him,' said she, 'he's here. I cannot be deceived; I
     know him; he's by me; he is with me; he's in the room. Then,
     for God's sake, as you would save me, do not stir from
     beside me.'

     "They at length prevailed upon her to lie down upon the bed,
     where she continued to urge them to stay by her. She
     frequently uttered incoherent sentences, repeating again and
     again, 'The dead and the living cannot be one; God has
     forbidden it:' and then again, 'Rest to the wakeful--sleep
     to the sleep-walkers.' These and such mysterious and broken
     sentences she continued to utter until the clergyman
     arrived. Gerard Douw began to fear, naturally enough, that
     terror or ill-treatment had unsettled the poor girl's
     intellect; and he half suspected, from the suddenness of her
     appearance, the unseasonableness of the hour, and, above
     all, from the wildness and terror of her manner, that she
     had made her escape from some place of confinement for
     lunatics, and was in imminent fear of pursuit. He resolved
     to summon medical advice as soon as the mind of his niece
     had been in some measure set at rest by the offices of the
     clergyman whose attendance she had so earnestly desired; and
     until this object had been attained, he did not venture to
     put any questions to her which might possibly, by reviving
     painful or horrible recollections, increase her agitation.
     The clergyman soon arrived; a man of ascetic countenance and
     venerable age--one whom Gerard Douw respected much,
     forasmuch as he was a veteran polemic, though one perhaps
     more dreaded as a combatant, than beloved as a Christian--of
     pure morality, subtile brain, and frozen heart. He entered
     the chamber which communicated with that in which Rose
     reclined; and immediately on his arrival she requested him
     to pray for her, as for one who lay in the hands of Satan,
     and who could hope for deliverance only from heaven.

     "That you may distinctly understand all the circumstances of
     the event which I am going to describe, it is necessary to
     state the relative position of the parties who were engaged
     in it. The old clergyman and Schalken were in the anteroom
     of which I have already spoken; Rose lay in the inner
     chamber, the door of which was open; and by the side of the
     bed, at her urgent desire, stood her guardian; a candle
     burned in the bedchamber, and three were lighted in the
     outer apartment. The old man now cleared his voice, as if
     about to commence; but before he had time to begin, a sudden
     gust of air blew out the candle which served to illuminate
     the room in which the poor girl lay, and she with hurried
     alarm exclaimed, 'Godfrey, bring in another candle; the
     darkness is unsafe.'

     "Gerard Douw, forgetting for the moment her repeated
     injunctions, in the immediate impulse, stepped from the
     bedchamber into the other, in order to supply what she
     desired.

     "'O God! do not go dear uncle,' shrieked the unhappy girl;
     and at the same time she sprang from the bed and darted
     after him, in order by her grasp to detain him. But the
     warning came too late; for scarcely had he passed the
     threshold, and hardly had his niece had time to utter the
     startling exclamation, when the door which divided the two
     rooms closed violently after him, as if swung to by a strong
     blast of wind. Schalken and he both rushed to the door, but
     their united and desperate efforts could not avail so much
     as to shake it. Shriek after shriek burst from the inner
     chamber, with all the piercing loudness of despairing
     terror. Schalken and Douw strained every nerve to force open
     the door; but all in vain. There was no sound of struggling
     from within, but the screams seemed to increase in loudness,
     and at the same time they heard the bolts of the latticed
     window withdrawn, and the window itself grated upon the sill
     as if thrown open. One _last_ shriek, so long, and piercing,
     and agonized, as to be scarcely human, swelled from the
     room, and suddenly there followed a death-like silence. A
     light step was heard crossing the floor, as if from the bed
     to the window, and almost at the same instant the door gave
     way, and yielding to the pressure of the external
     applicants, they were nearly precipitated into the room. It
     was empty. The window was open, and Schalken sprang to a
     chair, and gazed out upon the street and canal below. There
     was no one there; but he saw, or thought he saw, the waters
     of the broad canal beneath settling ring after ring, in
     heavy circles, as if a moment before disturbed by the
     submersion of some ponderous body."




SKETCHES OF LIFE IN SWEDEN.


Hans Christian Anderson, the Danish poet and story-teller, whose
_Improvisatore_ is one of the most beautiful and intrinsically truthful
of the myriad beautiful books upon Italian life, has published a new
work, _Pictures of Sweden_. It is very genial summer reading, consisting
of detached sketches of Swedish life and scenery, with interludes of
poetic reverie. The London journals complain that it is not sufficiently
well translated, but we quote the following characteristic passages in
which the same weird child-likeness of feeling which his readers will
recall, is expressed in the peculiar, subdued strain of northern
sentimentalism, which is more the complexion, than the substance of his
style. Here is the prelude to the book:

     "It is a delightful spring: the birds warble, but you do not
     understand their song! Well, hear it in a free translation.

     "'Get on my back,' says the stork, our green island's sacred
     bird, 'and I will carry thee over the Sound. Sweden also has
     fresh and fragrant beech woods, green meadows and
     cornfields. In Scania, with the flowering apple-trees behind
     the peasant's house, you will think that you are still in
     Denmark.'

     "'Fly with me,' says the swallow; 'I fly over Holland's
     mountain ridge, where the beech-trees cease to grow; I fly
     further towards the north than the stork. You shall see the
     vegetable mould pass over into rocky ground; see snug, neat
     towns, old churches and mansions, where all is good and
     comfortable, where the family stand in a circle around the
     table and say grace at meals, where the least of the
     children says a prayer, and, morning and evening, sings a
     psalm. I have heard it, I have seen it, when little, from my
     nest under the eaves.'

     "'Come with me! come with me!' screams the restless
     sea-gull, and flies in an expecting circle. 'Come with me to
     the Skjaergaards, where rocky isles by thousands, with fir
     and pine, lie like flower beds along the coast; where the
     fishermen draw the well-filled nets!'

     "'Rest thee between our extended wings,' sing the wild
     swans. 'Let us bear thee up to the great lakes, the
     perpetually roaring elves (rivers), that rush on with arrowy
     swiftness; where the oak forest has long ceased, and the
     birch-tree becomes stunted. Rest thee between our extended
     wings: we fly up to Sulitelma, the island's eye, as the
     mountain is called; we fly from the vernal green valley, up
     over the snow-drifts, to the mountain's top, whence thou
     canst see the North Sea, on yonder side of Norway.

     "'We fly to Jemteland, where the rocky mountains are high
     and blue; where the Foss roars and rushes; where the torches
     are lighted as _budstikke,_ to announce that the ferryman is
     expected. Up to the deep, cold-running waters, where the
     midsummer sun does not set; where the rosy hue of eve is
     that of morn."

Stockholm is thus pictured, with an allusion, at the close, to a
building dear to us all, now--as that which was first enriched by the
voice, whose recent lapse into silence has made our hearts heavy:

     "It is but the work of one night; the same night when Oluf
     Hakonson, with iron and with fire, burst his onward way
     through the stubborn ground; before the day breaks the
     waters of the Maelar roll there; the Norwegian prince, Oluf,
     sailed through the royal channel he had cut in the east. The
     stockades, where the iron chains hang, must bear the
     defences; the citizens from the burnt-down Sigtuna erect
     themselves a bulwark here, and build their new little town
     on stock-holms.[A] The clouds go, and the years go! Do you
     see how the gables grow? there rise towers and forts. Birger
     Jarl makes the town of Stockholm a fortress; the warders
     stand with bow and arrow on the walls, reconnoitring over
     lake and fiord, over Brunkaberg sand-ridge. There where the
     sand slopes upwards from Roerstrand's Lake they build Clara
     cloister, and between it and the town a street springs up:
     several more appear; they form an extensive city, which soon
     becomes the place of contest for different partisans, where
     Ladelaas's sons plant the banner, and where the German
     Albrecht's retainers burn the Swedes alive within its walls.
     Stockholm is, however, the heart of the kingdom: that the
     Danes know well; that the Swedes know too, and there is
     strife and bloody combating. Blood flows by the
     executioner's hand, Denmark's Christian the Second, Sweden's
     executioner, stands in the market-place. Roll, ye runes! see
     over Brunkaberg sand-ridge, where the Swedish people
     conquered the Danish host, there they raise the May-pole: it
     is midsummer-eve--Gustavus Vasa makes his entry into
     Stockholm. Around the May-pole there grow fruit and
     kitchen-gardens, houses and streets; they vanish in flames,
     they rise again; that gloomy fortress towards the tower is
     transformed into a palace, and the city stands magnificently
     with towers and draw-bridges. There grows a town by itself
     on the sand-ridge, a third springs up on the rock towards
     the south; the old walls fall at Gustavus Adolphus's
     command; the three towns are one, large and extensive,
     picturesquely varied with old stone houses, wooden shops,
     and grass-roofed huts; the sun shines on the brass balls of
     the towers, and a forest of masts stands in that secure
     harbor. * * *

     "It is a very little semicircular island, on which the
     arches of the bridge rest: a garden full of flowers and
     trees, which we overlook from the high parapet of the
     bridge. Ladies and gentlemen promenade there; musicians
     play, families sit there in groups, and take refreshments in
     the vaulted halls under the bridge, and look out between the
     green trees over the open water, to the houses and mansions,
     and also to the woods and rocks: we forget that we are in
     the midst of the city. It is the bridge here that unites
     Stockholm with Nordmalen, where the greatest part of the
     fashionable world live, in two long Berlin-like streets; yet
     amongst all the great houses we will only visit one, and
     that is the theatre. We will go on the stage itself--it has
     an historical signification. Here by the third side-scene
     from the stage-lights, to the right, as we look down towards
     the audience, Gustavus the Third was assassinated at a
     masquerade; and he was borne into that little chamber there,
     close by the scene, whilst all the outlets were closed, and
     the motley group of harlequins, polichinellos, wild men,
     gods and goddesses, with unmasked faces, pale and terrified,
     crept together; the dancing ballet-farce had become a real
     tragedy. This theatre is Jenny Lind's childhood's home. Here
     she has sung in the choruses when a little girl; here she
     first made her appearance in public, and was cheeringly
     encouraged when a child; here, poor and sorrowful, she has
     shed tears, when her voice left her, and sent up pious
     prayers to her Maker. From hence the world's nightingale
     flew out over distant lands, and proclaimed the purity and
     holiness of art."

We ramble a moment in the garden of Linnaeus, and contemplate his
monument. It is withered and wasted now; it appears not unlike that
grave garden of Ferney, with the close bower in which Voltaire used to
walk and meditate:

     "The walls shine brightly, and with varied hues, in the
     great chapel behind the high altar. The fresco paintings
     present to us the most eventful circumstances of Gustavus
     Vasa's life. Here his clay moulders, with that of his three
     consorts. Yonder, a work in marble, by Sargel, solicits our
     attention: it adorns the burial-chapel of the De Geers; and
     here, in the centre aisle, under that flat stone, rests
     Linnaeus. In the side chapel, is his monument, erected by
     _amici_ and _discipuli_; a sufficient sum was quickly raised
     for its erection, and the King, Gustavus the Third, himself
     brought his royal gift. The projector of the subscription
     then explained to him, that the purposed inscription was,
     that the monument was erected only by friends and disciples,
     and King Gustavus answered: 'And am not I also one of
     Linnaeus's disciples?' The monument was raised, and a hall
     built in the botanical garden, under splendid trees. There
     stands his bust; but the remembrance of himself, his home,
     his own little garden--where is it most vivid? Lead us
     thither. On yonder side of Fyri's rivulet, where the street
     forms a declivity, where red-painted wooden houses boast
     their living grass roofs, as fresh as if they were planted
     terraces, lies Linnaeus's garden. We stand within it. How
     solitary! how overgrown! Tall nettles shoot up between the
     old, untrimmed, rank hedges. No water-plants appear more in
     that little dried-up basin; the hedges that were formerly
     clipped, put forth fresh leaves without being checked by the
     gardener's shears. It was between these hedges that Linnaeus
     at times saw his own double--that optical illusion which
     presents the express image of a second self--from the hat to
     the boots. Where a great man has lived and worked, the place
     itself becomes, as it were, a part and parcel of him: the
     whole, as well as a part, has mirrored itself in his eye; it
     has entered into his soul, and becomes linked with it and
     the whole world. We enter the orangeries: they are now
     transformed into assembly-rooms; the blooming winter-garden
     has disappeared; but the walls yet show a sort of herbarium.
     They are hung round with the portraits of learned Swedes--a
     herbarium from the garden of science and knowledge. Unknown
     faces--and, to the stranger, the greatest part are unknown
     names--meet us here."

A palace of Gustavus Vasa's:

     "There yet stands a stone outline of Vadstene's rich palace
     which he (Gustavus Vasa) erected, with towers and spires,
     close by the cloister. At a far distance on the Vettern, it
     looks as if it still stood in all its splendor; near, in
     moonlight nights, it appears the same unchanged edifice, for
     the fathom-thick walls yet remain; the carvings over the
     windows and gates stand forth in light and shade, and the
     moat round about, which is only separated from the Vettern
     by the narrow carriage road, takes the reflection of the
     immense building as a mirrored image.

     "We now stand before it in daylight. Not a pane of glass is
     to be found in it; planks and old doors are nailed fast to
     the window frames; the balls alone still stand on the two
     towers, broad, heavy, and resembling colossal toadstools.
     The iron spire of the one still towers aloft in the air; the
     other spire is bent: like the hands on a sundial it shows
     the time--the time that is gone. The other two balls are
     half fallen down; lambs frisk about between the beams, and
     the space below is used as a cow-stall.

     "The arms over the gateway have neither spot nor blemish:
     they seem as if carved yesterday; the walls are firm, and
     the stairs look like new. In the palace yard, far above the
     gateway, the great folding door was opened, whence once the
     minstrels stepped out and played a welcome greeting from the
     balcony, but even this is broken down: we go through the
     spacious kitchen, from whose white walls, a sketch of
     Vadstene palace, ships, and flowering trees, in red chalk,
     still attract the eye.

     "Here where they cooked and roasted, is now a large empty
     space; even the chimney is gone; and from the ceiling where
     thick, heavy beams of timber have been placed close to one
     another, there hangs the dust-covered cobweb, as if the
     whole were a mass of dark gray dropping stones.

     "We walk from hall to hall, and the wooden shutters are
     opened to admit daylight. All is vast, lofty, spacious, and
     adorned with antique chimney-pieces, and from every window
     there is a charming prospect over the clear, deep Vettern.
     In one of the chambers in the ground floor sat the insane
     Duke Magnus (whose stone image we lately saw conspicuous in
     the church), horrified at having signed his own brother's
     death-warrant; dreamingly in love with the portrait of
     Scotland's Queen, Mary Stuart; paying court to her and
     expecting to see the ship, with her, glide over the sea
     towards Vadstene. And she came--he thought she came--in the
     form of a mermaid, raising herself aloft on the water: she
     nodded and called to him, and the unfortunate Duke sprang
     out of the window down to her. We gazed out of this window,
     and below it we saw the deep moat in which he sank."

FOOTNOTES:

[A] "Stock, signifies bulks, or beams; holms, _i.e._ islets, or river
islands; hence, Stockholm."




A FRENCHMAN'S OPINIONS OF AMERICAN FEMALE POETS.


We find in the Paris _Revue des Deux Mondes_, for May 15, an article,
which we translate for _The International_, on "The Female Poets of
America,"[B] by M. E. MONTEGUT. This writer's opinions respecting the
influence of Protestantism on the cultivation of poetry may amuse those
who remember who have been the greatest poets. It is a part of the cant
of criticism to point to mediaeval art as a fruit of the Roman Catholic
ascendency--as if the Roman Catholics had done more than the Protestants
for high art since the Reformation. But M. Montegut is a man of wit, and
his criticism, though we confess that it loses some of its point in our
version, will entertain the hundred of our countrywomen who make verses.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is an opinion very generally entertained that the Americans are
almost exclusively occupied with material affairs, with commerce, and
the varied forms of mechanical industry. The volume of Mr. Griswold will
contribute to dispel any such idea, for in its four hundred pages,
nearly of the size of quartos, there are quoted ninety of the most
celebrated female poets of North America: ninety female poets! and all,
with few exceptions, contemporary. Why, all Europe could not count a
greater number. If therefore, we bear in mind that this voluminous
poetic _flore_ contains only the names of women, and that Mr. Rufus
Griswold has consecrated two volumes of similar dimensions, one to the
Poets of the masculine gender, and the other to the Prose-Writers of
both genders, it is difficult to believe in the literary sterility of
the United States. But why is it, that among these three or four hundred
writers, only three or four are known beyond the Atlantic? It is, that a
literature is not altogether composed of harmonious reveries, of elegant
imitations, of agreeable fancies; that poetry does not consist in a
melodious rhythm only, nor even in a tasteful choice of words, nor in a
perfect knowledge of language. Poetry, as well as all the possible
expressions of thought and genius, arises from the very depths of the
soul. It is the exterior expression of the national life, the
recital,--from the lips of an individual animated and transported with
the popular spirit--of the mysteries of his country's existence, and the
desires, aspirations and convictions of his countrymen. The poet is the
interpreter of the moral character of his country to other nations, and
his works are the highest embodiment of the manners and habits of life
in his country and his time. The poetry which does not fulfil these
conditions is not poetry. Any man writing verse, who does not feel
himself agitated in a more lively and distinct manner with the desires
which torment his contemporaries as a vague fever, who does not know
that his whole mission is to express, in an artistic and harmonious
form, the clamors and the incorrect utterance of these desires, is not
and cannot be a poet.

If such be the moral necessities which give birth to poetry, how is it
that America has not an original literature? How is it that she has no
great artists, and that there are but three or four writers--Cooper,
Channing, Emerson--who well express her spirit and tendencies? None of
the great moral qualities necessary to a poet are wanting to Americans.
They have a national pride, approaching even to sensitiveness; they have
firm and free religious faiths; life is energetic and manifests itself
abundantly every where. How is it, we ask, that we meet no man of genius
to tell us of the miracles of triumph over nature and barbarism; of
those hardy industrial enterprises, and those wonderful displays of
human activity around them; to sing the adventurous heroes of commerce
and mechanism, and that singular marriage in domestic life of sedentary
virtues with a changing, nomadic disposition--the love of the fireside,
which remains undisturbed in the midst of perpetual displacement, as of
old the tents of the patriarchs were pitched in the evening and stricken
in the morning? Is it that there is no poetry in these subjects? Here,
indeed, is a curious phenomenon, and one of the least-studied laws of
literary history.

But ought we to regard Americans unfortunate because they have no
literature of their own? In some points of view it is a reason for
envying them. When true poetry appears among a people, it is not always
a prophetic sign of future greatness; it is oftener a reflection of
greatness passed away. It announces not new destinies, but recounts a
history of the vanished and vanishing. Whenever the voice of a great
poet is heard, we are sure that the customs, the institutions, and the
religions he sings, are near their decline. Thus, Shakspeare, the most
faithful mirror of the middle and feudal ages, came with reform and the
sixteenth century; and Calderon, with the decay of Spanish Catholicism.
That opinions and manners should partake of poesy, it is necessary that
they begin to fade away into the realm of the fabulous past; it is
necessary, in order that the ideal should appear, that these cease to
exist. It was formerly said, and not without reason, "Happy the people
who have no literature!" and in our time we are tempted to say: Happy
the people who have no great poets! it is a proof that they enjoy the
plentitude of life, that they have nothing to regret, that they are
still in all their primal innocency, and the native energy of their
being.

It is curious, also, to observe, how men animated by an heroic faith,
seldom see that that faith and the deeds which it inspires, belong to
the poetic and ideal. The first Puritans, who embarked, without
resources, in a frail vessel, to seek in America the enjoyment of a free
religion, now appear to us truly poetical. Walter Scott has drawn a
thousand original characters of cavaliers and round-heads. Do you know
what was the literature of those men full of the spirit of the Bible? Do
you know what was the character of the first poetic publications in the
United States? We open Mr. Griswold's volume, and the first name is that
of Anne Bradstreet, who proceeded thither with her father, an ardent
nonconformist. Here is the title under which her poems were printed, in
the year 1640, at Boston: "_Several Poems, compiled with great variety
of Wit and Learning, full of delight; wherein especially is contained a
compleat Discourse and Description of the Four Elements, Constitutions,
Ages of Man, and Seasons of the Year, together with an exact Epitome of
the Three First Monarchies, viz. the Assyrian, Persian, and Grecian; and
the beginning of the Roman Commonwealth to the end of their last King;
with divers other Pleasant and Serious Poems: By a Gentlewoman of New
England._" This Mrs. Bradstreet, called by the Americans, at this epoch,
the "tenth muse"--probably a very good Protestant--made invocations to
Phoebus, and imitated ---- Dubartas! Certainly, the emigrant
Americans, who were indeed the most zealous of all Protestants, did not
suspect the mournful poetry which Protestantism contains--a poetry which
we perceive to-day. It is even a part of the American life of our times.
But this absence of real poetry is far from being a bad sign; it is, on
the contrary, a proof of strength and energy.

Great works are not what we require of Americans; we would rather
endeavor to discover in them the traces of the moral spirit of their
country, its philosophical and historic signs, rather than poetic fables
skilfully constructed and eloquently told. For example, these female
poets of North America, suggest an interesting question for Europeans to
examine. Have all those Misses and Mistresses who write poems, dramas
and sonnets, any features of resemblance with our female authors? Has
America, which is represented so coarse in manners, inherited the vices
of European society, and become so degenerate as to give birth to that
monstrous nondescript, named among us a _bas-bleu_? We have endeavored,
diligently, to discover, in this large volume, traces of resemblance
between our women of letters and the female poets of America, but we
have discovered none. These daughters and wives of American citizens, of
merchants, bankers, magistrates and doctors in theology, do not write as
our female authors, from vain ambition, or love, or scandal, or (what
among us is by no means uncommon) to repent of the scandal that they
have occasioned. They write as among us young girls draw or sing. Poesy
is for them an ornamental art, and nothing more. Besides, this great
number of female poets in America, is explained by the much more liberal
education received by the women of English blood and of the Protestant
religion. We can find better specimens of poetry, certainly, but nothing
equalling them in the discretion and reserve that reign in all their
verses. We have sought, diligently, to discover the sentiments which
American women are most pleased in translating into written poetry: one
only is expressed, freely and energetically--maternal love. The other
sentiments and virtues are carefully veiled, as subjects upon which it
would be improper to dwell. Such verses are full of scruples and
delicacies, and to us, it is their principal charm. Love, so difficult
for the female heart to acknowledge in words; passionate confidences, so
easily turned into sarcasms, and almost repulsive when uttered by the
mouth of a woman, find no place in the inspirations of the American
poetess. There are no strongly expressed individual passions. Vague and
objectless longings--the cold lights of mere fancy, are the
characteristics of those writers. Sometimes we discover a regret, or a
mournful remembrance, but so obscure as to be nearly lost in a vastly
diffused hope of some good which is not realized. We have endeavored to
discover if the sentiment of conjugal love were there, but we are
disappointed. To us, Europeans, who are overwhelmed with romances, in
which this chaste sentiment is analyzed and written of in a manner to
produce absolute nausea, it is not, perhaps, known how much discretion
there is in this passionless exterior, and how commendable it is that so
holy a sentiment should not pass the sacred inclosures of the female
heart; that it should not wound the delicacies of its own natural
reserve and silence. The talents of these writers are exercised upon
permitted subjects, and not, as too often among our own female poets,
upon subjects at once easy and unlawful.

This modesty and reserve throughout the work become necessarily
monotonous--but it is of no great consequence to us. We would not have
written if it had not been to acknowledge specimens of real literary
excellence. But we have in the work itself what is of considerable value
as reflecting in some degree the American character. We can use these
elegies, reveries and monodies as a means of discovering the nature of
the virtues thus brought out from obscurity, though in coloring too pale
and uniform. The life of these women possesses nothing adventurous,
passionate, or eccentric. It is composed of three facts: birth,
marriage, and death. As to the intervals between these three solemn
events, the biographer says little, and we suppose they are filled with
exemplary virtues and the accomplishment of duties which human and
divine law imposes upon the woman. Three of these, however, are
distinguished from the others by their position in society, or by their
talents, and constitute the only singularities of the work.

We have just remarked, that these _poesies_ are all written by the
daughters of rich merchants, lawyers, and doctors of divinity; two,
however, are of low condition--a negress, Philis Wheatley Peters; and a
domestic, Maria James. The negress belonged to the close of the
eighteenth century, and was born at a time to justify the pamphlets of
Franklin on slavery, and the demands of philanthropy. This "daughter of
the murky Senegal," as one of her critics called her, has been, thanks
to the circumstances of her color, birth, and condition, a sort of
historic character. Sold at ten years of age, in a public mart of
slaves, she was purchased by Mrs. Wheatley, a lady who educated her, and
who afterwards permitted her to be called by her own name. This negress,
so little known now, has had her day in history; she visited London,
where she was an object of general esteem. Washington corresponded with
her, and the Abbe Gregoire, our revolutionary regicide, announced her a
great poet, in his Essay upon the Intellectual and Moral Faculties of
the Negro. The opponents of slavery applauded her verses with
enthusiasm, and the upholders of slavery denounced and slandered her.
She has been, for a moment, in the eyes of the universe, the noblest
type of her race--this humble black slave has been, in the civilized
world, the representative of all her brethren. Her existence has been
one of the incidents of universal history, and this unknown person has
had her share, however small, in the revolutions of the world.

Maria James was a poor servant, the child of an emigrant from Wales. An
unlettered poet, she drew her only instruction from the Bible, the
Pilgrim's Progress, and Miss Hannah More, a kind of Madame de Genlis of
puritanism; and yet it was this poor girl who wrote the most perfect
lyric, the neatest, and in a literary view, the best composed, that we
find in the collection; the lyrical pieces, by the way, are not
generally well written. The thoughts are indefinite, the images
confounded, and in some way run in upon each other. The principal
sentiment is seldom neatly distinguished. These lyrics are as the
buzzing of bees, or rather as honey scarcely formed, of which each drop
contains the perfume of the flower whence it was extracted. Here is a
piece by Maria James, which we do not give as her best, but which
overflows with a profound religious feeling, and turns the heart of the
reader, for a moment, to the haven of eternal repose:


THE PILGRIMS: TO A LADY.

      We met as pilgrims meet,
        Who are bound to a distant shrine,
      Who spend the hours in converse sweet
      From noon to the day's decline--
    Soul mingling with soul, as they tell of their fears
    And their hopes, as they passed through the valley of tears.

      And still they commune with delight,
        Of pleasures or toils by the way,
      The winds of the desert that chill them by night,
        Or heat that oppresses by day:
    For one to the faithful is ever at hand,
    As the shade of a rock in a weary land.

      We met as soldiers meet,
        Ere yet the fight is won--
      Ere joyful at their captain's feet
        Is laid their armor down:
    Each strengthens his fellow to do and to bear,
    In hope of the crown which the victors wear.

      Though daily the strife they renew,
        And their foe his thousands o'ercome,
      Yet the promise unfailing is ever in view
        Of safety, protection, and home:
    Where they knew that their sov'reign such favor conferred,
    "As eye hath not seen, as the ear hath not heard."

      We met as seamen meet,
        On ocean's watery plain,
      Where billows rise and tempests beat,
        Ere the destined port they gain:
    But tempests they baffle, and billows they brave,
    Assured that their pilot is mighty to save.

      They dwell on the scenes which have past,
        Of perils they still may endure--
      The haven of rest, where they anchor at last,
        Where bliss is complete and secure--
    Till its towers and spires arise from afar,
    To the eye of faith as some radiant star.

      We met as brethren meet,
        Who are cast on a foreign strand,
      Whose hearts are cheered as they hasten to greet
        And commune of their native land--
    Of their father's house in that world above,
    Of his tender care and his boundless love.

      The city so fair to behold,
        The redeemed in their vestments of white--
      In those mansions of rest, where, mid pleasures untold,
        They finally hope to unite:
    Where ceaseless ascriptions of praise shall ascend
    To God and the Lamb in a world without end.

But of all these poetesses, the most remarkable, certainly to us, is
Maria Brooks, who died in 1845, the author of a curious poem entitled
_Zophiel_, which Southey admired, and which Charles Lamb declared to be
too extraordinary to have been conceived in the mind of a woman.
Unfortunately, in Mr. Griswold's volume, we have only an incomplete
analysis, with some brief fragments, of this poem. Notwithstanding its
incompleteness, however, there is enough to show a powerful life and a
wonderful imagination. There is in the poem a surprising union of Thomas
Moore and Shelley. Imagine the bowers of _Lalla Rookh_, through which is
sweeping the northern tempest of Shelley, bending the trees and
scattering the roses. The odes _To Cuba_, to the _Shade of her Child_,
and all her other lyrics, have, in a word, a very remarkable movement,
and are full of mysterious inquietudes and inexplicable burnings. We
cannot have an idea of the sweetness, and at the same time the
impetuosity which mingle in her verses, without thinking of the
impossible combination of the eagle and the dove--a dove with the stroke
of an eagle's wing, and which would yet, in spite of its power, retain
the timid nature of the dove, be frightened at its own strength, and
tremble in looking upward to the sun. Her compositions are full of
daring ideas imperfectly expressed, as if she were afraid of the
boldness of her heart. Often, however, her thoughts fall into the
_alambique_, the abstract and metaphysical. Her love to her child
inspired the best lines she ever composed. The sports of the little one,
whom she should see no more, associated with the remembrance of forests,
plains, and cataracts, give to that love the grandeur and infinitude of
American Nature. Of all the female poets of the new world, Maria Brooks
seems to possess most the sibylline inspirations of the celebrated women
of contemporaneous Europe. Yet she has none of that Byronean spirit that
reigns so much among them; and if we would indicate the European poetry
school to which she should be attached, we would cite, rather than that
of Byron, the names of Southey, her admirer, of Coleridge, and of John
Wilson, the author of the _City of the Plague_.

Maria Brooks is the only brilliant exception that we have met in the
collection of Mr. Griswold. All her poetic companions draw their
inspirations, not from their individual life, but their education, and
as this education is the same for all, it is not astonishing that their
works are uniform and monotonous. Yet, we do not complain, as we have
already intimated, for we are thus enabled to see some of the features
of American character more easily than if an original genius inspired
each of the poetesses. The religious sentiment, for example, is every
where uttered in these verses, but indeed it is the same that we find in
the writings of American essayists--a sort of Christian theism which is
becoming more the character of Protestantism in America. The spirit of
Christ breathes indeed in these pages, but the person itself is seldom
seen: Christ is always the teacher and saviour of the world, but the
crucified Redeemer is well nigh forgotten. The Son of God is manifested
as he appeared to his disciples; transfigured upon Tabor, they see him
in the radiant light conversing with the prophets of the ancient law. Do
you prostrate humanity in the place of the disciples and the astonished
crowd at the foot of the mountain, then you have an idea of the life of
the religious faiths more and more adopted in America. But the torments
of the Divine agony--the cross of Golgotha, and all the tragedy in the
Saviour's history upon earth, which the nations of the middle ages and
the ancient Christians held in precious remembrance, are almost
forgotten. We mention the fact as being one which the religious and
philosophic of our times may reflect upon with profit. It is the symptom
of an imminent crisis in Protestantism, and sooner or later, will not
fail of attracting discussion. This theistic sentiment, which is the
foundation of the writings of Channing and Theodore Parker, makes itself
felt continually in the verses of this collection which by manner or
subject relate to religion.

The descriptions of nature, oddly enough, never strike, as one would
expect, by their novelty. Far away we see pleasantly the names of palms,
cotton-trees, cocoa trees, and the botanic names of flowers unknown to
us, but it is no matter whether we exchange all these trees and exotic
plants for poplars, oaks, and birches, or the modern plants of our
Europe. We feel very little, in any poetry, the particular sentiment of
an original nature. In the midst of the woods and forests of the new
world, one can readily believe himself among those of France or England;
he will remark only a more lively picture of verdure and waters. Have
you ever seen the landscapes of Theodore Rousseau? The grass is greener
and the yellow leaves are yellower than in the paintings of any other
artist. But the presence of nature is not there. Such is the effect upon
us of the descriptions given by these female poets. Here, in support of
our assertion, is a picture by Mrs. Frances Green.

      Stillness of summer noontide over hill,
    And deep embowering wood, and rock, and stream,
    Spread forth her downy pinions, scattering sleep
    Upon the drooping eyelids of the air.
    No wind breathed through the forest that could stir
    The lightest foliage. If a rustling sound
    Escaped the trees, it might be nestling bird,
    Or else the polished leaves were turning back
    To their own natural places, whence the wind
    Of the last hour had flung them. From afar
    Came the deep roar of waters, yet subdued
    To a melodious murmur, like the chant
    Of naiads, ere they take their noontide rest.
    A tremulous motion stirred the aspen leaves,
    And from their shivering stems an utterance came,
    So delicate and spirit like, it seemed
    The soul of music breathed, without a voice.
    The anemone bent low her drooping head,
    Mourning the absence of her truant love,
    Till the soft languor closed her sleepy eye,
    To dream of zephyrs from the fragrant south,
    Coming to wake her with renewed life.
    The eglantine breathed perfume; and the rose
    Cherished her reddening buds, that drank the light,
    Fair as the vermil on the cheek of hope.
    Where'er in sheltered nook or quiet dell,
    The waters, like enamored lovers, found
    A thousand sweet excuses for delay,
    The clustering lilies bloomed upon their breast,
    Love-tokens from the naiads, when they came
    To trifle with the deep, impassioned waves.
      The wild-bee hovering on voluptuous wing,
    Scarce murmured to the blossom, drawing thence
    Slumber with honey; then in the purpling cup,
    As if oppressed with sweetness, sank to sleep.
    The wood-dove tenderly caressed his mate;
    Each looked within the other's drowsy eyes,
    Till outward objects melted into dreams.
      The rich vermilion of the tanager,
    Or summer red-bird, flashed amid the green,
    Like rubies set in richest emerald.
    On some tall maple sat the oriole,
    In black and orange, by his pendent nest,
    To cheer his brooding mate with whispered songs;
    While high amid the loftiest hickory
    Perched the loquacious jay, his turquoise crest
    Low drooping, as he plumed his shining coat,
    Rich with the changeful blue of Nazareth.
    And higher yet, amid a towering pine,
    Stood the fierce hawk, half-slumbering, half-awake,
    His keen eye flickering in his dark unrest,
    As if he sought for plunder in his dreams.
      The scaly snake crawled lazily abroad,
    To revel in the sunshine; and the hare
    Stole from her leafy couch, with ears erect
    Against the soft air-current; then she crept,
    With a light, velvet footfall, through the ferns.
    The squirrel stayed his gambols; and the songs
    Which late through all the forest arches rang,
    Were graduated to a harmony
    Of rudimental music, breathing low,
    Making the soft wind richer--as the notes
    Had been dissolved and mingled with the air.
    Pawtucket almost slumbered, for his waves
    Were lulled by their own chanting: breathing low,
    With a just audible murmur, as the soul
    Is stirred in visions with a thought of love,
    He whispered back the whisper tenderly
    Of the fair willows bending over him,
    With a light hush upon their stirring leaves,
    Blest watchers o'er his day-dreams. Not a sign
    Of man or his abode met ear or eye,
    But one great wilderness of living wood,
    O'er hill, and cliff, and valley, swelled and waved,
    An ocean of deep verdure. By the rock
    Which bound and strengthen'd all their massive roots
    Stood the great oak and giant sycamore;
    Along the water-courses and the glades
    Rose the fair maple and the hickory;
    And on the loftier heights the towering pine--
    Strong guardians of the forest--standing there,
    On the old ramparts, sentinels of time,
    To watch the flight of ages.[C]

These verses are pretty, perhaps very pretty. They give nature a
charming appearance,--too much like the "everlasting spring" of Ovid. Do
you not seem to lie in the shade of a European forest? Here are the same
trees, the same flowers, the same animals. But the trees are more
abundant of leaves, the grass is thicker, the sun is brighter, the
waters warmer. But there is no profoundly original painting, no broad
description by a few great outlines.

The sentiment of the beautiful and ideal is expressed in this collection
of poetry, in an uncolored, abstract, and metaphysical manner. We are
not sure that all these women love and understand the beautiful arts,
and particularly the plastic arts; the only one whose influence they
feel deeply, and which they seem to prefer, is music. And this
preference among the moderns for music is a curious fact. The
superiority given to it above painting and sculpture may be accounted
for in some degree by the fact that music accords more with woman's
instincts. Music is truly the art of the nineteenth century _par
excellence_; it is the art which expresses best incredible aspirations;
it is an art democratic in its essence. Appreciated by all living
beings, even the unintelligent tribes, to be felt, music demands neither
science nor long study--it makes every one happy, and tells to each the
story of his love.

To produce sculptors, poets, and painters, it is necessary that a
country should boast of many centuries, of a history, of a long
succession of traditions, of established customs; but modern nations,
particularly Americans, outstrip time, act with precipitation, and have
no leisure to wait the traditions of history. Hence this extraordinary
love of music, the least costly of the arts. They love music as one
loves the conversations of the evening, and refreshing sleep after a
hard day's labor. The art of music then is, if we dare say so, the art
of nations who have no time for meditation and reflection--the art of
ardent and feverish nations; for, to be understood, it requires only
that a man should have a soul, with warm desires and hopes. We find in
this collection two sonnets in honor of Beethoven and Mozart, in which
the genius of the two masters is perfectly appreciated and felt. They
are from Margaret Fuller, since Countess d'Ossoli, who was drowned by
shipwreck on her return to her native country.


BEETHOVEN.

    Most intellectual master of the art,
      Which best of all teaches the mind of man
      The universe in all its varied plan--
    What strangely mingled thoughts thy strains impart!
    Here the faint tenor thrills the inmost heart,
      There the rich bass the reason's balance shows;
      Here breathes the softest sigh that love e'er knows;
    There sudden fancies seeming without chart,
      Float into wildest breezy interludes;
    The past is all forgot--hopes sweetly breathe,
    And our whole being glows--when lo! beneath
      The flowery brink, Despair's deep sob concludes!
    Startled, we strive to free us from the chain--
    Notes of high triumph swell, and we are thine again!


MOZART.

    If to the intellect and passions strong
      Beethoven speak, with such resistless power,
      Making us share the full creative hour,
    When his wand fixed wild Fancy's mystic throng,
    Oh, Nature's finest lyre! to thee belong
      The deepest, softest tones of tenderness,
      Whose purity the listening angels bless,
    With silvery clearness of seraphic song.
    Sad are those chords, oh heavenward striving soul!
      A love, which never found its home on earth,
      Pensively vibrates, even in thy mirth,
    And gentle laws thy slightest notes control;
    Yet dear that sadness! spheral concords felt
    Purify most those hearts which most they melt.

Of these two sonnets, we prefer that of Mozart, as expressing better, in
our opinion, the character of the music of the great master--as more
discriminating than that of Beethoven--a perfect description besides of
the author of _Fidelio_. The sonnets appear curious to us as sparklings
of aesthetic poetry beyond the seas.

The sentiments of American pride and of national susceptibility vibrate
here and there in all this poetry, but not very often. The remembrance
of the early emigrants, the description of America when inhabited by
savage hordes, and the comparison of this barbaric state with the
industrial wonders of the nineteenth century, are themes somewhat rare,
but which are nevertheless not forgotten. We have also noticed two or
three pieces which brought a smile upon our lips--where the shades of
old Indian sachems appear to bless modern civilization, and seem ready
to thank the Great Spirit for having exterminated their race, despoiled
and chased from their own native woods and prairies. There are besides a
few pieces borrowed from historic subjects, and a few dedicated to
individuals; some pages in honor of Washington and Napoleon, and this is
all. The rest is composed of mere musings, fancies, and elegies,
expressing no precise and distinct sentiment.

But what matters the relative weakness of this poetry? Let us rise to
higher spheres than that purely literary. The moral character and the
virtues which this collection of poetry suggests are superior to the
poetry itself. Who can tell, indeed, the good which may be done by these
musical reveries and innocent caprices? They have been composed in the
bosom of tranquility, by the fireside, among parents, children,
relatives, and friends. These were the public to which they addressed
themselves, who admired them, and drew from them their contributions to
the good and beautiful. Probably many chaste tendernesses are recognized
by the banks of these little limpid fountains of poesy; many hearts have
rejoiced in these tender harmonies; many a man, weary with the labors of
the day, has felt the sweet words of his daughter or his wife thrill his
soul; he has beheld the bright gleams of ideal realities, and laid
himself down and dreamed of images of higher beauty. In that hard,
practical country, many poetic germs have thus taken root, many coarse
natures have become more refined. What matters it, then, whether these
specimens of poetry be original or not?--they have been useful. We offer
our thanks to the female poets of America, for the seeds of piety,
virtue, and nobility sown in their country. Without noise, without
humanitary pretensions, they have fulfilled their mission of religion
and refinement.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] THE FEMALE POETS OF AMERICA: BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. Philadelphia,
Henry C. Baird, 1851.

[C] From Nanuntenoo, an Indian Romance. By Frances H. Green.
Philadelphia, 1850.




JEANNE MARIE, AND LYRICAL POETRY IN GERMANY.


We are induced to translate for _The International_ the following
crisply written critique from _Die Grenzboten_, not only from its giving
for the benefit of certain of our _dilettanti_ German scholars a few
judicious remarks on the true merit of their "new celebrity," JEANNE
MARIE, but because the preceding account of the present state of lyrical
poetry in Germany, is very nearly as applicable to lyrical poetry as it
now exists among the rising bards of America and England as to that of
the father-land:

"It is now about a century since the beginning of our most brilliant
German lyrical era, and we are at the conclusion of a series of
developments, which individually display all of the peculiarities
indicative of the decline of a great epoch in art. The incredible number
of subjects which have been artistically treated, has inspired the minds
of our cotemporaries with an almost superfluity of poetically adapted
figures, forms, tones and materials, with which we are familiar from our
first breath. Vast numbers of corresponding series of similes, and
combinations of words and sentences have been naturalized in our
language, and the spirit of the rising generation cannot be other than
powerfully influenced by the incredible variety of forms and phrases,
which it acquires during education. From all which a limitation of the
creative power naturally results--since there is hardly a sentiment,
hardly a perception of the present day, which has not been rendered
applicable to poetic art; and the array of these imposing creations ring
in the soul of the young poet wonderfully through each other. It is
almost impossible to experience a new feeling which has not been sung,
and yet the impulse still exists to win for the again and again
experienced, a value, and a certain degree of originality. From which
results the most desperate efforts, by means of bold, artificial, highly
polished or tasteless images and comparisons, to form a style and
acquire a peculiar literary physiognomy: efforts which should by no
means be despised, even when the critic is compelled to blame its
results; for it is natural and unavoidable. Such a superabundance of
poetic forms of address, applications, words, and measures, are at
present current in the world, that for every poetic feeling a prosaic or
metrical reminiscence rings and echoes consciously or unconsciously, and
more or less clearly, through the poetic soul. To avoid this wearisome
beaten path, our poets are driven, on the one hand, into unheard of
refinements of metre and words--or on the other, into an affected
barbarism and roughness. And since the quantity of poetic metres,
applications, and forms of speech, has become so incredibly large that
they every where pass and are received as a sort of _spiritual small
change_, it has become infinitely easier to express an idea in tolerably
good poetic language, than it was fifty years ago. Gleim, Holty, and
Buerger, are to us great men, not because their poems are so much better
than those manufactured at the present day, but because their every poem
was a victory gained over the barbarism and want of form in the German
language as it then existed--a true conquest for the realm of beauty and
art. At present, any fool who has by heart his Schiller or his Heine,
can collect and write that which may pass for his 'poem'--though perhaps
not an atom of the whole is the result of aught save mere reproduction.
What is really wanting to all our writers is the _correct_ and
_artistic_ adaptation of terms. For this modern dilettanti reproduction
and combination of the thoughts and forms of others is but a rough and
uncomely parody of those poetic creations, which were consecrated by an
earnest striving and silent battle with the force of language. Among the
numerous modern poets in Germany, there live not a dozen who can write a
truly correct verse and make just applications of our so poetically
adapted language. The which assertion, seemingly a paradox--is
nevertheless natural enough.

"And yet the creative impulse lives in many a soul, nor has there for a
long time existed a more generally diffused or more exquisite
appreciation of lyrical poetry than during the past year. New poets of
an aristocratic or pious tendency are eagerly purchased and admired,
which is also according to rule, since they reflect the spirit of the
age, and correspond with modern wants. Such a peculiar influence on the
interest of the public at large has naturally conducted to the most
elegant style of publication of recent poems. It has become a real
pleasure to see their paper, type, and binding, and their neat garments
of fine linen, delicately trimmed and lettered with burnished gold. Such
a highly ornamented work at present adorns every table, and appears
right well in the white little hand of its fair possessor.

"The poems of Jeanne Marie, the popular romance writer, are by an
intelligent and well educated lady. She has evidently observed and
reflected much in the world, and had also her own experiences
therein--yet knows how to express with propriety and consciousness her
most passionate feelings. She is, however, in her poems, rather witty
and calculating, than inspired with heart and soul. Those productions
are, for the greater part, images and comparisons--not unfrequently very
exquisitely conceived and executed--the _point_ being occasionally a
gross antithesis, as for example in the poem, _Alles nur Du_:

    "'What I most longed for, thou hast to me given,
      What I possess, belongeth all to thee;
    Thou art mine _I_--thine is my life and heaven,
      My life is thine, and thine my all _To-Be_.'

"Or in other poems, the conclusion merely amounts to the explanation of
a comparison, as in the _New Cloak Song_, in which on a rusty nail, a
torn cloak explains itself as the cloak of Christian love. But where our
poetess simply narrates or describes, her art is truly agreeable, only
that the lively and closely detailed perceptions, which shoot forth in
her soul, often appear obscure from a want of practice in poetic
language, and not unfrequently entirely perverted on account of an utter
deficiency in logical acuteness.

"But since this poetess is endowed with far more than her
cotemporaries--_id est_, a peculiar talent to conceive and represent in
a lively manner epic details--let us, for the sake of art, gently beg of
her to do something for this her talent. She is by far too ignorant of
the art of application of terms in lyrical poetry, her delivery is too
variable and inaccurate, while botched-up expressions (_Flickwoerter_)
and startling instances of incorrectness in language are in her writings
every where to be met with. As yet she is a mere amateur and
_dilettant_, and her right, to lay before the literary world her poetic
inspirations, may very correctly be doubted; and yet she has evidently
in her the material for something far better. This she can attain in
only one way. She must lay aside all the flaunt and tawdriness of her
similes and figures, and then strive to express a lively emotion or an
interesting expression, with the simplest words, first in prose--and
_then_ in verse. What she has written should then be carefully thought
over--every line and word tested, and no inaccuracy in poetical
perceptions, no oblique expression, and no metrical defect be suffered
to remain."




_Authors and Books._


A new German work, entitled _Klopstock in Zurich from the years 1730 to
1751_, gives quite a new portrait of the poet of the Messias, who, both
by the time of his appearance and by the dignity of his theme, is held
as the patriarch of German poetry. In this sprightly little volume the
mystic halo with which an exaggerated homage has invested the head of
the genial young German rolls away, and we behold a pleasant fellow in
gay summer costume, floating about upon the blue lake of Zurich,
surrounded by a circle of fair and admiring votaries, to whom he chants
strains from his immortal poem, and reaps a harvest of kisses in return.
We behold a chivalrous equestrian dashing through the still streets of
old Zurich, draining unreasonable depths of beer with wild students,
biting glass, and swallowing coal, until the old Bodmer with whom he was
living--a reverential admirer of the great Prophet of the Messias, and
in whose imagination Klopstock sat separate in a godlike and passionless
serenity--was bitterly grieved by these earthly experiences of a Greek
rather than of a Christian divinity, complained, remonstrated, rebuked,
until the jovial poet was forced to leave the good Bodmer's house, and
betake himself to Rape's, with whom he sat in silken hose, and
speculated upon the universe. It is always pleasant to hear these human
facts of the heroes of fame and imagination. Few things remove
Washington farther from the general sympathy than the unbending
austerity of hue in which his mental portrait is always colored. Why
should our great men, whose humanity makes them dearer, go so solemnly
and sadly through all posterity? Burns could draw the tired hostlers of
village inns from their beds to listen open-mouthed and open-hearted to
his wondrous and witching stories. Shakspeare shall always have stolen
sheep, even though De Quincy proves by splendid and resonant reasoning
that he could never have done it. Raphael shall have been a warm-blooded
man, spite of our cold-blooded speculations upon his saintship, so that
we shall not wonder at De Maistre's delicate and dainty truth that the
Fornarina "loved her love more than her lover." Not that sheep-stealing,
or any other peccadillo is beautiful, or in any way to be commended or
imitated, but that these are the signs of human and actual sympathy
which these great and glorious geniuses show us--as stately sky-sailed
galleons, sweeping the sea into admiring calm at their progress, might
hang out simple lanterns to the fishing-smacks around, to show their
crews that the same red blood was the sap of all that splendid life. "Is
he not the Just?" "Yes--and because he is the Just, I have done it."
Poor old Herr Bodmer could not see with equanimity the illustrious guest
of his imagination boating about the lake with the girls at Zurich, and
selling the stanzas--of priceless worth to him--for a snatched and
blushing kiss. For our own part, we are glad that generous Mr. Morikofer
has pulled off the bleached horse hair wig of factitious gravity, and
shown us the natural moist and waving hair of a human-hearted poet.

       *       *       *       *       *

A _History of German Literature_, from W. WACKERNAGEL, is coming out in
parts at Basle. Since Gervinus there has been no broad treatment of the
subject. But Gervinus gives us rather a history of the cultivation than
of the literature of Germany. Vilmar is much too partial and partisan,
and Hillebrand treats only the period from Lessing to the present time.
Wackernagel surveys the whole ground from the beginning. The first part
of his work is occupied with the elder literature of Germany, but he has
handled it so dexterously that it interests the general reader, even
while he develops the laws by which the old high German proceeded from
the Gothic, and the middle high German from that. He divides the
literary history into three parts. 1. The old high German era, Frank,
Carlovingian, of the German Latinity of the bards. 2. The middle high
German, beginning with the Crusades, and treating all the chivalric,
social, and international relations which they inspired. 3. The new
German style. The treatise is original and profound, and lacks only a
little more elaboration of the biographical notices.

       *       *       *       *       *

A somewhat curious proof of the influence which America at present
exerts, even in language, may be found in the title of a dictionary
(English and German), recently published at Brunswick. The title alluded
to, is as follows: _A new and complete dictionary of the English and
German languages, compiled with especial regard to the American idiom
for general use; containing a concise grammar, &c., &c._: by WILLIAM
ODELL ELWELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

CARL HEIDELOFF, whose exquisite work on the architectural ornaments of
the Middle Ages, should entitle him to the gratitude of every student of
mediaeval art, will publish, before the end of this month, by Geigar of
Nuremberz, a folio, illustrated with the finest steel engravings,
entitled _Architectonic Sketches, and complete buildings, in the
Byzantine and Old German styles_.

       *       *       *       *       *

It has long been a mooted point among the philosophers of the beautiful
in Germany whether the art of gardening was a legitimate branch of
aesthetic culture. Bouterweck denied that the artificial perversions of
an old-fashioned French garden had the slightest relation to art, but
admitted that the _Landschafts-gartenkunst_, or art of landscape
gardening, might very properly be ranked with painting and sculpture.
Thiersch passes the subject by in silent contempt, while Tittman, whose
work on beauty and art is fast becoming a universal hand-book of
aesthetics, declares, on the other hand, that it is, even more than
architecture, closely allied to the study of the beautiful, since its
object is far less directly connected with human wants, and more nearly
related to the attractive and fascinating. Herr Rudolph Siebeck would
appear, however, to have put the question for a time at rest, by a work
at present publishing by Voigt, in Leipsic, entitled _Die Vildende
Gartenkunst, in ihren modernen Formen_, which, as he very correctly
asserts, "embraces in one comprehensive theory all those laws of the art
of gardening which aesthetics present, by the application of natural and
artificial methods, in order to plan and execute walks and grounds,
according to the dictates of a refined taste." In pursuance of this
great aim, Herr Siebeck, (who was, by the way, formerly the imperial
Russian court-gardener at Lazienka, and is at present council-gardener
at Leipsic,) after completing his education as a practical gardener,
scientifically studied the higher principles of his art at the
universities of Munich and Leipsic, both of which, but particularly the
former, have long been celebrated for the facilities which they afford
for this study. After which, under the kind patronage of Baron Hugel, he
journeyed to "every country" the natives of which had so far advanced in
the art of gardening as to deserve the honor of a visit. The results of
this study and labor are given in the above-titled volume, which
embraces all things, if not exactly from the cedar of Lebanon to the
hyssop on the wall, at least from the largest royal park to the smallest
garden in a city. The work is illustrated with twenty colored garden
plans, arranged according to the following categories: 1. Kitchen
Gardens. 2. Pleasure Gardens. 3. Pleasure and Kitchen Gardens. 4. Public
Gardens. 5. A Botanical Garden.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first volume of a new _Life of Goethe_, by J. W. SCHAFER, has been
published, of which we find flattering accounts. Also the _Life and
Times of Joachim Jurgins_, with Goethe's fragments upon his works by G.
C. Guhsaner. He was the contemporary of Galileo, Kepler, Cartesius, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

FRANZ LISZT, the famous pianist, has written a pleasant pamphlet in
favor of the project of a Goethean Institute of Art in Weimar, where he
is chapel master.

       *       *       *       *       *

WEIL--not _Alexander_ of the Corsaire, but Dr. GUSTAV WEIL, Professor of
Oriental languages and History at Heidelberg--is publishing at Mannheim,
a _History of the Khalifs_,[D] which, as regards extent, erudition, and
accuracy, may be fairly ranked with any work on this subject extant. The
title is, however, only partial; that of "An Universal History of
Islamism," would be far more appropriate. The Khalifate forms, so to
speak, a nucleus around which are grouped as integral parts all of the
numerous dynasties which were in any degree connected with the
Khalifate, while those which were more nearly within its influence, as
the Saffarides, the Tulinides, Bujides, and Saljucks, are illustrated
with extraordinary learning and research. An excellent history of Arabic
literature to the midst of the fourth century of the Hegira is
appropriately introduced. The reader will remember that SCHLOSSER, in
the introduction to his fourth volume of the _Weltgeschichte_, remarks
that in the oriental portion of that work he had been guided _solely_ by
the "Life of Mohammed," by Weil, and this "History of the Khalifate," of
which, however, only the first volume had then appeared. _Weil_, remarks
the great "modern Tacitus," "is at present universally recognized as one
of the first oriental scholars in Germany or France. He has brought from
manuscripts many new things to light, and his works may be regarded as
historical sources."

       *       *       *       *       *

VON RAHDEN, a German officer of note, has published some very
interesting _Reminiscences of a Military Career_. The third part, which
is just completed, contains the history of his campaigns with the
earliest army in Spain. He is a soldier of the old type, and was devoted
body and soul to Don Carlos--and if his story occasionally expands into
romance, it is readily forgiven for the greater local truth and
impression thereby obtained. He paints battle-pieces in a most vivid
manner, pervaded by that interest in the individual which lends so
fascinating a charm to all narration. In his first Spanish battle, when
stationed as an outpost in the very tempest of bullets and balls, he
quietly takes time to draw the country and the situation of the enemy.
His hero is Lichnowsky--the young German Prince, who was so inhumanly
butchered during the session of the German Parliament in Frankfort. He
was in Spanish battle as cool, skilful, and death-despising, as he was
chivalric against the crudeness of the political philosophers, and noble
against the beastly brutality of his assassins, in central Germany.

       *       *       *       *       *

The third part of the life of BARON VON STEIN, the celebrated Prussian
statesman, is published. The chief interest of this part is the history
of Stein's sympathy with the Emperor Alexander of Russia, whom he
regarded as the Saviour of Europe.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADELBERT KELLER, one of the most zealous among the mediaeval romantic
antiquaries of the Tubingen school, and well known by his accurate
editions of the _Gesta Romanorum, Les Romans des Sept Sages, Romancero
del Cid_, and _Gudrun_, has recently, in company with Wilhelm Holland,
prepared for the press a new edition of the songs of _Guillem IX., Count
of Poictiers and Duke of Aquitania_. In addition to the chair of
Professor Extraordinary of Modern Languages, (which our readers need not
be informed is nothing very extraordinary at a German university,)
Keller holds the far more important office of teacher of the German
Language and Literature at the university of Tubingen. We presume that
few men, even in France or Germany, have more carefully or
enthusiastically hunted over the various MS. libraries of Italy or his
own country, in search of Minnesinger and Provencal literature than
Keller.

       *       *       *       *       *

The twenty-fifth publication of the _Geschichte der Europaischen
Staaten_ (History of the States of Europe) consists of continuations of
histories of Austria and Prussia. The series is edited by the well-known
scholars HEEREN and UKERT. It has been in progress more than twenty
years, and is designed to embrace a complete body of American history,
by competent authors. Fifty volumes have already been issued, embracing
in complete works, Italy, by Leo, finished 1832; German Empire, by
Pfister, 1836; Saxony, by Bottiger, 1837; Netherlands, by Van Kampen,
1837; Austria, by Mailath, 1850; France to the Revolution, by Schmidt,
1848; France, from the Revolution, by Wachsmuth, 1844; the Histories of
Denmark, by Dahlmann (vol. III. in 1844); of Portugal, by Schafer (vol.
III. in 1850); of Russia, continued by Herrmann after Strahl's decease
(vol. IV. 1849); of Prussia, by Stenzel (vol. IV. 1850) are all far
advanced, and their completion may be looked for at no distant period.
Single volumes, also, have appeared, by Zinkeisen, on the Ottoman
Kingdom; by Ropel, on Poland; and by Bulau on the Modern History of
Germany. The _Athenaeum_ observes that when the series is completed, the
Germans and those who read German in other countries will have, in no
immoderate compass, a body of European history, uniform in its general
plan, and maintaining a standard of competent authorship such as cannot,
we believe, be found in any other language.

       *       *       *       *       *

The well-known Countess SPAUR, the wife of the Bavarian Ambassador at
Rome, is engaged upon a series of memoirs of events connected with the
flight of the Pope from Rome in 1849. It will be remembered that the
Pope escaped under convoy of the Bavarian ambassador, and the consequent
completeness of information added to the graceful elegance of her style,
will produce a brilliant and interesting book.

       *       *       *       *       *

A singular occurrence which took place very recently in Berlin affords a
curious illustration of a line in _The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin_, in
which, speaking of German idioms, the writer somewhat inaccurately
remarks, that "the U, twice dotted, is pronounced like E;" inaccurately,
we say, since this pronunciation is not found in the pure north German.
Dr. WIRTH, director of the opera at Berlin, was during the past month
confounded by some not very intelligent police agents of that city with
the revolutionary WURTH (who was however deceased in 1848), arrested,
and subjected to much personal inconvenience, before he could prove to
their satisfaction that he was not the _ci-devant_ disturber of kingly
peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

The COUNTESS IDA HAHN-HAHN, has written her spiritual experience in a
work published in Mannheim, entitled, _From Babylon to Jerusalem_. It is
a history of her own soul, showing how it journeyed from confusion and
doubt to peace. In it she says of the famous holy coat of Treves: "It
was not comprehended--what did that show? How wonderful and incredible
it was that thousands and thousands journeyed up the Rhine and down, not
alone of the lower classes, but of the intelligent, of the cultivated
and elegant class. And could this be really the Saviour's garment? And
were the cures real which had been reported in all the journals as
wrought by it? Like all the rest, I shared the religious enthusiasm of
which no Protestant can conceive. Instead of ridiculing and scorning, I
wrote that I knew not if this was the identical garment, but this was
certainly the same faith that cast the woman at the feet of Christ, and
caused her to kiss the hem of his robe, and be healed. My instinct was
just, but my reasoning false. For if the old faith was so fast, so
glowing, and so immortal in the old church, how could I ever say better
_no_ church than _one_ only?"

       *       *       *       *       *

A singular book is announced in Germany, a country in which we are not
aware that singular books have ever been rare, under the title of
_Intercourse with the Departed by means of Magnetism_. "A book for the
consolation of Humanity, containing the most irresistible evidence of
the personal continuance and activity of the soul after its separation
from the body, collected from contemporary notes taken from extatic
somnambulists, by LUIS ALPHONSE CAHAGNET, with a critical preface by Dr.
J. Newberth, authorized magnetizer in Berlin and Associate of the
Imperial Leopold Academy of Sciences." A prospectus, modest enough in
style but of very large pretensions, sets forth that it is not a
speculation, but a communication of truth, which is nowise contrary to
the Christian religion, but is calculated to exercise a genial influence
upon the faithful to disperse all doubts and to advance the kingdom of
Faith and Love. Who will fail warmly to wish "God-speed" to a work that
proposes to accomplish such rich results?

       *       *       *       *       *

In Russia the singular prejudice has long obtained that the old
Sclavonian dialects had nothing in common with the Russian language. But
there is now a change in the opinions of the learned, and many skilful
philologists are at present engaged in scientific speculations upon the
subject. SRESNEWSKY, DAWYDOFF, and SCHEWYREFF have recently published
works upon the question. The first has "Memoirs upon the new efforts
towards a philological investigation of the old Sclavonian Language,"
and "Thoughts upon the History of the Russian Language." Dawydoff has
published "An attempt at a Grammar of Universal Comparison of the
Russian Language," and Schwyreff "A Journey to the Convent of
Kirillo-Bjeloserski," an archaeological work, represented as a model of
its kind. Schewyreff is a well known, educated, and learned man, fully
cognizant of the results of philogical study in the west. It is evident
that Russia constantly aims to put herself abreast of western science.
Wostokoff is busy upon a complete grammar of the old Sclavonic language,
and a dictionary of the same. Both works will soon go to press. Since
Dobrowsky, the area of old Sclavonian philology has much extended
itself, and there can be no doubt that Wostokoff has made use of all the
new material. The study of the Sclavonian language and literature has
more than a merely philological interest. It will throw much light upon
the confused history of Eastern Europe from the sixth to the ninth
century,--a light sadly needed, even after Schaffarik's Sclavonian
antiquities.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Munich, we observe that THIERSCH, Professor of Fine Arts at the
University of the "German Athens," and whose _Aesthetik_, if not the
most philosophic, is at least the most agreeable and practical, (though
we know that _Krug_ disposes of it in conversation very briefly with the
expression "merely eclectic,") has published a new edition of his _Ziber
das Erechtheum auf der Akropolis zu Athen_, with excellent colored
illustrations by METZGER. Out of Germany the reputation of Thiersch
rests principally upon his researches into and elucidations of Athenian
antiquities.

       *       *       *       *       *

A drama by an unknown poet, ROBERT PROeLSS, _The Right of Love_, attracts
much attention in Germany, from its clear and interesting style, its
fresh and lively dialogue, and the delicate drawing of its characters.
The author seems to have modelled himself upon Shakspeare, but his work
shows traces also of Italian study, and the critics, without questioning
Proelss' originality or asserting an imitation, are reminded of
Machiavelli's Mandragora. They find in the author the material of a
genuine dramatist--experience, feeling, a sharp insight into character,
and great skill in dialogue. The literary eye must be fastened upon such
promise. It is so refreshing to find a Phenix in a mare's nest.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Pictures of Travel and Study, from the North of the United States of
America_, is the title of a new book of travel by Mr. CHARLES QUENTIN, a
German gentleman and official from Prussia. It is a diary of
impressions, and without aiming at any high literary or philosophical
excellence, abounds in sharp and smart observations. Some things do not
escape the shrewd eye of Mr. Quentin, that not all Americans observe. As
an illustration, we remark his notice of the American female habit in
"shopping," of tumbling over all the goods in the shop and departing
without finding "anything to suit." Hence our author infers the social
supremacy of women in America. A new way of arriving at the old fact--a
fact which the sane and sensible of the sex cannot fail to perceive and
acknowledge. The book is written in a vivacious, colloquial humor.

       *       *       *       *       *

ERNST FORSTER, well known as having married the daughter of Jean Paul
Richter, but more celebrated for his translation of and notes to the
best version of Vasari ever published, and who would deserve an
honorable mention were it only for his well-known hospitality to all
Americans visiting Munich, has recently given to the world, through the
eminent bibliographist and publisher Kaiser, a brochure, entitled, _Wem
Gebuhrt der Krang?_ (Who deserves the Wreath?) a holiday-gift on the
occasion of uncovering the colossal bronze statue of Bavaria. Next to
King Ludwig himself, there are no Germans of the present day who
entertain more comprehensive or sounder views of art in its manifold
relations than Dr. Ernst Forster.

       *       *       *       *       *

Since the remarkable increase of late years of the use of stucco
ornaments in our Atlantic cities, we deem it almost a duty to call the
attention of our builders to a work by Professor Eisenlohr, recently
published, at a very moderate price, by Veith, of Carlsruhre, entitled
_Architectural Ornaments, in Clay and Gypsum, for practical use, with
Lithographed Illustrations_. Folio, 1 volume.

       *       *       *       *       *

The publishing house of BROCKHAUS, one of the largest in Germany, is
printing a series of Russian novels and poems, translated into German by
William Wolfsohn.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The History of the United States Exploring Expedition_, under
Lieutenant WILKES, is just translated and published in Germany.

       *       *       *       *       *

COUNT MORITZ STRACHWITZ has published a new volume of poems. His former
books have been well received.

       *       *       *       *       *

PROFESSOR BULAU'S _Review of the Year 1850_, has reached a second
edition.

       *       *       *       *       *

BAYARD TAYLOR'S _El Dorado_ has lately appeared in a German
translation.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Paris the first volume of the collection of _Greek and Latin
Physicians_ has just appeared. To the profession this will be a work of
the greatest interest and importance. The idea originated with Dr.
DAREMBERG, a learned physician, enamored of his art, versed in the
ancient languages--familiar with the study of MSS., and a visitor of all
the principal libraries of Europe for the purposes of his work. The book
will comprise the text of the authors, collated with manuscripts, and
with the best editions, with a French translation and notes. To each
division there will be a copious index. Daremberg has too well
appreciated the scope and dignity of his work to suppose that it could
be accomplished by any individual, and has therefore associated with
himself several of the most distinguished savans in various departments
of the undertaking, both in France and elsewhere. He comprehended no
less the immense expense of the work, and applied in its inception under
the monarchy, to the Government for aid. It was granted, and the
Republic does not shrink from the fulfilment of that promise of its
predecessor, in so truly a democratic work--for every thing which tends
to the knowledge of the means of preserving health is essentially
democratic. The French translation is admirably precise and clear; the
notes are numerous but useful--chiefly upon natural history--the customs
of the ancients--their hygiene, and upon all points which required
elucidation. The work cannot be completed for several years, but
Daremberg is young and ardent, and for his future labors he will have
the solace of his first great and undoubted success.

       *       *       *       *       *

The correspondence of MIRABEAU during the last three years of his life,
and the complete history of his relations to the Court, is announced in
Paris by Le Normant, in three octavo volumes. According to the _Journal
des Debats_, the greatest part of these papers have never been printed.
Mirabeau, a few days before his death, (2d April, 1794,) delivered them
to his friend the Count de Mark, from whose hands, when he died at
Brussels in 1833, they came into the possession of M. de Barcourt. This
gentleman, formerly Ambassador to the United States, has enriched the
volume with historical notes and commentaries.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOUIS BLANC has published a political pamphlet called _Plus de
Girondins_ (No more Girondins), in which the opposition of the extreme
party to the moderate party is expressed with the greatest force. The
freedom of the press, and the liberty of public meeting, he wishes
entirely unlimited, and the clubs to be every where opened as popular
schools of politics. Exile has but knit him more closely to the
democratic ideas, for whose development he hoped so much in the
Revolution of '48. His compeer, Ledru Rollin, achieved nothing by his
last year's work upon the Decadence of England, but ridicule in England,
and no great fame at home.

       *       *       *       *       *

A curious anecdote is told of SCRIBE, the French vaudevilliste. He was
one day at work in his cabinet, when a young man entered. It was
Lacenaire. He seemed very modest, and stated delicately the occasion of
his visit. He had been appointed to a situation in Belgium, but was
entirely without means, and requested of Scribe thirty or forty francs
to pay his way to Brussels. Scribe was attracted by the young man's tone
and manner. "Thirty to forty francs," said he, "are too few. I must give
you a hundred, and if you choose to repay them, you can do so to an old
woman in Brussels, who was a servant of our family. Here is her
address." So saying, Scribe went to his drawer and took out the gold for
the young man, who expressed his gratitude with all the elegance of a
cultivated and sensitive mind, and left a copy of verses with Scribe for
a remembrance. Since then Lacenaire has confessed that he knew the
arrangement of Scribe's chamber, and had chosen an hour when the
servants were absent. "I put myself between Scribe and the bell-rope,
and if he had refused me, I should have made short and noiseless work
with my knife. Scribe owed his life to his generosity." In this little
story is there not an averted tragedy as sad as Eugene Aram's?

       *       *       *       *       *

A new work, of great importance to the oriental student, will soon reach
England from Siam, where it has been already published. It is a new
Siamese grammar, prepared by the Roman Catholic Vicar General, who has
resided in Siam for twenty years. In the "Journal of the English
Archipelago," Mr. Taylor Jones announces the work and its value, with
some illustrative facts in the author's life. The bishop brings to the
task not alone his own remarkable intelligence and devotion, but the
results of the inquiries of his predecessors for two centuries. The work
forms a quarto of two hundred and forty-six pages, and treats of a mass
of matter necessary to the understanding of the language, but which is
not elsewhere to be found. Among this the reckoning of time, of money,
measures, and weights, as well as chronology, literature, and religion,
are included. The eight or ten pages devoted to chronology afford a
clear and just insight into the old history of Siam. The enumeration of
Siamese books, although not complete, shows that Siamese literature is
by no means poor. The miscellaneous list contains one hundred and fifty
various books upon grammar, arithmetic, astronomy, astrology, and
history, and many poetical works, especially romances. The various
warlike romances of China are very faithfully translated and broadly
diffused in Siam. Sometimes these ponderous productions climb to a
series of ninety volumes. The historical reports of Siam make forty
volumes, and there are no less than thirty-six holy Buddhist books. A
sketch of Buddhism is given in the present work, and the good bishop is
now about commencing a Siamese dictionary.

       *       *       *       *       *

The literature of democracy has received another illustration in a
social tragedy in five acts, by the citizen Xavier Sauriac, entitled The
Death of Jesus. Its object of course is to embody dramatically the
sentiment of the old Revolution that Jesus Christ was a _Sans Culottes_,
akin to the feeling which causes ardent abolitionists to assert that he
was a negro. This tragedy makes Jesus Christ a democratic philosopher,
Herod an apostle, Magdalen a kind of Fleur de Marie. The hero rehearses
a plan for the salvation of the world, which is simply crude communism.
We quote an illustration:

    "Quand l'etat, heritier de la famille eteinte,
    Sera du sol entier possesseur sans contrainte,
    Qu'il serve alors de pere a tous les citoyens
    Et de la vie a tous depense les moyens."

And again:

    "Dans les bizars brillante du luxe industriel,
    Il devienue lui seul, marchand universel."

This work is probably a very sincere one, and deserves a prominent place
among the curiosities of literature. Nevertheless, such familiar
presentation of the Saviour is not only blasphemous but ridiculous.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. ALEXANDER DUFAI has published in Paris a satire on socialist women,
under the title of _Lelila, ou la Femme Socialiste_, and the journals of
the sect are very angry with him that he illustrates the tendencies of
socialism by presenting as his heroine its female apostle, George Sand.
That there may be no doubt of his intention, he tells us in the preface
that he has made _Lelila_ narrate her childhood, education, and poetic
dreams, her marriage with a _sous prefet_, who did not "understand" her,
and her amours with a poet who _did_ understand her, for he carried her
off; he has also made _Lelila_ marry by turns all the socialist systems
in the persons of their chiefs; and finally, shows her in the revolution
of 1848, presiding at _Le Club des Femmes_, and playing an active part
in public life. "After this," observes the _Leader_, "he has the
shameless audacity to say he attacks the 'species,' not the
'individual!'"

       *       *       *       *       *

The two last volumes of the Remains of SAINT-MARTIN have just been
issued from the National Press in Paris, under the title, _Fragments of
a History of the Arsacides, posthumous work of M. Saint-Martin_. He was
a well-known French _litterateur_, and director of the library of the
Arsenal. Strange stories are told of his unwearied diligence and
devotion to details. He was the original proposer of a plan for a
systematic and scientific investigation of oriental antiquities, and
another for a collection of oriental classics. This latter was his
darling project, for the execution of which Louis XVIII. granted a
commission; but the revolution of 1830 ruined his hopes. Yet a new
commission was named, and on the day upon which it was to hold its first
session, Saint-Martin was stricken by the cholera, and died without
knowing that the hope of his life would be fulfilled.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Univers_ at Paris announces a newly-discovered document in relation
to the trial of Louis XVI., proving that the report of the Debates in
the _Moniteur_ were falsified. This document is reported to have been
published on the third of January, 1794, but has escaped all the
historians. It occurs in the report of the commission appointed by the
Convention to examine the papers found in Robespierre's possession. A
letter turns up, written by the editor of the Debates of the Convention
in the _Moniteur_ to Robespierre, and of this import: "You know that we
always report more fully the speeches of the Mountain than of the other
side. In Convet's complaint against you, I printed only a short sketch
of his first point, but the whole of your reply. And in the report of
the King's trial I introduced on his side only enough to preserve an
appearance of impartiality," &c., &c. Lamartine received these papers to
examine when he announced his history of the Girondins, but returned
them, saying that he could make no use of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

An important work is announced by Joubert in Paris, _Les Murailles
Revolutionaries_, being a complete collection of professions of faith,
proclamations, placards, decrees, bulletins, facsimiles of signatures,
inedited autographs, &c., from February, 1848, to the present day: three
volumes quarto. It is to be published in twenty-four parts, one part
every month, and will supply a very important want of the future
historian of these last remarkable years.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. UBICINI has just published in Paris a very interesting work on the
Ottomans, _Lettres sur la Turquie_. These letters were first printed in
successive numbers of the _Moniteur_, from March, 1850, to the present
summer, and they treat with decided ability and with freshness the chief
subjects connected with Mohammedan civilization, and with the present
condition and prospects of the Turkish empire, as the government,
administration, army, finances, agriculture, commerce, public
instruction, organization of religion, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Collection of Sacred Moralists_, which has been for some time in
course of publication in Paris, under the editorial supervision of the
famous editor of French classics, M. Lefevre, has been just completed by
the publication of the two volumes, of which one contains the _Moral
Thoughts_ of Confucius, and the other the work known as _The Sacred Book
of China_.

       *       *       *       *       *

M. REGNAULT'S new book, which he would have regarded as a completion of
Louis Blanc's _Histoire de Dix Ans_, is described as a very violent and
not very clever pamphlet.

       *       *       *       *       *

LAMARTINE'S sentimental and lachrymose romance of _Raphael_, has passed
into a third edition in Paris.

       *       *       *       *       *

The French poet MERY has just published a romance entitled _Confessions
de Marion Delorme_. We cannot imagine any additional interest from
fictitious coloring to a life such as it is believed was really led by
the heroine.

     "Marion Delorme was born in 1612 or 1615, but where is not
     exactly known, though probably in Champagne or Franche
     Comte. Of marvellous beauty and exquisite wit, she became,
     after certain amatory adventures, the mistress, and
     subsequently by secret marriage the wife, of Cinq Mars, and,
     as such, was persecuted by the terrible Cardinal Richelieu.
     Even before he was sent to the scaffold, she had formed
     other intrigues, and then had a long list of lovers, amongst
     whom were de Grammont and Saint Evremont; then she became
     the 'glass of fashion and the mould of form, the observed of
     all observers,' and the admired of all gallants of the good
     city of Paris; then she dabbled in politics, and eventually
     became one of the chiefs of the malcontent party; then she
     was in danger of arrest, like the Princes de Conti and de
     Conde; then to escape a jail she spread a rumor that she was
     dead, and actually got up a mock funeral of herself;
     afterwards, she escaped to England, married a lord, and in a
     short time became a widow with a legacy of L4000; then she
     returned to France, and on her way to Paris was attacked by
     brigands, robbed of her money, and made to marry the chief
     of the band; four years later she was again a widow, and
     then she wedded a M. Laborde; after living with him
     seventeen years, he died, and she went to Paris with the
     remains of her fortune; robbed by her domestics, she was
     reduced to beggary, and continued to lead a wretched
     existence to the extraordinary age of one hundred and
     thirty-four!"

       *       *       *       *       *

M. CUVILLIER-FLEURY has published _Portraits Politiques et
Revolutionnaires_, containing Louis Philippe and the Duchess d'Orleans,
Causes of the Revolution, Lamartine, Louis Blanc, Eugene Sue, Victor
Hugo, Proudhon, &c., &c. M. Cuvillier-Fleury was one of the Secretaries
of Louis Philippe.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PARKE GODWIN'S beautiful romance of Vala (published by Putnam) has
been translated into the Swedish language. One of the journals of
Stockholm announces the translation in terms of just appreciation. "Our
excellent Lind," it is observed, "is showered over with the California
gold, but no tribute given her can equal in worth the exquisite gem
which is here cast at her feet by this most imaginative author."

       *       *       *       *       *

The author of "How to make Home Unhealthy" has published in London _A
Defence of Ignorance_. It is addressed to the largest of the markets,
but to one that buys few books.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new novel by CHARLES DICKENS is to be commenced early in the autumn.
Neither the title nor the subject has been announced.

       *       *       *       *       *

A noble author, Viscount MAIDSTONE, has just published a poem in six
cantos, under the title of Abd-el-Kader.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. THACKERAY, who promises to come and see us, and who, of course, will
talk about us with the world afterwards, is delivering a course of six
lectures in London upon the English humorists. The first was good, and
as good as was expected, which is great praise--for few things are so
difficult as for a famous man to satisfy public expectation. The London
_Leader_ thus speaks of it:

     "On Thursday the great satiric painter of social life--the
     Fielding of our times--commenced at Willis's rooms the first
     of those 'Lectures on the English Humorists of the
     Eighteenth Century,' which many months ago we announced as
     in preparation. We have never heard a lecture that delighted
     us more. It was thoughtful and picturesque, with some
     wonderful traces of pathos and far-reaching sentences.
     Dwelling upon the moral aspects of Swift's position and
     career, rather than attempting a criticism on his works,
     Thackeray held his audience from first to last. He gave a
     vivid picture of the early life and loneliness of the great
     satirist amidst the exasperating servilities and insults
     endured from Temple's household, as also of the turbulent
     political bravo coming up to London to carve for himself a
     pathway among lords whom he despised. In this part of the
     lecture it was felt that, while satirizing that condition of
     political corruption which made Swift a bravo, and used him
     as such, the censor still touched upon living foibles; at
     the allusion to the South Sea Bubble, with its railway
     parallel, we observed some fair shoulders wince! Nor were
     religious cant and formalism untouched in the admirable
     picture of Swift's sacrifice of his life to an hypocrisy.
     The audience was of the elite--Thomas Carlyle, Macaulay,
     Milman, Milnes, Sir Robert Inglis, the Duke and Duchess of
     Argyle, the Duchess of Sutherland, Lady Constance Leveson
     Gower, Lady Lichfield, with many others, not a few lovely
     women, and several men well known in literature and art."

Of his second lecture we quote the _Times_:

     "The heroes of his second lecture were Congreve and Addison.
     For Congreve, while he admitted the brilliancy of his wit,
     he evinced no great respect. He characterized him as the
     greatest literary "swell" that ever lived. With an air of
     greatness, Congreve put on his best clothes, stalked among
     wits who all thronged to admire him, however eminent they
     might be, and approached fine ladies with a certainty of
     conquest. The "I am the great Mr. Congreve!" was the
     complacent ejaculation which seemed to break through all he
     said and did. His character as a man of gallantry was
     illustrated by citations from his poems, in which he
     adulates or insults the ladies whom he immortalizes, and
     every where appears as the irresistible seducer, sure to be
     victorious in the end. And who could resist that very great
     Mr. Congreve, with his very fine coat, squeezing a hand,
     covered with diamonds, through the ringlets of a dishevelled
     periwig? Of the moral principle of his comedies Mr.
     Thackeray spoke with disgust, and traced the worship of
     youth and recklessness, and the disrespect of old age, which
     are such leading characteristics in those brilliant works,
     through a whole series of dramatic categories from the
     comedy to the puppet-show. The constant tendency, he
     humorously described, is a recommendation to "Eat and drink,
     and go to the deuce, when your time comes, if deuce there
     be; and he confessed that he regarded these witty banquets
     without love as he would contemplate the ruins of Sallust's
     house at Pompeii, with all its ghastly relics of festivity.
     The foppish depreciation of his own literary productions
     with which Congreve met the compliments of Voltaire, Mr.
     Thackeray rather commended than otherwise, but not for a
     reason which would have pleased the great man. He really did
     think his productions worthless, if weighed against one
     kindly line of Steele or Addison.

     "Addison is evidently Mr. Thackeray's favorite of the
     'humorists' he has brought before the public. If Swift was
     the most wretched of mankind, Addison appeared to him as the
     most amiable. He admired the serene, calm character, who
     could walk so majestically among his fellow-creatures, and
     viewing with love all below him, could raise his eyes with
     adoration to the blue sky above. He admitted that Addison
     was not profound, and that his writings betray no appearance
     of suffering--which probably he never knew prior to his
     unlucky marriage--but at the same time he expatiated on the
     kindliness of his wisdom and the genuine character of his
     piety. The foible of drinking he did not attempt to conceal,
     but observed that we should have liked Addison less had he
     been without it, as we should have liked Sir Roger de
     Coverley less without his vanities. Greatly he admired the
     gentle spirit of Addison's sarcasm, as distinguished from
     the merciless onslaught of Swift, remarking, that in his
     mild court only minor cases were tried. Nor were words of
     commendation the only means by which Mr. Thackeray indicated
     his predilection for Addison. Of Swift he scarcely read a
     line; Congreve he illustrated, not by extracts from the
     comedies in which he lives for posterity, but by those minor
     poems which, though admired by his cotemporaries, are now
     little regarded; but he read several extracts from the
     _Spectator_, and also Addison's well known hymn, as a
     specimen of his deep feeling of devotion. Addison and
     Congreve were both prosperous men in a wordly point of view,
     and they were therefore introduced with a survey of that
     golden age, when an epithalamium on some noble marriage, or
     an ode to William III., was rewarded out of the public purse
     to an extent that made the poet comfortable for life.
     Congreve's first literary achievements earned for him,
     through the patronage of Lord Halifax, places in the
     commission for licensing hackney-coaches, in the
     Custom-house, and in the Pipe-office. 'Alas!' said Mr.
     Thackeray, 'there are no Pipe-offices now; the public have
     smoked all the pipes!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THEODORE S. FAY--of whom the literary world has heard nothing for a long
time--has in the press of the Appletons, a poem, entitled _Ulric, or the
Voices_. Mr. Fay wrote good verses twenty years ago, and we shall see
whether he has lost his art.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. HART, of Philadelphia, has lately published, in a very handsome
style, several handbooks in the mechanic arts, which are much commended.
Among them are _The Manufacture of Steel_, by Frederick Overman; _The
Practical Dyer's Guide_; the _American Cotton Spinner's Guide_, and the
London _Year Book of Facts_.

       *       *       *       *       *

We are soon to have a new book from THOMAS CARLYLE--a _Memoir of the
late John Sterling_, the "Archaeus" of _Blackwood_, and the author of
some of the finest compositions in recent English literature. Sterling,
it is known to his friends, from a devout believer became a skeptic, and
then a deist, pantheist, or perhaps an atheist, and finally, having done
all that he saw to do, deliberately shut himself up to die--wrote to his
friends what time he should leave the world, and on the very day, as if
by a mere volition, went to his place. All this is concealed or passed
over very lightly by Archdeacon Hare, his biographer, and Carlyle
therefore determines that the world shall have his friend's true
history. Among Sterling's most intimate correspondents was Ralph Waldo
Emerson, and even Carlyle cannot write his life, we suspect, without
having access to the extraordinary series of letters the poet sent to
his American friend--letters, we have reason to believe, that will
command a greater fame for him than all his published works have won,
letters that almost any man might die to be the author of.

       *       *       *       *       *

The most noticeable event connected with literature in this country is
an arrangement entered into between a New-York publisher and THOMAS H.
BENTON, for the publication of the _Historical Memoirs of the Life and
Times_ of that eminent person. Mr. Benton is now about sixty-eight years
of age, and for half a century he has been an active participant in
affairs. He was thirty years a senator from Missouri, to which state he
removed some time before its admission to the Union. His name has been
connected with many great measures, and very few have exercised a more
powerful influence upon our institutions or policy. The increase of his
strength, as well as the increase of his fame, has been gradual but
regular. He has been from his youth a student. To every question which
has arrested his attention he has brought all the forces of his
understanding, and what he has acquired by incessant and painful labor
he has to an astonishing degree retained after the occasions which made
it necessary have passed. At a period much beyond the noon of other men,
he was still rising. He was of the age at which Cicero achieved his
highest triumphs, before he displayed the fullness and the perfection of
his powers, in several of the remarkable debates which have had relation
to our empire on the Pacific. With his extraordinary experience, his
faithful and particular memory, and wisdom which is master of his
temper, he is perhaps before every man of his time in the requisites for
such an undertaking as that which has occupied his leisure for many
years, and the chief portion of his time since he ceased to be a
senator. His work will probably make some five large octavo volumes, and
it may be believed that in fame, authority, and length of life, it will
equal the immortal production of Clarendon.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new _Life of Mr. Jefferson_ is soon to be published by Mr. RANDALL,
who has been honorably distinguished in his connection with the
government of this state. The work will embrace a very interesting
sketch of the private life of Mr. Jefferson, by Mr. Thomas Jefferson
Randolph, the statesman's grandson and executor. Whatever we may think
of the abilities or the special services of Mr. Jefferson, we are of
that large number who regard his principles as altogether erroneous and
injurious, and his character with little respect. The time is coming in
which his history must be written, not by a maker of books, but by a
philosophical statesman. Every year the materials are becoming more
accessible. The writings of Adams and Hamilton, now in course of
publication, are important contributions to them. The looked-for
correspondence of Madison will serve largely for the same end; but Mr.
Jefferson's life cannot be thoroughly understood until the collection of
his papers in the possession of the government is carefully and
intelligibly studied. The four volumes of his letters printed by Mr.
Randolph, embrace but about eight hundred, but there were sold to the
government by his executor the enormous number at _forty-two thousand
letters_ and other documents, of which nearly sixteen thousand were
written or signed by Mr. Jefferson himself. A large proportion of these
papers are doubtless most important for the illustration of contemporary
French and American biography, but the whole of them should be read by
whoever attempts to write the history of the apostle of the radical
democracy in the United States.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Memoir _with a selection of the unpublished writings of the late
Margaret Fuller, Countess d'Ossoli_, is announced as in preparation by
her friends RALPH WALDO EMERSON and WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. The letters
of Margaret Fuller to the _Tribune_, would fill a large volume, and we
hope they will be reprinted with the collection of her private
correspondence and inedited essays. And some of her later critical
writings for the _Tribune_, in which the fame of more than one favorite
of certain coteries was assailed--will her editors have courage to
reproduce them? Pray you, gentlemen, consider that you propose bringing
Margaret Fuller herself from the sea, to speak again to us in her own
language; if the figure you present speak not as she spoke--all that she
would speak, regardless of your regards--it will not be believed that
you have commission for what you undertake.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rev. FREDERICK OGILBY, of Philadelphia, has in preparation a _Memoir
with selections from the Writings of the late Rev. John D. Ogilby,
D.D._, whose death at Paris was recently mentioned in these pages, and
of whose life and character we have received an eloquent portraiture in
the address delivered at his funeral by Bishop Doane.

       *       *       *       *       *

An interesting article in the last _Southern Quarterly Review_ on the
life and writings of Edward Everett embraces some learned and elegant
philological discussions, in which Mr. Everett (of whom Dr. GILMAN, the
writer, is a very warm admirer) is convicted of the use of several
vulgarities, _e. g._ "in our midst," "in this connection," "reliable,"
&c. It is not often that such nice criticism is adventured in an
American review. By the way, we are surprised that in none of the
reviewals of Everett that have fallen under our notice has there been
even the suggestion of a parallel between the classical orator of
Harvard and Mr. Legare. A feeble eulogist in a Philadelphia magazine
compares him with Webster, which is merely ridiculous, as the two men
have nothing in common. It would have pleased us if Dr. Gilman had
weighed the merits of the illustrious Carolinian against those of the
New Englander most deserving of critical comparison with him.

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. GILMORE SIMMS has in the press of a Charleston publisher a complete
collection of his poems--or rather a collection embracing all his
poetical compositions which so nearly meet the approval of his judgment
that he is willing to preserve them under his name. Mr. Simms is a
voluminous writer in verse as well as in prose, and we agree to an
opinion in the _Southern Literary Messenger_, that as a poet he has by
no means received justice from his contemporaries. Scarce any one in
this country has produced more fair verses, and with the fair is much
that is really beautiful. How much this proportion would be increased if
he would but labor! and not turn off sonnets as editors do paragraphs.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. OAKESSMITH has published in the _Tribune_, ten numbers of an
eloquently earnest performance under the title of _Woman and her Needs_.
She has none of the silly and maudlin extravagances of the "Women's
Rights" party, so called, and her work may safely be placed before those
of Mary Wolstoncraft and Margaret Fuller, for ability; but we regard all
these productions as uncalled for and injurious to the best interests of
the sex. A book of much more real value may be looked for in Catherine
Beecher's _True Remedy for Woman's Wrongs_, in the press of Phillips &
Sampson, of Boston. There is no woman of stronger intellect than Miss
Beecher's now writing in this country.

       *       *       *       *       *

We learn with much regret that the Rev. Dr. THOMAS H. SMYTH, of South
Carolina, of whose many and various contributions to religious and
historical literature we gave some account in an earlier number of _The
International_, is dangerously ill in Italy, where his family have
recently joined him. Dr. Smyth, our advices state, had twice been
stricken with paralysis, and had been compelled entirely to forego all
his literary occupations.

       *       *       *       *       *

The new novels of the last month have been numerous. The Harpers have
published _Caleb Field_, by the author of Mrs. Margaret Maitland;
_Eastbury_, by Harriet Drury; _The Heir of Wast-Wayland_, by Harriet
Drury; _Yeast, a Problem_, by the author of Alton Locke; and some half
dozen others. From T. B. Peterson, of Philadelphia, we have _Ginevra, or
the History of a Portrait_, which we understand is by a daughter of the
late S. L. Fairfield: it is much praised in some of the journals. M.
Hart has given us another clever novelette, by Caroline Lee Hentz, under
the title of _Rena_. From Lippincott, Grambo & Co., we have _Lord and
Lady Harcourt_, one of the pleasantest books of the season.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS BREMER has passed the winter and spring in the south and west,
where she has been received with much hospitality, and detained with the
affection she seems every where to inspire. Within a few weeks she has
visited Florida, with a family of her friends from Charleston, and she
has given very careful attention, under the most favorable
circumstances, to the institutions of the southern states. She is now on
her way through Tennessee and Virginia to New-York, and will soon return
to Sweden, by way of London.

       *       *       *       *       *

H. BALLIERE has just published _Vestiges of Civilization, or the
AEtiology of History, Religious, AEsthetical, Political and
Philosophical_. It appears to be written with much ability, but we are
by no means inclined to believe in the truth of the author's views. He
applies to civilization the processes which the author of the _Vestiges
of Creation_ applied to Natural History; and without attaining to the
fame of that work, the Vestiges of Civilization will probably share its
condemnation.

       *       *       *       *       *

All our readers who were accustomed to read the journals twenty years
ago, will remember SHOCCO JONES, the immortal defender of the fame of
North Carolina. We had thought the mortal part of him was sent to the
bourne he was so fond of describing in fine rhetoric when he wrote
duel-challenges until a few days ago, when a friend advised us that he
had lately listened to him saying mass in a Roman Catholic chapel in
Mississippi. Who would have thought it?

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. CHARLES SCRIBNER, (successor of Baker & Scribner,) has in press a
large number of interesting new works, among which are _Incidents in the
Life of a Pastor_, by the Rev. Dr. Wisner of Ithica; _The Cap

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