vein, of the author of 'Twice-Told Tales,' whose writings are _well_
known, in every sense, to our readers. We think we are not in error
in attributing the spirited sketch, 'Endicott and the Red Cross,' to
the same source. 'The Shaker Bridal,' may be traced to a kindred
paternity not less unerringly by the table of contents, than by a
certain style, which, although _sui generis_, partakes nevertheless
of many of the simple graces of the fine old English prose writers.
Of the merits of 'Our Village Post-Office,' by Miss SEDGWICK, our
readers are enabled to judge; and our opinion of it is expressed
'where they may turn the leaf to read it.' There are pleasant
love-stories for the ladies, and young lovers of both sexes, as 'The
Love Marriage,' by Mrs. HALE, 'Sylph Etherege,' 'Xeri, or A Day in
Batavia,' translated from the German, by NATHANIEL GREENE, Esq.,
'Jaques De Laid,' etc. We could almost forgive the author of 'A Tale
of Humble Life' for drawing so revolting, and we must add unnatural
a portrait, as that of George Cavendish, in consideration of the
following graphic description of the advent of a New-England festival:
"It was the night before Thanksgiving; that season whose very
name speaks of happiness; when the prosperous are called upon
to remember whence their blessings come, and the wretched to
observe that there is no such thing as unmitigated misery; the
most forlorn having something in their lot for which they may
thank God. Abundance walked with her cornucopia through the
land, leaving no virtuous poor, starving amid unrewarded toils;
the ties of kindred brought merry groups round many a blazing
hearth, and friendship or hospitality threw open the domestic
sanctuary, and admitted into the kindly circle those whom the
chances of life had separated from their own homes and kindred.
"The lover of Jane had been compelled, by the death of his
father in Vermont, to take a long journey at the approach of
this festival; and business was to detain him yet a few days
longer. It was not for him therefore that she sat listening
in the corner of the roaring chimney, turning her head
eagerly as the merry sleighs dashed jingling by. Half a dozen
noisy youngsters about her threatened demolition to the old
flag-bottomed chairs in a game of blind-man's buff, while one
rosy urchin sat in her lap, struggling against sleep, and
whining in reply to her whispered admonitions, 'I don't want to
go to bed till cousin George comes.' At last a sleigh stopped
at the door; the blindfold hero of the game tore the bandage
from his eyes, the drowsy boy in the corner jumped up wide
awake, and clapped his hands, and a young man, muffled in a
cloak and seal-skin cap, sprung into the room, as one sure of
a welcome. In an instant, the arms of Jane were round her only
brother, and the redoubled clamors of the children brought the
matron from the pantry, redolent of fresh-baked pies, and the
old man from the cellar, laden with a basket of apples worthy
of the Hesperides. All was noise and confusion, and the young
stranger was loudest and gayest of the throng."
'Night Sketches beneath an Umbrella,' and 'Martha Washington,' the
latter by Mrs. SIGOURNEY, are the only prose articles which we have
not named, and they are in all respects worthy the excellent company
they keep.
The poetry is rather above than below the general 'annual' standard.
Among the contributors to this department, are Miss H. F. GOULD, O.
W. HOLMES, GRENVILLE MELLEN, H. HASTINGS WELD, Rev. J. H. CLINCH,
and others not unknown to fame; but our space obliges us to confine
ourselves to these brief comments, and to forego extracts. And we
must here conclude, by recommending the 'Token' to American readers,
as a work every way worthy of general patronage.
* * * * *
CONFESSIONS OF A ROMAN CATHOLIC PRIEST. Edited by SAMUEL F. B.
MORSE, A. M. New-York: JOHN S. TAYLOR.
THIS work is from the pen of a French gentleman, now in this country,
and but lately a Roman Catholic priest. Portions of it, in the
view of the editor, afford strong if not conclusive proofs of a
systematic design in Europe to create a strong Popish party in this
country. The personal narrative of the writer is replete with the
interest of romance, especially those parts of it which describe the
love-passages and trials of the priest, and his fair penitents of the
confessional. The editor affirms that the author is known to be what
he professes himself to be, and that his book is strictly true.
EDITORS' TABLE
HENRY RUSSELL.--Would that every reader upon whom the portrait of
RUSSELL in the present number may smile, could hear the 'voice of
melody' roll from those lips which has gone to the hearts of so
many in our Atlantic cities! Simplicity, tenderness, strength, and
mellowness, are the agents by which Mr. RUSSELL produces his effects;
and the result is always the same. It is not our purpose here to
enter upon an analysis of his extraordinary musical powers; since we
have on two or three occasions heretofore spoken of his voice and
execution at some length. His style, so simple yet so effective,
which 'catches a grace beyond the reach of art,' is lightly regarded,
we believe, by certain of those who consider themselves as 'great
_shakes_' in the musical world, simply because they can shake, and
trill, and quaver, in that 'difficult' manner which it was _once_
so much the mode to admire, but which, thanks to RUSSELL, and one
or two other distinguished melodists, has had its little day. These
demurring professors may find some countenance in their attempts
to foist upon the public an unnatural taste for a species of music
wholly unsuited to the genius of our people, but it will proceed
from such as care more for the music of fashion than of the heart,
and who have travelled abroad to import new ideas of the art, with
not a little conceit, arrogance, and foppery. But the crowds who
attend the concerts of Mr. RUSSELL, carry away with them 'remembered
harmonies' which will not die, nor fade with the changes of time.
Success to simple melody! Success to that music which can awaken
human sympathies, and enliven and enlarge the affections!
'Mr. RUSSELL is a young man, having but recently completed his
twenty-fourth year; yet he has acquired a reputation far beyond his
years, and that too in the country which, youthful as it is, was
the fosterer of the genius of MALIBRAN. He was born in England, and
there imbibed his earliest lessons in the divine art of which he is
so distinguished a professor. He went to Italy at an early age, after
studying under KING, in London, for some time. Here he was a pupil
of ROSSINI for three years, and thereafter he returned to England
for the space of two more, during which time he was chorus-master
of the Italian opera in London. Returning once more to Italy, he
studied under GENERALE, MAYERBEER, and other masters, and received
a gold medal from the hand of royalty, for the best composition at
the conservatorio at Naples. He acquired the language, as well as
the musical lore of that lovely country, during his sojourn there,
so perfectly as not only to sing, but also to write and converse in
Italian, with equal fluency and facility. Coming again to his native
country, he married the accomplished daughter of an opulent and
distinguished merchant, and soon after came to Canada, where he was
invited by some gentlemen of Rochester, in this state, to settle in
that thriving city. He accepted the invitation, and was appointed
professor of music in an academy devoted to the cultivation of that
science.'
It is a source of personal gratification to the editors of this
Magazine, that they were the first, in this community and that
of Philadelphia, to call public attention to the rare musical
endowments of one who was himself too modest and retiring to present
his claims to general patronage and regard, beyond the precincts
of the public-spirited town where he had been generously taken
by the hand, and his gifts properly appreciated. Since his first
appearance here, however, Mr. RUSSELL's course has been due on toward
the goal of success; and we cannot doubt that he has yet even more
signal triumphs to gain, in the production of extended operatic
compositions. We shall see.
To those whose good fortune it has been to see and hear Mr. RUSSELL,
we need not say that the portrait contained in the present number is
an almost speaking likeness of the gifted original; and to none is it
deemed necessary to add any thing in praise of the superior execution
of the engraving.
* * * * *
CRITICISM.--That was a charming trait in SCOTT's character, which
prompted him to 'set an author upon his legs,' by quoting the better
passages of his works, as an offset to the objectionable portions,
which a censor of the meat-axe school was dwelling upon with
characteristic gusto, to the exclusion of every thing of an opposite
character. No critic should read for mere occasion of censure, and
for the sole purpose of dragging forth lurking errors; nor should he
be ambitious to act the part of a judge who determines beforehand to
hang every man that may come before him for trial. Such censorial
dogmatism is both unjust and injurious. We do not object to severe
criticism, so that it be just and honest; but we devoutly eschew
the captious, cavilling strain of quibble, in which it is getting
to be so much the fashion to indulge, and that without any exertion
of thought, or labor of investigation, in the discussion of the
work condemned. Unfavorable criticism should be so tempered as to
be instructive and consolatory, yet at the same time just, to the
youthful aspirant. We have been led to these remarks, by noticing the
wholesale condemnation which has been poured out upon a small volume
of poems, by a young graduate of Yale College, WILLIAM THOMPSON
BACON, which was briefly reviewed in our last number. Now we do not
know Mr. Bacon, nor any one who does, nor did we ever receive a line
from him, or any of his friends, nor from any body else, in relation
to his book. The qualified praise which we rendered to his little
work, was therefore wholly disinterested, unsolicited, and sincere;
and to prove that it was just, we annex the omitted extract, referred
to in our last:
'How many years have passed away,
Since on this spot I stood,
And heard, as now I hear them play,
The voices of the wood,
Green boughs and budding leaves among,
Piped low in one continuous song?
'How many years have passed, since here
Upon this bald rock's crest,
I lay, and watched the shadows clear
Upon the lake's blue breast;
Since here, in many a poet dream,
I lay and heard the eagle scream?
'The seasons have led round the year
Many and many a time,
And other hands have gather'd here
The young flowers of the clime,
The which I wove, with thoughts of joy,
About my brows, a poet boy.
'And there were voices too 'lang syne,'
I think I hear them yet;
And eyes that loved to look on mine,
I shall not soon forget;
And hearts that felt for me before--
Alas, alas, they'll feel no more!
'I call them by remember'd names,
And weep when I have done;
The one, the yawning ocean claims,
The distant church-yard, one;
I call--the wood takes up the tone,
And only gives me back my own.
'Still from the lake swell up these walls,
Fronting the morning's sheen;
And still their storm-stained capitals
Preserve their lichens green;
And still upon the ledge I view
The gentian's eye of stainless blue.
'And far along in funeral lines,
Sheer to the higher grounds,
Touch'd by the finger of the winds,
The pines give out their sounds;
And far below, the waters lie,
Quietly looking to the sky.
'And still, a vale of softest green
Th' embracing prospect fills;
And still the river winds between
The parting of the hills;
The sky still blue, the flowers still found,
Just bursting from the moist spring ground.
'So was it many years ago,
As on this spot I stood,
And heard the waters lave below
The edges of the wood,
And thought, while music fill'd the air,
The fairies held their revel there.
* * * * *
'I ask these scenes to give me back
My fresh, glad thoughts again;
Alas, they lie along the track
Which I have trod with men!
The flowers I gather'd here, a child,
I pluck'd, it seems, to deck a wild.'
A very young writer, capable of lines like these, is met with
scarce a word of encouragement, but contrariwise, forced satire and
second-hand denunciation; and this often from critics unable to
produce any thing half so creditable as many of the effusions in the
volume in question.
* * * * *
POLITICS AND LITERATURE.--We regret to perceive that our
contemporary, the 'American Monthly,' has pushed out upon the stormy
sea of politics. We believe with DANIEL WEBSTER, that our literary
periodicals ought rather to constitute a happy restraint upon the
asperities which political controversies engender, than to aid in
creating them. Let us keep literature and politics distinct. We
need a kind of neutral ground, on which men of all creeds and all
politics may meet, and forget the bitterness of party feeling.
Literature should be this ground; and the only prominent objection
to this position, that we have yet seen, is that the _English_
periodicals are some of them political, and that therefore _ours_
should be so too! To say nothing of the independent, republican
spirit evinced in imitating foreign works, as if we were incapable of
originality in any thing, let us look at the different circumstances
of the case. In America, politics are in every body's hands, in the
newspapers of the day, large and small, for the merest trifle of
cost. In Great Britain, on the contrary, it is the very reverse.
The metropolitan daily journals cost so much, that thousands are
wholly unable to procure them; and national politics are conveyed
to a large proportion of the public through the less frequently
published magazines, one number of which frequently passes into fifty
or an hundred hands. How small the necessity or demand, on the other
hand, in this country, for an admixture of politics in our literary
periodicals, when the partizan may take his daily political dish
for a single penny, or at most, three! Beside, premeditately long
political disquisitions are universally considered as sad bores,
at the best. They are rarely read by more than one side, and make
no converts. Let no sinister motive be ascribed to these remarks;
for, in our own case, this Magazine possesses the good will of all
parties, and has neither the indifference nor the opposition of any.
We speak but for the common cause of American literature.
* * * * *
THE FINE ARTS.--Some months since, an eminent American writer
attempted to set forth in these pages the fact that liberty and
a republic were no barriers, as had often been alleged, against
the progress and perfection of the fine arts in this country; and
this position he maintained and supported by triumphant argument.
His train of reasoning has since been frequently brought to our
minds, by corroborative testimony which has fallen under our own
observation; all going to establish the truth, that the enjoyment
of a rational freedom, such as we of the United States are blessed
with, associated with a general liberal diffusion of property and
intelligence, which always carry with them an improvement in taste,
is more favorable to the cultivation of the fine arts, than the
patronage of kings, princes, and nobles. We were forcibly impressed
with the correctness of this assumption, in a recent visit to the
studio of the Brothers THOMPSON, whom many of our readers doubtless
now hear named for the first time. The elder of the two, C. GIOVANNI
THOMPSON, has but recently removed to this city. He has pursued his
art with great industry, and his efforts have been marked by gradual
yet constant improvement, during a residence of some years in Boston
and Providence. His pictures in the Athenæum Gallery, in the former
city, won for him a high repute, and brought to his easel several of
the first citizens of the New-England capital; and we can speak in
terms of high commendation both of the faithfulness and skill with
which he has transferred to the canvass many of the élite of the
city of Roger Williams. The portrait of President WAYLAND, of Brown
University, would be sufficient, were other evidence wanting, of the
distinguished talents of the artist, whose success, since his arrival
in New-York, has been no less decided. Of his portraits in general,
we may say, that they are animated and well-colored, while the
attitudes are unconstrained, natural, and agreeable. There is great
merit, too, in the pervading tone of his pictures, and especially in
the grace, spirit, and expression of his female portraitures.
Of the efforts of JEROME THOMPSON, whose stay has been more prolonged
among us, and who has acquired a metropolitan reputation from those
of our citizens who have sat under his facile pencil, it may not be
necessary to speak, farther than to say, that we know of no young
artist whose improvement has been more regularly progressive. We
have marked him from the beginning, and think we can appreciate
the study and taste which have made him favorably known to the
New-York public, and even procured for him honorable and profitable
engagements in England, whenever he may deem it expedient to turn
his face thitherward. He is remarkable not less for the excellence
of his likenesses, than for the professional qualities he possesses
in common with his brother, which we have already enumerated. The
success of these young gentlemen, as we have already hinted, has
impressed us with the truth of the remark of the distinguished
contributor alluded to, in the commencement of this paragraph, that
'our artists need no longer to go abroad to earn a livelihood,
or gain a name. Those who have talents and industry, meet with
employment and liberal compensation, and receive quite as much, and
sometimes a great deal more, than is given for similar productions in
Europe.'
* * * * *
GULLIVERANA.--Lying is a bad practice at best; but there is a
species of sportive 'white lie,' which, when well managed, has an
'ear-kissing smack' in it that is quite delightful. Gulliver's
talent in this line has seldom been approached. Whether in Lilliput
or Brobdignag, he never forgets himself. The _keeping_ of every
thing is admirable; and if any one deems such skeptical relations an
easy matter, let him try to sustain a kindred specimen, in all its
parts. He must have the eye of a painter, and be well versed in the
management of contrasts, to succeed at all in the undertaking. By
the way, that was a good story of a man travelling in a stage-coach,
who had been listening for an hour or more to the marvellous tales
of personal adventure, told by two inflated bucks from the city. 'My
uncle,' said he, 'had three children; my father had the same number;
all boys. There was some property in dispute between the families;
and after a protracted quarrel, it was agreed that the question
should be decided by combat between the six sons. My eldest brother
fought first, and his antagonist was mortally wounded, and carried
off; my next eldest cousin was successful in slaying the brother next
before me; and it was with great trepidation that I took my position
in front of my youngest cousin. We fired, and----'
Here was a pause for a moment; and the excited cockneys eagerly
inquired, 'Well, what was the result?' 'Why, _I was killed on the
spot_!' was the reply; my adversary's bullet pierced my heart, and I
expired without a groan! My murderer became possessed of the property
in dispute, which he soon dissipated, and is now a mountebank
conjurer. It was only yesterday that I saw him at his tricks, in a
little village through which we passed. He had placed a ladder in
the open street, its top in the air; and when I lost sight of him,
as the stage wheeled away, he had reached the uppermost round, and
was _drawing the ladder up after him_!' The town-bred Munchausens
reserved their marvels, during the remainder of the journey. This
undoubted narrative is akin to the following story, which we have
from the best authority. Two passengers, coming down the Mississippi
in a steam-boat, were shooting birds, etc., on shore, from the deck.
Some sportsman converse ensued, in which one remarked, that he would
turn his back to no man in killing rackoons; that he had repeatedly
shot fifty in a day. 'What o' that?' said a Kentuckian; 'I make
nothing of killing a hundred 'coon a day, or'nary luck.' 'Do you
know Capting Scott, of our state?' asked a Tennessean by-stander.
'_He_ now is something _like_ a shot. A _hundred_ 'coon! Why he
never _p'ints_ at one, without hitting him. He _never_ misses, and
the 'coons know it. T'other day he levelled at an old 'un, in a
high tree. The varmint looked at him a minute, and then bawled out:
'Hello, Cap'n Scott!--is that _you_?' 'Yes,'was the reply. 'Well,
don't shoot!' says he; it's no use! 'Hold on; _I'll come down_; I
give in!'--which he did!' It is unnecessary to add, that this was the
_last_ hunting story.
* * * * *
BROWN _vs._ KIRKHAM.--We have received from Mr. GOOLD BROWN a
rejoinder to the article of Mr. KIRKHAM, published in our last
number. We are reluctant to extend this controversy, in which we
fear a great proportion of our readers take little if any interest;
and having just now, moreover, but narrow space, we are compelled
to decline the publication of the article in question. It is proper
to say, however, that Mr. Brown _denies_ that Kirkham's works have
ever ascribed to Rush, Murray, and Walker, the contradictory passages
quoted against himself; and that if they _had_ so ascribed them, the
ascription would have been untrue; that the _brackets_, the removal
of which was so vehemently complained of, would neither abate the
error alleged, nor make Kirkham's version of the text good grammar;
and that he never in his life spoke in favor of the grammar of
his antagonist. With this 'curtailed abbreviation compressing the
particulars' of a syllabus, we take our leave of the matter, trusting
that each lingual belligerent will hereafter revolve in his own cycle
of declensions, conjugations, syntaxes and prosodies.
* * * * *