CHAPTER XIX.

To sum the whole—the close of all.

DEAN SWIFT.

The morning of the next day dawned on few who had pressed their

customary couches in the house of Henry Elmore, for the aged sufferer,

on the night that intervened, had breathed his last beneath its roof.

The body extended on the bed, exhibited, even in death, that mildness

and serenity of expression that had characterized his face during the

latter portion of his life.

Sorrow could scarcely grieve that one who had outlived the full term of

years allotted to man, and drank so deeply of earth’s cup of trial,

should, at last, in a moment of unhoped for joy to cheer his exit from

life, have finally departed; and Alice felt, as she kissed his cold

brow, ere the coffin-lid had closed upon it forever, that her deepest

feelings of filial affection could not inspire the wish within her to

recall his departed spirit. Tears, many and heavy, it is true, were shed

over him, but they fell rather for the sorrows he had passed, than

because he was thus summoned in the fullness of time to a world where

sorrow could never come.

He was followed to the grave, not only by his relations, but by Henry

Elmore and his wife, whose feelings on the occasion were scarcely less

deep than their own. In them, the deceased as well as his unhappy

companion, had found true and sympathizing friends; and to their

unremitting care and attention it was that they had not both sunk, long

ere the return of Alice, into the same grave to which the one had now

finally departed. Governor H. and his excellent lady likewise attended

the funeral with much sympathy, and returned afterward to the house of

their niece, to rejoice with Alice on her return, and congratulate her

husband on the pardon of which he had been the bearer.

An interesting scene ensued, in which Jessy wept upon the necks of those

generous friends, and returned her thanks to them for having so long

sought to shield her from the misfortunes of her family. Between Lucy

and herself a still more affecting embrace followed. The former, through

the strict secrecy of her uncle and aunt, had never suspected that the

tender name of sister by which she had known Jessy, was only assumed.

But though she received the intelligence in some sorrow, it was scarcely

of a heartfelt kind; for both had a consciousness that it was in the

name alone that a change could take place, and that in feeling and

affection they would ever remain sisters still.

Stanley, too, was present on this occasion. His meeting with Jessy at

such a season of deep feeling for her had been tender in the extreme;

and although he had not as yet had time for many words in private with

the object of his affection, she read in his manner and countenance his

deep and ardent sympathy.

The rumor of the strange reunion between the parents and child; of the

long seclusion of Lisle and Heath in the wing of Henry Elmore’s house,

thereby explaining all the mystery formerly attached to it, soon spread

throughout the colony. But it scarcely excited the astonishment which

such a romance in real life would create at the present day, for those

were periods of tragical confusion and strange catastrophe, for better

or for worse, when the rendings asunder of domestic charities were often

without an hour’s warning, and where reunions were as dramatic as any

exhibited on the stage.

It created little surprise, therefore, when Heath removed to Boston with

his gentle and lovely wife, there to reside permanently, or when Jessy

Ellet appeared as an inmate of their family.

It was just three months after this removal that Stanley and Jessy were

united in marriage. No wedding-party was invited to grace the occasion;

but Governor and Mrs. H. and Henry Elmore and his wife were the only

guests.

We will now bid the reader adieu, leaving him to imagine that henceforth

the fortunes of all of our characters ran in as smooth a tide as is

possible in this world. We all know that the stream of actual life flows

in an even course with but few. With most it is—romance aside—as our

tale has shown it, a confused succession of alternating sensations,

sometimes dark and dull of hue, like the clouds of winter, at others,

breaking out into the glowing splendor and bright illusions of a dream.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

THE JOLLY RIDE.]

* * * * *

THE JOLLY RIDE.

[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

OH! for those rides, those jolly, jolly rides,

When my sister and I were young,

When our hearts were bright and our spirits light,

Of sorrow and sin unstung.

When Neddy we bestrode, with our double load,

As good at our need as an Arab steed;

And merrily pricked, though he sulked and kicked,

O’er rivulet, rock and mead.

Alas! for those rides, they are gone, they are past;

Ned and we are grown old and gray;

But thoughts of those times, like Christmas chimes,

In our hearts must ever be gay. H.

* * * * *

BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. V.

BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

[Illustration:

Buena Vista.]

WE lay at AQUA NUEVA, sullenly, in stern repose,

Awaiting, with anxiety, the onset of our foes:—

We were few; but what of that? We were men, not one of whom

But was ready, when his country called, to meet a soldier’s doom,

And, looking toward the approaching fight with something like despair,

We were deadly as the lion when the hunter treads his lair.

Our foes, so said our scouts, when they came, at set of sun,

Were led by SANTA ANNA, and were more than five to one;—

They were more than twenty thousand, we, little more than four;

But deadlier fights, we knew, were fought by our ancestors of yore,

When, hand to hand, with axe and bill our fathers clove their way

At Agincourt, and Cressy, and purple Poitiérs.

Our general’s brow was care-worn; his eye leapt like a hound,

Seeking, wherever it rested, the advantage of the ground:

Between us and SALTILLO lay a craggy mountain pass,

With sierra on sierra in many a granite mass—

The plain of BUENA VISTA, where, afterward, we stood

And fought till its ravines and sands were purple with our blood.

When the foe reached AQUA NUEVA—when they found our army gone,

They pressed in marshaled masses, in solid thousands, on;

And noon beheld that river of human souls, for miles,

Like one of their own torrents, sweep through the wild defiles—

So, conscious of their strength, they came, while we, in mute

surprise,

Looked wistfully and earnestly in one another’s eyes.

The foe had wedged us in, when a flag approached our ranks,

While the hovering enemy pressed on whence they might turn our flanks;

’Twas a summons to surrender—a summons unto men

Who had beat their bravest generals, and could do so once again:

We laughed in hearty scorn, for the rawest volunteer

Had grown so anxious for the fight he never thought of fear.

Then came a little pause, and we raised our eyes to heaven,

And prayed in silence that our sins and crimes might be forgiven;

For well we knew that many a heart which now beat high with pride,

Would lie ere night in icy rest along the mountain side.

And then we thought of WASHINGTON, whose spirit, from above,

Was gazing on his children with looks and eyes of love.

In our own green sunny land we were wont to mark the day

Which gave him to his country with many a mimic fray,

And now the thought ran through our souls that this, henceforth,

should be

One which our children after us should hail with songs of glee;

And we gazed in one another’s eyes, and silently we swore

To do such deeds as history had never heard before.

We stood, each in our places, when, on our left, arose

The rattling roll of musketry from our advancing foes;—

They were mounting, troop by troop, the steep sierra’s side:

A moment! and our comrades, with hearty cheers, replied;—

Shot after shot, peal after peal, and we saw their scattered men

Rolling, like leaves before the storm, in terror, down the glen.

The night was cold and damp, but we scarcely felt a chill

As we lay, beside our arms, on the bleak and naked hill;

For our hearts were full of fire at the promise of the fray,

Which, we felt, would try our courage on the fast-approaching day,

While the murmur of the enemy, whose thousands hedged us round,

Came fitfully down the freezing wind, in gusts, along the ground.

At last the dawn arrived, and as the sun began

To kiss the summits of the hills, a thousand sparkles ran

Along the cliffs, like fire-flies on a sultry summer night,

And on the instant, every where was heard the din of fight—

On, like the sea, wave over wave, the army of our foe

Rolled toward our left, and pierced our ranks, and swept the red

plateau.

We paused; we turned; some of us—fled, as the foe in thousands came,

And our guns in vain made breaches; and the air was red with flame:

We were staggering; we retreated; we were beaten; we would yield;

But TAYLOR’S eye shone every where at once along the field,

And the Mississippi volunteers, with BRAGG, dashed madly on;—

We turned, and charged; and once again the purple field was won.

On our left the day was ours, when SANTA ANNA pressed

On our centre, now so weak, with his bravest and his best;

Once more our men retreated, when BRAGG again came on,

And swept their ranks, but vainly; and every hope seemed gone:

Again—again—his cannon roared; again our rifles played,

And we hurled the beaten enemy in horror down the glade!

Night gathered round, and once again we made our bivouac

On BUENA VISTA, whence our foe had failed to drive us back.

On the morrow, wan and worn, but with spirits proud and high,

We would once more win the day, or, like soldiers, fall and die;

And we sunk in silent sleep, with an honest trust in God,

Where we lay the night before, on the cold and cheerless sod

But when the morning came, when the welcome sun arose,

We saw—each seeming in a dream—the files of flying foes;

And we lay on one another’s breasts—clasped one another’s hand,

And wept with joy, for God had saved our gallant little band—

God, and our courage, for we fought like heroes all will say

Who read in coming centuries the records of the fray.

[Illustration]

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.

ANALYSIS OF ROMEO AND JULIET.

BY H. C. MOORHEAD.

THE judicious critic, whilst insisting on the great and manifold

beauties of the plays of Shakspeare, has felt himself constrained to

admit that they are marred by grievous faults. Some of these have been

laid upon the times in which he wrote; some upon the circumstances of

his life; some upon the corruptions of his editors; whilst for others,

the most ingenious of his apologists have, with all their zeal, been

able to make no rational excuse. Conspicuous among these admitted faults

are his “quibbles” and “conceits.” He is charged with marring all his

fairest pages with them; and so introducing them as often perversely to

destroy the most beautiful creations of his fancy, and in a moment

convert the pathetic into the burlesque, and the sublime into the

ridiculous. “A quibble,” it has been said, “is the golden apple for

which he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his

elevation. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight

that he was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of reason,

propriety, and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which

he lost the world and was content to lose it.”

Those commentators who have deemed it a duty to vindicate their author

at all points and at all hazards, have not failed to repel this strong

charge with characteristic earnestness. The great German critic

Schlegel, for example, speaking on this subject, offers the following

defense, if defense it can be called: “Shakspeare, who was always sure

of his object, to move in a sufficiently powerful manner when he chose

to do so, has occasionally, by indulging in a freer play, purposely

moderated the impressions when too powerful, and immediately introduced

a musical alleviation of our sympathy.”

That is to say: Shakspeare, fearing that evil consequences might result

from the overwrought sympathies of his auditors, mercifully threw in a

quibble here and there to check the dangerous flow of sentiment! as if

Paganini or Ole Bull had deemed it necessary to introduce an occasional

jar in the midst of their most exquisite strains, lest the sensitive ear

should be too powerfully ravished. But this defense is still more

injurious than the charge itself; inasmuch as it substitutes for that

oblivion of self, that apparent unconsciousness of the great things he

was doing, which has been regarded as the highest proof of the serene

majesty of his mind, an intolerable arrogance and presumption.

Shakspeare, however, we may be sure, was governed by no such motive; he

had no apprehension that his nectar would prove too intoxicating, and

took no such pains to adulterate and weaken it.

The charge referred to is, in truth, applicable, in any great degree, to

but a small number of his plays, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” is one of

these, and “Romeo and Juliet” is another, and the chief one. I shall

confine my remarks at present to the latter play; and here, it must be

confessed, quibbles are introduced into almost every speech: not only

the wit, but the sentiment also is every where seasoned with them; and

the different personages, “however distressed, have a conceit left them

in their misery, a miserable conceit.”

Now this feature, though not peculiar to Romeo and Juliet, is not found

in any of the other great tragedies of Shakspeare, it cannot therefore

be ascribed to inveterate habit. Neither is any trace of it found in the

poem from which the main story, and many of the details and expressions

of the play were copied: it was not therefore imitated from his

original. The doctrine of Ulrici, however, affords a rational

explanation. Quibbles and conceits are a part of the argument of the

play, and therefore they are introduced. If they mar its beauties, they

help to illustrate its theme, and to this purpose every other

consideration is subordinate: for Shakspeare is not content, like other

poets with simply moving his readers; but is careful also to cause all

the currents of all the emotions he awakens to flow toward a common

centre.

What then _is_ the theme of this play? It is not easy to frame a

definition strict enough and comprehensive enough to embrace it in all

its aspects, and to embrace nothing more; but, in general terms, I

believe the subject of the play may be thus stated: _The unrestrained

pursuit of the ruling passion or caprice of the moment._

This is the general subject of the whole play, and it is the particular

subject of every scene and of every speech. All the winds of passion are

let loose, and they blow where they list. Love and hate, hope and fear,

courage and despair, and with them the wildest vagaries of fancy and

caprice—all are in the field together; yet all move in subordination to

the “central idea,” even as the ocean tides are governed by the moon.

All the personages of the play are made to illustrate this subject, each

according to his own nature and circumstances. _Romeo_ and _Juliet_

tossed on the stormy sea of ill-starred love, pass from the summit of

bliss to despair and death. The hatred of _Montague_ and _Capulet_ is

drowned in tears, and from their grief springs reconciliation and

friendship. _Mercutio_ is a courtier and a wit, his spirits are always

brim-full, and sparkling; and he pursues and runs down every phantom

that happens to flit across his mind. His wit, and all his speeches are

_entirely_ of this character. He never opens his lips except to utter

something fantastical. The _Nurse_, by following _her_ impulses wherever

they lead, presents a most ludicrous specimen of _garrulity_. Wherever

the “fiery” _Tybalt_ sees any one belonging to the house of Montague his

sword instantly leaps from its scabbard. Friar _Laurence_ and the

_Prince_ discourse on the subject, and all the inferior characters, as

we shall see, adapt themselves to it.

For the purposes of a more minute examination, it will be convenient to

group the chief passages under several heads.

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

The play opens with a dialogue between Samson and Gregory, two servants

of Capulet’s. I quote the first few lines:

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

_bear injuries_

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

of abuse.

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

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

_Sam._ I _strike_ quickly, being _moved_.

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

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

_Greg._ To _move_ is—to _stir_; and to be valiant is to _stand

to it_; therefore, if thou art _moved_ thou _runnest away_.

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

And so they proceed until certain followers of the house of Montague

entering, an affray ensues. Now two things are to be observed here. The

servants reflect the temper of their masters, and quarrel the moment

they meet; and their conversation is a mere quibbling upon certain

words, pursuing the fanciful suggestions of sound or meaning. Thus the

whole subject is presented in the first page.

Very similar to this, though a little more refined, in accordance with

the characters of the speakers, is the contest of wit between Mercutio

and Romeo, (Act 2d, Scene 4th,) and the former’s description of

Benvolio’s aptness to quarrel, (Act 3d, Scene 1st,) “Thou wilt quarrel

with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou

hast _hazel_ eyes—what _eye_ but such an _eye_ would _spy out_ such a

quarrel,” etc. etc.

The servant who was sent to invite the guests to the supper at

Capulet’s, having a paper with a list of their names, talks in the same

style about the difficulty of finding out the persons writ there, when

he could not read the names that had been writ there; and his

misquotations of maxims is every way characteristic of the theme and of

the clown. (Act 1st, Scene 2d.)

The _Nurse_ makes her first appearance in the conversation with Lady

Capulet about the age of Juliet. (Act 1st, Scene 3d) Instead of

answering the question of her mistress directly, which she might have

done with a monosyllable, she runs into a long reminiscence respecting

her own daughter, her husband, and the “weaning” of Juliet, all matters

connected with the subject, and suggested by it, but absurdly minute and

complex. She resembles Mercutio in the recklessness with which she

pursues her whims, albeit they are of a somewhat different character.

At the first interview between Romeo and Juliet, (Act 1st, Scene 5th,)

Romeo happens in addressing her to use the word “pilgrim;” and the whole

subsequent conversation consists of quibbles upon this word. In like

manner the word _volume_, in Lady Capulet’s description of Paris,

suggests all the remainder of her speech:

Read o’er the _volume_ of young Paris’ face

And find delight _writ_ there with beauty’s _pen_.

. . . . . . .

And what obscured in this fair _volume_ lies,

Find _written_ in the _margin_ of his eyes.

This precious _book_ of love, this _unbound_ lover,

To beautify him only lacks a _cover_.

. . . . . . .

That _book_ in many eyes doth show the glory,

That in gold _clasps_ locks in the golden _story_; etc. etc.

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

He jests at scars that never felt a wound,—

[_Juliet appears above at a window._

But soft! what light from yonder window breaks!

_It is the East, and Juliet is the sun._

This conceit leads to others about the sun, and moon, and stars, and

Juliet’s eyes, which occupy the whole speech, and the remainder of the

scene is either of a similar character, or distinguished by sudden

revulsions of feeling, which I shall notice hereafter. The whole scene

is highly illustrative of the theme.

Beautiful as some of the “conceits” of the garden scene are, Mercutio’s

description of Queen Mab caps the climax of fantastical analogies:

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs,

The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;

The traces of the smallest spider’s web;

The collars of the moonshine’s watery beams, etc. etc.

He represents her as galloping in this state through lover’s brains,

o’er lawyer’s fingers, etc., when the former straight dreams of love,

the latter of fees; and each according to his character, that is, their

dreams are shaped by the influence of the moment, which is agreeable to

the “central idea.” Indeed, this speech is not more remarkable for the

exquisite ingenuity and propriety of its comparisons and allusions, than

for its perfect adaptation to the general subject of the play.

Similar conceits and quibbles abound throughout the play, in the most

beautiful passages, and in the most heart-rending scenes. When Juliet

hears that Romeo, her “three-hours husband,” has killed her cousin

Tybalt, her _conflicting emotions_ find vent in a string of

_antitheses_: “Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical, dove-feathered raven,”

etc. In like manner Romeo’s group of contrasts in Act 1st, Scene 1st, is

suggested by the juxtaposition of the words “love” and “hate.” Both

Romeo and Juliet quibble when relating their griefs to Friar Laurence.

The Friar himself quibbles whilst attempting to console them; there is

quibbling in the beautiful chamber scene, and in the scene so full of

horrors at the church-yard.

Leaving the reader to follow up these suggestions at his pleasure, I

proceed to notice some of the passages in which this spirit of

_abandonment_ is exemplified in reference to,

2. _Passion, Impulse, etc._

I have already alluded to the _affray_ in the first scene. Romeo’s love

for Rosaline is strongly painted in the subsequent part of that, and in

the following scene. Benvolio persuades him to go to the feast at

Capulet’s, where Rosaline is to sup, promising that by showing him other

beauties he will make him “think his swan _a crow_.” Romeo, in reply,

makes loud protestations of fidelity to Rosaline, and declares that “the

all-seeing sun ne’er saw her match;” and when he finally consents to go,

expressly declares his purpose:

I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,

But to rejoice in splendor of mine own.

That is, in contemplating the beauty of Rosaline. In this, Shakspeare

has departed from the original story, in which Romeo goes to the feast,

not to _see_, but to endeavor to _forget_ Rosaline. Inasmuch as it

presents his fickleness in a stronger light, this variation has been

thought to injure the effect of Romeo’s character—for he no sooner sees

Juliet than Rosaline is utterly forgotten; her image expelled from his

heart, and replaced by the more beauteous image of Juliet. Shakspeare’s

object in the variation, in this as in other instances, undoubtedly was,

in pursuance of his theme, to make the transition as sudden and as

conspicuous as possible. The effect being favorable to his main design,

he cared little how it operated in other respects.

Old Capulet, as the revels progress, is filled with the spirit of the

occasion. His heart overflows with genial hospitality; and inspired by

the array of beauty around him, he descants on the time when he himself

“could tell a whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear.” Tybalt, recognising

Romeo, a Montague, among the guests, instantly calls out, “Fetch me my

rapier!” On this, as on all occasions, the sight of a Montague is with

him a sufficient signal for battle. But Capulet, whose ruling passion

now is hospitality, rebukes and restrains him:

Let him alone!

I would not for the wealth of all this town,

Here, _in my house_, do him disparagement.

The unrestrained outpouring of the heart in the garden scene, needs only

to be referred to. Whatever thought or feeling occurs at the moment

drives out all other thoughts and feelings. Juliet dismisses Romeo with

a thousand good-nights; then recalls him with passionate exclamations,

and then says, “I have forgot why I did call thee back.” Her impatience

to hear the Nurse’s report of Romeo’s message, with the Nurse’s

tantalizing circumlocutions, (Act 2d, Scene 5th,) and her tumultuous

emotions on hearing that her husband, Romeo, had killed her cousin

Tybalt, (Act 3d, Scene 2d,) are equally in keeping with the general

subject.

The first scene of the third act opens with a quibbling conversation.

Presently Tybalt meets Romeo, and on the instant challenges him to

fight; but Romeo (who before this has been secretly married to Juliet)

declines the challenge, when Mercutio takes up the quarrel, and is

slain. Mercutio was a zealous partisan of the house of Montague; but

after he receives his mortal wound, yielding to a new influence, he

becomes sensible of the folly of the dispute which he has so long helped

to maintain; “A plague o’ both your houses!” is his dying exclamation.

Romeo, finding his friend killed and his own reputation stained through

his forbearance, can restrain himself no longer. The sudden transition

of feeling and conduct here, from tame submission to fierce defiance, is

one of the finest of the many instances of the kind in the play. When

Morok touched the crouching lion with his flaming rod, he instantly

bounded up in wrath, and stood erect, majestic, and fearful to look

upon. Not less sudden and complete is the change produced in Romeo by

the re-entrance of Tybalt.

_Ben._ Here comes the bloody Tybalt back again.

_Rom._ Alive! in triumph! and Mercutio slain:

Away to heaven, respective lenity,

And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now.

The chamber scene (Act 3d, Scene 5th) is filled with the expression of

spontaneous and characteristic emotions. The dialogue between Romeo and

Juliet at the beginning is the most exquisitely beautiful passage of the

play; and there is none more illustrative of the theme. The art with

which the contending passions are depicted is only surpassed by the

beauty of the imagery and the melody of the diction. In the same scene

Capulet urges the marriage between Juliet and Paris, and on her refusal,

forgetting his former declaration that his consent would lie “within her

scope of choice”—alive only to the rebellion against his

authority—displays a degree of rudeness and violence which the pride

and the habit of dominion alone can account for. The Nurse being

consulted by Juliet in this emergency, and not being moved by either

passion or principle, considers very literally what course would be most

_expedient_ under all the circumstances; and, since Romeo is “as good as

dead,” advises her to marry Paris. Juliet’s reply to this advice comes

like a flash of lightning—

Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!

. . . . Go, counsellor,

Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.

By the Friar’s advice, Juliet at length consents to marry Paris, and

then Capulet is filled with impotent glee—being as absurd now in his

joy as he lately was in his anger. When Juliet the next morning is found

apparently dead, the lamentations of the several persons present (each

of whom indulges his own proper emotions) are singularly in character.

Capulet—the “rich” Capulet, as he is often styled in the play—bewails

the loss of his “heir;” Lady Capulet mourns for her “only child;” Paris

for his “love in death;” whilst the Nurse indulges her grief in

boisterous and empty vociferation—

O wo! O woful, woful, woful day!

Most lamentable day! most woful day

That ever, ever I did yet behold!

O day! O day! O day! O hateful day.

The musicians who had come to play at the wedding are about to retire,

when Peter enters and engages them in a quibbling conversation; and in

the course of it recites the following verses, which are also made to

inculcate the great sentiment of the play, _the readiness with which the

mind submits to passing influences_:

When griping grief the heart doth wound,

And doleful dumps the mind oppress,

Then music, with her silver sound,

With speedy help doth lend redress.

The same idea pervades the scene in which the Apothecary is introduced.

Romeo’s description of him is prefaced by this pertinent reflection:

O _mischief_! thou art swift

To enter in the thoughts of _desperate_ men!

The word “desperate” here refers to his own circumstances, but he

immediately applies it to the Apothecary, and describes his _desperate

poverty_: and hence infers his readiness to do a _desperate_ deed:

Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,

And fear’st to die?

The next scene (Act 5th, Scene 2d) is a very short one, and is wholly

occupied with a conversation between Friar Laurence and Friar John, in

which the latter relates that he had failed to carry the letter to

Romeo, as he had promised, because the “searchers of the town,”

suspecting that he had been in a house where “the infectious pestilence

did reign,” locked him up, etc. The “central idea” is found here

also—in the allusion to the pestilence, and the alarm which the mere

rumor of it inspires.

_Dreams_ are several times introduced in the course of the play, and in

every instance the dream is shaped either by some passing influence, or

by a coming event, which thus “casts its shadow before.” In Mercutio’s

description of Queen Mab, the “fairies’ midwife,” she is represented as

“delivering” the dreamers of their various fancies. In the closing scene

Balthazer tells the Friar that as he slept under a yew-tree he dreamt

that his master (Romeo) and another fought, and that his master killed

him; which was the fact. And this bearing in sleep, and dreaming of what

is actually passing, is a phenomenon which, I presume, has happened to

every one. Again, Romeo says, (Act 5th, Scene 1st,) “I dreamt my lady

came and found me dead,” etc.—which afterward happened. In our day,

this, I suppose, would be called clairvoyance.

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

is presented.

3. _Didactic expositions of the theme._

With a mere reference to Montague’s description of his son’s _humors_,

in the first scene, I pass to the following speech of Benvolio in the

second scene:

Tut man! one fire burns out another’s burning,

One pain is lessened by another’s anguish;

Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;

One desperate grief cure with another’s languish;

Take thou some new infection to thy eye,

And the rank poison of the old will die.

And thus throughout the play one passion, sentiment, or whim, is

constantly _succeeding_ and _driving out_ another.

Friar Laurence, as becomes his sacred character, preaches moderation

wherever he appears, and constantly labors to restrain the headstrong

passions of others. He first appears (Act 2d, Scene 3d) soliloquizing in

his cell. After describing “flecked darkness” as reeling like a drunkard

“from forth day’s path-way,” he falls into reflections on the

constitution of nature. He finds a principle of good and a principle of

evil in every thing that lives on the earth. And according to its fair

use or abuse the one or the other of these principles prevails.

Deliberation and reserve are inculcated; his mission is, to endeavor to

stem the impetuous torrent that dashes around him. Thus when Romeo

threatens to kill himself (Act 3d, Scene 3d) the friar paints his

inconsiderate folly in most graphic and animated language.

What, rouse thee man! Thy Juliet is alive

For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;

There art thou happy; Tybalt would kill thee

But thou slewest Tybalt; there art thou happy too;

The law, that threatened death, becomes thy friend,

And turns it to exile; there art thou happy;

A pack of blessings lights upon thy back;

Happiness courts thee in her best array;

But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,

Thou poutest upon thy fortune and thy love;

Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.

Very similar to this is his speech to the mourners over the body of

Juliet, supposed by all but him to be dead.

The prince acts a similar part, and in the last scene, declares his

determination to inquire into all the circumstances, “And know their

spring, their head, their true descent,” before passing judgment;

whereupon the friar recapitulates the whole story. As he tells nothing

but what was known to the reader before, his long speech would seem to

be superfluous; but does not the moral of the piece consist in this

deliberate investigation after so much impulsive and inconsiderate

conduct; and the final reconciliation of the rival houses, when grief

has brought them to _reflection_?

If this imperfect sketch should induce the reader to take up Romeo and

Juliet, and study it in the point of view I have indicated, he will find

a thousand illustrations of the “central idea,” which it has been

impossible, in this brief paper, to notice; and he will find a principle

of order in this seeming chaos—that all these quibbles and conceits,

these headlong passions, and conflicting emotions are made to harmonize

and serve a common purpose.

* * * * *

JACOB’S LADDER.

E. J. EAMES.

OH! beautiful ascending, and descending,

Were your bright footsteps ’twixt the earth and sky;

Celestial visitants, in love attending

On the tired trav’ler, to whose dreaming eye

Came radiant glimpses of that far Elysian,

Whose glories now are hid to mortal vision.

A gleam of pinions—solemn harmonies—

The stony pillow—the dim haunted sod—

And to the sleeper—what dread mysteries

Awe his high heart? How sinks the _Voice of God_

Deep in his soul! Yes, God in veiled glory

Appears, His “ancient cov’nant” to renew;

And angel-tongues record the sacred story

Which o’er the Patriarch such rich splendor threw!

But never more, as in the days departed,

Will ye return to gladden this dull earth:

What burning tears to human eyes have started

Since last ye moved ’mid forms of mortal birth.

And though no more, in glorious raiment clad,

May God, or angel-guest, to man appear,

Unseen they walk the world, and hov’ring near

Their _spiritual presence_ makes earth’s children glad.

And still the mystic ladder is erected,

Whereon bright missioned spirits come and go—

Bearing unto the worn and world-dejected,

A precious balm for all life’s want and wo.

Still unto us high promises are given,

And holiest hopes, to lead our hearts to Heaven.

* * * * *

BASS AND BASS FISHING.

BY FRANK FORESTER.

[Illustration]

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

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

Lawrence._

THIS noble fish, a member of a tribe known in almost every region of the

globe, is, as an individual, peculiar to the waters of North America,

not being found in any other part of the world; while his geographical

range here, being very extensive, covers most if not all the rivers,

bays, lagoons and beaches from the Capes of Florida to the Estuary of

the St. Lawrence; in which great frith he is found, slightly modified

from the Atlantic type, and known as the Barre Fish.

He must not be confounded with the Sea Bass, as he has been by Dr.

Smith, the author of the Fishes of Massachusetts, who takes Dr. Mitchell

severely to task for naming him _Bodianus Mitchilli_; accusing the

Doctor of extreme arrogance and presumption in assuming the discovery

and right of naming a fish, which he—Smith—alledges to be known to

every fisherman and naturalist of every European coast; whereas, in

reality, the fact is precisely as stated by Dr. Mitchell.

The Striped Bass is a very beautiful fish, of the order

_Acanthopterygii_, or thorny finned fishes, and of the family _Pereidæ_;

which may be distinguished from the soft finned tribes, by having the

whole of the first dorsal fin supported by strong, sharp, spinous rays,

by a single strong spine in front of the second dorsal, one in front of

the ventrals, and three in front of the anal fin. The operculum, or

gill-cover, has a serrated edge and two flat spines. Its dental system

is very complete and formidable, on the maxillaries, palatine-bones, and

tongue, as it is essentially a carnivorous fish, preying

indiscriminately on most of the smaller finny inhabitants of the waters,

as also on their spawn, and on some of the smaller crustaceæ, as crabs

and shrimps.

In color he is bright and silvery, bluish brown, with copperish

reflections on the back, and eight, or sometimes though rarely nine,

parallel stripes of dark brownish purple—the fourth of these is

ordinarily consentaneous with the lateral line, though sometimes the

fifth. Those above it run from the head to the origin of the tail, and

are by far the darkest; those below are fainter, and die away at about

two-thirds the length of the belly.

The pectoral fins have sixteen rays, the ventrals one spinous and five

soft rays, the anal three spinous and eleven soft rays, the first dorsal

nine spinous, the second one spinous and twelve soft, the caudal

seventeen soft rays.

The Sea Bass, which is of the same order and family, _Pereidæ_, is

purely a sea fish, never entering estuaries or rivers, and never being

taken in other than salt waters, on the outer bars and sea-banks,

whereas the Striped Bass, like the Salmon, though salt water is

necessary to him, in order to give vigor to his constitution, and

perhaps to enable him to reproduce his species, is taken without

distinction in the clear cold spring-waters of the river-heads, in the

brackish slack-waters of the broad estuaries, in the strong, whirling

salt eddies of sea-channels, such as Hellgate, and the inlets from the

ocean to the inner bays, and lastly in the tumbling and flashing surfs

on all the outer beaches, from those, I believe, of Hatterns, alone all

the coasts north-eastward to those of Jersey and Long Island; on which

they are taken with the squid and the seine from July to November, of

rare excellence, and in great abundance.

The river runs of the Striped Bass are very singular, and though I will

not say unaccountable—by no means accounted for. So soon as the Smelt,

Shad, and Herring enter the river-mouths and estuaries, the Striped Bass

is found following them; and in every different water it appears that he

acts on a peculiar and instinctive principle. Where, when, or how he

spawns no man knows or has written.

Our rivers he enters from the Delaware eastward from the first of March

and later as the season offers, and makes up to the clear, cool

spring-waters of the rivers near their heads. At that time he may be

fished for, in the Delaware and in all the rivers in which the Shad run

up and spawn, with _shad-roe_ FATALLY.

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

Thus, for instance, at Macomb’s Dam, Kingsbridge, and all the Harlæm

River and Hellgate, in the neighborhood of New York, shad-roe is

_useless_; because the Shad do not spawn there, and the Bass _know_ it.

While in the Passaic, at Belleville Bridge and Acquanonck, up to both

which places these fish run, there is a certainty of taking them with

this bait, because Shad do spawn in the Passaic.

Therefore, in all rivers up which Shad run, the true and best bait for

the Striped Bass is the shad-roe.

This must be prepared thus. The roe of the female fish—that is the

_hard_ roe—must be taken, cleaned, washed, and washed again, and then

potted down with two ounces of salt to every half pound of roe, pressed

close into a stone pot and hermetically sealed. After three months it

will be fit for use; when it must be cut out of the pot like cheese,

fastened on the hook in a small lump, and tied to it by a lapping of

light-colored floss silk, or raveled hemp.

At this same time, in tideways such as Hellgate and the like, crab is

the best and most killing bait on a line by rod and reel fishing, with

weight enough to keep your crab within three inches of the bottom; thus

you shall take abundance of moderate sized fishes—the best by all odds

on the table—but if you aim at the thirty and forty pounders, you must

take that hideous and disgusting fishy reptile, _the real squid_, armed

with a strong cod-hook, on a heavy hempen line, trolled from the stern

of a boat slowly pulled against stream.

The Bass will strike at a gaudy fly, or a spun minnow, at the latter

every where, at the first seldom, and I believe casually; though if you

do hook him look out, for he shall try your line, and strain your tackle

to the utmost, and if you land even a three pounder on a single gut with

fly or minnow trolled, you have done great work.

The favorite haunts of the Striped Bass, whence his provincial name of

Rock Fish, are stony, gravelly, or rocky reefs, or sunken piers and dams

which cause eddies, in the vicinity of which his prey are to be found

darting about in the greatest abundance, and in such localities he is

often taken with the rod and reel in great numbers, running from two and

a half to seven pounds in weight, which is the best size for the table.

The Bass is a bold and fierce biter; and when he takes the bait he does

it with a will, and there is no occasion for giving him line or time

wherein to pouch the bait before striking, as you must do with the

European Pike, and the American Pickerel and Mascalonge.

In the Harlæm river he is fished for with a stout rod and reel, a strong

line of at least three hundred feet, and crab or shrimp bait, or

sometimes a shiner or spearling hooked through the back-fin with a

large-sized Limerick hook armed upon gimp. A sinker is used in this mode

of fishing, and the bait should be suspended at some distance from the

bottom, and allowed to swim about at his own sweet will.

When _struck_ the Bass does not leap out of water, like the trout or

salmon, but he is decidedly a run-away fish, taking twice as much

line—pound weight for yard length—as the Salmon, and, though not so

fierce or furious, requiring as much skill to handle. You must give him

your line inch by inch, as sparingly as possible, heading him _down_

stream if you can, and wearing him out always by concession and

persuasion.

So much for him in the spring. How far he goes up the rivers in his

spring run, we know not, nor presume to say. Killed he has been in

October at Milford, Delaware, prime, and in good condition, but I think

not running up to spawn himself, but rather to eat the roe of the shad

which do run thitherward up to spawn.

After July and from thence to September they disappear from among us of

the rivers, and during that period they are taken constantly by

_squidding_, as it is called, that is to say, by using a large sized

Limerick-hook, _shanked_ with a piece of bright tin, mother-of-pearl, or

ivory, attached to a long cod-line wound upon a card, in the rapid

swirling eddies among rocks in the great outer tideways, and yet more

readily in the wild, thundering surfs of the outside beaches. I have

seen them taken thus off Shrewsbury Inlet, near Sandy-Hook, to the

weight of sixty or seventy pounds; but it is a laborious, wet, and dirty

toil, and cannot in anywise be regarded as a sport.

The line, without a rod, is whirled round the head, and the squid

delivered, without a splash in the water, if it so may be, and then

dragged in hand over hand, the fish striking with his whole power, and

being mastered by main force.

Late in the autumn the Bass run in again, for what purpose we know not,

save this, that the growth and comparative size of the fry as taken not

justifying our believing that they breed in fresh rivers—we must

consider them to be in pursuit of prey.

In the Delaware they are trolled for gnostically and rightfully, with a

minnow, shiner, or young shad, baited on a double hook, armed on a

treble gut with two swivels, a trolling-rod, and good Conroy’s

reel—this is the true and scientific way of doing it.

The best rod for this sport is the regular trolling, or, as it is

otherwise called, _barbed_ rod. It should be twelve feet long, the butt

of stout ash, the second and third joints of hickory, and the fourth of

lance-wood. It should by no means have rings, but the new patent

rail-road guides, five in number, exclusive of the funnel guide at the

tip. It is a very good plan to have a double set of guides, on the

opposite sides of the rod, for the stress is so great in this kind of

fishing that in time the best rods will acquire a curvature, and lose

their elasticity. This is easily counteracted by changing the line from

side to side, and thus reversing the action.

The best trolling-rods are made by George Karr, of Grand Street, and Ben

Welch, of Cherry St., New York.

The reel should be a simple one, large enough to contain one hundred

yards of line.

This truly sporting mode of killing the Striped Bass is not used in New

York, where, in fact, there are few fishermen, except _fly_

fishermen—some very good, although, like angel visits—or pot

fishermen.

There the crab and the shrimp, with a _dobber_, as the pot fishermen

call it, is the weapon, and the best wielder of it is he who brings the

most and heaviest fish to _pot_, with the most violence and the least

skill.

The autumn being past, the Striped Bass retires for the winter to the

mud-holes, which he loves, the soft, warm coves at the mouths of rivers

and estuaries, wherein he lurks requiescent until spring again calls his

prey into the rivers, and himself out of his lurking-places.

These be his times, his seasons, his baits, and his places; as to his

local habitation, and the place where he deposits and brings up his

children, nobody distinctly knowing, we shall be exceeding glad to

receive facts whereon to constitute something approaching to that which

is unwritten—the complete natural history of the Bass.

* * * * *

THE SMOKER.

BY THOMAS S. DONOHO.

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

I SAW him after dinner,

And his face was like the sun,

When wearily he goes to rest,

His long day’s journey done.

The beef had made it hot,

And the wine had made it red,

And a cloud was all around it,

Like a curtain round a bed.

His chair was tilted back,

And his feet were on the wall,

And the sorrows of the world

Did not trouble him at all!

For though he toiled and puffed,

Like an engine, or a stove,

Yet smiled amid his labors

This “cloud-compelling Jove!”

Again I passed his dwelling,

In the darkness of the night;

And still I knew the Smoker,

Like a glow-worm, by his light.

His head was still thrown back,

And his feet were still on high,

And he had a most peculiar look

From out his half-shut eye.

’Twas morning; and I saw him,

This great _Vesuvius_ man,

And o’er the news-full paper

His misty vision ran;

For still the fire was there,

And still the smoke was thick:

And I remembered me the tales,

Whose hero was—Old Nick!

I wondered if he slept?

Or ever went about?

Or was he only some machine—

For what? Ah, there’s the doubt!

Though puffing, always puffing,

He never seemed _to go_:

What good he did by staying there

Is more than yet I know.

A beggar-boy craved charity—

The Smoker “blessed his stars!”

And said, “_he had no change to spare_”—

Then sent for more cigars!

The patient wife at last complains;

He gruffly bids her cease:

“My home’s a bell; it’s very hard

I cannot _smoke_ in peace!”

* * * * *

THE MAIDEN’S COMPLAINT AGAINST LOVE.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

ONCE, on a sunny day,

Love came to dwell with me,

I stroked his downy wings,

And gave him kisses free.

How joyous sped the hours,

While Love with me did stay;

The fluttering tiny thing,

Drove Care’s dark form away.

I laughed, I danced, I sang—

How mad and wild my glee,

While blesséd little Love

Dwelt willingly with me.

Alas! one gloomy morn,

The wicked, willful fay,

That I so fondly cherished,

Took wing and fled away.

I shed sad, bitter tears,

While Care looked on with scorn;

At last I sped to Venus,

To tell my grievous wrong.

The goddess frowned upon me,

And Psyche blushing wept,

When saucy little Cupid

My charges sad thus met.

“She wearied me with kisses,

And held me pris’ner fast,

Blame not, O mother Venus,

I broke her bonds at last.”

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Dallas._ BRIGHTLY, SC.

“THE SMOKER.”]

See Page 410.

* * * * *

[Illustration: GOLD FISH.]

* * * * *

THE FINE ARTS.

EXHIBITION OF HUNTINGTON’S WORKS.—One of the halls of the Art Union

Building in New York, has been occupied for some time by an exhibition

of the collected works of Mr. HUNTINGTON. They are about one hundred and

twenty in number. Some of them are his very earliest efforts,

necessarily crude, having been executed in his college days, when his

incipient passion for art, interfered materially with his progress in

the classics. But as the artist himself observes, “the early blundering

attempts of beginners in art, are not as painful as those of musical

performers, or as insipid as the stammerings of incipient poets. The

lamest groupings of a young painter are often amusing, and sometimes

show what INMAN used to call ‘good intentions.’” It appears to us a very

interesting feature in this exhibition, that we are able to trace the

progress and development of Mr. HUNTINGTON’S talent. Thus we have

“_Ichabod Crane flogging a Scholar_,” his first attempt at composition

in 1834, which we may contrast with “_Mercy’s Dream_,” or the

“_Christiana and Children_” the two paintings upon which his fame most

securely rests. The gradual formation of his present pure style may be

distinctly traced through his successive works.

We find in the collection more landscapes than we thought Mr. H. had

painted, but he explains the matter by stating that during his early

professional career, while engaged as an assistant to a portrait

painter, “putting in back grounds,” he was seized upon by an

enthusiastic speculator who was about to erect a city on the Hudson

river, at Verplanck’s Point, then a wooded retreat of great beauty. This

enthusiast was a generous lover of art, and kept HUNTINGTON during an

entire summer, in that vicinity, taking views, and in his close study of

nature was then fostered a love for landscape, which he has never

forgotten. The artist himself says, of his subsequent works of this

kind, that they will not bear the test of a close comparison with

nature. They are rather hints and dreams of situations and effects,

which he beseeches the visitor to look at lazily and listlessly, through

the half-closed eye, and not to expect that truth and reality, which

should be found in the works of the professed landscape painter. We

cannot agree with the modest artist in his criticism upon himself—on

the contrary, we think _there is_ much of that marvelous force and

brightness which rivets the attention to COLE’S paintings; of the

freshness and atmosphere in which lie the fertile meadows—far

stretching distances—the sturdy oaks and beeches, with rich masses of

foliage, in DURAND’S calm, expansive compositions, and all of the

silvery lightness in moving clouds and transparent running brooks, which

the veteran DOUGHTY would magically call into being on the canvas.

We think the true passion of boyish love and first devotedness pervades

all the occasional outbreaks which have led him from the dull routine of

portraits to the green fields, the blue skies, and the silvery streams.

The Rondout Scenes, painted three or four years after the modern

Cecrops, would have carried art, learning, letters, and men to

Verplanck’s Point, and the two elegant Ramapo views (most unfortunately

not in the collection when we saw it, but in the possession of JAMES

ROSS, Esq. of New Orleans) are living evidences of this. And then the

“Moon Light and Fire Light,” drawn in an annual distribution of the Art

Union, by the late much lamented Dr. JAMES MILNOR, is one of the most

fanciful and artistic combinations of light and shade that could be

imagined. Under these circumstances we will not allow Mr. HUNTINGTON to

escape the charge of being a very admirable and forcible landscape

painter.

But it is in historical and allegorical painting that HUNTINGTON has

made the reputation which will live the longest; although he says, the

class of pictures which were painted with the greatest interest are

those which were meant to convey a moral lesson, and were ideally

treated, such as the “Sacred Lesson,” “Alms Giving,” “Piety and Folly,”

“Faith,” “Hope,” etc. This we can very easily imagine; for it must be to

the spirit of a painter, like the enlargement of a caged bird, to escape

the confines of buckram, broadcloth, and modern costume, and feel that

“no pent up Utica” confines the powers, and they can range from the

trammels of the real to the delicious _abandon_ of the ideal. To

transfer to canvas the feelings of our nature, and embody, as it were,

the moral sentiments must indeed be a triumph to the artist, and we

think it has been achieved by HUNTINGTON.

The picture which has acquired the most extended reputation for this

artist, is by no means his best or even one of his best. It has become

popularized by having been engraved for the American Art Union two years

since, and is the “Signing of the Death Warrant of Lady Jane Grey.” We

think it fortunate that the lovers of art in our country, who do not

enjoy the privilege of visiting the large collections in our cities, are

to have a better specimen of HUNTINGTON’S talent, and his peculiar

ideality of composition in the engraving of his “Mercy’s Dream,” by the

Philadelphia Art Union. This will, we think, be one of the most popular

plates ever distributed.

To enter upon a critical analysis of HUNTINGTON’S style would be but a

historical sketch of his artistic career; for his advancement in finish,

and his impressiveness in composition, are marked and graded on each

succeeding painting which he has started from the canvas. There is “no

retiring ebb” to his genius—he always improves upon himself, as the

result of close attention and indefatigable study. So happy is he in his

historical, dramatic, and allegorical subjects, that they associate

themselves with the very facts they intend to delineate, to the

exclusion almost of the records of the past—his ideality takes the

place of the written chronicle; and it seems as if the olden tradition

glowed beneath his pencil. HUNTINGTON is as graphic on historic canvas,

as MACAULAY is on the historic page. We must accord to him a high rank,

for he has merited it. In every department of his art, from the dull

routine of portrait painting to the study of the Florentine Sybil, or to

his latest inspirations, “St. John the Evangelist,” and the “Marys at

the Sepulchre,” there is the same loveliness of composition, boldness of

handling, and delicacy of conception.

We should feel great gratification in referring minutely to some of the

more elaborate and important works in this collection, but our purpose,

at the outset, was to make only a general notice, and call attention to

the interesting fact, that nearly all HUNTINGTON’S works can now be seen

in one gallery, collated as they have been from every quarter of the

Union. The success which has attended the exhibitions of the labors of

ALSTON, INMAN and HUNTINGTON, will, we trust, lead to subsequent efforts

among our other artists to get up corresponding displays of their works.

By producing emulation it will have a good effect, and these galleries

opened with such attractiveness, will lead to the formation of a taste

for art, which will soon direct itself to the encouragement of artists

through many private channels of munificence.

* * * * *

DEATH OF JAMES THOM.—On the 17th of April, James Thom, the sculptor,

died in New York. He was emphatically a self-made man, and his “Tam

O’Shanter and Souter Johnny” first raised him from his obscurity as an

humble stone-cutter, to a rank among our sculptors. He had no previous

education, and enjoyed no opportunity of studying schools or models.

THOM first reached this country about 1836-7, in search of an agent, who

had been sent here by the proprietors to exhibit his “Old Mortality” and

“Tam O’Shanter;” Thom found the delinquent and obtained a portion of the

money for which these works had been fraudulently sold. After remitting

these proceeds to the just owners, he determined to remain in this

country. His first efforts were directed to finding a free stone suited

to his work, which he soon discovered at Little Falls. From this he made

copies of his two most celebrated works. The Old Mortality Group is now

placed opposite the entrance to Laurel Hill Cemetery, near Philadelphia,

including the pious antiquarian Presbyterian, his rugged poney and the

faithful likeness of Sir Walter Scott. The “Tam O’Shanter” is the

property of Roswell L. Colt, Esq., Patterson, N. J. The

statue of Burns, also from his chisel, was an excellent specimen of his

skill.

Thom obtained an advantageous contract to perform the stone-cutting for

Trinity Church, New York, and made a handsome profit from it, although

he left the work before its completion, and retired to a farm in

Rockland County. He has since occupied his time as an architect, more,

however, for the filling up of his leisure hours, than for probability

of profit, as none of his designs have even been executed. The genius of

Thom was peculiar—his fame may rest safely upon “Old Mortality,” and

“Tam O’Shanter,” though some of his busts and ornamental garden designs

possessed great merit.

* * * * *

PHILADELPHIA ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS.—The spring exhibition of this

society promises to be unusually attractive. The liberal prizes offered

by the managers to induce competition, have awakened the spirit of not

only our own, but foreign artists. We shall next month have an

opportunity to notice these works in detail, and hope to find some home

productions which will compare favorably with those received from

abroad. Among the latter is a magnificent piece of coloring by VAN

SCHENDEL of Brussels, representing Ahasuerus king of the Persians and

Medes, in the midst of his gorgeous court, as described in the Book of

Esther. SCHOTEL of Medembled, Holland, has sent out two marine views, a

department in which he is justly celebrated. One of these, entitled

“Wrecking and Succor,” possesses much energy, and the other, “The

Schelde by a fresh gale,” will be highly prized by all the lovers of

art. There are also two works by Carl Hubner of Dusseldorf,

called “The Recovery,” and “The Happy Moment,” which evince high

artistic excellence. G. F. DIDAY of Bremen, has sent over two beautiful

views of the High Alps in Switzerland, and J. SCHOPPE of Berlin, a scene

descriptive of a Spanish comedy by Moneto, which he entitles Amphitrite

and Donna Diana. All these, and others of minor excellence, will be

noticed more fully hereafter.

* * * * *

THE AMERICAN ART UNION.—The walls of the new gallery of this

institution already present many beautiful specimens of art. A picture

by LEUTZE, called the “Knight of Sayn and the Gnomes,” is particularly

admired. The story, as described by G. G. FOSTER, Esq. in his spicy

little paper, the Merchants’ Day Book, is of a knight who fell in love

with a beautiful damsel, whose father would consent to the match only on

condition that the lover would ride up the steep rocks on which his

castle was built. This was clearly an impossible feat; but the king of

the Gnomes came secretly and offered, if the knight of Sayn would fill

up a silver mine that had been opened on his domain, to assist him in

crossing safely the bridge of love. The action of the picture is at the

moment that the knight rides over the last frightful fissure, upon a

bridge composed of rocks, supported and held in their places beneath his

charger’s hoofs, by the sturdy gnomes, while the king of the earth

elfins stands proudly on the other side with his royal sceptre in his

hand, to welcome his _protégé_ safely over. Far above is the father’s

castle, with the lady and her attendants, watching the dauntless rider

and waving their scarfs over his head. The whole of this picturesque and

charming scene is handled in the most admirable manner. The gnomes

couching like little atlases, under the heavy rocks across which the

knight is passing—the irresistible comicry of the burly gnome king—the

fiery prancing war-horse—the knight himself, waving his cap gallantly

to his mistress, while he sits his steed with the air of a perfect

conqueror, each seems better than the other. The entire composition and

action of the piece are spirited and graceful, while the happy choice of

subject equally betrays the accomplished artist.

* * * * *

HENRI HERZ.—The celebrated pianist has finally settled for the rest of

his days in Mexico. The supreme government has established a musical

conservatory, at the head of which Mr. Herz has been placed, with a

handsome salary.

* * * * *

IVES THE SCULPTOR, since his return from Italy, has completed a plaster

cast of Major General SCOTT, the mould of which he proposes to take with

him when he again visits Italy, and reproduce the head in marble. The

bust is true in its character, both in lineament and spirit, and is

looked upon with universal approbation.

* * * * *

POWER’S STATUE OF EVE.—It is stated that this statue, executed by Mr.

POWER for the Hon. WILLIAM C. PRESTON, of South Carolina, has been lost

by shipwreck on the coast of Spain. It had been generally conceded to be

his chef d’oeuvre, and its loss is a real calamity, not only to the

artist but the entire world of art. We trust sincerely that the original

cast remains, from which a new statue may be produced.

* * * * *

“MERCY’S DREAM.”—A copy from this original picture by HUNTINGTON has

been executed by Mr. MCMURTRIE, of Philadelphia, with a general fidelity

in tone, style, color, expression, and atmospheric effect, which is

truly remarkable. This copy will constitute the first prize at the next

drawing of the Art Union of Philadelphia, which will take place on the

evening of the 31st of December, 1850.

* * * * *

MARTI’S OPERA TROUP, from the Tacon Theatre, Havana, has recently been

singing at Niblo’s Garden, in New York. Signor Salvi is acknowledged to

be the only perfect tenor heard in this country since the days of

Garcia. Signorina Steffanone, the new soprano, is also warmly praised.

The orchestra is admirable, and all the appointments excellent.

* * * * *

EARLY ENGLISH POETS.

POEMS OF THOMAS CAREW.

IN the history of early English literature, we find little mention made

of the productions of Thomas Carew; “that sweet poet and most witty

gentleman,” as he was quaintly styled by Sir William Davenant. With the

exception of one or two of his songs, to be found in “The English

Anthology,” we do not remember to have seen any mention made of his

verses. This neglect cannot be accounted for by attributing it to his

want of merit as a poet. The melody of his verse, the genuine spirit of

poetry pervading his songs, and the happy conceits sparkling through

them, entitle him to a position not many removes from that occupied by

Sir John Suckling, whose sweet numbers and mellifluous verse are

familiar to every lover of early English literature.

If the testimony of contemporaries is any test of poetic ability, the

subject of our notice seems to have had his full share with the lighter

poets and wits of his age.

Thomas Carew was descended from one of the first families in

Gloucestershire, England; many of his ancestors having filled high and

responsible stations in the preceding reigns of Mary, Elizabeth, and

James I. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where he did

not remain to finish the usual collegiate course, having been expelled

for some youthful indiscretion. He afterward made the tour of Europe,

visiting some of the most polished courts, and perfecting himself in all

those accomplishments then so necessary for the complete education of a

courtier. On his return from his travels, his fine person and polished

manners attracted the attention of Charles I., who gave him the

appointment of gentleman of the privy chamber, and was in the habit of

constant social intercourse, esteeming him one of the most polished

gentlemen and refined wits of his court. By the poets of his day he was

much respected, claiming Ben Jonson and Sir William Davenant among the

most devoted of his friends, and the warmest admirers of his verse. It

redounds, however, much more to his praise that he was intimate with the

youthful Hyde, afterward so distinguished as Earl of Clarendon—who

speaks highly “of his amiable qualities, and his talent for light

poetry, of the amorous kind, in the elegance and fancy of which he had

few superiors.” Carew died in the prime of life, some time in the year

1639, thus fortunately escaping the troubles that even then “were

casting their dark shadows before,” and which eventually overwhelmed his

royal master. The only edition of his poems ever published appeared in

1630, edited by himself; and it is from this work we propose to

introduce to the reader’s attention a few of the most beautiful of his

songs and fugitive pieces.

An earnest desire to rescue from oblivion the many beautiful thoughts

and curious conceits pervading the verses of this poet, has induced the

preparation of our article. These songs served to lighten the cares of

the troublesome reign of Charles I., and, set to music, were the

favorite melodies of his time. In an age when gallantry was the chief of

virtues, and the smiles and encouragement of the gentler sex the sure

reward that awaited every laudable undertaking. Carew seems to have

devoted his talents to the ladies. In smooth and gentle verse he

celebrated their varied charms—or in ardent strains declared his own

impassioned admiration and love.

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

like these—

I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,

Which, pleased or angered, still are murderers,

For if she dart, like lightning, through the air,

Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair,

If she behold me with a pleasing eye,

I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

And he mourns in touching melancholy verse the death of the loved one,

and in sweet strains laments

The purest soul, that e’er was sent

Into a clayey tenement,

Informed this dust, but the weak mould

Could the great guest no longer hold,

The substance was too pure, the flame

Too glorious, that hither came.

Does he celebrate the beauties of the natural world, he is sure to

institute a comparison of those beauties with the charms of his

mistress—and in his glowing language, “winter’s snow-white robes” “and

blue-eyed spring” welcomed to the earth “by a choir of chirping

minstrels” shrink into insignificance by the comparison. Does he pine

away, banished from the presence of his mistress, he compares himself

with happy conceit “to one far from the shore in a storm-beaten boat,

where love is the pilot,”

but o’ercome with fear

Of her displeasure, dares not homeward steer.

Indeed, the warmth of his verse, and its flow of happy conceits, induced

Sir William Davenant to call him “our English Anacreon”—but this

perhaps is going too far; although adopting the words of Moore, applied

to Anacreon, we might say of Carew—“That his descriptions are sometimes

warm, but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words; he is often

sportive, without being wanton, ardent, without being licentious.”

Still, the distance between Carew and Anacreon is immeasurably

great—the singular beauty of “The Tean Bard”—his copiousness of

expression, his easy and joyous gayety—the enthusiasm of the grape

pervading his songs,—has never yet been equaled by his numerous

pretended imitators; who too often have sought in grossness of allusion,

and the vulgar rant of intoxication, for sources of resemblance.

It is indeed to be regretted that among the poems of Carew there are

many that might tinge the cheek of modesty, and repel every reader by

their gross physical impurities—and those, too, containing in their

grossness thoughts of most exquisite beauty. The existence of these

impurities, however, was the fault more of the age than the poet—custom

sanctioned, society relished the use of language and sentiment that now

would be exceedingly abhorrent to “ears polite.”

The polished courtiers, the fair dames of the court of Charles,

perceived nothing in these songs of Carew that could call the blush of

shame to the cheek, or excite even an impure thought. But custom,

“That despot, whose behest each age obeys,”

has in this our day otherwise ordered; and the civilized world now

believes with the poet Roscommon—

Immodest words admit of no defense,

A want of decency is want of sense.

My object in the preparation of this article being to rescue from

oblivion some of the verses of this sweet poet, Carew, I propose to make

such selections from his poems as shall prove, incontestably, his claim

to a high rank among the earlier English poets.

We do not claim that the poems of Carew evince the highest order of

poetic talent, but generous sentiment, and a glow of happy conceits

running through, and sparkling in them, often exhibit unexpected

beauties. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, applied to a poet of the same

age and nation,

“If the conceits are sometimes far-fetched, they will be found

oftentimes worth the carriage.”

It has been before remarked, that if the greatness of the poetic writers

of this age seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises us—and

noble sentiment and genuine wit will often be found buried beneath

strange illustrations, and far-fetched conceits.

In Headley’s introduction to his “Select Beauties of Ancient English

Poetry,” he bestows unqualified praise upon the amatory poets, who

flourished in the reign of Charles the First, giving a decided

preference to the poetry of the age of Elizabeth and Charles over all

that has been written since their day. And he considers the poets, the

amatory poets of those reigns, as forming a constellation far superior

in poetic lustre to any that have succeeded them.

This indeed is no faint praise, coming from so refined a critic; but

with all due deference we cannot but agree with Drake, that it is for

the most part too highly colored. The exquisite simplicity of style and

thought, so attractive in the productions of our modern poets, will be

looked for in vain in the verses of the poets of that early day; such

simplicity being the result of systematic refinement, and the progress

of language toward perfection.

But to return from this apparent digression; as the most beautiful

pearls are often found in the roughest shells, so in the songs of Carew

the reader will oftentimes be delighted to discover rare conceits,

sparkling with wit, and genuine poetry, but incased in rough

inharmonious verse.

But often, as in the beautiful lines to a primrose, Carew seems to break

loose from the trammels that fettered the versification of his day, and

in tuneful, and well measured song expresses so aptly the ideas of his

muse, as to give peculiar softness to his rhyme.

That little song, To a Primrose, commencing,

Ask me why I bring you here

This firstling of the infant year.

And the one entitled The Compliment,

My dearest I shall grieve thee

When I swear, yet, sweet, believe me,

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

commencing

Take, oh, take those lips away.

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

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

No daisy bears comparison,

Who sees it, is undone

For streaks of red were mingled there

Such as are on a Catharine pear,

The side that’s next the sun.

In all the poetry of the age in which Carew flourished, there is to be

found a straining after resemblances, and too often the sense is

sacrificed in the effort; personification is too often used, without

judgment, or taste. It is this fault which, more than any other, has

called down upon the poets of the age in which Carew flourished, so much

severe, and oftentimes unjust criticism.

But without offering these songs of Carew as models, without denying

that according to the rigid canons of polished criticism, many glaring

faults may be found in them, we still insist that their beauties are

many, and to the eye, which brings not every thing to the narrow measure

of a stern critic’s scrutiny, will more than compensate for unquestioned

blemishes. The blemishes are the offspring of the distorted taste of the

age in which our poet flourished—their beauties, the triumph of the

poet’s genius over the difficulties in his pathway.

THE SPRING.

Now that the winter’s gone, the earth has lost

Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost

Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream

Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream;

But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,

And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth

To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.

_Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring_

_In_ triumph to the world, the youthful spring.

The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,

Welcome the coming of the longed for May.

Now all things smile, only my love doth lower;

Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power

To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold

Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold.

The ox which lately did for shelter fly

Into the stall; doth now securely lie

In open field, and love no more is made

By the fire-side; but in the cooler shade

Amyutas now doth with his Chloris sleep

Under a sycamore, and all things keep

Time with the season; only _she_ doth carry

June in her eyes, her heart is January.

PERSUASION TO LOVE.

Think not, ’cause men flattering say

You’re fresh as April, sweet as May,

Bright as is the morning star,

That you are so; or though you are,

Be not therefore proud, and deem

All unworthy your esteem;

For being so, you lose the pleasure

Of being fair, since that rich treasure

Of rare beauty, and sweet feature,

Was bestowed on you by nature

To be enjoyed, and sure ’tis sin

There to be scarce, where she hath been

So prodigal of her best graces;

Thus common beauties, and mean faces

Shall have more pastime, and enjoy

The sport you loose by being coy.

Starve not yourself, because you may

Thereby make me pine away;

Nor let brittle beauty make

You, your wisest thoughts forsake.

For that lovely face will fail;

Beauty’s sweet, but beauty’s frail;

’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner done

Than summer rain, or winter’s sun;

Most fleeting when it is most dear!

’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here.

These curious locks, so aptly twined,

Whose every hair a soul doth bind,

Wilt change their auburn hue, and grow

White, and cold as winter’s snow.

That eye which now is Cupid’s nest,

Will prove his grave, and all the rest

Will follow, in the cheek then froze,

No lily shall be found, or rose.

And what will then become of all

Those who now you servants call?

Like swallow’s when your summer’s done

They’ll fly, and seek some warmer sun.

Remain still firm, be provident,

And think before the summer’s spent

Of following winter; like the ant

See plenty hoard for time of scant.

Cull out amongst the multitude

Of lovers, seeking to intrude

Into your favor, one that may

Last for an age, not for a day.

For when the storms of time have moved

Waves on that cheek, now so beloved,

When a fair lady’s face has pined,

And yellow spread, where red once shined,

When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her.

Love may return, but lovers never.

And old folks say, there are no pains

Like itch of love, in aged veins.

Oh, love me then, and now begin it,

Let us not loose a precious minute,

For time and age will work that rack,

Which time or age shall ne’er call back.

The snake each year, fresh skin resumes,

And eagles, change their aged plumes.

The faded rose, each spring receives

A fresh red tincture on her leaves:

But if your beauties once decay,

They never know a second May.

LIPS AND EYES.

In Celia’s face, a question doth arise

Which are more beautiful, her lips or eyes;

We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed darts

Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts

From us, replied the lips, proceed those blisses

Which lovers reap in kind words, and in kisses

Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour

Of liquid oriental pearls, a shower.

Whereat the lips moved with delight and pleasure,

In a sweet smile _unlocked their pearly treasure_;

And bade Love judge, whether did add more grace

Weeping, or smiling, to fair Celia’s face.

A BEAUTIFUL MISTRESS.

If when the sun at noon displays

His brighter rays,

Thou but appear

He then all pale with shame, and fear,

Quencheth his light,

Hides his dark brows, flies from thy sight

And grows more dim

Compared to thee, than stars to him,

If thou but show thy face again,

When darkness doth at midnight reign,

The darkness flies, and light is hurled

Round about the silent world.

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me, why I send you here

This firstling of the infant year?

Ask me, why I send to you,

This primrose, all bepearled with dew?

I straight will whisper in your ears

The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me, why this flower doth show

So yellow, green, and sickly too?

Ask me, why the stalk is weak,

And bending, yet it doth not break.

I must tell you, these discover

That doubts and fears beset your lover.

MURDERING BEAUTY.

I’ll gaze no more, on her bewitching face,

Since ruin harbors there, in every place;

For my enchanted soul, alike she drowns

With calms and tempests, of her smiles, and frowns.

I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,

Which pleased or angered, still are murderers;

For if she dart (like lightning) through the air

Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair;

If she behold me with a pleasing eye

I surfeit with excess of joy and die.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Lectures on Art and Poems. By Washington Allston. Edited by

Richard H. Dana, Jr. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._

The admirers of the greatest of American painters will need none of our

advice to read this volume, placing as it does its accomplished author

among the greatest of American writers. The Lectures are four long and

elaborate essays on art; and they evince a depth and delicacy of

insight, a concentrativeness and continuity of thought, a finely

harmonized action of reason and imagination, and a command of subtle

expression, which entitle them to a high rank among the best critical

compositions of the century. The lectures treat of the highest and most

exacting principles of creative art, and the passage from them to the

poems is a hazardous descent. Though some of these poems have gleams of

the author’s genius, they are generally characterized by a penury of

imaginative expression which is painful to a reader fresh from the

Lectures.

The merely literary reader will find much to delight him in the

Lectures, even if he is indisposed to pay much attention to their

profound discussion of principles. They contain many specimens of that

word-painting which gave such popularity to Ruskin’s “Modern Painters.”

The following passage on Vernet is one out of many splendid

descriptions. “Now let us look at one of his Storms at Sea, when he

wrought from his own mind. A dark, leaden atmosphere prepares us for

something fearful; suddenly a scene of tumult, fierce, wild, disastrous,

bursts upon us; and we feel the shock drive, as it were, every other

thought from the mind; the terrible vision now seizes the imagination,

filling it with sound and motion: we see the clouds fly, the furious

waves one upon another dashing in conflict, and rolling, as if in wrath,

toward the devoted ship; the wind blows from the canvas; we hear it roar

through her shrouds; her masts bend like twigs, and her last forlorn

hope, the close-reefed foresail, streams like a tattered flag; a

terrible fascination still constrains us to look, and a dim, rocky shore

looms on her lee; then comes the dreadful cry of ‘Breakers ahead!’ the

crew stand appalled, and the master’s trumpet is soundless at his lips.

This is the uproar of nature, and we _feel_ it to be _true_; for here

every line, every touch, has a meaning. The ragged clouds, the huddled

waves, the prostrate ship, though forced by contrast into the sharpest

angles, all agree, opposed as they seem, evolving harmony out of

discord. And this is Genius, which no criticism can ever disprove.”

The criticisms in these lectures on Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Titian,

Poussin, Claude, are as unrivaled for discrimination as appreciation. No

one has a quicker and deeper eye to detect the excellencies of great

works, and no one seizes with more fatal sagacity upon their defects.

Everybody has seen copies of Raffaelle’s great picture of the Madonna di

Sisto, but few have dared to express their dissatisfaction with the

seemingly beautiful figure of St. Catharine. Allston says it is an

“evident rescript from the Antique, with all the received lines of

beauty, as laid down by the analyst—apparently faultless, yet without a

single inflection which the mind can recognize as allied to our

sympathies; and we turn from it coldly as from the work of an artificer,

not of an Artist. But not so can we turn from the intense life, which

seems almost to breathe upon us from the celestial group of the Virgin

and her child, and from the Angels below; in these we have the evidence

of the divine afflatus—of inspired Art.”

Among the aphorisms written by Allston on the walls of his studio, and

published in the present volume, we extract the following:

“Some men make their ignorance the measure of excellence; these are, of

course, very fastidious critics; _for knowing little, they can find

little to like_.”

“A witch’s skiff cannot more easily sail in the teeth of the wind, than

the human _eye_ lie against fact; but the truth will oftener quiver

through lips with a lie upon them.”

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

subordinate.”

* * * * *

_Southey’s Common-Place Book. Second Series. Special

Collections. Edited by his Son-in-Law, John Wood Warter, B. D.

New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This volume contains the extracts which Southey made from the world of

books, relating to special subjects of study. The general topics under

which the extracts are grouped, are Ecclesiasticals, the Age of

Cromwell, Spanish and Portuguese Literature, the History of the

Religious Orders, Orientaliana, American Tribes, Natural History, and

Curious Facts. The range of reading that the volume indicates,

considered in connection with the number of Southey’s original works, is

sufficient to astound a regular book-cormorant, and places Southey

fairly among the “laboring classes.” The present volume is more racy in

its matter than the preceding, while it does not yield to it in the

amount of curious information given. The following passage, taken from

Percival Stockdale’s Memoirs, conveys a capital idea of an English

military commander. “When Lord George Germains commanded the camp near

Brompton, and at Chatham in 1757, Whitfield went to Chatham, sent his

respects by Captain Smith to his lordship, and requested permission to

preach in the camp. Lord George replied, ‘Make my compliments, Smith, to

Mr. Whitfield, and tell him, from me, he may preach any thing to my

soldiers that is not contrary to the articles of war.’” From the same

book Southey extracts an equally edifying paragraph, relating to the

view entertained of the Christian religion, by the English naval captain

of that time. Percival was appointed chaplain to Capt. Ogle’s ship

Resolution, but, he says, “the duty of clergyman was very seldom

required of me. One day, however, when I met my naval commander in a

street of Portsmouth, and paid my respects to him, he proposed that I

should do my duty on the ensuing Sunday on board. I replied that it was

my wish to receive such a command more frequently. At all events,

replied he, I think it is right that these things should be done

sometimes, _as long as Christianity is on foot_.” The simplicity with

which religion is patronized in both of these instances, makes them

richly humorous.

* * * * *

_Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A New Edition. Boston:

Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 2 vols. 10mo._

This edition of Longfellow contains all his poems, and makes two finely

printed volumes of some five hundred pages each, at about half the

original price. In their present tasteful form they will doubtless have

a large circulation, for their author is the most popular poet of the

day on both sides of the Atlantic. His poems sell better in England than

those of Tennyson, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Bailey or Milnes. This wide

popularity he has fairly won by his merits, as he has not lacked carping

critics or envious defamers to obstruct his path to success. The source

of the fascination he holds equally over cultivated and uncultivated

minds is partly owing to the fine humanity and sweetness of his spirit.

Good nature is a portion of his genius; without this good nature, man,

says Bacon, is but “a better kind of vermin;” but we are sorry to say

that it is not a prominent characteristic of many minds largely gifted

with the poetic faculty. Longfellow, in addition to this heartiness,

full of seriousness which does not exclude cheer, has a broad and

imaginative mind, which has assimilated and inwrought into its own

substance the spirit of many literatures; and this gives a vital

richness to his thought which no other contemporary poet but Tennyson

can be said to possess. Probably few poets ever excelled him in the

difficult art of preserving an equilibrium of ambition and capacity, so

that nothing is attempted which is not satisfactorily performed. Many

poets who aim higher than Longfellow, please less, because we are

conscious of the stir and sting of great aspirations which are

unaccompanied by sufficient imagination to give them adequate form and

expression, and the result is that the mind is disturbed rather than

exalted. In Longfellow aspiration and inspiration are perfectly

harmonized.

* * * * *

_The Angel World, and Other Poems. By Philip James Bailey,

author of “Festus.” Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol.

16mo._

“Festus,” a monstrous agglomeration of irreconcilable opinions, lit up

with fancy, and seasoned with warm sensations, was Mr. Bailey’s first

bantling—

“Got while his soul did huddled notions try,

And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.”

“The Angel World” is his second product, the result of the slow

gestation of many years, with fewer faults and fewer merits than

“Festus”. Many persons who would hesitate in calling “Festus” a poem,

discerned in it a chaos of poetical matter; and they supposed that the

author’s unquestioned fertility would be forced into form when his

powers matured. In “The Angel World” we find an approach to form with a

decay of fertility. This seems to prove that anarchy is not so much the

precursor of art as the destroyer of vitality, and that Bailey’s mind

found in anarchy its fittest expression. There is not enough greatness

in the man to make a great poem. Coleridge, in his remarks on Love’s

Labor Lost, says that “true genius begins in generalizing and

condensing; it ends in realizing and expanding. It first collects the

seeds.” Bailey’s process is the reverse of this; he first expands, then

condenses—and his expansion accordingly lacks substance, and his

condensation richness. But though “The Angel World” is inferior to

“Festus,” it still exhibits sufficient wealth of imagery to give it

prominence among contemporary poems, and to exact the attention of all

poetical readers. A poem which contains numerous thoughts as fine as the

following cannot be justly condemned:

In one

A soul of lofty clearness, like a night

Of stars, _wherein the memory of the day_

_Seems trembling through the meditative air_.

The “other poems” which follow “The Angel World” are of various degrees

of merit, indicating that the author is a man of moods, and is rapt or

muddled, according as his sensibility rises or falls. A few of the poems

are almost ecstatic, and equal the most striking passages in “Festus.”

* * * * *

_The Ways of the Hour: A Tale. By the author of “The Spy,” “The

Red Rover,” etc. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Cooper is a philanthropist of a peculiar kind. He makes an inventory

of popular errors and vices, some of them thoroughly inwoven in the

affections or manners of the people, and then daringly drives at them

with the whole might of his pen. We honor his courage, and sympathize

with his hatred of cant, even when we are disposed to doubt his

judgment, and to regret his fretful way of presenting his opinions.

Opposition seems to have deepened some of his dislikes into antipathies,

and a man with antipathies is always unreasonable even in his assaults

upon error and vice. There is one thing, however, for which Mr. Cooper

cannot be too highly praised, and that is, his keen perception of the

real faults which, in a democracy, should come under the lash of the

moralist and the satirist. Far from pandering to popular delusions, he

expends all his force in exposing and attacking them. The present novel

is full of thrusts at the political bubbles of New York, some of which

really subside into their “elemental suds” under his treatment. The

general object of the novel is to exhibit the injustice which results

from our system of trials by jury—an injustice which Mr. Cooper thinks

is the necessary consequence of that system in a democracy. This we deem

a monstrous paradox, though the story which illustrates it is ingenious

and interesting, and will well repay perusal.

* * * * *

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

1850._

Daguerreotypes by Brady—Engraved by D’Avignon, with Biographical

Notices by C. Edwards Lester, assisted by other literary men. This is

announced by the publishers of this work, and is sufficient alone to

recommend it. It will be a noble Gallery when completed, if carried out

as commenced. Two numbers are before us. The first number contains a

fine portrait of Gen. Taylor, with a short clear notice of his life. The

second number has a striking life-like head of Mr. Calhoun, which is

particularly valuable now, that we are all called upon as countrymen to

mourn the death of this great and good man. The biographical notice of

Mr. Calhoun is well written and interesting.

We have but one fault to find with this work. The interior of the cover

is used as a sort of journal—“Fly Leaf of Art and Criticism,” as it is

called, but its _piquant_ notices, and clever short articles of poetry

and prose are too valuable to be thus thrown away on a mere cover.

However, it proves that the liberal publishers wish to make their work

as attractive as possible.

* * * * *

_Posthumous Works of the Rev. Thomas Chalmers, D. D., L.L.D. New

York: Harper & Brothers. Vol. 9._

This volume of Chalmers is as valuable as any in the series, and, to us,

the most interesting of the whole. It contains Prelections on Butler’s

Analogy, Paley’s Evidences of Christianity, and Hill’s Lectures in

Divinity, and affords some test of the great clergyman’s real merit in

the science of theology. Although the volume does not place Chalmers in

the first class of theological thinkers, it indicates sufficient

originality, independence and force of thought to give him a high

position in the second class.

* * * * *

_Downing Street. (Latter-Day Pamphlets, No. 3.) By Thomas

Carlyle. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. New York: Harper &

Brothers._

We do not see as these pamphlets decrease in impudence and raciness as

the author proceeds; they are among the most exhilarating of

contemporary publications, and however mad in parts, are calculated to

give a sharp shock to English dogmatism, if they do not succeed in

ameliorating English institutions. In “Downing Street” Carlyle makes an

assault on the executive department of the English government. The

attack has more reason in it than the substitute proposed for the

present system. In speaking of the inadequacy of Parliamentary

government to obtain the best men for rulers, he refers to Robert Burns,

the noblest soul of his time in England, and yet one for whom the

government could find no fitter employment than to gauge ale. “And so,”

remarks Carlyle, “like Apollo taken for a Neatherd, and perhaps for none

of the best on the Admetus establishment, this new Norse Thor had to put

up with what was going; to gauge ale, and be thankful, pouring his

celestial sun-light through Scottish song-writing—the narrowest chink

ever offered to a thunder-god before! And the measure Pitt, and his

Dundasses and red-tape phantasms (growing very ghastly now to think of)

did not in the least know or understand—the impious, god-forgetting

mortals—that Heroic Intellects, if Heaven were pleased to send such,

were the one salvation for the world, and for them, and all of us. No;

‘they had done very well without’ such; did not see the use of such;

‘went along very well’ without such; well presided over by singular

Heroic Intellect called George the Third; and the Thunder-god, as was

rather fit for him, departed early, still in the noon of life, somewhat

weary of gauging ale!”

* * * * *

_King René’s Daughter: a Danish Lyrical Drama. By Henrik Hertz.

Translated by Theodore Martin. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol.

16mo._

This drama cannot boast any remarkable imaginative power, but it is

still a most exquisite creation, conceived in the spirit of the finest

human sympathy, and purifying the mind which it seemingly enters merely

to please. We trust that the American, as well as the English public

will, in the translator’s words, have the taste to “appreciate a drama

which owes its effect solely to the simplicity of its structure, the

ideal beauty of its central character, and the atmosphere of poetry and

old romance by which it is pervaded.” Iolanthe, the character thus

indicated, has a clear and vital sweetness at the heart of her being,

which wins every reader’s affection. The genius of the author may be

likened to the nightingale in his own lyric—

The eagle we tell

By his sweep full well,

As proudly afar in the clouds he soars,

And the nightingale,

By the trilling wail

Her throat in the dewy May-time pours.

* * * * *

_The Petrel, or Love on the Ocean, by Sir Ameral Fisher.

Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson._

This is one of the most spirited sea novels that we have read since

Cooper witched the world with his Red Rover. It is full of intense

interest throughout, and must find a wide sale among all lovers of

nautical adventure. The heroine, _Norah_, is a beautifully drawn

character, as is also the bold, dashing Herbert, her lover. The attack

upon the pirates has all the freshness and daring of Tom Cringle’s Log.

* * * * *

_Sketches of Minnesota, the New England of the West. With

Incidents of Travel in that Territory during the Summer of 1849.

By E. S. Seymour. With a Map. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1

vol. 12mo._

This is an useful book, making no pretensions to elegance of style or

vividness of description, but giving the history and topography of

Minnesota, its past and present condition, in a plain, dogged way. To

those interested in the subject, the book will reward perusal, but we

can hardly commend it as having any charm for the common reader.

* * * * *

_The Life of John Calvin, Compiled from Authentic Sources, and

Particularly from his Correspondence. By Thomas H. Dyer. With a

Portrait. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Here we have, for the first time, a biography of Calvin, based on

original materials, and written by one who does not belong to the

Calvinistical sect. The volume is well written, is laden with important

information, and is exceedingly impartial. The digests given of Calvin’s

works in the order of their composition, and the copious extracts from

his private correspondence, conduct us close to the character of the

man. The real greatness of Calvin is more apparent in this work than in

any we have seen written by professed followers of his creed. The

chapters relating to Servetus have a dramatic interest as well as a

religious significance. It may be generally said in praise of the

volume, that no one who has not read it, is entitled to give a confident

opinion of the character of its subject.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

FASHIONS FOR THE MONTH.

EVENING DRESSES.—Blue satin robe, trimmed with six flounces, disposed

in threes, and raised with bouquets of blue tinted feathers. Low body;

in three pieces, with a point; berthe of two rows of lace; a bouquet of

three marabouts on the body; marabouts in the hair. Robe of white moire,

plain skirt: tunic of crape lisse, descending a little lower than the

knee, open in front, rounded at bottom, and trimmed all round with a

small wreath of roses; low body, with a point; crape berthe, rounded in

front, trimmed all round with a wreath, to match that on the skirt; a

bouquet in front; a coronet of roses in the hair.

A dinner dress, much in favor, is a robe of pink and white glacé

taffetas. The front of the skirt is trimmed with small ruches of narrow

pink and white ribbon, interlaced one with the other, forming an

_échelle_ of narrow _pompons_ wreaths. This trimming is carried up each

side of the body, which opens square _à la Louis XV_, and tied in front

with _Montespan_ bows in pink and white ribbon; the same kind of bow

fastens up the pagodes sleeves, which are trimmed with a double wreath

of ribbons; from the edge of the sleeve a double row of lace falls over

the naked arm. A lace, half the width, trims the top of the body above

the ruche. A rose is placed on the side of the head, or a little puff of

pink gauze ribbon, or a bouquet of marabouts on one side, and long ends

of ribbon on the other.

Before we have done speaking of fashions, we must mention some

coiffures. Nothing can be prettier than the evening coiffures now worn;

they are made of blonde and flowers, feathers, and rich materials; the

small oriental turbans of gold or silver tissue, indeed every thing that

is rich and elegant, is employed for these _parures_. We have also seen

some charming little caps, the coquetry and caprice of which makes the

wearer indisputably pretty. The little _Marie Stuart_, descending

slightly over the forehead, rounding over the bandeaux, and edged with a

very light and narrow ruche of blonde; over the crown a long barbe of

blonde. The width of ribbon forms a bow, the ends falling on each side

of the neck. On each side of the bandeaux these barbes are slightly

raised, with a bouquet of roses or heath, or a _chou_ of ribbon, in the

middle of which a large diamond pin is placed. The same style of cap,

made entirely of pink or blue gauze ribbon, edged with a very narrow and

light blonde, slightly fulled, produces a coiffure which is extremely

becoming; a triple ribbon, which on either side, in guise of a barbe,

descends gradually upon the neck, is fastened behind the ear with a rose

without leaves. _La Mode._

* * * * *

J. M. LEGARE.—The sketches of Mr. Legare, “Life on the Prairies of the

Farthest West,” which appeared in the April and May numbers, of Graham,

were written for us some two years since, and are no evidence of the

maturity of style, since acquired by this elegant writer—ably as they

were written. We hope soon, to lay before our readers a series of

articles from his pen, which place Mr. Legare in the front rank of the

contributors to Graham. South Carolina, with three able writers, Legare,

Simms, and Godman, is ably represented in “Graham.”

* * * * *

T. A. GODMAN.—Our readers will gladly welcome back to our pages the

accomplished editor of the Laurensville (S. C.) Herald, whose admirable

sea story of “The Slaver,” was so warmly received by them two years

since. An article from his pen will appear in the next number, entitled

“For’ard and Aft.” It is written with great power, and must add to the

high reputation of its author. If the Herald is not one of the most

popular newspapers of South Carolina, it will not be the fault of Mr.

Godman. He brings to his task a mind thoroughly educated, a nervous

style, and a fine imagination, and writes with the power of genius

unmistakable. We shall be glad to hear from him frequently.

* * * * *

COOL IMPUDENCE.—The 309th number of “The Living Age,” contains an

article from “Howitt’s Journal,” entitled “Three Pictures,

Sunrise—Noonday—Night.” In the last December number of Graham’s

Magazine our readers will find the original. The writer of the article

says:

“Mrs. Howitt, or whoever attends to that journal, has not done

quite the proper thing—having left out many of the paragraphs

in my piece, and married together sentences which were not

intended for matrimony, and moreover, and what is quite too bad,

she, or he, or _it_, has taken a liberty quite unpardonable, in

leaving out of the piece the place where the scene, if it may be

so called, is laid, Broadway, New York, etc., obviously

intending that it shall not appear the work of an American. In a

matter so light as this, of course one can but laugh—if it were

a production of more moment, one might still laugh, but would

still have to remember how outrageously Mrs. H. came down on the

American who ventured to translate and publish one of Miss

Bremer’s works.”

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

* * * * *

THE GOLD FISH.—A new artist, Henry A. Stevens, Esq., furnishes “Graham”

this month with a spice of his quality, in “The Gold Fish”—the first of

a series of drawings illustrative of Natural History, very pointedly

discussed. The sketches in pen and ink, from writers of fine satirical

powers, which will hereafter accompany these drawings, will undoubtedly

prove quite attractive thus illustrated.

* * * * *

Messrs. Lindsay & Blackiston, have in press, and will publish during the

summer, “The Broken Bracelet and Other Poems,” by Mrs. Esling, formerly

Miss Waterman, who is well known to many of our old subscribers, by the

beautiful poems she formerly contributed to the Casket, and afterward to

Graham’s Magazine.

* * * * *

We have received from Messrs. Long & Brother, just as we are going to

press, a romance by W. Harrison Ainsworth, entitled “Windsor Castle,”

which we shall refer to again.

* * * * *

THE MELODIES OF MANY LANDS.

WRITTEN BY

CHARLES JEFFERIES,

COMPOSED BY

CHARLES W. GLOVER.

Presented by Lee & Walker, 120 Walnut Street.

[Illustration: musical score]

The melodies of many lands

Ere-while have charm’d my ear,

Yet

[Illustration: musical score continued]

there’s but one among them all

Which still my heart holds dear;

I heard it first from lips I loved,

My tears it then beguiled,

It was the song my mother sang,

When I was but a child.

It was the song my mother sang,

When I was but a child.

Its words, I will remember now,

Were fraught with precepts old;

And every line a maxim held

Of far more worth than gold;

A lesson ’twas, though simply taught,

That cannot pass away;

It is my guiding star by night,

My comfort in the day.

It told me in the hour of need,

To seek a solace there,

Where only stricken hearts could find,

Meet answer to their prayer;

Ah much I owe that gentle voice,

Whose words my tears beguiled;

That song of songs my mother sang,

When I was but a child.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious type-setting and

punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have

been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may

be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for

preparation of the eBook.

page 353, first filled by Boccacio. ==> first filled by Boccaccio.

page 354, “Lesciate ogni speranza ==> “Lasciate ogni speranza

page 354, speranza voi ch’ intrate.” ==> speranza voi ch’ entrate.”

page 371, as the Rock of Gibralter ==> as the Rock of Gibraltar

page 378, against the mantle-piece, ==> against the mantel-piece,

page 382, “Ada’s pompous apostacy ==> “Ada’s pompous apostasy

page 390, Cowper; but Shelly, Keats, ==> Cowper; but Shelley, Keats,

page 391, an unwordly degree of purity ==> an unworldly degree of purity

page 393, how warily must it ==> how wearily must it

page 397, the accomodation of invalids. ==> the accommodation of invalids.

page 399, hand accidently touched ==> hand accidentally touched

page 404, Paganinni or Ole Bull had ==> Paganini or Ole Bull had

page 412, chef d’ouvre, and its ==> chef d’oeuvre, and its

page 417, than to guage ale. ==> than to gauge ale.

page 417, going; to guage ale, and ==> going; to gauge ale, and

page 417, weary of guaging ale ==> weary of gauging ale

page 417, Drama. By Henrick Hertz. ==> Drama. By Henrik Hertz.