Chapter IV is entitled “_Scenes in the House_,” and gives a detailed

report of two of the most extraordinary of these _scenes_—one

occurring in April 1831, on occasion of the King's dissolving

Parliament—the other in July 1834, when the Duke of Buckingham thought

proper to make some allusions to the “potations pottle deep” of Lord

Brougham, which were not exactly to the mind of his Lordship. The rest

of the book is {505} occupied with admirable personal sketches of most

of the leading members, and is subdivided into _Late Members_,

embracing Lord King and Lord Enfield—_Dukes of the Tory Party_, viz:

Dukes of Cumberland, Wellington, Gordon, Newcastle, Buckingham,

Northumberland and Buccleugh—_Marquises of the Tory Party_, including

the Marquises of Londonderry, Wellesley, and Salisbury—_Earls of the

Tory Party_, the Earls of Eldon, Wicklow, Limerick, Winchelsea, Roden,

Aberdeen, Haddington, Harrowby, Rosslyn, and Mannsfield—_Barons of the

Tory Party_, Lords Wynford, Lyndhurst, Ellenborough, Fitzgerald and

Vessey, Ashburton, Abinger, Wharncliffe and Kenyon—_Peers who have

Seats in the Cabinet_, viz: Lord Melbourne, Marquis of Lansdowne, Lord

Holland, and Lord Duncannon—_Dukes of the Liberal Party_, the Dukes of

Sussex, Leinster, and Sutherland—_Marquises of the Liberal Party_, the

Marquises of Westminster, Cleveland, Anglesea, Clanricarde, and

Conyngham—_Earls of the Liberal Party_, Earls Gray, Durham, Radnor,

Carnarvon, Mulgrave, Burlington, Fife, and Fitzwilliam—_Barons of the

Liberal Party_, Lords Plunkett, Brougham, Denman, Cottenham,

Langsdale, Hatherton, and Teynham—_Neutral Peers_, the Duke of

Richmond and the Earl of Ripon—and lastly, the _Lords Spiritual_,

under which head we have sketches of the Archbishops of Canterbury and

Dublin, and the Bishops of Exeter, London, Durham, and Hereford. The

whole of these sketches of personal character are well executed and

exceedingly diverting—some, of a still higher order of excellence. The

portrait of Lord Brougham, in especial, although somewhat exaggerated

in the matter of panegyric, is vividly and very forcibly depicted, and

will be universally read and admired. The book concludes in these

words.

It is a fact worthy of observation, that with the single exception of

Lord Brougham, no man that has, of late years, been raised from the

Lower to the Upper House, has made any figure in the latter place. On

the contrary, they all seem to be rapidly descending, as public

speakers, into obscurity. In addition to Earl Spencer and Lord

Glenelg, I may mention the names of Lord Denman, Lord Abinger, Lord

Ashburn, Lord Hatherton, &c. In fact, there is something in the very

constitution of their Lordships, as a body, which has a strong

tendency to discourage all attempts at oratorical distinction.

SIGOURNEY'S LETTERS.

_Letters to Young Ladies. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Second Edition.

Hartford: Published by Wm. Watson._

We have to apologize for not sooner calling the attention of our

readers to these excellent _Letters_ of Mrs. Sigourney—which only

to-day we have had an opportunity of reading with sufficient care to

form an opinion of their merits. Our delay, however, is a matter of

the less importance, when we consider the universal notice and

approbation of the public at large. In this approbation we cordially

agree. The book is, in every respect, worthy of Mrs. Sigourney—and it

would be difficult to say more.

The _Letters_ (embraced in a duodecimo of two hundred and twelve

pages,) are twelve in number. Their subjects are, _Improvement of

Time_—_Domestic Employments_—_Health and Dress_—_Manners and

Accomplishments_—_Books_—_Friendship_—_Cheerfulness_—_Conversation_—

_Benevolence_—_Self-Government_—_Utility_—and _Motives to

Perseverance_. Little has been said on any one of these subjects more

forcibly or more beautifully than now by Mrs. Sigourney—and,

collectively, as a code of morals and _manner_ for the gentler sex, we

have seen nothing whatever which we would more confidently place in

the hands of any young female friend, than this unassuming little

volume, so redolent of the pious, the graceful, the lofty, and the

poetical mind from which it issues.

The prose of Mrs. Sigourney should not be compared, in its higher

qualities, with her poetry—but appears to us essentially superior in

its _minutiæ_. It would be difficult to find fault with the

construction of more than a very few passages in the _Letters_—and the

general correctness and vigor of the whole would render any such

fault-finding a matter of hyper-criticism. We are not prepared to say

whether this correctness be the result of labor or not—there are

certainly no traces of labor. The most remarkable feature of the

volume is its unusually extensive circle of illustration, in the way

of brief anecdote, and multiplied reference to

authorities—illustration which, while apparently no more than

sufficient for the present purpose of the writer, gives evidence, to

any critical eye, of a far wider general erudition than that possessed

by any of our female writers, and which we were not at all prepared to

meet with in one, only known hitherto as the inspired poetess of

Natural and Moral Beauty.

Would our limits permit us we would gladly copy entire some one of the

_Letters_. As it is, we must be contented with a brief extract, (on

the subject of Memory,) evincing powers of rigid thought in the

writer. Few subjects are more entirely misapprehended than that of the

faculty of Memory. For a multiplicity of error on this head Leibnitz

and Locke are responsible. That the faculty is neither primitive nor

independent is susceptible of direct proof. That it exists in

conjunction with each primitive faculty, and inseparable from it, is a

fact which might be readily ascertained even without the direct

assistance of Phrenology. The remarks of Mrs. Sigourney apply, only

collaterally, to what we say, but will be appreciated by the

metaphysical student.

I am inclined to think Memory capable of indefinite improvement by a

judicious and persevering regimen. Were you required to analyze it to

its simplest element, you would probably discover it to be a _habit of

fixed attention_. Read, therefore, what you desire to remember, with

concentrated and undivided attention. Close the book and reflect.

Undigested food throws the whole frame into a ferment. Were we as well

acquainted with our intellectual, as with our physical structure, we

should see undigested knowledge producing equal disorder in the mind.

To strengthen the Memory, the best course is not to commit page after

page verbatim, but to give the substance of the author, correctly and

clearly in your own language. Thus the understanding and memory are

exercised at the same time, and the prosperity of the mind is not so

much advanced by the undue prominence of any _one faculty_ as by the

true balance and vigorous action of _all_. Memory and understanding

are also fast friends, and the light which one gains will be reflected

upon the other.

Use judgment in selecting from the mass of what you read the parts

which it will be useful or desirable to remember. Separate and arrange

them, and give them in charge to memory. Tell her it is her duty to

keep them, and to bring them forth when you require. {506} She has the

capacities of a faithful servant, and possibly the dispositions of an

idle one. But you have the power of enforcing obedience and of

overcoming her infirmities. At the close of each day let her come

before you, as Ruth came to Naomi, and ‘beat out that which she hath

gleaned.’ Let her winnow repeatedly what she has brought from the

field, and ‘gather the wheat into the garner’ ere she goes to repose.

This process, so far from being laborious, is one of the most

delightful that can be imagined. To condense, is perhaps the only

difficult part of it; for the casket of Memory, though elastic, has

bounds, and if surcharged with trifles, the weightier matters will

find no fitting place.

While Memory is in this course of training, it would be desirable to

read no books whose contents are not worth her care: for if she finds

herself called only occasionally, she may take airs like a froward

child, and not come when she is called. Make her feel it as a duty to

stand with her tablet ready whenever you open a book, and then show

her sufficient respect, not to summon her to any book unworthy of her.

To facilitate the management of Memory, it is well to keep in view

that her office is threefold. Her first effort is to _receive_

knowledge; her second to _retain_ it; her last to _bring it forth_

when it is needed. The first act is solitary, the silence of fixed

attention. The next is also sacred to herself, and her ruling power,

and consists in frequent, thorough examination of the state and order

of the things committed to her. The third act is social, rendering her

treasures available to the good of others. Daily intercourse with a

cultivated mind is the best method to rivet, refine, and polish the

hoarded gems of knowledge. Conversation with intelligent men is

eminently serviceable. For, after all our exultation on the advancing

state of female education, with the other sex, will be found the

wealth of classical knowledge, and profound wisdom. If you have a

parent, or older friend, who will, at the close of each day, listen

kindly to what you have read, and help to fix in your memory the

portions most worthy of regard, count it a privilege of no common

value, and embrace it with sincere gratitude.

We heartily recommend these _Letters_ (which the name of their author

will more especially recommend,) to the attention of our female

acquaintances. They may be procured, in Richmond, at the bookstore of

Messrs. Yale and Wyatt.

THE DOCTOR.

_The Doctor, &c. New York: Republished by Harper and Brothers._

The Doctor has excited great attention in America as well as in

England, and has given rise to every variety of conjecture and

opinion, not only concerning the author's individuality, but in

relation to the meaning, purpose, and character of the book itself. It

is now said to be the work of one author—now of two, three, four,

five—as far even as nine or ten. These writers are sometimes thought

to have composed the _Doctor_ conjointly—sometimes to have written

each a portion. These individual portions have even been pointed out

by the supremely acute, and the names of their respective fathers

assigned. Supposed discrepancies of taste and manner, together with

the prodigal introduction of mottoes, and other scraps of erudition

(apparently beyond the compass of a single individual's reading) have

given rise to this idea of a multiplicity of writers—among whom are

mentioned in turn all the most witty, all the most eccentric, and

especially all the most learned of Great Britain. Again—in regard to

the nature of the book. It has been called an imitation of Sterne—an

august and most profound exemplification, under the garb of

eccentricity, of some all-important moral law—a true, under guise of a

fictitious, biography—a simple jeu d'esprit—a mad farrago by a

Bedlamite—and a great multiplicity of other equally fine names and

hard. Undoubtedly, the best method of arriving at a decision in

relation to a work of this nature, is to read it through with

attention, and thus see what can be made of it. We have done so, and

can make nothing of it, and are therefore clearly of opinion that the

_Doctor_ is precisely—nothing. We mean to say that it is nothing

better than _a hoax_.

That any serious truth is meant to be inculcated by a tissue of

bizarre and disjointed rhapsodies, whose _general_ meaning no person

can fathom, is a notion altogether untenable, unless we suppose the

author a madman. But there are none of the proper evidences of madness

in the book—while of mere _banter_ there are instances innumerable.

One half, at least, of the entire publication is taken up with

palpable quizzes, reasonings in a circle, sentences, like the nonsense

verses of Du Bartas, evidently framed to mean nothing, while wearing

an air of profound thought, and grotesque speculations in regard to

the probable excitement to be created by the book.

It appears to have been written with the sole view (or nearly with the

sole view) of exciting inquiry and comment. That this object should be

fully accomplished cannot be thought very wonderful, when we consider

the excessive trouble taken to accomplish it, by vivid and powerful

intellect. That the _Doctor_ is the offspring of such intellect, is

proved sufficiently by many passages of the book, where the writer

appears to have been led off from his main design. That it is written

by more than one man should not be deduced either from the apparent

immensity of its erudition, or from discrepancies of style. That man

is a desperate mannerist who cannot vary his style _ad infinitum_; and

although the book _may_ have been written by a number of learned

_bibliophagi_, still there is, we think, nothing to be found in the

book itself at variance with the possibility of its being written by

any one individual of even mediocre reading. Erudition is only

certainly known in its _total_ results. The mere grouping together of

mottoes from the greatest multiplicity of the rarest works, or even

the apparently natural inweaving into any composition, of the

sentiments and manner of these works, are attainments within the reach

of any well-informed, ingenious and industrious man having access to

the great libraries of London. Moreover, while a single individual

possessing these requisites and opportunities, might through a rabid

desire of _creating a sensation_, have written, with some trouble, the

Doctor, it is by no means easy to imagine that a plurality of sensible

persons could be found willing to embark in such absurdity from a

similar, or indeed from any imaginable inducement.

The present edition of the Harpers consists of two volumes in one.

Volume one commences with a _Prelude of Mottoes_ occupying two pages.

Then follows a _Postscript_—then a _Table of Contents to the first

volume_, occupying eighteen pages. Volume two has a similar _Prelude

of Mottoes_ and _Table of Contents_. The whole is subdivided into

Chapters Ante-Initial, Initial and {507} Post-Initial, with

Inter-Chapters. The pages have now and then a typographical

_queerity_—a monogram, a scrap of grotesque music, old English, &c.

Some characters of this latter kind are printed with colored ink in

the British edition, which is gotten up with great care. All these

oddities are in the manner of Sterne, and some of them are exceedingly

well conceived. The work professes to be a Life of one Doctor Daniel

Dove and his horse Nobs—but we should put no very great faith in this

biography. On the back of the book is a monogram—which appears again

once or twice in the text, and whose solution is a fertile source of

trouble with all readers. This monogram is a triangular pyramid; and

as, in geometry, the solidity of every polyedral body may be computed

by dividing the body into pyramids, the pyramid is thus considered as

the base or essence of every polyedron. The author then, after his own

fashion, may mean to imply that his book is the basis of all solidity

or wisdom—or perhaps, since the polyedron is not only a solid, but a

solid terminated by _plane faces_, that the _Doctor_ is the very

essence of all that spurious wisdom which will terminate in just

nothing at all—in a hoax, and a consequent multiplicity of _blank

visages_. The wit and humor of the _Doctor_ have seldom been equalled.

We cannot think Southey wrote it, but have no idea who did.

RAUMER'S ENGLAND.

_England in 1835. Being a Series of Letters written to Friends in

Germany, during a Residence in London and Excursions into the

Provinces. By Frederick Von Raumer, Professor of History at the

University of Berlin, Author of the “History of the Hohenstaufen,” of

the “History of Europe from the end of the Fifteenth Century,” of

“Illustrations of the History of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth

Centuries,” &c. &c. Translated from the German, by Sarah Austin and H.

E. Lloyd. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard._

This work will form an æra in the reading annals of the more

contemplative portion of Americans—while its peculiar merits will be

overlooked by the multitude. The broad and solid basis of its

superstructure—the scrupulous accuracy of its _data_—the disdain of

mere _logic_ in its deductions—the _generalizing_, calm,

comprehensive—in a word, the _German_ character of its philosophy,

will insure it an enthusiastic welcome among all the nobler spirits of

our land. What though its general tenor be opposed at least apparently

to many of our long cherished opinions and deeply-rooted prejudices?

Shall we less welcome the truth, or glory in its advancement because

of its laying bare our own individual errors? But the England of Von

Raumer will be sadly and wickedly misconceived if it be really

conceived as militating against a Republicanism _here_, which it

opposes with absolute justice, in Great Britain, and Prussia. It will

be sadly misconceived if it be regarded as embracing one single

sentence with which the most bigoted lover of abstract Democracy can

have occasion to find fault. At the same time we cannot help believing

that it will, _in some measure_, be effectual in diverting the minds

of our countrymen, and of all who read it, from that perpetual and

unhealthy excitement about the forms and machinery of governmental

action which have within the last half century so absorbed their

attention as to exclude in a strange degree all care of the proper

_results_ of good government—the happiness of a people—improvement in

the condition of mankind—practicable under a thousand forms—and

without which all forms are valueless and shadowy phantoms. It will

serve also as an auxiliary in convincing mankind that the origin of

the principal social evils of any given land are _not_ to be found

(except in a much less degree than we usually suppose) either in

republicanism or monarchy or any especial method of government—that we

must look for the source of our greatest defects in a variety of

causes totally distinct from any such action—in a love of gain, for

example, whose direct tendency to social evil was vividly shown in an

essay on _American Social Elevation_ lately published in the

“Messenger.” In a word, let this book of Von Raumer's be read with

attention, as a study, and _as a whole_. If this thing be done—which

is but too seldom done (here at least) in regard to works of a like

character and cast—and we will answer for the result—as far as that

result depends upon the deliberate and unprejudiced declaration of any

well-educated man. We agree cordially with the opinion expressed by

Mrs. Austin in her Preface to this American imprint. The book is the

most valuable addition to our stock of knowledge about England and her

institutions which America has ever received or which, in the ordinary

course of things she is likely to receive.

Of Professor Von Raumer it is almost unnecessary for us to speak—yet a

few words may not be amiss. He is a man of unquestionable and lofty

integrity—the most highly esteemed living historian—second to none,

living or dead, in all the high essentials of the

historiographer—profoundly versed in moral and political science—and

withal, a lover, and a connoisseur of art, and fully aware of its vast

importance in actuating mankind, individually, and nationally. He is a

member of the Academy of Sciences at Berlin, and _Councillor_ of the

Court Theatre in which he labors to keep up the moral influence of

that establishment as a school of art. He has constantly opposed

absolutism in every form—especially the absolutism of exclusive

political creeds. “If,” says the Conversations Lexicon, “the much

talked of _juste milieu_ consists in endless tacking between two

opposite principles, Raumer belongs rather to one of the extremes than

to that. But if the expression is taken to denote that free and

neutral ground on which a man, resting upon the basis of justice, and

untrammelled by party views, combats for truth proved by experience,

careless whether his blows fall to the right or the left—then Raumer

unquestionably belongs to the _juste milieu_.” He has written the

_History of the Hohenstaufen and their Time_—a history richer than the

richest romance—a work _On the Prussian Municipal System_—a work _On

the Historical Development of the Notions of Law and

Government_—_Letters from Paris in 1830_, a series of papers printed

precisely as they were written to his family, and evincing a spirit of

foresight nearly amounting to prophecy—so accurately were his

predictions fulfilled—_Letters from Paris in Illustration of the

History of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries_—a _History of

Europe from the End of the Fifteenth Century_, in six volumes, of

which one is yet to be published—a _History of the Downfall of

Poland_—in which although employed and paid by his {508} government he

did not hesitate to accuse that government of injustice—_Six Dialogues

on War and Commerce_—_The British System of Taxation_—_The Orations of

Æschines and Demosthenes for the Crown_—_CCI Emendationes ad Tabulas

Genealogicas Arabum et Turcarum_—_Manual of Remarkable Passages from

the Latin Historians of the Middle Ages_—_Journey to Venice_—_Lectures

on Ancient History_—and some other works of which we have no account.

The present _Letters_ are printed just as the author wrote them from

day to day. We are even assured that some mistakes have been suffered

to stand with a view of showing how first impressions were gradually

modified.

Mrs. Austin, the translator, however, has taken some liberties in the

way of omission, which cannot easily be justified. Some animadversions

on her friend Bentham are stricken out without sufficient reason for

so doing. We learn this as well by her own acknowledgment as by

ominous breaks in particular passages concerning the great

Utilitarian. The latter portion of the book is translated by H. E.

Lloyd.

The plan of Von Raumer's work embraces, as may well be supposed, a

great variety of themes—the political topics of the day and of all

time—the present state and future prospects of England—comparative

views of that country, France, and Prussia—descriptions of scenery

about London, localities, architecture, &c.—social condition of the

people—society in high life—and frequent disquisitions on the state of

art and musical science. We will proceed, without observing any

precise order, to speak of some portions which particularly interested

us. The book, however, to be properly appreciated, should be read and

thoroughly studied.

It appears that although Raumer was received with the greatest

kindness by nearly all the leading men of all parties in Great

Britain, he was treated with neglect if not with rudeness by Lord

Brougham, who remained obstinately deaf to all overtures at an

introduction. It does not appear from the course and tenor of these

_Letters_ that the harshness with which the traveller so frequently

speaks of his Lordship, had its origin in this rude treatment. It is

more probable that the rude treatment had its source in the knowledge

on the part of Lord Brougham, that Raumer could expose many of his

falsities in relation to municipal law and some other matters

concerning Prussia. His Lordship's _Report on the State of Education_

is especially the theme of frequent censure.

The person (says our author) who judges the Prussian institutions most

dogmatically is Lord Brougham. He says “It may matter little what

sentiments are inculcated on all Prussian children by their _military_

chiefs; but it would be something new in _this_ country systematically

to teach all children, from six to fourteen years of age, the

doctrines of passive obedience and non-resistance, the absolute

excellence of its institutions, and the wickedness and iniquity of

every effort to improve them.” If the noble lord, in the excitement of

debate, and the flow of his eloquence, let such notions and words

escape him, we cannot wonder; but that, when called on by a

parliamentary committee to give a dispassionate, true testimony, he

should have uttered things so entirely false, nay, so utterly absurd,

cannot in any way be justified, or even excused. Sir Robert Peel

compassionately intimates that our school-children are tormented by

theologians, and Brougham places them under the rod and cane of the

corporal. That our military arrangements are a school of freedom, and

for freedom, and the very antipodes of the English recruiting and

flogging system, may, perhaps, be more unintelligible to an

Englishman, than all the theological and scientific curiosities of

Oxford to a German. But what have military arrangements to do with our

schools? If Lord Brougham has read any thing but the title-page of

Cousin's work, he may and must know that all he said about the

Prussian schools was entirely visionary, and could only serve to

mislead those who believed him. The doctrine of passive obedience and

non-resistance, so long upheld by certain parties in England, is not

known in our schools even by name; and if any Professor at Oxford

should venture to speak of church and state as, thank heaven, any

Prussian Professor is at liberty to do, it would certainly be said—the

heretic brought church and state into danger. In our schools and

universities we know of no theological intolerance, no exclusion of

Dissenters, no idolatry of what exists for the moment, no forced

subscriptions; yet we are not by this alienated from Christianity, but

hold fast to the imperishable diamond of the Gospel without converting

it into an amulet with thirty-nine points. In Prussia, then, it would

seem the wickedness and impiety of every attempt to improve civil

institutions is systematically enforced! In Prussia, which, without

any boasting of journals and newspapers, silently effected the

greatest reforms, and rose from a state of abject degradation, like a

phœnix from its ashes—the aversion and opposition between citizens and

soldiers is abolished; the system of the defence of the country is

easy, yet general and powerful; the regulations of commerce and of

duties of custom freer than in any other part of Europe; the peasants

are converted into land-owners; a municipal system introduced

twenty-seven years ago, which England is now copying; and schools and

universities placed on so firm a basis that the calumnies of Lord

Brougham can only recoil on his own head. From the descriptions of

what is called the Prussian compulsory system, one would be inclined

to believe that the children were coupled together like hounds, and

driven every morning with blows to be trained! Should a parent be so

wicked as not to give his children any education, and purposely keep

them from school and church, the law justly gives the magistrates a

right of guardianship. This remote threat may have had a salutary

effect in individual cases, but I have never heard of the actual

application of outward compulsion—_obtorto collo_. Morality, sense of

honor, general custom, conviction of the great advantage of a careful

education, suffice among us to excite all parents _voluntarily_ to

send their children to school. In perfect accordance with our school

laws it is considered as equally sinful to withhold nourishment from

their minds as from their bodies. If we duly appreciate the spirit of

the laws, cavils about the letter fall away; but even the letter has

had a wholesome influence, and without the application of corporal

restraint, in promoting the intellectual emancipation of the people.

Our author's letter on the _Finances_ of Great Britain will be read

with surprise and doubt by many, but with respect by all. He commences

with an analysis of finance in general, and with a brief survey of

many financial distresses which are as old as history itself. His

remarks on the absence of all finance in the middle ages will arrest

attention. In these days men had no money, and yet did more than in

modern times—they effected every thing, and we can effect nothing,

without the circulation of the “golden blood.” Every individual in

those days, garnered, says Raumer, without the medium of money, what

he wanted; and the whole was entirely kept together by ideas. It is

only since Machiavelli—since the power of the middle ages was lost in

the feudal and ecclesiastical systems, that we have had to seek a new

public law, and a science of {509} _Finance_. In regard to England,

our author runs through all the most important epochs of its monied

concerns, and shows effectually that she has no reason to tremble at

present. He alludes to what is called the enormous burden of her

taxes, and of her debt—whose interest is more than 30,000,000_l._ per

annum—far more than half of its revenue, and more than four years

revenue of the whole Prussian monarchy! He admits, for the sake of

argument, that England must sink under this intolerable pressure, and

become bankrupt—but the public debt and its interest, he says, would

then at once be annihilated. To the assertion that this remedy is

worse than the disease, and would produce a degree of distress much

exceeding what is now complained of, he replies, that such an

assertion is a direct acknowledgment that the expenditure of the

enormous interest above-mentioned is salutary. He proceeds with the

affirmation that all the public debts being the property of

individuals, there are cases in which this private property _cannot

remain inviolate without sacrificing the whole_—and in this way, a

reduction or annihilation of the debt must take place. He refers, for

illustration, to the _Redemption Bonds_ of Vienna, and to Solon's

_Seisachtheia_, and says, there can be no reason for doubting that

England would as well survive such abrupt annihilation of her national

debt as many other states have done—among whom are Athens, Rome,

France, and Austria. He remarks, that Englishmen may as well rejoice

that the country has such immense capital, as lament that it is

burthened with so many debts—for _every debt is there a capital_. If

these debts were of so little value that the price of stock indicated

the loss, instead of the profit—if the interest could only be paid by

new loans—if the debts were due to fund-holders _out of the country_,

England would be in a desperate condition in the event of bankruptcy.

But, he observes, if all the national debt were abolished, there

would, in fact, as regarded the _whole_ national wealth, be no change

whatever. The stockholders would lose, of course, a revenue of

30,000,000_l._; but, on the other hand, taxes might be abolished to

the same amount. Individuals would be ruined—the nation not at all. He

shows clearly, however, by statements officially certified by Sir

Robert Peel, that England has very little need of apprehending a

national bankruptcy—and that since 1816 she has reduced the principal

of her debt by no less than $616,000,000. Certainly no state in Europe

can boast of a similar progress.

Von Raumer presents a vivid picture of the miseries of Ireland.

When I recollect (says he, after some distressing narrations,) the

well-fed rogues in the English prisons, I admire, notwithstanding the

very natural increase of Irish criminals, the power of morality—I

wonder that the whole nation does not go over and steal, in order to

enjoy a new and happier existence. And then the English boast of the

good treatment of their countrymen, while the innocent Irish are

obliged to live worse than their cattle. In Parliament they talk for

years together whether it is necessary and becoming to leave $100,000

annually in the hands of the pastors of 526 Protestants, or $10,759 to

the pastors of 3 Protestants, while there are thousands here who

scarcely know they have a soul, and know nothing of their body, except

that it suffers hunger, thirst and cold. Which of these ages is the

dark and barbarous—the former, when mendicant monks distributed their

goods to the poor, and, in their way, gave them the most rational

comfort; or the latter, when rich (or bankrupt) aristocrats can see

the weal of the church and of religion, (or of their relations) only

in retaining possession of that which was taken and obtained by

violence? All the blame is thrown on agitators, and discontent

produced by artificial means. What absurdity! Every falling hut causes

agitation, and every tattered pair of breeches a _sans culotte_. Since

I have seen Ireland, I admire the patience and moderation of the

people, that they do not (what would be more excusable in them than in

distinguished revolutionists, authors, journalists, Benthamites,

baptized and unbaptized Jews,) drive out the devil through Beelzebub,

the Prince of the Devils.... I endeavored to discover the original

race of the ancient Irish, and the beauty of the women. But how could

I venture to give an opinion? Take the loveliest of the English

maidens from the saloons of the Duke of Devonshire or the Marquis of

Lansdowne—carry her, not for life, but for one short season, into an

Irish hovel—feed her on water and potatoes, clothe her in rags, expose

her blooming cheek and alabaster neck to the scorching beams of the

sun, and the drenching torrents of rain—let her wade with naked feet

through marshy bogs—with her delicate hands pick up the dung that lies

in the road, and carefully stow it by the side of her mud

resting-place—give her a hog to share this with her; to all this, add

no consolatory remembrance of the past, no cheering hope of the

future—nothing but misery—a misery which blunts and stupifies the

mind—a misery of the past, the present, and the future—would the

traveller, should this image of wo crawl from out of her muddy hovel,

and imploringly extend her shrivelled hand, recognize the noble maiden

whom a few short weeks before he admired as the model of English

beauty?... And yet the children, with their black hair and dark eyes,

so gay and playful in their tatters—created in the image of God—are in

a few years, by the fault of man and the government, so worn out,

without advantage to themselves or others, that the very beasts of the

field might look down on them with scorn.... Is what I have said

exaggerated, or perhaps, merely an unseasonable and indecorous

fiction? or should I have suppressed it, because it may offend certain

parties? What have I to do with O'Connell and his opponents? I have

nothing either to hope or to fear from any of them; but to declare

what I saw, thought, and felt, is my privilege and my duty. _Discite

justitiam, moniti, et non temnere divos!_

Our author speaks of the dissolution of the Union as of a measure

which would and should naturally be opposed by any person who has

never seen Ireland, and who considers the case merely in a general and

theoretical point of view—but allows that he can easily conceive how

well-disposed persons may rely on this alternative as the most

efficient remedy. He does not, however, approve of the demand—although

he goes even farther than O'Connell. His propositions are nearly as

follows: First, that provisions should be equally made for the schools

and churches of the Protestants and Catholics, out of the church

property already existing or to be created. Secondly, that the tithes

should be abolished—that is, as a mode of taxation—not the tax itself.

It is observed, that to deprive the church of its due, and to make a

present of it, without any reason, to the landlord, would not only be

an act of injustice, but would operate to the prejudice of the poor

tenants, since the clergyman has not so many means to distrain the

cattle as the temporal landlord, and generally is less willing to

employ them. Thirdly, that poor laws should be introduced, taking care

to avoid their abuses. This idea is in opposition to that of

O'Connell, who dreads the misapplication of the laws as in England.

Von {510} Raumer acknowledges the _difficulty_ of introducing them,

but insists upon the _necessity_. The difficulty proceeds from the

want of a wealthy middling class in the country—the true basis of all

finance. To obviate this want, he insists—Fourthly, upon a law

respecting absentees. He denies the injustice of such law, and rejects

as false that notion of private property which would impose on the

land owner no duties, while it gives him unconditional rights. He does

not, however, propose compelling the absentees to return home, but to

pay more to the poor-tax than those who are present. “Is this

impossible?” he asks—“have not the Catholics borne for centuries

higher taxes than the Protestants? This was possible, _without

reason_; and therefore the other would be very possible, _with good

reason_.” He suggests—Fifthly, the complete abolition of the system of

tenants at will, and the conversion of all these tenants at will into

proprietors. “On reading this,” he says, “the Tories will throw my

book into the fire, and even the Whigs will be mute with astonishment.

The whole battery of pillage, jacobinism, and dissolution of civil

society, is discharged at me; but it will not touch me—not even the

assertion that I would, like St. Crispin, steal leather in order to

make shoes for the poor. Even the Radicals ask with astonishment, how

I would work this miracle. There is a Sybilline book, a patent and yet

hidden mystery, how this is to be effected; and there is a magician

who has accomplished it—the Prussian Municipal Law, and King Frederick

William III of Prussia.” Granting that his proposal should be rejected

unless both parties are gainers, our author proceeds to show that,

both parties will be so. That those who are raised to the class of

land-owners would gain, is evident. That the present proprietors would

gain, he asserts, is proved from the fact, that in the long run, the

tenant-at-will is able to produce and to pay less than he who has a

long lease, the latter less than the hereditary farmer, and the

hereditary farmer less than the proprietor. The subject is discussed

very fully and clearly in another letter on _English Agriculture_.

Professor Von Raumer makes a proper distinction between the nature and

consequences of English agitation, and the agitation of many

continental countries. In these latter we find anticipative and

preventive polices—especially in France. When a _movement_ breaks out

under a government employing this system, it is because the preventive

means are exhausted, and thus every thing rushes at once into disorder

and irretrievable confusion. A similar _movement_, however, in

England, (and the remark will apply equally to the United States,

although Von Raumer does not so apply it,) is suffered to gather

strength and flourish until the _overt act_, and the citizen who

dwells under the influence of the preventive system, would of course,

in observing us, expect the same irretrievable confusion to ensue with

us as with him. If our own government, or that of England, should

attempt to interfere before the overt act, the administration would

meet with no support. But when the _movement_ has grown to an open

violation of the laws, the case is different indeed. “In short,” says

our author, “what is regarded abroad as the beginning of a revolution,

is, in reality, the crisis, and is, in a very different sense than in

France, _le commencement de la fin_.”

Much of our traveller's time, while in Great Britain was passed in

close intimacy with her statesmen. Of Russell, Spring Rice, Sir Robert

Peel, and O'Connell, he speaks in terms of evident respect. From many

passages in which he mentions the latter, we select the following.

I suddenly conceived the project of going straight from P—— to his

antagonist—to——(H—— will be furious) to Daniel O'Connell. I found him

in a small room, sitting at a writing table covered with letters, in

his dressing gown. I began with apologies for intruding upon him

without any introduction, and pleaded my interest in the history and

fate of Ireland, and in his efforts to serve her. When I found he had

read my Historical Letters I felt on a better footing. I could not

implicitly accept his opinion concerning Elizabeth (which he has

borrowed from Lingard) as a good bill. We agreed, however, on the

subject of the much disputed and much falsified history of the

Catholic conspiracy of 1641.... I am also perfectly of his opinion,

that the tenants at will—those serfs—are in a worse condition in

Ireland than any where, and that, both with regard to moral and

intellectual culture, or physical prosperity, their position is not

comparable to that of our thrice happy proprietary peasants. I told

him that what he desired for Ireland had long been possessed by the

Catholics of Prussia: and that hatred and discontent had expired with

persecution.... The English Ministry first made this man a giant: but

he is a giant too, by the strength of his own mind and will, in

comparison with the Lilliputians cut out of reeds, which we call

demagogues; and which are forced to be shut up in the Kopenick

hot-house, or put under a Mainz forcing-glass to rear them into any

size and consideration.... Thank God, however, the governments of

Germany do not prepare the ground for universal discontent. If this

prevailed, and prevailed with justice, O'Connells must of necessity

arise.... Your dissertation on the greatness or smallness of German

demagogues (I hear you say) is quite superfluous: you had much better

have described to us what that arch agitator and rebel, O'Connell,

looks like—What he looks like? A tall gaunt man, with a thin face,

sunken cheeks, a large hooked nose, black piercing eye, malignant

smile round the mouth, and, when in full dress, a cock's feather in

his hat, and a cloven foot. ‘That is just what I imagined him!’ cries

one. But, as it happens, that is just what he is not. On the contrary,

he has a round, good-natured face. In Germany he would be taken for a

good, hearty, sturdy, shrewd farmer: indeed he distinctly reminded me

of the cheerful, sagacious, and witty old bailiff Romanus, in Rotzis.

At page 391, Von Raumer alludes to some notices of his historical

works in the British Quarterlies. He complains of injustice done him

in a review of his “_Letters from Paris in 1830_.” The Reviewer states

that our traveller did not court society, and that he professes to

have seen and become acquainted only with what strikes the eyes of

every observer in the streets, tavern, and theatre. This is denied by

Von Raumer, who declares his chief associates to have been “wealthy

merchants and distinguished literati, old and new peers, members of

the Chamber of Deputies, the most celebrated diplomatists, and three

of the present ministers of Louis Philippe.”

The remarks of our author upon _Art_, (in the extensive German

signification of the word) are worthy of all attention and bespeak an

elevated, acute, and comprehensive understanding of its properties and

capabilities. Many pages of the work before us are devoted to comments

upon the Architecture, the Painting, the Stage, and especially the

Music of England, {511} and these pages will prove deeply interesting

to a majority of readers. At pages 143 he thus speaks of Mrs. Sloman.

Lady Macbeth, Mrs. Sloman, a fiendish shrew, who must have been the

torment of her husband's life long before the predictions of the

witches. Even in the sleeping scene she betrayed only fear of

discovery and punishment; and the exaggerated action, the rubbing of

the hands, and seeming to dip them in water, and the rhetorical ‘_to

bed!_’ were very little to my taste.... To sum up my impression of the

whole—an excess of effort, of bustle, and of accentuation, with every

now and then, by way of clap-trap, a violent and yet toneless

screaming. Exactly those passages in which these stage passions were

the most boisterous and distressing were the most applauded. There is

not a single well-frequented German theatre (such as those of Vienna,

Berlin or Dresden) in which so bad a performance as this would have

been exhibited.

Our traveller is in raptures with Windsor, and censures the tasteless

folly of Buckingham house. Of the Italian opera in England he speaks

briefly and contemptuously—nor does the national music find any degree

of favor in his eyes. His criticisms on sculpture and painting are

forcible and very beautiful. In some observations on the attic

bas-reliefs, and the works from the Parthenon and Phigalia, to be

found in the British Museum, he takes occasion to collate the higher

efforts of Grecian art with the rudeness of Roman feeling, and the

still more striking rudeness of the German and Italian schools of the

fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. His remarks here are too forcible

and too fresh to be omitted.

These schools (the German and Italian) were, it is true, internally

impelled by Christianity towards the noblest goal of humanity and of

art, but they have unsuitably introduced the doctrine of election even

into these regions. To the beautiful forms pardoned by God are opposed

the ugly bodies of the non-elect; to the healthy, the sick; to the

blessed, the damned. In theology, in philosophy, in history, this dark

side of existence may be employed at pleasure, but when it appears in

art I feel hurt and uncomfortable.... This _caput mortuum_ may be

wholly separated. It should evaporate and become invisible. Not till

this is accomplished can we place Christian art above Greek art, as

the Christian religion above the Greek religion. A great confusion of

ideas still prevails, in considering and judging of these things. How

often have modern works of art been praised in reference to the

doctrine, and ancient works reprobated for similar reasons. But the

demoniac is not a suitable subject for art, merely because he is

mentioned in the Bible; or a Venus to be rejected, because the worship

of the goddess has ceased.... Music without discord is unmeaning and

tedious, and painting and sculpture likewise need such discord. But

every musical discord is necessarily resolved, according to the rules

of art—while painters and sculptors often leave their dissonances

unresolved, and eternized in stone. In every discord I feel its

transition into euphony. It is but a motion, a creation of harmony;

but no musician would ever think of affirming that to sing out of tune

is ever permitted, much less that it is necessary in his art. The

combats of the Centaurs and Lapithæ display a chain of discords, which

originate, advance, and develop themselves—one could set them to music

without violating the rules and euphony of the science. But were we to

attempt a similar musical transposition with many celebrated statues,

we should break all the strings of the instrument by the violence of

the effort.

We had noted many other passages for comment and extract—(especially a

lively Philippic against Utilitarianism on pages 398, 399, an account

of Bentham's penitentiary, and other matters) but we perceive that we

are already infringing upon our limits. This book about England will

and must be read, and will as certainly be relished, by a numerous

class, although not by a majority, of our fellow-citizens. The author,

we rejoice to hear, has engaged to translate into his own language the

Washington Papers of Mr. Sparks. We will only add that Professor Von

Raumer has the honor of being called by the English organ of the High

Church and Ultra Tory Party, “a vagrant blackguard unfit for the

company of a decent servants' hall.”

MEMOIRS OF AN AMERICAN LADY.

_Memoirs of an American Lady. With Sketches of Manners and Scenery in

America, as they existed previous to the Revolution. By the author of

“Letters from the Mountains.” New York: published by George Dearborn._

This work has been already a favorite with many of our readers—but has

long been out of print, and we are glad to see it republished. Mrs.

Grant of Laghan is a name entitled to the respect and affection of all

Americans. The book, moreover, is full of good things; and as a

memorial of the epoch immediately preceding our Revolution, is

invaluable. At the present moment too it will be well to compare the

public sentiment in regard to slavery, Indian affairs, and some other

matters, with the sentiments of our forefathers, as expressed in this

volume. In Albany and New York it will possess a local interest of no

common character. Every where it will be read with pleasure, as an

authentic and well written record of a most exemplary life. The

edition is well printed on fine paper, and altogether creditable to

Mr. Dearborn.

Some remarks on slavery, at page 41, will apply with singular accuracy

to the present state of things in Virginia.

In the society I am describing, even the dark aspect of slavery was

softened into a smile. And I must, in justice to the best possible

masters, say, that a great deal of that tranquillity and comfort, to

call them by no higher names, which distinguish this society from all

others, was owing to the relation between master and servant being

better understood here than in any other place. Let me not be detested

as an advocate for slavery, when I say that I think I have never seen

people so happy in servitude as the domestics of the Albanians. One

reason was, (for I do not now speak of the virtues of their masters,)

that each family had few of them, and that there were no field

negroes. They would remind one of Abraham's servants, who were all

born in the house, which was exactly their case. They were baptised

too, and shared the same religious instruction with the children of

the family; and, for the first years, there was little or no

difference with regard to food or clothing between their children and

those of their masters.

When a negro woman's child attained the age of three years, the first

new-year's day after, it was solemnly presented to a son or daughter,

or other young relative of the family, who was of the same sex with

the child so presented. The child to whom the young negro was given,

immediately presented it with some piece of money and a pair of shoes;

and from that day the strongest attachment subsisted between the

domestic and the destined owner. I have no where met with instances of

friendship more tender and generous than that which here subsisted

between the slaves and their masters and mistresses. Extraordinary

proofs of them {512} have been often given in the course of hunting or

Indian trading, when a young man and his slave have gone to the

trackless woods together, in the cases of fits of the ague, loss of a

canoe and other casualties happening near hostile Indians. The slave

has been known, at the imminent risk of his life, to carry his

disabled master through trackless woods with labor and fidelity scarce

credible; and the master has been equally tender on similar occasions

of the humble friend who stuck closer than a brother; who was baptised

with the same baptism, nurtured under the same roof, and often rocked

in the same cradle with himself. These gifts of domestics to the

younger members of the family were not irrevocable; yet they were very

rarely withdrawn. If the kitchen family did not increase in proportion

to that of the master, young children were purchased from some family

where they abounded, to furnish those attached servants to the rising

progeny. They were never sold without consulting their mother, who, if

expert and sagacious, had a great deal to say in the family, and would

not allow her child to go into any family with whose domestics she was

not acquainted. These negro women piqued themselves on teaching their

children to be excellent servants, well knowing servitude to be their

lot for life, and that it could only be sweetened by making themselves

particularly useful, and excelling in their department. If they did

their work well, it is astonishing, when I recollect it, what liberty

of speech was allowed to those active and prudent mothers. They would

chide, reprove, and expostulate in a manner that we would not endure

from our hired servants; and sometimes exert fully as much authority

over the children of the family as the parents, conscious that they

were entirely in their power. They did not crush freedom of speech and

opinion in those by whom they knew they were beloved, and who watched

with incessant care over their interest and comfort.

The volume abounds in quaint anecdote, pathos, and matter of a graver

nature, which will be treasured up for future use by the historian. At

page 321 is a description of the breaking up of the ice on the Hudson.

The passage is written with great power; and, as Southey has called

it, “quite Homeric,” (a fact of which we are informed in the preface

to this edition) we will be pardoned for copying it entire.

Soon after this I witnessed, for the last time, the sublime spectacle

of the ice breaking up on the river; an object that fills and elevates

the mind with ideas of power, and grandeur, and indeed, magnificence;

before which all the triumphs of human art sink into insignificance.

This noble object of animated greatness, for such it seemed, I

witnessed; its approach being announced, like a loud and long peal of

thunder, the whole population of Albany were down at the river side in

a moment; and if it happened, as was often the case, in the morning,

there could not be a more grotesque assemblage. No one who had a

nightcap on waited to put it off; as for waiting for one's cloak or

gloves, it was a thing out of the question; you caught the thing next

you that could wrap round you, and run. In the way you saw every door

left open, and pails, baskets, &c. without number set down in the

street. It was a perfect saturnalia. People never dreamt of being

obeyed by their slaves till the ice was past. The houses were left

quite empty: the meanest slave, the youngest child, all were to be

found on the shore. Such as could walk, ran; and they that could not,

were carried by those whose duty would have been to stay and attend

them. When arrived at the show place, unlike the audience collected to

witness any spectacle of human invention, the multitude, with their

eyes all bent one way, stood immoveable, and silent as death, till the

tumult ceased, and the mighty commotion was passed by; then every one

tried to give vent to the vast conceptions with which his mind had

been distended. Every child, and every negro was sure to say, ‘Is not

this like the day of judgment?’ and what they said every one else

thought. Now to describe this is impossible; but I mean to account in

some degree for it. The ice, which had been all winter very thick,

instead of diminishing, as might be expected in spring, still

increased, as the sunshine came and the days lengthened. Much snow

fell in February, which, melted by the heat of the sun, was stagnant

for a day on the surface of the ice; and then by the night frosts,

which were still severe, was added as a new accession to the thickness

of it, above the former surface. This was so often repeated, that in

some years the ice gained two feet in thickness, after the heat of the

sun became such as one would have expected should have entirely

dissolved it. So conscious were the natives of the safety this

accumulation of ice afforded, that the sledges continued to drive on

the ice, when the trees were budding, and everything looked like

spring; nay, when there was so much melted on the surface that the

horses were knee deep in water while travelling on it; and portentous

cracks, on every side, announced the approaching rupture. This could

scarce have been produced by the mere influence of the sun, till

midsummer. It was the swelling of the waters under the ice, increased

by rivulets, enlarged by melted snows, that produced this catastrophe;

for such the awful concussion made it appear. The prelude to the

general bursting of this mighty mass was a fracture lengthwise, in the

middle of the stream, produced by the effort of the imprisoned waters,

now increased too much to be contained within their wonted bounds.

Conceive a solid mass, from six to eight feet thick, bursting for many

miles in one continued rupture, produced by a force inconceivably

great, and, in a manner, inexpressibly sudden. Thunder is no adequate

image of this awful explosion, which roused all the sleepers within

reach of the sound, as completely as the final convulsion of nature,

and the solemn peal of the awakening trumpet might be supposed to do.

The stream in summer was confined by a pebbly strand, overhung with

high and steep banks, crowned with lofty trees, which were considered

as a sacred barrier against the encroachments of this annual

visitation. Never dryads dwelt in more security than those of the

vine-clad elms, that extended their ample branches over this mighty

stream. Their tangled nets laid bare by the impetuous torrents, formed

caverns ever fresh and fragrant, where the most delicate plants

flourished, unvisited by scorching suns or nipping blasts; and nothing

could be more singular than the variety of plants and birds that were

sheltered in these intricate and safe recesses. But when the bursting

of the crystal surface set loose the many waters that had rushed down,

swollen with the annual tribute of dissolving snow, the islands and

low lands were all flooded in an instant; and the lofty banks, from

which you were wont to overlook the stream, were now entirely filled

by an impetuous torrent, bearing down, with incredible and tumultuous

rage, immense shoals of ice; which, breaking every instant by the

concussion of others, jammed together in some places, in others

erecting themselves in gigantic heights for an instant in the air, and

seeming to combat with their fellow-giants crowding on in all

directions, and falling together with an inconceivable crash, formed a

terrible moving picture, animated and various beyond conception; for

it was not only the cerulean ice, whose broken edges combatting with

the stream, refracted light into a thousand rainbows, that charmed

your attention; lofty pines, large pieces of the bank torn off by the

ice with all their early green and tender foliage, were driven on like

travelling islands, amid the battle of breakers, for such it seemed. I

am absurdly attempting to paint a scene, under which the powers of

language sink. Suffice it, that this year its solemnity was increased

by an unusual quantity of snow, which the last hard winter had

accumulated, and the dissolution of which now threatened an

inundation.

{513} CAMPERDOWN.

_Camperdown; or News from our Neighborhood—Being a Series of Sketches,

by the author of “Our Neighborhood,” &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea &

Blanchard._

In “_Our Neighborhood_” published a few years ago, the author promised

to give a second series of the work, including brief sketches of some

of its chief characters. The present volume is the result of the

promise, and will be followed up by others—in continuation. We have

read all the tales in _Camperdown_ with interest, and we think the

book cannot well fail being popular. It evinces originality of thought

and manner—with much novelty of matter. The tales are six in number;

_Three Hundred Years Hence_—_The Surprise_—_The Seven Shanties_—_The

Little Couple_—_The Baker's Dozen_—and _The Thread and Needle Store_.

_Three Hundred Years Hence_ is an imitation of Mercier's “_Lan deux

milles quatre cents quarante_,” the unaccredited parent of a great

many similar things. In the present instance, a citizen of

Pennsylvania, on the eve of starting for New York, falls asleep while

awaiting the steam-boat. _He dreams_ that upon his awakening, Time and

the world have made an advance of three hundred years—that he is

informed of this fact by two persons who afterwards prove to be his

immediate descendants in the eighth generation. They tell him that,

while taking his nap, he was buried, together with the house in which

he sat, beneath an avalanche of snow and earth precipitated from a

neighboring hill by the discharge of the signal-gun—that the tradition

of the event had been preserved, although the spot of his disaster was

at that time overgrown with immense forest trees—and that his

discovery was brought about by the necessity for opening a road

through the hill. He is astonished, as well he may be, but, taking

courage, travels through the country between Philadelphia and New

York, and comments upon its alterations. These latter are, for the

most part, well conceived—some are sufficiently _outré_. Returning

from his journey he stops at the scene of his original disaster and is

seated, once more, in the disentombed house, while awaiting a

companion. In the meantime he is awakened—finds he has been

dreaming—that the boat has left him—but also (upon receipt of a

letter) that there is no longer any necessity for his journey. The

_Little Couple_, and _The Thread and Needle Store_ are skilfully told,

and have much spirit and freshness.

ERATO.

_Erato. By William D. Gallagher. No. I, Cincinnati, Josiah Drake—No.

II, Cincinnati, Alexander Flash._

Many of these poems are old friends, in whose communion we have been

cheered with bright hopes for the Literature of the West. Some of the

pieces will be recognized by our readers, as having attained,

anonymously, to an enviable reputation—among these the _Wreck of the

Hornet_. The greater part, however, of the latter volume of Mr.

Gallagher, is now, we believe, for the first time published. Mr. G. is

fully a poet in the abstract sense of the word, and will be so

hereafter in the popular meaning of the term. Even now he has done

much in the latter way—much in every way. We think, moreover, we

perceive in him a far more stable basis for solid and extensive

reputation than we have seen in more than a very few of our

countrymen. We allude not now particularly to force of expression,

force of thought, or delicacy of imagination. All these essentials of

the poet he possesses—but we wish to speak of care, study, and

self-examination, of which this vigor and delicacy are in an

inconceivable measure the result. That the versification of Mr. G.'s

poem _The Conqueror_, is that of Southey's _Thalaba_, we look upon as

a good omen of ultimate success—although we regard the metre itself as

unjustifiable. It is not impossible that Mr. G. has been led to

attempt this rhythm by the same considerations which have had weight

with Southey—whose Thalaba our author had not seen before the planning

of his own poem. If so, and if Mr. Gallagher will now begin anew, in

his researches about metre, where the laureate made an end, we have

little doubt of his future renown.

It is not our intention to _review_ the poems of Mr. Gallagher—nor

perhaps would he thank us for so doing. They are exceedingly unequal.

Long passages of the merest burlesque, and in horribly bad taste, are

intermingled with those of the loftiest beauty. It seems too, that the

poems before us fail invariably as _entire_ poems, while succeeding

very frequently in individual portions. But the failure _of a whole_

cannot be shown without an analysis of that whole—and this analysis,

as we have said, is beyond our intention at present. Some detached

sentences, on the other hand, may be readily given; but, in equity, we

must remind our readers that these sentences are _selected_.

The following fine lines are from _The Penitent_—a poem ill-conceived,

ill-written, and disfigured by almost every possible blemish of

manner. We presume it is one of the author's juvenile pieces.

Remorse had furrowed his ample brow—

His cheeks were sallow and thin—

His limbs were shrivelled—his body was lank—

He had reaped the wages of sin;

And though his eyes constantly glanced about,

As if looking or watching for something without,

His mind's eye glanced within!

Wildly his eyes still glared about,

But the eye that glared within

Was the one that saw the images

That frightened this man of sin.

From the same.

We were together: we had tarried

So oft by some enchanting spot

To her familiar, and which carried

Her thoughts away—where mine were not—

That, ere she knew, the bright, chaste moon

—Not as of old, (when Time was young)

She roamed the woods, in sandal-shoon,

With bow in hand and quiver strung—

But 'mong the stars, and broad and round

The moon of man's degenerate race,

Its way had through an opening found,

And shone full in her face!

She started then, and, looking up,

Turned on me her delicious eyes;

And I, poor fool! I dared to hope,

And met that look with sighs!

From the “_Wreck of the Hornet_”—

Now shrank with fear each gallant heart—

Bended was many a knee— {514}

And the last prayer was offered up,

God of the Deep, to thee!

Muttered the angry Heavens still

And murmured still the sea—

And old and sternest hearts bowed down

God of the Deep, to Thee!

The little ballad “_They told me not to love him_,” has much

tenderness, simplicity, and neatness of expression. We quote three of

the five stanzas—the rest are equally good.

They told me not to love him!

They said he was not true;

And bade me have a care, lest I

Should do what I might rue:

At first I scorn'd their warnings—for

I could not think that he

Conceal'd beneath so fair a brow,

A heart of perfidy.

But they forc'd me to discard him!

Yet I could not cease to love—

For our mutual vows recorded were

By angel hands above.

He left his boyhood's home, and sought

Forgetfulness afar;

But memory stung him—and he fought,

And fell, in glorious war.

_He_ dwells in Heaven now—while _I_

Am doom'd to this dull Earth:

O, how my sad soul longs to break

Away, and wander forth.

From star to star its course would be—

Unresting it would go,

Till we united were above,

Who severed were below.

By far the best poem we have seen from the pen of Mr. Gallagher is

that entitled “_August_”—and it is indeed this little piece alone

which would entitle him, _at least now_, we think, to any poetical

rank above the general mass of versifiers. But the ability to write a

poem such as “_August_,” while implying a capacity for even higher and

better things, speaks clearly of present power, and of an upward

progress already begun. Much of the beauty of the lines we mention,

springs, it must be admitted, from imitation of Shelley—but we are not

inclined to like them much the less on this account. We copy only the

four initial stanzas. The remaining seven, although good, are injured

by some inadvertences. The allusion, in stanzas six and seven, to Mr.

Lee, a painter, destroys the _keeping_ of all the latter portion of

the poem.

Dust on thy mantle! dust,

Bright Summer, on thy livery of green!

A tarnish, as of rust,

Dimmeth thy brilliant sheen:

And thy young glories—leaf, and bud, and flower—

Change cometh over them with every hour.

Thee hath the August sun

Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face:

And still and lazily run,

Scarce whispering in their pace,

The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent

A shout of gladness up, as on they went.

Flame-like, the long mid-day—

With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd

The down upon the spray,

Where rests the panting bird,

Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,

With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.

Seeds in the sultry air,

And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees!

E'en the tall pines, that rear

Their plumes to catch the breeze,

The slightest breeze from the unfruitful West,

Partake the general languor, and deep rest.

LIFE ON THE LAKES.

_Life on the Lakes: Being Tales and Sketches collected during a Trip

to the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior. By the author of “Legends of a

Log Cabin.” New York: Published by George Dearborn._

The name of this book is in shockingly bad taste. After being

inundated with the burlesque in the shape of Life in London, Life in

Paris, Life at Crockford's, Life in Philadelphia, and a variety of

other _Lives_, all partaking of _caricatura_, it is not easy to

imagine a title more sadly out of keeping than one embracing on the

same page this so travestied word _Life_ and the—Pictured Rocks of

Lake Superior. We have other faults to find with the work. It contains

some ill-mannered and grossly ignorant sneers at Daniel O'Connell,

calling him “the great pensioner on the poverty of his countrymen,”

and making him speak in a brogue only used by the lowest of the Irish,

about “_the finest pisantry in the world_.” The two lithographs,

(Picture Rocks and La Chapelle) the joint work of Messieurs Burford

and Bufford, are abominable in every respect, and should not have been

suffered to disgrace the well printed and otherwise handsome volumes.

In the manner of the narrative, too, there is a rawness, a certain air

of foppery and ill-sustained pretension—a species of abrupt, frisky,

and self-complacent Paul Ulricism, which will cause nine-tenths of the

well educated men who take up the book, to throw it aside in disgust,

after perusing the initial chapter. Yet if we can overlook these

difficulties, _Life on the Lakes_ will be found a very amusing

performance. We quote from the close of volume the first, the

following piquant Indian Story, narrated by an Indian.

As our adventures are thus brought, for the day, to a premature close,

suppose I give you an Indian story. If any body asks you who told it

me, say you do not know.

Many years ago, when there were very few white men on the lake, and

the red men could take the beaver by hundreds upon its shores, our

great father, the president, sent a company of his wise men and his

warriors to make a treaty with the Chippewas. They did not travel, as

the poor Indians do, in small weak canoes; no, they were white

warriors, and they had a barge so great she was almost a ship. The

warriors of this party, like all our great father's warriors, were

exceeding brave; but among them all, the bravest was he whom the white

men called the Major, but the red men called him Ininiwee, or the Bold

Man. He was all over brave—even his tongue was brave; and Waab-ojeeg

himself never spoke bolder words. For a while the wind was fair and

the lake smooth, and the courage of Ininiwee ran over at his mouth in

loud and constant boasting. At last they came to the mouth of Grand

Marais, and here a storm arose, and one of the wise men—he was tall

and large, and, on account of the color of his hair, and _for other

reasons_, the Chippewas called him Misco-Monedo[1]—told the warriors

of our {515} great father to take off their coats and their boots, so

that if the great barge was filled with water, or if she turned over,

they might swim for their lives. The words of Misco-Monedo seemed good

to the warriors, and they took off their coats and boots, and made

ready to swim in case of need. Then they sat still and _silent_, for

the courage of the Major no longer overflowed at his lips; perhaps he

was collecting it round his heart. They sat a long while, but at last

the guide told them, ‘It is over, the warriors are safe.’ Then,

indeed, there was great joy among the white men; but Ininiwee made

haste to put on his coat and his boots, for he said in his heart, ‘If

I can get them on before the other warriors, I can say I am brave; I

did not take off my boots nor my coat; you are cowards, so I shall be

a great chief.’ Ininiwee put on his coat, and then he thought to have

put on his boots; but when he tried, the warrior who sat next him in

the barge shouted and called for the Misco-Monedo. He came

immediately, and saw that Ininiwee, whom they called the Major, in his

haste and in his great fright, was trying to put his boot on another

man's leg.

[Footnote 1: Red Devil.]

RUSSIA AND THE RUSSIANS.

_Russia and the Russians; or, a Journey to St. Petersburg and Moscow,

through Courland and Livonia; with Characteristic Sketches of the

People. By Leigh Ritchie, Esq. Author of “Turner's Annual Tour,”

“Schinderhannes,” &c. Philadelphia: E. L. Carey and A. Hart._

This book, as originally published in London, was beautifully gotten

up and illustrated with engravings of superior merit, which tended in

no little degree to heighten the public interest in its behalf. The

present volume is well printed on passable paper—and no more. The name

of Leigh Ritchie however, is a host in itself. He has never, to our

knowledge, written a bad thing. His Russia and the Russians has all

the spirit and glowing vigor of romance. It is full of every species

of entertainment, and will prove in America as it has in England, one

of the most popular books of the season. In this respect it will

differ no less widely from the England of Professor Von Raumer than it

differs from it in matter and manner, the vivacious writer of

Schinderhannes suffering his own individuality of temperament to color

every thing he sees, and giving us under the grave title of Russia and

the Russians, a brilliant mass of anecdote, narrative, description and

sentiment—the profound historian disdaining embellishment, and busying

himself only in laying bare with a master-hand the very anatomy of

England. It is amusing, however, although by no means extraordinary,

that were we to glean the character of each work from the respective

statements of the two writers in their prefaces, we would be forced to

arrive at a conclusion precisely the reverse. In this view of the case

Leigh Ritchie would be Professor Von Raumer, and Professor Von Raumer

Leigh Ritchie. We copy from the book before us the _commencement_ of a

sketch of St. Petersburg, in which the artist has done far more in

giving a vivid idea of that city than many a wiser man in the sum

total of an elaborate painting.

St. Petersburg has been frequently called “the most magnificent city

in Europe,” but the expression appears to me to be wholly destitute of

meaning. Venice is a magnificent city, so is Paris, so is St.

Petersburg; but there are no points of _comparison_ among them. St.

Petersburg is a city of new houses, newly painted. The designs of some

of them may be old, but the copies are evidently new. They imitate the

classic models; but they often imitate them badly, and there is always

something to remind one that they are not the genuine classic. They

are like the images which the Italian boys carry about the

thoroughfares of London—Venuses de Medici and Belvidere Apollos, in

stucco.

But the streets are wide, and the walls painted white or light yellow;

and from one street opens another, and another, and another—all wide,

and white, and light yellow. And then, here and there, there are

columned façades, and churches, and domes, and tapering spires—all

white too, that are not gilded, or painted a sparkling green. And

canals sweep away to the right and left almost at every turning, not

straight and Dutch-like, but bending gracefully, and losing themselves

among the houses. And there is one vast and glorious river, as wide as

the Thames at London, and a hundred times more beautiful, which rolls

through the whole; and, beyond it, from which ever side you look, you

see a kindred mass of houses and palaces, white and yellow, and

columned façades, and churches, and domes, and spires, gilded and

green.

The left bank of this river is a wall of granite, with a parapet and

trottoir of the same material, extending for several miles; and this

forms one of the most magnificent promenades in Europe. The houses on

either side look like palaces, for all are white, and many have

columns; and there are also absolute _de facto_ palaces; for instance,

the Admiralty, the Winter Palace, and the Marble Palace, on one side,

and the Academy of Arts, on the other. The water in the middle is

stirring with boats, leaping and sweeping through the stream, with

lofty, old-fashioned sterns, painted and gilded within and without.

Among the streets, there is one averaging the width of Oxford Street

in London, sometimes less, sometimes a little more. It is lined with

trees, and shops with painted shutters, and churches of half a dozen

different creeds. Its shops, indeed, are not so splendid as ours, nor

are their windows larger than those of private houses: but the walls

are white and clean, sometimes columned, sometimes pillastered,

sometimes basso-relievoed: in fact, if you can imagine such a thing as

a street of _gin-palaces_ just after the painting season—and that is a

bold word—you may form an idea scarcely exaggerated of the Nevski

Prospekt.

But no analogy taken from London can convey an idea of the—grandeur, I

may venture to say, presented by the vistas opening from the main

street. Here there are no lanes, no alleys, no _impasses_, no

nestling-places constructed of filth and rubbish for the poor. These

lateral streets are all parts of the main street, only diverging at

right angles. The houses are the same in form and color; they appear

to be inhabited by the same classes of society; and the view is

terminated, ever and anon, by domes and spires. The whole, in short,

is one splendid picture, various in its forms, but consistent in its

character.

Such were my first impressions—thus thrown down at random, without

waiting to look for words, and hardly caring about ideas,—the first

sudden impressions flashed upon my mind by the physical aspect of St.

Petersburg.

I have said in a former volume of this work, that I have the

custom—like other idlers, I suppose—of wandering about during the

first day of my visit to a foreign city, without apparent aim or

purpose; without knowing, or desiring to know, the geography of the

place; and without asking a single question. Now this is precisely the

sort of view which should be taken of the new city of the Tsars, by

one who prefers the poetry of life to its dull and hackneyed prose.

St. Petersburg is a picture rather than a reality—grand, beautiful,

and noble, at a little distance, but nothing more than a surface of

paint and varnish when you look closer. Or, {516} rather, to amend the

comparison, it is like the scene of a theatre, which you must not by

any means look behind, if you would not destroy the illusion.

It will be said, that such is the case with all cities, with all

objects that derive their existence from the puny sons of men: but

this is one of those misnamed truisms which are considered worthy of

all acceptation for no other reason than that they come from the

tongue, or through a neighboring organ, with the twang of religion or

morality.

_London_ does not lose but gain by inspection; although on inspection

it is found to be an enormous heap of dirty, paltry, miserable brick

houses, which, but for the constant repairs of the inhabitants, would

in a few years become a mass of such pitiful ruins as the owls

themselves would disdain to inhabit. Those narrow, winding, dingy

streets—those endless lines of brick boxes, without taste, without

beauty, without dignity, without any thing that belongs to

architecture, inspire us with growing wonder and admiration. The

genius, the industry, the commerce, of a whole continent seem

concentrated in this single spot; and the effect is uninterrupted by

any of the lighter arts that serve as the mere ornaments and

amusements of life. An earnestness of purpose is the predominating

character of the scene—a force of determination which seizes, and

fixes, and grapples with a single specific object, to the exclusion of

every other. The pursuit of wealth acquires a character of sublimity

as we gaze; and Mammon rises in majesty from the very deformity of the

stupendous temple of common-place in which he is worshipped.

_Venice_ does not lose but gain by inspection; although on inspection

it is found to be but the outlines of a great city, filled up with

meanness, and dirt, and famine. We enter her ruined palaces with a

catching of the breath, and a trembling of the heart; and when we see

her inhabitants crouching in rags and hunger in their marble halls, we

do but breathe the harder, and tremble the more. The effect is

_increased_ by the contrast; for Venice is a tale of the past, a city

of the dead. The Rialto is still crowded with the shapes of history

and romance; the Giant's Steps still echo to the ducal tread; and

mingling with the slaves and wantons who meet on the Sunday evenings

to laugh at the rattle of their chains in the Piazza di San Marco, we

see gliding, scornful and sad, the merchant-kings of the Adriatic.

St. Petersburg, on the other band, has no moral character to give

dignity to common-place, or haunt tombs and ruins like a spirit. It is

a city of imitation, constructed, in our own day, on what were thought

to be the best models; and hence the severity with which its public

buildings have been criticised by all travellers, except those who

dote upon gilding and green paint, and are enthusiasts in plaster and

whitewash. As a _picture_ of a city, notwithstanding, superficially

viewed—an _idea_ of a great congregating place of the human kind,

without reference to national character, or history, or individuality

of any kind—St. Petersburg, in my opinion, is absolutely unrivalled.

It would be difficult, even for the talented artist whose productions

grace these sketches, to convey an adequate idea of the scale on which

this city is laid out; and yet, without doing so, we do nothing. This

is the grand distinctive feature of the place. Economy of room was the

principal necessity in the construction of the other great European

cities; for, above all things, they were to be protected from the

enemy by stone walls. But, before St. Petersburg was built, a change

had taken place in the art and customs of war, and permanent armies

had become in some measure a substitute for permanent fortifications.

Another cause of prodigality was the little value of the land; but,

above all these, should be mentioned, the far-seeing, and far-thinking

ambition of the builders. Conquest was the ruling passion of the Tsars

from the beginning; and in founding a new capital, they appear to have

destined it to be the capital of half the world.

It is needless to exaggerate the magnitude of the city; as, for

instance, some writers have done, by stating that the Nevski Prospekt

is half as wide again as Oxford Street in London. Every thing is here

on a gigantic scale. The quays, to which vessels requiring nine feet

of water cannot ascend, except when the river is unusually high, might

serve for all the navies of Europe. The public offices, or at least

many of them, would hardly be too small, even if the hundred millions

were added to the population of the country, which its soil is

supposed to be capable of supporting.