Fling high your greasy caps in air,

Slaves of the forge and loom,

If on the soil ye’re pent and starved

Yet underneath there’s room;

Fling high your caps, for, God be praised,

Your epitaph shall be,

“Who sets his foot on English soil

Thenceforward he is free!”

Shout too for merry England

Ye factory-children thin,

Upon whose little hearts the sun

Hath never once looked in;

For, when your hollow eyes shall close

The poor-house hell to balk,

(Thank God for liberty of speech)

The parliament will talk.

Thank God, lean sons of Erin,

Who reverence the Pope

In England consciences are free

And ye are free—to hope;

And if the Church of England priest

Distrain—why, what of that?

Their consciences are freer still

Who wear the shovel-hat.

The poet loves the silent past,

And, in his fruitful rhyme,

He sets the fairest flowers o’er

The grave of buried time;

But, from the graves of thy dark years,

The night-shade’s ugly blue

And spotted henbane shall grow up

To poison Heaven’s dew.

Woe to thee, fallen England,

Who hast betrayed the word,

And knelt before a Church when thou

Shouldst kneel before the Lord!

And, for that scarlet woman

Who sits in places high,

There cometh vengeance swift to quench

The lewdness in her eye.

Woe to thee, fallen England,

Who, in thy night-mare sleep,

O’er a volcano’s heart dost toss

Whence sudden wrath shall leap

Of that forgotten Titan

Who now is trodden down

That one weak Guelphic girl may wear

Her plaything of a crown!

That Titan’s heart is heaving now,

And, with its huge uprise,

On their sand basements lean and crack

The old moss-covered lies;

For freedom through long centuries

Lives in eternal youth,

And nothing can for ever part

The human soul and truth.

* * * * *

MARRIAGE.

BY RUFUS DAWES.

The inmost region of the mind, where dwells

The essences of unborn thought,—those _ends_

In which Effects, through Causes, dwell in power,

Opened. ’Twas in vision, and I saw

A palace of vast size—such as the eye,

The natural eye of man, never beheld.

Its massy walls of unhewn agate towered,

Girt by a colonnade of crysolite;

And there were ninety columns of huge bulk,

Sustaining an entablature of gold,

Diamond and ruby, glittering like the sun.

The windows were each one a double plate

Of spacious crystal, sliding from the touch

Each side in golden frames. The portico

Hung o’er a flight of alabaster steps,

Extending to a lawn of delicate moss,

Where browsed a flock of innocent, white lambs,

That little children garlanded with flowers.

Around the palace, orchard-trees were seen,

Laden with fruit celestial, that hung down

Like gems among the gold and silver leaves.

Majestic vines, heavy with clustering grapes,

In large festoons swung gorgeously between

The opulent boughs that dropped with nectarines.

’Twas on a mountain’s summit, high and broad,

Commanding a magnificent expanse,

Where Art, in its essential excellence,

Glowed in potential forms, where Nature, too,

Un-ultimated in terrestrial things,

Bloomed in angelic beauty. To the east

A river, brinked luxuriantly with flowers,

Lapsed silently. The deep-enameled dome,

Whose measureless horizon knew no bounds,

Was draped with clouds that broke celestial rays,

Shining down shadowless. Turning, I saw

A pair of Consorts, whose exalted home

Was in this paradise. No forms of earth,

No mortal lineaments—no reach of thought

Poetic, when imagination wings

Homeward to Heaven, could in the least compare

With their angelic radiance;—they were

Beauty itself in form,—two, and yet one,—

One angel male and female—a true Man.

He was her Understanding, she his Will;

Thence, but one mind in heavenly marriage formed.

Her love was cradled in his thought, that loved

Her love and nursed it—as the tender drops

Clasp the warm sunbeams, while the smile of Heaven

Breaks in the rainbow. Such is genuine love.

He in his form more radiantly shone

Than that sublime achievement of fine art,

That shows the power of luminous Truth to kill

Sinuous Error;—she, than Guido’s gem

More beautiful, more human, and more true.

I saw, and lo! two dromedaries, each

Bearing a golden basket, one of bread,

The other of ripe fruit; they came and knelt.

Each took and gave the other,—he the bread,

She the ripe fruit. The dromedaries then

Rose and departed. I beheld them kneeling

Beside the river, and when they had drunk

I saw them rise again and kiss each other,

And then depart. I looked again, and lo!

The consorts had withdrawn. They were the first

Of the new birth of Marriage here on earth—

A promise for the future, when a Time,

And Times, and half a Time shall be fulfilled.

* * * * *

INDIAN TRADITIONS.—No. II.

FORT POINT.

BY D. M. ELWOOD.

“His spirit wraps the misty mountain,

His memory sparkles o’er the fountain;

The meanest rill—the mightiest river—

Rolls mingling with his name forever.”

The beautiful towns and villages of Connecticut, bordering on Long

Island sound, are not surpassed in quiet loveliness by any others in New

England. The loveliest, perhaps, of them all, is Norwalk, situated in

the western part of the State, on a river of the same name, which flows

sweetly along through the centre of the town. The title, we confess, is

neither euphonious nor romantic: but we would not have it changed even

for the sweetest word that ever passed human lips. It was given it by

the Aborigines on the day when the territory was first purchased from

them, and refers, if we mistake not, to its extent northward from the

sound, called by the Indians the _North walk_. It is, indeed, one of the

most lovely spots in Nature. Its quiet harbor is studded with verdant

islands of every size and form, while across the green waters Long

Island is seen, its dim outline scarcely distinguishable from the blue

expanse beyond. The sound through its whole length is spotted with

sheets of snowy canvass spread to catch the breeze, and anon the

majestic steamer, like some huge leviathan, comes laboring on her way,

proudly dashing aside the foaming waters from her prow, and leaving far

behind a whitened, widening track. But when the Storm King is abroad,

the crested waves pursue each other in continual chase, and the long,

swelling billows break upon the shore, sending forth their rich music in

the deep organ tones of nature.

On the eastern side of the river, and directly opposite the present

steamboat landing, is a large circular mound, some twenty feet high, and

covering a surface of about an acre. It is perfectly level on the top,

and bordered with large, tall cedars. It is now commonly known by the

inhabitants in the vicinity as Old Fort Point.

There is a tradition respecting the object and the erection of this

mound, which I have with difficulty procured, and which maybe

interesting to many who have visited the place, if not to strangers. For

its truth, in all particulars, I will not vouch, but give it

substantially as it has come down to us.

About two centuries ago, there lived, on the level country about what is

now Fort Point, but what was then called Naumkeag, one of those large

tribes of native Indians, which, at the time when this land was first

visited by Europeans, were scattered over the country from the shores of

the Atlantic to the great valley of the west. The Indians had not then

been degraded by their intercourse with the whites. The peculiarities of

their nature had not been modified by the influence of civilization.

Their tastes had not been pampered, nor their appetites excited by the

fatal “fire water” introduced by their destroyers, nor their bodily

strength wasted by diseases, loathsome and deadly, and till then unknown

among them.

From the feathered flocks of the forest and the finny tribes of the sea,

they derived an ample subsistence; the shores, too, abounded in shell

fish, and the forests with game, so that want and famine were never

dreamt of by the happy and proud inhabitants of Naumkeag.

Many years before the time of this sketch a large colony separated from

the principal tribe and moved northward, settling themselves in the

mountainous regions of Massachusetts. This colony embraced about a

quarter of the whole tribe at Naumkeag—and being composed mostly of

young men and their wives, they soon became nearly as powerful as the

people whom they had left.

Although many miles lay between them, these two tribes long kept up a

friendly intercourse with each other, and forgot not that they had

sprung from the same common stock. Miles were passed over almost as

easily by those hardy foresters as they are by us at the present day,

even with the help of iron roads and steam carriages. Great power of

endurance was natural to their constitution, and especially was the

fatigue of a long and rapid journey borne without inconvenience.

There was one of the Wannamoisetts, as those who had removed from

Naumeag now called themselves, who was more frequent by far in his

visits to the sea shore than any other of his tribe. Every second moon

found him treading the forest with his face toward the south. His

journey usually occupied from two to three days. Occasionally he

remained at Naumkeag for a week at a time, though for the most part, his

visits were less protracted.

Mononchee had of course some object or incentive for being thus frequent

and regular in his attendance at the home of his ancestors. His very

distant relationship to the tribe would hardly demand such an excess of

filial affection. The truth was, there was a magnet of attraction in the

person of a young maiden of Naumkeag, the sister-in-law of the chief,

Wappaconet; and a powerful magnet it was too,—for there was not another

in the whole village that possessed a brighter eye or a more perfect

form. Her step almost realized the description of the poet,

“————and fell,

Trembling and soft, like moon-light on the earth.”

Noalwa was not insensible to the attentions of her constant swain; on

the contrary, his wooings were quite successful. His bravery and his

manly strength—his tall and well formed person, and flashing eye, were

well calculated to win the admiration, and, in due course, the

affections of the gentle being upon whom his own desires centered; and

the many soft things that he whispered in her ear, (for even an Indian

_in love_ can utter the sweetest phrases with a honied mouth,) found a

deep lodgment in her heart. And it was noticed that when the period of

his visits was near at hand, her step was still lighter than usual, and

her eye danced with a new, but soft fire, though at such times she spoke

less, and seemed thoughtful but not sad.

One evening—it was in the beginning of June, that season so favorable

to young lovers—Mononchee surprised Noalwa sitting under a large tree

close upon the shore. The hour and the place seemed as if under the

influence of enchantment. The scene was like a fairy land. The broad

sound was spread out before her, upon whose surface the clear moon shed

her softened rays, which, as from a mirror, were reflected back on every

side, giving to all things around an unnatural and unearthly brightness.

There seemed a spell upon the air. It stirred not—but hung over the

earth and the sea as if to heal every imperfection on the face of nature

by its bland and genial influence.

Noalwa had not been long there. An unwelcome intruder had invaded the

hour which she had set apart for solitude and for communion in spirit

and in fancy with her absent but adored lover. The intruder had hardly

left her sight ere he was banished from her thoughts, and as it was

about a week earlier than the customary time of Mononchee’s coming, she

was thinking how long the days would be till she saw him, when she felt

a warm kiss upon her cheek. She screamed not—spoke not—for a

deep-seated feeling at her heart told her that those were no forbidden

lips that could kindle such raptures in her soul.

She gazed up at the face and form that was bending over her with all the

fondness of a first love, and the young Indian placed himself by her

side and gently drew her to his bosom. Then followed a conversation in

low, deep, earnest tones, that both came from, and reached the heart.

“The Wannamoisett is good—very good, to come so soon and gladden the

heart of Noalwa,” murmured the girl as he pressed her to his breast.

“Who would not come early and often if Noalwa loved him?” replied he.

“Her beauty is brighter than the sun! Her eye is clearer and softer than

the moon which leaves a broad trail of light upon the water. She sings

more sweetly than the Tichanet,[4] and when she laughs the whole air is

full of pleasant sounds.”

“Did the Wannamoisett see any of my people as he came hither?” asked

she.

“None—for I came down by the shore. Ah! yes, I did see one—Annawon,

the Namasket.”

Noalwa hung her head.

“Where did Mononchee meet him?” said she.

“I saw him here!” vehemently replied the warrior, “here—standing on

this very spot. I saw his hand grasp yours; nay, kneeling at your feet.

I saw his eager look whilst you poured into his ear words which should

have been kept for Mononchee!”

“Be it so then,” cried the maiden, her lips quivering with insulted

pride, and her heart torn with the agony which the unjust but perhaps

reasonable suspicion of her lover caused, “be it so! for I told him to

go—ere he told me a tale of love—to his tent and behold the wasted

form and the sunken eye of Tituba, his wife, once loved and

cherished—now neglected. I told him that I could never be his, and that

any one who suspected Noalwa would so dishonor herself as to break her

faith with another, could not be worthy of her love. Mononchee suspects

her, and to him let her words be applied.”

“But why suffer the Namasket to hold your hand? Why play with the

serpent just ready to strike deep his fangs?”

“Mononchee is a keen-eyed warrior,” said the maid in irony, “he saw the

hawk, but not the wren that drove _him from her nest_. He saw Annawon at

the feet and holding the hand of Noalwa, but did not observe with what

scorn she looked upon him—did not mark how she spurned and drove him

from her.”

“I was deceived,” answered the repentant lover; “Noalwa has a pure

heart, and never again will I distrust her. Seest thou that moon hanging

yonder over the clear water? When it is again round and full, as it is

to-night, Mononchee will come to take Noalwa for his wife. Will she be

ready to go with him then to dwell where the hills are high and the deer

are plenty?”

“I am yours—yours only,” and her blushing face was hid in his bosom.

After sitting for about an hour, the young man arose. “I must return,”

said he, “to my people. Remember the full moon, Noalwa,” and he strode

rapidly away.

A few days after the above occurrence the Namaskets were invited by the

Wannamoisetts to partake of a grand feast of deer and bears’ flesh at

their village in the mountains. Accordingly a large party of the active

men of the tribe started one morning, and the evening of the next day

found them with their friends at Cohammock. The Wannamoisetts had made

their preparations on a grand, and, for them, magnificent scale. Piles

of plump deer and still richer bears’ meat lay around, while kettles of

dried sweet corn and beans, of the last year’s growth, were already

simmering over the small fires, that the hard kernels might become well

softened and ready for use on the morrow.

With the gray dawn of morning, all was bustle and activity in the

village of Cohammock. The Indian matrons were early bestirring

themselves that nothing might be left undone to mar the festivities of

the occasion. Innumerable fires were kindled—the wooden spit and the

seething pot, the two indispensable and almost the only culinary

implements in use among them, were put in requisition. Whilst the

preparations were going slowly on, the men of the tribe as well as their

guests were idling listlessly about, their appetites every moment

rendered sharper by the odor of the smoking viands that were soon to

form their savory meal.

And truly the banquet was not unworthy the occasion. Just as the sun had

reached the “middle point in the heavens,” piles upon piles of boiled

and roasted flesh were spread under the shade of the tall sycamores that

grew undisturbed in all parts of the village. A large bowl of the finest

_succotash_ was placed before each guest, and if the quantity eaten be

the standard of quality, never was there served up a better dinner than

was that day disposed of in the rude village of Cohammock.

At length the repast was finished. Both guests and entertainers, with a

prudence truly commendable, ate as if expecting a famine for a month, at

least, to come, and nothing remained but to indulge in that supreme of

Indian luxuries, tobacco. Pipes were brought, but alas! there was not a

particle of the weed to be found. Some miscreant, a fair representative

of that variety of our race at the present day—ever ready to engender

strife, had stolen and destroyed all that was to be found in the

village.

This was a deficiency that could be supplied by no other article.

Venison or succotash or any other part of the edible entertainment could

have been dispensed with, but the burning propensities of an Indian must

be indulged. The Wannamoisetts were as much mortified as their guests

were offended at this unfortunate occurrence, but it was with difficulty

the Namaskets could be persuaded that it was not an intentional insult;

so jealous were the natives of their own honor! Contrary to their

previous intention, they left their kinsmen in the early part of the

same afternoon, not caring to remain till morning with those who had, in

their view, been so parsimonious in their hospitality.

Let us return again to the sea shore at Naumkeag. A month after the

feast of Cohammock, a party of the Wannamoisett warriors were present at

a grand collation, prepared by Wappacowat, the Namasket chief. Much were

they gratified by this expression of his friendship, for they had always

regretted the affair at their own village, and feared that an open

rupture would be the consequence. They dreaded this, still cherishing

some little spark of fraternal affection for those whom they had

unmeaningly offended.

During the banquet, so busily were the Wannamoisetts engaged in

despatching the shell and other fish which their friends had made ready,

that they did not observe that Wappacowat and his followers partook but

sparingly, so that by the time they had eaten almost to suffocation, and

were illy prepared for the least exertion, the Namaskets had taken only

what was just sufficient to stimulate them for any enterprise.

At length Wappacowat gave the signal to his followers to bring the

calumet, and as he did so, a close observer might have discovered a

gleam of gratified animosity shoot across his iron features and glisten

in his snaky eye. Quickly moved his warriors, and the devoted guests

half stupified by the vast quantities of food they had taken, saw the

pipes well filled with the luxurious plant, but did not discover the

tomahawk and the knife which they had concealed under their deer skin

robes. They sat not smoking long, for suddenly the Namaskets rose and

each one buried his tomahawk into the brain of the Wannamoisett next

him. All—all were slain. So well had the treacherous, fratricidal plan

been matured, that not a single one was left to carry to the desolate

village of Cohammock the tale of blood and guilt. Ah! yes, there was

one—Mononchee—the betrothed of Noalwa, who having neglected the feast

that he might spend the time apart with the fair one, came into the

village just as the last reeking scalp had been torn from the cloven

skull. Looking an instant on the appalling spectacle, he uttered a

furious yell and sprang like a deer towards the river. A dozen tomahawks

flew after him, and as many dark warriors started in pursuit, but in

vain, for with a few powerful strokes the brave youth gained the

opposite bank, and bounding into the woods, effected his escape.

They were buried on the spot where they fell. Perhaps no shade of

remorse passed over the minds of the murderers, but they could not leave

the victims there for their flesh to rot and their bones to whiten in

the sun. They were buried several feet below the surface, and the gloomy

shades of night fell thick around before the last mangled body was

hidden from the sight. And as the rising wind swept through the

thick-topped pines and tall buttonwoods around, it wailed and sighed

mournfully, as if singing a melancholy dirge over the graves of the

gallant dead. And by the midnight hour it blew in hoarse and awful

tones, and the death shouts and groans of the dead were heard

commingling with the blast; and when the night was darkest, and all save

the growling of the wind and these unnatural noises, was still, a lurid

flame sprang up from the centre of the spot where the feast had been,

and cast a sickening light on all things, and the earth opened around,

and the bodies of the Wannamoisett warriors, bloody and mangled as they

were, arose and danced around it, singing their war songs in unearthly

tones, together with their wild requiem for the dead. Ghastly and

horrible they looked, and as they danced, the blood flowed from their

opening wounds, till it reached the strange fire, which instantly shot

up in one lurid column of flame till it attained the blackened clouds,

when it disappeared as suddenly as it had burst forth; the spectral

revellers sank back again into their fresh graves, and all was dark and

silent as before.

But when the morning broke the Namaskets beheld a spectacle scarcely

less hideous than that of the preceding night. Their victims had been

buried, as their custom was, in a sitting posture, and during the night

they had all risen, so that their heads were fully visible above the

surface of the ground. The bloody mark of the tomahawk was still there,

and every scalp was torn off—and the eyeballs, projecting far from the

sockets, were fixed and glassy, but of a burning red,—glowing like

living fire. And from them rays of dingy red streamed all over the

village,—and wherever one of the murderers went, those rays followed

him, and pierced him, and seemed as if they were burning out his heart.

Reckless with fear and rage the murderers tore the bodies up from the

ground and dug the graves still deeper and again they placed them in.

But at midnight the red flame burst forth and the tempest howled

fearfully. The phantom forms sprung up as before, and this time their

flesh, from their shoulders downward, dropped off and was consumed by

the fire, and a dense smoke arose, and a red cloud slowly gathered in

the air, and hovered round and hung over the spot like a minister of

vengeance. And in the morning their gory heads and glaring eyes had

again struggled up above the surface. And when the fratricides saw them,

a deadly terror crept over them and the demon of remorse began to prey

upon their souls.

On the third night the scene was changed. The moon did not set at her

accustomed hour, but hung just above the horizon, red as a sea of blood.

And in the midst of the fire that shot forth from the earth at midnight,

a form was seen like that of Wappacowat, the chief. But the ghostly

images were there again, and they gathered round the form in the centre,

and with their skeleton fingers tore off its flesh as fast as it was

seared in the fire, and ground it in their teeth with ravenous appetite.

When in the morning the dismayed villagers sought their chief they found

him not, but tied to a stake where the midnight revel had been held was

a skeleton, the bones all picked clean except the head, which had been

cloven with a tomahawk, and from it the scalp was also torn, and in its

features, distorted as if they had stiffened under the keenest tortures,

they recognized the countenance of their king.

Dismay sat upon every guilty face, and a sullen gloom enshrouded every

heart. The tribe finding it useless to bury deeper the bodies of their

slain kinsmen now began to build over them—but every night one of their

number disappeared, and in the morning his fleshless bones were found

tied to the fatal stake; and still the heads rose, but every day there

was one less than before. Then the dreadful truth flashed upon them that

one of their own number must die in that fearful manner, for every one

of the Wannamoisetts they had slain. As the number of their dead

increased, which it did by one for every midnight hour, so did the

number of spectre heads diminish. One murdered spirit was every night

appeased, and appeared no more.

Still they kept on building that huge pile, and the dreadful occupation

to which they clung as affording the only ray of hope that they might be

delivered before their turn should come round, so wrought upon the

guilty ones that they soon became almost as ghostly as the phantoms of

the night which tortured them. But they faltered not in their task.

Every day the heads were covered and every morning they were found in

sight. And on the seventieth morning that mound was far higher than it

now stands. There was then but one head remaining, for just seventy of

the Wannamoisetts had been slain and just seventy were the murderers. At

midnight of that day the strange revel was, for the last time, visible,

for when the skeleton of Mononton, the last and most bloody of the

fratricides was found, the last head had disappeared forever.

The remainder of the tribe left soon after in search of a more

auspicious residence. Since the treacherous act of their brethren,

famine had weakened them and the terrible plague laid many of their

forest children low. But wherever they wandered, the curse of the Great

Spirit followed them, and they dwindled away until finally there was no

place left for them on the earth.

One fair evening in the next summer, two forms sat upon the very mound

which forms the principal subject of this tale. One was a female of

fairy proportions, and she looked abroad over the landscape with the eye

of one to whom its beauties were familiar. Her companion’s face was

buried in his hands, and his whole frame shook as if the recollection of

some terrible scene were passing over his memory. And as the eye of

Noalwa rested on him she, too, divining his thoughts, shuddered, saying,

“Mononchee! let us go hence, never again to return! I cannot bear to

look upon these scenes where my people lived and where yours so sadly

perished. These trees that we have planted around the mound which covers

them will bear witness that their memory is still dear to us. Let us go,

Mononchee!”

They went to dwell with those that were left of his people. Many and

bright were their days. Plenty surrounded them. The tribe grew again and

Mononchee became their chief. The trees which he planted around “Fort

Point” sprang forth and flourished luxuriantly, and the large junipers

that still remain are doubtless descended from that parent stock. But

scarcely any other green thing will grow there; it seems a devoted

place. Devoted let it be; sacred forever to the shades of those who are

sleeping in its bosom.

-----

[4] A wild forest bird.

Unionville, Mass.

* * * * *

NEVER SHALL MY HEART FORGET THEE!

BALLAD—SUNG BY

MR. SINCLAIR,

COMPOSED BY

GEORGE O. FARMER.

_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.

[Illustration: musical score]

Never shall my heart forget thee,

Come what may of joy or ill;

Love, the hour when first I met thee,

Lives in mem’ry still.

Beauty’s hallowed light was o’er thee!

[Illustration: musical score]

Music’s spell was on thy tongue,

Oh, to see was to adore thee,

Maid of Avinlonge,

Oh! to see was to adore thee,

Maid of Avinlonge.

Maid, the shades of night are falling,

The blest hour of love draws nigh;

Like the voice of beauty calling,

Floats the bird-song by.

Tho’ our fond hearts fate should sever,

Darkly doomed to pine alone;

Still as first they loved, forever

Should our souls love on.

Though from dreams of hope awaking.

I can scorn Fate’s ire to me,

Smile, tho’ my own heart be breaking,

If Fate wounds not thee!

Never shall my lips deceive thee,

My devotion ne’er decline,

Dearest, until life shall leave me,

My whole heart is thine.

* * * * *

Sports and Pastimes.—THE FOWLING-PIECE.

THE LOCK—THE PERCUSSION SYSTEM—TRIGGERS—WADDING—AMMUNITION, ETC.

The flint and steel lock, like the matchlock, has had its day; and the

one is as likely as the other to supersede the detonator. There were

some sportsmen who long retained the flint in preference to the

copper-cap. Their partiality for the old system arose from their

inability to depart from the manner of taking aim to which they had been

accustomed—they fired too forward! It was said, too, that a barrel

fired by a detonating lock, did not throw shot so efficiently as the

other. That objection is now obviated by making barrels perfectly

cylindrical throughout the whole length of the tube. We prefer the

copper-cap lock for its simplicity, to any other system of firing by

percussion.

A bad lock, in these _march-of-improvement_ days, is rarely fixed to a

gun. Since the use of detonators has become general, the quality of the

lock is not of so much consequence to the sportsman as it was

previously. The quickness of firing with the old flint and steel locks

depended so much on the workmanship of the lock, that a

properly-tempered and well-filed one was invaluable. The introduction of

detonators has by no means improved the quality of the workmanship of

the lock—it has rather deteriorated it. The fact is, the master

gunmakers, finding the lock not so much looked at as formerly, are

become indifferent to obtaining the assistance, or unwilling to incur

the expense of first-rate workmen. The hardening and filing of a lock in

an artist-like manner, requires no common skill. The best locks ever

turned out were those made on the flint and steel principle, at the time

when detonators first came into vogue; the smartness with which the

percussion locks fired, obliged the makers of the flint and steel locks

to bestow double diligence and labor on their work, conscious that a

rival was in the field with whom it required no ordinary pains to

compete. Flint locks, whether as applied to the fowling-piece or the

musket, will soon be forgotten, or remembered only to give a romantic

interest to some tale of other times, as the arbalast and long-bow serve

only to remind us of our Norman and Saxon ancestors! It requires some

mechanical knowledge and some experience, to decide on the merit of a

lock. The vulgar method of trying one is this:—The operator draws back

the hammer with his thumb, not touching the trigger with his finger, and

if the works in the interior catch and snap smartly at the half-way, and

when the hammer is drawn back, he may rely on the main-spring being

sufficiently strong and free to fire the caps: then, with his thumb

still on the hammer, he draws the trigger and lets the hammer glide

slowly down upon the pivot. With a little practice he will be able, in

some degree, to discriminate between a good lock and a bad one. To prove

the difference in quality, he should take up a well-finished lock; that

is, one of hard material, well filed, and having springs of a suitable

and corresponding strength, and compare it with an inferior lock; by a

nice touch he will perceive the difference: the hammer of the former

slides backwards and forwards with a smooth, even force; whilst that of

the latter runs rough and gritty, as if clogged with sand. If this

somewhat uncertain mode of trial serve no other purpose, it will enable

the shooter, when he takes up a gun that has been used since being

cleaned, to discover whether the lock is sufficiently free from rust and

dirt as to be fit for the day’s service; for most assuredly, if the lock

be clogged, when thus worked backwards and forwards, it will not snap,

or in sporting phrase _talk_; and in that case it would be unsafe to use

it. A detonating lock that will bear this trial, and will invariably

fire the cap, may be pronounced quite good enough for any sporting

purpose.

The triggers should be what are technically termed _box-triggers_, and

should be taken from the stock and cleaned at least once during the

season, and oftener if very much exposed to dust, rain, or a damp

atmosphere. They should be adjusted with scrupulous nicety, so as to

require only a slight touch to draw them: they should not, indeed, fire

as easily as the hair-triggers of duelling pistols, but should be fixed

so firmly as that the sportsman should not be liable to discharge his

piece, while bringing it up to his shoulder cocked, with his finger upon

one of the triggers. The triggers may sometimes be regulated by filing,

hardening, or softening the scear spring, or filing the wedge-like part

of the scear which falls into the notches of the tumbler: and sometimes

it is necessary to file that part of the trigger which comes in contact

with the scear, but this operation requires to be carefully performed. A

valuable lock should not be placed in the hands of an unskilful workman

for the apparently trifling purpose of regulating the triggers, nor yet

for any other purpose.

The wadding we should recommend is that made of felt, and anointed with

some chemical preparation. We are not sure that this is the very best

description of wadding, but we know of none better. New waddings are

constantly invented. The metallic wadding, concave wadding, punched

cards, or punched hat wadding, are any of them good, as regards

shooting. The chief reason why we bestow a preference on the anointed

wadding is, because the barrel is kept less foul, and may be fired so

many times oftener without requiring cleaning, than when any other

description of wadding with which we are acquainted is used. We are not

partial to a tight wadding, but it should fit so that when the barrel is

clean and smooth within, the charge will not stir. There is little fear

of the charge stirring after a barrel has been fired a few times, as the

place where the leading or foulness accumulates in greatest quantity is

just above where the charge of shot lies.

Considerable improvement has been made in copper-caps since they were

first introduced. The composition in all of them is now good; that which

possesses the anti-corrosive principle is perhaps best. There is much

difference in the copper of which they are made, but that is of little

consequence when good locks with concave or well shielded hammers are

used, otherwise those made of bad copper are said to be dangerous. We

never heard of an accident from them. The shooter should be particular

in procuring copper-caps of a proper size; for if they do not fit the

pivots, considerable inconvenience will be experienced. When too small,

they will not explode; and when too large, the cap on the second pivot

is apt to fly off when the first barrel is fired. The shooter will find

it convenient to carry a quantity of caps loose in his waistcoat pocket,

with a reserve in a box (a metal box water-tight is best) to have

recourse to should those in his pocket become wet. He should take care

that there be nothing in his pocket to choke the caps; and by way of

precaution, he should, before putting a cap on the pivot, see that there

be no dirt in the cap, and that it be perfect.

The best powder does not soil the gun so much as inferior powder. After

using good powder, a redness will be observed round the orifice of the

pivot. After using coarse powder, a white or black appearance will

present itself. The purer the powder is, the oftener may a barrel be

fired without requiring to be cleaned.

When the measure on the flask is regulated as it ought to be, it will

hold the requisite charge for a clean barrel on a warm dry day. It

behoves the shooter, then, when the atmosphere is moist and the wind

boisterous, to increase the charge of powder in each barrel in a

trifling degree. However stormy the day may be, the shooter may prevent

the particles of powder from being blown away while he is charging; but

he cannot prevent them adhering to the damp leaded interior of the

barrels. Indeed, if the barrels be damp, as they cannot fail to be if

the air be so, and there be no wind at all, they cannot be held quite

perpendicular, so that the whole charge of powder shall find its way to

the breech. One-fifth of the charge will sometimes adhere. Doubtless,

when tight wadding is used, the whole, or nearly the whole, of the

charge finds its way to the bottom: but in what state? A portion of it

is wet!—and the result is, that, when the piece is discharged, only

four-fifths ignite!

The fowling-piece should be put by clean, oiled, and the barrels corked

or stopped, and with the hammers upon the pivots. It should be kept in a

cloth or woolen case, in a dry room, and, when not in constant use,

occasionally rubbed with linen dipped in olive oil. The inside of the

barrel should be frequently oiled, the oil being immediately wiped out

with a dry cloth wrapped round the cleaning rod. Neat’s-foot oil is best

for the lock, and linseed oil is recommended for the stocks, but it is

so offensive that we prefer olive oil.

Large-grained powder is generally stronger than small-grained. It is

well to be cautious that the grain is not so large as not to fill the

nipple freely, or misfires will be the consequence. Powder which suits

one gun may not suit another; the larger the bore of the gun, the larger

should be the grain of the powder. An instrument for trying the strength

of powder should not be trusted to: the best trial is with the gun in

which the powder is intended to be used, and there can be no better

target for trying the comparative strength of different powders, than an

unbound book fixed firmly against something solid.

The heavier and harder the metal of which shot is made the better.[5]

-----

[5] As shot is numbered differently by different manufacturers, we give

the number to the ounce of the sizes to which we have referred:

A. A. about 40

A. — 50

B. B. — 60

B. — 75

1. — 80

2. — 110

3. — 130

4. — 180

5. — 220

6. — 270

7. — 350

8. — 600

9. — 1000

10. — 1700

CHARGING THE FOWLING-PIECE.

It is not usual to charge the gun until arriving at the shooting ground.

When there, however advisable on the score of caution it may be,

flashing off a quantity of powder to clear out, dry, and warm the gun

before loading, has certainly a cockney appearance; the more

sportsman-like practice is,—the party having reliance on the person who

cleans his gun,—merely to permit the ramrod to fall lightly to the

bottom of each barrel. The barrels are then held as perpendicularly as

possible while the powder is poured in, so that nearly the whole charge

may reach home, and not adhere in its descent. The barrel is then tapped

with the ramrod, or the gun slightly shook against the foot, that powder

may find its way into the pivots,—that is the more necessary when

coarse-grained powder is used. A wadding is then gently pressed down.

The shot is next poured in, and a slight shake of the gun in an upward

direction causes it to lie evenly;—a wadding is pressed upon it. The

shooter next removes the remains of the caps, and looks whether the

powder has found its way to the orifice of the pivots, and if it has, he

places fresh caps on; if powder is not visible at the orifice of the

pivots, he removes any obstacle with a pricker, and contrives to push

down a few grains of powder. It is very material to attend to this

point, to prevent miss-fires.

THE WIRE-CARTRIDGE.

The wire-cartridge was invented, in 1828, by Mr. Jenour. It consists of

a cylindrical case or network of wire, the meshes of which are somewhat

more than an eighth of an inch square; at the lower end the wire

partially closes; the wire case is then enveloped in fine paper, and at

the upper end a cork wadding, cut so as to fit the gauge of the gun, is

affixed, the case is then filled with shot and bone dust. The first

cartridges made, though ingenious in construction, were defective in

operation. It was a matter of no ordinary difficulty to fabricate them

in such a manner that the shot should leave the case at the precise

distance required. This at first could not be done so that they might be

trusted in every instance; every alternate cartridge might fire well,

but the rest would fire irregularly, being liable to ball,—that is, the

shot would not leave the case until fifty or sixty yards from the gun,

and such cartridges were, of course, not only useless but dangerous.

They have been from time to time improved, and almost every difficulty

has been overcome. The sporting cartridges now made never ball, they act

with a considerable degree of precision and certainty, and that they may

be safely trusted may be inferred from the fact that they are often

preferred by persons engaged in pigeon matches. Various materials were

used experimentally to fill up the interstices between the pellets, but

nothing seems to answer so well as the material now used. Another

difficulty in their construction presented itself. It was requisite to

accommodate them to the various methods of boring used by different

gunmakers, and the unequal length of barrels, the object in view being

to produce a cartridge that would suit all barrels of the same gauge,

and this has been in a great measure, if not wholly, accomplished. The

liability to ball, notwithstanding various improvements made in them,

was not effectually obviated for many years, during which they were

tried, and in many instances prematurely condemned, either from real

defects, or from the parties not knowing how to use them. They were not

brought to perfection until the year 1837.

The wire-cartridges possess two principal advantages over loose shot;

they are propelled with greater velocity, and thrown more evenly. A

loose charge is always thrown in patches; the shots of a cartridge, as

seen on a target, are comparatively equi-distant from each other.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Guy Fawkes; or The Gunpowder Treason. An Historical Romance.

By_ William Harrison Ainsworth, _Author of “The Tower of

London,” “Jack Sheppard,” &c. Philadelphia. Lea and Blanchard._

What Mr. William Harrison Ainsworth had been doing before he wrote

“Rookwood” is uncertain; but it seems to us that he made his literary

_début_ with that work. It was generally commended; but we found no

opportunity of perusing it. “Crichton” followed, and this we read; for

our curiosity was much excited in regard to it by certain discrepancies

of critical opinion. In one or two instances it was unequivocally

condemned as “flat, stale and unprofitable,” although, to be sure, the

critics, in these one or two instances, were men of little note. The

more prevalent idea appeared to be that the book was a miracle of wit

and wisdom, and that Ainsworth who wrote “Crichton,” was in fact

Crichton _redivivus_. We have now before us a number of a Philadelphia

Magazine for the month of April, 1840, in which the learned editor thus

speaks of the work in question—“Mr. Ainsworth is a powerful writer; his

‘Crichton’ _stands at the head of the long list of English

novels—unapproachable and alone_. . . . This great glory is fairly Mr.

Ainsworth’s due, and in our humble opinion, _the fact is

incontrovertible_.” Upon a perusal of the novel so belauded, we found it

a somewhat ingenious admixture of pedantry, bombast, and rigmarole. No

man ever read “Crichton” through twice. From beginning to end it is one

continued abortive effort at effect. The writer keeps us in a perpetual

state of preparation for something magnificent; but the something

magnificent never arrives. He is always saying to the reader, directly

or indirectly, “_now_, in a _very_ brief time, you shall see what you

shall see!” The reader turns over the page in expectation, and meets

with nothing beyond the same everlasting assurance:—another page and

the same result—another and still the same—and so on to the end of the

performance. One cannot help fancying the novelist in some perplexing

dream—one of those frequently recurring visions, half night-mare half

asphyxia, in which the sufferer, although making the most strenuous

efforts to _run_, finds a walk or a crawl the _ne plus ultra_ of his

success in locomotion.

The plot is monstrously improbable, and yet not so much improbable as

inconsequential. A German critic would say that the whole is excessively

_ill-motivert_. No one action follows necessarily upon any one other.

There is, at all times, the greatest parade of _measures_, but measures

that have no comprehensible result. The author works busily for a

chapter or two with a view of bringing matters in train for a certain

end; and then suffers this end to be either omitted—unaccomplished—or

brought to pass by accidental and irrelevant circumstances. The reader

of taste very soon perceives this defect in the conduct of the story,

and, ceasing to feel any interest in marches and countermarches that

promise no furtherance of any object, abandons himself to the

investigation of the page only which is immediately before him.

Despairing of all amusement from the _construction_ of the book, he

falls back upon its immediate descriptions. But, alas, what is there

here to excite any emotion in the bosom of a well-read man, beyond that

of contempt? If an occasional interest is aroused, he feels it due, not

to the novelist, but to the historical reminiscences which even that

novelist’s inanity cannot render altogether insipid. The turgid

pretension of the style annoys, and the elaborately-interwoven pedantry

irritates, insults, and disgusts. He must be blind, indeed, who cannot

understand the great pains taken by Mr. Ainsworth to interlard the book

in question with second-hand hits of classical and miscellaneous

erudition; and he must be equally blind who cannot perceive that _this_

is the chicanery which has so impressed the judgment, and dazzled the

imagination of such critics as he of the aforesaid Magazine. We know

nothing at all of Mr. Ainsworth’s scholarship. There are some very

equivocal blunders in “Crichton,” to be sure; but _Ainsworth_ is a

classical name, and we must make _very_ great allowances for the usual

errors of press. We say, however, that, from all that appears in the

novel in question, he may be as really ignorant as a bear. True

erudition—by which term we here mean only to imply much diversified

reading—is certainly discoverable—is positively indicated only in its

ultimate and total _results_. We have observed elsewhere, that the mere

grouping together of fine things 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, is an

attainment within the reach of every moderately-informed, ingenious, and

not indolent man, having access to any ordinary collection of good

books. Of all vanities the vanity of the unlettered pedant is the most

sickening, and the most transparent.

Mr. Ainsworth having thus earned for himself the kind of renown which

“Crichton” could establish with the rabble, made his next appearance

before that rabble with “Jack Sheppard.” Seeing what we have just seen,

we should by no means think it wonderful that this romance threw into

the greatest astonishment the little critics who so belauded the one

preceding. They could not understand it at all. They would not believe

that the same author had written both. Thus they condemned it in loud

terms. The Magazine before alluded to, styles it, in round terms, “the

most corrupt, flat, and vulgar fabrication in the English language . . .

a disgrace to the literature of the day.” Corrupt and vulgar it

undoubtedly is, but it is by no means so _flat_ (if we understand the

critic’s idea of the term) as the “Crichton” to which it is considered

so terribly inferior. By “_flat_” we presume “uninteresting” is

intended. To us, at least, no novel was less _interesting_ than

“Crichton,” and the only interest which it _could_ have had for any

reader must have arisen from admiration excited by the apparently

miraculous _learning_ of the plagiarist, and from the air of owlish

profundity which he contrives to throw over the work. The interest, if

any, must have had regard to the author and not to his book. Viewed as a

work of art, and without reference to any supposed moral or immoral

tendencies, (things with which the critic has nothing to do) “Jack

Sheppard” is by no means the _very_ wretched composition which some

gentlemen would have us believe. Its condemnation has been brought about

by the revulsion consequent upon the exaggerated estimate of “Crichton.”

It is altogether a much better book than “Crichton.” Although its

incidents are improbable—(the frequent miraculous escapes of the hero,

for instance, without competent means) still they are not, as in

“Crichton,” at the same time inconsequential. Admitting the facts, these

facts hang together sufficiently well. Nor is there any bombast of

style; this negative merit, to be sure, being no merit of the author’s,

but an enforced one resulting from the subject. The chief defect of the

work is a radical one, the nature and effect of which we were at some

pains to point out in a late notice of Captain Marryatt’s “Poacher.” The

story being, no doubt, written to order, for Magazine purposes, and in a

violent hurry, has been scrambled through by means of _incident_ solely.

It is totally wanting in the _autorial comment_. The writer never pauses

to speak, in his own person, of what is going on. It is possible to have

too much of this comment; but it is far easier to have too little. The

most tedious books, _ceteris paribus_, are those which have none at all.

“Sir Charles Grandison,” “Clarissa Harlowe,” and the “Ernest Maltravers”

of Bulwer embody instances of its superabundance. The genius of the

author of “Pelham” is in nothing more evident than in the interest which

he has infused into some of his late works _in spite_ of their

ultra-didacticism. The “Poacher” just mentioned, and “The Arabian

Nights” are examples of deficiency in the commenting principle, and are

both intolerably tedious _in spite_ of their rich variety of incident.

The _juste milieu_ was never more admirably attained than in De Foe’s

“Robinson Crusoe” and in the “Caleb Williams” of Godwin. This latter

work, from the character of its incidents, affords a fine opportunity of

contrast with “Jack Sheppard.” In both novels the hero escapes

repeatedly from prison. In the work of Ainsworth the escapes are merely

narrated. In that of Godwin they are _discussed_. With the latter we

become at once absorbed in those details which so manifestly absorb his

own soul. We read with the most breathless attention. We close the book

with a real regret. The former puts us out of all patience. His marvels

have a nakedness which repels. Nothing he relates seems either probable

or possible, or of the slightest interest, whether the one or the other.

His hero impresses us as a mere chimæra with whom we have no earthly

concern, and when he makes his final escape and comes to the gallows, we

would feel a very sensible relief, but for the impracticability of

hanging up Mr. Ainsworth in his stead. But if “Jack Sheppard” is a

miserably inartistical book, still it is by no means so utterly

contemptible and silly as the tawdry stuff which has been pronounced

“_the best of English novels, standing at the head of the long list

unapproachable and alone!_”

Of “The Tower of London” we have read only some detached

passages—enough to assure us, however, that the “_work_,” like Yankee

razors, has been manufactured merely “to sell.” “Guy Fawkes,” the book

now lying before us, and the last completed production of its author, is

positively beneath criticism and beneath contempt. The design of Mr.

Ainsworth has been to fill, for a certain sum of money, a stipulated

number of pages. There existed a necessity of _engaging_ the readers

whom especially he now addresses—that is to say the lowest order of the

lettered mob—a necessity of enticing them into the commencement of a

perusal. For this end the title “Guy Fawkes or The Gunpowder Plot” was

all sufficient, at least within the regions of Cockaigne. As for

fulfilling any reasonable expectations, derived either from the _ad

captandum_ title, or from his own notoriety (we dare not say reputation)

as a novelist—as for exerting himself for the permanent or continuous

amusement of the poor flies whom he had inveigled into his trap—all

this, with him, has been a consideration of no moment. He had a _task_

to perform, and not a duty. What were his readers to Mr.

Ainsworth?—“What Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?” The result of such a

state of affairs is self-evident. With his _best_ exertions, in his

earliest efforts, with all the goadings of a sickening vanity which

stood him well instead of nobler ambition—with all this, he _could_

do—he _has done_—but little; and without them he has now accomplished

exactly nothing at all. If ever, indeed, a novel were _less_ than

nothing, then that novel is “Guy Fawkes.” To say a word about it in the

way of serious criticism, would be to prove ourselves as great a

blockhead as its author. _Macte virtute_, my dear sir—proceed and

flourish. In the meantime we bid you a final farewell. Your next volume,

which will have some such appellation as “The Ghost of Cock-Lane,” we

shall take the liberty of throwing unopened out of the window. Our pigs

are not all of the description called learned, but they will have more

leisure for its examination than we.

* * * * *

_The Gift: A Christmas and New-Year’s Present for 1842. Carey

and Hart: Philadelphia._

This volume of “The Gift” is superior to any yet published. Mrs. Embury

has an entertaining story, and Miss Leslie’s account of a “Family that

Didn’t take Boarders” is also quite amusing. Mr. Simms has a well

narrated tale—Mr. Seba Smith has another—Professor Frost another—Mrs.

Ellet, also, and the author of “A New Home.” We ourselves have one which

is not ended so well as it might be—a good subject spoiled by hurry in

the handling. The poetry, in general, is insipid. Mrs. Sigourney has not

done herself justice. Lieut. G. W. Patten, U. S. A. has three effusions,

neither of which do credit to the Annual. This gentleman, who writes

frequently, and should therefore write well, is singularly remiss in his

metaphors, and often grievously deficient in his grammar. What does he

mean, at page 309, by

As sleep the brave so thou _should_ sleep (?)

or, at page 165, by

The storm is on the sea—I hear its _wings_

In _thunder fretting_ o’er the lifted wave (?)

This is surely a most singular instance of metaphor run mad! Here are

three conflicting images at one time in the brain of the poet. By the

word “wings” the reader is made to understand the prosopopeia of the

storm as a _bird_; by “thunder” (a _natural_ accompaniment of tempests)

he is brought back to the impersonified storm; by “fretting” he is left

in no doubt that the writer’s ideas are running upon a _horse_—and all

this in the compass of one line and a half!

The “Stanzas” by Park Benjamin have a rich simplicity which of all

literary qualities is the most difficult of attainment, and of all

merits the most uncertain of appreciation; but we are sorry to say that

they are the _only_ good verses in the volume.

The engravings are very fine. We will speak of them briefly one by one.

The “Country Girl,” by Cheney from Sully, is a _truthful_ picture. The

design is perfect. The only fault of the execution lies in the undue

breadth of the face; this defect would be remedied by deepening the

shade beneath the left ear. The work of the engraver is well done.

“Vignette Head,” by Cheney from Sully—one of the latter’s favorite

heads—the face that of a pouting hoyden. The hair is beautifully

_massed_. The _vignetting_ is carried too low as regards the bosom, from

which half an inch should be taken off at bottom, or otherwise some

lines of shading introduced to relieve it of its blank appearance. The

arm is execrable—the hand worse—both are too massive and sinewy.

“Dulcinea,” by Cheney from Leslie. No fault can be found with this

picture, which is admirable in every respect. The right arm, in

especial, is exquisitely rounded and foreshortened.

“The Tough Story” by J. J. Pease, from W. S. Mount. Mr. Mount’s merits

are those of acute observation and fidelity. These merits, although not

of the highest order, have the advantage of being universally

appreciable. This is an advantage which he secures—_clinches_—by

dealing only in homely subjects. If he has ideality (a question which as

yet we have had no means of deciding) and would employ his peculiar

talents upon loftier themes, he might attain a very desirable eminence

indeed.

Nothing could be more true to nature than the picture before us; but the

painter has sacrificed to this truth (at some points) artistical effects

of superior value. What can be more displeasing, for example, than the

unrelieved nakedness of the wall in the back ground, or the situation of

the group precisely in the centre of the design, or, especially, than

the tall regular stove pipe, running up parallel with the back of the

standing figure, and dividing the apartment exactly in two?

“The Gipsy,” by Cheney from Sully, is altogether out of drawing as

regards the face, which is, again, too broad to the left. This is a very

usual error in side faces. The fingers are badly engraved, particularly

those of the right hand, which look as if covered with a net or pic-nic

glove. The foliage in this picture is not very well executed.

“The Sled” by W. E. Tucker, from Chapman, is a most effective design,

evincing the well-educated artist. The idea of rapid motion is skilfully

embodied in the countenance of the boy, in the peculiar falling curve of

the hill, and exquisitely _corroborated_ in the whirl of the clouds.

This is the true artistical keeping. The limbs of the boy are too small

for his head and body, and the left hand appears to have been cut from a

turnip. This latter defect is chargeable to the engraver.

“The Raffle” by A. Lawson from Mount. This is another of Mr. Mount’s

idiosyncrasies, and is absolute perfection _in its way_. The defects of

the work (considered as a mere picture) which we pointed out in the

“Tough Story,” are not observable here. The grouping of the figures and

the arrangement of the design generally, are as admirable as the varied

expression of the Yankee faces. The light, however, is too equally

disposed about the room, and, in especial, upon the three middle

personages. It is difficult, moreover, to imagine these three persons so

illumined, and the back of the foreground figure at the same time so

fully in shade. These are petty objections—but it is right they should

be made.

“Portia,” by Forrest from Sully, is an engraving in which the mere

mechanism is excellent; and, in fact, the work is, upon the whole,

highly creditable to Mr. Forrest. The hands, however, are badly done;

the left especially. Some knowledge of drawing is absolutely essential

in one who copies. This knowledge cannot be supplied by even Chinese

fidelity in depicting dot for dot and line for line. The picture,

altogether, we prefer to any in the book. Were we in the habit of

purchasing paintings this “Portia” by Sully is the only one here which

we would purchase.

The paper of “The Gift” for 1842 does not seem to us sufficiently good.

The binding is certainly magnificent, but would have been vastly

improved by the use of a thicker board.

* * * * *

_Amenities of Literature, consisting of Sketches and Characters

of English Literature. By_ J. D’Israeli, _D.C.L. F. S. A. 2

vols. I. & H. G. Langley: New York._

The reputation of the elder D’Israeli as scholar and philosopher is at

least as well founded as that of any man of his age. He has given to the

world a series of _peculiar_ books—books in which the richest variety

of _recherché_ detail and anecdote about literary affairs, is made

subservient to the most comprehensive survey and analysis of letters

themselves, considered in respect to their important spiritual uses. He

is the only _savant_ upon record who has busied himself, without

pedantry, among the _minutiæ_ of classical lore. His works will last as

long as the language in which they are written. The “Curiosities of

Literature,” the “Literary Character,” the “Miscellanies of Literature,”

the “Calamities of Authors,” and all but the present “Amenities of

Literature” are, however, but incidental labors arising from a more

extensive design—a “History of English Literature”—of which he thus

speaks. “It was my intention not to furnish an arid narrative of books

and of authors, but, following the steps of the human mind through the

wide track of time, to trace from their beginnings the progress and the

decline of public opinions, and to illustrate, as the objects presented

themselves, the great incidents in our national annals.” In this

magnificent project the philosopher was arrested by blindness. The

“Amenities of Literature” is a portion and in fact the beginning of the

great scheme which can now never be completed. We need say no more to

recommend it to the reader. The two volumes before us are issued in the

customary careful and tasteful style of the Langleys.

* * * * *

_The Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Sir Edward Lytton

Bulwer, author of “Pelham,” &c. 2 vols. Lea and Blanchard:

Philadelphia._

We have read these volumes with the highest pleasure. They embrace all

of the known minor writings of Bulwer, with the exception of his shorter

fictions; and we recognize in the collection several very excellent

articles which had arrested our attention and excited our curiosity

while their authorship was undivulged.

Mr. Bulwer is _never_ lucid, and seldom profound. His intellect seems to

be rather well balanced than lofty—rather comprehensive than

penetrative. His taste is exquisite. His style, in its involution and

obscurity, partakes of the involution of his thoughts. Apart from his

mere intellect, however,—or rather as a portion of that intellect—we

recognize in his every written word the keenest appreciation of the

right, the beautiful, and the true. Thus he is a man worthy of all

reverence, and we do not hesitate to say that we look upon the charges

of immoral tendency which have been so pertinaciously adduced against

his fictions, as absurdly _little_ and untenable, in the mass.

The volumes now before us are plain evidence of the noble spirit which

has constantly actuated him. The papers here published were written at

various epochs of his life. We look through them in vain for anything

false, as a whole, or unchivalrous, or impure, or weak, or tasteless, or

ignoble. Were we addicted _jurare in verba magistri_, there lives no man

upon whose faith we would more confidently rely than upon that of

Bulwer—no man whose opinion upon any point involving a question of

truth, or justice, or taste, we would be more willing to adopt

unexamined.

We have been especially pleased with an article (in the volumes now

before us) entitled “Literature Considered as a Profession,” and with

another “Upon the Spirit of True Criticism.” Some remarks in the latter

paper are quite as applicable to our own country as to Great Britain.

“‘To say this is good and that is bad,’ says La Bruyère, ‘is not

morality.’ Very true, neither is it criticism. There is no

criticism in this country—considering that word as the name of

a science. A book comes out—it is capital, says one—it is

detestable, says another. Its characters are unnatural—its

characters are nature itself. On both sides there is

affirmation, on neither proof. In fact no science requires such

elaborate study as criticism. It is the most analytical of our

mental operations—to pause—to examine—to say _why_ that

passage is a sin against nature, or that plot a violation of

art—to bring deep knowledge of life in all its guises—of the

heart in all its mysteries to bear upon a sentence of approval

or disapprobation—to have cultivated the feeling of beauty

until its sense of harmony has grown as fine as the ear of a

musician—equally sensitive to discord—or alive to new

combinations:—these are no light qualities, and these are not

qualities, it may be answered, to be lightly lavished away.

Every new book, it may be said, does not deserve that we should

so honor it. We need not invoke the Past, and summon all Nature

to hear us praise a butterfly, or crush a bug. We may on slight

works arrogate the censor—yes, but we must first have been

chosen the censor, by the acumen we have testified on great

ones. Now, when an author who has risen into eminence, who

begins to produce an effect upon his age, whose faults it

becomes necessary to indicate as a warning, whose beauties we

should illustrate as an example—when such a man produces a new

work, what is the cant cry of the critics? ‘The peculiar merits

and failings of Mr. So and So are too well known for us at this

time of day to repeat them. The present work has all the

characteristics of the last—if it does not increase, it will

not diminish the well-earned reputation of the author.’ Then

come the extracts, and a word or two at the end as precise and

lucid as those at the beginning, and——there’s THE CRITICISM!

“For my part, I please myself sometimes with drawing the ideal

picture of a good critic, as Bolingbroke drew that of a patriot

king. What a crowd of accomplishments, not easily seen by the

superficial, belong to that character! Literature and morality

are so entwined that you rarely find the real critic unless he

is also the moralist. The union is almost necessary. In

Quinctilian how beautifully the deduction closes the dogma! and

even in Johnson the habit of moralizing gives dignity to his

criticisms. In both sciences the study of mankind, of the

metaphysical nature within us, alone insures a sound judgment:

in both, without a delicate yet profound perception of the

harmonious, the beautiful, the august, no commanding excellency

is obtained. The goodness of a man and the goodness of a book

are not such different qualities as people suppose. A person,

however, _may_ be, though he is not often, a good moralist

without being a good man: to preach and practice are faculties

not inseparable. But I doubt if a man can be a great critic who

has not, at least, the elementary qualities of a good man. I

consider that he must keep the intellectual sight clear from

envy, and malice, and personal dislikes. He must examine the

work above and remote from all the petty considerations that

attach to the man. He must be on the alert for genius, ready to

encourage even a rival to himself. Where this largeness of mind

is not visible, there is always something petty and crippled in

the mind of the professional critic. He may make one great

criticism, but he cannot criticise with greatness habitually.

Perhaps he reviews some dead author—for the dead interfere not

with the living; or he wastes a world of generosity, like

Southey, in praising some rhymester of the pantry, who is little

enough while he attracts honor to the praiser to plunge into

forgetfulness the praise. The good critic—that rare ideal, must

have in him courage to blame boldly, magnanimity to eschew envy,

benevolence to search for obscure merit. He must have genius to

appreciate, and learning to compare: he must have an eye for

beauty, an ear for music, a heart for feeling, a mind for

reason. ‘We are conscious of excellency,’ says some author, ‘in

proportion to the excellence within ourselves.’”

We wish also to call attention to a very excellent article on the

subject of “International Copyright.” The only paper in the collection

which we could have wished omitted is one entitled “A Letter to the

Quarterly Review,”—an attempt at vindictive retaliation upon Lockhart.

We admire this gentleman quite as little as Mr. Bulwer can possibly do,

but we grieve to see an attack which has neither vigor nor wit, and

which proves nothing beyond the writer’s wrath and utter incapacity for

satire.

* * * * *

_The Pic Nic Papers. By various Hands. Edited by_ Charles

Dickens, Esq. _author of “The Pickwick Papers,” &c. 2 vols. Lea

and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

The “Introduction” to this work gives us its history. “The premature

death of a young publisher (Mr. Macrone) inspired some of those who had

known him personally, or had been connected with him in business, with

an earnest desire to render some assistance to his widow and orphans.

They produced among themselves this work.” In the English edition there

were three volumes; the third consisting of the “Charcoal Sketches” of

Mr. Joseph C. Neal, of Philadelphia. This edition we have not seen; but

have been astonished to hear that the London publisher has been so

discourteous as to print Mr. Neal’s compositions, and the engravings

which accompanied them, without the _name_ of the writer, or any farther

acknowledgment than a few words speaking of the whole as “from an

American source.” Comment upon such meanness seems altogether a work of

supererogation; but, in truth, we are in the habit of setting our

brethren across the water very bad examples in matters of a somewhat

similar kind. That Mr. Dickens had any thing to do with the wrong now

perpetrated, we will not, however, believe for a moment.

The contributors to the two volumes reprinted in Philadelphia are among

the most celebrated _literati_ of England. We have, for example,

articles from Dickens, from Leigh Ritchie, Allan Cunningham, Thomas

Moore, W. H. Ainsworth, G. P. R. James, Agnes Strickland and several

others. It might be supposed, of course, that the collection would be

one of high interest: but we are forced to say that it _is not_. In a

case like this, authors (who for the most part are unburthened with

pecuniary means) are called upon to furnish _gratuitous_ papers. It is

not surprising that, under such circumstances, they content themselves

with bestowing whatever MS. they may have at hand, of least value.

Scraps from memorandum-books; effusions of early years kept only as

mementos and never destined for publication; fragments of tales or

essays definitely abandoned by the author, who has become dissatisfied

with his subject or the mode in which it was progressing—matters such

as these form invariably the staple of compilations such as this. There

is, moreover, another important consideration—one involving a very

remarkable truth. The _refuse_ labor of a man of genius is usually

inferior, and greatly so, to that of the man of common-place

talent:—very much as the dregs of the _Côtes du Rhone_ are more viscid

than those of Sherry or _De Grâve_. It is only necessary to suggest this

idea to have it at once fully appreciated and understood. The man of

talent pursues “the even tenor of his way.” He is at all times

_himself_. With the all-prevalent law of action and reaction he has

nothing to do. Never excited into wild enthusiasm, he never experiences

its consequent and inevitable depression. Never boldly soaring, he never

sadly sinks. To write well, the man of genius must write in obedience to

his impulses. When forced to disobey them—when constrained, by the

fetters of a methodical duty, to compose at _all_ hours—it is but a

portion of his nature—it is but a condition of his intellect—that he

should occasionally grovel in platitudes of the most pitiable

description. And this fact will go farther than any one hitherto

adduced, to explain the character of a fatality which has so constantly

attended genius as to have become a sure index of its existence:—we

mean the fatality of alternate high eulogium and virulent invective. Few

men are conversant with the _whole_ works of an author. Now, in the case

of two critics of equal ability, it may happen (and we know it _does_

frequently so happen) that the opinion of one may be based solely upon

the author’s best efforts, while that of the other is deduced from some

mere task-work labored out in hours of the most utter inappetency and

exhaustion. The dissent of the latter (a dissent just if we regard only

the means of judgment) will, of course, be extravagant in denunciation,

precisely in the ratio of his astonishment and indignation at what he

supposes the corrupt panegyric of the former.

Therefore, it should not be a matter for surprise that these “Pic Nic

Papers” are very great trash, although written by very clever men. Their

general merit, in our opinion, is below that of the mere _make-weight_

of our commonest newspapers and magazines. One or two of the articles

are not _very_ bad:—Leigh Ritchie’s “Marcus Bell,” for example; a tale

entitled “Aunt Honor;” and “The Lamplighter’s Story,” by Mr. Dickens.

This last, however, is only tolerable through the manner in which it is

told. There is not a single paper of _real_ value; and more consummate

nonsense than the greater portion of the collection we never encountered

in any respectable-looking book.

We cannot conclude our notice without a protest against the title-page.

To call this paltry publication the “Pic Nic Papers,” and affirm it to

be _edited_ by Mr. Dickens—thus inducing ideas of the popular Pickwick,

is a piece of chicanery which not even the end in view can sanction. No

body of men are justified in making capital of the public’s gullibility

for purposes of charity, public or private—for any purposes under the

sun. We do not hesitate to state the present case _plainly_. The title

affixed to this work has been designedly so affixed, that purchasers,

hastily glancing at it, may suppose it a book upon the same plan as the

“Pickwick Papers,” and _written_, as they were, by Mr. Dickens. No one

who reflects an instant can suppose the intention to have been anything

else. Now what is this but the worst species of _forgery_?

* * * * *

_History of the War in the Peninsula, and in the South of

France, from the year 1807 to the year 1814. By_ W. F. Napier,

C. B., Colonel, _&c. From the Fourth Edition. Complete in Four

Volumes. With Numerous Engravings. Carey and Hart:

Philadelphia._

Colonel Napier’s “History of the Peninsula War” is a work whose general

features are sufficiently well understood. In the thoroughness of its

survey and in the minute and exact particularity of its details, if not

in more important and comprehensive regards, it is equalled certainly by

no other book on the subject discussed, and perhaps by few histories of

any kind. The author’s extensive political acquaintance with the events

agitating all Europe at the period investigated, and especially the part

he bore in some of these events, with his obvious enthusiasm for

military affairs, rendered him as fitting for the task which he has

undertaken as any individual of his age. It may be said, indeed, and not

altogether paradoxically, that he was somewhat _too_ well qualified for

this task. The agitating incidents _quorum pars magna fuit_ have so

forcibly impressed his imagination as to mislead his understanding in

respect to the _relative_ importance of these incidents. He discourses

of the “Peninsular Campaign” (pretty much, by the way, as all Englishmen

discourse of it) as if _it alone_ were the proper subject of all human

deliberation. No one will be willing to deny the interest which

appertains to it, nor the magnitude of the results to which it led. We

mean to say, however, that, except to Colonel Napier and the Duke of

Wellington, it is not the only important topic in the universe.

Hitherto the American reader of history has been able to procure this

work only from our public libraries, and the enterprize of Messieurs

Carey and Hart in placing it within reach, is worthy of all

commendation. They must have been at unusual expense in this

undertaking. The volumes are thick octavos, and are illustrated by no

less than fifty-five lithographed plans, (which, by the way, are not

very well executed.) At the same time these publishers can scarcely

expect remuneration from a very extensive sale. By public institutions

and military men the work will be valued and purchased. But beyond

these, with few exceptions, the public will content itself with the

means already in its power of referring to the history in our libraries.

The gentlemen in question are, of course, the best judges of their own

affairs; but it does seem to us that they have erred in permitting the

_foreign_ value and reputation of the work to influence them in making

an American reprint.

* * * * *

_Ten Thousand a Year. By the Author of The Diary of a London

Physician. Carey and Hart: Philadelphia._

There are several circumstances connected with this book which render it

an important topic for the critic. We mean its unusual length—the

previous reputation of its author—the peculiarity of its subject—the

apparent under-current of _design_ which has been attributed to it—the

wide difference of opinion existing in regard to its merit—and,

especially, the fact of its being, if not precisely the first, yet

certainly the chief of the class of _periodical_ novels—the peculiar

advantages and disadvantages of which it will afford a good opportunity

for discussing. We much regret, therefore, that we have left ourselves

no room, in the present number of the Magazine, for an extended analysis

of the work. This we may possibly undertake in December; contenting

ourselves, in the meantime, with a few observations at random.

It appears to us that a main source of the interest which this book

possesses for the mass, is to be referred to the _pecuniary_ nature of

its theme. From beginning to end it is an affair of pounds, shillings,

and pence—a topic which comes home at least _as_ immediately to the

bosoms and business of mankind, as any which could be selected. The same

_character_ in the choice of subject was displayed by Doctor Warren in

his “Passages from the Diary of a London Physician.” The _bodily health_

is a point of absolutely universal interest, and was made the basis of

all the excitement in that very popular but shamefully ill-written

publication.

“Ten Thousand a Year” is also “shamefully ill-written.” Its mere English

is disgraceful to an L.L.D.—would be disgraceful to the simplest tyro

in rhetoric. At every page we meet with sentences thus involved—“In

order, however, to do this effectually I must go back to an earlier

period in history than has yet been called to his attention. If it

[_what?—attention?—history?_] shall have been unfortunate enough to

attract the hasty eye of the superficial and impatient novel-reader, I

make no doubt that by such a one certain portions of what has gone

before, and which [_which what?_] could not fail of attracting the

attention of long-headed people as being not thrown in for nothing (and

therefore to be borne in mind with a view to subsequent explanation)

have been entirely overlooked or forgotten.” The book is full too of the

grossest misusages of language—the most offensive vulgarities of speech

and violations of grammar. The whole _tone_ is in the last degree

mawkish and inflated. What can be more ridiculous that the frequent

apostrophising after this fashion—“My glorious Kate, how my heart goes

forth towards you! And thou, her brother! who art of kindred spirit, who

art supported by philosophy and exalted by religion, so that thy

constancy cannot be shaken or overthrown by the black and ominous swell

of trouble which is increasing around thee—I know that thou wilt

outlive the storm—and yet it rocks thee! What indeed is to become of

you all? Whither will you go? And your suffering mother, should she

survive so long, is her precious form to be borne away from Yatton?” &c.

&c.

There is no attempt at plot—but some of the incidents are wofully ill

adapted and improbable. The moralising, throughout, is tedious in the

extreme. Two-thirds of the whole novel might have been omitted with

advantage. The character of Aubrey is a ridiculous piece of overdone

sentimentality—and in character generally the writer fails. One of the

worst features of the whole is the transparent puerile attempt to throw

ridicule upon the ministerial party by dubbing them with silly names,

supposed to be indicative of peculiarities of person or character. While

the oppositionists, for example, rejoice in the euphonious appellations

of Aubrey, Delamere, and the like, their foes are called Quirk, Gammon,

Snap, Bloodsuck, Rotgut, Silly-Punctilio, and other more stupid and

beastly indecencies.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Latest Fashions, November 1841. For Graham’s Magazine._]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and

typesetting errors have been corrected without note.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 5, November 1841_, George R.

Graham, Editor]