“Pass in, and heaven’s blessing go with you!” said the man, almost

angrily striking up the line of weapons which his band still kept

levelled.

He unlocked the heavy door, and while the dense mob shouted around him,

eager to know why he acted thus for a stranger, he stood, with uncovered

head, till the young nobleman had entered the church; then, he closed

the door again with a half repeated blessing upon the lips that had been

almost blistered with imprecations a few moments before. The solemn

stillness and cool atmosphere, which pervaded that little church, fell

like a breath from heaven on the three persons who entered it, weary and

faint from the turmoil that raged without.

The blended hues of purple and gold and crimson, shed from the stained

and diamond-shaped glass that filled the gothic windows, flooded the

building with a dim mellow light, and slept, in a rich haze, among the

funereal urns of snowy marble placed in the various niches, once

occupied by images of Catholic worship. A shadowy light, such as beams

from a mild sunset, lay upon the altar-stone, which gleamed out white

and pure above the purple velvet that carpeted its steps. A baptismal

fount of marble stood on the right hand filled with clear water; but in

that rich light it seemed almost brimming with wine. Two censers of

massive silver stood above the altar, but only as remnants of a

discarded faith, for no incense had been kindled in their hearts since

the divorce of the late Henry and Catherine of Arragon.

The whole church was pervaded with a beautiful quiet, such as might

reign in the shadowy dwellings of paradise. Dudley yielded to its

influence, and drew a deep breath, half in awe, half in thankfulness, as

he gently placed the Lady Jane upon one of the steps of the altar, and

sprinkled her pale face with the water which he dipped with his hand

from the baptismal fount. He took off the mantle which she still

unconsciously held tightly about her person, and gathering up the rich

tresses of her hair as they fell upon the marble, made an awkward

attempt to bind them round her head. The poor lady was conscious of his

kindness, but so exhausted that she had no power to thank him. The very

effort to unclose her eyes was an exertion too much for her languid

state, and the soft light which fell over her like a rich sunset seemed

lending beauty to a marble statue, so pale and deathlike were her

features. When Dudley inquired with anxious tenderness after her

welfare, from time to time, she answered him with a faint clasp of the

hand which he took in his, and grateful tears gushed in bright drops

through her closed lashes, and fell, one after another, like jewels upon

the purple velvet beneath her cheek. At last she opened her eyes, a

sweet and tender expression of pleasure came to her face, and one of the

familiar smiles which Dudley loved so well sprang like sunlight to her

reddening lips. She was yet bewildered and dreamy, but tranquillized by

the one dear presence, and the holy quiet which brooded over the place

of her rest. For a time she was unconscious of the tumult which still

raged without, for the sounds came but faintly to that holy place, and

seemed more like the heaving beat of a far off ocean than a strife of

angry men, heated and drunken with bad passions.

All at once a shout so long, loud and fierce, that it filled that

tranquil building like the howl of a demon, fell upon her ear. She

started up with a full consciousness of all that had happened to her

during the morning, and again sinking upon the steps of the altar buried

her face between her hands, and held her breath with a feeling of terror

such as she had never known before.

At that moment Dudley’s attendant, who had remained near the church

door, came hurriedly toward his master with information that the Duke of

Somerset had joined his men in person, and was now within a few paces of

the church.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

THE ZEPHYR.

BY JULIET H. LEWIS.

I sat by the casement; before me there

Lay a treasured thing, a long tress of hair,

And it moved my heart with a touching power—

’Twas the cherished gift of a parting hour.

The sun-shine lay ’mid its nut-brown fold

With a loving smile, as it did of old.

When the curl waved free in its careless grace,

Like a cloud in the sky, o’er the smiling face

Of the gentle girl that I loved so well—

A dimming tear on the bright lock fell

As thoughts of the loved one far away,

And the teeming past, on my sad heart lay.

A Zephyr, that all this time had play’d,

Like a laughing child, ’mid the rose tree’s shade,

Flew up, like a bird, to the casement there,

And bore off in triumph the lock of hair.

’Twas a cruel theft! and harsh words of blame,

Like a mountain stream, from my full heart came,

For the reckless deeds of the careless thing,

Ever hovering near on mischievous wing.

But the day before, he had entered my bower,

And scattered the leaves of its loveliest flower,

And bore off a letter that lay unread,

’Neath the scented buds, on a mossy bed,

To the brook hard by, who, with dimpled cheek

And a smothered laugh at the Zephyr’s freak,

Received the gift, and bounded on

As wild, and free, as a forest fawn,

To its hiding spots ’neath the greenwood shade,

Glancing back, through the leaves, where the young wind play’d.

“Now! Spirit of Air,” I cried, “gay breeze—

Are all thine acts as unkind as these?

Thy wings are unfettered—thy path is free—

Yet mine is the power to follow thee.”

Then thought sprang up on her weariless wing,

And tracked the wind, in imagining.

He stole the white plume from the thistle’s crest,

Which was light as down on the swan’s pure breast,

And with waving wing bore the prize away

To a happy group ’mid the flowers at play,

And fanning the cheek of each laughing boy,

With his cooling wing, waved the downy toy

Their bright heads above, and the careless band,

With eager eye, and with outstretched hand,

Ran away, in chase of the silvery thing

That the Zephyr bore on exulting wing.

Now slowly it floated their hands beneath—

Now upward it sprang on a stronger breath—

Now wafted afar—’twas a merry race

The Zephyr to lead, and the children in chase!

He left them behind, but bore along

Their glee-toned voices, in joyous song,

And each lone mother looked up and smiled,

As she caught the tones of her darling child,

And paused awhile from her toil, to bless

The heart, o’erflowing with happiness.

Then he went his way and on manhood’s brow

His cooling fingers are busy now,

He parts the dark hair from its resting place,

And prints a kiss on the anxious face,

And woos him to leave the dust and glare

Of the crowded town, for a spot more fair,

Where trees in blossom, and birds on wing,

Lead the rapt heart from each worldly thing.

But man heeds not, for his rest is sold,

And his heart bows down to the god of gold;

For the tempting Zephyr he “cares not a groat,”

He is eagerly reaching a “ten pound note,”

That ragged, and soiled on the counter doth lay,

But the Zephyr indignantly bears it away.

He toss’d it, he pull’d it, he twirled it around,

Now high in the air, and now low on the ground,

He moaned in derision, he whistled with glee,

Ah! never was Zephyr as merry as he,

Till at length, in his frolic, he entered a shed

Where a widow was praying for daily bread,

In the voice of faith, low, subdued and mild,

She prayed for food for her starving child:

Then the wind bowed down with its burden there,

And Heaven thus answered the widow’s prayer.

Then he entered the halls, where many a scene

Of joyous pleasure, and mirth had been—

He softly sighed o’er the festal board,

Where the jest had passed, and the red wine poured,

He swept the harp with his quivering wing,

And woke the tones of each mournful string,

While his murmuring voice, with its gentle chime,

Seemed singing a song of the olden time,

Or breathing a dirge o’er the gay hearts fled

To their silent homes ’mid the lowly dead.

He sighed through the banners that hung on high—

(Dimmed was their gorgeous blazonry,)

But they waved aloft, as they waved of old,

When the shout and song shook each heavy fold,

While the dust fell down in a darkening cloud—

And the moth was rocked in her silken shroud—

And the bat sprang forth from his loathsome nest,

’Mid the pennons there, an unseemly guest!

Then he went to the violet’s lonely bowers,

And gathered their breath, though he left the flowers,

And hastened on with the rich perfume

And a gladsome song, to the invalid’s room.

He hushed his voice as he entered there,

For holy and sad rose the sound of prayer,

With his wealth from the woods he wafted on,

And rushing memories of bright things gone

To the dying bore, while a low-breathed sigh,

Told of the Zephyr’s sympathy.

One tender act that he did that day,

Was a moment to pause where a stranger lay,

In an unknown land, with no loved one near

To breathe a sigh o’er his lowly bier,

Or moisten his grave with the tear-drops shed

From the mourning heart, o’er the loved and the dead.

Then mounting upward, on breezy wing,

To the white haw tree richly blossoming,

And, gathering its sweets with a gentle wave,

He spread them like snow o’er the stranger’s grave.

Green leaf, and bud, and starry flower,

Filled the rich air, like a lovely shower

Of bright things, sent from a fairy land,

And lay on the grave as though some kind hand

Had scattered, that silent heart above,

The sweets that in life it had learned to love.

But ’twere _vain_ to tell of his wanderings free

O’er leafy land, and o’er foaming sea—

How he swept round the palace, and played through the cot—

Passed “the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;”

How he wafted the purple of lordly pride,

And fluttered the rags of the beggar aside,

How he made of a spray-capped wave his steed,

And rode o’er the ocean with Jehu speed,

(’Till his charger tossed its snowy mane,

And sank to its native depths again,)

How he hastened the ship on her homeward way,

And scattered her track with the ocean’s spray.

’Twere vain to number the acts like these,

That were done that day, by the joyous Breeze—

While I could but mark that, what first seemed rude,

Was gentle, and tender, and kind, and good.

I followed him far on his wayward track,

And when, from wandering, I turned me back,

He whispered at parting, these words, methought,

To my hasty heart,—“_Judge not!_ judge not!”

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

It is the fashion to consider Macbeth a spotless and noble soul,

ensnared by the toils of the fiends, and pulled down from heaven to hell

by the chance meeting of the weird sisters on the heath. There is a

serious objection to this view. It makes machines of men. It takes from

us the most obvious and sublime attribute of an immortal being, viz:

free agency. If a high-minded and God-revering mortal is unprotected

against the attacks of supernatural beings—if foul witches may watch

for him in unguarded moments, and weave around his enchanted feet the

fatal snares of crime and death, then are we truly a wretched race. But

this is not Shakspeare’s creed. This is not the character of the

tragedy. Macbeth was a villain. He had deliberately adopted vice as his

god long before the fiends were permitted to patter with him. They come

as a _consequence_ not as a _cause_ of wickedness. The withered and wild

sisters on the blasted heath were conjured up by his own cherished

weaknesses and _secret_ deeds.[4] They were the haggard and hellish

impersonations of his own hidden thoughts and passions. He was not the

pure, generous, heaven-adoring person he is represented. The germs of

his guilt he had received into his heart by himself years before, and

they lay shooting there in silence, only waiting the quickening beam of

opportunity—waiting the first, feeblest temptation to start forth in

all their force. He was one of those fair-_seeming_ men who pass for

honest and noble. The world contains now, as then, many such. Many a man

with an uplifted brow and a clear name, waits only _occasion_ to prove

himself a scoundrel. It is such specious hypocrites that gather around

them (as the smell of carrion does the hawk and vulture) the plotting

witches who watch for power over the children of men. They had never

tempted the pure good old King Duncan. He might have passed the blasted

heath every day of his life, and these hags would never have dreamed of

appearing to him. His soul was not prepared for their wiles. But that of

Macbeth—as well as that of his stern wife—was corrupted by the whole

tenor of their previous life.

Had there been left no evidence of this, I should still have asserted

it. The innocent—the pure in heart—they who daily commune with their

Maker—who acknowledge their weakness and danger when left to

themselves—and implore humbly at his feet his all-sufficient aid—never

fall victims to the accursed fiends, whether they appear in the

deformity of Paddock and Graymalkin, or disguised under the fair

temptations of life.

But Shakspeare has left proof enough in his tragedy. He meant to show,

not (as is frequently asserted) the downfall of noble grandeur and

unsuspecting innocence, but the destruction of a fair-showing,

unsuspected villain—the wreck of a ship whose outward semblance was

tall and imposing, but which was unseaworthy and destined to go down

before the first gale.

In the first place, why does not _Banquo_ suffer from the fiends? He is

with Macbeth when they appear. He even boldly addresses them, and at

once—with the frank fearlessness of a noble and virtuous mind,

conscious of its honesty, commands them, if they can read the future, to

speak to _him_ also.

“Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear your favors, nor

your hate.”

Here is at once a man not to be tampered with. They promise _him_ also

as well as Macbeth a dazzling future good—a posterity of kings—but it

in no way changes his plans of life, or raises the least idea in his

mind of crime or intrigue. Even when, according to the prediction of the

witches, Macbeth instantly receives intelligence, of his being thane of

Cawdor, Banquo’s _clear-seeing sense of right_, his innocence of nature

takes the true and virtuous view of the affair, looks, at a glance,

through all the complicated web of the sisters’ plots, and keeps himself

unsoiled, unendangered by them.

_Banquo._ “But ’tis strange;

And often-times, to win us to _our harm_,

The instruments of darkness tell us truths;

Win us with honest trifles, to betray us

In deepest consequence.”

And while he is making this just reflection, the obvious impulse of a

mind not warped from the erectness of a moral and religious integrity

and reverence, Macbeth soliloquizes with a kind of inexpressible

anticipatory triumph.

“Two truths are told

As happy prologues to the swelling act

Of the imperial theme.”

And he then goes on, like a ready made, long-matured rascal as he

is—like one whose mind had no habit of virtuous or religious

contemplation, but which has always had a familiarity with evil and a

tendency downward:

——“Why do I _yield_ to that suggestion

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,” etc.

The very moment his attention is directed to the subject of his becoming

_king_, he conceives the idea of murdering the actual occupant of the

throne, notwithstanding the fact that there are two sons living.

An innocent man, were he told he would become king of England, would not

instantly set about murdering the queen. He would (supposing him to have

faith in the prediction) say to himself, as indeed Macbeth does at one

time:

“If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me, without

my stir.”

The very first page of the tragedy marks Macbeth for a villain even

before he has made his appearance.

1. _Witch._ When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

2. _Witch._ When the hurly-burly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won;

3. _Witch._ That will be ere set of sun.

1. _Witch._ Where the place?

2. _Witch._ Upon the heath.

3. _Witch._ _Then to meet with Macbeth._

Why have these fiendish women selected the gallant soldier as their

victim? What gathers them about the “battle” that is raging near? _What_

but the _scent_ of _a sinful heart_?

But there are other proofs of an extrinsic nature, which settle the

previous character of Lady Macbeth at the same time, and shows how ripe

they both were for the fiends.

If a man’s true nature may be supposed to be known to any one it _is to

his wife_. He may put on a smooth face before his best friend; he may

write or speak virtuous sentiments to the public; he may give charitable

donations, and follow the career of a flaming patriot or a meek saint,

but the lady upon whom he has conferred with his name, the right of

being with him continually, will be pretty able to tell how matters

really are. I do not say that, because a wife abuses her husband and

calls him names, he must necessarily be a rascal; but, as a general

rule, the partner of his woes and joys has better opportunities of

_knowing the man_ than almost any one else—at least, if she be a person

of Lady Macbeth’s discrimination. Well then, see what his _lady_ says of

him, to herself, on receiving his letter recounting the prediction of

the weird sisters.

“Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be

What thou art promis’d:—yet I do fear thy nature;

It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness,

To catch the nearest way.”

That she should suppose him _too full of the milk of human kindness_ to

do cruel actions is a skilful stroke in the delineation both of his

nature and hers. However well she knew him, as he had been till then, an

unprincipled man—even _she_ had never fathomed those depths of

character, (for good or for evil common to all men, and equally

unfathomed probably by himself,) which the subsequent events disclosed.

Shakspeare somewhere else says, “It is not a year or so that shows us a

man”—and it is an important truth, that we are not thoroughly known by

our best friends, and do not know ourselves till late in life. This same

person, so full of the milk of human kindness that she feared his

“softer nature” could never be brought to the necessary resolution, no

sooner finds himself once fairly compromised than his atrocities throw

the cruelties of ordinary oppressors quite into the shade.

“Thou would’st be great;

Art not without ambition; but without

The illness should attend it. What thou would’st highly

Thou would’st holily; would’st not play false,

And yet _would’st wrongly win_,” etc. etc.

This passage has been often misunderstood. “Without the _illness_” that

should attend ambition—“what thou would’st highly thou would’st

holily,” does not mean, thou art without the _vices_ which should attend

ambition, and, what thou would’st highly—thou would’st in a _holy

spirit_. It means, he is without the _courage_ to bear the risk and

odium necessary to the successful carrying out of ambitious plans,

although he is willing enough to be _guilty_ if he may not _appear_ to

be so. “What he would highly,” he would also with an _appearance of

holiness_. He loves the _mask_ of virtue, but he loves also the sweets

of sin. He has thus far enjoyed the good opinion of the _world_. He

cannot bear to throw aside the wreath which he has worn and which

flatters his weakness and vanity. It is the _world_ which alone he

thinks of. This is his only god. Of the Supreme Being, there is not a

word; but of his inclination to assume the moral responsibility there is

a distinct acknowledgment:

“Would’st not play false

And yet _would’st wrongly win_. ‘Thou’d’st have, great Glamis,’

That which cries, ‘_Thus thou must do if thou have it!_’

And that which thou dost _rather fear to do_,

Than _wishest should be undone_.”

Here we have Macbeth’s character. Here we have the secret of his

goodness. It is _fear_ and _love of the world_.

Shakspeare meant to draw a very—very common character, only he has made

it colossal. How many men in the common life of this day are

irreproachable from the same considerations—fear and love of the world,

joined to a certain dislike of the trouble, exertion and risk of wrong.

(“If we should fail!”) That these are the moving springs of this

seemingly noble and generous but really remorseless and impious

character we see again from a remark of his own. After contemplating the

murder for some time, he concludes to abandon the plan. Why? Because he

will not incur the moral guilt? Because he has thoughts of his God,

whose eye is on him, and who cannot but punish a crime? Because the

commandment has been written, “Thou shalt do no murder?” Because the

Deity himself has decreed “blood for blood?”

No. For reasons much more suited to his irreligious, infidel, worldly

mind:

“We will proceed no further in this business!

He hath _honored_ me of late; and I have bought

_Golden opinions_ from all _sorts of people_,

Which should be worn now in their newest gloss,

Not cast aside so soon.”

These are his reasons for not wishing to proceed. Not a thought of his

Maker—not an allusion to a future world. He expressly says, in another

passage, if he could but be secure against detection _in this world_, he

does not feel any apprehension respecting the other. He’ll “_jump the

world to come_.”

No man, not corrupt by long previous backslidings either of thought or

deed, would act as Macbeth acts. He grasps at the first idea of murder

with the true zest of an assassin. All his struggles are only those of

fear. The _first_ time he meets the king, his generous, grateful, and

gracious master, he seems already to have arranged the murder in his

mind, and his hypocrisy and cruelty do not waver an instant. He

discovers the self-possession and plausible villany of a practised

criminal, and this too before he sees his wife upon the subject. It

almost seems as if they had spoken on this point before. When Duncan

heaps him with thanks and rewards, he answers:

_Mac._ “The service and the loyalty I owe,

In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part

Is to receive our duties: and our duties

Are, to your throne and state, children and servants;

Which do but what they should, by doing every thing

Safe toward your love and honor.”

When the King says, as if in dark conformity to the witches’ prediction:

“from hence to Inverness,

And bind us further to you,”

Macbeth, like a hungry leopard trembling with joy at seeing his victim

take refuge in his very den, says, with an affectation of grateful

submission:

_Mac._ “The rest is labor which is not used for you:

I’ll be myself the harbinger, and _make joyful_

_The hearing of my_ wife with your approach.”

And then _already_, to himself:

_Mac._ “The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step

On which I must fall _down, or else overleap_;

For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires!

Let not light see my black and deep desires,

The eye wink at the hand, _yet let that be_

Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.”

His famous soliloquy, “Out, out, brief candle,” is in itself a superb

piece of earthly philosophy, but it becomes resplendently significant

when regarded as the _creed of infidelity_ which has brought him where

he is; for he is an atheist, and _therefore_ he is a _murderer_.

“Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And _then is heard no more_: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

_Signifying nothing_.”

These are not the thoughts of the gentle, happy-hearted Shakspeare.

These are the blasphemous outbreakings of a blood-drenched, disbelieving

soul, vainly striving to make head against God’s vengeance by denying

his existence. No. Life’s _not_ a walking shadow. It is more than a poor

player—than a tale signifying nothing. It signifies much not to be

known by the “ignorant present,” as they find, unhappy lost ones, who

mistake such wicked blasphemies for truth.

The pertinacity with which his selfish soul is wedded to the world is

again betrayed in one of his last soliloquies, where, in running a kind

of balance in his accounts between the gains and losses of his murderous

ambition, he complains:

“And that which should accompany old age,

As _honor, love, obedience, troops of friends_,

I must not look to have; but, in their stead,

Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath,

Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.”

Always the world bounds his hopes and his fears.

The original viciousness of his nature is also betrayed by the readiness

with which, once embarked in the career of crime, he plunges in

headlong. The very morning of the murder of the king, he stabs in their

sleep the two grooms of the chamber, then Banquo and Fleance (which

latter escapes by chance.) He rushes on from murder to murder with the

rabid fury of a hound maddened with the taste of blood. He adopts the

direst principles of action,

_Mac._ “From this moment

The very firstlings of my heart shall be

The firstlings of my hand.”

Surprises the castle of Macduff, and massacres his wife, his babes,

“And all the unfortunate souls

That trace him in his line.”

That Shakspeare meant to draw, in this remarkable portraiture, a worldly

character unsupported by _religion_, is evident from the _tone of piety_

which runs through the other characters. The gentlewoman’s “Heaven knows

what she has known,” and her “pray God it be well.” The doctor’s “God,

God forgive us all!” Macduff’s

“Did Heaven look on

And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff,

They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am,

Not for their own demerits, but for mine,

Fell slaughter on their souls: Heaven rest them now.”

This is the oft repeated apprehension of a pious heart which fears still

its own weakness, and finds, in the inscrutable and most awful

visitatings of God a merited blow—a chastener of its still corrupt

desires—a lesson to unlink it yet more from its grasp on mortality.

Immediately again Macduff prays to heaven—and in the same page Malcolm

says:

“Macbeth

Is ripe for shaking, and the _powers above_

Put on their instruments.”

Another instance of the pure christian piety with which the poet invests

his good characters, and of which he deprives his bad ones, telling

strongly for Dr. Ulrici’s theory, occurs in the third scene of the

fourth act, where Malcolm, the heir to the throne, in order to try

Macduff, represents himself as being full of vices. Macduff replies,

“Thy Royal Father

Was a most _sainted King_; the Queen, that bore thee,—

_Oftener upon her knees than on her feet_.”

In his answer, Malcolm uses the expression, full of pious reverence:

“But _God above_

Deal between thee and me,” &c.

And still another, the morning after the murder, when Macduff says:

“In the _great hand of God I stand_,” &c.

-----

[4] _Vide a future_ ¶.

* * * * *

THE DAUGHTERS OF DR. BYLES.

A SKETCH OF REALITY.

BY MISS LESLIE.

On my first visit to Boston, about nine years since, I was offered, by a

lady of that kind and hospitable city, (the paradise of strangers,) an

introduction to the two daughters of the celebrated Mather Byles: and I

gladly availed myself of this opportunity of becoming acquainted with

these singular women, whom, I had been told, were classed among the

curiosities of the place.

Their father, a native Bostonian, (born in 1706, during the reign of

Queen Anne,) was connected with the family of Cotton Mather. His

education was completed in England, where he studied theology at

Cambridge, and was afterwards ordained a minister of the gospel

according to the Episcopal faith. On his return to Boston, Mather Byles

was inducted into the first pastor-ship of Hollis street church, then a

newly-erected edifice, constructed entirely of wood, as were most

American churches of that period. He became proprietor of a house and a

small piece of ground near the junction of Tremont and Nassau streets.

In this house all his children were born, and here the two that survived

were still living. His wife was a daughter of Governor Taylor.

The position of Dr. Byles as a clergyman, his literary acquirements, his

shrewd sense, and his ready wit, caused him to be highly popular at

home, and brought him into personal acquaintance or epistolary

correspondence with many of the principal men of his time, on both sides

of the Atlantic. He frequently exchanged letters with Pope and with Dr.

Watts: and among the visiters at his “modest mansion” might be

enumerated some of the most distinguished persons of his native

province—while strangers of note eagerly sought his acquaintance.

All went smoothly with Dr. Byles till America became impatient of her

dependence on the crown of Britain; and, unfortunately for him, his

sympathies were on the side of the mother country. He could not be

persuaded that her children of the new world had sufficient cause for

abrogating the authority of the nation from whence they had sprung; and

he considered their alleged grievances as mere pretexts for throwing off

a chain which, in his opinion, had pressed but lightly on them; and

that, in short, as Falstaff said of the Percy and Mortimer

insurrection,—“Rebellion lay in their way, and they found it.” His

congregation had warmly and almost unanimously espoused the popular

cause, and, consequently, were much irritated at the ultra royalist

feelings and opinions of their pastor, whose difficulties with his flock

seeming daily to increase, Dr. Byles eventually thought it best to

resign his situation as minister of Hollis street church.

The war broke out; the battle of Bunker Hill was fought, and Boston was

subsequently occupied by the British army, and besieged by the

Americans, who established themselves in hostile array upon the heights

that commanded the town,—and, with a view of dislodging the enemy, they

vigilantly exerted themselves in stopping all supplies of fuel and

provisions. After holding out against the patriots during a leaguer of

more than eight months, the British finally withdrew their forces, and

embarked them to carry the war into another section of the country. Now,

that something like order was again restored in the town of Boston and

its vicinity, it was thought time to punish those who had rendered

themselves obnoxious by aiding and abetting the cause of the enemy. Some

of the most noted royalists were expelled from the province and took

refuge in Nova Scotia, others went into voluntary exile and repaired to

England, where they preferred a claim of indemnification for the losses

they had sustained by adhering to the cause of monarchy. Among others,

Dr. Mather Byles was denounced at a town-meeting, for his unconcealed

toryism: for having persisted in praying for the king; and for

interchanging visits with the British officers, most of whom were

received familiarly at his house. Upon these charges he was tried before

a special court, and at first sentenced to have his property

confiscated, and himself and family transported to England. But the

board of war, out of respect to his private character, commuted his

punishment to a short imprisonment in his own house, under the guard of

sentinels, and allowed him to retain his possessions.

The rebellion eventuated in a successful revolution; and honor, fame,

and the gratitude of their country rewarded those who had assisted in

the glorious contest for independence; while all who had held back, and

all who had sided with the enemy, were contumeliously cast into the

shade, regarded with contempt by their former associates, or compelled

to wear out their lives in exile from the land of their birth. Most of

the connections of the Byles family quitted the States. But the doctor

remained, and finding that he could not regain his former place among

his townsmen, he lived in retirement during the residue of his life, and

died at his own house in Boston, in 1788, in the 82d year of his age. He

was interred beneath the pavement of the chancel in Trinity church,

having worshipped there with his family after quitting that of Hollis

street.

In the old family house his two surviving daughters had ever since

continued to reside, steadily refusing to sell either the building or

the lot of ground attached to it, though liberal offers for its purchase

had repeatedly been made to them. So deep-rooted was their attachment to

this spot, where they had been born, and where they had always lived,

that they considered it impossible for them to exist in any other place,

continually asserting that a removal from it would certainly kill them.

They had a trifling source of income which brought them two hundred

dollars annually, and they contrived to save nearly the whole of this

little sum. Also, they possessed a tolerable quantity of old-fashioned

plate, which they had put away in a chest up stairs, never to be used or

sold while they lived. In the mean time their wants were chiefly

supplied, (and, indeed, many little luxuries were furnished them,) by

the benevolence of certain ladies of Boston, who, in the goodness of

their hearts, overlooked the anomaly of two women who had the means of a

comfortable independence within their reach, submitting to receive

assistance from eleemosynary bounty rather than relinquish the

indulgence of what, in those matter-of-fact times, would, by most

persons, be regarded as a mere morbid fancy. But on this point of

feeling they believed their happiness to depend; and their tolerant

benefactresses kindly enabled them to be happy in their own way.

The Miss Byleses kept no domestic; but a man came every morning to

attend to the wood and water part of their _ménage_, and to go their

errands—and a woman was employed every week to do up the Saturday work.

A newspaper was sent to them gratuitously—books were lent to them, for

the youngest was something of a reader, and also wrote verses; and they

frequently received little presents of cakes, sweetmeats, and other

delicacies. They rarely went out, except to Trinity church. Then they

put on their everlasting suits of the same Sunday clothes: their faces

being, on these occasions, shaded with deep black veils suspended from

their bonnets, not so much for concealment as for gentility.

The lady who volunteered to introduce me to the daughters of Dr. Byles,

was, as I afterwards understood, one of those who assisted in affording

them some of the comforts which they denied to themselves. We set out on

our visit on one of the loveliest mornings of a Boston summer, the

warmth of the season being delightfully tempered by a cool breeze from

the sea. After passing the beautiful Common, (why has it not a better

name?) my companion pointed out to me, at what seemed the termination of

the long vista of Tremont street, an old black-looking frame-house,

which, at the distance from whence I saw it, seemed to block up the way

by standing directly across it. It was the ancient residence of Mather

Byles, and the present dwelling of his aged daughters; one of whom was

in her eighty-first and the other in her seventy-ninth year. This part

of Tremont street, which is on the south-eastern declivity of a hill,

carried us far from all vicinity to the aristocratic section of Boston.

At length we arrived at the domain of the two antique maidens. It was

surrounded by a board fence, which had once been a very close one, but

time and those universal depredators, “the boys,” had made numerous

cracks and chinks in it. The house (which stood with the gable end to

the street) looked as if it had never been painted in its life. Its

exposure to the sun and rain, to the heats of a hundred summers and the

snows of a hundred winters, had darkened its whole outside nearly to the

blackness of iron. Also, it had, even in its best days, been evidently

one of the plainest and most unbeautified structures in the town of

Boston, where many of the old frame-houses can boast of a redolence of

quaint ornament about the doors, and windows, and porches, and

balconies. Still, there was something not unpleasant in its aspect, or

rather in its situation. It stood at the upper end of a green lot, whose

long thick grass was enamelled with field flowers. It was shaded with

noble horse-chestnut trees relieved against the clear blue sky, and

whose close and graceful clusters of long jagged leaves, fanned by the

light summer breeze, threw their chequered and quivering shadows on the

grass beneath, and on the mossy roof of the venerable mansion.

We entered the enclosure by a board gate, whose only fastening was a

wooden latch with a leather string; like that which secured the wicket

of Little Red Ridinghood’s grand-mother. There was a glimpse of female

figures hastily flitting away from a front window. We approached the

house by a narrow pathway, worn by frequent feet, in the grass, and a

few paces brought us to the front door with its decayed and tottering

wooden steps. My companion knocked, and the door was immediately opened

by a rather broad-framed and very smiling old lady, habited in a black

worsted petticoat and a white short-gown, into the neck of which was

tucked a book-muslin kerchief. Her silver hair was smoothly arranged

over a wrinkled but well-formed forehead, beneath which twinkled two

small blue eyes. Her head was covered with a close full-bordered white

linen cap, that looked equally convenient for night or for day. She

welcomed us with much apparent pleasure, and my companion introduced her

to me as Miss Mary Byles. She was the eldest of the two sisters.

Miss Mary ushered us into the parlor, which was without a carpet, and

its scanty furniture seemed at least a century old. Beneath a

surprisingly high mantel-piece was a very low fire-place, from whence

the andirons having been removed for the summer, its only accoutrement

was a marvellous thick cast-iron back-plate, of a pattern antique even

to rudeness. There were a few straight tall-backed chairs, some with

bottoms of flag-rush, and others with bottoms of listing; and there was

one _fauteuil_, to be described hereafter. My attention was attracted by

the oldest-looking table I had ever seen, and of so dark a hue that it

was difficult to tell whether it was mahogany or walnut. When opened out

it must have been circular; but, now that the leaves were let down, it

exhibited a top so strangely narrow (not more than half a foot in width)

that it was impossible to divine the object in making it so; unless,

indeed, it was the fashionable table of the time. And fashion, at all

periods, has been considered reason sufficient for anything, however

inconvenient, ugly or absurd. To support the narrow top and the wide

leaves, this table seemed to be endowed with a hundred legs and a

proportionate number of bars crossing among them, in every direction,

all being of very elaborate turned work. I opine that this must have

been a great table in its day.

My companion inquired after the health of Miss Catherine Byles, the

youngest of the ladies. Miss Mary replied that sister Catherine was

quite unwell, having passed a bad night with the rheumatism. Regret was

expressed at our losing the pleasure of seeing her. But Miss Mary

politely assured us that her sister would exert herself to appear,

rather than forego an opportunity of paying her respects to the ladies;

and we as politely hoped that, on our account, she would not put herself

to the smallest inconvenience. While compliments were thus flying, the

door of the next room opened, and Miss Catherine Byles made her

entrance, in a manner which showed us that she went much by

gracefulness.

Miss Catherine was unlike her elder sister, both in figure and face; her

features being much sharper, (in fact, excessively sharp,) and her whole

person extremely thin. She also was arrayed in a black bombasin

petticoat, a short-gown, and a close lined cap, with a deep border that

seemed almost to bury her narrow visage. She greeted us with much

cordiality, and complained of her rheumatism with a smiling countenance.

My eyes were soon rivetted on a fine portrait of Dr. Mather Byles, from

the wonderful pencil of Copley—wonderful in its excellence at a period

when the divine art was scarcely known in the provinces, and when a good

picture rarely found its way to our side of the ocean. And yet, under

these disadvantages, and before he sought improvement in the schools of

Europe, did Copley achieve those extraordinary fac-similes of the human

face, that might justly entitle him to the appellation of the Reynolds

of America, and are scarcely excelled by those of his cotemporary, the

Reynolds of England.

The moment I looked at this picture I knew that it _must_ be a likeness;

for I saw in its lineaments the whole character of Dr. Byles,

particularly the covert humor of the eye. The face was pale, the

features well-formed, and the aspect pleasantly acute. He was

represented in his ecclesiastical habiliments, with a curled and

powdered wig. On his finger was a signet-ring containing a very fine red

cornelian. While I was contemplating the admirably-depicted countenance,

his daughters were both very voluble in directing my attention to the

cornelian ring, which they evidently considered the best part of the

picture; declaring it to be an exact likeness of that very ring, and

just as natural as life.

Before I had looked half enough at Copley’s picture, the two old ladies

directed my attention to another portrait which they seemed to prize

still more highly. This, they informed me, was that of their nephew,

“poor boy,” whom they had not seen for forty years. It was painted by

himself.—His name was Mather Brown, and he was the only son of their

deceased elder sister. He had removed to London, where, as they informed

me, he had _taken_ the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York—“and,

therefore,” said one of the aunts—“he is painter to the royal family.”

They both expressed much regret that they had not been able to prevail

on their father, after the revolution, to give up America entirely, and

remove with his family to England. “In that case,” said Miss Mary, “we

should all have been introduced at court; and the king and queen would

have spoken to us; and I dare say would have thanked us kindly for our

loyalty.”

The truth was, as I afterwards found, that a much longer period than

forty years had elapsed since their nephew left America; but they always

continued to give that date to his departure. He had painted himself

with his hair reared up perpendicularly from his forehead, powdered

well, and tied behind,—and, in a wide blue coat with yellow buttons,

and a very stiff hard-plaited shirt-frill with hand-ruffles to match. In

his hand he held an open letter, which, both his aunts informed me,

contained the very words of an epistle sent by one of them to him, and,

therefore, was an exact likeness of that very letter. To gratify them, I

read aloud the pictured missive, thereby proving that it really

contained legible words.

Having looked at the pictures, I was invited by Miss Mary Byles to take

my seat in the large arm-chair, which she assured me was a great

curiosity, being more than a hundred years old, having been sent over

from England by “government,” as a present to their maternal

grandfather, Governor Taylor. The chair was of oak, nearly black with

age, and curiously and elaborately carved. The back was very tall and

straight, and the carving on its top terminated in a crown. This chair

was furnished with an old velvet cushion, which was always (by way of

preservation) kept upside down, the underside being of dark calico. Miss

Mary, however, did me the honor, as a visiter, to turn the right side

up, that I might sit upon velvet; and as soon as I had placed myself on

it, she enquired if I found it an easy seat? On my replying in the

affirmative. “I am surprised at that”—said she, with a smile—“I wonder

how a republican can sit easy under the crown.”—Beginning to understand

my cue, I, of course, was properly diverted with this piece of wit.

Miss Catherine then directed my attention to the antique round table,

and assured me that at this very table Dr. Franklin had drank tea on his

last visit to Boston. Miss Mary then produced, from a closet by the

chimney-side, an ancient machine of timber and iron in the form of a

bellows, which she informed me was two hundred years old. It looked as

if it might have been two thousand, and must have been constructed in

the very infancy of bellows-making, about the time when people first

began to grow tired of blowing their fires with their mouths. It would

have afforded a strange contrast, and a striking illustration of the

march of intellect, if placed by the side of one of those light and

beautiful, painted, gilt and varnished fire-improvers which abound in

certain shops in Washington street. This bellows of other days was so

heavy that it seemed to require a strong man to work it. The handles and

sides were carved all over with remarkably cumbrous devices; and the

nozzle or spout was about the size and shape of a very large parsnep

with the point cut off.

Miss Mary now asked her sister if _she_ had no curiosities to show the

ladies? Miss Catherine modestly replied that she feared she had nothing

the ladies would care to look at. Miss Mary assured us that sister

Catherine had a box of extraordinary things, such as were not to be seen

every day, and that they were universally considered as very great

curiosities. Miss Catherine still seemed meekly inclined to undervalue

them. My companion, who _had_ seen the things repeatedly, begged that

their Philadelphia visiter might be indulged with a view of these

rarities—and, finally, after a little more coquetry, a sort of square

band-box was produced, and Miss Catherine did the honors of her little

museum.

She showed us the envelope of a letter addressed to her father by no

less a person than Alexander Pope, and directed in the poet’s own hand.

The writing was clear and handsome, and had evidently been executed with

a new pen, and with a desire that the superscription should look well.

Next, were exhibited four commissions, each bearing the signature of a

different British sovereign. The names of the royal personages were

placed at the top of the document and not at the bottom. This, the old

ladies told us was to show that royalty ought to go before every thing

else. The first signature was that of Queen Anne, and headed the

appointment of their grandfather to the government of the province of

Massachusetts. I have never in my life seen any autograph so bad as that

of “great Anne whom three realms obeyed”—if this was to be considered a

fair specimen. It looked as if nobody had ever taught her to write, and

had the appearance of being scratched on the paper, not with a _pen_ but

with a _pin_ dipped in ink. I believe it is related of the Emperor

Charlemagne (who pressed the seals of his missives with the hilt of his

dagger) that he effected his signature by plunging his thumb into the

ink, and making with it a large black spot or blot on the parchment. No

doubt, being a man of sense, he took care that his dab or smear should

always be of exactly the same shape and dimension, and so _unique_ in

its look as to preclude the possibility of counterfeits.

The next document shown us by Miss Catherine, was honored with the name

of the First George—that sapient Elector of Hanover, whose powers of

comprehension were so obtuse that he never could be made exactly to

understand by what means he succeeded to the throne of England, and

often said “he was afraid he was keeping some honest man out of his

place.” His majesty’s pen-maker was palpably unworthy of holding that

office, for, in this autograph, both up strokes and down were so thick

that they looked as if done with the feather of the quill instead of its

point.

Afterwards was displayed a commission signed by George the Second. Here

the royal caligraphy seemed on the mend. The signature was well written,

and his majesty’s pen-provider was evidently fit for his station.

Last, was a paper bearing the name of George the Third, written in a

fair and easy hand, but rather inferior to that of his predecessor,

notwithstanding that the second of the Hanoverian monarchs had “never

liked _b_ainting or _b_oetry in all his life, and did not know what good

there was in either.”

It is a most fallacious and illiberal hypothesis that the hand-writing

is characteristic of the mind. And those who profess that theory

frequently employ it as a vehicle for the conveyance of impertinent and

unjust remarks.

We were next shown a small portion of moss gathered from the

time-honored roof of Bradgate Hall, the mansion in which the unfortunate

Lady Jane Grey first saw the light.

These relics of the departed great were followed by the exhibition of

some little articles, only remarkable as specimens of mechanical

ingenuity. Among them was a large deep-red mulberry, looking

surprisingly like a real one.

“And now,” said Miss Catherine, “I will show you the greatest curiosity

of all.” She then took out an inner pasteboard box that had been placed

within the larger one, and setting it on the floor, produced, from a

round hole in the lid, an artificial snake, that looked something like a

very long, very close string of button-molds. By giving it some

mysterious impulse, she set the reptile in motion, and caused it to run

about in the neighborhood of our feet. We thought it best to be a little

startled and a little frightened, and very greatly surprised at the

ingenuity of the thing. After we had sufficiently enjoyed the sight,

Miss Catherine attempted to replace her snake in the box, telling him it

was time to go home. But he seemed rather refractory, and quite

unwilling to re-enter his prison. “What”—said she—chastising him with

two or three smart taps—“won’t you go in.—Are _you_ a rebel too!”—The

serpent stood rebuked; and then obediently hurried back into his hole.

And we laughed as in duty bound—also with some admiration at the old

lady’s slight of hand in managing the reptile.

Miss Catherine, having completed the exhibition of her snake, now

addressed Miss Mary, and proposed that her sister should show us an

extraordinary trick, “which always astonished the ladies.” To this Miss

Mary made some objection, lest we should have her taken up and hanged

for a witch. On our promising not to do so, she took a scrap of white

paper which she tore into four little bits, and then laid them in a row

on the table. Having done this, she left the room, shutting the door

closely after her, so as to convince us, that while remaining outside it

was impossible for her to see or hear anything that was done in her

absence. Miss Catherine now desired me to touch, with my finger, one of

the bits of paper—any one I pleased. I touched the second—and Miss

Mary was then called in by her sister, who said to her, as she

entered,—“Be quick.”—Miss Mary immediately advanced to the table, and

unhesitatingly designated the second paper as that which I touched while

she was out of the room. Being unacquainted with the trick, I was really

surprised; and wondered how she could have guessed so correctly. The

trick was several times repeated, and every time with perfect success.

After I had been thoroughly astonished, and declared my utter inability

to fathom the mystery, the sisters explained to me its very simple

process. The four bits of paper, arranged on the table in a row, denoted

the four first letters of the alphabet.—When I touched the second,

(which signified B,) Miss Catherine directed her sister to it by saying,

as she returned to the room—“Be quick.”—When I touched the

third—D—Miss Mary, on her entrance, was saluted by her sister with the

words—“Do you think you can tell?”—After I had touched the first

paper, A, Miss Mary was asked—“Are you sure you can guess?”—and when I

touched C, Miss Catherine said to Miss Mary, “Come and try once more.”

And thus, by commencing each sentence with the letter that had just been

touched, she unfailingly pointed out to her sister the exact paper. To

succeed in this little trick, there must, of course, be an understanding

between the two persons that exhibit it: and to most of the uninitiated

it appears very surprising. By adopting a similar plan of collusion,

some of the professors of Mesmerism have contrived to obtain from their

magnetized sleepers, replies which, to the audience, seemed truly

astonishing.

We now arose to take our leave; and our attention was then directed to a

square pine table standing by one of the windows, and covered with

particularly uninviting specimens of pincushions, needle-books,

emery-bags, &c. The old ladies informed us that this was a charity

table, which they kept for the benefit of “the poor.” I had thought that

the Miss Byleses were their own poor. However, we gratified them by

adding a trifling sum to their means of doing good: and I became the

proprietor of the ugliest needle-book I had ever seen. But I

magnanimously left the less ugly things to tempt the choice of those

persons who really make an object of their purchases at charity

tables.—“Dear good little me.”

The Miss Byleses were very urgent in inviting me to repeat my visit,

saying, that any time of the day after nine o’clock, they were always

ready to see company, and would be happy to receive me and such friends

as I might wish to bring with me. And they enumerated among their

visiters, from other parts of the Union, some highly eminent personages.

While we were listening to the “more last words” of Miss Catherine, her

sister slipped out into the very short passage that led to the house

door, and then slipped back again. We, at last, paid our parting

compliments, and Miss Mary escorted us to the front door, but seemed to

find it locked, and seemed to find it impossible to unlock. This gave

her occasion to say wittily—“The ladies will have to send home for

their night-caps; as they are likely to be kept here all night.”

Luckily, however, this necessity was obviated, by the key yielding as

soon as it was turned the right way: and finally Miss Mary Byles

curtsied and smiled us out.

(To be concluded.)

* * * * *

THE EYES OF NIGHT.

BY MISS MARY SPENCER.

Night has eyes—sparkling eyes!

Some soft, some bright;

The flashing fire ne’er dies

From eyes of night.

Night has many wooers

To watch her eyes,

To love her silent hours

And mellow skies.

Night has a witching spell

To bind the heart;

Its silent glances quell

And awe impart.

A perfumed breath has Night:

It wafts the sighs

Of flowers young and bright

Around the skies.

Night has a breathing tone

Like distant swell

Of softest music, thrown

From fairy’s knell.

Oh! how I love the Night!

Its sparkling eyes—

Its softened shadowy light—

Its melodies.

* * * * *

THY NAME WAS ONCE A MAGIC SPELL.

BALLAD.

SUNG BY MR. DEMPSTER.

WRITTEN BY

THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.

[Illustration: musical score]

Thy name was once the magic spell

By which my heart was bound,

And burning dreams of light and love,

Were wa-ken’d by that

[Illustration: musical score]

sound my heart beat quick,

When stranger tongues with idle praise or blame,

Awoke its deepest thrill of life,

To tremble at thy name.

Long years, long years have pass’d away,

And alter’d is thy brow,

And we who met so fondly once,

Must meet as strangers now;

The friends of yore come round me still,

But talk no more of thee;

’Tis idle e’en to wish it now—

For what art thou to me?

Yet still thy name, thy blessed name,

My lonely bosom fills,

Like an echo that hath lost itself,

Among the distant hills,

Which still with melancholy note,

Keeps faintly lingering on,

When the joyous sound that woke it first,

Is gone, for ever gone.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

In commencing, with the New Year, a New Volume, we shall be permitted to

say a very few words by way of _exordium_ to our usual chapter of

Reviews, or, as we should prefer calling them, of Critical Notices. Yet

we speak _not_ for the sake of the _exordium_, but because we have

really something to say, and know not when or where better to say it.

That the public attention, in America, has, of late days, been more than

usually directed to the matter of literary criticism, is plainly

apparent. Our periodicals are beginning to acknowledge the importance of

the science (shall we so term it?) and to disdain the flippant _opinion_

which so long has been made its substitute.

Time was when we imported our critical decisions from the mother

country. For many years we enacted a perfect farce of subserviency to

the _dicta_ of Great Britain. At last a revulsion of feeling, with

self-disgust, necessarily ensued. Urged by these, we plunged into the

opposite extreme. In throwing _totally_ off that “authority,” whose

voice had so long been so sacred, we even surpassed, and by much, our

original folly. But the watchword now was, “a national literature!”—as

if any true literature _could be_ “national”—as if the world at large

were not the only proper stage for the literary _histrio_. We became,

suddenly, the merest and maddest _partizans_ in letters. Our papers

spoke of “tariffs” and “protection.” Our Magazines had habitual passages

about that “truly native novelist, Mr. Cooper,” or that “staunch

American genius, Mr. Paulding.” Unmindful of the spirit of the axioms

that “a prophet has _no_ honor in his own land” and that “a hero is

never a hero to his _valet-de-chambre_”—axioms founded in reason and in

truth—our reviews urged the propriety—our booksellers the necessity,

of strictly “American” themes. A foreign subject, at this epoch, was a

weight more than enough to drag down into the very depths of critical

damnation the finest writer owning nativity in the States; while, on the

reverse, we found ourselves daily in the paradoxical dilemma of liking,

or pretending to like, a stupid book the better because (sure enough)

its stupidity was of our own growth, and discussed our own affairs.

It is, in fact, but very lately that this anomalous state of feeling has

shown any signs of subsidence. Still it _is_ subsiding. Our views of

literature in general having expanded, we begin to demand the use—to

inquire into the offices and provinces of criticism—to regard it more

as an art based immoveably in nature, less as a mere system of

fluctuating and conventional dogmas. And, with the prevalence of these

ideas, has arrived a distaste even to the home-dictation of the

bookseller-_coteries_. If our editors are not as yet _all_ independent

of the will of a publisher, a majority of them scruple, at least, _to

confess_ a subservience, and enter into no positive combinations against

the minority who despise and discard it. And this is a _very_ great

improvement of exceedingly late date.

Escaping these quicksands, our criticism is nevertheless in some

danger—some very little danger—of falling into the pit of a most

detestable species of cant—the cant of _generality_. This tendency has

been given it, in the first instance, by the onward and tumultuous

spirit of the age. With the increase of the thinking-material comes the

desire, if not the necessity, of abandoning particulars for masses. Yet

in our individual case, as a nation, we seem merely to have adopted this

bias from the British Quarterly Reviews, upon which our own Quarterlies

have been slavishly and pertinaciously modelled. In the foreign journal,

the review or criticism properly so termed, has gradually yet steadily

degenerated into what we see it at present—that is to say into anything

but criticism. Originally a “review,” was not so called as _lucus a non

lucendo_. Its name conveyed a just idea of its design. It reviewed, or

surveyed the book whose title formed its text, and, giving an analysis

of its contents, passed judgment upon its merits or defects. But,

through the system of anonymous contribution, this natural process lost

ground from day to day. The name of a writer being known only to a few,

it became to him an object not so much to write well, as to write

fluently, at so many guineas per sheet. The analysis of a book is a

matter of time and of mental exertion. For many classes of composition

there is required a deliberate perusal, with notes, and subsequent

generalization. An easy substitute for this labor was found in a digest

or compendium of the work noticed, with copious extracts—or a still

easier, in random comments upon such passages as accidentally met the

eye of the critic, with the passages themselves copied at full length.

The mode of reviewing most in favor, however, because carrying with it

the greatest _semblance_ of care, was that of diffuse essay upon the

subject matter of the publication, the reviewer (?) using the facts

alone which the publication supplied, and using them as material for

some theory, the sole concern, bearing, and intention of which, was mere

difference of opinion with the author. These came at length to be

understood and habitually practised as the customary or conventional

_fashions_ of review; and although the nobler order of intellects did

not fall into the full heresy of these fashions—we may still assert

that even Macaulay’s nearest approach to criticism in its legitimate

sense, is to be found in his article upon Ranke’s “History of the

Popes”—an article in which the whole strength of the reviewer is put

forth _to account_ for a single fact—the progress of Romanism—which

the book under discussion has established.

Now, while we do not mean to deny that a good essay is a good thing, we

yet assert that these papers on general topics have nothing whatever to

do with that _criticism_ which their evil example has nevertheless

infected _in se_. Because these dogmatising pamphlets, which _were once_

“Reviews,” have lapsed from their original faith, it does not follow

that the faith itself is extinct—that “there shall be no more cakes and

ale”—that criticism, in its old acceptation, does not exist. But we

complain of a growing inclination on the part of our lighter journals to

believe, on such grounds, that such is the fact—that because the

British Quarterlies, through supineness, and our own, through a

degrading imitation, have come to merge all varieties of vague

generalization in the one title of “Review,” it therefore results that

criticism, being everything in the universe, is, consequently, nothing

whatever in fact. For to this end, and to none other conceivable, is the

tendency of such propositions, for example, as we find in a late number

of that very clever monthly magazine, Arcturus.

“But _now_” (the emphasis on the _now_ is our own)—“But _now_,”

says Mr. Mathews, in the preface to the first volume of his

journal, “criticism has a wider scope and a universal interest.

It dismisses errors of grammar, and hands over an imperfect

rhyme or a false quantity to the proof-reader; it looks _now_ to

the heart of the subject and the author’s design. It is a test

of opinion. Its acuteness is not pedantic, but philosophical; it

unravels the web of the author’s mystery to interpret his

meaning to others; it detects his sophistry, because sophistry

is injurious to the heart and life; it promulgates his beauties

with liberal, generous praise, because this is its true duty as

the servant of truth. Good criticism may be well asked for,

since it is the type of the literature of the day. It gives

method to the universal inquisitiveness on every topic relating

to life or action. A criticism, _now_, includes every form of

literature, except perhaps the imaginative and the strictly

dramatic. It is an essay, a sermon, an oration, a chapter in

history, a philosophical speculation, a prose-poem, an

art-novel, a dialogue; it admits of humor, pathos, the personal

feelings of auto-biography, the broadest views of statesmanship.

As the ballad and the epic were the productions of the days of

Homer, the review is the native characteristic growth of the

nineteenth century.”

We respect the talents of Mr. Mathews, but must dissent from nearly all

that he here says. The species of “review” which he designates as the

“characteristic growth of the nineteenth century” is only the growth of

the last twenty or thirty years _in Great Britain_. The French Reviews,

for example, which are _not_ anonymous, are very different things, and

preserve the _unique_ spirit of true criticism. And what need we say of

the Germans?—what of Winkelmann, of Novalis, of Schelling, of Göethe,

of Augustus William, and of Frederick Schlegel?—that their magnificent

_critiques raisonnées_ differ from those of Kaimes, of Johnson, and of

Blair, in principle not at all, (for the principles of these artists

will not fail until Nature herself expires,) but solely in their more

careful elaboration, their greater thoroughness, their more profound

analysis and application of the principles themselves. That a criticism

“_now_” should be different in spirit, as Mr. Mathews supposes, from a

criticism at any previous period, is to insinuate a charge of

variability in laws that cannot vary—the laws of man’s heart and

intellect—for these are the sole basis upon which the true critical art

is established. And this art “_now_” no more than in the days of the

“Dunciad,” can, without neglect of its duty, “dismiss errors of

grammar,” or “hand over an imperfect rhyme or a false quantity to the

proof-reader.” What is meant by a “test of opinion” in the connexion

here given the words by Mr. M., we do not comprehend as clearly as we

could desire. By this phrase we are as completely enveloped in doubt as

was Mirabeau in the castle of _If_. To our imperfect appreciation it

seems to form a portion of that general vagueness which is the _tone_ of

the whole philosophy at this point:—but all that which our journalist

describes a criticism to be, is all that which we sturdily maintain it

_is not_. Criticism is _not_, we think, an essay, nor a sermon, nor an

oration, nor a chapter in history, nor a philosophical speculation, nor

a prose-poem, nor an art novel, nor a dialogue. In fact, it _can be_

nothing in the world but—a criticism. But if it were all that Arcturus

imagines, it is not very clear why it might not be equally “imaginative”

or “dramatic”—a romance or a melo-drama, or both. That it would be a

farce cannot be doubted.

It is against this frantic spirit of _generalization_ that we protest.

We have a word, “criticism,” whose import is sufficiently distinct,

through long usage, at least; and we have an art of high importance and

clearly-ascertained limit, which this word is quite well enough

understood to represent. Of that conglomerate science to which Mr.

Mathews so eloquently alludes, and of which we are instructed that it is

anything and everything at once—of this science we know nothing, and

really wish to know less; but we object to our contemporary’s

appropriation in its behalf, of a term to which we, in common with a

large majority of mankind, have been accustomed to attach a certain and

very definitive idea. Is there no word but “criticism” which may be made

to serve the purposes of “Arcturus?” Has it any objection to Orphicism,

or Dialism, or Emersonism, or any other pregnant compound indicative of

confusion worse confounded?

Still, we must not pretend a total misapprehension of the idea of Mr.

Mathews, and we should be sorry that he misunderstood _us_. It may be

granted that we differ only in terms—although the difference will yet

be found not unimportant in effect. Following the highest authority, we

would wish, in a word, to limit literary criticism to comment upon

_Art_. A book is written—and it is only _as the book_ that we subject

it to review. With the opinions of the work, considered otherwise than

in their relation to the work itself, the critic has really nothing to

do. It is his part simply to decide upon _the mode_ in which these

opinions are brought to bear. Criticism is thus no “test of opinion.”

For this test, the work, divested of its pretensions as an

_art-product_, is turned over for discussion to the world at large—and

first, to that class which it especially addresses—if a history, to the

historian—if a metaphysical treatise, to the moralist. In this, the

only true and intelligible sense, it will be seen that criticism, the

test or analysis of _Art_, (_not_ of opinion,) is only properly employed

upon productions which have their basis in art itself, and although the

journalist (whose duties and objects are multiform) may turn aside, at

pleasure, from the _mode_ or vehicle of opinion to discussion of the

opinion conveyed—it is still clear that he is “_critical_” only in so

much as he deviates from his true province not at all.

And of the critic himself what shall we say?—for as yet we have spoken

only the _proem_ to the true _epopea_. What _can_ we better say of him

than, with Bulwer, that “he must have courage to blame boldly,

magnanimity to eschew envy, genius to appreciate, learning to compare,

an eye for beauty, an ear for music, and a heart for feeling.” Let us

add, a talent for analysis and a solemn indifference to abuse.

* * * * *

_Stanley Thorn. By Henry Cockton, Esq., Author of “Valentine

Vox, the Ventriloquist,” etc., with Numerous Illustrations,

designed by Cruikshank, Leech, etc., and engraved by Yeager. Lea

and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

“Charles O’Malley,” “Harry Lorrequer,” “Valentine Vox,” “Stanley Thorn,”

and some other effusions now “in course of publication,” are novels

depending for effect upon what gave popularity to “Peregrine Pickle”—we

mean _practiced joke_. To men whose animal spirits are high, whatever

may be their mental ability, such works are always acceptable. To the

uneducated, to those who read little, to the obtuse in intellect (and

these three classes constitute the mass) these books are not only

acceptable, but are the only ones which can be called so. We here make

two divisions—that of the men who _can_ think but who dislike thinking;

and that of the men who either have not been presented with the

materials for thought, or who have no brains with which to “work up” the

material. With these classes of people “Stanley Thorn” is a favorite. It

not only demands no reflection, but repels it, or dissipates it—much as

a silver rattle the wrath of a child. It is not in the least degree

_suggestive_. Its readers arise from its perusal with the identical

ideas in possession at sitting down. Yet, _during_ perusal, there has

been a tingling physico-mental exhilaration, somewhat like that induced

by a cold bath, or a flesh-brush, or a gallop on horseback—a very

delightful and very healthful matter in its way. But these things are

not _letters_. “Valentine Vox” and “Charles O’Malley” are no more

“_literature_” than cat-gut is music. The visible and tangible tricks of

a baboon belong not less to the _belles-lettres_ than does “Harry

Lorrequer.” When this gentleman adorns his countenance with lamp-black,

knocks over an apple-woman, or brings about a rent in his pantaloons, we

laugh at him when bound up in a volume, just as we would laugh at his

adventures if happening before our eyes in the street. But mere

incidents, whether serious or comic, whether occurring or

described—_mere incidents_ are not books. Neither are they the basis of

books—of which the idiosyncrasy is _thought_ in contradistinction from

_deed_. A book without action cannot be; but a book is only such, to the

extent of its thought, independently of its deed. Thus of Algebra; which

is, or should be, defined as “a mode of computing with symbols by means

of signs.” With numbers, as Algebra, it has nothing to do; and although

no algebraic computation can proceed without numbers, yet Algebra is

only such to the extent of its analysis, independently of its

Arithmetic.

We do not mean _to find fault_ with the class of performances of which

“Stanley Thorn” is one. Whatever tends to the amusement of man tends to

his benefit. Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the

most philosophical of all writing, (_spoudiotaton kai philosophikotaton

genos_) defending it principally upon that score. He seems to

think,—and many following him, have thought—that the end of all

literature should be instruction—a favorite dogma of the school of

Wordsworth. But it is a truism that the end of our existence is

happiness. If so, the end of every separate aim of our existence—of

every thing connected with our existence, should be still—happiness.

Therefore, the end of instruction should be happiness—and happiness,

what is it but the extent or duration of pleasure?—therefore, the end

of instruction should be pleasure. But the cant of the Lakists would

establish the exact converse, and make the end of all pleasure

instruction. In fact, _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more

importance to his fellow man than he who instructs, since the _dulce_ is

alone the _utile_, and pleasure is the end already attained, which

instruction is merely the means of attaining. It will be said that

Wordsworth, with Aristotle, has reference to instruction with eternity

in view; but either such cannot be the tendency of his argument, or he

is laboring at a sad disadvantage; for his works—or at least those of

his school—are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the

many who stand in need of salvation. Thus the moralist’s parade of

measures would be as completely thrown away as are those of the devil in

“Melmoth,” who plots and counterplots through three octavo volumes for

the entrapment of one or two souls, while any common devil would have

demolished one or two thousand.

When, therefore, we assert that these practical-joke publications are

not “literature,” because not “thoughtful” in any degree, we must not be

understood as objecting to the thing in itself, but to its claim upon

our attention as critic. Dr.—what is his name?—strings together a

number of facts or fancies which, when printed, answer the laudable

purpose of amusing a very large, if not a very respectable number of

people. To this proceeding upon the part of the Doctor—or on the part

of his imitator, Mr. Jeremy Stockton, the author of “Valentine Vox,” we

_can_ have no objection whatever. His _books_ do not please _us_. We

will not read them. Still less shall we speak of them seriously as

_books_. Being in no respect works of art, they neither deserve, nor are

amenable to criticism.

“Stanley Thorn” may be described, in brief, as a collection, rather than

as a series, of practical haps and mishaps, befalling a young man very

badly brought up by his mother. He flogs his father with a codfish, and

does other similar things. We have no fault to find with him whatever

except that, in the end, he _does not_ come to the gallows.

We have no great fault to find with _him_, but with Mr. Bockton, his

father, much. He is a consummate plagiarist; and, in our opinion,

nothing more despicable exists. There is not a _good_ incident in his

book (?) of which we cannot point out the paternity with at least a

sufficient precision. The opening adventures are all _in the style_ of

“Cyril Thornton.” Bob, following Amelia in disguise, is borrowed from

one of the Smollet or Fielding novels—there are many of our readers who

will be able to say _which_. The cab driven over the Crescent

_trottoir_, is from Pierce Egan. The swindling tricks of Colonel

Somebody, at the commencement of the novel, and of Captain Filcher

afterwards, are from “Pickwick Abroad.” The doings at Madame Pompour’s

(or some such name) with the description of Isabelle, are from “Ecarté,

or the Salons of Paris”—a _rich_ book. The Sons-of-Glory scene (or its

_wraith_) we have seen—_somewhere_; while (not to be tedious) the whole

account of Stanley’s election, from his first conception of the design,

through the entire canvass, the purchasing of the “Independents,” the

row at the hustings, the chairing, the feast, and the petition, is so

obviously _stolen_ from “Ten Thousand a-Year” as to be disgusting. Bob

and the “old venerable”—what are they but feeble reflections of young

and old Weller? The _tone_ of the narration throughout is an absurd

_echo_ of Boz. For example—“‘We’ve come agin about them there little

accounts of ourn—question is do you mean to settle ’em or don’t you?’

His colleagues, by whom he was backed, highly approved of this question,

and winked and nodded with the view of intimating to each other that in

their judgment that was the point.” Who so dull as to give Mr. Bogton

any more credit for these things than we give the buffoon for the _rôle_

which he has committed to memory?

That the work will prove amusing to _many_ readers, we do not pretend to

deny. The claims of Mr. Frogton, and not of his narrative, are what we

especially discuss.

The edition before us is clearly printed on good paper. The designs are

by Cruikshank and Leech; and it is observable that those of the latter

are more effective in every respect than those of the former and far

more celebrated artist.

* * * * *

_The Vicar of Wakefield, A Tale. By Oliver Goldsmith, M. B.

Illustrated with Numerous Engravings. With an Account of the

Author’s Life and Writings. By J. Aikin, M. D., Author of Select

Works of the British Poets. D. Appleton and Co: New York._

This publication is one of a class which it behoves every editor in the

country to encourage, at all times, by every good word in his power—the

class, we mean of well printed and, especially, of well illustrated

works from among the standard fictions of England. We place particular

emphasis upon the mechanical style of these reprints. The criticism

which affects to despise these adventitious aids to the enjoyment of a

work of art is at best but _étourderie_. The illustration, to be sure,

is not always in accordance with our own understanding of the text; and

this fact, although we never hear it urged, is, perhaps, the most

reasonable objection which _can_ be urged against pictorial

embellishment—for the unity of conception _is_ disturbed; but this

disturbance takes place only in very slight measure (provided the work

be worth illustration at all) and its disadvantages are far more than

counterbalanced by the pleasure (to most minds a very acute one) of

comparing our comprehension of the author’s ideas with that of the

artist. If our imagination is feeble, the design will probably be in

advance of our conception, and thus each picture will stimulate,

support, and guide the fancy. If, on the contrary, the thought of the

artist is inferior, there is the stimulus of contrast with the

excitement of triumph. Thus, in the contemplation of a statue, or of an

individual painting of merit, the pleasure derivable from the comments

of a bystander is easily and keenly appreciable, while these comments

interfere, in no perceptible degree, with the force or the unity of our

own comprehension. We never knew a man of genius who did not confess an

interest in even the worst illustrations of a good book—although we

have known many men of genius (who should have known better) make the

confession with reluctance, as if one which implied something of

imbecility or disgrace.

The present edition of one of the most admirable fictions in the

language, is, in every respect, very beautiful. The type and paper are

magnificent. The designs are very nearly what they should be. They are

sketchy, spirited cuts, depending for effect upon the higher merits

rather than upon the minor morals of art—upon skilful grouping of

figures, vivacity, _naïveté_ and originality of fancy, and good drawing

in the mass—rather than upon finish in details, or too cautious

adherence to the text. Some of the scraps at the commencement are too

diminutive to be distinct in the style of workmanship employed, and thus

have a _blurred_ appearance; but this is nearly all the fault we can

find. In general, these apparent trifles are superb; and a great number

of them are of a nature to elicit enthusiastic praise from every true

artist.

The Memoir by Dr. Aikin is highly interesting, and embodies in a

pleasing narrative, (with little intermixture of criticism upon what no

longer requires it,) all that is, or need be known of Oliver Goldsmith.

In the opening page of this Memoir is an error (perhaps typographical)

which, as it _is_ upon the opening page, has an awkward appearance, and

should be corrected. We allude to the word “_protégée_,” which, in the

sense, or rather with the reference intended, should be printed

_protégé_. This is a very usual mistake.

* * * * *

_Tales and Souvenirs of a Residence in Europe. By a Lady of

Virginia. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

Barring some trifling affectation, (apparent, for example, in heading a

plain English chapter with the French _Pensées_,) this volume is very

creditable to Mrs. Rives—for it seems to be well understood that the

fair author, in this case, is the wife of the well-known Senator from

Virginia.

The work is modestly prefaced, and disclaims all pretension. It is a

mere re-gathering of sketches, written originally for the amusement of

friends. A lady-like taste and delicacy (without high merit of any kind)

pervade the whole. The style is somewhat disfigured by pleonasms—or

rather, overburdened with epithets: a common fault with enthusiastic

writers who want experience in the world of letters. For example:

“There is an _inexpressible_ pleasure in gliding rapidly in a

_little_ car, over the _neat_ but _narrow turnpike_ roads,

bordered by _hawthorn_ hedges, looking out upon _bright_ fields,

clothed with the _richest_ and most _exquisite_ verdure,

occasionally catching a glimpse of some _sequestered_ cottage,

with its _miniature gravel_ walks, and _innumerable_ flowers,

which, at this season, in the _distant_ land of the traveller,

may have bloomed and passed away, but which here offer their

_brilliant_ tints, and _rich_ perfume; while on the other hand

some _proud_ castle rises in _bold_ relief against the _dappled_

sky.”

Of mere errors of grammar there are more than sufficient; and we are

constrained to say that the very first sentence of the book conveys a

gross instance of faulty construction.

“The gratification of friends must once more serve as an apology

for permitting the following souvenirs to see the light.”

Has the gratification of friends ever _before_ served as an apology for

permitting _the following_ souvenirs to see the light?

* * * * *

_The Poetical Works of Reginald Heber, Late Bishop of Calcutta.

Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

It was only a year ago that the poems of Heber were first given to the

public in a collection, from which the present edition is a re-print;

but, individually, the pieces here presented have been long and

favorably known—with the exception of two or three lighter effusions,

now first published.

The qualities of Heber are well understood. His poetry is of a high

order. He is imaginative, glowing, and vigorous, with a skill in the

management of his means unsurpassed by that of any writer of his time,

but without any high degree of originality. Can there be anything in the

nature of a “classical” life at war with novelty _per se_? At all

events, few fine scholars, such as Heber truly was, _are_ original.

The volume before us is _a study_ for the poet in the depth and breadth

of its execution. Few nobler poems were, upon the whole, ever penned

than are “Europe,” “The Passage of the Dead Sea,” and the “Morte

D’Arthur.” The minor pieces generally are _very naïve_ and beautiful.

The Latin “Carmen Seculare” would not have disgraced Horace himself. Its

versification is perfect. A sketch of the author’s life would have well

prefaced the edition, and we are sorry to miss it.

* * * * *

_The Poetical Works of Lord Byron. Complete in one volume. J. B.

Lippincott and Co: Philadelphia._

This is a duodecimo of six hundred and eight pages, including _all_ the

poetic works of Lord Byron. The type is, of course, small—a fine

nonpareil—but very clear and beautiful; while the paper is of excellent

quality, and the press-work carefully done. There is a good plate

engraved by Pease from Saunders’ painting of the poet at nineteen, and

another (by the same engraver) of a design of Hucknall Church by

Westall. The binding is neat and substantial; and the edition, on the

whole, is one we can recommend. The type is somewhat too diminutive for

weak eyes—but for readers who have no deficiency in this regard—or as

a work of reference—nothing could be better.

As a literary performance it is scarcely necessary to speak of this

compilation. We make objection, however, and pointedly, to the omission

of the biographer’s name. A sketch of the nature here inserted is worth

nothing when anonymous. Nine-tenths of the value attached to a certain

very rambling collection of Lives, depends upon our cognizance of their

having been indited by Plutarch.

* * * * *

_Critical and Miscellaneous Essays. By Christopher North,

(Professor Wilson.) In Three Volumes. Carey and Hart:

Philadelphia._

This publication is well-timed—if, at least, there be any truth in the

report, that Professor Wilson is about to visit this country. The

reception of the man will thus be made a part of the perusal of his

works. And very glorious works they are. No man of his age has shown

greater versatility of talent, and few, of any age, richer powers of

imagination. His literary influence has far exceeded that of any

Englishman who ever existed. His scholarship, _if not profound_, is

excursive; his criticism, _if not always honest_, is analytical,

enthusiastic, and original in manner. His wit is vigorous, his humor

great, his sarcasm bitter. His high animal spirits give a dashing, free,

hearty and devil-may-care tone to all his compositions—a tone which has

done more towards establishing his literary popularity and _dominion_

than any single quality for which he is remarkable. The faults of

Professor Wilson, as might be supposed from the traits of his merits,

are many and great. He is frequently led into gross injustice through

personal feeling—this is his chief sin. His tone is often _flippant_.

His scholarship is questionable as regards extent and accuracy. His

style is apt to degenerate, or rather _rush_, into a species of

bombastic _periphrasis_ and _apostrophe_, of which our own Mr. John Neal

has given the best American specimens. His analysis, although true in

principle (as is always the case with the idealist) and often profound,

is nevertheless deficient in that calm breadth and massive

deliberateness which are the features of such intellects as that of

Verülam. In short, the _opinions_ of Professor Wilson can never be

safely adopted without examination.

The three beautiful volumes now published, will be followed by another,

embracing the more elaborate criticisms of the author,—the celebrated

critiques upon Homer, &c., which it has not been thought expedient to

include in this collection.

* * * * *

_Pocahontas, and Other Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Harper

and Brothers: New York._

Some years ago we had occasion to speak of “Zinzendorf, and Other

Poems,” by Mrs. Sigourney, and at that period we found, or fancied that

we found many points, in her general manner, which called for critical

animadversion. At _no_ period, however, have we been so rash as to

dispute her claim to high rank among the poets of the land. In the

volume now published by the Messieurs Harper, we are proud to discover

_not one_ of those more important blemishes which were a stain upon her

earlier style. We had accused her of imitation of Mrs. Hemans—but this

imitation is no longer apparent.

The author of “Pocahontas” (an unusually fine poem of which we may take

occasion to speak fully hereafter) has also abandoned a very foolish

mannerism with which she was erewhile infected—the mannerism of heading

her pieces with paragraphs, or quotations, by way of text, from which

the poem itself ensued as a sermon. This was an exceedingly inartistical

practice, and one now well discarded.

The lesser pieces in the volume before us have, for the most part,

already met our eye as fugitive effusions. In general, they deserve all

commendation.

“Pocahontas” is a far finer poem than a late one on the same subject by

Mr. Seba Smith. Mrs. Sigourney, however, has the wrong accentuation of

Powhatan. In the second stanza of the poem, too, “harassed” is in false

quantity. We speak of these trifles merely _en passant_.

Hereafter we may speak in full.

* * * * *

_The Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford: Including

Numerous Letters now first published from the Original

Manuscripts. In Four Volumes. Lea and Blanchard: Philadelphia._

Horace Walpole has been well termed “the prince of epistolary writers,”

and his Letters, which in this edition are given chronologically, form a

very complete and certainly a very _piquant_ commentary on the events of

his age, as well as a record, in great part, of the most important

historical transactions from 1735 to 1797.

Prefixed to the collection are the author’s “Reminiscences of the Courts

of George the First and Second”—Reminiscences which have been styled

“the very perfection of anecdote writing.” There is, also, the “Life,”

by Lord Dover. The volumes are magnificent octavos of nearly 600 pages

each, beautifully printed on excellent paper, and handsomely bound. It

is really superfluous to recommend these books. Every man who pretends

to a library will purchase them _of course_.

* * * * *

_The Early English Church. By_ Edward Churton, M. D., _Rector of

Crayke, Durham. With a Preface by the_ Rt. Rev. L. Silliman

Ives, M. D., _Bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the

Diocese of N. Carolina. From the second London edition. D.

Appleton and Co.: New York._

The title of this volume does not fully explain its character. The aim

of the writer, to use his own words, has been “by searching the earliest

records of English history, to lay before the English reader a faithful

picture of the life and manners of his Christian forefathers.” This

design, as far as we have been able to judge in a very cursory

examination, is well executed.

* * * * *

_The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. By_ Daniel De Foe,

_with a Memoir of the Author, and an Essay on his Writings. With

Illustrations by_ Grandville. _D. Appleton and Co.: New York._

A magnificent edition—to our taste the _most_ magnificent edition—of

Robinson Crusoe. The designs by Grandville are in a very superb style of

art—bold, striking, and original—the _drawing_ capital.

* * * * *

_Somerville Hall, or Hints to those who would make Home Happy.

By_ Mrs. Ellis, _author of “Women of England,” “Poetry of Life,”

etc. etc. D. Appleton and Co.: New York._

This interesting volume is one of a series to be entitled “Tales for the

People and their Children.” To this series Miss Martineau and Mary

Howitt will contribute.

* * * * *

_Wild Western Scenes. Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4. By_ J. Beauchamp

Jones. _Philadelphia: Drew and Scammell._

Mr. Jones is a man of talent, and these descriptions of Wild Western

Life evince it. We read each successive number with additional zest.

* * * * *

[Illustration: a gentleman and 2 ladies in high fashion dress]

* * * * *

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. Other errors have

been corrected as noted below. For the text only version of this eBook,

in the article “An Appendix of Autographs”, the various signatures which

were given in other eBook formats as an illustration, are represented in

the text version as text with variable spacing and punctuation

representing the way in which the particular signature is handwritten.

A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public

domain.

An interesting note on the poem “Agathè.—A Necromaunt, In Three

Chimeras” found in this issue of Graham’s is that it was plagiarized by

Mr. Tasistro. It was previously published as a stand alone publication

in 1831, titled “Death-Wake, or Lunacy, A Necromaunt. In Three

Chimeras.” by Thomas T. Stoddart. Copies of Mr. Stoddart’s poem can be

found online for those interested in comparing the two.

page 64, Miss Mary, having completed ==> Miss Catherine, having completed

page 64, Miss Catherine made some objection ==> Miss Mary made some

objection

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 1, January 1842_, George R.

Graham, Editor]