THE PHILADELPHIA ART-UNION.

Whileother Art-Unions throughout the country are falling into disrepute, that of Philadelphia seems to be rising in favor.

This cannot be owing to the absence of discouragements. Like all similar institutions, it suffered severely from the pressure of the money-market during the last six months of the year 1851. It found, in common with others, that money was not forthcoming for the promotion of art, when it commanded from one to two per cent. a month on â€™changeâ€”that men could not, or would not buy pictures, when they were obliged to strain every nerve to save themselves from bankruptcy.

Besides the serious loss of revenue arising from this source, the Philadelphia Art-Union lost by fire its two most valuable steel plates, just at the moment when it was about to reap from them a golden harvest. These splendid plates, â€œMercyâ€™s Dream,â€ and â€œChristiana and her Family,â€ which had cost the society several thousand dollars, and which were unquestionably among the most attractive prints ever issued in this country, were entirely destroyed in the conflagration of Hartâ€™s buildings in this city.

It is not, therefore, mere good luck, nor the absence of discouraging circumstances, that has given the Philadelphia Art-Union its present condition of success. This success is based on the principles of its organization, which differ materially from those of other kindred associations.

In the first place, though located nominally in Philadelphia, and having its Board of Managers here, it is really an Art-Union for every place where it finds subscribers. Its prize-holders may select their prizes from any gallery in the United States, or may order a picture from any artist of their own selection. This puts it entirely out of the power of the Board of Managers, even if they had the inclination, to exercise favoritism toward any particular clique of artists, or to practice any kind of fraud or trickery either in the purchase or the valuation of pictures.

Secondly, and for the very reason just assigned, the Philadelphia Art-Union enjoys in a high degree the confidence of the artists themselves. They know by experience that its free gallery is the means of selling a large number of pictures, besides those which are ordered in consequence of the annual distributions. They know also that in order to sell their pictures, or to obtain orders for painting, they have not to cater to the fancies or caprices of a small clique of managers, but to appeal to the public at large, depending solely upon the general principles of their art. In other Art-Unions, the managers themselves select and buy the pictures that are to be distributed as prizes. Hence they are almost invariably regarded with jealousy by every artist who does not receive from them an orderâ€”that is, by at least nine-tenths of the whole body. The artist sees, however, that the Philadelphia Art-Union does not admit of any favoritism of this kind. Its very plan renders the thing impossible. If any particular artist finds that among the prize-holders, no order or purchase has come to his studio, he may see in it evidence perhaps that he has not pleased the public taste, but no evidence of partiality in the Board of Managers. So far as their operations are concerned, they give to all competitors â€œa fair field and no favorâ€â€”and this is all that the artist asks.

That this view of the subject is the true one, and that the artists themselves so view it, has been conclusively shown by their action on the occasion of the losses of the institution by the late fire. The artists of Philadelphia, on hearing of this disaster, called a meeting, of their own accord, and passed a series of resolutions, approving in the most unqualified manner both the plan and the management of the institution, and agreeing severally to paint a picture of the value of at least fifty dollars, and to present the same to the Art-Union. Several other gentlemen, amateurs and patrons of art, stimulated by this generosity, joined them in the enterprise, and already about fifty valuable prizes have been thus guarantied.

It is obvious that they have entered upon this matter in a generous spirit, with that animation and hearty good-will which spring naturally from the circumstances. Every one at all conversant with art or artists, knows how much the excellence of a picture, its very life and soulâ€”all, in fact, that distinguishes it as a work of art, or raises it above a mere piece of mechanismâ€”depends upon the feeling of the artist while creating it. The noble enthusiasm with which the artists have entered upon the present arrangement, is the best guaranty that the Art-Union will have from each painter one of the happiest efforts of his geniusâ€”something done under the direct influence of inspiration. Indeed, we happen to know that several of our most eminent artists intend to lay themselves out on this occasionâ€”resolved to show what artists are, and what they can do, for an institution which commands their confidence.

Mr. Rothermel has signified his intention to paint a picture worth $500; Mr. Paul Weber a landscape worth $500; Mr. A. Woodside a picture worth $500; Mr. Scheussele a Scriptural subject worth $250; Mr. Sully a picture worth $100; Mr. Joshua Shaw a landscape worth $75; and several others have promised pictures at prices varying from $50 (the minimum) to $75, $100, $150, etc. The names of the other artists and amateurs who have offered original pictures of this description, are Rembrandt Peale, James Hamilton, Isaac L. Williams, Wm. A. K. Martin, Wm. F. Jones, Wm. E. Winner, Leo. Elliot, F. de Bourg Richards, George C. White, John Wiser, J. K. Trego, George W. Holmes, Geo. W. Conarroe, John Sartain, Alex. Lawrie, Jr., Samuel Sartain, G. R. Bonfield, S. B. Waugh, W. T. Richards, Aaron Stein, R. A Clarke, W. Sanford Mason, J. R. Lambdin, G. C. Lambdin, J. Wilson, May Stevenson, I. W. Moore, T. H. Glessing, W. H. Wilcox, Thomas A. Andrews, George F. Meeser, James S. Earle, Edward F. Dennison, George W. Dewey, James L. Claghorn. Others will, no doubt, be added to the list.

About fifty splendid original works of art, ranging in value from $50 to $500 each, have thus been placed absolutely at the disposal of the Board of Managers, and have been by them specifically pledged to the subscribers at the next distribution.

Besides this, Mr. Rothermel has just finished for the Art-Union a great historical painting of Patrick Henry making his celebrated revolutionary speech before the Virginia House of Burgesses. This picture is undoubtedly Mr. Rothermelâ€™s master-piece. He has thrown into it all the fire of his genius, all the ardor of his patriotism, all the accumulations of his knowledge and skill as one of the practiced and leading historical painters of the day.

The historical scene which Mr. Rothermel has commemorated in this painting is the passage of Patrick Henryâ€™s resolutions on the Stamp Act in the House of Burgesses, in the year 1765. The passage of these resolutions was the first bold note of defiance that was uttered on this side of the Atlantic. The manner in which they were carried through the House is thus described by his biographer:

â€œIt was, indeed, the measure which raised him [Mr. Henry] to the zenith of his glory. He had never before had a subject which entirely matched his genius, and was capable of drawing out all the powers of his mind. It was remarked of him, throughout his life, that his talents never failed to rise with the occasion, and in proportion with the resistance which he had to encounter. The nicety of the vote, on the last resolution, proves that this was not a time to hold in reserve any part of his forces. It was, indeed, an Alpine passage, under circumstances even more unpropitious than those of Hannibal; for he had not only to fight, hand to hand, the powerful party who were already in possession of the heights, but at the same instant to cheer and animate the timid band of followers, that were trembling, and fainting, and drawing back below him. It was an occasion that called upon him to put forth all his strength; and he did put it forth, in such a manner as man never did before. The cords of argument with which his adversaries frequently flattered themselves that they had bound him fast, became packthreads in his hands. He burst them with as much ease as the unshorn Samson did the bands of the Philistines. He seized the pillars of the temple, shook them terribly, and seemed to threaten his opponents with ruin. It was an incessant storm of lightning and thunder, which struck them aghast. The faint-hearted gathered courage from his countenance, and cowards became heroes while they gazed upon his exploits. It was in the midst of this magnificent debate, while he was descanting on the tyranny of the obnoxious act, that he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, and with the look of a god, â€˜CÃ¦sar had his Brutusâ€”Charles the First his Cromwellâ€”and George the Thirdâ€”â€™ â€˜Treason!â€™ cried the Speaker. â€˜Treason! treason!â€™ echoed from every part of the house. It was one of those trying moments which is decisive of character. Henry faltered not for an instant; but rising to a loftier attitude, and fixing on the Speaker an eye of the most determined fire, he finished his sentence with the firmest emphasisâ€”â€˜may profit by their example. Ifthisbe treasonâ€”make the most of it!â€™â€¯â€

The exact moment of time which Mr. Rothermel has seized for his painting, is when the last words which we have quoted, (â€œIf this be treasonâ€”make the most of it!â€) are dying away upon the ear. The impassioned orator stands erect and self-possessed, his open hand aloft, as though a thunder-bolt had just passed from his fingers, and his eye were quietly awaiting the issue, in the conscious strength of a Jupiter Tonans.

Foremost in the foregoing is Richard Henry Lee. Lee sees, by a sort of prophetic intuition, the full import of this inspired oratory. His very face, under the magic of Mr. Rothermelâ€™s genius, is a long perspective of war, desolation, heroic deeds, and the thick-coming glories of ultimate civic and religious liberty.

Peyton Randolph, also in the foreground, is a most striking figure. So is Pendleton, so is Wythe, so is Speaker Robinson. Indeed, every inch of canvas tells its story. The spectator, who knew nothing of the scene or of its actors, would instantly and involuntarily become conscious that he was present at some great world-renowned action.

But in dwelling upon this fascinating topic, we have been unconsciously carried away from our main point. This great painting, which was executed by Mr. Rothermel for the Art-Union, at the price of one thousand dollars, but which, by its extraordinary excellence, has already acquired a market value far beyond that sum,is to be drawn for among the other prizes at the next annual distribution.

Every subscriber, moreover, secures for himself a copy of the engraving of this great picture, which the Managers have contracted for in a style of surpassing beauty. The picture itself, and the engraving of it, will form an era in the history of American art, as the subject itself did in the history of American Independence.

Besides this, all the money obtained from the subscribers, after paying for the engraving and other incidental expenses, is to be distributed, as heretofore, in money-prizes for the purchase of other works of art, at the option of the prize-holders.

Of the general beneficial influence of Art-Unions, at least of those conducted on the plan of that in Philadelphia, we have not the shadow of a doubt. We are happy, however, to quote a couple of passages quite in point. The first is from theNorth British Review.

â€œWe believe that by a judicious distribution of engravings more may be done for the culture of the public taste than by any other means whatsoever. One thoroughly good engraving, fairly established and domiciled in a house, will do more for the inmates in this respect, than a hundred visits to a hundred galleries of pictures. It is a teacher of form, a lecturer on the beautiful, a continually present artistic influence. Nor do we see any reason why the same system should not be extended to casts, which might be taken either after the antique, or some thoroughly good modern sculptor, such as Thorwarldsen. If such a system were carried out, matters might soon be brought to a state in which there should scarcely be any family which did not possess within its own walls the means of forming a taste, and that a genuine and a high one, both in painting and sculpture.â€

The second passage is still more to the point. It is from our contemporary, theSaturday Courier.

â€œThis Institution, [The Philadelphia Art-Union,] by its Free Gallery, and by its being a centre of action for artists and amateurs, is continually operating in a silent but most perceptible manner upon public taste. Every visit to the Free Gallery, every picture sold from its walls, every picture which it is the means of calling into existence, every print which it sends abroad into the community, is so much done toward the promotion of a popular taste for what is refined and elegant, and a consequentdistaste for what is coarse, illiberal, and depraved. Every man in the community has on interestâ€”not merely a moral, but a pecuniary interestâ€”in the promotion of a popular taste for the Fine Arts. It is a part of the moral education of society, which, like all other good popular education, adds at once to the value and the safety of every manâ€™s property.â€

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Lectures on the History of France. By the Right Honorable Sir James Stephen, K. C. B., LL. D.; Professor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge. New York: Harper & Brother. 1 vol. 8vo.

Sir James Stephen is the writer of a number of essays in the Edinburgh Review, which, at the time they appeared, were mistaken by some readers as the productions of Macaulay. There were no real grounds for such a supposition, as Stephenâ€™s mind has hardly a single quality in common with Macaulayâ€™s, and the resemblance of his style to that of the historian of the Revolution is of a very superficial kind. Stephen, like Macaulay, is a writer of clear, clean, short, compact sentences, and deals largely in historical allusions, parallels and generalizations, but his diction has none of Macaulayâ€™s rapid movement, and his knowledge betrays little of Macaulayâ€™s â€œjoyous memory.â€ Stephenâ€™s mind is large and rich in acquired information, but it is deficient in passion, and its ordinary movement is languid, without any of Macaulayâ€™s intellectual fierceness, eagerness and swift sweep of illustration and generalization, and without any of Macaulayâ€™s bitterness, partizanship and scorn of amiable emotions. Stephen, indeed, if he be a mimic, mimics Mackintosh rather than Macaulay, and in charity, in intellectual conscientiousness, in courtesy to opponents, in all the benignities and amenities of scholarship, and also in a certain faint hold upon large acquisitions, he sometimes resembles without at all equaling him. The reader is continually impressed with his honesty and benevolence, with his continual clearness and occasional reach of view, and with his graceful mastery of the resources of expression; but to continuous vigor and vividness of conception and language he has no claim.

The present volume, a large octavo of some seven hundred pages, is evidently the work of much thought, research and time, though the author regrets that he was compelled to prepare his lectures without adequate preparation. They were delivered at the University of Cambridge, Stephen occupying in that institution the professorship of history. He succeeded, we believe, William Smythe, a dry, hard and pedantic, though well read professor, whose lectures on history and on the French Revolution are the most uninteresting of useful books. Stephen is almost his equal in historical knowledge, and his superior in the graces of style and in the power of making his knowledge attractive. His work, indeed, though it can hardly give him the reputation of a great historian, is altogether the best view of French history in the English language, and is an invaluable guide to all who wish to gain a thorough acquaintance with France in her historical development. It gives the causes of the decline and fall of the various dynasties of her government, the character of her feudal system, the steps by which her government became an absolute monarchy, and the differences between the absolute monarchy of Henry IV. and Louis XIV. The lectures on the anti-feudal influence of the municipalities, of the Eastern Crusades, of the Albigensian Crusadesâ€”the masterly view of the position occupied by the Parliaments, the Privileged Orders and the States General, in relation to the Monarchy of Franceâ€”and the expositions of the sources and management of the revenues of the nation, are all eminently lucid and valuable, and without any of the ostentatious brilliancy and paradoxical generalization which are apt to characterize the French historical school, are really modest contributions to the philosophy of history.

Sir James Stephen, in the course of his narration and dissertations, furnishes us with some elaborate delineations of character. That of Cardinal Richelieu is especially good. After saying of him that he was not so much minister as dictator, not so much the agent as the depositary of the royal power, he adds that, â€œa king in all things but the name, he reigned with that exemption from hereditary and domestic influences which has so often imparted to the Papal monarchs a kind of preterhuman energy, and has so often taught the world to deprecate the celibacy of the throne.â€ His character, as a despotic innovator, is also finely sketched. â€œRichelieu was the heir of the designs of Henry IV. and ancestor to those of Louis XIV. But they courted, and were sustained by, the applause and the attachment of their subjects. He passed his life in one unintermitted struggle with each, in turn, of the powerful bodies over which he ruled. By a long series of well-directed blows, he crushed forever the political and military strength of the Huguenots. By his strong hand the sovereign courts were confined to their judicial duties, and their claims to participate in the government of the state were scattered to the winds. Trampling under foot all rules of judicial procedure and the clearest principles of justice, he brought to the scaffold one after another of the proudest nobles of France, by sentences dictated by himself to extraordinary judges of his own selection; thus teaching the doctrine of social equality by lessons too impressive to be misinterpreted or forgotten by any later generation. Both the privileges, in exchange for which the greater fiefs had exchanged their independence, and the franchises, the conquest of which the cities, in earlier times, had successfully contended, were alike swept away by this remorseless innovator. He exiled the mother, oppressed the wife, degraded the brother, banished the confessor, and put to death the kinsmen and favorites of the king, and compelled the king himself to be the instrument of these domestic severities. Though surrounded by enemies and by rivals, his power ended only with his life. Though beset by assassins, he died in the ordinary course of nature. Though he had waded to dominion through slaughter, cruelty and wrong, he passed to his great account amid the applause of the people and the benedictions of the church; and, as far as any human eye could see, in hope, in tranquillity and in peace. What, then, is the reason why so tumultuous a career reached at length so serene a close? The reason is, that amid all his conflicts Richelieu wisely and successfully maintained three powerful alliances. He cultivated the attachment of men of letters, the favor of the commons, and the sympathy of all French idolaters of the national glory.â€

In some admirable lectures on the Power of the Pen in France, Stephen gives fine portraits of Rabelais, Montaigne, Calvin and Pascal. One remark about Calvin struck us as especially felicitous. Speaking of him as writing his great work in Geneva, he saysâ€”â€œThe beautiful lake of that city, and the mountains which encircle it, lay before his eyes as he wrote; but they are said to have suggested to his fancy no images, and to have drawn from his pen not so much as one transient allusion. With his mental vision ever directed to that melancholy view of the state and prospects of our race which he had discovered in the Book of Life, it would, indeed, have been incongruous to have turned aside to depict any of those glorious aspects of the creative benignity which were spread around him in the Book of Nature.â€

The most valuable chapters in the volume are perhaps those which relate to the character and government of Louis XIV. The absolute monarchy established by him is thoroughly analyzed. Among many curious illustrations of that tyranny and perfidy which this great master of king-craft systematized into a science, Stephen translates from his â€œMemoires Historiquesâ€ a series of maxims, addressed to the Dauphin, for his guidance whenever he should be called upon to wear the crown of France. Louisâ€™s celebrated aphorism, â€œI am the state,â€ is in these precious morsels of absolutism expanded into a rule of conduct. We quote a few of them, as, to republican ears, they may have the effect of witticisms:

â€œIt is the will of Heaven, who has given kings to man, that they should be revered as his vice-regents, he having reserved to himself alone the right to scrutinize their conduct.â€

â€œIt is the will of God that every subject should yield to his sovereign on implicit obedience.â€

â€œThe worst calamity which can befall any one of our rank is to be reduced to that subjection, in which the monarch is obliged to receive the law from his people.â€

â€œIt is the essential vice of the English monarchy that the king can make no extraordinary levies of men or money without the consent of the Parliament, nor convene the Parliament without impairing his own authority.â€

â€œAll property within our realm belongs to us in virtue of the same title. The funds actually deposited in our treasury, the funds in the hands of the revenue officers,and the funds which we allow our people to employ in their various occupations, are allequallysubject to our control.â€

â€œBe assured that kings are absolute lords, who may fitly and freely dispose of all property in the possession either of churchmen or of laymen, though they are bound always to employ it as faithful stewards.â€

â€œSince the lives of his subjects belong to the prince, he is obliged to be solicitous for the preservation of them.â€

â€œThe first basis of all other reforms was the rendering my own will properly absolute.â€

Some of his remarks on treaties, from the same volume, convey a fair impression of the kingâ€™s good faith to his allies. All mankind knows that he was in conduct a measureless liar and trickster, and that no treaty could hold him; but it is not perhaps generally known that he generalized perfidy into a principle, and had no conception that in so doing he was violating any moral or religious duty. He thus solemnly instructs the dauphinâ€”

â€œIn dispensing with the exact observance of treaties, we do not violate them; for the language of such instruments is not to be understood literally. We must employ in our treaties a conventional phraseology, just as we use complimentary expressions in society. They are indispensable in our intercourse with one another, but they always mean much less than they say. The more unusual, circumspect and reiterated were the clauses by which the Spaniards excluded me from assisting Portugal, the more evident it is that the Spaniards did not believe that I should really withhold such assistance.â€

The Podestaâ€™s Daughter, and other Miscellaneous Poems. By George H. Boker. Author of â€œCalaynos,â€ â€œAnne Boleyn,â€ â€œThe Betrothal,â€ etc. Philadelphia: A. Hart.

Mr. Boker is ever a welcome visitant among the regions of literature. The present volume is understood to be composed of those lighter efforts of his muse which have engaged his attention at intervals between the composition of his larger works, â€œCalaynos,â€ â€œAnne Boleynâ€ and â€œThe Betrothal.â€ Some of these minor poems have already seen the light, under the auspices of our leading magazines; but by far the greater part of the book is fresh, and all of it bears evidence of that genuine inspiration, and that high finish, without which the author never appears before the reading public.

â€œThe Podestaâ€™s Daughterâ€ is an Italian tale or legend, thrown into that dramatic form for which Mr. Boker has shown such a remarkable gift. The story is very briefly this. A lowly maiden is loved and wooed by one far above her in life, a son of the neighboring duke. The father and brother of the maid, believing the high-born youth to be merely selfish and insidious in his offers of love and marriage, seek to rescue her from what appears to them a fatal snare, and persuade her to reject his addresses and even pretend to be affianced to another, a country hind in her own walk in life. The young and uncalculating noble, stung to the quick by her apparent preference of a rival so utterly unworthy of him and of her, suddenly abandoned his home and castle, and engaged during all the prime and meridian of his days in distant foreign wars. In the evening of life he returns, alone and almost a stranger, to the scenes of his youth. On approaching his castle, he falls in with an old man, the â€œPodesta,â€ by whom he is not recognized. In the dialogue between them, the Podesta, being questioned by the apparent stranger, tells the story of himself and family, and especially of his â€œdaughter,â€ by whose untimely grave they are standing. She died of a broken heart, after the abrupt departure of the young duke, years ago. It is the old story. True love, not left to its native instincts, but thwarted and driven devious by the manÅ“uvres of the suspicious. Though Italian in manners, and dramatic in form, it is a true story of the heart. It is told with infinite skill, and must win for its author a bright addition to the chaplet which already surrounds his brow.

The first scene in the â€œPodestaâ€™s Daughter,â€ is a good instance of the quiet ease with which Mr. Boker makes an actor bring out the points of a story, so that the reader is at once posted up to the very moment of action.

SCENEâ€”Before and within the gate of an Italian Churchyard. Enter (as if from the wars,)Duke Odo,Vincenzo,and a train of men-at-arms.Duke Odo (dismounting.)Hark you, Vincenzo; here will I dismount.Lead on Falcone to the castle. SeeHe lack no provender or barley-strawTo ease his battered sides. Poor war-worn horse!When last we galloped past this church-yard gate,He was a colt, gamesome and hot of blood,Bearing against the bit until my armAched with his humors. Mark the old jade nowâ€”He knows we talk about himâ€”a mere boyMight ride him bare-back. Give my people noteOf my approach, and tell them, for yourself,I will not look too strictly at my house:An absent lord trains careless servitors.I wish no bonfires lighted on the hills,No peaceful cannon roused to mimic wrath;Say, I have seen cities burn, and shouting ranksOf solid steel-clad footmen melt awayBefore a hundred pieces. Say I come for rest,Not jollity; and all I seekIs a calm welcome in their lighted eyes,And quiet murmurs that appear to comeMore from the heart than lips.

SCENEâ€”Before and within the gate of an Italian Churchyard. Enter (as if from the wars,)Duke Odo,Vincenzo,and a train of men-at-arms.

Duke Odo (dismounting.)Hark you, Vincenzo; here will I dismount.Lead on Falcone to the castle. SeeHe lack no provender or barley-strawTo ease his battered sides. Poor war-worn horse!When last we galloped past this church-yard gate,He was a colt, gamesome and hot of blood,Bearing against the bit until my armAched with his humors. Mark the old jade nowâ€”He knows we talk about himâ€”a mere boyMight ride him bare-back. Give my people noteOf my approach, and tell them, for yourself,I will not look too strictly at my house:An absent lord trains careless servitors.I wish no bonfires lighted on the hills,No peaceful cannon roused to mimic wrath;Say, I have seen cities burn, and shouting ranksOf solid steel-clad footmen melt awayBefore a hundred pieces. Say I come for rest,Not jollity; and all I seekIs a calm welcome in their lighted eyes,And quiet murmurs that appear to comeMore from the heart than lips.

Duke Odo (dismounting.)

Hark you, Vincenzo; here will I dismount.

Lead on Falcone to the castle. See

He lack no provender or barley-straw

To ease his battered sides. Poor war-worn horse!

When last we galloped past this church-yard gate,

He was a colt, gamesome and hot of blood,

Bearing against the bit until my arm

Ached with his humors. Mark the old jade nowâ€”

He knows we talk about himâ€”a mere boy

Might ride him bare-back. Give my people note

Of my approach, and tell them, for yourself,

I will not look too strictly at my house:

An absent lord trains careless servitors.

I wish no bonfires lighted on the hills,

No peaceful cannon roused to mimic wrath;

Say, I have seen cities burn, and shouting ranks

Of solid steel-clad footmen melt away

Before a hundred pieces. Say I come for rest,

Not jollity; and all I seek

Is a calm welcome in their lighted eyes,

And quiet murmurs that appear to come

More from the heart than lips.

The manner in which the intimacy began between the young count and the Podestaâ€™s daughter, Giulia, is described in a passage remarkable equally for its simplicity and its beauty. It is a good specimen also of the authorâ€™s power of nicely discriminating character.

Count Odoâ€”mark the contrastâ€”so we called,

Through ancient courtesy, the old dukeâ€™s sonâ€”

Came from the Roman breed of Italy.

A hundred CÃ¦sars poured their royal blood

Through his full veins. He was both flint and fire;

Haughty and headlong, shy, imperious,

Tender, disdainful, tearful, full of frownsâ€”

Cold as the ice on Ã†tnaâ€™s wintry brow,

And hotter than its flame. All these by turns.

A mystery to his tutors and to meâ€”

Yet some have said his father fathomed himâ€”

A mystery to my daughter, but a charm

Deeper than magic. Him my daughter loved.

. Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â .

My functions drew me to the castle oft,

Thither sometimes my daughter went with me;

And I have noticed how young Odoâ€™s eyes

Would light her up the stairway, lead her on

From room to room, through hall and corridor,

Showing her wonders, which were stale to him,

With a new strangeness: for familiar things,

Beneath her eyes, grew glorified to him,

And woke a strain of boyish eloquence,

Dressed with high thoughts and fluent images,

That sometimes made him wonder at himself,

Who had been blind so long to every charm

Which her admiring fancy gave his home.

Oft I have caught them standing rapt before

Some barbarous portrait, grim with early artâ€”

A Gorgon, to a nicely balanced eye,

That scarcely hinted at humanity;

Yet they would crown it with the port of Jove,

Make every wrinkle a heroic scar,

And light that garbage of forgotten times

With such a legendary halo, as would add

Another lustre to the Golden Book.

At first the children pleased me; many a laugh,

That reddened them, I owed their young romance.

But the time sped, and Giulia ripened too,

Yet would not deem herself the less a child:

And when I clad me for the castle, she

Would deck herself in the most childish gear,

And lay her hand in mine, and tranquilly

Look for the kindness in my eyes. She called

Odo her playfellowâ€”â€œThe little boy who showed

The pictures and the blazoned hooks,

The glittering armor and the oaken screen,

Grotesque with wry-faced purgatorial shapes

Twisted through all its leaves and knotted vines;

And the grand, solemn window, rich with forms

Of showy saints in holyday array

Of green, gold, red, orange and violet,

With the pale Christ who towered above them all

Dropping a ruby splendor from his side.â€

She told how â€œOdoâ€”silly child! would try

To catch the windowâ€™s glare upon her neck,

Or her round arms,â€ and how â€œthe flatterer vowed

The gleam upon her temple seemed to pale

Beside the native color of her cheek.â€

Prattle like this enticed me to her wish,

Though cooler reason shook his threatening hand,

And counseled flat denial.

But by far the finest poem in this collection is the â€œIvory Carver.â€ In the prologue to this poem,

Three Spirits, more than angels, metBy an Arabian well-side, setFar in the wilderness, a placeHallowed by legendary grace.

Three Spirits, more than angels, met

By an Arabian well-side, set

Far in the wilderness, a place

Hallowed by legendary grace.

By this retired fountain the spirits enter into a discussion concerning the condition and prospects of their protÃ©gÃ© man. Two of them are evidently croakers. To them the world seems, as to any moral progress, stationary, if not actually retrograding. They are almost indignant that the Lord does not consign the planet with its inhabitants at once to perdition. But the third spirit, a superior intelligence,

One, chief among the spirits three,Grander than either, more sedate,Wore yet a look of hope elate,With higher knowledge, larger trustIn the long future;and the rustOf week-day toil with earthly thingsStained and yet glorified his wings.

One, chief among the spirits three,

Grander than either, more sedate,

Wore yet a look of hope elate,

With higher knowledge, larger trust

In the long future;and the rust

Of week-day toil with earthly things

Stained and yet glorified his wings.

This superior angel maintains that man, though not capable of instantaneous acts or intuitive perceptions, equal to those of the higher orders of beings, is yet not the mere hopeless castaway the two other spirits would make him. Give him but time, and with pain and toil he will work out results worthy even of an angelâ€™s regard. An angel, by direct intuition, may see at once in a shapeless lump of matter all the forms of beauty of which it is capable. Yet man, in process of time, slowly but surely, can bring forth those same wonderful forms. The illustration of this point in the celestial argument leads to the main story.

I, in thought,Have seen the capabilityWhich lies within yon ivory:This rough, black husk, charred by long age,Unmarked by man since, in his rage,A warring mammoth shed it: Lo!Whiter than heaven-sifted snowEnclosed within its ugly maskLies a worldâ€™s wonder: and the taskOf slow development shall beManâ€™s labor and manâ€™s glory. See!His foot-tip touched it; the rude boneGlowed through translucent, widely shoneA morning lustre on the palmWhich arched above it.

I, in thought,

Have seen the capability

Which lies within yon ivory:

This rough, black husk, charred by long age,

Unmarked by man since, in his rage,

A warring mammoth shed it: Lo!

Whiter than heaven-sifted snow

Enclosed within its ugly mask

Lies a worldâ€™s wonder: and the task

Of slow development shall be

Manâ€™s labor and manâ€™s glory. See!

His foot-tip touched it; the rude bone

Glowed through translucent, widely shone

A morning lustre on the palm

Which arched above it.

The angel then summons an attendant, and bids him bear this shapeless tusk to some mortal capable of bringing from it by slow pain and toil the glorious beauty which had shone forth instantaneously at the angelic touch.

Spirit, bearThis ivory to the soul that dareWork out, through joy, and care, and pain,The thought which lies within the grain,Hid like a dim and clouded sun.

Spirit, bear

This ivory to the soul that dare

Work out, through joy, and care, and pain,

The thought which lies within the grain,

Hid like a dim and clouded sun.

The prologue, which thus introduces us to the studio of the â€œIvory Carver,â€ may be deemed by some far-fetched and metaphysical. To us it seems a most beautiful preparation for what follows. It attunes the mind to a just appreciation of that self-sacrificing devotion with which the artist, year by year, in silence, in want, toils away to work out of the solid ivory the divine thought which haunts him. The moral of the prologue, as we understand it, is to connect the inspirations of genius with their true source. It prepares us to look at the toiling â€œivory carver,â€ not as he appeared to his family and neighbors, a madman or a fool, but as he might have appeared to some celestial visitant, who knew the secrets of his heaven-touched soul.

Silently sat the artist alone,

Carving a Christ from the ivory bone.

Little by little, with toil and pain,

He won his way through the sightless grain,

That held and yet hid the thing he sought,

Till the work stood up, a growing thought.

And all around him, unseen yet felt,

A mystic presence forever dwelt,

A formless spirit of subtle flame,

The light of whose being went and came

As the artist paused from work, or bent

His whole heart to it with firm intent.

. Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â .

Husband, why sit you ever alone,

Carving your Christ from the ivory bone?

O, carve, I pray you, some fairy ships,

Or rings for the weaning infantâ€™s lips,

Or toys for yon princely boy who stands

Knee-deep in the bloom of his fatherâ€™s lands.

And waits for his idle thoughts to come;

Or carve the sword hilt, or merry drum,

Or the flaring edge of a curious can,

Fit for the lips of a bearded man:

With vines and grapes in a cunning wreath,

Where the peering satyrs wink beneath,

And catch around quaintly knotted stems

At flying nymphs by their garment hems.

. Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â . Â Â Â Â .

O carve you something of solid worthâ€”

Leave heaven to heaven, come, earth to earth.

Carve that thy hearth-stone may glimmer bright,

And thy children laugh in dancing light.

Steadily answered the carverâ€™s lips,

As he brushed from his brow the ivory chips;

While the presence grew with the rising sound,

Spurning in grandeur the hollow ground,

As if the breath on the carverâ€™s tongue

Were fumes from some precious censer swung,

That lifted the spiritâ€™s winged soul

To the heights where crystal planets roll

Their choral anthems, and heavenâ€™s wide arch

Is thrilled with the music of their march;

And the faithless shades flew backward, dim

From the wondrous light that lived in himâ€”

Thus spake the carverâ€”his words were few,

Simple and meek, but he felt them trueâ€”

â€œI labor by day, I labor by night,

The Master ordered, the work is right:

Pray that He strengthen my feeble good;

For much must be conquered, much withstood.â€

The artist labored, the labor sped,

But a corpse lay in his bridal bed.

But we must have done with quotations. Indeed, our limits warn us that we must abruptly close the volume. We have read every poem in it with the most lively pleasure. It has been in the belief that we could not otherwise minister so well to the gratification of our readers that we have quoted so freely and said so little. We will only add in conclusion, that every fresh production of Mr. Bokerâ€™s that we see furnishes additional evidence of his true calling as a poet. Should he never write another line, he has already, in the brief space of three years, done enough to make his name classical.

Margaret: A Tale of the Real and the Ideal, Blight and Bloom. By the author of â€œPhilo,â€ etc. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 2 vols. 12mo.

This is a revised edition of a book which attracted, at the time it originally appeared, a great deal of attention from an intelligent but limited class of readers. We trust that it will have a more extended circulation now that it is in the hands of an enterprising publishing house, and is issued in a readable shape. It is the first and best of Mr. Juddâ€™s works, and though it exhibits the ingrained defects of the authorâ€™s genius, it has freshness, originality and raciness enough to more than compensate for its occasional provoking defiance of taste and obedience to whim. The sketches of character are bold, true, powerful and life-like; the descriptions of New England scenery eminently vivid and clear; and an exquisite sense of moral beauty is accompanied by a sense no less genial and subtle for the humorous in life, character and manners. It is perhaps as thoroughly American as any romance in our literature.

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