REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

[14]Narrative of Travels in Africa, by Major Denham.

[14]

Narrative of Travels in Africa, by Major Denham.

The Book of Ballads. Edited by Bon Gaultier. New York: Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo.

We are glad to see an elegant American edition of these humorous ballads. In England they have long enjoyed a wide reputation. Their authorship, though vehemently debated, has not yet been settled, although the honor is now considered to lie between Theodore Martin and Professor W. E. Aytoun, the editor of Blackwood’s Magazine. Bon Gaultier, whoever he may be, is an universal satirist, whose sharp things are steeped in a riotous humor that leaps all bounds of conventional restraint. The general idea of the work is a parody of the various styles of contemporary authors, and a caricature of manners and persons, and this is executed with great felicity of imitative talent, and in a spirit of such wild glee as to take away the offensiveness of its occasional malice. The Spanish Ballads, amid all their elaborate buffoonery, are grand imitations of Lockhart’s celebrated translations, evincing uncommon command of energetic expression, and a keen perception of the chivalrous spirit of the originals, and indicating in the writer a ballad talent almost equal to that displayed by Aytoun in his “Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers.” The American Ballads are gross but laughable caricatures, in which gouging, spitting, bragging, and drinking, are made leading national characteristics, and the government of the country represented as residing in an aristocracy of the bowie-knife. The following, from the American’s Apostrophe to Boz, contains an inimitable antithesis of sentiment.

Much we bore and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spellsOf that Smike’s unceasing drivelings, and those ever-lasting Nells.When you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thing,Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling.

Much we bore and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells

Of that Smike’s unceasing drivelings, and those ever-lasting Nells.

When you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thing,

Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling.

The best of the American ballads is “The Death of Jabez Dollar,” originally published in Frazer’s Magazine, and founded on a newspaper report of one of our Congressional affrays. The caricature is so broad that the most patriotic American can hardly take offense, and we quote it as a splendid specimen, in versification and sentiment, of the heroic in ruffianism;

The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the chair,On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was there;With moody frown, there ate Calhoun, and slowly in his cheekHis quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose to speak.Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,And like a free American upon the floor he spat;Then turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin,“What kind of Locofoco’s that, as wears the painter’s skin?”“Young man,” quoth Clay, “avoid the way of Slick of Tennessee,Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he.He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs,And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears.“Avoid that knife! in frequent strife its blade, so long and thin,Has found itself a resting place his rival’s ribs within.”But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar’s heart;“Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!”Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair,He saw the stately stars and stripes—our country’s flag was there!His heart beat high, with savage cry upon the floor he sprang,Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first harangue.“Who sold the nutmegs made of wood, the clocks that wouldn’t figure?Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark—the everlasting nigger?For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through ’tarnity I’ll kickThat man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced Colonel Slick!”The Colonel smiled—with frenzy wild—his very beard waxed blue—His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below—He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe;“Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!” he cried, with ire elate,“Darn my old mother but I will in wild cats whip my weight!Oh! ’tarnel death, I’ll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and your chaffing—Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without laughing!”His knife he raised—with fury crazed he sprang across the hall—He cut a caper in the air—he stood before them all:He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do,But spinning sent the president, and on young Dollar flew.They met—they closed—they sunk—they rose—in vain young Dollar strove—For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate colonel droveHis bowie blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled,And, drenched in gore, wheeled o’er and o’er, locked in each other’s hold.With fury dumb—with nail and thumb—they struggled and they thrust—The red blood ran from Dollar’s side, like rain upon the dust;He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sunk and died,Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning at his side.Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave youth;The bowie-knife hath quenched his life of valor and of truth;And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they tell,How nobly Dollar gouged his man—how gallantly he fell.

The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the chair,

On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was there;

With moody frown, there ate Calhoun, and slowly in his cheek

His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose to speak.

Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,And like a free American upon the floor he spat;Then turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin,“What kind of Locofoco’s that, as wears the painter’s skin?”

Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,

And like a free American upon the floor he spat;

Then turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin,

“What kind of Locofoco’s that, as wears the painter’s skin?”

“Young man,” quoth Clay, “avoid the way of Slick of Tennessee,Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he.He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs,And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears.

“Young man,” quoth Clay, “avoid the way of Slick of Tennessee,

Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he.

He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs,

And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears.

“Avoid that knife! in frequent strife its blade, so long and thin,Has found itself a resting place his rival’s ribs within.”But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar’s heart;“Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!”

“Avoid that knife! in frequent strife its blade, so long and thin,

Has found itself a resting place his rival’s ribs within.”

But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar’s heart;

“Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!”

Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair,He saw the stately stars and stripes—our country’s flag was there!His heart beat high, with savage cry upon the floor he sprang,Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first harangue.

Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair,

He saw the stately stars and stripes—our country’s flag was there!

His heart beat high, with savage cry upon the floor he sprang,

Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first harangue.

“Who sold the nutmegs made of wood, the clocks that wouldn’t figure?Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark—the everlasting nigger?For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through ’tarnity I’ll kickThat man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced Colonel Slick!”

“Who sold the nutmegs made of wood, the clocks that wouldn’t figure?

Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark—the everlasting nigger?

For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through ’tarnity I’ll kick

That man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced Colonel Slick!”

The Colonel smiled—with frenzy wild—his very beard waxed blue—His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below—He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe;

The Colonel smiled—with frenzy wild—his very beard waxed blue—

His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;

He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below—

He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe;

“Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!” he cried, with ire elate,“Darn my old mother but I will in wild cats whip my weight!Oh! ’tarnel death, I’ll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and your chaffing—Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without laughing!”

“Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!” he cried, with ire elate,

“Darn my old mother but I will in wild cats whip my weight!

Oh! ’tarnel death, I’ll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and your chaffing—

Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without laughing!”

His knife he raised—with fury crazed he sprang across the hall—He cut a caper in the air—he stood before them all:He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do,But spinning sent the president, and on young Dollar flew.

His knife he raised—with fury crazed he sprang across the hall—

He cut a caper in the air—he stood before them all:

He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do,

But spinning sent the president, and on young Dollar flew.

They met—they closed—they sunk—they rose—in vain young Dollar strove—For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate colonel droveHis bowie blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled,And, drenched in gore, wheeled o’er and o’er, locked in each other’s hold.

They met—they closed—they sunk—they rose—in vain young Dollar strove—

For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate colonel drove

His bowie blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled,

And, drenched in gore, wheeled o’er and o’er, locked in each other’s hold.

With fury dumb—with nail and thumb—they struggled and they thrust—The red blood ran from Dollar’s side, like rain upon the dust;He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sunk and died,Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning at his side.

With fury dumb—with nail and thumb—they struggled and they thrust—

The red blood ran from Dollar’s side, like rain upon the dust;

He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sunk and died,

Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning at his side.

Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave youth;The bowie-knife hath quenched his life of valor and of truth;And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they tell,How nobly Dollar gouged his man—how gallantly he fell.

Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave youth;

The bowie-knife hath quenched his life of valor and of truth;

And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they tell,

How nobly Dollar gouged his man—how gallantly he fell.

The miscellaneous ballads in the volume are very numerous, and in all varieties of the ballad style. Moore, Bulwer, Macaulay, Tennyson, Hunt, and other poets of the day, have some of their most popular lays felicitously parodied. Bon Gaultier must be a poet, or he could not so completely catch the very spirit and movement of the poets he caricatures. Among the best of these ballads are those which exhibit the contest for the laureatship, and the mockery of Tennyson’s style is especially ludicrous. “A Midnight Meditation,” purporting to be by Bulwer, represents that fascinating novelist as admitting, in soliloquy, the essential falsehood of sentiment which characterizes so many of his writings. He is exhibited as drinking in inspiration from London porter, and holding sweet coloquy with himself on the success of his numerous shams. “I know,” he says,

“I know a grace is seated on my brow,Like young Apollo’s with his golden beams;There should Apollo’s bays be budding now:—And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams,That marks the poet in his waking dreams.When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker,He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.“They throng around me now, those things of air,That from my fancy took their being’s stamp:There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,There Clifford lends his pals upon the tramp;There pale Zanoni, bending o’er his lamp,Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.“Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram wonThe gentle ear of pensive Madeline!How love and murder hand in hand may run,Cemented by philosophy serene,And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!“Yes, I am he, who on the novel shedObscure philosophy’s enchanting light!Until the public, wildering as they read,Believed they saw that which was not in sight—Of course ’twas not for me to set them right;For in my nether heart convinced I am,Philosophy’s as good as any other bam.”

“I know a grace is seated on my brow,

Like young Apollo’s with his golden beams;

There should Apollo’s bays be budding now:—

And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams,

That marks the poet in his waking dreams.

When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker,

He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

“They throng around me now, those things of air,That from my fancy took their being’s stamp:There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,There Clifford lends his pals upon the tramp;There pale Zanoni, bending o’er his lamp,Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.

“They throng around me now, those things of air,

That from my fancy took their being’s stamp:

There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,

There Clifford lends his pals upon the tramp;

There pale Zanoni, bending o’er his lamp,

Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,

Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.

“Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram wonThe gentle ear of pensive Madeline!How love and murder hand in hand may run,Cemented by philosophy serene,And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

“Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won

The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!

How love and murder hand in hand may run,

Cemented by philosophy serene,

And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!

Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,

And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

“Yes, I am he, who on the novel shedObscure philosophy’s enchanting light!Until the public, wildering as they read,Believed they saw that which was not in sight—Of course ’twas not for me to set them right;For in my nether heart convinced I am,Philosophy’s as good as any other bam.”

“Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed

Obscure philosophy’s enchanting light!

Until the public, wildering as they read,

Believed they saw that which was not in sight—

Of course ’twas not for me to set them right;

For in my nether heart convinced I am,

Philosophy’s as good as any other bam.”

This last line really hits the truth of the matter, and raises Bon Gaultier into the class of interpretative critics.

The style of Leigh Hunt is familiarly known, and the exquisiteness of the following parody can be generally appreciated. It is worthy of Hunt himself, and might have been written by him in one of his cosiest dallyings with the “well of English undefiled.” The argument is that an impassioned pupil of Hunt met Gaultier at a ball, and thus declares the consequences:

“Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball—Rare lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?Dost thou remember, when with stately prance,Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balmTrembled within the squeezing of thy palm;And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise,At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,Who, like a dove, with its scarce-feathered wing,Flattered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!“There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these,An affectation of a bright-eyed ease—A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dareDescribe the swaling of a jaunty air;And thus when swirling from the waltz’s wheelYou craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,That smiling voice, although it made me start,Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart;And, picking at my flowers, I said with freeAnd usual tone, ‘Oh, yes sir, certainly!’ ”

“Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball—

Rare lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,

With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,

Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?

Dost thou remember, when with stately prance,

Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;

How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm

Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;

And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise,

At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?

Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,

Who, like a dove, with its scarce-feathered wing,

Flattered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

“There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these,An affectation of a bright-eyed ease—A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dareDescribe the swaling of a jaunty air;And thus when swirling from the waltz’s wheelYou craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,That smiling voice, although it made me start,Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart;And, picking at my flowers, I said with freeAnd usual tone, ‘Oh, yes sir, certainly!’ ”

“There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these,

An affectation of a bright-eyed ease—

A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare

Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;

And thus when swirling from the waltz’s wheel

You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,

That smiling voice, although it made me start,

Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart;

And, picking at my flowers, I said with free

And usual tone, ‘Oh, yes sir, certainly!’ ”

The Duke of Wellington is known as the “iron” duke, and Gaultier gives us a “Sonnet to Britain” by him, which justifies the title. It is one of the most original things in the volume, and very worthily concludes it:

“Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were!Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!O Britain! O my country! Words like theseHave made thy name a terror and a fearTo all the nations. Witness Ebro’s banks,Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle and Waterloo,Where the grim despot muttered—Sauve qui peut!And Ney fled darkling. Silence in the ranks!Inspired by thee, amidst the iron crashOf armies in the centre of his troopThe soldier stands—unmovable, not rash—Until the forces of the foeman droop;Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash,Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!”

“Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were!

Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!

O Britain! O my country! Words like these

Have made thy name a terror and a fear

To all the nations. Witness Ebro’s banks,

Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle and Waterloo,

Where the grim despot muttered—Sauve qui peut!

And Ney fled darkling. Silence in the ranks!

Inspired by thee, amidst the iron crash

Of armies in the centre of his troop

The soldier stands—unmovable, not rash—

Until the forces of the foeman droop;

Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash,

Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!”

We commend this volume very cordially to our readers as one of the best things of the kind in English literature. It appears to us better even than the Rejected Addresses, in the richness and breadth of its humor, and in the poetry of its mirth. Whoever may be the author, it is evidently the production of one capable of writing excellent serious poetry of his own, as well as parodying that of his contemporaries.

Pynnshurst, his Travels and Ways of Thinking. Charles Scribner. New York.

We are indebted to the publishers for an advanced copy of this eminently clever and readable work, which, we venture to predict, will at once secure to its author a distinguished and distinctive place among American writers. We are not aware that he proposes to attach his name, to what is, we believe, a first production in the book form, though he is already favorably known to the public as an occasional writer; and we therefore abstain from mentioning it, though very sensible that the book would neither detract from the name, nor the name from the book.

It is a work almostsui generis, as, indeed, is in our opinion the genius of the author; for that he has genius is undeniable. It is not a novel—not a romance—not a book of travels—not a half-theological, half-controversial, all-indecent, tract in the guise of any one of the three. But it is a fine tissue of humor, wit, adventure, pathos, and description, woven into just enough of active and moving story to create a living interest—it is, in short, the seeings, thinkings, and in some sort, perhaps, the doings, of a clear-sighted, enthusiastical traveler, at once a man of the world and a scholar, with the eye of an artist, the tongue of a poet, the heart of a mountaineer over “at home among the rocks,” a bit of a Pantagruelist withal, who has seen much, pondered much, learned much, and has much to say about many countries, many things, and many people, which and who are really worth being seen, thought, and heard of.

Of the style of his romance and incident our readers may judge from the scene in his preface, wherein the narrator becomes acquainted with his hero, Hugh Pynnshurst, and we think it cannot fail to impress them with an idea of his power; although power is not, we think, so decidedly his forte, as quaint humor, and shrewd, original, bold-spoken and fearless appreciation and criticism of men, books, and things.

“One day, on the Faulhorn, I met a person who looked like a countryman, saluted him and passed by. We were on the edge of a precipice, walking upon a level road about seven feet wide. On one side was the perpendicular rock; but, at its outer line, the road shelved abruptly to the edge of the precipice which hung over an awful chasm three hundred feet in depth.

“There was snow a foot deep upon it. I heard one half-muffled cry, and turned to see what I trust never to see again. He had walked too near the outer edge, and the snow had slipped from under him, and in an instant he was three feet from the line of the level, and slowly, slowly, the snow was yielding to his weight, and slowly, but ceaselessly, he slided toward the brink, carrying the white mass with him.

“Not any other cry escaped him; but he raised his wild, black eyes to mine as I stood opposite him. There was beauty on his face, but it was white, white with horror.

“A yard, perhaps, of space was between his feet now and the edge, and his hands were griping convulsively at the rock left bare above him, at the cold and slippery stone; and without pause, but yet more fearful for its slowness, it went on, as you have seen the wreathe upon the house-top sliding downward at the noon-day thaw.

“I had a large Scotch plaid, and setting my staff in a crevice, and held firmly by my guide, I cast the end toward him, and as his foot passed the ledge, he caught the fringe.

“In the moment’s pause, I noticed his position. One leg was cramped up under him; one foot hung over the deep; the lips were set so firmly, and were so white, that I could barely see their line. Only the large black eyes kept their awful look on mine; the hands had burst the gloves in their terrible gripe upon the fringe; the fringe was sewed upon the plaid, and as I looked, it parted!

“I closed my eyes, and sickened, and fell back upon the snow.

“When I recovered from my stupor, my guide was filling my mouth withkirschenwasser, and the stranger was standing at my feet. His face was still colorless; a face of ineffable pride. But as I rose wonderingly, he took off his hat and said in a sweet voice a few simple thanks for the service I had rendered him. In my terror, I had not noticed that, as the plaid-fringe began to give way, my guide had gotten his rope loose and had thrown it to the stranger.

“It was thus that he was saved; and it was thus that an acquaintance began between us, which soon ripened into an earnest friendship. They are scraps from his experience that you will find here.

“This is all the preface which I have to offer. If you like it—Well! If you like it not—Well! Peace be with you! and may your lives be as long and as tough as that of our ‘lastrelic of the Revolution’ who has died eleven times a month, ever since I was born, and continues to renew the phenomenon weekly, up to date. Hail, and farewell!”

A fair estimate may be formed of the quaint and peculiar blending of something nearly approaching to sublimity and pathos with queer characteristic drollery, which is one of our author’s peculiarities, from

“The Impressions of Hugh Pynnshurst.—Nature.

“He had very few impressions.

“The feeling of immensity so much talked about came not to him; the waves never looked like mountains, nor their intervals like abysses.

“One storm they had, but it impressed him nothing like a storm in one of the grand, old forests on the shore; the wind was too free to act as it pleased; the ship only creaked; the cordage merely whistled, and there were gay, noisy songs from the sailors, and loud, rough bellowings from the officers, which added nothing to the dignity of the scene.

“Not like the mystic stillness that falls upon the land, when the horizon begins to darken the first frown of the storm. When the birds are hushed in the forest, and the aspen leaf ceases to quiver, and the pall of the tempest spreads slowly over all.

“And then the shiver, as the first breath sweeps along the sky, and the low, far sound of the thunder gives warning of its approach; and the fierce excitement as the tempest comes sounding on, marshaling the armies of the clouds, increasing fast and loud the roars of their artillery; then the first shudder of the forest as the blast of the strong wind strikes it, and the mighty trees bow down, and rise again, and toss their huge arms, battling with the blast.

“These were the storms that thrilled him. He could moan with the moaning wood; he could struggle with the strong oak’s struggling; he felt himself o’erthrown, as the lightning crushed it to the earth; and when the calm and the silence had followed, he could say to his pride of heart, ‘Thou seest how vain and how feeble is the might of the creature when it warreth with its God.’

“For the rest, he wondered that it did not make the porpoises dizzy to turn so many somersets; and when the hawks caught Mother Carey’s chickens, and brought them on board to eat them, he noticed that the little things were very fat, and presumed that but for their fishy taste, they would be very good in a pot-pie.”

Our limits warn us to quote no further, though we would do so willingly, and leave us only room to say that if this book do not make its mark, we cannot conjecture the reason why.

Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century. By Arsene Houssaye. New York: Redfield. 2 vols. 12mo.

This volume gives the most vivid picture of the manners, morals, and government of France during the latter part of the reign of Louis XIV., and the whole of that of Louis XV., we have ever seen. It enables the reader to understand the real character of thatAncien Régimewhich was overthrown by the Revolution of 1789, and exhibits a state of society bereft of all moral vigor, licentious, lazy, impudent, debilitated, dissolute, without religion, without shame, without any depth of passion, and superficial even in its wickedness. The author of the sketches, himself a Frenchman without much austerity of principle, glances lightly over his themes, bringing out with a certain French refinement of perception and phrase all the piquant littlenesses of his subject, and, a wit himself, taking great delight in making his readers familiar with the wit of others. He has sacked all the many memoirs of the time for materials; has selected with a nice tact all their stimulating matter, without burdening his page with their trash; and, before attempting the task of composition, evidently familiarized his imagination with the persons and events he describes, so that they moved before him picturesquely, enveloped in their own peculiar atmosphere. The result is quite a dramatic exhibition of kings, princesses, ministers of state, royal and noble mistresses, authors, poets, comedians, actresses, philosophers, artists, atheists, andsavans, discriminated in their kind from all others, yet still agreeing with the radical principles of human nature, as those principles were combined in the Frenchman of the eighteenth century, and in a court in which virtue was a jest, vice a distinction, infamy a fashion, and marriage vows as false as dicers’ oaths. The sketch of Louis XV. and Madame de Pompadour of the Crebillons, of Buffon, of Cardinal de Bernis, of Mademoiselle Clarion, of Sophie Arnould, of the Duc de Richelieu, (the universal rake,) of Dufresnoy, Marivaux, Dorat, Poson, Fontenelle, and La Fontaine, are representative of the whole. The society described is pretty well summed up by Crebillon, as consisting of “ruined gentlemen living upon their neighbors, rich actresses living with ruined gentlemen.” To an American, the most remarkable thing in the whole representation is the easy suspension of all moral rules whatever in this “good company.” Before he gets half through the book he almost forgets that there is such a thing as duty, or religion, or morality, or glory, or any thing but five senses, in human nature. He feels that the whole structure implies a frightful amount of misgovernment and oppression at home, and of scandalous mismanagement abroad, that France is given up to the plunder of roués and harlots, but the style of Arsene Houssaye is so smooth, and his epigrams so airy and keen, and the felicities he quotes so sparkling, that the whole representation seems to justify itself, and to exhibit quite a delightful scheme of government, “with youth at the prow and pleasure at the helm.” Indeed, though the book is invaluable as a picture of a defunct social state, it becomes tiresome at last with all its brightness and novelty, and the necessity of some affectation at least of noble sentiment is painfully felt to relieve the monotony of its brilliant baseness—some smiting sentences, here and there, to rend the gauzy veil that these flippant libertines have spread over the pandemonium on which their delicious palace of pleasure is built. The Louis the Fifteenth, whose court these volumes describe, is the same Louis whose death was thus announced by an eminent priest to the mob of courtiers who had shared with their monarch the pillage of France: “Louis, the well-beloved, sleeps in the Lord!” “If each a mass of laziness and lust sleep in the Lord, who, think you, sleeps elsewhere?” is Carlyle’s fierce answer.

A Legend of the Waldenses, and Other Tales. By Mary B. Windle. William Moore: Philadelphia.

We take some reproach to ourselves for having omitted to notice the third edition of this very unpretending but very agreeable little volume, which has been on our table for some time past, from the pen of an accomplished lady contributor to many of our monthly magazines. It has decided merit in itself, and gives promise of yet more when the fair writer shall wield a more exercised pen. The style is graceful and pleasant, though occasionally marred by an incorrectly formed and inharmonious word, such, for instance, as “Huguenotic,” where theicis superfluous as to sense, and ungrateful as to sound. The descriptions of scenery are fresh and vivid; the characters often well conceived and forcibly drawn, and the incidents and conversations quite up to, if not above, the ordinary standard of historical romance.

The story which we like the most is that styled “The Lady of the Rock,” a tale of the trial and execution of the most unfortunate, though not the worst, of kings, Charles the First; who was, in truth, a martyr to principles which he undoubtedly believed to be true, and who died, rather because he would not yield prerogatives which were behind the age in which it was his unhappy fate to live, than because he grasped at powers unused by previous monarchs, or unauthorized by the then constitution. In this very able sketch the characters of the discrowned king, of the stern fanatic, Cromwell, of the serene and stately Milton, are delineated with rare truth and fidelity, and with a vigor which is equaled by few contemporary novelists. This tale, above any other in the volume, leads us to believe that the authoress might be successful were she to try her hand in a wider field of historical romance; should she do so, however, she must avoid, as in the tale called “Florence de Rohan,” wandering too far from the truth of actual history of well known personages; for it is an absolute rule of historico-romantic composition, that, although events and actions, which never really occurred, may be legitimately ascribed to real personages, provided they are in character and keeping with time, place, and person—real events, and real actions, if related at all, must be related as they occurred. In a word, that although it is allowable to add, it is forbidden to detract aught from the truth of history.

This little volume, which, by the way, is dedicated to Mr. Herbert, is very elegantly got up and tastefully bound in gilt muslin by Mr. William Moore of this city.

A Hand-Book of the English Language, for the Use of the Universities and Higher Classes of Schools. By R. G. Latham, M. D., F.R.S. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

It is hardly necessary to say to any of our readers interested in the history or analysis of the English language, that the author of this learned and able volume is the latest and the best authority in the matter of which it treats. The preface to the present American edition asserts but the simple truth, when it declares that “Dr. Latham now takes rank among the ablest Ethnologists of the age, and that few have been more successful in unraveling the difficulties that involve the origin and formation of the English tongue, in its connection with our early history as a people. He has brought the labors of all who have written upon the various ramifications of the Indo-European languages, to bear upon the elucidation of our mother tongue, with an acuteness of criticism and a breadth of view, that distances all his predecessors or contemporaries in the same field.” It may be added also that Dr. Latham’s method and style are in pleasing contrast to the wavering, uncertain, choose-for-yourself-between-two-ways manner, characteristic of many philologists. His analysis penetrates to the core of the matter, and processes and results are stated with an austere condensation of language, which is jealous of one useless word. As a work wherein to obtain definite ideas of the history and grammatical structure of our language, we do not know its equal.

Arctic Searching Expedition: a Journal of a Boat-Voyage through Rupert’s Land and the Arctic Sea, in Search of the Discovery Ships under command of Sir John Franklin. By Sir John Richardson, C. B., F.R.S. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

The interest, so general all over the civilized world, felt in every thing which relates to Franklin’s Expedition, will command for this volume an extensive circulation. Sir John Richardson’s account of his long voyage is especially valuable for the large amount of information it gives respecting the climate, the physical geography, the plants, and the Indians of the regions he visited. He has the accurate observation of the man of science, with something of a humorist’s eye for character, and his details of his winter quarters among the Chepewyans is quite amusing as well as instructive. Throughout the volume there is an entire absence of pretension and exaggeration, and every page adds to the reader’s first favorable impression of the author’s modesty, energy, and intelligence.

Essays from the London Times. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 16mo.

This is the first of a series of volumes, to be published under the general title of “Appleton’s Popular Library,” and to include some of the best miscellaneous works of the day. The size is convenient, and the general execution very elegant. The present volume is a good beginning. It consists of essays, selected from the literary department of the London Times, and the production, we believe, of the author of “Caleb Stukely,”—a powerful novel which appeared some years ago in Blackwood’s Magazine. The style is bold, clear, decisive, end business-like, and the matter very attractive. The essay on Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton is full of information which must be new to a majority of readers, and evinces a complete mastery of the subject. Not less interesting are the essays on the Orleans family, beginning with the profligate Regent of that name, and ending with the late King of the French. The infamy in the family’s annals is brought startlingly out. The successive children of the house seem, to use an expression of old Dr. South, “to have been, not so much born, as damned, into the world.” The essays on Southey, Chantrey, Keats, and Ancient Egypt, are likewise excellent.

GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.

Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.

The present number we are proud of—and not caring who knows it—we tell you, reader, that in our opinion Graham for May, isTHE GEM OF THE MONTH. The illustrations are excellent and appropriate; and as we are not the engraver, we feel that there can be no impropriety in saying this. The leading plate, “The Bavarian May Queen,” in artistic excellence, we know, will not be equaled this month by any plate in any other Magazine—and Devereux’s exquisitely finished engravings in the body of the book, may be compared with any that appear elsewhere without much fear upon his part.

The printing of these wood-cuts, by Mr. Jacob Young, our pressman, entitles him to the designation of the best pressman in Philadelphia, and those who deny or doubt his right to this appellation, may try to beat the work, before they question the ability of the man. But there is “no use oftalking,” reader—the book is before you, and it is for you to say how you like it—and if in debt—topay for it. That you may do so, we send abillthis month, for which please remitby mail. Now do not lay aside the book without firstbookingup.

Snooks“wants to know”why, there is always so much gold “in thehandsof passengers” whenever a California steamer arrives? “Why they don’t put it in their pockets or their trunks, or have it in patent safety-belts?”

We suppose it is, to have it ready to subscribe for Graham as soon as they step on shore! That is our solution. But there are other theories.

Enterprising Editor.Mr. Grab, can youdoa small note to-day?

Grab.No!—the gold is all going to England, and the California steamer brings very little.

Editor.Oh!—but there’s “4,000,000 in the hands of passengers!”

Grab.Ah!—thatmakes a difference—2 per cent. a month is the rate on this!

“Can such things be—and overcome us?” asks an astounded country editor. Yes, brother—but such things don’t come over Graham.

Love Letters.—A perfect shower of perfumed billets, with the odor of violets and roses fresh upon them, has fallen upon us since our last; and we can almost fancy the sunny faces of the fair writers in all their witchery before us. Well, Grahamisa happy rascal: he labors from early morn to dewyEve—ah, now the charm’s dispelled—if she had never tasted the forbidden fruit we should have been in Paradise with all these beautiful girls, and instead of reading their delicious love-letters on this spring morning, we should have been crowning their fair brows with flowers, and talking—talking!—singing Love’s own music to them, under “the greenwood tree.” We are mad about it.

The editor of the Evening Bulletin, who confesses to the writing of his editorials up in the fourth story—in a dingy apartment, insufferably close, recently closed a long editorial upon summer-houses, walks in shady lanes, and roses, with the cry “a-lass—a-lass!” Considering that the man is married, he ought to be ashamed of himself.

Didanybody ever write a piece of bad poetry, without sending it to some unfortunate editor, with thestory, that “numerous friends urged the publication—some of them critics, too—or the writer would never have thought of it?” An answer is requested.

A Certain Rule.—The man who pays for his paper, never grumbles about it. It is your fellow who never pays, and who is afraid the editor will stop it, who is your loud critic. Borrowers, though—theyare the boys. “Neighbor Jenkins, why don’t you make the editor say something about the next President? IfI tookhis paper—I’dstop it.”

This cut was not “designed” expressly for Graham, or we should mention it, but it is designed to illustrate the “dodge” by which our traveling agents are eluded by parties who have received Graham on trust.

The trials, tribulations, and rude encounters of our traveling agents, induce us to say:Don’t wait any longer, but mail the money you owe us—have the letter registered—and, above all,SENT TO US AT ONCE.

We send bills in this number to those who ought tofootthem, to enable us to maintain the present superior style of Graham, and we hope that none will be so poor as to fail to reverence our claim. Come—we give you a good book for the money!

The following lines are worthy of being treasured in every heart. We put them on record for our myriad of readers.

BEN ADHEM’S DREAM.Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,And saw within the moonlight of his room,Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,An Angel writing in a book of gold.Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,And to the presence in the room he said,“What writest thou?” The vision raised his head,And in a voice made all of sweet accord,Answered, “the names of those who love the Lord!”“And is mine one?” Ben Adhem asked. “Nay, not so,”Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more lowBut cheerly still. “I pray thee, then,Write me as one who loves his fellow men.”The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next nightHe came again, with a great wakening light,And showed the names whom love of God had blest;And lo! Ben Adhem’s led the rest.

BEN ADHEM’S DREAM.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,And saw within the moonlight of his room,Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,An Angel writing in a book of gold.Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,And to the presence in the room he said,“What writest thou?” The vision raised his head,And in a voice made all of sweet accord,Answered, “the names of those who love the Lord!”“And is mine one?” Ben Adhem asked. “Nay, not so,”Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more lowBut cheerly still. “I pray thee, then,Write me as one who loves his fellow men.”The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next nightHe came again, with a great wakening light,And showed the names whom love of God had blest;And lo! Ben Adhem’s led the rest.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw within the moonlight of his room,

Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,

An Angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

“What writest thou?” The vision raised his head,

And in a voice made all of sweet accord,

Answered, “the names of those who love the Lord!”

“And is mine one?” Ben Adhem asked. “Nay, not so,”

Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low

But cheerly still. “I pray thee, then,

Write me as one who loves his fellow men.”

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

He came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest;

And lo! Ben Adhem’s led the rest.

The Shepherd’s Song.

COMPOSED FOR THE PIANO FORTE BY JOHN ROLAND.

Presented by LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia,

Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments.

Shepherds from your sleep awake,Morning opes her golden eye,Rosy beams in beauty break,Over ocean, earth and sky!Over ocean, earth and sky!

Shepherds from your sleep awake,

Morning opes her golden eye,

Rosy beams in beauty break,

Over ocean, earth and sky!

’Tis fair nature’s sweetest hour,In her loveliest garb she reigns;Wake, and in her sylvan bow’r,Tune her praise in joyous strains.’Tis fair nature’s sweetest hour,In her loveliest garb she reigns;Wake, and in her sylvan bow’r,Tune her praise in joyous strains.2.See! the lark with early note,Soars above the flow’ry lea,As he pours from warbling throat,Songs of cheerful melody.Why should we, to cots confined,Wile this beauteous hour away?Love may loose, but not unbind,Charms that shepherds find in day.3.Lead our fleecy flocks awayTo their pasture in the dell;Blithe our songs, our hearts are gay,Shepherds’ joys, oh who can call?Not the prince, who restless sleeps,On his couch of silk and gold;Nor the slave whom av’rice keeps,In your city’s narrow fold.

’Tis fair nature’s sweetest hour,

In her loveliest garb she reigns;

Wake, and in her sylvan bow’r,

Tune her praise in joyous strains.

’Tis fair nature’s sweetest hour,

In her loveliest garb she reigns;

Wake, and in her sylvan bow’r,

Tune her praise in joyous strains.

See! the lark with early note,Soars above the flow’ry lea,As he pours from warbling throat,Songs of cheerful melody.Why should we, to cots confined,Wile this beauteous hour away?Love may loose, but not unbind,Charms that shepherds find in day.

See! the lark with early note,

Soars above the flow’ry lea,

As he pours from warbling throat,

Songs of cheerful melody.

Why should we, to cots confined,

Wile this beauteous hour away?

Love may loose, but not unbind,

Charms that shepherds find in day.

Lead our fleecy flocks awayTo their pasture in the dell;Blithe our songs, our hearts are gay,Shepherds’ joys, oh who can call?Not the prince, who restless sleeps,On his couch of silk and gold;Nor the slave whom av’rice keeps,In your city’s narrow fold.

Lead our fleecy flocks away

To their pasture in the dell;

Blithe our songs, our hearts are gay,

Shepherds’ joys, oh who can call?

Not the prince, who restless sleeps,

On his couch of silk and gold;

Nor the slave whom av’rice keeps,

In your city’s narrow fold.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

In the articleEMINENT YOUNG MEN.—NO. II., Stewart Adair Godman,death date of 1795for Samuel Godman may be inaccurate based on additional information given in its following paragraph regarding death as occuring whenhis son, born 1796, was still a young child. Present day genealogical websites have discussion regarding birth and death dates of individuals in this family.

page 478, have here there Commissioners ==> have heretheirCommissionerspage 548, useful presents where ==> useful presentswere

page 478, have here there Commissioners ==> have heretheirCommissioners

page 548, useful presents where ==> useful presentswere

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 5, May 1852]

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