TO THE EARTH.

———

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

———

How are thy charms, O maskéd Earth! displayed,In hill and valley, rock and waterfall,Flower-studded field, deep glen, and open glade,With the blue sky in beauty bent o’er all.Seekest with outward shows to win the heart?Only their glare our grosser vision dulls;The inward eye beholds thee, as thou art,Great hearse of man, vast catacomb of skulls!Thy moving forces, which we call the living,Bustling and battling through their little day,Are nought to thy great prostrate army, givingTheir flesh to worms, their bones to slow decay.And what is that which life thy children call?A little round of idle hopes and fears,A dream prefig’ring being, this is all,Made up of hope and smiles, despair and tears.The countless millions all around us lyingWith ghastly upturned faces, free from strife,The unreturning dead, yet the undying,How laugh they at the nothing we call life!Enough! enough! if after our brief fretting,Freed from thy fetters, we may rise in blissTo some bright world where Life’s sun knows no settingWhere we may meet the lost and loved of this.

How are thy charms, O maskéd Earth! displayed,In hill and valley, rock and waterfall,Flower-studded field, deep glen, and open glade,With the blue sky in beauty bent o’er all.

How are thy charms, O maskéd Earth! displayed,

In hill and valley, rock and waterfall,

Flower-studded field, deep glen, and open glade,

With the blue sky in beauty bent o’er all.

Seekest with outward shows to win the heart?Only their glare our grosser vision dulls;The inward eye beholds thee, as thou art,Great hearse of man, vast catacomb of skulls!

Seekest with outward shows to win the heart?

Only their glare our grosser vision dulls;

The inward eye beholds thee, as thou art,

Great hearse of man, vast catacomb of skulls!

Thy moving forces, which we call the living,Bustling and battling through their little day,Are nought to thy great prostrate army, givingTheir flesh to worms, their bones to slow decay.

Thy moving forces, which we call the living,

Bustling and battling through their little day,

Are nought to thy great prostrate army, giving

Their flesh to worms, their bones to slow decay.

And what is that which life thy children call?A little round of idle hopes and fears,A dream prefig’ring being, this is all,Made up of hope and smiles, despair and tears.

And what is that which life thy children call?

A little round of idle hopes and fears,

A dream prefig’ring being, this is all,

Made up of hope and smiles, despair and tears.

The countless millions all around us lyingWith ghastly upturned faces, free from strife,The unreturning dead, yet the undying,How laugh they at the nothing we call life!

The countless millions all around us lying

With ghastly upturned faces, free from strife,

The unreturning dead, yet the undying,

How laugh they at the nothing we call life!

Enough! enough! if after our brief fretting,Freed from thy fetters, we may rise in blissTo some bright world where Life’s sun knows no settingWhere we may meet the lost and loved of this.

Enough! enough! if after our brief fretting,

Freed from thy fetters, we may rise in bliss

To some bright world where Life’s sun knows no setting

Where we may meet the lost and loved of this.

REJOICE.

The world is full of Joy. The sweet rose flingsHer fragrance out to invite the zephyr’s kiss:The morning lark in wantonness of blissTo meet the sun, with song of welcome, springs:The little brook to her own motion sings:The storm laughs wild—down comes the dancing rain,The mountain stream leaps shouting to the plainAnd with high glee the echoing valley rings.The strong wind whistles in his desert caves;The thick clouds ride triumphant down the sky;The old green wood his trusty branches waves;Huge ocean shakes his foamy crest on high;Earth springs exulting in her fadeless prime;And the glad sun rolls on his course sublime!S. S.

The world is full of Joy. The sweet rose flings

Her fragrance out to invite the zephyr’s kiss:

The morning lark in wantonness of bliss

To meet the sun, with song of welcome, springs:

The little brook to her own motion sings:

The storm laughs wild—down comes the dancing rain,

The mountain stream leaps shouting to the plain

And with high glee the echoing valley rings.

The strong wind whistles in his desert caves;

The thick clouds ride triumphant down the sky;

The old green wood his trusty branches waves;

Huge ocean shakes his foamy crest on high;

Earth springs exulting in her fadeless prime;

And the glad sun rolls on his course sublime!

S. S.

THE CLAM-BAKE.

JEREMY SHORT AMONG THE RHODE ISLANDERS.

Well, sirs, Robin is a gallant poney, but riding over these confounded hills has almost shaken me to pieces, and, at every stride, for the last ten minutes, I’ve heard my bones rattling like pennies in a beggar’s alms-box. My mouth’s as parched as if dried up by lightning—but be sociable, lads, and give us a drinking cup, if it’s no better than a clam shell. Ah! that’s divine, better than ambrosia, real Cogniac I declare. How are you, captain? doctor? general?—bless my soul! if yonder isn’t Providence. Egad! this is a delightful place—beats Rowseville all hollow—it only wants a few trees here, and a clump of woodland there, to make it as cool and shady as a Mussulman’s paradise. The bay is alive with craft, and yonder—just look at them—are two jaunty rascals racing. How the little fellow eats to windward—they are throwing ballast overboard from the larger craft—whizz, whizz, one can almost hear the water bubbling along the wash-board as she bends to the blast—and now, side by side, they go, the foam crackling over the bow, and drenching the crew all the way aft. Huzza! the little fellow has won, and dances into the wind as Taglioni when she springs on the stage, more like a spirit than a human being.

They’re opening the bake—are they? Then I’ll take a seat by the heap here, with your leave, sir, and go to work. Heaven bless the Indians for having taught us how to cook clams! Yes, there’s all the difference in the world between eating your clam at a table, and eating it hot and smoking from the heap. I’d as lief think of turning Grahamite, and going through a purgatory of bran bread and water, as give up a seat at the bake. It’s there you get a clam in all its glory; in its spirituality, I may say—egad! it’s as sweet as a kiss from a blushing angel of sixteen. The heap, sir! why it’s an earthly paradise—the το χχλον of existence—the all in all of the epicure. Ah! the perfume of that steam is delicious—just see how poetically the vapor curls away into the air, for all the world like the morning mists rolling upward in the Catskill valley—you’ve been at the mountain house, no doubt. And then the clams themselves! Clams! egad, they are food for immortals! Isn’t this a superb fellow?—how snowy his shell—how perfect his form—how savory his juice—how rich his color—how luscious his taste:—by the gods! if Apicius were here, he’d dance a saraband, or snap his fingers through a cachuca, in sheer ecstasy at having found a dish that would have made jubilee on Olympus. Hip, hip, hurrah! haven’t I caught a jewel of a fellow? None of your rascally quohogs, but the real Narragansett clam for me. The poor, deluded wretches on the Jersey shore, who think their round-shells are clams, and chew for half an hour at what isn’t better than sole leather, have no more idea of what a real clam is, than a Hottentot of Heaven, or—what is the same thing—a crusty old bachelor of matrimony. The man who never ate a Narragansett clam can’t expect to live long, or die happy; he may dwindle out a miserable existence, but—take my word for it—he is a poor devil after all, no better than the horse in the mill, going the same eternal round, and living on salt hay and stagnant water. Heaven have mercy on the souls of such wretches! Ah! that’s a good fellow, stir up the heap; and here’s as juicy a villain as ever roasted, tall and slender, “in linked sweetness long drawn out.” Another and another—I shall faint with ecstasy, and must really take a little to calm my transports. Chowder may be fine, turtle soup glorious, tautog a dish for kings, but clams! clams!! sirs, would almost raise the dead.

“Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil,Wi’ usquebae we’ll face the devil.”

“Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil,

Wi’ usquebae we’ll face the devil.”

Thank you for drinking my health, gentlemen—you ask me whether we have any such thing as a clam-bake in Philadelphia—bless my soul! if we had, it wouldn’t be such a place for riots, broken banks, and all sorts of other eccentricities. Starvation was the cause of the French Revolution—to the fogs of England can be traced the suicides there—and it’s my candid belief that the absence of clam-bakes whereat to recreate is the prime origin of the present difficulties. Don’t ask me to demonstrate my position, for I hate logic as I hate olives and old maids. Assertion, sirs, is everything—a neat, portable affair that unrolls in a moment, and can’t be turned into a dozen aspects like shot silk. No, no, if a man ain’t convinced by a round assertion call him a fool, and if he resents it knock him down. There’s more evil come upon the world from the habit of reasoning than a thousand penitents, walking around the globe with pebbles in their shoes, could redeem. If two friends disagree, what is the cause? Argument. If a man quarrels with his wife, it’s because he stopped to reason with her. Bow deprecatingly, though with suavity, in the first case: kiss your wife and call her angel in the second case—and you keep your friend and helpmate; but get into an argument, and you are booked for a maelstrom from which St. Peter couldn’t save you. The Transcendentalists understand this matter:theynever argue. They lay down something which they themselves can’t understand, and then call on the gaping disciple to give credence to it: if they are believed, it is well; if not, they jabber a jargon of shibboleth, call him a world-deluded gull, and turn away talking of the light within, and the glories of Pantheism. And so with the ladies, dear creatures, whom Nature intends for peace-makers, and, therefore, never allows them to give any better reason for what they do than “because”—thereby saving them a world of trouble about major and minor premises, and other things “in concatenation accordingly.” Glory be to the man who first invented assertion!—may the author of logic go to thunder, whence he came.

The young folks, further south, have, it is true, a sort of penance they call a pic-nic; but a pic-nic is no more like a clam-bake than vinegar is like champaigne. Imagine a dozen couple packed into an omnibus, after having got up before day—a thing no sane man was ever known to do—jolting over dusty roads for an hour or two, and then sitting down on the damp grass, on a greenish rock, or on a decaying trunk, to breakfast on cold ham and insipid water. Call you that fun? And, by and bye, the sentimental ones will wander off into the woods to read Tom Moore in company or alone—while those who affect field sports, Heaven save the mark! will go bobbing for eels with a skewer, or fish for trout in still waters and with a float. Others may rig out a rickety, leaky scow, shaded by an awning not bigger than a sun-screen, and take a sail—the gentlemen shoving the ark along with poles, and the ladies, all dressed in white, sitting with their feet in the water and singing “The Gondolier’s Song,” or “Shall we go a sailing!” Then, at noon, when the sun is hot enough to broil a steak, and the sweet dears’ faces look as flushed as a cook’s, they will huddle around a table cloth spread on the dusty grass, and try to keep each other in countenance by eating the remnants of their breakfast, washing the whole down with the interminable water, or lemonade so sour that a cupful would carry off a regiment with the cholera. Toward night they will start for home, regarding it as “a crowning mercy,” as old Noll would say, if a thunder storm doesn’t come up, and drench them through. Egad! it would make the tears run down your cheeks with laughter, if you could only see a pic-nic party after a shower—all draggled and dirty, dripping like drowned rats, or, to be more complimentary, like mermaids, hungry, tired, out of humor, and looking as unlike the dear angels we love as a radish looks unlike a claret bottle.

I never see a young man going on a pic-nic, but I ask if insanity doesn’t run in his family. But a clam-bake, sirs, is a different affair. On the hard, smooth, white sand of the bay shore you pitch your tent, for music having the low voice of the ripples as they break on the beach, the fresh breeze the while crisping the waves into silver, and fanning you with a delicious coolness that reminds you of the airs of that Eden you used to dream of when a child. It is not long before you have mustered a gay fishing party, and pushing from the shore, you row out by the well known stake, throw overboard the keelog, and idly rocking on the low, long swell, spend an hour, or it may be two, in the most delicious of pastimes. And when you tire of the sport, you lean lazily over the gunwale, and gaze far down into the transparent wave, where the fish float to and fro, the long grass waves with the tide, or the snowy bottom sparkles fitfully in the sun. Long ere noon has come your craft is laden with the spoil, and then it is “up keelog and away!” A few rapid, rollicking strokes bring you to the shore—your boat grates musically on the hard sand—and a joyous shout welcomes you back, while all hurry to inspect your cargo and wonder at your skill. By this time the table, spread by fair hands, is ready—and now the bake begins! A half hour, and lo! dinner is ready to be served—just at the very nick of time, too, for the sun is now at meridian, and the bay glitters like molten silver, while far and near the atmosphere boils in the sultry beams. Retreating to the shade of the tent—made more cool by a copious sprinkling of water—you are soon deep in the mysteries of clams, and sweet corn and, what would make a god’s mouth water, tautog baked in the heap. Pop—pop go the corks of the champaigne flasks, and here, cool as the peaks of Mont Blanc, comes the foaming liquid, sparkling and bright as the wit of a Sheridan, egad! And thus ends the dinner; but think not it stops here. All day long you see bright faces and hear gay laughter; and when evening steals on, and the moon rises in the azure sky, trailing a fairy line of light across the waters, and flooding the snowy beach with her effulgence—when the night wind murmurs among the trees, or sighs over the sleeping bay—when the jocund music strikes up and you dance merrily on the hard white sand, while bright eyes sparkle and fair cheeks flush with love—then you have a foretaste of heaven, and wish to lie down and sleep, and, sleeping, dream of such delicious pastime. And, by and bye, when returning home, the air is vocal with songs, warbled by the seraphic voices of those you love—and, as you dash through the trees, the moon, all the while shimmering between the leaves, you almost shout aloud in the exhilaration of the moment. Gradually, however, you sink into a more pensive mood, and silence falls on you and the white-armed one beside you, so that, at length, you may hear nothing but a gentle (yet oh! how eloquent) sigh, and the low beating of her heart, audible in the stillness. Aye! and if you look into her eyes you will see there a music more soul-subduing than the softest strains. At length your hands will meet, and with a strange, delicious thrill through your whole frame, she will sink yielding on your bosom, and then—and then, God bless me! I’ve been thinking of the way I used to make love, and forgot all about the clam-bake.

As the heap’s empty and the bottle drained I’ll stop, but since you all beg for it, I’ll give you, some of these days, my notions onmaking love, egad! And now here’s Robin—hip, ho, we’re off.

THE SUMMER NIGHT.

ARRANGED FROM A GERMAN AIR FOR THE PIANO FORTE.

Presented to Graham’s Magazine, by J. G. Osbourn.

The moon’s brightly beaming, love,Still waters gleaming;Wake from thy dreaming, love,List to my lay.Long, long, at twilight hour,From yon lone distant bow’r,Sadly I watch thy tow’r,Fading away.Long, long, at twilight hour,From yon lone distant bow’r,Sadly, I watch thy tow’r,Fading away.Low winds are sighing, love,Day flowers dying,Sweet moments flying, love,Swiftly away.Come e’er the morning dew,Gemming the heather blue,Green turf and mountain yew,Our fond flight betray.Young years are fleeting, love,Warm bosoms heating,Watch them retreating, love,Sadly away.Haste, o’er the summer tide,Sweetly our bark will glide,Thou my fond trust and guide,On the blue way.

The moon’s brightly beaming, love,

Still waters gleaming;

Wake from thy dreaming, love,

List to my lay.

Long, long, at twilight hour,

From yon lone distant bow’r,

Sadly I watch thy tow’r,

Fading away.

Long, long, at twilight hour,

From yon lone distant bow’r,

Sadly, I watch thy tow’r,

Fading away.

Low winds are sighing, love,Day flowers dying,Sweet moments flying, love,Swiftly away.Come e’er the morning dew,Gemming the heather blue,Green turf and mountain yew,Our fond flight betray.

Low winds are sighing, love,

Day flowers dying,

Sweet moments flying, love,

Swiftly away.

Come e’er the morning dew,

Gemming the heather blue,

Green turf and mountain yew,

Our fond flight betray.

Young years are fleeting, love,Warm bosoms heating,Watch them retreating, love,Sadly away.Haste, o’er the summer tide,Sweetly our bark will glide,Thou my fond trust and guide,On the blue way.

Young years are fleeting, love,

Warm bosoms heating,

Watch them retreating, love,

Sadly away.

Haste, o’er the summer tide,

Sweetly our bark will glide,

Thou my fond trust and guide,

On the blue way.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

The Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Thomas Noon Talfourd, author of “Ion,” etc. In one volume. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart, 1842.

It is doubted by many intelligent critics whether the present age has in very deed given birth to any work of genius which will withstand the restless beatings of the waves of time and carry down to remotest generations the embodied evidence of the power and greatness of the Nineteenth Century. There is certainly room for an honest difference of opinion on this point, for it cannot be denied that on looking around the eye meets not at every corner nor does the ear hear, acting or uttering their Life Poem from every house-top,Homers,Shakspeares,Luthers, orMiltons. But that our cotemporaries are eminently skilled in examining into and discovering the worth of what has been done aforetime cannot be denied. Criticism has been made anart; and there is an evident tendency to exalt the man, with his telescope, to the star he looks at. We do not at present intend to find fault with this disposition, nor should we have mentioned it, but for the purpose of saying that it has produced some not distasteful fruits, among the best of which we rank these critical essays of Mr. SergeantTalfourd. We are glad they have been thus collected together, for the periodicals in which they first appeared reach but few of those who would fain read them.MacauleyandCarlylewrite mainly for one or two works, so that with comparatively little difficulty the general reader may find all their productions; but Mr.Talfourdwrites for quarterlies, monthlies and weeklies, and a collective re-publication of his contributions was therefore greatly to be desired. He makes admirable speeches, too, on copyright, and in defence of the professors of high Art when they are assailed by the spirit of the world, or when, in their vagaries, not always the most orderly, they run athwart some of the good and unbending rules established for the general welfare. These, we are sorry to say, we do not find in the present volume. Still, we are too thankful for what we have, to complain of the absence of the defence of Shelley and the argument on the rights of authors.

The peculiar characteristics of Mr.Talfourd’scriticism are its catholic liberality, its accurate and clear sighted discrimination, its insight, which is really of thescientifickind, and its classical purity, both in thought and style. He never writes hastily or without elaboration, and yet his criticism is not cold and unsympathizing. He enters deeply into the spirit of the work he examines, is peculiarly sensitive to its beauties and excellencies, and speaks of them eloquently and with boldness. His language is strong, but polished, and there is always in his thought a cheerful confidence and a keen-eyed discernment, which instruct and strengthen. The essay onWordsworthis among the best in the volume, written in the spirit of the poetry it dissects, and evincing skill in developing beauty, and a sharp sense which will detect it wherever it exists. The review of Wallace’s Prospects of Mankind, and the paper on Modern Improvements, are valuable and instructive. The essays on the profession of the law, and on pulpit oratory, are also excellent. Indeed, the contents of this volume are so uniformly good and so alike in all their prominent characteristics, that it would be difficult, as it is certainly unnecessary, to point out any as pre-eminently deserving of applause.

Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Sir Walter Scott.[6]Collected by Himself. Now for the first time Published in America. Three volumes, 12mo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart.

The Wizard of the North, as it was the custom a few years ago to callWalter Scott, may be regarded in four aspects—as a novelist, a poet, a critic, and a historian. In the first character he was unequaled, in the second and third among the first of his age and country, and in the last, alone, utterly contemptible; and that not for lack of ability or painstaking, certainly, but on account of his perfect recklessness of all principle, truth or decency that did not tend to fill his pockets with money or advance the interests of his party. In the volumes before us we have his criticisms and miscellaneous essays, and though we had aforetime been accustomed to regard them as possessing comparatively slight merit, a reperusal of the greater number has left on our mind an impression in the highest degree favorable to them, as compared with the best productions of their kind.Macauleyis our favorite reviewer;Wilson,Sidney Smith,TalfourdandScottwe rank next. With all his apparent rapidity and ease,Macauleyis the most laborious of the fraternity. He spends his month in reading—crammingis the technical phrase—everything relating to his subject; sits for a week or two at his desk, writing, recurring to documents, and rewriting, until every fact or idea he deems worthy of retention is embodied in his article, which is then carefully retouched and copied for the “Edinburgh.”Talfourdmeditates his subject, too, and polishes with no less care or skill. ButScottglanced upon the surface of things, skimmed over the abstracts and summaries relating to his theme, and wrote off, in his smooth, vivacious, pleasant way, his paper—read the MS—marked in a few commas and colons—and sent it to the printer.

With too little time and space for an elaborate review of these volumes, yet anxious, as in all our notices of books, to give the reader a definite idea of their character, we place in the margin a list of their contents, and shall notice more particularly but a small number of the forty-eight articles of which they are composed. The essays onChattertonandBurns, in the first volume, are sympathizing, liberal and judicious, though less distinguished for nicety of discrimination than some others on the same subjects. In the second volume is his review of his own “Tales of My Landlord,” from theQuarterly, for January, 1817, educed by a series of essays from the pen of DoctorMcCrie, in which the views given of the Scottish covenanters in the Waverly novels were bitterly impugned. The authorship of these novels, it will be remembered, was then a secret. The modesty of Scott’s estimate of himself may be inferred from the following passage, from page 144:

“The volume which this author has studied is the great book of nature. He has gone abroad into the world in quest of what the world will certainly and abundantly supply, but what a man of great discrimination alone will find, and a man of the very highest genius will alone depict after he has discovered it. The characters of Shakspeare are not more exclusively human, not more perfectly men and women as they live and move, than those of this mysterious author.”

Yet, thisismodest, compared with numerous other puffs of himself from his own pen, written in his long and successful career, and justified on the ground that they were “fair business transactions.” Washington Irving has done the same thing, in writing laudatory notices of his own works for the reviews, and, like Scott, received pay for whitewashing himself. We do not imagine that in either case there was any great injustice in the self-praise, but certainly Mr. Murray should not have been solicited to pay the “guinea a page.” The articles in the third volume on Kemble, Kelly’s Reminiscences, and Davy’s “Salmonia,” are all excellent, and equally so. We have understood, too, that the Letters from Malachi Malagrowther, Esquire, on the currency, are readable, but we never look into articles on such subjects.

[6]Vol.I.—Articles on Ellis’s Specimens of the Early English Poets; Ellis’s and Ritson’s Specimens of the Early English Metrical Romances; Godwin’s Life of Chaucer; Todd’s Edition of Spencer; Herbert’s Poems; Evans’s Old Ballads; Moliere; Chatterton; Reliques of Burns; Campbell’s Gertrude of Wyoming; The Battles of Tallavera (a poem); Southey’s Curse of Kehama; The Fourth Canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage; Amadis of Gaul; Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid; Southey’s Life of John Bunyan; Godwin’s “Fleetwood;” Cumberland’s John of Lancaster; Maturin’s “Fatal Revenge;” Maturin’s “Women, or Pour et Contre;” Miss Austin’s Novels; and Remarks on Frankenstein.Vol.II.—Novels of Ernest Theodore Hoffman; The Omen; Hajji Baba in England; Tales of My Landlord; Thornton’s Sporting Tour; Two Cookery Books; Jones’s Translation of Froissart; Miseries of Human Life; Carr’s Caledonian Sketches; Lady Suffolk’s Correspondence; Kirkton’s Church History; Life and Works of John Home; The Culloden Papers; and Pepys’s Memoirs.Vol.III.—Life of Kemble; Kelly’s Reminiscences; Davy’s Salmonia; Ancient History of Scotland; On Planting Waste Lands—Monteith’s Forresters’ Guide; On Landscape Gardening—Sir H. Steuart’s Planters’ Guide; Tyler’s History of Scotland; Pitcairn’s Criminal Trials; and The Letters of Malachi Malagrowther, Esquire, on the Currency.

[6]

Vol.I.—Articles on Ellis’s Specimens of the Early English Poets; Ellis’s and Ritson’s Specimens of the Early English Metrical Romances; Godwin’s Life of Chaucer; Todd’s Edition of Spencer; Herbert’s Poems; Evans’s Old Ballads; Moliere; Chatterton; Reliques of Burns; Campbell’s Gertrude of Wyoming; The Battles of Tallavera (a poem); Southey’s Curse of Kehama; The Fourth Canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage; Amadis of Gaul; Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid; Southey’s Life of John Bunyan; Godwin’s “Fleetwood;” Cumberland’s John of Lancaster; Maturin’s “Fatal Revenge;” Maturin’s “Women, or Pour et Contre;” Miss Austin’s Novels; and Remarks on Frankenstein.

Vol.II.—Novels of Ernest Theodore Hoffman; The Omen; Hajji Baba in England; Tales of My Landlord; Thornton’s Sporting Tour; Two Cookery Books; Jones’s Translation of Froissart; Miseries of Human Life; Carr’s Caledonian Sketches; Lady Suffolk’s Correspondence; Kirkton’s Church History; Life and Works of John Home; The Culloden Papers; and Pepys’s Memoirs.

Vol.III.—Life of Kemble; Kelly’s Reminiscences; Davy’s Salmonia; Ancient History of Scotland; On Planting Waste Lands—Monteith’s Forresters’ Guide; On Landscape Gardening—Sir H. Steuart’s Planters’ Guide; Tyler’s History of Scotland; Pitcairn’s Criminal Trials; and The Letters of Malachi Malagrowther, Esquire, on the Currency.

The History of the Reformation of the Church of England, by Gilbert Burnet, D. D., late Lord Bishop of Salisbury, with the Collection of Records and a copious Index, revised and corrected, with additional Notes and a Preface, by the Rev. E. Nares, D. D., late Professor of Modern History in the University of Oxford. Illustrated with a Frontispiece and twenty-three engraved Portraits. Four volumes, 8vo. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

Bishop Burnet’s celebrated History of the Reformation in England is one of those standard works which a gentleman is ashamed not to have read. Respecting the important period to which it relates, there are few productions so frequently consulted by more modern writers, and its intrinsic excellence must ever make it desirable, not only to scholars and persons familiar with the advancement of civil and ecclesiastical affairs, but to young students in history and general readers. Of the ability of Doctor Nares, we confess we have not a very high opinion—having, it may be, imbibed some prejudices against him from Macauley—but, as the English critics all concur, so far as we have seen, in the opinion that his edition of this work is the best extant, we are bound to believe that he has, in one instance, done his duty well. If the work has any defects they are such as we are unable to detect.

Burnet’s History of the Reformation, though frequently republished in England, has never before been printed in America, and the high price of the English impressions here kept it from the libraries of many who will now obtain it. The copy before us is creditable to the publishers, in all but the portraits, which, with deference to the taste of Messrs. Appleton, we think add very little to its value or beauty.

Cottage Residences; or a Series of Designs for Rural Cottages and Cottage Villas and their Gardens and Grounds, adapted to North America. By A. J. Downing. Illustrated by numerous Engravings. One volume, 8vo. New York: Wiley & Putnam.

Mr. Downing’sprevious publication, on Landscape Gardening, has made or should have made his name familiar to all for whom rural life has charms. This new book, on a cognate subject, the application of moderate means to country residences, is, like that, eminently calculated to advance among us elegance, comfort, in a word,civilization; and we hope, therefore, that it will be universally studied. Mr. Downing’s object is to inspire the minds of his readers with a vivid perception of thebeautifulin every thing that relates to our houses and grounds—to awaken a quicker sense of the grace or picturesqueness of fine forms that may be produced in these by rural architecture and ornamental gardening—a sense which will not only refine and elevate the mind, but pour into it new and infinite resources of delight. In his preface he remarks that he wishes to imbue all persons with a love of beautiful forms and a desire to assemble them around their daily walks of life; to appreciate how superior is the charm of that home where we discover the tasteful cottage or villa, and the well designed and neatly kept garden or grounds, full of beauty and harmony—not the less beautiful and harmonious because simple and limited—and to become aware that these superior forms, and the higher and more refined enjoyment derived from them, may be had at the same cost and the same labor as a clumsy dwelling, and its uncouth and ill-designed accessories. “More than all,” he continues, “I desire to see these sentiments cherished for their pure and moral tendency. ‘Allbeautyis an outward expression of inward good,’ and so closely are the Beautiful and True allied, that we shall find, if we become sincere lovers of the grace, the harmony, and the loveliness, with which rural homes and rural life are capable of being invested, that we are silently opening our hearts to an influence which is higher and deeper than the meresymbol; and that if we have worshiped in the true spirit, we shall have caught a nearer glimpse of the Great Master whose words, in all his material universe, are written in lines of Beauty.”

The whole volume, throughout, bears witness of the cultivated intellect from which it sprung, and of the author’s fine taste and enthusiastic appreciation of the attractions of a country life. It is printed and embellished as such a work should be. We heartily commend it to the attention of country gentlemen.

Johnsoniana; or a Supplement to Boswell; being Anecdotes and Sayings of Doctor Johnson, Collected from Mrs. Piozzi, George Steevens, W. Pepys, Doctor Beattie, John Northcote, John Hoole, Sir John Hawkins, Sir Josh. Reynolds, Cowper, Dugald Stewart, Edmund Malone, Sir James Mackintosh, Doctor Moor, Doctor Parr, Bishop Horne, etc. Edited by John Wilson Croker. One vol. 12mo., pp. 530. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart, 1842.

This is a very entertaining volume, and an indispensable companion to Boswell—embodying, as it does, every anecdote of the literary dictator which that model biographer omitted in his life of him, gathered from nearly a hundred different publications. It might, however, have been made better, had its publication been deferred until the appearance of Madame D’Arblay’s Memoirs. It is embellished with finely engraved portraits of Johnson, Boswell, Beauclerk, Mrs. Piozzi and Mr. Thrale.

The History of Fiction: Being a Critical Account of the most Celebrated Prose Works of Fiction, from the Earliest Greek Romances to the Novels of the Present Day. By John Dunlap. Two volumes, 12mo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart.

During the recent summer there has been republished in this country no book for the library more interesting or valuable than this History of Fiction. It was first printed at Edinburgh in 1814, and two years after a second and much improved edition appeared in the same city, of which this by Messrs. Carey & Hart is a reproduction. The History of Fiction is intimately connected with the history of the advancement of society, and is therefore interesting to the philosopher as well as the man of letters. Mr. Dunlap traces separately the progress of the romances of chivalry, the Italian tales, the spiritual romance, the pastoral stories, the French novels, the modern English novels and romances, etc., and gives analysis—so far as our very limited acquaintance with them enables us to judge, correct and sufficiently full to convey a just idea of their character and merit—of the early and rare productions which form the landmarks of his subject. Our own impressions do not on all points correspond with those of Mr. Dunlap; and we think he erred in confining his History toprosefictions only, as the creations of the poets, though earlier and in all ways superior, resemble them too nearly in their chief characteristics to be regarded separately.

Random Shots and Southern Breezes: Containing Critical Remarks on the Southern States and Southern Institutions, with semi-serious Observations on Men and Manners. By Louis Fitzgerald Tasistro, Author of “The Revolution of July,” etc. Two vols. 12mo. New York, Harper & Brothers.

This is a lively and entertaining journal of a professional tour through the southern and western parts of the Union, in the autumn and winter of 1840. Blended with his narrative and comments on society, Mr. Tasistro has given opinions and critical essays on a great variety of subjects connected with literature and art, which with men of taste will be regarded as the most attractive parts of the work.

A Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs, for the Voice. Philadelphia, J. Dobson.

The lovers of Scottish music will be gratified to learn that this celebrated work—originally published in five volumes at Edinburgh by G. Thompson—is being republished in this country. It has introductory and concluding symphonies and accompaniments to each air, for the piano-forte, violin, flute, etc. composed by Pleyel, Haydn, Weber, Beethoven and others, with the most admired ancient and modern Scottish and English songs, inclusive of the one hundred or more written for it by Burns. We know of no musical work that will be more prized by the professed artist or the amateur.

George Saint George Julian, the Prince. By Henry Cockton. With Illustrations. One volume, octavo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart.

A novel of great popularity and little merit. The admirers of “Valentine Vox,” by the same author, will doubtless be pleased with it.

Gems from the American Female Poets: With Brief Biographical Notices. By Rufus W. Griswold. Second Edition. One volume, 12mo. pp. 192. Philadelphia, Herman Hooker.

In this elegant little volume the editor has given what he deems the best compositions of some forty American ladies who have written in metre. The second edition is enlarged and otherwise improved. We understand the volume has been introduced into many of the young ladies’ seminaries as a reading book, for which purpose it seems to be well adapted.

The Gift, a Christmas and New Year’s Present, for MDCCCXLIII. One volume octavo. With Engravings from Malbone, Huntington, Inman, Chapman, Sully, etc., by Cheney, Dodson, Pease, etc. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart.

The new volume of the Gift surpasses in the style of its typography and the merit of its pictorial embellishments any annual ever published in this country; and its literary contents will not suffer by comparison with those of any work, American or foreign, of the same description. To prove the correctness of this opinion we have only to remark that all the writers—save one or two of an indifferent stamp of whom we never heard before—are contributors to this magazine. The picture from Huntington—miscalled “Mercy’sDream"—is one of the most exquisite productions in its way with which we are acquainted; “The News-Boy,” from Inman, represents the class which it is designed to portray to the life; and the head from Malbone shows that the high reputation of that artist was not undeserved. The picture from Chapman we cannot praise—a head of eight on a body of eighteen is in bad taste, to say the least of it. The best prose papers in the volume are those by Mrs. “Mary Clavers,” Mr. Smith, Mr. Herbert and Mr. Simms; and the best poem is the one commencing on the first page, by Mrs. Seba Smith.

The Hand Book of Needlework: With Numerous Engravings. By Miss Lambert. One vol. 8vo. New York, Wiley & Putnam.

One of the most beautiful books of the season. It embraces ample instructions for drawing patterns, framing and properly finishing needlework, and a curious history of its progress from the days of Moses to the accession of Queen Victoria! The American edition is superior in its execution to that published in London. It will doubtless be among the most popular gift works of the approaching holiday season.

Hope Leslie: or Early Times in the Massachusetts. By the Author of “The Linwoods,” “The Poor Rich Man,” “Redwood,” “Live and Let Live,” “Letters from Abroad,” etc. Two vols. New York, Harper & Brothers.

We are pleased to see a new edition of this popular novel—the first, and in some respects the best, of Miss Sedgwick’s productions.

The Rose of Sharon: a Religious Souvenir; for 1843. Boston, Abel Tompkins.

A very elegant volume, in which the sentiments of the Universalist denomination are inculcated.

EDITOR’S TABLE.

Permettez que je faisse les chansons d’un peuple, et il fera les lois qui le veut, remarked, in substance, some shrewd Frenchman; and that he rated not too high the power of song is shown by numerous instances in both ancient and modern history. It has been lamented that we have in America no martial lyrics comparable to those of the older nations.Holmesexclaims in one of his admirable poems⁠—

When Gallia’s flag its triple fold displays,Her marshaled legions peal the Marseillaise;When round the German close the war-clouds dim,Far through their shadows floats his battle hymn;When, crowned with joy the camps of England ring,A thousand voices shout “God save the King!”When Victory follows with our eagle’s glance,Our nation’s anthem is acountry dance.[7]

When Gallia’s flag its triple fold displays,

Her marshaled legions peal the Marseillaise;

When round the German close the war-clouds dim,

Far through their shadows floats his battle hymn;

When, crowned with joy the camps of England ring,

A thousand voices shout “God save the King!”

When Victory follows with our eagle’s glance,

Our nation’s anthem is acountry dance.[7]

[7]The popular air of “Yankee Doodle,” like the dagger of Hudibras, serves a pacific as well as a martial purpose.

[7]

The popular air of “Yankee Doodle,” like the dagger of Hudibras, serves a pacific as well as a martial purpose.

But the martial song belongs to more warlike countries. France, Germany and England are vast fortified districts, echoing forever the din of conflict or the notes of military preparation; while America is the resting-place of Peace, whence her influence is to irradiate the world. Or, if a different destiny awaits her, there is little danger but that⁠—

When the roused nation bids her armies form,And screams her eagle through the gathering storm,When from our ports the bannered frigate rides,Her black bows scowling to the crested tides,

When the roused nation bids her armies form,

And screams her eagle through the gathering storm,

When from our ports the bannered frigate rides,

Her black bows scowling to the crested tides,

Some proud muse

Will rend the silence of our tented plainsAnd bid the nations tremble at her strains.

Will rend the silence of our tented plains

And bid the nations tremble at her strains.

The puritan settlers of New England, while carrying on war against the Indian tribes, deemed it right to spend the hours their enemies devoted to profane dances and incantations, in singing verses, half military and half religious; and their actions in the field were celebrated in ballads which lacked none of the spirit and fidelity of the songs of the old bards and scalds, however deficient they may have been in metrical array and sentiment. “Lovewell’s Fight,” “The Gallant Church,” “Smith’s Affair at Sidelong Hill,” and “The Godless French Soldier,” are among the best lyrical compositions of the early period in which they were written, and are not without value as historical records. At the commencement of the Revolution,Barlow,Trumbull,Dwight,Humphreys, and other “Connecticut wits,” employed their leisure in writing patriotic songs for the soldiers and the people, “which,” says a life of Putnam, “had great effect through the country.” “I do not know,” wrote Barlow on entering the army, “whether I shall do more for the cause in the capacity of chaplain than I could in that of poet; I have great faith in the influence of songs; and I shall continue, while fulfilling the duties of my appointment, to write one now and then, and to encourage the taste for them which I find in the camp. One good song is worth a dozen addresses or proclamations.” The great song-writer of the Revolution, however, wasFreneau, whose pieces were everywhere sung with enthusiasm. He was a keen satirist, and wrote with remarkable facility; but his lyrics were often profane and vulgar, while those written in New England, on account of their style and cast of thought, were stigmatized by the celebrated ParsonPetersas “psalms and hymns adapted to the tastes of Yankee rebels.” The following is a characteristic specimen:

WAR SONG.—Written in 1776.Hark, hark, the sound of War is heard,And we must all attend;Take up our arms and go with speedOur country to defend.Our parent state has turned our foe,Which fills our land with pain;Her gallant ships manned out for warCome thundering o’er the main.There’sCarleton,Howe, andClintontoo,And many thousands more,May cross the sea, but all in vain;Our rights we’ll ne’er give o’er.Our pleasant land they do invade,Our property devour;And all because we won’t submitTo their despotic power.Then let us go against our foes,We’d better die than yield;We and our sons are all undoneIf Britain win the field.Tories may dream of future joys,But I am bold to say,They’ll find themselves bound fast in chainsIf Britain wins the day.Husbands must leave their loving wivesAnd sprightly youths attend,Leave their sweethearts and risk their livesTheir country to defend.May they be heroes in the field,Have heroes’ fame in store;We pray the Lord to be their shieldWhere thundering cannons roar.

WAR SONG.—Written in 1776.

Hark, hark, the sound of War is heard,And we must all attend;Take up our arms and go with speedOur country to defend.

Hark, hark, the sound of War is heard,

And we must all attend;

Take up our arms and go with speed

Our country to defend.

Our parent state has turned our foe,Which fills our land with pain;Her gallant ships manned out for warCome thundering o’er the main.

Our parent state has turned our foe,

Which fills our land with pain;

Her gallant ships manned out for war

Come thundering o’er the main.

There’sCarleton,Howe, andClintontoo,And many thousands more,May cross the sea, but all in vain;Our rights we’ll ne’er give o’er.

There’sCarleton,Howe, andClintontoo,

And many thousands more,

May cross the sea, but all in vain;

Our rights we’ll ne’er give o’er.

Our pleasant land they do invade,Our property devour;And all because we won’t submitTo their despotic power.

Our pleasant land they do invade,

Our property devour;

And all because we won’t submit

To their despotic power.

Then let us go against our foes,We’d better die than yield;We and our sons are all undoneIf Britain win the field.

Then let us go against our foes,

We’d better die than yield;

We and our sons are all undone

If Britain win the field.

Tories may dream of future joys,But I am bold to say,They’ll find themselves bound fast in chainsIf Britain wins the day.

Tories may dream of future joys,

But I am bold to say,

They’ll find themselves bound fast in chains

If Britain wins the day.

Husbands must leave their loving wivesAnd sprightly youths attend,Leave their sweethearts and risk their livesTheir country to defend.

Husbands must leave their loving wives

And sprightly youths attend,

Leave their sweethearts and risk their lives

Their country to defend.

May they be heroes in the field,Have heroes’ fame in store;We pray the Lord to be their shieldWhere thundering cannons roar.

May they be heroes in the field,

Have heroes’ fame in store;

We pray the Lord to be their shield

Where thundering cannons roar.

The oldest of the lyrics we shall present in this paper—we reserve, perhaps for a future number, the historical songs and ballads unconnected with the Revolution—is the “Patriot’s Appeal,” printed in the Pennsylvania Chronicle, at Philadelphia, on the 4th of July, just eight years before the Declaration of Independence. We copy it from a ballad sheet, dated in 1775.

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