THE BRICKMAKER.

———

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

———

I.Let the blinded horse go roundTill the yellow clay be ground;Let no weary arms be foldedTill the mass to brick be moulded.In no stately structures skilled,What’s the temple we would build?When its massive walls are risenCall it palace—call it prison;View it well from end to end,See its arching courts extend!’Tis a prison, not a palace!Hear the culprit vent his malice!Hear the mad and fettered firePour the torrent of his ire!Wrought anon to wilder spells,Hear him tell his loud alarms,See him thrust his glowing armsThrough the windows of his cells!But his chains at last shall sever,Slavery lives not forever;And the thickest prison wallInto ruin yet must fall!Whatsoever falls awaySpringeth up again, they say;Then when this shall fall asunder,And the fire be freed from under,Tell us then what stately thingFrom the ruin shallupspring?There shall grow a stately building,Airy dome and columned walls;Mottoes writ in richest gildingShall be blazing through its halls.In those chambers, stern and dreadedThey, the mighty ones, shall stand;There shall be hoary-headedOld defenders of the land.There shall wondrous words be spoken,Which shall thrill a list’ning world;Then shall ancient bonds be brokenAnd new banners be unfurled!But anon these glorious usesIn those chambers shall lie dead,And the world’s antique abuses,Hydra-headed, rise instead.But this wrong not long shall linger⁠—The old capitol must fall;For behold the fiery fingerFlames along the fated wall!

Let the blinded horse go roundTill the yellow clay be ground;Let no weary arms be foldedTill the mass to brick be moulded.

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded.

In no stately structures skilled,What’s the temple we would build?When its massive walls are risenCall it palace—call it prison;View it well from end to end,See its arching courts extend!’Tis a prison, not a palace!Hear the culprit vent his malice!Hear the mad and fettered firePour the torrent of his ire!Wrought anon to wilder spells,Hear him tell his loud alarms,See him thrust his glowing armsThrough the windows of his cells!

In no stately structures skilled,

What’s the temple we would build?

When its massive walls are risen

Call it palace—call it prison;

View it well from end to end,

See its arching courts extend!

’Tis a prison, not a palace!

Hear the culprit vent his malice!

Hear the mad and fettered fire

Pour the torrent of his ire!

Wrought anon to wilder spells,

Hear him tell his loud alarms,

See him thrust his glowing arms

Through the windows of his cells!

But his chains at last shall sever,Slavery lives not forever;And the thickest prison wallInto ruin yet must fall!Whatsoever falls awaySpringeth up again, they say;Then when this shall fall asunder,And the fire be freed from under,Tell us then what stately thingFrom the ruin shallupspring?

But his chains at last shall sever,

Slavery lives not forever;

And the thickest prison wall

Into ruin yet must fall!

Whatsoever falls away

Springeth up again, they say;

Then when this shall fall asunder,

And the fire be freed from under,

Tell us then what stately thing

From the ruin shallupspring?

There shall grow a stately building,Airy dome and columned walls;Mottoes writ in richest gildingShall be blazing through its halls.

There shall grow a stately building,

Airy dome and columned walls;

Mottoes writ in richest gilding

Shall be blazing through its halls.

In those chambers, stern and dreadedThey, the mighty ones, shall stand;There shall be hoary-headedOld defenders of the land.

In those chambers, stern and dreaded

They, the mighty ones, shall stand;

There shall be hoary-headed

Old defenders of the land.

There shall wondrous words be spoken,Which shall thrill a list’ning world;Then shall ancient bonds be brokenAnd new banners be unfurled!

There shall wondrous words be spoken,

Which shall thrill a list’ning world;

Then shall ancient bonds be broken

And new banners be unfurled!

But anon these glorious usesIn those chambers shall lie dead,And the world’s antique abuses,Hydra-headed, rise instead.

But anon these glorious uses

In those chambers shall lie dead,

And the world’s antique abuses,

Hydra-headed, rise instead.

But this wrong not long shall linger⁠—The old capitol must fall;For behold the fiery fingerFlames along the fated wall!

But this wrong not long shall linger⁠—

The old capitol must fall;

For behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

II.Let the blinded horse go roundTill the yellow clay be ground;Let no weary arms be foldedTill the mass to brick be moulded;Till the heavy walls be risenAnd the fire is in his prison:Then when break the walls asunderAnd the fire is freed from under,Say again what stately thingFrom the ruin shall upspring?

II.

Let the blinded horse go roundTill the yellow clay be ground;Let no weary arms be foldedTill the mass to brick be moulded;Till the heavy walls be risenAnd the fire is in his prison:Then when break the walls asunderAnd the fire is freed from under,Say again what stately thingFrom the ruin shall upspring?

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded;

Till the heavy walls be risen

And the fire is in his prison:

Then when break the walls asunder

And the fire is freed from under,

Say again what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a church whose steepleTo the heavens shall aspire,There shall come the mighty peopleTo the music of the choir.O’er the infant, robed in whiteness,There shall sacred waters fall,While the child’s own angel-brightnessSheds a halo over all.There shall stand enwreathed in marriageForms that tremble—hearts that thrill;To the door Death’s sable carriageShall bring forms and hearts grown still!To the sound of pipes that glistenRustling wealth shall tread the aisle;And the poor, without, shall listen,Praying in their hearts the while.There the veteran shall come weeklyWith his cane, and bending o’er’Mid the horses stand, how meekly,Gazing at the open door.But these wrongs not long shall linger⁠—The presumptuous pile must fall,For behold the fiery fingerFlames along the fated wall!

There shall grow a church whose steepleTo the heavens shall aspire,There shall come the mighty peopleTo the music of the choir.

There shall grow a church whose steeple

To the heavens shall aspire,

There shall come the mighty people

To the music of the choir.

O’er the infant, robed in whiteness,There shall sacred waters fall,While the child’s own angel-brightnessSheds a halo over all.

O’er the infant, robed in whiteness,

There shall sacred waters fall,

While the child’s own angel-brightness

Sheds a halo over all.

There shall stand enwreathed in marriageForms that tremble—hearts that thrill;To the door Death’s sable carriageShall bring forms and hearts grown still!

There shall stand enwreathed in marriage

Forms that tremble—hearts that thrill;

To the door Death’s sable carriage

Shall bring forms and hearts grown still!

To the sound of pipes that glistenRustling wealth shall tread the aisle;And the poor, without, shall listen,Praying in their hearts the while.

To the sound of pipes that glisten

Rustling wealth shall tread the aisle;

And the poor, without, shall listen,

Praying in their hearts the while.

There the veteran shall come weeklyWith his cane, and bending o’er’Mid the horses stand, how meekly,Gazing at the open door.

There the veteran shall come weekly

With his cane, and bending o’er

’Mid the horses stand, how meekly,

Gazing at the open door.

But these wrongs not long shall linger⁠—The presumptuous pile must fall,For behold the fiery fingerFlames along the fated wall!

But these wrongs not long shall linger⁠—

The presumptuous pile must fall,

For behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

III.Let the blinded horse go roundTill the yellow clay be ground;Let no weary arms be foldedTill the mass to brick be moulded,Say again what stately thingFrom the ruin shall upspring?

III.

Let the blinded horse go roundTill the yellow clay be ground;Let no weary arms be foldedTill the mass to brick be moulded,Say again what stately thingFrom the ruin shall upspring?

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded,

Say again what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

Not the dome and columned chambers,Starred with words of liberty,Where the Freedom-canting membersFeel no impulse of the free.Nor the pile where souls in errorHear the words, “Go, sin no more!”But a dusky thing of terrorWith its cells and grated door!To its inmates each to-morrowShall bring in no tide of joy.Born in darkness and in sorrowThere shall stand the fated boy.With a grief too loud to smother,With a throbbing, burning head⁠—There shall groan some desperate mother,Nor deny the stolen bread!There the veteran, a poor debtor,Marked with honorable scars,List’ning to some clanking fetter,Shall gaze idly through the bars:⁠—Shall gaze idly, not demurring,Though with thick oppressions bowed;While the thousands doubly erringShall go honored through the crowd!Yet these wrongs not long shall linger⁠—The benighted pile must fall,For behold the fiery fingerFlames along the fated wall!

Not the dome and columned chambers,Starred with words of liberty,Where the Freedom-canting membersFeel no impulse of the free.

Not the dome and columned chambers,

Starred with words of liberty,

Where the Freedom-canting members

Feel no impulse of the free.

Nor the pile where souls in errorHear the words, “Go, sin no more!”But a dusky thing of terrorWith its cells and grated door!

Nor the pile where souls in error

Hear the words, “Go, sin no more!”

But a dusky thing of terror

With its cells and grated door!

To its inmates each to-morrowShall bring in no tide of joy.Born in darkness and in sorrowThere shall stand the fated boy.

To its inmates each to-morrow

Shall bring in no tide of joy.

Born in darkness and in sorrow

There shall stand the fated boy.

With a grief too loud to smother,With a throbbing, burning head⁠—There shall groan some desperate mother,Nor deny the stolen bread!

With a grief too loud to smother,

With a throbbing, burning head⁠—

There shall groan some desperate mother,

Nor deny the stolen bread!

There the veteran, a poor debtor,Marked with honorable scars,List’ning to some clanking fetter,Shall gaze idly through the bars:⁠—

There the veteran, a poor debtor,

Marked with honorable scars,

List’ning to some clanking fetter,

Shall gaze idly through the bars:⁠—

Shall gaze idly, not demurring,Though with thick oppressions bowed;While the thousands doubly erringShall go honored through the crowd!

Shall gaze idly, not demurring,

Though with thick oppressions bowed;

While the thousands doubly erring

Shall go honored through the crowd!

Yet these wrongs not long shall linger⁠—The benighted pile must fall,For behold the fiery fingerFlames along the fated wall!

Yet these wrongs not long shall linger⁠—

The benighted pile must fall,

For behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

IV.Let the blinded horse go roundTill the yellow clay be ground;Let no weary arms be foldedTill the mass to brick be moulded;Till the heavy walls be risenAnd the fire is in his prison!Every dome and church and jail,Like this structure, soon must fail;Every shape of earth shall fade!But the temple God hath made,For the sorely tried and pure,With its Builder shall endure!

IV.

Let the blinded horse go roundTill the yellow clay be ground;Let no weary arms be foldedTill the mass to brick be moulded;Till the heavy walls be risenAnd the fire is in his prison!Every dome and church and jail,Like this structure, soon must fail;Every shape of earth shall fade!But the temple God hath made,For the sorely tried and pure,With its Builder shall endure!

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded;

Till the heavy walls be risen

And the fire is in his prison!

Every dome and church and jail,

Like this structure, soon must fail;

Every shape of earth shall fade!

But the temple God hath made,

For the sorely tried and pure,

With its Builder shall endure!

TO MRS. A. T.

———

BY DR. JNO. C. M’CABE.

———

I would, oh! gentle lady, that the minstrel’s art were mine,I’d weave a wreath of poesy as an off’ring at thy shrine;But my wild and tuneless harp in vain essays its meed to bring,And the brooding spirit of despair has hushed each trembling string.In vain, in vain I’ve tried to wake some gentle lay for thee,But the chords refuse the melody they once gave out for me;And when I fain a few wild notes from memory’s lyre would sweep,Sad spirits of the past appear and mournful vigils keep.There was a time when borne along on wild ambition’s wing,I sought to place my name above—where storied minstrels sing;Nor dreamed the crown, so bright and green, by laureate genius worn,Though gorgeous to the eye, each leaf concealed a cruel thorn.But when I saw that those who gazed above with eagle eye,And dared the tempest and the storm of fate’s malignant sky,With folded wing, and wearied foot sat down at evening’s gloom,And sought beneath the withered flowers a rest within the tomb;’Twas then I bade the spell dissolve that chained my soul so long,And sighed a trembling, sad farewell to all entrancing song;And though I may not weep that I forsook sweet poesy’s train,A foolish boy—I sometimes wish I was her child again!When gentle ones like thee invoke, then, then I feel how dearThe boon I madly forfeited, nor gave one farewell tear;The gift of song, oh! hallowed gift! Song, bright, entrancing, sweet!Had I again its rosy wreath I’d fling it at thy feet!

I would, oh! gentle lady, that the minstrel’s art were mine,

I’d weave a wreath of poesy as an off’ring at thy shrine;

But my wild and tuneless harp in vain essays its meed to bring,

And the brooding spirit of despair has hushed each trembling string.

In vain, in vain I’ve tried to wake some gentle lay for thee,But the chords refuse the melody they once gave out for me;And when I fain a few wild notes from memory’s lyre would sweep,Sad spirits of the past appear and mournful vigils keep.

In vain, in vain I’ve tried to wake some gentle lay for thee,

But the chords refuse the melody they once gave out for me;

And when I fain a few wild notes from memory’s lyre would sweep,

Sad spirits of the past appear and mournful vigils keep.

There was a time when borne along on wild ambition’s wing,I sought to place my name above—where storied minstrels sing;Nor dreamed the crown, so bright and green, by laureate genius worn,Though gorgeous to the eye, each leaf concealed a cruel thorn.

There was a time when borne along on wild ambition’s wing,

I sought to place my name above—where storied minstrels sing;

Nor dreamed the crown, so bright and green, by laureate genius worn,

Though gorgeous to the eye, each leaf concealed a cruel thorn.

But when I saw that those who gazed above with eagle eye,And dared the tempest and the storm of fate’s malignant sky,With folded wing, and wearied foot sat down at evening’s gloom,And sought beneath the withered flowers a rest within the tomb;

But when I saw that those who gazed above with eagle eye,

And dared the tempest and the storm of fate’s malignant sky,

With folded wing, and wearied foot sat down at evening’s gloom,

And sought beneath the withered flowers a rest within the tomb;

’Twas then I bade the spell dissolve that chained my soul so long,And sighed a trembling, sad farewell to all entrancing song;And though I may not weep that I forsook sweet poesy’s train,A foolish boy—I sometimes wish I was her child again!

’Twas then I bade the spell dissolve that chained my soul so long,

And sighed a trembling, sad farewell to all entrancing song;

And though I may not weep that I forsook sweet poesy’s train,

A foolish boy—I sometimes wish I was her child again!

When gentle ones like thee invoke, then, then I feel how dearThe boon I madly forfeited, nor gave one farewell tear;The gift of song, oh! hallowed gift! Song, bright, entrancing, sweet!Had I again its rosy wreath I’d fling it at thy feet!

When gentle ones like thee invoke, then, then I feel how dear

The boon I madly forfeited, nor gave one farewell tear;

The gift of song, oh! hallowed gift! Song, bright, entrancing, sweet!

Had I again its rosy wreath I’d fling it at thy feet!

’Tis gone, ’tis gone! I may no more its thrilling impulse feel,Yet I can pray for thee and thine, when to my God I kneel;And, gentle lady, well I know thou wilt not, wouldst not, blame,Instead of song that I should blend God’s blessings with thy name.May every joy that life can give, around thy path be strewn,May its young morn to thee foreshow a bright and happy noon;And when thy last sweet song on earth in lapses faint is given,Oh may it be a prelude soft to deathless strains in Heaven!

’Tis gone, ’tis gone! I may no more its thrilling impulse feel,

Yet I can pray for thee and thine, when to my God I kneel;

And, gentle lady, well I know thou wilt not, wouldst not, blame,

Instead of song that I should blend God’s blessings with thy name.

May every joy that life can give, around thy path be strewn,May its young morn to thee foreshow a bright and happy noon;And when thy last sweet song on earth in lapses faint is given,Oh may it be a prelude soft to deathless strains in Heaven!

May every joy that life can give, around thy path be strewn,

May its young morn to thee foreshow a bright and happy noon;

And when thy last sweet song on earth in lapses faint is given,

Oh may it be a prelude soft to deathless strains in Heaven!

AMERICAN INDIANS.

WITH AN ENGRAVING.

We have thought proper, in conducting a magazine of higher reputation and aim than the usual run of the light periodicals of the day, to devote a part of the pictorial department to pictures of American Scenery and Indian Portraiture, as better fitted to give the work a permanent value in libraries and on centre-tables, than the ordinary catch-penny pictures which disgrace a number of the magazines. Our illustrations of Southern and Western Scenery have commanded the respect and support of a very large class of readers; and the constantly growing celebrity and profit of Graham’s Magazine, indicate that we have judged wisely and well.

We have engaged the services of Mr. Bird, the author of “Nick of the Woods,” “Calavar,” etc., to furnish us a series of articles upon the Indians of America; a writer whose intimate acquaintance with the subject promises articles of great interest to our readers. We present our subscribers this month with an admirably drawn and engraved plate of Saukie and Fox Indians “on the look out.” Also, a beautiful view of a Waterfall in Georgia.

Ch. Bodmer pinx. ad. nat. Engdby Rawdon, Wright & HatchSaukie and Fox Indians

Ch. Bodmer pinx. ad. nat. Engdby Rawdon, Wright & Hatch

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Poems. By Ralph Waldo Emerson. Boston: James Munroe & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

We cannot do justice either to the faults or merits of this singular volume, in a brief notice. The author has one of the most peculiar and original minds of which we have any record in literature, and a thorough analysis of his powers, even if successful, would occupy a large space. No reader of Mr. Emerson’s works need be informed that the poems are full of imagination, fancy, and feeling, and display a great command of expression. For our own part we prefer those poems in the volume which are least connected with the author’s system of ethics and metaphysics, such as “Each and All,” “The Forerunners,” “The Humble Bee,” and “The Problem.” In many of the others there is an evident attempt at versifying opinions; and the opinions are generally of that kind which readers will either pronounce unintelligible, or false and pernicious. “The Sphinx,” “Woodnotes,” “Merlin,” “Initial, Demoniac, and Celestial Love,” “Blight,” “Threnody,” and many other pieces, though containing many deep and delicate imaginations, are chiefly remarkable as embodying a theory of life, and system of religion, whose peculiarity consists in inverting the common beliefs and feelings of mankind. Here and there we perceive traces of the leading idea contained in that aggregation of fancy, sensibility, blasphemy, licentiousness, plagiarism, and noble sentiments, going under the name of “Vestus,”—we mean the idea that there is no essential difference between evil and good. Thus, in the “pure realm” to which celestial love mounts, in Mr. Emerson’s theory of love,

“Good and ill,And joy and moan,Melt into one.”

“Good and ill,

And joy and moan,

Melt into one.”

Perhaps this opinion is a necessary result of the principles of pantheism, but it makes as bad poetry as false philosophy. Indeed, Mr. Emerson’s poems expressive of opinions, are the harshest in metre, and least poetical in feeling, which the volume contains; and cannot be compared, in respect to artistical merit, with the prose statements of the same, or similar doctrines, in his “Essays.”

Chaucer and Spenser. Selections from the Writings of Geoffrey Chaucer, by Charles D. Deshler. Spenser and the Fairy Queen. By Mrs. C. M. Kirkland. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 Parts. 12mo.

Such a work as this deserves an extensive circulation, and we wish that any advice of ours could impel our readers to procure it. Here, in a compact and available form, are some of the finest passages in English poetry. The selections from Chaucer were evidently a labor of love to Mr. Deshler, and he has hit upon those portions most likely to entertain the reader, and awake an affection for the poet. The life of Chaucer, and the criticism of his mind and works, is exceedingly genial and truthful.

Mrs. Kirkland has done equal justice to Spenser. Taken together, these volumes cannot be praised too highly, and their circulation through the country would do much to raise the taste of the community. Although these poets occupy the first rank among English authors, they are known but imperfectly to the large majority of readers. The publishers deserve the thanks of the public for issuing them in a form, at once cheap and elegant, so that the treasures of thought and imagination they contain can be placed within the reach of the humblest lovers of poetry.

The Modern Standard Drama: A Collection of the most Popular Acting Plays, with Critical Remarks, &c. Edited by Epes Sargent. New York: Wm. Taylor & Co. 4 Vols. 12mo.

This publication has now run to forty numbers, and promises to be the best of all the various collections of acting plays. It is edited by Epes Sargent, Esq., a gentleman whose knowledge of the stage and of English dramatic literature is very extensive, and who is himself well known as a fine poet and successful dramatist. To members of the profession the collection is invaluable, as it contains directions regarding stage business, costumes, and other information of much importance. As a work, also, for the general reader, it has great merits. It is to contain all the standard plays produced within the last two centuries, and also the popular dramas of the present day, including those of Knowles, Bulwer, and Talfourd. Mr. Sargent introduces each play with a biographical and critical notice, referring to the great actors who have won renown in its principal character, and discussing also its intrinsic merits. The field of selection is very rich and extensive, and includes much, in tragedy and in comedy, of which no one can be ignorant, who pretends to have on acquaintance with the masterpieces of English genius. Down to the middle of the last century, a large proportion of the best English poets were dramatic writers. The theatre was the place where, in fact, the poet was published. Thousands heard and saw, who never read. A body of dramatic literature, therefore, on the comprehensive plan adopted by Mr. Sargeant, will contain a large number of plays which are part and parcel of English literature.

Letters on Astronomy, Addressed to a Lady, in which the Elements of the Science are Familiarly Explained in Connection with its Literary History. With numerous Engravings. By Denison Olmstead, LL. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 Vol. 12mo.

This is one of the best popular works on astronomical science which we have seen. It is clear in exposition, familiar in style, and orderly in arrangement. There is, of course, nothing of the quackery which disgraces many works of popularized science. The author is Professor of Natural Philosophy in Yale College.

Songs and Ballads, by Samuel Lover. Including those sung in his Irish Evenings, and hitherto unpublished. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 Vol. 12mo.

Sam Lover is a name which would sell this book even if its merits were below mediocrity. Personally, and as a writer, he has wrinkled with happy smiles the faces of thousands. The volume, as might be expected, is brimful of sentiment and fun, gushing out of a true Irish heart and brain, and instinct with animation and good feeling. Many of the songs have been sung by himself, at his “Irish Evenings,” in the principal cities of the Union. The book could have no better advertisement than the recollection of the entertainment they occasioned.

The Poems of Thomas Campbell. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 16mo.

This is the best and most complete edition of Campbell yet issued in the United States. It contains a handsome portrait, six fine steel engravings, a racy life of the author from Frazer’s Magazine, the brilliant essay on his genius and writings contained in Gilfillan’s “Literary Portraits,” and all of Campbell’s later productions, including the melancholy rhymes entitled “The Pilgrim of Glencoe.” In this volume we see Campbell in the dawn, progress, and sottish decline of his powers—as the author at once of the most spirit-stirring lyrics and most beautiful romantic poems, and as the feeble poetaster, mumbling in his old age a few verses of polished imbecility, hateful to gods and men. The greater part of the volume, however, is, in its kind, of first rate excellence, and will live with the language. We have only to regret that Campbell did not write more poetry while his genius was in its prime. What he has written has passed into the hearts and memories of his countrymen, to a greater extent, perhaps, than the poetry of any of his contemporaries, even of those who were his superiors in the range of their genius. Byron, Scott, and Moore, are the only modern poets who approach him in popularity. Wordsworth, Coleridge, andShelley, are still the poets of a few, in spite of the endeavors of publishers and critics to make them poets of the million. We think each of them superior to Campbell in genius, but we should despair of ever seeing them his equals in popularity. One element of his success is the moral character of his writings, and his sweetness and purity of sentiment; yet all accounts seem to concur in representing him, personally, as sottish in his habits, coarse in his conversation, and not without malice and envy in his disposition. Perhaps his intemperance was the source of many of his errors; and his intemperance had its source in laziness. Judging from the records of his conversation, it is fortunate that the vices of Campbell’s tongue were not the vices of his pen.

English Synonymes Classified and Explained. By G. F. Graham. Edited by Henry Reed, LL. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

To the student of verbal distinctions this volume will be an important aid. The author points out the shades of distinction between apparently synonymous words with an admirable nicety of criticism. The study of the book will tend to sharpen the intellect. It is very much better than thechattywork of Mrs. Piozzi, and the heavy quarto of Dr. Crabbe, on the same subject. We note some occasional blunders, such as the distinction drawn between genius and talent, and understanding and intellect; but these are but exceptions to the general rule of correctness. Prof. Reed has furnished on introduction, and apt illustrative quotations from Shakspeare, Milton, and Wordsworth.

History of the Netherlands; Trial and Execution of Count Egmont and Thorn; and the Siege of Antwerp. Translated from the German of Frederic Schiller. By the Rev. A. J. W. Morrison. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 Vol. 12mo.

This volume is a fit companion to the “History of the Thirty Years War,” issued by the same publishers. Both works are admirable, and place Schiller in a prominent rank among philosophical historians; but of the two, we prefer the present. The subject is a noble one, and gives full exercise to Schiller’s large intellect, and heroic and humane spirit. The plan of the history is especially excellent, and we have only to regret that it was never completed.

Hudibras. By Samuel Butler. With Notes and a Literary Memoir, by the Rev. Treadway Russell Nash, D.D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 Vol. 12mo.

The publishers have issued this masterpiece of wit in a form similar to their editions of Dante, Tasso, and Campbell. The edition is enriched with curious and copious notes, illustrative of Butler’s time, and contains a well written biography. It is the only good edition of Hudibras ever published in the United States, and we hope that thousands who have never enjoyed its perusal, will be enabled to do it now. The original work contained so many allusions to the author’s recondite knowledge, and to the factions and fanaticisms of his day, that it cannot be read understandingly without some such commentary as Dr. Nash has supplied. Butler is the wittiest of the English poets.

The Book of Anecdotes, or the Moral of History; Taught by Real Examples. By John Frost, LL. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is an entertaining volume, and will be especially acceptable to the young. It is hardly worthy, however, of being called “the moral of history,” even that moral which history should teach the boys and girls. The “do-me-good” air of the narratives, is strangely at variance with the essential character of some of the events and actors. The most superficial student will notice in the volume many incorrect impressions conveyed of historical personages. The “moral” of the book is about on a level with the moral of Weems’s lives of Washington and Marion.

Eclectic Moral Philosophy. Prepared for Literary Institutions and General Use. By Rev. J. R. Boyd. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

This work is principally made up of classified selections from standard writers on ethics. It, of course, lacks unity, and therefore can hardly be called a system of philosophy; but it very well answers the purpose for which it was compiled. Its merit, as a book for schools and general use, consists in the stringent application of moral principles to individual conduct. All those actions and states of mind which clash with morality, are analyzed with much acuteness, and set forth with great directness.

Ghost Stones: Collected with a View to Counteract the Vulgar Belief in Ghosts and Apparations. With Ten Engravings from Designs by Darley. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo.

The object of this little volume is clearly enough set forth in the title. It contains twenty stories. The illustrations are graphic, and add to the interest of the wonders described. We notice, however, one omission—the Cock Lane Ghost, in which Dr. Johnson believed. So celebrated a ghost as that should have had a prominent place among the other spectral worthies of the volume.

A Progressive German Reader, Adapted to the American Edition of Ollendorff’s German Grammar: with Copious Notes, and a Vocabulary. By G. J. Adler, A. B. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is an excellent supplement to the German Grammar issued by the same publishers. It is edited by the Professor of the German Language and Literature, in the University of New York. The selections are from some fifty German writers, and are admirably adapted for their purpose. The Vocabulary of German words is an important addition.

Views A-Foot: or Europe Seen with Knapsack and Staff. By J. Bayard Taylor. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 Parts. 12mo.

All things considered, we deem this work one of the most deserving which “Young America” has yet produced. It is written by a young man just of age, who started for Europe before he was nineteen, with not more than a hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket, and for two years literally walked about Europe. He supported himself by literature, and at the end of his journey had not expended more than four hundred dollars. The excellence of the work comes from its exceeding freshness and spirit. For every great object of nature and art which the author saw, he had to suffer some privations; and he accordingly describes them much better than he would have done had he possessed the “advantages” of common tourists. Besides, his mode of traveling made him familiar with the people of the countries he visited; and he gives many curious anecdotes of their manners and condition. It is honorable to human nature, that his impressions of the common people in England, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland, were of a pleasing character, as he was often placed in relations to them calculated to draw out their true nature, whether it were kind or kindless. He was almost uniformly treated with hospitality, and sometimes even with affection. He discovered, however, that they were singularly and ridiculously ignorant of every thing regarding America—its geography, its government, and its people.

There is one quality in this book which every reader must feel to be fascinating—we mean the beautiful sweetness and healthiness of the author’s mind and disposition. He never brags of the obstacles hesurmounted, nor whines at the privations he endured, but tells the story of his journeyings with a most bewitching simplicity and modesty. Youth, and the bright thoughts and sweet feelings of youth, are on every page, infusing life into the narrative, and giving picturesque vigor to the descriptions. The author must bear a brave, serene, and modest heart under his jacket; and we cordially wish him and his delightful book all the success which both so richly merit.

Alderbrook: a Collection of Fanny Forrester’s Village Sketches, Poems, &c. By Miss Emily Chubbuck. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 2 vols. 12mo.

No reader of “Graham” will need any advice from us to procure these elegant volumes, as a large portion of their contents was originally contributed to this Magazine, and obtained a wide and deserved popularity. We are glad to see the admirable stories of the authoress thus collected. They will take an honorable position in the department of literature to which they belong. Fanny Forrester, indeed, is one of the most charming of story-tellers. She has ease, grace, invention, vivacity, a quick eye for character and manners, and a fine flexible style. The interest of the book is enhanced by the present position of the gifted authoress. As Mrs. Judson, she will devote her fine talents and beautiful enthusiasm of character to a new object. The present book, therefore, has almost the look of a posthumous work. We need not ask for it what it will be sure to obtain—the attention and the good-will of the reading public.

Literary Studies, a Collection of Miscellaneous Essays. By W. A. Jones. New York: Edward Walker. 1 Vol. 12mo.

This elegant volume contains thirty-two essays on a wide variety of subjects connected with literature and life. They are the production of a gentleman who has made literature a study, and who always gives in his essays the results of his own investigations and reflections. The style is very condensed; the fault of the diction, perhaps, arises from thetoo great desire of the author to cram the largest amount of thought and observation into the smallest possible space. This unusual peculiarity of style is the ideal of style when it is combined with mellowness and vitality; but the sentences of Mr. Jones are often dry and brittle, as well as condensed. Bating this defect, the volume is deserving of great praise. In short essays it takes comprehensive views of wide domains of letters, and is a good guide to the student of elegant literature. The literary information which it contains is very large. We will venture to say that no man in the country can read it without learning something which he did not know before.

Amy Herbert: a Tale. By Miss Sewell. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This work has essentially the same characteristics as the novel of “Gertrude,” by the same authoress. Miss Sewell is the daughter, we believe, of an English Episcopal clergyman of the Oxford school. Her tales inculcate the piety and morality of practical life; deal with ordinary cares and temptations, expose the moral dangers which beset every relation of existence, and evince a clear insight into the heart’s workings, under the pressure of every day enticements. The thoughtful cheerfulness of her religious faith diffuses through her stories a certain beautiful repose which sometimes almost suggests genius. Her books are of that kind which are calculated to benefit even more than to please.

Lucretia, or the Children of the Night. By Sir Bulwer Lytton. New York: Harper & Brothers.

In this strange mass of “crimson crimes,” the author of “Pelham” has fairly rivaled the French school of novelists. It displays more morbid strength of mind than any thing which Bulwer has previously written. Though exceedingly interesting, and evincing much power in the analysis of the darker passions, it leaves a disagreeable impression. The tone of the sentiment is not English. The novel, indeed, exhibits the characteristic qualities of the author in a form exaggerated almost to caricature. It reads like a melo-drama. We may refer to it more at large in our next number.

The Use of the Body in Relation to the Mind. By George Moore, M. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 Vol. 12mo.

One of the most important subjects which can engage human attention is in this work, so treated, that its great leading facts and principles can be understood by the common reader. The author has evidently given to each topic he discusses the most profound attention, and has produced a work which, if diligently studied by the mass of people, is calculated to remove a vast sum of that misery which springs from ignorance.

Specimens of the Poets and Poetry of Greece and Rome. By Various Translators. Edited by William Peter, A. M., of Christ Church, Oxford. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 Vol. 8vo.

A work like the present has long been wanted, and we are glad that an American house has had the enterprise to undertake it. In no other volume, with which we are acquainted, can the reader obtain so comprehensive a view of the poetry of the Ancients. Mr. Peter’s biographical notices are excellent. He has made selections from nearly two hundred authors—a work of vast labor performed with great skill and taste.

LE FOLLET61, Boulevart St. Martin,PARISToilettes de Mme.Mercier,r. Nve. des Petits Champs, 82.—Coiffures deNormandin,passage Choiseul, 19.Dentelles deViolard,r. de Choiseul, 2 bis.—Fleurs de Mme.Tilman,r. de Menars, 2.Mouchoir deL. Chapron & Dubois,r. de la Paix, 7.—Eventail deVagneur-Dupré,r. de la Paix, 19.Graham’s Magazine.

LE FOLLET

61, Boulevart St. Martin,PARIS

Toilettes de Mme.Mercier,r. Nve. des Petits Champs, 82.—Coiffures deNormandin,passage Choiseul, 19.

Dentelles deViolard,r. de Choiseul, 2 bis.—Fleurs de Mme.Tilman,r. de Menars, 2.

Mouchoir deL. Chapron & Dubois,r. de la Paix, 7.—Eventail deVagneur-Dupré,r. de la Paix, 19.

Graham’s Magazine.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has 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.

page 145, of the Solway Frith, ==> of the SolwayFirth,page 145, the spacious workship of ==> the spaciousworkshopofpage 146, and critical eyes, ==> and criticaleye,page 156, yet keep the secret ==> yetkeptthe secretpage 156, with a pecular relish ==> with apeculiarrelishpage 157, person was Sanford. ==> person wasSandford.page 172, The watchward, “The Oath ==> Thewatchword, “The Oathpage 172, was suddedly transformed ==> wassuddenlytransformedpage 175, minister and Mr. Mowbry. ==> minister and Mr.Mowbray.page 177, the statesque Georgine ==> thestatuesqueGeorginepage 177, seen the statesque— ==> seen thestatuesque—page 180, of the kaliedoscope. ==> of thekaleidoscope.page 183, to be forgotton. In ==> to beforgotten. Inpage 183, he might thing of ==> he mightthinkofpage 185, “Is an any one ==> “Is anyonepage 197, misery and wretchednes, ==> misery andwretchedness,page 200, ruin shall upsring? ==> ruin shallupspring?page 203, Coleridge, and Shelly, are ==> Coleridge, andShelley, arepage 204, obstacles he surmuounted ==> obstacles hesurmountedpage 204, the two great desire of ==> thetoogreat desire of

page 145, of the Solway Frith, ==> of the SolwayFirth,

page 145, the spacious workship of ==> the spaciousworkshopof

page 146, and critical eyes, ==> and criticaleye,

page 156, yet keep the secret ==> yetkeptthe secret

page 156, with a pecular relish ==> with apeculiarrelish

page 157, person was Sanford. ==> person wasSandford.

page 172, The watchward, “The Oath ==> Thewatchword, “The Oath

page 172, was suddedly transformed ==> wassuddenlytransformed

page 175, minister and Mr. Mowbry. ==> minister and Mr.Mowbray.

page 177, the statesque Georgine ==> thestatuesqueGeorgine

page 177, seen the statesque— ==> seen thestatuesque—

page 180, of the kaliedoscope. ==> of thekaleidoscope.

page 183, to be forgotton. In ==> to beforgotten. In

page 183, he might thing of ==> he mightthinkof

page 185, “Is an any one ==> “Is anyone

page 197, misery and wretchednes, ==> misery andwretchedness,

page 200, ruin shall upsring? ==> ruin shallupspring?

page 203, Coleridge, and Shelly, are ==> Coleridge, andShelley, are

page 204, obstacles he surmuounted ==> obstacles hesurmounted

page 204, the two great desire of ==> thetoogreat desire of

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