EDEN.

———

BY JOHN A. STEIN.

———

Proudly down the western mountainsRolls the monarch of the skies,And the heavy clouds around himIn a craggy archway rise —Seeming, with their rugged edges,In a molten glory bright,Glowing portals to a regionBathed in Eden’s golden light.And as downward from the headlandOn the wooded vale I gaze,I may view the sunbeam faintingOn the forest’s bluish haze —And, in bronzéd lustre winding,Mark the bright Swatara glide,With the trees like joyous pilgrimsFlocking by on every side.And I hear the vesper warblingOf the wood-birds ’mid the trees —And I breathe the odorous incenseOf the flow’rets of the leas —And I hear the reapers singing’Mid the nodding yellow grain,Till the universal gladnessWakes a rapture in my brain.And a host of blesséd memories,Long unthought-of, burst their trance —And in fairy garb around meWeave a wild, fantastic dance —Weave a glad and restless measureTo the heart’s accordant beat,Circling merrily around itWith their airy, agile feet.To my soul they sing a yearningThey at times have sung before —“Oh! that upward through the etherI in ecstasy could soar —Burst the shackles which confine meTo this slavish earth, and flyWith my tinted wings the rangerOf the gleaming evening sky.”And responsive to the cadence,’Neath inspired Fancy’s spell,With its fringéd wings expanding,Leaps my spirit from its cell;And above it hovering, whispers,In the golden sunset light,“Oh! for one to share the raptureOf my Eden-seeking flight.”By the cloud-arch bounded radianceOf the regions of the blest —By the empress star that gleams above,That cloudy archway’s crest —By the gladness of the earth beneath —The loveliness above —I invoke thee, and entreat thee,Glorious spirit of my Love!Thou art with me, oh, my idol!Thou art trembling by my side —And with rustling pinions crossing,Through the lambent air we glide.Through the glowing arch before usLet us seek the Eden-land —We are pilgrims of the Beautiful,The Happy, and the Grand.

Proudly down the western mountains

Rolls the monarch of the skies,

And the heavy clouds around him

In a craggy archway rise —

Seeming, with their rugged edges,

In a molten glory bright,

Glowing portals to a region

Bathed in Eden’s golden light.

And as downward from the headlandOn the wooded vale I gaze,I may view the sunbeam faintingOn the forest’s bluish haze —And, in bronzéd lustre winding,Mark the bright Swatara glide,With the trees like joyous pilgrimsFlocking by on every side.

And as downward from the headland

On the wooded vale I gaze,

I may view the sunbeam fainting

On the forest’s bluish haze —

And, in bronzéd lustre winding,

Mark the bright Swatara glide,

With the trees like joyous pilgrims

Flocking by on every side.

And I hear the vesper warblingOf the wood-birds ’mid the trees —And I breathe the odorous incenseOf the flow’rets of the leas —And I hear the reapers singing’Mid the nodding yellow grain,Till the universal gladnessWakes a rapture in my brain.

And I hear the vesper warbling

Of the wood-birds ’mid the trees —

And I breathe the odorous incense

Of the flow’rets of the leas —

And I hear the reapers singing

’Mid the nodding yellow grain,

Till the universal gladness

Wakes a rapture in my brain.

And a host of blesséd memories,Long unthought-of, burst their trance —And in fairy garb around meWeave a wild, fantastic dance —Weave a glad and restless measureTo the heart’s accordant beat,Circling merrily around itWith their airy, agile feet.

And a host of blesséd memories,

Long unthought-of, burst their trance —

And in fairy garb around me

Weave a wild, fantastic dance —

Weave a glad and restless measure

To the heart’s accordant beat,

Circling merrily around it

With their airy, agile feet.

To my soul they sing a yearningThey at times have sung before —“Oh! that upward through the etherI in ecstasy could soar —Burst the shackles which confine meTo this slavish earth, and flyWith my tinted wings the rangerOf the gleaming evening sky.”

To my soul they sing a yearning

They at times have sung before —

“Oh! that upward through the ether

I in ecstasy could soar —

Burst the shackles which confine me

To this slavish earth, and fly

With my tinted wings the ranger

Of the gleaming evening sky.”

And responsive to the cadence,’Neath inspired Fancy’s spell,With its fringéd wings expanding,Leaps my spirit from its cell;And above it hovering, whispers,In the golden sunset light,“Oh! for one to share the raptureOf my Eden-seeking flight.”

And responsive to the cadence,

’Neath inspired Fancy’s spell,

With its fringéd wings expanding,

Leaps my spirit from its cell;

And above it hovering, whispers,

In the golden sunset light,

“Oh! for one to share the rapture

Of my Eden-seeking flight.”

By the cloud-arch bounded radianceOf the regions of the blest —By the empress star that gleams above,That cloudy archway’s crest —By the gladness of the earth beneath —The loveliness above —I invoke thee, and entreat thee,Glorious spirit of my Love!

By the cloud-arch bounded radiance

Of the regions of the blest —

By the empress star that gleams above,

That cloudy archway’s crest —

By the gladness of the earth beneath —

The loveliness above —

I invoke thee, and entreat thee,

Glorious spirit of my Love!

Thou art with me, oh, my idol!Thou art trembling by my side —And with rustling pinions crossing,Through the lambent air we glide.Through the glowing arch before usLet us seek the Eden-land —We are pilgrims of the Beautiful,The Happy, and the Grand.

Thou art with me, oh, my idol!

Thou art trembling by my side —

And with rustling pinions crossing,

Through the lambent air we glide.

Through the glowing arch before us

Let us seek the Eden-land —

We are pilgrims of the Beautiful,

The Happy, and the Grand.

JANUARY.

In the illuminated calendars prefixed to old Romish Missals, January is frequently represented as a man carrying faggots for burning, or a woodman’s axe, shivering and blowing his fingers. Modern artists and poets represent Winter as a feeble old man—a type of the pale “descending year.” Against this idea a celebrated writer thus warmly protests: —

Talk not of Winter as a dotard old!Gray-haired and feeble, palsied every limb,‘A withered branch his sceptre:’ ’tis a whimHe well may laugh to scorn; a warrior bold,Girded with strength is he! Asleep—awake —He is all energy to ear and sight;He bids the winds go forth, and forests quake,Like flowers before gay Summer’s fresh’ning gale;He doth unchain the floods, and, in their might,Adown the hills they rush, and through the vale,With deafening clamor, till they reach the main.

Talk not of Winter as a dotard old!

Gray-haired and feeble, palsied every limb,

‘A withered branch his sceptre:’ ’tis a whim

He well may laugh to scorn; a warrior bold,

Girded with strength is he! Asleep—awake —

He is all energy to ear and sight;

He bids the winds go forth, and forests quake,

Like flowers before gay Summer’s fresh’ning gale;

He doth unchain the floods, and, in their might,

Adown the hills they rush, and through the vale,

With deafening clamor, till they reach the main.

The Romans dedicated this portion of the year to the heathen god Janus, from whom it derives its name. Our Saxon ancestors gave it the name ofwolf-monath, or wolf-month, because the wolves, which anciently infested the British forests, impelled by hunger, at this season descended from their accustomed haunts and attacked the domestic animals, and even man himself, when the inclemency of the weather had destroyed or put to flight their usual prey. Such scenes are now unknown in Great Britain. Thomson describes the dire descent of a troop of such monsters from

The shining Alps,And wavyApennines and Pyrenees,——By wintry famine roused:Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave,Burning for blood!—bony, and gaunt, and grim!Assembling wolves in raging troops descend;And, pouring o’er the country, bear along,Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy snow.All is their prize.Rapacious at the mother’s throat they fly,And tear the screaming infant from her breast,E’en beauty, force divine! at whose bright glanceThe generous lion stands in softened gaze,Here bleeds, a hapless, undistinguished prey.

The shining Alps,

And wavyApennines and Pyrenees,

——By wintry famine roused:

Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave,

Burning for blood!—bony, and gaunt, and grim!

Assembling wolves in raging troops descend;

And, pouring o’er the country, bear along,

Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy snow.

All is their prize.

Rapacious at the mother’s throat they fly,

And tear the screaming infant from her breast,

E’en beauty, force divine! at whose bright glance

The generous lion stands in softened gaze,

Here bleeds, a hapless, undistinguished prey.

In this inclement month, the feeble rays of the sun are rarely felt, the smaller rivers and ponds are frozen over, and sometimes a strong and sudden frost converts the gliding streams into blocks of solid ice.

An icy gale, oft shifting o’er the pool,Breathes a blue film, and in its mid careerArrests the bickering storm.Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflectsA double noise; while, at his evening watch,The village dog deters the nightly thief;The heifer lows; the distant waterfallSwells in the breeze; and with the hasty treadOf traveler, the hollow-sounding plainShakes from afar.It freezes onTill Morn, late rising o’er the drooping world,Lifts her pale eye, unjoyous. Then appearsThe various labor of the silent Night:Prone from the dripping eave and dumb cascade,Whose idle torrents only seem to roar;The pendent icicle, the frost-work fair,Where transient hues and fancied figures rise;Wide-spouted o’er the hill, the frozen brook,A livid tract, cold gleaming o’er the morn.

An icy gale, oft shifting o’er the pool,

Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career

Arrests the bickering storm.

Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflects

A double noise; while, at his evening watch,

The village dog deters the nightly thief;

The heifer lows; the distant waterfall

Swells in the breeze; and with the hasty tread

Of traveler, the hollow-sounding plain

Shakes from afar.

It freezes on

Till Morn, late rising o’er the drooping world,

Lifts her pale eye, unjoyous. Then appears

The various labor of the silent Night:

Prone from the dripping eave and dumb cascade,

Whose idle torrents only seem to roar;

The pendent icicle, the frost-work fair,

Where transient hues and fancied figures rise;

Wide-spouted o’er the hill, the frozen brook,

A livid tract, cold gleaming o’er the morn.

How strikingly beautiful is the appearance of the hoar frost, which clothes the trees in crystals, which sparkle like the most brilliant gems. Well might Howitt exclaim, as he gazed on the gorgeous effects of its incomparable loveliness,

What dream of beauty ever equalled this!What visions of my boyhood do I miss,That are not here restored! All splendors pure;All loveliness, all graces that allure;Shapes that amaze; a Paradise that is —Yet was not—will not in few moments be;Glory from nakedness, that playfullyMimics with passing life each summer boon,Clothing the ground, replenishing the tree,Weaving arch, bower, and delicate festoon,Still as a dream—and, like a dream, to flee!

What dream of beauty ever equalled this!

What visions of my boyhood do I miss,

That are not here restored! All splendors pure;

All loveliness, all graces that allure;

Shapes that amaze; a Paradise that is —

Yet was not—will not in few moments be;

Glory from nakedness, that playfully

Mimics with passing life each summer boon,

Clothing the ground, replenishing the tree,

Weaving arch, bower, and delicate festoon,

Still as a dream—and, like a dream, to flee!

The inclemency of the season is shown by its effects on animals, particularly on the numerous tribes of birds. As the cold advances, they become bold by want, and fearlessly approach the habitations of man. The little snow-birds, as they are commonly called, crowd into the farm-yards, and at the barn-doors pick their scanty fare from the chaff and straw. Robins and thrushes in flocks descend from the tops of trees, and frequent the warm manured fields in the neighborhood of towns. Snipes, woodcocks, wild ducks, and other water-fowl, are forced from the frozen marshes, and obliged to seek their food about the rapid streams which are yet unfrozen.

As the cold grows more intense, various kinds of sea-fowl quit the bleak open shores, and ascend the rivers, where they offer a prey to the fowler. Cowper thus beautifully paints the sufferings of the feathered tribes: —

How find the myriads that in summer cheerThe hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs,Due sustenance, or where subsist they now?Earth yields them naught; the imprisoned worm is safeBeneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbsLie covered close; and berry-bearing thornsThat feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,)Afford the smaller minstrels no supply.The long protracted rigor of the yearThins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holesTen thousand seek an unmolested end,As instinct prompts; self-buried there they die.

How find the myriads that in summer cheer

The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs,

Due sustenance, or where subsist they now?

Earth yields them naught; the imprisoned worm is safe

Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs

Lie covered close; and berry-bearing thorns

That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,)

Afford the smaller minstrels no supply.

The long protracted rigor of the year

Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes

Ten thousand seek an unmolested end,

As instinct prompts; self-buried there they die.

And Burns, with true poetic sympathy for the sufferings of all created things, while listening to the stormy terrors of a winter’s night, thus apostrophizes the feathered songsters of the grove: —

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,That in the merry months o’ springDelighted me to hear thee sing —What comes o’ thee?Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,An’ close thy e’e?

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,

That in the merry months o’ spring

Delighted me to hear thee sing —

What comes o’ thee?

Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,

An’ close thy e’e?

Yet amid all these indications of the severity of the season, there are pleasing circumstances which sometimes occur. In the prairies of our western world, the song of the prairie-thrush is heard occasionally ushering in the new year. This is the most early songster in that part of the world, which, sitting on the top of some high bending shrub, in showery weather, as he rides to and fro with the breezes, exerts his throat in loud, uninterrupted strains, which has gained for him the appellation of the storm-bird.

In this month the small wren of the prairie sings melodiously as it hops from reed to reed in search of food. If we examine the plants at this season of the year, we perceive the hand of the Creator, in his wise protection of what he intends for the happiness of his children. Those plants called herbaceous, which die down to the root every autumn, are safely concealed under ground, preparing their new shoots to burst forth when the earth is softened by spring. Shrubs and trees, which are exposed to the open air, he has closely wrapped in a covering sufficient to protect them from the most severe weather. The buds are protected in their hard-coated calyx to secure their forthcoming beauty from decay; if one of those buds be carefully opened, it is found to consist of young leaves rolled together, within which are even all the blossoms in miniature, which are afterward intended to delight our eyes, or probably to refresh by their fragrance our senses. As that great and celebrated naturalist, Cuvier, would often say to his pupils, “Show me a botanist who is a skeptic, and I will show you an idiot. An infidel naturalist is arara avisI have never yet met with.”

This gloomy month is, however, not altogether without flowers, for now theHeleborus fœtidus, and various mosses blossom in our woods, and fructification goes on below a depth of snow. One of the most remarkable products of the season are the white berries of the mistletoe. This plant, which was almost worshiped by the Druids as a sacred emblem and decoration of their domestic hearths, during the festival of Christmas, is chiefly remarkable for the peculiarity of its growth—being always found adhering to and deriving its nourishment from the juice of some tree, and never attached to the earth. It flowers early in the year, but its berries do not make their appearance till December. They are the food of non-migrating birds of the most hardy kinds; the plant is principally found attached to the apple-tree, but sometimes, though rarely, on some others; it is least frequently found on the oak, on which its occurrence is considered a curiosity by botanists.

We have, however, in the month of January, occasionally, days which we, for the moment, regard as of exceeding beauty, because, perhaps, of the contrast between them and seasonable weather amidst which they occur. The sun shines bright and warm, the gnat is tempted forth from its secret dormitory, and we are apt to forget that the winter is not yet “past and gone.” The morrow recalls us to a full sense of our position in the scale of the seasons—the sky is black and threatening, or a pelting storm of snow and sleet so alters the fair face of nature, that we are glad once more to take refuge from her frowns amid the delights of the social hearth.

The amusements of sliding, skating, and other pastimes on the ice, give life to this dreary season; and during the continuance of our long frosts, armies of skaters of all ages may be seen almost equal to the skaters of Wilna, where the peasant girl frequently skates sixteen miles to market to dispose of her basket of eggs, which she carries on her head.

The opening and the close of the year each afford topics and occasion for mournful meditation. Who is he, on taking a view of the past, but would gladly recall many words and actions which at the moment of utterance were thought to be correct, or actions for which he would gladly make restitution? The following reflections are very appropriate:

“I stood between the meeting years,The coming and the past;And I asked of the future one—Wilt thou be like the last?For sorrow, like a phantom, sitsUpon the last year’s close;How much of grief, how much of ill,In its dark breast repose!I think on many a wasted hour,And sicken o’er the void;And many darker are behind,On worse than naught employed.Oh vanity! alas, my heart!How widely hast thou strayed;And misused every golden gift,For better purpose made!I think on many a once loved friend,As nothing to me now;And what can mark the lapse of timeAs does an altered brow?Thus thinking of the meeting years,The coming and the past;I needs must ask the future one—Wilt thou be like the last?“

“I stood between the meeting years,The coming and the past;And I asked of the future one—Wilt thou be like the last?

“I stood between the meeting years,

The coming and the past;

And I asked of the future one—

Wilt thou be like the last?

For sorrow, like a phantom, sitsUpon the last year’s close;How much of grief, how much of ill,In its dark breast repose!

For sorrow, like a phantom, sits

Upon the last year’s close;

How much of grief, how much of ill,

In its dark breast repose!

I think on many a wasted hour,And sicken o’er the void;And many darker are behind,On worse than naught employed.

I think on many a wasted hour,

And sicken o’er the void;

And many darker are behind,

On worse than naught employed.

Oh vanity! alas, my heart!How widely hast thou strayed;And misused every golden gift,For better purpose made!

Oh vanity! alas, my heart!

How widely hast thou strayed;

And misused every golden gift,

For better purpose made!

I think on many a once loved friend,As nothing to me now;And what can mark the lapse of timeAs does an altered brow?

I think on many a once loved friend,

As nothing to me now;

And what can mark the lapse of time

As does an altered brow?

Thus thinking of the meeting years,The coming and the past;I needs must ask the future one—Wilt thou be like the last?“

Thus thinking of the meeting years,

The coming and the past;

I needs must ask the future one—

Wilt thou be like the last?“

THE LIGHT OF LIFE.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

In times of joy, when pleasure’s glowSends through the heart a rapturous thrill;In hours of care and mournful wo,When all is anguish, pain and ill:From the blest volume of God’s word.Thelight of lifeshines bright and clear,Awaking praise for good conferred,And bidding grief find comfort there.Clara.

In times of joy, when pleasure’s glowSends through the heart a rapturous thrill;In hours of care and mournful wo,When all is anguish, pain and ill:

In times of joy, when pleasure’s glow

Sends through the heart a rapturous thrill;

In hours of care and mournful wo,

When all is anguish, pain and ill:

From the blest volume of God’s word.Thelight of lifeshines bright and clear,Awaking praise for good conferred,And bidding grief find comfort there.Clara.

From the blest volume of God’s word.

Thelight of lifeshines bright and clear,

Awaking praise for good conferred,

And bidding grief find comfort there.

Clara.

DRAWN BY JOHN W. WRIGHT.THE LIGHT OF LIFE.ENGRAVED BY T. B. WELCH EXPRESSLY FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

DRAWN BY JOHN W. WRIGHT.

ENGRAVED BY T. B. WELCH EXPRESSLY FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

ABOUT CRITICS AND CRITICISM.

———

BY THE LATE EDGAR A. POE.

———

Our most analytic, if not altogether our best critic, (Mr. Whipple, perhaps, excepted,) is Mr.William A. Jones, author of “The Analyst.” How he would write elaborate criticisms I cannot say; but his summary judgments of authors are, in general, discriminative and profound. In fact, his papers onEmersonand onMacaulay, published in “Arcturus,” are better than merely “profound,” if we take the word in its now desecrated sense; for they are at once pointed, lucid, and just:—as summaries, leaving nothing to be desired.

Mr. Whipple has less analysis, and far less candor, as his depreciation of “Jane Eyre” will show; but he excels Mr. Jones in sensibility to Beauty, and is thus the better critic of Poetry. I have read nothing finer in its way than his eulogy on Tennyson. I say “eulogy”—for the essay in question is unhappily little more:—and Mr Whipple’s paper on Miss Barrett, wasnothingmore. He has less discrimination than Mr. Jones, and a more obtuse sense of the critical office. In fact, he has been infected with that unmeaning and transparent heresy—the cant of critical Boswellism, by dint of which we are to shut our eyes tightly to all autorial blemishes, and open them, like owls, to all autorial merits. Papers thus composed may be good in their way, just as an impertinentciceroneis good inhisway; and the way, in either case, may still be a small one.

Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo with a very caustic review of a very admirable poem. The god asked to be shown the beauties of the work; but the critic replied that he troubled himself only about the errors. Hereupon Apollo gave him a sack of unwinnowed wheat—bidding him pick out all the chaff for his pains.

Now this fable does very well as a hit at the critics; but I am by no means sure that the Deity was in the right. The fact is, that the limits of the strict critical duty are grossly misapprehended. We may go so far as to say that, while the critic ispermittedto play, at times, the part of the mere commentator—while he isallowed, by way of merelyinterestinghis readers, to put in the fairest light the merits of his author—hislegitimatetask is still, in pointing out and analyzing defects and showing how the work might have been improved, to aid the general cause of Letters, without undue heed of the individual literary man. Beauty, to be brief, should be considered in the light of an axiom, which, to become at once evident, needs only to be distinctlyput. It isnotBeauty, if it require to be demonstrated as such:—and thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work, is to admit that they arenotmerits altogether.

When I say that both Mr. Jones and Mr. Whipple are, in some degree, imitators of Macaulay, I have no design that my words should be understood as disparagement. The style and general conduct of Macaulay’s critical papers could scarcely be improved. To call his manner “conventional,” is to do it gross injustice. The manner of Carlyleisconventional—with himself. The style of Emerson is conventional—with himselfandCarlyle. The style of Miss Fuller is conventional—with herself andEmersonand Carlyle that is to say, it is a triple-distilled conventionality:—and by the word “conventionality,” as here used, I mean very nearly what, as regards personal conduct, we style “affectation”—that is, an assumption of airs ortrickswhich have no basis in reason or common sense. The quips, quirks, and curt oracularities of the Emersons, Alcots and Fullers, are simplyLyly’s Euphuisms revived. Very different, indeed, are thepeculiaritiesof Macaulay. He has his mannerisms; but we see that, by dint of them, he is enabled to accomplish the extremes of unquestionable excellences—the extreme of clearness, of vigor (dependent upon clearness) of grace, and very especially of thoroughness. For his short sentences, for his antitheses, for his modulations, for his climaxes—for every thing that he does—a very slight analysis suffices to show a distinct reason. His manner, thus, is simply the perfection of that justifiable rhetoric which has its basis in common-sense; and to say that such rhetoric is never called in to the aid ofgenius, is simply to disparage genius, and by no means to discredit the rhetoric. It is nonsense to assert that the highest genius would not be benefited by attention to its modes of manifestation—by availing itself of that Natural Art which it too frequently despises. Is it not evident that the more intrinsically valuable the rough diamond, the more gain accrues to it from polish?

Now, since it would be nearly impossible to vary the rhetoric of Macaulay, in any material degree, without deterioration in theessentialparticulars of clearness, vigor, etc., those who writeafterMacaulay have to choose between the two horns of a dilemma:—they must be weak and original, or imitative and strong:—and since imitation, in a case of this kind, is merely adherence toTruthandReasonas pointed out by one who feels their value, the author who should forego the advantages of the “imitation” for the mere sake of being erroneously original, “n’est pas si sage qu’il croit.”

The true course to be pursued by our critics—justly sensible of Macaulay’s excellences—isnot, however, to be content with tamely following in his footsteps—but to outstrip him in his own path—a path not so much his as Nature’s. We must not fall into the error of fancying that he isperfectmerely because he excels (in point of style) all his British cotemporaries. Somesuch idea as this seems to have taken possession of Mr. Jones, when he says:

“Macaulay’s style is admirable—full of color, perfectly clear, free from all obstructions, exactly English, and as pointedly antithetical as possible. We have marked two passages on Southey and Byron, so happyas to defy improvement. The one is a sharp epigrammatic paragraph on Southey’s political bias:‘Government is to Mr. Southey one of the fine arts. He judges of a theory or a public measure, of a religion, a political party, a peace or a war, as men judge of a picture or a statue, by the effect produced on his imagination. A chain of associations is to him what a chain of reasoning is to other men; and what he calls his opinions are, in fact, merely his tastes.’The other a balanced character of Lord Byron:‘In the rank of Lord Byron, in his understanding, in his character, in his very person, there was a strange union of opposite extremes. He was born to all that men covet and admire. But in every one of those eminent advantages which he possessed over others, there was mingled something of misery and debasement. He was sprung from a house, ancient, indeed, and noble, but degraded and impoverished by a series of crimes and follies, which had attained a scandalous publicity. The kinsman whom he succeeded had died poor, and but for merciful judges, would have died upon the gallows. The young peer had great intellectual powers; yet there was an unsound part in his mind. He had naturally a generous and tender heart; but his temper was wayward and irritable. He had a head which statuaries loved to copy, and a foot the deformity of which the beggars in the street mimicked.’ ”

‘Government is to Mr. Southey one of the fine arts. He judges of a theory or a public measure, of a religion, a political party, a peace or a war, as men judge of a picture or a statue, by the effect produced on his imagination. A chain of associations is to him what a chain of reasoning is to other men; and what he calls his opinions are, in fact, merely his tastes.’

The other a balanced character of Lord Byron:

‘In the rank of Lord Byron, in his understanding, in his character, in his very person, there was a strange union of opposite extremes. He was born to all that men covet and admire. But in every one of those eminent advantages which he possessed over others, there was mingled something of misery and debasement. He was sprung from a house, ancient, indeed, and noble, but degraded and impoverished by a series of crimes and follies, which had attained a scandalous publicity. The kinsman whom he succeeded had died poor, and but for merciful judges, would have died upon the gallows. The young peer had great intellectual powers; yet there was an unsound part in his mind. He had naturally a generous and tender heart; but his temper was wayward and irritable. He had a head which statuaries loved to copy, and a foot the deformity of which the beggars in the street mimicked.’ ”

Let us now look at the first of these paragraphs. The opening sentence is inaccurate at all points. The word “government” does not give the author’s idea with sufficient definitiveness; for the term ismorefrequently applied to thesystemby which the affairs of a nation are regulated than to the act of regulating. “The government,” we say, for example, “does so and so”—meaning those who govern. But Macaulay intends simply the act or acts called “governing,” and this word should have been used, as a matter of course. The “Mr.” prefixed to “Southey,” is superfluous; for no sneer is designed; and, inmisteringa well-known author, we hint that he is not entitled to that exemption which we accord to Homer, Dante, or Shakspeare. “ToMr. Southey” would have been right, had the succeeding words been “governmentseemsone of the fine arts:”—but, as the sentence stands, “WithMr. Southey” is demanded. “Southey,” too, being the principal subject of the paragraph, should precede “government,” which is mentioned only in its relation to Southey. “One of the fine arts” is pleonastic, since the phrase conveys nothing more than “a fine art” would convey.

The second sentence is quite as faulty. Here Southey loses his precedence as the subject; and thus the “He” should follow “a theory,” “a public measure,” etc. By “religion” is meant a “creed:”—this latter word should therefore be used. The conclusion of the sentence is very awkward. Southey is said to judge of a peace or war, etc., as men judge of a picture or a statue, and the words which succeed are intended to explainhowmen judge of a picture or a statue:—these words should, therefore, run thus:—“by the effect produced ontheirimaginations.” “Produced” moreover, is neither so exact nor so “English” as “wrought.” In saying that Southey judges of a political party, etc., asmenjudge of a picture, etc., Southey is quite excluded from the category of “men.” “Othermen,” was no doubt originally written, but “other” erased, on account of the “other men” occurring in the sentence below.

Coming to this last, we find that “a chain of associations” is not properly paralleled by “a chain of reasoning.” We must say either “a chain of association,” to meet the “reasoning” a “chain of reasons” to meet the “associations.” The repetition of “what” is awkward and unpleasant. The entire paragraph should be thus remodeled.

With Southey, governing is a fine art. Of a theory or a public measure—of a creed, a political party, a peace or a war—he judges by the imaginative effect; as only such things as pictures or statues are judged of by other men. What to them a chain of reasoning is, to him is a chain of association; and, as to his opinions, they are nothing but his tastes.

The blemishes in the paragraph about Byron are more negative than those in the paragraph about Southey. The first sentence needs vivacity. The adjective “opposite” is superfluous:—so is the particle “there.” The second and third sentences are, properly, one. “Some” would fully supply the place of “something of.” The whole phrase “which he possessed over others,” is supererogatory. “Was sprung,” in place of “sprang,” is altogether unjustifiable. The triple repetition of “and,” in the fourth sentence, is awkward. “Notorious crimes and follies,” would express all that is implied in “crimes and follies which had attained a scandalous publicity.” The fifth sentence might be well curtailed; and as it stands, has an unintentional and unpleasant sneer. “Intellect” would do as well as “intellectual powers;” and this (the sixth) sentence might otherwise be shortened advantageously. The whole paragraph, in my opinion, would be better thus expressed:

In Lord Byron’s rank, understanding, character—even in his person—we find a strange union of extremes. Whatever men covet and admire, became his by right of birth; yet debasement and misery were mingled with each of his eminent advantages. He sprang from a house, ancient it is true, and noble, but degraded and impoverished by a series of notorious crimes. But for merciful judges, the pauper kinsman whom he succeeded would have been hanged. The young peer had an intellect great, perhaps, yet partially unsound. His heart was generous, but his temper wayward; and while statuaries copied his head, beggars mimicked the deformity of his foot.

In these remarks, my object is not so much to point out inaccuracies in the most accurate stylist of his age, as to hint that our critics might surpass him on his own ground, and yet leave themselves something to learn in the moralities of manner.

Nothing can be plainer than that our position, as a literary colony of Great Britain, leads us into wronging, indirectly, our own authors by exaggerating the merits of those across the water. Our most reliable criticsextol—and extol without discrimination—such English compositions as, if written in America, would be either passed over without notice or unscrupulously condemned. Mr. Whipple, for example, whom I have mentioned in this connection with Mr. Jones is decidedly one of our most “reliable” critics. His honesty I dispute as little as I doubt his courage or his talents—but here is an instance of the want of common discrimination into which he is occasionally hurried, by undue reverence for British intellect and British opinion. In a review of “The Drama of Exile and Other Poems” by Miss Barrett, (now Mrs. Browning,) he speaks of the following passage as “in every respect faultless—sublime:”

Hear the steep generations how they fallAdown the visionary stairs of Time,Like supernatural thunders—far yet near,Sowing their fiery echoes through the hills!

Hear the steep generations how they fall

Adown the visionary stairs of Time,

Like supernatural thunders—far yet near,

Sowing their fiery echoes through the hills!

Now here, saying nothing of the affectation in “adown;” not alluding to the insoluble paradox of “far yet near;” not mentioning the inconsistent metaphor involved in the sowing of fiery echoes; adverting but slightly to the misusage of “like” in place of “as;” and to the impropriety of making any thing fall likethunder, which has never been known to fall at all; merely hinting, too, at the misapplication of “steep” to the “generations” instead of to the “stairs”—(a perversion in no degree justified by the fact that so preposterous a figure assynecdocheexists in the school-books:)—letting these things pass, we shall still find it difficult to understand how Mrs. Browning should have been led to think the principal idea itself—the abstract idea—the idea oftumbling down stairs, in any shape, or under any circumstances—either a poetical or a decorous conception. And yet Mr. Whipple speaks of it as “sublime.” That the lines narrowlymissedsublimity, I grant:—that they came within a step of it, I admit; but, unhappily, the step is thatonestep which, time out of mind, has intervened between the sublime and the ridiculous. So true is this that any person—that even I—with a very partial modification of the imagery—a modification that shall not interfere with its richly spiritualtone—may elevate the passage into unexceptionability. For example:

Hear the far generations—how they crashFrom crag to crag down the precipitous Time,In multitudinous thunders that upstartleAghast, the echoes from their cavernous lairsIn the visionary hills!

Hear the far generations—how they crash

From crag to crag down the precipitous Time,

In multitudinous thunders that upstartle

Aghast, the echoes from their cavernous lairs

In the visionary hills!

No doubt my version has its faults; but it has at least the merit of consistency. Not only is a mountain more poetical than a pair of stairs, but echoes are more appropriately typified as wild beasts than as seeds; and echoes and wild beasts agree better with a mountain than does a pair of stairs with thesowingof seeds—even admitting that these seeds be seeds of fire, and be sown broadcast “among the hills” by a steep generation while in the act of tumbling down the stairs—that is to say, of coming down the stairs in too great a hurry to be capable of sowing the seeds as accurately as all seeds should be sown:—nor is the matter rendered any better for Mrs. Browning, even if the construction of her sentence be understood as implying that the fiery seeds were sown, not immediately by the steep generations that tumbled down the stairs, but mediately, through the intervention of the “supernatural thunders” that wereoccasionedby the steep generations that were so unlucky as to tumble down the stairs.

THE TELEGRAPH SPIRIT.

———

BY JNO. S. DU SOLLE.

———

The telegraph-wires utter, when the wind blows, certain singularly sad, yet spirited music-tones. When they pass through the leaves of a tree the effect is strangely beautiful.

Mysterious Spirit! hark! I hear thee voicing,Up where the wind-breath woos thee, with its toneOf mingled mournfulness and strange rejoicing —As though ’twould fear thee, yet to love were prone.What doth it whisper ’mid the green tree’s shading?Or art thou trembling, not with hope but ire?Chid’st thou its love? Or is it thee upbraidingWith thine inconstant tongue of living fire?Is it some life-tale thou art subtly telling?Some tale of dark and passionate romance —That the young leaflets seem with wonder swelling,Shrink at thy touch, and eye thee so askance?Or are they timid only with emotion?And pout their tiny lips up but for show,O’er some new story of the heart’s devotion,That thou art murmuring to the earth below?Or, ravished from the grasp of Time and Distance,Com’st thou with News, to gift, with sudden joy,The sad heart with a sense of fresh existence —Making the old man feel once more a boy?Or bear’st thou words to soothe not, but to sunder?Quietly rupturing the holiest ties —Just as the lightning’s flash, without its thunder,Blasts what it looks on with its venomous eyes!Or is’t, oh, Captive One! thy life-voice fretting,That, like a caged-bird wrested from its home,(Thy fluttering wing its sky paths unforgetting,)Along thy prison-wires such murmurs come?I hear thee now! And chafing, ah, how vainly!For they have chained the death-glance of thine eye —Sightless as Samson—struggling more insanely —Thou couldst not if thou wouldst, lie down and die!

Mysterious Spirit! hark! I hear thee voicing,

Up where the wind-breath woos thee, with its tone

Of mingled mournfulness and strange rejoicing —

As though ’twould fear thee, yet to love were prone.

What doth it whisper ’mid the green tree’s shading?

Or art thou trembling, not with hope but ire?

Chid’st thou its love? Or is it thee upbraiding

With thine inconstant tongue of living fire?

Is it some life-tale thou art subtly telling?Some tale of dark and passionate romance —That the young leaflets seem with wonder swelling,Shrink at thy touch, and eye thee so askance?Or are they timid only with emotion?And pout their tiny lips up but for show,O’er some new story of the heart’s devotion,That thou art murmuring to the earth below?

Is it some life-tale thou art subtly telling?

Some tale of dark and passionate romance —

That the young leaflets seem with wonder swelling,

Shrink at thy touch, and eye thee so askance?

Or are they timid only with emotion?

And pout their tiny lips up but for show,

O’er some new story of the heart’s devotion,

That thou art murmuring to the earth below?

Or, ravished from the grasp of Time and Distance,Com’st thou with News, to gift, with sudden joy,The sad heart with a sense of fresh existence —Making the old man feel once more a boy?Or bear’st thou words to soothe not, but to sunder?Quietly rupturing the holiest ties —Just as the lightning’s flash, without its thunder,Blasts what it looks on with its venomous eyes!

Or, ravished from the grasp of Time and Distance,

Com’st thou with News, to gift, with sudden joy,

The sad heart with a sense of fresh existence —

Making the old man feel once more a boy?

Or bear’st thou words to soothe not, but to sunder?

Quietly rupturing the holiest ties —

Just as the lightning’s flash, without its thunder,

Blasts what it looks on with its venomous eyes!

Or is’t, oh, Captive One! thy life-voice fretting,That, like a caged-bird wrested from its home,(Thy fluttering wing its sky paths unforgetting,)Along thy prison-wires such murmurs come?I hear thee now! And chafing, ah, how vainly!For they have chained the death-glance of thine eye —Sightless as Samson—struggling more insanely —Thou couldst not if thou wouldst, lie down and die!

Or is’t, oh, Captive One! thy life-voice fretting,

That, like a caged-bird wrested from its home,

(Thy fluttering wing its sky paths unforgetting,)

Along thy prison-wires such murmurs come?

I hear thee now! And chafing, ah, how vainly!

For they have chained the death-glance of thine eye —

Sightless as Samson—struggling more insanely —

Thou couldst not if thou wouldst, lie down and die!

CAIUS MARIUS

AMIDST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

A SKETCH FROM HISTORY.

———

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD HURDIS,” &c.

———

The Dungeon of Minturnæ.

Marius.The Cimbrian.

Marius.What art thou, wretch, that in the darkness com’st,

The midnight of this prison, with sly step,

Most fit for the assassin, and bared dagger

Gleaming in thy lifted grasp!

Cimbrian.I am sent by those

Whose needs demand thy death. A single stroke

Sets us both free forever—thou from Fate,

Me from Captivity.

Marius.Slave, hast thou the heart

To strike at that of Marius!

Cimbrian.That voice! that name

Disarm me; and those fearful eyes that roll

Like red stars in the darkness, fill my soul

With awe that stays my hand. Master of the world,

The conqueror of my people hast thou been!

I know thee as a Fate! I cannot harm thee.

Marius.Go to thy senders, and from Marius, say,

That, if they bare the weapon for my breast,

Let them send hither one who has not yet

Looked in a master’s eye. ’Tis not decreed

That I shall perish yet, or by such hands

As gather in Minturnæ. Get thee hence!

——

Public Hall of Minturnæ.

Magistrates.The Cimbrian.Augur.

Cimbrian.I cannot slay this man. Give me to strike

Some baser victim, or restore to me

My chains. I cannot purchase at such price

The freedom that I covet.

Magistrate.Yet this man

Conquered thy people.

Cimbrian.He hath conquered me!

Augur.And he must conquer still!

His hour is not yet come. The Fates reserve

His weapon for their service. They have need

Of his avenging ministry, to purge

The world of its corruptions. I behold

A fearful vision of the terrible deeds

That wait upon his arm. Let him go free.

Give him due homage; clothe him with fresh robes;

Speed him in secret with a chosen bark

To other shores. So shall your city ’scape

Rome’s wrath, and his hereafter.

Magistrate.It is well:

This counsel looks like wisdom.

Augur.It is more!

So the Gods speak through their interpreter.

Magistrate.Release him straightway—send him forth in honor;

We give him freedom—let the gods give safety.

——

Island of Ænaria.

Marius.Cethegus.

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