RIVERSIDE.

———

BY GEO. CANNING HILL.

———

In a wood, all deep and solemn,Where fall many a leafy columnLifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky—Where the sunbeams bright and golden,Gloss the mosses dank and olden,And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie;—A piazza, broad and shaded,By the vines about it braided,Has within its wreathed pilasters full a world of lovely dreams;And it looks toward the river,Where long shadows lie and quiver—Lie and quiver in the sun that through the nodding treetops streams.I can hear the distant tumbleOf the waters, and the rumbleOf the mill-wheel, never ceasing on its constant, busy round,And the cascade’s steady drummingComes like sweet and lowly humming,As if water-sprites were chanting, with a low and dreamy sound.If the sun have just arisen,With its brightness to bedizenClustered leaves, and vines, and flowers—and the dew-drops on the lawn—What a glory is before me—All around, beside, and o’er me—What a glory, all of colors that no human hand hath drawn!Or if it be at even,When soft breezes blow from heaven,And the glimmer of the twilight comes a-dancing through the leaves—Oh! how thick my brain is crowdedWith sweet images enshrouded—With sweet images enshrouded in the mists my fancy weaves!Little pools lie closely hiddenIn the woods, as if forbiddenTo reflect within their surface but a hand’s breadth of the sky—Where the turtle’s lonely whirringIs at evening ever stirring,Winning over the calm list’ner with its saddest melody.I have often sat, when saddened,And as often, too, when gladdened,At the side of these clear mirrors, where the sweetest dreams have slept;And the world beyond forgotten,Quiet thoughts would be begotten—Thoughts of Life, and Love, and Heaven, over which I fondly wept.And beside the river’s dashing,In the tumult of its plashing,I have felt my pulses quickened, and my spirits bravely stirred;Then below, where it runs slowly,And the boughs bend over lowly,My soul again was saddened, as by some enchanter’s word.Upon every tree are builded—By the garish sun ne’er gilded—Nests of songsters, close secluded in the still and welcome shades;And within their snug dominionsI can see the fledging pinionsOf the callow young, grown restless in their leafy colonnades.The fresh morning air is ringingWith a concord of sweet singing,From a million throats all pouring out their melody of praise;High within the sylvan archesOf the chestnuts, holms, and larches,Sounds the hymning of these songsters in the forest’s darkened maze.I love to sit at morning,In the glory of the dawningOf the sunlight, flashing over the high eastern hills afar,On this broad piazza olden,Where the gray streaks and the goldenCome a-streaming from their chambers through the vines that curtains are.The hawthorn and the holly,Bearing berries red and jolly,Are inwoven with the bushes that run riot with them all;And like caps of grenadiersThe dark moss in clumps appears—The dark moss that stands in bunches all along the garden wall.O, ’tis glorious in October,When the sky is clear and sober,To rove among the beauties that abound at Riverside!For the forest is all blazingWith the Autumn colors, raisingPainted groves, and tinted arbors, where was naught but green beside,And the influences settingIn upon me are begettingPurer thoughts than those I felt away among the busy crowd;For the earth hath such a seeming,With its thousand glories teeming,That I dare not always trust myself to utter words aloud.Yes, for me the deep wood solemn,Where full many a leafy columnLifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky,And the sunbeams, bright and golden,Gloss the mosses gray and olden,And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie.

In a wood, all deep and solemn,

Where fall many a leafy column

Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky—

Where the sunbeams bright and golden,

Gloss the mosses dank and olden,

And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie;—

A piazza, broad and shaded,

By the vines about it braided,

Has within its wreathed pilasters full a world of lovely dreams;

And it looks toward the river,

Where long shadows lie and quiver—

Lie and quiver in the sun that through the nodding treetops streams.

I can hear the distant tumble

Of the waters, and the rumble

Of the mill-wheel, never ceasing on its constant, busy round,

And the cascade’s steady drumming

Comes like sweet and lowly humming,

As if water-sprites were chanting, with a low and dreamy sound.

If the sun have just arisen,

With its brightness to bedizen

Clustered leaves, and vines, and flowers—and the dew-drops on the lawn—

What a glory is before me—

All around, beside, and o’er me—

What a glory, all of colors that no human hand hath drawn!

Or if it be at even,

When soft breezes blow from heaven,

And the glimmer of the twilight comes a-dancing through the leaves—

Oh! how thick my brain is crowded

With sweet images enshrouded—

With sweet images enshrouded in the mists my fancy weaves!

Little pools lie closely hidden

In the woods, as if forbidden

To reflect within their surface but a hand’s breadth of the sky—

Where the turtle’s lonely whirring

Is at evening ever stirring,

Winning over the calm list’ner with its saddest melody.

I have often sat, when saddened,

And as often, too, when gladdened,

At the side of these clear mirrors, where the sweetest dreams have slept;

And the world beyond forgotten,

Quiet thoughts would be begotten—

Thoughts of Life, and Love, and Heaven, over which I fondly wept.

And beside the river’s dashing,

In the tumult of its plashing,

I have felt my pulses quickened, and my spirits bravely stirred;

Then below, where it runs slowly,

And the boughs bend over lowly,

My soul again was saddened, as by some enchanter’s word.

Upon every tree are builded—

By the garish sun ne’er gilded—

Nests of songsters, close secluded in the still and welcome shades;

And within their snug dominions

I can see the fledging pinions

Of the callow young, grown restless in their leafy colonnades.

The fresh morning air is ringing

With a concord of sweet singing,

From a million throats all pouring out their melody of praise;

High within the sylvan arches

Of the chestnuts, holms, and larches,

Sounds the hymning of these songsters in the forest’s darkened maze.

I love to sit at morning,

In the glory of the dawning

Of the sunlight, flashing over the high eastern hills afar,

On this broad piazza olden,

Where the gray streaks and the golden

Come a-streaming from their chambers through the vines that curtains are.

The hawthorn and the holly,

Bearing berries red and jolly,

Are inwoven with the bushes that run riot with them all;

And like caps of grenadiers

The dark moss in clumps appears—

The dark moss that stands in bunches all along the garden wall.

O, ’tis glorious in October,

When the sky is clear and sober,

To rove among the beauties that abound at Riverside!

For the forest is all blazing

With the Autumn colors, raising

Painted groves, and tinted arbors, where was naught but green beside,

And the influences setting

In upon me are begetting

Purer thoughts than those I felt away among the busy crowd;

For the earth hath such a seeming,

With its thousand glories teeming,

That I dare not always trust myself to utter words aloud.

Yes, for me the deep wood solemn,

Where full many a leafy column

Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky,

And the sunbeams, bright and golden,

Gloss the mosses gray and olden,

And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie.

CHANT OF THE NÉREIDES.

FROM THE

SECOND PART OF GÖETHE’S FAUST.

MUSIC BY

ENNA DUVAL.

Oh, follow our counsel,And rest thee in gladness;The flow’rs ’neath the willows shall

Oh, follow our counsel,

And rest thee in gladness;

The flow’rs ’neath the willows shall

ease thee of sadness.Here slumber thou lov’d one,Thy labours shall cease;We breathe and we warble of gladness and peace.

ease thee of sadness.

Here slumber thou lov’d one,

Thy labours shall cease;

We breathe and we warble of gladness and peace.

THE FINE ARTS.

The Opera.—Strange, that Philadelphia, with so much musical taste and cultivation, cannot have an Opera. Once in a while an Operatic troupe wanders along, and rests, for a short time, in our sober town, gives a few representations, then away it goes. Our neighbors of New York manage this thing better—an Opera they will have, even if they run in debt for it. And yet it seems that one, properly managed, might succeed in this concert-loving town of Penn. It must be a moderate one, however; that is, moderate in price. A serious old merchant, well to do in the world, will hesitate at taking even two tickets, at a dollar a-piece, but he would not mind taking a half dozen tickets if they cost only half that sum. The principle is the thing.

Brother Jonathan likes a show of economy, at least. Every politician in Congress, who wishes to be popular in Bunkum, invariably makes speeches against appropriations, mileage, &c., in order to prove that he is anxious to save Uncle Sam’s purse; but, at the same time, this same politician will have his pet appropriations, and not refuse his mileage either.

The small circle of fashionable people may subscribe and talk, but they can do little in this opera matter, without the support of the plain, unpretending portion of the inhabitants, who, after all, make up the audience, and bring in the money; and they have made up their minds to give only a moderate sum, and they will not give any more.

Then the Troupe must be a good one; or, if only a slender one, it must not attempt too much. The Seguins always drew well, because they only attemptedOperettesandVaudevilles. Not that the Philadelphians do not like a higher order of music, but they are fastidious, and know when a good Opera is badly given. They will not go to hear the rich, full music of Norma murdered by a poor Troupe, with worn-out voices, and meagre choruses. Whatever they listen to must be well sung.

We wish that inimitable knight of the Baton—the white cravated Max Maretzek—would think a little of this. But if he does, there is one hint that it would be well to whisper in his ear, or in the ear of any other venturesome Opera proprietor, who is bold enough to undertake the establishing of an Opera here. There must be no cliques—nodonnasof different schools in the Troupe. We can all remember how weary we all were of the Biscaccianti and Truffi feud; and then, again, of the Truffi and Laborde cliques. The real lovers of music, who went for the love of the Opera, and not in a spirit of pedantic fashionable affectation, were ready to exclaim, with Mercutio,

A plague o’ both your houses.

Let the Opera be of either the French or Italian School, so that it be of one, alone. There is sufficient love for music with us, to make us liberal to either school, so that it be well represented. So far as our own taste is concerned, the Italian school is the more pleasing. The Frenchvocalizationis too exaggerated, we think. It is a mere matter of taste, however, and we will be content to listen to either, so that we have an Opera.

In the early part of the summer of ’47, an Italian Opera Troupe, from Havana, tarried a few weeks in Philadelphia. Most of the townsfolk, especially the wealthier class, had left the town, and were at different watering places; and, yet, we remember this company drew good houses.

It was one of the best Troupes we have ever had in Philadelphia. Its Donnas were Tedesco and Caranti Vita, and Marini. Tedesco, with her rich, mellow, mezzo-soprano voice, and the timidpetiteVita, with a delicatesympatheticsoprano, that warbled like a bird—it was a treat indeed. Then Marini—the only true Contr’alto we ever heard—how she startled the audience with her fulness and depth of tone. She was awkward as an actress, and her voice, though rich, was rough; but there was so much melody in it that it touched us, and we could not, if we would, criticise.

Of the Operas sung by this Troupe we speak of, Saffo and Sonnambula were our favorites. True, the Choruses in Norma were beautifully done—for the Choruses of this well-balanced Troupe were full, and well trained—but the chaste, simple music of Saffo, suited Tedesco’s fresh, young voice; and the delicate, melodious caroling of Amina, was the very character of Caranti Vita.

Perelli—the popular Perelli, without whose instructions no lady in Philadelphia, with any pretensions to a voice, can possibly get along—was the Tenore in this Troupe, and its Maestro. In Verdi’s Hernani, his voice produced a fine effect and, every thing he sung, gave evidence of high culture and good taste.

The Opera of Saffo pleased us, particularly—the music was so pure and chaste. Such compositions are the sculpture of Music; a simple, classic plot—clear, decided harmony—pure melody. This is enough—scenic illusions and orchestral effects are of secondary importance.

This style of music belongs to a good, old school—the story also is effective. Schlegel it is, we think, who says, that there is a fanciful freedom in the handling of mythological materials, or subjects taken from chivalrous or pastoral romances, which always produces a fine effect in Opera. That so soon as the Heroic Opera chains itself down to History, after the manner of Tragedy, Dullness, with a leaden sceptre, presides over it.

There is another Opera of this school, the music of which we have heard, but we have never seen the opera represented—Niobe. Every instrumental performer will recal, with something like a loving memory, the beautiful melody from this Opera, “I tuoi frequenti palpiti,” which has been arranged, in “all sorts of ways,” for different instruments.

Good Reader, we will have a chat once in a while, on this subject of Music. We will talk together of Concerts, sometimes, both professional and amateur—and we will give some good-natured hints to our amateurprima donnas, about the difference between stage-singing and chamber singing. But you must join with us in all we say, and though we play spokesman and you listener, you must agree with us, and while we talk, you stand behind us, and make the gestures—then we shall succeed in interesting others as well as ourselves.

Spohrhas completed his ninth orchestral symphony, which he has entitled “The Seasons.”

Madame Frezzolini, after an absence of eight years from London, has returned to her Majesty’s Theatre, which she opened with great success as Lucrezia.

“The Philosopher’s Stone” is the title of a new burletta, produced in London, having for its subject of ridicule the gold and California mania.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Latter-Day Pamphlets. Edited by Thomas Carlyle. No. 6. Parliaments. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co.

We think that this pamphlet, though its notions are pushed to a crazy extreme, is calculated to do good. In attacking the existence of legislative assemblies, it lays bare and mercilessly ridicules their abuses, especially their tendency to endless and worthless talk and palaver. The style is not that which Carlyle is accustomed to use in his library, but the style of Carlyle over his brandy and water; and it accordingly has the recklessness as well as the fire of that peculiar method of accelerating the faculties. The Parliament which Carlyle likes, and which he contrasts with Lord John’s, is an old Norman one, before the business of Parliament had been undertaken by the newspapers; a Parliament which advised, not a Parliament which governed. “Reading,” he says, “in Eadmerus and the dim old Books, one finds gradually that the Parliament was at first a most simple Assemblage, quite cognate to the situation; that Red William, or whoever had taken upon him the terrible task of being King of England, was wont to invite, oftenest about Christmas time, his subordinate Kinglets, Barons, as he called them, to give him the pleasure of their company for a week or two; there, in earnest conference all morning, in freer talk over Christmas cheer all evening, in some big royal Hall of Westminster, Winchester, or wherever it might be, with log-fires, huge rounds of roast and boiled, not lacking Malmsey and other generous liquor, they took counsel concerning the arduous matters of the kingdom. ‘You, Taillebois what have you to propose in this arduous matter. . . Tête-d’étoupes, speak out. And first the pleasure of a glass of wine, my infant!’ Thus, for a fortnight’s space, they carried on, after a human manner, their grand National Consult, orParliamentum; intermingling Dinner with it (as is still the modern method;) debuting every thing as Tacitus describes the Ancient Germans to have done, two times; once sober, and once what he calls ‘drunk’—not exactly dead-drunk, but jolly round their big table; that so both sides of the matter might be seen, and, midway between rash hope and unreasonable apprehension, the true decision of it might be hit.”

Throughout the pamphlet the author wantons in dogmatism and impertinence, and has an especial love for a phrase representing the British people as “twenty-seven millions mostly fools.” The United States comes in as usual for a rap. The rumor is, that we are indebted for all Carlyle’s sarcasms against our people to the American tourists who have bored him; persons whom he always treated with roughness, but whom he now receives with almost savage insolence. We have heard a story of an American lady, who visited him—under the impression that he was a great philanthropist, and immediately opened the conversation with some remarks in favor of the abolition of slavery. He growled out a bitter rejoinder, in which he took strong grounds in favor of that institution, and denounced all abolitionists as sentimental fools and flunkies. The lady, irritated and surprised, hit instantly on the true woman’s method, theargumentum ad hominum, and put the startling question, “How, Mr. Carlyle, should you like to be a slave?” He dilated his person to its full dimensions, and in his broad Scotch brogue exclaimed, “Well, I should be glad to be a great bull-necked nigger, and have somebody to take care of me!” We must confess to a sympathy with his wish, as far as it relates to somebody’s taking care of him, we think good might be done to his head in an asylum.

There is, however, an allusion in the pamphlet to our Congress, which is not without its wisdom just at this time, and which may be safely commended to the attention of those honorable members who consume time and money, precious to the public, in speeches which rarely rise in thought to the level of party newspaper leaders, and which, in style, are often below the rhetoric of romances in yellow covers. He says, “Only perhaps in the United States, which alone of all countries can do without governing—every man being at least able to live, and move off into the wilderness, let Congress jargon as it will—can such a form of so-called ‘Government’ continue for any length of time to torment men with the semblance, when the indispensable substance is not there. For America,as the citizens well know, is an ‘unparalelled country’—with mud soil enough, and fierce sun enough in the Mississippi valley alone to grow Indian corn for the extant Posterity of Adam at this time; what other country ever stood in such a case? ‘Speeches to Bunkum,’ and a constitutional battle of the Kilkenny cats, which in other countries are becoming tragical and unendurable, may there still fall under the comical category.”

Webster’s Dictionary.—A new quarto edition of Webster’s Dictionary, with additions by Professor Goodrich, has recently been issued by G. & C. Merriam, of Springfield, and is for sale in this city by booksellers generally. Study of the Dictionary is the great want of a majority of American writers. They neither drink at the sources nor draw from the depths of the language, to supply the thirst for purity, variety, and force of expression, with which truly masculine minds are panting. With a vocabulary equal to the largest demands of truth in its labors, or of imagination in its play, we find constantly recurring the same set-phrases, the same commonplaces, the same worn-out figures. Our college-bred men are not deficient in a Johnsonian stock of Latin derivatives, but into the Saxon mine of our tongue, few of them have ever delved. They are too indolent to open the record and search for the treasures bequeathed to them. Until Webster’s researches and toils brought these treasures together, they were so far hidden and scattered, that few even of the learned appreciated their amount. Thirty-five years he spent in the compilation of his Dictionary; and since the publication of the first edition, it has been enriched by himself and the present editor with thousands of words; and it is now, by the consent of the learned in England as well as this country, valuable above every other, for comprehensiveness, etymological accuracy, and clearness of verbal definitions. The new quarto contains the whole matter of the former editions in two volumes, printed with clear type, on good paper, and substantially bound. It is one of the few books, of which a threadbare recommendation may be truly repeated—“no library is complete without it.” One of the most distinguished of American writers, whose choice of fresh and forceful words has at times brought upon him a charge of pedantry, but who in fact has only used fearlessly the wealth of the language, told us, some years ago, that it was his habit to read the Dictionary through about once every year. To the student, this practice may be commended as of inestimable service. A single word is often the cue to a sentiment or a train ofideas worthy of expression. As the mind is full of words to give variety to its pictures, so will it be full of suggestions for new subjects. The relation between words and ideas is to a degree an absolute identity. An illiterate person sits down to write a letter. His fund of language being small, the paucity of his thoughts is in the same proportion. He may have traveled half over the world, yet he has nothing to say to his friends at home, except that he is well, and hopes they are the same. Our young writers may find in this illustration a reason for studying the Dictionary faithfully and continually. Not from the conversation of the educated, or from miscellaneous books alone, will they catch by accident the riches of the language. They must search and reflect—a task which the labors of Webster and his great predecessors in lexicography, have reduced to child’s play. Among the two or three thousand newspapers in the United States, are at least some hundreds edited by men who have not had the opportunities of a classical education. Minds only of extraordinary energy, or those rising to the standard of genius, can do perfect justice to the important duties of journalism without the advantages of this discipline. But they may in mature life, find its best substitute in the systematic study of a comprehensive Dictionary, in connection with the classics of the language. Were this method adopted, we would not so often have reason to blush for the feebleness and illiteracy exhibited not only in many newspaper columns, but in the pages of periodicals of far higher pretensions, as exemplars of rhetorical propriety.

The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith. Including a Variety of Pieces now first collected. By James Prior. New York: George P. Putnam. 4 vols. 12mo.

Few English classics have been edited with the care and the thoroughness of this edition of Goldsmith. Prior, an antiquarian who never touches a subject which he does not exhaust, has paid especial attention to Goldsmith; has written a biography of him, which forms the basis both of Foster’s and Irving’s; and in the present edition, has printed many valuable essays and poems never before collected. The articles contributed by Goldsmith to the Monthly and Critical Reviews, when he was a hack-writer in the most dismal sense of that term, are here collected; and though not to be compared with his best works for humor or for style, they still evince the hand of genius in many a scrap of serene wisdom, and in many a sentence of penetrating sagacity. In the fourth volume, just published, we find an oratorio, “The Captivity,” and a ludicrous scene from a farce called “The Grumbler,” never before printed. Mr. Putnam has issued the edition in a style of great neatness, and has placed it at a very low price. We hope it will meet with a sale corresponding to its merits. It supersedes all the other editions of Goldsmith now in the market, being the best printed, and the best edited of all, and containing several hundred pages of matter to be found in no other collection.

Moneypenny, or the Heart of the World. A Romance of the Present Day. By Cornelius Mathews. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 1 vol. 8vo.

Mr. Mathews is well known as an able but somewhat eccentric writer, with the grotesqueness, as well as the insight of the humorist, and often miscalculating the avenues to popular favor, while he gave no evidence of lacking the powers which deserve it. His present novel is his best production in respect to story and characterization, and is especially remarkable for its minute knowledge of every locality, and every phase of humanity and life, in the city of New York. This is not displayed in the way of a mere copyist, but in the higher mode of the observing humorist, to whom external forms are symbolical of serious or smiling spiritual facts. The style sparkles with a kind of laughing earnestness, which indicates an intense sympathy in the author with the varying throng of local objects which press upon his imagination for representation. We commend it to all readers who have fancies to be touched by its quaint analogies, and risibilities to be tingled by its humor.

Heroines of the Missionary Enterprise; or Sketches of Prominent Female Missionaries. By Daniel C. Eddy. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.

This elegant volume contains thirteen carefully prepared biographies of eminent women who have toiled and suffered, bodily and mentally, in the missionary cause. They are well worthy the honors of heroism, and some of them in Catholic countries, would have been sainted. Among the biographies are the names of Harriet Newell, Esther Butler, Sarah L. Smith, Henrietta Shuck, Sarah D. Comstock, and the three Mrs. Judsons.

The Use and Abuse of Alcoholic Liquors, in Health and Disease. By William B. Carpenter. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard.

This work is the Essay, to the author of which was awarded one hundred guineas, in London, by the Committee, selected to read the articles on behalf of the munificent donor. It is a work of great ability, thoroughly exposing all the fallacies which men indulge in, as an excuse for using intoxicating drinks, and driving the last vestige of excuse from the drunkard. It is a work that should be read by every young man in America.

Eldorado, or Adventures in the Path of Empire: compromising a Voyage to California, via Panama; Life in San Francisco and Monterey; Pictures of the Gold Region, and Experiences of Mexican Travel. By Bayard Taylor, author of “Views a-Foot,” etc. With illustrations by the author. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2 vols. 12mo.

The popularity of the author of these delightful volumes is indicated by the rapid sale of the first edition, which was disposed of on the day of publication. The work will add to Taylor’s reputation in respect to every quality of mind and disposition for which he is deservedly distinguished. It so combines the observer with the poet, that the reader soon becomes the author’s companion, seeing what he sees and feeling what he feels. His descriptions of scenery are beautiful representations; a few quiet and magical sentences bring pictures right before the eye; and when his subject happens to be the vegetation of the tropics, he gives us not only foliage but fragrance. The whole book is pervaded by that genial and happy spirit, which lends fascination to all of Taylor’s writings, and converts his readers into friendly partisans. We have not space at present to indicate the stores of information and delight which the volumes contain, but will extract one paragraph on a Pacific sunset, as a specimen of the ease with which the author’s facile style rises to eloquence. “Why,” he exclaims, “has never a word been said or sung about sunset on the Pacific? No where on this earth can one be overvaulted with such a glory of colors. The sky, with a ground-hue of rose toward the west, and purple toward the east, is mottled and flecked over all its surface with light clouds, running through every shade of crimson, amber, violet, and russet-gold. There is no deadduskiness opposite the sunken sun; the whole vast shell of firmament glows with an equal radiance, reduplicating its hues on the glassy sea, so that we seem floating in a hollow sphere of prismatic crystal. The cloud-strata, at different heights in the air, take different coloring; through bars of burning carmine one may look on the soft, rose-purple folds of an inner curtain, and, far within and beyond that, on the clear amber-green of the immaculate sky. As the light diminishes, these radiant vapors sink and gather into flaming pyramids, between whose pinnacles the serene depth of air is of that fathomless violet-green which we see in the skies of Titian.”

The Life and Religion of Mohammed, as Contained in theSheeãh Traditions of theHyât-ul-Kuloob. Translated from the Persian. By Rev. James L. Merrick, Eleven Years Missionary to the Persians. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

This is altogether the most important and trust-worthy work relating to Mohammed ever translated into English, giving, as it does, “a full view of his life and religion, with sketches of his ancestors, companions, and times, blended with maxims and legends illustrative of Oriental manners.” To the theologian it is invaluable, while to the general reader it is as interesting as an Oriental romance, being in the form of narrative, with frequent flashes of magnificent poetry. The account of the birth of Mohammed, especially, is exquisitely beautiful. As a specimen of the style, we give a paragraph embodying Sawadbin-Karib’s testimony. “Four days after the birth, Sawadbin-Karib, a man celebrated among the Arabs for his knowledge, came to congratulate Abdulmutalib, and see the child of whom he had heard many marvelous accounts. On going to the house of Aminah they were informed that he was asleep. When the cover of the cradle was removed to gratify them with a sight of the wonderful babe,such lightning gleamed from his blessed countenance that the roof of the house was cloven by it, and the visiters drew their sleeves over their dazzled eyes.”

Gleanings from the Poets, for Home and School. A New Edition, Enlarged. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo.

The title of this volume is an honest title, accurately describing the contents. The poems are selected from a wide variety of English authors, and consist of pieces which have not been worn threadbare by previous publication in school-reading books. Some of the selections will be new to most readers of poetry, such as the narrative poems of French and those of Mary Lamb. We notice two poems by Tennyson not included in the edition of his works. “The Skylark” is here, not only in Shelly’s rapturous lyric, but as he was viewed by the imaginations of Wordsworth and Hogg. Wordsworth’s wonderful “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from the Recollections of Childhood,” the grandest and subtlest of modern odes, is given in full. We notice also a number of pieces by Vaughan, Quarles, and holy George Herbert, not generally known. The Prioress’s Tale is reprinted in Chaucer’s old spelling, its quaint phraseology truly embodying its intense sweetness of sentiment. Altogether, we think that “home” to be deficient in which this volume has not its place.

Redwood: A Tale. By the Author of “Hope Leslie,” etc. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This novel, the third volume of Mr. Putnam’s elegant re-issue of the works of Miss Sedgwick, is especially interesting, as giving the best account we have ever read of life among the Shakers. The effect of the doctrines of that singular sect upon individual character is traced with masterly discrimination. The story is also one of the most interesting which even Miss Sedgwick’s genial fancy has invented, and fastens the attention which it once engages.

The Origin of the Material Universe. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co.

This pamphlet is exceedingly ingenious and interesting, and is worthy of extensive circulation. It is a highly wrought description, on scientific principles, of the manner in which the earth was formed, and the events connected therewith from its existence, in a fluid state to the time of the Mosaical narrative. The theory of the writer is ably sustained, and, whether true or not, has the effect to stimulate and fill the imagination, and spur it to the contemplation of grand and majestic images.

Zanoni. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. New York: Harper & Brothers.

The Harpers have included this work in their cheap “Library of Select Novels,” which has now reached its one hundred and forty-second number, and is probably the cheapest work ever issued. There are few novel readers to whom Zanoni is not familiar, and of all the author’s productions it best bears the test of reperusal. Its feverish power exacts a feverish interest, which is as unhealthy as it is stimulating; but this intellectual dram-drinking is now so common that the charge of morbid sentiment brought against a book operates as a puff.

Household Words. A Weekly Journal. Conducted by Charles Dickens. New York: George P. Putnam. Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Mr. Putnam, with his usualenterprise, has contrived to make an arrangement with Bradbury and Evans, of London, to publish Dickens’s Journal contemporaneously with its appearance in London, and to afford the English edition itself at what Mr. Chevy Slyme would call the “ridiculously low price of six cents.” The Journal is full of stories and sketches of a genial character, admirably adapted for the fireside of home. To the uncounted number of people who constitute Dickens’s public, the “Household Words” will be a welcome visitant.

Letters of a Traveler; or Notes of Things seen in Europe and America. By William Cullen Bryant. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This handsome volume is composed of letters, running over a period of sixteen years, and recording impressions of travel in Europe and America. The heart and imagination of Bryant consecrate and color the whole series: and though the scenes he describes have often been described by others, they appear new and fresh as mirrored in his pages. The serene but searching, the tolerant but earnest, mind of the author, gives the same life and charm to his prose as to his verse. The style is characterised by the grace, delicacy and thoughtfulness, the sober beauty, and “superb propriety,” native to his mind; and the cadence of his sentences leaves a lingering music in the reader’s brain, long after the book has been closed. The scenes and incidents of the volume are of exceeding variety. Paris, Florence, Pisa, Venice, London,Edinburgh,—Richmond, Charleston, St. Augustine, Mackinaw, Savannah, Havana, Boston, Portland,—thePeaks of Derbyshire and the White Mountains,—these widely distant places are but points to indicate the number and dissimilarity of the topics which come under the author’s view. Every lover of Bryant should possess this volume.

Essays Upon Authors and Books. By W. Alfred Jones. New York: Stanford & Swords. 1 vol. 12mo.

The writer of this valuable little volume is favorably known among all who favor independent thought, exercised in the domain of literary criticism and characterization, as the author of “The Analyst” and “Literary Studies.” The “Essays” are thirty in number, covering a wide variety of topics, and indicating that kind of literary knowledge which looks through books into the spiritual constitution of their authors. Mr. Jones is a professor of the condensed in composition, and seems ever ambitious to cram his matter into a small space, and short, sharp, curt sentences. Perhaps he sacrifices mellowness in thus aiming after the laconic, but his fault is of so rare a nature in these days of verbose expansiveness, that to blame him for it were to fall into a worse one. Among the many essays which induce us heartily to recommend this volume to the reader, are those entitled “Traits of American Authorship,” “Home Criticism,” “The Two Everetts,” “Hoyt’s Poems,” “Hugh Latimer,” “Sir Philip Sidney’s Defense of Poesy,” “R. H. Dana,” “Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy,” “The Literature of Quakerism,” “Æsthetical Fragments,” “Thomas Moore,” and “Lord Bolingbroke.” Mr. Jones’s culture sweeps over the field of English literature, and some of his most interesting essays relate to quaint authors, whose names are in few mouths, but who are capable, in capable hands, of being made interesting even in this age. We need not say that the moral character of Mr. Jones’s criticism is as high as it’s mental, and that his book may be safely taken as a guide to young as well as to experienced readers.

The Hungarian Revolution. Outlines of the Prominent Circumstances attending the Hungarian Struggle for Freedom. Together with brief Biographical Sketches of the Leading Statesmen and Generals who took part in it. By Johan Pragay. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This volume carries with it more authority than any as yet published on the Hungarian Revolution. The author had an official station in the Ministry of War under Kossuth’s administration, and was Adjutant-General of the Army. As the work of a soldier and statesman actively engaged in the conduct of the war, it is as reliable as it is interesting.

Hints Toward Reforms, in Lectures, Addresses and Other Writings. By Horace Greely. 1 vol. 12mo.

The author of this volume is well known as the editor of an influential political journal, and as a sturdy, independent, benevolent, strong-minded and warm-hearted reformer. The topics he discusses are those which deeply interest the popular mind at this time—labor, temperance, land reform, capital punishment, free trade, protection, etc.; and Mr. Greely grapples with the knottiest questions which those themes suggest with a firm will, and an eager intellect. Bating some doubtful opinions and some bad rhetoric, the volume conveys a good impression of the author’s many excellent qualities of mind and character. We cannot better describe the object of his work than by employing his own words. “It aspires,” he says, “to be a mediator, an interpreter, a reconciler, between Conservatism and Radicalism—to bring the two into such connection and relation that the good in each may obey the law of chemical affinity, and abandon whatever portion of either is false, mistaken, or outworn to sink down and perish. It endeavors so to elucidate and commend what is just and practical in the pervading demands of our time for a Social Renovation that the humane and philanthropic can no longer misrepresent and malign them as destructive, demoralizing or infidel in their tendencies, but must joyfully recognize in them the fruits of past and the seeds of future Progress in the history of our Race.” The idea in this passage is one which a conservative of the school of Burke would have no reason to disown. The difficulty is in the different things meant by the two parties, when they use the words “false, mistaken, and outworn.” Time, and the course of things, not any particular intellect, must settle the dispute; although we hope that Time, if he can take “Hints,” willaccelerate his pace a little, at our author’s particular request.

Talbot and Vernon. A Novel. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.

The author of this volume is guilty, as Pitt said of himself, “of the atrocious crime of being a young man,” and appears now for the first time before the public. But, though young, he has evidently seen and experienced more than most old men. His knowledge of life has been obtained from a residence in the Great West, and by a Campaign in Mexico. The present novel is one of much interest and power, indicating great freshness, quickness, and force of mind, and is particularly rich in promise. The scenes in Mexico, including the description of the battle of Buena Vista, and the whole trial scene toward the end of the volume, are especially felicitous.

Caprices. New York: R. Carter & Brother. 1 vol. 12mo.

This volume of poems, we should say, was the production of a sensitive imagination and reflecting mind, gifted at present with more receptivity than original power, and having a greater experience of Tennyson, Emerson and Longfellow, than of actual or ideal life. The author has a wide command of language, no mean powers of description, and a tremblingly delicate sensibility for the beautiful and the grand, but his present volume is more the promise than the performance of a forcible and original poet. The very title indicates the fitful character of the pieces.

The Daltons; or Three Roads in Life. By Charles Lever. New York: Harper & Brothers. Part I.

The author of “The Daltons” is so widely known for the heartiness and vehemence of his comic narratives that it is only necessary to announce his commencement of a novel to recommend it to attention.

FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS IN PREMIUMS.

The proprietors of the “Dollar Newspaper,” in this city, offer five hundred dollars in premiums for the eight best stories written for that paper, and sent in before the 1st day of October next—the merits of the stories to be determined by a committee of literary gentlemen, whose names will be given when the award is made. Two hundred dollars is the premium for the best story; one hundred for the next best; fifty dollars each for the two next best; and twenty-five dollars each for the four next best. We have a long acquaintance with the proprietors of the “Dollar Newspaper,” and have not the slightest doubt that their proposition is made in good faith, and that all that they can do will be done to arrive at a just and impartial decision. No writer who is awardeda prize, could have any doubt of the prompt payment of the full amount awarded. The only condition imposed by the publishers is, that the scene of the story shall be American. Here’s a chance for the literati.

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