THE FINE ARTS.

Twenty-Seventh Annual Exhibition of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.—Viewed in all its bearings and relations, we believe this to have been the most important exhibition of this excellent institution. Not that we think the present by any means the best collection of paintings we remember to have seen in these same rooms. We believe it is generally known that for some time past a considerable business has been done in the way of importing paintings, statues, etc., for purposes of speculation. Through the exertions of the individuals engaged in this traffic, scores of foreign pictures have been scattered over the country. With this business it is not our purpose to meddle. Undoubtedly these gentlemen possess the right to invest their money in whatever will yield the largest per centage, and we are glad to perceive that a fondness for art exists to such an extent as tempts shrewd speculators and financiers to enter into operations of this description. But, keeping in view the state of affairs induced by the exertions of these gentlemen, no surprise will exist in the mind of any one at the unparalleled interest created in the public mind by the announcement that the Directors of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, impelled by a laudable desire to patronize art and artists, had offered certain “prizes or sums of money,” to be competed for by artists all over the world. The mere announcement put public curiosity on thequi vive. Expectation was on tip-toe. At length, after protracted delay, on the 16th of May last, the Academy was thrown open to the public.

The two galleries—the south-east and the north-east—those usually appropriated to the new works, contained one hundred and eighty pictures, which, with some half dozen scattered through the old collection, made about one hundred and ninety new pictures, by modern artists. Of this number some seventy or eighty were foreign—the majority of these German. How many were submitted for the “prizes or sums of money” we are not informed.

328 of the catalogue—Death of Abel, etc., byEdward du Jardin, is probably, so far as subject is involved, the most important work in the collection. As a whole, we look on these pictures as a failure, as adead failure. Parts of the works are well drawn, and carefully, even laboriously studied, but what could be more absurd than the habiliments, attitude and expression of the angel in the first of the three? The Adam in the centre is a regularpropertyfigure—one of thosestockstudies which embellish the portfolio of every young artist who has ever been to Europe. The attitude and expression are such as can be purchased by the franc’s worth from any one of the scores of models to be found in almost every city in Europe. The Eve possesses more of the character of a repentant Magdalene than the “mother of mankind.” The third picture is to our mind the best; but, taken all together, the works are barely passable—not by any means what we should have expected from a professor of painting in one of the first schools in Europe. Religious art requires abilities and perceptions of the first order—feelings different from any manifested in this production.

Of a different order is 56—Rouget de Lisle, a French officer, singing for the first time the Marsellaise Hymn, (of which he was the author,) at the house of the Mayor of Strasburg, 1792—Painted byGodfroi Guffens. Every thing here is fire and enthusiasm—the enthusiasm that ought to pervadeevery work of art—which makes the intelligent spectatorfeelas the artist felt in its production. We have heard various and conflicting remarks made upon this work, and the general feeling among competent judges is that it is the best of the foreign works. In our opinion it is, perhaps,the bestmodern picture in the collection. The grouping, actions, and expressions of the figures are in admirable keeping with the subject, and the color is rich, agreeable, and subdued.

Murray’s Defense of Toleration.—P. F. Rothermel.If to the exquisite qualities of color, composition, etc., Mr. Rothermel would add (we know he can)expression, he would unquestionably bethehistorical painter of America. In a refined, intellectual perception of the general character of his subject, Mr. R. is unsurpassed, perhaps unapproached by any painter in the country. His pictures give evidence of the greatest care and study—no partis slighted—nothing done with the “that will do” feeling, which dreads labor. The picture under consideration embraces a great number of figures—in fact thecanvas is literally covered, but not crowded, every inch giving evidence of intelligence and design. Concerning the work, we have heard, from the public press as well as from individuals, but one expression, that of the strongest commendation—in which we heartily concur.

150, from the Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act IV., Scene 1st., also by Mr.Rothermel, is conceived in the true feeling of the great poet. The figures of Bottom, and Titania and the other fairies, are fine conceptions. Some comparatively unimportant defects in drawing might be remedied, without injuring the general effect.

Mr.Winnercontributes a large work—Peter Healing the Lame Man at the Beautiful Gate of the Temple. This picture possesses great merit, and evinces a most commendable ambition. The grouping is well managed—the expressions of Peter and John are good—the cripple capital. A stumpy shortness of the figures mars the general character of this otherwise beautiful production. Mr. Winner paints drapery well, and perhaps unconsciously loads his figures with it. This defect is conspicuous in his grand work of “Christ raising the Daughter of Jairus,” now in our Art Union Gallery. The heads and extremities of Mr. Winner’s pictures are perfect studies of color and modeling, and evince a masterly knowledge of anatomy. We should be rejoiced to see the efforts of our artists liberally sustained, as they ought to be, in the higher departments of art.

41, The Happy Moment—105, The Recovery—Carl Hubner. These, no doubt, arepopularworks—as works of certain classes always will be. We have heard much said in praise of them. They are beautifully, exquisitely painted—especially the “Happy Moment,” in which the color and execution are admirable. But insentiment, or any of theidealqualities of such subjects, they are lamentably deficient. Like nearly all the German painters, Carl Hubner possesses much greaterexecutivethanimaginativepowers—he is more of amechanicthan anartist. He gratifies theeyeat the expense of themind. Surely rustic love is suggestive of something more than any thing hinted at in the “Happy Moment.” “The Recovery” is composed of the usual conventional material of such subjects—a simpering physician, with a nice diamond ring on his finger, friends, with the old, upturned eyes and clasped hands, are mechanically put together—all standing or sitting evidently on purpose to be painted.

In landscape, the best works in the collection are Nos. 35 and 136, byDiday, a Geneva artist—a Moonlight, No. 46,B. Stange, and No. 78, a Roman Aqueduct at Alcala, with caravans of muleteers,F. Bossuet. The two first are grand and imposing representations of scenery in the High Alps—in color they are deep and rich in tone. The Moonlight, by Stange, is the best we have ever seen. The tremulous luminousness of the moonshine is rendered with matchless truth. The Roman Aqueduct, by Bossuet, is, beyond question, the finest landscape in the collection. Sunlight, local color, and texture were never painted with greater truth than in this splendid production. Light and heat pervade every nook and corner of the picture, from the dry, dusty foreground, off to the distant mountains which close the scene. The work furnishes a grand example of artistic execution and detail. No 52—Lake George—Russel Smith—is a beautiful piece of open daylight effect, possessing great truth. A Scene on the North River—Paul Weber—possesses much merit. The color is fresh and natural, and the sky is the best we have seen by this artist.

In the Marine department we have works fromSchotel,De Groot,Pleysier,Mozin, and other foreign artists, and fromBirch,Bonfield, andHamilton, American. Hamilton stands preeminent in this department—his “Thunder Storm,” and a poetic subject from Rogers’ Columbus, are the best marines in the Academy. All his works in the present exhibition have been so minutely described in the daily and weekly papers, and so universally commended, that we deem it unnecessary to do more than add our unqualified acquiescence in the favorable judgment thus far expressed concerning them. Not one of our artists is attracting so much attention at the present moment as Mr. Hamilton. We have no doubt he is fully able to sustain the high expectations created by his works within the last two years. Birch and Bonfield, each, maintain their well-earned and well-deserved reputations. Of the foreign marines, those of Pleysier and De Groot are the best—but there is nothing remarkable in either.

A Still Life piece byGronland, a French artist, is a splendid example of its class—as is, also, one of a similar character byJ. B. Ord, the best painter of such subjects in the United States.

Want of space prevents our entering into the discussion of the comparative merits of native and foreign works. We feel no hesitation, however, in saying that our artists, as a body, have every reason to congratulate themselves upon the probable results of the present exhibition.

The Madonna del Velo.—Among the many works of art, which the unsettled state of the Continent has brought into the London market, are a collection formerly the property of the Bracca family of Milan. The gem of the gallery is a remarkably fine and beautifully finished Madonna del Velo by Raffaelle. This attractive picture derives its title from the Virgin being represented as lifting a transparent veil from the face of the sleeping Jesus. She is gazing on the infant with all the devoted love of a mother, and with all a Madonna’s reverence beaming from her eyes and depicted in her countenance and her posture; while the young St. John is standing by, an attentive and interested spectator of the proceeding. The colors are very beautiful, and are blended with the highest taste and judgment. The details of the painting bear the closest examination, and every new inspection brings to view some unobserved charm, some previously undetected beauty. The figures are worthy in all respects of the highest praise, and the landscape forms a delightful and effective back-ground. To mention one little example of the singular skill and finish displayed in this beautiful work, the veil which the Virgin is represented as lifting from the sleeping infant’s face, is marvelously painted. It is perfectly transparent, and seems so singularly fine, filmy and light, that it has all the appearance of what a silken cobweb might be imagined to be. It is a remarkable specimen of the skill of the great artist even in the most difficult and delicate matters. Indeed, the whole painting is a “gem of purest ray.”

“La Tempesta”—a new opera, the joint composition of Halevy and Scribe, has been produced in London, with Sontag as Miranda, Lablache as Caliban, Coletti as Prospero, and Carlotta Grisi as Ariel. Whether its original source, the renown of the author of the libretto, the reputation of the composer, or the combination of artistic talent engaged, be considered, the opera is a work of unprecedented magnitude, and naturally excited unusual interest on the part of all lovers of art. Monsieur Scribe has made legitimate use of Shakspeare’s “Tempest” in its transmutation into a libretto—supernatural agency and music are employed, even Caliban sings, and Ariel, besides being an essentially musical part, heads a band of sprites and elves “who trip on their toes, with mops and mows.” But it was necessary, for lyrical purposes, that a greater intensity of human interest should be added. M. Scribe has found means of drawing these new points from Shakspeare’s own text. He says in a letter to the lessee of Her Majesty’s Theatre, “I have done the utmost to respect the inspirations of your immortal author. All the musical situations I have created are but suggestions taken from Shakspeare’s ideas; and as all the honor must accrue to him, I may be allowed to state that there are but few subjects so well adapted for musicalinterpretation.” We hope before long to have this last work from Halevy transferred to the boards of the American Opera.

A Drama Thirty Centuries Old Revived.—A recent great theatrical wonder of the hour in Paris, has been the revival of a piece from the Hindoo theatre, “which was performed for the first time” some three thousand years ago, in a city which no longer has an existence on the earth, and written by the sovereign of a country whose very name has become a matter of dispute. The piece was translated from the original Sanscrit by Gerald de Nerval, and met unbounded success. All Paris has been aroused by this curious contemplation of the ideas and motives of these remote ages, and a whimsical kind of delight is experienced at finding the human nature of Hindostan of so many centuries ago, and the human nature of modern Paris, so exactly alike in their puerility and violence, their audacity and absurdity, that the play may verily be called apièce de circonstance. King Sondraka, the author, seems to have anticipated the existence of such men as Louis Blanc and Proudhon, of Louis Bonaparte and Carlier; so true it is, that there is nothing new under the sun, and that not an idea floats on the tide of human intelligence but what has been borne thither by the waters of oblivion, where it had been already flung.

Statue of Calhoun.—The marble statue of the late John C. Calhoun, executed by Hiram Powers, at Leghorn, for the State of South Carolina, was lost on the coast of Long Island, in July, by the wreck of the brig Elizabeth.

Horace Vernet, the great historical printer, has been to St. Petersburg, having been requested by the Emperor of Russia to furnish several battle pieces illustrative of the principal scenes in the Hungarian campaign.

Drawn by Ch. BodmerEngdby Rawdon, Wright & HatchDance of the Mandan Indians.

MANDAN INDIANS.

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

“The Mandans are a vigorous, well-made race of people, rather above the middling stature, and very few of the men could be called short. The tallest man now living was Mahchsi-Karehde, (the flying war eagle,) who was five feet ten inches two lines, Paris measure, (above six feet English.) In general, however, they are not so tall as the Manitaries. Many of them are robust, broad-shouldered and muscular, while others are slender and small limbed. Their physiognomy is, in general, the same as that of most of the Missouri Indians, but their noses are not so long and arched as those of the Sioux, nor have they such high cheek-bones. The nose of the Mandans and Manitaries is not broad—sometimes aquiline, or slightly curved, and often quite straight. Their eyes are, in general, long and narrow, of a dark brown color; the inner angle is often rather lower in childhood, but it is rarely so in maturer age. The mouth is broad, large, rather prominent, and the lower jaw broad and angular. No great difference occurs in the form of the skull; in general I did not find the facile angle smaller than in Europeans, yet there are some exceptions. Their hair is long, thick, lank, and black, but seldom as jet and glossy as that of the Brazilians; that of children is often only dark brown, especially at the tips; and Bradbury speaks of brown hair among the Mandans. There are whole families among them, as well as among the Blackfeet, whose hair is gray, or black mixed with white, so that the whole head appears gray. The families of Sih-Chida and Mato-Chiha are instances of this peculiarity. The latter chief was particularly remarkable in this respect; his hair grew in distinct locks of brown, black, silver gray, but mostly white, and his eyebrows perfectly white, which had a strange effect in a tall, otherwise handsome man, between twenty and thirty years of age. They encourage the growth of their hair, and often lengthen it by artificial means. Their teeth, like those of all the Missouri Indians, are particularly fine, strong, firm, even, and as white as ivory. It is very seldom that you see a defect or a tooth wanting even in old people, though, in the latter, they are often worn very short, which is chiefly to be attributed to their chewing hard, dry meat. The women are pretty robust, and sometimes tall, but, for the most part, they are short and broad-shouldered. There are but few who can be called handsome as Indians, but there are many tolerable and some pretty faces among them.”

The engraving shows them in one of their celebrated dances, and is beautifully done by the artists.

THE BRIGHT NEW MOON OF LOVE.

———

BY T.HOLLEY CHIVERS, M. D.

———

At the dawn she stood debatingWith the angels at the doorOf Christ’s sepulchre, in waitingFor his body evermore.Pure as white-robed Faith to Sorrow,Pointing back to Heaven above—(Happy Day for every Morrow)—Was the Bright New Moon of Love.Nun-like, chaste in her devotion,All the stars in heaven on high,With their radiant, rhythmic motion,Chimed in with her from the sky.Sweeter far than day when breaking,Angel-like, in heaven above,On the traveler lost, when waking,Was the Bright New Moon of Love.Thus she glorified all sweetnessWith the angel-light she shedFrom her soul in such completeness,That she beautified the dead.When an angel, sent on dutyFrom his Father’s throne above,Saw the heaven-surpassing beautyOf this Bright New Moon of Love.For the Truth she loved was Beauty,Because Beauty was her Truth;And to love her was his duty,Such as Boas owed to Ruth.God had set his seal upon her,Her divinity to prove,And this angel wooed her—won her—Won the Bright New Moon of Love.Thus the Mission of True WomanShe did act out in this life—Showed the Divine in the Human,In her duties of the Wife.For the Heaven that he had takenWas so much like that above,That the heaven he had forsakenWas the Bright New Moon of Love.For the kingdom of Christ’s glory,Angel-chanted at her birth,Is the theme now of the storyWhich I warble through the earth.And because this fallen angelTook her home to heaven above,I now write thisNew EvangelOf the Bright New Moon of Love.

At the dawn she stood debating

With the angels at the door

Of Christ’s sepulchre, in waiting

For his body evermore.

Pure as white-robed Faith to Sorrow,

Pointing back to Heaven above—

(Happy Day for every Morrow)—

Was the Bright New Moon of Love.

Nun-like, chaste in her devotion,

All the stars in heaven on high,

With their radiant, rhythmic motion,

Chimed in with her from the sky.

Sweeter far than day when breaking,

Angel-like, in heaven above,

On the traveler lost, when waking,

Was the Bright New Moon of Love.

Thus she glorified all sweetness

With the angel-light she shed

From her soul in such completeness,

That she beautified the dead.

When an angel, sent on duty

From his Father’s throne above,

Saw the heaven-surpassing beauty

Of this Bright New Moon of Love.

For the Truth she loved was Beauty,

Because Beauty was her Truth;

And to love her was his duty,

Such as Boas owed to Ruth.

God had set his seal upon her,

Her divinity to prove,

And this angel wooed her—won her—

Won the Bright New Moon of Love.

Thus the Mission of True Woman

She did act out in this life—

Showed the Divine in the Human,

In her duties of the Wife.

For the Heaven that he had taken

Was so much like that above,

That the heaven he had forsaken

Was the Bright New Moon of Love.

For the kingdom of Christ’s glory,

Angel-chanted at her birth,

Is the theme now of the story

Which I warble through the earth.

And because this fallen angel

Took her home to heaven above,

I now write thisNew Evangel

Of the Bright New Moon of Love.

BARCAROLE.

WRITTEN AND COMPOSED FOR

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

BY R. J. DE CORDOVA.

Come Love with me, the moonlit seaInvites ourbarque to wander o’erIts glassy face where e’en a traceOf angry

Come Love with me, the moonlit sea

Invites ourbarque to wander o’er

Its glassy face where e’en a trace

Of angry

wave is seen no more.Let Love repeat in accents sweet,The joys which only Love can tellAnd Passion’s strain sing o’er again,In those fond tones I love so well.SECOND VERSE.Put fear away, and in the layOf love be all but love forgot;Renounce the care of worldly glare.Oh heed its glittering falseness not,But come with me, with spirit free,United, never more to part,We’ll seize the time of youth’s gay prime.The summer of the heart.THIRD VERSE.Then dearest rise, and let thine eyes,Where shine Love’s softest mightiest spells.Reveal the bright refulgent lightWhich in their lustrous beauty dwells.Let blissful song our joy prolongWhile gliding o’er the sparkling wave,And be the theme affection’s dreamWhich ends but in the grave.

wave is seen no more.

Let Love repeat in accents sweet,

The joys which only Love can tell

And Passion’s strain sing o’er again,

In those fond tones I love so well.

SECOND VERSE.

Put fear away, and in the lay

Of love be all but love forgot;

Renounce the care of worldly glare.

Oh heed its glittering falseness not,

But come with me, with spirit free,

United, never more to part,

We’ll seize the time of youth’s gay prime.

The summer of the heart.

THIRD VERSE.

Then dearest rise, and let thine eyes,

Where shine Love’s softest mightiest spells.

Reveal the bright refulgent light

Which in their lustrous beauty dwells.

Let blissful song our joy prolong

While gliding o’er the sparkling wave,

And be the theme affection’s dream

Which ends but in the grave.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

In Memoriam. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.

The author of this exquisite volume, the finest ever laid on the altar of friendship, is Alfred Tennyson, the most subtle and imaginative of living poets. It derives its title from the circumstance of being written in memory of Arthur Hallam, son of the historian of the Middle Ages, friend of the poet, and lover of his sister. In a hundred and eight short poems, all in one peculiar measure, Tennyson expresses not merely his grief for the loss of his friend, but touches on all those topics of sorrow and consolation kindred to the subject, or which the character of young Hallam suggests. It may be said by some that the object of the volume is unnatural and unmanly; that grief does not express itself in verses but in tears; that sorrow vents itself in simple words not in poetic conceits; and that the surest sign of the deficiency of feeling is a volume devoted to its celebration. But if we study the structure of Tennyson’s mind, we shall find that, however much these objections will apply to many mourners, they are inapplicable to him. The great peculiarity of his genius is intellectual intensity. All his feelings and impressions pass through his intellect, and are steadily scanned and reflected upon. In none of his poems do we find any outburst of feeling, scorning all mental control, or rapidly forcing the intellect into its service of rage or love. He has never written any thing in which emotion is not indissolubly blended with thought. There can be no doubt that he loved the person whom he here celebrates, but he loved him in his own deep and silent manner; his loss preyed upon his mind as well as heart, and stung thought and imagination into subtle activity. The volume is full of beauty, but of beauty in mourning weeds—of philosophy, but of philosophy penetrated with sadness. To a common mind, the loss of such a friend would have provoked a grief, at first uncontrollable, but which years would altogether dispel; to a mind like Tennyson’s years will but add to its sense of loss, however much imagination may consecrate and soften it.

This volume, accordingly, contains some of the finest specimens of intellectual pathos, of the mind in mourning, we have ever seen, and, in English literature, it has no parallel. The author is aware, as well as his critics, of the impossibility of fully conveying his grief in verses, and has anticipated their objection in a short poem of uncommon suggestiveness:

I sometimes hold it half a sinTo put in words the grief I feel,For words, like nature, half revealAnd half conceal the soul within.

I sometimes hold it half a sin

To put in words the grief I feel,

For words, like nature, half reveal

And half conceal the soul within.

But for the unquiet heart and brainA use in measured language lies;The sad mechanic exercise,Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

But for the unquiet heart and brain

A use in measured language lies;

The sad mechanic exercise,

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er,Like coarsest clothes against the cold;But that large grief which these unfold,Is given in outline and no more.

In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er,

Like coarsest clothes against the cold;

But that large grief which these unfold,

Is given in outline and no more.

The following poem touches on the mind and character of young Hallam; and, if a true picture, the world, as well as the poet, has reason for regret at his early death:

Heart-affluence in discursive talkFrom household fountains never dry;The critic clearness of an eye,That saw through all the Muses’ walk;

Heart-affluence in discursive talk

From household fountains never dry;

The critic clearness of an eye,

That saw through all the Muses’ walk;

Seraphic intellect and forceTo seize and throw the doubts of man;Impassioned logic, which outranThe hearer in its fiery course;

Seraphic intellect and force

To seize and throw the doubts of man;

Impassioned logic, which outran

The hearer in its fiery course;

High nature amorous of the good,But touched with no ascetic gloom;And passion pure in snowy bloomThrough all the years of April blood;

High nature amorous of the good,

But touched with no ascetic gloom;

And passion pure in snowy bloom

Through all the years of April blood;

A love of freedom rarely felt,Of freedom in her regal seatOf England, not the school-boy heat,The blind hysterics of the Celt;

A love of freedom rarely felt,

Of freedom in her regal seat

Of England, not the school-boy heat,

The blind hysterics of the Celt;

And manhood fused with female graceIn such a sort, the child would twineA trustful hand, unasked, in thine,And find his comfort in thy face;

And manhood fused with female grace

In such a sort, the child would twine

A trustful hand, unasked, in thine,

And find his comfort in thy face;

All these have been, and thee mine eyesHave looked on: if they looked in vainMy shame is greater who remain,Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.

All these have been, and thee mine eyes

Have looked on: if they looked in vain

My shame is greater who remain,

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.

In the poem which we now extract, we think our readers will recognize the force which pathos receives by its connection with intense and excursive thought:

One writes, that “Other friends remain,”That “Loss is common to the race,”—And common is the commonplace,And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

One writes, that “Other friends remain,”

That “Loss is common to the race,”—

And common is the commonplace,

And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

That loss is common would not makeMy own less bitter, rather more:Too common! Never morning woreTo evening, but some heart did break.

That loss is common would not make

My own less bitter, rather more:

Too common! Never morning wore

To evening, but some heart did break.

O father, wheresoe’er thou be,That pledgest now thy gallant son;A shot, ere half thy draught be done,Hath stilled the life that beat from thee.

O father, wheresoe’er thou be,

That pledgest now thy gallant son;

A shot, ere half thy draught be done,

Hath stilled the life that beat from thee.

O mother, praying God will saveThy sailor, while thy head is bowed,His heavy-shotted hammock-shroudDrops in his vast and wandering grave.

O mother, praying God will save

Thy sailor, while thy head is bowed,

His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud

Drops in his vast and wandering grave.

Ye know no more than I who wroughtAt that last hour to please him well;Who mused on all I had to tell,And something written, something thought.

Ye know no more than I who wrought

At that last hour to please him well;

Who mused on all I had to tell,

And something written, something thought.

Expecting still his advent home;And ever met him on his wayWith wishes, thinking, here to-day,Or here to-morrow will he come.

Expecting still his advent home;

And ever met him on his way

With wishes, thinking, here to-day,

Or here to-morrow will he come.

O, somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,That sittest ’ranging golden hair;And glad to find thyself so fair,Poor child, that waitest for thy love!

O, somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,

That sittest ’ranging golden hair;

And glad to find thyself so fair,

Poor child, that waitest for thy love!

For now her father’s chimney glowsIn expectation of a guest;And thinking “this will please him best,”She takes a ribbon or a rose;

For now her father’s chimney glows

In expectation of a guest;

And thinking “this will please him best,”

She takes a ribbon or a rose;

For he will see them on to-night;And with the thought her color burns;And, having left the glass, she turnsOnce more to set a ringlet right;

For he will see them on to-night;

And with the thought her color burns;

And, having left the glass, she turns

Once more to set a ringlet right;

And, even when she turned, the curseHad fallen, and her future lordWas drowned in passing through the fordOr killed in falling from his horse.

And, even when she turned, the curse

Had fallen, and her future lord

Was drowned in passing through the ford

Or killed in falling from his horse.

O, what to her shall be the end?And what to me remains of good?To her, perpetual maidenhood,And unto me, no second friend.

O, what to her shall be the end?

And what to me remains of good?

To her, perpetual maidenhood,

And unto me, no second friend.

The ringing of the Christmas bells prompts a grand poem, in which the poet rises out of his dirges into a rapturous prophecy of the “good time coming.” It is altogether the best of many good lyrics on the same general theme:

Ring out wild bells to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light:The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out wild bells to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,For those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,And ancient forms of party strife;Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,The faithless coldness of the times;Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

After these extracts we hardly need to commend the volume to our readers as worthy of the genius of Tennyson. It will not only give sober delight on its first perusal, but it contains treasures of thought and fancy which a frequent recurrence to its pages will alone reveal.

Chronicles and Characters of the Stock Exchange. By John Francis. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 8vo.

This volume, invaluable to merchants and brokers, should be in the hands of all who have reason to be interested in the secrets of stock-jobbing, or who have a natural curiosity to understand the philosophy of the whole system as now practiced in all civilized countries. It gives a complete history of the National Debt of England, from the reign of William the Third to the present day, with sketches of the most eminent financiers of the Stock Exchange, and large details of the political corruption attending the making of loans. To these are added stock tables from 1732 to 1846; dividends of the Bank of England stock from 1694 to 1847; and descriptions of the various panics in the English money market, with their causes and effects. The sketch of Rothschild is a gem of biography, and while his avarice and cunning are deservedly condemned, more than usual justice is done to the remarkable blending of amplitude with acuteness in his powerful understanding. It is said that on one loan he made £150,000. Though profane, knavish and ferocious, with bad manners, and a face and person which defied the ability of caricature to misrepresent, his all-powerful wealth and talents made him courted and caressed, not only by statesmen and monarchs, but by clergymen and fastidious aristocrats. It was his delight to outwit others, but he himself was very rarely outwitted; and the few cases given by Mr. Francis, of his being overreached by the cunning of other brokers, are probably the only ones that the London Stock Exchange can furnish. Though he lived in the most splendid style, gave expensive entertainments, and occasionally subscribed to ostentatious charities, he was essentially a miser; and his mind never was so busy in calculations, in which millions of pounds were concerned, as to lose the power of estimating within a sixpence, the salary which would enable a clerk to exist.

Some curious anecdotes are given in this volume of the corruption of members of Parliament. It is well known that during the reigns of William the Third, Anne, George I. and George II., and a portion of the reign of George III., a seat in the House of Commons was considered, by many members, as a palpable property, from which a regular income was to be derived by selling votes to the ministry in power. Sir Robert Walpole and the Duke of Newcastle, were the greatest jobbers in this political corruption; but Lord Bute, who entered office on the principle of dispensing with the purchase of Parliamentary support, carried the practice on one occasion to an extent never dreamed of by his predecessors. He discovered that the peace of 1763 could not be carried through the House without a large bribe. Mr. Francis quotes from Bute’s private secretary, a statement of the sum distributed among one hundred and twenty members. “I was myself,” says Mr. Ross Mackay, the secretary in question, “the channel through which the money passed. With my own hand I secured above one hundred and twenty votes. Eighty thousand pounds were set apart for the purpose. Forty members of the House of Commons received from me a thousand pounds each. To eighty others I paid five hundred pounds a piece.” This system has been varied of late years. The mode of purchase at present is by patronage. Offices and pensions are now the price of votes.

It would be impossible in a short notice to convey an idea of the variety of curious information which this book contains. To people who have money to lose, it is a regular treatise on the art of preserving wealth. Every private gentleman, smitten with a desire to speculate in stocks, should carefully study this volume before he makes the fatal investments.

Evangeline; A Tale of Acadia. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Illustrated by forty-five engravings on Wood, from designs by Jane E. Benham, Birket Foster, and John Gilbert. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 8vo.

This volume, in paper, binding, and illustrations, is the most beautiful and unique we have seen from an American press. We hardly know, however, if we are right in giving it an American origin, as its illustrations are most assuredly English, and its typographical execution is exactly similar to the English edition. No better evidence is needed of Longfellow’spopularity abroad than the appearance of an edition of one of his poems, embellished like the present, with engravings so beautiful in themselves, and so true to the spirit of the scenes and characters they illustrate. The book is a study to American artists, evincing, as it does, the rare perfection to which their English brethren have carried the art of wood engraving, and the superiority of the style itself to copper-plate in many of the essential requisites of pictorial representation. The poem thus illustrated, is more beautiful than ever, its exquisite mental pictures of life and scenery being accurately embodied to the eye. As a gift-book it will doubtless be very popular among the best of the approaching season, as its mechanical execution is in faultless taste, and as the poem itself is an American classic.

The Rebels. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

Many of our elderly readers will recollect the sensation which this admirable novel created on its original appearance. It was the first work which gave Mrs. Child, then Miss Frances, her reputation as a writer and thinker. The scene is laid in Boston, just before the revolution, and contains a fine picture both of the characters and events of the time. Many scenes are represented with great dramatic effect, and there are some passages of soaring eloquence which the accomplished authoress has never excelled. We cordially hope that the novel is destined for a new race of popularity.

Heloise, or the Unrevealed Secret. A Tale. By Talvi. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

We presume that our readers know that “Talvi” is the assumed name of Mrs. Robinson. The present novel is a story of German and Russian life, written by one to whom the subject is familiar, and will well repay perusal. We think, however, that the accomplished authoress appears to more advantage in works of greater value and pretension—such as her late history of the literature of the Slavic nations.

Life of Jean Paul Frederic Richter. Compiled from Various Sources. Together with his Autobiography. Translated by Eliza Buckminster Lee. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is a second edition of a charming biography, published in Boston a number of years ago, and now very properly reissued. It not only contains an accurate account of the life and works of one of the most remarkable and peculiar of German writers, but its pages throng with interesting allusions and anecdotes relating to his contemporaries. The letters of Jean Paul, especially, are full of life and heartiness. In the following passage, referring to his first introduction to Goethe, we have a living picture painted in few words. “At last the god entered, cold, one-syllabled, without accent. ‘The French are drawing toward Paris,’ said Krebel. ‘Hem!’ said the god. His face is massive and animated, his eye a ball of light. But, at last, the conversation led from the campaign to art, publications, etc., and Goethe was himself. His conversation is not so rich and flowing as Herder’s, but sharp-toned, penetrating and calm. At last he read, that is, played for us, an unpublished poem, in which his heart impelled the flame through the outer crust of ice, so that he pressed the hand of the enthusiastic Jean Paul. He did it again, when we took leave, and pressed me to call again. By Heaven! we will love each other! He considers his poetic course as closed.His reading is like deep-toned thunder, blended with soft, whispering rain-drops.There is nothing like it.” Goethe’s personal effect on his contemporaries, would lead us to suppose that he was, to adopt Mirabeau’s system of nicknaming, a kind of Webster-Wordsworth.

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