'Tis eve! one brightly-beaming starShines from the eastern heavens afar,To light the footsteps of the brave,Slow marching to a comrade's grave.The Northern wind has sunk to sleep;The sweet South breathes; as low and deepThe martial clang is heard, the treadOf those who bear the silent dead.And whose the form, all stark and cold,Thus ready for the loosened mould;Thus stretched upon so rude a bier?Thine, soldier, thine—the volunteer!Poor volunteer! the shot, the blow,Or fell disease hath laid him low—And few his early loss deplore—His battle done, his journey o'er.Alas! no fond wife's arms caressed,His cheeks no tender mother pressed,No pitying soul was by his side,As, lonely in his tent, he died.He died—the volunteer—at noon;At evening came the small platoon;And soon they'll leave him to his rest,With sods upon his manly breast.Hark to their fire! his only knell,More solemn than the passing bell;For, ah! it tells a spirit flownWithout a prayer or sigh, alone!His name and fate shall fade away,Forgotten since his dying day,And never on the roll of fameShall be inscribed his humble name.Alas! like him how many moreLie cold on Rio Grande's shore;How many green, unnoted gravesAre bordered by those turbid waves!Sleep, soldier, sleep! from sorrow freeAnd sin and strife: 'tis well with thee!'Tis well, though not a single tearLaments the buried volunteer.
Morn of hopes that, quivering, glowWith a light ne'er known before;Morn of fears, which cannot throwShadows its sweet glory o'er!Gentle thoughts of all the past;Happy thoughts of all to come;Loving thoughts, like rose-leaves, castOver all around her home.Oh, the light upon that brow;Oh, the love within that eye!Oh, the pleasant dreams that flowLike fairy music sweetly by!Morn of Hope! Oh may its lightMelt but into brighter day!Lady, all that's blest and brightBe about thy path alway!
"Home, sweet home!"How many holy and beautiful memories are crowded into those three little words. How does the absent one, when weary with the cold world's strife, return, like the dove of the deluge, to that bright spot amid the troubled waters of life. "Home, sweet home!" The one household plant that blooms on and on, amid the withering heart-flowers, that brightens up amidst tempests and storms, and gives its sweetest fragrance when all else is gloom and desolation. We never know how deeply its roots are entwined with our heart-strings, till bitter lessons of wasted affection have taught us to appreciate that love which remains the same through years of estrangement. What exile from the spot of his birth but remembers, perhaps with bitterness, the time when falsehood and deceit first broke up the beautiful dreams of his soul, when he learned toseethe world in its true colors. How his heart ached for his father's look of kindness—his mother's voice of sympathy—a sister's or brother's hand to clasp in the warm embrace of kindred affection. Poor, home-sick wanderer! I can feel for your loneliness; for my heart often weeps tears of bitterness over the memories of a far-off home, and in sympathy with a gray-haired father, who, when he calls his little band around the hearth-stone, misses full many a link in the chain of social affection. I can feel for your loneliness, for perhaps you have a father, too, whose eyes have grown dim by long looking into the tomb of love. Perhaps you, too, have a mother, sleeping in some distant grave-yard, beneath the flowers your hands have planted; and as life's path grows still more rugged before you, you wonder, as I have done, when your time will come to lie down and sleep quietly withher. An incident occurred on board of one of the western steamers, some years since, which strongly impressed me with its truthfulness in proving how wildly the heart clings to home reminiscences when absent from that spot. A party of emigrants had taken passage, amongst whom was a young Swiss girl, accompanied by a small brother. Not even theoutreadmixture of Swiss, German, and English costume, which composed her dress, could conceal the fact that she was supremely beautiful; and as the emigrants were separated from what is termed the first-class passengers only by a slight railing, I had an opportunity of inspecting her appearance without giving offence by marked observation. Amongst the crowd there happened to be a set of German musicians, who, by amusing theennuiedpassengers, reaped quite a harvest of silver for their exertions. I have always heard that the Germans were extremely fond of music, and was surprised that none of the party, not even the beautiful Swiss girl, gave the slightest indication of pleasure, or once removed from the position they had occupied the whole way. Indeed, I was becoming quite indignant, that the soul-stirring Marseilles Hymn of France, the God Save the Queen of England, and last, notleastin its impressive melody, the Hail Columbia of our own nation, should have pealed its music out upon the great waters, almost hushing their mighty swell with its enchantment, and yet not waken an echo in the hearts of those homeless wanderers. The musicians paused to rest for a moment, and then suddenly, as if by magic, the gloriousRans des Vacheof Switzerland stole over the water, with its touching pathos swelling into grand sublimity, its home-music melting away in love, and then bursting forth in the free, glad strains of revelry, till every breath was hushed as by the presence of visible beauty. Having never before heard this beautiful melody, in my surprise and admiration I had quite forgotten my emigrant friends, when a low sob attracted my attention, and turning round, I saw the Swiss girl, with her head buried in the lap of an old woman, trying to stifle the tears thatwouldforce their way or break the heart that held them. I had but a slight knowledge of the Swiss dialect, and "my home, my beautiful home!" was the only words intelligible to me. She wept long and bitterly after the cadence of the song was lost amongst the waves, while the old woman, blessings on her for the act, sought by every endearment within her power to soothe and encourage the home-sick girl. There was little enow of refinement in her rough sympathy, but it was a heart-tribute—and I could almost love her for the unselfishness with which she drew the shrinking form closer to her bosom. I would have given the world to have learned that girl's previous history. I am sureaccidentmust have thrown her amongst her present associates, as I have seen a lily broken from its stem by a sudden gust of wind, and flung to wither and die amid rude and hardy weeds. In a few hours the party left the boat, and I never saw either her or them again; but, till this day, whenever any incident of a domestic nature wakens old-time dreams, pleasant memories of that beautiful exile, weeping over the music of her lost Eden, and of the kind old woman caressing her, and kissing off the falling tears, creep together, and form a lovely picture ofhome and heaven-born love.
That punctuation is important all agree; but how few comprehend the extent of its importance! The writer who neglects punctuation, or mis-punctuates, is liable to be misunderstood—this, according to the popular idea, is the sum of the evils arising from heedlessness or ignorance. It does not seem to be known that, even where the sense is perfectly clear, a sentence may be deprived of half its force—its spirit—its point—by improper punctuation. For the want of merely a comma, it often occurs that an axiom appears a paradox, or that a sarcasm is converted into a sermonoid.
There isnotreatise on the topic—and there is no topic on which a treatise is more needed. There seems to exist a vulgar notion that the subject is one of pure conventionality, and cannot be brought within the limits of intelligibly and consistentrule. And yet, if fairly looked in the face, the whole matter is so plain that itsrationalemay be read as we run. If not anticipated, I shall, hereafter, make an attempt at a magazine paper on "The Philosophy of Point."
In the meantime let me say a word or two ofthe dash. Every writer for the press, who has any sense of the accurate, must have been frequently mortified and vexed at the distortion of his sentences by the printer's now general substitution of a semicolon, or comma, for the dash of the MS. The total or nearly total disuse of the latter point, has been brought about by the revulsion consequent upon its excessive employment about twenty years ago. The Byronic poets werealldash. John Neal, in his earlier novels, exaggerated its use into the grossest abuse—although his very error arose from the philosophical and self-dependent spirit which has always distinguished him, and which will even yet lead him, if I am not greatly mistaken in the man, to do something for the literature of the country which the country "will not willingly," and cannot possibly, "let die."
Without entering now into thewhy, let me observe that the printer may always ascertain when the dash of the MS. is properly and when improperly employed, by bearing in mind that this point representsa second thought—an emendation. In using it just above I have exemplified its use. The words "an emendation" are, speaking with reference to grammatical construction, put inapposition with the words "a second thought." Having written these latter words, I reflected whether it would not be possible to render their meaning more distinct by certain other words. Now, instead of erasing the phrase "a second thought," which is ofsomeuse—whichpartiallyconveys the idea intended—which advances mea step towardmy full purpose—I suffer it to remain, and merely put a dash between it and the phrase "an emendation." The dash gives the reader a choice between two, or among three or more expressions, one of which may be more forcible than another, but all of which help out the idea. It stands, in general, for these words—"or, to make my meaning more distinct." This forceit has—and this force no other point can have; since all other points have well-understood uses quite different from this. Therefore, the dashcannotbe dispensed with.
It has its phases—its variation of the force described; but the one principle—that of second thought or emendation—will be found at the bottom of all.
In a reply to a letter signed "Outis," and defending Mr. Longfellow from certain charges supposed to have been made against him by myself, I took occasion to assert that "of the class of willful plagiarists nine out of ten are authors of established reputation who plunder recondite, neglected, or forgotten books." I came to this conclusionà priori; but experience has confirmed me in it. Here is a plagiarism from Channing; and as it is perpetrated by an anonymous writer in a Monthly Magazine, the theft seems at war with my assertion—until it is seen that the Magazine in question is Campbell's New Monthly forAugust, 1828. Channing, at that time, was comparatively unknown; and, besides, the plagiarism appeared in a foreign country, where there was little probability of detection.
Channing, in his essay on Bonaparte, says:
"We would observe that military talent, even of the highest order, is far from holding the first place among intellectual endowments. It is one of the lower forms of genius, for it is not conversant with the highest and richest objects of thought.... Still the chief work of a general is to apply physical force—to remove physical obstructions—to avail himself of physical aids and advantages—to act on matter—to overcome rivers, ramparts, mountains, and human muscles; and these are not the highest objects of mind, nor do they demand intelligence of the highest order:—and accordingly nothing is more common than to find men, eminent in this department, who are almost wholly wanting in the noblest energies of the soul—in imagination and taste—in the capacity of enjoying works of genius—in large views of human nature—in the moral sciences—in the application of analysis and generalization to the human mind and to society, and in original conceptions on the great subjects which have absorbed the most glorious understandings."
"We would observe that military talent, even of the highest order, is far from holding the first place among intellectual endowments. It is one of the lower forms of genius, for it is not conversant with the highest and richest objects of thought.... Still the chief work of a general is to apply physical force—to remove physical obstructions—to avail himself of physical aids and advantages—to act on matter—to overcome rivers, ramparts, mountains, and human muscles; and these are not the highest objects of mind, nor do they demand intelligence of the highest order:—and accordingly nothing is more common than to find men, eminent in this department, who are almost wholly wanting in the noblest energies of the soul—in imagination and taste—in the capacity of enjoying works of genius—in large views of human nature—in the moral sciences—in the application of analysis and generalization to the human mind and to society, and in original conceptions on the great subjects which have absorbed the most glorious understandings."
The thief in "The New Monthly," says:
"Military talent, even of the highestgrade, isveryfar from holding the first place among intellectual endowments. It is one of the lower forms of genius, for it isnever madeconversant with themore delicate and abstruse of mental operations.It is used to apply physical force; to remove physical force; to remove physical obstructions; to avail itself of physical aids and advantages; and all these are not the highest objects of mind, nor do they demand intelligence of the highestand rarestorder. Nothing is more common than to find men, eminent in the science and practice of war,whollywanting in the nobler energies of the soul; in imagination, in taste, inenlargedviews of human nature, in the moral sciences, in the application of analysis and generalization to the human mind and to society; or in original conceptions on the great subjects which haveoccupied andabsorbed the most gloriousof humanunderstandings."
"Military talent, even of the highestgrade, isveryfar from holding the first place among intellectual endowments. It is one of the lower forms of genius, for it isnever madeconversant with themore delicate and abstruse of mental operations.
It is used to apply physical force; to remove physical force; to remove physical obstructions; to avail itself of physical aids and advantages; and all these are not the highest objects of mind, nor do they demand intelligence of the highestand rarestorder. Nothing is more common than to find men, eminent in the science and practice of war,whollywanting in the nobler energies of the soul; in imagination, in taste, inenlargedviews of human nature, in the moral sciences, in the application of analysis and generalization to the human mind and to society; or in original conceptions on the great subjects which haveoccupied andabsorbed the most gloriousof humanunderstandings."
The article in "The New Monthly" is on "The State of Parties." The italics are mine.
Apparent plagiarisms frequently arise from an author's self-repetition. He finds that something he has already published has fallen dead—been overlooked—or that it is peculiarlyà proposto another subject now under discussion. He therefore introduces the passage; often without allusion to his having printed it before; and sometimes he introduces it into an anonymous article. An anonymous writer is thus, now and then, unjustly accused of plagiarism—when the sin is merely that of self-repetition.In the present case, however, there has been a deliberate plagiarism of the silliest as well as meanest species. Trusting to the obscurity of his original, the plagiarist has fallen upon the idea of killing two birds with one stone—of dispensing with all disguise but that ofdecoration.Channing says "order"—the writer in the New Monthly says "grade." The former says that this order is "far from holding," etc.—the latter says it is "veryfar from holding." The one says that military talent is "notconversant," and so on—the other says "it isnever madeconversant." The one speaks of "the highest and richest objects"—the other of "the more delicate and abstruse." Channing speaks of "thought"—the thief of "mental operations." Chaming mentions "intelligence of thehighestorder"—the thief will have it of "the highestand rarest." Channing observes that military talent is often "almostwholly wanting," etc.—the thief maintains it to be "whollywanting." Channing alludes to "largeviews of human nature"—the thief can be content with nothing less than "enlarged" ones. Finally, the American having been satisfied with a reference to "subjects which have absorbed the most glorious understandings," the Cockney puts him to shame at once by discoursing about "subjects which haveoccupied andabsorbed the most gloriousof humanunderstandings"—as if one could be absorbed, without being occupied, by a subject—as if "of" were here any thing more than two superfluous letters—and as if there were any chance of the reader's supposing that the understandings in question were the understandings of frogs, or jackasses, or Johnny Bulls.By the way, in a case of this kind, whenever there is a question as to who is the original and who the plagiarist, the point may be determined, almost invariably, by observing which passage is amplified, or exaggerated, in tone. To disguise his stolen horse, the uneducated thief cuts off the tail; but the educated thief prefers tying on a new tail at the end of the old one, and painting them both sky blue.
Apparent plagiarisms frequently arise from an author's self-repetition. He finds that something he has already published has fallen dead—been overlooked—or that it is peculiarlyà proposto another subject now under discussion. He therefore introduces the passage; often without allusion to his having printed it before; and sometimes he introduces it into an anonymous article. An anonymous writer is thus, now and then, unjustly accused of plagiarism—when the sin is merely that of self-repetition.
In the present case, however, there has been a deliberate plagiarism of the silliest as well as meanest species. Trusting to the obscurity of his original, the plagiarist has fallen upon the idea of killing two birds with one stone—of dispensing with all disguise but that ofdecoration.
Channing says "order"—the writer in the New Monthly says "grade." The former says that this order is "far from holding," etc.—the latter says it is "veryfar from holding." The one says that military talent is "notconversant," and so on—the other says "it isnever madeconversant." The one speaks of "the highest and richest objects"—the other of "the more delicate and abstruse." Channing speaks of "thought"—the thief of "mental operations." Chaming mentions "intelligence of thehighestorder"—the thief will have it of "the highestand rarest." Channing observes that military talent is often "almostwholly wanting," etc.—the thief maintains it to be "whollywanting." Channing alludes to "largeviews of human nature"—the thief can be content with nothing less than "enlarged" ones. Finally, the American having been satisfied with a reference to "subjects which have absorbed the most glorious understandings," the Cockney puts him to shame at once by discoursing about "subjects which haveoccupied andabsorbed the most gloriousof humanunderstandings"—as if one could be absorbed, without being occupied, by a subject—as if "of" were here any thing more than two superfluous letters—and as if there were any chance of the reader's supposing that the understandings in question were the understandings of frogs, or jackasses, or Johnny Bulls.
By the way, in a case of this kind, whenever there is a question as to who is the original and who the plagiarist, the point may be determined, almost invariably, by observing which passage is amplified, or exaggerated, in tone. To disguise his stolen horse, the uneducated thief cuts off the tail; but the educated thief prefers tying on a new tail at the end of the old one, and painting them both sky blue.
After reading all that has been written, and after thinking all that can be thought, on the topics of God and the soul, the man who has a right to say that he thinks at all, will find himself face to face with the conclusion that, on these topics, the most profound thought is that which can be the least easily distinguished from the most superficial sentiment.
Oh Love! thou art a fallen child of light,A ruined seraph in a world of care—Tortured and wrung by sorrow and despair,And longings for the beautiful and bright:Thy brow is deeply scarred, and bleeds beneathA spiked coronet, a thorny wreath;Thy rainbow wings are rent and torn with chains,Sullied and drooping in extremest wo;Thy dower, to those who love thee best below,Is tears and torture, agony and pains,Coldness and scorn and doubt which often parts;—"The course of true love never does run smooth,"Old histories show it, and a thousand hearts,Breaking from day to day, attest the solemn truth.
Beauty's Bath
The fair one stands beside the plashing brim,Her pet, her Beauty, gathered to her breast;A doubt hath crossed her: "can he surely swim?"And in her sweet face is that fear exprest.Alas! how often, for thyself, in yearsFast coming, wilt thou pause and doubt and shrinkO'er some fair project! Then, be all thy fearsFalse as this first one by the water's brink!
Poems of Early and After Years. By N. P. Willis. Illustrated by E. Leutze. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8vo.
This is a complete edition of one of America's most popular poets, with the old poems carefully revised, and many new pieces added. It is got up in a similar style with the editions of Longfellow and Bryant, by the same publishers, and is one of the most splendid volumes of the season. The portrait of the author, engraved by Cheney, is the most accurate we have seen. The illustrations, from designs by Leutze, and engraved by Humphrys, Tucker, and Pease, are sixteen in number, and in their character and execution are honorable to American art. They are truly embellishments. Fertile as has been the house of Carey & Hart in beautiful books, they have published nothing more elegant and tasteful than the present edition of Willis.
We have written, in various critiques, at such length on the merits and characteristics of Willis, that it would be but repetition to dilate upon his genius now. In looking over the present volume, we cannot see that the sparkle and fire of his poetry becomes dim, even as read by eyes which have often performed that pleasant task before. The old witchery still abides in them, and the old sweetness, raciness, melody and power. That versatile mind, gliding with such graceful ease over the whole ground of "occasional" pieces, serious and mirthful, impassioned and tender, sacred and satirical, looks out upon us with the same freshness from his present "pictured" page, as when we hunted it, in the old time, through newspapers, magazines, and incomplete collections. We cordially wish the author the same success in his present rich dress, which he has always met in whatever style of typography he has invaded the public heart. When the stereotype plates of the present edition are worn out, it does not require the gift of prophecy to predict that the poet's reputation will be as unworn and us bright as ever.
A Plea for Amusements. By Frederic W. Sawyer, New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.
This little volume, viewed in respect to the prejudices it so clearly exposes and opposes, is quite an important publication, and we trust it will find readers among those who need it most. That clumsy habit of the public mind, by which the perversions are confounded with the use of a thing, finds in Mr. Sawyer an acute analyst as well as sensible opponent. He has done his work with much learning, ability and taste, and has contrived to make his exposure of popular bigotries as interesting as it is useful.
Campaign Sketches of the War with Mexico. By Capt. W. S. Henry, U. S. Army. With Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.
Here is a work by a brave and intelligent soldier, relating to the battles of General Taylor in Mexico, of which he was an eye-witness. It has the freshness which might be expected from a writer who mingled in the scenes he describes; and the plates of the different battle-grounds enable the reader intelligently to follow the descriptions of the author. Spite of the numerous books relating to the subject already before the public, Captain Henry's volume will be found to contain much not generally known, and to describe what is generally known better than most of his precursors in the task.
The Consuelo. By George Sand. In Three Volumes. New York: W. H. Graham, Tribune Buildings.
The Countess of Rudolstadt. By George Sand. [Sequel to Consuelo.] 2 vols. Same Publisher.
The Journeyman Joiner, or the Companion of the Tour of France. By George Sand. Same Publisher.
The Devil's Pool. By George Sand. Same Publisher.
The above editions of the somewhat too celebrated George Sand are got up, by our enterprising friend the publisher, in a style superior to that generally used on this species of literature. The translation by F. G. Shaw, Esq. has been generally, and we think justly, commended. The works themselves, and their tendencies and results, have been made the subject of various opinions both here and abroad. We are not among those who are prepared to enter the lists as their champion. The translator himself remarks in relation to Consuelo: "That it has not found fit translation before, was doubtless owing to prevailing impressions of something erratic andbizarrein the author's way of living, and to a certain undeniable tone of wild, defying freedom in her earlier writings." The censure of the moral portion of the community is thus softly and mercifully expressed: We will not at present add to it.
The Last Incarnation. Gospel Legends of the Nineteenth Century. By A. Constant. Translated by F. G. Shaw, Esq. New York: Wm. H. Graham.
A well printed and cheap volume.
The Scouting Expeditions of M'Culloch's Texas Rangers. By Samuel C. Ried, jr. Zieber & Co. Philadelphia.
This work contains a spirited and vivid sketch of the Mexican war as prosecuted under Taylor. It is full of incident and interest, is written with spirit, and illustrated by a number of engravings.
Toilette de Ville.—Dress of gray satin, with a plain skirt; corsage plain, with a rounded point; sleeves above of violet-colored velvet, closed on the top, and trimmed with very rich lace; small pelerine to the waists, and terminated at the seam of the shoulder, trimmed with lace. Hat of yellow satin, long at the cheeks, and rounded, ornamented with a bouquet of white flowers resting on the side, arid a puff of tulle on the inside.
Riche Toilette d'Interieur.—Dress of blue cashmere, ornamented with a row of silver buttons down the front of the skirts; corsage plain, with buttons, and terminating in two small points; sleeves rather short, and under ones of three rows of lace: neck-dress of lace. Cap also of lace, resting flat upon the front of the head, and forming folds behind, trimmed with bows of ribbon, of rose-colored taffeta, below the lace to the depth of the strings.
Erratum.—In the article on Stoke Church and Church-yard, page 77, 12th line from bottom of 2d column, "1779" should read 1799.
FOOTNOTES:[1]: Eton was founded and endowed by King Henry the Sixth. A marble bust of the poet Gray was presented by Lord Morpeth, in 1846, and placed, amongst many others, in the upper school.[2]: A pair of Baltimore birds (the orchard oriole) returned summer after summer, and built their hanging nest, not only in the same apple-tree, but on the same bough, which overhung a terrace, in a garden belonging to the writer at Geneva, New York, until one season a terrific storm, not of hail but ice, tore the nest from the tree, and killed the young, and the parent birds never afterward returned.[3]: In all editions but that published by Mr. John Sharpe the initialonlyof this name has been given—"Mr. P."—even the Eton edition of this year has it so. It seems folly to continue what may have been very proper nearly a hundred years ago, when the individual was alive; but the Rev. Robert Purt died in April, 1752!
[1]: Eton was founded and endowed by King Henry the Sixth. A marble bust of the poet Gray was presented by Lord Morpeth, in 1846, and placed, amongst many others, in the upper school.[2]: A pair of Baltimore birds (the orchard oriole) returned summer after summer, and built their hanging nest, not only in the same apple-tree, but on the same bough, which overhung a terrace, in a garden belonging to the writer at Geneva, New York, until one season a terrific storm, not of hail but ice, tore the nest from the tree, and killed the young, and the parent birds never afterward returned.[3]: In all editions but that published by Mr. John Sharpe the initialonlyof this name has been given—"Mr. P."—even the Eton edition of this year has it so. It seems folly to continue what may have been very proper nearly a hundred years ago, when the individual was alive; but the Rev. Robert Purt died in April, 1752!
Transcriber's Note:
1. Page 83--'for the lady lacked neither the wit not humor, and the ....' changed to 'for the lady lacked neither wit nor humor...'
2. Page 83--superfluous word 'his' removed from sentence '...he had nothing on but his his shirt, and...'
3. Page 85--typo 'centipeds' corrected to 'centipedes'
4. Page 85--superfluous word 'his' removed from sentence '...constant to his his first love, mourning...'
5. A number of contracted forms, such as 't is, shortened to 'tis, in order to preserve the scansion of poetry
6. Page 106--typo in sentence '...up the mill-stream, und as we returned...' replaced by 'and'
7. Page 106--typo 'outrè' in sentence '...however strange or outrè; and there is...' changed to 'outré'
8. Page 106--typo 'evious' in sentence '...would turn up an evious nose, and...' corrected to 'envious'
9. Page 110--typo 'widows' in sentence '...sitting by the widows of the summer-house,' changed to 'windows'
10. Page 113--typo 'then' in sentence '...was upon then--the eye of Agnes;...' changed to 'them'
11. Page 121--typo 'claspéd' corrected to 'claspèd'
12. Page 125--typo 'giver' in sentence '...until he saw her giver her arm...' corrected to 'give'