Colonel Count d'Hozier, a distinguished French officer, who was compromised in the affair of Georges Cadoudal, died early in March, in Paris, aged seventy-seven. On the occasion of the conspiracy referred to, he was sentenced to death, but obtained his pardon through the interference of the Empress Josephine, and as a commutation of his punishment was imprisoned until the year 1814 in the prison of the Chateau d'If—the scene of the confinement of Dumas' hero, the Comte de Montechristo.
M. George Brentano, the oldest banker at Frankfort-on-the-Maine, died a few weeks ago, aged eighty-eight. He was brother of two persons well known in the world of letters, M. Clement Brentano and the Countess Bettina d'Arnim, the correspondent of Goëthe.
Frederic Xavier Fernbach, the inventor of that mode of encaustic painting which is called by his name, died at Munich on the 27th February. A history of his experiments and inventions was published many years ago.
M. Jules Martien, author of a volume onChristianity in America, died in Paris on the twenty-first of March.
FOOTNOTES:[M]Farmer's Genealogical Register: ArticlesHill-Russell.
[M]Farmer's Genealogical Register: ArticlesHill-Russell.
[M]Farmer's Genealogical Register: ArticlesHill-Russell.
In the delightful home which in the above engraving is reflected with equal spirit and fidelity, our great novelist has composed the larger portion of those admirable tales and histories that display his own capacities, and the characteristics and tendencies of our people.
Here also was written the beautiful work by Mr.Cooper'sdaughter, entitled "Rural Hours." Could any thing tempt to such authorship more strongly than a residence thus quiet, and surrounded with birds, and flowers, and trees, and all the picturesque varieties of land and water which render Cooperstown a paradise to the lover of nature?
In the lastInternationalwe sketched the career of Mr. Cooper, and gave an account of his writings, and an estimate of their value. What we add here shall relate to the work which entitles his daughter to share his eminence. "Rural Hours" is one of the most charming contributions literature has ever received from the hand of a woman. Though in the simple form of a diary, it is scarcely less than Thomson's "Seasons" a poem; yet while seeming continually to reflect the most poetical phases of nature and of rural life—so delicate is the appreciation of natural beauty, and so pure and unaffected and exquisitely graceful the style of composition—it has throughout even a Flemish truth and particularity of detail. If we were called upon to name a literary performance that is more than any other American in its whole character, we cannot now think of one that would sooner receive this praise. A record of real observations during the daily walks of many years in a secluded town, or of the changes which the seasons brought with their various gifts and forces into domestic experience, it is a series of pictures which could no more have been made in another country than so many paintings on canvas of scenes by Otsego lake. The leaves are blown over by Otsego airs, or if the eye grows heavy and the pages are unturned it is for slumberous spells that attach to delineations of the sunshine and silence of Otsego's August noons. And the views Miss Cooper gives us of the characters and occupations of the agricultural population in that part of the country, who wear curiously interblended the old English and Dutch habits with here and there a sign of the French, and the republican freedom which in three generations has taken the tone of nature, are as distinctive as the descriptions of changes which the maple assumes in the autumn, or of the harvest of Indian corn, or a deer hunt in the snow. Upon a careless reading of "Rural Hours" we might fancy that Miss Cooper was less familiar than perhaps should be for such a task with botany and other sciences, but a closer study of the book reveals the most minute and comprehensive knowledge, so interfused that it is without technical forms only, and never deficient in precision. The style is everywhere not only delightfully free, while artistically finished, but it is remarkably pure, so that there is in the literature of this country not a specimen of more genuine English. In this respect the work of one of the most highly and variously educated women of our time, to whom the languages of the politest nations were through all her youth familiar in their courts, may be well compared with the compositions which "literary ladies" with Phrase Books make half French or half Italian.
Of our younger and minor poets no one has more natural grace and tenderness thanGeorge W. Dewey. The son of a painter, and himself the Secretary of the Philadelphia Art Union, it may be supposed that he is well instructed in the principles upon which effect depends; but while native genius, as it is called, is of little value without art, no man was ever made a poet by art alone, and it is impossible to read "Blind Louise," "A Memory," or "A Blighted May," without perceiving that Mr. Dewey's commission has both the sign and the countersign, in due form, so that his right to the title of poet is in every respect unquestionable. He has not written much, but whatever he has given to the public is written well, and all his compositions have the signs of a genuineness that never fails to please. There is no collection of his poems, but from the journals to which he contributes we have selected the following specimens:
It was a bright October day—Ah, well do I remember!One rose yet bore the bloom of May,Down toward the dark December.One rose that near the lattice grew,With fragrance floating round it:Incarnardined, it blooms anewIn dreams of her who found it.Pale, withered rose, bereft and shornOf all thy primal glory,All leafless now, thy piercing thornReveals a sadder story.It was a dreary winter day;Too well do I remember!They bore her frozen form away,And gave her to December!There were no perfumes on the air,No bridal blossoms round her,Save one pale lily in her hairTo tell how pure Death found her.The thistle on the summer airHath shed its iris glory,And thrice the willows weeping thereHave told the seasons' story,Since she, who bore the blush of May,Down towards the dark DecemberPass'd like the thorn-tree's bloom away,A pale, reluctant ember.
It was a bright October day—Ah, well do I remember!One rose yet bore the bloom of May,Down toward the dark December.
One rose that near the lattice grew,With fragrance floating round it:Incarnardined, it blooms anewIn dreams of her who found it.
Pale, withered rose, bereft and shornOf all thy primal glory,All leafless now, thy piercing thornReveals a sadder story.
It was a dreary winter day;Too well do I remember!They bore her frozen form away,And gave her to December!
There were no perfumes on the air,No bridal blossoms round her,Save one pale lily in her hairTo tell how pure Death found her.
The thistle on the summer airHath shed its iris glory,And thrice the willows weeping thereHave told the seasons' story,
Since she, who bore the blush of May,Down towards the dark DecemberPass'd like the thorn-tree's bloom away,A pale, reluctant ember.
She knew that she was growing blind—Forsaw the dreary nightThat soon would fall, without a star,Upon her fading sight:Yet never did she make complaint,But pray'd each day might bringA beauty to her waning eyes—The loveliness of Spring!She dreaded that eclipse which mightPerpetually incloseSad memories of a leafless world—A spectral realm of snows.She'd rather that the verdure leftAn evergreen to shineWithin her heart, as summer leavesIts memory on the pine.She had her wish: for when the sunO'erhung his eastern towers,And shed his benediction onA world of May-time flowers—We found her seated, as of old,In her accustom'd place,A midnight in her sightless eyes,And morn upon her face!
She knew that she was growing blind—Forsaw the dreary nightThat soon would fall, without a star,Upon her fading sight:
Yet never did she make complaint,But pray'd each day might bringA beauty to her waning eyes—The loveliness of Spring!
She dreaded that eclipse which mightPerpetually incloseSad memories of a leafless world—A spectral realm of snows.
She'd rather that the verdure leftAn evergreen to shineWithin her heart, as summer leavesIts memory on the pine.
She had her wish: for when the sunO'erhung his eastern towers,And shed his benediction onA world of May-time flowers—
We found her seated, as of old,In her accustom'd place,A midnight in her sightless eyes,And morn upon her face!
Call not this the month of roses—There are none to bud and bloom;Morning light, alas! disclosesBut the winter of the tomb.All that should have deck'd a bridalRest upon the bier—how idle!Dying in their own perfume.Every bower is now forsaken—There's no bird to charm the air!From the bough of youth is shakenEvery hope that blossom'd there;And my soul doth now inrobe herIn the leaves of sere OctoberUnder branches swaying bare.When the midnight falls beside me,Like the gloom which in me lies,To the stars my feelings guide me,Seeking there thy sainted eyes;Stars whose rays seem ever bringingDown the soothing air, the singingOf thy soul in paradise.Oh, that I might stand and listenTo that music ending never,While those tranquil stars should glistenOn my life's o'erfrozen river,Standing thus, for ever seemingLost in what the world calls dreaming,Dreaming, love, of thee, forever!
Call not this the month of roses—There are none to bud and bloom;Morning light, alas! disclosesBut the winter of the tomb.All that should have deck'd a bridalRest upon the bier—how idle!Dying in their own perfume.
Every bower is now forsaken—There's no bird to charm the air!From the bough of youth is shakenEvery hope that blossom'd there;And my soul doth now inrobe herIn the leaves of sere OctoberUnder branches swaying bare.
When the midnight falls beside me,Like the gloom which in me lies,To the stars my feelings guide me,Seeking there thy sainted eyes;Stars whose rays seem ever bringingDown the soothing air, the singingOf thy soul in paradise.
Oh, that I might stand and listenTo that music ending never,While those tranquil stars should glistenOn my life's o'erfrozen river,Standing thus, for ever seemingLost in what the world calls dreaming,Dreaming, love, of thee, forever!
I sat and gazed upon thee,Rose,Across the pebbled way,And thought the very wealth of mirthWas thine that winter day;For while I saw the truant raysWithin thy window glide,Remember'd beams reflected cameUpon the shady side.I sat and gazed upon thee,Rose,And thought the transient beamsWere leaving on thy braided browThe trace of golden dreams;Those dreams, which like the ferry-bargeOn youth's beguiling tide,Will leave us when we reach old age,Upon the shady side.Ah! yes, methought while thus I gazedAcross the noisy way,The stream of life between us flow'dThat cheerful winter day;And that the bark whereon I cross'dThe river's rapid tide,Had left me in the quietnessUpon the shady side.Then somewhat of a sorrow,Rose,Came crowding on my heart,Revealing how that current sweepsThe fondest ones apart;But while you stood to bless me there,In beauty, like a bride,I felt my own contentedness,Though on the shady side.The crowd and noise divide us,Rose,But there will come a dayWhen you, with light and timid feet,Must cross the busy way;And when you sit, as I do now,To happy thoughts allied,May some bright angel shed her lightUpon the shady side!
I sat and gazed upon thee,Rose,Across the pebbled way,And thought the very wealth of mirthWas thine that winter day;For while I saw the truant raysWithin thy window glide,Remember'd beams reflected cameUpon the shady side.
I sat and gazed upon thee,Rose,And thought the transient beamsWere leaving on thy braided browThe trace of golden dreams;Those dreams, which like the ferry-bargeOn youth's beguiling tide,Will leave us when we reach old age,Upon the shady side.
Ah! yes, methought while thus I gazedAcross the noisy way,The stream of life between us flow'dThat cheerful winter day;And that the bark whereon I cross'dThe river's rapid tide,Had left me in the quietnessUpon the shady side.
Then somewhat of a sorrow,Rose,Came crowding on my heart,Revealing how that current sweepsThe fondest ones apart;But while you stood to bless me there,In beauty, like a bride,I felt my own contentedness,Though on the shady side.
The crowd and noise divide us,Rose,But there will come a dayWhen you, with light and timid feet,Must cross the busy way;And when you sit, as I do now,To happy thoughts allied,May some bright angel shed her lightUpon the shady side!
Costume for a Young Girl.—In the above engraving the largest figure has boots of pale violet cachmere and morocco; trowsers of worked cambric; and dress of a pale chocolate cachmere, trimmed with narrow silk fringe, the double robings on each side of the front as well as the cape, on the half-high corsage, ornamented with a double row of narrow silk fringe, this trimming repeated round the lower part of the loose sleeve; the chemisette of plaited cambric, headed with a broad frill of embroidery; full under sleeves of cambric, with a row of embroidery round the wrist; open bonnet of pink satin, a row of white lace encircling the interior next the face. The second miss has button gaiter boots of chocolate cachmere; trowsers and undersleeves of white embroidered cambric; frock of plaided cachmere;paletotof purple velvet; hat of a round shape, of white satin, the low crown adorned with a long white ostrich feather.
The Boy's Dressis made to correspond as nearly as may be with that of the youngest girl—embroidered pantalettes, and under sleeves trimmed with pointed lace.
Ladies' Morning Promenade Costume.—A high dress of black satin, the body fitting perfectly tight; has a small jacket cut on thebiais, with row of black velvet laid on a little distance from the edge; the sleeves are rather large, and have a broad cuff turned back, which is trimmed to correspond with the jacket; the skirt is long and full; the dress is ornamented up the front in its whole length by rich fancy silk trimmings, graduating in size from the bottom of the skirt to the waist, and again increasing to the throat.Capoteof plum-colored satin; sometimes plain, sometimes with a bunch of hearts-ease, intermixed with ribbon, placed low on the left side, the same flowers, but somewhat smaller, ornamenting the interior.
Evening Dressof whitetulle, worn over ajapeof rich pink satin; the waist and point of a moderate length; the sleeves and front of the corsage covered with fullings oftulle, clasped at equal distances by narrow bands of green satin; the skirt extremely full, and looped up on each side; the trimming, which reaches from the waist on each side the point to the bottom of the skirt, composed of loops of green satin ribbon edged with gold. Magnificent ribbons or beautiful flowers accompany the light trimmings which ornament the lighter evening dresses. A young lady is never more beautiful than when dressed in one of those robes, so rich in their simplicity, and distinguished by their embroideries, form, and trimmings. A robe of tarlatane, trimmed with seven flounces, deeply scalloped and worked with straw colored silk, is much in vogue. The same trimming, proportionably narrow, covers the berthe and sleeves. When worked with white silk, this dress is still more stylish. White or black lace canezous, worn with low-bodied silk dresses, are very much admired. They are open over the chest, and more or less worn with basques or straight trimmings round the waist, with half long sleeves, fastened up on the front, for the arm, by a ribbon bow.
Dress Hatsare principally made oftulleor gauzelisse—those of the latter texture, made in white, of folds with rows of white gauze ribbon.