Chapter V: Part 5

) shall stand for a
( ————— ” b
— ————— ” c
* ————— ” d
. ————— ” e
’ ————— ” f
; ————— ” g
: ————— ” h
? ————— ” i or j
! ————— ” k
& ————— ” l
0 ————— ” m
‘ ————— ” n
† ————— ” o
‡ ————— ” p
¶ ————— ” q
#[TN1] ————— ” r
] ————— ” s
[ ————— ” t
£ ————— ” u or v
$ ————— ” w
¿ ————— ” x
¡ ————— ” y
%[TN2] ————— ” z

-----

[TN1] Transcriber’s note: In the original publication of the magazine, the character used was a small right pointing hand, which is visible in the illustration of the crytograph below. Although a modern html version of this character exists, it will not display in many modern devices, depending on the capabilities of the device itself and the fonts available for use in the device. It has therefore been replaced in this list with #.

[TN2] Transcriber’s note: In the original publication of the magazine, the character used was a small left pointing hand. No suitable html character was found and even if available, the limitations of some modern devices and fonts prevents its use in this ebook. It has therefore been replaced in this list with %.

Now the following note is to be communicated—

“We must see you immediately upon a matter of great importance.
Plots have been discovered, and the conspirators are in our
hands. Hasten!”

These words would be written thus—

$.0£][]..¡†£¿00.*¿)].&¡£‡†‘)0)[[.#
†’;#.)[?0‡†#[)‘—.‡&†[]:)£.(..‘*.
]—†£.#.*)‘*—†‘]‡?#)[†#])#?
?‘†£#:)‘*]:)][.‘

[Transcriber’s Note: In a deviation from the original printed book, for this text version of the ebook, the character # has been used to represent letter r in this crytogram, as indicated in the above list.]

This certainly has an intricate appearance, and would prove a most difficult cipher to any one not conversant with cryptography. But it will be observed that _a_, for example, is never represented by any other character than ), _b_ never by any other character than (, and so on. Thus by the discovery, accidental or otherwise, of any one letter, the party intercepting the epistle would gain a permanent and decided advantage; and could apply his knowledge to all the instances in which the character in question was employed throughout the cipher.

In the cryptographs, on the other hand, which have been sent us by our correspondent at Stonington, and which are identical in conformation with the cipher resolved by Berryer, no such permanent advantage is to be obtained.

Let us refer to the second of these puzzles. Its key-phrase runs thus:

_Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re._

Let us now place the alphabet beneath this phrase, letter beneath letter—

S│u│a│v│i│t│e│r
A│b│c│d│e│f│g│h

i│n│m│o│d│o
i│j│k│l│m│n

f│o│r│t│i│t│e│r
o│p│q│r│s│t│u│v

i│n│r│e
w│x│y│z

We here see that

a stands for ————— c
d stands for ————— m
e stands for g, n and z
f stands for ————— o
i stands for e, i, s and w
m stands for ————— k
n stands for j and x
o stands for l, n and p
r stands for h, q, v and y
s stands for ————— a
t stands for f, r and t
u stands for ————— b
v stands for ————— d

In this manner _n_ stands for two letters, and _e_, _o_, and _t_ for three each, while _i_ and _r_ represent each as many as four. Thirteen characters are made to perform the operations of the whole alphabet. The result of such a key-phrase upon the cipher, is to give it the appearance of a mere medley of the letters _e_, _o_, _t_, _r_ and _i_—the latter character greatly predominating, through the accident of being employed for letters which, themselves, are inordinately prevalent in most languages—we mean _e_ and _i_.

A letter thus written being intercepted, and the key-phrase unknown, the individual who should attempt to decipher it may be imagined _guessing_, or otherwise attempting to convince himself, that a certain character (_i_, for example,) represented the letter _e_. Looking throughout the cryptograph for confirmation of this idea, he would meet with nothing but a negation of it. He would see the character in situations where it could not possibly represent _e_. He might, for instance, be puzzled by four _i_’s forming of themselves a single word, without the intervention of any other character; in which case, of course, they could not be _all e_’s. It will be seen that the word _wise_ might be thus constructed. We say this may be seen _now_, by us, in possession of the key-phrase; but the question will, no doubt, occur, how, _without_ the key-phrase, and without cognizance of any single letter in the cipher, it would be possible for the interceptor of such a cryptograph to make any thing of such a word as _iiii_?

But again. A key-phrase might easily be constructed, in which one character would represent seven, eight, or ten letters. Let us then imagine the word _iiiiiiiiii_ presenting itself in a cryptograph to an individual _without_ the proper key-phrase; or, if this be a supposition somewhat too perplexing, let us suppose it occurring to the person for whom the cipher is designed, and who _has_ the key-phrase. What is he to do with such a word as _iiiiiiiiii_? In any of the ordinary books upon Algebra will be found a very concise _formula_ (we have not the necessary type for its insertion here) for ascertaining the number of arrangements in which _m_ letters may be placed, taken _n_ at a time. But no doubt there are none of our readers ignorant of the innumerable combinations which may be made from these ten _i_’s. Yet, unless it occur otherwise by accident, the correspondent receiving the cipher would have to write down all these combinations before attaining the word intended; and even when he had written them, he would be inexpressibly perplexed in selecting the word designed from the vast number of other words arising in the course of the permutation.

To obviate, therefore, the exceeding difficulty of deciphering this species of cryptograph, on the part of the possessors of the key-phrase, and to confine the deep intricacy of the puzzle to those for whom the cipher was not designed, it becomes necessary that some _order_ should be agreed upon by the parties corresponding—some order in reference to which those characters are to be read which represent more than one letter—and this _order_ must be held in view by the writer of the cryptograph. It may be agreed, for example, that the _first_ time an _i_ occurs in the cipher, it is to be understood as representing that character which stands against the _first i_ in the key-phrase; that the _second_ time an _i_ occurs it must be supposed to represent that letter which stands opposed to the _second i_ in the key-phrase, &c. &c. Thus the _location_ of each cipherical letter must be considered in connexion with the character itself, in order to determine its exact signification.

We say that some pre-concerted _order_ of this kind is necessary, lest the cipher prove too intricate a lock to yield even to its true key. But it will be evident, upon inspection, that our correspondent at Stonington has inflicted upon us a cryptograph in which _no_ order has been preserved; in which many characters, respectively, stand, at absolute random, for many others. If, therefore, in regard to the gauntlet we threw down in April, he should be half inclined to accuse us of braggadocio, he will yet admit that we have _more_ than acted up to our boast. If what we then said was not said _suaviter in modo_, what we now do is at least done _fortiter in re_.

In these cursory observations we have by no means attempted to exhaust the subject of Cryptography. With such object in view, a folio might be required. We have indeed mentioned only a few of the ordinary modes of cipher. Even two thousand years ago, Æneas Tacticus detailed twenty distinct methods; and modern ingenuity has added much to the science. Our design has been chiefly suggestive; and perhaps we have already bored the readers of the Magazine. To those who desire farther information upon this topic, we may say that there are extant treatises by Trithemius, Cap. Porta, Vignere, and P. Niceron. The works of the two latter may be found, we believe, in the library of the Harvard University. If, however, there should be sought in these disquisitions—or in any—_rules for the solution_ of cipher, the seeker will be disappointed. Beyond some hints in regard to the general structure of language, and some minute exercises in their practical application, he will find nothing upon record which he does not in his own intellect possess.

* * * * *

EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

BY THE AUTHOR OF HOWARD PINCKNEY, ETC.

THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS.

’Twas on the outskirts of a wood—
A wood of tall and aged trees,
That gave a charm to solitude,
A murmur to the breeze;
’Twas when frequent falls the leaf,
And we begin to say that brief
And briefer grows the day;
When, far away, the evening sky
Looks sad and sober to the eye;
When darker grows the rivulet,
Where, in some tiny eddy’s play,
The fallen leaves so fitful fret,
Like Hope, when we would hold it yet,
And it would fain be far away.

How beautiful the beechen tree!
A beechen tree of giant mould,
Whose roots did many a rock unfold.
Entwining them, as you might see:
For, branching from the parent stem,
A velvet moss just covered them;
They sought the nurture of the brook
That from its shade a deep green took,
And murmur’d like the lullaby
Of cradle-watchers, when they look
Upon the infant’s closing eye.

Forth stepping like the timid deer,
And hearing her own step with fear,
On came a gentle maid;
She crosses o’er the rivulet:
Her silken slipper is not wet—
Why should she be afraid?
She seems spell-bound, and yet seems not;
If fearful thus, why seek the spot?
Why stops she by the tree?
We have volition where to go,
And we may wander to and fro,
Yet, we may not be free—
For Love, though all unseen his chain,
Will draw us over land and main;
And though we meet as far between
As winter wild from summer green,
Yet Love, like Heaven, will be above
The hearts that truly vow to love.

With step, e’en as the maiden’s, light,
But not a step that e’er knew fright,
Comes one with love-lit look;
He clasps her with his arms around,
As is yon water lily bound
By the encircling brook,
And as it palely droops to hear
The music of the whispering water,
She listens with a charmed fear,
Bound by the spell which there has brought her
The while her fair brow bends and beams
Like that pale flower that loves the streams.

How to his heart he holds the flower!
“O! ever blessed be the hour
Which brings thee, Helen, to my side.
Our friends would frown, I know, my bird
If but our slightest word were heard;
But, oh! thou yet wilt be my bride—
For though we meet here but to part,
’Tis not with a divided heart;
Thou wert the soonest here to-day,
But no neglect kept me away;
I know this hour—I know no more—
The rest are but to tell it o’er.”

“I came the sooner, love,” said she,
With maidenly simplicity—
“Because, before the sun goes down,
Stern darkness in the woods will frown;
And though I reach my home while yet
The red clouds linger in the west,
Methinks dark forms the woods beset;
They trouble me with sad unrest;
How, yester-eve, the big trees moaned!
Methought for me they sighed and groaned:
The screech-owl screeched above my path—
It seemed to haunt me with its wrath:
And all the gentler birds have flown—
The loneliness is all my own!”

“Love, this is autumn now, you know;
To other lands the wild birds go—
They only rest in summer bower,
And only stay while lasts the flower;
But, Helen, not thus let it be
With all this love that binds us now;
In winter, bare will be the tree,
No bird will sing upon the bough—
But see where I have taught the beech,
If either here should roam alone,
Long after this blest hour has flown,
The vows of both to tell to each:
Our names I’ve circled with a heart,
As thus I hold thee to my own,
And thus, though we afar may part
As ever yet did fond ones sever,
The love that binds us holds forever.”

This beech tree was their trysting-place!
There, oft in summer’s fragrant eve,
Just when the red sun took his leave—
When the coy moon, with half hid face,
Peeped o’er the eastern hills afar,
With here and there a radiant star;
When twilight came, with sober mien,
And silence brooded o’er the scene—
Thither the maid would often stray,
Humming, may be, a laughing lay,
That told true love was all untrue,
And made of nothing great ado;
She’d have them think, if she were heard,
She scorned the very love she sought,
And that she sung like careless bird—
A maiden who was free in thought:
Who roamed, and, roaming, trolled a glee,
Because she wanted company.

Upon this eve they met to part
Till spring again should clothe the vine;
They pledged their faith with beating heart,
And made the beechen tree their shrine;
He watched her white dress, glimmering bright
Thro’ the dark woods: “Good night! good night!”

* * * * *

SYBIL AND MAIDEN.

BY G. G. FOSTER.

_Sybil._

Why art thou sad? Why droops the willowy lid
O’er the deep fountain of that passionate eye?
What monster in thy bosom’s depths is playing,
And heaving thus those delicate billows, which
The wind of thy sweet breath but dares to swell,
Most daintily, and sighs to fly away?

_Maiden._

I nothing know, but that in a dream
A spirit of light on the pale moonbeam
Flew into my chamber—and it did seem
Nought but a brighter and purer beam
That had dropped from the beautiful sky,
’Till I wakened—and lo! a lovely mouth,
Whose breath was sweet as winds of the south,
And an eye flashing soft with love and desire,
Which thrilled all my frame with quivering fire,
Peered out, as a cloud swept by;
And a soft voice whispered a thrilling tale,
And my eye grew dim and my red cheek pale.

_Sybil._

Thy guest, fair maid, was Love! Nay, do not start,
And turn thy modest eyes upon the moon—
The god within thee but betrays himself
In every graceful motion. Thou dost pant
To learn the mysteries of thy new found worship.
The secret torrent rushing through thy veins
Makes eloquent music to thy listening heart,
Which beats unconsciously the measure out.
I know thy malady—so come with me:
I’ll cure thee with indulgence.

The maiden bent her white and stately neck,
And sounds of joy flew from her parted lips,
Like birds from roses—and the sorceress flung
A dainty chain of gold and gossamer
About her, and with sound of wings and breath
Of fragrance, vanished.

Maiden, look up! behold!
A dark-haired youth, with eyes of burning light,
Kneels gracefully before her; and his words,
Scarce heard for sighs, thrill to the inmost heart
Of that fair listener. He takes her hand—
His arm is round her—kisses warm and sweet
Rain on her lips and eyes—she gasps with joy,
And melts into his arms.

St. Louis, April, 1841.

* * * * *

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.—ANGLING.

The natural history of Fishes may be greatly promoted by anglers, and some knowledge of that history assuredly adds interest to the pursuits of the sportsman. He ought, therefore, to be able to skin and prepare his specimens, to observe and describe them with precision, and to dissect them with sufficient skill to take cognizance both of their external parts and their internal structure. Every naturalist, on the other hand, should be an angler, and that for more reasons than one. In the remoter and less peopled districts of the country, which so frequently present the most interesting fields for observation, he has no means of inspecting the finny tribes, except by capturing them _propriâ manû_, and his doing so will greatly contribute, not only to his scientific knowledge, but his social comfort—trouts when newly angled and nicely fried, being worthy of admiration, as choice productions of nature adorned by the skill of art. But this latter branch of our subject comes so home to the “business and bosoms” of all men, that we need not here dilate upon it.

In the hope, however, that some useful knowledge may be conveyed to the minds of our readers through the medium of the present work, we intend to devote a portion of our space to a brief introduction regarding the organic structure and physiology of fishes. We know, from experience, that time may hang heavy even on the hands of anglers, who are seldom either feeble or faint-hearted men. We know that spring (all genial though it be in poet’s fancy) has yet its frequent flaky snows on mead and mountain, its spiky ice along the crystal stream;—that summer in its sunlit splendor suffers its long-enduring droughts, its sudden _speats_, and fearful overflows;—that melancholy autumn, in spite of all its mild effulgence, is not seldom violent, and perturbed

“By lightning, by fierce winds, by trampling waves;”

—and that each of these conditions of time and space is adverse to the angler’s art. Even with every sweet advantage yielded by cheerful spring, by glorious summer, by refulgent autumn (we now seek to soothe the seasons by more endearing terms), daylight does not last for ever, and so the angler cannot always ply his trade. Of night-fishing we seldom think—except in murmuring dreams of rheumatism and water-rats—and eye-sight often fails,

“When comes still evening on, and twilight grey
Has in her sober livery all things clad.”

Moreover, it is chiefly the home-hunting angler, he whose “lines have fallen in pleasant places,” who dwells habitually by river side, or sees “beneath the opening eyelids of morn” some broad lake gladdening his daily gaze—in moonlight sparkling with bright columnar fire within its cincturing trees, or greener margins—he, or some happy friend who shares his dwelling, alone can cast his angles in the night. No man, who “long in populous city pent,” wanders for a time in lonesome gladness by the side of glittering waters, can wait with patience for a summer night, however beautiful may be the countless stars—

“That sparkle in the firmament of June.”

Whether he will or no, he must wend his way to grassy bank, or pebbly shore, or alder-skirted brink, and if there he fishes all the live-long day, he cannot fish at night, at least he ought not so to do. He who spareth not the rod hateth himself, and produces a degree of fatigue and satiety which ought never to mingle with his healthful toil.

Suppose, then, that the gentle reader does not fish at night, that he dines heartily (_sero sed serio_), imbibes moderately, takes tea sedately, and has still an hour to spare before a light supper—let him read this article, and we promise to be as little prolix as we can.

THE PERCH.

This gregarious fish is angled for with a worm or minnow. It is a bold biter during the warm months of the year, though very abstemious in the winter season. When a shoal is met with, great sport is frequently obtained. A small cork float is used, and the bait is hung at various depths, according to circumstances, a knowledge of which can only be obtained by practice. In angling near the bottom, the bait should be frequently raised nearly to the surface, and then allowed gently to sink again. When the weather is cool and cloudy, with a ruffling breeze from the south, perch will bite during the whole day. The best hours towards the end of spring are from seven to eleven in the morning, and from two to six in the afternoon. In warm and bright summer weather, excellent times are from sunrise till six or seven in the morning, and from six in the evening till sunset.

The Perch is one of the most beautiful of the fresh water fishes, but is too familiarly known to need description. It inhabits both lakes and rivers, but shuns salt water. Pallas, however, is said to have stated in his _Zoographia Russo-Asiatica_ (a work still unpublished), that about spawning time both Pike and Perch are found in a gulf of the Caspian Sea, about thirty verstes from the mouth of the Terek. The female deposits her eggs, united together by a viscid matter, in lengthened strings—a peculiarity noticed by Aristotle. Spawning takes place in April and May, and the number of eggs sometimes amounts to near a million. The Perch occurs all over Europe, and in most of the northern districts of Asia. It is easily tamed, and if kept moist will live for a long time out of water. It sometimes attains to a great size, but the majority are smallish fishes. Pennant alludes to one said to have been taken in the Serpentine River, Hyde Park, which weighed nine pounds. But even one half of that weight would be anywhere regarded as extraordinary, and a Perch of a pound is looked upon as a fine fish. The flesh of this species as an article of food is wholesome, though neither rich nor high flavoured. The months of April, May, and June, are those during which it is least esteemed.

The Basse, or Sea Perch, (_Perca labrax_, Linn. _Labrax lupus_, Cuv. and Val.) is a fish of a chaste and pleasing aspect, though destitute of the strongly contrasted coloring of the preceding, from which it is also distinguished by an abundance of small teeth upon the tongue. It is abundant in the Mediterranean. It is a very voracious fish, remarkable for the size of its stomach, and was known to the ancients by the appropriate name of _lupus_. It takes a bait freely (_onisci_, broken shell-fish, etc.) when angled for during flood-tide, with strong tackle, from projecting rock or pier. The ordinary size ranges from 12 to 18 inches, although Willoughby has stated that it sometimes attains the weight of 15 pounds. Its flesh is excellent.

EXTERNAL FORM AND ATTRIBUTES OF FISHES.

To aid the Angler in his scientific researches, as well as to add to the interest of the ordinary observer, we now proceed to a brief exposition of the principal characteristics of the _class_ of fishes, and shall, at an after period, expatiate upon the more peculiar attributes of each particular kind, when we come to treat of the _species_ in their order.

We need scarcely say to the student of nature, that the form and functions of fishes are as admirably adapted for easy movement through the water, as are those of birds for that aërial motion called flight. Suspended in a liquid element of almost equal specific gravity with themselves, external organs resembling those of birds in size, would have been disproportionate and unnecessary; but the air-bladder (the functions of which, by no means entirely understood, have never been satisfactorily explained in all their bearings) is known to possess the power of contraction and dilatation, the exercise of which is followed by a corresponding descent or ascent of the animal’s body. Thus a small central and inconspicuous organ effects, in the easiest and most simple manner, the same object which even the soaring eagle or giant condor can only accomplish by great exertion of the wings, and after laborious and frequently repeated gyrations. We shall ere long, however, have occasion to remark in more detail, that the air-bladder, although essential to the economy of such species as possess it, is by no means indispensable as a general attribute of the class, as in many tribes it is entirely wanting. It is not even a generic characteristic, as it does not exist in the red mullets of the British seas, though possessed by the corresponding species of Asia and America—while of our two kinds of mackerel, the so called Spanish species (_Scomber colias_) is distinguished by a swimming bladder, and the common mackerel (_Sc. scomber_) does not possess that organ.

Fishes being without a neck, and the portion called the tail being usually equal at its origin to the part of the body from which it springs, the prevailing shape is somewhat uniform and continuous, diminishing gradually towards either extremity. Of this, the most elegant and characteristic form of fishes, the salmon and mackerel exhibit familiar examples. Yet a vast variety of shape, as well as of size and colour, is naturally presented by a class which now contains some seven or eight thousand known species; and no further illustration of the subject will be deemed necessary by him who has seen and remembers the difference between an eel and a skate.

The mouth of fishes either opens from beneath, as in the rays, or at the extremity of the muzzle, as in the great majority of species, or from the upper surface, as in a small foreign group called _Uranoscopus_, or moon-gazer—an odd name for species, some of which have been alleged to bury themselves to the depth of twenty feet in sand—a bed not easily obtained, and in no way fitted for astronomical observation. It also varies much in its relative dimensions, from the minute perforation of the genus _Centriscus_, to the vast expanded gape of the ugly angler-fish. We mean nothing personal in the last allusion.

The teeth of fishes are frequently very numerous, and are sometimes spread over all the bony parts of the interior cavity of the mouth and pharynx, that is, on the maxillary, inter-maxillary and palatal bones, on the vomer, tongue, branchial arches, and pharyngeal bones. In certain genera they exist on all those parts; while in others they are wanting on some, or are even entirely absent on all. The denominations of the teeth are derived from their position, that is from the bones to which they are attached, and are consequently as numerous as the varieties of their situation. In the upper portion of the mouth of a trout, for example, there are five rows of teeth. The single middle-row is placed upon the central bone of the mouth called the _vomer_; a row on each side of it is fixed on the right and left _palatal_ bones, while the outer-rows or those of the upper-jaw, properly so called, are situate on the _maxillary_ bones. In the under portion of the mouth there are four rows, that is, one on each side of the tongue, and another external to these on each side of the lower-jaw. As to the form of teeth in fishes, the majority are hooked and conical, and more or less acute.

In the majority of osseous fishes, besides the lips, which, even when fleshy, having no peculiar muscles, can exert but little strength in retaining the aliments, there is generally in the inside of each jaw, behind the anterior teeth, a kind of membranous fold or valvule, formed by a replication of the interior skin, and directed backwards, of which the effect is to hinder the alimentary substances, and especially the water gulped during respiration, from escaping again by the mouth. This structure does not, as formerly supposed, constitute a character restricted to the genus _Zeus_, but exists in an infinity of fishes.

The food seized by the teeth of the maxillæ, and detained by the valve just mentioned, is carried still further backwards by the teeth of the palate and tongue, when these exist, and is at the same time prevented by the dentations of the branchial arches from penetrating between the intervals of the branchiæ, where it might injure those delicate organs of respiration. The movements of the maxillæ and tongue can thus send the food only in the direction of the pharynx, where it undergoes additional action on the part of the teeth of the pharyngeal bones, which triturate or carry it backwards into the œsophagus. The last-named portion is clothed by a layer of strong, close set, muscular fibres, sometimes forming various bundles, the contractions of which push the alimentary matter into the stomach—thus completing the act of deglutition.

* * * * *

“AWAY, THEN, TO THE MOUNTAINS:”

WRITTEN AND ADAPTED TO
A FAVORITE MELODY
FROM
Amilie,

BY JOHN H. HEWITT.

_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns’ _Copyright, 184 Chesnut Street_.

Away then to the mountains,
While the morning sun is shining;
The mist has left the fountain,
And the herds in shade are reclining.

Up the rocks we’ll climb,
To the top sublime,
And we’ll

The hunter dreads no danger,
While along steep locks wending;
From youth a mountain ranger,
With the wind and snow contending.

From the peak he looks
On the valley brooks,
While his

watch the light deer bounding;
While the Sun wades through the Sea of blue,
And the Alpine horn is sounding.

Away then to the mountains,
While the morning sun is shining;
The mist has left the fountains,
And the herds in shade are reclining.

heart for home is bounding;
And he marks the maid
On the valley glade,
Who lists to his wild horn sounding.

Away then to the &c. &c.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_A Grammar of the English Language, in a series of Letters,
addressed to every American Youth. By_ Hugh A. Pue.
_Philadelphia: Published by the Author._

This is the title of a queer little book, which its author regards as “not only necessary, but urgently called for,” because not only “the mass of the people are ignorant of English Grammar, but because those who profess great knowledge of it, and even those who make the teaching of it their business, will be found, upon examination, to be very far from understanding its principles.”

Whether Mr. P. proceeds upon the safe old plan of _Probe meliora; deteriora sequer_—whether he is one of “the mass,” and means to include himself among the ignoramuses—or whether he is only a desperate quiz—we shall not take it upon ourselves to say; but the fact is clear that, in a Preface of less than two small duodecimo pages (the leading object of which seems to be an eulogy upon one William Cobbett), he has given us some half dozen distinct instances of bad Grammar.

“For these purposes,” says he—that is to say—the purposes of instructing mankind and enlightening “every American youth” without exception—“for these purposes, I have written my lessons in a series of letters. A mode that affords more opportunity for plainness, familiarity, instruction, and entertainment, than any other. A mode that was adopted by Chesterfield, in his celebrated instructions on politeness. A mode that was adopted by Smollett, in many of his novels, which, even at this day, hold a distinguished place in the world of fiction. A mode that was adopted by William Cobbett, not only in his admirable treatise on English Grammar, but in nearly every work that he wrote.” “To Mr. Cobbett,” adds the instructor of every American youth—“to Mr. Cobbett I acknowledge myself _indebted_ for the greater part of the grammatical knowledge which I possess.” Of the fact stated there can be no question. Nobody but Cobbett could have been the grammatical Mentor of Mr. Pue, whose book (which is _all_ Cobbett) speaks plainly upon the point—nothing but the ghost of William Cobbett, looking over the shoulder of Hugh A. Pue, could have inspired the latter gentleman with the bright idea of stringing together four consecutive sentences, in each of which the leading nominative noun is destitute of a verb.

Mr. Pue may attempt to justify his phraseology here, by saying that the several sentences, quoted above, commencing with the words, “A mode,” are merely continuations of the one beginning “For these purposes;” but this is no justification at all. By the use of the period, he has rendered each sentence distinct, and each must be examined as such, in respect to its grammar. We are only taking the liberty of condemning Mr. P. by the words of his own mouth. Turning to page 72, where he treats of punctuation, we read as follows:—“The full point is used at the end of every complete sentence; and a complete sentence is a collection of words making a complete sense, without being dependent upon another collection of words to convey the full meaning intended.” Now, what kind of a meaning can we give to such a sentence as “A mode that was adopted by Chesterfield in his celebrated instructions on politeness,” if we are to have “no dependence upon” the sentences that precede it? But, even in the supposition that these five sentences had been run into one, as they should have been, they would still be ungrammatical. For example—“For these purposes I have written my lessons in a series of letters—a mode that affords more opportunity for plainness, familiarity, instruction, and entertainment than any other—a mode, etc.” This would have been the proper method of punctuation. “A mode” is placed in apposition with “a series of letters.” But it is evident that it is _not_ the “series of letters” which is the “mode.” It is _the writing the lessons_ in a series which is so. Yet, in order that the noun “mode” can be properly placed in apposition with what precedes it, this latter must be either a noun, or a sentence, which, taken collectively, can serve as one. Thus, in any shape, all that we have quoted is bad grammar.

We say “_bad grammar_,” and say it through sheer obstinacy, because Mr. Pue says we should not. “Why, what is grammar?” asks he indignantly. “Nearly all grammarians tell us that grammar is the writing and speaking of the English language correctly. What then is bad grammar? Why bad grammar must be the bad writing and speaking of the English language correctly!!” We give the two admiration notes and all.

In the first place, if grammar be only the writing and speaking the _English_ language correctly, then the French, or the Dutch, or the Kickapoos are miserable, ungrammatical races of people, and have no hopes of being anything else, unless Mr. Pue proceeds to their assistance:—but, let us say nothing of this for the present. What we wish to assert is, that the usual definition of grammar, as “the writing and speaking _correctly_,” is an error which should have been long ago exploded. Grammar is the analysis of language, and this analysis will be _good_ or _bad_, just as the capacity employed upon it be weak or strong—just as the grammarian be a Horne Tooke or a Hugh A. Pue.

But perhaps, after all, we are treating this gentleman discourteously. His book may be merely intended as a good joke. By the bye, he says in his Preface, that “while he informs the student, he shall take particular care to _entertain_ him.” Now, the truth is, we have been exceedingly entertained. In such passages as the following, however, which we find upon the second page of the Introduction, we are really at a loss to determine whether it is the _utile_ or the _dulce_ which prevails. We give the italics of Mr. Pue; without which, indeed, the singular force and beauty of the paragraph cannot be duly appreciated.

“The _proper_ study of English grammar, so far from being _dry_, is one of the most rational enjoyments known to us; one that is highly calculated to rouse the dormant energies of the student; it requiring continual mental effort; unceasing exercise of mind. It is, in fact, the _spreading of a thought-producing plaster of paris upon the extensive grounds of intellect_! It is the parent of idea, and great causation of reflection; the mighty _instigator of insurrection in the interior_; and, above all, the unflinching _champion of internal improvement_!”

We know nothing about plaster of Paris; but the analogy which subsists between ipecac and grammar—at least between ipecac and the grammar of Mr. Pue—never, certainly, struck us in so clear a point of view, as it does now.

But, after all, whether Mr. P.’s queer little book shall or shall not meet the views of “Every American Youth,” will depend pretty much upon another question of high moment—whether “Every American Youth” be or be not as great a nincompoop as Mr. Pue.

* * * * *

_Powhatan; a Metrical Romance, in Seven Cantos. By_ Seba Smith.
_New York: Harper and Brothers._

What few notices we have seen of this poem, speak of it as the production of _Mrs._ Seba Smith. To be sure, gentlemen may be behind the scenes, and know more about the matter than we do. They may have some private reason for understanding that black is white—some reason into which we, personally, are not initiated. But, to ordinary perception, “Powhatan” is the composition of Seba Smith, _Esquire_, of Jack Downing memory, and _not_ of his wife. _Seba Smith_ is the name upon the title-page; and the personal pronoun which supplies the place of this well-known prænomen and cognomen in the preface, is, we are constrained to say, of the masculine gender. “The author of Powhatan,”—thus, for example, runs a portion of the prolegomena—“does not presume to claim for _his_ production the merit of good and genuine poetry, nor does _he_ pretend to assign it a place in the classes or forms into which poetry is divided”—in all which, by the way, he is decidedly right. But can it be that no gentleman has _read_ even so far as the Preface of the book? Can it be that the critics have had no curiosity to creep into the _adyta_—into the inner mysteries of this temple? If so, they are decidedly right too.

“Powhatan” is handsomely bound. Its printing is clear beyond comparison. Its paper is magnificent, and we undertake to say (for _we have_ read it through with the greatest attention) that there is not a single typographical error in it, from one end to the other. Further than this, in the way of commendation, no man with both brains and conscience should proceed. In truth, a more absurdly _flat_ affair—for flat is the only epithet which applies in this case—was never before paraded to the world, with so grotesque an air of bombast and assumption.

To give some idea of the _tout ensemble_ of the book—we have first a Dedication to the “Young People of the United States,” in which Mr. Jack Downing lives, in “the hope that he may do some good in his day and generation, by adding something to the sources of rational enjoyment and _mental culture_.” Next, we have a Preface, occupying four pages, in which, quoting his publishers, the author tells us that poetry is a “very great bore, and won’t sell”—a thing which cannot be denied in certain cases, but which Mr. Downing denies in his own. “It may be true,” he says, “of endless masses of words, that are poured forth from the press, under the _name_ of poetry”—but it is not true “of _genuine_ poetry—of that which is worthy of the name”—in short, we presume he means to say it is not in the least little bit true of “Powhatan;” with regard to whose merits he wishes to be tried, not by the critics (we fear, in fact, that here it is the critics who will be tried), “but by the _common_ taste of _common_ readers”—all which ideas are common enough, to say no more.

We have next, a “Sketch of the Character of Powhatan,” which is exceedingly interesting and commendable, and which is taken from Burk’s “History of Virginia:"—four pages more. Then comes a _Poem_—four pages more—forty-eight lines—twelve lines to a page—in which all that we can understand, is something about the name of “Powhatan”

“Descending to a distant age,
Embodied forth on the deathless page”

of the author—that is to say, of Jack Downing, Esquire. We have now, one after the other, Cantos one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven—each subdivided into Parts, by means of Roman numerals—some of these Parts comprehending as many as six lines—upon the principle, we presume, of packing up precious commodities in small bundles. The volume then winds up with _Notes_, in proportion of three to one, as regards the amount of text, and taken, the most of them, from Burk’s Virginia, as before.

It is very difficult to keep one’s countenance when reviewing such a _work_ as this; but we will do our best, for the truth’s sake, and put on as serious a face as the case will admit.

The leading fault of “Powhatan,” then, is precisely what its author supposes to be its principal merit. “It would be difficult,” he says, in that pitiable preface, in which he has so exposed himself, “to find a poem that embodies more truly the spirit of history, or indeed that follows out more faithfully many of its details.” It would, indeed; and we are very sorry to say it. The truth is, Mr. Downing has never dreamed of any artistic _arrangement_ of his facts. He has gone straight forward, like a blind horse, and turned neither to the one side nor to the other, for fear of stumbling. But he gets them all in—every one of them—the facts we mean. Powhatan never did anything in his life, we are sure, that Mr. Downing has not got in his poem. He begins at the beginning, and goes on steadily to the end—painting away at his story, just as a sign-painter at a sign; beginning at the left hand side of his board, and plastering through to the right. But he has omitted one very ingenious trick of the sign-painter. He has forgotten to write under his portrait—“_this is a pig_,” and thus there is some danger of mistaking it for an opossum.

But we are growing scurrilous, in spite of our promise, and must put on a sober visage once more. It _is_ a hard thing, however, when we have to read and write about such doggerel as this:

“But bravely to the river’s brink
I led my warrior train,
And face to face, each glance they sent,
We sent it back again.
_Their werowance looked stern at me,_
_And I looked stern at him_,
And all my warriors clasped their bows,
And nerved each heart and limb.
I raised my heavy war-club high,
And swung it fiercely round,
And shook it towards the shallop’s side,
Then laid it on the ground.
And then the lighted calumet
I offered to their view,
And thrice I drew the sacred smoke,
And toward the shallop blew.
And as the curling vapour rose
Soft as a spirit prayer,
I saw the pale-face leader wave
A white flag in the air.
Then launching out their painted skiff
They boldly came to land,
And spoke us many a kindly word,
And took us by the hand.
Presenting rich and shining gifts,
Of copper, brass, and beads,
To show that they were men like us,
And prone to generous deeds.
We held a long and friendly talk,
Inquiring whence they came,
And who the leader of their band,
And what their country’s name.
And how their mighty shallop moved
Across the boundless sea,
And why they touched our great king’s land
Without his liber_ty_.”

It won’t do. We cannot sing to this tune any longer. We greatly prefer,

“John Gilpin was a gentleman
Of credit and renown,
A train-band captain eke was he
Of famous London town.”

Or—

“Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,
We ne’er shall see him more,
He used to wear an over-coat
All buttoned down before”—

or lines to that effect—we wish we could remember the words. The part, however, about

“Their werowance look’d stern at me,
And I looked stern at him”—

is not quite _original_ with Mr. Downing—is it? We merely ask for information. Have we not heard something about

“An old crow sitting on a hickory limb,
Who winked at me, and I winked at him.”

The simple truth is, that Mr. Downing never committed a greater mistake in his life than when he fancied himself a poet, even in the ninty-ninth degree. We doubt whether he could distinctly state the difference between an epic and an epigram. And it will not do for him to appeal from the critic to _common_ readers—because we assure him his book is a very _un_common book. We never saw any one so uncommonly bad—nor one about whose parturition so uncommon a fuss has been made, so little to the satisfaction of common sense. Your poem is a curiosity, Mr. Jack Downing; your “Metrical Romance” is not worth a single half sheet of the paste-board upon which it is printed. This is our humble and honest opinion; and, although honest opinions are not very plentiful just now, you can have ours at what it is worth. But we wish, before parting, to ask you one question. What _do_ you mean by that motto from sir Philip Sidney, upon the title-page? “He cometh to you with a tale that holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney-corner.” What do you mean by it, we say. Either you cannot intend to apply it to the “_tale_” of Powhatan, or else all the “old men” in your particular neighbourhood must be _very_ old men; and all the “little children” a set of dunder-headed little ignoramuses.

* * * * *

_Miscellanies of Literature. By the Author of Curiosities of
Literature. 3 vols. J. & H. Langley, New York: 1841._

These volumes remind us of Coke upon Lyttleton, with which whilom we were wont to be delighted; for they are full of the same odd conceits, and present the same crude mass of undigested learning. Facts which no one else would ever have hunted up from the shelves of dusty libraries; theories which hitherto no man thought of substantiating by a reference to biography or history; ideas, which are oddities in themselves, and which are presented in the quaintest style; and illustrations of notions that no one else would ever have thought of, or which, if thought of, would not have been dressed up in so outlandish a manner, are all marshalled together here in disorderly array, pushing, jostling, and crowding each other until they remind one of Falstaff’s valorous regiment, or a militia training in a midland county.

Seriously, however, these miscellanies embody a vast amount of out-of-the-way intelligence, interesting to the general, but absolutely necessary to the literary reader. No man but D’Israeli would ever have had the patience to compile such a work. His ideas on the literary character; his observations on men of genius; and his sketch of King James the first, embody a vast body of undigested facts that must have consumed years merely in their collection. Industry, however, is the only merit of these volumes: in arranging this vast mass of truths, D’Israeli has shown anything but a comprehensive mind.

The work is got up in fine style, as what work is not, when issued by the Langleys?

* * * * *

_Carleton, A Tale of Seventeen Hundred and Seventy-Six. Two
volumes. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._

We have heard this novel attributed to a gentleman of Philadelphia, and also to a citizen of New York. The question appears to be a moot one still, but, like many other moot points, is one of amazingly little importance. The book seems to be the composition of a young man, well educated in consonance with some of those Pharisaical literary creeds which are all-potent in deadening the higher powers in favor of the common-place. He has been taught _propriety_ as the chief of the cardinal virtues, and instructed to regard _originality_ as the sum total of the cardinal sins. His peculiar intellect, at the same time, has been a soil precisely adapted for the seed sown. In regard to “Carleton,” we may say in its behalf that its style is strikingly _correct_, and that its incidents and its reflections never, even by accident, startle us into unpleasant excitement. With this peace-offering upon the shrine of the _decorous_, we now take the liberty of throwing the book out of the window.

* * * * *

_Lives of the Queens of England, from the Norman Conquest; With
Anecdotes of their Courts; Now first Published from Official
Records and Other Authentic Documents, Private as well as
Public. From the Second London Edition, with Corrections and
Additions. By_ Agnes Strickland. _Vols. 1 and 2. Lea &
Blanchard. Philadelphia._

This book has been well received in England, and justly so. Its design is obviously good, and its execution does honor to the fair author—for in this instance it is scarcely right to call her a compiler. The work is quite as original as any similar work can be. The task of composing it has been an arduous one indeed; and there are few women who could have accomplished it, as we see it accomplished. The ground upon which Mrs. Strickland has so boldly yet judiciously ventured is one hitherto unbroken, and, although she has trodden among flowers, she has not escaped the delving drudgery of the pioneer. In short, a deep research has been demanded for this labor, in quarters far out of the reach of the ordinary investigator.

The title, although comprehensive, does not fully indicate the book. We have not only the Lives of the Queens from the Norman Conquest, but, in the Introduction, notices of the ancient British and Saxon ones. The Empress Matilda is included among the former; although she has never been so ranked by any previous historian. In this our author is fully justified, however; for Matilda, who herself claimed no title beyond that of “Domina of England,” was queen _de jure_, and, in a historical view, a monarch of high importance, as the mother of the Plantagenets, and the uniting link of the Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Norman dynasties. The materials of which her memoir is composed are derived chiefly from Norman and Latin chronicles, never before translated.

These volumes are sufficiently well done in a mechanical point of view. The lithograph portrait of Matilda, however, is greasy and ineffective, and typographical blunders obscure the meaning of many important passages. In the very first paragraph of the Introduction, for instance, we have Solent _fæminrum_ ductu bellare; a sentence which we are quite sure was never put together by Tacitus, from whose Life of Agricola it is taken.

The book, upon the whole, is one of rich interest and value, and must find a place in every historical library.

* * * * *

_The History of a Flirt. 2 vols. Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia:
1841._

This novel displays considerable ability, wasted on very common-place incidents. If the author will undertake a subject worthy of her talents—are we wrong in fancying the writer a lady?—we may yet hail her as a novelist of no slight pretensions.

* * * * *

_Outlines of Geography and History, presenting a Concise View of
the World. By_ Frederick Emerson, _author of the North American
Arithmetic. Hogan & Thompson: Philadelphia._

The Preface of this little work greatly interested us in its favor, and a careful examination of its contents did not lessen the interest. In its arrangement, Geography and History are combined—the former being the leading topic, and the latter the concomitant. The author’s observations, in respect to this junction, are just. The two subjects are so intimately connected in their own nature, that, however they may be separated in books, they can never be disconnected in the mind. The simultaneous study of both, properly connected, secures the learner from imbibing false notions of either.

The book is concise, but accurate, and well adapted either for a prefatory text-book, or for those whose limited school-time will not allow them to go through with a more diffuse system. It is very neatly and substantially gotten up.

* * * * *

_The Works of Lord Bolingbroke, with a Life, prepared expressly
for this Edition, containing additional information relative to
his Personal and Private Character: 4 vols. Carey and Hart:
Philadelphia. 1841._

An American edition of the works of Lord Bolingbroke has long been a _desideratum_ to the scholar, and it is with no little pride we record that to Philadelphia we are indebted for so elegant an edition of them, as now lies before us. The typography of these volumes would do credit to the famous London press. With the exception of a few costly works published from time to time in our country, this edition of Lord Bolingbroke is unrivalled as a work of art.