Chapter XXI: Section VI (3)

“‘At first he said it should be guinea for guinea; but now, it’s two guineas for one—two guineas for one! Ah! Nelly Nowlan, a fine match! The smith had nothing but his four bones, and would have wanted my hard-earned, little savings, and no guinea for guinea, or one to two:’ and his eyes, so dim and glassy, rolled within their seamed lids, and he rubbed his skinny, bloodless hands together, as if joy and gold were all one. ‘Money makes the man,’ he continued, ‘all England owns that: they are a wise people, the English, they never ask _what you are_, but _what you have_. When my pretty daughter sits on her own car, wont every one bow to her and I? O, if I was back in my own place, instead of poor ould Ned Considine, wouldn’t I be Mr. Edward, sir, with a ’squire to it! Ah, ah, I know the world, but the world does not know me!’

“‘Has there been no letter?’ I heard the low, trembling voice of Mary inquire, as she entered the house.

“‘The girl’s foolish to be asking after letters. One from Ireland, from our people, wanting places,’ was her mother’s reply.

“When Mary saw me, she burst into tears, and hung about my neck like a child. She whispered that she was not long for this world, that Philip had forgotten her, that she should never be happy more. She would obey her parents and die—my mistress had warned me to hear all and say nothing. I comforted poor Mary as well as I could, and was asked to the wedding the next day—I told my mistress, and again she saw the policeman. O, aunt, wasn’t it cruel of the mistress not to trust me? I didn’t care what she had to say, but I did want to be trusted. She said she did not fear my zeal, only my discretion. Wasn’t it hard?

“I went to the wedding—there was the Priest, a fine, ould, ancient Clargy, of the right sort: there was the bridegroom, looking pale and wicked, with as much finery on him as would set up a jeweler’s shop. There was the father and mother, all excited; there were a couple of bridesmaids, new-fangled acquaintances, and two or three strangers, friends of the bridegroom’s, that Mr. and Mrs. Considine made a great fuss over, and called by the finest of names: there was a dinner, half-laid out in an upper room, that no one on the banks of the Shannon ever saw the like of: little puff things, all ornamented out by a real confectioner, in a white apron, such a sight of folly and nonsense. I was quite set on one side, and looked on any thing but kindly by the whole of them, except the old man, who kept on talking about his money. They seemed all unnatural to me, as if they only wanted the bride as a part of the ceremony, while all over the world, if a woman is ever as a queen, it’s from the morning till the evening of her wedding day, what she is after that depends upon another. The bridesmaids kept going in and out, and at last, one had the manners to tell me, the bride wanted me. I knew that long ago.

“She was standing like a spirit, all in white, in the middle of her little room. She seemed turned into stone, stiff and stark as a corpse in its shroud: her mother was wringing her hands by her side, her face like scarlet, and if ever she spoke with a brogue she did then.

“‘Och Mary a lanna machree!—Sure it isn’t disgracing us you’d be, going back of your word, Mary, my own darlin’ child. Sure, darlin’, I hated the very ground yer father walked on, even after I had married him a good while. I was disappointed in him, dear: but when I got over thinking of love, and all that sort of nonsense, when my heart dried up, and I was all head, I knew what a fine, savin’ man I had got, who understood the value, even of a brass farthing: he was _ould_ enough to be my father—let alone yours; but what does that signify, he helped me to grow ould before my time: and look at the money he’s able to give you, and win you, Mary _mavourneen_—what’s come to you, child? sure you consented all out, and what ails you now?’

“I pressed her cold hands within mine: they felt turned into bone, cold and hard and dry.

“‘You’re murderin’ your own child, Mrs. Considine,’ I said: ‘you are killing her as surely as if you put a pistol to her head, or poison to her lips.’

“The wicked old man called to Mary from the bottom of the stairs to go down, and added a curse on her delay: the bridesmaids—one in particular, who was as hard as the rest at first, had kept on saying—God forgive her—that love one side was like a fire, and would soon catch the other—now looked terrified, and pity-struck.

“Again the call and the curse were repeated: Mary started, as if from a dream: she drank off a glass of water from her mother’s hand, who kept repeating—‘That’s a jewel, there’s a darlin’, _corra machree_ was she,’ and such like nonsense; to which the poor girl made no reply, but pressed her hands on her temples, and whispered to me—‘Pray to God for me!’ She walked straight into the room: the bridegroom met her with ‘Sweet Love,’ and a flourish of his pocket-handkerchief, a smile on his lips—but such oak-sticks between his eyes. She put him on one side with her little hand, and advancing to the priest, knelt down reverently before him: there was a hush in the room, nothing heard but the clink of the gold in the leather bag the old man was shaking out of pride.

“O, it would have melted a heart of stone to look at that young creature! Tears overflowing her face, so that she could not speak, and her hands wrung together.

“The bridegroom whispered something to her mother about her being nervous, but it would soon go off: I could have killed him! He then handed round the ring for us to look at; aye, while SHE was weeping and trembling at the priest’s feet. When he held it to me, I struck it down. Aunt, I could not help it! What a look he gave! It rolled along the floor; but his attention was drawn to Mary’s words.

“‘Father,’ she sobbed, to the priest, ‘save me—save me from my own people; save me, a young, helpless girl; save me from marrying him I hate. Oh, do not let them put the sin of a false oath upon my young head—I cannot love him. Father, you know I owned to you in holy confession, but ten days past, that I loved another—that I love him still. I will never, never speak to him, or write to him, or ask to set eyes on him again; I will quit the world, and go into a holy house if you think me fit for it—but oh, save me, save me from perjuring my soul—save me,’ she repeated wildly, ‘or I shall go mad!’ To see the holy priest raise her up; to see him place her in his own chair; to see him put his hands upon her head, and hear his words of comfort! ‘Trust in me, my dear child; I will never join a willing to an unwilling hand; be calm, my child; and you,’ he said, turning to the bridegroom, ‘and you, have _you_ the feelings of a man, to stand by and see this, and wish to keep her to her promise?’

“‘I never promised him—I never promised him,’ sobbed Mary—‘the most I ever said, and that was in anger and agony—was—that I would do my parents’ bidding. Father! Mother!—you cannot be so cruel at the last.’

“Mr. Considine edged up to his reverence—‘Talk to her, holy father,’ he muttered, ‘talk to her: he’s so rich—rings, and watches and _goolden_ guineas two to one, holy father, think of that? two to one! her mother married me for my goold, and we’ve been happy—two to one, holy father!’

“‘Begone!’ said the priest sternly, in such grand English, ‘and do not dare to stain this holy sacrament by the money-loving spirit that crushes your soul to destruction. If this dear child persists in her refusal, I myself forbid the marriage.’

“Oh, aunt dear, the lep I gave, and found myself at his holy feet as if he was the Pope of Rome! and surely no pope could have looked more like a guardian angel than he did at that minute.

“‘I must speak with you in private,’ said the bridegroom to his intended father-in-law as meek as a lamb, ‘just one word;’ and he laid his hand so gently on the old man’s arm: ‘this can be arranged.’ They went out of the room together, Mrs. Considine exclaiming, while clapping her hands so vulgarly! ‘_Och-e-yah!_ the poor, dear young man! Ah, then! Och Mary, my _gra_ girl, how could you have the heart to refuse such a match? and he, after promising you a car—a cab, I mean, of your own. Och Mary, darlin’, be friends with him, Mary _Machree_! _Och yah!_ poor broken-hearted crayther that I am!’

“She kept on that way for some time, until a fall, which shook the house, and the dull, hoarse scream of murder startled us into silence. The priest and myself rushed to the door; but the two groomsmen came between us, exclaiming, ‘It was in the court.’ I saw the whole thing then, like a flash of lightning, bright and clear. Again the cry. We cleared the way somehow; the window of their bed-room was open, and the poor old man, blinded by the blood which gushed from a wound in his head, was groveling on the floor.

“We lifted him up: his fingers kept on grappling the air, while his cries of ‘Murder!’ and ‘Help!’ were broken by such words as ‘My money! my bag! my hard-earned money! catch him! two to one indeed! Oh let me after him!’

“It was an awful sight—the roars of the old man for his money, the shrieks of Mrs. Considine, the still more terrible calmness of Mary, who, while binding up her father’s head, said ‘This is my doing.’

“There was a scuffling at the outward door. ‘Keep a brave heart, Mary Considine,’ said the priest, ‘he’s not hurt to signify.’

“‘A hundred and fifty in the bag, not a farthing less, the murdering young villain; oh, I can’t live—I wont live.’

“‘Shame upon you,’ said the silver voice of the fine old priest. ‘Give God thanks for your deliverance, first from the man, next from your money.’

“‘They are both here,’ said my policeman, who came upon us unawares; ‘it would be strange if we were not up to Bill Soames. We caught him on the bound, but I managed badly this time; I ought to have saved you that tap on the head, old gentleman; though I must say it serves you right, to want to give that poor girl to a fellow once tried for bigamy, and a house-breaker to boot!’

“Aunt, I tore a silk handkerchief to ribands, trying to keep my hands off the blue tie, who stood as if nothing had happened, between two other policemen.

“‘It’s but a step to the court, and the magistrate is sitting,’ continued the superintendent; ‘half an hour will send my old acquaintance to his quarters.’ Of course there was plenty of people outside; and in the midst of it all the two groomsmen had cleared the table of every spoon, and Mr. Considine’s own watch, during the time we were with the old man. Oh, what a deliverance for poor Mary!

“My heart flew into my mouth—I was as light as a lark leaving the corn-field for the sky in the early morning, and from the same cause, both thankful for the new light!

“Oh, I was _so_ happy!—‘He’s of a _high family_, ma’am,’ said the policeman, with a knowing look at Mrs. Considine; ‘all that I heard of, traveled at the expense of government, while some—you understand me?—’

“He made a sign round his throat, not pleasant to look at, while Mrs. Considine’s grief took a new turn, and she bemoaned the disgrace to her family, and the loss of the family plate! It was delightful how brisk the old man grew when he knew that his money was found—he called the cut a scratch, and said ‘his head would be all the better for a taste of the ould times,’ and away they went, the whole party—barring[26] his reverence, and Mary, Mrs. Considine (who declared nothing should force her to enter a police-court) and myself—were cleared out of the house, and I had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Henry Highley in the grasp of two policemen; Mary came wonderful to herself, considerin’, and went to her room. I peeped through a crack, and saw her on her knees before the image of the blessed Virgin. Mrs. Considine continued sobbing, and exclaiming all the time she wandered about the house—I was just going to see how they were getting on in the court, when the priest called me back.

“‘Nelly,’ he says; I made my courtesy—‘Nelly,’ he says again—‘it is a beautiful dinner.’

“‘Indeed, your reverence,’ I answered, ‘it would be _that_ certainly when the solid things come on the table; there was to be a roast turkey, and a ham, and such a lovely piece of boiled beef—poor Mrs. Considine was bemoaning it all to me not a minute ago.’

“‘A ham, a roast turkey, and a fine piece of boiled beef,’ repeated his reverence slowly, ‘besides all the kickshaws—and wine?’

“‘The finest of port, (thick round the bottles with age) and champagne, that the villain of a bridegroom brought,’ I answered.

“‘Say nothing about who brought it, Nelly, if it’s _there_, and he’s not,’ said his reverence—he paused awhile, but I knew by the twinkle of his eyes, he was thinking of something past the common—

“‘It’s a mighty fine dinner, Nelly!’

“‘It is, your reverence.’

“‘Nelly, it’s a sin and a shame to have such a dinner as that in the house, and no wedding.’

“‘True, for your reverence.’

“‘Nelly, we must have a wedding!’ and he looked me through and through.

“‘Your reverence,’ I said—hardly knowing how to answer, ‘knows best; but I don’t see how at this present time; it’s my ignorance, your reverence.’ He shook his head and smiled.

“‘I know the secrets of more hearts than one, and instead of going down to the court, just step away to Philip Roche, and tell him what happened and how Mary kept true to her old love, and let him dress himself at once—we’re not tied to canonical hours like our neighbors—and tell him from me, to come here, and before the evening’s out, Nelly, we’ll have a wedding, and a dinner, and a dance!’

“Oh, how I flew! There was Philip in the thick of cold iron, reading a paper about emigration. I never saw a man so altered: he was but the ghost of himself, bent and bowed and broken-hearted, he seemed, and his voice as changed as himself, he knew me at once, and knew that it was _her_ wedding day.

“‘It’s all over by this time, I know,’ he said, with a ghastly smile; ‘and I suppose you have brought me the bride-cake tied with green riband.’

“‘Here was the place,’ he continued, going across a little yard, ‘where I thought she might live quiet and content; a pretty, bright room for London, and two others inside it—she could sit in that window at her sewing, and sing; and, if she raised her head, see me at work at the forge—she never even answered my letters—for I was too hasty that evening; but it’s over now. She never can be any thing more to me; yet this day’s post brought me a letter, telling of an uncle’s death in New York, who has left a good thousand English pounds, to be divided between my brother and myself; so I’ll just sell off, and go after it. Old Considine might have kept his money; it was not _that_ I wanted; but it’s all over!’ Such a wail as there was in the voice of the strong, broken down man, like the _sough_ of the winter’s wind, I could keep silent no longer. I believe he thought me wild—mad; I could hardly begin my tale for joy—joy throbbing in my heart—joy beating in my throat, and keeping back my words. I got it out at last, all that passed in one little hour, on which depended so much happiness or misery; oh, aunt, he is such a great darlint! Not a bit of exultation over Mr. and Mrs. Considine; only bitter reproaches to himself for not having understood Mary better; wondering if she could ever forgive him!—and so glad her father was not badly hurt. Oh, how my heart warmed to him! And when, at last, I bid him trust all to his reverence, to see how quickly he dressed! and maybe _he_ didn’t look like an O’Brian, or an O’Sullivan, or some of the great, grand O’s—so plenty about Killarney in the ancient times. I didn’t know my own shadow on the wall, side-beside his; and yet he was so overcome, that at times he stopped from downright weakness.

“The priest opened the door with his own blessed hands: they had returned from the police-court, and his reverence had both the old people crying. I don’t think Mr. Considine heard all he said; but, indeed, his heart was softened; he was ashamed of having been imposed on by a well-known London thief; and who can say that he was not grateful for his deliverance? for, next to his money, he loved his child.

“‘Come in, Philip Roche,’ said the priest; ‘there has been a bit of a misunderstanding here, which we are sorry for; but it’s well to forget and forgive. Mrs. Considine says she never believed Mary thought so much about you, or she would not have put between you: if you can make friends with the little girl up-stairs, we’ll have the wedding!—and the dinner!—and now, Nelly Nowlan, I trust to you to bring Mary Considine down, without telling her why. Leave that to me.’

“Oh, then, isn’t that priest a rale minister? The delight he took in his little innocent plot, and all to make those young people happy! He hid away Philip in the back-room, and Mary came with me, easy enough, when I told her her father and mother were crying.

“‘Now, Mary, my child,’ says the priest, ‘you’ll obey me, wont you?—that’s right. I must give you a penance, Mary: I saved you from one husband, my darling—I have found you another!’

“The life that had come slowly back to the poor girl seemed leaving her altogether, but Philip could not bear it—he rushed forward, and caught her in his arms.

“I can’t tell you what he said, aunt, or what any one said; but in less than five minutes the priest had opened his book.

“‘What will be done for a ring?’ sobbed Mrs. Considine.

“I had picked up the one I struck from the hand of that wicked man, and said so.

“‘Use _his_ ring!’ exclaimed Philip; and he flung it into the fire.

“‘Oh, the sinful waste!’ screamed old Considine; ‘it was pure gold.’

“He would have raked the fire out to find it, but the priest commanded him to be still. Oh, but he’s a fine man; only terrible in anger. Aunt, I’ll tell you the truth; if I had a very heavy sin, it’s not to him I’d go.

“‘The key of the door will do as well,’ he said; ‘it’s the _sign_ of the Eternal Union we want, nothing more.’ No one gainsaid him, and in another five minutes they were bound together in the sight of God and man.

“‘And now for her fortune, Mr. Considine,’ said the good priest, so considerate.

“The young smith stood straighter than ever on the floor; straight and firm. With one arm he drew his little bride to his heart, the other he held out.

“‘It would all feel to me like a dream,’ he said, ‘but for this.’ He pressed her more closely to him, bent down and kissed her.

“‘Keep your money, Mr. Considine; cross or coin of yours, sir, I’ll never touch. Mary was all I ever cared for, and only this blessed morning did I learn that it has pleased God to give me what you think so much of. Mary, your husband has five hundred good pounds of his own: keep your money, Mr. Considine, I never cared for it; but I must say—’

“‘_No more_,’ interrupted the priest. ‘Let us have in some of our good friends and neighbors; and, Nelly Nowlan, sure it’s a comfort that the beautiful dinner wont be wasted.’

“And so, aunt darling, there’s an end of Mary Considine; for in all the books I read my mistress, there seems an end of a woman when she marries—a wife and a mother go for nothing! And maybe, I haven’t something to tell you about _that_, for sure enough, the women (some of them) want to change places; now who do you think with, aunt? I am sure your simple head would never find out. Shall I tell you next time?”

-----

[21] Plenty.

[22] Neager, _i. e._ miser.

[23] Wood-Pigeon.

[24] “My lone,” alone.

[25] “Shake,” ague.

[26] Except, putting aside.

* * * * *

TO ADHEMAR.

E. A. L.

Thy voice flows o’er my list’ning heart, like sound
From fairy fount, or lute in land of dreams,
And full thy loveliness upon me teems,
With thy bright presence lighting all around,
Until my pulses leap like rills unbound.
I see again thine eyes’ effulgent beams—
I walk with thee along the laughing streams—
Thro’ whispering groves—o’er flower-bespangled ground,
And feel thy glowing touch my heart-strings thrill,
As I upon thy doating arm recline,
Listing thee speak, from out thy spirit’s shrine.
Love-freighted words, whose heavenly music still
Steals softly o’er my weary, thirsting soul,
Exerting o’er it aye a calm and sweet control.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Course of the History of Modern Philosophy. By M. Victor
Cousin. Translated by O. W. Wight. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 2
vols. 8vo._

The thinking portion of the reading public are under great obligations to Mr. Wight for his vigorous and accurate version of Cousin’s master work, and to the Messrs. Appletons for the beautiful dress in which it fitly appears. It belongs, indeed, to that rare class of works which illustrate the intellectual history of the age in which they are produced; and it deserves the attention of all readers who desire to take the first step in acquiring a taste for metaphysics. It is composed of two courses of lectures, originally delivered in Paris to large and enthusiastic audiences, whose admiration of the splendid eloquence of the lecturer soon compelled them to love the subject likewise; and when published, their influence was felt in every country into which the French language and literature penetrates, and caused a revival in philosophy, which somewhat amazed its hard and dry cultivators from its peculiarity and its extent. These lectures, indeed, made metaphysical science popular everywhere. Men and women read Victor Cousin as they read Scott and Byron. His bold and dazzling generalizations, expressed in a style of singular clearness, energy and vehemence, stimulated the most jaded minds; and the dictatorial confidence with which he settled all the problems of history, philosophy and religion, and the ease with which his solutions were comprehended, made him the universal favorite. There was something captivating, too, in the theory by which he reconciled all the various systems in his eclectic and electric method. There are four systems, sensualism, idealism, skepticism, and mysticism, each having its root in consciousness, each containing an element of truth, and each wrong as an exclusive system. Select from these what is true, place the four partial truths in their relations, and the result is the eclectic philosophy. This is a loose, short-hand statement, in unphilosophic language, of Cousin’s scheme.

It must be admitted that Cousin’s system did not long hold its ground. After the first surprise was over, the metaphysicians _par eminence_ began to attack him with great fury, and gave him some blows from which he has never recovered; and the public, who had been carried away by his eloquence, forgot him as soon as another novelty appeared. The result has been, that of late he has not been estimated according to his real merits. He most certainly has not done what he pretended to do. He has not reconciled the philosophers or the philosophies; he has hardly formed a school; his disciples have expired, recanted, or left the inclusive for some more satisfactory exclusive system. But he is still a metaphysician of uncommon power, acuteness, insight, genius; his works are full of important truths and principles, which stimulate the mind to independent thought; his information is immense; and he is the most brilliant, comprehensible and readable of all the historians of philosophy. He is to metaphysical history what Macaulay is to civil history; and we do not see why the present work is not as capable of holding the pleased and breathless attention of the intelligent reader as the “History of the Revolution of 1688.” There is in both writers the same confident manner of settling controversies about which centuries of disputants have wrangled; and, on the first blush, it seems impossible to resist the statements of either of them, as both drive directly at the common sense of men; are clear and brilliant, while their opponents are obscure and dull; and never leave the impression of an undefined something outside of the limits of their respective systems, to puzzle and torture their readers with a latent doubt. “I wish,” said Lord Melbourne, “that I knew any thing as well as Tom Macaulay knows every thing.” This “I know,” and “I am sure,” this absence of self-distrust, is as characteristic of Cousin as Macaulay; and the mischief is that after reading either, we are apt to be as satisfied as they are themselves, and think we have thoroughly mastered the matter.

It would be impossible in our limited space to convey an idea of the contents of these volumes. Beginning with the proposition that philosophy is a special want and necessary product of the human mind, and the last development of thought, Cousin proceeds to show that it has existed in every epoch of humanity, is a real element of universal history, and contains the explanation of its various parts. He thus explains Indian Civilization by the Bhagavad-Gita, the age of Pericles by the philosophy of Socrates, the sixteenth century by the philosophy of Descartes, the eighteenth century by the philosophy of Condillac and Helvetius. He then states the psychological method in history, a method which is neither empirical or speculative, but combines the two, seeking in history the development of the human reason. After stating the fundamental ideas of history, which are the fundamental ideas of the human reason, namely, the Infinite, the finite, and the relation between the two, he treats the great epochs of history as answering to the successive development of these ideas. The influence of geography, of nations, and of great men, in history, is then stated with great eloquence, force, and subtle complication of truth and paradox. Some vigorous sketches of the historians of humanity and philosophy, in which their merits are luminously exhibited and their defects acutely analyzed, are followed by a view of the philosophy of the 19th century. The eclectic tendency of European society and philosophy is noted, and the necessity is shown of a new general history of philosophy to explain the new movement of thought. Next follows a picture of the eighteenth century, with the character and method of its philosophy. Its different systems are not peculiar to that century; and the origin, natural development, relative utility, and intrinsic merit of Sensualism, Idealism, Skepticism, and Mysticism, the four classes into which all ideas fall, are vigorously and clearly stated. The history of these is then given, in a splendid review of the Hindoo, Greek, Scholastic, and modern philosophies; and the sensualism of the eighteenth century is traced to all its sources. A criticism of Locke, running through ten lectures, and generally considered to be the ablest of Cousin’s productions, concludes the work.

It will be seen, even from this bold outline, that all the questions which have puzzled human reason, and to which it has at different periods given different answers, are stated and discussed in Cousin’s work. The splendor and the beauty, the unwearied energy and the rapid movement of his style, carry the reader on to the end with hardly a pause of distrust or fatigue; and we hope that a translation, executed with such a lavish expenditure of intelligence and industry as Mr. Wight’s, will meet with its due reward in an extensive circulation. Certainly nothing which can by courtesy be called a library can afford to be without it.

* * * * *

_The Works of Daniel Webster. Boston: Little & Brown, 6 vols.
8vo._

This beautiful edition of the works of one of the greatest statesmen that the country has produced, contains all the speeches and legal arguments in the former editions of Mr. Webster’s writings, together with the numerous orations and addresses he has made since the year 1841, and the masterly state papers which he produced while Secretary of State in the administration of General Harrison. To these are added the celebrated letter to Chevalier Hulseman, written while in his present station. The collection is edited with much care and ability by the Hon. Edward Everett. The biography of Mr. Webster by the editor, is a clear, candid, elaborate, and somewhat frigid view of his whole life as a statesman and lawyer, giving an accurate statement of the various circumstances under which the great efforts of his mind were produced, and placing the reader in a position to appreciate their importance. The tone of the biography is cautiously moderate, indulging in none of the fervors of eulogy or exaggerations of friendship, and, on the whole, not coming up to the enthusiastic praise with which Mr. Webster’s powers are commonly mentioned by those who have had most occasion to dread or decry their exercise. Mr. Everett seems to have felt too acutely the delicacy of his position, as the biographer of a living friend; and, shrinking from the responsibility of pouring out in glowing words his own admiration of his subject, is content to import all such perilous matter from the dashing and vivid pages of Mr. March.

It seems to us, also, that Mr. Everett gives little evidence in his biography of a sustained and vigorous conception of Mr. Webster’s mind and character. We do not mean that his epithets are not appropriate, that his judgments are not accurate, that his generalities are not abstractly just; but he evinces no power of diffusing the results of analysis through the veins of narration, of making the reader feel constantly that he is following the life of a man as peculiar and individual as he is great. The Websterian quality of the subject never flashes once out from Mr. Everett’s elegant sentences. Take any page from the biography and compare it with any paragraph in the speeches, and the defect we have noticed will be apparent to the most unapprehensive reader. There is no mental and moral agreement between them. It would seem to be one duty of the biographer to translate into intelligible form the vague impression which the works of the subject of the biography leaves on the most superficial mind; to detect, to fix, to embody the subtle spirit which, emanating from character, gives unity and individuality equally to the events of a man’s life and the productions of a man’s mind. A man of the large dimensions and massive force of Mr. Webster, whose personality stamps itself so readily upon the imagination, and groups fit words round its own image by a kind of magnetism, offers few obstacles to a right psychological treatment; and we are somewhat astonished that a man of Mr. Everett’s various talents and accomplishments should have failed in this important part of the biographer’s duty.

We trust that this collection of Mr. Webster’s writings will have an extensive circulation, were it only for the good influence it is calculated to exert on the literature of the country. To one party in the United States they are invaluable as containing the best exposition they possess of their political principles—to all parties they must be attractive for the many electric passages of purely patriotic eloquence with which they teem; but to the author they are especially valuable as models of style. We use the word models not in its usual sense, for we certainly would not give any one the ridiculous advice to imitate the diction even of Mr. Webster; but we would advise every one to follow Mr. Webster’s own method of composition, which is simply the method of common sense and common honesty. The great literary sin of the day is pretension; and it is refreshing to read a man who, comprehensive and powerful as he is, modestly accepts the limitations of his genius, never borrows a thought or an emotion, and rarely uses a word which he has not a right to use. If we compare him for a moment with men who gain popularity by debauching in language, we feel at once the force of that expression which austerely limits itself within the bounds of character, and stamps on every sentence the authority of personal experience.

* * * * *

_A Journey through Tartary, Thibet and China. By M. Huc. New
York: D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 12mo._

These quaint and interesting volumes are the record of the travels of a Catholic Missionary in countries of which the reading world knows little or nothing. The sketches of scenery, manners, customs, religion, and character, are very graphic, and the style of composition is so direct and simple that the words form pictures in the mind without any effort on the part of the reader. The views of the religion of Thibet are very clear, and add to our knowledge of its philosophic basis. The mind of M. Huc almost realizes the ideal of the observing faculty. He sees distinctly, and gives us exactly what he sees, without modifying it by his own opinions or sentiments. To read his book, is next to walking or riding by his side, and seeing the strange objects he describes with our own eyes. His illustrations of Tartar life are especially graphic and amusing. Here is a specimen. “When not on horseback, a Tartar is generally quite idle, and passes a great part of the day crouched in his tent, drinking tea, and sometimes he lounges about like a Parisian dandy, though not quite in the same way. When he has a mind to see what is passing in the world, he mounts his horse, and goes galloping away into the desert, without heeding in what direction, and whenever he sees the smoke of a tent rising, he makes a call, and has a gossip.” His description also of the Jonathan Wilds and Dick Turpins of Tartary is quite edifying. “The robbers,” he says, “are in general remarkable for the politeness with which they flavor their address. They do not put a pistol to your head, and cry roughly, ‘Your money or your life,’ but they say in the most courteous tone, ‘My eldest brother, I am weary of walking on foot. Be so good as to lend me your horse!’ or, ‘It is very cold to-day—be kind enough to lend me your coat!’ If the eldest brother be charitable enough to comply, he receives thanks; if not the request is enforced by two or three blows of the cudgel, or, if that is not sufficient, recourse is had to the sabre.” It is the custom of these polite gentlemen, however, to rob none the less thoroughly because they use the amenities of genteel life. The poor traveler who falls into their hands is not only deprived of horse, camel, money and goods, but he is stripped of every rag of clothes, and left, with an elegant bow and smooth farewell, to die of cold and hunger. This is the very method of genteel society everywhere.

The shrewd and remorseless avarice of the Chinese is illustrated in these volumes to perfection. From the emperor to the trader, all prey on the poor Tartars. Thus M. Huc meets a member of a great commercial house in Pekin, at Blue Town, and enters into a conversation with him. The merchant claims the missionary at once as one of his own trade, which, with Spartan brevity, he describes to consist in eating Tartars. “Eaters of Tartars!” exclaims good M. Huc, “what is the meaning of that?” to which the other answers, “Our trade—yours and mine—is to eat the Mongols—we by traffic, you by prayers.” On the missionary’s assuring him that he paid for every thing as he went along, and that his mission was purely disinterested, the merchant almost choked himself with laughing at the folly of a man who should venture into such a country for any other purpose than to prey upon its inhabitants; and then proceeds to describe the mysteries and moralities of the Wall street of China. We commend his system to our glorious army of shavers and capitalists. You see, he says, these Tartars “are simple as children when they come into our towns. They want to have every thing they see—they seldom have any money, but we come to their help. We give them goods on credit, and then, of course, they must pay rather high. When people take away goods without leaving the money, of course, there must be a little interest of thirty or forty per cent. Then, by degrees, the interest mounts up, and you come to compound interest; but that’s only with the Tartars. In China the laws forbid it; but we, who are obliged to run about the Land of Grass—we may well ask for a little extra profit. Isn’t that fair? A Tartar debit is never paid—it goes on from generation to generation; every year goes to get the interest, and it’s paid in sheep, oxen, camels, horses—all that is a great deal better than money. We get the beasts at a very low price, and we sell them at a very good price in the market. Oh! it’s a capital thing—a Tartar debt! It’s a mine of gold.” This is but one specimen of a Chinese “eater of Tartars.”

M. Huc’s volumes are full of equally piquant sketches, and we know of few tourists who seize with such inevitable tact on incidents and peculiarities which illustrate the morals and the habits of whole classes of people. The work is one of the most original and novel yet published in “Appleton’s Popular Library of the Best Authors”—a collection of which no lover of readable books should be without.

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_The Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell, afterward Mistress
Milton. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 18mo._

It appears to us that this volume is fully as felicitous as “Lady Willoughby’s Diary.” Like that it is in the form of a journal, written in the orthography and style of the seventeenth century. The simplicity with which the whole is conceived and wrought out is exquisite. The idea of the book is taken from the well-known incident of Milton’s first courtship and marriage; and its charm consists in accounting for the disagreement between the couple on grounds of nature which do not appear in the bold statement of the fact. It is a delicious volume, full of the essential spirit of poetry, and pure, tender, simple and refined throughout.

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_The Yellowplush Papers. By William M. Thackeray. New York: D.
Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 18mo._

This is one of the earliest and best of Thackeray’s delightful works. It is a sort of autobiography of a London footman, Charles Yellowplush, comprising very vigorous sketches of his various masters, and written in a style which inimitably combines shrewdness with vulgarity. The spelling alone is a work of genius. The portion relating to Mr. Deuceace has passages of great power and pathos as well as humor, and exhibits the utter lack of sentiment and principle, the hard demoniacal selfishness of a true London blood, with extraordinary closeness to the fact. “Mr. Yellowplush’s Ajew” and “Epistles to the Literati,” are also riotous with mirth. Bulwer Lytton’s coxcombry is caricatured in these last very ludicrously.

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_Putnam’s Semi-Monthly Library for Travelers and the Fireside.
New York: George P. Putnam. 6 vols. 12mo._

This is one of the cheapest and best edited literary enterprises ever started in the United States. It is published in semi-monthly volumes, each of which is printed in large type on fine white paper, contains some two hundred and fifty pages, and is placed at the low price of twenty-five cents a volume. Two volumes are given to prose and poetical comicalities, carefully selected, humorous cuts and all, from “Hood’s Own;” three volumes consist of capital selections from Dickens’ Household Words, entitled “Home and Social Philosophy,” “The World Here and There,” and “Home Narratives;” and the last is an original production, written by Mr. Olmstead, and called, very aptly, “Walks and Talks of an American Farmer in England”—an exceedingly interesting book, in which the author gives, in a homely but expressive style, his experiences among the farming population of England. We trust that Mr. Putnam’s admirable plan will be fully carried out, and that his success will be as complete as his enterprise is commendable. The price is hardly one-third of the usual cost of American reprints of equal elegance of execution.

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_Lyra and Other Poems. By Alice Carey. New York: Redfield. 1
vol. 12mo._

We wish that we had sufficient space this month to do justice to the qualities of mind and character impressed on this beautiful volume; but we shall be compelled to defer an elaborate view of its merits. The first glance at its pages will reveal to the reader the extreme sensitiveness of the writer’s mind to all that is beautiful, and tender, and sublime, and the swift felicity with which she embodies the most evanescent shades of emotion, and the most subtle meanings of natural objects. We regret that so large a portion of the poems should be so sad in their tone, as Alice Carey’s genius is by no means bounded by the serious side of things, but can sing cheerily as well as mournfully. The present volume, however, has more “hearse-like airs than carols.”

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_Isa; A Pilgrimage. By Caroline Chesebro’. New York: Redfield. 1
vol. 12mo._

This powerful story has a peculiar interest from its bearing on the fashionable ethics of certain novelists, who inculcate libertinism under the guise of liberality of thought and nobility of sentiment. The authoress shows the depraving influence of this philosophy on the noblest natures. Her insight into the workings of passion is remarkably bright and clear; and the vigorous movement of her narrative fastens the reader’s interest to the end. The chief fault of the book is its unrelieved intensity.

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_Tales and Traditions of Hungary. By Theresa Pulszky. New York:
Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo._

To those who are interested in the recent struggles of the brave and unfortunate Hungarian people for national independence, this volume will be heartily welcome. It gives us glimpses into the manners of the people, and exhibits the strong foundations on which the national character rests. The work has been popular in England, and its authoress, now a resident in the United States, has republished it with additions. We hope it will meet with a large share of popular favor.

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LITERARY GOSSIP.

“_The Household of Sir Thomas More._”

“_The Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell._”[27]

Two of the most exquisitely finished and delightful works that have come before our eyes in years, have lately been reproduced from the English press by two of our New York publishers, without any hint in regard to authorship, or indeed to the aim and nature of the books, whether fact or fiction. Their names stand above, and the personages to whom they have relation will be recognized as the great and good chancellor of Henry VIII., barbarously and illegally put to death for his refusal to take the oath of supremacy, and for his opposition to the unjust divorce of Katharine and marriage of the king with Anne Boleyn; and as the unhappy wife of that greatest of poets, but sternest and most impracticable of husbands, John Milton. No hint, as I have observed, is given as to authorship, but it is I think impossible that we shall be mistaken in ascribing both to the same pen; for, although the wielder of that pen has chosen to maintain an absolute incognito, his mark—though I am not altogether clear that for _his_ we might not better read _her_—is not to be confounded with that of any other; nor do we recognize any other in England or America at all comparable to this.

In both works we find the same delicate and delicious freshness, like the perfume from a rich clover-field after a summer shower; the same truthfulness to nature; the same intimate acquaintance with the spirit of the times, the character and circumstances of the supposed writers; the same natural and artless pathos; the same simplicity, and, if I may so speak of writing evidently fictitious, the same authenticity and genuineness of style.

So perfect indeed is the skill and tact of the handling, and so admirably is the whole character of either work kept up, that it cannot be doubted, had they been put forth as genuine ancient memoirs, recovered by any accident you will, their success as forgeries would have been as complete as that very remarkable—but to me very dull—book, “The Amber Witch” of the Pastor Meinhold, or the supposititious letters of Shelley and other notables of the nineteenth century, which have recently created so much wonder and excitement in the literary world.

What is to me, however, even more remarkable than the excellence of these chaste and unpretending little fictions, is the total absence of bruit or loud encomium with which they have issued both from the English and American presses; for in good sooth we have hardly heard them named, while they are in every respect the cleverest and most highly wrought, and in their own line the very best fictitious works that we have seen in years.

Fiction they undoubtedly are, in some sense; but fiction of some such nature—far be it from me to write profanely—as the parables of our ever-blessed Saviour, and in their humbler sphere and lesser degree improvable to the same good end. There is not one line in either from which any mental alchemy could extract one grain of evil counsel or unholy thought; on the contrary, there is not one which prompts not to good works, and faith, and reliance in the mercy and justice of the Most High.

After the Holy Bible itself, we are cognizant of no reading which may be put more fitly into the innocent hands of a beloved daughter on a Sunday afternoon, than either of these beautiful and touching little volumes; and to render the effects more certain, as more salutary, so far is there from being any effort or straining after religionism, moralizing or lay-preaching, so apt to frustrate their own ends, that the whole tenor of each flows so naturally and with so much probability forward, the thinkings, doings and speakings of the actors springing so spontaneously from the causes, that we read on enthralled, engrossed, with a tear often stealing to the eye, hardly able to believe that we are not perusing the real memoirs of real authors; and think nothing of the moral until the book is closed and the paramount interest ended.

It is an evil sign in relation to the influence and tone of the press-criticism of any countries, when we find the vulgar absurdities and exaggerations of Cockton, the trivial and overdone flippancies of Albert Smith, or even the brilliant eccentricities of Thackeray, over-lauded to the skies, while such gems of nature, verisimilitude and poesy, as these little volumes, creep forward, almost unushered, timid and unknown to fame, into the gradual favor of the public.

In one word, I know not nor conjecture to what dead or living author, male or female, of either hemisphere they may be attributed; but I do know there is not one—no! not Sir Walter himself—who would not derive fresh reputation from their authorship; and in order to substantiate this my opinion, I proceed to extract somewhat largely from the former work, which—although I have hitherto spoken of them in general terms, and in common, as cognate compositions, and I doubt not by the same pen—is by many degrees the abler and more perfect, as far as the more agreeable and fascinating volume.

There is not a syllable in it which might not have been penned in her _libellus_ by sweet Margaret More, bravest and best of English daughters—not one, which did not probably, in some shape or other, pass through her living brain—not one, to make an end of it, which, as we read, we do not implicitly believe, for the moment, to be of her actual penning.

There is, moreover, a fine, free humor, singularly characteristic of the age and the characters of “The Household of Sir Thomas More,” which is lacking, and which would perhaps have been out of place, in the “Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell;” but which nevertheless beautifully relieves the soft and tender melancholy of the memoir.

It is, however, in truthfulness, if I may not absolutely say truth, that Margaret’s libellus is most clearly superior; for we are constrained, in justice, to say that the portraiture of John Milton in his domestic relations, however great his public glory, is most overweening flattery, and that the happiness ascribed to the latter portion of “the married life of Mary Powell,” is as pure a fiction as ever emanated from the fancy of the wildest romancer.

But to return to our “A Margarettâ More, libellus, quindecim annos nata, Chelseiæ inceptus;” here we have, in her own words, the incident—not accident—of its inception.

“On asking Mr. Gunnel to what use I s^{d} put this fair
_libellus_, he did suggest my making it a kinde of family
register, wherein to note y^{e} more important of our domestic
passages, whether of joy or griefe—my father’s journies and
absences—the visits of learned men, theire notable sayings,
etc. ‘You art smart at the pen, Mistress Margaret,’ he was
pleased to say; ‘and I would humblie advise your journalling in
y^{e} same fearless manner in the which you framed that letter
which soe well pleased the Bishop of Exeter, that he sent you a
Portugal piece. ’Twill be well to write it in English, which
’tis expedient for you not altogether to negleckt, even for the
more honorable Latin.’

“Methinks I am close upon womanhood. . . . . ‘Humblie advise,’
quotha! to me, that hath so oft humblie sued for his pardon, and
sometimes in vain.

“’Tis well to make trial of Gonellus his ‘humble’ advice:
albeit, our daylie course is so methodicall, that ’twill afford
scant subject for y^{e} pen—_Vitam continet una dies_.”

Here, again, we are introduced to the younger members of the household in their moments of home-merriment and simple occupations, as usual at that unsophisticated day, before fear or grief fell upon their happy circle—and what was ever writ more naturally and unaffectedly?

“This morn, hinting to Bess that she was lacing herselfe too
straightlie, she brisklie replyed, ‘One w^{d} think ’twere as
great meritt to have a thick waiste as to be one of y^{e} earlie
Christians!’

“These humourous retorts are ever at her tongue’s end; and,
albeit, as Jacky one day angrilie remarked, when she had beene
teazing him, ‘Bess, thy witt is stupidnesse;’ yet, for one who
talks soe much at random, no one can be more keene when she
chooseth. Father sayd of her, half fondly, half apologeticallie
to Erasmus. ‘Her wit has a fine subtletie that eludes you
almoste before you have time to recognize it for what it really
is.’ To which, Erasmus readilie assented, adding, that it had
y^{e} rare meritt of playing less on persons than things, and
never on bodilie defects.

“Hum!—I wonder if they ever sayd as much in favour of me. I
knowe, indeede, Erasmus calls me a forward girl! Alas! that may
be taken in two senses.”

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