Chapter IV (4)

One may fancy this woman doing her washing at home, drying and ironing it on the Saturday in the only room in which is the whole family, in order to have the clothes ready for the Sunday; one may fancy the husband coming home on the Saturday evening from his week’s work in order to enjoy rest and refreshment with his family—and finding the room full of wet clothes, damp, or filled with steam during the ironing process; the wife, occupied by her work, tired, and perhaps cross, the children in the way, or else—out of the way, in order to make room for the wet clothes! If the husband, under such circumstances, did not leave home and wife in order to find rest and refreshment at the ale-house, he must have had the soul of a martyr and hero!

In these new public wash-houses, the wife can do the whole of her washing and have it ironed and finished in two hours. And it was in the highest degree interesting to observe the means by which this operation in all its various departments can be carried on so rapidly and so well, and at the same time, for so small a payment.

The baths are also much frequented by the lower classes, but that most generally on the Saturday. And then the numbers are so great, that the lobbies are crowded with people waiting for their turns. Both these institutions are of incalculable benefit to the domestic life of the poor.

What the model dwelling-houses are and may become for the same class, the following anecdote may suffice to prove.

“On one of my visits to the Metropolitan buildings,” related to me Dr. S. S., one of the noble men who was foremost in their establishment, “I saw a woman standing at her open door. She greeted me so pleasantly, and with so kind an expression, that I was involuntarily compelled to stand and speak to her. She invited me into her dwelling, a sitting-room and kitchen, (but which also was a sitting-room,) showed me how prettily arranged she and her husband had every thing here, the beautiful, extensive prospect from the window, and how convenient was every thing within; she showed me their flowers, books, birds, and seemed to be made most sincerely happy by all these things. I fell into conversation with her, and by this means became acquainted with her history.

“‘We have been in better circumstances,’ said she; ‘at one time, indeed, we were very well off. But my husband became surety for a friend in whom he had as entire faith as in himself. His friend, however, became bankrupt, and by this means we lost nearly all that we possessed. We were obliged to sell a part of our furniture, and to remove from our comfortable dwelling to one much worse, but of a rent which we could afford. Here, however, new misfortunes met us; every thing began to go downward with us; we were obliged to sell the greater part of that which was yet left, and again to remove. We took a house in one of the suburbs of London, the best that we could get for the low rent which we could now afford. But it was a gloomy, damp, ugly, and in the highest degree inconvenient dwelling. When my husband used to come into the gloomy, chilly room, he became, as it were, struck with numbness. He sat silent, without taking pleasure in any thing; he could not even open a book, and reading used formerly to be his greatest delight. ‘It is all over with us now,’ thought I to myself, ‘and we must sink down into wretched poverty.’

“‘One day, however, I saw by chance, in the newspaper, an advertisement of rooms here at a reasonable rate, and I thought, if we could only manage to get into these rooms, he would perhaps come round again. I persuaded him therefore to let us go and look at them. These rooms which we now have, were fortunately still untenanted; and as we could produce the required certificate of character and respectability, we were accepted as tenants. My husband had not been long in these cheerful, excellent rooms, before he again took to his books, and began to work afresh. ‘Thank God,’ thought I, ‘now are we right again!’

“‘And so it was. My husband now earns good wages, and is promised an advance in them. Our rent costs but three shillings a week. We are now again getting on in the world—God be praised!’”

And a hand extended to the sinking—light, air, health, hope to those who sit in darkness—behold, these are offered by this institution of a truly Christian community, to the children of desolation. Prepare ye the way of the Lord!

“If you could remain longer with us,” said the same friend of humanity to me, “I would take you with me in my walks through the city, and I would show you, not our palaces and places of magnificence, but our wretchedness, and that which we do to alleviate it.”

And I have now seen sufficient thereof for me to say, that _much_ is done, but that still more yet remains to be done. How much may be conceived from this single fact, that out of the immense population of the London poor only about fifteen hundred persons can be accommodated in the model dwelling-house!

In connection with these establishments will I mention two of a similar design which I visited during my stay in London. One of these is known under the appellation of “The Dormitory for Thieves.” This was the undertaking of a single individual, and still depends, in a great measure, upon the extraordinary courage and clear-headedness of this one man, together with private assistance which his undertaking has received from noble-minded women and men.

Mr. Nash was a teacher in a Ragged School. Just opposite the school was an open shed, beneath which Mr. Nash observed that early in the morning a number of youths, of from about seventeen to twenty years of age, assembled, who appeared to have no other place of shelter. Before long he fell into conversation with them, and learnt that such was the case, and that these youths spent the greater part of the night, as well as of the day, on foot for the purposes of theft or plunder. He inquired from them whether they would be willing to give up this miserable occupation for something better. All declared that they had no higher wish than to do so. Mr. Nash then proposed to them that they should pass through a probatory period of two weeks, during which they should be placed in a solitary room, and have no other food than bread and water. After this time of trial, if they passed well through it, he promised to receive them into the school, and teach them some trade, of which they themselves should have the choice, and which would thus open to them a respectable path for the future. The boys willingly entered into the plan, and, under the oversight of Mr. Nash, commenced their noviciate on bread and water; a pound weight of bread each a day, in a solitary room, but without fastenings. Some of them grew weary in a few days, and went out again to cheat and to steal, but the greater number persevered, and with these Mr. Nash commenced the institution called the “Dormitory,” which soon extended itself, and now contains about fifty pupils, and at which forty or more candidates present themselves weekly, young men of from sixteen to thirty years of age, who are desirous of leaving the paths of vice. The great school for juvenile offenders, situated a few miles from London, receives only children under fifteen years of age. I very much regret that my time was too short to allow of my visiting it.

The house designed for the Dormitory was now building, and Mr. Nash was therefore compelled from want of room to reject each week many young men who were desirous of being received on trial. The fifty who had successfully passed through the heavy probation—a short one, it is true, but a sufficient trial for young men with hungry stomachs, unbroken wills, and unaccustomed to discipline—were employed in various rooms as shoemakers, tailors, carpenters, smiths, printers, and so on. They scarcely looked up, and were zealously occupied by their work. Three young men, of from eighteen to twenty, underwent, as best for them, their trial in an empty room, the doors of which stood open. They had determined upon pursuing a certain trade, and had firmly resolved upon amending their course of life. I saw among these young men many pleasant, hopeful countenances, and some also which it required courage to admit into an institution for improvement.

But this Mr. Nash has a countenance which is remarkable for great courage and the most cheerful confidence. And, perhaps, it is precisely this very courage and this cheerful confidence which are most needed and of which there is most want in society. Perhaps there would not be found any thing altogether irremediable in the world if we had only this right courage, this right trust—in the strength of resurrection!

The fallen youths in this institution are taught not merely a handicraft trade, but, as a matter of course, first and foremost the principles of Christianity. Many of them are destined for emigration, and, after having well passed through their apprenticeship, obtain aid for their outfit and their voyage, which is in a general way to Australia. For Australia Felix is a picture which floats before the eye of the converted youth as the goal and reward of his industry and his good conduct during his apprenticeship. And the beautiful skies of Australia seem intended by Providence as a symbol of mercy, to entice home the prodigal but repentant son of earth.

I hear at this point an objection which is often made.

“You are promoters of crime, inasmuch as you assist the criminal more than the innocent; inasmuch as the quality of thief becomes a letter of recommendation to ‘the Dormitory for Thieves,’ and thence to Australia.”

This objection would be just if no protecting, aiding hand were stretched forth to guiltless and destitute youth. But in England this objection is overruled by many benevolent institutions. Among these is the Emigrant’s Home for young persons who can produce certificates of blameless life, and who wish to emigrate, but have not the means of so doing. I visited the Home, where young women of the working class and of good character are received for a time, examined, and afterward enabled to leave the country and to obtain situations in the English colonies. Between seven and eight hundred young women had, within rather more than a year, been sent abroad from this Home, their passage paid, and services obtained for them in the colonies, mostly in New Zealand and Australia. In the Ragged Schools also is Australia Felix a land which stands before the souls of the children as a future home with a brighter sky and better prospects for them than their native land, and the sending them thither is a reward for their progress in learning. From thirteen to fifteen years of age they are sent thither—that is to say, to the southern part of the continent, where the climate is most healthy, and where none of the convict population are to be met with; these, as is well known, being confined to the northern coast. The children obtain situations in the families of the wealthy colonists, still remaining in connection with the mother-school which sent them out; and their letters to the teachers and their friends, about the country and the people of that new world to which they have removed, diffuse the utmost pleasure and excite the deepest interest in the old home. I read some of these letters, printed in small, neat, stitched pamphlets, which are sold and circulated for a few pence, together with many other small writings of the same price and form. I read with great interest these child-like, naïve descriptions, fresh with morning dew, from the new world. And this led me to a more intimate acquaintance with the popular folk-literature of England. This subject, however, is too great to be treated of here, and demands a separate chapter. Merely a few words in short.

In order that it may actually be an advantage to the child to learn to read in the school, it is of importance that when it leaves the school it may find something good to read—something improving for the understanding, something ennobling for the heart. Rich men’s children have this in superabundance: the children of the poor have long had, and still in many countries have—when they leave school—no other reading of an amusing kind to go to than wretched ballads, rude stories, immoral tales and pictures, which degrade mind and taste—and they form themselves accordingly. In England, and in various cultivated countries, people have begun zealously to provide for the needs of the reading portion of the lower classes. Societies have been formed both in the Episcopal church and other religious bodies, for the diffusion of useful and entertaining reading, designed especially for the youth of the lower classes who have the wish to read, but who have not the means of purchasing expensive books. Small works, illustrated with beautiful vignettes, circulate in England by thousands, especially narratives, biographies, and such like, which are calculated to please the most uneducated as well as the most childish mind. The number of these writings, and so called “tracts”—which are sold at from one penny to six-pence each—is immense in England. They circulate over the whole country, and may be met with in all the book-shops.

In the Ragged Schools, in the Model Boarding-houses, in the Home for poor emigrants, in the Dormitory for thieves, in many benevolent institutions, had I seen a copper-plate portrait of a handsome, middle-aged gentleman, holding a roll of paper in his hand, from which he seemed about to read. This was the portrait of Lord Ashley, now Earl of Shaftesbury. It was thus that he stood up, time after time, in Parliament, with narratives which he had collected and written down from the life of the working-classes of England, with its neglects and necessities, its temptations to crime, and its bitterness against society, especially in the manufacturing districts. It was thus that he continued to stand forth and to plead, spite of opposition, derision, reproach, and threats, until he aroused that universal attention and that universal sympathy for the sufferings of the lower classes of society, which he made it his mission to search into and to alleviate. Thus, he became the promoter of important reforms, and of many excellent institutions for the oppressed and the fallen of the laboring classes. Thus, he became so well known for his spirit of active human kindness, that not long since, the thieves of London, to the number of more than a thousand—if I am not mistaken—sent to Lord Ashley, requesting he would meet them at a certain place which they named, where they wished to ask his advice, as to how they might get into some better way of life. Lord Ashley undertook to meet these thieves. These dangerous classes had laid aside their fearful aspect for the occasion. They came now as repentant children to a father, to whose counsel and guidance they would submit themselves. During this meeting, his lordship wished to give a small sum of money to an old man, but not having small change with him, produced a sovereign, and asked if some one would go out and get change for him. Many hands were stretched forth, and Lord Ashley gave the gold coin to a boy, who immediately sprang out with it. As he remained a considerable time away, a general uneasiness spread itself through the assembly; all looked eagerly toward the door, all were evidently anxious that he should not abuse the confidence of his lordship; and when, at length, he returned with the proper amount of change, a general satisfaction showed itself.

I am sorry not to know more about this conference, nor what advice Lord Ashley gave to the thieves, because it must have been something beyond mere theory. The Dormitory, as a preparatory institution, and emigration to countries where there is plenty of honest labor and labor’s wages, are good practical means, which Lord Ashley could refer them to.

And it cannot be denied that England, in its extensive and as yet scantily-peopled colonies, has an excellent mode of assistance and resource for its dangerous population, and in especial for its superabundant population. And one cannot but acknowledge that it is the increasing emigration to these colonies which gives England at this time freer breathing-room and a more vigorous life.

-----

[4] The ourang-outang is dead since Miss Bremer’s visit. He died of inflammation of the lungs; and, with truth it may be said, much regretted. During his short life in the gardens he had shown himself docile, and remarkably intelligent.

Trans.

* * * * *

=THE EXILE.=

=BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.=

Weep for the dead! for him in silence sleeping,
O’er whose lone grave the wild winds coldly sweep;
Weep for the dead, yet make but little weeping,
He lies at peace, unbroken is his sleep.
His last fond look of love on thee was resting,
His hands last feeble pressure met thine own;
It was of thee he made his last requesting,
Fell on thy ear his last, sweet, lingering tone.
Weep that ye hear his steps no more returning,
That he in darkness and in stillness lies;
Make not for him a long and bitter mourning,
Calm is the slumber that has sealed his eyes.
But weep for him who far away has wandered,
Whose feet tread painfully some distant strand,
Who sad and long life’s dream has vainly pondered,
Who mourns, deep longing, for his native land.

Faint and afar his heavy burden bearing,
No smile, no word, no look from thee can cheer;
Once all his cares were lighter for thy sharing,
Once all his joys, for thee, were doubly dear.
Oh, weep for him! there is no consolation;
He liveth, but for thee his life is o’er;
Count the slow years with weary annotation,
The mocking years shall bring him back no more.
Sit by thy hearth-stone in the silence grieving,
Take from the past its sweet yet faded flowers;
For thee no tree of hope has spring-time’s leaving,
The song is silent in thy pleasant bowers.
From all thy future him thou must dissever,
Poor broken heart! in vain must thou deplore;
His feet from that far land shall seek thee never,
He shall return no more—to thee no more.

* * * * *

=REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.=

_Lillian and Other Poems. By William Mackworth Praed. Now first
Collected. New York: Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo._

Praed, one of the most brilliant, fanciful and peculiar poets of the century, has met with singular ill-luck in his native land in not finding either an editor or a public for the chance-offsprings of his sparkling muse. To Dr. Griswold belongs the credit of rescuing his pieces from oblivion, of collecting them in a permanent form, and of introducing them with a preface which presents, with condensed felicity of expression, the leading incidents of Praed’s life, and the subtle peculiarities of his genius. Poet, scholar, and politician, Praed was also a most popular and accomplished man of society, and not a little of the raciness of his poems consists in their curious combination of the romantic and the worldly. They suggest one of those modern parlors opening on one side into a greenhouse, with a strange blending in the atmosphere of musk and sweet-briar, _eau de cologne_ and lilies. In such a forced union of the ideal and the conventional we are, of course, all the more piquantly reminded of their essential contrast. With all this clever deviltry, however, in the instinctive action of Praed’s mind, he has still given us some poems which indicate that a stout English heart beats beneath the embroidered waistcoat of the man of fashion, and will sometimes gush out in natural tenderness or passion. But his exquisitely nice perception of the falsehood of cultivated and conventual life, combined with a laughing charity for its pleasant hypocricies, commonly interferes with his poetic faith; and he is continually provoking sentimental readers by raising their serious sympathies only to give the greater force to the flush of sarcasm which dissolves them. This peculiarity springs, perhaps, from a deeper source than mere intellectual mischievousness, and refers to a humorous sadness of mood which is apt to characterize men who are both poets and wits—who see things at once in their ideal and conventional relations, and are fascinated by both. The observing reader will also detect, as a result of this, a certain fine misanthropy in the poems, but a misanthropy which is without malice or hatred. His description of the Troubadour, in his delicious poem of that name, may stand in some degree for his own portrait:

A wandering troubadour was he;
He bore a name of high degree,
And learned betimes to slay and sue,
As knights of high degree should do.
While vigor nerved his buoyant arm,
And youth was his to cheat and charm;
Being immensely fond of dancing,
And somewhat given to romancing,
He roamed about through towers and towns,
Apostrophizing smiles and frowns,
Singing sweet staves to beads and bonnets,
And dying, day by day, in sonnets.
Flippant and fair, and fool enough,
And careless where he met rebuff,
Poco-curante in all cases
Of furious foes, or pretty faces,
With laughing lip, and jocund eye,
And studied tear and practiced sigh,
And ready sword, and ready verse,
And store of ducats in his purse,
He sinned few crimes, loved many times,
And wrote a hundred thousand rhymes!

Among the best among the many good things in this volume is “The Belle of the Ball,” “The Vicar,” “The Legend of the Teuful-Haus,” “The Bridal of Belmont,” and “The Red Fisherman.” We have but space for a description of Richard Cœur de Lion—a fair specimen of Praed’s dashing manner:

A ponderous thing was Richard’s can,
And so was Richard’s boot,
And Saracens and liquor ran,
Where’er he set his foot.
So fiddling here, and fighting there,
And murdering time and tune,
With sturdy limb, and listless air,
And gauntleted hand, and jeweled hair,
Half monarch, half buffoon,
He turned away from feast to fray,
From quarreling to quaffing,
So great in prowess and in pranks,
So fierce and funny in the ranks,
That Saladin and Soldan said,
Where’er that mad-cap Richard led,
Alla! he held his breath for dread,
And burst his sides for laughing!

At court, the humor of a king
Is always voted “quite the thing;”
Morals and cloaks are loose or laced
According to the sovereign’s taste,
And belles and bouquets both are dressed
Just as his majesty thinks best.
Of course, in that delightful age,
When Richard ruled the roast,
Cracking of craniums was the rage,
And beauty was the toast.
Ay! all was laugh, and life, and love;
And lips and shrines were kissed;
And vows were ventured in the grove,
And lances in the list;
And boys roamed out in sunny weather
To weave a wreath and rhyme together:
While dames, in silence and in satin,
Lay listening to the soft French-Latin,
And flung their sashes and their sighs
From odor-breathing balconies.

* * * * *

_The Howadji in Syria. By George William Curtis. Author of “Nile
Notes.” New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Curtis has the finest genius for description among the myriad tourists of the day. His observation is clear, accurate and comprehensive, and the picture formed on his own imagination he can transfer to the imagination of the reader without the omission of a single detail. But he also has the poetic faculty of seeing not only the external form and colors of objects, but their inward spirit and meaning; and this makes his pictures alive with thought and feeling, and constitutes their peculiar attractiveness. The reader is literally transported; his eye falls on the page, and at once he is in Cairo or Jerusalem, not only seeing those places, but experiencing the pure and perfect luxury of the feelings they awaken in an imaginative mind. It is this magical power which places Mr. Curtis above all contemporary writers of travels. He has really caught the spirit of the east. Some London critics have objected to his book on account of its characteristic excellence, they being pleased to call his felicity and sureness of insight by the name of idealization, using the word to convey a charge of misrepresentation. We believe that he daguerreotypes both forms and emotions, and is equally true to fact and thought. His faculty of external observation is none the less accurate, because he has in addition the genius which most travelers lack.

We do not know whether Mr. Curtis would succeed as well in describing Western as Eastern life, manners and scenery. In the East he is at home, even the fanciful fopperies with which he pertinaciously bespangles his style, aiding the effect of his pictures. It may be that the sensuous and dreamy atmosphere through which he shows us the forms of Oriental life is native, not so much to his own mind, as the scenes he represents, and that he could vary it with a variation in his subject. If so, we hope he will not leave a corner of the earth unvisited, for such a representative faculty would make him the Shakspeare of tourists.

One of the most delightful pictures in the present volume is the “counterfeit presentment” of Oriental shopping. We quote it as a specimen of Mr. Curtis’s word-painting. The Howadji enters a bazaar:

“The merchant, gravely courteous, reveals his treasures, little dreaming that they are inestimable to the eyes that contemplate them. His wares make poets of his customers, who are sure that the Eastern poets must have passed their lives in an endless round of shopping.

“Here are silk stuffs from Damascus and Aleppo; cambric from the district of Nablus, near the well of Jacob; gold and silver threads from Mount Lebanon; keffie, the Bedouin handkerchiefs, from Mecca, and fabrics of delicate device from Damascus blend their charm with the Anatolian carpets of gorgeous tissue. The fruits of Hamas hang beyond—dried fruits and blades from Celo Syria—pistacchios from Aleppo, and over them strange Persian rugs.

“The eye feasts upon splendor. The wares are often clumsy, inconvenient, and unshapely. The coarsest linen is embroidered with the finest gold. It is a banquet of the crude elements of beauty, unrefined by taste. It is the pure figment unworked into the picture.

“But the contemplation of these articles, of name and association so alluring, and the calm curiosity of the soft eyes, that watch you in the dimness of the bazaar, gradually soothe your mind like sleep, and you sit by the merchant in pleasant reverie. You buy as long and as much as you can. Have rhymes, and colors, and fancies prices?

“The courteous merchant asks fabulous sums for his wares, and you courteously offer a tenth or a twentieth of his demand. He looks grieved, and smokes. You smoke, and look resigned.

“‘Have the Howadji reflected that this delicate linen (it is coarse crash) comes from Bagdad, upon camels, over the desert?’

“‘They have, indeed, meditated that fact.’

“‘Are these opulent strangers aware that the sum they mention would plunge an unhappy merchant into irretrievable ruin?’

“‘The thought severs the heart-strings of the opulent strangers. But are their resources rivers, whose sands are gold?’

“—And the soft-eyed Arab boy is dispatched for fresh coffee.

“We wear away the day in this delightful traffic. It has been a rhetorical tilt. We have talked, and lived, and bought poetry, and at twilight our treasures follow us to the hotel.”

* * * * *

_Paris Sketch Book. By William M. Thackeray. New York: D.
Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 18mo._

In these volumes the author of Vanity Fair appears as the social critic of Paris. With an eye that nothing ridiculous or bizarre can elude, he peers into the shady corners of French life, and transfers its oddities to his page. His English sense, it is true, is somewhat too constantly accompanied by his English prejudice; but even where he loses his fairness he never loses his brilliancy.

Among the many attractions of the book are some capital stories illustrative of French manners and character. Perhaps the best chapter is that on Louis the Fourteenth. Its exposition of kingship is mercilessly satirical and remorselessly just. There is a little wood-cut in this part of the book, which the revolutionists should distribute in every country in Europe as an instrument of insurrection. It represents first the royal robes, then royalty without the robes, then royalty in the robes. The inference to the eye is irresistible, that the robes and not the men constitute royalty. The satire is especially directed at Louis XIV., but it might with more justice be fastened on the present sovereigns of the continent of Europe.

* * * * *

_The Study of Words. By Richard Cheverix French, B. D. New York:
Redfield. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume has been very popular in England, having passed rapidly through four editions. The author not only considers words as “fossil poetry,” but fossil ethics and fossil history. Many of his speculations are ingenious, tending to impress upon the mind the truth that language is the incarnation of thought, and that words are things. But in all that relates to the philosophy of the matter he is very inferior to one of our writers, the Rev. Dr. Bushnell, of Hartford, who, in his late theological writings has exhibited extraordinary depth and sentences of thought in demonstrating both the vitality and the limitations of language. Mr. French’s work is sketchy and readable, distinguished rather for the value of its detached remarks than for the comprehensiveness of its general plan. Its tendency, however, is to provoke independent thinking on the subject, in which Mr. French’s “Story of Words” may be disconnected from the languid wordiness of Mr. French.

* * * * *

_The Works of Stephen Olin, D. D., LL. D., late President of the
Wesleyan University. New York: Harper & Brothers. Vols. 1 and 2.
12mo._

An elegant edition, such as the present promises to be, of the works of so eminent a divine as the late Dr. Olin, is a contribution to theological and to general literature. The first and second volumes contain his Sermons, Lectures and Addresses. They are worthy of the author’s extensive reputation as an accurate and practical thinker, and are animated throughout with a tolerant but none the less kindling religious faith. In an age when charity is so common a screen of indifference, it is a refreshment to read an author whose toleration is the result of the depth and breadth of his religious feeling, and whose zeal is as intense as his mind is large. To young men, especially, these volumes are invaluable as guides in the practical duties of life, and the formation of a manly Christian character. Dr. Olin possessed, in no ordinary measure, that wisdom which comes from the union of exalted sentiment with sturdy sense, and his advice is therefore always elevated and always practical.

* * * * *

_Claret and Olives; from the Garonne to the Rhone: or Notes
Social, Picturesque and Legendary, by the way. By Angus B.
Reach. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This little volume, one of the series of Putnam’s Semi-Monthly Library, is altogether the most attractive book on the south of France we have ever read. It is written in a style of great liveliness and point, is full of vigorous descriptions of scenery and manners, and some of the legends are told inimitably. The series of volumes to which it belongs we cannot too cordially commend to the public. Taking into consideration the excellence of the type and paper, it is the cheapest collection of books ever published in the country, the price of each volume being but twenty-five cents. The cheapness, however, of the series is not so noteable as the rare taste which guides the selection of books. The present volume, “Claret and Olives,” is, in point of style alone, a work of high literary merit, and we cannot but think that its author will wake up some fine morning and find himself famous.

* * * * *

_The English Family Robinson. The Desert Home, or the Adventures
of a Lost Family in the Wilderness. By Captain Mayne Reid,
author of the “Rifle Rangers.” With Twelve Illustrations, by
William Harvey. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 18mo._

This charming volume belongs to a class of works possessing universal interest. It narrates the trials and experiences of an English family lost in the great desert in the interior of North America. In this desert they discover a delightful oasis, and dwell on it for ten years. The descriptions of their housekeeping and hunting are exceedingly vivid, while there is just enough variety in the characters of the family to add a dramatic interest to the narrative. The volume is mostly devoted to exciting representations of hunting adventures, and we know of few books better calculated to convey to young persons a knowledge of natural history. The author evidently writes from personal observation both of the scenery and animals he describes.

* * * * *

_Gaieties and Gravities. By Horace Smith. New York: D. Appleton
& Co. 1 vol. 18mo._

Most of the pieces contained in this volume were originally contributed to the New Monthly Magazine, in the old days of that periodical, when it was edited by Campbell, the poet. Smith is now widely known as one of the authors of the “Rejected Addresses,” and as the sole author of numerous admirable novels; but we doubt if any of his works show his genius and character in a light at once so amiable and so sparkling as they are exhibited in the present delightful volume. Full of curious information, brilliant satire, keen observation, and tingling wit, every sentence is a stimulant to attention. The essays on “Noses,” “Lips and Kissing,” “Ugly Women,” “The Eloquence of Eyes,” “The Literary Society of Houndsditch,” not to mention others, are radiant with fancy and wit.

* * * * *

_Thorpe, A Quiet English Town, and Human Life Therein. By
William Mountford. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 18mo._

Mr. Mountford is favorably known to thoughtful readers as the author of “Martyria” and “Euthanasy.” The present volume will add to the reputation he has already acquired by them, conceived as it is in the same kindly spirit, and admitting of a greater variety of incidents and characters. The whole representation of the town is exceedingly felicitous, combining considerable diversity of topic and subject with a pervading unity of impression. The most attractive portions of the book are the religious and philosophical conversations which are naturally interwoven with its homely incidents—conversations which are characterized by profound spiritual feeling, pure in tone, sweet in sentiment, full of original thoughts and suggestions, and expressed in a style of great clearness and beauty.

* * * * *

_Life of Lord Jeffrey; with a Selection from his Correspondence.
By Lord Cockburn. 2 vols. Philadelphia: Lippincott, Grambo &
Co._

We have read with great interest this admirable life of Jeffrey, from the pen of an intimate friend, who has performed his “labor of love,” in a most admirable and satisfactory manner. The great Edinburgh critic is presented to us in the character of a most amiable friend, and a profound, but somewhat timid statesman. He who put forth, through the “Edinburgh Review,” his fierce and remorseless criticisms of contemporary literature, is here pictured as the agreeable friend, the loving husband and father, and the honest censor of what he deemed pernicious in letters. He stands out from the canvas “a man of gentle amenities, full of all charity, profoundly impressed with the dignity and responsibility of his mission.” Every reader of Jeffrey should purchase these volumes to obtain a fair estimation of the worth and various ability of the man.

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_A Treatise on a Box of Instruments, and the Slide Rule: for the
use of Gaugers, Engineers, Seamen, and Students. By Thomas
Kentish. Philadelphia: Henry Carey Baird._

This invaluable little volume is a continuation of a series of useful works, for which the country is indebted to the enterprise of Mr. Baird; and we are mistaken if his efforts to extend the knowledge of the useful do not meet a very ample return. The title of the volume is sufficiently significant; and we have only to add, that the book is admirably adapted to fulfill its purpose.

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_The Waverly Novels. By Sir Walter Scott. Complete in 12
volumes. Abbotsford edition, vol. 1.—Waverly. Philadelphia:
Lippincott, Grambo & Co._

This beautiful edition of the Waverly Novels, has long been wanted by American readers, and the beautiful type and paper of this edition afford a most desired relief to the eye. The publishers announce that they have now ready, Guy Mannering—The Antiquary—Rob Roy—The Black Dwarf—Old Mortality—and The Bride of Lammermoor. The price per novel, in paper, is fifty cents.

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_Romanism at Home. Letters to the Hon. Roger B. Taney, Chief
Justice of the United States. By Kirwan. New York: Harper &
Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

These letters are the production of a vigorous and witty controversialist, who brings the full resources of a firm will, a clear understanding, and an animated rhetoric, to the task of assailing the church of Rome. It is a very stimulating book.

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_Hearts Unveiled; or, “I Knew You Would Like Him.” By Sarah
Emery Saymore. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is what may be called a didactic novel; a kind of composition which we find it very difficult to read. It is, however, replete with shrewd remark, and contains many admirable maxims for the discipline both of the mind and the heart. The question of woman’s rights is very elaborately discussed in the volume, and a strong leaning manifested against the new ideas on that topic.

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_The Practical Model Calculator. By Oliver Byrne, Civil,
Military and Mechanical Engineer. Philadelphia: Henry Carey
Baird (successor to E. L. Carey.)_

This is another of the series of very highly useful works with which we have been favored from the press of Mr. Baird, and one that will be of great service to the engineer, mechanic, machinist, naval architect, miner and millwright. It is prepared with great care and accuracy, and will be invaluable to all whose business or studies lead them to inform themselves fully of the subjects upon which it treats.

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=LITERARY GOSSIP.=

LIFE OF THACKERAY.

Everybody knows Thackeray, and nobody knows any thing about him. We are therefore glad to help ourselves and our readers to a little knowledge of him, derived from a German authority by the _Tribune_. He was born in Calcutta in the year 1811, and is now consequently 41 years old. His father was a high official of the East India Company, which secured him the _entrée_ of the best society, and a large income. Our author was born a “gentleman.” He went to school in England—experienced all the tyranny of a brutal master, and the misery of that system of fagging, a legalized bullying of the little boys by the larger, which is so repulsive to every noble and decent feeling, and which the Englishmen so stoutly defend, as a process which “takes the starch out of pride,” but which is altogether too unreasonable not to lose temper about in discussing. Thackeray has revenged himself upon this inhuman and disgusting system in his Christmas story of “Dr. Birch and his Young Friends,” and he has a general fling at Boarding Schools in the opening of “Vanity Fair,” in which he exhorts the reader to trust the promise of a school prospectus no more than he does the praises of an epitaph. He left school for the University at Cambridge, where he studied with Kinglake, the author of Eothen—Eliot Warburton, who wrote “The Crescent and the Cross,” and was lost with the Amazon, and Richard Moncton Milnes, a well-known London _litterateur_, a poet, and biographer of Keats, and an ornamental liberal member of Parliament.

Meanwhile the elder Thackeray died, and the future historian of Vanity Fair, launched himself into its midst with an annual income of about a thousand pounds. He lived according to his whims, drew sharp and clever caricatures, smoked, lounged, feasted upon books of every kind, and opened the oyster of the world at leisure. His mother, a woman of great beauty, and full of talent and tenderness, whose memory is so filially embalmed in the character of the mother of Arthur Pendennis, married again, about this time, and the young man, always the object of the proudest maternal love, came into possession of his paternal inheritance. He immediately returned from the continent where he had been staying a little time, and took up his residence in the Temple. Nascent Jurists and Budding Barristers at Law, who have completed a full course at Cambridge or Oxford, enjoy the privilege of paying high prices for comfortable quarters in the Temple, and of eating splendid dinners in its ancient dining-room. Here Thackeray entered himself as a student of jurisprudence, and in the character of Warrington in “Pendennis,” he has developed the career of the students, and the varied life of the Temple, in some of the best passages he has ever written. Henry Taylor, the dramatist, author of Philip Van Artevelde, is among the residents of the Temple, and is mentioned by the German Commentator as the original of a character in Thackeray’s romance. We are at a loss to determine which, for if Warrington be so intended, he seems to us to lose the point. Warrington is a man of power without a career—Taylor, a man of talent, who has certainly achieved a reputation quite equal to his just claims. However, the Temple not only furnished our author characters, but also the necessity of drawing them; for while there, and when scarcely more than 23 years old, the young man had “fooled away” his property, and was poor. The days of smoking, lounging, and “loafing” were evidently ending, and he betook himself to Paris, conceiving, from his facility in sketching, that he was born for an artist. A brief time among the Parisian ateliers sufficed to remove this idea. But as his step-father at this period established a journal in London, called “The Constitutional,” the artist naturally became its Paris correspondent. Thus, like Dickens, he commenced his literary career as a journalist. In Paris, Thackeray met his present wife, an Irish lady of good family, and married her.

From this time dates his first purely literary effort—the “Yellowplush Papers,” afterward published as “Jeames’ Diary”—in which his characteristic tendency is clearly indicated. The step-father’s “Constitutional” absorbed most of his property, of course, and failed. The son was obliged to return to England, and to begin work in earnest for himself. He wrote for _Frazer’s Magazine_ and literary reviews for “_The Times_,” in which he ridiculed the early Bulwer style of romance—the interesting burglars and romance murderers. But the public, resolved upon enjoying the fascination of crime sentimentally described, received his strictures coldly. The struggling author turned to the humorous, sketchy style, to win an ear and gain a penny. Literary friends, more fairly favored than he, opened their purses to him; but his wife became insane, and is, at this day, the inmate of an asylum. He worked industriously with his pen—he wrote the “Great Hoggarty Diamond,” “The Snob Papers,” the “Irish Sketch Book,” “Journey from Cornhill to Cairo,” “Our Street,” “Rebecca and Rowena,” “The Kickleburies on the Rhine,” and smaller papers, under the name of Michael Angelo Titmarsh; and Chambers’ Cyclopedia commended him, before he was so universally known, as “a quiet observer.” In all these sketches his characteristic power shows itself. The two last were written after the great fame and success of “Vanity Fair;” but they are only studies for his large pictures—and it may be noted as proof of his genuine genius, that the completed figures are infinitely superior to the designs, and it is in completing the picture from the speech, so that it shall gain in meaning as well as in elaboration and size, that the true artist is shown. Mr. Thackeray offered the MS. of “Vanity Fair” to a magazine. The editor declined it. The author published it, and made his name immortal. It was followed by “Pendennis,” a mellower, riper fruit, to our fancy; but we have no thought of entering upon a criticism of the author. His latest public literary work is the course of lectures upon the wits of Queen Anne’s times, which has been read before literary and fashionable London, and received with the greatest applause. Copious abstracts were published in the leading journals, and there is little doubt that they are quite worthy their author. Mr. Thackeray is now understood to be engaged in completing a novel of which the scene is laid among the persons and the times treated in his lectures.

Of Mr. Thackeray’s intention to visit the United States, we hear nothing said. We think that there could be little doubt of the success of his lectures here.

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Tight Lacing.—In “Dickens’ Household Words,” we find a notice of the first Evening School for Women opened at Birmingham for the instruction of young women who labor in the factories during the day. The experiment has been rewarded with complete success. It is solely under the charge of ladies, who, with the most praiseworthy assiduity, devote their evenings to the moral and intellectual culture of these poor sisters of toil, adding the force of example—even in matters of dress—to the wisdom of precept. The following passage is worthy of the attention of our fair readers.

“As to the matter of dress. There can be nothing but good in telling the plain fact, that the most earnest and devoted of the ladies have found it their duty to wear no stays, in order to add the force of example to their efforts to save the young women who are killing themselves with tight-lacing alone. One poor scholar died almost suddenly from tight lacing alone. Another was, presently after, so ill, from the same abuse, that she could do nothing. A third could not stoop to her desk, and had to sit at a higher one, which suited the requirements of her self-imposed pillory. In overlooking those who were writing, we were struck by the short breathing of several of them. We asked what their employments were, supposing them to be of some pernicious nature. It was not so: all were cases of evident tight-lacing. The ugly walling-up of the figure is a painful contrast to the supple grace of some of the teachers. The girls see this grace, but will not believe, till convinced by the feel, that there are no stays to account for it.

“‘And what have you got on?’ said one of the ladies, feeling in like manner. ‘Why, you are perfectly walled up. How can you bear it?’

“‘Why,’ answered the girl, ‘_I have got only six-and-twenty whalebones_.’

“The lady obtained some anatomical plates, and formed a class of the older women, apart from the rest, to whom she displayed the consequences, in full, of this fatal practice. At the moment, they appear to disbelieve the facts; but a little time shows that they have taken the alarm—to what extent, the dress of their daughters, as they grow up, will probably indicate.

“The number on the books of this school is about one hundred; the average attendance is about fifty. The eagerness to attend is remarkable; and the dread of losing their place through non-attendance is testified in the strongest ways. Many are detained late at their work on Friday evenings; but they come, if only for a quarter of an hour; or if prevented, perhaps send a supplicating note that their place may not be filled up.”

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American Literature in England.—America is rising in literary greatness with startling vigor. The spirit of progressive enlightenment is there ever present, and the motto blazoned in the intellectual escutcheon of the nation is, “Excelsior!” We were aware that a republic with a cheap and unfettered press, and a system of public schools that brings the means of an education within the limits of the humblest class of society, must naturally have a co-existent amount of national intelligence, which other nations with less advantages could not possess. We have long been admirers of the genius of Cooper, Irving, and Bryant; but it is only recently that we have been made acquainted with the weird and subtle efforts of Edgar A. Poe, the remarkable power of Hawthorne, the playful fancy of Holmes and Saxe, the beautiful melodies of Morris, and the ingenious heart-picturings of Grace Greenwood, the sisters Carey, Mrs. Kirkland, and Clara Moreton. The works of these writers have contributed to increase our already formed admiration of the remarkable freshness and vigor of intellect that is daily developing itself in the United States; and it is with a joyous friendliness that we recognize the growing claims of the young country to a place among the literary nations of this era.—_London Daily News._

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=GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.=

=Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and
Exchanges.=

Among the agreeable letters we have received from many of our subscribers, upon the superior character of our June number, we make room for the following. The remark of our correspondent upon the value of newspaper notices we do not agree with, at least not in their valuelessness, except in cases where they are “paid for” or _solicited_. A frank expression of sentiment in regard to “Graham,” we invite, and try sometimes to provoke a little captiousness—but the 1340 editors with whom we exchange, will be honest in spite of us, and pronounce “Graham” a great Magazine; and as these opinions coincide with that of our correspondent, we must submit.

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_Cincinnati, May 23, 1852._

George R. Graham, Esq. }
Philadelphia: }

The reception of your Magazine for June, with “new type and paper,” and, I may add, new attractions in the shape of an increase of “solid matter,” reminds me of a promise made myself long ago—to write you a letter expressive of earnest sympathy in your efforts, and hopes of your ultimate success, in the publication of a journal worthy of our country and yourself.

From month to month, since you resumed the management of “Graham,” I have noticed a gradual yet sterling improvement in its pages, until the June number relieves me from all anxiety as to its future course and _success_. I congratulate you, my dear sir.

Now that “Opinions of the Press” are so profuse and so _worthless_, (especially to the book-buyer,) I have thought a word of unsought, _unpaid for_ praise, might not be received unkindly from

A Subscriber.

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A Fine Lithograph.—We have received from Messrs. Fetridge & Co., of Boston, one of the finest specimens of the lithographic art that ever commanded our attention. It is decidedly a credit to the artists and to Boston. The subject of the picture is a representation of Miss E. Kimberly, the celebrated Shaksperian reader and actress, in the character of Isabella in “The Fatal Marriage.” It is from a Daguerreotype by Southworth and Harvey, of Boston. Our readers will recollect that this gifted young lady made her _debut_ as a Shaksperian reader in this city (Philadelphia) some two and a half years ago. Since that time she has appeared in various cities, before large and intelligent audiences, with entire success. Her reputation is fully established on a remarkably intellectual and correct delineator of the leading characters in the higher drama. She has now fully adopted the stage as her profession; for, with the approbation of such a veteran in histrionic matters as Thomas Barry, Esq., of the Broadway theatre, New York, (who was her instructor,) there can be no question of her fitness for the avocation. Her friends are sanguine that she will reach the highest round in the ladder of histrionic fame. The likeness of her, now before us, portrays the intensity of sorrow more vividly than the portrait of any female actress, in character, we ever beheld.

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