Chapter V

The streets of Florence presented a wild and tumultuous scene in the pale gray of the morning. The bells from the cathedral church of Santa Maria del Fiore, and from the venerable towers of the church of the Apostoli, tolled incessantly, while from the market-place and town-house, as well as from the multitude of smaller chapels, the din was fearfully augmented. The shrill cry “to arms!” resounded every where. From the tall towers of the noble, from the windows of the citizen’s house—aye, from hut and hovel, waved the flag of the ancient republic. The rabble, armed with such imperfect weapons as haste and rage could supply, wandered in confused masses through every lane and thoroughfare, in pursuit of the instruments of the duke’s cruelty. Armed bands of horsemen patrolled the city. The burghers of the town, inured to military discipline, and trained to break opposing squadrons with the spear, were ranged, each man under the respective banner of his ward. Barriers were thrown up at the end of every street to break the charge of the duke’s cavalry. Adimari and the Medici rode at the head of their mailed retainers, displaying their armorial bearings, through every ward, cheering and animating the citizens. The ducal soldiery, scattered through the city, and unprepared for such an emergency, were endeavoring to regain the palace, but many were seized and stripped of their armour, by the vigilance of Pino D’Rossi and his associates. In front of the palace was collected a blood-thirsty mob, in overwhelming numbers, pouring from lane and alley, among which cross bows and mangonels of the soldiery from the windows, scarce seemed to take effect, so fast were those who fell replaced by throngs of the living. The cry of “death! death!” was yelled out on every hand. Women thronged the windows of the grand square, repeating the cry, and throwing weapons to the crowd below. Many of the lesser minions of the duke were seized; some in female apparel, endeavoring to escape, were rent in pieces by the vindictive Florentines, with circumstances of horrible ferocity. In the height of the uproar, a knight, mounted upon a barbed steed, and covered with a gold and ivory pointed shield, his page being seated behind him, was seen dashing along at full speed toward the city gates.

“Ho!” cried Bindo Altoviti, “what guard keep ye here, archers? Draw to the head, and send me yon Frenchman back to his own country, feathered for his flight with a goose-wing of Florence!”

A shower of arrows were directed against the fugitives, two of which took effect, and the knight, with his page, fell to the ground. The people pursued and caught the flying steed, crying, “thanks to the good duke for the gift! Oh! the Florentine people for ever!”

Adimari and Medici, with their train, rode up at the instant.

“What cavalier is yon?” asked Adimari. “Some one examine him, that we may know if he deserve honorable burial. God forbid we should deny that, even to a foe.”

Pompeo Medici rode up, attended by an esquire, to the bodies, and dismounting, unlaced the helmet of the fallen cavalier, across whom the body of the page was extended, as if to protect the form of his master. The dying man turned his countenance to Medici, and with a shudder, fell back dead in an unavailing effort to speak.

“Ha! St. John! whom have we here?” cried Pompeo. “Noble Adimari, view these corpses. My thoughts were not in error. And the page too—”

“By the cross of St. Peter!” said Adimari, “it is no other than the Count Ugolino, and the page is—?”

“Rosabelle De Brienne.”

A deep cloud of sorrow shaded the countenance of Adimari.

“By San Giovanni!” said he, “I sorely mistrusted this. This is that love, stronger than death. Noble Ugolino, an ill-fate hath attended thee! This then hast been the cause of thy desertion, but, by my faith, I cannot blame thee, for thy lady hast the fairest face I ever looked upon.”

“Peace be with their souls!” said Medici. “Death ends all feuds. Cover their faces, and see that they be laid, side by side, in the chapel of the Virgin, with such ceremonies as their high stations demand. Myself shall be, if I live, chief mourner at this burial. Donato, be it thy care to have their bodies conveyed to the Convent of Mercy.”

The siege of the palace continued from day to day. Famine began to gnaw the vitals of the French soldiery, and fixed her tooth, sharper than the sword, beneath each iron cuirass. Rage without and hunger within, popular clamor and mutinous murmurings, accumulated the distress of the duke. In this emergency, he sent the Comte D’Hunteville, his almost only virtuous follower, to intercede with the Florentines, and to make honorable terms of capitulation. Adimari would hearken to no proposals, unless Giulio and Ippolito D’Assisi, and Cerettieri Visdomini, the chief agents of oppression, were delivered into the hands of the people. Gualtieri, impelled by a sense of honor, refused to accede to this demand. Thrice did the chief of the _balia_, the bishop, and the Siennese envoys, urge to the duke the impossibility of maintaining the palace, and the necessity of complying with the popular will. They met with reiterated denial. The soldiers then sent a corporal to entreat the duke to submission. Their suit was dismissed with scorn. Then did the soldiers crowd, with frowning faces and clashing arms, the chamber of the duke, with the memorable words, “lord duke, choose between these three heads and your own.” Urged by imperious necessity, worn out with famine, and watching, and clamor, Gualtieri, at last, gave a tacit acquiescence to the delivery of his favorites, and the pangs which his proud spirit felt at this ignominious humiliation were far more bitter than any of the tortures which he had inflicted upon the objects of his tyranny. Shall I record the doom of the victims? Is it not written in the chronicles of the Florentine republic? They were torn in pieces by the howling multitude, and their flesh actually devoured, even while their palpitating limbs were quivering in the agonies of death!

Quiet was once more restored to the city by the expulsion of the duke and his followers. The chapel of the Convent of Mercy, hung with black, and faintly lighted by dim and funeral tapers, was prepared for the last death rites of Ugolino and of his lady. Around the bier, where reposed the coffined forms of the dead, were gathered the noblest of Florence, and crowds of the common sort thronged the sacred edifice. The last notes of the pealing requiem died away. The solemn priest sprinkled the holy water, and the last prayer for the dead passed from his lips. The rites were ended, and amid the tears of that noble assemblage the marble jaws of the tomb closed for ever upon the bodies of those, in whom love had indeed been stronger than death.

Still does their sad tale exist among the legends of Florence, and the youths and maidens of that ancient town yet consecrate a tear to the inscription which records the loves and fate of Count Ugolino and of Rosabelle De Brienne. Yet indeed “death can only take away the sorrowful from our affections: the flower expands: the colorless film that enveloped it falls off and perishes.”

Mount Savage, Md. May, 1841.

* * * * *

THE THUNDER STORM.

BY J. H. DANA.

You never knew Agnes? She was the prettiest girl in the village, or, for that matter, within a circuit of twenty miles. At the time I write of, she was just budding into womanhood, and if ever there was a lovely being, she was one at eighteen. Her eyes were blue, not of that light blue which is so unmeaning, but of the deep azure tint of a midnight sky, when a thousand stars are shining on its bosom, and you feel a mysterious spell cast upon you as you gaze on high. Just so I felt whenever Agnes would look into my eyes with those deep blue orbs of hers, whose every glance thrilled me to the soul. And then her hair. It was the poet’s color—a rich, sun-shiny gold. How I loved to gaze upon its massy tresses, as they flowed down a neck unrivalled for shape and whiteness. In figure she was like a sylph. Her voice excelled in sweetness any I had ever heard. It was low, and soft, and musical as the whisper of an angel.

Agnes and I had grown up together. We were not relatives, but we were both wards of Mr. Stanley, and had been playmates in childhood. Many a time had we spent whole days in wandering across our guardian’s grounds, now threading the old wood, now loitering by the little stream, and now plucking buttercups to hold under each other’s chins. Ah! those were pleasant hours. And as we grew up, and were separated,—she remaining at home with her governess, and I going to an eastern college,—I would sit for hours dreaming of Agnes, and wondering if she ever thought of me. I know not how it was; but for years I looked upon her as I looked on no other of her sex, and at the age when youth is most susceptible to novelty, I remained true to Agnes, as to the star of my destiny.

I returned, after a long absence of six years, to the residence of my guardian. In all that time I had not seen Agnes. How I longed to ascertain whether she had changed since we parted, and during the whole of the last stage of my journey, I lay back in the carriage, wondering in what manner she would meet. And when the vehicle stopped at the door of Mr. Stanley’s mansion, and all the remembered scenes of my childhood crowded around me, I turned from them impatiently, and, with a throbbing heart, looked among the group awaiting me, to see if I could distinguish Agnes. That gray-haired, gentlemanly man I knew to be my second father; but was the surpassingly beautiful girl at his side my old playmate? My heart beat quick; a sudden tremor seized me; my head was for a moment dizzy, as I advanced hastily up the steps, and was clasped, the next instant, in Mr. Stanley’s arms.

“My dear—dear boy, God bless you!” said the kind-hearted old gentleman. “We see you once more amongst us. But have you forgotten your old play-fellow?” he continued, turning to the fair creature at his side. “Six years make a great alteration I know. Agnes don’t you remember Henry?”

As I turned and fixed my eyes full upon her, I caught Agnes examining me with eager curiosity. Detected in her scrutiny she blushed to the very forehead, and dropped her eyes suddenly to the ground. I was equally abashed. I had approached her intending to address her with my old familiarity, but this aversion of her look somehow unaccountably disheartened me. I hesitated whether I should offer her my hand. The embarrassment was becoming oppressive, when, with a desperate effort, I extended my hand, and said—

“Miss Agnes—” but for the life of me I could not proceed. It was, however, sufficient to induce her to look up, and our eyes met. At the same instant she took my proffered hand. What happened afterward I could never remember, only I recollect the blood rushed in torrents to my cheeks, and I fancied that the tiny white hand I held in my own, trembled a little, a very little, but still trembled. When I woke from the delirium of indescribable emotions that ensued, I found myself sitting with my guardian and Agnes in the parlor, but whether I walked there on my head or my feet I cannot to this day remember.

The month which followed was among the happiest of my life, for it was spent at the side of Agnes. We walked, rode, chatted, and sang together; not a morning or an evening found us apart; and insensibly her presence became to me almost as necessary as the air I breathed. Yet—I know not how it was—Agnes was a mystery to me. At first, indeed, we were almost on the same footing as if we had been brother and sister, but after I had been at my guardian’s about a month, she began to grow reserved, although at times she would display all her old frankness, united with even more than her usual gaiety. Often too, when I looked up at her suddenly, I would find her gazing into my face, and when thus detected, she would blush and cast her eyes down, and seem so embarrassed that I scarcely knew what to think, unless it was that Agnes—but no!—how could she be in love with one almost a stranger?

For myself, I would have given the world, if I could only have penetrated the secrets of her heart, and learned there whether the affection toward her, which I had felt had stolen almost insensibly across me, had been returned. Yes! I would have given an emperor’s ransom to discover what my timidity would not allow me to enquire. It is an old story, and has been told by hundreds before—this tale of a young lover—but I cannot refrain from rehearsing it again. I was sadly perplexed. Not a day passed but what I rose to the height of hope, or fell to the depth of despair. A smile from Agnes was the sunlight of my existence, and her reserve plunged me in unfathomable darkness. I could not penetrate the fickleness of her manner, especially when any of her young female friends were visiting her. If I spoke to them with any show of interest, she would either be unnaturally gay or singularly silent, and when I came to address her, I would be received with chilling coldness. Yet, at other times, my despair would be relieved by a return of her old frankness, and a hundred times have I been on the point of telling her the whole story of my love, but either my fears, or her returning reserve, prevented my purpose from being executed.

One day, after I had been at my guardian’s for nearly three months, Agnes and I set out together for a walk through the forest. It was a beautiful morning, and the birds were carolling gaily from every bough, while the balmy wind sighed sweetly among the fresh forest leaves, making together a harmony such as nothing but nature herself, on a morning so lovely, can produce. Our hearts were in unison with the scenery around, and Agnes was in one of her old frank moods. We wandered on accordingly, over stream and through glade and down dell, admiring the glorious scenery on every hand, and now and then stopping to gather a wild flower, to listen to the birds, or to rest upon some mossy bank, until the day had far advanced, and recurring, for the first time to my watch, I found that we had been several hours on our stroll, and that it was already high noon. We were not so far, however, from home but what we might reach it in an hour.

“Had we not better return, Agnes?” said I, “it is growing late.”

“Oh! yes,” she replied, “in a moment. Wait till I have finished this wreath,” and she continued weaving together the wild flowers she had gathered for a chaplet for her hair. How nimbly her taper fingers moved, and how lovely she looked, as seated on the grassy knoll, with her hat cast off beside her, and her beautiful face flushed with health and pleasure, she pursued her task.

She was still busy in her fanciful labor, when a cloud suddenly obscured the sun, and we both looked up in some surprise, for the morning had been unusually fair, and not a vapor hitherto had dimmed the sky. A light fleecy film like a fine gauze veil, was floating across the sun’s disc.

“There is a storm brewing in the hills,” said I.

“Let us return at once,” said Agnes, “for my chaplet is finished at last, and it would be so dreadful to be caught in a shower.”

We did not linger a moment, for we both knew that it was not unusual for a thunder shower to come up, in that mountainous region, with a rapidity almost inconceivable to those who have never lived in so elevated a position. Hastily seizing her hat, and throwing her chaplet over her bright brow, she set forth smiling as gaily as ever, to return by the shortest path to our home.

For nearly a half an hour we pursued our way through the forest, but at every step we perceived that the storm was coming up more rapidly, until at length the smiles of Agnes ceased, and we pursued our now hurried way in silence, save when an exclamation from my fair companion betokened some new and angrier aspect of the sky.

“Oh! Harry,” she said, at length, “we shall get drenched through—see, the tempest is at hand, and we have yet more than a mile to go.”

I looked up. The storm was indeed at our doors. Yet it was as magnificent a spectacle as I had ever beheld. The heavens were as black as pitch, save now and then when for a moment they were obscured by a lurid canopy of dust, swept upward from the highway, giving earth and sky the appearance as of the day of doom. Now the wind wailed out in the forest, and now whirled wildly past us. The trees groaned and bent in the gale, their branches streaming out like banners on the air. Anon, all was still. How deep and awful and seemingly endless was that boding repose. Agnes shrank closer to my side, her face paler than ashes, and her slight form trembling with ill-concealed agitation. Not a house was in sight. I saw that our only shelter was the forest, and I retreated, therefore, beneath a huge overshadowing oak, whose gnarled and aged branches might have defied a thousand years. As I did so a few rain drops pattered heavily to the earth—then came another silence—and then with a rushing-sound through the forest, as if an army was at hand, the tempest was upon us.

Never had I beheld such a storm. It seemed as if earth and heaven had met in battle, and that each was striving amid the ruins of a world for the mastery. The first rush of the descending rain was like a deluge, bending the mightiest trees like reeds beneath it, and filling the hollows of the forest road with a flood of water. Suddenly a vivid flash of lightning shot across the heaven, and then at a short interval followed a clap of thunder. Agnes clung closely to my arm, her face wild with affright. With a few hurried words I strove to sooth her, pressing her still closer, and with strange delight, to my bosom. As I did so she burst into tears. Her conduct—I cannot explain why—filled me with a joy I had long despaired of, and in the impulse of the moment, I said,

“Dear Agnes! fear not. I am beside you, and will die with you.”

She looked up, all tearful as she was, into my eyes, and strove to speak, but her emotion was too great, and, with a glance I shall never forget, buried her face against my shoulder. I pressed her closer to my heart. I felt a wild ecstacy tingling through every vein, such as I had never experienced. I could not resist my feelings longer.

“Agnes! dear, dear Agnes,” I said, bending over her, “_I love you._ Oh! will you be mine if we escape?”

She made me no answer, but sobbed aloud. I pressed her hand. The pressure was gently returned. I wanted nothing more to assure me of her affection. I was in a dream of wildering delight at the conviction.

For a moment I had forgotten the tempest in my ecstacy. But suddenly I was aroused from my rapture by a succession of loud and reiterated peals, bursting nearer and nearer overhead, and I looked up now in real alarm, wishing that we had kept the forest road, exposed as we would have been to the rain, rather than subject ourselves to the dangers of our present position. I determined even yet to fly from our peril, and taking Agnes by the waist, urged her trembling steps onward. We had but escaped from beneath the oak when a blinding flash of lightning zig-zagged from one horizon to the other, and instantaneously a peal of thunder, which rings in my ears even yet, burst right over us, and went crackling and echoing down the sky, as if a thousand chariots were driving furiously over its adamantine pavement. But this I scarcely noticed at the time, though it filled my memory afterward, for the flash of lightning seeming to dart from every quarter of the heaven, and unite right over us, shot directly downward, and in the next instant the oak under which we had been standing, riven in twain, stood a scarred and blackened wreck, against the frowning sky. I felt my senses reeling: I thought all was over.

When I recovered my senses I found myself standing, with Agnes in my arms, while the thunder was still rolling down the firmament. My first thought was of the dear girl beside me, for I thought her form was unusually heavy. She was apparently perfectly lifeless. Oh! the agony of that moment! Could she have been struck by the lightning? Wild with fear I exclaimed,

“Agnes! look up—dear one, you are not hurt?”

At length she moved. She had only fainted, and the rain revived her, so that in a few minutes I had the inexpressible delight of feeling her clasp my hand in return for my ardent emotion. But it was long before she was able to return home, and when we did so we arrived thoroughly drenched through. But every thing was forgotten in gratitude for our escape, and joy at knowing that we were beloved.

And Agnes is now my wife, and I hear her footstep, still to me like music, approaching. I must close my sketch or the dear one will burn it, for she has no notion, she says, of figuring in a magazine.

April, 1841.

* * * * *

THE JOYS OF FORMER YEARS HAVE FLED.

BY G. A. RAYBOLD.

The joys of former years have fled,
Like meteors through the midnight skies;
The brief but brilliant light they shed,
Serves but to blind our anxious eyes:
So flee the joy of early days,
And perish like the meteor’s blaze.

The joys of former years decay
Like summer flow’rs we linger o’er,
While, one by one, they fade away,
And fall to earth to bloom no more;
Touch’d by the chilling hand of Time,
Thus fail the joys of manhood’s prime.

The joys of former years are like
The last sweet notes of music, when
Upon your ear they faintly strike,
You know they’ll ne’er be heard again
The breaking harp, last sweetest strain,
Ne’er woke by hand or harp again.

The joys of former years when past,
Seem like a poet’s dream of bliss;
Too brightly beautiful to last
In such a changing world as this:
Where stern reality destroys
Life’s poetry, and all its joys.

The joys of former years expire,
As each loved one is from us torn;
The dying flame of life’s last fire,
Then lights us to their grave to mourn;
Where joy entomb’d for ever, lies,
Hope still may from that grave arise.

Swedesboro’, N. J. 1841.

* * * * *

POETRY:

THE UNCERTAINTY OF ITS APPRECIATION.

BY JOSEPH EVANS SNODGRASS.

There is nothing more uncertain than the nature of the reception a Poet’s productions, and particularly his shortest pieces, are destined to meet. Especially is this true with respect to the more egotistical sort of versifications—such as sonnets, and the like—in which one’s own feelings find vent in verses penned, perhaps, for an album, or intended for the perusal of the immediate circle in which the writer moves. Now, the appreciation of sentiments thus embodied, when they come to be _volume-ized_, depends entirely upon the mood of mind in which they find the reader. Such is, indeed, the case with _personal_ thoughts, even when they appear amid the popular literature of the day—but is more strikingly so under the circumstances named. If a sonnet, for example, which has been addressed to some real or fancied idol of the heart, falls into the hands of one who is under the influence of the tender passion, it is sure to be fully appreciated, and pronounced “beautiful.” To such an one, nothing is too sentimental.[5] Anything which tells of the “trials of the heart”—of “true love”—of a “broken heart”—is doubly welcome. If it have a sprinkle of star-and-moon-sentiment about it, all the better. But place a piece of poetry headed, “Sonnet to the Moon,” or “To Mary,” before a heartless old bachelor, or an unsentimental matron, and the exclamation would be—“what nonsense—what stuff!”

But it is not only in the case of the love-struck, and the _sans-love_ portions of the community, that the uncertainty named is made manifest, by any means. The most thoughtful and dignified productions may be the recipients of censure, for want of a _kindredness_ of sentimentality—or absence of it—on the part of the reader. The mind may be totally unfitted for the thoughts before it, by very conformation,—or what is the same thing in effect—from habit. And, then again, the mind of the most sentimental order by nature, may be placed under unfavorable circumstances to appreciate the thoughts of the poet. So much so, that the most beautiful creations of the most fanciful author, may be as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, though clothed in most harmonious numbers. How, for instance, may we expect the merchant or mechanic, wearied with the toils of the day, to peruse a poem, however short, with the same pleasure and favorable reception as the man of leisure? The thing is among the impossibles. But even the man of taste and leisure, may fail (nay, often does,) to enter into the feelings of the writer—and without _feeling_ the appreciation and penning of poetry, are, alike, out of the question—unless we except some of the poetry of Pope and others, which has left the ordinary track. It is so exceedingly difficult to catch the nice shades of meaning which it is intended to express, unless assisted by the heart. Poetical _allusions_ especially, are always liable to be mistaken, if not scanned with a poetic eye.

But it is the change of circumstances which often, more than aught else, prevents the comprehension and appreciation of a poet’s thoughts—his descriptive thoughts particularly. As much as descriptive poetry resembles painting, it comes far short of the power which the latter art exerts in representing scenes _as a whole_. Take a pastoral poem, by way of making my meaning understood. A poet would describe the parts and personages separately—such as the wood,—the stream,—the flocks, and the pastoral lovers—but the painter can present them all at once, as a single idea, so to speak. How difficult, then, must it be for an author so to describe scenes, the like of which the reader may never have beheld, as to be fully appreciated by all. If he is sketching,—as did Thompson,—the customs and scenes of rural life, he will be understood fully by those alone who have enjoyed such scenes and practised such customs. Those who, in this case, had viewed the _original_, would be able best to decide upon the merits of the picture. A poet might rhyme forever about scenes which he had never looked upon, but he would utterly fail to satisfy one familiar with the same, that his portraitures were correct. So a reader, who had never viewed a river, or a waterfall, or a gloomy ravine amid rock-ribbed mountains, would scarcely be able fully to appreciate a description of the same. He might, indeed form an idea of the reality—but it would be only _ideal_ after all. I have often thought of Byron’s exclamation in connection with the above train of reflections:

“Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain’s air,
Which bloated ease can never hope to share.”

He was probably among the hills of Portugal at the time, and, doubtless, felt what he wrote. I never realized the force of the thought as I did one summer morning, while seated in a piazza, a half mile or so from the North Mountain, in my native Virginia, with a beautiful, green and flowery meadow intervening. Just as I came to the stanza of “Childe Harold,” from which I have quoted, a delightful mountain-breeze swept over the plain. As it tossed my locks to and fro, and gamboled with the leaves of the volume before me, I _felt_ indeed, that there was “sweetness in the mountain air.” Nothing could set forth that uncertainty of appreciation I have been dwelling upon, more clearly than such an incident. It is probable that the greatest city admirer of his lordship’s poetry, never noticed the full force of the idea which thus arrested my attention, but passed it unappreciated, in admiration of some sentiment, in the very same stanza, whose full import he could comprehend, while he entered into the feelings of the poetic traveller.

But the greatest difficulty with the “occasional” as well as shorter pieces of a volume of poems, is the difference between the circumstances under which they were severally penned, and those under which they are perused. One reads, in the self-same hour, the diversified productions of years. How, then, can a writer anticipate the appreciation of his sentiments? He has ceased to enter into his _own_ peculiar, circumstance-generated emotions. How, therefore, may others take his views? To suppose an ability on the part of the critic, to do justice, then, to the earlier and less-studied _morceaux_, (or, as I have styled them above, the egotistical pieces of an author,) would be to suppose an utter impossibility—a sort of critical _ubiquity_. Coleridge felt the truth of what I have advanced,—as any one may learn from the preface of his “Juvenile Poems.” He therein expresses his apprehensions in the following language:—“I shall only add, that each of my readers will, I hope, remember that these poems, on various subjects, which he reads at one time, and under the influence of one set of feelings, were written at different times, and prompted by very different feelings; and, therefore, the inferiority of one poem to another, may, sometimes, be owing to the temper of mind in which he happens to peruse it.”

What shall we say, then? Shall an author abstain from publishing his shorter and occasional pieces, on account of the facts alluded to by Coleridge? By no means, I would say, though a consideration thereof may well deter the judicious writer from admitting into his volume every thing he may have penned. As to the dimensions of pieces, it may be more advisable, in some cases, to republish the shortest sonnets, and the like, relating to one’s own personal feelings and relations, than longer productions—at least they are likely to be more pleasing to the general reader. They are unquestionably useful, as throwing light upon points of a man’s private history with a force of illumination which no biographer could use, were he to attempt it—a something, by-the-bye, which seldom happens; indicating the probability, that we seldom read _the_ man’s real biography, but merely _a_ man’s—often an ideal man only.

As to the effect of fugitive and earlier poems, when republished, upon an author’s reputation—let them be appreciated or not, it matters little. His fame does not hang upon such “slender threads.” It is to his more elaborate productions that the public will look for evidences of genius. It is a fact that a poet’s reputation, generally speaking, depends upon the appreciation of some particular production. It is true, readers may differ in their assignment of merit—but the fact of non-agreement, as to the question of comparative merit, does not alter the principle. If each one comes to the conclusion that the poet has penned _one_ poem of prime excellence, his name is safe—the residue are set down not as evidences of a want of genius, but of the neglect of a right and careful use of it. The conclusion is, in other words, that he could have written the others better, if he had made proper use of the talents with which he was endowed. Were an example needed, I might refer to Milton. When we think of him we never associate with his name any of his productions but “Paradise Lost.” He might have published in the same volume thousands of fugitive pieces, no better than those he did suffer to see the light, (and they are with few exceptions, poor enough, as the emanations of such a mind,) and yet his fame not suffer in the smallest degree—the names of Milton, and of that great poem, would still have descended as one and inseparable.

-----

[5] Omnia vincit amor.—_Virg. Bucol._

* * * * *

JUNE.

When the low south wind
Breathes over the trees
With a murmur soft
As the sound of the seas;
And the calm cold moon
From her mystic height,
Like a sybil looks
On the voiceless night—
’Tis June, bright June!

When the brooks have voice
Like a seraph fair,
And the songs of birds
Fill the balmy air,
When the wild flowers bloom
In the wood and dell
And we feel as if lapt
In a magic spell—
’Tis June, bright June!
A. A. I.

* * * * *

LET ME REST IN THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.

WRITTEN BY
CHARLES JEFFERYS,
COMPOSED BY
J. HARROWAY.

Philadelphia, John F. Nunns, 184 Chesnut Street.

Farewell to the home of my Childhood,
Farewell to my cottage and vine;
I go to the land of the Stranger,
Where pleasures alone will be mine.
When Life’s fleeting journey is over,
And Earth again mingles with

Earth,

I can rest in the land of the Stranger
As well as in that of my birth.
Yes, these were my feelings at parting,
But absence soon alter’d their tone;
The cold hand of Sickness came o’er me,
And I wept o’er my Sorrows alone.

No friend came around me to cheer me,
No parent to soften my grief;
Nor brother nor sister were near me,
And strangers could give no relief.
’Tis true that it matters but little,
Tho’ living the thought makes one pine,

Whatever befalls the poor relic,
When the spirit has flown from its shrine.
But oh! when life’s journey is over,
And earth again mingles with earth,
Lamented or not, still my wish is,
To rest in the land of my birth.

* * * * *

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

HUNTING DOGS.

We said, in our last, that no sport could be attained without _good_ dogs. The first dog, and the very best for the sportsman, is _the Pointer_. All our pointers are, in some degree, of Spanish extraction; and such of them as have the most Spanish blood in their veins are unquestionably the best. The Spanish pointer is about twenty-one inches in height. He has a large head, is heavily made, broad-chested, stout-limbed, with a large dew-lap; his eyes are full, and widely apart, and his nose is broad; his tail is straight, short, and thick, and his ears large, pendulous, and fine; he should have a round-balled and not a flat foot.

“The most essential point about the dog,” says General Hanger, “is a good foot; for, without a good, firm foot, he can never hunt long. I never look at a dog which has a thin, flat, wide, and spread foot. As long as the ground is dry and hard, I always wash my dog’s feet with warm soap and water, and clean them well, particularly between the toes and balls of the feet; this comforts his feet, allays the heat, and promotes the circulation in the feet. In the more advanced period of the season, when the ground is very wet, then salt and water may be proper.”

Scarcely two pointers are to be seen so much alike, that a naturalist would pronounce them to belong to the same class of dogs, inasmuch as they are dissimilar in size, weight, and appearance. We recognise only two pointers—the Spaniard and the mongrel. Nearly all the pointers we see are, in fact, mongrels, although each may have more or less of the original Spanish blood. Such, however, is the force of nature, that a dog, having in him very little of the blood of the pointer, may prove a very serviceable dog to the shooter. We frequently meet with very good dogs—dogs deemed by their owners first-rate—which bear little resemblance, in point of shape and appearance, to the true pointer; some of these have the sharp nose of the fox, others the snubbed nose of the bull-dog; in short, there is every diversity in size and appearance from the greyhound to the pug. The excellence of such dogs must be attributed to judicious treatment, severe discipline, or having been constantly out with a good shot, or in company with highly-trained dogs. It is, however, a mistake to suppose that they are of a proper strain to breed from. Their offspring will be deformed, and will probably manifest some of the worst and more hidden qualities of the parents.

The attempt to lay down a written rule whereby to distinguish between a good and an indifferent pointer, would be futile. How much of the blood of the pointer a dog has in him, will be read in his countenance, rather than inferred from his general shape and appearance. There is an indescribable something in the countenance of a thorough-bred pointer, which a little habit of observation will enable the sportsman to detect with tolerable accuracy, so that he may judge of the capabilities of a dog, as a physiognomist will read at a glance a person’s disposition and ability in his countenance.

The instinct of pointing, we apprehend, is an indestructible principle in the blood of the pointer, which, however that blood may be mingled with inferior blood, will always, in some degree, manifest itself; and on this ground we build our theory, that the farther any dog is removed from the original Spanish pointer, the worse the dog is; and, consequently, that all attempts to cross the pointer with any other blood must necessarily deteriorate the breed. The greyhound is seldom or never crossed to give him additional fleetness, nor the hound to improve his nose; why then should the pointer be crossed with dogs which, in so far as the sports of the field are concerned, scarcely inherit one quality in common with him? Attempts, however, are constantly made to improve the pointer, by a cross with the blood-hound, fox-hound, Newfoundland dog, or mastiff, sometimes with a view of improving his appearance, and bringing him to some fancied standard of perfection; but, in reality, inducing a deformity. One of these imaginary standards of perfection is, that to one part thorough Spanish blood, the pointer should have in him an eighth of the fox-hound, and a sixteenth of the blood-hound. A cross will sometimes produce dogs which are, in some eyes, the _beau idéal_ of beauty; but however handsome such dogs may be, they will necessarily possess some quality not belonging to the pointer. A thorough-bred pointer carries his head well up when ranging; he will not give tongue, nor has he much desire to chase footed game. The hound pointer may be sometimes detected by his coarse ears, by his tail being curled upwards, and being carried high, or by his rough coat. An occasional cross with the mastiff or Newfoundland dog, is said to increase the fineness of nose, but it is converting the pointer into a mere retriever. Another, and the main source of the unsightliness of sporting dogs, is the allowing an indiscriminate intercourse between pointers and setters. Good dogs may be thus obtained sometimes, but they are invariably mis-shapen; they have generally the head and brush tail of the setter, with the body of the pointer, and their coats are not sleek, and instead of standing at their point, they will crouch. When the sire is nearly thorough-bred, dogs of a superior description, but certainly not the best, are sometimes produced by the Newfoundland or some other not strictly a pointer. We are not willing to allow that the pointer is improved in any quality that renders him valuable to the sportsman, by a cross with the hound or any other sort of dog; though we cannot deny that the setter is materially improved in appearance by a cross with the Newfoundland, but what it gains in appearance it loses in other respects.

Breeding mongrels, especially crossing with hounds, has given the gamekeepers and dog-breakers an infinity of trouble, which might have been avoided by keeping the blood pure. The Spanish pointer seldom requires the whip; the hound pointer has never enough of it. One of the main sources of the sportsman’s pleasure is to see the dogs point well.

Dogs should be constantly shot over during the season by a successful shot, and exercised during the shooting recess by some person who understands well the management of them, otherwise they will fall off in value—the half-bred ones will become unmanageable, and even the thorough-bred ones will acquire disorderly habits.

We look upon the setter to be an inferior kind of pointer perhaps; originally a cross between the pointer and the spaniel, or some such dog as the Newfoundland, for it has some qualities in common with each. The pointer has the finer nose, and is more staunch than the setter; his action is much finer. Pointers are averse to water; setters delight in it. The setter will face briars and bushes better than the pointer, which is in this respect a tender dog; and for this reason the setter is preferred to the pointer for cover-shooting. Besides, his being not so staunch as the pointer is an additional advantage in heavy covers. The sportsman who shoots over well-broken pointers, frequently passes game in woods, while the pointers, which are not seen by him, are at their point; the setter, being more impatient to run in, affords the shooter many shots in cover, which the over-staunch pointer would not. The pointer is always to be preferred on open grounds. In hot weather the pointer will endure more fatigue than the setter.

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_The Spaniel, Cock Dog, or Springer._—Spaniels are the best dogs for beating covers, provided they can be kept near the gun. They are generally expected to give tongue when game is flushed: some Spaniels will give notice of game before it rises, which is very well where woodcocks only are expected to be found. Woodcock and pheasant shooting are often combined; when that is the case, a noisy cry is not desirable: pheasant shooting cannot be conducted too quietly, where covers are limited. Wherever the underwood is so thick that the shooter cannot keep his eye on the dogs, spaniels are to be preferred to pointers or setters, whatever species of game the shooter may be in pursuit of. When spaniels are brought to such a state of discipline as to be serviceable in an open country, they will require no further tutoring to fit them for the woods, unless it be that the eye of their master not being always on them, they begin to ramble. The efficiency of the training of spaniels for cover-shooting, depends, for the most part, on their keeping near the shooter; for if they riot, they are the worst dogs he can hunt.

There is much less trouble in making a spaniel steady than at first thought may be imagined. A puppy eight months old, introduced among three or four well-broken dogs, is easily taught his business. The breaker should use him to a cord of twenty yards length or so, before he goes into the field, and then take him out with the pack. Many a young dog is quiet and obedient from the first; another is shy, and stares and runs about as much at the rising of the birds as the report of the gun. Shortly he gets over this, and takes a part in the sport—he then begins to chase, but finding he is not followed after little birds or game, he returns; and should he not, and commence hunting out of shot, which is very likely, he must be called in, and flogged or rated, as his temper calls for. With care and patience, he will soon “pack up” with the others, especially if that term is used when the dogs are dividing; and if not, he may be checked by treading on the cord, and rated or beaten as his fault requires. Spaniels will, in general, stand more whipping than other dogs, but care must be taken not to be lavish or severe with it at first, or the dog becomes cowed, and instead of hunting will sneak along at heel.

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_The Retriever._—The business of the retriever is to find lost game. Newfoundland dogs are the best for the purpose. They should have a remarkably fine sense of smelling, or they will be of little use in tracing a wounded pheasant, or other game, through a thick cover, where many birds have been running about. A good retriever will follow the bird on whose track he is first put, as a blood-hound will that of a human being or deer. He should be taught to bring his game, or in many instances his finding a wounded bird would be of no advantage to the shooter.

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_Kennel Treatment._—The best regular food for sporting dogs is oatmeal well boiled, and flesh, which may be either boiled with the meal or given raw. In hot weather, dogs should not have either oatmeal or flesh in a raw state, as they are heating. Potatoes boiled are good summer food, and an excellent occasional variety in winter, but they should be cleaned before being boiled, and _well dried_ after, or they will produce disease. Roasted potatoes are equally good, if not better. The best food to bring dogs into condition, and to preserve their wind in hot weather, is sago boiled to a jelly, half a pound of which may be given to each dog daily, in addition to potatoes or other light food; a little flesh meat, or a few bones, being allowed every alternate day. Dogs should have whey or buttermilk two or three times a week during summer, when it can be procured, or in lieu thereof, should have a table-spoonful of flour of sulphur once a fortnight. To bring a dog into condition for the season, we would give him a very large table-spoonful of sulphur about a fortnight before the 12th of August, and two days after giving him that, a full table-spoonful of syrup of buckthorn should be administered, and afterwards twice repeated at intervals of three days, the dog being fed on the sago diet the while. There should always be fresh water within reach. Dogs should never be chained up.

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REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_“Critical and Miscellaneous Essays.” By T. Babington Macaulay.
Vol. 3d. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._

Macaulay has obtained a reputation which, although deservedly great, is yet in a remarkable measure undeserved. The few who regard him merely as a terse, forcible and logical writer, full of thought, and abounding in original views often sagacious and never otherwise than admirably expressed—appear to us precisely in the right. The many who look upon him as not only all this, but as a comprehensive and profound thinker, little prone to error, err essentially themselves. The source of the general mistake lies in a very singular consideration—yet in one upon which we do not remember ever to have heard a word of comment. We allude to a tendency in the public mind towards logic for logic’s sake—a liability to confound the vehicle with the conveyed—an aptitude to be so dazzled by the luminousness with which an idea is set forth, as to mistake it for the luminousness of the idea itself. The error is one exactly analogous with that which leads the immature poet to think himself sublime wherever he is obscure, because obscurity is a source of the sublime—thus confounding obscurity of expression with the expression of obscurity. In the case of Macaulay—and we may say, _en passant_, of our own Channing—we assent to what he says, too often because we so very clearly understand what it is that he intends to say. Comprehending vividly the points and the sequence of his argument, we fancy that we are concurring in the argument itself. It is not every mind which is at once able to analyze the satisfaction it receives from such Essays as we see here. If it were merely _beauty_ of style for which they were distinguished—if they were remarkable only for rhetorical flourishes—we would not be apt to estimate these flourishes at more than their due value. We would not agree with the doctrines of the essayist on account of the elegance with which they were urged. On the contrary, we would be inclined to disbelief. But when all ornament save that of simplicity is disclaimed—when we are attacked by precision of language, by perfect accuracy of expression, by directness and singleness of thought, and above all by a logic the most rigorously close and consequential—it is hardly a matter for wonder that nine of us out of ten are content to rest in the gratification thus received as in the gratification of absolute truth.

Of the terseness and simple vigor of Macaulay’s style it is unnecessary to point out instances. Every one will acknowledge his merits on this score. His exceeding _closeness_ of logic, however, is more especially remarkable. With this he suffers nothing to interfere. Here, for example, is a sentence in which, to preserve entire the chain of his argument—_to leave no minute gap which the reader might have to fill up with thought_—he runs into most unusual tautology.

“The books and traditions of a sect may contain, mingled with propositions strictly theological, other propositions, purporting to rest on the same authority, which relate to physics. If new discoveries should throw discredit on the physical propositions, the theological propositions, unless they can be separated from the physical propositions, will share in their discredit.”

These things are very well in their way; but it is indeed questionable whether they do not appertain rather to the trickery of thought’s vehicle, than to thought itself—rather to reason’s shadow than to reason. Truth, for truth’s sake, is seldom so enforced. It is scarcely too much to say that the style of the profound thinker is never closely logical. Here we might instance George Combe—than whom a more candid reasoner never, perhaps, wrote or spoke—than whom a more complete antipodes to Babington Macaulay there certainly never existed. The former _reasons_ to discover the true. The latter _argues_ to convince the world, and, in arguing, not unfrequently surprises himself into conviction. What Combe appear to Macaulay it would be a difficult thing to say. What Macaulay is thought of by Combe we can understand very well. The man who looks at an argument in its details alone, will not fail to be misled by the one; while he who keeps steadily in view the _generality_ of a thesis will always at least approximate the truth under guidance of the other.

Macaulay’s tendency—and the tendency of mere logic in general—to concentrate force upon minutiæ, at the expense of a subject as a whole, is well instanced in an article (in the volume now before us) on Ranke’s History of the Popes. This article is called a review—possibly because it is anything else—_as lucus_ is _lucus a non lucendo_. In fact it is nothing more than a beautifully written treatise on the main theme of Ranke himself; the whole matter of the treatise being deduced from the History. In the way of criticism there is nothing worth the name. The strength of the essayist is put forth to account for the progress of Romanism by maintaining that divinity is not a progressive science. The enigmas, says he in substance, which perplex the natural theologian are the same in all ages, while the Bible, where alone we are to seek revealed truth, has always been what it is.

The manner in which these two propositions are set forth, is a model for the logician and for the student of _belles lettres_—yet the error into which the essayist has rushed headlong, is egregious. He attempts to deceive his readers, or has deceived himself, by confounding the nature of that proof from which we reason of the concerns of earth, considered as man’s habitation, and the nature of that evidence from which we reason of the same earth regarded as a unit of that vast whole, the universe. In the former case the _data_ being palpable, the proof is direct: in the latter it is purely _analogical_. Were the indications we derive from science, of the nature and designs of Deity, and thence, by inference, of man’s destiny—were these indications proof direct, no advance in science would strengthen them—for, as our author truly observes, “nothing could be added to the force of the argument which the mind finds in every beast, bird, or flower”—but as these indications are rigidly analogical, every step in human knowledge—every astronomical discovery, for instance—throws additional light upon the august subject, _by extending the range of analogy_. That we know no more to-day of the nature of Deity—of its purposes—and thus of man himself—than we did even a dozen years ago—is a proposition disgracefully absurd; and of this any astronomer could assure Mr. Macaulay. Indeed, to our own mind, the _only_ irrefutable argument in support of the soul’s immortality—or, rather, the only conclusive proof of man’s alternate dissolution and re-juvenescence _ad infinitum_—is to be found in analogies deduced from the modern established theory of the nebular cosmogony.[6] Mr. Macaulay, in short, has forgotten what he frequently forgets, or neglects,—the very gist of his subject. He has forgotten that analogical evidence cannot, at all times, be discoursed of as if identical with proof direct. Throughout the whole of his treatise he has made no distinction whatever.

This third volume completes, we believe, the miscellaneous writings of its author.

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[6] This cosmogony _demonstrates_ that all existing bodies in the universe are formed of a nebular matter, a rare ethereal medium, pervading space—shows the mode and laws of formation—and _proves_ that all things are in a perpetual state of progress—that nothing in nature is _perfected_.

* * * * *

_“Corse de Leon: or the Brigand.” A Romance. By G. P. R. James.
2 vols. Harper & Brothers._

Bernard de Rohan and Isabel de Brienne are betrothed to each other in childhood, but the father of the latter dying, and her mother marrying again, the union of the two lovers is opposed by the father-in-law, the Lord of Masseran, who has another husband in view for her, the Count de Meyrand. To escape his persecutions, the heroine elopes, and is married in a private chapel to De Rohan; but just as the ceremony has closed, the pair are surprised by Masseran and Meynard, who fling the hero into a dungeon, and bear off Isabel. The young wife manages to escape, however, and reaches Paris to throw herself on the protection of the King, Henry the Second. Here she learns that her husband, whom the monarch had ordered to be freed, has perished in a conflagration of Masseran’s castle; and she determines to take the veil. In vain the king endeavors to persuade her to wait. She is inflexible, until surprised by the re-appearance of de Rohan, who, instead of perishing as supposed, has been rescued, unknown, by Corse de Leon, a stern, wild, yet withal, generous sort of a brigand, with whom he had become accidentally acquainted on the frontiers of Savoy. As the stolen marriage of the lovers has been revoked by a royal edict, it is necessary that the ceremony should be repeated. A week hence is named for the wedding, but before that time arrives de Rohan not only fights—unavoidably of course—with his rival, which the monarch has forbidden, but is accused by Masseran of the murder of Isabel’s brother in a remote province of France. De Rohan is tried, found guilty and condemned to die; but on the eve of execution is rescued by his good genius, the brigand. He flies his country, and in disguise joins the army in Italy, where he greatly distinguishes himself. Finally, he storms and carries a castle, by the assistance of Corse de Leon, which Meyrand, now an outlaw, is holding out against France; at the same time rescuing his long lost bride from the clutches of the count, into which she had fallen by the sack of a neighboring abbey. In the dungeon of the captured castle Isabel’s brother is discovered, he having been confined there by Masseran, prior to charging de Rohan with his murder. After a little farther bye-play, which only spoils the work, and which we shall not notice, the lovers are united, and thenceforth “all goes merry as a marriage bell.”

This is the outline of the plot—well enough in its way; but partaking largely of the common-place, and marred by the conclusion, which we have omitted, and which was introduced only for the purpose of introducing the famous death of Henry the Second, at a tournament.

The characters, however, are still more common-place. De Rohan and Isabel are like all James’ lovers, mere nothings—Father Welland and Corse de Leon are the beneficent spirits, and Meyrand and Masseran are the evil geniuses, of the novel. The other characters are lifeless, common, and uncharacteristic. They make no impression, and you almost forget their names. There is no originality in any of them, and save a passage of fine writing here and there, nothing to be praised in the book. Corse de Leon, the principal character, talks philosophy like Bulwer’s heroes, and is altogether a plagiarism from that bombastic, unnatural, cut-throat school,—besides, he possesses a universality of knowledge, combined with a commensurable power, which, although they get the hero very conveniently out of scrapes, belie all nature. In short, this is but a readable novel, and a mere repetition of the author’s former works.

* * * * *

_“Insubordination; An American Story of Real Life.” By the
Author of the “Subordinate.” One Volume. Baltimore; Knight &
Colman._

The author of the “Subordinate” is Mr. T. S. Arthur, of Baltimore, formerly one of the editors of the “Visiter and Athenæum,” and now, we believe, connected with “The Budget,” a new monthly journal of that city—with the literature of which, generally, he has been more or less identified for many years past.

“The Subordinate” we have not had the pleasure of reading. The present book, “Insubordination,” is excellently written in its way; although we must be pardoned for saying that the _way_ itself is not of a high order of excellence. It is all well enough to justify works of this class by hyper-democratic allusions to the “moral dignity” of low life, &c. &c.—but we cannot understand why a gentleman should feel or affect a _penchant_ for vulgarity; nor can we comprehend the “moral dignity” of a dissertation upon bed-bugs: for the opening part of “Insubordination” is, if anything, a treatise on these peculiar animalculæ.

Some portions of the book are worthy of the author’s ability, which it would rejoice us to see more profitably occupied. For example, a passage where Jimmy, an ill-treated orphan, relates to the only friend he has ever found, some of the poignant sorrows of his childhood, embodies a fine theme, handled in a manner which has seldom been excelled. Its pathos is exquisite. The morality of the story is no doubt good; but the reasoning by which it is urged is decrepid, and far too pertinaciously thrust into the reader’s face at every page. The mode in which all the characters are _reformed_, one after the other, belongs rather to the desirable than to the credible. The style of the narrative is easy and _truthful_. We dare say the work will prove popular in a certain sense; but, upon the whole, we do not like it.

* * * * *

_“Marathon, and Other Poems.” By Pliny Earle, M. D. Henry
Perkins, Philadelphia._

We have long had a very high opinion of the talents of Doctor Earle; and it gives us sincere pleasure to see his poems in book form. The publication will place him at once in the front rank of our bards. His qualities are all of a sterling character—a high imagination, delighting in lofty themes—a rigorous simplicity, disdaining verbiage and meretricious ornament—a thorough knowledge of the proprieties of metre—and an ear nicely attuned to its delicacies. In addition, he feels as a man, and thinks and writes as a scholar. His general manner, puts us much in mind of Halleck. “Marathon,” the longest poem in the volume before us, is fully equal to the “Bozzaris” of that writer; although we confess that between the two poems there exists a similarity in tone and construction which we would rather not have observed.

In the present number of our Magazine will be found a very beautiful composition by the author of “Marathon.” It exhibits all the rare beauties of its author.

* * * * *

_“Selections from the Poetical Literature of the West.” U. P.
James; Cincinnati._

This handsomely printed volume fills a long-regretted _hiatus_ in our poetical literature, and we are much indebted to Mr. James the publisher; and to Mr. William D. Gallagher, who has superintended the compilation. We are told, in the Preface by Mr. G. that the book “is not sent forth as by any means the whole of the ‘Poetical Literature of the West,’ but that it is believed it will represent its _character_ pretty faithfully, as it certainly contains samples of its greatest excellences, its mediocre qualities, and its worst defects.” It may be questioned, indeed, how far we are to thank the editor for troubling us with the “defects,” or, what in poesy is still worse, with the “mediocre qualities” of any literature whatever. It is no apology to say that the design was to represent “character”—for who cares for the character of that man or of that poem which has no character at all?

By these observations we mean merely to insinuate, as delicately as possible, that Mr. Gallagher has admitted into this volume a great deal of trash with which the public could well have dispensed. On the other hand we recognise many poems of a high order of excellence; among which we may mention an “Ode to the Press” by G. G. Foster, of the St. Louis Pennant; several sweet pieces by our friend F. W. Thomas, of “Clinton Bradshaw” memory; “The Flight of Years” by George D. Prentice; “To the Star Lyra,” by William Wallace; and the “Miami Woods,” by Mr. Gallagher.

We have spoken of this latter gentleman as the _editor_ of the volume—but presume that in so speaking we have been in error. It is probable that, the volume having been compiled by some other hand, he was requested by Mr. James to write the Preface merely. We are forced into this conclusion by observing that the poems of William D. Gallagher occupy more room in the book than those of any other author, and that the “Miami Woods” just mentioned—lines written by himself—form the opening article of the work. We cannot believe that Mr. G. would have been so wanting in modesty as to perpetrate these improprieties as _editor_ of the “Poetical Literature of the West.”

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_“The Quadroone.” A Novel. By the Author of “Lafitte,” &c.
Harper & Brothers, New York._

We see no good reason for differing with that general sentence of condemnation which has been pronounced upon this book, both at home and abroad—and less for attempting anything in the way of an extended review of its contents. This was our design upon hearing the novel announced; but an inspection of its pages assures us that the labor would be misplaced. Nothing that we could say—had we even the disposition to say it—would convince any sensible man that “The Quadroone” is not a very bad book—such a book as Professor Ingraham (for whom we have a high personal respect) ought to be ashamed of. _We_ are ashamed of it.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without note. A cover was been created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 6, June 1841_, George R. Graham, Editor]