Chapter III (5)

The pleasure which results from it, even when employed upon the
most ordinary materials, will always render that property of our
art the most attractive with the majority, because it may be
enjoyed with the least mental exertion. _All_ men are in some
degree judges of it. The cobbler in his own line may criticize
Apelles; and popular opinions are never to be wholly disregarded
concerning that which is addressed to the public—who, to a
certain extent, are generally right; although as the language of
the refined can never be intelligible to the uneducated, so the
higher styles of art can never be acceptable to the multitude.
In proportion as a work rises in the scale of intellect, it must
necessarily become limited in the number of its admirers. For
this reason the judicious artist, even in his loftiest efforts,
will endeavor to introduce some of those qualities which are
interesting to all, as a passport for those of a more
intellectual character.

And these remarks upon painting—remarks which are mere truisms in themselves—embody nearly the whole _rationale_ of the topic now under discussion. It may be added, however, that the _skill_ with which the author addresses the lower taste of the populace, is often a source of pleasure because of admiration, to a taste higher and more refined, and may be made a point of comment and of commendation by the critic.

In our review, last month, of “Barnaby Rudge,” we were prevented, through want of space, from showing how Mr. Dickens had so well succeeded in uniting all suffrages. What we have just said, however, will suffice upon this point. While he has appealed, in innumerable regards, to the most exalted intellect, he has meanwhile invariably touched a certain string whose vibrations are omni-prevalent. We allude to his powers of _imitation_—that species of imitation to which Mr. Howard has reference—the _faithful_ depicting of what is called still-life, and particularly of _character_ in humble condition. It is his close observation and imitation of nature here which have rendered him popular, while his higher qualities, with the ingenuity evinced in addressing the general taste, have secured him the good word of the informed and intellectual.

But this is an important point upon which we desire to be distinctly understood. We wish here to record our positive dissent (be that dissent worth what it may) from a very usual opinion—the opinion that Mr. Dickens has done justice to his own genius—that any man ever failed to do grievous wrong to his own genius—in appealing to the popular judgment _at all_. As a matter of pecuniary policy alone, is any such appeal defensible. But we speak, of course, in relation to fame—in regard to that

——spur which the true spirit doth raise
To scorn delight and live laborious days.

That a perfume should be found by any “true spirit” in the incense of mere popular applause, is, to our own apprehension at least, a thing inconceivable, inappreciable,—a paradox which gives the lie unto itself—a mystery more profound than the well of Democritus. Mr. Dickens has no more business with the rabble than a seraph with a _chapeau de bras_. What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba? What is he to Jacques Bonhomme[3] or Jacques Bonhomme to him? The higher genius is a rare gift and divine. Ὡπόλλων ου παντι φαεινεται, ος μιν ιδη, μεγας ουτος—not to all men Apollo shows himself; _he_ is _alone great_ who beholds him.[4] And his greatness has its office God-assigned. But that office is not a low communion with low, or even with ordinary intellect. The holy—the electric spark of genius is the medium of intercourse between the noble and more noble mind. For lesser purposes there are humbler agents. There are puppets enough, able enough, willing enough, to perform in literature the little things to which we have had reference. For one Fouqué there are fifty Molières. For one Angelo there are five hundred Jan Steens. For one Dickens there are five million Smolletts, Fieldings, Marryatts, Arthurs, Cocktons, Bogtons and Frogtons.

It is, in brief, the duty of all whom circumstances have led into criticism—it is, at least, a duty from which _we_ individually shall never shrink—to uphold the true dignity of genius, to combat its degradation, to plead for the exercise of its powers in those bright fields which are its legitimate and peculiar province, and which for it alone lie gloriously outspread.

But to return to “Charles O’Malley,” and its popularity. We have endeavored to show that this latter must not be considered in any degree as the measure of its merit, but should rather be understood as indicating a deficiency in this respect, when we bear in mind, as we should do, the highest aims of intellect in fiction. A slight examination of the work, (for in truth it is worth no more,) will sustain us in what we have said. The plot is exceedingly meagre. Charles O’Malley, the hero, is a young orphan Irishman, living in Galway county, Ireland, in the house of his uncle, Godfrey, to whose sadly encumbered estates the youth is heir apparent and presumptive. He becomes enamoured, while on a visit to a neighbor, of Miss Lucy Dashwood, and finds a rival in a Captain Hammersley. Some words carelessly spoken by Lucy, inspire him with a desire for military renown. After sojourning, therefore, for a brief period, at Dublin University, he obtains a commission and proceeds to the Peninsula, with the British army under Wellington. Here he distinguishes himself; is promoted; and meets frequently with Miss Dashwood, whom obstinately, and in spite of the lady’s own acknowledgment of love for himself, he supposes in love with Hammersley. Upon the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo he returns home; finds his uncle, of course, _just_ dead; and sells his commission to disencumber the estate. Presently Napoleon escapes from Elba, and our hero, obtaining a staff appointment under Picton, returns to the Peninsula, is present at Waterloo, (where Hammersley is killed) saves the life of Lucy’s father, for the second time, as he has already twice saved that of Lucy herself; is rewarded by the hand of the latter; and, making his way back to O’Malley Castle, “lives happily all the rest of his days.”

In and about this plot (if such it may be called) there are more absurdities than we have patience to enumerate. The author, or narrator, for example, is supposed to be Harry Lorrequer as far as the end of the preface, which by the way, is one of the best portions of the book. O’Malley then tells his own story. But the publishing office of the “Dublin University Magazine” (in which the narrative originally appeared) having been burned down, there ensues a sad confusion of identity between O’Malley and Lorrequer, so that it is difficult, for the nonce, to say which is which. In the want of copy consequent upon the disaster, James, the novelist, comes in to the relief of Lorrequer, or perhaps of O’Malley, with one of the flattest and most irrelevant of love-tales. Meantime, in the story proper are repetitions without end. We have already said that the hero _saves the life of his mistress twice, and of her father twice_. But not content with this, he has _two_ mistresses, and _saves the life of both, at different periods, in precisely the same manner_—that is to say, by causing his horse, in each instance, to perform a Munchausen side-leap, at the moment when a spring forward would have impelled him upon his beloved. And then we have one unending, undeviating succession of junketings, in which “devilled kidneys” are never by any accident found wanting. The unction and pertinacity with which the author discusses what he chooses to denominate “devilled kidneys” are indeed edifying, to say no more. The truth is, that drinking wine, telling anecdotes, and devouring “devilled kidneys” may be considered as the sum total, as the _thesis_ of the book. Never in the whole course of his eventful life, does Mr. O’Malley get “two or three assembled together” without seducing them forthwith to a table, and placing before them a dozen of wine and a dish of “devilled kidneys.” This accomplished, the parties begin what seems to be the business of the author’s existence—the narration of unusually _broad tales_—like those of the Southdown mutton. And here, in fact, we have the _plan_ of that whole work of which the “United Service Gazette” has been pleased to vow it “would rather be the author than of all the ‘Pickwicks’ and ‘Nicklebys’ in the world”—a sentiment which we really blush to say has been echoed by many respectable members of our own press. The general plot or narrative is a mere thread upon which after-dinner anecdotes, some good, some bad, some utterly worthless, and _not one truly original_, are strung with about as much method, and about half as much dexterity, as we see ragged urchins employ in stringing the kernels of nuts.

It would, indeed, be difficult to convey to one who has not examined this production for himself, any idea of the exceedingly rough, clumsy, and inartistical manner in which even this bald conception is carried out. The stories are absolutely dragged in by the ears. So far from finding them result naturally or plausibly from the conversation of the interlocutors, even the blindest reader may perceive the author’s struggling and blundering effort to introduce them. It is rendered quite evident that they were originally “on hand,” and that “O’Malley” has been concocted for their introduction. Among other _niaïseries_ we observe the silly trick of whetting appetite by delay. The conversation over the “kidneys” is brought, for example, to such a pass that one of the speakers is called upon for a story, which he forthwith declines for any reason, or for none. At a subsequent “broil” he is again pressed, and again refuses, and it is not until the reader’s patience is fairly exhausted, and he has consigned both the story and its author to Hades, that the gentleman in question is prevailed upon to discourse. The only conceivable result of this _fanfarronade_ is the ruin of the tale when told, through exaggerating anticipation respecting it.

The anecdotes thus narrated being the staple of the book, and the awkward manner of their interlocution having been pointed out, it but remains to be seen what the anecdotes are, in themselves, and what is the merit of their narration. And here, let it not be supposed that we have any design to deprive the devil of his due. There are several very excellent anecdotes in “Charles O’Malley” very cleverly and pungently told. Many of the scenes in which Monsoon figures are rich—less, however, from the scenes themselves than from the piquant, but by no means original character of Monsoon—a drunken, maudlin, dishonest old Major, given to communicativeness and mock morality over his cups, and not over careful in detailing adventures which tell against himself. One or two of the college pictures are unquestionably good—but might have been better. In general, the reader is made to feel that fine subjects have fallen into unskilful hands. By way of instancing this assertion, and at the same time of conveying an idea of the tone and character of the stories, we will quote one of the shortest, and assuredly one of the best.

“Ah, by-the-by, how’s the Major?”

“Charmingly: only a little bit in a scrape just now. Sir
Arthur—Lord Wellington, I mean—had him up for his fellows
being caught pillaging, and gave him a devil of a rowing a few
days ago.

“‘Very disorderly corps yours, Major O’Shaughnessy,’ said the
general; ‘more men up for punishment than any regiment in the
service.’

“Shaugh muttered something, but his voice was lost in a loud
cock-a-doo-doo-doo, that some bold chanticleer set up at the
moment.

“‘If the officers do their duty Major O’Shaughnessy, these acts
of insubordination do not occur.’

“‘Cock-a-doo-doo-doo,’ was the reply. Some of the staff found it
hard not to laugh; but the general went on—

“‘If, therefore, the practice does not cease, I’ll draft the men
into West India regiments.’

“‘Cock-a-doo-doo-doo!’

“‘And if any articles pillaged from the inhabitants are detected
in the quarters, or about the persons of the troops—’

“‘Cock-a-doo-doo-_doo_!’ screamed louder here than ever.

“‘Damn that cock—where is it?’

“There was a general look around on all sides, which seemed in
vain; when a tremendous repetition of the cry resounded from
O’Shaughnessy’s coat-pocket: thus detecting the valiant Major
himself in the very practice of his corps. There was no standing
this: every one burst out into a peal of laughter; and Lord
Wellington himself could not resist, but turned away, muttering
to himself as he went—‘Damned robbers every man of them,’ while
a final war-note from the Major’s pocket closed the interview.”

Now this is an anecdote at which every one will laugh; but its effect might have been vastly heightened by putting a few words of grave morality and reprobation of the conduct of his troops, into the mouth of O’Shaughnessy, upon whose character they would have told well. The cock, in interrupting the thread of his discourse, would thus have afforded an excellent context. We have scarcely a reader, moreover, who will fail to perceive the want of _tact_ shown in dwelling upon the _mirth_ which the anecdote occasioned. The error here is precisely like that of a man’s laughing at his own spoken jokes. Our author is uniformly guilty of this mistake. He has an absurd fashion, also, of informing the reader, at the conclusion of each of his anecdotes, that, however good the anecdote might be, he (the reader) cannot enjoy it to the full extent in default of the _manner_ in which it was orally narrated. He has no business to say anything of this kind. It is his duty to convey the manner not less than the matter of his narratives.

But we may say of these latter that, in general, they have the air of being _remembered_ rather than invented. No man who has seen much of the rough life of the camp will fail to recognize among them many very old acquaintances. Some of them are as ancient as the hills, and have been, time out of mind, the common property of the bivouac. They have been narrated orally all the world over. The chief merit of the writer is, that he has been the first to collect and to print them. It is observable, in fact, that the second volume of the work is very far inferior to the first. The author seems to have exhausted his whole hoarded store in the beginning. His conclusion is barren indeed, and but for the historical details (for which he has no claim to merit) would be especially prosy and dull. _Now the true invention never exhausts itself._ It is mere cant and ignorance to talk of the possibility of the really imaginative man’s “writing himself out.” His soul but derives nourishment from the streams that flow therefrom. As well prate about the aridity of the eternal ocean εξ ουπερ παντες ποταμοι. So long as the universe of thought shall furnish matter for novel combinations, so long will the spirit of true genius be original, be exhaustless—be itself.

A few cursory observations. The book is filled to over-flowing with songs of very doubtful excellence, the most at which are put into the mouth of one Micky Free, an amusing Irish servant of O’Malley’s, and are given as his impromptu effusions. The subject of the improvisos is always the matter in hand at the moment of composition. The author evidently prides himself upon his poetical powers, about which the less we say the better; but if anything were wanting to assure us of his absurd ignorance and inappreciation of Art, we should find the fullest assurance in the mode in which these doggrel verses are introduced.

The occasional sentiment with which the volumes are interspersed there is an absolute necessity for skipping.

Can anybody tell us what is meant by the affectation of the word _L’envoy_ which is made the heading of two prefaces?

That portion of the account of the battle of Waterloo which gives O’Malley’s experiences while a prisoner, and in close juxta-position to Napoleon, bears evident traces of having been translated, and very literally too, from a French manuscript.

The English of the work is sometimes even amusing. We have continually, for example, _eat_, the present, for _ate_, the perfect—see page 17. At page 16, we have this delightful sentence—“Captain Hammersley, however, _never_ took further notice of me, but continued to recount, for the amusement of those _about_, several excellent stories of his military career, which I confess were heard with every _test_ of delight by all save me.” At page 357 we have some sage talk about “the entire of the army;” and at page 368, the accomplished O’Malley speaks of “_drawing_ a last look upon his sweetheart.” These things arrest our attention as we open the book at random. It abounds in them, and in vulgarisms even much worse than they.

But why speak of vulgarisms of language? There is a disgusting vulgarism of thought which pervades and contaminates this whole production, and from which a delicate or lofty mind will shrink as from a pestilence. Not the least repulsive manifestation of this leprosy is to be found in the author’s blind and grovelling worship of mere rank. Of the Prince Regent, that filthy compound of all that is bestial—that lazar-house of all moral corruption—he scruples not to speak in terms of the grossest adulation—sneering at Edmund Burke in the same villainous breath in which he extols the talents, the graces and _the virtues_ of George the Fourth! That any man, to-day, can be found so degraded in heart as to style this reprobate, “one who, in every feeling of his nature, and in every feature of his deportment was every inch a prince”—is matter for grave reflection and sorrowful debate. The American, at least, who shall peruse the concluding pages of the book now under review, and not turn in disgust from the base sycophancy which infects them, is unworthy of his country and his name. But the truth is, that a gross and contracted soul renders itself unquestionably manifest in almost every line of the composition.

And this—_this_ is the _work_, in respect to which its author, aping the airs of intellect, prates about his “haggard cheek,” his “sunken eye,” his “aching and tired head,” his “nights of toil” and (Good Heavens!) his “days of _thought_!” That the thing is popular we grant—while that we cannot deny the fact, we grieve. But the career of true taste is onward—and now more vigorously onward than ever—and the period, perhaps, is not hopelessly distant, when, in decrying the mere balderdash of such matters as “Charles O’Malley,” we shall do less violence to the feelings and judgment even of the populace, than, we much fear, has been done to-day.

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[3] Nickname for the populace in the middle ages

[4] Callimachus—_Hymn to Apollo_.

* * * * *

_Ballads and other Poems. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Author
of “Voices of the Night,” “Hyperion,” etc.: Second Edition. John
Owen: Cambridge._

“_Il y a à parier_,” says Chamfort, “_que toute idée publique, toute convention reçue, est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus grand nombre_.”—One would be safe in wagering that any given public idea is erroneous, for it has been yielded to the clamor of the majority;—and this strictly philosophical, although somewhat French assertion has especial bearing upon the whole race of what are termed maxims and popular proverbs; nine-tenths of which are the quintessence of folly. One of the most deplorably false of them is the antique adage, _De gustibus non est disputandum_—there should be no disputing about taste. Here the idea designed to be conveyed is that any one person has as just right to consider his own taste _the true_, as has any one other—that taste itself, in short, is an arbitrary something, amenable to no law, and measurable by no definite rules. It must be confessed, however, that the exceedingly vague and impotent treatises which are alone extant, have much to answer for as regards confirming the general error. Not the least important service which, hereafter, mankind will owe to _Phrenology_, may perhaps, be recognised in an analysis of the real principles, and a digest of the resulting laws of taste. These principles, in fact, are as clearly traceable, and these laws as readily susceptible of system as are any whatever.

In the meantime, the inane adage above mentioned is in no respect more generally, more stupidly, and more pertinaciously quoted than by the admirers of what is termed the “good old Pope,” or the “good old Goldsmith school” of poetry, in reference to the bolder, more natural, and _more ideal_ compositions of such authors as Coëtlogon and Lamartine[5] in France; Herder, Körner, and Uhland in Germany; Brun and Baggesen in Denmark; Bellman, Tegnér, and Nyberg[6] in Sweden; Keats, Shelley, Coleridge, and Tennyson in England; Lowell and Longfellow in America. “_De gustibus non_,” say these “good-old-school” fellows; and we have no doubt that their mental translation of the phrase is—“We pity your taste—we pity every body’s taste but our own.”

It is our purpose, hereafter, when occasion shall be afforded us, to controvert in an article of some length, the popular idea that the poets just mentioned owe to novelty, to trickeries of expression, and to other meretricious effects, their appreciation by certain readers:—to demonstrate (for the matter is susceptible of demonstration) that such poetry and _such alone_ has fulfilled the legitimate office of the muse; has thoroughly satisfied an earnest and unquenchable desire existing in the heart of man. In the present number of our Magazine we have left ourselves barely room to say a few random words of welcome to these “Ballads,” by Longfellow, and to tender him, and all such as he, the homage of our most earnest love and admiration.

The volume before us (in whose outward appearance the keen “taste” of genius is evinced with nearly as much precision as in its internal soul) includes, with several brief original pieces, a translation from the Swedish of Tegnér. In attempting (what never should be attempted) a literal version of both the words and the metre of this poem, Professor Longfellow has failed to do justice either to his author or himself. He has striven to do what no man ever did well and what, from the nature of language itself, never _can_ be well done. Unless, for example, we shall come to have an influx of _spondees_ in our English tongue, it will always be impossible to construct an English hexameter. Our spondees, or, we should say, our spondaic words, are rare. In the Swedish they are nearly as abundant as in the Latin and Greek. We have only “_compound_,” “_context_,” “_footfall_,” and a few other similar ones. This is the difficulty; and that it _is_ so will become evident upon reading “The Children of the Lord’s Supper,” where the sole _readable_ verses are those in which we meet with the rare spondaic dissyllables. We mean to say _readable as Hexameters_; for many of them will read very well as mere English Dactylics with certain irregularities.

But within the narrow compass now left us we must not indulge in anything like critical comment. Our readers will be better satisfied perhaps with a few brief extracts from the original poems of the volume—which we give for their rare excellence, without pausing now to say in what particulars this excellence exists.

And, like the water’s flow
Under December’s snow
Came a dull voice of woe,
From the heart’s chamber.

So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.

As with his wings aslant
Sails the fierce cormorant
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.

Down came the storm and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed
Then leaped her cable’s length.

She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

The rising moon has hid the stars
Her level rays like golden bars
Lie on the landscape green
With shadows brown between.

Love lifts the boughs whose shadows deep
Are life’s oblivion, the soul’s sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him who slumbering lies.

Friends my soul with joy remembers!
How like quivering flames they start,
When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart.

Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more
Deafened by the cataract’s roar?

And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell like a falling star.

Some of these passages cannot be fully appreciated apart from the context—but we address these who have read the book. Of the translations we have not spoken. It is but right to say, however, that “The Luck of Edenhall” is a far finer poem, in every respect, than any of the original pieces. Nor would we have our previous observations misunderstood. Much as we admire the genius of Mr. Longfellow, we are fully sensible of his many errors of affectation and imitation. His artistical skill is great, and his ideality high. But his conception of the _aims_ of poesy _is all wrong_; and this we shall prove at some future day—to our own satisfaction, at least. His didactics are all _out of place_. He has written brilliant poems—by accident; that is to say when permitting his genius to get the better of his conventional habit of thinking—a habit deduced from German study. We do not mean to say that a didactic moral may not be well made the _under-current_ of a poetical thesis; but that it can never be well put so obtrusively forth, as in the majority of his compositions. There is a young American who, with ideality not richer than that of Longfellow and with less artistical knowledge, has yet composed far truer poems, merely through the greater propriety of his themes. We allude to James Russel Lowell; and in the number of this Magazine for last month, will be found a ballad entitled “Rosaline,” affording excellent exemplification of our meaning. This composition has unquestionably its defects, and the very defects which are never perceptible in Mr. Longfellow—but we sincerely think that _no American poem equals it_ in the higher elements of song.

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[5] We allude here chiefly to the “David” of Coëtlogon, and _only_ to the “_Chûte d’un Ange_” of Lamartine.

[6] C. Julia Nyberg, author of the “Dikter von Euphrosyne.”

* * * * *

_The Critical and Miscellaneous Writings of Henry Lord Brougham,
to which is Prefixed a Sketch of his Character. Two volumes. Lea
and Blanchard._

That Lord Brougham _was_ an extraordinary man no one in his senses will deny. An intellect of unusual capacity, goaded into diseased action by passions nearly ferocious, enabled him to astonish the world, and especially the “hero-worshippers,” as the author of Sartor-Resartus has it, by the combined extent and variety of his mental triumphs. Attempting many things, it may at least be said that he egregiously failed in none. But that he pre-eminently excelled in any cannot be affirmed with truth, and might well be denied _à priori_. We have no faith in admirable Crichtons, and this merely because we have implicit faith in Nature and her laws. “He that is born to be a man,” says Wieland, in his ‘Peregrinus Proteus,’ “neither should nor can be anything nobler, greater, nor better than a man.” The Broughams of the human intellect are never its Newtons or its Bayles. Yet the contemporaneous reputation to be acquired by the former is naturally greater than any which the latter may attain. The versatility of one whom we see and hear is a more dazzling and more readily appreciable merit than his profundity; which latter is best estimated in the silence of the closet, and after the quiet lapse of years. What impression Lord Brougham has stamped upon his age, cannot be accurately determined until Time has fixed and rendered definite the lines of the medal; and fifty years hence it will be difficult, perhaps, even to make out the deepest indentations of the _exergue_. Like Coleridge he should be regarded as one who might have done much, had he been satisfied with attempting but little.

The title of the book before us is, we think, somewhat disingenuous. These two volumes contain but a small portion of the “Critical and Miscellaneous Writings” of Lord Brougham; and the preface itself assures us that what is here published _forms only a part of his anonymous contributions to the Edinburgh Review_. In fact three similar selections from his “Miscellaneous Works” have been given to the world within a year or two past, by Philadelphian publishers, and neither of these selections embrace any of the matter now issued.

The present volumes, however, are not the less valuable on this account. They contain many of the most noted and some of the best compositions of the author. Among other articles of interest we have the celebrated “Discourse on the Objects, Pleasures and Advantages of Science”—a title, by the way, in which the word “pleasures” is one of the purest supererogation. That this discourse is well written, we, of course, admit, since we do not wish to be denounced as blockheads; but we beg leave to disagree, most positively, with the Preface, which asserts that “there was only one individual living by whom it could have been produced.” This round asseveration will only excite a smile upon the lips of every man of the slightest pretension to scientific acquirement. We are personally acquainted with at least a dozen individuals who could have written this treatise _as well_ as the Lord Chancellor has written it. In fact, a discourse of this character is by no means difficult of composition—a discourse such as Lord Brougham has given us. His whole design consists in an unmethodical collection of the most _striking_ and at the same time the most _popularly comprehensible facts_ in general science. And it cannot be denied that this plan of demonstrating the advantages of science as a whole _by detailing insulated specimens of its interest_ is a most unphilosophical and inartistical mode of procedure—a mode which even puts one in mind of the σκολαστικος offering a brick as a sample of the house he wished to sell. Neither is the essay free (as should be imperatively demanded in a case of this nature) from very gross error and mis-statement. Its style, too, in its minor points, is unusually bad. The strangest grammatical errors abound, of which the initial pages are especially full, and the whole is singularly deficient in that precision which should characterise a scientific discourse. In short, it is an entertaining essay, but in some degree superficial and quackish, and could have been _better_ written by any one of a multitude of living _savans_.

There is a very amusing paper, in this collection, upon the authorship of Junius. We allude to it, now especially, by way of corroborating what we said, in our January number, touching the ordinary character of the English review-system. The article was furnished the Edinburgh Quarterly by its author, who, no doubt, received for it a very liberal compensation. It is, nevertheless, one of the most barefaced impositions we ever beheld; being nothing in the world more than a tame _compendium_, fact by fact, of the book under discussion—“The Identity of Junius with a Distinguished Living Character Established.” There is no attempt at analysis—no new fact is adduced—no novel argument is urged—and yet the thing is called a criticism and liberally paid for as such. The secret of this style of Review-making is that of mystifying the reader by an artful substitution of the interest appertaining to the text for interest aroused by the commentator.

* * * * *

_Pantology; or a systematic survey of Human Knowledge; Proposing
a Classification of all its branches, and illustrating their
History, Relations, Uses, and Objects; with a Synopsis of their
leading Facts and Principles; and a Select Catalogue of Books on
all Subjects, suitable for a Cabinet Library. The whole designed
as a Guide to Study for advanced Students in Colleges,
Academies, and Schools; and as a popular Directory in
Literature, Science and the Arts. Second Edition. By Roswell
Park, A. M., Professor of Natural Philosophy and Chemistry in
the University of Pennsylvania, &c. Hogan and Thompson:
Philadelphia._

The title of this work explains its nature with accuracy. To human knowledge in general, it is what a map of the world is to geography. The design is chiefly, _to classify_, and thus present a dependent and clearly discernible whole. To those who have paid much attention to Natural History and the endless, unstable, and consequently vexatious classifications which there occur—to those, in especial, who have labored over the “Conchologies” of De Blainville and Lamarck, some faint—some very faint idea of the difficulties attending such a labor as this, will occur. There have been numerous prior attempts of the same kind, and although this is unquestionably _one_ of the best, we cannot regard it as the best. Mr. Park has chosen a highly artificial scheme of arrangement; and both reason and experience show us that _natural_ classifications, or those which proceed upon broad and immediately recognisable distinctions, are alone practically or permanently successful. We say this, however, with much deference to the opinions of a gentleman, whose means of acquiring _knowledge_, have been equalled only by his zeal in its pursuit, and whose general talents we have had some personal opportunity of estimating.

We mean nothing like criticism in so brief a paragraph as we can here afford, upon a work so voluminous and so important as the one before us. Our design is merely to call the attention of our friends to the publication—whose merits are obvious and great. Its defects are, of course, numerous. We mean rather to say, that in every work of this nature, it is in the power of almost every reader to suggest a thousand emendations. We might object to many of the details. We _must_ object to nearly all of the belles-lettres portion of the book. We cannot stand being told, for example, that “Barlow’s ‘Columbiad’ is a poem of considerable merit;” nor are we rendered more patient under the infliction of this and similar opinions, by the information that Vander Vondel and Vander Doos (the deuce!) wrote capital Dutch epics, while “the poems of Cats are said to be spirited and _pious_!” We know nothing about cats, nor cats about piety.

The volume is sadly disfigured by typographical errors. On the title-page of the very first “province” is a blunder in Greek.

* * * * *

_The Student-Life of Germany: By William Howitt, Author of the
“Rural Life of England,” “Book of the Seasons,” etc. From the
unpublished MS. of Dr. Cornelius. Containing nearly Forty of the
most Famous Student Songs. Carey & Hart: Philadelphia._

Mr. Howitt has here given us the only complete and faithful account of the Student-Life of Germany which has appeared in any quarter of the world. The institutions and customs which his book describes, form, to use his own language, “the most singular state of social existence to be found in the bosom of civilized Europe,” and are doubly curious and worthy of investigation—first, on account of the jealousy with which the students have hitherto withheld all information on the subject, and secondly, on account of the deep root which the customs themselves have taken in the heart of the German life. The Burschendom, of which we have all heard so much, yet so vaguely, is no modern or evanescent eccentricity; but a matter of firm and reverent faith coeval with the universities; and this faith is now depicted, _con amore_, and with knowledge, by a German who has himself felt and confessed it. To the philosopher, to the man of the world, and especially, to the man of imagination, this beautiful volume will prove a rare treat. Its _novelty_ will startle all.

* * * * *

_Lectures on Modern History, from the Irruption of the Northern
Nations to the Close of the American Revolution. By William
Smyth, Professor of Modern History in the University of
Cambridge. Two volumes. From the Second London Edition, with a
Preface, List of Books on American History, etc. By Jared
Sparks, L. L. D., Professor of Ancient and Modern History in
Harvard University. John Owen: Cambridge._

Professor Smyth’s system of history is remarkable, if not peculiar. He selects certain periods, and groups around them individually those events to which they have closest affinity not only in time, but character. The effect is surprising through its force and perspicuity. The name of Professor Sparks would be alone sufficient to recommend these volumes—but in themselves they are a treasure.

* * * * *

_First Book of Natural History, Prepared for the Use of Schools
and Colleges. By W. S. W. Ruschenberger, M. D., Surgeon in the
U. S. Navy, &c. &c. From the Text of Milne Edwards & Achille
Comte, Professors of Natural History in the Colleges of Henri
IV. and Charlemagne. With Plates. Turner & Fisher:
Philadelphia._

This little book forms, in the original, the first of a series of First or Elementary works on Natural History, arranged by Messieurs Edwards and Comte, two gentlemen distinguished for labors of the kind, and who enjoy the patronage of the “Royal Council of Public Instruction of France.” The translator is well known to the reading world, and there can be no doubt of the value of the publication in its present form.

* * * * *

_A System of Elocution, with Special Reference to Gesture, to
the Treatment of Stammering, and Defective Articulation,
Comprising Numerous Diagrams and Engraved Figures, Illustrative
of the Subject. By Andrew Comstock, M. D. Published by the
Author: Philadelphia._

This is, in many respects, an excellent book, although the principal claim of Dr. Comstock is that of having cleverly compiled. His method of representing, or notating, the modulations of the speaking voice, is original, as he himself states, but there is little else which can be called so. Originality, however, is not what we seek in a school-book, and this has the merit of tasteful selection and precision of style.

* * * * *

_Sturmer; A Tale of Mesmerism. To which are added other Sketches
from Life. By Isabella F. Romer. Two Volumes. Lea & Blanchard:
Philadelphia._

This work is republished, we presume, not so much on account of its intrinsic merit, as on account of the present _émeute_ in our immediate vicinity and elsewhere, on the subject of Animal Magnetism. “Sturmer,” the principal story, is, nevertheless, well narrated and will do much in the way of helping unbelief. The minor tales are even beautiful. “The Mother and Daughter” is exceedingly pathetic.

* * * * *

_Famous Old People. Being the Second Epoch of Grandfather’s
Chair. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Author of “Twice-Told Tales.”
Boston: Tappan & Dennet._

Mr. Hawthorne has received high praise from men whose opinions we have been accustomed to respect. Hereafter we shall endeavor to speak of his tales with that deliberation which is their due. The one now before us is a simple and pretty story.

* * * * *

_History of the Life of Richard Cœur de Lion, King of England.
By G. P. R. James, Esq., author of “Richelieu,” &c. Two volumes.
New York: I. & H. G. Langley._

We like Mr. James far better as the historian or biographer than as the novelist. The truth is, it is sheer waste of time to read second-rate fictions by men of merely imitative talent, when at the same expense of money and labor we can indulge in the never-failing stream of invention now poured forth by true genius.

* * * * *

_The Effinghams; or, Home as I Found it. Two volumes. By the
author of the “Victim of Chancery,” &c. New York: Samuel
Colman._

These volumes are satirical and have some fair hits at Mr. Cooper, against whom they are especially levelled; but we like neither this design of personal ridicule nor the manner in which it is effected.

* * * * *

_Organic Chemistry in its Applications to Agriculture and
Physiology. By Justus Leiby, M. D, &c. Edited from the MS. of
the Author, by Lyon Playfair, Ph. D. Second American Edition,
with an Introduction, Notes and Appendix, by John W. Webster, M.
D., Professor of Chemistry in Harvard University. John Owen:
Cambridge._

This book excited and still excites great attention in England. It is needless to speak of its merits, which are well understood by all students of Physics.

* * * * *

_Arbitrary Power, Popery, Protestantism; as contained in Nos.
XV. XVIII. XIX. of the Dublin Review. Philadelphia: M. Fithian._

A republication from the Dublin Review of three able articles in defence of Catholicism.

* * * * *

_Second Book of Natural History, Prepared for the Use of Schools
and Colleges. By W. S. W. Ruschenberger, M. D., &c. From the
text of Milne Edwards and Achille Comte. With Plates.
Philadelphia: Turner & Fisher._

We need only say of this volume that it is a combination of the “First Book” just noticed, although sufficiently distinct in itself.

* * * * *

_The Amazonian Republic Recently Discovered in the Interior of
Peru. By Ex-Midshipman Timothy Savage, B. C. New York: Samuel
Colman._

This is a very passable satirical fiction, in the manner of Gulliver. We should not be surprised if it were the composition of Dr. Beasely of this city.

* * * * *

_St. John Chrysostom, Archbishop of Constantinople: His Life,
Eloquence and Piety. By W. Joseph Walter, late of St. Edmund’s
College. Philadelphia: Godey & M^{c}Michael._

An eloquent tribute to the memory of an eloquent and in every respect a remarkable man.

* * * * *

_Life in China. The Porcelain Tower; or Nine Stories of China.
Compiled from Original Sources. By T. T. T. Embellished by J.
Leech. Lea & Blanchard: Philadelphia._

This is a very clever and amusing _jeu-d’esprit_, in which the oddities, or what we regard as the oddities of “Life in China,” are divertingly caricatured. The work is handsomely printed, and the designs by Leech are well conceived and executed.

* * * * *

_Select Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. Fourth Edition, with
Illustrations. Edward C. Biddle: Philadelphia._

The publisher, in his preface, states that three editions of this work, comprising eight thousand copies, have been sold; and of this we are pleased to hear; but we are not equally pleased with the information (conveyed also in the preface) that a _new_ set of illustrations is given. If these “illustrations” are _new_, then “new” has come to be employed in the sense of “old.” The plates are not only antique but trashy in other respects. Of the poems themselves we have no space to speak fully this month. Some of them are excellent; and there are many which merit no commendation. Mrs. Sigourney deserves much, but by no means all of the applause which her compositions have elicited.

It would be easy to cite, from the volume now before us, numerous brief passages of the truest beauty; but we fear that it would be more difficult to point out an entire poem which would bear examination, _as a whole_. In the piece entitled “Indian Names,” there are thoughts and _expression_ which would do honor to any one. We note, also, an unusually noble idea in the “Death of an Infant.”

——forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness—a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone may wear.

* * * * *

* * * * *

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. Greek phrases in this ebook contain characters which may not display in some devices based on the fonts and character sets available.

A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.

The Duello, mentioned in the story The Doom of the Traitress, can be found in the February 1842 issue of Graham’s Magazine.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 3, March 1842_, George R. Graham, Editor]