Chapter VI: Part II (4)

I followed Mrs. J. down stairs and into the drawing-room with the resolution of a martyr. She paused at the door, dropped three sublime curtsies, put on one of her superlatively silly smiles, and entered, with a little mincing step and her cap ribands all in a flutter. Had I been called upon to select the five persons whom I should have been most unwilling to meet in my irksome predicament, it would have been the two beautiful girls and three highly bred students of the law-school whom I found in a group near the centre table. Maria was with them, but looking almost ill-tempered with annoyance. When she saw Mrs. Johnson, the crimson that burned on her usually pale cheek spread over her face and neck, while, spite of shame and anger, her mouth dimpled almost to a laugh as that lady performed her curtsies at the door. Maria gave one glance of comic distress at my face, which was burning till it pained me, and another toward the farther extremity of the room. There was Mr. Johnson perched on a music stool, and fingering the keys of a piana, as he called Maria’s superb rose-wood instrument, and the feet of those little Johnsons dangled from two of the chairs near by: there, at my right hand, was Mrs. Johnson, radiant as a sunflower, and disposed to make herself peculiarly fascinating and agreeable to our visiters. She informed the law students that her husband was a great musicianer, that he led the singing in the Methodist meeting-house at home, every other Sunday, when the ministers came to preach, and that her two boys gave strong indications of musical genius which had almost induced Mr. Johnson to patronize their village singing-school. While in the midst of this eloquence, her eye was caught by a rich scarf worn by one of our lady visiters, so changing the subject she began to express her admiration, and, after taking an end of the scarf in her hands and minutely examining the pattern, she inquired the price of its fair owner, and called her husband to say if he could not afford one like it for her.

There was a roguish look in the lady’s eye, but she politely informed Mrs. J. where the scarf was purchased, and, being too well bred to laugh in our faces, the party took their leave. We breathed freely once more; but Maria and I had scarcely exchanged glances of congratulation for their absence, when another party was announced. To be mortified thus a second time was beyond endurance, and while Maria stepped forward to close the folding doors on Mr. Johnson and his musical performance, I turned in very desperation to his better half and proposed to accompany her in a walk about the city. Most earnestly did I entreat her to exchange that fine bonnet and orange-colored silk shawl for a cottage and merino of my own; but no, Mrs. J. clung to her tri-colors tenaciously as a Frenchman, so investing myself in the rejected articles we sallied forth.

As we were turning a corner into Chapel-street, I looked back and lo, the two boys walking behind us, lovingly as the Siamese twins. This reminded Mrs. Johnson that she had promised them some candy, so I was forced into a confectioner’s shop that the young gentlemen might be gratified. The candy was purchased and a pound of raisins called for. While the man was weighing them, she called out,

“Stop a minute, while I see if I’ve got change enough for ’em,” and sitting down on a keg she took out a large green worsted purse with deliberate ostentation, and untied a quantity of silver and copper cents into her lap. Being satisfied with this display of her wealth, she gave the man permission to proceed. I had suffered so much that day that the jeering smile of that candy-man went for nothing.

On leaving the candy shop I allowed my tormentor to choose her own direction, which, as my evil stars would have it, led directly before the Tontine, and there, upon the steps, stood the two young gentlemen who had serenaded Maria and myself only the night before, and whom we had seen that morning on the college grounds. They recognized me and bowed, Mrs. Johnson instantly appropriated the compliment, paused, faced about and returned their salutations with a curtsey for each, while she scolded the boys for not having “manners enough to make their bows when gentlemen noticed them.” The urchins took off their wool hats and did make their bows. My serenaders of the Sophomore class could not withstand this, and though their faces were turned away, I had a delightful consciousness that they were ready to die with suppressed laughter as I urged my companion down the street.

A short distance below the Tontine stands a most splendid mansion, perhaps, at that time, the most costly one in the city. Two of my school mates resided there and I was very anxious to pass without being observed, but just as we came opposite the front windows which opened to the ground, Mrs. Johnson made a dead halt, and pointing to the house, called out, “Come here, boys, and see what a sight o’ windows this ere house has got.”

The little Johnsons had lingered behind, but they ran up and obeyed their mother’s summons, by planting themselves directly before us, and the whole group took another survey of the building. I looked up, the blinds of a chamber were gently parted and I caught a glimpse of two sweet, familiar faces looking down upon our interesting party. “They are staring at us, do walk on!” I whispered in a perfect agony.

Mrs. Johnson paid no attention, she was looking earnestly down the street, I apprehensively followed the direction of her gaze. The two Sophomore students were coming up the opposite side walk laughing immoderately, a piece of ill breeding which they endeavored to check when their eyes met mine, but all in vain. Their eyes laughed in spite of the violence put upon the lips. I could endure it no longer but tore my arm from the tenacious grasp of my tormentor, turned the first corner and hastened home.

When Mrs. Johnson returned she had forgotten my rudeness in her delight at the attentions paid her by the students. “They had talked and laughed together a full half hour,” she said, “and were so perlite.”

“What did you talk about?” I inquired with uncomfortable foreboding.

“Why, I believe it was purty much about you, after all.”

“Me?” said I, faintly.

“Yes, they asked how long we’d been acquainted, so, of course, I told them what old friends we were—kind of relations.”

The last drop was flung in the bowl—and it overflowed—I said I was ill—had a headache—and running to my room, locked myself in.

I never had courage to ask Maria what occurred after my exit. But the next morning I arose very early, threw open the blinds and looked out. The day was breaking, like an angel’s smile, in the east, dividing the gray mist with a line of radiance, and embroidering the horizon with its delicate golden threads. The fresh air came up from an opposite garden rich with fragrance. The flowers bent their wet heads as it came with a gentle breath and charmed the odor from their cups; the grass had not yet flung off its night jewelry, and all around was still and silent as the heart of a wilderness—no, there was one sound not so musical as it might have been, but still the most welcome that ever fell on my ear. It was the rattle of Mr. Johnson’s wagon as it came lumbering up to the front door. And the most gratifying sight of that lovely morning was the old chesnut horse stalking down the street, and dragging behind him Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson, and both the little Johnsons.

* * * * *

THE STUDENT’S DREAM OF FAME.

BY ROBERT MORRIS.

’Tis midnight’s solemn hour! And mark—yon room
Narrow, and dimly lit. The thicken’d gloom
Of deepest night is scarcely chased away,
The lamp so small—so thin its feeble ray!
Alas! poor student! What a fate is thine!
Within thy bosom burns a ray divine,
A fire has to thy spirit’s cell been given,
Alive with flame caught from the founts of Heaven!
Genius is thine, and like a worshipper
Of some far world, or glory beaming star.
Night after night, thou toilest slowly on,
Each thought refining—each comparison,
And phrase, and figure, weighing well and long,
And thus thy life-blood pouring with thy song!

How little reck we of the toil of mind!
The inward strain some sparkling thought to find—
The hollow cheek—the fever-thrilling brain—
And worse than all, when venal is the strain,
And the poor author toils alone for gain!
Not such, pale wooer of the solemn night,
Not such thy fate. The far and dazzling light
That leads thee on, is that which Death nor Time
Can wholly quench—the towering light sublime,
That burns in Fame’s high temple—the strong fire
That flashed when Milton struck his mighty lyre!
The radiant Future dawns upon thy sight,
And all thy being maddens with delight—
The dust that forms thy fragile body now,
May shrink and fade, as melts the early snow—
And where the blue veins course throughout thy form,
The things of death may revel with the worm—
But oh! wild vision—thought o’er mastering death,
Thy name shall brighten with thy parting breath—
Beings as yet unborn shall give thee praise—
And Glory’s hand shall bind thy brow with bays!
For this—for this—thine hours are given to toil,
For this alone thou burn’st the midnight oil—
Thou see’st the Future radiant with thy name,
And yield’st thy life in sacrifice for Fame!

* * * * *

THE ZANONI GALLOP.

COMPOSED FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The Fountain and other Poems. By William C. Bryant. One vol.
12mo. New York: Wiley & Putnam, 1842._

It will give pleasure to the lovers of elegant literature to learn that Mr. Bryant has prepared a second volume of poems. Many, if not all of them, have before appeared in the magazines; but the book will not be welcomed the less warmly for that reason. Indeed, no one reads a poem by this author without desiring to possess it in the most agreeable and permanent form. His admirers will be gratified, therefore, that he has so far overcome his singular feeling of modesty as to make a collection of his scattered gems, and present them in a casket to the public.

So much has been said of the character of Bryant’s genius that we have no disposition to enter upon that subject now; his various and high excellencies have been pretty generally recognized; indeed, more universally than those of any other living poet; and he himself—even if his literary vanity is a thousand times as great as we believe it to be—and his most ardent admirers, must be satisfied with the feeling entertained by the public toward him. They must be satisfied, because that feeling is in the highest degree friendly. As to ourselves, we are conscious that our estimation of him has been constantly undergoing a change. We have been deepening and enlarging the grounds of our admiration. The more we have read, the more we have reflected upon his poems, the stronger have grown our convictions of his preëminent merit. Nor are we alone in this experience. We remember well the remark of a friend, in whose critical discernment we are accustomed to place considerable reliance, and who, being a foreigner, is not likely to have been led away by that fondness for over praise which is said to mark the literary criticisms of the Americans—“I have been,” said he, “again reading your poet; and must confess that, as deeply as I felt his excellence before, I have never until now formed an adequate idea of the extent of his genius. Although I thought I had exhausted his depth, I find that new views of the most exalted and touching thought are continually opening upon me. I know not when I shall have done admiring.” We replied, and the observation is worth repeating, that this only showed the perfection of the poet’s art; for true art, like nature—indeed, being nature itself—is inexhaustible, and the more it is studied the greater and the richer are the resources which it discovers. A creation, whether it be of a world, a poem, or a picture, is an infinite work, and can be profitably contemplated year after year—each look revealing some new and remarkable trait.

There could be no better proof of the singular merits of Mr. Bryant’s poetry than the fact that men of every school of art, and of every variety of taste, agree in the acknowledgment of its claims. The disciples of Pope and of Wordsworth—those who profess to find the excellence of the poetic art only in its external forms, and those who look into the body of its thought and meaning—the lover of graceful rhythm and expression, and the admirer of profound reflection or passion—alike concur in the sentiment of admiration and respect for Bryant. We do not mean that it shall be inferred from this that no one is a poet who does not awaken this unanimity of feeling, for some of the greatest poets of the last century—Shelley for instance—are not even yet appreciated; but we mean that when this unanimity does exist it is a most unquestionable proof of merit. It is true, it does not always demonstrate the highest merit; yet it shows, more conclusively perhaps than anything, that the beauties of the author are of that unequivocal, obvious kind, which the child and the savage, the illiterate man and the philosopher, are alike capable of recognizing. It is an easy task, then, to point out the characteristics which have given the poet his general celebrity. One of the most striking is the complete mastery of language that he every where displays. If there were not many higher traits to be discovered, we should think he spent his whole time in casting his thoughts in the most beautiful form of expression. Precision, compactness, purity, elegance, and force, mark every line in an almost equal degree. It is this nice perception of the proprieties of language that gives such exquisite finish to his versification. Its melody is perfect.[1] Line follows line in liquid and beautiful harmony—yet all is as simple as the utterance of a child. There is no where swelling pomp or straining for effect. The terms, no less than the style and manner arise naturally out of the thought. When the subject is grave and imposing, the movement is slow and solemn; but when the theme is lighter, the measure becomes airy, elastic, and playful. Compare, as a proof of this, the impressive tread of “The Ages,” or “Thanatopsis,” in which the long line of buried nations and men file before us in all their silent majesty, with the graceful motion of “The Gladness of Nature” or the wild dance of “The Song of the Stars.”

Two things, however, above all others, distinguish the poetry of Mr. Bryant. The first is the fidelity with which it paints natural scenery, and the second, the pensive and profound, yet Christian philosophy which pervades its spirit. As we have remarked in another place, no man ever lived whose sensibility was more susceptible than Mr. Bryant’s. Not only is his eye open to Nature, but every fibre of his being seems to be tremblingly alive to its presence. His nerves, like the Æolian harp, the faintest breath of wind can make vibrate musically. The shapes and hues of natural objects, in all their infinite diversity, seem to be the constant companions of his thoughts. Hardly a leaf or a flower exists with which he is not familiar. From the spire of grass by the wayside to the huge oak in the mountains, from the violet in its secluded bed to the bright and boundless firmament, from the shy bird brooding in his silent nooks to the stars that weave their everlasting web of motion through the sky, all things of nature claim his loving friendship and care. Streams, and woods, and meadows, and rocks, and lakes mingle in his musings, and are the very staple of his imagination. They are

“His haunt, and main region of his song.”

If we turn over his title-pages, we shall find that about two thirds of his subjects are drawn from the various aspects or phenomena of external nature; while, by consulting the poems themselves, we shall see that so delicate is his eye, so perfect his command of language, and so exquisite his taste, that his descriptions have all the effect of a faithful but warmly colored picture. We say warmly colored, for with all his minuteness and accuracy in the delineation of nature, he possesses a wonderful power of imagination.

But it is not so much the graces of language or style, or the appropriateness or beauty of imagery, as the pensive but deep and manly philosophy, that incites our admiration of Mr. Bryant’s genius. It must strike every one, upon the most slight and cursory perusal of his poems, that he is a man of the most unquestionable good sense. The silent meditation of nature, in her more genial and subduing aspects, seems to have imparted to him the gentleness, truth, simplicity, and calmness that ever await upon her teachings. In the spirit of his own “Forest Hymn,” he seems often to have returned to the solitudes, to reassure his virtue, and thus, while meditating in “God’s first temples,” His milder majesty,

“to the beautiful order of His works
Seemed to conform the action of his life.”

Sweet affections, tenderness, patience, love, and, above all, trust in Nature and God, are the virtues that chiefly inspire his song. It is for this reason, that amidst his most striking and picturesque descriptions there is always something to soften and improve. Not the tempest, the earth-quake, or the torrent move him, but nature, in her gladness and smiles. With every phase of the external world he has connected some noble moral, or some beautiful religious or philosophical sentiment. Indeed, these are so many and so touching that it is equally a matter of amusement and instruction to trace them. Thus, in the deep slumber of the woodlands he finds an emblem of the inward peace that marks the life of virtue, twilight hues, “lingering after the bright sun has set,” are like the memory of good men gone; the perishing flowers of autumn recall those who “in their youthful beauty died;” the golden sunlight that follows the tempest anticipates the day when “the voice of war shall cease, and married nations dwell in harmony;” the unconscious flow of the rivulet shows how changeless nature is amid all her change; the flight of the lone bird amid the air tells of that power that in “the long way that we must tread alone, will guide our steps aright;” while “morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet,” indicate the spread of the light of that knowledge and justice which is destined to

“Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.”

It must be confessed, however, speaking of the spirit of Mr. Bryant’s poetry, that many of his readers feel the absence of a deep and fervid interest in humanity. They have complained, and we think in some degree justly, that he exhibits too little of human passion. His mind, to use a distinction of the Germans, has been too objective, and not enough subjective; the forms and appearance of the outward world have absorbed his attention almost to the exclusion of the feelings and sentiments of the inward being. Not that he has been wholly wanting in sympathy for his race, for in the “Ages,” the “Old Man’s Funeral,” the “Living Lost,” the “Fairest of the Rural Maids,” and other of his poems, there are to be found passages of the most touching and subduing pathos; but that the truths of man’s existence; his experience on earth; the mysteries of his condition; the trials of his life; his deathless affections; his sublime hopes of a future state; and other topics of that character, have been neglected. They have wished that one who could discourse so truthfully and genially of stars, and skies, and flowers, and forests, should speak to them, out of the depths of his own nature, of that quickening principle which is more lovely in itself, of higher worth, and more lasting, than the whole outward world—the human soul. They have wished that he who has been able to interpret in such beautiful meaning the language of nature, would apply the same noble and accomplished skill to the interpretation of the heart. They would have him, like Wordsworth, to whom he is in this respect only second, sing more

“Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love and Hope—
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith;
Of blessed consolations in distress;
Of moral strength and intellectual power;
Of joy in widest commonalty spread;
Of the individual Mind that keeps her own
Inviolate retirement, subject them
To conscience only, and the law supreme
Of that Intelligence which governs all.”

We say that they would have him treat more frequently of such themes; let us add that their wishes are in a fair way of being gratified. We find, on comparing the present volume with Mr. Bryant’s former one, that his thoughts have already taken the direction to which we refer. Indeed, we have before remarked, that of late years his mind had been coming into closer contact with human sympathies. The last poem of his first volume—The Battle Field—so full of the highest truth, so inspiring and consolatory, may be ranked with the best lyrics of the language. In the volume before us, the larger number of poems are of a similar character. Where is there a finer or a loftier hymn than the following?

THE FUTURE LIFE.

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,
Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven?

In meadows fanned by heaven’s life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past
And meekly with my harsher nature bore
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell,
Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll;
And wrath hath left its scar—that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet, though thou wear’st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven’s sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this—
The wisdom which is love—till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

Whoever can read this without feeling his affections expand, or his whole nature grow better, has less than the sensibility of humanity. We should be glad to present other pieces to our readers, of the same character;[2] and particularly to quote the noble poem entitled “The Antiquity of Freedom,” in which liberty is so nobly impersonated, but we have not room for further extracts, and can only indulge in one or two closing remarks. It appears to be a common regret with those who speak or write of Mr. Bryant, that he has not, as they express it, written a “great” poem. Be it observed, that by a _great_ poem is here meant a _long_ poem—a poem that in print will form a quarto! This kind of critic measures poems as the Dutch are said formerly to have gauged the merits of books—by their size. Perhaps of no author is there less reason for the lamentation that he has not written a great poem; for, in truth, he has written not only one, but nearly two dozen works of this description. He has written a series of lyrics, each perfect in itself, manifesting the highest excellence of that department of art, and destined to an existence as indestructible as the richest treasures of the English tongue. Indeed, we may safely say of him, that he has written a larger number of excellent poems than any other English author. So uniform is this excellence that it is difficult to make a selection between his various compositions. As some one has said of Shakspeare’s plays, the best one is that which you read last. The cause of this is, that Mr. Bryant writes as an _artist_. He does not, with the multitude of our poetasters, throw off lines as a patent printing press does newspapers, five thousand an hour. He feels like a true artist, and composes with the labor and spirit of one who is confident that his works will live.

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[1] We should, perhaps, except in the “Green Mountain Boys” the badly sounding line near the close—

“The _towers_ and the lake are _ours_.”

[2] The touching poem entitled _The Maiden’s Sorrow_, on another page of this number, illustrates what we have said above of Mr. Bryant’s most recent effusions. It was written by him for this Magazine since the preparation of his volume.

* * * * *

_The Official and other Papers of the late Maj. Gen. Alexander
Hamilton: Compiled chiefly from the Originals in the possession
of Mrs. Hamilton. Vol. I. 8vo. Pp. 496. New York and London:
Wiley & Putnam. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart._

Every year, we believe, the name of Alexander Hamilton is becoming dearer to the American People. The prejudices occasioned by some of his unpopular and perhaps erroneous political opinions are passing away, and all men are beginning to look upon his great qualities and important services with candor, and consequent admiration and gratitude. The volume of his official and other papers before us was edited by the Rev. Francis L. Hawks, D. D. whose known familiarity with early American history fitted him well for the duty. It commences with some letters written while Hamilton was a clerk in a merchant’s counting-house in the island of St. Croix, in 1769. He was then but _thirteen years old_, and his correspondence at this early period is chiefly remarkable as showing that strong reliance on his own resources which was so well vindicated by the after fortunes of the man. The remainder of the book is made up of controversial essays in defence of the measures of the continental Congress and of the steps preparatory to the Revolution, and of his military and private correspondence down to the close of the year 1780. A few of the letters have before been published. Almost every one has read the admirable account of the arrest and fate of Andre, which he addressed to his friend Laurens. It is not surpassed in interest or pathos by any narrative of the circumstances, in prose or verse, by historian or novelist, that has appeared. General Hamilton was an accomplished gentleman and a brave soldier, but his fame, as “the second man of the republic,” rests on his achievements as a statesman, and the succeeding volume of these papers, to embrace the period from 1780 to 1793, will contain matters of far more general and profound interest than the one before us. The task of Dr. Hawks has been little more than that of compilation; he but arranged the papers in chronological order and added occasionally a note; thinking that the recently published life of General Hamilton by his son, John C. Hamilton, rendered a biographical notice unnecessary. We think he erred: there are among us but few such _character-writers_ as the historian of the Church in America, and an extended introduction to the work, from his pen, would have added much to its value.

* * * * *

_The Book of the Poets: The Poets of the Nineteenth Century.
London, Scott, Webster, & Co. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._

This is a splendid octavo volume, in the style of S. C. Hall’s “Book of Gems,” published in London, in 1838, but is larger and more profusely illustrated. It contains an elaborate and well written essay on the English poetry of the present age, and selections from the works of the following authors, with brief biographical and critical notices. William Gifford, Joanna Baillie, Hannah Moore, Robert Bloomfield, George Crabbe, William Sotheby, Samuel Rogers, William Lisle Bowles, William Wordsworth, James Montgomery, Charles Dibdin, Thomas Haynes Bayley, Sir Walter Scott, S. T. Coleridge, Mary Tighe, James Hogg, Walter Savage Landor, Robert Southey, Charles Lamb, Thomas Campbell, Ebenezer Elliott, Reginald Heber, Thomas Moore, Leigh Hunt, Henry Kirke White, Lord Byron, Barry Cornwall, Professor Wilson, Henry Hart Milman, Charles Wolfe, Allan Cunningham, P. B. Shelley, John Clare, Mrs. Hemans, John Keats, George Croly, Robert Pollok, Mary Russel Mitford, Letitia Elizabeth Landon, James Sheridan Knowles, Mrs. Norton, and others. We have not had leisure to examine the selections generally, but presume they are judiciously made. Doubtless the work will be in great demand during the holiday season.

* * * * *

_The Life of Peter Van Schaack, LL. D. Embracing selections from
his Correspondence, and other writings during the American
Revolution, and his Exile in England. By his son, Henry C. Van
Schaack. One vol. 8vo. pp. 500. New York: D. Appleton & Co.
Philadelphia: Carey & Hart._

This is a novel and interesting contribution to our historical literature, Mr. Van Schaack was an eminent young lawyer in the city of New York during the period immediately preceding the Revolution, and was on terms of intimacy with John Jay, Richard Harrison, Gouverneur Morris, and other master-spirits of that time. He was opposed to the declaration of independence in the colonies, and to the resort to arms in its defence, and for his opinions was banished to England. While abroad he was placed in situations to see and to learn much in regard to the movements of both parties, and his strictures on the policy of the British, notices of public characters, etc., throw additional light upon the most important era in our history. He was a pious and well educated man, with strong powers of observation, classical taste and much skill in the use of language; and his son has done the country an acceptable service by publishing his memoirs and writings. A fine portrait by Gimbrede, from a painting by Colonel Trumbull, adds to the beauty and value of the volume.

* * * * *

_An Exposition of the Thirty-nine Articles of the Church of
England, by Bishop Burnet. With an Appendix, containing the
Augsburg Confession, Creed of Pope Pius IV., &c. Revised and
Corrected, with copious Notes and additional References, by the
Rev. James R. Paige, A.M., of Queen’s College, Cambridge. One
volume, 8vo. New York: D. Appleton & Co._

The valuable notes from the most distinguished theological writers of the sixteenth century, biographical sketches of celebrated divines and controvertists, indices, etc. which the learned editor has added to the great work of Bishop Burnet, must cause this edition to supersede every other as a manual for students. It is printed in Messrs. Appleton and Company’s usual style of elegance and _correctness_.

* * * * *

_The Writings of Rev. William Bradford Homer, with a Memoir, by
Edwards A. Park. One vol. 12mo. Pp. 420. Boston: Tappan &
Dennet. Philadelphia: H. Perkins._

From the interesting memoir by Professor Park we learn that Mr. Homer was a native of Boston; that he was educated at Amherst College and the Theological School at Andover; and that he died in 1841, at South Berwick, in Maine, where he was settled as minister over a Congregational Church. His literary remains consist of addresses, religious discourses, and notes on the classics, all of which are distinguished for elegance of taste and correct and appropriate thought. It is hardly necessary so to speak of a volume from the Boston press, as well printed.

* * * * *

_History of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign
Missions. Compiled chiefly from the published and unpublished
documents of the Board. By Joseph Tracy. Second edition,
carefully revised and enlarged. One vol. 8vo. New York: M. W.
Dodd, 1842._

The American Missionary Society has doubtless done more for the promotion of religion and civilization than any other association in the world. Its progress, condition, and prospects must, therefore, be deeply interesting to the better classes of men in every country. The work before as is written with great care and ability, and brings the history of the society’s operations down to the commencement of the present year. It is compactly printed and illustrated by several engravings.

* * * * *

_The Poetical Remains of the late Lucy Hooper, with a Memoir, by
John Keese. One vol. 12mo. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart. New York,
Samuel Colman._

Lucy Hooper died last year in the city of Brooklyn, near New York, at the early age of twenty-four years. She had previously become widely known by her contributions, in prose and verse, to the periodicals, distinguished alike for their elegant diction, purity of thought, and womanly feeling. The Memoir, by Mr. Keese, is an admirable specimen of character-writing, and the work altogether is one of the most interesting of its kind published in this country. We regret our inability to give a more extended notice of it in this number of our magazine.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

To Readers And Correspondents.—It affords us great pleasure to state that the publisher of this magazine has entered into engagements with James Fenimore Cooper, the most popular of our country’s authors, by which we shall be enabled to present in every number, after that for September, an article from his pen. Mr. Cooper has never before been connected with any periodical. His works are so familiar to every reader in the old or the new world, that it is unnecessary to speak at length of the increase in interest and value our magazine will derive from his contributions.

Of Professor Longfellow’s poems several have already appeared in this magazine. He has recently completed a drama, in three acts, entitled “_The Spanish Student_,” the MS. of which is in our possession. It is the most elaborate, and will unquestionably prove to be the most popular of his poetical works. It will appear, entirely or in part, in our next number. Professor Longfellow is now abroad, in quest of health. From an exquisite poem addressed to him on the day of his departure, by his friend George S. Hillard, we quote the following stanza, joining heartily in the invocation—

Ye gales that breathe, ye founts that gush,
With renovating power,
Upon that loved and laurelled head,
Your gifts of healing shower:
And jocund Health that loves to climb
The breezy mountain side;
Wake with your touch, to bounding life,
His pulse’s languid tide!

The name of William Cullen Bryant—dear to the lovers of elegant literature wherever the English tongue is spoken—appears now, for the first time, on our pages. We have elsewhere given some opinions on his character as a poet, in which we doubt not every reader will concur.

“Henri Quatre, or the Days of the League” was republished in this country immediately after its appearance in London, and universally pronounced one of the best romances in the language. It has since passed through several editions, and is now incorporated with the standard works of fiction. The author, it will be perceived, has become a writer for this magazine, and the admirable story entitled “_De Pontis_,” of which the first part is given in the preceding pages, will sustain his high reputation.

Charles Fenno Hoffman, the accomplished author of “A Winter in the West,” “Wild Scenes in the Forest and the Prairie,” “Greyslaer,” “The Vigil of Faith,” etc., has also become a regular contributor, and our next number will contain a tale in his best manner.

Theodore S. Fay, author of “Norman Leslie,” “Reveries of a Quiet Man,” “The Countess Ida,” etc., and now United States Secretary of Legation at Berlin, will continue to write for our pages.

Henry T. Tuckerman, author of “Isabelle, or Sicily,” “The Italian Sketch Book,” “Rambles and Reveries,” etc., has likewise been engaged, and an article from his pen will appear in September.

Alfred B. Street, one of the best descriptive poets now living, has forwarded to us a beautiful poem which will also be published in the number for the next month.

One more part will complete Mr. Herbert’s spirited tale, “The Sisters.” We have received another article by this popular writer, which will soon be laid before our readers.

Niagara Falls.—This number of our magazine appears in the midst of “the hot season,” while the warmest aspirations of its readers are for “the cool retreats, the woodlands, and the waves.” In August no place is more attractive than _Niagara_—as our friend Schoolcraft, who understands better than any one else the Indian tongues, says the name should be pronounced—and the following letter from the _Cataract House_ will therefore be read with interest, especially by those who intend to visit the scenes it so admirably describes.

CATARACT HOUSE, Niagara Falls, July, 1842.

_Friend Griswold_:—Years, though not many, have weighed upon me since first, in boyhood, I gazed from the deck of a canal-boat upon the distant cloud of white vapor which marked the position of the world’s great cataract, and listened to catch the rumbling of its deep thunders. Circumstances did not then permit me to gratify my strong desire of visiting it; and now, when I am tempted to wonder at the stolidity of those who live within a day’s journey, yet live on through half a century without one glance at the mighty torrent, I am checked by the reflection that I myself passed within a dozen miles of it no less than five times before I was able to enjoy its magnificence. The propitious hour came at last, however; and, after a disappointed gaze from the upper terrace on the British side, (in which I half feared that the sheet of broken and boiling water above was all the cataract that existed,) and a rapid tortuous descent by the woody declivity, I stood at length on Table Rock, and the whole immensity of the tremendous avalanche of waters burst at once on my arrested vision, while Awe struggled with Amazement for the mastery of my soul.

This was late in October; I have twice revisited the scene amid the freshness and beauty of June; but I think the later Autumn is by far the better season. There is then a sternness in the sky, a plaintive melancholy in the sighing of the wind through the mottled forest foliage, which harmonizes better with the spirit of the scene. For the Genius of Niagára, O friend! is never a laughter-loving spirit. For the gaudy vanities, the petty pomps, the light follies of the hour, he has small sympathy. Let not the giddy heir bring here his ingots, the selfish aspirant his ambition, the libertine his victim, and hope to find enjoyment and gaiety in the presence. Let none come here to nurse his pride, or avarice, or any low desire. God and His handiwork here stand forth in lone sublimity; and all the petty doings and darings of the ants at the base of the pyramid appear in their proper insignificance. Few can have visited Niagára and left it no humbler, no graver than they came.

The common fault of visiters here, as of sight-seers elsewhere, is that of haste. Two hours are devoted to a scene which requires days, if not weeks, for its proper appreciation. Niagára, like St. Peter’s at Rome, enlarges on the vision; the mind must have time to expand ere it can grasp all its giant proportions. The first view always deludes and disappoints the gazer with regard to the height of the perpendicular fall; the vast scale on which Nature has fashioned her wonder-work deceives; the depth, and breadth, and volume, detract from the altitude; and I doubt if the larger number of new comers would not estimate the height at less than one half the one hundred and sixty feet which the line gives from surface above to surface below. Observation, however, soon corrects the error; if not, a walk down the interminable stairway, and a gaze upward at the ocean which seems to be poured from a window of heaven, will do it at once.

The giant masonry of Nature, which has so long interposed a barrier against the draining of Lake Erie into Ontario at a rush, and the consequent overwhelming of all the dwellers upon the latter and the St. Lawrence by a deluge, is evidently wearing away; I can perceive a decided change since I first stood here, seven years ago. The main or British fall is receding near the middle, and thus exchanging its original (or recent) form of a horseshoe for that of an irregular wedge. By this process the beauty and grandeur of the cataract are sensibly diminished. I understand that the recession here, under the pressure of so vast a body of water, has been so rapid as essentially to diminish the amount of water flowing on the American side of Goat Island, even within twenty years. Five hundred will probably suffice to dry this channel altogether; five thousand may or may not suffice to bring on the great convulsion which will destroy the falls entirely, change Lake Erie into a sandy valley divided by a rapid river, leave one half the Erie Canal without water, and change the whole face of Nature from Detroit to the Ocean, And why from Detroit only? It _may_ be that a barrier of rock equally firm prevents the immediate occurrence of a similar convulsion at the mouths of the Huron and Michigan, and thus the cataract will but be transferred to a point much nearer the Superior; yet I should deem it quite as likely that the final submersion of Niagara, if instantaneous, as it very probably will be, when the rocky barrier has been sapped and broken down so nearly through as no longer to afford adequate resistance to the intense pressure of Lake Erie, will be the signal for a convulsion so mighty as to change the whole topography of Central North America.

Since I wrote the foregoing, I have slept to the music of the great cataract, my window looking out on the foaming and hurrying waters of the American current, just before it is precipitated over the ledge. It has rained through a good part of the night, though the roar of the waters drowned completely the noise of the storm, and the morning is wet and forbidding, while a heavy fog or cloud detracts much from the grandeur of the scene. My morning walk along the American shore has been less satisfactory than any previous observation, the water suspended in vapor somewhat shrouding the spectacle, while that falling or fallen detracts likewise from the comfort of all but web-footed travellers. No matter—I did not meditate any precise description of the Fall, and shall not attempt it. The readers of your Magazine, I presume, are mainly of the class who have either been here or intend to see for themselves at a fitting season. And beside, description avails very little in such a case. It is only by its comparisons and assimilations of the unknown with the known that description enlightens—and what has the world to compare with Niagara?

A few hints to visiters must close this hasty epistle. They tell you, good friends, that the best view of the Cataract is that from the Canada side; and so it is; but it is far from being the _only_ good or even necessary view. The details are essential to the completeness and fulness of your impression, and those are only gleaned from hours of intent observation from all positions. The very best view is probably that from Table Rock; the next best perhaps that from under the same, on the point just before passing behind the grand curtain, when having descended the winding stairway and scrambled over some rods of shale between the beetling cliff and the whirling basin, forcing your way through an eternal tempest of wind and rain such as upper earth endures but once in many years, you stand at length directly face to face with the mighty torrent, and put your hands, if you please, into the edge of its very self. You look up, and the columnar sea seems pouring from the very sky overhead; you now learn to appreciate more justly the vast height of the Fall; as you gaze, the impending water seems to advance upon, and the next moment likely to dash over and whelm you.

But these are not alone as points of deepest interest; and I think some of the many views from Goat Island scarcely inferior in impressiveness, while superior in softness and beauty. The noble forest, the velvet turf, the glowing sun-beams, the unconstrained stillness of all things save the Great Cataract itself, fitly blend with and modify the first sensations of unapproachable grandeur and power. The stern severity, the austere majesty of the scene is softened down; and we return to our primal knowledge of Nature under no stepmother aspect, but as a sympathizing confidant and friend. I must break off.

Yours,

H. G.

* * * * *

John Fitch.—Our readers will be pleased to learn that Miss Leslie is preparing for the press a Memoir of this remarkable man, to whom the world is really indebted for the most important of modern discoveries. While Fitch was in London Miss Leslie’s father was one of his warmest friends, and the papers of her family enable her to give many particulars of his history unknown to other biographers. A year or two since, we wrote a brief account of the eccentric and unfortunate inventor, which led to an interesting correspondence with several eminent persons who had been acquainted with him. Among the letters which we received was the following, from the venerable Noah Webster, LL. D., of New Haven.

_Dear Sir_:—In your notice of John Fitch you justly remark that
his biography is still a desideratum. The facts related of him
by Mr. St. John to Mr. Stone, and published in the New York
Commercial Advertiser, are new to me; and never before had I
heard of Mr. Fitch at _Sharon_, in Connecticut; but I know Mr.
St. John very well, and cannot discredit his testimony any more
than I can Mr. Stone’s memory. The substance of the account
given of Mr. Fitch by the indefatigable J. W. Barber, in his
Connecticut Historical Collections, is as follows: John Fitch
was born in East Windsor, in Connecticut, and apprenticed to Mr.
Cheney, a watch and clock-maker of East Hartford, now
Manchester, a new town separated from East Hartford. He married,
but did not live happily with his wife, and he left her and went
to New Brunswick, in New Jersey, where he set up the business of
clock-making, engraving, and repairing muskets, before the
revolution. When New Jersey was invaded by the British troops,
Mr. Fitch removed into the interior of Pennsylvania, where he
employed his time in repairing arms for the army.

Mr. Fitch conceived the project of steam navigation in 1785, as
appears by his advertisement. He built his boat in 1787. In my
Diary I have noted that I visited the boat, lying at the wharf
in the Delaware, on the ninth day of February, 1787. The
Governor and Council were so much gratified with the success of
the boat that they presented Mr. Fitch with a superb flag. About
that time the company aiding Mr. Fitch sent him to France, at
the request of Mr. Vail, our Consul at L’Orient, who was one of
the company. But this was when France began to be agitated by
the revolution, and nothing in favor of Mr. Fitch was
accomplished; he therefore returned. Mr. Vail afterwards
_presented to Mr. Fulton for examination the papers of Mr.
Fitch_, containing his scheme of steam navigation. After Mr.
Fitch returned to this country, he addressed a letter to Mr.
Rittenhouse, in which he predicted that in time the _Atlantic
would be crossed by steam power_; he complained of his poverty,
and urged Mr. Rittenhouse to buy his land in Kentucky, for
raising funds to complete his scheme. But he obtained no
efficient aid. Disappointed in his efforts to obtain funds, he
resorted to indulgence in drink; he retired to Pittsburgh, and
finally ended his life by plunging into the Alleghany. His books
and papers he bequeathed to the Philadelphia Library, with the
injunction that they were to remain closed for thirty years. At
the end of that period, the papers were opened, and found to
contain a minute account of his perplexities and
disappointments. Thus far the narration of Mr. Barber, who
refers for authority to the American edition of the Edinburgh
Encyclopedia. It may be worth while for some gentleman to
attempt to find these papers.

N. WEBSTER.

Rufus W. Griswold.

The papers to which Dr. Webster alludes in the above letter have been examined by Miss Leslie, and the curious details they contain of Fitch’s early life, his courtship, unfortunate marriage, captivity among the Indians, experiments, etc. will be embraced in her work, which will undoubtedly be one of the most interesting biographies in our language.

* * * * *

William L. Stone, author of “The Life of Brant,” “Life and Eloquence of Red Jacket,” “History of Wyoming,” etc., is now engaged on another important historical work to be called “The Life and Times of Sir William Johnson.” It will embrace accounts of the French wars in America from 1743 to 1849, and from 1754 to 1761, which resulted in the conquest of Canada. With this interesting period no writer is more familiar than Mr. Stone, and he will unquestionably produce a volume of great value.

* * * * *

Segur’s Life of Charles VIII.—Among the new works soon to appear is the Memoir of Charles VIII., King of France, by Count Philip De Segur, author of the “History of Napoleon’s Campaigns in Russia,” etc., translated by Richard R. Montgomery, of this city. It is one of the most interesting books ever written. In its style it resembles the Chronicles of Philip de Comines.

* * * * *

Mr. Stevens, the Traveller.—Mr. Stevens, with Mr. Catherwood who accompanied him as draughtsman, has returned a second time from Central America, and is now busily engaged on a new work in regard to the curious antiquities of that country. It will be published by the Harpers, during the autumn.

* * * * *

William Gilmore Simms.—Mr. Simms has become editor of “The Magnolia,” a monthly literary magazine, recently established at Charleston. No man in the South is so well qualified for the office. We give him joyfully the right hand of fellowship.

* * * * *

Mr. Cooper.—“La Few Follet, or Wing-and-Wing, a Nautical Tale,” by the author of the “Spy,” will appear in a few weeks. The scene of the story is the Mediterranean, in 1799. It will be published simultaneously in Philadelphia and London.

* * * * *

John Augustus Shea.—This gentleman has in press a collection of his poetical writings, of which we shall take due notice on its appearance.

* * * * *

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.

[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 2, August 1842_, George R. Graham, Editor]