Chapter XII: Part VII (3)

Oh! the difficulty of imagining oneself a spirit, with such fleshly reminders! _Could_ I stand another moment? I looked as pleadingly as I could about me, but nobody moved. Getting out seemed impossible, for the passage was crowded. Oh! how I longed for “the good old days, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind”—not forgetting somebody to find me the _best seat_! It was no place to be in love with _equality_. I was (it was very wrong, I know, and I might not be so tempted when awake,) I was ready to sign myself Esau, jun.—barter my birthright of intellect, and power, and independence, in short, every thing we had gained by the Reform, for but the strong arm and protecting presence to take me through that crowd. Luckily, I lacked the means of making my madness practical, for not an arm offered itself, and not a face turned toward me for any better purpose than to favor me with a familiar stare—an expressive acknowledgment of _equality_, which had been one of the first features of the Reform.

“Rather tiresome standing,” observed the burly individual before mentioned, seeing me balance on my toes, and twist from side to side, and try by various other methods of equal importance to rid myself of my fatigue. “Rather tiresome standing,” and he changed his comfortable position for one of like comfort; and stretched his arms along the back of his seat with provoking complacency. I assented with a sigh.

“Missed it not coming earlier,” and he lolled back, resting his big head on his own shoulders. Wouldn’t I have liked to be Robin Goodfellow, to give him a pinch or two? There was no prospect of any body’s vacating a seat; my limbs ached, I gasped for breath, reeled, and clutched instinctively at the nearest object. It was the shaggy locks adorning the big head; and they shook like a lion’s mane, recalling me to my senses in time to evade the compliment of a doubled fist, which the bewildered and resentful owner seemed inclined to offer me.

“I wonder if anybody would carry me out if I should faint,” thought I; but I was not given to fainting, and I doubted whether I could do it with the proper grace, though to be sure, gracefulness was a matter of little moment, since (pardon! sleeping ears are dull, and my harsh word is from Dreamland) _help one’s-self-fulness_ came into vogue. “What _will_ become of me?”

“You little trembling simpleton,” whispered the Reform-spirit, “strengthen up your head, and plant your foot firmly. Your fatigue is all in the imagination. See how patiently those men are standing yonder!—_imitate them_.”

“If I could. But what a hero the imagination must be to bring upon me all these tortures!”

“You must control it—though, perhaps, it is expecting rather too much of you at once; particularly as regards the physical woman.” (Woman was the new name for the human race, not that the arguments in favor of its adoption had been so very potent, but, luckily, the women had the majority in the Senate.) “There is a barber’s shop over the way; you had better walk in and rest yourself.”

“But how shall I get out? the passage is crowded.”

“Oh, never mind that—you can easily make an opening. Just put on a look of resolution and walk straight-forward. They will grumble and push some, but they will let you pass.”

“Ah! the look of resolution! Where am I to get it?”

“Why, if you are a miserable, paltry coward, of course, the meanness will be visible on your countenance, and you cannot hope to deceive anybody. The truth is, modesty has been stripped of its false charms lately, and shown to be nothing more nor less than rank cowardice. What is it that makes your head droop, and your cheeks redden? Are you afraid anybody will harm you?”

This was a little too much; and my cheeks grew redder, but my head elevated itself. “No! it is a something which God planted in my bosom, something of which no Reform can rob me, an inherent principle to which that judge, that lawyer, and those jury-women, are all doing violence to-day—a light electric chain circling the fairy ring, which Heaven intended should be our sphere; a chain which makes its subtle fluid tell on every nerve, when it is handled too rudely, and which, when broken—oh, wo to those who have the strength or daring to break it!”

“Heresy! rank heresy! Why, you would be hooted at, mobbed in the streets, if you were heard to avow such sentiments.”

“Ay, I know it. That is one of our _rights_, secured to us by the Reform—the right to be mobbed—and behold, another!”

The lungs of the _lawyeress_ had been exerted until her voice had broken and sunk into a hoarse whisper. “Louder!” “Louder!” “Louder!” came the cries from every part of the court-room. “Order!” “Order!” “Order!” rung out the echo. The court put on all its dignity, and looked very portentous; the constables exerted themselves manfully (_womanfully_;) the _lawyeress_ raised a last screech, and the crowd hissed and groaned.

“Carry her out! carry her out! she has swooned!” shouted several voices; and an old seaman at my elbow, gave, with a round oath, his opinion that it was “only a woman’s trick to steer clear of the breakers.” He added a grumbling word or two about the doings of a certain _captainess_ in a late storm; but at this moment I caught a glimpse of the face of the lady-lawyer as she was borne past me; I started with surprise, and awoke. That I should have such a vision of _my cousin_ “_’Bel_!” Well,

“If it comes three times, I thought, I’ll take it for a sign.” Oh! if it should!

* * * * *

“ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?”

BY S. DRYDEN PHELPS.

’Tis sweet to think that spirits pure and holy,
Are often hovering round the pilgrim here,
To banish thoughts of grief and melancholy,
And bid the trembling heart forget to fear.

Bright angel forms, on soft and airy pinions,
Like carrier birds, the messengers of love,
Leave the fair precincts of the blest dominions,
With choicest favors from the world above.

They come, and give to solitude its pleasures,
And throw a hallowed charm around the heart;
Bear up the thoughts to heaven’s unfading treasures,
Where kindred spirits meet no more to part.

They come, from those celestial hills descending,
Sent by the bounteous Ruler of the skies;
We feel their presence with our spirits blending,
When evening orisons to heaven arise.

They come, when o’er the sorrowing heart is stealing
The wasting blight of earth’s consuming wo;
They come, a ray of heavenly light revealing,
Amidst the darkness of our path below.

They come to dry the mourner’s fount of sadness,
To pour their blessings on the drooping head;
And bid the soul awake to hope and gladness,
Along the vistas of the future spread.

The mother, whose beloved infant slumbers,
Cold, in the silent chamber of the tomb,
Oft hears its pleasing voice, like seraph’s numbers,
Fall on her ear amidst surrounding gloom.

The lonely orphan, by the world forsaken,
Oft seems the kindness of the dead to share;
And feels a thrill of new-born joy awaken,
As if embraced with fond, parental care.

The saddened lover, and the joyless maiden,
Stript of their cherished ones by death’s chill hand,
Commune with their returning spirits, laden
With love undying from the glorious land.

Joy for the mission of those guileless creatures—
That Heaven to us such guardians should send;
Oh, wear they not the well-remembered features
Of many an early loved and long lost friend?

Ye sainted forms of dearest ones departed,
Methinks I hear your music in the breeze;
And oft, ’mid scenes of sadness, lonely-hearted,
My spirit’s eye your joyful presence sees.

Still, still around my chequered pathway hover—
’Tis sweet to hold communion with the pure;
And welcome me at last, when life is over,
Where love and joy eternal shall endure!

* * * * *

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. VI.

VELVET DUCK. (_Oidemia fusca._ Fleming.)

Another of the family of the Anatidæ, common to the waters of the Chesapeake, is the Velvet Duck. This species, like the Scoter Duck, with which it is often confounded, feeds entirely upon shell-fish, which it procures by diving. Though the flesh of the old birds has a rank, fishy flavor, they are much sought after in some parts of the country; and the young birds, whose flesh affords better eating, meet with a ready sale in our markets. The Velvet Duck is distinguished from the other dark species of the sub-genus Oidemia, by the name of the White-winged Coot. The Velvet Duck is nearly related to the Black, or Surf Duck, which breeds along the shores of Hudson’s Bay, and extends its migrations as far south as Florida. Its flesh is remarkably red and dark when cooked, is fishy, and has little to recommend it; the young birds are better flavored, but the whole are of little consequence as game. Commonly associated with the Velvet Duck is another kindred species, the Scoter. They are common in the bay and sounds near New York, and in the Chesapeake. Like the American Scoter and the Velvet Duck, their flesh has a rank and oily taste—the young birds only being considered palatable by epicures. All these fishy flavored birds, in the times when the use of flesh was prohibited with great strictness during Lent, were decided by the ecclesiastical authorities to be a sort of fish which might be eaten with impunity. They all have the bill broad and gibbous above the nostrils; its margins dilated; camelliform teeth, coarse; the nostrils large and elevated, and nearly in the middle of the bill; the tail numbers fourteen feathers. The prevailing color of the plumage is black in the males, in the females brown. They do not come much upon the fresh waters, but keep the shores of the sea, and find great part of their food by diving. Their breeding places are not much known, but it is supposed that they resort far to the northward. Most of them are common to the northern parts of both hemispheres.

THE SUMMER OR WOOD DUCK. (_Anas Sponsa._ Wilson.)

Linnæus has justly conferred upon this most beautiful of all the species of Duck the name of _Sponsa_, or the Bride. The name of Summer Duck it has derived from the circumstance of its remaining with us all the summer; and its habit of breeding in hollow trees, has gained for it the appellation of Wood Duck. It rarely visits the sea-shore, or salt marshes; its favorite haunts being the solitary, deep, and muddy creeks, ponds, and mill-dams of the interior, making its nest in old trees that overhang the water, and carrying its young to the ground in its bill. The food of this duck consists principally of acorns, seeds of the wild oats, and insects. Their flesh is inferior to that of the Blue-Winged Teal; and they are not uncommon in the market of Philadelphia. Latham says that they are often kept in European Menageries, and will breed there. Wilson, from whose account we have extracted the above statements, furnishes a description of the plumage of this duck, which we subjoin, as it is so exceedingly accurate as not to admit of any improvement. The Wood Duck is nineteen inches in length, and two feet four in extent; bill red, margined with black; a spot of black lies between the nostrils, reaching nearly to the tip, which is also of the same color, and furnished with a large hooked nail; irides, orange red; front crown, and pendent crest, rich glossy bronze green, ending in violet, elegantly marked with a line of pure white running from upper mandible over the eye, and with another band of white proceeding from behind the eye, both mingling their long, pendent plumes with the green and violet ones, producing a rich effect; cheeks and sides of the upper neck, violet; chin, throat, and collar round the neck, pure white, curving up in the form of a crescent nearly to the posterior part of the eye; the white collar is bounded below with black; breast, dark violet brown, marked on the fore part with minute triangular spots of white, increasing in size until they spread into the white of the belly; each side of the breast is bounded by a large crescent, and again by a broader one of deep black; sides under the wings thickly and beautifully marked with fine undulating parallel lines of black, on a ground of yellowish-drab; the flanks are ornamented with broad alternate semicircular bands of black and white; sides of the vent rich, light violet; tail-coverts, long, of a hair-like texture at the sides, over which they descend, and of a deep black, glossed with green; back, dusky-bronze, reflecting green; scapulars, black; tail tapering, dark, glossy-green above, below, dusky; primaries, dusky, silvery-hoary without, tipped with violet blue; secondaries, greenish-blue, tipped with white; wing-coverts, violet blue, tipped with black; vent, dusky; legs and feet, yellowish-red; claws, strong and hooked.

AMERICAN TEAL. (_Anas Crecca._ Wilson.)

The Green-Winged, or American Teal, (_Anas Crecca, Wilson_,) has received the name of American Teal from the naturalists of Europe, as being a distinct species from their own, an error exposed in a satisfactory manner by Wilson. Like the Summer Duck, it prefers fresh water, and frequents ponds, marshes, and the reedy shores of creeks and rivers. It is very abundant among the rice plantations of the Southern States; and its flesh is accounted excellent food. It is said to breed in Hudson’s Bay, and to have from five to seven young at a time. It is known, according to Latham and Bewick, to build in France and England, but, so far as we know, it does not breed in the United States. The Common Teal is so highly esteemed in England as to bring five shillings a pound in the London market. We believe that as our sportsmen become in a greater degree scientific naturalists, an advance which cannot be much longer delayed in this progressive age, the highly interesting class of the Anatidæ will become accurately known, the concealment with which it has hitherto been suffered to cloak its habits and its history, will be torn away, and the artifices of the naturalists exposed, who are far too prone, when unable to point out the proper locality of any duck, at any season, to “send it to Siberia,” and put it into sort of Arctic parchment. Thus with many of the ducks, but of those that have been said to rear their broods in the inhospitable climes of the north, very many have never been seen there; and we are greatly inclined to believe that many described as winter visitants are resident birds, passing the summer dispersedly, and in places where they have but little chance of being seen. After the pairing time, the males are peculiarly retired and silent; and the close sitting females do not come abroad until they are able to launch their young ducklings upon that element of which they are in future to be so much the ornament.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The Life of Napoleon Buonaparte. By William Hazlitt. New York:
Wiley & Putnam. 6 Parts, 12mo._

Hazlitt never mistook his powers more than when he aspired to write history and biography. As a critic and essayist his brilliancy and acuteness compensate, in a considerable degree, for his bitterness and prejudice; but as a historian, his faults of mind and disposition are too glaringly evident to pass without rebuke. He could not have selected a subject where his unfitness was more apparent than that of Napoleon. His admiration of the “child and champion of the Revolution,” and his hatred of the established governments of Europe, amounted to a disease. His production, therefore, though containing many striking thoughts, and some splendid composition, reads more like a vigorous party pamphlet than an impartial history. Every thing is seen through a distorting medium of rage and prejudice. The political sins of the monarchs he condemns and inveighs against, were of the same kind which Napoleon himself had no scruple in committing, and we see no reason why an usurper of superior power and abilities, should be puffed for the same crimes for which his adversaries are hooted at. Falsehood and perfidy should be especially branded when they are committed by apostate patriots, and champions of the rights of man. It is well known that Napoleon, among the many “infirmities” of his genius, was one of the greatest liars that ever existed. He not only disregarded truth, but had a contempt for it. One would suppose that such a quality as this ought to give a slightly dark shade to his character, even as delineated by a servile biographer. But Hazlitt’s faith in his hero is proof against all sense and propriety; and, in the name of democracy, he baptizes the most tyrannical and infamous acts committed by the most despotic of modern sovereigns.

This book resembles Carlyle’s Cromwell in its object—and its object is detestable. If history is to be written to any good purpose, the historian must not adopt the passions of the time he describes as the principles by which he judges of persons and events. History, written on the model of Hazlitt or Carlyle, would become more corrupting than the most licentious novels. Men of great abilities, loaded though they be with offences against human nature, would be held up as appropriate examples; and every ambitious politician would be practically told, that the way to win the gratitude of posterity was to trample on the rights of the governed, and violate every principle of legislation and morals. No historian of any acuteness can be at a loss for plausible excuses for crimes if his love for the criminal exceeds his love for justice and truth. The course by which Carlyle makes Cromwell out the wisest and most religious of men, and reconciles morality with massacre, might be advantageously employed to extenuate the offences of many an unfortunate gentleman whom society exhibits on a gallows, or employs in the business of pounding stone in its prisons. There are already too many temptations in the way of selfish ambition to make it desirable that historians should add another.

* * * * *

_American Comedies. By James K. Paulding and William Irving
Paulding. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume contains four comedies, the first of which, entitled “The Bucktails, or Americans in England,” is the production of James K. Paulding, and the remaining three of W. I. Paulding, a young man scarcely one-and-twenty. “The Bucktails” was written shortly after the last war with England. The sentiment of the play, and a good portion of the humor, are somewhat old. The ignorance of the English characters is somewhat overcharged, and the nationality of the American too obtrusively impertinent. The fun of the piece is apt to run either into mere caricature or jokes “which no young lady should read.” There is, however, with many defects in plot and characterization, considerable merit in the dialogue, which is sharp, brisk, and terse, and explodes at times, like a series of percussion caps. The last act is very clumsy, and the patches of blank verse put into the mouths of Frank and Jane, positively ridiculous. We are surprised that Mr. Paulding did not re-write the play, and prune it of many obvious absurdities. It contains a great deal that is excellent.

The remaining comedies are “The Noble Exile,” “Madmen All,” and “Antipathies, or The Enthusiasts by the Ears.” They are the production of a young man of evident talent, and give promise of much excellence in the department of literature to which he has devoted his powers; but they are crude in their present shape, and many of the faults and follies they satirize have been repeatedly ridiculed in the same way. We should judge, also, that the writer’s favorite author was Ben Jonson—a bad model, though a man of great talents and remarkable character. The most laughable piece of comic writing in the plays, is the second scene in the second act of Madmen All, in which Phil, assuming the character of a Vicksburg “screamer,” bamboozles an Englishman with stories of the character and manners of the South and West. Phil is asked what were his sensations on being blown up in a Mississippi steamer, and he replies—“Why, sir, it is the pleasantest and most elevating feeling you can imagine. May I be scalped, sir, if it is not just like being kicked into chaos. No man, sir, knows what the sublimity of life is until he has had a biler burst under him.” The whole scene is exceedingly spirited and effective. Indeed, Mr. Paulding wants but culture and practice to make a good dramatist. The present volume is rather an indication than an exponent of his capacity. He does individual scenes well, and here and there hits off a character happily; but he does not so combine his plot and personages as to produce an artistical effect upon the mind.

* * * * *

_History of the Roman Republic. By J. Michelet. Translated by
William Hazlitt. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

In this work Michelet displays his usual qualities of style, with, perhaps, more condensation of remark and peremptoriness of judgment. He never writes without having studied his subject thoroughly, and he seems to conceive that this elaborate preparation qualifies him to decide all debateable points. His intellect has some vices of system, and he is too apt to run his facts into the forms of his theories, and generalize where he ought to narrate. He states an event in language which also contains an opinion of the event. He also bothers the unlearned reader by narrating occasionally by allusion and implication, and thus is condensed at the expense of simplicity and clearness. The present work, though very able and interesting, requires a previous knowledge of Roman history to be appreciated, as much almost as Carlyle’s “French Revolution” demands a previous acquaintance with French history. It is rather an addition to the other histories of the republic, by a man of original and splendid powers, than a work embodying a complete history in itself.

Michelet’s power of picturesque description and delineation of character, and his faculty of applying principles to events, are displayed prominently in this work. His sympathy with the Roman people and their objects, is also strikingly manifested. Nothing but an extended review of the book could do justice to its mingled wisdom and extravagance. The chief defect in this, as in every work of the author, is the obtrusion of his own peculiar personality into every picture and reflection. We cannot get a view of Hannibal, Scipio, Cæsar, Brutus, or Anthony, without seeing Michelet by his side, doing the honors of introduction, and warning us that his is the only shop where the true article may be obtained.

* * * * *

_Spaniards and their Country. By Richard Ford. Part 2. New York:
Wiley & Putnam._

The second portion of this work is as amusing as the first. It does not give us a high opinion of the author, if we except the gratitude we naturally feel to a person who sacrifices his personal dignity for the pleasure of his reader. The book is flippant, light-hearted, and often shallow, with the egotism and arrogance of the Englishman, modified by the graceful impudence of the Parisian; but it is singularly acute in the detection of the qualities which immediately underlie the superficies of national character, and singularly brilliant in style and description. Without any very sparkling passages, its tone of pleasantry is uniformly sustained, and draws the reader on to the conclusion by the fascination of its volatile spirit. The subject is comparatively new, and rich in materials of interest. These advantages the author has skillfully improved, and made a book worth a hundred “Tours in Spain,” written by gentlemen with a philosophical tone of mind. There is a spirit of enjoyment in the book which is communicated to the mind of the reader. As the author, good-naturedly, takes the world as it is, the reader is content to take him as he is; and thus his coxcombry excites no anger, and his pleasantry is left to operate undisturbed.

* * * * *

_Hyperion. By H. W. Longfellow. Fourth Edition. Boston: Wm. D.
Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an elegant and tasteful edition of an exquisite book. It has been deservedly the most successful of the author’s prose compositions. Indeed, as a proof of the fertility of Longfellow’s imagination, the delicacy and sweetness of his sentiment, and his general poetic view of nature and life, we should appeal to this romance as readily as to his poems. It is full of delicious imagery, beautiful description, and striking thoughts, and the style is richly sensuous and musical. The strain of sentiment running through the book, however, is not strong and bracing enough for our climate. Its general tone is too much that of a sad sweetness, though passages are replete with a firmer and sterner feeling. It reminds one more of Fletcher than Milton; of the “Faithful Shepherdess” than of “Comus.” The leading characteristic of Longfellow’s mind is that peculiar blending of sensation with imagination, commonly called sensuousness—a characteristic of all poetic genius, but which is apt to bewitch the soul with a sense of the beauty of things, to the forgetfulness of their other qualities and relations, and by this forgetfulness to lead the mind away from the contemplation of the highest intellectual and moral beauty. “Hyperion,” however, ranks among the first books of its kind in English letters, and might be appropriately entitled, “Prose, by a Poet.”

* * * * *

_Chefs-d’Œuvre Dramatiques de la Langue Française. Par A. G.
Collot. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an excellent French Reader, worth a thousand of the common collections going under the name. It contains whole dramas by Corneille, Racine, Voltaire, Molière, Piron, Scribe, and Berquin, carefully edited, with explanations to facilitate the progress of the student. Such a work has long been wanted. It enables the student to study the French language as used by some of the master-spirits among Frenchmen. As a collection of five dramas, also, it will be interesting to many who understand the language, but are unable to purchase the whole works of the authors from whom the plays are selected.

* * * * *

_Probabilities: An Aid to Faith. By the Author of “Proverbial
Philosophy.” New York: Wiley & Putnam._

Tupper seems to have been a little crazed by his popularity, and to have obtained the idea that he was a great philosopher. The result of this self-deceit is contained in the present little book. We confess we have been unable to wade through it. To compel a critic to read a series of works like this, would drive him into the insane hospital in a month. One of the probabilities of Tupper is, that the star Acyone, which Dr. Madier considers the central sun of the systems of stars known to us, is the place of the Christian Heaven, and that our moon is Hell. This may be classed under those probabilities which are important, if true. To use an austere remark of Dr. Johnson, the elaborate consideration of all the trash in this volume, would be to “waste criticism on unresisting imbecility.”

* * * * *

_The Amenities of Literature, consisting of Sketches and
Characters of English Literature. By J. D’Israeli. New York:
Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._

This is the fourth edition of a work peculiarly valuable to the student of English literature. It consists of original investigations into the mines of English letters, with some curious speculations grounded upon the results. D’Israeli, however, with all his merit as a literary antiquary, will never be an interesting author. His works are labor-saving machines to all critics and miscellaneous writers, and will always be read; but they are incurably dull. It is fortunate that he did not write a history of English literature. There is no juice in the man. The dust of old folios has entered into his soul, and given an arid character to every opinion and expression. We say this with many twinges of conscience, for he has spent his life in researches which have saved better writers years of toilsome investigation.

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_Froissart Ballads. By Philip Pendleton Cooke. Phila.: Carey &
Hart._

This is one of the most delightful volumes which we have met with for many a day. We have long known and admired the fugitive poems of Mr. Cooke, and now heartily welcome our old favorites, with their new companions, in the beautiful dress which the publishers have given them. In the “Proem To Emily” there is an exquisite freshness which delights us exceedingly. We hardly know how to characterize the peculiar beauty of its spirit; but it seems, while reading it, as if we were dreaming in the delicious shade of quiet trees, and looking down upon golden valleys, wherein pass to and fro the valiant knights, stately dames, and lovely maids of the misty days of chivalry. So it _seems_ while perusing the proem, but in the “Master of Bolton,” we have the reality, and it no longer seems. This poem, while being in Mr. Cooke’s peculiar and happiest vein, has about it a dash, which strikes us as Scott-like, and a spice of the “Christabel;” not in a degree, however, which could be said to amount to imitation, but evincing rather, a mind sensitive to the same romantic impressions. What could be more beautiful and graphic than the following characteristic sketch—or rather let us say picture, which we extract from the “Master of Bolton?”

“All heard a merry signal cry,
And a swift heron, from a marsh,
Mounted with sudden scream, and harsh,
Beating the air in wild alarm.
Then hawks were cast from many an arm;
And it was a gallant sight to see
The fleet birds tower so valiantly,
Each for the vanguard challenging,
But none went forth so swift of wing—
Mounted so boldly on the wind,
As the brave bird of Jocelind.

With winnow and soar he won the height
At point above the quarry’s flight,
And balanced in air, and made his stoop;
But the swift heron shunned the swoop,
And, wheeling aside, a moment stayed,
Just over the gazing cavalcade;
A wild-eyed, terror-stricken bird
The Kentish hawk had canceliered,
But now drove back upon his prey,
Ire-whetted for the fresh assay.
The lady’s heart with pity filled,
The quarry’s mortal dread to see,
And in her gentleness she willed
To ward its dire extremity;
With uplift hands and eager eyes,
And cheeks bereft of their rosy dyes,
‘Gawen, my Gawen! come back,’ she cried,
The hawk, true vassal, turned aside,
Doubtful, upon his pinions wide,
Then, like a servant of a charm,
Sank to his perch on the lady’s arm,
The damsel in her loveliness,
Made lovelier by that kind distress,
Repaid the bold bird’s loyalty
With gentleness of hand and eye.
That silver call, so sweet to hear,
When will it die on the master’s ear?
‘My Gawen—come back!’ the truth to say,
He pondered the words for many a day.”

It must be remembered that the bird had been named in honor of his former owner, the Master of Bolton, and this was he

“Who pondered the words for many a day.”

Mark, too, a little further on, how gloriously our author reproduces the iron-rattle and fiery jostle of the tourney:

“Into the lists Sir Gawen rides,
Manful upon his charger black,”

to break a lance for his lady’s sake.

“At signal of a bugle blast—
Sharp and sudden sound,
The knights set forward, fiery fast,
And met in middle ground;
Met with stern shock of man and horse,
And din of crashing spears;
But neither champion won the course,
They parted there like peers.
Again! again! and respite none
Will not Lord Siampi yield,
Swift he demands, with haughty tone,
Renewal of the field!
Whereto, Sir Gawen urged to speak,
Answers as haughtily,
‘By God! sir knight, I nothing seek
So much as strife with thee.’
Thus spake he, and his visor closed,
As to his post he passed;
Again the armed men opposed
Await the signal blast!
Sudden it came, with hearts of flame,
The champions, at the sound,
Drove each his steed at furious speed,
And met in middle ground.
The Frankish champion struck amain—
Struck with a force so dire—
On Gawen’s helmet, that his brain
Streamed with a flood of fire.
But Gawen smote the knight of France,
Full on his sturdy breast,
And driven, perforce, the trusty lance
Through shield and corselet prest—
Crashing through steel, the weapon good,
Lord Siampi’s bosom found,
Nor broke until the sudden blood
Gushed darkly from the wound.
Manful against the lance’s force
Lord Siampi bore him well,
And passed Sir Gawen in the course,
All upright in his selle—
But with the gallop of his horse,
He reeled—and swayed—and fell!”

“The Mountains,” “Florence Vane,” the poem of “The Bards,” and “Young Rosalie Lee,” are exquisite gems. Altogether, this volume of “Froissart Ballads, and Other Poems,” fully deserves the hearty reception, which we are glad to see so universally extended to it by the press.

* * * * *

_A System of Intellectual Philosophy. By Rev. Asa Mahan. Second
Edition. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work is written by one who has evidently studied intellectual philosophy with all the ardor of a lover. The book presents, in a compact form, a system of metaphysics, whose basis is spiritualism. The author acknowledges his indebtedness to Coleridge, Kant, and Cousin. The leading ideas of these philosophers frequently appear in the work. We are aware of no book which gives in a small space, so much that is valuable to the student and thinker. We have been particularly pleased with the analysis of Imagination and Fancy, and the accounts of the various German systems of metaphysics.

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_An Exposition of the Apocalypse. By David N. Lord. New York:
Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This work is valuable to all theologians, and also to all who desire light on the dark topics it discusses. It is very able, and does honor to the author’s learning and ingenuity. We especially admire the courage with which Mr. Lord grapples with the difficulties of his subject. Such a work must have been the result of the patient toil of many years.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook. A cover has been created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain.

page 266, Frith about noon, ==> Firth about noon, page 267, and unforseen event. ==> and unforeseen event. page 270, posssessed of an art, ==> possessed of an art, page 274, the _attacheé_, or the financier. ==> the _attaché_, or the financier. page 275, the rich farmers’s house, ==> the rich farmer’s house, page 277, they eat enough, ==> they ate enough, page 279, enough; and and if it’s ==> enough; and if it’s page 281, The blackberrys grow by ==> The blackberries grow by page 281, And its grown to a ==> And it’s grown to a page 282, baldric and the feather ==> baldrick and the feather page 284, boddice of her dark ==> bodice of her dark page 289, supper-bell rung, which ==> supper-bell rang, which page 290, she answerd, “a mere ==> she answered, “a mere page 296, assembled at Beverley ==> assembled at Beverly page 296, relatives of the Beverly’s, ==> relatives of the Beverlys, page 296, I am _une de trop_. ==> I am _un de trop_. page 297, Frank felt irresistably ==> Frank felt irresistibly page 297, sung well. Frank ==> sang well. Frank page 297, Never sung so sweet ==> Never sang so sweet page 300, it be Byron’s, Shelly’s, ==> it be Byron’s, Shelley’s, page 301, captal willian, I call ==> capital willian, I call page 303, his own arrangemants. He ==> his own arrangements. He page 317, under the _old regimé_ ==> under the _old régime_ page 317, gingling of a bell ==> jingling of a bell page 319, raised a last screach, ==> raised a last screech,

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 5, May 1847]