Chapter II (4)

Investigation has shown that the Condor is merely a large, perhaps not the largest of the vultures. “The Condor,” writes Mr. Bennett, “forms the type of a genus, a second species of which is the _Vultur papa_ of Linnæus, the king of the vultures of British writers. They are both peculiar to the New World, but approach in their most essential characters very closely to the vultures of the Old Continent, differing from the latter principally in the large, fleshy, or rather cartilaginous, caruncle which surmounts their beaks, in the large size of their oval and longitudinal nostrils, placed almost at the very extremity of the cere; and in the comparative length of their quill feathers, the third being the longest of the series. The most important of these differences, the size and position of their nostrils, appears to be well calculated to add to the already highly powerful sense of smell possessed by the typical vulture, and for which the birds have been almost proverbially celebrated from the earliest ages. There is also a third species, the Californian vulture, two noble specimens of which, the only pair in Europe, are preserved in the London Zoological Society’s Museum, rivaling the Condor in bulk, and agreeing in every respect with the generic characters of the group, except in the existence of the caruncle, of which they are entirely destitute.

“In size the Condor is little, if at all, superior to the Bearded Griffin, the Lämmergeyer of the Alps, with which Buffon was disposed conjecturally to confound it, but to which it bears at most but a distant relation. The greatest authentic measurement scarcely carries the extent of its wings beyond fourteen feet, and it appears rarely to attain so gigantic a size. M. Humboldt met with none that exceeded nine feet, and was assured by many credible inhabitants of the province of Quito that they had never shot any that measured more than eleven. The length of a male specimen somewhat less than nine feet in expanse was three feet three inches from the tip of the beak to the extremity of the tail; and its height, when perching with the neck partly withdrawn, two feet eight inches. Its beak was two inches and three quarters in length, and an inch and a quarter in depth when closed.

“The beak of the Condor is straight at the base, but the upper mandible becomes arched toward the point, and terminates in a strong and well curved hook. The basal half is of an ash brown, and the remaining portion, toward the point, is nearly white. The head and neck are bare of feathers, and covered with hard, wrinkled, dusky reddish skin, on which are scattered some short brown or blackish hairs. On the top of the head, which is much flattened above, and extending some distance along the beak, is attached an oblong firm caruncle or comb, covered by a continuation of the skin which invests the head. This organ is peculiar to the male. It is connected to the beak only in its anterior part, and is separated from it at the base in such a manner as to allow a free passage of the air to the large oval nostrils, which are situated beneath it at that part. Beyond the eyes, which are somewhat elongated, and not sunk beneath the general surface of the head, the skin of the neck is, as it were, gathered into a series of descending folds, extending obliquely from the back of the head over the temples, to the under side of the neck, and there connected anteriorly with a lax membrane or wattle, capable of being dilated at pleasure, like that of the common turkey. The neck is marked by numerous deep parallel folds, produced by the habit of retracting the head, in which the bird indulges when at rest. In this position scarcely any part of the neck is visible.

“Round the lower part of the neck both sexes, the female as well as the male, are furnished with a broad white ruff of downy feathers, which forms the line of separation between the naked skin above and the true feathers covering the body below it. All the other feathers, with the exception of the wing coverts, and the secondary quill feathers, are of a bright black, generally mingled with a grayish tinge of greater or less intensity. In the female the wing coverts are blackish gray; but the males have their points, and frequently as much as half their length, white. The wings of the latter are consequently distinguished from those of the female by their large white patches. The secondary quill feathers of both sexes are white on the outer side. The tail is short and wedge shaped. The legs are excessively thick and powerful, and are colored of a blueish gray, intermingled with whitish streaks. Their elongated toes are united at the base by a loose but very apparent membrane, and are terminated by long black talons of considerable thickness, but very little curved. The hinder toe is shorter than the rest, and its talon, although more distinctly curved, is equally wanting in strength, a deficiency which renders the foot much less powerful as an organ of prehension than that of any other of the large birds of the raptorial order.”

The Condor is found in various parts of the vast mountain chain on the western border of the American continent, but it is most common in Peru and Chile. Its habitation is most frequently at an elevation of 10,000 or 15,000 feet above the level of the sea, and there these birds are seen in groups of three or four, but never in large companies like the true vultures. Some of the mountain peaks bear names which in the Indian tongue mean Condor’s Look-out, Condor’s Roost and Condor’s Nest. Two of them will attack a vicuna, a heifer or even a puma, and overcome it by repeated strokes of their beaks and talons. When gorged, says Humboldt, they sit sullen and sombre on the rocks; and when thus overloaded with food they will suffer themselves to be driven before the hunter rather than take wing. They do not attack men or even children, although it is admitted that two of them would be a match for a powerful man without weapons. Sir Francis Head gives an amusing account of a contest between one of his Cornish miners and a gorged Condor, which lasted an hour, and terminated in the escape of the bird.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.

MY DEAR JEREMY.—I presume you are shaking the spray from your locks, and are over head and ears in love with salt water, while I am among the weeping willows in these days of hydrophobia, when water—that we cannot get at—provokes a feeling of madness. You glory in a proprietorship over which your plough passes, turning up soil that is all your own, while the nodding grain, golden and pulpy, ripens in your absence for your abundant granaries, while I cultivate this, my small patch, “a tenant at will,” whose harvest of gleaning would be blown to the winds without a painstaking care and watchfulness. You are the lord of acres, while I wander around forbidden enclosures, and look upon many a Castle of Indolence longing but for a yard of ground all my own, upon which to plant a firm foot, to sound the challenge and cry—war! The very utterness of poverty is grandeur and riches, compared to the feeling of having the pent-up energies which have found a full outlet in enterprise, growing fiery in inaction, and panting for room, continually battling at the heart, and knocking in vain for freedom and exercise. But if you have ever felt the utter insignificance of wealth and high advantage combined with indolence and inactivity, and forever do-nothingness, before the godlike attributes of persevering energy and indomitable will, you have felt the pride of manhood in its full force and power. You have reaped in anticipation the rewards of high courage, of manly resolve, of personal industry and victory. You have enjoyed in your day-dreams the full fruition of assured success—and awoke to hope on, to resolve and to conquer. Consider me, my dear Jeremy, as winding myself up for the next seven years, after having run down—as having stopped, if you please, to blow; and while you are luxuriating in the surf, and shaking the briny water from your shoulders, as throwing off surfdom, with a defiant air, and a determined purpose of taking a few strides forward, to meet that “good time a coming.”

Who does not love the sound of the breakers at Cape May, who has once listened to their wild melody? What a chance for love-making is the evening stroll upon the beach. On the one side the rugged bank, on which the white houses sit like a flock of wild-birds suddenly alighted, and the faint twinkle of rush-like lights dancing like fire-flies in the night air; on the other, the wild waters—sad emblem of the wild unrest of the human heart—their huge waves reflecting from their sides the quiet light of the moon, while the white-caps come trooping in, like a squadron of dragoons, with their plumes dancing, and a roar, as if the tread of an army were near, and a thousand park of artillery were booming in the distance. The music of rich voices hushed amid the uproar—the light of kind eyes sparkling with a subdued eloquence—the loved face impressively thoughtful, indicating that God has laid his hand upon the heart, and whispered amid the tumult of its worldly thoughts, “be thou still!”

It was my good fortune to see both Cape May and the Falls of Niagara, for the first time, by moonlight, and whether the hush of evening naturally associated in the mind with twilight, deepened the impressions of awe and wonder with which I gazed upon them, or to the greatness of the novelty was added through the misty twilight, a dim religious sanctity to the impression, I know not, but they have never since charmed me so much in the broad glare of day, as in the evening, with a quiet moon looking placidly down upon the flashing foam, seemingly rebuking the uproar.

The bathers, too, at mid-day, screaming like sea-birds amid the surf, with their many-colored garments dancing amid the foam—beauty floating upon the breakers as calmly as if reposing upon the virgin snow of her own pillows. Manhood breasting the billow, and riding securely far out where the huge porpoise rolls lazily along, while tiny feet go patting, and tiny hands go clapping along the shore, the very idleness and luxury of the sport impressing upon the beholder a sense of enjoyment, a feeling of relief from the work-day world, a consciousness of manhood and freedom above the value of dollars—a heart eased of the oppressiveness of brick and mortar, and open to a sense most acute of the very luxury of being idle.

If Philadelphians had made half as much of Cape May as the New Yorkers have of Saratoga, or the Yankees have of Newport, its visiters from all parts of the country would number tens of thousands; but I question whether its present character of being Philadelphia in holyday dress, let loose for a romp, does not add much to its charms. The relief from absurd ceremony, where every face is familiar. The easy, unrestrained life, the freedom of remark and retort, and the exuberant gayety of the whole company, add to the enjoyment of the place, and make it a home in a family circle greatly enlarged and full of good humor.

But, my dear Jeremy, you must have observed that at Cape May we got along comfortably, without the towering and overshadowing influence of the “upper ten thousand,” which stands up to be worshiped by the people without money or _brains_. It might be a serious question, how long a man may exist, with great self-complacency, without _heart_, or intellect, yet with a purse well lined with gold—regarding the world of men and of matter as especially made for him—the lord paramount of the soil, and of the sinews, which of right belong to his betters. Cannot some one curious in nature and philosophy, analyze one of this genus, and tell the world how the appearance of humanity can be preserved without a single attribute of it, existing life-like and active in his breast. The whole effort of this air-drawn animal appears to be to rise, to get up in society, to overlook the pigmies who toil and sweat for bread—to loose his identity in the upper circle, that he may forget his grandfather, the soap-boiler, upon whose bubbles he has been shot upward—as we expel a pea from an air-gun. Prick the bubble, and the thing vanishes into air, without leaving behind him a trace of existence of the value of a pepper-corn, and _so_,

——“Grows dim and dies
All that this world is proud of.”

The gifts of GOD are equal. He sheds upon us all the same glorious sunlight, and gives us the same heritage of dew and showers. The air has no monopolist, but its balmy odors as kindly kiss as well the beggar as the king. The mountain stream and the mountain flower acknowledge no master but the hand that formed them. The very beast that roams over the boundless prairies, and tosses his wild mane to the breeze, snuffs in an atmosphere sanctified by its freeness. God, over all his own works sheds the benignant light of universal benevolence and goodwill. The hues of a heaven-tinted charity blend kindly together the world over—the laws of a love undistinguishing are impressed upon all nature.

It is _man_—but a handful of his mother earth—that wrongs her kind bosom, and says to his brother, stand aside, the heritage is mine—we are not equals in birth-right. I claim by pre-emption a supremacy which makes me thy master. The very purple I wear, when contrasted with the faded russet of thy poor garb, makes me thy lord. The jeweled rings of these fingers clasp thy neck, and make thee bondsman. Thou shalt go at my bidding and come at my call. Thou shalt toil until thy weary bones crack, to pamper to my luxurious desires! Thou shalt not even _think_ but at thy peril! By the high authority of what is called LAW, thou art enslaved!

By this right of _law_, how many wrongs are done, which the cold eye of day gazes on in silence, whilst hearts wrung with anguish weep on unpitied. This strong arm, when its fist clutches dollars, how terrible is it in its willingness to crush and overwhelm the unsheltered, the unbefriended, the poor, unpitied victim. But if a breast sparkling with diamonds interposes, how palsied and feeble becomes the blow—_the justice, the equity of the law_, how considerate and kind!

Yet law, according to the lawgiver, “is the perfection of reason,” which must account, I suppose, for the difficulty which the learned counsel experiences in expounding it to an “intelligent jury.” The poor thief therefore remains in profound ignorance of the equity of the decision, by which he is consigned to three years of penitence is solitary confinement, while his gayer brother in crime dashes through the streets with his carriage and scarlet housings, basking in the worship of wondering and approving eyes, _his_ penalty for having started a bank, _and stopped it_, by which thousands of poor men lost the dollars which paid for the equipage, and furnished the viands for his pampered appetite, the meanest of which would have driven starvation from their doors. He is beyond the law. Let an hundred operatives agree in thinking that the wretched pittance for their daily labor will not suffice to feed the mouths of a half dozen famishing children, the law has its kind and protecting eye upon them at once—and if they _dare_ express so infamous a sentiment, it immediately takes care of them as conspirators. But the masters of an hundred mills may openly avow their determination to close their doors and send starvation into a whole village, the law instantly closes its watchful eye, and dozes over the scene, deeming it right and proper that capital should be indulged in its absurdities.

Should John, upon the box of a gentleman’s carriage, come in contact with the hub of the humble cab of Jehu, and thereby disfigure the carriage and irritate the temper of the great owner, his honor, who may have had _dealings_ with him, deals with Jehu, who is glad to get off for his five dollars, and thinks it a kindness that he is not imprisoned for the intolerable crime of John not giving an inch of the road to a vulgar cabman. When diamonds are trumps, take care of knaves.

It is a fiction of law—for even “perfect reason” has her fictions, it seems—that people who are standing at a distance in a riot, are as culpable as those who are throwing the brickbats—and it is certain they are the more likely to be killed, probably from a humane feeling of not wishing to irritate those who are too near—and it is for this reason, we presume, that after the riot is over, a number of citizens, against whom nothing can be proved, are arrested, to assert the majesty of the law, while the real rioters and murderers are perfectly unknown to the police. The law being discriminative thus administered, as well as stringent when necessary.

Great names, which provoke a riot, or lack the nerve and manliness to suppress it, have an overshadowing influence, which awes even the majesty of the law—it would be indecorous in the law to meddle with greatness, even when it is impertinent.

“La-w me!” exclaims an old lady, who has upset the contents of her frying-pan into the fire. But the poor soul little knows the calamity she invokes. It is doubtful whether fire and frying-pan would not follow, if her request were complied with. The law being at times both expensive and speedy.

“_So wags the world along._”

But, my dear Jeremy, I have rambled somewhat in this letter, so without more ado, I’ll CUT this.

G. R. G.

LENDER’S BOOKS.—NO. II.

By my right hand, Graham! by my right hand, which for —— odd years hath traveled and travailed over much foolscap, (and under much fool’s-cap quoth the fiend,) I am more and more convinced of the truth of the words of the preacher, “Vanity of vanities! all is vanity!” I have just laid aside “Mardi,” (the gift of my warm-hearted friend, L. G. C., of the Knickerbocker,) it lies atop of old Du Bartas and some withered budlets of forget-me-not, and in like manner _I_ sit with a few fragmentaries of old literature at bottom for my _primiter_, some tender remembrances for my _secondary_, and for the _alluvial_ stratum of my pericranicks (as gentle Charles hath it) these fripperies by the Author of Typee. Confound the book! there are such beautiful Aurora-flashes of light in it that you can almost forgive the puerilities—it is a great net-work of affectation, with some genuine _gold_ shining through the interstices.

Let us turn over the leaves a little—hear ye now—

“And what to me thus pining for some one to page me a quotation
from Burton on Blue-Devils.” V. I. p. 15.

What is _paging_ a quotation?

“Anoint the ropes and they will travel deftly through the subtle
windings of the blocks.” p. 33.

Why not say—“apply some oleaginous substance to the ambulatory cords, and prevent the inarticulate dissonance caused by the inharmonious attrition of the flaxen fibres against the ligneous particles?”

But this passage I especially commend:

“Good old Arcturion! Maternal craft, that rocked me so often in
thy heart of oak, I grieve to tell how I deserted thee on the
broad deep. (‘Maternal craft—maternal old oaken-hearted
craft—maternal old oaken-cradle hearted craft’ is good!) So far
from home, with such a motley crew, so many islands, whose
heathen babble _echoing through thy Christian hull must have
grated harshly on every carline_.” p. 38.

“Many there are who can fall,” says Martinus Scriblerius, “but few can arrive at the felicity of falling gracefully.”

How beautifully he embellishes the most commonplace ideas:

“Among savages, severe personal injuries are, for the most part,
accounted but trifles. When a European would be taking to his
couch in despair _the savage would disdain to recline_.” p. 96.

“At Ravavai I had stepped ashore some few months previous; and
now was embarked on a cruise for the whale, _whose brain
enlightens the world_!” p. 1.

Jarl steals a keg of tobacco—

“From the Arcturion he had brought along with him a small
half-keg, at bottom impacted with a solitary layer of sable
Negrohead, fossil-marked, like the primary stratum of the
geologists.” (Ahem! primary stratum _fossil_-marked!) p. 68.

He surmiseth that Samoa likes to get swipesy—

“Nor did I doubt but that the Upoluan, like all Polynesians,
much loved getting high of head; and in that state would be more
intractable than a Black Forest boar.”

Sometimes he breaks into hexameter:

“In the verdant glen of Ardair, far in the silent interior of
Amma,
Shut in by hoar old cliffs, Yillah the maiden abode.”

This reminds one of Evangeline—

“In the Acadian land, on the shores of the basin of Minos,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand Pré
Lay in the fruitful valley.”

Let us hexametrize another passage, and we will have done with these fopperies:

“’Tis no great valor to perish sword in hand, and bravado
On lip; cased all in panoply complete. For even the alli-
Gator dies in his mail, and the sword-fish never surrenders.
To expire, mild-eyed, in one’s bed, transcends the death of
Epam-Inondas.” p. 46.

I have done with Mardi—one is reminded in reading it (after Typee) that “there is as much skill in making dikes as in raising mounts—there is an art of _diving_ as well as flying,” and who knows but what the author, after attaining a comfortable elevation by his former works, may not have made this plunge _on purpose_, as men do who climb to the top of a high mast that they may dive the deeper.

* * * * *

Now do those crushed, withered budlets of forget-me-not, peeping from under the book covers, remind me of those beautiful hope-flowers that opened their pale blue eyes in the morning of my life, and bloomed and drooped—and passed away—

“How fair was then the flower—the tree!
How silver-sweet the fountain’s fall!
The soulless had a soul to me!
My life its own life lent to all!

“The universe of things seemed swelling
The panting heart to burst its bound,
And wandering fancy found a dwelling
In every shape, thought, deed and sound.
Germed in the mystic buds, reposing,
A whole creation slumbered mute;
Alas! when from the buds unclosing,
How scant and blighted sprung the fruit!”

Alas! alas! young life, and young hopes are not perennials; even in the lofty conservatories and crystal hot-houses of wealth and station they flush into a sickly existence, and then perish like the meanest flower by the wayside. Did it ever strike you how much we are alike in this particular? Every one looking back upon his past life as the shipwrecked merchant looks upon the broad sea that hath swallowed up irretrievable treasures. Do you believe that if one had the power of investing his new created babes with a course of life, that he would say, “Do as I have done—pass through my joys and my afflictions, and in the experience of my experience you will be happy!” Do you believe that any one—even the wisest, the purest, the best could say this? By my faith, I do not! And the great focal-glass of a common destiny brings down prismatic, many-hued humanity to a point hue, as a convex lens gathers and concentrates prism-bundles of light and heat from the broad disk of the sun. Human suffering is the chord universal that swells from the vibration of numberless strings.

“Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy;
This vast and universal theatre
Contains more woful pageants than the scene
Whereon we play—”

But, “Mardi” and forget-me-nots have spoiled three good sheets of foolscap, and I fear that I am too much i’ the sentimental vein; let me therefore conclude with quoting a sweet little piece of philosophy, and lay aside these _lender’s books_ for a period.

“A swallow in the spring
Came to our granary, and ’neath the eaves
Essayed to make a nest, and then did bring
Wet earth, and straw, and leaves.

“Day after day she toiled,
With patient heart; but ere her work was crowned
Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
And dashed it to the ground.

“She found the ruin wrought,
But, not cast down, forth from the place she flew,
And, with her mate, fresh earth and grasses brought,
And built her nest anew.

“But scarcely had she placed
The last soft feather on its ample floor,
When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste,
And wrought the ruin o’er.

“But still her heart she kept,
And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls,
I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept
Within the earth-made walls.

“What truth is here, O man!
Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn!
Have clouds o’ercast thy purpose, trust or plan?
_Have_ FAITH _and struggle on_!”

Here endeth the second fifth.—RICHARD HAYWARDE.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Characteristics of Literature. Illustrated by the Genius of
Distinguished Men. By Henry T. Tuckerman. Phila.: Lindsay &
Blakiston. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Tuckerman has written many interesting books, but we think the present volume is his most attractive if not his best production. It is characterized by his usual refinement of analysis, wealth of illustration, felicity of allusion, and mellow richness of style, while in the range it evinces over widely varied provinces of thought and character, it indicates more versatility than any of his other compositions. The volume includes a discussion and representation of eleven departments of literature, through a searching examination of as many authors, each of whom is taken as the exponent of a class. Thus Channing stands for the Moralist, Sir Thomas Browne for the Philosopher, Swift for the Wit, Shenstone for the Dillettante, Charles Lamb for the Humorist, and Macaulay for the Historian. The selection of men to illustrate the subjects is, of course, not free from cavil. We should say that Burke was not exactly the man to stand as an expression of the Rhetorician, for his rhetoric, though matchless of its kind, is secondary to his philosophy. He appears to us, even as analyzed by Mr. Tuckerman, in the character of a profound, vigorous and vital thinker, and is no more a rhetorician, in any exclusive sense of the term, than Bacon, Hooker, Taylor, or even Milton. Where style is the _incarnation_ of thought, the visible image of the mind that employs it—and this is its nature in all the greatest authors—the word rhetoric is hardly applicable to it. Macaulay is more emphatically the rhetorician than Burke.

* * * * *

_Select Comedies; Translated from the Italian of Goldoni, Giraud
and Nota. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

A volume like the present, giving the English reader a good idea of the spirit and form of Italian comedy, has long been wanted, and we have little doubt that it will be successful. To the lover of the English drama the plays may seem to lack solid character and unctuous humor; but they are still distinguished by a fertility in the invention of ludicrous incidents and positions, and a mischievous quick-footed spirit of intrigue, that no person with a sense of the comic can read them without exhilaration. The translations are, we believe, from an American pen, and appear to be well executed. Six complete comedies are given, and the translator has been fortunate in his selections both in respect to merit and variety. The two comedies of Goldoni are alone richly worth the price of the book.

* * * * *

_Kaloolah, or Journeyings to the Djebel Kumri. An Autobiography
of Jonathan Romer. Edited by W. S. Mayo, M. D. 1 vol. 12mo._

It is something strange for a writer to present himself for the first time as a candidate for public favor with a volume indicating so much power and originality of mind, and such practiced talents of composition as the present. The book is a regular tale of adventures, as interesting as exciting incidents racily told can make it, and inweaved with the story are many graphic descriptions of scenery and keen delineations of character. Considered in respect to the originality of its conception, the new vein of romance it opens, and the admirable method of the narration, we think the volume cannot fail to attract the attention which it will certainly reward.

* * * * *

_The Earth and Man: Lectures on Comparative Physical Geography,
in its Relation to the History of Mankind. By Arnold Guyot.
Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this valuable Manual is Professor of Physical Geography and History in the same institution to which Agassiz is attached, and originally delivered the present lectures in French to an audience in Boston. They have been elegantly translated by Professor Felton, of Harvard University, and are very warmly recommended by the New England Savans for their union of profundity and simplicity. The subject is one of the most important in the whole range of science, and is one in which all can take an interest, and all obtain information, as popularized by Professor Guyot. Agassiz says of the book and its author: “Having been his friend from childhood, as a fellow student in college, and as colleague in the same university, I may be permitted to express my high sense of the value of his attainments. Mr. Guyot has not only been in the best school, that of Ritter and Humboldt, and become familiar with the present state of the science of our earth, but he has himself in many instances drawn new conclusions from the facts now ascertained, and presented most of them in a new point of view. Several of the most brilliant generalizations developed in his lectures, are his; and if more extensively circulated, will not only render the study of geography more attractive, but actually show it in its true light, namely, as the science of the relations which exist between nature and man, throughout history.”

* * * * *

_The Life of Maximilien Robespierre. With Extracts from his
Unpublished Correspondence. By G. H. Lewes. Phila.: Casey &
Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this biography is but little known in this country, and has hardly received his deserts from the critics on either side of the water. He is a clear, close, vigorous thinker, an accomplished scholar, and a nervous, condensed and brilliant, though slightly aphoristic writer. Though his ideas and style occasionally betray the influence of Carlyle, and though his English nature has been a little modified by an infusion of French metaphysics, he generally appears as an independent as well as a forcible thinker. In the present volume, though he appears largely indebted to the works of Lamartine, Michelet, and Louis Blanc, he has still produced a book original in the main, and has been especially happy in steering a middle course between those writers who have represented Robespierre as a monstrosity of malignity and cruelty, and those who have tried hard to make him appear a persecuted and virtuous patriot, whose most questionable acts sprung from exalted motives. The reader closes the book with the feeling that he has gained a better insight into the character of the immortally infamous revolutionary leader than he had before. The letters of Robespierre, which the author obtained in MS. from Louis Blanc, and the extracts from his speeches in the Convention, add much to the interest and value of the volume.

* * * * *

_History of Maria Antoinette. By John S. C. Abbott. With
Engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._

This is another of Mr. Abbott’s beautiful series of pocket histories, having for its subject a story so exciting and so mournful that the novelist or dramatist could hardly treat its incidents with more pathetic effect than the chronicler who confines himself to the literal facts. The characteristic merit of Mr. Abbott’s books is the knowledge they display not merely of their subjects but of the exact nature of the ignorance of the general class of readers, and this merit is well illustrated in the present volume. The French Revolution is to most minds a confused mass of terrible events without any connecting principles; but few can read its history, as far as it is presented in Mr. Abbott’s simple and orderly narrative, without obtaining clearer ideas of the whole matter.

* * * * *

_A History of American Baptist Missions in Asia, Africa, Europe
and North America. By William Gammell, A. M., Professor in Brown
University. Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

We like the present volume for the indication it gives of the rich materials for history and biography which lie almost unused in the various records of Christian missions. All the heroic qualities developed in man and woman by religious principles and religious passions, are visible in those records to the initiated eye, but they are commonly so submerged in the affected phraseology and sectarian jargon of mediocre compilers, that they are commonly set aside as vulgar and fanatical by the general reader. Professor Gammell has written a volume in which all the worn and wasted terms of the pedants of cant are discarded, and the subject, as far as the Baptist missions are concerned, is treated in a style intelligible to all who have any perception of beauty, holiness or heroism. The work, apart from its theological character, is one of great interest and excellence.

* * * * *

_Sacred Rhetoric; or Composition and Delivery of Sermons. By
Henry J. Ripley. Boston: Gould, Kendall & Lincoln. 1 vol. 12mo._

This treatise should be carefully pondered by all clergymen who have a contempt for the graces and proprieties of composition, arising from their apprehension of being interesting to their congregations. Professor Ripley has produced a searching treatise, in which, with a true critical remorselessness, he lays bare the defects of arrangement and composition most likely to beset the productions of his profession, and gives a clear statement of those principles which should guide the brain and pen of the preacher. The volume also includes Dr. Ware’s admirable “Hints on Extemporaneous Preaching.”

* * * * *

_History of Wonderful Inventions. Illustrated with numerous
Engravings on Wood. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The publishers of this elegantly printed volume have included it in a series called the Boy’s Own Library, but its interest and value are hardly confined to youth. It is a book containing carefully written accounts of the invention of the Mariner’s Compass, Gunpowder, Clocks, Printing, the Telescope and Microscope, the Steam-Engine, the Electric Telegraph, and many other wonderful events in the history of the intellect. We never read a volume of this sort without giving a new and vivid impression of the grandeur of human nature, considered as possessing the powers of creation and combination.

* * * * *

_Manual of Ancient Geography and History. By Wilhelm Putz.
Translated from the German. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol.
12mo._

Professor Green, of Brown University, is the American editor of this valuable manual, and his name is a guarantee that it has been revised and corrected with scrupulous care. To the general student of history the volume will be of great service, as it maps out the whole ground of historical study, gives the names of the authorities for the history of each nation, and in the smallest possible space consistent with dearness, presents a view of the history, geography, religion, literature and art of all the ancient nations, European and Asiatic. The work indicates an erudition as minute as it is vast.

* * * * *

_The Spy, a Tale of the Neutral Ground. By the Author of The
Pilot. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

Longevity is no characteristic of novels, and Old Parr is the last name which could be applied to a hero of fiction. The romances which flare in the parlors of one year are pretty sure to repose in the cemeteries of the next. To this empirical law, Cooper’s Spy is one of the honorable exceptions. It at once attained popularity, and it has kept it, surviving all those mutations of the public taste which, since its first appearance, have consigned so many brilliant fictions to oblivion. As an old friend in a new dress, we welcome this volume. Its value is enhanced by the revision of the author, and the addition of an introduction and notes.

* * * * *

_A Visit to Monasteries in the Levant. By the Hon. Robert
Curzon. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this volume is careful to write himself down an “honorable” on his title page, and the whole tone of the composition evidences that self-satisfaction which is so apt to accompany social position. Though the reader is inclined to be prejudiced against an amateur author who assumes so confident a tone, the feeling wears away as he reads the volume. It contains a great deal of information pleasantly told, has some capital sketches of curious character, and ranks among the sprightliest of recent books of travels. The American edition is illustrated by numerous wood-cuts.

* * * * *

_The Adventures of Captain Bonneville, U. S. A., in the Rocky
Mountains and the Far West. Digested from his Journal and
Illustrated from various other sources. By Washington Irving.
New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This delightful work forms the tenth volume of the revised edition of Irving’s works, and has for its subject a theme especially interesting at the present time, when more than ever, “westward the course of empire takes its way.” We hardly know of a more felicitous partnership than that of Bonneville and Irving—one to perform the deeds of adventure which the other records.

* * * * *

_Life in the Far West. By George Frederic Ruxton. New York:
Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this volume died at an early age, but not before he had partly fulfilled the destiny to which his talents and adventurous spirit pointed. “His adventures in Mexico and the Rocky Mountains,” and the present work, indicate not merely the courage and enthusiasm of a traveler, but much felicity in transferring to other minds the objects and incidents which filled his own.

* * * * *

_Pottleton Legacy._

This is the title of a novel, by Albert Smith, published in the cheap form of the present day, by Carey & Hart. It is a pleasant, readable, and interesting work, and will be found caustic as well as funny. The characters are well sustained and the plot well developed.

* * * * *

* * * * *

YES, LET ME LIKE A SOLDIER FALL

AS SUNG, IN THE OPERA OF “MARITANA,”

BY MR. FRAZER.

MY FATHER HE WAS NOT A KING.

WRITTEN AND ADAPTED TO THE FOLLOWING AIR,

BY E. R. JOHNSTON.

My father, he was not a king,
A soldier brave was he.
He fell responding to the call
That made his Country free.
Yes! let me like a Soldier fall,
Upon some open plain.
This breast expanding for the ball,
To blot out ev’ry stain.

No prouder title I would claim,
No prouder boast! ’tis well,
The blood that courses thro’ my veins
No brighter birth may tell,
The blood that courses thro’ my veins
No brighter birth may tell.
No brighter birth may tell.

Brave manly hearts confer my doom
That gentler ones may tell,
Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb,
I like a Soldier fell.
Howe’er forgot, unknown my tomb,
I like a Sol-dier fell,
I like a Sol-dier fell!

1

My mother she was not a queen!
Nor titles graced her brow;
But hers a free and noble heart,
In heaven rests ere now.
And I in Freedom’s mould am cast,
No prouder boast! ’tis well,
The blood that courses thro’ my veins
No brighter birth may tell.

2

I only ask of that proud race
Which ends its blaze in me,
To die the last and not disgrace
Its ancient chivalry.
Tho’ o’er my clay no banner wave,
Nor trumpet requiem swell,
Enough, they murmur o’er my grave,
He like a Soldier fell.

3

There is a land where Freedom dwells
A land where all are blest,
A land that holds the glorious tombs
Of heroes now at rest;
That land I love, it is my home,
Of it I boast, ’tis well!
The blood that courses thro’ my veins
No brighter birth may tell.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some spellings peculiar to Graham’s. 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 used for preparation of the eBook.

page 75, In the mornining ==> In the morning page 76, derelection of Hubert ==> dereliction of Hubert page 77, up the close-pins, ==> up the clothes-pins, page 77, over the close-fold, ==> over the clothes-fold, page 78, its apprisal, and then ==> its appraisal, and then page 85, persistance in whatever ==> persistence in whatever page 87, ere I had had heard ==> ere I had heard page 91, with an unfaultering and ==> with an unfaltering and page 93, sprained ancle. Gentle ==> sprained ankle. Gentle page 93, world was you doing ==> world were you doing page 93, the bed of Dalhias ==> the bed of Dahlias page 93, Your beautiful Dalhias ==> Your beautiful Dahlias page 95, the battle of Corrunna ==> the battle of Corunna, page 96, harrass that honorable ==> harass that honorable page 107, was brought fourth wounded, ==> was brought forth wounded, page 107, some characteristic attententions ==> some characteristic attentions page 109, the day thus began in ==> the day thus begun in page 118, played, eat together, ==> played, ate together, page 122, I poured over ==> I pored over page 122, a strange, quiet enthuasm, ==> a strange, quiet enthusiasm, page 126, beak was too inches ==> beak was two inches page 127, common in Peru and Chili ==> common in Peru and Chile page 131, betray the ininfluence ==> betray the influence page 132, By William Gammel ==> By William Gammell music page 2, But her’s a free ==> But hers a free