Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

"We may enumerate the following names as those of real poets,
dead or alive, included in the first half of the nineteenth
century in Britain:--Bloomfield, Wordsworth, Coleridge,
Southey, Campbell, Moore, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Professor
Wilson, Hogg, Croly, Maturin, Hunt, Scott, James Montgomery,
Pollok, Tennyson, Aird, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Hemans, Joanna
Baillie, and the author of 'Festus.' We leave this list to be
curtailed, or to be increased, at the pleasure of the reader.
But, we ask, which of those twenty-three has produced a work
uniquely and incontestably, or even, save in one or two
instances, professedly GREAT? Most of those enumerated have
displayed great powers; some of them have proved themselves fit
to begin greatest works; but none of them, whether he has
begun, or only thought of beginning, has been able to finish.
Bloomfield, the tame, emasculate Burns of England, has written
certain pleasing and genuine poems smelling of the soil, but
the 'Farmer's Boy' remained what the Scotch poet would have
called a 'haflin callant,' and never became a full-grown and
brawny man. Wordsworth was equal to the epic of the age, but
has only constructed the great porch leading up to the edifice,
and one or two beautiful cottages lying around. Coleridge could
have written a poem--whether didactic, or epic, or
dramatic--equal in fire and force to the 'Iliad,' or the
'Hamlet,' or the 'De Rerum Natura,' and superior to any of the
three in artistic finish and metaphysical truth and religious
feeling--a work ranking immediately beside the 'Paradise Lost;'
but he has, instead, shed on us a shower of plumes, as from the
wing of a fallen angel--beautiful, ethereal, scattered, and
tantalizing. Southey's poems are large without being
great--massive, without being majestic--they have rather the
bulk of an unformed chaos than the order and beauty of a
finished creation. Campbell, in many points the Virgil of his
time, has, alas! written no Georgies; his odes and lesser poems
are, 'atoms of the rainbow;' his larger, such as 'Gertrude of
Wyoming,' may be compared to those segments of the showery arch
we see in a disordered evening sky; but he has reared no
complete 'bow of God.' Moore's 'Lalla Rookh' is an elegant and
laborious composition--not a shapely building; it is put
together by skilful art, not formed by plastic power. Byron's
poems are, for the most part, disjointed but melodious groans,
like those of Ariel from the centre of the cloven pine; 'Childe
Harold' is his soliloquy when sober--'Don Juan' his soliloquy
when half-drunk; the 'Corsair' would have made a splendid
episode in an epic--but the epic, where is it? and 'Cain,' his
most creative work, though a distinct and new world, is a
bright and terrible abortion--a comet, instead of a sun. So,
too, are the leading works of poor Shelley, which resemble
Southey in size, Byron in power of language, and himself only
in spirit and imagination, in beauties and faults. Keats, like
Shelley, was arrested by death, as he was piling up enduring
and monumental works. Professor Wilson has written '_Noctes_'
innumerable; but where is his poem on a subject worthy of his
powers, or where is his _work_ on any subject whatever? Hogg
has bound together a number of beautiful ballads, by a string
of no great value, and called it the 'Queen's Wake.' Scott
himself has left no solid poem, but instead, loose, rambling,
spirited, metrical romances--the bastards of his genius--and a
great family of legitimate chubby children of novels, bearing
the image, but not reaching the full stature, of their parent's
mind. Croly's poems, like the wing of his own 'seraph kings,'
standing beside the sleeping Jacob, has a 'lifted, mighty
plume,' and his eloquence is always as classic as it is
sounding; but it is, probably, as much the public's fault as
his, that he has never equalled his first poem, 'Paris in
1815,' which now appears a basis without a building. Maturin
has left a powerful passage or two, which may be compared to a
feat performed by the victim of some strong disease, to imitate
which no healthy or sane person would, could, or durst attempt.
James Montgomery will live by his smaller poems--his larger are
long lyrics--and when was a long lyric any other than tedious?
Hunt has sung many a joyous carol, and many a pathetic ditty,
but produced no high or lasting poem. Pollok has aimed at a
higher object than almost any poet of his day; he has sought,
like Milton, to enshrine religion in poetic form, and to
attract to it poetic admirers: he did so in good faith, and he
expended great talents and a young life, in the execution; but,
unfortunately, he confounded Christianity with one of its
narrowest shapes, and hence the book, though eloquent in
passages, and dear to a large party, is rather a long and
powerful, though unequal and gloomy sermon, than a poem; he has
shed the sunshine of his genius upon his own peculiar notions,
far more strongly than on general truths; and the spirit of the
whole performance may be expressed in the words of Burns,
slightly altered,--'Thunder-tidings of damnation.' _His_ and
_our_ friend, Thomas Aird, has a much subtler, more original
and genial mind than Pollok's, and had he enjoyed a tithe of
the same recognition, he might have produced a Christian epic
on a far grander scale; as it is, his poems are fragmentary and
episodical, although Dante's 'Inferno' contains no pictures
more tremendously distinct, yet ideal, than his 'Devil's Dream
upon Mount Acksbeck. Tennyson is a greater Calvinist in one
sense than either of the Scotch poets we have named--he owes
more to the general faith of others in his genius than to any
special or strong works of his own; but let us be dumb, he is
now Laureate--the crowned grasshopper of a summer day! Bailey
of 'Festus' has a vast deal more power than Tennyson, who is
only his delicate, consumptive brother; but 'Festus' seems
either different from, or greater than, a _work_. We are
reminded of one stage in the history of the nebular hypothesis,
when Sir W. Herschel, seeing a central mass in the midst of a
round burr of light, was almost driven to the conclusion that
it was _something immensely greater than what we call a
star_--a kind of monster sun. So with the prodigious birth men
call 'Festus.' Our gifted young friend Yendys is more likely
than any, if he live and avoid certain tendencies to diffusion
and over-subtlety, to write a solid and undying POEM.

"It were easy to extend the induction to our lady authors, and
to show that Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. Browning, and Joanna Baillie,
Mrs. Shelley, &c., have abounded rather in effusions or
efforts, or tentative experiments, than in calm, complete, and
perennial works."

The critic appears never to have heard of our Bryant, Dana, Halleck, Poe, Longfellow, or Maria Brooks, any one of whom is certainly superior to some of the poets mentioned in the above paragraph; and his doctrine that a great poem must necessarily be a long one--that poetry, like butter and cheese, is to be sold by the pound--does not altogether commend itself to our most favorable judgment.

THE REAL ADVENTURES AND ACHIEVEMENTS OF GEORGE BORROW.

Generally, we believe, _Lavengro_, though it has sold well everywhere, has not been very much praised. It has been conceded that the author of "the Bible in Spain" must be a Crichton, but his last performance looked overmuch like trifling with the credulity of his readers. We find in Colburn's _New Monthly Magazine_ for April a sort of vindication of Borrow, which embraces some curious particulars of his career, and quote the following passages, which cannot fail to interest his American readers:

"We have yet to learn where our author was during the years
intervening from the epoch of the dingle to the date of Spanish
travel; that he was neither in mind nor body inactive, ample
testimony may be adduced, not only in the form of writings made
public during that interval, but in the internal evidence
afforded by them of laborious research. In a work published at
St. Petersburgh in 1835, known but to few, entitled "Targum;
or, Metrical Translations from Thirty Languages and Dialects,
by George Borrow," we find indications of how those intervening
years were spent. He says, in the preface to this work, "The
following pieces, selections from a huge and undigested mass of
translation, accumulated during several years devoted to
philological pursuits, are with much diffidence offered to the
public," &c. These translations are remarkable for force and
correct emphasis, and afford demonstration of what power the
author possesses over metre. We shall cite but few examples,
however, for it is believed that not only that huge mass, but
many an additional song and ballad now is digested, and lies
side by side with the glorious "Kæmpe Viser," the "Ab Gwilym,"
and other learned translations, by means of which it may be
hoped that the gifted Borrow will ere long vindicate his
lasting claim to scholarship--a claim to which it is to be
feared he is indifferent, for he is no boaster, and does
himself no justice; or, if he boasts at all, prefers, as with a
species of self-sarcasm, the mention of his lesser, on which he
dwells with zest, to that of his greater and more enduring
triumphs. The "Targum" consists of translations from the
following languages: Hebrew, Arabic, Persian, Turkish, Tartar,
Tibetian, Chinese, Mandchou, Russian, Malo-Russian, Polish,
Finnish, Anglo-Saxon, Ancient Norse, Suabian, German, Dutch,
Danish, Ancient Danish, Swedish, Ancient Irish, Irish, Gaellic,
Ancient British, Cambrian British, Greek, Modern Greek, Latin,
Provençal, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, French, and Rommany. A
few specimens from this work may be acceptable to the English
reader--a work so rare, that the authorities of a German
university not long ago sent a person to St. Petersburgh to
endeavor to discover a copy:"

ODE TO GOD.

FROM THE HEBREW.

Reign'd the Universe's master ere were earthly things begun;
When his mandate all created, Ruler was the name he won;
And alone He'll rule tremendous when all things are past and gone;
He no equal has, nor consort, He the singular and lone
Has no end and no beginning, His the sceptre, might, and throne;
He's my God and living Saviour, rock to which in need I run;
He's my banner and my refuge, fount of weal when call'd upon;
In his hand I place my spirit, at nightfall and rise of sun,
And therewith my body also;--God's my God,--I fear no one.

PRAYER.

FROM THE ARABIC.

O Thou who dost know what the heart fain would hide;
Who ever art ready whate'er may betide;
In whom the distressed can hope in their woe,
Whose ears with the groans of the wretched are plied--
Still bid Thy good gifts from Thy treasury flow;
All good is assembled where Thou dost abide;
To Thee, save my poverty, nought can I show,
And of Thee all my poverty's wants are supplied;
What choice have I save to Thy portal to go?
If 'tis shut, to what other my steps can I guide?
'Fore whom as a suppliant low shall I bow,
If Thy bounty to me, Thy poor slave, is denied?
But, oh! though rebellious full often I grow,
Thy bounty and kindness are not the less wide.

O LORD! I NOTHING CRAVE BUT THEE.

FROM THE TARTAR.

O Thou from whom all love doth flow,
Whom all the world doth reverence so,
Thou constitut'st each care I know;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

O keep me from each sinful way;
Thou breathedst life within my clay;
I'll therefore serve Thee night and day;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

I ope my eyes, and see Thy face,
On Thee my musings all I place,
I've left my parents, friends, and race;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

Take Thou my soul, my every thing;
My blood from out its vessels wring;
Thy slave am I, and Thou my King;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

I speak--my tongue on Thee doth roam;
I list--the winds Thy title boom;
For in my soul has God his home;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

The world the shallow worldling craves,
And greatness need ambitious knaves;
The lover of his maiden raves;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

The student needs his bookish lore,
The bigot shrines to pray before,
His pulpit needs the orator;
Oh Lord! I nothing crave but thee.

Though all the learning 'neath the skies,
And th' houries all of paradise,
The Lord should place before my eyes,
O Lord! I'd nothing crave but Thee.

When I through paradise shall stray,
Its houries and delights survey,
Full little gust awake will they;
O Lord! I'll nothing crave but Thee.

For Hadgee Ahmed is my name,
My heart with love of God doth flame;
Here and above I'll bide the same;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.

Nor was this the only literary labor performed by Mr. Borrow
while at St. Petersburgh: to the "Targum" he appended a
translation of "The Talisman," and other pieces from the
Russian of Alexander Pushkin. He also edited the Gospel in the
Mandchou Tartar dialect while residing in that city. In
connection with the latter undertaking there is an anecdote
told of which, like the story of his making horse-shoes, shows
his resources, and redounds to his credit. It runs thus:--"It
was known that a fountain of types in the Mandchou Tartar
character existed at a certain house in the city of St.
Petersburgh, but there was no one to be found who could set
them up. In this emergency the young editor demanded to
inspect the types; they were brought forth in a rusty state
from a cellar; on which, resolved to see his editorial labors
complete, he cleaned the types himself, and set them up with
his own hand."

Of his journeyings in Spain Mr. Borrow has been his own biographer; but here again his higher claims to distinction are lightly touched on, or not named. In 1837 a book was printed at Madrid, having the following curious title-page:

"_Embèo e Mafaró Lucas. Brotoboro randado andré la chipe
griega, acáana chibado andré o Romanó, ó chipe es Zincales de
Sese._

"_El Evangelio segun S. Lucas, traducido al Romaní, ó dialecto
de los Gitanos de España. 1837._"

And this work is no other than the remarkable antecedent of the
"Zincali,"--the translation of St. Luke's Gospel into the Gipsy
dialect of Spain.[A] Of the Bible in Spain it is unnecessary to
speak; there can be no better evidence of the estimation it is
held in than the fact of its having been translated into French
and German, while it has run through at least thirty thousand
copies at home. But it is on the "Zincali" that Borrow's
reputation will maintain its firm footing; the originality and
research involved in its production, the labors and dangers it
entailed, are duly appreciated at home and abroad. During the
past year a highly interesting account of the Gipsies and other
wandering people of Norway, written in Danish, was published at
Christiana; it is entitled "Beretning om Fante--eller
Landstrygerfolket i Norge" (Account of the Fant, or Wandering
People of Norway), by Eilert Sundt. At the twenty-third page of
this work, the Danish author, in allusion to the subject of
this notice, says: "This Borrow is a remarkable man. As agent
for the British Bible Society he has undertaken journeys into
remote lands, and acquainted from his early youth, not only
with many European languages, but likewise with the Rommani of
the English Gipsies, he sought up with zest the Gipsies every
where, and became their faithful missionary. He has made
himself so thoroughly master of their ways and customs that he
soon passed for one of their blood. He slept in their tents in
the forests of Russia and Hungary, visited them in their robber
caves in the mountainous _pass_ regions of Italy, lived with
them five entire years (towards 1840) in Spain, where he, for
his endeavors to distribute the Gospel in that Catholic land,
was imprisoned with the very worst of them for a time in the
dungeons of Madrid. He at last went over to North Africa, and
sought after his Tartars even there. It is true, no one has
taken equal pains with Borrow to introduce himself among this
rude and barbarous people, but on that account he has been
enabled better than any other to depict the many mysteries of
this race; and the frequent impressions which his book has
undergone within a short period, show with what interest the
English public have received his graphic descriptions."

Of the extraordinary acquisitions of Mr. Borrow in languages, a pleasant story is told by Sir William Napier, who, looking into a courtyard, from the window of a Spanish inn, heard a man converse successively in a dozen tongues, so fluently and so perfectly, that he was puzzled to decide what was his country,--Germany, Holland, France, Italy, Russia, Portugal, or Spain; and coming down he joined his circle, asked the question of him, and was astonished by the information that he was an English Bible agent. Between the historian of the Peninsular War and the missionary an intimacy sprung up, which we believe has continued without any interruption to the present time.

THE FAUN OVER HIS GOBLET.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

I.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful;
It was the jewel of my cave; I had
A corner where I hid it in the moss,
Between the jagged crevices of rock,
Where no one but myself could find it out;
But when a nymph, or wood-god passed my door,
I filled it to the brim with bravest wine,
And offered them a draught, and told them Jove
Had nothing finer, richer at his feasts,
Though Ganymede and Hebe did their best:
"His nectar is not richer than my wine,"
Said I, "and for the goblet, look at it!"
But I have broken my divinest cup
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

II.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
Sometimes my brothers of the woods, the fauns,
Held gay carousals with me in my cave;
I had a skin of Chian wine therein,
Of which I made a feast; and all who drank
From out my cup, a feast within itself,
Made songs about the bright immortal shapes
Engraven on the side below their lips:
But we shall never drain it any more,
And never sing about it any more;
For I have broken my divinest cup
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

III.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
For Pan was 'graved upon it, rural Pan;
He stood in horror in a marshy place
Clasping a bending reed; he thought to clasp
Syrinx, but clasped a reed, and nothing more!
There was another picture of the god,
When he had learned to play upon the flute;
He sat at noon within a shady bower
Piping, with all his listening herd around;
(I thought at times I saw his fingers move,
And caught his music: did I dream or not?)
Hard by the Satyrs danced, and Dryads peeped
From out the mossy trunks of ancient trees;
And nice-eared Echo mocked him till he thought--
The simple god!--he heard another Pan
Playing, and wonder shone in his large eyes!
But I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

IV.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
For Jove was there transformed into the Bull
Bearing forlorn Europa through the waves,
Leaving behind a track of ruffled foam;
Powerless with fear she held him by the horns,
Her golden tresses streaming on the winds;
In curvéd shells, young Cupids sported near,
While sea gods glanced from out their weedy caves,
And on the shore were maids with waving scarfs,
And hinds a-coming to the rescue--late!
But I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

V.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
For rosy Bacchus crowned its rich designs:
He sat within a vineyard full of grapes,
With Ariadne kneeling at his side;
His arm was thrown around her slender waist,
His head lay in her bosom, and she held
A cup, a little distance from his lips,
And teased him with it, for he wanted it.
A pair of spotted pards where sleeping near,
Couchant in shade, their heads upon their paws;
And revellers were dancing in the woods,
Snapping their jolly fingers evermore!
But all is vanished, lost, for ever lost,
For I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The writer has before him another translation of St. Luke's Gospel in the Basque, edited by George Borrow while in Spain--(Evangeloia S. Lucasen Guissan.--El Evangelio segun S. Lucas. Traducido al Vascuere. Madrid. 1838).

THE JESUIT RELATIONS.

DR. O'CALLAGHAN'S MEMOIR--NEW DISCOVERIES IN ROME, &c.

At the stated meeting of the New-York Historical Society, in October, 1847, Dr. E. B. O'CALLAGHAN, well known as the author of a valuable history of New-York under the Dutch,[B] and now engaged in superintending the publication of the Documentary History of the State, under the act of March 13, 1849, communicated a paper, which was read at the subsequent meeting in November, and published in the "Proceedings," on the "_Jesuit Relations of Discoveries and other Occurrences in Canada and the Northern and Western States of the Union, 1632-1672_."[C] This memoir embraces notices of the authors of the Relations, a catalogue raisonnée, and a table showing what volumes are in this country and Canada, and where they are to be found. A French translation of this work, with notes, corrections and additions, has been published (in 1850) at Montreal, by the Rev. Father MARTIN, Superior of the Jesuits in Canada. As the notes and additions contain valuable information, especially upon the discovery of new matter for the illustration of the general subject, we shall endeavor to present an intelligible compend of their substance.

The French editor carries back the history to 1611, when the first Jesuit missionaries to North America, Father Pierre Biard and Enmond Masse, arrived in Acadia. They took part in the establishment of Port Royal and that of St. Sauveur, in Pentagoet, now Mount Desert Island. The former wrote a Relation of his voyage.

Dr. O'Callaghan had spoken of the _nomadic_ race which was to be subjected to the influences of the gospel, under the auspices of the Jesuit missionaries, as inhabiting the country extending from the island of Anticosti to the Mississippi. The translator qualifies this statement by a note, in which he says that this term _nomadic_ is applicable to the nations of Algonquin origin, but not to the Hurons nor the Iroquois, who had fixed abodes and regularly organized villages or towns. The Five Nations were the Agniers (Mohawks), the Oneionts (Oneidas), the Onontagues (Onondagas), the Goiogoiens (Cayugas), and the Tsonnontouans (Senecas). The Tuscaroras, a tribe from the south, were admitted to the confederation, making thus Six Nations, during the last century.

CHAMPLAIN was the first European who reached the Atlantic shores of the state of Maine from the St. Lawrence by way of the Kennebec. This illustrious discoverer was sent in 1629 to explore that route as far as the coast of the Etechemins, "in which he had been before in the time of the Sieur du Mont."[D]

The French editor adds the following notices of two of the fathers who filled the office of Superior in Canada, not mentioned by Dr. O'Callaghan.

PIERRE BIARD, according to the history of Jouvency, was born at Grenoble, and entered the Society of Jesus while yet very young. He came to Port Royal in 1611, and took part in the establishment of St. Sauveur à Pentagoet, in 1613. The English came from Virginia to destroy this settlement, scarcely yet commenced. After having suffered greatly from the enemies of Catholicism and the Jesuits, Father Biard was sent back to France. He taught theology at Lyons for nine years, and died at Avignon, November 17, 1622. He was then chaplain to the King's troops. He left a _Relation de la Nouvelle France_, and of the _Voyage of the Jesuits_, as well as some other works.

CHARLES LALEMANT was born at Paris in 1587, and entered the Society of Jesus, at the age of twenty. Two of his brothers, Louis and Jerome, shortly afterwards followed his example, and the second labored for a long time in the Canadian mission. He first came to Canada in 1625. Charlevoix says he accompanied the expedition from Acadia in 1613, for the establishment of Pentagoet. He crossed the ocean four times in behalf of his beloved mission, and was twice shipwrecked. Having been captured by the English in one of these voyages, he was retained some time as a prisoner. His last voyage to Canada was made in 1634. In the following year, he took charge of the House of our Lady of Recovery, which was then established in the lower city of Quebec, and commenced at the same time the first schools for the French children. It was this father who was with Champlain in his last moments. Many years afterward, he returned to France, when he was successive chief of the Colleges of Rouen, of La Flèche and Paris, and Superior of the Maison Professe in the last named city. He died there, on the eighteenth of November, 1674, aged eighty-seven years.

Father CHARLES wrote an interesting _Relation on Canada_, inserted under the date of August 1, in the _Mercure Français_ of 1626, and a letter on his shipwrecks, which Champlain published in his edition of 1632. We have also some religious works left by him.

The _Relation_ of Father Biard was published at Lyons, 1612 and 1616, in 32mo. It gives an account of his travels and labors--the nature of the country, its mineral and vegetable productions, &c.

That of Father Lalemant is a long letter addressed to his brother Jerome, and inserted in the _Mercure Français_, 1627-28: Paris, 1629. It treats of the manners and customs of the Indians, the nature of the country, and the fatal change which trade had undergone since it had become a monopoly.

Continuing the researches of Dr. O'Callaghan, Father Martin found, from a catalogue of manuscripts on Canada, preserved among the archives of the Jesuits at Rome, that there was a _Relation du Canada_ for 1676 and for 1677: but it was not ascertained whether these were complete. Other manuscripts were found in the same collection, but fragmentary, and could only serve as the materiel of a general Relation. But a more important acquisition was made in the recovery of valuable manuscripts in Canada. There have been found two complete Relations, following that of 1672, and continuing the series to 1679. One is the Relation of 1673, and the other comprises a period of six years, from 1673 to 1679. They fortunately escaped the pillage of the Jesuit College at Quebec, Father Casot, the last of the old race of Jesuits, dying at Quebec in 1800, had confided them, with other manuscripts, to the pious hands of the nuns of the Hotel Dieu, in that city, who preserved them for a long time as a sacred trust, and restored them, to the Jesuits, when they returned to Canada in 1842.

What increases the value of these historical monuments, is the fact, that they are contemporary with the facts to which they relate. They bear numerous corrections, notes, and even entire pages, in the handwriting of Father Dablon, then superior of the missions in Canada, who, without doubt, prepared them for publication.

That of 1672-3 is anonymous, and in three parts. The first is on the Huron mission near Quebec, the second on the Iroquois missions, and the third on the various missions to the west of the great lakes. In the last part, consisting of eighty-seven pages, the thirty-ninth and fortieth are missing.

The Relation for 1673-9 is also anonymous and without a general title, but on the back of the last leaf is an endorsement in the handwriting of Father Dablon, "Relation en 1679, abrégé des précédentes." On the first page the writer announces that the relation embraces a period of six years. It is divided into eight chapters, subdivided into paragraphs. The second chapter is devoted to an account of the last labors and heroic death of Father MARQUETTE, on the lonely shore of the "Lac des Illinois," now Lake Michigan. This relation passes in review all the missions of the west, and enters into minute details concerning the missions to the Iroquois, the Montagnais, the Gaspésiens, those of the Sault St. Louis, and Lorette. It extends to 147 pages, but unfortunately one entire sheet is lost, embracing the pages 109 to 118.

This last Relation should have included the other voyages of Father Marquette, and especially the discovery of the Mississippi in 1673; but another manuscript of the same epoch, and which bears the same evidence of authenticity, explains the omission. Under the title of "Voyage and Death of Father Marquette," it recites in sixty pages the labors which have immortalized that celebrated missionary. This curious manuscript furnished Thevenot with the materiel for his publication in 1687, entitled "Voyage et Découverte de quelques Pays et Nations de l'Amerique Septentrionale, par le P. Marquette et le Sr. Joliet."[E] What adds great value to the manuscript is the fact that it is much more extended than the publication of Thevenot. The causes and the preparations for the expedition are recounted; and we can follow the missionary in his various travels, even to his last moments in 1675.

Two other documents, which complete this valuable historical discovery, are noticed by Father Martin:

1. The autograph journal of Marquette's last voyage, from the twenty-fifth of October 1674 to the sixth of April 1679, about a month before his death.

2. The autograph map (by Marquette) of the Mississippi, as discovered by him. This extends no farther than the "A Kansea" (Arkansas), where his voyage in that direction terminated.

The map published by Thevenot, and recently reproduced by Rich, Bancroft, and others, is incorrect in many particulars, especially with regard to this fact of the Arkansas being the lowest point reached by Marquette.

Besides the two Relations (MS.) aforesaid, and the Marquette manuscripts, fragments of the Relations for the years 1674, 1676, 1678, and the following years, have been found, but incomplete.

In addition to all these, Father Martin calls attention to one of the printed Relations, little known out of Italy, in the language of which it was written. It was printed at Macerata in 1653. A recent letter from Father Martin announces that he has completed translations into French and English, which will soon be published. It is the work of Father Francois Joseph Bressani, and is thus noticed by Charlevoix:

"Father Bressani, a Roman by birth, was one of the most illustrious missionaries to Canada, where he suffered a cruel captivity, and severe tortures. He speaks little of himself in his history, which is well written, but which relates almost entirely to the Huron mission, in which he labored with great zeal so long as it continued. After the almost entire destruction of that nation, and the dispersion of the remainder, he returned to Italy, where he continued to preach until his death, with the greater success, inasmuch as he bore in his mutilated hands the glorious marks of his apostleship among the heathen."[F]

The translation by Father Martin will be illustrated by maps and engravings.

Recent letters from Italy announce further discoveries in the library of the Dominican Friars at Rome. We congratulate the historical student on the recovery of these and similar memorials of the early history of the country. Especially the labors of the Jesuit missionaries deserve to be more generally familiar to the readers of history; and we cordially respond to the sentiment of approbation with which the services of Dr. O'Callaghan and Father Martin have been greeted heretofore by the press.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] History of New Netherland, or New-York under the Dutch. &c. 2 vols. 8vo. New-York: Appleton & Co., 1846-8.

[C] Proceedings of the New-York Historical Society. For the year 1847, pp. 140-158.

[D] Voyage du Champlain. Ed. 1632. p. 209.

[E] A copy of this very rare work was destroyed with the valuable library in the burning of the Parliament House in Montreal, 26th April, 1849.

[F] Charlevoix: Hist. Nouv. France. Liste des Auteurs.

THE HAT REFORM AGITATION.

New hats are inevitable. Genin, who appears to be as clever in writing as in making hats, has avowed himself a conservative, and in a long argument has vindicated the style of which he is so eminent a manufacturer. But the "people" are for reform, and we must all bend to the will of the people; land reform, bank reform, all kinds of reform, now are forgotten in the cry for a reform in hats; this has rallied around it all ranks, classes and orders: they say, "Take off your funnels!"

It has been responded to with enthusiasm. From the lord of one hundred thousand acres to the hard-worker for his daily bread--from the ultra-conservative to the ultra-destructive--from the High-Churchman to the No-Churchman--from the Puseyite to the Presbyterian--from the gentleman down to the veriest "gent," this new question of Reform has drawn unanimous adhesion. In fact, the attempted revolution in our head gear, more fortunate than the other revolutions talked about of late years, promises to be successful.

Says the London _News_, "The ladies are as unanimous as the gentlemen on the subject, and give the potent assistance of their voices to the movement, and wonder how it is that men, who have so keen a sense of the beautiful, should have been so long blinded to the ugliness imposed upon their lordly foreheads by the hat-makers. A few of the most conservative of these hat-makers are the only persons who venture a word in defence of the ancient barbarism which it is the object of the revolutionists to remove. Now and then a hatter of all novelties, whether of hats or of ideas, will venture to come to the aid of the hat-makers, and to ask if any one can suggest a better head 'accoutrement' than the old familiar hat which it is attempted to scout out of society with such hasty ignominy. But, if hatters and the hat conservatives are closely pressed to tell us what recommendation the article has, they are obliged to give up the argument in despair--to intrench themselves in the old fortress of such reasoners, and to defend what is, merely because it is. They would stand on the old ways, were they knee-deep in slush; and they would wear the old hat, were it not only of the shape, but of the material and the color of a chimney-pot.

"Every body who has worn a hat, has perceived it to be a nuisance, although he may never have said any thing on the subject till the present cry was raised. As soon as a man gets out of the streets of the capital, or of his own accustomed provincial town, and sets foot in a railway carriage or on board of a steamboat, his first care is to make himself comfortable by disembarrassing his aching temples of his hat. The funnel is put away, and a cap, more ornamental and a thousand times more easy, is elevated to the place of honor, to the great satisfaction of the wearer. Who ever wears a hat at the sea-side? One might as well go to bed in a hat, as wear one out of the purlieus of the town. At the sea-side, or in travelling, or sporting, or rambling over the hills, the ordinary hat is utterly out of the question. Not only is the hat unsightly, expensive, and incommodious;--not only does it offend those _æsthetic_ notions which are so fashionable in our time, but it may be safely alleged that it is hostile to all mental effort. Did any man ever make an eloquent speech with a hat on? Could a painter paint a good picture if he had a hat on while engaged at the easel? Could a mathematician solve a problem? could a musician compose a melody or arrange a harmony? could a poet write a song, or a novelist a novel, or a journalist a leading article, with a hat on? The thing is impossible. Would any man who respected himself, or the feelings of his family and friends, consent to have his portrait painted with the offensive article upon his cranium? It would be almost a proof of insanity, both in the sitter who should insist upon, and the artist who should lend himself to, the perpetration of such an atrocity. We have but to fancy one out of the thousand statues of bronze or marble which it is proposed to erect to the memory of Sir Robert Peel in our great towns and cities, surmounted with a hat of marble or of bronze, to see, at a glance, the absurdity of the thing, and the reasonableness of the demand for a change. There is a very good bust of Chaucer, with a cap on, and there is a still more excellent bust of Lorenzo de Medici, which has also a cap; but we put the question to the most conservative of hatters, and to the greatest stickler for the _etatus quo_ in head attire, whether he would tolerate the marble or bronze portraiture of either of those worthies with the modern hat upon its head? The idea is so preposterous, that, if fairly considered, it would make converts of the most obstinate sticklers for the hat of the nineteenth century.

"Seriously, the suggestion for the reform of this article of costume is entitled to the utmost respect. Already Englishmen, when they throw off the trammels of ceremony, and wish to be at their ease, substitute for the stiff, uncomfortable, and inelegant hat, such other article as the taste and enterprise of the hat and cap manufacturers have provided; and in France and Germany the hat has, for the last six or seven years, been gradually altering its form and substance, until it bids fair to be restored, at no distant day, to the more sensible and picturesque shape which it had a couple of centuries ago. So much unanimity has been expressed on the desirability of a change, so much sober truth has been uttered under the thin veil of jest on this matter, and so keenly felt are the inconveniences--to say nothing of the inelegance--of the tube which has usurped and maintained a place upon our heads for so long a period, that there can be no doubt the time is ripe for the introduction of an article of male head-dress more worthy of an educated, civilized, and sensible people. The Turks, under the influence of that great reformer, Sultan Mahmoud, and his worthy successor, Abdul Medjid, have been for some time assimilating themselves in dress to the other inhabitants of Europe. They have adopted our coats, our trousers, our vests, our boots. They have got steamboats and newspapers--but Sultan Mahmoud stopped short at the hat. With all his _penchant_ for imitating the 'Giaours,' he could not bring himself to recommend the hat to a people whom he was desirous to civilize. Any man of taste and enterprise, who would take advantage of the present feeling on the subject to manufacture a hat or cap of a more picturesque form, would confer a public benefit, and would not lack encouragement for his wares. An article which would protect the face from the sun, which the present 'funnel' does not--which should be light, which the hat is not--which should be elegant, and no offence to the eye of taste if painted in a portrait or sculptured in a statue, which the hat is not--and which should meet the requirements of health, as well as those of comfort and appearance, which the hat is very far from doing--would, all jest and _persiflage_ apart, be a boon to the people of this generation. It needs but example to effect the change, for the feeling is so strong and universal that a good substitute would meet with certain popularity. We have no doubt that, sooner or later, this reform will be made; and that the historian, writing fifty years hence, will note it in his book as a remarkable circumstance, and a proof of the pertinacity with which men cling to all which habit and custom have rendered familiar--that for three-quarters of a century, if not longer, a piece of attire so repugnant to the eye of taste, and so deficient in any quality which should recommend it to sensible people, should have been not only tolerated, but admired. In all seriousness, we hope that the days of the tubular hat are numbered, and that in this instance philosophy in sport will become reformation in earnest."

PROFESSIONAL DEVOTION.

Lord Campbell said lately in the House of Lords, that the bill for the Registration of Assurances was drawn by Mr. Duval, and he related an anecdote illustrative of that gentleman's entire devotion to his professional pursuits. A gentleman one day said to him, "But do you not find it very dull work poring from morning until night over those dusty sheep-skins?" "Why," said Duval, "to be sure it is a little dull, but every now and then I come across a brilliant deed, drawn by a great master, and the beauty of that recompenses me for the weariness of all the others."

"THE WILFULNESS OF WOMAN."

In an early number of _The International_ we mentioned a MS. comedy by the late Mrs. OSGOOD, in connection with the commendations which the dramatic pieces of that admirable woman and most charming poet had received from Sheridan Knowles and other critics in that line. We transcribe the opening scene of the play, which strikes us as excellently fitted for the stage. The friends of the lamented authoress will perceive that it is an eminently characteristic production, though having been written at an early age it scarcely illustrates her best style of dialogue.

ACT FIRST.--SCENE FIRST.

_A room in the Chateau de Beaumont. Victorine de Vere and Rosalinde--the former sitting._

ROSALINDE.--But consider, sweet lady, you have been betrothed from childhood to my lord the Count. You say it was your father's dying wish that you should marry him, and he has been brought up to consider you his own.

VICTORINE.--And for that reason wed I _not_ the Count; I might have loved him had I not been _bid_, For he is noble, brave, and passing kind. But, Rosalinde, when 'mid my father's vines, A child I roamed, I shunned the rich, ripe fruit Within my reach, and stretched my little arm Beyond its strength, for that which farthest hung, Though poorest too perchance. Years past away, The wilful child is grown a woman now, Yet wilful still, and wayward as the child.

(_She Sings._)

Though you wreathe in my raven hair jewels the rarest
That ever illumined the brow of a queen,
I should think the least one that were wanting, the fairest,
And pout at their lustre in petulant spleen.
Tho' the diamond should lighten there, regal in splendor,
The topaz its sunny glow shed o'er the curl,
And the emerald's ray tremble, timid and tender--
If the pearl were not by, I should sigh for the pearl!

Though you fling at my feet all the loveliest flowers
That Summer is waking in forest and field,
I should pine 'mid the bloom you had brought from her bowers
For some little blossom spring only could yield.
Take the rose, with its passionate beauty and bloom,
The lily so pure, and the tulip so bright--
Since I miss the sweet _violet's_ lowly perfume,
The violet _only_ my soul can delight!

I prize not Henri--for a breath, a nod, Can make him mine for ever. _One_ I prize Whose pulse ne'er quickened at my step or voice, Who cares no more for smile from Victorine, Whom princes sue--than Victorine for them. But he _shall_ love me--ay, and when he too Lies pleading at my feet!--I make no doubt But I shall weary of mine idle whim, And rate him well for daring to be there!

ROS.--Please you, my lady, who is this new victim?

VIC.--Whom think you, Rosalinde? Eugene Legard! the brave young captain--lover of Carille--betrothed to her--about to marry her!

ROS.--But who's Carille, my lady?

VIC.--(_Impatiently_.) Now know you not the youthful village belle whose face my gallant cousin raves about? I would he'd wed the girl, and leave Legard and me _as free_, to wed! (_Enter the Count._) What, torment! here again! (_Exit Rosalinde._)

COUNT HENRI.--Where should I be, sweet coz? I love the sunshine!

VIC.--So love you not this room--for here the sun ne'er shines.

COUNT.--The sun--_my_ sun is smiling on me now!

VIC.--Oh, don't! I'm so tired of all that!

COUNT.--Lady, it shall not weary you again; I've borne your light caprice too long already. For the last time I come to ask of you, madam, Is it your pleasure we fulfil at once your father's last injunction?

VIC.--Ah! but this isn't the _last_ time, Henri; I'll wager you this hand with my heart in it, you will ask me the same question a dozen times yet ere you die.

COUNT.--I'll not gainsay you, lady; time will show. (_A short pause._) Yet, by my sword, if such your wager be, I will be dumb till doomsday.

VIC.--Then book the bet! and claim my heart and hand--(_she pauses--he waits in eager hope_)--on--doomsday morning, cousin!

COUNT.--I claim thee now or never!

VIC.--If they only hadn't said we _must_, Henri!

COUNT.--Pshaw!

VIC.--Beside, all the world _expects_ it you know; I do so hate to fulfil people's expectations: it is so commonplace and humdrum!

COUNT.--Depend upon it, Lady Victorine, nobody ever expected you to do any thing reasonable or commonplace or humdrum!

(_He Sings._)

Archly on thy cheek,
Worth a god's imprinting,
Starry dimples speak,
Rich with rosy tinting,--
What a pity, love,
Anger's burning flushes
E'er should rise above
Those bewitching blushes!

Warm thy lip doth glow,
With such lovely color,
Ruby's heart would show
Hues of beauty duller,--
What a shame, the while,
Scorn should ever curl it,
And o'ercast the smile
That should still enfurl it!

Soft thy dark eye beams,
With the star-night's splendor,
Now with joy it gleams,
Now with tears 'tis tender,--
Ah! what pain to feel,
Ere another minute,
Passion's fire may steal
All the softness in it!

VIC.--There! you CAN _sing_! I'll give the----hem!--his due. I only wish you could make love as well as you make verses.

COUNT.--And how should I make love?

VIC.--How? You should be at my feet all day and under my window all night; you should call black white when _I_ call it so, and--wear a single hair of my eyelash next your heart for ever.

COUNT.--Hum! Any thing more, cousin?

VIC.--Yes: you should write sonnets on the sole of my shoe, and study every curve of my brow, as if life and death were in its rise or fall! (_He turns away._) Henri, come here! (_He approaches._) Come! you are a good-looking man enough, after all! Ah! why couldn't my poor father have _forbidden_ me to marry you! He might have known I should have been _sure_ in that case to have fallen desperately in love with you, Henri!

COUNT.--By Heaven, I will bear this trifling no longer! I will write instantly and propose to the peasant girl, Carille--_she_ will be proud to be called La Contesse de Beaumont.

VIC.--_Will_ you do so? Oh, you darling cousin! I shall love you dearly when you are once married! And, cousin, I don't believe she'll live till doomsday, do you? Don't forget that I'm to be your second--on doomsday morning, cousin. (_Exit Count in a rage._) I am so happy--and Carille will be so happy too--I am sure she will! I know if I were a village girl I should be dying to be a lady--for now I am a lady I am dying to be a village girl--heigh-ho. (_Exit._)

A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[G]

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

_Continued from page 57._