Chapter V: Part 5

Shagewana from some cause became incensed toward them, and resolved to burn the buildings and destroy their inhabitants. He called his people together, and the war-cry was sounded throughout the mountains. Taking advantage of the night, they surrounded the settlement, and applying torches to the dwellings, rushed into the midst with tomahawk in hand, and murdered all save two young men, who fought so bravely that they spared their lives in order to torture them with more prolonged sufferings. The names of these young men it is said were HARRIS and SNELLING. They were bound and taken to the rock, where the savages went through a dance, as was their custom after a victory had been achieved; and as day-light advanced, they prepared a feast. Harris and Snelling were placed under keepers, who amused themselves by tormenting their unhappy prisoners in various ways; such as pricking them with their knives, cutting off small pieces of their ears and fingers, and pulling out clumps of their hair. Before the close of the day, the captives feigning sleep, the Indians left them for a moment and went to the spring for water. Thereupon the young men burst their bands and escaped into the bushes. Crawling upon the other side of the rock, and being hotly pursued, it is supposed that they were forced upon a narrow projection, about twelve inches wide, and four feet below the inscription, where with some paint or coloring substance which they carried about them they traced the characters to which we have referred, and which have given the place the name of 'THE PAINTED ROCK.' The fate of the young men is not positively known; but it is believed that they were discovered and hurled down the precipice.

LINES TO J. T. OF IRELAND.

BY THE AUTHOR OF 'HINTS ON ETIQUETTE.'

A heartless flirt! with false and wicked eye,
Dost thou not feel thyself a living lie?
Dost thou not hear the 'still small voice' upbraid
Thy inmost conscience for the part thou'st played?
How mean the wish to victimize that one
Who ne'er had wooed thee, hadst thou not begun!
Who mark'd with pain thy saddened gaze on him,
Doom'd but to fall a martyr to thy whim;
Whose pallid cheek might win a fiend to spare,
Or soothe the sorrows that had blanched his hair:
Oh, cold-laid plan! drawn on from day to day
To meet the looks thou failed not to display,
Seeking at such a price another's peace,
To feed the cravings of thy vain caprice;
Led him to think that thou wert all his own,
Then froze his passion with a heart of stone.
Lured by thy wiles, he gave that holiest gift,
A noble soul, before he saw thy drift;
He watched thy bosom heave, he heard thee sigh,
Nor deem'd such looks could cover treachery;
That one so proud _could_ stoop to simulate
The purest feelings of this earthly state.
Yet words were useless, where no sense of blame
Could start a tear, nor tinge thy cheek with shame.
More merciful than thou to him, he prays
No pangs like his may wound thy lingering days;
Implores thy sins to him may be forgiven,
And leaves thee to the clemency of Heaven.

C. W. DAY.

LITERARY NOTICES.

POEMS BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. In one volume. pp. 279. Cambridge: JOHN OWEN. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

Two years ago Mr. LOWELL presented the public with a volume of poems, which after being read and blamed and praised with a most bewildering variety of opinion, lived through it all, and remained as a permanent specimen of unformed but most promising genius. Modest however as the offering was, it was duly valued by discerning judges, not so much for its own ripe excellence, as for its appearing a happy token of something else. In the major part of the annual soarings into _Cloud-land_ which alarm the world, we seem to see the sum total of the aspirant's power. We feel that he has shown us _all_, and done his best; that the force of his cleverness could go no farther; and we are willing to give him his penny of praise, and thereby purchase a pleasant oblivion of him and his forevermore. In this attempt of Mr. LOWELL'S it was impossible not to see that there lay more beyond. We felt that however boldly he might have dived, he did not yet 'bring up the bottom,' as the swimmer's phrase goes. The faults of his poems were perceptible enough, yet even these were the blemishes of latent strength, and the book was every where welcomed with a hope. We have now to notice the appearance of a second proof of Mr. LOWELL'S activity of faculty, in another and larger volume. It confirms the faith of those who read the former one. There is, throughout, the manifestation of growth; of a continuous advance toward a more decided character. Yet it is not without incompleteness of expression; it smacks of immaturity still; but it is the immaturity which presages a man.

The longest, and although not the most pleasing, yet perhaps the best poem in the volume is the 'Legend of Brittany,' a romantic story, fringed with rhyme. It contains but one bad line, and that one the first in the book: 'Fair as a summer dream was MARGARET.' It is not only vague, but common-place: there is no particular reason that we know of why a summer dream should be fairer than a winter dream; and we cannot think that the poet meant to make use of that figure of speech called _amphibology_, although the line will bear a double interpretation. The legend is of the guilty amour of MORDRED, a Knight Templar, with a fair innocent who, upon the point of becoming a mother, is slain by her lover at evening, in the wood. Hereupon---- But let the poet speak:

His crime complete, scarce knowing what he did,
(So goes the tale,) beneath the altar there
In the high church the stiffening corpse he hid,
And then, to 'scape that suffocating air,
Like a scared ghoule out of the porch he slid;
But his strained eyes saw blood-spots everywhere,
And ghastly faces thrust themselves between
His soul and hopes of peace with blasting mien.

It should be observed that Mordred, bound as a Templar by the strictest laws of chastity, is aiming at the 'high grand-mastership,' and consequently suffers not only the remorse of the murderer, but the dread of that defeat which his ambition must encounter in the discovery of his deed. His character is ably delineated; perhaps too nicely drawn, for so brief a tale, since the interest momentarily awakened in the 'dark, proud man,'

----'whose half-blown youth
Had shed its blossoms even in opening,'

is immediately lost in the horror of the catastrophe. But to pursue the outline of the story:

Now, on the second day, there was to be
A festival in church: from far and near
Came flocking in the sun-burnt peasantry,
And knights and dames with stately antique cheer,
Blazing with pomp, as if all faërie
Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as it were,
The illuminated marge of some old book,
While we were gazing, life and motion took.

* * * * *

Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave
The music trembled with an inward thrill
Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave
Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until
The hushed air shivered with the throb it gave,
Then, poising for a moment, it stood still,
And sank and rose again, to burst in spray
That wandered into silence far away.

The whole of the description of this choir-service is equally beautiful with these stanzas; yet it may be objected that it in some degree impedes the progress of narration; and the tale is of that sort which will scarce brook any delay in the telling. But to continue. During the chanting, a breathless pause comes over the congregation; the music hushes; all eyes are drawn by some strange impulse toward the altar; and while all is mute and watchful, the voice of Margaret is heard from heaven, imploring a baptism for her unborn babe. The author himself cannot feel more sensibly than ourselves the injustice of thus patching together the beauteous fragments of his sorrowful and melodious history in so hugger-mugger a way; but MAGA is peremptory, and hints to us that we cannot command the scope of the 'Edinburgh Review:' The voice ceases to thrill the wondering multitude, and the poet thus proceeds:

Then the pale priests, with ceremony due
Baptized the child within its dreadful tomb,
Beneath that mother's heart, whose instinct true
Star-like had battled down the triple gloom
Of sorrow, love, and death: young maidens, too,
Strewed the pale corpse with many a milk-white bloom,
And parted the bright hair, and on the breast
Crossed the unconscious hands in sign of rest.

It is an indication of Mr. LOWELL'S capabilities for a more extended theme that the second part of this poem is superior to the first. It is not merely that the interest of the story increases, but the verse is more compressed, the expressions are more graphic, and the flow of the stanza is finer and more natural. The opening lines are as vivid and impressive as a passage from Tasso:

'As one who, from the sunshine and the green,
Enters the solid darkness of a cave,
Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen
May yawn before him with its sudden grave,
And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean,
Deeming he hears the plashing of a wave
Dimly below, or feels a damper air
From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where;
So from the sunshine and the green of Love,
We enter on our story's darker part,' etc.

The faults of the whole production are the necessary ones of all young writers of original power; a too ready faculty of imitation, and a lack of conciseness. The poets whom Mr. LOWELL mostly reminds us of, in his faults, are SHELLY and SHAKSPEARE; the juvenile SHAKSPEARE, we mean--SHAKSPEARE the sonnetteer. Both in the 'Revolt of Islam' and 'Tarquin and Lucrece,' blemishes resembling his own constantly occur. It will nevertheless be gratifying to his many ardent admirers to perceive that on the whole he has exhibited a more definite approach to what he is capable of accomplishing, and that in proportion as he has grown less vague and ethereal, less fond of personifying sounds and sentiments, so has he advanced toward a more manly and enduring standard of excellence. 'Prometheus' is the next longest poem, and it has afforded us great gratification. It might almost be mistaken for the breath of ÆSCHYLUS, except that it contains sparkles of freedom that even the warm soul of the Greek could never have felt. The first two lines glitter with light:

'One after one the stars have risen and set,
Sparkling upon the hoar-frost on my chain.'

Although, rhyme is no tyrant to our poet, yet he seems to take a fuller swing when free from its influence; and the verse which he employs for the vehicle of his thoughts in this genuine poem is peculiarly adapted to the grandeur and dignity of his subject. This composition will stand the true test of poetry; a test which many immortal verses cannot abide, for it will bear translation into prose without loss of beauty or power: it contains more thoughts than lines, and although abounding in high poetic imaginings, the spirit of true philosophy which it contains is superior to the poetry.

Of Mr. LOWELL'S shorter specimens we may remark, in contradistinction to what has been said of the Legend of Brittany, that so far as they resemble the _kind_ of his former productions, so far in short as they are re-castings of himself, they do him injustice. We now feel that he is capable of stronger and loftier efforts, and are unwilling to overlook in his later compositions the flaws that are wilfully copied from his own volume. The public demand that he should go onward, and not wander back to dally among flowers that have been plucked before, and were then accepted for their freshness. He must devote himself to subjects of wider importance, and give his imaginations a more permanent foothold upon the hearts of men. His love-poems, though many of them would have added grace to his _first_ collection, fail to excite our admiration _equally_ in this. We do not say that he had exhausted panegyric before; far less would we insinuate that passion itself is exhaustible; and yet there is a point where to pause might be more graceful than to go on: '_Sunt certi denique fines._' Did any one ever wish that even PETRARCH had written more? Mr. LOWELL then ought to consider this, and begin to build upon a broader foundation than his own territory, beautiful as it may be, of private and personal fancies and affections. Perhaps there is no exception to the law that love should always be the first impulse that leads an ardent soul to poesy. (By poesy we do not mean school-exercises, and prize heroics approved by a committee of literary gentlemen.) On this account, it may be, that a young poet is always anxious to walk upon the ground where he first felt his strength, considering that a minstrel without love were as powerless, to adopt the Rev. SIDNEY SMITH'S jocose but not altogether clerical illustration, as Sampson in a wig. Mr. LOWELL evinces the firmest faith in his passion, which is evidently as sincere as it is well-bestowed. It is from this perhaps that he derives a corresponding faith in his productions, which always seems proportionate to his love of his subject. Let him be assured however that he is not always the strongest when he feels the most so, nor must he mistake the absence of this feeling for a symptom of diminished power. Should he be at any time inclined to such a self-estimate, let him refer his judgment to his 'Prometheus' and 'Rhoecus.' In his 'Ode' also, and his 'Glance behind the Curtain,' there is much to embolden him toward the highest endeavors in what he would perhaps disdain to call his Art. Poesy, notwithstanding, _is_ an _Art_, which even HORACE and DRYDEN did not scorn to consider such; and our poet ought to remember that he is bound not only to utter his own sentiments and fantasies according to his own impulse, but moreover to consult in some degree the ears of the world: the poet's task is double; to speak FROM himself indeed, but TO the hearing of others. The contempt which a man of genius feels for the mere mechanicism of verse and rhyme may naturally enough lead him to affect an inattention to it; but in this he only benefits the school of smoother artists by allowing them at least _one_ superiority. If he accuses them of being silly, they can retort that he is ugly.

Our author in this second volume has given the small carpers who pick at the 'eds' of past participles, and stickle for old-fashioned _moon_-shine instead of moon-_shine_, fewer causes of complaint. His diction is well-chosen and befitting his themes; and this is a characteristic which peculiarly marks the true artist, if it does not indicate the true genius. His execution, his 'style of handling,' is adapted to his subject; an excellence in which too many artists, whether painters or poets, are sadly deficient. In this respect his performances and those of his friend PAGE may be hung together. From the stately and dignified lines of 'Prometheus' to the jetty, dripping verse of 'The Fountain,' the step is very wide. How full of sparkling, brilliant effects are these joyous lines?

Into the sunshine,
Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night!

Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow!

Mr. LOWELL occasionally makes use of somewhat quaint, Spenserian expressions, but generally with peculiar effect. His abundant fancy seems to find its natural garb in the short and expressive phraseology of those old English writers of whom he manifests on all occasions so thorough an appreciation. As a sweet specimen, although a careless one, of his power of combining deep feeling with the most picturesque imagery, we select one of his lightest touches--'Forgetfulness:'

There is a haven of sure rest
From the loud world's bewildering stress:
As a bird dreaming on her nest,
As dew hid in a rose's breast,
As Hesper in the glowing West;
So the heart sleeps
In thy calm deeps,
Serene Forgetfulness!

No sorrow in that place may be,
The noise of life grows less and less:
As moss far down within the sea,
As, in white lily caves, a bee,
As life in a hazy reverie;
So the heart's wave
In thy dim cave,
Hushes, Forgetfulness!

Duty and care fade far away,
What toil may be we cannot guess:
As a ship anchored in a bay,
As a cloud at summer-noon astray,
As water-blooms in a breezeless day;
So, 'neath thine eyes,
The full heart lies,
And dreams, Forgetfulness!

'The Shepherd of King Admetus' is exceedingly graceful and delicate, but it is too long to be quoted entire, and too perfect to be disjointed. We must reluctantly skip 'Fatherland,' 'The Inheritance,' 'The Moon,' 'Rhoecus,' and other favorites, until we come to 'L'Envoi,' where our author once more throws his arms aloft, free from the incumbrance of rhyme. This poem is inscribed to 'M. W.,' his heart's idol. The warm affection which radiates from its lines, it is not to be mistaken, is an out-flowing of pure human love. Among these personal feelings, touching which we have 'said our say,' we find the following; which in _one_ respect so forcibly illustrates what we have written within these two weeks to a western correspondent, that we cannot forbear to quote it here:

Thou art not of those niggard souls, who deem
That poesy is but to jingle words,
To string sweet sorrows for apologies
To hide the barrenness of unfurnished hearts,
To prate about the surfaces of things,
And make more thread-bare what was quite worn out:
Our common thoughts are deepest, and to give
Such beauteous tones to these, as needs must take
Men's hearts their captives to the end of time,
So that who hath not the choice gift of words
Takes these into his soul, as welcome friends,
To make sweet music of his joys and woes,
And be all Beauty's swift interpreter,
Links of bright gold 'twixt Nature and his heart
This is the errand high of Poesy.

* * * * *

They tell us that our land was made for song,
With its huge rivers and sky-piercing peaks,
Its sea-like lakes and mighty cataracts,
Its forests vast and hoar, and prairies wide,
And mounds that tell of wondrous tribes extinct;
But Poesy springs not from rocks and woods;
Her womb and cradle are the human heart,
And she can find a nobler theme for song
In the most loathsome man that blasts the sight,
Than in the broad expanse of sea and shore
Between the frozen deserts of the poles.
All nations have their message from on high,
Each the messiah of some central thought,
For the fulfilment and delight of Man:
One has to teach that Labor is divine;
Another, Freedom; and another, Mind;
And all, that GOD is open-eyed and just,
The happy centre and calm heart of all.

It is impossible to read such sentiments as these, without feeling our hearts open to him who gives them utterance. Mr. LOWELL is one of those writers who gain admiration for their verses and lovers for themselves. We can pay him no higher compliment.

There is nothing in the title-page or appearance of this elegant volume to indicate that it is not published in Cambridge, England; but unlike the majority of American books of poetry, any page in the work will give out too strong an odor of Bunker-Hill, though we find no allusion to that sacred eminence, to allow the reader to remain long in doubt of its paternity. Although we hold that any writing worthy of being called poetry must be of universal acceptance, and adapted to the longings and necessities of the entire human family, as the same liquid element quenches the thirst of the inhabitants of the tropics and the poles, yet every age and every clime must of necessity tincture its own productions. We do not therefore diminish in the slightest degree the high poetical pretensions of Mr. LOWELL'S poems, when we claim for them a national character, silent though they be upon 'the stars and stripes,' and a complexion which no other age of the world than our own could have given. They are not only American poems, but they are poems of the nineteenth century. There is a spirit of freedom, of love for GOD and MAN, that broods over them, which our partiality for our own country makes us too ready perhaps to claim as the natural offspring of our land and laws. The volume is dedicated to WILLIAM PAGE, the painter, in a bit of as sweet and pure language as can be found in English prose. It might be tacked on to one of DRYDEN'S dedications without creating an incongruous feeling. The dedication is as honorable to the poet as to the painter. Had all dedications been occasioned by such feelings as gave birth to this, these graceful and fitting tributes of affection and gratitude would never have dwindled away to the cold and scanty lines, like an epitaph on a charity tomb-stone, in which they appear, when they appear at all, in most modern books.

THIRTY YEARS PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA.
Interspersed with Anecdotes and Reminiscences of a Variety of Persons
connected with the Drama during the Theatrical Life of JOE COWELL,
Comedian. Written by himself. In one volume, pp. 103. New-York: HARPER
AND BROTHERS.

Of all the pages in English memoirs, none are so rich in humor and various observation as those devoted to the players. CARLYLE somewhere says, that the _only_ good biographies are those of actors; and he gives for a reason their want of respectability! Being 'vagabonds' by law in England, the truth of their histories he tells us is not varnished over by delicate omissions. The first branch of this assumption is certainly true, whatever cause may be at the bottom of it; and Mr. COWELL, in the very entertaining volume before us, has added another proof of the correctness of Herr TEUFELSDRÖCKH'S flattering conclusions. His narrative is rambling, various, instructive, and amusing. He plunges at once _in medias res_; and being in himself an epitome of his class; of their successes, excitements, reverses and depressions; he paints as he goes along a most graphic picture of the life of an actor. We shall follow his own desultory method; and proceed without farther prelude to select here and there a 'bit' from his well-filled 'budget of fun.' Let us open it with this common portrait of a vain querulous, complaining Thespian, who is never appreciated, never rewarded:

'I was seated in the reading-room of the hotel, thinking away the
half hour before dinner, when my attention was attracted by a
singularly-looking man. He was dressed in a green coat,
brass-buttoned close up to the neck, light gray, approaching to
blue, elastic pantaloons, white cotton stockings, dress shoes,
with more riband employed to fasten them than was either useful or
ornamental; a hat, smaller than those usually worn, placed rather
on one side of a head of dark curly hair; fine black eyes, and
what altogether would have been pronounced a handsome face, but
for an overpowering expression of impudence and vulgarity; a sort
of footman-out-of-place-looking creature; his hands were thrust
into the pockets of his coat behind, and in consequence exposing a
portion of his person, as ridiculously, and perhaps as
unconsciously, as a turkey-cock does when he intends to make
himself very agreeable. He was walking rather fancifully up and
down the room, partly singing, partly whistling '_The Bay of
Biscay O_,' and at the long-lived, but most nonsensical chorus, he
shook the fag-ends of his divided coat tail, as if in derision of
that fatal 'short sea,' so well known and despised in that
salt-water burial-place. I was pretending to read a paper, when a
carrier entered, and placed a play-bill before me on the table. I
had taken it up and began perusing it, when he strutted up, and
leaning over my shoulder, said:

''I beg pardon, Sir; just a moment.'

'I put it toward him.

''No matter, Sir, no matter; I've seen all I want to see; the same
old two-and-sixpence; _Hamlet, Mr. Sandford_, in large letters;
_and Laertes, Mr. Vandenhoff_! O----!'

'And with an epithet not in any way alluding to the 'sweet South,'
he stepped off to the _Biscay_ tune, allegro. I was amused; and
perhaps the expression of my face encouraged him to return
instantly, and with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, for he
said:

''My dear Sir, that's the way the profession is going to the
devil: here, Sir, is the '_manager_'--with a sneer--'one of the
d----dest humbugs that ever trod the stage, must have his name in
large letters, of _course_; and the _and_ Laertes, Mr. Vandenhoff;
he's a favorite of the Grand Mogul, as we call old Sandford, and
so he gets all the fat; and d'ye know why he's shoved down the
people's throats? Because he's so d----d bad the old man shows to
advantage alongside of him. Did you ever see him?'

'I shook my head.

''Why, Sir, he's a tall, stooping, lantern-jawed,
asthmatic-voiced, spindle-shanked fellow.' Here he put his foot on
the rail of my chair, and slightly scratched the calf of his leg.
'Hair the color of a cock-canary,' thrusting his fingers through
his own coal-black ringlets; 'with light blue eyes, Sir, trimmed
with pink gymp. He hasn't been long caught; just from some nunnery
in Liverpool, or somewhere, where he was brought up as a Catholic
priest; and here he comes, with his Latin and Lancashire dialect,
to lick the manager's great toe, and be hanged to him, and gets
all the business; while men of talent, and nerve, and personal
appearance,' shifting his hands from his coat-pockets to those of
his tights, 'who have drudged in the profession for years, are
kept in the back-ground; 'tis enough to make a fellow swear!'

''You, then, Sir, are an actor?' said I, calmly.

''An actor! yes, Sir, I am an _actor_, and have been ever since I
was an infant in arms; played the child that cries in the third
act of the comedy of 'The Chances,' when it was got up with
splendor by Old Gerald, at Sheerness, when I was only nine weeks
old; and I recollect, that is, my mother told me, that I cried
louder, and more naturally, than any child they'd ever had.
_That's me_,' said he, pointing to the play-bill--_Horatio, Mr.
Howard_. 'I _used to make_ a great part of Horatio _once_; and I
can now send any Hamlet to h-ll in that character, when I give it
energy and pathos; but this nine-tailed bashaw of a manager
insists upon my keeping my 'madness in the back-ground,' as he
calls it, and so I just walk through it, speak the words, and make
it a poor, spooney, preaching son of a how-came-ye-so, and do no
more for it than the author has.'

Mr. COWELL subsequently enlists under the same manager, and is received with great apparent cordiality by the members of his _corps dramatique_: 'The loan of 'properties,' or any thing I have, is perfectly at your service,' was iterated by all. Howard said: 'My boy, by heavens, I'll lend you my blue tights; oh, you're perfectly welcome; I don't wear them till the farce; Banquo's one of my _flesh parts_; nothing like the naked truth; I'm h--l for nature. By-the-by, you'll often have to wear black smalls and stockings; I'll put you up to something; save your buying silks, darning, stitch-dropping, louse-ladders, and all that; grease your legs and burnt-cork 'em; it looks d----d well 'from the front.'' Mr. COWELL, it appears, was an artist of no mean pretensions; and while engaged on one occasion in sketching a picturesque view of Stoke Church, he was interrupted in rather a novel manner by a brother actor named REYMES, somewhat akin, we fancy, to his friend HOWARD, albeit 'excellent company:'

'Several times I was disturbed in my occupation, to look round to
inquire the cause of a crash, every now and then, like the
breaking of glass; and at length I caught a glimpse of Reymes,
slyly jerking a pebble, under his arm, through one of the windows.
I recollected twice, in walking home with him, late at night, from
the theatre, his quietly taking a brick-bat from out of his
coat-pocket and deliberately smashing it through the casement of
the Town Hall, and walking on and continuing his conversation as
if nothing had happened. Crack! again. I began to suspect an
abberration of intellect, and said:

''Reymes, for heaven's sake what are you doing?'

''Showing my gratitude,' said he; and crack! went another.

''Showing the devil!' said I; 'you're breaking the church
windows.'

''Why, I know it--certainly; what do you stare at?' said the
eccentric. 'I broke nearly every pane three weeks ago; I couldn't
hit them all. After you have broken a good many, the stones are
apt to go through the holes you've already made. They only
finished mending them the day before yesterday; I came out and
asked the men when they were likely to get done;' and clatter!
clatter! went another.

''That's excellent!' said he, in great glee. 'I hit the frame just
in the right place; I knocked out two large ones that time.'

''Reymes,' said I, with temper, 'if you don't desist, I must leave
off my drawing.'

''Well,' said he, 'only this one,' and crack! it went; 'there!
I've done. Since it annoys you, I'll come by myself to-morrow and
finish the job; it's the only means in my power of proving my
gratitude.'

''Proving your folly,' said I. 'Why, Reymes, you must be out of
your senses.'

''Why, did I never tell you?' said he. 'Oh! then I don't wonder at
your surprise. I thought I had told you. I had an uncle, a
glazier, who died, and left me twenty pounds, and this
mourning-ring; and I therefore have made it a rule to break the
windows of all public places ever since. The loss is not worth
speaking of to the parish, and puts a nice bit of money in the
pocket of some poor dealer in putty, with probably a large family
to support. And now I've explained, I presume you have no
objection to my proceeding in paying what I consider a debt of
gratitude due to my dead uncle.'

''Hold! Reymes,' said I, as he was picking up a pebble. 'How do
you know but the poor fellow with the large family may not
undertake to repair the windows by contract, at so much a year or
month?'

''Eh! egad, I never thought of that,' said the whimsical,
good-hearted creature. 'I'll suspend operations until I've made
the inquiry, and if I've wronged him I'll make amends.'

Mr. COWELL is a plain-spoken man, and seldom spares age or sex in his exposure of the secrets of the stage, and the appliances and means to boot which are sometimes adopted by theatrical men and women to make an old face or form 'look maist as weel's the new.' The celebrated Mrs. JORDAN, in performing with him, was always very averse to his playing near the foot-lights, greatly preferring to act between the second entrances. The 'moving why' is thus explained:

'The fact is, she was getting old; dimples turn to crinkles after
long use; beside, she wore a wig glued on; and in the heat of
acting--for she was always in earnest--I have seen some of the
tenacious compound with which it was secured trickle down a
wrinkle behind her ear; her person, too, was extremely round and
large, though still retaining something of the outline of its
former grace:

'And after all, 't would puzzle to say where
It would not spoil a charm to pare.'

There is no calamity in the catalogue of ills 'that flesh is heir
to' so horrible as the approach of old age to an actor. Juvenile
tragedy, light comedy, and walking gentleman with little
pot-bellies, and _have-been_ pretty women, are really to be
pitied. Fancy a lady, who has had quires of sonnets made to her
eye-brow, being obliged, at last, to black it, play at the back of
the stage at night, sit with her back to the window in a shady
part of the green-room in the morning, and keep on her bonnet
unless she can afford a very natural wig.'

Sad enough! sad enough! certainly, and as true as it is melancholy. But let us get on board the Yankee vessel which brings Mr. COWELL to America, and at _his_ 'present writing' is lying off Gravesend. The difficulty he experienced in getting up a conversation with his fellow-passengers is a grievance still loudly complained of by his travelling countrymen:

'It was a dark, drizzly, melancholy night; a fair specimen of
Gravesend weather and the parts adjacent; no 'star that's westward
from the pole' to point my destined path, and furnish food for
speculative thought; and, after sliding five or six times up and
down some twenty feet of wet deck, I groped my way to the cabin.
The captain was not on board, and I found myself a stranger among
men. Of all gregarious animals man is the most tardy in getting
acquainted: meet them for the first time in a jury-box, a
stage-coach, or the cabin of a ship, and they always remind me of
a little lot of specimen sheep from different flocks, put together
for the first time in the same pen; they walk about and round and
round, with all their heads and tails in different directions, and
not a baa! escapes them; but in half an hour some crooked-pated
bell-wether perhaps, gives a south-down a little dig in the ribs,
and this example is followed by a Merino; and before the ending of
the fair their heads are all one way, and you'll find them
bleating together in full chorus. Now, in the case of man, a
snuff-box instead of the sheep's horn, is an admirable
introduction; for, if he refuses to take a pinch, he'll generally
give you a sufficient reason why he does not, and that's an
excellent chance to form, perhaps, a lasting friendship, but to
scrape an acquaintance to a certainty; and if he takes it perhaps
he'll sneeze, and you can come in with your 'God bless you!' and
so on, to a conversation about the plague in '66, or the yellow
fever on some other occasion, and can 'bury your friends by
dozens,' and 'escape yourself by a miracle,' very pleasantly for
half an hour. But in this instance it was a total failure: one
said 'I don't use it;' another shook his head, and the third
emptied his mouth of half a pint of spittle, and said 'he thought
it bad enough to chaw!''

When the vessel is fairly at sea, the social ice is gradually broken. It being just after the war, the _rationale_ of the following brief dialogue between Mr. COWELL and the mate will be readily understood:

'The mate was a weather-beaten, humorous 'sea-monster;' upon asking
his name, he replied:

''If you're an Englishman and I once tell you my name, you'll never
forget it.'

''I don't know that,' I replied; 'I'm very unfortunate in
remembering names.'

''Oh, never mind!' said he, with a peculiarly sly, comical look; 'if
you're an Englishman you'll never forget mine.'

''Then I certainly am,' I replied.

''Well, then,' said he drily, 'my name's BUNKER! and I'm d----d if
any Englishman will ever forget that name!''

Mr. COWELL'S arrival, début, and theatrical progress and associations in this and other Atlantic towns, compose a diversified and palatable feast for the stage-loving public. His sketches of actors, male and female, native and foreign, are limned with an artistical hand. His picture of KEAN'S fleeing from 'the hot pursuit of obloquy' is exceedingly vivid; and 'old MATHEWS' American 'trip' is well set forth. We find nothing so good, however, touching that extraordinary mime, as the following illustration of his sensitiveness to newspaper criticism, from the pen of the dramatic veteran, MONCRIEF:

''Look here,' he would say, taking up a paper and reading:
'Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.--We last night visited this elegant
theatre for the purpose of witnessing the performance of that
excellent comedian, Mr. BELVI, as _Octavian_, in the
'Mountaineers,' for his own benefit. We hope it was for his own
benefit, for it certainly was not for the benefit of any one else;
for a more execrable performance we never witnessed. This
gentleman had better stick to his comedy!' Grant me patience;
Heaven! There's a fellow! What does he know about it? I suppose he
would abuse my _Iago_--say that is execrable! Isn't this
sufficient to drive any body mad? Because a man happens to have
played comedy all his life, '_we_' takes upon himself to think as
a matter of course he can't play tragedy, though he may possess
first rate tragic powers, as I do myself! I should have been the
best _Hamlet_ on the stage if I didn't limp; but let me go on: 'We
have seen ELLISTON in the character.' A charlatan, a mountebank;
wouldn't have me at Drury; and yet '_we_' thinks he has a syllable
the advantage of his competitor in this instance. We! we! as if
the fellow had a parcel of pigs in his inside; _we! we!_ Who's
_we_? Why don't he say Tompkins, or whatever his name is, Tompkins
thinks Elliston better in _Octavian_ than Belvi; Belvi could kick
Tompkins then; but who can kick _we_?' etc., etc. And yet poor
Mathews had no warmer admirers, no truer, no more constant friends
than those whose occasional animadversions would thus excite his
ire.'

After running a very successful and popular career at the Park-Theatre, our artist-actor is induced to assume the management of a circus-theatre just then in high vogue at the TATTERSALL'S building in Broadway. The subjoined was one of the many incidents which occurred on his assuming the reins of the establishment:

'The company was both extensive and excellent; a stud of
thirty-three horses, four ponies and a jack-ass, all so admirably
selected and educated, that for beauty and utility they could not
be equalled any where. The company was popular and our success
enormous. Of course, like others when first placed in power, I
made a total change in my cabinet. JOHN BLAKE I appointed
secretary of the treasury and principal ticket-seller; and to
prove how excellent a judge I was of integrity and capacity, he
was engaged at the Park at the end of the season, and has held
that important situation there ever since. A delicious specimen of
the Emerald Isle, with the appropriate equestrian appellation of
Billy Rider, received an office of nearly equal trust, though
smaller chance of perquisites--stage and stable door-keeper at
night, and through the day a variety of duties, to designate half
of which would occupy a chapter. He was strict to a fault in the
discharge of his duty, as every urchin of that day who attempted
to sneak into the circus can testify. Conway the tragedian called
to see me one evening, and in attempting to pass was stopped by
Billy, armed as usual, with a pitch-fork.

''What's this you want? Who are ye? and where are you going?' says
Billy.

'I wish to see Mr. Cowell,' says Conway.

'Oh then, it's till to-morrow at ten o'clock, in his office, that
you'll have to wait to perform that operation.'

'But, my dear fellow, my name is Conway, of the theatre; Mr.
Cowell is my particular friend, and I have his permission to
enter.'

'By my word, Sir, I thank ye kindly for the explination; and it's
a mighty tall, good-looking gentleman you are too,' says Billy,
presenting his pitch-fork; 'but if ye were the blessed Redeemer,
with the cross under your arm, you couldn't pass me without an
orther from Mr. Cowell.'

'JOE COWELL,' in years gone by, has made us laugh many a good hour; and we hold ourselves bound to reciprocate the pleasure he has afforded us, by warmly commending his pleasant, gossipping volume to the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER throughout the United States.

AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON HUMAN PHYSIOLOGY: on the Basis of the
'Précis Elémentaire de Physiologie' of MAGENDIE. Translated, enlarged,
and illustrated with Diagrams and Cuts, by Prof. JOHN REVERE, M. D.,
of the University of New-York. In one volume. pp. 533. New-York:
HARPER AND BROTHERS.

The American translator and editor of the volume above cited is of opinion that since the death of Sir CHARLES BELL, there is no physiologist who stands so preëminent as an original observer and inquirer, or who has contributed so much to the present improved state of the science by his individual efforts, as M. MAGENDIE. In facility in experimenting upon living animals, and extended opportunities of observation, no one has surpassed him; while through a long professional career his attention has been chiefly devoted to physiological inquiries. There is one excellence which constitutes a predominant feature in his system of Physiology that cannot be estimated too highly by the student of medicine; and that is, the severe system of induction that he has pursued, excluding those imaginative and speculative views which rather belong to metaphysics than physiology. The work is also remarkable for the conciseness and perspicuity of its style, the clearness of its descriptions, and the admirable arrangement of its matter. The present is a translation of the fifth and last edition of the '_Précis Elémentaire de Physiologie_,' in which the science is brought down to the present time. It is not, like many modern systems, merely eclectic, or a compilation of the experiments and doctrines of others. On the contrary, all the important questions discussed, if not originally proposed and investigated by the author, have been thoroughly examined and experimented upon by him. His observations, therefore, on all these important subjects, carry with them great interest and weight derived from these investigations. The translator and editor, while faithfully adhering to the spirit of the author, has endeavored, and with success, to strip the work of its foreign costume, and _naturalize_ it to our language. He has added a large number of diagrams and pictorial illustrations of the different organs and structures, taken from the highest and most recent authorities, in the hope of rendering clearer to the student of medicine the observations and reasonings on their functions. He has also made a number of additions on subjects which he thought had been passed over in too general a manner in the original work of MAGENDIE. In a word, his aim 'to present a system of human physiology which shall exhibit in a clear and intelligible manner the actual state of the science, and adapted to the use of students of medicine in the United States,' has been thoroughly carried out.

THE STUDY OF THE LIFE OF WOMAN. By Madame NECKER DE SAUSSURE, of
Geneva. Translated from the French. In one volume. pp. 288.
Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

The distinguished clergyman who introduces this excellent book to American readers does it no more than justice when he declares it to be the work of a highly gifted mind, containing many beautiful philosophical views of the relation which woman sustains in society, abounding in the results of careful observation, and characterized by a pervading religious spirit. It is adapted to accomplish great good, and its circulation would do much to aid those who have the care of youthful females, and who desire that they should fill the place in society for which they were designed. There is no work in our language which occupies the place that this is intended to fill; nor which presents so interesting a view of the organization of society by its great AUTHOR, and of the situation appropriated to _woman_ in that organization. The book has reference more particularly to the elevated circles of society; to those who have advantages for education; who have leisure for the cultivation of the intellect and the heart after the usual course of education is completed, and who have opportunities of doing good to others. 'It will supply a place which is not filled now, and would be eminently useful to that increasing number of individuals in our country. It is much to be regretted that not a few when they leave school seem to contemplate little farther advancement in the studies in which they have been engaged. A just view of the place which woman is designed to occupy in society, as presented in this volume, would do much to correct this error. We should regard it as an auspicious omen, if this work should have an extensive circulation in this country, and believe that wherever it is perused it will contribute to the elevation of the sex; to promote large views of the benevolence and wisdom of the Creator in regard to the human family, and to advance the interests of true religion.'

THE AMERICAN REVIEW, AND METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE. Numbers five and six.
pp. 588. New-York: SAXTON AND MILES, Broadway.

The number of this publication for the December quarter is a very good one. We were especially interested in the 'Michael Agonistes' of Mr. J. W. BROWN, which is, in parts, both powerful and harmonious, and in a dissertation upon 'WEIR'S National Painting.' The writer is of opinion that our eminent artist has made a sad mistake in the conception of his striking group, although he awards warm praise to certain portions of the picture. Still he says: 'It argues slight knowledge of human nature to suppose that melancholy resignation characterized those who at Delft-Haven embarked for a land of civil and religious liberty; wild and inhospitable, to be sure, but still a land of Freedom. There were other thoughts in the hearts of that noble band than those of sorrow. Even had they been leaving the country of their birth, they would not have sorrowed; but as it was, bidding farewell to a land of foreigners, almost as hostile to freedom as their own, they felt not otherwise than joyful, and their bosoms were full of thoughtful, reasoning gladness. The parting kiss of that young wife must have tried, somewhat, the firmness of her husband, yet not enough to cloud his bright anticipations of the future. A different mood than that imagined by Mr. WEIR should have pervaded the group, if we are not widely in error. 'With all its faults,' adds our critic, however, 'The Embarkation of the Pilgrims,' although not indicative of great genius, yet regarded as to execution, does honor to Mr. WEIR. We should do injustice to the central group, did we omit to confess that the devotional grandeur of the face of the minister, raised to heaven in prayer, struck us with a feeling of awe, such as we had perhaps never before experienced.' This especial tribute we have heard paid to this picture by every person whom we have heard refer to it.

EDITOR'S TABLE.