Chapter VI: Part 6

OH! in these colored shades it were too blest
To roam with thee the hill-side and the plain,
When in each passing moment we retain
The moral of the great truth here impressed.
See! how the woods in green and gold are dressed,
As if apparelled for a conqueror's reign;
Nor less yon maple groves, whose blood-red stain
Trickles far down the distant mountain's crest.
Gorgeous October! in thy golden gleam
I see the tender light of loving eyes,
Which to thy sweet days give an added beam;
Nor would it be to me a vain surprise,
If sometimes thy low-whispering winds should seem
To be the music of her tender sighs.

SONNET V.

THE less of life, the less account is seen:
The less account, the less of ill is known:
And Beauty, ere its flower be quite full-blown,
Is ofttimes nipped by sudden frosts and keen;
And thus the course of life with me hath been,
For, living among men, I dwell alone:
Till now, life's goodly tree well-nigh overthrown,
Doth wear the yellow leaf, and not the green.
Yet even as Autumn is the proper rest,
The sweet and gentlest season of the year;
So in the mellow Autumn of thy breast,
May my name last, to life and memory dear;
Nor less upon my thought be thine impressed,
For thou hast ever proved a friend sincere.

SONNET VI.

LIKE Summer-birds, when Summer-hours are fled:
Like Summer-skies when Autumn-clouds are nigh:
So from my heart did Hope, the watcher, fly,
When in thy arms my darling girl lay dead.
O fatal bolt! and all too surely sped:
Yet sadder far when in her love-lit eye
I saw the smile of recognition die,
And felt the death-damp on her fair young head.
If Love renewed have ever safe return
To its far bourne, what matters it which way
Our scarce-fledged hopes and blighted joys have fled?
Or why is it that we cannot discern
This last great truth, that our best treasures lie
Beyond the silent barriers of the dead?

SONNET VII.

CREAK, ye black forests! and ye mournful forms
That flit like hooded monks across the bare
And desolate wilderness, urge through the air
Your cloudy legions, O ye gloomy storms!
Dark ministers of Night! I hear the roll
Of rising winds, and in the lonely vale
The melancholy Autumn breathes her wail,
Yet pleasant is her sadness to my soul.
See! where the Old Year bears her in his arms:
The pale CORDELIA and the trembling LEAR:
Will he not strew with heather her sad bier,
And keep her safe from Winter's rude alarms?
'Vex not his ghost!' his life will soon be o'er,
The 'sweet, low voice' he loved he hears no more.

SONNET VIII.

OH! when shall love to THEE be my best guide,
REDEEMER, SAVIOUR! ever blessed LORD!
By all the powers in earth and heaven adored?
When flowed the dear blood from THY wounded side--
By heaven forsaken and by man denied--
Why were its crimson streams so freely poured,
If man by love was not to be restored?
O mighty theme! that doth debase my pride,
And pour contempt on all the things of earth:
If angels are not faultless in THY sight,
How much less we who travail from our birth,
Walking apart from Love and its clear light?
Yet not for them, but us, was HE once slain,
That we, redeemed from sin, might live again.

SONNET IX.

MOURN, mourn, voice of the wilderness!
For HIM who shed HIS precious blood for me:
JESU REDEMPTOR! LAMB OF CALVARY!
The heir of glory, anguish and distress;
Oh! how shall mortal tongue the love express
With which THOU didst so love us, as to be
Our sacrifice upon the accursed tree,
Bearing the burden of our wickedness.
O ye wild winds! and wilder blasts that wail
Amid the ebon darkness, have ye known
Man's dark iniquity that thus ye moan
In hollow accents through the lonely vale?
Alas! my soul, thy sins slew GOD'S dear SON:
_Kyrie eleeson! Christe eleeson!_

SONNET X.

TRISAGION.

'Therefore with angels and arch-angels, laud
And magnify HIS great and glorious Name,
Who, to redeem the world from ruin, came,
Saying: Holy, holy, holy LORD GOD!
Heaven and earth made clean by Thy dear blood,
Are ever full of THY great majesty:
All glory be to THEE, O LORD, Most High!'
So sang the angelic choir, the while I stood
Listening the far response: 'Not unto us,
Not unto us, O LORD! but unto THEE
Be all the glory, LAMB OF CALVARY!
_Quoniam tu solus Dominius!_'
So Love doth rule--the high behest of heaven:
And Love is ten-fold Love that waits on sins forgiven.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE KING OF THE MOUNTAINS. From the French of EDMOND ABOUT,
Author of 'The Roman Question,' 'Germaine,' etc. By MARY L.
BOOTH. With an Introduction by EPES SARGENT, Esq. In one
volume: pp. 300. Boston: J. E. TILTON AND COMPANY, Number 601
Washington-street.

MONSIEUR ABOUT is said to have scared HIS HOLINESS, the POPE, the kind and benevolent PIO NONO, (if we may trust _any_ of all the numerous portraits and drawings which we have encountered of him,) in his book upon '_The Roman Question_.' The author's very name may have had something to do with it. He was 'about'--he was 'areöund': and the 'French' of his cognomen, as pronounced by his countrymen, was in itself suggestive of at least a signal of alarm--'_Ah-booh!_' But this aside: the book is a remarkable one, in many respects: and like its predecessors from the same pen, it will make an 'abiding mark' among the artistically-transferred literature to our own, from a foreign tongue. This narrative of '_The King of the Mountains_' is not at all complicated. Regarded as an artistical picture, we may say with truth that 'the canvas is neither confused nor crowded.' The story is supposed to be told by a young German botanist. He proceeds to Greece with the purpose of herbalizing in the mountains. 'Carried away by a scientific enthusiasm--the most common and the most pardonable--he becomes the prisoner of a remarkable brigand, HADGI-STAVROS, the King of the Mountains. He is not alone in his captivity. An English lady and her daughter--the former a striking portrait of a class of weak and consequential tourists, and the latter a thing to be admired and loved by any German, or any American, for that matter, under the circumstances supposed--are the hero's fellow-prisoners. The greater part of the book is taken up with a description of the character, positions, resources, habits and influence of the brigand chief; the temporary captivity of the party, who are made prisoners for the sake of a large ransom, actually in view of Athens, (such is the state of the government and police of that thriving kingdom!) and their final ransom and escape. But there are other _dramatis personæ_ beside MRS. SIMONS, who is a sort of MRS. NICKLEBY, an _Anglaise pour ire_, and MISS SIMONS, who does not take after her mother. There are down at the Piræus an American named HARRIS, a young Athenian girl, hight PHOTINI, and a Frenchman whose ruling passions are archæology and philanthropy. 'He had been rewarded by some provincial academy for an essay on the price of paper in the time of ORPHEUS. Encouraged by his first success, he had made a journey to Greece to collect materials for a work on the quantity of oil consumed by the lamp of DEMOSTHENES while he was writing the second Philippic.' HARRIS, the American, is evidently a favorite character with M. ABOUT. He invests him with all the best attributes of our countrymen, and makes every adventure in which he is a participator honorable to his gallantry and sagacity: 'The first time I dined with this strange fellow I comprehended America. JOHN was born at Vandalia, Illinois. He inhaled at his birth that air of the New World, so vivacious, so sparkling and so brisk, that it goes to the head like champagne wine, and one gets intoxicated in breathing it. I know not whether the HARRIS family are rich or poor; whether they sent their son to college or left him to get his own education. It is certain that at twenty-seven years he depends only on himself; trusts only to himself, is astonished at nothing, thinks nothing impossible, never flinches, believes all things, hopes all things, tries all things; triumphs in all, rises up again if he falls, never stops, never loses courage.' One of the best of our American critics, Mr. BRYANT, remarks of this book: 'No work of modern times, even in an English dress, serves to convey so capital an idea of the style which made VOLTAIRE famous, as this last agreeable romance of the author of 'The Roman Question.' It is just such a story as TALLEYRAND would have told over his chocolate, and SYDNEY SMITH relished and decorated with impromptu comment.'

THE LITERARY AND PROFESSIONAL WORKS OF FRANCIS BACON, Baron
of Verulam, Viscount St. Albans, and Lord High Chancellor of
England. Volume II. of the 'Literary and Professional Works':
pp. 454. Boston: BROWN AND TAGGARD.

OUR first praise of this series of BACON'S works must be paid to that feature which first appeals to us through the eye--its typographical execution, by HOUGHTON, of the 'River-side Press' at Cambridge, near Boston, which may be pronounced fully equal to that of the first English printing in choice library editions of kindred standard works. The volume before us contains, with translations, BACON'S eulogium upon HENRY Prince of Wales, and the characters of JULIUS and AUGUSTUS CÆSAR--the original Latin, with translation. Also amendments and corrections inserted by BACON in a manuscript copy of CAMDEN'S Annals. Then follow, prefaced by a curious bibliographical note by Mr. SPEDDING, the 'Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral,' published from 1597 to 1625, (the year before his death,) which exhibit 'the earliest and the latest fruits of BACON'S observation in that field in which its value has been most approved by universal and undiminished popularity. These fifty-eight Essays, so wise and so eloquent in their simple yet forcible diction, occupy the greater portion of the volume, and the editor has translated the Latin quotations and added some necessary notes. There is an appendix to the essays, containing a Fragment of an Essay on Fame; reprints of the first edition of 1597, containing only ten, and of the second edition of 1612, with thirty-eight essays, and two essays attributed to BACON without authority; but, notwithstanding some similarity of style, marked by Mr. SPEDDING as spurious. There is, also, BACON'S treatise _De Sapientia Veterum_, itself a curiously learned book, the translation of which will appear in a future volume. 'BACON was one of the most remarkable men the world has ever seen. His character is a remarkable compound of the greatest nobleness and the most contemptible meanness. But of his _intellect_, no two opinions have ever been expressed. If we knew BACON only by his works, we should be bound to esteem him to be as good as he was undeniably a great man.'

GUESSES AT TRUTH. By TWO BROTHERS. From the fifth London
edition. Boston: TICKNOR AND FIELDS.

THE PROVERBS and ECCLESIASTES are still without rival or peer, notwithstanding that LACON has given us some good apothegms, and MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, who undertook to render King SOLOMON into polite English, has had an amazing 'run.' A good proverb is always acceptable: a poor one vexes us always, because the maker assumes the position of teacher, and has no right to be either stupid or mediocre. To set one thinking is more difficult, and indeed more laudable, than to furnish one with thoughts; as it is more praiseworthy to put one in the way of earning a living, than merely to bestow a charity. It is easy, however, to assume the air oracular; in fact there is more or less strength, _prima facia_, in a pretentious position; and a platitude let off under cover of high-sounding words may be very imposing. We have in 'Guesses at Truth,' a book of five hundred and fifty-five pages, originally published in England more than thirty years ago by two brothers, clergymen, we believe, and now reprinted by the respectable house of TICKNOR AND FIELDS. We have looked carefully through the volume; and for once are forced to differ with the publishers as to the taste of reproducing the book here. With the exception of some very fair criticisms on SHAKSPEARE, MILTON, and one or two others, borrowed a good deal from GOETHE and SCHLEGEL, and certain extended disquisitions absorbed evidently from WORDSWORTH and COLERIDGE, the book is utterly common-place. A good deal of it we remember to have met with in our various newspaper clippings--a good deal we confess never to have before encountered. In 'Guesses at Truth' the French come in for very severe hits from the 'TWO BROTHERS' whenever opportunity serves: they are full of the English prejudices of the last century. Mark the following sagacious comparison: 'The French rivers partake of the national character. [We should think it would be just the reverse.--ED.] Many of them look broad, grand and imposing, but they have no depth; and the greatest river in the country, the Rhone, loses half its usefulness from the impetuosity of its current!' Hear this precious piece of intelligence: 'France--the only region between Lapland and Morocco where youth is without bloom, and age without dignity!' Here is something new about the 'best talkers in the world:' 'Talk to a dozen Englishmen on any subject: there will be something peculiar and characteristic in the remarks of each. Talk to a dozen Frenchmen: they will all make the very same remark, and almost in the same words.' But let us give the reader a specimen of the more abstract 'Guesses:' 'What a pity it is there are so many words! Whenever one wants to say any thing, three or four ways of saying it run into one's head together; and one can't tell which to choose. It is as troublesome or as puzzling as choosing a ribbon or a husband.' Read the following. It is Blackstonian: 'A use must have preceded an abuse properly so called.' The next strikes us as exceedingly original: 'A little management may often evade resistance which a vast force might vainly strive to overcome.' And this: 'Children always turn toward the light. Oh! that grown-up people in this world would become like little children!' The art-world owes much for what follows: 'A portrait has one advantage over its original: it is unconscious; and so you may admire without insulting it. I have seen portraits which have more.' (_Sic._) Here is something worthy a place in the 'Rules of Etiquette:' 'A compliment is usually accompanied by a bow, as if to beg pardon for paying it.' We have puzzled over the following and 'give it up:' 'What way of circumventing a man can be so easy and suitable as a period? The name should be enough to put us on our guard; the experience of every age is not.' Further on we read: 'Truth endues man's purposes with _somewhat_ of immutability.' This reminds us of the cautious writer who stated that '_most_ men were mortal!'

For further examples of senseless platitudes dictatorially expressed, we refer the reader to the work _passim_. There is nothing more ridiculous than the deliberate sitting-down to write a book of proverbs and reflections. How unlike the genuine flow of the table-talk of some of our best men or the words of wisdom forced, as it were, from the lips of experience. In short, we are sick of pompous mediocrity on stilts: of that placid egotism which complacently assumes the office of guide and teacher, though incapable of aught but the tedious common-place. We do not want the thoughts of great men passed through such alembics--in fact, we much prefer to dilute our own proverbs if they prove too strong for us.

'Guesses at Truth' is beautifully printed on fine paper with clear type; after the newest style of the accomplished publishers. We regret to say the text is marred by the change of spelling of words ending in _ed_. Thus we find: reacht, lookt, discust, toucht, fixt, packt, etc., etc.--instead of reached, looked, discussed, touched, fixed, packed. 'As the body to the soul, so the word to the thought,' and we do not believe in thus mutilating what we are led by habit at least to consider a fair proportion.

PROFESSOR VALENTINE MOTT'S SURGICAL CLINIQUES IN THE UNIVERSITY
OF NEW-YORK. Session 1859-60. Reported by SAMUEL W. FRANCIS, M.D.

THIS volume, which is gotten up in the best style of typography, and illustrated with many superior engravings, embraces a report of nearly one hundred surgical cases treated by the eminent surgeon, Professor VALENTINE MOTT, M.D. The treatment of the cases is simple and judicious, and they are narrated clearly and concisely. The work is of great practical value and interest to the medical profession, and reflects credit on its able reporter, Dr. SAMUEL W. FRANCIS. It is embellished with a very accurate portrait of Professor MOTT.

WA-WA-WANDA: A LEGEND OF OLD ORANGE. In one Volume: pp. 280.
New-York: RUDD AND CARLETON, Corner of Grand and Crosby-streets.

This is a book seriously written, containing the narrative of an old Indian called WINTER PIPPIN. The author, declining the trouble of giving us a measure of his own, which certainly the originality of his work demands, has modestly employed that of Mr. LONGFELLOW'S HIAWATHA, for which Mr. LONGFELLOW ought to be very grateful.

The book before us--the work, a-hem!--on our table--reader, it's no use; we can't write prose after reading it. We are alone in our sanctum--no friend present to hold us in. We are wound up to a pitch of excitement, the case is desperate, it must come. O shade of WINTER PIPPIN, listen!

HERE'S a poem as is a poem,
Poem writ for all the ages;
Poem sung by WINTER PIPPIN,
'Winter Pippin--Piping Pippin.'
Should you ask us, gentle reader,
Is it twaddle, sorry twaddle?
Is it bosh and utter nonsense,
Nonsense all, not worth the paper,
Or the ink with which 'tis printed?
We should answer, we should tell you,
Buy the book and read it, read it,
Pay your last red dollar for it,
For this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.'
Say no more, O carping critic!
That our time hath borne no poet;
Poet born to chant the chorus,
Chorus of the mighty Present;
Sing the age--its living genius,
Sing the age--its grand upheavings,
Sleepy nations slow awaking,
Crownless kings with ague shaking;
Sing the night, chased by the morning,
Sing the day that now is dawning.
Mourn no more, O wailing critic!
For HE's come. His name is PIPPIN,
Winter Pippin--not a Greening,
Not a Golden, but a Pippin--
And he sings in sweetest measure,
Sings this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.'
(How it rhymes with 'goosey gander.')
Shades of HOMER, SHAKSPEARE, MILTON!
From your graves rise up and greet him,
Greet him with your heads uncovered,
Beavers doffed, with low obeisance,
All your hats off in his presence.

Minstrel! thou who now art singing,
Singing through this mighty nation,
(Greatest nation in creation,)
HENRY WADSWORTH, long-drawn FELLOW,
Ye who sang of HIAWATHA,
Sang the charming golden legend,
Sang the voices of the darkness,
Cease your singing, hush your fiddle,
Hang your jews-harp on the willows.
WHITTIER, too, and tuneful LOWELL,
Funny HOLMES, and graceful STODDARD,
Ye who soar in upper ether,
Feel at home the while you're up there--
Down at once, and fold your pinions,
Fold them, for the EAGLE soareth,
Soareth where ye cannot follow.
All ye poets, Yankee poets,
Go to bed and sleep upon it,
Ere again ye sound the cymbals,
Sound the cymbals, wake the echoes
Which have floated o'er the waters,
Floated sweetly o'er the waters,
Till far-distant climes have heard them.
Time and space would surely fail us,
Were we now to show the beauties,
Show the beauties of this poem,
Poem writ for all the ages;
How there lived a cider-maker,
'He, the first of cider-makers;
How his cunning built a saw-mill,
Sawed right through the Western country,
Into cask-staves sawed the forests,
Threw the slabs in the Pacific,
Threw the scrags in the Missouri.'
How he squeezed the juicy apples,
How he loved the juicy cider,
How he thought the world a barrel,
Bound together by a cooper,
Filled with cider to the bung-hole;
How he feared 'twould 'burst its hoops off,
Burst its hoops and split asunder;'
How it didn't split asunder,
But on fire was set one evening,
When the careless sun, retiring,
'Went to sleep and left his candle,
Slept and left his candle burning;
And it caught the chamber-curtains,
Caught and set them all a-blazing.'
How he thought, in month of August,
DRACO the meridian straddles,
'Elongates himself to northward,
Nine degrees and twenty northward;
And then thirteen more to westward,
Takes another twist, and downward
Slaps his tail of starry spangles
In the face of URSA MAJOR.'
How, one day, 'AURORA opened
Not as wide as wont her portals;
And the day-king, PHÆTON driving,
Ran against and brake the gate-posts:
Day of dash and dark disaster;
And with sun-dogs set, the heavens
Frowned affronted, scowled and scolded.'
'Hold! no more! in mercy spare me!'
Thus the reader now is pleading.
Can it be that taste poetic
From the world has fled forever?
Can such lofty, moving numbers,
Tire the reader in a second,
Tire him in a fleeting second?
Ere we part, O mighty poet!
Poet of the tuneful numbers,
Hear, oh! hear, our meek petition:
Hear an ancient KNICKERBOCKER!
Greatly long we once to see thee,
Once to gaze upon thy visage,
Once to hear the voice that sung _it_,
Once to press the hand that wrote _it_,
Once to feel the bumps that thought _it_,
Once to clip the hair _it_ came through;
(Clip a lock off for a locket.)
Once to tell thee all our wonder,
All our joy at this thy music,
Music sweet as 'Goosey-Gander,'
Music sung of 'Wa-Wa-Wanda,'
Music sung of apple-cider.
Call on us, O mighty Pippin!
At our snug and quiet sanctum,
Sanctum in the second story,
Of the building fifth in number,
Fifth in street that men call Beekman,
In the city known as Gotham;
And--our word is now at stake, Sir,
You our beaver hat can take, Sir,
Take our hat, our cherished beaver!

LEWIS' NEW GYMNASTICS FOR LADIES, GENTLEMEN AND CHILDREN: AND
BOSTON JOURNAL OF PHYSICAL CULTURE: a Monthly Journal: pp. 16.
Edited by Dr. D. LEWIS of Boston.

WE have seen only one number of this work; but we are so much pleased with the plan and general execution of this first issue, that we give it a cordial welcome and commend it to the American people as worthy of the most liberal patronage. There is no subject upon which the men and women of our country, and even the professed educators of the rising generation, are more profoundly ignorant than that of physical culture; and until the laws of physical health are better understood and observed, we need not expect much increase in intellectual or moral vigor. We wish to see on this continent a race of noble men and women, alike healthy and robust in body and in mind. Therefore we hail joyfully every instrumentality which wisely aims to improve the race. Dr. LEWIS has for many years been devoted to the subject of physical education, and his new and admirable system of gymnastic training has elicited the warmest expressions of approbation from those who have witnessed its beneficent results. We bespeak for his noble enterprise the liberal patronage which it so richly merits. The specimen number of his excellent paper now before us, is alone worth nearly the price of the year's subscription, which is but a single dollar.

CONSIDERATIONS ON SOME OF THE ELEMENTS AND CONDITIONS OF SOCIAL
WELFARE AND HUMAN PROGRESS: being Academical and Occasional
Discourses and Other Pieces. By C. S. HENRY, D.D. In one Volume:
pp. 415. New-York: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

THIS volume, the writer admits in the outset, contains some things which are not quite in unison with the tone of popular opinion, particularly in relation to the working of our political institutions, and to our future fortunes as a nation. 'But who is the better lover of his country,' he asks, 'he who lulls the people with soft strains of pleasing adulation, and kindles their fancy with bright pictures of future greatness and glory; or he who tells them of the rocks and dangers which are around them, and of the conditions on which their safety depends?' The author professes to 'love his country as much as any man that breathes;' but he does not think the best way to show it is by perpetual eulogies on our superiority as a nation: he does not think that the best way to make a 'glorious future' of our country sure, is to be forever casting brilliant horoscopes, without a single suggestion of the _possibilities_ of disaster and defeat. 'At all events,' he adds, 'there are enough to flatter our self-love; let one faithful friend be permitted to point out our faults: there are enough to cry peace and safety; let one voice of warning be tolerated.' The discussions of the volume touch upon great problems of human thought, and embrace questions of high scientific and practical interest. Of the themes treated of, there may be mentioned the following: 'The Importance of Elevating the Intellectual Spirit of the Nation;' 'The Position and Duties of the Educated Men of the Country;' 'The True Idea of the University, and its Relation to a Complete System of Public Instruction;' 'California, and the Historical Significance of its Acquisition;' 'The Providence of God the Genius of Human History;' 'Young America: the True Idea of Progress;' together with papers upon 'The Destination of the Human Race,' (a somewhat bold 'subject,' and scarcely capable of safe 'handling,') 'Remarks on Mr. BANCROFT'S Oration on Human Progress;' 'President-Making,' in 'Three Letters to the Hon. JOSIAH QUINCY,' and a dissertation on 'Politics and the Pulpit.' Here, as our readers may perceive, are ample 'fields of thought:' and in the library at 'Greystones' they have been cultivated to much fructification. Let us give a slight taste of our author's quality: thereabout especially where he speaks, in terse, significant, unmistakable language, in respect of '_The University_' proper, with its 'True Idea and Relations.' Observe, please, that he considers 'self-made men' as being deprived, by lack of a truly 'liberal' education, of numerous scholarly 'tools,' by the use of which they might greatly have advanced their 'name and fame.' In these matter-full sentences, reader, you may consider 'Dr. OLDHAM, of Greystones' ('are you there, old TRUEPENNY?') seated in his beautiful library, now rendered famous, and cogitating upon 'self-made men' and their mistaken judgment, sometimes, in regard to the advantages to be derived from a sound and thorough university education. This is the portrait of one QUINTUS QUEERLEIGH, able editor of '_The Daily Trumpet_:'

'HE is politician, philanthropist, social reformer, believer
in social progress, in divinity of the people, (except those
who differ from him,) believer in every thing more than in
the wisdom of the Past. Clever man. Really able. Of manifold
abilities. Can write. Can think, too. Says many wise and good
things. Honest perhaps. So some think him. Great believer in
himself, no doubt; perhaps an honest believer in truth--that
which he thinks such. But not a learned man. A self-made man:
with the one-sidedness that often belong to such men. He has
already in advance opposed you. He bloweth with his trumpet
to the people, to warn them against you. He telleth them that
Common Schools are for the people: Colleges and Universities
are only to pamper the pride of the rich, the grinders of the
faces of the people. He bloweth with his Trumpet against the
legislators--warning them of the wrath of the people, if they
take the people's money to build up or sustain aristocratic
institutions, contrary to the Gospel of Progress which the
Trumpet proclaimeth: 'Peace on earth; and every man's coat cut
the same length with his neighbor's. 'Useless institutions,
too,' saith QUEERLEIGH. 'Look at me. Am not I an able editor,
politician, social reformer, writer, thinker? No college made
me. I made myself. That is the way to make men.'

'Foolish QUEERLEIGH! Foolish able editor! Knowest thou not that
there was a stuff in thee, and a spirit that has made thee an
exception to the general rule? Few men, perhaps, with thy lack
of advantages, would make themselves as able as thou art. But
with the advantages thou lackedst, many might. Beside, clever as
thou art, able editor, writer, thinker, thou art not a learned
man. No disgrace. How shouldst thou be? The thing for thee to
be ashamed of is, that thou shouldst decry what thou hast not.
For, those who are both as _able_ as thou art, and as learned
as thou art _not_, have said and testified in many ways, from
age to age, that learning, high learning and science, and the
discipline that comes with them, are good things, and minister
to the greater ability of the ablest of able men. Hadst thou
started in thy career of life possessed of the manifold culture
and accomplishment of a thoroughly educated man, thou mightest
have beaten thy actual self as much as thou now beatest many a
printer's apprentice with whom thou didst begin thy career.'

Hear, also, what our author saith of one PTOLEMY TONGUE-END--patriot, democrat, demagogue, orator; who blows with his noisy breath a blast very much in unison with the 'Daily Trumpet:'

'HE 'stumpeth' at Ward meetings. Unlike editor QUEERLEIGH, he
has no faith in the people, except in their gullibleness--no
faith in any thing except the wisdom of buttering his bread with
the people's money. So he blows any blast that he thinks may
help him to the favor of the sovereign people. He getteth into
the legislature, and there opposes, with great wrath and noise,
all grants to Colleges--calling them anti-democratic; though he
knows in his heart all the while that it is, of all things in
the world, the most democratic, that the people should be taxed
for the endowment of the highest institutions of learning, free
to all, as are the Common Schools--that so the children of the
people, out of the pockets of the rich, may receive an education
that shall enable them to take their share in the great prizes
of life. For nothing is more true than that the great prizes of
life (other things being equal) are grasped by those who have
the highest, most thorough and liberal education; and without a
great and perfect system of free Public Instruction, including
the University and the Colleges, as well as the Common Schools,
the children of the poor are, as a general rule, condemned
to a hopeless disadvantage, in competition with the sons of
the rich, in all the higher careers of life. There may be
exceptional cases: but such must be the rule. This is so patent
and palpable, it seems to me, to every man of common-sense and
common candor, that I have little patience with the false and
stupid twaddle which hollow-hearted demagogues, like TONGUE-END,
or hopelessly wrong-headed able editors, like QUEERLEIGH, are
perpetually pouring into the ears of the unenlightened masses:
putting the Common Schools and Colleges in opposition to each
other--as if there was any contradiction between them; as if one
was not as necessary as the other, as if every principle of that
democracy they prate so about did not require that the State
should provide, not only free primary instruction for all the
children of the people, but also the highest instruction for all
such of the children of the people as desire to go onward and
upward into the higher spheres of useful and honorable exertion.
Gentlemen, you may boldly join issue with these praters. Expose
the foolishness of their hackneyed cant. Keep on doing so: and
in due time, if you persevere, you will certainly disabuse the
public mind.'

As we have said, there is much matter for thoughtful consideration in the compass of this handsomely-executed book; and we again commend it to the acceptance of our readers.

PAGES AND PICTURES: From the Writings of J. FENIMORE COOPER.
With Notes by SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER. In one Volume: pp. 400.
New-York: W. A. TOWNSEND AND COMPANY.

IT is with even something _more_ than 'unusual pleasure' that we call the attention of our readers to '_Pages and Pictures_:' the superb work of Miss SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER, just issued by those enterprising and tasteful publishers, Messrs. W. A. TOWNSEND AND COMPANY, at Number 46 Walker-street, a locality where book-men 'most do congregate.' It is but simple justice to say, that no work so profusely and beautifully illustrated, and with such unlimited expenditure for paintings, engravings, paper, printing and binding, has ever been issued in this country. The engravings alone, executed from precious original pictures in the very highest style of the art of celature, we are assured, cost over _ten thousand dollars_! The paper, fine and delicate in tint, is of the firm consistence of 'Bristol-Board,' the _ne plus ultra_ of printing-paper: and of the binding we can only say that it is exceedingly tasteful--exceedingly beautiful. From a carefully-considered and elaborate review of this excellent work, by GEORGE RIPLEY, Esq., we make the annexed brief but interesting extract. As touching _the_ work by which Mr. COOPER first became popularly known to his countrymen as an American novelist, it is well worthy of preservation in these pages:

'THE plan of this volume has the attraction of novelty, and it
is executed, not only in the spirit of filial affection, but
with sound judgment, evincing the mingled frankness and reserve
which were due to the relation between the subject and the
editor. It consists of a selection of episodes from the writings
of Mr. COOPER, illustrative of the different phases of his mind,
and of the characteristics of his respective productions. In
connection with these extracts, the editor has added a large
amount of original matter, explaining the origin and history
of Mr. COOPER'S most important works, and giving a variety of
biographical incidents and reminiscences, which serve to throw
light on the personal career of the distinguished novelist.

''The Spy' was the first work which bore the unmistakable
impress of Mr. COOPER'S genius, and laid the deep foundations of
his fame. The scene of this story was laid in Westchester, where
he then lived, and it is not difficult to describe the local
circumstances by which it was suggested. The incidents of the
Revolution had not ceased to be the topics of conversation among
the people of the neighborhood. Many who had taken an active
part in the great struggle still survived. The gray-haired
house-wife, as she sat at the wheel, spinning her thread of
flax or wool, would talk of the armies she had seen passing her
father's door in her girlhood. There was scarcely a farm-house
in the country which had not been ravaged by Cow-boys, Hessians,
or Skinners. Homes had been destroyed by fire; good yeoman
blood had been shed; life had been taken; husband, father, or
brother had fallen in some unrecorded skirmish, the hero of a
rustic neighborhood. At the foot of the hill on which stood Mr.
COOPER'S cottage, there was the dwelling of a small farmer,
who loved to visit his genial neighbor, telling stories of
old times, and fighting over his battles with fresh interest,
aroused by the spirited questions, the intelligent sympathy of
his host. Other yeomen of the vicinity often joined the social
circle. As they drank their glass of cider, picked over their
hickory-nuts, or pared their Newtown pippin, all had some family
tradition to relate of hairbreadth escape, of daring feat, of
harried fields, of houses burned.

'But higher sources than these contributed to the leading idea
of the new books. Visits to Bedford were very frequent at
that period. One pleasant Summer's afternoon, while sitting
on the broad piazza of the house, Judge JAY and Mr. COOPER
were listening to the conversation of the venerable JOHN JAY,
as he related different facts connected with the history of
the Revolution. From an incident which he then described,
illustrating the services of a class of men who, in their
patriotic zeal, were of the greatest importance in obtaining
information for the Commander-in-Chief, the character of HARVEY
BIRCH was suggested. Strolling peddlers, staff in hand and pack
on back, were more common visitors at the country-houses of that
day than at present. It was after the visit of one of these
men, a Yankee peddler of the old sort, that the lot in life of
HARVEY BIRCH was decided: he was to be a spy and a peddler. The
novel was completed with great rapidity, and on its publication
in September, 1821, immediately attracted general attention,
and met with the most brilliant success. It was found on every
table, and enjoyed by all classes of readers. In Europe, the
'Spy' was received with great favor, and was soon translated
into French. Miss EDGEWORTH expressed herself very warmly in
its praise, and sent a complimentary message, through a common
friend, to the author, declaring that she liked 'BETTY FLANAGAN'
particularly, and that an Irish pen could not have drawn her
better. The history of the other principal works of Mr. COOPER
is given, interspersed with biographical details, of perpetual
interest. We thus have the man and his writings combined in a
graphic portraiture, which illustrates the strong individuality
of the one and the characteristic boldness and vigor of the
other.'

It needs but to add, in respect of the volume which we have been considering, that it is worthy of the name and fame of COOPER, and worthy of the name and fame of his present publishers.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

EDITORIAL HISTORICAL NARRATIVE OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE: NUMBER NINETEEN.--Our last number of this 'Narrative-History' was shorter by some eight pages than its predecessors: so that we had no space to finish our consideration of the 'Ollapodiana Papers,' which we now resume, in connection with other early writings for the KNICKERBOCKER. The few brief passages which we quoted, did not afford a fair example of the variety, the change of mood and manner which this short but admirable series displayed. A passage in the remarks of the author of the paper in the last _North-British Review_,' elsewhere noticed in these pages, admirably and truly represents the characteristics of WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK'S mind and pen, in these popular papers: 'The man who can laugh as well as weep is most a man. The greatest humorists have also been the most serious seers, and men of most earnest heart. And all those who have manifested the finest perfection of spiritual health have enjoyed the merry sun-shine of life, and wrought their work with a spirit of blithe bravery.' The very last chapter of 'Ollapodiana,' written when the writer was prostrated by the illness from which he never recovered, was as felicitous and mirth-moving as any of the numbers which preceded it: and yet the pathos which characterized his sadder musings, as he drew near and nearer to the grave, failed not to draw tears from many a sympathetic soul. We pass to a few more brief and characteristic passages.

As WILLIS approached the end of his earthly pilgrimage, his thoughts grew solemn, deep, mournful possibly, but yet not sad. Thus he says, in the last number but one of _Ollapodiana_:

'IT is no long time, respected reader, since we communed
together. Yet, how many matters have happened since that period,
which should give us pause, and solemn meditation! _We_ are
still extant; the beams of our spirit still shine from _our_
eyes; yet there are many who, since last my sentences came to
yours, have drooped their lids forever upon things of earth.
Numberless ties have been severed; numberless hearts rest from
their pantings, and sleep, 'no more to fold the robe o'er secret
pain.' All the deceits, the masks of life, are ended with them.
_Policy_ no more bids them to kindle the eye with deceitful
lustre; no more prompts to _semblance_, which feeling condemns.
They are gone!--'ashes to ashes, and dust to dust;' and when I
think of the numbers who thus pass away, I am pained within me;
for I know from them that our life is not only as a dream which
passeth away, but that the garniture, or the carnival of it, is
indeed a vapor, sun-gilt for a moment, then colored with the dun
hues of death, or stretching its dim folds afar, until their
remotest outlines catch the imperishable glory of eternity.
Such is life; made up of successful or successless accidents;
its movers and actors, from the cradle to three-score-and-ten,
pushed about by Fate not their own; aspiring but impotent;
impelled as by visions, and rapt in a dream--which who can
dispel?'

We cite the following here, to show still farther the solemnity of his musings, and mellifluous perfection of his versification. Mark how the _liquid_ sounds melt into melody in the lines which ensue:

'YOU must know, reader, that there lieth, some three miles or
so from Brotherly Love--a city of this continent, a delectable
city--a place of burial, 'Laurel Hill' by name. On a sweeter
spot the great sun never threw the day-spring of the morning,
nor the blush of the evening west. There the odors and colors of
nature profusely repose; there, to rest of a spring or summer
afternoon, on some rural seat, looking at trees, and dancing
waters, and the like, you would wonder at that curious question
addressed of DEAN SWIFT, on his death-bed, to a friend at his
side: 'Did you ever know of any really _good weather_ in this
world?' You would take the affirmative. Well, thus I sang:

'HERE the lamented dead in dust shall lie,
Life's lingering languors o'er--its labors done;
Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky,
Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.

'Here the long concourse from the murmuring town,
With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in;
To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,
No more to suffer, and no more to sin.

'And here the impressive stone, engraved with words
Which Grief sententious gives to marble pale,
Shall teach the heart, while waters, leaves and birds
Make cheerful music in the passing gale.

'Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour
On scented airs the unavailing sigh--
While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,
And landscapes blooming--that the loved should die?

'There is an emblem in this peaceful scene:
Soon, rainbow colors on the woods will fall;
And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green,
As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.

'Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round,
Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand:
While the chained streams are silent as the ground,
As death had numbed them with his icy hand.

'Yet, when the warm soft winds shall rise in spring,
Like struggling day-beams o'er a blasted heath;
The bird returned shall poise her golden wing,
And liberal nature break the spell of death.

'So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end,
The blessed Dead to endless youth shall rise;
And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blend
Its tones with anthems from the upper skies.

'There shall the good of earth be found at last,
Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand;
Where Love her crown attains--her trials past--
And, filled with rapture, hails the better land!'

'Thus I strummed the old harpsichord, from which I have
aforetime, at drowsy hours and midnight intervals, extracted a
few accidental numbers, (more pleasant doubtless to beget than
read,) 'sleepless myself, to give to others sleep!''

'WELL, that is the only way to write without fatigue, both to
author and reader. In all that pertains to the petty businesses
which bow us to the routine of this work-day world, I am as
it were at home. I am distinctly a mover in the great tide
of Action sweeping on around me; yet when I enter into the
sanctuary of the Muses, lo! at one wave of the spiritual wand,
this 'dim and ignorant present' disappears. I breathe a rarer
atmosphere. Visions of childhood throng upon my soul; the blue
mountain-tops; the aerial circles of far-off landscapes; the
hazy horizon of ocean-waters; the wind-tossed verdure of summer;
the hills that burst into singing; and the sweet harmonies
of nature--Universal Parent!--all appeal to my spirit. This
dismemberment of the ideal from the actual, is a fountain of
enjoyment, which whoso knows not, has yet the brightest lessons
of life to learn. He has yet to enter that fairy dominion
which seems the intermediate territory betwixt the airy realms
conceived of in this world, and the more radiant glories of the
'undiscovered country.''

Yet in the succeeding number we find the writer indulging in such whimsical imaginings as the following:

'OBSERVE, my friend, I am not writing _against_ time; so let us
slowly on. My impressions of the old gentleman are sometimes
extremely fantastic. I was looking the other day at a playful
young cat, just emerging from the fairy time of kittenhood;
something between the revelry of the fine mewer, and the gravity
without the experience of the tabby. Now one would think that
no great subject for contemplation. It would be looked upon by
the million as inferior to astronomy. But it is the connection
of the events having reference to the quadruped which renders
her of interest. _Time_ will expand her person, increase her
musical powers, and bring her admirers. In her back, on winter
evenings, will sleep a tolerable imitation of the lightnings
of heaven. She will make great noise o' nights, and lap at
interdicted cream. So much for her exterior--her love-passages
and obstreperous concerts. But look within! That compact
embodiment of ligaments and conduits, now treading gingerly over
those fading leaves, and grapes of purple, what may they not
be hereafter? Whose hearts may they not thrill, when strung on
the sonorous bridge of a cremona, guided to softest utterances
by the master hand? How many memories of youth, and hope, and
fond thoughts, and sunny evenings, and bowers by moonlight,
radiant with the beams of Cynthia, and warm with the sweet
reflex of Beauty; the heart, touched by the attempered entrail,
rosin-encompassed and bow-bestrid, may bound in age with
recollections of departed rapture. And all from what? Smile not
at the association, my friend--from Time and cat-gut.'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

''TWAS a new idea to me, that conveyed of late by the author of
'LESLIE,' surnamed NORMAN, that the only things you see, after
crossing the Atlantic, which you have seen before, are the
orb of day, sometimes vulgarly called PHOEBUS or the sun, the
chaste Regent of the Night or LUNA, that greenhorns sometimes
denominate the moon, and those jewels of heaven--'doubloons of
the celestial bank,' as a Spanish poet calls them--sometimes
named stars, by plain uninitiated persons. These, it seems,
are the only old acquaintances a man meets abroad. They are
not to be put by. A man may curse his stars, indeed, but he
cannot _cut_ them. As well might the great sea essay 'to cast
its waters on the burning Bear, and quench the guards of the
ever-fixéd pole.' Therefore shall I learn henceforth yet more
to love those dazzling planets, fixed or errant, because in no
long time I may meet them in Philippi. Precious then to me will
be their bright companionship! Milky feelings will come over me,
as I scrutinize the _via lactea_, with upturned eyes; conscious
will be the moon; inexpressibly dear every glimpse of the lesser
lights that rule the night with modest fires. Without the
slightest premonitory symptoms of astrology, and being withal
no horologe consulter, I yet do love the stars. Rich, rare and
lustrous, they win my gaze, and look into my soul.'

In the twenty-sixth number, the last of the series, there is the same combination of the humorous and the pathetic, which constituted the variety and the charm of the Ollapodiana Papers. With these brief passages we close our 'labor of love' and duty to the literary memory of our departed twin-brother.

'How do you bear yourself, my friend and reader, on the subject
of _winter_ generally? What are 'your views?' If you are young
and sanguine, with no revulsions or tempests of the heart to
remember, I will warrant that you like old Hyem, and patronize
that most windy individual, Boreas, of that ilk. Well, you have
a free right to your opinion, and if you held it two years or
less ago, you had the honor to agree with me. But I confess
on that point a kind of warped idiosyncrasy; an unaccountable
change of opinion. The truth is, reader, between you and me,
there is not much dignity in winter, in a city. When, in the
country, you can look out upon the far-off landscapes, the cold
blue hills rising afar, and where a snow-bank _is_ really what
it is cracked up to be; where the blast comes sounding to your
dwelling over a sweep of woods, and lakes, and snowy fields, for
miles of dim extension, there is some grandeur in the thing. But
what is it to hear a blast, half-choked with the smoke and soot
of the city, wheezing down a contemptible chimney-pot, or round
a corner, where the wind, that glorious emblem of freedom, has
no charter at all to 'blow out' as he pleases, but is confined
by the statute of brick-and-mortar restrictions?'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

'I HAVE turned this subject of steam-music extensively over
in my mind, of late; and I have married myself to the idea,
after a very short courtship, that it is a kind of thing that
must _go on_. At the first blush, indeed, it might appear
chimerical; but I ask the skeptic why the steam-whistle of a
locomotive should not discourse in tones more soft and winning?
Why cannot a locomotive ask a cow to leave a railroad track in
a politer manner than in that discordant shriek, which excites
the animal's indignation, and awakens her every sentiment of
quadrupedal independence? I protest against such conduct. We
presume a locomotive to buzz, and _vapor_, and deport itself
pragmatically; but its conversation by the way ought to be
chastened into something like propriety: and please APOLLO,
I think it will. I once saw an animal of this stamp killed
instantly by the crushing transit of a train; and I thought
I saw in the singular turn of her upper lip, as her torn-out
heart lay yet palpitating on the rails, a peculiar curl of
disdain, in her dying moments, at the treatment she had won. I
put this down, because I hope 't will be remembered as a warning
to whistlers in especial, and the great generation of calves
unborn.'

* * * * *

'ON one of those warm April-like afternoons, with which, in our
Philadelphia meridian, the fierce February chose to delight us,
as if by contrast, I sat by my open window, which commands,
through and over pleasant trees, fine glimpses of the country:
and

'As the red round sun descended,
Mid clouds of crimson light,'

I began to feel coming upon me the influence of a reverie. For a
long time, my good friend whom I 'occupy' at present with this
matter, I have had my day-dreams sadly broken in upon; in the
few roses I have gathered, I have found the cypress mingling
among their faded leaves; and a voice, as from the lowly
leafiness of an autumnal wilderness, has spoken of the lost and
of the past. Why is it, that though the mind may wander, the
_heart_ can never forget? Well could I say with him who sings so
well:

'Thou unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain;
And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

'In thy abysses hide
Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee
Earth's wonder and her pride
Are gathered as the waters to the sea!'

And there they rest in dust and cold obstruction! Oh! that those
who walk about in the beauty of the morning, with the greenness
of earth around them, and the mysterious vitality which makes
the elements in their nostrils, would think of this; considering
truly their coming end!'

AMONG our frequent and always welcome early contributors, in prose and verse, was LEWIS W. MANSFIELD, Esq. Our old readers will recal the papers which appeared from his pen, under the signature of 'JULIAN.' His prose was more felicitous than his verse; although in the 'Morning Watch,' and other of his poems, there were many noble passages. The subjoined will afford an example of his humorous prose: