Chapter LVII: Front Matter (57)

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CONTENT at length "made up her mind"
('Gainst PRIDE'S usurp'd control rebelling,)
To leave the bustling town behind,
And seek again her humble dwelling.

'Twas a bright morn in early Spring,
When, HOPE her languid steps attending,
Through vales where birds were on the wing,
To that lone cot the maid was wending.

The sun shone bright on hill and lea,
The flowers from leafy shades were peeping;
The brook ran murmuring merrily,
And flocks were in the valleys leaping.

The Cottage reach'd, she met once more
The smile of PEACE, and LOVE'S embraces;
JOY lit the maiden's eye again,
And from her brow chased sorrow's traces.

Soon HEALTH return'd, with genial glow,
Her languid frame with strength induing,
The blood resumed its wonted flow,
The roses on her cheeks renewing.

HOPE views the change with fond delight;
Vows from CONTENT she ne'er will sever;
Controls each wild impassion'd flight,
And points where mercy beams forever.

What more could Providence bestow
To yield CONTENT an added blessing?
Each hour her heart's pure offerings flow,
To Heaven its gratitude addressing.

And ever since, CONTENT has dwelt
From the gay crowd, in vale secluded:--
Their joyless strife she once has felt,
And cannot be again deluded. {452}

Oft have I seen the humble roof,
Where, with PEACE, LOVE and HOPE uniting,
She dwells, from worldly cares aloof,
Even while her story I am writing.

The following beautiful reply to the stanzas of Mr. Wilde, published in the first number of the Messenger, is attributed to Mrs. Buckley, the wife of a distinguished physician of Baltimore, a lady whose fine taste and poetic capacity are most happily displayed in these touching lines. The answer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr. Wilde's stanzas, and if we were called on to decide upon their relative merits, we do not know which of the two would most demand our admiration.

ANSWER

To "_My Life is Like the Summer Rose_."

The dews of night may fall from Heaven,
Upon the wither'd _rose's_ bed,
And tears of fond regret be given,
To mourn the virtues of the dead:
Yet morning's sun the dews will dry,
And tears will fade from sorrow's eye,
Affection's pangs be lull'd to sleep,
And even love forget to _weep_.

The _tree_ may mourn its fallen _leaf_,
And autumn winds bewail its bloom,
And friends may heave the sigh of grief,
O'er those who sleep within the tomb:
Yet soon will spring renew the flowers,
And time will bring more smiling hours;
In friendship's heart all grief will die,
And even love forget to _sigh_.

The _sea_ may on the desert _shore_
Lament each _trace_ it bears away;
The lonely heart its grief may pour
O'er cherish'd friendship's fast decay:
Yet when all trace is lost and gone,
The waves dance bright and gaily on;
Thus soon affection's bonds are torn,
And even love forgets to _mourn_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----

We parted--not as lovers part--
No tear was in thine eye;
No mantling blush was on thy cheek,
Thy bosom heaved no sigh;
Yet there was something in thine air
That seemed to all unmoved,--
Something that told my bursting heart,
Dearest, that I was loved.

For, when I took thy gentle hand
To bid a short adieu,
Methought within my trembling clasp,
That white hand trembled too;
And when too, from my faltering tongue
The parting accents fell,
Thou didst not, dearest--can it be
Thou couldst not say farewell!

Forgive, if I have boldly erred--
If fancy 'twere alone,
That check'd thy voice, and lent thy hand
The tremors of my own.
Forgive, forgive the daring thought--
Forgive the hopes--the love--
That bids me seek thee soon again,
My bliss or wo to prove.

T. H. T.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHAT I LOVE.

I love to stray at early morn,
'Mid flowers along the verdant dale,
Inhale the fragrance of the thorn,
And hear the Dove's low plaintive wail.

I love within some forest deep,
At sultry noon reclined to lie,
And watch the fleecy clouds that creep,
With quiet pace along the sky.

I love at quiet eve to go,
Far from the noisy crowd, and dream
Of all the glorious hopes which throw
Their sunshine o'er life's gloomy stream.

But more than all, at silent night,
I love with one fair form to rove,
Beneath the pale moon's pensive light,
And whisper burning words of love.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----

Let not your heart be troubled.--_John_ 14: 1.

Let Ocean swell with angry spite,
And yawn and lash the heedless shore;
And billows rage with mount'nous height,
As if they'd be at peace no more.
Let storm 'gainst storm their fury hurl,
And loudly roar with fearful might,
Till sea and land--yea, all the world--
May seem to grope in trouble's night.

But let _thy heart_ thy Saviour know,
Whose word once calmed the troubled deep,
Who spake to winds that dared to blow,
And _hushed_ them in the lap of sleep.
Tis He can quell each rising sigh,
And calm thy heart from cruel fears,
As when the storms in silence lie,
And not a wave the Ocean mars.

SIWEL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ITALIAN EXTRAVAGANZA.

Addressed to a beautiful lady.

Se tutti gli alberi del mondo
Fossero penne--
Il cielo fosse carta,
Il mare, inchiostro--
Non basterebbero a descrivere
La minima parte della vostra perfexione!

AN ATTEMPT AT TRANSLATION.

Could we the sky's unbounded range,
To paper all convert--
And had we power, miraculous, to change,
To _pens_, the _trees_,
To _ink_, the _seas_--
These would not all suffice to paint, in part,
The rich perfections of thy mind and heart--
Thy _graces_--thy _desert_!

ELLA.

{453}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHERE IS MY HEART?

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

Where is my heart?
Its place of rest is not within this aching breast;--
Where does it dwell?
It is not in the glittering hall,
Where sunbright glances gaily fall
'Neath pleasure's spell.

Where is my heart?
Not in the crowd 'mid mirth and wine and revel loud;--
It is not there.
Nor is it where the summer's sky
Gives birth to flowers of brightest dye
And balmy air.

Where is my heart?
Upon the sea, where dwell the joyous and the free,
It has not gone.
My withered heart, it has not flown
Where love or hope or joy is known,
Or pleasures dawn.

Where is my heart?
To the cold grave, where yew and cypress darkly wave,
My heart has fled.
Yes, where the form it worshipped sleeps,
My blighted heart its vigil keeps,
Beside the dead.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INVOCATION.

Come my love--O! come with me,
We will wander wild and free,--
Where the pale moon sheds her light,
And the dew-drops glisten bright;--
Where is heard the gurgling flow
Of the streamlet, we will go,
And our joyous feet shall tread,
Near the humble violets bed.
We will breathe the rich perfume,
Born of fragrant flowers in bloom;
All that's sweet and all that's fair,
From green earth or scented air,
Nature brings in vesture gay,
Laughing strews around our way.

We will seek the shady grove,
Through its mazes we will rove,
Sit upon the moss-grown seat,
And our youthful vows repeat.
Years have passed since we were there,
Still thy cheeks are fresh and fair,
Not a single care-worn line,
Mars that lovely brow of thine.
Many gay and gladsome hours,
We have spent in sunny bowers;
Not one cloud of care or strife,
E'er has dimmed our path thro' life,--
And our pilgrimage doth seem
As one long and happy dream.

Come my love the Moon's on high,
Sailing o'er the summer sky,
And the stars are twinkling through
Boundless fields of azure-blue--
Faintly from the leafy trees,
Sighs the balmy southern breeze.
Down the valley we will stray,
Where the night-flowers scent the way;
Arm in arm we'll wander o'er
Many a scene beloved of yore;
Tell the oft repeated tale,
By the fountain in the vale,--
Talk of deep, confiding love,
And of hearts that never rove.

ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

_Aldie, Va._

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN.

Come to the forests, while the leaves are falling
In rustling showers from every yielding bough--
Seek the wild haunts, where, save some lone bird calling
Its mate departed, all is silence now.

Leave the bright hearth, where love and peace are smiling,
To dream awhile 'midst Autumn's falling leaves,
To watch her power the Summer's charms despoiling
As time of early joys the heart bereaves.

There, as the year's bright glories fade around thee
Bring home the lesson to thy saddened heart;
Muse on the loves and friendships that have bound thee,
Which thou hast seen like autumn leaves depart.

Or if the Past yield no sad recollection,
Upon the Future let thy thoughts be cast;
Nor check the current of the sad reflection
That whispers, human life is fleeting fast.

Then bow to Him, in meek and low contrition,
Whose Wisdom, full of Mercy, doth ordain
To man a second spring in realms elysian,
Where the bright hues of Summer ever reign.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NAPOLEON.

Aye! there he lies,--the mighty one!
Death's hand is on him now;
And fearfully he puts his seal
Upon that haughty brow.

What boots it that his own proud name
In foreign lands has rung?
That orators his fame have spoke,
That bards his deeds have sung?

What boots it that the hills of Spain
Shook 'neath his lordly tread--
That with the blood of her best sons,
Her vallies' streams ran red?

That over Moscow's battlements,
His flag-folds he shook out--
That e'en the lofty pyramids
Rang with his charging shout?

He who subdu'd so many lands,
Must now from England crave
(Although she is his deadliest foe)
What man last wants--a grave!

{454}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--You have published at page 199 of your January number, four outlandish-looking lines, with a hope that some one of your numerous readers may not only be able to inform your correspondent who furnished them, in what language they are written, but let him still further into the secret by giving their meaning. Happening to know a little of the Gaelic, I have no hesitation in saying that that is the tongue in which they are written; and further, I think I have succeeded, after a good deal of trouble, in discovering to a certainty that they are a translation of the first stanza of Sappho's celebrated Ode addressed "_To the Beloved Pair_," and commented upon at some length by Longinus, in the tenth section of his De Sublimitate. The stanza in question runs thus:

[For want of proper type we cannot give it in the Greek.--_Ed._]

Videtur mihi ille æqualis Diis
Esse Vir, qui oppositus tibi
Sedet, et prope te dulce loquentem audit
Et rides amabiliter.

Blest as the immortal Gods is he
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak and sweetly smile.

An interesting critique upon the Ode, with the whole of Ambrose Philips' spirited translation of it, is to be met with in the two hundred and twenty-ninth number of the Spectator. Yours, &c.

UDOCH.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

No. II.

----If the painter saw
Naught but the prose of things, and dared but draw
The literal, aged, uninspiring truth,
And saw not nature in her winged youth
Her rainbow aspect, when she stands array'd
In floods of sunshine and in nights of shade,
What would he gain?--_Barry Cornwall_.

In my last number, I undertook to show, that "uncultivated taste, is incapable of estimating excellence in art" and that, "the beautiful in nature, like philosophy and science, can only be comprehended by those who study it profoundly and observe it habitually." But those who think nature an unveiled beauty to be gazed upon by every wanton eye, or that the arts aspire no higher than the "prose of things;" those who are resolved to admire what they like, rather than learn to like that which is admirable, may spare themselves the trouble of reading this article,--as my object is, to instruct the teachable, to ramble with the lover of nature amidst the shades of rural life, and converse with the amateur of art, about all that is excellent in ancient or modern works.

Before we can perceive what is beautiful in art, we must comprehend what is beautiful in nature; and without entering into the abstruse question of _beauty_, which has so much divided the erudite in all ages, we may say, that every thing from the hand of the Creator is beautiful in its _proper place_: and it is precisely this, that is beautiful in art. But to know the place where beauteous nature lurks, and to trace the harmony and fitness of every object to the part it supplies in the picturesque of scenery, requires a mind

"----by nature's charms impress'd,
An ardor ever burning in the breast,
A zeal for truth, a power of thought intense;
A fancy, flowering on the stems of sense;
A mem'ry as the grave retentive, vast
That holds to rise again, the imprison'd past."

Beauty is not confined to the waving line of Hogarth, or to objects smooth and soft, as Mr. Burke thought, but is multiform in nature, and therefore admits of a diversity of tastes; yet it is not an arbitrary principle subject to the fancy of every individual, but like harmony in music, it vibrates on the imagination and affections of a cultivated mind, as doth the octave in a well tuned instrument;--the tutored ear perceives the slightest discordance in sounds, and the cultivated eye detects with equal facility the want of harmony in art or nature. It has been said "that the peasant youth, would require more red in the cheek of his beauty, than would be agreeable to a man of cultivated taste," and the inference was, "that the delicate is more beautiful than the florid," but in fact, they are each beautiful in their _place_. In rustic life, amidst the scenes of the vintage, in the hay field, or milking the cow--how beauteous is the flush and healthful bloom of the cottage maiden! The ruby lip and liquid laughing eye bespeak the joyous heart, pleased with its vocation. Here, the delicate and courtly dame of polished life would appear unequal to the task; would be incongruous to the scene, and as much out of place as epic verse in pastoral poetry;--yet in her proper sphere

"----those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul,
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart,"

she moves the attractive star of cultivated taste.

The choice of these subjects, constitutes the difference between the Dutch and the Italian schools of art. The former painted pastoral scenery with a fidelity incomparably superior to the Italians, yet greatly inferior in the higher excellencies of art. They are justly admired for their attention to detail, to exact finish, and all the results of "mere mechanic pains," but are void of classical taste, of moral instruction, and the poetry of the imagination, that highest effort of genius. Their works may therefore be beautiful, but never sublime, and their attempts at historic painting degrade it to something worse than caricature. I remember to have seen in the Louvre, a little painting of this school, designed for "Peter denying his Lord in Pilate's house." The interior was a _Holland kitchen_; boors _were smoking_ before a _chimney_ place, or _playing at cards_ on a tub reversed; a coarse looking woman held Peter by his collar, and chanticleer sat perched on a beam of the house. The costume and furniture were equally out of keeping, but executed with the most harmonious tone and finest touch of the pencil. Now the same subject in the schools of Italy would represent a hall becoming the governor of Judea, soldiers in Roman costume would be grouped around an antique vase of embers, placed upon a tripod, and Peter would quail under the pert recognition of a beautiful damsel; the grey dawn would appear through the intercolumniations of the portico, and the warning {455} clarion of the cock would be expressed on the brow of the conscience-stricken Apostle.

This may not be considered a fair comparison, but rather the antithesis of the two schools. What then shall we take as the highest effort of Dutch genius? The Bull of Paul Potter![1] As well might we compare a wax figure of Tecumseh with the Apollo Belvidere, or the Sleeping Beauty with the Venus de Medicis. But, if indeed, it be the highest effort of genius to produce an _exact representation_ of things, the modeller in wax, is superior to the sculptor in marble, and the Bull at the Hague, to the Transfiguration in the Vatican. As no one of any pretension to taste will ever assent to this conclusion, I must again insist, that art aspires to a higher attainment than the mere portraiture of nature, and claims poetic honors; it is the poetry of form and color: it selects the agreeable from the discordant parts of the great prototype--combines and disposes them--and without changing the features, elevates and ennobles them; it seizes upon incidental effects to cast a shadow over the asperities of objects, and throws a broad and brilliant light on the more beautiful parts. When Dominichino was asked what obscured a part of his picture, "_una neblia si passa_," was his reply; and by thus imagining a passing cloud, he was enabled to preserve that breadth of light and shade so remarkable in the English school at present. The Italians however, did not often seek after _effect_; they did not address themselves so much to the eye, as to the judgment; and their distinguishing excellence is _correctness_ of _design_ and _dignity of character_. It was this that acquired for them the praise of a "grand gusto," or sublimity of style, superior to all other artists.

[Footnote 1: This is esteemed the greatest of the Dutch school.]

G. C.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ETYMOLOGY.

----The inventor of a new word must never flatter himself that he has secured the public adoption, for he must lie in the grave before he can enter the Dictionary.--_D'Israeli_.

_Mr. White_:--I am an odd old fellow, and fond of etymology, and frequently amuse myself with tracing to their roots, words in familiar use. Having been confoundedly puzzled of late by the term CAUCUS, which is in every body's mouth, and not being able to satisfy myself as to its origin, I have determined to have recourse to you, and will be infinitely obliged to you or any of your readers for a solution of the difficulty. If it be true as D'Israeli says, that the inventor of a new word cannot be secure of its adoption by the public, for he must lie in the grave before he can enter the Dictionary--the man who made the aforesaid word must be still living, though at a very advanced age. I rather suppose however that D'Israeli is mistaken, and that the inventor has been dead a long time, and lived to see the general adoption of his word, notwithstanding it has as yet no place in any Dictionary that I have seen. Supposing it to be an English word, I consulted Walker, and was mortified to find that he took no notice of it. I then made sundry combinations of other terms, but could light upon none that seemed at all plausible, except the words _calk us_, which, united into caucus, may produce a kind of _onomatopoeia_, descriptive of the assemblage in question; for to calk, is, according to the abovementioned lexicographer, "to stop the leak of a vessel;" and inasmuch as a caucus is urged by the admirers of Mr. Van Buren, to be the means of stopping all leaks in our political vessel, there seems to be some show of reason in this derivation. Upon further reflection, however, I concluded that the word must be Greek, and having recourse to Schrevelius, found the paronymous term _kakos_, malus. This I presently rejected, though apparently descriptive of the pernicious tendency of a caucus, because the institutors of that pestilent oligarchy would hardly have selected so barefaced an epitheton, such a cacophony, if I may so speak. On further search, upon meeting with _kaukis_, I was so much delighted with the near resemblance of sound, as to jump up and cry out _eureka_; but moderated my rapture on discovering that "_genus calceamenti_," the explanatory terms in Latin, could not be tortured to any manner of application, unless indeed it was intended to indicate that the members of a caucus would be willing to stand in the _people's shoes_, upon the occasion of electing a President of the United States; or unless we observe further the _aliter baukos, jucundus_; for it is literally a very pleasant and right merry way of getting rid of the difficulty of a choice by the people. So far the Greek. As for the Latin, I have consulted every Dictionary in my possession, from Ainsworth and Young, up to _old Thoma Thomasius_, printed _Coventriæ Septimo Idus, Februarii 1630_, and can find nothing resembling our Caucus, but the three headed robber _Cacus_, who by paronomasia, might be considered as the grand prototype of that modern monster, which has stolen, if not the _cattle_, at least the property of the great American Hercules, and will keep it, unless he rise in his might, and crushing the political thief, resumes his original rights. Now, Mr. White, I am disposed to rest here; though not quite so well satisfied as Jonathan Oldbuck was about the locality Of Agricola's camp, from those mysterious initials which the mischievous Edie Ochiltree so wickedly interpreted to mean "_Ailie Davy's lang ladle_," and not "_Agricola dicavit libens lubens_," as _Monkbarns_ would have it;--but do observe, sir, the singular coincidences between Cacus and Caucus; the one a three headed rogue--the other a sort of political Cerberus; the first slily taking away the cattle of another--the second insidiously cajoling the people of their rights; the former hiding them in a cave, where they were discovered by their bellowing--the latter betrayed by a bellowing from Maine to Georgia; and finally Cacus demolished by Hercules, and Caucus easily demolished by the Herculean force of public sentiment.

I acknowledge, however, that I am not entirely satisfied, notwithstanding this "_confirmation strong_," and hope you will speedily relieve the perplexity of

Your most obedient,

NUGATOR.

P.S. A friend facetiously suggests that Caucus is nothing more than a corruption,--Caucus, quasi cork us; that is, shut close the doors that nobody may hear us.

REMARK.

We will do all in our power to assist our esteemed friend Nugator in his etymological researches.--We remember to have read in a work of a New {456} England author, some years since, an elaborate inquiry into the origin of the word which so much puzzles our correspondent. If our memory serve us faithfully, that writer fixes the nativity of the term in the city of Boston, and the date of its birth previous to the revolution. The circumstances out of which it sprang he asserts to be these. In that stormy period, when every class of citizens was agitated by the sentiments which exploded shortly afterwards in the thunders of revolution, public meetings were frequently held by the different trades and professions. For reasons which we now forget, particular attention was attracted to one called by the _Calkers_, a large body of citizens in so commercial a town. Their proceedings being peculiar, (perhaps in exclusiveness or secrecy,) caused this assemblage to be much talked of; and every subsequent meeting characterized by similar peculiarities in its formation or proceedings, was called a "_Calker's Meeting_." Gradually, in the lapse of time, although the term continued to be used, its origin was forgotten; and a knowledge of its etymological parentage no longer preserving it from corruption, an erroneous pronunciation, and consequently an erroneous manner of spelling it, gave to it the form and shape which it now wears--a change not at all surprising in regard to a word which was probably _unwritten_ during the first thirty years of its existence. We give this derivation from memory alone; we cannot even recall the work in which we saw it. If it be the true one, our friend will perceive that in one of his surmises he is not far wrong. It is high time that the birth, parentage and early condition of a particle of our language, which has of late become a word of power, equal in its magic influence to the fabled spells of ancient necromancers, should be settled beyond dispute. Seeing what Caucus now means, it is natural that we should desire to know from what beginnings it has arisen to its present stupendous importance in the ranks of our modern political vocabulary.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

THE CRAYON MISCELLANY. By the author of the Sketch Book. No. 1. Containing a Tour on the Prairies. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1835.

A book from the pen of Washington Irving, is a _morceau_, which will always be eagerly sought after by literary epicures. He is decidedly one of the most popular writers in this country: his sketches of character and scenery, are always true to the life, full of freshness and vigor; and there is usually a clear stream of thought pervading his pages, in fine contrast with the crude and indistinct conceptions of ordinary writers. The volume before us cannot be said indeed to rival some of its predecessors from the same pen, but the cause is not so much in the author as in his subject. In spite of an agreeable and highly descriptive style, the mind becomes wearied with the monotony of a journey through the solitudes of the Western Prairies, and after we have once formed a tolerably distinct idea of a buffalo hunt, and the lasoing of the wild horse, we become tired of the repetition of adventures, which possess so little variety. Considering his materials, however, Mr. Irving has contrived to sustain his narrative with his usual ability. It is true, that most readers will somewhat regret that he did not present more finished portraits of some of the personages who accompanied the expedition. We have quite satisfactory sketches of that "swarthy, meager, braggart" Tonish, and of the "sullen saturnine" half breed Beatte, but we desire to know something more of the wild young Swiss Count, of his travelling companion and mentor, the virtuoso, and of the hardy old hunter, Ryan, a true member of the leather-stocking family.

Notwithstanding the famed perspicuity and purity of Mr. Irving's style, he occasionally adopts a form of expression which creates some surprise. We will give one instance, in particular, because the inaccuracy, if we may so term it, is repeated several times in the volume before us:--"The horse, which was fearless as his owner, and like him, had a considerable spice of devil in his composition, and who beside, had been familiar with the game, no sooner came in sight and scent of the buffalo, than he set off _like mad_, bearing the involuntary hunter," &c. &c. &c. (Page 232.)

We should have supposed the expression, "_like mad_," a typographical error, if it had not been frequently used.

We copy for the reader's amusement, a short chapter, containing an account of "_A Republic of Prairie Dogs_," a kind of quadruped, with which we, at least, in this portion of North America, are not very familiar. The harmony, vigilance and energy, with which these little brutes rally around their rights and their laws, might whisper a sage lesson even to the wisdom of rational and intellectual beings:--

A REPUBLIC OF PRAIRIE DOGS.

On returning from our expedition in quest of the young Count, I learned that a burrow, or village, as it is termed, of prairie dogs, had been discovered on the level summit of a hill, about a mile from the camp. Having heard much of the habits and peculiarities of these little animals, I determined to pay a visit to the community. The prairie dog is, in fact, one of the curiosities of the far West, about which travellers delight to tell marvellous tales, endowing him at times with something of the politic and social habits of a rational being, and giving him systems of civil government and domestic economy, almost equal to what they used to bestow upon the beaver.

The prairie dog is an animal of the coney kind, and about the size of a rabbit. He is of a sprightly mercurial nature; quick, sensitive, and somewhat petulant. He is very gregarious, living in large communities, sometimes of several acres in extent, where innumerable little heaps of earth show the entrances to the subterranean cells of the inhabitants, and the well beaten tracks, like lanes and streets, show their mobility and restlessness. According to the accounts given of them, they would seem to be continually full of sport, business and public affairs; whisking about hither and thither, as if on gossiping visits to each other's houses, or congregating in the cool of the evening, or after a shower, and gambolling together in the open air. Sometimes, especially when the moon shines, they pass half the night in revelry, barking or yelping with short, quick, yet weak tones, like those of very young puppies. While in the height of their playfulness and clamor, however, should there be the least alarm, they all vanish into their cells in an instant, and the village remains blank and silent. In case they are hard pressed by their pursuers, without any hope of escape, they will assume a pugnacious air, and a most whimsical look of impotent wrath and defiance.

The prairie dogs are not permitted to remain sole and undisturbed inhabitants of their own homes. Owls and rattlesnakes are said to take up their abodes with them; but whether as invited guests or unwelcome intruders, is a matter of controversy. The owls are of a peculiar kind, and would seem to partake of the character of the hawk; for they are taller and more erect on their legs, more alert in their looks and rapid in their flight than ordinary owls, and do not confine their excursions to the night, but sally forth in broad day.

Some say that they only inhabit cells which the prairie dogs {457} have deserted, and suffered to go to ruin, in consequence of the death in them of some relative; for they would make out this little animal to be endowed with keen sensibilities, that will not permit it to remain in the dwelling where it has witnessed the death of a friend. Other fanciful speculators represent the owl as a kind of housekeeper to the prairie dog; and from having a note very similar, insinuate that it acts, in a manner, as family preceptor, and teaches the young litter to bark.

As to the rattlesnake, nothing satisfactory has been ascertained of the part he plays in this most interesting household; though he is considered as little better than a sycophant and sharper, that winds himself into the concerns of the honest, credulous little dog, and takes him in most sadly. Certain it is, if he acts as toad eater, he occasionally solaces himself with more than the usual perquisites of his order; as he is now and then detected with one of the younger members of the family in his maw.

Such are a few of the particulars that I could gather about the domestic economy of this little inhabitant of the prairies, who, with his pigmy republic, appears to be a subject of much whimsical speculation and burlesque remarks, among the hunters of the far West.

It was towards evening that I set out with a companion, to visit the village in question. Unluckily, it had been invaded in the course of the day by some of the rangers, who had shot two or three of its inhabitants, and thrown the whole sensitive community in confusion. As we approached, we could perceive numbers of the inhabitants seated at the entrances of their cells, while sentinels seemed to have been posted on the outskirts, to keep a look out. At sight of us, the picket guards scampered in and gave the alarm; whereupon every inhabitant gave a short yelp, or bark, and dived into his hole, his heels twinkling in the air as if he had thrown a somerset.

We traversed the whole village, or republic, which covered an area of about thirty acres; but not a whisker of an inhabitant was to be seen. We probed their cells as far as the ramrods of our rifles would reach, but could unearth neither dog, nor owl, nor rattlesnake. Moving quietly to a little distance, we lay down upon the ground, and watched for a long time, silent and motionless. By and bye, a cautious old burgher would slowly put forth the end of his nose, but instantly draw it in again. Another, at a greater distance, would emerge entirely; but, catching a glance of us, would throw a somerset, and plunge back again into his hole. At length, some who resided on the opposite side of the village, taking courage from the continued stillness, would steal forth, and hurry off to a distant hole, the residence possibly of some family connexion, or gossiping friend, about whose safety they were solicitous, or with whom they wished to compare notes about the late occurrences.

Others still more bold, assembled in little knots, in the streets and public places, as if to discuss the recent outrages offered to the commonwealth, and the atrocious murders of their fellow burghers.

We rose from the ground and moved forward, to take a nearer view of these public proceedings, when, yelp! yelp! yelp!--there was a shrill alarm passed from mouth to mouth; the meetings suddenly dispersed; feet twinkled in the air in every direction; and in an instant all had vanished into the earth.

The dusk of the evening put an end to our observations, but the train of whimsical comparisons produced in my brain, by the moral attributes which I had heard given to these little politic animals, still continued after my return to camp; and late in the night, as I lay awake after all the camp was asleep, and heard in the stillness of the hour, a faint clamor of shrill voices from the distant village, I could not help picturing to myself the inhabitants gathered together in noisy assemblage, and windy debate, to devise plans for the public safety, and to vindicate the invaded rights and insulted dignity of the republic.

* * * * *

_North American Review_.--The April number is for the most part excellent. But we are forcibly reminded by it of a defect in the Reviews of this country, which it seems to us, might with some little exertion, be remedied. The fault to which we allude, is their tardiness in noticing the publications of the day. In this number of the North American, we find several pages devoted to a review of _Burkhardt's Travels in Africa_, which have been before the public _sixteen years_, while the crowd of new works of undoubted merit which fill our book stores, have not as yet, with but few exceptions, attracted the attention of the reviewers. In this book-making age, we are aware that it is impossible for a Quarterly to review the twentieth part of the productions constantly issuing from the press: but if, as we suppose, it is the design of these periodicals to direct the taste of the public in every department of science and literature, surely they should contain reviews of such works selected from the mass, as are best worthy attention; and should endeavor to keep pace with the stream of publication. We can see little value in a review of a book after every reading man in the community has perused it, and formed his opinion upon its merits. Thus to lag behind the march of current literature, deprives the criticisms of the reviewer of much of their value and weight. In the instance to which we have alluded, it might well be asked whether the travels of Burkhardt, English reviews of which we read ten or twelve, or more years ago, could have the same claim upon the public interest as the newer works of Burnes, Jacquemont, Bennet and many others, whose books possess the charm of novelty? We subjoin the contents of the April number: 1. Politics of Europe: 2. Coleridge: 3. Mineral Springs of Nassau: 4. Life of G. D. Boardman: 5. National Gallery: 6. Italy: 7. Last Days of Pompeii: 8. Immigration: 9. Burkhardt's Travels in Africa: 10. Popular Education.

The first article contains a spirited review of the political events in France since the revolution of 1830, and of the foreign and internal policy of Louis Philippe. The progress of the _juste milieu_ system is well delineated, and a forcible picture is drawn of the present posture of the French government. We do not entirely coincide with the writer's ideas of the onward course of the cause of liberty, (or perhaps more correctly, of revolution) in France; but consider the article generally correct and instructive. That on Coleridge is admirable: and we heartily rejoice that in a work so much looked up to in England as is the North American, for the expression of our literary opinions, justice so ample should have been done to that extraordinary mind. A Baltimore newspaper, in allusion to the article in question, speaks of "the pitiful shifts to which the reviewer is driven to account for a fact which he admits, viz.--that there is but here and there an individual who understands him," [Coleridge.] "What stronger proof do we want," says the journalist, "of that confusion of thought and mysticism with which he has been charged?" We think _far_ stronger proofs are necessary to support the accusation. That but few comprehend the metaphysical treatises of Coleridge, is owing to the simple fact, that few are so thoroughly versed in psychological knowledge as to maintain a position in the van of the science, the post universally acceded to Coleridge by the learned in ethics. It is for this class of men that he has written, and in whose applauses he has received a plentiful reward. These, at least, will not hesitate to say that so far from being justly charged with confusion of thought, and its consequence confusion of expression, no man who ever lived thought _more distinctly even when thinking wrong_, or more intimately felt and comprehended the power of _the niceties of words_. That his philosophical {458} disquisitions are abstruse, is the fault of the subjects, and not of the language in which he has treated them, than which none can be more lucid or appropriate.

The article on Italy is interesting--also that on the National Gallery. In the notice of the _Last Days of Pompeii_, justice is by no means done to that most noble of modern novels.

* * * * *

The _London Quarterly Review for February_, American Edition, No. 1. Vol. 2. is printed on good paper, with excellent type. It contains, 1. Wanderings in New South Wales, by George Bennet, Esq. F. L. S. Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons: 2. Correspondence of Victor de Jacquemont: 3. Population of Great Britain and Ireland: 4. Coleridge's Table Talk: 5. Egypt and Thebes: 6. Rush on the Prophecies: 7. The Church and the Voluntary System: 8. Recent German Belles Lettres: 9. England, France, Russia and Turkey: 10. Sir Robert Peel's Address. The eighth article contains much information on a subject with which Americans are, for the most part, indifferently conversant. Coleridge's Table Talk is highly interesting, as every authentic fragment of his sentiments and opinions must be. The work reviewed in this article, is published by Mr. Henry Coleridge, a near relative of the departed philosopher and poet, and is made up from notes of numerous conversations, taken down by the publisher immediately after their occurrence. They bear the impress of Coleridge's mind, will be read with interest by all classes, and probably do more to make the general reader acquainted with him and his opinions, than all else that has been written.--We take this opportunity of noticing the excellent American Edition of the London, Edinburg, Foreign and Westminster Reviews, combined. It does much honor to Mr. Foster of New York, the publisher; and the compression of matter is such, without being printed too fine, as to give to subscribers for the sum of eight dollars, these four periodicals for which upwards of twenty dollars was formerly paid. The paper, type, and execution, are good.

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_The Life of Samuel Drew_, the shoemaker and philosopher of Cornwall, by his son, is published by Harper & Brothers, and consists of 360 pages. Drew was an extraordinary man, whose works, especially his theological ones, have gained him no little celebrity. It now appears that he had much to do with the writings attributed to Dr. Coke.

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_The Life of the Emperor Napoleon, Vol. 1, by H. Lee. New York, Charles De Behr._ This work has great merits and remarkable faults. Published ostensibly as a corrector of the numerous errors of other biographers of Napoleon, and especially those of Sir Walter Scott and Lockhart, it cannot but be read with interest. The errors detected and set right, are numerous and important. In most instances Mr. Lee clearly makes out his charges--in some we are sorry to see that he seems to be governed by a spirit of captiousness: And we cannot but object to the tone of his strictures upon Sir Walter Scott. Milder language would better have graced his cause. We have prepared a review of this work, which we are compelled to postpone to the next number of the Messenger.

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_Celebrated Trials of all Countries, and remarkable cases of Criminal Jurisprudence, selected by a Member of the Philadelphia Bar. Philadelphia, E. L. Carey and A. Hart._ Such a book as this was much wanted. The records of criminal trials were scattered through the newspapers or buried in some huge tomes of antique law reports, almost inaccessible to the ordinary reader. And this book seems fitted to supply the deficiency to a considerable extent. It is a large octavo, and contains a selection of criminal trials from the early period of 1588, down to the present day, among them some of the most celebrated cases on record, such as that of Sir Walter Raleigh in 1602, of the Earl of Strafford in 1643, of Alexis Petrowitz Czarowitz in 1815, of the rebels, Kilmarnock, Cromartie, Balmerino, &c. in 1745, and others of equal interest--the judicial proceedings in relation to which, belong to history. The contents of the work are highly interesting, but we cannot withhold our censure of their arrangement. The trials are huddled together without the slightest attention to chronological order; and it would seem that the gentleman of the Philadelphia Bar, who is made responsible for the compilation of the work, could merely have selected the several cases leaving the printer to arrange them as he pleased. The consequence is, that the reader finds himself shifting backward and forward, from century to century, in a complete medley of dates. This is to be lamented, because the history of criminal jurisprudence is a history of the progress of civil liberty, and of the expansion of the human mind. And the interest which we find in tracing the progress of just and equitable rules in the trials of malefactors, is marred by this defect of arrangement. As future volumes of this work are partly promised, it is to be hoped that in them this fault will be amended.

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_No Fiction_. _A Narrative founded on recent and interesting facts, by the Rev. Andrew Reed, D.D._ has been republished by the Harpers. With a plot of great simplicity, and with diction equally simple, this work has attained much celebrity. It is indeed thrillingly interesting. _Martha_, a more recent effort by the same writer, is however, in every respect a book of greater merit.

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_Memoirs of Celebrated Women of all Countries. By Madame Junot. Philadelphia, Carey, Lea and Blanchard._ These memoirs are amusing, and so far we can recommend them highly, but no farther. Their morality is questionable indeed; and they bear upon their face, in a certain pervading air of romance, sufficient evidence of their own inauthenticity. There is a sad mistake too in the title of the work. These are not memoirs of celebrated women in _all_ countries: they are merely Madame Junot's celebrated women in a few particular regions. The greater part of them have no pretensions to celebrity. It has been remarked that the sketch of Marina Minszech will afford a fair sample of the Duchess's biographical style. In this opinion we concur, and as it is a pretty fable, we advise all to read it who have no inclination for the book entire.

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_Influence, a Moral Tale, by the author of Miriam. Philadelphia, Key and Biddle._ There is an air of modest tranquillity about this book which we admire. It is a pleasing tale addressed to the young, to serious parents, and to friends--and it pretends to be nothing more. {459} Its style too is unobjectionable. If the work developes in the author no extraordinary capabilities, it is, we think, because there was no intention of developing them.

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_Lives of the English Pirates, Highwaymen and Robbers, by Whitehead. Philadelphia, Carey and Hart._ These lines will be read in spite of all that a too fastidious taste may say to the contrary. We see no very good reason why they should not be.

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_Confessions of a Poet, 2 vols. Carey, Lea and Blanchard._ The most remarkable feature in this production is the bad paper on which it is printed, and the typographical ingenuity with which matter barely enough for one volume has been spread over the pages of two. The author has very few claims to the sacred name he has thought proper to assume. And indeed his own idea on this subject seem not to satisfy himself. He is in doubt, poor man, of his own qualifications, and having proclaimed himself a poet in the title page, commences his book by disavowing all pretensions to the character. We can enlighten him on this head. There is nothing of the _vates_ about him. He is no poet--and most positively he is no prophet. He is a writer of notes. He is fond of annotations; and composes one upon another, putting Pelion upon Ossa. Here is an example: "_Ce n'est pas par affectation que j'aie mis en Francais ces remarques, mais pour les detourner de la connoissance du vulgaire._" Now we are very sure that none but _le vulgaire_, to speak poetically, will ever think of getting through with the confessions: thus there the matter stands. Lest his book should _not_ be understood he illustrates it by notes, and then lest the notes _should_ be understood, why he writes them in French. All this is very clear, and very clever to say no more. There is however some merit in this book, and not a little satisfaction. The author avers upon his word of honor that in commencing this work he loads a pistol, and places it upon the table. He farther states that, upon coming to a conclusion, it is his intention to blow out what he supposes to be his brains. Now this is excellent. But, even with so rapid a writer as the poet must undoubtedly be, there would be some little difficulty in completing the book under thirty days or thereabouts. The best of powder is apt to sustain injury by lying so long "in the load." We sincerely hope the gentleman took the precaution to examine his priming before attempting the rash act. A flash in the pan--and in such a case--were a thing to be lamented. Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences. We might even have a second series of the Confessions.

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_The Language of Flowers, embellished with fine colored engravings. Philadelphia, Carey, Hart and Co._ This is a book which will find favor in the eyes of the ladies, and thus, _par consequence_ in the eyes of the gentlemen. Its motto is pretty and apposite:

By all those token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well.

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_Mr. and Miss Edgeworth's Practical Education_ has been republished by the Harpers. Its character is well established.

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_The Highland Smugglers. By the author of Adventures of a Kussilbush, &c. 3 vols. Carey, Hart and Co._ This book is very much praised and we think justly. It is full of exquisite descriptions of that region of romance the Scottish Highlands, and has _a manner of its own_.

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Mr. Lockhart's excellent novel _Valerius_ is republished by the Harpers. The scene is in the time of Trajan, and the subject is managed in that masterly style which we look for in Lockhart. We have heard objections urged to the antique nature of his tale--ill-mannered sneers, and by men who should know better, at travelling back to Roman history for interest which could as well be found at home. _Procul--O procul este profani!_ Valerius is a book _to live_.

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_An Account of Col. Crockett's Tour to the North and Down East, written by himself. Carey, Hart and Co._ We see no reason why Col. Crockett should not be permitted to expose himself if he pleases, and to be as much laughed at as he thinks proper--but works of this kind have had their day, and have fortunately lost their attractions. We think this work especially censurable for the frequent vulgarity of its language.

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_Illorax de Courcy, an auto-biographical novel, by Josiah Templeton, Esq., 2 vols. Baltimore, William and Joseph Neal._ We have looked at this book attentively--for we confess it was impossible to read it. A glance over one or two pages will be sufficient to convince any reasonable person that it is a mere jumble of absurdities. The gentleman should not have thrust his name (if it be not a _nom de guerre_,) into the title page.

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_A Winter in the West, by a New Yorker. New York, Harper and Brothers._ This is a work of great sprightliness, and is replete with instruction and amusement. The writer evinces much talent in producing an interesting narrative of a journey performed in the most unpropitious period of the year. His observations on life in the backwoods are sensible, and we should imagine correct, and his details in relation to Michigan particularly interest us. The adventures of the road are told with great vivacity, and although there are no thrilling scenes or surprising incidents in the book, it cannot be read with indifference. The traits of Indian character scattered through its pages are vivid and striking, and the reflections on the condition of that fast failing race mark the philanthropic spirit of the author. Mr. Hoffman, formerly connected with the New York American, and now Editor of a Monthly Magazine, is the reputed author of this spirited work.

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Note: The journal of Mrs. Frances Ann Butler, better known as Miss Fanny Kemble, has, after a long delay, made its appearance; but at so late a period that we are unable to present our readers with our opinions at large of its merits, which we regret the more, as the work has created much excitement in the literary and fashionable world. Numerous extracts from its pages have been published in the newspapers, and the daring authoress has received but little mercy from any quarter. It will be reviewed in our next.

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EDITORIAL REMARKS.

We recommend the contents of our present number with entire confidence, to our readers.

The article on the "_Influence of Free Governments on the Mind_," is from the same gifted and exuberant pen which produced the "_Impediments to Literature_," republished in our fifth number, from the Western Monthly Magazine.

The selection from Mr. Mitchell's Manuscripts, or the story of the "_White Antelope_," will, we doubt not, be read with zest enough to create a strong desire for future contributions from the same source. The peculiarities of those wild sons of the forest who have never been _corrupted by civilization_, (we hope the solecism will be pardoned,) cannot fail to attract the curious. The story we publish is truly _unique_ and excellent of its kind.