THE STRIPED BASS. (Labrax Lineatus. Cuvier.)
ROCK FISH. Southern States and Delaware River.—BARRE FISH. St. Lawrence.
This noble fish, a member of a tribe known in almost every region of the globe, is, as an individual, peculiar to the waters of North America, not being found in any other part of the world; while his geographical range here, being very extensive, covers most if not all the rivers, bays, lagoons and beaches from the Capes of Florida to the Estuary of the St. Lawrence; in which great frith he is found, slightly modified from the Atlantic type, and known as the Barre Fish.
He must not be confounded with the Sea Bass, as he has been by Dr. Smith, the author of the Fishes of Massachusetts, who takes Dr. Mitchell severely to task for naming him Bodianus Mitchilli; accusing the Doctor of extreme arrogance and presumption in assuming the discovery and right of naming a fish, which he—Smith—alledges to be known to every fisherman and naturalist of every European coast; whereas, in reality, the fact is precisely as stated by Dr. Mitchell.
The Striped Bass is a very beautiful fish, of the order Acanthopterygii, or thorny finned fishes, and of the family Pereidæ; which may be distinguished from the soft finned tribes, by having the whole of the first dorsal fin supported by strong, sharp, spinous rays, by a single strong spine in front of the second dorsal, one in front of the ventrals, and three in front of the anal fin. The operculum, or gill-cover, has a serrated edge and two flat spines. Its dental system is very complete and formidable, on the maxillaries, palatine-bones, and tongue, as it is essentially a carnivorous fish, preying indiscriminately on most of the smaller finny inhabitants of the waters, as also on their spawn, and on some of the smaller crustaceæ, as crabs and shrimps.
In color he is bright and silvery, bluish brown, with copperish reflections on the back, and eight, or sometimes though rarely nine, parallel stripes of dark brownish purple—the fourth of these is ordinarily consentaneous with the lateral line, though sometimes the fifth. Those above it run from the head to the origin of the tail, and are by far the darkest; those below are fainter, and die away at about two-thirds the length of the belly.
The pectoral fins have sixteen rays, the ventrals one spinous and five soft rays, the anal three spinous and eleven soft rays, the first dorsal nine spinous, the second one spinous and twelve soft, the caudal seventeen soft rays.
The Sea Bass, which is of the same order and family, Pereidæ, is purely a sea fish, never entering estuaries or rivers, and never being taken in other than salt waters, on the outer bars and sea-banks, whereas the Striped Bass, like the Salmon, though salt water is necessary to him, in order to give vigor to his constitution, and perhaps to enable him to reproduce his species, is taken without distinction in the clear cold spring-waters of the river-heads, in the brackish slack-waters of the broad estuaries, in the strong, whirling salt eddies of sea-channels, such as Hellgate, and the inlets from the ocean to the inner bays, and lastly in the tumbling and flashing surfs on all the outer beaches, from those, I believe, of Hatterns, alone all the coasts north-eastward to those of Jersey and Long Island; on which they are taken with the squid and the seine from July to November, of rare excellence, and in great abundance.
The river runs of the Striped Bass are very singular, and though I will not say unaccountable—by no means accounted for. So soon as the Smelt, Shad, and Herring enter the river-mouths and estuaries, the Striped Bass is found following them; and in every different water it appears that he acts on a peculiar and instinctive principle. Where, when, or how he spawns no man knows or has written.
Our rivers he enters from the Delaware eastward from the first of March and later as the season offers, and makes up to the clear, cool spring-waters of the rivers near their heads. At that time he may be fished for, in the Delaware and in all the rivers in which the Shad run up and spawn, with shad-roe FATALLY.
In waters up which the Shad does not run this bait is useless.
Thus, for instance, at Macomb’s Dam, Kingsbridge, and all the Harlæm River and Hellgate, in the neighborhood of New York, shad-roe is useless; because the Shad do not spawn there, and the Bass know it. While in the Passaic, at Belleville Bridge and Acquanonck, up to both which places these fish run, there is a certainty of taking them with this bait, because Shad do spawn in the Passaic.
Therefore, in all rivers up which Shad run, the true and best bait for the Striped Bass is the shad-roe.
This must be prepared thus. The roe of the female fish—that is the hard roe—must be taken, cleaned, washed, and washed again, and then potted down with two ounces of salt to every half pound of roe, pressed close into a stone pot and hermetically sealed. After three months it will be fit for use; when it must be cut out of the pot like cheese, fastened on the hook in a small lump, and tied to it by a lapping of light-colored floss silk, or raveled hemp.
At this same time, in tideways such as Hellgate and the like, crab is the best and most killing bait on a line by rod and reel fishing, with weight enough to keep your crab within three inches of the bottom; thus you shall take abundance of moderate sized fishes—the best by all odds on the table—but if you aim at the thirty and forty pounders, you must take that hideous and disgusting fishy reptile, the real squid, armed with a strong cod-hook, on a heavy hempen line, trolled from the stern of a boat slowly pulled against stream.
The Bass will strike at a gaudy fly, or a spun minnow, at the latter every where, at the first seldom, and I believe casually; though if you do hook him look out, for he shall try your line, and strain your tackle to the utmost, and if you land even a three pounder on a single gut with fly or minnow trolled, you have done great work.
The favorite haunts of the Striped Bass, whence his provincial name of Rock Fish, are stony, gravelly, or rocky reefs, or sunken piers and dams which cause eddies, in the vicinity of which his prey are to be found darting about in the greatest abundance, and in such localities he is often taken with the rod and reel in great numbers, running from two and a half to seven pounds in weight, which is the best size for the table.
The Bass is a bold and fierce biter; and when he takes the bait he does it with a will, and there is no occasion for giving him line or time wherein to pouch the bait before striking, as you must do with the European Pike, and the American Pickerel and Mascalonge.
In the Harlæm river he is fished for with a stout rod and reel, a strong line of at least three hundred feet, and crab or shrimp bait, or sometimes a shiner or spearling hooked through the back-fin with a large-sized Limerick hook armed upon gimp. A sinker is used in this mode of fishing, and the bait should be suspended at some distance from the bottom, and allowed to swim about at his own sweet will.
When struck the Bass does not leap out of water, like the trout or salmon, but he is decidedly a run-away fish, taking twice as much line—pound weight for yard length—as the Salmon, and, though not so fierce or furious, requiring as much skill to handle. You must give him your line inch by inch, as sparingly as possible, heading him down stream if you can, and wearing him out always by concession and persuasion.
So much for him in the spring. How far he goes up the rivers in his spring run, we know not, nor presume to say. Killed he has been in October at Milford, Delaware, prime, and in good condition, but I think not running up to spawn himself, but rather to eat the roe of the shad which do run thitherward up to spawn.
After July and from thence to September they disappear from among us of the rivers, and during that period they are taken constantly by squidding, as it is called, that is to say, by using a large sized Limerick-hook, shanked with a piece of bright tin, mother-of-pearl, or ivory, attached to a long cod-line wound upon a card, in the rapid swirling eddies among rocks in the great outer tideways, and yet more readily in the wild, thundering surfs of the outside beaches. I have seen them taken thus off Shrewsbury Inlet, near Sandy-Hook, to the weight of sixty or seventy pounds; but it is a laborious, wet, and dirty toil, and cannot in anywise be regarded as a sport.
The line, without a rod, is whirled round the head, and the squid delivered, without a splash in the water, if it so may be, and then dragged in hand over hand, the fish striking with his whole power, and being mastered by main force.
Late in the autumn the Bass run in again, for what purpose we know not, save this, that the growth and comparative size of the fry as taken not justifying our believing that they breed in fresh rivers—we must consider them to be in pursuit of prey.
In the Delaware they are trolled for gnostically and rightfully, with a minnow, shiner, or young shad, baited on a double hook, armed on a treble gut with two swivels, a trolling-rod, and good Conroy’s reel—this is the true and scientific way of doing it.
The best rod for this sport is the regular trolling, or, as it is otherwise called, barbed rod. It should be twelve feet long, the butt of stout ash, the second and third joints of hickory, and the fourth of lance-wood. It should by no means have rings, but the new patent rail-road guides, five in number, exclusive of the funnel guide at the tip. It is a very good plan to have a double set of guides, on the opposite sides of the rod, for the stress is so great in this kind of fishing that in time the best rods will acquire a curvature, and lose their elasticity. This is easily counteracted by changing the line from side to side, and thus reversing the action.
The best trolling-rods are made by George Karr, of Grand Street, and Ben Welch, of Cherry St., New York.
The reel should be a simple one, large enough to contain one hundred yards of line.
This truly sporting mode of killing the Striped Bass is not used in New York, where, in fact, there are few fishermen, except fly fishermen—some very good, although, like angel visits—or pot fishermen.
There the crab and the shrimp, with a dobber, as the pot fishermen call it, is the weapon, and the best wielder of it is he who brings the most and heaviest fish to pot, with the most violence and the least skill.
The autumn being past, the Striped Bass retires for the winter to the mud-holes, which he loves, the soft, warm coves at the mouths of rivers and estuaries, wherein he lurks requiescent until spring again calls his prey into the rivers, and himself out of his lurking-places.
These be his times, his seasons, his baits, and his places; as to his local habitation, and the place where he deposits and brings up his children, nobody distinctly knowing, we shall be exceeding glad to receive facts whereon to constitute something approaching to that which is unwritten—the complete natural history of the Bass.
THE SMOKER.
———
BY THOMAS S. DONOHO.
———
[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]
I saw him after dinner,
And his face was like the sun,
When wearily he goes to rest,
His long day’s journey done.
The beef had made it hot,
And the wine had made it red,
And a cloud was all around it,
Like a curtain round a bed.
His chair was tilted back,
And his feet were on the wall,
And the sorrows of the world
Did not trouble him at all!
For though he toiled and puffed,
Like an engine, or a stove,
Yet smiled amid his labors
This “cloud-compelling Jove!”
Again I passed his dwelling,
In the darkness of the night;
And still I knew the Smoker,
Like a glow-worm, by his light.
His head was still thrown back,
And his feet were still on high,
And he had a most peculiar look
From out his half-shut eye.
’Twas morning; and I saw him,
This great Vesuvius man,
And o’er the news-full paper
His misty vision ran;
For still the fire was there,
And still the smoke was thick:
And I remembered me the tales,
Whose hero was—Old Nick!
I wondered if he slept?
Or ever went about?
Or was he only some machine —
For what? Ah, there’s the doubt!
Though puffing, always puffing,
He never seemed to go:
What good he did by staying there
Is more than yet I know.
A beggar-boy craved charity —
The Smoker “blessed his stars!”
And said, “he had no change to spare” —
Then sent for more cigars!
The patient wife at last complains;
He gruffly bids her cease:
“My home’s a bell; it’s very hard
I cannot smoke in peace!”
THE MAIDEN’S COMPLAINT AGAINST LOVE.
———
BY ENNA DUVAL.
———
Once, on a sunny day,
Love came to dwell with me,
I stroked his downy wings,
And gave him kisses free.
How joyous sped the hours,
While Love with me did stay;
The fluttering tiny thing,
Drove Care’s dark form away.
I laughed, I danced, I sang—
How mad and wild my glee,
While blesséd little Love
Dwelt willingly with me.
Alas! one gloomy morn,
The wicked, willful fay,
That I so fondly cherished,
Took wing and fled away.
I shed sad, bitter tears,
While Care looked on with scorn;
At last I sped to Venus,
To tell my grievous wrong.
The goddess frowned upon me,
And Psyche blushing wept,
When saucy little Cupid
My charges sad thus met.
“She wearied me with kisses,
And held me pris’ner fast,
Blame not, O mother Venus,
I broke her bonds at last.”
Dallas. BRIGHTLY, SC.
See Page 410.
GOLD FISH.
THE FINE ARTS.
Exhibition of Huntington’s Works.—One of the halls of the Art Union Building in New York, has been occupied for some time by an exhibition of the collected works of Mr. Huntington. They are about one hundred and twenty in number. Some of them are his very earliest efforts, necessarily crude, having been executed in his college days, when his incipient passion for art, interfered materially with his progress in the classics. But as the artist himself observes, “the early blundering attempts of beginners in art, are not as painful as those of musical performers, or as insipid as the stammerings of incipient poets. The lamest groupings of a young painter are often amusing, and sometimes show what Inman used to call ‘good intentions.’ ” It appears to us a very interesting feature in this exhibition, that we are able to trace the progress and development of Mr. Huntington’s talent. Thus we have “Ichabod Crane flogging a Scholar,” his first attempt at composition in 1834, which we may contrast with “Mercy’s Dream,” or the “Christiana and Children” the two paintings upon which his fame most securely rests. The gradual formation of his present pure style may be distinctly traced through his successive works.
We find in the collection more landscapes than we thought Mr. H. had painted, but he explains the matter by stating that during his early professional career, while engaged as an assistant to a portrait painter, “putting in back grounds,” he was seized upon by an enthusiastic speculator who was about to erect a city on the Hudson river, at Verplanck’s Point, then a wooded retreat of great beauty. This enthusiast was a generous lover of art, and kept Huntington during an entire summer, in that vicinity, taking views, and in his close study of nature was then fostered a love for landscape, which he has never forgotten. The artist himself says, of his subsequent works of this kind, that they will not bear the test of a close comparison with nature. They are rather hints and dreams of situations and effects, which he beseeches the visitor to look at lazily and listlessly, through the half-closed eye, and not to expect that truth and reality, which should be found in the works of the professed landscape painter. We cannot agree with the modest artist in his criticism upon himself—on the contrary, we think there is much of that marvelous force and brightness which rivets the attention to Cole’s paintings; of the freshness and atmosphere in which lie the fertile meadows—far stretching distances—the sturdy oaks and beeches, with rich masses of foliage, in Durand’s calm, expansive compositions, and all of the silvery lightness in moving clouds and transparent running brooks, which the veteran Doughty would magically call into being on the canvas.
We think the true passion of boyish love and first devotedness pervades all the occasional outbreaks which have led him from the dull routine of portraits to the green fields, the blue skies, and the silvery streams. The Rondout Scenes, painted three or four years after the modern Cecrops, would have carried art, learning, letters, and men to Verplanck’s Point, and the two elegant Ramapo views (most unfortunately not in the collection when we saw it, but in the possession of James Ross, Esq. of New Orleans) are living evidences of this. And then the “Moon Light and Fire Light,” drawn in an annual distribution of the Art Union, by the late much lamented Dr. James Milnor, is one of the most fanciful and artistic combinations of light and shade that could be imagined. Under these circumstances we will not allow Mr. Huntington to escape the charge of being a very admirable and forcible landscape painter.
But it is in historical and allegorical painting that Huntington has made the reputation which will live the longest; although he says, the class of pictures which were painted with the greatest interest are those which were meant to convey a moral lesson, and were ideally treated, such as the “Sacred Lesson,” “Alms Giving,” “Piety and Folly,” “Faith,” “Hope,” etc. This we can very easily imagine; for it must be to the spirit of a painter, like the enlargement of a caged bird, to escape the confines of buckram, broadcloth, and modern costume, and feel that “no pent up Utica” confines the powers, and they can range from the trammels of the real to the delicious abandon of the ideal. To transfer to canvas the feelings of our nature, and embody, as it were, the moral sentiments must indeed be a triumph to the artist, and we think it has been achieved by Huntington.
The picture which has acquired the most extended reputation for this artist, is by no means his best or even one of his best. It has become popularized by having been engraved for the American Art Union two years since, and is the “Signing of the Death Warrant of Lady Jane Grey.” We think it fortunate that the lovers of art in our country, who do not enjoy the privilege of visiting the large collections in our cities, are to have a better specimen of Huntington’s talent, and his peculiar ideality of composition in the engraving of his “Mercy’s Dream,” by the Philadelphia Art Union. This will, we think, be one of the most popular plates ever distributed.
To enter upon a critical analysis of Huntington’s style would be but a historical sketch of his artistic career; for his advancement in finish, and his impressiveness in composition, are marked and graded on each succeeding painting which he has started from the canvas. There is “no retiring ebb” to his genius—he always improves upon himself, as the result of close attention and indefatigable study. So happy is he in his historical, dramatic, and allegorical subjects, that they associate themselves with the very facts they intend to delineate, to the exclusion almost of the records of the past—his ideality takes the place of the written chronicle; and it seems as if the olden tradition glowed beneath his pencil. Huntington is as graphic on historic canvas, as Macaulay is on the historic page. We must accord to him a high rank, for he has merited it. In every department of his art, from the dull routine of portrait painting to the study of the Florentine Sybil, or to his latest inspirations, “St. John the Evangelist,” and the “Marys at the Sepulchre,” there is the same loveliness of composition, boldness of handling, and delicacy of conception.
We should feel great gratification in referring minutely to some of the more elaborate and important works in this collection, but our purpose, at the outset, was to make only a general notice, and call attention to the interesting fact, that nearly all Huntington’s works can now be seen in one gallery, collated as they have been from every quarter of the Union. The success which has attended the exhibitions of the labors of Alston, Inman and Huntington, will, we trust, lead to subsequent efforts among our other artists to get up corresponding displays of their works. By producing emulation it will have a good effect, and these galleries opened with such attractiveness, will lead to the formation of a taste for art, which will soon direct itself to the encouragement of artists through many private channels of munificence.
Death of James Thom.—On the 17th of April, James Thom, the sculptor, died in New York. He was emphatically a self-made man, and his “Tam O’Shanter and Souter Johnny” first raised him from his obscurity as an humble stone-cutter, to a rank among our sculptors. He had no previous education, and enjoyed no opportunity of studying schools or models. Thom first reached this country about 1836-7, in search of an agent, who had been sent here by the proprietors to exhibit his “Old Mortality” and “Tam O’Shanter;” Thom found the delinquent and obtained a portion of the money for which these works had been fraudulently sold. After remitting these proceeds to the just owners, he determined to remain in this country. His first efforts were directed to finding a free stone suited to his work, which he soon discovered at Little Falls. From this he made copies of his two most celebrated works. The Old Mortality Group is now placed opposite the entrance to Laurel Hill Cemetery, near Philadelphia, including the pious antiquarian Presbyterian, his rugged poney and the faithful likeness of Sir Walter Scott. The “Tam O’Shanter” is the property of Roswell L. Colt, Esq., Patterson, N. J. The statue of Burns, also from his chisel, was an excellent specimen of his skill.
Thom obtained an advantageous contract to perform the stone-cutting for Trinity Church, New York, and made a handsome profit from it, although he left the work before its completion, and retired to a farm in Rockland County. He has since occupied his time as an architect, more, however, for the filling up of his leisure hours, than for probability of profit, as none of his designs have even been executed. The genius of Thom was peculiar—his fame may rest safely upon “Old Mortality,” and “Tam O’Shanter,” though some of his busts and ornamental garden designs possessed great merit.
Philadelphia Academy of Fine Arts.—The spring exhibition of this society promises to be unusually attractive. The liberal prizes offered by the managers to induce competition, have awakened the spirit of not only our own, but foreign artists. We shall next month have an opportunity to notice these works in detail, and hope to find some home productions which will compare favorably with those received from abroad. Among the latter is a magnificent piece of coloring by Van Schendel of Brussels, representing Ahasuerus king of the Persians and Medes, in the midst of his gorgeous court, as described in the Book of Esther. Schotel of Medembled, Holland, has sent out two marine views, a department in which he is justly celebrated. One of these, entitled “Wrecking and Succor,” possesses much energy, and the other, “The Schelde by a fresh gale,” will be highly prized by all the lovers of art. There are also two works by Carl Hubner of Dusseldorf, called “The Recovery,” and “The Happy Moment,” which evince high artistic excellence. G. F. Diday of Bremen, has sent over two beautiful views of the High Alps in Switzerland, and J. Schoppe of Berlin, a scene descriptive of a Spanish comedy by Moneto, which he entitles Amphitrite and Donna Diana. All these, and others of minor excellence, will be noticed more fully hereafter.
The American Art Union.—The walls of the new gallery of this institution already present many beautiful specimens of art. A picture by Leutze, called the “Knight of Sayn and the Gnomes,” is particularly admired. The story, as described by G. G. Foster, Esq. in his spicy little paper, the Merchants’ Day Book, is of a knight who fell in love with a beautiful damsel, whose father would consent to the match only on condition that the lover would ride up the steep rocks on which his castle was built. This was clearly an impossible feat; but the king of the Gnomes came secretly and offered, if the knight of Sayn would fill up a silver mine that had been opened on his domain, to assist him in crossing safely the bridge of love. The action of the picture is at the moment that the knight rides over the last frightful fissure, upon a bridge composed of rocks, supported and held in their places beneath his charger’s hoofs, by the sturdy gnomes, while the king of the earth elfins stands proudly on the other side with his royal sceptre in his hand, to welcome his protégé safely over. Far above is the father’s castle, with the lady and her attendants, watching the dauntless rider and waving their scarfs over his head. The whole of this picturesque and charming scene is handled in the most admirable manner. The gnomes couching like little atlases, under the heavy rocks across which the knight is passing—the irresistible comicry of the burly gnome king—the fiery prancing war-horse—the knight himself, waving his cap gallantly to his mistress, while he sits his steed with the air of a perfect conqueror, each seems better than the other. The entire composition and action of the piece are spirited and graceful, while the happy choice of subject equally betrays the accomplished artist.
Henri Herz.—The celebrated pianist has finally settled for the rest of his days in Mexico. The supreme government has established a musical conservatory, at the head of which Mr. Herz has been placed, with a handsome salary.
Ives the Sculptor, since his return from Italy, has completed a plaster cast of Major General Scott, the mould of which he proposes to take with him when he again visits Italy, and reproduce the head in marble. The bust is true in its character, both in lineament and spirit, and is looked upon with universal approbation.
Power’s Statue of Eve.—It is stated that this statue, executed by Mr. Power for the Hon. William C. Preston, of South Carolina, has been lost by shipwreck on the coast of Spain. It had been generally conceded to be his chef d’oeuvre, and its loss is a real calamity, not only to the artist but the entire world of art. We trust sincerely that the original cast remains, from which a new statue may be produced.
“Mercy’s Dream.”—A copy from this original picture by Huntington has been executed by Mr. McMurtrie, of Philadelphia, with a general fidelity in tone, style, color, expression, and atmospheric effect, which is truly remarkable. This copy will constitute the first prize at the next drawing of the Art Union of Philadelphia, which will take place on the evening of the 31st of December, 1850.
Marti’s Opera Troup, from the Tacon Theatre, Havana, has recently been singing at Niblo’s Garden, in New York. Signor Salvi is acknowledged to be the only perfect tenor heard in this country since the days of Garcia. Signorina Steffanone, the new soprano, is also warmly praised. The orchestra is admirable, and all the appointments excellent.
EARLY ENGLISH POETS.
POEMS OF THOMAS CAREW.
In the history of early English literature, we find little mention made of the productions of Thomas Carew; “that sweet poet and most witty gentleman,” as he was quaintly styled by Sir William Davenant. With the exception of one or two of his songs, to be found in “The English Anthology,” we do not remember to have seen any mention made of his verses. This neglect cannot be accounted for by attributing it to his want of merit as a poet. The melody of his verse, the genuine spirit of poetry pervading his songs, and the happy conceits sparkling through them, entitle him to a position not many removes from that occupied by Sir John Suckling, whose sweet numbers and mellifluous verse are familiar to every lover of early English literature.
If the testimony of contemporaries is any test of poetic ability, the subject of our notice seems to have had his full share with the lighter poets and wits of his age.
Thomas Carew was descended from one of the first families in Gloucestershire, England; many of his ancestors having filled high and responsible stations in the preceding reigns of Mary, Elizabeth, and James I. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where he did not remain to finish the usual collegiate course, having been expelled for some youthful indiscretion. He afterward made the tour of Europe, visiting some of the most polished courts, and perfecting himself in all those accomplishments then so necessary for the complete education of a courtier. On his return from his travels, his fine person and polished manners attracted the attention of Charles I., who gave him the appointment of gentleman of the privy chamber, and was in the habit of constant social intercourse, esteeming him one of the most polished gentlemen and refined wits of his court. By the poets of his day he was much respected, claiming Ben Jonson and Sir William Davenant among the most devoted of his friends, and the warmest admirers of his verse. It redounds, however, much more to his praise that he was intimate with the youthful Hyde, afterward so distinguished as Earl of Clarendon—who speaks highly “of his amiable qualities, and his talent for light poetry, of the amorous kind, in the elegance and fancy of which he had few superiors.” Carew died in the prime of life, some time in the year 1639, thus fortunately escaping the troubles that even then “were casting their dark shadows before,” and which eventually overwhelmed his royal master. The only edition of his poems ever published appeared in 1630, edited by himself; and it is from this work we propose to introduce to the reader’s attention a few of the most beautiful of his songs and fugitive pieces.
An earnest desire to rescue from oblivion the many beautiful thoughts and curious conceits pervading the verses of this poet, has induced the preparation of our article. These songs served to lighten the cares of the troublesome reign of Charles I., and, set to music, were the favorite melodies of his time. In an age when gallantry was the chief of virtues, and the smiles and encouragement of the gentler sex the sure reward that awaited every laudable undertaking. Carew seems to have devoted his talents to the ladies. In smooth and gentle verse he celebrated their varied charms—or in ardent strains declared his own impassioned admiration and love.
The cruel glances of the eyes of his mistress he deprecates in lines like these —
I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,
Which, pleased or angered, still are murderers,
For if she dart, like lightning, through the air,
Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair,
If she behold me with a pleasing eye,
I surfeit with excess of joy and die.
And he mourns in touching melancholy verse the death of the loved one, and in sweet strains laments
The purest soul, that e’er was sent
Into a clayey tenement,
Informed this dust, but the weak mould
Could the great guest no longer hold,
The substance was too pure, the flame
Too glorious, that hither came.
Does he celebrate the beauties of the natural world, he is sure to institute a comparison of those beauties with the charms of his mistress—and in his glowing language, “winter’s snow-white robes” “and blue-eyed spring” welcomed to the earth “by a choir of chirping minstrels” shrink into insignificance by the comparison. Does he pine away, banished from the presence of his mistress, he compares himself with happy conceit “to one far from the shore in a storm-beaten boat, where love is the pilot,”
but o’ercome with fear
Of her displeasure, dares not homeward steer.
Indeed, the warmth of his verse, and its flow of happy conceits, induced Sir William Davenant to call him “our English Anacreon”—but this perhaps is going too far; although adopting the words of Moore, applied to Anacreon, we might say of Carew—“That his descriptions are sometimes warm, but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words; he is often sportive, without being wanton, ardent, without being licentious.” Still, the distance between Carew and Anacreon is immeasurably great—the singular beauty of “The Tean Bard”—his copiousness of expression, his easy and joyous gayety—the enthusiasm of the grape pervading his songs,—has never yet been equaled by his numerous pretended imitators; who too often have sought in grossness of allusion, and the vulgar rant of intoxication, for sources of resemblance.
It is indeed to be regretted that among the poems of Carew there are many that might tinge the cheek of modesty, and repel every reader by their gross physical impurities—and those, too, containing in their grossness thoughts of most exquisite beauty. The existence of these impurities, however, was the fault more of the age than the poet—custom sanctioned, society relished the use of language and sentiment that now would be exceedingly abhorrent to “ears polite.”
The polished courtiers, the fair dames of the court of Charles, perceived nothing in these songs of Carew that could call the blush of shame to the cheek, or excite even an impure thought. But custom,
“That despot, whose behest each age obeys,”
has in this our day otherwise ordered; and the civilized world now believes with the poet Roscommon —
Immodest words admit of no defense,
A want of decency is want of sense.
My object in the preparation of this article being to rescue from oblivion some of the verses of this sweet poet, Carew, I propose to make such selections from his poems as shall prove, incontestably, his claim to a high rank among the earlier English poets.
We do not claim that the poems of Carew evince the highest order of poetic talent, but generous sentiment, and a glow of happy conceits running through, and sparkling in them, often exhibit unexpected beauties. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, applied to a poet of the same age and nation,
“If the conceits are sometimes far-fetched, they will be found oftentimes worth the carriage.”
It has been before remarked, that if the greatness of the poetic writers of this age seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises us—and noble sentiment and genuine wit will often be found buried beneath strange illustrations, and far-fetched conceits.
In Headley’s introduction to his “Select Beauties of Ancient English Poetry,” he bestows unqualified praise upon the amatory poets, who flourished in the reign of Charles the First, giving a decided preference to the poetry of the age of Elizabeth and Charles over all that has been written since their day. And he considers the poets, the amatory poets of those reigns, as forming a constellation far superior in poetic lustre to any that have succeeded them.
This indeed is no faint praise, coming from so refined a critic; but with all due deference we cannot but agree with Drake, that it is for the most part too highly colored. The exquisite simplicity of style and thought, so attractive in the productions of our modern poets, will be looked for in vain in the verses of the poets of that early day; such simplicity being the result of systematic refinement, and the progress of language toward perfection.
But to return from this apparent digression; as the most beautiful pearls are often found in the roughest shells, so in the songs of Carew the reader will oftentimes be delighted to discover rare conceits, sparkling with wit, and genuine poetry, but incased in rough inharmonious verse.
But often, as in the beautiful lines to a primrose, Carew seems to break loose from the trammels that fettered the versification of his day, and in tuneful, and well measured song expresses so aptly the ideas of his muse, as to give peculiar softness to his rhyme.
That little song, To a Primrose, commencing,
Ask me why I bring you here
This firstling of the infant year.
And the one entitled The Compliment,
My dearest I shall grieve thee
When I swear, yet, sweet, believe me,
are almost equal in beauty to that exquisite song of Fletcher’s, commencing
Take, oh, take those lips away.
Or that complimentary song of Sir John Suckling’s, beginning
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy bears comparison,
Who sees it, is undone
For streaks of red were mingled there
Such as are on a Catharine pear,
The side that’s next the sun.
In all the poetry of the age in which Carew flourished, there is to be found a straining after resemblances, and too often the sense is sacrificed in the effort; personification is too often used, without judgment, or taste. It is this fault which, more than any other, has called down upon the poets of the age in which Carew flourished, so much severe, and oftentimes unjust criticism.
But without offering these songs of Carew as models, without denying that according to the rigid canons of polished criticism, many glaring faults may be found in them, we still insist that their beauties are many, and to the eye, which brings not every thing to the narrow measure of a stern critic’s scrutiny, will more than compensate for unquestioned blemishes. The blemishes are the offspring of the distorted taste of the age in which our poet flourished—their beauties, the triumph of the poet’s genius over the difficulties in his pathway.
THE SPRING.
Now that the winter’s gone, the earth has lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world, the youthful spring.
The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the longed for May.
Now all things smile, only my love doth lower;
Nor hath the scalding noon-day sun the power
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold.
The ox which lately did for shelter fly
Into the stall; doth now securely lie
In open field, and love no more is made
By the fire-side; but in the cooler shade
Amyutas now doth with his Chloris sleep
Under a sycamore, and all things keep
Time with the season; only she doth carry
June in her eyes, her heart is January.
PERSUASION TO LOVE.
Think not, ’cause men flattering say
You’re fresh as April, sweet as May,
Bright as is the morning star,
That you are so; or though you are,
Be not therefore proud, and deem
All unworthy your esteem;
For being so, you lose the pleasure
Of being fair, since that rich treasure
Of rare beauty, and sweet feature,
Was bestowed on you by nature
To be enjoyed, and sure ’tis sin
There to be scarce, where she hath been
So prodigal of her best graces;
Thus common beauties, and mean faces
Shall have more pastime, and enjoy
The sport you loose by being coy.
Starve not yourself, because you may
Thereby make me pine away;
Nor let brittle beauty make
You, your wisest thoughts forsake.
For that lovely face will fail;
Beauty’s sweet, but beauty’s frail;
’Tis sooner past; ’tis sooner done
Than summer rain, or winter’s sun;
Most fleeting when it is most dear!
’Tis gone, while we but say ’tis here.
These curious locks, so aptly twined,
Whose every hair a soul doth bind,
Wilt change their auburn hue, and grow
White, and cold as winter’s snow.
That eye which now is Cupid’s nest,
Will prove his grave, and all the rest
Will follow, in the cheek then froze,
No lily shall be found, or rose.
And what will then become of all
Those who now you servants call?
Like swallow’s when your summer’s done
They’ll fly, and seek some warmer sun.
Remain still firm, be provident,
And think before the summer’s spent
Of following winter; like the ant
See plenty hoard for time of scant.
Cull out amongst the multitude
Of lovers, seeking to intrude
Into your favor, one that may
Last for an age, not for a day.
For when the storms of time have moved
Waves on that cheek, now so beloved,
When a fair lady’s face has pined,
And yellow spread, where red once shined,
When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her.
Love may return, but lovers never.
And old folks say, there are no pains
Like itch of love, in aged veins.
Oh, love me then, and now begin it,
Let us not loose a precious minute,
For time and age will work that rack,
Which time or age shall ne’er call back.
The snake each year, fresh skin resumes,
And eagles, change their aged plumes.
The faded rose, each spring receives
A fresh red tincture on her leaves:
But if your beauties once decay,
They never know a second May.
LIPS AND EYES.
In Celia’s face, a question doth arise
Which are more beautiful, her lips or eyes;
We, said the eyes, send forth those pointed darts
Which pierce the hardest adamantine hearts
From us, replied the lips, proceed those blisses
Which lovers reap in kind words, and in kisses
Then wept the eyes, and from their springs did pour
Of liquid oriental pearls, a shower.
Whereat the lips moved with delight and pleasure,
In a sweet smile unlocked their pearly treasure;
And bade Love judge, whether did add more grace
Weeping, or smiling, to fair Celia’s face.
A BEAUTIFUL MISTRESS.
If when the sun at noon displays
His brighter rays,
Thou but appear
He then all pale with shame, and fear,
Quencheth his light,
Hides his dark brows, flies from thy sight
And grows more dim
Compared to thee, than stars to him,
If thou but show thy face again,
When darkness doth at midnight reign,
The darkness flies, and light is hurled
Round about the silent world.
THE PRIMROSE.
Ask me, why I send you here
This firstling of the infant year?
Ask me, why I send to you,
This primrose, all bepearled with dew?
I straight will whisper in your ears
The sweets of love are washed with tears.
Ask me, why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too?
Ask me, why the stalk is weak,
And bending, yet it doth not break.
I must tell you, these discover
That doubts and fears beset your lover.
MURDERING BEAUTY.
I’ll gaze no more, on her bewitching face,
Since ruin harbors there, in every place;
For my enchanted soul, alike she drowns
With calms and tempests, of her smiles, and frowns.
I’ll love no more those cruel eyes of hers,
Which pleased or angered, still are murderers;
For if she dart (like lightning) through the air
Her beams of wrath, she kills me with despair;
If she behold me with a pleasing eye
I surfeit with excess of joy and die.
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
Lectures on Art and Poems. By Washington Allston. Edited by Richard H. Dana, Jr. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.
The admirers of the greatest of American painters will need none of our advice to read this volume, placing as it does its accomplished author among the greatest of American writers. The Lectures are four long and elaborate essays on art; and they evince a depth and delicacy of insight, a concentrativeness and continuity of thought, a finely harmonized action of reason and imagination, and a command of subtle expression, which entitle them to a high rank among the best critical compositions of the century. The lectures treat of the highest and most exacting principles of creative art, and the passage from them to the poems is a hazardous descent. Though some of these poems have gleams of the author’s genius, they are generally characterized by a penury of imaginative expression which is painful to a reader fresh from the Lectures.
The merely literary reader will find much to delight him in the Lectures, even if he is indisposed to pay much attention to their profound discussion of principles. They contain many specimens of that word-painting which gave such popularity to Ruskin’s “Modern Painters.” The following passage on Vernet is one out of many splendid descriptions. “Now let us look at one of his Storms at Sea, when he wrought from his own mind. A dark, leaden atmosphere prepares us for something fearful; suddenly a scene of tumult, fierce, wild, disastrous, bursts upon us; and we feel the shock drive, as it were, every other thought from the mind; the terrible vision now seizes the imagination, filling it with sound and motion: we see the clouds fly, the furious waves one upon another dashing in conflict, and rolling, as if in wrath, toward the devoted ship; the wind blows from the canvas; we hear it roar through her shrouds; her masts bend like twigs, and her last forlorn hope, the close-reefed foresail, streams like a tattered flag; a terrible fascination still constrains us to look, and a dim, rocky shore looms on her lee; then comes the dreadful cry of ‘Breakers ahead!’ the crew stand appalled, and the master’s trumpet is soundless at his lips. This is the uproar of nature, and we feel it to be true; for here every line, every touch, has a meaning. The ragged clouds, the huddled waves, the prostrate ship, though forced by contrast into the sharpest angles, all agree, opposed as they seem, evolving harmony out of discord. And this is Genius, which no criticism can ever disprove.”
The criticisms in these lectures on Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Titian, Poussin, Claude, are as unrivaled for discrimination as appreciation. No one has a quicker and deeper eye to detect the excellencies of great works, and no one seizes with more fatal sagacity upon their defects. Everybody has seen copies of Raffaelle’s great picture of the Madonna di Sisto, but few have dared to express their dissatisfaction with the seemingly beautiful figure of St. Catharine. Allston says it is an “evident rescript from the Antique, with all the received lines of beauty, as laid down by the analyst—apparently faultless, yet without a single inflection which the mind can recognize as allied to our sympathies; and we turn from it coldly as from the work of an artificer, not of an Artist. But not so can we turn from the intense life, which seems almost to breathe upon us from the celestial group of the Virgin and her child, and from the Angels below; in these we have the evidence of the divine afflatus—of inspired Art.”
Among the aphorisms written by Allston on the walls of his studio, and published in the present volume, we extract the following:
“Some men make their ignorance the measure of excellence; these are, of course, very fastidious critics; for knowing little, they can find little to like.”
“A witch’s skiff cannot more easily sail in the teeth of the wind, than the human eye lie against fact; but the truth will oftener quiver through lips with a lie upon them.”
“The most common disguise of Envy is in the praise of what is subordinate.”
Southey’s Common-Place Book. Second Series. Special Collections. Edited by his Son-in-Law, John Wood Warter, B. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo.
This volume contains the extracts which Southey made from the world of books, relating to special subjects of study. The general topics under which the extracts are grouped, are Ecclesiasticals, the Age of Cromwell, Spanish and Portuguese Literature, the History of the Religious Orders, Orientaliana, American Tribes, Natural History, and Curious Facts. The range of reading that the volume indicates, considered in connection with the number of Southey’s original works, is sufficient to astound a regular book-cormorant, and places Southey fairly among the “laboring classes.” The present volume is more racy in its matter than the preceding, while it does not yield to it in the amount of curious information given. The following passage, taken from Percival Stockdale’s Memoirs, conveys a capital idea of an English military commander. “When Lord George Germains commanded the camp near Brompton, and at Chatham in 1757, Whitfield went to Chatham, sent his respects by Captain Smith to his lordship, and requested permission to preach in the camp. Lord George replied, ‘Make my compliments, Smith, to Mr. Whitfield, and tell him, from me, he may preach any thing to my soldiers that is not contrary to the articles of war.’ ” From the same book Southey extracts an equally edifying paragraph, relating to the view entertained of the Christian religion, by the English naval captain of that time. Percival was appointed chaplain to Capt. Ogle’s ship Resolution, but, he says, “the duty of clergyman was very seldom required of me. One day, however, when I met my naval commander in a street of Portsmouth, and paid my respects to him, he proposed that I should do my duty on the ensuing Sunday on board. I replied that it was my wish to receive such a command more frequently. At all events, replied he, I think it is right that these things should be done sometimes, as long as Christianity is on foot.” The simplicity with which religion is patronized in both of these instances, makes them richly humorous.
Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A New Edition. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 2 vols. 10mo.
This edition of Longfellow contains all his poems, and makes two finely printed volumes of some five hundred pages each, at about half the original price. In their present tasteful form they will doubtless have a large circulation, for their author is the most popular poet of the day on both sides of the Atlantic. His poems sell better in England than those of Tennyson, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Bailey or Milnes. This wide popularity he has fairly won by his merits, as he has not lacked carping critics or envious defamers to obstruct his path to success. The source of the fascination he holds equally over cultivated and uncultivated minds is partly owing to the fine humanity and sweetness of his spirit. Good nature is a portion of his genius; without this good nature, man, says Bacon, is but “a better kind of vermin;” but we are sorry to say that it is not a prominent characteristic of many minds largely gifted with the poetic faculty. Longfellow, in addition to this heartiness, full of seriousness which does not exclude cheer, has a broad and imaginative mind, which has assimilated and inwrought into its own substance the spirit of many literatures; and this gives a vital richness to his thought which no other contemporary poet but Tennyson can be said to possess. Probably few poets ever excelled him in the difficult art of preserving an equilibrium of ambition and capacity, so that nothing is attempted which is not satisfactorily performed. Many poets who aim higher than Longfellow, please less, because we are conscious of the stir and sting of great aspirations which are unaccompanied by sufficient imagination to give them adequate form and expression, and the result is that the mind is disturbed rather than exalted. In Longfellow aspiration and inspiration are perfectly harmonized.
The Angel World, and Other Poems. By Philip James Bailey, author of “Festus.” Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.
“Festus,” a monstrous agglomeration of irreconcilable opinions, lit up with fancy, and seasoned with warm sensations, was Mr. Bailey’s first bantling —
“Got while his soul did huddled notions try,
And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy.”
“The Angel World” is his second product, the result of the slow gestation of many years, with fewer faults and fewer merits than “Festus”. Many persons who would hesitate in calling “Festus” a poem, discerned in it a chaos of poetical matter; and they supposed that the author’s unquestioned fertility would be forced into form when his powers matured. In “The Angel World” we find an approach to form with a decay of fertility. This seems to prove that anarchy is not so much the precursor of art as the destroyer of vitality, and that Bailey’s mind found in anarchy its fittest expression. There is not enough greatness in the man to make a great poem. Coleridge, in his remarks on Love’s Labor Lost, says that “true genius begins in generalizing and condensing; it ends in realizing and expanding. It first collects the seeds.” Bailey’s process is the reverse of this; he first expands, then condenses—and his expansion accordingly lacks substance, and his condensation richness. But though “The Angel World” is inferior to “Festus,” it still exhibits sufficient wealth of imagery to give it prominence among contemporary poems, and to exact the attention of all poetical readers. A poem which contains numerous thoughts as fine as the following cannot be justly condemned:
In one
A soul of lofty clearness, like a night
Of stars, wherein the memory of the day
Seems trembling through the meditative air.
The “other poems” which follow “The Angel World” are of various degrees of merit, indicating that the author is a man of moods, and is rapt or muddled, according as his sensibility rises or falls. A few of the poems are almost ecstatic, and equal the most striking passages in “Festus.”
The Ways of the Hour: A Tale. By the author of “The Spy,” “The Red Rover,” etc. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.
Mr. Cooper is a philanthropist of a peculiar kind. He makes an inventory of popular errors and vices, some of them thoroughly inwoven in the affections or manners of the people, and then daringly drives at them with the whole might of his pen. We honor his courage, and sympathize with his hatred of cant, even when we are disposed to doubt his judgment, and to regret his fretful way of presenting his opinions. Opposition seems to have deepened some of his dislikes into antipathies, and a man with antipathies is always unreasonable even in his assaults upon error and vice. There is one thing, however, for which Mr. Cooper cannot be too highly praised, and that is, his keen perception of the real faults which, in a democracy, should come under the lash of the moralist and the satirist. Far from pandering to popular delusions, he expends all his force in exposing and attacking them. The present novel is full of thrusts at the political bubbles of New York, some of which really subside into their “elemental suds” under his treatment. The general object of the novel is to exhibit the injustice which results from our system of trials by jury—an injustice which Mr. Cooper thinks is the necessary consequence of that system in a democracy. This we deem a monstrous paradox, though the story which illustrates it is ingenious and interesting, and will well repay perusal.
Gallery of Illustrious Americans. Brady & D’Avignon, New York, 1850.
Daguerreotypes by Brady—Engraved by D’Avignon, with Biographical Notices by C. Edwards Lester, assisted by other literary men. This is announced by the publishers of this work, and is sufficient alone to recommend it. It will be a noble Gallery when completed, if carried out as commenced. Two numbers are before us. The first number contains a fine portrait of Gen. Taylor, with a short clear notice of his life. The second number has a striking life-like head of Mr. Calhoun, which is particularly valuable now, that we are all called upon as countrymen to mourn the death of this great and good man. The biographical notice of Mr. Calhoun is well written and interesting.
We have but one fault to find with this work. The interior of the cover is used as a sort of journal—“Fly Leaf of Art and Criticism,” as it is called, but its piquant notices, and clever short articles of poetry and prose are too valuable to be thus thrown away on a mere cover. However, it proves that the liberal publishers wish to make their work as attractive as possible.
Posthumous Works of the Rev. Thomas Chalmers, D. D., L.L.D. New York: Harper & Brothers. Vol. 9.
This volume of Chalmers is as valuable as any in the series, and, to us, the most interesting of the whole. It contains Prelections on Butler’s Analogy, Paley’s Evidences of Christianity, and Hill’s Lectures in Divinity, and affords some test of the great clergyman’s real merit in the science of theology. Although the volume does not place Chalmers in the first class of theological thinkers, it indicates sufficient originality, independence and force of thought to give him a high position in the second class.
Downing Street. (Latter-Day Pamphlets, No. 3.) By Thomas Carlyle. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. New York: Harper & Brothers.
We do not see as these pamphlets decrease in impudence and raciness as the author proceeds; they are among the most exhilarating of contemporary publications, and however mad in parts, are calculated to give a sharp shock to English dogmatism, if they do not succeed in ameliorating English institutions. In “Downing Street” Carlyle makes an assault on the executive department of the English government. The attack has more reason in it than the substitute proposed for the present system. In speaking of the inadequacy of Parliamentary government to obtain the best men for rulers, he refers to Robert Burns, the noblest soul of his time in England, and yet one for whom the government could find no fitter employment than to gauge ale. “And so,” remarks Carlyle, “like Apollo taken for a Neatherd, and perhaps for none of the best on the Admetus establishment, this new Norse Thor had to put up with what was going; to gauge ale, and be thankful, pouring his celestial sun-light through Scottish song-writing—the narrowest chink ever offered to a thunder-god before! And the measure Pitt, and his Dundasses and red-tape phantasms (growing very ghastly now to think of) did not in the least know or understand—the impious, god-forgetting mortals—that Heroic Intellects, if Heaven were pleased to send such, were the one salvation for the world, and for them, and all of us. No; ‘they had done very well without’ such; did not see the use of such; ‘went along very well’ without such; well presided over by singular Heroic Intellect called George the Third; and the Thunder-god, as was rather fit for him, departed early, still in the noon of life, somewhat weary of gauging ale!”
King René’s Daughter: a Danish Lyrical Drama. By Henrik Hertz. Translated by Theodore Martin. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 16mo.
This drama cannot boast any remarkable imaginative power, but it is still a most exquisite creation, conceived in the spirit of the finest human sympathy, and purifying the mind which it seemingly enters merely to please. We trust that the American, as well as the English public will, in the translator’s words, have the taste to “appreciate a drama which owes its effect solely to the simplicity of its structure, the ideal beauty of its central character, and the atmosphere of poetry and old romance by which it is pervaded.” Iolanthe, the character thus indicated, has a clear and vital sweetness at the heart of her being, which wins every reader’s affection. The genius of the author may be likened to the nightingale in his own lyric —
The eagle we tell
By his sweep full well,
As proudly afar in the clouds he soars,
And the nightingale,
By the trilling wail
Her throat in the dewy May-time pours.
The Petrel, or Love on the Ocean, by Sir Ameral Fisher. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson.
This is one of the most spirited sea novels that we have read since Cooper witched the world with his Red Rover. It is full of intense interest throughout, and must find a wide sale among all lovers of nautical adventure. The heroine, Norah, is a beautifully drawn character, as is also the bold, dashing Herbert, her lover. The attack upon the pirates has all the freshness and daring of Tom Cringle’s Log.
Sketches of Minnesota, the New England of the West. With Incidents of Travel in that Territory during the Summer of 1849. By E. S. Seymour. With a Map. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.
This is an useful book, making no pretensions to elegance of style or vividness of description, but giving the history and topography of Minnesota, its past and present condition, in a plain, dogged way. To those interested in the subject, the book will reward perusal, but we can hardly commend it as having any charm for the common reader.
The Life of John Calvin, Compiled from Authentic Sources, and Particularly from his Correspondence. By Thomas H. Dyer. With a Portrait. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.
Here we have, for the first time, a biography of Calvin, based on original materials, and written by one who does not belong to the Calvinistical sect. The volume is well written, is laden with important information, and is exceedingly impartial. The digests given of Calvin’s works in the order of their composition, and the copious extracts from his private correspondence, conduct us close to the character of the man. The real greatness of Calvin is more apparent in this work than in any we have seen written by professed followers of his creed. The chapters relating to Servetus have a dramatic interest as well as a religious significance. It may be generally said in praise of the volume, that no one who has not read it, is entitled to give a confident opinion of the character of its subject.