Then fare ye well, and may each time
The sun smiles, find ye wiser:
Pray kindly take the well-meant rhyme
Of thy sincere adviser.
Through the kindness of Messrs. Mason and Tuttle, Nassau-street, (who import the originals for immediate circulation to American subscribers,) we have our copies of the foreign Monthlys, as well as of the ‘Edinburgh,’ ‘Foreign,’ and ‘Quarterly’ Reviews for the current quarter. The ‘Quarterly, so savage and tartarly,’ has a notice of the ‘Change for American Notes,’ which is not conceived in the kindest spirit toward this country. It reviews Prescott’s late work, however, at great length, and welcomes it with cordial commendation. Among other ‘good words,’ the reviewer observes: ‘He is full and copious, without being prolix and wearisome; his narrative is flowing and spirited, sometimes very picturesque; his style is pure, sound English.’ In conclusion, the reviewer says: ‘We close with expressing our satisfaction that Mr. Prescott has given us an opportunity at this time of showing our deep sympathy, the sympathy of kindred and of blood, with Americans who like himself do honor to our common literature. Mr. Prescott may take his place among the real good English writers of history in modern times.’ The ‘Foreign Quarterly’ opens with a paper upon ‘The Poets and Poetry of America,’ ostensibly based upon Mr. Griswold’s book. It is not altogether a review, however, but a very coarse and evidently malignant tirade against America, her people, institutions, manners, customs, literature; every thing, in short, that she is and that she contains. We annex a hasty synopsis of the critical portion of the article in question. Halleck is ‘praised, and that highly too.’ His ‘Marco Bozzaris’ is pronounced ‘a master-piece,’ and the ‘most perfect specimen of versification in American literature;’ and himself as possessing ‘a complete knowledge of the musical mysteries of his art.’ A quotation is made, with much laud, from his ‘Red-Jacket,’ but the lines are spoiled by two gross errors; one in the last line of the third, and the other in the first line of the fifth stanza. The highest encomiums are justly bestowed upon Bryant, as a ‘purely American poet,’ who ‘treats the works of Nature with a religious solemnity, and brings to the contemplation of her grandest relations a pure and serious spirit. His poetry is reflective but not sad; grave in its depths but brightened in its flow by the sunshine of the imagination. He never paints on gauze; he is always earnest, always poetical; his manner is every where graceful and unaffected.’ The illustrative quotation is from ‘An Evening Reverie,’ written by Mr. Bryant for the Knickerbocker. Longfellow is pronounced to be ‘unquestionably the first of American poets; the most thoughtful and chaste; the most elaborate and finished. His poems are distinguished by severe intellectual beauty, by dulcet sweetness of expression, a wise and hopeful spirit, and a complete command over every variety of rhythm. They are neither numerous nor long, but of that compact texture which will last for posterity.’ Sprague is represented as having in certain of his poems imitated Shakspeare and Collins rather too closely for all three to be original. ‘Pierpont is crowded with coincidences which look very like plagiarisms;’ ‘but,’ adds the reviewer, ‘it is reserved for Charles Fenno Hoffman to distance all plagiarists of ancient and modern times in the enormity and openness of his thefts. He is Moore hocused for the American market. His songs are rifaciamentos. The turns of the melody, the flowing of the images, the scintillating conceits, are all Moore. Sometimes he steals his very words.’ Mrs. Sigourney’s poetry is said to be characterized by ‘feeble verbosity’ and ‘lady-like inanity,’ and Mrs. Osgood is represented as being in the same category. After quoting certain characteristic lines of Mr. John Neal, describing the eye of a poet as ‘brimful of water and light,’ and his forehead as being ‘alarmingly bright,’ the reviewer adds: ‘We find a pleasant relief from these distressing hallucinations, in the poems of Alfred B. Street. He is a descriptive poet, and at the head of his class. His pictures of American scenery are full of gusto and freshness; sometimes too wild and diffuse, but always true and beautiful.’ So some are praised and some are blamed—‘thus runs the world away!’ ••• We are made aware, and we would not have our correspondents ignorant of the fact, that there is a critical eye monthly upon our pages, that is keen to discover errors (as well as beauties) in language and construction of sentences. See: ‘By the by, what a miserable language is our English in some respects; so awkward, so incompact! Look at the phrase ‘unheard of,’ and compare it with the Latin ‘inauditus.’ What a pity we were not born Romans or Greeks, with Yankee notions! Tell your Gotham friends that if they are speaking of a ruinous brick wall, they must say dilaterated, from ‘later,’ a brick, and not ‘dilapidated,’ from ‘lapis,’ a stone. One might as well say a man is ‘stoned’ to death with brick-bats.’ ••• What sad and startling contrasts are presented to the eye and mind of one who attentively looks over the illustrated newspapers of the British metropolis! On one hand, pictures of triumphal processions, arches, bonfires, illuminations, rich presents, gorgeous equipages, state-beds, ‘royal poultry-houses, owleries, and pigeonries,’ accompanied by elaborate descriptions, arrest the attention; on the other, there is a picture of a city ‘Asylum for the Destitute,’ where poor naked wretches find a temporary refuge from the pitiless winter storm without: huddling round a dim fire, or sunk exhausted upon the straw in the human ‘stalls,’ or clutching at their bowls of pauper-soup; a scene whose true character is enforced by accounts of poor women making shirts for a farthing apiece, a hard day’s work; sleeping four in a bed; purchasing with the scanty pittance tea-leaves to boil over again! Hardly-entreated brothers and sisters of humanity! not always shall the glaring inequality that surrounds you, crush your spirits to the earth! ••• There is a pleasant pen in our metropolitan ‘Aurora,’ which occasionally dashes off sententious paragraphs that flash and sparkle like snow-crust in a moon-lit night in winter. There is evidently a Foster-ing hand over its columns; and through them (let us add, as it is that of which we especially wish to speak,) over the reputation of Mr. Willis. The remarks in a late number of that journal, under the head of ‘Mr. Willis’s Defence’ against a scurrilous attack on his private character in a down-eastern print, were equally just and felicitous. Had it been generally known in his native town who was the instigator of that attack, we have good authority for saying that, gross as it was, Mr. Willis would have considered it utterly beneath his notice. As it was, however, he deemed it not amiss at one and the same time to punish skulking envy and impotent malignity; to vindicate his reputation with his townsmen against unprovoked calumny; and to render the repetition of any obnoxious remarks from the same source altogether ‘of none effect’ and unworthy of heed. This he accomplished by his ‘Defence’ and the ‘terrors of the law,’ which speedily produced a satisfactory sample of wholesale word-eating. ••• Of all the Polichinellos we have ever encountered, we consider ‘Punch, or the London Charivari,’ the best. His fun is exhaustless. He ought to be knighted and appointed court-jester to King Ennui. ‘Laughter,’ he tells us, ‘is a divine faculty. It is one of the few, nay, the only one redeeming grace in that thunder-cased, profligate old scoundrel Jupiter, that he sometimes laughs: he is saved from the disgust of all respectable people by the amenity of a broad grin.’ We ourselves hold with the pleasant Lincoln Ramble: ‘I love a hearty laugh; I love to hear a hearty laugh above all other sounds. It is the music of the heart; the thrills of those chords which vibrate from no bad touch; the language Heaven has given us to carry on the exchange of sincere and disinterested sympathies.’ And to the end that ‘laughter free and silvery from the heart may escape the reader, doing rightful honor to Punch, and bestowing cheerfulness and health upon the laughter,’ we proceed to present a few excerpta which arrested our attention in looking over late files. We suspect that the annexed report of the ‘doings of Royalty’ in the country have more than once had a precedent. Prince Albert is here at Dayton-Manor, the seat of Sir Robert Peel: ‘Her Majesty slept extremely well; but whether it was the air of Dayton, or the conversation of the host, did not transpire. At eleven o’clock in the morning, Prince Albert went out to shoot. The guns were ordered at ten and the game was desired to be in attendance at half-past. The Prince first went in a boat on the water, where several ducks were appointed to be in waiting. Having granted an audience to the whole of them, and unintentionally honored two by shooting them, though it was another duck who had the distinguished gratification of being aimed at and missed, his Royal Highness landed. A numerous meeting of hares and pheasants having been called to pay their respects to the Prince, the game-keepers forming an outer circle, with their guns pointed to keep the game well up to the mark, His Royal Highness shot sixty pheasants, twenty-five head of hares, eight rabbits and one wood-cock, who would cock his bill opposite the muzzle of Royalty.’ The poetical advertisement of one Moses, a slop-shop clothes-man, is pleasantly ‘reviewed.’ Of his ‘Prince Albert coats,’ Punch says: ‘Whatever may be the resemblance between the Prince and the coat, the similarity certainly ends with the price; one costing thirty shillings and the other thirty thousand pounds per annum.’ Here is a touch at Moses’ sea-coats:
‘These coats for nautical pursuits
Have qualities no one disputes;
The very texture of their cloth
Seems to defy the ocean’s wrath:
And then their form and make as well