1859-06-23 The Courant

THE COURANT, A Southern Literary Journal. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- HOWARD H. CALDWELL, EDITOR.] "Sic vos non vobis." [WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO., PROPRIETORS. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- VOLUME I. COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, JUNE 23, 1859. NUMBER 8 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Written for the Courant. GREEN SPOTS OF COLUMBIA. ----- THE VIEW FROM TAYLOR'S-HILL. ----- By M. M. ----- Don't rhyme of the beauties of nature, until In perfection you see them displayed from "the hill;" Such a grand panorama, there spread out to view, Such a landscape presents, ever charming and new, The town and the country, Nature and art, Taken in, at a glance, by the eye and the heart-- Sidney-park, with its picturesque groupings, there seen, "Happy-valley," indeed, ever calm and serene. How refreshing the shade of its verdurous trees! Its birds'-song how sweet, and how cooling its breeze! How sparkling its fountain, that gracefully plays, That Phœbus to Iris converts with his rays, Making millions of diamonds to dazzle the eyes-- Causing childhood to grasp at the fanciful prize. Away to the west the bright river you see; Like a line of pure light is our own Congaree-- On its banks roam'd the Indian warrior of yore, Or sail'd in his skiff 'long its beautiful shore; Where the green water-willow dips down, as to have Its long graceful boughs in the clear crystal wave; Where the jessamine-bloom sheds a rich golden glow, Till a Pactolus seems the bright stream in its flow; Where bay, crab and jessamine shed such perfume, As might come from the Gardens of Gul in their bloom. Take your eyes from the water and turn them on high, And you'll see, as if meeting, the earth and the sky-- Yon distant horizon--a line of deep blue, Gives a blending of Heaven and earth to the view; Faith, the spiritual horizon, thus blends earth and Heaven, Where grace to a poor human being is given, And heaven is here, in this earthly abode, Where the soul of a man is the temple of GOD! Columbia, S. C. --------------------------------------------- THE EXQUISITE AT COVER. "------ ------- Huntsman, bring Thy eager pack, and trail him to his couch. Hark! the loud peal begins, the clamorous joy, The gallant chiding, load the trembling air."

"Hark in, hark in!" shouted the huntsman, as the eager pack rushed into a promising, thick-set cover. "Gracious me! what exceeding hensum enimels, to be sure," exclaimed a perfect young-lady captivater, looking at the hounds through a suspended eye-glass. "I had no idea the thing was half so picturesque." "Now, sir, foxes have ears, recollect," remarked the huntsman in a reproving voice. "Is it possible? I never saw a specimen; but still-----" "I wish you would be still, sir. How the deuse can a 'warmint' break, with your clapper ringing like any old woman's?" The highly indignant huntsman was regarded with a profound stare of astonishment from the glass of the hero, Mr. Charles Olivier. He had not the slightest conception that breathing the lowest whisper was contrary to the strict rules of hunting, when the hounds were in cover--that a sneeze was unpardonable, and that a cough at once merited choking. Mr. Olivier wondered what on earth he had done to excite the portrayed anger of the huntsman. "Gracious me! what did I say to excite that horrid vandal?" mentally asked Mr. Olivier, and he was screwing up his lips to whistle an opera tune, when a musical cry from a hound, ringing through the wood, announced that sly Reynard was a-foot. "Hark to Rattler--hark to Ringwood, Fearless, Warbler--hark to Warbler!" halloed the huntsman, as one after the other joined, helter-skelter, in the music of the chase. The impatient sportsmen, with palpitating hearts, surrounded the cover, holding tightened reins upon their ardent horses. All were watching for the glorious "break," with "Tally-ho!" ready to burst from every longing tongue. The horses, with pricked ears, and glaring eye-balls, pawed the ground and champed their bits with anticipation of delight. The personification of taylors', hatters' and perfumers' advertisements, Mr. Charles Olivier, seeing his friend Colonel Scourfield within a few years, cantered his graceful galloway towards him. "Ah! my dear colonel, how de doo?" inquired Mr. Olivier, checking his ambling nag. "I never saw this enimel called a fox. By what means shall I be able to distinguish it?" "By his brush," briefly responded the colonel, with a smile. "Brush! pray what is a brush?" "A tail, my dear fellow--a tail, resembling your welltrimmed whiskers round a broom-handle." "How very odd!" "You cannot mistake him; but surely you have no intention of following the hunt in that gear?" said the colonel, laughing. "Gracious! No. The truth is, I was obliged to say last night that I had never seen a think of this kind. It appeared Goth-like, and so I determined to venture this morning, and examine what is called, I believe the throw off; but I've no intention of being thrown off. Dear me! No. I abominate danger in all shapes," replied Mr. Olivier, elegantly kissing his white glove to his friend, and cantering away. He had proceeded but a few yards, when he returned, and said: "If I should see the enimel, what shall I say, colonel?" "Not a word, if in cover." "And if the creature comes out?" "Halloo, 'Tally-ho!' as loud as you can," replied the colonel, turning his horse's head away from Mr. Olivier, leaving him alone to ponder upon his instructed duties. The dress of Mr. Olivier had anything but the appearance of a fox-hunter's; a superfine black coat and prunella pumps not being generally donned for the casualties of the dashing chase. His steed was slight-limbed, showy, and high-spirited, but suited only to carry a lady--or Mr. Charles Olivier, who was unaccustomed to flying gates, or scrambles through prickly hedges. The hounds continued to drive the fox from one corner of the cover to the other, without effecting the desired exit. Reynard had no inclination to quit his quarters, although his enemies were in such unenviable proximity. Every now and then he would come to the verge of the wood, and take a survey; but disliking the appearance of the surrounding pink coats, in he popped again, much to the annoyance of many who flattered themselves that now "break," he must, and the viewhalloo ready to escape, died into a grumble of suppressed disappointment. Every hound now pressed close to the fox, and it was certain that out he must come, or submit to the degrading fate of being "chopped"--killed upon his own hearth, without a meritorious struggle for life. "Tilly-hoo-oo-oo, Tilly-hoo-oo-oo!" to the astonishment of all, came evidently for a broad "Tally-ho!" from some novice with the view-halloo. "For-ard, for-ard, for-ard!" shouted the huntsman, galloping towards the spot, with a few of the hounds, from whence the sound came. "Come away, come away!" bawled the whipper-in, cracking his whip for the remainder to leave the cover and join the huntsman. The horn winded a cheering "Hark-forward!"--horses reared and danced with delight. "Hold hard," everybody said--"Let them get at it." "Now for luck, and no cheeks," said one. "He'll go for Sydenham earths," said another. "Not he. The wind's wrong," suggested a third. "A cool hundred that he makes for Ealing," a fourth offered to bet. The huntsman arrived at the place where "Tilly-hoooo" proceeded from, and there sat Mr. Charles Olivier, perseveringly chaunting "Tilly-ho." An observation about "a post sometimes points out the road," undoubtedly came from the lips of the old huntsman as he saw the source from whence it came. Rising in his stirrups, he took off his cap and cheered the hounds to pick up the scent. "Wagging their tails, they snuffed the earth with distended nostrils, but no response was given. They ran to and fro, eadh endeavouring "to snatch the track, and lead the willing pack," but all to no purpose. "Where did he break, sir?" inquired the huntsman, puzzled by the hounds being at fault. "Gracious me! Close where you stand, the enimel jumped out," replied Mr. Charles Olivier, with a confidential air. Again the hounds were tried, but in vain. No scent could be found. "It's very astonishing," soliloquised Mr. Olivier. "No fox has been here, I'll swear!" said the huntsman in a voice of unqualified rage. "My good fellow, I must request you not to impeach my veracity," replied Mr. Charles Olivier indignantly. "There's no hound in the pack of that name," said the huntsman, purposely miscomprehending the observation. "Point out the exact spot, Olivier," said Col. Scourfield. "Gracious me! Why there the creature is now." "Where--where--where?" was shouted in every direction. Mr. Charles Olivier placed his glass quietly to his right eye, and pointing to the topmost branch of a lofty elm, said: "There it is--I knew him by his tail." Who shall describe the horror, the astonishment, and disgust of all, upon obeying the direction of the pointed finguer, at seeieg a squirrel, with his bushy tail curled over his head, peeping at the scene below, with indubitable pleasure "at being above all danger." Laughs, groans, and hisses proceeded from every quarter. Mr. Charles Olivier began to suspect that he had committed some mistake; but conceiving it politic to appear cool and collected under any accident or awkwardness, he, with admirable sang froid, continued to look at the "enimel," and occasionally observe that he "recognized him by his tail." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

58 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Go home and shave young poodles," said the old huntsman, compelled to give vent to his wrath. "I'd be glad to know whether your ma knows ye're out?" inquired the whipper-in, with a laugh which caused a decided sensation in the nervous system of Mr. Oliver. "Flog him off!" "Duck him in a horse-pond! "Go home!" "Get your nurse to come with you next time!" Such were the various little pleasant suggestions from the enraged sportsmen, at being subjected to the grievous disappointment occasioned by Mr. Charles Olivier's ignorance of natural history. With fears, which were very excusable under the circumstances, the mistaken innocent felt that he was one too many. If in carving a goose the ill-shaped bird had glided into the lap of the fairest creature in the world, Mr. Charles Olivier could have imitated that refined personage, who said, upon an occasion of the kind, "Madam, I'll trouble you for that goose." He could even have added: "Pray don't apologise; such trifles will occur." However collected he would have been under such a trying ordeal, Mr. Olivier could not appear so comfortable under the present. "Flogging" and "horse-pond possessed so much of the nerve-agitating system, that, with chattering teeth, he looked beseechingly, and requested "to be heard." "Hear him, hear him," cried the majority, laughing. "No, no. Duck him--duck him!" shouted others,] among whom the huntsman's voice was the loudest. As the reporters say, after a noisy squabble in the house, "order was restored," and Mr. Olivier thus commenced: "Gentlemen, I certainly have mistaken an enimel, which I learn to be a squirrel, for a fox." Roars of laughter. "I confess my error." Cries of "No you don't." "Gentlemen, upon my honor I do," replied the speaker, placing his hand upon his heart. A voice shouted "Tilly-hoo." "I asked my friend, Colonel Scourfield, how I should know the fox--that is, by what feature? and he said--" "What did I say?" sharply interrupted his friend, disliking the appeal. "By his tail, my dear Colonel, you certainly said," replied Mr. Olivier with praiseworthy decision. Bursts of laughter. "As if a fox had a tail," said the old huntsman. "I presume, by that observation, that the enimel is without a tail. That is no fault of mine. I was informed by the Colonel that the creature had a brush--" The huntsman cried: "So he has." "That the brush expressed tail--" Cries of "Monkeys have tails; so have puppies; unfurl your own." "I shall not notice the last observations, however personal their allusion," continued the self-vindicator.-- "The Colonel also stated that I could not but know the enimel, although I informed him that I had no idea of the creature's form; for his brush or tail, which appear to be synonymous, bore a strong resemblance to one's whiskers round a broom handle--" Roars of continued laughter. "Now, gentlemen, you must admit a strong resemblance exists between that little creature's busy tail, and my whiskers, both in shape and color," said Mr. Charles Olivier with a triumphant smile, pointing to the exalted squirrel. After loud mirth for some minutes, it was unanimously decided that the speaker had satisfactorily justified himself. The sportsmen good-humoredly shook Mr. Olivier by the hand, rather too roughly, perhaps, for his delicate fingers, and some said with courtesy that they'd "back him against the parson for an argument." "Try-back, try-back," hallooed the huntsman, and away the hounds went to pick up the lost scent."-- "Hark back, Musical--hark back, I tell ye!"--off galloped the old favourite leader to obey the mandate. In a few moments "Tally-ho" rang from a corner of the cover, from which burst a splendid fox, closely followed by the crying Musical. "For'ard, hark for'ard--hark to musical!" shouted the huntsman. The horn was blown; the whipper-in hurried on with the tail hounds, and, in an instant on rushed the pursuing and pursued--the many for sport, the one for life. "Gracious me! Be quiet," said Mr. Charles Olivier to his courser, as the animal caught some of the enthusiasm of the sport. "Heavens, don't! I certainly--shall --not be able to hold him." Our hero was correct in this opinion; for his horse pulled upon his hands, unused to exertion, so violently, that, after a few useless struggles, he followed his own inclination by galloping after the others, to teh great discomfiture of his rider. "What shall I do?--what shall I do? He surely will not attempt to leap that wall!" exclaimed Charles Olivier as they neared one of tolerable altitude. Still the resolute horse approached it with a determined manner. "Heavens! I certainly shall be off!" said the rider, clinging to the pommel of the saddle with pertinacity; "I certainly shall." They were within a few strides of the wall, when the horse's ideas corresponded with his master's, that he should not attempt it. Throwing himself suddenly upon his hocks, the careful animal succeeded in preventing any accident to himself, by stopping on the right side of the barrier. This quick decision, however, did not hinder Mr. Charles Olivier from enjoying a leap. The impetus had the effect of sending him in a straight line over the horse's ears-- clean over the wall, like the stick of a rocket, head-foremost into a duck-pond on the opposite side. Crash, splash went the luckless horseman--Quack, quack, quack screamed the ducks. "Gracious me!" bubbled from the lips of Mr. Charles Olivier, as he crawled from the water and the mire--"I--I--I never will see another fox-hunt as long as I breathe." We have reason to believe that our "Exquisite at Cover" sincerely meant what he said, and as religiously kept his resolution. No more with him did hound or horse display, Rejoicing, at the loud, bold "Harkaway! New York Mirror. ----------------------------------------- M. Legouvé, of the French Academy, has written a letter to the Siècle, recommending a subscription to be raised for the purpose of enabling Italians in Paris to proceed to the seat of war, and take part in the military operations. After dwelling on the advantage of that course, the writer says: "I will leave antiquity out of the question, and speak only of modern times. Is it not a striking spectacle to see Italy always give the signal to the world, always open the way for great things? The first modern epic poet is an Italian--Dante; The first lyric poet is an Italian--Petrarch; the first poet of chivalry is an Italian--Ariosto; the first modern novelist is an Italian--Boccacio; the first painter in the world is an Italian--Raphael; the first statuary is an Italian-- Michael Angelo; the first vigorous statesman and historian of the revival is an Italian--Machiavelli; the first philosophical historian is an Italian--Vico; the discoverer of the New World is an Italian--Christopher Columbus; and the first demonstrator of the laws of the heavenly world is an Italian--Galileo. You will find a son of Italy standing on every step of the temple of genius ever since the twelfth century. Then, in times nearer to our own, while all other nations are working at the continuation of this immortal gallery, Italy from time to time collects her strength, and presents to the world a collosus surpassing all. Now, even now, the greatest of living artists--the only one, perhaps, who deserves, solely as an artist, the title of a great man-- is he not an Italian--Rossini? And lastly, was he not also a son of Italy--that giant who towered above the whole century, and covered all around him with his light or his shade--Napoleon? In fact, it would seem that when Providedce wants a guide or a leader for humanity, it strikes this favored soil, and a great man springs forth." The writer concludes by declaring that he wishes his name to be put down for 1,000f. ----------------------------------------- The London Publishers' Circular, of May 16th, gives the following confirmation of a statement made in a late number of the Saturday Press:--"Messrs. Chambers " have just commenced a popular Encyclopædia, char" acterized by enterprise and liberality, and especially " adapted to the new generation in our colonies; its re" production is announced in New York [By Messrs. " D. Appleton & Co.,] which, Messrs. Chambers inform " us, they neither sanction, nor will derive any benefit " from." ----------------------------------------- CHURCH'S "HEART OF THE ANDES." ---- The Rev. Mr. Cuyler gives the following notice of the artist himself, as well as of the celebrated painting, in the columns of the Christian Intelligencer:

"Church's new picture (which left last week in the 'Persia' for London) is thrice as large as his 'Niagara.' It is not a single view of one South American landscape, but a combination of several isolated scenes grouped together. Very much as if a man had painted Trenton Falls in the foreground, and a distant view of Lake George in the back ground, lying under the shadow of Mount Washington. Each several part might be correct; the only inaccuracy being in the introduction of them all into one lanscape. "The 'Heart of the Andes' is a complete condensation of South America--its gigantic vegetation, its splended Flora, its sapphire waters, its verdant pampas and its colossal mountains--into a single focus of magnificence. Just as the heart is the essence of a good man, so is this painting the very core of tropical beauty. In the foreground is a cataract, overhung with gigantic forests, tangled with an undergrowth of precocious vines and flowering plants. To English eyes, accustomed only to their stunted oaks, these Andean trees will look as did the Brobdinagian forest to 'Lemuel Gulliver.'-- On the bark of one of them the noon-day sun is shooting a slant ray or two, making it glow as if ready to kindle into a blaze. In the centre of the picture are swelling green uplands and dim distant forests; but behind all rise the win giants--Chimbarazo, with its diadem of ice, and a portentous mountain clothed in cloud canopies, like Sinai at the giving of the law. To describe the picture in detail is like attempting a sunrise on the Righi. We will leave that for our readers to enjoy for themselves, when England has finished her feast upon it and sent it home again to its birth-land. "We had the good fortune to get our first view of the 'Heart of the Andes' before the crowd had 'got upon the secret' and rendered a quiet study of the picture an impossibility. We were not more interested in a look at the painting itself than at the painter, who happened to be present. He has a boyish look, a pale, eager countenance, and belongs to that quick, restless class, who flame up so fiercely, and alas! burn out their brilliant lives so soon! Yet this slender youth has already put his immortality on canvass. As we looked at the little group gathered before Mr. Church's picture we thoguht, what an age is this for young men! Before the painting stood Huntington, still in his youth, although his 'Mercy's Dream' was given to the world fifteen years ago. Beside him was the handsome face of George W. Curtis, whose 'Potiphar Papers' came very soon after his college diploma. A popular city pastor sat next to him, who had addressed delighted crowds at two and twenty. We might have gone out and called in Paul Morphy, the city's lion just now, the beardless boy who has check-mated Europe. This is the age for young men. For foolish, heady youths, an age of speedy ruin; for muscular, masculine young Davids of sinew and solidity, there is no Goliah too strong, no crown that may not be won. The 'Heart of the Andes' is a picture for young men. It is luxuriant in rapid growths. It has a glassy river flowing on under o'er-arching verdure until its plunges over a precipice--an allegory of the sensualist's career. To gaze up into those mountain heights is like reading Longfellow's 'Excelsior,' an inspiration to do and dare great achievements. There is a flashing peak of alabaster brightness in the far-away distance, which recalls the Apocalyptic visions of heaven. "Let the aspiring youth who gazes at this matchless picture bear in mind that it is only he who spurns the seductive waves of temptation, and bravely masters the 'Hills of Difficulty' for Christ's sake, that shall yet make good his entrence to the golden glories of the New Jerusalem." T. L. C. ----------------------------------------- BOOKS, TRUE LEVELERS.--God be thanked for books. They are the voices of the distant and the dead, and make us heirs of the spiritual life of past ages. Books are the true levelers. They give to all who will faithfully use them the society, the spiritual presence, of the best and greatest of our race. No matter how poor I am. No matter though the prosperous of my own time will not enter my obscure dwelling. If the sacred writers will enter my obscure abode under my roof--if Milton will cross my threshold to sing to me of Paradise, and Shakespeare to open to me the words of imagination and the workings of the human heart, and Franklin to enrich me with his practical wisdom--I shall not pine for want of intellectual compansionship, and I may become a cultivated man, though excluded from what is called the best society in the place where I live.--Dr. Channing. ----------------------------------------- Self-examination is the beaten path to perfection. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 59 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. ------- The periodical in which the papers under the above title, first appeared, has never had much circulation at the South; partly on account of the ugly African features, by which it was marked at its birth, and partly from the rather unpromising character, and prosy dullness of its earlier numbers.-- The "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," however, soon came to its aid, and by the prestige of his name, (for the writer was well known to be a distinguished literatus of Boston.) the improving dogmatism of his manner, and the quaint caption which he adopted for his pieces, at once attracted attention to its pages, and drew customers to the counter of its publishers. It thus owed its success, or increased circulation, mainly to the pen of a single contributor; who in turn, has been not a little indebted to the literary tactique and management of the editors, for the wide reputation which his papers have acquired, or the brilliant reception they have met with from the public. The Puffing Press (of which, the Bibliopoles of the Northern Athens--if not the inventors--are certainly the greatest improvers,) was promptly put in requisition, to spread abroad the fame of the facctiœ, the "gay wisdom," and witty pleasantries of the Professor,* and the literary coterie, whom he had assembled around him, and who so whimsically chose the morning, (the period usually alloted to business by others, "and all the rest of mankind,") and the Breakfast table of a Boarding-house, (the most public of all places) for their sittings or intellectual symposia. Notwithstanding, however, the unseasonableness of the hour, and the unfitness of the place selected for their meeting, the matinées of this rather oddly associated, and (judging by the profile views given of them in the work,) rather queer looking set; proved, as the newspapers phrase it, a decided success, and soon rivalled in celebrity and favor with the public, even the "Noctes" of the renowned Christopher North, of Maga memory; though otherwise, somewhat different "in matter, form and style" from those lively, humorous and racy essays. Yes! even the grim pleasantries, scientific jokes, ✝ and dry pedantries of the capped and gowned collegiate lecturer, who so strangely msitook his vocation, or proper metior, as to come out in the character, and attempt to play the part of an American Punch, of the gay and graceful essayist, and the witty and pungent satirist; have also, had their run, or day of favor with the fickle and gudgeon-like public; so that they have at length received, in due course, the crowning honor of being put forth in a collected form, from the press of the publishers of the miscellany, in which they first appeared. This volume, however, does not include all the pearl droppings of the author's pen, or the whole of the pieces that have appeared under the same title; as their publication is -------------- *Of the quack advertisement character, of some of these "notices of the Press," the following copied, from one of the "fly leaves" of "The Atlantic," itself may suffice as an example: THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. "A book without a parallel in the Literary of the country." To this we perfectly agree. One penny trumpet of this calibre, serves to give the pitch note of praise; and it is by such appliances that the "Atlantic" itself has been raised, as its great contemporary and namesake, sometimes is, by similar means--that is--a protracted North-easter, many degrees above its original level. But whether it can be maintained at this elevation, is, we think, doubtful. A few more such pieces as the article in the June number, entitled "Shakspeare's Art," with a dose or doze or two more of the "Autocrat," (for dozes we think they ought to be called, from their sleep-compelling effect,) will be sufficient, or ought to be sufficient, to consign it to the shelves, on which so many other Boston periodicals repose, in the quietness of oblivion and dust. ✝ Of the species of pedantic humor, scientific drollery, recondite illustrations and similes, with which this learned Professor entertains his readers, the following forms are apt and characteristic specimens. "If a fellow attacked my opinions," (none but a fellow, would think of doing so,) "would I reply?" Not I," this would be too great a condescencion." "Do you think I do not understand what my friend, the Professor, long ago called the hydrostatic paradox of controversy?" "Don't know what that is?" (No, upon honor!) "Well I will tell you." Pray let us hear--or as a yankee would say--"du tell." "You know that if you had a bent tube, one arm of which (segment, we suppose, is here meant,) was of the size of a pipe stem, and the other big enough to hold the ocean, (would not this be unnecessarily large and unwieldy?) the water would stand at the same height in both: don't you see?" Now comes the application of this queer instrument, small as a pipe stem at one end, adn big enough to hold all creation at the other. "Controversy (in like manner) equalizes fools, and wise men, (as it did Luther and Henry the Eighth, Locke, Sir Robert Filmer, &c., &c.) and the fools know it." Whether the Professor has taken out a patent for this simple contrivance for settling, or rather for preventing controversies, we are not informed--but if he has not, "he had ought to"--though we know not how he would be able to get a model of it, into the Patent Office. The end big enough to hold the ocean, would give some trouble; and it would, probably have, (in the end) to be left outside, where, however, the public would have a better opportunity of inspecting it, and admiring its ingenuity.

still going on in the "Atlantic," whose "Table of Contents," continues to be enriched with the corps of belle espirits, who, "after an interruption," as they inform the public, "of just a quarter of a century," again happily met together under the same roof, and recommenced their calloquies and literary discussions, exactly at the point* (how droll!) where they had been suspended or broken off, at the above period. Yet, notwithstanding, the flourish of trumpets, with which the dishes prepared for these celebrated dejeuners were always announced and preceeded, as those at the feasts of the luxurious Lucullus were, whenever they happened to be of an unusually flavorous, or recherché character, they will hardly, we think, bear the second serving up to the public, which the great Artiste himself, and his patrons and publishers, have so confidently supposed them to deserve. For that which may serve well enough, for a light lunch, or morning repast, will not suffice for, or satisfy a larger company; especially where it consists of pampered and fastidious gastronomers, who have been spoiled by the luxuries of the great Table d'Hote, of modern literature; where, as in the fancy banquet, described by Ariosto. "Cate, after Cate, invites the wondering guest." The volume opens with an autobiography of the autocrat, (so entitled) which, through some misunderstanding of, or inattention to the long settled, and well defined meaning of the first of these temrs--contains not a single particular of the authors' personal history--beyodn that of his having published in early life, two essays of the same character, and under the same title, in a Northern magazine. From these prelusions of his pen, he gives two passages or extracts, which he modestly says, are the only portions of them, which he thinks worth preserving, though while he was about it, or was acting the Roman Judge, by comdemning his own offspring, he would not have been less the friend of Brutus, or have inflicted any very severe loss upon the public, had he included, even these brilliant moredaux, also, in the sentence from which he has excepted them, on account of their supposed merit or originality. It may be proper to premise, that the constant straining after effect, which forms the besetting fault of periodical writers, has led the author into the adoption of what has been not inaptly termed, the startling style, which consists in the abrupt and unprefaced annunciation, of some strange proposition, or before unheard-of dogma, that in the language of the writer himself, makes "the table" stare, and mystifies the reader, by its daring extravagance, and not unfrequently, by its unmitigated absurdity. The following, in which abruptness is mistaken for boldness, absurdity for ingenuity, and odity for originality--forms a not inapt specimen of this kind of style--is the first of the two passages, which the author has sought to save from oblivion, by quoting them in his auto biography, which as it is comprised in three, not very closely printed pages, rather excites, than satisfies, as we have already intimated, the curiosity of the reader. "When I feel inclined," he says, "to read poetry, I take down my dictionary! The poetry of words is quite as beautiful as that of sentences. The author may arrange the gems, effectively; but their shape and lustre must have been given, by the attrition of ages. Bring me the finest simile from the whole range of imaginative writing, and I will show you a single word, which conveys a more profound, a more accurate, and a more eloquent analogy." As an imitation always sets off, and tends to aggrandize the original, the following sent me by a friend, who is an artists, and an enthusiastic admirer of the Professor, will serve still further to develop and illustrate the idea so boldly, but briefly touched on by the latter, in the above rather startling, though otherwise eloquent and pregnant passage: "When I wish," says our correspondent, "to indulge my admiration of fine objects of art, I take down my Paint-box. Unmixed colors are quite as beautiful as those laid on the canass, by even the most skilful hand. The Artist may combine, or shade off his tints, with the happiest effect; but their original richness and glow, is given them by the hand of Nature, and the revolutions of ages." (This is highly probable.) "Bring me the finest pictures ever painted by a Guido, or a Raphael, and I will show you a single or simple color, that will produce a more profound, more accurate, and more enduring impression, both upon the mind, and the eye." We certainly shall not undertake either to deny, or discuss, the rather extreme positions assumed by these dogmatists and enthusiasts; who both appear somewhat entété, as the French phrase it, on their favorite subjects, or ----------- * This, like many other of the Professor's jokes and good things, is unfortunately, not original; but a reproduction of the anecdote (which at the time, went the round of the newspapers,) of the two New Yorkers, who having separated in the Park, and made voyages in different directions, over half the world, accidentally met again at the same place; where one of them whimsically renewed their former conversation--with "well, as I was saying," &c., to the no small surprise and amusement of his friend.

pet theories. We must, however, be permitted to dissent from the doctrine so flat-footedly laid down and mantained by the Dictator of the Breakfast Table, in the first sentence of the extract, which we have given from his Biography; namely, that it is not, as has been heretofore supposed, to their use in speech and writing, through a long succession of time, by a civilized and cultivated people, that words owe their "shape and lustre," but to the "attrition of ages;" a process or operation, of which we must say, we find it difficult to form any very definite idea; inasmuch as the said ages have thus far (according at least to chronologists and Historians,) always succeeded, and in no instance, that we know of, have ever come into collision with each other, in the manner the Professor represents, or supposes them to have done. Even admitting the "attritions," however, of which he speaks, to have taken place, we do not see what influence they could possibly have exerted on the formation of words, or the history of languages. Otherwise, as words lose neither their shape nor lustre, by being wrought into sentences, or employed in composition; but on the contrary, have their deeper meanings, their euphony, and their significance more fully brought out, or developed, by the pen of the Poet, the tongue of the Orator, and the accurate definitions of the Philologist; the new critical canon laid down by this second Horne Tooke, over his tea and toast, that their true import, and original power and harmony, can only be learned, and properly appreciated, by studying them separately, or as they are arranged and explained in dictionaries or spelling-books, will not, we think, be quite as readily acquiesced in, by Scholars, and the "rest of mankind," as it seems to have been by "the gentleman" who sat opposite "the Divinity Student," and the "Boy, called John," or the select coterie of the "Breakfast Table." As we have not the honor of understanding the Professor, we certainly cannot be accused of pretending to misapprehend him, or of treating him unfairly, by taking his language literally, or construing his sentences as they are written. For he who has so arrogantly assumed "the seat of the Scorner," or who pronounces all who differ from him in opinion to be fools; and considers it beneath his dignity, a disregard of the wise warning contained in "the hydrostatic paradox of controversy," to the arena of argument with any one; should surely at least write intelligibly, and express himself correctly, when he undertakes, or condescends to instruct and lecture others. But to be more serious, the idea intended to be expressed in the passage on which we have been commenting,* when divested of the pompous and misty verbiage in which it is enveloped and disguised, would seem, or may be guessed to be, that as words are necessarily used in a more or less restricted and precise sense, by authors; their fuller meaning, various applications, and numerous synonyma, can only be understood or ascertained by recurring to their history, definitions, and etymology, as these are traced by lexicographers, or given in dictionaries. If this, however, be the author's meaning, it is a mere truism, exaggerated into nonsense, by the startling style, or concealed by its redundant enveloping verbiage; as a barren soil sometimes is, by a thin, but deceptive covering of worthless weeds. As our author not only has a dictionary in his library, but a library in his dictionary, we are strongly inclined to suspect, or think it not improbable, that it was by the fall of one of these ponderous folios on his head and a ------------- * The following is the second of the preserved passages; and as will be seen, is like unto the first, having the same rumbling sound, as of subterraneous thunder, preceeding a mere jet of gas; so as to bear a close resemblance (as indeed most of the more pretentious passages in the work do) to the Geyser-fountains of Iceland. "Once on a time, a notion was started, that if all the people in the world should shout at once, it might be heard in the moon." (How was this to be ascertained?) "So the projectors agreed it should be done, in just ten years." (a unique project, and a queer story this.) "Some thousand shiploads of chronometors"--(a somewhat heavy shipment of a rather expensive article,)--"were distributed among the select men, and other great men of the different nations. For a year beforehand nothing else was talked of but the awful noise that was to be made on the great occasion. When the time came, everybody had their ears so wide open to hear the universal exclamation of Boo, the word agreed upon,"--(a very proper word to be addressed to the author of this farrago,)--"that nobody spoke, except a deaf man, of one of the Fejee Islands, and a woman in Pekin!"--(what minute and interesting particulars,)--"so that the world was never so still, since the creation." How still was it before the creation? The Irish blunder of all listening, when all should have spoken, and thus producing universal silence, instead of a universal shout, is certainly highly amusing, and a circumstance well calculated to "Point a moral, or adorn a tale." It was a rather expensively got up joke, however, it must be confessed; and for ourselves, we must say, that the passage looks to us, much more like a scrap transcribed from the walls of a lunatic asylum, than an effusion from the pen of a learned Professor. The Author says that "there was nothing better than these things," in the suppressed essays; and that there was not a little "that was much worse." The first of these remarks we can well believe to be correct, but the second we are strongly inclined to doubt, and cannot consider as credible, upon the assertian of so incompetent a "judge." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

60 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- consequent concussion of the brain, that the symptoms were produced, of which so alarming an account is given in the ensuing passage, and which he himself ascribes to a wholly different cause, or to the sudden and forcible entry of a bright idea into his mind. "A lyric conception," said my friend, the poet, "hits me like a bullet in the forehead. I have often had the blood to drop from my cheeks,"--(not literally, we hope,)--"when it struck, and I felt that I turned pale. Then comes a creeping of centipedes down the spine." (This must be the true inspiration.) "Then a sudden flush, and beating of the vessels of the head, then a long sigh, and"--(la voila,) "the poem is written." It is an impromptu, then, if you write it suddenly, I replied. "No," said he, "far from it! I said written, not copied." Here we have a line drawn, or a learned distinction made, between the impromptu, and the poem proper. If it had been suddenly copied, it would have been an impromptu; but having been suddenly written, it was a poem! A nice distinction this, but approaching to the invisible, and quite as subtle and refined as Touchstone's glosses on the Code of Honor; or his discrimination between "the affront direct," and "the counter-check-quarrelsome." "Every such poem," he says, that is, every poem "suddenly written," "has a body and a soul; and it is the body of it (or the copy, or impromptu portion of it,) that men read, and publishers pay for!!! After serving up this dish or hash of unalloyed and labored nonsense to his readers, the Professor, secure that Yankee nonsense will always be well received by Yankee listeners, proceeds to designate in the following sentence, not only the precise moment, but to describe the outward and visible sign, the infallible mark of true poetic inspiration, that inspiration, by which a poem is created before it is produced, there being a distinction, according to our learned author, between these two processes, hitherto supposed to be identical. "Whether" he says, "a poem will ever fully embody itself in a bridal train of strangers, or not, is uncertain," (this depending altogether upon the humour it may be in,) "but it exists potentially," (what is a potential existence?) "the instant that the poet turns pale!" It will be seen that the symptoms first described, namely: the sensation as "of centipedes creeping down the spine," (an excessively disagreeable feeling, we should suppose,) "as of a blow from a slung-shot in the forehead--a dropping of blood from the cheeks--a beating of the vessels of the head--flushings, sighings, &c.,* are merely premonitory of the last fatal and decisive attack or paroxyism, by which a poem of some sort (either an impromptu, or an epic, as the case may be,) is potentially created or born to its authors; though it may never be produced to the world in an embodied shape, or "visit the glimpses of the moon, clothed in a bridal train of stanzas." In another passage, the author has given a still more terrible account of one of these attacks, or lyrical fits, to which it seems he is subject--and which it is truly a miracle, that he should have survived. "It is enough," he declares, "to stun and scare one, to have a hot thought, (red hot, we suppose,) come crashing (bullet like,) into the brain, ploughing up the parallel ruts, (bless us!) where the wagon train of common ideas are jogging along (jogging wagon-trains of thought!!) in their regular sequence of associations." What "a mob of metaphors"--to use the language of an Edinborough Reviewer-- and what "a nice derangement of sentences," have we here. "Allowing," however, "for figure," as a facetious friend of ours used to say, whenever he had uttered anything unusually extravagant, or made a rather tough statement; or admitting "wagon-trains of thought" to be intelligible language or to present an intelligible image to the mind; what can we make of the "association of these trains, in regular sequence?" Though both you, and your readers, Mr. Editor, are much more tired than entertained, by these mere verbal criticisms; we shall perhaps take one more shot at the birds who (descended apparently from the Harpies of old) light among, and spoil and contaminate every dish of the Barritarian feast, at which "the Autocrat" presides and rules, with such magisterial dignity, and mock authority: our object being to expose a humbug, or perform a service to our literature, which those better qualified for the task than we are, seem to decline entering upon. ------------ * This reads so much like a description of a fit of the jerks, such as those who occupy the "Anxious Benches," are sometimes seized with on the eve of conversion, and in which they always have such full evidence of their fallen state, that we should have supposed the author to have had one of them, if we had not seen that he has been accused of irreligion, by a writer in "the New York Commercial Times," who spends more than a column of wrath upon him, for his treatment of religion, in an article in the May number of the Atlantic. We were quite shocked to hear such a report as this of the Professor. ATHENION. ----------------------------------------- A gentleman, who had a scolding wife, in answer to an inquiry after her health, said she was pretty well, only subject at times to a "breaking out in the mouth." ----------------------------------------- For the Courant. THE DEWY MORN. See all nature now awaking From the slumbers of the night, On her leafy locks is shaking Pearly dew, so sparkling bright.

Lo! the morning star is fading In the light of coming day; Ever fading, ever twinkling. Now it brightens,--then away!

Sol upon the distant mountains Shows his brightly-shining face. While the deer beside cool fountains Nimbly skip in sportive chase.

How the joyful buds are blooming 'Neath the sun's enliv'ning rays! And the bee, its task resuming, Hums along the flow'ry maize.

Hear the dewy morn how vocal With the music-chirping birds! As the hills around reecho To the lowing of the herds.

Waking mock-bird, head erecting, Chants the dawning hymn of day: While the swallow, straws collecting, Builds his little nest of hay.

Now behold the beauteous morning Bursting forth in all its pride, Mountains, hills and vales, adorning! Smiling nature's sunny side! Columbia, June 1, 1859. ION. ----------------------------------------- LAMARTINE ON THE RELIGION OF REVOLUTIONARY MEN. -------- I know--I sigh when I think of it--that hitherto the French people have been the least religious of all the nations of Europe. Is it because the idea of God--which arises from all the evidences of nature and from the depth of reflection--being the profoundest and weightiest idea of which human intelligence is capable; and the French mind being the most rapid, but the most superficial, lightest, the most unreflecting of all European races, this mind has not the force and severity necessary to carry far and long the greatest conception of the human understanding? Is it because our Governments have always taken upon themselves to think for us, to believe for us, and pray for us? Is it because we are and have been a military people, a soldier nation, led by kings, heroes and ambitious men, from battle field to battle field, making conquests and never keeping them, ravaging, dazzling, charming, and corrupting Europe; and bringhing home the manners, vices, bravery, lightness, and impiety of the camp to the fireside of the people? I know not, but certain it is, that the nation has an immense progress to make in serious thought, if she wishes to be free. If we look at the characters, compared as regards religious sentiments, of the great nations of Europe, America, even Asia, the advantage is not for us. The great men of our country live and die, forgetting completely the only idea for which it is worth living and dying; they live and die looking at the spectator, or at most at prosperity. Open the history of America, the history of England, and the history of France; read the great lives, the great deaths, the great martyrdoms, the great words at the hour when the ruling thought of life reveals itself in the last words of the dying, and compare. Washington and Franklin fought, spoke, suffered, always in the name of God, for whom they acted; and the liberator of America died confiding to God the liberty of the people and his own soul. Sydney, the young martyr of patriotism, guilty of nothing but impatience, and who died to expiate his country's dream of liberty, said to his jailor: "I rejoice that I die innocent towards the king, but a victim resigned to the King on High, to whom all life is due." The republicans of Cromwell only sought the way of God even in the field of battle. Their politics were their faith, their reign a prayer, their death a psalm. One hears, sees, feels that God was in all the movements of these great people. But cross the sea, traverse La Mancha, come to our times, open our annals, and listen to the last words of the great political actors of the drama of our liberty. One would think that God was eclipsed from the soul, that His name was unknown in the language. History will have the air of an aetheist when she recounts to posterity these annihilations, rather than deaths, of celebrated men in the greatest year of France! The victims only have a God; the tribune and lictors have none. Look at Mirabeau on the bed of death. "Crown me with flowers," said he; "intoxicate me with perfumes, let me die to the sound of delicious music." Not a word of God or of his soul. Sensual philosopher! he desired only supreme sensualism, a last voluptuousness in his agony. Contemplate Madame Roland, the strong-hearted woman of the Revolution, on the cart that conveyed her to death. She looked contemptuously on the besotted people who killed their prophets and sybils. Not a glance towards heaven! Only one word for the earth she was quitting--"O Liberty!" Approach the dungeon door of the Girondins. Their last night is a banquet; the only hymn, the Marseillaise! Follow Camille Desmoulins to his execution. A cool and indecent pleasantry at the trial, and a long imprecation on the road to the guillotine, were the two last thoughts of this dying man on his way to the last tribunal. Hear Danton on the platform of the scaffold, at the distance of a line from God and eternity. "I have had a good time of it; let me go to sleep." Then to the executioner, "you will show my head to the people--it is worth the trouble!" His faith, annihilation; his last sigh, vanity. Behold the Frenchmen of this latter age! What must one think of the religious sentiments of a free people, whose great figures seem thus to march in procession to annihilation, and to whom that terrible minister, death itself, recalls neither the threatnings nor promises of God! The republic of these men without a God has quickly been stranded. The liberty won by so much heroism and so much genius, has not found in France a conscience to shelter it, a God to avenge it, a people to defend it against the atheism which has been called glory. All ended in a soldier and some apostate republicans travestied into courtiers. An atheistic republicanism cannot be heroic. When you terrify it, it bends; when you would buy it, it sells itself. Who would take any heed? The people ungrateful and God non-existent. So finish atheist revolutions. ----------------------------------------- SALE OF THE COPYRIGHT OF HOUSEHOLD WORDS. ------- Yesterday afternoon considerable interest was created in consequence of the announcement that, pursuant to a degree of the Master of the Rolls, in the cause of "Bradbury and Evans vs. Dickens and another," the right to use the name of the periodical, Household Words, together with the printed stock and stereotype plates of the work would be sold by Mr. Edmond Hodgson, at his new rooms, corner of Chancery lane, by auction. The hour fixed for the sale was one o'clock, but some time before that period the room was crowded.-- The auctioneer having entered the rostrum, read that part of the decree which ordered:--"That the right to use, from and after the 28th of May inst., the name of the periodical called Household Words, in the pleadings in this cause ('Bradbury and Evans vs. Dickens and another') mentioned, and the right from and after the 28th day of May instant, to publish under the said name or title, any periodical or other work, whether in continuation of the said periodical called Household Words, in the pleadings of this cause mentioned, or otherwise, as the purchaser shall think fit, be sold."-- Some delay took place in the commencement of the biddings, but at length it commenced at £500, but progressed but slowly until it got to £1,500; then the biddings became of a more decided character, as they advanced £50 each from £2,000 upwards. Long intervals, however, marked each bid; but it soon became evident that the biddings rested in two or three hands, and although they went along at a slow length, Messrs. Bradbury & Evans, Mr. Arthur Smith, the brother of Mr. Albert Smith, Messrs. Chapman & Hall, and one or two otheres, were the only competitors. Notwithstanding the frequent rests of the auctioneer, and his constant repetitions of "going for the first time," second and third, the biddings advanced until they came to £3,550, at which sum, after some delay, the hammer fell to Mr. Arthur Smith, to whom the auctioneer declared it was sold, although, in fact, it was known and stated in the room he only acted for Mr. Charles Dickens, who was the real purchaser. Mr. Charles Dickens held three-fourths of the copyright, and Messrs. Bradbury & Evans one-fourth, the purchaser will therefore have to pay to the latter £887; but as the stereotype plates are valued at £750, and the stock at more than £200, it will be seen that the purchaser has gained a clear profit on the transaction. It may be added that Messrs. Bradbury & Evans are about to start a new periodical, under the editorship of Mr. Lucas, who has been for some time engaged in the literary department of the times. ----------------------------------------- If your wife runs away, don't you run after her, for if you do, there will be two fools in the chase. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

bTHE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 61 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Courant. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, JUNE 23, 1859. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE COURANT. Subscriptions for the Courant will be received at the Bookstore of Mr. P. B. GLASS, in this City, where single copies can be obtained every week. The following gentlemen have been appointed Traveling Agents for the Courant: G. W. MEETZE, JAS. S. BALLEW, THOS. P. WALKER, W. THOS. WILKES. Mr. MEETZE will visit Lexington and Edgefield Districts, Mr. BALLEW, Laurens and Newberry, Mr. WILKES, Chester, and Mr. WALKER, Richland--during the present month. We cordially recommend these gentlemen to the kind attentions and courtesies of our friends. WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO. ----------------------------------------- "THE EXQUISITE AT COVER." We republish in this issue, a charmingly written sketch which appeared many years ago in the New York Miror. We are sure that the many palpable hits contained in this article, will be relished by all lovers of the chase, as well as by all who feel disposed to laugh at the follies of that absurd animal, an exquisite. ----------------------------------------- LIEBER ON HUMBOLT. We had hoped to publish, this week, the paper on Humbolt, which Dr. LIEBER read before the New York Geographical Society; but in consequence of a press of other matter, we are compelled to leave it over for our next number. It is an able article, and we are sure, will be read with delight by all our readers. We shall publish the report which appeared in the "Century," and our readers may expect somewhat more than they may have seen in the previous reports of this essay, inasmuch as this one has had the author's revision. ----------------------------------------- A CURIOSITY. Our readers will doubtless remember that last week's Courant contained an article, testifying to the bewilderment of the writer, in relation to a book called the "Mysteries of Isis." We have read this queer volume, and really, we have no sort of idea what the author is driving at; and we may as well add, that several of our friends have confessed to a like condition after its perusal. It is called the "Mysteries of Isis, or the science of Mythematics; translated from the original mythic symbols." We have received another copy of this odd book, and in compliance with the request which accompanied it, we will state, that "any one who wishes a copy can obtain it by writing, post paid, to JOHN A. BELL, Sassafras Fork, Granville Co., North Carolina." We assure our readers that the surprise and dismay which this book will cause, after the most careful perusal, is well worth the trouble of sending for it, while the expense is absolutely nothing. ----------------------------------------- "Quisque suæ fortunae faber." Read this, ye Werthers of the world! HON. JACOB THOMPSON.--A correspondent of the Charleston Mercury, says: About twenty-seven years ago Mr. Thompson graduated from Chapel Hill University, a poor young man, with nothing but an upright character, an energetic will, and his native ability with which to make his way in the world-- with few friends, no influence, and no money. He left his State for Mississippi, early after graduating, where he made a large fortune and a high reputation as a lawyer and politician, and now, for the first time, he returned to his Alma mater, one of the most honored members of the Cabinet of our great government, and among the prominent men of the country. ----------------------------------------- TITLES OF BOOKS,--Decoys to catch purchasers. There can be no doubt that a happy name to a book is like an agreeable appearance to a man; but if in either ense the final do not answer to the first impression, will not our disappointment add to the severity of our judgment? "Let me succeed with my first impression," the bibliopolist will cry, "and I ask no more. The public are welcome to end with condemning, if they will only begin with buying. Most readers, like the tufthunters at college, are caught by titles." How inconsistent are our notions of morality! No man of honor would open a letter that was not addressed to him, though he will not scruple to open a book under the same circumstances. Colton's 'Lacon' has gone through thirteen editions, and yet it is addressed "to those who think." Had the author substituted for these words, "those who think they are thinking," it might not have had so extensive a sale, although it would have been directed to a much larger class. He has shown address in his address. ----------------------------------------- WOMAN.--An exquisite production of nature, between a rose and an angel, according to a German poet; the female of the human species, according to the zoologists; the redeeming portion of humanity, according to politer fact and experience. Woman is a treasure of which the profligate and the unmarried can never appreciate the full value, for he who possesses many does not possess one. Malherbe says in his letters, that the Creator may have repented the creation of man, but that he had no reason to repent having made woman. Who will deny this; and which of us does not feel, though in due subjection to a holier religion, the devotion of Anacreon, who, when he was asked why he addressed so many of his hymns to women, and so few to deities, answered, "Because women are my deities?" ----------------------------------------- LITERARY NOTICES. ----- "THE SKETCH-BOOK OF ME, MEISTER KARL." Parry & McMillan: Philadelphia, 1857. Our readers will, perhaps, remember--at all events some of them will--that we have already expressed ourselves at large on the subject of this charming volume. We can do no better now, than we did then; so here follows what we have said and what we repeat on this topic. In a literary point of view our's is a melancholy age. Wertherism has invaded every department, and given birth to one perpetual voice of wailing and lamentation. In vain do we seek the "royal cheerfulness" of Shakspeare and Spencer, the self-assured manliness of Ben Johnson, or the jovial humor of Chaucer. In fact, the witty writers of this century, such as Jerrold, Hood ans Heine, employed their genius in ridiculing the follies of the times--laugh at us, rather than with us, and not unfrequently, their best points are the saddest of commentaries on the saddest of ages. Weeping and wailing is the prevailing fashion of our day, and "Odes to Melancholy," and a long and ever-increasing catalogue of sighs for the "unattained"--which is, more properly, the sheer impossible--make up the staple of modern literature. Thackeray and Dickens are the shining exeptions in the one, Mathew Arnold and Browning in the other. One might conclude that the whole world had adopted the philosophy of the Serious Family, so great is the number of Aminidab Sleeks in the pulpit, and of Lady "Sourbe-creamlys" in private life. Sorrow, they tell us, is better than mirth: man was made to mourn; and when poetry or prose of any sort can succeed in getting a sentimental tear shed over imaginary woes, then is literature fulfilling her high mission. Away with your profane songs which say "'Tis better to laugh than be sighing;" away with your "Jubilate;" give us "De Profundis," or a "Miserere," and that continually. Do not tell us that "Religion never was designed to make our pleasures less;" let us gloat over the ideas of the gnashing of teeth, of the smoke of torment which ascendeth for ever and ever. Let us suffer and be strong; by agony are we perfected; life is very earnest; endless toil and sorrow are our doom; lost Edens, buried Lenores--"not only does light descend from Heaven, but the thunderbolt falls to devour the holocaust; the brow of the penitent, once marked with ashes, must retain forever the sacred stigmas." Tell us not they insist, tell us not of rest, and forgiveness, and the consolations of the Gospel; do not speak, or dare to sing, of the joys of the fireside, the raptures of wedded love; that sort of thing is prosaic; give us the raven plumes, the funeral march; tell us of owls and bats in ruined towers; plant us the cypress and yew tree; robe us in black, and hang around our walls the hideous "imagines mortis." Write us a philosophical book, like old Burton's, and chase our sweet muse of melancholy through all her devious way, in all her Protean shapes,--"Life is sweet!" No, indeed--like the Abbè Rance, we have the "heine passionés de la vie." "Sunshine sweet?" No--give us starless midnight, and a promenade through a grave-yard, while some lonely night-bird sings in the distance. Just here we are ready to admit that sadness is the most poetical of all things. Edgar Poe--at page 263 of his second volume--has shown the true relation of sadness to beauty in composition, and especially the poetical quality of sadness. But, we must protest, is all literature to become a steeple-chase after the poetical? If so, "Hyperion" is the very book, "Meister Karl's Sketch-Book" is not. But, still, we will record our vote in favor of the latter, and for an obvious reason; when we want poetry we can get better stuff than "Hyperion," but when we want a genial, sunshiny companion, it is impossible to find a better than Meister Karl. To saunter through Europe, looking at all the triumphs of the fine arts with tears in our eyes; to be dropping "salt pearls" into the Adriatic, when we ought to be filled with the glorious inspirations of Venice; to be sniffling in the Hartz mountains, or holding red bandannas to our eyes in the Alps; sobbing through the Louvre, and whimpering through St. Peter's; in the Coliseum or the Forum, instead of remembering Cicero and Gracchus, and Trajan, to be dreaming of some faithless Mary Ann, in Yankee-land; this is the spirit of Wertherism on its travels, and from all such, oh! genius of good cheer deliver us! With such books as Bayard Taylor's Travels, Willis' gossipping sketches Mrs. Levert's clever volumes, we have no fault to find; and doubtless there are many more of the same sort of books, written by Americans, of more or less merit. With works of this class, we have nothing to do at present, we are speaking of the Werther School as opposed to the Hilariter School. And, first of all, why do our friends of the latter class write books of travel? We will quote one of them an this point: "When I was in Europe in 18--" says Pynnshurst, (McLeod,) "I often communed with myself as to the nature of my duties towards my own land, the 'green forest land' of th epoets; the 'land of the free, and the home of the brave,' mentioned in our national anthem. I thought of volunteering to serve her in an ambassadorial character, for the ridiculously small sum of nine thousand a year, and nine thousand outfit; but remembering that such a proposal might give rise to misrepresentation of motives, I determined to abstain from it. I next thought of marrying a princess, and then forming an alliance, offensive and defensive, with the 'land' aforesaid, much to its benefit, but I had to contend with so many old and deeply rooted prejudices, that I failed in this too; and it is with sorrow that I feel obliged thus publicly to state, that though I resided in their dominions for some time, and though I waived ceremony and called on them first, not one of the reigning sovereigns of Europe ever asked me to tea! After this I formed various plans, but none met with better success than the two already mentioned. At last, one fine evening, as I ruminated on the shore of the Lac des quarte Cantons, a luminous idea smote me. 'I have it!' I exclaimed, 'Eureka! oh my country, I will write you a book!'" And what is a "poor student" traveleing into lands beyond the seas to do? As our author just quoted has shown, there is but one resource, and if the book be a healthy one, let us heartily thank the giver In this spirit Meister Karl and "Pynnhurst" have seen Europe, not making the trip over a via dolorosa, but finding flowers all along the way. It has often occurred to us, what a glorious time these travelers would have had, if it had so befallen that they should have met in the Old World, and jogged along together Pynnshurst with his love of Nature, Meister Karl with his love of Art; Pynnshurst with his enthusiasm, Meister Karl with his varied stores of learning; and both effervescing with the spirit of fun. Fun at the Carnival; fun at the Heidelberg ball; fun at Havre; frun in the Jungfrau; everywhere, at all times, in all degrees; from the gentlest paranomasa, or pun to the boisterous chorus of "We wont go home 'till morning;" or the philosophic cheerfulness of "A glass of Lager Beer, and a slice of Schweitzer Küse." How shall we describe thee, oh wondrous Meister Karl? Shall we say of him as was said of Burton, "he is a generalread scholar, a thorough-paced philologist, and one that understands the surveying of lands well. A severe student, a devourer of authors--his company is very merry, facete and juvenile; and no man in his time can supass him for ready and dextrous interlarding his common discourse among them with verses from the poets, or sentences from classic authors." The most marvelous thing about his writings is the amount of scholarship therein displayed; not in a pedant-vein, but in every instance, suggested, it would seem, by the very necessities of the case. We are free to confess that Burton and Southley bore us with their colossal piles of quotations--so unnecessarily, so conceitedly forced in, on every and any occasion. Meister Karl sings in every language of Europe, and his numerous translations, so admirably executed, form part of his best contributions to our literature. A judicious criticism of our author thus speaks of his varied stores of learning and soul-refreshing wit: "Meister Karl starts with the reader upon an imaginary tour through Europe, but such a voyage en zig-zag mortal never took before. Time and space are nothing to our author. The boundaries between the real and the spiritual are completely broken down. The Rome of Pope Pius and the Rome of Julius Cæsar are the same thing to 'Meister Karl.' He is as much at home with gnomes and sylphs as with gentlemen and ladies, He flatters Cleopatra and Ninon de l'Enclos in the same breath. Now he is before the terrible Vehmgericht of Westphalia, and now before the Tribune Correctionel of Paris. Now he is trampling behind the returning crusaders, or joining in a procession of the boeuf gras, or marching into Worms with Luther and Van Hutten, or heading a Lola Montez riot in Munich. Sometimes we find him dreaming away away a day in old Provence, or swinging in a gondola on the Grand Canal of Venice, or putting to sea with the furious Berserkers, or holding an ethical dialogue with the Devil, upon the summit of Strasbourg Cathedral. Intermixed with his curious scenes are innumerable dissertations, legends, songs, &c., &c., on the most incongruous subjects, and in styles that baffle description. Quips, cranks and puns, of all kinds and in all languages, fly around us like hail stones, and pelt us until human endurance can go no further. Then, in the midst of his wildest mirth, our author will sail off in a poetical rhapsody on Undines and Fays, and Fresh water spirits in general, and having gotten below the surface of things, he will burrow through the land among Elves, and Robolds and Salamanders, and perhaps emerge again into this "week-day" world under the feet of some frail nymph, who dwells within the sound of the bells of the Notre Dame de Lorrette. * * * A love song may be founded upon a Neo-Platonic idea, or treated after the manner of the Minnesinger or the Troubadour. A squib at some modern superstition may be written with the simple faith of Doctor John Dee, or traced back through the wild beliefs of ancient Middle Germany; through the Cabala, the Talmud, the mysteries of Egypt, until it vanishes among the fragments of early Sanscrit literature. So wide a sweep of knowledge, gathered from the study of books and the observation of travel, is possessed by no living writer of our langurge. It was said of one of the Schlegels that he could reed anything from Plato to a primer; such must be the adaptability of Mr. Leland's mind." So much for Meister Karl as to what he writes about and how; but his crowning merit is, that the morbid melancholy of this age is not reflected in any of his writings. However grave the subject may be, he always manages to keep up our interest by his own unflagging, manly cheerfulness. His most elaborate criticism will never tire the reader, and no man can peruse one of these articles without receiving much information, much that is suggestive, much of original thought, and a bracing, wholesome tone of mind all the while. It was incidentally that we came to speak of his other recommendations apart from his healthy cheerfulness, and as the latter point is the one to which we desire principally to advert, we will let Meister Karl speak for himself in this behalf. In Graham's Magazine for February, 1858, he thus discourses: "A few contemporaries have done us the honor to be astonished that a reckless spirit of lightness, of exuberant merriment, and of gallantry, should have inspired the editorial pen of 'Graham' to such light results, in place of certain scholarly or exclusively 'literary' articles, which they were complimentary enough to expect. For the kind intentions and compliments, we sincerely return all thanks. But we have long been very seriously and earnestly convinced that what this country needs infinitely more than any kind of earnest erudition, is a rational cultivation of genial, cheerful thought. We are too dismal. There is too much sour seriousness, and too much neglect of life and beauty, and the indefinable, yet, very practical and common sense, spirit of pleasantness in our social relations. We do not laugh enough, or, if the word laughter seem trivial and foolish, let us say that there is too little of that joyous feeling which abounds everywhere in Nature, is continually taught by her, and yet, is always driven away by the artificial, moping, melancholy man. If there is one subject more than another which it is the duty of an editor, not wholly devoted to politics and price currents, to set forth, it is that of JOYOUSNESS." In his own inimitable style, he thus goes on to show the effects of this morbid, moping, melancholy spirit. He shows the deviations from the early Church-teaching, which was strongly joyous and ever cheerful and hopeful. He shows the direful effects of this furore in the middle ages, and winds up with this blythe, bird-like strain:--"Hilariter! fall in with us, ye merry men--hilariter! Leave us not to plod along alone like I minstrel with no company but his harp--hilariter there! joyously now! * * * Come on--the road is wide enough for all; the wind and the sun do no harm; sweep on in the bold crusade--hilariter!" We had intended to notice Mr. Leland's theory of criticism,