1859-11-24 The Courant

THE COURANT. A Southern Literary Journal HOWARD H. CALDWELL, Editor.] ''Sic vos non vobis.'' [WM. W. WALKER, JR., & Co., PR0PRIETORS VOLUME I. COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1859. NUMBER 30 For the Courant. GEMS FROM THE DEAD. BY LIZZIE CLARENDON. WILLIE'S DREAM. My little nephew, Willie, is a dear, beautiful boy, with dark, sparkling eyes-wavy, auburn hair-a figure as light and graceful, and a step as bounding as a young fawn's. I wish I could draw his portrait at the head of my sheet, for then all who read would enjoy it as much as I do. He is what wiser ones call a singular and remarkable child, with thoughts far older than his years, and feelings quick and sensitive, easily moved by the touch of kindness, but shrinking, like the beautiful flower, from a rude or harsh hand. His mother often trembles as she sees the eager longing of his young spirit for something better, brighter, and purer than this world affords. When he was not six years of age, he awoke his mother, one night, and begged her to come to his little bed and sit beside him : "For I have had such a dream, mamma, such a sweet dream, and I want to tell it to you now." He was so earnest in his entreaties that she could not refuse his request, so, sitting close beside him and holding his little hand, she listened attentively to his relation. His thoughts and language were so poetical, that I have put them into verse as the most suitable mode of expressing them. Come and sit beside me, mother, Hold my hand within your own,─ Let me hear you softly speaking In your kind and loving tone, Do not put the lamp so near me, Let its light fall on your face,─ So that I may know you hear me, While I tell of that bright place. I have had a dream, dear mother, While I lay here sleeping still Oh, the thought of that sweet vision Makes my heart with gladness fill ! I had left you, then, dear mother, Left you mourning here below,─ And I longed to turn and tell you, "I am happy that I go ! "

But the angels bore me upward, Far above this dismal world, And before the gate of heaven Gladly their bright pinions furled. Then I entered that great city, With the streets and walls of go{d, And, though they had left me lonely, Yet my little heart was bold ; And my feet kept pressing onward Where I saw a glorious light, For I knew the gracious Saviour Then would bless me with his sight. Then, mamma, an angel joined me, Oh, so beautiful and fair, With such wings of silver brightness, And sueh glossy, golden hair! And she took my hand kissed me, While her large and melting eyes Beamed upon me with the clearness Of the summer sunset skies. And she whispered,─" Brother Willie, Welcome, welcome to my home! With your haud in mine, together Through its beauties wo will roam." Oh, mamma, sweet sister Ida, Whom you loved so long ago, And who left you sad and tearful, When she quit this world of woe,─ She it was who stood beside me, For I knew her, mother, well, And my heart beat loud with rapture Human tongue can never tell.

All the street which we were treading Was of purest, brighte t gold, Sparkling with so great a lustre Human eyes could not behold:─ Glorious trees wore blooming o'er us, Greener than the trees of earth, Golden fruit, in richest clusters, Never seen by mortal birth. And beneath those branches laden, Angels walked in converse sweet, Singing hyms with low, clear voices, Making music soft and sweet. And one spirit, bright and lovely, With a radiant eye and brow, Softly glided forth to meet me,─ Oh ! methinds I see her now, As she kindly touched my temples With her white and gentle hand, Saying with such love and kindness, "Welcome to the heavenly land!" Then I knew her, mother darling, Was it strange that I should know ? It was she,─my dear aunt Mary─ Who had left us long ago. Oh! how lovely heaven makes them! With such bright and sparkling eyes, Looking each and all, dear mother, Blue and cloudless as the skies.* Then they led me onward, onward, Over heaven's shining street, Till they placed me, dearest mother, Kneeling at my Saviour's feet! Oh, I cannot, cannot tell you How he looked, nor what he said, But he gently, gently blessed me, With his dear band on my head !

'Then when I bad gazed upon him Till my heart was full of love, Sister Ida kindly took me, Farther, farther still to rove. And I saw the glorious river Gushing from the pure, white throne, Flowing on with ceaseless murmurs, Making music with its tone. On its banks tall trees are growing, Hanging thick with luscious fruit, And the rustling of the leaflets Sounded soft as silver lute. As I listened to their music, I could see them bending low, Dipping in the crystal waters, And then waving to and fro.

"You must drink, dear brother Willie," Sister Ida whispered. then,─ "Drink of this immortal river, And no more with earthly men Will your happy footsteps wander, But in heaven you shall dwell !" Oh, the very thought, dear mother, Made my heart with rapture swell ! But I could not reach the river, Though its waters flowed so near, And my limbs began to quiver, And my heart to quake with fear. Then sweet Ida spread her pinions,─ Her bright, golden-tinted wings, Saying─" I will show yon, Willie, What sweet joy this water brings ! I will shew you how to quaff it, So that you may stay with me, So that you may live for ever, And my angel-brother be !" Then she left me, dearest mother, Lightly rising from my side, Till she rested in the branches Bending o'er that silver tide. Arid I saw her white hand glancing Through the waters, as the breeze, Sweet as from a bed of roses, Stole among the beauteous trees.

* " All the angels had blue eyes, mamma, and looked so bright and clear. Will my eyes be blue in heaven, too, mamma ?" asked the little dark-eyed boy. He refused to describe the looks or words of the Saviour, but seemed enraptured and overwhelmed at the recollection. 'Then I vainly tried to join her, But I could not, could not go,─ And my heart was filled to bursting With a heavy weight of woe. I awoke, dear mother, grieving That I could not be with her, But my spirit now is happy, And my heart has lost its fear. Oh ! dear mother, what a heaven Is the place we all may see, When from earth and earthly evil, Our glad spirits once are free ! Help me to be good, dear mother, So when I indeed shall die, I may meet sweet sister Ida In her home beyond the sky. From Fraser's Magazine. THE LION IN THE TOILS. BY C. ASTOR BRISTED. ( CONCLUDED.) Had Benson been in Oldport now, there might have been trouble, inasmuch as he was not particular about what he said, and not too well disposed towards Mrs. Harrison, while Ashburner was just in a state of mind to have fought with his own father on that theme. But Benson was away, and his absence at this time was not a source of regret to Ashburner, who felt a little afraid of him, and with some reason, for our friend Harry was as ob-servant as if he had a fly's allowance of eyes, and had a knack of finding out things without looking for them, and of knowing things without asking about them; and he would assuredly have noticed that Ashburner began to be less closely attached to his party, and to follow in the train of Mrs. Harrison. As for Clara Benson, she never troubled herself about the Englishman's falling off in his attentions to her ; if any thing, she was rather glad of it ; her capricious disposition made her tire of a friend in a short time; she could not endure any one's uninterrupted company─not even her husband's, who therefore wisely took care to absent himself from her several times every year. Moreover, though Ashburner was seen in attendance on the lioness, it was not constantly or in a pointed man, ner. He wa still fighting with himself, and, like a man run away with, who has power to guide his horse though not stop him, he was so far able to manage his passion as to keep it from an open display. So, absolutely, no one suspected what was the matter with him, or that there was any thing the matter with him, except the lady herself. Catch a woman not finding out when a man is in love with her ! Sometimes she may delude herself with imagining a passion where none exists, but she never makes the converse mistake of failing to perceive it where it, does. And how did the gay Mrs. Harrison, knowing and perceiving herself to be thus loved, make use of her knowledge? What alteration did it produce in her conduct and bearing towards her admirer? Absolutely none at all. Precisely as she had treated him at their first introduction did she continue to treat him─as if he were one of her every-day acquaint-ances, and nothing more. And it is precisely this line of action that utterly breaks down a man's defences, and makes him more hopelessly than ever the slave of his fair conqueror. If a woman declares open hostilities against him, runs him down behind his back, snubs him to his face, shuns his society─this at least shews that she considers his attachment of some consequence─con

234 THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. sequence enough to take notice of, though the notice be unfavourable, His self-respect may come to the rescue, or his piqued vanity may save him by converting love into enmity. But a perseverance in never noticing his love, and feigning to be ignorant of its existence, com-pletely establishes her supremacy over him. A Frenchman, who has conceived designs against a married lady, only seeks to throw dust in the husbaud's eyes, and then if he cannot succeed in his final object, at least to establish sufficient intimacy to give him a plau-sible pretext for saying that he has succeeded ; for in such a matter he is not scrupulous about lying a little─ or a great deal. An American, bad enough for a similar iutentiou (which usually pre-supposes a considerable amount of Parisianization), acts much like a Frenchman ─if any thing, rather worse. An Englishman is not usually moved to the desire of an intrigue by vanity, but driven into it by sheer passion, and his first impulse is to run bodily off with the object of his misplaced affection ; to take her and himself out of the country, as if he could thereby travel out of his moral responsibilities. Reader, did you ever notice, or having noticed, did you ever ponder upon the geographical distribution of morals and propriety which is so marked and almost peculiar a feature of the Anglo-Saxon mind? 1n certain outward looks and habits, the English may be unchang-able and unmistakable all over the globe ; but their ethical code is certainly not the same at home and abroad. It is pretty much so with an American, too, before he has be-come irreparably Parisianized. When he puts on his travelling habits, he takes off his puritan habits, and makes light of doing things abroad which he would be the first to anathematize at home. Observe, we are not speaking of the deeply religious, nor yet of the openly profligate class in either country, but of the general run of respectable men who travel; they regard a great part of their morality and their manners as intended solely for home consumption ; while a Frenchman or a German, if his home standard is not so high, lives better up to it abroad. Aud yet many Englishmen, and some Americans, wonder why their countrymen are so unpopular as foreign travellers ! Ashburner, then, wanted to run away with Mrs. Harrison. How he could have supported her never entered into his thoughts, nor did he consider what the effect would be on his own prospects. He did not reflect, either, how miserably selfish it was in him, after all, to expect that this woman would give up her fortune and position, her children, her unbounded legitimate domi-nation over her husband, for his boyish passion, and how infinitesimally small the probability that she would do so crazy a thing. Nor did Harrison eyer arise before his mind as a present obstacle or future danger ; and this was less frantic than most of his overlookings. The broker was a strong and courageous man, and probably had been once very much in love with his wife ; but at that time, so far from putting a straw in the way of any man who wanted to relieve him of her, he would probably have been willing to pay his expenses into the bargain. But how to declare his passion─that was the question. He saw that the initiatory steps, and very decided ones, must be taken on his part ; and it was not easy to find the lady alone ten minutes together. People lived at Oldport as if they were in the open air, and the volunteer police of ordinary gossip made private interviews between well-known people a matter of extreme difficulty. A Frenchman similarly placed would have brought the affair to a crisis much sooner : he would have found a thousand ways of disclosing his feelings, and at the same time dexterously leaving himself a loop-hole of es-cape. Very clever at these things are the Gauls ; they will make an avowal in full ball-room, under cover of the music, if there is no other chance to be had. But tact in love affairs is not a characteristic of the Englishman, especially at Ashburner's age. He had none of this mischievous dexterity ; perhaps it is just as well when a man has not, both for himself and for society. He thought of writing, and actually began many letters or notes, or billet-doux, or whatever they might be called ; but they always seemed so absurd (as truly they were) that he invariably tore them up when half-finished. He thought of serving up his flame in verse (for about this time the unhappy youth wrote many verses, which on his return to sanity he very wisely made away with) ; but his emotion lay too deep for verse, and his performances seemed even to himself too ridiculous for him to dream of presenting them. Still he must make a beginning somehow ; he could not ask her to run away with him apropos of nothing. One of his great anxieties, you may be sme, was to find out if any other man stood in his way, and who that man might be. His first impulses were to be indiscrimi-nately jealous of every man he saw talking or walking with her; but on studying out alone the result of his observations, he could not discover that she affected any one man more than another. For this was one of her happy arts, that she made herself attractive to all without shewing a marked preference for any one. White, who among his other accomplishments had a knack of quoting the standard poets, compared her to Pope's Be-linda─saying, that her lively looks disclosed a sprightly mind, and that she extended smiles to all and favours to none. So that Ashburner's jealousy could find no fixed object to light on. At one time he had been terribly afraid of Le Roi, chiefly from having heard the lady praise him for his accomplishments and agreeable man-ners. But once he heard Sedley say, that Mrs. Harrison had been worrying Le Roi half out of his wits, and quite out of his temper. "How so ?" "Oh, she was praising you, and saying how much she liked the English character, and how true and honest your countrymen were─so much more to be depended on than the French─and more manly, too ; and alto-together she worked him up into such a rage against ces insulaires, that he went off ready to swear." And then Ashburner suspected what he afterwards became certain of─that this was only one of the pleasant little ways the woman had of amusing herself. Whenever she found two men who were enemies, or rivals, or antagonists in any way, she would praise each to the other, on purpose to aggravate them ; and very successful she was inher purpose ; for she had the greatest appearance of sincerity, and whatever she said seemed to come right out of her heart. But if any lingering fears of Le Roi still hauntted the Englishman's mind, they were dispelled by his departure along with the main body of the exclusives. Though always proud to be seen in the company of a conspicuous character like Mrs. Harrison, the Vicomte more particularly cultivated the fashionables proper, and gladly embraced the opportunity of following in the train of the Robinsons. Perhaps, after all, Ashburner would have preferred being able to concentrate his suspicions upon one definite person, to feeling a vague distrust of some body he knew not whom, especially as the presence of a rival might have brought the affair to a crisis sooner. To a crisis it was approaching, nevertheless, for his passion now began to tell on him. He looked pale, and grew nervous and weak─lay awake at nights, which he had never done before, except when going in for the Tripos at Cambridge─and was positively off his feed, which he had never been at any previous period of his life. He thought of tearing himself away from the place─the wisest course, doubtless ; but just as he had made up his mind to go by the next stage, Mrs. Harrison, as if she divined what he was about, would upset all his plans by a few words, or a look, or a smile─some little expression which meant nothing, and could never be used against her ; but which, by a man in his state, might be interpreted to mean a great deal. One morning the crisis came─not that there was any particular reason for it then, more than at any other time, only he could hold out longer. It was a beautiful day, and they had been strolling in one of the few endurable walks the place afforded─a winding alley near the hotel, but shrouded in trees, and it was just at the time when most of the inhabitants were at ten-pins, so tthat they were tolerably alone. Now, if ever, was the time ; but the more he tried to introduce the subject, the less possible he found it to make a beginning, and all the while he could not avoid a dim suspicion that Mrs. Harrison knew perfectly well what he was trying to drive at, and took a mischievous pleasure in saying nothing to help him along. So they talked about his travels and hers, and great people in England and France, and all sorts of people then at Oldport, and the weather, even─all manner of ordinary topics ; and then they walked some time without saying any thing, and then they went back to the hotel ! There he felt as if his last chance was slipping away from him, and in a sudden fit of desperate courage he followed her up to her parlour without waiting for an invitation. Hardly was the door closed─he would have given the world to have locked it─when he begged her to listen to him a few minutes on a subject of the greatest importance. The lady opened her large round eyes a little wider; it was the only sign she gave of any thing approaching to surprise. Then the young man uubosomed himself just as he stood there─not upon his knees ; people used to do that─in books, at least, but no body does it now He told her how long he had been in love with her─how he thought of her all day and all night, and how wretched he was─how he had tried to subdue his passion, knowing it was very wrong, and so forth ; but really he couldn't help it, and─and─there he stuck fast ; for all the time he had been making this incoherent avowal, like one in a dream, hardly knowing what he was about, but conscious only of taking a decisive step, and doing a very serious thing in a very wild way─all this time, nevertheless, he had most closely watched Mrs. Harrison, to anticipate his sentence in some look or gesture of hers. And he saw that there did not move a line in her face, or a muscle in her whole figure─not a fibre of her dress even stirred. If she had been a great block of white marble, she could not have shown less feeling, as she stood up there right opposite him. If he had asked her to choose a waistcoat pattern for him, she could not have heard him more quietly. As soon as he had fairly paused, so that she could speak without immediate interruption, she took up the reply. It was better that he should go no further, as she had already understood quite enough. She was very sorry to give him pain─it was always unpleasant to give pain to any one. She was also very sorry that he had so deceived himself, and so misapprehended her character, or misunderstood her conversation. He was very young yet, and had sense enough to get over this very soon. Of course, she would never hear any repetition of such language from him ; and, on her part, she would never mention what had occurred to any one─especiially not to Mr. Harrison (it was the first time he had ever heard her allude to the existence of that gentleman) ; and then she wound up with a look which said as plainly as the words could have done, "Now, you may go." Ashburner moved off in a more than usual state of confusion. As he approached the door it opened suddenly, and he nearly walked ovver one of the little Bleeckers, a flourishing specimen of Young New York with about three yards of green satin round his throat, and both his hands full of French novels, which he had been commissioned to bring from the circulating library. Ashburner felt like choking him, and it was only by a great effort that he contrived to pass him with a barely civil species of nod. But as he went out, he could not refrain from casting one glance at Mrs. Harrison. She hhad taken off her bonnet (which in America is denominated a hat), and was tranquilly arranging her hair at the glass. Some how or other he found his way down stairs, and rushed off into the country on a tearing walk, enraged and disgusted with every thing, and with himself most of all. When a man has made up his mind to commit a sin, and then has been disappointed in the fruition of it─when he has sold the birth-right of his integrity, withoutt getting the miserable mess of pottage for it which he expected, his feelings are not the mostt enviable. Ashburner was angry enough to marry the first

THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL heiress he met with. First, he half resolved to get up a desperate flirtation with Mrs. Benson ; but the succes of his first attempt was not encouraging to the prosecution of a second. To kill himself was not in his line; but he felt very like killing some one else. He still feared he might have been made the screen for some other man. But if the other man existed, he could only be reached by fighting successively all the single men of "our set," and a fair sprinkling of those in the second set. Then he thought he must at least leave the place, but his pride still revolted at the idea of running away before a woman. Finally, after walking about ten miles, and losing his dinner, he sobered down gradually, and thought what a fool he had been ; and the issue of his cogitations was a very wise double con-clusion. He formed a higher opinion of the virtue of American women, and he never attempted any experi-ments on another.

From the London Saturday Review, Sept. 10. CHURCH'S "HEART OF THE ANDES."

It does not need a prophet to arise and point to the West in order to proclaim in what direction we may look for a young and vigorous school of art. Those who scan the horizon, augur a great art future for America, and we regard with peculiar interest the har-bingers of that new school which we anticipate. It would be impossible to predict the direction which it may take, as there are too few works of American art-ists known in this country to justify any opinon on the subject. We know the reputation gained by the trans-atlantic sculptors who have studied in Rome ; but we know positively nothing of American pictures, beyond a few landscapes which found their way across the Atlantic, when last year, Mr. Church's fine picture of the "Falls of Niagara," showed that art was not limited to Europe, and that it was not necessary for genius to study in any school but that of Nature. It would be superfluous to do more than allude to a picture which was generally seen, and which was fully acknowledged as a great achievement. Mr. Church's was an unexampled and marvelous treatment of water. If he failed to give all the beauty of coulour, he succeeded in rendering the motion of water─its endless variety, its weight and irresistable force─with the intense truth that only genius can attain. Here was a young artist, who had mastered one of the very greatest difficulties of landscape art─ representation of water in motion ; and so perfect was the rainbow spanning the Falls, that at first sight it appeared an optical delusion rather than a creation of the painter. It seemed a ray of light reflecting on the picture the prismatic colour of the glass through which it passed. The line of low, distant landscape and sky was, we remember, less satisfactorily treated. Great was the expectation Mr. Church aroused when he sent a second picture to be engraved in England ; for, it may be observed, it is only in the way of business that we have a chance of seeing his works.

The " Heart of the Andes," is now shown by Messrs. Day & son, in the German Gallery, in Bond street, with all the pomp and circumstance always attending works exhibited separately and with a special object. If no one had recorded on canvas such a mighty scene of water as the Falls of Niagara, we have all seen mountains nobly drawn, and so have a standard to judge by. Here we may say that it is not to be assumed that the elevation and size of a mountain proportionally increase the difficulties which the artist has to surmount, and therefore there is as great merit in truthfully rendering the Alps as the Andes. Mr. Church's picture is a panorama on a vast scale. It does not impress one at first sight, and it is only by examination that full justice will be done to the remarkable qualilties it exhibits. The spot selected is on the Equator, several miles from Quito. The artist is supposed to be on high ground. A river, which has broken over rocks, flows beneath him, and on either side are bold groups of trees, detached from the forest, which has its glades, secret streams, luxuriant vegetation, all brought out ; whilst in the foreground are bright flowering shrubs in full bloom─crimson passionflowers and other creepers tangling around the trunk of trees, in the branches of which we see brilliant tropical birds. Beyond this dexterous and elaborate detail lies a tract of country─hill, dale, village, lake and waterfall being given with great care. For miles the eye sweeps on with the plains to the great chain of mountains which grow out of the distance, and rise grandly towards the sky, rearing peak above peak till they are lost in the clouds, beyond which the region of eternal snow tells white against the blue sky. Two small figures before a little cross near the fore-ground enable one to estimate the vast scale of this grand panorama. There must be some thing bold in the heart of a man who sits [CHURCH'S HEART OF THE ANDES spans columns 1 and 2] down deliberately to paint such scenes, but for all this Mr. Church has not the pure feeling for mountain gloom and mountain glory. It is not necessary to have seen a particular mountain ; so in the American artist's mountains we do not doubt the exactitude of the outline, be we miss the delicate, subtle hand that would have lingered tenderly in tracing the detail of spur and cleft, and, in spite of the snow, following the articulation of what has been called the skeleton of the mountain. A blurred sketch of Welsh hills, by David Cox, seizes on the mind, and has more of the true elements of grandeur than Mr. Church's ten feet of panoramic view of some of the highest mountains in the world.

A certain mastery of maniupulation Mr. Church undoubtedly has, but whether he is in the highest sense a great artist, we are not yet prepared to decide. The "Heart of the Andes" exhibits his versatility, rather than increases his reputation. The local colour of American scenery is new to us ; yet, arguing from what we know, the proofs would confirm us in the opinion that Mr. Church is not a great colourist. We know the exquisite tints of American shrubs and flowers transplanted from the natural soil, and then we ask why they should lose their brilliant luminous appearance and delicacy by being painted in the Tropics. The painting might have been expected to be startling in its vividness, yet, on the contrary, it is opaque─the texture reminding us of German painting on copper It is Summer, but there is no warmth ; there is sun, but it is simply light without heat. The mountains are leeaden, like the clouds : the sky has no luminousness. There is no tender dying away of tint, without which, Mr Ruskin has said, there is no good, no right colour. We much regret that Mr. Church has never been in Europe ─has never seen the master-piece of his art. Nor, for the present, is he likely to do so, for he is now devoting his ambitious energies to painting icebergs in Greenland. It is impossible, however, that so determined and adventurous a man should fail to achieve success, with youth, talent, and discipline in his favour. His fellow-countrymen admire and applaud him because he "sticks at nothing." He should follow the bent of hisown genius, without forgetting his real public─men with eyes and hearts trained in the study of the noblest works of art. To them he must look to win his highest praise─higher than the admiration of the untraveled American connois-seur. We look on Mr. Church as the probable founder of a school of landscape painting. Something grand and revolutionary in art should, one might expect, be originated by the influences of Nature on a grand scale, moulding the minds of those who study the secrets of her beauty ; yet this is not necessarily the result, if we may generallize from a particular instance, and speculate whether it is as true of a people as it is of an individual, that the first flights of genius are rarely very original. There is an old way of trying wings to feel how high they may soar.

Transatlantic literature has yet scarcely produced any great national work. The best books are, for the most part, founded on European models─the most original are wild shoots grafted on the Old World stock. Will it be the same in art as in literature? Shall we see a gradual developement, or shall we be startled out of all precedents by true American art, Minerva-like, spring-ing full-grown into the astonished world? The "Falls of Niagara," by Mr. Church, would make us incline to the latter hypothesis ; and we await what he may thereafter send us, with the greatest curiousity and in-terest.

NEVER DO TOO MUCH AT A TIME.─Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, in a lecture recently delivered in England, gave the following history of his literary habits : Many persons seeing me so much engaged in active life, and as much about the world as if I had never been a student, have said to me : "When do you get time to write all your books? How on earth do you contrive to do so much work?" I shall surpise you by the answer I make. The answer is this, 'I contrive to do so much by never doing too much at a time. A man to get through work will must not over-work himself ; for if he do too much to-day, the reaction of fatigue will come, and be will be obliged to do too little to-morrow. Now, since I began really and earnestly to study, which was not till I left college, and was actually in the world, I may perhaps say that I have gone through as large a course of general reading as most men of my time. I have travelled much and I have seen much, I have mixed much in politics, and the various business of life, and in addition to all this, I have published somewhere about sixty volumes, some upon subjects requiring much research.─ And what time do you think, as a general rule, I have devoted to study ; to reading and writing. Not more than three hours a day, and when Parliament is sitting, not always that. But then, during those hours, I have given my whole attention to what I was about."

THE HUMAN HAND.─Issuing from the wrist is that Mr. Church has not the pure feeHng for mountain wonderful organ, the human hand. " In a French book, intended," says Sir Charles Bell, " to teach young people philosphy, the pupil asks why the fingers are not of equal length ? The master makes the scholar grasp a ball of ivory, to show him that the points of the fingers are then equal. It would have been better had he closed the fingers upon the palm ; and then have asked whether or not they corresponded. The differences in the length a rod, a switch, a sword, a hammer, a pen, pencil, or engraving tool, in all of which a secure hold and freedom of motion are admirable combined." On the length, strength and perfectly free movements of the thumbs depends, moreover, the power of the human hand. To the thum, indeed, has been given a special name (Pollex, from a Latin verb, meaning to be able, stong, mighty,) because of its strength ; a strength that is necessary to the power of the hand, being equal to that of all the fingers. Without the fleshy ball of the thumb, the powers of the fingers would be of no avail, and accordingly the large ball formed by the muscles of the thumb is the special mark of the human hand, and particularly that of a clever workman. The loss of the thumb almost amounts to the loss of the hand. Conscripts unwilling to serve in the army of France, have been known to disable themselves effectually by cutting off the thumb of the right hand. The loss of both thumbs would reduce a man to a miserable dependence. Nor should we overlook another peculiarity. Were the tips of the fingers and the thumbs bony, instead of being covered with flesh, many things we readily do would be absolutely impossible. We now can ttake up what is small, soft and round─as a millet seed, or even a particle of human hair, so exquisitely prehensile are the human fingers. The nails are often of special service ; perhaps always in works of art which requirre nicety of execution. Their substance is just what is needed ; they are easily kept at the precise length which answers every purpose ; had they been placed on the tips of the fingers, there would have been a loss of power, but their position ensures their highest efficacy. An interchange of power for velocity which takes place in the arm, adapts the hands and fingers to a thousand arts requiring quick or lively motions. In setting up the type of this page, there have been movements on the part of the compositor of surprising rapidity to any ordinary observer, and the execution of performers on the piano forte, as well as many wind instruments, is often astonishing ; there are among many instances of the advantages gained by this sacrifice of force for velocity of movement. [Cossell's Popular Natural History. RELIGION OF COUNTRIES NEAR THE NORTH POLE. ─In Nova Zembla (as the Dutch who travel there relate) the inhabitants have no regular prescribed religion, but they worship the sun as long as he is with them, and during his absence the moon and the pole star. To these they offer yearly sacrifices of deer, which they burn, except the head and feet ; they sacrifice also for their dead. The Samoiades, who live a little to the south of Nova Zembla, are great idolaters and believers of witchcraft. Each family has its own temple, priest, and sacrifice ; the priest is the oldest man in the family, and his ornaments are small ribs and teeth of fish and wild beasts, which hang about him. On his head he wears a white garland. During his officiating he howls, gradually increasing in loudness and fierceness of manner, till at last he appears like a madman. He then falls down and imitates death for some time ; then, suddenly starting up, he orders five deer to be sacrificed, and after a few more equally disgusting and senselss actions the ceremony is ended.

CLASSIFICATION OF READERS.─Readers may be divided, says Coleridge, into four classes :

1. Sponges, who absorb all they read, and return it nearly in the same state, only a little dirtied.

2. Sand glasses, who retain nothing, and are content to get through a book for the sake of getting through the time.

3. Strain-bags, who retain merely the dregs of what they read.

4. Mogul diamonds, equally rare and valuable, who profit by what they read, and enable others to profit by it also.─New Lectures on Shakespeare.

WHEN the celebrated Dunning, afterwards Lord Ashburton, was "stating law" to a jury in court, Lord Mansfield interrupted him by saying, "If that be law, I'll go home and burn my books." "My Lord," replied Dunning, "you had better go home and read them."

As a razor is best whetted in oil, so wit is set sharpest by politeness. The lack of edge in both is discoverable from the offence or pain they give.

236 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. The Courant. COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, NOV. 24, 1859. THE COURANT. The office of the Courant has been removed to No. 144 Richardson Street, over Flanigan's Shoe-Store. W.M. W. WALKER, JR., & CO.

Personal---Ourselves. Our Associate, Mr. WALKER, after having bbeen severely bruised up by his late accident, is now "up and about." The Editor-In-Chief returns his thanks to the many kind friends who have made enquiries concerning his health. "We" are improving, slowly, it is true, but surely. We hope to be at our post before long.

Schiller Festival. Our readers will find the report of this interestting celebra-tion of our German citizens on the sixth page of this number.

More Magazines. The Southern Literary Messenger contains a well-arranged variety. Among the book-notices we find one upon Miss TALLEY's Poems. The editor of the Messenger expresses much the same opinion of her powers and faults as we did in our last number. The Southern Teacher, for this quarter, has arrived. It has much of valuable and enduring matter. We cannot effectually express to our readers the importance of this work. Every teacher should have it, and every fireside will be the better off, where its happy influence penetrates. Published at Montgomery, Ala., and edited by Prof. W.S. BARTON: at only one dollar a year. The Great Republic, after having cut our acquaintance since last July, has returned to us again, with all the glory of its spread-eagle-and-red-letter cover. Really it annoys us to see such bad taste: why don't you get up the Magazine in a tidy, elegant and simple style like Harper's, or the Atlantic Monthly? There is always a horrid suspicion of catch-penny in such fantastical outsides. Now, the matter of this number is quite up to Harper's, and without the dreary comicalities of the great Magazine. There is no reason why the Great Republic (now ending its first year) should not, in a short tiime, equal and excel any of the monthlies. OAKSMITH & Co., New York, publish it at three dollars per annum.

Kane Monument Association. The coproators of this Association announce a number of lectures for the benefit of their very commendable association. But such a mixture! Governor banks, the illustrious! Dr. CHAPIN, the humanitarian. HENRY WARD BEECHER, whom every body knows. Rev. Dr. CUMINGS, the insufferable puppy. BAYARD TAYLOR, the modern Marco Polo. The charming spice of variety, has been secured.

A Silly Critic. The Saturday Press has a correspondent, "Ada Clare," who adores absurdity, and who will proceed to any lengths, in order to seem odd. In the face of the fact that "Beulah" has received the very highest praise from critics who could teach such writers as "Ada Clare" for all tiime to come, he or she, as it may be, revives the absurdly stupid charge that "Beulah" is an imitation of "Jane Eyre"—an opinion which at once shews most clearly that he or she (Ada) either never read the book, or what is worse, if he or she did read it, that "Ada Clare" did not understand it. Moreover, at the best, it is only asserted by the unknown writer that "Beulah" is a copy of "Jane Eyre;" no particle of proof being adduced, but instead some very poor Yankee rhetoric. The writer of such a thing as the following, can't have much more heart than head; which latter, it must be quite evident to any body who has read "Beulah," is rather decidely fuddled in this case. This ill- natured and uncalled-for mentioin of "Beulah" was made, we doubt not, simply because every body else was praising the book, from Boston to New Orleans. "Ada Clare," in his or her wisdom, speaks to inform all the world that the book is not what it seems; never daring to essay proof, but simply giving us the assertion of an anonymous scribbler: "I have finished reading 'Beulah.' Let that fact be recorded as a proof of my extreme pertinacity of purpose. 'Beulah' is another inane copy of 'Jane Eyre.' But it is a waxen, corky, wooden-jointed, leather-and-findings imitation of it. Authors too often imagine that when they have succeeded in portraying an unnatural character, and stuck it all over with ridiculous traits, like porcupine-quills, that they succeed in creating a type. They never seem to imagine what lumbering and foolish monsters they erect. " 'Jane Eyre' was a breathing, blood-warmed being, whose vitality might have been uncommon—but it was still life. In her writsts, you felt the beatings of purple pulses; and troops of passionate longings, visible, through veiled, swarmed in her sober eyes. But 'Beulah' is a wearisome, artificial piece of pasteboard, in whose troubles you cannot sympathise, whose pride is obstinacy—whose grief, sentimentalism of the flabbiest sort—and whose whole life, too appallingly stupid to be reflected upon."

A Wonderful Newspaper. We find in the last New York Day Book, the announcement of the most astonishing newspaper that we ever had the pleasure to read of: the New York Weekly. Hear this grand flourish, and hide your diminished head, O BONNER ! fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, O Frank Leslie! And you, Irving, Longfellow, Bryant, Willis: you, Bancroft, Whipple, Esten Cooke, Mrs. Ellett, Miss Evins, and the rest, evaporate! Your labour is all in vain : your names are not on the roll of "THE BEST MALE AND FEMALE writers in the United States." "Among its regular contributers will be fouund the names of the best Male and Female writers in the United States. Such writers as Justin Jones (Harry Hazel), Augustine J. H. Duganne, William Earle Binder, Wm. Wharton, James Reynolds, Francis S. Smith, Mrs. Mary Jane Holmes, Helen Forest Graves, Mary C. Vaughan, Margaret Verne, Anna Raymond, Eda Mayville, write for it regularly, while a score of other well-known writers occasionally contribute to its columns." But the great feature is the list of premiums offered to persons forming clubs. After a catalogue of the jewellery, they give a list of books which are also offered; we beg our readers to observe what chaste and glorious works are here put within reach of all who make up clubs for the New York Weekly: "The Dancing Feather; Josephine, or the Maid of the Gulf; Byron Blonday; The Matricide's Daughter; The Victim's Revenge; The Star of the Fallen; The Mysteries and Miseries of New York; the B'hoys of New York; Ned Buntline's Life Yarn; The Buccaneer's Daughter; Caroline Tracy; Midnight Queen; The Adventures of Tom Stapleton; The White Wolf; The Mountain Outlaw; Ravensdale, or the Fatal Duel; Claude Duval; The Adventures of Tom King; Ned Scarlet; Paul Clifford; The Pirate Chief; The Pirate Doctor; The Yankee Privateer; GAMBLERS TRICKS WITH CARDS; How to Win and How to Woo."

Mrs. L. Maria Child. What fools people will make of themselves in the pursuit of notoriety! Mrs. L. MARIA CHILD, a third-rate Yankee poetess, has become "famous '' 'by writing letters to Governor WISE, begging to be allowed to take care of that wretch, OSSAWATOMIE BROWN, and to the miserable convict himself proffering her sympathy and kind offices! This is all done "for glory." Verily, she deserves an ode from old "nigger-minstrel" WHITTIER, commemorating her as the second FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. The Richmond Enquirer says: "Mrs. L. Maria Child (who asked ro be allowed to 'nurse' and 'soothe' the insurrectionist, Brown,) has heretofore been known in this section as an authoress of some pretensions, whose literary contributions have served to fill up the columns of one or two Northern periodicals. Hereafter she will be regarded, in the South at least, as belonging to the Harriet Beecher Stowe 'circle;' as one whose morbid enthusiasm and fanatical zea1 have beclouded and vitiated a judgement otherwise, perhaps, clear and sound."

Columbus. Although much has been written about the great discoverer of America, it is really amazing to observe what a degree of ignorance prevails concerning him and his contemporaries. The most popular book on the life of COLUMBUS, is by WASHINGTON IRVING, and it is merely a collection of items gathered at random from all sorts of authorities, good, bad and indifferent. The excessive shallowness of Mr. IRVING's learning, his haste in jumping at conclusions, have been perfectly exhibited by the acute but most gentlemanly critique of Dr. TOULMAIN SMITH, in his "Discovery of America.'' It is not a difficult task to refute the numerous errors of IRVING's "Columbus," but it is almost impossible to make the public understand that one of its old favourites is not exactly trustworthy in all respects. Critiques of IRVING can not be expected to reach where his histories have gone. Then such twaddle as the " Life and Voyages of Americus Vospucius," with all the religions and political reasons which have existed ever since the days of COLUMBUS, must have contributed no little to give many false ideas of the truly great navigitor. Unhappily, the best lives of COLUMBUS are not only not translated into English, but they are very hared to obtain at all, in the original. We have sent three or four times to Europe for the great "Vie de Christophe Colomb,'' and have yet to enjoy the pleasure of getting it. We have never seen but one copy of it, but that one sight convinced us of the immense research of the author; and, while enjoying the mere fruits of the life-time labour of its author, it is pleasing to see how beautifully he manages his arguments, how clearly he refutes his adversaries and how nobly he defends the fame of Columbus, asserting for him his true, but almost unrecognized, character. It will be seen by the following extract from the New York Daily Times, that Mr. McMASTER, of the Freeman's Journal, has been lecturing on COLUMBUS. We would like to see more about that lecture. Mr. McMASTER, as we happen to know, has made the study of the life and character of the "world- seeking Genoese" a special object of attention, and he has availed himself of the best writings, on the subject: he not taken all of his ideas from IRVING; that is to say, from the infidel NAVARETTE, whom IRVING follows. May we not hope to see this lecture in print ere long? It would be a valuable contribution to the biographical criticism concerning COLUMBUS, and, we think, calculated to do much good:

MR. M'MASTER ON THE CHARACTER OF THE GREAT DISCOVERER. "The Catholic Library Association held their quarterly meeting last night at their rooms, No. 809 Broadway. Mr, James A. McMaster, editor or the Freeman's Journal, embodied the results of much rare reading and industrious research in an improvised address, the purpose of which was to rectify certain historical villificatioins of the personal character of Christopher Columbus. What had mainly contributed, he thought, to the neglect into which, for three hundred years after his death, Columbus' name has fallen , was the imperfect appreciation of the value of his discoveries. It wns only after these United States, that portion of the New World which was evidently the most dominating and influentiall, had declared their independence, that Columbus' personal history began to be investigated. In 1825 Navarette, an infidel of the Voltaire school, which believed in the virtue of no man, nor in the chastity of any woman, was retained by the Spanish Government, not to vindicate Columbus, but to construct the best possible plea for the gross ingratitude and injustice which Spain had practiced towards him. Waslington Irving and Alex. von Humboldt, taking Navarette as authority, had reiterated the charges against Columbus of superstition and bigotry, of having compared his discoveries to the trick of breaking and [an] egg and making it stand on its end, and of his having maintained unlawful relations with a certain laely lady of Cordova, Beatrice Henriquéz, the mother of his second son, Ferdinand, who was also his best historian. The lecturer met these charges in a very lawyer-like way, ,ind in the course of his argument presented many curious facts, drawn from historical sources remote and uncommon. Among some of the most interesting details connected with the career of the great Genoese, he mentioned the fact that one of his crew was an frishman, and that previous to his second voyage the Pope, at his earnest entreaty, issued a Bull appointing one Bernard Boyle (Boil), a Benedictine, and but a poor sort of Bishop any way, for he was a courtier. This Boil gave Columbus immense trouble, and by the first ship homeward bound, sent on letters to Ferdinand, asking him for God's sake to recall him, for, not knowing the language, he could be of no use where he was. It was otherwise with the Franciscans who accompaniecl Columbus. They at once began to learn the native tongue, and in spite of countless obstacles, and in the face of innumerable perils, gave themselves entirely up to the conversion of the Aborigines. "In summing np the character of Columbus the lecturer described him as a man called by God for the great mission of opening up this great continent for the development of human capacities and the spread of Christian faith and truth."

LITERARY NOTICE. "WOMEN ARTISTS IN ALL AGES AND COUNTRIES. BY MRS. ELLET." Another benefit hass the author of "The Women of the Revolution'' conferred on the reading public in general, and her own sex in particular, by the work above named, from her facile and elegant pen. It is just issued by the HARPERS, not, we must in candour say, in their best style; for the material is coarse and badly put together. Nevertheless, this new book, from its intrinsic value, is worth far more than the one dollar charged for it. For the long winter evenings, upon which we are now entering, there is nothing like a good and pleasant book, and none, on perusal, will deny this character to "Wo-men Artists." Though Mrs. ELLET has transferred, as it were, her "women" from the field of arms to the studies of art, yet are we made to perceive that many of the same qualities which insure superiority in one sphere, insure it in another; industry, energy, resolution, perseverance, are never at discount, but the germs of success, howsoever versatile the pursuits. Let woman but cultivate the noble faculties with which she is endowed by nature—then, let duty be what and where it may, she will be found equal to its requirements, and ready for their performance. There is much for high inspiration, for noble incentive, in the lives of these artist-women. "What woman has done, woman can do," will be the natural deduction from the narrative of these art-victories by the strength of "feeble woman." The names of between four and five hundred of these women artists, many of them of world-wide fame, should surely tend to her encouragement, not particularly for the pursuit of art, but for the perfecting of her being in the full development of its noblest powers, for thus the Author of her being wills it, that she fulfil her destiny. Mrs. ELLET, true to her partiality for her former Southern home, has not failed to find, even on Carolina soil, fit subjects for illustration of her theme. There is quite an extended biography of MARY SWINTON, the sister of our own HUGH LEGARE. A writer says of this lady : ''The literature of the world, its science and art, are with her a houseliold things. They flow from her eloquent tongue, as music from the harp of the minstrel." Of Mrs. CHEVES, formerly Miss McCORD, Miss ELLEN COOPER, and JULIAN DUPUE, all of Carolina, very honourable mention is made. This book adds testimony to the apparently contradictory proclivity of woman for what are called the hard studies. To mathematics and sculpture has she been particularly devoted, and in them excelled. The book opens with the early sculptor "Callichœ," and ends with HARRIET HOSMER, our contemporary, whose name is familiar to all, and one of the most interesting characters depicted to us by the fine taste of Mrs. ELLET, who has brought before us noble pictnre-gallery of those gifted women, that, o'erstepping not the modesty of their sex, have yet independently asserted their right to a noble in the

THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 237

great temple of Art, while obeying the promptings of their genius for achievements in which success has been their vindication and reward.

In the life of HARRIET HOSMER is embodied this fine paragraph, as a gem of first water, even among the precious pearls, not "at random," but systematically and elegantly "strung" by Mrs. ELLET. As Lowell wisely and poetically says:

"Great dreams preclude low ends."

"Better aspire and fail, than not aspire at all ; better to know the dream, and the fever, and the awakening, if it must be, than to pass from the cradle to the grave on the plane of content with things as they are. There may be aspiration without genius; there cannot be genius without aspiration, and where genius is backed by industry and perseverance, the aspiration of one period will meet its realization in another."

For woman's humble name to be thus associated with the great principles of art, which are eternal, will conduce more to her self-respect than her vanity, and more to her encouragement than her self-conceit, when giving emphasis to the sentiment— "There is no sex in mind." M. M.

For the Courant. THE BOOK OF IRIS. (CONTINUED.)

The first glimpse which we have of the heroine of "the book,'' who, like the angel of the Apocalypse, is "clothed in the rainbow," is in the ensuing lines, which afford an apt specimen of the authors new style: which may be termed the "revived DELLA CRUSCAN," being new, only as forming the vehicle of different, materials from those of which the works of the originators of this famous style were composed.

"She knew the marble shapes that set men dreaming. Yet with her shoulders bare, and tresses streaming. Showed not unlovely, to her simple seeming."

The low dressing, here described, is certainly rather in the extreme of the fashion; while the unkempt hair, or "tresses streaming" over her naked shoulders, must have given, we should think, somewhat of an air distrait, or of a " Crazy Jane," to the otherwise lovely creature; who, though not exactly a maid of all work, but one not fit for any work at all, except that in which she figures so fantastically, and forms an apparition much more calculated, as it strikes us, to set children screaming than men dreaming, however attached the latter may be to "marble shapes," which the author says they have so strong a penchant for, and to which he likens his etherial, sensitive, and any thing but stony-hearted heroine. Iris, however, though thus described as truly decolé, and sentimentally miserable, is, at the same time, represented as being pretty much of a female philosopher, and as

"Saying, unsaddened—This [her beauty] shall soon be faded, And double-hued [that is, gristled] the shining tresses braided,— [Just now, they were flying over her shoulders!] And all the sunlight of the morning shaded !"

Though unsaddened by these otherwise rather melancholy reflections, she sometimes had, the author tells us, "her hours of weeping, and of tearful smiles ; "and was sad only in her follies! her book being full, he states, of these new and strange species of mournful levities, and "laughing melancholies."—Strange creatures, certainly these romantic young ladies, and Album-keeping and poetizing boarding-school Misses.

But, though "the book" is represented as being written by the ideal Iris, its true paternity is so plainly traceable in its filmy fictions, unreal or merely imaginary characters, and, in the cloistered or college pedantry, that crops out (to use a now familiar phrase,) in every page, and in every sentence—that the author is never for a moment lost sight of by the reader, in the ludicrous and often-changed disguises which he assumes: Now, that of a dreamy and undefinably unhappy damsel, "all tear and anguish;" now, of her sympathising biographer; and, lastly, of her admirer, or her despairing and poetizing lover. Of the mixture of science and sentiment, of the pedantic and the pensive, of lecturing and rhyming, of which "the book" presents so strange an example, we have an early specimen in the author's superfine, and, at the same time, scientific description of the genus blonde, to which, he says his heroine belongs. "I wonder if some thing of the spiritual transparency is not typified in the golden blonde organization.— There are a great many little creatures—many small fishes, for instance, that are literally transparent—with the exception of some of the internal organs. The heart can be seen beating, etc. The central nervous column, with its sheath, runs as a dark stripe through the whole length of the diaphnous muscles. Other little creatures are so darkened with pigment that we can see only their surface. Conspirators and poisoners are painted with black beady eyes, and swarthy hue. Judas Iscariot, in Leonardo's picture, [what picture ?]* is the model of them all!"

After this short lecture on anatomy aud insectology—and display of his knowledge in the fine arts—and without stopping to explain the connection which he seems to have discovered to exist between the dark pigment that runs through the central nervous column of certain little creatures," and the "black beady eyes " and swarthy hue • peculiar to conspirators, or pointing out wherein the diaphanous muscles" of the above little creatures are illustrative of the spiritual transparency of the "golden blonde organization," he returns to "the wondrous book of Iris," and proceeds to describe the strange and grotesque objects, and certain monstrous figures, which he finds sketched on the margins of its leaves, and which—notwithstanding the mystery and significance with which he attempts to invest them—are evidently the mere idle and casual scrawlings of a school-girl, or such drawings as school-boys are in the habit of making on the blank leaves and edges of their usually dog-eared books. In these arabesque and crude scrawlings, however, our super-learned Professor, like the star-gazing philospher, who mistook a magnified fly, which had got into his telescope, for an elephant in the moon, thinks that he discerns so many efforts of youthful genius—or obscure and daring attempts of Iris—to "idealize what is vulgarly termed deformity;" which she, rising above such a mere common conception, or misconception, had "looked at in the light of one of Nature's eccentric curves, and as belonging to her system of beauty ; and as the hyperbola and patabola, belonging to the conic sections ;" though we cannot see them as symmetrical and entire figures, like the circle and ellipse. This "system of beauty," in which deformity is regarded as bearing a relation to symmetry, in the same manner as the "hyperbola and parabola belong to the conic sections, and may become entire figures, or the circle and ellipse," is certainly sufficiently learned, though not very intelligible; or, at any rate, cannot, we think, be considered as affording a very favourable specimen of the author's skill or success in looking through "the spiritual transparency of the golden blonde's organizatioin."

In attempting to carry out or accomplish this blending of beauty and deformity, Iris is, of course, not very successful; but her biographer thinks these attempts were suggested by her penchant for the crooked little gentleman, with whom all readers of the "Breakfast Table" papers, are familiar; and says : "at any rate, I cannot help referring this paradise of twisted spines [a paradise of twisted spines!] to some idea floating in her head, connected with her friend—whom Nature had warped in the moulding." "But this conjecture," he says, "is nothing to another transcendental fancy of mine." Here is this truly transcendental fancy, in describing which, the Professor out-does all his former out-doings; so that those who may take the trouble to read his account of the fancy, which he so specially claims as his own, will, we think, admit that nonsense can no further go: "I believe her soul thinks itself into his little crooked body at times—if it does not get really freed, or half-freed from her own.

Now comes another display of learning, by which it will be seen that he is acquainted with medicine, as well as with mathematics and astronomy, natural history, the classics, and the fine arts: "Did you ever see a case of catalepsy? Do you know what I mean?" [not exactly.] "Well—transient loss of sense, will, and motion; body and limbs taking any position in which they are put, as if they belonged to a lay figure. She had been talking with him [the little gentleman] one day, when the boarders moved from the table, nearly all at once." Now comes the description of the fit. "But she sate as before, her cheek resting on her hand, her amber-eyes wide open, and still. I went to her—she was breathing as usual, and her heart was beating naturally enough; but she did not anewer—[not having been asked any thing]. I bent her arm, it was plastic as softened wax, and kept the place I gave it. This will never do, thought I. I sprinkled a few drops of water on her forehead. She started, and looked round—'I have been in a dream,' she said; 'give me your hand.' She took my right hand in her left, which looked soft and white enough! but, good heaven! I believe she will crack my bones! "Such a squeeze from the "soft, white hand" of a fair lady, was more calculated, we should have supposed, to protluce at least a slight crack in the skull, than of the bones of the rough fist of a College Professor: but the grip, he tells us, was like that of a "crazy lady, when she snaps the iron window-bars of her prison, though ordinarily she had scarcely strength enough to draw on her glove!" On recovering from this cataleptic attack, "she trembled, and might have fallen, but for me: the poor little soul had been in one of those trances, that belong to the spiritual pathology of higher natures! mostly those of women." That she was subject to these trances, vulgarly yelped cataleptic fits, is previously mentioned in the following stanza of the prefatory poem, from which we have already given some equally exquisite specimens or examples of true poetry.

"She knew not love, yet lived in maiden fancies, Walked simply clad, a queen of high romance, And talked strange tongues, with angels, in her trances.''

These trances, the author hints, were of a pythonic, as well as of cataleptic type, or were accompanied by the gift of second-sight —heretofore supposed to be confined to a highly-favoured and higher-dwelling people; or the natives of those mounts of vision —hills of heather, lyric winds and sighing caves—from which an Ossian caught the inspiration that breathes so sadly and sweetly from the æolian-toned strings of his immortal harp.

Iris, he states, had told him that "the Scottish gift of second-sight ran in her family, and she was afraidshe had it." Accordingly, she soon has a premonition, or vision, of the approaching death of the little gentleman—which is accompanied, as usual, by a cataleptic attack, though of a milder character than that in which with "her soft white hand" she nearly "cracked his bones," and exhibited strength enough "to snap the iron window-bars " of a prison. "One day she came suddenly to me, looking deadly pale. Her lips moved as if she were speaking. Her hair looked strangely, as if lifting itself —[this must have been a trial to the nerves of the beholder] and her eyes were full of wild light. She sunk upon a chair. Some thing had frozen her blood with fear. I thought, from what she said, half-audibly, that she believed she had seen a shrouded figure." How horrid ! "That night, at about eleven o'clock, I was sent for by the little gentleman, who was taken suddenly ill." We were in hopes that this attack had terminated fatally, so that the public might have been happily rid of one of the bores of "The Breakfast Table;" but here the paper abruptly ends, and, instead of the anxiouly-looked-for last scene, the poem of "Under the Violets" is served up to the readers. Among the mourners for the maiden whose death is commemorated in these affecting stanzas, are some whose sympathies and sorrows cannot but produce a "contagious feeling" in the breast of every reader of the least sensibility or refinement of sentiment.

'' When turning round their dial track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pass— Her little mourners clad in black—[of course.] The crickets sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass."

We doubt whether the piping of a mass is a usual, or would be a respectful mode of celebratiug that solemn service of the Catholic Church; or whether this kind of music would be endured, either at a funeral or cricket-match ; but, as the licentia vatum can no more be interfered with than the liberty of the press in our free and happy country, we do not know that we have any right to object, to the introduction of such players into the choir of the Muses as the Professor has enlisted and set a-piping in the above stanza.

But we have done, Mr. Editor, as your readers cannot but be tired of the twaddle and "perilous stuff ''—which we have been obliged to quote from "The Book of Iris" in self-defence, or in order to sustain the indictment we have preferred against the Professor and the conductors of the "Atlantic Magazine:" the one for writing, and the other for printing, and inflicting upon the public, such nonsense, pulling sentimentality, and mere scribbling, as that contained in the above book, and the other papers from the pen of " The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." But, perhaps the Professor is, after all, only slyly satirizing the prevailing taste for mere mawkish sentimentality, improbable fictions, and the penny-a-liner style, both in prose and poetry; and has finally resolved to choke the public, if possible, with a dose—or over-dose—of this kind of writing; as we think he has successfully done (if this be his object) in the "Book of Iris," and the whining and die-away poems with which it is interspersed. If this, however, be his purpose, we must confess ourselves to be fairly sold, and submit to be quizzed in turn, or to take the place of the Professor in the pillory which we had prepared for him, as an offender against all the rules of criticism, composition, and good taste. ATHENION.

BURTON'S Anatomy of Melancholy has been republished.— The Boston Advertiser says, in a notice of the new edition: "Burton's language, embroidered with gems from every source, is heavy and rich, like old brocade, and many an author has found Burton's writings a vast store-house of rich robes, in which he has arrayed himself, and gained general admiration. Thackeray represents Captain Shandon as drawing his editorial learning from Burton—and it is surprising to see how many of Burton's robes, after lending dignity to Sterne's thin figure, have draped the broad shoulders of Pisistratus Caxton. Those who have never read the 'Anatomy of Melancholy,' will find that they have long been familiar with many of its choicest bits of grave humour and simple wisdom.' "

• Of these grotesque arbesques, we have the following detailed and strange account. Here is some thing very odd, to be sure, an Eden of all bumped and crooked creatures. What could have been in her head, when she worked out such fantasies?" She had contrived, we are told, to give to all these humped and crooked creatures "beauty, or dignity, or melancholy grace." A "Bactrian camel, lying under a palm, with a melancholy grace," we suppose. "A dromedary flashing up the sands; a herd of buffaloes, uncouth, shaggy-maned, heavy in the forehead, light in the hind-quarter; and there is a Norman horse, with his huge, rough collar, echoing, as it were [what is this?] the natural form of the other beast" [or of the bison]. "And here are twisted serpents and stately swans, with answering curves in their bowed necks, as if they had snakes' blood under their white feathers." [echoing, we suppose, the natural form of the scaly and writhing reptiles] "A very odd page, indeed," says the Professor, as "not a creature in it is without a curve or twist; and not one of them a mean figure to look at;" all having a certain beauty, or dignity, or melancholy grace. "One more of these interesting items, and we are done." "A ray of cloud on one page, as I remember, with a streak of red zig-zag going out of it, across the papaer, as naturally as a crack runs through a China bowl!"