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hitherto reverenced as the figure of Truth , tifully does Mr. Cheever exclaim, “What arrayed in the simple garments of philosophy. I would not the world give for a collection of
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Kaloolah, or Journeyings to the Djebel Kumri; | drooping and decaying Nature. Stand forth,
an Autobiography of Jonathan Romer. and enjoy it! Quail not! Bare your brow to Edited by W. S. Mayo, M. D. New York: the storm-look with a steady eye upon the George P. Putnam, 155 Broadway; Lon | lightning's flash--listen to the awful chorus, don : David Bogue, 86 Fleet street. and feel alike the infinity of God and the great
ness of the soul. The storm has passed—the This book is full of spirit, life and excite- / moistened foliage rustles in the breeze, but ment, and its interest never for a moment with a different tone—a tone of pure gladness; flags. The author is at home on the ocean, the insects beat the air with their tiny wings in the wilderness, on the vast desert. Kaloolah to a more joyful measure; the birds sing is an exquisite patriot, and the account of her freely, blithely; the trout springs actively from growing love for Romer is delightfully and the placid lake, and dashes the sparkling circles truly told. Every one will read it, but we with a sound of merriment and glee. The cannot refrain from giving one specimen of our harmony is of Nature revived, restored. It author's happy style.
While Romer is at speaks of hope and confidence-it presages school a “ revival of religion” takes place in immortality. But how easy, natural and quiet! the village, and the temporary madness ex- Ah, in all that infinite variety of praise, and tends itself to the teachers in the seminary; prayer, and thanksgiving, you can discover the school-room is deserted. Romer says, nothing like rant or cant !" " At this time most of my hours were spent in the woods, either fishing, reading, or perchance dreaming. Often stretched at length upon the sunny bank of the most beautiful trout-stream Leonard Scott & Co., 79 Fulton street, New in the world, or seated upon some prostrate York, have reprinted the London Quarterly, giant of the forest, I have turned with shud- | the Edinburgh and Westminster Reviews, and dering and loathing from the sight and sounds Blackwood's Magazine. They contain much of the distant village, and have felt borne to interesting and instructive reading, and are my innermost soul the conviction that cant and published at exceedingly low rates. The Lonrant are utterly inconsistent with the truc don Quarterly has some excellent remarks on worship of God. How soft, and low, and Macaulay's History of England, written in a calm, yet deep and full of meaning and power, fair tone and spirit. The reviewer thinks, are the hymns sung to His praise in the great “ There is hardly a page that does not contain temple of Nature. How varied too! How something objectionable either in substance or intinitely expressive! Listen to the hot sun. in color; and the whole of the brilliant and beams striking upon the thick pendent foliage, at first captivating narrative is perceived on to the soft sighing of the million leaves, as, dis- examination to be impregnated to a really turbed by the fitful breeze, they twist and marvellous degree with bad taste, bad feeling, wriggle themselves back to stillness and rest. and, we are under the painful necessity of addListen to the low hum of the lazy insects ; to ing, bad faith. . . . . It makes the facts of the hesitating twitter of the sleepy birds, or to English history as fabulous as his Lays do the occasional sullen, sluggish plash of some those of Roman tradition; and it is written with trout, who has been lured from his siesta by as captious, as dogmatical, and as cynical a the temptation of a careless fly. The blended spirit as the bitterest of his reviews. .. He whole makes music -low, melancholy music- does not take the slightest notice of Mackthe most saddening music-it speaks of life, intosh's history, no more than if it had never health, vigor; but of life, health, vigor, doomed existed. . Mr. Macaulay deals with histo decay. It is prophetic in its tones; the tory, evidently, as we think, in imitation of deepest well-springs of the soul are stirred, the novelists-his first object being always gently, sadly, but not unpleasantly, as the fore- picturesque effect-his constant endeavor to boding notes rise, and swell, and fall
. Anon give from all the repositories of gossip that the tempest comes, the majestic clouds speak have reached us a kind of circumstantial reto each other and to earth in the deep voices of ality to his incidents, and a sort of dramatic the pealing thunder; the sturdy woods re- life to his personages.
... He paints every echo, and prolong the crashing sounds; the thing that looks like a Tory in the blackest colwind sweeps through the foliage with a hollow ors. ... Mr. Macaulay has almost realized the rushing, as if a myriad viewless spirits were
work that Alexander Chalmers' playful imagiflapping their pinions and careering before it nation had fancied, a Biographia Flagitiosa, -the big drops fall with leaden sound upon or, The Lives of Eminent Scoundrels. the leaves. Does not the whole make the We protest against this species of carnival wildest, sublimest harmony? There is nothing history; no more like the reality than the disinal or gloomy in it; it is sternly joyous; it Eylintoun Tournament or the Costume Qua. speaks of power, of might; but it speaks too drilles of Buckingham Palace; and we dein solemn and majestic tones-no ranting or plore the squandering of so much melo-dracanting-of a power above, and beyond mere matic talent on a subject which we have
hitherto reverenced as the figure of Truth, tifully does Mr. Cheever exclaim, “ What arrayed in the simple garments of philosophy. would not the world give for a collection of We are ready to admit an hundred times Milton's private correspondence! The only over Mr. Macaulay's literary powers--bril- letters we have are letters of state, grand letliant even under the affectation with which ters, letters written with the eye of the world he too frequently disfigures them. He is over the shoulder of the writer. But of epistoa great painter, but a suspicious narrator; lary correspondence, of that which is a carea grand proficient in the picturesque, but a less, hasty record of a man's fainiliar thoughts very poor professor of the historic. These and feelings, as they come and go in the curvolumes have been, and his future volumes as rent of every day's existence, we have nothey appear will be devoured with the same thingeagerness that Oliver Twist or Vanity Fair excite--with the same quality of zest, though Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart; perhaps with a higher degree of it; but his Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the pages will seldom, we think, receive a second
sea; perusal; and the work, we apprehend, will Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. hardly find a permanent place on the historic So didst thou travel on life's common way." shell--nor ever assuredly, if continued in the spirit of the first two volumes, be quoted as
We hear the roar of the sea ; the voice, in authority on any question or point of the His- English literature, is as that of Niagara among tory of England."
waters. We behold, too, the perpetual shining of the star, but there is a sense of aparlness, a majesty of loneliness about it. The roar of the
ocean is grand, but it is pleasant sometimes The Hill Difficulty, and some Experiences of to hear the gurgle of the running brooks Life in the Plains of Ease, with other Miss among forest leaves, when “inland far we
be.” And such a music is in the minor poems cellanies. By George B. CHEEVER, D.D. New York: John Wiley, 161 Broadway.
of Milton, but we have no familiar letters.
There appears to us to be much affectation in the title of this volume. In an article on the life and writings of John Foster, Mr. Chee- The Personal History and Experience of Daver praises and admires Foster for his child-like rid Copperfield the younger,
Bv CHARLES simplicity, Christian humility, nobleness of DICKENS. Illustrated by H. K. Browne. feeling, and intense hatred of oppression, but No. 1. New York: John Wiley, 161 Broadnotwithstanding these glorious virtues, be
way. cause Foster did not believe in the doctrine of eternal punishment, he is called by Mr. This edition is reprinted from proof-sheets Cheever an intellectual, but hals-enlightened received by special arrangement from the Lonpagan. Did Mr. Foster believe in infant don publishers. This work bids fair to be as indamnation ? Certainly not; yet this one of teresting as any that has as yet issued from the doctrines of Calvinism. But what minister the fertile brain of Mr. Dickens. The illustradare preach it now? Every mother, especially tions are excellent, and the book is handsomely any of them who had lost children, could they printed. There is an old woman in the work for a moment think that the little cherubs whose favorite word is “meandering.” She whose rosy mouths they had kissed, whose boasts that she has never been out on the heads had reposed on their bosom, whose little water, and expresses her indignation at the confiding hands had been pressed in theirs, impiety of mariners and others who had the whose first artless words they had listened to- presumption to go “meandering” about the could they for a moment think that such an- world. It was in vain to represent to her that gelic natures had descended to the “ bottomless some conveniences, tea perhaps included, repit," such a doctrine would fall powerless on sulted from this objectionable practice.
She their ears; with faces turned heavenward, and always returned with greater emphasis, and eyes filled with tears, they would rejoice that of with an instinctive knowledge of the strength such is the kingdom of heaven. With Mr. of her objection, “ Let us have no meandering.” Cheever the thought of eternal punishment There is another lady who, when speaking of seems to be delightful, it nestles in his brain the kindness of her departed husband, and that and heart, he turns over the words in bis hey had always lived happily together, says: mouth as a sweet morsel, it is with hiin “ I'am sure we never had a word of difference " the silken string running through the pearl except when Mr. Copperfield objected to my chain of all virtues," and religion likewise. threes and fives being too much like each
Some of the descriptive and meditative pieces other, or to my putting curly tails to my sevens in this volume are pleasantly written. Beau- and nines.”
hitherto reverenced as the figure of Truth, tifully does Mr. Cheever exclaim, “What arrayed in the simple garments of philosophy. I would not the world cive for a mllartinn of
sin fee not cal ete Ch paç dan the dar any for who hea con whc coul gelii pit," their eyes buch Chei seen and mou " the chair
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