When Margaret Fuller became the literary editor of the New-York Tribune in the fall of 1844, she also embarked on a process of reshaping her identity. Her Tribune essays, like her most famous work, Woman in the Nineteenth Century (1845), can be read not only as cultural critique but also a record of Fuller’s evolving identity. With each column Fuller expressed her sense of self by taking positions that identified her politically and culturally. Before moving to New York City, Fuller lived in Boston, where she participated actively in its culture and identified herself with the progressive and reformist citizens,...

At the distance of three years this volume follows the first series of Essays, which have already made to themselves a circle of readers, attentive, thoughtful, more and more intelligent, and this circle is a large one if we consider the circumstances of this country, and of England, also, at this time.¹

In England it would seem there are a larger number of persons waiting for an invitation to calm thought and sincere intercourse than among ourselves. Copies of Mr. Emerson’s first published little volume called “Nature,” have there been sold by thousands in a short time, while one edition...

Thanksgiving is peculiarly the festival day of New-England. Elsewhere, other celebrations rival its attractions, but in that region where the Puritans first returned thanks that some among them had been sustained by a great hope and earnest resolve amid the perils of the ocean, wild beasts and famine, the old spirit which hallowed the day still lingers, and forbids that it should be entirely devoted to play and plum-pudding.

And yet, as there is always this tendency; as the twelfth-night cake is baked by many a hostess who would be puzzled if you asked her, “Twelfth night after or before...

It was once a beautiful custom among some of the Indian tribes, once a year, to extinguish all the fires, and, by a day of fasting and profound devotion, to propitiate the Great Spirit for the coming year. They then produced sparks by friction, and lit up afresh the altar and the hearth with the new fire.

And this was considered as the most precious and sacred gift from one person to another, binding them in bonds of inviolate friendship for that year, certainly; with a hope that the same might endure through life. From the young to the old...

What happiness for the critic when, as in the present instance, his task is, mainly, how to express a cordial admiration; to indicate an intelligence of beauties, rather than regret for defects!

We have read these volumes with feelings of delight far warmer than the writer, in her sincerely modest preface, would seem to expect from any reader, and cannot hesitate to rank her, in vigor and nobleness of conception, depth of spiritual experience, and command of classic allusion, above any female writer the world has yet known.

In the first quality, especially, most female writers are deficient. They do...

This Annual is published, as usual, in Massachusetts, for the benefit of the Anti-Slavery Fair. As frontispiece, it has a portrait of WENDELL PHILLIPS, one of the most eloquent leaders of the party, etched by J. Andrews from a Daguerreotype by Southworth, which presents a fac-simile of his keen intellectual expression.¹ The face corresponds entirely with his style of oratory.

The writers show their usual clearness and full possession of their ground. Even these pieces, which have little merit in point of talent, please by their distinct enunciation of principles.

Elizabeth Pease, a valued English friend to the cause, observes,...

This is a very pleasing book, and, if the “Essays for Summer Hours” resemble it,¹ we are not surprised at the favor with which they have been received, not only in this country but in England.

The writer, Mr. Lanman, is by profession a Landscape Painter, by pastime a fisherman of the speckled trout that serve as decoy to the most beautiful inland scenes, or of the larger fish that serve as excuse for passing the day on the boldest crags of the sea-shore. Thus business and pleasure have combined to lead him, during the months of fine weather, to...

By prefixing to his work these lines from Wordsworth, Mr. Lowell indicates his standard as to the hopes and destiny of the Poet. It is a high one; and in its application, he shows great justness of feeling, delicacy of perception, comprehensive views; and, for this country, an unusual refinement and extent of culture.

We have been accustomed to hear Mr. Lowell so extravagantly lauded by the circle of his friends, that we should be hopeless of escaping the wrath of his admirers, for any terms in which our expressions of sympathy could be couched, but for the more modest...

Graham’s Magazine, February 1845.

This number of Graham’s Magazine has a likeness of Edgar A. Poe, with a critique upon that critic and a brief outline of his career thus far, by James Russell Lowell.¹

This article is frank, earnest, and contains many just thoughts, expressed with force and point. We quote the following:

“Talent may make friends for itself, but only genius can give to its creations the divine power of winning love and veneration. Enthusiasm cannot cling to what itself is unenthusiastic, nor will he ever have disciples, who has not himself impulsive zeal enough to be a...

This is a book that will have a permanent value as a traveling companion. It is written in a very plain and natural manner, and with good taste and feeling, giving, with regard to the places described, just those leading facts that the visitor desires to know.

Those which relate to Monte-Video—Huguenot Fort—the Charter Oak at Hartford—the Moravian settlements at Bethlehem and Nazareth—and the story from the Vale of Wyoming, were the most interesting to ourselves.

We extract a part of Huguenot Fort as a fair specimen of the book:...

This thirteenth number of the “Wandering Jew,” just published by Winchester,¹ has delivered us from our anxieties as to the objects of Jesuit persecution, though by a coup de main clumsier than is usual even with Sue. Now, we have matters arranged for a few months more of contest with the Society of Jesus, but we think our author must depend for interest during the last volume, no longer on the conduct of the plot, but on the portraiture of characters.

It is cheering to know how great is the influence such a writer as Sue exerts, from his energy...

This narrative is written with a vigor, power of conduct in the plot, and in sketches of character, that would have given the author a high rank throughout this country, as a novelist, had not his theme been one calculated to waken hostility in many readers and fear in more.

History will class it as one of the most remarkable and interesting productions of our time. It will not be forgotten, for the same allowance is to be made for the earnest devotion of the writer to the cause of an injured race, and for the necessity of bringing forward...

There is no branch of literature that better deserves cultivation, and none that so little obtains it from worthy hands as this of Children’s books. It requires a peculiar development of the genius and sympathies, rare among the men of factitious life, who are not men enough to revive, with force and beauty, the thoughts and scenes of childhood.

It is all idle to talk baby-talk, with malice prepense, and to give shallow accounts of deep things, thinking thereby to interest the child.—He does not like to be too much puzzled, but it is simplicity he wants and not...

This book bears on its outside the title, Life of Beethoven, by Moscheles. It is really only a translation of Schindler’s,¹ and it seems quite unfair to bring Moscheles so much into the foreground merely because his name is celebrated in England. He has only contributed a few notes and a short introduction, giving a most pleasing account of his own devotion to the Master.—Schindler was the trusty friend of Beethoven, and one whom he, himself, selected to write his biography. Inadequate as it is, there is that fidelity in the collection of materials which makes it serviceable to...

Now that the Red Race have well nigh melted from our sight, relentings and regret arise that they had not been more prized, at least as an object of study. With the primitive features of the landscape this primitive aspect of human nature was indissolubly united; before the advance of the white settler both vanish, almost with the rapidity of thought, and soon will be but a memory, yet we should wish that memory to be faithful for there was a grandeur in that landscape, and in the figures that animated it, in itself too poetic, to be misused as...

The warm commendations from respected critics elsewhere, which had heralded the appearance of Mr. Hudson among us,¹ secured him a good audience for his first lecture—good in every sense, both as including a sufficient range of minds and some of the best minds. We believe the audience were very favorably impressed. Indeed, no one could refuse sympathy to the straight-forward manner of the address. There was no phrasing, no pretension, no persuasion, but just what the lecturer had to say, stated without circumlocution. And, strange to say, this is a rare merit. Though any person, of native tact and...

This discourse derives interest, not so much from intrinsic claims, as from the circumstances under which it was delivered, and the position occupied by the preacher in New England.

We cannot wonder at the hopes entertained by the ancient Catholic church, of seeing its dominion renewed and strengthened on earth, when we see the almost universal dereliction among Protestants from the great principle of Protestantism;—respect for the right of private judgment and the decision of conscience in the individual. From Luther downward, each sect claiming to be Protestant, has claimed no less to utter its anathema against those who...

The aspect of Nature was sad; what is worse, it was dull and dubious, when we set forth on these visits. The sky was leaden and lowering, the air unkind and piercing, the little birds sat mute and astonished at the departure of the beautiful days which had lured them to premature song. It was a suitable day for such visits. The pauper establishments that belong to a great city take the place of the skeleton at the banquets of old. They admonish us of stern realities, which must bear the same explanation as the frequent blight of Nature’s bloom....

As several readers have expressed their pleasure in the opportunity of reading the poems of MILNES, with which we adorned a previous notice, we must copy one more, from among the “Memorials of Many Scenes.” It is not one of much poetic merit, but for its delicacy of feeling, and the living picture of a Southern moonlit night, delightful to read, especially in the frosty dullness of a Northern Spring:...

Von Raumer has lately read before the “Scientific Union” in Berlin some account of his visit to North America and of Slavery in the United States. He confined himself principally to a statement of arguments by the Anti-Abolitionists for the continuance of slavery in the Southern States, among which he dwelt particularly on the position of the Negro as being in regard to the moral and political Idea of the Free States preferable to that of our laborers and operatives in manufactories. The lecturer seemed not disinclined to coincide with this view, though he spoke with decision only of the...

This little book will be found of real use by those who are learning German in an intelligent manner. It is usually taught by a pedantic routine which makes its attainment unnecessarily difficult, as well as tedious. The writer, by methods similar to that proposed in this book, learned in three weeks what those who proceed in the common course do not in three months, to translate books in a simple style and on familiar subjects with considerable fluency. Nor is this method of learning superficial: on the contrary it implies a speedy insight to the construction of the language,...

The extensive and growing popularity of Mrs. Child as a writer is an earnest of good. It shows that the world is ready to value, if it cannot appreciate, the sincere purpose and active fidelity of the inner life, when brought near to it through a character so affectionate, humane, and lively as hers.—Let those who cannot make themselves heard rouse themselves to a sense of their deficiencies!

These pictures of New-York life, so interesting now from their familiar freedom, will retain a permanent value from the same cause. They will take their place in the history of a...

The author says in his short preface—“It will be perceived, from an examination of the present volume, that the exercises contained in it have been arranged in such a way as to form a regular and progressive course; and it is believed that, after the student has been carefully taken over the entire work, he will be fully qualified to enter upon the task of original composition in Latin verse, an accomplishment which forms decidedly the truest and most enduring ornament of classical education.” Such an accomplishment is, indeed, of great value to one who can estimate its bearings,...

This is a book, heavy and ineffectual to the last degree, about which the only mystery is that it should ever have been written, for it must have taken a great deal of time, and been very slow work, and does no where show one spark of that impatient fire, which will sometimes excuse a man very clumsy-handed for seizing the pen. The author expresses great reverence and terror at having taken up a subject from Biblical history, but we cannot think he feels it, or he would not put such long and dull speeches in the mouths of persons...

Such is the title of a volume just issued from the press:—a grand title, which suggests the epic poet or the philosopher. The purpose, however, of the work is modest. It is merely a compilation, from which those who have lived at some distance from the great highway may get answers to their questions, as to events and circumstances which have escaped them. It is one of those books which will be valued in the back-woods.

It would be a great book, indeed, and one that would require the eye and heart of a great man,—great as a...

A few days ago, a lady, crossing in one of the ferry boats that ply from this city, saw a young boy, poorly dressed, sitting with an infant in his arms on one of the benches. She observed that the child looked sickly and coughed. This, as the day was raw, made her anxious in its behalf, and she went to the boy and asked whether he was alone there with the baby, and if he did not think the cold breeze dangerous for it. He replied that he was sent out with the child to take care of it,...

Frederick Douglass has been for some time a prominent member of the Abolition party. He is said to be an excellent speaker—can speak from a thorough personal experience—and has upon the audience, beside, the influence of a strong character and uncommon talents. In the book before us he has put into the story of his life the thoughts, the feelings and the adventures that have been so affecting through the living voice; nor are they less so from the printed page. He has had the courage to name the persons, times and places, thus exposing himself to obvious...

The ladies of the Prison Association have been, for some time, engaged in the endeavor to procure funds for establishing this asylum. They have met, thus far, with little success; but, touched by the position of several women, who, on receiving their discharge, were anxiously waiting in hope there would be means provided to save them from return to their former suffering and polluted life, they have taken a house and begun their good work in faith that Heaven must take heed that such an enterprise may not fail, and touch the hearts of men to aid it.

They have...

Does any shame still haunt the age of bronze—a shame, the lingering blush of a heroic age, at being caught in doing anything merely for amusement? Is there a public still extant which needs to excuse its delinquencies by the one story of a man who liked to lie on the sofa all day and read novels, though he could, at time of need, write the gravest didactics! Live they still, those reverend signiors, the object of secret smiles to our childish years, who were obliged to apologize for midnight oil spent in conning story books, by the “historic...

The last volumes of Wilkes’s Narrative have reached us now, and, though like the first they are written in too prolix a style, and show the writer without high qualifications for such a task, they are upon ground so much less familiar that they are far more interesting than the first.¹ The work really contains many facts of value. The illustrations, too, are many, and sufficient to impart a lively idea of the scenes and people. Thus, apart from the practical results attained, the nation has derived from this great national enterprise sufficient food for its intelligence to stimulate the...

We notice this fiction, because, though upon an Indian subject it is not tedious, and though it would seem, both from the circumstances under which it was written, and mistakes as to matters of fact in the book, that the author had had but brief and scanty opportunity for personal acquaintance with the red men, yet the sketches, especially of the girl, Canondah, are excellent, spirited and lifelike.

This author is himself like the man of the wilds in some respects. He feels little need of an object in life, or harmony of character, but delights to note the signs...

In one of the eloquent passages quoted in The Tribune of Wednesday under the head ‘Spirit of the Irish Press,’ we find these words:

“Domestic love, almost morbid from external suffering, prevents him (the Irishman) from becoming a fanatic and a misanthrope, and reconciles him to life.”¹

This recalled to our mind the many touching instances known to us of such traits among the Irish we have seen here. We have seen instances of morbidness like this. A girl sent “home,” after she was well established herself, for a young brother of whom she was particularly fond. He came, and,...

The bells ring; the cannon rouse the echoes along the river shore; the boys sally forth with shouts and little flags and crackers enough to frighten all the people they meet from sunrise to sunset. The orator is conning for the last time the speech in which he has vainly attempted to season with some new spice the yearly panegyric upon our country; its happiness and glory; the audience is putting on its best bib and tucker, and its blandest expression to listen.

And yet, no heart, we think, can beat to-day with one pulse of genuine, noble joy. Those...

This is a very well written tale. The characters and events are taken from our every-day experience and described with nature and simplicity. The story is remarkably well told, and the catastrophe brought on with but little semblance of improbability. There is a little; for these strange results which the workings of the passions produce in real life are incredible in fiction, unless the inward cause can be made as palpable as the outward phenomenon. Not to mention works of the highest genius; in those of Godwin and Balzac—the most singular facts do not surprise us, because we are...

Mr. Poe’s tales need no aid of newspaper comment to give them popularity; they have secured it. We are glad to see them given to the public in this neat form, so that thousands more may be entertained by them without injury to their eye-sight.

No form of literary activity has so terribly degenerated among us as the tale. Now that every body who wants a new hat or bonnet takes this way to earn one from the magazines or annuals, we are inundated with the very flimsiest fabrics ever spun by mortal brain. Almost every person of feeling or...

Since the publication of a short notice under this head in The Tribune several persons have expressed to us that their feelings were awakened on the subject, especially as to their intercourse with the lower Irish. Most persons have an opportunity of becoming acquainted, if they will, with the lower class of Irish, as they are so much employed among us in domestic service, and other kinds of labor.

We feel, say these persons, the justice of what has been said as to the duty and importance of improving these people. We have sometimes tried, but the want of real...

Now almost the last light has gone out of the galaxy that made the first thirty years of this age so bright. Wordsworth and Moore alone remain.¹ And the dynasty that now reigns over the world of wit and poetry is poor and pale, indeed, in comparison. We are anxious to pour due libations to the departed; we need not economize our wine; it will not be so often needed now.

Hood has closed the most fatiguing career in the world, that of a professed wit;² and we may say with deeper feeling than of others who shuffle off the...

The Hon. Mrs. Norton and Prince, “a reed-maker for weavers,”¹ meet upon a common theme—the existing miseries and possible relief of that most wretched body, England’s Poor: most wretched of the world’s sufferers in being worse mocked by pretensions of freedom and glory, most wretched in having minds more awakened to feel their wretchedness.

Mrs. Norton and Prince meet on the same ground, but in strongly contrasted garb and expression, as might be expected from the opposite quarters from which they come. Prince takes this truly noble motto:

“Knowledge and Truth and Virtue were his theme,

And lofty hopes...

Among the holidays of the year, some portion of our people borrow one from another land.¹ They borrow what they fain would own, since their doing so would increase, not lessen, the joy and prosperity of the present owner. It is a holiday, not to be celebrated, as others are, with boast, and shout, and gay procession, but solemnly, yet hopefully, in humiliation and prayer for much ill now existing—in faith that the God of good will not permit such ill to exist always—in aspirations to become His instruments for its removal.

We borrow this holiday from England....

This volume contains many charming and amusing pieces from Hood. We need say no more after our late remarks on the subject in general.¹ The “Literary Reminiscences,” which will be found in this selection, have a new and double interest at the present moment.

The reminiscences of Lamb, are the most pleasing and characteristic of any that have been given to the world. How funny and pretty the note of Lamb after Hood had written “The Widow,” in imitation of his manner.² And then those walks!—“Scott,” says Cunningham, “was a stout walker.³ⁿ Lamb was a porter one.⁴ He calculated...

By signs too numerous to be counted, yet some of them made fruitful by specification, the Spirit of the Age announces that she is slowly, toilsomely, but surely, working that revolution, whose mighty deluge rolling back, shall leave a new aspect smiling on earth to greet the “most ancient heavens.” The wave rolls forward slowly, and may be as long in retreating, but when it has retired into the eternal deep, it will leave behind it a refreshed world, in which there may still be many low and mean men, but no lower classes; for it will be understood that...

Notwithstanding the long preparation of our minds, we were struck with admiration and delight by a view of the vast steam-ship. Once again we envied him of whose thought this is the full-grown offspring, and when admitted to see the apparatus of heart and lungs, felt that if Man is no longer a giant, he is at least the creator of giants. It is a proud feeling to tread these decks from end to end; ought indeed to be proud for those who steer her mighty path upon the Ocean.

As we looked on her, we longed for a Homer...

This book has been lying on our table two or three weeks. It seemed to us, at first, either a heap of rubbish or a long and tedious quiz. But, looking into it at leisure from time to time, we find deep meanings, beautiful pictures, and real wit. Probably we now apprehend the thought. But, if we do, the author will not expect from us a critical notice of the usual sort; and as to the public, we can only commend it to those who would know how to read a volume detected amid old-fashioned odds and ends in the...

We are right glad to see this beloved stranger domesticated among us. Yet there are queer little circumstances that herald the introduction. The Poet is a Barrister at Law!—well! it is always worthy of ⁿ note when a man is not hindered by study of human law from knowledge of divine; which last is all that concerns the Poet. Then the Preface to the American edition closes with this discreet remark: “It is perfectly safe to pronounce it (the poem) one of the most powerful and splendid productions of the age.” Dear New-England! how purely that was worthy thee,...

We know not why the Tailor should have been so long the theme of jest and scorn on the score of his profession. It was not merely that his profession was sedentary and kept him from manly, athletic exercises, neither that his art was devoted to furnishing raimentⁿ for the body alone. The hatter, the hosier, the shoemaker, shared with him these difficulties, yet they might, if entitled to them by character, receive the honors due to whole men, or whole-souled men, while the Tailor must in no case be regarded as better than a fraction of a man. No...

Jenny Lind, the prima donna of Stockholm, is among the most distinguished of those geniuses who have been invited to welcome the Queen of England to Germany. Her name has been unknown among us, as she is still young and has not wandered much from the scene of her first triumphs; but many may have seen, last Winter, in the foreign papers an account of her entrance into Stockholm after an absence of some length. The people received her with loud cries of homage, took the horses from her carriage and drew her home; a tribute of respect often paid...

The same day brought us a copy of Mr. Burdett’s little book, in which the sufferings and difficulties that beset the large class of women who must earn their subsistence in a city like New-York are delineated with so much simplicity, feeling and exact adherence to the facts—and a printed circular containing proposals for immediate practical adoption of the plan more fully described in a book published some weeks since under the title “The Duty of American Women to their Country,” which was ascribed alternately to Mrs. Stone and Miss Catherine Beecher, but of which we understand both those...

Europe is about to resume the jewel she has lent us for a season, and we trust the last moments of its radiance upon ourselves will be duly valued by all who are fitted to view from the true point, which we take to be that of one’s own heart.

Christopher North said in the Noctes Ambrosianæ that the world could never want a subject for discussion, since, when all others were exhausted, still would remain the question “Whether or no is Pope a poet.”¹ For the present a similar dispute as to the claims of Ole Bull to the...

The noble lines of Wordsworth, quoted by Mr. Griswold on his title-page, would be the best and a sufficient advertisement of each reprint:

“Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour.

Return to us again,

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the Sea:

Pure as the naked Heavens, majestic, free:

So didst thou travel on Life’s common way

In cheerful Godliness, and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay.”¹

One should have climbed to as high a point as...

These three publications have come to hand during the last month—a cheering gleam upon the winter of our discontent, as we saw the flood of bad translations of worse books which swelled upon the country.

We love our country well. The many false deeds and low thoughts—the devotion to interest—the forgetfulness of principle—the indifference to high and noble sentiment which have, in so many ways, darkened her history for some years back, have not made us despair of her yet fulfilling the great destiny whose promise rose, like a star, only some half a century ago...

During a late visit to Boston, I visited with great pleasure the Chinese Museum which has been opened there, and which will be seen to still greater advantage in New-York next Summer, because there will be more room to display to advantage its rich contents.

There was great pleasure in surveying there, if merely on account of their splendor and elegance, which, though fantastic according to our tastes, presented an obvious standard of its own by which to prize it. The rich dresses of the imperial court, the magnificent jars, the largest worth three hundred dollars, and looking as if...

Translating Dante is indeed a labor of love. It is one in which even a moderate degree of success is impossible. No great poet can be well translated. The form of his thought is inseparable from his thought. The births of his genius are perfect beings; body and soul are in such perfect harmony, that you cannot at all alter one, without veiling the other. The variation in cadence and modulation, even where the words are exactly rendered, takes, not only from the form of the thought, but from the thought itself, its most delicate charm.—Translations come to us...

In this volume will be found all the excellences to which we are accustomed in this justly popular writer—a sweet and genial temper, able to sympathise with whatever is simple and healthful, balanced by a quick sense of folly, pretension, or morbid action in character; admirable good sense, ennobled by generous desires; a cultivated taste, and great comic power. When to these qualifications for observing men is added a familiar love of nature, with uncommon talents for description, it must be confessed that the combination of claims is rare. And Mrs. Kirkland has yet one more, that will not...

Mr. Poe throws down the gauntlet in his preface, by what he says of “the paltry compensations or more paltry commendations of mankind.” Some champion might be expected to start up from the “somewhat sizeable” class embraced, or more properly speaking, boxed on the ear, by this defiance, who might try whether the sting of Criticism was as indifferent to this knight of the pen as he professes its honey to be.

Were there such a champion, gifted with acumen to dissect, and a swift glancing wit to enliven the operation, he could find no more legitimate subject, no fairer...

The list of titles, in whose place we read the &c. should be given to enable the reader to appreciate the degree of independence and candor shown by Von Raumer in speaking of the institutions of his native land and the influence of that government which has delighted to honor him. This is esteemed, abroad, to be very considerable, though it may not make much show beside the standard which easily rises so high in a country happy in the freedom of the press.

If we appreciate this justly, we shall be more likely to be just to the motives...

Poetry is not a superhuman or supernatural gift. It is, on the contrary, the fullest and therefore most completely natural expression of what is human.—It is that of which the rudiments lie in every human breast, but developed to a more complete existence than the obstructions of daily life permit, clothed in an adequate form, domesticated in nature by the use of apt images, the perception of grand analogies, and set to the music of the spheres for the delight of all who have ears to hear. We have uttered these remarks, which may, to many of our readers,...

We wish to call attention to a lecture on this subject which Mr. Ertheiler proposes to deliver preparatory to the forming of classes. We have read it in manuscript and found in it a clear and judicious exposition of the objects and methods of this study.

Mr. Ertheiler gives good reasons, both as to mental culture and practical use, why the study is interesting and important to English and Americans, especially the latter. He alludes to some remarks by Professor Von Raumer as to the advantage of schools where the English and German languages shall be mutually taught, which may...

This picture, famous in the annals of American art, may now be seen to very good advantage at the Society Library Rooms, either in the brighter hours of the day or by gas-light.

Much stress is laid, in the advertisements, upon the moral purpose or influence of the picture.¹—With regard to this we must observe that moral influence is not the legitimate object of works of art. It may naturally flow from them in so far as beauty is identical with health and virtue, but the object of the Fine Arts is simply to express thoughts in forms more...

Innumerable as are the books of travel now into every region of the world, the proportion of good ones to the whole is still very small. For because traveling is the fashion, and almost every one who has a little money and time to spare makes use of the daily increasing facilities to extend the range of his experience, it does not follow that many of these shall have the elements of knowledge, the equipoise and discipline of faculties needful either to appreciate the known, or detect the unknown. Neither is the power of picturesque, concise and suggestive recital of...

A long expectation is awarded at last by the appearance of this book. We cannot wonder that it should have been long, when Mr. Carlyle shows us what a world of ill-arranged and almost worthless materials he has had to wade through before achieving any possibility of order and harmony for his narrative.

The method which he has chosen of letting the letters and speeches of Cromwell tell the story when possible, only himself doing what is needful to throw light where it is most wanted and fill up gaps, is an excellent one. Mr. Carlyle, indeed, is a most...

We are very glad to see this handsome copy of Shelley ready for those who have long been vainly inquiring at all the book-stores for such an one.

In Europe the fame of Shelley has risen superior to the clouds that darkened its earlier days, hiding this true image from his fellow men,—and from his own sad eyes oftentimes the common light of day. As a thinker, men have learnt to pardon what they consider errors in opinion for the sake of singular nobleness, purity and love in his main tendency or spirit. As a poet, the many faults...

The New Year dawns, and its appearance is hailed by a flutter of festivity. Men and women run from house to house, scattering gifts, smiles, and congratulations. It is a custom that seems borrowed from a better day, unless indeed it be a prophecy that such must come.

For why so much congratulation? A year has passed; we are nearer by a twelvemonth to the term of this earthly probation. It is a solemn thought, and though the consciousness of having hallowed the days by our best endeavor, and of having much occasion to look to the Ruling Power of...

We notice this coarsely written little fiction, because it is one of a class which we see growing with pleasure. We see it with pleasure because, in its way, it is genuine. It is a transcript of the crimes, calumnies, excitements, half blind love of right, and honest indignation at the sort of wrong which it can discern, to be found in the class from which it emanates.

That class is a large one in our country villages, and these books reflect its thoughts and manners as half-penny ballads do the life of the streets of London. The ballads are...

The meeting on Monday night at the Tabernacle was to us an occasion of deep and peculiar interest.¹ It was deep, for the feelings there expressed and answered bore witness to the truth of our belief, that the sense of right is not dead, but only sleepeth in this nation. A man who is manly enough to appeal to it will be answered, in feeling, at least, if not in action, and while there is life there is hope. Those who so rapturously welcomed one who had sealed his faith by deeds of devotion, must yet acknowledge in their breasts...

This is a reprint of a London work, although it does not so appear on the title page.¹ We have lately read it in connection with another very interesting book, Clarke’s “Memoirs of the Wesley Family,” and have been led to far deeper interest in this great stream of religious thought and feeling, by a nearer approach to its fountain-head.²

The world at large takes its impression of the Wesleys from Southey.³ A humbler historian has scarce a chance to be heard beside one so rich in learning and talent. Yet the Methodists themselves are not satisfied with this account...

We see in the Evening Mirror of Friday, 30th January, a short notice of Harro Harring, and of the work he has written since his arrival among us.—This book was announced, some time ago, as to be published next Spring, and not a few readers looked forward with the strongest interest to its appearance. We see the writer in the Mirror supposes it to be in the press.

But we were informed a few days since that the Publishers have refused to fulfil their contract with regard to the work on the ground that “it is not duly orthodox.”...

In my walks through this City, the sight of spacious and expensive dwelling houses now in process of building, has called up the following reverie.

All benevolent persons, whether deeply thinking on, or only deeply feeling, the woes, difficulties and dangers of our present social system, are agreed either that great improvements are needed, or a thorough reform.

Those who desire the latter, include the majority of thinkers. And we ourselves, both from personal observation and the testimony of others, are convinced that a radical reform is needed. Not a reform that rejects the instruction of the past, or asserts...

These volumes were new to us, and taken up with that feeling of distaste which an attempt so seemingly, at first blush, absurd as that of writing poetry into prose, and above all, Italian poetry into English prose, must naturally induce. We find it, however, a very entertaining book, and its vivacity and general fidelity make it no valueless representation of Italian literature to those who have never entered that most beautiful, grand and fertile region. The book is, beyond measure, Leigh Huntish; none of his writings have so fully expressed the great talent, good feeling, and pervasive vulgarity of...

Whoever passes up Broadway finds his attention arrested by three fine structures, Trinity Church, that of the Messiah, and Grace Church.¹

His impressions are, probably, at first of a pleasant character. He looks upon these edifices as expressions, which, however inferior in grandeur to the poems in stone which adorn the older world, surely indicate that man cannot rest content with his short earthly span, but prizes relations to eternity. The house, in which he pays deference to claims which death will not cancel, seems to be no less important in his eyes than those in which the affairs which...

The sketch of the Rich Man, made some three or four weeks since, seems to require this companion-piece, and we shall make the attempt, though the subject is far more difficult than the former was.¹

In the first place, we must state what we mean by a poor man, for it is a term of wide range in its relative applications. A pains-taking artisan, trained to self-denial and a strict adaptation, not of his means to his wants, but of his wants to his means, finds himself rich and grateful, if some unexpected fortune enables him to give his wife...

As every body, with any pretensions to culture, learns French here; the number of persons who offer themselves to teach that language is proportionately great. Still, among these, it must always be the fewest who can be of great value to the pupil. We are subject to such a throng of half-educated or uneducated foreigners, and, any one who speaks French, any how thinks it such an easy way of earning a few dollars, that the pupil is subject not only to learn of those who have no method or tact and thus make his acquaintance with the language unnecessarily...

The country had been denuded of its forests, and men cried—“Come! we must plant anew, or there will be no shade for the homes of our children, or fuel for their hearths. Let us find the best kernels for a new growth.”

And a basket of butternuts was offered.

But the planters rejected it with disgust. “What a black, rough coat it has,” said they; “it is entirely unfit for the dishes on a nobleman’s table, nor have we ever seen it in such places. It must have a greasy, offensive kernel; nor can fine trees grow up from...

Robert Browning is scarcely known in this country, as, indeed, in his own, his fame can spread but slowly, from the nature of his works. On this very account,—of the peculiarity of his genius,—we are to diffuse the knowledge that there is such a person, thinking and writing, so that those who, here and there, need just him, and not another, may know where to turn.

Our first acquaintance with this subtle and radiant mind was through his “Paracelsus,” of which we cannot now obtain a copy, and must write from a distant memory.¹

It is one of...

Of late we have vainly tried to avail ourselves of the entertainments afforded by this series. Book after book flies off into the country before we have time to take note of them. Our judgment is forestalled before it can be offered.

Yet the volumes above-named deserve that a mark should be made upon our annals to signify their value.

The journey of Mr. “Titmarsh,” though amusing enough, is too flippant in its fun—too much in the Theodore Hook style, to suit our fancy.¹ Always to show the vulgar side of things, and point out grease-spots on the robe...

So was one person described by the pen which has made a clearer mark than any other on the history of man. But is it not surprising that such a description should apply to so few?

Of two or three women we read histories that correspond with the hint given in these lines. They were women in whom there was intellect enough to temper and enrich, heart enough to soften and enliven, the entire being. There was soul enough to keep the body beautiful through the term of earthly existence; for while the roundness, the pure, delicate lineaments, the flowery...

Women, in general, are indignant that the satirist should have made this the climax to praise of a woman.¹ And yet, we fear, he saw only too truly.—What unexpected failures have we seen, literally, in this respect! How often did the Martha blur the Mary out of the face of a lovely woman at the sound of a crash amid glass and porcelain!² What sad littleness in all the department thus represented! Obtrusion of the mop and duster on the tranquil meditations of a husband and brother. Impatience if the carpet be defaced by the feet even of cherished...

To-day appears this Novel, for which the author has been able to find no publisher. It will have no artificial aid to its circulation, but must rest solely on its own merits. We think these will be found sufficient to ensure it many readers for the sake of the pleasure and entertainment they may derive from the reading—many more who think that free expression of thought is desirable in a free country, and who will listen with interest to the sincere words of a mind of deep experience, secure from such of valuable stimulus, perhaps of valuable instruction.

We...

“It was a famous victory,” sighs the songster after abashing and affrighting the unsophisticated mind of his hearer with details of the horrors of a battle.¹

We, too, are called to rejoice over bloodshed and burning, and these in vindication of a most unrighteous act.² Vain have been the hopes that the victories of this nation would be over wrong and ignorance, not mere conquest of the bodies of other men to obtain their possessions or guard our own. Our Stars have lighted us only to the ancient heathen—the vulgar path of national aggrandizement; and our Eagle, like the...

The evening was fair; the apartment at Castle Garden, full of light, wore the most joyous air; the orchestral platform, when full, had the appearance of a small, but crowded Mount Parnassus; and the nondescript deities, or whatever they were, on the curtain that overhung it, seemed ready to skip and jump with pleasure. All was right, except the audience, which, though good-looking, well-behaved, and quite large enough to make the atmosphere oppressive in the latter part of the evening, was not, alas! satisfactory, viewed in regard to dollars. We fear not more than three or four thousand of those...

Here is another good book about the great West.—It is written by the lady so favorably and extensively made known to the public by the wisdom and firmness she has evinced in her care of the female department of the Sing Sing Prison—wisdom and firmness which have enabled her to rise above the obstacles which envy and selfishness put in her way outside the Prison, as well as accomplish an admirable reformation within its walls.

This work shows strong good sense, enlarged views of life, and a great deal of experience in the paths of action and feeling....

This book, as containing recent information as to the state of affairs in Mexico, and personal observations upon her leading men, cannot fail, at this moment, to be read with avidity. The author says that, not expecting to write an account of what he saw and thought, he did not keep notes for the purpose, and that the book is necessarily desultory. However, it seems to give a fair account of his experience. He is not a man capable of penetrating below the surface to detect the hidden springs of action, nor must valuable prescience or intimations be expected from...

We have here a list of critical essays which have exercised or will exercise a considerable influence on public taste. Of very unequal excellence as to cultivation, refinement and discriminating judgment, all these books show vital energy. They are not mere made books, but the work of men who spoke of Literature because they loved it, and it had played an important part in the development of their lives.

Such books are interesting companions, and at intervals, guides—not that the critic should ever be allowed to guide our judgment, but he may show us where to look, and warn...

As we pass the old brick chapel, our eye is sometimes arrested by placards that hang side by side. On one is advertised “The Lives of the Apostles,” on the other “Napoleon and His Marshals.”

Surely it is the most monstrous thing the world ever saw that eighteen hundred years’ profound devotion to a religious teacher should not preclude flagrant, and all but universal, violation of his most obvious precepts. That Napoleon and his Marshals should be some of the best ripened fruit of our time; that our own people, so unwearied in building up temples of wood and stone...

We have been seated here the last ten minutes, pen in hand, thinking what we can possibly say about this book that will not be either superfluous or impertinent.

Superfluous, because the attractions of Hawthorne’s writings cannot fail of one and the same effect on all persons who possess the common sympathies of men. To all who are still happy in some groundwork of unperverted Nature, the delicate, simple, human tenderness, unsought, unbought and therefore precious morality, the tranquil elegance and playfulness, the humor which never breaks the impression of sweetness and dignity, do an inevitable message which requires no...

We greet with delight the conclusion of this translation which will make Consuelo accessible to the American reader. To the translator it has been a labor of love, the honorable and patient employment of leisure hours, and accordingly shows a very superior degree of fidelity and spirit to those which are undertaken for money, often by people who are not prepared for the task, but forced to by their necessities, and who feel that they must go through it in the shortest possible time. Among such we must notice one from Dumas now going the rounds where the translator is...

Yesterday, the 4th of July, we passed in looking through this interesting work. The feelings and reflections it induced were in harmony with the aspect of the day, a day of gloom, of searching chill and dripping skies. We were very sorry for all the poor laborers and children whom the weather deprived of pleasure on the pleasantest occasion of their year—most of all for those poor children of the Farm Schools on this, perhaps, the first holiday of their dull, narrow little lives. But the mourning aspect of the day seemed to us most appropriate. The boys and...

We rejoice to see these reprints of Brown’s novels, as we have long been ashamed that one who ought to be the pride of the country, and who is, in the higher qualities of the mind, so far in advance of our other novelists, should have become almost inaccessible to the public.

It has been the custom to liken Brown to Godwin. But there was no imitation, no second hand in the matter. They were congenial natures, and whichever had come first might have lent an impulse to the other. Either mind might have been conscious of the possession of...

Mrs. Jameson appears to be growing more and more desperately modest, if we may judge from her motto:

What if the little rain should say,

“So small a drop as I

Can ne’er refresh the thirsty plain,

I’ll tarry in the sky?”¹

and other superfluous doubts and disclaimers proffered in the course of the volume. We thought the time was gone by when it was necessary to plead “request of friends” for printing, and that it was understood now-a-days that from the facility of getting thoughts into print, literature has become not merely an archive for the preservation of great...

These volumes have been for a long time on our table unexamined on account of their bulk. For we belong to that small minority among the reviewers who will not consent to pen a line about a book, without some real knowledge of its contents, and the prodigious influx of books overtasks our power of attention, so that it is often a long time before we can really examine a large work on an important subject. This reason alone has prevented out taking notice of the historical works of Dr. Arnold, republished here by the Appletons,¹ because, though we have...