ner; but then, Chapman is often too rugged; Cowper has occasional fine lines and fine phrases, marred by singularly clumsy and stilted inversions; and Pope, though always smooth and harmonious, is as rarely faithful to the matter as he is to the manner; whereas, Mr. Bryant, we think, is uniformly sustained, uniformly simple and idiomatic, and uniformly graceful and true. Many of his lines are so happily expressed and turned, that they print themselves at once upon the memory; and the narrative, though not so rapid and strong as the original, is sufficiently vivacious to carry the reader along with ever-growing interest. One tires easily of the older translations, but we have not found this to be the case with Mr. Bryant's.

THE ODIOUS GREEN AND WHITE.

We visited, not long since, a pretty little village in a neighboring State, which, in its local position and circumstances, reminded us very much of Stratford-upon-Avon, in England. There was the same broad sweep of green fields, the same graceful windings of a river, and the same distant glimpses of blue hills rising in the far horizon-but the houses? Well, the most of them

were constructed in good taste, and were pleasantly set in their borders of foliage and flowers. The architects, the carpenters, and the gardeners had done their work with intelligence, and generally with taste; but the painters, alas! seem never to have heard of any harmonious tints or felicitous blendings and contrasts of coloring-of nothing, in short, but an odious green and white. All the surfaces were a blinding white, and all the blinds and shutters a flagrant green,-nothing more harsh, more repulsive, more crude, more utterly at variance with every dictate of good taste than the green and white boxes, which pained the eye to look at in the bright summer sun, and which filled the heart not with a feeling of pleasure and repose, but with somewhat of uneasy indignation. Why should the sweetest and loveliest of rural nooks be stained and desecrated by these glaring daubs of incongruous color? If the owners of them have not sufficient culture to select some gentle neutral tint, some tender gray, some cool brown, with the necessary shadings in each case, why do they not consult a professional architect of competent skill and judgment?

THE History of English Literature has yet to be written. Among those who have attempted it may be mentioned Craik, whose bulky volumes are intelligent and painstaking, and Mr. Henry Morley, of whose labors, as they are still incomplete, it is too soon to speak; whatever his merits, however, brevity is not among the number. The better known hand-books of Chambers, Shaw, and others, are as good as could be expected, in view of the popular aim of their compilers. Whether any single author will be found competent to such a History as is needed-a History which shall at once instruct the general reader and satisfy the scholar-may be doubted: certain it is that he has not yet ap

peared. Thomas Warton had many qualifications for the work-more, perhaps, than were united in any writer of his time, with the exception of Gray, who once contemplated the task-or so much of it as was covered by English Poetry-as did Pope before him. Pope could not have accomplished it—in the first place, because he was not only ignorant of his predecessors, but, from the limitation of his talents and tastes, entirely incapable of sympathizing with them; in the second place, because he was without that exactness of mind which goes to the making of a scholar. A striking proof of this is his translation of Homer, which Bentley would not allow to be Homer at all, though

he admitted that it was a very pretty poem; " and how little he knew of the English poets, anterior to Dryden and Cowley, is seen in his conversations, as reported by Spence, and in his worthless edition of Shakespeare. Gray was scholar enough to have written any thing for which mere scholarship was demanded, but he lacked the continuous activity of interest essential to a historian, and, in particular, the breadth of taste essential to the historian of English Poetry. Warton possessed these qualities in an eminent degree, to which was added a wide range of reading, and the unerring instinct of a poet. It was not a poetical age in which he lived, and he was not its greatest poet; but, as far as he went, he was genuine. If his vein was scanty, its ore was at least pure-the grains being washed from the rich table-lands of Milton and Spenser. All things considered, it was fortunate for his fame that Warton undertook to write a history of English Poetry, and it is much to be regretted that he did not live to finish the work. Had he completed it on the scale he commenced, it is not very likely that the ground would have been broken anew by others; as it is, those who followed him have added but little to our stock of knowledge in regard to the period he illustrated. Later researches have enabled them to correct some of his errors, and to elucidate some points left by him in obscurity. But this was to have been expected; for whatever may be the mental endowments of an early or a later historian, the labors of the last ought always to be the best. But whatever its imperfections, Warton's History of English Poetry is a noble monument to the genius of its author, and, in spite of its unfinished character, it must always take a high rank among works of its class. Upwards of a hundred years have elapsed since it was first published, and while it may not have passed through as many editions as could be desired, its authority has been of the weightiest. As there has been no recent edition of Warton-there is none, in fact, that is easily accessible to average

readers of literary history, the early copies being both expensive and scarce -Messrs. G. P. Putnam & Sons have published a cheap edition, in one volume. We think it will be popular, partly on account of its price as compared with the cost of the old quarto editions; and partly because there are one hundred readers whom it will interest now to one in Warton's day. Early English Poetry is the specialty of the period, and no one can hope to be a proficient therein who is not familiar with Warton's entertaining gossip about its worthies.

The seventeenth century is, in many respects, one of the most notable periods in English History, being, in politics, an epoch of principle and revolution, followed by an epoch of interest and corruption; and, in literature, an epoch of brilliancy and decadence. There rises, at its mention, the pedantic James, who is said to have trembled at the sight of a sword, and who could not endure the whiff of a fife-whose reign is stained with the murder of Overbury, and the imprisonment and execution of Raleigh; who might well make Prince Henry wonder how his father could confine such a lord in a cage; the figure of Charles, a model of the exterior of royalty-gentle, thoughtful, but neither strong enough nor wise enough to keep his word; the sturdy form of Cromwell, who summed up life as the double duty of serving God and keeping his powder dry; and the second Charles, saturnine and witty, famous for feeding ducks and fondling poodles, and by no means choice in his selection of mistresses,—

"Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one."

But more familiar than these shadows

royal or otherwise-are the immortal shapes of Milton, Marvell, and Sydney; the courtly Carew, and the elegant Suckling, poor, ruined Lovelace--sweetest of poets and faithfulest of Cavaliers, and the melancholy Cowley, and his friend Evelyn. We love them all, and Evelyn not the least, although he was,

perhaps, the least, if we regard him as a man of letters. But the greatest man is not always the man we love most; for now and then there comes one who wins our sympathies and compels our respect by virtue of certain qualities inherent in him-which qualities, in Evelyn's case, were those of an English gentleman. He lived a long and active life, much of which was spent in public employment; and it redounds to his credit, considering the time, that every part of it will bear the closest scrutiny. He believed in a monarchy, but not blindly, since he not only lived happily through the Revolution by which it was subverted, but, when it was again in the ascendancy, could withstand its abuses of power. Men of all parties trusted him, and their trust was not misplaced. He might have said of himself, almost from the beginning,

"I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all.”

And he should be, and is, honored still by those who are familiar with his life and its work--a small class of readers, which we hope to see increased and which is likely to increase in this country through his Memoirs, of which Messrs. G. P. Putnam & Sons have recently issued a new edition—a reprint of the original one, now some fifty years old, and long since out of print. It comprises Evelyn's "Diary," from 1641 to 1705-'6, with a selection from his familiar letters, the whole forming an entertaining collection of seventeenth century gossip. What Pepys was in his way, Evelyn was in his, the one being the most amusing of lackeys, the other the most accomplished of gentlemen. We accept Pepys as we would a Biceroni, who is "up" in the novelties of London-who has seen Dryden's last new play, and talked with Charles' last new favorite; but we are proud of the society of Evelyn, which is sure to be that of our betters. He can introduce us to, or at least tell us about, Cowley and Waller. Evelyn met Waller, in the

course of his travels, at Venice, in March, 1646: "Having pack'd up my purchases of books, pictures, castes, treacle, &c. (the making and extraordinary ceremonie whereof I had been curious to observe, for 'tis extremely pompous and worth seeing) I departed from Venice, accompanied with Mr. Waller (the celebrated Poet), now newly gotten out of England, after the Parliament had extreamely worried him for attempting to put in execution the Commission of Aray, and for which the rest of his Collegues were hanged by the Rebells." A day or two later they passed the Euganian hills, with which Shelley was so delighted. "The wayes were something deepe, the whole country flat and even as a bowling greene. The comon fields lie square, and are orderly planted with fruite trees while the vines run and embrace for many miles, with delicious streames creeping along the ranges." July found the party in France: "Sometimes we footed it thro' pleasant fields and meadows; sometimes we shot at fowls and other birds, nothing came amiss; sometimes we play'd at cards, whilst others sung or were composing verses, for we had the greate Poet Mr. Waller in our companie, and some other ingenious persons besides." In the following September, "Came Mr. Waller to see me about a child of his which the Popish midwife had baptis'd." Evelyn was very much interested in the Royal Society, of which he was one of the founders, and he wished Cowley to write an Ode in its honor, and against the irreverent wits of the day, of whom Butler was the most effective. "But you have numbers and charmes that can bind even these Spirits of Darknesse, and render their in struments obsequious; and we know you have a divine Hyme for us; the luster of the Royal Society calls for an Ode from the best of Poets upon the noblest Argument." Cowley complied with the request, but his "divine Hymne," while it contains good lines, is not among his best works, being far inferior to the noble Ode printed as the conclusion of his essay "Of the Garden,"

which was appropriately addressed to the author of "Sylva." The first stanza gives us a charming glimpse of Evelyn and his rural surroundings:

"Happy art thou, whom God does bless
With the full choice of thine own happiness:
And happier yet, because thou'rt blest
With prudence, how to choose the best:
In books and gardens, thou hast plac'd aright
(Things, which thou well dost understand,
And both, dost make with thy laborious hand)
Thy noble, innocent delight:

And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost meet

Both pleasures more refined and sweet:
The fairest garden in her looks,

And in her mind the wisest books.
Oh, who would change these soft, yet solid joys,
For empty shows, and senseless noise;
And all what rank ambition breeds,
Which seem such beauteous flowers, and are such
poisonous weeds!"

Who, indeed? Not Evelyn, at Wolton, nor Cowley, in his little retreat at Chertsey. And this reference to the pensive poet must close our extracts from Evelyn's Diary; it occurs among his memoranda for 1667: "1 August. I receiv'd the sad news of Abraham Cowley's death, that incomparable poet and virtuous man, my very deare friend, and was greately deplored. 3. Went to Mr. Cowley's funerall, whose corps lay at Wallingford House, and was thence convey'd to Westminster Abby in a hearse with 6 horses and all funeral decency, neere an hundred coaches of noblemen and persons of qualitie following; among these all the witts of the toune, divers bishops and clergymen. He was interr'd next Geoffry Chaucer and neere to Spenser. A goodly monument has been since erected to his memorie."

"Who now reads Cowley? If he pleases yet,
His moral pleases, not his pointed wit;
Forget his epic, nay, Pindaric art,
But still I love the language of his heart."

There comes to us from Australia an addition to the Colonial Party of England, a scanty stock, which needs more encouragement than it receives, and which will one day, no doubt, be more abundant. Strictly speaking, Literature should be judged as Literature, with no reference to extenuating circumstances, either as regards its wri

ters or the places and seasons in which they write; but, as we violate this rule in the case of young poets generally, and uneducated poets particularly, there is no good reason why it should be capriciously enforced against young and comparatively uneducated communities. We intend no disrespect to Australia by this remark, which would apply with equal force to our own Territories: what we mean is, that excellence of the highest order should be looked for only where men most largely congregate-the great capitals of the world, to which, as they are there most in demand, and best rewarded, genius and talent naturally gravitate. When the New Zealander is musing over the ruins of London, Melbourne will have taken its place, and we shall then expect from it, if not another Shakespeare, at least other Tennysons, Brownings, and Byrons. Till their laurels shall have grown, we must be content with wilder chaplets, such as these Leaves from Australian Forests, which Mr. Henry Kendall has gathered, and which make a pleasant little collection. The accomplishment of verse is so common nowadays, that it is not always easy when a new writer thereof appears to at once decide whether he is a poet or a versifier-in other words, whether he is merely an imitator of his contemporaries, or whether, behind all his imitations, there is a personality which may be called his own. There is imitation enough in Mr. Kendall-or, to put it less offensively, there is evidence enough of his admiration of Tennyson, Browning, and Poe; but there is more than this, we think; there is something which belongs to Mr. Kendall himself. His best pieces are his simplest, and the best of these are colored by the life and scenery of Australia. He has a clear perception of what is most characteristic of its woods, wastes, and waters, and considerable talent for natural description: when he confines himself to what is before him, he is excellent; but when he attempts to be imaginative or fanciful, his power deserts him. His classical pieces, being more ambitious, are less happy. As a

his "Dedication : "

"To her, who, cast with me in trying days,

Stood in the place of health, and power, and
praise;

Who, when I thought all light was out, became
A lamp of hope that put my fears to shame;
Who faced for love's sole sake the life austere
That waits upon the man of letters here;
Who, unawares, her deep affection showed,
By many a touching little wifely mode;
Whose spirit self-denying, dear, divine,
Its sorrows hid, so it might lessen mine,-
To her, my bright, best friend, I dedicate
This book of songs. "Twill help to compensate
For much neglect. The act, if not the rhyme,
Will touch her heart, and lead her to the time
Of trials past. That which is most intense
Within these leaves is of her influence;
And if aught here is sweetened with a tone
Sincere, like love, it came of love alone."

"Of the making of many books there is no end," said the Wise Man, and, in our critical capacity, we are painfully reminded of the fact. Another, less reputed for wisdom, wished that his enemy would write a bookwhy, is not stated, we believe; but whatever his motive, we cannot applaud it; for of books already written, both by our enemies and our friends, there are enough. There are far too many such books as Paris by Sunlight and Gaslight, the joint production of the National Publishing Company and Mr. James D. McCabe, Jr. We transpose the order, usually observed, on this occasion; for, while we can conceive of certain works as written without a view to publication, there are others to which no other object could have imparted even the semblance of vitality. They are manufactured, in the lowest sense of the word, since it is to hands alone we owe them. They imply materials, as fine chairs and tables imply lumber; but the lumber once gathered, the supply answers the demand. We hope, in these cases, that it exceeds it, or will soon; for, to speak frankly, the system which now obtains of publishing by subscription has little to recommend it any way, and nothing that should recommend it to readers, either as regards the books subscribed for, which are generally worthless, or as regards their prices, which are always exorbitant. "Trash at the dearest rate," describes

said to part with their money easily, their average purchasers. Exceptions may occasionally occur, but the rule holds good, especially with this dreary mass of verbiage about "the mysteries and miseries, the virtues and the vices, the splendors and the crimes of the city of Paris." As with the text so with the illustrations, though the French originals are often very spirited.

Dr. E. E. Marcy, of this city, is well known as a writer outside of the profession of which he is a distinguished member. His last work, entitled "Life Duties," is, as the name indicates, a dissertation on the practical responsibilities of men. Treating life as a divine gift, for the conduct of which we are under obligation to the Giver, the author presents the duties of our everyday existence in a style as far removed as possible from mere commonplace and dry "preaching," while earnestly appealing to the conscience, the good sense, and the experience of his readers. He depicts the evils of our fashionable follies of intemperate habits, of undue love of money, of infanticide in all its phases, of illicit pleasures, and of other violations of the moral and natural laws

with the skill, the insight, and the discreetness of a man of the world who has observed much and thought to some purpose. Moreover, he brings into use his thorough knowledge of the physical consequences of fashionable sins and follies. His admonitions have, therefore, the practical force which the advice of a skilful physician peculiarly has on the minds of those who confide in his professional knowledge. His book is admirably written; filled with important practical advice, and pervaded by the spirit of one who desires to serve the best interests of humanity.

The Men who Advertise: an Account of Successful Adventures, together with Hints on the Method of Advertising. (New York: G. P. Rowell & Co., 1870.) A solid and well-printed royal octavo volume of 872 pages, and itself a specimen of its theme. It is one sturdy advertisement of advertising.