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(Ticknor and Fields), is probably the last his poetry, or do justice to his position. volume of verse we shall ever have from Among modern men he can find room for this sweet singer. Mr. Proctor speaks of Rogers and Moore, but not for Shelley and poems in the book which were written Keats, who, as poets, and literary influforty years ago, and declares that “I

ences in England, are certainly to be ought to disburden myself from my ar- named before them. He speaks with manmor, and leave to more active and heroic ly condemnation of Dr. Johnson's Lives of spirits the glory of the struggle and the the Poets; and, indeed, in all that he says crown that awaits success." Barry Corn- and thinks, is a gentleman, a man of wall's genius is a slight thread on which modest self-respect, respecting others. The he strings his beads of song ; but there is volumes will be an agrecable introduction no lover of poetry, no reader of sensitive to English poetry for those who are not feeling, who does not like to tell those somewbat familiar with the subject, and beads, and acknowledge the tenderness of their amiable aim only makes us regret the sentiment, and the daintiness of the anew that there is as yet no comprehensive manner. It is a beresy to say that his songs and philosophical history of English literahave hardly the true song-music; but only ture. occasionally is there a lift of feeling and -Every scholar knows what an importmusic, as in the “ Touch us gently, Time" ant part of the intellectual life of the most of the earlier volume, which explains and intellectual of the nations the German justifies Barry Cornwall's reputation. Con- University is, and every scholar is, therefore, temporary with all the modern masters of eager to read whatever relates to the GerEnglish poetry, he bas piped away upon man University that is authentic. Dr. Schall, his oaten reed, and the grander symphor of the Theological Seminary of Mercersburg, nies bave not drowned his pleasant music. has performed an acceptable service in a reTime will touch his fame as he besought cent work called Germany-its Universities, him to touch his home, “gently, gently." Theology, and Religion. (Lindsey & Blakis

-- The late Henry Reed, of Philadelphia, ton). Regularly educated in a German uni. who was lost in the Arctic, was one of the versity himself, having been for some time most amiable of men, and also one of the a teacher in one, and an American resident few purely literary scholars in the coun- sufficiently long to enable him to undertry. His quiet, contemplative taste seques- stand the relations of German and Anglotered him from the turmoil of active, pub American habits of thought, Dr. Schaff lic life, and certainly no contemplative is peculiarly fitted to act as interpreter poet ever had a more suitable and sym- between his former and his present connpathetic editor, in spirit, tban William trymen. His plan embraces an account Wordsworth found in Henry Reed. Mr. of the history and actual organization of Reed was professor of English literature in the universities--the condition of German the University of Pennsylvania, and, since theological science and religion, and his death, his brother has edited selections sketches of the personal characters of the from his lectures. The last, and, as the most eminent German professors, such as editor tells us, the final issue, is the course Neander, Tholuck, Olsbausen, Nitsch, Dorupon the English Poets, just published by ner, etc., etc. Of course, he must write briefly Parry and Macmillan. These lectures are where he has undertaken to write about gentle and pleasant chat about English so much; yet, though concise, he is not poets and poetry. They do little toward a unintelligible nor uninteresting. llis thorhistory of English literature, and were evi- ough familiarity with his subject enables dently prepared for an audience of no him to say much in little ; while the genervery general literary cultivation or sym- al correctness of his principles furnishes pathy. They are written in a singularly him the means of a classification, wbicb, in unambitious style for these days, and they itself, throws great light upon the intricate treat every great name, even in censure, schools of German thought. Dr. Schaff with respect. The key to Mr. Reed's writes from the orthodox point of view; criticisms is to be found in his profound but he is not so orthodox as to deny the reverence for Wordsworth--the one fanati- piety of all those who differ from bim in their cism of his life. Pope he does not like; dogmatics. For instance, he says of Neannor, as it seems to us, does he appreciate der, that he did not admit the binding au

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thority of the symbolical books ; that his ever enthroned. Like all great authors
views on the Trinity in the inspiration of who become great moral forces in the
the Scripture, or the sanctification of the world, he is already beyond merely literary
Sabbath, were loose ; and yet he admires criticism. The reader may prefer Ivanhoe
Neander's “ unfeigned and deep-rooted pie to Red Gauntlet, as he may prefer Her-
ty.” Again, speaking of Schleiermacher, mione to Portia ; but the claims of both
whose immense services to Christianity to the same immortality are fully recog.
he gratefully confesses, he says: “It seems nized. With all the pleasure we experience
to be incredible that a man, who removed on hearing of the success of the present
from the New Testament the pedestal of beautiful edition, there is no more agree-
the Old, who numbered the miraculous con- able reflection than that, over these fair
ception, the resurrection and ascension of pages, thousands and thousands of boys
Christ, and his return to judgment, among and girls are laughing the laughs, and
the tbings comparatively indifferent to shedding the tears, that all their parents
saving faith, who denied the existence of remember wben they, too, were boys and
the devil, and taught the final salvation of girls. So wide is the magic circle, so pro-
all creatures, should have been a blessing found and universal is the touch of
to the Church, and lead the rising genera- genius,
tion to the fountains of life. And yet such ---Harper & Brothers publish the sixth
is the fact, and his lasting merit,” etc. Dr. volume of the Lives of the Queens of Scotland,
Schaff appears to have adopted Neander's by Agnes Strickland. It contains upwards
favorite maxim, Pectus est quod theologum of three hundred and fifty pages, but does
facit—it is the heart which makes the theo- not conclude the life of Queen Mary. In
logian-for he applies it in nearly all his all Miss Strickland's writings there is a
judgments of the distinguished men of the simple sincerity wbich wins and secures the
various schools.

approval of the discreet and wise. Her
-The household edition of the “Waver- long habits of careful historical investiga-
ley Novels” (Ticknor & Fields) is continued tions assure the reader in advance that he
by the publication of Guy Mannering and will find neither prejudice nor passion, but
the Antiquary. To this last, Darley con- an interesting and sympathetic account of
tributes a most characteristic drawing of the times and the persons discussed in the
Jonathan Oldbuck, standing in slippers, work. The present edition is of good size
long bose, and dressing-gowa, cap on bead, and style.
and spectacles thrown up on the forehead, - Biographical and Historical Sketches,
holding a black-letter volume open in his by T. Babington Macaulay (Appletons), is
hand, and another tightly closed under his a work which is valuable, as containing
arm; old armor lies around him, and the the historian's papers upon Johnson, and
cheerful, sweet, shrewd aspect of the old Bunyan, and Goldsmith ; but the bulk of
humorist is charmingly presented. Of all the book is made up of scissorings from bis
Scott's novels, none is more permanently “ History of England." His touches are
interesting than the “ Antiquary ;" as no always graphic and good, but this volume,
character of his creation is more perfect upon the whole, bas rather a book-making
than the hero. For the young reader, the air. It is, however, interesting, as show-
romance of Lovel and Isabella Wardour is ing how much Macaulay says about a per-
sufficiently absorbing; but the mature mind son, in a very few lines, which might be
finds, in the genial and exquisite delineation overlooked in taking the sketch as a part
of the Antiquary, Edie Ochiltrec, and the of the portrait. In this work, for instance,
fisber's family, a charm and satisfaction that there are but about eighteen lines devoted.
are not surpassed by the excellences of to Elizabeth Villiers ; and yet, the eighteen
any other of his series. It is clear to see lines give a fair idea of her character. The
that Scott will pass into the same unques- book is an agreeable one for summer read-
tioned fame in which Shakespeare is for- ing.

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PUTNAN’S KALEIDOSCOPE.

"A particular arrangement of reflecting surfaces." Though it be June-lovely and leafy, but I think these innovaters on dirt, dis and though every brook everywhere order, and ignorance, must be looked upon overjoyed at the release from the sternest as the aristocrats of the village. of winters" singeth a quiet tune,” yet Barbison has, for some years, been the the first tarn in our Kaleidoscope shall give resort of artists, who come down here to us a flash of autumnal splendor. Like study and paint in the magnificent Forest those released brooks, so are the artists, of Fontainebleau. There are two taverns roaming away. Church, after his great in the place-Gaone's and Vannier's. The triumph in the Niagara, flies to the equator former seems to be the most popular at for repose. Kensett, with one of Chonteau's present with the brothers of the brush. trading-parties, pushes up the further waters Formerly Vannier's had the preference, of the Missouri, toward the Rocky Moun- and the salle à manger of the latter is handtains and the realms of sunset. Other men somely adorned with paintings on the walls. go otherwhere; but, while they are going, by various artists who have been guests or prepare to go; while the great hegira of there.

I cannot say anything about fashion to the sea and hills fills all the Ganne's tavern, as I have never staid broad avenues of travel, let them peep there. through our glass of many hues and see Of my life here I shall give you a little the soft splendors of the forest of Fontaine- sketch. I take the Lyons rail-road in bleau, in which forest, as of old, Robin Paris, buy a ticket to Weben—a ride of Hood and his merry men in Sherwood, all about two hours—thence to Barbison, by the artists of France-native and foreign omnibus-about seven miles. I arrive after -lounge and loiter through many a sum- sundown—a chilly October evening. I am mer day. Lounge and loiter? There is welcomed by Madame Vannier, a goodno life more devotedly industrious than looking young peasant woman, dressed in that of the conscientious artist, as you shall the costume of the country; the chief pethe woods and the rocks. At twelve or one out, all is over. Was there ever such I lunch. My second breakfast consists of a wood! It must bave been artificially prehunk of dry bread, a piece of meat, a scrap pared, and warranted not to ignite. Over of cheese or sausage, salt, a pear, and a balf- and over the asbestos chunk is turnedbottle of sour wine. But what a glorious like an uneasy sleeper-on its bed of ashes appetite one bas, working out of doors. and dull coals, but no flame can be got out The plainest fare has a relish unknown to of it. Then the tallow-candles give us the dwellers at home. After luncheon the some occnpation, as they require to be cigar or pipe, and then work again ; or else snuffed every five minutes. And so, with roaming about in search of snbjects, till punching the asbestos cbunk, and drinking near sundown; when the failing light and the remainder of our sour wine, and lighting the dews remind me that it is time to return fresh pipes, the long evening wears away. to my inn.

culiarity of which-though it is a costume

common, I believe, to all the country. Barbison is a little village situated on towns about Paris-is a handkerchief the verge of the Forest of Fontainebleau. wrapped all around the head, and entirely It consists of one single street, about half concealing the hair. Madame V. would be a mile long, on the right and left of which better-looking still—I was going to say are little one or two story store-houses, would she allow her hair to be seen. But inhabited chiefly by peasants. Some of it seems as if all the country-women, and them are picturesque--the straw roofs being even the little girls, are forbidden to show covered with rich green moss. They are their hair-as if it were something to be of the rudest construction, and mostly old, ashamed of. Idine very simply, smoke my and the court-yards in front of them are pipe or cigar, and read a little over a few beautifully ornamented with dung-bills, reluctant brands in the deep fire-place of straw, wood-piles, carts, barrows, and other the salle à manger, and retire at nine farming apparatus ; and, where the gravel o clock-the fashionable hour for going to walk should be, conducting from the outer bed in Barbison. gate to the cottage, is usually a domestic I rise early, and breakfast, on café au lake or puddle, through which you are ex- lait, toast and butter-get my painting. pected to walk-as the geese do-to the box in order and strap it over my back-door, if you have anything to say to the shoulder my umbrella, stool, and easel. occupant-unless you prefer the soft car- receive from Madame V. my pochona sack peting of straw and manure on either side, containing my luncheon, or second breakwhere the chickens, turkeys, and all man- fast--and, thus accoutred, tramp to the ner of poultry pick and scratch for a living. forest. Arriving at the spot chosen for my One or two little flower-gardens I have day's or morning's work, I unpack and set seen, and some attempts at neatness and to work. Time passes swiftly with a painter ornament-for there are two or three artists outof doors, in fine weather, and surrounded of some reputation who live in Barbison - by those beautiful and magnificent sitters

see.

Now, as I am alone, it is longer than A pleasant life this-embosomed in na- ever. Between nine and ten I retire. The ture, and transferring form and color to bed-chamber is as cold and cheerless as becanvas, at first hand! I shall not dwell lon: stairs. Not a rag of carpet to stand upon its delights--my brother-painters on; no furniture but a chair and table ; know them too well.

cold, coarse linen sheets--sometimes dampBut now commences the prosaic, and, by ish; 10 woolen blankets; and the bed go no means, enlivening, part of the day. At short, that I have to lie diagonally and present I happen to be alone in the forest. dream transversely. In the morning. I For four days I have hardly spoken to a wash in a basin the size of a breakfastsoul or been spoken to. So I have to fall plate, and wipe my hands and face on a upon my own resources to lighten the slow, cotton napkin, and tie my cravat at a glass dull hours till bed-time. There is some six inches by three and a-half-an aggradifference between life out of doors and life vating little reflector, wbich distorts my in doors, at Barbison. I come back to a face horribly, and makes me imagine mycold room, and a cold salle à manger, with self at least ten years older. a cold brick floor, and dinner not ready. The country-people here seem to be of About six it comes on table. A huge the roughest sort-sordid, close, ignorant, loaf of dry bread, a bottle of vinegarish superstitious, coarse, loud-tongued, unwine, pewter spoons and forks. Then first musical, and altogether of the earth earthy. soup-poor enough--often a soup maigre When they converse, they scream at each or a soup à l'os cille, with lots of bread other like geese. The talk of the men is soaked in it, then boiled meat; then a roast like the barking of dogs, that of the women or a cutlet, and some sort of vegetable. like the screaming of peacocks. And such We are put on allowance--always enough, lungs ! to be sure, but never anything left over. Madame V. is one of the most refined of For dessert, always one bunch of grapes. them, I dare fay--but Madame is a jeune Once, when there were four of us, we each avare--thinks of nothing but francs and had four bad walnuts apiece. O! I forgot sous, and how to scrimp and save.

Two the salad. We have that. And Chenou tallow-candles for one person would hor always dressed the lettuce, whether we rify her. More tban three cat-sticks and wanted it or not; for, he said, that other- one gutta percha chunk on the fire would wise it would appear again--the same let- fill her with alarm. Every little extra furtuce--to-morrow. After dinner, comes the nished gratis, such as wrapping-paper, luxury of a fire, to warm our shivering string, and wafers, is a surprise to me, so limbs. But what a fire! We always have accustomed bave I grown to her excessive to ask for it; and, when it comes, it is in- economy. variably two or three cat-sticks or twigs, The last day of October. I am still here, and one chunk of asbestos; and the even- working hard all day in the forest, and ing is divided between that material spending my evenings alonc. For ten days species of solace—the pipe--(the very I have not seen a soul to speak to, except a shepherd's pipe, in this way, now-a-days) young Englishman,wbo appeared one morn--and the occupation of punching and ing and vanished. I have almost forgotten blowing this smoky, unwilling, salking fire the sound of my voice. And as for French I on the hearth. When the cat-sticks burn can hardly get through a sentence straight.

66

are.

Moreover, I was so foolish as to bring Dormoir, and around through the woods. scarcely any books. I can't write; the How solemn it was in the forest--in some room is too cold, and my wits grow torpid places almost pitch dark--and the faint for want of stimulus. How charming it eclipse light falling here and there in dim must be here in the winter. Yet there are wbite patches, unearthly and mysterious. painters who live in Barbison the year Beethoven's inoonlight sonata describes it round.

better than anytbing I can write. During the day, the weather has been It is certainly a grand forest this of Fonsplendid; that is, for a week—which is tainebleau ; and it is no wonder the artists something not usual in this climate. Cold love it, and resort to it. There are some and frosty in the mornings; but, under the things, to be sure, valued by the painters, shriter of the rocks, I can work comfort- which it is without. There is no water, ably. The color of the trees is at its finest for instance, nor any distant hills or mount--not equal, of course, to that of our Ame- ains--two almost indispensable features in rican October, but fine for Europe. One a landscape. But then the trees, especially never sees such gorgeous colors in the the beeches and oaks, are superb. So are foliage here, as in America. My American the rocks; and, for savage, brigandstudies of autumn tints almost excite a haunted hillsides, what can furnish finer smile from a European. A French artist motives than the Jean de Paris and the saw in my atélier one day a sketch of a Gorge d'Apremont. After all, it takes scarlet maple. C'est affreux,” said be. very little to make a picture ; and the

My favorite spot for studies in the forest French understand this fact. Rousseau is where I have been painting-on the takes the first bit of green he sees outside rocky side of the paré or grande route, the smoke of the city suburbs, and contrives near the open space where the large oaks to make it somehow attractive. Troyon

Here you have a specimen of every makes a picture of a cow and a piece of a thing for which the forest is characteristic tree, which crowds rush to see. All de --fine oaks, beeches, and birches--rocks pends on treatment. The artist, somehow. covered with moss and lichens, interspersed manages to infuse himself into the comwith trees, and piled up on the hillside in monest clod, or stump, or stone. But at wild and savage grandeur. And a pleas- Fontainebleau there is endless material for ant, sheltered spot it is in these cool days. wood-scenes. Painting, in the deep, solemn Then it is near the great road, where trav- Bas Brèau, under the tall, cathedral-like elers and artists frequently pass, which pillars of tree-trunks, and Gothic tracery prevents it from being too lonely.

of branches and leaves, I could see around The trees are full of red squirrels, and it me, from my camp-stool as the centre, halfis a pleasant sight to see them chasing one a-dozen vistas, which would amply repay another up and down the huge trunks and the labor of a transference to canvas. from the boughs of one tree to another. When I left the forest, the wind was Over the woods of the Bas Brèau, on the playing its closing voluntaries on the treeother side of the road, the crows, or rather tops, and the congregations of faded leaves rooks, scream themselves hoarse ; and at were fast hurrying home to their winter night the owls boot dismally.

retreats in the rocky nooks. Summer's And this reminds me of the night of the sermons were over-the tongues in the eclipse, a few weeks ago, when I heard trees were beginning to stiffen. Another these owls, as I walked through the forest preacher--the reverend and venerable with some artists. It was a splendid moon- John Frost--was approaching-tbat powlight when we started. None of us knew erful, Puritan prelate of nature, and the of the eclipse ; for newspapers and alma- very rocks seemed to say—“Now, we shall nacs never reach Barbison. Very soon I have our long winter homilies, and our discovered that a piece of her ladyship's dreary psalms of snow and wind. No matgreen-cheese had been bitten off by the ter! the birds, and the flowers, and the grim earth-shadow. We were on our way south winds, will come again ; and our through the Gorge d'Apremont. As we forest cathedral will hear a service more descended the valley, a fog lay below, with to our taste." precisely the appearance of a lake. We wound along among the rocks down to the Lo you, now, good reader! If here be

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