| other minds. But, with all abatements, it cannot be denied that his style, in its easy flow, its singing sweetness, and the numberless fancies with which it sparkles, is often of rare merit. Many phrases and lines of exquisite delicacy and richness might be caught at random in carelessly read sliding into rest," "heaped with strength," "the word smote crushingly," are examples. The following is fine"Far away Appeared the streaky fingers of the dawn;" and this line to tamper with such instances, and attempt to reconcile them with the usual impulses of affection. If such a deviation from nature and rectitude be made the subject of an elaborate poem; if it be accompanied by a luxury of description which lulls the sense of right, and creates an unconscious sympathy with the offenders; if the parties being one of his poems. "Low-talking leaves," "dim eyes represented as superior beings, worthy of our esteem and love; if they be decked in all the trappings of fancy and sentiment, and the steps from weakness to crime be taken over a velvet path, which gives no echo and leaves no footprint; and if the author, all the while, is himself fooled by his own casuistry, and warmly sympathizes with his creations, we do not see how the effect of such an assault upon the conscience, through the affections and sense of beauty, can be otherwise than injurious. The poet who deals with such a subject should have an exact sense of moral distinctions, and no loose notion about the intercourse between the sexes, but Hunt is not such a person. His are the "self-improved morals of elegant souls." We believe that he might have taken the plot of Hamlet, and converted the crime of Gertrude and the King into a dainty weakness ending tragically, but with such sadness and pathos that his readers would have justified him in burying them in "one grave, beneath a tree," and not have wondered that "On fine nights in May Young hearts betrothed used to go there to play." We are in the custom of congratulating ourselves on the purity of English literature in this age, as contrasted with the coarseness of the elder time. This purity, in many cases, is only in expression. A person of delicacy may be offended with many words in Shakspeare, may be disgusted with the hardy licentiousness of Rochester and Sedley, but may be corrupted with the smooth decency of verbiage which covers so much immorality of principle in much cotemporary poetry and romance. We perhaps err in treating Hunt as if he were amenable to the usual laws of morality and taste, after having exempted him from their dominion; but still no reader of healthy mind can fail at times to be provoked by his lack of manliness, his effeminacy in morals, his foppery in sentiment. There is a want of depth, seriousness and intensity, a careless, good-natured good-for-nothingness, in him which often justify petulance, if not anger, in the reader. His sense of physical beauty is exceedingly keen and nice, but it rarely rises to spiritual beauty. He may almost be described as a man with a fine fancy and fine senses. His description of nature is picturesque and vivid, but he has no "sense sublime of something still more deeply interfused." Outward objects awake his feeling of luxury, fill him with delicious sensatious, and that is all. But judged by himself alone, thinking of him as Leigh Hunt, we cannot fail to find much in him to admire. His perception of the poetry of things is exquisitely subtle, and his fancy has a warm flush, a delicacy, an affluence which are almost inimitable. He is full of phrases and images of exceeding beauty, which convey not only his thoughts and emotions, but also the subtlest shades and minutest threads of his fancies and feelings. To effect this he does not always observe the proprieties of expression. He often produces verbal combinations which would make a lexicographer scowl, if not curse, and his daintiness and effeminacy sometimes produce prettinesses and "little smallnesses" which are not in the best taste. He is full of such epithets and phrases as "balmy briskness," "firming foot," “feel of June," "sudden-ceasing sound of wateriness," "scattery light." He manufactures words without any fear of the legislators of language. He links serious ideas to expressions which convey ludicrous associations to "The peevish winds ran cutting o'er the sea ;" and this "The least noise smote her like a sudden wound.” The following lines convey an image of a different kind: "A ghastly castle, that eternally Holds its blind visage out to the lone sea." Here is a condensed and splendid description: "Giovanni pressed, and pushed, and shifted aim, And played his weapon like a tongue of flame." The following passage is a picture of great beauty: "And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced, With one permitted arm her lovely waist; And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree, Leaned with a touch together thrillingly." In the "Feast of the Poets," the most delightful, fanciful, witty and impudent of Hunt's poems, there are numerous passages worthy of being garnered in the memory. The judgments of Hunt's Apollo are not always correct, criticisms. At times we are reminded, in the style, of the but they have the advantage in sprightliness over most "polished want of polish" of Sir John Suckling. The fol lowing description of Phoebus has a mingled richness and raciness to which none can be insensible: "Imagine, however, if shape there must be, A figure sublim'd above mortal degree, His limbs the perfection of elegant strengthA fine flowing roundness inclining to lengthA back dropping in-an expansion of chest, (For the god, you'll observe, like his statues was drest,) His throat like a pillar for smoothness and grace, His curls in a cluster-and then such a face, As mark'd him at once the true offspring of Jove, The brow all of wisdom, and lips all of love; For though he was blooming, an oval of cheek, And youth down his shoulders went smoothing and sleek, Yet his look with the reach of past ages was wise, And the soul of eternity thought through his eyes." The satire in this "Feast," on some of the poets and dramatists of the period, is often very felicitous. After mentioning a number of scribblers, who called upon Apollo, he fleers at two of them in a couplet of much point: "And mighty dull Cobb, lumb'ring just like a bear up, And sweet Billy Dimond, a patting his hair up." He accounts for the absence of Colman and Sheridan, by remarking that "one was in prison, and both were in liquor." The following is a good fling at Gifford: "A hem was then heard consequential and snapping, And a sour little gentleman walked with a rap in." Dr. Wolcott has a hard rap given to him in a very characteristic couplet: "And old Peter Pindar turned pale, and suppressed, "He said; and the place all seem'd swelling with light, Till at last the full Deity put on his rays, And burst on the sight in the pomp of his blaze! Then a glory beam'd round, as of fiery rods, With the sound of deep organs and chorister gods; And the faces of bards, glowing fresh from their skies, Came thronging about with intentness of eyes And the Nine were all heard, as the harmony swell'dAnd the spheres, pealing in, the long rapture upheldAnd all things above, and beneath, and around, Seem'd a world of bright vision, set floating in sound." These passages must be allowed to display wit, fancy and sentiment, even by the haters of Hunt. Indeed, there is a charm in his grace of expression, and often in his light impertinence and flippant egotism, which no criticism can destroy. The elegant edition of his poems published by Ticknor & Co., will undoubtedly extend his reputation in this country. Narrative of the Texan Santa Fé Expedition: With Illustrations and a Map. By George Wilkins Kendall. Two vols. New York, Harper & Brothers, 1844. We have often heard men wonder, in our eastern cities, at the fondness of the trapper for his perilous avocation. But there is nothing strange in it to one accustomed to a prairie life. To chase the buffalo-to bivouack under a clear skyto rise at daybreak and gallop for miles-to startle the wild heron from its reedy lair-to see the Indian, with his feathered lance, on the distant horizon-to come upon a cool stream, at sultry noonday, where, beneath the interlacing branches of the trees, the wild deer has his covert :these things have a fascination which he who has experienced them can never forget. The spice of danger which attends this life only adds to the pleasure, by increasing the excitement. The risk of an encounter with hostile Indians-the having to brave privations of all kinds, hunger, thirst, and, perhaps, ultimate death-are overlooked in the thirst for adventure, and the certainty of its gratification. No one born to this mode of existence has ever been known permanently to abandon it. Men have left rank and fortune and exiled themselves for years, in order to satiate their passion for this exciting life. We are not surprised, therefore, that the author of this work undertook the journey across the prairies to Santa Fé, led by no other motive than the love of novelty and a curiosity to witness some of the strange scenes of which the old hunters told. It was on the 18th of June, 1841, that the since celebrated Santa Fé Expedition started from Austin in Texas, with the ostensible object of trading with the Mexicans, but the secret purpose of revolutionizing New Mexico, if the inhabitants should afford them countenance. There were about two hundred and seventy volunteer soldiers in the expedition, commanded by officers commissioned by Texas. About fifty merchants, tourists, commissioners, and other persons in a civil capacity, accompanied the armed force. A long train of wagons, loaded with merchandise, finished the catalogue. Mr. Kendall, favorably known as the editor of the Picayune, and the author of the volumes before us, availed himself of the expedition to secure an escort over the prairies; his intention being to travel in Mexico for some time, for which purpose he had procured a passport as an American citizen. The route which the expedition took was across the great southwestern prairies, a course hitherto unexplored except by wandering hunters. The usual caravans to Santa Fé set out from St. Louis; but Mr. Gregg, in 1839, and Mr. Pike, at an even earlier period, had crossed directly from the Arkansas, the one ascending the south fork of the Canadian, a course nearly due west, and the other passing southward to the Brazos, and then turning in a northerly direction along the Pecos, describing an obtuse angled triangle with Mr. Gregg's line of march. The present expedition determined to take a path lying somewhat between these two, and accordingly struck northward for the Cross Timbers, intending thence to follow the supposed Red River up to the Angosturas in the Rocky Mountains, a short distance east of Santa Fé ; but the guide confounded the Wichita with the larger stream, lost them in the wilderness, and then, fearing their vengeance, made his escape, leaving them with not more than half their journey accomplished, when he had flattered them that in a week, at furthest, they would be among the sheepfolds of San Miguel. The privations which they suffered in consequence, their uncertainty what course to pursue, and their ultimate arrival in New Mexico, where they were arrested by the authorities and marched to the capital, are graphically narrated, though without any pretensions to style, in these delightful volumes. Since the publication of Irving's Astoria we have met with no work, on a similar subject, so entertaining as this. The author holds a free and dashing pen, and by his vivid descriptions carries us into the very heart of the incidents he describes. We forget time and place-every thing but the scene before us. We see the huge buffalo with his lumbering gallop, and the mercurial Irishman scouring along, without hat or coat, in pursuit-we are aroused from our midnight sleep by the alarm of a stampede, and wake to see the affrighted horses, and oxen snorting and tearing along the plain-we sit with him by the camp fire and listen to the marvelous tale of some veteran hunter, or start from our slumber at daybreak, aroused by the reveille -we follow the adventurers through a hot day's march without a drop of water until, just at nightfall, we reach a cool spring bubbling up, with a wide basin below for bathing-we see the wild horses galloping toward us, then pausing in a line to gaze, and finally going off at the top of their speed across the prairie. We follow them, later in their journey, when provisions and water had grown scarce, and when hostile Indians begin to crowd around their path, watching to cut off stragglers. A rifle is heard ahead over a swell in the prairie. We dash across the acclivity, and see a party of savages galloping off with several dead bodies of their friends hanging across their beasts. Hastening up, we find four of the expedition, led by Lieutenant Hall, scalped on the ground; though their many wounds and their broken musket stocks prove how desperate was the defence. Suddenly a cry of fire is heard, and we see the prairie in flames, the dry grass catching like tinder, and the conflagration coming down toward us faster than a horse can run. Again, and we are lost in the vast expanse, no sign of man or beast being in sight. We gallop to the nearest acclivity and look around; but in vain. To another and another height we hurry, but we are still unsuccessful. We have now lost the points of the compass and the sun is right above us, so that it affords no clue to the course to be taken. In hopeless despair we cast ourselves from our horse, then remount; and finally catch sight, from a knoll, of the white tops of the distant wagons, with emotions of thrilling joy. So vividly has Mr. Kendall painted these different incidents, that now as we write they rise up to our fancy, not as pictures, but as actual occurrences. It is no small merit to have succeeded so perfectly in his delineations. After nearly exhausting their stock of provisions, and finding themselves still a great distance from the Mexican frontier, it was determined to push forward a detachment of about ninety men to explore the way and send back supplies. Mr. Kendall, anxious to prosecute his journey, joined this party, and, after a march of thirteen days, during seven of which they were without food, they reached Anton Chico, a border settlement, and began to flatter themselves that their sufferings were at an end. It was a sad mistake. The governor of the region, Armijo, had received intimation of their approach, and that they came with hostile intentions, and he determined accordingly on the capture of the whole party. Luckily for him the expedition had been divided. Kendall, with four others, had preceded the detachment, but even of this inconsiderable force the cowardly Mexicans were afraid, or deemed it impolitic openly to assail. Stratagem was resorted to, and the party induced to lay by its arms. The mask was then thrown off, and the unfortunate men treated as prisoners. They were drawn up in a line and the files had been already detailed to shoot them, when a providential interference saved their lives for the present. They were now marched to prison, where they endured every indignity from their captors; the only persons who seem to have shown them charity were the priests and women, a fact honorable alike to Christianity and to the sex. The treachery of one of their number, Lewis, who, on being promised his life and adequate compensation, betrayed his associates, procured the capture of the larger detachment, and subsequently of the main body. How different his conduct from that of Major Howland, who was offered his life on the same terms, but who nobly refused and was brutally shot in the sight of his old companions, without being allowed to communicate to them even his dying wishes to his family. We have always regarded the Mexicans as a race physically and mentally degenerate, as self-willed, narrowminded, cowardly and brutal; but we never thought, until we perused the account of their cruelty to the Santa Fé prisoners, that they were quite so low in the scale of humanity. The North American Indian, though he scalps and tortures at the stake, faces death without flinching and fights to the last. His errors arise from custom, and are deemed virtues But the degenerate Mexican sneaks from a field where the odds are not in his favor, and murders prisoners in cool blood with cowardly brutality. Physically, morally and intellectually weak, he occupies the lowest scale in the family of man. He is to the Hindoo what the Hindoo is to the Italian, and all know what that is who know what the Italian is to the rest of Europe. The vocabulary of all nations is deficient in a term capable of conveying fully the cowardice and treachery of this people. To express it we should have to coin a new word. We might, if such were our province, find many faults with the negligence of Mr. Kendall's style. But we can excuse many things to a man who describes incidents so graphically; and it is but just to him to remember that these volumes were originally written in the shape of letters for his newspaper, and, therefore, composed hurriedly. When their subsequent popularity induced the author to collect them in a book, it was best, perhaps, to leave them as near as possible what they were before, else the reader would scarcely recognize his old acquaintance. More finished compositions might have been produced by re-writing the letters, but in the effort the spirit that first animated them would have run in danger of being lost. The volumes are well printed, but the illustrations are only ordinary. a priori, incompatible with his subject. Speaking of Broussais, and his so called physiological system," Dr. Holmes remarks, "The subtlety of his reasoning, and the hissing vehemence of his style, effervescent as acids on marble, aided the temporary triumph of his doctrine. Whatever others may have done for its downfall, the death-blow came from the scalpel of Louis . . . . In vain did the old athlete writhe like Laocoon in the embrace of the serpents; his children, his darling doctrines, circled with coil upon coil of their iron antagonist, were slowly choked out of life, while he himself battled vainly to the last, with the whole strength of his Herculean energies.. At this very time, during this very day that passes over our heads, a hundred thousand leeches would have been draining the life-blood from that noble army of martyrs whom the physicians of America call their patients, in the vain hope of subduing an imaginary inflammation, had not the great French pathologist [Louis] wilted down his youth upon the stone floor of the amphitheatre of La Charité, and sent out his new truths upon the winds that turn the weathercocks of medical Christendom!" There are many eloquent passages in this address, and some sharp satirical flings at fashionable theories of medicine, which we should like to extract had we space. The extensive influence exerted on public opinion by popular novels, may be inferred from the fact, that Dr. Holmes devotes two or three of his thirty pages to an elaborate consideration of libels on his profession, contained in Sue's "Mysteries of Paris ;" and he is somewhat bitter in lashing the custom of late among the "dealers in the rag fair of light literature of airing their philanthropy and morality." We cannot refrain from quoting a few sentences directed at what Dr. Holmes considers delusions or knaveries. "What difference," he says, "does it make, whether the speaker is the apostle of Thomsonianism, the common sense' scientific radicalism of the barn-yard, or homæopathy, the mystical scientific radicalism of the drawingroom? It is the same spirit of saucy and ignorant presumption, with a fractional difference in grammar and elegance of expression. . . . I know too well the character of these assailants to gratify their demand for publicity by throwing a stone into any of their nests. They welcome every cuff of criticism as a gratuitous advertisement; they grow turgid with delight npon every eminence of exposure which enables them to climb up where they can be seen." These are hard raps, however. The Lectures Delivered before the American Institute of Instruction. August, 1843. Boston, Wm. D. Ticknor, 1 vol. These addresses are generally well written and practical, evincing the interest taken by the teachers in all branches of culture, and displaying broad views of the whole scope of education. Here and there we perceive some of the peculiarities of the schoolmaster intruded, peculiarities which no one whose back has ever made the acquaintance of the birch can admire; but, on the whole, the lectures are sound, judicious and unpresuming. The essay of Mr. Page, on the advancement of public instruction, contains much truth and sincerity, expressed with considerable liveliness of manner. Dr. Humphrey's lecture on the "Bible in Common Schools," will be read with The Position and Prospects of the Medical Student. By interest. The remarks of Professor Agnew, on the moral Oliver W. Holmes, M. D. Boston, 1844. This is a pamphlet printed, not published, which is well worthy of Dr. Holmes' subtle mind and large attainments. Like every thing from its author's pen, it is stamped with broad individual characteristics, and glitters with fancy and wit. In his statement of medical facts and opinions, there is often a brilliancy of expression which would seem, dignity of the teacher's office, are calculated to impress the humblest schoolmasters and schoolmistresses in our land with the essential elevation of their calling, and the vast results which depend on their fidelity and intelligence. There are many passages in this lecture written with eloquence and feeling, though there is occasionally displayed a tendency to inflation in the style. |