Of Literature, Science, and Art.
JANUARY TO APRIL, 1852.
STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.
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NEW-YORK, March 30, 1852.
VOLUME V. JANUARY TO APRIL, 1852.
American War-Engines: Colt and Jennings. (Seven Engravings.) 33
Ariadne, the Story of.—By Erastus W. Ellsworth, 45
Annuaries: A Series of Poems.—By Alice Carey, 87
Autumn Leaves.—By John R. Thompson, 188
Aztecs, At the Society Library. (Engraving.) 289
Army Private, A Word About The. 315
Ashburner, Mr., in New-York.—By Frank Manhattan, Jr., 324
Author of the Fool of Quality, The. 460
Adventures of an Army Physician in New-York, 496
Arts, The Fine.—Kaulbach's Last Works, 133.—The Publication of the Works of Ingres, 133.—The Art-Unions, 277.—An Artist Sycophant in Naples, 277.—Kugler's History of Art, 277.—Copies of Ancient Egyptian Sculptures, 277.—Drawings by Schiller, 277.—Kaulbach, 277.—Greenough, 267.—Kaulbach's Cartoon of Homer, 424.—Gallait's Last Moments of Egmont, 424.—Monument to Metastasio, 424.—New England Art-Union, Etching of Alston's "Witch of Endor," 425.—Drawing of the American Art-Union, 425.—Philadelphia Art-Union, 425.
Authors and Books.—Henry Heine turned Christian, 124.—Dr. Schmidt on German Romanticism, 125.—German version of Firdusi, 125.—Bulau's Secret History of Enigmatical Men, 125.—Historical Concert at Dresden, 125.—Leipzig Book Fair, 125.—History of Music, 125.—Works of Bach, 125.—Lachmann, the Philologist, 125.—German work on Jonathan Edwards, 125.—Dr. Andree's Das Westland, 126.—The Gotha Almanac, 126.—Fruits of Humboldt's Kosmos, 126.—Auerbach's Village Stories, 126.—Religious Novel by Storch, 126.—Schneider's House Chronicles, 126.—Mugge's new Book, 126.—Wells's Middle Kingdom in German, 126.—Geograpica Italiae, 126.—German History of the British Empire in India, 126.—Reverence In Reviewing, 126.—Adolph Stahr, 126.—Countess Hahn-Hahn, 127.—Prince Windischgratz's History of the Hungarian War, 127.—Menzel's new Novel, 127.—Miss Bremer on the World's Fair, 127.—Frederick the Great, 127.—Kohl's last Book of Travels, 127.—Shakspeare in Swedish, 127.—New History of German Literature, 127.—Listz's new Operas, 127.—Haddock's Somnolism and Psycheism, 127.—Gervinus on German Poetry, 127.—Silvio Pellico, 127.—English Eclectic Magazine in Tuscany, 127.—Gioberti on the Regeneration of Italy, 128.—The Israel of the Alps, 128.—Christian Missions in China, 129.—New work on Horticulture in Paris, 130.—Laurent's International Law, 130.—Alexander Dumas, 130.—Prudhon's last Absurdities, 130.—M. Lefranc on the French Revolution, 131.—The Waverly Novels in France, 131.—The Photographic Album, 131.—Guizot's Moral Studies and Meditations, 131.—F. Arago, 131.—M. Ott, on Socialism, 131.—M. Reybaud, 131.—Lord Brougham, 131.—Hartzenbusch's Spanish Authors, 131.—The Grenville Papers and the new volumes of Lord Mabon's History of England, 131.—Sir James Stephens's History of France, 132.—Mr. Merrivale's History of the Romans, 132.—Memoirs of Dr. Chalmers, 132.—Alice Carey's Clovernook, Grace Greenwood's new volume of Tales and Letters, and Miss Cheesebro's Dreamland by Daylight, 132.—Daniel Webster, Mr. Bancroft, and Mr. Irving, on the Life of Washington, 132.—Baucher's Horsemanship, 132.—Heroes and Martyrs of the Missionary Enterprise, 132.—Gutzkow's Ritter Vom Geiste, 268.—Henry Taylor reviewed in the Grenzboten, 268.—Germany in the Revolutionary Period of 1522, 268.—Reading Poems, 268.—German views of Carlyle's Life of Sterling, 268.—Curious German work on Shakspeare, by Veshe, 269.—The Gothic Runic Alphabet, 269.—Fac Simile of an Ancient copy of the Gospels, 269.—German Historical Monuments, 269.—Hagberg's Swedish version, of Shakspeare, 269.—German version of Dunlap's History of Fiction, 269.—The Vagabonds, by Holtei, 269.—New German Poems, 269.—Richers on Nature and Spirit, 270.—German Domestic Legends, 270.—Fecknor's Zend Avista, 270.—Rappert's Negromancer Virgilius, 270.—German Temperance Tales, 270.—Nichl on Civil Society, 270.—Correspondence of Goethe and Knebel, 270.—New Collection of Eastern MSS. at Berlin, 270.—German versions of Longfellow, Dr. Mayo, and Bunyan, 270.—Recent German Historical Literature, 271.—German Booksellers, 271.—Wholesale system of acquiring Languages, 271.—Adolf Stahr's Prussian Revolution, 271.—Schleisenger's Wanderings through London, 271.—Arabic MS. of Euclid, 271.—New work by Baron Eoetvoes, 271.—Wagner's Journey to Persia, 271.—Continuation of Humboldt's Kosmos, 271.—German work on Kossuth, 271.—Cheever's Sandwich Islands, in German, 271.—Silvio Pellico, 271.—Clemens Brentano, 271.—New Books on Scandinavia, 272.—The Widow of Weber, 272.—Professor Nuytz, 272.—Maria Monk in Germany, 272.—Works of Kepler, 272.—Works Prohibited in Russia, 272.—Liebeck, on Landscape Gardening, 272.—Cotta's new edition of Faust, 272.—Writings of Spalatin, 272.—Scientific Works from China, 272.—Biot's Translation of an Ancient Chinese History, 273.—The Library of Cardinal Mezzofanti, 273.—Michelet, 273.—Nicolas and Ritter, 273.—Works of Paganini, 274.—Philarete Chasles on American Literature, 274.—Lafuente's History of Spain, 274.—New Paris edition of Fenimore Cooper, 274.—Guizot on Shakspeare, 274.—Paris by a Hungarian, 274.—Villegos, the Spanish Historian, 274.—Tranion on Land Tenure, 274.—Lady Bulwer's New Novel, 274.—New Works on French History, 275.—Count Joseph de Maistro, 275.—Don Antonio Saco, on Cuba, 275.—New edition of Turner's Anglo Saxons, 275.—John Howard Hinton on the Voluntary Principle in America, 275.—New Discussions as to Junius, 275.—Smith's Natural History of the Human Species, 275.—Bonynge's Wealth of America, 276.—The Past and it's Legacies, by J. D. Nourse, 276.—Head's Bundle of French Sticks, 276.—Legends of Alexander in the East, 414.—Hofner, on Dresses of Christians, in the Middle Ages, 414.—German Version of Popular Nomenclature of American Plants, 414.—German Works on History, 414.—Count Von Hugel on India, 414.—Von Rommer's Historical Pocket Book, 415.—The Art Journal, 415.—Beeker's Roman Antiquities, 415.—Ennemoser's Inquiries Respecting the Human Soul, 415.—New Edition of Brackhaus's Lexikon, 415.—Sources of Popular German Songs, 415.—Saupe's Schiller and his Paternal House, 416.—German Military Books, 416.—Thirtieth Volume of the Library of Collected German Literature, 416.—Biography of Karl Lachmann, 416.—History of German Literature, 416.—Ludwig Kossuth, 416.—Behse's History of the Austrian Court, 416.—Forty Questions addressed to Mahomet, by the Jews, 416.—Boeckh's Political Economy of the Athenians, 416.—Hettner's AEsthetic Inquiries into the Modern Drama, 416.—Lepsius on Egyptian Theology, 417.—History of the Russian Empire, 417.—Bavarian Traditions. 417.—S. Didung, 417.—Zahn's Pompeii, 417.—Miss Bremer's American Homes, 417.—A German Wandering Jew, 417.—Mittermaier on American Systems of Punishment, 417.—History of Costumes, 417.—Amyot and the Old French Translators, 417.—Silvio Pellico's Works in France, 417.—History of the Bastile, 418.—Count Montalembert, 418.—Greek Professorship of Edinburgh, 418.—Dr. Smith's Pilgrimage to Palestine, 418.—Turkish Grammar, 418.—Bulwer's Poems, 418.—Lady Bulwer's Letters to the Morning Post, 418.—Memoir of Lord Jeffrey, 418.—New Candidate for the authorship of Junius, 419.—Unpublished papers of Torquato Tasso, 419.—Bancroft's History, 419.—Palfrey's Jewish Scriptures and Antiquities, 420.—Howadji in Syria, 420.—The History of Classical Literature by R. W. Browne, 420.—Thompson's Literature of the Southern States, 420.—Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed, 420.—New Book by G. W. Curtis, 420.—R. H. Stoddard, 420.—Schopenhauer's "Little Philosophical Writings," 549.—Wachsmuth's History of Civilization, 550.—German Theology, 550. Wagner's Journey to Persia, 550.—Roman Catholic Missions, 551.—Professor Brandes on the Mormons, 551.—Constitutions of the Country Towns in Saxony, 551.—Gottleib Fichte's Ethics, 551.—Memoirs Of the Margravine of Bayreuth, 552.—Fannbacher's Recollections of Greece, &c., 552.—Remains of Klaproth, 552.—Daumer's Poems, 552.—Gutzkow's Bitter vom Geiste, 552.—New Scandinavian Literature, 553. Philology and Politics In Denmark, 553.—Poems of Annete Von Droste, 553.—Jahn on Beethoven, 553. German Version of Byron, 553.—Wagner on the Opera and Drama. 553.—Record of Books on Goethe and Schiller, 553.—German Translations of English Ballads, 553.—New Additions to the Index Expurgatorius, 553.—Hettner's Modern Drama, 553.—Layard In German, 553.—The Tubingen Theological Quarterly, 554.—George Stephens in Sweden, 554. Eugene Sue, 554.—Villefort, 554.—New Book by Houissaye, 554.—Louis Blanc's New Volume on the French Revolution, 554.—Edmund Texier on Paris, 554.—The Catacombs of Rome, 554.—The Shelley Forgeries, 555.—Discovery of a corrected Text of Shakspeare, 555.—Sir James Stephen, 555.—Miss Vandenhoff's Play, 555.—Mr. Carlyle, 555.—Mrs. Robinson and William Hazlitt, 556.—Literary Men in the English Cabinet, 556.—Life in Bombay and the Neighboring Nations, 556.—Philarete Chasles on American Literature, 556.—The Standard Speaker, by Epes Sargent, 557.—Memoirs of Margaret Fulier, 558.—Bayard Taylor in Africa, 558.—Works by American Women In Press, 558.—Dr. Dunglison's Medical Dictionary, 559.—Illustrated Edition of General Morris's Poems, 559.—Books on Austria and Hungary, by Mr. Brace, and Mr. Stiles, 559. Foreign Versions of Ticknor's Spanish Literature, 559.—Arvine's Anecdotes, 559.—Dr. Gardner's Tractate on Female Physicians, 559.—Mrs. Conant's Translation of Neander on James, 559.—New Volume of Poems by Boker, 559.—Professor Stuart's Last Commentary, 559.
Bull Fight at Madrid.—By the Author of "The Castilian", 222
Brooding-Places on the Falkland Islands.—From the German, 45
Bancroft's History of the American Revolution, 461
Colonial Churches in Virginia: St. John's Church, Hampton.—By Rev. John C. M'Cabe. (Three Engravings, after original Drawings, by Rev. Louis P. Clover.) 39
Cicero, A New Portrait of, 162
Columbus at the Gates of Genoa.—By the Author of "Nile Notes of a Howadji", 182
Camargo, Mademoiselle De, 282
Chatsworth, A Day At (Thirteen Engravings.) 291
Cats, A Chapter On, 372
Cagliostro, the Magician.—By Charles Wyllis Elliott, 452
Choice Secrets, 546
Dark Deed of Days Gone By, 110
Divination, Witchcraft, and Mesmerism, 198
Deaths, Recent.—Dr. De Kay and Dr. Manley, 140.—Sovigny, the Naturalist, 140.—The late King of Hanover, 141.—Chevalier Levy, 141.—Augusta Byron (Mrs. Leigh), 142.—General Merchant, 142.—Matthias Attwood, 142.—Cardinal d'Astes, 142.—Emir Pasha, 142.—Alexis de Saint Priest, 142.—Joel R. Ponisett, LL.D., 281.—Moses Stuart D.D., 282.—William Grimshaw, 282.—Marshal Soult, 283.—Karl Frederich Runinhagen, 283.—Michael Sallantian, 283.—Dr. Graeffe, 283.—General Kiel, 283.—Wilhelm Meinhold, 283.—J. W. M. Turner, 284.—Basil Montagu, 286.—Admiral Henry G. Morris, 286.—Mr. Sapio, 286.—General Jatrako, 284.—Presnitz, 287.—Professor Dunbar, 287.—Henry Luttrell, 287.—R. C. Taylor, 287.—Professor Franz, 287.—William Jacob, F.R.S., 287.—Paul Burras, 287.—Dr. A. Sidney Doane, 427.—R. A. Davenport, 428.—Giovanni Berchet, 428.—Miss Berry, 428.—Louis Bertin Parant, 428.—Benjamin Laroche, 428.—Eugene Levesque, 428.—Thomas Williams, 428.—Baron Kemenyi, 429.—Herbert Rodwell, 429.—Sir Frederick Phillipse Robinson, 430.—Rev. John Taylor Jones, 430.—Eliot Warburton, 430.—Frederick Ricci, 430.—Baron D'Ohson, 430.—Mrs. Harlowe, 431.—Acheson Maxwell, 431.—William Ware, 560.—John Frazee, 561.—Dr. John Park, 561.—William Thompson, 561.—Robert Reinick, 562.—William Henry Oxberry, 562. Rev. Christopher Anderson, 562.—Madame Thiers, 562.—Thomas Moore, 563.—Samuel Prout. 565.—Archbishop Murray, 565.—Bishop McNicholas, 565. Mr. Holcroft, 565.—M. Benchot, 565.—Professor Kollar, 566.—The Widow of Kotzbue, 566.—Baron Krudener, 566.—M. de Martigny, 566.—M. Smitz, 566.—Bishop Eylert, 566.—Victor Falck, 566.
Epitaphs.—By F. Lawrence, 213
Edward Everett and Daniel Webster, 307
Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Miss Mitford, 310
Enemy of Virginia, The.—By Dr. Smith, 312
Election Row in New-York.—By C. Astor Bristed, 341
Emille De Coigny.—By Richard B. Kimball. (Illustrated by Darley.); 444
Franklin, Grave of Sir John: Richardson's Journey, 30
Falls of the Bounding Deer.—By Alfred B. Street, 49
Fielding, Henry: The man and his Works, 71
Fashionable Forger, 118
Faust of Wittenburgh and Faust of Mentz, 172
Feathertop: A Moralized Legend.—By Nathaniel Hawthorne, 182, 333
Freedom of Thought, and the Latest Miracles, 186
French Missionaries in Tartary and Thibet, 850
Fete Days at St. Petersburg.—By Alex. Dumas, 508
Greece, Present State of the Ancient Monuments of (Thirteen Engravings.), 4
Good Old Times in Paris: A Tale of Robbers, 216
Gambling, Chapter On, 337
Ghosts, New Discoveries In, 381
Gentlemen's and Ladies' Fashions, (With Engravings.), 143, 287, 431, 566
Guizot and Montalembert, in the Academy, 523
Homes of Cowley and Fox, at Chertsey. (Thirteen Engravings,) 146
Happiness of Oysters, 311
Hungarian Popular Songs.—By Charles G. Leland, 332
Heirs of Randolph Abbey, 375, 400, 477
Historical Review of the Month, 163, 288
Hooker, Herman, and his Works. (Portrait), 442
Jackson, Flint—By a Police Officer, 74
Jewish Heroine: A Story of Tangier, 345
Kossuth, Louis. (Portraits of Kossuth and of his Family.), 1
Leopards: Zoological Notes and Anecdotes, 54
Legend of the East Neuk of Fife, 63
Lee, Jesse, and the Lawyers, 84
Love Song.—By R. S. Chilton, 188
Legend of the Weeping Chamber, 219
Leonora to Tasso.—By Mary E. Hewitt, 331
Lady and the Flower.—By G. P. R. James, 226
Lamb, The White.—By R. H. Stoddard, 411
Legend from the Spanish, A.—By Mary E. Hewitt, 451
Life in Canada.—By Mrs. Moodie, 470
My Novel—By Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. (Continued.) 89, 239, 395, 530
Mahon's, Lord, History of the American Revolution, with Sketches of Washington, Patrick Henry, Franklin, La Fayette, Horne Tooke, Wilkes, Lord Thurlow, Burke, &c., 164
Men and Women of the Eighteenth Century, 300
Model Traveller: Frederick Gerstacker, 305
Mysterious History, Touching Apparitions, 306
Murder of La Tour, The.—By W. H. Stiles, 457
New-York Society, by the Last English Traveller, 443
Niebuhr, Barthold George, The Historian, 517
Noctes Amicitiae.—Ambitious Christenings, 134.—The Passport System, 134.—A Mayor's Proclamation, 134.—Ingenious way of Hiding a Secret, 134.—Last Days of Alexander Lee, 134.—Anecdotes of Elephants, 134.—Madame Kossuth on Woman's Rights, 135.—Story of an English Lord in Paris, 135.—The Spectator on the sacrilege of Dramatists, 135.—Tipsey Drollery, 266.—Anthony Benezet and his Rats, 266.—Descartes and the Ladies, 266.—An American "Characteristic," 266.—Broussais and Water Cure, 267.—Story of Tom Cooke, 267.—Odd Statistics from Portugal, 267.—First Duel in New England, 267.—Ariosto and Humbugs, 667.—Ole Bull, 267.
Opera, The.—By Thomas Carlyle, 29
Owen, John, at Oxford: A Biography, 80
Old Maid's First Love, 228
Pulszky, Francis, 122
Poems, Some Small.—By R. H. Stoddard, 174, 459
Punishment of Gina Montani, 189
Picture Advertising, in South America, 530
Reminiscences of Printers, Booksellers, Authors, &c., in New-York—By Dr. John W. Francis, LL.D., 258
Reclaiming of the Angel—By Alice Carey, 311
Red Feather: An Indian Story.—By I. McLellen, 319
Robinson, John, The Pastor of the Pilgrims, 367
Rainbow Making: The Ribbon Factories, 511
Story of Dr. Lindhorst.—By Richard B. Kimball, 109
Soult, The late Marshal, Duke of Dalmatia. (Portrait.), 145
Story, Mr. Justice, With Reminiscent Reflections. By A. Oakey Hall, 175
Smiles and Tears.—By Richard Coe, 186
Song Queen, The.—Written in a Concert Room, by James T, Fields, 188
Story of Gasper Mendez.—By Catherine Crowe, 362
Simms, William Gilmore, LL.D. (With a Portrait.), 433
Sunset: A Sonnet.—By R. S. Chilton, 443
Some Small Poems.—By R. H. Stoddard, 459
Squier, Mr., in Nicaragua, 474
Sequel to the Jewish Heroine, 491
String of Proverbs, A. 502
Scientific Discoveries and Proceedings of Learned Societies.—Papers in the Paris Academy of Sciences, 139.—African Expeditions, 139.—Perpetual Motion, 139.—Grants of Parliament for Scientific Purposes, 139.—Balloons in Ancient Nineveh, 139.—Invention for Determining Distances, 140.—Interesting Experiments by Professor Gorini, 140.—Count Castelnau's Paper on Men with Tails, 140.—Hatching Turtles by Artificial Heat, 140.—Process for Contracting Fibres of Calico, 280.—Memoir on the Production of Wool, 281.—European Experiments in Electro-Magnetism, 281.—Curious Astronomical Fact respecting Lalande, 281.—Mr. Squier's Address before the London Royal Society of Literature on Mexican Hieroglyphics, 425.—Experiments in Photography, 425.—French experiments in Electro-Magnetism applied to Locomotives, 425.—Lord Brougham's Optical and Mathematical Inquiries, 425.—Mr. Lea's work on the Genus Unio, &c., 426.—Catlin's plan for a Museum of Mankind, 426.—French Academy on Yellow Fever, 426.—Dissolution of the Royal Institute of the Netherlands, 426.—Society of Antiquaries at Copenhagen, 426.
Taylor and Stoddard, Poems of. (Portrait of R. H. Stoddard.), 13
Trangott Bromme's Views of America and Americans, 157
To Sundry Critics,—By R. H. Stoddard, 319
Threnodia,—By Mrs. R. B. Kimball, 323
The Palaces of Trade, (Six Engravings.), 435
Treatment of Gold and Gems, The. 524
Underground Territories of the United States. (Seven Engravings.), 17
Visit to the Fire Worshippers' Temple at Baku, 160
Vision of Charles the Twelfth, 196
Winter.—By Alice Carey, 28
Wits About the Throne of Louis the Fourteenth, 32
Wolf Gathering, 391
Warburton, Eliot, The Late, 459
THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
Of Literature, Art and Science.
Vol. V. NEW-YORK, JANUARY 1, 1852. No. 1.
On the preceding page is the best portrait we have seen of the illustrious Hungarian, whose presence in America is destined to mark one of the brightest pages in the history of Liberty. Of his personal appearance we transcribe the description in the Tribune. He is taller than had generally been supposed, and his face has an expression of penetrating intellect which is not indicated in any portrait. It is long, the forehead broad, but not excessively high, though a slight baldness makes it seem so, and the chin narrow, but square in its form. His hair is thin in front and of a dark brown, as is his beard, which is quite long, but not very thick, and arranged with neatness and taste. His moustache is heavy and rather long. His eyes are very large, and of a light blue; his complexion is pale like that of a man who is not in perfect health, and his appearance yesterday was that of the spirit bearing up against the exhaustion of the body; he was sea-sick during the passage, and had not slept for two or three nights. His manner in speaking is at once incomparably dignified and graceful. Gestures more admirable and effective, and a play of countenance more expressive and magnetic, we remember in no other public speaker. He stands quite erect, and does not bend forward like some orators, to give emphasis to a sentence. His posture and appearance in repose are imposing, not only from their essential grace and dignity, but from a sense of power they impress upon the beholder. This sense of unused power, this certainty that he is not making an effort and doing his utmost, but that behind all this strength of fascination there are other treasures of strength, other stores of ability not brought into use, possibly never brought into use, is perhaps what constitutes the supreme charm of his oratory. He speaks as if with little preparation, and with that peculiar freshness which belongs to extemporaneous speaking; there is no effort about it, and the wonderful compactness and art of his argument are not felt until you reflect upon it afterward. His every movement is perfectly easy, and he gesticulates much, equally well with either arm. Nothing could be more beautiful in its way than the sweep of his right hand, as it was raised to Heaven, when he spoke of the Deity—nothing sweeter than the smile which at times mantles his face. His voice is not very loud, but it was heard distinctly through the large pavilion. On the whole our previous impression was perfectly confirmed by hearing him. In speaking, Kossuth occasionally referred to notes which lay on the stand before him. He was dressed after the Hungarian fashion, in a black velvet tunic, single breasted, with standing collar and transparent black buttons. He also wore an overcoat or sack of black velvet with broad fur and loose sleeves. He wore light kid gloves. Generally his English is fluent and distinct, with a marked foreign accent, though at times this is not at all apparent. He speaks rather slowly than otherwise, and occasionally hesitates for a word. His command of the language, astonishing as it is in a foreigner, seems rather the result of an utter abandonment to his thought, and a reliance on that to express itself, than of an absolute command of the niceties of the grammar and dictionary. He evidently has no fear of speaking wrong, and so, as by inspiration, expresses himself often better even than one to whom the language is native and familiar. Though he often uses words with a foreign meaning, or a meaning different from that we usually give them, he does not stop to correct himself, but goes on as if there were no doubt that he would be perfectly apprehended.
The character of Kossuth has been very amply discussed in all the journals both before and since his triumphal entry into New-York. The judgment of the London Examiner is the common judgment of at least the Saxon race, that, while the extraordinary events of 1848 and 1849, afforded the fairest opportunities for the advent of a great man, the people who were ready for battle against oppression, were all stricken down on account of the incapacity of their leaders—except in one instance. The exception was in the case of Kossuth. And he was no new man, but had been steadily building a great fame from his youth; had labored in the humblest as well as highest offices of patriotism; and as a thinker, a speaker, and a writer, had been before the public eye of all Europe for years. He was born in 1806, at Monok, in Hungary, of parents not rich, yet possessing land, and calling themselves noble. His native district was a Protestant one, and in the pastor of that district he found his first teacher. On their death, while he was still young, more devoted to books than to farming, he was sent to the provincial college, where he remained until eighteen years of age, and earned the reputation of being the most able and promising youth of the district. In 1826, he removed to the University of Pesth, where he came in contact with the political influences and ideas of the time; and these, blending with his own historic studies and youthful hopes, soon produced the ardent, practical patriot, which the world has since seen in him.
According to the Constitution of Hungary, the Comitats or electoral body treated those elected to sit in the Diet more as delegates than as deputies. They gave them precise instructions, and expected the members not only to conform to them, but to send regular accounts of their conduct to their constituents for due sanction, and with a view to fresh instructions. This kind of communication was rather onerous for the Hungarian country gentleman, and hence many of the deputies employed such young men as Kossuth to transact their political business, and conduct their correspondence. Acting in this capacity for many members of the Diet, Kossuth came into intimate relations with the comitats, and acquired skill in public affairs.
He was soon himself made a member, and from the first was distinguished in the Diet as a speaker. Here he felt, and soon pointed out to his colleagues, how idle and powerless were their debates unless these were known to the public in some more efficient manner than by the private correspondence of the deputies. Influenced by his representations, the chief members of the Diet resolved to establish a journal for the publication of their discussions; and Kossuth was selected as one of those who were to preside over it; but the Archduke Palatine objected, of course, because the object was to curtail the reports and garble them. Kossuth, however, was enabled by the more liberal of his colleagues to publish the reports on his own account. He then extended the journal by the insertion of leading articles; and his counsels and criticisms on the instructions of the comitats to the deputies, so stirred the bile and counteracted the views of the Austrian authorities, that they interfered and suspended his newspaper by seizing his presses. But, even this did not stop his pen, nor those of his many amanuenses; until, at last, Metternich, exasperated by his obstinacy, caused him to be seized and condemned to three years' imprisonment in the citadel of Ofen. He was liberated in 1837; and during the years that elapsed between that epoch and 1848 the history of Hungary was that of Kossuth, who, amidst the many men of noble birth, wealth, high character, and singular talents, who surrounded him, still held his ground, and shone pre-eminent. In 1847 he was the acknowledged leader of the constitutional party, and member for the Hungarian capital. It is unnecessary to pursue this narrative. The events of 1848 and 1849 have passed too recently and vividly before us to need relation. The part that Kossuth played in those years was but the logical consequence of his previous life. The struggle was for the rights of Hungary, in all circumstances and against all foes. For these he fought along with the Hungarian aristocracy, as long as they had the courage to resist Austria; and when they wavered, he went on without them, appealing to the comitats and to the smaller landed proprietors in the absence of the greater, and to the squires instead of the nobles.
The result thus far we all know. The final result perhaps we in America are to decide.
THE ANCIENT MONUMENTS OF GREECE.
Every one can understand the regret with which we behold the remains of ancient grandeur, and the capitals of buried empires. This feeling, so profound in Jerusalem and Rome, is even more so in Athens,—
"the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence, native to famous wits, Or hospitable—"
a city never so large as New-York, but whose inhabitants produced within the short space of two centuries, reckoning from the battle of Marathon, as Landor says, a larger number of exquisite models, in war, philosophy, patriotism, oratory and poetry—in the semi-mechanical arts which accompany or follow them, sculpture and painting—and in the first of the mechanical, architecture, than the remainder of Europe in six thousand years.
The monuments of antiquity which still exist in Athens have been described by Chandler, Clarke, Gell, Stuart, Dodwell, Leake, and other travellers, the most recent and competent of whom perhaps is Mr. Henry Cook, of London, author of Illustrations of a Tour in the Ionian Islands, Greece, and Constantinople, who has just made, or rather is now making for the Art-Journal a series of drawings of those which are most important, representing them in their present condition. These drawings by Mr. Cook, so far as they have appeared, we reproduce in the International, making liberal use at the same time of his descriptions.
Until the sacrilegious hand of the late Lord Elgin despoiled Athens of "what Goth, and Turk, and Time had spared," the world could still see enough to render possible a just impression of her old and chaste magnificence. It is painful to reflect within how comparatively short a period the chief injuries have been inflicted on such buildings as the Parthenon, and the temple of Jupiter Olympus, and to remember how recent is the greater part of the rubbish by which these edifices have been choked up, mutilated, and concealed. Probably until within a very few centuries, time had been, simply and alone, the "beautifier of the dead," "adorner of the ruin," and, but for the vandalism of a few barbarians, we might have gazed on the remains of former greatness without an emotion except of admiration for the genius by which they were created. The salient feature (probably the only one) in the present rule at Athens is one which affords the highest satisfaction to those interested in this subject. Slowly, indeed, and with an absence of all energy, is going on the restoration of some, the disinterment of others, and the conservation of all the existing monuments; and time will probably ere long give us back, so far as is possible, all that the vandalism or recklessness of modern ages has obscured or destroyed. On the Acropolis the results of these efforts at restoration are chiefly visible; day by day the debris of ruined fortifications, of Turkish batteries, mosques, and magazines, are disappearing; every thing which is not Pentelic marble finds its way over the steep sides of the fortress, and in due time nothing will be left but the scattered fragments which really belonged to the ancient temples. "The above sketch," says Mr. Cook, "represents faithfully the present condition of this most sublime creation. The details of the partial destruction of this old fortress—founded 1556 years before the advent of the Saviour—under the fire of the Venetians, commanded by Morosini, are so well known, that I have thought it unnecessary to repeat them; but it is impossible to recall them without a shudder, as the reflection is forced on one, of what must have been their fate whose wickedness caused an explosion which could scatter, as a horse's hoof may the sands of the sea-shore, the giant masses which for ever bear witness to the power of that mighty agent we have evoked from the earth for our mutual destruction." At the west end of the Acropolis, by which alone it was accessible, stood the Propylaea, its gate as well as its defence. Through this gate the periodical processions of the Panathenaic jubilee were wont to move, and the marks of chariot wheels are still visible on the stone floor of its entrance. It was of the Doric order, and its right wing was supported by six fluted columns, each five feet in diameter, twenty-nine in height, and seven in their intercolumniation. Of the Propylaea itself Mr. Cook gives no individual drawing, the only sketch he had opportunity of making, being in its relation to the Acropolis generally; "it will, however," he says, "serve in some degree to show what has been done. Here perhaps the chief work has been accomplished; all the now detached columns were built up with solid brickwork, batteries were erected on the spot occupied by the Temple of 'Victory without wings,' and on the square which answered to it on the opposite side of the flight of marble steps; the whole of which were deeply buried (not until they had severely suffered), beneath the ruins of the fortification which crumbled away under the Venetian guns. These walls have been removed, the batteries destroyed, and the material of which they were composed taken away; the steps exhumed, and the five grand entrances, by which the fortress was originally entered, opened, although not yet rendered passable. It would be, I imagine, impossible to conceive an approach more magnificent than this must have been. The whole is on such a superb scale, the design, in its union of simplicity and grandeur is so perfect, the material so exquisite, and the view which one has from it of the Parthenon and the Erechtheum so beautiful, that no interest less intense than that which belongs to these temples would be sufficient to entice the stranger from its contemplation."
On the right wing of the Propylaea stood the temple of Victory, and on the left was a building decorated with paintings by the pencil of Polygnotus, of which Pausanias has left us an account. In a part of the wall still remaining there are fragments of excellent designs in basso-relievo, representing the combat of the Athenians with the Amazons; besides six columns, white as snow, and of the finest architecture. Near the Propylaea stood the celebrated colossal statue of Minerva, executed by Phidias after the battle of Marathon, the height of which, including the pedestal, was sixty feet.
The chief glory of the Acropolis was the Parthenon, or temple of Minerva. It was a peripteral octostyle, of the Doric order, with seventeen columns on the sides, each six feet two inches in diameter at the base, and thirty-four feet in height, elevated on three steps. Its height, from the base of the pediments, was sixty-five feet, and the dimensions of the area two hundred and thirty-three feet, by one hundred and two. The eastern pediment was adorned with two groups of statues, one of which represented the birth of Minerva, the other the contest of Minerva with Neptune for the government of Athens. On the metopes was sculptured the battle of the Centaurs with the Lapithae; and the frieze contained a representation of the Panathenaic festivals. Ictinus, Callicrates, and Carpion, were the architects of this temple; Phidias was the artist; and its entire cost has been estimated at seven million and a half of dollars. Of this building, eight columns of the eastern front and several of the lateral colonnades are still standing. Of the frontispiece, which represented the contest of Neptune and Minerva, nothing remains but the head of a sea-horse and the figures of two women without heads. The combat of the Centaurs and Lapithae is in better preservation; but of the numerous statues with which this temple was enriched, that of Adrian alone remains. The Parthenon, however, dilapidated as it is, still retains an air of inexpressible grandeur and sublimity; and it forms at once the highest point in Athens, and the centre of the Acropolis.
To stand at the eastern wall of the Acropolis, and gaze on the Parthenon, robed in the rich colors by which time has added an almost voluptuous beauty to its perfect proportions—to behold between its columns the blue mountains of the Morea, and the bluer seas of Egina and Salamis, with acanthus-covered or icy-wedded fragments of majestic friezes, and mighty capitals at your feet—the sky of Greece, flooded by the gorgeous hues of sunset, above your head—Mr. Cook describes as one of the highest enjoyments the world can offer to a man of taste. He is opposed to the projects of its restoration, and says that, "to real lovers of the picturesque, the Parthenon as it now stands—a ruin in every sense of the term, its walls destroyed, its columns shivered, its friezes scattered, its capitals half-buried by their own weight, but clear of all else—is, if not a grander, assuredly a more impressive object than when, in the palmiest days of Athenian glory, its marble, pure as the unfallen snow, first met the rays of the morning sun, and excited the reverential admiration of the assembled multitudes."
On the northeast side of the Parthenon stood the Erechtheum, a temple dedicated to the joint worship of Neptune and Minerva. There are considerable remains of this building, particularly those beautiful female figures called Caryatides, which support, instead of columns, three of the porticoes; besides three of the columns in the north hexastyle with the roof over these last columns, the rest of the roof of this graceful portico fell during the siege of Athens, in 1827. Lately, much has been done in the way of excavation; the buried base of this tripartite temple has been cleared; the walls, which had been built to make it habitable, have been removed; the abducted Caryatid replaced by a modern copy, the gift of Lord Guildford, and the whole prepared for a projected restoration.
The Temple of Victory without wings, already mentioned is, with the exception of the pavement, entirely a restoration; for nearly two centuries all trace of it was lost, all mention omitted. In removing one of the Turkish batteries, in order to clear the entrance to the Propylaea, some fragments were found which led to a more minute investigation; and, after a short time, the foundation, the pavement, and even the bases of some of the columns were disinterred, making its reconstruction not only very easy, but extremely satisfactory. It is small, but of exquisite proportions, and now perfect, with the exception of a portion of the frieze, which is in the British Museum. A peculiarity of this temple is, that it stands at an angle slightly differing from that of the Propylaea itself,—a fact for which, as it clearly formed one of the chief ornaments to, and was certainly built after, this noble portico, it is difficult to assign any very good reason.
Such is an outline of the chief buildings of the Acropolis, which, in its best days, had four distinct characters: being at once the fortress, the sacred inclosure, the treasury, and the museum of art, of the Athenian nation. It was an entire offering to the deity, unrivalled in richness and splendor; it was the peerless gem of Greece, the glory and the pride of genius, the wonder and envy of the world.
Beneath the southern wall of the Acropolis, near its extremity, was situated the Athenian or Dionysiac theatre. Its seats, rising one above another, were cut of the sloping rock. Of these, only the two highest rows are now visible, the rest being concealed by an accumulation of soil, the removal of which would probably bring to light the whole shell of the theatre. Plato affirms it was capable of containing thirty thousand persons. It contained statues of all the great tragic and comic poets, the most conspicuous of which were naturally those of AEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, among the former, and those of Aristophanes and Menander among the latter. On the southwest side of the Acropolis is the site of the Odeum, or musical theatre of Herodes Atticus, named by him the theatre of Regilla, in honor of his wife. On the northeast side of the Acropolis stood the Prytaneum, where citizens who had rendered services to the state were maintained at the public expense. Extending southwards from the site of the Prytaneum, ran the street to which Pausanias gave the name of Tripods, from its containing a number of small temples or edifices crowned with tripods, to commemorate the triumphs gained by the Choragi in the theatre of Bacchus. Opposite to the west end of the Acropolis is the Areopagus, or hill of Mars, on the eastern extremity of which was situated the celebrated court of the Areopagus. This point is reached by means of sixteen stone steps cut in the rock, immediately above which is a bench of stone, forming three sides of a quadrangle, like a triclinium, generally supposed to have been the tribunal. The ruins of a small chapel consecrated to St. Dionysius the Areopagite, and commemorating his conversion by St. Paul, are here visible. About a quarter of a mile southwest from the centre of the Areopagus stands Pnyx, the place provided for the public assemblies at Athens in its palmy days. The steps by which the speaker mounted the rostrum, and a tier of three seats hewn in the solid rock for the audience, are still visible. This is perhaps the most interesting spot in Athens to the lovers of Grecian genius, being associated with the renown of Demosthenes, and the other famed Athenian orators,
"whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democratie, Shook the arsenal and fulmined over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne."
Descending the Acropolis, the eye is at once arrested by the magnificent remains of the temple of Jupiter Olympus, and by the Arch of Hadrian. Whether from its proximity to the gorgeous monument first named, or that it is intrinsically deficient in that species of merit which appeals directly to the senses, the Arch of Hadrian attracts comparatively little notice. It is, however, a highly interesting monument, bearing unmistakable marks of the decline of art; yet distinguished for much of that quality of beauty which gives so peculiar a character to the architecture of the Greeks. The inscriptions on the sides of the entablature have given rise to much learned discussion, and have led to a far more lucid arrangement of the city and its chief ornaments, than would in all probability have been accomplished, had not inquiry and investigation been spurred on by the difficulty of comprehending their exact meaning.
Of two views of the temple of Jupiter Olympus, Mr. Cook chose that in which the Acropolis is seen in the distance. The three lofty Corinthian columns in the other engraving are diminished to the scale of the arch, while the Acropolis, from its greater complexity of parts, adds, perhaps, something of a quality in which the subject is rather wanting. "I am not sure," says Mr. Cook, "that the remains of the temple of Jupiter Olympus are not the most impressive which Athens offers to the eye and heart of the traveller, partly from their abstract grandeur—a grandeur derived from every element which could contribute to such an end—and partly from a position than which it would be impossible to conceive any thing more magnificent. The gigantic columns struck me with a sense of awe and bewilderment, almost oppressive; they consist, as may be seen by the engraving, of sixteen, the sole representatives of the one hundred and twenty which once formed this mightiest of Athenian temples. The least thoughtful person could scarcely avoid the question of where and how the remaining one hundred and four of these enormous masses can have vanished; and assisted by the fullest information which is to be acquired on the subject, it remains a matter of wonder to all. That time itself has had but little to answer for, the almost perfect preservation of portions is sufficient to prove; in some cases the flutings are as sharp and clean as when the hand of the sculptor left them, while, more generally, they bear disgraceful evidence of ill-usage of every kind, from that of the cannon ball to the petty mischief of wanton idleness. The proportion of these columns is quite perfect, and the mind is lost in charmed wonder, as wandering from part to part of the vast platform, it is presented at every step with combinations perpetually changing, yet always beautiful. So difficult do I find it to determine from what point of view these ruins are seen to the greatest advantage, that I have appended two engravings, from which the reader may select that which best conveys to him the magnificence of the structure which has been thus slightly described." The temple of Jupiter Olympus was one of the first conceived, and the last executed of the sacred monuments of Athens. It was begun by Pisistratus, but not finished till the time of the Roman emperor Adrian, seven hundred years afterwards.
A proof of the varied character of the Athenian architectural genius may be found in the exquisite model, the lantern of Demosthenes, or, as it is more properly called, the Choragic monument of Lysierates. It is, in common with the greater number of the remains of which we speak, of Pentelic marble. By whomever conceived, designed, or executed, this must have been a labor of love, and the result is such as might be anticipated from the consequent development of the highest powers of one to whom a people like the Athenians would entrust the task of doing honor to those who had paid to their native land a similar tribute. It is small, and formed of a few immense masses: the roof is one entire block; the temple or monument itself is circular, and is formed of six slabs of pure white marble, the joints of which are concealed by an equal number of beautiful Corinthian columns, partly imbedded into, and partly projecting from them. These have been fitted with such exactness, that before the "fretting hand of time and change" had done its work, the whole must have appeared as if cut from one solid mass. We have this single example of a class of buildings once so numerous that they formed an entire street; but however grateful one may feel to the hospice, which, being built over, protected it from the ruin of its companions, we can scarcely regret its disappearance, through which alone this exquisite result of intellect and refined taste may be seen as represented in the engraving.
The Temple or Tower of the Winds, has been very justly termed "the most curious existing monument of the practical gnomonics of antiquity." In architecture no very elevated rank can be assigned to this edifice, nor is there, even in its ornamental portions, any very remarkable evidence of the higher order of Grecian art; the execution, indeed, can in nowise be considered equal to the conception, which, if somewhat fancifully elaborated, is at least highly to be esteemed, as uniting in a more than ordinary degree the practically useful with the poetical ideal. Near the new Agora, and consequently in the heart of the more densely populated division of the city, this indicator of the wind and hour must have been a valuable contribution to the Athenians, and must have given to its founder, Andronicus Cyrrestes, a proud position among the bene merenti of the moment. Its form is octagonal, the roof being of marble, so cut as to represent tiles; upon the upper portion of each face is sculptured the figure of one of the eight Winds; these floating in an almost horizontal position convey, either by their dress, the emblems which they bear, or the expression of their features, the character of the wind they are respectively intended to personify. Within a very recent period this building, which was more than half buried, has been exhumed, and many important facts have been discovered during the process of excavation. The interior has been cleared, and in the pavement may be seen the channels by which the water was conveyed to the machinery by whose agency the hour was indicated, when the absence of the sun rendered the dials described upon the marble faces of the tower of no avail. These dials have been tested and pronounced perfectly correct, by a no less celebrated authority than Delambre. The two arches on the left of the illustration are the only remaining portions of the aqueduct by which the necessary supply was conveyed, according to Stuart, from the spring in the grotto of Pan; it is a matter of gratulation alike to the antiquarian and the lover of the picturesque, that these have been spared. From the amount of excavation necessary to arrive at its basement, it is clear that this portion of the town must have been raised, by ruins and atmospheric deposits, at least eight or nine feet above its original level.
The temple of Theseus, apart from the present town, and in a comparatively elevated and isolated position, built by Cimon, shortly after the battle of Salarnis, is one of the most noble remains of the ancient magnificence of Athens, and the most perfect, if not the most beautiful, existing specimen of Grecian architecture. It is built of Pentelic marble; the roof, friezes, and cornices still remain; and so gently has the hand of time pressed upon this venerable edifice, that the first impression of the mind in beholding it, is doubt of its antiquity. It was raised thirty years before the Parthenon, unlike which it appears to have been but sparingly supplied with sculptural decoration; but that which was so dedicated was of the highest merit, and remaining in an almost perfect condition, is most deeply interesting to the artist and the historian: supplying to the one models of beauty, and to the other the most undeniable data, upon which to establish the identity of this with the temple raised by the Athenians to the Hero-God.
After having been successively denominated the remains of the Palace of Pericles, of the temple of Jupiter Olympus (an unaccountable blunder), the Painted Portico, the Forum of the inner Ceremeicus, the magnificent wreck of which the following engraving may convey a general idea, has been finally decided to have formed a portion of the Pantheon of Hadrian. For some time after this opinion had been started by Mr. Wilkins, and sanctioned by Sir William Gell, great doubts, despite the remarkable verification afforded by the language of Pausanias, remained as to its truth; but the Earl of Guildford has at length placed the matter beyond question. Some extensive excavations made under his personal direction resulted in the discovery of the Phrygian stone so minutely described by the enthusiastic traveller.
The portico forming the next illustration was a long time considered the only remaining portion of a temple dedicated to the Emperor Augustus, but it is now clearly established as having been one of the entrances to a market-place. This idea, suggested to the mind of Stuart, by certain minute yet well marked variations in the proportion of the columns from those devoted to sacred purposes, has been sustained by research, and finally demonstrated to be correct by the discovery of an inscription which has put the question at rest for ever. In one of these the names of two prefects of the market are preserved; and another, still perfect, is an edict of Hadrian respecting the duties to be levied on certain articles of consumption, and regulating the sale of oils, &c. Nothing can be more picturesque than the present condition of this portico, the latest specimen of the pure Greek Art. Its coloring is rich and varied, while its state of ruin is precisely that in which the eye of the painter delights, sufficient to destroy all hardness or angularity, yet not so great as to rob it of one element of grandeur.
The building called the Monument of Philopappus, despite its somewhat fantastic elaboration of detail, is very remarkable and interesting; it was created either during the lifetime, or as a memorial immediately after his death, to Caius Julius Antiochus Philopappus, a descendant of the royalty of Syria, and an adopted citizen of Athens. It consists of a basement supporting a pilastrade of semi-circular form, and presenting upon its concave surface three niches, containing sitting statues, and three recesses richly ornamented with the representation in strong relief of a Roman triumph. Upon the basement also were various sculptures in honor of the Emperor Trajan. These, and, indeed, all the decorative sculpture, &c., profusely lavished upon this building have suffered greatly. The two remaining statues are much dilapidated. From this point a magnificent view of the Acropolis is obtained, and few are the sights presented to the traveller, which surpass in historic interest or actual beauty that meeting his eye, to whichever point of the compass he may turn when standing at the foot of this remarkably picturesque monument.
The ages which produced these marvellous works in architecture had other and different glories. Painting and sculpture reached the highest perfection; and poetry exhibited all the grace and vigor of the Athenian imagination. And though time has effaced all traces of the pencil of Parrhasius, Zeuxis, and Apelles, posterity has assigned them a place in the temple of fame beside Phidias and Praxiteles, whose works are, even at the present day, unrivalled for classical purity of design and perfection of execution. And after the city had passed her noon in art, and in political greatness, she became the mother of that philosophy at once subtile and sublime, which, even at the present hour, exerts a powerful influence over the human mind. This era in her history has been alluded to by Milton:
"See there the olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long; There flowery hill Hymettus with the sound Of bees' industrious murmur oft invites To studious musing; there Ilyssus rolls His whispering stream; within the walls then view The schools of ancient sages; who bred Great Alexander to subdue the world, Lyceum there and painted Stoa next; ... To sage philosophy next lend thine ear. From Heaven descended to the low roof'd house Of Socrates; see there his tenement, Whom, well inspired, the oracle pronounced Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth Mellifluous streams that water'd all the schools Of Academics old and new, with those Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect Epicurean, and the Stoic severe."
Such is an outline of the remains of the chief Athenian edifices, which link ancient times with the present, and which, as long as there is taste to appreciate or genius to imitate, must arrest the attention and command the admiration of all the generations of mankind.
TAYLOR AND STODDARD[A]
We have placed these names together, not on account of any fancied resemblance between the two poets, but for the very opposite reason. We wish to trace the contrasts which may be exhibited by writers living in the same age, the same country, and under the same system of social relations. Mr. Stoddard's volume is dedicated with evident warmth of feeling to Bayard Taylor, and the natural conclusion is that the poets are personal friends; yet so far from the intellectual nature of the one having influenced that of the other, they are as strikingly opposed in thought, feeling, and manner of expression, as two men well can be.
The time has gone by when a volume from the pen of Mr. Taylor can be dismissed with a careless line or two. Few writers of our day have made more rapid advances into popular favor, and no one is more justly entitled to the place which he holds. If we are to trust contemporary criticism, a goodly army of what are called "promising young poets" might be raised from any state in the Union. But what becomes of them? It is one thing to promise, and another to perform, and we fear that this suggestion contains a hint at the whole mystery. It seems to be comparatively easy for educated men, blinded to their incapacity by an unwholesome passion for notoriety which is never the inspiring motive of a real poet, to reach a certain degree of excellence which may be denominated "promising." Many a feather has been shed, and many a wing broken, in attempting to soar beyond it. We shall not describe Mr. Taylor with the epithet. We see nothing to justify it in his volume, on every page of which there is actual performance. Maturity may indeed add to his powers, and further increase his poetical insight; but there is no necessity for waiting, lest we commit ourselves by a favorable opinion, and no fear that such an opinion will be falsified by succeeding efforts.
Richard Henry Stoddard doubtless has been styled a promising young poet by half the newspaper press; therefore if we venture to say that Mr. Stoddard has performed, and that the promising season is over with him, it is not because we do not think that his future poems will exhibit new and greater excellencies, but because we recognize merits in his present collection which eminently entitle him to respectful consideration.
The evident source of Mr. Stoddard's inspiration is a love for ideal beauty, in whatever form it may be manifested. Like all admirers of ideal beauty, he has a strong sensual element in his composition. He is not satisfied with the mere dreams of his imagination, but he must also attempt to realize them through the medium of imitative art. Among the various modes for expressing the same feelings and ideas, painting, poetry, sculpture and music, he has chosen poetry as the one best adapted to his purpose. We would not be understood to assert that an artist may, at will, express his emotions in any of the arts; for a man may be insensible to an idea expressed in sculpture or music, which is perfectly clear to him in poetry or painting; but we assert that all the arts are but different languages to convey the same ideas. True art addresses itself to the moral, the intellectual, or the sensual man; and by the predominance of one of these qualities in the artist, or by various combinations of the three, all the radical differences between men of genius can be accounted for, and all the seeming mysteries explained. This truth is the groundwork of genuine criticism; and the critic who busies himself about the accidental circumstances, which have influenced an artist, is only prying into his history, without sounding the depth of his nature. At least let criticism start here: it may afterward indulge in microscopic comparisons of style, and in worn-out accusations of imitation: but it is a sorry thing to see persons assuming the dignified office of the critic magnifying molehills into mountains, and similarities into thefts. All men are gifted with various faculties, but it is not in the superiority of any or all of them that we can account for the existence of the poet, who has something of the divine nature in him, having a creative energy that is not a result of the degree in which he possesses one or more of the ordinary faculties, but is a special distinction with which he is clothed by the deity.
We will proceed to examine our two poets by the principles before stated, not forgetting to compare or contrast them, as there may be opportunity. In Mr. Taylor there is a just equipoise of the moral and intellectual natures, while the sensual nature, if not so strong as the former two, is at least calmed and subdued by their united power. With fine animal spirits, he has but little taste for gross animal enjoyments; and the mischief which his unlicensed spirits might commit, is foreseen by a sensitive conscience, and checked by a mind that sees the end in the act, and provides to-day against the future. Mr. Taylor's inclinations are for scenes of grandeur. Sublime human actions, nature in her awful revolutionary states, the wild desolation of a mountain peak or a limitless desert, the storm, the earthquake, the cataract, the moaning forest—these are the chief inspirations of his powers. Whatever is suggestive of high emotions, that act upon his moral nature, and in turn are acted upon by it, forms an unconquerable incentive to his poetical exertions. Mere word-painting he has no affection for. A scene of nature, however beautiful, would be poetically valueless to him, unless it moved his feelings past the point of silent contemplation. The first poem in his volume affords a striking illustration of his apprehension of intellectual bravery. Through fasting that approaches starvation, unanswered prayers, and repeated discomfitures, the soul of the hero burns undimmed, and his eyes remain steadily fixed on his purpose. Physical suffering only strengthens his resolution, and defeat only nerves him to renewed efforts. Round these ideas the poet lingers with a triumphant emotion, that proves his sympathies to be centred less in the outward action of the poem, than in the power of human will—a power which he conceives to be capable of overcoming all things, even the gods themselves. We have before stated that nature, unless suggestive of some intellectual emotion, is nothing to Mr. Taylor. To arouse himself to song, he must vitalize the world, must make it live, breathe and feel, must find books in the running brooks, and sermons in stones, or brooks and stones are to him as if they had not been. In the "Metempsychosis of the Pine," this characteristic is finely displayed. The poet imagines himself to have been a pine, and retraces his experiences while in that state of being. The pine becomes a conscious creature, revelling in the joys of its own existence, feeling the sap stir in its veins, and pour through a heart as susceptible as man's. Many poets have recalled the memories which linger around a particular tree, or, apostrophising it, have bid it relate certain histories; but in Mr. Taylor's poem the tree speaks from within its own nature—not with the feelings of a man, not with what we might suppose would be the feelings of a common tree, but as a pine of many centuries—and no one can mistake its voice. A nobler use of the dramatic faculty, in lyrical poetry, is not within our recollection.
As may be supposed, Mr. Taylor's poetry is written under the excitement of passion, and does not proceed from that laborious process of constructing effects, to which a large number of poets owe their success. The consequence is that his language is vividly metaphorical, only dealing in similes when in a comparative repose, and never going out of the way to hunt up one of those eternal likes, which have emasculated our poetic style, and are fast becoming a leading characteristic in American verse, to the utter destruction of every thing like real passion. Mr. Taylor is an instructive study in this respect. He uses ten metaphors to one simile. His ideas come forth clothed in their figurative language, and do not bring it along neatly tied up in a separate bundle. From this cause there is a sturdy strength and genuine feeling about his poems, that more than compensate for the ingenious trinkets which he despises, and leaves for the adornment of those who need them. In him imagination predominates over fancy, and the latter is always sacrificed to the former. We do not intend to say that Mr. Taylor is without fancy. Far from it—he has fancy, but it never leads him to be fanciful. His versification is polished, correct and various, but more harmonious than melodious; that is to say, the whole rhythmical flow of his verse is more striking than the sweetness of particular lines. We have not mentioned all the phases of Mr. Taylor's genius. Some of the smaller poems in his volume border on the sensuous; and in "Hylas" he has paid a tribute to ancient fable worthy of its refined inventors; but scenes of moral and natural sublimity are those in which he succeeds best, and by them he should be characterized.
Mr. Stoddard is the precise opposite to his friend. In him the sensual vastly outranks the moral or the intellectual quality. Let it not be supposed that we wish to hold the two latter elements as superior to the former for poetical purposes; nor do we by asserting the greater preponderance of any one, deny the possession of the other two. To the sensuous in man we are indebted for the great body of Grecian poetry, and Keats wholly, and Tennyson in part, are modern instances of what may be achieved by imbibing the spirit of the ancient classics. Shallow critics have professed to discover a resemblance between these English poets and Mr. Stoddard, and Mr. Taylor has also fallen under the same accusation, for no better reason, that we can conceive, than that all four have drunk at the same fountain, and enjoyed its inspirations.
Mr. Stoddard's sympathies are almost entirely given up to ancient Grecian art. He can scarcely realize that the dream has passed forever. He sees something vital in its very ruins. For him the Phidian friezes yet crown the unplundered Parthenon; the gigantic Athena yet gleams through sacerdotal incense, in all her ivory whiteness, smiling upon reeking altars and sacrificing priests; Delphos has yet an oracular voice; Bacchus and Pan and his Satyrs yet lead their riotous train through a forest whose every tree is alive with its dryad, and whose every fountain is haunted by its potamid; there are yet patriot veins to glow at the Iliad; AEschylus can yet fill a theatre; Pericles yet thunders at Cimon from the Cema, or woos Aspasia, or tempers the headlong Alcibiades, or prepares his darling Athens for the Peloponnesian war. These things Mr. Stoddard feels while the locomotive shrieks in his ears, while the omnibus, speeding to the steamship, rattles the glass of his window, while the newsboy cries his monotonous advertisement, or his servant hands to him a telegraphic dispatch; and he is right. The body in which Grecian art existed, is indeed dead, but the spirit which animated it is indestructible. There will be poets to worship and reproduce it, there will be scholars to admire and preserve it, when every man's field is bounded by a railway, when every housetop is surmounted by a telegraph wire, and when the golden calf is again set up amid the people, to be worshipped as the living God.
From the force of his sympathies, Mr. Stoddard can lean but in that direction. Throughout his volume there is scarcely a poem which is not the offshoot of these feelings. Some of them are confessedly upon Grecian subjects, and all of them are animated by a corresponding spirit. Even his few domestic poems are not treated after that modern manner, which moralizes in the last stanza, simply to let the reader understand how well the poet knows his own meaning. Whatever is beautiful in Mr. Stoddard's themes is distinctly brought forward, while the darker side of his subject is scarcely touched upon. Take, for example, a poem of great simplicity and tenderness, filled with a sorrow so beautiful as almost to make one in love with grief, and contrast it with a poem, on a similar subject, by Bayard Taylor:
"Along the grassy slope I sit, And dream of other years; My heart is full of soft regrets, My eyes of tender tears!
The wild bees hummed about the spot, The sheep-bells tinkled far, Last year when Alice sat with me Beneath the evening star!
The same sweet star is o'er me now, Around, the same soft hours, But Alice moulders in the dust With all the last year's flowers!
I sit alone, and only hear The wild bees on the steep, And distant bells that seem to float From out the folds of sleep!"
Stoddard, page 116.
This is very fine and delicate feeling, softened down to the mildest point of passion; but it does not at all resemble the frenzy of grief which follows:
"Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane, And fall, thou drear December rain! Fill with your gusts the sullen day, Tear the last clinging leaves away! Reckless as yonder naked tree, No blast of yours can trouble me.
Give me your chill and wild embrace, And pour your baptism on my face; Sound in mine ears the airy moan That sweeps in desperate monotone, Where on the unsheltered hill-top beat The marches of your homeless feet!
Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain! Your stormy sobs and tears are vain, If shed for her whose fading eyes Will open soon on Paradise; The eye of Heaven shall blinded be, Or ere ye cease, if shed for me."
Taylor, page 92.
What a desolation of wo! how the whole man is carried away in one overwhelming passion! A contrast of the opening poems of these two volumes, would be a pleasant employment, but their length forbids it. Mr. Taylor's "Romance of the Maize" we have mentioned already; Mr. Stoddard's "Castle in the Air" is its complete antithesis. The latter poem is a magnificent day-dream, abounding in luscious imagery, and unrivalled for its minute descriptions of ideal scenery and its voluptuous music of versification, by any similar creation since Spenser's "Bower of Bliss."
To sum up Mr. Stoddard's poetical character, he has more fancy than imagination, he is rather exquisitely sensitive than profoundly passionate, and oftener works up his feelings to the act of composition, than seeks it as an outlet for uncontrollable emotion. He thoroughly, and at every point, an artist. His genius is never allowed to run riot, but is always subjected to the laws of a delicate, but most severe taste. His poems are probably planned with views to their artistic effects, and are then constructed from his exhaustless wealth of poetical material, by a nice adaptation of each part to the perfect whole of his design. If he has less imagination than Mr. Taylor, he has a richer and more glowing fancy; if his figures are less apt and striking, they are more elegant and symmetrical; if the harmonious dignity of his versification is less, its melodious sweetness is more; if he has less passion, he has more sensibility; if moral and physical grandeur are not so attractive to him, ideal and natural beauty are the only elements in which his life is endurable. We might pursue these contrasts to the end of our magazine; but if we have called the reader's attention to them, we have done enough.
From "Love and Solitude," by Mr. Taylor, we extract the following picture, in order to contrast it with the handling of the same subject by Mr. Stoddard in "The South:"
"Some island, on the purple plain Of Polynesian main, Where never yet adventurer's prore Lay rocking near its coral shore: A tropic mystery, which the enamored deep Folds, as a beauty in a charmed sleep. There lofty palms, of some imperial line, That never bled their nimble wine, Crowd all the hills, and out the headlands go To watch on distant reefs the lazy brine Turning its fringe of snow. There, when the sun stands high Upon the burning summit of the sky, All shadows wither: Light alone Is in the world: and pregnant grown With teeming life, the trembling island earth And panting sea forebode sweet pains of birth Which never come;—their love brings never forth The human Soul they lack alone."
Taylor, page 16.
Half-way between the frozen zones, Where Winter reigns in sullen mirth, The Summer binds a golden belt About the middle of the Earth, The sky is soft, and blue, and bright, With purple dyes at morn and night: And bright and blue the seas which lie In perfect rest, and glass the sky; And sunny bays with inland curves Round all along the quiet shore; And stately palms, in pillared ranks Grow down the borders of the banks, And juts of land where billows roar; The spicy woods are full of birds, And golden fruits, and crimson flowers; With wreathed vines on every bough, That shed their grapes in purple showers; The emerald meadows roll their waves, And bask in soft and mellow light; The vales are full of silver mist, And all the folded hills are bright; But far along the welkin's rim The purple crags and peaks are dim; And dim the gulfs, and gorges blue, With all the wooded passes deep; All steeped in haze, and washed in dew, And bathed in atmospheres of Sleep!
Stoddard, page 14.
Passages like these say more for their authors than could any commendation from the critic. Observe how soon mere description is abandoned by Mr. Taylor, and he begins to put life and feeling into his scene. The deep is "enamored," the island is "in a charmed sleep," the palms are "imperial," and "crowd the hills," and "out the headlands go to watch the lazy brine," &c. All nature is alive. On the other hand, Mr. Stoddard loves nature for its beauty alone, without desiring in it any imaginable animation. The man who can read Mr. Taylor's "Kubla," without feeling the blood dance in his veins, should never confess it, for he is hardening into something beyond the reach of sympathy. In "The Soldier and the Pard," a poem of curious originality, Mr. Taylor pushes his belief in the all-pervading existence of moral nature to its last extreme. It closes with the following emphatic lines:
"And if a man Deny this truth she [the Pard] taught me, to his face I say he lies: a beast may have a soul!"
Without drawing too much on the tables of contents, we could not enumerate the many note-worthy pieces in these volumes; and it would much exceed our limits to give them even a passing word of comment. Among Mr. Stoddard's unmentioned poems, the "Hymn to Flora," an "Ode" of delicious melancholy, full of exquisite taste and finely-wrought fancies, "Spring," "Autumn," a "Hymn to the Beautiful," "The Broken Goblet," and "Triumphant Music," give the reader a clear insight into his peculiar characteristics, and open a vision of ideal beauty that no poet has exhibited in such Grecian perfection since the death of Keats. A poem, on page 115, is one that awakens peculiar emotions; it describes a state of half consciousness, when the senses are morbidly alive, and the perceptive faculties are fettered with dreams, or inspired by a strange memory that bears within it things not of this world, and hints at a previous and different existence.
"The yellow moon looks slantly down, Through seaward mists, upon the town; And like a mist the moonshine falls Between the dim and shadowy walls.
I see a crowd in every street, But cannot hear their falling feet; They float like clouds through shade and light, And seem a portion of the night.
The ships have lain, for ages fled, Along the waters, dark and dead; The dying waters wash no more The long black line of spectral shore.
There is no life on land or sea, Save in the quiet moon and me; Nor ours is true, but only seems, Within some dead old world of dreams!"
Stoddard, page 115.
With this shadowy poem we close, begging our readers not to be terrified at the boldness with which we claim so high a place for the subjects of our review. They have that within them which will prove our commendations just, and establish them in the rank assigned by us, with a firmness that will need no critic's aid, and can be shaken by no critic's assault. We but add, let them remember that the fear of the world is the beginning of mischief. GEORGE H. BOKER.
[A] A Book of Romances, Lyrics and Songs. By BAYARD TAYLOR. Boston, Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 16mo. Poems. By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD Same publishers. 16mo.
THE UNDERGROUND TERRITORIES OF THE UNITED STATES.
The extraordinary caverns which underlie various parts of this country are of a description suitable in extent and magnificence to the general scale of nature here, in lakes, rivers, cataracts, valleys in which empires are cradled, prairies of scarcely conceivable vastness, and mountains whose bases are amid perpetual flowers and where frozen seas have never intermission of their crashing thunders. In Virginia, New-York, and other states, the caves of Weyer, Schoharie, and many that are less famous but not inferior in beauty or grandeur, are well known to travellers; but the MAMMOTH CAVE, under Kentucky, is world renowned, and such felon states as Naples might hide in it from the scorn of mankind. Considering the common curiosity respecting that strange subterranean country, and the fact of its being resorted to in winter by valetudinarians, on account of its admirable climate—so that our article is altogether seasonable—we give, chiefly from a letter by Mrs. Child, a very full description of this eighth wonder of the world—illustrated by engravings from recent drawings made under the direction of the Rev. Horace Martin, who proposes soon to furnish for tourists an ample volume on the subject.
The Mammoth Cave is in the southwest part of Kentucky, about a hundred miles from Louisville, and sixty from Harrodsburg Springs. The word cave is ill calculated to impress the imagination with an idea of its surpassing grandeur. It is in fact a subterranean world; containing within itself territories extensive enough for half a score of German principalities. It should be named Titans' Palace, or Cyclops' Grotto. It lies among the Knobs, a range of hills, which border an extent of country, like highland prairies, called the Barrens. The surrounding scenery is lovely. Fine woods of oak, hickory, and chestnut, clear of underbrush, with smooth, verdant openings, like the parks of English noblemen.
The cave was purchased by Dr. John Croghan, for ten thousand dollars. To prevent a disputed title, in case any new and distant opening should be discovered, he has likewise bought a wide circuit of adjoining land. His enthusiasm concerning it is unbounded. It is in fact his world; and every newly-discovered chamber fills him with pride and joy, like that felt by Columbus, when he first kissed his hand to the fair Queen of the Antilles. He has built a commodious hotel[B] near the entrance, in a style well suited to the place. It is made of logs, filled in with lime; with a fine large porch, in front of which is a beautiful verdant lawn. Near by, is a funnel-shaped hollow of three hundred acres; probably a cave fallen in. It is called Deer Park, because when those animals run into it, they cannot escape. There are troops of wild deer in the immediate vicinity of the hotel; bear-hunts are frequent, and game of all kinds abounds.
Walking along the verge of this hollow, you come to a ravine, leading to Green River, whence you command a view of what is supposed to be the main entrance to the cave. It is a huge cavernous arch, filled in with immense stones, as if giants had piled them there, to imprison a conquered demon. No opening has ever been effected here, nor is it easy to imagine that it could be done by the strength of man. In rear of the hotel is a deep ravine densely wooded, and covered with a luxuriant vegetable growth. It leads to Green River, and was probably once a water course. A narrow ravine, diverging from this, leads, by a winding path, to the entrance of the cave. It is a high arch of rocks, rudely piled, and richly covered with ivy and tangled vines. At the top, is a perennial fountain of sweet and cool water, which trickles down continually from the centre of the arch, through the pendent foliage, and is caught in a vessel below. The entrance of this wide arch is somewhat obstructed by a large mound of saltpetre, thrown up by workmen engaged in its manufacture, during the last war. In the course of their excavations, they dug up the bones of a gigantic man; but, unfortunately, they buried them again, without any memorial to mark the spot. They have been sought for by the curious and scientific, but are not yet found.
As you come opposite the entrance of the cave, in summer, the temperature changes instantaneously, from about 85 deg. to below 60 deg., and you feel chilled as if by the presence of an iceberg. In winter, the effect is reversed. The scientific have indulged in various speculations concerning the air of this cave. It is supposed to get completely filled with cold winds during the long blasts of winter, and as there is no outlet, they remain pent up till the atmosphere without becomes warmer than that within; when there is, of course, a continual effort toward equilibrium. Why the air within the cave should be so fresh, pure, and equable, all the year round, even in its deepest recesses, is not so easily explained. Some have suggested that it is continually modified by the presence of chemical agents. Whatever may be the cause, its agreeable salubrity is observed by every visitor, and it is said to have great healing power in diseases of the lungs. The amount of exertion which can be performed here without fatigue, is astonishing. The superabundance of oxygen in the atmosphere operates like moderate doses of exhilarating gas. The traveller feels a buoyant sensation, which tempts him to run and jump, and leap from crag to crag, and bound over the stones in his path. The mind, moreover, sustains the body, being kept in a state of delightful activity, by continual new discoveries and startling revelations.
The wide entrance to the cavern soon contracts, so that but two can pass abreast. At this place, called the Narrows, the air from dark depths beyond blows out fiercely, as if the spirits of the cave had mustered there, to drive intruders back to the realms of day. This path continues about fourteen or fifteen rods, and emerges into a wider avenue, floored with saltpetre earth, from which the stones have been removed. This leads directly into the Rotunda, a vast hall, comprising a surface of eight acres, arched with a dome a hundred feet high, without a single pillar to support it. It rests on irregular ribs of dark gray rock, in massive oval rings, smaller and smaller, one seen within another, till they terminate at the top. Perhaps this apartment impresses the traveller as much as any portion of the cave; because from it he receives his first idea of its gigantic proportions. The vastness, the gloom, the impossibility of taking in the boundaries by the light of lamps—all these produce a deep sensation of awe and wonder.
From the Rotunda, you pass into Audubon's Avenue, from eighty to a hundred feet high, with galleries of rock on each side, jutting out farther and father, till they nearly meet at top. This avenue branches out into a vast half-oval hall, called the Church. This contains several projecting galleries, one of them resembling a cathedral choir. There is a gap in the gallery, and at the point of interruption, immediately above, is a rostrum, or pulpit, the rocky canopy of which juts over. The guide leads up from the adjoining galleries, and places a lamp each side of the pulpit, on flat rocks, which seem made for the purpose. There has been preaching from this pulpit; but unless it was superior to most theological teaching, it must have been pitifully discordant with the sublimity of the place. Five thousand people could stand in this subterranean temple with ease.
So far, all is irregular, jagged rocks, thrown together in fantastic masses, without any particular style; but now begins a series of imitations, which grow more and more perfect, in gradual progression, till you arrive at the end. From the Church you pass into what is called the Gothic Gallery, from its obvious resemblance to that style of architecture. Here is Mummy Hall; so called because several mummies have been found seated in recesses of the rock. Without any process of embalming, they were in as perfect a state of preservation, as the mummies of Egypt; for the air of the cave is so dry and unchangeable, and so strongly impregnated with nitre, that decomposition cannot take place. A mummy found here in 1813, was the body of a woman five feet ten inches high, wrapped in half-dressed deer skins, on which were rudely drawn white veins and leaves. At the feet, lay a pair of moccasons, and a handsome knapsack, made of bark: containing strings of small shining seeds; necklaces of bears' teeth, eagles' claws, and fawns' red hoofs; whistles made of cane; two rattlesnakes' skins, one having on it fourteen rattles; coronets for the head, made of erect feathers of rooks and eagles; smooth needles of horn and bone, some of them crooked like sail-needles; deers' sinews, for sewing, and a parcel of three-corded thread, resembling twine. I believe one of these mummies is now in the British Museum. From Mummy Hall you pass into Gothic Avenue, where the resemblance to Gothic architecture very perceptibly increases. The wall juts out in pointed arches, and pillars, on the sides of which are various grotesque combinations of rock. One is an elephant's head. The tusks and sleepy eyes are quite perfect; the trunk, at first very distinct, gradually recedes, and is lost in the rock. On another pillar is a lion's head; on another, a human head with a wig, called Lord Lyndhurst, from its resemblance to that dignitary.
From this gallery you can step into a side cave, in which is an immense pit, called the Lover's Leap. A huge rock, fourteen or fifteen feet long, like an elongated sugar-loaf running to a sharp point, projects half way over this abyss. It makes one shudder to see the guide walk almost to the end of this projectile bridge, over such an awful chasm. As you pass along, the Gothic Avenue narrows, until you come to a porch composed of the first separate columns in the cave. The stalactite and stalagmite formations unite in these irregular masses of brownish yellow, which, when the light shines through them, look like transparent amber. They are sonorous as a clear-toned bell. A pendent mass, called the Bell, has been unfortunately broken, by being struck too powerfully.
The porch of columns leads to the Gothic Chapel, which has the circular form appropriate to a true church. A number of pure stalactite columns fill the nave with arches, which in many places form a perfect Gothic roof. The stalactites fall in rich festoons, strikingly similar to the highly ornamented chapel of Henry VII. Four columns in the centre form a separate arch by themselves, like trees twisted into a grotto, in all irregular and grotesque shapes. Under this arch stands Wilkins' arm-chair, a stalactite formation, well adapted to the human figure. The Chapel is the most beautiful specimen of the Gothic in the cave. Two or three of the columns have richly foliated capitals, like the Corinthian.
If you turn back to the main avenue, and strike off in another direction, you enter a vast room, with several projecting galleries, called the Ball Room. In close vicinity, as if arranged by the severer school of theologians, is a large amphitheatre, called Satan's Council Chamber. From the centre rises a mountain of big stones, rudely piled one above another, in a gradual slope, nearly one hundred feet high. On the top rests a huge rock, big as a house, called Satan's Throne. The vastness, the gloom, partially illuminated by the glare of lamps, forcibly remind one of Lucifer on his throne, as represented by Martin in his illustrations of Milton. It requires little imagination to transform the uncouth rocks all around the throne, into attendant demons. Indeed, throughout the cave, Martin's pictures are continually brought to mind, by the unearthly effect of intense gleams of light on black masses of shadow. In this Council Chamber, the rocks, with singular appropriateness, change from an imitation of Gothic architecture, to that of the Egyptian. The dark, massive walls resemble a series of Egyptian tombs, in dull and heavy outline. In this place is an angle, which forms the meeting point of several caves, and is therefore considered one of the finest points of view. Here parties usually stop and make arrangements to kindle the Bengal Lights, which travellers always carry with them. It has a strange and picturesque effect to see groups of people dotted about, at different points of view, their lamps hidden behind stones, and the light streaming into the thick darkness, through chinks in the rocks. When the lights begin to burn, their intense radiance casts a strong glare on Satan's Throne; the whole of the vast amphitheatre is revealed to view, and you can peer into the deep recesses of two other caves beyond. For a few moments, gigantic proportions and uncouth forms stand out in the clear, strong gush of brilliant light! and then—all is darkness. The effect is so like magic, that one almost expects to see towering genii striding down the deep declivities, or startled by the brilliant flare, shake off their long sleep among the dense black shadows.
If you enter one of the caves revealed in the distance, you find yourself in a deep ravine, with huge piles of gray rock jutting out more and more, till they nearly meet at top. Looking upward, through this narrow aperture, you see, high, high above you, a vaulted roof of black rock, studded with brilliant spar, like constellations in the sky, seen at midnight, from the deep clefts of a mountain. This is called the Star Chamber. It makes one think of Schiller's grand description of William Tell sternly waiting for Gessler, among the shadows of the Alps, and of Wordsworth's picture of
"Yorkshire dales Among the rocks and winding scars, Where deep and low the hamlets lie, Beneath their little patch of sky, And little lot of stars."
In this neighborhood is a vast, dreary chamber, which Stephen, the guide, called Bandit's Hall, the first moment his eye rested on it; and the name is singularly expressive of its character. Its ragged roughness and sullen gloom are indescribable. The floor is a mountainous heap of loose stones, and not an inch of even surface could be found on roof or walls. Imagine two or three travellers, with their lamps, passing through this place of evil aspect. The deep, suspicions-looking recesses and frightful crags are but partially revealed in the feeble light. All at once, a Bengal Light blazes up, and every black rock and frowning cliff stands out in the brilliant glare. The contrast is sublime beyond imagination. It is as if a man had seen the hills and trees of this earth only in the dim outline of a moonless night, and they should, for the first time, be revealed to him in the gushing glory of the morning sun. But the greatest wonder in this region of the cave, is Mammoth Dome—a giant among giants. It is so immensely high and vast, that three of the most powerful Bengal Lights illuminate it very imperfectly. That portion of the ceiling which becomes visible, is three hundred feet above your head, and remarkably resembles the aisles of Westminster Abbey. It is supposed that the top of this dome is near the surface of the ground. Another route from the Devil's Council Chamber conducts you to a smooth, level path, called Pensacola Avenue. Here are numerous formations of crystallized gypsum, but not as beautiful or as various as are found farther on. From various slopes and openings, caves above and below are visible. The Mecca's shrine of this pilgrimage is Angelica's Grotto, completely lined and covered with the largest and richest dog's tooth spar. A person who visited the place, a few years since, laid his sacrilegious hands upon it, while the guide's back was turned towards whim. He coolly demolished a magnificent mass of spar, sparkling most conspicuously on the very centre of the arch, and wrote his own insignificant name in its place. This was his fashion of securing immortality! It is well that fairies and giants are powerless in the nineteenth century, else had the indignant genii of the cave crushed his bones to impalpable powder.