not with the changing cold and heat of the seasons without, exhaling always a faint, delightful perfume, it is the realm of piety,-the clime of devotion-a spiritual globe in the midst of a material universe. ELIHU G. HOLLAND WAS born of New England parentage at Solon, Cortlandt county, New York, April 14, 1817. His first published work was a volume entitled The Being of God and the Immortal Life, in 1846. His aim was to assert the doctrines of the divine existence and the immortality of man by arguments derived from the elements of human nature. In 1849 he published, at Boston, a volume, Reviews and Essays. It embraces an elaborate paper on the character and philosophy of Confucius, an analysis of the genius of Channing, an article on Natural Theology, and Essays on Genius, Beauty, the Infinite, Harmony, &c. This was followed in 1852 by another volume entitled Essays: and a Drama in Fire Acts. The essays were in a similar range with those of its predecessor. The drama is entitled The Highland Treason, and is a version of the affair of Arnold and André. In 1853 he published a Memoir of the Rev. Joseph Badger, the revival preacher of the Christian connexion.* Though luxuriant and prolix in expression, with a tendency to over statement in the transcendental style, the writings of Mr. Holland show him to be a student and thinker. We present a pleasing passage from an Essay on "American Scenery." THE SUSQUEHANNAH. Νο It is difficult to imagine a more continuous line of beauty than the course of the Susquehannah, a river whose mild grace and gentleness combined with power render it a message of nature to the affections and to the tranquil consciousness. This trait of mildness, even in its proudest flow, seems to hover upon its banks and waters as the genius of the scene. thunder of cataracts anywhere announces its fame. It is mostly the contemplative river, dear to fancy, dear to the soul's calm feeling of unruffled peace. This river of noble sources and many tributaries, traverses the vale of Wyoming, where, in other years, we have been delighted with its various scenery. Its mountain ramparts, which rise somewhat majestically to hail her onward progress, are crowned with a vegetation of northern fir, whilst the verdant and fertile valley is graced with the foliage of the oak, chestnut, and sycamore. At Northumberland, where the east and the west branch unite, the river rolls along with a noble expanse of surface; opposite the town rises, several hundred feet, a dark perpendicular precipice of rock, from which the whole prospect is exceedingly picturesque. The Alleghany Mountains, which somehow seem to bear a paternal relation to this river, lend it the shadow of their presence through great distances. These mountains, though they never rise so high as to give the impression of power and sublimity, are never monotonous. Though they are not generally gothic, but of rounded aspect, the northern part has those that are steep and abrupt, sharp-crested and of notched and jagged outline. The Susquehannah is wealthy also in aboriginal legend, and in abundant foliage. Its rude raft likewise aids the picture. It has many beautiful *An analysis of this work will be found in the Christian Examiner for July, 1854. sources, particularly that in the lovely lake of Cooperstown; and no thought concerning its destiny can be so eloquent as the one expressed by our first American novelist whose name is alike honored by his countrymen and by foreign nations. He spoke of it as "the mighty Susquehannah, a river to which the Atlantic herself has extended her right arm to welcome into her bosom." Other scenery in Pente sylvania we have met, which, though less renowned than Wyoming and the Juniata, is not less romantie and beautiful. A noble river is indeed the image of unity, a representative of human tendencies, wherein many separate strivings unite in one main current of happiness and success. Man concentrates himself like a river in plans and purposes, and seek his unity in some chief end as the river seeks it in the sea. WILLIAM A. JONES Is a member of a family long distinguished for the eminent men it has furnished to the bar and the bench, in the state of New York, including the ante-revolutionary period. He was born in New York June 26, 1817. In 1836 he was graduated at Columbia College, and is now attached to that institution as librarian. His contributions to the press have been numerous, chiefly articles in the department of criticism. To Dr. Hawks's Church Record he furnished an extended series of articles on Old English Prose Writers; to Arcturus numerous literary papers, and afterwards wrote for the Whig and Dinocratic Reviews. He has published two volumes of these and other Essays and Criticisms: The Analyst, a Collection of Miscellaneous Papers. in 1840, and Essays upon Authors and Books in 1849. In the last year he also published a Memorial of his father, the late Hon. David S. Jones, with an Appendix, containing notices of the Jones Family of Queens County. A passage from an article in the Democratie Review exhibits his style, in a culegy of a taverite author. HAZLITT. William Hazlitt we regard, all things considered, as the first of the regular critics in this nineteenth lar quality or acquisition, but superior to them all century, surpassed by several in some one particuin general force, originality, and independence. With less scholarship considerably than Hunt or Southey, he has more substance than either; with less of Lamb's fineness and nothing of his subtle humor, he has a wider grasp and altogether a more manly cast of intellect. He has less liveliness and more smartness than Jeffrey, but a far profounder insight into the mysteries of poesy, and apparently a more genial sympathy with common life. Then, too, what freshness in all his writings, "wild wit, invention ever new:" for although he disclaims having any imagination, he certainly possessed creative talent and fine ingenuity. Most of his essays has been well remarked, “ original creations,” not mere homilies or didactic theses, so much as a new illustration from experience and observation of great truths colored and set off by all the brilliant aids of eloquence, fancy, and the choicest stores of accumulation. are, as As a literary critic he may be placed rather among the independent judges of original power than among the trained critics of education and acquirements. He relies almost entirely on individual impressions and personal feeling, thus giving a charm to his writings, quite apart from, and inde pendent of, their purely critical excellencies. Though he has never published an autobiography,* yet all of his works are, in a certain sense, confessions. He pours out his feelings on a theme of interest to him, and treats the impulses of his heart and the movements of his mind as historical and philosophical data. Though he almost invariably trusts himself, he is almost as invariably in the right. For, as some are born poets, so he too was born a critic, with no small infusion of the poetic character. Analytic judgment (of the very finest and rarest kind), and poetic fancy, naturally rich, and rendered still more copious and brilliant by the golden associations of his life, early intercourse with honorable poets, and a most appreciative sympathy with the master-pieces of poesy. Admirable as a genial critic on books and men, of manners and character, of philosophical systems and theories of taste and art, yet he is more especially the genuine critic in his favorite walks of art and poesy; politics and the true literature of real life-the domestic novels, the drama, and the belles-lettres. As a descriptive writer, in his best passages, he ranks with Burke and Rousseau; in delineation of sentiment, and in a rich rhetorical vein, he has whole pages worthy of Taylor or Lord Bacon. There is nothing in Macaulay for profound gorgeous declamation, superior to the character of Coleridge, or of Milton, or of Burke, or of a score of men of genius whose portraits he has painted with love and with power. In pure criticism who has done so much for the novelists, the essayists, writers of comedy; for the old dramatists and elder poets? Lamb's fine notes are mere notes-Coleridge's improvised criticisms are merely frag nentary, while if Hazlitt has borrowed their opinions in some cases, he has made much more of them than they could have done themselves. Coleridge was a poet-Lamb a hu morist. To neither of these characters had Hazlitt any fair pretensions, for with all his fancy he had a metaphysical understanding (a bad ground for the tender plant of poesy to flourish in), and to wit and humor he laid no claim, being too much in earnest to indulge in pleasantry and jesting-though he has satiric wit at will and the very keenest sarcasm. Many of his papers are prose satires, while in others there are to be found exquisite jeux d'esprit, delicate banter, and the purest intellectual refinements upon works of wit and humor. In all, however, the critical quality predominates, be the form that of essay, criticism, sketch, biography, or even travels. THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS, THE author of a translation of The First Ten Cantos of the Inferno of Dante, published in 1843, and of a volume of original Poems in 1854, is a native of, and resident at, Boston. His writings bear witness to his sound classical education, as well as to the fruits of foreign travel. The translation of Dante, in the stanza of the original, has been much adinired by scholars. The Poems exhibit variety in playful satire, epistle, ballad, the tale, description of nature, of European antiquities, and the occasional record of personal emotion. In all, the subject is controlled and elevated by the language of art. It is the author's humor in the Epistles which open the volume to address several foreign celebrities in the character of an English traveller in America, writing to Charles Kemble on the drama; to Edward Moxon, the London publisher, on the The Liber Amoris can hardly be called an exception. VOL. II. 41 state of letters; and to Rogers and Landor on poetry and art generally. In the Epistle to Landor, the comparatively barren objects of American antiquities are placed by the side of the storied associations of Italy. The land is pictured as existing "in Saturn's reign before the stranger came," like the waste Missouri; when the view is changed to the Roman era:— Soon as they rose-the Capitolian lords- Nay, whether wandering by Provincial Rome, Are still our masters-still within us reign, They shall not perish like the painted menBrief-lived in memory as the winter's blasts! Who here once held the mountain and the glen. From them and theirs with cold regard we turn, The wreck of polished nations to survey, Nor care the savage attributes to learn Of souls that struggled with barbarian clay. With what emotion on a coin we trace Vespasian's brow, or Trajan's chastened smile, But view with heedless eye the murderous mace And checkered lance of Zealand's warrior-isle. Here, by the ploughman, as with daily tread He tracks the furrows of his fertile ground, Dark locks of hair, and thigh-bones of the dead, Spear-heads, and skulls, and arrows, oft are found. On such memorials unconcerned we gaze; No trace returning of the glow divine, Wherewith, dear WALTER! in our Eton days We eyed a fragment from the Palatine. It fired us then to trace upon the map The forum's line-proud empire's church-yard paths Ay, or to finger but a marble scrap Or stucco piece from Diocletian's baths. Cellini's workmanship could nothing add, Nor any casket, rich with gems and gold, To the strange value every pebble had O'er which perhaps the Tiber's wave had rolled. One of the longer poems-Ghetto di Roma, a story of the Jewish proscription-is admirably told; picturesque in detail, simple in movement, and the pathos effectively maintained without apparent effort. The lines On the Death of Daniel Webster are among the ablest which that occasion produced. The chaste and expressive lines, Steuart's Burial, are the record of a real incident. The friend of the author whose funeral is literally described, was Mr. David Steuart Robertson, a gentleman well known by his elegant rural hospitality at his residence at Lancaster to the wits and good society of Boston. The healthy objective life of the poems, and their finished expression, will secure them a reputation long after many of the feeble literary affectations of the day are forgotten. ON A BUST OF DANTE. See, from this counterfeit of him Faithful if this wan image be, A lover in that anchorite? To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight The lips as Cume's cavern close, Declare a life whose course hath been Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, Peace dwells not here-this rugged face The sullen warrior sole we trace, O, Time! whose verdicts mock our own, STEUART'S BURIAL. The bier is ready and the mourners wait, It is told of DANTE that, when he was roaming over Italy, he came to a certain monastery, where he was met by one of the friars, who blessed him, and asked what was his desire; to which the weary stranger simply answered, “Pace." Who ever left this hospitable door Peace to thee, STEUART!—and to us! the All-wise From what few frailties might have stained his morn Our tears may wash him pure as he was born. JOHN W. BROWN. JOHN W. BROWN was born in Schenectady, New York, August 21, 1814, and was graduated at Union College in 1832. He entered the General Theological Seminary in 1833, and on the completion of his course of study was ordained Deacon, July 3, 1836, and took charge of a parish at Astoria, Long Island, with which he was connected during the remainder of his life. In 1838 he establi-hed a school, the Astoria Female Institute, which he conducted for seven years. In 1845 he became editor of the Protestant Churchman, & weekly periodical. In the fall of 1848 Mr. Brown visited Europe for the benefit of his health. He died at Malta on Easter Monday, April 9, 1849. In 1842 Mr. Brown published The Christmas Bells: a Tale of Holy Tide: and other Poems, a volume of pleasing verses suggested by the seasons and services of his church. In the Christmas Bells he has described with beauty and feeling the effect of the holy services of the season upon the old and young. The poem has been set to mu-ic. Mr. Brown was also the author of Constance, Virginia, Julia of Baia, and a few other prose tales of a religious character for young readers. THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. The bells-the bells-the Christmas bells The silvery tones, o'er vale and hill, The bells-the merry Christmas bells, When, through the sky, the sovereign sun The Christmas bells--the Christmas bells, How merrily they ring! To weary hearts a pulse of joy, A kindlier life they bring. The poor man on his couch of straw, Hail the glad sounds, as voices sweet The bells-the silvery Christmas bells, JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, A MEMBER of a Boston family, and graduate of Harvard of 1831, is the author of two novels of merit, Morton's Hope, or The Memoirs of a Provincial, and Merry Mount, a Romance of the Massachusetts Colony. The first of these fictions appeared in 1839. The scene of the opening portion is laid at Morton's Hope, a quiet provincial country-seat in the neighborhood of Boston. In consequence of disappointment in a love affair, the hero leaves his country and passes some time among the German University towns, the manners of which are introduced with effect. Towards the middle of the second volume, he is summoned home by the news of the death of his uncle, and a hint from a relative that the fortune which this event places in his hands can be better employed in the service of his country, now engaged in the struggle of the Revolution, than in an aimless foreign residence. He returns home, becomes an officer in the Continental army, distinguishes himself, and regain his lost mistress. In Merry Mount the author has availed himself of the picturesque episode of New England history presented in the old narrative of Thomas Morton, of which we have previously given an account.* Both of these fictions are written with spirit; the descriptions, which are frequent, are carefully elaborated; and the narrative is enlivened with frequent flashes of genuine humor. Mr. Motley is at present residing at Dresden, where he has been some time engaged in writing a History of Holland, which will no doubt prove a work of high merit, as an animated and vigorous portraiture of the Dutch struggle of independence. GOTTINGEN-FROM MORTON'S HOPE. Gottingen is rather a well-built and handsome looking town, with a decided look of the Middle Ages about it. Although the college is new, the town is ancient, and like the rest of the German Univer sity towns, has nothing external, with the exception of a plain-looking building in brick for the library. and one or two others for natural collections, to remind you that you are at the seat of an institution for education. The professors lecture, each on his own account, at his own house, of which the basement floor is generally made use of as an auditorium. The town is walled in, like most of the continental cities of that date, although the ramparts, planted with linden-trees, have since been converted into a pleasant promenade, which reaches quite round the town, and is furnished with a gate and guard at the end of each principal avenue. It is this careful fortification, combined with the nine-story houses, and the narrow streets, which imparts the compact, secure look peculiar to all the German towns. The effect is forcibly to remind you of the days when the inhabitants were huddled snugly together, like sheep in a sheep-cote, and locked up safe from the wolfish attacks of the gentlemen highwaymen, the ruins of whose castles frown down from the neighbouring hills. The houses are generally tall and gaunt, consisting of a skeleton of frame-work, filled in with brick, with the original rafters, embrowned by time, projecting like ribs through the yellowish stucco which covers the surface. They are full of little windows, which are filled with little panes, and as they are built to save room, one upon another, and consequently rise generally to eight or nine stories, the inhabitants invariably live as it were in layers. Hence it is not uncommon to find a professor occupying the two lower stories or strata, a tailor above the professor, a student upon the tailor, a beer-seller conveniently upon the student, a washerwoman upon the beer-merchant, and perhaps a poet upon the top; a pyramid with a poet for its apex, and a professor for the base. The solid and permanent look of all these edifices, in which, from the composite and varying style of architecture, you might read the history of half a dozen centuries in a single house, and which looked as if built before the memory of man, and like to last for ever, reminded me, by the association of contrast, of the straggling towns and villages of Ame rica, where the houses are wooden boxes, worn out and renewed every fifty years; where the cities seem only temporary encampments, and where, till people learn to build for the future as well as the present, there will be no history, except in pen and ink, of the changing centuries in the country. As I passed up the street, I saw on the lower story of a sombre-looking house, the whole legend of Samson and Delilah rudely carved in the brown freestone, which formed the abutments of the house op Ante, vol. i. p. 28. posite; a fantastic sign over a portentous shop with an awning ostentatiously extended over the sidewalk, announced the café and ice-shop: overhead, from the gutters of each of the red-tiled roofs, were thrust into mid-air the grim heads of dragons with long twisted necks, portentous teeth, and goggle eyes, serving, as I learned the first rainy day, the peaceful purpose of a water spout; while on the side-walks, and at every turn, I saw enough to convince me I was in an university town, although there were none of the usual architectural indications. As we passed the old gothic church of St. Nicholas, I observed through the open windows of the next house, a party of students smoking and playing billiards, and I recognised some of the faces of my Leipzig acquaintance. In the street were 66 stu plenty of others of all varieties. Some, with plain caps and clothes, and a meek demeanour, sneaked quietly through the streets, with portfolios under their arms. I observed the care with which they turned out to the left, and avoided collision with every one they met. These were camels or dious students" returning from lecture-others swag gered along the side-walk, turning out for no one, with clubs in their hands, and bull-dogs at their heels-these were dressed in marvellously fine caps and polonaise coats, covered with cords and tassels, and invariably had pipes in their mouths, and were fitted out with the proper allowance of spurs and moustachios. These were "Renomists," who were always ready for a row. At almost every corner of the street was to be seen a solitary individual of this latter class, in a ferocious fencing attitude, brandishing his club in the air, and cutting carto and tierce in the most alarming manner, till you were reminded of the truculent Gregory's advice to his companion: "Remember thy swashing blow." All along the street, I saw, on looking up, the heads and shoulders of students projecting from every window. They were arrayed in tawdry smoking caps and heterogeneous-looking dressing gowns, with the long pipes and flash tassels depending from their mouths. At his master's side, and looking out of the same window, I observed, in many instances, a grave and philosophical-looking poodle, with equally grim moustachios, his head reposing contemplatively on his fore-paws, and engaged apparently, like his master, in ogling the ponderous housemaids who were drawing water from the street pumps. We passed through the market square, with its antique fountain in the midst,and filled with an admirable collection of old women, some washing clothes, and some selling cherries, and turned at last into the Nagler Strasse. This was a narrow street, with tall rickety houses of various shapes and sizes, arranged on each side, in irregular rows; while the gaunt gable-ended edifices, sidling up to each other in one place till the opposite side nearly touched, and at another retreating awkwardly back as if ashamed to show their faces, gave to the whole much the appearance of a country dance by unskilful performers. Suddenly the postillion drove into a dark, yawning doorway, which gaped into the street like a dragon's mouth, and drew up at the door-step of the "King of Prussia." The house bell jingledthe dogs barked-two waiters let down the steps, a third seized us by the legs, and nearly pulled us out of the carriage in the excess of their officiousness; while the landlord made his appearance cap in hand on the threshold, and after saluting us in Latin, Polish, French, and English, at last informed us in plain German, which was the only language he really knew, that he was very glad to have the honour of "recommending himself to us." We paid our "brother-in-law," as you must always call the postillion in Germany, a magnificent drink geld, and then ordered dinner. SAMUEL A. HAMMETT. MR. HAMMETT was born in 1816 at Jewett City, Connecticut. After being graduated at the University of the City of New York, he passed some ten or twelve years in the South-west, engaged in mercantile pursuits, and for a portion of the time as Clerk of the District Court of Montgomery county, Texas. In 1848 he removed to New York, where he has since resided. Mr. Hammett has drawn largely on his frontier experiences in his contributions to the Spirit of the Times, Knickerbocker, Democratic and Whig Reviews, and Literary World. He has published two volumes-A Stray Yankee in Texas, and The Wonderful Adventures of Captain Priest, with the scene Down East. They are sketchy, humorous, and inventive. HOW I CAUGHt a cat, and WHAT I DID WITH IT-FRON A STRAY YANKEE IN TEXAS. At last behold us fairly located upon the banks of the river, where Joe had selected a fine, hard shingle beach upon which to pitch our camp. This same camp was an extemporaneous affair, a kind of al fresco home, formed by setting up a few crotches to sustain a rude roof of undressed shingles, manufactured impromptu,-there known as "boards,”— supported upon diminutive rafters of cane. This done, a cypress suitable for a canoe, or "dug out," was selected, and in two days shaped, hollowed out, and launched. Fairly embarked now in the business, I found but little difficulty in obtaining a supply of green trout and other kinds of river fish, but the huge "Cats"-where were they! I fished at early morn and dewy eve, ere the light had faded out from the stars of morning, and after dame Nature had donned her robe de nuit,—all was in vain. Joe counselled patience, and hinted that the larger species of Cats" never ran but during a rise or fall in the river, and must then be fished for at night. One morning, heavy clouds in the north, and the sound of distant thunder, informed us that a storm was in progress near the head waters of our stream. My rude tackle was looked after, and bait prepared in anticipation of the promised fish, which the perturbed waters of the river were to incite to motion. Night came, and I left for a spot where I knew the Cats must frequent; a deep dark hole, immediately above a sedgy flat. My patience and perseverance at length met with their reward. I felt something very carefully examining the bait, and at last tired of waiting for the bite, struck with force. I had him, a huge fellow, too; backwards and forwards he dashed, up and down, in and out. No fancy tackle was mine, but plain and trustworthy, at least so I fondly imagined. At last I trailed the gentleman upon the sedge, and was upon the eve of wading in and securing him, when a splash in the water which threw it in every direction, announced that something new bad turned up, and away went I, hook, and line, into the black hole below. At this moment my tackle parted, the robber-whether alligator or går I knew not -disappeared with my half captured prey, and I crawled out upon the bank in a blessed humor. My fishing was finished for the evening; but |