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chattering, illnatured, mischievous and queer little brutes. Annie does not love the monkeys. Their ugliness shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste, and makes her mind unquiet, because it bears a wild and dark resemblance to humanity But here is a little pony, just big enough for Annie to ride, and round and round he gallops in a circle, keeping time with his trampling hoofs to a band of music. And here with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a riding whip in his hand, here comes a little gentleman, small enough to be king of the fairies, and ugly enough to be king of the gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the saddle. Merrily, merrily, plays the music, and merrily gallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman. Come, Annie, into the street again; perchance we may see monkeys

on horseback there!

"Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people live in! Did Annie ever read the cries of London city? With what lusty Jungs doth yonder man proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! Here comes another mounted on a cart, and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as to say 'fresh fish!' And hark! a voice on high, like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, annonncing that some chimney sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the upper air.

"Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, throughout my ramble with little Annie! Say not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle matter, a babble of childish talk, and a reverie of childish imaginations, about topics unworthy of a grown man's notice. Has it been merely this? Not so; not so. They are not truly wise who would affirm it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their tree and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused and soon allayed. Their influence on us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almost forgotten, and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as yesterday; when life settles darkly down upon us, and we doubt whether to call ourselves young any more, then it is good to steal away from the society of bearded men, and even of gentler woman, and spend an hour or two with children. After drinking from those fountains of still fresh existence, we shall return into the crowd, as I do now, to struggle onward and do our part in life, perhaps as fervently as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. All by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie!"

Such writings as these are sure to find their way to the heart; they steal upon it unawares and silently take possession of the fortress without enand defences of passport, draw-bridge, countering any of the critical guards and countersign. Bolder speculators have to battle for their opinions and fight their way to fame through the swords and pit-falls of reviews and reviewers; strictly original men who break ground for the first time in the uncultivated field of native literature, have to encounter the perils and hardships of the wilderness, many long years and much patient cultivation must be undergone before the crop is an easy one here, but writers of this stamp have the happy lot of being admitted and welcomed at once. Many, we may be sure, will neglect them, for all have not the simplicity and refinement of character to appreciate excellence in so chaste a form, but few will oppose, and when an admirer is gained he will be worth possessing.

It afforded us no little pleasure, not long since, to find the following notice of Hawthorne in an article in the English Foreign and Colonial Quarterly Review, said to be from the pen of in the remainder of the article on Mr. James, the novelist. The criticism various American Works of Fiction was of a character, in its good sense and spirit of appreciation, to make this compliment doubly valuable. The writ er, after reviewing Irving, Cooper, Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Clavers and others, proceeds

"We have now, though rapidly, glanced at some of the most important divisions of American Fiction. One remains to be noticed, more unpretending in form than the above, and its artists, perhaps, less famous-yet, we are inclined to think, containing more characteristic excellence than will be found in the library of accredited novels. We have spoken of the imitat ve tendencies of the herd of writers of such small ware' as stories for the periodicals. We ought to add that we rarely, if ever, take up an American annual, or an American magazine, without finding some one contribution, individual, racy, and without any peer or prototype on this side of the ocean. Nor is this praise as insignificant as the publishers, by their present modus operandi, would make authors believe. 'Candide' and Zalig' are contained in somewhat narrower compass, than the fatal three vol

umes now prescribed-so are Marmontel's enamel Contes, and the Novelle of Boccaccio, and the Marchen of Tieck, and our own Vicar of Wakefield.' We have already spoken of Washington Irving's Dutch Legends; we must recommend, though merely by a passing word, the Quaker Stories of Miss Leslie, sister to the well known painter; and a whole volume of collected Miscellanies of great excellence is here before us. We mean Mr. Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales,' which will one day or other be naturalized into our library of Romance, if truth, fancy, pathos, and originality have any longer power to diffuse a reputation. He has caught the true fantastic spirit which somewhere or other exists in every society, be it ever so utilitarian and practical, linking the seen to the unseen, the matter-of-fact to the imaginative. To such a mind the commonest things become suggestive; the oldest truths appear clad in a garb of grace and pleasure.' The pump in the middle of a little town, recalls the days when the spring welled brightly out in the wilderness, and the Indian sagamores drank of it;' a walk with a child through the range of shop-window sights, enables the thoughtful man to draw aside the veils which hide our deepest associations and our saddest thoughts; the figure of a sleeping wayfarer under a tuft of maples by the wayside, invites him to consider the number of events which all but happen to every mortal; and this in aid of a vein of temperate and poetical elegance of imagery, the like of which is possessed by none of our writers of prose Mrs. Southey, perhaps, excepted. As a recounter of mere legends, Mr. Hawthorne claims high praise. He reminds us of Tieck, in spite of the vast difference in the materials used by the two artists. Whether he revive the tradition of The Grey Champion,'-that supernatural hero who has existed in every country since the days of Og er the Dane, to come forth and deliver, when the emergency presses hard

est, or tell how the Maypole of Merry Mount' was felled by the stern axe of Endicott, the Puritan governor,―or describe the meeting of the pilgrims in quest of that fabulous jewel, 'The Great Carbuncle,'-or relate the result of Dr. Heidegger's experiments with the Water of Youth, he does his spiriting gently,' in the old romantic sense of the word, exercising his craft with a quiet power which is rare, the time and the subject and the place considered. We cannot too heartily commend this book, as the best addition to what may be called our Faery Library, which has been made for many years; hoping, moreover, that the author is capable of producing more than the one slim volume which has made its way to England."

Only the first volume of Hawthorne's collected "Twice Told Tales," had been seen by this reviewer. He would have found additional material to support his high eulogy in the second volume, in the Tales of the Province House, The Seven Vagabonds, The White Old Maid, Endicott and the Red Cross, Edward Fane's Rosebud (let the reader take this up after Mrs. Gamp, in Chuzzlewit), and The Sister Years, which has the merit, we believe, of being the only classic Newspaper Carrier's Newyear Address ever printed! A third and fourth volume are yet behind, unpublished in book form, unknown to the shelves of the trade, and there are the


Allegories of the Heart," including the extra leaf to Bunyan, "The Celestial Rail-road," and various little volumes of Biography and American History, the best of their kind, and that kind one of the rarest-books for Children.

A truly pure, gentle and acceptable man of Genius is NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE !


It is the fortune of this country to send over the water from time to time, men, who are very palpable and obvious embodiments of its spirit; and who do not fail, therefore, to stir the elements among which they are cast, quite perceptibly.

Daniel Webster was one of these; and we all recollect how his motions were watched (not 'carped at,' for he leans toward the conservative quality of John Bullism); his words chronicled, his looks at courts, in Parliament and at agricultural dinners, taken down. They felt and saw that he was a piece a genuine piece-of the country; and in presence of his oak-ribbed strength of person and understanding, acknowledged that he belonged to the land he came from, and no other. Mr. Forrest is another of these; quite as good in his way; struck out of the very heart of the soil, and vindicating himself too clearly to be misunderstood, as a creature of its institutions, habits, and daily life. His biography is a chapter in the life of the country; and taking him at the start, as he appears on the Bowery stage (a rugged, heady, self-cultured mass of strength and energy, thrown down in the most characteristic spot of the American Metropolis), and running on with him through all his career; in the course of which, it became necessary for him more than once, to take society by the broad-cloth collar which it itches to put on even here, to shake it into good behavior; down to the day when he brought-to his brass-buttoned coat, and set out for this second expedition to Europe; we shall find him American every inch; the growth of the place, its representative in the acted drama; and well entitled to make a stir among the smooth proprieties of the Princess' Theatre. And he has accordingly done so; when, after an absence of something like seven years, he heaves up his sturdy bulk against the footlights of the English house; the audience know him at once to be genuine, but lurking in the edges of the place are certain sharp-eyed gentlemen, who in the very teeth of the unquestionable force before them, massive, irregular it may be; discover that Mr. Forrest has

lapsed from his early manner (with which they were as little pleased, although they now cry for it so lustily); and has subsided into tameness and effeminacy. The American friends of Mr. Forrest who had parted with him on ship-board, in the enjoyment of his usual unequivocal health, were at a loss to know what this could mean. Genius they knew was a variable quantity; and they endeavored to call to mind whether in any passage of all his past career, it had ever happened, in the very shower and tornado of objection, that these offences had been laid to his charge. To assure them more accurately of the exact state of the case, one or two of them were at the pains to go a pilgrimage through the city; in an examination of various signboards which hang about, and which are said to bear representations of this Tragedian in various characters of his ; and to ascertain whether in any of these he was exhibited in this subdued, and softened manner! The signboards were against the English critics, to a splinter. In all of them the muscle, the power, the energy were unquestionable; and when they found these characteristics suddenly disappearing from their old residence in Mr. Forrest, and coming up in Miss Cushman (a lady performer-for a new domicil), with accumulated force; there seemed, certainly, to be a mystery. Now, every one was pleased that Miss Cushmanalways, in her line of performance and fairly judged, a favorite with the American public-had taken British criticism by storm; had acquired a foothold with the British Press; and was likely to do something toward advancing her fortunes by this British engagement; but this change of the cast had a show of suddenness and promptitude, too great even for the stage.

Mr. Forrest then was to be depressed, by some means or other, from his position as the first actor of the country. But while they were in a hurry to do this, the London critics forgot they were bestowing on us the privilege of presenting to the English stage a first actress, who was to lead that section of the theatrical interest as decisively as

Mr. Forrest is acknowledged in his first English reception to have led his.

Mr. Forrest's English position at this moment is, in our view, just what his true friends would desire. He is carrying his audiences with him; and has from the press just the amount of resistance required to rouse him to new efforts; and to bring out the whole depth and force of new-worldism in him; to play an engagement such as he has never played before; and to measure himself in assured strength by the side of the head of the English school.

Mr. Macready, an admirable performer, succeeds by subduing all of the man within him; because he ceases, in the fulfilment of his function as actor, to have any fellowship with the beatings and turmoils and agitations of the heart. He is classical in spirit, in look and action. It is because he is a man of large heart, and does not forget it in all the mazes of the stage, that Mr. Forrest has any sway with the house. He never loses sight of the belief that it is he, a man; with men before him; who treads the boards; and asks for tears and sobs, and answers of the troubled heart. It is no painted shadow you see in Mr. Forrest; no piece of costume; no sword or buckler moving along the line of light as in a procession; but a man, there to do his four hours' work; brawinly it may be, sturdily, and with great outlay of muscular power, but there's a big heart thrown in; and if you fail to be moved, you may reasonably doubt whether sophistication has not taken the soul out of you; and left you free to offer yourself for a show case, or a clothier's dummy; or a figure head, to go through any number of storms and commotions untouched.

We take an interest in Mr. Forrest because we see in him, elemental qualities, characteristic of the country; and we feel therefore any slight put upon him, as in its essence, a wound directed at the country itself. He carries with him into action, upon the stage, qualities, that are true to the time and place of his origin. Whether rugged or refined, he is upon a large scale expansive; bold; gothic in his style; and it is not therefore matter of wonder that he should have encountered, both at home and abroad, the hostility of simpering elegance and dainty imbecility. It was his great good for

tune, not to have been reared, as an actor, in any of the regular houses along the seaboard, but to have shot up like the wild mountain pine and prairie sycamore, amid the free life and spontaneous growths of the west to have not been rolled in the garden-bed of cities to a dead level, and clipped of all proportion by too careful husbandry. If we had in all other departments of art and literature, men of the stamp and spirit of Mr. Forrest; not alike but analogous; this country would be at this time more honored and beloved, for the true worth represented by such men, than she is. She would not need long and labored defences of her conduct, her motives, and her policy; but through the land, these spirits-authors, artists, statesmen, would stand up as towers to keep silent purposed hostility and the murmurs of evil-wishers. They would look, and have nothing to say. The tree would declare the soil, and it would not happen that English enmity, whether of the press or the people, critics or audiences, would feel called on to rail because of the appearance among them of a single honest exponent of the spirit and native resolution of the country.

We are glad and proud that Mr. Forrest has ruffled the smooth wave of the dramatic world; it will not end with this first commotion. As far as his personal fortunes are concerned, he must, we are assured, acquire a triumph to which his old successes will be as defeats: he will champion the country, in his own sphere, as becomes his high, manly spirit: and he will return home to be met and welcomed, to the heart of his old public, his countrymen and fast friends, in a way that will bring the sorrow into his eyes, swifter than Hamlet, or Macbeth, or all the changeful troubles of the Moor! And out of all this agitation, we think we discern a better day for the Drama at home. Mr. Forrest, for one, will occupy a more commanding and grateful position than ever; and will feel bent to do his best to justify himself in that position, by new efforts and new achievments. Miss Cushman (not to be forgotten in all this turmoil) will take an accredited place by his side, and can do much to sustain the highest range of acting, and also to push forward the fortunes of the actress, which have been laggard in the absence

of any acknowledged first performer. Another conviction springs upon us out of this very case. It is that in the salient life: the irrepressible freshness and force the broad free scope of the Republic (this Republic of ours), the Drama is to show his reascended front and to command, we hope, once more, the suffrage and the tears of mankind. The Drama is the life of the people; in action and truth, set before their own eyes; it is matched, by close and deep affinities, with the very heart and nature of American life. It is free of all old entanglements: aloof from schools and theories and sects; and when once it towers before us in the stature that belongs to it, we shall say, Beautiful indeed; and dear to our hearts, is this spirit so long made alien to our sight, and led away from us by blind guides and charts that belong to another world!

There are many indications that the

people are weary of old iteration, everlasting English comedy, adaptation from the French. In their disgust they turn even to the wild melo-dramas of the "American Theatre," and the local burlesques (with a touch of life in them) at "Mitchell's Olympic" and "the Chatham."-Of the four theatres in this metropolis, three are sustained by appeals, in some sort, to the national or supposed national spirit; and that which suffers most keenly in its receipts and attendance, still goes on in the old way; neglectful of the spirit of a new day, and the hope of a new country, to which it should minister.

The awakening will, we trust, extend to all these, imparting life to the deadthat even now puts out its hand for other than the languid diet it has fed onand fashioning into grace and proportion the distorted and irregular show of life in such as live already. Be that time near at hand!


NOTHING is more unfortunate for a great man, "than to be born beside a greater a rand walk during life-time in his shadow. It is equally unfortunate to be great only in one department that is still better filled by another. Had Shakspeare not lived Massinger might have stood at the head of English dramatists, and had Alfieri kept silent a host of writers now almost unknown would have occupied the Italian stage. Had it not been for Cæsar, Brutus might have ruled the world; and were it not for Bonaparte many a French general would occupy a separate place in that history of which they are now only transient figures. Great men like birds seem to come in flocks, and yet but one stands as the representative of his age. The peak which first catches the sunlight is crowned monarch of the hills, and the rest, however lofty, are but his bodyguard. Much injustice has been done to Bonaparte's generals by not allowing for the influence of this

principle. There is scarcely a historian that will allow to such men as Lannes, Davoust, Murat and Ney, any dominant quality except bravery. Under the guiding intellect of Napoleon they fought bravely, but if they had been left to their own resources would have miserably failed. Yet the simple truth is; being compelled by their relative position to let another plan for them, they could do little else than execute orders. A dependent mind is cramped and confined, and can exhibit its power only by the force and vigor with which it executes rather than forms plans.

The times were well calculated to produce such men as Bonaparte gathered round him.

A revolution by its upturnings brings to the surface materials, of the existence of which no man dreamed before. Circumstances make men, who then usually return the compliment and make circumstances. In ordinary times, as a general rule, the souls of men exhibit

• Mémoires de Marechal Ney. 2 vols. Paris.

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