his way to Rome, to represent the French king, invited Rabelais to accompany him; and, as it had always been the height of his desire to see Italy, he gladly accepted. So he set out on his journey, with vast projects of making acquaintance with the wise men of the different cities through which they were to pass, of studying the peculiarities of Italian plants, and of making a topographical plan of Rome. But his calculations were vain. They hurried through Italy; they found no new plants between Lyons and Rome; and, after Rabelais had spent a considerable time in preparing a plan of the Eternal City, he learned that he had been anticipated in this work by an antiquary of Milan. There is an excellent story told of him during his secretaryship to the embassy. At the Vatican, on a certain occasion, observing his master kiss the Pope's toe, he hid behind a pillar, saying, "If my master, who is a great lord, kisses the Pope's feet, why should I, who am only an humble personage, do so?" And, as soon as he had said this, frightened at his own temerity, he rushed from the apartment, seized a horse, and dashed off at a gallop across the country; in the midst of a terrible storm, and utterly disregarding the entreaties of the peasants that he should accept their shelter, saying, "I would rather be soaked than burnt alive. I do not fear the rain as much as fire." But having been sent for, and having been assured that his Holiness was not displeased at his buffoonery, he was persuaded to return to the Vatican. This conduct seems especially ridiculous, when we remember that Rabelais was more than fifty years old, and the most learned man of his time.

After this, Rabelais returned to Lyons, where he resumed with great ardor his literary labors, and published a number of popular books, enjoying his great reputation while seeking to increase it.

It would require much space to relate all the ups and downs of his life, which in itself is a faithful picture of his age. Let us drop the thread of his biography until we find our genius settled down as curate of Mendon.

Here, at the age of seventy years, he might have been happy, had not his restless satire caused trouble between himself and his friends. But, however disagreeable both to himself and his associates that satire may have been in the sixteenth century, it was the only thing that carried his name to the nineteenth; for we of this day know Rabelais as a wit, not as a scholar. The old man drew about him people of every grade, some attracted by curiosity, others by a desire

of arguing and conversing on the sciences, all of whom he entertained, and at the same time relaxed his mind by the pleasures of a second childhood.

He died, according to the common account, on the 9th of April, 1553, at Paris, and, as some say, with a joke on his lips.

After his death his contemporaries made various estimates of his character and merits; but, whether they spoke as friends or enemies, it is easy to see that none forgot his importance. From the numerous attacks and eulogies that appeared at the time, we select an epigram by Baïf, suggested, like many others, by Rabelais's continual gayety, of which we attempt a translation.*

Receive, great Pluto, Rabelais,

That those who bear thy gloomy sway

And never smile, may hear hereafter
The merry bursts of this wit's laughter.

But in our estimate of Rabelais's life, let us overlook this almost

fault,

let us discredit the stories about his excessive irreverence, and natural coarseness of character, and only see in him the earnest scholar, the learned teacher, and the blazing light of French literature in the sixteenth century.

NEW BOOKS.

Tragedy of Errors. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1862.

IN applying pen to the work before us, we do not feel the agreeable sensations of a critic whose ideas flow in the same channel with the author to be criticised, which would render it a comparatively easy and pleasurable task to review it, and permit us, while we perhaps found fault here and there with the diction, at the same time to place in a prominent position sentiments akin to our own. But unhappily the sentiments contained in this book are separated from our own "by the whole diameter of being," to borrow a strong expression from Hamilton, — and the only redeeming quality seems to be the obstinate perseverance in a wrong direction, and

*O Pluton, Rabelais reçoi
Afin que toi qui es le voi
De ceux qui ou vient jamais,
Tu aies un rieur désormais !

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an almost amusing blindness with regard to facts which concern the subject treated of. The title of the book is a "Tragedy of Errors." We should think that it would have been called with much greater propriety a "Farce of Errors." This "Tragedy" or Farce" was preceded a few weeks by a sort of parachute, entitled a "Record of an Obscure Man," which prepared us for the views which are set forth in this book, supposed to be the production of the " Obscure Man."

In the first place, then, the list of persons represented includes nineteen slaves, of whom only six are black, five are said to “show no mark of African descent," and we are left to understand that only one third of the slaves are negroes, in the strict sense of the word. We are warranted in saying that such a representation of the proportion of pure blacks on a plantation is a false one.. But the truth of the old proverb, "Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus," was never more apparent than in this play, in which the author, commencing by misrepresenting the nature of those who act, continues by placing language in the mouths of the slaves which it is perfectly impossible to suppose them ever to have uttered. No jargon of broken English appears, but these " Vestiges of Creation" are made to discourse eloquently in flowing iambics. One thing is perfectly patent, that the author either never had an opportunity of observing slave-life on a plantation, or else was prevented by mental imperfection from turning to account the result of such observation. Ezekiel, the negro preacher, when first introduced is described as "a tall, well-proportioned man, very black, with finely-formed head and regular features." He, being as remarkable an exception to the general run of negro preachers as we ever heard of, indulges in language equally miraculous, while describing the episode from the New Testament of Dives and Lazarus, which he concludes by informing his audience that he cannot read. Now this inability to read seems to be the only really natural attribute which is left Ezekiel, all else being false and incongruous. The most natural character by far in the book is Hermann, a German exile, and hence enthusiastic in regard to freedom. Among many most sensible remarks, he sometimes introduces such absurd ones as the following, relative to negro melodies:

:

"The time will come when these neglected strains

Will charm in hall and drawing-room."

And the following amalgamation sentiment:

"I have sometimes thought

This unformed race, scarce issued from its childhood,
Has been brought hither from its ardent birthplace,
That its warm blood may give a fuller pulse

To veins grown too sedate by time and wisdom."

The second line of this quotation reminds us of the usual plea for the negro, that the race is yet in its infancy, a fact which we are very far from denying. But we are also unable to forget that it has been in this state for

several thousands of years. That a race should be thus kept back, while other races spring up, pass it, and almost arrive at perfection, argues, we think, the existence of a rational plan in the development of the universe, in accordance with the laws of which the negro, although often brought into contact with the higher race, is never able to go beyond a certain point, never able from a child to become a man, but always intended by the Creator to be led by a superior race, and, as regards treatment, subject to the same vicissitudes which attend children of Caucasian birth, to whom it often happens to be born of cruel parents. Finally, inasmuch as the " Tragedy of Errors" has represented the slaves as if they only differed from our race in having a black skin, we regard it as untrue to nature and as perverting facts.

Poems. By WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1861. "BLUE and Gold"- the laurel of the modern poet-has, it seems, been accorded to another applicant, who is this time from "Ballyshannon, Ireland," and whose name is not at all familiar to our reading public. It seems a little incongruous to find so strange a name as "William Allingham on the back of so familiar an edition as the "blue and gold"; but perhaps the best and only way to get rid of the incongruity is to make ourselves as well acquainted with the contents of the volume as we are already with its binding.

One should read these poems in about the same spirit in which he would easily and carelessly listen to some rollicking after-dinner song. For this is an Irish poet, writing for an Irish audience, in a way which is often suggestive of the national Irish-jig accompaniment; and these are poems of which the author himself says in his closing rhymes,

"'T was not wit on an inkstand begot them."

Look, then, for no more "wit" than the national reputation for humor will justify you in expecting; and for no more studied lines, verses, or metres than a man who writes "not an inkstand"-one who is not paid by the line would naturally introduce into a volume which for the most part consists of easy songs collected in a chance way. That he possesses to the full extent the national versatility, - that there are lines sweet, melancholy, and impressive, as well as humorous and ballad-like, the most rapid perusal will show the reader.

The Constitutional History of England. By THOMAS ERSKINE MAY, C. B. THIS is a continuation of Hallam's great work, "The Constitutional History of England." We are not sufficiently acquainted either with this volume or with Hallam's work to say to what extent this is a worthy continuation of what Mr. Hallam began. The book is received with favor by VOL. VIII. No. 71.

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those who have had the best opportunities of judging, and are best qualified to judge. As it is to be a text-book for the Seniors during next term, for this reason it is of unusual interest. Beginning with the reign of George III., its design is to trace the progress and development of the British Constitution during a period of one hundred years. The book is not chronologically written, but the subject is separated into natural divisions, which will greatly heighten its interest with the student of history, as well as facilitate his progress in mastering its contents. The book is published by Crosby and Nichols, in the same style with Hallam, which has proved so popular. Sever and Francis sell it for one dollar and a quarter.

EDITORS' TABLE.

THIS, as you will perceive, generous patrons, is the January number of the Harvard Magazine, which noteworthy periodical has thus reached the middle of its eighth year's existence. A word or two of a personal nature may not be deemed inappropriate. We, who are Seniors, are reminded by this how soon must the period of our own pilgrimage in this locality end; for, when we think how like a dream has past and gone what once seemed to us such six long months, we can realize how much more rapidly will glide away what little is left to us of this eventful collegiate year. For, when the brief vacation has slipped by, -as pleasantly we may hope, O kind companion of these, our lucubrations! as do your own skates fly swiftly over the smooth ice, as you dart away in pursuit of some coy maid, whose graces of art and nature never seemed half so enchanting to your fond, passionate gaze as they do now, when, with the grace and agility of a fawn, she eludes your grasp, we shall reunite some of us for the last time in this dear old place of fond recollections, and think how every day will only seem as a moment of time, as it brings round the hour of separation and regrets.

We are not sentimental; we never have believed it of ourselves, nor will we; neither romantic, for our pen never indited a verse, and since our sixteenth year never a love-letter; indeed, we are prosaic and matter of fact; our anxious friends have of late even hinted that we were becoming prosy; but this we do say, that it is not with a feeling of unmixed pleasure that we look forward to that summer-day when we must shake hands for the last time with some of the kindest and best we ever knew or ever expect to. College life is not without its sorrows, nor college students without faults; but life everywhere, we are beginning to learn, is more a matter of grief and pain than of pleasure, and men all over the world are imperfect and given to error. Take it for all in all, we expect, if we ever reach the natural limit of our pilgrimage, we shall look back on the brief years of our student life as the happiest we ever knew, and our old eyes will drop a tear of affection over the remembrance of what we now esteem too lightly. The Senior Class of the present year has sadly dwindled away within a twelve