Then shut the sunlight from the bed of
Death,

But bear, serenely, to the sufferer's side
A brighter beauty than the Morning tide-
Faith's golden dawning, which, from
heights above,

Transfigures Toil to Joy! Duty to Love!
No eye beholding, save their risen Lord's,
Who sees in secret out in sight rewards!
Their fairest earthly crown, the wreath
that twines,

Not round loud Platforms, or proud Senate Domes,

But those pure Altars, those perpetual Shrines,

Which grace and gladden all our SAXON HOMES!"

There, good reader, go and buy the volume for that noble peroration.

THE AGE; A Colloquial Satire. By PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, Author of "Festus." Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1858. [From James Woodhouse, 137 Main Street.

Dr. Maginn said of Dickens that he went up like the rocket and came down like the stick we know not what similitude will express the distressing inequality that obtains between the earlier and later performances of Philip James Bailey. The extravanga before us-we cannot call it a poem-is as far removed from "Festus" as a bellman's rhymes from Paradise Lost or the folly of the circus clown from the airy fancies and delicate wit of Hood. Mr. Bailey's attempts at fun are the most ponderous and elephantine we have ever tried to laugh over in vain-his efforts at nimble and humorous versification are inconceivably wretched, as would be the en

deavour of a dozen paviors to imitate with their rammers upon cobble-stones the mu sic of the Swiss Bell-Ringers-while his opinions, if he has any, upon the affairs of the world, are so wrapt up in clouds of nebulous verbiage, that we doubt if Emerson and Dr. Lazarus and Andrew Jackson Davis, sitting a committee, could make them out. As a satire, Mr. Bailey's effusion is lamentably inferior in all respects to the poem of Mr. Butler, which has just passed under our notice, and the latter gentleman could not desire a better foil for "Two Millions" than this same satire of "The Age," which appears most oppor tunely for him about the same time. The author of "Festus" would seem to think that the satirist's office is only to sneer, so he sneers at everything. The Rev. Mr. Spurgeon is thus treated

"Is't because Boanerges roar and thunder They draw such flocks? For much it moves my wonder

That crowds, with joy so marked, it might be shammed,

Should rush to hear themselves so loudly damned;

And all in tones that might volcanoes quell,

Obstreperously ordered off to--well,
The word's tabooed, it ends, I think, in "1."
But wedged in tight 'twixt muslin and
brocade,

A sobbing matron and a shuddering maid;
With tears one reddens her Junonian eyes,
One bursts her new French bodice with
her sighs,

Ah me! what sins their memories must comprise!

Sweet sympathy there drives a roaring trade,

And makes, or finds, some martyrs, I'm afraid."

All who have read Mr. Bailey's previous writings will recollect his fondness for stringing together names, after the manner of a man who should seek to versify and reduce to rhyme a City Directory. This old habit clings to him yet, as for example

Be Merrick, Shenstone, Byrom, not despised, And Barbauld's pious raptures duly prized. Add Ossian, Caedmon, and the bards of Wales,

Who chant in Kymric strange and mystic tales,

Though o'er their age a cloud of doubt prevails:

Blair, Beattie, Mason, Southey, Coleridge, Moore,

Burns, Campbell, Crabbe; and Scott I named before.

Rogers, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Wordsworth, Hogg,

Names uncontested, close my catalogue."

If Mr. Bailey needs must write such rubbish as this, in the name of political economy let him turn it to some account. Mr. Slum devoted his poetical talent to Mrs. Jarley's Wax-Works. Mr. Bailey should write tuneful catalogues for Madame Tussaud's Exhibition.

But The Age" is not wholly destitute of passages which betray the glow of the fire that burned in "Festus." Whenever the author ceases to be funny and satirical, and takes hold of some subject within the range of his poetic vision, he writes with force and beauty. Take this passage concerning Homer

"There stand his two great works, alone, supreme,

Like pyramids by the shore of Time's dark

stream.

Of verse the legislator born, and sire, His thoughts are white with heat, his words strike fire;

But when his theme soft sweetness may require

How rich, how delicate his accents roll

Each verse, each luminous wavelet of his song Makes its own music as it rolls along."

Or take this graceful simile embodied in lines worthy of the old masters of poesy

"As the poor shell-fish of the Indian Sea, Sick-seven years sick-of its fine malady, The pearl (which after shall enrich the

breast

Of some fair Princess regal in the West) Its gem elaborates 'neath the unrestful main,

In worth proportioned to its parent's pain, Until, in roseate lustre perfect grown, . Fate brings it forth, as worthy of a throne;

So must the poet, martyr of his art, Feed on neglect, and thrive on many a smart;

Death only, may be, gives him equal right, And nations glory in his royal light."

With these extracts given as fair specimens both of the nonsense and the eloquence of "The Age"-the former greatly predominating-we take leave of the author of "Festus" in the earnest hope that until he can achieve something that deserves to be classed with his great epic, he will not come again before a suffering public.

HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND. By HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE. Volume I. From the Second London Edition. New York: D. Appleton & Company. 1858. [From A. Morris, 97 Main Street.

A work of greater pretensions than this has probably not appeared during the present century; for it assumes to solve by a new formula the most difficult problems, social and historical, with which the greatest intellects of the age have grappled. So far as we can gather from this Introduction to Mr. Buckle's History (for Volume I. of 677 pages is but an Introduction") his idea is that history should be studied by statistics, and that viewed by the aid of tables, carefully prepared, the whole course of human events will appear to have been ordered by certain fixed laws irreversible

by man's agency. Volition is nothing to

Mr. Buckle, we are not at all what we make ourselves, but we are the creatures of circumstances occurring after an inevitable succession and to the eye of enlightened reason, when facts enough have been accumulated to eliminate the laws in question, the happening of future events and the necessity which produces them, will be perfectly apparent. Of course the notion of ar. Overruling Providence is foreign to Mr. Buckle's speculations. It would be absurd to attempt the refutation, nay, even the concise statement of a system of philosophy so daring and so pretentious in a notice like the present, but we may say that much of what is set forth by the author as his own may be traced to Spinoza, that many portions read like mere English transcripts of Auguste Comte, and that from Gibbon, whom he so much admires, Mr. Buckle has drawn largely of the scepticism which underlies his performance. The work has made a decided sensation in England, and as an imposing part of the literature of the age, our enterprising American publishers, the Messrs. Appletons, have done well to issue it in so handsome a style. When the author

Considerable difference of opinion exists as to what constitutes a good history. It would perhaps be more correct to say, that a vast majority of those, who profess to be readers, have formed in their minds no fixed standard of historic excellence. Indiscriminate praise is as common as indiscriminate censure. This is, however, just what we might expect, in the absence of fixed and unvarying standards of comparison; and the majority of readers are too indolent to enter very deeply into the merits or demerits of a literary work, or to trouble themselves to analyze the particular effect it produces upon their minds.

We might indeed reasonably hope, that minds cast in a finer mould-the disciples of Longinus and Quinctilian had been able by this time to establish some common ground of criticism, to the end that inferior minds might determine for themselves with something like unanimity the important question, "What constitutes a good history?" But among the critics, who have attempted the solution of the problem, there seems to be quite as much conflict of opinion as among the common herd. A distinguished one, Mr. Carlyle, (if, indeed, we correctly extract his meaning from the mass of crabbed and uncouth words, and involved constructions, with which his style is loaded,) thinks that no work has yet been produced deserving the name of history, and denies in toto the possibility of a his

tory being written which shall approach anything like perfection. As nations are composed of individual men, the perfect history of a nation would be, in his opinion, the essence of innumerable biographies; and therefore, for one man to write a good history is utterly absurd. He admits, however, that something may be done by division of labour; as for example, were one man to write the history of the government, another that of the manners and habits of the people, another that of the church, another the legal and constitutional history, &c., &c. He thinks that in this way, we may approximate pretty near to the true idea of a nation's progress.

Another critic of modern times, far more celebrated himself in the front rank of historians, has given far juster and more practical views of what history ought to be, and has, moreover, presented to the world, a fine illustration of what he would call, a "perfect history." Says he, in his Essay on History, The perfect historian is he in whose work the character and spirit of an age is exhibited in miniature. He relates no fact, he attributes no expression to his characters, which is not authenticated by sufficient testimony. But by judicious selection, rejection, and arrangement, he gives to truth those attractions which have been usurped by fiction. In his narrative a due subordination is observed; some transactions are prominent, others retire.

VOL. XXVII-16

But the scale on which he represents them is increased or diminished, not according to the dignity of the persons concerned in them, but according to the degree in which they educate the condition of society, and the nature of man. He shows us the court, the camp, the senate. But he shows us also the nation. He considers no anecdote, no peculiarity of manner, no familiar saying, as too insignificant for his notice, which is not too insignificant to illustrate the operation of laws, of religion, and of education, and to mark the progress of the human mind. Men will not merely be described, but will be made intimately known to us. The change of manners will be indicated, not merely by a few general phrases, or a few extracts from statistical documents, but by appropriate images presented in every line."-Macaulay's Miscellanies, p. 65.

It has been said, that to write a great history is the grandest achievement of the human mind. This opinion is based upon the fact that there are works in poetry, and in some branches of exact science, which are regarded as nearly if not quite faultless while in history, amid the innumerable and ponderous tomes under which the press groans, there are few that rise above mediocrity,-still fewer entitled to the epithet great, (except in a sense entirely literal,) and not one perfect.

While we freely admit the fact of the only partial success of those who have aspired to become recorders of the world's progress, we entirely dissent from the inference which has been drawn therefrom, viz: that the historian's art requires a higher order of genius than that of the poet or of the man of science. The true poet must be endowed with all the mental attributes in their richest development, but especially and above all, must he possess imagination, that wondrous magic power which evokes from nonentity forms of beauty and grace that will live forever. This is the true seal and stamp of the poet, ronris,—the maker, which lifts him above his fellows, and approximates him to the divine perfection. Now, we conceive that for the

writing of history successfully, a different and lower order of powers is required. Good judgment in the selection of facts to be recorded, a power of searching and accurate analysis in determining their relations and consequences, untiring industry in ascertaining facts, and impartiality in the presentation of them, constitute the most essential qualities of a good historian. To these should be added as a minor requisite, imagination; though most persons would decide that imagination has nothing to do with the narration of events. A clear, luminous style in addition to these requisites would suffice, we think, to make a good history. Indeed, if the subject be thoroughly understood, impartially presented, in clear and attractive style, such a work comes as near to perfection as is at all desirable. Style, though of minor importance in determining the intrinsic value of a history, is yet all-important, as determining the position the work is to hold in the public estimation. The most popu lar historians owe the greater part of their popularity to some peculiar charm of style. And here there is room for the utmost freedom of choice. The "childlike simplicity" of the old story-teller, Herodotus, the epigrammatic terseness of Tacitus, the pompous, stately march of Gibbon, the clear transparency of Macaulay-each of these has its admirers and imitators, but no history, however valuable in other respects, will ever be come dear to the popular heart unless its diction be pure, simple, and adapted to the comprehension of the masses of mankind. If, therefore, historians have failed in their high vocation, or, at least, have not reached that proud eminence which has been attained in other departments of letters, this result should be ascribed to a want of industry,-to a failure to comprehend the subject, both as a unit and in its most minute details,-a failure to reach that point of positive knowledge from which the past can be seen at one panoramic glance; and finally, to the use of a style, either natural or acquired, unsuited to the minds of their readers.

We propose to say something of the