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grateful for the freak of hot-blooded inso- | highly of his entertainment or expect much lence which has belped us to understand from it, that he only hopes to obtain from clearly the horror of entrusting the most it a small sum of money sufficient to take responsible of judicial functions to a youth him to New Zealand, for, he adds, “ if I whose small intellectual faculties are still could only go to New Zealand, I should feel apparently in that noble phase when they that I had not wholly lived in vain;" and seek their exercise in pinning dishcloths be then, as the audience laugh at this very new hind the backs of comrades, and inducing recipe for avoiding a completely vain life, friends to sit down unawares in tubs of wa- he adds, with eagerness and a child-like ter, or on empty space.

sort of effusion to his audience, “I don't want to live wholly in vain," at which, of course, the laughter deepens into a hearty

That is a type of the whole character of his humour. He gets hold of two

inconsistent and absurdly arbitrary ideas, From the Spectator.

connects them with a sort of simple fervour

in his own mind, and presses them on his ARTEMUS WARD IN LONDON. hearers with an air of plaintive good faith

that is quite irresistible. So, a few senARTEMUS WARD is, as a true humourist tences afterwards, when he mentions that should be, even better than his books. What he would not allow a bust of himself to be his personal influence adds to the humour taken because he could not bear the idea of his stories is not of course always easy to of the people carrying him about everyanalyze, but mainly, we think, tliis, the where, making him common, and hugging impression which he contrives to produce him in plaster of Paris, and his audience that his confusions of thought and speech (rather prematurely) laugh, he assumes the are all inevitable on his own part, that his laugh to be sceptical, and says with a sharp, mind drifts on helplessly from one of these half snappish air of innocent, argumentative grotesque ideas or expressions to the next, irritation, “ Yes, they would," — and then as the creature or victim of some overruling those who saw noting humourous before power, which chooses his thought and lan- are fully carried away now, and join in the guage for him, so that he is not even a party universal chorus. All his best points are to the transaction, though he bas an earnest made by producing this impression, – that and rather melancholy interest in the re- his mind is floating inevitably along a natusult. When he first comes on to the plat- ral current of ideas where his audience see form, with his long, hollow-cheeked face, the most absurd combinations. In one of and his bright, sad, interrogative eyes, we his Punch Papers, Artemus Ward's best should expect from bim, if we knew noth- point was remarking quite simply that the ing about the matter, almost anything rather Tower is a “sweet boon," but the humour than cause for laughter. Ho might be, of this criticism would have been immersely were be not a little too quiet and polished enhanced by his manner. He would have in manner, an eager philantlıropist or re- said it with such accidental pathos, as if the ligious preacher, who had one sole passion lest words were the only poseible ones that could burning in his brain, — to convince the rest have risen to his lips to describe the Tower of the world of the duty of joining in some that the humour, real enough in the printed great crusade.

Yet he bas the face of a letter, would have convulsed his audience. humourist nevertheless, the light in the All he says seems to be thought aloud, as if eyes, the twitch about the mouth which it were just bubbling up new within him. show, as soon as we know what he really is, And when he hits on a deep thought, and that the most opposite currents of associa- says, for instance, with a sort of hesitating, tion constantly cross each other and pull perplexed càndour, as though he were get. simultaneously at the most widely separated ting a little beyond his own depth and his chords of his mind. He never smiles, but audience's too, “ Time passend on. You looks, on the contrary, pleading and en- may have noticed that it usually does, that treating, as if he were above all things so- that is a sort of way Time has about it, it licitous to get his thoughts really disentan- generally passes on,” a joke of no absolute gled this time, when he is approaching one merit takes a very great humour from his of his odd comparisons. When he first ap- hesitating anxious way of appearing to show pears, for instance, he says, with the great- the analysis of his own embarrassed thoughts est simplicity and a pathetic kind of earn- to the people he is addressing. The characestness, that he does not himself think at allter he best likes to fill is that of a sort of in

When he says,

tellectual Hans, – the model simpleton of, not complete, satisfaction lit up his face, and the old German stories, in the act of con- yet he did not pronounce it with confidence, fiding bimself to the public. In the German but with a modest sort of diffidence, as if stories Hans only makes a practical fool of the phrase was as near as he could get. A. himself in all sorts of impossible ways. But general effect of having to grope for his lanArtemus Ward intellectualizes him, — shows guage before he can express himself, always the inner absurdity of his own thoughts ( hovers about his manner. with a pathetic earnestness and candour. with some pride, that he would not allow His mind seems to wander when he speaks them " to sculp” him, and that the clothes of his own past with winning simplicity. With I now occupy produced a great sensation in the sunny days of youth, he says, many America,” there is no glimmer of a smile on sweet forms are associated, “ especially Ma- his face, and a marked absence of emphasis ria, — she married another, you may no- on the grotesque words, which he slips out tice they frequently do," -- and he brings exactly as if he were rather anxious to divert out all such happy generalizations with a attention from points on which he feels his real heare of intellectual travail that con- ground somewhat uncertain,-just as an Engvulses his hearers with good reason. Noth- lishman abroad hastily slurs over his doubitul is better than his eager, ardent way of pro- grammar to get on to idioms of which he is pounding a truism. You cannot avoid the more certain. Then occasionally he will fall conviction for a moment that it has just in the most natural and helpless way into struck him aş a real truth. When he points a language-trap of his own setting, as where to the summit of one of the range of moun- he says that in the burry of embarking on tains in Utah, and says, with an evident board the steamer which took him from New wish to be useful to his audience," the high- York, some middle-aged ladies against whom est part of this mountain is the top," or he was hustled mistook his character wholly pointing to one of the horses on the prairie and said, " Base man, leave us, oh leave us! " that beautiful and interesting animal is a

- and I left them, oh ! I left them !” where horse, it was a long time before I discovered he appears quite unable to help throwing it,”, in spite of the exceeding simplicity the second half of the sentence into the and obviousness of the joke, which any form of an apostrophe to the first. It imclown in a pantomime might have made as presses one as a sheer inability to get out of well, he reaches the sense of humour simply the wake of the first half of the sentence, by the engaging earnestness and naïveté of not as any wish to be amusing, that makes his speech.

him interpolate the second oh!” Hc Perhaps the most humorous part of Arte- seems like a man who, having taken a good mus Ward's lecture, however, is the natural, run, cannot stop himself at the right point, unresisting way in which he drifts about in but must fun beyond it; the rhythm of the search of words und phrases, often convey- elderly ladies' exhortation mastered him; he ing a sense of ditliculty and of conscious helplessly succumbs to it in explaining how error, and then correcting himself by the use he ‘obeyed it. It is the fatali:m of gramof a phrase still more ludicrous, and on matical construction. So, again, when he which yet he seems to have been landed by finds the seventeen young Mormon widows an imperious necessity. Thus, when he says weeping, and asks them, “ Why is this that he used to sing, but not well, he stum- thus ?” he falls a victim to the perplexity bles in the most natural way, and is a prey and embarrassment with which the juxtapo. to melancholy that he can't hit on the proper sition of this and thus · has overpowered phrase, “as a songer,” he said, “- I was not his weak brain; and goes on helplessly, successful ;” and ihen, in a depressed and " what is the cause of thisthusness?”. He self-correcting way, conscious he had gone cannot evidently help developing at length wrong, “ As a singster I was a failure. I am those subtle suggestions of verbal confusion always saddest when I sing, -- and so are which so often strike everybody's ear with those who hear me." The art with which an idictic jingle of fascination. This is he gives the impression that he is flounder- closely analogous to his curious habit of ing along in his choice of words, the victim tloating feebly down the clrain of intellectof the first verbal association which strikes ual association, however grotesque. When his nemory, and yet ju-t familiar enough he tells us that the picture of the Nevada with language to feel urcertain as to luis mountains is by " the ancient masters," the ground and to wish to get hold of some mere idea of the ancient masters of course clearer term, is beyond praise. When he suggests at once that they are dead; so he lighted upon

singster "be evidently felt goes on, “thịs was the last picture they that he was near the mark, a partial, but I painted, and then they died.” So when he


points out the lion on Brigham Young's, smile, - is, as we said before, an intellectugate, he says, pointing to a very ridiculous alized form of the German village-simpleand elongated feature in it, “ Yonder lion, ton Hans. He yields a literal obedience to you will observe, has a tail.' It will be con- every absurd suggestion of thought and lantinued for a few evenings longer.The hu- guage, just as Hans does to the verbal dimour of all this is the humour of helpless- rections of his wife or mother, and gets into ness, the humour of letting your thoughts intellectual absurdity just as Hans gets into drift idly with the most absurd association a practical absurdity. This, with the mel. that crosses them, and never rescuing your- ancholy, earnest manner of a man comself by any insurrection of common sense. pletely unconscious that there is anything Artemas Ward in all his best jokes, -- of grotesque in what he says, conveys an effect course, like other professional jokers, he bas of inimitable humour. some poor ones, at which it is wrong to!



Love not ! the thing you love may die

May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay! The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow- Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth.

Love not!
Things that are made to fade and fall away
Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. Love not ! oh warning vainly said

Love not!

In present hours as iu years gone by; Love not! the thing ye love may change ;

Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,

Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,

Love not! The kindly.beaining eye grow cold and strange,

CAROLINE NORTON. The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.

Love not!

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No. 1178. Fourth Series, No. 39. 29 December, 1866.

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PAGE 1. Miracles : Mr. Mozley's Bampton Lectures

Christian Remembrancer,

771 2. Nina Balatka. Part 5.

Bluckwood's Magazine,

788 3. Hopefully Waiting, by A. D. F. Randolph, · N. Y. Observer,

804 4 Agussiz — Geological Sketches

· Eraminer,

805 5. Immoral Books

Saturday Review,

809 6. Life of James Grant Percival .

811 7. The Pope

: Blackwood's Magazine,

813 8. The Iron Crown

Saturday Review,

816 9. Letters from Hell

818 10. Railway Shocks, and other Nervous Injuries .

: Examiner,

821 POETRY: The Palatine, 770. Terminus, 803! Gennesaret, 824. Title Page and Index to Vol. 91.

To New YORK SUBSCRIBERS. Should any of you have any difficulty in getting your numbers for next year through your booksellers we beg leave to repeat our former assurance that we shall be glad to supply you directly from this office free of postage upon your remittance of eight dollars to us. Your orders will receive prompt attention

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Published by Littell, Son & Co., Boston. Wholesale dealers supplied on liberal terms.
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Into the teeth of death she sped :
(May God forgive the hands that fed

The false lights over the rocky Head !) LEAGUES north, as fly the gull and auk, O men and brothers ! what sights were there! Point Judith watches with eye of hawk; White, upturned faces, hands stretched in Leagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk !


Where waves had pity, could ye not spare ? Lonely and wind shorn, wood-forsaken, With never a tree for Spring to waken, Down swooped the wreckers, like birds of prey For tryst of lovers or farewells taken,

Tearing the heart of the ship away,

And the dead had never a word to say.
Circled by waters that never freeze,
Beaten by billow and swept by breeze,

And then, with ghastly shimmer and shine Lieth the island of Manisees,

Over the rocks and the seething brine,

They burned the wreck of the Palatine.
Set at the mouth of the Sound to hold
The coast-lights up on its turret old,

In their cruel hearts, as they homeward sped, Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould.

“ The sea and the rocks are dumb," they said:

“ There'll be, no reckoning with the dead.”
Dreary the land when gust and sleet
At its doors and windows howl and beat,
And Winter laughs at its fires of peat !

But the year went round, and when once more
Along their foam-white curves of shore

They heard the line-storm rave and roar,
But in summer time, when pool and pond,
Held in the laps of valleys fond,
Are blue as the glimpses of sea beyond ;

Behold! again, with shimmer and shine,

Over the rocks and the seething brine,
When the hills are sweet with the briar-rose,

The flaming wreck of the Palatine!
And, hid in the warm, soft dells, unclose
Flowers the mainland rarely knows;

So, haply in fitter words than these,

Mending their nets on their patient knees
When boats to their morning fishing go,

They tell the legend of Manisees.
And, held to the wind and slanting low,
Whitening and darkening the small sails Nor looks nor tones a doubt betray ;

“ It is known to us all,” they quietly say;

“We too have seen it in our day.” Then is that lonely island fair; And the pale health-seeker findeth there Is there, then, no death for a word once spoken! The wine of life in its pleasant air.

Was never a deed but left its token

Written on tables never broken?
No greener valleys the sun invite,
On smoother beaches no sea-birds light,

Do the elements subtle reflection give ?
No blue waves shatter to foam more white ! Do pictures of all the ages live

On Nature's infinite negative,
There, circling over their narrow range,
Quaint tradition and legend strange

Which, half in sport, in malice half,
Live on unchallenged, and know no change. She shows at times, with shudder or laugh,

Phantom and shadow in photograph ?
Old wives spinning their webs of tow,
Or rocking wierdiy to and fro

For still, on many a moonless night,
In and out of the pear’s dull glow,

From Kingston Head and from Montauk light

The sceptre kindles and burns in sight.
And old men mending their nets of twine,
Talk together of dream and sign,

Now low and dim, now clear and higher,
Talk of the lost ship Palatine,

Leaps up the terrible Ghost of Fire,

Then, slowly sinking, the flames expire.
The ship that a hundred years before,
Freighted deep with its goodly store,

And the wise Sound skippers, though skies be In the gales of the equinox went ashore.


Reef their sails when they see the sign
The eager islanders one by one

Of the blazing Ghost of the Palatine !
Counted the shots of her signal gun,
And heard the crash when she drove right on !

Atlantic Monthly.

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