criticism, Saxe has earned for himself the name and style of a poet, as contradistinguished from a mere verse-monger. In the artistical work of poetical composition he has a good share of both positive and negative excellences. He has a ready and correct appreciation of rhythm and great practical facility in the arrangement of words and syllables secundum artem. He can marshal in due order the rhymed pentameters of Dryden and Pope as well as play with the varied and more sprightly measures of Moore and Tom Hood. His poetical style is natural and direct; his feet do not limp nor his rhymes grate when they ought to jingle. All this, to be sure, relates only to the outside of poetry, and it may exist without the inspiring soul. Still, its verbal structure is an important element of poetry. The intangible spirit dwells in certain verbal forms, and often really-good poetry is only prose if removed from its appropriate language. It is, therefore, the confession of a real excellence to ascribe to a candidate for "the bays" skill in the arts of versification.

As a poet Saxe ranks among the laughter-moving class. Wit and humor are the qualities he chiefly relies on, and he abounds in certain kinds of the former, but is almost wholly deficient in the latter. His appreciation of a pun is wonderful, and he can scent a double entendre further than a vulture can snuff blood, and his impulse to pursue that sort of game when started seems to be wholly irresistible. This proclivity is evinced in nearly all his compositions, and in many of them it constitutes the whole spirit of the piece, and often it obtrudes itself most inopportunely. I would not, as some do, wholly condemn this "figure of speech," though it should be used sparingly and only when it occurs naturally and appositely. It is, indeed, the "jester" of literature, and, like its prototype at baronial banquets, it may serve a good purpose when nothing better is at hand; but, like the same character, unless closely curbed, it may thrust itself forward when least desired.

Satire is at once the easiest and most difficult of all the forms of poetical compositions. For present effect in a limited circle it has great adaptation, and may be made an instrument of great power, though used by feeble and unskillful hands; but to raise it into a more elevated sphere so that it shall belong to all times and places requires the highest order of poetical genius. Mr. Saxe has not gone out of the beaten track in selecting subjects for his satirical muse,

but has simply rung the changes on the timeworn commonplaces. He gave the pattern of William Allen Butler's "Flora M'Flimsey" in his "Proud Miss M'Bride," and run a cotemporary race with the same writer, duplicating his "Firkin" by his own "Money King," and to my notion in both instances the Vermonter had the best of it, which is only faint praise. A large share of these pieces were originally spoken at certain public occasions, and their style and composition are, doubtless, largely affected by that fact. In such cases present effect is the great object to be aimed at, and "bringing down the house" is the criterion of excellence. They, accordingly, abound in "execrable" puns, and quirks, and out-of-the-way witticisms, because broad

and farcical drollery is more readily appreciated than the most exquisite humor. But when the applauded " of the "Hall" and "Rostrum " appears in "poem plain and passionless print, the case is widely changed, and the former success promises very little for the present ordeal. But why need a writer care for the critics when "the million" applaud, and, what is better still, buy and pay for his productions? The man of the Ledger has taught these learned arbiters of literary jurisprudence that there may be an appeal from their grave decisions, and Mr. Saxe may comfort himself against their censures while multiplied editions of his books follow each other in rapid succession. Nor are these pieces destitute of real merit, and even their censured properties have their value. The capabilities of the language for punning was never before so thoroughly and successfully tested, nor were its hitherto unthought-of affinities ever before so fully brought into notice. As an instance of the successful imitation of sounds and motion by poetic measures the "Rhyme of the Rail" is unequaled, and the broad but pertinent burlesques upon the current "wise saws are certainly not to be contemned.

But I strongly suspect that as yet Mr. Saxe has not done justice to either himself or the world in what he has written. His taste for the grotesque and amusing has allured him into a style of writing in which his better parts can have but a partial development, and at which he can hope to be little more than a superior kind of harlequin. But he is capable of a better destiny, and I am persuaded that if he ever attains to eminence it will be as a sentimental writer. That he has the needful elements of character for this I have no doubt, and am not without hope that these will at length become dominant in him. A large experience of the joys and sorrows of life, especially in the tender sympathies of the household, or, better still, in the yearning emotions of religious life might raise his muse into a higher sphere and attune his harp-strings to a sweeter and loftier melody. The pieces entitled "The Old Chapel Bell" and "Bereavement" sufficiently attest his capabilities in that kind of composition; the former is among the most exquisite in the language, and is alone worth all else that he ever wrote.

We have had a literary festival, the centennial of the birth of Schiller, when our savans and litterateurs and some who were neither the one nor the other, dined at the Astor, and drank toasts and made speeches ostensibly in honor of the great transcendentalist, of whom it may be safely said most of them knew very little, and had they known more they would not have cared to learn more.

Among the publishers there is just now very little of especial interest. The announcements for the early winter trade are unusually meager, and even the holiday offerings seem to present no peculiarlyattractive features. Still the book trade is active, and the great houses are reaping a golden harvest on account of the demand for books already published and known to the reading public. The trade in school books-the specialty of Barnes & Co. and of Ivison & Phinny, but somewhat shared by nearly every publishing house in the city-is immense and

highly profitable, and the style in which books of instruction are now made would have been a wonder half a century ago.

While writing about books permit me to do your readers a favor by directing their attention to certain elementary books of instruction, prepared by one of our citizens, Mr. G. P. Quackenbos, himself a practical educator. His work on "English Composition" has been before the public for a number of years past, and is gradually gaining the recognition it so richly deserves. For practical utility it infinitely excels all the "Philosophies of Rhetoric" that have ever been written, and both on account of its real value and its availability, even to the partially educated it is entitled to a place in all institutions of learning, from the college to the grammar school. Quite lately the same author has issued a concise system of natural philosophy, having many of the good qualities of the preceding work, and, both from its conciseness and the intelligibleness of its explanations, well suited to the classes in high schools and academies. This unasked commendation I give not for the benefit of either author or publishers, but because I think it is deserved, and may be useful to some who may read it. A multiplicity of new text-books is one of the great evils endured by our schools; it, therefore, is a matter of interest to all concerned to learn where they may "get the best."

The Methodist Quarterly Review for October is a decidedly good number-comparing favorably with either its own former issues or the best of the first

class Reviews of the country. As in former numbers the papers are chiefly by comparatively young writers, which I take to be a recommendation rather than otherwise. A good variety of subjects are discussed, including in their range philosophy, science, literature, and religion, and in most of the papers there is much to commend and some things to condemn. Some time since the readers of the Review were rather startled at an article on the "Moral Condition of Infants," which received the almost unanimous disapprobation of the Methodist press. In this number the subject is presented again-and here by one of our General conference editors-still more elaborately stating and attempting to defend the novel positions of the little essay of the late Mr. Mercein. A good share of liberty of thought is not objectionable in a publication designed chiefly for thinkers, but it may be questioned whether even that has not been a little overdone in this case. It is hardly the right thing that a publication designed to serve the interests of the Church, especially in defending its doctrines, should be used to undermine and destroy those doctrines.

But the great attraction of the Review since it came into the hands of Dr. Whedon is in the editorial department. In detached thoughts and passing observations he is especially acute and suggestive, and often after reading some book or paper his mind seems to scintillate with thoughts. I found some of these in the "book notices" of this number, not so much in the form of criticisms on the books named as of side reflections.

LOON LAKE. We open this volume with an exquisite engraving by Mr. Smielie, from an original painting by J. M. Hart, now in possession of N. B. Collins, Esq., of New York city. It was engraved expressly for this number, and our thanks are due to the proprietor, as well as the painter, for the free use of the original painting for this purpose.

We apprehend that many of our readers, as they gaze upon that dreamy picture, will mentally inquire, "Where is Loon Lake?" We said "dreamy." It is dreamy only as applied to the imagination; for it is a morning scene. It is a study for you, dear reader. See how those mists are being lifted up by the morning beams. And as they rise and evanesce, how natural is the scene disclosed! Albeit, it is nature's own stern solitude and jagged wildness. Suppose, then, we confess that even we-the editor who "knows every thing" is ignorant of the geographical position of "Loon Lake." What though it exists only in the ideal of the artist? Is not the conception true to nature? May you not go forth and behold each feature in its appropriate season and place? This picture may be a perfect transcript from nature. But its value is not in the fact that it is a transcript from, but a study of nature. The artist quickens our dull apprehension. He would teach us that what he makes so beautiful on the canvas, has its counterpart

in the living realities of nature all around us. It is true that his pictures are in themselves a study. We should regard them as such. No one can comprehend them unless time, and thought, and study be given to them. But after all they are only a preparatory lesson, designed to quicken our perception, deepen our interest, improve our methods. Then they would lead us out to study nature as she is portrayed in the pictures of the great Artist. These pictures, which we give you from month to month, have a higher office than merely to please the eye or the fancy. They possess a deep-toned moral significance. No individual can rise from the thorough study of any one of the productions of our great artists without having ever after a better appreciation of nature, a more thorough comprehension of the delicate minutiæ, the interlacing of small particulars, whose harmonious blending makes up her grand and glorious pictures. Thus while such a picture as nature presents fills the mind with wonder, it also inspires us with reverence for the mind that conceived it and the hand that gave it being. Kind reader, take these hints. In the light of them study these gems of art. Then will you find that even pictures have a higher and holier purpose than merely to please the eye.

PORTRAIT OF REV. ALFRED GRIFFITH.-This is the first and only portrait ever published of this old and

venerated pioneer of Methodism. It was granted as a special favor for our pages-and it is a favor our readers will appreciate. It is to be regretted that some of the noblest heroes of Methodism have passed away without leaving behind them any portrait or picture by which their likenesses might be preserved and handed down to posterity. There is a moral power in a portrait. The likeness of General Washington, however rudely expressed, hanging upon the dingy walls of cabins and cottages of the poor and the ignorant, kindles the love of country, the fire of patriotism in millions who will never read his history. So these portraits, which we give from time to time, are not a mere compliment to men; they are a lesson to the present and the future generations.

The well-written sketch by Dr. Nadal will amply repay the reading. We hope none will pass over it. SHELLS OF THE OCEAN.-Such is the subject of our Title-Page to the volume for 1860, which we have had engraved on steel and send out with this number. It was drawn and engraved by Mr. F. E. Jones, and we think our readers will agree with us that he has succeeded in producing a delicate and beautiful picture. It is more than that; it is suggestive.

Omitting for a moment its deeper lessons, we insert for the benefit of the reader the beautiful song"Shells of the Ocean "-composed by Lake, and set to music by Cherry. It is closely allied to the conception of the artist-perhaps suggested it.

"One summer eve, with pensive thought,
I wandered on the sea-beat shore,
Where oft in heedless, infant sport,
I gathered shells in days before.
The plashing wave like music fell,
Responsive to my fancy wild;

A dream came o'er me like a spell;
I thought I was again a child.

I stooped upon the pebbly strand

To cull the toys that round me lay,

But as I took them in my hand,
I threw them one by one away.

O thus, I said, in every stage,
By toys our fancy is beguiled;

We gather shells from youth to age,

And then we leave them like a child."

It may be that the ocean view and the poet's moral make a deeper impression upon us than they will on many of our readers. In childhood we also wandered upon "the sea-beat shore;" the sound of the "plashing wave," like the far-off echo of former days, even now comes back to our ear; we have gathered its shells and thrown them "one by one away." Nor is this all. In the maturity of manhood we have walked again upon that "pebbly strand," and there the recollections of "long, long ago" came back to us like a rushing flood. Wonder not, then, that we feel the power of those beautiful lines and of this expressive ocean view.

As we have stood upon some jutting rock and looked away down into the misty depths of the ocean, we have often been reminded of the old Greek fable of Glaucus, the fisherman. A certain herb gave strength to his fish to leap back into their native element. Eating of the same herb he was seized with a strange longing to follow them, and thenceforth

became the companion of the semi-human beings that in Grecian fancy reveled beneath the waves,

"Joining the bliss of the gods, as they waken the coves-with their laughter."

Does not this fable symbolize that mysterious impulse which sometimes seizes upon the mind as the eye follows the steep descent of the bottom fading away in the dim distance-to go down and explore the hidden depths of the ocean? Those wondrous depths, after all the soundings of the navigator and the scoopings of the naturalist, are explored rather by the imagination than by the eye. But there is another ocean of which this is the symbol, on the shores of which we stand, whose mysteries are around us, whose depths we would fain explore. It is the ocean of eternity. Its surges roll up almost to our feet. shall sound its awful depths by and by.

We

We know of no spot so well calculated to inspire deep and thoughtful emotions as the shore of the beams of the rising moon, spreads a holy calmness ocean when the still evening, relieved by the mild all around. For one who knows how to meditate; who sends out his very soul in communing with the great and the grand in nature; who soars thus upward to communion with the Infinite, no other place can equal the ocean shore. The unceasing roll of the waves, their plaintive monotone as they break upon the strand, the broad expanse spread out in a dead level of unvarying uniformity, may seem dull, monotonous, and dreary to him who sees only with the physical eye. But with what unending mystic lore is it freighted; what mysterious intimations of wonderful possibilities, to be realized in the future, does it impart to him whose intellectual soul enters into communion with it! This sentiment is well indicated in Percival's "Calm at Sea." We give only the two closing stanzas:

"The moon is bright,

Her ring of light,

In silver, pales the blue of heaven,

Or tints with gold

Where lightly rolled,

Like fleecy snow, the rack is driven.

How calm and clear

The silent air!

How smooth and still the glassy ocean!
While stars above

Seem lamps of love,

To light the temple of devotion."

ARTICLES DECLINED.-The following are respectfully declined; namely, "Little Maud," "The Isle of If," "Wood-Pigeon in Spring," "Autumn Musings," "After the Storm," "To the Memory of -," "To One in Affliction,' ," "The Laughing Streamlet," "The Baby," "Pearl of Great Price," "A Mother's Soliloquy," "Alone with God," "What Christ Came for," "What I Love," "Earth and Heaven," ""Man's Life," "Power of God," "Depths of the Ocean," "True Wisdom," "The Broken Household," "The Dew-Drop," and "I am Going Home."

"November Thoughts" is written in a style somewhat abrupt and is not without its value, but we can hardly use it. "God shall Wipe away all Tears," with some revision and consolidation, might have been used. "Mary and Charley" lacks point. A