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Brownrigg's Papers and other Stories, new edit., 1860, p. 8vo, Life and Remains of Douglas Jerrold, 1859, 8vo, The Wit and Opinions of Douglas Jerrold, 1859, 12mo, all edited by his son William Blanchard Jerrold, author of The Life of Napoleon III., 4 vols. 8vo, etc. There are collective

need of this faith. The aged, who find affairs proceeding at the will of the young and hardy, whatever the gray-haired may think and say, have need of this faith. So have the sick, when they find none but themselves disposed to look on life in the light which coines from beyond the grave. So have the persecuted, when, with or with-editions of Jerrold's Works, Lond., 1851–54, out cause, they see themselves pointed at in 8 vols. 12mo, and 1863-65, 5 vols. p. 8vo. the street; and the despised, who find them"Jerrold was truly a man of a large heart, as selves neglected whichever way they turn. well as of a great original genius. He never lost So have the prosperous, during those mo- an opportunity of labouring in any act of benevoments which must occur to all, when sym-lence that his sense of duty set before him; and pathy fails, and means to much desired ends are wanting, or when satiety makes the spirit roam abroad in search of something better than it has found. This universal, eternal, filial relation is the only universal and eternal refuge. It is the solace of royalty weeping in the inner chambers of its palaces, and of poverty drooping beside its cold hearth. It is the glad tidings preached to the poor, and in which all must be poor in spirit to have part. If they be poor in spirit, it matters little what is their external state, or whether the world, which rolls on beside or over them, be the world of a solar system, or of a conquering empire, or of a small-souled village. Deerbrook, a Novel.


well known as the author of Black-Eyed Susan, The Rent Day, and many other dramas, Mrs. Caudle's Curtain-Lectures, etc., in Punch, and other productions, was born in London in 1803, served for some time in the Royal Navy, and also as a printer, and died in 1857.

Men of Character, 1838, 3 vols. p. 8vo; Bubbles of the Day, a Comedy, 1842; Cakes and Ale, 1842, 2 vols. fp. 8vo; Prisoner of War, 1842, 8vo; Punch's Letters to his Son, 1843, fp. 8vo; Punch's Complete LetterWriter; Story of a Feather, 1844, fp. 8vo; Mrs. Caudle's Curtain-Lectures, new edit., 1846, fp. 8vo; Chronicles of Clovernook, 1846, fp. 8vo; A Man Made of Money, 1849, p. 8vo; The Catspaw, a Comedy, 1850, 8vo; Retired from Business, a Comedy, 1851, 12mo; St. Giles and St. James, 1851, 12mo; Time Works Wonders, 1854, fp. 8vo; A Heart of Gold, a Drama, 1854, 12mo; Comedies and Dramas, 1854, 12mo, new edit., 2 vols. 8vo. To these may be added Nell Gwynne, Cupid, etc., and many papers in The Heads of the People, The Illuminated Magazine, The Shilling Magazine, and Lloyd's Weekly, all of which he edited. After his death appeared The Barber's Chain, and The Hedgehog Letters, cr. 8vo,

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his last words were those of affection towards all with whom he had been associated in him a sacred relation."-Lond. Gent. Mag., July, 1857, 94, q. v. See also Jerrold, Tennyson, Macau lay, and other Critical Essays, by J. H. Stirling, LL.D., 1868, fp. 8vo; New Spirit of the Age, by R. H. Horne, 1844, 2 vols. p. 8vo; N. Brit. Rev., May, 1859.


We have yet no truthful map of England. No offence to the publishers; but the verity must be uttered. We have pored and pondered, and gone to our sheets with weak, winking eyes, having vainly searched, we cannot trust ourselves to say how many hundred maps of our beloved land, for the exact whereabout of Clovernook. We cannot find it. More: we doubt-so imperfect are all the maps-if any man can drop his finger on the spot, can point to the blessed locality of that most blissful village. He could as easily show to us the hundred of Utopia; the glittering weathercocks of the New Atlantis.

And shall we be more communicative than the publishers? No; the secret shall be buried with us; we will hug it under our shroud. We have heard of shrewd, shortspeeched men who were the living caskets of some healing jewel; some restorative recipe to draw the burning fangs from gout; some anodyne to touch away sciatica into the lithesomeness of a kid; and these men have died, and have, to their own satisfaction at least, carried the secret into their coffins, as though the mystery would comfort them as they rotted. There have been such men; and the black, begrimed father of all uncharitableness sits cross-legged upon their tombstones, and sniggers over them.

Nevertheless, we will not tell to the care less and irreverent world-a world noisy with the ringing of shillings-the whereabout of Clovernook. We might, would we condescend, give an all-sufficient reason for our closeness: we will do no such thing. No: the village is our own, consecrated to our own delicious leisure, when time runs by like a summer brook, dimpling and

sweetly murmuring as it runs. We have the most potent right of freehold in the soil; nay, it is our lordship. We have there droits du seigneur; and in the very despotism of our ownership might, if we would, turn oaks into gibbets. Let this knowledge suffice to the reader; for we will not vouchsafe to him another pippin's-worth.

Thus much, however, we will say of the history of Clovernook: there is about it a very proper mist and haziness; it twinkles far, far away through the darkness of time, like a taper through a midnight casement. The spirit of fable that dallies with the vexed heart of man, and incarnates his dreams in living presences, for mightiest of the mighty is oft the muscle of fiction,fable says that Clovernook was the work of some sprite of Fancy, that in an idle and extravagant mood made it a choice countryseat, a green and flowery place, peopled with happy faces. And it was created, says fable, after this fashion:

The sprite took certain pieces of old, fine linen, which were torn and torn, and reduced to a very pulp, and then made into a substance, thin and spotless. And then the sprite flew away to distant woods, and gathered certain things, from which was expressed a liquid of darkest dye. And then, after the old time-honoured way, a living thing was sacrificed; a bird much praised by men at Michaelmas, fell with bleeding throat; and the sprite, plucking a feather from the poor dead thing, waved and waved it, and the village of Clovernook grew and grew; and cottages, silently as trees, rose from the earth; and men and women came there by twos and fours; and in good time smoke rose from chimneys, and cradles were rocked. And this, so saith fable, was the beginning of Clovernook.

Although we will not let the rabble of the world know the whereabout of our village, -and by the rabble, be it understood, we do not mean the wretches who are guilty of daily hunger, and are condemned in the court of poverty of the high misdemeanour of patches and rags,-but we mean the mere money-changers, the folks who carry their sullen souls in the corners of their pockets, and think the site of Eden is covered with the Mint; although we will not have Clovernook startled from its sweet, dreamy serenity-and we have sometimes known the very weasels in mid-day to doze there, given up to the delicious influence of the placeby the chariot-wheels of that stony-hearted old dowager, Lady Mammon, with her false locks and ruddled cheeks, we invite all others to our little village; where they may loll in the sun or shade as suits them; lie along on the green turfy sward, and kick |

their heels at fortune: where they may jig an evening dance in the meadows, and after retire to the inn,-the one inn of Clovernook,-glorified under the sign of "Gratis!"

Match us that sign if you can. What are your Georges and Dragons, your Kings' Heads and Queens' Arms; your Lions, Red, White, and Black; your Mermaids and your Dolphins, to that large, embracing benevolence,-Gratis? Doth not the word seem to throw its arm about you with a hugging welcome? Gratis! It is the voice of Nature, speaking from the fulness of her large heart. The word is written all over the blue heaven. The health-giving air whispers it about us. It rides the sunbeam (save when statesmen put a pane 'twixt us and it). The lark trills it high up in its skyey dome; the little wayside flower breathes gratis from its pinky mouth; the bright brook murmurs it; it is written in the harvest moon. Look and move where we will, delights-all "gratis," all breathing and beaming beauty-are about us; and yet how rarely do we seize the happiness, because, forsooth, it is a joy gratis?

But let us back to Clovernook. We offer it as a country tarrying-place for all who will accept its hospitality. We will show every green lane about it; every clump of trees; every bit of woodland, mead, and dell. The villagers, too, may be found, upon acquaintance, not altogether boors. There are some strange folk among them. Men who have wrestled in the world, and have had their victories and their trippingsup; and now they have nothing to do but keep their little bits of garden-ground pranked with the earliest flowers; their only enemies, weeds, slugs, and snails. Odd people, we say it, are amongst them. Men whose minds have been strangely carved and fashioned by the world; cut like odd fancies in walnut-tree; but though curious and grotesque, the minds are sound, with not a worm-hole in them. And these men meet in summer under the broad mulberry-tree before the "Gratis," and tell their stories, thoughts, humours; yea, their dreams. They have nothing to do but to consider that curious bit of clock-work—the mind—within them; and droll it sometimes is, to mark how they will try to take it to pieces, and then again to adjust its little wheels, its levers, and springs.

The Chronicles of Clovernook; with some
Account of the Hermit of Bellyfulle.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON, the son of a Unitarian minister, was born in Boston in 1803, graduated at Harvard Col

lege. 1821, and officiated for some time as minister of the Second Unitarian Church of Boston. He has for many years been living in retirement at Concord, Massachusetts. Works: vol. i., Essays, Bost., 1841, 12mo, with Preface by Thomas Carlyle, Lond., 1853, 12mo; ii., Essays, Second Series, Bost., 1844, 12mo, 2d edit., 1855, 12mo; iii., Poems, Bost., 1847, 12mo; iv., Representative Men, Seven Lectures, Bost., 1850, 12mo; v., Miscellanies: embracing Nature [1839], Addresses, and Lectures, Bost., 1849, 12mo; vi., English Traits, Bost., 1856, 12mo; vii., Conduct of Life, Bost., 1860, 12mo; viii., May Day and other Pieces, Bost., 16mo; ix., Society and Solitude, Bost., 1869, 16mo; x., Poetry and Criticism, Bost., 1875, 12mo; xi., Fortune of the Republic, Bost., 1878,


In 1851 appeared Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli, by Ralph Waldo Emerson, William Henry Channing, and James Freeman Clarke, Bost., 2 vols. 12mo, Lond., 1852, 3 vols. p. 8vo. Mr. Emerson edited The Dial, Bost., 1840-44, and has contributed to the North American Review, vols. 44: 1 (Michael Angelo), 47: 56 (Milton), 102: 356 (Character), 106: 543 (Quotation and Originality), 124: 179 (Demonology), 125: 271 (Perpetual Forces), and The Christian Examiner.


The presence of a higher, namely, of the spiritual element is essential to its perfection. The high and divine beauty which can be loved without effeminacy is that which is found in combination with the human will, and never separate. Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue. Every natural action is graceful. Every heroic act is also decent, and causes the place and the bystanders to shine. We are taught by great actions that the universe is the property of every individual in it. Every rational creature has all nature for his dowry and estate. It is his, if he will. He may divest himself of it; he may creep into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most men do; but he is entitled to the world by his constitution. In proportion to the energy of his thought and will, he takes up the world into himself. "All those things for which men plough, build, or sail, obey virtue," said an ancient historian. "The winds and waves," said Gibbon, “ are always on the side of the ablest navigators." So are the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven. When a noble act is done, perchance in a scene of great natural beauty; when Leonidas and his three hundred warriors consume one day in dying, and the sun and moon come each and look at them once

in the steep defile of Thermopyla; when Arnold Winkelried, in the high Alps under the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his side a sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his comrades: are not these heroes entitled to add the beauty of the scene to the beauty of the deed? When the bark of Columbus nears the shore of America,before it, the beach lined with savages fleeing out of all their huts of cane; the sea behind; and the purple mountains of the Indian Archipelago around, can we separate the man from the living picture? Does not the New World clothe his form with her palm-groves and savannahs as fit drapery? Ever does natural beauty steal in like air, and envelop great actions. When Sir Harry Vane was dragged up the Tower-hill, sitting on a sled, to suffer death, as the champion of the English laws, one of the multitude cried out to him, "You never sate on so glorious a seat." Charles II., to intimidate the citizens of London, caused the patriot Lord Russell to be drawn in an open coach, through the principal streets of the city, on his way to the scaffold. "But," to use the simple narrative of his biographer, "the multitude imagined they saw liberty and virtue sitting by his side." In private places, among sordid objects, an act of truth or heroism seems at once to draw to itself the sky as its temple, the sun as its candle. Nature stretcheth out her arms to embrace man, only let his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly does she follow his steps with the rose and the violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and grace to the decoration of her darling child. Only let his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will suit the picture. A virtuous man is in unison with her works, and makes the central figure of the visible sphere. Nature.

THE POWER of Love.

Be our experience in particulars what it may, no man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and brain, which created all things new; which was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and art; which made the face of nature radiant with purple light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a single tone of one voice could make the heart beat, and the most trivial circumstances associated with one form is put in the amber of memory: when we became all eye when one was present, and all memory when one was gone; when the youth becomes a watcher of windows, and studious of a glove, a veil, a ribbon, or the wheels of a carriage; when no place is too solitary, and none too silent for him who has richer company, and sweeter

conversation in his new thoughts, than any old friends, though best and purest, can give him for the figures, the motions, the words, of the beloved object are not like other images written in water, but as Plutarch said, "enamelled in fire," and made the study of midnight.

"Thou art not gone being gone, where'er thou art, Thou leav'st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy loving heart."

In the noon and afternoon of life, we still throb at the recollection of days when happiness was not happy enough, but must be drugged with the relish of pain and fear; for he touched the secret of the matter who said of love,

"All other pleasures are not worth its pains:" and when the day was not long enough, but the night too must be consumed in keen recollections; when the head boiled all night on the pillow with the generous deed it resolved on; when the moonlight was a pleasing fever, and the stars were letters, and the flowers ciphers, and the air was coined into song; when all business seemed an impertinence, and all the men and women running to and fro in the streets mere pictures.

The passion remakes the world for the youth. It makes all things alive and significant. Nature grows conscious. Every bird on the boughs of the tree sings now to his heart and soul. Almost the notes are articulate. The clouds have faces, as he looks on them. The trees of the forest, the waving grass, and the peeping flowers have grown intelligent; and almost he fears to trust them with the secret which they seem to invite. Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In the green solitude he finds a dearer home than with men:

"Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves,
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are safely housed, save bats and owls,
A midnight bell, a passing groan:
These are the sounds we feed upon."

Behold there in the wood the fine madman! He is a palace of sweet sounds and sights; he dilates; he is twice a man; he walks with arms akimbo; he soliloquizes; he accosts the grass and the trees; he feels the blood of the violet, the clover, and the lily in his veins; and he talks with the brook that wets his foot.

The causes that have sharpened his perceptions of natural beauty have made him love music and verse. It is a fact often observed, that men have written good verses under the inspiration of passion, who cannot write well under any other circumstances.

The like force has passion over all his nature. It expands the sentiment; it makes the clown gentle, and gives the coward heart. Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart and courage to defy the world, so only it have the countenance of the beloved object. In giving him to another, it still more gives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new and keener purposes, and a religious solemnity of character and aims. He does not longer appertain to his family and society. He is somewhat. He is a person. He is a soul. Essay on Love.


I like that every chair should be a throne, and hold a king. I prefer a tendency to stateliness, to an excess of fellowship. Let the incommunicable objects of nature and the metaphysical isolation of man teach us independence. Let us not be too much acquainted. I would have a man enter his house through a hall filled with heroic and sacred sculptures, that he might not want the hint of tranquillity and self-poise. We should meet each morning, as from foreign countries, and spending the day together, should depart at night, as into foreign countries. In all things I would have the island of a man inviolate. Let us sit apart as the gods, talking from peak to peak all round Olympus. No degree of affection need invade this religion. This is myrrh and rosemary to keep the other sweet. Lovers should guard their strangeness. If they forgive too much, all slides into confusion and meanness. It is easy to push this defence to a Chinese etiquette; but coolness and absence of heat and haste indicate fine qualities. A gentleman makes no noise; a lady is serene. Proportionate is our disgust at those invaders who fill a studious house with blast and running to secure some paltry convenience. Not less I dislike a low sympathy of each with his neighbour's needs. Must we have a good understanding with one another's palates? as foolish people, who have lived long together, know when each wants salt or sugar. I pray my companion, if he wishes for bread, to ask me for bread, and if he wishes for sassafras or arsenic, to ask me for them, and not to hold out his plate as if I knew already. Every natural function can be dignified by deliberation and privacy. Let us leave hurry to slaves. The compliments and ceremonies of our breeding should signify, however remotely, the recollection of the grandeur of our destiny.

The flower of courtesy does not very well bide handling, but if we dare to open another leaf, and explore what parts go to its con

formation, we shall find also an intellectual quality. To the leaders of men, the brain as well as the flesh and the heart must furnish a proportion. Defect in manners is usually the defect of fine perceptions. Men are too coarsely made for the delicacy of beautiful carriage and customs. It is not quite sufficient to good-breeding, a union of kindness and independence. We imperatively require a perception of, and a homage to, beauty in our companions. Other virtues are in request in the field and work-yard, but a certain degree of taste is not to be spared in those we sit with. I could better eat with one who did not respect the truth or the laws, than with a sloven and unpresentable person. Moral qualities rule the world, but at short distances the senses are despotic. The same discrimination of fit and fair runs out, if with less rigour, into all parts of life. The average spirit of the energetic class is good sense, acting under certain limitations and to certain ends. It entertains every natural gift. Social in its nature, it respects every thing which tends to unite men. It delights in measure. The love of beauty is mainly the love of measure or proportion. The person who screams, or uses the superlative degree, or converses with heat, puts whole drawing-rooms to flight. If you wish to be loved, love measure. You must have genius, or a prodigious usefulness, if you will hide the want of measure. This perception comes in to polish and perfect the parts of the social instrument. Society will pardon much to genius and special gifts, but, being in its nature a convention, it loves what is conventional, or what belongs to coming together. That makes the good and bad of manners, namely, what helps or hinders fellowship. For, fashion is not good sense absolute, but relative; not good sense private, but good sense entertaining company. It hates corners and sharp points of character, hates quarrelsome, egotistical, solitary and gloomy people; hates whatever can interfere with total blending of parties; whilst it values all peculiarities as in the highest degree refreshing, which can consist with good fellowship. And besides the general infusion of wit to heighten civility, the direct splendour of intellectual power is ever welcome in fine society as the costliest addition to its rule and its credit. Essay on Manners.


And what is genius but finer love, a love impersonal, a love of the flower and perfection of things, and a desire to draw a new picture or copy of the same? It looks to the cause and life: it proceeds from within

outward, while talent goes from without inward. Talent finds its models and methods and ends in society, exists for exhibition, and goes to the soul only for power to work. Genius is its own end, and draws its means and the style of its architecture from within, going abroad only for audience and spectator, as we adapt our voice and phrase to the distance and character of the ear we speak to. All your learning of all literatures would never enable you to anticipate one of its thoughts or expressions, and yet each is natural and familiar as household words. Here about us coils for ever the ancient enigma, so old and so unutterable. Behold! there is the sun, and the rain, and the rocks: the old sun, the old stones. How easy were it to describe all this fitly: yet no word can pass. Nature is a mute, and man, her articulate speaking brother, lo! he also is a mute. Yet when genius arrives, its speech is like a river, it has no straining to describe, more than there is straining in nature to exist. When thought is best, there is most of it. Genius sheds wisdom like perfume, and advertises us that it flows out of a deeper source than the foregoing silence, that it knows so deeply and speaks so musically because it is itself a mutation of the thing it describes. It is sun and moon and wave and fire in music, as astronomy is thought and harmony in masses of matter. Method of Nature.


The changes which break up at short intervals the prosperity of men are advertisements of a nature whose law is growth. Evermore it is the order of nature to grow, and every soul is by this intrinsic necessity quitting its whole system of things, its friends, and home, and laws, and faith, as the shell-fish crawls out of its beautiful but stony case, because it no longer admits of its growth, and slowly forms a new house. In proportion to the vigour of the individual these revolutions are frequent, until in some happier mind they are incessant, and all worldly relations hang very loosely about him, becoming, as it were, a transparent fluid membrane through which the form is always seen, and not as in most men an indurated heterogeneous fabric of many dates, and of no settled character, in which the man is imprisoned. Then there can be enlargement, and the man of to-day scarcely recognizes the man of yesterday. And such should be the outward biography of man in time, a putting off of dead circumstances day by day, as he renews his raiment day by day. But to us, in our lapsed state, resting not advancing, resisting not co-operating

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