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same remarks here. We may observe, however, that, if our opinion has undergone any change in the lapse of two years, it is in favor of our author's poetry. The more we study his lyrics, especially such as The Prairie on Fire,' ," "Where Hudson's Wave," "Stag Hunt," "Thou hast woven the Spell," "I love thee still," "The Missing Ship," Oh, Boatman, Haste," "The Star of Love," "The Seasons of Love," "The Maintruck," ," "Pull away Merrily," &c., &c., the more we admire their purity and chasteness, and the more we are charmed with their tenderness and melody. Their all-pervading spirit is love—love of woman, love of country, love of virtue. In the whole volume before us, there is not a single line that excites a prurient idea, not a single stanza which the author need wish omitted, or altered; in short, not a word "which angels might not hear, and virgins tell."

Life and Adventure in the South Pacific. By a Roving Printer. 12mo, pp. 361. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1861.

The author of this volume commences his preface by telling us that it "lays no claim to literary merit." We are never discouraged from attempting the perusal of a book by an announcement of this kind, but. rather the contrary. At the same time there have been so many works published lately, bearing a similar title, several of which we had tried in vain to read, that it was not without considerable misgiving we began to turn over the pages of that before us. In the first place, the "Roving Printer" rather prepossesses us, for we have a good deal of faith in printers, who, after sowing their wild oats, undertake to relate their experience. The illustrations, as one after another opened to us, presented another inducement; then we turned to the table of contents, and soon concluded that where the bill of fare is so extensive and varied it must be worth while to taste the viands. We proceeded to read accordingly, and, while we entirely agree with the author that the book has little claim to literary merit, we are equally willing to admit that the task of perusal has been an agreeable one. Indeed, we should rather read a dozen such than one "sensation novel."

The author's descriptions are, in general, remarkably vivid and graphic. Almost every page has its incident, or adventure; more frequently both come in groups; and, without any apparent exaggeration, each is made to do its appropriate work; that is to say, one awakens our curiosity; another attracts us by its novelty; a third startles us by the danger in which it places those who take part in it; and a fourth pleases us by the air of romance with which it is invested. We should like well to illustrate our remarks by extracts; but we have to remember that other works, too, claim our attention-though, certainly, none more full

of vivacity and life than this. At all events, we will try to make room for a passage or two. It is difficult to choose, where there is so much variety. Probably, there are few of our readers who have not read descriptions of what may be called a whale hunt. We have done so often ourselves; but we have seen no better account of such a scene than that of the Roving Printer, if, indeed, we have seen as good; and, presuming that it may be equally acceptable to our readers, we transcribe it here:

"The morning of the twenty-second commences with light breezes from the north-east; pleasant weather. Suddenly, about 9 A.M., the monotony is broken by the welcome cry from masthead

"T-h-e-r-e she b-l-o-w-s!
"Where away?"

T-h-e-r-e she b-l-o-w-s!'

"Four points off the lee bow, sir.'

"How far off?'

"About two miles, sir.'

"What does it look like?'

"Sperm whales, sir.'

"Ay, ay; sing out every time you holler.'

"By this time the captain was aloft, and, on taking a view with his spyglass at the spouts,' sings out, 'Sperm whales!

hand there, and get your boats ready.'

666

Call all hands; bear a

'Ay, ay, sir,' is the reply. All hands are called, and the different crews stand by their respective boats, all eager for the fray,' and expressing their . determination to capture a whale before returning to the ship, taking for their motto, 'A dead whale or a stove boat.'

"Lower away the boats!' shouts the captain, as he descends to the deck. They are instantly lowered, followed by the crews, and now comes the tug of war. Each boat sets her sail, and the men pull in good earnest. While they are skimming the waves, the whale is still spouting, and all are anxious to reach him before his 'spoutings are out.' It frequently happens, when in pursuit, that, just at the moment the boat-steerer stands up 'to strike the whale, he suddenly descends; but experienced whalemen can generally tell the direction they take while down, by the position of the flukes' when going down. The boats are then pulled in the direction the whale is supposed to have taken. They also judge of the distance the whale will go under water, by the velocity of the animal when last seen. After the boats have pulled what is judged to be the proper distance, they heave up,' or cease pulling. A large whale, when not gallied,' or frightened, generally spouts from sixty to seventy times before going down, and remains down from fifty to seventy minutes.

"The boats have now got close on. Those left on board the ship are watching with breathless anxiety, occasionally exclaiming, 'Oh, pull boys! do pull !' Meantime the men in the boats are bending back to it, but the bow boat has the advantage; she is the head boat. Mr. K. is jumping up and down in the stern, crying, 'Once more, my hearties; give it to her! a few more strokes, and we have him; pull, my children! why don't you break your backbones, you rascals? so there you are now; that's the stroke for a thousand pounds; start her, but keep cool; cucumbers is the word; easy, easy; only start her! why don't you snap your oars, you rascals? bite something, you dogs! easy now, but pull; oh, you're all asleep! stop snoring, and pull; pull, will ye? pull, can't ye? pull, won't ye? pull, and start your eyes out! that's it; now you start her.' Thus, one moment coaxing, and the next scolding; but no one heeds him, as all are bent on taking the whale. 'Stand up!' shouted he; and the boat-steerer rose to his feet, grasped his iron, and, as the boat neared the monster, 'Give it to him!' is the next cry, and chock to the socket' went the first iron, followed as quick as thought by the second. ONE DEAFENING CHEER, and the cry resounded over the waters,

We are fast! we are fast!' The sea, which but a moment before lay still and quiet, with scarcely a ripple to break its even surface, is now lashed into foam by the writhings of the whale. 'Stern all!' shouts the officer. The boat is immediately backed, and removed from present danger; the officer takes the head of the boat, and the boat-steerer takes the steering oar to manage the boat; the whale is sounding, and the line is running through the chocks,' or groove in the head of the boat, with the rapidity of lightning, and as it passes round the loggerhead, it ignites from the heat produced by friction, but the tub-oarsman is continually dashing water upon it in the line-tub. The whale sounds deep, and the line is almost out; a signal is made to the other boats, which are coming down. They come near enough, and bend on their lines; but presently it ceases running out and slackens; the whale is coming to the surface again. All hands now commence to haul in line' as fast as he rises, and the boat-steerer coils it away, as fast as hauled in, in the stern sheets. He soon breaks water, and the boat is gradually hauled up to him. Another boat now fastens, and he again attempts to sound; but, being weakened by loss of blood, he is soon at the surface again. The boats now draw alongside, and the officer of the first boat fast prepares his lance. He darts it for his vitals (just behind the fin), and the first one proves fatal, for in a moment more he shows the 'red flag;' the blood flows freely from the spout-hole in a thick, dark stream; the sea is stained for some distance, and the men in the boats are covered with the bloody spray, but glory in it."-pp. 43-7.

Nor does our author confine himself to "whaling incidents," or life on ship-board. He frequently gives us sketches illustrative of manners and customs, which are all the more agreeable because they are not expected. Examples of this are to be found throughout the book; but generally they are made to follow exciting scenes, as if intended to serve as a contrast. We can, however, only make room for one passage more:

"A Chinese school is a great curiosity to an American. They all study aloud, and it appears to cause no confusion with either teachers or scholars, though it would in a Yankee school. But their appearance is the greatest curiosity. Such a set of bald heads with young bodies, their only hair a braided queue hanging down the back-such young faces in the dress of old men, in frocks, leggins, and large shoes, with boys' motions and actions, and the medley of voices-such a variety of grotesque sounds and tones, is a very novel' sight, and would make a laughable picture; but it would be necessary to produce the sounds to give a correct idea of a Chinese school.

"Of all the objects of the care of the Chinese, there are none to which they so religiously attend as the tombs of their ancestors, for they believe, that any neglect is sure to be followed by worldly misfortune. It is here that they manifest a religious zeal which is hardly shown toward their gods. Their ceremonies connected with the treatment of the dead are of a striking character. Aside from the burial service, of which we have already spoken, there are others commanded by their ritual to be performed. The original and strict period of mourning is for a parent three years, but this is commonly reduced in practice to twenty-seven months. Full three years must elapse from the death of a parent before a child can marry.

"A pleasing anecdote in relation to filial piety is related of a youth named Ouang-Ouci-Yuen. Having lost his mother, who was all that was dear to him, he passed the three years of mourning in a hut, employing himself in his retirement composing verses in honor of his parent. These are quoted by the Chinese as models of sentiment and tenderness. The period of his mourning having elapsed, he returned to his former residence, but did not forget his filial affection. His mother had always expressed great fears of thunder, and, when it was stormy, would request her son not to leave her. Therefore, as soon as

he heard a storm coming on, he would hasten to his mother's grave, saying softly to her, 'I am here, mother.""

The author's adventures in Payta, the Marquesas Islands, the Knox and Charlotte Islands, &c., &c., are particularly worthy of perusal. In short, if we were asked to recommend a lively, rollicking, entertaining book to one who is not very fastidious as to niceties of style, we do not remember any recent publication we would name, for that purpose, before Life and Adventure in the South Pacific.

Poems. By WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. First American Edition.

Ticknor & Fields. 1861.

Boston:

The author of this little volume, though hitherto little known in America, has attained considerable popularity throughout Great Britain and Ireland. He has now an opportunity of becoming an equal favorite in this country, thanks to the liberality as well as the taste of the gentlemen who may well be called the guardians of the American Parnassus. "By the good-will of Messrs. Ticknor & Fields," says the author, "this little book, written in Ireland, is reproduced in America. An Irishman can hardly look westward, without thinking of the great country to which his island is the nearest European land, and without remembering, though the magnetic link is broken, that by many infrangible ties they remain connected. Amongst the rest are literary ties; and some of these songs even, made for Irish peasants, have already mígrated with them across the Atlantic." Thus it is that Mr. Allingham is introduced to the American people. In those who introduce him, the public have full confidence, founded on experience; he is, therefore, sure of a fair hearing, though no effort is made to trumpet his merits. He lacks, indeed, the melodious sweetness of Moore, the elegant simplicity and pathos of Goldsmith, and the earnestness and patriotic fervor of Davis; at the same time, many of his poems are essentially Irish, in thought, imagination, and feeling.

The contents of the volume before us are of very unequal merit. Here and there we find a piece which is below mediocrity, one that we would certainly have excluded, as unworthy of a place; but, we admit, that there is this argument in favor of retaining it—it is in good company. We need not say how many a shabby, stupid fellow is allowed a seat, even in the most select drawing-room, in compliment to his more elegant and brilliant friends. But we have not room for any extended observations in addition to the pieces which we have marked for extract; and it is impossible to do justice to any poet, whose reputation is not established, without giving more or less specimens of his efforts.

All, who have resided for any time in Ireland, are acquainted with the Robin Redbreast. It is entirely different in all its characteristics from the American robin. No other bird is so familiar and friendly

to man as the former. Let the field laborer toil where he may, on the mountain, or in the valley, Robin Redbreast is sure to find him out, to take up his position almost under his spade, and cheer him with his sweet song. When the ground is covered with snow, so that no one works any longer in the field, the robin is to be seen at the peasants' doors, picking up the crumbs that fall from the children, and not unfrequently flying into the house. And the most vicious would not molest a robin, believing that in doing so they would incur the displeasure of "the good people" (the fairies), to which fraternity they consider the little songster to belong. The superstitious regard in which the robin is thus held is happily illustrated in the following "Child's Song:"

No poet of the present day has produced more agreeable specimens of ballad poetry than Mr. Allingham. There is a good deal of the simple pathos of "Edwin and Angelina" in more than one of his ballads.

Sometimes our poet forgets that the age of fastidiousness has succeeded