the poem, and now that we have seen the statue, he seems as familiar to us as an old school-mate. On the left of Tam O'Shanter, sits the Landlady, who is very nearly equal in spirit and expression to Souter Johnny. She is lending her ears to Tam's soft speeches, but her heart is not in them. She is on household thoughts intent. She has a can't-stop-a-minute sort of look. She is listening because she deems it the duty of a good Landlady to listen to her guests. She thinks she is wanted somewhere else, perhaps to overlook the servants-perhaps to attend to some company in another room-perhaps to see that the bannocks are not burned. The restless position of her foot, and the attitude of her figure, show that she is ready to start up and obey the first call she hears. She is a thrifty body, we will warrant-her house is neat, her linen clean, her dishes bright, her servants obedient, and her husband well broken in to the yoke. She is a stout dame, too-wo to the luckless wight, that, emboldened by liquor, should venture to snatch a kiss-those vigorous arms would give something more than love-taps. It may be thought that we have a great deal of penetration, to speak so confidently of a lady of whom we have only seen a stone image; but if any one will convince us that we are wrong, we shall be happy to be corrected. We have been asked, which is the greatest effort of genius, a work like this, or an ideal one like the Apollo Belvidere, or the Venus de Medici; but this, with reverence be it spoken, is a foolish question. As well might it be asked, whether Tam O'Shanter or the "Cottar's Saturday Night" were the finer poem. Each is capital in its way, but there is no common ground upon which a comparison can be instituted. Falstaff and Hamlet are both fine conceptions-why need we puzzle our brains as to their relative excellence? The group of Tam O'Shanter is a work of genius and originality-evincing high powers of imagination and humor-let us be content to stop here and go no further. We constantly hear it said of these statues, that they were made without any model, but hewn out of the hard rock, without any guide but the eye and hand of the artist. The same fact was also mentioned as a reason why we should bestow more praise upon Mr. Augur's beautiful group of Jephthah and his daughter. Now it is certainly much more difficult to make a statue without a model than with, and it is also certain that the more obstacles genius triumphs over, the more admirable is the result. But what is the use of working without a model? Why waste so much superfluous energy in overcoming obstacles which can be so easily removed? A man may learn to write with his toes, but all sensible persons will prefer the fingers. No solid addition to one's fame was ever gained by this process-a few gape and hold up their hands in astonishment, but the majority look only at the result. Mr. Thom, we understand, is studying Sculpture as an art, and we rejoice to hear of it. We do not fear that the originality and raciness of his genius will be at all diminished. He has too much in him to spend his days in making cold copies from the antique. He is destined to be the Hogarth of Sculpture-to give it a new impulse and direction. THE LOST STAR. "Wandering star! that shot through the abyss- STAR! that on the brow of night Didst like a jewel shine, when, to her throne Mounted the regal moon, Hast vanished from that glorious throng that kept Gone, gone from human eye! He, who first called thee, when together sung Hath bid thee roll through the blue depths away, And hast thou shone, lost Star! That watched the birth of Time-illumining afar The dark paths of the night? his wing Wast there, when first young Time, upon O'er Eden in her bloom, Did thy rays fall, the groves of Paradise Did Eve watch thee, when her first evening prayer Wast thou that Eastern star That o'er Judea's hills did send thy ray,- To where the Savior lay? And did the shepherds with their flocks, lost one! O'er Calvary wast thou That awful hour, when like a curtain spread The darkness round-when rocked the earth, and lo! And did thy light, lost, wandering Star! illume Did sages of old time, Who read the heavens, as a written scroll, Call thee a nation's star, whose march sublime, And fate thou didst control? Did thy light fall, when fell old Babylon? What nation's splendor hast thou dimmed, lost one! Thou art gone! and yet how few Of earth's uncounted sons will miss thy light, They read His power and might, Who bids the stars arise, and bids them fall,- Roll on thou radiant Star! Thy fall is not unnoticed; there is One The comet's path, the sparrow in her flight, BYRON. The course of worlds, and men, He guides aright. J. H. W. LITERARY NOTICES. Outre-Mer; a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea. No. I. It seems hardly worth while to keep in the public journals, a secret which is known by all the world; so we may as well say, that this little work is the production of Professor Longfellow, of Bowdoin Collegea man of fine talents, an excellent scholar, and a poet withal. It is one of that sort of books, which are the delight of readers, and the despair of critics. Without any pretensions to being a great workwithout claiming to be very profound or very original, it is full of taste, good feeling, and unaffected elegance. It is the book of a man who has a fine eye for the beautiful, a genial sympathy for humanity, rich powers of description, and a disposition to look on the bright side of things. He reminds us a good deal of Washington Irving-not that we mean to insinuate that he is an imitator; for if the "Sketch-Book" had never been written, we have no doubt" Outre-Mer" would have been what it is; but they resemble each other a good deal in the most striking characteristics of their minds. The author introduces himself to us as a traveler in Europe, and for the present in France. The first chapter gives an account of a Norman Diligence. An extract from this paper will give a good idea of the style of the work, and the spirit of good feeling in which it is written. ness. On every side, valley and hill were covered with a carpet of soft velvet green. The birds were singing merrily in the trees, and the landscape wore that look of gaiety so well described in the quaint language of an old romance, making the "sad, pensive, and aching heart to rejoice, and to throw off mourning and sadHere and there a cluster of chestnut trees shaded a thatch-roofed cottage, and little patches of vineyard were scattered on the slope of the hills, mingling their delicate green with the deep hues of the early summer grain. The whole landscape had a fresh, breezy look. It was not hedged in from the highways, but lay open to the eye of the traveler, and seemed to welcome him with open arms. I felt less a stranger in the land; and as my eye traced the dusty road winding along through a rich cultivated country, and skirted on either side with blossomed fruit trees, and occasionally caught glimpses of a little farm-house resting in a green hollow, and lapped in the bosom of plenty, I felt that I was in a prosperous, hospitable, and happy land. We are in the next paper introduced to the Golden Lion Inn, at Rouen, and climb with the traveler up to his nest in the seventh story, and roam about the streets of that ancient town. How beautiful is his description of the Cathedral. With these delightful feelings, I rambled on from street to street, till at length, after threading a narrow alley, I unexpectedly came out in front of the magnificent cathedral. If it had suddenly risen from the earth, the effect could not have been more powerful and instantaneous. It completely overwhelmed my imagination; and I stood for a long time motionless, and gazing entranced upon the stupendous edifice. I had seen no specimen of gothic architecture before, save the remains of a little church at Havre; and the massive towers before me the lofty win dows of stained glass-the low portal, with its receding arches and rude statuesall produced upon my untraveled mind an impression of awful sublimity. When I entered the church, the impression was still more deep and solemn. It was the hour of vespers. The religious twilight of the place-the lamps that burned on the distant altar-the kneeling crowd-the tinkling bell-and the chaunt of the evening service, that rolled along the vaulted roof in broken and repeated echoes -filled me with new and intense emotions. When I gazed on the stupendous architecture of the church-the huge columns,-that the eye followed up till they were lost in the gathering dusk of the arches above-the long and shadowy aisles-the statues of saints and martyrs, that stood in every recess-the figures of armed knights upon the tombs-the uncertain light, that stole through the painted windows of each little chapel-and the form of the cowled and solitary monk, kneeling at the shrine of his favorite saint, or passing between the lofty columns of the church,-all I had read of, but had not seen,-I was transported back to the Dark Ages, and felt as I shall never feel again. At the Table d' Hote of the Golden Lion, he falls in with an antiquarian, who tells him a story of the Middle Ages, about a tradesman of Rouen, named Martin Franc, his pretty wife Marguerite, and a certain Friar Gui, whose attentions to the aforesaid Marguerite cost him his life-being killed by the husband with a blow of a club, in his own house. The rest of the story is occupied by the efforts of the husband and his wife, to get rid of the Friar's body, and is an imitation of the story of the Hunchback in the Arabian Nights. It is well told, and though on a ticklish subject, never steps beyond the bounds of propriety. We then find ourselves at a Maison de Santé, at Autueil, a village in the neighborhood of Paris, where our author goes, not because he is sick, but because he can be quiet and cool. His descriptions of the scenery around are exquisite, and we would quote page after page, if we had room. How full of life and spirit is the following: I found another source of amusement in observing the various personages that daily passed and repassed beneath my window. The character, which most of all arrested my attention, was a poor blind fiddler, whom I first saw chaunting a doleful ballad at the door of a small tavern near the gate of the village. He wore a brown coat out at elbows, the fragment of a velvet waistcoat, and a pair of tight nankeens, so short as hardly to reach below his calves. A little foraging cap, that had long since seen its best days, set off an open, good-humored countenance, bronzed by sun and wind. He was led about by a brisk, middle-aged woman, in straw hat and wooden shoes; and a little bare-footed boy, with clear blue eyes and flaxen hair, held a tattered hat in his hand, in which he collected eleemosynary sous. The old fellow had a favorite song, which he used to sing with great glee to a merry, joyous air, the burden of which ran "chantons l'amour et le plaisir!"-let us sing of love and pleasure. I often thought it would have been a good lesson for the crabbed and discontented rich man, to have heard this remnant of humanity,-poor, blind, and in rags, and dependent upon casual charity for his daily bread, singing, in so cheerful a voice, the charms of existence, and, as it were, fiddling life away to a merry tune. In "Jacqueline" we have a specimen of the writer's powers of the pathetic. It is the description of the death-bed of a French girlsimple, feeling and touching-nothing affected and nothing mawkish. At his "Maison de Santé" he meets with a character-a Monsieur D'Argentville-a withered beau-one of those French grasshoppers that never grow old. This is a capital paper, perhaps the very best in the book. We must extract his description of the old gentleman. Was there ever a portrait drawn with a more vigorous and graphic pencil? There he goes,-in his long russet surtout,-sweeping down yonder gravel walk beneath the trees, like a yellow leaf in Autumn, wafted along by a fitful 32 VOL. V. gust of wind. Now he pauses;-now seems to be whirled round in an eddy,and now rustles and brushes onward again. He is talking to himself in an under tone, as usual; and flourishes a pinch of snuff between his fore-finger and his thumb,-ever and anon drumming on the cover of his box by way of emphasis, with a sound like the tap of a wood-pecker. He always takes a morning walk in the garden,-in fact, I may say he passes a greater part of the day there, either strolling up and down the gravel walks, or sitting on a rustic bench in one of the leafy arbors. He always wears that same dress, too; at least, I have never seen him in any other;-a bell-crowned hat, a frilled bosom, and white dimity vest, soiled with snuff,-light nankeen smalls, and, over all, that long and flowing surtout of russet-brown circassian, hanging in wrinkles round his slender body, and toying with his thin rakish legs. Such is his constant garb, morning and evening; and it gives him a cool and breezy look, even in the heat of a noon-day in August. This last paper is on the Cemetery of Père La Chaise, and is very beautiful. It is not so much a description of Père La Chaise, as a record of the emotions which any beautiful burial-place calls up in the breast of a man of sensibility and reflection. Our readers have seen enough of the book to enable them to form a good idea of it. The style is perfect-we could wish sometimes that it had more of careless vigor and less of finished elegance. We hope Professor Longfellow will continue it—we shall be always glad to hear from him. Alphabet of Phrenology. A short Sketch of that Science, for the Use of Beginners. By H. T. Judson, M. D. New-York. "Phrenology," says Dr. Judson, " in connexion with other branches of science, such as those of insanity, legislation, and education, may be regarded as the greatest and most important discovery of modern times." It" is of paramount importance in its influence upon medicine, law, education, and the general welfare of mankind." How important, then, that phrenological science should be disseminated among all who have minds susceptible of insanity, sedentary capacities for the work of legislation, or children to educate! Knowledge, on this momentous subject, has hitherto been confined to an enlightened few. It has neither guided the counsels of the senate, nor regulated the discipline of the university. In the science of insanity, phrenology has indeed exerted a practical influence to a limited degree. We have known two or three persons whom it has made light-headed; a college student, whose organ of self-esteem, always large, has, since September last, completely overshadowed the intellectual organs,—and an individual in private life, who was seized with derangement in the midst of Spurzheim's course of lectures, and raved night and day, for several weeks, in the technical terms of his science. But all these cases were among the elite; the vulgar have as yet wanted the means of becoming scientifically mad. That want is now happily supplied. We have before us, in forty-seven duodecimo pages, in a style sufficiently vulgar to suit the lowest tastes in the community, an outline of Spurzheim's system, the location and function of each organ, and the origin, history, and uses of the science. Nor is the reader left to his own skill in identifying the thicknesses of his own or his friend's skull, with the propensities, sentiments, and faculties to which they severally appertain. He is furnished with a plate, in which are presented maps of the anterior, lateral, and posterior portions of the human head, can |