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English Christian names; quotations from foreign lan- R. Swain Gifford, Peter Moran, James D. Smillie, J. guages; abbreviations and contractions; arbitrary signs; W. Champney, Wm. M. Chase, F. S. Church, Samuel the metric system of weights and measures; and a clas- Colman, F. Dielman, H. F. Farney, J. M. Falconer, sified selection of pictorial illustrations. While many of George Inness, L. S. Ipsen, John La Farge, Walter F. these features have appeared in former editions, several | Lansil, Mrs. Anna Lea Merritt, Charles H. Miller, are new, and all are brought down to the latest date Th Moran, Wa Shirlaw, George H. Sm The body of the work is also illustrated by numerous J. R. Tait, and F. P. Vinton. We give these names, designs. The definitions and the spelling are such as which will be recognized as those of leading American are sanctioned by the best usage. It is no disparage- etchers, to show the high standard at which the Review ment to other publications to say that, as a monument aims. Plates are also promised from Unger, Flameng, of learning and accurate industry, this latest unabridged Rajon, Greux, Leibb, Meyer, Forberg, and other reedition stands unparalleled.

nowned European artists. Although etching is the principal feature, it is not by any means the only one of this

charming work. Engravings, heliogravures, wood-cuts, CONGREGATIONALISM. The Congregationalism of the photo-engravings, etc., are given in profusion, and with

last three hundred years, as seen in its literature, with special reference to certain recondite, neg.

the most accurate art. In addition, a number of able lected, or disputed passages, with a bibliographical articles are given each month from the pens of critics of appendix. By Henry Martin Dexter. New York : ability and reputation. As we have turned over the Harper & Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Fran

pages of the several numbers, we have been particularly cisco by Payot, Upham & Co.

struck with Mr. Bellows's exquisite little etching, "Mill This bulky, but elaborately wrought, work its author Pond at Windsor, Conn.," in No. 7, and with Mr. styles an "episode." Dr. Dexter has for the last fifteen Wm. Unger's “Wallachian Team," in No. 9. No. 6 years been recognized as a chief authority in the history contains a fine head of Sir Gilbert Scott, by Mrs. Anna of that peculiar form of ecclesiastical polity which came

Lea Merritt ; also a suggestive plate, “Travellers beto America in the Mayflower, and which had much to fore an Inn," by Mr. Unger. Karl Hoff's "In the do with shaping the civil polity, first, of New England,

House of Mourning," in No. 8, is a powerful and touchand, subsequently, of our whole country. Many years

ing embodiment. since, Dr. Dexter began to collect material for a thorough history of the Plymouth Colony, and is still working industriously in that direction. Meantime, in this


Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Francisco by Payepisodic way he issues this tractate of 1082 pages, de

ot, Upham & Co. signed to serve as a sort of thesaurus, or guide-book, to No. 126- The Duke's Children. A novel. By Anthe literature of Congregationalism during the past thony Trollope. three hundred years. The main text of the work occu- No. 127- The Queen. By Mrs. Oliphant. pies 716 pages. To this follows an appendix of 286 No. 128—Miss Bouverie. A novel. By Mrs. Molesworth. pages, giving the titles of 7,250 books and pamphlets, together with the date at which each was published. HARPER'S HALF HOUR SERIES. New York: Harper These are all works illustrative of the history and char

& Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Francisco by acter of Congregationalism. Apart from all questions

Payot, Upham & Co. of purely denominational interest, the volume throws

No. 141The National Banks. By H. W. Richardmuch light upon the early history of New England. It is a work of immense research, and is deserving of

No. 142-Life Sketches of Macaulay. By Charles

Adams. praise, at least, as a guide-book to future students and writers of American history. It is a good service ren

SPORTING ADVENTURES IN THE FAR WEST. dered not only in its special line, but in the line of gen- John Mortimer Murphy. New York : Harper & eral history. There is a wide field open to similar thor- Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Francisco by A. ough workers in other directions.

L. Bancroft & Co.



AMERICAN ART REVIEW. Devoted to the Practice,

Theory, History, and Archæology of Art. San Francisco: A. L. Bancroft & Co. 1880.


George T. Fish. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Francisco by Payot, Upham & Co.

BUNYAN. By James Anthony Froude. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Francisco by Payot, Upham & Co.

CHAUCER. ByIAdolphus William Ward. New York:

This monthly publication, which has now reached its ninth number, is devoted to the general development of art, but its special feature is announced to be "a series of original painter-etchings by American artists." One advantage which a magazine that produces etchings has over one that publishes engravings, is that in the former case the plates are the work of the artist himself, without the intervention of a middleman, or engraver. Such etchings are in no sense a reproduction, but are the direct work of the master-hand. The publication before us is certainly one the most perfect of its kind, and those interested in American art have reason to congratulate themselves upon its success. Among the artists who have contributed, or have promised to contribute, original etched plates are A. F. Bellows, J. Foxcroft Cole, Henry Farrar, J. Appleton Brown, Edwin Forbes,

Harper & Brothers. 1880. For sale in San Francisco by Payot, Upham & Co.

ODETTE'S MARRIAGE. A novel from the French of

Albert Delpit. Translated by Emily Prescott. 1880. Chicago: Henry A. Sumner & Co.


the French of Ernest Feydeau by Mary Neal Sherwood. 1880. Chicago : Henry A. Sumner & Co.

1880. Chicago :


Henry A. Sumner & Co.



'Tis Sabbath evening, and the hour of worship is at hand;
Deep lies the silence, like a kiss of God, upon the land.
I stand within a valley; and, on either side, the towers
Lift up their heads, and listen for the coming of the hours.

On yonder dusky dial now the pointer creeps apace; It stands upon the minute, like intent upon a face.

See yonder huge, dim shadow rise athwart the shutter bars, Like the dark brow of a prisoner lifted upward toward the


It stands aloft upon the dusk, as if to hail the skies;
But silence, like a mighty hand, upon its black throat lies-

remained persistently in the commonest rut he could find. His admirers lay great stress upon the fact that his writings are "absolutely without art." Now, what would these people think of their upholsterers and crockery men, if they insisted in bringing chairs without finish, or plates unglazed? We are told to abhor art in nature, and who does not? But poetry is not natural, never was, and never can be. It is artificial in all its aims, and stilted and unreal in its construction. We despise art when applied to the mathematically trimmed box - wood trees seen in the gardens of San Francisco, because such art cannot impress us as does a natural landscape in the Sierra ; but, at the same time, we want the tiles in the walk regularly laid, and the posts of the porch perpendicular. An elegantly furnished room, beautified by art, is preferable to a log cabin, with a pool of stagnant water just before the door. One is all art, and the other absolutely without it, like Whitman's poetry. Of course, these comparisons indicate extremes, but not more so than Leaves of Grass and Phantasy and Passion.

Whitman apparently labors to acquire as much pure and simple clumsiness as possible in his versification. He describes the visit of a runaway slave to his house as follows:

A moment only, and its voice in billowy clangor breaks, And on the drowsy, twilight air a long, deep answer wakes.

Now, in yon open tower, I see the bell begin to move, The rising of its ponderous rim against the sky above.

It cries out wildly to the night, as 'twere a naked soul,
And through the hollows of the hills its flying echoes roll.
But in that grim and lonesome tower, with windows through

the stone, Why sleeps the great cathedral bell, and keeps the hush

alone ?

It wakes - it stirs; with hollow rush, and parting of the

night, It hurls its huge bulk to the sky, and fills the tower with


It speaks, and all the rest are still; it sinks, but thunders

yetIt speaks again, and in the vault the mighty peals have met.


“The runaway slave came to my house and stopped out

side. I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the wood - pile. Through the swung half - door of the kitchen I saw him,

limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log, and led him in and assured

him, And brought water, and filled a tub for his sweated body

and bruised feet, And gave him a room that entered from my own, and gave

him some coarse, clean clothes; And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awk

wardness, And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and

ankles. He stayed with me a week before he was recuperated, and

passed North. I had him sit next me at table. My firelock leaned in the




In the July number of THE CALIFORNIAN appeared an article entitled "Satin vs. Sacking." In it the writer pitted the extreme of two distinct styles — Whitman's and Fawcett's—against each other. In one, the writer aimed to clothe his thoughts in cheap, badly fitting garments, full of rags and patches, until an idea looked like “Topsey," with her head thrust through the bottom of a gunny sack. In the other, we find thought-such as it is—arrayed in a masquerading costume, all glitiering with tinsel and dazzling with color, but, for the life of one, the character of the thing inside cannot be even so much as guessed at. Either of the two will attract attention anywhere. One is as diffused and elaborate as the other is clumsy and tedious. It is, perhaps, out of place to criticise adversely the writings of a man who gives satisfaction to thousands of people, but hardly more so than to eulogize one whose writings thousands could not be hired to read.

It has become fashionable for Americans to vastly admire anything which they have never read.

Walt Whitman has gained great notoriety "because he got out of the common rut.” On the contrary, he

The above gives the details of a very touching picture. Nothing can be more beautiful or poetical than the melting of human sympathy for the alleviation of dis

The meter employed is that in which Longfellow has written much, and is something which the ear soon tires of. It is simply prose, cut up into certain lengths, and the reading of it, with its monotonous pauses, and regularly recurring accents toward the close of the line, after a time sounds like a boy hammering endlessly upon a drum. It has justly been compared to an auctioneer reading off the inventory of a grocery store. If in such versification a line is reached which is too short or long, or the accent is in an unfamiliar place, it is like an oasis in a desert. Those who assert that they like such poetry would choose a rough charcoal sketch in preference to a finished painting. Let us look for a moment at Whitman's opposite, Poe.

“The grass

Here is a fair refrain of his studied art, taken from And from offspring taken soon out of the mothers' lapsthe “Haunted Palace :"

And here you are the mothers' laps.

is very dark to be from the white heads of old "Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

mothers, On its roof did float and flow

Darker than the colorless beards of old men, (Thisall this-was in the olden

Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
Time long ago);

Oh, I percieve after all so many uttering tongues,
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths

for nothing."
Along the ramparts, plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away."

Now, if one should take the last stanza of the above,

and read it to a crowd of a dozen people, the reader It is not hard for one to imagine Whitman rendering

would wait a long time before the listeners agreed as to the above something like this :

what it means. What is meant by the remark that the On the roof of the castle yellow banners floated, and glorious grass did not come from under the roofs of mouths for and golden bannners

nothing? Grass does not, as a rule, "transpire from It was a very long time ago that all this happened

the breasts of young men," or the "white heads of old And the airs that came over the white ramparts at that

mothers." time Had wings to them, which took away a very sweet smell.

The author himself is utterly at a loss to render his

meaning intelligible, for he writes : Speaking of animals, Whitman merely remarks that

“I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young he would like to live with them, and enjoys looking at

men and women, at them :

And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring

taken soon out of their laps." “I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained;

I have seen these lines somewhere, but cannot now I stand and look at them sometimes half the day long."

positively state that they came from Whitman's pen. Lytton paints a finished picture from the same scene,

They are certainly in Whitman's style : where he writes :

There are times when at midnight I feel a great stillness, “From the warm upland comes a gust, made fragrant with

And I like to feel it, too, because it helps me brood easier." the brown hay there.

Contrast this with the master tones of Prentice : The meek cows, with their white horns thrust above the hedge, stand still and stare.

“ "Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now is brooding like a The steaming horses from the wains droop o'er the tank

gentle spirit their plated manes.”

O'er the still and pulseless world.” Here are some strange passages from Whitman in Perhaps many who find beauties in Whitman will which strange mixtures occur :

charge others with overlooking them. Jewels have be

fore now been found in ash-heaps, but all people are “A child said, What is the grass ?-fetching it to me with

not expected to be possessed of the patience necessary full hands. How could I answer the child ? I do not know

to insure finding them.

SAM DAVIS. What it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hope

ful green stuff woven; Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

THE FOUR BULLWHACKERS OF BITTER A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropped,

Bearing the owner's name some way in the corners,
That we may see and remark, and say, Whose !"

Perhaps every person who is somewhat advanced in

life can remember some incident of his early years which The idea that it is the "flag of his disposition, out

he would really like to forget, something that resulted of the hopeful green stuff woven," makes a peculiar from the freshness and vast inexperience of youth. I combination of the raw and the manufactured article in

remember one which I have spent a good deal of time one metaphor. If the child had brought him a tuft of trying to forget. Just before the Union Pacific Railsheep's wool, he might, with the same propriety, have road reached the Bitter Creek country, I made my first designated it as his shirt. He next thinks it must be

overland trip to the Pacific Coast. I staged it from “the handkerchief of the Lord," as if Divinity some- the then terminus of the Union Pacific to the Central times had a bad cold, and needed to use a handker- Pacific, which was pushing east. The stage broke chief. If such poetical license is to be allowed, the own-down on Bitter Creek, and the passengers had to walk ership of cravats, paper collars, towels, and blue neckties

to the next station. I grew tired of walking before will next be attributed. Such lines only lower the plum- | I reached the station, and coming, late in the afternoon, met of bathos to the lowest depths. The idea of the

to where some teamsters were camped, I concluded to Lord's name being worked in the corner, that the find

stop with them for the night. On asking their permiser, seeing, may vociferate, “Whose?" is still more ab

sion to do so, they assented so heartily that I felt at surd. If the name were there, why in the name of all home at once. Life in the West was something new to that is good should the finder say “Whose?" He goes

me. I was young and buoyant, and just out of college. on to say :

I was fond of talking. I thought it would be novel and “Tenderly will I use you, curling grass ;

delightful to sleep out with these half-savage ox-drivers, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men;

with no shelter but the vaulted, star-gemmed heavens. It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;

There were four teamsters, and as many wagons, while It may be you are from old people, and from women, thirty-two oxen grazed around in the vicinity. Of the

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teamsters, one was a giant in stature, and wore a bushy "Well, one wouldn't er thought it, to look at yer." black beard; another was shorter, but powerfully built, "I never was in Yoorup," remarked the one-eyed and one-eyed; the third was tall, lank, and hame- man. “When I ocypied the cheer of ancient languages jawed; while the fourth was a wiry, red-headed man. in Harvard College my health failed, and the fellers In my thoughts I pitied them, on account of the hard that had me hired wanted me ter go ter Yoorup for an life they led, and spoke to them in a kind tone, and out, but I concluded ter come West ter look-- Hold up endeavored to make my conversation instructive. I thar, yer infernal ole flea-bitten ichthy'saurus," he bawled plucked a flower, and, pulling it to pieces, mentioned to an ox that was chewing a wagon cover. the names of the parts-pistil, stamens, calyx, and so I felt hot and feverish, and a long way from home. on-and remarked that it must be indigenous to the “I got ready once ter go ter Rome—wanted to comlocality, and spoke of the plant being endogenous, in plete my studies thar—but give it up," said the one contradistinction to exogenous, and that they could see called Dave. that it was not cryptogamous. In looking at some “What for?" fragments of rock, my thoughts wandered off into geol- “They wanted me ter run for Guv'ner in Virginny." ogy, and, among other things, I spoke of the tertiary "Yer beat 'em?" and carboniferous periods, and of the pterodactyl, ich- "Thunder, yes." thyosaurus, and dinotherium. The teamsters looked "Why didn't yer stay thar?" at me, then at each other, but made no response. We "Well, when my job as Guv'ner give out they 'lected squatted down around the frying-pan to take supper, me 'Piscopal Bishop, an' I hurt my lungs preachin'. and as the big fellow, with his right hand, slapped, or Come West for my lungs." sort of larruped, a long piece of fried bacon, over a “Found em?" piece of bread in his left hand, sending a drop of hot "Well, I'm improvin'." grease into my left eye, he said to the one-eyed man: I did not rest well that night. As day came on, and

“Bill, is my copy of Shakspere in yo' wagon? I the men began to turn over in their blankets and yawn, missed it to-day."

the tall one said: “No. My Tennerson and volum' of the Italian Hello, Bill. How yer makin' it?" poets is in thar-no Shakspere."

“Oh, I'm indigenous." The lank looking teamster, biting off a piece of bread "An' Dave?" about the size of a saucer, said to the big man, in a “I'm endogenous." voice which came huskily through the bread, “Jake, did 'An' you, Lanky, yer son of a sculptor?" yer ever read that volum' of po'ms that I writ?"

"Exogenous." “No, but hev often hearn tell on 'em."

How you feel, Jake?" inquired one of the three who “Yer mean ‘Musin's of an Idle Man,'" spoke up the had responded. red-headed man, addressing the poet.

"Cryptogamous, sir, cryptogamous." “Yes."

I walked out a few steps to a little stream, to get a “Hev read every line in it a dozen times," said the drink. I felt thirsty, and I ached. Then I heard a teamster with the red hair ; and as he sopped a four-inch voice from the blankets : swath, with a piece of bread, across a frying-pan, he re- “Wonder if them durned ole dinother'ums of ourn peated some lines.

are done grazin." “Them's they," nodded the poet. "The Emp'ror of Then a reply: Austry writ me a letter highly complimentin' them "I guess they've got to the tertiary period.” po'ms."

I walked a little piece on the road, to breathe the "They're very techin'," added the wiry man.

morning air. I took no part in these remarks. Somehow I did not

I kept on.

LOCK MELONE. feel like joining in.

The wiry man, having somewhat satisfied his appetite, rolled up a piece of bacon rind into a sort of single-bar

AFTER THE SEASON. reled opera-glass, and began to squint through it toward the northern horizon.

Fade, flowers, droop, trees-in noontide heat;

Glare, pavement, in the sun; “What yer doin', Dave?" asked the stout man.

What matter dust and scorching street ? "Takin' observations on the North Star Want to

The season's course is run. make some astronomical calkilations when I git inter Sackrymenter.”

The noisy roll has ceased at last; “Well, yer needn't ter made that tel'scope. I could

The blossoms, balconied, er tuk yo' observations for yer, bein' as I haint but one

That dust has choked, and crowds have passed,

Have withered, drooped, and died. “Git out thar, yer durned ole carboniferous ptero

No evening crowd round Mayfair's doors : dactyl," yelled the hame-jawed driver to an ox that

No Kensingtonian hum; was licking a piece of bacon.

No languid waltz on polished floors; "I give a good deal of my time to 'stronomy when I

No ball, no rout, nor drum. was in Yoorup," remarked the tall man.

But where reviving breezes blow "Over thar long?" asked one.

On purpled heathery hill, "Good while. Was Minister to Rooshy. Then I

Or where the virgin-peaks of snow spent some time down ter Rome."

Worn minds with beauty fill, "Rome!” exclaimed the lank individual. "Was born

London has fled; and, still the same thar. My father was a sculptor."

At rest or on the wing, Good sculptor?"

Dresses and chats, and loves and hates, “Yes."

In autumn as in spring.


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London has filed; but yet amid

The heat and poison air
Three millions linger - never rid

One of our Eastern exchanges tells this story: Wick-
Of labor, famine, care.

edly anxious to obey orders to the letter was a Mexican

taking the stand, in a New York police court, as a witThree millions who, in den and court,

ness in an assault case. Having informed the Judge Hid from God's wind, God's sun,

that he spoke English, he was told to state what he Pine for air fresher, purer thought,

knew of the affair in question. Thereupon the proseOr end lives scarce begun.

cuting attorney, an Irishman by birth, quite unnecesNo glimpses of green waving trees

sarily intervened with : For them, nor dewy grass ;

Ye onderstand, sor, that ye are to go on and state E'en Nature's ripeness brings disease

to the coort what ye know about the case in your own And death to them, alas !


"You want me to tell the story in my own language?" So time for some in sadness flows;

asked the witness.
To some in perfumed ease ;
God grant His pity unto those-

“Yes, sor, I do," replied the lawyer.
His patience give to these !

The Mexican began: “Este mujur quenia a mi LAURE WILLEY.


"What is that ye're saying?" exclaimed the attorney.

"I am speaking in my own language, as you re

quested me to do," was the reply. ANNOUNCEMENT.

"I didn't mane for ye to spake your own language THE CALIFORNIAN has now been running three

when I said for ye to spake yer own language," ex

claimed the legal gentleman. "Can't ye spake to me quarters of a year. From the issuance of the January number to the present time, it has been met with words

as I'm spakin' to ye?"

"I can try, sir," said the Mexican; and he went on of encouragement and approval alone. Personal in

with his story thus: “Well, thin, yer Honor, this man terviews, private letters, and the expressions of the pub

and this woman kem to my house, and says the man to lic press have all bid us God- speed. The reception

the woman, says he, 'I want to spake wid ye,' says which the magazine has met proves that a field is open

he" for it on this coast, and a glance at the pages of the

Here the indignant examiner broke in with: "What various numbers reveals the existence of a local talent which, to many, was unsuspected. But it has been

do ye mane by spaking in that way?"

“Shure, sor," responded the witness, "ye axed me to evident for some time past to those interested in the enterprise, that, in disregarding the experience of all

spake in the language ye use yourself, and shure I'm

thryin' to oblige ye." other publications, by fixing the price so far below that of other monthlies, a mistake had been made, which,

Then the Judge thought it time to interfere, and

bade the Mexican talk English. sooner or later, would have to be corrected. The large

"With pleasure, your Honor," said he. “I should sums which have to be expended for paper, composi

have done so at first, but the learned gentleman seemed tion, press - work, and the innumerable expenses of

rather particular in regard to the language in which he printing, issuing, and circulating a monthly magazine, which have, of late, been higher than for many years

wished me to give my evidence." before, prevent the possibility of placing the publication on that high plane of literary and typographical excellence which its proprietors desire, without a change

This is the last number before the price is advanced. in the present price. The only alternative was one Read the announcement on this page, and send in your which the owners would not for a moment consider, yearly subscription before the first day of October, so as that of deteriorating the quality and diminishing the to get the benefit of the old rate. quantity supplied at the existing rates. For some time, therefore, the only question has been, when shall this change be effected, and it has been decided, after con

UNDERSTOOD. sultation, that the sooner it is done the better. Com

In the gloaming mencing, therefore, with the first day of October, the

Love is born, price of the magazine will be advanced to thirty-five

When the roaming .cents for a single number, and to $4.00 for the yearly

Sun is gone, subscription, the usual price for first-class monthlies.

When the starlight casts its shade In order that there may be no dissatisfaction among

On the lover and the maid, those of our patrons who have not, as yet, subscribed

As they sit by the year, The CALIFORNIAN will receive yearly sub

With wistful eyes, scriptions at the old rates ($3.00) until the date fixed for

Silent in their sweet surprise. the change in the price (October 1, 1880). No one,

By the token therefore, needs be affected by the change for the

Understood, present year. With this change, we expect to redouble

Though unspoken our efforts to make the magazine worthy of the high

Be the word; favor with which it has been received, and are able

By the trembling, conscious air,

As it bends to stroke their hair, already to promise new features which will make it more

Two shall plight attractive than ever before. -[Reprinted from last

With wistful eyes, month.]

Clasping hands in sweet surprise.

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