We must close our article somewhere; it is already, perhaps, too long; we add, therefore, but a general remark or two.

To many readers Marx's discussions of Beethoven's last works will be found of interest and value, though written in that turgid, vague, confused style—"words, words, words"—which the Germans denominate by the expressive term, Geschtwtz. This is especially the case with his essays upon the great "Missa Solemnis," and the "Ninth Symphony."

We cannot rise from the perusal of this "Life of Beethoven" without feeling something akin to indignation. Were it a possible supposition, we should imagine it to be a thing manufactured to sell,—and, indeed, in some such manner as this; The labors of Lenz taken without acknowledgment for the skeleton of the work; Wegeler, Ries, Schindler, and Seyfried at hand for citations, where Lenz fails to give more than a reference; Oulibichef on the table to supply topics for polemical discussion; a few periodicals and papers, which have come accidentally into his possession, to afford here and there an anecdote or a letter; the works of Professor A. B. Marx supplying the necessary authorities upon points in musical science. As for any original research, that is out of the question. Why stop to verify a fact, to decide a disputed point, to search out new matter? The market waits,—the publisher presses,—so, hurry-skurry, away we go,—and the book is done! Seriously, such a book, from one with such opportunities at command, is a disgrace to the institution in which its author occupies the station of Professor.

When Schindler wrote, Johann van Beethoven, the brother, and Carl van Beethoven, the nephew, were still alive, and feelings of delicacy led him to do little more than hint at those domestic and family relations and sorrows which for several years rendered the great composer much of the time unfit for labor, and which at last brought him to the grave. When Marx wrote, all had passed away, who could be wounded by a plain statement of the facts in the case. Until we have such a statement, none but he who has gone through the labor of studying the original authorities, as they exist in Berlin, can know the real greatness, perhaps also the weaknesses, of Beethoven in those last years. None can know how his heart was torn,—how he poured out, concentrated all the love of his great heart upon his adopted son, but to learn "how sharper than the serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child." Nothing of all this in Marx. He quotes Schindler, and therewith enough.

Long as this article has become, we have referred to but the more important of the passages which in reading we marked for comment,—enough, however, we judge, to show that the biography of Ludwig van Beethoven still remains to be written.



The American Draught-Player; or the Theory and Practice of the Scientific Game of Chequers. By HENRY SPAYTH. Buffalo, New York. Printed for the Author.

Almost everybody plays the game of draughts, but few have any insight into its beauties; and many who look upon chess as a science rather than an amusement regard draughts as a childish game, never suspecting what eminent ability and painful research have been expended in explaining a game which is inferior to chess only in variety and far superior in scientific precision. Mr. Spayth's book is accordingly addressed to a comparatively narrow circle of readers; but those who are competent to judge of its merits will find it a work of great value. The author, who is an enthusiastic votary of the game, and has no superior among our American amateurs, offers a judicious selection from the treatises of such foreign writers as the severe and critical Anderson, the brilliant but capricious Drummond, Robert Martin, perhaps the first of living players, Hay, Sinclair, and Wylie, besides many valuable games from Sturges and Payne, who will never be rendered obsolete by modern improvements,—together with the labors of such acknowledged masters in America as Bethell, Mercer, Ash, Drysdale, and Young, and the contributions of such rising players as Howard, Brooks, Fisk, Boughton, Janvier, Hull, and Thwing. But his labors have not been merely those of a compiler. Out of fifteen hundred games, more than five hundred are the composition of Mr. Spayth himself.

The results of so much labor and skill cannot, of course, be fully criticized by us. The merits of the volume can be fairly tested only by long and constant use. We shall, however, venture to point out some faults in Mr. Spayth's treatment, premising that his is by far the best treatise upon the game yet published, and the only treatise worthy of the name that has ever appeared in this country. Anderson's arrangement of the games, which Mr. Spayth has adopted, is both clear and concise; and we are glad to see that our author has adhered to the old system of draught-notation, which is infinitely superior to any of the new plans. The condensation and clear presentation of Paterson's somewhat abstruse essay on "The Move and its Changes" is every way admirable, and many of the problems are remarkable for beauty and difficulty.

We think that too much prominence has been given to certain openings. While glad to see that model of all openings, the Old Fourteenth, which is to draughts what the Giuoco Piano is to chess, illustrated by 186 games, of which 127 are original with the author, the brilliant Fife (the Muzio of chess-players) explained by 67 games, the Suter by 72 games, and the Single Corner by 258 games, we regret that only 24 specimens should be given of the Double Corner, 42 (and only 11 of these original) of the Defiance, and 51 (with but 14 original) of the fascinating and intricate Ayrshire Lassie, an opening of which American students know very little. We regret this meagre explanation of the three latter openings all the more that we expected a particularly full and lucid presentment of them from Mr. Spayth.

The definition of certain openings seems to us also incorrect and inconsistent. The Scottish school, whom Mr. Spayth has sometimes followed too closely, as in this instance, are singularly deficient as theorists, and have never given the game anything like a philosophical treatment. The Whilter is not "formed by the first three or five moves." The bare notion of forming one opening in two different ways is absurd and contradictory. The time will come when draught-players will understand that the Whilter is formed by the first three moves, namely, 11.15—23.19—7.11, or else, 10.15—23.19—7.10, which is really the same thing. The distinctive move of the opening is 7.11; there is nothing characteristic in the 9.14—22.17, which may intervene: those moves leave the game free to develop itself into a Fife, a Suter, or even an Old Fourteenth; but the move of 7.11 determines the opening at once and finally. Then, under the title of the Double Corner the author includes several distinct openings,—and so, too, under the Bristol. In this latter case, the Scottish treatises are right and Mr. Spayth is wrong. A strange confusion is also caused by the attempt to include a number of different openings under the head of "Irregular."

It is useless to linger over the exhaustive plan of all our draught-writers, but, in adopting their plan, Mr. Spayth's fault has been merely that of his predecessors, and his merits are all his own. The true plan for a draught-treatise is that adopted by Staunton in his chess-writings. No man has time to write a treatise which shall embody the entire practice of the game; and even if such an exhaustive treatise were written, no man would ever have time to master its instructions. But the theory can be fully set forth, and is as yet almost entirely undeveloped. The subject of odds alone presents an extensive field for future investigations.

We have found fault with Mr. Spayth's new volume wherever we honestly could; and we dismiss it with an emphatic repetition of the opinion, that it is by far the best work upon the game that has ever been published.



The Adopted Heir. By MISS PARDOE. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson & Brothers.

Miss Pardoe ought to do better than this. There is much ability displayed in her "Court of France"; and she has written a very clever story, entitled "The Romance of the Harem." But this book is thoroughly feeble and commonplace. The customary rich and whimsical nabob, whom we all know so well, has returned to England, and is deliberating upon the claims to his wealth of his several relations. His decision is soon formed, but shrouded in an impenetrable mystery, which is open to the usual objection to the novelist's impenetrable mysteries, of being perfectly transparent. Having divined who will be the heir, after reading forty pages, we are a little impatient that Miss Pardoe should cherish the secret with every imaginable precaution until the 350th page, when she brings it out with a flourish, as if no human sagacity could possibly have discovered it.

This keeping secrets that are no secrets, the besetting weakness of novelists, was once quite affecting. When Nicholas Nickleby acted at Mr. Crummles's theatre, a thrill of terror ran through the unsophisticated spectators, as the wicked relation poked a sword at him in the dark in every direction except where his legs were plainly visible. But readers are more exacting now. And we are all frightfully sagacious. Long reading of novels gives a fatal skill in anticipating their issues. If in the first chapter the poor little brother runs away to sea, his anxious friends may bewail his loss, but we remain calm in the conviction that he will return, yellow and rich, precisely in time to frustrate the designs of the wicked, and to reward innocence and constancy with ten thousand a year. All the good people in a story may be puzzled to detect the author of an alarming fraud; but we know better, and, fixing with more than a detective's accuracy upon the gentlemanly, plausible villain, drag him forth long before our author is ready to present him to our (theoretically) astonished eyes. The whole village may be deceived by the venerable stranger, with his white hair and benevolent spectacles, but our unerring eye instantly discerns in him Black Donald, the robber-captain; and if we do not tremble for our heroine, it is only because we are morally certain that her deadly peril is only an excuse for her inevitable lover's "dashing up on a coal-black barb, urged to his utmost speed," and delivering the desolate fair, who has won our regard alike by her indignant virtue, and the skill with which, while laboring under uncontrollable agitation, she constructs sentences so ponderous and intricate that Mr. Burke's periods are trifles in comparison. And we know all this, simply because there are certain things to be done, and only so many people to do them. Miss Austen, indeed, could keep her secrets impenetrable; but the art died with her, and our common sense is daily insulted by these weak attempts at mystery. If the secret is one that cannot be kept, why, let the author tell it us at once, and we can then follow with sympathy the attempts to baffle those in the story who are trying to detect it, instead of being offended with a shallow artifice. Here lies the artistic error of that very clever book, "Paul Ferroll." We all see at once that Mr. Ferroll murdered his wife, and the author would have lost nothing and gained much by taking us into his confidence.

The style of the "Adopted Heir" is at once pompous and feeble. From writers of the Mrs. Southworth school we should expect nothing else; but Miss Pardoe was capable of something better.



Fanny. From the French of ERNEST FEYDEAU. New York: Evert D. Long & Co.

If there be any one thing worse than French immorality, it is French morality. This is a moral book, la Franaise, and weak as ditch-water. Nor is the ditch-water improved by being particularly dirty.

Edward, who is a mere boy, is in love with Fanny. This is natural enough. Fanny, who is decidedly an old girl, who has been married for fifteen years, and who has three children, is not less desperately in love with Edward, whom she regards with a most charming sentiment, in which the timid passion of the maiden blends gracefully with the maturer regard of an aunt or a grandmother. This is not quite so natural. Certainly, it can hardly be that she is fascinated by Edward, who is the most disgustingly silly young monkey to be found in the whole range of French novels. But the mystery is at once disclosed when we read the description of Fanny's husband. He is "a species of bull with a human face." "His smile was not unpleasing, and his look without any malicious expression, but clear as crystal." We begin to comprehend his inferiority to Edward,—to sympathize with the youth's horror at the sight of this obnoxious husband, "who seems to him," as M. Janin says in his preface, "a hero—what do I say?—a giant!—to the loving, timid, fragile child." "In fine, a certain air of calm rectitude pervaded his person." Execrable wretch! could anything be more repulsive to true and delicate sentiment (as before, la Franaise) "I should say his age was about forty." Our wrath at this last atrocity can hardly be controlled. It seems as if M. Feydeau, by collecting in one individual all the qualities which most excite his abhorrence and contempt, had succeeded in giving us, in Fanny's husband, a very tolerable specimen of a gentleman. We pardon all to the somewhat middle-aged lady, whose "feelings are too many for her"; and we only regret that M. Feydeau did not see the eminent propriety of increasing the lady's admiration by having this brutal husband pull Edward's divine nose or kick the adored person of the pauvre enfant down stairs.

Life Without and Life Within: or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems. By MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI, Author of "Woman in the Nineteenth Century," "At Home and Abroad," "Art, Literature, and the Drama," etc. Edited by her Brother, ARTHUR B. FULLER. Boston: Brown, Taggard, & Chase.

Of this volume little more need be said than that, had Margaret Fuller Ossoli edited it, she might have reduced its size. Yet it is not surprising that love and reverence should seek with diligence and save with care whatever had emanated from her pen; and if the matter thus laid before the world take something from her reputation, it also completes the standard by which to measure her power. She appears to have been without creative faculty, yet her perception of the gift in others was often remarkable, and it pleased her to hold the possessor of it up to admiration. Hence she devoted much time and attention to the critical examination of art, music, and literature, and succeeded in giving the works and lives which she reviewed a fresh interest and a fuller meaning. Her articles on Goethe and Beethoven, in this volume, furnish ample evidence of her capacity to appreciate the works and the men of genius, and that, if she could not give good reasons for the aberrations and eccentricities of their courses, she at least had a heart large enough to look kindly upon them. Of books she was a student and a lover; and in the short notices of new ones, which are transferred from "The Tribune" to these pages, there is hardly one that has not some thought of value to author as well as reader. Indeed, all her prose writings are suggestive, and thus are capable of opening vistas in the quickened mind which were unknown before. Authors of this class often dart a ray into the recesses of our souls, so that we see what they never saw, gain what they never gave. A book that increases mental activity is incomparably better than one that multiplies learning. The value of knowledge that lies in libraries is overestimated by all save those who read Nature's runes. The Countess Ossoli gathered from the garners, rather than from the glorious field, and therefore she does not range with the marked originals. In this rank she was not born. Her poems—which we think injudiciously published—place her far down among the multitude. From these untuneful utterances we gladly turn to her prose. There she shows strength of character and goodness of heart. One aim, never lost sight of, is perceptible through all, and gives unity to the whole; this is a fervent desire to ennoble human life; consequently her works will long have influence, and continue to call forth praise.



Lectures on the English Language. By GEORGE P. MARSH. New York: Charles Scribner, 1860. pp. vi., 697.

An American scholar of wide range, at the same time thorough and unpretentious, is a rarity; a philologist who is neither perversely wrongheaded nor the victim of a preconceived theory is a still greater one; yet we find both characters pleasantly united in the author of these Lectures. Decided in his opinions, Mr. Marsh is modest in expressing them, because they are the result of various culture and long reflection, and these have taught him that time and study often render the most positive conclusions doubtful, especially in regard to such a topic as Language. Deservedly honored with diplomatic employment in Europe, he has done credit to the choice of the Government by turning the long leisure of a foreign mission to as great profit by study and observation as if he had been a Travelling Fellow and these had been the conditions of his tenure.

Addressed to a mixed audience, to the laity rather than to students, these Lectures are more popular than scholastic in their character. Mr. Marsh alludes to this with something like regret in his Preface. We look upon this as by no means a misfortune. The book will, for this very reason, reach and interest a much larger number of readers; and while there is nothing in it to scare away those who read for mere entertainment, they whose studies have led them into the same paths with the author will continually recognize those signs, trifling, but unmistakable, which distinguish the work of a master from that of a journeyman. Scholarship is indicated not only by readiness of allusion, and variety and aptness of illustration, but by a thorough self-possession and chastened eloquence of style. A genius for language comes doubtless by nature, but Mr. Marsh is too wise a man to believe that a knowledge of it comes in the same way; his learning has that ripened clearness which tells of olden vintages and of long storing in the crypts of the brain; he has nothing in common with the easy generalizers who know as little of roots as Shelley's skylark, and who, seeking a shelter in welcome clouds, pour forth "profuse strains of unpremeditated art" upon questions which above all others are limited by exact science and unyielding fact.

We believe we are not going too far when we say that Mr. Marsh's book is the best treatise of the kind in the language. It abounds in nice criticism and elegant discussion on matters of taste, showing in the author a happy capacity for esthetic discrimination as well as for linguistic attainment. He does not profess to deal with some of the deeper problems of language, but nevertheless makes us feel that they have been subjects of thoughtful study, and, within the limits he has imposed upon himself, he is often profound without the pretence of it.

We have spoken warmly of this volume, for it has both interested and instructed us, and because we consider it one of the few thoroughly creditable productions of Cisatlantic scholarship. We hope the appreciation it meets with will be such that we shall soon have occasion to thank Mr. Marsh for another volume on some kindred theme.



The Marble Faun. A Romance of Monte Beni. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 2 vols. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1860.

It is, we believe, more than thirty years since Mr. Hawthorne's first appearance as an author; it is twenty-three since he gave his first collection of "Twice-told Tales" to the world. His works have received that surest warranty of genius and originality in the widening of their appreciation downward from a small circle of refined admirers and critics, till it embraced the whole community of readers. With just enough encouragement to confirm his faith in his own powers, those powers had time to ripen and toughen themselves before the gales of popularity could twist them from the balance of a healthy and normal development. Happy the author whose earliest works are read and understood by the lustre thrown back upon them from his latest! for then we receive the impression of continuity and cumulation of power, of peculiarity deepening to individuality, of promise more than justified in the keeping: unhappy, whose autumn shows only the aftermath and rowen of an earlier harvest, whose would-be replenishments are but thin dilutions of his fame!

The nineteenth century has produced no more purely original writer than Mr. Hawthorne. A shallow criticism has sometimes fancied a resemblance between him and Poe. But it seems to us that the difference between them is the immeasurable one between talent carried to its ultimate, and genius,—between a masterly adaptation of the world of sense and appearance to the purposes of Art, and a so thorough conception of the world of moral realities that Art becomes the interpreter of something profounder than herself. In this respect it is not extravagant to say that Hawthorne has something of kindred with Shakspeare. But that breadth of nature which made Shakspeare incapable of alienation from common human nature and actual life is wanting to Hawthorne. He is rather a denizen than a citizen of what men call the world. We are conscious of a certain remoteness in his writings, as in those of Donne, but with such a difference that we should call the one super- and the other subter-sensual. Hawthorne is psychological and metaphysical. Had he been born without the poetic imagination, he would have written treatises on the Origin of Evil. He does not draw characters, but rather conceives them and then shows them acted upon by crime, passion, or circumstance, as if the element of Fate were as present to his imagination as to that of a Greek dramatist. Helen we know, and Antigone, and Benedick, and Falstaff, and Miranda, and Parson Adams, and Major Pendennis,—these people have walked on pavements or looked out of club-room windows; but what are these idiosyncrasies into which Mr. Hawthorne has breathed a necromantic life, and which he has endowed with the forms and attributes of men? And yet, grant him his premises, that is, let him once get his morbid tendency, whether inherited or the result of special experience, either incarnated as a new man or usurping all the faculties of one already in the flesh, and it is marvellous how subtilely and with what truth to as much of human nature as is included in a diseased consciousness he traces all the finest nerves of impulse and motive, how he compels every trivial circumstance into an accomplice of his art, and makes the sky flame with foreboding or the landscape chill and darken with remorse. It is impossible to think of Hawthorne without at the same time thinking of the few great masters of imaginative composition; his works, only not abstract because he has the genius to make them ideal, belong not specially to our clime or generation; it is their moral purpose alone, and perhaps their sadness, that mark him as the son of New England and the Puritans.

It is commonly true of Hawthorne's romances that the interest centres in one strongly defined protagonist, to whom the other characters are accessory and subordinate,—perhaps we should rather say a ruling Idea, of which all the characters are fragmentary embodiments. They remind us of a symphony of Beethoven's, in which, though there be variety of parts, yet all are infused with the dominant motive, and heighten its impression by hints and far-away suggestions at the most unexpected moment. As in Rome the obelisks are placed at points toward which several streets converge, so in Mr. Hawthorne's stories the actors and incidents seem but vistas through which we see the moral from different points of view,—a moral pointing skyward always, but inscribed with hieroglyphs mysteriously suggestive, whose incitement to conjecture, while they baffle it, we prefer to any prosaic solution.

Nothing could be more original or imaginative than the conception of the character of Donatello in Mr. Hawthorne's new romance. His likeness to the lovely statue of Praxiteles, his happy animal temperament, and the dim legend of his pedigree are combined with wonderful art to reconcile us to the notion of a Greek myth embodied in an Italian of the nineteenth century; and when at length a soul is created in this primeval pagan, this child of earth, this creature of mere instinct, awakened through sin to a conception of the necessity of atonement, we feel, that, while we looked to be entertained with the airiest of fictions, we were dealing with the most august truths of psychology, with the most pregnant facts of modern history, and studying a profound parable of the development of the Christian Idea.

Everything suffers a sea-change in the depths of Mr. Hawthorne's mind, gets rimmed with an impalpable fringe of melancholy moss, and there is a tone of sadness in this book as in the rest, but it does not leave us sad. In a series of remarkable and characteristic works, it is perhaps the most remarkable and characteristic. If you had picked up and read a stray leaf of it anywhere, you would have exclaimed, "Hawthorne!"

The book is steeped in Italian atmosphere. There are many landscapes in it full of breadth and power, and criticisms of pictures and statues always delicate, often profound. In the Preface, Mr. Hawthorne pays a well-deserved tribute of admiration to several of our sculptors, especially to Story and Akers. The hearty enthusiasm with which he elsewhere speaks of the former artist's "Cleopatra" is no surprise to Mr. Story's friends at home, though hardly less gratifying to them than it must be to the sculptor himself.



A Trip to Cuba. By Mrs. JULIA WARD HOWE. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1860. pp. 251.

For readers of the "Atlantic," this little volume will need no further commendation than the mere statement that nearly a quarter of it is made up of hitherto unpublished material. Here and there it seems to us a little too personal, and the public is made the confidant of matters in which it has properly no concern. This, perhaps, is more the fault of the present generation than of the author; but it is something we feel bound to protest against, wherever we meet it. In other respects, the book is one which we may thank not only for entertainment, but for instruction. In its vivid picturesqueness, it furnishes the complement to Mr. Dana's "To Cuba and Back." Mrs. Howe has the poet's gift of making us see what she describes, and she is as lively and witty as a French Marquise of the seventeenth century, when a De in the name, petticoats, and Paris were an infallible receipt for cleverness. Toward the end of her volume, Mrs. Howe enters a spirited and telling protest against a self-constituted censorship, which would insist on a traveller's squaring his impressions with some foregone theory of right and wrong, instead of thankfully allowing facts to rectify his theory. A traveller is bound to tell us what he saw, not what he expected or wished to see; and it is only by comparing the different views of many independent observers that we who tarry at home can arrive at any approximate notion of absolute fact. The general inferiority of modern books of travel is due to the fact that their authors write in the fear of their special fragment of a public, and report of foreign countries as if they were drummers for Exeter Hall or the Southern Planters' Association, rather than servants of Truth.



Poems by Two Friends. Columbus, Ohio: Follett, Foster, & Co. 1860. pp. 162.

The Two Friends are Messrs. John J. Piatt and W. D. Howells. The readers of the "Atlantic" have already had a taste of the quality of both, and, we hope, will often have the same pleasure again. The volume is a very agreeable one, with little of the crudeness so generally characteristic of first ventures,—not more than enough to augur richer maturity hereafter. Dead-ripeness in a first book is a fatal symptom, sure sign that the writer is doomed forever to that pale limbo of faultlessness from which there is no escape upwards or downwards.

We can scarce find it in our hearts to make any distinctions in so happy a partnership; but while we see something more than promise in both writers, we have a feeling that Mr. Piatt shows greater originality in the choice of subjects, and Mr. Howells more instinctive felicity of phrase in the treatment of them. Both of them seem to us to have escaped remarkably from the prevailing conventionalisms of verse, and to write in metre because they have a genuine call thereto. We are pleased with a thorough Western flavor in some of the poems, especially in such pieces as "The Pioneer Chimney" and "The Movers." We welcome cordially a volume in which we recognize a fresh and authentic power, and expect confidently of the writers a yet higher achievement ere long. The poems give more than glimpses of a faculty not so common that the world can afford to do without it.



Vanity Fair, Frank J. Thompson, 113 Nassau Street, New York. (Weekly.)

This is the first really clever comic and satirical journal we have had in America,—and really clever it is. It is both sharp and good-tempered, and not afraid to say that its soul is its own,—which shows that it has a soul. Our readers will be glad to know where they can find native fun that has something better in it than mere patois.



Twenty Years Ago and Now. By T. S. ARTHUR. Philadelphia: G. G. Evans.

In attempting a novel, Mr. Arthur has gone beyond his powers. This story is not new, and is not interesting; and its only merits are the quiet, unpretending style and kindly spirit shown in the author's little tales of mercantile life, many of which are very good.



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