perfect productions. Examples of the pure Byzantine bring us to those of the GrecoItalian school, and these to the early Ital-. ian, represented (in its Umbrian branch) by Cimabue, by Giotto and his followers, the Gaddi, Cavallini, Giottino, Orgagna, and others; while of the Sienese we have Duccio, Simone di Martino, and Lorenzetti, with more of less note. Of the Ascetics we have, among others, Frà Angelico, Castagno, and Giovanni di Paolo. The Realists are ushered in by Masolino, Masaccio, Filippo Lippi, and go on in an unbroken series through Botticelli, Filippino Lippi, and Cosimo Roselli, to Domenico Ghirlandajo, Leonardo, Raffaello, and a design of Michel Angelo, painted by one of his pupils. Nor does the succession end here; Andrea del Sarto, R. Ghirlandajo, Vasari, Bronzino, Pontormo, and others, follow. Of the Religionists, there are Lorenzo di Credi, Frà Bartolommeo, Perugino, and their scholars. The progress of landscape, history, and anatomical drawing may be traced in Paolo Uccello, Dello Delli, Piero di Cosimo, Pinturicchio, the Pollajuoli, and Luca Signorelli. Here also is Gentile da Fabriano. Venice gives us G. Bellini, M. Basaiti, Giorgione, and Paul Veronese. And of the later Sienese, there are Sodoma, Matteo da Siena, and Beccafumi. The list includes, also, Domenichino, Sebastian del Piombo, Guido, Salvator Rosa, Holbein, Rubens, and Lo Spa

gna.

The names we have cited will be enough to show those familiar with the subject the scope of the collection and its value as a consecutive series, embracing a period which few galleries in any country cover so completely, since few have been gathered on any historical plan.

The chief question, of course, is as to the authenticity of the pictures. This cannot be decided till they are exhibited and Mr. Jarves's proofs are before the public. It is mainly to be decided on internal evidence, and it is on such evidence that a great part of the very early pictures in foreign collections have been labelled with the names of particular artists. The weight of such evidence is to be determined by the judgment of experts, and we are informed that Mr. Jarves has a

mass of testimony from those best qualified to decide in such cases, among it that of Sir Charles Eastlake, M. Rio, and the directors of the two great public galleries of Florence. After all, however, this appears to us a matter of secondary consequence. If the pictures are genuine productions of the periods they are intended to illustrate, if they are good specimens of their several schools of Art, the special names of the artists who may have painted them are a matter of less concern. The money-value of the collection might be lessened without affecting its worth in other more considerable respects, as an illusstration of the rise and progress of the most important school of modern Art.

Every year it becomes more difficult to obtain pictures of the class of which Mr. Jarves's collection is mainly composed. The directors of European galleries have become alive to their value, and are sparing no effort to fill the lacunæ left by the more strictly virtuoso taste of a former generation. As far as the general public is concerned, such pictures must, no doubt, create the taste by which they will be appreciated. The style of the more archaic ones among them may be easily ridiculed, and the cry of Pre-Raphaelitism may be turned against them; but we should not forget that these earlier efforts, however they might fail in grace of treatment and ease of expression, are sincere and genuine products of their time, and very different in spirit and character from the productions of the modern school, which aims to reproduce a phase of Art when the thought and faith that animated it are gone past recall.

Mr. Jarves is desirous that the gallery should remain in his native city of Boston, and to that end is willing to part with it on very generous terms. We cannot but hope that there will be taste and public spirit enough to realize his design. By the side of the Museum of Natural History under the charge of Agassiz, we should like to see one of Art that would supply another great want in our culture. The Jarves Collection gives the opportunity for a most successful beginning, and we trust it will not be allowed to follow the Ninevite Marbles.

Rosa; or the Parisian Girl. From the French of Madame de Pressensé. By Mrs. J. C. Fletcher. New York. Harper & Brothers. 18mo. pp. 371. 60 cts.

The Sunny South; or the Southerner at Home. Embracing Five Years' Experience of a Northern Governess in the Land of the Sugar and the Cotton. Edited by Professor J. H. Ingraham of Mississippi. Philadelphia. George G. Evans. 12mo. pp. 526. $1.25.

A Greek Grammar, for Schools and Colleges. By James Hadley, Professor in Yale College. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 366. $1.25.

Life of William T. Porter. By Francis Brinley. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 273. $1.00.

Virgil's Eneid; with Explanatory Notes. By Henry S. Frieze, Professor of Latin in the State University of Michigan. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 598. $1.25.

What may be Learned from a Tree. By Harland Coultas, Author of " Organic Life the same in Animals as in Plants," etc. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 8vo. pp. 190. $1.00.

Wilkins Wylder; or the Successful Man. By Stephen F. Miller, Author of "The Bench and Bar of Georgia." Philadelphia. J. B. Lippincott & Co. 12mo. pp. 420. $1.00.

Italy in Transition. Public Scenes and Private Opinions in the Spring of 1860. Illustrated by Official Documents from the Papal Archives of the Revolted Legations. By William Arthur, A. M., Author of "The Successful Merchant." New York. Harper & Brothers. 16mo. pp. 429. $1.00.

Chapters on Wives. By Mrs. Ellis, Author of "Mothers of Great Men." New York. Harper & Brothers. 16mo. pp. 358.

The Woman in White. A Novel. By Wilkie Collins, Author of "The Queen of Hearts," "After Dark," etc. Illustrated by John McLenan. New York. Harper & Brothers. 8vo. pp. 260. $1.00. American History. By Jacob Abbott. Illustrated with Numerous Maps and Engravings. Vol. II. Discovery of America. New York. Sheldon & Co. 18mo. pp. 288. 60 cts. The German University in America. By J. Gambs, late Professor of the German University in the Grand Duchy of Hesse. New York. Sheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 22. cts.

15

A Treasury of Scripture Stories. Beautifully illustrated with Colored Plates, from Original Designs, by the first of American Artists. New York. Sheldon & Co. 12mo. pp. 50. 75 cts.

A Man. By Rev. J. D. Bell. Philadelphia. James Challen & Son. 12mo. pp. 462. $1.25.

The Wild Sports of India. With Remarks on the Breeding and Rearing of Horses, and the Formation of Light Irregular Cavalry. By Captain Henry Shakespear, Commandant Nagpore Irregular Force. Boston. Ticknor & Fields. 16mo. pp. 282. 75 cts.

Reminiscences of an Officer of Zouaves. Translated from the French. New York. D.

Appleton & Co. 16mo. pp. 317. 75 cts.

The Lost Principle; or the Sectional EquiKibrium: how it was created, how destroyed, how it may be restored. By "Barba rossa." Richmond, Va. James Woodhouse & Co. 8vo. pp. 266. $1.50.

The Political Text-Book for 1860. Comprising a Brief View of Presidential Nominations and Elections, including all the National Platforms ever yet adopted. Compiled by Horace Greeley and John F. Cleveland. New York.

$1.00.

Tribune Association. 8vo. pp. 248.

The New American Cyclopædia; a Popular Dictionary of General Knowledge. Edited by George Ripley and Charles A. Dana. Vol. X. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 8vo. pp. 788, viii. $3.00.

French, German, Spanish, Latin, and Italian Languages without a Master, whereby any one or all of these Languages can be learned by any one, without a Teacher, with the Aid of this Book. By A. H. Monteith. Philadelphia. T. B. Peterson & Brothers. 12mo. pp. 374. $1.25.

The Kangaroo-Hunters; or Adventures in the Bush. By Anne Bowman. Boston. Crosby, Nichols, Lee, & Co. 18mo. pp. 463. 75 cts.

Studies of the Earth. An Essay on the Figure and Surface-Divisions of the Earth, its Geological and Meteorological Phenomena, and its Astronomical Elements. By Samuel E. Coues. Washington. Philp & Solomons. Large 4to. pp. 100. $1.00.

THOMAS HOOD was originally intended for business, and entered a mercantile house; but the failure of his health, at fifteen years of age, compelled him to leave it, and go to Scotland, where he remained two years, with much gain to his body and his mind. On his return to London, he applied himself to learn the art of engraving; but his constitution would not allow him to pursue it. Yet what he did acquire of this art, with his genius for comic observation, must have been of excellent service to him in his subsequent career. This, at first, was simply literary, in a subordinate connection with "The London Magazine." His relation to this periodical gave him opportunities, which he did not neglect, of knowing many of its brilliant contributors. Among these was Charles Lamb, who took a strong liking to the youthful sub-editor, and, doubtless, discovered a talent that in some points had resemblance to his own. The influence of his conversation and companionship may have brought Hood's natural qualities of mind into early growth, and helped them into early ripeness. Striking as the difference was, in some respects, between them, in other respects the likeness was quite as striking. Both were playful in manner, but melancholy by constitution, and in each there lurk

ed an unsuspected sadness; both had tenderness in their mirth, and mirth in their tenderness; and both were born punsters, with more meaning in their puns than met the ear, and constantly bringing into sudden and surprising revelation the wonderful mysteries of words.

With a genius of so singular a cast, Hood was not destined to continue long a subordinate. Almost with manhood he began to be an independent workman of letters; and as such, through ever-varying gravities and gayeties, tears and laughter, grimsicalities and whimsicalities, prose and verse, he labored incessantly till his too early death. The whole was truly and entirely "Hood's Own." In mind he owed no man anything. Unfortunately, he did in money. That he might economize, and be free to toil in order to pay, he went abroad, residing between four and five years out of England, part of the time at Coblentz, in Rhenish Prussia, and part at Ostend, in Belgium. The climate of Rhenish Prussia was bad for his health, and the people were disagreeable to his feelings. The change to Belgium was at first pleasant and an improvement; but complete recovery soon scemed as far away as ever; nay, it was absolutely away forever. But in the midst

of his family his wife, his little boy and girl, most loving and most loved — brave ly he toiled, with pen and pencil, with head and heart; and while men held both their sides from laughter, he who shook them held both his sides from pain; while tears, kindly or comical, came at the touch of his genius into thousands of eyes, eyes were watching and weeping in secret by his bed-side in the lonely night, which, gazing through the cloud of sorrow on his thin features and his uneasy sleep, took note that the instrument was fast decaying which gave forth the enchantment and the charm of all this mirthful and melancholy music. Thus, in bodily pain, in bodily weakness even worse than pain, in pecuniary embarrassment worse than either, worst of all, often distressed in mind as to means of support for his family, he still persevered; his genius did not forsake him, nor did his goodness; the milk of human kindness did not grow sour, nor the sweet charities of human life turn into bitter irritations. But what a tragedy the whole suggests, in its combination of gayety with grief, and in the thought of laughter that must be created at the cost of sighs, of merriment in which every grin has been purchased by a groan!

An anecdote which we once read, always, when we recall it, deeply affects us. A favorite comic actor, on a certain evening, was hissed by the audience, who had always before applauded him. He burst into tears. He had been watching his dying wife, and had left her dead, as he came upon the stage. This was his apology for imperfection in his part Poor Hood had also to unite comedy with tragedy, not for a night, or a day, or a week, but for months and years. He had to give the comedy to the public, and keep the tragedy to himself; nor could he, if comedy failed him, plead with the public the tragedy of his circumstances. That was nothing to the public. He must give pleasure to the public, and not explanations and excuses. But genius, goodness, many friends, no enemy, the consciousness of imparting enjoyment to mul

titudes, and to no man wretchedness, a heart alive with all that is tender and gentle, and strong to manful and noble purpose and achievement,- these are grand compensations, compensations for even more ills than Hood was heir to; and with such compensations Hood was largely blessed. Though his funds were nothing to the bounty of his spirit, yet he did not refuse to himself the blessedness of giving. Want, to his eye of charity, was neither native nor foreign, but human; and as human he pitied it always, and, as far as he could, relieved it. While abroad, he was constantly doing acts of beneficence; and the burlesque style with which, in his correspondence, he tries to disguise his own goodness, while using the incidents as items to write about, is one of the most delightful peculiarities in his delightful letters. The inimitable combination of humanity and humor in these passages renders them equal to the best things that Hood has anywhere written. To crown all, Hood had happiness unalloyed in his children and his wife. Mrs. Hood seems to have deserved to the utmost the abounding love which her husband lavished on her. She was not only, as a devoted wife, a cheerer of his heart, but, as a woman of accomplishment and ability, she was a companion for his mind. Her judgment was as clear and sure as her affection was warm and strong. Her letters have often a grave tenderness and an insinuated humor hardly inferior to her husband's. But as she must write from fact and not from fancy, what she writes naturally bears the impression of her cares. Here is a passage from one of her latest letters, which, half sadly, half amusingly, reminds us of Mrs. Primrose and her "I'll-warrant" and "Between-ourselves" manner.

"Hood dines to-day," she writes, "with Doctor Bowring, in Queen Square. He knew him well years ago in The London Magazine'; and he wrote, a few days ago, to ask Hood to meet Bright and Cobden on business, I think, to write songs for the League. I augur good from it. This comes of The Song

As an instance of her judgment, we may mention that she prophesied at once all the success which followed this same "Song of the Shirt." When read to her in manuscript, "Now mind, Hood," said she, "mark my words, this will tell wonderfully! It is one of the best things you ever did." Her reference to "The Song" in her letter has a sort of pathetic naïveté in it; it shows that the thought with which she was concerned was practical, not poetical,- not her husband's fame, but her household cares. She was thinking of songs that would turn into substance,— of “notes" that could be exchanged for cash,- of evanescent flame that might be condensed into solid coal, which would, in turn, make the pot boil, - and of music that could be converted into mutton. O ye entranced bards, drunk with the god, seeing visions and dreaming dreams in the third heaven, that is, the third story! O ye voluminous historians, who live in the guilt and glory of the past, and are proud in making the biggest and thickest books for the dust, cobwebs, and moths of the future! O ye commentators, who delight to render obscurity more obscure, and who assume that in a multitude of words, as in a multitude of counsellors, there is wis dom! O ye critics, who vote yourselves the Areopagites of Intellect, whose decrees confer immortality in the Universe of Letters! O all ye that write or scribble, all ye tribes, both great and small, of pen-drivers and paper-scrapers! — know ye, that, while ye are listening in your imaginative ambition to the praise of the elect or the applause of nations, your wives are often counting the coppers that are to buy the coming meal, alarmed at the approaching rent-day, or trembling in apprehension of the baker's bill.

Hood, in 1840, returned to reside in England during the small remainder of his life. For a few months he edited the "New Monthly," and then, for a few months more, a magazine of his own.

with bodily and mental trials, of which it is painful to read. Yet within this period it was that he wrote some of his finest things, both laughable and serious. It is, however, to be remarked, it was now he reached down to that well of tears which lay in the depth of his nature. Always before, there had been misty exhalations from it, that oozed up into the sunshine of his fancy, and that took all the shapes of glisten or of gloom which his Protean genius gave them. In the rapid eccentricities of cloud and coruscation, the source which supplied to the varying forms so much of their substance was hidden or unminded. But now the fountain of thought and tragedy had been reached, whence the waters of sin and suffering spring forth clear and unalloyed in their own deep loneliness, and we hear the gush and the murmur of their stream in such monodies as "The Song of the Shirt," "The Lay of the Laborer," and "The Bridge of Sighs."

Hood died in 1845, and was then only forty-six or forty-seven years old. Alike esteemed by the poor and the rich, both united to consecrate a monument to his memory. Kindly should we ever think of those who make our hearts and our tempers bright; who, without pomp of wisdom, help us to a cheerfulness which no proud philosophy can give; who, in the motley of checkered mirth and wit, sparkle on the resting-spots of life. Such men are rare, and as valuable as they are rare. The world wants them more than it wants heroes and victors: for mirth is better than massacre; and it is surely better to hear laughter sounding aloud the jubilee of the heart, than the shout of battle and yell of conquest. Precious, then, are those whose genius brings pleas ure to the bosom and sunshine to the face; who not only call our thoughts into festive action, but brighten our affections into generous feeling. Though we may not loudly celebrate such men, we greatly miss them; and not on marble monuments, but in our warmest memories,