good; the orchestra is a large and fine one, full of good strong violins, and with a contra-bass of unrivalled excellence. They will stir up Boston, we fancy, to some purpose; and although they will be here at a bad time of year, no doubt they will set the city on fire, and perhaps ignite the North river. As far as good singing, &c., is concerned, we shall enjoy them; but alas! the music will be probably all Verdi. Now this Verdi is an Italian who affects Teutonic rigidity; his music is loud, forced, strange stuff; anybody could write as bad, that would; its shapes are only meant to be striking; its harmony astonishes the untaught ear and disgusts the cultivated; it has no real truth; very little of the Italian flow; much of it is Donizetti diluted, and that with a poor solution, making the whole like a mess of eau sucre and stale German beer, filled up with mouldy maccaroni. So much for a modest opinion of Verdi's music in a single sentence. Heartily do we rejoice that there is a corner where one may say thus much, and fancy in the transparent air the countenance of Father Haydn" looking approval. In the name of the musical art, we do hope that those who know, and can support what they advance with reasons, will not let their voices be drowned under this looked-for Verdi inundation!

We have spoken thus heartily against Verdi, because, in the present state of music in this country, we think him the very worst composer whose works could be presented to our public. Many of those who, as we noticed at the first, mistake singing for music, will soon learn to swear by him; scraps will be reprinted from him, and the voice of fashion is so strong that his unpoetic and uncouth melodies will become popular in parlors all over the country, and thousands and thousands of young hearts, fed on such food, will have no appetite for that which is wholesomer, more nourishing, and less highly seasoned. Why, even now, almost all that our public ever know of really great classic vocal music is through a few oratorios heard a few times a year by audiences of the respectable middle, rather than of the upper ten." Donizetti, Balfe, Bellini, make the staple of what is piled on the corners of village pianos of the better order. You seldom see any songs of the old and purest Italian school; seldom anything in that way that you can feel the same pleasure in hearing as in look

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ing at a quiet old landscape; seldom anything that contains any deeper or richer poetic truth than the expression of mere Italian passion.

Now if there were a body of learned musicians in the country who could withstand this Verdi inundation, or any other

who could oppose the ephemeral, and give decisions as a high court of appeal of the last resort in matters pertaining to musical art, as there is in Germany-the influence of false music would not be so bad. The composer would be ranked at once according to his real merits by this tribunal; and those who then persisted in admiring him, would do it of their own free will, as preferring to be fashionable rather than musical. But here there is no such tribunal. Good professors of music are rare, and among them how few understand the poetry of their art; how few can criticise and judge of a piece as MOZART could, on true, æsthetical, untechnical principles; how generally our professors are mere players, disagreeing among themselves, and caring far more to get by hook or crook a decent living than to be true to their art. Then the sources of information that are open to the public;-the newspapers, bah! musical literature, old stories, anecdotes, history of Tubal Cain, etc. etc.; but here the Harpers have done a little by republishing what is a better than we had before, though after all dead life of Mozart, and we have actually some good books, Weber's "Theory," and a little treatise by M. Fetis, republished by the Boston Academy, "Music Explained;" the latter for common readers is excellent. But how little of this reaches the parlors where so many stand nightly in groups, deadening themselves to all the sweet influences of MUSIC, by patiently practising its weakest and most flimsy pieces. The Philharmonic in our city is doing somewhat, and so are the chorus societies a little; but after all, when one considers what a tumultuary and chaotic state the art of music is in among us, he feels most strongly the necessity that all who know should act and speak with a bold earnestness that shall be felt, for the truth, and for nothing else; that so this chaotic state may not prove a neverending ruin, but a transition period, which shall lead to a regular stratification and clear separation of ignorance from learning.

Even now there are some indications that we are beginning to subside thus into

well-defined layers. The Philharmonic stands apart and is something; our public have a pretty general suspicion that there they shall hear what is sound, true and orthodox. Let this society select music carefully, and confine themselves to such as they can perform well; let them keep the line between good and bad as distinct as they can. It is for the interest of their art. In process of time they may be able to put down some future Verdi that may arise by force of authority. Genius may sometimes suffer, we know, under the fiats of schools; but even the crazy Beethoven lived to triumph, and far better is it to have a learned body in any art for the young to look up to, than an indiscriminate crowd that they will soon learn to surprise. Now, if an artist fails in the high, there are ever opening lower deeps for him; we have seen a respectable solo pianist officiating at a panorama; one can conceive that a singer might fail before the upper ten in the opera, before the middle respectable in the oratorio, the good folks in the family,' and so on down to the Ethiopian, and all the while have his cliques of toadies pursuing him down, and so all the while keeping up a position. There is no universally recognized high caste among our artists-no aristocracy of excellence to which the young student can

look up with constant loyalty; the public do not ask where he studied, where he came out, or where got a degree; all they require is that he should please them, and an artist must be a fool if he cannot soon hit upon some magic that will form a circle about him. Still, as we have observed, there are indications that this state of things is improv ing; there is light in the East. The very lines that are beginning to be indefinitely drawn between the opera, oratorio, family, and Ethiopian, show an incipient stratification, and if we can (we musicians) keep it before the people that Verdi is only a fashionable composer, and not a great one; that his music is showy, not poetic; if we can only bring it to be suspected that he is not to be admired, except in a sort, in fact, rather to be laughed at, as we laugh at Bunn's and other librettos, and though well enough at the theatre of an evening, is not worth studying or thinking of anywhere else, we shall do something to assist the marshalling the elements into clear order; knowledge here, ignorance there; poetry here, fashion there; and so on; and thus we shall most essentially serve the best interests of the art we love with all our hearts in its very truth and purity. G. W. P.

THE design of this work, manifestly, was formed directly upon that of the singularly successful volumes by the same author" Napoleon and his Marshals." It is simply carrying out a fortunate idea into a similar field--an extension, we are bound to say, which no other could have thought of, much less attempted to put into execution, without resting subject to the charge of a species of plagiarizing; and as it appeals, if not so strongly to our imagination and love of magnificent scenes, yet immediately to our patriotism and national pride, it can hardly fail of being equally successful.

To the publisher-we are not sure but to the author-this is perhaps the chief

consideration. Not that they are to be considered (like most of those among us, who make or put forth what they call books) as abiding by the feeling of Flaccus' satirical maxim:

"quærenda pecunia prima est; Virtus post nummos." which may be freely translated, "No matter what the quality is, provided 'it sells." This is an accusation for those to make who have seen their own judicious sheets used to bind the backs of a more popular commodity. Such are apt to profess a light estimation for what so nimbly runs away from them. They are suspicious of a want of weight in a book

which possesses such an alacrity at moving off, forgetting that the indiscriminate binder spoken of hath clapped upon its shoulders the heaviness of their lucubrations. But in truth it is neither gratifying to the author, nor of benefit to the publisher or the public, for a book to be so excellent and heavy that no one will either buy or read it. For a thing is written to be read-else it were as well for the seller, or the private gentleman, to paint certain blocks of wood, as "Histories of England," and other standard works, to be permanently arranged around their shelves. True, literary "virtue" (excellence) is doubtless like moral," its own exceeding great reward;" but then it must be of a lively turn, or, in a mere temporal point of view, it will not pay. Posterity, indeed, will sometimes command that a volume be popular which has been gathering dust for half a century. But posterity sits with his laurels, &c., on a very distant hill; his money-bag, at least, is always emptied down the other declivity. On the whole, we do not ourselves know that one should act in authorship the part of the witless fellow, who, hearing that a raven would live a hundred years, bought one to see how it would talk the second century; nor, (were we liable ever to be an author,) should we prefer, all things considered, the existence of the toad, which, by some inherent "virtue," maintains a torpid vitality in the rock, and is suddenly blasted out into extraordinary life at the end of five hundred years.

Besides, on account of our salutary policy in relation to copyrights, foreign works of quality have such facilities for making their way among us, that author and publisher may very reasonably congratulate themselves, if a native book shows such winning qualities as to carry treble "weight," (pretium major,) and yet distance interlopers.

In brief, a very pretty general defence might be made for a book that sells; and as the present volumes, by all indications, are to undergo that stigma, we proffer our service to the publishers for this purpose, provided they will-pay for it! Meanwhile, however-that is, till they come down handsomely in some shape, an advertisement extraordinary, or something more private-we think of following the example of a portion of the daily press, intimating chiefly the faults of the work. We have known cases where this course was followed with the happiest results.

Of course, it is necessary not to go so far in the fault-finding, as to be unable to slide into the most efficient praise, when "something has occurred ” to give the critic a clearer view of things. Troubled with indigestion, we feel grammatically inclined. Hence," we have to remark, with regret, that the warlike author, though much more careful, has not entirely reformed his ways in this respect. We are aware that in reviewing works of renown, we are not expected to descend to Syntax;-in short, that we risk all credit for enlarged and comprehensive criticism by remembering the scruples of Murray. But then what can a nervous man do, when the second paragraph of an author's Preface opens like this?" It is a little strange that a war, embracing more of the romantic and heroic of any that ever transpired, &c.," -and ends after this manner: "In writing the account of a campaign, or battle, for a military man, one needs to look on it from a different point of view than he would in writing for the general reader." A man often stumbles in beginning to run-but a preface is generally the last thing written, and most perare particularly careful therein, designing it to be the first thing read. "Laid" and "laying," (pp. 52 and 103) for "lay" and "lying," are a recreation in language which might be given over exclusively to the country press; and

sons

never did troops charge braver than they," is a forgetfulness of the office of prose adverbs "most tolerable and not to be endured." Again-" When Lord Percy, marching through Roxbury, &c., asked a youth, &c., why he laughed, received for reply," &c.;-qu. what is so fortunate as to be nominative to ceived?" Also: "Bonaparte was never confused, and Washington never lost his composure in battle, and hence were so hard to be beat." However, Mr. Headley relies on other qualities; all the principal grammarians are dead, and the Public goes to the district school; so he

has not much to fear.

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In respect to images and comparisons Mr. Headley's peculiar forte-the present volume, though sufficiently profuse in them, is quite beyond censure except that we were a little startled at the " Volcano of fire that mowed down whole ranks at a time," and were still more struck with the efficiency of the expression, "covering the field with a perfect carpet of corpses!"

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This word "perfect," by the way, used in this manner, is a vulgarism-employed quite too frequently by one possessing so facile a command of vigorous and varied language. On p. 18 we have, "It is a perfect wonder-p. 103, "Those thirtyfive (1) muskets sent a perfect shower of balls"-p. 118," perfect hurricane of fire and lead". 66 p. 242, perfect deluge of rain "-p. 268, perfect carpet of corpses," &c., &c. It is a kind of natural contortion of the author's mind, under the pressure of inspiration, to get more expression from the scene or action, than can well be twisted out of it. The same thing is observable in other similar phrases, as, That lonely height fairly rocked under the bombs," &c.—and, two lines afterwards, "It absolutely rained shots and shells." What is the use of

such epithets? They add nothing to the force of description; by avoiding them, greater elegance of style is obtained with equal power. But this is, in fact, Mr. Headley's chief fault-and every popular author must have one-to seize, for the moment, the strongest possible expressions, quite regardless of what has previously been used, and not always careful as to the character of the epithets themselves. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof;" the past is past, and the future must take care of itself; the immediate occasion demands the utmost power of simile, image, appellative. A clergyman asked the brightest of his scripture pupils, whether the leopard could change his spots?" "Yes!" was the satisfactory reply; "when he's got tired of one spot, he goes to another!" Our author has a faculty of changing his place but taking his "spots" with him. Like a bold man, indeed,-and we like him the better for it-he defends his re

petition. In his preface, speaking of his former work, he observes, that "the intense words of our language are easily exhausted; and one is often compelled, in describing thrilling scenes, to choose between a weak sentence and the repetition of strong words, and perhaps similar comparisons;" and that such sketches "are not designed to have any relation to each other, any more than a separate collection of paintings; and to make one tame, in order to relieve the other appears a very questionable mode of treating men or their actions." We certainly think this a good defence against those who censure the general similarity of his battle-scenes. They could not have been

managed otherwise. If a painter should paint a hundred battle-pieces, each one, unless slighted at the expense of others, must have certain features and colors in common with the rest-the movement of dark masses of men-the belching of cannon-the onset-the encounter

"the war-cloud rolling dun" the torn banners-the confused retreat -the wreck of artillery, and the many heaps of mangled soldiers and steeds scattered over a field of blood. He would of course draw around each what was peculiar in its action. and especially in its external scenery. This, we believe, Mr. Headley, with his quick eye, has uniformnly done! except that he has hardly spent as much time, for variety's sake, as a painter would have employed, in the author's defence is good. We submit, manner of his coloring. But so far the however, whether it is politic, or at all necessary for him to make repeated use more of the same compound expression. of the same very peculiar word; still It was sufficient, for instance, speaking of Washington, to have said "that tall and commanding form" twice, (-with diate,) without employing the phrase a "tall form" and "tall person" intermethird and fourth time. It was enough to have declared within the compass of two and a half pages that "the bullets rained like hail-stones about him"-" bullets whistle about him,"-"shot fell like hail

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about him," and soon after, "where the shot fell like hail about him"-without volume. So also of the beautiful image ever using the phrase again in the same of the snow weaving a winding-sheet," dead-which, used two or three times in or "wrapping a shroud" around the "Napoleon and his Marshals," is employed twice in the brief sketch of the gallant and noble Montgomery. By the but the image is original, we think, with way, Mr. Headley may not remember it, Campbell:

"The snow shall be their winding-sheet."

The author may accuse us of noticing matters of small moment. We cannot think so. Taken separately, they are nothing. But frequently recurring they give to many who judge only by "small things" the impression of a general loose-jointedness of style. And what right has an author so widely popular by reason of his other qualities, to exhibit any such carelessness? Mr. Headley's freshness and force of language, his scenic eye, his singular vividness of imagery and graphic power, all of which make up the remarkable movement of his style, aided by the peculiar interest of the topics he has chosen, send his books by thousands to the remotest parts of the country. No book within our memory has gone so fast and so far. But it needs no argument, to show that a popular work, loosely, carelessly, or defectively written, is, in some respects, an injury to our literature, and the more so the more widely it is circulated. For if all were such, we should soon become a nation of heedless writers. The truth is, Mr. Headley will not "take the time." With his resources of language, he was perfectly able, by a little labor, to have obviated, in all his writings, the defects we have mentioned-except that similarity of many battle-scenes, in which we unhesitatingly defend him. He is fruitful in imagery: why should he use over that which he himself has stereotyped, when nature will furnish to his seeking enough such striking similes as that which he has so happily hit upon in this volume-of a dark rank of men suddenly and continuously crumbling away like a sand-bank before the rapid fire of musketry? And even as to old expressions, and the transitions of the narrative, there are a hundred ways of attaining variety with them; the student of style must find them out. We beg Mr. Headley to believe that we are as serious as we are sincere. We are admirers, with any one, of vivid rapidity and power; but we are equally so of those proprieties of language by which alone any writings have lived.

Unquestionably, the two can be united; and they ought to be, even in sketches.

But if we must take him as he is, we do so, and are most thankful. His sketches have stirringly occupied a field to which no American writer-or English writer, except Allison-has ever done any justice. The "great Homer sometimes slept"-till Jove wakened him with his thunder. Mr. Headley is waked up by the roar of cannon. With the first booming sound he is thoroughly aroused. Suddenly he stands, like Campbell at Hohen-Linden, on some hill, or watch-tower-and looks over the whole battle-field. He takes in at a glance the surrounding scenery of hill, valley, plain, winding stream and the skirtings of forest. He marks the array of hostile armies-vast black centreswide wings-deep battalions of reserve in the rear-on the outskirts hovering cohorts-and frowning batteries waiting silently on strong positions. Officers plumed and restless hurry from line to line; he hears the terrible beating of drums, the braying of trumpets, and the long wail of the war-bugle; and he sees the dark masses of men moving steadily towards each other, like opposing thun der-clouds. He sees the plunging charge of cavalry-the massive onset of bayo nets-the hotly-worked artillery, "flashing afar," the deep roar shaking the hills where he stands the day-long struggle-the storming, the repulse, banners wavering wildly amid smoke-clouds

the retreat, the flight, the pursuit, the victory, and the bloody sun sinking down over a wide field covered with armies fallen

"Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent."

All this-caught from whatever obscure annals, traditions, or rude newspaper chronicles of the day-Mr. Headley sees as if he had been present; and seeing, he is able to put it all on paper. Having this ability, we would add, we do not know why he should not exercise it. The objections which some have made we think quite idle; as if great battles were not a part of all history, and to be described, like everything else, with whatever graphic power is in the historian. It is better indeed, when Freedom triumphs; and nothing, at least, will be urged against the scenes of our Revolution.

But in fact, our author's power by no means lies entirely in describing battles,