  Weak Lungs, and How to Make them Strong; or, Diseases of the Organs of the Chest, with their Home Treatment by the Movement Cure. By Dio Lewis, M. D. Profusely illustrated. Ticknor & Fields, Boston, 1863. Diet, air, sunshine, dress, exercise, and water, are all indispensable hygienic agents, but considerable knowledge and experience are necessary for their proper adaptation to particular cases. Dr. Lewis's work is designed (to a certain degree) to impart such knowledge, and, while the general rules he gives cannot fail to be useful to all, we doubt not there are many instances of the especial malady under consideration in which the proposed mode of treatment would prove entirely efficacious. The numerous and carefully elaborated illustrations contained in the book render the application of the text simple and easy. The feature which especially pleases us is, that arrangements are made for home treatment, for, if there is anything depressing to the human spirit, it is an association of invalids. We do not mean a regular hospital, where people are suffering from acute forms of disease, and are learning and teaching the grand lessons of patience, endurance, and fortitude so necessary to humanity, but a community of individuals, able to walk about, talk to one another, and be generally engrossed with one idea, the pursuit of health. We once spent thirty days in a water-cure establishment, and can truly say that it was one of the most miserable months we ever passed. The totally physical atmosphere, the selfish, material countenances surrounding us, weighed upon our spirit until our nerves gave way, and we wondered which were on the broad road to insanity, our companions or ourselves. We examined narrowly, and found (in the generality of cases) that the angels within the bodies of those men and women had had their wings cut away until nothing remained but the senses and the limited knowledge they are capable of conveying. Our experience may have been peculiarly unfortunate, but it has rendered us always happy to welcome a rational treatment of disease that may be pursued at home. Self-denial and activity are the two principal lessons inculcated in the work; and if we be careful to lift them from the body to the soul, we need not fear the slight tinge of materialism that seems almost inseparable from essays on bodily health. We repeat that Dr. Lewis's book abounds in excellent suggestions, essential to all, and its wide circulation will doubtless tend to the improvement of the general health of our people. Those even who, in some points, fail to agree with the author, must acknowledge the usefulness and practicability of the general ideas advanced, together with the simplicity of their application.
Life of Chopin, by F. Liszt. Translated from the French by Martha Walker Cook. 12mo, pp. 202. Philadelphia: F. Leypoldt. New York: F. W. Christern and James Miller. 2d Edition. We are glad to see that this little work has already gone into its second edition. It gives evidence that, in spite of our domestic afflictions, more interest is felt in this country for art, than is generally believed to be the case, even by the most astute publishers among us. In calling the attention of our readers to this second edition of Liszt's 'Chopin,' we do not think we can do better than place before them the following extracts from a critique which appeared in the New York Daily Tribune of June 11th, 1863. 'The lovers of musical art may justly be congratulated on the appearance of this extraordinary biographical study in an appropriate English dress. It is the enthusiastic tribute of a man of noble genius to a kindred spirit, whose mastership he acknowledged, and with whom he cherished a deep and tender friendship, beyond the vitiating touch of personal or artistic rivalry. The volume, indeed, affords a no less admirable illustration of the impulsive, generous, unworldly character of the author, than of the rare and 'Chopin was born in Poland, near Warsaw, in the year 1810. His boyhood was marked by no events that gave promise of the greatness of his future career. He early became the victim of ill health, which was almost the perpetual torment of his after life. He grew up in simple and quiet habits, surrounded by the purest influences, conversant with bright examples of piety, modesty, and integrity, which gave to his imagination 'the velvety tenderness that characterizes the plants which have never been exposed to the dust of the beaten highways.' Commencing the study of music when he was but nine years old, he was soon after confided to a passionate disciple of Sebastian Bach, who for many years directed his studies in accordance with the prevailing classic models. Through the liberality of a distinguished patron of art, Prince Radziwill, he was placed in one of the first colleges in Warsaw, where he received a finished education in every branch of learning. The following picture, although partaking of the nature of a fancy piece, is introduced by Liszt, from the pen of one of the greatest living writers of fiction, as a just representation of the youthful artist at this period of his life. 'Gentle, sensitive, and very lovely, at fifteen years of age he united the charms of adolescence with the gravity of a more mature age. He was delicate both in body and in mind. Through the want of muscular development he retained a peculiar beauty, an exceptional physiognomy, which had, if we may venture so to speak, neither age nor sex. It was not the bold and masculine air of a descendant of a race of magnates, who know nothing but drinking, hunting, and making war; neither was it the effeminate loveliness of a cherub couleur de rose. It was more like the ideal creations with which the poetry of the Middle Ages adorned the Christian temples: a beautiful angel, with a form pure and slight as a young god of Olympus, with a face like that of a majestic woman filled with a divine sorrow, and as the crown of all, an expression at the same time tender and severe, chaste and impassioned. 'This expression revealed the depths of his being. Nothing could be purer, more exalted than his thoughts; nothing more tenacious, more exclusive, more intensely devoted, than his affections.... But he could only understand that which closely resembled himself.... Everything else only existed for him as a kind of annoying dream which he tried to shake off while living with the rest of the world. Always plunged in reveries, realities displeased him. As a child, he could never touch a sharp instrument without injuring himself with it; as a man, he never found himself face to face with a being different from himself without being wounded by the living contradiction.... 'He was preserved from a constant antagonism by a voluntary and almost inveterate habit of never seeing or hearing anything which was disagreeable to him, unless it touched upon his personal affections. The beings who did not think as he did, were only phantoms in his eyes. As his manners were polished and graceful, it was easy to mistake his cold disdain or insurmountable aversion for benevolent courtesy.... 'He never spent an hour in open-hearted expansiveness, without compensating for it by a season of reserve. The moral causes which induced such reserve were too slight, too subtle, to be discovered by the naked eye. It was necessary to use the microscope to read his soul, into which so little of the light of the living ever penetrated.... 'With such a character, it seems strange he should have had friends: yet he had them, not only the friends of his mother, who esteemed him as the noble son of a noble mother, but friends of his own age, who loved him ardently, and who were loved by him in return.... He had formed a high ideal of friendship; in the age of early illusions he loved to think that his friends and himself, brought up nearly in the same manner, with the same principles, would never change their opinions, and that no formal disagreement could ever occur between them.... 'He was externally so affectionate, his education had been so finished, and he possessed so much natural grace, that he had the gift of pleasing even where he was not personally known. His exceeding loveliness was immediately prepossessing, the delicacy of his constitution rendered him interesting in the eyes of women, the full yet graceful cultivation of his mind, the sweet and captivating originality of his conversation, gained for him the attention of the most enlightened men. Men less highly cultivated, liked him for his exquisite courtesy of manner. They were so much the more pleased with this, because, in their simplicity, they never imagined it was the graceful fulfilment of a duty into which no real sympathy entered. 'Could such people have divined the secrets of his mystic character, they would have said he was more amiable than loving—and with respect to them, this would have been true. But how could they have known that his real, though rare attachments, were so vivid, so profound, so undying?... 'Association with him in the details of life was delightful. He filled all the forms of friendship with an unaccustomed charm, and when he expressed his gratitude, it was with that deep emotion which recompenses kindness with usury. He willingly imagined that he felt himself every day dying; he accepted the cares of a friend, hiding from him, lest it should render him unhappy, the little time he expected to profit by them. He possessed great physical courage, and if he did not accept with the heroic recklessness of youth the idea of approaching death, at least he cherished the expectation of it with a kind of bitter pleasure.'... 'After completing his studies in harmony with a celebrated master, he complied with the wishes of his parents, who desired that he should travel, in order that he should become familiar with the best musical productions under the advantage of their perfect execution. For this purpose he visited many of the German cities, and was absent from Warsaw on one of his excursions when the revolution broke out in the autumn of 1830. He was thus forced to remain in Vienna, and was heard there in some concerts, but failed to receive the appreciation from the artistic 'His sister, upon receiving this intelligence, came from Warsaw to take her place at his pillow, which she left no more. He witnessed the anguish, the presentiments, the redoubled sadness around him, without showing what impression they made upon him. He thought of death with Christian calm and resignation, yet he did not cease to prepare for the morrow. From week to week and soon from day to day, the cold shadow of death gained upon him. His end was rapidly approaching; his sufferings became more and more intense; his crises grew more frequent, and at each accelerated occurrence resembled more and more a mortal agony. He retained his presence of mind, his vivid will upon their intermission, until the last; neither losing the precision of his ideas, nor the clear perception of his intentions. The wishes which he expressed in his short moments of respite, evinced the calm solemnity with which he contemplated the approach of death.' 'The inevitable hour came finally not without a certain strange, romantic beauty in its solemn aspects. 'The parlor adjoining the chamber of Chopin was constantly occupied by some of his friends, who, one by one, in turn, approached him to receive a sign of recognition, a look of affection, when he was no longer able to address them in words. On Sunday, the 15th of October, his attacks were more violent and more frequent—lasting for several hours in succession. He endured them with patience and great strength of mind. The Countess Delphine Potocka, who was present, was much distressed; her tears were flowing fast when he observed her standing at the foot of his bed; tall, slight, draped in white, resembling the beautiful angels created by the imagination of the most devout among the painters. Without doubt, he supposed her to be a celestial apparition; and when the crisis left him a moment in repose, he requested her to sing; they deemed him at first seized with delirium, but he eagerly repeated his request. Who could have ventured to oppose his wish? The piano was rolled from his parlor to the door of his chamber, while, with sobs in her voice, and tears streaming down her cheeks, his gifted countrywoman sang. Certainly, this delightful voice had never before attained an expression so full of profound pathos. He seemed to suffer less as he listened. She sang that famous Canticle to the Virgin, which, it is said, once saved the life of Siradella. 'How beautiful it is!' he exclaimed. 'My God, how very beautiful! Again—again!' Though overwhelmed with emotion, the Countess had the noble courage to comply with the last wish of a friend, a compatriot; she again took a seat at the piano, and sang a hymn from Marcello. Chopin again feeling worse, everybody was seized with fright—by a spontaneous impulse all who were present threw themselves upon their knees—no one ventured to speak; the sacred silence was only broken by the voice of the Countess, floating, like a melody from heaven, above the sighs and sobs which formed its heavy and mournful earth accompaniment. It was the haunted hour of twilight; a dying light lent its mysterious shadows to this sad scene—the sister of Chopin, prostrated near his bed, wept and prayed—and never quitted this attitude of supplication while the life of the brother she had so cherished lasted. 'His condition altered for the worse during the night, but he felt more tranquil upon Monday morning, and as if he had known in advance the appointed and propitious moment, he asked to receive immediately the last sacraments. In the absence of the AbbÉ ——, with whom he had been very intimate since their common expatriation, he requested that the AbbÉ Jelowicki, one of the most distinguished men of the Polish emigration, should be sent for. When the holy Viaticum was administered to him, he received it, surrounded by those who loved him, with great devotion. He called his friends a short time afterward, one by one, to his bedside, to give each of them his last earnest blessing; calling down the grace of God fervently upon themselves, their affections, and their hopes—every knee bent—every head bowed—all eyes were heavy with tears—every heart was sad and oppressed—every soul elevated. 'Attacks, more and more painful, returned and continued during the day; from Monday night until Tuesday, he did not utter a single word. He did not seem able to distinguish the persons who were around him. About eleven o'clock on Tuesday evening he appeared to revive a little. The AbbÉ Jelowicki had never left him. Hardly had he recovered the power of speech, than he requested him to recite with him the prayers and litanies for the dying. He was able to accompany the AbbÉ in an audible and intelligible voice. From this moment until his death, he held his head constantly supported upon the shoulder of M. Gutman, who, during the whole course of this sickness, had devoted his days and nights to him. 'A convulsive sleep lasted until the 17th of October, 1849. The final agony commenced about two o'clock; a cold sweat ran profusely from his brow; after a short drowsiness, he assessed in a voice scarcely audible: 'Who is near me?' Being answered; he bent his head to kiss the hand of M. Gutman, who still supported it—while giving this last tender proof of love and gratitude, the soul of the artist left its fragile clay. He died as he had lived—in loving. 'His love for flowers being well known, they were brought in such quantities the next day, that the bed in which they had placed them, and indeed the whole room, almost disappeared, hidden by their varied and brilliant hues. He seemed to repose in a garden of roses. His face regained its early beauty, its purity of expression, its long unwonted serenity. Calmly—with his youthful loveliness, so long dimmed by bitter suffering, restored by death—he slept among the flowers he loved, the last long and dreamless sleep!' 'We must not forget to thank the intelligent translator of this volume for the fidelity with which she has executed her by no means easy task. The elevated, almost aerial conceptions of Liszt, often seeming as if they disdained the bonds of language, are presented in lucid, idiomatic English, which derives a certain vital force more from warmth of sympathy with the original than from the use of any of the arts of vigorous expression.'
Rockford; or, Sunshine and Storm. By Mrs. Lillie Devereux Umsted. Author of Southwold. Carleton, publisher, 413 Broadway, New York. A novel of considerable ability. The characters are well drawn, and the moral unexceptionable. The scenes occur in fashionable life; the descriptions are vivid, the conversations (in which it abounds) are easy and
Good Thoughts in Bad Times, and other Papers. By Thomas Fuller, D. D. Price, $1.50. Ticknor & Fields, Boston. Coleridge says of Fuller: 'Next to Shakespeare, I am not certain whether he, beyond all other writers, does not excite in me the sense and emotion of the marvellous.' Thomas Fuller was born in 1608, was a chaplain in the army during the great civil war in England, and died in 1661, so that much of his fifty-four years of life was spent among no very peaceful scenes. He followed the army with a loyal heart and courageous spirit, and wrought earnestly to mitigate the violence of hostile parties. One of the wisest and wittiest divines who have ever ascended the pulpit, he has left behind him a fame second to none who have labored to elevate and make their fellow creatures better. 'Untiring humor seemed the ruling passion of his soul. With a heart open to all innocent pleasures, purged from the leaven of malice and uncharitableness, it was as natural that he should be full of mirth as it is for the grasshopper to chirp or bee to hum, or the birds to warble in the spring breeze and bright sunshine.' His good thoughts are clothed in pure and beautiful language, are wise, quaint, genial, and witty. Being collected and matured during his marches and countermarches through the country at the time of the great civil war, we look upon their present publication as very timely and judicious, considering the disturbed state of our own suffering country.
The Gentleman. By George H. Calvert. Ticknor & Fields. Boston. Price, 75 cts. A book which we hope will have a wide circulation, and exercise a beneficial influence in this country. It is no superficial essay on external matters of etiquette, or even of mere Æsthetic culture: it goes to the very heart of the meaning of the abused word, Gentleman, and proves its root to be unselfishness. The author says: 'It is the moral element which, in my conception of the gentleman, is pivotal. Dealing with the highest type, I conceive that in that type not only are morals primary, but that manners result from them; so that where there is not a solid substratum of pure, elevated feeling there cannot be a clean, high, and unaffected demeanor.' 'The true gentleman is a Christian product. 'The best of men That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breathed.'' These views are illustrated with genius and scholarship. Their dissemination among ourselves is especially important, because our ideas of what is requisite to form a gentleman are essentially vague, crude, unformed, and often false. It is no dull book of commonplace thoughts, but a high and noble essay on an important subject, and we commend it to the attention of our readers. Let him who would look upon the reverse of the gentleman, turn to the Editor's Table of the July issue of The Continental, and regard the repulsive sketch of the 'Southern Colonel,' whose ideal seems to be 'Brandy Smash and Cocktails.' Alas! that such ideals too frequently occur among ourselves. Bayard and Sir Philip Sydney are valuable studies for our own young and gallant soldiers.
Point of Honor. By the Author of the 'Morals of May Fair,' 'Creeds,' &c., &c. Harper & Brothers, publishers, Franklin Square, New York. This is no sensational tale. Its interest is not derived from intricacy of plot or mysterious developments; it presents us with admirable studies of male and female character, the traits of which are manifested in the progress of the plot. The portraits are detailed, natural, and living; the heroine feminine and lovely. The moral is good, and the 'Point of Honor' ably displayed.
Science for the School and Family. Part I. Natural Philosophy. By Worthington Hooker, M. D., Professor of the Theory and Practice of Medicine in Yale College, Author of 'Human Physiology,' 'Child's Book of Nature,' 'Natural History,' &c., Illustrated by nearly 300 engravings. Harper & Brothers, publishers, Franklin Square, New York. A valuable offering to teachers and pupils. Professor Hooker has published a graduated series of books, carefully adapted to the different periods of the course of study; exceedingly simple for the beginner, stepping carefully from the known to the unknown, and widening their range with the increasing Our author says: 'One grand essential for giving interest to any study is the presentation of the various points in the natural order in which they should enter the mind. They should be so presented that each portion of a book shall make the following portions more interesting and more easily understood. This principle I have endeavored to observe strictly in the preparation of my volumes.' We believe Professor Hooker has succeeded in the observation of this principle, and that its observation must insure success.
The Story of the Guard: A Chronicle of the War. By Jessie Benton Fremont. Knapsack Edition. Price, 50 cts. Ticknor & Fields, Boston. We are glad to see this little work of affection and patriotism from the hand of a gifted lady (who says: 'For any personal object I should never use my name, which has been to me a double charge to keep; but I think my father would more than approve, when it is to do justice, and to aid the widow and the orphan') already passed into the sixth edition. 'To do justice to brave men and to aid the widow and orphan!' What nobler motive could there be for publishing a book, than the prevailing one so simply given by Mrs. Fremont in the lines just quoted! Truly the most determined hater of the so much read and so much abused 'women's books,' must cease to sneer in acknowledging that here indeed was inducement sufficient to make the most timid and shrinking of the sex face the frowns of the critic, the scoff of the antagonistic politician, and the astonishment of the fashionable world that one who had long been one of its most brilliant ornaments should condescend to become known as an authoress! We heartily congratulate her on the success of her book, which, as achieving its object, must be dear to her heart. Very charming, too, are the extracts given from General Fremont's letters. Domestic love and peace are surely holy! 'To do justice to brave men!' 'Major Zagonyi, with one hundred and fifty of the body guard, attacked and drove from Springfield over two thousand rebels, with a loss of only fifteen men.' All honor to the brave Zagonyi! His Hungarian English is strong, graphic, simple, and, like himself, true. With a thorough military education, dauntless courage, untiring energy, and a natural, perhaps national, love for horses and horsemanship, we doubt not he is one of the best cavalry officers in our service. He has long chafed under a forced inaction, and, full of unselfish devotion, burns to do and dare in what he believes to be the cause of freedom and humanity. May he soon add fresh laurels to his glorious Springfield wreath—and may the same gentle chronicler again twine them for his brave brow!
Substance and Shadow; or, Morality and Religion in their Relation to Life: An Essay upon the Physics of Creation. By Henry James. Ticknor & Fields, Boston. We advise such of our readers as take interest in metaphysical theology, in the vexed questions of the origin of evil, of free will, of God's communication with the spirit of man, of the growth of faith in the soul, to read this book for themselves. We are not Swedenborgians, though we believe Swedenborg to have been a great and good man; we do not deem ourselves able to pronounce upon the truths or errors elaborated in the pages of Mr. James's book, but we feel convinced that its author is as sincere as able, and that he really aims at reaching the heart and marrow of his important subjects. His argument with the German and Scotch philosophies is profound and skilful. He is a believer in revelation, in its unfolding a true philosophy of the Infinite; showing how the infinite is contained in the finite, the absolute in the relative, not spatially or by continuation, but by exact correspondency, as the soul is contained in the body. He always steers clear of the shoals of atheism, and of the dim and chaotic abysses of pantheism. He is often obscure, but has the power to be concise and luminous. His style is vigorous, though we object to the meaning he attaches to two words very dear to the human heart: for religion is not ritualism, nor is morality made of the starched buckram of selfhood. If the lucid and vigorous writer, author of the article entitled 'Mill on Liberty' in our June issue, as well as of some able remarks headed 'Matter and Spirit' published in the Editor's Table of the July number of The Continental, would review this book of Mr. James, he might be able to pour a flood of light on many mooted questions, many metaphysical queries; for a clear mind is a marvellous solvent. |
|
