Waw-kaw, swaw daw aw waw, Thaw saw thaw law aw waw He was surprised, on turning to his hymn-book, to find they were singing: Welcome, sweet day of rest, It is almost needless to add that our friend is loud in his denunciations against psalm-singing on the phonographic system. THERE is an old saying: "The nearer to church the farther from God." If this be so, it will not be considered singular if we turn from church music to direct attention to a scene in a New York police court. It is contributed by our humorous correspondent, E. L. G. THE POET HUSBAND. Mr. Hugh O'Halloran, a native of the Emerald Isle, and of respectable exterior, was charged with assaulting and ill-treating his wife. Mrs. O'Halloran was a splendid specimen of womanhood. She was tastefully and elegantly attired. The complainant having been sworn and examined, deposed to the assault. She was heart-broken by the treatment she had received at the hands of her unkind husband. He not only squandered her money, but deserted her altogether. Judge. "Well, Mr. O'Halloran, what have you to say to these grave charges preferred against you by your conjugal partner?" Mr. O'Halloran.-" Most potent Sirs, with heavy sighs and tears, I must confess that in my younger years, a woman's smile was sure to draw me to her, a magnet-like; then for a while I'd woo her, and constant be till some more sunny face would lead me off again in Cupid's chase.-Sweet was the life led: a wanton bee; every fair flower had honeyed stores for me. Thus did I live in love's bright bower, enjoying life's rarest gifts that seemed to know no cloying. Thus still I'd live; but in a luckless hour, I met with one whose charms had wondrous power, in twining in love's bonds my truant heart; so I that from her I thought I'd never part. Besides, in widow's weeds my charmer drest (for her first spouse was gone, hope, to rest) when I became her deeplysmitten guest. I looked upon her pale, lofty brow and thought, 'this is the goddess which thro' life I've sought.' Strange fancies then did to my mind occur, which were, as more or less they seemed like her, that I felt love for others of her sex, or faithful was. These ideas would perplex a greater mind than mine: I believed that we were pre-ordained to wed by destiny, long ere this rolling world began to be. But hang these strange ideas, they're naught but nonsense: such sentimental fudge I laughed at long since. But, as I said, or meant to say, her face, decked with a widow's caps, possessed such grace, such modesty, demureness, and what not, that my poor wandering heart at length was caught. I sighed and sang, wrote sonnets half a dozen, and popped the question. Suddenly unfrozen her heart became, like to some frost-bound brook, dissolving 'neath the day-god's ardent look. The matrimonial ordeal soon was passed, the honeymoon scarcely a month did last; my wife was not the goddess that I thought her, she kept me always eddying in hot water. If I dare look at Jane, or Laura's eyes, or answer Emma's glance with smothered sighs, full in my face would the halldoor be slammed. If I were dead I could not be more damned! My tyrant triumphed; in a thoughtless hour, o'er all my worldly wealth I gave her power. Then, then, indeed, 1 was her veriest slave. I fled for freedom, but unto my grave she says she'll haunt me: would I knew a cell or lonely cave where I till death could dwell! Ah me! I fear that even after life I'll still be plagued and pestered by my wife." Judge."You had a right to stay with your wife." Husband." Sooner I'd be exiled to some bleak shore, the hirsute inmate of some cavern hoar, gazing the watery waste of ocean o'er, stunned by the thunders of the tempest's roar. There I'd eke out the remnant of my life, in striving to forget I ever had a wife. Judge." Mrs. O'Halloran appears the very reverse of what you seek to represent her. Her demeanor is calm and dignified Poet, though you be, you ought to be proud of such a charming companion." Husband-"If to her lot some female errors fall, look in her face and you'll forget them all.' So sung Dan Pope some hundred years ago; had he been wed, his rhymes would different flow; had he but sung in matrimonial chains, he'd sing as I have sung, far other strains. If in her face unclouded calm appears, if her eyes sparkle like ressplendent spheres, and if her voice is muscially low, soft as the tones from angel harps that flow, still doubt your senses, and believe that brow's oft tempest clad, and that those bright eyes glow with fires infernal, like the furies when they're sent on earth to scourge oppressive men; believe that voice whose sweetness won such praises, can hoarsely screamconfound you, go to blazes.' You'll find a woman often in the extremes, so don't believe her always what she seems!" The case was dismissed, and Mr. Hugh O'Halloran was recommended to go and live with his wife, and treat her kindly, as he should do, and as she appeared to deserve. The poet left the court impressed with the impossibility of complying with "his Honor's" decision. LITERARY GOSSIP. Of late years, there has crept into the current slang, for which our language is unhappily notorious, the semiopprobrious epithet, "Bohemian," as applied to a certain, or, rather, an uncertain, class of writers, whose exact status in the world of society and letters has never yet been satisfactorily ascertained. It is generally used to designate such individuals as may be said to exist by the precarious recommendation of their wits-literary jobbers for the magazines, and newspapers, and social outlaws possessed of a reputation near akin to the denizens of Grub street, lang syne. The Bohemian of to-day is an intellectual and moral anomaly. Like Pope's woman, he is expected to "have no character at all." Among authors of parts, he is the great unrecognized and unknown; but if the secret of successful book-making was fully understood, not all the laurels which crown the brows of literary monarchs of copy-right would be worthily worn. "Bah!" said Dr. Johnson to an admiring Muggins, who was once praising the great speech of a certain distinguished M. P., "I wrote it myself in an attic in Fleet street." But all Bohemians are not Dr. Johnsons; nor will potations of tea and repasts of orange peel ever bring them his irritable temper or great fame. In truth, we opine their ambition tends not in that direction. In Paris, which may be said to be their native place, Les Bohemiens live entirely among themselves. There, we are told, they have no respectable acquaintances, but are free at the theatres, and spend much time behind the scenes. Nearly all of them have, at some time or other, done something in the theatrical way, either adapting a piece, or portion of a burlesque, in partnership with some others, one furnishing the plot, another the songs, and still a third and fourth, it may be, the jokes. They meet in one another's rooms-that is, all who have got rooms, for some lead a nomadic life, and are never known to have an address-where they drink gin, provided by whichever of the party possesses the money, make epigrams that are worthy of immortality, and forget all trouble or care for the morrow in the jovial atmosphere that they themselves create. They are all needy, and all seedy, and how they manage to live and keep up appearances, Heaven knows. The London Bohemians are as like to their Parisian brothers as two peas. Once upon a time, one of the former went to Paris, and by some extraordinary piece of good luck, or good management, established what he called "a tick" at a hotel. This was, of course, ANOTHER'S! communicated without delay to his the pages of this magazine. We have compeers in London. The next pack-nothing to complain of in this respect. et brought over four more to share The range of literary criticism should their companion's good fortune. They be as broad and extended as the field established themselves at the hotel, and of thought in which either the writer lived like princes; but whether their or the critic ruminates. But how many adventure terminated in Clicky, or of those who so unreservedly condemn whether the landlord loved literature the rhyming effusions of THE NORTHERN too well to imprison its votaries, history MONTHLY can make better poetry themis strangely silent. The American selves? The true poetic instinct is a Bohemian does not differ materially rare gift. The faculty of writing credfrom the European type. Five years itable verses is not uncommon; it is an ago New York had a class of these art that does not depend so much upon jovial fellows-men of decided genius commanding ability or profound learnand bad habits-of whom G. P. D. Wil- ing as many seem to suppose. Dr. 0. kins, Fitz James O'Brien, George Ar- W. Holmes, in the last installment of nold, Frank Wood, and Charles F. The Guardian Angel, records the perBrowne ("Artemus Ward") were the plexities of the "Bard of Oxbow Vilmost conspicuous representatives. They lage," as evinced in prosodical pursuits, met at dinner at a Broadway restaurant thus: kept by a Teuton named Pfaff, where a table was especially reserved for them. The inimitable Artemus one evening invited thither an acquaintance from the West. Addressing his companion as they sat down, he said, with cordial hospitality: "Don't you be afraid; you are in good company. These are Bohemians here. Don't you know what Bohemians are? A Bohemian is an educated horsethief." On another occasion, coming in somewhat late, a waiter was summoned, with a view to convivial refresh"James," the humorist said, taking off his overcoat, "has our commissary retired ?" "Yes, sir." "Then, But let us see how great an improveJames, will you just go to him and wake ment on the "Bard of Oxbow Village" him up, and tell him, with my sincere is the Right Reverend John Henry regards, that the price of liberty is Hopkins, D. D., LL. D., Bishop of Vereternal vigilance. Remember that mes-mont, a man greatly wise in everything sage, James, and-don't wait!" And except poetry, who has recently writthe waiter retired in a convulsion of ten and published a History of the suppressed merriment. But, alas! for Church in Verse. Here is a specimen irregular habits and inexorable poverty! of his style of poetizing ecclesiastical ment. Since that time all of these merry Bohemians have gone hence beyond the river of death, and the places which knew them once will never again re-echo the laughter, and song, and jollity of that erratic but kindly companionship. Requiescant in pace. To change the subject: Some of the critics (to whom, en passant, we tender, one and all, our sincerest thanks for the many encouraging words spoken of our literary venture) have seen fit to take strenuous exceptions to the character of the poetry published from time to time in Another's! O the pang, the smart! Fate owes to Love a deathless grudge-- Judge-judge-no, not judge. Budge. Judge-budge---drudge--nudge-01 smudge!-misery!--fudge. history: "The Albigenses were a powerful band, In doctrine dangerous, and morals low; So say the Papal annalists, whose hand Recorded all the little that we know. "But the Waldenses, high in word and act, Another gem, giving an account of the Episcopacy during the American Revolution, is found in the writings of this same learned Bishop, as follows: Was that of William White. He took his stand As Chaplain to the Congress, and his fame Is linked with those most honored in the land." Concerning this an irreverent and unfeeling critic has said: "It is a pity that there were no good sons of the Church to prevent their venerable fatlıer from placing himself in the situation of Noah after the flood." Surely our own poets ought not to be without hope when a bishop can sing no better. However, to show that they are not the worst of poets, we give place to the following stanzas, composed" by a Newark bard, On the Death of a Work mate: 66 Speaking of poetry and poets, we cannot refrain from making mention here of an elaborate, discriminating, and withal an appreciative paper on the Characteristics of American Literature which appeared in the North British Review for June. English critics rarely write of America without drawing invidious comparisons between this country and their own; and as for that matter, the same remark will generally apply to American writers of English life. that "religion in America is characterized by a certain rowdiness;" to which Mr. Emerson retorts, "Religion in Enghow hard it is to write about a country land is torpid and slavish." So we see so as not to represent it in a more or lest ridiculous point of view; and it must be admitted that both Mr. Emerson and Mr. Trollope are able beyond the majority of critics. In literary discussions these comparisons, as Mrs. Malaprop would say, are all the more "odorous." In The article just alluded to, however, possesses less of this spirit than usual. It is intelligently and honestly written, and contains many truths patent to the unbiassed reader. the classification of American poets he justly places Longfellow at the head, and says his command of verse alone proves him to be a genuine American poet; and he speaks with equal truth when he says that the source of his poetic inspiration is Outre Mer-among Rhenish feudal towers, Flemish towns, and Alpine passes. Cut Germany out of his works, and you cut out nearly one-half. He lingers in Nuremburg, Bruges and Prague, and chooses for his emblem of life's river, not the Ohio, nor the Hudson, nor the Assabeth, but "the Moldan's rushing stream." An American poet in his songs of labor, he has yet no sympathy with "the loud vociferations of the street; and in the days of national strife he retires into the sanctuary of the divina commedia, till "The tumult of the time disconsolate, To inarticulate murmurs dies away." "Generally speaking," continues the writer, "his later works are his strongest. More is said in less space: his "Fathers and mothers in Ame- ideas follow one another with greater rica," says Mr. Trollope, "seem to obey rapidity, and his imagery is more striktheir sons and daughters naturally, and ing. There is nothing in the Voices of as they grow old become the slaves of the Night so powerful as Victor Galtheir grandchildren." "An English-braith, or the Hebrew Cemetery, or the man," remarks Mr. Emerson, "walks verses on the death of Wellington, or in a pouring rain, swinging his closed Enceladus-scarcely any thing so efumbrella like a walking-stick; wears a wig, or a shawl, or a saddle, or stands upon his head, and no remark is made." The former statement is simply ridiculous; the latter theory has just been exploded by the newspaper squabble now going on over Thomas Carlyle his hat. Again, Mr. Trollope asserts fective as the Bells of Lynn, or so tender as the exquisite address to children, entitled "Weariness." Mr. Bryant, the writer thinks a poet of nature and contemplation. His greatest poem, Thanatopsis, was written fifty years ago. and the reason why he has never equaled this early effort is to be found partly in Every clod feels a stir of might An instinct within it that reaches and And, grasping blindly above it for light, Our English critic also compliments John G. Whittier, and says he is the lyrist par excellence of America. Of Edgar A. Poe, however, he is not lav ish in his praise. According to Word the cast of his mind, which is characterized by a narrow greatness; and partly in the fact that, during the greater portion of his life, he has been forced to "scrawl strange words with a barbarous pen," as editor of a daily newspaper-a fact to which he makes a touching reference at the close of his Green River. But not even Longfellow has penetrated so deeply into the west-worth's idea of poetry, he thinks Poe ern woods as Bryant has done. He has lived in the thronging streets, an honest and energetic politician; but in his leisure hours his fancy has roamed away to breezy hills and valleys, and the undulating sea of the prairies "The gardens of the desert The unshorn fields-boundless and beautiful: The writer can imagine no greater contrast than is exhibited in the two men of genius, William Cullen Bryant and James Russell Lowell. Instead of shrinking into solitary places, Lowell loves great cities and their cries, and sets them to rhyme with hearty good will. When he goes into the country, it is to have his blood sent faster through his veins by the spring morning, and not to dream among autumn woods. The following exquisite picture has long been hung up in the heart of every lover of true poetry: "And what is so sweet as a day in June? can hardly command a place among poets. Considered as a poet, he is not human-so says the reviewer-much less American, and has no proper place in his article. Dr. Thomas William Parsons, of Boston, has nearly completed his longlooked-for translation of Dante, which promises to take a place beside, if it does not actually outrival, Longfellow's great work. Dr. Parsons is one of the closest students and most laborious writers in the country. His merits as a poet, however, are not such as have ever commanded popularity. Those poems he has already given to the public are scholarly, thoughtful, rich in delicate, melancholy sentiment, models, in their somewhat limited range, of the right use of English. calculated to please rather than stir the soul; on account of which, it is little wonder that his circle of readers has been small. As a translator, however, particularly of Italian literature, ancient and modern-with which he is as familiar as with his own-Dr. Parsons possesses rare qualifications, and we are confidant that an expectant public will not be disappointed in his forthcoming work. BOOK NOTICES. A GLANCE at the contents, or even the titles, of the major portion of the works laid upon the editorial table convinces us that this is not the golden age of American literature. Sensational or vapid and vaporous novels, crammed with recitals of improbable events, marking the career of heroes and heroines of doubtful lineage, antecedents and character, spiced with slang phrases and "horse-talk," varied with tragedy, crime, and (with eminent consistency) insanity, and usually pervaded by a most unhealthy sentiment, and pointing to an equally dubious and dangerous moral: these are the mass of our books of fiction. Even worse than these-worse, because they profane and desecrate fields and avenues that should be sacred to |