The Token; a Christmas and
Edited by S. G.
Published by

New Year's present.
Goodrich, Boston.
Gray & Bowen, 1832.

This is the fifth volume of the series. The editor observes in his preface that it is more splendid than either of its predecessors, and this may be said with safety. Not only is the book much lar

ger than any American Annual has

been heretofore, and the mere mechanical execution more beautiful, but the literary character of the contents is very respectable. Some of the engravings, we believe, have not been surpassed in this country. We have no more disposition than the editor of the Token to make invidious distinctions, but we do not think the portrait of "Lesbia," which he has singled out as "probably superior to any engraving hitherto produced by an American artist," is entitled to the flattering praise which he bestows upon it. The plates entitled "The Toilette" and "The Peasant Boy" certainly will not suffer by comparison with it. Doubtless the better cultivated judgements of others might not agree with us, but we look upon the two latter, as the best of the whole twenty. "The Equenoxial," or "Equinoctial" Storm -for the editor politely allows us to exercise our own fancy in the spelling -is a good picture; and the copy of Fisher's painting of "The Freshet," were not the subject too extensive for a plate of the size, would be a valuable addition to the volume.

The literary contents are as various in their merit as in their subjects, but there is probably no falling away from the excellence of preceding years, and we are not certain that similar works from the other side of the Atlantic would gain any reputation by a critical comparison. It might not be judicious to bestow much unnecessary praise on the poetical department, but the names of Mrs. Sigourney, Miss Gould, and the Editor, must be sufficient to insure those who are fond of poetry against disappointment. Of the prose articles we can safely speak in terms of praise; but here, also, names must pass for things, for we could neither do the authors a favor, nor add to the pleasure of our readers by the few extracts which the limits of this notice would allow. The description of the "Falls of Niagara" by Mr. Greenwood, "The Garden of Graves," by Mr. Pierpont, and "The Theology of Nature" by Mrs Dewey, are, like the pulpit productions of those gentlemen, beautifully written,

and excellent in tone and sentiment. "The Indian Summer," an anonymous article, is also one of much merit. But it is upon contributions of a different character, that the Token must depend for its popularity, and with these it is richly endowed. The best of these, entitled "My Wife's Novel," the author is unknown to us,-is an excellent satire upon a certain class of authors, but without a particle of asperity, or apparent ill-nature in its composition; it has too many "shapes of earth" however, to be entirely "Fancy's Sketch." There is also a fine "Sketch of a Blue-stocking," from the pen of Miss Sedgwick, to which we can pay no higher compliment than our opinion that it will please that critical genus as much as it has ourselves; and if it does it will be immortal. There are pleasant articles in a similar vein, from James Hall and Timothy Flint, names well known in the literary world, "as the saying is." There is, in addition to what we have enumerated, matter enough to make up nearly four hundred pages, much of which, we presume to judge from the company in which we find it, is valuable for the purposes of The Token.

The following extract from "the Garden of Graves" is beautiful in itself, and peculiarly appropriate at the present

moment.

the dwellings of the dead; uses that will be secured by every daughter of affliction, of whom it may be said, as it was said of the sorrowing Mary, She goeth unto the grave to weep there.' Yes; though all whom I have loved or venerated sleep within its walls, I retreat from the tomb, the moment that I can do it without impiety, or even with decency. But I am differently affected when, with the rising sun, or by the light of the melancholy moon, I go alone to my mother's grave. There I love to linger; and, while there, hear the wind sigh over one who often sighed for me. I breathe an air refreshed by the grass that draws its strength from the bosom from which I drew mine; and, in the drops of dew that tremble upon it, I see the tears that so often bedewed her eyes as she breathed forth a prayer that her children might cherish her memory, and escape from the pollutions of the world.

Yes; to the lover of nature, in its simplicity, the grave is more interesting and more instructive than the tomb. It speaks in a voice as full of truth, and more full of tenderness, to those who visit it to indulge their griefs, or to hold spiritual converse with the sainted spirits that are gone. And if the spirit that, while on earth, was loved by us, does not, when it leaves the earth, lose all interest in its crumbling tenement, would it not rather see the child of earth clasped again to the sweet bosom of its mother, to be again incorporated with her substance, to assume again a form attractive and lovely, to become again the recipient of light, an object of admiration, and a conscious medium of enjoyment, than that it should lie and moulder away in darkness and silence-a cause of offence to strangers, and a source of terror to those whom it still loves? Rather than see our own clay thus dwelling in coldness and solitude, neither receiving enjoyment nor imparting it, would not our spirits, purged from all vanity and pride, be pleased to know that it was starting forth again into life and loveliness; that it was moving again in the fair light of heaven, and bathed in its showers; that it was giving forth the perfume of the rose, or blushing with its great beauty; or, that, having clothed the oak with its robe of summer, it was throwing a broad shade over the home of our children; or that, having once more felt the frost of death, it was falling withered upon their graves?

The grave, when visited thoughtfully and alone, cannot but exert a favorable moral influence. It has already been remarked that it speaks in a voice full of tenderness and of truth. Its instructions reach not the ear, indeed, but they do reach the heart. By it, the departed friend is recalled in all but a visible presence, and by it, he, being dead, yet speaketh. At such a time, how faithfully will the grave of your friend remind you of the pleasant moments when you were conversing with him in the living tones of affection and truth! when you were opening your hearts to each other, and becoming partakers, each of the other's hopes and purposes and cares; when with a generous confidence those secret things were shown to one another, which were locked up in the heart from all the world beside! Will the grave of your friend allow you to forget his single-heartedness in serving you; his unsullied honor; his plighted faith; his readiness to expose himself to danger that he might save you from it; and the calmness with which, when he perceived that his hold on life was breaking away, he gave up life's hopes, and, turning his eyes for the last time to the light, and looking up, for the last time, to the faces of those who loved him, he bade farewell to all, and gave up his spirit to the disposal of his God? Is all this forgotten when you stand by his grave? Does not his very grave speak to you? Does it not bear its testimony to the

value of youthful purity and truth, and of the power of an humble confidence in the Most High, to give dignity to the character of the young, and to disarm Death of the most dreadful of his weapons, even when he comes for his most dreadful work-to cut off life in the beauty of its morning? Does there not come up from his grave a voice, like that which comes down from the skies-a voice not meant for the ear, but addressed to the heart, and felt by the heart as the kindest and most serious tones of the living friend were never felt?

The stanzas by Miss Gould, which are annexed, form one of the pleasantest poetical contributions in the volume.

FROST.

The Frost looked forth, one still clear night,
And he said, 'Now I shall be out of sight,
So through the valley and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way;

I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow-the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they!'

Then he went to the mountain and powdered its crest,

He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed

With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast
Of the quivering lake, he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
That he hung on its margin, far and near,

Where a rock could rear its head.

1832.

The Atlantic Souvenir, for
By Carey & Lea. Philadelphia.

This is the oldest of the Christmas presents, of this country; and its continuance where so many have failed entirely, or never become any thing more than passable, is, perhaps, a better commentary upon the manner in which it has been conducted, and the favor with which it has been received, than any flattering. remarks of ours, however All works of the kind depend mainly upon their embellishments; and beautiful typography, expensive and finished engravings, and a gorgeous binding, have been so much surer passports to success, that, if we may judge from the contents, publishers have found it ex

If

pedient to procure every thing to please the eye, and to offer little or nothing for the advantage of any other sense. this conclusion be not fairly deducible from an examination of those which are continued, it cannot be questioned by readers who will make a post-mortem examination of The Talisman, or Judge Hall's Western Souvenir. The books, however, are all they pretend to be, very beautiful specimens of certain fine arts; and if they contain an exuberant quantity of sickly sentimentality, or impure morality, and are, in effect, satires upon common sense and human nature, the publishers must be allowed to plead in justification that the error does not lie at their door; they furnish what the public appetite craves; and men, who would lay up of this world's goods, cannot afford to volunteer in a crusade against the popular taste.

These remarks have not been made with any particular reference to the volume the name of which stands at the head of this notice; for it is the privilege of critics to look one way and row another. They are for the benefit of all the forthcoming volumes of pictures and poetry. We have seen but a few sheets, including a few of the plates of the Atlantic Souvenir. It would not be possible to speak of it as a whole, nor to say that the volume surpasses its elder sisters-we presume from the length of years and the want of wisdom there can be no question about the sex-for we have not dwelt upon their beauties, or analyzed their perfections. The plates of which we speak will be an ornament to the table of any drawing room.

The Tablet.

A small volume of "Poetry and Tales," writen in an agreeable style, and put forth in an unpretending form -much less expensive than the Tokens and Souvenirs, but possessing as much intrinsic excellence as some of its more gorgeous cotemporaries. The contents are the product of different minds, and with a single exception they are all anonymous-a circumstance not without advantages; for the judgement of many a critic is guided, or governed by the name he sees fixed to the article presented before his tribunal, or by that which his sagacity discovers where the author withholds it. The exception alluded to, is "The Poet's World, by J. G. Percival," -a "world" composed of very beautiful materials, selected and arranged after the manner peculiar to

that popular and original writer. It is a delicious creation, and we present it to our readers unmutilated.

Bright world! too beautiful for human eye,
Creation of poetic thought, in vain

I seek thee here. Thou bendest far away
Thy airy orbit. Thine are other suns,
And other stars-a brightness all thy own,
A day self-lighted, and thy magic night
Is but a veil o'er day. I seek thee here,
When morning lights the east, and tips with
gems

Deep set in waving gold, high mountain peak;
Then tower and tree, and over field and grove
Pours out a flood of pearls, and sheets the sea
With liquid flame-1 seek thee, when, at noon,
High on his throne, the visible lord of light
Rides in his fullest blaze, and dashes wide
Thick flashes from his wheels-I seek thee, too,
When twilight shades the meadow, and the
hills

Alone are lighted-when the sky above
Smiles with a fading beauty, and below
Uncertain floats the plain-nor less when night,
Clad in her sable robe, sits silently

Above the slumbering earth, and through the

vast

Immeasurable darkness, shadowy forms
Unbidden come and go-I seek thee here,
And yet I find thee not. In all its change
Of time and season-all its shifting scenes
Of sun and storm-of life new bursting forth
In blossomy spring, vigorous in manly pride,
Or ripe for harvest-all of high and bright,
Deep and obscure-the clear expanded arch
Broad sweeping o'er us, or with pictured

wreaths

Hung festively at dawn, or heaving forth
Black billowy mountains, like a chain of Alps
Uplifted into heaven-wide forest glooms
Far stretching into night, and yawning caves
Where the void infinite opens-still retreats
Low under sheltering woods, and shady banks
Hollowed in coves, where fountains welling

out

Freshen the turf and flowers-in all its change, Earth holds thee not. Thine is a fuller growth Of beauty-thine the genial life that springs From the o'er teeming mind, and heightens all That even here seems glorious. Man, who

walks

In dignity and grace-heroic pride,

Or yielding loveliness-earth's angel erst,
Radiant and pure-now sad and dimly fair,
Even when brightest-Man is but the shade
Of thy Humanity-such heavenly forms,
As float amid the stars, and dwell enthroned
In light unstained. Thou risest to the eye
Of solitary thought, as from the depths
Of mountain valleys, when the level ray
First paints the aerial rose, uprolling clouds
Swell into towering peaks, and glitter bright
With all the glow of dawn-intenser far
In brightness-more magnificent and vast
In thy extension, and thy several hues
And shapes, purer and fairer. Mind in thee
Reveals its heavenly spring-in thee it tells
Its godlike birth-not from the trivial play
Of blended atoms, but a spiritual flame
Warming and kindling into higher life
Our perishable frames, here poor and weak,
The creatures of decay, obscuring oft
Its living beams, and even in dim eclipse
Quenching its orb-and yet the eye within
Still gazes on thee, through the gathered mist
Of evil passions, sees thee rolling free
In thy unclouded track, and at the sight
Hope springs and hurries to thee.

The Tales are moral, pathetic, and humorous. "The Social Man" unites the two qualities first mentioned;

"Shooting extra," and " A Ghost aghast," are fair specimens of the third. But we prefer an extract from an essay of a didactic character, entitled "Indifferent Poetry," and commend it to the consideration of writers "too numerous to be particularized."

Since the republic of letters has assumed in this land" a local habitation and a name," the votaries of the Nine have multiplied, like the frogs of Egypt. One class of these favorites of the tuneful god are making more direful work with his patronage, than ever did Phaeton of old with his cart and horses. They are singing, like the thorn-pierced nightingale, of the sorrows of their existence, of the darkness of their lot, by reason of their burning genius, and their thoughts of fire. Their muffled lyres are clothed in sackcloth; and, with the dust and ashes of lonely reflection upon their recumbent heads, they touch their chords to mournful cadences. Then do we behold the once vernal bowers of their pleasure overrun with the deadly night-shade-the faded roses of regret are scattered in their paths, and the dying sun is just going down in the melancholy west. They blame the bowers without cessation, and call the red-faced sun a cruel friend to leave them thus. Poor souls! They have caught the sombre shadows of the mighty Byron, without one ounce of his inspiration, and, having set out in their career, singing gloomily, they are determined to proceed until they win sympathy from the world; and they firnily resolve that heaven shall not relieve their woes, till the lower earth be moved with pity.

Another class of our native bards seem to delight in the roar of elements, and the universal crash of matter. They are never content, unless the darkened heavens are filled with tempests, and the thunders are bellowing about the startled ears of the public. They make a plaything of the forked lightning, and have so much on hand that they use it in every poem. Nor is this wonderful. The brains of these giants in literature are "in nubibus." Their thoughts are consequently like the liquid fires of heaven. At their bidding, the tempestuous seas roar and are troubled; the mountains quake at their noisy and boisterous volcanoes. They seek the caverns of the north; and if Boreas has a breeze to spare, they are sure to borrow it to assist them in breathing out their terrific strains. The startled whirlwinds are held in requisition. They bring comets to whisk their flaming tails along the skies-while they cause the vexed elements to sing a tumultuous song beneath. These poets are also "cheek by jowl" with the furies; and they occasionally introduce a Simoom along with Phlegethon and Styx, by way of variety.

In battles they are completely at home. Their delight is to represent the clattering hoof of the war-horse, spurning some bleeding soldier. They stain the turf deep in blood. Their sabres cut right and left, and they never quit the field till they have "kicked up dust" enough to " obumbrate" the sun, when they retreat for want of light, leaving the dead and wounded on the plain. The sea also is their companion. They introduce his many waves rolling mountains high, and reddened by the lightning's glare; while they make "no bones" in sinking a royal argosy laden with all the wealth of India, and having as many souls on board as the ship in which St. Paul sailed from Adramyttium. They regard not the dying prayers, nor the earnest supplications of these victims to their truly poetic rage. They sink them to a watery grave as coolly as they would drown a litter of young puppies.

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There is another sect of our native poets, still more ridiculous and annoying. Such are the authors of amorous and lascivious sonnets, dedicated to the "arch eye-brow," or the "silken locks," of some gentle fair one. If they attempt natural description, they touch only upon the wings of the humming-bird, or the butterfly, or the yellow thigh of the laden bee. Sometimes, when they are in a loving mood, they will represent damsels cleansing their delightful heels" in running water," and then will their "pulses beat so lightly," and after busying their fingers in the meshes of the damsel's hair, they will go and tell the whole story in the first Magazine that will admit their trash. But we must close. Enough has been said and done in America, to show the wrong course which applause has sometimes taken. It has flashed, like the sun-beam, upon some unworthy and inflated object, destined soon to be hid in darkness. The truth is, that he only is the poet of nature, who describes nature, and that thing of dreams and sighs, the human heart, as they exist. Fancy, unmixed with truth and feeling, is a bubble which breaks of its own feebleness. We admire feeling; we are not displeased with the sombre, though true colorings of human uncertainty and sorrow. They give us chastened lessons that the world is not to be our continual residence. But we deprecate the moody madness that is feigned to attract sympathy. We love sublimity. Its influence is deep and holy in nature or in song; but when it is overstrained, the towering eagle-poet falls headlong to the earth; a fit subject to be hawked at by the critics-those vultures that flap their wings monthly and quarterly.

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It is high time that injudicious laud should be discarded; that true genius should rise triumphant, and pert pretension sink to its proper level among the literary "Dii inferiores." Such a period must soon arrive; and many a weaver of flimsy lays, who vainly imagines he has planted himself by Helicon for life, who believes his goose quill to be pregnant with the sweets of Hybla, and his head lit with the reflected sun-beams of Parnassus, is fast hastening to the dusky shores of oblivious Lethe, and the Baotian vale whence he originally sprung. It is high time that mere flippancy should cease to gull and take the precedence of real merit. It will be folly to boast of our flourishing literature, until such an event transpires. The harps of Percival, of Dana, and of Bryant, "hang upon the willows," with all their chords lax and unstrung. Why is this? It is because the chattering daw has usurped the eyrie of the eagle. It is because the long-eared representative of the lion is sporting his hour in a borrowed skin.

Festivals, Games, and Amuse

ments, ancient and modern, by Horatio Smith. With Additions, by Samuel Woodworth, Esq. of New-York.

This volume forms the twenty-fifth number of Harper's Family Library, a work whose usefulness as a neat and compact epitome of history, biography, and travels, is commensurate with its popularity. For obvious reasons, the work in general-being a reprint of English publications-does not come within the scope of our plan; but the present volume, or, at least, a part of it, forms an exception to our general rule

The first chapter briefly describes the festivals, games, and amusements of the Aborigines. Their religious festivals are stated to be five-1. The feast of first fruits; 2. The hunter's feast; 3. The feast of harvest; 4. A daily sacrifice; 5. A feast of love. Their war dances and games are briefly alluded to.

The second chapter treats of the festivals, games, and amusements of New-England, among which "a NewEngland Thanksgiving" is, of course, the most prominent. This festival cannot be described-at least, all attempts to describe it, hitherto, have given such faint outlines of the reality, that we apprehend no description can convey to the understanding of any other than a New-Englander any idea of the kind of sentiment and emotion of which it is the everlasting and unfailing source. To the greater portion of the inhabitants of New-England's metropolis, we apprehend that Mr. Woodworth's account of May-Day, as observed in that city, will appear somewhat exaggerated. We confess that a residence in it of more than thirty years, never made us acquainted with enough of the observances he has set down as the practices of the morning of the first of May, to imagine that they could be made a topic for description among the festivals of New-England. The same class of readers, will, perhaps, be a little surprised, at what is contained in the following paragraph:

BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL. On the 17th of June, the citizens of Boston and Charlestown, unite in celebrating the anniversary of this im

portant event. A splendid civic procession,

under a military escort, proceeds to the battle ground, where a patriotic oration is delivered, and other appropriate exercises performed; to which succeed such festivities as are customary on like occasions, viz. dinners, toasts, odes, music, &c.

Excepting the ceremonies at the laying of the corner-stone of the monument on Bunker-Hill, in 1825, it is believed that the "splendid civic procession," the "patriotic oration," &c. have had no existence; or, if otherwise, such ceremonies and performances have been of too rare occurrence to be dignified with the name of a cus

tom.

The third chapter describes the festivals, &c. of the Middle states. Among these is noticed the feast of the "Krout Club" of New-York, which reminds us that the author has neglected to mention the "Salt-Fish Club" of our good city of Boston-an institution of honorable antiquity, and perhaps worthy of notice, if one could get at the records of all the good things that have been said and sung at its weekly celebrations.

In the chapter devoted to the customs of the Southern states, a wellmerited tribute is paid to the hospitality and politeness which characterize the people of that region. From this chapter we select the following item.

BARBECUES. A favorite amusement (and generally, at the same time, an act of hospitality) in many parts of the Southern states, is what they term a barbecue. This is a feast in the open air, a fete-champetre, either under the shade of trees or in an artificial bower. This rural banquet (resembling in some respects the turtle-feasts at Hoboken) is prepared under the direction and at the expense of such neighboring gentlemen as choose to unite for the purpose; each of whom usually contributes such edible dainties as his taste or convenience may suggest. Independent of these pic-nics, however, there is always some savory animal roasted whole, for this occasion, after the manner of the ancients. This is, most commonly, a fat corn-fed swine; and from hence originated the phrase of "going the whole hog." In different places, and under other circumstances, the victim may be a fine fat buck, a fallow deer, a sheep, or other animal. But to constitute a barbecue, it must be roasted whole,— not a bone of it must be broken. These festivals take place during the summer and autumn months, when every luxury that the season can afford, accompanied with wine, punch, ices, and other suitable refreshments, is provided in generous abundance. Both sexes sometimes partake of this banquet, which is then enlivened by a band of music, and succeeded by a rural dance.

There is a pleasant description of an amusement in the Western states, somewhat similar to the diversion of shooting the bird, described in "Old Mortality." On the whole, Mr. Woodworth has performed the task he assumed in a manner agreeable to readers, and, doubtless, acceptable to the publishers.