THE PHILADELPHIA DAILY PRESS.

The North American.—The very head and front of the offending party journals, oracular, dignified, and eminently solemn. Doctor Bird’s leaders have a stately look in solid column, and his political articles read as if they had been subjected to a very patient drill before showing themselves to the public eye; but his fine genius flashes out the moment he touches a congenial subject. Of all American writers we look upon him as the best qualified to conduct a literary journal, or a monthly review. But, alas! he is a martyr, who must groan under the daily responsibilities of a party organ, with a hearty disrelish of its duties. Why should two such men as Bird and Bryant be sold into slavery in politics, and be thus comparatively lost to the lovers of polite literature? “Independent,” the Washington correspondent of the journal, dashes in like Saladin, and wo to the Christian who gets a full stroke of his scimitar; he is cloven to the chin, or has something to nurse and to remember. His egotism has been objected to by those who dislike his slashing style, but that, as much as his correctness of information, has given his correspondence character. He is at least fearless in the use of his weapon, and strikes at high and low with equal strength and temerity. Hennis gives us once in a while his touching little essays, conceived in the quiet beauty of Mr. Chandler’s style—the Gamaliel at whose feet he sat and learned. For the rest, we do not like the paper. It is heavy, cautious, and cruelly cold and selfish.

The Inquirer.—The model of a daily family paper, marked by continued and unwearied industry, and beaming with the kindly nature of its editor. Its ample pages are crowded with well-chosen selections and active scissoring of news paragraphs; not, however, always carefully pruned and clipped down. It is only once in a while that Mr. Morris shows us that he can write, and his Saturday Readings are full of the warm impulses and genuine kindness of the man, but are written more for purposes of good than to display his powers. Occasionally he warms up in his general articles, and lets out a spark or two, shows us a glimpse of the wealth he hoards, and causes us to wish for continued examples of the ability he possesses. In his political leaders he sometimes is forced by unfair opponents into a little causticity at the opening of his article, but he relents before he gets through, and will most likely give his “friend” a chance to back out of his blunder. He has not the heart, though he possesses the strength, to press his antagonist to the wall, and to pin him there. Mr. Morris has an agreeable, ready and devoted coadjutor in Mr. Crump, a man of various learning and diligent application. This journal is shockingly “made up,” to our taste, and is all over disfigured with staring black head-lines, which look to our eye like the sable of a hearse—its “postscript” is our particular horror.

The Daily News.—The absence of Judge Conrad from the daily press seems to have reinvigorated his powers, and has given additional force to his pen, and fire to his thoughts; like an unprisoned eagle, with a spring he darts to the skies and gazes in the sun. Some of the finest articles he ever wrote have appeared in the News. Every subject that Judge Conrad touches, seems to have been fused, as in a furnace, and the metal flies off in lumps from his gigantic mind. His intellect illumes and pervades every part of his subject, and when he drops it, there is nothing more to be said. His compact, all-grasping sentences, may furnish subjects for whole leaders to others, but the vitality has been extracted, and any treatment of the topic is tame and impotent in contrast. He does not, however, always seem to know the power of the words he uses, and will give a whack with his sledge-hammer with a will at a fly, which would effectually knock down an ox. Hence he should never write short paragraphs upon unimportant topics—his style is too ponderous. The News, as a political sheet, is well managed, barring some desire, occasionally manifested, to pull, for personal ends, the strings of its influence; but it is sadly deficient in mercantile news and facts. At this writing, too, it is shamefully brought out, and is made up as if the matter had been sifted over the form, and then locked-up and printed, and very badly printed at that. Mr. Sanderson should look to this, for the general editing of his News is too good to come before the public under so great a disadvantage.

The Public Ledger.—Unquestionably the best penny paper that has ever been established—showing in all its appointments the very perfection of mechanical execution, and in its news collection and collation, sleepless enterprise and vigilance, as well as persevering ability. Its leaders are unequal, for the most part written with great force and adroitness, upon topics familiar or of practical utility, but occasionally insufferably stupid and dull. On scientific topics it affects the ultra-learned. We always drop the Ledger when it gets upon “oligies.” Mr. Lane, whose quiet humor occasionally gleams out in his short editorial articles, like lightning from the edge of a summer cloud, is unquestionably the best news man in our daily press; clear and discriminative, you always find in his columns all that ought to be said of any and every news fact, and no more. A nicety of judgment very rarely attained, and never in our experience so fully, as in the case of the late Mr. Holden of the Courier.

The Sun.—Graced by a good humor that no annoyance can ruffle, but occasionally inclined to mischief. Carelessly giving a whack, regardless of consequences, and forgetting it at the same instant. We regard Mr. Wallace as a most able man in any paper; enduring, persevering, and always on the alert. We know of no one in his department of a newspaper who can for so long a time continue to perform downright hard, honest good labor. His nerves and his temper are equally enduring. He appears to have been born where they sing “Old Virginy never tire,” and to have lived through life, the music, the temper, and the sentiment of the song. The topmost bubble of his heart always sparkles. He is, too, what we like, a pretty good hater, though with a good deal more philosophy than is often practiced, in taking his revenges. With his editorials, his Son makes a capital newspaper, agreeable, gossipy and gay. The news is filled in with the coolness of an experienced hand, and with the uprightness and newspaper devotion of his father, he will one day stand as high.

The Pennsylvanian.—Col. Forney is the best political editor that his party has ever had in Philadelphia—discerning, prompt and fearless. He deals, however, too much in light skirmishing, and pops his enemy off once in a while from an unsuspected cedar-bush, merely to show the accuracy of his aim. But he is an able tactician, and when he does close fairly, his opponent finds him a tough and sinewy customer. His articles seem for the most part to have been dashed off at a heat, and lack the polishing touch. He often, too, uses a hard word for its sound where another would be more effective. Occasionally he sits down in earnest, blocks out his ground, and makes sore and steady advances; and especially when he has occasion to defend Mr. Buchanan, his intellect is fully aroused and on the alert—he then writes with his full vigor and spirit, and writes well. His partner, Mr. Hamilton, is one of the most capable business printers that we know, and every thing in his department is marked by exactness and proficiency. The press-work of the Pennsylvanian, on each issue, is what the magazines would call “a specimen number.”

The Times.—A jaunty, crotchetty, impudent little sheet, filled with quibs and quirks, and a sort of laughing philosophy that shouts over seriousness. Its editor, would, if he could, go to his own funeral dressed in ribbons, and wearing a look of rejoicing. He has the happiness of never seeming for a moment anxious; and you might as well punch at a wreath of smoke with a foil, as attempt to interest him in a serious controversy. He will answer your arguments with a pun, your serious reasoning with a laugh, and will set ridiculously on end your most carefully rounded sentence, and go to hacking at its grammar. Having got you out of humor, he will decline all controversy with you, if you cannot observe the decencies and proprieties. So that the man who urges a controversy with Du Solle, has his anger for his pains, and is fuming while he is chatting and laughing unconcernedly upon some other more agreeable topic. Yet the Times has never given him scope to show the real ability and general information he possesses. He should be in the Ledger with Lane, he would settle the “ologies” in short metre.

The Bulletin.—Our only evening paper, but managed with great enterprise and vigor. Mr. Peterson’s strong Saxon words and nervous style, combined with his various and correct learning, make the leading articles of this journal among the ablest that we read anywhere, and have stamped a high value upon the leading column. There is a want of editorial tact in its less imposing, but equally important digest of news and facts. It has all the news, but it has it in bulk, and looks at times, with its heavy, solid nonpareil, like a little man covered with black patches, or as if part of the paper had gone into mourning for the absence of an itemizer. It is always up, however, to the full requirements of the public in its telegraphic despatches, and it had—what has become of him—the writer of money articles that was most regarded here. For the rest, it affects a very nice morality in regard to the theatres, which we do not like, and do not pretend to understand. It is too deep for us. It advertises for the theatres, but does not notice them. Are they wrong, or right, or neither? We suppose there must be a nice line, which casuists who examine morals with a microscope have detected.

G. R. G.

Dear Graham,—Poor Tom says, “Let not the creaking of shoes, nor the rustling of silks, betray thy poor heart to women: keep thy hand out of plackets, and thy pen from lenders’ books, and defy the foul fiend.” Without misconstruing this text more than texts are usually misinterpreted, I opine, that from those same “lenders’ books” of past generations the current literature of our day is being manufactured. The vast shapes of the Past have overshadowed the Present, and we are in the umbra of the eclipse. Pray tell me if there is room left in the whole length and breadth of the world for an epic, without trenching upon the preëmption rights of Homer, Virgil, Dante, Tasso and Milton? Then as regards dramatic poetry—“ahem! Shakspeare.” Wit and humor? What, after Chaucer, Rabelais, Ben Jonson, Cervantes, Butler, Swift, Pope, Sterne, the Spectator writers generally, Fielding and Smollet? Are there any new Continents to be discovered? Our own Irving, to be sure, has been cruising among beautiful summer islands, and returned with a wondrous store of wealth—jewels and gold tissues, fragrant gums, Hesperidean apples, painted Salvages, flowers and odorous spices, to the world unknown before. The gentle Elia has embroidered incomparable tapestries, and formed the school of the age. Scott gathers in his mighty arms the banners of a hundred conquests, and for melodious versification (after Spenser) Coleridge, Shelley and Moore, in

“Numbers moving musically,”

have filled the world with harmonies, to which no echoes answer. Who shall sweep the strings of passion after Byron! Truly, with much thankfulness for the kind intentions of those who have written for Posterity, we might add that it is a pity they did not leave Posterity a little chance to write for himself. But since it is so, let us, with due credit, make free for a time with some of those same “lenders’ books,” for as George Wither quaintly says—

“We are neither just nor wise,

If present mercies we despise;

Or mind not how there may be made

A thankful use of what we had.”

Room, then! for one of Dante’s Angels—

“And now there came o’er the perturbed waves,

Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made

Either shore tremble, as if of a wind

Impetuous, from conflicting vapors sprung,

That ’gainst some forest driving all his might.

Plucks off the branches, beats them down, and hurls

Afar; then, onward passing, proudly sweeps

His whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly.

. . . . . . . .

As frogs

Before their foe, the serpent, through the wave

Ply swiftly all, till at the ground each one

Lies on a heap; more than a thousand spirits

Destroyed, so saw I fleeing before one

Who passed with unwet feet the Stygian sound,

He, from his face removing the gross air,

Oft his left hand forth stretched, and seemed alone

Of that annoyance wearied. I perceived

That he was sent from heaven; and to my guide

Turned me, who signal made that I should stand

Quiet and bend to him. Ah me! how full

Of noble anger seemed he. To the gate

he came, and with his wand touched it, whereat

Open without impediment it flew!”

Compare this with Milton’s Raphael—

“Down thither prone in flight

He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky

Sailed between worlds and worlds, with steady wing,

Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan

Winnows the buxom air; till within soar

Of towering eagles, to all fowls he seems

A phœnix, gazed by all, as that sole bird,

When to enshrine his reliques in the sun’s

Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies.”

Or the flight of Satan—

“Sometimes

He scours the right hand coast, sometimes the left,

Now shaves with level wing the deep, then soars

Up to the fiery concave, towering high.

As when far off at sea a fleet descried

Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds

Close sailing from Bengula, or the Isles

Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring

Their spicy drugs: they on the trading flood

Through the wide Ethiopean to the Cape

Ply, stemming nightly toward the pole. So seemed

Far off the flying fiend.”

Do you not think Dante’s angel the most spiritual? He says,

“he wore

The semblance of a man by other care

Beset, and keenly pressed, than thought of him

Who in his presence stand.”

And Milton—

“——on some great charge employed

He seemed, or fixed in cogitation deep.”

The thought here is evidently borrowed from the Italian “lender’s book.”

There is a strange propensity to follow these lofty flights; as when in looking from an eminence we feel a temptation to breast the blue ether below us. We are fairly in the wake of Satan when he

“Shaves with level wing the deep, then soars

Up to the fiery concave—”

And now since we are pinion-mounted, like Icarus or Daniel O’Rourke, let us select a few more familiar specimens of flying. “Look you,” from Coleridge—

“Triumphant on the bosom of the storm

Glances the fire-clad eagle’s wheeling form.”

And lo! from Shelly on eagle,

“—— a winged form

On all the winds of heaven approaching ever

Floated, dilating as it came: the storm

Pursued it with fierce blasts and lightnings swift and warm.”

The Viking’s war-ship, from Longfellow’s Saga of the Skeleton in Armor is a brave picture,

“As with his wings aslant,

Sails the fierce cormorant,

Seeking some rocky haunt,

With his prey laden:

So toward the open main,

Beating to sea again

Through the wild hurricane,

Bore I the maiden.”

And Dryden, in his Annus Mirabilis, hath likewise a warship that flies!

“With roomy deck, and guns of mighty strength,

Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves,

Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length,

She seems a sea-wasp flying o’er the waves.”

But of all winged things the sky-lark is the bird of the poets. Hear Shakspeare—

“Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,

And Phœbus ’gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking May-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes:

With every thing that pretty bin,

My lady sweet, arise.”

Or this from Shelley—

“Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,

Like a cloud of fire!

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing, still dost soar; and soaring, ever singest.

“In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O’er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run;

Like an embodied joy, whose race has just begun.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams and heaven it overflowed.”

Coleridge, too, in his Ancient Mariner—

“Sometimes adropping from the sky

I heard the sky-lark sing;

Sometimes all little birds that are,

Now they seemed to fill the sea and air

With their sweet jargoning!

And now ’twas like all instruments,

Now like a lonely flute;

And now it is an angel’s song,

That makes the heavens be mute.”

And Wordsworth in that beautiful couplet—

“Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam;

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!”

There is a sweet little bird in the description of a Summer’s morning, by Thomas Miller, which I would fain add to this goodly company—

“A little bird now hops beside the brook,

Peeping about like an affrighted nun,

And ever as she drinks doth upward look,

Twitters and drinks again; then seeks her cloistered nook.”

But alas the prettiest part of it is borrowed from one of those same “lenders’ books.” John Bunyan’s—no less. The Interpreter takes Christiana into the “Significant Rooms,” where he shows her that “one of the chickens went to the trough to drink, and every time she drank she lifted up her eyes toward heaven. ‘See,’ said he, ‘what this little chick doth, and learn of her to acknowledge whence your mercies come, by receiving them with looking up,’” And now, having winged our way from angels to John Bunyan, let us lay these same lenders’ books upon the shelves until a future period.

Truly thine,

Richard Haywarde.