The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 38, December, 1860

We have no great liking for illustrated books. Poems, to be sure, often lend themselves readily to the pencil; but, in proportion as they stand in need of pictures, they fall short of being poetry. We have never yet seen any attempts to help Shakspeare in this way that were not as crutches to an Indian runner. To illustrate poetry truly great in itself is like illuminating to show off a torchlight-procession. We doubt if even Michel Angelo's copy of Dante was so great a loss as has sometimes been thought. We have seen missals and other manuscripts that were truly illuminated,–

 
"laughing leaves
That Franco of Bologna's pencil limned ";
 

but the line of those artists ended with Frà Angelico, whose works are only larger illuminations in fresco and on panel. In those days some precious volume became the Laura of a poor monk, who lavished on it all the poetry of his nature, all the unsatisfied longing of a lifetime. Shut out from the world, his single poem or book of saintly legends was the window through which he looked back on real life, and he stained its panes with every brightest hue of fancy and tender half-tint of reverie. There was, indeed, a chance of success, when the artist worked for the love of it, gave his whole manhood to a single volume, and mixed his life with his pigments. But to please yourself is a different thing from pleasing Tom, Dick, and Harry, which is the problem to be worked out by whoever makes illustrations to be multiplied and sold by thousands. In Dr. Palmer's "Folk-Songs," if we understand his preface rightly, the artists have done their work for love, and it is accordingly much better done than usual. The engravings make a part of the page, and the designs, with few exceptions, are happy. Numerous fac-similes of handwriting are added for the lovers of autographs; and in point of printing, it is beyond a question the handsomest and most tasteful volume ever produced in America. The Riverside Press may fairly take rank now with the classic names in the history of the art. But it is for the judgment shown in the choice of the poems that the book deserves its chief commendation. Our readers do not need to be told who Dr. Palmer is, or that one who knows how to write so well himself is likely to know what good writing is in others. We have never seen so good and choice a florilegium. The width of its range and its catholicity may be estimated by its including William Blake and Dibdin, Bishop King and Dr. Maginn. It would be hard to find the person who would not meet here a favorite poem. We can speak from our own knowledge of the length of labor and the loving care that have been devoted to it, and the result is a gift-book unique in its way and suited to all seasons and all tastes. Nor has the binding (an art in which America is far behind-hand) been forgotten. The same taste makes itself felt here, and Matthews of New York has seconded it with his admirable workmanship.

In Mr. Stoddard's volume we have a poet selecting such poems as illustrate the loves of the poets. It is a happy thought happily realized. With the exception of Dante, Petrarch, and Tasso, the choice is made from English poets, and comes down to our own time. It is a book for lovers, and he must be exacting who cannot find his mistress somewhere between the covers. The selection from the poets of the Elizabethan and Jacobian periods is particularly full; and this is as it should be; for at no time was our language more equally removed from conventionalism and commonplace, or so fitted to refine strength of passion with recondite thought and airy courtliness of phrase. The book is one likely to teach as well as to please; for, though everybody knows how to fall in love, few know how to love. It is a mirror of womanly loveliness and manly devotion. Mr. Stoddard has done his work with the instinct of a poet, and we cordially commend his truly precious volume both to those

 
"who love a coral lip
And a rosy cheek admire,"
 

and to those who

 
"Interassured of the mind,
Are careless, eyes, lips, hands, to miss";
 

for both likings will find satisfaction here. The season of gifts comes round oftener for lovers than for less favored mortals, and by means of this book they may press some two hundred poets into their service to thread for the "inexpressive she" all the beads of Love's rosary. The volume is a quarto sumptuous in printing and binding. Of the plates we cannot speak so warmly.

The third book on our list deserves very great praise. Bryant's noble "Forest Hymn" winds like a river through edging and overhanging greenery. Frequently the designs are rather ornaments to the page than illustrations of the poem, and in this we think the artist is to be commended. There is no Birket Foster-ism in the groups of trees, but honest drawing from Nature, and American Nature. The volume, we think, marks the highest point that native Art has reached in this direction, and may challenge comparison with that of any other country. Many of the drawings are of great and decided merit, graceful and truthful at the same time.

The Works of Lord Bacon, etc., etc. Vols. XI. and XII. Boston: Brown & Taggard. 1860.

We have already spoken of the peculiar merits which make the edition of Messrs. Heath and Spedding by far the best that exists of Lord Bacon's Works. It only remains to say, that the American reprint has not only the advantage of some additional notes contributed by Mr. Spedding, but that it is more convenient in form, and a much more beautiful specimen of printing than the English. A better edition could not be desired. The two volumes thus far published are chiefly filled with the "Life of Henry VII." and the "Essays"; and readers who are more familiar with these (as most are) than with the philosophical works will see at once how much the editors have done in the way of illustration and correction.