The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1868-11-17
THE DECEMBER MAGAZINES.
The Atlantlc.O

AtlaRtc, has some vigorous verses, but it
viii not, as a whole do mach towards ad-
vancing his reputation. More pleasing, in
every way, are these three autumnal sonnets
by Oliver Wendell Holiness
Can this be sadness? this foreboje decay?
Are these the vestments OF funeteal woe!
Sure, hues that pale Ike these the dswning's
The rather deck some dryad's festal day!
Hal, radiant hour! thrice welcome, gladsome
That, kindliug through these boughs' with
golden flow,
Streams Joy and summer to the shades below
And thou, brown-dappled Oak, and maple
In ripping waves of many tinted fame,
1.-the Birch gold.hued, thin Ash, whose dyes
might shame
The todden vintage reekng on the lees,
And ivied Beech with sauguIne clnctures fair
AS in the long days past, fraternai trees
With yOu whate'er your gladness, let me share
II.
Der banks of mossy mould how lightly strewn
All the wan summer lies! Tue needless treai
Awakes no sound; aud, had not pale leaves
fed,
As soft il came the low wind were not known.
How strange the sharp and long drawn shade VS.
thrown
From lauk and shrivelled branches overhead,
While from their Withered glOries, ,spoiler-shed,
The earthly autumn scents are family blown!
Ah reft and ravaged bowers, the garish day
Fiaunts through the hldngs OF your deWy
And thou, In leafy twil'ghts wont to be-
Shy maid, sweet-thOughted Sadness, cone away,
And here beneath this Hemlock's dropping
with pensive letrospecHon muse with me.
Why holds o'er all my neart this dreamy hour
sway that spring or summer never knew?
Why seems this ragged gentian, wanly blue,
OF all the clrcling year the farest flower!
Whence has each wandering leaf this mystic
power
That all my secret being trembles through
Or sounds the blackoird's note more human
Than all the songs of June from greenwood
bower?
Deep meanings haunt the groves and sunny
glades,
Strange dearness broods along the hazy slopes,
A vague but tender awe my breast pervades,
That hints of shadowy doubt, yet is not fear;
While musing quiet stirs with drowsy hopes
And Natures loving heart seems doubly near.
From John Neal's anecdotal article entitled
''0ur Painters" we take the following sketch
OF Jarvis the painter
s'Beyond all question, Jarvis was the best
nortrait- painter of his day within liLc;.. L..,u
spbere-thst of character when there was in it
anything of the humorist. Being himself a
humorist in the broadest and richest sense of
the word, all his men were so distinctly indi-
Vidualized, and, as IL were, branded that there
was no mistakmg them. | never saw any of
his women, but have an idea from what knew
OF the man and saw in his pictures, that they
were too manly by half and would not have
been much distressed if they had been set off
with riding whip aud spurs.
sIn stature he was about five feet seven,
with large features, dark, turbd complexion,
q full chest, and prodigious head, according
to my present recollection, and when knew
him he was not far from torty-five years old.
He was man of imperturbable gravity on
common occasions, and the best story teller
that ever lived. To him Charles Matthews
was indebted for Uncle Ben,' and that ERE
trfe, and for many touches and intonations
full of grotesque humor and astonishing truth
fulness. Well do l remember an evening he
passed with our Delphian Club, when he told
us about the Kilkenny cats, and their fighting
until there was nothing left but the
tips of their tails-a story older than
Joe Miller, and one we had all been
familiar with from our earliest boyhood.
And yet, with his embellishments, and the
running accompaniment of growing and sput-
tering and flashing he threw us all, even
the gravest of our number, Mr.. Pierpont and
Paul Allen and myself, into convusions,
though some had heard him tell the story
before, and William Gwynn and General
WiDder more than once; drove Breckinridge,
author of Views in louisiana and History
of the War, from one side OF large open fire
place TO the other, with my manifestations Of
ungovernable delight, and that, too, without
being aware of the fact-untl he was fairly
eornered, and could not move his chair another
inch-that had been pounding him black and
blue. Some OF the clubRctually shouted until
they lost their breath, and tears stood in their
eyes. And yet the stories Jarvis told were
nothing of themselves, not even new in most
cases, and seldom of greater length than five
minutes.
"One day, when he was painting Archbishop
Carol, that amiable and excellent man, who
had long intended to have a little serious talk
with Jarvis, il he could get a chance, began a
long way off with word or two which set the
free-thinker, or atheist, on his guard. Shut
your mouth, sir, said Jarvis, leaving the
forehead, upon which he was at work, and
coming down to the lower part of the face.
After few minutes, the good prelate made
another attempt, but with no better success.
Jarvis, without looking up. And there the
matter ended, and the simple hearted church
man went away without a suspicion OF the
trick, as he himself acknowledged, when
speaking of the painter and of his uncouth
manners and strange eccentricities."
This anecdOte, by the way, is usually told
of Charles Loring Elliott and the late Bishop
Hopkins.
The author OF "Co. operative Housekeeping
gives solution of the social problems which
she has proposed. From this article we ex
tract the following remarks about cookery
"Regarding cookery, believe that lill,
dress, it will never be what it can and ough