Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Volume 2, No. 12, May, 1851.

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Various. Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Volume 2, No. 12, May, 1851.

THE NOVELTY WORKS, WITH SOME DESCRIPTION OF THE MACHINERY AND THE PROCESSES EMPLOYED IN THE CONSTRUCTION OF MARINE STEAM-ENGINES OF THE LARGEST CLASS

CHARLES WOLFE

MAURICE TIERNAY, THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE UNNAMED SHELL

THE STORY OF GIOVANNI BELZONI

PHANTOMS AND REALITIES. – AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

V

VI

VII

VIII

STORY OF SILVER-VOICE AND HER SISTER ZOE

THE CROCODILE BATTERY

A CHAPTER ON DREAMS

A FAIR IN MUNICH

THE WIFE'S STRATAGEM

THE CHAMPION

THE FARM-LABORER. – THE SON

A CHAPTER ON WOLVES

A SPECIMEN OF RUSSIAN JUSTICE

NAPOLEON AND THE POPE. – A SCENE AT FONTAINEBLEAU

GABRIELLE; OR, THE SISTERS

THE WASTE OF WAR

A NIGHT WITH AN EARTHQUAKE.[6]

A PLEA FOR BRITISH REPTILES

A DREAM, AND THE INTERPRETATION THEREOF

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THOS MORE.[7]

THE STOLEN FRUIT. – A STORY OF NAPOLEON'S CHILDHOOD

WILBERFORCE AND CHALMERS

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

UNCLE JOHN; OR, THE ROUGH ROAD TO RICHES

DARLING DOREL

COURTESY OF AMERICANS

Monthly Record of Current Events

Literary Notices

TWO LEAVES FROM PUNCH

FASHIONS FOR MAY

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It is probable that to many of our readers the name which stands at the head of this sketch is unknown, and that those who recognize it will only know it as that of the author of the well-known lines upon the death of Sir John Moore – a lyric of such surpassing beauty, that so high a judge as Lord Byron considered it the perfection of English lyrical poetry, preferring it before Coleridge's lines on Switzerland – Campbell's Hohenlinden – and the finest of Moore's Irish melodies, which were instanced by Shelley and others. Yet, unknown as the Rev. Charles Wolfe is, it is unquestionable that he was a man possessing the highest powers of imagination, and a powerful intellect, cultivated to a very high point of perfection, and fitting him to become one of the brightest stars of the world of literature. Why he is unknown is then probably a question which will suggest itself to the minds of many, and the answer must be, because he did so little for the world to remember him by. The whole of his literary remains, including his sermons, and a biographical sketch, which fills one half of the book, is contained in a moderate sized octavo volume, published after his death by the Rev. J. A. Russell, Archdeacon of Clogher, whose affection for the memory of Mr. Wolfe prompted him to edit and give to the world the fragmentary manuscripts, which are the only lasting and appreciable records of the residence of a great spirit among us. But it may be asked why, with such capabilities and powers as we have stated Mr. Wolfe to possess, he did so little? and to that interrogation many replies may be given. Mr. Wolfe died at the early age of 32, just when the powers are in their full vigor – and in the later years of his life he had devoted himself enthusiastically to the duties which devolved upon him as the curate of a large and populous parish in the north of Ireland. Neither of these reasons, however, is sufficient, for we know that the poetic intellect is precocious, and brings forth fruit early. Shelley, who died younger, left productions behind him, which will hand his name down to the latest posterity; and the comparatively voluminous writings of the witty dean, Sidney Smith, prove that a man may bear the weight of the clerical office, and take an active part in politics in addition, and yet leave enough behind him to keep his name green in the memory of the world.

The true reason why Mr. Wolfe did so little is no doubt to be found in the character of his mind, and this is easily traceable, both in the mild, child-like, almost simple, but intelligent expression of the portrait which forms a frontispiece to the volume to which we have adverted, and in most of the passages of his life. There was a want of strong resolution, and an absence of concentration so marked, that he seldom read completely through even those books which most deeply interested him – there was a nervous susceptibility, and an openness to new impressions, which caused him as it were to dwell upon every passage he did read, to linger over its beauties, to start objections to its theories, to argue them out, and to develop to its fullest every suggestive thought; and there was in him a spirit of good-nature trenching upon weak compliance, which put his time at the service of all who chose to thrust employment upon him. Added to this, and arising out of his want of steady resolution and earnest will, there was a habit of putting off till to-morrow what should be done to-day, of which he was himself fully sensible, and which he speaks of in one of his letters, as that "fatal habit of delay and procrastination, for which I am so pre-eminently distinguished."

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"That's enough," said I, putting some silver in his hand as I pressed it. "We'll probably meet no more; good-by, and many thanks for your pleasant company."

"No, we're not like to meet again," said he, thoughtfully, "and that's the reason I'd like to give you a bit of advice. Hear me now," said he, drawing closer and talking in a whisper; "you can't go far in this country without being known; 'tisn't your looks alone, but your voice, and your tongue, will show what ye are. Get away out of it as fast as you can! there's thraitors in every cause, and there's chaps in Ireland would rather make money as informers than earn it by honest industry! Get over to the Scotch islands; get to Isla or Barra; get any where out of this for the time."

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