Authors and Books.

Dr. Titus Tobler, a Swiss savan, has just published a work entitled Golgotha, its Churches and Cloisters, in the course of which he undertakes the "Jerusalem question," or the discussion of the probable localities of the Scripture narrative of the crucifixion. Among the able German accounts of this treatise, which cannot fail to arrest the attention of the sacred student, we find the following notice of Professor Robinson, the first profound and adequate contemporary authority upon the subject: "Until the American Robinson, all the early comparisons and criticisms upon the holy sepulchre were based much more upon instinct and furious sectarianism, than upon a generous love of truth and a genuine insight into the matter. Only with wearisome effort, and not without the consent of the whole Church power, was Robinson's mighty grasp upon pious tradition repelled. In the main question the learned Yankee was not altogether wrong. But he is too rash in battle, too impatient, too reckless, too ambitious, and his armor was evidently not proof in all parts. Even the knowledge of the Semitic orient, of its antiquities and customs, seems, if we may say so without offence to transatlantic vanity, a little threadbare. But the Robinsonian breach in the wall was not to be entirely plastered up and its traces concealed. This American has first recognized the right way of breaking into the citadel of tradition; others, with more or less skill, have followed his track and widened the breach. But it was reserved for the inflexible ability of Dr. Tobler to dig up the very foundations, although he is no centaur, no giant, and in the pride of strength, does not scorn a childlike faith."

Among recent German romances we note second and third editions of Jeremias Gotthelf's Sylvester-Dream, and the Peasant's Mirror, or a Life-History. The author is not much known beyond Germany, but is there recognized as having the greatest certainty and correctness in delineation, the most genial principle, and the soundest and freshest life of any contemporary writer. The Sylvester-Dream is as vague and fantastic, and of the same electrical effect, as the similar sparkling flights of Dickens and Jean Paul. Uriel the Devil, a satirical romance, in eight pictures, bears the name of Kaulbach, but whether the author is related to William Kaulbach, the great painter, we have no means of ascertaining. This, with the Memorabilia of a German House-Servant are spoiled by their imitations of Jean Paul, and the latter is somewhat strongly infected with Hoffman's Phantasies. But they are both books of more than common talent. Two romances by two women are most curtly and contemptuously noticed, in a style of uncourteous condemnation hardly to be paralleled in England or America, in which countries the chivalry of private respect for the fair sex always ameliorates condemnation of their writings. "Of these two books there is little else to say than that they are moral and respectable, and extremely well written for women. The former author has the rare and memorable heroism in a woman to allow her heroine to reach her thirty-fourth year."

Levin Schuneking formerly Grand-Master at the Court of the Elector of Cologne, has just published The Peasant Prince, a romance, called in Germany his best work.

Kohl, the traveller or writer of travels, has just published a book upon the Rhine, which is not of the usual character of his works, as the author perhaps feared too much the criticising contrast of Victor Hugo's Rhine, to undertake a detailed and sprightly description of the present life and aspect of the country. The new work is, in fact, an attempt to portray, according to Ritter's principles, a famous river region in its geological, historical and statistical relations; and from this point of view to present it vividly to the mind. The contents are simple and succinctly arranged, and the book is a signal success in the popularization of the results of recent geographical research. It has the same relation to the old river guide books, that Ritter's philosophical geography has to the old geographies.

Anastasius Grun, the famous German poet, has just edited the poetical remains of Nicolaus Lenau, of whom Auerbach wrote a graceful reminiscence for the German Museum, under the title of Lenau's last Summer. The chief poem of the collection is entitled Don Juan, which, although not fully finished, the German critics highly extol. Soon after the death of Lenau, in a madhouse, last year, we gave some account of him in the International.

Of Sir Charles Lyell's Second Journey in America, which Mr. E. Dieffenbach has rendered into German, the Germans say that its geniality and gentlemanliness, its graceful and striking pictures of the state of society, politics, and religion, and its popular treatment of scientific subjects, make it altogether charming. A reviewer notes what Lyell says of the universal tendency to read among the American laboring classes, and quotes some interesting facts, as that one house published eighty thousand copies of Eugene Sue's Wandering Jew, in various forms and at various prices. The same house had sold forty thousand copies of Macaulay's History of England, at the end of the first three months, at prices varying from fifty cents to four dollars, while other houses had sold twenty thousand copies, and this sale of sixty thousand copies while Longman was selling fifteen thousand at one pound twelve shillings.

The Countess Hahn-Hahn, who for several years has occupied in German literature a position corresponding to that of George Sand in France, with whose views of life and society she strongly sympathized, and whose "Faustina" and other works were republished here, has recently become a Roman Catholic, as our readers will have seen, and has just written the following letter to a Hamburg journal:

"To correct some misapprehension, I feel it to be my duty to declare that the new edition of my complete works announced by Alexander Duncker in Berlin is no new series, but an edition with a new title. A new series of those writings will never appear, as I no longer recognize as my own the spirit in which they were written.

Ida, Countess Hahn-Hahn."

David Copperfield has been translated into German, with the peculiarities of speech of the different classes of characters unattempted. Old Pegotty and Ham speak "pure Castilian." It is easy to see how the dramatic character of the book is thus lost. Indeed, Dickens is almost the only very famous English author who is not much translated. The Battle of Life, one of the least valuable and characteristic of his works, is well known upon the Continent, because it was so easy to translate. But what can a descendant of Dante, for instance, ever know of the drolleries of Sam Weller? Fancy a spiritual Frenchman trying to catch the fun of Pickwick!

Mr. Judd's Richard Edney induces a German critic to say of him, "This is a new English poet of the Carlyle and Emerson school, who, inspired by the example of Jean Paul, turn the English language topsy-turvy, and introduce a jargon that makes us satisfied with our own romantic barbarism."

Mrs. S. C. Hall's Sorrows of Women has been also translated into German, and is highly praised.

In Vienna, most of the recent publications have more or less relation to affairs. There is very little of pure literature. M. de Zsedényi, one of the most capable Hungarian political writers, has published a work entitled Responsibility of the Cabinet and the State of Hungary. The author of The Genesis of the Revolution, (supposed to be Count Hartig, who was a Minister without portfolio under Prince Metternich) has again appeared before the public with 146 closely printed pages of Night Thoughts, some of which had better never have seen the light of day. A Mr. Schwarz has published a work advocating "protection," and in it he spares neither England nor the Austrian Minister of Commerce. Free trade notions have indeed been attacked in a score of books by continental thinkers lately, and free trade opinions seem to have received, throughout Europe, a most decided check.

The late Prince Valdimar, of Russia, made three or four years ago a journey to India, and besides taking part with the British army in sundry engagements, occupied himself busily in investigating the manners and customs of the people, the antiquities, history, and natural productions of the country. He wrote an account of his journey, and illustrated it with numerous drawings. His family is now causing this to be printed and the drawings to be engraved, and in a short time the work will be completed. Only three hundred copies are to be struck off, and they are to be presented to royal and illustrious personages. The getting up of the publication will cost 40,000 thalers.

M. Leon de Monbeillard has written a little treatise upon the Ethics of Spinoza, in which—being a spiritualist who admits the dogma of the creation and of human personality—he is said to have refuted the great philosopher, yet without calumniating or disfiguring his doctrines, and with a constant admiration of all that is truly admirable in Spinoza.

The work has not yet crossed the sea, but we cannot help thinking that the colossal views of so great a mind are not to be entirely disproved in the delicate dimensions of an "opuscule," as the able little treatise of M. Montbeillard is called by the critics.

Joseph Russegger, imperial director of the mines at Schemnitz, has published the results of five years' travel in Europe, Asia, and Africa, comprising a universal scientific and artistic as well as social and picturesque view of those countries. It is in four volumes, very splendidly illustrated in all these departments, and is published at a cost of forty dollars.

Dr. David Friedrich Strauss, the famous rationalist, has published a work entitled Christian Marklein, a picture of life and character from the present time, giving charming if not very new views of the Wurtemberg theological schools.

In the German Universities, it appears from the census just taken, with the exceptions of those of Königsberg, Kiel, and Rostock, the numbers for which have not been officially returned, there were for the last term on the registers 11,945 students. The universities may be classed, according to the number of students at each, in this order: Berlin, Munich, Bonn, Leipsic, Breslau, Tubingen, Göttingen, Wurzburg, Halle, Heidelberg, Giessen, Erlangen, Friburg, Jena, Marburg, Greifswalde. Berlin has 2,107 students, and Greifswalde only 189. The number studying the law is 3,973; of theological students, 2,539; pursuing the study of philosophy and philology, 2,357; medical students, 2,146; and there are 549 engaged in political economy. Halle reckons the greatest proportional number of theological students, there being 330 out of a total of 597; Heidelberg has most students of law; Wurzburg, most of medicine; and Jena, most students of theology. The greatest numbers of foreign students are to be found at Heidelberg, Gottingen, Jena, Wurzburg, and Leipsic.

The Independence Belge gives an account of Frau Pfeiffer, a woman who left Vienna several years ago to travel alone in the most distant and unfrequented parts of the world. After visiting Palestine and Egypt, Scandinavia and Iceland, she landed in Brazil, penetrated the primitive forests, and lived among the natives; from Valparaiso she traversed the Pacific to Otaheite, thence to China, Singapore, Ceylon, Hindostan, to the caves of Adjunta and Ellora to Bombay, whence she sailed up the Tigris, to Bagdad, and then entered upon the arduous journey to Babylon, Nineveh, and into Kurdistan; and passing to the Caucasus, she embarked for Constantinople, visiting Greece in her way home to Germany. She is now in London, visiting the Great Exposition.

Ferdinand Hiller, Superintendent of the Cologne Musical Academy, and a contemporary and friend of Mendelssohn, whom, in the beginning, it was supposed he would surpass as a composer, has been recently in Paris, renewing his old experiences. He saw there most of the famous literary and artistic notabilities, and gossips pleasantly about them in the feuilleton of a German journal. He saw Henry Heine, whose body is almost dead, but whose mind is as vigorous as ever. Hiller says that Heine chatted with him about God and himself, of the King of Prussia, and of Hiller—of the Frankfort Parliament and his own songs. Heine's features, he says, are interesting, and even more beautiful than they were formerly. The fallen cheeks leave the noble oval of the head and the delicately chiselled nose mournfully apparent. The eyes are closed. He can only see with the left, by elevating the lid with his finger. He wears a close-trimmed beard, and his hair is as brown and luxuriant as ever. The slim white hand is ideally beautiful. It belongs, according to the doctrine of Carns, to the class of the purely psychological. Heine had just written a song for a German composer; and that no poet can sing more sweetly for music, the many of his verses which Schubert has "married to immortal" tune sufficiently indicate. Mendelssohn also composed the most dreamily delicate music to Heine's "Moonlight on the Ganges."

Ingres, the painter, now seventy years old, the pride and model of the severe classicists of the French school, is a comely old man, with rich dark hair, luminous eye, and smooth brow. He is still light and active in movement, and a genial serenity broods over his whole character and manner. His love of music is no less enthusiastic than that of a lover for his mistress. The great German composers are great gods to Ingres. The remembrance of a beautiful sonata fills his eyes with tears. Ingres has recently finished a portrait, which is not inferior to any thing he has ever done.

Of musical men, Hiller saw Halevy, a successful composer and genial companion, with a gentle strain of irony in his conversation. Hector Berlioz has not grown to be fifty without some of the snowy tracks of time, but the volcanic genius is still alive. His conversation is like an eruption, now a burning lava-stream of glowing inspiration, now sulphurous mockery and scorn, and now, wide-flying, a shower of sharp stones of criticism. He tells the most laughable stories of his London life, and his musical difficulties and experiences there. In Paris he is only librarian of the "Conservatoire," and director of great concerts.

Jules Janin, the sparkling "J. J." of the Journal des Débats, and the grand seigneur of the Parisian feuilletonistes, leads the most loitering, pleasant life, and grows merry and fat thereby. He sits upon a luxurious ottoman, wrapped in a gorgeous robe de chambre, by the fire-place of his beautifully adorned study, and there among his books and bijoux of taste and art, gives audience to all the world. He has visits without end. He gives instruction and advice, hears all that every body has to say, applauds extravagantly, as he writes, all things in this world and some more, until it is time to go to dinner, or to see a new vaudeville. He has beside a beautiful wife, and suffers with the gout. Could his cup be fuller?

The poet Beranger, too, who seems to Hiller the songfullest of song-writers, charmed him by the gravity, and sweetness, and nobility of his character. Beranger received him quietly at Passy, near Paris, where he resides, a hale old man of more than seventy years. His hair is white, but his face has the freshness of blooming health. In his features there is a remarkable blending of geniality and intelligent sharpness. They are largely moulded, and their general expression is as generous, fine, and graceful as his verses. The perfect simplicity of his household is very striking. The only hints of any luxury are some medallion portraits, among which Hiller observed Napoleon and Lamartine. Yet this severity is so evidently the result of taste and not of poverty, that it has no unpleasant effect. The beauty and richness of his conversation filled his visitor with the greatest regret that he could not record it all. His first great remembrance is the destruction of the Bastille. His essay in literature was by the songs which circulated universally in manuscript before they were printed. But his literary ambition was toward works of great scope and extent, and it was not until after thirty years of age that he felt distinctly what he could do best. Of his songs he said, "I present to myself a song, as a great composition—I sketch a complete plan, beginning, middle, and end, and make the refrain the quintessence of the whole."

While Beranger was finding a letter, he opened a drawer, in which Hiller saw scraps of song and sketches of poems, which he longed to seize, as a wistful boy would grab at the money piles in a banker's window. The following is the letter in which Beranger speaks of the Marseillaise:

"I thank you, Madame, for the pleasant letter which you addressed to me. It has revealed to me a noble heart, and although I do not believe such hearts as rare as many say, it is always a fair fortune to meet them.

"What you say of the Marseillaise is entirely just. But remember, Madame, that it is the people itself, which always selects its songs, words, and melodies, uninfluenced by any one in the world. Once made, this choice endures, with authority even among the later generations, whose experience would not have made it.

"I have often enough thought about a new song of the kind, but I am too old now, and the circumstances of the time have robbed my voice of power. You, Madame, saw the true thought of the song which should be now sung, and I lament that you find the poetical harness not flexible enough for it.

"As to your remarks upon my new songs, I must say that I trouble myself as little about the destiny of my younger daughters as about that of their elder sisters. And I am surprised that you speak to me of a Lierman, who should have known me. Excuse, Madame, my delay in acknowledging and thanking you for your letter, and believe me your devoted,

Beranger."

A recent Italian translation of the Diplomats and Diplomacy of Italy, which first appeared in Professor Von Raumer's Pocket Book for 1841, contains three hitherto unprinted MSS. from the Venetian archives. They are curious and interesting, as indicating the strict surveillance which the republic maintained, by means of its ambassadors, over the whole world of the period.

Mr. Willis's Hurry-Graphs have a French rival in the Pensées d'un Emballeur, by M. Commerson, chief editor of the Tintamarre (Paris journal.) They are called fantastic, original and forcible.

A work to create some surprise, coming from Spain, is the Persecution of the Spanish Protestants by Philip the Second, by Don Adolpho de Castro. The name of Castro is honorably distinguished in Spanish literature. The present author is a grandson, we believe, of Rodriguez de Castro, who wrote the Biblioteca Española. He displays abilities and a temper suitable for the task he attempted; he has joined to careful and intelligent research a bravery of characterization which quite relieves his work from the censures which belong to most Spanish compositions of its class. That he could print in Madrid a work in which statecraft and ecclesiastical persecutions are so frankly dealt with, is a fact of more significance than a dozen such revolutions as have vexed the slumbers of other states. In Spain, above all countries, the spread of a taste for historical studies must be regarded as pregnant with important consequences. It shows that the barriers of ignorance and self-conceit, which have so long isolated that country from the rest of Europe, are beginning to be effectually broken down. To the common Protestant reader, indeed, De Castro's work will appear studiously moderate, or perhaps timid. But it should be remembered that it was written for a public which is four or five centuries behind our own, in all that constitutes true liberty and enlightenment; and what would appear most gratuitous cowardice here may easily enough be remarkable courage in Spain. To speak in favor of Protestantism at all, still more to become the biographer of the Protestant martyrs, is an undertaking which demands from a Spaniard, even of the present day, no ordinary amount of resolution. And we should be by no means surprised to hear that De Castro has been, in one way or another, made to pay some penalty of his rash enterprise. That it is both a dangerous and an unpopular one is manifest from the caution with which historical as well as religious topics are treated. Compiling what we cannot better characterize than as a Spanish supplement to Fox's "Book of Martyrs," the author nowhere professes himself a Protestant. And the slow and gradual way in which he unmasks the character of Philip II., shows how haughty and sensitive are the public whom he has undertaken to disabuse of a portion of the inveterate pride and prejudice which they nourish on all subjects affecting their church or their country. On the whole, however, though the Protestant reader will occasionally desiderate a little more warmth and indignation when chronicling such atrocities, we should say that the book rather gains than loses by this studied moderation both in tone and opinions. It certainly gains in dignity and impressiveness; and it is vastly better adapted to make its way with the author's countrymen, than if he had betrayed at the outset a sectarian bias, which would have revolted them, before they had time to make acquaintance with the sad and sanguinary events of which he is the historian. The ground gone over is necessarily much the same as in M'Crie's History of the Reformation in Spain, a work which possibly suggested the undertaking, and to which De Castro gives due credit for learning and ability. His advantage over the Scottish historian consists in his command of a variety of documents in print and in manuscript, to which access could be had only in Spain, especially the publications of the Spanish reformers themselves, which are exceedingly rare in consequence of the pains taken to destroy them by the Inquisition. The most remarkable result obtained by De Castro's researches, and the feature in his work for which he claims the greatest credit is the new light he has thrown on the history of Don Carlos. But unfortunately the question as to the Protestantism of that prince remains in much the same obscurity as before. His having been tainted by heretical opinions would aid certainly in accounting for his father's malignity towards him; but otherwise there seems to be no proof of the fact; and our own opinion is, that his tolerant views as to the treatment of the Flemish provinces were misconstrued into bias towards Protestant doctrines. The inference relied on by De Castro and others, that if he had remained Catholic he must have shared his father's extravagant bigotry, is lame. Don Carlos did no more than follow the usual course of heirs apparent when he disapproved of his father's tyranny; and his sympathies with Aragon are not less marked than those with Flanders.

Longworth, who distinguished himself in the Hungarian troubles, is writing a history of them. There is promise of so many books upon the subject that we shall be able to find out nothing about it. By the way, we wonder that no one has yet chosen for a motto to place upon his title-page, this sentence, which Lord Bolingbroke wrote more than a hundred years ago:

"I mean to speak of the troubles in Hungary. Whatever they become in their progress, they were caused originally by the usurpations and persecutions of the emperor. And when the Hungarians were called rebels first, they were called so for no other reason than this, that they would not be slaves."

It is from his Letters on History, and occurs where he has been speaking of the hostility of foreign powers to Austria.

A penny magazine, in the Bengalese language, is to be established in Calcutta, under the editorship of Baboo Rajendralal Mittra, the librarian of the Asiatic Society. It is to be illustrated by electrotypes executed in England, of woodcuts which have already appeared in the Penny Magazine, the Saturday Magazine, and the Illustrated News.

A native of India has translated the tragedy of Othello into Bengalee Othello's cognomen in the Oriental version is Moor Bahadoor (General Moor).

In Italy, at Turin and Florence, a great number of valuable works have been issued, illustrative of the recent revolutions. They do not claim to be histories, for history is impossible, while events are contemporary and cannot be contemplated from a universal point of principle and analysis. But these volumes are what the French with their happy facility would call studies for history. They are the material from which the great historic artists must compose their pictures—they are the diary of the movement—they follow all the changes of the time, hopeful or despondent, with the fidelity and closeness of an Indian upon the trail. We have seen several of these publications, and hope ere many months to see a treatise upon the republican movement in Europe from a pen well able to sketch it, and which is fed by ink which is never for a moment red.

The largest and most important of these works is that of M. Gualterio, just published in Florence, which comprises several letters of the Austrian lackey, Francis IV., Duke of Modenas, and throws light upon many of the darkest passages of the dark Austria-Italico policy. Among other letters, also, one of the most remarkable is that of the Cardinal Gonsalvi, well known as the able and humane Prime Minister of Pius VII., and to whose memory there is now upon the walls of St. Peter's a monument by Thorwaldsen, of which a statue of the Cardinal is part. This letter speaks of the miserable conduct of the political trials, and "justice," he says, "charity, the most ordinary decency demands that all humanity shall not be so trampled under foot. What will the English and French journals say—not the Austrian, when they learn of this massacre of the innocents." This was thirty years ago. But at this moment, were there an able and humane minister at the Vatican, how truly might he repeat Gonsalvi's words!

It is in works like these, and in the journals and pamphlets published during the intensity of the struggle, that the still-surviving Italian genius, which it has been so long the northern policy to smother and repress, betrayed itself. Nor among these works, as striking another key, ought we to omit the Souvenirs of the War of Lombardy by M. de Talleyrand-Perigord. Duke of Dino—and the history of the Revolution of Rome by Alphonse Balleydier. The Souvenirs are devoted to the glory of the unhappy King Charles Albert, the dupe of his own vanity and the victim of his own weakness.

Upon the pages of M. le Duc de Dino, however, he blazes very brilliantly as a martyr—martyr of a cause hopeless even in the first flush of success—martyr of an army without enthusiasm, of a liberalism without freedom or heroism. The English royalists, the reader will remember, were fond of the same title for the unhappy Charles I.

In M. Balleydier's history of the Roman revolution, Rossi is the central figure, in whose fate there was something extremely heroic, because he had received information, just as he quitted the Pope's palace to go to the assembly, from a priest who had heard it in confidence, that he was to be attacked, and he must have known the Italian, and especially the Roman character, sufficiently to have felt assured of his fate. After hearing the priest, Rossi said to him calmly: "I thank you, Monseigneur, the cause of the Pope is the cause of God," and stepping into his carriage drove to the palace of the Cancelleria, at whose door he fell dead, by a stroke that wounded much more mortally the cause which condemned him, than the cause he espoused.

With all our waste of money, and continual boasts of encouraging individual merit, we have not yet a single pension in this country except to homicides. "They manage these things better in France." A return just published in the official Moniteur, shows that one department of the government, that of Public Instruction, distributes the following pensions to literary persons: five of from $400 to $480 a year; nine of $300 to $360; twenty-nine of $200 to $240; thirty-four of $120 to $180; and fifteen of $40 to $100. To the widows and families of deceased authors, two of $400 to $450; six of $300 to $360; seventeen of $200 to $240; twenty-five of $120 to $180; and thirty-one of $40 to $100. In addition to this, it may be mentioned, that the same department distributes a large sum annually, under the title of "Encouragements," to authors in temporary distress, or engaged in works of literary importance and but small pecuniary profit. It also awards several thousands to learned societies, for literary and scientific missions, purchases of books, &c. The department of the Interior gives $2,500 a year in subscriptions to different works, and nearly $30,000 for "indemnities and assistance to authors." The other departments of the government also employ considerable sums in purchasing books, and in otherwise encouraging literary men. It is said indeed to be no unusual thing for an author, laboring under temporary inconvenience, to apply for a few hundred, or, in some cases, thousand francs, and they are almost always awarded. No shame whatever is attached to the application, and no very extraordinary credit to the gift. Surely, France must be a Paradise for authors.

A bookseller in Paris announces: "Reflections upon my conversations with the Duke de la Vauguyon, by Louis-Augustus Dauphin, (Louis XVI.,) accompanied by a fac simile of the MS., and with an introduction by M. Falloux, formerly Minister of Public Instruction." Falloux is a churchman of the stamp of Montalembert. We are apt to doubt the genuineness of these luckily discovered MSS. of eminent persons. We have no more faith in this case than we had in that of the Napoleon novels, mentioned in the last International.

The late M. De Balzac, who, besides being one of the cleverest writers of the age, was a brilliant man of society, and a very notorious roué, left, it appears, voluminous memoirs, to be printed without erasure or addition, and his friends are much alarmed by the prospect of their appearance. It is said that his custom of extorting letters from his friends upon any subject at issue, under pretence of possessing an imperfect memory, and his method of classing them, will render his memoirs one of the completest scandalous tableaux of the nineteenth century that could ever be presented to the contemplation of another age. Opposition to the publication has already been offered, but without success, and the princess-widow is busily engaged with the preparations for printing, intending to have the memoirs before the world early in June. They extend minutely over more than twenty years.

M. E. Quinet, who was long associated with Michelet, in the College of France, and who is known as a writer by his Alemagne et Italie, Ultramontanisme, Vacances en Espagne, etc. has published in Paris L'Enseignement du Peuple. "On the 24th day of February, 1848," he says, "a social miracle places in the hands of France the control of its destiny. France, openly consulted, replies by taking up a position in the scale of nations between Portugal and Naples. There must be a cause of this voluntary servitude; the object of these pages is to discover this cause, and, if possible, to protect futurity against the effects of its operation." This is the problem he proposes to solve, and he concludes that the important secret is in the fact, that the "national religion is in direct contradiction with the national revolution." "Chained by the circumstance of its religion to the middle ages, France believes that it can march onward to the end of a career opened to it solely because of its protest against every great principle of government which those ages held sacred." He has worked ten years, he tells us, to demonstrate two things: The first, that catholic states are all perishing; the second, that no political liberty can be realized in those states. "I have shown," he continues, "Italy the slave of all Europe, Spain a slave within, Portugal a slave within and without, Ireland a slave to England, Poland a slave to Russia, Bohemia, Hungary, slaves of Austria—Austria herself, the mother of all slavery, a slave to Russia. Looking for similar proofs out of Europe, I have shown in America, on the one hand, the increasing greatness of the heretical United States; on the other hand, the slavery of the catholic democracies and monarchies of the south: in the former a Washington, in the second a Rosas." M. Quinet considers that the only remedy applicable to an evil of this magnitude is the utter separation of church and state. Leave but the slightest connection between the two, and the former will inevitably overpower the latter. The one is a compact, organized, single-minded body; the other is scattered, loosely put together, swayed to and fro by every change in the political atmosphere, and can offer no resistance that is sufficient to oppose the steady, unremittent attacks of its enemy. The two, therefore, must not be placed in collision. The very indifference manifested towards the national religion by the great bulk of the French people is the cause why so much danger is to be apprehended from the efforts of the church. Because a religion is dead, says M. Quinet, there is the danger. A living religion, like that of the puritans, may certainly mould the government into a despotic form, but it communicates to it, at least, a portion of its own power and energy, whilst a dead religion infallibly occasions death to the state and to the people with which it is politically and organically united. He argues the whole subject with eloquent force, and with not a little of the earnestness which reminds the reader of his personal controversies with the Roman Catholic Church.

A history of Marie Stuart, by I. M. Dargaud, has just been published in Paris, and for its brilliancy, completeness, clearness, and impartiality, attracts much attention. Queen Mary of Scotland was one of the famously beautiful women whose history is romance. She must be named with the heroines of history and the figures of poetry, with Helen, and Aspasia, and Cleopatra. Certainly, we trace no more sparkling and sorrowful career than hers upon the confused page of history, and our admiration, condemnation, surprise, sorrow and delight, fall, summed in a tear, upon her grave. In this work it appears that she was undoubtedly privy to the death of Darnley. During his assassination, she was dancing at Holyrood. The fearful fascination of a brigand like Bothwell, for so proud and passionate a nature as Mary's, is well explained by M. Dargaud. He is just, also, to her own tragedy, the long and bitter suffering, the betrayal of friends; the final despair, and the laying aside two crowns to mount the scaffold. She died nobly, and as most of the illustrious victims of history have died; as if nature, unwilling that they should live, would yet compassionately show the world in their ending, that heroism and nobility were not altogether unknown to them.

Apropos of this history of Queen Mary, Lamartine has written a letter to Beranger, which praises the work exceedingly, but much more glorifies himself. The letter is a perfect specimen of that vanity, wherein only Lamartine is sublime: "Ah! if you or I had had such a heroine at twenty years, what epic poems and what songs would have been the result!"

The Count Montalembert, the fervid champion of Catholicism in the French chamber, has just published a work, entitled The higher and lower Radicalism: in its enmity to Religion, Right, Freedom and Justice, in France, Switzerland and Italy.

Although M. Guizot appears to be as busily engaged as ever in politics, the advertisements of the booksellers would induce a belief that his whole attention is given to literary studies. He has just published Etudes Biographiques sur la Révolution de l'Angleterre, which, with his sketch of General Monk, he says, "form a sort of gallery of portraits of the English Revolution, in which personages of the most different characters appear together—chiefs or champions of sects or parties, parliamentarians, cavaliers, republicans, levellers, who, either at the end of the political conflicts in which they were engaged, or when in retirement towards the close of their lives, resolved to describe themselves, their own times, and the part they played therein. In the drawing together of such men," he adds, "and in the mixture of truth and vanity which characterize such works, there is, if I do not deceive myself, sufficient to interest persons of serious and curious minds, especially among us and in these times; for in spite of the profound diversity of manners, contemporary comparisons and applications will present themselves at every step, whatever may be the pains taken not to seek them." The studies here collected we suppose are not new; they are doubtless the articles which the author contributed to the Biographie Universelle and other works before he became a minister—perhaps, as in the cases of his "Monk" and "Washington," with scarcely a word of alteration. The work is, however, interesting. The period of English history to which it refers has been profoundly studied by Guizot, and it would probably be impossible to select a mode of treating it that would admit of more effective or attractive delineation. The life of Ludlow appears as the first of the series.

French Literature tends in a remarkable degree towards monarchical institutions. Guizot and his associates publicly advocate the Restoration. M. Cousin has published a new argument against Republicanism, and M. Romieu, whose curious book, which men doubted whether to receive as a jest or an earnest argument, The Era of the Cæsars—in which he declared his belief that the true and only law for France is force—is before the public again, in a volume entitled Le Spectre Rouge de 1852. He predicts the subversion of all order, and such terrible scenes as have never been witnessed even in France, unless some one bold, resolute, scorning all "constitutional" figments, and relying solely on his soldiers—some one who shall say L'état c'est moi! shall save France. A Cromwell, a Francia, or in default of such Louis Napoleon—any one who will constitute himself an autocrat, will become the saviour of France!

The Count De Jarnac, formerly secretary and chargé d'affaires of the French embassy in London, has published a novel which is well spoken of, entitled the Dernier d'Egmont.

A French traveller in upper Egypt has collected for the Parisian Ethnological Museum copies of many curious inscriptions upon the walls of the great temple of Philæ. Among others, there is the modern one of Dessaix, which the Parisians think "reflects the grandiose simplicity of the Republic." "The sixth year of the Republic, the thirteenth Messidor, a French army commanded by Bonaparte descended upon Alexandria; twenty days after, the army having routed the Mamelukes at the Pyramids, Dessaix, commanding the first division, pursued them beyond the Cataracts, where he arrived the thirteenth Ventose of the year seven, with Brigadier-Generals Davoust, Friant, and Belliard. Donzelot, chief of the staff, La Tournerie, commanding the artillery, Eppler, Chief of the twenty-first Light Infantry. The thirteenth Ventose, year seven of the Republic, third March, year of J.C., 1799. Engraved by Casteix." The last date, however, strikes us as a base compromise to the temporal prejudices of the world, on the part of the author of this "simple and grandiose" inscription.

M. de Saint Beauve has published in Paris some hitherto inedited MSS. of Mirabeau, consisting of Dialogues between the great orator and the celebrated Sophie (Madame de Monnier), written when Mirabeau was confined in the fortress of Vincennes, principally, it seems, from the pleasure he had in reflecting on the object of his passion. He gives an account of their first meeting, the growth of their love, and their subsequent adventures, in the language, no doubt, as well as he could recollect, that had passed between them, in conversation or in letters. There is not much that is absolutely new in these papers, or that throws any peculiar light on Mirabeau's character, but nothing could have been written by him which is without a certain interest, especially upon the subject of these Dialogues. Circulating-library people had always a morbid desire to see illustrious personages while under the influence of the tender passion.

Progression Constante de la Démocratie pendant soixante ans, is the title of a new Parisian brochure well noticed. Of the same character is the Le Mont-Saint-Michel, by Martin Bernard, a serial publication devoted to the details of the sufferings of Democratic martyrs. The author is now in exile, having shown himself too republican for the present Republic.

Victor Hugo's paper, L'Evènement, says of Louis Philippe's Gallery at the Palais Royal, which the heirs now wish to sell, that it has two paintings of Gericault's, the Chasseur and the Cuirassier, and that they symbolize the two phases of the Empire, victorious France and the Invasion. He hopes, therefore, that they will not be permitted to go out of France.

William Howitt is writing a life of George Fox.

Mr. Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature is reviewed in La Revue des Deux Mondes by Prosper Merimee, of whose recent travels in the United States we have had occasion to speak once or twice in The International. M. Merimee is the author of a Life of Peter the Cruel, of which a translation has been published within a few months by Bentley in London, and he professes to be thoroughly acquainted with Spanish literature, from a loving study of it while residing in Spain. Perhaps he had some thought of writing its history himself; he certainly seems to bestow unwillingly the praises he is compelled to give Mr. Ticknor, whose extraordinary merits he however distinctly admits. "The writer of this History," he says, "has gone into immense researches; he has applied himself deeply and conscientiously to the Castilian language and the Spanish authors: he has read, he has examined, every thing that the English, French, and Germans, had published on this subject. He possessed an advantage over the critics of old Europe—that of being able to treat literary questions without mixing up with them recollections of national rivalries." He concludes his article by saying, "This work is an inestimable repertory; it must be eminently useful in a library. It comprises very good biographical notices of the Spanish authors, and numerous abstracts which obviate the necessity of reference to the original authorities. The translations, which are copious, are executed with surpassing taste, to afford an idea of the style of the Spanish poets. Thanks to the flexibility of the English language, and the ability or command of the author in using it, the translations are of signal fidelity and elegance. The rhythm, the flow, the idiomatic grace and curiosa felicitas, are rendered in the most exact and the happiest manner."

By a letter in the London Times, signed Ernesto Susanni, it appears that M. Libri may be a very much wronged person. The readers of the International will remember his trial, a few months ago, and his condemnation to ten years' imprisonment (in default of judgment), and deprivation of the various high offices he held, for having, as was alleged, stolen from the Mazarine Library, besides others, the following volumes: Petrarca, gli Triomphi, 1475: Bologna, in folio; Pamphyli poetæ lepidissimi Epigrammatum libri quatuor; Faccio degli Uberti, opera chiamata Ditta Munde Venezia, 1501, quarto; Phalaris Epistole, traducte del Latino da Bartol: Fontio, 1471, quarto; Dante, Convivio: Florence, 1490, quarto; &c. M. Susanni alleges that the learned bibliographer, M. Silvestre, has discovered in the Mazarine Library that, contrary to the very circumstantial affirmation of the deed of accusation, the above-mentioned books are still in their places on the shelves of that library, from which they have never been absent, and where any one may go and see them, and verify the fact for himself. The persons employed to draw up the charges against M. Libri never appeared to understand that two different editions of a work were totally different things, and they have accused M. Libri of having stolen a work from a public library, simply because M. Libri possessed an edition of that work, though different from the one the library had lost, or, better still, which it had never lost at all. Considering all the circumstances, and the attention which was attracted to the case throughout the learned world, this is very curious: it will form one of the most remarkable of the causes célèbres.

The new Paris review, La Politique Nouvelle, starts bravely its career as a rival of La Revue des Deux Mondes. The leading article, "La Constitution, c'est l'order," is by M. Marie, who was one of the chiefs of the Provisional Government, and Henri Martin, Gustave Cazavan, and Paul Rochery, are among the contributors; but the best attraction of the work to those who do not care for its politics, is the beginning of a charming novel by Madame Charles Reybaud, the authoress of Tales of the Old Convents of Paris.

Lamartine's reputation declines with every new attempt of his at money-making. There was never a man capable of doing well a half of what he advertises. He is writing a romance on the destruction of the Janizaries, for the Pays, another romance for the Siecle, and occasionally gives feuilletons to other journals; he is re-editing a complete edition of his own works, writing a history of the Restoration, and a history of Turkey, and has lately begun to edit a daily paper. He also continues the monthly pamphlet, of between thirty and forty pages, the Conseiller du Peuple, on political matters, and produces once a month a periodical, Les Foyers du Peuple, in which he gives an account of his travels, with tales and verses.

The Paris correspondent of the London Literary Gazette states, that an Assyrian, named Furis Schycyac, is at present attracting some attention in the literary circles. He had just arrived from London, where, it appears, he translated the Bible into Arabic, for one of the religious associations. He has accompanied his début in Parisian society with a mudh, or poem, to Paris, in which he almost out-Orientals the Orientals in his exaggerated compliments and gorgeous imagery. Paris, he declares, amongst other things, is the "terrestrial paradise," the "séjour of houris," and "Eden;" whilst the people are, par excellence, "the strong, the generous, the brave, the sincere-hearted, with no faults to diminish their virtues." This master-stroke has opened the Parisian circles to the cunning Assyrian.

M. Leroux has published in Paris a volume of Reminiscences of Travel and Residence in the United States, with observations on the Administration of Justice in this country.

The last Edinburgh Review has an article on Cousin, in which a general survey is taken of his life and of his works, of which he has just completed the publication of a new edition. The London Leader says that the critic ingeniously represents all Cousin's plagiarisms as the consequences of the progressive and assimilative intellect of the eclectic chief; that it would be easy with the same facts to tell a very different story; and correct the reviewer's "mistake," where he talks of Cousin as the translator of Plato. Cousin's name is on the title-page; but not one dialogue, the Leader avers, did he translate; it even doubts his ability to translate one. What he did was to take old translations by De Grow and others, here and there polishing the style; and the dialogues that were untranslated he gave to certain clever young men in want of employment and glad of his patronage. He touched up their style and wrote the Preface to each Dialogue, for which the work bears his name! This explains the puzzling fact that the translator of Plato should so completely misunderstand the purpose of the dialogue he is prefacing. Gigantic indeed would be the labors of Cousin—if he performed them himself.

Walter Savage Landor is now seventy-six years of age. He writes no more great works, but he is hardly less industrious than a penny-a-liner in writing upon all sorts of subjects for the journals. We find his communications almost every week in The Examiner, The News, The Leader, Leigh Hunt's Journal, and other periodicals. Sometimes he rises to his earlier eloquence, and we hear the voice that was loudest and sweetest in the "Imaginary Conversations;" but for the most part his newspaper pieces are feeble and splenetic, unworthy of him. One of his latest composures has relation to Lord Lyndhurst, by whose speech against the revolutionary aliens in England had been excited the ire of the old poet. "In your paper of this day, April 12," he writes to the editor of The Examiner, "I find repeated an expression of Lord Lyndhurst's, which I am certain will be offensive to many of your readers. General Klapka, a man illustrious for his military knowledge, and for his application of it to the defence of his country and her laws, is contemptuously called one Klapka. The most obscure and the most despicable (and those only) are thus designated. Surely to have been called by the acclamations of a whole people to defend the most important of its fortresses is quite as exalted a distinction as to be appointed a Lord Chamberlain or a Lord Chancellor by the favor of one minister, and liable to be dismissed the next morning by another. With all proper respect for the cleverness of Lord Lyndhurst, I must entreat your assistance in discovering one sentence he ever wrote, or spoke, denoting the man of lofty genius or capacious mind. Memorable things he certainly has said—such as calling by the name of aliens a third part of our fellow-subjects in these islands, and by the prefix of a certain to the name of Klapka. It is strange that sound law should not always be sound sense; strange that the great seal of equity should make so faint and indistinct an impression. Klapka will be commemorated and renowned in history as one beloved by the people, venerated by the nobility; whose voice was listened to attentively by the magistrate, enthusiastically by the soldier. The fame of Lord Lyndhurst is ephemeral, confined to the Court of Chancery and the House of Peers; dozens have shared it in each, and have gone to dinner and oblivion. Those, and those alone, are great men whose works or words are destined to be the heirlooms of many generations. God places them where time passes them without erasing their footsteps. Kings can never make them. They, if minded so, could more easily make kings. England hath installed one Chancellor who might have been consummately great, had there only been in his composition the two simple elements of generosity and honesty. Bacon did not hate freedom, or the friends of freedom; and, although he cautiously kept clear of so dangerous a vicinity, he never came voluntarily forth, invoking the vindictive spirit of a dead law to eliminate them in the hour of adversity from their sanctuary."

The Rev. Moses Margoliouth, who was once a Jew, and who last year published a narrative of a journey to Palestine, under the title of "A Visit to the Land of My Fathers," has just given to the world, in three octavos, a History of the Jews in Great Britain. The book is insufferably tame and feeble; the author is of the class called in England "religious flunkies:" a mastiff to the poor and a spaniel to the proud. His first book was disgusting for its feebleness and servility, and this is scarcely better, notwithstanding the richness of its materials and the curious interest of its subject. A good History of the Jews in England will be a work worth reading.

The Ecclesiastical History Society have published in London Strype's Memorials of Cranmer, Heylyn's History of the Reformation, and Field's Treatise of the Church. Strype and Heylyn are more familiar than Field, whose work is a sort of supplement to Hooker's Polity. Field resembled his illustrious master and friend in judgment, temper, and learning. In his own day his reputation was great. James I. regretted, when he heard of his death, that he had not done more for him; Hall, in reference to his own deanery of Worcester, which had been sought for Field, speaks of that "better-deserving divine," who "was well satisfied with greater hopes;" and Fuller, with his accustomed humor of thoughtfulness, bestows his salutation on "that learned divine whose memory smelleth like a field that the Lord hath blessed."

The Life of Wordsworth, by Dr. Christopher Wordsworth, has appeared in London, and with some additions by Professor Henry Reed, of Philadelphia, will soon be issued by Ticknor, Reed & Fields, of Boston. From what the critics write of it we suspect it is a poor affair. The Leader says that, "all things considered, it is perhaps the worst biographical attempt" it "ever waded through." The Examiner and other leading papers admit its dulness as a biography, and its worthlessness in criticism, but claim for it a certain value as a collection of facts respecting the histories of Wordsworth's different poems. The work indeed professes to be no more than a biographical commentary on the poet's writings. It does not even affect to be critical, or to offer any labored exposition of the principles on which Wordsworth's poems were composed. The author describes his illustrious relative as having had no desire that any such disquisition should be written. "He wished that his poems should stand by themselves, and plead their own cause before the tribunal of posterity." Strictly, then, the volumes are so exclusively subordinate and ministerial to the poetry they illustrate, that apart from the latter they possess hardly any interest. By enthusiasts for the poems they will be eagerly read, but to any other class of readers we cannot see that they present attraction. Dr. Wordsworth's part in them, though small, is not particularly well done; and the poet's part almost exclusively consists of personal memoranda connected with his poems dictated in later life, and seldom by any chance refers to any thing but himself.

Nevertheless there are in the volumes many delightful and characteristic details, much genuine and beautiful criticism (chiefly in the poet's letters), and occasional passages of fine sentiment and pure philosophy. Here is Wordsworth's own description of one of his latest visits to London, and of his appearance at court, in a letter to an American correspondent:

"My absence from home lately was not of more than three weeks. I took the journey to London solely to pay my respects to the Queen, upon my appointment to the laureateship upon the decease of my friend Mr. Southey. The weather was very cold, and I caught an inflammation in one of my eyes, which rendered my stay in the south very uncomfortable. I nevertheless did, in respect to the object of my journey, all that was required. The reception given me by the Queen at her ball was most gracious. Mrs. Everett, the wife of your minister, among many others, was a witness to it, without knowing who I was. It moved her to the shedding of tears. This effect was in part produced, I suppose, by American habits of feeling, as pertaining to a republican government. To see a gray-haired man of seventy-five years of age, kneeling down in a large assembly to kiss the hand of a young woman, is a sight for which institutions essentially democratic do not prepare a spectator of either sex, and must naturally place the opinions upon which a republic is founded, and the sentiments which support it, in strong contrast with a government based and upheld as ours is. I am not, therefore, surprised that Mrs. Everett was moved, as she herself described to persons of my acquaintance, among others to Mr. Rogers the poet. By the by, of this gentleman, now I believe in his eighty-third year, I saw more than of any other person except my host, Mr. Moxon, while I was in London. He is singularly fresh and strong for his years, and his mental faculties (with the exception of his memory a little) not at all impaired. It is remarkable that he and the Rev. W. Bowles were both distinguished as poets when I was a schoolboy, and they have survived almost all their eminent contemporaries, several of whom came into notice long after them. Since they became known, Burns, Cowper, Mason the author of 'Caractacus' and friend of Gray, have died. Thomas Warton, Laureate, then Byron, Shelley, Keats, and a good deal later Scott, Coleridge, Crabbe, Southey, Lamb, the Ettrick Shepherd, Cary the translator of Dante, Crowe the author of 'Lewesdon Hill,' and others of more or less distinction, have disappeared. And now of English poets advanced in life, I cannot recall any but James Montgomery, Thomas Moore, and myself, who are living, except the octogenarian with whom I began. I saw Tennyson, when I was in London, several times. He is decidedly the first of our living poets, and I hope will live to give the world still better things. You will be pleased to hear that he expressed in the strongest terms his gratitude to my writings. To this I was far from indifferent, though persuaded that he is not much in sympathy with what I should myself most value in my attempts, viz., the spirituality with which I have endeavored to invest the material universe, and the moral relations under which I have wished to exhibit its most ordinary appearances."

Of the mention of Alfred Tennyson in the foregoing extract the Examiner remarks, that it is perhaps the greatest stretch of appreciation or acknowledgment in regard to any living or contemporary poet in Wordsworth. His mention of Southey's verses is always reserved and dry. He takes no pains to conceal his poor opinion of Scott's. His allusions to Rogers are respectful, but cold. His objection to Byron may be forgiven. There is less reason for his appearing quite to lose his ordinarily calm temper when Goethe is even named, or for his extending this unreasoning dislike to Goethe's great English expositor, Carlyle. Yet we must not omit, on the other hand, what he says of Shelley. Shelley, he admits (much to our surprise), to have been "one of the best artists of us all; I mean in workmanship of style."

The London Standard of Freedom remarks of the article on "Some American Poets" in the last number of Blackwood, that "it assumes more ignorance in England as to American poetry than actually exists." Our readers will readily believe this when advised that the critic regards Longfellow as a greater poet than Bryant! whom he classes with Mrs. Hemans.

M. Comte has quitted metaphysics to reform the calendar, but probably will not succeed better than those who attempted the same thing during the first French revolution. We find a synopsis of his scheme in the Leader. He proposes that each month shall be consecrated to one of the great names that represent the intellectual and social progress of humanity. He specializes the names of Moses, Homer, Aristotle, Archimedes, Cæsar, St. Paul, Charlemagne, Dante, Descartes, Guttenberg (whom he probably thinks had something to do with the invention of printing), Columbus and Frederic the Great, as most appropriate for the designation of the twelve months; recommending, however, particular fêtes for minor heroes in the months under which they may best be grouped—for Augustin, Hildebrand, Bernard, and Bossuet, in St. Paul's month; Alfred and St. Louis, in Charlemagne's month; Richelieu and Cromwell in the month of Frederic the Great, and so on. Supplying a defect of Catholicism in this respect, he proposes what he calls "fêtes of reprobation" for the greatest scoundrels of history—for such retrogressive men as Julian the Apostate, Philip II. of Spain, and Bonaparte, (we don't agree to the classification, unless he means President Louis Napoleon, who indeed is not a great scoundrel, though disposed to be sufficiently retrogressive.) According to this new calendar, a follower of Comte, writing a letter in March, would have to date it as written on such or such a day of Aristotle. We fear the proposal won't do even in France, but this, at least, may be said for it, that it is as good as the Puseyite practice of dating by saints' days, besides being novel, and Parisian, and scientific. Sydney Smith used, in jest of the Puseyite practice, to date his letters "Washing Day—Eve of Ironing Day;" Comte's plan is better than that of the Puseyites—almost as good as Peter Plimley's.

Among the many books lately printed in England upon the ecclesiastical controversies, is one entitled Remonstrance against Romish Corruptions in the Church, addressed to the People and Parliament of England in 1395, now for the first time published, edited by the Rev. F. Forshall. Biographers of Wycliffe have referred to this tract and quoted passages in evidence of the Wycliffite heresies; but they appear to have failed altogether of perceiving its larger scope, or understanding its political bearing and significance. There can hardly be a doubt, as Mr. Forshall suggests, that it was drawn up to influence the famous parliament which met in the eighteenth year of Richard the Second, and which was a scene of unusual excitement on the subject of religion from the sudden clash of the old Papal party with the new and increasing band of patriotic reformers. Wycliffe had then been dead, and his opinions gradually on the increase, for more than ten years. The author of the Remonstrance was his friend John Purvey, who assisted him in the first English version of the Bible, shared with him the duties of his parish, and attended his death-bed. He was the most active of the reformers, the most formidable to the ecclesiastical authorities. Another old MS. from the Cottonian collection in the British Museum, is the Chronicle of Battel Abbey, from 1066 to 1176, now first translated, with Notes, and an Abstract of the subsequent History of the Establishment, by Mark Antony Lower. This is extremely curious, and contains, besides the important histories of the controversies between the ecclesiastical authorities and Henry the Second, some very striking exhibitions of manners.

The vitality of Scott's popularity is shown by the fact that the Edinburgh publishers of his Life and Works printed and sold the following quantities of them during the period from 1st January, 1848, to 26th March, 1851, viz.: Novels (exclusive of the Abbotsford edition), 4,760 sets; Poetical Works, 4,360; Prose Writings, 850; Life, 2,610; Tales of a Grandfather (independently of those included in the complete sets of the Prose Works), 2,990; and Selections, 4,420. It may serve as a "curiosity of literature" to give a summary of the printing of the Writings and Life since June, 1829, when they came under the management of the late proprietor, Mr. Cadell: Waverley Novels, 78,270 sets; Poetical Works, 41,340; Prose Works, 8,260; Life, 26,860; Tales of a Grandfather (independently of those included in the complete sets of the Prose Works), 22,190; Selections, 7,550. The popularity to which the "People's Edition" has attained appears from the fact that the following numbers, originally published in weekly sheets, have been printed: Novels, 7,115,197; Poetry, 674,955; Prose, 269,406; Life, 459,291; total sheets, 8,518,849.

The whole copyrights, stocks, &c., of Scott's works, as possessed for many years by Cadell, have now been transferred to the hands of Messrs. Adam and Charles Black. The copyrights and stock have been acquired by the present purchasers for £27,000, or £10,000 less than Mr. Cadell paid for copyrights alone.

Elizabeth Barret Browning has published a new poem, Casa Guidi Windows, which gives a vivid picture of the tumult and heroism of Italian struggles for independence, as seen from the poet's windows, at Florence, with the fervid commentary of her hopes and aspirations.

A novel by Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, published by Mr. Hart, of Philadelphia, has been dramatized by Mr. Henry Paul Howard, for the Haymarket Theatre in London, and brought out in a very splendid style, with J. W. Wallack in the leading character.

Colonel Cunningham, a son-in-law of Viscount Hardinge, has just published in London "Glimpses of the Great Western Republic in the year 1850."

We shall look with much interest for the result of the new scheme for the encouragement of life assurance, economy, &c., among literary men and artists in England. To bring this project into general notice, and to form the commencement of the necessary funds, Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, one of its originators, has written and presented to his associates in the cause, a new comedy in five acts, under the significant title, Not So Bad as we Seem. It was to be produced on the sixteenth ult., under the management of Mr. Charles Dickens, in a theatre constructed for the purpose, and performed by Robert Bell, Wilkie Collins, Dudley Costello, Peter Cunningham, Charles Dickens, Augustus Egg, A.R.A., John Forster, R. H. Horne, Douglass Jerrold, Charles Knight, Mark Lemon, J. Westland Marston, Frank Stone, and others. The tickets were twenty-five dollars each, and the Queen and Prince Albert were to be present. The comedy is hereafter to be performed in public; and the promoters of the scheme are sanguine of its success. Mr. Maclise has offered to paint a picture (the subject to be connected with the performance of the comedy), and to place it at the disposal of the guild, for the augmentation of its funds. The prospects are encouraging.

The Rev. C. G. Finney, so well known in the Presbyterian churches of this country, has passed some time in London, and an edition of his Lectures on Systematic Theology has just been published there, with a preface by the Rev. Dr. Redford, of Worcester, who confesses, that "when a student he would gladly have bartered half the books in his library to have gained a single perusal of these Lectures; and he cannot refrain from expressing the belief, that no young student of theology will ever regret their purchase or perusal." The book makes an octavo of 1016 pages.

"Talvi," the wife of Professor Robinson, will leave New-York in a few days, we understand, to pass some time in her native country. She will be absent a year and a half, and will reside chiefly in Berlin. We have recently given an account of the life and writings of this very eminent and admirable woman, in the International, and are among the troops of friends who wish her all happiness in the fatherland, and a safe return to the land of her adoption. We presume the public duties of Dr. Robinson will prevent him from being absent more than a few weeks.

Albert Smith has dramatised a tale from Washington Irving's "Alhambra" for the Princess's Theatre—making a burlesque comedy.

Mrs. Southworth must be classed among our most industrious writers. The Appletons have just published a new novel by her, entitled The Mother-in-Law, and she has two others in press—one of which is appearing from week to week in the National Era.

Dr. Spring, whose religious writings appear to be as popular in Great Britain as in this country, and every where to be regarded as among the classics of practical religious literature, has issued a second edition of his two octavos entitled First Things. In style, temper, and all the best qualities of such works, the discourses embraced in this work are deserving of eminent praise. (M. W. Dodd.)

Of Henry Martin, whom the religious world regards with a reverent affection like that it gives to Cowper and Heber, the hitherto unpublished Letters and Journals have just appeared, and they seem to us even more interesting than the so well-known Memoirs of his Life published soon after he died. (M. W. Dodd.)

Mrs. Sigourney has published a volume entitled Letters to my Pupils, with Narrative and Biographical Sketches. It embraces reminiscences of her experience as a teacher, and we have read none of her prose compositions that are more suggestive or more pleasing. (Robert Carter & Brothers.)

A Life of Algernon Sydney, by G. Van Santvoord (a new author), has been published by Charles Scribner. To describe the history and writings of this noble republican was a task worthy of an American scholar. Mr. Van Santvoord has performed it excellently well.

Bayard Taylor and R. H. Stoddard have new volumes of poems in the press of Ticknor, Reed & Fields, of Boston, and that house has never published original volumes of greater merit, or that will be more popular.

The Poems of William P. Mulchinock, in one volume, lately published by Mr. Strong, Nassau-street, appear to have been received with singular favor by the critics. Mr. Mulchinock has remarkable fluency, and a genial spirit. His book contains specimens of a great variety of styles, and some pieces of much merit.

Ticknor & Co. have published a novelette entitled The Solitary, by Santaine, the author of "Picciola." It is of the Robinson Crusoe sort of books—better than any other imitation of Defoe.

The Pocket Companion, for Machinists, Mechanics, and Engineers, by Oliver Byrne, is a remarkable specimen of perspicuous condensation. In a beautiful pocket-book it embraces for the classes for whom it is designed the pith of two or three ordinary octavos.

Among the new volumes of poems is one of Dramatic and Miscellaneous Pieces, by Charles James Cannon, published by Edward Dunigan. Mr. Cannon is a writer of much cultivation, and, in his dramatic poems, especially, there are passages of much force and elegance.

Mr. John E. Warren, whose pleasant letters from the south of Europe were a chief attraction of some of the early numbers of the International, has in the press of Putnam, to be published in a few days, Paria, or Scenes and Adventures on the Banks of the Amazon. He saw that magnificent but little known country under such peculiar advantages, and he writes with such spirit and so natural a grace, that we may promise the public one of the most delightful books of the season in "Paria." Here is a specimen, from the opening chapter.

"The shades of evening were gathering fast upon the waters, when the little bark, in which we had safely crossed the wide expanse of ocean, now quietly anchored in the mighty river of the Amazons. Through the rich twilight we were able to discern the white sandy shore, skirting a dense forest of perennial luxuriance and beauty. Gentle zephyrs, fraught with the most delightful fragrance from the wilderness of flowers, softly saluted our senses; while occasionally the plaintive voices of southern nightingales came with mellowed sweetness to our ears. The moon, unobscured by a single cloud, threw an indescribable charm over the enchanting scene, reflecting her brilliant rays upon the placid surface of the river, and shrouding the beautiful foliage of the forest in a drapery of gold. Innumerable stars brightly glittered in the firmament, and the constellation of the 'Southern Cross' gleamed above us like a diadem. All around seemed to be wrapped in the most profound repose. Not a sound disturbed the silence of the interminable solitude save the hushed and mournful notes of evening birds, the distant howling of prowling jaguars, or the rustling of the wind through the forest trees. Nature appeared to us, for the first time, in her pristine loveliness, and seemed indeed, to our excited imagination, to present but a dreamy picture of fairy land.

"At an early hour in the morning we weighed anchor, and with a fresh breeze and strong tide rapidly moved up the noble river, gliding by the most beautiful scenery that fancy can conceive. The nearly impenetrable forest which lined the shore was of a deep emerald green, and consisted of exceedingly lofty trees, of remarkably curious and grotesque figures, interlaced together by numerous vines, the interstices of which were filled up with magnificent shrubbery. We observed, towering high above the surrounding trees, many singular species of palms, among which the far-famed cocoa-nut probably stood pre-eminent. This beautiful tree gives a peculiar witchery to a tropical landscape, which those only who have seen it can possibly realize. The trunk grows up perfectly perpendicular to a great height, before it throws out its curious branches, which bend over as gracefully as ostrich plumes, and quiver in the slightest breeze. Consequently, the general appearance of the tree at a distance is somewhat similar to that of an umbrella.

"As we gradually proceeded, we now and then caught a glimpse of smiling cottages, with the snug little verandahs and red-tiled roofs peering from amid the foliage of the river's banks, and giving, as it were, a character of sociability and animation to the beauteous scene. Perhaps the most interesting spot that we noticed was an estate bearing the name of Pinherios, which had been formerly the site of a Carmelite convent, but which was lately sold to the government for a 'Hospital dos Lazaros.' Here also was an establishment for the manufacture of earthenware tiles, which are extensively used throughout the Brazilian empire for roofing houses.

"So low is the valuation of land in this section of Brazil, that this immense estate, embracing within its limits nearly three thousand acres, and situated, as it is, within twenty miles of the city of Para, was sold for a sum equivalent to about four thousand dollars. This may be taken as a fair standard of the value of real estate in the vicinity of Para. That of the neighboring islands is comparatively trifling; while there are millions of fertile acres now wholly unappropriated, which offer the richest inducements to emigrants who may be disposed to direct their fortunes thither.

"The city of Para is delightfully situated on the southern branch of the Amazon, called, for the sake of distinction, 'The Para River.' It is the principal city of the province of the same name,—an immense territory, which has very appropriately been styled 'The Paradise of Brazil.' The general aspect of the place, with its low venerable looking buildings of solid stone, its massive churches and moss-grown ruins, its red-tiled roofs and dingy-white walls, the beautiful trees of its gardens, and groups of tall banana plants peeping up here and there among the houses, constituted certainly a scene of novelty, if not of elegance and beauty.

"The first spectacle which arrested our attention on landing was that of a number of persons of both sexes and all ages bathing indiscriminately together in the waters of the river, in a state of entire nudity. We observed among them several finely-formed Indian girls of exceeding beauty, dashing about in the water like a troop of happy mermaids. The heat of the sun was so intense that we ourselves were almost tempted to seek relief from its overpowering influence by plunging precipitately amid the joyous throng of swimmers. But we forbore!

"The natives of Para are very cleanly, and indulge in daily ablutions; nor do they confine their baths to the dusky hours of evening, but may be seen swimming about the public wharves at all hours of the day. The government has made several feeble efforts to put a restraint upon these public exposures, but at the time of our departure all rules and regulations on the subject were totally disregarded by the natives. The city is laid out with considerable taste and regularity, but the streets are very narrow, and miserably paved with large and uneven stones. The buildings generally are but of one story in height, and are, with few exceptions, entirely destitute of glass windows; a kind of latticed blind is substituted, which is so constructed that it affords the person within an opportunity of seeing whatever takes place in the street, without being observed in return. This lattice opens towards the street, and thus affords great facilities to the beaux and gentlemen of gallantry, who, by stepping under this covering, can have an agreeable tête-à-tête with their fair mistresses, as secretly almost as if they were in a trellised arbor together.

"We noticed several strange spectacles as we slowly walked through the city. Venders of fruit marching about, with huge baskets on their heads, filled with luscious oranges, bananas, mangoes, pineapples, and other choice fruits of the tropics; groups of blacks, carrying immense burdens in the same manner; invalids reclining in their hammocks, or ladies riding in their gay-covered palanquins, supported on men's shoulders; and water-carriers moving along by the side of their heavily-laden horses or mules."

In his excursions along the small streams which penetrate the forests our traveller met with some magnificent scenes. Here is a description of one of them:

"Now the grassy table-land would extend away for miles to our left, gemmed here and there with solitary trees, waving their branches mournfully in the wind, and looking like spectres in the mystic starlight. On the outer side, a gloomy yet splendid wilderness ran along the margin of the stream, flinging tall shadows across the water, and adding grandeur to the imposing landscape. As we advanced the brook gradually narrowed, and became more and more crooked in its course, until finally the thick clustering foliage met in a prolonged arch of verdure over our heads.

"While winding through this natural labyrinth, the sun emerged from his oriental couch, and besprinkled us with a shower of luminous beams, which, falling through the interstices of the leaves, seemed like the spirits of so many diamonds. A more divine spectacle of beauty never was beheld. The most gorgeous creations of the poet's imagination, if realized, could not surpass in magnificence this sun-lighted arbor, with its roses and flowers of varied hues, all set like stars in a canopy of green. Sprightly humming-birds flitted before us, sparkling like jewels for a moment, then vanishing away from our sight for ever. Butterflies with immense wings, and moths of gay and striking colors, flew also from flower to flower, seeming like appropriate inhabitants of this little paradise. But the indefatigable mosquitoes, who were continually pouncing upon our unprotected faces and hands, as well as the mailed caymans, who now and then plunged under our canoe with a terrific snort, preserved in us the conviction of our own mortality.

"As we were moving through a wider passage of the stream, a sudden noise in the bushes on our left arrested our attention; in a moment after, we perceived a large animal running as expeditiously as he was able along the banks of the stream. We immediately raised our guns simultaneously and fired. Although we evidently gave the creature their full contents, yet it produced no other visible effect than to cause him to give a boisterous snort, and then dart away furiously into the heart of the thicket."

Here is something much more natural than Melville's introduction of Fayaway:

"Among our olive-complexioned neighbors were two young girls, whose fine forms and pretty faces especially elicited our admiration. The one was named Teresa, the other Florana. The former could not have been more than fourteen years of age, and was rather short in stature, with exquisitely rounded arms, and a bust of noble development; the latter was somewhat taller, and at least three years older; they both, however, had attained their full size. Animated as they were beautiful, they were always overflowing with vivacity and life; their conversation, which was incessant, was like the chirping of nightingales, and their laughter, like strings of musical pearls. These, then, beloved reader, were, during our stay at least, decidedly the belles of Jungcal. At the close of every day we were visited by all the juveniles in the place, who, in their own sweet tongue, bade us 'adieus,' and at the same time besought our blessing, which latter request we only answered by patting them gently on the head. The pretty maidens we have just alluded to, instead of shaking hands with us, were accustomed to salute us at eventide with a kiss on either cheek. The propriety of this we at first doubted, but the more we reflected upon the sweetness and innocence of the damsels, the more inclined were we to pardon them; and, in fact, we finally began to think their manner much more sensible and agreeable than that of those who consider any thing beyond cold and formal shaking of hands a grievous sin. Besides, it must be borne in mind, that this was a sacred custom of the place, which it would have been great rudeness in us to have resisted. Therefore, kind reader, do not judge us too severely; for know, O chary one! that extreme bashfulness and modesty have always been considered two of our principal failings! One day, Teresa and Florana invited us to take a bathe with them in the stream. This we declined point-blank. They then charged us with fear of alligators. This was a poser—our courage was now called in question, and we were literally forced to submit. Pray what else could we have done under the circumstances? When they had once got us into the water they took ample revenge upon us for the uncourteous manner in which we had at first treated their request. As we were encumbered by our clothes, they had altogether the advantage, and, in less than ten minutes, we cried out lustily for quarter, but no quarter would they give us, and, to tell the truth, we were somewhat apprehensive of being drowned by them, to say nothing of being devoured by bloodthirsty alligators. Emerging from the water, we walked up to Anzevedo's cottage, revolving in our mind the severe ordeal through which we had just passed, and determined henceforth never to refuse any request, sweetened by the lips of a pretty maiden, unless, perchance (though highly improbable), she should ask us for our heart! which, alas! we have not to give...."

An Album sent to the great Exhibition by the Emperor of Austria, and to be presented after the show to Victoria, is thus described by a Vienna correspondent of the Times: "It contains the notes in manuscript of the national airs and dances, and far surpasses any thing that I have ever seen in the bookbinding department. On one side there are fourteen exquisite vignettes in oil colors, representing different national costumes; the ornaments in enamel, carved ivory, and ebony, are exquisite. A second album contains the works of the ancient and modern Austrian composers; the third, Austrian scenery, by different native artists. The bindings of some of the two hundred and seventy volumes of Austrian authors will also not fail to excite the astonishment—I had almost said the envy—of the trade. The whole will form a truly imperial gift."