LITERARY NOTICES.
Reading edition
The King of the Mountains. From the French of Edmond About, Author of 'The Roman Question,' 'Germaine,' etc. By Mary L. Booth. With an Introduction by Epes Sargent, Esq. In one volume: pp. 300. Boston: J. E. Tilton and Company, Number 601 Washington-street.
Monsieur About is said to have scared His Holiness, the Pope, the kind and benevolent Pio Nono, (if we may trust any of all the numerous portraits and drawings which we have encountered of him,) in his book upon 'The Roman Question.' The author's very name may have had something to do with it. He was 'about'—he was 'areöund': and the 'French' of his cognomen, as pronounced by his countrymen, was in itself suggestive of at least a signal of alarm—'Ah-booh!' But this aside: the book is a remarkable one, in many respects: and like its predecessors from the same pen, it will make an 'abiding mark' among the artistically-transferred literature to our own, from a foreign tongue. This narrative of 'The King of the Mountains' is not at all complicated. Regarded as an artistical picture, we may say with truth that 'the canvas is neither confused nor crowded.' The story is supposed to be told by a young German botanist. He proceeds to Greece with the purpose of herbalizing in the mountains. 'Carried away by a scientific enthusiasm—the most common and the most pardonable—he becomes the prisoner of a remarkable brigand, Hadgi-Stavros, the King of the Mountains. He is not alone in his captivity. An English lady and her daughter—the former a striking portrait of a class of weak and consequential tourists, and the latter a thing to be admired and loved by any German, or any American, for that matter, under the circumstances supposed—are the hero's fellow-prisoners. The greater part of the book is taken up with a description of the character, positions, resources, habits and influence of the brigand chief; the temporary captivity of the party, who are made prisoners for the sake of a large ransom, actually in view of Athens, (such is the state of the government and police of that thriving kingdom!) and their final ransom and escape. But there are other dramatis personæ beside Mrs. Simons, who is a sort of Mrs. Nickleby, an Anglaise pour ire, and Miss Simons, who does not take after her mother. There are down at the Piræus an American named Harris, a young Athenian girl, hight Photini, and a Frenchman whose ruling passions are archæology and philanthropy. 'He had been rewarded by some provincial academy for an essay on the price of paper in the time of Orpheus. Encouraged by his first success, he had made a journey to Greece to collect materials for a work on the quantity of oil consumed by the lamp of Demosthenes while he was writing the second Philippic.' Harris, the American, is evidently a favorite character with M. About. He invests him with all the best attributes of our countrymen, and makes every adventure in which he is a participator honorable to his gallantry and sagacity: 'The first time I dined with this strange fellow I comprehended America. John was born at Vandalia, Illinois. He inhaled at his birth that air of the New World, so vivacious, so sparkling and so brisk, that it goes to the head like champagne wine, and one gets intoxicated in breathing it. I know not whether the Harris family are rich or poor; whether they sent their son to college or left him to get his own education. It is certain that at twenty-seven years he depends only on himself; trusts only to himself, is astonished at nothing, thinks nothing impossible, never flinches, believes all things, hopes all things, tries all things; triumphs in all, rises up again if he falls, never stops, never loses courage.' One of the best of our American critics, Mr. Bryant, remarks of this book: 'No work of modern times, even in an English dress, serves to convey so capital an idea of the style which made Voltaire famous, as this last agreeable romance of the author of 'The Roman Question.' It is just such a story as Talleyrand would have told over his chocolate, and Sydney Smith relished and decorated with impromptu comment.'
The Literary and Professional Works of Francis Bacon, Baron of Verulam, Viscount St. Albans, and Lord High Chancellor of England. Volume II. of the 'Literary and Professional Works': pp. 454. Boston: Brown and Taggard.
Our first praise of this series of Bacon's works must be paid to that feature which first appeals to us through the eye—its typographical execution, by Houghton, of the 'River-side Press' at Cambridge, near Boston, which may be pronounced fully equal to that of the first English printing in choice library editions of kindred standard works. The volume before us contains, with translations, Bacon's eulogium upon Henry Prince of Wales, and the characters of Julius and Augustus Cæsar—the original Latin, with translation. Also amendments and corrections inserted by Bacon in a manuscript copy of Camden's Annals. Then follow, prefaced by a curious bibliographical note by Mr. Spedding, the 'Essays or Counsels, Civil and Moral,' published from 1597 to 1625, (the year before his death,) which exhibit 'the earliest and the latest fruits of Bacon's observation in that field in which its value has been most approved by universal and undiminished popularity. These fifty-eight Essays, so wise and so eloquent in their simple yet forcible diction, occupy the greater portion of the volume, and the editor has translated the Latin quotations and added some necessary notes. There is an appendix to the essays, containing a Fragment of an Essay on Fame; reprints of the first edition of 1597, containing only ten, and of the second edition of 1612, with thirty-eight essays, and two essays attributed to Bacon without authority; but, notwithstanding some similarity of style, marked by Mr. Spedding as spurious. There is, also, Bacon's treatise De Sapientia Veterum, itself a curiously learned book, the translation of which will appear in a future volume. 'Bacon was one of the most remarkable men the world has ever seen. His character is a remarkable compound of the greatest nobleness and the most contemptible meanness. But of his intellect, no two opinions have ever been expressed. If we knew Bacon only by his works, we should be bound to esteem him to be as good as he was undeniably a great man.'
Guesses at Truth. By Two Brothers. From the fifth London edition. Boston: Ticknor and Fields.
The Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are still without rival or peer, notwithstanding that Lacon has given us some good apothegms, and Martin Farquhar Tupper, who undertook to render King Solomon into polite English, has had an amazing 'run.' A good proverb is always acceptable: a poor one vexes us always, because the maker assumes the position of teacher, and has no right to be either stupid or mediocre. To set one thinking is more difficult, and indeed more laudable, than to furnish one with thoughts; as it is more praiseworthy to put one in the way of earning a living, than merely to bestow a charity. It is easy, however, to assume the air oracular; in fact there is more or less strength, prima facia, in a pretentious position; and a platitude let off under cover of high-sounding words may be very imposing. We have in 'Guesses at Truth,' a book of five hundred and fifty-five pages, originally published in England more than thirty years ago by two brothers, clergymen, we believe, and now reprinted by the respectable house of Ticknor and Fields. We have looked carefully through the volume; and for once are forced to differ with the publishers as to the taste of reproducing the book here. With the exception of some very fair criticisms on Shakspeare, Milton, and one or two others, borrowed a good deal from Goethe and Schlegel, and certain extended disquisitions absorbed evidently from Wordsworth and Coleridge, the book is utterly common-place. A good deal of it we remember to have met with in our various newspaper clippings—a good deal we confess never to have before encountered. In 'Guesses at Truth' the French come in for very severe hits from the 'Two Brothers' whenever opportunity serves: they are full of the English prejudices of the last century. Mark the following sagacious comparison: 'The French rivers partake of the national character. [We should think it would be just the reverse.—Ed.] Many of them look broad, grand and imposing, but they have no depth; and the greatest river in the country, the Rhone, loses half its usefulness from the impetuosity of its current!' Hear this precious piece of intelligence: 'France—the only region between Lapland and Morocco where youth is without bloom, and age without dignity!' Here is something new about the 'best talkers in the world:' 'Talk to a dozen Englishmen on any subject: there will be something peculiar and characteristic in the remarks of each. Talk to a dozen Frenchmen: they will all make the very same remark, and almost in the same words.' But let us give the reader a specimen of the more abstract 'Guesses:' 'What a pity it is there are so many words! Whenever one wants to say any thing, three or four ways of saying it run into one's head together; and one can't tell which to choose. It is as troublesome or as puzzling as choosing a ribbon or a husband.' Read the following. It is Blackstonian: 'A use must have preceded an abuse properly so called.' The next strikes us as exceedingly original: 'A little management may often evade resistance which a vast force might vainly strive to overcome.' And this: 'Children always turn toward the light. Oh! that grown-up people in this world would become like little children!' The art-world owes much for what follows: 'A portrait has one advantage over its original: it is unconscious; and so you may admire without insulting it. I have seen portraits which have more.' (Sic.) Here is something worthy a place in the 'Rules of Etiquette:' 'A compliment is usually accompanied by a bow, as if to beg pardon for paying it.' We have puzzled over the following and 'give it up:' 'What way of circumventing a man can be so easy and suitable as a period? The name should be enough to put us on our guard; the experience of every age is not.' Further on we read: 'Truth endues man's purposes with somewhat of immutability.' This reminds us of the cautious writer who stated that 'most men were mortal!'
For further examples of senseless platitudes dictatorially expressed, we refer the reader to the work passim. There is nothing more ridiculous than the deliberate sitting-down to write a book of proverbs and reflections. How unlike the genuine flow of the table-talk of some of our best men or the words of wisdom forced, as it were, from the lips of experience. In short, we are sick of pompous mediocrity on stilts: of that placid egotism which complacently assumes the office of guide and teacher, though incapable of aught but the tedious common-place. We do not want the thoughts of great men passed through such alembics—in fact, we much prefer to dilute our own proverbs if they prove too strong for us.
'Guesses at Truth' is beautifully printed on fine paper with clear type; after the newest style of the accomplished publishers. We regret to say the text is marred by the change of spelling of words ending in ed. Thus we find: reacht, lookt, discust, toucht, fixt, packt, etc., etc.—instead of reached, looked, discussed, touched, fixed, packed. 'As the body to the soul, so the word to the thought,' and we do not believe in thus mutilating what we are led by habit at least to consider a fair proportion.
Professor Valentine Mott's Surgical Cliniques in the University of New-York. Session 1859-60. Reported by Samuel W. Francis, M.D.
This volume, which is gotten up in the best style of typography, and illustrated with many superior engravings, embraces a report of nearly one hundred surgical cases treated by the eminent surgeon, Professor Valentine Mott, M.D. The treatment of the cases is simple and judicious, and they are narrated clearly and concisely. The work is of great practical value and interest to the medical profession, and reflects credit on its able reporter, Dr. Samuel W. Francis. It is embellished with a very accurate portrait of Professor Mott.
Wa-Wa-Wanda: A Legend of Old Orange. In one Volume: pp. 280. New-York: Rudd and Carleton, Corner of Grand and Crosby-streets.
This is a book seriously written, containing the narrative of an old Indian called Winter Pippin. The author, declining the trouble of giving us a measure of his own, which certainly the originality of his work demands, has modestly employed that of Mr. Longfellow's Hiawatha, for which Mr. Longfellow ought to be very grateful.
The book before us—the work, a-hem!—on our table—reader, it's no use; we can't write prose after reading it. We are alone in our sanctum—no friend present to hold us in. We are wound up to a pitch of excitement, the case is desperate, it must come. O shade of Winter Pippin, listen!
Here's a poem as is a poem, Poem writ for all the ages; Poem sung by Winter Pippin, 'Winter Pippin—Piping Pippin.' Should you ask us, gentle reader, Is it twaddle, sorry twaddle? Is it bosh and utter nonsense, Nonsense all, not worth the paper, Or the ink with which 'tis printed? We should answer, we should tell you, Buy the book and read it, read it, Pay your last red dollar for it, For this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.' Say no more, O carping critic! That our time hath borne no poet; Poet born to chant the chorus, Chorus of the mighty Present; Sing the age—its living genius, Sing the age—its grand upheavings, Sleepy nations slow awaking, Crownless kings with ague shaking; Sing the night, chased by the morning, Sing the day that now is dawning. Mourn no more, O wailing critic! For HE's come. His name is Pippin, Winter Pippin—not a Greening, Not a Golden, but a Pippin— And he sings in sweetest measure, Sings this song of 'Wa-wa-wanda.' (How it rhymes with 'goosey gander.') Shades of Homer, Shakspeare, Milton! From your graves rise up and greet him, Greet him with your heads uncovered, Beavers doffed, with low obeisance, All your hats off in his presence. Minstrel! thou who now art singing, Singing through this mighty nation, (Greatest nation in creation,) Henry Wadsworth, long-drawn FELLOW, Ye who sang of Hiawatha, Sang the charming golden legend, Sang the voices of the darkness, Cease your singing, hush your fiddle, Hang your jews-harp on the willows. Whittier, too, and tuneful Lowell, Funny Holmes, and graceful Stoddard, Ye who soar in upper ether, Feel at home the while you're up there— Down at once, and fold your pinions, Fold them, for the Eagle soareth, Soareth where ye cannot follow. All ye poets, Yankee poets, Go to bed and sleep upon it, Ere again ye sound the cymbals, Sound the cymbals, wake the echoes Which have floated o'er the waters, Floated sweetly o'er the waters, Till far-distant climes have heard them. Time and space would surely fail us, Were we now to show the beauties, Show the beauties of this poem, Poem writ for all the ages; How there lived a cider-maker, 'He, the first of cider-makers; How his cunning built a saw-mill, Sawed right through the Western country, Into cask-staves sawed the forests, Threw the slabs in the Pacific, Threw the scrags in the Missouri.' How he squeezed the juicy apples, How he loved the juicy cider, How he thought the world a barrel, Bound together by a cooper, Filled with cider to the bung-hole; How he feared 'twould 'burst its hoops off, Burst its hoops and split asunder;' How it didn't split asunder, But on fire was set one evening, When the careless sun, retiring, 'Went to sleep and left his candle, Slept and left his candle burning; And it caught the chamber-curtains, Caught and set them all a-blazing.' How he thought, in month of August, Draco the meridian straddles, 'Elongates himself to northward, Nine degrees and twenty northward; And then thirteen more to westward, Takes another twist, and downward Slaps his tail of starry spangles In the face of Ursa Major.' How, one day, 'Aurora opened Not as wide as wont her portals; And the day-king, Phæton driving, Ran against and brake the gate-posts: Day of dash and dark disaster; And with sun-dogs set, the heavens Frowned affronted, scowled and scolded.' 'Hold! no more! in mercy spare me!' Thus the reader now is pleading. Can it be that taste poetic From the world has fled forever? Can such lofty, moving numbers, Tire the reader in a second, Tire him in a fleeting second? Ere we part, O mighty poet! Poet of the tuneful numbers, Hear, oh! hear, our meek petition: Hear an ancient Knickerbocker! Greatly long we once to see thee, Once to gaze upon thy visage, Once to hear the voice that sung it, Once to press the hand that wrote it, Once to feel the bumps that thought it, Once to clip the hair it came through; (Clip a lock off for a locket.) Once to tell thee all our wonder, All our joy at this thy music, Music sweet as 'Goosey-Gander,' Music sung of 'Wa-Wa-Wanda,' Music sung of apple-cider. Call on us, O mighty Pippin! At our snug and quiet sanctum, Sanctum in the second story, Of the building fifth in number, Fifth in street that men call Beekman, In the city known as Gotham; And—our word is now at stake, Sir, You our beaver hat can take, Sir, Take our hat, our cherished beaver!
Lewis' New Gymnastics for Ladies, Gentlemen and Children: and Boston Journal of Physical Culture: a Monthly Journal: pp. 16. Edited by Dr. D. Lewis of Boston.
We have seen only one number of this work; but we are so much pleased with the plan and general execution of this first issue, that we give it a cordial welcome and commend it to the American people as worthy of the most liberal patronage. There is no subject upon which the men and women of our country, and even the professed educators of the rising generation, are more profoundly ignorant than that of physical culture; and until the laws of physical health are better understood and observed, we need not expect much increase in intellectual or moral vigor. We wish to see on this continent a race of noble men and women, alike healthy and robust in body and in mind. Therefore we hail joyfully every instrumentality which wisely aims to improve the race. Dr. Lewis has for many years been devoted to the subject of physical education, and his new and admirable system of gymnastic training has elicited the warmest expressions of approbation from those who have witnessed its beneficent results. We bespeak for his noble enterprise the liberal patronage which it so richly merits. The specimen number of his excellent paper now before us, is alone worth nearly the price of the year's subscription, which is but a single dollar.
Considerations on Some of the Elements and Conditions of Social Welfare and Human Progress: being Academical and Occasional Discourses and Other Pieces. By C. S. Henry, D.D. In one Volume: pp. 415. New-York: D. Appleton and Company.
This volume, the writer admits in the outset, contains some things which are not quite in unison with the tone of popular opinion, particularly in relation to the working of our political institutions, and to our future fortunes as a nation. 'But who is the better lover of his country,' he asks, 'he who lulls the people with soft strains of pleasing adulation, and kindles their fancy with bright pictures of future greatness and glory; or he who tells them of the rocks and dangers which are around them, and of the conditions on which their safety depends?' The author professes to 'love his country as much as any man that breathes;' but he does not think the best way to show it is by perpetual eulogies on our superiority as a nation: he does not think that the best way to make a 'glorious future' of our country sure, is to be forever casting brilliant horoscopes, without a single suggestion of the possibilities of disaster and defeat. 'At all events,' he adds, 'there are enough to flatter our self-love; let one faithful friend be permitted to point out our faults: there are enough to cry peace and safety; let one voice of warning be tolerated.' The discussions of the volume touch upon great problems of human thought, and embrace questions of high scientific and practical interest. Of the themes treated of, there may be mentioned the following: 'The Importance of Elevating the Intellectual Spirit of the Nation;' 'The Position and Duties of the Educated Men of the Country;' 'The True Idea of the University, and its Relation to a Complete System of Public Instruction;' 'California, and the Historical Significance of its Acquisition;' 'The Providence of God the Genius of Human History;' 'Young America: the True Idea of Progress;' together with papers upon 'The Destination of the Human Race,' (a somewhat bold 'subject,' and scarcely capable of safe 'handling,') 'Remarks on Mr. Bancroft's Oration on Human Progress;' 'President-Making,' in 'Three Letters to the Hon. Josiah Quincy,' and a dissertation on 'Politics and the Pulpit.' Here, as our readers may perceive, are ample 'fields of thought:' and in the library at 'Greystones' they have been cultivated to much fructification. Let us give a slight taste of our author's quality: thereabout especially where he speaks, in terse, significant, unmistakable language, in respect of 'The University' proper, with its 'True Idea and Relations.' Observe, please, that he considers 'self-made men' as being deprived, by lack of a truly 'liberal' education, of numerous scholarly 'tools,' by the use of which they might greatly have advanced their 'name and fame.' In these matter-full sentences, reader, you may consider 'Dr. Oldham, of Greystones' ('are you there, old Truepenny?') seated in his beautiful library, now rendered famous, and cogitating upon 'self-made men' and their mistaken judgment, sometimes, in regard to the advantages to be derived from a sound and thorough university education. This is the portrait of one Quintus Queerleigh, able editor of 'The Daily Trumpet:'
'He is politician, philanthropist, social reformer, believer in social progress, in divinity of the people, (except those who differ from him,) believer in every thing more than in the wisdom of the Past. Clever man. Really able. Of manifold abilities. Can write. Can think, too. Says many wise and good things. Honest perhaps. So some think him. Great believer in himself, no doubt; perhaps an honest believer in truth—that which he thinks such. But not a learned man. A self-made man: with the one-sidedness that often belong to such men. He has already in advance opposed you. He bloweth with his trumpet to the people, to warn them against you. He telleth them that Common Schools are for the people: Colleges and Universities are only to pamper the pride of the rich, the grinders of the faces of the people. He bloweth with his Trumpet against the legislators—warning them of the wrath of the people, if they take the people's money to build up or sustain aristocratic institutions, contrary to the Gospel of Progress which the Trumpet proclaimeth: 'Peace on earth; and every man's coat cut the same length with his neighbor's. 'Useless institutions, too,' saith Queerleigh. 'Look at me. Am not I an able editor, politician, social reformer, writer, thinker? No college made me. I made myself. That is the way to make men.'
'Foolish Queerleigh! Foolish able editor! Knowest thou not that there was a stuff in thee, and a spirit that has made thee an exception to the general rule? Few men, perhaps, with thy lack of advantages, would make themselves as able as thou art. But with the advantages thou lackedst, many might. Beside, clever as thou art, able editor, writer, thinker, thou art not a learned man. No disgrace. How shouldst thou be? The thing for thee to be ashamed of is, that thou shouldst decry what thou hast not. For, those who are both as able as thou art, and as learned as thou art not, have said and testified in many ways, from age to age, that learning, high learning and science, and the discipline that comes with them, are good things, and minister to the greater ability of the ablest of able men. Hadst thou started in thy career of life possessed of the manifold culture and accomplishment of a thoroughly educated man, thou mightest have beaten thy actual self as much as thou now beatest many a printer's apprentice with whom thou didst begin thy career.'
Hear, also, what our author saith of one Ptolemy Tongue-End—patriot, democrat, demagogue, orator; who blows with his noisy breath a blast very much in unison with the 'Daily Trumpet:'
'He 'stumpeth' at Ward meetings. Unlike editor Queerleigh, he has no faith in the people, except in their gullibleness—no faith in any thing except the wisdom of buttering his bread with the people's money. So he blows any blast that he thinks may help him to the favor of the sovereign people. He getteth into the legislature, and there opposes, with great wrath and noise, all grants to Colleges—calling them anti-democratic; though he knows in his heart all the while that it is, of all things in the world, the most democratic, that the people should be taxed for the endowment of the highest institutions of learning, free to all, as are the Common Schools—that so the children of the people, out of the pockets of the rich, may receive an education that shall enable them to take their share in the great prizes of life. For nothing is more true than that the great prizes of life (other things being equal) are grasped by those who have the highest, most thorough and liberal education; and without a great and perfect system of free Public Instruction, including the University and the Colleges, as well as the Common Schools, the children of the poor are, as a general rule, condemned to a hopeless disadvantage, in competition with the sons of the rich, in all the higher careers of life. There may be exceptional cases: but such must be the rule. This is so patent and palpable, it seems to me, to every man of common-sense and common candor, that I have little patience with the false and stupid twaddle which hollow-hearted demagogues, like Tongue-end, or hopelessly wrong-headed able editors, like Queerleigh, are perpetually pouring into the ears of the unenlightened masses: putting the Common Schools and Colleges in opposition to each other—as if there was any contradiction between them; as if one was not as necessary as the other, as if every principle of that democracy they prate so about did not require that the State should provide, not only free primary instruction for all the children of the people, but also the highest instruction for all such of the children of the people as desire to go onward and upward into the higher spheres of useful and honorable exertion. Gentlemen, you may boldly join issue with these praters. Expose the foolishness of their hackneyed cant. Keep on doing so: and in due time, if you persevere, you will certainly disabuse the public mind.'
As we have said, there is much matter for thoughtful consideration in the compass of this handsomely-executed book; and we again commend it to the acceptance of our readers.
Pages and Pictures: From the Writings of J. Fenimore Cooper. With Notes by Susan Fenimore Cooper. In one Volume: pp. 400. New-York: W. A. Townsend and Company.
It is with even something more than 'unusual pleasure' that we call the attention of our readers to 'Pages and Pictures:' the superb work of Miss Susan Fenimore Cooper, just issued by those enterprising and tasteful publishers, Messrs. W. A. Townsend and Company, at Number 46 Walker-street, a locality where book-men 'most do congregate.' It is but simple justice to say, that no work so profusely and beautifully illustrated, and with such unlimited expenditure for paintings, engravings, paper, printing and binding, has ever been issued in this country. The engravings alone, executed from precious original pictures in the very highest style of the art of celature, we are assured, cost over ten thousand dollars! The paper, fine and delicate in tint, is of the firm consistence of 'Bristol-Board,' the ne plus ultra of printing-paper: and of the binding we can only say that it is exceedingly tasteful—exceedingly beautiful. From a carefully-considered and elaborate review of this excellent work, by George Ripley, Esq., we make the annexed brief but interesting extract. As touching the work by which Mr. Cooper first became popularly known to his countrymen as an American novelist, it is well worthy of preservation in these pages:
'The plan of this volume has the attraction of novelty, and it is executed, not only in the spirit of filial affection, but with sound judgment, evincing the mingled frankness and reserve which were due to the relation between the subject and the editor. It consists of a selection of episodes from the writings of Mr. Cooper, illustrative of the different phases of his mind, and of the characteristics of his respective productions. In connection with these extracts, the editor has added a large amount of original matter, explaining the origin and history of Mr. Cooper's most important works, and giving a variety of biographical incidents and reminiscences, which serve to throw light on the personal career of the distinguished novelist.
''The Spy' was the first work which bore the unmistakable impress of Mr. Cooper's genius, and laid the deep foundations of his fame. The scene of this story was laid in Westchester, where he then lived, and it is not difficult to describe the local circumstances by which it was suggested. The incidents of the Revolution had not ceased to be the topics of conversation among the people of the neighborhood. Many who had taken an active part in the great struggle still survived. The gray-haired house-wife, as she sat at the wheel, spinning her thread of flax or wool, would talk of the armies she had seen passing her father's door in her girlhood. There was scarcely a farm-house in the country which had not been ravaged by Cow-boys, Hessians, or Skinners. Homes had been destroyed by fire; good yeoman blood had been shed; life had been taken; husband, father, or brother had fallen in some unrecorded skirmish, the hero of a rustic neighborhood. At the foot of the hill on which stood Mr. Cooper's cottage, there was the dwelling of a small farmer, who loved to visit his genial neighbor, telling stories of old times, and fighting over his battles with fresh interest, aroused by the spirited questions, the intelligent sympathy of his host. Other yeomen of the vicinity often joined the social circle. As they drank their glass of cider, picked over their hickory-nuts, or pared their Newtown pippin, all had some family tradition to relate of hairbreadth escape, of daring feat, of harried fields, of houses burned.
'But higher sources than these contributed to the leading idea of the new books. Visits to Bedford were very frequent at that period. One pleasant Summer's afternoon, while sitting on the broad piazza of the house, Judge Jay and Mr. Cooper were listening to the conversation of the venerable John Jay, as he related different facts connected with the history of the Revolution. From an incident which he then described, illustrating the services of a class of men who, in their patriotic zeal, were of the greatest importance in obtaining information for the Commander-in-Chief, the character of Harvey Birch was suggested. Strolling peddlers, staff in hand and pack on back, were more common visitors at the country-houses of that day than at present. It was after the visit of one of these men, a Yankee peddler of the old sort, that the lot in life of Harvey Birch was decided: he was to be a spy and a peddler. The novel was completed with great rapidity, and on its publication in September, 1821, immediately attracted general attention, and met with the most brilliant success. It was found on every table, and enjoyed by all classes of readers. In Europe, the 'Spy' was received with great favor, and was soon translated into French. Miss Edgeworth expressed herself very warmly in its praise, and sent a complimentary message, through a common friend, to the author, declaring that she liked 'Betty Flanagan' particularly, and that an Irish pen could not have drawn her better. The history of the other principal works of Mr. Cooper is given, interspersed with biographical details, of perpetual interest. We thus have the man and his writings combined in a graphic portraiture, which illustrates the strong individuality of the one and the characteristic boldness and vigor of the other.'
It needs but to add, in respect of the volume which we have been considering, that it is worthy of the name and fame of Cooper, and worthy of the name and fame of his present publishers.