CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 1 (continued 4)

We have already spoken of the character of Elsie Bell. That of Harriet Falconer, is forced, unnatural, and overstrained. Catherine Loring, however, is one of the sweetest creations ever emanating from the fancy of poet, or of painter. Truly feminine in thought, in manner, and in action, she is altogether a conception of which Dr. Bird has great reason to be proud. Phoebe, the waiting maid, (we have not thought it worth while to mention her in our outline,) is a mere excrescence, and, like some other personages in the tale, introduced for no imaginable purpose. Of the male dramatis personæ some are good—some admirable—some execrable. Among the good, we may mention Captain Caliver of the Dragoons. Captain Loring is a chéf d'oeuvre. His oddities, his infirmities, his enthusiasm, his petulancy, his warm-heartedness, and his mutability of disposition, altogether make up a character which we may be permitted to consider original, inasmuch as we have never seen its prototype either in print, or in actual existence. It is however true to itself, and to propriety, and although at times verging upon the outré, is highly creditable to the genius of its author. Oran, the refugee, is well—but not excellently drawn. The hero Hyland, with whom we were much interested in the beginning of the book, proves inconsistent with himself in the end; and although to be inconsistent with one's self, is not always to be false to Nature—still, in the present instance, Hyland Gilbert in prison, and in difficulty, and Herman Hunter, in the opening of the novel, possess none of the same traits, and are not, in point of fact, identical. Sterling is a mere mountebank, without even the merit of being an original one: and his death-bed repentance is too ludicrously ill-managed, and altogether too manifestly out of place, to be mentioned any farther. Squire Schlachtenschlager, the Magistrate, is the best personification of a little brief authority in the person of a Dutchman, which it has ever been our good fortune to encounter.

In regard to that purely mechanical portion of Dr. Bird's novel, which it would now be fashionable to denominate its style, we have very few observations to make. In general it is faultless. Occasionally we meet with a sentence ill-constructed—an inartificial adaptation of the end to the beginning of a paragraph—a circumlocutory mode of saying what might have been better said, if said with brevity—now and then with a pleonasm, as for example. "And if he wore a mask in his commerce with men, it was like that iron one of the Bastile, which when put on, was put on for life, and was at the same time of iron,"—not unfrequently with a bull proper, videlicet. "As he spoke there came into the den, eight men attired like the two first who were included in the number." But we repeat that upon the whole the style of the novel—if that may be called its style, which style is not—is at least equal to that of any American writer whatsoever.

In the style properly so called—that is to say in the prevailing tone and manner which give character and individuality to the book, we cannot bring ourselves to think that Dr. Bird has been equally fortunate. His subject appears always ready to fly away from him. He dallies with it continually—hovers incessantly round it, and about it—and not until driven to exertion by the necessity of bringing his volumes to a close, does he finally grasp it with any appearance of energy or good will. The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow is composed with great inequality of manner—at times forcible and manly—at times sinking into the merest childishness and imbecility. Some portions of the book, we surmise, were either not written by Dr. Bird, or were written by him in moments of the most utter mental exhaustion. On the other hand, the reader will not be disappointed, if he looks to find in the novel many—very many well sustained passages of great eloquence and beauty. We open the book at random, and one presents itself immediately to our notice. If Dr. Bird has a general manner at all—a question which we confess ourselves unable to decide—the passage which we are about to quote is a very fair, although perhaps rather too favorable specimen of that manner.

"Thus whiling away the fatigue of climbing over rocks, and creeping through thickets with a gay rattle of discourse, the black-eyed maiden dragged her companion along until they reached a place where the stream was contracted by the projection on the one bank of a huge mass of slaty rock, and on the other, by the protrusion of the roots of a gigantic plane-tree—the sycamore or button-wood of vulgar speech. Above them, and beyond the crag, the channel of the rivulet widened into a pool; and there was a plot of green turf betwixt the water and the hill, on the farther bank, whereon fairies, if such had ever made their way to the world of Twilight, might have loved to gambol under the light of the moon. A hill shut up the glen at its upper extremity; and it was hemmed in on the left, by the rocky and woody declivity over which the maidens had already passed. Over this, and just behind a black rounded shoulder that it thrust into the glen, a broad ray from the evening sun shot across the stream, and fell in a rich yellow flood over the vacant plot. There was something almost Arcadian in this little solitude; and if instead of two well-bred maidens perched upon the roots of the sycamore, on seats chosen with a due regard to the claims of their dresses, there had been a batch of country girls romping in the water, a passing Actæon might have dreamed of the piny Gargaphy, its running well fons tenui perlucidus unda—and the bright creatures of the mythic day that once animated the waters of that solitary grot. But the fairy and the wood-nymph are alike unknown in America. Poetic illusion has not yet consecrated her glens and fountains; her forests nod in uninvaded gloom, her rivers roll in unsanctified silence, and even her ridgy mountains lift up their blue tops in unphantomed solitude. Association sleeps, or it reverts only to the vague mysteries of speculation. Perhaps

A restless Indian queen, Pale Marian with the braided hair,

may wander at night by some highly favored spring; perhaps some tall and tawny hunter

In vestments for the chase arrayed,

may yet hunt the hart over certain distinguished ridges, or urge his barken canoe over some cypress-fringed pool; but all other places are left to the fancies of the utilitarian. A Greek would have invented a God to dwell under the watery arch of Niagara; an American is satisfied with a paper-mill clapped just above it."

Of the songs and other poetic pieces interspersed throughout the book, and sometimes not aptly or gracefully introduced, we have a very high opinion. Some of them are of rare merit and beauty. If Dr. Bird can always write thus, and we see no reason for supposing the contrary, he should at once, in the language of one with whom he is no doubt well acquainted,

Turn bard, and drop the play-wright and the novelist.

In evidence that we say nothing more than what is absolutely just; we insert here the little poem of The Whippoorwill.

Sleep, sleep! be thine the sleep that throws Elysium o'er the soul's repose, Without a dream, save such as wind Like midnight angels, through the mind; While I am watching on the hill I, and the wailing whippoorwill. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! Sleep, sleep! and once again I'll tell The oft pronounced yet vain farewell: Such should his word, oh maiden, be Who lifts the fated eye to thee; Such should it be, before the chain That wraps his spirit, binds his brain. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! Sleep, sleep! the ship hath left the shore, The steed awaits his lord no more; His lord still madly lingers by, The fatal maid he cannot fly— And thrids the wood, and climbs the hill— He and the wailing whippoorwill. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill! Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on; Then shall the wailing slave be gone, Flitting the hill-top far for fear The sounds of joy may reach his ear; The sounds of joy!—the hollow knell Pealed from the mocking chapel bell. Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill!

In conclusion: The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, if it add a single bay to the already green wreath of Dr. Bird's popular reputation, will not, at all events, among men whose decisions are entitled to consideration, advance the high opinion previously entertained of his abilities. It has no pretensions to originality of manner, or of style—for we insist upon the distinction—and very few to originality of matter. It is, in many respects, a bad imitation of Sir Walter Scott. Some of its characters, and one or two of its incidents, have seldom been surpassed, for force, fidelity to nature, and power of exciting interest in the reader. It is altogether more worthy of its author in its scenes of hurry, of tumult, and confusion, than in those of a more quiet and philosophical nature. Like Calavar and The Infidel, it excels in the drama of action and passion, and fails in the drama of colloquy. It is inferior, as a whole, to the Infidel, and vastly inferior to Calavar.

PEERAGE AND PEASANTRY.

Tales of the Peerage and the Peasantry, Edited by Lady Dacre. New York: Harper & Brothers.

We had been looking with much impatience for the republication of these volumes, and henceforward we shall look with still greater anxiety for any thing announced as under the editorial supervision of Lady Dacre. But why, Lady Dacre, this excessive show of modesty, or rather this most unpardonable piece of affectation? Why deny having written volumes whose authorship would be an enviable and an honorable distinction to the proudest literati of your land? And why, above all, announce yourself as editor in a title-page, merely to proclaim yourself author in a preface?

The Tales of the Peerage and the Peasantry are three in number. The first and the longest is Winifred, Countess of Nithsdale, (have a care, Messieurs Harpers, you have spelt it Nithsadle in the very heading of the very initial chapter) a thrilling, and spirited story, rich with imagination, pathos, and passion, and in which the successful termination of a long series of exertions, and trials, whereby the devoted Winifred finally rescues her husband, the Earl of Nithsdale, from tyranny, prison, and death, inspires the reader with scarcely less heartfelt joy and exultation than we can conceive experienced by the happy pair themselves. But the absolute conclusion of this tale speaks volumes for the artist-like skill of the fair authoress. An every day writer would have ended a story of continued sorrow and suffering, with a bright gleam of unalloyed happiness, and sunshine—thus destroying, at a single blow, that indispensable unity which has been rightly called the unity of effect, and throwing down, as it were, in a paragraph what, perhaps, an entire volume has been laboring to establish. We repeat that Lady Dacre has given conclusive evidence of talent and skill, in the final sentences of the Countess of Nithsdale—evidence, however, which will not be generally appreciated, or even very extensively understood. We will transcribe the passages alluded to.

"'And dearer to my ears'—said Lady Nithsdale 'the simple ballad of a Scottish maiden, than even these sounds as they are wafted to us over the waters!'

"They stopped to listen to the song as it died away; and, as they listened, another and more awful sound struck upon their ears. The bell of one of the small chapels often constructed on the shores of Catholic countries, was tolled for the soul of a departed mariner. As it happened, the tone was not unlike one of which they both retained only too vivid and painful a recollection. The Countess felt her husband's frame quiver beneath the stroke. There was no need of words. With a mutual pressure of the arm they returned upon their steps and sought their home. Unconsciously their pace quickened. They seemed to fly before the stroke of that bell! Such suffering as they had both experienced, leaves traces in the soul which time itself can never wholly efface."

The Hampshire Cottage is next in order—a tale of the Peasantry; and the volumes conclude with Blanche, a tale of the Peerage. Both are admirable, and worthy of companionship with Winifred, Countess of Nithsdale. There can be no doubt that Lady Dacre is a writer of infinite genius, possessing great felicity of expression, a happy talent for working up a story, and, above all, a far more profound and philosophical knowledge of the hidden springs of the human heart, and a greater skill in availing herself of that knowledge, than any of her female contemporaries. This we say deliberately. We have not yet forgotten the Recollections of a Chaperon. No person, of even common sensibility, has ever perused the magic tale of Ellen Wareham without feeling the very soul of passion and imagination aroused and stirred up within him, as at the sound of a trumpet.

Let Lady Dacre but give up her talents and energies, and especially her time to the exaltation of her literary fame, and we are sorely mistaken if, hereafter, she do not accomplish something which will not readily die.

EDINBURGH REVIEW.

The Edinburgh Review, No. CXXIV, for July 1835. American Edition, Vol. II, No. 2. New York: Theodore Foster.

Article I in this number is a critique upon "The History of the Revolution in England in 1688. Comprising a View of the Reign of James the Second, from his Accession to the Enterprise of the Prince of Orange. By the late Right Honorable Sir James Mackintosh; and completed to the Settlement of the Crown, by the Editor. To which is prefixed, a Notice of the Life, Writings, and Speeches of Sir James Mackintosh. 4to. London, 1834." The Reviewer commences by instituting a comparison between the work of Sir James, and Fox's History of James the Second. Both books are on the same subject—both were posthumously published, and neither had received the last corrections. The authors, likewise, belonged to the same political party, and had the same opinions concerning the merits and defects of the English Constitution, and concerning most of the prominent characters and events in English history. The palm is awarded to the work of Mackintosh. "Indeed"—says the critic—"the superiority of Mr. Fox to Sir James as an orator, is hardly more clear than the superiority of Sir James to Mr. Fox as an historian. Mr. Fox with a pen in his hand, and Sir James on his legs in the House of Commons were, we think, each out of his proper element. We could never read a page of Mr. Fox's writings—we could never listen for a quarter of an hour to the speaking of Sir James—without feeling that there was a constant effort, a tug up-hill. Mr. Fox wrote debates. Sir James Mackintosh spoke essays." The style of the fragment is highly complimented, and justly. Every body must agree with the Reviewer, that a History of England written throughout, in the manner of the History of the Revolution, would be the most fascinating book in the language. The printer and editor of the work are severely censured, but the censure is, in some respects, misapplied. Such errors as making the pension of 60,000 livres, which Lord Sunderland received from France, equivalent to 2,500 pounds sterling only, when, at the time Sunderland was in power, the livre was worth more than eighteen pence, are surely attributable to no one but the author—although the editor may come in for a small portion of the blame for not correcting an oversight so palpable. On the other hand the misprinting the name of Thomas Burnet repeatedly throughout the book, both in the text and Index, is a blunder for which the editor is alone responsible. The name is invariably spelt Bennet. Thomas Burnet, Master of the Charter House, and author of the Theoria Sacra, is a personage of whom, or of whose works, the gentleman who undertook to edit the Fragment of Sir James Mackintosh has evidently never heard. The Memoir prefixed to the History, and its Continuation to the settlement of the Crown, both by the Editor of the Fragment, are unsparingly, but indeed most righteously, condemned. The Memoir is childish and imbecile, and the Continuation full of gross inaccuracies, and altogether unworthy of being appended to any thing from the pen of Mackintosh.

Article II is a very clever Review of the "Acharnenses of Aristophanes, with Notes Critical and Explanatory, adapted to the Use of Schools and Universities. By T. Mitchell, A.M. 8vo. London, 1835." Mr. Mitchell made his first appearance as a translator and commentator in 1820, and his second in 1822, upon both which occasions he was favorably noticed in the Edinburgh. High praise is bestowed in the present instance upon the Acharnenses. The Wasps will follow, and thus it appears the chronological order of the Comedies will not be preserved. The old fault is to be found with this Review, viz: It is more of a dissertation on the subject matter of the book in question than an analysis of its merits or defects. By far the greater part of the Article is occupied in a discussion of the character of the Athenians.

Article III is headed "a Voyage of Discovery to Africa and Arabia, performed in his Majesty's Ships Leven and Barracouta, from 1822 to 1826, under the command of Capt. F. W. W. Owen, R. N. By Capt. Thomas Boteler, R. N. 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1835." Captain Owen sailed in January 1822 in the Leven Frigate, accompanied by the Barracouta, a ten-gun brig, with instructions to survey the entire Eastern coast of Africa, the Western coast of Madagascar—the islets and shoals interjacent—together with the Western coast of the Continent from the Zaire to Benin, and from the Rio Grande to the Gambia. All this was accomplished in five years. The narrative of Boteler, who was lieutenant of the Leven, is nothing more than a revised edition of that originally prepared by Capt. Owen, and which was a failure in a literary sense. The Review, as usual, says very little concerning the manner in which Captain Boteler has performed his task.

Article IV. "Deontology; or the Science of Morality: in which the Harmony and Coincidence of Duty and Self-interest, Virtue and Felicity, Prudence and Benevolence, are explained and exemplified. From the MSS. of Jeremy Bentham. Arranged and edited by John Bowring, 2 vols. octavo, London, 1834." "This book," says the Reviewer, "simply contains Mr. Bentham's thrice told tale upon Utility. It furnishes us with no fresh illustrations, no better system than we had already found in his 'Principles of Morals and Legislation.'" We heartily agree with the critic that there was no necessity for the publication of these posthumous volumes. They add nothing to the work just mentioned, and are, in many points, inferior. But the Notice concludes in the following words. "Is it to be wondered at, that the most learned, accurate, and philosophical nation in Europe—the Germans—treat with contempt ignorance and insolence like this? They admit the merits of Mr. Bentham as a jurisconsult, in his analysis and classification of the material interests of life; but their metaphysicians and moralists agree, we believe without an exception, in considering his speculative philosophy as undeserving even the pomp and ceremony of an argument." We have only to add, that, in our opinion of the metaphysics of Mr. Bentham, we are, by no means, Germans to the very letter.

Article V. is an excellently well toned, and perfectly satisfactory Review of the "Journal by Frances Anne Butler, 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1835." It defends this lady from the charge of intentionally depreciating America; cites a long list of instances in which she has spoken in terms of the greatest cordiality of our people, individually, and as a nation; shows in what manner she has repeatedly let slip opportunities of saying, and saying too with perfect justice, things little likely to flatter our vanity; defends her from the ridiculous accusation of vulgarity (there is positively not an iota of vulgarity in the composition of Fanny Kemble) and very justly gives us a rap over the knuckles for our overweening vanity, self-sufficiency, and testiness of temper. The whole article is excellent, and the conclusion is particularly to our mind. "There is no chance of her return to a profession that she so cordially detested. Under these circumstances the only compensation Mr. Butler can make to us he must make. He is bound to see that she goes on with her faithful and amusing journal, and that she finishes, at her leisure, some of the sundry stories, plays, and novels, on which, it seems, she had already set to work amid the interruptions of the stage."

The sixth article is a review of "The Works of George Dalgarno, of Aberdeen. 4to. Reprinted at Edinburgh: 1834." This work is merely a reprint of the old Treatises of Dalgarno, the publication not extending beyond the sphere of the Maitland Club—a society instituted at Glasgow in imitation of the Edinburgh Ballantyne Club. The first treatise of Dalgarno is entitled "Ars Signorum, Vulgo Character Universalis, et Lingua Philosophica. Londini 1661." The second is "Didascalocophus, or the Deaf and Dumb Man's Tutor: to which is added a Discourse of the Nature and Number of Double Consonants: both which Tracts being the first (for what the author knows) that have been published upon either of the subjects. Printed at the Theater in Oxford, 1680." The memory of Dalgarno had nearly perished when Dugald Stewart called public attention to his writings, on account of his having anticipated, on grounds purely speculative, and a priori, what has now been proved a posteriori by Horne Tooke and others, viz: that all grammatical inflections are reducible to the noun alone.

Article VII is headed "Narrative of a Second Voyage in search of a North-West Passage, and of a Residence in the Arctic Regions during the years 1829, 1830, 1831, 1832, 1833. By Sir John Ross, C. B., K. S. A., K. C. S., &c. &c., Captain in the Royal Navy. Including the Reports of Commander, now Captain, James Clark Ross, R. N., F. R. S., F. L. S., &c. and the Discovery of the Northern Magnetic Pole. 4to. London: 1835." The Reviewer professes himself unable to regard the observations made by Commander Ross in relation to the Magnetic Pole in the light of a discovery. "It was certainly a great satisfaction to stand upon a rock where the dip was 89° 59', and where the polarity of nicely suspended needles was insensible; but it may be questioned whether or not the place of the Magnetic Pole can be best determined by observations made at a distance or near the spot; and we are not satisfied that the position assigned by Commander Ross is more accurate than that given by the curves of Professor Barlow, the calculations of Hansteen, and the observations of Captain Parry." The fact is that the Magnetic Pole is moveable, and, place it where we will, we shall not find it in the same place to-morrow. Notice is taken also by the critic that neither Captain nor Commander Ross has made the slightest reference to the fact that the Magnetic Pole is not coincident with the Pole of maximum cold. From observations made by Scoresby in East Greenland, and by Sir Charles Giesecke and the Danish Governors in West Greenland, and confirmed by all the meteorological observations made by Captains Parry and Franklin, Sir David Brewster has deduced the fact that the Pole of the Equator is not the Pole of maximum cold: and as the matter is well established, it is singular, to say no more, that it has been alluded to by neither the Commander nor the Captain.

Article VIII is 1. A "History of the Cotton Manufacture in Great Britain, with a Notice of its Early History in the East, and in all quarters of the Globe; a Description of the Great Mechanical Inventions which have caused its unexampled extension in Great Britain: and a View of the Present State of the Manufacture, and the condition of the Classes engaged in its several departments. By Edward Baines, Jr. Esq. 8vo. London: 1835."

2. "The Philosophy of Manufactures: or an Exposition of the Scientific, Moral, and Commercial Economy of the Factory System of Great Britain. By Andrew Ure, M.D. 8vo. London: 1835." Mr. Baines' work is spoken of in high terms, as discovering much laborious research, and being both interesting and valuable. With the exception of Smith's Memoirs of Wool, published in 1747, it is said to be the only work giving a clear and copious account of the rise, progress, and actual condition of any of the great branches of industry carried on in the kingdom. Dr. Ure's work is censured for inaccuracy of detail. Its title is evidently a misnomer.

Article IX is "A Poet's Portfolio; or Minor Poems. In Three Books. By James Montgomery, 12mo. London, 1835."

The first production of Mr. Montgomery, 'The Wanderer of Switzerland,' was noticed about twenty-eight years ago in the Edinburgh, and much fault found with it for inflation of style, and affectation. The present volume has induced the Journal to alter its tone entirely, and the Minor Poems are (perhaps a little too highly) lauded. "There is," says the critic, "something in all his poetry which makes fiction the most impressive teacher of truth and wisdom; and by which, while the intellect is gratified, and the imagination roused, the heart, if it retains any sensibility to tender or elevating emotions, cannot fail to be made better." The Reviewer, as usual, does not stick to his text, but comments, in detail, upon all the published poems of Montgomery.

The tenth and concluding paper is a Review of "The Second Report of his Majesty's Commissioners on Ecclesiastical Revenue and Patronage: Ireland. Ordered by the House of Commons to be printed: 1834"—and "First Report of the Commissioners of Public Instruction: Ireland. Presented to both Houses of Parliament, by command of his Majesty: 1835."

This article is written with great ability; but why call that a Review which is purely a dissertation on the state of the Irish Church? It concludes with a correspondence between the Editor of the Edinburgh, and Mr. Alan Stevenson, respecting evidence given, by the latter, before the Parliamentary Committee on Light Houses. The Journal, in No. CXXIII, accused Mr. S. of deceiving the Committee by erroneous testimony; and, upon Mr. S. demanding an explanation, the Review not only refuses to retract its assertions, but declares that, had it known certain facts at the time of inditing the offensive article, it would have expressed itself with double severity.

NUTS TO CRACK.

Nuts to Crack: or Quips, Quirks, Anecdote and Facete of Oxford and Cambridge scholars. By the author of Facetiæ Cantabrigienses, etc. etc. etc. Philadelphia: E. L. Carey & A. Hart.

Although this little volume is obviously intended for no other eyes than those of the 'Oxford and Cambridge scholar,' and although it is absolutely impossible for any American to enter fully into the spirit of its most inestimable quizzes, oddities and eccentricities, still we have no intention of quarrelling with Carey & Hart, for republishing the work on this side of the Atlantic. Never was there a better thing for whiling away a few loose or unappropriated half hours—that is to say in the hands of a reader who is, even in a moderate degree, imbued with a love of classical whimsicalities. We can assure our friends—all of them who expect to find in these excellent 'Nuts to Crack' a mere rifacimento of stale jests—that there are not more than two or three anecdotes in the book positively entitled to the appellation of antique. Some things, however, have surprised us. In the first place what is the meaning of Anecdote and Facete? In the second what are we to think of such blunders, as "one of honest Vere's classical jeu d'esprit," (the jeu d'esprit printed too in Long Primer Capitals) in a volume professing to be Anecdote and Facete (oh!—too bad) of Oxford and Cambridge scholars? And thirdly is it possible that he who wrote the Facetiæ Cantabrigienses is not aware that the "cutting retort attributed to the celebrated Lord Chesterfield, when a student of Trinity Hall, Cambridge" may be found among the Facetiæ of Hierocles—not to mention innumerable editions of Joe Miller?

We have already said enough of the Nuts to Crack, but cannot, for our lives, refrain from selecting one of its good things for the benefit of our own especial readers.

The learned Chancery Barrister, John Bell, K. C., "the Great Bell of Lincoln," as he has been aptly called, was Senior Wrangler, on graduating B.A., at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1786, with many able competitors for that honor. He is likewise celebrated, as every one knows, for writing three several hands; one only he himself can read, another nobody but his clerk can read, and a third neither himself, clerk, nor any body else can read. It was in the latter hand, he one day wrote to his legal contemporary and friend, the present Sir Launcelot Shadwell, inviting him to dinner. Sir Launcelot, finding all his attempts to decypher the note about as vain, as the wise men found theirs to unravel the cabalistic characters of yore, took a sheet of paper, and having smeared it over with ink, folded and sealed it, and sent it as his answer. The receipt of it staggered even the Great Bell of Lincoln, and after breaking the seal, and eyeing it, and turning it round and round, he hurried to Mr. Shadwell's chambers with it, declaring he could make nothing of it. "Nor I of your note," retorted Mr. S. "My dear fellow" exclaimed Mr. B. taking his own letter in his hand, "is not this as plain as can be,—Dear Shadwell, I shall be glad to see you at dinner to day?" "And is not this equally as plain," said Mr. S. pointing to his own paper, "My dear Bell, I shall be happy to come and dine with you?"

ROBINSON'S PRACTICE.

The Practice in Courts of Law and Equity in Virginia. By Conway Robinson. Vol. II, containing Practice in suits in Equity, pp. 648. Richmond: Printed by Samuel Shepherd. 1835.

The first volume of this work came out about three years ago; and received so earnest a welcome from the legal profession, that the author's tardiness in producing the second might be matter of wonder, were not his devoted attention to an unusually large practice well known. The present is destined, because it deserves, to be a much greater favorite with the law-book-reading public, than the former volume was. The arrangement is after a better classification of subjects; rendering it easier to find the doctrine desired, on any given point: and there is a larger proportion of valuable matter—matter not to be found in the Revised Code, or in Tate's Digest. Indeed there are few works, more copiously filled with useful, and not-too-obvious learning. Industry and research are the author's manifest characteristics. He is a real brownie—if not for supernatural speed of workmanship, at least in the world of trouble he will save his brethren. Here, within 442 pages (for the other 206 of this tome—horresco referens—are index,) he has compressed matter, and inestimable matter too, for which the practitioner would otherwise have to hunt through, not only the thirty volumes of Virginia Reports (counting Chancellor Wythe's) but the numberless ones of New York, Massachusetts, the Federal Courts, and England.

In his abstracts of cases, the author is, in the main, particularly successful. Not only does he give them with a clearness, (the result of brevity, effected by discarding non-essentials) which we would gladly see judges and reporters emulate,—but he sometimes gathers from them doctrines, which the reporter has overlooked, and which a cursory reader would therefore be little apt to discover. For example, in pp. 20, 21, he states these two points, as decided in the case of Blow v. Maynard, 2 Leigh, 21: 1st, That a fraudulent donee of personalty is accountable for it and its increase, and also for hires, and profits, accruing since the donor's death, as executor de son tort; just as a rightful executor would be, who had taken possession at the donor's death: and 2d, That a privy to the fraud, who shared with the donee the profits of the property fraudulently conveyed, is accountable jointly with the donee. Now the reporter in his marginal summary of the case, does not mention these as among the points decided; though in the decree of the court (2 Leigh, p. 67,) they manifestly appear. Again—in the case of Tod v. Baylor, (as now reported in 4 Leigh, 498,) it is not said, at all, that only two of the judges concurred in the third point there stated as adjudged. But our author tells us so, (p. 10,) and we are thus enabled to estimate the authority at its true value—as persuasive only,—not obligatory, in other cases.

The mechanical execution of the book does infinite credit to the printer. The typography is unsurpassed; and the paper is white, pure, and firm, so as to receive notes of the pen without blotting—a great merit in law books.

If it were only to shew that we are free of our craft as critics, we must find some fault with this work: premising, that merit is its staple; and that, if more of the criticism be occupied with its faults, it is chiefly because they are somewhat hard to detect, amidst the pile of excellences. The chaff, this time, is hidden by the wheat.

There is not enough compression in some parts. In this volume, it is true, not a tithe of the statute law is quoted, that over-burthens the former one: but when he does cite a statute, the author still gives it to us in all the exuberance of legislative verbosity. Thus, he fills the third part of a page with the law of lapsing legacies; (p. 91) when, considering that only the substance was essential—especially as every owner of the book may be supposed to have the Code also—it might more clearly, and as satisfactorily, have been couched in five lines, as follows: "When a legatee or devisee, descended from the testator, dies before him, leaving any descendant who survives him; the legacy or devise shall vest in such surviving descendant, as if the legatee or devisee had survived the testator, and then died unmarried and intestate." And he takes three quarters of a page (copied from the Revised Code) to say that "a surety may in writing notify the creditor to sue upon the bond, bill, or note, which binds the surety; and unless the creditor sue in reasonable time, and proceed with due diligence to recover the sum due, the surety shall be exonerated." (pp. 132, 133.) In the name of all that is reasonable, why should not a writer disencumber his pages of the rubbish of howbeit, provided, nevertheless, notwithstanding, and aforesaid, when, by doing so, he might save himself and his readers so much time and toil?

Some quarrel, too, we have, with the judicial law, which principally fills the book. It is too mere a digest of cases. A head in the Table of Contents refers us to a page, where we expect to find a full elementary exposition of at least the leading doctrines that fall under that head: but we see perhaps only a single case, or a judge's dictum, not at all realizing the promise of the reference, by unfolding all pertinent general principles. Thus, under the caption, "WHEN A STATEMENT OF A TRANSACTION MUST BE TAKEN ALTOGETHER," instead of finding a general rule laid down on the point indicated, we find only a case briefly stated, from which we are left to deduce a rule, if we can. (pp. 329, 330.) Under the very next head, the well established principle, that 'an Answer is no evidence for the defendant, as to any thing it affirms, not responsive to the allegations of the Bill, but that it is evidence, so far as it responds to those allegations'—is whittled away to the position, that it is not evidence as to any affirmative matter, touching which the Bill seeks no discovery. Now, if the Bill positively alleges one thing (whether it calls for a discovery or not,) and the answer as positively alleges the reverse; such denial stands for proof, and must be rebutted by testimony: and so, we conceive, do the cases clearly evince, which are cited by our author himself; Beckwith v. Butler, Paynes v. Coles (see 1 Munf. 379, 389, 397,) and even Taylor v. Moore, whence he quotes (and quotes truly) in the form of a judge's dictum, the position in question—not to speak of 1 Call, 224, 390; the dicta of Roane and Carrington in the case of Rowton v. Rowton, 1 Hen. and Munf.; and many other authorities. The principle, in its true extent, is well illustrated by the case cited from 1 Johnson's Reports, 580, where an Answer alleging usury, of which the Bill had said nothing, was held no evidence. The case from 2 Leigh, 29, is infelicitously adduced. The point professedly quoted from it was not there adjudged: it was only maintained by one judge, who (we say it with a deference heightened by affection, as well as by respect) seems to us to have therein gainsayed the well settled doctrine we have referred to, and therefore to have erred. The Answer, there, (see 2 Leigh, 35, 36) was responsive to the Bill, and must have prevailed against it, but for the numerous and weighty countervailing circumstances detailed by that judge himself. (pp. 49 to 53.) The deed in controversy was stamped with more badges of fraud than are enumerated in the celebrated Twyne's Case. These, doubtless, and not any doubt as to the legal effect of the Answer, satisfied the minds of the other judges, who merely agreed in pronouncing the deed fraudulent, without assigning reasons.

Some omissions in so comprehensive a work, were to be expected—indeed were unavoidable. Not in the spirit of censure, therefore, but merely to awaken the author's attention in his next edition, or in his next production, we remark, that he has overlooked an important decision; (in 2 Leigh, 370,) 'that a tenant, whose goods are wrongfully distrained, cannot obtain relief in equity, unless he shew good reason for not having brought his action of replevin.'

Divers other topics we were minded to discuss with our intelligent author: but on glancing over our two last paragraphs, we are struck with fear lest our unprofessional readers may have been already offended at the strong smell of the shop, discernible in what we have produced; and stop their ears against the technical dissonance of

——"sounds uncouth, and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony."

But we cannot let the Index pass unreproved. Its length—the length of its indicating sentences—and the utter absence of any sub-alphabetical arrangement—in a great degree frustrate its use as an index. We can find what we want nearly as well by the 'Contents.'

After all our censures, however—or cavils, if the author pleases—there remains to him so large a residue of solid desert, that he cannot miss the small deduction we have made. His book is one which we would advise every lawyer, in Virginia at least, to buy; and even those in other states—the Western, especially, whose Chancery systems most resemble ours—can hardly find one that will aid them so much in disentangling the intricacies of Chancery Practice. Never have we paid the price of a commodity more ungrudgingly.

MEMOIR OF DR. RICE.

A Memoir of the Reverend John H. Rice, D.D. First Professor of Christian Theology in Union Theological Seminary, Virginia. By William Maxwell. Philadelphia: Published by J. Whetham.

This Memoir will be received and read with pleasure generally: and among those who have been so fortunate as to have seen and heard Dr. Rice, it will be perused with the deepest interest and gratification. We believe there are very many, in Virginia especially, who will be able to identify the letters of this divine, contained in the present volume, with the voice, the manner, and personal appearance of the man himself—and upon all such Mr. Maxwell has conferred an obligation of no common kind. The greater portion of the work consists of these letters, and they are valuable in every respect. Many of them are, as Mr. M. himself expresses it, entirely narrative, and give the most authentic and minute accounts of the various movements of the writer at different periods of his life, particularly after his removal to Richmond, and during his labors in establishing the Union Theological Seminary. Others again are pastoral, and addressed to different members of his Church. Some are merely ordinary letters of friendship. All, however, are full of thought, and give evidence of an elevated, a healthy, cheerful, powerful, and well regulated mind.

In availing himself of the assistance afforded by these letters, Mr. Maxwell has never anticipated their contents—thus avoiding much useless repetition, and suffering the subject of the Memoir to tell, in a great measure, his own story in his own words. The work is well—indeed even beautifully gotten up—is embellished with an admirably finished head of Mr. Rice, engraved by J. Sartain, from a painting by W. J. Hubard—and is, in every respect, an acceptable and valuable publication. Among the letters in the volume is one from John Randolph of Roanoke, and several from Wm. Wirt. We select one of these latter, being well assured that it will be read with that deep interest which is attached to every thing emanating from the same pen.

TO THE REV. JOHN H. RICE.

Washington, February 1, 1822.

MY DEAR SIR,—Your letter of the 31st ult. is just received at 5 P.M. for I have just returned from the President's. I feel the blush of genuine shame at the apparent presumption of adding my name in favor of the magazine to that of the eminent gentlemen at Princeton. This is real and unaffected—but you desire it—and I dare follow your beck in any direction. Would that I could in one still more important.

Holingshead's History of Duncan of Scotland, is under copy by my Elizabeth (my daughter, once your pet) for the purpose of showing the full basis of Shakspeare's Macbeth. I think you will be pleased with it—and the readers of Shakspeare must differ much from me, if they do not find it very interesting.

If you suppose from what I said of nine o'clock that that is my hour of going to bed on week-day nights, you are mistaken by several hours. For some time past, I have been obliged to be in my office before breakfast, and till nine or ten o'clock at night, when I have to come home, take my tea, talk over family affairs, and get to bed between eleven and twelve; but it is killing me also. And as death would be most extremely inconvenient to me in more respects than one, at this time, I shall quit that course of operations, and look a little to my health, if I can survive the approaching Supreme Court—sed quære de hoc.

My troubles not being already enough, in the estimation of the honorable body now assembled in the Capitol, they are beginning to institute inquiries, for my better amusement, into the circumstances of three fees paid me by the government, in the course of the four years that I have been here, for professional services foreign to my official duties—a thing which has been continually done at all times, under this government, but which they affect to think a new affair entirely, and only an additional proof among ten thousand others of the waste of public money, by the rapacity, if not peculation, of those in office. I am sick of public life; my skin is too thin for the business; a politician should have the hide of a rhinoceros, to bear the thrusts of the folly, ignorance, and meanness of those who are disposed to mount into momentary consequence by questioning their betters, if I may be excused the expression after professing my modesty. "There's nought but care on every hand;" all, all is vanity and vexation of spirit, save religion, friendship, and literature.

I agree that your story of the Oysterman is the best, but I suspect that the Orange story is the true original. I knew old Bletcher: he was a Baptist preacher; and although I did not hear the words, they are so much in his character that I verily believe them to have been uttered by him; and it would have been quite in his character too to have gone on with the amplification you suggest.

I do sincerely wish it were in my power to mount the aforesaid gay streamer, and long Tom, on your gallant little barque. I will try in the spring and summer to contribute a stripe or two, and a blank cartridge or so; but I shall not tell you when I do, that it is I, for it is proper you should have it in your power to say truly, "I do not know who it is." I have already got credit for much that I never wrote, and much that I never said. The guessers have an uncommon propensity to attribute all galling personalities to me, all sketches of character that touch the quick, and make some readers wince. I have, in truth, in times gone by, been a little wanton and imprudent in this particular, and I deserve to smart a little in my turn. But I never wrote a line wickedly or maliciously. There is nothing in the Spy that deserves this imputation, and nothing in the Old Bachelor, which, give me leave to tell you, "venia deter verbo," you and your magazine, and your writer, ** have underrated. There is a juster criticism of it in the Analectic Magazine—but this writer, too, has not true taste nor sensibility. He accuses me of extravagance only because he never felt himself, the rapture of inspiration. And you accuse me of redundant figure, because you are not much troubled yourself with the throes of imagination—just as G— H— abuses eloquence because there is no chord in his heart that responds to its notes. So take that. And if you abuse me any more, I will belabor your magazine as one of the heaviest, dullest, most drab-colored periodicals extant in these degenerate days. What! shall a Conestoga wagon-horse find fault with a courser of the sun, because he sometimes runs away with the chariot of day, and sets the world on fire? So take that again, and put it in your pocket. But enough of this badinage, for if I pursue it much farther you will think me serious—besides it is verging to eleven, and the fire has gone down. I began this scrawl a little after five—walked for health till dark—came in and found company who remained till near ten—and could not go to bed without a little more talk with you. But I shall tire you and catch cold—so with our united love to Mrs. Rice, my dear Harriet, and yourself, good night.

Your friend, in truth, WM. WIRT.

LIFE OF DR. CALDWELL.

Oration on the Life and Character of the Rev. Joseph Caldwell, D.D. late President of the University of North Carolina, by Walker Anderson, A.M.

It was only within the last few days that we met with the above oration, in a pamphlet form—and we cannot refrain from expressing the very great pleasure its perusal has afforded us. Dr. Caldwell was unquestionably a great and good man—and certain are we that the task of paying tribute to his manifold qualifications and virtues, now that he is gone, could not have been committed to abler hands, than those of Professor Anderson. The tone of feeling pervading the oration is quite characteristic of its author—ardent—affectionate—consistent.

"We come," says he, near the beginning, "we come as a band of brothers, to do homage to that parental love, of which all of us, the old as well as the young, have been the objects; and by communing with the spirit of our departed father, to enkindle those hallowed emotions which are the fittest offering to his memory. But why needs the living speaker recall to your remembrance the venerated and beloved being whose loss is fresh in the memories of all who hear me? We stand not, it is true, over his grave, as the Spartan over the sepulchre of his king, but his memorials present themselves to the eye on every side and are felt in every throbbing bosom. The shady retreats of this consecrated grove—the oft frequented halls of this seat of learning—the sacred edifice in which we are assembled—and the very spot on which I stand, are memorials to awaken the busy and thronging recollections of many a full heart! Quocumque ingredimur in aliquam historiam vestigium ponimus. I look around this assembly and see monuments of his love and of his labors, such as can never grace the memory of the warrior, and which throw contempt on all the sculptured memorials of kings. I look at the eyes beaming with intelligence; I contemplate the refined intellects; I see their rich fruits in public and honorable employment; I recall the memory of others who are far distant, but whose thoughts are mingling with ours upon this occasion; who have carried with them the seeds of virtue and wisdom which they gathered here, and in other lands, have brought forth the noblest results of usefulness and honorable consideration. I revert, too, to those whose bright career is ended, and who preceded their guide and instructor to the abodes of the blessed. I think of all this, and feel that you need not the voice of the speaker to arouse your grateful recollections." p. 4.

Mr. Anderson shortly after this, goes into a very interesting sketch of the family history of the deceased, portraying with great tenderness and delicacy, the maternal solicitude to which young Caldwell was so deeply indebted for his well doing in after life—and evincing as we humbly conceive, in this part of his oration, fine powers as a biographical writer. There is much force in his development of the Doctor's character throughout, but especial beauty, we think, in the way in which he treats of his religious principles. One extract more from the pamphlet, in proof of what we have just said, must close this hasty and imperfect notice of it.

"The religious character of Dr. Caldwell, was not the formation of a day, nor the hasty and imperfect work of a dying bed. His trust was anchored on the rock of ages, and he was therefore well furnished for the terrible conflict that awaited him. We have seen that he had made Religion the guide of his youth; it beautified and sanctified the labors of his well spent life; nor did it fail him in the trying hour, which an allwise but inscrutable Providence permitted to be to him peculiarly dark and fearful. The rich consolations of his faith became brighter and stronger, amidst the wreck of the decaying tabernacle of flesh; and if the dying testimony of a pure and humble spirit may be received, death had for him no sting—the grave achieved no triumph. In any frequent and detailed account of his religious feelings he was not inclined to indulge—the spirit that walks most closely with its God, needs not the sustaining influence of such excitements—yet a few weeks previous to his death, a friend from a distant part of the State calling to see him, made inquiries as to the state of his mind, and had the privilege of hearing from him the calm assurance of his perfect resignation and submission to the will of God. His hope of a happy immortality beyond the grave, was such as belongs only to the Christian, and by him was modestly but humbly entertained. It was to him a principle of strength that sustained him amidst the conflicts of the dark valley; and to us who witnessed the agonies of his parting hour, a bright radiance illuming the gloom which memory throws around the trying scene." pp. 38, 39.

WASHINGTONII VITA.

A Life of George Washington, in Latin Prose: By Francis Glass, A.M. of Ohio. Edited by J. N. Reynolds. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers.

We may truly say that not for years have we taken up a volume with which we have been so highly gratified, as with the one now before us. A Life of Washington, succinct in form, yet in matter sufficiently comprehensive, has been long a desideratum: but a Life of Washington precisely such as a compendious Life of that great man should be—written by a native of Ohio—and written too, in Latin, which is not one jot inferior to the Latin of Erasmus, is, to say the least of it,—a novelty.

We confess that we regarded the first announcement of this rara avis with an evil and suspicious eye. The thing was improbable, we thought. Mr. Reynolds was quizzing us—the brothers Harper were hoaxed—and Messieurs Anthon and Co. were mistaken. At all events we had made up our minds to be especially severe upon Mr. Glass, and to put no faith in that species of classical Latin which should emanate from the back woods of Ohio. We now solemnly make a recantation of our preconceived opinions, and so proceed immediately to do penance for our unbelief.

Mr. Reynolds is entitled to the thanks of his countrymen for his instrumentality in bringing this book before the public. It has already done wonders in the cause of the classics; and we are false prophets if it do not ultimately prove the means of stirring up to a new life and a regenerated energy that love of the learned tongues which is the surest protection of our own vernacular language from impurity, but which, we are grieved to see, is in a languishing and dying condition in the land.

We have read Mr. R's preface with great attention; and meeting with it, as we have done, among a multiplicity of worldly concerns, and every-day matters and occurrences, it will long remain impressed upon our minds as an episode of the purest romance. We have no difficulty in entering fully with Mr. Reynolds into his kindly feelings towards Mr. Glass. We perceive at once that we could have loved and reverenced the man. His image is engraven upon our fancy. Indeed we behold him now—at this very moment—with all his oddities and appurtenances about him. We behold the low log-cabin of a school-house—the clap-board roof but indifferently tight—the holes, ycleped windows, covered with oiled paper to keep out the air—the benches of hewn timber stuck fast in the ground—the stove, the desk, the urchins, and the Professor. We can hear the worthy pedagogue's classical 'Salves,' and our ears are still tingling with his hyperclassical exhortations. In truth he was a man after our own heart, and, were we not Alexander, we should have luxuriated in being Glass.

A word or two respecting the Latinity of the book. We sincerely think that it has been underrated. While we agree with Mr. Reynolds, for whose opinions, generally, we have a high respect, that the work can boast of none of those elegancies of diction, no rich display of those beauties and graces which adorn the pages of some modern Latinists, we think he has forgotten, in his search after the mere flowers of Latinity, the peculiar nature of that labor in which Mr. Glass has been employed. Simplicity here was the most reasonable, and indeed the only admissible elegance. And if this be taken into consideration, we really can call to mind, at this moment, no modern Latin composition whatever much superior to the Washingtonii Vita of Mr. Glass.

The clothing of modern ideas in a language dead for centuries, is a task whose difficulty can never be fully appreciated by those who have never undertaken it. The various changes and modifications, which, since the Augustan age, have come to pass in the sciences of war and legislation especially, must render any attempt similar to that which we are now criticising, one of the most hazardous and awkward imaginable. But we cannot help thinking that our author has succeeded à merveille. His ingenuity is not less remarkable than his grammatical skill. Indeed he is never at a loss. It is nonsense to laugh at his calling Quakers Tremebundi. Tremebundi is as good Latin as Trementes, and more euphonical Latin than Quackeri—for both which latter expressions we have the authority of Schroeckh: and glandes plumbeæ, for bullets, is something better, we imagine, than Wyttenbach's bombarda, for a cannon; Milton's globulus, for a button; or Grotius' capilamentum, for a wig. As a specimen of Mr. G's Latinity, we subjoin an extract from the work. It is Judge Marshall's announcement in Congress of the death of Washington.

"Nuncius tristis, quem heri accepimus, hodierno die nimium certus advenit. Fuit Washingtonius; heros, dux, et philosophus; ille, denique, quem, imminente periculo, omnes intuebantur, factorum clarorum memoriâ duntaxat vixit. Quamvis enim, eos honore afficere solenne non esset, quorum vita in generis humani commodis promovendis insumpta fuit, Washingtonii, tamen, res gestoe tantoe extiterunt, ut populus universus Americanus, doloris indicium, qui tam latè patet, deposcere suo jure debet."

"Rempublicam hancce nostram, tam longè latèque divisam, unus ferè Washingtonius ordinandi et condendi laudem meret. Rebus omnibus, tandem confectis, quarum causâ exercitibus Americanis proepositus fuerat, gladium in vomerem convertit, bellumque pace lætissimè commutavit. Cum civitatum foederatarum Americanarum infirmitas omnibus manifesta videretur, et vincula, quibus Columbi terra latissima continebatur, solverentur, Washingtonium omnium, qui hancce nostram proeclaram rempublicam stabiliverant, principem vidimus. Cum patria charissima eum ad sedandos tumultus, bellumque sibi imminens ad propulsandum et avertendum, vocaret; Washingtonium, otium domesticum, quod ei semper charum fuit, relinquentem, et undis civilibus, civium commoda et libertatem servandi causâ, mersum, haud semel conspeximus; et consilia, quibus libertatem Americanam stabilem effecerat, perpetua, ut spero, semper, erunt."

"Cum populi liberi magistratus summus bis constitutus esset, cumque tertiò præses fieri facillimè potuisset, ad villam, tamen, suam, secessit, seque ab omni munere civili in posterum procul amoveri, ex animo cupiebat. Utcunque vulgi opinio, quoad alios homines, mutetur, Washingtonii, certè, fama sempiterna et eadem permanebit. Honoremus, igitur, patres conscripti, hunc tantum virum mortuum: civitatum foederatarum Americanarum consilium publicum civium omnium sententias, hác una in re, declaret."

"Quamobrem, chartas quasdam hîc manu teneo, de quibus Congressûs sententiam rogare velim: ut, nempe, civitatum foederatarum Americanarum consilium publicum proesidem visat, simul cum eo, gravi de hoc casu, condoliturum: ut Congressûs principis sella vestibus pullis ornetur; utque Congressus pars reliqua vestibus pullis induatur: utque, denique, idonea à Congressu parentur, quibus planè manifestum fiat, Congressum, virum bello, pace, civiumque animis primum, honore summo afficere velle."¹

¹ The sad tidings which yesterday brought us, this day has but too surely confirmed. Washington is no more. The hero, the general, the philosopher—he, upon whom, in the hour of danger, all eyes were turned, now lives in the remembrance, only, of his illustrious actions. And although, even, it were not customary to render honor unto those who have spent their lives in promoting the welfare of their fellow men, still, so great are the deeds of Washington, that the whole American nation is bound to give a public manifestation of that grief which is so extensively prevalent.

Washington, we had nearly said Washington alone, deserves the credit of regulating and building up, as it were, the widely extended territory of this our Republic. Having finally achieved all for which he had accepted the command of the American forces, he converted his sword into a ploughshare, and joyfully exchanged war for peace. When the weakness of the United States of America appeared manifest to all, and the bands by which the very extensive land of Columbus was held together, were in danger of being loosened, we have seen Washington the first among those who re-invigorated this our glorious Republic. When his beloved country called him to quiet tumults, and to avert the war with which she was menaced, we have once more seen Washington abandon that domestic tranquillity so dear to him, and plunge into the waters of civil life to preserve the liberties and happiness of his countrymen: and the counsels with which he re-established American liberty will be, as I hope, perpetual.

When he had been twice appointed the Chief Magistrate of a free people, and when, for the third time, he might easily have been President, he nevertheless retired to his farm, and really desired to be freed from all civil offices forever. However vulgar opinion may vary in respect to other men, the fame of Washington will, surely, be the same to all eternity. Therefore, let us show our reverence for this so great man who is departed, and let this public counsel of the United States of America declare upon this one subject the opinion of all our citizens.

For this end I hold these resolutions in my hand, concerning which I would wish the opinion of Congress, viz: that this public counsel of the United States of America should visit the President to condole with him upon this heavy calamity—that the speaker's chair be arrayed in black—that the members of Congress wear mourning—and lastly, that arrangements be entered into by this assembly, in which it may be made manifest that Congress wish to do every honor to the man first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.

The 'barbarisms' of Mr. Glass are always so well in accordance with the genius of Latin declension, as never to appear at variance with the spirit of the language, or out of place in their respective situations. His 'equivalents,' too, are, in all cases, ingeniously managed: and we are mistaken if the same can be said of the 'equivalents' of Erasmus—certainly not of those used by Grotius, or Addison, or Schroeckh, or Buchanan, neither of whom are scrupulous in introducing words, from which a modern one is deduced, in the exact sense of the English analogous term—although that term may have been greatly perverted from its original meaning.

Having said thus much in favor of the Washingtonii Vita, we may now be permitted to differ in opinion with Professor Wylie and others who believe that this book will be a valuable acquisition to our classical schools, as initiatory to Cæsar or Nepos. We are quite as fully impressed with the excellences of Mr. Glass' work as the warmest of his admirers; and perhaps, even more than any of them, are we anxious to do it justice. Still the book is—as it professes to be—a Life of Washington; and it treats, consequently, of events and incidents occurring in a manner utterly unknown to the Romans, and at a period many centuries after their ceasing to exist as a nation. If, therefore, by Latin we mean the Language spoken by the Latins, a large proportion of the work—disguise the fact as we may—is necessarily not Latin at all. Did we indeed design to instruct our youth in a language of possibilities—did we wish to make them proficient in the tongue which might have been spoken in ancient Rome, had ancient Rome existed in the nineteenth century, we could scarcely have a better book for the purpose than the Washington of Mr. Glass. But we do not perceive that, in teaching Latin, we have any similar view. And we have given over all hope of making this language the medium of universal communication—that day-dream, with a thousand others, is over. Our object then, at present, is simply to imbue the mind of the student with the idiom, the manner, the thought, and above all, with the words of antiquity. If this is not our object, what is it? But this object cannot be effected by any such work as the Washingtonii Vita.

NORMAN LESLIE.

Norman Leslie. A Tale of the Present Times. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers.

Well!—here we have it! This is the book—the book par excellence—the book bepuffed, beplastered, and be-Mirrored: the book "attributed to" Mr. Blank, and "said to be from the pen" of Mr. Asterisk: the book which has been "about to appear"—"in press"—"in progress"—"in preparation"—and "forthcoming:" the book "graphic" in anticipation—"talented" a priori—and God knows what in prospectu. For the sake of every thing puffed, puffing, and puffable, let us take a peep at its contents!

Norman Leslie, gentle reader, a Tale of the Present Times, is, after all, written by nobody in the world but Theodore S. Fay, and Theodore S. Fay is nobody in the world but "one of the Editors of the New York Mirror." The book commences with a Dedication to Colonel Herman Thorn, in which that worthy personage, whoever he may be, is held up, in about a dozen lines, to the admiration of the public, as "hospitable," "generous," "attentive," "benevolent," "kind-hearted," "liberal," "highly-esteemed," and withal "a patron of the arts." But the less we say of this matter the better.

In the Preface Mr. Fay informs us that the most important features of his story are founded on fact—that he has availed himself of certain poetical licenses—that he has transformed character, and particularly the character of a young lady, (oh fi! Mr. Fay—oh, Mr. Fay, fi!) that he has sketched certain peculiarities with a mischievous hand—and that the art of novel writing is as dignified as the art of Canova, Mozart or Raphael,—from which we are left to infer, that Mr. Fay himself is as dignified as Raphael, Mozart, and Canova—all three. Having satisfied us on this head, he goes on to say something about an humble student, with a feeble hand, throwing groupings upon a canvass, and standing behind a curtain: and then, after perpetrating all these impertinences, thinks it best "frankly to bespeak the indulgence of the solemn and sapient critics." Body of Bacchus! we, at least, are neither solemn nor sapient, and, therefore, do not feel ourselves bound to show him a shadow of mercy. But will any body tell us what is the object of Prefaces in general, and what is the meaning of Mr. Fay's Preface in particular?

As far as we can understand the plot of Norman Leslie, it is this. A certain family reside in Italy—"independent," "enlightened," "affectionate," "happy,"—and all that. Their villa, of course, stands upon the seashore, and their whole establishment is, we are assured, "a scene of Heaven," &c. Mr. Fay says he will not even attempt to describe it—why, therefore, should we? A daughter of this family is nineteen when she is wooed by a young Neapolitan, Rinaldo, of "mean extraction, but of great beauty and talent." The lover, being a man of suspicious character, is rejected by the parents, and a secret marriage ensues. The lady's brother pursues the bridegroom—they fight—and the former is killed. The father and mother die (it is impossible to see for what purpose they ever lived) and Rinaldo flies to Venice. Upon rejoining her husband in that city, the lady (for Mr. Fay has not thought her worth enduing with a specific appellation) discovers him, for the first time, to be a rascal. One fine day he announces his intention of leaving herself and son for an indefinite time. The lady beseeches and finally threatens. "It was the first unfolding," says she, in a letter towards the dénouement of the story, "of that character which neither he nor I knew belonged to my nature. It was the first uncoiling of the basilisk within me, (good Heavens, a snake in a lady's stomach!). He gazed on me incredulously, and cooly smiled. You remember that smile—I fainted!!!" Alas! Mr. Davy Crockett,—Mr. Davy Crockett, alas!—thou art beaten hollow—thou art defunct, and undone! thou hast indeed succeeded in grinning a squirrel from a tree, but it surpassed even thine extraordinary abilities to smile a lady into a fainting fit!

"When I recovered"—continues the lady—"he was gone. It was two years before I could trace him. At length I found he had sailed for America. I followed him in the depth of winter—I and my child. I knew not the name he had assumed, and I was struck mute with astonishment, in your beautiful city, on beholding, surrounded by fair ladies, the form of my husband, still beautiful, and still adored. You know the rest." But as our readers may not be as well informed as the correspondent of the fair forsaken, we will enlighten them with some farther particulars.

Rinaldo, upon leaving his cara sposa, had taken shipping for New York, where, assuming the name of "Count Clairmont of the French army," he succeeds in cutting a dash, or, in more proper parlance, in creating a sensation, among the beaux and belles of the city of Gotham. One fair lady, and rich heiress, Miss Flora Temple, is particularly honored by his attentions, and the lady's mother, Mrs. T., fired with the idea of her daughter becoming a real countess, makes no scruple of encouraging his addresses. Matters are in this position when the wife of the adventurer arrives in New York, and is quite bewildered with astonishment upon beholding, one snowy day, her beloved Rinaldo sleighing it to and fro about the streets of New York. In the midst of her amazement she is in danger of being run over by some horses, when a certain personage, by name Norman Leslie, but who might, with equal propriety, be called Sir Charles Grandison, flies to her assistance, whisks herself and child up in the very nick of time, and suddenly rescues them, as Mr. Fay has it, "from the very jaws of Death"—by which we are to understand from the very hoofs of the horses. The lady of course swoons—then recovers—and then—is excessively grateful. Her gratitude, however, being of no service just at that moment, is bottled up for use hereafter, and will no doubt, according to established usage in such cases, come into play towards the close of the second volume. But we shall see.

Having ascertained the address of Rinaldo, alias the Count Clairmont, the lady, next morning, is successful in obtaining an interview. Then follows a second edition of entreaties and threats, but, fortunately for the nerves Of Mrs. Rinaldo, the Count, upon this occasion, is so forbearing as not to indulge in a smile. She accuses him of a design to marry Miss Temple, and he informs her that it is no concern of hers—that she is not his wife, their marriage having been a feigned one. "She would have cried him through the city for a villain," (Dust ho!—she should have advertised him) but he swears that, in that case, he will never sleep until he has taken the life of both the lady and her child, which assurance puts an end to the debate. "He then frankly confesses"—says Mrs. Rinaldo, in the letter which we have before quoted,—"that his passion for Miss Temple was only a mask—he loved her not. Me he said he loved. It was his intention to fly when he could raise a large sum of money, and he declared that I should be his companion." His designs, however, upon Miss Temple fail—that lady very properly discarding the rascal. Nothing daunted at this mishap our Count proceeds to make love to a certain Miss Rosalie Romain, and with somewhat better success. He prevails upon her to fly, and to carry with her upon her person a number of diamonds which the lover hopes to find sufficient for his necessities. He manages also to engage Mrs. Rinaldo (so we must call her for want of a better name) in his schemes.

It has so happened that for some time prior to these occurrences, Clairmont and Norman Leslie, the hero of the novel, have been sworn foes. On the day fixed for Miss Romain's elopement, that young lady induces Mr. Leslie to drive her, in a gig, a short distance out of town. They are met by no less a personage than Mrs. Rinaldo herself, in another gig, and driving (proh pudor!) through the woods sola. Hereupon Miss Rosalie Romain very deliberately, and to the great astonishment, no doubt, of Mr. Leslie, gets out of that gentleman's gig, and into the gig of Mrs. Rinaldo. Here's plot! as Vapid says in the play. Our friend Norman, finding that nothing better can be done, turns his face towards New York again, where he arrives, in due time, without farther accident or adventure. Late the same evening Clairmont sends the ladies aboard a vessel bound for Naples, and which is to sail in the morning—returning himself, for the present, to his hotel in Broadway. While here he receives a horse-whipping from Mr. Leslie on account of certain insinuations in disparagement of that gentleman's character. Not relishing this treatment he determines upon revenge, and can think of no better method of accomplishing it than the directing of public suspicion against Mr. Leslie as the murderer of Miss Romain—whose disappearance has already created much excitement. He sends a message to Mrs. Rinaldo that the vessel must sail without him, and that he would, by a French ship, meet them on their landing at Naples. He then flings a hat and feathers belonging to Miss Romain upon a stream, and her handkerchief in a wood—afterwards remaining some time in America to avert suspicion from himself. Leslie is arrested for the murder, and the proofs are damning against him. He is, however, to the great indignation of the populace, acquitted, Miss Temple appearing to testify that she actually saw Miss Romain subsequently to her ride with Leslie. Our hero, however, although acquitted, is universally considered guilty, and, through the active malice of Clairmont, is heaped with every species of opprobrium. Miss Temple, who, it appears, is in love with him, falls ill with grief: but is cured, after all other means have failed, by a letter from her lover announcing a reciprocal passion—for the young lady has hitherto supposed him callous to her charms. Leslie himself, however, takes it into his head, at this critical juncture, to travel; and, having packed up his baggage, does actually forget himself so far as to go a-Willising in foreign countries. But we have no reason to suppose that, goose as the young gentleman is, he is silly enough to turn travelling correspondent to any weekly paper. In Rome, having assumed the alias of Montfort, he meets with a variety of interesting adventures. All the ladies die for him: and one in particular, Miss Antonia Torrini, the only child of a Duke with several millions of piastres, and a palace which Mr. Fay thinks very much like the City Hall in New York, absolutely throws herself sans ceremonie into his arms, and meets—tell it not in Gath!—with a flat and positive refusal.

Among other persons whom he encounters is a monk Ambrose, a painter Angelo, another painter Ducci, a Marquis Alezzi, and a Countess D., which latter personage he is convinced of having seen at some prior period of his life. For a page or two we are entertained with a prospect of a conspiracy, and have great hopes that the principal characters in the plot will so far oblige us as to cut one another's throats: but (alas for human expectations!) Mr. Fay having clapped his hands, and cried "Presto!—vanish!" the whole matter ends in smoke, or, as our author beautifully expresses it, is "veiled in impenetrable mystery."

Mr. Leslie now pays a visit to the painter Ducci, and is astonished at there beholding the portrait of the very youth whose life he saved, together with that of his mother, from the horses in New York. Then follows a series of interesting ejaculations, among which we are able to remember only "horrible suspicion!" "wonderful development!" "alack and alas!" with some two or three others. Mr. Leslie is, however, convinced that the portrait of the boy is, as Mr. F. gracefully has it, "inexplicably connected with his own mysterious destiny." He pays a visit to the Countess D., and demands of her if she was, at any time, acquainted with a gentleman called Clairmont. The lady very properly denies all knowledge of that character, and Mr. Leslie's "mysterious destiny" is in as bad a predicament as ever. He is however fully convinced that Clairmont is the origin of all evil—we do not mean to say that he is precisely the devil—but the origin of all Mr. Leslie's evil. Therefore, and on this account, he goes to a masquerade, and, sure enough, Mr. Clairmont, (who has not been heard of for seven or eight years,) Mr. Clairmont (we suppose through Mr. L's "mysterious destiny") happens to go, at precisely the same time, to precisely the same masquerade. But there are surely no bounds to Mr. Fay's excellent invention. Miss Temple, of course, happens to be at the same place, and Mr. Leslie is in the act of making love to her once more, when the "inexplicable" Countess D. whispers into his ear some ambiguous sentences in which Mr. L. is given to understand that he must beware of all the Harlequins in the room, one of whom is Clairmont. Upon leaving the masquerade, somebody hands him a note requesting him to meet the unknown writer at St. Peter's. While he is busy reading the paper he is uncivilly interrupted by Clairmont, who attempts to assassinate him, but is finally put to flight. He hies, then, to the rendezvous at St. Peter's, where "the unknown" tells him St. Peter's won't answer, and that he must proceed to the Coliseum. He goes—why should he not?—and there not only finds the Countess D. who turns out to be Mrs. Rinaldo, and who now uncorks her bottle of gratitude, but also Flora Temple, Flora Temple's father, Clairmont, Kreutzner, a German friend from New York, and, last but not least, Rosalie Romain herself; all having gone there, no doubt, at three o'clock in the morning, under the influence of that interesting young gentleman Norman Leslie's "most inexplicable and mysterious destiny." Matters now come to a crisis. The hero's innocence is established, and Miss Temple falls into his arms in consequence. Clairmont, however, thinks he can do nothing better than shoot Mr. Leslie, and is about to do so, when he is very justly and very dexterously knocked in the head by Mr. Kreutzner. Thus ends the Tale of the Present Times, and thus ends the most inestimable piece of balderdash with which the common sense of the good people of America was ever so openly or so villainously insulted.

We do not mean to say that there is positively nothing in Mr. Fay's novel to commend—but there is indeed very little. One incident is tolerably managed, in which, at the burning house of Mr. Temple, Clairmont anticipates Leslie in his design of rescuing Flora. A cotillon scene, too, where Morton, a simple fop, is frequently interrupted in his attempts at making love to Miss Temple, by the necessity of forward-twoing and sachezing, (as Mr. Fay thinks proper to call it) is by no means very bad, although savoring too much of the farcical. A duel story told by Kreutzner is really good, but unfortunately not original, there being a Tale in the Diary of a Physician, from which both its matter and manner are evidently borrowed. And here we are obliged to pause; for we can positively think of nothing farther worth even a qualified commendation. The plot, as will appear from the running outline we have given of it, is a monstrous piece of absurdity and incongruity. The characters have no character; and, with the exception of Morton, who is, (perhaps) amusing, are, one and all, vapidity itself. No attempt seems to have been made at individualization. All the good ladies and gentlemen are demi-gods and demi-goddesses, and all the bad are—the d—l. The hero, Norman Leslie, "that young and refined man with a leaning to poetry," is a great coxcomb and a great fool. What else must we think of a bel-esprit who, in picking up a rose just fallen from the curls of his lady fair, can hit upon no more appropriate phrase with which to make her a presentation of the same, than "Miss Temple, you have dropped your rose—allow me!"—who courts his mistress with a "Dear, dear Flora, how I love you!"—who calls a buffet a bufet, an improvisatore an improvisitore—who, before bestowing charity, is always ready with the canting question if the object be deserving—who is everlastingly talking of his foe "sleeping in the same red grave with himself," as if American sextons made a common practice of burying two people together—and, who having not a sous in his pocket at page 86, pulls out a handful at page 87, although he has had no opportunity of obtaining a copper in the interim?

As regards Mr. Fay's style, it is unworthy of a school-boy. The "Editor of the New York Mirror" has either never seen an edition of Murray's Grammar, or he has been a-Willising so long as to have forgotten his vernacular language. Let us examine one or two of his sentences at random. Page 28, vol. i. "He was doomed to wander through the fartherest climes alone and branded." Why not say at once fartherertherest? Page 150, vol. i. "Yon kindling orb should be hers; and that faint spark close to its side should teach her how dim and yet how near my soul was to her own." What is the meaning of all this? Is Mr. Leslie's soul dim to her own, as well as near to her own?—for the sentence implies as much. Suppose we say "should teach her how dim was my soul, and yet how near to her own." Page 101, vol. i. "You are both right and both wrong—you, Miss Romain, to judge so harshly of all men who are not versed in the easy elegance of the drawing room, and your father in too great lenity towards men of sense, &c." This is really something new, but we are sorry to say, something incomprehensible. Suppose we translate it. "You are both right and both wrong—you, Miss Romain, are both right and wrong to judge so harshly of all not versed in the elegance of the drawing-room, &c.; and your father is both right and wrong in too great lenity towards men of sense."—Mr. Fay, have you ever visited Ireland in your peregrinations? But the book is full to the brim of such absurdities, and it is useless to pursue the matter any farther. There is not a single page of Norman Leslie in which even a school-boy would fail to detect at least two or three gross errors in Grammar, and some two or three most egregious sins against common-sense.

We will dismiss the "Editor of the Mirror" with a few questions. When did you ever know, Mr. Fay, of any prosecuting attorney behaving so much like a bear as your prosecuting attorney in the novel of Norman Leslie? When did you ever hear of an American Court of Justice objecting to the testimony of a witness on the ground that the said witness had an interest in the cause at issue? What do you mean by informing us at page 84, vol. i, "that you think much faster than you write?" What do you mean by "the wind roaring in the air?" see page 26, vol. i. What do you mean by "an unshadowed Italian girl?" see page 67, vol. ii. Why are you always talking about "stamping of feet," "kindling and flashing of eyes," "plunging and parrying," "cutting and thrusting," "passes through the body," "gashes open in the cheek," "sculls cleft down," "hands cut off," and blood gushing and bubbling, and doing God knows what else—all of which pretty expressions may be found on page 88, vol. i.? What "mysterious and inexplicable destiny" compels you to the so frequent use, in all its inflections, of that euphonical dyssyllable blister? We will call to your recollection some few instances in which you have employed it. Page 185, vol. i. "But an arrival from the city brought the fearful intelligence in all its blistering and naked details." Page 193, vol. i. "What but the glaring and blistering truth of the charge would select him, &c." Page 39, vol. ii. "Wherever the winds of heaven wafted the English language, the blistering story must have been echoed." Page 150, vol. ii. "Nearly seven years had passed away, and here he found himself, as at first, still marked with the blistering and burning brand." Here we have a blistering detail, a blistering truth, a blistering story, and a blistering brand, to say nothing of innumerable other blisters interspersed throughout the book. But we have done with Norman Leslie,—if ever we saw as silly a thing, may we be —— blistered.

THE LINWOODS.

The Linwoods; or, "Sixty Years Since" in America. By the Author of "Hope Leslie," "Redwood," &c. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers.

Miss Sedgwick is one among the few American writers who have risen by merely their own intrinsic talents, and without the a priori aid of foreign opinion and puffery, to any exalted rank in the estimation of our countrymen. She is at the same time fully deserving of all the popularity she has attained. By those who are most fastidious in matters of literary criticism, the author of Hope Leslie is the most ardently admired, and we are acquainted with few persons of sound and accurate discrimination who would hesitate in placing her upon a level with the best of our native novelists. Of American female writers we must consider her the first. The character of her pen is essentially feminine. No man could have written Hope Leslie; and no man, we are assured, can arise from the perusal of The Linwoods without a full conviction that his own abilities would have proved unequal to the delicate yet picturesque handling; the grace, warmth, and radiance; the exquisite and judicious filling in, of the volumes which have so enchanted him. Woman is, after all, the only true painter of that gentle and beautiful mystery, the heart of woman. She is the only proper Scheherazade for the fairy tales of love.

We think The Linwoods superior to Hope Leslie, and superior to Redwood. It is full of deep natural interest, rivetting attention without undue or artificial means for attaining that end. It contains nothing forced, or in any degree exaggerated. Its prevailing features are equability, ease, perfect accuracy and purity of style, a manner never at outrance with the subject matter, pathos, and verisimilitude. It cannot, however, be considered as ranking with the master novels of the day. It is neither an Eugene Aram, nor a Contarini Fleming.

The Linwoods has few—indeed no pretensions to a connected plot of any kind. The scene, as the title indicates, is in America, and about sixty years ago. The adventures of the family of a Mr. Linwood, a resident of New York, form the principal subject of the book. The character of this gentleman is happily drawn, but we are aware of a slight discrepancy between his initial and his final character as depicted. He has two children, Herbert and Isabella. Being himself a tory, the boyish impulses of his son in favor of the revolutionists are watched with anxiety and vexation; and, upon the breaking out of the war, Herbert, positively refusing to drink the king's health, is, in consequence, ejected from his father's house—an incident upon which hinges much of the interest of the narrative. Isabella is the heroine proper; a being full of lofty and generous impulses, beautiful, intellectual, and spirituelle—indeed a most fascinating creature. But the family of a widow Lee forms, perhaps, the true secret of that charm which pervades the novel before us. A matronly, pious, and devoted mother, yielding up her son, without a murmur, to the sacred cause of her country—the son, Eliot, gallant, thoughtful, chivalrous, and prudent—and above all, a daughter, Bessie, frail-minded, susceptible of light impressions, gentle, loving, and melancholy. Indeed, in the creation of Bessie Lee, Miss Sedgwick has given evidence not to be disputed, of a genius far more than common. We do not hesitate to call it a truly beautiful and original conception, evincing imagination of the highest order. It is the old story of a meek and trusting spirit bowed down to the dust by the falsehood of a deceiver. But in the narration of Miss Sedgwick it becomes a magical tale, and bursts upon us with all the freshness of novel emotion. Deserted by her lover, (Jasper Meredith, an accomplished and aristocratical coxcomb,) the spirits of the gentle girl sink gradually from trusting affection to simple hope—from hope to anxiety—from anxiety to doubt—from doubt to melancholy—and from melancholy to madness. She escapes from her home and her friends in New England, and endeavors to make her way alone to New York, with the object of restoring, to him who has abandoned her, some tokens he had given her of his love—an act which her disordered fancy assures her will effect, in her own person, a disenthralment from passion. Her piety, her madness, and her beauty stand her in the stead of the lion of Una, and she reaches the great city in safety. In that portion of the novel which embodies the narrative of this singular journey, are some passages of the purest and most exalted poetry—passages which no mind but one thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the beautiful could have conceived, and which, perhaps, no other writer in this country than Miss Sedgwick could have executed. Our readers will find that what we say upon this head is very far from exaggeration.

Jasper Meredith, considered as an actual entity, is, as we have already said, a heartless, calculating coxcomb—with merely a spice of what we may call susceptibility to impressions of the beautiful, to redeem him from utter contempt. As a character in a novel, he is admirable—because he is accurately true to nature, and to himself. His perfidy to Bessie (we shall never forget Bessie) meets with poetical justice in a couple of unsuccessful courtships, (in each of which the villain's heart is in some degree concerned,) and in a final marriage with a flirt, Helen Ruthven, who fills him up, with a vengeance, the full measure of his deserts. Mrs. Meredith is a striking picture of the heartless and selfish woman of fashion and aristocracy. Kisel, the servant of Eliot Lee, is original, and, next to Bessie, the best conception in the book. He is a simple, childish, yet acute and affectionate fool, who follows his master as would a dog, and finally dies at his feet under circumstances of the truest pathos. While Miss Sedgwick can originate such characters as these, she need apprehend few rivals near the throne.

We cannot pass over in silence a little episode in which a blind child is torn away at night from a distracted mother, by one of the notorious bands of Skinners infesting the country. The mother's house is set on fire by the robbers, in their search after plunder; but her most valuable property having been previously removed to New York, the exasperated ruffians seize and bear off the fainting child, with the view of extorting money for its ransom. Eliot Lee, aided by General Putnam, rescues the child, and restores it to the mother. This whole incident is worthy of Miss Sedgwick.

We have mentioned the name of Putnam,—he as well as Washington, Lafayette, Clinton, and some other well-known personages are familiarly introduced in the narrative, but are simply accessories to the main interest, and very little attempt is made at portraying their historical characters. Whatever is done, however, is well done.

So much real pleasure have we derived from the perusal of The Linwoods, that we can hardly find it in our hearts to pick a quarrel with the fair author, for the very few trifling inadvertences into which she has been betrayed. There were, we believe, some points at which we intended to cavil, but hot having pencilled them down in the course of perusal, they have now escaped our recollection. Somewhat more energy in occasional passages—somewhat less diffuseness in others—would operate, we think, to the improvement of Miss Sedgwick's generally excellent style. Now and then, we meet with a discrepancy between the words and the character of a speaker. For example: page 38, vol. i. "'No more of my contempt for the Yankees, Hal, an' thou lovest me,' replied Jasper; 'you remember Æsop's advice to Croesus, at the Persian court?' 'No, I am sure I do not. You have the most provoking way of resting the lever by which you bring out your own knowledge, on your friend's ignorance.'" Now all this is very pretty, but it is not the language of school-boys. Again: page 226 vol. i. 'Now out on you, you lazy, slavish, loons,' cried Rose, 'cannot you see these men are raised up, to fight for freedom, for more than themselves? If the chain is broken at one end, the links will fall apart sooner or later. When you see the sun on the mountain top, you may be sure it will shine into the deepest valleys before long.' Who would suppose this graceful eloquence, and these impressive images to proceed from the mouth of a negro-woman? Yet such is Rose. And at page 24, vol. i. we have the following. "True, I never saw her; but I tell you, young lad, there is such a thing as seeing the shadow of things far distant and past, and never seeing the realities though they it be that cast the shadows." The speaker here, is an old woman who a few sentences before talks about her proficiency in telling fortins.

There are one or two other trifles with which we have to find fault. Putnam's deficiency in spelling is, perhaps, a little burlesqued; and the imaginary note written to Eliot Lee, is not in accordance with that laconic epistle subsequently introduced, and which was a bonâ fide existence. We dislike the death of Kisel—that is we dislike its occurring so soon—indeed we see no necessity for killing him at all. His end is beautifully managed, but leaves a kind of uneasy and painful impression, which a judicious writer will be chary of exciting. We must quarrel also, with some slight liberties taken with the King's English. Miss Sedgwick has no good authority for the use of such verbs, as "to ray." Page 117, vol. i. "They had all heard of Squire Saunders, whose fame rayed through a large circle"—Also, in page 118, vol. i. "The next morning he called, his kind heart raying out through his jolly face, to present me to General Washington." Nor is she justifiable in making use of the verb "incense," with the meaning attached to it in the following sentence. Page 211, vol. i. "Miss Ruthven seemed like an humble worshipper, incensing two divinities." We dislike also, the vulgarity of such a phrase as "I put in my oar"—meaning "I joined in the conversation"—especially in the mouth of so well-bred a lady, as Miss Isabella Linwood—see page 61, vol. i. We do not wish either to see a marquee, called a "markee," or a dénouement, a denoeument. Miss Sedgwick should look over her proof-sheets, or, be responsible for the blunders of her printer. The plural "genii" at page 84, vol. ii. is used in place of the singular genius. "Isabella is rather penseroso" is likewise an error—see page 164, vol. ii.; it should be penserosa. But we are heartily ashamed of finding fault with such trifles, and should certainly not have done so, had there been a possibility of finding fault with any thing of more consequence. We recommend The Linwoods to all persons of taste. But let none others touch it.