Thus I look cheerfully on, and see the sands of my life run out. They fall faster and faster, as their number is diminished, and time flies by me with constantly accelerating speed. 'Oh, my days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle!'—the last one I see but a little distance before me; it will soon be here; and I shall step forth with a joyful, courageous heart, into the indistinct, dimly-revealed future!



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

BY REV. GEORGE W. BETHUNE.

Suffenus, whom we both have known so well, No other man in manners can excel; Facetious, courteous, affable, urbane. The world's approval he is sure to gain. But, would you think it? he has now essayed To be a bard, and countless verses made; Perhaps ten thousand, perhaps ten times more, For none but he could ever count them o'er; Not scribbled down on scraps, as one does when In careless rhymes we only try our pen, But in a gilt-edged book, all richly bound, The writing ornate with a care profound, Rich silken cords to mark each favorite part, The cover, ev'n, a monument of art. Yet as you read, Suffenus, who till then Seemed the most pleasant of all gentlemen, Becomes offensive as the country boor, Who milks rank goats beside his cottage door, Or digs foul ditches: such a change is wrought By rhymes with neither sense nor music fraught. So crazed is he with this same wretched rhyme, That never does he know so blest a time As when he writes away, and fondly deems He rivals Homer's god-enraptured dreams; And wonders in his pride, himself to see, The very pattern-pink of poesy. Alas! Suffenus, while I laugh at thee, The world, for aught I know, may laugh at me. It is the madness of each one to pride Himself on that 'twere better far to hide; Nor know the faults in that peculiar sack Which AEsop says is hanging at his back.



THE PAINTED ROCK.

BY CHARLES F. POWELL.

The tract of country through which meanders the Tennessee river, for wild, sublime and picturesque scenery, is scarcely surpassed by any in the United States. This river was anciently called the Hogohege, and also Cherokee river: it takes its rise in the mountains of Virginia, in the thirty-seventh degree of latitude, and pursues a course of one thousand miles south and south-west nearly to the thirty-fourth degree of latitude, receiving from both sides large tributary streams. It then changes its direction to the north, circuitously winding until it mingles with the waters of the Ohio, sixty miles from its mouth. There is a place near the summit of the Cumberland mountains, which extends from the great Kenhawa to the Tennessee, where there is a very remarkable ledge of rocks, thirty miles in length and nearly two hundred feet high, showing a perpendicular face to the south-east, which for grandeur and magnificence surpass any fortification of art in the known world. It has been the modern hypothesis, that all the upper branches of the Tennessee formerly forced their way through this stupendous pile.

On the Tennessee, about four hundred and fifty miles from its mouth, and nearly two hundred above what is called Muscle-Shoals, there is another ledge of rocks stretching along the shore to the extent of one mile, with a perpendicular front toward the river, of the most perfect regularity. This ledge varies in height from thirty to three hundred feet, being much the highest at the centre, and diminishing at each end into ragged cliffs of rock and broken land. This variegated surface extends for many miles, affording a constant succession of fanciful and romantic views. The whole rocky formation in this vicinity is composed of a light gray lime-stone, indented with broad dark lines formed by the dripping of the water which falls from the scanty covering of soil on the top to the deep channel below. The thin surface of soil sustains a shabby, stinted growth of fir, oak, and other trees, which seldom grow above the height of tall shrubbery. From the crevices of the rock also may occasionally be seen a tree of diminutive dimensions springing out with scarcely a particle of visible sustenance for its roots. The shrubbery upon the peak of this acclivity presents a curious appearance as it hangs over the ascent, not unlike the bushy eye-brows of a sullen and frowning face. With this ledge of rocks terminate the Cumberland mountains, which cross the State of Tennessee to the margin of the river. The stream here flows nearly west, through a beautiful valley of alluvial land, formed by the Cumberland mountains and a continuation of the Blue Ridge of Virginia. Immediately opposite the termination of the Cumberland mountains commences a broken and rocky surface, which extends along the shore of the river for many miles, presenting the most varied and novel scenery in nature; while the other shore is level, fertile, and mostly in a high state of cultivation, abounding in verdant fields of meadow, corn and tobacco.

The middle portion of the ledge proper, which I have described, rises nearly or quite three hundred feet above the level of the river; a vast wall of solid lime-stone, echoing with never-ceasing moans the gurgling current of the river, which at this place is deep and very rapid; and has worn a series of caves and hollows in the base of the rock, which contribute greatly to this 'language of the waters.'

The summit or peak of this ledge in the centre is called 'The Painted Rock.' It is so called from the fact of there being, about sixty feet below the highest peak, letters and characters painted in different colors, and evidently drawn by a tutored hand. What is most remarkable, these paintings are upon the perpendicular face of the rock, probably two hundred feet above the river, and in a place where there is no apparent possibility for mortal man to arrive. They are composed of the initials of two persons, together with characters and drawings, some of which are illegible from the river. The first consists of the letters 'J. W. H.,' quite well done in dark blue or green paint. The next is 'A. L. S.,' done in red, and also a trefoil leaf of clover in green, beside several rude characters and drawings in blue and red. The traveller passing this interesting spot gazes with wonder and astonishment, but is referred to tradition for a history of the circumstances which led to the name of Painted Rock; for the paintings were drawn and the name given, long before the country was permanently settled by the whites. The story handed down is this:

The original possessors of the soil in this part of the country were the tribes of Cherokee and Chicasaw Indians. The country was explored as early as 1745, by a company who had grants of land from the government, and settlements commenced previous to the French war. Of the first-comers of whites there were not more than sixty families, who were either destroyed or driven off before the end of the following year. Some few families had settled at a place not far distant from the Painted Rock, where lived a Cherokee Sagamore, named Shagewana, whose tribe was considered the most inhuman of any in the nation. The top of the rock is flat, and slopes back from the river, and at the base is a large spring surrounded by bushes. Shagewana occupied the summit of the acclivity as his council-ground; and when danger was apprehended from the whites, or when an innovation was made on his limits, he forthwith called his warriors together for consultation, and set fire to faggots and other combustibles as a signal for his neighbors to advance to his aid. The whites settled near the Painted Rock at this time were mostly composed of traders, who had brought various articles of clothing and ornaments to dispose of to the Indians; and under the assurance of the Chicasaws, who rarely commenced the work of destruction on the whites, that they should be unmolested, built up a cluster of huts, and cleared a small territory for the raising of corn and other vegetables.

Shagewana from some cause became incensed toward them, and resolved to burn the buildings and destroy their inhabitants. He called his people together, and the war-cry was sounded throughout the mountains. Taking advantage of the night, they surrounded the settlement, and applying torches to the dwellings, rushed into the midst with tomahawk in hand, and murdered all save two young men, who fought so bravely that they spared their lives in order to torture them with more prolonged sufferings. The names of these young men it is said were HARRIS and SNELLING. They were bound and taken to the rock, where the savages went through a dance, as was their custom after a victory had been achieved; and as day-light advanced, they prepared a feast. Harris and Snelling were placed under keepers, who amused themselves by tormenting their unhappy prisoners in various ways; such as pricking them with their knives, cutting off small pieces of their ears and fingers, and pulling out clumps of their hair. Before the close of the day, the captives feigning sleep, the Indians left them for a moment and went to the spring for water. Thereupon the young men burst their bands and escaped into the bushes. Crawling upon the other side of the rock, and being hotly pursued, it is supposed that they were forced upon a narrow projection, about twelve inches wide, and four feet below the inscription, where with some paint or coloring substance which they carried about them they traced the characters to which we have referred, and which have given the place the name of 'THE PAINTED ROCK.' The fate of the young men is not positively known; but it is believed that they were discovered and hurled down the precipice.



LINES TO J. T. OF IRELAND.

BY THE AUTHOR OF 'HINTS ON ETIQUETTE.'

A heartless flirt! with false and wicked eye, Dost thou not feel thyself a living lie? Dost thou not hear the 'still small voice' upbraid Thy inmost conscience for the part thou'st played? How mean the wish to victimize that one Who ne'er had wooed thee, hadst thou not begun! Who mark'd with pain thy saddened gaze on him, Doom'd but to fall a martyr to thy whim; Whose pallid cheek might win a fiend to spare, Or soothe the sorrows that had blanched his hair: Oh, cold-laid plan! drawn on from day to day To meet the looks thou failed not to display, Seeking at such a price another's peace, To feed the cravings of thy vain caprice; Led him to think that thou wert all his own, Then froze his passion with a heart of stone. Lured by thy wiles, he gave that holiest gift, A noble soul, before he saw thy drift; He watched thy bosom heave, he heard thee sigh, Nor deem'd such looks could cover treachery; That one so proud could stoop to simulate The purest feelings of this earthly state. Yet words were useless, where no sense of blame Could start a tear, nor tinge thy cheek with shame. More merciful than thou to him, he prays No pangs like his may wound thy lingering days; Implores thy sins to him may be forgiven, And leaves thee to the clemency of Heaven.

C. W. DAY.



LITERARY NOTICES.

POEMS BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. In one volume. pp. 279. Cambridge: JOHN OWEN. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

Two years ago Mr. LOWELL presented the public with a volume of poems, which after being read and blamed and praised with a most bewildering variety of opinion, lived through it all, and remained as a permanent specimen of unformed but most promising genius. Modest however as the offering was, it was duly valued by discerning judges, not so much for its own ripe excellence, as for its appearing a happy token of something else. In the major part of the annual soarings into Cloud-land which alarm the world, we seem to see the sum total of the aspirant's power. We feel that he has shown us all, and done his best; that the force of his cleverness could go no farther; and we are willing to give him his penny of praise, and thereby purchase a pleasant oblivion of him and his forevermore. In this attempt of Mr. LOWELL'S it was impossible not to see that there lay more beyond. We felt that however boldly he might have dived, he did not yet 'bring up the bottom,' as the swimmer's phrase goes. The faults of his poems were perceptible enough, yet even these were the blemishes of latent strength, and the book was every where welcomed with a hope. We have now to notice the appearance of a second proof of Mr. LOWELL'S activity of faculty, in another and larger volume. It confirms the faith of those who read the former one. There is, throughout, the manifestation of growth; of a continuous advance toward a more decided character. Yet it is not without incompleteness of expression; it smacks of immaturity still; but it is the immaturity which presages a man.

The longest, and although not the most pleasing, yet perhaps the best poem in the volume is the 'Legend of Brittany,' a romantic story, fringed with rhyme. It contains but one bad line, and that one the first in the book: 'Fair as a summer dream was MARGARET.' It is not only vague, but common-place: there is no particular reason that we know of why a summer dream should be fairer than a winter dream; and we cannot think that the poet meant to make use of that figure of speech called amphibology, although the line will bear a double interpretation. The legend is of the guilty amour of MORDRED, a Knight Templar, with a fair innocent who, upon the point of becoming a mother, is slain by her lover at evening, in the wood. Hereupon—— But let the poet speak:

His crime complete, scarce knowing what he did, (So goes the tale,) beneath the altar there In the high church the stiffening corpse he hid, And then, to 'scape that suffocating air, Like a scared ghoule out of the porch he slid; But his strained eyes saw blood-spots everywhere, And ghastly faces thrust themselves between His soul and hopes of peace with blasting mien.

It should be observed that Mordred, bound as a Templar by the strictest laws of chastity, is aiming at the 'high grand-mastership,' and consequently suffers not only the remorse of the murderer, but the dread of that defeat which his ambition must encounter in the discovery of his deed. His character is ably delineated; perhaps too nicely drawn, for so brief a tale, since the interest momentarily awakened in the 'dark, proud man,'

——'whose half-blown youth Had shed its blossoms even in opening,'

is immediately lost in the horror of the catastrophe. But to pursue the outline of the story:

Now, on the second day, there was to be A festival in church: from far and near Came flocking in the sun-burnt peasantry, And knights and dames with stately antique cheer, Blazing with pomp, as if all faerie Had emptied her quaint halls, or, as it were, The illuminated marge of some old book, While we were gazing, life and motion took.

* * * * *

Then swelled the organ: up through choir and nave The music trembled with an inward thrill Of bliss at its own grandeur: wave on wave Its flood of mellow thunder rose, until The hushed air shivered with the throb it gave, Then, poising for a moment, it stood still, And sank and rose again, to burst in spray That wandered into silence far away.

The whole of the description of this choir-service is equally beautiful with these stanzas; yet it may be objected that it in some degree impedes the progress of narration; and the tale is of that sort which will scarce brook any delay in the telling. But to continue. During the chanting, a breathless pause comes over the congregation; the music hushes; all eyes are drawn by some strange impulse toward the altar; and while all is mute and watchful, the voice of Margaret is heard from heaven, imploring a baptism for her unborn babe. The author himself cannot feel more sensibly than ourselves the injustice of thus patching together the beauteous fragments of his sorrowful and melodious history in so hugger-mugger a way; but MAGA is peremptory, and hints to us that we cannot command the scope of the 'Edinburgh Review:' The voice ceases to thrill the wondering multitude, and the poet thus proceeds:

Then the pale priests, with ceremony due Baptized the child within its dreadful tomb, Beneath that mother's heart, whose instinct true Star-like had battled down the triple gloom Of sorrow, love, and death: young maidens, too, Strewed the pale corpse with many a milk-white bloom, And parted the bright hair, and on the breast Crossed the unconscious hands in sign of rest.

It is an indication of Mr. LOWELL'S capabilities for a more extended theme that the second part of this poem is superior to the first. It is not merely that the interest of the story increases, but the verse is more compressed, the expressions are more graphic, and the flow of the stanza is finer and more natural. The opening lines are as vivid and impressive as a passage from Tasso:

'As one who, from the sunshine and the green, Enters the solid darkness of a cave, Nor knows what precipice or pit unseen May yawn before him with its sudden grave, And, with hushed breath, doth often forward lean, Deeming he hears the plashing of a wave Dimly below, or feels a damper air From out some dreary chasm, he knows not where; So from the sunshine and the green of Love, We enter on our story's darker part,' etc.

The faults of the whole production are the necessary ones of all young writers of original power; a too ready faculty of imitation, and a lack of conciseness. The poets whom Mr. LOWELL mostly reminds us of, in his faults, are SHELLY and SHAKSPEARE; the juvenile SHAKSPEARE, we mean—SHAKSPEARE the sonnetteer. Both in the 'Revolt of Islam' and 'Tarquin and Lucrece,' blemishes resembling his own constantly occur. It will nevertheless be gratifying to his many ardent admirers to perceive that on the whole he has exhibited a more definite approach to what he is capable of accomplishing, and that in proportion as he has grown less vague and ethereal, less fond of personifying sounds and sentiments, so has he advanced toward a more manly and enduring standard of excellence. 'Prometheus' is the next longest poem, and it has afforded us great gratification. It might almost be mistaken for the breath of AESCHYLUS, except that it contains sparkles of freedom that even the warm soul of the Greek could never have felt. The first two lines glitter with light:

'One after one the stars have risen and set, Sparkling upon the hoar-frost on my chain.'

Although, rhyme is no tyrant to our poet, yet he seems to take a fuller swing when free from its influence; and the verse which he employs for the vehicle of his thoughts in this genuine poem is peculiarly adapted to the grandeur and dignity of his subject. This composition will stand the true test of poetry; a test which many immortal verses cannot abide, for it will bear translation into prose without loss of beauty or power: it contains more thoughts than lines, and although abounding in high poetic imaginings, the spirit of true philosophy which it contains is superior to the poetry.

Of Mr. LOWELL'S shorter specimens we may remark, in contradistinction to what has been said of the Legend of Brittany, that so far as they resemble the kind of his former productions, so far in short as they are re-castings of himself, they do him injustice. We now feel that he is capable of stronger and loftier efforts, and are unwilling to overlook in his later compositions the flaws that are wilfully copied from his own volume. The public demand that he should go onward, and not wander back to dally among flowers that have been plucked before, and were then accepted for their freshness. He must devote himself to subjects of wider importance, and give his imaginations a more permanent foothold upon the hearts of men. His love-poems, though many of them would have added grace to his first collection, fail to excite our admiration equally in this. We do not say that he had exhausted panegyric before; far less would we insinuate that passion itself is exhaustible; and yet there is a point where to pause might be more graceful than to go on: 'Sunt certi denique fines.' Did any one ever wish that even PETRARCH had written more? Mr. LOWELL then ought to consider this, and begin to build upon a broader foundation than his own territory, beautiful as it may be, of private and personal fancies and affections. Perhaps there is no exception to the law that love should always be the first impulse that leads an ardent soul to poesy. (By poesy we do not mean school-exercises, and prize heroics approved by a committee of literary gentlemen.) On this account, it may be, that a young poet is always anxious to walk upon the ground where he first felt his strength, considering that a minstrel without love were as powerless, to adopt the Rev. SIDNEY SMITH'S jocose but not altogether clerical illustration, as Sampson in a wig. Mr. LOWELL evinces the firmest faith in his passion, which is evidently as sincere as it is well-bestowed. It is from this perhaps that he derives a corresponding faith in his productions, which always seems proportionate to his love of his subject. Let him be assured however that he is not always the strongest when he feels the most so, nor must he mistake the absence of this feeling for a symptom of diminished power. Should he be at any time inclined to such a self-estimate, let him refer his judgment to his 'Prometheus' and 'Rhoecus.' In his 'Ode' also, and his 'Glance behind the Curtain,' there is much to embolden him toward the highest endeavors in what he would perhaps disdain to call his Art. Poesy, notwithstanding, is an Art, which even HORACE and DRYDEN did not scorn to consider such; and our poet ought to remember that he is bound not only to utter his own sentiments and fantasies according to his own impulse, but moreover to consult in some degree the ears of the world: the poet's task is double; to speak FROM himself indeed, but TO the hearing of others. The contempt which a man of genius feels for the mere mechanicism of verse and rhyme may naturally enough lead him to affect an inattention to it; but in this he only benefits the school of smoother artists by allowing them at least one superiority. If he accuses them of being silly, they can retort that he is ugly.

Our author in this second volume has given the small carpers who pick at the 'eds' of past participles, and stickle for old-fashioned moon-shine instead of moon-shine, fewer causes of complaint. His diction is well-chosen and befitting his themes; and this is a characteristic which peculiarly marks the true artist, if it does not indicate the true genius. His execution, his 'style of handling,' is adapted to his subject; an excellence in which too many artists, whether painters or poets, are sadly deficient. In this respect his performances and those of his friend PAGE may be hung together. From the stately and dignified lines of 'Prometheus' to the jetty, dripping verse of 'The Fountain,' the step is very wide. How full of sparkling, brilliant effects are these joyous lines?

Into the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night!

Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow!

Mr. LOWELL occasionally makes use of somewhat quaint, Spenserian expressions, but generally with peculiar effect. His abundant fancy seems to find its natural garb in the short and expressive phraseology of those old English writers of whom he manifests on all occasions so thorough an appreciation. As a sweet specimen, although a careless one, of his power of combining deep feeling with the most picturesque imagery, we select one of his lightest touches—'Forgetfulness:'

There is a haven of sure rest From the loud world's bewildering stress: As a bird dreaming on her nest, As dew hid in a rose's breast, As Hesper in the glowing West; So the heart sleeps In thy calm deeps, Serene Forgetfulness!

No sorrow in that place may be, The noise of life grows less and less: As moss far down within the sea, As, in white lily caves, a bee, As life in a hazy reverie; So the heart's wave In thy dim cave, Hushes, Forgetfulness!

Duty and care fade far away, What toil may be we cannot guess: As a ship anchored in a bay, As a cloud at summer-noon astray, As water-blooms in a breezeless day; So, 'neath thine eyes, The full heart lies, And dreams, Forgetfulness!

'The Shepherd of King Admetus' is exceedingly graceful and delicate, but it is too long to be quoted entire, and too perfect to be disjointed. We must reluctantly skip 'Fatherland,' 'The Inheritance,' 'The Moon,' 'Rhoecus,' and other favorites, until we come to 'L'Envoi,' where our author once more throws his arms aloft, free from the incumbrance of rhyme. This poem is inscribed to 'M. W.,' his heart's idol. The warm affection which radiates from its lines, it is not to be mistaken, is an out-flowing of pure human love. Among these personal feelings, touching which we have 'said our say,' we find the following; which in one respect so forcibly illustrates what we have written within these two weeks to a western correspondent, that we cannot forbear to quote it here:

Thou art not of those niggard souls, who deem That poesy is but to jingle words, To string sweet sorrows for apologies To hide the barrenness of unfurnished hearts, To prate about the surfaces of things, And make more thread-bare what was quite worn out: Our common thoughts are deepest, and to give Such beauteous tones to these, as needs must take Men's hearts their captives to the end of time, So that who hath not the choice gift of words Takes these into his soul, as welcome friends, To make sweet music of his joys and woes, And be all Beauty's swift interpreter, Links of bright gold 'twixt Nature and his heart This is the errand high of Poesy.

* * * * *

They tell us that our land was made for song, With its huge rivers and sky-piercing peaks, Its sea-like lakes and mighty cataracts, Its forests vast and hoar, and prairies wide, And mounds that tell of wondrous tribes extinct; But Poesy springs not from rocks and woods; Her womb and cradle are the human heart, And she can find a nobler theme for song In the most loathsome man that blasts the sight, Than in the broad expanse of sea and shore Between the frozen deserts of the poles. All nations have their message from on high, Each the messiah of some central thought, For the fulfilment and delight of Man: One has to teach that Labor is divine; Another, Freedom; and another, Mind; And all, that GOD is open-eyed and just, The happy centre and calm heart of all.

It is impossible to read such sentiments as these, without feeling our hearts open to him who gives them utterance. Mr. LOWELL is one of those writers who gain admiration for their verses and lovers for themselves. We can pay him no higher compliment.

There is nothing in the title-page or appearance of this elegant volume to indicate that it is not published in Cambridge, England; but unlike the majority of American books of poetry, any page in the work will give out too strong an odor of Bunker-Hill, though we find no allusion to that sacred eminence, to allow the reader to remain long in doubt of its paternity. Although we hold that any writing worthy of being called poetry must be of universal acceptance, and adapted to the longings and necessities of the entire human family, as the same liquid element quenches the thirst of the inhabitants of the tropics and the poles, yet every age and every clime must of necessity tincture its own productions. We do not therefore diminish in the slightest degree the high poetical pretensions of Mr. LOWELL'S poems, when we claim for them a national character, silent though they be upon 'the stars and stripes,' and a complexion which no other age of the world than our own could have given. They are not only American poems, but they are poems of the nineteenth century. There is a spirit of freedom, of love for GOD and MAN, that broods over them, which our partiality for our own country makes us too ready perhaps to claim as the natural offspring of our land and laws. The volume is dedicated to WILLIAM PAGE, the painter, in a bit of as sweet and pure language as can be found in English prose. It might be tacked on to one of DRYDEN'S dedications without creating an incongruous feeling. The dedication is as honorable to the poet as to the painter. Had all dedications been occasioned by such feelings as gave birth to this, these graceful and fitting tributes of affection and gratitude would never have dwindled away to the cold and scanty lines, like an epitaph on a charity tomb-stone, in which they appear, when they appear at all, in most modern books.

THIRTY YEARS PASSED AMONG THE PLAYERS IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA. Interspersed with Anecdotes and Reminiscences of a Variety of Persons connected with the Drama during the Theatrical Life of JOE COWELL, Comedian. Written by himself. In one volume, pp. 103. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

Of all the pages in English memoirs, none are so rich in humor and various observation as those devoted to the players. CARLYLE somewhere says, that the only good biographies are those of actors; and he gives for a reason their want of respectability! Being 'vagabonds' by law in England, the truth of their histories he tells us is not varnished over by delicate omissions. The first branch of this assumption is certainly true, whatever cause may be at the bottom of it; and Mr. COWELL, in the very entertaining volume before us, has added another proof of the correctness of Herr TEUFELSDROeCKH'S flattering conclusions. His narrative is rambling, various, instructive, and amusing. He plunges at once in medias res; and being in himself an epitome of his class; of their successes, excitements, reverses and depressions; he paints as he goes along a most graphic picture of the life of an actor. We shall follow his own desultory method; and proceed without farther prelude to select here and there a 'bit' from his well-filled 'budget of fun.' Let us open it with this common portrait of a vain querulous, complaining Thespian, who is never appreciated, never rewarded:

'I was seated in the reading-room of the hotel, thinking away the half hour before dinner, when my attention was attracted by a singularly-looking man. He was dressed in a green coat, brass-buttoned close up to the neck, light gray, approaching to blue, elastic pantaloons, white cotton stockings, dress shoes, with more riband employed to fasten them than was either useful or ornamental; a hat, smaller than those usually worn, placed rather on one side of a head of dark curly hair; fine black eyes, and what altogether would have been pronounced a handsome face, but for an overpowering expression of impudence and vulgarity; a sort of footman-out-of-place-looking creature; his hands were thrust into the pockets of his coat behind, and in consequence exposing a portion of his person, as ridiculously, and perhaps as unconsciously, as a turkey-cock does when he intends to make himself very agreeable. He was walking rather fancifully up and down the room, partly singing, partly whistling 'The Bay of Biscay O,' and at the long-lived, but most nonsensical chorus, he shook the fag-ends of his divided coat tail, as if in derision of that fatal 'short sea,' so well known and despised in that salt-water burial-place. I was pretending to read a paper, when a carrier entered, and placed a play-bill before me on the table. I had taken it up and began perusing it, when he strutted up, and leaning over my shoulder, said:

''I beg pardon, Sir; just a moment.'

'I put it toward him.

''No matter, Sir, no matter; I've seen all I want to see; the same old two-and-sixpence; Hamlet, Mr. Sandford, in large letters; and Laertes, Mr. Vandenhoff! O——!'

'And with an epithet not in any way alluding to the 'sweet South,' he stepped off to the Biscay tune, allegro. I was amused; and perhaps the expression of my face encouraged him to return instantly, and with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, for he said:

''My dear Sir, that's the way the profession is going to the devil: here, Sir, is the 'manager'—with a sneer—'one of the d——dest humbugs that ever trod the stage, must have his name in large letters, of course; and the and Laertes, Mr. Vandenhoff; he's a favorite of the Grand Mogul, as we call old Sandford, and so he gets all the fat; and d'ye know why he's shoved down the people's throats? Because he's so d——d bad the old man shows to advantage alongside of him. Did you ever see him?'

'I shook my head.

''Why, Sir, he's a tall, stooping, lantern-jawed, asthmatic-voiced, spindle-shanked fellow.' Here he put his foot on the rail of my chair, and slightly scratched the calf of his leg. 'Hair the color of a cock-canary,' thrusting his fingers through his own coal-black ringlets; 'with light blue eyes, Sir, trimmed with pink gymp. He hasn't been long caught; just from some nunnery in Liverpool, or somewhere, where he was brought up as a Catholic priest; and here he comes, with his Latin and Lancashire dialect, to lick the manager's great toe, and be hanged to him, and gets all the business; while men of talent, and nerve, and personal appearance,' shifting his hands from his coat-pockets to those of his tights, 'who have drudged in the profession for years, are kept in the back-ground; 'tis enough to make a fellow swear!'

''You, then, Sir, are an actor?' said I, calmly.

''An actor! yes, Sir, I am an actor, and have been ever since I was an infant in arms; played the child that cries in the third act of the comedy of 'The Chances,' when it was got up with splendor by Old Gerald, at Sheerness, when I was only nine weeks old; and I recollect, that is, my mother told me, that I cried louder, and more naturally, than any child they'd ever had. That's me,' said he, pointing to the play-bill—Horatio, Mr. Howard. 'I used to make a great part of Horatio once; and I can now send any Hamlet to h-ll in that character, when I give it energy and pathos; but this nine-tailed bashaw of a manager insists upon my keeping my 'madness in the back-ground,' as he calls it, and so I just walk through it, speak the words, and make it a poor, spooney, preaching son of a how-came-ye-so, and do no more for it than the author has.'

Mr. COWELL subsequently enlists under the same manager, and is received with great apparent cordiality by the members of his corps dramatique: 'The loan of 'properties,' or any thing I have, is perfectly at your service,' was iterated by all. Howard said: 'My boy, by heavens, I'll lend you my blue tights; oh, you're perfectly welcome; I don't wear them till the farce; Banquo's one of my flesh parts; nothing like the naked truth; I'm h—l for nature. By-the-by, you'll often have to wear black smalls and stockings; I'll put you up to something; save your buying silks, darning, stitch-dropping, louse-ladders, and all that; grease your legs and burnt-cork 'em; it looks d——d well 'from the front.'' Mr. COWELL, it appears, was an artist of no mean pretensions; and while engaged on one occasion in sketching a picturesque view of Stoke Church, he was interrupted in rather a novel manner by a brother actor named REYMES, somewhat akin, we fancy, to his friend HOWARD, albeit 'excellent company:'

'Several times I was disturbed in my occupation, to look round to inquire the cause of a crash, every now and then, like the breaking of glass; and at length I caught a glimpse of Reymes, slyly jerking a pebble, under his arm, through one of the windows. I recollected twice, in walking home with him, late at night, from the theatre, his quietly taking a brick-bat from out of his coat-pocket and deliberately smashing it through the casement of the Town Hall, and walking on and continuing his conversation as if nothing had happened. Crack! again. I began to suspect an abberration of intellect, and said:

''Reymes, for heaven's sake what are you doing?'

''Showing my gratitude,' said he; and crack! went another.

''Showing the devil!' said I; 'you're breaking the church windows.'

''Why, I know it—certainly; what do you stare at?' said the eccentric. 'I broke nearly every pane three weeks ago; I couldn't hit them all. After you have broken a good many, the stones are apt to go through the holes you've already made. They only finished mending them the day before yesterday; I came out and asked the men when they were likely to get done;' and clatter! clatter! went another.

''That's excellent!' said he, in great glee. 'I hit the frame just in the right place; I knocked out two large ones that time.'

''Reymes,' said I, with temper, 'if you don't desist, I must leave off my drawing.'

''Well,' said he, 'only this one,' and crack! it went; 'there! I've done. Since it annoys you, I'll come by myself to-morrow and finish the job; it's the only means in my power of proving my gratitude.'

''Proving your folly,' said I. 'Why, Reymes, you must be out of your senses.'

''Why, did I never tell you?' said he. 'Oh! then I don't wonder at your surprise. I thought I had told you. I had an uncle, a glazier, who died, and left me twenty pounds, and this mourning-ring; and I therefore have made it a rule to break the windows of all public places ever since. The loss is not worth speaking of to the parish, and puts a nice bit of money in the pocket of some poor dealer in putty, with probably a large family to support. And now I've explained, I presume you have no objection to my proceeding in paying what I consider a debt of gratitude due to my dead uncle.'

''Hold! Reymes,' said I, as he was picking up a pebble. 'How do you know but the poor fellow with the large family may not undertake to repair the windows by contract, at so much a year or month?'

''Eh! egad, I never thought of that,' said the whimsical, good-hearted creature. 'I'll suspend operations until I've made the inquiry, and if I've wronged him I'll make amends.'

Mr. COWELL is a plain-spoken man, and seldom spares age or sex in his exposure of the secrets of the stage, and the appliances and means to boot which are sometimes adopted by theatrical men and women to make an old face or form 'look maist as weel's the new.' The celebrated Mrs. JORDAN, in performing with him, was always very averse to his playing near the foot-lights, greatly preferring to act between the second entrances. The 'moving why' is thus explained:

'The fact is, she was getting old; dimples turn to crinkles after long use; beside, she wore a wig glued on; and in the heat of acting—for she was always in earnest—I have seen some of the tenacious compound with which it was secured trickle down a wrinkle behind her ear; her person, too, was extremely round and large, though still retaining something of the outline of its former grace:

'And after all, 't would puzzle to say where It would not spoil a charm to pare.'

There is no calamity in the catalogue of ills 'that flesh is heir to' so horrible as the approach of old age to an actor. Juvenile tragedy, light comedy, and walking gentleman with little pot-bellies, and have-been pretty women, are really to be pitied. Fancy a lady, who has had quires of sonnets made to her eye-brow, being obliged, at last, to black it, play at the back of the stage at night, sit with her back to the window in a shady part of the green-room in the morning, and keep on her bonnet unless she can afford a very natural wig.'

Sad enough! sad enough! certainly, and as true as it is melancholy. But let us get on board the Yankee vessel which brings Mr. COWELL to America, and at his 'present writing' is lying off Gravesend. The difficulty he experienced in getting up a conversation with his fellow-passengers is a grievance still loudly complained of by his travelling countrymen:

'It was a dark, drizzly, melancholy night; a fair specimen of Gravesend weather and the parts adjacent; no 'star that's westward from the pole' to point my destined path, and furnish food for speculative thought; and, after sliding five or six times up and down some twenty feet of wet deck, I groped my way to the cabin. The captain was not on board, and I found myself a stranger among men. Of all gregarious animals man is the most tardy in getting acquainted: meet them for the first time in a jury-box, a stage-coach, or the cabin of a ship, and they always remind me of a little lot of specimen sheep from different flocks, put together for the first time in the same pen; they walk about and round and round, with all their heads and tails in different directions, and not a baa! escapes them; but in half an hour some crooked-pated bell-wether perhaps, gives a south-down a little dig in the ribs, and this example is followed by a Merino; and before the ending of the fair their heads are all one way, and you'll find them bleating together in full chorus. Now, in the case of man, a snuff-box instead of the sheep's horn, is an admirable introduction; for, if he refuses to take a pinch, he'll generally give you a sufficient reason why he does not, and that's an excellent chance to form, perhaps, a lasting friendship, but to scrape an acquaintance to a certainty; and if he takes it perhaps he'll sneeze, and you can come in with your 'God bless you!' and so on, to a conversation about the plague in '66, or the yellow fever on some other occasion, and can 'bury your friends by dozens,' and 'escape yourself by a miracle,' very pleasantly for half an hour. But in this instance it was a total failure: one said 'I don't use it;' another shook his head, and the third emptied his mouth of half a pint of spittle, and said 'he thought it bad enough to chaw!''

When the vessel is fairly at sea, the social ice is gradually broken. It being just after the war, the rationale of the following brief dialogue between Mr. COWELL and the mate will be readily understood:

'The mate was a weather-beaten, humorous 'sea-monster;' upon asking his name, he replied:

''If you're an Englishman and I once tell you my name, you'll never forget it.'

''I don't know that,' I replied; 'I'm very unfortunate in remembering names.'

''Oh, never mind!' said he, with a peculiarly sly, comical look; 'if you're an Englishman you'll never forget mine.'

''Then I certainly am,' I replied.

''Well, then,' said he drily, 'my name's BUNKER! and I'm d——d if any Englishman will ever forget that name!''

Mr. COWELL'S arrival, debut, and theatrical progress and associations in this and other Atlantic towns, compose a diversified and palatable feast for the stage-loving public. His sketches of actors, male and female, native and foreign, are limned with an artistical hand. His picture of KEAN'S fleeing from 'the hot pursuit of obloquy' is exceedingly vivid; and 'old MATHEWS' American 'trip' is well set forth. We find nothing so good, however, touching that extraordinary mime, as the following illustration of his sensitiveness to newspaper criticism, from the pen of the dramatic veteran, MONCRIEF:

''Look here,' he would say, taking up a paper and reading: 'Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.—We last night visited this elegant theatre for the purpose of witnessing the performance of that excellent comedian, Mr. BELVI, as Octavian, in the 'Mountaineers,' for his own benefit. We hope it was for his own benefit, for it certainly was not for the benefit of any one else; for a more execrable performance we never witnessed. This gentleman had better stick to his comedy!' Grant me patience; Heaven! There's a fellow! What does he know about it? I suppose he would abuse my Iago—say that is execrable! Isn't this sufficient to drive any body mad? Because a man happens to have played comedy all his life, 'we' takes upon himself to think as a matter of course he can't play tragedy, though he may possess first rate tragic powers, as I do myself! I should have been the best Hamlet on the stage if I didn't limp; but let me go on: 'We have seen ELLISTON in the character.' A charlatan, a mountebank; wouldn't have me at Drury; and yet 'we' thinks he has a syllable the advantage of his competitor in this instance. We! we! as if the fellow had a parcel of pigs in his inside; we! we! Who's we? Why don't he say Tompkins, or whatever his name is, Tompkins thinks Elliston better in Octavian than Belvi; Belvi could kick Tompkins then; but who can kick we?' etc., etc. And yet poor Mathews had no warmer admirers, no truer, no more constant friends than those whose occasional animadversions would thus excite his ire.'

After running a very successful and popular career at the Park-Theatre, our artist-actor is induced to assume the management of a circus-theatre just then in high vogue at the TATTERSALL'S building in Broadway. The subjoined was one of the many incidents which occurred on his assuming the reins of the establishment:

'The company was both extensive and excellent; a stud of thirty-three horses, four ponies and a jack-ass, all so admirably selected and educated, that for beauty and utility they could not be equalled any where. The company was popular and our success enormous. Of course, like others when first placed in power, I made a total change in my cabinet. JOHN BLAKE I appointed secretary of the treasury and principal ticket-seller; and to prove how excellent a judge I was of integrity and capacity, he was engaged at the Park at the end of the season, and has held that important situation there ever since. A delicious specimen of the Emerald Isle, with the appropriate equestrian appellation of Billy Rider, received an office of nearly equal trust, though smaller chance of perquisites—stage and stable door-keeper at night, and through the day a variety of duties, to designate half of which would occupy a chapter. He was strict to a fault in the discharge of his duty, as every urchin of that day who attempted to sneak into the circus can testify. Conway the tragedian called to see me one evening, and in attempting to pass was stopped by Billy, armed as usual, with a pitch-fork.

''What's this you want? Who are ye? and where are you going?' says Billy.

'I wish to see Mr. Cowell,' says Conway.

'Oh then, it's till to-morrow at ten o'clock, in his office, that you'll have to wait to perform that operation.'

'But, my dear fellow, my name is Conway, of the theatre; Mr. Cowell is my particular friend, and I have his permission to enter.'

'By my word, Sir, I thank ye kindly for the explination; and it's a mighty tall, good-looking gentleman you are too,' says Billy, presenting his pitch-fork; 'but if ye were the blessed Redeemer, with the cross under your arm, you couldn't pass me without an orther from Mr. Cowell.'

'JOE COWELL,' in years gone by, has made us laugh many a good hour; and we hold ourselves bound to reciprocate the pleasure he has afforded us, by warmly commending his pleasant, gossipping volume to the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER throughout the United States.

AN ELEMENTARY TREATISE ON HUMAN PHYSIOLOGY: on the Basis of the 'Precis Elementaire de Physiologie' of MAGENDIE. Translated, enlarged, and illustrated with Diagrams and Cuts, by Prof. JOHN REVERE, M. D., of the University of New-York. In one volume. pp. 533. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

The American translator and editor of the volume above cited is of opinion that since the death of Sir CHARLES BELL, there is no physiologist who stands so preeminent as an original observer and inquirer, or who has contributed so much to the present improved state of the science by his individual efforts, as M. MAGENDIE. In facility in experimenting upon living animals, and extended opportunities of observation, no one has surpassed him; while through a long professional career his attention has been chiefly devoted to physiological inquiries. There is one excellence which constitutes a predominant feature in his system of Physiology that cannot be estimated too highly by the student of medicine; and that is, the severe system of induction that he has pursued, excluding those imaginative and speculative views which rather belong to metaphysics than physiology. The work is also remarkable for the conciseness and perspicuity of its style, the clearness of its descriptions, and the admirable arrangement of its matter. The present is a translation of the fifth and last edition of the 'Precis Elementaire de Physiologie,' in which the science is brought down to the present time. It is not, like many modern systems, merely eclectic, or a compilation of the experiments and doctrines of others. On the contrary, all the important questions discussed, if not originally proposed and investigated by the author, have been thoroughly examined and experimented upon by him. His observations, therefore, on all these important subjects, carry with them great interest and weight derived from these investigations. The translator and editor, while faithfully adhering to the spirit of the author, has endeavored, and with success, to strip the work of its foreign costume, and naturalize it to our language. He has added a large number of diagrams and pictorial illustrations of the different organs and structures, taken from the highest and most recent authorities, in the hope of rendering clearer to the student of medicine the observations and reasonings on their functions. He has also made a number of additions on subjects which he thought had been passed over in too general a manner in the original work of MAGENDIE. In a word, his aim 'to present a system of human physiology which shall exhibit in a clear and intelligible manner the actual state of the science, and adapted to the use of students of medicine in the United States,' has been thoroughly carried out.

THE STUDY OF THE LIFE OF WOMAN. By Madame NECKER DE SAUSSURE, of Geneva. Translated from the French. In one volume. pp. 288. Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

The distinguished clergyman who introduces this excellent book to American readers does it no more than justice when he declares it to be the work of a highly gifted mind, containing many beautiful philosophical views of the relation which woman sustains in society, abounding in the results of careful observation, and characterized by a pervading religious spirit. It is adapted to accomplish great good, and its circulation would do much to aid those who have the care of youthful females, and who desire that they should fill the place in society for which they were designed. There is no work in our language which occupies the place that this is intended to fill; nor which presents so interesting a view of the organization of society by its great AUTHOR, and of the situation appropriated to woman in that organization. The book has reference more particularly to the elevated circles of society; to those who have advantages for education; who have leisure for the cultivation of the intellect and the heart after the usual course of education is completed, and who have opportunities of doing good to others. 'It will supply a place which is not filled now, and would be eminently useful to that increasing number of individuals in our country. It is much to be regretted that not a few when they leave school seem to contemplate little farther advancement in the studies in which they have been engaged. A just view of the place which woman is designed to occupy in society, as presented in this volume, would do much to correct this error. We should regard it as an auspicious omen, if this work should have an extensive circulation in this country, and believe that wherever it is perused it will contribute to the elevation of the sex; to promote large views of the benevolence and wisdom of the Creator in regard to the human family, and to advance the interests of true religion.'

THE AMERICAN REVIEW, AND METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE. Numbers five and six. pp. 588. New-York: SAXTON AND MILES, Broadway.

The number of this publication for the December quarter is a very good one. We were especially interested in the 'Michael Agonistes' of Mr. J. W. BROWN, which is, in parts, both powerful and harmonious, and in a dissertation upon 'WEIR'S National Painting.' The writer is of opinion that our eminent artist has made a sad mistake in the conception of his striking group, although he awards warm praise to certain portions of the picture. Still he says: 'It argues slight knowledge of human nature to suppose that melancholy resignation characterized those who at Delft-Haven embarked for a land of civil and religious liberty; wild and inhospitable, to be sure, but still a land of Freedom. There were other thoughts in the hearts of that noble band than those of sorrow. Even had they been leaving the country of their birth, they would not have sorrowed; but as it was, bidding farewell to a land of foreigners, almost as hostile to freedom as their own, they felt not otherwise than joyful, and their bosoms were full of thoughtful, reasoning gladness. The parting kiss of that young wife must have tried, somewhat, the firmness of her husband, yet not enough to cloud his bright anticipations of the future. A different mood than that imagined by Mr. WEIR should have pervaded the group, if we are not widely in error. 'With all its faults,' adds our critic, however, 'The Embarkation of the Pilgrims,' although not indicative of great genius, yet regarded as to execution, does honor to Mr. WEIR. We should do injustice to the central group, did we omit to confess that the devotional grandeur of the face of the minister, raised to heaven in prayer, struck us with a feeling of awe, such as we had perhaps never before experienced.' This especial tribute we have heard paid to this picture by every person whom we have heard refer to it.



EDITOR'S TABLE.

AMERICAN MANNERS AND AMERICAN LITERATURE.—We ask the attention of every right-minded American to the following remarks, which we take the liberty of transcribing from a welcome epistle to the Editor, from one of our most esteemed and popular contributors. The follies which it exposes and the evils which it laments have heretofore formed the themes of papers in this Magazine from the pens of able correspondents, as well as of occasional comment in our own departments; but we do not remember to have seen the subject more felicitously handled than by our friend: 'The crying vice of the nation, and the one which of all others most fastens the charge of inconsistency on our character and professions, is that apish spirit with which we admire and copy every thing of European growth. While we exalt our institutions, character and condition over those of all other nations, and give ourselves 'a name above every name,' is it not supremely absurd for city to vie with city and family with family in adopting the latest fashions in dress and opinions originating in nations which have grown old in profligacy, and abound in the worthless excrescences of society? We profess to be perfectly independent of all control in our thoughts and actions: 'Nullius addicti jurare in verba magistri.' Yet who more readily than we shout in chorus to the newest modes of thinking ushered into ephemeral life by philosophers across the water? Who adopt so early or carry so far the most outre and preposterous styles of dress invented in Paris, as our American belles and dandies? The newest cut in garments which was hatched in Paris beneath the crescent-moon, her waning rays see carried to its utmost verge in our bustling marts. We follow the revolutions in the configuration of coats, from square to round, and from round to angular, with as scrupulous and painful a precision as if our national honor depended on the issue. Nay, we are usually a little too faithful, and fairly 'out-Herod Herod.' Does the cockney of the 'world's metropolis' compress his toes in boots tapering at an angle of forty degrees? The republican fop promenades Broadway with his pedal extremities squeezed into an angle of thirty; and the corns ensuing he bears with christian fortitude; for does he not find his 'exceeding great reward' in being more fashionable than the Londoner himself? Has the fat of the Siberian bear, or 'thine incomparable oil, Macassar' called forth a thicket of hair on the cheek of the Frenchman, reaching from the cerebral pulse to the submaxillary bone? Instantly the pews of our churches, the boxes of our theatres, and the seats of our legislative halls, are thronged with whey-faced apes, the moisture of whose brains has exuded in nourishing a frowning hedge, of which the dark luxuriance encircles the whole face, resembling the old pictures of the saints wherewith our childhood was amused, encompassed with a glory! When the whiskered 'petit-maitres' of Hyde-Park shall begin to transport their adorable persons to this new world on a summer's trip, they will be astonished not a little to be stared at on landing through opera-glasses by counterparts of themselves; exact to the last hair of the moustache. 'Werily,' will be their ejaculation, 'hit his wery great presumption in these wulgar democrats to himitate us Henglish in this way-ah!' Every easterly wind blows in a fleet laden with cargoes of folly, and every outward-bound vessel bears an order for fresh importations of absurdity, of which milliners and tailors are the shippers, and flirts and fops the consignees. So far has this mimicking spirit proceeded, that we regard neither climate nor season. Were some accident to delay for a few months our advices from Europe, I question not but our fashionable ladies would adopt in mid-winter the same form and materials for their dresses which the Parisian damsels sported on the Boulevards beneath the scorching dog-star. The changeful and chilly atmosphere of our sea-board differs widely from the genial airs of 'La belle France,' and to adopt their fashions in detail is about as wise and tasteful in us as it would be for the negro panting beneath the line to wrap himself in the furs of Siberia, and substitute for his refreshing palm-juice the usquebaugh of the Highlands. Who would not laugh himself into a pleurisy to see the dandies of Timbuctoo stalking along in solemn gravity beneath their torrid sun, encumbered with a Russian fur-cloak, or a Lapland 'whip' on a snow-sledge, driving his canine four-in-hand, with a Turkish turban and Grecian robe folded carelessly around him? Yet wherein do we greatly differ in our absurdities! Again: we profess to have lopped from our democratic tree the old-world customs of hereditary title and patrimonial honor. We are no respecters of persons. We have no reverence for ancestral virtues, and the lustre that shines only by reflection has no charms for us. We respect no grandees but 'nature's noblemen.' We look through the glittering atmosphere of place, and title, and factitious distinction, at the man himself. The artificer of his own fortunes we hail as a brother. He who possesses superior abilities or unblemished integrity, we honor, though his hands be on the plough; and he who is imbecile or dishonest, we despise, though his brow be encircled by a coronet. All noble, consistent, rational, and right. But how is this? 'Lo! a foreigner has landed on our shores.' Well; what then? We also should be foreigners in Europe. 'Yes; but he bears the honorable appendage of Lord, or Sir, or De, or Di, or Von, or Don.' Happy, meanwhile, thrice happy the youth whom his titleship will allow to treat him; blessed, triumphantly blessed, the Miss whose charms have warmed into life the cold gaze of my Lord Highbred, or Monsieur De Nonchalance. And oh! beatified beyond all rapture the doting mother, who in her ripened and expanded miniature begins to realize her dreams of 'young romance,' and to hope by connection with a family more lineally descended from Adam than her own, to obtain a rank

'Whose glory with a lingering trace, Shines through and deifies her race!'

Truth, every word truth—satire most justly bestowed; and before relinquishing this general theme, let us ask the reader to admire with us the cognate remarks of a writer in the last number of the 'North-American Review' upon the importance of a Literature which shall be distinctive and national in its character, and not a rifacamento of the varying literatures of various nations: 'The man whose heart is capable of any patriotic emotion, who feels his pulse quicken when the idea of his country is brought home to him, must desire that country to possess a voice more majestic than the roar of party, and more potent than the whine of sects; a voice which should breathe energy and awaken hope where-ever its kindling tones are heard. The life of our native land; the inner spirit which animates its institutions; the new ideas and principles, of which it is the representative; these every patriot must wish to behold reflected from the broad mirror of a comprehensive and soul-animating literature. The true vitality of a nation is not seen in the triumphs of its industry, the extent of its conquests, or the reach of its empire; but in its intellectual dominion. Posterity passes over statistical tables of trade and population, to search for the records of the mind and heart. It is of little moment how many millions of men were included at any time under the name of one people, if they have left no intellectual testimonials of their mode and manner of existence, no 'foot-prints on the sands of time.' The heart refuses to glow at the most astounding array of figures. A nation lives only through its literature, and its mental life is immortal. And if we have a literature, it should be a national literature; no feeble or sonorous echo of Germany or England, but essentially American in its tone and object. No matter how meritorious a composition may be, as long as any foreign nation can say that it has done the same thing better, so long shall we be spoken of with contempt, or in a spirit of benevolent patronage. We begin to sicken of the custom, now so common, of presenting even our best poems to the attention of foreigners, with a deprecating, apologetic air; as if their acceptance of the offering, with a few soft and silky compliments, would be an act of kindness demanding our warmest acknowledgments. If the Quarterly Review or Blackwood's Magazine speaks well of an American production, we think that we can praise it ourselves, without incurring the reproach of bad taste. The folly we yearly practise, of flying into passion with some inferior English writer, who caricatures our faults, and tells dull jokes about his tour through the land, has only the effect to exalt an insignificant scribbler into notoriety, and give a nominal value to his recorded impertinence. If the mind and heart of the country had its due expression, if its life had taken form in a literature worthy of itself, we should pay little regard to the childish tattling of a pert coxcomb who was discontented with our taverns, or the execrations of some bluff sea-captain who was shocked with our manners. The uneasy sense we have of something in our national existence which has not yet been fitly expressed, gives poignancy to the least ridicule launched at faults and follies which lie on the superficies of our life. Every person feels, that a book which condemns the country for its peculiarities of manners and customs, does not pierce into the heart of the matter, and is essentially worthless. If Bishop BERKELEY, when he visited MALEBRANCHE, had paid exclusive attention to the habitation, raiment, and manners of the man, and neglected the conversation of the metaphysician, and, when he returned to England, had entertained POPE, SWIFT, GAY, and ARBUTHNOT with satirical descriptions of the 'compliment extern' of his eccentric host, he would have acted just as wisely as many an English tourist, with whose malicious pleasantry on our habits of chewing, spitting, and eating, we are silly enough to quarrel. To the United States in reference to the pop-gun shots of foreign tourists, might be addressed the warning which Peter Plymley thundered against BONAPARTE, in reference to the Anti-Jacobin jests of CANNING: Tremble, oh! thou land of many spitters and voters, 'for a pleasant man has come out against thee, and thou shalt be laid low by a joker of jokes, and he shall talk his pleasant talk to thee, and thou shalt be no more!' In order that America may take its due rank in the commonwealth of nations, a literature is needed which shall be the exponent of its higher life. We live in times of turbulence and change. There is a general dissatisfaction, manifesting itself often in rude contests and ruder speech, with the gulf which separates principles from actions. Men are struggling to realize dim ideals of right and truth, and each failure adds to the desperate earnestness of their efforts. Beneath all the shrewdness and selfishness of the American character, there is a smouldering enthusiasm which flames out at the first touch of fire; sometimes at the hot and hasty words of party, and sometimes at the bidding of great thoughts and unselfish principles. The heart of the nation is easily stirred to its depths; but those who rouse its fiery impulses into action are often men compounded of ignorance and wickedness, and wholly unfitted to guide the passions which they are able to excite. We want a poetry which shall speak in clear, loud tones to the people; a poetry which shall make us more in love with our native land, by converting its ennobling scenery into the images of lofty thoughts; which shall give visible form and life to the abstract ideas of our written constitutions; which shall confer upon virtue all the strength of principle and all the energy of passion; which shall disentangle freedom from cant and senseless hyperbole, and render it a thing of such loveliness and grandeur as to justify all self-sacrifice; which shall make us love man by the new consecrations it sheds on his life and destiny; which shall force through the thin partitions of conventialism and expediency; vindicate the majesty of reason; give new power to the voice of conscience, and new vitality to human affection; soften and elevate passion; guide enthusiasm in a right direction; and speak out in the high language of men to a nation of men.'

THE NORTH-AMERICAN REVIEW for the January quarter is one of the best issues of that 'ancient and honorable' Quarterly which we have encountered for many months. It contains eight extended reviews, five brief 'Critical Notices,' and the usual quarterly list of new publications. The first article is upon the 'Poets and Poetry of America,' a work 'which has travelled through many States and four editions,' and for the production of which Mr. GRISWOLD is justly commended. In the progress of this paper, the writer indulges in a sort of running commentary upon the more conspicuous poets included in the compiler's collection, as BRYANT, HALLECK, SPRAGUE, DANA, PERCIVAL, LONGFELLOW, WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, HOLMES, WHITTIER, etc., etc. Of BRYANT the reviewer among other things remarks:

'MR. GRISWOLD says finely of BRYANT, that 'he is the translator of the silent language of nature to the world.' The serene beauty and thoughtful tenderness, which characterize his descriptions, or rather interpretations of outward objects, are paralleled only in WORDSWORTH. His poems are almost perfect of their kind. The fruits of meditation, rather than of passion or imagination, and rarely startling with an unexpected image or sudden outbreak of feeling, they are admirable specimens of what may be called the philosophy of the soul. They address the finer instincts of our nature with a voice so winning and gentle; they search out with such subtle power all in the heart which is true and good; that their influence, though quiet, is resistless. They have consecrated to many minds things which before it was painful to contemplate. Who can say that his feelings and fears respecting death have not received an insensible change, since reading the 'Thanatopsis?' Indeed, we think that BRYANT'S poems are valuable, not only for their intrinsic excellence, but for the vast influence their wide circulation is calculated to exercise on national feelings and manners. It is impossible to read them without being morally benefitted. They purify as well as please. They develope or encourage all the elevated and thoughtful tendencies of the mind.'

We are glad to see the reproof which the reviewer bestows upon those critics of LONGFELLOW'S poetry, who to escape the trouble of analysis, offer some smooth eulogium upon his 'taste,' or some lip-homage to his 'artistical ability,' instead of noting the tendency of his writings to touch the heroic strings in our nature, to breathe energy into the heart, to sustain our lagging purposes, and fix our thoughts on what is stable and eternal. The following is eminently just:

'The great characteristic of LONGFELLOW, that of addressing the moral nature through the imagination, of linking moral truth to intellectual beauty, is a far greater excellence. His artistical ability is admirable, because it is not seen. It is rather mental than mechanical. The best artist is he who accommodates his diction to his subject. In this sense, LONGFELLOW is an artist. By learning 'to labor and to wait,' by steadily brooding over the chaos in which thought and emotion first appear to the mind, and giving shape and life to both, before uttering them in words, he has obtained a singular mastery over expression. By this we do not mean that he has a large command of language. No fallacy is greater than that which confounds fluency with expression. Washerwomen, and boys at debating clubs, often display more fluency than WEBSTER; but his words are to theirs, as the roll of thunder to the patter of rain. Language often receives its significance and power from the person who uses it. Unless permeated by the higher faculties of the mind, unless it be not the clothing, but the 'incarnation of thought,' it is quite an humble power. There are some writers who repose undoubting confidence in words. If their minds be filled with the epithets of poetry, they fondly deem that they have clutched its essence. In a piece of inferior verse, we often observe a great array of expressions which have been employed with great effect by genius, but which seem to burn the fingers and disconcert the equanimity of the aspiring word-catcher who presses them into his service. Felicity, not fluency, of language is a merit.'

Exactly; yet these same 'fluent' versifiers are the persons who talk with elaborate flippancy of the 'simple common-places' of this noble poet! The reviewer adds: 'LONGFELLOW has a perfect command of that expression which results from restraining rather than cultivating fluency; and his manner is adapted to his theme. He rarely, if ever, mistakes 'emotions for conceptions.' His words are often pictures of his thought. He selects with great delicacy and precision the exact phrase which best expresses or suggests his idea. He colors his style with the skill of a painter. The warm flush and bright tints, as well as the most evanescent hues of language, he uses with admirable discretion. In that higher department of his art, that of so combining his words and images that they make music to the soul as well as to the ear, and convey not only his feelings and thoughts, but also the very tone and condition of the soul in which they have being, he likewise excels.' The reviewer illustrates these remarks, by citing the 'Psalms of Life,' the 'Saga of the Skeleton in Armor,' 'The Village Blacksmith,' etc., which were written by Mr. LONGFELLOW for the pages of this Magazine, and adds, that our poet indulges in no 'wild struggles after an ineffable Something, for which earth can afford but imperfect symbols. He appears perfectly satisfied with his work. Like his own 'Village Blacksmith,' he retires every night with the feeling that something has been attempted, and something done.' There is a subtle analysis of the style of that first of comic poets, HOLMES, for which we shall endeavor to find space hereafter. Of the writings of the late lamented WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, the reviewer remarks, that they 'are all distinguished for a graceful and elegant diction, thoughts morally and poetically beautiful, and chaste and appropriate imagery. They exhibit much purity and strength of feeling, are replete with fancy and sentiment, and have often a searching pathos and a mournful beauty, which find their way quietly to the heart.' The poetry of our friend and correspondent WHITTIER is warmly commended: 'A common thought comes from his pen 'rammed with life.' He seems in some of his lyrics to pour out his blood with his lines. There is a rush of passion in his verse, which sweeps every thing along with it.' The remaining references are to the lady-poets, Mesdames BROOKS, CHILD, SIGOURNEY, SMITH, WELBY, HALL, ELLET, DINNIE, EMBURY, HOOPER, the DAVIDSONS, etc. The whole article is well considered; and we cordially commend it to the attention of our readers. The remaining papers are upon PALFREY'S admirable 'Lectures on the Evidences of Christianity,' 'Trade with the Hanse-Towns, the German Tariff-League;' 'GERVINUS'S History of German Poetry;' 'Debts of the States,' an excellent and most timely article;' 'PRESCOTT'S History of Mexico;' 'SAM SLICK in England;' and a valuable dissertation on Libraries, based upon the catalogue of the library of Brown University.

JOSEPH C. NEAL'S 'CHARCOAL SKETCHES.'—Right glad are we to welcome from the teeming press of Messrs. BURGESS AND STRINGER a new edition of these most humorous and witty sketches, illustrated with engravings by D. C. JOHNSTON, of Boston. We have re-perused them with renewed delight, and awakened again the echoes of our silent sanctum, in the excess of our cachinnatory enjoyment. Our friend MORTON M'MICHAEL, in the 'advance GRAHAM' for February, (which by the way contains a breathing likeness of the sketcher,) has the following remarks upon the papers composing the volume before us, which we most cordially endorse: 'No one, who has his faculties in a healthy condition, can read them and not feel convinced that they are the productions of a superior and highly gifted mind. They not only smack strongly of what all true men love, genuine humor; rich, racy, glorious humor; at which you may indulge in an honest outbreak of laughter, and not feel ashamed afterward because you have thrown away good mirth on a pitiful jest; but when you have laughed your fill, if you choose to look beneath the surface, which sparkles and bubbles with brilliant fancies, you will find an under current of truthful observation, abundant in matter for sober thought in your graver moments. In all of them, light and trifling as they seem, and pleasant as they unquestionably are, there is a deep and solemn moral. The follies and vices which, in weak natures, soon grow into crimes, are here presented in such a way as to forewarn those who are about to yield to temptation, not by dull monitions and unregarded homilies, but by making the actors themselves unconscious protestants against their own misdoings. And to do this well requires a combination of abilities such as few possess. There must be the quick eye to perceive, the nice judgment to discriminate, the active memory to retain, the vigorous pen to depict, and above all, the soul, the mind, the genius, call it what you will, to infuse into the whole life and spirit and power. Now, all these qualities Neal has in an eminent degree, and he applies them with the skill of an accomplished artist. What he does he does thoroughly, perfectly. His portraits, which he modestly calls sketches, are unmistakeable. The very men he wishes to portray are before you, and they are not only limned to the outward eye, but they speak also to the outward ear, and in sentences thickly clustered with the drollest conceits, they convey lessons of practical philosophy, and make revelations of the strange perversities of our inward nature, from which even the wise may gather profitable conclusions.' Our friend speaks of Mr. NEAL'S being 'comparatively little known.' We have good reason to believe that one great cause of this is, that his name has often been confounded with that of another and altogether different species of NEAL, whose infinite twattle—infinite alike in degree and quantity—has prejudiced the public mind against any thing that may seem to come in 'questionable shape' from a questionable source. This error has had its advantages to one party, no doubt, since there was 'every thing to gain and nothing to lose;' an advantage however which the prefix of the first two initials of our friend and correspondent to passages from his work which may hereafter find their way into the newspapers, will transfer to the rightful recipient. But to the volume in question, from which we are about to make a few random selections, illustrating the characters of sundry 'city worthies,' who are 'comprehended as vagrom men' by the 'charleys' or watchmen of the good City of Brotherly Love. Let us begin with the soliloquy of the poetical OLYMPUS PUMP:

''GENIUS never feels its oats until after sunset; twilight applies the spanner to the fire-plug of fancy to give its bubbling fountains way; and midnight lifts the sluices for the cataracts of the heart, and cries, 'Pass on the water!' Yes, and economically considered, night is this world's Spanish cloak; for no matter how dilapidated or festooned one's apparel may be, the loops and windows cannot be discovered, and we look as elegant and as beautiful as get out. Ah!' continued Pump, as he gracefully reclined upon the stall, 'it's really astonishing how rich I am in the idea line to-night. But it's no use. I've got no pencil—not even a piece of chalk to write 'em on my hat for my next poem. It's a great pity ideas are so much of the soap-bubble order, that you can't tie 'em up in a pocket handkerchief, like a half peck of potatoes, or string 'em on a stick like catfish. I often have the most beautiful notions scampering through my head with the grace, but alas! the swiftness too, of kittens, especially just before I get asleep; but they're all lost for the want of a trap; an intellectual figgery four. I wish we could find out the way of sprinkling salt on their tails, and make 'em wait till we want to use 'em. Why can't some of the meaner souls invent an idea-catcher for the use of genius? I'm sure they'd find it profitable, for I wouldn't mind owing a man twenty dollars for one myself.'

Mr. FYDGET FYXINGTON is another worthy, who reverts continually to 'first principles,' and is full of schemes and projects, especially when he chances to have 'a stone in his hat.' Hear him:

''NOTHIN'S fixed no how; our grand-dads must a been lazy rascals. Why didn't they roof over the side-walks, and not leave every thing for us to do? I ain't got no numbrell, and besides that, when it comes down as if raining was no name for it, as it always does when I'm cotch'd out, numbrells is no great shakes if you've got one with you, and no shakes at all if it's at home. It's a pity we ain't got feathers, so's to grow our own jacket and trowsers, and do up the tailorin' business, and make our own feather beds. It would be a great savin'; every man his own clothes, and every man his own feather bed. Now I've got a suggestion about that; first principles bring us to the skin; fortify that, and the matter's done. How would it do to bile a big kittle full of tar, tallow, beeswax and injen rubber, with considerable wool, and dab the whole family once a week? The young'uns might be soused in it every Saturday night, and the nigger might fix the elderly folks with a whitewash brush. Then there wouldn't be no bother a washing your clothes or yourself, which last is an invention of the doctor to make people sick, because it lets in the cold in winter and the heat in summer, when natur' says shut up the porouses and keep 'em out. Besides, when the new invention was tore at the knees or wore at the elbows, just tell the nigger to put on the kittle and give you a dab, and you're patched slick; and so that whole mobs of people mightn't stick together like figs, a little sperrits of turpentine or litharage might be added to make 'em dry like a house-a-fire. 'T would be nice for sojers. Stand 'em all of a row, and whitewash 'em blue or red, according to pattern, as if they were a fence. The gin'rals might look on to see if it was done according to Gunter; the cap'ins might flourish the brush, and the corpulars carry the bucket. Dandies could fix themselves all sorts of streaked and all sorts of colors. When the parterials is cheap and the making don't cost nothing, that's what I call economy, and coming as near as possible to first principles. It's a better way, too, of keeping out the rain, than my t'other plan of flogging people when they're young, to make their hides hard and water-proof. A good licking is a sound first principle for juveniles, but they've got a prejudice agin it.'

'A pair of Slippers' brings us acquainted with another original personage, who one dark night soliloquizes on this wise:

''I'VE not the slightest doubt that this is as beautiful a night as ever was; only it's so dark you can't see the pattern of it. One night is pretty much like another night in the dark; but it's a great advantage to a good-looking evening, if the lamps are lit, so you can twig the stars and the moonshine. The fact is, that in this 'ere city, we do grow the blackest moons, and the hardest moons to find, I ever did see. Lamps is lamps, and moons is moons, in a business pint of view, but practically they ain't much if the wicks ain't afire. When the luminaries are, as I may say, in the raw, it's bad for me. I can't see the ground as perforately as little fellers, and every dark night I'm sure to get a hyst; either a forrerd hyst, or a backerd hyst, or some sort of a hyst; but more backerds than forrerds, 'specially in winter. One of the most unfeeling tricks I know of, is the way some folks have got of laughing out, yaw-haw! when they see a gentleman ketching a reg'lar hyst; a long gentleman, for instance, with his legs in the air, and his noddle splat down upon the cold bricks. A hyst of itself is bad enough, without being sniggered at: first, your sconce gets a crack; then, you see all sorts of stars, and have free admission to the fire-works; then, you scramble up, feeling as if you had no head on your shoulders, and as if it wasn't you, but some confounded disagreeable feller in your clothes; yet the jacksnipes all grin, as if the misfortunes of human nature was only a poppet show. I wouldn't mind it, if you could get up and look as if you didn't care. But a man can't rise, after a royal hyst, without letting on he feels flat. In such cases, however, sympathy is all gammon; and as for sensibility of a winter's day, people keep it all for their own noses, and can't be coaxed to retail it by the small.'