ticularly the mode of life pursued by the negro slaves. In the latter portion of his work, it is the avowed object of the author to remove from the minds of the people of England, those prejudices, which render them so universally hostile to the perpetuation of slavery in the West Indies; but although he proposed to himself the fulfilment of this object, yet he really pays little attention to it. He is supposed to have taken a voyage to Jamaica, with the view of finding some trace of his sister, who had absconded from the paternal roof; but instead of looking after her, and recovering her from the iniquitous path into which she had been betrayed, he spends all his time in making love on his own account, to a young lady who had been engaged to another gentleman! With this business, which by the way is far from being creditable to the hero, the greater part of the third volume is occupied, and but a very small part of it is taken up with a representation of the perfect happiness enjoyed by the slaves. There are some lively passages in the second volume, containing the history of Wolfe's expedition, but they exhibit such a mixture of romance and fact, that we cannot take the trouble of distinguishing the boundaries at which fiction ceases and history begins. From this volume, however, we shall detach an episode of Indian love, which is very possibly founded upon a real occurrence. We need only premise, that Borlase, who was the object of this fiery and beautiful attachment, was a young ensign in Amherst's division, and that the Indian girl, who had been made a captive by the troops in a skirmish with her countrymen, had been rescued by him from the brutality of the soldiers.

'Borlase had now an opportunity to examine her features, and I require full credit for my assertion, that he had never beheld lovelier, or seen, in one person, a more splendid array of female charms than were exhibited in the face, form, walk, and air of this little Huron maiden. Tatoka, or "the Antelope," as she was called, from the lightness of her step, and well did she deserve the appellation, was not more than sixteen, yet she had shot up, like the flowers of her native prairies, to the height which is only esteemed second to the loftiest of female statures in European countries. was scarce darker than that of a very dark Italian lady, her teeth white and even, her eyes of a mild hazel, her hands and feet small, and beautifully proportioned, and her long raven-black hair, as it swept her finely turned shoulders, was the most beautiful I had ever seen. When to these

Her skin

charms was added that of loving him intensely, it is not strange that she had made a very deep impression on his heart. Yet she was the daughter of an Indian, and though that Indian was a chief, and the ruler of a nation, the pride of the young soldier revolted at the thought of what would be said of him by his friends and connexions in England, should he marry an Indian. He continued, though at the expense of his feelings, to repress her fondness, and check, by every means in his power, her demonstrations of love. He said every thing which he thought likely to arouse her pride, or awaken her resentment, but in vain. She clung to him as a mother clings to her child, was cheerful and happy if permitted to approach but as

near to him as a dozen feet, but became frantic with grief, if any attempt were made to force her from him.

'It was sweet, but affecting, and excited the pity and admiration of all whose hearts were not made of impenetrable stuff, to mark the movements of the gentle passion in this child of nature. I do not believe, that in all the walks of romance, in any of the fabled chronicles of love, there could be found any thing to surpass the apparent fervency of her affections,and no one, for a moment, supposed it assumed. If he walked out, she was at his side, or wheeling like a hound, in playful circles, around him ; if he reposed, she was at his feet. If she was permitted to enter his tent, she did so, if not, she sat down at the door, and awaited, patiently, the moment when she could again see the face which, to use her own metaphorical language, was "more beautiful in the eyes of Tatoka than the sun, or the moon, or the stars, or the flowers." While he was eating his meals she sat by him, and watched every mouthful he ate with an appearance of the deepest satisfaction, but would eat nothing herself till he had done. She would then make it her first care to secure to herself the fragments of every thing he had touched, as if that touch had communicated to them an especial sweetness.

It is known that the motive must be very strong that induces an Indian, of either sex, to pay any attention to cleanliness. They will bestow infinite care upon the adornment of their persons, but there they pause. Tatoka was not, at the time of her introduction into our camp, more remarkable than the rest of her race for that which will add a perfume even to the rose, which is always sweetest after a shower. But when the man she loved had told her of the care which the women of his country bestowed upon cleanliness, and of their frequent ablutions of their persons, and changings of their dress, she exerted herself to give effect to her charms to an extent which would have made it a crying evil had there been any essential duty for it to interfere with. Thenceforth her ablutions were endless. Every day, and it was all for him-how delightful the idea that one should be so beloved!-she dressed her hair with beads, and flowers, and feathers, and laced up her rainbow-tinted mocassins with ribbons, the gayest she could procure in a place where French taste presided. If he particularly noticed any flower, it was found and given himif he bestowed a commendation, warmer than ususal, upon any article of her dress, she said nothing, but, thenceforth, wore that alone, till he intimated his wish that she should change it.

'Nature had taught her the power of music, to soothe the mind, when depressed, and whenever she saw the cloud upon his countenance which visits, more or less, the countenances of all, she tried upon him the effect of a song. At such times she would commence singing one of those wild, but beautiful and plaintive Indian melodies which it is impossible to translate into English, or any other language, without losing much of their sweetness and effect. They are, in general, transcripts of feelings, or records of events, told in a style of simple and unadorned metaphor, and without an attempt at producing the "consonance of verses,' which has imparted so much richness to the cultivated languages. The following is one of the beautiful Tatoka's songs. While it is characteristic, it serves to show the peculiar state of her feelings. It will be seen that all the metaphors are natural, and all the figures drawn from natural objects.

'Brave and good is he?

Oh, he is very good and brave!
And he is very wise,
And fit to be a chief;
And he is very bold,
And fit to lead a band

Of Huron warriors, and to scalp
A hundred of his foes.

Cunning as a fox,
Bloody as a wolf,
Fearless as a carcajou,
Keen-eyed as a hawk.
Brave and good is he!

Oh, he is very good and brave!

'Love him how I do,

Oh, how I do love him;

A mother loves her babe

Not so as I love him;

The warrior loves the battle shout Less than I love this Yengeese* boy. He does not know my love,

Nor pities he my love,

2

Because he does not love.

Why will he not Tatoka love,
The little Huron girl?
Beautiful is he!

Oh, he is very beautful!

'It seemed as if it were impossible for her to exist out of his sight. She continued to follow him whithersoever he went--she was at his feet when he sat down, near him when he rose, in his path when he walked, and, at length, by his side when he slept. If she left him for a moment, it was for the purpose of procuring something which should further testify her affection for him. It was now the season of the earlier berries and wild fruit, and she was out for hours, every day, in the fields, gathering the ripest for him. Sometimes, while employed in the delightful task, it would occur to her that he might have gone away during her absence, when she would utter a loud scream, burst into tears, and run, with the fleetness of a deer, to see if the suspicion were true or not. Poor thing! She had been found by him one of the lightest hearted beings that ever breathed, and now her whole soul was filled with sorrow and wretchedness, enlivened, indeed, by occasional but transient periods of perfect happiness. She became his companion-in the Canadian sense of the word-need I say more.'Haverhill, vol. ii. pp. 101-109.

Some readers will be glad to know that the parties were subsequently married according to law, and that his lovely wife presented Borlase with a fine family.

The best of the three volumes is the first, in which we have a picture of American life amongst the lower orders. The hero, Lynn Haverhill, is the son of a fisherman, who spent all his early years in the most laborious employments, such as fishing and agriculture. His ambition was excited to rise beyond this humble station, by the counsels of a judge's daughter, who fell in love with him. He determines accordingly to seek his fortune abroad, but before he quits his native country, he enters into many interesting details concerning the habits and amusements, throughout the different seasons, of the people who moved in the same sphere of society with hihself. The work is altogether a strange medley, and very unequal in its execution, the first volume being pretty well done, the second still better, and the third mere trash.

5. The fifth work on our list contains a series of tales, intended to illustrate the manners of the Welsh mountaineers some forty years ago. They are written with considerable spirit, though we must say, that had it not been for the names of persons and of places, they might be very easily taken as representations of the manners of any other people in the world, as well as of those belonging to the principality.

6. Ivan Vejeeghan' is said to be a translation from the Russian, and such we believe it to be. It affords a striking picture of the domestic habits that prevail amongst those classes of the Muscovites, who are a little above the rank of the boors. The hero is an orphan lad, who rises by his own exertions in the world, of the

interior of which, like Gil Blas, he happens to see a great deal. The story is, however, not well put together. Here and there we have some good sketches of lower social life; but the work is rather too full of petty details.

7. When we first took up the volume entitled 'Authorship,' we supposed that, as it came to us from America, it would naturally disclose the miseries or the good fortune of authors in general, in that land of liberty and temperance. Great, therefore, was our astonishment to find, that although printed at Boston, in excellent American type upon execrable paper, it is neither more nor less than a common love-story of our own Isle of Wight. The author chances to see in London a young damsel who at once captivates his fancy, and he pursues her to the island, where, however, he fails to come to an eclaircissement. But he is prevented from throwing himself into the sea at Cowes, by hearing that the lady has set out -not for Botany Bay!--but for New York, whither he hies him in order once more to have the happiness of falling at her feet. Now why such a story as this was called Authorship,' we are at a loss to conjecture. Perhaps the writer conceived that he displayed the tact of an author, in giving a bad tale an attractive name, in the same way that Yorkshire folk are said to practise jockeyism, when they pass off upon a Londoner a spavined horse as one free from every defect.

8. Tieck has been for some time known in this country as one of the most accomplished critics of whom Germany can boast. We were not aware, until we saw the translation of his Old Man of the Mountain,' and the other stories mentioned in the title page of the little volume before us, that he was also a popular writer of fiction. The compositions which are here translated, are all of a very high order, after the German fashion. Our taste in general has outgrown the wild creations of that school. Nevertheless, it is impossible not to recognise the traces of a master-mind in these productions.

ART. IX. Spain in 1830. By Henry D. Inglis, author of "Solitary Walks through Many Lands," &c. In two volumes. 8vo. London: Whittaker, Treacher and Co. 1831.

"IT never rains but it pours," says the old proverb. For seven years after the publication of Mr. Quin's "Visit to Spain," scarcely a syllable was given to the world by any traveller, concerning that interesting country. But of late the case has been greatly altered, for we have had within almost as many months, no fewer than three distinct journals of tours in the Peninsula, each describing exactly the same places, though in a different order of succession, according to the different points from which they set out. The Young American" entered the country by Perpignan; Sir Arthur