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of the heavenly courts.' Such are the hours when all that one has ever known or thought that is beautiful, comes back softly and mysteriously ; snatches of old songs, all one's first loves in poetry and in the phantasmagoria of nature. No sleep is sweeter than that into which one sinks in such a mood, when one's spirit drops anchor amid the turbulence of the outward world, and the very power of the elements seems to shed stillness into the soul.”

Here is a forcible description of a storm at sea :

“We were lying in the trough of the soa, and the rolling was tremendo The captain wished to wear round, and put out a sail, which, though quite new, was instantly split to ribands, so that we had to make ourselves contented where we were. The scene was perfectly unlike what I had imagined. The sea was no more like water than it was like land or sky. When I had heard of the ocean running mountains high, I thought it a mere hyperbolical expression. But here the scene was of huge wandering mountains – wandering as if to find a resting place -- with dreary leaden vales between. The sky seemed narrowed to a mere slip overhead, and a long-drawn extent of leaden waters seemed to measure a thousand miles; and these were crested by most exquisite shades of blue and green where the foam was about to break. The heavens seemed rocking their masses of torn clouds, keeping time with the billows to the solemn music of the winds; the most swelling and mournful music I ever listened to. The delight of the hour I shall not forget; it was the only new scene I had ever beheld, that I had totally and unsuspectingly failed to imagine."

That portion of the volumes which is devoted to the portraitures of our most prominent political, clerical, and judicial functionaries, possesses much interest, and exhibits a marked power of intellectual and physical limning; while an air of freshness is imparted to the oft-repeated descriptions of American scenery, particularly that of the western states. Now and then we are favored with very pretty specimens of self-sufficiency and egotism. Witness this morceau:

"In one Massachusetts village, a large party was invited to meet me. At tea-time I was busily engaged in conversation with a friend, when the lea-tray was brought to me by a young person in a plain white gown. After I had helped myself, she still stood just before me for a long wbile, and was perpetually returning. Again and again I refused more tea, but she still came. Her pertinacity was afterward explained. It was a young lady of the village who wished to see me, and knew that I was going away the next day. She had called on the lady of the house in the afternoon, and begged permission to come in a plain gown as a waiter!"

How many American journals have contributed to the feeling which actuated this silly girl! Yet, after all, we are gradually acquiring self-respect; and every book of travel among us is contributing to this desirable end.

Miss MARTINEAU was highly delighted at Cincinnati. There she saw the 'best thing in the United States.' It was a negress, breakfasting in the midst of whites, at the public table of a large boarding-house. Also, in Boston, she met Mr. Garrison - a man with the most saint-like of countenances, wholly expressive of purity,' and a voice 'gentle as a woman's.' Moreover, he bears his honors so meekly, we are told, that 'his child will never learn at home what a distinguished 'great hero' of a father he has,' for even Miss Martineau herself forgot the deliverer of a race in the friend of the fireside !!

The following story, illustrating the manner in which an unintelligible religion is received by savages, must close our extracts :

"A missionary among a tribe of northern Indians, was wont to set some simple refreshment, fruit and cider, before his converts, when they came from a distance to see him. had no pretensions to being a Christian, desired much to be admitted to the refreshments, and proposed to some of his converted friends to accompany them on their next visit to the missionary. They told him he must be a Christian first. What was that? He must know all about the Bible. When the time came, he declared himself prepared, and undertook the journey with them. When arrived, he seated himself opposite the missionary, wrapped in his blanket, and looking exceedingly serious. In answer to an inquiry from the missionary, he rolled up his eyes, and solemnly uttered the following words, with a pause between each:

** Adur-Eve - Cain - Noab - Jeremiah Beelzebub Solomon
" What do you mean?' asked the missiouary.
""Solomon - Beelzebub - Noah -
"Stop, stop. What do you mean?'

cider!'" This reminds us of the anecdote of an old Oneida squaw, who was present at the communion service of a missionary station, at the 'Castle,' where she heard the sacramental wine termed 'the blood of Jesus,' and where those who had been missed, in passing the cup, were requested to 'manifest it by rising. She rose three or four times in succession, from her distant seat, each time receiving the cup, and rejoicing in a 'long swig.' At last, a young squaw exposed her ultra devotion. When remonstrated with for such unchristian conduct, her conciliatory answer was, 'I do love my Jesus so!

An old man who

u. I mean

Memoirs Of The Life of Sir WALTER Scott, Bart. By J. G. LOCKHART. Part

Sixth. Philadelphia : CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.

But one 'Part' remains unpublished of these admirable 'Memoirs,' and as that may soon be expected to issue from the press, we shall delay a notice in detail of the last three parts, until the whole work shall have been completed. Perhaps no one volume of the series is more interesting than the present. It contains a copious diary, kept by Scott during the most important periods of his lise, embracing the death of his wife, the catastrophe of the publishing houses with which he was connected, and by which he was reduced from affluence to poverty; a triumphal excursion to Ireland, with a trip to London and Paris; interspersed with varied correspondence, numerous sketches of eminent men, and a history of the inception, progress, and completion, of some of his most renowned works.

We subjoin, as a specimen of the style of the diary, some unconnected passages recorded therein, immediately after the death of Lady Scott. Sir Walter has returned to Abbottsford, after a short absence, and finds his 'thirty years' companion' in her shroud. Bitter, for many months, were his emotions,

.Whene'er his thoughts were led
To dwell upon the wormy bed

And her together.'
Indeed, he seems ever after her death to have 'dragged a maiméd life :'

“When I contrast what this place now is, with what it has been not long since, I think my heart will break. Lonely, aged, deprived of my family - all but poor Aude; an impoverished, an embarrassed man, deprived of the sharer of my thoughts and counsels, who could always talk down my sense of the calamitous apprehensions which break the heart that must bear them alone." "I have seen her. The figure I beheld is, and is not my Charlotte - my thirty years' companion. There is the same symmetry of form, though those limbs are rigid which were once so gracefully elastic -- bui that yellow masque, with pinched features, wbich seems to mock life rather than cmu. Jate it, can it be the face that was once so full of lively expression? I will not look on it again." ** “Another day, and a bright one to the external world, again opens on us; the air soft, and the bow. ers smiling, and the leaves glittering. They cannot refresh her to whom mild weather was a natu. ral enjoyment. Cerements of lead and of wood already hold her; cold earth must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte, it is not the bride of my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid among the ruins of Dryburglı, which we bave so often visited in gayety aud pastime. No, no. She is sentient and conscious of my emotions somewhere - somehow ; ichere we canuot tell; how we cannot tell; yet would I not at this moment renounce the mysterious, yet certain bope, that I shali see her iu a better world, for all tbat this world can give me. I have been to her room; there was no voice in il — no stirring; the pressure of the coffin was visible on the bed, but it had been removed elsewhere; all was neat, as she loved it, but all was calm — calm as death. I remembered the last sight of her; she raised herself in bed, and tried to turn her eyes after me, and said, with a sort of smile, 'You all have such melancholy faces! These were the last words I ever beard ber utter, and I hurried away, for she did not seem quite conscious of what she said: when I returned, immediately departing, she was in a deep sleep. It is deeper now. This was but seven days since. They are arranging the chamber of death; that which was long the apartment of con. pubial happiness, and of wliose arrangenients (better than in richer houses) she was so proud. They are treadivg fast and thick. For weeks you could have heard a foot fall. Oh my God!"

The annexed passages were written after the funeral at Dryburgh, which appears to have been a very imposing ceremony:

“ The whole scene floats as a sort of dream before me -- the beautiful day, the gray ruins covered and hidden uinong clouds of foliage and flourish, where the grave, even in the lap of beauty, Jay lurking, and gaped for its prey. They the grave looks, the hasty important bustle of men with spades and mattocks - the train of carriages — the cotiin containing the creature that was so long the dearest on earth to me, and whom I was to consign to the very spot which in pleasure parties we so frequently visited. It seems still as if this could not be really so. Last night Charles and I walked late on the terrace at Kaeside, when the clouds seemed accumulating in ihe wildest masses both on the Eillon Hills and other mountains in the distance. This rough morning reads the riddle. Dull, drooping, cheerless, has this day been. I cared not for carrying my own gloom to the girls, and so sate in my own room, dawdling with old papers, which awakened as many stings as if they had been the nest of fifty scorpions. Then the solitude seemed so absolute - my poor Charlotte would have been in the room half a score of times to see if the fire burned, and to ask a hundred kind questions. Well, that is over- and if it cannot be forgotten, must be remembered with patience. I do not know what other folks feel, but with me the hysterical passion that impels tears is a terrible violence- a sort of throuling sensation - then succeeded by a state of dreaming stupidity, in which I ask if my poor Charlotte can actually be dead. I think I feel my loss more than at the first blow."

The work still preserves its original character, in the external matters of paper and printing. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM, Broadway.

PASSAGES IN FOREIGN TRAVEL. By Isaac APPLETON JEWETT. In two volumes.

pp. 683. Boston: CHARLES C. LITTLE AND JAMES Brown.

MR. JEWETT is an acute observer, and a faithful transcriber of clear impressions. Hence he has given us two just such volumes as a tasteful reviewer, sadly cramped for space, must needs condemn, in one sense, at least; for what avail dogs' ears, as indicating a picturesque paragraph here, a lively page there, and a felicitous sentence in another place, when after all, the gratification of their perusal must be confined to one's self ? Such is our case; and we are left but the alternative of commending the reader to the fountain-head. Would you bring before you London, with its sights and sounds; the scenery, people, and manners of England and Scotland; the French metropolis, with its press, its arts, its balls, festivals, theatres, dancers, singers; its statesmen, authors, poets; would you see these, read Mr. JEWETT's volumes; and it shall come to pass, that you shall behold them, even as did the writer. Thenceforward, moreover, you will be glad to accompany the author to Italy, and wander over Rome, Naples, Venice, Florence, with him, and among the mountains of Switzerland. Such

passages of travel as these may save you the nausea marina, and other expenses of the Atlantic passage; yet shall you be an accomplished traveller. And this result arises from a gift of travel-writing as rare as in the present instance it is prëeminent.

CHARCOAL SKETCHES: OR SCENES IN A METROPOLIS. By Joseph C. NEAL. With

Illustrations by David C. JOHNSTON. In one volume. pp. 222. Philadelphia: E. L. CAREY AND A. Hart. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM. MR. NEAL deserves the hearty thanks of every lover of genuine humor, for the laughler-moving volume which he has so timely put forth. He is a public benefactor, and should be so considered, and as such rewarded, who contributes toward allaying and ventillating the feverish and irritated feelings of the heavy-hearted, in times like these, when every third face one meets is awfully sour and persimmony,' by reason of the pressure.' 'Human life,' says Sir William Temple, 'even at the greatest and the best, is but a froward child, that must be played with, and humored a little, to keep it quiet.' He who amuses the troubled, or diverts unpleasant thoughts, then, is surely a literary Howard; and all honor should be his, therefor. Our author has gone out into the by-ways and thoroughfares of the metropolis, and from among the greasy multitude selected rare specimens of that numerous class of wights who hang loose, like rags, upon the back of society, and has made them “heroes in history. There is a completeness in his sketches, the result oftentimes of a few adroit touches with his charcoal, which is worthy of especial praise. He sacrifices nothing of nature to an overweening desire to startle or to shine. There are no premeditated impromptus interpolated into the dialogues of his speakers; but they talk just as such personages should, situated as they are. Some of his illustrations are certainly odd enough, but then they are always lucid; and his perception of the lights and shades of character, in low life, are of the very nicest. In short, as a writer, he is what Mount is as a painter - Hogarthian to a degree. There is much excellent philosophy, moreover, in the volume, which steals upon the reader when he least expects to encounter it, and after the most oblique fashion. We proceed to instance some of the felicitous 'touches' to which we have alluded, in a few random extracts. The first is the soliloquy of a tall specimen of liquefied humanity, about to promenade a slippery street, all unlighted, because there was a moon which the corporation knew should have shone; but, being very cloudy, pedestrians were under the necessity of supposing the moonshine:

"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 tho 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. Sometimes I'm most disposed to send the bellman after 'em - or VOL. XI.

48

get a full-blooded pinter to pint 'em out, while I bold a candle to see which way he pints. It would'nt be a bad notion on sich occasions to ask the man in the steeple to ring which way the moon is. 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 forred hyst, or a backered hyst, or some other sort of a hyst -- but more backerds than forrerds, 'specially in winter. Due of the most vufeeling tricks I know of, is the way some folks have got of laughing out, yaw-ba'! when they see a gentleman ketching a riggler byst - a long gentleman, for instance, with his legs in the air, and his poddie 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 nohead on your shoulders, and as if it wası't you, but some confounded disagreeable feller in your clothes ; yet the jackenipes all grid, as if the inisfortunes of human nature was only a puppet show, I would n't mind it, if you could get up and look as if you did n't care. But a man can't rise, after a royal hyst, without letting on he feels flat. To such cases, however, sympathy is all gammon; and as for sensibility of a winter's day, people keep it all for their own poses, and can't be coaxed to retail it by the small.'"

Some idea of the nature of his 'hysts,' may be gathered from an incidental descrip. tion of his extraordinary procerity:

“I can't borrow coats, because I do n't like cuffs at the elbows. I can't borrow pants, because it is n't the fashion to wear knee-breeches, and all any stockings is socks. I can't hide wheu any body owes me a lambasting. You can see me a mile. When I sit by the fire, I can't get near enough to wurm my body, without burning my knees; and in a stage-coach, there's no room between the benches, and the way you get the cramp- don't mention it!"

Here is another picture, which we ask each one of our readers fully to embody, and then say if it be not perfect. It is the portraiture of Mr. Duberly Doubtington:

« His evebrows form an uncertain arch, rising nearly an inch above the right line of determination, and the button of his nose is so large and blunt as to lend any thing but a penetrating look to his countenance. This under lip droops as is afraid to clench resolutely with its antagonist; and his whiskers hang dejectedly down, justead of bristling like a cheraui de frise toward the outward angle of the eye. The hands of Mr. Doubtington always repose in his pockets, unwilling to trust to their own means of support, and he invariably leans his back against the nearest sustaining object. When he walks, his feet shuffle here and there so dubiously that one may swear they have no specific orders where to go, and so indefinite are the motions of his body, that even the tails of his coat have no characteristic swing. They look, not like Mr. Doubtington's coat. trils, but like coat-tails in the abstract- undecided coat-tails, that have not yet got the hang of any body's back, and have acquired no more individuality than those which dangle at the shop. doors in Water-street."

As elections are always pending, somewhere in the republic, a reference to · Peter Brush,' and his advice touching 'politicianers,' may not be amiss. He is one who

loves his country and wants an office; he don't care what, so it's fat and easy.' He has been in many a busy skirmish, and has often assisted to blow the bellows of party, till the whole furnace of politics was alive with sparks and cinders; but it has availed his personal interests little, for we find him on the side-walk, 'a little elevated,' presenting a dirty 'circular recommend to a by-stander for his signature, 'for a fat post, either under the city government, the state government, or the gineral government.' 'Now, jist put your fist to it,' says he, in most persuasive toncs, 'as he smoothed the paper over his knee, spread it upon the step, and produced a bit of lead pencil, which he first moistened with his lips, and then offered to his interlocutor. He adds :

"*I've a genus for governing -- for telling people what to do, and looking at 'ein do it. I want to take care of my country, and I want my country to take care of me. Head work is the trade I'm made for talking that's my line-talking in the streets, talking in the bar-rooms, talking in the oyster cellars. Talking is the grease for the wagon wheels of the body politic and tho body corpulent, and nothing will go ou well till I've got my say in the matter; for I can talk all day, aud most of the night, only stopping to wet my whistle. But parties is all alike -- all ungrateful; no respect for genus -- po respect for me. I've tried both sides, got nothing, and I've a great mind tu knock ofl, and call it half a day.'"

*Dilly Jones' is a capital sketch. He has been successively driven from the employ. ments of oyster-vending, 'pepree-pot'-soup peddling, though his cats was as fresh as any cats in the market;' from the bean-soup line, because his customers said, 'kittens was n't good done that way;' and, lastly, from wood-sawing, by the general consumption of coal. Time had changed every thing, and all occupations were carried on by labor-saving machinery. After declaring his intention of listing for a watchman, or turning city pig-catcher, a second thought strikes him:

* " But what's the use ? If I was listed, they'd soon find out to holler the hour, and to ketch the thieves by steam; yes, and thoy 'd take 'em to court on a rail-road, and try 'em with biling water. They 'll soon bave black locoinotives for watchmen and constables, and big bilers for judges and mayors. Pigs will be ketched by steam, and will be bilod fit to out before they are done squealing.

By-and-by, folks won't be of no use at all. There won't be no people in the world but tea-kettles ; no mouths, but safety valves; and no talking, but blowing off steam. If I had a little biler inside of me, I'd turn omnibus, and week-days I'd run from Kensington to the Navy Yard, and Sundays I'd run to Fairmount.'"

We have quoted but from a small portion of the volume, which abounds in similar etchings, interspersed with choice fragments of philosophy, and gems of humor. The illustrations, by JOHNSTON, are exceedingly clever. He has embodied the conceptions of the author with truth and spirit.

THE GIRL's Reading BOOK IN PROSE AND Poetry. For Schools. By Mrs. L. H.

SIGOURNEY. In one volume. pp. 243. New-York: J. Orville TAYLOR, ‘American Common School Union.' Most gladly do we welcome this teeming little volume, and as cordially commend it to the attention and affections of parents and children, teachers, and pupils, wherever these pages are read. Our readers are not unacquainted with Mrs. SIGOURNEY's mascu• line intellect, and her high gifts as a writer, both in poetry and prose. They will therefore know how to estimate the work before us, when we tell them, that as a whole, it has never been excelled by any thing from its author's pen, in the purity of its moral lessons, and the grace and simplicity of its style. Higher praise we could scarcely award it. A single extract from 'Early Recollections,' depicting, as with a pencil of light, the evils of intemperance and war, must limit our examples of the contents of this charming book :

“I saw a man with a fiery and a bloated face. He was built strongly, like the oak among trees. Yet his steps were weak and unsteady as those of the tottering babe. He fell heavily, and lay as one dead. I marvelled that no hand was stretched out to raise hiin up.

"I saw an open grave. A widow stood near it, with her little ones. They looked downcast and sad at heart. Yet methought, it was famine and misery, more than sorrow for the dead, which had set on them such a yellow and shrivelled seal.

"I said,. What can bave made the parents not pity their children when they hungered, nor call them home when they were in wickednexs? What inade the friends forget their early love? and the strong man fall down senseless ? and the young die before his time?' I heard a voice say “Intemperance! And there is mourning in the land, because of this.'

"Sol returned to my home, sorrowing. And had God given me a brother or a sister, I would bave thrown my arms around their neck, and entreated, Touch not your lips to the poison cup, and let us drink the pure water, which God has blessed, all the days of our lives.'

" Again I went forth. I met a beautiful boy weeping, and I asked him why he wept. He answered, • Because my father went to the wars and is slain, he will return no more. I saw a mournful woman. The sun shone upon her dwelling. The honeysuckle climbed to its windows, and sent in its sweet blossoms to do their loving message. But she was a widow. Her husbaud had fallen in battle. There was joy for her no more.

* I saw a hoary man, sitting by the wayside. Grief had made furrows upon his forehead, and bis garments were thin and tattered. Yet he asked not for charity. And when I besought him to tell me why his heart was heavy, he replied faintly, I had a son, an only oue. From his cradle, I toiled, that he might have food and clothing, and be taught wisdom.

"He grew up to bless me. So all my labor and wearinces were forgotten. When he became a man, I knew no want; for he cherished me, as I had cherished him. Yet he left me to be a soldier. He was slaughtered in the field of battle. Therefore, mine eye runnetb down with water, because the comforter that should relieve my soul, returns no more.'

"I said, 'Show me, I pray thee, a field of battle, that I may know what war means!' But he answered, Thou art not able to bear the sight. Tell me, then,'I entreated, what thou hast seen, when the battle was done.'

"* I came,' he said, at the close of day, when the cannon ceased their thunder, and the victor and vanquished had withdrawn. The rising moon looked down on the pale faces of the dead. Scattered over the broad plain, were many who still struggled with the pangs of death.

*** They stretched out the shattered limb, yet there was no healing hand. They strove to raise their beads, but sauk deeper in the blood which flowed from their own bosoms. They begged in God's name that we would put them out of their misery, and their piercing shrieks entered into my soul.

Here and there, horses mad with pain, rolled and plunged, mapgling with their hoofs the dying. or defacing the dead. And I remembered the mourning for those who lay theru of the parents who had reared them, of the young children who used to sit at home upon their knee.'.

“ Then I said, 'tell me no more of battle or of war, for my heart is sad.' The silver-haired man raised his eyes upward, and I kneeled down by his side.

"And he prayed, 'Lord, keep this child from anger, and hatred, and ambition, which are the seeds of war. Grant to all that own the name of Jesus, hearts of peace, that they may shun every deed of strife, and dwell at last in the country of peace, even in heaven.'"

The poetry of the volume is in all respects equal to the prose, of which the above is but an average specimen.

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