the review, and that he does not wish to be considered its author; but so fair an opportunity offers to rebuke the provincial credulity of a very presuming, and yet a very ignorant, portion of the American reading public, that I cannot refrain from presenting another circumstance, which goes to confirm this impression. With a view to throw discredit on me, and in that strain of audacious falsehood which distinguishes his whole article, the reviewer asserts that a breakfast in London is considered but an equivocal compliment, and is only given to those of whose characters, manners, or social condition, there is some doubt. The review and the diary were in press simultaneously, and their respective proof-sheets must have been under examination at the same time. Now it appears by the latter, that Sir Walter Scott either had company to breakfast himself, when in London, in 1826, or breakfasted out, nearly every day of his two visits, in going to, or returning from, Paris. What is more, he breakfasted at some of the very houses where I breakfasted, and with some of the very same companions. Mr. Lockhart is not so dull a man as to make a blunder so egregious as that connected with these facts. Again: the reviewer ridicules my observations concerning the inaccuracy of the celebrated description of the cliffs of Dover, by Shakspeare, even perverting my meaning, and my language, in order to do so. It appears, oddly enough, that Sir Walter Scott, in his diary, (November ninth,) has the following words: The cliff to which Shakspeare gave his immortal name, is, as the world knows, a great deal lower than his description implied. Our Dover friends, justly jealous of the reputation of their cliff, impute this diminution of its consequence to its having fallen in repeatedly since the poet's time. I think it more likely that the imagination of Shakspeare, writing, perhaps, at a period long after he may have seen the rock, had described it such as he conceived it to have been. Beside, Shakspeare was born in a flat country, and Dover cliff is at least lofty enough to have suggested the exaggerated features to his fancy.' No one can read this, the observations I have made in the book on England, and the reviewer's comments, and then suppose Mr. Lockhart to have had any thing to do with the review.*

I believe this part of Sir Walter Scott's diary to be strictly his own, and I know it to be incorrect, in several particulars, that do not affect myself. One important omission has been exposed, and, I think, proved. As to the opinions, the following fact may establish still more. Sir Walter Scott speaks of the extraordinary acquirements of Madame de Boufflers. This may be true enough; but all that he could know personally on that point, was obtained in an interview of a very few minutes, in a crowded room, and through the medium of a language that he scarcely spoke at all, or understood when spoken!

There is one other indirect allusion to myself in this diary, as the author of the Pilot. 'October 21.- Hurried away to see honest Dan Terry's theatre, called the Adelphi,

THIS review is said to have been written by one formerly connected with the marine affairs of Great Britain. In a note, speaking of my having objected to Shakspeare's making the gradation of comparison from the ship to the boat, and from the boat to the buoy, in connexion with this very subject, this person says: We have taken the trouble of inquiring how the proportion really is, and we are informed, that of a sloop of war, the jolly-boat is, in round numbers, about one sixth of the length of the hull, and the buoy one sixth of the jolly-boat; so that, even in this miserable detail, our nautical critic is absolutely wrong.' By length, this person must mean dimensions, or he means a quibble. The point in discussion was size, as seen from a height, and a rope-yarn a mile long would not be visible at a hundred yards. If this proposition be true, the jolly-boat of a ship of six hundred tons burthen, must itself be of one hundred tons burthen! It is said to be a poor rule that will not work both ways; so we will put this to another test. The dimensions of the jolly-boat of a ship of six hundred tons, are actually about equal to one ton in measurement; and it follows, necessarily, from the reviewer's proposition, that it would hold six hundred buoys! It is scarcely required to tell any man, of two sound ideas, that the distance which would diminish a ship to the apparent size of her boat, would swallow up the latter entirely; but this fact was much too profound for the sagacity of the contributor of the Quarterly. But the article is unworthy of notice, except as it is connected with the other matters laid before the reader.

where we saw the Pilot, (the drama,) from an American novel of that name. It is extremely popular, the dramatist having seized on the whole story, and turned the odious and ridiculous parts, assigned by the original author to the British, against the Yankees themselves. There is a quiet effrontery in this, that is of a rare and peculiar character. Coming from an ordinary man, I should conceive this opinion unworthy of attention. The novel and the drama are both before the world, and I leave it for gentlemen, English or American, to decide on the spirit and tone of each; but, just thirteen days after the date of this entry, Sir Walter Scott met the author of the Pilot, and his first words, when the common salutations had been paid, were a compliment on the liberality and courtesy the latter had shown to the English, while, agreeably to an author's privilege, he had maintained the proper ascendency of his own countrymen. Different individuals will judge the omission pointed out in the diary differently, or according to their several moral temperaments; but, after the evidence that has been given here, I trust no one will accuse me of having exaggerated the nature of the intercourse I had with Sir Walter Scott, during his visit to Paris, in 1826.

Yours, etc.,

J. FENIMORE Cooper.

THE 'PALMYRA LETTERS' IN ENGLAND. The last number of the 'London and Westminster' Quarterly Review contains an elaborate critique upon, and very copious extracts from, the 'Palmyra Letters.' The reviewer opens his article, by quoting a paragraph from Miss MARTINEAU's 'Society in America,' wherein that clever peripatetic philosopheress refers, in laudatory phrase, to the 'Letters,' and the KNICKERBOCKER, in which they first met her eye, where, with her previous impressions, derived from such specimens of American periodical literature as she had then seen, she says she scarcely expected to find merit so exalted. This strong testimony, it is affirmed, excited a natural desire in the mind of the reviewer for a nearer acquaintance with a production so highly commended. After remarking that there is ample food for love and admiration in the volumes, he goes on to say, that the style will forcibly remind the reader of Fenelon, by its union of a gentle and peace-loving spirit with the warmest sympathy for the active and energetic virtues; and a striking facility of kindling with the imagination, merely, at the conception of scenes of bloodshed and mortal struggle, is especially noted. Another prominent merit claimed for the 'Letters,' is, that they present, for the first time, a living picture of very ancient scenes and manners. The historical period is most felicitously chosen. During the reign of Nero or Vespasian, and Constantine, Christianity was working itself upward from the poorest and most despised classes, through the whole body of civilized society, while military despotism was in the same time working downward. It is within this space of history, that the episode of Palmyra, that magnificent Venice of the great Syrian desert, occurs; and our correspondent is declared to have been the first writer who has illustrated the era in which the power of Christianity began to be felt, and its under-currents to flow, with ever-increasing rapidity, in silent and unseen depths. The great emporium of the commerce of the desert is clothed with the very spirit of poetry and romance. Characters and events are described with great beauty and power, and with strict fidelity to the facts of history, while a strong dramatic interest pervades the entire performance. The reviewer observes, in conclusion, that without being, perhaps, the literary Messiah, which Miss MARTINEAU says the American people are looking for, 'there is that in the writer which, in the present state of literature, deserves to be prized most highly, and which entitles him to a most honorable place among the writers, not only of his own country, but of ours, at the present time. We do not refer to his extraordinary power of throwing his own mind, and of making his readers throw theirs, into the minds and into the cir

cumstances of persons who lived far off, and long ago; of making us see things as those persons saw or might have seen them. We give him a higher praise. He is one of the few (and among writers of fiction they were never so few as in this age) who can conceive, with sufficient strength and reality to be able to represent, genuine, unforced nobleness of character.' It is an additional title to praise in the author, that he has nobly elevated the character of woman, in such portraitures as those of Zenobia, Fausta, and Julia. This is an imperfect synopsis of the review in question; which we submit to the reader, with the relevant or suggested inquiry, whether he does not perceive, in the matériel shadowed forth, in the 'Letters from Rome,' in the last and present number, a field as wide and fruitful for such a reaper, as was occupied so successfully in gathering the rich harvest of the 'Letters from Palmyra? If the reader does not, we wot who does.

THE DRAMA.

PARK THEATRE.- Since our last communication on theatrical matters, diverse and interesting have been the doings at this house. The 'Love Chase' has been produced, and many times repeated, to the delight of some, the satisfaction of others, and to the regret, we hope, of all who ever placed faith in the genius of the author of the Hunchback. It is too late in the day to attempt a labored criticism of the 'Love Chase.' To say that it possesses but few of the beauties of the earlier efforts of Knowles, and many, very many, of their worst faults, is only to repeat the judgment already bestowed upon it. To Mrs. SHAW's delightful manner, and sprightly acting of the part of 'Constance,' is to be attributed the temporary success of the play. The rest of the characters, although generally well sustained, do not in themselves possess sufficient merit to raise the piece above the inglorious level of mediocrity. In all of the late productions of SHERIDAN KNOWLES, there is an affected imitation of the quaint style of the old masters, sufficiently palpable to make the 'judicious grieve;' but which, in the play of the 'Love Chase,' is carried to the extent of flat absurdity. The most common prose sentence, is here, by the simple transposition of words, metamorphosed into what the author no doubt complacently considers an antique model of the true blank verse; and sooth to say, it is indeed of the blankest. Without a poetical thought, without even the dignity of elevated language, string after string of this hallucinated prose is drawn out, and made to express the common-place nothings of the dramatis personæ, as it might be thus:

PROSE IN A STATE OF S OBRIETY'

It was cloudy this morning at sunrise, and if this east wind holds, I should not wouder if we had rain before night; so, Gertrude, dear, I would advise you to put on your India rubbers, if you are going out.

THE SAME, A LITTLE ELEVATED.'
Arose in clouds this morn the moody sun
Breathes now the wat'ry orient its sighs,
Which if suspiring still its purpose hold,
Before the evening hour belike 't will rain;
So, neighbor Gertrude, in the open street
To venture not, by me be well advised,
Without encasement of your tender feet
In water-proof catoutchouc!

We are forced to believe that this system of bald charlatanism will, if persisted in, totally destroy the just effect of whatever real merit the future productions of KNOWLES may possess.

A divertisement, dramatized from the 'Pickwick Papers,' has been produced at the Park, with all the bustle and crowd of a heterogenous mass of characters, but without the inimitable comedy which belongs to the original. That arch, faithful, and philosophical wag, Samivel Veller, loses all his piquancy and smartness, and the quiet, good-natured absurdity of the respectable Mr. Pickwick, becomes a vapid piece of stupidity. The sleepy fat boy, as exhibited by Mr. PLACIDE, is the only character which seems unadulturated by the dramatic transformation. The piece is in three acts, and would be much improved by the subtraction of two. After all the characters have once been seen, and each given a taste of his peculiar quality, the fun of the thing is over, and all that follows is necessarily a sort of repetition, which soon becomes dull and tiresome.

THE BAYADERE has been danced and sung, until its most excessive admirers have been surfeited. Why is it that a new ballet cannot be produced, for the farther display of the favorite LECOMTE? Both herself and husband have shown themselves superior artists, in separate branches of theatrical talent, and both should have a fair opportunity of maintaining the high opinion which they have gained, by some novelty which should exhibit them in situations and characters not entirely worn out.

A Mr. NEAFIE has lately appeared at this house; and notwithstanding the dull season, and the almost universal prejudice which seems to exist against all unfledged tragedians, he was enabled to create a favorable impression, and to give promise of something more than a mere walking hero. It is quite worthy of remark, that during the almost universal stagnation of business-life which this city has so lately experienced, there has been an unusual degree of spirit among these amateur histrions, who, humbly conscious of that 'within which passeth show,' and continually feeling the romantic influence of the 'divine afflatus,' as it breathes like the 'sweet south' over the sensitive surface of their placid cerebellæ, are ever anxious for the fitting moment wherein to 'witch the world' by the brilliant scintillations of their towering genius: as if the intellectual spirit of KEAN, KEMBLE, GARRICK, and MRS. SIDDONS, had, through some divine process, been condensed into one pure essential oil of superhuman virtue, one tiny drop of which were enough to sublimate and transform men into gods, for the express purpose of anointing the souls and etherealizing the spirits of these theatrical aspirants, who, seizing at once the top round of that towering ladder, to grasp which the unforgotten great thought the duration of a life too short, do there, with the utmost complacency, flap their embryo wings, yet innocent of feathers, and stretching out their long, scraggy necks, scream forth a cadence which they fancy has the true twang of the barn-yard, but which reminds all else who hear it, of the unsophisticated gabble which, of a soft morning in June, sometimes breaks the stillness of a goose-pond. The foregoing is a long sentence, certainly, but there is enough of truth in it to make amends for its prolixity.

Better days are coming. A new opera, by BALFE, we believe, entitled the 'Siege of Rochelle,' is on the tapis, for M'DE CARADORI, BROUGH, and SHEPARD. BROUGH has added much to his reputation, during his last visit to America. As a bass, in English opera, the Park has not acknowledged his equal; and from the good taste and propriety with which he executed the part of the Marquis, in 'Fra Diavolo,' we have reason to believe that his voice admits of a tone which the public have heretofore had no opportunity of appreciating. We hope, on his return, to witness him again in some tenor part.

Mrs. WOOD, 'a happy wife, and happier mother, now,' will soon be among us again; and the cheering melody of our old favorite will give to opera its wonted influence, and make the walls of 'Old Drury' resound again with the welcoming and enthusiastic plaudits of the lovers of song. The KEELEYS, too, are coming, those nice 'little people,' who have already so snugly taken up their abode in the south-west corner of our affections. They are coming, to make us laugh with one eye, and cry with the other. 'Give them God speed!'

C.

FOREIGN LITERARY SUMMARY. — Mr. ADDISON, the distinguished traveller, is preparing a narrative of his adventures and researches at Palmyra, and its still magnificent ruins, on the edge of the great Syrian Desert. Some of our favorite contributors are coming' copiously' before the English reading public. Miss SEDGWICK's 'Live and Let Live,' 'Love Token for Children,' etc., are announced as ready for publication, as also Zenobia, or the Fall of Palmyra' our Palmyra Letters,' under a new title. PRESCOTT's 'Ferdinand and Isabella' is highly commended in the English reviews and magazines. A second edition has already been called for in this country.

A TALK WITH SOME OF OUR CORRESPONDENTS. Among our unappropriated literary stores, are several essays and narratives, all touching upon the general theme of childhood, and the return of the writers, after years of absence, to the homes of their youth. Some of these are characterized by deep and pure feeling, but are yet wanting in novelty, as well as in the graces of finished composition. We refer to them, because we desire it to be understood that we do not regard with indifference these out-pourings of kindred hearts. They honor the susceptible sources whence they well. One dwells upon the changes his birth-place had undergone, since he last beheld it. The brook, along whose margin he had so often wandered, appeared strangely dwindled to a mere rill. Mountains that seemed, in his young imagination, to lie along the very horizon, were now but a little way off, and seemed like pigmy hills, scarcely larger than the wind-row of the mower, in the meadow-field of summer. Still was the scene fruitful to him of cherished memories. In that meadow, were the 'strawberry-spots;' in those ploughed fields he had labored; and along those swelling uplands he had loitered a thousand times, echoing back the voices of fellow lads on the opposite hills. Morning, noon, and night-the warm rain-storm and the pleasant sunshine - the soft damp snow-fall, and the balmy southern wind all seasons, spring and autumn, summer and winter — all had a charm for his young heart. In the sweet sadness of these clustered remembrances, he finds himself leaning upon the simple head-stone of his mother's grave, just as the 'fire in the west fades out,' and while 'all the air a solemn stillness holds :'

-' An image of stone he stands,

And hides his face in his trembling hands.'

He looks back through a vista of vanished years, and recalls the time when that affectionate parent beckoned him to her bedside, and with her pale, cold hand upon his young head, gave him a mother's dying blessing. Let our correspondents keep these recollections of childhood fresh and verdant, and believe that they are realized in many a human bosom.

'THE following,' says a new contributor, 'is a humble imitation of what is not perhaps worth imitating, the 'Laura Matilda' style of 'sweet-pretty poetry.' We think it decidedly good. It is hardly inferior to SWIFT's celebrated 'Lines by a Person of Quality :'

SEE! the fragrant twilight whispers

O'er the orient western sky,
While Aurora's verdant vespers
Tell his evening reign is nigh.

Now a louder ray of darkness
Carols o'er the effulgent scene,
And the lurid light is markless

On the horizon's scattered screen.

Night is nigh, with all his horrors
Sweetly swerving in his breast;
And the ear of Faucy borrows
Morning's mist to lull the west.

But ere he comes with all his splendor,
Hark! the milky way is seen,
Sighing like a maiden tender,
In her bower of ruby green!

'GIVE me the men that are fat!' said honest Jack Falstaff. Not such are the predilections of an agreeable correspondent, who has sent us the 'Confessions of an Obése.' We are reluctant to publish them. Cui bono? They certainly can be of no service as a warning, or beacon; for who, by taking thought, can cease to grow fat,