HAWKING.

“I should like to learn it fromyou, Mr. Mulford,” answered the charming girl, with an emphasis so slight on the ‘you,’ that no one observed it but the mate, but which was clear enough to him, and caused every nerve to thrill.

“I can attempt it,” answered the young man, “if it be agreeable to Mrs. Budd, who would probably like to hear it, herself.”

“Certainly, Mr. Mulford, though I fancy you can say little on such a subject, that I have not often heard, already, from my poor, dear, Mr. Budd.”

This was not very encouraging, truly, but Rose continuing to look interested, the mate proceeded.

“The use of the chronometer is to ascertain the longitude,” said Harry, “and the manner of doing it, is simply this: A chronometer is nothing more nor less, than a watch made with more care than usual, so as to keep the most accurate time. They are of all sizes, from that of a clock, down to this which I wear in my fob, and which is a watch in size and appearance. Now, the nautical almanacs are all calculated to some particular meridian⁠—”

“Yes,” interrupted the relict, “Mr. Budd had a great deal to say about meridians.”

“That of London, or Greenwich, being the meridian used by those who use the English Almanacs, and those of Paris or St. Petersburgh, by the French and Russians. Each of these places has an observatory, and chronometers that are kept carefully regulated, the year round. Every chronometer is set by the regulator of the particular observatory or place to which the almanac used is calculated.”

“How wonderfully like my poor, dear Mr. Budd, all this is, Rosy! Meridians, and calculated and almanacs! I could almost think I heard your uncle entertaining me with one of his nautical discussions, I declare!”

“Now the sun rises earlier in places east, than in places west of us.”

“It rises earlier in the summer, but later in the winter, every where, Mr. Mulford.”

“Yes, my dear Madam, but the sun rises earlier every day, in London, than it does in New York.”

“That is impossible,” said the widow, dogmatically—“Why should not the sun rise at the same time in England and America?”

“Because England is east of America, aunty. The sun does not move, you know, but only appears to us to move, because the earth turns round from west to east, which causes those who are farthest east to see it the first. That is what Mr. Mulford means.”

“Rose has explained it perfectly well,” continued the mate. “Now the earth is divided into 360 degrees, and the day is divided into 24 hours. If 360 be divided by 24, the quotient will be 15. It follows, that for each fifteen degrees of longitude, there is a difference of just one hour in the rising of the sun, all over the earth, where it rises at all. New York is near five times 15 degrees west of Greenwich, and the sun consequently rises five hours later at New York than at London.”

“Theremustbe a mistake in this, Rosy,” said the relict in a tone of desperate resignation, in which the desire to break out in dissent, was struggling oddly enough, with an assumed dignity of deportment. “I’ve always heard that the people of London are some of the latest in the world. Then I’ve been in London, and know that the sun rises in New York, in December, a good deal earlier than it does in London, by the clock—yes, by the clock.”

“True enough, by the clock, Mrs. Budd, for London is more than ten degrees north of New York, and the farther north you go, the later the sun rises in winter, and the earlier in summer.”

The relict merely shrugged her shoulders, as much as to say that she knew no such thing; but Rose, who had been well taught, raised her serene eyes to her aunt’s face, and mildly said⁠—

“All true, aunty, and that is owing to the fact that the earth is smaller at each end, than in the middle.”

“Fiddle faddle with your middles and ends, Rose—I’ve been in London, dear, and know that the sun rises later there than in New York, in the month of December, and that I know by the clock, I tell you.”

“The reason of which is,” resumed Mulford, “because the clocks of each place keep the time of that place. Now, it is different with the chronometers, they are set in the observatory of Greenwich, and keep the time of Greenwich. This watchchronometer was set there, only six months since, and this time, as you see is near nine o’clock, when in truth it is only about four o’clock, here, where we are.”

“I wonder you keep such a watch, Mr. Mulford!”

“I keep it,” returned the mate smiling, “because I know it to keep good time. It has the Greenwich time; and, as your watch has the New York time, by comparing them together, it is quite easy to find the longitude of New York.”

“Do you, then, keep watches to compare with your chronometers?” asked Rose, with interest.

“Certainly not, as that would require a watch for every separate part of the ocean, and then we should only get known longitudes. It would be impracticable, and load a ship with nothing but watches. What we do, is this: We set our chronometers at Greenwich, and thus keep the Greenwich true time, wherever we go. The greatest attention is paid to the chronometers, to see that they receive no injuries, and usually there are two, and often more of them, to compare one with another, in order to see that they go well. When in the middle of the ocean, for instance, we find the true time of day at that spot, by ascertaining the height of the sun. This we do by means of our quadrants, or sextants; for, as the sun is always in the zenith at twelve o’clock, nothing is easier than to do this, when the sun can be seen, and an arc of the heavens measured. At the instant the height of the sun is ascertained by one observer, he calls to another, who notes the time on the chronometer. The difference in these two times, or that of the chronometer and that of the sun, gives the distance in degrees and minutes, between the longitude of Greenwich and that of the place on the ocean, where the observer is; and that gives him his longitude. If the difference is three hours and twenty minutes, in time, the distance from Greenwich is fifty degrees of longitude, because the sun rises there three hours and twenty minutes sooner in London, than in the fiftieth degree of west longitude.”

“A watch is a watch, Rosy,” put in the aunt, doggedly—“and time is time.—When it’s four o’clock at our house, it’s four o’clock at your aunt Sprague’s, and it’s so all over the world. The world may turn round—I’ll not deny it, for your uncle often said as much asthat, but it cannot turn in the way Mr. Mulford says, or we should all fall off it, at night, when it was bottom upwards. No, sir, no; you’ve started wrong. My poor, dear, late Mr. Budd always admitted that the world turned round, as the books say; but, when I suggested to him the difficulty of keeping things in their places, with the earth upside down, he acknowledged candidly—for he was all candor, I must say that for him—and owned that he had made a discovery, by means of his barometer, which showed that the world did not turn round, in the way you describe, or by rolling over, but by whirling about as one turns in a dance. You must remember your uncle’s telling me this, Rose?”

Rose did remember her uncle’s telling her aunt this, as well as a great many other similar prodigies. Capt. Budd had married his silly wife, on account of her pretty face, and when the novelty of that was over, he often amused himself by inventing all sorts of absurdities, to amuse both her and himself. Among other things, Rose well remembered his quieting her aunt’s scruples about falling off the earth, by laying down the theory that the world did not “roll over,” but “whirl round.” But Rose did not answer the question.

“Objects are kept in their places on the earth, by means of attraction,” Mulford ventured to say, with a great deal of humility of manner. “I believe it is thought there is no up or down, except as we go from, or towards the earth; and that would make the position of the last a matter of indifference, as respects objects keeping on it.”

“Attractions are great advantages, I will own, sir, especially to our sex. I think it will be acknowledged there has been no want of them in our family, any more than there has been of sense and information. Sense, and information, we pride ourselves on; attractions being gifts from God, we try to think less of them. But all the attractions in the world could not keep Rosy, here, from falling off the earth, did it ever come bottom upwards. And, mercy on me, where would she fall to!”

Mulford saw that argument was useless, and he confined his remarks, during the rest of the conversation, to showing Rose the manner in which the longitude of a place might be ascertained, with the aid of the chronometer, and by means of observations to get the true time of day, at the particular place itself. Rose was so quick witted, and already so well instructed, as easily to comprehend the principles; the details being matters of no great moment to one of her sex and habits. But Mrs. Budd remained antagonist to the last. She obstinately maintained that twelve o’clock was twelve o’clock; or, if therewasany difference, “London hours were notoriously later, than those of New York.”

Against such assertions, arguments were obviously useless, and Mulford, perceiving that Rose began to fidget, had sufficient tact to change the conversation altogether.

And still the Molly Swash kept in swift motion. Montauk was, by this time, abeam, and the little brigantine began to rise and fall, on the long swells of the Atlantic, which now opened before her, in one vast sheet of green and rolling waters. On her right, lay the termination of Long Island; a low, rocky cape, with its light, and a few fields in tillage, for the uses of those who tended it. It was the “land’s end” of New York, while the island that was heaving up out of the sea, at a distance of about twenty miles to the eastward, was the property of Rhode Island, being called Blok Island. Between the two, the Swash shaped her course for the ocean.

Spike had betrayed uneasiness, as his brig came up with Montauk; but the coast seemed clear, with not even a distant sail in sight, and he came aft rubbing his hands with delight, speaking cheerfully.

“All right, Mr. Mulford,” he cried—“every thing ship-shape and brister-fashion—not even a smack fishing here-away, which is a little remarkable. Ha!—what are you staring at, over the quarter, there?”

“Look here, sir, directly in the wake of the setting sun, which we are now opening from the land—is not that a sail?”

“Sail! Impossible, sir. What should a sail be doing in there, so near Montauk—no man ever saw a sail there, in his life. It’s a spot in the sun, Madam Budd, that my mate has got a glimpse at, and, sailor-like, he mistakes it for a sail! Ha—ha—ha—yes, Harry, it’s a spot in the sun.”

“It is a spotonthe sun, as you say, but it’s a spot made by a vessel—and here is a boat pulling towards her, might and main; going from the light, as if carrying news.”

It was no longer possible for Spike’s hopes to deceive him. There was a vessel sure enough, though, when first seen, it was so directly in a line with the fiery orb of the setting sun, as to escape common observation. As the brig went foaming on towards the ocean, however, the black speck was soon brought out of the range of the orb of day, and Spike’s glass was instantly leveled at it.

“Just as one might expect, Mr. Mulford,” cried the captain, lowering his glass, and looking aloft to see what could be done to help his craft along; “a bloody revenue cutter, as I’m a wicked sinner! There she lies, sir, within musket shot of the shore, hid behind the point, as it might be in waiting for us, with her head to the southward, her helm hard down, topsail aback, and foresail brailed; as wicked looking a thing as Free Trade and Sailor’s Rights ever ran from. My life on it, sir, she’s been put in that precise spot, in waiting, for the Molly to arrive. You see, as we stand on, it places her as handsomely to windward of us, as the heart of man could desire.”

“Itisa revenue cutter, sir; now she’s out of the sun’s wake, that is plain enough. And that is her boat, which has been sent to the light to keep a lookout for us. Well, sir; she’s to windward, but we have every thing set for our course, and as we are fairly abeam, she must be a great traveler to overhaul us.”

“I thought these bloody cutters were all down in the Gulf,” growled the captain, casting his eyes aloft, again, to see that every thing drew. “I’m sure the newspapers have mentioned as many as twenty that are down there, and here is one, lying behind Montauk, like a snake in the grass!”

“At any rate, by the time he gets his boat up, we shall get the start of him—ay; there he fills and falls off, to go and meet her. He’ll soon be after us, Capt. Spike, at racing speed.”

Every thing occurred as those two mariners had foreseen. The revenue cutter, one of the usual fore-topsail schooners that are employed in that service, up and down the coast, had no sooner hoisted up her boat, than she made sail, a little off the wind, on a line to close with the Swash. As for the brig, she had hauled up to an easy bowline, as she came round Montauk, and was now standing off south south-east, still having the wind at south-west. The weatherly position of the cutter enabled her to steer rather more than one point freer. At the commencement of this chase, the vessels were about a mile and a half apart, a distance too great to enable the cutter to render the light guns she carried available, and it was obvious from the first, that every thing depended on speed. And speed it was, truly; both vessels fairly flying; the Molly Swash having at last met with something very like her match. Half an hour satisfied both Spike and Mulford that, by giving the cutter the advantage of one point in a freer wind, that she would certainly get along side of them, and the alternative was to keep off.

“A starn chase is a long chase, all the world over,” cried Spike—“edge away, sir; edge away, sir, and bring the cutter well on our quarter.”

This order was obeyed, but to the surprise of those in the Swash, the cutter did not exactly follow, though she kept off a little more. Her object seemed to be to maintain her weatherly position, and in this manner, the two vessels ran on, for an hour longer, until the Swash had made most of the distance between Montauk and Blok Island. Objects were even becoming dimly visible on the last, and the light on the point was just becoming visible, a lone star above a waste of desert, the sun having been down now fully a quarter of an hour, and twilight beginning to draw the curtain of night over the waters.

“A craft under Blok,” shouted the look-out, that was still kept aloft as a necessary precaution.

“What sort of a craft?” demanded Spike, fiercely; for the very mention of a sail, at that moment, aroused all his ire. “Arn’t you making a frigate out of an apple orchard?”

“It’s the steamer, sir. I can now see her smoke. She’s just clearing the land, on the south side of the island, and seems to be coming round to meet us.”

A long, low, eloquent whistle from the captain, succeeded this announcement. The man aloft was right. Itwasthe steamer, sure enough; and she had been lying hid behind Blok Island, exactly as her consort had been placed behind Montauk, in waiting for their chase to arrive. The result was to put the Molly Swash in exceeding jeopardy, and the reason why the cutter kept so well to windward, was fully explained. To pass out to sea between these two craft was hopeless. There remained but a single alternative from capture, by one or by the other, and that Spike adopted instantly. He kepthis brig dead away, setting studding-sails on both sides. This change of course brought the cutter nearly aft, or somewhat on the other quarter, and laid the brig’s head in a direction to carry her close to the northern coast of the island. But the principal advantage was gained over the steamer, which could not keep off, without first standing a mile or two, or even more, to the westward, in order to clear the land. This was so much clear gain to the Swash, which was running off at racing speed, on a northeast course, while her most dangerous enemy was still heading to the westward. As for the cutter, she kept away; but, it was soon apparent that the brig had the heels of her, dead before the wind.

Darkness now began to close around the three vessels; the brig and the schooner soon becoming visible to each other principally by means of their night-glasses; though the steamer’s position could be easily distinguished by means of her flaming chimney. This latter vessel stood to the westward for a quarter of an hour, when her commander appeared to become suddenly conscious of the ground he was losing, and he wore short round, and went off before the wind, under steam and canvas; intending to meet the chase off the northern side of the island. The very person who had hailed the Swash, as she was leaving the wharf, who had passed her in Hell-Gate, with Jack Tier in his boat, and who had joined her off Throgmorton’s, was now on her deck, urging her commander, by every consideration, not to let the brig escape. It was at his suggestion that the course was changed. Nervous, and eager to seize the brig, he prevailed on the commander of the steamer to change his course. Had he done no more than this, all might have been well; but, so exaggerated were his notions of the Swash’s sailing, that, instead of suffering the steamer to keep close along the eastern side of the island, he persuaded her commander of the necessity of standing off, a long distance to the northward and eastward, with a view to get ahead of the chase. This was not bad advice, were there any certainty that Spike would stand on, of which, however, he had no intention.

The night set in dark and cloudy, and, the instant that Spike saw, by means of the flaming chimney, that the steamer had wore, and was going to the eastward of Blok, his plan was laid. Calling to Mulford, he communicated it to him, and glad to find that his intelligent mate was of his own way of thinking. The necessary orders were given, accordingly, and every thing was got ready for its execution.

In the meantime, the two revenue craft were much in earnest. The schooner was one of the fastest in the service, and had been placed under Montauk, as described, in the confident expectation of her being able to compete with even the Molly Swash successfully; more especially if brought upon a bowline. Her commander watched the receding form of the brig with the closest attention, until it was entirely swallowed up in the darkness, under the land, towards which he then sheered himself, in order to prevent the Swash from hauling up, and turning to windward, close in under the shadow of the island. Against this manœuvre, however, the cutter had now taken an effectual precaution, and her people were satisfied that escape in that way was impossible.

On the other hand, the steamer was doing very well. Driven by the breeze, and propelled by her wheels, away she went, edging further and further from the island, as the person from the Custom House succeeded, as it might be, inch by inch, in persuading the captain of the necessity of his so doing. At length a sail was dimly seen ahead, and then no doubt was entertained that the brig had got to the northward and eastward of them. Half an hour brought the steamer along side of this sail, which turned out to be a brig, that had come over the shoals, and was beating into the ocean, on her way to one of the southern ports. Her captain said there had nothing passed to the eastward.

Round went the steamer, and in went all her canvas. Ten minutes later the look-out saw a sail to the westward, standing before the wind. Odd as it might seem, the steamer’s people now fancied they were sure of the Swash. There she was, coming directly for them, with square yards! The distance was short, or a vessel could not have been seen by that light, and the two craft were soon near each other. A gun was actually cleared on board the steamer, ere it was ascertained that the stranger was the schooner! It was now midnight, and nothing was in sight but the coasting brig. Reluctantly, the revenue people gave the matter up; the Molly Swash having again eluded them, though by means unknown.

[To be continued.

HAWKING.

———

BY E. M. SIDNEY.

———

Up and away, for the day is bright,With the falconers shouting cheerily!Look at the gos-hawk’s eye of light,As he plumes his pinions merrily!He sees the heron, and quick he starts,Wheeling to heaven so cheerily!Now, like a thunderbolt down he dartsAway, away right merrily!

Up and away, for the day is bright,With the falconers shouting cheerily!Look at the gos-hawk’s eye of light,As he plumes his pinions merrily!

Up and away, for the day is bright,

With the falconers shouting cheerily!

Look at the gos-hawk’s eye of light,

As he plumes his pinions merrily!

He sees the heron, and quick he starts,Wheeling to heaven so cheerily!Now, like a thunderbolt down he dartsAway, away right merrily!

He sees the heron, and quick he starts,

Wheeling to heaven so cheerily!

Now, like a thunderbolt down he darts

Away, away right merrily!

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

History of the Thirty Years’ War. Translated from the German of Frederick Schiller. By the Rev. A. J. W. Morrison, M. A. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

In the opinion of Carlyle this is the best philosophical history that Germany has produced. The Harpers have reprinted it in the cheap and elegant series of valuable books, entitled their “New Miscellany.” The volume presents a graphic and exceedingly interesting view of one of the most terrible and devastating wars with which Europe was ever cursed. It represents the struggle of the Protestant States against the overgrown power of Austria, and the various motives, religious and devilish, which animated the parties during the contest. The skill and bravery of the commanders engaged in the war, give a personal as well as general interest to the narrative. On the one side we have Gustavus Adolphus, Count Thorn, Mansfield, Bernard of Weimar, Banner, Torstensohn, on the other Wallenstein, Tilly, Piccolimini, Pappenheim, and Hatzfeld. Gustavus Adolphus and Wallenstein are, of course, the leading objects of interest. In reading this history the mind becomes so accustomed to the devastation of provinces, the murder of peasants, and horrible outrages on all the decencies and sanctities of life,—that fire, famine and slaughter become mere commonplaces and matters of course. We read, at last, the most terrible accounts of wretchedness and cruelty, with hardly a shudder. Schiller, in summing up the various evils of this war, a war which devastated whole provinces, reduced towns and cities to ashes, “smothered the glimmering sparks of civilization in Germany, and threw back the improving manners of the country into their pristine barbarity and wildness,” still finds consolation in the thought that from this fearful war Europe came forth free and independent. “In it she first learned to recognize herself as a community of nations; and this intercommunion of States, which originated in the thirty years’ war, would alone be sufficient to reconcile the philosopher to its horrors.” There is, in truth, some consolation in the idea that a soul of goodness abides in things evil,—that men, mad with passion or drunk with fanaticism, cannot hack each other to pieces, without having their blind fury directed by a higher power to a good result.

The History of Civilization from the Fall of the Roman Empire to the French Revolution. By F. Guizot. Translated by William Hazlitt. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 4 vols. 12mo.

No person can have watched the course of the prominent American publishers of the United States, without observing a manifest improvement, within the last three or four years, in the character of the books they reprint, and the style of their execution. The house of Appleton & Co. have been especially distinguished for the intrinsic value, and the cheapness and elegance, of their publications. Their mercantile daring, in hazarding capital on books which were not considered, until lately, profitable speculations, deserves the highest praise. The present edition of Guizot’s admirable work on Civilization, is one of their most important additions to the stock of works, combining great learning and profound thought, with some of the most charming qualities of style. The first portion of the present publication, on the General History of Civilization in Europe, is well known; but the other three volumes, containing Guizot’s lectures on the History of Civilization in France, have been but lately translated. Guizot is probably the greatest historian that France has produced, in the combination of those qualities which go to make up a genius for history. He yields to none in the research which collects facts, the understanding which analyses and arranges them, and the imagination which represents them as realities, and endows them with substantial life and meaning. To all these advantages, he adds a beautiful clearness, vigor and brilliancy of style, in narrating the progress of events and setting forth their laws and principles. The present history is at once popular and profound. It is calculated to delight and instruct the common reader as well as the student. We cordially recommend it to all, as a book containing a vast amount of erudition and thought, devoted to the illustration of a subject in which everybody has an interest, and calculated to improve the literary taste of the reader, as well as to inform and enlarge his understanding.

Stories from the Italian Poets. By Leigh Hunt. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This is one of the most entertaining volumes of the season. It contains a summary in prose of Dante’s Divine Comedy, and various stories from the poems of Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto and Tasso, with occasional passages versified, and some interesting critical notices of the lives and genius of the poets. In the criticisms Hunt evinces a knowledge of his authors, founded on a long acquaintance with them, and a keen enjoyment of their excellencies. The account of the Divine Comedy is the best, for the general mind, which we have yet seen in English, and is calculated to give delight to thousands, to whom Cary’s translation would be a bore. The stories from Pulci are exquisite for their mirthful beauty. The tales from Boiardo, Ariosto and Tasso, will introduce the common novel reader into a new world of beauty, heroism and romance. The passages of grandeur and sublimity, of pathos and sweetness,—the images both delicate and magnificent, with which the volume abounds,—make its circulation in this country a thing devoutly to be wished. It will enable the reader to obtain some idea of the splendor and opulence of the Italian mind, in all which enchants the senses and thrills the imagination.

Hunt’s critical notices and occasional comments are very characteristic. His style has the same sweetness and felicity which constitute the charm of his other essays; and is dotted over with those little impertinences of personal opinion, from which nothing that he writes is wholly free. His remarks on Dante throw more light upon his own character than that of his subject. From the very constitution of his mind he revolts at all infliction of suffering, even for sin. He would have ice-creams in Pandemonium. He is inexpressibly shocked at Dante’s severity and spleen, and speaks many a fair word for the poor rascals whom the austere Florentine has consigned to perdition. His comments on the remorseless severity of the punishments in Hell,—his indignation that Cato should be placed in Purgatory while his wife, Marcia, sojourns in the pit,—his exceptions to some of the persons placed on high seats inheaven,—are often exquisitely amusing. It requires a man like Hunt to criticise a man like Dante.

The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo.

This is a splendid edition of one of the most popular of English poets. It has ten fine steel embellishments, and its general execution places it very nearly on a level with the English edition. As a specimen of American typography it is very honorable to the enterprising publishers. It is the only complete edition of Moore ever published in this country, being reprinted from the London collection, lately edited by the poet himself, and containing his autobiographical prefaces and illustrations. In these the poet very pleasantly prattles about his own life and works, and is exhibited as the most graceful of egotists. The volume contains an immense number of brilliant verses, ranging in subject from the romantic poem to the political squib. Without depth of passion, elevation of sentiment, or grandeur of imagination, the poems of Moore still evince a quickness of sensibility, an opulence of fancy, and a brilliancy of wit, which have made them among the most popular works produced within the present century. His poems are lit up with an incessant shower of sparkling fancies. Almost everything he has written is full of glitter and point—his sentiment as well as his satire. His songs are often epigrams of feeling. Though, as a poet, he can hardly stand by the side of Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, or Byron, in the greatest qualities of the bard, yet no one can glance over the present volume without being impressed with the brilliant genius of its author, and fascinated with the stores of wit, fancy, learning and sentiment, which glisten and gleam on every page.

The French Revolution. A History. By Thomas Carlyle. Newly Revised by the Author, with Index. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 3 Parts. 12mo.

This is Carlyle’s grandest work—a prose epic on the great event of modern history. In our narrow limits we cannot hope to do any thing like justice, to the imagination, fancy, learning, humor, pathos, sublimity, characterization, with which the volumes abound. In spite of some obstinate faults, in spite of much false and pernicious doctrine, in spite of the style, no work ever written on the French Revolution equals this in the clearness with which it represents the causes of that revolution, in the vividness with which it brings up its different events in magnificent pictures, speaking directly to the eye, and in the grandeur of its delineations of the principal actors in the drama. The portraits of Mirabeau, Danton, Robespierre, are masterpieces. Every page glows with vital life. The words are all alive with meaning. They paint objects so distinctly that we become observers of the scenes to which they relate. Carlyle, in truth, is a master of expression as distinguished from mere fluency. He selects the “inevitable best word,” or compounds it, with an unmistakable tact and sureness. If to his other great qualities he joined calmness, comprehension, mental honesty, the present work would be almost perfect. Viewing it with an eye to all its faults, it must be pronounced a work of great genius and power.

The Life and Correspondence of John Foster. Edited by J. E. Ryland. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 vols. 12mo.

Foster is well known as the author of a volume of essays, laden with weighty thought and acute observations on character and life. The present volume, containing his letters and journals from his earliest to his latest years, is one of great value, not merely to his own sect, the Baptists, but to all who can appreciate originality of character and thought. Foster was a hard, determined, patient thinker, gifted with much imagination, and impressing on every thing he wrote the invincible honesty of his character. His correspondence reveals to us the inmost recesses of his mind and disposition, and constitutes a kind of psychological autobiography, replete with materials of interest and instruction. The separate thoughts scattered over these volumes would alone be sufficient to reward abundantly the trouble of its perusal. One of the strongest peculiarities of genius, Foster says in one place, “is the power of lighting its own fire.” Of a soft and pensive evening, he remarks—“It is as if the soul of Eloisa pervaded all the air.” Shakspeare, he observes, had perceptions of every kind; “he could think every way. His mind might be compared to that monster the prophet saw in his vision, whichhad eyes all over.” Again he says—“Lord Chatham did notreason; he struck, as by intuition, directly on theresultsof reasoning; as a cannon-shot strikes the mark without your seeing its course through the air as it moves towards its object.” When shown a piece of ornamental worsted-work, with a great deal of red in it, he said “it was red with the blood of murdered time.” The volumes are full of thoughts and observations equally striking and pointed.

The New Timon. A Romance of London. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo.

This poem has excited no inconsiderable interest in London. It is reprinted from the third English edition. Bulwer has been mentioned as the probable author, but this must be a mistake, unless Bulwer has essentially changed his literary opinions. Wordsworth, Keats and Tennyson, each of whom the author of “Pelham” has warmly praised, the author of “Timon” most ignorantly and pertly ridicules. The poem, it must be admitted, has much merit. It is written in a vigorous style, contains numerous passages of flashing description, much keen portraiture of prominent English politicians, and many beautiful scenes of pathos and passion. The pith and nerve of the verse, the half-misanthropic, half-romantic tone of the sentiment, the frequent allusion to contemporary events and persons, and the bitter sharpness of the satire on social evils,—often remind the reader of Byron. The work evidences a brilliant and restless intellect, ill at ease with the manners and institutions of society, scornful, dogmatic and perverse, but quite felicitous in running keen observations into the moulds of fancy and wit. Kinglake, the author of Eothen, might have written it. The author’s character is a composite, made up of Diogenes and Alcibiades.

Memoirs of the Life of Addison. By Miss Aiken. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo.

The publishers of this volume have started a “Library for the People,” of which the Life of Addison constitutes No. 5. It makes a volume of about 300 pages, elegantly printed. The price is only fifty cents, orone-fourteenthof the cost of the English edition. All the mistakes of the English edition, so acutely pointed out by Macaulay, have been corrected in the American reprint. The work is well written, and introduces us to a most interesting period of English literature and history. The correspondence of Addison confers great value upon the work. Most of the letters were never before printed. The beautiful character of the subject, joined to the immense influence which his writings have exerted on English letters and manners, give to the details of his virtuous and well-spent life a peculiar interest and charm. A volume which introduces us so completely to Addison, and strengthens that affectionate companionship with him, which his works may have commenced, cannot fail to be popular.

The Poetry of Wit and Humor. Selected from the English Poets. With an Illustrative Essay, and Critical Comments. By Leigh Hunt. 1 vol. 12mo.

The matter of this book will ensure its success. It contains extracts from Chaucer, Shakspeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Suckling, Dryden, Pope, Goldsmith and Wolcot, with running comments on the authors and on particular passages of the poems. The essay on Wit and Humor, though it does not exhaust the topic, is ingenious, and pleasantly illustrated. We do not think that in the case of a few of the authors, Hunt has hit upon the happiest selections. Few, for example, would obtain an idea of the comic genius of Fletcher from the specimens quoted in the volume. The task, however, was a difficult one to perform; and the editor, in compiling an entertaining volume, has done all that perhaps could be expected, in the limited space to which he was confined.

The Island Bride, and other Poems. By James F. Colman. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

The most superficial glance over this volume would convince even the supercilious critic, that the author is destined to take a high rank among American poets. “The Island Bride” contains nine Cantos of Spenserian verse, finished in diction, poetical in feeling, and replete with thought, fancy and imagination. It is one of the very few long poems in American literature, which more than repay perusal. The other pieces are of much merit, and bear unmistakable marks of power. The most surprising quality manifested in the volume, is perhaps the correct taste which is everywhere observable throughout its pages. It seems the work of a veteran in composition, rather than the first volume of a youthful poet. We should be pleased, had we time, to make it the subject of a more extended notice; but at present, we can do little more than cordially commend it to the notice of our readers.

Classical Antiquities, a Compendium of Roman and Grecian Antiquities, with a Sketch of Ancient Mythology. By Joseph Salkeld. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo.

The object of this volume is a good one, and it will be found eminently useful. To read modern books understandingly, some knowledge of the religion, government and manners and customs of the Greeks and Romans, is indispensable, from the multitude of allusions to them throughout every department of modern literature. In addition to this, the subject of Classical Antiquities is sufficiently interesting of itself, to justify the reading of a much larger book than the present. The “way of life” among two nations, which have once held a vast dominion on earth, by virtue of their power and policy, and still hold even a vaster dominion over the mind by virtue of their literature, must be interesting to every reflective and curious mind.

Rationale of Crime, and its Appropriate Treatment; being a Treatise on Criminal Jurisprudence considered in relation to Cerebral Organization. By M. B. Sampson. With Notes and Illustrations by E. W. Farnham. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

The character of this volume is indicated by its title. It is the application of the principles of phrenology to the phenomena of crime. The notions of the author are illustrated by a number of portraits of criminals and other persons, the shape of whose heads are said to indicate the bent of their characters. The book is readable, even to unbelievers in the science of bumps. Phrenology, however, to all intents and purposes, is an exploded system; and thieves and murderers cannot, at this day, save themselves from punishment, by exhibiting in extenuation of their crime, the most gigantic organs of acquisitiveness and destructiveness.

Notes on the Northwest and Valley of the Upper Mississippi. By Wm. J. A. Bradford. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

A work like this has long been wanted. The large mass of readers are singularly deficient in accurate knowledge respecting the great region of which it treats. Mr. Bradford has interesting chapters on the physical geography, history, topography, pursuits, health, geology, botany, monuments, and aboriginal inhabitants of the Northwest. Under this name he includes the country between Lakes Superior and Michigan, east,—the Illinois and Missouri Rivers, and the Northern Boundary of the United States,—including Iowa and Wisconsin, part of Michigan northwest of the Straits of Mackinaw, and Northern Illinois and Missouri.

Poetry and Truth from my Life. From the German of Goethe. By Parke Godwin. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 Parts, 12mo.

It is singular that this is the first good English translation of the celebrated work of Goethe on his own life. As a record of the external influences and internal experiences, which went to form the character of Germany’s master-intellect, it is one of the most important works of the age. Carlyle, in referring to it, well says—“what would we give for such an autobiography of Shakspeare, of Milton, even of Pope or Swift?” The publishers have included it in their series of “Choice Books”—an enterprise which they have successfully extended to eighty numbers, without any evidence of exhausting their materials.

Something for Every-Body: Gleaned in the Old Purchase, from Fields often Reaped. By Robert Carlton. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This book well bears out its title. It is a collection of anecdotes, personal adventures, and hits upon popular errors. The author is a shrewd observer of life and character, and has an eye for the tendencies of popular movements. There is much sense and humor in his remarks on the various moral reforms of the day. He is “a gentleman of the old school,” and perhaps does not always do complete justice to the objects of his sarcasm or indignation; but he well probes their weak points.

Sartor Resartus: the Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdröckh. In Three Books. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo.

This edition of Carlyle’s celebrated work on the philosophy of clothes, is revised by the author; and Wiley & Putnam are authorized by him, to “print and vend the same in the United States.” The book, itself, with all its wildness of style, is one of the most fascinating works of the century—full of splendid imagination, deep thought, and humorous insight into life, character and manners. Its wealth of pictorial expression, would alone entitle it to a high rank among works of imagination. The present edition is altogether the best and most elegant ever published in the United States.

Experimental Researches on the Food of Animals, and the Fattening of Cattle; with Remarks on the Food of Man. By Robert Dundas Thomson, M. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This work presents the results of an extensive series of original experiments, undertaken by order of the British government. It is full of matter important at once to the practical agriculturist and the scientific physiologist. The publishers have issued it in a cheap form, so as to bring it within the reach of the humblest means. The author is evidently a patient man of science, who may be relied upon as a close observer of facts, and strict reasoner from them. No farmer can well dispense with the book.

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