LITERARY NOTICES.

'Midst pleasures and palaces though I may roam,Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!'

Ernest Maltravers.By the author of 'Pelham,' 'Eugene Aram,' 'Rienzi,' etc. In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 411. New-York:Harper and Brothers.

Thisnovel is but half finished. At the conclusion of the second volume, Mr. Bulwer remarks: 'Here ends the first portion of this work; it ends with what, though rare in novels, is common in human life; the affliction of the good, the triumph of the unprincipled. Ernest Maltravers, a lonely wanderer, disgusted with the world, blighted prematurely in a useful and glorious ambition; 'remote, unfriendly, melancholy;' Lumley Ferrers, prosperous and elated; life smiling before him; rising in the councils of the proudest and perhaps the wisest of the European nations, and wrapped in a hardy stoicism of levity and selfishness, that not only defied grief, but silenced conscience. If the reader be interested in what remains—if he desire to know more of the various characters which have breathed and moved throughout this history—he soon will be enabled to gratify his curiosity, and complete what the author believes to be a faithful survey of the Philosophy of Human Life.'

Such is the author's apology for one of the most dangerous and seductive books which it has ever been our fortune to read. Let us examine its plan. Alice Darvil, a beautiful child of nature, wholly uneducated and perfectly innocent, saves the life of Ernest Maltravers, an English graduate of a German university, who had sought shelter at her father's cottage. The murderous and revengeful barbarity of the father compels the daughter to desert him, and she is immediately thrown in the way of the student. Impelled by gratitude and pity, Maltravers shelters the destitute beauty, takes her to a country-seat, which he purchases on purpose, teaches her music, elevates her benighted and earthward mind to heaven, falls in love with, and seduces her! The father of Alice goes on from crime to crime, till his burglaries extend to the cottage of Maltravers' mistress, and his own child, who, in the temporary absence of her lover, is carried away beyond his protection. Maltravers returns, misses his Alice, grows melancholy, visits Paris in company with an impertinent and selfish acquaintance, Lumley Ferrers, falls in love with another man's wife, is rejected by her, quits Paris in disgust, goes to Italy, forms an affectionate, platonic attachment for another married lady, and then returns to London. In the meanwhile, Alice flies from her father a second time, with Maltravers' child at her breast. She seeks the cottage-scene of her early and unsophisticated enjoyments, finds it occupied by other tenants, and is finally thrown on the fostering protection of a saint-like banker, who makes her Mrs. Templeton.

While the foregoing events are taking place, Maltravers falls in love again, and as he is on his knees, kissing the hand of his mistress, Alice, who happens to be in the next room, enters, is heart broken, goes away and gets married, as aforesaid. Among other important characters now introduced, is the Lady Florence Lascelles, a great beauty, and a greater fortune, who scorns all the fascinations of rank, and falls so in love with Maltravers, that she writes to him ardently and anonymously. But as other beauties sometimes are, this one, though her whole soul is filled withMaltravers, is also a coquette, and she gains the affections of poor Cæsarini, who is on a visit to London, in the desperate adventure of getting fame for poetry. Maltravers is flattered into a pseudo attachment for Lady Florence, which ripens into love. This excites the madness of Cæsarini, and the hatred of Lumley Ferrers, who, as cousin of the lady, had been led to believe that his own pretensions might be advanced in that quarter. Lumley now copies Iago, and makes use of Cæsarini as his Cassio, who becomes instrumental in effecting a break in the love-chain of Maltravers and Lady Florence. The latter sickens, and dies of a broken heart. Alice is made a widow, after having been made a lady, and Lumley Ferrers inherits her husband's title. The daughter of Maltravers and Alice is betrothed to his worst enemy, while the Cassio of the drama goes mad. Such is the state of things at the conclusion of the second volume, which suggests the explanation by the author, already quoted.

In reviewing this novel, we are struck with the consummate power of the writer. To an imagination raised to the very focal-point of burning, Mr. Bulwer unites the most penetrating intuition of those psychological relations, which are comprehended by master-spirits alone. The conceptions of his mind are invested by a transparent robe of spirituality, through which they are mellowed and disguised, like the beautiful time-stricken edifices in the gold-dust atmosphere of Italy. A manifestation of this power is one of the strongest characteristics of genius; but it serves to veil deformities and disarm criticism. We are spell-bound while gazing on his creations. We are so fascinated by the enchantment, that we cannot be fastidious if we would. The true and the false are mysteriously blended together; and, as in every distortion of the natural, we are led, by a sort of metaphysical mirage, to be captivated more by misrepresentation than by truth. Ernest Maltravers is certainly a brilliant production. No other than Mr. Bulwer could have written it. It is full of passionate beauty; it is glowing with ardent aspirations for the beau ideal. It contains many just reflections on human conduct, and many valuable hints on education. We are willing to concede all this, and more. But its faults are too glaring to be passed over, for they are the premeditated faults of a skilful designer, who with an insincere spirit, would have the reader imagine them to be out-shadowings of his own nature, the very portraiture of his humanity.

We are not disposed to be hypercritical with Mr. Bulwer's writings; but we can no longer concede that which we have heretofore claimed for him, a purpose to hold up to the world the rewards of virtue and the consequences of vice. On the contrary, the tendency of his morality seems to be, that we are the victims of destiny, and that circumstances alone determine the phases of character, and prescribe the paths of virtue and vice. He attacks the sanctity of marriage with unholy zeal. In 'Ernest Maltravers' he inculcates the principle that illicit love may in certain cases be innocent, and that where true affection is, the bond of matrimony is unavailing. His morality has sometimes the coldness of moonlight, but seldom the radiance and the warmth of the sun; and it is owing to the separation of the affections from the understanding, the disunion of Love and Truth in his nature, that Mr. Bulwer delights in the hollow and unsatisfactory fascinations of his intellect, and is led astray by his self-hood to despise the religion of the heart. With all his genius, he is wide from the path of greatness. The deep well of German metaphysics, at which he has drunk so largely, may invigorate the mind and mystify the imagination; but the logical acumen which it imparts, does not direct to usefulness, nor lead to truth; and the discursive powers which range through its suggested labyrinths, come back at last to the goal they started from, weary and disgusted with unavailing efforts after good.

It is a truth, inseparable from the relative condition of man, that he could not possibly have had an idea of God, unless it had been revealed to him. After a revelation, we find in nature concurrent proof of his existence; but by a law of mental action, we transfer the truth derived from the revelation to the evidence which is around us, and flatter ourselves that we reasonà priorifrom this source. Mr. Bulwer has aglimpse of this great truth, and only a glimpse; for in the work under notice, he inculcates the sophism that the idea of the Creator could not arise in an uneducated mind. He does not perceive, that under the divine dispensations manifested in the Word, a revelation has already taken place, which is reflected from the face of nature; and that it is impossible for one, in this advanced state of man, not to read the record of the divine creation—not to mention the extreme improbability, that a child of fifteen should never have heard the name of God, when it is oftener on the lips of the uneducated than on those of the refined, though abused and taken in vain.

Our limits will enable us to glance at only one more of the prominent faults of this book. We refer to Mr. Bulwer's ideas on duelling. What do our readers think of such sophistry as this: 'There are some cases in which human nature and its deep wrongs will be ever stronger than the world and its philosophy. Duels and wars belong to the same principle; both are sinful on light grounds and poor pretexts. But it is not sinful for a soldier to defend his country from invasion, nor for a man, with a man's heart, to vindicate truth and honor with his life. The robber that asks me for money, I am allowed to shoot. Is the robber that tears from me treasures never to be replaced, to go free?' Again: 'As in revolutions all law is suspended, so are there stormy events and mighty injuries in life, which are as revolutions to individuals.' It follows, of course, that a revolution may take place 'in the little kingdom man,' whenever his majesty sees fit. It is unnecessary to show up the monstrosity of such politics, and of that morality which, guided alone by worldly philosophy, makes it sometimes sinful, and sometimes not, to take the life of a fellow being. There are men enough in the world who will fight as they judge expedient; but Mr. Bulwer is the only one who has had the hardihood to defend the practice, as sometimes under the sanction of omnipotence.

We had some remarks to make on the sudden transitions of character, as delineated by our author, which strike us as exceedingly unnatural. But we have already transcended our space, and only record an impression here, which must be apparent to every reader. On the appearance of the sequel to Ernest Maltravers, we may examine this fault at leisure.

Memoirs of Aaron Burr.With Miscellaneous Selections from his Correspondence. ByMatthew L. Davis. In two volumes. Volume Two. pp. 449. New-York:Harper and Brothers.

Thisvolume will prove even more generally interesting than its attractive predecessor, heretofore noticed in this Magazine. The early pages are devoted to an account of Col. Burr's habits and character, as a man and a lawyer; a history of the rise of political parties in this state, with copious extracts from various letters written during the war of the revolution; an account of the Clinton and Schuyler parties; Burr's political position on being elected Vice-President, and his course in that office; and a report of false entries made by Jefferson in his 'Ana,' of conversations said to have been held with Burr. Farther than this, we have not found leisure to read attentively; but on glancing hurriedly over the remaining pages, we perceive that they are devoted to a detail of the most prominent and interesting events in the life of thenotorioussubject, interspersed with letters from various eminent Americans, and including a correspondence with his daughter Theodosia, a full account of the premeditated and disgraceful duel with GeneralHamilton, his departure for England, the 'incidents of travel' in Great Britain, France, Germany, and Sweden, and his return to New-York, in 1811. We shall take another occasion to refer more in detail to the work, and in the mean time commend it to the attention of our readers, with the single remark, that we see nothing in its pages to change our opinion that the murderer ofAlexander Hamiltoncan only pass without censure while he passes without observation; and that the less his friends or apologists meddle with his memory, the kinder they will be to his reputation.

An Address delivered before the Members of the American Institute.By the Rev.Orville Dewey. Published at the request of the Institute.

Itwas our good fortune to form one of the dense auditory before whom this excellent Address was delivered; and although we are unable to convey to the reader an adequate idea of the effect its verbal publication produced, we may nevertheless afford a 'taste of its quality,' by a few choice extracts. We were pleased, at the very opening, to perceive that the Address was not to embrace political questions, connected with the arts of industry, nor to be a compendium of minute statistics, relating to the Institute, and manufactures in general—a course so common on such occasions. 'Figures cannotlie,' perhaps, but they can do things quite as disagreeable. Mere statistics are dismal bores to great masses, oftentimes, in the hands of matter-of-fact, hum-drum speakers, oppressively full of information; reminding the hearer of Swift's elixir, 'which being drank, presently dilates itself about the brain of the orator, whence instantly proceed an infinite number of abstracts, summaries, compendiums,' etc., all reducible upon paper, and fruitful of the most potent oscitant qualities. How many new members of Congress, who felt it their duty to attend to the public weal, in gratitude to their constituents, have been wakened by the watchful sergeant-at-arms, after the house had adjourned, from a deep sleep which had fallen upon them, as they 'by parcels something heard, but not attentively,' of 'figure-works and statistics,' from some arithmetical debater! 'In 1834, Sir, before the passage of the law creating the 'North American Window-Glass and Putty Company,' owing to the high price of putty in the United States, there were in ten counties in the state of Mississippi, nine hundred and sixty-two windows and a half, utterly destitute of glass; and it is worth stating, as a remarkable fact, that of the three hundred and twenty-seven panes which were fastened with a cheap adhesive substitute, the large number of two hundred and eighty-three were utterly useless. That putty—I saythatputty, Mr. Speaker—would not stick!' And thus proceeds the bore statistical,[16]in a speech 'thin sown with profit or delight.' But we are keeping the reader from 'metal more attractive.'

After a felicitous exordium, descriptive of the scene which the Fair presented to the eye of the spectator, the writer proceeds to consider the connection between the arts of industry, and especially the mechanic arts, and the intellectual and moral improvement ofsociety. He shows that the mechanic, laboring at his work-bench, is toiling for the general improvement; that the man who designs and erects a noble structure, speaks to passing multitudes, who may never read a book, and helps to refine and humanize the ages that come after him; that 'even he who makes a musical instrument, is laying up, in those hidden chambers of melody, the sweet influences that shall amuse, and soften, and refine many a domestic circle through life; and he, yet more, who can place upon our walls the canvass glowing with life, becomes the household teacher of successive generations.' The orator next repudiates the idea, that labor-saving machinery has ever been the cause of permanently injuring the working-classes; and this position he clearly establishes, by a variety of well-chosen illustrations. A few remarks succeed, in relation to improvements in matters of comfort and economy, of which advantage might be taken by American house-keepers. The French bed, consisting of two thin matresses of wool, upon a foot deep of hay or straw, is pronounced to be four times as cheap as ours, and twice as comfortable. One half of the fuel, too, which is burnt in this country, the writer avers, is literally thrown away, the heat passing into the dead wall of the chimney. This is doubtless true. The excellent stoves of Dr.Nott, however, now so generally demanded in all parts of the country, from his capable successors, Messrs.Stratton and Seymour, of this city, have done much toward awakening attention to the great economy of heat and fuel, which they exemplify and inculcate.

Labor, the writer justly contends, exercises and tasks the intellect; and he repels, with proper earnestness and force, the too common error, that the mind never labors, save over the written page or the abstract proposition. 'The merchant, the manufacturer, the mechanic, is often a harder thinker than the student. The machinist and the engineer are employed in some of the finest schools of intellect.' The tasks for which no such consideration can be pleaded, such as the dull, heavy labors of the hod, the writer humanely hopes some method may yet be found to relieve.

Could any thing be more admirably reasoned, or more beautifully set forth, than the arguments in favor of the true nobility of labor, contained in the annexed paragraphs:

"How many natural ties are there between even the humblest scene of labor, and the noblest affections of humanity! In this view, the employment of mere muscular strength is ennobled. There is a central point in every man's life, around which all his toils and cares revolve. It is that spot which is consecrated by the names of wife, and children, and home. A secret and almost imperceptible influence from that spot, which is like no other on earth, steals into the breast of the virtuous laboring man, and strengthens every weary step of his toil. Every blow that is struck in the work-shop and the field, finds an echo in that holy shrine of his affections. If he who fights to protect his home, rises to the point of heroic virtue, no less may he who labors, his life long, to provide for that home. Peace be within those domestic walls, and prosperity beneath those humble roofs! But should it ever be otherwise; should the time ever come when the invader's step approaches to touch those sacred thresholds, I see in the labors that are taken for them, that wounds will be taken for them too; I see in every honest workman around me, a hero."So material do I deem this point—the true nobility of labor, I mean—that I would dwell upon it a moment longer, and in a larger view. Why, then, in the great scale of things, is labor ordained for us? Easily, had it so pleased the great Ordainer, might it have been dispensed with. The world itself might have been a mighty machinery for the production of all that man wants. The motion of the globe upon its axis might have been the power, to move that world of machinery. Ten thousand wheels within wheels might have been at work; ten thousand processes, more curious and complicated than man can devise, might have been going forward without man's aid; houses might have risen like an exhalation,——'with the soundOf dulcet symphonies and voices sweet,Built like a temple;'gorgeous furniture might have been placed in them, and soft couches and luxurious banquets spread, by hands unseen; and man, clothed with fabrics of nature's weaving, richer than imperial purple, might have been sent to disport himself in these Elysian palaces. 'Fair scene!' I imagine you are saying; 'fortunate for us, had it been the scene ordained for human life!' But where then, tell me, had been human energy, perseverance, patience, virtue, heroism? Cut off with one blow from the world; and mankind had sunk to a crowd, nay, far beneath a crowd of Asiatic voluptuaries. No, it hadnotbeen fortunate. Better that the earth be given to man as a dark mass whereon to labor. Better that rude and unsightly materials be provided in the ore-bed and the forest, for him to fashion into splendor and beauty. Better, I say, not because of that splendor and beauty, but because the act creating them is better than the things themselves; because exertion is nobler than enjoyment; because the laborer is greater and more worthy of honor than the idler. I call upon those whom I address, to stand up for that nobility of labor. It is heaven's great ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; andithas beenbroken down for ages. Let it then be built up again; here if any where, on these shores of a new world, of a new civilization. 'But how,' I may be asked, 'is it broken down?' 'Do not men toil?' it may be said. They do indeed toil, but they too generally do it because they must. Many submit to it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity, and they desire nothing so much on earth, as escape from it." * * * "This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system; under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which mother Nature has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature; it is impiety to heaven; it is breaking heaven's great ordinance.Toil, I repeat—Toil, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility!"

"So material do I deem this point—the true nobility of labor, I mean—that I would dwell upon it a moment longer, and in a larger view. Why, then, in the great scale of things, is labor ordained for us? Easily, had it so pleased the great Ordainer, might it have been dispensed with. The world itself might have been a mighty machinery for the production of all that man wants. The motion of the globe upon its axis might have been the power, to move that world of machinery. Ten thousand wheels within wheels might have been at work; ten thousand processes, more curious and complicated than man can devise, might have been going forward without man's aid; houses might have risen like an exhalation,

——'with the soundOf dulcet symphonies and voices sweet,Built like a temple;'

gorgeous furniture might have been placed in them, and soft couches and luxurious banquets spread, by hands unseen; and man, clothed with fabrics of nature's weaving, richer than imperial purple, might have been sent to disport himself in these Elysian palaces. 'Fair scene!' I imagine you are saying; 'fortunate for us, had it been the scene ordained for human life!' But where then, tell me, had been human energy, perseverance, patience, virtue, heroism? Cut off with one blow from the world; and mankind had sunk to a crowd, nay, far beneath a crowd of Asiatic voluptuaries. No, it hadnotbeen fortunate. Better that the earth be given to man as a dark mass whereon to labor. Better that rude and unsightly materials be provided in the ore-bed and the forest, for him to fashion into splendor and beauty. Better, I say, not because of that splendor and beauty, but because the act creating them is better than the things themselves; because exertion is nobler than enjoyment; because the laborer is greater and more worthy of honor than the idler. I call upon those whom I address, to stand up for that nobility of labor. It is heaven's great ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; andithas beenbroken down for ages. Let it then be built up again; here if any where, on these shores of a new world, of a new civilization. 'But how,' I may be asked, 'is it broken down?' 'Do not men toil?' it may be said. They do indeed toil, but they too generally do it because they must. Many submit to it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity, and they desire nothing so much on earth, as escape from it." * * * "This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system; under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which mother Nature has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature; it is impiety to heaven; it is breaking heaven's great ordinance.Toil, I repeat—Toil, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility!"

The orator next passes to the policy and necessity of extending a fostering care to the domestic industry of families, on their own property, and laments the want of employment, oftentimes, for the female members, who are in this country generally unwilling to seek it beyond the paternal roof. Manufactures, as of woollen cloths, stockings, etc. the culture of the mulberry, and the making of silk, are recommended as purely domestic occupations. The suggestions in regard to the disposition of our ample supply of water, when the Croton shall roll its refreshing stores into the metropolis, are conceived in a far-seeing and liberal spirit, and deserve earnest heed. We need not ask the reader to admire with us the subjoined extract, illustrating the advantages and comforts which have followed in the train of mechanical improvements:

"Our steam-boats and rail-roads are tending constantly to make us a more homogeneous, sympathizing, and humane people. A visit to one's distant friends, every body knows, is a very pleasant thing; but are its uses in the great family of society often considered? Intercourse, in such circumstances, is usually an interchange of all the thoughts, views, and improvements that prevail in different parts of the country. 'Their talk is of oxen,' if you please, or it is of soils and grains, or it is of manufactures and trade, or it is of books and philosophers; but it is all good—good for somebody at least—good in the main for every body. Thus, our steam-boats are like floating saloons, and our rail-roads like the air-pipes of a mighty whispering gallery; and men are conversing with one another, and communicating and blending their daily thoughts, throughout the whole length and breadth of the land. These means of communication are thus constantly interchanging, not only different views, but the advantages of different kinds of residence. They are imparting rural tastes to the citizen, and city polish to the countryman. I cannot help thinking, that in time, they will produce a decided effect upon city residence; relieving us, somewhat, of our crowded and overgrown population; sending out many from these pent-up abodes in town, to the green and pleasant dwelling places of the country."The progress of communication during the last twenty years, leaves us almost nothing to wish, and yet entitles us to expect every thing. Many of you remember what a passage up the Hudson was, thirty years ago. You remember the uncertain packet, lingering for a wind at the wharf, till patience was almost exhausted; and then, at length, pursuing its zigzag course, now waving in the breeze, now halting in the calm, like a crazy traveller, doubtful of his way, or whether to proceed at all. And now, when you set your foot on the deck of one of our newly invented fire-ships, you feel as if the pawings of some reined courser were beneath you, impatient to start from the goal; anon, it seems to you as if the strength and stride of a giant were bearing you onward; till at length, when the evening shadow falls, and hides its rougher features from your sight, you might imagine it the queenly genius of the noble river, as it moves on between the silent shores, and flings its spangled robe upon the waters."

"The progress of communication during the last twenty years, leaves us almost nothing to wish, and yet entitles us to expect every thing. Many of you remember what a passage up the Hudson was, thirty years ago. You remember the uncertain packet, lingering for a wind at the wharf, till patience was almost exhausted; and then, at length, pursuing its zigzag course, now waving in the breeze, now halting in the calm, like a crazy traveller, doubtful of his way, or whether to proceed at all. And now, when you set your foot on the deck of one of our newly invented fire-ships, you feel as if the pawings of some reined courser were beneath you, impatient to start from the goal; anon, it seems to you as if the strength and stride of a giant were bearing you onward; till at length, when the evening shadow falls, and hides its rougher features from your sight, you might imagine it the queenly genius of the noble river, as it moves on between the silent shores, and flings its spangled robe upon the waters."

Scarcely less beautiful, are the following reflections upon the moral tendencies of the mechanic arts, in leading the mind to the infinite wisdom of Nature and of the Author of Nature:

"If an intelligent manufacturer or mechanic would carefully note down in a book all the instances of adaptation that presented themselves to his attention, he would in time have a large volume; and it would be a volume of philosophy—a volume of indisputable facts in defence of a Providence. I could not help remarking lately, when I saw a furnace upon the stream of the valley, and the cartman bringing down ore from the mountains, how inconvenient it would have been if this order of nature had been reversed; if the ore-bed had been in the valley, and the stream had been so constituted as to rise, and to make its channel upon the tops of the ridges. Nay, more; treasures are slowly prepared and carefully laid up in the great store-houses of nature, against the time when man shall want them. When the wood is cut off from the plains and the hills, and fuel begins to fail, and man looks about him with alarm at the prospect, lo! beneath his feet are found, in mines of bitumen and mountains of anthracite, the long hid treasures of Providence—the treasure-houses of that care and kindness, which at every new step of human improvement, instead of appearing to be superseded, seems doubly entitled to the name ofProvidence." * * * "All nature is not only a world of mechanism, but it is the work of infinite art; and the mechanic-inventor and toiler is but a student, an apprentice in that school. And when he has done all, what can he do to equal the skill of the great original he copies; to equal the wisdom of Him who 'has stretched out the heavens like a curtain, who has laid the beams of his chambers in the waters!' What engines can he form, like those which raise up through the dark labyrinths of the mountains, the streamsthat gush forth in fountains from their summits? What pillars, and what architecture can he lift up on high, like the mighty forest trunks, and their architrave and frieze of glorious foliage? What dyes can he invent, like those which spread their ever-changing and many-colored robe over the earth? What pictures can he cause to glow, like those which are painted on the dome of heaven?"It is the glory of art, that it penetrates and develops the wonders and bounties of nature. It draws their richness from the valleys, and their secret stores from the mountains. It leads forth every year fairer flocks and herds upon the hills; it yokes the ox to the plough, and trains the fiery steed to its car. It plants the unsightly germ, and rears it into vegetable beauty; it takes the dull ore and transfuses it into splendour, or gives it the edge of the tool or the lancet; it gathers the filaments which nature has curiously made, and weaves them into soft and compact fabrics. It sends out its ships to discover unknown seas and shores; or it plunges into its work-shops at home, to detect the secret, that is locked up in mineral, or is flowing in liquid matter. It scans the spheres and systems of heaven with its far sight; or turns with microscopic eye, and finds in the drops that sparkle in the sun, other worlds crowded with life. Yet more is mechanic art the handmaid of society. It has made man its special favourite. It clothes him with fine linen and soft raiment. It builds him houses, it kindles the cheerful fire, it lights the evening lamp, it spreads before him the manifold page of wisdom; it delights his eye with gracefulness, it charms his ear with music; it multiplies the facilities of communication and ties of brotherhood; it is the softener of all domestic charities—it is the bond of nations."

"It is the glory of art, that it penetrates and develops the wonders and bounties of nature. It draws their richness from the valleys, and their secret stores from the mountains. It leads forth every year fairer flocks and herds upon the hills; it yokes the ox to the plough, and trains the fiery steed to its car. It plants the unsightly germ, and rears it into vegetable beauty; it takes the dull ore and transfuses it into splendour, or gives it the edge of the tool or the lancet; it gathers the filaments which nature has curiously made, and weaves them into soft and compact fabrics. It sends out its ships to discover unknown seas and shores; or it plunges into its work-shops at home, to detect the secret, that is locked up in mineral, or is flowing in liquid matter. It scans the spheres and systems of heaven with its far sight; or turns with microscopic eye, and finds in the drops that sparkle in the sun, other worlds crowded with life. Yet more is mechanic art the handmaid of society. It has made man its special favourite. It clothes him with fine linen and soft raiment. It builds him houses, it kindles the cheerful fire, it lights the evening lamp, it spreads before him the manifold page of wisdom; it delights his eye with gracefulness, it charms his ear with music; it multiplies the facilities of communication and ties of brotherhood; it is the softener of all domestic charities—it is the bond of nations."

The Address is neatly executed, and will appear, as we learn, in the 'Journal of the American Institute.' It cannot fail to command a wide perusal and general admiration.

Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart.ByJ. G. Lockhart. Part Fifth. Philadelphia:Carey, Lea and Blanchard.

Eachsucceeding volume of this work impresses us more thoroughly with the belief, that it is one of the most delightful biographies which the present century has produced. This may seem extravagant praise, to those who have not read the several 'Parts,' as they have appeared; yet it will be deemed but simply just, by all who have been so fortunate as to share with us in the pleasure of their perusal. The work has been a God-send in these 'juice-drained' literary times; and in the way of bright and eminent example, is now working its gentle triumphs upon the hearts of thousands in this country. We are more and more struck, as we read, with the great goodness, as well as intellectual greatness, of the illustrious subject; with the simplicity, truth, and sincerity ever inalto-relievoin his character; the beauty of his daily life, adorned with integrity and honor; a course, public, literary, and domestic, replete with the noblest traits, born of good and generous impulses, ingrained and innate. The leading chapter in the 'Part' before us, describes Scott's hospitality and urbanity, as host at Abbottsford. When at the acmé of his fame, honored by kings and admired by the world, he would cheerfully devote his precious hours to intruding lion-hunters, and submit with patience and politeness to be over-poeted with small browsers on Parnassus, bored with the solemn applauses of learned dullness, the self-exalting harangues of the 'hugely literate,' the pompous simpers of condescending magnates, the vapid raptures of bepainted and periwigged dowagers, and questions urged with 'horse-leech avidity by under-bred foreigners.' Byron says of himself that 'none did love him.' How different from his great contemporary! Those who knew Scott, loved him not less than they admired his genius. Without pretence or self-esteem at home, he was equally so abroad. 'I am heartily tired,' he writes to his son from London, where literary menageries for the reception of 'lions' were constantly opened wide to him, 'I am heartily tired of fine company, and fine living, from dukes and duchesses, down to turbot and plover's eggs. It is very well for a while; but to be kept at it, makes one feel like a poodle-dog compelled to stand for ever on his hind-legs.' The spirit herein breathed, he preserved throughout his life, which was spent in delighting the literary world, and in the exercise of those qualities of the heart which 'assimilate men to angels, and make of earth a heaven.'

In reading the volume under notice, we experienced an 'excess of participation' in the richness of its stores. Hence it is full of dog's-ears, and pencilled passages, which wefind it impossible to extract, and yet can scarcely consent to omit. For the present, however, we yield to necessity, promising our readers and ourselves the pleasure of an early renewal of this notice, after the volumes shall have been completed. We make a single extract, representing Scott as escaping from Abbotsford, upon which an avalanche of bores had descended, and taking refuge in the summer-cottage of his son-in-law, a mile or two distant. The touching allusion of the biographer to his recent loss, will not escape the notice of the reader:

"The clatter of Sybil Grey's hoofs, the yelping of Mustard and Spice, and his own joyous shout ofreveilléeunder our windows, were the signal that he had burst his toils, and meant for that day to 'take his ease in his inn.' On descending, he was to be found seated with all his dogs and ours about him, under a spreading ash that overshadowed half the bank between the cottage and the brook, pointing the edge of his woodman's axe for himself, and listening to Tom Purdie's lecture touching the plantation that most needed thinning. After breakfast, he would take possession of a dressing-room up stairs, and write a chapter ofThe Pirate; and then, having made up and despatched his packet for Mr. Ballantyne, away to join Purdie wherever the foresters were at work—and sometimes to labor among them as strenuously as John Swanston himself—until it was time either to rejoin his own party at Abbotsford or the quiet circle of the cottage. When his guests were few and friendly, he often made them come over and meet him at Chiefswood in a body toward evening; and surely he never appeared to more amiable advantage than when helping his young people with their little arrangements upon such occasions. He was ready with all sorts of devices to supply the wants of a narrow establishment; he used to delight particularly in sinking the wine in a well under thebraeere he went out, and hauling up the basket just before dinner was announced; this primitive process being, he said, what he had always practised when a young house-keeper, and in his opinion far superior in its results to any application of ice; and in the same spirit, whenever the weather was sufficiently genial, he voted for dining out of doors altogether, which at once got rid of the inconvenience of very small rooms, and made it natural and easy for the gentlemen to help the ladies, so that the paucity of servants went for nothing. Mr. Rose used to amuse himself with likening the scene and the party to the closing act of one of those little French dramas, where 'Monsieur le Compte,' and 'Madame la Comtesse,' appear feasting at a village bridal under the trees; but in truth, our 'M. le Comte' was only trying to live over again for a few simple hours his own old life of Lasswade."When circumstances permitted, he usually spent one evening at least in the week at our little cottage; and almost as frequently he did the like with the Fergusons, to whose table he could bring chance visitors, when he pleased, with equal freedom as to his daughter's. Indeed it seemed to be much a matter of chance, any fine day when there had been no alarming invasion of the Southron, whether the three families (which, in fact, made but one) should dine at Abbotsford, at Huntly Burn, or at Chiefswood; and at none of them was the party considered quite complete, unless it included also Mr. Laidlaw. Death has laid a heavy hand upon that circle—as happy a circle I believe as ever met. Bright eyes now closed in dust, gay voices for ever silenced, seem to haunt me as I write. With three exceptions, they are all gone. Even since the last of these volumes was finished, she whom I may now sadly record as, next to Sir Walter himself, the chief ornament and delight of all those simple meetings—she to whose love I owed my own place in them—Scott's eldest daughter, the one of all his children who in countenance, mind, and manners, most resembled himself, and who indeed was as like him in all things as a gentle innocent woman can ever be to a great man deeply tried and skilled in the struggles and perplexities of active life—she, too, is no more. And in the very hour that saw her laid in her grave, the only other female survivor, her dearest friend Margaret Ferguson, breathed her last also. But enough—and more than I intended."

"When circumstances permitted, he usually spent one evening at least in the week at our little cottage; and almost as frequently he did the like with the Fergusons, to whose table he could bring chance visitors, when he pleased, with equal freedom as to his daughter's. Indeed it seemed to be much a matter of chance, any fine day when there had been no alarming invasion of the Southron, whether the three families (which, in fact, made but one) should dine at Abbotsford, at Huntly Burn, or at Chiefswood; and at none of them was the party considered quite complete, unless it included also Mr. Laidlaw. Death has laid a heavy hand upon that circle—as happy a circle I believe as ever met. Bright eyes now closed in dust, gay voices for ever silenced, seem to haunt me as I write. With three exceptions, they are all gone. Even since the last of these volumes was finished, she whom I may now sadly record as, next to Sir Walter himself, the chief ornament and delight of all those simple meetings—she to whose love I owed my own place in them—Scott's eldest daughter, the one of all his children who in countenance, mind, and manners, most resembled himself, and who indeed was as like him in all things as a gentle innocent woman can ever be to a great man deeply tried and skilled in the struggles and perplexities of active life—she, too, is no more. And in the very hour that saw her laid in her grave, the only other female survivor, her dearest friend Margaret Ferguson, breathed her last also. But enough—and more than I intended."

A spirited portrait byRaeburn, pronounced the most faithful of the early likenesses taken of Scott, prefaces the present volume, which presents its usual excellence of paper and typography.

Rory O'More. A National Romance.BySamuel Lover, Esq. In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 429.

OldDan Tantalus himself was not more sadly bothered, than is a reviewer, tied to certain limits of space, and feeling the impossibility of dividing with his readers the pleasure of perusing a work of rare spirit and humor. Such emotions are ours, and such a work is 'Rory O'More.' Mr.Loverhas no superior in depicting—with the nicest perception of character and the keenest eye for fun—the peculiarities of the Irish people. We can give the reader no better idea of his ability and manner, than by saying, that he effects all with his pen whichPowerachieves in his admirable personations of his countrymen. There is a life, a vraisemblance in his pictures, which will win for them enduring applause. This is our verdict; and we ask the reader to confirm it, as sure we are they will, by a perusal of the volume whose title stands at the head of this brief and inadequate notice.

A Glance at By-gone Times.—Commend us to an old newspaper! Well doesCowperterm it a 'happy work,' that 'folio of four pages.' In what a faithful and striking spirit of delineation are the features of the hallowed years behind the mountains called up, as one pores desultorily over a file of time-worn gazettes! It is exploring a Herculaneum of history, and ferretting out the minuter fragments which lie buried beneath the rubbish of old days, and which are fertile in materials for reflection, instruction, and amusement. A kind female friend (God bless the women! they are always devising some good or kind action,) has sent us an old volume of theBoston Centinel, the most ancient newspaper of which the Union can boast. Greatly have we fructified by the contents thereof; and at the risk, perhaps, of beguiling some reader, who may prefer neoterics before ancients, of a hearty yawn or two, we propose to devote a couple of pages, or more, to a notice of the dingy folio-tome in question.

After all, Solomon was right, when he said, 'The thing that hath been, is that which shall be, and that which is done, is that which shall be done;' there are few 'new things under the sun.' In glancing over these abstract and brief chronicles of the olden time, we find many points of resemblance between the past and the present. Then, as now, metaphysical adepts imagined they were invigorating their intellects, in the same manner as archers strengthen their arms, by shooting into the air; political wranglers were 'blowing the bellows of party, until the whole furnace of politics was red-hot with sparks and cinders;' popular fallacies were flourishing, and wonderful seemed the vigor of their constitutions; commentators were elucidating old authors into obscurity, quite after the manner of the present era; many of thereligiiseem to have had religion enough to make them hate, but not enough to love, their brethren; officious meddlers were looking over other people's affairs, and overlooking their own; tragedians were strutting on public boards, 'with tin pots on their heads, for so much a night;' and small comedians, with brass enough to set up a dozen braziers, were quarrelling among themselves, and parading their importance and grievances before a public who cared nothing for either; there were public fêtes, frequent clamors of rejoicing communities, and occasional violent effervescence of popular transport. In short, to draw a long summary to a close, we have come to the conclusion, that notwithstanding the gradual desuetude of many old customs and observances, we have a great deal, at this much-boasted epoch, in common with the vanished generation. But gone are their eternally repeated sorrows and joys, the vain delusions, and transient struggles. Time has thrown his all-concealing veil over them. The bigotted polemic has found that men may journey heavenward by different roads, and that charity covereth many sins; ultra metaphysicians have learned, that there are realities enough to be sought after in life, and that a morbid yearning for the shadowy and intangible cannot come to good; and the actor, a forked shade, stripped of his regalities, and 'ferried over in a crazy Stygian wherry,' has entered upon a new theatre of action, where, unlike the one he has left behind him, the scenes and actors know no change. But let us turn over the ancient daily budgets to which we have alluded, and from which we are keeping the reader, who we will suppose looking over our shoulder, quite familiarly, and asking a great many questions.

'What is that long 'by authority' article, on the first page?' It is a congressional enactment, 'That a District of Territory, not exceeding ten miles square, to be located, as hereafter directed, on the riverPotomack, at some place between the mouths of the Eastern branch andConogocheque, be, and the same is hereby accepted for the Permanent Seat of the Government of the United States.' What a thriving town the 'City of Washington' must have been at this period! Here is an important postscript. It contains intelligence received at Boston from Philadelphia, in the short space ofseven days—(they travel the distance now in eighteen hours!)—that a French frigate had arrived in the Delaware, supposed to have been despatched by the National Convention. Close beside this paragraph, is a very reasonable complaint, that those Americans who, despising to be copyists, call for 'Yankee-Doodle' at the play-house, can't be accommodated with their old favorite, because of the uproarious opposition of a tory faction. ''Most Horrid!' What is that under your thumb?' 'A son of Mr. Cox, the celebrated architect, in viewing a wildPanther, which a shew-man had in his possession, inMedford, was suddenly seized by the voracious animal, and his head and face torn in so shocking a manner, that his death would be a consolation to his desponding relatives. The strength of the animal was so great, that five persons could hardly disengage its teeth and claws from the unhappy victim of its rage. It is hoped the Legislature will provide by law for the security of the lives of people, that if persons will endeavor to obtain money, by the shew of wild beasts, that they be properly confined in cages.' 'Shew!' This corruption is still extant in New-England. 'Heshewme a book he had purchased,' etc.

'We find a great deal said about 'Mr.Priestly' here. He has fled to the United States 'for freedom from the rod of lawless power, and the arm of violence.' He is every where received with marked honor, his whereabout regularly recorded, and eminent individuals and public institutions are emulous to make their attentions acceptable to him. In juxtaposition with this, is one of the bloodyRobespierre's plausible reports, just promulgated. We will not pause to read that. 'Stay! Let us see what all this theatrical display is about, before you turn the leaf.' The manager is going to give a 'Benefit' for the suffering Americans in the prisons of Algiers. Good! 'I wonder if thatJefferson, who is to be one of the attractions, was the father of our Philadelphia favorite, whylear?' This interrogation lights up Memory, with the suddenness of a 'loco-foco' match. The image is evoked; and that prince of comedians is before us. A very clever theatrical performance is now going on in the 'Dome of Thought.' Ah, 'Old Jefferson!' When shall we look uponhislike again? For years, we could never meet him, in ever so retired a lane of the city, without being presently seated in the play-house, devouring, with lively gusto, his inimitable comicalities. We had spirited performance going on, with nothing to pay. 'Where he walked, sate, or stood still, there was the theatre. He carried about with him pit, boxes, and galleries, and set up his portable play-house at corners of streets, and in the market-places. Upon flintiest pavement, he trod the boards still.' ''Well, vot of it?' Turn over.'

That long original poem is byPeter Pindar. He is ridiculing the monarchical notions of the opposition, and the folly of paying court to mere outward form and show. His illustration is homely, but forcible. 'Who,' says he,

'Who would not laugh to see aTaylorbowSubmissive to a pair of satin breeches?Saying, 'O Breeches, all men must allowThere's something in your aspect that betwitches!'Let me admire you, Breeches, crown'd with glory;And thoughI madeyou, let me stilladoreye;'Who would not quick exclaim, 'TheTaylor's mad?'Yet Tyrant-adoration is as bad.'

'Who would not laugh to see aTaylorbowSubmissive to a pair of satin breeches?Saying, 'O Breeches, all men must allowThere's something in your aspect that betwitches!

'Let me admire you, Breeches, crown'd with glory;And thoughI madeyou, let me stilladoreye;'Who would not quick exclaim, 'TheTaylor's mad?'Yet Tyrant-adoration is as bad.'

In reading Pindar, as has been observed of some other obsolete author, you may findfault with the antique setting, but intellectual jewels of truth are there, which can never grow out of date.

'Melancholy Event!' Skip that. A laugh is worth a hundred groans, in any state of the market. Read the 'Anecdote,' if it be good, under the song, 'Godsave greatWashington,' at your right hand, third column: 'Anecdote—Recent.—A certain newly-created Justice of the Peace, rather too much elated with the dignity of his office, riding out one day with his attendant, met a clergyman, finely mounted on a handsome gelding, richly caparisoned. When he first saw him, he desired his attendant to take notice how he would smoak the Parson. He accordingly rode up to him, and accosted him as follows: 'Sir your servant: I think, Sir, you are mounted on a very handsome horse.' 'Yes, Sir, I thank you, tolerably fleshy.' 'But what is the reason,' says the Justice, 'you do not follow the example of your worthy Master, who was humble enough to ride to Jerusalem on an Ass?' 'Why, to tell you the truth,' says the Clergyman, 'Government have made so many Asses Justices, lately, that an honest Clergyman can't find one to ride on.'

'Well said of the Dominie! There must have been more of Sterne than Sternhold about him. He evidently loved a joke, as well as old Pater Abraham à Sancta Clara.'

''Blanchard's Balloon.' An ascension, I suppose.' No; it is a political squib. Mr. Blanchard has given out, that his gas, owing to an unfortunate accident, hasalso'given out,' and that on account of the great expense, he is compelled to forego a second ascension. A wag advises him, as a cheap and expeditious method of obtaining an ample supply of gas, to place his balloon over the chimney of a house in which the 'Democratic Society' are to meet, in the evening, the members of which are expected to be highly inflated with a kind of light, combustible air, which will escape into his vessel, and answer his purpose admirably!

In these days of 'wars and rumors of wars' between the whites and Florida Indians, these twin poetical epistles will be apropos. The writer says, under date of Pittsburgh, 10th June,

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