fined, in the early parts of the story, to the humble walks of life. In colloquial style, and descriptions of scenery, the Tor Hill, though decidedly modelled after the Scottish Nov. els, cannot be compared with the great master's productions; and in observing the prescribed boundaries of probability, in penetrating into the hidden recesses of the heart, and in weaving artfully together the fiction of the narrative, with the well known truths of history, Mr. Smith falls far short of the magic skill with which the author of Waverly has delighted and astonished us at measured intervals for the last ten years.

THE GOLDEN VIOLET.-This recent emanation from the pen of L. E. L. is founded on the Provence Competition among the minstrels for the prize of a Golden Violet. The idea is a pretty one, and gives room for displaying a great deal of the beauty as well as the variety of poetic lore, and poetic genius,-and this we cannot but say, has been done by Miss Landon in her present effort. But beyond sweetness and delicacy of song, this young lady has no power. She can warble like any other night ingale, while she inhales her true element the breath of roses, and drinks the dew of the morning lily,—and she can catch the softest tones too, of hot-bed exotics, when they are by chance exposed to the thrillings of the even ing wind; but there is no wildness about her, and the pinions of her muse are not-we had almost said, never will be-strong enough to

bear her upward into the clear blue air of the glorious empyrean. She has, moreover, during her career, ever mistaken the fantasies of "a sick girl,”—sick in imagination we mean~~ for the genuine excitement of sentiment, and has rung her changes on the theme of love, till we had almost feared they would never cease. We are glad to find that in the Golden Violet, she has laid aside a degree of her girlishness, and assumed something more like the spirit of womanhood than has before appeared in her emanations.

THE LAST OF THE LAIRDS.-The author, Mr. Galt, has been eminently successful in giving to the world those striking and spirited sketches of real life, which are among the most popular literary productions of the present age. Interspersed with broad humour, genuine sentiment, maxims of sterling weight, and playful touches that win the attention without heating the imagination, the Last of the Lairds gives undeniable proof that its author has the skill and power to draw out metal of value, even when it is surrounded and almost incorporated with the coarsest dross. tale lags heavily at the commencement, and the reader is at first inclined to suspect the Laird of being a most incorrigible bore; but "sweetest nut hath sourest rind," and the huskiness of this volume, though it deter the reader from immediately attaining the good fruit, will give him a greater relish for it when it is gained.

The

MRS A. S. COLVIN'S WEEKLY MESSENGER. This interesting and neatly conducted literary paper is still published at Washington City.It is issued every Saturday, on a royal quarto sheet, at four dollars per annum, paya. ble quarterly in advance. Subscriptions will be received and forwarded to Mrs. Colvin, by our publisher, Charles G. Greene, No. 278 Washington Street.

SENOR HUERTA. Our readers may remember the celebrated performer on the guitar, of this name, who delighted us with his concerts two winters since. We perceive by the Lon don Morning Chronicle, that he is figuring with some eclat at the Argyle Rooms in that city.

JEU D'ESPRIT.-" Ah, Tom," said K. on entering the apartment of a friend, who, after dressing in small clothes for a cotillion party, was busily employed in mending a hole in his black silk hose with pen and ink-" Ah, Tom, you have your leg I see in hand, before you proceed to shuffle off this mortal coil." "No K." replied he, "I am only transcribing a bond of security for this rent," showing the hole in his stocking. "I am thinking Tom," said K. "whether an instrument holds good, that is engrossed on calf skin.”

THE MEMORIAL.-The Editor and Publish

ers of this Christmas and New Year's Offering, are making preparations for a second number,

and solicit communications from their former

correspondents, and from all who feel an interest in these annual tokens of friendship and affection. A liberal remuneration will be of fered to those who furnish approved designs for engraving, drawings of American scenery, and literary contributions of merit. Let ters having reference to the Souvenir for 1826, must be directed "To the Editor of the Memorial, care of Messrs. True & Greene, Boston, Mass." on or before the first of May next ensuing.

VIEW OF THE SENATE.-The Hall of the Senate, though of rather doubtful order in architecture is well adapted for convenience and beauty in its form, and gives the Speaker, but little pain to fill it.

HON. JOHN MILLS, from Hampden, President. A remarkably handsome man, familiar with parliamentary usage, modest, impartial, and one who would be the last to have an enemy, if his casket of person gives evidence of the beauty of the jewel of his heart.

Commencing on the right :

HON. L. M. PARKER, from Middlesex. A tall upright man in every respect-in speaking his voice is low, but his arguments are stamped by sincerity-never speaks, but when necessary to throw light upon a subject-rather argumentative than declamatory.

HON. JOHN PRINCE, from Essex. An elderly plain man with an eye to business, and looks sharp for the interests of his own county.

HON. J. J. FISKE, from Norfolk. Oftener watching the course of others, than furnishing speculation from his own speeches..

HON. JOSEPH RICHARDSON, from Plymouth. Church and State-good in both-weighs his words before utterance-aiming to be the peo ple's friend on all occasions.

HON. JOSEPH G. KENDALL, from Worcester, Has a sweet voice and of amiable manners-possesses the incipient qualifications of a statesman, but needs practice

HON. GEORGE GRENNELL, from Franklin. A man standing high at the board-sound and fluent.

HON. JOSEPH TRIPP, from Bristol. Silentdo not know any thing about him.

HON. WILLIAM ELLIS, from Plymouth.Ditto.

HON. NATANIEL HOUGHTON, from Worcester. A consistent republican.

er tame-often eloquent-too much given to prettiness of speech and manner-but is always armed for contest in a panoply of argument.

HON. SAMUEL BILLINGS, from Suffolk. No talker-but a man of sound judgment and understands banking-absent a good part of the session.

HON. NYMPHAS MARSTON, from Barnstable. -A great rarity-a modest, yet excellent law. yer-interesting in his treatment of a subject, but is totally unacquainted with one subjectfamiliar to all who know him-viz. of his own superior talents.

HON. ISRAEL BILLINGS, from Hampshire.Mistakes vehemence for argument.

HON. AMOS SPAULDING, from Essex. Know nothing of him.

HON. BENJAMIN F. VARNUM, from Middles

HON. ISRAEL TRASK, from Essex. Ditto. HON. JOSHUA FROST, from Hampden.Froze up.

HON. DAVID HENSHAW, from Suffolk. Pret ty deep, but never goes beyond his depth-an unpleasant voice-ready-set as a pyramid in any stand, which he takes-looks to common sense and not rhetorical flourishes.

HON. MR. WHITAKER, from Hampden.Says little.

On the left of the President. :

HON. JONAS SIBLEY, Worcester. Old fashioned and strait forward-always to the point. HON. JOHN MASON, from Bristol. Fixed in purpose and generally successful.

HON. JOHN KEYES, from Middlesex. Fears no one-sound.

HON. SOLOMON PRATT, from Bristol. Still. HON. BARKER BURNELL, Nantucket. Fond of thunder, cataracts and sunbeams-leaves the subject in a whisk to chace a figure into the Pacific-talks too much-Good materials, badly assorted.

HON SAMUEL SHEARS, from Berkshire.Thinks-seldom speaks.

HON. WM. CRAWFORD, from Worcester.Speaks when necessary.

HON. ABEL JEWETT, from Middlesex. Non mi ricordo.

HON. DAVID SEARS, from Suffolk. A useful member to do up the thinking while others lingua-facture the talking.

compassion for those who might be saved, hewed off their hands with his cutlass as they laid hold of the gunwale- Row,' he cried to the sailors who had seized the oars, the fire is making towards the magazine-Row off, or we shall be blown to pieces.'

"The sailors rowed with their utmost vig. our-As we left the ship a cry arose from all the unfortunate wretches who were abandoned to their doom-so frantic, so full of wo and despair, that it made even the firm-minded officer exclaim, 'Good God, what is that!'

"I covered my ears with my hands, and bent my forehead to my knees, that I might neither hear nor see.

"When we had rowed to some distance, the men at the oars paused-I uncovered my ears and looked up a deep, low, hoarse, mur. muring and crackling noise, came from the ship, and now and then a human cry. As yet the flames had not appeared-but all around us, save where those dread and dismal sounds arose, was stillness and solemnity-and the smoke from the devoted vessel appeared like the shrouded form of some incomprehensible and tremendous phantasma, ascending from the sepulchres of the ocean to the dominions of omens and powers.

"We looked at the spectral sight with ter ror and in silence—The orphan was clinging to my knees at last the fire began to break out. The flames first showed themselves at the cab. in windows-in a moment they whirled up the rigging-the sails blazed, and the ship was for the space of a minute like some unblest apparitional creation of sorcery.

"It is all over,' said the officer, and his voice sounded hollowly over the mute and echoless ocean. The fire is in the gun-room! Ha!'

"At that instant a vast sheet of flame filled the whole air, and like an angry demon unfurling his wings, scattered meteors and malignant fires against the stars. The black forms of many things hovered like motes in the sun. beam for a moment in the blaze. I distinctly saw an anchor, and many like men with out spread arms.

"That momentary and indescribable vision of fires and fragments, was succeeded by a booming roar, as if an earthquake had raised his voice from the abysses of the silent waters, and then there was a numerous plashing noise of many things falling around us into the sea,

but that too soon passed, and then there was darkness and silence.

"At that moment a cold wet hand caught hold of mine, which was hanging over the boat's side-and a man from the sea cried in a homely Aberdonian voice, For Christianity, will ye no tak me up? The officer heard him, and relenting from his firm and merciful purpose, ordered him to be taken on board- Na, na,' cried the Scotchman, 'tak my bag first,' and he held np to me a small haversack which I grasped and lifted in; but in the same instant, an undulation of the sea came rolling from the whirlpool where the ship had sunk -the boat rose on the swell, the fated wretch lost his hold, and sank beneath her forever!'

"It pleased Providence to rescue us next morning from our perilous situation-a ship bound for the Isle of France had seen the glare of the burning during the night, and steering towards it when the wind freshened, came up to us by daybreak, and took us all on board." Last of the Lairds.

WEST'S BYRON. According to Byron's own

declaration, Mr. West was the only artist who drew his portrait faithfully. That portrait I saw in the artist's painting room. It was utterly unlike any other likeness of the bard ; one who had never seen this, nor the poet, could form not the remotest idea how he looked. It is the fashion to believe, that Byron's forehead was astonishingly high; but this was so far from being true, that I have seen many a forehead, projecting from the skulls of very ordi. nary men, much loftier than Byron's. His hair fell back on his head, and gave his brow a much greater altitude than it really possessed. His eyes were of a dull gray, very close to each other; his face and neck very full and handsome. But description is worth nothing; those who value the bard enough to encounter a voyage, may see his likeness in Leicester Square; a likeness universally allowed to be so faithful, that 600 guineas have been offered for it and refused. The portrait of his Italian mistress, Guiccioli, the married countessbeautifully drawn by the same hand, occupies the place of Lady Byron; and throws from her full ruby lip and voluptuous eye, a smile of wantonness, and a glance, whose magic is infamy, on the libertine husband of a forsaken

woman.