He must have an outward and visible spirit belying the invisible spirit within. He must be like the statue in Lucian with its surface of Parian marble, and its interior filled with rags. It appears to us, however, that his known deficiencies, as well as his known capacities, are precisely those of a chival rous heart, not less than of a gigantic understanding.

Letters of Euza Wilkinson, during the Invasion and Possession of Charleston, S. C., by the British in the Revolutionary War. Arranged from the Original Manuscript by Caroline GilSamuel Colman, New York.

man.

These Letters, twelve in number, and filling about a hundred openly-printed duodecimo pages, handsomely bound, are occupied in part with minute details of such atrocities on the part of the British during their sojourn in Charleston, as the quizzing of Mrs. Wilkinson and the pilfering of her shoe-buckles-the remainder being made up of the indignant comments of the lady. It is very true, as the preface to this volume assures us, that "few records exist of American women either before or during the war of the revolution, and that those perpetuated by history, although honorable, particularly to the Southern States, want the charm of personal narration”—but then we are well delivered from such charms of personal narration as we find here. The only supposable merit in the compilation is that dogged air of truth with which the fair authoress tells the lamentable story of her misadventures. We look in vain for the "useful information" about which some of our contemporaries have spoken; unless indeed it is in the passage where we are told that the letter-writer “was a young and beautiful widow; that her hand-writing is clear and feminine; and that the letters were copied by herself into a blank quarto book on which the extravagant sale-price marks one of the features of the times." There are other extravagant sale-prices, however, besides that. In regard to the talk in the preface, about “gathering relics of past history," and "floating down streams of time," we should call it all fudge. The whole book is exceedingly silly, and we cannot conceive why Miss Caroline Gilman thought the public wanted to read it. As for Mrs. Wilkinson, she deserved to lose her shoe-buckles.

Birds and Flowers, and Other Country Things. By Mary Howitt. Weeks, Jordan and Co., Boston.

This a very beautiful little book-regard it as we will. Here we have good paper, good printing, good binding, well-executed wood-cuts from excellent drawings-and poems by Mary Howitt. We presume there are few of our readers who are not well acquainted with the character of the writings of this lady-with that sportive and quaint grace, which keeps clear of the absurd, by never employing itself upon subjects of a very exalted nature. It cannot be denied that our sweet poetess, Miss Gould, has drawn much of her inspiration from a study of the fair quakeress of whom we speak. The two styles are nearly identical-the choice of themes is one and the same thing in both writers. They appear to echo and re-echo each other. At the same time we must do Miss Gould the justice to say that she has greatly improved upon her model, by a more careful elaboration of materials, resulting in a polished epigrammatism, not always observable in the English poems, and admirably well suited to the nature and capacities of her Muse-at least so far as that Muse is shown in a proper light.

In a notice, elsewhere, of the writings of Miss Gould, we spoke at length of the leading traits of her general style, and commented upon certain occasional bursts of a far higher order of merit than appertained to her ordinary manner-flashings forth of a far brighter fire. It appeared to us, indeed, that her usual vein was the result rather of some affectation, than of true impulse-1ather of some perversion of taste, through early prejudice or partiality, persisted in until matured into habit-than of the unbiassed promptings of the spirit. We had then never seen a collection of the poems of Miss H. Having seen them, we find our suspicions fully confirmed. But Miss G. should not consent to be in any degree an imitator-even of what is so well worthy imitation as the delightful poetry of Mary Howitt.

Tales of Shipwrecks and Other Disasters at Sea. By Thomas Bingley, Author of Stories about Dogs," etc. Weeks, Jordan and Co., Boston.

No subject in the world has so deep an interest for youth as that of the perils and disasters of the sea; and Mr. Bingley, who is well known for his abilities in telling stories to young people-not an

easy thing to do cleverly-has here succeeded in making a capital volume on the spirit-stirring theme. We cannot say that the designs are well drawn-it would be positively against our conscience-but perhaps they will answer their purpose. The book, in every other respect, is worthy of commendation.

The American Flower Garden Companion; Adapted to the Northern and Middle States. By Edward Sayers, Landscape and Ornamental Gardener. Second Edition-Revised, with Additions. Weeks, Jordan and Co., Boston.

It must be admitted that this is just such a book as the public have been long wanting—a concise, lucid, practical, sufliciently scientific, and cheap manual of Ornamental Horticulture. We are especially sure that there is not a young lady in the land who will not be eager to thank Mr. Sayers for putting her in possession of the work. She will here find a thousand difficulties removed; a thousand capital plans suggested; a thousand novel hints in regard to mere forms of beauty-to mere matters of arrangement and taste-hints evidently emanating from a graceful mind, and not to be met with in volumes of higher price, larger dimensions and greater pretence. We speak particularly of such things as the physique and morale of the location and position of plants, of the formation and situation of rock, of ornamental waters and bridges, and of the planning and management of trellisses and arbors. But the volume contains every thing essential to the flower-gardener. It is divided into four heads-The Arrangement of the Garden and Propagation of Plants; The Culture of Plants; The Green-House; and The Flower-Garden Miscellany. There is, also, a Glossary of Botanical Terms, and an Appendix, embracing Descriptive Lists of Annual and Biennial Flowers.

The American Fruit-Garden Companion. Being a Practical Treatise on the Propagation and Culture of Fruit; Adapted to the Northern and Middle States. By. E. Sayers, Gardener; Author of the American Flower-Garden Companion, etc. Weeks, Jordan and Co., Boston. Here the design is to condense into the most convenient form, as a work of practical utility, remarks on the culture and management of the different kinds of fruit adapted to the Middle and Northern States. In the commencement of the volume several pages have been appropriated to the phytology of plants, with a view of familiarizing the inexperienced cultivator with some of the leading characteristics of trees. The subject is plainly and clearly handled. In the Nursery Department, which naturally follows the phytology, the author has given minute directions in regard to the propagation of fruit-trees from seed, and the various methods of grafting, budding, and bringing the tree into the proper size and state for the final planting in the garden or orchard. Here he has adhered to a system of raising fruit-trees from seed, in preference to the usual method of suckers. He considers that the young plants rob the parent and impoverish the soil. Mr. Sayers has given throughout, the results of a long practice, and no little scientific information.

The Bride of Fort Edward. Founded on an Incident of the Revolution. Samuel Colman, New York.

In looking over the preface of this little book, we fancied that we could perceive in it a certain air of thought really profound, disfigured by an attempt at over-profundity-and upon this idea we formed our anticipations of the book itself—not being altogether disappointed in the sequel. Our opinion, it will therefore be seen, is not fully in accordance with that of the press at large; so far as we have observed their notices.

The author, in apprising his readers that the "Bride of Fort Edward" is not, properly, a play, has drawn a just distinction between the hurried action, the crowded plot and the theatrical elevation, which the stage demands of the pure drama; and that merely dialogical form, in which he has chosen to convey the repose, the thought, and the sentiment of actual life. His particular object, as expressed by himself, will be found, upon examination, to justify the manner of his work. The story "is connected with a well-known crisis in our National History; nay, it is itself a portion of the historic record, and as such, even with many of its most trifling minutiæ, is embedded in our earliest recollections. But it is rather in relation to the abstract truth it embodies—as exhibiting a law in the relation of the human mind to its invisible protector-the apparent sacrifice of the individual, in the grand movements for the race-it is in this light rather than as an historical exhibition"-that he claims for it the attention of the public.

This design is an excellent one, and is by no means badly executed; except in the point of being

overdone-of being too obviously insisted upon, throughout-and of being carried to a transcendental extreme. We would be quite safe in saying that the writer is a passionate admirer of Coleridgea man whose Jacob Behmen-ism makes, perhaps, as near an approach to the sublime of truth, as can possibly be made by utter unintelligibility and fustian. In all modifications of such minds as his, we are to look for more or less of a high spirit of poesy; and, feeling this, we were not disappointed in meeting with this spirit in the volume before us. Here is imagination of no common order.

Yet oftenest of that homeward path I think
Amid the deepening twilight slowly trod;
And I can hear the click of that old gate
As once again, amid the chirping yard,
I see the summer rooms open and dark,
And on the shady step the sister stand,
Her merry welcome in a mock reproach
Of Love's long childhood breathing.

I could think this was peace-so calmly there
The afternoon amid the valley sleeps.

How calm the night moves on; and yet
In the dark morrow that behind those hills
Lies sleeping now, who knows what horror lurks?

Yon mighty hunter in his silver vest,

That o'er those azure fields walks nightly now,

In his bright girdle wears the self-same gems

That on the watchers of old Babylon

Shone once, and to the soldier on her walls

Marked the swift hour, as they do now to me.

Having said thus much, however, we would not be misunderstood. Nothing less than a long apprenticeship to letters will give the author of the " Bride of Fort Edward" even a chance to be remembered or considered. His work, if we view it in its minor points, is radically deficient in all the ordinary and indispensable proprieties of literature. Generally speaking, it cannot be denied that his verse is any thing but verse, and that his prose stands sadly in need of a straight-jacket.

Charles Hartland, the Village Missionary. Revised and Prepared by William A. Alcott, Author of the "House I Live In," etc. Weeks, Jordan and Co., Boston,

The simple design of this well-written little book is to convey moral and religious instruction, by exhibiting to the young, in pictures of every-day life, the excellence of virtue on the one hand, and the miseries of vice on the other. We are told, moreover, in the preface, that an attempt is made at showing "the importance and necessity of possessing the true missionary spirit, in all the ordinary concerns and relations of domestic life; and, above all, in the discharge of the responsible duties of a teacher." The narrative has the undoubted merit of being true.

Solomon Seesaw. By J. P. Robertson, Senior Author of Letters on Paraguay. Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia.

In spite of many assertions to the contrary, we have no hesitation in calling Solomon Seesaw a very lively, a very well-written, and altogether a very readable book. The outcry against it has no doubt been made by those who would not look into its pages on account of an exceedingly ill-founded yet customary prejudice-we allude to the prevalent idea that a writer who succeeds in matters-offact, can by no possibility succeed in matters of fiction. This opinion is not nearly so tenable as its converse-yet this converse is seldom insisted upon. The truth is, that a really good writer in any one department of literature, properly so called, will not be found to fail, essentially, in any one other to which he turns his attention, or in which he can be made to feel a sufficient interest. The popular voice, to be sure, has decided otherwise; but then, as the philosophical Chamfort well says-Il y a à parier que toute idée publique, toute convention recue, est une sottise; car elle a été convenue au plus grand nombre.

Solomon Seesaw, without making outrageous pretensions, is a very entertaining personage. There

is a great deal of vivacity about him, and much of a hearty, up-and-down and straight-forward Roderick-Random kind of incident and humor. The book is a very good book to take up in a rainy day. Mr. Robertson is not by any means an ordinary writer. The Introductory Chapter to this work is especially well-written. Here is an Extract which will speak for itself.

"Just so your move-about litterateur; and especially your foreign one. Let us suppose him to be in Glasgow ; he hurries over breakfast, as fast as the bagman; like him, he looks at his watch every five minutes; he rings again and again for his tardily-brought toast and muffins; he scolds Boots for being so long with his boots; and he grudges himself the half hour required by the claims of appetite to allay the cravings of nature.

He brushes his coat and hat in a hurry; and out he sallies, with Boots junior as his companion and guide, to see the city of Glasgow; to remark upon its traffic, edifices, institutions. inhabitants, and upon the enormous strides which scientific industry is making in her multifarious walks. All these important points are jotted down in a journal, which, being revised and corrected, is, at a subsequent period, to be reluctantly given to the press.

Suppose your traveller to be a Frenchman, come across the Channel on a two months' tour, with a small stock of English got up for the occasion, and alarmed at every moment that passes without a jot in his memorandum book.

He thus initiates his parley with Boots junior.

FRENCHMAN:-" Monsieur Boots, quelle rue-what street is dis?"

Boors: "The Gorbals, sir."

FRENCHMAN" De Gobbels; qu'est que ça, wat is dat?"

BOOTS:-"I dinna ken, sir."

FRENCHMAN:-" Bête, stupid; no know de meaning of de street: remarquez ça; il ne sait, peutêtre, pourquoi on l'apelle " Boots." Monsieur Boots: vy dey call you" Boots?"

Boots:-
:-"Becuz a clean the boots, and gang messages."

FRENCHMAN:-" Ah, well; he more adroit than I did not believe” (taking out his Glasgow guide.) "Were de University, Monsieur Boots?"

Boots :-
:- University, sir ?—I dinna ken what you mean."

FRENCHMAN:-" Bête: Ecossais: Ce gens-lá sont vraiment stupides. L'Université, je dis ; were de young gens taught to read Greek."

BOOTS" Oo the College, ye mean?"

FRENCHMAN:"Yes, yes, de College; go dere."

Boors (to himself :- I fancy this man's a scholar; bit, gif he is, he speaks a queer langidge.” FRENCHMAN: Wat dat you say?"

BOOTS:-"Naething, sir. Here's the College."

FRENCHMAN:-" Go in, donc, and tell the professeur that one foreign gentleman wish to see de College of Glazcow."

Boots (returning :)—"The maister says that he canna' be fashed the noo; for he's hearing his class."

FRENCHMAN:—" Voyez que ce sont des Bêtes que ces Ecossais-la."

BOOTS" He says, gif ye'll come the morn's mornin' at nine o'clock, ye can see'd."

FRENCHMAN: I vill not come to-morrow; to-morrow I go to Edinburg (remarquez.) Ce college n'a rien de respectable, pas même son exterieur. On dit que les Ecossais ne comprendent pas le Grec. Allons, Monsieur Boots, a la Bourse, we go Shange."

BOOTS :—“ 'Deed, sir, I think ye hae muckle need o't; for it's a wat day; an' ye've come out without an umbrella."

FRENCHMAN:-" Wat de brute say? Pitoyable de moi; voyageur malheureux! Sirrah, sir Boots : I want see de Shange, where de people shange money, and read de papers, and shell sugar." BOOTS:-"Oo! that's the Exchinge, may be, ye mean?"

FRENCHMAN:-"Yes-yes-de Ekshynge; diable cette langue Anglaise. Chacun a sa façon de parler, et de prononcer; le Dictionnaire dit, Ekshange; Boots dit, Ekschynge."

Undine: A Miniature Romance; from the German of Baron de la Motte Fouqué. Colman's Library of Romance, Edited by Grenville Mellen. Samuel Colman, New York.

The re-publication of such a work as "Undine," in the very teeth of our anti-romantic national character, is an experiment well adapted to excite interest, and in the crisis caused by this experiment for a crisis it is-it becomes the duty of every lover of literature for its own sake and spiritual uses, to speak out, and speak boldly, against the untenable prejudices which have so long and so unopposedly enthralled us. It becomes, we say, his plain duty to show, with what ability he may possess, the full value and capacity of that species of writing generally, which, as a people, we are too prone to discredit. It is incumbent upon him to make head, by all admissible means in his

power, against that evil genius of mere matter-of-fact, whose grovelling and degrading assumptions are so happily set forth in the pert little query of Monsieur Casimir Perier-" A quoi un pöete est-il bon ?” The high claims of Undine, and its extensive foreign reputation, render it especially desirable that he should make use of a careful analysis of the work itself-not less than of the traits of its class-with a view of impressing upon the public mind, at least his individual sense of its most exalted and extraordinary character. Feeling thus, we are grieved that our limits, as well as the late hour in which we take up the book, will scarcely permit us to speak of it otherwise than at random. The story runs very nearly in this manner.

Sir Huldbrand of Ringstetten, a knight of high descent, young, rich, valorous, and handsome, becomes slightly enamored, at a tournament, of a lady Bertalda, the adopted daughter of a German Duke. She, being entreated by the knight for one of her gloves, promises it upon condition of his exploring the recesses of a certain haunted forest. He consents, and is beset with a crowd of illusory and fantastic terrors, which, in the end, compel him to an extremity of the wood, where a long grassy peninsula, of great loveliness, juts out into the bosom of a vast lake. Of this peninsula, the sole inhabitants are an old fisherman and his wife, with their adopted daughter, Undine, a beautiful and fairy-like creature of eighteen, and of an extravagantly wild and perverse, yet amiable and artless temperament. The old couple had rejoiced, some years before, in a child of their own-who playing, one day, by the water's edge, fell in suddenly, and at once disappeared. In the depth of their grief for her loss, they were astonished and delighted, one summer's evening, with the appearance in their hut of the little Undine, who was dripping with water, and who could give no very distinct account of herself-her language being of a singular nature, and her discourse turning upon such subjects as "golden castles" and "chrystal domes." She had remained with the fisherman and his wife ever since, and they had come to look upon her as their own.

By these good people Sir Huldbrand is hospitably entertained. In the meantime, a brook, swollen by rains, renders the peninsula an island, and thoroughly cuts off his retreat. In the strict intercourse which ensues, the young man and maiden become lovers, and are finally wedded by a priest, who is opportunely cast away upon the coast. After the marriage, a new character seems to pervade Undine; and she at length explains to her husband, (who is alarmed at some hints which she lets fall,) the true history of her nature, and of her advent upon the island.

She is one of the race of water-spirits—a race who differ, personally, from mankind, only in a greater beauty, and in the circumstance of possessing no soul. The words of Undine, here divulging her · secret to Huldbrand, will speak as briefly as we could do, and far more eloquently" Both we, and the beings I have mentioned as inhabiting the other elements, vanish into air at death, and go out of existence, spirit and body, so that no vestige of us remains; and when you hereafter awake to a purer state of being, we shall remain where sand, and sparks, and wind and waves remain. We of course have no souls. The element moves us, and, again, is obedient to our will, while we live, though it scatters us like dust when we die; and as we have nothing to trouble us, we are as merry as nightingales, little gold-fishes, and other pretty children of nature. But all beings aspire to rise in the scale of existence higher than they are. It was therefore the wish of my father, who is a powerful waterprince in the Mediterranean Sea, that his only daughter should become possessed of a soul; although she should have to endure many of the sufferings of those who share that gift. Now the race to which I belong have no other means of obtaining a soul, than by forming, with an individual of your own, the most intimate union of love."

Undine has an uncle, Kuhleborn, who is the spirit of a brook, the brook which had cut off the retreat of the knight. It was this uncle who had stolen the fisherman's daughter; who had brought Undine to the island, and who had, by machination in the haunted forest, forced Huldbrand upon the peninsula. The wedding having been accomplished, the brook is dried up; and the married pair, attended by the priest, make their way to the city where the tournament had been held, and where Bertalda and her friends were much alarmed at the long absence of the knight. This lady, who had loved him, and who is, in fact, the lost daughter of the fisherman (having been carried safely to a distant shore by Kuhleborn, and found and adopted by a Duke) this lady is sadly grieved at the marriage of the knight, but feels an unaccountable prepossession in favor of the bride, becomes her most intimate friend, and at length goes to live with her at the castle of Ringstetten-much in opposition to the wishes of the priest and of Kuhleborn. The disasters of the drama now commence. Huldbrand insensibly forgets his love for Undine, and recalls his passion for Bertalda. He is even petulant to his bride; who is aware of all, but utters no reproach. She entreats him, however, to be careful not to reproach her when they are crossing a brook, or in any excursion upon the water; as, in such case, her friends the water-spirits, who resent his behaviour, would have power to bear her away entirely, and for ever. In a passage down the Danube, however, with Undine and Bertalda, he forgets the caution, and upon a trifling occasion bitterly reproves his gentle bride-for whom he still feels a lingering affection. She is thus forced to leave him, and melts into the waters of the river.

Huldbrand returns with Bertalda to castle Ringstetten. His grief, at first violent, settles down at length into a tender melancholy, and finally is merged, although not altogether, in a growing passion for the fisherman's daughter. He sends for the priest; who obeys the summons in haste, but re