One child only is incapable of using his lower limbs; but Mr. Richards hopes to find him much This remarkable romance, which at once estabimproved in that respect in the course of a cou-lished the author's reputation at the time of its first appearple of months more; his other faculties had made ance, presents in its new and beautiful garb a refreshing sufficient progress to excite the wonder and grat-contrast to the more recent productions of Mr. Cooper. It itude of his father, who burst into tears, on mark-handsome Library edition. "Last Leaves of American His is indeed seemly that such a book should be preserved in a ing his improvement when he visited him a few

and excessively handsome. Of course he is brimful of ro- | And marked out their author as something between a
mance. All handsome people are. He there sees a young New York Horace Walpole and Madame Sevigné.
woman bent on the same pursuit of health as himself, as Yet his charming descriptions of life in the woods,-
handsome as he is, and to the full as poetic. She is a mys. Where nothing of city disturbance intrudes,—
tery to everybody--and either for that reason, or for some Have much of a light, metropolitan air
other equally good, Mr. Raphaël delivers himself up soul That smacks of the region of Grosvenor Square.
and body as her captive. But his altar is erected to an un- If he mentions his pumpkins, his pigs, or his hay,
known goddess. At the proper time, however, just when He mixes up with them the Rue de la Paix,
his passion has reached a frantic pitch, the Destinies who The oriole, pouring its song on the breeze,
preside over novels and their heroes and heroines, step in 13 a feathered Rubini engaged for the trees,
and declare who it is that he so ignorantly worships. She And the calm Susquehannah's bright waves as they move,
is fond of boating-gets upset. He rescues her. They Do but serve to remind him of Blessington's glove.*
pass the night in some fisherman's dilapidated hut-and Of such elegant trifles we do not complain,
he then discovers that she is the wife of an elderly physi- For like bubbles that rise to the top of champagne,
cian, who gives her the largest kind of liberty-and that They give effervescence and life to his style,
she is an Atheist. This latter discovery shocks him be- And cause it to sparkle more brightly the while.
yond measure, for he is a Christian. The narrative is then Altogether, the volume's a capital thing,
subsequently composed chiefly of his efforts to convert her A dish of belles-lettres too good for a king,
to the true faith-in which he finally succeeds-and the It is spirited, droll, in a word it is Willisy,
conversion and its announcement form perhaps one of the Just the book to be read in the summer sub ilice!
most amusing scenes in the book. They then die in due
season, and the book closes abruptly, with a hint, however,
that, (as the razor-strop man says,) "there are a few more
of the same sort left." The idea of a Christian man, as
portrayed in the character of Raphaël, is certainly not in-
tended as genuine, but is probably meant as an exquisite
satire upon the pretenders to "pure religion and undefiled,"
for this Christian hero wastes his time, pinches his whole
family, pawns his mother's last jewels, sponges on his friends,
and all for the purpose of gratifying his fancy for the too
charming wife and Atheist; a character which may be re-
garded as doubtful in morals, to say nothing of Christianity.
The book, however, appears to be the work of a man,
who feeling that he has made show enough in the world to
entitle him to a notice in Biographical Dictionaries, resolves
to be understood-and accordingly writes an account of
himself before he appeared on the scene of action-not an
account of himself as he really then was, but of what he
now wishes the world to think him to have then been. It
accordingly results in as vainglorious a piece of folly as we
have ever seen-and it is difficult to reconcile in one's mind
the author of this book with the heroic talker of the Revo-
lution of 1848. He says that Thucydides had the forma-
tion of his mind. If this be so, we can only say, that in the
present instance, that very respectable individual appears
as literary grandfather to a very melancholy abortion.
The book can be had at all the cheap bookstores.

Now for Willis's books we had always a liking,
There's something about them so wondrously striking,
Though conceits often mar the effect of his thought
And he deals in queer phrases much more than he ought,
And his slanderers say that he printed, the sinner,
What was said by the belle that sat next him at dinner,
(En passant we never gave heed to a charge,
Which the Pencillings cannot establish at large,)
This it was that made Willis the talk of the town,
When in London they ventured to scribble him down;
There was Lockhart, that terrible Quarterly man,
Who at once to abuse and berate him began,
And declared that his publisher never could sell any
Sheets of the second edition of Melanie,
(That's the way we pronounce it, although we agree
That the author himself calls the word Mel-a-nie,)
Yet in spite of Pete Morris and all his abettors,
He turned out a new Esterhazy of letters,
For he scatters his brilliants wherever he wanders,
Whether down through the Broadway of prose he meanders,
Or trips with a livelier measure along
The shining Fifth Avenue trottoir of song!
There are times, too, when Willis asserts his control
O'er the purest emotions that ruffle the soul,—
When to bosoms that murmur, his verses reply
With those sweet consolations that moisten the eye,
And those graces beyond the perfection of art,
Which gush from a warm and benevolent heart!

But to leave this digression and get to our book,
RURAL LETTERS and other Records of THOUGHTS AT There's one affectation we can't overlook,
LEISURE, Written in the Intervals of More Hurried Lit-Tis the name of the author itself which we see
erary Lar. By N. Parker Willis. New York: Ba-«N. Parker" instead of the simple "N. P."
ker & Scribner, No. 145 Nassau Street and 36 Park At this we let fly all our critica spicula,
Row. 1849.

What we say about Willis we wish to be read,
So we publish it under our critical head,
And the better to rivet attention from you,
We make it, kind reader, a rhyming review.

The volume in muslin before us contains
Not the very best produce of Willis's brains,
But at least as agreeable reading in prose
As ever was written in couleur de rose,

There are many good hits in the "Letters from under
A Bridge," which excited the Gothamite's wonder,
How a dashing young cit could so easily pen
The delightfullest jottings from greenwood and glen,

"Twere better the letters meant N-othing P-articular.
Now this middle cognomen, this Parker intrusion,
Disabuses our mind of a happy illusion,

For we always imagined, our author should know it,
N. P. was the Latin for being born‡ poet!

But enough; lest our lines anapæstic get worse,
We here put a stop to our critical verse,
Which, though often its feet sadly stumble and go ill,
Is as good as the "Fable for Critics" by Lowell.

* Page 62.

+ Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk.

Nascitur Poeta.

RURAL SPORTS. A Tale-in 4 parts. By J. B. Jones.
Philadelphia: Charles Marshall. 1849.

This state of things, however, could not last always.
The spirit, indeed, was willing but the flesh was weak.
For

-Delia hungered, and in secret sighed
For turkey roasted, or fat rabbit fried: **
At length one day she saw a barrow pluck
The head away from a short-winded duck:
Speed Charles,' she cried, 'there's something we may eat;
Bring it away for dinner, I entreat!!'"

We owe to the author or publisher our thanks for this poem, and we feel bound to take some notice of its merits. The work is strikingly original. Its object is to show the superiority of tranquil rural life over the carking cares and exhausting tumults of political ambition. And no one can fail to be struck with the extraordinary novelty of such an attempt. Nor is the pleasant surprise less, when we come to the details of the narrative, which present the hitherto unsung enjoyments of the chase, the fishing-rod, The ice once broken, things went on swimmingly-the the fields, the flocks, the poultry yard, and the thousand "married lovers," in concert, ate the duck; but we grieve other sources of rural felicity,' which nobody ever heard to say that Charles "gulped down" the lion's share, and of before. The hero, moreover, Charles Longfield, is a of the residue the children got little or nothing. It was very remarkable man. He is "a mortal stern, whose will resolved to renew hostilities; and the very next day our had shaped his fate," but who grew dissatisfied with his sportsman murdered in cold blood, and on the ground, a own work, and retired into the country "to reign" over his whole flock of partridges at a single shot, to the unspeakawife, children, and other property, "in uncontested sway ble disgust of the high-souled and generous Ponto. Eren enthroned on his own soil," utterly defying writs of right, the fishes are not secure : and he is assisted by the partner ejectments, and notices to quit. One bad effect, however, of his bosom, and the interesting pledges of their affection, has been produced by the wild course of life, so myste-in netting minnows, and hooking bass, pike and spotted riously hinted at-he is much addicted to rambling about trout, without the slightest remorse or compunction. It all day with his dog and gun, and indulges an insatiable must be admitted that the character of our heroine presents thirst for blood-the blood of hares, partridges, and wood-one trait, never before illustrated in works of fiction. Geacocks. His wife, unfortunately, is something of a Graham-erally speaking, heroines never eat; but, if we may employ ite in theory, and has conscientious scruples about eating a most appropriate phrase of modern invention, our Delia meat though the calls of appetite invariably prove too "don't do any thing else!" strong for her principles, and as the poet in hand most gracefully sings,

Haunted Hill”

We own that we were extremely apprehensive all this time for the wedded bliss of this amiable pair; and we "E'en her voracious pearls right fondly cling dreaded to learn the issue of the adventure with the Black To breast of partridge, or a pheasant's wing." Lady. But our fears were groundless. After some days But another cause of disquiet is soon added to her anti- of killing and feasting, Delia trots out her husband accordcarnivorous misgivings. Charles at the ing to promise to the Haunted Hill; dismisses him and the (another unprecedented feature in the tale) falls in with abim if he shall take the game in question, to hold fast, and dog to hunt one way, while she goes another, and charges "Black Lady's" foot-prints, finds an inscription on a beech tree (more marvels!) addressed to him, and picks up a on no account to lift her veil, until she herself shall be pres handkerchief, which had brought his sagacious Ponto to a ent. Ponto soon brings the lady to bay-Charles rushes dead point! Our hero is a very faithful spouse when his forward and finds her arrayed, not in black, but white: he wife is at his elbow, but is, nevertheless, mightily disturb-forgets his pledge to his wife, and begs for one peep before ed by these phenomena, when alone in the woods. Nor Delia stands before him-the arch contriver of all the disher arrival: the request is granted, the veil withdrawn, and can he altogether shake off the effect when he gets home. blerie ! After the children are put to bed-when Delia and himself are comfortably seated in great cushioned chairs-with a of the tale, which we have now reached, A cynical friend of ours suggests as a motto for the end cricket apiece on the hearth-and two kittens (for symmetry) playing on the carpet-his moody looks are remarked by his wife, and the cause inquired. Here we must admit that something like plagiarism does appear: for Delia pro- but we vehemently protest against the supposed resem ceeds, in a style worthy of Mrs. Caudle herself, to "worm blance, and doubt not that Lord Byron himself, were be it out of Johnny," and to "do the tragics" naturally con- alive, would disclaim it. Our author may unquestionably sequent upon such a discovery. He produces the hand- say, with Touchstone, "a poor thing, sir-but mine o kerchief-she snatches it up with a pair of tongs-holds it The versification of this poem is very orthodox in the over the fire, till it turns black, and somehow displays most main, especially the rhymes: we have "kiss and bliss," appalling pictures of cypress wreaths, snakes, and skull-"eye and try,"-"go and low,"-"birds and words," bones-and then consigns it to the flames, which do most "sport and report," and the like, with only occasional ex unexpectedly consume it. "Charles gazed in wonder:" ceptions. But in the syntax and prosody the poetic license but recalling what he had read in Turner's Chemistry, or Knowledge for the people," about sympathetic inks, he very logically concludes the thing to be a contrivance of some rustic Dalilah, intent upon seducing him from his marital allegiance.

The result is, however, that he goes no more a hunting and is bound by a solemn pledge never to visit the "Haunted Hill," except under escort of his help-mate. The armistice with the beasts and birds fera natura, is extended to the domestic animals

“And duck and gobbler, squab and waddling goose,
Were all forbidden to be slain for use;
Next sav'ry beef and hacon took their turn;
Why should such creatures bleed for us, and burn?”

"The phantom of her frolic grace, Fitz-Fulke!"

is indulged with more freedom. For example “fire” is twice (at least) made a dissyllable, as if fi-er.

-"Strange forms of fire o'er the ascent played"—
-"The lamp is out, the fi-re feebler glows"—
There is also a liberal use of ellipsis, which sometimes
leaves the reader in doubt about antecedents and relatives,
nominative cases and verbs, as thus-man and dog are ap-
proaching birds-

"With steady nerve our Charles advances slow:
His dog sagacious, softly crouches low;
Whirring they fly-the acme of the sport;
He fires-they fall-a bird at each report!"

Now, if this be read according to Lindley Murray, the | LES CONFIDENCES. Par M. A. de Lamartine. New story merits a place in Ovid's Metamorphoses. For, at the York-D. Appleton et compagnie. Philadelphie-Geo. very instant when we expect to flush the covey of par- S. Appleton. tridges, Charles and Ponto fly whirring instead of the birds, Charles lets off both barrels, commits murder and suicide successively, and drops down with his dog, "a bird at each report." Nor is this all-for in the next line they are up again—

"He marks the rest pitch on the fallow plain, While dashing Ponto gathers up the slain !" himself included. This is not a bad use of the western idiom, which describes a person about to make unusual exertions, as "gathering himself"-"humping himself," &c. Immediately after, we are told

The

gun re-charged, deposited the birds,
Bestowed upon the pointer cheering words,
Charles leaps the hedge and through the stubble goes
To where the frightened fugitives repose.
Healthful and strong, by keen excitement flushed,
Each care that rose beneath his heel was crushed;
Pursued his lawful sport with rare delight
Repressing pity with the sense of right."

CONFIDENTIAL DISCLOSURES, or Memoirs of my Youth, by Alphonse de Lamartine. Translated by Eugene Plunkett. New York, D. Appleton & Co. 1849.

The Publishers have thought proper to head this book, or at least the translation of it, with an extra line of capitals styling it "Lamartine's remarkable book." Whether bibliopoles-the Appletons-or a bit of self-glorification on this be a trick of the trade on the part of those enterprising the part of Mr. Plunkett, we know not. It served in part,

however, to seduce us into a glance at Mr. Lamartine's exposures of himself, though we had mentally forsworn every thing from his pen after a taste of the pages of Raphaël.

As we have headed our notice with the title-pages of both the original and translation-the picture and its "counterfeit presentment"-we must of course say something of the mode in which the translation is executed. Mr. Plunkett has done well on the whole, though it is manifest that he has endeavored to translate with spirit rather than with fidelity. This we regard as by no means a venial fault in a translator, especially where the author rendered is peculiarly idiomatic and antithetical as Lamartine. He affects to write in a species of prose-poetry, of which no foreign reader, not understanding the language, can have an idea unless the translation is strictly literal.

The gun, it would seem, did not escape the magic influenres of the time and place. Being re-charged, and apparent ly overcharged, it quietly deposited the birds, and addressed some cheering words to poor Ponto: a very considerate thing of the gun, inasmuch as it had just before turned We are aware that the relative advantages of free and Ponto into a dead partridge. Meanwhile Charles leaps literal translation constitute a debateable point, a vexata over the hedge into the stubble, and crushes beneath his questio, in the world of letters. Much, as in all like cases, heel “each care that rose,” (like evil weeds as they were,) has been said upon both sides. But we confess that we no matter "bow healthful and strong, by keen excitement are covetous of an acquaintance with the author-not such Bushed." Happy man! to have "healthful cares," and be as he would be when trimmed and fashioned to suit our able to crush even them with his heel-in a stubble field! tastes, fancies and peculiarities, whether national or eduHe was happy also in pursuing his “lawful sport," without cational, but such as he is,—such as he would appear to dread of a suit for trespass, or an indictment for killing us were we to "transport ourselves over to him, and adopt game out of season. And lastly, he was happy in the pos-his situation, his mode of speaking, his idiosyncracies."* session of that Roman firmness, which enabled him to re- Style is as much a part and parcel of a literary man, or preas his pity with the sense of right; and to extract even a his works, as the ideas themselves which he expresses. rare delight" from the reluctant discharge of the painful Without it we can have no idea of the individual. As well duty, which obliged him to shoot partridges and molly-cotton-give us the countenance of a person without his expression,

tails!

Long may Charles Longfield, Esq. "reign" over his elas-without his style-his ideas without the peculiar mode in give us his mere features, as to give us the book of a man tic domains, where

"Orchard and garden, field and gentle mead, Cluster around, or far their acres spread." Long may he repose beneath the shade of his venerable, though somewhat oblivious, trees

"The ancient oaks, tall, towering to the skies, Last landmarks of forgotten histories."

May he often gaze abroad, with his well-fed wife at his side, from that "fancy" porch and balcony, of curious tex

tare,

"With trellised vines fantastically wove.”

And when the romantic pair have any more adventures, may they be commemorated by the muse of Jones, and a copy of the volume containing them be transmitted to the Mes

senger.

ASTORIA: or Anecdotes of an Enterprise beyond the
Rocky Mountains. By Washington Irving. New York:
George P. Putnam. 1849.

which he utters them. This can only be done by a rigorous, amounting almost to a reckless, adherence to strict literal translation. In this respect Mr. Plunkett has failed, though we think he has produced a book quite as readable as the original.

We confess that we are like to prove but sorry critics of this "remarkable work." The day has gone by with us when feverish sentimentality and transcendental longings dences" might have enraptured us, for at sixteen we were held mighty power over our soul. At sixteen "Les Confideeply read in Carlyle and learned in Goethe-knew something of Jean Paul and could chatter as fluently of the sufferings of our bit of humanity as a New England Miss or member of "The Boston Mutual Adulation Club." But at

the period of this present writing, we have years enough over our head and have seen sufficient of this naughty world of ours to cause us to lay aside some of the frivolity and nonsense of our boyhood, and to forget some of our childish "hoverings towards the far-away, loving stars of bliss-giving grace." The sad result is that in these later days, we are somewhat disposed to scan closely the morals of a book, and to ask in a true cui bono spirit, whether or no man is likely to profit by the publication of this, that or the

It is enough to say that this is another volume of the handsome reprint of Irving's works, in the course of publication by Mr. Putnam, and that it is equal to those which * Goethe-Austin's Characteristics, vol. 1, p. 32-34.

have preceded it.

+ Faust.

be enlightened-whose heart gladdened by its perusal―to feel that we stand as watchmen on the walls of the literary Zion, commissioned to tell "what of the night" as well as when "the day cometh." But to the book.

other "remarkable work,"-to consider whose soul may beautiful teeth, together with tresses gloriously luxuriant and dark as the raven's wing, complete the picture,-which, by the way, is seen from a distance on a stormy night. la this hut Lamartine spends months, and his whole occupa tion seems to have been, by every way and means, to win the affections of this half child, half girl,—whose heart and soul would appear to have been far more lovely than her person. We can not dwell here upon the details-suffice

The time came for her to be betrothed to a young man ar dently attached to her, one whose fortune and character were such as to render him a most desirable partner for life. Urged on the one hand by filial love, duty and gratitude, to accept a lover who would make her happy and respectable, and render the declining years of her aged and toil-worn grandparents easy and comfortable,-her heart on the other hand loudly telling her that her affections were elsewhere bestowed, that the vows of the altar could give only a lifeless form whose spirit was linked to another's,

The book itself is written for the avowed purpose, (if we may trust the opening paragraph of Note 1, Book I,) of disclosing to the world the author's "past life,”—of opening up "those living and hidden streams of existence, his feel-it to say that he succeeded, and that but too effectually. ings and thoughts"—and thus presenting himself to his age and posterity as he would wish to he viewed. Now we quarrel with no man for "putting his best foot foremost." We try to do it ourselves sometimes. Certainly we think others have a right to exercise this privilege, at least, so long as the world continues its present free use of detraction and censure. But we do blame Mr. Lamartine-and blame him very decidedly-for taking three years, (see Preface,) to paint his own portrait, and then representing himself in a fashion so discreditable alike to the Poet and the Man. Such an assertion may perhaps strike some of our read-revolting with her nobility of principle from a falsehood, ers who have perused the book, or may hereafter read it, as strange. Nevertheless we affirm its correctness, and base it on Mr. Lamartine's own showing. True, this book as well as its companion Raphaël, contains much in which he endeavors to exhibit himself as the affectionate son, the high-minded man, the true-hearted Christian. But the Pharisee who went up to the Temple to pray at the same time with the Publican, gravely informed the All-seeing Deity whom he addressed, that he was without spot or blemish; and yet in spite of the numerous claims to merit which he urged, an All-wise Power exercised a just discrimination between the self-righteous man and the humili. ated sinner who stood afar off and lifted not up his eyes. So too a discerning eye will readily discover that the almost perfect character which our author so freely ascribes to himself is more the result of his imagination, as guided by his subsequent experience, than supported by the facts (so-called) which he presents. We would not be considered as unjustly harsh, but we frankly confess that we have risen from the perusal of this work, disgusted, perhaps ir-lesse sur les feuilles, renversée en arrière et comme brisèe ritated, with the author and the portrait of himself which

he has limned.

Mr. Lamartine has asserted in his Raphaël, when speaking of Rousseau, that the first love of a man always marks his character in subsequent life-and that therein may the history of that early attachment be read. We will as

yet yearning to comply as became a dutiful daughter,-the soul of the poor child was rent in pieces by the condist. Her reason deserted her. She rushed from a home where she was adored; long search was made,-and at last the author of this calamity discovers her in an old, deserted stone house, far away from those who loved her so fondly: and thus he found her—*

l'éclairait d'une faible lueur. Je courus au fond de la seLa petite lampe rallumée devant la madone par Graziella conde chambre où j'avais entendu sa voix et sa chute, et où je la croyais évanouie. Elle ne l'était pas. Seulemen: le tas de bruyère sèche qui lui servait de lit, et joignait les sa faiblesse avait trahi son effort; elle était retombée sur mains en me regardant. Ses yeux animés par la fièvre, ouverts par l'étonnement et allanguis par l'amour, brillaient fixes comme deux étoiles dont les lueurs tombent du ciel, et qui semblent vous regarder ou fond de l'eau.

Sa tête, qu'elle cherchait à relever, retombait de fa

par un coup de hache. Elle était pâle comme l'agot, excepté sur les pommettes des joues teintes de quelques vives roses.

Sa belle peau était marbrée de taches de larmes et de la poussière qui s'y était attachée. Son vétement noir se confondait avec la couleur brune des feuil es répandues à terre et sur lesquelles elle était couchée. Ses sume this to be true—and then refer our readers, by way of pieds nus, blancs comme le marbre, dépassaient de toute sustaining our somewhat strongly expressed opinion, to the leur longueur le tas de fougère et reposaient sur la pierre. story of Graziella, that forms so large a portion of these Des frissons couraient sur tous ses membres et faisaient Confidences, over which Mr. Lamartine pondered for three claquer ses dents comme des castagnettes dans une main years before he submitted them to the gaze of a critical d'enfant. Le mouchoir rouge qui enveloppait ordinairement les longues tresses noires de ses beaux cheveux état de public. The story is briefly this. Lamartine, aged eighteen, and taché et étendu comme un demivoile sur son front jusqu'aa friend, aged twenty,-which friend, by the way, is honored bord de ses yeux. On voyait qu'elle s'en était servie pour with a passing notice as curt as need be,-fall in with a ensevelir son visage et ses larmes dons l'ombre, comme fisherman, very pious, in his simple way, honest and up-dans l'immobilité anticipée d'un linceul, et qu'elle ne l'avais right, and resolve to take a roving excursion with him in the Bay of Naples and its vicinity. Their excursion lasts two months, and is suddenly brought to a termination by a storm which, about midnight, swamps the boat just off the shore of Procida, where the Fisherman resides. To his humble hut they are taken, and here our hero† and his readers are introduced to Graziella, the fisherman's granddaughter. Her night-dress, which she has not had time to arrange, discloses a tall and slender form,

"With vernal bosom springing into view."

relevé qu'en entendant ma voix et en se plaçant sur sen séant pour venir m'ouvrir.

They take her back to her home. The little dreams of a happy and reputable life for their grand-daughter, which had so gladdened the hearts of the aged fisherman and his wife, were broken. But they cheerfully surrendered ther hopes and plans, formed for her good alone, so that they might keep her angel light within their dwelling.

Mr. Lamartine soon afterwards resorts to an artifice by which to escape. He gets back to Paris-plunges into the gayety of that dissipated metropolis-and six months or s

Large oval eyes, blue-black,—round cheeks, rich lips and after his escape, he receives one night, on his return iram

• Note XLII.

↑ Note XII of the Episode.

• Livre Dixième XXVIL