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and her journeys in Great Britain were but so many triumphal processions. No American lady has ever been so much courted and caressed in the palaces of the English nobility, or been honored with such spontaneous tributes of admiration from all circles of society. It would be a wonder if her head were not a little turned by such demonstrations—we might pardon something to the influence of flattery even on "a strong-minded female." Mrs. Stowe, however, needs no such apology. She does not lose her simplicity and self-possession in the melodramatic glare which shone upon her steps. We see the effects of adulation only in the "sunny" character of the "memories" which she has brought home. Her eye rested merely on the bright side of the picture, and doubtless it would have been an ungracious task to have sought materials for darker shades. She confines herself to what she saw in her jubilant tour—and, of course, all that she saw was rose-colored. We can not blame her for this —but it must operate as a guard against the onesided character of her descriptions. In spite of the kindly gloss which she throws over English society, we do not suppose that it betokens the speedy approach of the millenium. The serpent still hisses and bites in the British isles, nor do the lion and the lamb yet lie down together. But for these remains of heathenism Mrs. Stowe did not feel herself responsible; and accordingly she does not go out of her way to comment thereon. Her book must be taken as the exhibition of English civilization by a partial hand. In this point of view it is not only readable and entertaining, but eminently instructive. Her sketches are easy and graceful— her report of conversations is racy and characteristic—her pages swarm with poetical illustrations, showing a familiar acquaintance with choice English literature—and bating an overweening love of Dr. Watts, as the favorite poet of Zion in NewEngland—her episodical literary criticisms are often fresh and suggestive. Her volumes decline in interest when she begins to describe the Continent, though they are not without some brilliant pictures of Parisian life. Her judgments on the masterpieces of European art, betray the rashness from which Yankee tourists are seldom free, yet they are never destitute of a true love of beauty, which, under favorable circumstances, would doubtless have ripened into a sound critical taste. She does not, however, put on the airs of a connoisseur, nor indulge in parrot-pratings, repeating the stale echoes of previous travelers. What she says, right or wrong, is fresh from her own mind—and that certainly is a great comfort.

The School for Polities is the title of a dramatic satire by Charles Gayarre, the distinguished writer on Louisiana history. His squibs, many of which are fierce and brilliant, are not directed against any particular party or individual, but are designed to hit the abuses which every where characterize the politics of the country. The author shows an intimate acquaintance with the movements of electioneering machinery, and has set off their odious character with a caustic pen. (Published by D. Appleton and Co.)

The Practical Draughtsman's Book of Industrial Design, translated from the French of MM. ArmknBaod and Amouroux, by William Johnson. This comprehensive work forms a large and elegant quarto volume, including the principles of Linear Drawing, Projections, Shadowing and Coloring, and so forth, with their application to the various branches of machinery and the constructive arts in

general. The volume is full and complete, embracing every important element essential to the clear understanding of the subject in hand, and presenting in the English language, for the first time, a thorough text-book of design, in connection with the industrial arts which distinguish the present century. The American artisan and mechanic will find it an invaluable manual, and can not consult its lucid pages without gaining a clearer and more profound insight into the principles of his calling. A profusion of engravings and tabular views accompany the text of the work, leaving nothing to be desired for its practical utility.

Harper and Brothers have published a new Practical' and Commercial Arithmetic, by Gerard u s B. Docharty, LL.D., whose well-known treatise on "Algebra" has given him a high rank as a popular illustrator of mathematical science. The present volume is remarkable for the clearness of its methods, the pertinence of its examples, and the thorough manner in which the theory of numbers is elucidated, from its elementary processes to its most complicated formulas. The part devoted to Commercial Arithmetic is of especial value, and may safely be commended to the attention of young men in counting-rooms or banking institutions, who are sometimes at a loss for the solution of questions occurring in the common routine of business. As a manual for the instruction of classes, the practical teacher can not fail to discover its merits instantly, even upon the most cursory examination.

The AmericanCottage Builder, byJoHN Bullock, is a neat volume, containing a series of designs, plans, and specifications, for "homes for the people," on a scale of prices ranging from $200 to $20,000. Without being deficient in any technical details, the work presents a variety of general views on architecture, domestic and rural economy, the cultivation of art, and other kindred subjects. The chapters on Warming and Ventilation, Drainage, and Rural Homes, are of special interest, and challenge the attention of all who propose to build a house, or who have their place of residence yet to choose. (Published by Stringer and Townsend.)

Memoir and Sermons of Joseph Harrington, late pastor of the Unitarian Church in San Francisco, is an interesting memorial of a clergyman of singular beauty of character, and acknowledged eminence in his profession. He was a native of Roxbury, Mass., graduated at Harvard College in 1833, and, after fulfilling the duties of the pastoral charge successively at Chicago and Hartford, removed to San Francisco, where he found a grave in 1852. The memoir prefixed to this volume, by an intimate friend of the subject, Mr. William Whitino, describes him as a man of great energy of purpose, of a poetical temperament, with genial and expansive sympathies, and with more than common mental ability. It forms a pleasing biographical sketch, and will be read with satisfaction by the numerous friends of Mr. Harrington in different parts of the country. With some original suggestions, the sermons in this volume, as a whole, are not above mediocrity. The portrait gives the impression of an intellectual, refined, and manly character. (Published by Crosby and Nichols, Boston.)

Notes of a Theological Student, by James Mason Hoppin. (Published by D. Appleton and Co.) Recollections of Germany, of Greece, of the Holy Land, arc among the topics presented in this unpretending but agreeable volume. Some of its most attractive passages relate to German University education, and are marked by discrimination and good sense. The comments of the writer on Luther, Schiller, Goethe, and other gifted men of genius who have proudly illustrated their native land, show a wise appreciation of their respective merits, and are expressed in language of chaste and simple elegance. The whole volume betrays a mind of wide and judicious culture, and a liberal way of looking at life and society.

J. C. Derby has brought out an edition of Poems and Ballads by Gerald Massey, a recent English poet, who has sprung from the obscurest depths of poverty into the enjoyment of a wide celebrity. Massey is now but a little more than twenty-six years of age. He was born in a miserable stone hut, such as are usually occupied by the lowest peasantry in the interior of England. His father was a canal boatman, earning a pittance which scarcely sufficed to keep soul and body together. He was so ignorant as to be unable to write his own name. Young Massey, for some time, was hardly better off in point of education. He went for a short time to a penny school, where the teacher knew not much more than the taught; but was sent when eight years old to work in a neighboring silkmill. Here he toiled wearily from five o'clock in the morning till half past six in the evening, until the mill—luckily for him—burned down. He then went to straw-plaiting—an unwholesome occupation—in a sickly district. For three years he was tormented with fever and ague. But his mind was not asleep. He had learned to read, and soon felt a craving for books. These, however, were scarce. At first, he had nothing but the Bible and Bunyan—a library, it must be owned, in themselves—alterward he fell in with Robinson Crusoe and some Wesleyan tracts—which formed his sole reading until he went to London, as an errand boy, at fifteen years of age. Here ho found books in plenty, for the first time in his life. A new world of delight thus opened on his young heart. He read at all possible times and in all possible places—up in bed till two or three in the morning—and not daunted by once exposing his life by setting the bed on fire. With this rapacious appetite for books, he still showed no turn for poetry until he fell in love. His first poetical composition was published in a provincial newspaper, and soon after he printed a small volume of poems, chiefly of a political character.

The present collection contains several pieces of a similar stamp, most of which were inspired by the French Revolution of 1848. His poems, generally, however, are devoted to the celebration of conjugal love. The family hearth is his favorite altar of inspiration. His soul revels in the contemplation of sensuous beauty, and is made drunk with its soft enchantments. He deals not largely in the expressions of tender sentiment which usually take up so much space in amatory poetry, but is dazzled and absorbed by the spectacle of breathing loveliness in a form of flesh and blood. His language has an almost Oriental luxuriance, teeming with images and illustrations from the richest sources of the universe, and often too intensely colored to please a refined natural taste. Some of his smaller and less ambitious pieces have the most in them of the subtle essence of poetry, and are frequently clothed in a din ion of sweet and delicate beauty. Few will call in question the claims of Gerald Massey to genuine poetical fire and imagination; but ns few will maintain that he can hold a place among England's great poets wilhoutaseverecourse of pruning, study, and self-discipline. ^

Famous Persons and Places, by N. Parker WilLis, is a new volume of the author's collected works, comprising sketches of British society, and notices of celebrated individuals, in the charming style of elaborate carelessness and quaint felicity of phrase, which stamp all the productions of his pen as 'unique and inimitable. Apart from their characteristic originality of expression, many of the portraitures in this volume possess a historical value, which will increase in proportion as the living present which they describe fades into the dimness of the past. Although written, in the first instance, for an ephemeral class of publications, they are destined to hold an enduring place in modem literature. (Published by Charles Scribnor.)

Hermit's Dell, from the Diary of a Penciler, belongs to a department of literature which presents a dangerous temptation to young writers, from its apparent facility, but in which few can attain even an approach to the mastery exhibited by Washington Irving, and in a less degree by Ik. Marvel. It consists of descriptions of rural life, tender reminiscences of by-gone scenes, and a vein of gentle moralizing, which combines the humorous and pathetic. Few productions of this class, short of dead failures, are devoid of elements of popular interest. The volume before us has many excellent points and deserves success. It is earnest and thoughtful, inspired by a genial love of country scenes, and written for the most part with simplicity and grace. The name of the author is not given ; but he is evidently a person of quick sympathies and varied culture. (Published by J. C. Derby.)

The article on Miss Martinrau's translation of Comte's Positive Philosophy, in a recent number of the North American Review, is made the subject of severe comment in the London Leader. Having quoted the " scandalous commencement," it says: "After this specimen of the writer's controversial style, it is unnecessary to say that he is peevish and shallow throughout. A great deal of vinegar has been poured upon Comte by the Reviews; but we did not expect such weak vinegar from a Transatlantic Quarterly. A thorough discussion of Comte and his doctrines from the true antagonistic point —and that point, we believe, is to be found in the philosophy of Sir William Hamilton, or thereabouts —is still a desideratum. Kant or Comte, transcendentalism or positivism—rAaf, after all. is the alternative ; and all midway exposition and doctrinizing, is (if the conditions of real speculative discussion are to be attended to) but cleverness and mystification. One other course, indeed, there is for those whose natures refuse to saddle themselves with the 'conditions of speculative discussion'—and that is 'to keep clear of the whole subject, follow their own I noses as well as they can, and let Kant and Comte whirl antagonistically, like two windmills on the distant heights. If they arc asked which windmill they believe in, they con say ' I see both.'"

The same journal offers some remarks on a wellknown London publisher, John Chapman, that are more terse than complimentary:

"Among London publishers Mr. Chapman stands without a rival for exquisite taste in the merely mechanical part of his occupation. But just in the degree that he is before them all in this respect is he inferior to most of them in discrimination and judgment. He is always rash when he should be cautious, and timid when he should be bold. Hence the works he offers us are in general either heavy or hideous—bores or brutalities. Unitarian dullness, Comte crudity, Feuerbach effrontery, intellectual Bloomerism, and Andrew Jackson Davis, the Poughkeepsic seer, must in the end sink the Theodore Parker ship which Mr. Chapman commands, which has always flaunted scores of gaudy flags from its masts, but never hoisted any sails."

In his late gossipy work, Mr. Patmore gives the following account of the contradictory feelings with which Charles Lamr regarded the visits of his friends. It affords an interesting peep into human nature:

"It is not the less true that Lamb was, for the moment, delighted at the advent of an unlooked-for friend, even though he was thereby interrupted in the midst of one of these beatific communings. But they must have read his character ill, or with little interest, who did not perceive that, after the pleasant excitement of the moment was over, he became restless, uneasy, and ' busied about many things'— about any thing, rather than the settling down quietly into a condition of mind or temper even analogous to that from which the new arrival had irretrievably roused him, for that day at least. Feeling the unseasonable disturbance as such, yet not for a moment admitting it to be such, even to himself, he became over-anxious to show you how welcome you were, doing half a dozen things in a breath, to prove the feeling, every one of which, if read aright, proved something very like the reverse. If it happened to be about dinner-time, he would go into the kitchen to see if it was ready, or put on his hat and go out to order an additional supply of porter, or open a bottle of wine and pour some out—taking a glass himself to set you the example, as he innocently imagined, but in reality to fortify himself for the task of hospitality that you had imposed upon him; any thing, in fact, but sit quietly down by the fire and enjoy your company, or let you enjoy his. And if you happened to arrive when dinner or tea was over, he was perfectly fidgety, and almost cross, till you were fairly seated at the meal which he and his excellent sister insisted on providing for you, whether you would or not. It is true that, by the time all these preliminaries were over, he had recovered his ease, and was really glad to see you; and if you had come to stay the night, when the shutters were shut, and the candles came, and you were comfortably seated round the fire, he was evidently pleased and bettered by the occasion thus afforded for a dish of cosey table-talk. But not the less true is it that every knock at the door sent a pang to his heart; and this without any distinction of persons: whoever it might be, he equally welcomed and wished them away; and all for the same reason— namely, that they called him from the company of his own thoughts, or those still better communings with the thoughts of his dead friends, with whom he could hold an intercourse unclogged by any actual bodily presence. In these respects Lamb resembled the lover in Martial's epigram: he could neither live with his friends nor without them. If they stayed away from him long, he was hurt and angry; and when they went to him he was put out."

Practice has made us tolerably perfect in this art. Having been in the habit of hearing a great many sermons, and being at the same time afflicted or blessed (whichever you choose to call it) with a constitutional tendency to reverie, which the pew-attitude naturally fosters, we long ago discovered that it was totally unnecessary to attend to a preacher throughout, and that we could delegate to the ear the business of watching for us, and keeping us duly informed when any thing good was going on, forth* reception of which it might be worth while to waken up the intelligence. We have acquired a similar knack in reading. We believe we are conscientious reviewers, and just reviewers; and yet we confess we don't read through all the books and all the periodicals we pronounce opinions upon. We look at the outside of a book or a periodical; we read the preface, the list of contents, and all those outer scraps which give us the general physiognomy of the book; then we sit down, paper-knife in hand, and cut up all the pages punctually from the first to the last, hovering all the while over the pages, like a hawk, glancing at the headings of chapters, at suggestive words and proper names in the text, descending leisurely for a closer view when any thing attracts us, and swooping down rapidly and greedily wherever we descry a tit-bit. We don't say that that would be conscientious reviewing for a Quartcrly-maa, intrusted with the task of giving a verdict on one book; but we do say it is conscientious reviewing for the purpose of a literary summary. And we beg to say, cursory as the style of proceeding may seem, it is in our case perfectly satisfactory. We are such adepts in the 'art of skipping,' our instinct for what is good is so fine and so catholic at the same time, that, if we once have used our paper-knife on a publication, we are sure of having accurately diagnosed it, and not missed any of its tit-bits. Our golden rule, however, is to cut open all the leaves from end to end. All depends on that."

A brisk London reviewer in a weekly journal thus lets out the secrets of his "dreadful trade:"

"To have some twelve or twenty periodicals before you, and to have to go over them, so as to ascertain their contents, and report on their merits, is the best possible training in the 'art of skipping.'

Mrs. Ann S. Stephens's popular novel Fashion and Famine has been issued in London, and excites attention from the press. The following are the comments of The Leader:

"It has great defects. In the first place, an American novel should be something out of the old beaten track of the commonplace contrasts of conventional society; and though the scene of this romance is laid in or about the 'Upper Ten Thousand' and the 'Fifth Avenue' of the Empire tity, still the characters are all French, and the treatment is very English. In the next place, the plot is grotesquely impossible, the leading motives of the action are grandly incredible; and the novel, from first to last, is spoiled by an obtrusion of the flimsy philosophy in which some ' females'indulge when, having got pen in hand, they begin to point out how much better it is to be good than bad. These are startling faults; and yet the novel is far above the average, and is read with engrossing interest. This, we believe, is because Mrs. Stephens has got a decided genius for telling and developing a story. There is power—dramatic power—here; and as it is, as she states in her preface, her first novel, we are inclined to anticipate a series of successes for her."

Of the new volume of Mr. Bancroft's History of the American Revolution, the London Atheneeum remarks, ,

"This volume completes a second part of Mr. Bancroft's great design. The first series of volumes told the story of America from the days of discovery to the opening of the troubles between England and her colonies. The second aeries, now brought to a close, carries on the story during these troubles. The next stage of the journey brings thehistorian to the War of Independence. Asyetwehave not come to the resistance by force; but we close this new volume with the blare of trumpets and the neighing of the war-horse in our ears.

"The historian goes at a canter over a vast deal of uneven ground in this volume. The narrative is, as usual, animated and pictorial; but it is perhaps on the whole less picturesque than in former volumes. It is so of necessity. Penn in the midst of his Indians—the Pilgrim Fathers on the deck of the Mayflower—make striking and pictorial figures with little aid from the artist; but the case is different when the foreground is occupied by George the Third's pigtail and Franklin's bob-wig. The writer is not always to be blamed because his personages are commonplace and his materials intractable. The action of this volume takes placed chiefly in the | King's antechamber; and, like the locality and the men who people it, it is sometimes a little tedious.

"The next portion of the historian's labors, if he shall find time and courage to continue them, will have a more exciting theme and a nobler field. Meantime, we have now acquired from Mr. Bancroft a clear, connected, readable narrative of the long series of events which in North America preceded the war which made it an independent empire.

The recent admirable contribution to Shakspearian literature by Mr. White is thus spoken of by the London Leader:

"Under the reverential title of Shakspeare's Scholar, an American journalist, Mr. Richarn Grant White, undertakes to rescue his great master from the hands of Dryasdust. Profoundly and undisguisedly he hates the tribe of commentators, and unmeasured is the contempt which he entertains for Mr. Collier's folio of 1632. Therein he finds that poetry is turned to prose, dullness substituted for wit, dramatic propriety exalted, the context disregarded, and the really important alterations destitute of novelty. According to Mr. White, Shakspeare is his own interpreter. 'It is folly to say that the writings of such a man need notes and comments to enable readers of ordinary intelligence to apprehend their full meaning. There is no pretense for the intrusion of such aids, except the fact that Shakspeare wrote two hundred and fifty years ago; and this seems to be but a pretense.' We gladly weleome this addition to Shakspearian literature from the other side of the Atlantie."

The correspondent of the Athenamm at Rome has the following notices of American artists:

"A pupil of Gibson's deserves honorable mention, Miss Hosmer, daughter of an American physician at Boston. She has done two or three busts, which are beautifully chiseled, and a head of Medusa: young, lovely, and graceful, her locks are growing into tangled snakes.

"From Mr. Gibson's I pass to Mr. Crawford's studio; where every thing now yields to the grand work ordered by the United States Government. It is to be of statuary marble, and is to be placed at the eastern extremity of the Capitol extension at Washington. As it engages much of the attention of the artistic world, I will give a detailed description of what it is to be; for at present nothing is to Vol. IX.—No. 53.—Y V

be seen but huge portions of plaster models. The central figure of the pediment represents America standing on a rock, against which the waves of the ocean are beating. She is attended by the eagle of the country; while the sun rising at her feet indicates the light which accompanies the march of liberty. In one hand she holds the rewards of civic and military merit—laurel and oak wreaths; her left hand is extended toward the pioneer, for whom she asks the protection of the Almighty. The pioneer is the athletic figure of a backwoodsman clearing the forest. The Indian race and its extinction is explained by the adjoining group of the Indian chief and family. The son of the chief is returning from the chase, with a collection of game slung on a spear over his shoulder. In the statue of the Indian chief, Mr. Crawford has endeavored to describe the despair and profound grief resulting from his conviction of the white man's triumph. The wife and infant of the chief complete this group of figures; while the grave, being emblematic of the extinction of the Indian race, fills up this portion. The opposite half of the pediment is devoted to the effects of Liberty and Civilization. The first figure on the right of America represents its Soldier. He is clothed in the costume of the Revolution, as being most suggestive of the country's struggle for independence; his hand upon his sword indicates the readiness of the army to protect America from insult. By the soldier is placed a Merchant, sitting on the emblcms of trade; his right hand rests upon the globe, by which the extent of American commerce is symbolized. The anchor at his feet connects this figure with those of two boys advancing cheerfully to devote themselves to the service of their country. The anchor is easily understood to be the emblem of Hope; behind them sits the Teacher instructing a youth. The Mechanic completes the group. He rests upon the cog-wheel, without which machinery is useless. In his hands are the emblems of trade ; and at his feet are some sheaves of corn, expressive of fertility, activity, and abundance, in contradistinction to the grave at the corresponding corner."

A pleasing tribute from one nobly gifted mind to another of like stamp is found in a sonnet just addressed to Miss Mitforn by Walter Savaoe Lannor:

TO MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.
The hay is carried; and the Hours
Snatch, as they pass, the linden-flow'rs;
And children leap to pluck a spray
Bent earthward, and then run away.
Park-keeper! catch mo those grave thieves
About whose frocks the fragrant leaves,
Sticking and fluttering here and there.
No false nor faltering witness bear.

I never view such scenes as these,
In grassy meadow girt with trees,
But comes a thought of her who now
Sits with serenely patient brow
Amid deep sufferings: none hath told
More pleasant tales to young and old.
Fondest was she of Father Thames,
But rambled to Hellenic streams;
Nor even there could any tell
The country's purer charms so well
Ar Mary Mitford.

Verse! go forth
And breathe o'er gentle breasts her worth.

Needless the task bf t should she see

One hearty wish from you and mo,
A moment's pain it may assuage —
A rose-leaf on the couch of Age.

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