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umes told the story of America from the days of discovery to the opening of the troubles between England and her colonies. The second series, now brought to a close, carries on the story during these troubles. The next stage of the journey brings the his. torian 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 place 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 end 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't Scholar, an American journalist, Mr. Richard 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 Atlantic."

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. 63.—Y y

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 emblems 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 w hich 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 Mitford by Walter Savaoe Landor:


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 me 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
As Mary Mitford.

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

Needless the task hjt should she see

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

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