Chapter VIII: Part 8

"By the way," said I, "we had better decide upon the manner of running away. Crop is a tall fellow and long in the legs. It will not do for us to keep together. My plan is this--I will dive into the alley, leading up to the city hotel, cross St. Peter's street and get into the Jesuits's grounds.[3] You had better take to the opposite side-walk, for you will be perfectly safe there, as you may turn the left corner of St. Peter, and skim away towards the _Soeurs Gris_, before Tim can climb to that side of the street. When we have confounded the chase, we will rendezvous in front of the _Petit Seminaire_, in College street. We shall be near the Mansion House, where we may refresh ourselves with a bottle of Martinant's London particular, and call at Fenella's on our way home."

[Footnote 3: These grounds have since been devoted to public use, and are now intersected by Lemoine, St. Helen, and Recolet streets. They were formerly attached to the religious establishment of the brotherhood, the building of which faced upon Notre Dame street, and were filled with noble elms, all of which have I believe fallen beneath the axe. The accommodations were spacious; but the buildings, with the exception of the Recolet church, which occupies nearly a centre position, had been appropriated to other than monastic uses long before my recollection. During and just after the last war they were used as the barracks of a regiment of British infantry, and at the grated windows which once let in the light upon the ascetic pursuits and rigid ceremonials of these bigoted religionists--soldiers were seen scouring their muskets or whitening their belts. More recently, the southern portion has been occupied as a Young Ladies Seminary, and the northern as the City Watch-house. The buildings had become public property by the operation of some condition relative to the decrease of the numbers of the order. One only was alive in my time; and he was often seen in the streets, wearing a small black skull cap, and a long black robe fastened around his body by a white woollen girdle. The Recolet church is to this day a place of Catholic worship, opened on stated days and uncommon occasions. Whether it has been embellished or altered since I saw it, I know not--but at that time it presented a melancholy appearance of decay and dilapidation. It was remarkable for a rude carving over the entrance representing two hands and arms issuing out of the sea, and crossing each other. The carving was colored most unnaturally, and the waves of the sea resembled a congregation of pewter platters.]

"I see no objection to your plan, Pertinax, only that your part of it is the most hazardous. If Crop pursues, he will naturally stick to his own side-walk, and you must leap in front of him from the street into the alley."

"Oh, never fear for me--I shall be scudding through the old Jesuits's elms, long before he will find the hole by which I make my escape. Recollect the rendezvous at the College."

Our plan of retreat having been settled, we mounted into the middle of the street, and were in two minutes opposite the devoted shop-window. The lights burned brightly, and at a glance we saw that there was no one within but Crop and a little boy. The window was filled with bottles of _Eau de Cologne_, _Eau de jasmin_, _extrait de bergamotte_, with pots of _pommade extraordinaire_, and the like; and there still hung the offending caricatures. We were elevated some feet above the window, and it presented the finest imaginable mark.

"Now," said Cleaveland, "let us separate a few paces, that we may give our object a raking fire, and do the more execution."

We were just about to proceed to business, when the sharp sound of a horse's hoofs rang upon the ice near the corner of St. Peter's street. We drew back from the glare of the window to allow the horse and his rider to pass--when, as they approached us, we perceived Marryatt, mounted on his shaggy Shetland pony.

"Hey dey," said he, as we made our appearance--"what mischief is in the wind now?"

"Stay a moment," said I, "and see us demolish Crop's bow window."

"Oh ho, is that the project? Well I will witness the crash, as I have especial means of escape. I cannot say as much for you or Cleaveland. Crop will catch one or both of you to a certainty."

"That is our own concern--but he shall have a race for it. Stay where you are Marryatt, and witness the performance."

Cleaveland and I then approached the window, and levelling our billets simultaneously, they fell with unerring aim in the centre of the window, scattering pictures, pomatum and perfumery in every direction. A second billet from each of us completed the work of destruction, and we took to our heels. Cleaveland slipped down to the pavement on the opposite side, and vanished in an instant. I was about ten paces from the alley, (which entered St. Paul street on the same side with the barber's shop,) but before I had cleared that short distance, I was sensible that Crop was in pursuit. From the high ridge of ice on which I stood, to the pavement was at least five feet, and on coming opposite the alley I made a flying leap across the side-walk into its entrance. But alas for human hopes!--I had neglected to substitute a pair of shoes for my boots on coming out, and my boot heels were covered with plates of brass, in conformity to a very ridiculous fashion. I cleared the side-walk in gallant style; but I alighted on my heels in a spot covered with the smoothest ice. The consequence was, that my feet flew from under me, and I fell prostrate. But this was not the worst--I struck my knee upon the ice with a force which might have broken a joint of iron. I made an effort to rise, which was at first ineffectual. The sound of Timothy's feet struck on my ear as he turned the corner. He was within two paces of me, and in a second more would have stumbled over me in the dark. But the idea of being captured gave me sudden vigor, and overcame the pain of my bruised knee. I sprang upon my feet, and bounded away towards the entrance of the City Hotel, turned short to the left, and crossing St. Peter's street by another alley, kept on under the wall of Thatcher's livery stables.

Rapidly as I had taken leave of Timothy, he had not lost sight of me for a second, until I turned the farther corner of the stables. At this point there had been, a few weeks previous, a gap in the enclosure of the Jesuits's grounds, through which I had often passed; and by means of this opening I had intended to lead the chase into those grounds, with all the turnings of which I was well acquainted, and where a number of old elms would serve to cover my retreat.

What was my consternation on reaching the spot, to find that the opening had been closed! I was completely cornered, without means of escape, except by the steep path up which I had come. Along that path I heard the footsteps of my pursuer, as he picked his way in the dark. Not a moment was to be lost, and my determination was instantly taken. I again turned the corner of the stables, and ran down the path with my utmost speed, intending to overthrow Timothy by running against him. As I approached him, he stopped, and seeming to comprehend my object, veered a little from the path, so as to break the force of the shock, and grasped at me with both his hands.

And here but for my boot heels I might have escaped; but again they failed me, I slipped, and Timothy and I were rolling on the ground together--he clutching to hold me fast, and I struggling to get away. By mutual consent we soon rose upon our feet--he still holding on with the tenacity of a bull-dog, upon the collar and breast of my clothing.

I had not lived five years in Montreal without becoming sensible of the value of _science_ in the use of the fist, and I had taken a series of rude lessons from an Irish sergeant--Fuller not having then appeared in Canada to teach the 'manly art of self-defence.' The moment that we were on our feet, I attacked Timothy, in hopes that he would loosen his hold in showing fight, and give me another opportunity of escape. But he was a philosopher in his way, and did not regard pugilistic _punishment_ so much as the retention of his prisoner. He allowed me therefore to _mill_ him without mercy, dodging to avoid my blows, but making no offensive demonstration. I pommelled him severely, and might possibly have broken his hold by my repeated attacks, but for the slippery place on which we stood. Several times I lost my footing and came to the ground. At last yielding to necessity, I relinquished the contest and walked quietly with him to the street, determined when on better ground, to make another effort for liberty.

Instead of returning towards his shop, as I supposed he would have done, he turned up St. Peter's street, and led the way towards Notre Dame. I did not then perceive his object--perhaps I was too much flurried to think of it. We paced along in a very friendly manner, until we reached the corner of St. Sacrament street, running midway between and parallel with St. Paul's and Notre Dame. Here the snow was firm, and the spot inviting to my purpose, for St. Sacrament offered me a number of places of retreat, where I might have defied the scent of my antagonist.

At this corner therefore I made a halt, and while Timothy was endeavoring to force me forward, I struck him a right handed blow in the face, which made him bound from his feet and brought him down like a shot. But true to his object he still held to my coat with his right hand, and while I was endeavoring to disengage his grasp, he rose again to his feet, and matters assumed their former aspect. Grown desperate by my disappointment, I fell upon Timothy without mercy, hitting right and left whenever I could bring him within the range of my blows--for he avoided many of them by leaping aside. At length a chance blow took effect on his throat and I was momentarily freed from his hold, but I was so weakened by my exertions that I stumbled, and again measured my length on the snow. Before I could recover myself, Timothy had as firm a grasp upon me as ever.

Up to this time, not a syllable had passed the lips of either: but at this juncture, Timothy opened his mouth, and to some purpose, bellowing "Watch!" at the top of his voice. Instantly the rattles were heard at no great distance; and Timothy repeating the call, we were soon surrounded by half a dozen watchmen, with staves, rattles and lanterns.

I saw plainly that the game was up with me, and yielding with a good grace, I followed them in silence. I was much surprised to find that we had turned the left corner of Notre Dame Street, and were entering the decayed gate of a building which was once an appendage of the Recolet Church, and part of the establishment of the decayed brotherhood of Loyola. This building had recently been occupied as a watchhouse; a fact of which I was ignorant, or master Timothy Crop would not have led me so easily into the lion's den.

We entered the building, and found ourselves in a rude barrack-like room, around which were the "guardians of the night," as they are poetically termed, sitting, standing, and lying--eating, drinking, and smoking. They were nearly all Canadians; and in their blue and grey _capots_ with the addition of slouched hats, they might have been taken for a gang of banditti in their cavern.

When the door closed upon us, and not 'till then, Timothy Crop loosened his hold upon my raiment. I turned to look at him, and saw sufficient proof that my blows, although aimed in the dark, had not been made in vain. His visage exhibited various contusions, and streams of _claret_ were trickling from his nostrils. But Timothy, to do him justice, was true _game_; and he returned the smile which his pickle brought into my face, with a triumphant expression that raised him much in my estimation.

While we were eyeing each other an inner door opened, and the captain of the watch made his appearance. Timothy gave me in charge, and the man of authority conducted me with all due ceremony into his innermost den, where he invited me to take a seat by the stove, and pointing to a dirty straw pallet in a corner of the room, gave me to understand that upon it I was to spend my first night in a watch-house.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following translations pretend to no other merit than fidelity. The only aim of the translator has been to give as literal a version as the genius of the languages would permit. He has not presumed to blend his own with the pure conception of his author, or to obscure with ornament the inimitable beauty of his chaste, unaffected expression; he regrets that the necessity of a measure has obliged him more than once perhaps, to expand a thought whose concentration he admired:--the sin, however, was involuntary.

Lib. 1. Ode v. AD PYRRHAM.

Quis multâ gracilis te puer in rosâ
Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
Cui flavam religas comam,
Simplex munditiis? heu! quoties fidem,
Mutatosque Deos flebit, et aspera
Nigris æquora ventis
Emirabitur insolens,
Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aureâ:
Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem
Sperat, nescius auræ
Fallacis! miseri, quibus
Intenta nites. Me tabulâ sacer
Votivâ paries indicat uvida
Suspendisse potenti
Vestimenta maris Deo.

Translation.

What slender youth whom liquid odors lave,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave
Pyrrha?--for whom with care
Bind'st thou thy yellow hair
Plain in thy neatness? Oft alas! shall he
On faith and changed Gods complain, and sea
Rough with black tempests ire
Unwonted shall admire!
Who now enjoys thee credulous--all gold--
For him still vacant, lovely to behold
Hopes thee: of treacherous breeze
Unmindful. Hapless these
To whom untried thou shinest dazzling fair.
Me Neptune's walls, with tablet vowed, declare
My shipwrecked weeds unwrung
To the sea's potent God to have hung.

* * * * *

ADRIANUS AD ANINAVULAM.

Animula, vagula, blandula;
Hospes, comesque corporis!
Quo nunc abibis in loco
Pallidula, rigida, nudula?
Nec ut soles dabis jocos.

Translation.

Little rambling, coaxing sprite,
Tenant and comrade of this clay,
Into what distant regions say
Pale, naked, cold, wingst thou thy flight?
Nor wilt thou joke as wont in former day.

* * * * *

Lib. 1. Ode xxxv. AD FORTUNAM.

O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium,
Præsens vel imo tollere de gradu
Mortale corpus, vel superbos
Vertere funeribus triumphos:
Te pauper ambit solicitâ prece
Ruris colonus; te dominam æquoris,
Quicunque Bithynâ lacessit
Carpathium pelagus carinâ.
Te Dacus asper, te profugi Scythæ,
Urbesque, gentesque, et Latium ferox,
Regumque matres barbarorum, et
Purpurei metuunt tyranni,
Injurioso ne pede proruas
Stantem columnam; neu populos frequens
Ad arma cessantes ad arma
Concitet, imperiumque frangat.
Te semper anteit sæva Necessitas,
Clavos trabales et cuneos manu
Gestans ahenâ; nec severus
Uncus abest, liquidumque plumbum.
Te Spes, et albo rara Fides colit
Velata panno, nec comitem abnegat,
Utcunque mutatâ potentes
Veste domos inimica linquis.
At vulgus infidum, et meretrix retro
Perjura cedit: diffugiunt cadis
Cum fæce siccatis amici,
Ferre jugum pariter dolosi.
Serves iturum Cæsarem in ultimos
Orbis Britannos, et juvenum recens
Examen Eois timendum
Partibus, Oceanoque Rubro.
Eheu! cicatricum et sceleris pudet,
Fratrumque: quid nos dura refugimus
Ætas? quid intactum nefasti
Liquimus? unde manum juventus
Metu Deorum continuit? quibus
Pepercit aris? O! utinam novâ
Incude diffingas retusum in
Massagetas Arabasque ferrum.

Translation. TO FORTUNE.

Goddess whose mandate lovely Antium sways,
Prompt at thy will from humblest grade to raise
Weak mortals, or proud triumphs turn
To the sad funeral urn!
Thee the poor rustic sues with anxious prayer:
Thee, Arbitress of Ocean all revere,
Who with Bithynian keel adventurous brave
The rough Carpathian wave.
Thee wandering Scythians, thee the Dacian boor
Cities and nations, Latium fierce adore:
Mothers of barbarous kings grow pale,
Tyrants in purple quail
Lest with insulting foot thou spurn their proud,
Unshaken column: lest th' assembled crowd
Laggards to arms, to arms should wake,
And their dominion break.
Ruthless Necessity before thy band
Forever walks: in her resistless hand
Wedges and spikes: the hook severe
And molten lead still near.
Thee Hope attends, and spotless Faith so rare,
Robed in pure white: nor then departs whene'er,
With vestments changed and hostile lower,
Thou leav'st th' abodes of power.
But shrink the faithless herd and perjured quean:
Friends too skulk off, the casks drained dry, unseen:
Too treacherous equally to brook
Adversity's hard yoke.
Guard Cæsar bound 'gainst Britain's distant land,
Limit of earth--preserve the new-formed band
Of Youths, by Eastern realms to be
Feared, and by the Red Sea!
Alas! I blush for public crimes and rage;
For brothers too: what have we, hardened age,
Eschewed? what vice untried disdained?
When have our youth restrained
Their hands through fear of Heav'n? what altars spared?
Grant to reforge, on anvil new-prepared,
From civil strife our blunted swords,
'Gainst Scythian and Arabian hordes!

* * * * *

Lib. 3. Ode iii.

Justum, et tenacem propositi virum
Non civium ardor prava jubentium,
Non vultus instantis tyranni
Mente quatit solidâ, neque Auster,
Dux inquieti turbidus Adriæ,
Nec fulminantis magna Jovis manus:
Si fractus illabatur orbis,
Impavidum ferient ruinæ.
Hâc arte Pollux, et vagus Hercules
Innixus, arces attigit igneas:
Quos inter Augustus recumbens
Purpureo bibit ore nectar.
Hâc te merentem, Bacche pater, tuæ
Vexêre tigres, indocili jugum
Collo trahentes: hâc Quirinus
Martis equis Acheronta fugit.

Translation.

The upright man tenacious of design,
Nor civil rage commanding acts malign,
Nor tyrant's frown,[1] in fierce career,
Shakes in his firm resolve with fear:
Nor Auster, restless Adria's stormy king,
Nor Jove's strong hand upraised the bolt to wing.
Should Heaven's burst vault sink on his head
The wreck would strike him undismayed.
Pollux, and wandering Hercules, sustained
By arts like these, the starry summits gained,
Mid whom reclining Cæsar sips
Rich nectar with empurpled lips;
Thee, Bacchus, thus deserving virtue's prize
With yoke on neck indocile to the skies
Thy tigers bore--thus Rhea's son
On steeds of Mars 'scaped Acheron.

[Footnote 1: _Glance_ would perhaps be more expressive. Translator.]

* * * * *

Lib. 2. Ode xvi. AD GROSPHUM.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti
Prensus Ægoeo, simul atra nubes
Condidit Lunam, neque certa fulgent
Sidera nautis;
Otium bello furiosa Thrace,
Otium Medi pharetrâ decori,
Grosphe, non gemmis, neque purpura ve-
nale, nec auro.
Non enim gazæ, neque consularis
Summovet lictor miseros tumultus
Mentis, et curas laqueata circum
Tecta volantes.
Vivitur parvo bene, cui paternum
Splendet in mensâ tenui salinum;
Nec leves somnos timor aut Cupido
Sordidus aufert.
Quid brevi fortes jaculamur oevo
Multa? quid terras alio calentes
Sole mutamus? patriæ quis exul
Se quoque fugit?
Scandit æratas vitiosa naves
Cura; nec turmas equitum relinquit,
Ocior cervis, et agente nimbos
Ocior Euro.
Loetus in præsens animus, quod ultra est
Oderit curare, et amara lento
Temperet risu. Nihil est ab omni
Parte beatum.
Abstulit clarum cita mors Achillem:
Longa Tithonum minuit senectus:
Et mihi forsan, tibi quod negârit,
Porriget hora.
Te greges centum, Siculæque circum
Mugiunt vaccoe; tibi tollit hinnitum
Apta quadrigis equa: te bis Afro
Murice tinctæ
Vestiunt lanoe: mihi parva rura, et
Spiritum Graioe tenuem Camenoe
Parca non mendax dedit, et malignum
Spernere Vulgus.

Translation. TO GROSPHUS.

For ease, to Heaven the seaman prays,
Caught in the wide Ægean seas
When black clouds wrap the sky,
Nor moon nor well known star to guide
His barque along the treacherous tide,
Shines to his practised eye.
For ease the Thracian fierce in fight
And Parthian graced with quiver light,
To Heaven incessant sigh.
Ease, which nor gold, nor gems can buy,
Nor robes of Tyria's costly dye.
For wealth or power can quell
No wretched tumults of the breast,
Nor cares, aye fluttering without rest,
Round sculptured domes, dispel.
Well does he live in humble state,
Whose father's salt-stand--his sole plate,
Shines on his frugal board.
Nor fears to lose disturb his rest,
Nor sordid avarice goads his breast
To gain a useless hoard.
Why daring aim beyond our span,
Through distant years at many a plan
When life so brief we find?
Why long 'neath other suns to roam?
What exile from his native home
Has left himself behind?
Fell care ascends the brazen poop,
Nor yet forsakes the horseman's troop,
Outstrips the stag and wind.
Pleased with the present--ills beyond,
The man who loves not to despond,
To trace will wisely shun:
And when they come with tempering smile
The bitter of his cup beguile
Or sweeten ere 'tis done.
In youth the great Peleides sunk,
With tardy age Tithonus shrunk,
For nought is wholly blest.
So time perhaps extends for me
The hour he still denies to thee,
Of choicest gifts possest.
Thee--numerous flocks and herds surround,
Thy neighing coursers paw the ground,
For princely chariot meet.
Rich fleeces steeped in murex bright
Invest thy limbs with purple light
And flow around thy feet.
To me content, veracious heaven
A little farm to till has given
In independence proud,
A gentle breath of Grecian muse
Its airy visions to infuse
And scorn the envious crowd.

CRITICAL NOTICES AND LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.

_Visit to the American Churches, by Doctors Reed and Matheson; 2 vols. New York: Harpers._--This work is excellent in its way--being a fine addition to the already numerous commentaries of the English upon our country. The writers, in the present instance, were delegated, about two years since, by the dissenting churches in Great Britain, to visit the United States, for inquiry into our religious condition and character, and were favorably received by our countrymen. They have shown themselves peculiarly free from unworthy prejudice, and have gleaned, with indefatigable zeal, and surprising accuracy, a mass of secular as well as religious information in relation to the United States. The book consists of six hundred closely printed pages, abounding with acute comment, and replete with valuable statistical details. It has a value, too, particularly its own, as exhibiting the real views of two well-educated English clergymen upon the _religious_, more especially than upon the political and social aspect of our land. The volumes are well written, and likely to do much good in England as well as in the United States. Our readers will remember Doctor Reed as the author of _No Fiction_, and _Martha_, both of which publications were favorably noticed in a former number of the Messenger.

_The Black Watch, by the author of the Dominie's Legacy; 2 vols. E. L. Carey and A. Hart._--This is perhaps the best of all the writings of this author. The _soubriquet_ of "The Black Watch" is familiar in the anecdotary annals of our country. We all remember its celebrity at Crown Point, and among the wild doings at Lake George. We should be pleased, did it not interfere too much with our arrangements, to give an extract from this novel in our present number. We must, however, confine ourselves to a general recommendation.

_Magpie Castle; 1 vol.: by Theodore Hook. E. L. Carey and A. Hart._--This is one of the finest trifles we have had the pleasure of looking into for many years. Hook is a writer more entirely original in his manner of thinking and speaking than many of his literary brethren who possess a greater reputation.

_The American Journal of Science and the Arts, by Benjamin Silliman, M.D., L.L.D. &c. Vol. XXVII--No. 11. New Haven: Hezekiah Howe & Co._--We are glad to see that this admirable Journal is no longer in immediate danger of decline. It is the only work of the kind in the United States, and it would be positively disgraceful to let it perish from a want of that patronage which, in the opinion of all proper judges, it so pre-eminently deserves. We perceive a suggestion in the New York American on this subject--an appeal to the lovers of sound knowledge, calling upon them for their aid in behalf of the Journal, and urging them not to let slip any opportunity of speaking a word in its favor. To this appeal we take pleasure in cordially responding. We positively can call to mind, at this moment, _no work whatever_, more richly deserving of support; and it _must_ be supported, if only for the justice of the thing--it _will_ be supported, we believe, for the credit of the country. The present number, among many well written articles of pure science, contains not a few of universal and practical interest to the people. We beg leave also to call the attention of our readers to the very interesting paper entitled "An Ascent to the summit of the Popocatepetl, the highest point of the Mexican Andes, eighteen thousand feet above the level of the sea." We have been nearly tempted to extract the entire article.

_The Manual of Phrenology; 1 vol. 350 pp. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard._ This is a summary of Dr. Gall's system, and a translation from the fourth Paris edition. We might as well make up our minds to listen patiently.

_Recollections of an Excursion to the Monasteries of Alcobaca and Batalha, by Beckford, the author of Vathek,_ have been recently published in London. We have had occasion before to speak of the author of Vathek, and, without having seen this his last production, we have taken up an idea that it must bear a family resemblance to that heterogeneous, tumid, and blasphemous piece of _Easternism_, by which Mr. Beckford has acquired so much notoriety. We hope not, however, for the writer's sake, who is undoubtedly a man of genius and fine imagination. However this matter may eventuate--whether we prove to be true prophets, or false--one thing is certain: the work of which we are now speaking, as indeed any book whatever from the same pen, will be read with eagerness; and this for no better reason which we can discover, than that the world have habituated themselves to mix up in their fancy the mind and writings with the former fine house and furniture of Mr. Beckford--the gorgeous nonsense of Vathek, with the vast and absolute magnificence of the Abbey of Fonthill. We predict for the book a rapid sale in this country. The notices which we have seen merely speak of it as a charming specimen of a book made up from nothing at all. It is said, however, to give a faithful picture of monastic life, and a sprightly view of Portugal in 1794.

P. S. It appears that we have not been altogether mistaken in our pre-supposition touching this book. The _Recollections_ consist of little more than a glowing description of monastic epicurism and _gourmandise_.

_The Wife and Woman's Reward_, by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, editress of the London Court Journal, has been republished by the Harpers. We have merely glanced at the book, and can therefore say very little about it. Mrs. Norton's name however is high authority. She has written some of the most touching verses in the language, imbued with poetry and passion; and since we saw her lately at breakfast in Frazer's Magazine, we have fallen positively in love with her, and intend to look with a favorable eye upon each and all of her future productions.

_The Brothers, a Tale of the Fronde; 2 vols. New York: Harper and Brothers._--This novel is from the pen of Mr. Herbert of New York, one of the editors of the American Monthly Magazine. Detached chapters of it have appeared from time to time in that journal, and gave indication of the glowing talent which is now so apparent in the entire work. As an historical novel, in excellent keeping, written with great fluency and richness of diction, we know of (nothing?) from the American press possessing higher claims than _The Brothers_ of Mr. Herbert.

_Letters to Young Ladies; by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney._ W. Watson of Hartford, has just published a second edition of this little volume. It contains 200 pages, and consists of twelve letters on subjects appertaining to the female character. Mrs. Sigourney blends a strong and commanding good sense, with the loftier qualities of the poet. She has written nothing which is not, in its particular way, excellent.

Hilliard, Gray & Co. have just published _The Comprehensive Pronouncing and Explanatory Dictionary of the English Language, with Pronouncing Vocabularies of Classical, Scriptural and Modern Geographical Names, by J. E. Worcester; 1 vol. 12 mo._ Also--_An Elementary Dictionary for Common Schools, &c. &c.; by the same._ The latter of these two works is merely a condensation of the former; and is in so much to be preferred, as it omits references and authority--giving, in cases of doubt, what is deemed upon the whole the proper pronunciation. The Comprehensive Dictionary was first published in 1830. Several editions have been since printed. It contains 6000 words more than Walker.

Matsells, of Chatham, New York, has published _A Few Days in Athens, being a translation of a Greek M.S. discovered in Herculaneum; by Frances Wright._--We have been sadly puzzled what idea to attach to this very odd annunciation--the book itself we have not yet been able to obtain. What it is, and what it is not, must deeply concern every lover of Fanny Wright, pure Greek, and perfect independence.

We perceive that J. N. Reynolds' Voyage of the United States' Frigate Potomac--Dr. Bird's Infidel--Tocqueville's Democracy in America--Professor Longfellow's Outre-Mer--and John P. Kennedy's Horse-Shoe Robinson--all of which we noticed favorably in the Messenger--are highly praised in the London Literary Gazette. Outre-Mer sells in that city for nearly $5--Horse-Shoe Robinson, and the Infidel, for $6 50 each.

A superb work has appeared in Paris--_Descriptions of the French Possessions in India_, viz: Views of the Coromandel and Madras Coasts--Sketches of the Temples, Gods, Costumes, &c. of the inhabitants of French India. The book is richly ornamented with lithographic plates of exquisite finish, and altogether the publication is worthy of the government under whose direction it has been gotten up.

The July number of the London New Monthly Magazine contains a portrait of Mrs. Hemans (from the bust by Angus Kecher,) engraved on steel by Thompson. This is the only likeness of Mrs. Hemans ever published. There is also an article by Willis entitled _The Gipsey of Sardis_. Since the secession of Campbell in 1831, Samuel Carter Hall has edited the New Monthly--the editorship of Bulwer only enduring for a short interval.

_Robert Gilfillan_, of Edinburg, the Scottish lyrical writer, has published a second edition of his songs. Some of them are said to be of surpassing beauty.

Mr. Hoskins' _Travels in Ethiopia above the Second Cataract of the Nile_, are very highly spoken of. The work is a large quarto; and the expense of getting it up has been so great, as to leave its author no chance of remuneration. It contains ninety illustrations, by a Neapolitan artist of great eminence. The risk attending the publication of so valuable a book, will operate to deter any American bookseller from attempting it.

The new number of Lardner's Cyclopædia is _A History of Greece, vol. 1, by the Rev. C. Thirwall, M.A., Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge_. There will be three volumes of it. Alas, for our old and valued friend, Oliver Goldsmith! The book is said to be faithful--but very stupid.

_Anecdotes of Washington, illustrative of his patriotism and courage, piety and benevolence_, is the title of one of the last of the "_Books for the Young_." It is a Scottish publication.

Sir James Mackintosh has just issued _A View of the Reign of James II, from his accession to the enterprize of the Prince of Orange. The History of the Revolution in England in 1688_, a late work by the same author, sold for three guineas: it was reprinted by the Harpers. The present book is said to be nothing more than a part of the former work in a new dress.

The Honorable Arthur Trevor has issued a volume of _The Life and Times of William III, King of England, and Stadtholder of Holland_.

_Irving's Crayon Sketches, Parts I and II_, have been reprinted in Paris by Galignani. _Fanny Kemble_ has been also reprinted there.

Captain Ross, the hero of the North Pole, is losing ground in public favor. Singular discrepancies are said to have been discovered in his last volume, between his map and his text.

_Sketches of American Literature_, by Flint, are in course of publication in the London Athenæum. They are not very highly spoken of--being called abstruse and dull.

The finest edition ever yet published of Milton's Paradise Lost, is that of Sir Egerton Brydges, of which the first volume is already issued. It contains the first six books--an engraving from Romney's picture "Milton Dictating to his Daughter," and a fine vignette, "The Expulsion," by J. M. W. Turner, R.A. The edition will be completed in six vols.

The Right Hon. J. P. Courtney has in press _Memoirs of the Life, Works, and Correspondence of Sir William Temple_.

James, the author of Darnley, has completed the _Life of Edward the Black Prince_.

Lady Dacre, who wrote the _Tales of a Chaperon_, has published _Tales of the Peerage and Peasantry_. The work is ostensibly _edited_ by Lady Dacre, but there can be no doubt of her having written it. Every lover of fine writing must remember the story of _Ellen Wareham_ in the Tales of a Chaperon. Positively we have never seen any thing of the kind more painfully interesting, with the single exception of the Bride of Lammermuir. The Tales in the present volumes are _The Countess of Nithsdale_, _The Hampshire Cottage_, and _Blanche_.

Willis' _Pencillings by the Way_ are regularly republished in the Liverpool Journal.

The _Canzoniere of Dante_ has been translated by C. Lyell with absolute fidelity, and of course with correspondent awkwardness.

Barry Cornwall's _Life of Edmund Kean_ is severely handled in Blackwood's Magazine for July.

The seventh Bridgewater Treatise has appeared in two volumes. It is by the Rev. W. Kirby, the naturalist, and treats of _The History, Habits, and Instincts of Animals_. The article on the Bridgewater Treatises in the London Quarterly (we believe,) is one of the most admirable essays ever penned--we allude to the paper entitled _The Universe and its Author_.

A second edition of _Social Evils_, by Mrs. Sherwood, has appeared. Mrs. S. is now well advanced in years.

A political novel is also in press--_Mephistopheles in England, or the Confessions of a Prime Minister_.

_The Life of Edward, Earl of Clarendon_, is in preparation by Lister, author of Granby.

Joanna Baillie is about to issue three new volumes of _Dramas on the Passions_. She is, in our opinion, the first literary lady in England.

The London Quarterly Review is especially severe on Fanny Kemble's Journal--while an article on the same subject in the last New England Review is as particularly lenient. The paper in the Quarterly is from the pen of Lockhart.

Dr. Bird is preparing for the press a new novel under the name of _The Hawks of Hawk's Hollow_. The adventures of a band of refugees, who during the revolutionary war infested the banks of the Delaware, will form the groundwork of the story.

_Halleck's Poems_ are in press, and will speedily be published. This announcement has been received with universal pleasure. As a writer of light, airy and graceful things, Halleck is inimitable.

Mr. Simms, author of the _Yemassee_, has in preparation a novel founded upon incidents in the war of the revolution in South Carolina. He will thus find himself at issue with Mr. Kennedy in Horse-Shoe Robinson. De Kalb, Marion, Gates, and a host of other worthies will figure in the pages of Mr. Simms.

We are looking for _The Gift_ with great anxiety. This annual will have few, perhaps no rivals any where. Its embellishments are of the very highest order of excellence; and a galaxy of talent has been enlisted in its behalf. It is edited by Miss Leslie, and will be issued from the press of Carey and Lea early in September.

In conclusion. Charles Kemble is reported to have said that Fanny's is, beyond doubt, the best and truest book ever published, with the exception of Byron and the Bible.

TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.

It has been our custom, hitherto, to offer some few _Editorial Remarks_ explanatory, complimentary, or otherwise, upon each individual article in every Messenger. For this we had many reasons which it will be unnecessary to mention in detail. But although, in the infancy of our journal, such a course might have seemed to us expedient, we are _now_ under no obligation to continue it. We shall therefore, for the future, suffer our various articles to speak for themselves, and depend upon their intrinsic merit for support.

In our next will appear No. VIII of the Tripoline Sketches: No. III of the Autobiography of Pertinax Placid: and many other papers which we have been forced for the present to exclude. Many poetical favors are under consideration.

We avail ourselves of this opportunity again to solicit contributions, especially from our Southern acquaintances. While we shall endeavor to render the Messenger acceptable to all, it is more particularly our desire to give it as much as possible a _Southern_ character and aspect, and to identify its interests and associations with those of the region in which it has taken root.

As one or two of the criticisms in relation to the Tales of our contributor, Mr. Poe, have been directly at variance with those generally expressed, we take the liberty of inserting here an extract from a _letter_ (signed by three gentlemen of the highest standing in literary matters) which we find in the Baltimore Visiter. This paper having offered a premium for the best Prose Tale, and also one for the best Poem--_both_ these premiums were awarded by the committee to Mr. Poe. The award was, however, subsequently altered, so as to exclude Mr. P. from the second premium, in consideration of his having obtained the higher one. Here follows the extract.

"Among the prose articles offered were many of various and distinguished merit; but the singular force and beauty of those sent by the author of the _Tales of the Folio Club_, leave us no room for hesitation in that department. We have accordingly awarded the premium to a Tale entitled _MS. found in a Bottle_. It would hardly be doing justice to the writer of this collection to say that the Tale we have chosen is the best of the six offered by him. We cannot refrain from saying that the author owes it to his own reputation, as well as to the gratification of the community, to publish the entire volume, (the Tales of the Folio Club.) These Tales are eminently distinguished by a wild, vigorous, and poetical imagination--a rich style--a fertile invention--and varied and curious learning.

(Signed)

JOHN P. KENNEDY,
J. H. B. LATROBE,
JAMES H. MILLER."

We presume this letter must set the question at rest. Lionizing is one of the Tales here spoken of--The Visionary is another. The _Tales of the Folio Club_ are sixteen in all, and we believe it is the author's intention to publish them in the autumn. When such men as Miller, Latrobe, Kennedy, Tucker, and Paulding speak unanimously of any literary productions in terms of exalted commendation, it is nearly unnecessary to say that we are willing to abide by their decision.

In every publication like ours, a brief sentence or paragraph is often wanted for the filling out a column, and in such cases it is customary to resort to selection. We think it as well, therefore, to mention that, in all similar instances, we shall make use of _original_ matter.