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SUMMER STORIES OF THE SOUTH. By T. Addison RICHARDS. In one volume: pp. 255. Philadelphia : LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO AND COMPANY.

Mr. Richards is an artist, whose progress, the result of keen observation, disciplined taste, and enhanced skill of hand, as exhibited in successive landscapes from his pencil, has been marked with pleasure by his friends. Nor, as we have had occasion heretofore to remark, in his correspondence with southern literary journals, is he deficient in the adroit use of his pen. With several of the sketches in the volume before us we were already familiar, and are glad to welcome them in their present collected form. “ Tallulah, or the Trysting-Rock,' is a stirring love-story, which will arrest the attention, and secure the admiration, of our author's lady-readers: while "Jocassee, or Il Campannetto,' will please the more rigidly romantic. We rather affect the sketch of The Phrenologist,' which is well drawn, and possesses a good degree of quiet humor. We annex an account of the triumph of 'the professor,' in one case of demonstrative manipulation, before a large audience at the southern village of Seclusaval:

"All Seclusaval was congregated in the lecture-room at the appointed hour, staring with astonished eyes at the array of plaster heads upon the table, with their mysterious intersecting lines and figures. The doctor's welcome, as he walked with solemn dignity to the rostrum, must have been exceedingly gratifying to him, especially as the assembled shouters were chiefly of an age which put them in the most valuable and profitable class of auditors. When the greeting uproar was hushed, the orator, with artistic grace, made divers changes in the geography of the casts, described sundry curves with his spotless linen cambric, glanced at his repeater, and, with a musical voice and polished action, unclosed the portals of wisdom, and let flow the stream of living words which was to enlighten and electrify assembled Seclusaval. In other phrase, he commenced his speech, and a brilliant speech it was, judging from the frequent and hearty plaudits, but it must find another reporter than ourself, for time forbids our speaking of the eloquence of the exordium; of the lucid manner in which he traced the birth and growth of the study; of the singularly comprehensive definition of the province of Phrenology; of his generous eulogium of its high-priest, Spurzheim; and, lastly, of the mighty results that were to accrue to the world from its revelations - how every character was to be instantly read, and how people might thus safely court or avoid their fellow-men, and how each might know and pursue that walk in life which heaven designed him to fill.

“Suffice it, that when the lecture was concluded, and the professor had first accurately traced the characters of Milton, Bacon, Washington, a murderer, and an idiot boy, by the developments upon the plaster heads, the only question among the audience was, who should first have the privilege of obeying the Greek proverb, Know thyself.' This honor the Doctor proffered, gratuitously, to Mr. Dobson, who had sat a moody auditor of the lecture. Mr. Dobson at first flatly refused to countenance such nonsense, but was at length prevailed upon to accede.

“As trait upon trait of Mr. Dobson's character was unfolded, the hearers, in silent wonder, acknowledged the diviner's skill.

"I find,' continued the manipulator, running his fingers over the subject's caput, 'that the organ of Argumentativeness is prominent, together with all other organs which unite and support its successful development. This, the audience may say, I know well enough from what I have read of the gentleman's works, particularly those in which he labors, and so ably, to controvert my own opinions. I admit it, and I only mention, for your satisfaction, that here the organ is, with all the prominence in which you would suppose it to exist. But further -- you have, perhaps, only seen this gentleman in his mild and even moments; you will hardly suppose that Combativeness is as strongly developed as Argumentativeness. Yet so it is, and if aroused, he will be as ready to fight as to dispute. In fact, he is naturally very quarrelsome, though his developments of Caution and Benevolence counteract the exercise of bis pugnacious humor in a great measure.'

I beg to say,' here interrupted the subject, that your last remark is satisfactory evidence of the weakness and pretension of your doctrine. Your picture of my disposition is utterly erroneous.

"You imagine so,' was the mild reply. But how seldom we know ourselves! The

organ I speak of, I see before me, as plainly developed as your nose, and I know that it cannot lie. You are given to quarrel.'

“'You are wrong, Sir, wholly wrong — I do not believe one word of your mummery!'

'Patience, my dear Sir. Time and occasion will furnish you and others proofs of my assertion.'

• It never can, Sir. I am not obstinate or quarrelsome, not in the least degree.' “You certainly are, Sir.'

Do you give me the lie, Sir?' "Only in judgment, Sir.'

“Sir! you are an arrant impostor! a pitiful humbug!' cried the patient, starting up, now fairly exasperated: “and there, sir, is my opinion of you,' he added, at the same instant bringing his right foot in such unpleasant intimacy with the doctor's person, that that worthy gentleman's bump of Amativeness was enlarged until he kissed the floor. The bully then proffered the same kind show of respect to any individual present who would presume to endorse the doctor's obnoxious opinions.

Dire and instant was the confusion in the audience. All tongues wagged against Mr. Dobson, and all sympathies were active and eloquent in favor of the other party.

*The doctor quickly regained his feet and his temper, and said quietly,' that he forgave the ill-treatment of the gentleman, as, in his intemperate conduct, he had given undeniable and ocular proof against himself, and in maintenance of the truth of his assertion that the subject's disposition was pugnacious!' The laugh against Mr. Dobson was general, and that gentleman himself, a few minutes afterwards, advanced with a very crest-fallen air, and seeming suddenly to repent his uncourteous action, very magnanimously apologized for the affront; confessed his skepticism shaken, and that he was now ready to see and hear with a mind less prejudiced.'

There is a good lesson pleasantly enforced in ‘Don't be Bashful,' which we should like to have cited, had our limits permitted: but for this, as well as the other papers we have mentioned, we must refer the reader to the volume itself, which, to the credit of the publishers be it said, is neatly and correctly printed.

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EUROPE IN A HURRY. By GEORGE WILKES. In one volume: pp. 449. New-York: HENRY LONG AND BROTHER, Number Forty-three, Ann-street.

WHEN we first read the letters of which this handsome volume is composed, as they successively appeared in the widely-circulated journal of which Mr. WILKEs was then the editor, we were struck by the observant spirit of the writer, and the felicitous manner in which he conveyed his own impressions to the eye as well as to the mind of his reader. He has no circumlocution, no crowding of objects, no solemn reflections upon 'mistakes in government' or 'wrongs of the people,' except as they arise in his mind in connection with something which is passing before him; and even then, they are very hastily dismissed; for his object evidently is, to let you see through his eyes what he saw, and as he saw it. And in this he has succeeded perfectly. Yet his book is not a 'curtailed abbreviation, compressing the particulars :' on the contrary, going only over the same route he followed, and of necessity witnessing kindred scenes, we would as readily take his volume for a guidebook, as we would follow a good diner' into the chief restaurant of Paris, and duplicate his order for an artistic dinner. We shall justify our impression of the work by two brief extracts, all, we regret to say, for which we have space. The excellent and amiable QUEEN of England, according to our traveller, can hardly be regarded the ‘beautywhich she has been represented by the paintings and engravings of Her MAJESTY which have reached this country: and we cannot help thinking that those of our fair country-women who have been reported to resemble VICTORIA, will consider themselves somewhat less complimented, after perusing the following:

“I saw the Queen first in her state-coach, in procession to St. JAMES' Palace on a levee day, and have seen her three times since at more advantage, but the first impression remained unsoftened. There is no chance for mistake in Her Majesty's facial angle, and a glance is followed by a conclusion against it. On the occasion in St. James' Park, there were two parties of American gentlemen from different hotels, who stood in a group at the point of view I occupied. When the QUEEN passed, each turned and looked the others in the face, and the smile which came from all said, almost in plain words:

Lord! how we have been humbugged by the pictures. By-and-by this smile broke into a laugh, and every one enjoyed it, as men will who detect a trick that has deceived them, but which has not affected their credit for intelligence. She does not bear the most remote resemblance to any of her pictures,' said' one. I suppose it would be about as much as a man's life is worth to attempt to portray her accurately,' said another. “No artist who wishes to obtain the royal favor will ever draw her side-face,' said a third. “I'll tell you what I think about her, gentlemen,' remarked a fourth: ‘if such a looking person were introduced in a ball-room in New-York as a partner for a dance, the gentleman who, out of politeness, went through the cotillion with her, would feel he had a right afterward to inquire what object the person who had scared her up had in furnishing him with such a partner. But she has a fine complexion,' said I.

So she has,' said the last speaker, “but of what avail is complexion to such a line of feature ? Her face protrudes in the centre, and retires at the forehead and chin.''

The ensuing passage is from a portion of a chapter devoted to a description of the metropolitan prisons, and, incidentally, to a sketch of the impostors of London:

‘As we turned down by the Hay-market, the moon left us, and just at this moment a female figure emerged from one of the dark arches of the Royal Opera-House, and in a most piteous voice asked 'charity, for the love of God.' I was struck with the concentrated and touching misery of the tone, and instinctively put my hand toward my pocket. One of my companions, however, who professed to know much of London, turned the woman off with a rough denial ; whereupon she slunk backward, but added, as she quietly retreated, and in the same quivering accent as before: 'Indeed, gentlemen, indeed I am not the kind of character you take me for!' My sharp companion was about vindicating the position he had taken by another brusque reply, when I checked him by catching hold of his arm, and, turning after the woman, I slipped a half-crown in her hand. She looked at her hand for an instant, as if she could hardly realize her fortune, then with a burst of feeling that I have never seen equalled in fervor, exclaimed: ‘God bless your Christian heart!' and darted out of sight. Even my obdurate friend was overcome, and commenced feeling in his pockets, while I, inspired with new confidence in my judgment by this exhibition, took a quick step or two in the direction of the woman's flight, as if it were my duty to do more. But the apparition had vanished, and I peered up the dark street in vain. I fancied, for an instant, that I could hear a low chuckle near me, as if one of the black old arches was enjoying a little dry merriment by itself, but it faded away as an illusion, and, for the time, I thought no more of it.

“On the following night I was passing by the same spot at a somewhat earlier hour, when I found my elbow touched, while a low voice whispered by my ear: 'I say, Sir, do n't you want to buy a pretty picture-book?'. I turned quickly round, and to my astonishment recognized the plaintive beggar of the night before. The book she offered was of the vilest kind, and she herself was one of those pestilent bats that haunt in the dark nooks of public thoroughfares, to tempt the late wayfarer on his passage home. I felt ashamed that this base creature should have used up the sympathy and trust which might have been reserved within me for some worthier object, and in the angry resolution that I made, not to be so deceived again, I experienced the full force of a maxim I have used before, that every impostor should be treated as a common enemy, for he not only sets a bad example to the world, but robs the worthy of that fund of sympathy which is often the only resource and dependence of real misfortune.'

A sententious and very graphic picture of the Grisettes of Paris must close our quotations. The whole forms a 'picture in little,' but the portrait of the class is not the less faithful:

'I found the Boulevards quite as gay after breakfast as they were in the easy part of the afternoon before, though filled with a somewhat different class of people. There were fewer well-dressed females, and the men had more of a business air; nevertheless,

all were loungers, and it was difficult to imagine that any of the throng, except the bustling little grisettes, had any task beyond sauntering away their time in that delightful place. Frenchmen never walk fast through the streets; if they are in a hurry, they ride. The only person who can by any chance be seen walking swift in Paris, is an American, or perhaps a grisette, who will hurry at all hours and seasons, unless she is with her sweet-heart.

'I look upon these little creatures as among the most worthy people of Paris. They are as busy as bees all day long; and though report says they take too much margin in their gayeties on Sunday, and walk occasionally too deep into the Bois de Boulogne, one cannot help pardoning them, in advance, for all their transgressions. They represent labor in its most devoted shape, and have a better right to dance and sing, and snap their fingers, than the laced ladies whom they ornament, and who confer nothing upon the world but a little too much of themselves. Indeed, they enjoy themselves to the top of their bent, whenever they are let loose, and, next to the soldiers, are the chief feature of Paris. Like the soldiers, however, they always behave decorously, and never give offense, either in their conduct or their attire. On the contrary, their dress is exquisitely tasteful, and their manners, though refined by peculiar art, have the appearance of the utmost simplicity. You are very often struck with their extreme beauty as well as neatness, and at first can scarcely resist an inclination to put your hand in your pocket, as you do when you see a charming statuette, to buy a pair of them for your mantel-piece at home. Among them you see the freshest faces and purest complexions in the world, some looking like ripe nectarines, under their indescribable and inimitable little caps, and others so white and so fresh that they seem to have been dipped in milk, and make you fancy that they smell of the meadow. Many of the ladies of Paris, too, have the same remarkable delicacy of flesh and blood.'

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A MEMORIAL OF Horatio GREENOUGH. Consisting of a Memoir, Selections from his

Writings, and Tributes to his Genius. By HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. In one volume: pp. 245. New-York: GEORGE P. PUTNAM AND COMPANY.

This is a cordial, a feeling tribute to the genius and the memory of one whom the world will not let die ;' who has left behind him works, upon which both are recorded, on tablets of enduring marble.' Of all the creations that we have seen of GREENOUGH's chisel, we have been impressed with one sentiment: and that was, that his heart was in each. It was his conception — it was his thought in stone; not a copy, not a reflection, of the idea of some other. 'Although,' says Mr. TUCKERMAN, the creations of the artist are his best monument, when the spirit in which he works transcends the limits of a special vocation, and associates him with the progress of society, and the happiness of his friends, a mere catnlogue-raisonné of what he has left in marble or colors we feel to be an incomplete record of his life. The recent death of our earliest sculptor has caused so wide and sincere a grief, that it becomes not less a sacred duty, than a melancholy pleasure, to trace his career, to gather up the tributes to his genius, and to endeavor to delineate the features of his character.' All this Mr. TUCKERMAN has done, with a faithfulness, and with an almost filial affection, which reflects little less credit. upon his hand than upon his heart. As we followed the career of his subject, and traced with him his early longings, his first attempts, his “inner standards,' his gradual progress, and his ultimate success, we could not help but think, that both Cole and GREENOUGH had found in Noble and in TUCKERMAN worthy representatives of the appreciation in which their genius and their personal characters will be held, not so much by those who knew them so well, as by those who will be thus enabled to know them better.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

'Up the River, July 10. 'My old Shanghai rooster is dead. From the time that he was brought to my house in a basket, about a year ago, until now, his career has been varied, but the latter part of it miserable indeed. He has not ventured upon a hearty crow for the last six months. All things went smoothly with him at first, and ihere was a degree of éclat attaching to his family. The neighbors came to see him, and remarked that he was an uncommonly large fowl; but he was perhaps magnified in their eyes because he was a foreigner; and they turned upon their heel with a sovereign contempt of the common barn-yard fowl. He had the enclosures all to himself, and, standing erect on the hillock, out-crowed the neighbor

ing roosters. When the hen began to lay, every body wished to get eggs of me. My friends asked it as a particular favor that I would grant them a few,

when I had them to spare; and the butcher and the baker stopped at the gate to inquire if I would not sell them a few Shanghai eggs. Thus the stock rose in the market, and feathers were buoyant. When the Cochin-China cock arrived, he was at least one-third larger, and so much superior to the other in all his points, and had such a lordly strut and royal comb, as completely to cast him in the shade. They at once fought valiantly for the mastery, and the contest was continued in various skirmishes and pitched battles for several days. At last, when Shanghai became convinced that he was no match, his eyes wavered and refused to meet the adversary, and on every occasion he

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