PHELIM O'CONNOR was defeated and slain at Athunree, by WILLIAM DE BURGHо, on the 10th of August, 1315. EDWARD the Second then reigned in England.

LITERARY NOTICES.

ISAAC T. HOPPER: A TRUE LIFE. With a Portrait. By L. MARIA CHILD. In one volume: pp. 493. Boston: JOHN P. JEWETT AND COMPANY. New-York: LEWIS COLBY AND COMPANY.

WHO is there, for the last twenty years a resident in New-York, that does not remember the compact, shortish, stout-built, active Quaker, whose portrait- -an excellent one, by PAGE-fronts the title-page of the well-printed book before us? In our mind's eye we see him now, as we have seen him a thousand times, with his cocked hat, his dead-drab coat, his spotless linen, his sturdy calves, encased in a pair of close-fitting fine stockings, into which his legs seemed to have been run, as into a mould; with that imperturbable countenance, lips compressed with a kind of circumventive expression, and eye ever looking straight forward. That was ISAAC T. HOPPER, with whom we never exchanged a word in the world, but whom, now that he is dead, we cannot help thinking we knew as well, from his appearance, and the public reports of his character, as if we had been on intimate terms with him for years. JOSEPH Bonaparte once remarked to a friend, on board a steamboat bound up the Delaware to his residence at Bordentown, that he bore an extremely strong resemblance to his brother the Emperor NAPOLEON. (He didn't look so much like Louis, probably.) Mrs. CHILD'S admiration for her subject has caused her to make a big work for so simple a biography; but it is largely made up of the narratives and anecdotes of fugitive slaves which were originally written by himself, and published in a weekly journal, under the title of 'Tales of Oppression.' Several of these we remember having read at the time of their first appearance, and many of them are doubtless familiar to the public. Mrs. CHILD has re-modelled them all; partly, she says, because she wished to present them in a more concise form, and 'partly because the principal actor could be spoken of more freely by a third person than he could speak of himself;' added to which, her subject had a much more dramatic way of telling a story, than of writing it; and this unwritten style she has endeavored to embody, as nearly as she could remember it.

'Friend HOPPER,' as he was called, was a sort of 'Old HAYES' among fugitive slave-claimers; and in this regard was as 'well known as the townpump,' both in Philadelphia and New-York. His sympathies were so strong,

that while he seldom lost sight of what he thought right in one direction, there were others who thought he could not be right in any. Probably, at this moment, the last thing that would be thought of, would be a monument to the memory of ISAAC T. HOPPER, in a public square in Charleston, SouthCarolina, or in an Orthodox-Quaker burying-ground in New-York or Philadelphia. And yet in both cities there will not be wanting enemies and 'Friends' to do justice to his determined energy, his 'tried obstinacy,' and his imperturbable self-reliance, whatsoever the one or the other may think of his particular acts. Instead of quoting the oft-told "scapes i' the imminent deadly breach' to which fugitive-slaves were subjected, we choose rather the following illustration of the effect of 'acts' 'under the law' of kindness, which is told in Mrs. CHILD's most simple and effective vein:

'ONCE, when his father and the workmen had been cutting down a quantity of timber, ISAAC discovered a squirrel's nest in a hole of one of the trees that had fallen. It contained four new-born little ones, their eyes not yet opened. He was greatly tempted to carry them home, but they were so young that they needed their mother's milk. So, after examining them, he put them back in the nest, and with his usual busy helpfulness went to assist in stripping bark from the trees. When he went home from his work, toward evening, he felt curious to see how the mother-squirrel would behave when she returned and found her home was gone. He accordingly hid himself in a bush to watch her proceedings. About dusk she came running along the stone-wall with a nut in her mouth, and went with all speed to the old familiar tree. Finding nothing but a stump remaining there, she dropped the nut and looked around in evident dismay. She went smelling all about the ground, then mounted the stump to take a survey of the country. She raised herself on her hind-legs and snuffed the air, with an appearance of great perplexity and distress. She ran round the stump several times, occasionally raising herself on her hind-legs, and peering about in every direction, to discover what had become of her young family. At last, she jumped on the prostrate trunk of the tree, and ran along till she came to the hole where her babies were concealed. What the manner of their meeting was, no body can tell; but doubtless the mother's heart beat violently when she discovered her lost treasures all safe on the warm little bed of moss she had so carefully prepared for them. After staying a few minutes to give them their supper, she came out, and scampered off through the bushes. In about fifteen minutes she returned and took one of the young ones in her mouth, and carried it quickly to a hole in another tree, three or four hundred yards off, and then came back and took the others, one by one, till she had conveyed them all to their new home. The intelligent instinct manifested by this little quadruped excited great interest in ISAAC's observing mind. When he drove the cows to pasture, he always went by that tree, to see how the young family were getting along. In a short time, they were running all over the tree with their careful mother, eating acorns under the shady boughs, entirely unconscious of the perils through which they had passed in infancy. 'Some time after, ISAAC traded with another boy for a squirrel taken from the nest before its eyes were opened. He made a bed of moss for it, and fed it very tenderly. At first, he was afraid it would not live; but it seemed healthy, though it never grew so large as other squirrels. He did not put it in a cage; for he said to himself that a creature made to frisk about in the green woods could not be happy shut up in a box. This pretty little animal became so much attached to her kind-hearted protector, that she would run about after him, and come like a kitten whenever he called her. While he was gone to school, she frequently ran off to the woods and played with wild squirrels on a tree that grew near his path homeward. Sometimes she took a nap in a large knot-hole, or, if the weather was very warm, made a cool bed of leaves across a crotch of the boughs, and slept there. When ISAAC passed under the tree, on his way from school, he used to call Bun! Bun! Bun!' If she was there, she would come to him immediately, run up on his shoulder, and so ride home to get her supper.

'It seemed as if animals were in some way aware of his kindly feelings, and disposed to return his confidence; for on several occasions they formed singular intimacies with him. When he was six or seven years old, he espied a crow's nest in a high tree, and, according to his usual custom, he climbed up to make discoveries. He found that it contained two eggs, and he watched the crow's movements until her young ones were hatched and ready to fly. Then he took them home. One was accidentally killed a few days after, but he reared the other and named it CUPID. The bird became so very tame, that it would feed from his hand, perch on his shoulder or his hat, and go every where with him. It frequently followed him for miles, when he went to mill or market. He was never put into a cage, but flew in and out of the house, just as he pleased. If

ISAAC called 'Cu! Cu!' he would hear him, even if he were up in the highest tree, would croak a friendly answer, and come down directly. If ISAAC winked one eye, the crow would do the same. If he winked his other eye, the crow also winked with his other eye. Once, when CUPID was on his shoulder, he pointed to a snake lying in the road, and said 'Cu! Cu!' The sagacious bird pounced on the head of the snake and killed him instantly; then flew back to his friend's shoulder, cawing with all his might, as if delighted with his exploit. If a stranger tried to take him, he would fly away, screaming with terror. Sometimes ISAAC covered him with a handkerchief and placed him on a stranger's shoulder; but as soon as he discovered where he was, he seemed frightened almost to death. He usually chose to sleep on the roof of a shed, directly under ISAAC's bed-room window. One night he heard him cawing very loud, and the next morning he said to his father: I heard CUPID talking in his sleep last night.' His father inquired whether he had seen him since; and when ISAAC answered 'No,' he said: "Then I am afraid the owls have taken him.' The poor bird did not make his appearance again; and a few days after, his bones and feathers were found on a stump, not far from the house. This was a great sorrow for ISAAC. It tried his young heart almost like the loss of a brother.'

This is but a fair specimen of the style of Mrs. CHILD'S 'Life' of her friend; and the reader will admit that it is equally unpretending and effective. The volume is printed upon excellent paper and large, clear types; a bookphysiognomy which has much to do in introducing candidates for public favor into 'good society."

SIX MONTHS IN ITALY. BY GEORGE STILLMAN HILLARD. In two volumes: pp. 887. Boston: TICKNOR, REED AND Fields.

We have almost come to regard works upon, or travels in Italy, as another name for a literary bore. So many books have been written by tourists, who went abroad carrying their brains in their pockets, without the capacity, in the first place, of observing, and without the ability, in the second, to record their observations, indifferent howsoever they might be, that one takes up a book of Italian travel with great misgivings, if not very positive distrust. But we are happy to record better things of the pleasing and instructive traveller, whose two very handsomely-executed volumes lie (read) before us. -We had written thus far, when up the breezy lawn came our village news-boy with the morning journals; and in one of them—the 'Times' — we found our own views of Mr. HILLARD's volumes so forcibly expressed, that we venture to substitute them in this place:

'HAS a writer upon Italy any thing to tell us that is new, or has he the power of telling old stories in a novel manner, are questions to which we can seldom give an affirmative answer. In Mr. HILLARD's case, we can reply, most satisfactorily to all parties concerned, that his old stories are newly told, and that so much in his volume is new and fresh, that his work has all the charm of novelty, embellished by a happy style, and pregnant with the felicitous allusions of a refined and clerkly scholarship.

'And yet, it may be asked, what can be newly said about Italy? If we have read EUSTACE, have we not exhausted its classical prestige, as far as it can be illustrated by any writer? If we are familiar with FORSYTH, what can a new tourist tell us of the architectural glories of the Eternal City? If we have read CHATEAUBRIAND, Mme. DE STAEL, GOETHE, and Lady MORGAN, and are familiar, as of course we are, with the poems and diary of Lord BYRON, and the poems and letters of SHELLEY, what can a mere tourist add to our knowledge of Italy? what can he say that is not a mere reïteration and impertinence?

'If Mr. HILLARD were an ordinary tourist, his volumes might be easily dismissed with a faint commendatory notice. But he has almost all the attractions of a new writer