the better I can write, and the easier I can get along in every way. Just shut up your eyes chop off your hands, and try it. If you only have faith and a good amanuensis, my word for it, you will succeed to perfection. I feel in such high spirits about it, that I intend soon to commence writing my life, and expect to become as renowned as Milton, and to get more for my book, to be entitled, 'The Life of an Invalid,' than he did for his Paradise Lost, to say nothing of the fame.'

Talk of the heroism of the battle-field; here are true bravery, courage, unshrinking fortitude, even to martyrdom, which were never exceeded on any blood-stained' field of glory.'

THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND, from the Invasion of JULIUS CAESAR to the Abdication of JAMES THE SECOND, 1688. By DAVID HUME, Esq. Boston: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. THIS new edition, which is well executed in a typographical point of view, contains the author's last corrections and improvements in the history proper, together with an account of his life, written by himself. Of the history itself nothing is now required to be said. It has passed the ordeal of contemporary as well as later criticism, and has long been considered a model of simple yet graceful and comprehensive literary composition. The brief memoir of the writer's life, written by himself, is a delightful piece of autobiography; and as we perused it, we pencilled a few sentences which, with our readers' permission, we shall proceed to lay before them. Speaking of the lack of success of some of his first attempts at authorship, HUME says: 'Such is the force of my natural temper, that these disappointments made little or no impression on me.' In relation to the attacks which were made upon one or two of his works upon moral themes, he observes: 'I had a fixed resolution, which I inflexibly maintained, never to reply to any body; and not being irascible in my temper, I have easily kept myself clear of all literary squabbles. I was ever more disposed to see the favorable than unfavorable side of things; a turn of mind,' he adds, 'which it is more happy to possess than to be born to an estate of ten thousand a year.' In 1763, HUME was attached to the English embassy at Paris; and he thus bears his testimony to the attractions of the gay capital: Those who have not seen the strange effects of modes, will never imagine the reception I met with at Paris from men and women of all ranks and stations. The more I resiled from their excessive civilities, the more I was loaded with them. There is, however, a real satisfaction in living at Paris, from the great number of sensible, knowing and polite company with which that city abounds above all places in the universe.' If we may take for veritable HUME's exposition of himself, he was a man of mild disposition, of command of temper, of an open, social and cheerful humor, capable of attachment, but little susceptible of enmity, and of great moderation in all his passions. Even his love of literary fame, his ruling passion, never soured his temper, notwithstanding his frequent disappointments. He wholly escaped the baleful tooth of calumny, and never had occasion to vindicate any one circumstance of his character or conduct. He was for some time aware of the existence in his person of a mortal and incurable disease, and he reckoned, he tells us, upon a speedy dissolution; and yet he never suffered a moment's abatement of his spirits. An excellent engraved portrait of HUME, by Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, fronts the title-page. One can hardly help fancying, while surveying carefully the expression of the features, that the original was a man of at least sinister sentiments; and it would be scarcely too much to assume, from this prima facie evidence, that he was a confirmed skeptic.

6

A SECOND VISIT TO THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA. By Sir CHARLES LYELL, F. R. S., etc. Complete in two Parts. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

QUITE an interesting book for a dry, plodding geologist, like, Mr. LYELL; a man of a class who generally perambulate a country for the purpose of picking up stones, and who usually indulge in no subject with any unction unless it is a 'specimen' of something very hard, with a very hard name. But our author in these volumes has much to say of the people of the United States; their manners, customs, scenery, and objects of interest in the different divisions of the republic; and we must certainly award him the credit of having recorded his impressions with a spirit of candor hitherto somewhat rare among preceding travellers from his country. Although it has come to be considered a matter of very little consequence what the second-rate English journeyers through the Union may have to say of us, it is not to be disguised that the favorable opinions of a man of sense, of high scientfic attainments, with a distinguished reputation in his own country, are not unwelcome on this side of the Atlantic. Mr. LYELL has twice visited and twice travelled over the American States. He has, in many instances, revised and corrected previous impressions, and would seem to have derived new views, in several important particulars, of the workings of our social and political system. It is not a little amusing to note at times, however, the manner in which the reader is either directly or incidentally referred back to the writer's native land, as embodying the standards by which his judgments are swayed or his adverse or favorable opinions formed and sustained. All this is natural enough, however, and not to be particularly blamed, perhaps; yet the fact is noteworthy, notwithstanding. The style of the present work is in our judgment a great improvement upon that of the author's previous book upon this country.

LETTERS FROM THE ALLEGHANY MOUNTAINS. By CHARLES LANMAN, Author of A Tour to the River Sanguenay,'' A Summer in the Wilderness,' etc. New-York: GEORGE P. PUTNAM. A THIN volume, with a thin style, by a writer of thin intellect, and thinner conscience. It is the misfortune of this 'author,' if author he may be called, that there is scarcely the slightest reliance to be placed upon any of his statements. Our readers will remember the exposé made of the outrageous Munchausenisms of his 'Summer in the Wilderness,' by Mr. MORRISON, of Fond du Lac, in the columns of The Tribune' daily journal; an exposé undeniably authentic, which has never been answered, simply because it could not be. We have been not a little amused to hear the personal comments made upon the misstatements of this writer by gentlemen who knew, from personal observation, and long residence in the regions pretended to be described by him, the extent of his mendacity. We made on a former occasion a little memoranda, at the Sault Ste. Marie, (from the lips of a gentleman who backed his assertions with his respected name,) of some of these ridiculous Lanmanisms; and recently at Lake George we were made acquainted with other but kindred misstatements, touching 'men and things' in that beautiful locality. The letters in the book before us, (which is ́evidently not from the press, although bearing the imprint, of the publisher,) were printed in the National Intelligencer,' a journal edited by two gentlemen who originally elevated, and who have sustained at the elevation to which it was raised, one of the very first gazettes of this republic. But an editor can't be held responsible for the harmless exaggerations of a correspondent suffering under a chronic cacoëthes scribendi.'

THE HISTORY OF PENDENNIS.'-It certainly behooves Mr. DICKENS to look to his laurels, for of a surety there is a kindred spirit treading close upon his heels. The author of Vanity-Fair,' and more recently of The History of Pendennis, his Fortunes and Misfortunes, his Friends and his Greatest Enemy,' has so many characteristics as a faithful limner, in common with the author of 'DAVID COPPERFIELD,' that after reading the last production of either, it is a matter of no small difficulty to decide to which one it would be proper to yield the palm. Let any one run over the different characters introduced in the first part only of the work named at the head of this article, and mark the gallery of faithful portraits which they present, not alone to the imagination but to the eye of the reader; the gallant Major PENDENNIS, the oracle of his club, with his buff waistcoat, his checked morning cravat, his spotless linen, matchless gloves, and incomparable whiskers; his gentle, kind, beautiful, womanly sister-in-law; her son, the ingenuous, generous, enthusiastic, spoony' young gentleman, who gives the name to the story; his early friend Mr. FoKER, a ‘born' TITTLEBAT TITMOUSE, with more heart than head; and, to say nothing of others who have much to say, and more to do, in the progress of the tale, the COSTIGANS, father and daughter, the latter known as The FoTHERINGAY,' her 'nom-de-theatre,' 'lover to whom is PENDENNIS, the principal hero. We proceed at once to extracts, commencing with a portrait of the manager of the company of players, in which the 'valuable services' of Captain and Miss COSTIGAN are engaged. Young PENDENNIS and FOKER have arrived at the theatre:

THEY had almost their choice of places in the boxes of the theatre, which was no better filled than country theatres usually are, in spite of the 'universal burst of attraction and galvanic thrills of delight' advertised by BINGLEY in the play-bills. A score or so of people dotted the pit-benches, a few more kept a kicking and whistling in the galleries, and a dozen others, who came in with free admissions, were in the boxes where our young gentlemen sate. Lieutenants RODGERS and PODGERS, and young Cornet TIDMUS, of the Dragoons, occupied a private box. The performers acted to them, and these gentlemen seemed to hold conversations with the players when not engaged in the dialogue, and applauded them by name loudly.

'BINGLEY, the manager, who assumed all the chief tragic and comic parts, except when he modestly retreated to make way for the London stars, who came down occasionally to Chatteries, was great in the character of the 'Stranger.' He was attired in the tight pantaloons and Hessian boots which the stage legend has given to that injured man, with a large cloak and beaver, and a hearse feather in it, drooping over his raddled old face, and only partially concealing his great buckled brown wig. He had the stage-jewelry on, too, of which he selected the largest and most shiny rings for himself, and allowed his little finger to quiver out of his cloak, with a sham diamond ring covering the first joint of the finger, and twiddling in the faces of the pit. BINGLEY made it a favor to the young men of his company to go on in light comedy parts with that ring. They flattered him by asking its history. The stage has its traditional jewels as the crown and all great families have. This had belonged to GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE, who had had it from Mr. QUIN, who may have bought it for a shilling. BINGLEY fancied the world was fascinated with its glitter.

'He was reading out of the stage-book, that wonderful stage-book, which is not bound like any other book in the world, but is rouged and tawdry, like the hero or heroine who holds it; and who holds it as people never do hold books; and points with his finger to a passage, and wags his head ominously at the audience, and then lifts up eyes and finger to the ceiling, professing to derive some intense consolation from the work, between which and heaven there is a strong affinity. Any body who has ever seen one of our great light comedians, X., in a chintz dressing-gown, such as nobody ever wore, and representing himself to the public as a young nobleman in his apartments, and whiling away the time with light literature until his friend Sir HARRY shall arrive, or his father shall come down to breakfast-any body, I say, who has seen the great X. over a sham book, has indeed had a great pleasure, and an abiding matter for thought.

'Directly the Stranger saw the young men, he acted at them; eyeing them solemnly over his gilt volume, as he lay on the stage-bank, showing his hand, his ring, and his Hessians. He calculated the effect that every one of these ornaments would produce upon his victims; he was determined to fascinate them, for he knew they had paid their money; and he saw their families coming in from the country and filling the cane chairs in his boxes.'

Gallant reader, your hands, if you please; and if you have flowers, 'prepare to shed them now,' for here comes Miss COSTIGAN, otherwise known as 'The FOTHERINGAY,' the bright particular star of the evening:

'A CHAMBER in Wintersen Castle closed over TOBIAS's hut and the Stranger and his boots; and servants appeared bustling about with chairs and tables: That's HICKS and Miss THACKTHWAITE,' whispered FOKER. Pretty girl, ain't she, PENDENNIS? But stop: hurray! - bravo! here's the FOTHERINGAY.'

'The pit thrilled and thumped its umbrellas; a volley of applause was fired from the gallery: the dragoon officers and FOKER clapped their hands furiously: you would have thought the house was full, so loud were their plaudits. The red face and ragged whiskers of Mr. COSTI. GAN were seen peering from the side-scene. PEN's eyes opened wide and bright, as Mrs. HALLER entered with a downcast look, then rallying at the sound of the applause, swept the house with a grateful glance, and folding her hands across her breast, sank down in a magnificent courtesy. More applause, more umbrellas; PEN this time, flaming with wine and enthusiasm, clapped hands and sang 'bravo' louder than all. Mrs. HALLER saw him, and every body else, and old Mr. Bows, the little first fiddler of the orchestra.

'Those who have only seen Miss FOTHERINGAY in later days, since her marriage and introduction into London life, have little idea how beautiful a creature she was at the time when our friend PEN first sat eyes on her. She was of the tallest of women, and at her then age of sixand-twenty, (for six-and-twenty she was, though she vows she was only nineteen,) in the prime and fulness of her beauty. Her forehead was vast, and her black hair waved over it with a natural ripple, (that beauties of late days have tried to imitate with the help of the crimpingirons,) and was confined in shining and voluminous braids at the back of a neck such as you see on the shoulders of the Louvre VENUS-that delight of gods and men. Her eyes, when she lifted them up to gaze on you, and ere she dropped their purple deep-fringed lids, shone with tenderness and mystery unfathomable. Love and Genius seemed to look out from them and then retire coyly, as if ashamed to have been seen at the lattice. Who could have had such a commanding brow but a woman of high intellect? She was dressed in long flowing robes of black, which she managed and swept to and fro with wonderful grace, and out of the folds of which you only saw her sandals occasionally; they were of rather a large size; but PEN thought them as ravishing as the slippers of CINDERELLA. But it was her hand and arm that this magnificent creature most excelled in, and somehow you could never see her but through them. They surrounded her. When she folded them over her bosom in resignation; when she dropped them in mute agony, or raised them in superb command; when in sportive gayety her hands fluttered and waved before her, like the snowy doves before the chariot of VENUS-it was with these arms and hands that she beckoned, repelled, entreated, embraced her admirers; no single one, for she was armed with her own virtue, and with her father's valor, whose sword would have leapt from its scabbard at any insult offered to his child; but the whole house, which 'rose to her,' as the phrase was, as she courtesied and bowed, and charmed it. Thus she stood for a minute, complete and beautiful, as PEN stared at her.

I say, PEN, is n't she a stunner?' asked Mr. FOKER.
Hush!' PEN said. 'She's speaking.'

'She began her business in a deep sweet voice. Those who know the play of the Stranger,' are aware that the remarks made by the various characters are not valuable in themselves, either for their sound sense, their novelty of observation, or their poetic fancy. In fact, if a man were to say it was a stupid play he would not be far wrong. Nobody ever talked so. If we meet idiots in life, as will happen, it is a great mercy that they do not use such absurdly fine words. The Stranger's talk is sham, like the book he reads, and the hair he wears, and the bank he sits on, and the diamond ring he makes play with; but, in the midst of the balderdash, there runs that reality of love, children, and forgiveness of wrong, which will be listened to wherever it is preached, and sets all the world sympathizing.

'With what smothered sorrow, with what gushing pathos, Mrs. HALLER delivered her part! At first, when as Count WINTERSEN's housekeeper, and preparing for his Excellency's arrival, she has to give orders about the beds and furniture, and the dinner, etc., to be got ready, she did so with the calm agony of despair. But when she could get rid of the stupid servants and give

*OUR OWN opinion precisely, and often expressed, of this lachrymose, pocket-handkerchief piece of pompous fustian. ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

vent to her feelings to the pit and the house, she overflowed to each individual as if he were her particular confidant, and she was crying out her griefs on his shoulder: the little fiddler in the orchestra (whom she did not seem to watch, though he followed her ceaselessly) twitched, twisted, nodded, pointed about, and when she came to the favorite passage, I have a WILLIAM, too, if he be still alive: ah, yes, if he be still alive. His little sisters, too! Why, FANCY, dost thou rack me so? Why dost thou image my poor children fainting in sickness, and crying toto-their mum-um-other?' when she came to this passage little Bows buried his face in his blue cotton handkerchief, after crying out' Bravo.'

All the house was affected. FOKER, for his part, taking out a large yellow bandanna, wept piteously. As for PEN, he was gone too far for that. He followed the woman about and about; when she was off the stage, it and the house were blank; the lights and the red officers reeled wildly before his sight. He watched her at the side-scene, where she stood waiting to come on the stage, and where her father took off her shawl; when the reconciliation arrived, and she flung herself down on Mr. BINGLEY'S shoulders, while the children clung to their knees, and the countess (Mrs. BINGLEY) and Baron STEINFORTH (performed with great liveliness and spirit by GARBETTS)· - while the rest of the characters formed a group round them, PEN's hot eyes only saw FOTHERINGAY, FOTHERINGAY. The curtain fell upon him like a pall.'

Of course the triumphant actress was called out' by vociferous voices, rattling canes, and persevering umbrellas. She came on again, courtesying, smiling, charming: How beautiful she looked! Her hair had fallen down; the officers threw her flowers; she clutched them to her heart. She put back her hair, and smiled on all around. Her eye met PENDENNIS's. Down went the curtain again, and she was gone!' Our young hero hurries home, with a mist before his eyes.' Something overwhelming, maddening, delicious; a fever of wild joy and indefinable longing, had taken possession of his spirit:

'PEN had not been in the habit of passing wakeful nights, so he at once fell off into a sound sleep. Even in later days, and with a great deal of care and other thoughtful matter to keep him awake, a man, from long practice or fatigue or resolution, begins by going to sleep as usual: and gets a nap in advance of ANXIETY. But she soon comes up with him and jogs his shoulder, and says, 'Come, my man, no more of this laziness; you must wake up and have a talk with me.' Then they fall to together in the midnight. Well, whatever might afterward happen to him, poor little PEN was not come to this state yet; he tumbled into a sound sleep; did not wake until an early hour in the morning, when the rooks began to caw from the little wood beyond his bedroom windows; and at that very instant, and his eyes started open, the beloved image was in his mind. My dear boy,' he heard her say, 'you were in a sound sleep, and I would not disturb you: but I have been close by your pillow all this while: and I don't intend you shall leave me. I am Love! I bring with me fever and passion: wild longing, maddening desire; restless, craving and seeking. Many a long day ere this I heard you calling out for me; and behold now I

am come."'

Ladies and gentlemen, permit us to inter-o-juice' to your acquaintance General or Captain CoSTIGAN, father of the 'fair FOTHERINGAY,' whom not to know, you will perceive, would argue yourselves unknown:

'GENERAL or Captain CoSTIGAN, for the latter was the rank which he preferred to assume, was seated in the window with the newspaper held before him at arm's length. The captain's eyes were somewhat dim; and he was spelling the paper with the help of his lips as well as of those bloodshot eyes of his, as you see gentlemen do to whom reading is a rare and difficult occupation. His hat was cocked very much on one ear; and as one of his feet lay up in the window seat, the observer of such matters might remark, by the size and shabbiness of the boots which the captain wore that times did not go very well with him. Poverty seems as if it were disposed, before it takes possession of a man entirely, to attack his extremities first: the coverings of his head, feet, and hands, are its first prey. All these parts of the captain's person were particularly rakish and shabby. As soon as he saw PEN he descended from the window-seat and saluted the new comer, first in a military manner, by conveying a couple of his fingers (covered with a broken black glove) to his hat, and then removing that ornament altogether. The captain was inclined to be bald, but he brought a quantity of lank iron-gray hair over his pate, and had a couple of wisps of the same falling down on each side of his face. Much whisky had spoiled what complexion Mr. COSTIGAN may have possessed in his youth. His once handsome face had now a copper tinge. He wore a very high stock, scarred and stained in many places; and a dress-coat tightly buttoned up in those parts where the buttons had not parted company from the garment.

"The young gentleman to whom I had the honor to be introjuiced yesterday in the Cathadral Yard,' said the captain, with a splendid bow and wave of the hat. I hope I see you well, Sir. I marked ye in the thayater last night during me daughter's perfawrumance; and missed ye on my return. I did but conduct her home, Sir, for JACK COSTIGAN, though poor, is a gentleman; and when I reintered the house to pay me respects to me joyous young friend Mr. FOKER, ye were gone. We had a jolly night of ut, Sir-Mr. FOKER, the three gallant young dragoons, and your 'umble servant. Gad, Sir, it put me in mind of one of our old nights when I bore HIS MAJESTY'S commission in the Foighting Hundtherd and Third.' And he pulled out an old snuff-box, which he presented with a stately air to his new acquaintance.