Burnish the blades, and nerve the whistling bows. Down-trodden Ireland! thou shalt be again Have lips to pray, and hearts to feel for thee. Editor's Cable. his earliest inquiry into this new and attractive field of enterprise were given to the public in the pages of the Messenger, and whoever would pursue the subject farther under his delightful guidance should procure the present pamphlet. We know that every one who reads it at our instance will thank us for our pains in commending it. The author of Vanity Fair has made a journey to the Southern States, having lectured in Richmond, Charleston and Savannah en route. We were fortunate enough to hear three lectures of his Course on the Age of Queen Anne, and marked the evenings with a white stone. For assuredly the occasions have been rare when we have derived as much pleasure from an hour's entertainment. It was not so much the searching analysis he gave of the men and manners of a past age-though unquestionably the wit which we have felt in reading his novels In the first of those unrivalled philosophi- lent its sting to these performances;-it was cal essays of Cicero, which derive their name not the depth of his observation-though he from his villa of Tusculum where they were went to the bottom of that buried social life; composed, there is a noble and striking pas- it certainly was not his manner of speaking, sage wherein he declares, that, in his judg- earnest, well-studied, sometimes inexpressiment, the man who is able by the strength of bly sad, that affected us so pleasantly-it his intellect to calculate the motions of the was the rare finish of his style, the glitter heavenly bodies and decide in what pre- and sound of sentences that shone and rung scribed orbits they are to roll, shows that his like new guineas just turned out of the mintmind is akin in its immortal nature to that a certain je ne sais quoi of artistic perfection Almighty Being by whom those bodies were to be acquired only by life-long practice in created. That a heathen writer on whom composition. We are greatly mistaken if, the light of revelation never beamed, should when these lectures come to see the light in have conceived a thought so elevated, is a book form, they will not be regarded by the tribute to the science of Astronomy beyond critics as containing by far the strongest and anything that has since been said of it. There most delightful writing that Mr. Thackeray must be something ennobling in a study has yet done. which seems to demonstrate in its votaries an immortality, and though the poet has told would not live alway-live alway below! us "an undevout astronomer is mad," we We think the following one of the finest question whether "an undevout astronomer" devotional lyrics of the American Muse. It ever existed. was written by the Rev. Dr. Muhlenburg, We are never more forcibly reminded of Rector of the Church of the Holy Commuthe passage in the Tusculan essay to which nion in New York City. In the version conwe have referred, than when our attention tained in our hymn-books many of the best is directed to the speculations of one of the lines have been omitted. first of living astronomers-Lieutenant M. F. Maury of the National Observatory. The I pursuit in which he has attained such emi- no, I'll not linger, when bidden to go, nence before the world seems to have en- Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer. The days of our pilgrimage granted us here, larged all his perceptions and given greater Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God, breadth to all his views. There is now be- Apostles and martyrs so joyfully trod? fore us a treatise from his pen which shows While brethren and friends are all hastening home, how grandly he can contemplate the affairs Like a spirit unblest o'er the earth would I roam? of the globe we live upon, when he withdraws his mind from the wonders of the sky. Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; I would not live alway-I ask not to stay, It is entitled "The Amazon and the Atlantic where seeking for peace, we but hover around, Slopes of South America." The results of Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found; Where hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, I would not live alway-thus fettered by sin, I would not live alway-no, welcome the tomb; To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies. Who, who would live alway? away from his God, That heavenly music! what is it I hear? sewing is not first-rate, and the fit very variable. I have not a bad hand, and have been a good customer there, (my last year's bill was nearly $400,) but I never had a dozen of gloves made at Boivin's, in which there were not at least three different sizes, and half a dozen pair that did not fit." Beau Brummell once told a lady that consulted him as to the expense of dressing her son who was just "coming out" in society, that "with strict economy it could be done for 8007. a year." But the Beau never alluded to the smallness of his hand or the profitableness of his custom. Carl Benson pays his bills, perhaps, and considers himself licensed to speak upon the latter point freely. That he has not "a bad hand" must be a gratifying piece of information to the public. But what would his old grandfather, John Jacob Astor, have said to $400 per annum for a glove bill? It is to us a labour of love to commend the literary publications of the Southern States, where such commendation is merited, as it is most gratifying to us to witness their increasing prosperity and influence. A new work has just been started at Augusta, Georgia, under the conduct of Professor J. H. FITTEN-called the SOUTHERN ECLECTIC, which we think is entitled to a large share of public favour. It is composed of selections from the best journals of Europe on the plan of Littell's Living Age, and from the number before us we have no hesitation in declaring that these selections evince the best taste and discrimination on the part of the editor. The SOUTHERN QUARTERLY REVIEW for January is also on our table. We should have no fears in subjecting this number to the closest critical comparison with any review of England or the continent of Europe-it is, benumber we have seen, for years, of the North yond all question, greatly in advance of any American. The article on the Character of the Gentleman is one of the very best pieces of essay-writing that has ever appeared in the United States. The paper on Tom's Cabin," though somewhat tardy in making its appearance, is crushing. Since D'Orsay died it has been a matter of some difficulty to determine who is the Coryphæus of fops. A candidate of imposing pretensions for that dignity presents himself in "Carl Benson," otherwise Mr. Charles Astor Bristed, author of "Five Years in an English University" and other æsthetical compositions. This pleasant young gentleman having devoted time enough to making Latin verses, has begun the serious business of life, which he evidently takes to be the study of soups, wines, curricles, clothes and opera glasses. Of course Paris is the only place for the prosecution of such important researches, and accordingly he has an excellent corps. The Weekly Post pub Of literary newspapers the South has now taken up his residence there at "Numero at Raleigh, N. C.-the Weekly News of 20, Rue Barbe de Jouay." From this en- Charleston-the Illustrated Family Friend chanting pied-à-terre he has lately written a of Columbia, S. C., and the Columbia Banlong letter for the delectation of all American dandies, which the Home Journal pub- most liberal encouragement, working as they ner of the same place-are all worthy of the lishes. Hear him on the subject of gloves; “Gloves have deteriorated very much in Paris of late. Privat's are now good for nothing, either for fit, material or sewing. Boivin Ainé's are of excellent stuff, but the 66 Uncle are, to some purpose, in the same good cause of Southern refinement and elevation. With such periodicals and weekly journals why need the Southern people send to the North ern States for their intellectual pabulum? Is And the waters were raised till each creek was a flood, there any good reason for it? New honours await American dramatic excellence. Mr. Mathews' play of Witchcraft is about to be brought out on the boards of London and Paris; in the latter capital with Rachel as the heroine. We did not hesitate, when we noticed the work some time since, to declare as our opinion that it was well adapted for the stage, and we are glad to know that we sustained by such authority as the great French tragedienne. That incorrigible petit-maitre, Willis, continues in the Home Journal his "Pencillings on a Tour for Health," which abound with his characteristic beauties and affectations. Was there ever a more graceful and absurd conceit than the following? In describing the bar-room of the St. Louis Hotel at New Orleans, he says: "The gracious and gentlemanly master bar-keepers stood braiding rain-bows across their firmament of decanters as they flung the ice and the rosy liquor back and forward into fragrant contact with the mint." The gifted poetess of the South West, Miss L. Virginia Smith, has become (we might say, has been translated into) Mrs. L. Virginia French, and the new name will soon become familiar to her numerous admirers on the title page of the Southern Ladies' Book. We notice the fact as an interesting "literary item," and wish the fair lady all possible happiness in the novel "sphere she she just begun to move in," and which she cannot fail to "decorate and adorn." The Eldorado News amuses itself, at the expense of the Greenhorns who rush to California, in a parody on Lord Byron, after this fashion The Greenhorns came down like the wolf on the fold, Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, And provisions went up on account of the mud. And there lay the tools they had bought upon trust And those who prayed hardest for rain at the first, In vain they prospected each dreary ravine- We are indebted to the Nashville Union for the information that the little epigram on Mrs. Stowe, published in the Editor's Table of the Messenger for January, and written in our own sanctum, belongs to the New York Day-Book. We duly appreciate the compliment the Day-Book has paid us in assuming the authorship of our jeu d' esprit. Notices of New Works. VILLETTE. By Currer Bell, author of “ Shirley,” “ Jane Eyre," &c. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1853. [From A. Morris, 97 Main Street. CHARLOTTE BRONTE is without doubt a most remarkable woman. Up to the publication of Jane Eyre three or four years ago, she was unknown. That wonderful story and its no less wonderful successor have fixed the fame of the author forever. Wherever men and women speak and read the English language, she is known-the thin disguise of' Currer Bell' having long since parted from her form-as the most powerful female writer of fiction that employs that language at all. We might go further. We might call her the most powerful now living. For with the single exception of that frenzied Circe of French romance-MADAME DUDEVANT-We know no woman who works so strongly upon the feelings as this CHARLOTTE BRONTE. And George Sand, with all her weird fascination, has less power over the human heart than she. What is the secret of this power? It lies not in any great artistic excellence, for other women construct nov For the "Fiend of the Storm" spread his wings on the els as skilfully. It cannot be referred to the charm of blast, And rain at his bidding came sudden and fast, picturesque delineation, for though her descriptions are as clear and life-like and harmonious as Flemish paint ings, many writers possess the faculty of portraiture, both in abundance. Let the following description of Rachel's in scenery and character, to fully as great an extent. Nor acting suffice. can we attribute it to the wild influence of exciting inci"The theatre was full-crammed to its roof; royal and dent, for the mise en scene of her romances presents nothing startling or theatrical. The characters are people of noble were there! palace and hotel had einptied their inevery-day life-certainly not hum-drum people, but nei-mates into those tiers so thronged and so hushed. Deeply ther dukes nor condottieri, nor sentimental young ladies, nor despairing youths on whom the freshness of the heart has ceased to fall like dew. The secret may be found in the passion, the deep feeling, the earnestness of the author herself and the gift that is hers to express clearly what she feels so freshly and so strongly. did I feel myself privileged in having a place before that stage; I longed to see a being of whose powers I had heard report that made me conceive peculiar anticipa tions. I wondered if she would justify her renown: with strange curiosity, with feelings severe and austere, yet of riveted interest, I waited. She was a study of such nature as had not encountered my eyes yet; a great and rising. She rose at nine that December night: above the horizon I saw her come. She could shine yet with pale grandeur and steady might, but that star verged already on its judgment-day. Seen near, it was a chaos--hollow, half-consumed-an orb perished or perishing-half lava, half glow. The spell by which CHARLOTTE BRONTE holds the read-new planet she was, but in what shape? I waited her er who reads the first twenty pages of one of her books, is that of a sorceress. All the established means and contrivances to enchain the attention that former novelists have employed, she looks upon with disdain. She takes a plain looking girl for a heroine, of bad temper and ungraceful carriage, who offends against bienseance in the very first chapter, and before you have followed the amours and fortunes of this person to the end, you are made to love her. It is a triumph over the proverb about first impressions. In spite of yourself, you sympathize with her emotions and feel an absorbing interest in her ad-like twilight, and wasted like wax in a flame. For a ventures. Indeed, the homely, matter-of-fact, crossgrained, yet good-hearted and bright-idea'd Jane or Lucy becomes a more radiant and splendid creature than the finest lady of the land. "I had heard this woman termed 'plain,' and I expected bony harshness and grimness-something large, angular, sallow. What I saw was the shadow of a royal Vashti; a queen fair as the day once, turned pale now while-a long while-I thought it was only a woman, though an unique woman, that moved in might and grace before this multitude. By-and-by I recognized my mistake. Behold! I found upon her something neither of woman nor of man; in each of her eyes sat a devil. All the characteristics of Currer Bell are visible in These evil forces bore her through the tragedy, kept up VILLETTE. The principal figure is a certain Miss Lucy her feeble strength-for she was but a frail creature-and Snowe, who narrowly escapes being a "strong-minded as the action rose and the stir deepened, how wildly they woman," whose rôle is a brave struggle with life under shook her with their passions of the pit! They wrote the drawbacks of want of friends and want of money. HELL on her straight, and narrow brow. They tuned her The res angusta compel her to teach for a livelihood, and voice to the note of torment. They writhed her regal in the boarding school of Madame Beck, in the bright and face to a demoniac mask. Hate, and Murder, and Madgay little capital of Villette, (Brussels,) she becomes duly ness incarnate she stood. It was a marvelous sight, a installed as English teacher in general. In the same mighty revelation. * Suffering had struck that stage great academy there is a certain Monsieur Paul Emanuel empress, and she stood before her audience neither yieldwhose business it is to impart a knowledge of the Belles ing to, nor enduring, nor in finite measure resenting it. Lettres to Madame Beck's young ladies. Between Miss stood, not dressed, but draped in pale antique folds, long She stood locked in struggle, rigid in resistance. She Lucy and Monsieur Paul it is quite natural there should and regular, like sculpture. A background, and entowage, spring up such delicate relations as might afford any nov- and flooring of deepest crimson threw her out, white like elist material enough for three volumes. Accordingly alabaster-like silver-rather be it said, like Death. * these interesting colleagues in female instruction become I have said that she does not resent her grief. No; the lovers. An ordinary artist would make them bill and weakness of that word would make it a lie. To her what coo, take long walks together, and shed tears in sympathy hurts becomes immediately embodied; she looks on it as over Goethe, in the tenderest possible fashion. Charlotte a thing that can be attacked, worried down, torn in shreds. Bronte makes them snub and cuff and abuse each other into an abiding and disinterested attachment. * Scarcely a substance herself, she grapples to conflict with abstractions. Before calamity, she is a tigress; she rends her woes, shivers them in convulsed abhorrence. Pain, for her, has no result in good; tears water no harvest of wisdom; on sickness, on death itself, she looks with the eye of a rebel. Wicked, perhaps, she is, but also she is strong, and her strength has conquered Beauty, has overcome Grace, and bound both at her side, captives peerlessly fair, and docile as fair. Even in the uttermost frenzy of energy in each mænad movement royally, imperially, incedingly upborne. Her hair, flying loose in revel or war, is still an angel's hair, and glorious under a halo. Fallen, insurgent, banished, she remembers the heaven where she rebelled. Heaven's light, following We feel really provoked that a writer of such sway over her fellow creatures as Currer Bell should exercise her strange and rare gifts only to play tricks with the sympathies of the heart. For to us she seems to write for no other purpose. Moral there is none, that we can discover, in any of her writings, unless it be to inculcate the value of courage and self-dependence in her sex. A brother editor of much critical acumen says that the unconscious philosophy she teaches is contained in the fag end of that old adage which declares that "three things never do rightly, unless well beaten-a dog, a walnut tree, and a woman." If this be all that the author of her exile, pierces its confines and discloses their forlorn Villette, of Shirley, of Jane Eyre, is content to teach, we remoteness. I had seen acting before, but never fear the parable of the talents may have another illustra- any thing like this; never any thing which astonished tion in her career. The reader has already as much insight as we design to give, into the plot of Villette. Quotations from it, by way of affording a "taste of its quality," we might make Hope and hushed Desire, which outstripped Impulse and paled Conception, which, instead of merely irritating im agination with the thought of what might be done, at the same time fevering the nerves because it was not done, disclosed power like a deep, swollen, winter river, thun- | upon the purity and exquisite tenderness of thought that dering in cataract, and bearing the soul, like a leaf, on the pervade the volume. MR. STODDARD has proved himsteep and steely sweep of its descent." self the friend and benefactor of children by these delicious "adventures," and many a fireside will be glad. dened by them, from which a ray of thankfulness will stream out towards the poet himself. BEATRICE; Or the Unknown Relatives. By Catherine This novel has grown out of that fierce polemical controversy, which has raged for several hundred years in England, between Rome and the Established Church, and which never was hotter or fiercer than at this moment. Its object is to unmask the iniquities of the Catholic religion, and it goes about this with energy and spirit. But as we have only to deal with the work as a literary performance, we may dismiss it with saying that it is full of interest, exceedingly well written and decidedly original. That it will have a great run there can be little doubt. Adventures in FAIRY LAND. By Richard Henry Stoddard. With engravings from designs by Oertel. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields, 1853. A CHILDS' HISTORY OF ENGLAND. By Charles Dickens. Volume I. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1853. [From A. Morris, 97 Main Street. Mr. Dickens' juvenile history has been in course of publication for some time past in Household Words. It is simply told in a style that adapts itself to the most youthful comprehension, and cannot fail to be a favorite. WHITE, RED, BLACK SKETCHES OF AMERICAN SOCIETY IN THE UNITED STATES, During the Visit of their Guests. By Francis and Theresa Pulszky. In Two Volumes. Redfield: 110 and 112 Nassau Street. New York. 1853. [From J. W. Randolph, 121 Main Street. A tri-coloured title from which the reader will expect to find Madame Pulszky's Sketches of American Society somewhat highly-tinged. Nor in this expectation will he be disappointed. The prevailing tint, however, is by no means couleur de rose: we should rather say it was that of Indian Ink. For though Madame Pulszky is never grave or sombre, her impressions of the United States are not altogether so favorable as some people might desire, and if perpetual recurrence to the subject of domestic slavery be calculated to darken the notes of a tourist, the "black" in the title page is not at all misused. It has always seemed to us that if we could write some book to delight and instruct children-some volume that For ourselves we are not sorry that Madame Pulszky should remain a perpetual favorite in the nursery, the has indulged in a little satire of American manners, measure of our literary ambition would be filled. We and we could only wish her sketches were more satirical have a weakness for Missy. We confess to an irrepres- than they are; for the sort of indiscriminate and fulsome sible fondness for her naughty little brother. And to win homage with which the Kossuth suite was received in the guerdon of their applause would be to us glory this country was discreditable to everybody concerned in enough for the most tedious of literary labours. That it. On the subject of slavery it could not be expectedbook must be one of rare merits which secures Missy's that the Countess should form liheral or correct opinions, approving smile. There must be a strict poetic justice and accordingly we find allusions to it of no complimenin its conclusion; the good child that obeyed its parents tary kind, plentifully sprinkled throughout her pages. must have real nice apples and fine clothes, the bad must We make no complaint of this, however, for in an Appenbe sent supperless and in disgrace to bed; else the simple dix to her work she has given in full Chancellor Harper's and truthful perceptions of the earnest young reader will complete and triumphant Vindication of Slavery—an andetect the false morality, and the author will be put aside. tedote to more poison than Madame Pulszky could inChild-Literature has been neglected too much by the fine fuse into these Sketches, if, instead of being the amiable gentlemen-the beaux esprits-of the literary profession. lady that she is, she were as venomous as Mrs. Stowe. Take away Mother Goose and Gammer Gurton, and what Passing over such considerations, we may say that specimens of epic or lyrical poetry-what efforts of the these volumes are very pleasant and agreeable, and none tragic or comic muse--can we boast for the nursery? the less worthy of perusal for being filled with the most Melpomene stalks not into that noisy and happy realm-remarkable blunders and misstatements. Thalia lends not her laugh to mingle with its capricious merriment. That much good might be effected by furnishing attractive story-books and pleasant works of instruction for the young-books of a somewhat different character than those supplied by the Sunday school to be read in addition thereto--we think there can be little doubt. We have before us two handsome little volumes-the one history, the other fiction-which we regard as highly valuable in this respect, and we congratulate the young folks on their appearance. Adventures in Fairy Land is one of the most charming little series of fantasies that ever came from the pen of a poet. The airy creations of the gifted author live and move in an atmosphere of love and holiness that seems to belong to the "heaven" which "lies about us in our infancy." Too much praise can not be bestowed THE RECTOR OF ST. BARDOLPH's; Or Superannuated. Some time ago, we had occasion to speak in terms of high praise of a little work entitled "SALANDER." We did not know the author of it, for it was published anonymously, but we felt assured that so practised and charming a writer could not long remain in the dark. Accordingly we see him now fairly before the public as the author of another capital piece of writing, which has already passed to a second edition. Mr. SHELTON's most striking quality as a writer is a delicate humor, as will be recognized, we think, by all who read the playful article he has contributed to the |