portment in society. Aristotle arranged the results of their investigations in scientific form, and made a bold offer at a theory of morals. How much has since been added to what they have achieved, we may enquire upon some other occasion. Our object in making this recapitulation at present, is to show the progress made in moral science at the time Theophrastus commenced his career, as the only fair method of estimating the value of his works. The original name of this philosopher was Tyrtamus. He was born in Lesbos, about 395 years before the Christian era. He studied under Plato. At the recommendation of Aristotle, he assumed the name of Euphrastus, (the good speaker,) for which he substituted, at a later period that of Theophrastus, (the divine speaker.) He succeeded Aristotle in the Lyceum. Diogenes Laertius enumerates the titles of above two hundred treatises which he is said to have composed. The work of which an able and elegant translation is now offered to the public, is apparently only a fragment. He thus describes its object in a prefatory epistle : we can trust Xenophon-and the simple, unambitious | style of his work, renders him little obnoxious to suspicion -Socrates possessed a clear insight into the characters of men, and a delicate sense of the workings and tendencies of passion. In the didactic part of his labours, he was assisted by an uncommon power of setting difficult questions in a clear light, and a talent for discovering, and urging to different individuals, those motives most calculated to influence them. He was a Utilitarian in a liberal acceptation of the word, for he respected those feelings which the sect of modern philosophers who affect the title too frequently disregard. He was possessed of an energetic will, capable of controlling his emotions by his convictions, thus lending a moral sublimity to his character, and increasing his influence over the minds of men. His disciple Plato was endowed with a mind of loftier aspirations, more delicate sense of beauty, and wider grasp of intellect, but less power of practical application. Socrates not only formed his own character for all practical purposes, he sought to adapt himself to circumstances, and to teach his secret to his fellow-citizens. Plato's mind was more turned inward. He felt vividly "You know, my friend, that I have long been an attenthe dignity and beauty of the perfected human character, tive observer of human nature: I am now in the ninetyand sought to conform his own to his glowing idea, by ninth year of my age; and during the whole course of my cultivating his powers and capabilities to the uttermost. life I have conversed familiarly with men of all classes, He felt the reflected nobility which the expansion of the and of various climes; nor have I neglected closely to watch intellect and imagination casts upon the whole man. the actions of individuals,-as well the profligate as the virHe tuous. With these qualifications, I have thought myself sought to perfect himself, not like Socrates, by subduing fitted for the task of describing those habitual peculiarities every thought, wish, and action, to the mastery of a will by which the manners of every one are distinguished. I guided by fixed principles, but by ennobling every tend- shall therefore present to your view, in succession, the doency of his nature, and rendering it incapable of ill. In mestic conduct, and, what may be termed, the besetting this proud and daring attempt-striving to communicate practices of various characters. I am willing, my friend something of the divinity to his soul, by fixing his gaze cial to the succeeding generation, who, by consulting these Polycles, to believe that a work of this kind may be benefiupon its glories-to expand his mind, by embracing the patterns of good and of evil, may learn at once to avoid knowledge of universal nature-to strengthen himself what is base, and to assimilate their sentiments and their against the assaults of evil, by the conviction that the habits to what is noble; and thus become not unworthy of attainment of moral beauty is the chief good-he was their virtuous ancestors. I now turn to my task: it will but too apt to lose sight of the real state of human nature. be your part to follow my steps, and to judge of the corHence, his rules for the constitution of political society rectness of my observations. Omitting, therefore, any farare frequently inept. Hence, instead of mingling with ther prefatory matter, I commence by describing the Disthe workingday world like his master, and seeking to sembler; and in conformity with the plan which I propose communicate truth to all, he preferred insinuating his the term; and then portray the manners of the supposed to pursue throughout the work, I shall first briefly define heavenly temper and conceptions into the feelings as well individual to whom the character is attributed. It is in as the reason of a few select disciples, in the course of a this way that I shall endeavour to exhibit, according to long and confidential intercourse. He felt his place in their specific differences, the several dispositions incident to the moral world. It was his to form those who were human nature." afterwards to stamp their own characters upon whole nations. Of him, even more truly than of Milton, may it be said, "His soul was as a star, and dwelt apart: Only thirty of the sketches which the author here promises have come down to us; and these are all pictures of vicious characters. As they are the earliest, however, so are they among the happiest specimens of a much-admired class of essays-brief and felicitous sketches of character. The following will serve to show the style He had a voice whose sound was like the sea, Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free." To him succeeded Aristotle, without the everyday of Theophrastus: practical wisdom of Socrates, and without the wrapt poetic grandeur and beauty of Plato, but with a subtlety of apprehension, and a grasp of intellect, which has never been equalled. Socrates taught practical morality as far as it regulates our outward conduct to others. Plato taught practical morality as far as it regulates the in ward man. Aristotle did neither the one nor the other. He looked upon the whole matter as a great philosophical problem, and he demonstrated it. The scholar of Socrates who acts up to his master's precepts, will be an agreeable and safe companion, but it is possible that he may not command our love. The scholar of Plato may be a dangerous friend, but not from predetermination, and he will be the object of deep and reverential devotion. The scholar of Aristotle will indubitably know all about the matter, but it does not follow that he will be either trust-worthy or estimable. From this review it appears that these three masterspirits succeeded in accumulating a great mass of materials for an exhaustive system of ethics. Plato elucidated those principles of our nature which constitute the moral man. Socrates taught what ought to be his de THE ADULATOR. "Adulation is the base converse of an inferior with one from whom he seeks some sordid advantage. The Adulator, walking with his patron, says, Mark you not how the eyes of all are turned towards you? There is not another man in the city who attracts so much attention. It was but yesterday that the estimation in which you are held was publicly acknowledged in the portico: there were more than thirty persons sitting together; and, in the course of conversation, it was enquired who merited to be called the most worthy citizen of the state; when one and all agreed that you were the man.' While he proceeds with discourse of this sort, he employs himself in picking some particle of down from the great man's cloak; or, if a gust of wind has lodged an atom of straw in his curls, he carefully removes it; and, smiling, adds, See, now, because these two days I have not been with you, your beard is filled with grey hairs; and yet, to say truth, no man of your years has a head of hair so black.' "When his patron is about to speak, the parasite imposes gives signals of applause; and at every pause exclaims, silence on all present; and he himself, while he listens, Well said! well said!' If the speaker is pleased to be facetious, he forces a grin; or puts his cloak to his mouth, as if striving to suppress a burst of laughter. He commands those whom they may meet in a narrow way to give place, you.'" From what has come down to us of Theophrastus, we can only regard him as one who, leaving the scientific department of the study of man where he found it, applied himself to the prosecution of its natural history. This is a branch of knowledge which has ever since been pursued in such a desultory way, that we are inclined to attribute a higher value, on account of their rarity, even to the inimitable delineations of this author. The translation now before us is (as we have already observed) ably executed, except in the titles of some of the sketches, which do not exactly correspond to the characters contemplated by the author. The work is illus trated by spirited engravings, and richly deserves the public patronage. THIS is the work of an enthusiast in his calling—of a true enthusiast, for the contagion of his feelings extends to the reader. We sit with Mr Audubon, day after day, amid the fog, and the wind, and the rain, upon the bleak | and barren rock, waiting for the approach of some unknown species of eagle, a transient glance of which has chained him to the spot. We track the deer, with patient assiduity, through the long and tangled herbage, over the mouldering stems of trees, and beneath the verdant canopy of the forest. We are not only, as he expresses himself in his introductory address, “brought into contact with an American woodsman,”- -we assume the character for the time. Never, since we read Robinson Crusoe, have we felt such a hankering to enact the part of any one whose adventures we were reading. making wild music as its long branches waved in the wind, and the eagle, describing wide circles far above him, were present to his view. Nature was not to be repressed. For twenty years he ransacked the woods, lakes, and prairies of America. And all this he did simply from an engrossing love of nature. The thought of turning his pursuits to account, and increasing by their means the circle of human knowledge, never once seems to have struck him, until he accidentally formed the acquaintance of the Prince of Musignano at Philadelphia. Unable to find in America engravers who would undertake to do justice to his drawings, he embarked for England. It was in Edinburgh that he commenced the publication of his engravings. Unexpected difficulties came in the way, and the work was transferred to London, and put into the hands of Robert Havell, jun. Four years have now elapsed since the commencement of this stupendous work; and one volume of the illustra tions, containing a hundred plates-in which every bird is represented as large as life-is now before the public. The work now on our table is intended to describe these illustrations. It contains the descriptions of ninety-nine specimens of American birds, many of them entirely new, all of them presented to us with unprecedented fidelity, feeling, and intimate knowledge of their habits. With the assistance of Mr Macgillivray, Mr Audubon lays before us excellent scientific descriptions of every species. But the great charm of the work consists in his own narratives of the habits of the different birds, the manner in which he became acquainted with them, and his long and painful searches after them. Interspersed are twenty essays illustrative of American scenery and manners, which convey to the reader a more correct and pleasing idea of the backsettlements than any thing we have met with. We know not whether we most admire the author's sketches of character or of inanimate nature. His Colonel Boon, Eccentric Naturalist, and Original Painter, are valuable additions to our knowledge of human nature. His hurricane is a splendid and powerful piece of poetry-his earthquake, if possible, still more grand. We could expatiate for ever on the charms of this work, but one extract will serve better to give our readers a just notion of it. Two of these essays have already graced our columns→→ the Flood on the Mississippi, and the Improvements of its Navigation-we now add another: THE PRAIRIE. "On my return from the Upper Mississippi, I found myself obliged to cross one of the wide prairies, which, in that portion of the United States, vary the appearance of the country. The weather was fine, all around me was as refreshing and blooming as if it had just issued from the bosom of nature. My knapsack, my gun, and my dog, were all I had for baggage and company. But, although well moccassined, I moved slowly along, attracted by the brilliancy of the flowers, and the gambols of the fawns around their dams, to all appearance as thoughtless of danger as I felt myself. Audubon is an American by birth. The productions of nature were objects of intense interest to him before he could render to himself a reason for his emotions. His father encouraged the propensity, by accompanying him on his rambles, procuring for him birds and flowers, pointing out their peculiarities, and describing their habits. Young Audubon strove to preserve the specimens of natural history which fell into his hands, but found, to his mortification, that death instantly dulled and sullied the My march was of long duration; I saw the sun sinking brightness of their vesture. The father came again to beneath the horizon long before I could perceive any ap his assistance, by putting into his hands a book of illus-pearance of woodland, and nothing in the shape of man had trations. From that moment he became a painter, as I met with that day. The track which I followed was well as a collector, of specimens of natural history. With only an old Indian trace, and as darkness overshaded the a true feeling of art, however, he could not satisfy him- prairie, I felt some desire to reach at least a copse, in which I might lie down to rest. The night-hawks were skimself; and the productions of the preceding year were reming over and around me, attracted by the buzzing wings gularly made bonfires in celebration of his birthday. of the beetles which form their food, and the distant Being sent to France for the rudiments of his education, howling of wolves gave me some hope that I should soon he there formed his hand and eye under the guidance of arrive at the skirts of some woodland. David. But his love of art was subordinate to his love of nature, and on his return to his native forests, he resumed his old pursuits with fresh vigour. Audubon has tried, in his time, various branches of commerce, but ever without profit. His soul was in the woods: the din, smoke, and bustle of the city might surround him, but the cataract of the rock, the lofty pine, "I did so, and almost at the same instant a fire-light attracting my eye, I moved towards it, full of confidence that it proceeded from the camp of some wandering Indians. from the hearth of a small log cabin, and that a tall figure I was mistaken: -I discovered by its glare that it was passed and repassed between it and me, as if busily engaged in household arrangements. "I reached the spot, and presenting myself at the door, asked the tall figure, which proved to be a woman, if I might take shelter under her roof for the night. Her voice was gruff, and her attire negligently thrown about her. She answered in the affirmative. I walked in, took a wooden stool, and quietly seated myself by the fire. The next object that attracted my notice, was a finely formed young Indian, resting his head between his hands, with his elbows on his knees. A long bow rested against the log wall near him, while a quantity of arrows and two or three raccoon skins lay at his feet. He moved not; he apparently breathed not. Accustomed to the habits of the Indians, and knowing that they pay little attention to the approach of civilized strangers-a circumstance which in some countries is considered as evincing the apathy of their character-I addressed him in French-a language not unfrequently partially known to the people in that neighbourhood. He raised his head, pointed to one of his eyes with his finger, and gave me a significant glance with the other. His face was covered with blood. The fact was, that an hour before this, as he was in the act of discharging an arrow at a raccoon in the top of a tree, the arrow had split upon the cord, and sprung back with such violence into his right eye as to destroy it for ever. "Feeling hungry, I enquired what sort of fare I might expect. Such a thing as a bed was not to be seen, but many large untanned bear and buffalo hides lay piled in a corner. I drew a fine timepiece from my breast, and told the woman that it was late, and that I was fatigued. She had espied my watch, the richness of which seemed to operate upon her feelings with electric quickness. She told me that there was plenty of venison and jerked buffalo meat, and that on removing the ashes I should find a cake. But my watch had struck her fancy, and her curiosity had to be gratified by an immediate sight of it. I took off the gold chain that secured it from around my neck, and presented it to her. She was all ecstasy, spoke of its beauty, asked me its value, and put the chain round her brawny neck, saying how happy the possession of such a watch should make her. Thoughtless, and, as I fancied myself, in so retired a spot, secure, I paid little attention to her talk or her movements. I helped my dog to a good supper of venison, and was not long in satisfying the demands of my own appetite. "The Indian rose from his seat, as if in extreme suffering. He passed and repassed me several times, and once pinched me on the side so violently, that the pain nearly brought forth an exclamation of anger. I looked at him. His eye met mine; but his look was so forbidding, that it struck a chill into the more nervous part of my system. He again seated himself, drew his butcher-knife from its greasy scabbard, examined its edge, as I would do that of a razor suspected dull, replaced it, and again taking his tomahawk from his back, filled the pipe of it with tobacco, and sent me expressive glances whenever our hostess chanced to have her back towards us, "Never until that moment had my senses been awakened to the danger which I now suspected to be about me. I returned glance for glance to my companion, and rested well assured that, whatever enemies I might have, he was not of their number. "I asked the woman for my watch, wound it up, and, under pretence of wishing to see how the weather might probably be on the morrow, took up my gun, and walked out of the cabin. I slipped a ball into each barrel, scraped the edges of my flints, renewed the primings, and, returning to the hut, gave a favourable account of my observations. I took a few bear-skins, made a pallet of them, and, calling my faithful dog to my side, lay down, with my gun close to my body, and in a few minutes was, to all appearance, fast asleep. "A short time had elapsed, when some voices were heard, and from the corner of my eyes I saw two athletic youths making their entrance, bearing a dead stag on a pole. They disposed of their burden, and, asking for whisky, helped themselves freely to it: Observing me and the wounded Indian, they asked who I was, and why the devil that rascal (meaning the Indian, who, they knew, understood not a word of English) was in the house. The motherfor so she proved to be, bade them speak less loudly, made mention of my watch, and took them to a corner, where a conversation took place, the purport of which it required little shrewdness in me to guess. I tapped my dog gently. He moved his tail, and with indescribable pleasure I saw his fine eyes alternately fixed on me, and raised towards the trio in the corner. I felt that he perceived danger in my situation. The Indian exchanged a last glance with me. "The lads had eaten and drunk themselves into such condition, that I already looked upon them as hors de combat; and the frequent visits of the whisky bottle to the ugly mouth of their dam, I hoped would soon reduce her to a like state. Judge of my astonishment, reader, when I saw this incarnate fiend take a large carving-knife, and go to the grindstone to whet its edge. I saw her pour the water on the turning machine, and watched her working away with the dangerous instrument, until the cold sweat covered every part of my body, in despite of my determination to defend myself to the last. Her task finished, she walked to her reeling sons, and said,There, that'll soon settle him! Boys, kill yon and then for the watch.' "I turned, cocked my gun-locks silently, touched my faithful companion, and lay ready to start up and shoot the first who might attempt my life. The moment was fast approaching, and that night might have been my last in this world, had not Providence made preparations for my rescue. All was ready. The infernal hag was advancing slowly, probably contemplating the best way of dispatching me, whilst her sons should be engaged with the Indian. was several times on the eve of rising, and shooting her on the spot ;-but she was not to be punished thus. The door was suddenly opened, and there entered two stout travellers, each with a long rifle on his shoulder. I bounced up on my feet, and making them most heartily welcome, told them how well it was for me that they should have arrived at that moment. The tale was told in a minute. The drunken sons were secured, and the woman, in spite of her defence and vociferations, shared the same fate. The Indian fairly danced with joy, and gave us to understand that, as he could not sleep for pain, he would watch over us. You may suppose we slept much less than we talked. The two strangers gave me an account of their once having been themselves in a somewhat similar situation. Day came, fair and rosy, and with it the punishment of our captives. "They were now quite sobered. Their feet were unbound, but their arms were still securely tied. We marched them into the woods off the road, and having used them as Regulators were wont to use such delinquents, we set fire to the cabin, gave all the skins and implements to the young Indian warrior, and proceeded, well pleased, towards the settlements. "During upwards of twenty-five years, when my wanderings extended to all parts of our country, this was the only time at which my life was in danger from my fellowcreatures. Indeed, so little risk do travellers run in the United States, that no one born there ever dreams of any to be encountered on the road; and I can only account for this occurrence by supposing that the inhabitants of the cabin were not Americans. "Will you believe, good-natured reader, that not many miles from the place where this adventure happened, and where fifteen years ago no habitation belonging to civilized man was expected, and very few ever seen, large roads are now laid out, cultivation has converted the woods into fertile fields, taverns have been erected, and much of what we Americans call comfort is to be met with. So fast does improvement proceed in our abundant and free country." Mr Audubon has done much to silence a set of critics who affect to despise America; and we know, that when he returns from the journey upon which he is now setting out, he will do more. Laugh at the young republic indeed! Where is the state of the old world that can show any results of private and unaided enterprise to stand in competition with what has been effected by three men beyond the Atlantic-Wilson, Charles Bonaparte, and Audubon ? The giant is awake, and though he may dally a while before he select his task, it is neither from want of will, nor of power to work. advertisement prefixed to this volume, he will cease to be startled by these unceremonious epithets. "Much as we owe to the invention of printing, its good is not entirely without alloy. From the facilities it presents to the rapid march of mind, books are multiplied as if by magic; but, at the same time, the sterling works of each successive age are thus, from the want of leisure to read them, rapidly displaced by literature of a lighter cast, whose aim it is to play round the heart, but never reach the head."" This is not true. It is the "sterling works" which remain, while the lighter impertinences-such as the work we are now reviewing-are swept away. "To divert in part the interest felt for such productions, it is intended to publish, in a concentrated form, a Series of STANDARD ENGLISH AUTHORS; of whose works the present generation know little, and the rising youth must know less; although the names, at least, of such writers are 'familiar in our mouths as household words,' and the information they convey, suited to all times, places, and conditions of men, is clothed in language, which has of necessity remained stationary, whilst modes of thinking and writing have insensibly changed." It has been said by some gifted authors of the day, less read, we confess, than they deserve, that the public of the nineteenth century are engrossed with light and frivolous reading. They imagined, because the public had not discernment to appreciate them, that it must be blind to all excellency. The cry has been taken up by raw schoolboys and empty pedagogues, who never heard of our old English authors until they met with their names in the pages of the writers we allude to-who know them yet only by name—and who think all the world as silly and ignorant as themselves. We can pardon this in a schoolboy-nay, we can regard it as an augury of good. But, when we hear a man come to what are called the years of discretion use such language, we regard it as a sure sign that he has not power to comprehend or penetrate the workings of the age. "But though powerful in mind and rich in matter are the writers of England's proudest period, still they are all deficient in the one thing needful-brevity; and thus the very points, on which they plumed themselves in their own days, have led to their present partial neglect. Ever more afraid of saying too little than too much, they have imposed on posterity the task of pruning luxuriances and removing blemishes, by the rejection of what is superfluous in matter and quaint in style; but not without the double advantage on our part of retaining all that is useful, and of imparting a new interest to it by the system of CONCENTRATION." Was ever such a coxcomb! Bacon, Locke, Hooker, Milton, Taylor, and others, were "pretty men" in their day. But they are too long for the notions of our modern Procrustes, Mr A. J. Valpy, and they must be cut shorter to fit his standard. We are to read and admire, not the standard authors of England, but those portions of them to which A. J. Valpy, editor and printer of sundry questionable editions of the classics, and unused schoolbooks, affixes his imprimatur. The goose is not aware that he may give the conclusions, and even the arguments of one of these writers, and yet, by lopping off his peculiar imagery and illustration, strike at the vitality of the whole. "Of the value of such a principle, the best proof is given by the unimitated and inimitable authors of Greece and Rome. Varied as their works are in subject and style, they all unite in the leading point, to give the maximum of information in the minimum of space, and have thus been able, independent of their intrinsic value, to outlive not only the darker ages, but to throw a lustre even on more enlightened times." This is a new and wonderful discovery. According to Mr Valpy, it is length alone that subjects a manuscript work to the ravages of time. Short books bear about with them a charmed life, and are proof against the attacks of fire and vermin, the neglect of an illiterate age, and the irruptions of barbarians. Brevity alone secures immortality. Αντ ̓ ἀσπιδων ἁπασῶν, Αντ ̓ ἐγχέων ἁπάντων Νικᾷ δὲ καὶ σιδήρον, Kai Tug any book that is short enough. And yet Homer has stood the shock as well as Anacreon. All ancient authors, too, agree, according to Mr Valpy, in giving "the maximum of information in the minimum of space." Did he ever hear of a writer called Cicero, who was at one time-we adapt our language to the notions of this Cockney-Lord Mayor of Rome? "The series will be confined to the popular productions of writers in prose, and the following authors will be first selected: Which being interpreted, means,-That Mr A. J. Valpy, and his nameless editor, intend to publish Abridgeand elegant Extracts from our Poets and Miscellaneous Authors. And this they are childish and ignorant enough to call "creating a new era in literature." ments of our Historians, Indexes to our Philosophers, Seriously, our standard authors are national property, and the creature which dares thus presumptuously to defile and nibble at them, must be extinguished instantly. This system of CONCENTRATION is as bad as the system of CONTRACTION practised by the magistrates of Glasgow upon the plans of architects, and more dangerous. For Mr Valpy does not merely suppress what he deems superfluous-" whenever," says he, "a link has been found deficient or defective in the author's chain of rea soning, we have endeavoured to supply the one, and repair the other." We shall next hear of some stonemason proposing to CONCENTRATE Stonehenge into a dwelling-house. It is our intention to publish a list of all who shall purchase one copy of this work, as traitors to English literature. The editor we intend to boil alive as soon as we can lay hold of him. Roasting is too lenient a punishment for his atrocities. At Home and Abroad. 3 vols. By the Author of "Rome in the Nineteenth Century," &c. London. John Murray. 1831. We feel particularly delighted when, in the discharge of our critical duties, we happen to meet with an old We do not deny that there is literary acquaintance. something pleasant enough in beating about the bushes of Parnassus, starting fresh game, and running them down, or scattering among the newly-fledged covies a few random shots; but the old ones, after all, furnish the best sport, as every true sportsman knows; and accordingly, we are never so much pleased as when one of the marked game, whose strength of wing or fleetness of foot we have formerly had occasion to admire, strikes across our path. To leave metaphor, we are always happy to see a new work from the pen of an author whose former productions have given us pleasure; and in this class we are most assuredly disposed to place the fair author of " Rome in the Nineteenth Century." At Home and Abroad does not properly belong to either class of our modern novels. It owns allegiance neither to Waverley nor to Pelham. It reminds us more of Miss Edgeworth's manner, and evidently pertains to her school. The author even thinks it necessary to vindicate herself from the anticipated charge of feloniously appropriating part of the story and some of the characters of Patronage. We are satisfied with her justification— the more that we cannot trace the very close resemblance | which seems to have struck the writer, and which influenced her to withhold her novel from the press for twenty-five years after it was written. Perhaps, after all, the work has not greatly suffered by the retention; for it may naturally be supposed to have undergone many beneficial alterations, and very considerable improvement, from the writer's more matured judgment and practised habits of composition. It is certainly written with greater accuracy of style than we are accustomed to see in the productions of even very clever female writers; for we do not derogate greatly from their excellence, when we say, that the dear creatures are generally less attentive to strict grammar and correct composition, than those male monsters, who arrogate to themselves the title of lords of the creation. Emily de Cardonnell, the daughter of a British general officer, is the heroine. One morning, as she was riding to pay a visit to her aunt, with the news of the victory at Maida, where General de Cardonnell had greatly distinguished himself, her horse took fright at the report of a gun, and ran off with her. Emily is, of course, an accomplished rider, and contrives to stop him, just as the unlucky sportsman, her cousin, Percival Wentworth, and a Danish count, Waldemar, came up with her to make an apology for causing the accident. The count and Emily cannot, under such circumstances, help falling in love with each other. Dinner invitations are given and accepted. The Dane is very accomplished—the young English woman very fascinating-they are both amiable, indeed, intolerably so. We can make some allowance for the heroine, but ever since we read Sir Charles Grandison, we hold a faultless hero in utter abhorrence. After a little reciprocal jealousy, the Dane declares himself, and is accepted; but unluckily, just at this interesting period, war breaks out between England and Denmark, The count, justly considering that the honour of his native country was concerned in the cool demand of the British ministry, that she would deliver up to them her navy, patriotically hastens home without waiting to celebrate his marriage. After displaying much gallantry in the defence of Copenhagen, he is pro moted to the government of Moen, but at the same time, absolutely commanded by the despotic crown prince to break off his match with Emily. Even correspondence of any kind with England is declared penal. Count Waldemar, of course, pays no attention to either injunction. He refuses to sacrifice his true love; and carries on with her a secret but animated correspondence. His enemies (for every good, and especially every great man, has enemies) take advantage of these circumstances to represent the count as an enemy to his country. They forge a treasonable letter, which they insert in an intercepted packet, and lay before the crown prince. Waldemar is tried, condemned to be beheaded, dies in prison, is dissected, and buried with military honours. -he has effected his escape-it is another who has been dissected and buried. The count's innocence is dis But no covered; and, after encountering many dangers by sea and by land," multum ille et terris jactatus et alto," he is restored to Emily, who had gone into mourning for him, succeeds to an English peerage, marries, and so happily ends the tale. Many of the subordinate incidents and characters are excellent. The conceited coxcomb Colonel Ormond-the flirt Louisa Wentworth-the Newmarket gambler Trevelyan the eccentric Dr Doran-and, above all, the gentlemanly, good-humoured, gallant soldier, and incorrigible punster, Percival Wentworth, are all drawn with spirit. But one great fault of the novel is, that too many characters are introduced; and, as a natural consequence, After the dialogues are not sufficiently characteristic. reading a speech, we too often feel a temptation to ask, Says who?" One person frequently says what might, with equal propriety, have been said by half a dozen of the other dramatis personæ. This is a fault, and a great one, for it takes away the spirit of the dialogue, and is apt to confound the identity of the characters. Another fault, and it is the most serious one with which we have to charge the author, is her killing the hero not fewer, we believe, than six times. First, he jumps out of a boat, to save an old man, and is drowned; again, he saves Emily's little brother, with whom the ice had given way, and is drowned a second time, with the addition of having his ankle dislocated; he is next cut down with a sabre, and officially "returned killed;" after this, he is condemned to lose his head, and is dissected and buried; but these two last operations he undergoes, as we have already stated, by substitute; once more, he is condemned to be shot as a pirate; and, lastly-but we believe this is all, for the matrimonial noose is only figurative. Now all these misfortunes, without taking into account sundry broken arms and hair-breadth 'scapes by sea and land, including a very narrow escape from hanging on board a privateer, and another escape out of the hands of the Danish consul at Riga, have the effect of rendering us quite callous to the hero's sufferings. At first, no doubt, we are startled when we hear of his death; but we soon come to view it with perfect indifference, satisfied that, although we see him embowelled and embalmed, quietly consigned to the tomb of all the Capulets, at the close of one chapter, we shall find him in the next apparently very much at his ease, engaged with his usual occupations. Surely this is too bad! we dislike such literary resurrection work, and wish to make it penal. We certainly prefer to see the hero married rather than hanged; for we think the former, upon the whole, the less formidable alternative. Yet we do not like to see the heroine and ourselves thrown into hysterics for nothing. When a man is once fairly drowned, or hanged, or shot, we would calmly and resignedly say with Lord Byron, "Now Tom's no more, and so no more of Tom." All that remains for the author is, to make the heroine run mad, and thus put an end to the story. This work being written by a lady, we have, of course, half a dozen rapes, seductions, and elopements, as part of the underplot. They are managed, however, with more delicacy than we have sometimes met with in 'similar works. As to the honourable love-scenes, they form by much the most able, as well as the most interesting, portion of the book. Madame Vestris says that 66 women, after all, are the best managers;" and beyond all doubt, the lovers which they bring on the scene are the most interesting and natural; we might perhaps venture to say, that they are the only tolerable lovers. The author of "At Home and Abroad" triumphantly sustains the superiority of her sex in this their stronghold. Her women are real women-with the exception of the heroine, who is unfortunately an angel; they have their little jealousies and prejudices, their prudery, their coquetry, their scandal, and their tea, just as we know to be the case in real life, though we cannot colour the picture so faithfully, so spiritedly, and yet so softly, as a woman can. We could say much more in praise, and something in find the volumes themselves less tedious than our critiblame, of these delightful volumes; but our readers will cism, and so we release them from our lecture, that they may order from their bookseller, or from the nearest circulating library, "At Home and Abroad, or Memoirs of Emily de Cardonnell." The History of Mary Prince, a West Indian Slave, related by herself; with a Supplement by Thomas Pringle. 8vo. London: Westley and Davis. Ediu1831. burgh: Waugh and Innes. We are delighted to avail ourselves of the opportunity afforded us by this touching pamphlet, of recalling the |
