self-possession carry me, that I was astonished at catching myself in the very act of sporting, with the air of an improvisatore, sundry bon-mots and exceeding smart witticisms, which, for the last two days, I had been excogitating from the dry remnant of my college reminiscences; and it was certainly with a degree of amiable complacency that I listened to sundry complimentary remarks from the lower end of the table, on the uncommon talent evinced by the unknown author of a certain political essay. I began to flatter myself that an impression had been made, not only on the minds of the male politicians, but also on the hearts of the ladies (dear souls,) by the said political essay. Miss Tabby sat opposite to Squire Botherum, and being herself a little bit of "a blue," she was endeavouring to set off the sparkles of her wit, by making a foil of the man of law.

"Are the waters of the Black River, in your backwoods, Mr. Botherum, literally black?" inquired the damsel. "Black as a thunder cloud, madam." Is it possible! what a contrast to the waters of the Black River, are the translucid waters of Helicon!" "Hel-what, madam ?” "Ah, I perceive, Squire, you have not wandered, in imagination, along the banks of Castaly delicious streams, made immortal by the pen of Esculapius, the Stagyrite! Where bowers, shaded by the myrtle and the vine, invite to heavenly repose; and where cluster the golden grapes, whose exquisite juices fill the soul with ethereal imaginings; where _" "I'll trouble you for a potatoe, madam ?" Miss Tabby turned in disgust from the monster, and settled upon Mr. Fitz Fugle, who, secure in all the gracious puppyism of a New-York dandy, was ensconced in an arm-chair beside her. A gentleman of consideration was Mr. Fitz Fugle, the graceful twist of whose mustachios struck an agony of awe to the hearts of the unsophisticated damsels of Bronson. He wore the latest New-York fashions, his hair “à la Brute," and his moustache "à la Cossaque." Mr. Fitz Fugle was, in short, an exquisitely finished gentleman. What brought Mr. Fitz Fugle to a place, which, to his gentility appeared, (as he was pleased to say,) an "untamed wilderness," I knew not, unless it was to procure for his hair some unadulterated bear's grease-an article then in great demand with "perfect gentlemen."

"I have heard," said the dandy, addressing Mary, "I have heard that you have some aspiring geniuses in this part of the country, Miss ?" "Indeed! we are plain people here, sir, and I believe our genius consists principally in" "Raising large turnips!" interrupted Botherum. Mary smiled at her uncle, and the conversation was continued in a rather low tone. When Mr. Fitz Fugle spoke of geniuses I pricked up my ears, and began to feel some respect for him; but the discourse afterwards was carried on in such an under tone, that I could only now and then catch a word. They were evidently speaking of some promising youth in the neighbourhood. The words, small stature-promising look-ambitiousgold cup-beat his opponent, only, I could distinctly hear. I never flattered myself without cause, but I was tolerably certain that I was the subject of their commendations; "small stature,”-four feet to a fraction,-“ promising look," "ambitious,"-me exactly,-"gold cup," "beat his oppo

nent-aha, there could be no doubt of it! Colonel Bronson, as I said before, was a grateful man; and he, in gratitude for "the political essay," was, undoubtedly, about to present me with a "gold cup" for thus assisting him to "beat his opponent" at the hustings; and it was this then-oh, it must be this--they were talking of, and in a whisper, too, that I should not hear them. I was delighted! The world would hear of it! Only think, a "gold cup!"-my name in German text on one side,—Genius placing a wreath around my brows on the other-neat device-sentence of gratitude Anno Domini--Glorious! I would not have exchanged situations with the author of Waverley! I listened to hear more. I seemed to stretch the drums of my ears almost to bursting. I leaned forward, but all was still. They had undoubtedly observed my attention, and would not speak for fear of embarrassing me. I pretended to be wholly absorbed with the wing of a fowl, but all my ears were open. Suddenly Botherum broke out "Yes, that was a fine colt!"

A COLT! The ladies were about to retire; the Colonel arose requesting them to remain. Would to heaven they had retired, or that their eyes and ears had become inanimate, and every sense of observation palsied— that they might not have been witnesses of my shame. The Colonel made a speech; his health was drunk; he made another, and then,-oh, horrible,-gave a toast! Why, in the name of decency, these villainous compounds of trash are countenanced and encouraged, I invoke the spirit of Chesterfield to answer! But I was prepared-thank the gods! I had "written out" a toast expressly for the occasion. I had learnt it, and I knew I could give it with effect. Alas, how far from just is a man's conception of his powers; how little does he know who has not ventured. But I was brimfull of resolution. Few hearts quail after dinner; why should mine then!

My turn came. The Colonel had, in his toast or speech, I forget which, complimented the author of the political essay. So much the better-my toast would be the more appropriate. I seized the decanter; I poured forth the liquid which was to be the usher of my confusion; I arose; all eyes were upon me. I was cool as one of Contoit's ices. I raised the glass: "Ladies and gentlemen permit me to return thanks for the honour done me on this very flattering occasion, and offer" Here,--oh, horror!—in advancing my left foot, in order to assume a more Demosthenian attitude, I stepped-oh, most unlucky chance-upon the hindmost extremity of a cat! A short, vituperative yowl, to which the roar of a lion seemed a whisper, issued from the lungs of this villainous rat catcher! I could have crept into a wine glass! I wished myself with Vanderdecken or Dr. Faustus—any where but there. The ladies elevated their handkerchiefs, and turned their heads-the gentlemen, ditto. There was a bursting desire to laugh-confound them--but I recovered myself. Ladies and gentlemen," (I spoke as loud as a town crier,) "permit me to offer our honourable host--the worthy head of the cat-confusion--beg pardon. Ladies and gentlemen, our honourable host-the worthy head of the free and independent-Demo--cats of Branton!" This was too

much. There was a roar from one end of the table to the other. Mary Bronson laughed! The glass was to my lips :--in utter agony I dashed it to the earth, and rushed-I know not where.

On returning from the wedding of Mary Bronson and Frederick Alonzo Fitz Fugle, two months after the event related above, I had the felicity of planting a ball exactly between the ears of a certain feline quadruped, whose "still small voice," as she leaped a fence was not to be mistaken.

LITERARY NOTICES

OF NEW WORKS AT HOME AND ABROAD.

TRAVELS OF AN IRISH GENTLEMAN IN SEARCH OF A RELIGION, With Notes and Illustrations, by the Editor of CAPTAIN ROCK'S MEMOIRS. 2 vols. London: Longman & Co.

Moore is an extraordinary writer. Every way one of the most extraordinary of the age. Of whatever subject, on which he lifts his graceful pen, he shows himself a consummate master, and whether in poetry or politics, we are alike astonished at the minute extent of his elaborate erudition and the inexhaustible vivacity of his delightful fancy.

The "Travels of an Irish gentleman," as it is his latest, is by far his most extraordinary production; and in this singular and most acute work, he has fairly brought his unusual combination of powers to the test, and formally made the experiment as to whether the light attractions of a lively wit could be so blended with more solemn matter, as to render readable the most abstruse points of polemical controversy.

There are two lights in which this book must be viewed: first, with regard to its efficacy to accomplish its object-viz. the defence of the Roman catholic religion; and secondly, with regard to the author's fame.

As to the first there can be but one opinion. His treatment of the subject is alike masterly and ingenious. An Irish gentleman, finding himself, by the passage of the catholic relief bill, released, as he chivalrously expresses himself, from the point of honour which had kept him a Roman catholic, resolves to turn protestant, and commences a course of reading of the ancient Fathers, to ascertain which of all the various sects, is its purest form of faith. He, however, discovers, to his surprise, that protestantism is nowhere to be found; and his research eventually ends in-as might be expected-his becoming a more devout catholic than ever. The design is sufficiently ingenious, and trongly indicates the mind from which it originated. Of its object we say nothing-Of its execution there can be but one opinion. It is by far the ablest, the most powerful defence of the christianity of Rome which has hitherto appeared. With his usual industry and tact, the author has pressed into his service every minute authority which the forgotten volumes of a thousand years has afforded. The most brilliant poet of his time has displayed a research unparalleled by the dreariest controversialist of the middle ages. The dusty folios of the Fathers have been ransacked with the zeal of the most laborious commentator, to furnish proofs of his assertions; and facts and opinions have been brought to light, that tell, with new power on his theme, which, slumbering for ages in their primal obscurity, escaped, till now, all the accomplished controversialists who have written on the subject. And yet it strikes us as very strange, amid all this parade of learning, that the "Irish gentleman" should have neglected, in his search for protestantism, to have

examined not merely the oldest authority and the best, but the only authority which protestants recognise as the foundation and standard of their faith-the BIBLE.

Such being our opinion of the manner in which Moore has executed his task, we must next view it in its abstracted and proper light-As it will affect the poet's fame. And here, as one of his warmest admirers, we regret that this ill-starred work ever has appeared. The bitterness of controversy will be fatal to the fame of Moore, and the myrtle of the poet is destined to wither in the blighting acerbity of polemical strife. In the sorrow of our surprise, we cannot but ask-"And is it come to this?" Have all this writer's paraded patriotism-his national indignation-his eagerness against oppression, been but the masked and flitting phantoms of an odious, whining, uncompromising bigotry? Must the applause which the world awarded to the poet of universal liberty, settle down into the gratitude of the partisan and the zealot? And shall the poet, whose animated song of universal charity found a response in every heart, thus coldly consent to change those enduring laurels for the questionable celebrity of the angry controversionalist? Yet so it is. Singular as may be the idea, we have ever thought that the life and the opinions of a poet should be known only from his song. How much more glorious is the catholic Pope, as the author of the Universal Prayer, the Dying Christian to his Soul, and the Messiah-or the protestant Cowper, singing of Universal Charity, and Providence, and Hope; and even Moore himself, in those noble hymns which swell in the adoration of every creed, than all the disputants who wrote on earth? But we have done. We have seen more in sorrow than in anger, that Moore, not content with his legitimate and universal fame, has degraded the property of mankind, into the paltry rank of the champion of a polemical tenet. He could not enter this narrow gate, however, without leaving all his former glories behind, and in the "Travels of an Irish gentleman," he has unwisely compromised the cordial homage which the admiration of all mankind awarded to his genius, for the wretched approbation of priestcraft, or the more equivocal applause of the last remnants of expiring bigotry.

Let us not, however, be misunderstood. In the light in which we view this unnatural interference of a poet with the asperities of religious controversy, (and the liberal of every creed will join with us in the opinion,) we consider it as of no moment which side of the dispute he had espoused. The case had been precisely similar had Moore, in his ungracious advocacy, turned out the protestant champion instead of the Roman catholic. BIBLIOTHECA CLASSICA. Eighth American Edition. Edited by L. L. Da Ponte and John D. Ogilby. New-York: W. E. Dean.

We have no hesitation in saying that this is the most perfect and valuable edition of Lempriere's standard dictionary, which has hitherto appeared. The duties of editor to any long established work are generally invidious, involving an amount of labour and research, in many cases, not less than the whole trouble of preparing the original work, and require, in addition, a discrimination so accurate, that a great majority of the works