scenery to no land but that of the sturdy Switzer. We doubt not that any one who should adopt this idea, would not only further the improvement of the fine arts in one of the loveliest, and in America, most neglected branches-we mean landscape painting--but would reap a golden harvest from the sale of a work, which, we believe, would be no less popular in the land of our ancestors than among ourselves. HENRI QUATRE, OR THE DAYS OF THE LEAGUE. Harper & Brothers. It is rarely, indeed, that we are called upon to express ourselves unfavorably of any book emanating from this press; but, where much is valuable, it is impossible but that some things must be issued of inferior merit. This is a re-print from an English novel, and has been lauded to the skies both there and by many of our critics here. We regret that we are compelled to differ from them. We rate it as the dullest, driest, heaviest historical romance we ever were so unfortunate as to read. It is not, in short, a novel, but a chronicle; a volume of Hume or Gibbon, is light reading when compared with Henri Quatre, and possesses this advantage over it: it will probably leave some one distinct idea on the mind of the reader, which is not the case with the Days of the League. Events and characters are multiplied to such an extraordinary amount, that we would defy the clearest understanding and most powerful memory to retain the knowledge of the names, much less the identity of the personages, or to keep the run of occurrences, much less find out their bearing on the novel. The battle of Coutras is brilliantly described-it is the only portion of the work that is so--but before we reach the conclusion, the recollection of it is well nigh effaced by a multiplicity of small events, clashing and contending in truly chaotic confusion. Few people can write an historical novel. Since Scott, who will probably be never approached, much less improved upon, some hundreds of his torical tales have been published, of which about a dozen have succeeded, from the hands of about four authors. James has succeeded to the mantle of inspiration, and, although neither equal nor second to the great magician, has at least "occupied the honors nearest to him." Next to James we should reckon Power, the comedian, saving that he is deficient not in quality, but in quantity, his "King's Secret" is perhaps the best effort of the kind since the Waverly Novels but why is it a solitary one? Grattan has written some of considerable merit. The heiress of Bruges was decidedly clever-as also Mrs. Hall's Buccaneers. Horace Smith, with many good points, and very great talent, has never written an agreeable or popular work. Brambletye House is the best, but like all the rest, is heavy and pedantic; alas, our list is speedily concluded! We do not know another. The author of Henri Quatre may add his name to the list of those, to whom neither men, nor Gods, nor columns have granted permission to be a novelist. We trust he will transgress no further-if he do so, we promise our readers that we will not review it-for we will not even open it. Requiescat! FRANCKLIN'S SOPHOCLES. Harpers' Classical Library.-After noticing at length in our last number, Dr. Potter's spirited Translation of Eschylus, we cannot venture to trespass on our readers with another long article on a classical subject. We rejoice to see that the publishers weary not in well doing. They have done more to render classical literature popular in America, than all the colleges and institutions from Maine to Mississippi. The present translation is sufficiently accurate to be consistent with harmony and spirit in its new language. The great beauties of Sophocles consist in tragic dignity, stately pathos, and greater correctness of conduct in his dramas, than belongs to either of his brother tragedians. The Edipus Tyrannus of this author, more closely resembles a modern play, than any other relic of antiquity; it would require but little alteration to adapt it to the English stage. We confess that "The most Tragic of the Greeks" is not so much to our taste as his wilder but far more imaginative and poetical predecessor; nevertheless, there are many who prefer him to schylus, and no one can deny the vigor and grace of his conceptions. We trust that ere long Euripides will fill up the measure. We would suggest to the Messrs. Harpers, that a translation of the exquisite gems, which are collected in the greater anthology, would be a most acceptable offering to the public. Many of the articles have been splendidly rendered, but we doubt the existence of a complete collection. There are, however, many writers of the day, who could, between collation and translation, supply the deficiencyand the enterprize would be worthy of the firm. THREE YEARS IN THE PACIFIC. By an Officer of the United States Navy. Ca rey, Lea, & Blanchard.—This work has just been issued from the press, and is well worthy, not only of our notice and commendation, but also of the patronage and encouragement of the public. As above stated, it is the composition of an officer of the United States Navy-one who fully demonstrates by the work before us, that he is a gentleman of shrewd observation, excellent judgment, and liberal education. His style is totally destitute of unnecessary ornaments; simple and pleasing, but at the same time concise, forcible and graphic. He does not aim to clothe scenes and incidents, in themselves truly interesting, with the gorgeous trappings of diffuse language, paying more attention to rounded periods, than correct sentences; he describes those things which he has seen in the most faithful manner, sufficiently in detail, yet not in a wearisome style, and places them before the eye in glowing but correct colors. Works of this kind have been published here before, by men who like the author of the present volume, spent some time in the southern portion of this continent, but they were generally either too concise, or improperly diffused, and failed to interest the reader. The subject is undoubt edly an admirable one; for every true American must feel an interest in those of his brethren who reside farther south than he, and with whom his intercourse would be more familiar, but for the total want of a solid and established government in South America, and the innumerable petty, political difficulties continually created there by the mad ambition of men who wish, yet never were born to command. We naturally look upon our brethren in the south, as a portion of the large American family who have not been equally fortunate with us, in enjoying the blessings of an excellent and established government, and the wholesome effects of education generally diffused. The work before us contains admirable descriptions of principal parts of South America, including Brazil, Chili, Bolivia and Peru, and is compiled from notes taken by the author during six years passed in the Pacific Ocean. As an officer of our navy, he had every opportunity to ascertain the condition, as well political as social, of those amongst whom he was sojourning, and to mingle in the highest classes of society. He embraced these opportunities eagerly, not merely with the intention of gratifying the desire for novelty and adventure so common to all men, but to convey to his fellow countrymen, information on subjects with which they are generally so little acquainted. He has not omitted any thing; the topography, geology, mineralogy, &c., of the country, its political condition, commerce and agricul ture, the manners, and peculiarities of its inhabitants have all engaged his attention, and are all faithfully described. Neither has he omitted the early history of the country, and certain important events connected therewith. He gives a history of Lima, and a full account of the death of Pizarro, taken from the records, and worthy of being implicitly relied upon. We would willingly make extracts from this work, but have not space to do so. Indeed our readers should one and all furnish themselves with copies; they will find that while they are whiling away an hour or two in the perusal of "Three Years in the Pacific," they are obtaining useful and necessary information in regard to the social and political state of South America, subjects of which Americans should be ashamed to confess themselves ignorant. One word for the ladies, and we have done. The author of this work has given much attention to the dark eyed maidens of the south, and describes in the most correct and amusing mannertheir appearance, peculiarities, dresses, &c., and also their method of arranging tertulias or soirées. To the fair sex, these subjects are peculiarly interesting, and they should encourage one who has been so careful to cater for their amusement. THE MISERIES OF MARRIAGE; OR, THE FAIR OF MAY FAIR. Carey & Hart, Philadelphia.-This is another reprint of one of the soi-disant fashionable novels with which the English press is ever teeming. It is from the pen of Mrs. Gore, the authoress of Pin Money and other-so styled-successful novels. All the writings of this lady possess a degree of merit and interest, although the style is very much that of Bombastes Furioso, Mrs. Gore is one of those ladies who deem it a dishonor to any article to call it by its name--she would term a salt cellar a salinary receptacle, a person's house his domiciliary location, and so forth. This is in all conscience sufficiently ridiculous-but we have a heavier charge to bring against her, than that of merely clipping the king's English. She is one of those writers who think it a proof of intellect, or knowledge of the world, or perhaps of liberality, as she belongs herself to the proscribed classes, to represent the aristocracy of England, the noblest aristocracy in the world, as solely distinguished by their luxury, profligacy, and notorious vice. To many of the European nobility this description undoubtedly applies; but nevertheless we are bold to say, that there is more education, more cultivated intellect, more active benevolence, more liberality in this race of men which it is now the fashion of the day to persecute, than in any other class. We may say what we please of their haughtiness, their conservative ideas, and so forth; but posterity will remember, not only that it was not in compliance with, but in opposition to, the will of the people, that the gentry of England passed the bill for the relief of the Irish Catholic; that, if the people afterwards went hand in hand with their leaders, it was the gentry of England who gave the first impulse to the abolition of the slave trade; in short, that if the people of England have now acquired liberal notions, are now ardent votaries of freedom in its most extended forms, they in the first place acquired those ideas, and were advocated into this love of them by the very gentry against whom it is now the fashion to preach up a new and more intolerantly fierce and foolish crusade than in the frenzy of the middle ages were hatched from the brain of enthusiasts and impostors. The injustice of this calumny is not the worst part of it. It is notorious, not only that the mobility of England still labor to ape the faults and follies, while they decry the virtues of the upper classes; but that, strange and lamentable as the fact may seem, numbers of the young men of our cities, who are entitled by their adventitious advantages to make themselves ridiculous, endeavor not merely to dress, and lounge, and quiz, but to cut their inferiors, to play, to ruffle, to be Pelhams, roués, hommes à bonnes fortunes, in imitation of what they fancy to be the mode of the English gentry, misled by the mischievous and silly balderdash of these fashionable novelswhich, it is notorious, to all who have witnessed the scenes they affect to por tray, are written by persons utterly unacquainted with the habits of the nobility, and abound in solecisms of the most evident vulgarity and absurdity. If not absolutely one of these impertinent scribblers, Mrs. Gore is at least following closely on their traces, and bids fair, in her next work of fiction, to exceed their folly. We would advise her in future, instead of painting the man. ners of the refuse of the aristocracy, to describe the virtues of the minority whose example ought to be followed by all. If her object be reformation, she should be aware that the worst possible way of inducing men to repent and to amend, is to cause them to believe in their own utter worthlessness; if it be to divert the lower classes from following the evil practices of the worst among their superiors, let her remember that sin, when it is represented as being fashionable, becomes alluring, and that guilt itself acquires a palliation and an authority when dignified by the sanction of high names. We have perhaps wasted time in considering this so seriously, but we are out of patience with the world for the encouragement it gives to trash like that before us. It is, we grant, to a certain degree, amusing; it interests us while we read, but does it speak to our head or to our heart? If not, cui bono? DON CARLOS, FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. By the author of Herbert Barclay. It is very strange, that out of all the innumerable translations of Schiller, so few are worth a groat. This Tragedy has been published in an English form several times--Lord William Russell's being the best, though not a literal version, but perhaps rather a close imitation. After all, we think the Tragedy itself not worth the trouble--it is essentially dull. The present translation is close, even to a fault, adhering to the position of the words in the original, and therefore abounding in involutions which, however graceful in German, are unidiomatic and obscure in the English. The blank verse--the most difficult metre in the world to execute correctly, and the most beautiful, when so executed--is rugged, inharmonious, and incorrect. The earlier productions of this anonymous author, though in many respects faulty, evince the existence of talent in the writer's composition, requiring only cultivation to arrive at a respectable maturity. In all good feeling, we now advise him strongly to quit the muse, and confine himself to prose. Few men are born to be poets--still fewer to be translators--and of the latter branch of composition we can only say, that we esteem it the most thankless, the most laborious, and the most ill requited branch of literature. If a translation be admirable, the merit is all attributed to the original; if it be bad, the whole blame falls upon the shoulders of the unfortunate translator. THE DRAMA. We must beg our readers to pardon the omission of our usual observations on this interesting topic; for, as our Theatrical notices are always strictly critical, we have been compelled, under existing circumstances, to defer them till a future opportunity. THE flight was over-the struggle was at an end-the haven was gained --but with present safety came an almost intolerable dread of future evil. A thousand doubts and fears, unthought of amid the stormy occurrences of the last few hours, crowded like busy fiends upon my brain. I said that I was happy-and so in truth I was-exquisitely, supremely happy!-Never, in the whole course of my life, have I experienced sensations so thrilling, and so nearly approaching to the delirium of joy, as were those with which I learned that there was hardly a possibility of recapture to be apprehended, and that, after a brief repose, my lovely charge would be so completely restored, as to render a renewal of exertions, if such should be required, not only free from risk, but easy of accomplishment. While the brother, who officiated as chirurgeon in the convent which had afforded us shelter, was yet speaking to me, a full sense of my condition flashed, for the first time, upon my mind. All had before been dreamy, indistinct, and obscure-all was now definite, and terrible in its distinctness. That moment of lightning-thought was to my spirit, what the sulphureous glare of the tempest is to the midnight ocean, revealing, to the unconscious mariner, terrors of which he had not even dreamed, till they were dragged from darkness into horrible reality by that brief illumination. I saw at once the pinnacle on which I was tottering, and the abyss that yawned below; but the light, which showed the perils that environed me, showed no path by which to escape them. So suddenly did this consciousness of my embarrassment gleam upon my senses, and so overpowering were the feelings to which that consciousness gave birth, that I broke off abruptly in my reply to the worthy Benedictine, with symptoms of confusion so evident, that they must have excited suspicions, had they not, luckily for me, been attributed to the effects of over-exertion alike of mind and body. I was aware that I turned deadly pale for an instant, and then again I felt that every drop of blood in my veins was rushing in torrents to my brow-my eye was vacant -and my tongue faltered-my mind was utterly unstrung. To the entreaties of the good friar, that I would suffer myself to be conducted to a cell wherein I might take a few hours of refreshment after the fatigues and perils I had undergone, I returned at first a brief refusal.-" Nay"-said the kind-hearted old man-" but you are to blame, my son, for suffering the things of this world to hold so tyrannous a dominion over your spirit. To an active mind, like yours, I well know that inactivity is the worst of evils!—yet bethink you-Further speed, how much soever you may deem it necessary, is impossible ;-your good horse can do no further service till rest shall have repaired his faculties ;-you too, my son, are not yourself. Your spirit, like a bow too tightly strung, has lost its elasticity.--Listen then to the voice of reasor--an hour or two of quiet will have restored you to yourself; your charger is in the hands of our lay-brothers, and shall be cared for.-Let me, I pray you, lead you to a chamber." Urged so warmly and at once so reasonably, I could refuse no longer; and after a moment's consideration, I was averse no longer. I was in want of absolute quiet, not indeed to reinvigorate my mind,-for had its energies been called for, they would have answered, as it were, to a trumpet's note, but to collect my thoughts; to deliberate on what I had done already; and, yet more difficult, on what I was about to do hereafter. In a few moments I was ushered into a little turret-chamber, narrow indeed, and somewhat scanty in its furniture, but neat and cheerful in its aspect. Used apparently for the accommodation of visitors, its window, unobscured by its accustomed convent grates, looked over the rich meadows stretching away, with many a clump of shadowy trees, and many an orchard intervening, to the wide river, which had lately seemed so terrible an obstacle; though now in truth it was the only barrier that saved us from our foes. A bright log, glowing and sputtering on the hearth, diffused a warmth rendered doubly grateful by the rigor of the season, and by the state of my benumbed and dripping limbs; the pallet-bed was decked with linen of unblemished whiteness, and the board was spread with dainties, and a flask of burgundy, whose bouquet alone was needful to prove that the brothers of St. Benedict-aux-Layes were not likely to impair the reputation of monastic institutions, the world through, for hospitality and sumptuous cheer. Promising to summon me whenever the lady should be sufficiently restored to endure the excitement of my presence, the monk, declining my invitation to pledge me in the vintage of his convent, departed and left me to my meditations. And in good sooth, they were sufficiently gloomy-nor, when I had disposed my doublet and upper garments before the cheerful hearth, and tasted a single goblet of the old Auxerre, could I find any pleasure, or even consolation, in the aspect of affairs. |