he went into many chambers, listened to the history of the life, still oftener to the history of the day, of the inhabitants; informed himself of their merit and their wants, and comes to the gloomiest results. The hard reproaches, which were made against the Overseers of the Poor, appear unhappily only too well founded. We have hastily sketched, with a few literal quotations, the contents of this remarkable book of this remarkable woman, and there remains no space further to elaborate judgment. The highflying idealism, which the Frau von Arnim cherishes, founders and must founder against the actuality which, as opposed to her imagination, she holds for absolute nothing. So reality, with her, always converts itself to spectres, whilst these dreams are to her the only reality. In our opinion an energetic thorough experiment for the realization of her ideas would plunge us in a deeper misery than we at present have to deplore."

NEW BOOKS.

The Huguenots in France and America.

THE Huguenots is a very entertaining book, drawn from excellent sources, rich in its topics, describing many admirable persons and events, and supplies an old defect in our popular literature. The editor's part is performed with great assiduity and conscience. Yet amidst this enumeration of all the geniuses, and beauties, and sanctities of France, what has the greatest man in France, at that period, Michael de Montaigne, done, or left undone, that his name should be quite omitted?

The Spanish Student. A Play in Three Acts. By H. W. Longfellow.

A pleasing tale, but Cervantes shall speak for us out of La Gitanilla.

"You must know, Preciosa, that as to this name of Poet, few are they who deserve it, and I am no Poet, but only a lover of Poesy, so that I have no need to beg or borrow the verses of others. The verses, I gave you the other day, are mine, and those of to-day as well; but, for all that, I am no poet, neither is it my prayer to be so."

"Is it then so bad a thing to be a poet?" asked Preciosa. "Not bad," replied the Page, "but to be a poet and nought else, I do not hold to be very good. For poetry should be like a precious jewel, whose owner does not put it on every day,

nor show it to the world at every step; but only when it is fitting, and when there is a reason for showing it. Poetry is a most lovely damsel; chaste, modest, and discreet; spirited, but yet retiring, and ever holding itself within the strictest rule of honor. She is the friend of Solitude. She finds in the fountains her delight, in the fields her counsellor, in the trees and flowers enjoyment and repose; and lastly, she charms and instructs all that approach her."

The Dream of a Day, and other Poems. By James G. Percival. New Haven. 1843.

Mr. Percival printed his last book of poems sixteen years ago, and every school-boy learned to declaim his "Bunker Hill," since which time, he informs us, his studies have been for the most part very adverse to poetic inspirations. Yet here we have specimens of no less than one hundred and fifty different forms of stanza. Such thorough workmanship in the poetical art is without example or approach in this country, and deserves all honor. We have imitations of four of the leading classes of ancient measures, the Dactylic, Iambic, Anapestic, and Trochaic, to say nothing of rarer measures, now never known out of colleges. Then come songs for national airs, formed on the rhythm of the music, including Norwegian, German, Russian, Bohemian, Gaelic, and Welsh,-Teutonian and Slavonian. But unhappily this diligence is not without its dangers. It has prejudiced the creative power,

"And made that art, which was a rage."

Neatness, terseness, objectivity, or at any rate the absence of subjectivity, characterize these poems. Our bard has not quite so much fire as we had looked for, grows warm but does not ignite; those sixteen years of "adverse" studies have had their effect on Pegasus, who now trots soundly and resolutely on, but forbears rash motions, and never runs away with us. The old critics of England were hardly steadier to their triad of "Gower, Lydgate, and Chaucer," than our American magazines to the trinity of "Bryant, Dana, and Percival." A gentle constellation truly, all of the established religion, having the good of their country and their species at heart. Percival has not written anything quite as good on the whole as his two fast associates, but surpasses them both in labor, in his mimetic skill, and in his objectiveness. He is the most objective of the American Poets. Bryant has a superb propriety of feeling, has plainly always been in good society, but his sweet oaten pipe discourses only pastoral music. Dana has the most estab

lished religion, more sentiment, more reverence, more of England; whilst Mr. Percival is an upright, soldierly, free-spoken man, very much of a patriot, hates cant, and does his best.

We notice in London a new edition of Chapman's Translation of the Iliads of Homer, illustrated with wood-engravings after Flaxman. Charles Lamb says, "Chapman would have made a great epic poet, if indeed he has not shown himself to be one; for his Homer is not so properly a translation, as the stories of Achilles and Ulysses rewritten." We trust this new edition will find its way here, the older one being very

rare.

Orion, an Epic Poem, in Three Books, 137 pp. By R. H. Horne, Author of "Cosmo de Medici," &c. Price one farthing.From certain extracts from this Epic, it is better than some of the late Epics, but incomparable in its price.

It is grateful to notice a second edition of Tennyson's Poerns.

A new work of Manzoni is announced, Colonna Infame di Alessandro Manzoni.

Storia della

The translations of Mary Howitt from the Swedish having succeeded, a work from the Danish, - King Eric and the Outlaws or, the Throne, the Church, and the People in the Thirteenth Century; translated by Jane Chapman, has been published.

In France the monstrous undertaking of the reprint of the "Moniteur" from 1789 to 1799, is nearly complete, since of thirty-two volumes, of which it will consist, already twenty-nine have appeared. Twenty-five volumes contain the history of three great revolutionary Assemblies, the Notables, the States General, and the Convention. Four volumes are devoted to the Directory.

I HAVE been reading Wordsworth with some attention, on these cold evenings, in my chimney corner, having no better book. I cannot understand how he engaged so large a share of praise, or how he can be set among illus, trious poets. Yet the age places him among the first. I suspect, he and Southey owe part of their renown to the quantity of verse they have written. These heavy volumes, bearing such immense freights of decent poetry, deter their readers from insisting on finding pure gold, and the few really good lines, scattered in many places, gleam like jewels, and illumine the rest with deceptive light.

Did not Wordsworth make a radical mistake to write verses on a plan? I have no conception of any thing which has a right to be called poetry, unless it come living out of the poet's nature, like the stream gushing from the rock, free and clear. It demands life from the depths of character, and must be written necessarily.

I have tried many people, in the hope of finding among them some one with whom I can fully sympathize. I have the part of the hermit left to play, and begin seriously to think I will attempt it. I do sympathize with you, but it is as men feel for each other, rather in pursuit than sentiment. I wish some woman to come, such as I picture in my dreams. I feel I was born for intimate sympathy, yet find little except with trees and fields. I peep into the

windows of the cottages, where families sit around bright wood-fires, all bound together by a circle of firelight, so that no frosts can form in the centre of their being, but I cannot enter, for how bare are the walls, and how square the rooms! I crave the hearth on these chill evenings, but my roof must be open to the sky, and the keen rays of the stars shine for my candle. I can feel soft arms willing to clasp me; the steel fetters of strength do not glitter round their wrists; I must have something more than affection.

It is tiresome to wander in society, knock at every door, gain admittance, and find the old arrangement of settees, coal-grates, centre-tables, and Turkish carpets. O for a lofty hall, with the sun shining crimson and purple through its dome, while on the walls hang pictures, and statues stand in the niches, with some music from a lute sounding, and no need of artificial warmth, but the sun always! I would have the windows unglazed, and let the winds rush through on dizzy storms, and rain and snow enter as they please, and the stars glow dazzling. I have found decency everywhere, and what they call a respectable appearance, without a spark of wildfire.

you

You seem better than the rest, but as one of my own sex, I cannot come to you, as I would to the other, are only half the sphere, as well as I. I am fortunate to foresee my path among these sands of time. I now feel desolate, like the bird who has neither mate nor nest, and am wild and proud, as if I would not resign myself to solitude without war. Yet this day of tempest will pass, and I shall walk calm and resigned, and build myself a hut, if I have nothing in it, except a broken branch of some last year's tree. There, if I secure quiet, with some smiling fields from the window, I can whistle as if content.

I delight to catch glimpses of sunlight in others' fortunes, and it makes me smile to see others glad. These bending, cheerful natures, which sing as gaily as the little birds on the bough after a shower, in the bright, golden sunshine, come and alight on the bare walls of my existence, and the rays of their light blue plumage are reflected for a second in the surface of my solitary lake, whose grey waves melt on some side into the azure radiance. Yet these passing gleams of brightness fade soon, and seem to leave a darker tint behind, as after the autumn sunsets, charged as they