tion of first impressions; and the near view given by the publication of the miscellanies, of the juvenile efforts and abortive attempts of Mr. G., is by no means calculated to revive a feeling of ardent admiration. Still it must not be said that the noble editor has caused, in the view of the considerate, any detriment to the reputation of his friend; or that Mr. G. is not entitled to hold a high rank in literature. The volumes before us inculcate a very useful lesson; and they show that, if their author was not possessed of wonderful attainments, his career is extremely instructive, as an example of what may be eventually accomplished by persevering study, and resolute adherence to a main object. Among the literati of the present day, we have several not inferior to Mr. G• in quickness of comprehension, in familiarity with the classics, and in general erudition; but do they pursue their studies with equal assiduity; and will they consent, like him, to suspend digressive reading, or refrain from catching at opportunities which promise only a transient fame? In the execution of the Story of Rimini by Leigh Hunt, we remark something original. It presents us with a free copy of the language of the older dramatists introduced into narrative rhyme; and, although such an introduction occasions a frequent quaintness and air of pedantry in the phrases, the expression possesses, on the whole, a refreshing vigour, while the versification displays a facility and variety that are not inharmonious. If this facility will often run into the very familiarity of conversation, and this variety will degenerate into a ruggedness indefensible by any example, still we commend the genuine force and animation of the present candidate for the laurel,—the laurel, we mean bestowed by popular approbation; for, as to more courtly favour, we are far from insinuating that Mr. Hunt has even yet been taught to solicit distinction so envied by many of his rivals of the quill. We learn from the Monthly Magazine, that Lady Morgan's France, had reached a second edition in September last. Two editions were published in this country-one here and the other in New-York, shortly after the book was imported, and we learn that a third is in the press. The author endeavours to gain some consequence by informing us that the Quarterly Journal, "nearly nine years since," thought proper to caution the reader against "the licentiousness, irreverence and blasphemy," which she was in the habit of putting forth under the abused name of novels. The reviewers it seems, offered some advice to this lady, in order to render her," not indeed a good writer of novels, but a useful friend, a faithful wife, a tender mother, and a respectable and happy mistress of a family." These pictures were not to be found in her novels, in any very captivating attire, but the author informs us that she picked up some "ambulating virtues" and set forth in search of a husband. In this laudable undertaking she has proceeded so far, as to become "the happy mistress of a family,”—and as she has been proscribed from the fields of fancy, some good natured bookseller in London has fitted up, for her accommodation, the famous "jaunting car," which has been standing idle ever since the excursion of Sir John and Sir Richard into Westminster Hall. The former was then struck with a fatal discomfiture, and the latter contrives to amuse himself with a morning's walk to Kew." The vehicle, on the present occasion, was insured for an out and home voyage. The traveller was not required to exercise any particular skill in the selection of her cargo, provided she made a speedy return. She complains that her reviewer, nine years ago, should have made severe strictures on "C one of the most hastily composed of her early works;" and now calls for the public suffrage in behalf of a tour, if it may so be called, in the composition of which, her "object was, if possible, to distance those by time" whom she could not "rival in skill." After this unblushing confession, the reader will not be disappointed in finding a parcel of pages strung together without order, design or object, in a motley jargon of English, Irish and French. To analyze such a production defies all attempt. It is a jumble of chit-chat, such as any woman with a tolerable share of literature, and an intolerable share of affectation and vanity, and gossiping, might collect in the coteries of Paris. That there are occasionally some lively sketches of character, and some amusing anecdotes must be admitted; but, there is nothing to affect the senses and little to delight the imagination. Whenever her sensibility is awakened, she is sure to break out into one of those ohs which sprinkle the pages of Irish eloquence. Thus the punishment of that execrable, double traitor, Ney, is followed by the following dismal cry,-" Oh, these are the views of human conduct; these are the scenes of human suffering which sicken the heart and wither up its powers!" In another place the costume of a French peasant, reminds her of an Irishman's rag; and then we have a most exquisite howl in the best style of the Dublin Demosthenes, since he made the fortunate discovery that he had taken the wrong side: "Oh! where is the land so distant, the region so remote, into which I may travel, and not bear Ireland in my memory, and her misery in my heart. And oh! when shall the pen, &c." Every page is loaded with French words and phrases; a fault," says the author," which arose from my anxiety to give impressions with all the warmth and vigour with which I received them; to preserve the form and spirit," &c. If the practice were confined to instances of this description there might be some apology for such indolence; but the uncouth foreigners stand so awkwardly in the ranks as to make it manifest that they are not volunteers. Is there "more warmth and vigour" in the ordinary reply of "c'est que je suis enrhume," than in our own simple answer to a common request-it is because I have a cold? Would not the form and spirit of salutations be as well preserved in good evening and how do you do? as in bon soir, and comment va-t-il? With this lady a door must be la porte; a hand, la main; a hat, chapeau; and all this to give "warmth" and " vigour!" We suspect our "mistress" does not possess so ample a fund in this stock as she would have us believe. To such a degree are we frequently pestered with this affectation, that we exclaim with the honest sailor, "hang it, why can't she call a hat, a hat at once-with her outlandish lingo:-calling a hat, a chopper (chapeau) and a horse, a shovel (cheval). To many readers, this would prove an insuperable objection to the book. In one of the American editions this difficulty has been removed by translations, which, with some exceptions, are easy and faithful. The beautiful song of Preux chevalier veut mourir pour son Roi, is imitated by our American translator with so much elegance, that we cannot resist the temptation to copy it. The brave Chevalier who would die for his King. Brave chevalier! when glory shall call you, (Though Love in your path his sweet roses may fling) To each gallant heart, the remembrance shall bring, "Farewell to friendship, to love, and to pleasure, But oh! when the rage of the battle is over, And the clarions of conquest triumphantly ring How swells then the heart of the hero and lover, The brave chevalier who has served well his king. The appendices by Sir T. C. Morgan are of a very different character. He is a sensible man; but his partialities in favour of the universal robber at St. Helena are so strong, and his hatred of the present government of France, and that of his native country so evident, that we distrust his statements. We have perused with great, though not unmingled, satisfaction the Sketches of the Life of Patrick Henry, by WILLIAM WIRT, ESQ. The services of Mr. Henry have always been extolled in the loftiest language of panegyric, but very little trace of his labours could be collected; for as to information from books, he seems to have lived in an age when the arts of writing and printing were unknown. It was therefore no easy task to describe the life of such a man. We have already introduced this fascinating volume to our readers, by selecting one of its finest passages; and as we shall recur to it again in our next num ber, we shall be brief in the present article. As might have been expected, the materials were scanty and the author has therefore drawn largely upon his own stores. He has depicted with a fervid and enthusiastic pencil the fortunes of a man, who, from a state of utter poverty and obscurity, attained an eminence which threw all competition in the shade. It was in vain that indolence scattered poppies on the paths of this wonderful being, and it was equally in vain that a timid, calculating, proud aristocracy endeavoured to frown upon him as he climbed the steep ascent. He compelled the jealous and cautious spirits to follow him through peril and dismay, to power and independence. Instead of reasoning about the powder which was feloniously taken from the provincial arsenal by the Royal Governor, Patrick Henry applied a spark to it and thus saved us from years of idle words and dangerous intrigues. By this desperate measure and by declaring to the general assembly that "we must fight" he acquired a right to the admiration and gratitude of all who rejoice in the freedom of their country. We are sorry to believe that this volume will not add to the well-earned literary reputation of the writer. He must, by this time, be acquainted with his own powers and he could not but see the impossibility of employing them with success on such scanty materials. Mr. Henry was cast by Nature in a mould which was never used but in this single instance, and he is not to be described by concentrating in his character all those rays which have been reposited in the splendid imagination of Mr. Wirt, as the beau ideal of eloquence. The author has observed more than the delay prescribed by Horace, but he has not availed himself sufficiently of the advantages contemplated in that wise injunction. In his style there is too much of the artist; there is no concealment of the art; he always precedes Mr. Henry, instead of following him. There is too much paint, and ornament, and,-we must add,-not a little glitter. "The parsons' case," as it is called, may be cited in proof of the faults as well as the beauties of this volume. There is a curious felicity in the manner in which our sympathy in the fate of the young advocate is excited; but it is so easy to account for the enthusiasm of the people and the conduct of the clergy, that we hesitate in ascribing to his eloquence such miraculous effects, as are |