really loved me, gave up the point, and left me once more to my own elegant pursuits.

Short, however, as had been my attendance on the shop, it had been long enough to captivate a young man who had seen me there. He had entered into the same line of business as my mother-and on that account, both saw a wonderful fitness in the connexion. She espoused his cause warmly, and said, 'depend upon it, Patty, you will never get so good an offer again. What, under the sun, do you want more? He is good-looking, good-tempered, industrious, and has a good trade.' I knew my mother had no tact, (ah-that delightful word!) or I should have replied, all this is nothing; but I merely said I could not think of him. And who does the girl think of?' exclaimed she, in an angry tone.

I ut

tered an inaudible sigh, for — shall I confess ?—I had seen pass, several times, the man of my heart; but, as I did not know his name, I knew it would be useless to speak of him. I consented, however, to see Mr. Dibble. Mercy!'-as Miss Fanny Kemble says-what a name!' Peter Dibble! He came - I was serious, but gentle. He told me he was in good business, that he understood I was not fond of tending shop, that he never would ask it of me, that he hoped to make a comfortable living—and that, as I was fond of learning, all he would ask of me was to see that things went on well inside of the house; and perhaps,' added he, with a significant wink, 'you may, by and by, turn your learning to some account, and make a good edicator for little folks.' I remember, to this day, the indignation I felt at this vulgar exposè of his sentiments. I cast upon him eye-beam after eye-beam, before I could find utterance. 'Sir !' said I, 'were my heart free as the winds of Heaven, you are the last man I should choose.' 'Your most obedient,' said he, bowing very low, and he absolutely giggled in my face. 'Begone!' said I he disappeared.

After the dismissal of this suitor, I was left to my own reveries. There is nothing nurtures love like reverie. At length, I could no longer endure the intenseness of my feelings for the unknown youth who occasionally passed our house. I arranged my plan, and determined to adopt the same method as did Arietta, in that delightful novel called Sighs of the Heart.' I stole out one morning when I saw him approaching, and, as soon as I could get near him, dropped on one knee, in a graceful attitude, exclaiming that I had sprained my ancle. He flew to me, and raised me up. You may well suppose what were my emotions, at finding myself supported by the object of my affections. It was too much. I flung myself on his bosom, and uttered an hysterical sob. Alas! alas! - there is a tide in the affairs of love. At that moment—the most important one of my life, big with my future destiny who should appear in sight but Peter Dibble! Why! Miss Patty,' said the wretch, is it you? I thought it was somebody that had taken a drop too much!' If you know her,' said the elegant unknown, 'you had better take charge of her; and, to my horror, he resigned me to Dibble, and was out of sight in a moment, I refused all explanation, and was obliged to recover the use of my feet and hasten home. This was my first love and first disappointment.

You will easily believe that, with a heart so feeling as mine, and plenty of time for reverie, I could not long remain without an object for my affections. Strange as it may seem, however, ten years passed away, and the happy man had not yet appeared.

Chocleus ook at a time

well the soundingSounding - Trump of forlike prune ! Daygın

At the end of this time, Mr. Dibble had certainly greatly improved in his appearance, and had quite the air of a gentleman. Everybody wondered he did not marry. I began to be touched by his constancy, and the respectful distance he preserved, for he seldom came to the house. My mother's health began to fail and she one day said, 'O, Patty, I have been a cruel mother to you. I have suffered you to live in idleness, and waste your time in reading books that have made you unfit for your station in life; and now I am about to be taken away, what upon earth will become of you!' 'Mother,' said I emphatically, set your mind at rest; I will marry Mr. Dibble.' She shook her head. I am afraid it is too late now. When he wanted to marry you, you were young and pretty; but you are very much altered now.' 'It is possible,' said I, I may have lost that ⚫ blooming tincture of the skin'; but I have gained in weight.' That's what you have,' exclaimed my mother; you would weigh down two of Peter Dibble, nowadays.' I knew it was useless to explain my meaning, for she had no tact. I wrote a note on pink paper, directing it to P. Dibble, Esq.' He came. I made a concise, but not inelegant address, concluding with the hand you once solicited, is now at your service."

་

I shall not condescend to repeat his answer. It all turned upon my not being a suitable wife for him. When I went up stairs, my mother said, 'Will Peter have you?' 'Have me!' said I scornfully; I thought he had improved, but he is the same low fellow he ever was; the thing is not to be thought of. My mother died in a few days—leaving me alone in the wide world, with a heart full of sensibility, a form not unlovely, though rather too much on the embonpoint for vulgar American taste. I thought it best to sell off the contents of the shop. Dibble took the whole stock, and, to do him justice, behaved very generously.

I am now cast on my own resources-and, should you receive me among your correspondents, shall be happy to furnish you with tales, essays, or sonnets, from the pen of MARTHELINA.

Beauties of Washington Irving. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard.

A little ill-looking volume, with the above title, has been issued from the American press - one of those typographical abominations which a correspondent of ours accused a certain house at Philadelphia of being in the habit of putting forth. The history of this scrubby abortion is somewhat curious. A London bookseller one of those literary robbers, whose depredations against property are no more excusable than those of an abstracter of silver spoons, or of a highway dandy, who modestly demands your money or your life—one of those men who richly deserve a halter or a rope's end-issued a volume entitled The Beauties of Washington Irving.' This was an infringement of the author's copy-right; but the idea was a good one in the eyes of the trade, and American publishers stereotyped an edition of the same, fully determined to make five or ten thousand dollars by the speculation. Mr. Irving purchased the plates with the intention of destroying them, but, in an evil hour, permitted an edition to be printed.

There is no surer way of ruining the reputation of a writer, or of sending him down to posterity with diminished fame, than to publish a Lilliputian volume of the 'beauties' of his works. The world that buy seem satisfied that, in so small a

compass, they have all of value that the author ever wrote; and, instead of feasting on the rich banquet of his whole productions, are contented with the fragments that a tasteless and unprincipled publisher supplies. Thus, Byron is reduced to a wretched 18mo., by a more summary process than that by which the noble bard attempted to diminish the bulk of his person; and our old favorite, Scott, stares at us from a starveling 12mo., looking like a giant crowded into a dwarf's garment — for his powerful muscles appear through their scanty dress. Would that we knew the name of the heartless reprobate who first broke up Irving's treasury, and, too cowardly to pilfer all its gems, enriched himself with the plunder of a few brilliants, and then sneaked off and put them in a dirty receptacle, where they shine like stolen diamonds in the filthy office of a pawnbroker. We hope nobody will buy the book; we hope it will hang upon the booksellers' shelves as heavily as the 'original sin' of making the selection must upon the conscience of the foreign culprit.

·

Yet, let us not lose this opportunity to express our admiration of Irving — of his pure and lofty feelings, of his delicate style, of the singleness of purpose with which he has pursued one noble object throughout life, and has identified his own fame with that of his country. Long may he live to enjoy it! long may he inhabit the old Dutch farm-house, in the Sleepy Hollow,' once the residence of Baltus Van Tassel, nestled in that calm valley which he has immortalized. 'Twas there he wished of yore to dream away the remnant of his troubled life.' There, we hear, he is dreaming at present; nay, not dreaming, for the 'Crayon Miscellany' bids us correct the hasty phrase. But there he is, enjoying this glorious autumnal weather, writing, rambling by his own lordly Hudson,' or indulging in his pleasant reveries in the shades of his time-honored forests. There may he live, and there-no! let us end with eastern benediction - may he live forever!

The Linwoods; or, Sixty Years since in America. By the Author of Hope Leslie.' New-York: Harpers.

Miss Sedgwick is a writer who disarms criticism; not only because she is a woman, but because her books are full of feminine grace, refinement and feeling. We read them with a genial glow of interest, which makes us blind to any literary defect; and the surliest critic, that ever growled over a slain author, forgets, over her pages, his usual vocation of carping and railing, and gives himself up without reserve to her witching influences. She has, indeed, great and rare excellencies, and need not take refuge behind that universal shield of protection among all civilized nations- the petticoat. She writes English with that delicate and graceful beauty which seems peculiar to woman, and is denied to the coarser organization and duller susceptibility of the masculine gender. She describes everything visible, with freshness, distinctness and discrimination; and a fine face and a beautiful landscape look out from her pages with an equally life-like expression. She delineates character very well- that is, the character of pleasant, intelligent, cultivated and generous people—such as a man of taste likes to read of, and still more to visit; as to knaves and villains, she knows but little about them—and how should she? The letters in her book, are admirable, graphic, spirited, lively, eloquent, and always in keeping with the characters of their writers. When we add that ev

ery line she writes is calculated to make men happier and better, and that the interests of morals and religion are never forgotten or overlooked by her, we give her no common praise, and deny her almost no quality requisite to the making of a good novel.

"The Linwoods' is a good novel, though not a faultless one. Like its predecessors, its plot is unskilful and its story improbable; but it is full of so many pleasant things, that we care but little how we get at them. The dialogue is generally dramatic and spirited, but occasionally a little too elaborate and bookish, and there is rather too much of an effort to give to every sentence which is spoken the instinctive character of the individual speaking- -a very common defect in works of fiction. The scene is laid, partly in New-England and partly in NewYork; and the time, as the title indicates, is that of the revolutionary war, so that the author has the privilege, without violating truth, of bringing upon the stage a rich variety of character- —a privilege, of which she has most ably availed herself. We have whigs and tories, soldiers and clowns, fine gentlemen and fine ladies, coxcombs and true men, most of whom play their parts excellent well.' The hero, Colonel Lee, is a fine fellow-combining all the sterling qualities of the New-England character, with those graces, accomplishments, and (as a hero ought to have) a dash of sentiment and romance, which are not usually superadded to it, though the union is by no means impossible. Miss Linwood, the heroine, is a rare creature- rarely painted. We find few such women, even in books; so highspirited, yet so gentle; so gifted, yet so simple; so beautiful, yet so unconscious; so majestic, yet so affectionate. Jasper Meredith is a coxcomb, with more brains than most of his class; and, worthless and unprincipled as he is, he is sufficiently punished, in his wife, for all his offences. The subordinate characters are most of them excellent. Kisel, however, we think is a failure—though without him, we should have missed some pathetic scenes Bessie Lee is not a successful character, on the whole, though there are good points in the execution. All forms of madness are most difficult to portray, and he who succeeds in doing it, is a man of rare genius.

Miss Sedgwick, in this work, has ventured upon the hazardous experiment of introducing historical characters; and we really trembled for her, when we found that Washington was one of them. Her success, however, in this point, is quite remarkable. There is nothing in what we see and hear of Washington, which strikes us as unworthy of or not belonging to him. Perhaps his visit to Mr. Ruthven was hardly in keeping with his well-known extreme caution. We have also very pleasant glimpses of Lafayette and General Putnam.

This novel is full of a most happy and cheerful spirit. It puts one in good humor with himself and the world. It has a good ending, and the rewards and punishments are distributed with poetical justice. It fully sustains the author's former reputation, which is saying a great deal, when we remember how high that was.

Harvardiana. Vol. II., No. I. Cambridge and Boston: James Munroe and Company.

We are glad to see that this pleasant little periodical conducted by undergraduates of Harvard University, and published monthly at two dollars per annum, pay

able in advance' is to be continued. We entertain a kind of elder brother's affection for such young scions of literature, and are happy to see them flourish. Macte virtute-go on as you have commenced, ingenuous youths; our only advice is, do not be sombre-never publish themes, (especially those which get parallels - you take, of course;) relate your adventures, make as much fun as possible in stories, verses — - and tell Elah' to illustrate your work with as many gems like the following as possible. It is a diamond of the first water, well cut and polished. Maga would have been proud of it.

THE DILEMMA.

I CANNOT choose - I never can

Fond lovers, how doth Cupid fool ye !-
Was ever fairy bright as Ann?

Was ever maiden fair as Julia?
Sure, ne'er was mortal heart more vexed!
Two saints with but a single chapel !
Paris himself might stand perplexed,

Or, tired of doubting, halve his apple.

You'd swear the golden orb of day

His gleam on Anna's locks impresses;
You'd turn from starry night away,

To gaze on Julia's jeweled tresses.
Like Heaven serene is Anna's eye,
When not a cloud the brightness dashes;
But Julia's, like a stormy sky,

Now melts in tears, now burns in flashes.

When Pleasure throngs the halls of Pride,

And lightsome forms around are glancing,
Whose fairy footsteps gentler glide,

Who moves than Julia more entrancing?
But when the stars keep watch on high,
And silence lulls the lone savannah,

Then to the moonlit grove I fly,

And whisper love to lovely Anna.

I would I were a Turk bashaw,

And followed Mahomet the glorious;

Or held the fine old Jewish law,

With Solomon, the sage uxorious ;

I'd fill my halls with beauty bright,
And queenly Julia make Sultana-

6

But who should be my Heart's Delight,'
My Harem's Joy,' but lovely Anna!

ELAH.

Tesoretto dello Studente della Lingua Italiana, o Raccolta di brevi
e dilettevoli anedotti da L. Sforzosi; con note explicative in
Inglese da Francesco M. G. S**. etc.
Ticknor.

1835.

Boston: William D.

by Signor S**, for the collection of short and

This is the title of a third book, in course, published study of the Italian language. It contains a reprint of a pleasant anecdotes,' by Sforzosi, with notes explicative' and other improvements by the Signor, to assist in the translation of that elementary work;' and it is intended to have,' according to him, the same kind of usefulness as that of the

་