of the subject-1st, America is in a constant state of transition, so that the attributes of to-day are displaced by the attributes of to-morrow; 2nd, the diversities that cover her soil are so various and so marked, that the experience of one traveller -however just and scrupulous he may be-will, of necessity, be found to differ even upon material points from the experience of another. It is in vain then that we attempt to fix or define the precise character of the Americans. They are—to employ a word which is said to be of transatlantic origin, but which is really derived from our old English writers - eternally progressing. Their field of exertion is so vast, that it affords room for almost boundless enterprise, and the circumstances of internal competition in which they are placed, serve to draw out the industry of the country into perpetual action. Hence they are a people so busily occupied in commercial speculations, that they literally have no time to cultivate the minor embellishments of life. The form of their government, too, which deprives them of the advantages of an aristocracy, has a considerable influence in suppressing the development of those refined tastes that finally impress upon a nation its distinctive and individual traits. Mr. Grund, the author of the elaborate work before us, resided for a period of fifteen years in America, and being a German by birth, and a citizen of the world in practice, he was free from those prejudices which so frequently distort the estimates of the tourist, whose deductions are usually formed from the surface. But his book is, nevertheless, not to be wholly relied upon. In politics he is an ardent republican, and cannot discover in the institutions of America a single defect: in habit, he is so thoroughly imbued with the usages of the States, that he cannot detect in the people any of those faults which even the most favourable European who has written on the subject has not hesitated to admit. His strictures, therefore, are remarkably one-sided: and he carries his partiality so far, that he exalts the literature of America to nearly an equal rank with that of England. It is not necessary to expose the fallacy of such an assertion. The Sparks and Bancrofts, the Childs and Sigourneys, the Fays and Browns of America have not enough of original power, of knowledge, of experience, to create even the beginnings of a national literature. What they have as yet produced is nothing better than a mere reflection from England, tarnished in the process by an uncultivated taste. In history and biography America has not put forward a solitary claim that will survive to the next generation in moral philosophy, the new world is a blank; in science, she has cultivated the lower branches with diligence, but has made no discoveries: her novels are poor imitations: and her poetry is full of vanishing tints, like the rainbow, but lacks the enduring qualities of thought and deep feeling. Mr. Grund's pictures of society are, we confess, not very attractive to us, although we have no right to question the accuracy of his statement that the felicity of married life in America will not yield in

comparison with that of any other country in the world. That fact may be undeniable, yet to us the absence of those graces, which we are accustomed to consider indispensable to the highest pleasures of intercourse, would greatly reduce the amount of domestic happiness by lowering its tone. American ladies, it appears, are rarely educated for the drawing-room: they excel in the useful arts: they are even instructed in mechanical studies; but languages and ornamental pursuits are seldom cultivated amongst them. No doubt, therefore, they are very good women, and very sensible women, and may take an interest in the course of the exchanges, and the fluctuations of the market; but if we look for the accomplishments that enable them to exercise an influence of a different and a more feminine description in their circle, we shall be utterly disappointed. The truth seems to be, and Mr. Grund's book proves it, although the author does not acknowledge so much in words, that the whole pressure of American society is towards a single point-money. Every body is engrossed in employments of one sort or another; they see nothing beyond their immediate occupations; there is no such luxury as "learned leisure;" and the wealthy families who have retired from the cares of traffic, and live upon the fruits of past labour, have no sense of any more elevated mode of exhibiting their advantages, than in a grovelling and mercenary spirit of vulgar ostentation. Partial as the work is, it does not conceal this truth; which is creditable to the country, as a land of trade, but which disposes at once of its claims to be considered in any more ambitious point of view. The Life of Oliver Goldsmith, M. B. From a variety of original sources. By James Prior, author of the Life of Burke, &c. 2 vols. Murray. London, 1837.

It is remarkable that, until the appearance of these volumes, so little should have been known of the life of so distinguished a writer as Oliver Goldsmith. The principal incidents that have descended to us are to be found in Boswell's Life of Johnson, and in the episodical notices scattered through the reminiscences of Mrs. Piozzi, and other occasional biographers of the period. Mr. Prior has ably supplied the desideratum.

His residence in

Ireland, his association with Irishmen of eminence, and the local opportunities opened to him by his researches in the preparation of the life of Burke, yielded him ample materials for a very full memoir of the poet. The quality for which the work is chiefly deserving of approbation is industry. Mr. Prior appears to have applied himself with indefatigable zeal to the collection of his materials-to have left not a spot unexplored from whence he might glean particulars-and to have put together with commendable care all the facts and speculations he could procure. The booksellers' ledgers in London, and even the tailors' bills, contribute items to this laborious biography; and the career of Goldsmith, from his early adventures in the rural district which he has celebrated under the

name of " Auburn," in his "Descrted Village," to the close of his life, is as fully illustrated as, at this distance of time, could fairly have been expected. We are thus enabled to trace him in a multitude of compositions that were not hitherto known to be his; to follow his prolific hand through the columus of the "Public Ledger," the magazines, and other periodicals, to which he was a constant contributor; to discover in him the translator of several works that were published for temporary purposes, and the author of numerous short memoirs, prefaces, and essays, that perished with the occasions that gave them birth. Newberry, the "children's friend," was one of his most encouraging patrons; and it is not a little curious that circumstances should justify the belief that, amongst other productions of Goldsmith's which issued from the press of that worthy person, is "Margery TwoShoes; or, the History of Mistress Margaret TwoShoes!" This fact is not positively established, but the evidence upon which the suspicion is founded is very nearly conclusive. In so far as minute details are concerned, this work reflects great credit upon the writer; but it is to be regretted that Mr. Prior is deficient in those higher powers of criticism which such an undertaking demanded. Goldsmith himself possessed a very exquisite taste; but his discrimination did not penetrate beyond general characteristics. Mr. Prior has still less of the critic than the admirable subject of the biography. His opinions are sometimes incorrect, and generally wanting in acumen. Nor is the arrangement of the matter entitled to much praise. It hangs loosely together; it requires to be sifted by the reader, before its full value can be extracted; and its continuity is considerably interrupted by the introduction of detached and irrelevant facts, that distract the attention from the main object of interest. Perhaps the truest character that can be given of the publication, is that it affords a very complete view of the life of Goldsmith; but that it disappoints us in its dissertations upon his works. The character of Goldsmith is exhibited in the facts that are gathered in its pages; but it is not drawn with skill or judgment by the biographer. But we have no right to expect the union of the critical faculties with so much perseverance and assiduity as Mr. Prior displays; and we ought, perhaps, to be satisfied with the careful discharge of those useful duties of enquiry to which Mr. Prior has dedicated himself so successfully. If we are slightly dissatisfied with his labours in one point of view, we certainly have no reason to complain of the scantiness of his materials; and on that account alone the work deserves high commendation, and the thanks of the literary community. Zulneida; a Tale of Sicily. By the author of the "White Cottage." 3 vols. Macrone. London, 1837.

SICILY in the fifteenth century, during the reign of the house of Arragon, suggests a fertile subject for historical romance. In those times, there was a gallant gathering of chivalry upon that fair island,

and the political transactions of the period were full of stirring interest. The author of this work, however, has proved to demonstration that it is very possible to spoil the most exciting materials by poverty in the treatment. The tale is so confused, that Sicily and her feuds are fairly lost in a labyrinth of minor incidents, and the historical details, with which the work abounds, lose all their importance by being interwoven with a clumsy piece of fiction. The characters have the advantage undoubtedly of picturesque dresses, and if the imagination of the reader come in to their assistance they will make a pretty panorama in the valleys of that beautiful land; but there is something more required than the vapid progress of a show. It will not satisfy our curiosity to see the figures pass before us in their plumes and scarfs—we must have them in action, we must know their motives and their destination, their relation to each other, and their influence, naturally wrought upon the immediate scene. In all these essential points Zulneida is utterly deficient. The characters have no individuality, they awaken no distinct interest, they go through their parts mechanically, they have neither life nor a likeness to truth. The tale is so vague, so crowded, and so obscure in its development, that it is hardly worth even this brief notice of its existence.

The Student of Padua. A Domestic Tragedy. In Five Acts. London, 1837.

THIS tragedy solicits attention only by the force of an ingenious device, by which the author has endeavoured to insinuate it into notice. Either the author, or somebody in his name, attempted to procure a false notoriety for the play, by addressing private notes to the different periodicals, in which the piece was variously represented to be the production of Lord Francis Egerton, Mr. Bulwer, and other popular writers. Now as these assertions have been disclaimed, and as they could not all be true, the trick deserves to be denounced as a disgraceful literary fraud. The drama is worthy of a mind that was capable of so contemptible an artifice. It is one of the most unskilful efforts of the kind we have ever read. The dialogue is puerile and extravagant; the characters are mere shadows, without life or individuality; and the plot is imThere is no consistency or probable and absurd. unity in the action, which turns upon the misfortunes of a young gentleman, who is destined by his father for the medical profession, but who prefers the idle life of a "poet," who is appropriately crossed in love, and deservedly poisoned by his rival. Out of these threadbare materials the disjointed scenes are constructed; and it is not difficult to suppose that so bald a story, so manufactured into a tragedy of odds and ends, destitute of poetical spirit and vraisemblance, must be a complete failure. Elenlonely. 3 Vols. Longman and Co. London, 1837.

AN orphan girl discovers that the gentleman to

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whom she is to be married is her brother: this discovery, which revolts our better feelings, is, however, proved to be founded in error-the gentleman is only her cousin. The difficulty in the way of their union being thus removed, they are married in due form, and the curtain falls upon the nuptial knot according to established custom. Such is the main subject of these three volumes; but the episodes with which it is interlarded, the variety of persons who cross and interrupt the progress of the leading events, the quantity of superfluous matter, in the shape of abstract disquisitions, that are brought in head and shoulders, and the innumerable references that are made to circumstances which took place long before the narrative begins, and that have nothing whatever to do with it, are so distracting, that it requires no slight familiarity with works of this description to extract from the chaos the thread of the actual story, or rather, to keep one's attention closely upon it to the conclusion. But critics have an instinct in such matters, and can discern the bearing of the fiction afar-off, let the author cloud it as he may with obstructions. There is not a single actor in this strange drama, that acquits himself in such a way as to leave a decided impression behind. They are all upon wires, and appear to be perpetually jumping and tumbling, destitute of any volition of their own, and obeying the behest of some unseen hand that agitates them into fantastic motions. The author has a certain fluency and power of expression that, properly cultivated, might produce a better work; but unless he can bring out his design with greater simplicity and clearness, he never can succeed in the path he has chosen.

Beauties of the Country; or, Descriptions of Rural Customs, Objects, Scenery, and the Seasons. By Thomas Miller, author of "A Day in the Woods." London, 1837.

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MR. MILLER-who will be remembered as a poet who originally appeared as one of the "uneducated" -writes about the country with so ardent a love of rural delights, that one cannot help commiserating a passion which, in his circumstances, we presume he has but few opportunities of gratifying. He is clearly a town worshipper of nature-his tastes draw him one way, his avocation another, and between both he produces a sort of hybrid expression of admiration, that is partly artificial and partly real. This volume-which possesses more unity of plan than his Day in the Woods "is the best work he has yet produced. It has a chapter dedicated to every month in the year; and what with apostrophes to the beauties of nature, anecdotes of out-of-doorlife, sketches of country customs, festivals, and reverent rites, and hints upon the changes of the seasons, he contrives to fill it with a quantity of agreeable light reading, that will be heartily relished by country people. Unfortunately, Mr. Miller's taste is not very refined; and he sometimes drops upon a passage, so poor in purpose and vulgar in expression, that we would willingly blot it out from so

pleasant and good-natured a book. Then he is a little too verbose in his thanksgivings over the green fields; and he talks of the lanes, the woods, the deer, and the waterfalls, with such a redundancy of words, that we at last "sicken in the midst of sweets." If he would succeed, he must curtail his enthusiasm, think a little more slowly, and write in a spirit more provident of paper.

Little Tales for Little Heads and Little

Hearts, Wilson. London, 1837.

As pretty a little volume as little hearts could desire, or little heads extract little lessons from. Every thing in this tiny book is little-the stories, the engravings: the print alone is large, but that is intended for little eyes that have not yet learned to read with facility. Each tale has its own little moral, such as the danger of telling untruths, the impropriety of appropriating tempting fruits and other nice things that do not belong to us, the necessity of cultivating good temper and amiable feelings, &c. These little stories are very well told, in language so clear and captivating, that they cannot fail to make an impression upon their young readers: and the wood-engravings which illustrate them are so truthful and so delicate, that the charm of the juvenile volume cannot be resisted by the class for whose pleasure and instruction it is especially designed.

My Travels. Westley and Davis. London, 1837.

In this book, the reminiscences of a tour through France, Italy, Malta, and Turkey, are very agreesisters. The subjects are treated in a lively and ably related, in the form of dialogues between two amusing spirit; and a considerable sprinkling of his

We

torical information renders the whole useful as well as attractive to the young, to whom the volume is expressly addressed. The sketches are light, but not superficial: the habits and manners of the countries through which the author carries her readers, are described with fidelity: and the incidental summaries of historical circumstances greatly increase the interest which is excited by the personal details into which the narrator enters. would recommend the employment of a map in the perusal of this work, which is so minute in its descriptions as to render immediate reference to the locality not only useful, but, indeed, indispensable. We hardly know any better method of impressing this rapid glance at history upon the mind, than by thus combining it with geographical research. Floral Sketches, Fables, and other Poems. By Agnes Strickland. Wilson. London, 1837.

MISS STRICKLAND holds a high reputation amongst our female writers. Her publications invariably exhibit some striking attributes, that surround them with attention. This picture book-for such it is, its little poems being quite as pictorial as its engravings is so admirably adapted for children, that

had it been published a few weeks earlier, it would have probably superseded some of the juvenile annuals. It consists of short pieces of verse, thrown into the shape of tales or floral descriptions, in which the chief persone are birds, flowers, and insects; and these are so prettily delineated in the musical lines of Miss Strickland, that young people will be likely to commit the whole volume to memory, in preference to half the fine declamatory compositions they usually find in their elocutionary compilations. This little book will be a most acceptable present to children.

The Bijou Almanac. Schloss. FORTH again-in its fitting season-comes this Lilliputian pigmy among annuals, with its embossed binding, its jewel-casket case, and its internal of white satin. Verses-pretty ones of course-written by L. E. L. are in its pages, printed in less space than the Lord's Prayer occupied upon the sixpence; and among a dozen miniatures, that for their size

It is not our custom to notice a work that has

been some time before the public; but the general utility of this work has tempted us to violate “ the standing orders of our house." Original in its ideas, and simple in its expression, such a volume is invaluable; not only from its intrinsic merit, but as affording a wholesome antidote to that system of quackery, which obtains more in this, than in any other branch of the medical profession. No lady, who values her teeth, or her health, as far as health is connected with the teeth, should be without this very useful manual.

THE only novelty worth notice at Drury Lane, is the reduction of the prices. The Jewess, The Siege of Corinth, and half a dozen similar monstrosities, having been pretty well worn out in the service of the seven-shilling visiters, the manager, in a laudable spirit of economy, now offers his threadbare articles at reduced prices to those who are contented with second-hand apparel. By no very great stretch of fancy, you may see King Bunn at his door, after the fashion of his neighbours in Holywellstreet-"Walk in, ladies and gentlemen-very goot clothes-I sells them cheap-so help me Cot, they are not a pit the vorse for vear.' Oh Drury! Drury!—why, even Osbaldiston laughs at you. Shocked at such proceedings, the Covent Garden manager has made an effort in behalf of the legitimate drama-an unlucky one, it is true, but still he has made the effort. This unfortunate achievement was called La Vallière, from the pen of Mr. Bulwer, as the newspapers elegantly phrase it; and it has proved to a demonstration, that whatever else may be the talents of the author, he is, in no sense

of the word, a dramatist. He describes feelings and passions, instead of giving to them words and actions; and though the two talents are not absolutely incompatible, yet they have been so rarely found in union, that one is almost tempted to believe we shall never again meet the two qualities in the same person. It is a thousand to one that Osbaldiston, having made one error in the selection of his drama, will commit a second of more importance, and will conclude that the public have no relish for tragedy; in this case, he will back, with keener appetite than ever, upon the rubbish of his friend Fitzball. We must have a national theatre, my Lord Chamberlain, say what you choose; and we will have it too, or we will make your office too hot to hold you. You have the less reason to object to this, as you favour the Italian squallinis with additional patronage, in the shape of a second Italian Opera House at the Lyceum. And what have these gaudy foreigners done as yet for the benefit of the musical world? Surely, they will not pretend to say, that there is any extraordinary merit in Ricci's Scaramuccia, or

in Signor Coppola's Nina Pazza? If they say any thing of the kind, we beg leave to tell them, that they are the veriest impostors, or the veriest blockheads, that ever trilled note or drew bow across a fiddle. The only redeeming feature in the evening's entertainment, is the appearance of Mdlle. Guerra Giannoni, who reminds us, though at some distance, of the lamented Malibran.

Paulo minora canamus-which may be vernacularly rendered, let us talk of the minors. And first of the St. James's Theatre, which goes on much in its usual way, with nothing deserving of serious censure; but, at the same time, with nothing for any one particularly to admire. There is a great want of vigour in the St. James's cabinet. The system of vaudeville pieces will never answer, unless supported by an excellent company; and the St. James's troop, though not positively bad, is far from being excellent. Harsh as it may sound, we cannot but confess, that the besetting sin of this theatre is, its mediocrity in all things-mediocrity of musicmediocrity of writing-mediocrity of acting. This remark, of course, does not apply either to Braham or to Harley, in their capacity of singer and actor; the one being, as he always has been, unrivalled as a singer, and the other, as a comedian, holding an eminent station. But we do find fault, and in no unfriendly spirit, with their mode of management; if they must needs imitate Madame Vestris in the style of their pieces, let them also follow her example in getting together a talented company, whose exertions may make some amends for the poverty of the productions. Of all classes of composition, the vaudeville is decidedly the lowest; it is the most easily written, the most easily played, and the least interesting. With a certain small portion of the community it has found favour, simply because it excites no violent emotions of any kind; they like it, because it does not disturb their feelings, and allows them to sit placidly in their boxes, while actor and author tickle them gently, as it were, with straws. Still it requires an artist of talent to handle these same straws, or the tickling becomes a very unpleasant operation.

Having said this much of one vaudeville Theatre, we have the less occasion to stop long at the Olympic, where, as already said, these things are managed much better. Liston, Matthews, Vestris, and Orger, form a phalanx of the first class; while in the second we have Oxberry, Wyman, and Honey, who are daily improving in public estimation. As regards pieces, the Olympic queen has been somewhat unfortunate this season, though why, we cannot even guess, for they are neither better nor worse than those produced in previous years, and most assuredly they were all admirably supported. And this reminds us to give a word in passing to young Oxberry; he has talents of no mean order, and is becoming a great favourite with the public; but if he wishes to rise yet higher in the profession, or even to maintain his present place, he must take the trouble of making himself perfect with the text of his authors. However bad

may be the writing, such imperfection forms no excuse for the actor not being thoroughly master of the part he has undertaken.

In decided contrast to this elegant little theatre stands the Adelphi-i. e..the twin-brothers-which we presume is the classic appellation of Messrs. Yates and Gladstones, the joint proprietors of this establishment. Most terrible consumers are they of red lights, and blue lights, and of that perilous stuff, gunpowder, to the great discomfiture of the eyes and ears of those who visit this theatrical Tartarus. But notwithstanding all these fiery eruptions, and a most magnificent system of puffing, it has been one perpetual low tide with the Adelphi, except when the flood set in for a short time on the appearance of Jim Crow. After having stumbled along through all the first part of the season, and been nearly ruined by the managers' admiration of Buckstone's bad acting and worse writing, the rulers have at last hit upon a successful piece, called the Election. It is a pièce de circonstance, of which Mr. O'Connell is the hero. Go and see it by all means, gentle readers; but do not cross Waterloo Bridge to the Cobourg, which, under the management of its Jewish monarch, is sunk deeper in the mud than ever; it should seem as if no one liked to go near a theatre, of which the visible head is a bailiff. We remember, and it is à propos to this matter, a little conversation between Charles Kemble and that odd compound of genius and imbecility, Robert William Elliston: the unrivalled comedian could not understand how it was that Drury Lane did not prosper under his manage"The affair is very simple," replied Kcmble, drawing himself up, and assuming one of those dignified looks, which none know better how to put on than himself; “it is all plain enough; the character of a manager gives a tone to his company, and if it be bad, taints the house itself, and keeps away the respectable portion of society." How the wicked little eyes of Elliston twinkled at this rebuke!—it was Falstaff, beating by a single look all the moralities of Prince Henry. By-the-bye, Hal has a few frolics to answer for himself; but then he is a prince, every inch a prince. Never did any one walk the stage more noble or more dignified than Charles Kemble.

ment.

From the Cobourg is but a short trip to the Surrey, which is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the most amusing of all the minor theatres. Strange to say, there is on this stage a comedian little known to fame, but in every respect equal, if not superior, to Faucit-gaudet nomine Sybilla-he rejoiceth in the name of Smith, being about the hundredth so called, in the theatrical service. There was a report that the manager of this establishment was about to place himself on the throne of King Bunn; but this hardly accords with the well known sagacity of Davidge, one of the shrewdest men that ever wielded a theatrical truncheon. Drury Lane] is a regular vortex, into which, whoever plunges, has hitherto been swallowed up. Still if any one could give the lie to