one without the other, is the statue of marble, Even tales of London life, have their charms which passes-the triumph of his skill-from the for the American reader: for, with a colonial feelhand of the sculptor, charming the eye with the ing, that still lives in the hearts of all true Amerexquisite symmetry and life like truth of its pro- icans, and that derives its existence from the worportions, wanting the soul to give animation to the thiest and holiest principles of human natureeye, pencil the veins with azure, and give to the love of "faderland"—we still look with a romanbosom the undulating swell of the heaving wave. tic and filial interest towards the "mother country." "Clinton Bradshaw," to make use of the words All that strengthens these associations, and brings of another, "is the story of a young lawyer of us, in imagination, nearer to a land we love to limited means and popular talents, whose ambition contemplate at a distance, is readily received and urges him to elevate himself by all the honorable cherished. It is, perhaps, to this poetic feeling, means in his power. His professional pursuits lead him among the coarsest criminals, while his political career brings him in contact with the venal and corrupt of all parties. But, true alike to himself and the community of which he is a member, the stern principles of a republican and the uncompromising spirit of a gentleman are operative under all circumstances.”

rather than to the intrinsic worth of the works themselves, that pictures of London life and manners, which differ but very little, if at all, from those in the principal cities of the United States, find here such extensive circulation, and so large a number of readers; while an American work, of superior merit, cumbers the shelves of the booksellers. We have, moreover, such a censurable, but, by the way, very natural propensity, to read of princes, dukes and baronets, that the mere glimpse of these titles, as they catch the eye in running the fingers over the leaves, is sufficient to secure a purchaser and reader, while the pretty nose is turned up, or the manly lip ejects a "pshaw!" at meeting in the novel lying beside it, only plain misters, and colonels, may be, and peradventure a senator or two, and a president. One "my lord," is worth an army of these republican characters; and so, aside from our colonial prejudices for everything English, the American work is thrown down with something like contempt. It is owing to these causes, that American pictures of manners in American cities, are not popular here, when, at the same time, they may be so in England-for we often first know our authors through the kindness, or rather justice of the British press. Viewed under these circumstances, it is not surprising that a novel of this class-in which "Clinton Bradshaw" is to be rank

The reception of this book by the public, although of a kind flattering to the author, was not such as to stamp it with that decided mark of approbation, which is the index of popularity; nor such as those which had measured the intellectual strength of the writer, and witnessed, on other occasions, the bold flights of his genius, had anticipated. The causes which operated against its entire success, lay in the introduction of one or two characters of both sexes, such as Fielding has successfully drawn, but which in the present modification of public taste, even from the pen of a Fielding or a Smollet, would have been received with distaste. The truth and coloring of these portraits were undeniable, and evinced the pen of a master; but they belong to a school now out of date, and are superseded by subjects, which, although of a more chastened and refined character, are also less marked by strength and durability. Another cause may be traced to a peculiarity which may apply with equal force to all American novels, written to portray American man-ed-should have met only with partial success, ners and customs in American cities. The characters being such everyday people as we meet with in the commonplace routine of life, can be invested, however powerful may be the wand of the magician who calls them up to act their part on fiction's stage, by none of that magic and romance, which is at the present day, and indeed since the days of Mrs. Ratcliffe, has been the sine qua non of a successful American novel. It is different with the novels of other countries. The transcendent genius of Scott, in delineating the manners of his Countrymen, was aided by the romance of that land of story. There was a stirring tale speaking in every glen; a tradition hanging on every mountain's brow, and ruined castle-wall; and brownies, bogles and elves, wandering on heaths, living in wild caves, or presiding over fountains, were ever ready to start up at the bidding of the great enchanter.

where the author's friends, basing their judgment upon a knowledge of his powers, anticipated the most sanguine result. That it did not at once, therefore, take the high stand as a novel, its intrinsic merit entitled it to, is to be referred to causes beyond the control of authors.

The foregoing remarks, it should be understood, do not apply to American novels as a class, but to that species of them called "fashionable novels," the characters of which are daily familiar to our eyes, and therefore altogether wanting in those mysterious parts, that go to make up a hero or heroine: Cooper, Simms, Kennedy, Bird, and others, to be hereafter named, have shown us that the American novel can be invested with a dignity, power, and romantic interest, rivalling British works of this class. Our strictures apply only to what may be termed "civic novels." Probably all American novels of this species, however

and pier-glasses behind him, with the first volume. In the second, he fearlessly spreads his wing and plumes his crest, like the unchained eagle, who soars to his native mountains, and with a bolder pen, seizes upon the themes and scenes, which, beyond the Alleghanies, spring up unbidden on every side, rich and inexhaustible material for the romancer.

well written and brilliant with genius, will, in paved streets and fashionable folks, brick-houses their native country, meet with an indifferent reception, and have only an ephemeral existence. Perhaps it may be laid down as an undeniable proposition, that no novel can live, unless it is based on some remarkable historical event, which, like leaven in the lump, leavens the whole, infusing into it a principle of perpetuity. Independent of the genius of the author, this is the great secret of the Waverly novels-the leaven of history pervades them all.

"Clinton Bradshaw," however, was only a trial of the author's powers, as a youthful knight tilts in the tournament to try the metal of his barb, and test the strength and fitness of his armor, before he encounters in the more deadly strife of the field. It has been said that one sin is inevitably the parent of a numerous progeny: an author's first book is equally prolific. "Clinton Bradshaw," after having passed into a second edition, was followed eleven months afterwards, (in November, 1836,) by a second novel, entitled, “EAST AND WEST." During the interval, however, he was engaged in the composition of a satirical poem, already alluded to, called "The Beechen Tree,' and about the length of the "Bride of Abydos," and with a somewhat similar variety of versification. This will be published sometime in the present year, probably; but, whenever it does appear, it will eminently contribute to the poetic fame of its author.

The West is the legitimate empire of the American western novelist; and when he shall be content to wield over it the sceptre of his genius, and unfold its wild traditions, his works will contain the true principle of life. "It is a land," says the celebrated Mr. Flint, in a recent letter to the writer, "where every thing in history, natural and civil, every thing in nature and art, pertaining to it, touching its settlement and progress, is, in itself, matter of romance, and wanting, to those who have not seen and observed, vrai semblance almost in the same ordinary standard of romance."

A pen that can discourse so eloquently of the West, as in the following stanzas, taken at random from the "Emigrant," should seek no different "theme: his muse should linger,

"East and West" assimilates to the same species of fiction, with which "Clinton Bradshaw" has been classed, but does not decidedly belong to it. Like that work, it is constructed upon no historical basis or popular tradition, but professes to be a picture of American manners, deriving its interest solely from the virtues and vices of the characters, and the circumstances in which they are placed. It differs from "Clinton Bradshaw," however, not only in not confining its scenes to the streets and houses of a metropolis, and their trite, daily histories, thereby encroaching too closely upon the province of the penny press, and lessening the dignity and charm of epic composition, but it differs from it in the variety and originality of its characters; the frequent changes of its scenes; (especially in the second volume, to which these observations exclusively apply;) its stirring incidents, and glowing descriptions of western scenes, character and adventure. The character of Blazeaway, a "river character," so called, and a spirited and thrilling narrative of a steamboat race, mark the second volume as no ordinary production. The two volumes are of very unequal merit; the first coming under the class of "city novels," while the second is of a widely different and more popular character. The cause is neither altogether in the author, nor in the style; but in the subject and scenes. He leaves the

"Where stole the paddle-plied and tottering bark
Along the rough shore's cragg'd and sedgy side;
Where the fierce hunter, from the forest dark,
Pursued the wild deer o'r the mountains wild."
*
**

*

*

*

"Yet, who that ever trod upon the shore,
Since the rude red man left it to his tread,
Thinks not of him?

That Indian mound

Will soon be levelled with the plough'd up ground;
Where stands that village church, tradition's hold,
The war-whoop once rung loud, o'er many a warrior
cold."

"Within thee, river! many a pale face sleeps,
And many a red man's ghost his vigil keeps;
And many a maid has watched thy dark banks over.
For thee, perchance, thy stream ran red with blood,
There pale and red men met upon thy shore,
Embracing foes, they sank within the flood,
Fierce twins in death, and joined forever more!
But, God is just to him the red race fly,
Driv'n to the pathless west, thence upward to the sky."

"Here once Boone trod, the hardy pioneer,
The only white man in the wilderness;
That mountain there, that lifts its bald high head
Above the forest, was perchance his throne!"

"How fertile is this dark and bloody ground:'
Here death has given many a horrid wound!
Here was the victim tortured to the stake,
While dark revenge stood by, his burning thirst to slake."

"Methinks I see it all within yon dell,

Where trembles through the leaves the clear moonlight;
Say, Druid oak! canst not the story tell?
Why met they thus? and wherefore did they fight?
And wept his maiden much? and who was he
Who thus so calmly bore his agony?
Sang he his death-song well? was he a chief?
And mourned his nation long, in notes of lengthened
grief?"

It will be discovered by those who compare Mr.
Thomas's novels, especially "Clinton Bradshaw,"

with this fine poem, that he has not yet done justice | not so much copies of men, as the men themselves, to his talents, or chosen subjects most congenial that constitutes the peculiar charm of Mr. Thowith his tone of mind, or best suited to the develop-mas's prose writings. This talent of observation ment of his powers. The admirers of genius will therefore look with some anxiety towards the future direction of powers which have not been conducted into the channel to which they have already shown a natural tendency.

has led him to study the characters of distinguished men; and insensibly created a taste for biography, which he has displayed in an eminent degree, in a popular biographical sketch of Wirt, published shortly after the death of this distinguished man. Although the writer has not seen a review, not We will now conclude this article, which has even the briefest newspaper notice of "East and insensibly grown to an unexpected length, with a West," and cannot therefore determine the kind of brief sketch of Mr. Thomas's personal appearance, reception it has received by the editorial corps and inasmuch as it is not the fashion now-a-days for the reviewers, yet judging only from the work authors to show themselves to their readers, like itself, and the opinions of many who have perused their olden time predecessors, en frontispice. it, he is confident of its title to a fair share of popu- He is about twenty-eight years of age, five feet larity, which must, in some degree, however, be nine inches in height, compactly built, and slightqualified, by the causes above stated, operating only inclined to be fleshy. His complexion is a fictions of the class to which this belongs. It is healthy brown; his hair black and wavy, and is spirited and racy, enriched with fine thoughts, worn long and negligently about his temples. and abounds in admirable sketches of character. His forehead is straight and high, with the intelThe style, though not elegant or studied, is bold, lectual organs strongly developed. His eyebrows free and flowing, as if the author wrote with ease are square and full, and beneath them plays a pair and rapidity. of deep-set eyes of the keenest black, with a lively if not a laughing expression, in which mixed humor and penetration predominate. His nose is straight and faultless; his lips accurately chisseled, and remarkably flexile, and capable of expressing humor or sarcasm in a striking degree. The ruling expression of his face, which is that of a handsome, dark complexioned man, is good humor and intelligence, and is marked with decided intellect. His address is courteous and gentlemanly; his politeness, proceeding rather from the heart, than the observance of mere external forms. On account of the slight peculiarity before alluded to, which renders artificial aid indispensable, he walks with a stout cane, with one arm behind his back, and his face bent, as if in deep thought, on the pavement, at which times, his face wears that solicitous look often observable in men, who, like him, have from infancy been the martyr of severe physical suffering. As an author, Mr. Thomas has only to be taught by further experience the natural tendency of his fine powers, to rank high

In briefly sketching the character of Mr. Thomas's mind, the poet and the novelist are too inseparably united to admit of their peculiar features being separately considered. As an observer of nature, he delights in the contemplation of the sublime and terrible, rather than the picturesque; choosing to spread the wings of his imagination and sail above the beetling crags, rather than fly through fairy dells, or hover in the shadowy grove. But he is not an enthusiastic admirer of "grassy meadows, breezy slopes, inspiring bills and mountain crags ;" and will turn his back on the fairest scene, to seat himself in some quiet corner, if he be travelling, perchance in a steamer on the Ohio or Mississippi, to hold conversation with some "character," whom accident may have thrown in his way. It may be remarked, here, that his conversational talents are of the highest order; his voice agreeable, and his address and manners popular and prepossessing.

Perhaps the most prominent trait of Mr. Thomas's mind, is his perception and instinctive appre-among native American authors. ciation of the picturesque, eccentric and absurd, and what is called original points in the appearance, habits, or characters of men.

With an eye

to the humorous, and a passion for observing what he has emphatically termed "characters," he is at all times observant, and constantly deriving in this way, not only amusement to himself, but for his readers. Probably there is not a character, particularly the ruder ones, (for it is the unhewn block, and not the polished column which forms subjects for his study,) in his novels, which is not drawn from living originals; who, at a public table, in the street or highway, have unconsciously sat for their portraits to this observing painter of men and manners. It is this naturalness, this

CURIOUS ELEMENTARY BOOK.

There exists a very curious little book in German, published at Leipzic in 1743, entitled "A new book of the ABC in 100 languages, or fundamental instruction for acquiring in the most tender youth not only German, Latin, French and Italian, but likewise the oriental and other languages." It contains, in fact, the alphabet and first elements of 100 different languages, ancient and modern. It was reprinted in 1748 and greatly augmented. The second edition contains the Lord's prayer in 200 languages. It is by John Frederick Frits.

July 29.

ness, may yet be ever active within him. Such a one its sumptuousness, and trotted back to the Springs, finds a temple, an altar, a choral symphony, wherever on the whole quite pleased with my little excursion. the cope of Heaven arches over the retreats of nature, wherever the shade of the forest, the rippling of the streamlet, and the music of birds, invite to medita- A deer hunt. This morning "the hounds were untion, to reflection, to adoration of the gifts, and wonder-kennelled, all ripe for the chase," and came dashing ful order of Providence, and to the welling-up of those through the square, baying in full chorus, with half a emotions, which, while they are irrespective of time and dozen young gentlemen, headed by Nimrod, who ever place, are as grateful in the sight of Him who looks and anon blew a note on his horn to keep in the hounds, upon the heart, as though they sprung from the stuc-all arrayed in proper trim for hunting the deer in the coed domes, the vaulted roofs, and Gothic arches of the neighboring mountains. It was a novel and a gallant proudest fanes erected by the hands of man. And where sight. The morning was clear and brilliant, and every does nature keep Sabbath, if not here, in these pathless thing promised a merry excursion, and plenty of sport. woods, -on the slope of these magnificent mountains, The huntsmen were mounted on fine horses, each carbeneath these mild skies, and amid these sylvan shades, ried a gun or rifle, and off they went for the mountain, in tuneful with the voices of a thousand birds, and sooth- a southerly direction. Arrived at the haunts of the ing the spirit of the worshipper with the gentle flow of game, the leader of the chase stationed a man at sevemany brooks, musically gliding over the pebbles that ral open passes or intervals among the mountains, who be below, glistening in the straggling sunbeam that was to watch the coming forth of the deer as he should finds its way through the overarching foliage? break cover, and bound for shelter across them to the opposite thicket. The hounds were all this time on the scent, and soon the game was afoot. The crack of rifles was heard, and the deep baying of the hounds was unintermitting. But, contrary to the usual good fortune of Nimrod and his "merry men all," there was no game struck, or if struck, it was but slightly, and not skilfully enough to secure the prey.

"So letting the stricken deer go weep,
The hart ungalled play,"

At no great distance from this spot the sermon of the old blind preacher, described so touchingly by the late William Wirt of Virginia, in his celebrated "British Spy," was delivered. All will recollect that pathetic story: the woodland scene among the mountains,--the passionate eloquence of the preacher,—the raising of his sightless eyes to Heaven,--the description of the Saviour's sufferings, the comparison between the death of Socrates and that of Christ,-and that glowing peroration, "Socrates died like a philosopher,--but Jesus Christ like a God!" That sermon was uttered in such the huntsmen returned, with no other satisfaction for a temple, and surrounded by such associations as I their morning's excursion, than a good ride, good exerhave imperfectly described. That temple was among cise, and the customary "treat" from the individual these very mountains, and between their ridges reside who was so unfortunate as to make an unsuccessful the descendants of that old blind patriarch: and such shot. Such is a stag hunt in the Alleghanies, and difwere the recollections that have sanctified the day that fering only from the most of them, in the important has just passed, otherwise unmarked by any surround-particular, that the specimen furnished you was not ing religious associations.

July 28.

crowned with the usual success.

The Springs are still filling. Scores of applicants are An excursion to Lewisburg. This is a pleasant little turned away daily, and are quartered about in the village, distant from the White Sulphur about ten miles, neighborhood, ready at any moment to slip in, whenand a pretty ride, often enjoyed by the residents here. ever the scales of Mr. Anderson's even-handed justice With good horses and in a convenient phaeton, (a Bal- shall incline favorably. Among the last new arrivals timore friend's,) the journey was accomplished in little are large parties from South Carolina. Virginia, too, more than an hour and a half, through a lovely tract is on the qui vive. The neighboring Springs are pourof country, the whole length of which was traversed ing in upon us their visitants, and the surrounding by the fine turnpike of which I have already said some country is full of quarantiners, waiting for admission. thing in commendation. We passed, and were passed Not a place in which to lay one's head can be had, inter and met by several vehicles, in which pleasure-parties parietes, and as to Dickson's, the Sweet Springs, "the to and from the Springs, below as well as above, from White House on the Hill," the Brick Tavern, and all the Sweet as well as the White Sulphur, were dashing the other suburbs of this place, numerous as they are, along the well graded road, all in high glee. Arrived they are overflowing with anxious expectants, (four beds at Lewisburg, I went over to the Court House, where in a room, and three in a bed,) who every morning turn the court of appeals was in session. This is the highest their longing, lingering look towards the paradise they tribunal in the state, and the chief justice, or president, may not enter. Some, more hardy than the rest, come is Henry St. George Tucker, to whom I have already boldly in, deposite their baggage on the piazza, borrow particularly alluded. There were one or two impor- a friend's room in which to dress, spend the day and tant cases expected to come on,—and the distinguished evening, and then sleep, or not sleep, heaven only Richmond barrister, Chapman Johnson, was there. But knows where, until the dawn of the day which is to the cases were postponed or settled, and I had not an admit them to a cabin in "Alabama Row," or "The opportunity of hearing, as I had hoped to do, the argu- Wolf." I have frequently seen recumbent forms upon ment of the learned counsel. It was a disappointment, the benches under the trees in the square, covered with but these are the lot of man, and I went back to the thick great-coats or cloaks, at midnight, apparently enhotel, enjoyed a dinner that would have surprised nine-joying sound repose in the still moonlight, undisturbed tenths of the country inn-keepers of New England, by save by a casual footstep or the occasional baying of