"And after giving up the art to which he has dedi- "No-not exactly a copy," continued Mrs. Brown, cated his life, I suppose he may die as the poor Werner | drawing a small picture, done in crayon, from her retidid, 'unwept, unhonored, and unsung?' unless perchance cule. It represented a girl of about fifteen with her hair he has an old parent, or a beloved wife to weep over the fate of the gifted. Ah, you little know the unmitigated anguish your words might have conveyed to the soul of the artist, had he heard them and believed you to be a true Mecanas.

Hebe. A spirited sketch was soon drawn, but in the meantime the good lady happened to meet with an antiquated copy of the Children of the Abbey, and, strange to relate, that romantic story, which has drawn fountains of tears from young misses over the sentimental misfortunes of Miss Amanda Malvina Fitzallen, had never before fallen into her hands. The description of the portrait of the heroine's mother captivated her fancy, and the Hebe must be changed to a shepherdess so soon as the brush of the artist could accomplish the metamorphosis. After various alterations, | he succeeded in completing a very pretty fancy piece, the principal figure in which resembled any one else as much as the person for whom it was designed.

However, the mother was satisfied, and it was sent home to adorn the walls of the newly furnished parlor; and that of the lady herself was commenced. Here Sidney found his difficulties increased ten-fold, for in spite of the evidence of her glass, Mrs. Brown persisted in thinking that she was still quite young enough to make a very fine picture; and her style of dress was fantastic to the last degree. In vain did Grey remonstrate-in vain did his good taste revolt from painting a figure tricked out in a style which might have rivalled the broadest caricature of the fashions: Mrs. Brown carried the day, and she was represented seated on a sofa, attired in a gown of scarlet velvet, with rings, chains and brooches innumerable, disposed about her comfortable person.

ture has gifted her. Depend on it he was not allowed to be faithful in his delineation of our hostess, and I should never have recommended her to him had I not believed him to be in reduced circumstances, and thought her money would be as acceptable to him as that of any other person."

Miss Wilmere was absent four months, and when she returned, she had not forgotten her promise. She sought the abode of Grey, but was informed by the landlady that about a month before that time, he had left her house, and she could not inform her whither he had removed.

"He got very little to do, ma'am," said Mrs. Patton, "and I'm afraid all his money was pretty nigh exhausted before he left me; for he was very low-spirited at times. His health wasn't as good as it had been: the cold weather last winter seemed to be very hard on him, for he had a cough all the time, and his wife, poor thing, appeared to be miserable about him. I've many a time seen her start and turn pale when she heard that hollow cough, and my heart ached for her."

Miss Wilmere was deeply interested by this recital. "Are you sure, madam, you can obtain no clue to their present residence?” she inquired.

"I do not think it will be easy to do so, but I can make the effort. When they came to me, they had a colored girl with them, who had been freed by Mrs. Grey's father, but she would not consent to leave her young mistress. I gave her employment until about a He labored at first to make the likeness as striking as week before they left me, and she then hired herself in possible, but in this he was likewise baffled by the vani- another part of the city, though she came every night to ty of the woman: "this feature must be softened-see Mrs. Grey. I sometimes see her, and perhaps she another more rounded-the eyes lacked brilliancy—the will inform me where they now are.” lips were a little too thick,"-in short he found himself compelled to make her portrait as little like the original as that of her daughter. The day on which they were completed was a joyful one to him.

That evening Mrs. Brown gave a large party, and the pictures were severely criticised by those who pretended to know any thing of painting. Caroline Wilmere was there, and her praises excited the irritability of an old gentleman who considered himself an indisputable judge, as he had once spent six weeks in Europe, had visited the Parisian gallery twice, and remained an hour each time.

“That & likeness! my dear Miss Wilmere," said he, scornfully pointing to the luckless shepherdess; "why you may as well tell me the engraving on my snuff box was designed for you, as that thing there for Kitty, or (as her mother has refined the name) Miss Kittina Brown. She was Brown in color as well as name-dumpy and pug-nosed. That figure is graceful, and the face is almost beautiful. Pooh-pooh! this protegé of your's may paint very pretty fancy pieces, but a likeness he never can accomplish. If proof were wanting of that you need only look at the mother, and see what a ridiculous looking figure he has made of her, without the slightest resemblance to the original."

"Well, we will not dispute about it," said Miss Wilniere, good humoredly smiling-"I am going to the springs to-morrow, and shall be absent all summer, but when I return I will have my portrait taken again to convince you that my protegé, as you call him, can succeed in taking a likeness of one who is willing to be painted with only the share of beauty which na

"I shall be much obliged to you, madam, to make the inquiry, as it may be in my power to render some services to Mr. Grey and his lady."

"Rely on me, my dear Miss Wilmere. I will do all in my power to discover them, for I have never seen strangers with whom I was more pleased."

All the exertions of the good Mrs. Patton, were, however, unavailing. She saw Agnes no more; and every clue to the 'whereabouts' of her late boarders appeared to be forever lost.

[To be concluded in the December number.]

TO CAROLINE.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

I would not say that thou art fair, dear girl,
Nor tell thee of thy graceful, comely form,
(Tho' in these gifts fond nature has been kind ;)
For they are frail possessions, and may last
But the brief period of the transient hour.
Sorrow, or sickness, or relentless time,
May waste that frame, or mar those magic features;
But in the precious virtues of the heart,
(Where Love and Truth and Innocence abide,)
Thy worth consists: these are enduring charms
Which dark Misfortune has no power t' impair,
But rather makes more radiant by his frown:
These are the founts of Peace, and may they flow
Unhindered forth till life itself shall cease.

E. N.

upon the far walkings and independent life of that HOMEWARD BOUND-OR THE CHASE; venerable hero. It was in those glorious times of fame,

A TALE OF THE SEA.

ere yet his foot had trod in love the land of the foreigner, while yet his heart lingered without spleen or satire

By the author of "The Spy," " Red Rover," &c. Carey, Lea & upon his own free clime, that the star of his Austerlitz Blanchard: Philadelphia.

kept its warm place in the glowing skies. Why did We welcome the wanderer back once more to the did he turn abruptly to the dogmas and the doubts of Mr. Cooper ever abandon those sunny paths? Why sea—the open, the grand, and stirring sea. Mr. Cooper the politician? Why leave the marble pavement of the has of late been traversing Europe in a stage coach, and temple to riot on the sanded floor of the miserable beerwhilst thus out of his proper sphere, his genius has not exercised itself in those delightful flights that formerly which we have a right to ask. Mr. Cooper's reputashop? These are questions pertinent to his fame, and bore the author to eminence, and afforded to the public tion is identified with the literary character of the a new and graphic species of composition. We have often wondered how a man with an imagination so naval and descriptive romance upon the age, and he country, for he has stamped the genius of American powerful, and naturally so healthy, could have toiled. up the steep ascent of barren hills, when the broad and has opened a way of fiction that many have pursued with varied success. Mr. Cooper is the author of the accustomed seas lay before him, where he could have freely sailed, the fearless and powerful describer of their peculiar marine style that has often delighted us in the glory. Truly then do we welcome him back to his ele-Bound," we felt assured from the title alone that he "Red Rover;" and when we opened "Homeward ment of fiction-right glad that he has given his flag to the wild breeze.

"Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath 'him,' as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to the roar !
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead,
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale."

We have ever viewed Mr. Cooper as a national writer, who had borne in triumph-conscious of the great burthen-the grand features of his native land to the incredulous vision of Europe; and we had hoped that these features thus impressed, his mind would have preserved, pure and uncontaminated, from the petty vulgarisms of continental romance or sentimentalism. The indiscriminate praise that followed his earlier efforts, dazzled the quondam midshipman-and he rushed along his path, corruscating like a star that had limit neither to its brightness nor its orbit; and we felt proud that a light had arisen over our fields, and the willing heart of the American public was poured forth in tribute to its dazzling rays. That star of excellence shone in the "Spy," over the red field of battle, where lay

would preserve his reputation. Standing at the fountain head of American fiction, he should have felt like a brave knight, with buckler on, and lance in rest, ready to assert the purity of his ladye-love, or in other and plainer phrase, to have kept up to the mark of his former achievements. We had a right to expect this at his hands; for, doubtless, he agrees with us in the opinion that romance, with moral ends, is a vast engine of activity upon an imaginative people, (who always have their peculiar sympathies to be affected by a peculiar school of writers,) for it stirs up their blood and fills their big veins with a noble enthusiasm, leading directly to the fruition of honor, liberty and law. We cannot stop here to lay before our reader the reasons that have conducted us to this opinion. To those who wield the attributes of this power, appertain many hopes that no lips have yet expressed, but which many hearts, studious of philosophic results, have felt. We confess to those dim and indistinct, but no less effective hopes, and our constant aim in the peculiar sphere in which we move, has been to do honor to the necromancers of fiction.

The public journalists of this country have of late years been unkind, but not ungenerous to Mr. Cooper. He has been lashed for his wasted manhood; and the victim of disappointment feeding upon vanity, he has turned upon the press and evoked the thunder upon its exposed and lacerated shoulders. This is not as it should be. A sailor, brave by profession, robust in mental resources by nature, he should have stood like Cæsar's

"Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent." And we watched it in the "Pioneer" as it ascended over the snow-capped mountains, and silvered the locks of old Leatherstocking-dear and muscular hunter! Afterwards amid the everlasting but ever-changing cata-tortoise-shielded troops, in the face of a thousand ar racts we hailed its light, and the "Last of the Mohicans" walked abroad under its ray of magic, into the leafy solitude, and entranced our admiration by the softened tread with which he moved amid the mysterious gloom. It was not long after, that the "Prairie" was lighted from the same source-and who will ever forget that has read that powerful novel, the frightful picture of Ishmael, hanging in the windy night to the oaken bough, hung there by the stern patriarch of the wandering settlers? Again the figure of Leatherstocking, that exquisitely wrought picture, arises to our vision. We see him with his favorite rifle, and that sinewy and solitary dog, the faithful and the free; and we almost sigh for the trackless wastes, the shaded dells, and the rushing deer; and we muse joyfully-sad

rows. The native press has been the means of his fame, and is yet willing to do honor to its arch traducer, if he will but abandon the low and grovelling ambition of the politician, and plume himself for a literary immortality. That much abused press will aid the eagle of our literature in his flight, and when it sees him perched upon "the difficult mountain tops," the loftiest alp of the world's applause, will cheer him with its judgment, and assist him in poising his reeling wings in an element that after all may be uncongenial to his nature. The work before us is full of direct abuse of the press, and we cannot find a word in the two volumes expressive of that gratitude for past favors, which, from a decent respect for the requisitions of society, he should have feigned, if he could not have felt. Though Mr.

Cooper is destitute of gratitude, he has genius. We under the impression that the news was news no longer. did not need the "Homeward Bound" to prove that to The virgin leaf of a novel is sacred to the true novel us. The works to which we have alluded, in the open-reader, and jealous is he of every type that dots the ing of these remarks, bear testimony that a mind of high gifts had glowed over their pages, and that the creative power had built up in the wilderness of the prairie a monument in that behalf.

flight of the poetic mind—our's be then the province to glance at the beauties of these volumes, and discuss with their gifted author matters of taste. To praise is our delight, though censure is so common to the reviewing tribe, that we shall hardly be forgiven, if we blend not sarcasm with approval. We will have

The "Red Rover" was the crowning work of Mr. Cooper, and though it is now many years since we read that glowing book, the impression of its beauties-sufficient cause for both as we proceed. of the great descriptions scattered over its leaves-is vivid upon our mind; for, then the author was innocent of argument-innocent of the French mania for politics and philosophy, and he swept the seas, and scattered on every Atlantic wave, gems as brilliant as their own pearls. We again thank him for this evidence of a return to his former realms, and take it as an earnest of repentance for past errors, and amendment for the future.

We will now proceed to a particular description of the work before us, "Homeward Bound," and we enter upon our task with the best feelings imaginable towards the author.

The story of this work, is the story of the sea, and tempest and battle are blended in the plot; and wherever the author has devoted himself to the description of these incidents, we recognize the hand of our own graphic Cooper.

In the first place the delineation of the heroine, Eve, proves that Mr. Cooper is ignorant of those delicate conceptions of feminine character, that should distinguish a novel writer; and she moves before our eyes the artificial boarding-school girl, ripened through the tortuous avenues of affectation, into the cold and stately patroness of prudery. She talks in pedantic sentences, and seldom or ever descends, save when frightened into it, to those soft and melting moods, in which women seem to us all angelic.

The story opens with Eve and her father, leaning over the side of the packet ship; and while they gaze upon the broad seas foaming afar, the parent remarks to his child, "We have seen nobler coasts, Eve, but after all England will always be fair to American eyes." She replies, "more particularly so, if those eyes first opened to the light of the eighteenth century, father." The eighteenth century lisped by a young girl in her teens! Now, to our ideas of remark and rejoinder, in a conversation held between parties so united, the response would have been eloquent with the white cliffs and the green fields of merry England—with any thing but philosophy-for there is a philosophy and a sarcasm too, in the reply, that no girl of Eve's

This first remark of the heroine, does not prepare the reader for a very natural girl, speaking honestly and openly, and as a girl of the nineteenth century should speak.

A party of travellers, some of whom had passed through the sickly stages of European ton, are returning to the United States. There are the three Effinghams, two cousins, and a daughter, Eve Effingham, the heroine-Mr. Sharp and Mr. Blunt are incognitos, the one a private gentleman, the other one a baronet of England. Both these gentlemen through caprice or ne-age would utter to a father, without exposing herself to cessity have disguised themselves, and are quite neces- the charge of egregious pedantry. sary and interesting in the web of the drama. Mr. Blunt, especially, becomes a hero of no common order. Mr. Dodge, editor of an American newspaper, and consequently no favorite with Mr. Cooper, is made to utter as much nonsense as should gratify Mr. Cooper's "I have been educated, as it is termed, ("as it is spleen for the balance of his life; but Mr. Cooper must termed!" what else could it be termed ?) in so many reconcile the seeming incongruity of an editor, so igno- different places and countries,” returned Eve, smiling, rant as he represents Dodge to be, travelling over Eu-"that I sometimes fancy I was born a woman, like my rope and writing letters home, that are received with great predecessor and namesake, the mother of Abel. unbounded praise by the American press. The natu- If a congress of nations," continues the philosophic heralness of the novel should march onward pari passuroine, "in the way of masters, can make one indepenwith its incidents, and with as much regularity as the dent of prejudice, I may claim to possess the advanprogressive steps of history; and Mr. Cooper is culpable in a high degree, for introducing characters in his plot, that disgust by their grovelling ignorance, and yet puzzle by their mal-apropos brilliancy.

Captain Truck figures largely, and always appropriately in the narrative; and there are two or three others, mates first and second of the packet ship Montauk, (in which our heroes all are placed,) that help out the catastrophes, and mingle in the procession.

tage. My greatest fear is, that in acquiring liberality, I have acquired nothing else." Now the iron of dislike has entered into our heart, and we cannot study the character of Eve with any degree of pleasure, and we turn away constantly from the cold and marble surface of her nature, that thus seeks every occasion to bewil der our senses, with far-fetched references to a congress of nations assembled on purpose to veto prejudice in a young girl's noddle, and to mother Eve, progenitrix of Abel, and why not of Cain, who was after all the hero of that mental reference?

We will not anticipate the reader's curiosity, by sketching at length the history of the "Chase," for we have no right to forestall the public curiosity or im- Many pages are subsequently occupied by dull and pede the sale of the book. We are willing believers in heavy dialogues between the Effinghams—for we canthe romantic power, and like to take our own perusal not call them conversations-a term implying an easy of all new works of fiction, in pretty much the same and unstudied flow of language and natural interchange spirit that actuated the newspaper taker, who would of opinions--but dialogues, in which each party speaks never read a paper that had been handled before him, as if by rote; and we regret to see that here Mr. Coop

er's evil genius shines forth fearfully bitter. Ill na- of segars with Mr. Cooper, that there is no man in ture, a violent and savage hatred of the press, constitute the monomaniac features of Mr. Cooper's mind in certain stages; and we turn, with a feeling of sickness, from the formal abuse of a literary man, uttered against his country, and against the cherished engine of libertythe public, independent and unshackled press.

America, particularly no American editor, who could utter sentiments so perfectly ridiculous, as those attri buted to that unfortunate representative of our calling, brother Dodge! The common laborer of the land knows better, for he can read the Almanac, and knows his right hand from his left; and the educated mechanic of the free schools, would never, unless drunk, utter sentiments so false and foolish; and the more enlightened class are too well informed to commit the egregious errors that Mr. Cooper would maliciously have us believe appertain by virtue of their vocation to American editors. The reader of "Homeward Bound" will not be surprised at the severity of this language, which, if it be severe, is so because it is just, when he will reach that part of the work to which we refer.

Passing from these heavy portions of the work, we approach a graphic and highly finished scene--the search among the crew and emigrant passengers; of the latter a large number were on board-by a police officer, and a lawyer from Liverpool, for a man who had married a girl against the consent of her uncle. The author has managed this scene admirably. We sympathize with the lovers, and enter into the full spirit of free-masonry that actuates the crew to conceal the parties. Every body aboard knows who they are, but A committee, at the ridiculous instigation of editor yet not a finger is raised to point them out to the greedy Dodge, is appointed to inquire into the position assum. ministers of the law. A little boy is asked by the cun-ed by captain Truck, and they retire to deliberate upon ning attorney if he knows" Robert Davis" the bride- the matters entrusted to their charge—and we leave them groom, and the answer of the curly-haired urchin | to their silly office, with feelings of not over warm admirelieves the fear we felt, lest the flying lovers might ration, for that genius, which is forced to resort to means then be handed up to the rapacity of the girl's uncle. But though bribed, the child denies all knowledge, and the little Spartan has our sincere respect for his fortitude.

so outrageous to common sense and common probability, to spin out his pages into a regular two-volumed work, or for a purpose more malignant, to cast ridicule upon his literary brethren of the press. We would quote passages from the work, but that it would occupy too much space in a periodical not wholly of a review character, and deprive the readers of the Messenger of many of those effusions that from time to time ornament its pages, and throw a charm over the literature of the south.

It is at this point that the story commences to correspond with the title, and the regular fabric of the tale opens itself to the reader. The whole history of that long chase grows out of the stubbornness of captain Truck, in refusing to yield to the civil authorities of Great Britain the bride and the groom. There are other causes, that as yet operate darkly to hasten the The ships, for many days, continue their course captain of the packet into a course, that draws along across the Atlantic-the man-of-war, her Britannic mawith it the catastrophe of long sailing, through peril-jesty's ship, the Foam, hovering like an eagle by the ous seas, even to the "far Afric." While captain side of the fleeing packet. In descriptions of the wild Truck is manœuvering so as to balk the pursuit for and grand ocean-the rushing waves—the foam tossthe "lovers twain," a man-of-war's cutter is seen ap-ing itself far over the decks--the tightened cordage, proaching over the waters, and the captain supposing and the extended sails-and all the glorious excitement her to be connected in some way or other with the civil attendant on a ship, we hail Mr. Cooper as the most search, sets his teeth hard, and with Vattel in his left perfect and graphic of masters. No other writer of such hand, and his trumpet in the right, American-like, matters can approach him in the activity that he imputs every energy to work to outdo the "British." parts to these noble pictures. Marryatt is good at the The cutter in vain attempts to overhaul the Montauk, coarse and the ludicrous, but he wants that courage of and returns to the "man-of-war." Then comes the mind, that sublimity of purpose, that bears Mr. Cooper sullen boom of the signal cannon to the ears of the Mon- forth, when the thunder and the lightning are howling tauk people, and her captain begins to suspect that a and flashing in the hurricane and tempest. storm is brewing over the track of his return passage. After consulting with Vattel upon the laws of nations, the gallant Yankee tightens his ropes, and sets his canvass for a swift run, and is off for the new world, catch him who can. It is on such themes as those connected with the excitement of a naval adventure, that our author displays his power. We see at once the relative position of the man-of-war and the Montauk, and we hear the rush of each through the con- | murky, gather above their heads. Suddenly, over the tending billows. Beautiful sight! Two dark and mighty vessels sailing through the far-surging spray, and ploughing in hot haste the eternal and engulphing

ocean.

In the conversations held between the passengers on the propriety of captain Truck's course, in fleeing from pursuit, Mr. Cooper introduces a considerable quantum of political balderdash, and compliments Mr. Dodge with its paternity. Now we are willing to wager a box

Day after day departs, and the captain of the Montauk steers onward without one token of submission, and the Foam follows greedy for its prey. But suddenly the Foam is lost sight of in a storm. We wish that we could here depart from our rule, and quote the account of that gathering tempest. The ship with her white canvass rides upon the sultry sea-blackness mingled with foam beneath, and clouds, thick and

distant seas, is seen the wing of the wind, crushing the high waves-then is heard the ropes rattling like volleys of musketry, and in are all the sails, and with a plunge like a wounded barb, the vessel springs madly forth upon her fearful track. Our mind was filled with tremendous and beautiful images created by this wonderful describer--and when the Foam again is seen, a thrill of horror shook our very heart. Right in the wake of the Montauk, dashing with resistless speed,