LITERARY NOTICES.

FOLCHETTO MALASPINA, an Historical Romance, translated from the Italian by DANIEL J. DESMOND, Esquire. Philadelphia: KEY AND BIDDLE. In two Volumes, 12mo. pp. 500.

We cannot boast ourselves insensible nor superior to first impressions. They sometimes prepossess us in despite of all the subsequent light and knowledge in the universe: yet the most we can possibly promise, is, to avoid, so far as in us lies, being prepossessed. Prevention is, now and then, possible; but cure is always hopeless. In the present instance, however, our caution was unavailing. What we have seldom seen in our lives in the same situation, we saw on the title-page of this book— Esquire, in its entire dignity of seven Roman capitals-and we have not yet recovered from it! We do not mean to say that an error in taste is a vital error; but there is such an awful smack of display in those congregated capitals, that we are struck at once with the belief that the writer has been bitten by a coxcomb.

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The preface confirmed that belief. It contains the everlasting apology of 'haste' which once-we are proud to say once,' for the (once) honor of human nature was confined to letters from school; but which now is the stereotyped protest of every scribbler who wishes to anticipate unfavorable opinions. We have but one response for this excuse: Why then did you not write at leisure? for, you may rely on it, your apology, even if believed, will avail nothing.' This, however, is not all of the preface. By no means. It contains a description of what a translation should be, to be perfect: it informs what qualities are requisite in a perfect translator: explains why Smollet's translation of Don Quixote is a failure and concludes with a hope that this translation of a work, in itself a masterpiece, may not conceal or diminish, but may develope and heighten, the beauties of the original.' To give this preface in a still more concise form,-although Don Quixote lost by the translation, Folchetto Malaspina has (the translator modestly hopes') gained by the same process.

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We do not intend to go into a critical review of the merits of this book as a romance, for we do not think it worth the trouble :-and even if we could discern as much intrinsic excellence in it as the translator himself, we should be compelled to say that the gew-gaw English in which it is now decorated, places it beyond the possibility of a welcome from American readers. For our part, (and we have no reason to doubt that the sentiment is common to our countrymen,) we are somewhat fastidious about good grammar and good English; and when we take up a book which is (not in isolated passages, but) uniformly deficient in these two points, we cannot read with interest, nor applaud with candour, be the organic merits what they may. Now, so far from speaking well or thinking well of this essay of Mr. Desmond, we deliberately express our astonishment that a man, possessing even so much of literature as a

knowledge of Italian, could write-that publishers of any reputation could print-five hundred pages of such insufferable (English) trash as this same Folchetto Malaspina. We repeat, that we place the merits of the original work out of the question. We deal only (and briefly) with the translation, as such: aud we do this, not because it intrinsically deserves any notice, but because, being a translation, it is, as far as that goes, a portion of American literature, upon which, as Editors, we are bound to pass an opinion. No one who has read the book will say that this opinion is unjust and that no one else may say so, we will give a single specimen of the work :

The features of the face and the form of that young lady did not belie the inclinations just mentioned. Her stature was of proper height: her limbs appeared perfectly developed, robust and somewhat fat. The color of her face was more inclined to brown than fair; her hair was dark and shining, and so were her eyebrows, which shaded two large, lively, and black eyes, which were like a drop of ink upon which a ray of the sun slid. But the greatest charm of her face came from the inexpressible beauty of her forehead, whose graduated convexity spread the idea of perfection upon the remainder of her physiognomy, which it would be difficult to depict with words. Such was Leonilla,' etc. VOL. II., P. 7.

We assure our readers that this extract is taken entirely at random. If we had spared the time to mark them, we could recur to a hundred ten times more execrable. But we ask, seriously, if a man capable of putting together such a paragraph as this, can, by possibility, write tolerable English? No excuse can be offered on the score of translation; for the preface says, The translator should infuse into his work the spirit, the expression, the passion, and the character of the original, and present them in the pure idiom of his native language.'

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But we are wasting time and space on a very insignificant subject, and will conclude this notice with a few remarks on the dedication. Folchetto Malaspina is dedicated by permission to J. Fenimore Cooper! We do not know precisely how far a man takes the responsibility' when he stands god-father to a literary bantling. We leave that question to be settled between Mr. Cooper and the public. But we will give a hint of caution to Mr. Desmond, and say to him, that in this republican country, the aristocratic fashion of seeking dedicatory patronage is not yet in vogue; and if it ever comes in vogue, he will do well to rest his hopes of success on something besides the name of his patron. The true sense of the people will, we trust, always discriminate between sound and sense; and they will never extend their countenance to a work which has nothing to recommend it but good paper, good type, and an adulatory and bombastic dedication.

NOUVELLETTES OF A TRAVELLER; or, Odds and Ends from the Knapsack of Thomas Singularity, Journeyman-printer. Edited by HENRY JUNIUS NOTT. Two vols. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

We have been favored with a perusal of the first and a part of the second volume of the Nouvellettes of Mr. Singularity, as they were passing through the press, and must admit, that either himself, or what is not

impossible, his Editor, has succeeded in producing a work of much originality and interest. There is a charming air of hearty, straight-forward independence, in the style which will attract general regard. The writer is no imitator. He is a disciple of no particular school: yet the better characteristics of many will sometimes meet the eye of the reader, amidst pages strictly sui generis, although, in their vein, truly excellent. Mr. Singularity has a vivid conception of the burlesque, and a most happy method of pourtraying it. There are incidents of broad humor in his Biography, which forms a large half of the first volume-that show a mingling of the rough but graphic colors of Fielding and Smollet, with the easy pencillings of Irving. The sketches of character are natural; and the mind of the reader, as he journeys along with the author, embraces the scenes and personages described-sometimes, it may be, with a tincture of caricature-with a pleasing distinctness. There are dishes for all at Mr. Singularity's board, and he who rises without relishing any, must be a dainty banqueter. We have spoken of the general ease of style which marks these volumes; but we may be pardoned for pointing out one or two exceptions, wherein much too many words are employed to express a simple idea. Thus, on page 9, Mrs. Hunt's jealousy is described as the work of the 'monster whom poets pourtray as green-eyed, which communicated a beryl tinge to her cat-like visual ray, that rapidly assumed the hue of the emerald.' On the 19th page we hear of an unfortunate individual who was kicked, or in other words, who had the feet of another applied to his central posterior muscular development, which produced a kind of black and blue offuscation, technically called ecchymosis.' Where there is so much to admire as in the volumes before us, such forced evasions-however rare-of common and perspicuous expression, become palpable. We recommend the contents of Mr. Singularity's Knapsack to our readers, with a belief that all who partake of them, will welcome a second visit of the mental pedlar with a feeling of cordial pleasure.

SKETCHES OF SOCIETY IN GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND. By C. S. STEWART, M. A., of the United States' Navy. Two vols. pp. 527. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.

THESE Sketches are such as might be expected from the author of A Visit to the South Seas,' and they are destined to be received with similar favor by the public, and to attain a like continuance of popularity. They embrace a series of letters, written to a distinguished lady of New Jersey; during a prolonged visit to Great Britain and Ireland, in the year 1832. We have seldom perused a work with so pleasant an interest. The contents are varied and racy-epistolatory transcripts of the author's mind-published just as written, without revision, and with all the gloss and freshness of first, original impressions about them. The work is full of living pictures. It commences with the arrival of the author at Liverpool; gives a description of his journey to, and stay in London, and of his subsequent tour through England, Scotland, and Ireland. He

has travelled with an eye open to the beauties of nature, and with the disposition and ability to record acute observation of country, men, and manners, in a candid and liberal spirit. The interest of the reader is not permitted to flag for a moment. We regret that want of space in this department prevents us from selecting but few of the many extracts which we had pencilled for insertion.

The subjoined description of Kenilworth Castle will interest every reader who has been charmed with Scott's thrilling novel of that name :

"The enclosure of a few acres, by which the ruin is guarded from wanton trespass and depredation, is separated from the road by a wall, through which a keeper admits, by a small gate, the visitors who now, in greater or less numbers, are daily attracted to the place. Before our carriage could draw up at this entrance, we were surrounded by a troop of little girls from the neighboring cottages, each so eager to anticipate her fellows in the sale of a book of description, that I had several thrust into my hands before the chaise door could be opened; and from whose importunity to dispose of a second copy, after one had been purchased, we were freed only by the shutting of the keeper's gate, after we had passed through. The noise with which this closed again upon the wall, started hundreds of rooks from every part of the ivy-clustered pile before us, who, hovering around, with loud cawings, proclaimed, in no uncertain language, that the only inhabitants of that which once was among the stateliest of palaces, were now flocks of unclean birds. Trifling as this incident may appear, it gave a tone to every feeling with which I afterwards contemplated the scene; and became the inlet to musings which will long remain associated with a recollection of the hour. "The morning was bright and lovely; and only the moment before, I had been in an exuberance of fine spirits; but now, an irresistible thoughtfulness came over me, and I was at once spiritless and sad. A thousand imaginations rushed upon my mind; and as I gazed around, I became lost in interrogatives connected with the present and with the past. Before us was the scene of one of the most magnificent and costly pageants ever witnessed in the kingdom, and the princely castle of one honored beyond precedent, with the confidence and favors of the throne. But where was the elysian imagery of land and water that was once spread around? Where the noble park, with its antlered herds? Where the mirrored lake, and its Triton and Arion, in the midst of sportive mermaids and dolphins ? Where the groups of gods and goddesses, pouring their richest gifts at the feet of royalty? Where the chivalrous display of the tournament and tiltyard-the clangour of the joyous trumpet, and the strains of enrapturing music, swelling on the breeze? Where the gay and festive throng-the courteous host and favourite-and where the stately queen? All gone-and gone forever, without leaving a trace behind!

"The wide-spread hunting-grounds are traversed now only by the ploughboy and the reaper. Where was once the lake, is a widely tufted meadow; and the castle itself, from whose gilded turrets the banner of England then so proudly gleamed, is a crumbling mass of ruin, amidst which, even the outlines of the banquetting hall, then filled with all the wit, beauty, and splendor of the court, can scarce be traced; and where, in place of the music and revelry, is now only heard the uncouth noise of rooks and ravens, and the movements of the reptiles of the earth!... The grand entrance, built by the Earl of Leicester, is still entire. It was never connected with the castle, but was attached to the wall by which it was surrounded, and consists of four towers, with a lofty arched gateway between them. The arch has been walled up, and the whole is now transformed into a dwelling for the keeper and his family. It contains some curious specimens of old work, in wood, from the castle; and the leads on the top of the tower command extensive views of the surrounding country. The castle itself occupies the summit of a gently swelling knoll, some rods distant. It was originally a quadrangle, enclosing a large court or area; but a small portion of it only is standing-showing here and there a massive tower, a pointed arch, and remains of the beautiful

bow windows, which formed so ornamental a part of the architecture of the age in which the more modern parts of the structure were erected."

The following describes the author's approach to Edinburgh, and the splendid scenery which, near and afar, environs that city:

"The evening was uncommonly fine, with an atmosphere more transparentmore like that characterizing a summer's day in the United States-than we have often observed in our travels. This, no doubt, added to the effect of the first impression made by Edinburgh and its surrounding scenery. The whole is magnificent. The Pentland hills rise majestically on your left, in an approach from the South. They bear, in the general effect of height and distance in this position, a strong resemblance to the Catskill Mountains, as seen from the waters of the Hudson; while at a much greater remove immediately in front beyond the city, and long before coming in view of it, hill after hill, and range upon range, roll far inland, till they stand only in blue mistiness against the sky.

"When still thirteen miles from the town, Salisbury Crags and Arthur's Seat, two bold cliff-like hills, immediately east of it, the latter over-topping the former, came fully in sight; and shortly afterwards, the Castle-rock, rising from the midst of the city, like an island from the Sea; while the Frith of Forth, with its islands, was at the same time seen stretching far towards the German Ocean, on the right. The whole imagery in view was splendid; and we truly delighted. The sun had just gone down behind the blue hills in the west, and the whole sky in that direction was in one golden blaze. A single mass of graceful clouds, of the richest crimson, alone hung midway between the glowing horizon and the blueness of the zenith; having the effect of so much drapery of the same gorgeous hue, arranged in tastefulness and beauty over the lovely and imposing picture below."

If it were necessary, we should commend these volumes to the perusal of our readers; but to do so, would be to suppose them incapable of appreciating attractive subject and style, and ignorant of the deservedly high reputation gained by the author, in the excellent volumes heretofore given to the public.

INITIA LATINA, or the Rudiments of the Latin Tongue, illustrated by Progressive Exercises. By CHAS. H. LYON, one of the Classical Instructors in the Grammar School of Columbia College. New-York: HARPER and Brothers.

It is unfortunate that Grammar has generally been made a science of words in more senses than the legitimate one. The manner in which it has been written, taught and talked of, presents a glaring example of the quackery of education. Wrapped in cabalistic phrase, it has too often been made to assume a sort of mystic importance, and doled forth with solemn air only by the initiated. Now, all that is mystical-whatever is assumed to be technically peculiar-touching any branch of instruction, is justly considered as so much quackery. General education is the process of teaching common minds common things by common The common sense teacher scouts all peculiar systems and hidden methods. He inquires what is the natural process by which the mind acquires knowledge. This point settled, he shapes his course accordingly making himself, in the mean time, as much as possible a man of the world: keeping constantly in mind how little he knows and how little he can know: thus avoiding dogmatism, a very prominent obstacle to facility in imparting instruction. Above all, he will never

means.