presents of the labors of patriotism and genius in singularly various forms of manifestation.' Well-executed portraits of the most distinguished, and discriminating biographical sketches of all, are interspersed with selections from their works. An excellent analytical index, attached to the second volume, greatly enhances the value of the work. Good printing: ditto paper.

THE TWIN-ROSES: A NARRATIVE. BY ANNA CORA RITCHIE: Author of 'An Autobiography of an Actress,' etc. In one volume: pp. 273. Boston: TICKNOR AND FIELDS.

MRS. ANNA CORA RITCHIE has had a benignant and happy fortune, whatever may be said of the 'surprises' which she may have experienced, from the time when, the daughter of a rich and honored merchant; the elegant, refined, and graceful wife of a devoted husband, whose liberal hospitality was only equalled by his means to gratify it; a widow upon a stage which her dramatic personations adorned, and to which her pen has imparted dignity, and for the THEATRE, properly conducted, compelled respect; a most successful authoress; and now the wife of a scion of a 'house,' than which none in the Old Dominion,' since the days of WASHINGTON, has had a wider influence — surely we may say, that Mrs. ANNA CORA RITCHIE'S has been a most benignant and happy fortune. 'At the same time, nevertheless, and also notwithstanding,' it is not our intention to permit this happifying circumstance to prevent our saying a few words, as touching the volume whose title-page heads this notice, late though they be. 'The Twin-Roses,' then, is a story of domestic life, very pleasantly told. The hero, HERMA LANDER, we judge to have been one of that class of actors which we at the same time detest and praise. The roses are twindaughters of an English actress. 'There are love, marriage, sea-voyage, and ship-wreck in the story, together with a visit to Virginia and to WASHINGTON. 'Twin-Roses' is neither a novel nor a romance a play, a poem, or a history. There is enough of reality apparent, to take it off the fairy ground of fiction, enough of dream-life to bring it forth from the hard dry realm of history. It is a narrative: a narrative which leads us through scenes and circumstances, new probably to most of us, but which yet bear about them the garmenture of truth; a narrative dramatically and poetically told, which carries along with it the heart of the reader as well as the mind, and from the perusal of which, both come refreshed and purified: a narrative, in short, with a moral.' Thus speaks, and with discriminative justice, a reviewer in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' magazine: and he farther adds: 'The work undoubtedly has its defects: but nobody can call it dull. A light, dancing, brilliant style, poetical allusions playing through the pages, like little rippling waves in the sun-shine, with, every now and then, a keen and witty, but good-humored stroke at some passing folly; and some beautiful paintings of scenery, amuse and interest us as we go on, without withdrawing the mind from the tale or the characters.' To which we only add: excellently printed upon good paper. But that'of course.' In this regard, the publications of no house in the United States exceed those of Messrs. TICKNOR AND FIELDS.

THE POETICAL WORKS OF LEIGH HUNT. Edited by S. ADAMS LEE. In two Volumes. pp. 498. Boston: TICKNOR AND FIELDS.

We could find it in our heart sincerely to desire, that Mr. S. ADAMS LEE had pretermitted the 'Introduction' to these pretty and (let us add) wellknown productions of LEIGH HUNT. The special truth is, that it was not wanted: another truth is, that it is of 'BOSH,' boshy. Take the following: 'Criticism mistakes its vocation, when it attempts to dictate a formula by which works of art shall be manufactured. It is destructive, not constructive; analytical, not synthetical. Invention belongs altogether to a higher order of intellect, and will not submit to be trammelled by rules invented by the lower. The critic who attempts to dictate laws to the poet is guilty of a gross anachronism. The poet antedates him. Poetry had a vigorous life long before criticism was born. Far back in the dawn of a remote civilization, the poet struck his lyre. HOMER and DANTE, without aid of criticism of any sort, produced their wonderful poems. Contemporaries admired these great works of art, and handed them to their children. So they have reached us, moving in the continuous pomp of one long ovation down the lines of the reverent generations.' Now why did LEIGH HUNT require an introduction, any more than any other poet, whose best things are of course known on both sides of the Atlantic? Do you find BRYANT, or HALLEck, or Longfellow, or any of our best poets, writing prefaces? No: they do n't need it: they are 'endenizened in the national heart:' 'by their works we all know them;' and not by the ‘highfaluting''critical' comments,. by which an ambitious aspiran for literary acumen, may contrive to associate his unknown name with those names of mark, which were not born to die. In this instance, 'SAL.' is signed at the end. If it is a woman, we 'retract and apologize.' There has been too much of this foolery: and for one, we should like to see it 'die out.' We do n't, of course, pretend to compare LEIGH HUNT with either of our own great poets whom we have named: but he has his merits, and ought not to be compromised by a misjudging, although evidently a kindly-disposed friend. HUNT Can 'stand alone, and walk alone.' An American reader will be disposed to think so, at least, after reading his elaborate introductory letter, announcing the fact that he is the son of American parents, although ‘England is his home,' after all; always has been, and always must be. But hear HUNT in one most exquisitely tender and deeply-touching extract from a blank-verse poem, entitled 'Reflections of a Dead Body :'

'SCENE. A female sitting by a bed-side, anxiously looking at the face of her husband, just dead. The soul within the dead body soliloquizes.

'WHAT change is this! What joy! What depth of rest! What suddenness of withdrawal from all pain

Into all bliss? into a balm so perfect

I do not even smile! I tried but now,

With that breath's end, to speak to the dear face

That watches me- - and lo! all in an instant,

Instead of toil, and a weak, weltering tear,

I am all peace, all happiness, all power,

Laid on some throne in space. Great GOD! I am dead.

'(A pause.) Dear GOD! THY love is perfect; THY truth known.

"(Another.) And HE-and they!-How simple and strange! How beautiful! But I may whisper it not even to thought;

Lest strong imagination, hearing it,

Speak, and the world be shattered.

(Soul again pauses.) O balm! O bliss! O saturating smile

Unsmiling! O doubt ended! certainty

Begun! O will, faultless, yet all indulged,

Encouraged to be wilful? to delay

Even its wings for heaven; and thus to rest

Here, here, even here- 'twixt heaven and earth awhile,

A bed in the morn of endless happiness.

'I feel warm drops falling upon my face:

They reach me through the rapture of this cold.

My wife! my love!-'tis for the best thou canst not Know how I know thee weeping, and how fond

A kiss meets thine in these unowning lips.

Ah! truly was my love what thou didst hope it,
And more; and so was thine-I read it all—
And our small feuds were but impatiences

At seeing the dear truth ill understood.

Poor sweet! thou blamest now thyself, and heapest
Memory on memory of imagined wrong,

As I should have done too-as all who love;

And yet I cannot pity thee: so well

I know the end, and how thou 'lt smile hereafter.

'She speaks my name at last, as though she feared

The terrible, familiar sound; and sinks

In sobs upon my bosom. Hold me fast,

Hold me fast, sweet, and from the extreme grow calm--
Me, cruelly unmoved, and yet how loving!

'How wrong I was to quarrel with poor JAMES!
And how dear FRANCIS mistook me! That pride,
How without ground it was! Those arguments,
Which I supposed so final, oh how foolish!
Yet gentlest Death will not permit rebuke,
Even of one's self. They'll know all, as I know,
When they lie thus.

'Colder I grow, and happier.
Warmness and sense are drawing to a point,
Ere they depart; myself quitting myself.
The soul gathers its wings upon the edge
Of the new world, yet how assuredly!
Oh! how in balm I change! actively willed,
Yet passive, quite; and feeling opposites mingle
In exquisitest peace! -Those fleshy clothes,
Which late I thought myself, lie more and more
Apart from this warm, sweet, retreating me,
Who am as a hand, withdrawing from a glove.

'So lay my mother: so my father; so
My children; yet I pitied them. I wept,
And fancied them in graves, and called them 'poor!

O graves! O tears! O knowledge, will, and time,
And fear, and hope! what petty terms of earth
Were ye! yet how I love ye as of earth,

The planet's household words; and how postpone,
Till out of these dear arms, th' immeasurable

Tongue of the all-possessing smile eternal!

Ah! not excluding these, nor aught that's past,
Nor aught that's present, nor that's yet to come,
Well waited for. I would not stir a finger
Out of this rest, to reassure all anguish;
Such warrant hath it; such divine conjuncture;
Such a charm binds it with the needs of bliss.

'That was my eldest boy's-that kiss. And that The baby with its little unweening mouth;

And those-and those

Dear hearts! they have all come,

And think me dead- me, who so know I'm living,

The vitalest creature in this fleshy room.

I part; and with my spirit's eyes full opened,

Will look upon them.

[Spirit parts from the body, and breathes upon their eyes.
'Patient be those tears,

Fresh heart-dews, standing on these dear clay-moulds

Of souls made of myself-made of us both

In the half-heavenly time. I quit ye but

To meet again, and will revisit soon

In many a dream, and many a gentle sigh.'

If any one can read that for the first time without tears, they have few feelings in common with us. These volumes (they are from the Boston house of TICKNOR AND FIELDS, be it remembered) are of course beautifully printed. A well-engraved portrait of the author fronts the title-page of the first volume. He 'is n't any great things to look at:' 'pears as if he was 'spooney.'

HISTORY OF THE REPUBLIC OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, as Traced in the Writings of ALEXANDER HAMILTON, and of his Contemporaries. Volume the First: pp. 578. New-York: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

It is impossible not to honor the filial affection and reverence which unquestionably prompted this work. It is the result of the unwearied research, the earnest labor of a son, at a late period of our country's history, to render homage to one who did so much to promote its early honor and glory. And thus far, all would have been right: but we cannot avoid saying, after a more than usually careful perusal of the book, that it must be considered as claiming for a subordinate, in many instances, the honor due to his superior, in executive station, and in the administration of great public affairs. There is nothing in the work, be it understood, to imply that ALEXANDER HAMILTON ever claimed credit for any thing which he did not do. In the 'times that tried men's souls;' in a season of prostrate commerce and ruined credit, he was WASHINGTON's right bower, and so continued to the end of his suddenly-limited and brilliant career. But HAMILTON, in writing many, nay, most of the papers of General WASHINGTON, must not be held, nor 'held up' to be, by express statement, or adroit implication, as the author of those papers. When the PATRIA PATRIA's brow was throbbing with the cares of an infant empire; when here was sectional mutiny, there sore private want; here national disaffection, there scant supplies for the public service; and almost every where envious general officers, jealous of each other, while they were mutually watchful of WASHINGTON; under these circumstances it was, that WASHINGTON dictated his letters and dispatches. That the merit of rendering them, as no other man could render them, at that day, was due to that embodiment of pure intellect, ALEXANDER HAMILTON, there is probably not at this moment, a particle of doubt, in any intelligent mind. HAMILTON was a noble 'accessory after the fact:' often, perhaps, in the eye of the enemy, at least, an accom

We worked

plice,' and a dangerous one too; and so, no doubt, he often was. unitedly together in those days for the 'greatest good of the greatest number.' The 'greatest good' was our LIBERTY; yet our 'greatest number' was but small at that period. From an able and evidently candid review of the volume under notice, in the columns of the 'Evening Post' daily journal, we take the subjoined paragraphs:

'THE political distinctions which originated during WASHINGTON's administration, and which for years made our early statesmen the objects of partisan idolatry or aversion, have become confounded, and out of the confusion new ones are arising. For the first time, a degree of impartiality in looking upon the American Revolution and its heroes, and a fair distribution of the laurels, is beginning to be possible. The painful circumstances of HAMILTON's death have done much to win for him the considerate judgment of his contemporaries and posterity. The natural law which makes men tend to extremes of opinion, may have led the public to exaggerate his virtues in the same degree that it exaggerates the vices of BURR. Mr. JOHN C. HAMILTON is preparing a History of the Republic of the United States, founded upon the writings of ALEXANDER HAMILTON and his contemporaries. The first volume of the five which are to compose it has recently been issued from the press. The author, a son of ALEXANDER HAMILTON, has adopted the opinion that WASHINGTON was not really the father of the American Republic, but that the glory of that name belongs to HAMILTON. In composing this work, he will make use not only of the abundant materials furnished by the works of HAMILTON already published, but of numerous autograph letters and other documents which have lately come into his possession. In the archives of the government, recently opened to him by authority of the Library Committee of Congress, was found much valuable matter hitherto unused. Beside a thousand letters written by HAMILTON in behalf of WASHINGTON when a member of his staff, many have been traced in private collections, all of which relate to the events of our Revolutionary period.

'When seventeen years old, and a student in Columbia College, HAMILTON's connection with public affairs began; it was on the occasion of the great meeting in the fields near New-York, held on the sixth of July, 1774. Induced to address the assembly by the urgent solicitations of friends who appreciated the justness of his views on the subject of British_oppression, he acquitted himself in a manner to win its admiration and applause. HAMILTON was among the first to conceive the idea of American independence. In a letter written at the age of eighteen, two months before the battle of Lexington, his style warms with the contemplation of the destiny which independence would open to the colonies. Foreseeing the results to which events were tending, HAMILTON applied himself with assiduity to the science of war, and made so much proficiency in it, that in his twentieth year he was commissioned as captain of a provincial company of artillery. After the battles of Trenton and Princeton he received an appointment as aid to WASHINGTON, with the duties of private secretary attached. In this capacity he became acquainted with all the secrets of the Revolution, and performed a conspicuous part in its most important events. Most of WASHINGTON's letters during the period of HAMILTON's service are in the hand-writing of the latter. His responsibility for their contents, however, does not appear to have been greater than that of an ordinary private secretary. Therefore the prominence given to his name in a narrative of events wherein his part does not appear to have been conspicuous, savors, we think, too much of special pleading to be in perfect taste. Whatever judgment may finally be passed upon the question raised by Mr. JOHN C. HAMILTON, as to the extent of his father's claim to the gratitude of posterity, the result of the present publication will be to bring before the people many documents of great and permanent historical value.'

It has been urged, we have remarked, against this book, that it is not so much a ‘History,' as it is a species of 'Memoirs' of the period of which it treats. So much the better for the reader: the materials are copious and authentic, and familiarize the reader with the men and events of the time, as much, perhaps more, than if they moved on in didactic historical harness. good portrait of HAMILTON, from a bust; clear maps; an excellent autographic fac-simple of a long and interesting letter from the illustrious subject of the work; and its good typography and paper, are the only remaining features to be noted.

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