PASSAGES IN FOREIGN TRAVEL. BY ISAAC_APPLETON JEWETT. In two volumes. pp. 688. Boston: CHARLES C. LITTLE AND JAMES BROWN.

MR. JEWETT is an acute observer, and a faithful transcriber of clear impressions. Hence he has given us two just such volumes as a tasteful reviewer, sadly cramped for space, must needs condemn, in one sense, at least; for what avail dogs' ears, indicating a picturesque paragraph here, a lively page there, and a felicitous sentence in another place, when after all, the gratification of their perusal must be confined to one's self? Such is our case; and we are left but the alternative of commending the reader to the fountain-head. Would you bring before you London, with its sights and sounds; the scenery, people, and manners of England and Scotland; the French metropolis, with its press, its arts, its balls, festivals, theatres, dancers, singers; its statesmen, authors, poets; would you see these, read Mr. JEWETT's volumes; and it shall come to pass, that you shall behold them, even as did the writer. Thenceforward, moreover, you will be glad to accompany the author to Italy, and wander over Rome, Naples, Venice, Florence, with him, and among the mountains of Switzerland. Such 'passages of travel' as these may save you the nausea marina, and other expenses of the Atlantic passage; yet shall you be an accomplished traveller. And this result arises from a gift of travel-writing as rare as in the present instance it is preeminent.

CHARCOAL SKETCHES: OR SCENES IN A METROPOLIS. By JOSEPH C. NEAL. With Illustrations by DAVID C. JOHNSTON. In one volume. pp. 222. Philadelphia:

E. L. CAREY AND A. HART. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

MR. NEAL deserves the hearty thanks of every lover of genuine humor, for the laughter-moving volume which he has so timely put forth. He is a public benefactor, and should be so considered, and as such rewarded, who contributes toward allaying and ventillating the feverish and irritated feelings of the heavy-hearted, in times like these, when every third face one meets is 'awfully sour and persimmony,' by reason of 'the pressure.' 'Human life,' says Sir William Temple, 'even at the greatest and the best, is but a froward child, that must be played with, and humored a little, to keep it quiet.' He who amuses the troubled, or diverts unpleasant thoughts, then, is surely a literary Howard; and all honor should be his, therefor. Our author has gone out into the by-ways and thoroughfares of the metropolis, and from among the greasy multitude selected rare specimens of that numerous class of wights who hang loose, like rags, upon the back of society, and has made them 'heroes in history.' There is a completeness in his sketches, the result oftentimes of a few adroit touches with his charcoal, which is worthy of especial praise. He sacrifices nothing of nature to an overweening desire to startle or to shine. There are no premeditated impromptus interpolated into the dialogues of his speakers; but they talk just as such personages should,' situated as they are.' Some of his illustrations are certainly odd enough, but then they are always lucid; and his perception of the lights and shades of character, in low life, are of the very nicest. In short, as a writer, he is what MOUNT is as a painter-Hogarthian to a degree. There is much excellent philosophy, moreover, in the volume, which steals upon the reader when he least expects to encounter it, and after the most oblique fashion. We proceed to instance some of the felicitous touches' to which we have alluded, in a few random extracts. The first is the soliloquy of a tall specimen of liquefied humanity, about to promenade a slippery street, all unlighted, because there was a moon which the corporation knew should have shone; but, being very cloudy, pedestrians were under the necessity of supposing the moonshine:

"I've not the slightest doubt that this is as beautiful a night as ever was; only it's so dark you can't see the pattern of it. One night is pretty much like another night in the dark; but it's a great advantage to a good looking evening, if the lamps are lit, so you can twig the stars and the moonshine. The fact is, that in this 'ere city, we do grow the blackest moons, and the hardest moons to find, I ever did see. Sometimes I'm most disposed to send the bellman after 'em or 48

VOL. XI.

get a full-blooded pinter to pint 'em out, while I hold a candle to see which way he pints. It would'nt be a bad notion on sich occasions to ask the man in the steeple to ring which way the moon is. Lamps is lamps, and moons is moons, in a business pint of view, but practically they ain't much, if the wicks ain't afire. When the luminaries are, as I may say, in the raw, it's bad for me. I can't see the ground as perforately as little fellers, and every dark night I'm sure to get a hyst- either a forred hyst, or a backered hyst, or some other sort of a hyst- but more backerds than forrerds, 'specially in winter. One of the most unfeeling tricks I know of, is the way some folks have got of laughing out, yaw-haw! when they see a gentleman ketching a riggler byst- a long gentleman, for instance, with his legs in the air, and his noddle splat down upon the cold bricks. A hyst of itself is bad enough, without being suiggered at; first, your sconce gets a crack; then, you see all sorts of stars, and have free admission to the fire-works; then, you scramble up, feeling as if you had no head on your shoulders, and as if it wasn't you, but some confounded disagreeable feller in your clothes; yet the jacksnipes all grin, as if the misfortunes of human nature was only a puppet show. I would n't mind it, if you could get up and look as if you did n't care. But a man can't rise, after a royal hyst, without letting on he feels flat. In such cases, however, sympathy is all gammon; and as for sensibility of a winter's day, people keep it all for their own noses, and can't be coaxed to retail it by the small.'"

Some idea of the nature of his 'hysts,' may be gathered from an incidental description of his extraordinary procerity:

"I can't borrow coats, because I do n't like cuffs at the elbows. I can't borrow pants, because it is n't the fashion to wear knee-breeches, and all my stockings is socks. I can't hide when any body owes me a lambasting. You can see me a mile. When I sit by the fire, I can't get near enough to warm my body, without burning my knees; and in a stage-coach, there's no room between the benches, and the way you get the cramp-don't mention it!'"

Here is another picture, which we ask each one of our readers fully to embody, and then say if it be not perfect. It is the portraiture of Mr. Duberly Doubtington:

"His eyebrows form an uncertain arch, rising nearly an inch above the right line of determination, and the button of his nose is so large and blunt as to lend any thing but a penetrating look to his countenance. His under lip droops as if afraid to clench resolutely with its antagonist; and his whiskers hang dejectedly down, instead of bristling like a chevaux de frise toward the outward angle of the eye. The hands of Mr. Doubtington always repose in his pockets, unwilling to trust to their own means of support, and he invariably leans his back against the nearest sustaining object. When he walks, his feet shuffle here and there so dubiously that one may swear they have no specific orders where to go; and so indefinite are the motions of his body, that even the tails of his coat have no characteristic swing. They look, not like Mr. Doubtington's coattails, but like coat-tails in the abstract- undecided coat-tails, that have not yet got the hang of any body's back, and have acquired no more individuality than those which dangle at the shop. doors in Water-street."

As elections are always pending, somewhere in the republic, a reference to 'Peter Brush,' and his advice touching 'politicianers,' may not be amiss. He is one who 'loves his country and wants an office; he don't care what, so it's fat and easy.' He has been in many a busy skirmish, and has often assisted to blow the bellows of party, till the whole furnace of politics was alive with sparks and cinders; but it has availed his personal interests little, for we find him on the side-walk, 'a little elevated,' presenting a dirty 'circular recommend' to a by-stander for his signature, 'for a fat post, either under the city government, the state government, or the gineral government.' 'Now, jist put your fist to it,' says he, in most persuasive tones, as he smoothed the paper over his knee, spread it upon the step, and produced a bit of lead pencil, which he first moistened with his lips, and then offered to his interlocutor.' He adds:

"I've a genus for governing - for telling people what to do, and looking at 'em do it. I want to take care of my country, and I want my country to take care of me. Head work is the trade I'm made for talking-that's my line-talking in the streets, talking in the bar-rooms, talking in the oyster cellars. Talking is the grease for the wagon wheels of the body politic and the body corpulent, and nothing will go ou well till I've got my say in the matter; for I can talk all day, and most of the night, only stopping to wet my whistle. But parties is all alike all ungrateful; no respect for genus- no respect for me. I've tried both sides, got nothing, and I've a great tind to knock off, and call it half a day.'"

'Dilly Jones' is a capital sketch. He has been successively driven from the employments of oyster-vending, 'peprce-pot'-soup peddling, though his 'cats was as fresh as any cats in the market;' from the bean-soup line, because his customers said, 'kittens was n't good done that way;' and, lastly, from wood-sawing, by the general consumption of coal. Time had changed every thing, and all occupations were carried on by labor-saving machinery. After declaring his intention of listing for a watchman, or turning city pig-catcher, a second thought strikes him:

"But what's the use? If I was listed, they 'd soon find out to holler the hour, and to ketch the thieves by steam; yes, and they 'd take 'em to court on a rail-road, and try 'em with biling water. They'll soon have black locomotives for watchmen and constables, and big bilers for judges and mayors. Pigs will be ketched by steam, and will be biled fit to cat before they are done squealing.

By-and-by, folks won't be of no use at all. There won't be no people in the world but tea-kettles; no mouths, but safety valves; and no talking, but blowing off steam. If I had a little biler inside of me, I'd turn omnibus, and week-days I'd run from Kensington to the Navy Yard, and Sundays I'd run to Fairmount.'"

We have quoted but from a small portion of the volume, which abounds in similar etchings, interspersed with choice fragments of philosophy, and gems of humor. The illustrations, by JOHNSTON, are exceedingly clever. He has embodied the conceptions of the author with truth and spirit.

THE GIRL'S READING BOOK IN PROSE AND POETRY. For Schools. By Mrs. L. H. SIGOURNEY. In one volume. pp. 243. New-York: J. ORVILLE TAYLOR, 'American Common School Union.'

MOST gladly do we welcome this teeming little volume, and as cordially commend it to the attention and affections of parents and children, teachers, and pupils, wherever these pages are read. Our readers are not unacquainted with Mrs. SIGOURNEY'S masculine intellect, and her high gifts as a writer, both in poetry and prose. They will therefore know how to estimate the work before us, when we tell them, that as a whole, it has never been excelled by any thing from its author's pen, in the purity of its moral lessons, and the grace and simplicity of its style. Higher praise we could scarcely award it. A single extract from 'Early Recollections,' depicting, as with a pencil of light, the evils of intemperance and war, must limit our examples of the contents of this charming book:

"I saw a man with a fiery and a bloated face. He was built strongly, like the oak among trees. Yet his steps were weak and unsteady as those of the tottering babe. He fell heavily, and lay as one dead. I marvelled that no hand was stretched out to raise him up.

"I saw an open grave. A widow stood near it, with her little ones. They looked downcast and sad at heart. Yet methought, it was famine and misery, more than sorrow for the dead, which had set on them such a yellow and shrivelled seal.

"I said, What can have made the parents not pity their children when they hungered, nor call them home when they were in wickedness? What made the friends forget their early love? and the strong man fall down senseless? and the young die before his time? I heard a voice say 'Intemperance! And there is mourning in the land, because of this.'

"So I returned to my home, sorrowing. And had God given me a brother or a sister, I would have thrown my arms around their neck, and entreated, 'Touch not your lips to the poison cup, and let us drink the pure water, which God has blessed, all the days of our lives.'

"Again I went forth. I met a beautiful boy weeping, and I asked him why he wept. He answered, 'Because my father went to the wars and is slain, he will return no more.' I saw a mournful woman. The sun shone upon her dwelling. The honeysuckle climbed to its windows, and sent in its sweet blossoms to do their loving message. But she was a widow. Her husband had fallen in battle. There was joy for her no more.

"I saw a hoary man, sitting by the wayside. Grief had made furrows upon his forehead, and his garments were thin and tattered. Yet he asked not for charity. And when I besought him to tell me why his heart was heavy, he replied faintly, 'I had a son, an only oue. From his cradle, I toiled, that he might have food and clothing, and be taught wisdom.

He grew up to bless me. So all my labor and weariness were forgotten. When he became a man, I knew no want; for he cherished me, as I had cherished him. Yet he left me to be a soldier. He was slaughtered in the field of battle. Therefore, mine eye ruuneth down with water, because the comforter that should relieve my soul, returns no more.'

"I said, "Show me, I pray thee, a field of battle, that I may know what war means.' But he answered, Thou art not able to bear the sight.' 'Tell me, then,' I entreated, what thou hast seen, when the battle was done.'

"I came,' he said, at the close of day, when the cannon ceased their thunder, and the victor and vanquished had withdrawn. The rising moon looked down on the pale faces of the dead. Scattered over the broad plain, were many who still struggled with the pangs of death.

"They stretched out the shattered limb, yet there was no healing hand. They strove to raise their heads, but sank deeper in the blood which flowed from their own bosoms. They begged in God's name that we would put them out of their misery, and their piercing shrieks entered into my soul.

Here and there, horses mad with pain, rolled and plunged, mangling with their hoofs the dying, or defacing the dead. And I remembered the mourning for those who lay thereof the parents who had reared them, of the young children who used to sit at home upou their knee.'

"Then I said, tell me no more of battle or of war, for my heart is sad.' The silver-haired man raised his eyes upward, and I kneeled down by his side.

"And he prayed, 'Lord, keep this child from anger, and hatred, and ambition, which are the seeds of war. Grant to all that own the name of Jesus, hearts of peace, that they may shun every deed of strife, and dwell at last in the country of peace, even in heaven.'"

The poetry of the volume is in all respects equal to the prose, of which the above is but an average specimen.

EDITORS' TABLE.

SIR WALTER SCOTT AND Mr. COOPER.-The following communications, placed in our hands by the author of the 'Pilot,' the 'Spy,' etc., will speak for themselves. We submit them to our readers without comment, farther than to ask attention to the collateral theme of international copy-right, embraced in the letter of Mr. COOPER, and the memorial of the AUTHOR OF WAVERLY, appealing 'to the liberality, perhaps in some sort to the justice,' of the American people. It gives us pleasure to see the arguments so often advanced in this Magazine, thus ably brought forward and sustained.

TO THE EDITORS OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

GENTLEMEN: The diary of SIR WALTER SCOTT, as given by Mr. Lockhart, contains the following allusions to myself:

• November 3, (1826.)-Visited Princess Galitzin, and also Cooper, the American novelist. This man, who has shown so much genius, has a good deal of the manners, or want of manners, peculiar to his countrymen. He proposed to me a mode of publishing in America, by entering the book as the property of a citizen. I will think of this. 'Every little helps, as the tod says, when,' etc. 'November 6.-Cooper came to breakfast, but we were obsedes partout. Such a number of Frenchmen bounced in successively, and exploded (I mean discharged) their compliments, that I could hardly find an opportunity to speak a word, or entertain Mr. Cooper at all.'

In the evening to Princess Galitzin, where were a whole covey of Princesses of Russia, arrayed in tartan, with music and singing to boot. The person in whom I was most interested, was Mad. de Boufflers, upward of eighty, very polite, very pleasant, and with all the acquirements of a French court lady, of the time of Mad. Sevigué, or of the correspondent rather of Horace Walpole. Cooper was there; so the Scotch and American lions took the field together. Home, and settled our affairs to depart.'

The foregoing extracts are the only instances in which I am honored by the notice of Sir Walter Scott, so far as appears by the published diary, during his visit to Paris, in 1826. As I have given the world reason to suppose that my relations with Sir Walter Scott, at that time, were of a nature very different from what this diary will sustain, I feel it due to myself and to the truth, to lay the whole matter more plainly before the public.

On the subject of manners, I have very little to say. Sir Walter Scott struck me as having national peculiarities of this sort, and it is not surprising that the feeling should be reciprocal. The manners of most Europeans strike us as exaggerated, while we appear cold to them. Sir Walter Scott was certainly so obliging as to say many flattering things to me, which I, as certainly, did not return in kind. As Johnson said of his interview with George the Third, it was not for me to bandy compliments with my sovereign. At that time, the diary was a sealed boo kto the world, and I did not know the importance he attached to such civilities. But it may be that the allusion to myself, in this diary, refers to a fact which will be found in the following statement. When it was known that Sir Walter Scott had reached Paris, I wrote a letter to him, containing a proposition for publishing in America, by which I thought he might be benefitted, in the unfortunate situation in which he was understood to be then placed. As his incognito, though but flimsily preserved, had not been formally laid aside, at that time, and as he makes a very similar comment on American manners, in connexion with a supposed invasion of his privacy by a lady of this country, I am led to believe

that he thought my letter obtrusive, at the moment he made the entry in his diary. Of that letter I possess no copy. It was written, to the best of my recollection, plainly, simply, and with the feelings I then possessed; and I would cheerfully publish it, were it in my power. I purposely abstained from calling in person, in order that Sir Walter Scott, if he saw fit, might refer me to the publisher of the novels, or in any other manner evade the necessity of betraying himself. I confess I did not expect he would take any such course, the failure of Constable having rendered farther concealment next to impossible; nor was I disappointed. Sir Walter Scott visited me, opened the subject of the letter naturally, spoke of his works freely, and otherwise manifested any feeling but that of dissatisfaction at the liberty I had taken. The day but one after this visit, I breakfasted with him, on his own invitation, with a view to arrange our plan of operations; the day succeeding that, he was with me again, for an hour, when he handed me the letter which accompanies this statement, and we parted as friends. That evening I saw him for the last time in Paris, at the Princess Galitzin's, as mentioned in the diary. Sir Walter Scott did not accept my proposition, but substituted a plan of his own. By this plan, he was to address a letter to me, in the character of the Author of Waverly, which was to contain an appeal to the American nation. For the authenticity of this appeal, I was to vouch, and I was to support it in the best manner I could. In order that the reader may better understand the whole matter, however, I give publicity to the following letters.

GENTLEMEN :

Mansion House, Philadelphia, March 9th, 1838.

SOME time in November, 1826, I wrote a letter to you, from Paris, enclosing one signed 'The Author of Waverly,' on the subject of the publication of his works in America. Doubtless you will recollect the circumstance, and most probably you retain the letters. You will much oblige me, by furnishing me with copies of both, and by relating the leading circumstances connected with their receipt, etc.

MESSRS. CAREY, LEA AND CO.

Very truly, yours, (Signed,)

J. FENIMORE COOPER.

DEAR SIR:

Philadelphia, March 14th, 1838.

In answer to your letter of the ninth instant, we have the pleasure to enclose you a copy of your letter, addressed to our late firm, dated Paris, November 9, 1826, and which, as appears by the date of our answer, must have been received about the last of December, of that year. You have also a copy of the letter from the Author of Waverly, enclosed at that time in yours, the original of which is in the hands of a friend, who has made the transcript.

We are, very respectfully,

J., FENIMORE COOPER, ESQ.

Your obedient servants,

CAREY, LEA AND Co.

MY DEAR SIR;

Monday morning No York Buildings, 12th, 1838.

I SEND you an exact copy of SIR WALTER SCOTT's letter, verbatim, literatim, et punctuatim, I was about to say, but that cannot with any propriety be said of a letter which is without any other points than periods.

There is no year, but it was written in 1826, and the words 'Rue Rivoli' have been brushed over with the finger of the writer, but are quite legible in the original. The babit of signing his name, caused him to write his Christian name at the end of the letter; but a moment's reflection caused him to endeavor to obliterate it; it is still legible, however. I have copied the address to Mr. COOPER exactly. Very truly, yours,

EDWARD D. INGRAHAM.

ISAAC LEA, Esq.