body appears contented with her efforts, but few seem truly to appreciate her worth. Mrs. Vernon is always good- and perhaps it is from this very cause, strange as it may appear, that she is not more particularly noticed. She is always natural; and appears (to borrow an expression,) to suit herself to the various characters she assumes, 'by instinct.' Such continued excellence, however, must receive its guerdon; and Mrs. Vernon has only to go forward with the unexceptionable method she has adopted, to be sure at last of finding herself truly appreciated, and justly rewarded.

C.

AMERICAN THEATRE, BOWERY.-The toils of the month have prevented us from witnessing more than three evenings' entertainments at this theatre. On one of these occasions, BOOTH was the 'feature;' and truly he was 'a bright, particular star.' In Lear, he lacked nothing but a more commanding person, to have lived the monarch. The touching pathos of the fond, abused father-the deep agony of the 'poor, weak, infirm old man' - the proud, yet bursting heart-drew down well-deserved and prolonged applause. FLYNN was good in Kent, his lady faultless in Cordelia, and HAMBLIN'S Edgar was well performed. In all else, Booth's support was most wretched. We have latterly overlooked, though we have by no means lost sight of, Mr. J. R. SCOTT. With a commanding person, expressive and handsome features, a strong, mellow voice, and intellect to appreciate the characters which he assumes, he cannot fail, with assiduous and careful study, to become all that a reasonable ambition may lead him to anticipate all that his friends hope yet to see him.

'The Triumph of Texas,' a new clap-trap nondescript, was an irredeemable, unmitigated failure. Some idea of the clearness of the plot, and the interest excited by the whole, may be gathered from the following pithy dialogue between two box-auditors: 'I say, Tom-how d'ye like it?'

'Oh, pshaw ! - there's only one passable part in it; that's play'd tolerably well.' 'Which part is that?'

'It's the part of Triumph! He's good!

FRANKLIN THEATRE. - MR. Hows, whose appearance at the Park Theatre in January last gave such satisfaction, is performing a short engagement at the Franklin Theatre. The graceful and classical style adopted by this gentleman, has been the subject of general commendation, and has met the decided approbation of discriminating judges of the art. His Shylock has been every where deservedly extolled; and his Sheva, in the excellent comedy of The Benevolent Jew, as represented by him on the first evening of his appearance at the Franklin, we are inclined to place at the head of his personations, for truth and originality. We should be pleased to see this fine old play occupy a permanent place among the acting pieces of the day. It might serve as an antidote against the prejudice which the frequent representation of The Merchant of Venice is calculated to engender. Mr. Hows is richly deserving the consideration of the public, and we hope will meet it, in that profession to which his talents are now so entirely devoted.

MR. HILL-whose successful engagements in our Atlantic cities are good tests of his merits and studies as an actor- has done much, within a year or two, to foster the talent of native dramatists. Several pieces have been written for him, and in which he performs with skill and judgment, that are probably equal to many works of the sort, in countries where dramatic efforts are much more frequent than in our own.

AMERICAN LITERATURE. — Mr. FLINT concludes, in the London Athenæum for November, his paper upon American Literature, in which he has acquitted himself with his accustomed ability. The stern, manly, independent American spirit that pervades the article, is characteristic, and worthy of all praise. We are pleased to remark, that a just tribute is paid to the literary labors of the Rev. Dr. BEASLEY, of New-Jersey, Provost of the University of Pennsylvania. 'His 'Search of Truth in the Science of the Human Mind,' says the writer, ' and his defence of Locke against the recent Scottish metaphysicians, are eloquently written, and display vast research and labor.' In a notice of an indigenous Review, Mr. FLINT holds the following language. The reader will perceive, that it conveys sentiments similar to those expressed, on one or two occasions, in this Magazine:

'The writing of the Philadelphia Quarterly aims to be more magnificent than that of the North American Review. In reaching at courtly grandeur, it sometimes becomes sesquipedalian. Johnson and Parr are the models, not nature and simplicity. We might evade any attempt at a definition of this 'review style,' by calling it a je ne sais quoi grandeur; an indescribable magniloquence; a sort of stately rounding of long sentences, full of doubts, and intermediate members, and subjunctives, with a touch of oracular ambiguity, raising the impression, that the writer wore a presentation dress, with a wig, and so much fur, and robe, and furbelow, and velvet, as to make him resolve, feeling rather grand and incumbered himself, that the reader should not fail in due homage to his transient aristocracy, nor altogether escape helping him bear a portion of the burdensome tithe of magnificence. We have attempted to imagine the criticism which Dean Swift, and Oliver Goldsmith so direct, so transparent, so beautifully simple in their style would have passed upon this modern review writing.

'The department of poetry in this journal is said to be peculiarly intrusted to a Doctor M'Henry, who has given it a most unenviable notoriety, by attempting to villify the highest efforts of American poetry, particularly those of Bryant. Himself the author of a wretched poem, entitled, we think, 'The Pleasures of Friendship,'-either the dullest namby-pamby, or the undigested surfeit of stolen fragments of verse, so little disguised by having passed through his mind, as, when eructed again, to hear, like the Botany Bay plate, the ciphers and marks of the original owners, he has stood in the critical sewer, and successively besmeared and abused every good article of verse from the American press, and has only found praise for some poetry, of which the authors themselves have long since been ashamed. Neither the ancient Zoilus, the modern Lintot, nor any hero of the Dunciad, was more redoubtably terrible in the use of terms of abuse, than this same critic; and as we have good hope, that this our notice of the villifier of Bryant will reach his eye, we do not despair of the only praise which such a mind can bestow, the outpouring of the whole of his copious vocabulary of terms of aspersion and contempt.'

We extract the paragraphs below, from that portion of the article under notice, which treats of American poetry. The writer gives but a just award, we think, when he says that 'American poetry almost universally bears the stamp of purity and respect for the domestic virtues, for piety and religion. Our poets, as far as they have shown inspiration, evince that they are imbued with the love of goodness, truth, and beauty; that they have strung their lyres in the exultation of the glorious hope of immortality; that they aim to purify public thought, rather than debauch it; and that they have drunk from those perennial fountains that flow fast by the throne of God.' He proceeds:

'We believe, that in just so far as a country is advanced in taste, in just thought, enlargement of mind, and kindness of feeling, it will generate and patronize poetry; for poetry, sprung from genius, enthusiasm and sensibility, is identified with virtue and religion in fact, is but another form of the religious sentiment, is the band that unites the past with the future, the present with the absent, the living with the dead, the inspiration of friendship, virtue, magnanimity, high thought, and glorious achievement.' 'Our primeval age was one of sermons and prose; and the matter of fact of cutting down trees, building cabins, and making enclosures, instead of indulging the imagination. Ecclesiastical tribunals churched fair delinquents for cutting off the fingers of their gloves, and thereby exposing so much of their fair persons as might prove an unholy leaven to the fancy of beholders. The first gloomy excursions of those times into the ideal world, discovered only witches, and demoniacs; and nearly half a century elapsed, before our progenitors began to think much of poetry; and its first efforts were attempts to versify the psalms, after the manner of Sternhold and Hopkins, in a version entitled the Bay Psalm Book.' Yet even in the very earliest period of the

history of Massachusetts, we find the amiable and gentle Roger Williams, the patriarch of Rhode Island, when cast forth into the untrodden wilderness by the persecuting spirit of the Puritans, who had only escaped persecution themselves to show that they had experimentally learned the lesson to practice it on others, cheering his solitary journey through the wild woods, as he sought the hospitality of the red men, in the following quaint verses, that we give for the curiosity of being the first poetry, except the verson of the Psalms to which we have referred, produced in New-England, which has come to our knowledge.

'Lost many a time, I've had no guide,

No house, but hollow tree;

In stormy winter night no fire,
No food, no company.

God makes a path, provides a guide,

And feeds in wildernesse;

His glorious name, while earth remains,

O that I may confesse.'

'He cultivated good faith and gentleness with the Indians, and reaped the natural fruit, kindness, in return, which he thus sings:

How kin-lly flames of nature burn

In wild humanitie!

God's providence is rich to his;
Let uone distrustful be.

In wildernesse in great distresse,
These ravens have fed me.'

In a closing review of the outlines of American literature, which he had necessarily but briefly traced, MR. FLINT observes :

--

'We deem, that we have produced conclusive evidence, at least it so seems to us, that our deficiency has resulted from other causes, than the want of as much genius, as much talent, as quick perceptions, as much endowment, as high thoughts, as true inspiration, as much capability of progress, either in the sciences or the fine arts, as belong to the parent country. Miserable, pinched, and poor-spirited must have been the minds of the Halls, Hamiltons, Fiddlers, et id omne genus, who, within the few past years, have travelled through our country, and appear to have taken pleasure, on returning home, in proclaiming us to be a stupid, half-savage race, without literature, arts, taste, or even the common comforts of life. How much more just would have been the English estimate of us-how much kinder the feelings-if Britons of something of the endowment, philosophical enlargement, and generosity of mind belonging to such men as Humboldt and Chateaubriand, had travelled among us, and published as much of us as those dwarfish egotists! Never, until really instructed, competent, and philosophical observers survey us, and scan our physical and intellectual condition, with an impartial eye, will the English public be able to strike a fair balance between our merits and defects, improvements and deficiencies.' 'But the people of England cannot be so blinded by prejudice, as not to comprehend, that, whatever be our deficiencies, we have the inventive boldness, the grasping spirit, the self-respect, the national feeling, the resources of every kind physical and mental - that constitute all the elements of national greatness. In so brief a political existence, we have spread from the sea to the lakes, and from the cold shores of the North-east to the orange and cane of the South-west, over which space we have already diffused more than thirteen millions of modified and continental Englishmen. Nor is there another country in the world, that contains within itself more ample means of every kind and degree of comfort and inprovement, independent of every other one.'

CHRISTMAS.-This delightful and cheering season appears in all its glories, in large towns. There is a bustle, a stir, among all classes. People give themselves up to enjoyment; and sweet and holy are the interchanges of friendship, respect, and affection. With the young, the world appears in couleur de rose; all things are pleasant; and with fond eyes, they read the language of love in every look they encounter. Christmas is, indeed, the carnival of the heart. Madcap Jollity addresses himself to his pursuits with an earnest good-will; and that benevolent old abstraction, Santa Claus,

dispenses his favors abundantly. From the sea to the mountains of the West, Christmas is, in some sort, a season of refreshment and comfort. Its observance is by no means confined within the narrow limits of sectarian esteem; but its glow radiates far and wide, disdaining the boundaries of religious opinion. We envy not the heart that can wrap itself away from its cheerfulness-its contagious hilarity. We love to look into the pit of a crowded theatre, on Christmas eve, and observe the half school-house, half bear-garden scene. Listen to that full, irrepressible laugh! See those young heads bowing in a sea of tumultuous happiness, as if their risibility could not escape, without bodily motion! Those for the most part, are school and 'prentice boys, with hearts as warm, unhackneyed, and free, as youth, high health, and careless minds can make them. The museum runneth over; the mastadon wears for the occasion a garland of green; and the elephant hath laurel on his shining tusk, and on proboscis now no longer lithe --he being personally defunct. In the streets, every body is abroad. Many are the limbs of juveniles, whose weariness novelty makes forgotten; many a little tender hand, lodged in the paternal or maternal palm, presses that same with confident affection: p-h-e-e-p! goeth the penny trumpet- -bolted is the ginger-bread; and those foreign toys, dolls, German dogs and kittens, together with sweetmeats, 'goodies,' picture-books, and small chattels of all descriptions, do greatly abound. Now the lover giveth the album, that by next Christmas shall be filled with all manner of stupidity, engendered by affection, and with love remembered. You hear, often, that novel phrase, 'The compliments of the season, and many returns.' Now the bard betaketh himself to the conception of New-Year addresses, and the cacoethes imprimendi attacketh the printers' devils. All things 'work together for good.' The social board is surrounded; some heads have more fumes in them than can well be borne; and the owners of them run against nocturnal gas-posts; signs are taken down; songs wildly sung, and divers uproars made. This, rural reader, is a rude pencil-sketch of Christmas in cities.

DR. BOWRING. We make the annexed extracts from a letter of JOHN BOWRING, Editor of the London Westminster Review, to a correspondent of this Magazine, residing in Massachusetts. It illustrates the growing interest felt by intelligent foreigners in relation to the United States, and contains a touch of the writer's characteristic investigations. In his antiquarian researches after words, their origin, and 'extremest roots,' he has not, it should seem, passed by his own name. The letter is dated at Paris, 15th October :

'It is a fancy in which I frequently and fondly indulge, that I may, some day or other, compare the two sides of the Atlantic, see, in their own homes, many of my valued American friends, whom I have known in Europe-greet others hitherto unknown- and satisfy my mind on multitudinous points of interest, where I feel the want of knowledge, and the means of judgment. Your country is an object of affection and anxiety to us. The events connected with the slave question have sadly distressed us.'

'My name is pronounced Bowring, as if it were written Bough-ring, which, in fact, is the old Saxon etymology. The tradition in our family is, that the name was first adopted by two Saxon Christians, my ancestors, (brothers,) one of whom, on a memorable occasion, was concealed among the branches of a tree, where a bell was suspended, which he was to ring by shaking the bough, in order to give notice of the approach of the enemy. I have heard my grandfather say, that he had this story from his forefathers.'

MATHEWSIANA. —Of all actors, we believe MATHEWS will be the most posthumous, if we may so speak. He has gone, and we shall see him no more; but we doubt not that in the mind's eye of thousands he is acting still. During his late visit to America, the correctness of his pictures did not at first impress us; but their perfect nature is continually flashing upon us, in the intercourse of every-day life. A look -a tonea ridiculous affectation — will bring him again before us, more palpably, if possible, than the imitations of REEVE, which are excellent - especially the gait, and nervous, restless action. Appropos of Mathews: we have heard a characteristic anecdote of him, which we will relate here. 'When I was about leaving Liverpool for America,' said he to a professional friend, just before he left this country, 'I asked the Yankee captain, as we were lying in the stream, what detained us, that we were not off? He answered, 'The mail, Sir.' I inquired when it was expected? 'In about twenty minutes,' was the reply. In an hour or two, the mail came on board; and we had moved but a little distance, when there was another stop. 'What is this for?' said I. We are waiting for a pilot,' quoth the master. 'How long before he will be on board?' was my next question. 'In about twenty minutes,' was the answer, again; and so it was, all the way over. If there was a gale, it never was calculated to last more than twenty minutes; that space of time was likewise the estimated duration of a calm; and one poor fellow, blue-and-white with active sea-sickness, was told to keep good heart, for it might not last more than twenty minutes! When I arrived in New-York, and, after numerous provoking delays, had become fairly established at my lodgings, there comes me up a waiter, in hot haste, with: 'Mr. Mathews! - Mr. Mathews! - you can't stay here not no longer, Sà!' 'Why? you villain!' "'Cause you can't Sà!' 'What is the matter? the reason? why can't I? "'Cause, Sà, Mr. W, the 'keeper,' has busted, Sà, and the sheriff has issued his sash-a-rarrar, and the red flag is out o' the winder, and they 're gwyin' to sell all out, Sà!' 'Well, when must I go?' 'Why, Sà, I s'pect you'd better be gittin' away in about twenty minutes! 'And thus,' (continued Mathews, in his fretful, querulous manner,) 'has it been ever since I set my foot in America. You 'd hardly believe it, yet I have but just returned from calling to see an old friend, who was very kind to me on my former visit. Where is Mr. B——?' said I, to the servant. 'He is dead, Sir!' 'Dead?-dead! How long since did he decease?' 'I should think about twenty minutes, Sir! was the answer. 'In short,' (concluded the inimitable mime,) 'there is nothing that cannot be, and is not done, in the United States, in twenty minutes!'

UNFORESEEN labors, arising from the destruction of the printing-office of this Magazine, by the late disastrous fire (a destruction involving the loss of many manuscripts, and causing inconceivable perplexity for a time,)- must be our apology for omitting to notice several works, in the perusal of some of which we have enjoyed much satisfaction. We can only refer - and briefly to the following:

PORTRAITS OF THE TWELVE APOSTLES. - We can commend the style of these pentographic engravings, and the excellent letter-press which illustrates them; but we cannot laud the portraits. We should like to know who conceived such faces for the twelve Apostles(we naturally infer that they cannot have been taken from life,) - and where he procured the originals of such a lot of family noses! We have stood at times, of a summer day, on a corner by an adjacent thoroughfare,

-nigh where the tide of passers-by In thickest confluence flowed,'

to mark the great variety of human countenances in the busy crowd; but never saw