title heads this paragraph. The "Tales of the Great St. Bernard" are not all new. We read "the Married Actress" in one of the Souvenirs of last year, the "Woes of Wealth" were published in one of the Magazines, and the "Patron Saint," the "Conspirator," and the "Lock'd up Beauty" we have seen, but do not remember where. This is no drawback, however, upon the interest of the book. Mr. Croly's writing bears more than one reading, and, for that matter, the prodigious information it contains of countries and customs fits it for profitable study. The Wallachian's Tale of "Hebe" is entirely new, and told throughout with thrilling interest and power. The storm of the defile of the Balkan, the battle of the Tower of Rudschuck, the bloody scenes of the "Hermitage" at Constantinople, are of the highest order of description. We wish we had room to make extracts, but we must satisfy ourselves with recommending the book itself to our readers. It cannot fail with its keen satire, its fine knowledge of character and its high wrought pictures, to interest deeply. We hardly know how to reconcile the evidences of its various talent and resource with the life of one individual-displaying as the book does, an intimate acquaintance with the detail of society in almost every country in Europe, with the ripe and ready scholarship of a recluse, and an insight into a hundred forms of human vicissitudes, each of which would seem to have required the experience of a life.

POEMS, By Louisa P. Smith. Providence, A. S. Beckwith. 1829. We do not know whether our readers will recognize in the Author before us, the lady who has been a contributor to the Token and Legendary, under the name of Louisa P. Hickman. A volume of two hundred and fifty pages lies before us, by this lady, who, though married, and the author of such a book, is, if her rhyme runs truly, but "careless seventeen." Young as she is, however, there is a finish, and an authentic grace in her style which show a singular maturity of judgment and taste. It is a collection of pure, sweet poetry-not powerful, nor betraying any great knowledge of the higher human passions, (how should such knowledge come with "seventeen ?") but just such poetry as would seem the natural language of a gentle and high minded girlsuch as we should expect to hear if we knew that the daily and unconscious pulses of her heart had become suddenly articulate. It is the expression of casual and pleasant thoughts, or impressions from images of beauty; of delight in a fine sentiment or a sweet passage in a book. It is the flow of unbidden and uncheck'd feelings-the gush of a fountain-the breath of intellectual being. Still, pleasant as it is to read

such poetry, we always regret its publication. It is bringing a plant into the air whose perfume is lost by the exposure. The arena of criticism is too rude a place for the poetry of delicate and simple feeling. It is always roughly handled—often trampled on. The pride of notoriety, too, is a poor exchange for the consciousness of gifts kept as ministers to the affections. Fame is like the cup in the fairy tale, which, when once tasted, left a perpetual thirst, and, with the existing taste, no poetry but the strong and the impassioned wins more than a first draught of its chalice. We would say, therefore, to all who have a mere talent for the beautiful in poetry, 'keep it for your friends! It will heighten the value of your kind offices, and pass, unquestioned, as a graceful and peculiar ornament; but the sensitive nature inseparable from the gift, unfits it utterly to encounter the chances of promiscuous criticism-in which, though there are a few who may appreciate, there are more who do not remember that they ever were young, and in whose bosoms the delicate sense of beauty was long ago smothered and forgotten.

We have marked several pieces in the volume before us, and would gladly extract them all. We have only room for one, however, which we take, rather because we opened first to it, than because it is superior to the rest. The Gift,'' the Huma,' 'a Sketch,' and 'Recollections' are some of those which we unwillingly exclude.

With nor rock, nor reef on my flow'ry brink,
The freight of its infant hopes to sink;
And I've pleasant places, where they may play
Through the joyous hours of my long clear day.

I have gifts for all, if they will but come
Away from the gloom of a wintry home,
And gather my flowers, and taste my dew,
As the fresh young leaves it sparkles through;
My shining treasures shall all be theirs,

If they'll fly to me from life's dull cares.

TOKEAH, OR THE WHITE ROSE. Philadelphia, Carey & Lea.

This book deserves more than the cursory notice to which we are at present limited. It is in the same walk with Mr. Cooper's novels, and will bear a very fair comparison with them. With less originality and power in single characters and scenes, there is a more sustained and uniform beauty throughout, and, in the delineation of female character, a skill to which Mr. Cooper has not approached. We do not know of two more beautiful creations than Canondah and Rosa. The latter, especially, a Spanish captive reared in the hut of the chief Miko of the Occonees, is drawn with exquisite tenderness. The descriptions are evidently the work of a man who has been accustomed to observe, and who has looked on nature with the eye of a poet. It is altogether a most delightful book, and a credit to our literature.

THE HEIR OF THE WORLD, AND LESSER POEMS. By Sumner Lincoln Fairfield, Philadelphia.

The author of this book seems to have made the mistake so common among poets, of pleasing the ear with very little attention to the thought. You may read his volume through, and fancy it all fine poetry, and yet not be able to repeat a line or recall a sentiment. It is a mass of beautiful words and musical expressions-flowers gathered indiscriminately from the Author's imagination, like a child's lapful of roses, without stems. You may extract passages of fine description, and similes exquisitely turned all over the book; but though this may be very good material for a review, it is not " matter for immortality."

LETTER FROM MR. ERASTUS FITZ-FLIRT, IN THE CITY, TO FREDERICK NEVILLE, ESQ. IN THE COUNTRY, DATED APRIL.

DEAR FRED, How d'ye do?—It is rainy

And every thing's horribly blue;
And I know not that I can do better

Than scribble a letter to you.
I've studied my precepts from Pelham-

I've whistled and waltz'd till I'm dead-
And writing is really my only

Remaining accomplishment, Fred.

I'm tired to death of the city

It neither is winter nor spring,

There is not a sign of a party,

There is not a bird on the wing.
The leaves have not come for the summer,
The dinners are over pro tem.

The sky-but you know it is April

The girls-oh I'm weary of them!

I've sported my " Wheeler" till rusty,
Tied science all out in cravat,
Play'd Vivian Grey till it's musty,

And Pelham till Pelham is flat.
My attitudes all have grown common,
My phrases make nobody stare,
I almost have ceas'd to astonish!-
(Fred! frizzing has ruin'd my hair.)

There's not a new subject for flirting,
There's not a new love to be got;
I've been tender with all that are pretty,
And, hang me! with some that are not.
I can hum all the tunes for cotillons,
I know all the eye-brows by heart,
I have seen all Miss Furbelow's flounces,
And really 'tis time to depart.

No scandal that's decently horrid,
Nobody abus'd but the low,
The 'indiscreet girls' are all married,

The 'runaway matches' don't 'go.'

The 'painted' have natural color,
'False ringlets' all grow to the head,
And they call my suspicions 'ill-natured,'
(How very ridiculous, Fred!)

I've order'd my horse in his harness,
And ponder'd the sky for a minute,
Laid a bet on his running and trotting;
Tho' I knew 'twas too muddy to win it.
It's rather too rainy for fishing,

It's rather too muddy to shoot,
Hanging 's only genteel in December,
And you know I'm a villainous' flute.'

Then my tailor is threading me ever,
My cobbler's impatient at last,

(I thought, Fred, that I should have vanish'd
Ere the time of my promise was past,)
The friends of Jane, Julia, and Susan,
Look'd on till the 'season' was o'er,
But they talk of "intentions" in April-
(Fred, is'nt this April a bore?)

P.S. I must stay in the city

Till my pony is well of his sprain,
(This comes of a wager in April,

And running a race in the rain.)
If my tailor and cobbler are civil,
If I don't get a summons from Sue,
If I neither am wed nor arrested,

I shall see you in May, Fred,—Adieu!

SONNET.

To

I CAN'T forget thee. Worthless as thou art,
Thine image in its hiding place is set,
And vainly I endeavor from my heart
To blot thee out, forsaken Antoinette!

Thy lip in its first purity is there,

And thy young forehead with its simple braid; And the luxuriance of thy chestnut hair Lightly upon thy delicate neck is laid;

I hear the music of thy voice, and see

The melting richness of thy dark, deep eye, And thy wild motion, spirited and free, Tells of the graceful loveliness gone by; And ever in my heart their memory dwells Like odor in a violet's trodden bells.