3. MAN-OF-WAR LIFE: a boy's experience in the United States Navy, during a voyage round the world, in a ship of the Line; and THE MERCHANT VESSEL: a sailor boy's voyage to see the world. By the author of "Man-of-war Life." Cincinnati: Moor, Wilstach, Keys & Co. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.

One would be apt to conclude from the title-pages of these two works, that very little reliable information could be gathered from their perusal. The experience of a boy! Experience is universally associated with age and with a long continuance amid the same scenes, the same habits, the same reverses, the same associations. The experience of a boy cannot be great or varied, and his unformed judgment bears with it the prestige of but little authority. Yet boys are the greatest of observers-the most acute investigators of mere facts-the most searching explorers of character. Henri Juvinal, that great fathomer of human nature, gives us this wary advice concerning them:

"Maxima debitur pueris reverentia."

And in fact, if we reflect upon the interest we ourselves took in boyish days in real or fictitious narrative, and the readiness with which boys at school can decipher the weak points in the character of a school-mate, or of others who are thrown into contact with them, we will easily comprehend how it is, that in spite of their unripe judgment, they can be the very best babblers of facts, and can form a very correct opinion of those things which come under their daily observation. They have, moreover, at their command, more means of ferreting out matters than full-grown men-they witness various phases in human avocations which would be studiously concealed from others—they can thrust themselves in, where self-respect would keep others out-they can creep into holes that a man would never enter-they can be spoken to-they can be scolded-they can ask questions-and can learn more of the ins and outs of a place in a day than a man would in a month.

The works before us must be judged by this standard. Since they are chiefly descriptive and narrative, and indulge only in reflections upon character or matters of every day life, the "experience" of a boy is not only sufficient, but the best that can be given. The author has had the good sense not to attempt striking out into the deep water of abstract reflections, and dogmatic decisions, but seems to remember his title-page, though he certainly has ceased to be a "boy," and writes as he should do, like a man. The style of the volumes is plain, sometimes racy, and generally suited to the kind of subject treated of. A little more variety and piquancy in certain portions, would, we think,. improve them. We have observed also that the author is occasionally ungrammatical, though generally the language is very correct, and sometimes beautiful.

Withal these volumes will be found well worthy of a perusal; they are interesting, abound in humor, and contain a great deal of useful information not only regarding a sea-faring life, but also respecting many countries which the author visited in his several voyages. We trust that the gentlemanly and enterprising publishers will never put forth any thing more objectionable than the entertaining volumes which are the subject of this notice.

4. THE FORAGERS, or the Raid of the Dog-Days. By W. Gilmore Simms, Esq.and BORDER BEAGLES, a tale of Mississippi. By the same author. New York: Redfield. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.

The first of these works is particularly interesting. The scene is laid in South Carolina, during the most eventful period of the Revolution. The noble deeds of Marion, Sumpter, Perkins, Lee, and others of a kindred band of patriots, in whatever form they are presented, never fail to awaken deep and lasting interest. These deeds are interwoven in the tale, and impart to it no ordinary attraction.

The Border Beagles, though to our mind less attractive than the Foragers, is still a very readable volume. In it is presented, in Mr. Simms' pleasing style, a true picture of the life and manners of a new settlement. If there be any thing in it that we regret, it is the impropriety of the language occasionally put in the mouths of some of his characters. Language that we could not freely use in the domestic circle, should not be found in books designed for entertainment.

5. COUNT HUGO OF CRAENHOVE, and WOODEN CLARA. From the Flemish of Hendrik Conscience. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.

Another volume of the series of excellent tales in course of publication by Murphy & Co., is here presented to the reader. It consists of two tales, one showing the misery of jealousy between brothers, and the other the evil of secrecy between husband and wife. They are admirably wrought out in the Christian style of Conscience. Indeed in the whole range of modern fiction we know of no better specimen of wordpainting than the episode of Abulfaragus in the Count of Craenhove or the scene between mother and child in Wooden Clara. Both show the master-hand, and after the thrilling war-pieces of the Lion of Flanders and Veva, give us an enjoyment of a more quiet, it is true, but not of a less pleasurable kind.

6. TABLE TRAITS, WITH SOMETHING ON THEM. By Dr. Doran. N. York: Redfield. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.

We owe an apology to the Doctor for having kept his "Traits" so long upon our table without paying our respects to them. We hope, however, to meet with indulgence from the well known generosity of his nature, and the more readily we are sure, when we come to state the cause of our apparent neglect, and it is simply this: when we received the book we were so pleased with its truly entertaining traits, that we could not lay it down until we had completely read it through; (no slight task either in a book of nearly five hundred pages). Again we took it up, and again its fascinating pages led us on from chapter to chapter, until we had got to the very last sentence in the book. And thus it happened, every time we attempted to write about it, we were seized with a mania for reading it. At length we came to the conclusion not to notice it at all, and give this by way of an apology for saying nothing concerning it, leaving to our readers the rich treat they must have over the plates and platters of which the Doctor speaks. They will not find it, as they might imagine, a cook-book; by no means; it is all about dishes and "something" on them; of the time, the manner and peculiarities of custom which, from time immemorial, prevailed among the children of Adam in taking their food; the number and quality of the dishes, and other like etceteras.

But why has the Doctor marred the pleasure of his book by his repeated attempts to bring into ridicule the bishops and priests and members of the religious orders of the Catholic Church? Why these ungenerous attempts to rob them of the ennobling virtue of sincerity, and to throw obloquy on their religion by exhibiting the apparent austerity of their lives, as a mockery and sham? a cloak, beneath which they live in luxury and ease. But nothing, it seems, in this generation is so saleable in the literary market as that which is well seasoned with anti-popery ingredients. The Doctor knew this, and like the manufacturer of wares, he made the article to suit the taste of his customers.

7. THE LAKE SHORE; or the Slave, the Serf and the Apprentice. By Emile Souvestre. Translated from the French. Boston: Crosby, Nichols & Co. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.

This is an exceedingly interesting book, consisting of three distinct tales. The first is especially entertaining. The hero is a noble youth taken from Britton, while the island was a Roman province, and sold as a slave at Rome to a wealthy patrician. The youth is converted to Christianity, and finally suffers martyrdom for his faith. We cheerfully recommend the work.

BOOKS RECEIVED:-First Class Reader. By G. S. Hillard. Boston: Hickling, Swan & Brown.-The Confidential Correspondence of Napoleon Bonaparte with his Brother Joseph;-The Attachè in Madrid;-Elements of Logic. By Henry P. Lappan. New York: D. Appleton & Co.-The Hamiltons, or Sunshine in Storm. By Cora Berkley. New York: Dunigan & Brother.-The Life of Guendaline, Princess Borgese. By Rev. Father Hewit; The Seraph of Assisium. By Rev. Titus Joslin. New York: P. O'Shea. -Charlemont. By W. Gilmore Simms, Esq.;-Maginn's Miscellanies. New York: Redfield,

WELL nigh half the month has passed by, and yet half our labor remains undone. Our table—not a line of it yet committed to paper, though the printer's angel (we don't like that other word) has been dunning us for copy for a week past. Our readers, we know, are patient and generous with all; they will not find fault with us, especially during this penitential season. 'Tis the first spring month-March. It brings the return of the festivity of Ireland's Tutelar Saint; and not a line in anticipation of that festival with which to treat our readers. This is really too bad. But to-night we meet, and by hard labor, we may retrieve the time we have lost.

Such were our cogitations as we hastened from the tea-table to our sanctum. O'Moore had preceded us there. As we approached the door, we were somewhat startled by a sound issuing from our usually quiet quarters. We stopped and listened, and soon recognized the clear and sonorous voice of our friend, O'Moore, singing, in the happiest mood, an Ode to St. Patrick's Day, of which we were only able to distinguish the following stanzas:

Hail happy day! with joy once more,
We greet thy dawn in distant plains;
While Erin's sacred, hallowed shore

Each fondest, tenderest wish retains.
Though nature's charms around us smile,
And balmy zephers gently play,
Still our hearts, sweet native isle,
Shall turn to thee on Patrick' Day!

Hail happy day! thy lovely dawn
Recalls the past and brings to mind
The cherished home, the green-clad fields,
The bosom friends we've left behind.
Once more to thee the glass we'll crown,
To banish grief and care away,

And pass the flowing bowl around,

With shamrocks wreathed on Patrick's Day!

Hail happy day! may thy return

Bring freedom to my native shore;
And bid her children cease to mourn,
That leagued oppression is no more.

Yes, be their tears, their sighs, their chains,
Soon dried, suppressed and torn away,
While their harp's unfettered strains

Sound sweetly wild on Patrick's Day!

Our entry cut short the pleasing melody; and this we regret, as Mr. O'Moore would not consent to show us the manuscript, saying jocosely, that we had heard enough of it. "We are happy, Mr. O'Moore, to find you so agreeably occupied, and deeply regret our interruption.'

"No apology is necessary, Mr. Oliver. While waiting your coming, I was repeating some lines to Father Carroll, when he suggested that they were exactly adapted to the well known air of —, and I was just trying how they would suit."

"The feast of Saint Patrick is suggestive of many pleasing and sad reminiscences to the Irish emigrant."

"Yes, Mr. Oliver, on that festival the Irish heart throbs with emotions, deep and endearing emotions. Whatever be his condition, or wherever he may be cast on this troubled orb, no matter how far he may be from his own green isle, the son of Erin revisits her shores on the festival of Ireland's Tutelar Saint. On this day the scenes of former years rise up before him. He is transported in thought to the banks of the Liffy, the Ban, or the Blackwater, or he treads with lightsome step the shores of her enchanting lakes, hallowed in his memory, by all the associations of early childhood. He mingles again with the companions of his boyhood, and roams in sportive glee over the green VOL. IV.-No. 2.

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hills so familiar to other days; or he stands, as in times of old, with soul enraptured, to listen to some way-faring minstrel as he strikes his harp to the numbers of Ireland's Tutelar Saint. He visits again the old church yard,' and bends, it may be, over the parental grave, and whispers a requiem for the souls of those who so fondly cherished and loved him. He stands again on the spot, ay, the sacred spot, where the aged father plighted the last adieu; where a mother, a fond, a doting mother, clung for the last time to his bosom, and pressed a fervent kiss upon his tear-moistened cheek. He hears anew the parental blessing, 'God speed you, my child,' as he finally departs to seek a home in the land of the stranger.

"These, Mr. Oliver, and a thousand similar reminiscences are recalled to the Irish bosom by the return of Saint Patrick's day. The Irish heart feels their influence, as none other can feel them, and is forced to give utterance to its emotions in the language of song.

"Our readers, Mr. Oliver," continued Mr. O'Moore, as he walked the room with his arms folded upon his breast; "our readers, I know, will indulge me a little this month. I feel that I have a carte blanche, if not to roam in the regions of fancy, at least to express the emotions, which St. Patrick's day spontaneously calls up in the bosom of an exile; to speak of 'old Erin,' in the language of a son that still loves her with undying affection. Yes, Erin,”

Here O'Moore, growing animated and deeply pathetic, continued as it were by inspiration, and gave utterance to the following beautiful stanzas:

Yes Eris! my country, although thy harp slumbers,
And lies in oblivion in Tara's old hall,

With scarce one kind hand to awaken its numbers,
Or sound a lone dirge to the son of Fingall;

The trophies of war may hang there neglected,

For dead are the warriors to whom they were known,
But the harp of old Erin will still be respected

While there lives but one bard to enliven its tone.

Oh Erin! my country, I love thy green bowers
No music to me like thy murmuring rills,
Thy shamrock to me is the fairest of flowers,
And nought is more dear than thy daisy clad hills;
Thy caves, whether used by thy warriors or sages,
Áre still sacred held in each Irishman's heart,
And thy ivy-crowned turrets, the pride of past ages,
Though mouldering in ruins, do grandeur impart.

Britania may vaunt of her lion and armor,

And glory when she her old wooden walls views,
Caledonia may boast of Pebrock and Claymore,
And pride in her philabeg, kelt, and her hose;
But where is the nation to rival old Erin?

Or where is the country such heroes can boast?
In battle they're brave as the tiger or lion,

And bold as the eagle that bounds on her coast.

The breezes oft shake both the rose and the thistle,
While Erin's green shamrock lies hushed in the dale,
In safety it rests while the stormy winds whistle
And grows undisturb'd 'midst the moss of the vale;
Then hail fairest island in Neptune's old ccean!
Thou land of Saint Patrick, my parent a grah!
Cold, cold, must the heart be, and void of emotion,
That loves not the music of " Erin-go-bragh!"

"I am delighted with these stanzas, Mr. O'Moore," said Father Carroll, at the conclusion of the last line. "There is a smoothness in the verse that pleases the ear, and a pathos in the numbers that touches the chords of the heart."

"They are only a sample, Rev. Sir," replied O'Moore, "of old Irish poetry, or rather of true Irish feeling and sentiment, done up in an English dress-a feeling and

sentiment inherited by every Irish exile wherever he may roam. Ireland is the land of song, of genius and inspiration. Her sons inherit her spirit, and wherever you find Irishmen (and where will you not find them), there you will find poets. Often beneath a homespun garb is concealed a gem of intellect, a genius that needs only to be touched, to be awakened into life and energy. Of this I had recently a striking illustration. I was applied to for employment by a hardy son of toil, who had become the victim of that heartless system of proscription, which, in those latter times, has prevailed to a certain extent even in this free land, where, alas! it seems the stranger is no longer a welcome guest. His religion and his country was his crime; on account of these he was discharged from the workshop where for years he had earned an honest livelihood by the sweat of his brow. His soul, however, disdained to repine, and with a cheerful heart sought a more genial sphere for the labor of his hands.

But for employment, I had none to give him, and asked him jocosely in the course of conversation, if he could write poetry; to which he replied that occasionally he was guilty of the like; and taking his pencil, he wrote almost impromptu, the following verses as expressive of the noble feelings that reigned in his soul :"

DON'T MURMUR AT YOUR LOT.

Friend of my heart this goblet sip,
'Twill sooth your grief and pain;
'Tis not a draught that sears the lip,
Or tongue with oaths profane;
But out of Nature's sparkling spring
This beverage is got,

And whilst you drink I'll sit and sing,
Don't murmur at your lot.

And though a homespun garb you wear,
Not cloth of superfine;

And if on coarsest food you fare,
Don't murmur or repine;

Although the snow may drift between

The shingles of your cot,

And feel harsh winter's breathings keen-
Don't murmur at your lot.

And if obliged to roam the earth,
Exiled from where you're born;
Or yet, exposed almost from birth
To buffeting and scorn;

Though tyrants haunt you to the grave,
Though wrongs are ne'er forgot;

Let no mean fears betray the slave,
Nor murmur at your lot.

You must not envy then the rich,
Because that you are poor;

Although you labor in the ditch

Or sleep upon the floor;

Let nothing earthly tempt your eye,

Keep free of stain or blot;

And when the eve of life draws nigh,

Your's is the safest lot.

"The verses are not faultless," continued O'Moore; "nevertheless they contain lessons that all may study with profit.”

"Before leaving the subject of poetry," said Father C., "here is a short contribution in that line from a western friend, which will please and delight our readers. It is a beautiful allegory under which our holy church is represented as a mighty stream, rolling onward through ages, and from which countless millions draw the living waters of truth. Be so kind, Mr. O'Moore, as to read it."

O'Moore took the paper and read as follows: