extracts from the work are such as would lead us to wish to see more. The next article is a notice of various works illustrative of Irish character. From this we turn to a less explored field,―to India,—an exhaustless theme, whether we go back and try to unravel the mystery of the past, where history is lost in fable, or to ascertain the present state of this land of incalculable and inexhaustible wealth; of wealth in its simplest, most palpable form; of precious metals and precious stones; gold mines, and valleys of diamond; manufactures, of which the threads are gold and silver; sultans, with thrones of ivory, fanned with peacocks' wings; palaces paved with jasper and onyx; the Arabian Nights subdued into a more modest, yet dazzling reality. The work reviewed is 'Elphinstone's History of India,' and the work, and the critique, will both well repay perusal.

The fifth article is on 'Nicolas' and Beltz' works on the order of the garter.'

The other articles are,—first, a review of an interesting work, entitled, 'Letters from the Baltic;' second, some rather severe remarks on 'Letters of Mrs. Adams, wife of John Adams;' and an excellent article, entitled, 'The New and Old Ministries.'

The Westminster Review for October, 1841, contains a number of good articles. The leading article, entitled, 'Modern French Historians,' and that on the 'Polytechnic School of Paris,' will, we believe, be read with the most interest on this side the Atlantic. The other articles are, on 'The State, in its Relations with the Church,' 'Poor Laws and Pauperism in Scotland,' Metropolitan Improvements,' and some miscellaneous notices of some new and interesting works.

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- Blackwood's Magazine, for December, 1841.

There is no periodical that we uniformly take up with greater pleasure, and none that we lay down with more regret, than Blackwood's Magazine. It is always sure to be racy and spirited, though thoroughly tory, British, anti-American, and anti-republican, in its character. We do not quarrel with it on the latter account, for it is an exponent of national character. It is a faithful representative of John Bull, the boaster, the dogmatist, the scholar, for he is a scholar, he has made commendable advances in the humanities, writes pretty letters to grandpapa and his sweetheart, criticises Homer and the Homeridæ, like one of the ancients,

who understood Greek; cracks philosophic nuts, composes verses on peaks and churchyards, in a soaring and melancholy mood, praises Milton; does not, he tells us, hate the Irishman, but "examines him,—if he finds he suits the market he buys him,-if otherwise, he will have nothing to do with him.' A truly literary gentleman is he, this John Bull, though a little mistaken in supposing that he knows every thing, and that there is no science, no art, no literature, no any thing worth having, beyond the bounds of his peculiar domain; that he is the only Doctor of Laws and Bachelor of Arts, to be found in the whole republic of letters. Republic! we beg his pardon, he did not say that,—not he. It is a word offensive to his taste and his morals, and prejudicial to his health. He fears it as he does the ague. It makes his knees tremble, his teeth chatter, and his face turn pale. He likes nothing that does not wear a crown; and if there is such a thing as a republic of letters, he means to convert it into a monarchy, and be the king of it, i. e. if Jonathan will let him.

We have been expecting, for some time past, that John Bull would burst. He seems to have entirely forgotten that he ever was a frog. He has gone on swelling and swelling, till he has now attained to the dimensions of a good-sized bull. We hear his roar, and we see him playing his antics every where, as if he reckoned on immortality; but if there is any truth either in history or prophecy, he cannot resist the fates, but must burst, with a loud report, after one or two more efforts. He should recollect what happened to the frog in the fable, who would needs be an ox. He gains nothing, certainly, by the ambition of being a bull, for a bull will burst as soon as an ox, if it be over inflated with wind. This cannot all be let off in roaring. It will seek some other outlet; and if it cannot find one, the animal will finally die of wind and tumefaction, without the hope of rescue.

This catastrophe would seem to be near at hand, judging from the article 'On the United States,' in the present number of Blackwood, which has amused us not a little. It purports to be a commentary on Maxwell's 'Run through the United States;' and the writer, in attempting to keep up with the author of the book, who is too fast for him, has run foul of a couple of snags, which are the battles of Bunker Hill and New Orleans. He is in a great passion about the cotton bags, which, he insists, were no more entitled to praise for their gallantry, than king Log was, for the vigor of his administration. How, he demands, could British soldiers take aim at men concealed behind such a rampart? And echo answers 'How?' As to the Bunker Hill affair, he considers it mere moonshine; and to talk about its being 'a hard fought action on both sides,' he pronounces perfectly ridiculous. 'On the American side,' he says, 'it was like shooting out of a window, as fast as muskets could be handed to them.' No matter what it was like, sir, if the shooting did good execution; and the more rapid the fire, the better for the

army who received it, was it not? And if not, it is too late in the day for you to talk about its having been too fast to suit you.

John Bull, however, consoles himself for his past defeats in America, by threats of a victory, which, beyond all doubt, he says, he will achieve over us. He talks about assailing us 'in every quarter at once,—front, flanks and rear,'—about ‘burning Boston, New York and Philadelphia in the third part of three hours,' but he concludes with expressing the 'hope that there will be no war.' That is what blusterers and cowards always do. When there is no danger of a fight, they strut, swell out, look big, and talk as emphatically as if they thundered. 'We intend,' they say, 'to give the Americans a good sound drubbing.' Yes! but as soon as these same Yankees cry, ‘Make Ready!' they call out, ‘We hope there will be no war.' They have reason to hope it, for if we come to blows, we shall be very likely to beat these boasters, as we always have done, notwithstanding their Paixham guns, which are their only guaranty for courage. They complain loudly about the capture and trial of McLeod, and lay the whole blame of the transaction to our republicanism, which they pronounce 'unjust,' 'criminal' and 'irreligious,' as far as it was concerned in the seizure of that immaculate personage, with which, by the way, it had nothing to. Mc Leod boasted that he had been engaged in a criminal enterprize, and that he had killed his man, and he was seized and tried by process of law, as any culprit, accused of a like offence, would be. If he was innocent, he should not have plead guilty. Blusterers never gain any thing by their loud professions. His imprisonment did not make him a martyr, and was certainly far from converting him into a saint.

'Paradoxical as it may sound, there is no public opinion,' says our writer, 'in the United States; for public opinion is a grave thing.' Be it so. We have private opinion, as grave a thing; every man, in this country, thinks for himself, which is quite as good, as for every man to think for every other man. This, we suppose, is public opinion in England. If so, Englishmen must be a set of busy bodies, thinking of little but other people's affairs, and interfering with them as they have opportunity. In America, we do not ask what opinion is, but what truth is, and what justice is. We have no market overt, where opinions are bought and sold. Opinion, public or private, gives place to law, and he who is found guilty under the law, is convicted, and whether he boasts of his guilt or his innocence, his boasting will not save him. McLeod was rightfully seized, and rightfully acquitted, but for his seizure he has to charge his own folly. England and Englishmen ought to be done with boasting. It is no sign of merit. It generally brings people into trouble, when it has nothing but words to bear it out, as it did in this instance.

Our writer complains of the Americans, because they drink 'Sherrycobblers,' and 'suck mint-julep through a macaroni tube.' He tells us

that Col. Maxwell performed the latter exploit 'at one side of his mouth and inhaled the smoke of a Havannah cigar stuck in the other, and was not dissatisfied with either operation. Now, we think this much better, than to get fuddled on 'Brown Stout,' to lose £100,000 at Crockford's in a night, and to cut one's throat the next morning by way of a poetical catastrophe. We shall not dispute with Englishmen about it. They are entitled, of course, to pursue their pleasures after any method that is agreeable to their climate or their genius.

The writer's strictures upon Washington are as remarkable as any other portion of his speculations. He stigmatizes him as 'a culprit,' 'a rebel,' 'one whose conduct it is impossible to reconcile with honor,'— 'the slave of an unconscientious ambition in his own person,'-' immortal, in no other sense, than any lucky transgressor is immortal.' The man, who could utter such calumnies against one of the greatest and best men that ever lived, cannot himself entertain a very high sense either of virtue or liberty.

LITERARY ANNOUNCEMENTS.

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D. Appleton & Co., New-York, have in press a new book of Travels, in 2 vols. 12mo., with numerous illustrations, entitled, A Winter in Egypt, and a Ramble in Arabia, Petrea and the Holy Land, during the years 1839-40," by James E. Cooley. This book will be read with no little interest, particularly by those who have listened to Mr. J. S. Buckingham's account of the same regions, in regard to the verity of a portion of whose statements not a few were inclined to doubt.

S. Colman, New-York, has nearly ready, a work which is said to be characterized by its great power and humor, entitled, "The Effinghams, or Home as I found it." 2 vols. 12mo. The author preserves the strictest incognito. We are wholly unacquainted with the tenor and objects of this book, but we are inclined to regard the author as a man or woman of some little acuteness. There is no slight charm about this incognito affair. It throws a veil of mystery around a work, which every one is eager to pierce. Curiosity unsatisfied is like a troubled conscience. We reckon that some of our Yankee brethren will make pretty shrewd guesses. We advise every body to get the book, and make a trial of their discerning powers.

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Mr. Grant, author of "The Great Metropolis," &c., has just completed for publication, a new work, 'Lights and Shadows of London Life." Mr. Grant wields his pen with ability and power. He is characterized by a perfect independence and fearlessness, which none can doubt who have read his "Great Metropolis," one of the most cutting satires on the vices and follies of the higher circles of London, ever penned. We have no doubt but that "The Lights and shadows of London Life," will be extensively read in this country, and that it will contain a variety of interesting and amusing matter.

Lieut. Colonel Maxwell's work, "A Run through the United States," &c., is now ready for publication. 2 vols. 8vo. A review of this work will be found in the December number of Blackwood's Magazine, the editor of which takes the opportunity for indulging in a furious tirade against the United States.

We copy the following from the United States Advertiser:

A new work of considerable interest is shortly to be issued from the English press-The Posthumous Papers of Madame D'Arblay, better known as a writer of the popular fictions "Evelina," "Cecilia,' under her maiden name, Miss Burney. These MSS., which comprise her letters, diary, &c., are said to be characterized by all the brilliancy VOL. I.-NO. 1.

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