HAWTHORNE'S ENGLISH NOTE-BOOKS.

The old proverb, "King's chaff is worth other men's corn, " has been well verified in respect to Hawthorne's posthumous works. His " American Note-Books" were received with remarkable favor by the most discriminating readers. They were incomplete and fragmentary, but each fragment bore indelible traces of a master's hand. His " English Note-Books," just published by Messrs. Fields, Osgood, & Co., have already called forth expressions of the heartiest admiration. The New York Trib

une devotes a long and admirable review to the work, from which we make the following extract :

"Mrs. Hawthorne prefixes to these welcome volumes a brief statement of the considerations which have induced her to spread before the world pages written by her husband only for bis own eye and embracing confidences, both of a personal and literary character, which some over-fastidious critics have blamed her for revealing. We hardly think an explanation was required. If the illustrations of the author's cast of mind and habits of composition which these private journals afford had been thrown into the form of a set biography, nobody would have dreamed of objecting to their publication. It is because a good biography of one so delicate and reserved in character was quite impossible, that Mrs. Hawthorne determined to meet the constant and urgent demand for a memoir by publishing as much as she could of his private records. We heartily commend her decision. In these full, frank, and beautiful diaries we have a better picture of Hawthorne than any other hand than his own could draw. We learn to appreciate the exquisite refinement of his nature, and love him for the tenderness and beauty of his character far more than we ever did before. We see him, as his widow assures us he was in life, --never gloomy and morbid, though distinguished by the pensiveness and gravity of a person who possessed the awful power of insight. His mood was always cheerful and equal and his mind peculiarly healthful, and the airy splendor of his wit and humor was the light of his home.' That the popular idea of Hawthorne is very different from this, we need hardly say; but few who read these volumes will hesitate to accept the editor's characterization of one to whom she was so near. There is a beautiful passage in his diary written in Liverpool at the close of 1854:

"I think I have been happier this Christmas than ever before, by my own fireside, and with my wife and children about me, more content to enjoy what I have, -less anxious for anything beyond it, in this life. My early life was perhaps a good preparation for he declining half of life, it having been such a blank that any thereafter would compare favorably with it. For a long, long while I have occasionally been visited with a singular dream, and I have an impression that I have dreamed it ever since I have been in England. It is, that I am still at college, or, sometimes, even at school, and there is a sense that I have been there unconscionably long, and have quite failed to make such progress as my contemporaries have done; and I seem to meet some of them with a feeling of shame and depression that broods over me as I think of it, even when awake. This dream, recurring all through these twenty or thirty years, must be one of the effects of that heavy seclusion in which I shut myself up for twelve years after leaving college when everybody moved onward and left me behind. How strange that it should come now, when I may call myself famous and prosperous! - when I am happy, too!'

"The period covered by the English Note-Books' begins with Hawthorne's arrival in Liverpool as United States Consul in 1853, and extends to January, 1858. It was a more active period in his life than that recorded in his American diaries. Travelling with his wife and family through England, Scotland, and Wales, visiting famous

places, mingling a great deal in literary society, losing himself in the historic streets of London, and busied with old to revery and romance, and ceased to fill his journals the cares of his consulship, he gave fewer hours than of with fragmentary speculations and hints for tales that were never to be written. He loved to wander through the aisles of old cathedrals, and among the halls of ancient castles, and to describe them with as much care and minuteness as if he had been writing for the public eye. He saw so mch, and wrote of it so fully, that his 'Notes' might well suffice as a traveller's guide-book, and what a guide-book by Hawthorne must be our readers can Even that prosaic office in Liverpool easily imagine. became for him by turns the theatre of tragedy and of farce. Murders on shipboard, death-bed scenes in the hospitals, friendless Americans starving in miserable garrets and straining their eyes wistfully toward the home they were never more to see, these are some of the dark incidents whose pathos fills an occasional page;. while in inspirations of humor the Consulate was as rich as the old Custom House at Salem."

The Boston Advertiser says: "This is in no respect a book for criticism; and even did it call for such treatment, the reviewer would be tempted from his duty by. the opportunity given for extracts more interesting than any comment could be made. It would be easy, were the space at command, to weave a striking vignette of Hawthorne himself from the little shreds of introspection and self-criticism scattered through these pages; the running away from St. Paul's because, when in company with two hat, and I was ashamed of being seen in company with American gentlemen of position, one of them put on his a man who could wear his hat in a cathedral'; the frequent mention of a passion for thronged streets, and the utmost bustle of human life'; the confession of an inability to admire Turner, and of an infinite weariness and disgust resulting from a picture being too frequently before my eyes. I had rather see a basilisk, for instance,. than the very best of those old familiar pictures in the Boston Athenæum'; and the accusation of aristocratic tastes,' because the writer, after long dining at great houses, discovered in himself a certain disgust' at the hospitality of a house with a small eutrance hall and a narrow staircase, parlor with chintz curtains, and all other arrangements on a similar scale.' This,' he adds, 'is pitiable.' A larger glimpse is obtained when, after speaking of Thackeray reading the grand last number of The Newcomes' aloud to James Russell Lowell and William Story in a cider cellar, Hawthorne adds:

"Speaking of Thackeray, I cannot but wonder at his coolness in respect to his own pathos, and compare it with my emotions, when I read the last scene of the Scarlet Letter to my wife, just after writing it, - tried to read it rather, for my voice swelled and heaved, as if I were tossed up and down on an ocean as it sulsides after a storm. But I was in a very nervous state then, having gone through a great diversity of emotion, while writing it, for many months. I think I have never overcome my own adamant in any other instance.'

"From many such glimpses of character we choose the following for its odd mingling of philosophy and humor :

"I took my leave at half past ten, and found my cab at the door, and my cabman snugly asleep inside of it; and when Mr. Du Val awoke him, he proved to be quite drunk, insomuch that I hesitated whether to let him clamber upon the box, or to take post myself and drive the cabman home. However, I propounded two questions to him: first, whether his horse would go of his own accord; and, secondly, whether he himself was invariably drunk at that time of night; because, if it were his normal state, I should be safer with him drunk than sober. Being satisfied on these points, I got in and was driven home without accident or adventure; except, indeed, that the cabman drew up and opened the door for me to alight at

a vacant lot on Stratford Road, just as if there had been a house and home and cheerful lighted windows in that vacancy. On my remonstrance he resumed the whip and reins, and reached Boston Terrace at last; and, thanking me for an extra sixpence as well as he could speak, he begged me to inquire for "Little John" whenever I next wanted a cab. Cabmen are, as a body, the most illnatured and ungenial men in the world; but this poor little man was excellently good-humored.""

In the little book before us, Mr. Murray describes the incidents of a summer's rambles in the Adirondacks, spent in fishing and hunting. To one immured within brick walls it comes as fresh and inspiriting as the breeze blowing from the wooded hills. He not only tells you how to rig' a line, bait a hook, manage a gun, kill, cure, and cook game, with all the zest of the professional sportsman, but he enters right into the heart of Nature, and pictures her in all her varying phases. To write so graphically he must have written in the presence of nature.. .. We know of no sportsman who writes so lovingly and so graphically, unless it be immortal Kit North, and Mr. Murray's trout is worthy to rank with the latter's famous capture of the salmon. There is the same enthusiasm, the same graphic description of details, and the same dramatic interest in each." "The New York Tribune says: "The unmistakable passion for sylvan life which breathes in every line of this volume gives it a genuine freshness and glow that takes it entirely out of the sphere of commonplace experience. It is a book of wonderful vitality, as natural an expression of flesh and blood as breathing or laughing, and reproducing in its descriptions both the sunshine and the gloom of the landscape which it paints."

"The second volume of Mr. Bryant's translation of the 'Iliad of Homer,' which has just been issued by Fields, Osgood, & Co., shows the same care and finish as the first, which appeared some months since. Mr. Bryant's ardor has not flagged. He loved his task, and doubtless parted with it somewhat reluctantly.

"How faithfully he has performed it, with what subtle intuition he has felt the inspiration of the elder poet, kindled with his glow, and reproduced his rapid, noble, and beautifully simple lines, we have referred to at length in a notice of the first volume of the work. The present one only serves to confirm the opinion then expressed, that Mr. Bryant possesses in a larger degree than any other person who has undertaken the work, the characteristics that should belong to the translator of Homer. Doubtless there have been very many better technical Greek scholars among his predecessors. Probably there have also been many who have been in closer sympathy with the martial spirit that pervades this bard of heroes, who strikes his lyre with the firmest hand when he sings of fields deluged in the blood of warriors, of clashing swords, flying spears, and the death-throes of the brave. But there certainly has been none who has preserved more thoroughly the great dignity of the original, or who has felt more sensitively the exquisite flow of the Homeric versification, or who has had more subtle control over the

inflexible English tongue to mould it to reflect the lights and shades and the varying expression of the copious, sinuous, and elastic Greek.

"As might easily have been predicted of Mr. Bryant's translation, it is most admirable where it responds to Homer's more tender and delicate moods. We instanced and quoted in the former notice, to which reference has been made, the famous scene of the parting between Hector and his wife Andromache. Almost equally beautiful and meritorious is the description, in the twentysecond book of the present volume, of the grief of Andromache on hearing of the death of her husband, and the description of the journey of the aged Priam to the tent of Achilles.

"Perhaps no better example could be given of the manner in which Mr. Bryant deals with one of Homer's vigorous battle-pieces, as contrasted with his treatment of the more pathetic portions of the work, than the narrative of the slaying of Hector, and the supplication of the aged Priam that the body of the victim might be sur rendered to him for burial, and not left to be devoured by dogs and vultures. These passages will also show how battle is taken from the twenty-second book, and the ervigorous Mr. Bryant is up to the close of his work, for the rand of Priam from the last, the twenty-fourth.

"Hector at first had retreated before Achilles, but at length turned upon his pursuer, and announced his determination to meet his fate, whatever it might be, and to slay Achilles or be slain by him :

"He spake, and drew the keen-edged sword that hung, Massive and finely tempered, at his side,

And sprang, as when an eagle high in heaven,
Through the thick cloud, darts downward to the plain,
To clutch some tender lamb or timid hare.
So Hector, brandishing that keen-edged sword,
Sprang forward, while Achilles opposite
Leaped toward him, all on fire with savage hate,
And holding his bright buckler, nobly wrought,
Before him. As in the still hours of night
Hesper goes forth among the host of stars,
The fairest light of heaven, so brightly shone,
Brandished in the right hand of Peleus' son,
The spear's keen blade, as, confident to slay
The noble Hector, o'er his glorious form
His quick eye ran, exploring where to plant
The surest wound. The glittering mail of brass
Won from the slain Patroclus guarded well
Each part, save only where the collar-bones
Divide the shoulder from the neck, and there
Appeared the throat, the spot where life is most
In peril. Through that part the noble son
Of Peleus drave his spear; it went quite through
The tender neck, and yet the brazen blade
Cleft not the windpipe, and the power to speak
Remained.

"And then the crested Hector faintly said, "I pray thee by thy life, and by thy knees, And by thy parents, suffer not the dogs To tear me at the galleys of the Greeks. Accept abundant store of brass and gold, Which gladly will my father and the queen, My mother, give in ransom. Send to them My body, that the warriors and the dames Of Troy may light for me the funeral pile." "The swift Achilles answered with a frown, "Nay, by my knees entreat me not, thou cur, Nor by my parents. I could even wish My fury prompted me to cut thy flesh In fragments, and devour it, such the wrong That I have had from thee. There will be none To drive away the dogs about thy head, Not though thy Trojan friends should bring to me Ten-fold and twenty-fold the offered gifts, And promise others, not though Priam, spring From Dardanus, should send thy weight in gold. Thy mother shall not lay thee on thy bier, To sorrow over thee whom she brought forth; But dogs and birds of prey shall mangle thee.' "And then the crested Hector, dying said, "I know thee, and too clearly I foresaw I should not move thee, for thou hast a heart Of iron. Yet reflect that for my sake The anger of the gods may fall on thee, When Paris and Apollo strike thee down, Strong as thou art, before the Scean gates." "Thus Hector spake, and straightway o'er him closed The light of death; the soul forsook his limbs, And flew to Hades, grieving for its fate, So soon divorced from youth and youthful might.'

"Priam having determined, against the remonstrances of the Trojans, to endeavor in person to move the heart of the relentless Achilles, goes by night to his tent in the Grecian camp by the sea. This is Mr. Bryant's version of the famous passage describing the interview:"Unmarked the royal Priam entered in,

And, coming to Achilles, clasped his knees,
And kissed those fearful slaughter-dealing hands,
By which so many of his sons had died.

And as, when some blood-guilty man, whose hand
In his own land has slain a fellow-man,
Flees to another country, and the abode
Of some great chieftain, all men look on him
Astonished, -so, when godlike Priam first
Was seen, Achilles was amazed, and all
Looked on each other, wondering at the sight.
And thus King Priam supplicating spake :-

"Think of thy father, an old man like me,
Godlike Achilles! On the dreary verge
Of closing life he stands, and even now
Haply is fiercely pressed by those who dwell
Around him, and has none to shield his age
From war and its disasters. Yet his heart
Rejoices when he hears thou yet dost live,
And every day he hopes that his dear son
Will come again from Troy. My lot is hard,
For I was father of the bravest sons

In all wide Troy, and none are left me now.
Fifty were with me when the men of Greece
Arrived upon our coast; nineteen of these
Owned the same mother, and the rest were born
Within my palaces. Remorseless Mars
Already had laid lifeless most of these,

And Hector, whom I cherished most, whose arm
Defended both our city and ourselves,
Him didst thou lately slay while combating
For his dear country. For his sake I come
To the Greek fleet, and to redeem his corse
I bring uncounted ransom. O, revere
The gods, Achilles, and be merciful,
Calling to mind thy father! happier he
Than I; for I have borne what no man else

That dwells on earth could bear, have laid my lips
Upon the hand of him who slew my son."

He spake: Achilles sorrowfully thought

Of his own father. By the hand he took
The suppliant, and with gentle force removed
The old man from him. Both in memory
Of those they loved were weeping And at last
Achilles, when he felt his heart relieved

By tears, and that strong grief had spent its force,
Sprang from his seat; then lifting by the hand
The aged man, and pitying his white head
And his white chin, he spake these wingéd words: -
***Great have thy sufferings been, unhappy king
How couldst thou venture to approach alone
The Grecian fleet, and show thyself to him
Who slew so many of thy valiant sons?
An iron heart is thine. But seat thyself,
And let us, though afflicted grievously,
Allow our woes to sleep awhile, for grief
Indulged can bring no good."

"And then Pelides like a lion leaped
Forth from the door, yet not alone he went:
For of his comrades two- Automedon,
The hero, and his comrade Alcimus,
He whom Achilles held in most esteem
After the slain Patroclus- followed him,
Then from the polished car

They took the costly ransom of the corse
Of Hector, save two cloaks, which back they laid
With a fair tunic, that their chief might give
The body shrouded to be borne to Troy.

And then he called the maidens, bidding them

Wash and anoint the dead, yet far apart
From Priam, lest, with looking on his son,
The grief within his heart might rise uncurbed
To anger, and Achilles in his rage

Might stay him and transgress the laws of Jove.
And when the handmaids finished, having washed
The body and anointed it with oil,

And wrapped a sumptuous cloak and tunic round The limbs, Achilles lifted it himself And placed it on a bier. His comrades gave Their aid, and raised it to the polished car."" "These quotations will be found sufficiently long to give the reader a good idea of the merit of the translation,

To those who have forgotten their Greek, or to that more numerous class who never had any to forget, this version will prove of much value in conveying to them as directly as can be done through the medium of another language, the spirit and the form of the greatest of epic poems.'

THE NATURALIST'S GUIDE. - The Chicago Tribune, speaking of Mr. Maynard's excellent book, says: "The work is a very complete guide to the young naturalist, especially in collecting and preserving specimens. It gives very minute instructions, aided by illustrations, for preserving and mounting birds and mammals, preparing insects for cabinets, preserving fishes and reptiles, collecting shells and eggs, and mounting skeletons. Being very practical in its nature, and free from technicalities, the work commends itself to students in the natural sciences."

THE SEAT OF EMPIRE. This timely work by "Carleton," the well-known traveller and writer, is a graphic and reliable description of the great Northwest, between Lake Superior and the Pacific Ocean. It answers clearly and fully the numerous questions daily arising in regard to the scenery, climate, resources, and prospects of the vast territory which it describes. We copy from The Literary World the following excellent statement of the object and value of Mr. Coffin's book:

"Mr. Coffin, whose war-correspondence, and more recent letters descriptive of a tour around the world, have given him a high reputation as a student of strange countries and peoples, has written a book upon the Northwest, or rather upon that part of it which lies between Lake Superior and the great northern bend of the Missouri River. It embodies his observations on a journey made during last summer, with a party of gentlemen interested in the Northern Pacific Railroad. Of its accuracy and thorough reliability the author's name constitutes a sufficient guaranty; and when we add that its style is attrac tive, and its pages crowded with interesting incident, happily composed with substantial information, we have said all that need be said about one of Carleton's' books. The style of this author is singularly well adapted to the kind of composition in which he mainly engages, - narrative and descriptive. There is a perspicuity about it, and a felicity of illustration, which makes the reader's labor light and agreeable. The employment of the first person greatly aids the writer in putting the reader in his place, and making the experience of the one almost common to both. Mr. Coffin conscientiously endeavors to make himself thoroughly comprehended by his readers, and his rare faculty of description enables him to do this without reiteration or wearisome minuteness.

"The book opens with a striking picture of the wealth and prosperity of Minnesota, in connection with which the author pays a warm tribute to New England enterprise, which has been so largely instrumental in develop; ing the resources of that State The party rendezvoused at St. Cloud, and thence pushed forward into the wilderness, travelling in wagons, and camping out. Their first night in tents was an eventful one, and must have dampened their tourists' enthusiasm. A tremendous thunderstorm arose, and the wind, about midnight, became a tornado, whose consequences are amusingly narrated. A pleasant journey via White Bear Lake brings them to the banks of the Red River.

"Sitting on the banks of that great stream, a hundred miles south of Lake Itasca, the source of the Mississippi, the author draws a clear and impressive picture of the Red River country, which Professor Hind, who explored it by order of the Canadian government, pronounced a 'paradise of fertility,'- - a solitude now, but destined, in the author's opinion, to be the abode, in the future, of uncounted millions of the human race.'

"It is impossible to read Mr. Coffin's glowing words about the enormous material wealth of Minnesota, the marvellous fertility of her soil, the charms of her climate, the power of her mill-streams, the vastness of her forests, without feeling a thrill of bucolic longing. In the nature of all of us lies the Adamic propensity to till the soil; dormant and unrecognized it may be, but still existent, and only such appeals as this can stir it into life. Every reader of this volume wil! wonder why his neighbor does n't take Mr. Coffin's plainly excellent advice, and seek his fortune in the smiling fields of Minnesota."