thor treads but too closely in De Quincey's footsteps; and unfortunately it happens that so many of his illusions partake of Oriental imagery and description, that conclusions most unfavourable to his originality are inevitable. Those, therefore, who read the book superficially, will pronounce it to be at best but a faithful echo. Such an opinion, however, (as we before remarked,) does the author injustice. He is evidently a scholar; and a man of brilliant talents, uniting the metaphysical and imaginative faculties, and born, we think, to accomplish something definite in the domain of letters. He has simply made a mistake in the subject to which this, his first production, is devoted.The field had been too fully and ably occupied already.

Before closing the present notice, there are some questions connected with the custom-becoming but too common, of challenging the attention of the public to a laboured analysis of states of mind and body superinduced by artificial means-which well deserve a consideration. These are questions both of expediency and morals."

We assume it as a settled fact, that the craving for stimulus of some kind is a general, if not a universal characteristic of humanity. The craving manifests itself in different ways. In a man of grovelling mind and character, whose spirit and intellect are smothered under a load of flesh and fleshly lusts, it suggests the gross excitants of gin or whiskey; in one of imaginative bias, it points with many blandishments to some more ethereal agent of empyreal thoughts and fancies. All of us must groan at times under the load of our mortal cares; the chains of the earthly bondage become too heavy to be worn with patience, and then it is that men strive to drown memory, remorse, or passion, in some draught of frenzy, or sweet nepenthe grown upon the banks of the River of Oblivion.Who has not longed, like the weary Lotos Eaters,

"Branches to bear of that enchanted stem,

Laden with fruit and flower, whereof they gave

To each, but whoso did receive of them And taste, to him the gushing of the

wave

Far, far away, did seem to mourn and

rave

On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;

And deep asleep He seemed, yet all awake,

And music in his ears his beating heart did make."

Not only, however, do we desire to escape from our sordid troubles, the passion is strong within us to seize upon whatever means may offer to create for us a realm of positive delights. The ordinary vulgar stimulants cannot serve such a purpose. The tendency of wine, for example, is, as De Quincey remarks, to mount to a climax, after which depression and lethargy ensue. Now, any stimulant which-like opium-is even in its results, promoting a calm intensity of action, and that action purely intellectual, must possess a peculiar fascination for minds of the higher order.

De Quincey's revelation of the effects of this drug upon his own constitution, exaggerated as the revelation doubtless is, has, we believe, been infinitely inju rious to that class of men whose aims and mental sympathies are akin to his own. We may fancy one of this class exclaiming "If it be possible for me, by the employment of opium, to live for years in a region of exaltation, conceptive and imaginative, then am I ready to dare the after penalty, whatever may be its terrors!" And hundreds, perhaps thousands of brave and lofty spirits, acting upon the suggestions of a sophistry like this, have sacrificed themselves to an abnormal excitement, the fruits of which are so unspeakably bitter!

And now, under the guise of scientific ardour, another experimenter in what should be considered forbidden lore, comes forward, and enlightens the world in relation to the charms and terrors of a comparatively unknown drug. The fascinations of Hasheesh are of a kind to exert a powerful influence upon the high-strung, delicate, aspiring and imaginative nature. Once tempted practically to test its dangerous qualities, who can predict where the experimenter may stop? It is not every man who possesses our Hasheesh Eater's strength of will.

Such considerations have caused us seriously to doubt the propriety, nay, the morality of all "Confessions" which originate in the natural but injudicious confidences of Opium and Hasheesh Eaters. These gentlemen would do well to practice the virtue of reticence-to wear their hearts less openly upon their sleeves-because, so vivid is the desire in the human soul to enter upon higher modes of pleasure and activity, that the unfolding of the means by which the desire may be gratified, only adds one more temptation to the already fearful sum of our earthly trials. Especially should temptations of this description be kept out of the view of those who, while most keenly alive to their seductions, are sure to pay finally the heaviest penalty for yielding to them.

Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa, including a Sketch of Sixteen Years' Residence in the Interior of Africa, and A Journey from the Cape of Good Hope to Loando on the West Coast, thence across the Continent, down the River Zambia, to the Eastern Ocean. By David Livingston, L.L. D., D. Č. L. Harper &

Brothers: New York.

This large octavo of seven hundred and thirty-two pages, filled with engravings, and illustrated by numerous and well-defined maps, cannot, of course, be reviewed by us in the limited space of an editorial paragraph. We must content ourselves with an announcement of the publication of the work, and an expression of the great interest with which we have read the first six chapters, beyond which we have not as yet had the leisure to accompany the author. The style, so far, is terse, simple, vigorous and idiomatic-just the sort of style we like in a traveler.

Among the entertaining passages which we have already encountered, is the following honest detail of a dialogue between the Missionary under the title of Medical Doctor, and one of the necromantic Rain Doctors of the country.The Medical Doctor gets, we think, rather the worst of the argument:

MEDICAL DOCTOR.-Hail friend! How very many medicines you have about you this morning? Why, you have every medicine in the country here.

RAIN DOCTOR.-Very true, my friend; and I ought, for the whole country needs the rain which I am making.

M. D.-So you really believe that you command the clouds? I think that can be done by God alone.

R. D.-We both believe the very same thing. It is God that makes the rain, but I pray to him by means of these medicines, and the rain coming, of course it is then mine.

M. D.-But we are distinctly told in the parting words of our Saviour, that we can pray to God acceptably in His name alone, and not by means of medicines.

R. D.-Truly! but God told us differently. He made black men first, and did not love us as he did the white men. He made you beautiful, and gave you clothing, and guns and gunpowder, and horses and wagons, and many other things about which we know nothing. But towards us he had no heart. He gave us nothing except the assegai, and cattle, and rain making; and he did not give us hearts like yours. We never love each other. Other tribes place medicines about our country to prevent the rain, so that we may be dispersed

by hunger, and go to them and augment their power. We must dissolve their charms by our medicines. God has given us one little thing of which you know nothing. He has given us the knowledge of certain medicines by which we can make rain. We do not despise those things which you possess, though ignorant of them. You ought not to despise our little knowledge, though you are ignorant of it.

M. D.-I don't despise what I am ignorant of. I only think you are mistaken in saying you have medicines which can influence the rain at all.

R. D.-That's just the way people speak when they talk on a subject of which they have no knowledge. When we first opened our eyes we found our forefathers making rain, and we follow in their footsteps. You, who send to Kuruman for corn and irrigate your garden, may do without rain--we cannot manage in that way. If we had no rain the cattle would have no pasture, the cows give no milk, and children become lean and die, our wives run away to other tribes who do make rain and have corn, and the whole tribe become dispersed and lost. Our fire would go

out!

M. D.-I quite agree with you as to the value of the rain, but you cannot charm the clouds by medicines. You wait till you see the clouds come. and then you use your medicines, and take the credit which belongs to God only.

R. D.-I use my medicines, and you employ yours; we are both Doctors, and Doctors are not deceivers. You give a patient medicine. Sometimes God is pleased to heal him by means of your medicine, sometimes not-he dies.When he is cured you take the credit of what God does. I do the same. Sometimes God grants us rain, sometimes not. When he does we take the credit of the charm. When a patient dies, you don't give up trust in your medicine; neither do I when rain fails. If you wish me to leave off my medicines, why continue your own?

M. D.-I give medicines to living creatures within reach, and can see the effects, though no cure follows; you pretend to charm the clouds which are so far above us that your medicines can't reach them The clouds usually lie in one direction, and your smoke goes in another. God alone can command the clouds. Only try and wait patiently. God will give us rain without your medicines.

Well,

R. D.-Mahala-ma-kapa-a-a!! I always thought white men were wise till this morning. Who ever thought of making trial of starvation? Is death pleasant then?

M. D. Could you make it rain on one spot, and not on another?

R. D.-I wouldn't think of trying. I like to see the whole country green, and all the people glad, the women clapping their hands and giving me their ornaments for thankfulness, and lulli-looing for joy!

M. D.-I think you deceive both them and yourself.

R. D.-Then there's a pair of us (meaning both are rogues.)

A number of notices of new books have been unavoidably crowded out of the present number. We acknowledge the reception of Romantic Passages in Southwestern History-Songs and Poems of the South-Ancient Philosophy, by Wm. Archer Builer-Carolina Tribute to Calhoun-1st vol. of Collections of the Historical Society of South Carolina, from S. G. Courtenay & Co.-Shaw's English Literature-Trescott's American Diplomatic History-Spanish Conquest in America-and 2 volumes (The Monastery) of Ticknor & Fields' Household Edition of the Waverly Novels.

All these works shall be duly noticed in our February issue.

Of almost the whole school of French novelists who existed and wrote a quarter of a century since, (there has been a wonderful improvement in the French novel of late years,) the criticism of Poe upon Michel Masson, the author of "Le Caur d'une Jeune Fille," may be endorsed with some qualification:

"A corrupt and impious heart-a prurient fancy-a Saturnian brain in which invention has only the phosphorescent glimmer of rottenness-worthless body and soul-a reproach to the Nation that engendered and endures him. Less scrupulous than a carrion crow, and not very much less filthy than a Wilmer."

It is a profound and most feeling remark of De Quincey's, that to one who has lost a friend by death, (even supposing his faith to be the strongest,) there is a terrible sting in the thought,

that however glorified by the process, the loved one must be changed. In illustration he puts the case: "Let a Magician ask any woman whether she will permit him to improve her child, to raise it even from deformity to perfect beauty, if that must be done at the cost of its identity, and there is no loving mother but would reject his proposal with horror. All of us ask not

of God for a better thing than that we have lost, we ask for the SAME, even its faults and its frailties."

This little poem (exquisite, we think, in its ingenious and rich, yet most natural fancy,) we copy from a late number of the "Charleston Courier." It is written by Henry Timrod, and is entitled "Baby's Age."

She came with April blooms and show

ers;

We count her little life by flowers.
As buds the rose upon her cheek,
We choose a flower for every week.
A week of hyacinths, we say,
And one of heart's ease, ushered May;
And then because two wishes met

Upon the rose and violet

I liked the Beauty, Kate the Nun-
The violet and the rose count one.
A week the apple marked with white;
A week the lily scored in light;
Red poppies closed May's happy noon,
And tulips this blue week in June.
Here end as yet the flowery links;
To-day begins the week of pinks;
But soon-so grave, and deep, and wise,
The meaning grows in Baby's eyes,
So very deep for Baby's age-
We think to date a week with sage!

M. Villeneuve has published, in two stout volumes, his "Histoire d'Allemagne"-a work, it is asserted, distinguishing itself by a great impartiality. The author divides the history of Germany into ten epochs; and in those periods, which have been treated, before him, in Prof. Luden's classical work on German history, follows that predecessor with great judgment.Every epoch is preceded by a chapter on the development of Art and Science.

It is possible that some future Plutarch may write Biographies of the Revolutionary period, and draw parallels between the distinguished men of the thirteen States. In this case, the character of Washington will stand apart and alone. He has not only no parallel in our own history, but few are worthy to be compared with him in any other. He was the man of the time and occasion. The rest were subordinates. Take Washington from the Revolution and it becomes impracticable; remove any other agent and his place would be easily supplied. Other men were good partizans, like Sumter and Marion; or hard fighters, like Morgan and Wayne; or expert with tongue and pen, in making speeches, writing addresses, composing essays, drawing reports, framing despatches,

like Madison, Jefferson, Adams, Jay and Hamilton; but Washington alone possessed the genius to conduct a Revolution and establish a State. He alone had the heart, the soul, the intellect necessary to carry on a seven years' war, with stores always deficient, sometimes exhausted, of arms, clothing, provi sions, money; against veteran troops; in the face of division, discontent and despondency; opposed by cabals, factions, intrigues, envy, hatred, treachery, in the army, in Congress, among the States; with the courage, patience, self-command, magnanimity, judgment, and military skill, essential for the proper performance of the work.

It is difficult to appreciate justly the character, intellectual or moral, of Washington, because very few men can form any conception, even

of the difficulties he met so calmly and overcame with such consummate ability. How to make a great State is the most difficult of all problems. It requires great grasp of mind, not to solve it only, but to understand its solution when solved by another. The great mass of men are no more able to comprehend its difficulties, even when these are confronted and surmounted before their eyes, than they can understand a demonstration in the higher mathematics, when conducted and explained, in their presence, by an expert mathematician. We can form no adequate conception of the work done by Washington, and none consequently of the intellect required for doing it; but we may obtain some slight glimpses of its difficulties from collateral lights. We see the most daring men of action, and the most determined men of counsel, desponding and despairing in their subordinate and narrow spheres Montgomery, harassed, worried, perplexed by the want of aid and combination in his Canada expedition, wished he could renounce power and its troubles, for which he had no patience; Adams, when affairs grew gloomy and disastrous, was anxious to retreat to obscurity and private life; Washington alone held on his way with unflinching will, under all the vast and onerous duties and labours belonging to the supreme command.

Nothing more clearly indicates the inability that besets us in forming a just conception of Washington's genius, than to compare him with any other man of his time in intellectual power. Especially is this true when the party compared is a maker of speeches or addresses, a man like Hamilton, of the tongue and pen. We would as little think of comparing the great American leader, intellectually, with Paganini

or Powers, because he was unable to fiddle like one, or carve a statue like the other.

But setting aside the great chief of the Revolution as not presenting any available material for parallel drawing, we may find ample supplies among the subordinate personages of his day. The two books, whose titles introduce our article, supply an illustration. No two men of American history, before, during, or since the Revolution, admit of so perfect a pairing as Hamilton and Burr. The resemblance is marvellous. The difficulty is not to find a likeness, but a difference. They are twin specimens of humanity.

We may begin with their birth. They were nearly of the same age, the difference being less than a year. Burr was born in February, 1756, Hamilton in January, 1757. They were both small men-active, vigorous, enduring-of handsome features, of fine address, of culti vated minds; fond of books and versed in them; addicted to society, which they equally adorned; delighting in the company of ladies, in which they shone with a wit, refinement and polish which amounted to a kind of fascination; in both, admiration for the sex sometimes ended in intrigue; both were gentle and amiable in domestic life-good fathers, husbands, masters; both again were men of inordinate ambition, of great ability, of restless activity of mind, of popular talents, successful soldiers, lawyers, politicians, leaders of party; they were matched in every particular of figure, face, manner, pursuit, temper, disposition, strength and weakness; were competitors during life, and the event which deprived the one of existence, destroyed the fortunes of the other, and drove him into exile.

At the beginning of the Revo