"If that was but certain," said Richard, doubt

"Ah!" said the prince, "you would be the first who has thought them too good; and if they

have even worse coined, if that be possible." He called a servant, who gave Richard a whole bag of farthings. With these, he passed into a neighbouring State and was a happy man, when at the first Inn he stopped, they unwillingly gave him a good farthing for three of his.

brightly on the rocky point. The pale wanderer rose and went into the dark valley. Toyless and ingly. sad was all around him, here and there a glorious moonbeam shone over the rocks which ou all sides surrounded him, and fell on some narrow do not content you, I give my princely word to spot, giving it a spectre like appearance, otherwise he saw nothing mysterious. Determined to follow exactly the horseman's directions, as the only hope left to free himself from guilt and misery, he went neither too slow nor too fast. After many hours, a rosy light shone on his path and the fresh breath of morning breathed on his Now he asked for the black spring, at which face. As he left the valley, and was enjoying the some children who were at play in the parlor fresh shade and the glorious light of the blue ran screaming away. The host informed him, waves of the sea which was not far from him, not without a shudder, that it was a place from he heard a fearful shriek; he looked around, which many bad spirits came and infested the and saw in the claws of a wild beast a young country, and which few men had looked on. man in a rich hunting suit. His first impulse But he knew well the entrance to it was not far was to help him; but when he saw the beast from there, and was shaded by two funeral cymore fully, a monstrous ape with horns like presses, that he could not well miss the way, but stag's horns. he lost all courage and stood irres- from entering it, God preserve him, and all good olute, doubting whether he should aid the un- Christians. happy man or creep back into the dark valley. Richard was again in great distress, but he Then he remembered what the horseman told must venture, for it was his only hope. Already him, and urged by fear of eternal ruin, he struck from afar he saw the black cavern, and the very the monstrous ape with his motley stick, just as cypresses which hung over the abyss seemed it raised the prince in its fore claws, in order to withered with terror. A wonderful stone pointed dash him up and catch him on his horns. As to the entrance. To look down it, there seemed Richard drew near, he let his prey fall, and ran frightful long bearded beasts, and monstrous hissing and howling away. Richard, growing apes, like that he saw on the sea shore, and if he bold, pursued him until he dashed himself over saw rightly, it was filled with sharp and jagged the rocks on the sea shore, where, after grinning rocks, to break the bones of those who ventured terribly at him, he vanished beneath the waves. in. Trembling, the poor fellow stepped amongst Now the young man went back in triumph to these spectres. In his pocket the 'gallows man' the huntsman, who announced himself as prince of this country and prayed his benefactor to tell him how he might reward him.

"Truly," said Richard full of hope, "are you serious, and will you give me your princely word to grant my request ?"

The prince without hesitation joyfully promised. "Well, then," cried Richard with earnest supplication, "have me a few half farthings, good money, coined; if no more, give me at least two."

Whilst the prince was regarding him with astonishment, some of his followers came up, to whom he related his adventure. One of them who had seen Richard before, knew him immediately as the "mad half farthing."

Then the prince laughed, and Richard in anguish sunk on his knees, vowing he should be ruined without the half farthings.

became so heavy it almost drew him back; this but increased his courage, as he thought, “what you do not like, I ought to like." As he penetrated deeper in the cavern, the darkness hid the frightful spectres from his eyes. He directed all his attention to keeping the straight and narrow path, lest he should fall into some abyss. Fle found a smooth and even way, and, despite the hissing and scratching he heard, he went boldly on. At length he came out. A desert mountain chain surrounded him on all sides. Near him he saw the monstrous black horse of his merchant, who stood, though unbound, motionless, with head erect, like a brazen statue. Opposite, a stream gushed from the rock, in which the rider washed his bands and head. The water was like ink and so coloured all it touched, that when the huge man turned his ugly face to Richard. it was black, contrasting strangely with his bloodred clothes.

"Stand up, young man," said the prince, laugh ing, "you have my princely word that you shall "Be not alarmed, young man, this is one of have as many half farthings as you want-thirds the ceremonies I must perform to please the of a farthing would not need to be coined, as devil; every Friday I must here so wash, in scorn my neighbours declare my farthings are so light and mockery of him whom you call your dear it takes three to make a good one." Saviour, and when I need new clothes, I mix the

water with drops of my own blood, from whence comes this magnificent red colour, and there are yet other conditions heavier than these.

"I have bound my body and soul so firmly to him there is now no possible redemption. And know you what the niggard gave me for it? 100.000 gold pieces a year. This is too little, and for that reason I will buy your 'gallows man,' that I may play the old curmudgeon a trick. He has my soul fast, and now the little black devil shall come back without winning one more soul to Hell. This will make the green dragon curse." At this he laughed so loud that the rocks re-echoed it, and even the motionless black horse appeared to join. “Now," said he again turning to Richard, “companion, do you bring the half farthings?"

"I am not your companion," said Richard, half in scorn, half in fear, yet opening his purse. "Ah!" said he, "who hunted the prince with that monster, that you might conquer him?"

"It was not necessary," said Richard, and told how the prince had already thirds of farthings in circulation.

NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

THE PRELUDE; or, Growth of a Poet's Mind. An Autobiographical Poem. By William Wordsworth. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1850.

The peculiar admirers of Wordsworth have long known, from the preface to the Excursion, not only that that poem was designed as a portion of a more extended work, but also that the author had already written the introduction to that work, as well as other parts of it, besides the Excursion itself.

"Several years ago," wrote Wordsworth, in 1814, "when the author retired to his native mountains, with might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take the hope of being able to construct a literary work that

a review of his own mind, and examine how far nature and education had fitted him for such employment.

"As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with them. That work, addressed to a dear friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the author's intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished."

The friend here alluded to is Coleridge, who has transcribed his feelings with regard to it, and the author's recent death has given to the public this introductory poem in the volume now under consideration.

"The Prelude," is a history, in fourteen books of un

The red man seemed vexed to think he had had the unnecessary trouble of a conflict with the monster-then he changed a good farthing pretending and easy blank verse, of the mental developfor three of Richard's bad ones, and gave one of inent and education of a poet. The author exhibits a these to Richard in exchange for the gallows very close adherence to this idea throughout the whole, man.'

Again the buyer laughed loudly. "Thou canst not help it, Satan. Now gold here, as much as my black horse can carry." Soon the monstrous animal groaned under his heavy burden, then he took his master up and went straight over the rocky wall, high up the perpendicular rocks as if he was flying, but yet with such terrible contortions and motions. that Richard went into the

nor is he ever led away to describe scenes and events not essential to the formation of his intellect, however intimately connected with his personal experience. "The Prelude," therefore, will be apt to prove a tedious volume, we fear, to all but genuine Lakers in their poetical taste. Autobiographical reading in blank verse is at best but dry provender, but when the writer is eminently self-reflective and gives whole passages of metaphysical inquiry,moreover, when that writer is William Wordsworth, whose lines flow on in the same tranquil current, in omne volu bilis ævum,-it will require a Wordsworthian indeed to cavern to avoid seeing any more. When he smack his lips over the repast and offer up a grace after meat." For ourselves, schooled, as we are, into a geneagain came out, on the other side of the mounrous appreciation of the beauties of the bard of "Rydal tain, the wholly happy feeling of freedom filled Mount," by long acquaintance with, and careful study of his soul, he felt that he had done penance for the his earlier works, we must confess that more frequent desins of his youth, and that the 'gallows man' could scriptions of scenery and events in The Prelude would no more belong to him. In the fulness of his have pleased us better than so much consciousness and joy, he lay on the green grass, caressed the flow-introspection. The book contains very many lines that ers, and kissed his hand to the sun.

66

are flatly and hopelessly prosaic, often long passages of such; it lacks, too, the fire of that poetry which “brighteyed fancy" utters, when she

Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn

An entirely light heart beat again in his breast, butnot, as formerly, light from thoughtlessness and frivolity. Though he might have boasted of outwitting the devil himself, he did not boast-but preferred to devote his whole youthful strength but it has nevertheless glorious strains, which we canto leading a useful and honorable life. In this not but regret that the author should have kept back, he succeeded so well, that, after a few years, he nearly half a century, from mankind. returned a successful merchant to his own coun- The versification of Wordsworth, like that of Cowper try-married a wife, and often the happy greyheaded old man told his children and grandchildren the story of the cursed 'gallows man,' as a useful warning to them.

and Crabbe, is at times but little more than disjointed prose, and might be successfully imitated by breaking into lines of ten syllables any well-written essay on moral philosophy. The Bourgeois Gentilhomme expressed his great surprise that he had been speaking proso forty

years of his life without knowing it. The essayist, who The third and fourth books describe his "Residence at should try the experiment we have suggested and find his 'Cambridge," and his "Summer Vacation." Our pure and thoughts poetry, would doubtless manifest as great as simple poet seems to have been little at his ease in the tonishment as M. Jourdain. roystering circles of "the Evangelist, St. John," his pa But, lest the disciple of Wordsworth accuse us of irrev-tron, and passed unassoiled through the temptations of erently discussing the merits of one who is far above the college-life. Once, he confesses, in pouring out libations in reach of praise or blame,―niched in the great temple of Milton's lodge to the memory of the great bard, his brain song but a little lower than the master of all, "with his " singing robes about him"-let us hasten to do homage to his shade by culling from the "Prelude" a few of its choicest sweets. We shall thus evince our gratification at having enjoyed them, and vindicate ourselves from the charge of insensibility to genius. The first two books are taken up with the author's "Childhood" and "Schooltime," and are full of exquisite passages. The earliest associations of his boyish days are thus introduced:

Ah! better far than this, to stray about
Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,
And ask no record of the hours, resigned
To vacant musing, unreproved neglect
Of all things, and deliberate holiday.
Far better never to have heard the name
Of zeal and just ambition, than to live

Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour
Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again,
Then feels immediately some hollow thought
Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.
This is my lot; for either still I find
Some imperfection in the chosen theme,
Or see of absolute accomplishment
Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself,
That I recoil and droop, and seek repose
In listlessness from vain perplexity,
Unprofitably travelling toward the grave,
Like a false steward who hath much received
And renders nothing back.

Was it for this

That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved
To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song,
And, from his alder shades and rocky falls,
And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice
That flowed along my dreams? For this, didst thou,
O Derwent! winding among grassy holms
Where I was looking on. a babe in arms,
Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts
To more than infant softness, giving me
Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind
A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm
That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.
When he had left the mountains and received
On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers
That yet survive, a shattered monument
Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed
Along the margin of our terrace walk;

A tempting playinate whom we dearly loved.
Oh, many a time have I, a five years' child,
In a small mill-race severed from his stream,
Made one long bathing of a summer's day;
Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again
Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured
The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves
Of yellow ragwort, or when rock and hill,
The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height,
Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone
Beneath the sky, as if I had been born
On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut
Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport
A naked savage in the thunder shower.

grew dizzy," and he describes with charming naireti the condition of booziness. "The Vacation" came as a delightful relief to his over-tasked energies, and his quiet joy in finding himself again among his native streams and mountains is beautifully pictured in the following lines

Those walks well worthy to be prized and loved-
Regretted!-that word, too, was on my tongue,
But they were richly laden with all good,
And cannot be remembered but with thanks
And gratitude, and perfect joy of heart-
Those walks in all their freshness now came back
Like a returning Spring. When first I made
Once more the circuit of our little lake,
If ever happiness hath lodged with man,
That day consummate happiness was mine,
Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative.
The sun was set, or setting, when I left
Our cottage door, and evening soon brought on
A sober hour, not winning or serene,
For cold and raw the air was, and untuned;
But as a face we love is sweetest then
When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look
It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart
Have fulness in herself; even so with me
It fared that evening. Gently did my soul
Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood
Naked, as in the presence of her God.

While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch

A heart that had not been disconsolate :

Strength came where weakness was not known to be,
At least not felt; and restoration came
Like an intruder knocking at the door
Of unacknowledged weariness. I took
The balance, and with firm hand weighed myself.
Of that external scene which round me lay
Little, in this abstraction, did I see;
Remembered less; but I had inward hopes
And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed,
Conversed with promises, had glimmering views
How life pervades the undecaying mind;
How the immortal soul with God-like power
Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep
That time can lay upon her; how on earth,
Man, if he do but live within the light
Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad
His being armed with strength that cannot fail.
Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love
Of innocence, and holiday repose;
And more than pastoral quiet, 'mid the stir
Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end
At last, or glorious, by endurance won.
Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down
Alone, continuing there to muse: the slopes
And heights meanwhile were slowly overspread
With darkness, and before a rippling breeze
The long lake lengthened out its hoary line,
And in the sheltered coppice where I sate
Around me from among the hazel leaves,
Now here, now there, moved by the straggling wind,
Came ever and anon a breath-like sound,
Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog,
The off-and-on companion of my walk;
And such, at times, believing them to be,

I turned my head to look if he were there;
Then into solemn thought I passed once more.

The next and last passage we shall quote, is strikingly self-reflective, but is perhaps one of the finest things in the book

Nor less do I remember to have felt,
Distinctly manifested at this time,
A human-heartedness about my love
For objects hitherto the absolute wealth
Of my own private being and no more:
Which I had loved, even as a blessed spirit
Or Angel, if he were to dwell on earth,
Might love in individual happiness.
But now there opened on me other thoughts
Of change, congratulation or regret,

A pensive feeling! It spread far and wide;

The trees, the mountains shared it, and the brooks.
The stars of heaven, now seen in their old haunts-
White Sirius glittering o'er the southern crags,
Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven,
Acquaintances of every little child,
And Jupiter, my own beloved star!
Whatever shadings of mortality,

Whatever imports from the world of death
Had come among these objects heretofore,
Were, in the main, of mood less tender: strong,
Deep, gloomy were they, and severe; the scatterings
Of awe or tremulous tread, that had given way
In later youth to yearnings of a love
Enthusiastic, to delight and hope.

As one who hangs down-bending from the side
Of a slow-moving boat, upon the breast
Of a still water, solacing himself
With such discoveries as his eye can make
Beneath him in the bottom of the deep,

Sees many beauteous sights-weeds, fishes, flowers,
Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies more,
Yet often is perplexed and cannot part
The shadow from the substance, rocks and sky,
Mountains and clouds reflected in the depth
Of the clear flood, from things which there abide
In their true dwelling; now is crossed by gleam
Of his own image, by a sunbeam now,

And wavering motions sent he knows not whence,
Impediments that make his task more sweet;
Such pleasant office have we long pursued
Incumbent o'er the surface of past time
With like success, nor often have appeared
Shapes fairer or less doubtfully discerned
Than these to which the Tale, indulgent Friend!
Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spite
Of pleasure won, and knowledge not withheld,
There was an inner falling off--I loved,
Loved deeply all that had been loved before,
More deeply even than ever: but a swarm
Of heady schemes jostling each other, gawds,
And feast and dance, and public revelry,
And sports and games (too grateful in themselves,
Yet in themselves less grateful, I believe,
Than as they were a badge glossy and fresh
Of manliness and freedom) all conspired
To lure my mind from firm habitual quest

Of feeding pleasures, to depress the zeal

And damp those yearnings which had once been mine-
A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up
To his own eager thoughts.

We should like to pursue our notice of the "Prelude" into an analysis of the entire poem, to follow the author on his journey to the Alps, to abide with him in London

and in France, to run over his reflections on the French Revolution and enjoy again the sweet and lofty poesy of his concluding thoughts. We should like to quote from all these, the most striking passages, because we are persua ded that very many who would read and enjoy them in detached sentences, will be deterred by prejudice against the Lake School of Poetry, from arriving at them in the book itself. But out limited space forbids us to do so, and we must reluctantly dismiss "The Prelude" with the expression of our decided conviction that, however unequal in execution it may be, it will last as long as any, even of the noblest efforts of William Wordsworth.

HISTORY OF DARIUS THE GREAT: By Jacob Abbott; with engravings. New York. Harper & Brothers.

This is another of the series of popular Histories by the same author. It is a pretty and very readable volume, in proof of which we affirm, upon our veracity, that we read through its 286 pages at one sitting. The book, if it does not deserve the name of a history, at least contains interesting selections from the history of the early times, and great personages and events, of which it treats. It is a sweet morsel for the mental palate, that imparts a wholesome hunger for more. It is well suited to the youthful mind or the mass of the people; but though well enough written to satisfy even the fastidious taste of the scholar, it is not for him sufficiently profound. He loves to drink history from her original fountains, knowing that there it is fresher if not purer, and if the fountain itself be impure, he loves to filter it for himself. Or, if he is content to have that labor done for him by others, he goes to those master chemists, who have proved their skill in separating the true from the false, the historical from the fabulous,-such as Heeren, Arnold, Prescott, &c.

What a strange delusion it is, that makes the people of our day and generation spend their precious time, and eyesight, and intellect, in reading every thing that is called a novel, whether good, bad, or indifferent, although there are twenty bad or indifferent for one that is good,-when the works, from which truth and knowledge are to be gathered, are far more interesting as well as more useful. What work of fiction is more entertaining than the historical narratives of that honest and simple-hearted, but it may be over credulous, old chronicler Herodotus? What novel so thrilling and so soul-stirring, as the History of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides, that paragon of historians? What novellette, or "moral tale" of the present day, will compare in dramatic interest with this little history of Darius? Yet the book does not do justice to its great themes. In reading, for example, the account of the great battle of Marathon, we have but 'a bird's eye view of it,-no adequate idea is given to us of the patriotism, skill, and valour of the Greeks, and the wisdom with which their great commander made his preparations and chose his ground for the combat. Again we bid the students of history and lovers of classical lore "petere fontes,"— "drink deep" of the Pierian spring. But if you are more fond of the agreeable than the profound, still mingle a little of the useful with the sweet; if you will not read the Bible, Tacitus, Thucydides, Heeren, Arnold, &c., at least read Irving, Macaulay, and kindred writers, in preference to the heavy light reading of Cooper, James, Mrs. Gore, Dickens, et id omne genus.

Let us not however be misunderstood. All history is not equally useful, nor is all fiction useless. In a certain sense, there is history that is false, and fiction that is true. Much that pretends to be history is not really so, i. e.— is not true; and much even of true history records events strange, unnatural, and beyond all probability. So on the other hand the masters of fiction adhere generally so

LANY: Crosby & Nichols. Boston.

closely to the laws of physical and moral nature in their THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER AND RELIGIOUS MISCEL creations, that their books are as instructive as if they were true. Thus we know and feel that Shakspeare is true, not in his history of events, but in his delineation of the human heart and its passions; and that Walter Scott is truthful in the romances from his pen, which have afforded and ever will afford so much delight to the family fireside. We have already had something to say about the readers and the venders of that sort of light literature which distils a moral poison wherever it goes,-a litera ture of which Eugene Sue, and the woman who writes under the name of George Sand, are now the burning and shining lights, but which did not begin with them.

This work sustains its well established reputation. The September number of this year presents an attrac tive table of contents, and some clever articles under the heads of Literary and Religious Intelligence. We cor dially agree with the following remarks, provoked by the notoriety of a certain Dr. Achilli; who, upon the strength of an alleged conversion from the Church of Rome, and an un-paring denunciation of the Catholics, had been much caressed by certain zealous Protestants in England.

"Previous experience, too, has over and over again warned us to beware of noisy apostates and converts, of

RURAL HOURS: By a Lady. New York. George P. wandering proselyters, and lecturers against their former

Putnam. 1850.

brethren or religious communion. We have had them on A very charming book from the pen of a young lady. this side of the water, and we avoid them. They invari It is a pleasant chronicle of incidents and employments ably show a bad spirit! and; if they are not actually bur in the country, with the observations of the authoress dened with disgrace, they seldom harm their formet thereon. It contains nothing very original or striking: brethren so much as those who adopt them. A very di but exhibits the natural, and at the same time refined, ferent course and demeanor befit a sincere convert. His tastes of a lady, with a fair share of reading and thought, very experience will have humbled him, and taught him and a sound healthy tone of sentiment and opinion. gentleness and dignity of thought, modesty of behaviour, The copyright being secured by J. Fennimore Cooper, and the book inscribed to the author of the "Deerslayer,", it is no rash conjecture to assume that the work is his daughter's. We bespeak for her a favorable reception at the hands of our fair readers, who will find her well deserving of it. The following passage (page 172) is especially worthy of commendation in these days of agitation for "Female Rights"—

and forbearance of speech. If he was ever a sincere disciple of the fold which he has left, some of his heart-strings will yet and always cling to it, and friends among the living and the dead will make his memories of it to be ten der." The reviewer adds-"The Dublin Review gives us from authentic documents, and from police records, a com plete history of the so called Dr. Achilli, who has no claim to the title which he assumes. He was ordained a priest of the Roman church, and all that the Roman Irquisition ever had to do with him was to deprive him of all his functions, because of his most flagitious conduct in repeated acts of seduction and crime. He is proved to be utterly unworthy of credit, a very base and bad man, and a most unquestionable impostor."

"We American women certainly owe a debt of gratitude to our country men for their kindness and consideration for us generally. Gallantry may not always take a graceful form in this part of the world, and mere flattery may be worth as little here as elsewhere; but there is a glow of generous feeling toward woman in the hearts of most American men, which is highly honorable to them as a nation and as individuals. In no country is the protection given to woman's helplessness more full and free-in no country is the assistance she receives from the stronger arm so general-and nowhere does her weakness meet with more forbearance and consideration. Under such circumstances it must be woman's own fault, if she be not thoroughly respected also. The position accorded to her is favorable; it remains for her to fill it in a manner worthy her own sex, gratefully, kindly, and simply; with truth and modesty of heart and life; with unwavering fidelity of feeling and principle, with patience, cheerfulness, and sweetness of temper-no unfit return to those who smooth REMINISCENCES OF CONGRESS: by Charles W. March: the daily path for her."

Read that, ye brazen apostles of what ye call "the rights of woman"-ye, who frequent mass meetings, and delight to parade yourselves before the public-ye, who glory in tumults, and rejoice when your violent language and behaviour provoke the applause, or the resentment, of the mob to whom ye speak! Read-and if not yet totally unsexed, let the truth, which she utters from the sweet, womanly instinct of her heart, find entrance into yours, and purify them.

We should be glad to copy many other and longer passages from the abundant variety of Miss Cooper's work: and especially, by way of showing that she is not blind to the faults of the "nobler sex," the capital satire (pages 298, 299,) upon the "faint praise" with which men too often "damn" the culinary attempts of their housekeepers, while they extol the unapproachable excellence of "the pie of five and twenty years ago."

Can any one tell us what is the Phabe bird, of which she speaks, on pages 16 and 66 ?

We do not understand the reviewer to deny as we de not at all ourselves mean to question-the sincerity and faith to another, even the most opposite. But we discredit piety of thousands, who have passed from one religious the existence of such qualities, in company with vindic tive hatred and rancorous abuse of former friends and as sociates Converts of this character in religion bear too strong and unpleasing a likeness to the deserter in warthe rat in politics-and the felon, who turns state's evi dence against his accomplices.

Baker & Scribner. New York. 1850.

We are indebted to Messrs. Morris & Brother for this well written and spirited book. Its title is a misnomer; but it is not the less agreeable and instructive. It is a rapid sketch of the life of Daniel Webster, with no other Reminiscences of Congress" than the figures which filled up the background of the picture, on some of those memorable occasions, when the great statesman "stood like a tower" among men, who would have been giants elsewhere. Making some small allowance for the parti ality of a biographer, we have no fault to find with it, as it regards Mr. Webster. But we think the author has done less than justice to others. While he does not directly assail Mr. Clay, he more than once makes insinua tions, which, if credited, would detract greatly from the sincerity, the fearlessness, and the noble elevation of his character. But he deals with the memory of John Quincy Adams in a spirit that is not merely harsh, but ferocious and pitiless. We are not insensible to Mr. Adams' faults