collection of such a passage as we are about to quote, perused at breakfast, that abstracted meal, where, absorbed in the book beside his plate, he had attempted to eat his egg without looking at it, daubing cheeks and chin horridly with the yolk, while the cat, after devouring on the love-embroidered cushion of a neighboring sofa his only mutton chop, returned to wash down the ill-gotten morsel by inserting her head in the creamjug, and lapping up the contents unmolested. No social circle beams for him. London is a desert; but at Ambrose's there is an invisible chair where he may sit unnoticed and hear converse high. authors, and the press discussed with sportive | magician, and enlivening the road by the resparkling wisdom, and all going merry as a marriage-bell, when that cursed question arose, nobody knows how, as to whether Grinder or Grubb wrote that article in the Westminster, which appeared, Keene says seven, Cutler eight, years ago. From that moment the demon of discord has it all his own way-the phantoms of Grinder and Grubb presently vanish in the wide field of debate into which the disputants wander, reasoning in circles, mistaking assertion for proof, shifting their ground, begging the question, losing sight of it altogether, and performing all the logic-defying feats which distinguish after-dinner argument, till, waking cold and with a headache about two in the morning from a temporary slumber, in which you had taken refuge with your face among the walnut shells, you find Cutler and Keene just leaving the club, and grimly bidding each other good-night with feelings of violent animosity, each persuaded that the other is the most obstinate ass in existence, and terminating in this agreeable manner the evening which you had intended should be worthy to be marked with a white stone. If, instead of these futile attempts at social enjoyment, you eat your solitary steak quietly in your robe-de-chambre and slippers, after a couple of glasses draw your chair to the fire, which responds warmly and cheerfully to your persuasive poke, and opening the magic drab-colored paper boards, transfer yourself to Ambrose's, none of these disappointments can possibly await you. Nothing but the untimely extinction of the lamp, from failure of wick or bad oil, or some accursed moth smothering the flame of the candle with his ill-timed suttee, can disperse the genial assembly of fun and wisdom a minute before the end of the volume. The Shepherd is ever eloquent, North ever gracious, Tickler always responsive and sociable; and should the subject-matter of discourse flag for a page or two, you may skip, or even vault, in perfect security that you let slip no important thread of story in doing so, and are certain to land yourself in fresh fields of imagery, description, or criticism. This makes the Noctes especially eligible perusal for those avocations only permit them to read in snatches. We can picture to ourselves some high-minded clerk in the public offices, framed for better things, wending his way of a morning to Downing Street, where he has daily and hourly to do the bidding of the present ministry, like an Ariel, compelled to fulfil the hests of some damned witch or foul Here is a bit of castle-building which a Richter-worshipping friend assures us is like a felicitous fragment of Jean Paul, idol of the Teutons. The Shepherd is describing a calm as a contrast to a storm he has first painted, SHEPHERD. I'm wrapped up in my plaid, and lyin a' my length on a bit green platform, fit for the fairies' feet, wi' a craig haugin ower me a thousand feet high, yet bright and balmy a' the way up wi' flowers and briars, and broom and birks, and mosses maist beautifu' to behold wi' half-shut ee, and through aneath ane's arm guardin the face frae the cloudless sunshine! Perhaps a bit bonny butterfly is resting, wi' faulded wings, on a gowan, no a yard frae your cheek; and noo, waukening out o' a simmer dream, floats awa in its wavering beauty, but as if unwilling to leave its place of mid-day sleep, comin back and back, and roun' and roun', on this side and that side, and ettlin in its capricious happiness to fasten again on some brighter floweret, till the same breath o' wund that lifts up your hair sae refreshingly, catches the airy voyager, and watts her away into some other nook of her ephemeral paradise. TICKLER. I did not know that butterflies inhabited the region of snow. Gin a pile o' grass straughtens itself in silence, you hear it distinctly. I'm thinkin that was the noise o' a beetle gaun to pay a visit to a freen on the ither side o' that mossy stane. The melting dew quakes! Ay, sing awa, my bonnie bee, maist industrious o' God's creatures! Dear me, the heat is ower muckle for him; and he burrows himsel in amang a tuft o' grass, like a beetle panting! and noo invisible a' but the yellow doup o' him. I, too, feel drowsy, and will go to sleep amang the mountain solitude. NORTH. Not with such a show of clouds SHEPHERD. No! not with such a show of clouds. A congregation of a million might worship in that Cathedral! What a dome! And is not that flight of steps magnificent? My imagination sees a crowd of white-robed spirits ascending to the inner shrine of the temple. Hark-a bell tolls! Yonder it is, swinging to and fro, half-minute time, in its tower of clouds. The great air-organ 'gins to blow its pealing anthem-and the overcharged spirit falling from its vision, sees nothing but the pageantry of earth's common vaporsthat ere long will melt in showers, or be wafted away in darker masses over the distance of the sea. Of what better stuff, O Mr. North, are made all our waking dreams? Call not thy Shepherd's strain fantastic; but look abroad over the work-day world, and tell him where thou seest aught more steadfast or substantial than that cloud-cathedral, with its flight of vapor-steps, and its mist towers, and its air-organ, now all gone for ever, like the idle words that imaged the transitory and delusive glories. The editor, who assures us that the Scotch of the dialogues is of the most classical description, has appended foot-notes explaining the hardest words. One consequence we foresee from the republication of the Noctes is the universal study of the northern dialect. French, German, and Italian masters will find their occupation gone. If it is worth while mastering the Teutonic gutturals to read Goethe and Jean Paul, why not devote a short space of attention to the language of the Shepherd? Many of the topics have great interest just now; for instance, at page 77, the trio I don't know, gentlemen, that I follow you, for am no great scholar. But allow me to say, in better English than I generally speak, for that Mars-in ancient times they shone togetherbeautiful star-Venus, I suspec, or perhaps knew intimately the Peninsular War, it would that if any poet, breathing the spirit of battle, rest entirely with himself to derive poetry from it made the groundwork of poetry; and the passion or not. Every passion that is intense may be with which the British charge the French is sufficiently intense, I suspec, to ground poetry upon. Not a critic of the French School would deny it. Seldom has Mars offered to the Muses a more attractive spectacle than now, as he stands erect, and, strangling Plutus with his left hand, waves his right to Venus, who stretches her white arms lovingly towards him across the sea. What a soldier North would have made! What fiery valor, what chivalrous devotion, what energy of command! By soldier we mean general and commander-in-chief-or, if he held a lesser command, it should be the cavalry, and that entirely independent. He would advance from Eupatoria to cut the communications of the enemy with the same confidence as he used to invade Cockaigne, throwing out his skirmishers, covering his flanks, and always mindful of the commissariat. What a gleam in his eye when he caught sight of the marshalled hordes of the enemy on that wide on the well-known characters, her eyes blind- | ed with tears even while her lips smile brightly, mirth broken by sighs, weeping dashed with soft laughter-are such as Maga ex periences in reviewing the writings and recalling the genius of North. CAMP BEFORE SEBASTOPOL, 1st September. From the Dublin University Magazine. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. Ir would be somewhat mortifying, we suspect, to many of those who are generally considered "accredited" authors, were they to step out of the circle in which their claims are either recognized or disputed. Let them lay aside periodicals, avoid every one suspected of a taste for letters, hold no correspondence with literary friends or enemies, and to the rest of the community they will find themselves, to use an expressive phrase, "nobody." Those who are habitually in contact with the literary world can scarcely conceive, or are apt to forget, the amount of indifference and ignorance which prevails without. Mrs. Hemans complained of the oppressive weight of the popular ovations to which she was subjected; yet we have an idea that we could have introduced her to most respectable society, where she might have been quite at ease on that score. As for Elizabeth Barrett Browning, notwithstanding her prettily-bound volume being so common on drawing-room tables, greatest of female poets though she be, in the opinion of others besides Edgar Allan Poe, we think we could safely guarantee that she, as well as Messrs. Helps, Kingsley, Tennyson, and even the grim Carlyle himself, might appear almost anywhere without being troubled with any demonstration, respectful or otherwise. The subject of our present article may be ranked with the latter class, whose names, familiar as household words in the literary world, are comparatively unknown out of that charmed circle. In "The Scarlet Letter," Mr. Hawthorne bears humorous testimony to the truth of this, when describing his sudden change from literary habits and society to those of a custom-house. Not withstanding his good-humored philosophy on the subject, we suspect this discovery must have been rather tantalizing, after waiting so long for public recognition; though, to be sure, as we have said, setting customhouses aside, the general reputation he has acquired is as yet, to say the least, limited. We lately saw a critique on him, assuming that the popularity of his works required that some voice should be raised against their deleterious influence. We hope the conscientious critic demolished the obnoxious democrat to his own satisfaction; but to the majority of the respectable readers of his publication, we fear he would be denouncing a man of straw. Undoubtedly, however, this as yet limited reputation is slowly but surely extending, and a few years will greatly change his relation to many other writers more favored at present. "The Scarlet Letter," which appears first to have procured for him a modicum of public attention, has been, in some measure, the means of drawing out of obscurity his other works-those, too, on which we conceive much of his future | reputation will rest. The fallen leaves of past years have kept their green through all seasons of neglect, and now begin to be visible, as other once flaunting, now withered, weeds are swept away. With not a few points of resemblance to recent English and American authors, Hawthorne has yet many peculiarities of his own, so nicely characterized that we cannot think of anything like a complete prototype to him in literature. Now, the quaint, still humor of his thoroughly English style, reminds us of Washington Irving; now the delicate, imperceptible touches of Longfellow become apparent; now the calm, genial, effortless flow of Helps. We have often fancied, also, that we could detect a resemblance to John Foster, but we suspect, were nently picturesque, sometimes grotesque in its quaintness, often sublime in its savage grandeur, with dark corners of mystery, and nooks bright with sport and enjoyment, and always teeming with life and interest, is the monu None but a mind of unequalled richness could venture to range, as his does, without other limits than the chances of discourse. Matters, the highest and the lowest, of recondite philosophy and everyday life, are connected by links slender, yet perfectly natural, and of quaint and various design, into a chain rich with ornaments. Every subject in turn, and all alike, are treated with the fulness and luxuriance generally bestowed only on some pet theme. Such evidence of rare power leaves nothing to regret. Novelists and dramatists must have some tambour frame of plot on which to embroider their characters and scenes essayists must acknowledge the efficacy of rule and compass in enabling them to express the results of thought, reading, and experience; and on their ingenuity and constructive power often depends, in great measure, the success of their work. But when an author, taking us, like some genie, by the hand, leads us, with no apparent choice of path, through scenes now wild, now familiar track through that white world led us to the borders of a region swept years before by a fire in the forest. The stately pine, with its deep green canopy, the feathery pointed firs, with their flake-roofed bending branches, the deep hemlock swamps, where black foliagement left to the world by Christopher North. and stems and snow were huddled and heaped in a wild tangle, as of ebony inlaid on ivory-all vanished; and instead, there sprung from the undulating desert only the grim charred skeletons of trees, bare, spectral, and ominous, with black branches, like antlers, stretching against the gray sky, noiseless and motionless, though a breeze waved the living forest, and the pines, whispering as they bent and swayed to its wing, seemed to be telling the weird secrets of that ghostly scene, fit for lost spirits to wander in, forever desolate. A hunter, of a race of red skins well nigh extinct, leaned on his rifle, and told how, many years before, he, then a boy, had fled for life through these woods, pursued by the crackling roaring flames, which made the forest behind him one endless furnace, where trees glowed and shrivelled in a long perspective of shadowless fire, and before whose hot breath he dashed on in his race with red destruction towards the river below, and found shelter in its welcome waters. There he crouched, while there swarmed round him sometimes by dark glens and gloomy forthe wild beasts and venomed snakes of the ests, sometimes through cheerful streets, forest, their savage instincts quelled in the where the common sights of daily life are fear of burning, and the flames spreading to suddenly bright with interest-away across the other bank, and darting down like fierce wide moors haunted by the gor-cock and serpents, till he and all the other living crea- curlew, to the deep ravine where we are made tures scarce dared to gasp at the surface for to pause and listen to the waterfall before those breaths which scorched their vitals, being taken into the cottage on its bank, and formed an arch beneath which the river, red-shown not only the faces but the hearts of dened to a bright glow, flowed on in a long its inhabitants-and then, with a heigh presvista of terrible beauty. Yet even on this to! off to Princess Street, where the passenblasted spot the soil, scarred but not desolat-gers on the pavement have a new meaning in ed, had re-clad itself in verdure, now hidden their ordinary faces-now saddened with a by the snow, except where the tops of the tale of pathos, now convulsed with laughter infant forest peeped through, and was in summer filled with birds and fruits and humming life. We remember to have somewhere heard, read, or dreamed, a kind of lament, that such a genius as North's should have written itself on his age in such desultory characters, and should not rather, with labor and thought, have left some complete and magnificent literary edifice, constructed by stricter rules, as an enduring testimony of its powers. No reader and appreciator of the Noctes will experience such vain and shallow regrets. It is better to have the Kremlin and the Parthenon than two Parthenons, and something like the northern structure, vast, various, emi- I -we acknowledge a power which has more resemblance to inspiration than the spirit which dictates either brilliant romance or profound philosophy. Now is Maga like some fair widow, who sees stalwart boys, blooming daughters, and laughing children of sweet promise, around her. Cheerful and bright, diffusing light through the household, and bringing pleasure to many a circle, she ceases not to remember him who was her pride, who has left on her mind, and the minds of her numerous offspring, the impress of his powerful spirit. The feelings with which, in moments sacred to memory, she reperuses the letters of her lost and wedded love-dwelling with fondness on the well-known characters, her eyes blind- | ed with tears even while her lips smile brightly, mirth broken by sighs, weeping dashed with soft laughter-are such as Maga ex periences in reviewing the writings and recalling the genius of North. CAMP BEFORE SEBASTOPOL, 1st September. From the Dublin University Magazine. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. It would be somewhat mortifying, we suspect, to many of those who are generally considered "accredited" authors, were they to step out of the circle in which their claims are either recognized or disputed. Let them lay aside periodicals, avoid every one suspected of a taste for letters, hold no correspondence with literary friends or enemies, and to the rest of the community they will find themselves, to use an expressive phrase, "nobody." Those who are habitually in contact with the literary world can scarcely conceive, or are apt to forget, the amount of indifference and ignorance which prevails without. Mrs. Hemans complained of the oppressive weight of the popular ovations to which she was subjected; yet we have an idea that we could have introduced her to most respectable society, where she might have been quite at ease on that score. As for Elizabeth Barrett Browning, notwithstanding her prettily-bound volume being so common on drawing-room tables, greatest of female poets though she be, in the opinion of others besides Edgar Allan Poe, we think we could safely guarantee that she, as well as Messrs. Helps, Kingsley, Tennyson, and even the grim Carlyle himself, might appear almost anywhere without being troubled with any demonstration, respectful or otherwise. The subject of our present article may be ranked with the latter class, whose names, familiar as household words in the literary world, are comparatively unknown out of that charmed circle. In The Scarlet Letter," Mr. Hawthorne bears humorous testimony to the truth of this, when describing his sudden change from literary habits and society to those of a custom-house. Notwithstanding his good-humored philosophy on the subject, we suspect this discovery must have been rather tantalizing, after waiting so long for public recognition; though, to be sure, as we have said, setting customhouses aside, the general reputation he has acquired is as yet, to say the least, limited. We lately saw a critique on him, assuming that the popularity of his works required that some voice should be raised against their deleterious influence. We hope the conscientious critic demolished the obnoxious democrat to his own satisfaction; but to the majority of the respectable readers of his publication, we fear he would be denouncing a man of straw. Undoubtedly, however, this as yet limited reputation is slowly but surely extending, and a few years will greatly change his relation to many other writers more favored at present. "The Scarlet Letter," which appears first to have procured for him a modicum of public attention, has been, in some measure, the means of drawing out of obscurity his other works-those, too, on which we conceive much of his future | reputation will rest. The fallen leaves of past years have kept their green through all seasons of neglect, and now begin to be visible, as other once flaunting, now withered, weeds are swept away. With not a few points of resemblance to recent English and American authors, Hawthorne has yet many peculiarities of his own, so nicely characterized that we cannot think of anything like a complete prototype to him in literature. Now, the quaint, still humor of his thoroughly English style, reminds us of Washington Irving; now the delicate, imperceptible touches of Longfellow become apparent; now the calm, genial, effortless flow of Helps. We have often fancied, also, that we could detect a resemblance to John Foster, but we suspect, were |