DEMONSTRATION OF THE TRUTH OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION. BY ALEXANDER KEITH, D. D., Author of the 'Evidence of Prophecy,' etc. In one volume. pp. 329. NewYork: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

We have given this book but a hasty and unsatisfactory perusal; yet we have seen that it contains much valuable information and exact learning. The great defect, as it appears to us, of this and other similar defences of Christianity, is, that they do not see the objections from a right point of view. Bad men, who doubt the truth of the gospel, doubt it, we cannot but think, from 'an evil heart of unbelief;' and are not to be reached by arguments aimed at the head. Good men, who reject portions of the gospel, (and assuredly there have been such,) are not to be treated with contempt, nor are their objections to be met cavalierly. Their difficulties lie beyond the depths of common observation. Treatises upon the possibility of miracles, or the integrity of the canon, or the testimony of antiquity, have little weight with them. The gospel, in their case, must be shown to accord with the wants of man, its teachings reconciled with philosophy, before they will or can receive it. The union of religion and philosophy is the great problem of this age, and their marriage will be the high festival of the world. We must object, also, to the want of candor which marks too many of our theological works. No writer, be his subject the gospel or the koran, should take for granted what he professes to prove. He who starts upon any controversy, with the feeling that he is all right, and his opponents all wrong, may convince himself, but no one else. And this is the spirit of a great majority of the 'demonstrations of the truth of the gospel.' The objections are termed scoffs, and the objectors scoffers, at the outset; which of course implies that there is no chance of their being right, in any particular. We shall not be misunderstood in saying, that the doubters of the gospel have, in fact, been among its best friends; for they have given us a firmer hold of, and a clearer insight into, its divine truth and beauty. LUTHER, let it not be forgotten, was styled a 'scoffer.' This book, and others like it, will give to those who believe, without knowing why, some reasons for believing; to those who doubt, to doubt on; until some fair writer, who sympathizes with objectors, without assenting to their creeds, shall remove their honest unbelief.

TRAVELS IN THE THREE GREAT EMPIRES OF AUSTRIA, RUSSIA, AND TURKEY. BY C. B. ELLIOTT, M. A., F. R. S., Vicar of Godalmin, etc. In two volumes, 12mo. Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD.

THE Vicar of Godalmin set about writing a real book of travel, and, we may suppose, nothing more. There are more facts in the two volumes before us, than are usually encountered in the same number of pages. The work begins with this sentence, characteristic of the whole performance: The first object on the road to Presburg, that arrests the eye, after quitting the busy haunts of men, in the great capital of Austria, is the burial ground, on the right hand side, so full, so overflowing with sepulchral monuments, that, at a short distance, they present only a confused mass of masonry.' And then we hear an account of 'the phlegmatic German, who officiated as coachman,' and even a description of his 'blue apron.' Nothing that met the eye of the traveller, seems to be omitted; and we doubt not this was an easy way to make a book. We therefore can recommend the work to all lovers of facts, and can assure them that a want of particularity is not one of its faults; and moreover, the reader will be pretty sure of finding out whether the object described be' on the right hand side' or on the left. In short, it may be said of our tourist, as was remarked

by a caustic critic of a traveller equally minute, and as invincibly dull, that 'he seems to consider the most ordinary occupation in travelling to be that of moving from one place to another; setting off at a certain hour of the morning, and arriving at a particular hour in the evening; and it may be, paying the expense incurred.' Extending somewhat farther his views of human affairs, he finds that provisions are either good, or bad, or indifferent; that the same general observation applies also to beds; and that all these objects may likewise be distinguished by another principle of classification, derived from attending to their prices. From this view of the subject, the transition is easy to roads and ferries, including tolls and bridges, with the accessary matter of horses and carriages, not forgetting a detailed picture of the driver's livery. The same love of generalizing leads him to a contemplation of the works of nature; and he surveys with an accurate and discriminating eye the whole state of the weather, which, like the roads and conveyances, is remarkable for being sometimes better and sometimes worse. Seriously, however, we do not really mean to find fault with Mr. ELLIOTT, for we believe there is a certain class of readers who will delight in his volumes, and better still, may gain, it may be, a good deal of knowledge from them; but whether reading of this description be the best that can be had upon the subject, is, we think, a question.

ROB OF THE BOWL: A LEGEND OF SAINT INIGOE's. By the Author of 'Swallow Barn,' Horse Shoe Robinson,' etc. In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 445. Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD.

We have perused this work with much satisfaction; and recommend it to the attention of our readers; assured that those who can fully appreciate this style of writing, will concur with us in saying, that these novels are destined to take rank with some of the best native works of fiction of the present day. The volumes do not, in our judgment, detract from the well-earned praise which the former productions of the author have received, although we have seen as much intimated by some of our contemporaries. They are written in a pure style; the plot is well laid, and the incidents naturally worked up; the characters are drawn with care, and ably supported, and with particular reference, it should seem, to their moral tendency; for we find in the work no glossing over of vicious principles, no depravity dressed up in a fascinating garb, which constitutes the greatest objection to books otherwise delightful and useful, for their spirit, taste, and talent. In this respect the writer has set a praiseworthy example to many competitors in his walk of fiction; and we gladly welcome a publication, in which vice no longer commends itself to the imagination of youth, by being arrayed in the false colors of unfortunate virtue.

'Rob of the Bowl' is a strange but not an unnatural character; one who has been spoiled by over indulgence of bad passions, and rendered misanthropic by imaginary wrongs. 'Cocklescraft,' another prominent personage, is a wretch, in every sense of the word; and we are well pleased to find, that no mysterious secret has been wound around him, to claim from amiable pity a sympathy of which the baseness and depravity of his mind is undeserving. And we cannot but think that 'ladies of a certain age,' whom accident or preference has allowed 'to walk in maiden meditation fancy free,' ought to feel particularly obliged to our author for removing the stigma from this hitherto persecuted class, by allowing them to appear in that amiable and charitable light, which we are convinced is their general character. A man is allowed to remain single, and while he outrages his nature by depriving himself of the moral motives and restraints of domestic life; shuts himself out from those

deep sympathies, which are doubtless intended to develope the powers of his soul; he is allowed to walk proudly in the enjoyment of other privileges, which shall be nameless; while the woman who refuses to marry, perhaps that she may devote her life, in a high spirit of self-sacrifice, to errands of mercy and offices of piety and religion, is treated by a rude class with ridicule and neglect.

But the subject of the volumes under notice should attract attention, aside from the general beauty of expression, and the interesting traits of nature which pervade them, because it is a chronicle of those times in our country's history that 'tried men's souls.' Our journals and periodicals should not suffer books to remain unnoticed, which religiously attempt to save from time's effacing finger those stirring incidents so worthy to be remembered in our country's annals. We have said thus much in praise of the work, because we like it; and that must be a good book, in the best sense of the term, from the perusa of which we rise with a stronger detestation of vice, and a new love of virtue; which makes us love our country and our fellow creatures better.

POEMS. BY S. LOUISA P. SMITH. In one volume. pp. 250. Providence, RhodeIsland: A. S. BECKWITH.

THE articles in this Magazine, from the journal and correspondence of Mrs. SOPHIE MANNING PHILLIPS, have suggested to us a brief retrospective review of the labors of a kindred spirit, who, like her, has passed beyond the reach of earthly praise. Many of our readers will call to mind numerous poetical productions, which ran the rounds of nearly all the papers in the United States, some few years since, from the pen of Mrs. SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. This gifted lady died in February, 1832, at the early age of twenty-one. Mrs. SMITH, then Miss HICKMAN, was born at Detroit, while her grandfather, Major-General WILLIAM HULL, was governor of that territory. She removed to Massachusetts, in her infancy, with her mother, who there carefully watched over her education, which was in all respects a finished one. She was early remarkable for her quickness of parts, and for a disposition the most amiable and affectionate. We have been permitted to peruse some of her early letters to her dearest earthly friend; and must be permitted to say, in illustration of her character, and the character of her verse, that more ardent affection never breathed from woman's heart, than is evinced in these epistles; while the style is of mingled playfulness and endearment, which none but a female mind can dictate. When she had but just entered her teens, she surprised her relatives and friends by her extraordinary exhibitions of poetical talent. She soon after began to give occasional publicity to her effusions, through some of the literary periodicals of the day, and several of the annuals, and hence became an object of general notice, as a young lady of rare gifts, and eminent personal attractions. In the autumn of 1828, Miss HICKMAN was married to Mr. S. J. SMITH, then the editor of a literary journal in Providence, Rhode-Island, and now of the 'New-York Sunday Morning News.' The union was short, but one of great affection. The following season they removed to Cincinnati; and it is but just to the literary taste of the west, to state, that she was soon ranked among the sweetest minstrels of that region. We should not omit to speak, in this connection, of the prose of our poetess, which was no less remarkable than her verse, for grace and beauty of diction. Our present purpose, however, is to present a few extracts from the poems named at the head of this article, which we are confident the world will not willingly let die.' The following lines, written upon the spur of the moment, at the request of a friend, upon

that affecting passage in the Polish annals, where KOSCIUSKO fell, and was supposed by all Warsaw to have been dead, bear their own high encomium with them :

THROUGH Warsaw there is weeping,

And a voice of sorrow now,
For the hero who is sleeping,
With death upon his brow;
The trumpet-tone will waken

No more his martial tread,
Nor the battle-ground be shaken,
When his banner is outspread!
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moonbeams smile;
Sisters, let our solemn strain,
Breathe a blessing o'er the slain!

There's a voice of grief in Warsaw,
The mourning of the brave,
O'er the chieftian who is gathered
Unto his honored grave;
Who now will face the foeman?

Who break the tyrant's chain?
Their bravest one lies fallen,
And sleeping with the slain.
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moon-beams smile;

Sisters, let our dirge be said
Slowly o'er the sainted dead!

There's a voice of woman weeping,

In Warsaw heard to-night,
And eyes close not in sleeping,
That late with joy were bright;
No festal torch is lighted,

No notes of music swell;

Their country's hope was blighted,
When that son of freedom fell!
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moon-beams smile:

Sisters, let our hymn arise
Sadly to the midnight skies!

And a voice of love undying,

From the tomb of other years,
Like the west wind's summer sighing,
It blends with manhood's tears;

It whispers not of glory,

Nor fame's unfading youth,
But lingers o'er a story

Of young affection's truth.
Now let our hymn

Float through the aisle,
Faintly and dim,

Where moon-beams smile:

Sisters, let our solemn strain

Breathe a blessing o'er the slain !

We should be pleased to present passages from 'The Maid of the Temple,' an extended poem, imbued with some of our authoress' best characteristics, as well as from one or two pieces of kindred length, as 'The Bewildered Knight,'' A Legend,' etc., written in the west; but neither the connection, nor our limits, will permit. To the beauty and feeling of the subjoined, many a bereaved spirit will make

answer:

THEY led me to a darkened room, with noiseless step, where lay
The last of what had shone on earth, like some bright thing of day;
There were quiet mourners o'er the dust, that still was passing fair,

Though the wreathing, rose-like smiles were gone, that had shone brightly there.

There was one, who o'er the sleeper bent, and breathed a saddening lay,

A brow from which the light of joy had faded long away;

A dewy cheek, and long dark hair, above a neck of snow,
That told, not age had brought to her this bitterness of wo.

I listen'd to her words, and there was something in the strain,

Which woke a fountain in my heart, I cannot still again;

I'll breathe them in my song, and they may catch some feeling eye,
While young light hearts, that know not grief, may pass them idly by.

'A last, a dreamless, dreary sleep, is thine, thou faded flower!
A sleep that knows no sunrise fair-no joyful waking hour;
Not such as oft-times I have seen, steal o'er thine eye of blue,

As fleecy clouds enshroud the moon, that shines in glory through.

'I've walk'd the world, through lonely years of sunshine, shade, and gloom,
And seen the fairest blossoms fade, in the morning of their bloom;
I've seen the wreck of all that's good, and bright, and glorious here,
My weary days are numbered, and the closing hour draws near!

I've seen the sun of joy go down on many a human brow,
But I never saw the spoiler seize so fair a thing as thou!

Spring wreaths are round thee! dewy flowers, to fade with thee, my child!
Just such as in the past, bright hours, amid thy tresses smiled.

'These faded cheeks are stained with tears, from many a trial past,
But the bitterest drops are shed for thee, the bitterest and the last;
For something tells me I shall sleep thy silent sleep ere long,
And we shall meet again my flower, all freed from worldly wrong.'

Unknown, unnumbered are His ways, who sends the grave its prey,
And human love must still weep on, to find its treasure clay,
And learn to lose its clinging hold and strong affections here,
For hopes that have a resting place, with nothing earthly near.

We regret to be compelled to close our extracts with the following; but it is all for which we can find room. The volume is replete with poetry, upon various themes, equally touching and beautiful; and we can only hope that a new edition of the work before us, with the subsequent productions of the writer in addition, will ere long enable our readers to judge of the correctness of the estimate which we have placed upon the writer's genius. The stanzas are entitled 'The Orphan's Smile :'

In all the relations of daughter, wife, and mother, Mrs. SMITH well sustained her part, 'linking all goodness with affections dear,' and dying, left behind her, in the warm memories of surviving friends, the best memorial to her many virtues.

In one

A CHRONICLE OF LOUISIANA: BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THE WARS OF DON DIEGO Rosa, called 'He of the Iron Arm,' the last Catholic Governor of that Province. volume. pp. 87. New-York: LINEN AND Fennell.

CHARLES LAMB somewhere says, that he should like, as a matter of curiosity, to see the greatest ninny that ever lived. ELIA died too young; for here is a person, without a solitary qualification for the arduous task, who has sat deliberately down to write what do you think, curious reader? - why an imitation of IRVING'S History of New-York! And such an imitation! We feel, in the very beginning, malgré the abundant pomposity and affectation, that the writer has nothing to say; and his performance fully justifies the presentiment. We know not when we have seen a volume which displays so much silliness and pretension. We submitted to yawn over it to the very last line, and must truly and honestly declare, that in our judgment, more dismal trash was never printed in a book. A good copy of what is excellent, is generally preferable to original mediocrity; but stupid imitation is of all things the most insufferable. From first to last, there is not a gleam, a scintillation, of humor; and yet it grieves us to say so, for never did an author labor so hard. Cumbrous and obscure description divides the palm with the weakest original conception; insomuch that, after all, one is in doubt whether the volume be not less calculated to excite ridicule than compassion. We are duly grateful for the kind wishes of the anonymous author, who sends us his volume accompanied by his 'high and sincere regard;' but were he the warmest of bosom friends, we could conscientiously say no less, nor help regretting that his Ms. did not sleep 'in the centre of Gibraltero,' (meaning 'Gibralta,' doubtless, since the Spanish is affected,) the resting-place of the great Rosa, whose exploits it assumes to record. The true