brows of its editor, is this Token for 1838. It is a sufficient evidence that Mr. S. G. Goodrich is a man of a refined taste; and that, although no producer of good things himself, he is abundantly capable of appreciating good things in others. No piece, with the exception of a few verses, appears to be out of place in this volume. The reader is regaled with an agreeable variety of beautiful reflections, tales and poetry. They are contributed by approved and capable authors. Let us look over them in company, gentle reader, and we will tell you briefly of those which impressed and interested us.

"The Wonders of the Deep," by J. Pierpont, is a little in the sermonizing style-set off by repetitions, which are better heard than read, and instinct with thoughts, which, though beautiful, are not particularly original.

The author of "Twice-told Tales" has contributed as copiously to this as to the last volume. He must be a mine of wealth to the editor. His pieces appear sometimes with and sometimes without a signature.

We may be out in our guessing, but our Yankee ingenuity must be strangely at fault if "Sylph Etherege" be not the production of the author of "Peter Goldthwait's Treasure;" and if "Endicott and the Red Cross," and "Night Sketches beneath an Umbrella," proceeded not from the same graceful and graphic pen which indited "The Shaker Bridal."

We have on another occasion expressed our admiration of the genius of NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. His modesty is equal to his genius. He has thrown off story after story, and sketch after sketch, as regardlessly as if they were "unconsidered trifles," and not the most charming things of the kind ever produced in this country. We may be a little extravagant in our praises, but they will do no harm to the subject of them. It is not the least merit of true excellence that its possessor is superior to flattery. We formerly advised the collection into a volume of this author's random productions. "Twice-told Tales" was, as we flatter ourselves, the result of this advice; and the public has reason to be somewhat grateful to us for the pleasure which that delightful volume imparted. The Editor of "The Token," however, deserves the high encomium of having primarily brought forward and liberally encouraged the talents of an author, who, were his self-esteem not entirely disproportionate to his ideality, would have made for himself a reputation greater than that which he is now acquiring in spite of his too unpretending disposition.

Among the other tales in the Token, we are much pleased with "Our Village Post Office," by Miss Sedgwick; politicians may derive a quiet moral from it, which will sweeten the bitterness of partizan feeling; and we should also be pleased with the fine translation, by Mr. Nathaniel Green, of an interesting German story, if we were not of opinion that the author might have done himself superior credit in an original sketch.

Passing from the prose to the poetry, we apply the same remark to Mr. John O. Sargent's elegant and spirited version of a scene from Victor Hugo's "Hernani." We perceive that Mr. Sargent still chooses to call himself "Charles Sherry" when he descends into verse from that height of political discussion, on which, as one of the editors of the Courier and Enquirer, he is now distinguishing himself. There is more good policy than good taste, however, in this avoidance of a belles lettres reputation. When in future he deserts the arena of party strife to dally awhile in the bower of the Muses, we trust that he will not do it "by stealth," and "blush to find it fame." We regret to read such verses as "The Only Daughter," under the name of "O. W. Holmes." Their obscurity is unrelieved by those flashes, which, in the author's former pieces, coruscate amid the gloom in which his thoughts and expressions are sometimes involved. Perspicuity of style should not be sacrificed even to a bold, novel, concise, and senten

tious manner. The Sonnet to S**** D***, by E. S., is very melodious; but as Mr. Samuel Weller would sagaciously observe, we "can't go" the “Phidian shape." Phidias sculptured one statue of Minerva out of ivory and gold, which was thirty-nine feet high. His statue of Jupiter was, if any thing, as a Boston exquisite once observed when comparing his figure with a cast of the Apollo Belvidere, a trifle taller." 10 be Phidian in her shape, S. D. must be an uncommonly large young woman.

Several beautiful pieces of verse have been communicated by Miss Gould, Grenville Mellen, R. C. Waterston, J. H. Clinch, and Epes Sargent, Jr. We have space only for the following, from the always charming pen of Mr. Sargent.

"THE TOKEN.

"Brave son of a Chieftain! beloved Cherokee !
This token of wampum is woven for thee;
A token to flutter and shine on thy breast,—
My bravest and brightest, my wisest and best!

"Tis woven with coral, with beads, and with shells;
It shall be on thy breast the most potent of spells,
To save thee from ambush, to shield thee from harm,
To quicken thy sight, and give strength to thine arm.

"Rejoicer in battle! what forest or stream

Sees thy heron-plume wave, and thy tomahawk gleam?
Does the Father of Waters sweep on thy sharp prow?
Sure threader of dark woods! Oh, where art thou now?
"Dost hunt the fierce bison, or shoot the fleet deer?
O'er the prairie's wide level dost bend thy career?
Or, worn with the heat and the toil of the chase,
Does the mist of the cataract moisten thy face?

"While thus spake the maiden, an eagle, who beat

The clouds with his pinions, fell dead at her feet!

And the arrow, which reached him, while mounting so free,
Was sped from the bow of the young Cherokee."

The engravings are few, but well selected, and all exquisitely executed with the exception of “ The Only Daughter," who appears to be quite a homely little girl. The Presentation wood-cut is as fine and delicate as other of Adams's elegant works. "The Expected Canoe” is beautiful—but why will our artists always paint Indian women nearly in the primitive state? Mr. Catlin says that he never, in all his peregrinations, saw a naked squaw; but that, on the contrary, the Indian females wear as much, if not more clothing than one may see on the fashionably-dressed belles of a ball-room. We will not specify the other engravings-they are all "beautiful exceedingly;" they confer great credit upon both painters and engravers-they are proof positive that the Fine Arts are not, as has been gracelessly charged upon us, suffered to languish in this country.

Thus have we taken pains to express our complete approbation of the Token for 1838. It is better than the favorite English annuals of past years. We commend it to all lovers, and husbands, and maiden aunts, who have money enough left out of "the Pressure" to devote to the purchase of a tasteful literary present.

Fielding, or Society-Atticus, or the Retired Statesman-and St. Lawrence; by the Author of " Tremaine" and "De Vere."

THESE Volumes form rather a journal than a novel, and are more philosophical than any thing else. They will do for persons of a retired and quiet life

better than for those who are disposed to mingle in the world, and to get their lessons in a knowledge of it from their communion with its varieties. The conclusions at which the author aims, we are not disposed to subscribe to even as we cannot do otherwise, frequently, than deny his propositions. But it is almost always the case that a writer misses his point when he endeavors to inculcate the principles of philosophy under the guise of a novel, and surrender all idea of a story to his mental theories and logic.

Still there is a good deal of excellent matter thrown together in these pages; and the manner in which it is done, too, is worthy of a good and experienced mind. The reflections upon Society, and many of its peculiarities and follies, are capital, candid, and well-intended. The views of country life, with its attractions and healthy peculiarities, are given with much force and meaning; and those delightful simplicities which distinguish it, are presented in a manner that cannot fail to impress a spirit directed and supported as it should be.

Yet one cannot but think, as he works his way through these volumes with the evident effort, in places, to make up the book rather than any thing else. It seems as if the writer was on trial to do, by an unnatural amplification of philosophical principles, what he cannot make out by a natural management of his stoy and its characters. As far as this goes, it is not pleasant. We had rather see a book purporting to be a book of essays, than an illustration of principles by sentences and chapters, or an attempt at it, and a failure where a failure is both unpleasant and unfortunate. "Atticus" embodies many noble ideas; and if these were carried out, or acted upon by more of our statesmen, it would be well indeed.

Pocahontas-a Historical Drama, in 5 Acts. By a Citizen of the West.

THIS is not to be noticed as a regular tragedy, any more than as a regular tragedy it is to be represented. Both of these things are out of the question. Yet it has about it a good deal of that dramatic character which would attract and fix the attention of the mixed audience of our theatres. It has much of that rude beauty in the poetry which distinguishes even the scenery and the people which form the ground-work of its description; and no one can read the work without feeling convinced that the writer had entered with no little earnestness into the spirit of the historical passage which he has presented, and in good keeping with those dramatic notions which he has set forth in his Introductory Es say, but which, we do not hold to be in all things orthodox, or such as the dramatist can always practise upon with much attractiveness or success. We are by no means strong believers in the true poetic capabilities of the Indians, or of their social presentations. We do not, by that declaration, mean to be understood as denying that there is much of poetry—and that of a high order too—exhibited in the character and language of the savage, as well as in many of his rude and picturesque institutions. This, it would be vain and foolish to deny. We mean to say, that the poetry of the Indian and his wife is not the best that can be presented in this dramatic form by the poet; for the simple reason, that to be true, it must be too, too rude-too undisguised-too plain-spoken for the made-up taste of the age. For this reason we believe that stories of the Indians-whether poetic or prose-are always calculated to be more successful in print than the best that can be manufactured as coming from them; especially where they are given to the public under the form of poetical or dramatic dialogue.

We are not disposed to do the writer of Pocahontas injustice, nor can we deny him poetical power, though certainly not of the highest order. He has much of the thought, the perception, and the diction of poetry about him. We have not his name on his title-page; but we venture to pronounce him a man that has written much, and been talked of not a little. He thinks freely—too freely sometimes, and sometimes uses language which derives no force from its profanity; but, on the contrary, which stains and spoils such poetry as that in which it escapes. There is frequently a mistake in the love-language of Pocahontas and Nomony. It is not the language of such women. The endearing expressions are unnatural, and savour too much of the drawing-room-and not at all of the wigwam or the forest. The best poetry in the drama, it strikes us, is that of the awakened spirits of Powhatan and Smith. Rolfe and Pocahontas sometimes equal them in their outbreaks. Yet the poetry which presents us the tempest and the thunder, amid the crashing forest and the sky, wants that music which betrays the ear of the true artist; and, though we glow before some of the exciting pictures of Master Smith, still we feel the want of that power in the poet which is best developed where there is a good mixture of an excellent philosophy, and living, holy principle, with the "divine madness." The matter-of-fact style prevails to an unnecessary degree in this work, and the affectations of the verse cannot escape, it would seem to us, even an unpractised reader. Let one observe these expressions in italics. They occur too frequently.

Of the prosaic, one example is worthy of an attorney's desk :

"Granting, in absolute sovereignty, to them
And to their heirs for ever, all the lands
Extending from Cape Comfort, southernly
Two hundred miles along the coast," &c.

Of Smith's liberal way of thinking, and talking too, the following is rather a bad specimen:

"I'm sick of will-and-will-not gentry, I;

Men, who would be at once both black and white-
Would pluck the fruits of Hell, on road to Heaven-
Would buy damnation in the Devil's market,
Yet higgle at the price the Devil asks!"

But we will not select too much, or appear too hypercritical. All we say is, such as the above is unworthy of a place where so much can be found which it only disguises.

MONTHLY COMMENTARY.

LOSS OF THE HOME.

THE loss of the New-York and Charleston steam packet, Home, is one of those distressing occurrences which, every now and then, in this chequered world of ours, startle us in the routine of daily life, and excite awe and sympathy throughout society. It has, indeed, been a heavy blow to many of our most respectable and amiable fellow-citizens. The last two or three years have been remarkable for many trying and distressing circumstances in our community, but there has been nothing more heart-rending than this catastrophe of the Home. Much interest and no little excitement have been created by it; and we have thought that a summary of the facts attending it, collected from various sources, would be acceptable to our readers.

The Home was built in this city by Messrs. Brown & Bell, to the order of James P. Allaire, and after a pleasant summer-day's excursion in New-York Bay -which was called an "experimental trip"—she took her place as a regular packet between this city and Charleston. On Saturday, the 7th inst., with ninety passengers, and a crew, including male and female servants, of forty-five persons, she started for Charleston. After passing the Narrows, she struck on the Romer, and lay beating there for four or five hours. The Captain, however, proceeded on the voyage. The accommodations of the Home, it is well known, were of the first description—the passengers were disposed to please and to be pleased,— the weather was fine, every thing went on pleasantly, and the boat made rapid progress. But, on the night of Sunday, when at a short distance from Cape Hatteras, a tremendous gale from the South-East came on. The sea ran mountains high-" deep called unto deep,"-the boat labored dreadfully; and her whole frame, both at stem and stern, was shaken by the impetuosity of the waves. To add to the danger, she sprang a leak, which during the night increased so fearfully, that on Monday morning all hands were ordered to the pump, and the passengers, young and old, male and female, were employed with buckets, pails, &c., in baling; but the leak continued to gain upon them; the boat seemed yielding to the force of the elements, and the gale increased in fury.

It is in such awful scenes as this that true courage and fortitude are best tried. The excitement of action, the hope of fame, or the applause of a crowd, acts so powerfully as a stimulus, that the weakest minds may be nerved to exertion and courage during the greatest contests with human opponents. But how different such trials from that of the unfortunate sufferers in the Home! Above them the angry heavens-around them a howling waste of waters-beneath them, a few treacherous planks, soon about to part, and leave them to the mercy of the boiling and tempestuous sea. The situation of the females was particularly affecting. Some of them were young and beautiful, delicately brought up, and accus