however, it is real sunshine; in the other, it more resembles the phosphorescent glow of decaying wood." As a specimen of quiet humour, this sketch of the old men in Salem custom-house may be compared with the best passages of the same kind in the writings of Washington Irving. A more satirical humour, yet without bitterness, appears in the portrait of the inspector-a man of fourscore years, one of the most wonderful specimens of winter-green,' with his florid cheek and compact figure, brisk and vigorous step, and smartly arrayed in a bright-buttoned blue coat. The careless security of his life in the custom-house, on a regular income, and with but slight and infrequent apprehensions of removal, had no doubt contributed to make time pass lightly over him. The original and more potent causes, however, lay in the rare perfection of his animal nature, the moderate proportion of intellect, and the very trifling admixture of moral and spiritual ingredients; these latter qualities, indeed, being in barely enough measure to keep the old gentleman from walking on all-fours.' 'One point, in which he had vastly the advantage over his four-footed brethren, was his ability to recollect the good dinners which it had made no small portion of the happiness of his life to eat. His gourmandism was a highly agreeable trait; and to hear him talk of roast-meat was as appetising as a pickle or an oyster. As he possessed no higher attribute, and neither sacrificed nor vitiated any spiritual endowment by devoting all his energies and ingenuities to subserve the delight and profit of his maw, it always pleased and satisfied me to hear him expatiate on fish, poultry, and butcher's meat, and the most eligible methods of preparing them for the table. His reminiscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the actual banquet, seemed to bring the savour of pig or turkey under one's very nostrils. There were flavours on his palate that had lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years, and were still apparently as fresh as that of the mutton-chop which he had just devoured for his breakfast. I have heard him smack his lips over dinners, every guest at which, except himself, had long been food for worms.? These sketches are enough to prove that Hawthorne has a peculiar graphic power, and writes with genial humour. The quiet and easy, yet original style, marked by natural yet unhackneyed combinations, assures us that the writer thinks and speaks for himself, and in his own way-a great merit, and quite distinct from mere eccentricity. That such a style should have been so often employed to treat unpleasant, and even revolting subjects, must be regretted. In other cases, where the author has selected homely and familiar themes, his skilful touches remind us of Ostade's pictures, in which beautiful effects of light are reflected from brass kettles, earthen pots, and other culinary utensils. The personal narrative which serves as a preface to The Scarlet Letter, is, to our taste, more agreeable than the romance, which, while it has all the charms of Hawthorne's style, is in substance a very unpleasant story. In this, as in other works, the writer's powers of mind seem superior to his themes; and the reader may suppose that, in Hawthorne, a truly poetical genius has been depressed, and otherwise injured, by poring over the rather gloomy annals of New England in the olden time. The characters in the story may be regarded as so many curious specimens in morbid psychology, rather than as real men and women. The general effect is gloomy; but an exception must be made in favour of the visionary little girl Pearl, whose presence in many scenes is like a ray of light in a dark wood. The passions chiefly portrayed are remorse in one character-Dimmesdale; and long-cherished implacable revenge in another-Chillingworth. There is something dreamy—or perhaps we might say mystical— in many passages; but the mysticism is not in the language, which a reviewer has happily likened to 'a sheet of transparent water, reflecting from its surface blue skies, nodding woods, and the smallest spray or flower that peeps over its grassy margin; while in its clear yet mysterious depths we espy rarer and stranger things, which we must dive for, if we would examine.'1 Here and there deep thoughts are uttered, as when we read of one 'who wanted-what some people want throughout life-a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanise and make her capable of sympathy.' The tale is rich in passages of picturesque beauty, and the writer has a singular power of breathing, if we may so speak, a sentiment through every picture. Thus we read of a forestwalk: "The road, after the two wayfarers had crossed from the peninsula to the mainland, was no other than a footpath. It straggled onward into the mystery of the primeval forest. This hemmed it in so narrowly, and stood so black and dense on either side, and disclosed such imperfect glimpses of the sky above, that to Hester's mind it imaged not amiss the moral wilderness in which she had so long been wandering. The day was chill and sombre. Overhead was a gray expanse of cloud, slightly stirred, however, by a breeze; so that a gleam of flickering sunshine might now and then be seen at its solitary play along the path. This flitting cheerfulness was always at the further extremity of some long vista through the forest. The sportive sunlight-feebly sportive, at best, in the 1 North American Review, No. 148, p. 146. predominant pensiveness of the day and scene-withdrew itself as they came nigh, and left the spots where it had danced the drearier because they had hoped to find them bright.' Little Pearl, the child whose infancy is overshadowed by the sorrow and shame of her parents, attends her mother in this walk through the forest; and by an exquisite art the scenery is made to symbolise the life of the child :— 'Thus conversing, they entered sufficiently deep into the wood to secure themselves from the observation of any casual passenger along the forest-track. Here they sat down on a luxuriant heap of moss, which, at some epoch of the preceding century, had been a gigantic pine, with its roots and trunk in the darksome shade, and its head aloft in the upper atmosphere. It was a little dell where they had seated themselves, with a leaf-strewn bank rising gently on either side, and a brook flowing through the midst, over a bed of fallen and drowned leaves. The trees impending over it had flung down great branches, from time to time, which choked up the current, and compelled it to form eddies and black depths at some points; while, in its swifter and livelier passages, there appeared a channel-way of pebbles, and brown sparkling sand. Letting the eyes follow along the course of the stream, they could catch the reflected light from its water, at some short distance within the forest, but soon lost all traces of it amid the bewilderment of treetrunks and underbrush, and here and there a huge rock, covered over with gray lichens. All these giant trees and boulders of granite seemed intent on making a mystery of the course of this small brook; fearing, perhaps, that, with its never-ceasing loquacity, it should whisper tales out of the heart of the old forest whence it flowed, or mirror its revelations on the smooth surface of a pool. Continually, indeed, as it stole onward, the streamlet kept up a babble-kind, quiet, soothing, but melancholy-like the voice of a young child that was spending its infancy without playfulness, and knew not how to be merry among sad acquaintance and events of sombre hue. "O brook! O foolish and tiresome little brook!" cried Pearl, after listening awhile to its talk. Why art thou so sad? Pluck up a spirit, and do not be all the time sighing and murmuring!" But the brook, in the course of its little lifetime among the forest trees, had gone through so solemn an experience, that it could not help talking about it, and seemed to have nothing else to say. Pearl resembled the brook, inasmuch as the current of her life gushed from a well-spring as mysterious, and had flowed through scenes shadowed as heavily with gloom. But, unlike the little stream, she danced and sparkled, and prattled airily along her course. The child went singing away, following up the current of the brook, and striving to mingle a more lightsome cadence with its melancholy voice. But the little stream would not be comforted, and still kept telling its unintelligible secret of some very mournful mystery that had happened-or making a prophetic lamentation about something that was yet to happen—within the verge of the dismal forest. So Pearl, who had enough of shadow in her own little life, chose to break off all acquaintance with this repining brook. She set herself, therefore, to gathering violets and woodanemones, and some scarlet columbines that she found growing in the crevices of a high rock.' It should be observed, that the passages here quoted are by no means fair specimens of the whole story, for its most powerful scenes are those of a gloomy character. The internal sufferings of the fallen minister Dimmesdale, are described with an ability as remarkable as the author's choice of a subject; but the malignant and revengeful Chillingworth is so darkly coloured, that the man vanishes, and we see only a dismal goblin. The House of the Seven Gables is the most complete and characteristic of the writer's works. We have not space to give the incidents of its story, but may point to the photograph portraiture of the old house, with its heir-loom of misery, presented to the imagination with such oppressive fulness of details, that at last we sympathise with one of the inmates who longs to pull down the whole structure. The sufferings of pride and poverty in the person of the old maid, during her commencement of petty shop-keeping, are described with admirable fidelity. The Blithedale Romance will disappoint readers who expect to find in it any fair account of the socialist experiment at Brook Farm; for the colony serves merely as scenery, the characters are fictitious, and the result is produced by accidents, proving nothing, either good or bad, respecting the theory or working of co-operative societies. Hollingsworth, the leading character, may be described as a professor of abstract benevolence, who does not condescend to ordinary human kindness. Several scenes and detached passages are marked by the writer's usual graphic power; but the story is forced to lead to a certain moral: the catastrophe is unreal, and in the concluding misery of the hero we have no sympathy; we do not see a human being suffering— all we observe is a rather curious psychological problem involved in certain difficulties. N PROSE-FICTION AND MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK-MRS CHILD-SARAH J. HALE-CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND-ELIZA LESLIE MRS STOWE-MISS PLANCHE FANNY It may be well to repeat, in this place, our remark that the relative merits of writers cannot in every instance be fairly represented by the proportions of our notices. While we endeavour, on the whole, to give prominence to the more national and characteristic portions of American belles-lettres, we must decline the task of arranging strictly every work in the order of merit it would be especially difficult in the department of fiction, where so many questions of taste may occur. CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK, born in the village of Stockbridge, first appeared as an authoress in 1822, when her New England Tale was published. Two years later, the tale of Redwood attracted notice, and was followed in 1827 by Hope Leslie; in 1830, by Clarence; in 1832, by Le Bossu; and in 1835, by The Linwoods, and a collection of tales gathered from the magazines. In the following year, Miss Sedgwick commenced a series of moral tales under the titles-The Poor Rich Man and the Rich Poor Man; Live and Let Live (1837); and Means and Ends. Besides these, the amiable authoress has written several stories for children, magazine-articles, a Life of the Poetess Lucretia M. Davidson, and notices of a tour in Europe. In descriptions of the joys and sorrows of domestic life, and in development of the affections belonging to home, Miss Sedgwick has been very successful. Her tales, without injury to their readable quality, have been made vehicles of sound practical wisdom and healthy sentiment; while the characters introduced have, in several instances, a marked individuality. The manners of New England are faithfully portrayed, and the relations described as existing between the several classes of society may suggest some useful lessons to English readers. Miss Sedgwick is an American writer, not only in her choice of subjects, but also in her tone of thought and feeling, her warm sympathy with the labouring-classes, her contempt of the tinsel, and her respect for the realities of life. It is well that American literature, in the department of fiction, should begin with such tales as Home, or Live and Let Live; and the legislation, or rather want of legislation, which would discourage this home-bred literature, and |