From the Spectator.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

A story of the Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper, Esq., Author of The Pilot,' 'The Red Rover,' &c. &c.

Considered merely as a novel, this work wants the interest that springs from number, variety, and novelty of incidents woven into a connected story; all which are probably reserved for the continuation,-as the Homeward Bound breaks off with the arrival of the ship at New York, where the persons in whom the author desires to excite an interest are left in a requisite state of mystery, dilemma, and distress. As a distinct, complete, and truthful picture of life at sea in a New York packet ship, varied by a gale and a wreck, the book is entitled to high praise. It has also considerable merit for sketches of character, as well as for its observations on life and opinions; which are always shrewd and thoughtful, though some of them are dry and out of place.

Whatever the object of the author might be, the effect of the Homeward Bound is to lay the foundation of a tale of love and rivalry, which shall open where any other novel might do, with the advantage of having the reader familiarized with the characters and the growth of their feelings; as if Shakspeare, for example, had written an introductory account of the dangers and wooing of Othello. The subject is simply the narrative of a voyage to America in the Montauk, which is driven from her course by a King's ship following her to search for a public defaulter, whereas the commander of the Montauk apprehended delay on some trumped-up charge of smuggling. The incidents springing out of this are a long and varied chace, a tempest, and a partial wreck, followed by several adventures on the African coast in a voyage of boats, and a contest with the Arabs, until the packet is refitted.

ders, is also a sketch to the life-with the love of gossip and greatness inherent in Negro blood; the slave's habits of familiarity checked by the discipline of a ship; his affectation of fine words caught up from the passengers and misapplied; and his whole thoughts centred in his pantry. The foolish, vain defaulter, voyaging under the style and title of a baronet, is slightly touched, but with truth and effect; as is Mr. Monday, the commercial traveller-thoroughly attentive to his own comforts, with a strong dash of vulgar sensualism, but good-natured, unaffected, and brave when necessity calls. Steadfast Dodge, Esq., the representative of the servile American when travelling abroad, and of the thorough-paced demagogue at home, is the most elaborated personage, though scarcely the most successful: he is too much an abstraction of mean-spiritedness, vulgarity, and all the other shabby qualities which Mr. Cooper seems to consider charac teristic of the present American political mob-leaders. The rest of the persons, even when weak or bad-principled, have their lights and reliefs thrown in with remarkable skill; but for Mr. Dodge, the author has neither respect nor pity. Whenever any meanness is to be perpetrated, in thought, word, or deed, he is the man engaged; and, by way of capping the whole, he is made to have written a journal, during his European tour,-a species of Pencillings by the Way, some of which he has sent to the American newspapers, parts of which he occasionally reads to the passengers: these, though amusing enough, and cleverly imagined, are too exaggerated to be possible.

and

Always excepting the political discussions on Ameri ca and Federalism, with some other points of a similar kind, which are becoming bores in the hands of Mr. Cooper, the interest of the book is inseparably bound up with its character as a whole; the incidents being too few, and too long drawn out, to have any attraction without the characters and little events that give them nature and reality. The dialogues, however, are always truthful and characteristic, even when they lead to nothing.

NAUTICAL THEOLOGY, WITH TOUCHES OF NATURE. 'Mr. Leach!' 'Captain Truck!'

'Do you ever pray?'

All this is little enough of itself for three volumes: the interest in it arises from our feelings towards the persons, who are so truly and so quietly developed, that before long we regard them as old acquaintances. As yet, indeed, only three or four persons-the lovers, the lady, her father, and an old bachelor cousin-seem certain to act very prominent parts in the ensuing vo-. lumes; but it is probable that the conduct of several other characters will have some material influence on the future fate of the hero. It is chiefly, however, in the portraits that the interest of the work resides. Mr. Truck, the master-a thorough-bred seaman, whose soul is in his ship, and whose country's contests with England on maritime rights have induced him to ponder over Vattel without understanding him-is a capital specimen of a respectable, good hearted American sea'You have been told the truth, Mr. Leach. My father man, without a dash of caricature, but perhaps with a lit-ever thumped a pulpit. A poor man, and, if truth was as meek, and pious, and humble a Christian as tle favourable softening. The Coloured steward, Saun- must be spoken, a poor preacher too; but a zealous

'I have done such a thing in my time, Sir; but, since I have sailed with you I have been taught to work first and pray afterwards; and when the difficulty has been gotten over by the work, the prayers have commonly seemed surplusage.'

'You should then take to your thanksgivings. I think your grandfather was a parson, Leach." 'Yes, he was,' Sir, and I have been told father your followed the same trade.'

one, and thoroughly devout. I ran away from him at twelve, and never passed a week at a time under his roof afterwards. He could do little for me, for he had little education and no money, and, I believe, carried on the business pretty much by faith. He was a good man, Leach, notwithstanding there might be a little of a take-in for such a person to set up as a teacher: and as for my mother, if there ever was a pure spirit on earth, it was in her body!'

Ah, that is the way commonly with the mothers, Sir.'

She taught me to pray,' added the Captain, speaking a little thick, but since I've been in this London line, to own the truth, I find but little time for any thing but hard work, until, for want of practice, praying has got to be among the hardest things I can turn my hand to.' This is the way with all of us: it is my opinion, Captain Truck, these London and Liverpool liners will have a good many lost souls to answer for.'

'Ay, ay, if we could put it on them, it would do well enough; but my honest old father always maintained, that every man must stand in the gap left by his own sins; though he did assert, also, that we were all foreordained to shape our courses starboard or port, even before we were launched.'

"That doctrine makes an easy tide's-way of life; for I see no great use in a man's carrying sail and jamming himself up in the wind, to claw off immoralities, when he knows he is to fetch upon them after all his pains.' I have worked all sorts of traverses to get hold of this matter, and never could make any thing of it. It is harder than logarithms. If my father had been the only one to teach it, I should have thought less about it, for he was no scholar, and might have been paying it out just in the way of business; but then my mother believed it, body and soul, and she was too good a woman to stick long to a coarse that had not truth to

back it.'

'Why not believe it heartily, Sir, and let the wheel fly? One gets to the end of the v'y'ge on this tack as well as on another.'

THE COAST OF ENGLAND.

attended with signs and portents as sublime as any the fancy can conceive. On the present occasion, the breeze that had prevailed so steadily for a week was succeeded by light baffling puffs; as if, conscious of the mighty powers of the airs that were assembling in their strength, these inferior blasts were hurrying to and fro for a refuge. The clouds, too, were whirling about in uncertain eddies; many of the heaviest and darkest descending so low along the horizon, that they had an appearance of settling on the waters in quest of repose. But the waters themselves were unnaturally agitated; the billows, no longer following each other in long regular waves, were careering upwards like fiery coursers suddenly checked in their mad career. The usual order of the eternally unquiet ocean was lost in a species of chaotic tossings of the element-the seas heaving themselves upward without order, and frequently without any visible cause. This was the reaction of the currents and of the influence of breezes still older than the last. Not the least fearful symptom of the hour, was the terrific calmness of the air amid such a scene of menacing wildness. Even the ship came into the picture to aid the impression of intense expectation; for, with her canvass reduced, she too seemed to have lost that instinct which had so lately guided her along the trackless waste, and was 'wallowing,' nearly helpless, among the confused waters. Still she was a beautiful and a grand object-perhaps the more so at that moment than at any other; for her vast and naked spars, her well-supported masts, and all the ingenious and complicated hamper of the machine, gave her a resemblance to some sinewy and gigantic gladiator pacing the arena, in waiting for the conflict that was at hand.

"This is an extraordinary scene,' said Eve, who clung to her father's arm, as she gazed around her equally in adiniration and in awe; 'a dread exhibition of the sublimity of nature.'

THE RISKS OF SCUDDING.

The velocity of the water, urged as it is before a tempest, is often as great as that of the ship; and at The coast of England, though infinitely finer than such moments the rudder is useless, its whole power our own, is more remarkable for its verdure, and for the being derived from its action as a moving body against general appearance of civilization, than for its natural water move together, at an equal rate, in the same the element in comparative repose. When ship and beauties. The chalky cliffs may seem bold and noble to the American, though, compared to the granite piles ed; and then the hull is driven much at the mercy of direction, of course this power of the helm is neutralizthat buttress the Mediterranean, they are but mole-hills; the winds and waves. Nor is this all: the rapidity of and the travelled eye seeks beauties instead, in the re- the billows often exceeds that of a ship, and then the tiring vales, the leafy hedges, and the clustering towns action of the rudder becomes momentarily reversed, that dot the teeming island. Neither is Portsmouth a very favourable specimen of a British port, considered producing an effect exactly opposite to that which is desired. It is true this last difficulty is never of more solely in reference to the picturesque. A town situated than a few moments continuance; else, indeed, would on a humble point, and fortified after the manner of the the condition of the mariner be hopeless; but it is of Low Countries, with an excellent haven, suggests more images of the useful and the pleasing; while a back-lations and defeat caution. In the present instance, constant occurrence, and so irregular as to defy calcuground of modest receding hills offers little beyond the the Montauk would seem to fly through the water, so verdant swales of the country. In this respect, England swift was her progress; and then, as a furious surge itself has the fresh beauty of youth, rather than the mel- overtook her in the chase, she settled heavily into the lowed hues of a more advanced period of life; or it might element, like a wounded animal, that, despairing of be better to say, it has the young freshness and retiring sweetness that distinguish her females, as compared At such times the crests of the waves swept past her, escape, sinks helplessly in the grass, resigned to fate. with the warmer tints of Spain and Italy, and which, like vapour in the atmosphere; and one unpractised women and landscape alike, need the near view to be would be apt to think the ship stationary, though in appreciated. truth whirling along in company with a frightful mo

A STORM BREWING.

The awaking of the winds on the ocean is frequently

mentum.

It is scarcely necessary to say, that the process of

scudding requires the nicest attention to the helm, in | shave himself; nor that of the oyster, that followed a order that the hull may be brought speedily back to the right direction, when thrown aside by the power of gentleman about the house like a loving little dog; nor the billows; for, besides losing her way in the cauldron of that still more remarkable oyster, of a size so exof water-an imminent danger of itself, if left exposed cessive that it took three men to swallow it whole; to the attack of the succeeding waves-her decks at nor of the bear, that went to the theatre night after least would be swept, even should she escape a still night, and at last took with him a young alligator into more serious calamity. the pit, to see the irresistible Ellen Tree; nor, in short, should any of the exquisite extravagancies of the present or past months be omitted.

Pooping is a hazard of another nature, and is also peculiar to the process of scudding. It merely means the ship's being overtaken by the waters while running from them, when the crest of a sea, broken by the resistance, is thrown inboard over the taffrail or quarter. The term is derived from the name of that particular portion of the ship. In order to avoid this risk, sail is carried on the vessel as long as possible; it being deemed one of the greatest securities of scudding to force the hull through the water at the greatest attainable rate. In consequence of these complicated risks, ships that sail the fastest and steer the easiest scud the best. There is, however, a species of velocity that becomes a source of new danger of itself: thus, exceedingly sharp vessels have been known to force themselves so far into the watery mounds in their front, and to receive so much of the element on deck, as never to rise again.

From the Monthly Chronicle.

JONATHANIANA.-Every new book that appears is of course clearly proved in turn to be a 'desideratum;' that is an established rule, which has no exception; and we therefore run no risk in pointing out a decided desideratum for the benefit of American as well as English readers. We allude to the absolute necessity that now exists of collecting into one vast volume (would there be a richer in any language?) the 'Jonathaniana' that arrive from month to month, and excite among all real relishers of a wild and monstrous excess of humour grins almost as broad as the Atlantic. We have had a rich supply of late, and the collection ought to be proceeded with at once. The materials are abundant. Among the more recent flights and frolics of fancy, the convulsed collector will not forget to include the story of the scythe, the shadow of which cut a man's leg off; nor the account of the blind beggar, who had sat so long on one particular spot, that his shadow remained on the wall five days after he was dead; nor the history of the very thin gentleman, who required six weeks' fattening to make him a good skeleton; nor the narrative of that capital shot, who could get no sport by virtue of his unerring aim; for the racoons knew him, and called out 'Is that you, Major A.? Well, don't fire, I'll come down;' nor the tale of the new and surprisingly popular journal, which was stated by the editor to be selling with the rapidity of 'greased lightning;' nor the story of the tall man, who was obliged to get upon a ladder to

From Blackwood's Magazine.
TO A CHILD.

Dear Child! whom sleep can hardly tame
As live and beautiful as flame,
Thou glancest round my graver hours
As if thy crown of wildwood flowers
Were not by mortal forehead worn,
But swift on summer breezes borne,
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves
Came glist'ning down from sparry caves.

With bright round cheek, amid whose glow
Fancy and Wonder come and go,
And eyes whose inward meanings play
Congenial with the light of day,

And brow so calm, a home for Thought
Before he knows his dwelling wrought;
Not wise indeed thou seem'st, but made
With joy and hope the wise to aid.

That shout proclaims the undoubting mind;
That laughter leaves no ache behind;
And in thy look and dance of glee,
Unforc'd, unthought of ecstacy,
How idly weak the proud endeavour
Thy soul and body's bliss to sever!
I hail thee, Childhood's very Sprite,
One voice and sense of true delight.

In spite of all foreboding sadness
Thou art a thing of present gladness;
And thus to be enjoy'd and known
As is a pebbly fountain's tone,
As is the forest's leafy shade,

Or blackbird's music through the glade;
Like odour, breeze, and sun thou art,
A gush from Nature's vernal heart.

And yet, dear Child, within thee lives
A power that deeper feeling gives,
That makes thee more than light or air,
Than all things sweet and all things fair;
For sweet and fair as aught may be,
A human promise dwells in thee,
And 'mid thine aimless joys began
The perfect Heart and Will of man.

Thus what thou art foreshows to me
How greater far thou soon shalt be;
And while amid thy blossoms breathes
A wind that waves the fragrant wreaths,
In each faint rustling sound I hear
A mighty Spirit journeying near,
That dawns in every human birth---
A messenger of God to earth.

little of a balm that is said to be secreted there, and

Extracts from the Memorandum Book of the late Pastor which, if brought forth and properly applied, is capable

individual sufferings-for all men consider their griefs | add, mournfully, their misfortunes, which alas! are all

to be great, each indeed conceiving his own to be the most acute and unmerited-will secure for me an admission of the correctness of what I now advance. In the expression of the real suffering of life-at least of what I have felt of it, and I think I excel all in my experience of misery-a man can scarcely stumble on the province of paradox; and, taking refuge under that sentiment, I could say, in sober earnestness, that I have experienced more pain in one minute of time than all the splendid and magnificent language of Æschylus in his ninety plays, or of Shakspeare in all he wrote, is capable of conveying to the mind of man. But, in this impotency of language, we may discover the traces of the merciful finger of God; for, if it were possible for man to communicate to his brethren the real felt nature of his sufferings, the misery of our condition would be multiplied a thousand millions of times, and the heavens would be filled with the lamentations of mortals.

shamed by my own. In this last respect, I have been fated to contribute to the old mansion an interest which, in after times, when my griefs shall have darkened the page of our family annals, may raise an unavailing tear to the eye of a remote descendant, as he lifts it to those moss-covered walls which have witnessed scenes that lend, says holy writ, an eloquence to stones.

I came by far too soon to my property and power; for I was scarcely twenty when my father died intestate, whereby, being put under no salutary restraining fetters of testamentary guardianship, and no legal curators being deemed necessary for a nine months' non-age, I became possessed of a power of which I did not know the value, and a forward status in society, without experience to guide me in the affairs of life. But power and opportunity are divested of their danger, when the heart is happily free from a propensity to evil. Yet weaknesses, which are often fostered by riches, may generate misfortunes as gigantic as the consequences of vice; and we get little consolation from our own consciences, in the midst of self-caused suffering, from any fine-spun distinction between blind error and voluntary crime. While I have God to thank for keeping me free from the contamination of serious evil,

'Were it not for the reason I have already mentioned, you may be well assured that I would not, I could not have prevailed upon myself to lay open, so far as our gift of language, inadequate as it is, might enable me, those dark, recesses of my mind, where Sorrow, in her long dreary residence, has generated forms which I│I have myself to blame for the consequences of faults cannot contemplate without terror, and from which I and follies as pregnant as crime itself of unhappiness can get no refuge. It might, indeed, have been well to man. for me if I could have, long ere this, communicated, partially at least, my knowledge and sentiments to sympathizing friends. My sorrow might have been alleviated; but Nature hath said to man, 'Whilst thou sufferest, thou shalt not have the power of communicating thy woes, till time hath taken that sting from them which would poison the happiness of thy neighbours; doubtless a good final cause, which, in our voiceless grief, we dare not impugn.

"You know, I believe, my parentage, from your having been brought up in the neighbourhood. This property of Dowielee, which I got from my father, was a gift to one of my ancestors by King James VI., in consideration of services done to the State. It is, as you must have observed, one of the most beautiful and romantic estates in Scotland; for it is ornamented by thick umbrageous woods, through which a noble river rolls its majestic stream-roaring, in some places, with the voice of the dashing cataract-in others, singing like a blythe maiden on her way to be married-and, in some, sleeping with the placidity and the latent power of the infant Hercules. This house, called Dowielee House, was built by my great-grandfather. It is old, but on that account the more romantic and interesting; for it is associated in my mind with a host of historical family occurrences, which exhibit, in a strong light, the virtues of my ancestors-though sometimes I am forced to confess their crimes, and, I may

‘Inheriting, from weak and nervous parents, feelings of extreme sensibility-ready, on the slightest touch of an exciting cause, to burn into love or shame, or to thrill with disappointments, fancied slights, and imaginary insults-I soon found myself unsuited for general society. I sometimes fancied that this itself was an imagination, and, for a period, struggled against the irresistible constitution of my nature, only to be made more certain that my happiness lay among my own beautiful woods of Dowielee; though, alas! my certainty was only that human confidence which, like the mists that conceal the shelving rock of a lee-shore, prevent us from seeing the dangers that almost infringe upon our very organ of vision. As it is easy to argue ourselves into a belief of the truth of our wishes, especially when they seem pointed by original consti tution and natural bias, I arrived early at the conclusion that the best life for a man of morbid sensibility was a rural one. The woods, and bosky dells, and green schaws, and running streams of my paternal inherit ance, had an eloquent language of their own, which went to the heart of the worshipper of nature, without carrying with it personalities to wound his pride, or excite his fevered emulation. They possessed inhabitants too corporeal to satisfy the inquiries and engage the attention of the scientific and the unlettered naturalist; and incorporeal, to respond to the inspired invocations of the poet. What more did I require? Yet