the name of the authoress, might have been read without disappointment. But when they assume the more permanent, we may add, the more imposing form of a separate volume, with the name of a favourite writer emblazoned upon its title, "Sosiorum pumice mundus," greater pretensions to merit are always supposed, and greater disappointment is the consequence of failure to excite interest. What, it may be asked, is it the cloth and boards of a binding, or the embellishment of a title-page, which excite expectation in regard to the literary character of a work? What can they have to do with any preconceived estimate of talent? Even a binding, or a title-page, speak to the public. They often tell the author's own opinion of the product of his labours; and if this author stands high in the esteem of any, with them his opinion passes for something, though it be in regard to his own work. When a writer chooses to embody his productions in a book, rather than to publish them in a more "fugitive" manner, does it not imply that he supposes they have sufficient merit to indemnify him for the additional trouble and expense of the undertaking, or that they are calculated to adorn the more conspicuous place which they will thus take among the publications of the day? It is true, that Mrs. Sigourney's work comes to us under the apparently unassuming name of "Sketches;" but even "Sketches" should be of sterling excellence, to merit this style of publication.

We will now speak more particularly of this volume, and endeavour, in the course of a brief" sketch" of its contents, to point out some of those faults which we have observed, and at the same time, as justice and impartiality require, to commend to notice whatever beauties it may contain; for we have already remarked, that it is not entirely devoid of merit. And first we may observe, that it is without advertisement, preface, or introduction. This of course is noticed, not as a defect of genius, but merely of judgment. To some it may appear too trifling to deserve mention; but certainly the usual practice of authors sanctions the opinion, that such an "avant courier" to a work is not without its uses. The object of an exordium, says the Roman orator, is "Reddere auditores, benevolos, attentos, dociles," and we think the same may be said of a preface: if so, its importance is obvious. We may also remark, that in a preface, the author seems to present himself more immediately to the reader. It is here that he is seen unshaded by his subject—a corporeal, instead of a mere imaginative or intellectual being.

But to proceed; these "Sketches" are six in number. The first is entitled "The Father," and its object is to portray paternal affection, "the love of a father for a daughter." The subject of this tale is uninteresting, because it is common-place, and there is not enough incident to feed the reader's imagination. The authoress seems here to have aimed rather at beauty of style, than

at a pleasingly invented narrative; and, indeed, taking this piece as a whole, more attention has apparently been paid to the mere composition, than in any of those which follow. In one respect, it may be said, that Mrs. Sigourney has succeeded; for certainly much of the sketch is beautiful as regards style simply. That it is so, we may show by a few quotations from this part of the book; and first, from the short introduction to the piece:

"But my present purpose is to delineate a single and simple principle of our nature the most deeply rooted and holy-the love of a father for a daughter. My province has led me to analyze mankind; and in doing this, I have sometimes thrown their affections into the crucible. And the one of which I speak has come forth most pure, most free from drossy admixture. Even the earth that combines with it, is not like other earth. It is what the foot of a seraph might rest upon, and contract no pollution. With the love of our sons, ambition mixes its spirit, till it becomes a fiery essence. We anticipate great things for them-we covet honours -we goad them on in the race of glory; if they are victors, we too proudly exult— if vanquished, we are prostrate and in bitterness. Perhaps we detect in them the same latent perverseness, with which we have waged warfare in our own breasts, or some imbecility of purpose with which we have no affinity; and then, from the very nature of our love, an impatience is generated, which they have no power to sooth or we to control. A father loves his son as he loves himself-and in all selfishness there is a bias to disorder and pain. But his love for his daughter is different and more disinterested; possibly he believes that it is called forth by a being of a higher and better order. It is based on the integral and immutable principles of his nature." P. 10.

And again, after "the father," who himself speaks in this tale, has introduced to the reader his daughter, as one "beautiful in infancy, to whom every year added some new charm to awaken admiration or to rivet love;" after he has spoken of his own unceasing labours to cultivate and adorn this beloved, this idolized daughter's intellect, and of the success which attended his exertions; after he has dwelt with fondness upon her symmetry of form, her grace of manner, and her filial piety, he adds:

'Sometimes, the turmoil and fluctuation of the world threw a shade of dejection over me: then it was her pride to smooth my brow and to restore its smile. Once a sorrow of no common order had fallen upon me; it rankled in my breast like a dagger's point; I came to my house, but I shunned all its inmates; I threw myself down in solitude, that I might wrestle alone with my fate and subdue it. A light footstep approached, but I heeded it not. A form of beauty was on the sofa by my side, but I regarded it not. Then my hand was softly clasped, breathed uponpressed to ruby lips. It was enough. I took my daughter in my arms, and my sorrow vanished. Had she essayed the hackneyed expressions of sympathy, or even the usual epithets of endearment, I might have desired her to leave my presence. Had she uttered only a single word, it would have been too much, so wounded was my spirit within me. But the deed, the very poetry of tenderness, breathing, not speaking, melted 'the winter of my discontent.' Ever was she endued with that most exquisite of woman's perfections, a knowledge both when to be silent, and where to speak-and so to speak, that the frosts might dissolve from around the heart she loved, and its discords be tuned to harmony." P. 13, 14.

But notwithstanding the beauty of the style, Mrs. Sigourney has undoubtedly failed to give a deep absorbing interest to her tale; which, we think, may be attributed to the fact, that mere beauty of composition, unless that beauty be of the highest order,

cannot compensate for poverty of invention, and the want of an interesting subject. And, after all, her's is often rather a beauty of words and figures, than of originality and thought. Such at least is the impression which we have received; and we think that any one, after rising from the perusal of this story, will agree with us in saying, that it is destitute of the power to interest the feelings, (that is, in any high degree,) to excite the imagination, or even to rivet the attention. It will be remembered, that all our remarks apply to this work only, not to any of her former or subsequent productions.

But to continue: the father, blessed as he imagines with all that can be desired in the possession of such a daughter, "challenges" -to use his own words "challenges the whole earth to add another drop to his felicity." But he is soon roused from the delusive slumber, in which he dreams of perfect happiness, to the dreadful consciousness of misery. The gift, which heaven has bestowed upon him, wants that permanency which alone can render lasting his happiness. The idol, with all her perfections, is not exempted from the common lot of mortality. In a word, his daughter dies; "the Corinthian capital that he had erected and adorned," crumbles and moulders in the dust. But by this unexpected, this overwhelming calamity, the father is not at once prostrated. While his heart is withered by the blast, the fountains of his eyes remain closely sealed: he is denied the wretched consolation of tears; and in the presence of others, a supernatural energy seems to support him: he "is like Mount Atlas, bearing unmoved the stormy heavens upon his shoulders." It is when in solitude alone that he mourns. Every night he goes to his daughter's grave; he lays himself down there, in unutterable bitterness," but still "he weeps not."

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"I have implied (he says) that my intellect faltered. Yet every morning I went to the scene of my labours. I put my shoulder to the wheel, caring not though it crushed me. I looked at men fixedly and haughtily with my red eyeballs. But I spoke no word to betray the flame feeding at my vitals. The heartstrings shrivelled and broke before it, yet the martyrdom was in silence.

"Again, night drew her sable curtain, and I sought my daughter's grave. Methought its turf covering was discomposed, and some half-rooted shrubs that shuddered and drooped when placed in that drear assemblage of the dead, had been trampled and broken. A horrible suspicion took possession of my mind. I rushed to the house of the sexton-Has any one troubled my daughter's grave?' Alarmed at my vehemence, he remained speechless and irresolute.

"Tell me,' I exclaimed, in a voice of terror, who has disturbed my daughter's grave?' He evaded my adjuration, and murmured something about an injunction to secrecy. With the grasp of a maniac, I bore him to an inner apartment, and bade him satisfy my question. Trembling at my violence, he confessed that the grave had been watched for ten nights.

"Who has watched my daughter's grave?' Reluctantly he gave me the names of those friends-names for ever graven upon my soul.

"And so, for these ten long wintry nights, so dreary and interminable, which I had cast away amid the tossings of profitless, delirious, despairing sorrow, they had been watching, that the repose of that unsullied clay might remain unbroken.

"A new tide of emotion was awakened. I threw myself down as powerless as the weaned infant. Torrents of tears flowed. The tenderness of man wrought what the severity of heaven had failed to produce. It was not the earthquake, nor the thunder, nor the tempest, that subdued me. It was the still small voice."P. 19, 20.

It is here, we think, in the sequel, that Mrs. Sigourney has most completely and obviously failed. Her hero is brought into a serious difficulty, and must in some way be relieved. Tears must be made to flow, since they do not appear voluntarily. She has, indeed, succeeded in accomplishing the object, but in a very unnatural and awkward manner. This last incident has the appearance of being "trop recherché," of arising out of the necessity rather than out of the subject. It is natural enough that the father should be alarmed and horror-struck at the idea that his daughter's remains had been disturbed; that the sanctity of the tomb-the tomb of one so beloved-had been violated; but that the friends who with care watched the grave, to guard it from desecration, should unheedingly have discomposed the sods which covered it, and broken the surrounding shrubs, as seems to be implied; or that the knowledge of their nightly vigil should produce such an overpowering effect upon the father, are circumstances which appear forced and unnatural. The reader, too, is at first as confident of an untimely resurrection, as the father himself; but in the case of the former, disappointment instead of relief is the consequence of the subsequent disclosure. We know that the reader's expectations should not always be regarded, but when they are disappointed, this disappointment should be an agreeable one. The issue should be more interesting, more stirring than he had anticipated; or at least should not fall short of such anticipations. We would not be understood as advocating the introduction of such a catastrophe as the violation of the daughter's grave in this place; we only pretend to point out the fault, not to suggest what would have been a proper expedient for accomplishing the end, which the authoress appears to have had in view.

Though we have already spent more time upon the first of these Sketches than we intended, we must yet be indulged in a few further remarks. In saying that it is here the authoress has most completely failed, we would be understood as speaking only of the literary character of the tale; and nothing else have we as yet considered. But we think a more serious charge may be brought against "The Father," than any mere literary consideration would warrant. A London periodical work, in noticing this volume,

says,

"Mrs. Sigourney is the Mrs. Trimmer of the United States, and her labours for the moral guidance of youth, and indeed the instruction of all ages, have raised her to deserved and distinguished popularity. We are, therefore, glad to see this volume, containing

six of her most characteristic tales, among our English publications. It will do good wherever it is read."

This can hardly be considered as any thing more than a bookseller's puff. It would, we think, be somewhat difficult to determine the exact points in which our authoress resembles Mrs. Trimmer; but without racking our brains to discover such resemblance, we would pass to the inquiry, whether this book be so eminently adapted to "the moral guidance of youth," or "to do good wherever it is read," as is here stated. What is the moral conveyed in the sketch which we have just analyzed; or rather, is there any moral inculcated? It is customary for authors to represent their principal characters, and especially their heroines, in a highly exaggerated manner; but neither this custom, which of course will not warrant an unbounded license, nor the force and tenderness of a father's love, is sufficient to justify the extravagant and absurd description given of the natural endowments and artificial accomplishments of the daughter. Had she been a very angel, her character could scarcely have been depicted in brighter colours. She is represented as "early surpassing her cotemporaries," as possessed of no common powers of mind, as "gifted with intuitive eloquence," as "bearing the palm of female grace and loveliness," as "evincing a dignity surpassing her sex," as "in symmetry restoring the image of the Medicean Venus," as "the object of every eye, the theme of every tongue," and withal, entirely free from the least shade of vanity, that almost universal failing; in short, perfection, both of body and mind, are attributed to this highly favoured mortal. But again; "the love of a father for a daughter" is characterized as the "most deeply rooted and holy principle of our nature." And is this paternal love, as described by Mrs. Sigourney? Nothing short of adoration, of idolatry. The reader is led to believe that a picture of natural and commendable affection is exhibited, while, in fact, that which meets his eye, is an exhibition of morbid, irrational, and blameable devotion; a devotion which blinds to the imperfections of its object, and excludes all else that is worthy of love. "The father" has a wife, but she is scarcely mentioned in the course of the narrative. We might imagine that she had no place in her husband's affections, but that they were entirely centered upon the daughter, and radiated not beyond the influence of her endearments. It may be said, that the intention of the authoress was to portray paternal love only, and that it was therefore unnecessary to dwell upon his tender attachment to his wife, even if such attachment existed. But allowing that there was no such necessity, surely his adoration of the daughter should not be described as so absorbing, as to preclude the possibility that any other could be equally beloved. What could have been the depth of his affection for the mother, when the child was his support under affliction, his "comforter," his "idol;" when the latter