of French Indians who had lain in wait for us. One of them fired at us, not fifteen steps off, but fortunately missed. We took the fellow into custody, and kept him till nine o'clock at night, then let him go, and walked the remaining part of the night without making any stop, that we might get the start so far as to be out of the reach of pursuit the next day, since we were well assured they would follow our track as soon as it was light. The next day we continued travelling until quite dark, and got to the river about two miles above Shanopin. We expected to have found the river frozen, but it was not, except about fifty yards from the shore. The ice, I suppose, had broken up above, for it was driving in vast quantities.

"There was no way of getting over but on a raft, which we set about with but one poor hatchet, and finished just after sunsetting. This was a whole day's work. We next launched it then went on board and set off- but before we were half over, we were jammed in the ice in such a manner that we expected every moment our raft to sink, and ourselves to perish. I put out my setting-pole to try and stop the raft, that the ice might pass by, when the rapidity of the stream threw it with such force against the pole, that it jerked me out into ten feet water; but I fortunately saved myself by catching hold of one of the raft-logs. Notwithstanding all our efforts, we could not get to either shore, but were obliged, as we were near an island, to quit our raft and make for it. The cold was extremely severe, and Mr. Gist had all his fingers and some of his toes frozen. The water was shut up so hard that we found no difficulty in getting off the island the next morning on the ice."

The frequent occurrence of such new illustrative passages as the following, imparts a pleasing freshness to the present work. It will be found in the description of Braddock's defeat:

"All accounts agree that the unfortunate Braddock behaved with great gallantry, though with little discretion, in his trying situation. He encouraged his soldiers, and was crying out with his speaking-trumpet, Hurrah, boys! lose the saddle or win the horse!' when a bullet struck him, and he fell to the ground, exclaiming-Ha, boys! I'm gone! During all this time not a cannon had been fired by the British forces. It was at this moment that one who was with him at the time, who is still living, and on whose humble testimony I rely even with more confidence than on the more imposing authority of history, thus describes Washington. I saw him take hold of a brass fieldpiece, as if it had been a stick. He looked like a fury; he tore the sheet lead from the touch-hole; he placed one hand on the muzzle, the other on the breech; he pulled with this, and pushed with that, and wheeled it round as if it had been nothing. It tore the ground like a barshare (a kind of plough.) The powder-monkey rushed up with the fire, and then the cannon began to bark, I tell you. They fought and they fought, and the Indians began to holla, when the rest of the brass cannon made the bark of the trees fly, and the Indians came down. That place they call Rock Hill, and there they left five hundred men dead on the ground."

Some idea of the cruelty and suffering which were exercised and felt in the three years of savage warfare which succeeded the defeat of Braddock, may be gathered from the subjoined sketch, which was obtained from the lips of Washington himself, and is now first presented to the public :

"One day,' said Washington, 'as we were traversing a part of the frontier, we came upon a single log-house, standing in the centre of a little clearing, surrounded by woods on all sides. As we approached, we heard the report of a gun, the usual signal of coming horrors. Our party crept cautiously through the underwood, until we approached near enough to see what we had already foreboded. A smoke was slowly making its way through the roof of the house, while at the same moment a party of Indians came forth laden with plunder, consisting of clothes, domestic utensils, household furniture, and dripping scalps. We fired, and killed all but one, who tried to get away, but was soon shot down.

"On entering the hut we saw a sight that, though we were familiar with blood and massacre, struck us, at least myself, with feelings more mournful than I had ever experienced before. On a bed in one corner of the room lay the body of a young woman swimming in blood, with a gash in her forehead which almost separated the head into two parts. On her breast lay two little babes, apparently twins, less than a twelvemonth old, with their heads also cut open. Their innocent blood, which had once flowed in the same veins, now mingled in one current again. I was inured to scenes of bloodshed and misery, but this cut me to the soul, and never in my after-life did I raise my hand against a savage without calling to mind the mother with her little twins, their heads cleft asunder.

"On examining the tracks of the Indians to see what other murders they might have committed, we found a little boy, and a few steps beyond, his father, both scalped, and

1836.1

Literary Notices.

both stone dead. From the prints of the feet of the boy, it would seem he had been following the plough with his father, who being probably shot down, he had attempted to escape. But the poor boy was followed, overtaken, and murdered. The ruin was complete. Not one of the family had been spared. Such was the character of our miserable warfare. The wretched people on the frontier never went to rest without bidding each other farewell; for the chances were they might never awake again, or awake only to find their last sleep. On leaving one spot for the purpose of giving protection to another point of exposure, the scene was often such as I shall never forget. The women and children clung round our knees, beseeching us to stay and protect them, and crying out for God's sake not to leave them to be butchered by the savages. A hundred times, I declare to Heaven, I would have laid down my life with pleasure, even under the tomahawk and scalping-knife, could I have ensured the safety of those suffering people by the sacrifice.'

The approbation with which the literary efforts of Mr. Paulding are received by the public, renders a farther recommendation of his labors upon such a noble theme as WASHINGTON wholly unnecessary. We should not forget to add, that the volumes are embellished with four very good engravings, all from excellent paintings by CHAPMAN. The portrait of Washington is from the original bust by Cerraci, engraved by PRUD'HOMME. The remaining three pictures, 'New Tomb of the Washington Family,'' View of Yorktown, Virginia, and the spot where Cornwallis laid down his arms,' and the' Birth-place of Washington,' are creditable to the skill of DICK, who is winning deserved repute.

THE CLUB-BOOK: being Original Tales, by JAMES, PICKEN, GALT, POWER, JERDAN, GOWER, MOIR, CUNNINGHAM, HOGG, RITCHIE, etc. Two vols. in one. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

THIS is a collection of tales by English writers of established reputation, many of which will well repay perusal. They are termed 'original' in the title-page; yet we are certain that we read two of them some years since. This, however, is not said in disparagement of their merit, since those referred to, 'Eisenbach' and 'The Sleepless Woman,' we especially admire, particularly the latter. There is something singularly wild and original in the idea of a 'sleepless woman' killing her husband, by simply remaining awake night and day. A part of the conclusion of this striking legend is annexed:

"The day darkened into night; and here, according to all regular precedents in romance, hero and heroine ought to be left to themselves; but there never yet was a rule without an exception. However, to infringe upon established custom as little as possible, we will enter into no details of how pretty the bride looked in her nightcap, but proceed forthwith to the baron's first sleep. He dreamed that the sun suddenly shone into his chamber. Dazzled by the glare, he awoke, and found the bright eyes of his bride gazing tenderly on his face. Weary as he was, still he remembered how uncourteous it would be to lie sleeping while she was so wide awake, and he forthwith roused himself as well as he could. Many persons say they can't sleep in a strange bed; perhaps this might be the case with his bride; and in new situations people should have all possible allowance made for them.

"They rose early the following morning, the baroness bright-eyed and blooming as usual, the baron pale and abattu. They wandered through the castle; De Launaye told of his uncle's prediction.

"How careful I must be of you,' said the bride, smiling; 'I shall be quite jealous.' "Night came, and again Adolphe was wakened from his first sleep by Clotilde's bright eyes. The third night arrived, and human nature could bear no more. Good God, my dearest!' exclaimed the husband, 'do you never sleep?' "Sleep!' replied Clotilde, opening her large bright eyes, till they were even twice their usual size and brightness. Sleep! one of my noble race sleep! I never slept in my life.'

She never sleeps!' ejaculated the baron, sinking back on his pillow, in horror and exhaustion.

"It had been settled that the young couple should forthwith visit Paris- thither they at once proceeded. The beauty of the baroness produced a most marvellous sensation even in that city of sensations. Nothing was heard of for a week but the enchanting eyes of the Baroness de Launaye. A diamond necklace of a new pattern was invented in her honor, and called aux beaux yeux de Clotilde.

"Those eyes,' said a prince of the blood, whose taste in such matters had been cultivated by some years of continual practice, those eyes of Madame de Launaye will rob many of our young gallants of their rest.'

"Very true,' briefly replied her husband.

Well, the baroness shone like a meteor in every scene, while the baron accompanied her, the spectre of his former self. Sallow, emaciated, every body said he was going into a consumption. Still it was quite delightful to witness the devotedness of his wife she could scarcely bear him a moment out of her sight."

"She never sleeps! exclaimed the miserable Adolphe-she never sleeps! Day and night her large bright eyes eat like fire into my heart. Oh my uncle, why did not your prophecy, when it warned me against danger, tell me distinctly in what the danger consisted! To have a wife who never sleeps !'

The denouement of 'Eisenbach' is powerful, and throughout the whole, the continuous attention of the reader is well secured. Let us hope that our own writers may ere long unite their efforts, and give us an American Club-Book, worthy the name. The experiment could scarcely fail. It would in our opinion not only be popular, but beneficial to our literature.

HENRY IV. OF GERMANY. A Tragedy. In one volume. New-York: Printed by OSBORN AND BUCKINGHAM.

We owe an apology to the public for having hitherto omitted to notice this tragical tragedy. It contains eighty-five pages, inclusive of the title-page, and list of dramatis persona. Over every act and scene is placed a direction in italic types, giving the reader to know whereabout in the progress of the story he is to suppose himself to be. These, it should be remarked, are the only places in the volume where any clue of the kind can be obtained. Short lines and brief sentences, in the same conspicuous letters, are scattered at intervals along the text of the work. The whole is neatly printed, upon fine white paper, with a small but clear and legible type; and the pages are, to use the printer's phrase, 'leaded.' At the extreme end of the book, in capital characters, are these words: 'CURTAIN FALLS.' The binding of the tragedy is of colored muslin, stamped in small dots; and a plain border of impressed and equi-distant lines runs around the outer edge On the attenuated back is printed, in letters of gold, ' HENRY IV.' In some copies that we have seen, the v. was omitted for want of room. Some idea of the transparent nature of the contents of this volume may be gathered from the following passage, which we take from ' Ne ne Kahyatonhseradogenhti,' a volume prepared for the use of the Mohawks, by the learned and ingenious Mr. HILL:

'Yagotenht onhwenjagwegon wahonni yagogenrat-ogon! igen tkagonte ehniyawenhsere eayagoyendake nahoten ne ayondatkenhronni; nok rotenhtasere netho ronweh ne enharihonni enjonderih watewahton! Ne kadi wahonni, tokat sesnongeh sahsigeh teus ensagaronni, stoskar, isi yasatih: senha wahi yoyanere yahthatasenontshontage enhsadaweyate jiyenhsonhegeonweh, jiniyoht nahsyatagwegon, nok jiniyenhen we ojistageh jiyotekha yayesayatonti."

Those who have perused, and understood as they read, the work under notice will, one would suppose, find no difficulty in comprehending the above eloquent extract. In our judgment, the style of the Mohawk author is by many fold the most perspicuous.

THE EXPEDITION OF HUMPHRY CLINKER. By T. SMOLLET, M. D. With a Memoir of the Author, by THOMAS ROSCOE, Esq., and illustrated by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. In one volume. New-York: HARPER AND Brothers.

SHAKSPEARE has said

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and the proverb withal is something musty—that it is not an easy matter to gild refined gold, or to paint the lily. With this undeniable truism staring us in the face, we do not feel justified in attempting to enlarge upon the merits of Smollet's works in general, or Humphry Clinker' in particular. The perfection of this author's style is, that he has none. Nature herself was his only goddess. Hence he has never been approached by imitation, though numerous attempts have not been wanting. 'Roderick Random' has produced more bastards in wit than even Tom Jones.' We once saw a copy of the first-named work that might indeed have been successfully counterfeited. It was one of an edition wherein some amateur benefactor of the human race had expunged what he considered the objectionable parts.' How had the fine gold become dim! The strong and judicious masses of light thrown by the hand of the great master upon his portraits were reduced to feeble touches, and the pure and genuine English was half frittered away. Bentley's alteration of Milton was not more ridiculous. Touching the book under notice, however—to return from our digression-it is only needful for us to remark, that it is executed in the usual excellent manner of the publishers, and contains three or four spirited etchings by Cruikshanks. If modern readers have not vitiated their tastes till, 'like a sick girl, they prefer ashes and chalk to beef and mutton,' this is the book for their money.

THE WORKS OF JOHN DRYDEN: IN VERSE AND PROSE. With a Life, by REV. JOHN MITFORD. In two volumes. New-York: GEORGE Dearborn.

TO ENTER into a detail of the characteristics of Dryden as a writer, or to speak in praise of him who has been justly termed the father of English versification, would at the present day be a work of supererogation. Still, it may not be out of place to suggest to our readers the propriety of refreshing their memories by re-perusing from time to time the productions of the good old sterling writers of the Augustan age of English literature, and those of their immediate predecessors - convinced as we are that from such sources more can be drawn, tending to improve the intellect and heart, than from the great majority of modern literary attempts. This may be owing in part to the greater elaborateness and depth of reasoning manifest in them, as also to the greater length of time devoted to their preparation in those days when a book was sometimes the work of the author's life, and generally concentrated the labor of years. Such works afford food for thought, and promote a healthy exercise of the intellectual powers, and are exceedingly difficult to skim through at the rate of a volume per hour.

The edition of Dryden before us is one of the neatest we have ever seen, and as a specimen of art, is very creditable to American typography. Dearborn's edition of standard authors should be on the shelves of every family library, for this, if for no other reason: he has carefully expurgated them of all those portions which, however congenial with the taste of the age in which they lived, are justly regarded as blemishes at the present day. This improvement, alone, should entitle the 'standard edition' to the preference in the minds of the judicious, who may wish to enjoy the beauties of the old writers without being offended with their occasional licentiousness. A fine portrait of Dryden, from the graver of DICK, and a handsome vignette titlepage, decorate the volumes.

EDITORS' TABLE.

We have been favored with the proof-sheets of an interesting, useful, and agreeable work, now in the press of Messrs. GRIGG AND ELLIOTT, of Philadelphia, entitled 'A pleasant peregrination through the prettiest parts of Pennsylvania, performed by Peregrine Prolix.' Perfectly plain to our perception, is the happy alliteration in this title. Peregrine is not a stranger to us. We have read of his doings and sights at the White Sulphur Springs in the South; we know the ripeness of his scholarship, the placid cordiality of his spirit, and the delicate keenness of his intellectual eye, which, glancing by the way-sides of life, directs thither the attention of his reader, with ample repayment for the same. In his peregrinations through Pennsylvania, he touches of course upon Philadelphia. Hear him :

'What a comfortable place is the city of Penn! How is Philadelphia adorned with neatness and with peace! How do her indwellers linger about her good things, and strangers delight in her rectangles! Several months since we had determined to make a journey through Pennsylvania, to explore her beauties, and survey the works of internal improvement, which have been brought into successful operation, with the good intent of letting our fellow creatures know what has been doing, and what is done; and where and how they may seek health and delight, within her borders. But until today the charms of this city have hung with such a weight about the neck of our natural inertia, as to nullify for a time the force of our truant disposition, and to retain us here two months longer than we intended.

'Philadelphia is a flat, rectangular, clean, (almost too clean sometimes, for on Saturdays nunquam cessavit lavari, aut fricari, aut tergeri, aut ornari, poliri, pingi, fingi,'*) uniform, well-built, brick and mortar, (except one stone house,) well-fed and watered, well-clad, moral, industrious, manufacturing, rich, sober, quiet, good-looking city. The Delaware washes its eastern and the Schuylkill its western front. The distance between the two rivers is one mile and three quarters, which space on several streets is nearly filled with houses. Philadelphia looks new, and is new, and like Juno always will be new; for the inhabitants are constantly pulling down and new-vamping their houses. The furor delendi with regard to old houses, is as rife in the bosoms of her citizens, as it was in the breast of old Cato with regard to Carthage. A respectable looking old house is now a rare thing, and except the venerable edifice of Christ Church in Second above Market Street, we should hardly know where to find one.

'The dwelling-houses in the principal streets are all very much alike, having much the air of brothers, sisters and cousins of the same family; like the supernumerary figures in one of West's historical paintings, or like all the faces in all of Stothard's designs. They are nearly all three stories high, faced with beautiful red unpainted Philadelphia brick, and have water tables and steps of white marble, kept so painfully clean as to make one fear to set his foot on them. The roofs are in general of cedar, cypress or pine shingles; the continued use of which is probably kept up (for there is plenty of slate,) to afford the fire-companies a little wholesome exercise.'

After a fair and free discussion of some of the excellent institutions of the city, the peaceful Peregrine discourseth upon the climate. Experience has taught us, that what he says in this regard is gospel. We confirm and bear witness thereunto. We have sweltered there in the early summer; we have wheeled upon the Delaware over the glassy ice, and imbibed mulled wine at Smith's Island, and at Kaign's Point, likewise. We have seen a bevy of quaker forms, of our sex, gliding up that river under full sail; and we have pushed our steel-clad way from the Navy-Yard to Kensington: we have been rowed by the Regatta Club from Fairmount to Belmont Cottage, of a sum

'Plautus, Panuli, Act i., sc. 2, 1. 10.'