through our floating palaces! The flame that burns upon your hearth- I need not tell you, with the spectacle that has lately been before your eyes, what it may do. Who that saw the fiery spirit of destruction let loose among yonder warehouseswho that saw and heard that roaring deluge of flame which swept through the chambers of wealth and commerce, - did not feel the impotence of the proudest men, or communities, when waging war with the powers of nature?"

We close our extracts with the subjoined paragraphs. They follow an impressive enforcement of the importance—in a world where man is 'certain of nothing; certain neither of health, nor reputation, nor friends; certain not even of that of which he is most certain' -- of making provision for himself that shall be beyond the reach of all earthly vicissitude:

"And the lesson which is inculcated by the great Teacher-which is so powerfully commended to us by the late awful visitation of Providence-is doubtless one which greatly needs to be enforced among us. I do not speak, nor think of that visitation as a special judgment. It is embraced, in my view of it, among those general means, by which God is ever teaching us that the great end of life is one that lies far beyond and above all earthly comforts, possessions, and splendors. It is this, I say, that we are taught, and need to be taught. We are, in a life of business, surrounded by fearful exposures; and especially, ought I not to say, in this very city, whose prosperity has been invaded by such a sudden and awful calamity. I speak of this city no otherwise than as a scene of such active and engrossing business, as hardly has its parallel in the world. I say, that in such circumstances, and on such a theatre, there is a severe and solemn trial of human virtue. From this pulpit you would expect me to say no less; but I would to God that it were not regarded as the mere language of the pulpit. I say that this is a trial which touches the essential point of all human welfare. And I fear that many are falling in this momentous probation; that many are losing sight of things infinitely dearer than wealth-that they are losing sight of the immortal, in the mortal- of 'durable riches,' in perishing riches-of the soul in sense-of God, in the world-the very world that he has made to reveal him! I speak to you, my brethren, but as I would speak to myself in the same circumstances. I say, there is danger. That whelming flame carried no alarm to my mind so awful, because it conveyed danger to no interests so momentous, as those which are put in peril-I will dare to say it-by the prosperous business of every day! Think me not extravagant, till you can prove to me that the eager strife of business is not rendering hundreds and thousands more indifferent to their souls' welfare, than they are to the smallest items of their daily-accumulating gains. Think me not extravagant, till you can prove to me that that scene of business which God designed to be a field for the noblest virtues, is not making many among us selfish, covetous, and possibly dishonest. To whom this may appertain, I know not; but this I say: If you are a man whose god is gold, and whose life is one lengthened service and slavery to that god; if your mind as well as your body is bowed down to worship it; if you pay it the homage of all your chief hopes, and wishes, and anxieties, and are sacrificing mind, memory, reason, conscience, religion, every thing, at its altar; if you are garnering up the dear treasure in your secret thoughts, and brooding sweetly over it, as you never brood even over the thoughts of heaven; if you are growing proud, not grateful, as you are growing rich, and are learning, by an almost unconscious process, to feel as if you were independent of man and of God alike—then, I say, it was time that you were taught, by a visitation as solemn and admonitory as that which has laid a part of your city in ashes. Better that the property of half of the country were consumed by fire, than that a spirit, fierce for gain, and reckless of every thing else, should burn with more fatal fires, in ten thousand families among us. Wealth is not the chief good - must we gravely say so? Is this a country that deserves to be addressed with the irony implied in such a declaration? Wealth, in fact, is not so great a good as the energy that obtains it. A man is not so fortunate in the possession of millions, as he was in the activity, industry, and talent, that enabled him to acquire them. Wealth is valuable, doubtless; but its value is contingent - it depends on what has a far higher value, the intelligence, liberality, and purity of the mind. It takes its whole character from the mind of its possessor. To the excellent man, it will be an excellent thing; to the mean man, it will be a mean thing; to the corrupt man, it will be a fountain of corruption, a minister of evil. Wealth is not an end, but a means. It is good, only in a good use. It is good for nothing, in no use; and it possesses a far worse character than that, in a bad use. Like the element of heat, it may spread around a genial warmth, and rear up fair and beautiful productions, or

-

it may be the raging fire of evil passions, in which the soul is either hardened or destroyed. Yes, wealth has, indeed, this high and fearful attribute — that it may be to a man one of the greatest of his blessings, or one of the greatest of curses. "For, as I walked through your city, I saw a man of a haughty brow, and a hard heart, and of an iron hand, whom wealth had made a covetous man and an oppressor; whose spirit gain had immured in the close and grated prison of all-absorbing and indurating selfishness; and I said, as I looked upon him, 'I would rather be the poorest man in this city, with a generous heart, than to be that man.'

"Again, I saw one whom a fair and envied inheritance had made rich - a young man, whose father had spent the toilsome and anxious years of a life to launch him out upon a sea of fortune; and I saw the ample means of indulgence, and the absence of all honorable occupation, leading him step by step, till every virtue of his youthful heart was tainted to the core, and every promise of his early day was leveled in the dust, and he was left a wreck of life, upon the verge of an early grave an object as loathsome and piteous to behold, as the tenant of the vilest hovel of poverty, and disease, and vice: and as I saw this, I meditated much with myself, and I said: Are ample fortune, and lavish expenditure, a wise discipline for youth?—should a prudent and industrious father be mainly anxious to provide such a lot for his son?' and I looked with a serious and distrustful eye upon those immense accumulations of property that draw the admiring gaze of the world.

"But again I went forth, and another man I saw, and he too was opulent; but I saw that he grew modest, not proud, and beneficent, not voluptuous, with his increaing wealth. I saw, too, that in the midst of all the splendors and comforts of ample fortune, he bowed in humble gratitude before the great Giver of all blessings; and I saw, too, that his abundance flowed forth in many streams of beneficence to the world around him; that he was the poor man's friend, and the young man's patron and adviser, and the generous protector of his kindred, and the liberal fosterer of science and learning, and the noble helper of many charities; and then it seemed to me that wealth was a good and beautiful thing- - a blessed stewardship in the service of God, and a divine manifestation of mercy to man.

"Again I looked upon this man, and I saw him fallen from that fair estate, and stripped of all the splendors of fortune; and I looked to see him broken and fallen in spirit: but no; he met me with a cheerful countenance; and what did he say? 'I have lost that which I valued; but think not, my friend, that I have lost what I most value the trust and peace of my own mind. I pretend to no cynical indifference; I am a dweller upon earth, and earth's possessions were useful to me, and I meant to make them useful to others; but I do not forget that I am a traveler to eternity. The flood of calamities which it pleased God that I should pass through- truly it has swept away from me some fair appendages, some rich wardrobes, some goodly equipages of my journey; but like those Eastern merchants, who sometimes, in a perilous journey, bore, secreted upon their persons, their whole fortune in one precious diamond, and thus preserved it, so do I feel that the calamities I have passed through have left untouched my chief treasure.' And when I saw this, when I heard this, I felt no longer that I looked upon a rich man, or upon a poor man; but I felt that I looked upon A MAN! I saw that the word of God's promise was true: The grass withereth, the flower fadeth; but the word of our God shall stand for ever.'"

THE PARTISAN: A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION. By the Author of Guy Rivers,' 'The Yemassee,' etc. In two vols. 12mo. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.

THIS is an historical novel, the scene of which is laid in South Carolina, at that very interesting epoch of our revolution which commenced with the apparent submission of the State to the British yoke, immediately after the surrender of Charleston, and ended with the battle of Camden. This selection of time gives the author an opportunity of bringing before the reader many characters well known in history, without necessarily interfering with the plot, or the continuity of the story; and we have accordingly spirited sketches of Cornwallis, Rawdon, and Tarleton, together with faithful portraits of Marion, De Kalb, and Gates. But the main interest of the work centres in Major Singleton—the 'Partisan'-a specimen of that indefatigable,

unconquerable, and high-minded band of warriors, to whose untiring exertions, at the darkest and most discouraging period of her history, the liberation of South Carolina is mainly to be attributed. The character of Colonel Walton is well depicted, and has all the appearance of vraisemblance; indeed, we should imagine, from the similarity of circumstances narrated, that it was drawn after that of the lamented Colonel Hayne. Katharine Walton, his daughter, is one of that numerous class of the South Carolina fair, whose sympathies were enlisted in behalf of their suffering countrymen, and who scrupled not to avow personally to the invaders their hatred of their principles, and their predilection for their opponents. We admire, also, the high-minded patriotism, which, setting at naught all considerations of self-interest and personal ease, could, at the most cheerless period of the war, with an interminable contest in prospect, assign to a lover the seemingly distant day of her country's liberation from the bonds of the invader, as that which should assure him her heart and hand. The subordinate characters are naturally drawn, and the author seems at home in his description of localities. An apparent duplicity of plot strikes us as a prominent defect, dividing, as it does, the interest of the reader between the fictitious and the strictly historical portions of the work. We are not without hope, that the author will endeayour to amalgamate them more closely in subsequent editions; though we can easily appreciate the difficulties likely to attend an attempt to engraft fiction upon fact. We must be permitted, also, to protest against the evident want of finish at times visible in these volumes, and to counsel the author to elaborate his works more carefully, even though the result might be a less frequent appearance before the public. We say this with the more confidence, since more than one of our most distinguished writers has suffered from what Byron terms the fatal facility' of writing, and has seen his early laurels withered by subsequent carelessness, and undue contempt for that tribunal which he approached, it may be, at first, with fear and trembling. These remarks are not intended in depreciation of The Partisan,' (for, with some glaring faults, we regard this as, in many intrinsic qualities, the best work that has yet proceeded from our author's pen,) but are naturally suggested by the numerous attempts at novel writing with which the American press has of late been burdened; many of which were born only to die, and inflict a lasting injury upon the character of our literature. Mr. Simms' reputation as a novelist obviates the necessity of counselling the reader to purchase, and judge for himself, one of the most attractive delineations of Southern scenery and manners we have ever yet seen.

POEMS, TRANSLATED AND ORIGINAL. By Mrs. E. F. ELLET.
Philadelphia: KEY AND BIDDLE.

In one volume. pp. 229.

THIS Volume does honor to its fair and accomplished author. She is unquestionably the most learned poetess on this side the Atlantic; and her acquirements, instead of rendering her pedantic, have given to her compositions a graceful elegance, which cannot well be too much admired. Some of her translations are sweet and easy in the extreme; in truth, we prefer them to her original products, though in them she merits much applause. She is not so sententious, nor yet so pathetic, as Mrs. Sigourney is often found to be; but there is a lovely flow of feminine and delicate thought, in all her writings. Great purity of sentiment is inculcated every where in her pages; and her superior taste ornaments every subject she chooses. She has been compared, in this respect, to Mrs. Hemans; but that lamented lady has had few equals of her sex in poetry, and no superior. The lightnings of affliction sanc

tified, while they blasted, her heart; and as decline overtook her, and death drew near, she poured forth, like the swan, ere it dies, such gushes of surpassing melody, in soultouching verse, as will move the hearts, and soothe the affections, of thousands yet unborn.

We are obliged to content ourselves with the following fragment from these Poems, (several of which have appeared at different times in this Magazine;) and we need only remark, that though brief, it may serve as a fair specimen of the beautiful morality which pervades the whole :

From mountains at the dawn of day

That wide and far their shadows send,
Beneath the sun's more perfect ray

Brief and more brief the shades extend,
Till, risen the god to noontide height,
They're bathed in living, gorgeous light.

"Tis thus the soul, through early taint,

Though first its shrouded glories shine,
Spurns at the gloom, each hour more faint,
And purer drinks the beam divine;
Till wrapt in rays from shadow free,
The noon-tide of eternity.'

NOBLE DEEDS OF WOMAN. In two volumes.
BLANCHARD.

Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND

HERE is an abbreviation, indeed! The noble acts of woman curtailed into two common volumes! Good though they are, they do not contain one fourth part of the noble deeds of the sex they would glorify. If any author wishes to comprehend all the great services of woman, let him write an Alexandrian Library, and he will find matter for every tome. The work in question certainly merits praise, because it is very good, so far as it goes; but then how limited is its scope! We could, with no extraordinary employment of historic recollection, fill two volumes, as large as these, with a history of remarkable women in our own country. As for the nobleness of women, it is exhibited every where; and the idea of compressing its characteristic effects within the space of a few hundred pages, is, in our view, like the highly useful art of writing the Lord's Prayer and Creed in the circuit of a sixpence.

HORSE-SHOE ROBINSON. A Novel. In two volumes. Second edition. Philadelphia; CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.

THE popularity of this excellent work may be inferred from its arrival at a second edition. The author has reason to be proud of its reception by the public; and we trust that past success will embolden him to further effort. He is no longer an aspirant, of doubtful powers, without the general voice to cheer him onward; but he is an established favorite. Let him not add his own case to those of other favorites in literature, who, reposing on their sometime laurels, grow careless, tame, and indolent. In truth, we have no fears of this sort with respect to Mr. Kennedy. There is too much vigor in what he has already written, to permit the belief that he can very soon degenerate, from any cause.

EDITORS' TABLE.

A NIGHT AT THE FIRE. - The horrors of a shipwreck, of a volcanic eruption, and of an earthquake, are said to be utterly indescribable. The same remark will apply to the late tremendous conflagration, by which the richest and busiest portions of our city were laid in ruins. The scene burst upon the eyes of the community, like the Day of Doom. Through the frosty atmosphere, the tongues of a hundred bells tolled their alarum; and it seemed to us, as we hastened to the spot, that some sudden frenzy had been spread by contagion among the people. What a view was that presented to the tens of thousands who thronged the scene of conflagration! Clouds of smoke, like dark mountains suddenly rising into the air, were succeeded by long banners of flame, rushing to the zenith, and roaring as for their prey. Street after street caught the terrible torrent, until, over a vast area, there was rolling and booming an ocean of flame. Costly silks, teinted in colors of the rainbow, were spread to the gale, blazing in folds of light; windows, fastened with bands and shutters of iron, were reddening by scores; then the pent up rage of the element, disdaining their restraints, burst forth, carrying with it, as if by the action of steam, trains of unrolling laces, consuming as they flew. The rattling of innumerable carriages, and vehicles of every description; the confused Babel of tumult which the firemen awakened; the distant ships, moving like craft of fire, along the river; the awful glare of the flames on adjacent waters; the resounding thunder of the powderblown edifices, that went onward from the scene of fire, echoing through town and country; the dome of the Exchange, sending to heaven its wide shaft of flame; the shrieks of women and children, mingled with the laugh of some disordered reveler, bending beneath stolen goods, and elated with stolen wine, these were sights and sounds never to be forgotten. The pillars of the cupola, as they gave way beneath the falling dome and gilded vane, presented an aspect grand and sublime. It was as if some feudal castle, stormed by beleaguering foes, was sinking to destruction. The falling walls; the hurrying to and fro of firemen, with their ice-crowned hats and coats gleaming like helmets and coats of mail; the wide-spread view of churches, towers, domes, high walls, and long-extended streets, wrapt in one glaring and hungry element, all were indeed beyond the power of language to depict. The country was illuminated as by the sun; woods, waters, fields, and cottages, were touched with the solemn, unwonted light.

Yet a little while, and the phoenix will rise from her ashes, and no mark be seen of this unexpected calamity. The energies of New-York are irrepressible; and the enterprise and spirit of her citizens - unparalleled by those of any community of the same numbers on the globe - will speedily disenthral her from the gloom which even now has well-nigh disappeared. Yet a few months, and the waste now black and desolate, will be enlivened by the busy hum of 'multitudes commercing;' — and the visitor, as he marks the life and prosperity every where manifest around him, will seek in vain to believe, that but so lately as he read the news of THE GREAT FIRE, the scene was one of darkness, despondency, and apparent ruin. Thinking upon this great self-supporting power of a small portion only of the country at large, we cannot but feel how great and mighty is the nation to which it belongs. Who that sees how no prostration can keep us down, and how soon we can rise from a heavy misfortune, but beholds therein a