""Patriotism,' he would say, 'patriotism is the thing! Any man that's too proud to serve his country, aint fit to live. Some thinks so much o' themselves, that if they can have jist what they think they 're fit for, they wont take nothing; but for my part, I call myself an American citizen; and any office that's in the gift o' the people will suit me. I'm up to any thing. And as there aint no other man about here — no suitable man, I mean that's got a horse, why I'd be willing to be constable, if the people's a mind to, though it would be a dead loss to me in my business, to be sure; but I could do any thing for my country. Hurra for patriotism! them 's my sentiments.'

"It can scarcely be doubted that Mr. Jenkins became a very popular citizen, or that he usually played a conspicuous part at the polls. Offices began to fall to his share, and though they were generally such as brought more honor than profit, office is office, and Mr. Jenkins did not grumble. Things were going on admirably.

The spoils of office glitter in his eyes,

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them;

Or thought he was just going to grasp them, when, presto! he found himself in the minority; the wheel of fortune turned, and Mr. Jenkins and his party were left undermost. Here was a dilemma! His zeal in the public service was ardent as ever, but how could he get a chance to show it unless his party was in power? His resolution was soon taken. He called his friends together, mounted a stump, which had fortunately been left standing not far from the door of his shop, and then and there gave 'reasons for my ratting' in terms sublime enough for any meridian.

"My friends and feller-citizens,' said this self-sacrificing patriot, 'I find myself conglomerated in sich a way, that my feelin's suffers severely. I'm sitivated in a peculiar sitivation. O' one side, I see my dear friends, pussonal friends-friends, that's stuck to me like wax, through thick and thin, never shinnyin' off and on, but up to the scratch, and no mistake. O't' other side I behold my country, my bleedin' country, the land that fetch'd me into this world o' trouble. Now, sence things be as they be, and can't be no otherways as I see, I feel kind o' screwed into an auger-hole to know what to do. If I hunt over the history of the universal world from the creation of man to the present day, I see that men has always had difficulties; and that some has took one way to get shut of 'em, and some another. My candid and unrefragable opinion is, that rather than remain useless, buckled down to the shop, and indulging in selfishness, it is my solemn dooty to change my ticket. It is severe, my friends, but dooty is dooty. And now, if any man calls me a turn-coat,' continued the orator, gently spitting in his hands, rubbing them together, and rolling his eyes round the assembly, 'all I say is, let him say it so that I can hear him.'

"The last argument was irresistible, if even the others might have brooked discussion, for Mr. Jenkins stands six feet two in his stockings, when he wears any, and gesticulates with a pair of arms as long and muscular as Rob Roy's. So, though the audience did not cheer him, they contented themselves with dropping off one by one, without calling in question the patriotism of the rising statesman.

"The very next election saw Mr. Jenkins justice of the peace, and it was in this honorable capacity that I have made most of my acquaintance with him, though we began with threatenings of a storm. He called to take the acknowledgment of a deed, and I, anxious for my country's honor, for I too am something of a patriot in my own way, took the liberty of pointing out to his notice a trifling slip of the pen; videlicit, 'Justas of Piece,' which manner of writing those words I informed him had gone out of fashion.

"He reddened, looked at me very sharp for a moment, and then said he thanked me; but subjoined:

"Book-learning is a good thing enough where there aint too much of it. For my part, I've seen a good many that know'd books that didn't know much else. The proper cultivation and edication of the human intellect, has been the comprehensive study of the human understanding from the original creation of the universal world to the present day, and there has been a good many ways tried besides book-learning. Not but what that's very well in its place."

"And the justice took his leave with somewhat of a swelling air. But we are excellent friends, notwithstanding this hard rub; and Mr. Jenkins favors me now and then with half an hour's conversation, when he has had leisure to read up for the occasion in an odd volume of the Cyclopedia, which holds an honored place in a corner of his shop. He ought, in fairness, to give me previous notice, that I might study the dictionary a little, for the hard words with which he arms himself for these 'keen encounters,' often push me to the very limits of my English."

The liberal extracts which we have presented, are a sufficient evidence of the entertaining character of the various and lively volume from which they are taken; and we cannot but hope that one who holds so facile a pen as the fair author, will not permit her talents to lie dormant in the woods.

THE DAMSEL OF DARIEN. By the Author of 'The Yemassee,' etc. In two vols. 12mɔ. pp. 539. Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD: New-York: CARVILLS AND COMPANY.

THE mere novel reader seeks for amusement, to beguile the evening hour. An exciting tale, told with spirit and directness of narrative, is all he desires; the more romantic, the more interesting; the more pain and peril the hero and heroine suffer and endure, the more his feelings are roused, and his imagination pleased. He eschews all books that tax his judgment, or compel him to think. He prefers to gratify a certain proneness to morbid feeling, rather than to improve his mind. But he whose aim is instruction only, seldom searches for it in the pages of a novel. It appears to us, that the author of the 'Damsel of Darien' has endeavored to win the applause of both classes; but we fear, like the old man in the fable, he has in a measure displeased both. VASCO NUNEZ, the greatest of all the followers of Columbus, is the hero of the tale. We first find him in Saint Domingo, seeking means to fit out his vessel, in search of the great southern sca; and we follow his career, real and fancied, until the great object of his ambition is attained, and finally to his unjust and cruel death. We will not attempt an analysis of the plot; neither our time nor limits will permit. We will, however, briefly express our admiration of the gentle, loving, suffering Damsel of Darien. She is a beautiful creation; more of air than earth; one we may rather hope to see, than ever expect to meet. She does not appear until the opening of the second volume, and then, Pocahontas-like, she beams upon us at once, in loveliness and grace.

The following extract—it is her final meeting with Nunez is a picture so fleshand-blood like, that it will commend itself to every reader; with the single exception, of the thrice three thousand times told simile of the 'raven's wing:'

"At the same moment, while the yet uplifted sword of the cavalier hung threatening above the head of the prostrate warrior, a girl, scarcely more than fifteen, darted between the combatants, and throwing herself upon the body of the cassique, clung to his neck with the fondest devotion, seeking with her own slender and sylph-like form to cover and shield it from the impending weapon. Vasco Nunez was charmed by this unexpect ed apparition. Never had so bright and ethereal a creature descended before his eyes. Matchless in grace, as she lay before him, one arm around the cassique, one lifted imploringly to the conqueror, while her tearful eyes pleaded with the more eloquence that her lips were silent, he thought her one of those heavenly visions which sometimes hallow and delight even the dreams of the unrelenting soldier, and move him to momentary feelings of gentleness and love. Her face was girlish, almost childish, as, indeed, belonged to her years; but there was the expanded soul of the woman in her eye, and in her conduct the affections which belong to all ages, and lift any into nobleness and beauty. Fairer than her people, her cheek bloomed with an olive lustre, such as the Spaniards loved to applaud in the beauties of their own nation. Her forehead was high and narrow-her mouth small; and while it quivered with the nameless terrors which were struggling in her heart, the tips of the white teeth gleamed at intervals through the parted lips, from which the natural red had taken flight, though to return again, the moment after, with accumulated richness. Voluminous and of a glossy black like that of the raven, her hair covered not only her own shoulders but the bosom of her father-for such was the cassique whom she strove to shield from the rage of his conqueror. But the rage of the conqueror was already subdued. He looked on her pleading and tearful eyes, and his heart melted within him. He commanded his followers to stay the sword; and lifting the damsel herself from the form of him whom she had so opportunely rescued from the fatal stroke, he bade the cassique, in tones of mercy and forbearance, arise from the earth."

As a contrast to this lovely Indian damsel, we have the portrait of a Spanish beauty, cold, heartless, proud, selfish, and cruel. While we love Careta, and deeply sympathize with all her sufferings, we despise Terésa, and at the same time hope, for the sake of her sex, that the portrait is over-colored.

The interest in this novel is not as a whole, but in parts, only. It comes in glimpses, sometimes few and far between, but dazzling when they come. Many characters are described with great minuteness, who have little or no agency in the development of the plot, and win from us little regard. The very exuberance of the author's fancy, his

depth of thought and power of reasoning, Will-o'-the-wisp-like, entice him from his purpose, and beguile him, even in the middle of an interesting incident, to dive into the motive of action, or to draw a full-length picture of the scene. To illustrate this remark, we may quote the following beautiful passage; a passage which any author might be proud to acknowledge, if introduced in the proper place. Vasco Nunez is in prison, uncertain whether his fate is to be life or death. Careta, the damsel whom, soon after their first meeting, he unceremoniously takes to wife, and the astrologer, are present. The whole scene is one of deep interest; when it abruptly closes, thus

:

"Death is freedom! was the reflection at that moment of the gloomy chief, but he suffered it not to be heard from his lips. The hopefulness of heart which the astrologer had encouraged in the simple Indian, seemed to make her so happy, that Vasco Nunez felt that it would be cruel to impair the impressions which she had received on this subject and his words were uttered to strengthen her hope, though wearied by his own mental excitements, and that restraint which is the most humiliating of all influences to the restless and impetuous nature, and made somewhat gloomy by the predictions of the astrologer to himself, he had little faith in any of his own promises. Still, she lacked the art of seeing into his. Her own heart, like the rivulet that runs along the wayside, revealed all its depths at a single glance to every eye; was it strange that she should be satisfied with the surface of all other hearts? We smile at the guileless and unsuspecting nature, and yet it has always the best chance of happiness, since the enduring jealousies of a distrusting heart are always a greater evil, than the disappointment and sorrow springing up in the betrayed one. Sorrow may be subdued by time, and circumstances may soften even grief into sweetness; but distrust hardens with years, and the heart becomes a mass of petrifacton, ere the body falls into that corruption which the melting tendernesses of the affections could alone make endurable to life. With the inconsiderateness of a child, the Indian girl forgot all fears for him, and all her own griefs, not to say all concern of the future, while she hung upon his neck in the dungeon. Vasco Nunez was not insensible to her caresses: but though he looked fondly in her face, and spoke in a tone of mournful sweetness to her ears, yet his eyes watched, with an inevitable constancy, the iron bars of the windows; and his cars detected, for ever more mingling with the accents of her love, the heavy tread of the soldier in the court o the prison, and the occasional ring of his arquebus on the rocky earth. The eagle may not heed the scream of his mate, as she proclaims her freedom among the hills without, while he is vainly dashing his wings against the bars of his cage."

POEMS BY ROBERT M. CHARLTON, AND THOMAS J. CHARLTON, M. D. In one volume. pp. 174. Boston: CHARLES C. LITTLE AND JAMES BROWN.

We have hitherto been more familiar with the prose writings of Hon. ROBERT M. CHARLTON, Of Savannah, than with his poetical efforts. Our readers are not ignorant of the affluence of his humor, and the warmth and feeling which pervade his more serious prose compositions. It is no small praise to say, that as a poet, Mr. CHARLTON is scarcely less distinguished. He has a fine ear for the melody of verse, a fertile imagination, and evidently a warm and susceptible heart; and these are important qualities in the formation of a poetical character. Without attempting a notice in detail of the contents of the handsome volume before us, we shall permit the reader to judge of the justice of our encomium, from a perusal of two characteristic extracts:

LIFE AND DEATH.

'What is life, and what is death?'
Have you seen the morning's ray
Drive the mists of night away?
Have you seen the flow 'ret bloom
O'er the lone and silent tomb?
Have you seen the moon arise,
Shedding lustre through the skies?
Have you marked affection's smile
All the cares of earth beguile?
Have yon seen that ray o'ershaded?
Have you marked that flow' et faded?
Bright Diana's orb grow pale?
Loved affection's favors fail?
Such is mortal's fleeting breath!
Such is life, and such is death!

'What is life, and what is death?'
Life is like that morning ray,
Chasing doubt and gloom away;
Life is like that flowret's bloom,
Springing o'er misfortune's tomb;
Life is like that brilliant light,
Shining through affliction's night,
Soothing, like affection's power,
All the pangs of sorrow's hour.

Death's the cloud that comes to shade,
Comes that blooming flower to fade;
Comes to change that scene of light
Into sorrow's darkest night;
Comes o'er human hopes to lower,
Blighting dear affection's power.
Such is mortal's fleeting breath;
Such is life, and such is death!

'What is life, and what is death?
Can you seize the fleeting shade?
Can you win the fickle maid?
Can you, for a single hour,
Hold old Time within your power?
Can you grasp the phantom's form?
Can you quell the raging storm!
Life is like that fleeting shade,
Phantom form and fickle maid;
Like the hour that glideth by,
When the friends we love are nigh.
Death is like that raging storm,
Blasting hope and beauty's form.
Such is mortal's fleeting breath;
Such is life, and such is death!

The subjoined is of a different description, and will forcibly remind the reader of the light and lively sketches with which Mr. WILLIS was wont to relieve his early scripture pictures :

We had marked for insertion a few passages from the poems of the late THOMAS J. CHARLTON, M. D.; who evidently, as his brother informs us, possessed a mind and a genius that would have done credit to any profession; and, in a few more years, he would have won for himself a name, that would have descended as a lasting inheritance to his children.' Our narrow limits, however, forbid the gratification, and we are com

pelled to satisfy ourselves with calling public attention to the volume in question. We should not omit to add, that some of the notes to the poetical text are in the best vein of the Georgia Lawyer.'

·

NIX'S MATE: AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF AMERICA. By the Author of 'Athenia of Damascus,' etc. In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 531. New-York; SAMUEL COL

MAN.

We honor Mr. DAWES, that he has chosen for his maiden novel, scenes and events connected with that struggle for national existence and national liberty, which are dear to the heart of every right-minded American freeman. Throughout the volumes before us, he has kept up the spirit of 'old seventy-six,' in a manner truly striking and lifelike. As a novel proper, we have some objections to prefer against 'Nix's Mate.' There are scenes of great vigor, which are imbued with a lively interest; but there is not a regular convergence of events toward a single fixed point, interrupted only by incidents which serve to keep alive and stimulate curiosity, that should characterize a successful fiction. Like Mr. SIMMS, in his latest production, elsewhere noticed, Mr. DAWES excites our admiration in parts only of his work. Some of his portraitures strike us as too highly colored, and certain of his scenes as decidedly over-wrought. As an example of the latter, we would cite the scene with Felton and the enchantress, in her cavern, the description of which, instead of being horrid, simply, is revolting. One great fault of our author, is too much description. He does not leave enough to the imagination of the reader; but when he does not err in this regard, he is natural and entertaining. We would rather follow him in his capital limning of a rough truckman, at a tavern-bar, trying to hit a bright nail-head that projects from the sanded floor with his whip-lash, and the incidents which succeed, than to accompany him in sketches which cost him far more labor. The character of the heroine is finely drawn; so is that of Fitzvassal, the pirate, whose fortunes are well traced. Mr. DAWES knows how to paint sea-scenes with as much truth as any landsman-author whom we remember to have read; and stirring action, in any element, does not come amiss from his hand. Some of his episodes are admirable, although many of his 'philosophies,' if not rather fine-spun, are certainly misplaced. With all its defects, however, 'Nix's Mate' is an interesting work, and will command the public favor. Its faults are the natural results of a first attempt at novel-writing, and are overborne by numerous beauties and excellencies, which will not a little enhance the author's reputation.

THE GIFT: A CHRISTMAS AND NEW-YEAR'S PRESENT, FOR 1840. Edited by Miss LesLIE. Philadelphia: CAREY AND Hart.

THIS is a rich annual, both in its embellishments and its literary matter. The first two engravings, by CHENEY, from paintings by SULLY, are exquisite. We have seen nothing finer, or more effective, in any of the English annuals. Nor should we omit to mention the 'Isabella' of the same artists, and DANFORTH's spirited rendering of LESLIE'S 'Don Quixote,' as scarcely inferior to these gems of art. BUTLER AND LONG have done as good justice to MOUNT's admirable pictures of 'The Painter's Study,' and Bargaining for a Horse,' as their narrow limits would allow; but much of the humor and spirit of the originals are necessarily lost. 'The Ghost Book,' engraved by PEASE, from a painting of COMEGYS, is a well-conceived and effective plate. We have said, generally, that the contents of 'The Gift' were good; but there is one story, of such excellence, that the writer may be said to carry away the palm from all the other contributors. We allude to the sketch of 'Deacon Enos,' by Mrs. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. This story alone would well repay the price of the volume which it graces. The characters of 'Deacon Enos,' 'Uncle Jaw,' and 'Silence Jones,' are to the life: the true artist is visible in every touch,