THE LETTER-Bag of the GREAT WESTERN, OR LIFE IN A STEAMER. By the Author of The Sayings and Doings of SAMUEL SLICK,' etc. In one volume. pp. 189. Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD.

THOSE who have read SAM SLICK's homely, gossipping volume, will probably need no incitement to the perusal of the one before us; in which, while there is much that is gross, and which will tend to exclude it from audible perusal by the parlor-fire, there are yet undeniable humor, and pleasant, lively description. We must enter our protest, however, against the constant striving after puns, which Mr. HALIBURTON exhibits throughout his book. Some of them are well enough, in their way; but the great majority are positively shocking. They are strained, it is true, but can scarcely be considered 'fine' in any other sense; being bad, not in LAMB's sense of a good pun, but the 'worst kind of bad." The reader will frankly confess himself of our opinion, before he is half through with the preface. Every body knows the custom which gives rise to the title of the book under notice. On board our packet-ships and ocean steamers, when two or three days out, the letter-bag is opened, and its contents assorted, on deck, in presence of the passengers. From this collection, our author has selected several imaginary epistles, which are as remarkable for their variety of style, as for the distinct peculiarity which is made to attach to each. Here is a slight imitation of Mrs. FANNY KEMBLE BUTLER'S Journal:

"A shout on deck; all hands rushed up; what a strange perversion of terms is this? It is a water spout: how awful! The thirsty cloud stooping to invigorate itself with a draught of the sea; opening its huge mouth and drinking, yet not even deigning to wait for it, but gulping it as it goes! We fire into it and it vanishes; its watery load is returned, and like the baseless fabric of a vision, it leaves no wreck behind." It is one of the wonders of the great deep.' That rude shock has dispelled it. Thus is it in life. The sensitive mind releases its grasp of the ideal, when it comes in contact with grossness. It shrinks within itself. It retreats in terror. Yet what a wonderful sight it is! How nearly were we engulphed, swallowed up, and carried into the sky, to be broken to pieces in our fall, as the sea-mew feeds on the shell-fish by dashing it to pieces on a rock. Oh that vile American! he too has imitated the scene: he has broken my train of thought, by his literal and grovelling remark: Well I vow, female, what an everlastin' noise it lets off its water with! I wonder if they hiss in America: surely not, for if they did, such fellows as this would learn better manners. Wrote journal; frenchified my frock, to please the New-Yorkers; unbooted, unstay'd, and snuggled up like a kitten in bed.'

Captain HALTFRONT, in a letter to Lieut. FUGLEMAN, in Canada, draws an amusing sketch of a night-scene in the cabin of the Great Western. He has just called the steward; 'Steward, here:'

"Bring it directly, Sir.

"Nay, I called not for any thing; but come here; I wish to speak to you.

"Have it in a moment, Sir; I am waiting on a gentleman.

"It is useless; I will inquire of my neighbor. Pray, Sir, (and I tremble for his answer,)

pray, Sir, can you inform me whether we are to have supper?

Why, not exactly a regular supper, Sir; there should be, though; we pay enough, and ought to have it: and, really, four meals a-day, at sea, are not at all sufficient. It is too long to go from tea-time to breakfast, without eating. But you can have any thing you call for; and I think it is high time to begin, for they close the bar at ten o'clock. Steward, brandy and water.' It is the signal; voice rises above voice, shout above shout. Whiskey, rum, cider, soda, ham, oysters, and herrings; the demand is greater than the supply. D them, they don't hear! Why the devil don't you come? Bear-a-hand, will you! Curse that six-foot, he is as deaf as a post! You most particular, everlastin', almighty snail! do you calculate to convene me with them are chicken fixings, or not! I hope I may be shot, if I don't reciprocate your inattention, by a substraction from the amount of your constitutional fees-that's a fact.' 'Bloodand-ounds, man, are you going to be all night? Hol dich der Teufel! what for you come not?' 'Diable!-Dépêchez done, bête!""

There is another capital scene in the 'Letter from a Midshipman,' describing an intentional misunderstanding, wherein a conceited ass, who thought himself bound to

talk of nothing but steam and machinery, during the voyage, receives an unanswerable quietus. The 'Letter from an Abolitionist' closes with a paragraph from a Vicksburg paper, in such ludicrous juxtaposition, as to serve the double purpose of history, and ‘a caution.' We must close our quotations with a short extract from a letter of ROBERT CARTER, an English servant, who caught the freedom of his class in this country, he says, before he was half way across the Atlantic. Here is a specimen of his 'making free, when opportunity hoffered :'

"Says the skipper to me one day, (he is a leftenant in the navy,) says he, 'are you Captain Haltfront's servant?' Without getting up or touching hats, but setting at ease, sais I, 'I did n't know he had a servant, Sir.' 'Did n't know he had one, Sir ?' said he; 'pray what the devil do you call yourself, if you are not his servant?' 'Why, Sir,' said I, cocking my head a one side, and trying to come Yankee over him, 'he receives the Queen's pay, Sir, and wears her regimentals; he has an allowance for an assistant, which I receive, and wear her Majesty's cockade, too. We serve her Majesty, Sir, and I am under the Captain's command. Do you take, Sir?' 'Why you infernal conceited rascal!' said he, if you were under my command, Sir, instead of his, Ide let you know dd quick whose servant you were.' 'Ah! very like, Sir,' said I, keeping my seat, and crossing one leg over the other, free and easy, and swinging my foot; 'very like, Sir, but you do n't happen to have that honor, Sir, and my passage money is paid to your masters, the owners of this boat, at Bristol, which happens to alter the case a bit; you can go, Sir.' 'Go, Sir!' said he; why d- your eyes, Sir, what do you mean? -do you want to be triced up, Sir?' and he walked away in a devil of a hurry, as if he was going to do something, but he did n't honor me again with his company. I have put up with a good deal in my time, Tummus, but I puts up with no more. No man calls me servant again, unless at eight dollars a day, as a public one at Washington, or Van Buren, or Webster, or some of the large cities, where, as I here, no one lives, but every one passes through, and do n't no you again.""

If it were not for certain equivoques, that go too near the edge, occasional gross double entendres, and indelicate hints, we could recommend this book to our readers.

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS: AN HISTORICAL TALE OF THE EARLY SETTLEMENT OF VERMONT. By the Author of 'May Martin, or the Money-Diggers.' In two volumes. pp. 536. Montpelier: E. P. WALTON AND SONS. New-York: ROBINSON, PRATT, AND COMPANY.

THESE volumes, as we gather from the author, embody and illustrate a portion of the more romantic incidents which actually occurred in the early settlement of Vermont, with the use of but little more of fiction than was deemed sufficient to weave them together, and impart to the tissue a connected interest. It needed not the declaration of the writer to assure us of this fact; for there is a freshness in his descriptions, and a tone of reality about his incidents, which exhibit less of imagination than of nature. We have perused the volumes with interest and pleasure. We cannot, however, so much commend the 'thread of love' which runs through the work, as the lively and spirited sketches of daring adventure, and the more marked characters of 'the Scout,' Allen, and one or two others, which stand out in palpable relief. The compulsory 'cut-jacket' scene between Justice Prouty and the surveyor, before the presiding Judge Lynch of that period, is capital, and reminded us of the 'Skinner' and 'Cow-boy' court, in the barn, as described by COOPER. Without room to assign the evidence of the faith that is in us, we would yet express the conviction, that our readers will find these volumes pleasant companions; and hence we commend them cordially to their acceptance. The work is unlike a large proportion of American novels, in one respect. It is not 'all Indian, with but a sprinkle of white man.' We have become heartily sick of Indian talks, and 'red. men' scenes. They have long been worn thread-bare. Indian has been our poor novelists' food for many a year. Literarily speaking, we have had it abundantly, in softpuddings, boiled and baked; often in 'johnny' and 'hoe'-cakes; and time out of mind, in 'mush' and hominy. We are glad to see this hackneyed fault amended.

EDITORS' TABLE.

:

JOHN JACOB ASTOR. - A paper of several pages in length, with the foregoing title, doubtless contrary to the author's anticipations, came into our hands at too late a period of the month for insertion in the body of the present number. We have taken the liberty, therefore, to condense a portion of its contents for this department of our Magazine. 'A few weeks only,' says the writer, near the commencement of his theme, 'have passed, and SAMUEL WARD, HENRY WYCKOFF, and ROBERT LENOX, are numbered with the dead. These are names familiar as household words to all old NewYorkers: others, worthy and beloved, have also departed, but none more intimately associated with the history of our city, and its unexampled progress to prosperity, within the last fifty years, than these. The first, the worthy son of a worthy sire, reaped the fruits of a careful and useful life, and lived to restore to its mercantile preeminence that name on which the blight of adversity had fallen, while he was yet a youth. The second well maintained the respectability of an ancient family, and merited the general good will and esteem in which he was held. The last presents a striking example of what may be effected by frugality, prudence, forethought, and strict honesty. The world called ROBERT LENOX 'harsh,' 'severe,' 'parsimonious,' but never called him unjust. Many who have received his untold bounties, now mourn his loss, and feel that during life full justice was never done to those better qualities, which seemed crusted over with the harshness of the cynic. True it is, he was severe in manner, and a rude censor of the lax morality of the age. True it is, he was, in business matters, exactingly rigid but in these days of an awakened sense of our condition, what merchant does not feel that such exactness lies at the bottom of commercial integrity, and commercial success? What good citizen but feels that such strictness of precept and of example is required from all lovers of order, and of the well-being of society, to retrieve us from our downward path? But it was not my purpose to write an epitaph, a eulogy, or a lament. It was the 'lucre of Mammon' that fixed my thoughts. 'How much was he worth?' is whispered round the funeral circle: 'Ohe jam satis;' they all died rich; the last surpassingly so. Very few survive, in these United States, more wealthy than he. Among these very few, is JOHN JACOB ASTOR. Boy and man, I have known him five-and-thirty years; not much sometimes more, sometimes less, as the changes and chances of life affected me- but always, and only, as 'the rich Mr. Astor,' who had, from the humblest beginnings, amassed the wealth of Croesus. I deemed him, as most of his fellow men who daily discourse of his fortunes still do, a modern Midas; an alchymist, at whose touch the base dross of earth turns to virgin gold. I did not dream that he was a great man, of large enterprise, and magnificent conceptions; of vast grasp of intellect, wonderful energy, and equal fortitude. Yet who can doubt it, after reading 'Astoria,' and reflecting on what he has read? 'Until the last month, I never perused this work: the publishers (or the author) have made it too dear for general circulation. And while I am in the mood of faultfinding, let me ask you, Mr. IRVING, why it is that you skip over, with such vague generalities, the earlier years of Mr. ASTOR's career; that 'day of small things,' when the force of circumstances bent his proud and aspiring spirit to endure the 'rich man's

contumely, the proud man's scorn?' I desire my boys to know more concerning those early days; to learn some practical lessons for youth in the way of honorable advancement in the world: to feel unscathed by the ridicule of the effiminate popinjays, who are now permitted to give a tone, or rather a lack of tone, to society; and to bear unruffled the sneers of well-meaning but not very judicious friends, who 'wonder such a fine young man can't be better placed,' than where he will learn, by honest means, to gain an honest livelihood. But to return to JOHN JACOB ASTOR. Who that remembers some incidents of his earlier career, and contemplates the development of the powers of an original and capacious mind, as displayed in the plan of the Astoria expeditions, but must admit the conviction, that he is one of the 'nobility of nature;' of a mental calibre far beyond that of the politicians of the day, whose shortsighted neglect of the great interests which he placed within their reach, has already deprived us of a powerful dependency, and left to the doubtful issue of negotiation, perhaps of war, great national advantages, which he had in fact secured, and offered, without cost or hazard, to the acceptance of the government.

'Scarcely fifty years ago, a shipment of ninety-two pounds, a great adventure at that day, and for him, was made to Canton. Its results led his sagacious intellect and judicious forcaste to jump at once to conclusions which would have staggered ordinary minds. A bold and masterly transaction with the North-West Company, in which he was frankly met, and fairly dealt with, by the kindred spirit of WILLIAM MCGILLIVRAY, placed him in the position which he sought; and presently the marts of Europe were enriched with his furs, while the seas of China whitened beneath the canvass of his ships. But the narrow prejudices of caste, of clan, of association, had striven to thwart him. Jealousies, partly mercantile, partly national, had opposed obstacles to his course; and he conceived the great project of liberating the United States from a detrimental dependence on the successful labors of a foreign company; and of founding on the shores of the Pacific a colony that would command all the fur trade of the Rocky Mountain region; should sustain Russian enterprise, yet keep in check Russian encroachment; should exclude, by means equally decisive and friendly, the British flag and influence from a territory which must belong to us, 'coute qui coute;' should give assistance to our whalers, now almost driven from the northern seas by the Russian ascendancy; should facilitate our commerce with China, and afford, at a cheap rate, a valuable substitute for the precious metals required for that trade; should become the nucleus of an agriculturul, mercantile, and maritime community, offering new resorts to American enterprise, and fresh incentives to individual exertion. The foun

dation of all these great results was laid; and notwithstanding the disasters which befel his ships, the inefficiency of some of his agents, and the questionable fidelity of others, the superstructure would have been raised, had the government, after the Treaty of Ghent, caused the American flag to be again displayed at Astoria, thus restoring the 'status ante bellum.' A colony of two hundred thousand freemen would now have extended along the coast, from the Columbia to the Bay of San Francisco. Our language, our arts, our religion, our power, would now have been firmly established, from the sea to the mountains; unquestioned by other nations, and without effort or expense by our own; and all this, and more, we should have owed to Mr. ASTOR. But we were too busy making presidents; and are we not so now?

'The elder ROTHSCHILD was perhaps a richer man than Mr. ASTOR, but in other respects his inferior. Rothschild was a good arithmetician and a good banker. He wrought out, skilfully and successfully, the materials offered to his hand, by the social condition of his time: but his was not an original, an inventive, a creative mind. That of Mr. ASTOR, on the contrary, is strongly marked by such characteristics. All his bold and grand operations were in scenes before untried; carrying out combinations before unthought of; opening up mines of hitherto undiscovered wealth; and all tending not more to his own advantage, than to the prosperity of that country which had, by adoption, taken the place of his cherished Father-land. Talk not to me, then, of

'John Jacob,' as 'the rich Mr. ASTOR' only. Attributes of a higher character cluster thick around him. He is a man of whom New-York, of whom the United States, may be justly proud; and if ever we again meet, I shall greet him with feelings warm, cordial, respectful; feelings far different from those with which I have heretofore regarded him. But whither am I rambling? An inclement day, a warm stove, an unoccupied hour, and my pen in hand,' I have been scribbling, 'currente calamo,' without alteration, correction, or copy, like a penny-a-liner, or a modern novelist; yet am I neither, but rather a very matter-of-fact and unimpressible person.

'Well, shall I burn what I have written? No! I will send it to old KNICKERBOCKER. He understands stops, and spelling, and grammar, and the scissors; and if he finds any thing that suits his purposes in this notice of some worthy kindred Knickerbockers, why he has my leave to print it. Perchance some thought may spring from it, that shall stimulate the young, encourage the struggling, cheer the desponding; and then it will not be without its use. We cannot all attain to the wealth of ASTOR or of LENOX; but industry, perseverance, integrity, may place many of us in the condition prayed for by that very sensible person, who of old exclaimed, 'Give me neither poverty nor riches ;' which, in the year of our Lord 1840, means, as I understand it, one hundred thousand dollars, securely invested at six per cent., payable semi-annually.'

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'PASSAIC: A GROUP OF POEMS.' We need scarcely invite the attention of the reader to The Last Look,' from the pen of a well-known correspondent, 'FLACCUS,' in the present number. Those who peruse it, will agree with us that its merits require no heralding. The tale relates to the melancholy death of Mrs. Sarah Cumming, wife of the Rev. HOOPER CUMMING, pastor of the Second Presbyterian Church at Newark. She died by a fall from the rocks at Paterson, on the morning of the 22d of June, 1812, in the twenty-third year of her age. She was born in Portland, Maine, and was married and removed to Newark a few weeks only previous to her death. Her person was agreeable, her manners simple, and her mind strong and ingenuous. She had gone with Mr. Cumming to spend the Sabbath at Paterson, where he was appointed to preach by the Presbytery. On Monday morning they took a walk to the Falls of the Passaic, which lie in the neighborhood. When they had finished their view of the wonderful scenery which this place affords, she fell from a high part of the western rock, an elevation of seventy or eighty feet, into the basin below. She had sat down with her husband at a little distance from the brink, having complained of dizziness; but wishing, previous to their departure, to take a last look of a scene so sublime, and to her so novel and interesting, she ventured again with her husband to the margin of the rock. When they had stood a few minutes, he said, 'It is time to return,' and requested her to accompany him. The path being narrow, he stepped back a pace or two, supposing she would follow. Alas! only a cry is heard. He turns, but she is gone from his sight for ever. In the dreadful agitation of his mind, he runs backward and forward along the brink, crying, 'She is fallen! she is fallen! At this perilous moment, a lad about sixteen years of age flew to his aid, and once actually held him by the coat, when he seemed in the act of throwing himself down the precipice. They both descended by the usual passage to the foot of the rock; and again the agonized husband would have plunged into the abyss, but for the firm resistance of the youth, destined to preserve him during this paroxysm of unutterable grief. After a long search, the body was found, and the procession formed in conveying this lamented lady to the tomb, amounted to more than sixteen hundred persons, of both sexes.' It was our purpose to have accompanied the concluding canto of 'The Great Descender' with a note, giving some particulars from the history of the immortal PATCH: but beyond his consorting with a pet bear, leaping three times into the Passaic, once into the Niagara, and twice into the Genessee, where he at last 'jumped the life to come,' his story presents little of romance or interest.