LITERARY NOTICES.

THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW, for the January Quarter: pp. 287. Boston: CROSBY, NICHOLS AND COMPANY. New-York: C. S. FRANCIS AND COMPANY.

THIS is a fair, and in two or three of its papers, an excellent number of our oldest and most popular Review. 'WHEATON'S Elements of International Law' forms the text for the first paper, which is very long, and judging from a cursory perusal, of no common interest. 'BARTOL's Pictures of Europe' we reserve 'till a more convenient season.' It is too long for immediate dispatch. We pass 'Statistics of Insanity in Massachusetts,' and an article on 'The Romish Hierarchy,' to come to an admirable review of the 'Writings and Life of SYDNEY SMITH.' It is from the pen of an appreciative and keenly discriminative critic, and is written in a style of great terseness and purity. An extract or two will justify our commendation :

'HERE we see portrayed, without exaggeration, the best side of the Churchman one of the highest places open to clerical ambition in England-its lustre enhanced by intelligence, its exclusiveness redeemed by geniality, and its validity vindicated by uprightness and public spirit. We recognize the influence and the happiness that may be attained by a kindly, conscientious, fearless, candid dignitary of the Establishment, whose nature is leavened by a rich and persuasive humor, whereby his office, conversation, letters, and presence are lifted from technicality and routine into vital relations with his fellow-beings and the time. Pleasant and suggestive is the record, full of amenity, and bright with cheerful traits. It is refreshing to meet with so much life, so much liberality, so much humane sentiment, where the conventional and the obsolete so often overlay and formalize mind and manner.' 'In the case of SYDNEY SMITH We witness the delightful spectacle of a mind that bravely regulates the life which it cheers and adorns. Humor was the efflorescence of his intellect, the play that gave him strength for labor, the cordial held by a kindly hand to every brother's lips, the sunshine of home, the flavor of human intercourse, the music to which he marched in duty's rugged path. By virtue of this magic quality, he redeemed the daily meal from heaviness, the needful journey from fatigue, narrow circumstances from depression, and prosperity from materialism. He illustrated simultaneously the power of content and the beauty of holiness. Did Portland stone, instead of marble, frame his hearth? Innocent mirth and a clear blaze made those around it oblivious of the defect. Must a paper border take the place of a cornice? Laughing echoes hung the room with more than arabesque ornament. Were the walls destitute of precious limning? He knew how to glorify them with sunshine. Did he lack costly furniture? Children and roses atoned for the want. Was he compelled to entertain his guest with rustic fare? He found compensation in the materials thus furnished for a comic sketch. Did the canine race interfere with his comfort? He banished them by a mock report of law-damages. Was his steed ugly, slow, and prone to throw his rider? He named him 'Calamity' or 'PETER the Cruel,' and drew a farce from their joint mishaps. Was his coach lumbering and ancient? Its repairs were for ever suggestive of quaint fancies. Was a herd of deer beyond his means? He fastened antlers on donkeys, and

drew tears of laughter from aristocratic eyes. Did the evergreens look dim at Christmas? He tied oranges on their boughs and dreamed of tropical landscapes. Was a lady too fine? He discovered a 'porcelain understanding.' Was a friend too voluble? He enjoyed his flashes of silence.' Were oil and spermaceti beyond his means? He illuminated the house with mutton-lamps of his own invention. A fat woman, a hot day, a radical, a heavy sermonizer, a dandy, a stupid Yorkshire peasant people and things that in others would only excite annoyance he turned instinctively to the account of wit. His household at Foston is a picture worthy of DICKENS. BUNCH, ANNIE KAY, MOLLY MILES - heraldry, old pictures, and china- in his atmosphere became original characters and bits of Flemish still-life, which might set up a novelist. He turned a bay-window into a hive of bright thoughts, and a random walk into a chapter of philosophy. To domestic animals, humble parishioners, rustic employés, to the oppressed, the erring, the sick, the market-women, and the poacher, he extended as ready and intelligent a sympathy as to the nobleman and the scholar. He was more thankful for animal spirits and good companionship than for reputation and preferment. He reverenced material laws not less than the triumphs of intellect; esteemed 'Poor RICHARD's maxims as well as MACAULAY's rhetoric; thought self-reproach the greatest evil, and occupation the chief moral necessity of existence. He believed in talking nonsense, while he exercised the most vigorous powers of reasoning. He gave no quarter to cant, and, at the same time, bought a parrot to keep his servants in good-humor. If warned by excellent and feeble people' against an individual, he sought his acquaintance. His casual bon-mots wreathed the town with smiles, and his faithful circumspection irritated the officials at St. PAUL'S. He wielded a battle-axe in the phalanx of reform, and scattered flowers around his family altar. He wakened the sinner's heart to penitence, and irradiated prandial monotony; educated children, and shared the counsels of statesmen; turned from literary correspondence to dry an infant's tears, and cheered a pauper's death-bed with as true a heart as he graced a peer's drawing-room. It is the human, catholic range and variety of such a nature and such a life, that raises SYDNEY SMITH from the renown of a clever author and a brilllant wit to the nobler fame of a Christian man.'

The reviewer draws a vivid contrast between SYDNEY SMITH's literary characteristics and those of the littérateurs of our day and time, the height of whose ambition is, to 'dream, dally, and coquet on paper,' instead of imparting fresh impulses and mental stimuli:

'OUR ideal author proves a mere dilettante, says pretty things as if committed to memory for the occasion, picks ingenious flaws to indicate superior discernment, interlards his talk with quotations, is all things to all men, and especially to all women, makes himself generally agreeable by a system of artificial conformity, and leaves us unrefreshed by a single glimpse of character or one heart-felt utterance. We strive to recognize the thinker and the poet, but discover only the man of taste, the man of the world, the fop, or the epicure; and we gladly turn from him to a fact of nature, to a noble tree or a sunset cloud, to the genuine in humanity- -a fair child, an honest mechanic, true-hearted woman, or old soldier- because in such there is not promise without performance, the sign without the thing, the name without the soul. It is from the salient contrast with these familiar phases of authorship that the very idea of such a man as SYDNEY SMITH redeems the calling. In him, first of all and beyond all, is MANHOOD, which no skill in pen-craft, no blandishment of fame or love of pleasure, was suffered to over-lay for a moment. To be a man in courage, generosity, stern faith to every domestic and professional claim, in the fear of GOD and the love of his kind, in loyalty to personal conviction, bold speech, candid life, and good fellowship; this was the vital necessity, the normal condition, of his nature.'

The 'History of the Jacobin Club,' although not new in the incidents which it compresses, is a very readable paper. Another foreign article, and also French, is that on VERON'S 'Mémoires d'un Bourgeoise.' 'As a literary work,' says the reviewer, 'the six thick volumes before us have positively no value at all. They are utterly barren of any merit whatever; ill composed, or rather wanting in composition altogether; destitute, we need scarcely say, of sharpness and delicacy of judgment, and elevation of thought; and, beside this, wholly devoid of any talent in the mere writing.' Then, we humbly suggest, they were not worth a review thirty-six pages long, even though they may exhibit a very 'exact picture of LOUIS PHILIPPE's eighteen years of sovereignty.'

Better books and better themes could be obtained nearer home. An extended paper on The Pacific Rail-Road,' a liberal critique of the new edition of Dr. GRISWOLD'S 'American Poets,' and an article on 'German Emigration to America,' close the 'Reviews' proper. Speaking of the biographical sketches which accompany Mr. GRISWOLD's' Specimens,' the reviewer says with justice: 'We have been unable to find a single instance in which he has suffered any of the usual grounds of prejudice to warp his judgment or to scant his eulogy, and where it has been his duty to refer to obliquities of temper and conduct, he has done so with singular delicacy and gentleness.' The number ends with seventeen brief Critical Notices.'

MIMIC LIFE: OR BEFORE AND BEHIND THE CURTAIN. A Series of Narratives, by ANNA CORA RITCHIE, formerly Mrs. MoWATT. In one volume: pp. 408. Boston: TICKNOR, REED AND FIELDS.

We like this work even better than we did the 'Auto-biography of an Actress.' The style is natural, and it is apparent that the numerous scenes and incidents which it contains have been drawn from the life. The pictures of 'behind the scenes' are exceedingly graphic. The sketch of STELLA's first rehearsal at the Boston theatre is capital. Just such a scene we remember once witnessing at the Old Park Theatre in our city, one morning, in the dim gloaming of the tenantless interior, and we have never forgotten it. Observe what pleasant places theatrical dressing-rooms are, even 'star'-chambers, which of course are always the best of them:

"THE dreary gloominess of a theatre behind the scenes, when twilight is chasing the out-spent day, must be seen and felt to be fully comprehended. The desolate cheerlessness of the place has struck a chill to the heart of many a novice. The crowded scenery looks rougher and dingier; the painted tenements, groves, gardens, streets, more grotesque; the numberless stage anomalies more glaringly absurd.

"The sea-weed floating on the waves in feathery sprays of brilliant red and vivid green, that, seized for closer scanning, turns to an unsightly, shapeless mass, fitly typifies the stage in its resplendent wizard-robe of night enchantment, and its unideal, lugubrious day-time garb.

Where am I to go?' STELLA inquired of PERdita.

"The dresser, Mrs. BUNCE, has not come yet, and the gas will not be turned on until half-past six. Mr. BELTON only allows it to be lighted for one hour before the curtain rises; but, if you please, I can show you the star dressing-room.'

'PERDITA led the way up a long flight of stairs, then through a narrow entry, or rather gallery. On one side appeared a row of small doors, very like those of a bathing-machine. They opened into the rooms of the ladies of the company. A wooden railing extended on the other side. To any one who leaned over this rude balcony the larger portion of the stage became visible. Five or six persons were often crowded into one dressing-room. The apartments were portioned off into set spaces, and every cramped division labelled with a name. The room at the end of the gallery was appropriated solely to the lady 'star.' The dressing-rooms devoted to the use of gentleinen were located beneath the stage.

'PERDITA Opened the door of this modern 'star-chamber.' The apartment was very small, the atmosphere suffocatingly close. MATTIE at once threw up the tiny, cobwebdraped window. A shelf ran along one side of the wall, after the manner of a kitchen dresser. In front lay a narrow strip of baize; the rest of the floor was bare. On the centre of the shelf stood a cracked mirror. A gas-branch jutted out on either side. Two very rickety chairs, a crazy wash-stand, a diminutive stove, constituted the furniture of the apartment. In this unseemly chrysalis-shell the butter-flies of the stage received their wings. Little did the audience, who greeted some queen-like favorite, sumptuously attired in broidered velvet and glittering with jewels, imagine that suck was the palace-bower from which she issued.''

Some little inkling of the kind of welcome which a débutante receives at the hands of theatrical subordinates, may be obtained from the following passage :

'MRS. BUNCE, a portly, middle-aged woman, now bustled in. What a voice that Mrs. BUNCE had! It was so shrill that, when she spoke, STELLA almost fancied her ears were suddenly pierced by a sharp instrument. All Mrs. BUNCE's words were darted out with amazing rapidity.

"Here in time, eh? That's a good sign for a novice. This is the young lady, I suppose,' examining STELLA. 'Quite a stage face. How do you do, my dear? This is your maid, I presume?'

"Her maid, or her nurse, or her costumer, or any thing she is pleased to want,' replied MATTIE, with dignity.

"Ah! that's well. No doubt a very serviceable person. So you've set the fire going? That's a pity! You may be smoked out soon; all the stoves here smoke when the wind 's contrary.Out with the dresses! Hang them up on those nails. Her toilet things go here. Never been on the stage before, miss? It's a trying thing for beginners. I've seen hundreds of débûts in my day. Most of the young ones think a deal of themselves until they get before the lights; then they find out what they 're made of. Not one in fifty succeeds. Hope you're not scared? Don't show it to the audience, or they'll think it good fun. They always laugh at the fright of novices; you know it makes the poor, simple things look so ridiculously awkward! Here, JERRY,' calling over the gallery to the gas-lighter, 'if you can't light up that gas yet, give us a candle, will you? The young person is a novice, and I may have trouble dressing

her.'

"Thank you, Mrs. BUNCE,' STELLA ventured to say; 'but MATTIE has been accustomed to dress me.'

'Yes, that I have, ever since she was that high!' added MATTIE, affectionately, and designating with her hand a stature of some few inches.

Ah! I dare say, but not for the stage. Mr. BELTON depends upon me to look after the novices on their first night, and see that they don't disfigure themselves.''

Take a peep into that mysterious apartment, the Green-Room;' and note also, the way in which they sometimes suffer, who labor to amuse and entertain you upon the stage:

"THIS is the green-room,' said Mrs. FAIRFAX.

'STELLA looked in curiously. It was a long, narrow apartment. At one end sofas, throne-chairs, and other stately seats for stage use, stood crowded together. On either side of the wall a cushioned bench was secured, the only article of stationary furniture except the full-length mirror. On this bench lay an actor in Roman apparel. STELLA'S uninitiated eye failed to detect that he was indebted to art for his white locks and venerable aspect. He appeared to be studying, but every now and then gave vent to an uneasy groan.

"" "That is DENTATUS - Mr. MARTIN. Don't you recognize him?' inquired Mrs. FAIRFAX. 'He is a martyr to inflammatory rheumatism, and can scarcely stand. He has suffered for years, and finds no relief.'

STELLA called to mind the gentleman on crutches whom she had seen at rehearsal. "But how can he act?' she asked.

"That is one of the stage mysteries which it requires some wisdom to solve. You will see him, when he is called, hobble with his crutches to the wing, groaning at every step, and really suffering, there is no doubt about that; but the instant his cue is spoken, his crutches will very likely be flung at Fisk's head, and lo! DENTATUS walks on the stage, erect and firm as though he had never known an ache. He is a great favorite with the audience, and generally manages to keep them convulsed with laughter, though he never ceases complaining and groaning himself, when he is out of their presence.' "Two other Romans were walking up and down the green-room, repeating their parts in a low tone. At the further end where the sofas and chairs were huddled together, sat a group of girls in Roman costume.'

We had marked for insertion the exciting account of the heroine's triumphant débût, but we lack space to present it. We hear, without surprise, that this work has already achieved a great success. The truth is, there is an evernew interest in all that relates to the stage; but when a writer goes behind the curtain and the scenes, and in plain, unvarnished terms describes what takes place there, then the interest of such narratives is complete. The book

is well printed, and has an illustrative frontispiece. We cannot, however, commend the long syllabus that sets forth the contents of each chapter, at its head. To our eye it is not in good taste. It looks 'scrappy' and finical.

LIFE AND WRITINGS OF GOETHE. By G. H. LEWES. In two volumes duodecimo: pp. 926. Boston: TICKNOR AND FIELDS.

GERMAN literature has become a passion' with many, and 'the fashion' with more, of our 'Teuton-ic' countrymen. Hence these copious and wellprinted volumes will be welcomed by a large class of readers. Pending a review for these pages from the pen of an accomplished German scholar, we simply call present attention to a few of the characteristics of the work and its illustrious subject, as set forth in a very able article in a late London Examiner,' than which journal there is no higher 'German authority.'

'Or the life of GOETHE separate from his career as an artist, Mr. LEWES speaks with love and reverence; and with a full faith in the greatness of his hero's character, he fairly tells all that he did. The result will be, no doubt, a removal of much popular fallacy, but it is to be suspected that the judgment of the English student upon GOETHE will remain nearly if not altogether what it was before. That he was, of all men of literary genius produced by Germany, the one most richly and most variously endowed, is beyond question. That his heart was stirred as promptly as his intellect is quite as true but here it is believed that the ordinary man in him was mastered by the artist, and that he could not readily enough step out of his character of poet when the very strength with which it furnished him became a weakness. The condition of a strong individuality by which only the artist can expect to live, implies in him what may be called, in no unfavorable sense of the word, constant egotism; and if he never drops the artist, he can never drop the egotist.' 'At the age of seven he worshipped GOD through nature. He built a pyramid of ores and other natural objects near his bed-room window, placed a pastile on the top, and by the aid of a burning-glass brought fire upon it from the burning sun. The story of his intellectual development from first to last is a continued marvel. He touched upon innumerable things, piercing his way very often to a hidden truth, although mastering minute details of nothing. He wrote as a child a romance in half-a-dozen languages, into which he had jumped with slight help from their grammars, and of the whole of which he hastened to make literary use. This was, indeed, his habitual practice. Whatever were his studies, whatever were the occurrences of his external life, his genius used them all as pabulum, and reproduced them in his writings. He came home ill from college, and was cured by a doctor who believed in alchemy, which caused the youth to set up for a time a laboratory and to expend pocket-money upon retorts; but though the fancy quickly passed out of his life, the fruit of it appeared long afterward in Faust. The use thus made of his life by GOETHE as material for literary composition was indeed so constant, that a good biography and there is none so suitable for this purpose as Mr. Lewes's is a most important introduction to his works. Add to this that the expression of his sense of beauty both in life and nature as a lyric poet is the branch of art in which alone, though he excelled all his countrymen in many, he can be said to have attained absolute perfection, and we understand a little of his weakness as a man.' A sense of artistic fitness, and a love of God through all things beautiful, formed practically his religion. His sphere of life was in this way circumscribed, and his character as a man was in some sort weakened; but thus helped he never did a base thing, and his life was filled with noble passages. He had a hand and heart 'open as day to melting charity;' and if in his choice of persons to befriend, his taste as a poet influenced him very obviously, we may love him none the less for that. For successive years he devoted as much as a sixth part of his income to the secret sustenance of an unknown and penniless man of education, who was of a morbid and most impracticable temper. But we can scarcely believe that GOETHE would have done all he did in this case, had be not seen a poem in the morbid disposition, had he not taken pleasure (sacred pleasure, from whatever source) in enduring gently, and expostulating with the utmost delicacy, so as to spare all wounds to the diseased spirit that resented the very generosity by which it lived.'