was principally directed against their red brethren, who served in the opposing ranks. It strikes every reader, however, with some little wonder, that so many men who had retained their arms, should have made such slight resistance, and suffered the horrible butchery to proceed without interruption. Through the whole of the second volume, the bereaved Munro is an encumbrance, which the author, with all his ability, finds it a difficult task to support. When we are occasionally reminded of his presence, it is that of one who was a dead weight upon the operations of the other actors in the scene, listless and half exanimate, and alike painful to the invention of the author, and interest of the reader.

But we must put a stop to captious exceptions, many of which are, possibly, not well founded. There are no scenes in modern romance which can surpass the long and agonising struggle at Glen's Falls, the approach to the fort through the mists and besieging army-the capture of Alice and pursuit of Cora after the massacre-the escape in the canoe-the adventures in the village of the Hurons-the judgment of Tamenund,-and the last closing scene of danger and death, which ends this strange eventful history. There is a power, and a fearful interest in these descriptions, which, it needs no prophet to predict, will excite the feelings, and entrance the attention of generations that are to come long after our own. The superstitious customs of the natives are employed with admirable skill; the writer seems to be at home in every spot trodden by the contending armies, or wandering captives and pursuers, and in the language and occupations of his characters. If he fails any where, it is in the management of his female personages; a nice matter; for Shakspeare before him has been accused of want of knowledge in this province of poetry. The conversations are unquestionably better sustained, throughout, than in his previous works.

Our author stands alone among his countrymen; in solitary and enviable distinction. He has proved the capabilities of our history and varying manners, for all the purposes of high or pleasing fiction. We hope that his career may be yet long; for the delight of his cotemporaries, and the still increasing progress of his own fame. He is one of those who, like his favourite Hawk-eye, gathers his materials chiefly from an acute observation of men and things, rather than from the labours of others as they have left them in their books. And the reputation of "this kind passeth not away" with the caprice of popular appetite; for truth is immortal; and the gifted few whose quick perceptions enable them to paint from realities, are sure of being remembered while human nature is the same.

THE

ATHENEUM MAGAZINE.

MARCH, 1826.

CONTINUATION OF LETTERS FROM A YOUNG AMERICAN.

Schaffhausen, Sept. 10th, 1825.
I have so many ques-

WHEN I write to you, my dear Stions to ask about home, that I have little space to talk of what I see here. The country we have lately passed through has so much sameness about it, that in a little time it loses a great deal of its interest. Valleys of two or three miles in length, and from half to a mile in breadth, with mountains five or six thousand feet on either side, with narrow entrances of one or two hundred feet at each end, form the principal features. There is frequently a suite of them, and you can go from one to another, as through a succession of handsome apartments. But, unfortunately, they are all furnished alike, and you soon get tired. About one sixth of the height from the bottom of the valley is pasture, spotted with cottages; another of grayish rock, but whether primary, secondary, or what, I leave to the geologists. Of the remainder, the lower half is clothed with fir trees, and the upper with moss, or short dwarf grass, of a shabby faded green, the colour of an old umbrella, spotted with gray rocks.

If you go from a low valley to the top of a mountain, the lower part, where all is bright green, every thing gay and charming, reminds you of the best parlour on the first floor. After ascending about a third of the way, you come to another flat place, with grass, it is true, but less gay, and a little fadedthis is the second story, which you know is the region of faded carpets and second-hand finery. The third plain you will find full of black firs, and blades of grass of a bright yellow, about one or two inches high-here all is old, absolutely worn out, like the furniture of the servants' rooms in the third story. On the top of the mountain, are moss, turf and rocks, strewed about at random. The large ones split, and the pieces laying about in shabby disorder, reminds one of the garret.

VOL. II.

38

There are other oddities connected with this ascent. So warm and comfortable below, and shivering above;-birds singing; bells jingling from cows and goats; the fields of sprightly green; every thing noisy and cheerful, hale and healthy, below-above, silence, gloom, and sterility. A melancholy contrast-and we wish ourselves again in the warm valley far beneath our feet. On the summit of one of these mountains, the Grimsel, is a valley, so detestable, that it merits honourable notice. The sides are of dark hacked gray rock, rising six or seven hundred feet, without even the embellishment of a stinted tree, or tuft of moss, to hide its abominable nakedness. The floor is paved, or M'Adamised, with fragments of the same cold, dismal looking stuff, broken and scattered in such irregular confusion, that it is impossible to walk here without stumbling or falling continually. In one corner lurks a pool of standing water, black as the rocks that overhang its side. It is well that Homer and Virgil never visited this place, or they would certainly have conferred on it the honour of being the entrance to the infernal regions. Every thing in it seems in a state of vast confusion, and I was tempted to wish for the aid of some of the industrious Dutch housewives I lately left, in putting matters to rights a little. It would go hard, but they would restore things to some degree of order.

To-morrow we start for Vienna, which we shall reach in about eight days. We go by the way of Constance. Yours, truly.

Munich, Bavaria, Sept. 16th, 1825.

It is now, my dear M, at least a fortnight since my last letter, and twice that time since I have heard from you. I believe I told you I had been to Chamouny; but as I suppose you will like to follow all my motions in Switzerland, I will begin at Basle, the first place we arrived at. Here I met with Mr. J, who was very kind, and inquired particularly about you, though I believe you were too young to recollect much of him while in New-York. Mrs. J was indisposed, and I did not see her. We soon grew tired of Basle, and set out for Geneva. The first place any way remarkable, was the lake of Bienne, in which is a pretty island, called St. Pierre, where Rousseau resided, and where, for aught I know, he may have written his argument in preference of the savage over the civilized state. We next rode along the lake of Neufchatel, the water of which is clear, but there is nothing remarkable about it. Leaving this, we got to Geneva in a day and a half, from

whence we made an excursion to Ferney, Voltaire's chateau. In his bedroom we saw likenesses of Washington and Franklin, and were shown the trees he was in the habit of sitting under, and dictating to two secretaries to record his notions. As he ranks with the great names of this world, I cut off a piece of an elm tree, planted, as it is said, by his own hand. It is curious, that so many worthies, from Shakspeare to Voltaire, should have planted a tree, and so far as we know, only one tree, in the whole course of their lives.

From Geneva, as I told you, we made an excursion to Chamouny, where we saw Mont Blanc and the Mer de Glace, which might be handsome if it was clean. From Chamouny to Martigny, and thence to the great St. Bernard, on the summit of which, about six thousand feet high, we found a convent, I think, of Benedictines. We supped with the monks, we may say, as two sat down to table; but the rest of the party, about twenty, consisted of Italian, French, and, of course, English travellers. These last are so thick, you meet them every where in bunches and bundles. Some go abroad to spend money, some to save it-some to be delighted, and some to find fault with every thing-some for health, some for spirits. The young ladies usually admire every thing, but the gemmen are rather fastidious, and deal out d-s to the honest people, who, not understanding them, make low bows, and thank mi lord. The most enterprising English traveller I have met with, was a rich gentleman poet, who came abroad for the sole purpose of inditing a sonnet to his daughter from the top of the Simplon, in the middle of winter. It was published, I believe, in one of the "Forget me Nots," but was rather chilly, as might be expected.

After breakfasting, and putting our fees in the poor's box, (the holy brothers being too charitable to receive any pay for their hospitality,) we descended the mountain in a snow-storm, up to our knees in the snow, which turned to slush before we got half way down-into mud before we got to the bottom, where it tapered off in a shower of rain. This was the 18th of August. That night we got back again to Martigny, which we left next morning for Lausanne. In our route we saw the castle of Chillon, "very remarkable," as the fellow in Westminster Abbey said of General Monk's cap, "very remarkable," as being the scene of a poem of Lord Byron. From Lausanne back again to Geneva. Between these two places we travelled in a steam-boat. From Geneva to Berne, by the way of Lausanne; thence to Thun, down the lake of that name. This has fine clear water, but the mountains on the

sides are of a dingy colour, mostly covered with black firs. They are, however, high, and well proportioned to the lake, which is not more than two or three miles wide. In this respect it is better off than the lake of Geneva, which is ten or twelve miles broad, and all around looks too low. From the lake of Thun our route was circular. We first went south, crossed a part of the Alps, and came up north again, to a place called Brientz, on a lake of that name. Here we took a boat, with half a dozen stout, sun-burnt country damsels, (perhaps they might be called shepherdesses,) who sung songs, and drank sour wine, as we do cider. We all went to the fall of Geisbach, a beautiful thing. I have got the songs of these ladies for you, and perhaps you may like the music. the lake of Brientz we crossed over southerly to Mont St. Gothard from thence north across the Devil's Bridge, which is worthy of its name, and where the guide favoured me with a legend about the devil, which I shall repeat to you when we meet. We now got into the country of William Tell-we stopped at the place where he pushed the boat off with Gesler, into the lake of Lucerne-and where he shot the apple from the head of his boy. After this, we proceeded to Zurich, the lake in the vicinity of which is by far the prettiest I have seen in Switzerland. After admiring it, we went to Schaffhausen, where I was delighted with the fall of the Rhine.

From

At Constance, wanting a pair of gloves, I went among the booths, or places where things of all sorts are spread out for sale. Here I was attracted by a queer-looking fellow, who seemed the owner of a booth where gloves were to be sold, with a low, steeple-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat, a short, straight feather stuck in one side-an old, slovenly, dark coloured jacket, with a belt embroidered with quills, like our Indian work-black small-clothes, and loose woollen stockings. I tried his gloves, and managed to comprehend the price-but suspecting he would cheat me, I laughed, and said in English, watching his countenance at the same time, "Honour bright!" The rogue seemed to comprehend me-laughed, and slapped me on the back in the most friendly manner-and at parting, insisted on shaking hands. His manners were so odd, I asked about him, and found he was a Tyrolese.

From Constance we proceeded to this place; and thus ends the present chapter of my motions. I wish you would be as particular about yours. I only name most of the places I pass through, and this is quite as much as they merit. Adieu.