"Nile Notes by a Howadji," is not a book of travel, but the book of a traveller. The traveller is obviously a very charming and veracious one, but after all, the landscape and the persons, scenes, and manners he describes are so idealized by him as to have lost much of their natural identity, and put on the somewhat artificial look of museum specimens. However, the Notes are not, therefore, to us the less, but all the more, readable, because we have abundance of mere books of travel, and scarcely any traveller worth remarking. Mr. Kinglake, the author of Eothen, to be sure, was a host in himself. And Mr. Thackeray, in his Journey from Cheapside to Cairo, proved himself a fit companion of that gentleman. But a certain sneering humor, a certain mephistophelian irony, in these persons, prevent one from feeling entirely at ease with them, or believing, in fact, in their complete sincerity. It is not so with the author of Nile Notes, than whom a June breeze is not more bland, and moonlight not less gairish or oppressive. This conviction, indeed, strikes us in a very peculiar manner as we read, that no more genial nature ever penetrated that dismal and incredible East, to avouch the eternal freshness of man against the decay of nature and the mutability of institutions. An actually weird effect is produced by the sight of this plump and rosy Christian pervading the graves of dead empires, and thinking democracy amidst the listening ghosts of the Pharaohs. Did these solemn empires, did these absolute and strutting monarchs mistake their grandeur, and exist after all only that this modern democrat might laugh and live a life devoid of care? Such is the lesson of the book. It is sweeter to know the freshness and kindly nature that penned it; it is sweeter to feel the graceful and humane fancies that baptize every page of it, than to remember whole lineages of buried empires, or recognize whole pyramids of absolute and dissolved Pharaohs. The book is a mine of beautiful descriptions, and of sentences which tickle your inmost midriff with delight. (Harpers.)
We have been surprised lately at several long discussions in the New-York Historical Society of the question whether copies, extracts, or abstracts of the MSS. and other historical documents in the Society's collections might be published without the Society's special permission. We do not know who introduced the prohibitory proposition, but it is in the last degree ridiculous; there cannot be said in its support one syllable of reason; that it has been entertained so long is discreditable to the Society. The prime object of the Society is the collection and preservation of the materials of history; the more numerous the multiplication of copies, the more certain the probabilities of their preservation. A private collector may for obvious reasons hoard his treasures, and wish for the destruction of all copies of them; but the considerations which govern him are the last that should influence a historical society under similar circumstances.
Fanny Wright, some dozen years ago, entered into a sort of limited partnership with one of Robert Owen's old New-Harmony associates, and has since been known as Frances Wright D'Arusmont. They lived together a few months, but women grow old, and these infidel philosophers are very apt to live according to their liberties; Madame resided in Paris, Monsieur in Cincinnati: Madame wanted more money than Monsieur would allow, and she returned, and is now before the courts of Ohio with a plea (of eighty thousand words) for property held by D'Arusmont, which she says is hers. We know little of the merits of the case, but if there is to be domestic unhappiness, we are content that she should be a sufferer, whose whole career has been a warfare upon the institutions which define the true position, and guard the best interests of her sex. It is more than thirty years since Fanny Wright wrote her Views of Society and Manners in America. The brilliant woman who lectured to crowds in the old Park Theatre, against decency, is old now, and an atheist old woman, desolate, is rather a pitiable object.
Edward T. Channing, a brother of the Rev. Dr. William Ellery Channing, and for thirty years Professor of Rhetoric in Harvard College, has resigned his place, and his resignation is one of the weightiest misfortunes that has befallen this school for some time. Professor Channing's fitness for the professorship of English literature was shown in his admirable article upon the Poetry of Moore, in the North American Review for 1817. He has written much and well in criticism, and is perhaps equally familiar with both Latin and English literature. His lectures, described as eminently rich, suggestive, and practical, we hope will be given to the press. It is intimated that Mr. George Hillard will be his successor in the college, and we know of no man so young who could more nearly fill his place.
"Public Libraries," is the title of a very interesting article in the February number of The International, erroneously credited to Chambers's Papers for the People. The Edinburgh publisher, it seems, took two articles from the North American Review, cut them in pieces and transposed the sentences, prefixed a few remarks of his own, added a few words at the end of his Mosaic, and issued this "Paper for the People" as an original contribution to bibliothecal literature, without a word as to its real authorship or the sources whence it was derived. Such things are often done, and if Messrs. Chambers always evince as much sagacity in their appropriations, their readers will have abundant cause to be grateful. The articles in the North American Review were written by Mr. George Livermore, a Boston merchant, who has the accomplishments of a Roscoe, and who as a bibliographer is scarcely surpassed in knowledge or judgment by any contemporary.