Mr. James W. Ward, of Cincinnati, a short time ago delivered before one of the literary institutions of Ohio, a poem on Woman, which has been noticed in terms of high commendation. A correspondent who heard it says it was devoted in about equal parts to the foibles and the virtues of the sex, the former of which it laid bare with a most trenchant blade, while the latter it portrayed with elegance of diction, and an evident love for all that is pure, elevated, and beautiful in woman's proper character. The slave of fashion, the politician in petticoats, and the "bloomer" in br—— pettiloons, the female "progressive," the scold, the slattern, and the butterfly, were all held up to merited rebuke: then came "the true woman," whose character as sister, wife, mother, friend, and "comforter," was dwelt on long and fondly, and portrayed in the language of true poetry and manly devotion. Mr. Ward is not much known out of the literary circles of the West, but several of his short poems have had a wide circulation in this country and in England.
A volume entitled Novellettes of the Musicians, has been published by Cornish, Lamport, & Co., with Mrs. Ellet's name on the title-page as its author, but most of its contents are translated from the German, and the rest are hardly worth claiming. Yet the book altogether is entertaining, and is handsomely executed, with several striking portraits.
The Rev. Mr. Huntington, once a village doctor, then a congregational minister, next an Episcopal clergyman, and now a Catholic priest, made his mark a year or two ago in the novel of Alice or the Mysteries, in which there was displayed a great deal of talent as well as a very peculiar morality. He has just added to his works (by Putnam) a tale called Alban, in which a hero somewhat like himself is conducted through various pursuits into the faith, and by pleasantly related vicissitudes to a good condition. The scene is in New-York and New-Haven, and of Roman Catholic novels we know of scarcely one more readable. Mr. Huntington perhaps gives us a reflection of his experience in this advice addressed to one of his characters:
"That is why I turn to literature with such predilection," said the young man, greatly excited by Mr. De Groot's way of talking. "Letters," resumed Mr. De Groot, after a long glance around his endless book-shelves, "are a pursuit that surpasses every other, in enjoyment, and nearly every other in dignity. We must have our own literary men. We can't afford to let other nations write our books for us. That were worse than policy which would hire them to fight our battles. There is a thought and there is a sentiment which belongs to us, and which we are in a manner bound to elicit. But—I am sorry to interpose so many buts, young sir—you are to consider that you must live. You cannot live by literature. It is difficult any where, but in this country it is impossible. As pride distinguishes the Spaniard, revenge the Italian, lust the Saxon, and sanguinary violence (they say) the Celt, so pecuniary injustice is our national trait, we steal the author's right in every book we publish, native or foreign. Now, Atherton, you can't live by a craft where people hold themselves at liberty to steal what you have produced."
We mentioned a month or two ago the intention of Mr. Russell, of Charleston, to publish the Poetical Writings of William Gilmore Simms, and we are pleased to see in the Southern Literary Gazette the announcement that they will appear in two handsome duodecimos of from three to four hundred pages each. The publisher remarks very justly in his advertisement that "the works of Mr. Simms recommended themselves peculiarly to the South, as illustrating its history, its traditions and legends, its scenery and its sentiments." In the North they will be welcomed by the author's numerous friends, and by all lovers of poetry, for their manly tone, imagination, and frequent elaborate elegance.