sleepiness of the man at the helm. 'But,' he added, 'there is not much damage done; she has strained her fore-foot a little, but has sprung no leak, and we shall reach New-York just as soon as before.' I asked no questions; I meekly went back to my berth. As to reaching New-York, I had no idea that such a thing was possible: indeed, I began to disbelieve in there being such a place at all, and quietly resigned myself to passing the rest of my days in this strange boat, amid all the excitements and horrors which a sea-life affords.

So I lay patiently waiting for the next accident, and pondering over the strange fact which the captain had propounded, of a steam-boat's having feet. Perhaps her hind-foot will strike next, I thought: I wonder what that will do. I remembered an old song of my father's about being 'ship-wrecked, and murdered, and sold for a slave." The first I had already experienced, and I supposed the other two would certainly arrive. And so musing, I fell once more asleep, and did not awaken again until we reached New-York.

This was a long time ago, Mr. EDITOR, and I am now an old man; but do you wonder that I am glad to rest upon the laurels I gained then as a traveller, without again tempting the manifold dangers of the deep? and that I am willing to take all the growing glories of New-York upon hearsay, and believe that I can make acquaintance with all that is best and brightest in the Empire City' through the pages of the KNICKERBOCKER?

LITERARY NOTICES.

INKLINGS: CONTAINING SKETCHES OF LIFE, COMPOSITION, ETCHINGS, etc. By SEABRED DODGE PRATT, Esq. In one volume: pp. 402. Auburn, New-York: HENRY OLI

PHANT.

WHEN We encounter a volume like the one before us, evidently the work of a young man, with an apparent love of literature for its own sake, a seeming feeling for nature, and affections presumably fresh and young, we cannot find it in our heart to be merely critical, nor to judge the author by the standard by which the professional reviewer sustains his own position, and endeavors to establish the position, intellectually considered, of his subject. We shall permit our author, therefore, to 'speak for himself,' both as to his views of criticism, and through his own performances; indulging, at the same time, in occasional and brief comments of our own. We quote first from the 'Inkling' of 'Remarks on Criticism :'

THE blacksmith must be the best judge of iron, the tailor of cloth. It is true they may be scholars, and good judges of other things, but this is no objection to their excelling in the selection of articles used daily by them; and you would not choose one to decide upon colors who could not tell green from blue, or red from pink. The critic should be competent to judge, and should not abuse his judgment with prejudice, wit, or sarcasm. The same subject may suggest very different reflections to the same individual, depending upon time, place, the feelings, and previous reflections. When friends leave you, Fortune frowns, Disease gnaws the bark from the tree of Happiness, you gaze upon the moon, and it is then the pale, silent listener to your tale of woe; let friends and health return, and the bright silver moon-beams dance upon the gentle waves. If a work has no merits, it is beneath criticism, as it must show a depraved taste for any one to be seen playing in a filthy pool; and commendation of excellences and beauties is as much a part of criticism as censure of defects. A critic should be a friend, tell us for our own benefit where he thinks we are in fault; and in this be may be mistaken, since no man may justly claim perfection. He should advise us of such things as are commendable, that we may compare his taste with others', leave failures, and cultivate parts more pleasing and successful.'

'The same subject,' says our author, ‘may suggest very different reflections to the same individual, depending upon the time, place, the feelings, and previous reflections.' Exactly: and if our young friend will allow us, we will state in the outset what sort of 'reflection' was suggested' to our mind by this comparison of 'Disease gnawing the bark from the tree of Happiness' namely, an old mare, afflicted with the 'heaves,' gnawing the bark from a tree, on the shady side of a country meeting-house. But, as we have already said, it is not our purpose to 'criticise;' for even in this we

'may be mistaken.' Our first extract is from the poetical dedication, which commences figuratively and felicitously:

"THERE is a story, which you may have seen,
About a duck which was a little green,
That floated on a pond one pleasant night,
Saw there a star upon the water bright,
Plunged deeply for it through the liquid flood,
And run its head some inches in the mud.
The moral of this tale you well may ken-
Its application both to books and men;
The question now before before you seems to be,
Will this apply to 'Inklings' and to me?
The book was written, little at a time,
Some parts of it in Boyhood's sunny clime,
Before I well had learned to scan a rhyme;
The verse was chiefly written since the chime

Of English bards fell sweetly on the ear,

And sense and sound combined the heart to cheer.

To please, instruct, has been the only aim

Which honest efforts for the work may claim:

To throw a moral sunshine round the bearth,

The dear-loved place where virtues have their birth.'

We shall now proceed to quote the opening passages of several 'compositions,' which will afford some idea of the prose style of our young author; beginning with some remarks 'Upon Spring:'

'SPRING is the most delightful season of the year. The temperature is the most favorable for health, which prepares man the better to enjoy its exquisite loveliness. The odor of flowers and shrubbery is borne upon the gentle breeze, and then the music of the feathered songsters which greets the ear is of the most delightful kind. But spring may be better appreciated by contrasting it with the other seasons of the year. Winter, with its dull monotony of snow and storms, has passed away; Summer, with its oppressive heat, is approaching; and Spring, mild and playful, like the lamb which sports in the green pasture, stays a short time, and then glides into sultry Summer.

'How much like spring is the season of youth, when the budding intellect and fancy seem to revel in their own sweet profusion! Human existence is frequently compared to a wilderness or desert, and the actors in life's drama are likened unto the traveller of some barren waste, whose present enjoyment is derived from anticipation of future good, or from pleasing reflections upon the past. Whatever happiness we may occasionally experience from the present hour, there are many, many times, when the vacuum which we feel, if not the positive pain, compels us to acknowledge the truth of this representation. Man seldom or never rests satisfied with his present condition, however prosperous: and whatever may be his efforts to bring his rebellious passions into subjection to the will of HEAVEN, they will sometimes escape through some unguarded avenue of the heart, and travel in search of riches, pleasure, or power. But experience teaches us to restrain the ardor, and moderate the expectations of youth.'

Our next extract, which is very brief, is an introduction to an essay entitled A Composition:'

"To be able to describe correctly occurrences and scenes, and whatever we see and hear, is very desirable, but not often attainable. Some, however, possess this power in a much greater degree than others; and although we claim no superiority in this particular, yet, as it is a very desirable trait, we feel disposed to attempt its cultivation by an inadequate description of a 'Composition.' 'A Composition' is one of those rare things which, from their very nature, are difficult to describe, varying with its author from the sublime to the ridiculous; and hence, the only way in which it can be done, is to be governed by general rules, and call extreme cases their exceptions.'

The next dog's-ear in the volume before us indicates the locale of a treatise 'On the Choice of a Profession,' in which the following facts are set forth:

"THE choice of a profession or occupation for life is an event of such frequent occurrence, that it cannot excite interest by its novelty, and yet the magnitude of the conse