a voyage in a sailing vessel. We have heard, in fact, from a quarter which ought to be correctly informed, that she was proceeding to the residence of a near relative of her father, with the intention of remaining there till some favorable change might come over the color of her life." * * * * * Our countrywoman, MRS. MOWATT, has revised and partially rewritten her novels of "The Fortune Hunter," and "Evelyn, or the Heart Unmasked," and they have just been published in London. The _Athenaeum_ says of them: "These tales give us a higher idea of Mrs. Mowatt's talents as an authoress, than her plays did. Taken in conjunction with those dramas, and with the pleasing powers as an actress displayed by the lady,--they not only establish a case of more than common versatility, but indicate that with labor and concentration, so gifted a person might have taken a high place, whether on the library shelf or on the stage. In another point of view, they are less agreeable. Alas, for those primitive souls, who with a perverse constancy may still wish to fancy America a vast New-England of simple manners and superior morals! The society which Mrs. Mowatt describes--whether in 'Evelyn,' which begins with a wedding out of Fleecer's boarding-house, or in 'The Fortune Hunter,' which opens with table-talk at Delmonico's--is as sophisticated as any society under which this wicked old world groans, and which our Sir E. Lytton and Mrs. Gore have satirized--or Balzac (to shame the French) has "shown up." _Major Pendennis_ himself could hardly have produced anything more _blase_ in tone than some of the pictures of 'New-York Society' drawn by this American lady,--drawn, moreover, when the lady was young. Evelyn is married to a rich man, without her heart having any thing to say in the matter,--by a mother who is a superfine _Mrs. Falcon_:--and wretched mischief comes of it. Brainard, the fortune hunter, is a heartless and cynical illustration that a Broadway hunter can be as unblushingly mercenary, and as genteelly dishonorable as the veriest old Bond Street hack, bred up in the traditions of the Regency, who ever began life on nothing and a showy person--continued it on nothing and the reputation of fashion--and ended no one cares how or where. There are character, smartness and passion in both these tales--though a certain looseness of structure and incompleteness of style prevent us from being extreme in praising them, or from recommending them by quotation,--and though, as has been said, the tone and taste of the life which they describe must jar on the feelings of those who are unwilling to see the decrepitude of elderly civilization coming down upon a new country, ere its maturity has been reached--or