'_A Story of Sorrow and Crime_' is an affecting monitory sketch, devoid of that mawkishness which is sometimes the characteristic of kindred performances. The writer's reflections upon the career of his hero, remind us of that beautiful passage in one of BLAIR'S essays: 'Life is short: the poor pittance of seventy years is worth being a villain for. What matters it if your neighbor lies in a splendid tomb? Sleep you with innocence! Look behind you through the track of time; a vast desert lies open in the retrospect; through this desert have your fathers journeyed on, until wearied with years and sorrows, they sunk from the walks of men. You must leave them where they fell, and you are to go a little farther, where you will find eternal rest. Whatever you may have to encounter between the cradle and the grave, every moment is big with innumerable events, which come not in slow succession, but bursting forcibly from a revolving and unknown cause, fly over this orb with diversified influence.' · · · 'F. P.'s '_Western Adventures_' have good _points_ about them, but if published entire, would we think disappoint himself perhaps as much as his readers. Here is an anecdote, however, which is worth 'jotting down' in types: 'I met not long after in New-York a man who had just been induced to rent the very hotel in Kentucky which was the scene of the reverses I have been describing. Aware that I had at one time kept the establishment, he was anxious to know my opinion of its pecuniary promise. 'I don't expect to make much the first year,' said he; 'I shall be satisfied if I 'realize' all expenses. But do you think I shall clear myself the first year?' 'I haven't the slightest doubt of it,' I replied; '_I cleared myself_ before the first six months were up, and was d--d _glad_ to get off so; and I rather guess that _you'll_ be too, in about half that time.' And he was!' · · · Could there be a more affecting picture than that of a fond mother learning for the first time from the tell-tale prattle of her little ones that she is 'given over to darkness and the worm' by her friends, who had disguised from her the fatal truth? Such is the scene depicted in these pathetic lines: 'He speaketh now: 'Oh, mother dear!' Murmurs the little child: And there is trouble in his eyes, Those large blue eyes so mild: 'Oh, mother dear! they say that soon, When here I seek for thee I shall not find thee--nor out there, Under the old oak-tree; 'Nor up stairs in the nursery, Nor any where, they say: Where wilt thou go to, mother dear? Oh, do not go away!' There was long silence, a deep hush, And then the child's low sob: _Her_ quivering eyelids close: one hand Keeps down the heart's quick throb. And the lips move, though sound is none, That inward voice is prayer. And hark! 'THY will, O LORD, be done!' And tears are trickling there--