danger, we landed.  The Brahmin and myself remained together two days, and parted—­he to explore the Andes, to obtain additional light on the subject of his hypothesis, and I, on the wings of impatience, to visit once more my long-deserted family and friends.  But before our separation, I assisted my friend in concealing our aerial vessel, and received a promise from him to visit, and perhaps spend with me the evening of his life.  Of my journey home, little remains to be said.  From the citizens of Colombia, I experienced kindness and attention, and means of conveyance to Caraccas; where, embarking on board the brig Juno, captain Withers, I once more set foot in New-York, on the 18th of August, 1826, after an absence of four years, resolved, for the rest of my life, to travel only in books, and persuaded, from experience, that the satisfaction which the wanderer gains from actually beholding the wonders and curiosities of distant climes, is dearly bought by the sacrifice of all the comforts and delights of home.”

We have thus placed before the reader an analysis of this interesting Satirical Romance.  The time and space we have occupied sufficiently indicate the favourable sentiments respecting it with which we have been impressed.  Of the execution of the satires, from the several extracts we have given, the reader will himself be enabled to judge.  This is of course unequal, but generally felicitous.  In the personal allusions which occur through the work, the author exhibits, as we have before noticed, a freedom from malice and all uncharitableness, and in many of them has attained that happy desideratum which Dryden considered a matter of so much difficulty:—­

“How easy is it,” he observes, “to call rogue and villain, and that wittily!  But how hard to make a man appear a fool, a blockhead, or a knave, without using any of those opprobrious terms!  To spare the grossness of the names, and to do the thing yet more severely, is to draw a full face, and to make the nose and cheeks stand out, and yet not to employ any depth of shadowing.  This is the mystery of that noble trade, which yet no master can teach to his apprentice; he may give the rules, but the scholar is never the nearer in his practice; neither is it true, that this fineness of raillery is offensive.  A witty man is tickled, while he is hurt, in this manner, and a fool feels it not:  the occasion of an offence may possibly be given, but he cannot take it.  If it be granted, that, in effect, this way does more mischief—­that a man is secretly wounded, and, though he be not sensible himself, yet the malicious world will find it out for him, yet, there is still a vast difference betwixt the slovenly butchering of a man, and the fineness of a stroke that separates the head from the body, and leaves it standing in its place.  A man may be capable, as Jack Ketch’s wife said of his servant, of a plain piece of work, a bare hanging; but to make a malefactor die sweetly, was only belonging