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Mr. G.P.R. James arrived in New York on the Fourth, and "landed amid
discharges of artillery, the huzzas of assembled thousands, and such
an imposing military display as is rarely seen in this country except
on occasions of great moment and universal interest." He is certainly
entitled to all the ceremonious honors he will receive during his
summer in America, for no man living, probably, has contributed
more to the quiet and rational pleasure of the people here than this
prolific but always intelligent and gentlemanly author. We have it
from the best authority that Mr. James does not intend in any way
whatever to meddle with the copyright question, and that he will
not write a book about us on his return to England. He visits the
United States for a season's agreeable relaxation, with his family,
comprising his wife and daughter and three sons. The London _Morning
Chronicle_, in a review of one of his recent compositions, has
the following piece of criticism, in contemplation of the present
interruption of Mr. James's labors:--

"A season without two or three novels from Mr. James would
be a marked year in the world of letters. There is not a
power-loom in all Manchester which works with more untiring,
unswerving regularity. Does Mr. James ever stop to think,
to eat, to drink, to sleep? Is he ever sick? Has he ever a
headache? Is he ever out of sorts, even as other men are, when
they turn away from the inkstand as from a bottle of physic?
We do not believe it. We sometimes doubt whether Mr. James be
a man at all. Is he mortal? Has he flesh and blood, or is he
some indefinite unheard-of machine, some anomaly of nature,