The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 2, January, 1836
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Title: The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 2, January, 1836

Author: Various

Release date: March 26, 2022 [eBook #67718]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: T. W. White, Publisher and Proprietor

Credits: Ron Swanson

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 2, JANUARY, 1836 ***

THE

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO

EVERY DEPARTMENT OF

LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents.
Crebillon's Electre.
As we will, and not as the winds will.

RICHMOND:
T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
1835-6.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 2

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY and Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other Barbary States (No. X): by R. G.

A PÆAN: by E. A. P.

CHARLOT TAYON

LINNÆUS AND WILSON

LOVE AND POETRY

A FAIRY TALE

THE WAGONER

SACRED MELODY

SENSIBILITY: by S. H.

TO ———: by B. T.

POPULAR EDUCATION

TRANSLATION

VERSES

LIONEL GRANBY, Chapter VII: by Theta

UNKNOWN FLOWERS: by Morna

SONNET TO ********: by Alexander Lacy Beard, M.D.

METZENGERSTEIN: by Edgar A. Poe

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION: by a Virginian

ENGLISH POETRY, Chapter III

SCENES FROM AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA: by Edgar A. Poe

VIRGINIA, extracts from an unpublished abridgment of the history of Virginia

LADY LEONORE AND HER LOVER: by L. L.

ENGLISH LANGUAGE IN AMERICA: by Borealis

TO THE WOODNYMPHS

CRITICAL NOTICES
MRS. SIGOURNEY—MISS GOULD—MRS. ELLET
Zinzendorff, and other Poems. By Mrs. L.H. Sigourney
Poems. By Miss H. F. Gould
Poems; Translated and Orginal. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet
THE PARTISAN: by the author of The Yemassee, Guy Rivers, &c.
THE RAMBLER IN NORTH AMERICA, 1832-33: by Charles Joseph Latrobe
THE SOUTH-WEST: by a Yankee
THE POETRY OF LIFE: by Sarah Stickney
TALES AND SKETCHES by Miss Sedgwick
REMINISCENCES OF AN INTERCOURSE WITH MR. NIEBUHR: by Francis Lieber
THE YOUNG WIFE'S BOOK; A Manual of Moral, Religious, and Domestic Duties
THE LIFE AND SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE, OF YORK, MARINER: with a biographical account of Defoe
CHRISTIAN FLORIST

SUPPLEMENT TO THE LITERARY MESSENGER

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II.                    RICHMOND, JANUARY, 1836.                    NO. II.

T. W. WHITE, PROPRIETOR.        FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

AND PRESENT CONDITION OF TRIPOLI, WITH SOME ACCOUNTS OF THE OTHER BARBARY STATES.

NO. X.—(Continued.)

The writer of these Sketches endeavors to give entire in each number, some distinct portion of the history of the Barbary States; this however is in some cases impracticable, either from want of time on his part, or from want of place in the sheets of the Messenger. The present number will contain merely the conclusion of the portion, commenced in the last, so that the next, may embrace the whole of the war between France and Algiers.

In a country where the establishment of innocence or guilt depends much less on the weight and character of evidence, than on the interests or influence of those possessing power, and where punishment is entirely disproportioned to offence, no unfavorable inference could be fairly drawn from the flight of the accused. The D'Ghies family had been uniformly the friends of the Americans, and Hassuna although suspected of too much devotion to the interests of France, upon the whole bore a fair character, and was on terms of social intimacy with the family of Mr. Coxe. The charge against him was of a strange nature, and one not likely to be substantiated; he protested that he was innocent of all improper conduct with regard to the unfortunate traveller, that the British Consul was anxious to procure his destruction from motives of personal enmity, and that his only desire was to go to England where he could easily clear himself from all imputations. Nor could any feelings of peculiar delicacy towards the British Consul be expected to influence Mr. Coxe on this occasion. The efforts made by Warrington in 1818 to rescue Morat Rais, after the attack on the American Consul, have been already noticed; he had also in 1828 endeavored, though ineffectually, to protect Dr. Sherry an Englishman who had circulated a story that the frigate Philadelphia was burnt by Maltese hired for the purpose by the Americans; and he had on various other occasions advanced pretensions to superiority over the Consul of the United States, which were unfounded and insulting.

Under these circumstances, Mr. Coxe resolved to protect the fugitive minister, and he therefore immediately wrote a letter to the Pasha, in which he requested a Teskera or written assurance under the seal of the State, that no attempt would be made to molest Hassuna; stating at the same time, that he only required what was frequently granted to the other Consuls. No answer having been made to this request, it was repeated on the 7th of August. On the 9th the Pasha replied by letter that he could not grant the warrant for Hassuna's safety, as the affair was one of great importance between himself and the British Government, and in which the American Consul was in no wise concerned; he added that if Mr. Coxe could obtain Warrington's permission in writing to interfere in the case and deposite it with him, he would make no farther objection, and that the American Consul "might however keep Hassuna in his house until the affair should be decided."

Mr. Coxe was naturally indignant at the terms of this letter, by which his exercise of a right allowed to other Consuls, was made to depend upon the will of the representative of Great Britain; and the more so as he had reason to suspect, that it had been dictated by Warrington himself. To keep Hassuna in his house until the affair was decided, would be merely to act as his jailer until the hour of his execution; for the Pasha it was well known would not scruple to declare him guilty of theft or murder if the British Consul should require it, and it would be scarcely reconcileable either with principle or usage, to continue to protect a man, after his conviction of such crimes according to the forms of law of the country.

Fortunately at this moment the American sloop of war Fairfield had just entered the harbor of Tripoli, and her commander Captain Parker, after examining the circumstances of the case as far as known, agreed to receive Hassuna on board his ship, and to conduct him to some place from which he could with safety proceed to England. Being anxious however to secure themselves from charges of improper conduct on the part of the Government, the plan was privately intimated to Yusuf, and they were not disappointed in their expectations, that he would rejoice at being thus delivered from the difficulty. The guards were indeed doubled on that night, and they patroled the streets leading from the American Consulate to the harbor, but this was only intended to deceive Warrington; for Hassuna was safely conducted on board the Fairfield, in the dress of a Christian, without any interruption from the numerous parties of soldiers whom they met on the way.

When Hassuna's evasion was known in Tripoli, the utmost joy was manifested by the inhabitants, and he received on board the Fairfield the visits of Hadji Massen and of many other principal persons of the city, who congratulated him openly on his escape from the vengeance of the British Consul. The Fairfield remained in Tripoli until the 14th of August, during which period every attention was received by her officers from the Pasha and his Court; she then sailed for Tunis, and from that place to Port Mahon, where Hassuna left her; but instead of proceeding to England as he had declared to be his intention, he went by way of Spain to France in which country he has since resided.

On the 10th of August Mr. Warrington addressed a most angry epistle to the American Consul, in which after asserting that D'Ghies had been "proved guilty of fraud and theft and suspected of murder," and taking it "for granted that the Commander of the Fairfield must be perfectly well acquainted with the delinquency of the fugitive," he requested that his letter should be shown to Captain Parker; declaring in conclusion that should the criminal escape from justice the whole responsibility would rest upon Mr. Coxe, and the case be submitted to the American Government. Mr. Coxe replied on the 11th that he had yet to learn how and when the guilt of Hassuna had been established; and that although he deeply lamented the fate of Major Laing, yet his feelings should not prevent him from maintaining the honor of his flag, nor induce him to submit to any dictation. On receipt of this answer Col. Warrington entered a protest in the name of his Government against Mr. Coxe's interference in the affair; the Pasha also addressed a letter on the 12th to the American Consul, in which he declared that person answerable for all the consequences of Hassuna's departure, and expressed his resolution to complain to the Government of the United States on the subject. This letter although bearing the seal of the Pasha, was written in Italian in the hand of the Chancellor of the British Consulate, and delivered by Vanbreugel the Consul of the Netherlands who was known to be devoted to the service of Warrington. These circumstances rendered it extremely probable that the letter was drawn up by the British Consul and merely sealed by Yusuf as a peace offering, particularly as the British flag was again displayed on the following day in token of reconciliation. Under this impression Mr. Coxe replied on the 14th, that so far from fearing inquiries as to his conduct, he had already submitted the circumstances to the consideration of his Government, not doubting that it would approve a course by which the Pasha of Tripoli "had been indirectly saved from great trouble and uneasiness." Here the American Consul's agency in the affair terminated; a few days after Yusuf at a private audience, expressed the most friendly feelings to Mr. Coxe, and hinted his satisfaction at having been thus happily extricated from so disagreeable a situation.

Meanwhile Mohammed D'Ghies remained in the house of Baron Rousseau. On the 12th of August Colonel Warrington accompanied by some other Consuls, made a formal demand on the Baron for the delivery of Major Laing's papers, exhibiting the deposition of D'Ghies in support of his proceedings. Rousseau appeared to be highly indignant at this demand, and Mohammed on seeing the declaration which was said to have been made by him, denied all knowledge of it; having been assured however that no injury would be done to him, he left his asylum and in the presence of the Pasha and the greater part of the Consular corps, he repeated the assertion first made to the Bey, declaring at the same time that his subsequent denial had been extorted from him by the French Consul, who had threatened otherwise to expel him from his house. Baron Rousseau upon this struck his flag, and immediately embarked with his whole family for France, without deigning to make any reply to the accusations preferred against him; his departure while the affair was undetermined, and he had nothing to fear but exposure, was certainly not calculated to produce an impression in his favor.

Soon after the French Consul had quitted Tripoli, the persons whom the Pasha had summoned from the South arrived, and were examined in the presence of the British and other Consuls. It would be unfair to condemn any man on the testimony of Moors and Arabs, as those people appear to be morally incapable of giving a correct account; particularly too when as in this case the examination was exclusively conducted by those who were opposed to the accused. From the accounts of Col. Warrington, it appears to have been clearly established by their examinations, that the papers of Major Laing were received by Hassuna about the spring of 1828; of their having been delivered by him to the French Consul no direct evidence has been adduced besides the declaration of Mohammed D'Ghies. Many collateral circumstances however united to confirm this statement, and even Mr. Coxe notwithstanding all the prepossessions which he may be supposed to have entertained in favor of Hassuna and against Colonel Warrington, admitted to the latter on the 20th of November 1829, his conviction that the communications of the unfortunate traveller had been thus disposed of.

This affair excited much attention in Europe when the circumstances became known there. The British Ambassador at Paris was instructed by his Government, to demand from that of France, explanations with regard to the conduct of its Representative in Tripoli. A commission was accordingly instituted at Paris, which after interrogating Rousseau and examining the proofs presented, declared the charge against him to be wholly without foundation, and that against Hassuna D'Ghies to be unsupported by sufficient evidence. The Government of Great Britain appears to have been satisfied with this decision; the measures adopted by France in consequence of it will be hereafter related. The London Quarterly Review however, in which several articles relative to Laing had already appeared, protested against the report of the commission; the number of that periodical for March 1830, contains a statement of the circumstances which occurred in Tripoli so partial, so unjust, and accompanied with such illiberal remarks with regard to Mr. Coxe, that some notice of it seems here to be necessary.

From the minuteness with which many of the events are detailed in this Review, and the apparent precision as to dates, it is probable that the materials were furnished by Colonel Warrington himself: yet the statement is defective with regard to several important particulars; facts with which the British Consul was undoubtedly acquainted, and which might have given a different color to the case, are omitted; and there are errors calculated to lessen confidence in accounts not confirmed by other testimony than the assertion of the Reviewer. One of these errors is remarkable, and it is not easy to conceive that it arose from accident. In the Review it is said that the Pasha made his declaration respecting the receipt of the papers by Hassuna and their delivery to the French Consul, on the 5th of August; that in consequence of this, D'Ghies had taken refuge in the American Consulate on the 9th, and had been transferred on the same night to the Fairfield, which sailed the day after. Thus Mr. Coxe is represented as having acted with so much haste, that it was impossible for the Pasha or Colonel Warrington to explain the motives of their desire to arrest Hassuna, or to take any measures for proving his guilt until he was beyond their reach. Now from the official documents of the American Consulate, it appears that D'Ghies sought an asylum there on the 20th of July, that he was placed on board ship on the 9th of August, and that the Fairfield remained in the harbor until the 14th; he therefore passed nearly three weeks in the house of Mr. Coxe, during which the Pasha was twice requested to give an assurance for his safety such as had been often granted in similar cases to Consuls of other Powers; he was not placed on board the Fairfield until an invasion of the Consular dwelling was reasonably apprehended, and he continued in the port five days afterwards on board that ship. These circumstances must have been known to the person who furnished the materials for the article, and should in honor have been stated correctly.

The motives assigned in the Review for Hassuna's intercepting the papers, are that he had arranged some plan either for destroying Major Laing, or for extorting money from his friends in order to insure his safe return; that this plan had been discovered by the traveller, and that D'Ghies, learning that his schemes had been thus penetrated by the person who was their principal object, had suppressed the communications in order to prevent the exposure of his villainy. This supposition appears to be founded chiefly, if not entirely, on a passage in one of the letters received from Laing, intimating the discovery of some treachery on the part of those about him; the charge that Hassuna had been accessory to the murder of the traveller, is to be attributed only to the enmity of Warrington, as nothing has been elicited in any way calculated to confirm it. With regard to the French Consul's share in the affair, the Reviewer after citing some plausible reasons for believing him to have been implicated, and many which are utterly futile, seems to consider that he may have been induced to such dishonorable conduct purely from desire to obtain distinction by appropriating to himself in some way, the results of Laing's expedition. The grounds for this opinion are that Rousseau had for some time previous, been engaged in researches concerning the interior of Africa, upon which subject he not only corresponded with scientific societies in France, but also conducted a journal in Tripoli.

The Reviewer however in all these accounts and conjectures, is careful to forget that Hassuna was the Prime Minister of Tripoli, that political reasons may have impelled him to prevent the delivery of the papers, and that he may have acted in the whole affair conformably with the usages not only of Tripoli, but of almost every Government in Europe. A British officer engaged in exploring the interior of Africa, may well have been the object of suspicion at Tripoli. Has scientific research been even ostensibly the only motive for such expeditions? Would Major Laing have been permitted to proceed under this pretext through certain parts of Russia? Would a French or Russian officer until lately have been allowed to visit British India? The Tripoline Government did not dare refuse a passage to the English traveller through its dominions; his actions were doubtless observed, and it was proper that they should have been; his letters may have been opened, may have been found to contain matter the communication of which would be dangerous to the state, may have been in consequence destroyed, may have been even delivered to a Consul of another Power. Such things are constantly done in St. Petersburg, in Vienna, in Paris, and in many other places, and although they cannot be defended, yet it is scarcely fair to brand the African Minister with infamy for that which is daily practised by Metternich, Nesselrode and Thiers.

A PÆAN.

How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?

Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep!—oh! to dishonor
Her beauty with a tear!

They loved her for her wealth—
And they hated her for her pride—
But she grew in feeble health,
And they love her—that she died.

They tell me (while they speak
Of her "costly broider'd pall")
That my voice is growing weak—
That I should not sing at all—

Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully—so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.

But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride.

Of the dead—dead—who lies
All motionless,
With the death upon her eyes,
And the life upon each tress.

In June she died—in June
Of life—beloved, and fair;
But she did not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.

From more than fiends on earth,
Helen, thy soul is riven,
To join the all-hallowed mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven—

Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a Pæan of old days.

E. A. P.

CHARLOT TAYON.

It is curious to speculate on the infinite variety of causes which have influence in the formation of character; on the numerous diversities which are found under different circumstances; and the multiplicity of qualities, which, in their various combinations, make up each whole. What any man might have become under different training, or with different fortunes, it is vain even to conjecture. Yet we cannot refrain from speculating on the change which circumstances might have made in the characters and destinies of many, who "crawl from the cradle to the grave" unregarded and unknown.

Poor old Charlot Tayon! I have often puzzled myself to tell to what class of men he belonged by nature. Illiterate, uncultivated, ignorant, bred up on the outermost verge of civilized life, and spending all the prime of youth and manhood far beyond it, it was hard to tell whether this rude training had encouraged or retarded the growth of those qualities which made him in my eyes a remarkable man.

A native of upper Louisiana, he had entered, in early youth, into the service of the king of Spain as a private soldier. His corps was one of those whose duties condemned them to pass their days in the wild prairies, which, extending from the neighborhood of the Mississippi to the Rio del Norte, serve rather as the range than the habitation of small but numerous bands of Indians. Such a life is of course a life of toil, hardship, and danger. The qualities which fit a man to encounter these, are, under other circumstances, rewarded by fame. Even in scenes so remote, they do not always fail of a reward, which to him who receives it seems like fame. His few companions are his world, and their applause is to him the applause of the world. He perils every thing to win it, and, having fought his way to the head of a company of rangers, is as proud, and with good reason, as Wellington himself of all his honors, purchased at less expense of hardship or danger. It is thus that I account for the unequalled pride of this poor old man, associated as it was in his uncultivated mind with all that lofty courtesy which so surely accompanies a just sense of unquestioned and unquestionable merit.

I have said that he began life as a common soldier. A campaign of hard service was rewarded by the rank of fourth corporal. Another gave him the third place among these humble but important officers. In eight years he rose, step by step, and year by year, to the rank of first sergeant. Three more placed him, by the like regular gradations, at the head of his company.

As this was an independent corps, serving at a distance from the settlements, and only returning to them at long intervals, his station was one of great responsibility. This he assumed boldly, and exercised freely. Incapable of fear, he was not easily withheld from danger by a distant authority, and, relying on the brave man's maxim, "that success in war justifies a breach of orders," he made little scruple of disregarding his, whenever an opportunity of striking a blow presented itself. On some such occasion he incurred the displeasure of his immediate superior, the commandant at St. Charles. To this worthy, the success which exposed the impolicy of his own cautious prudence, was by no means a justification for disobedience. He accordingly recalled Tayon, imprisoned him, and sent him in chains to New Orleans.

Here the history of his imputed offence was so creditable to him, and the bearing of the rude soldier so forcibly struck the intendant, that his persecutor was deposed, and the prisoner returned in triumph, bearing with him a commission as commandant of the post.

This was, in his estimation, the acmé of greatness to a subject. Of the unapproachable majesty of the "King his master," as he delighted to call him, he might have formed some such conception as we have of angelic natures. But among mere men of common mould, he had seen nothing, until his forced journey to New Orleans, and had perhaps never imagined any thing above the dignity that encircled the commandant at St. Charles.

There is nothing strange in this. An officer at once judicial and executive, supreme in both capacities, always acting in person, and enforcing his authority by the summary processes of despotism, is an awful personage in his province. Though but a king of Liliput, he is a king to Liliputians, and especially to himself. Such was Charlot Tayon in his own estimation; he truly "bore him like a king," and when the throne of his power was removed from under him, he lost nothing of majesty in his fall. He was neither Dionysius at Corinth, nor Bonaparte at St. Helena. He was neither familiar, nor peevish, nor querulous, but sat himself down, in quiet poverty, in a cottage on the edge of the village over which he had reigned.

I saw him but seldom, but always delighted to converse with him. I found him uniformly affable, courteous and communicative. Though too self-respectful to talk gratuitously about himself, a little address alone was necessary to make him do so. He spoke not a word of English, but though illiterate, (for he could not read) his French was remarkably pure and euphonical. French has often seemed to me the appropriate language for monkeys. In his mouth it was the language of a man. Speaking slowly, deliberately, and calmly, in a strong, stern, sustained tone, with a countenance which bore no trace even of a by-gone smile, there was more to strike the ear, and awaken the imagination, in his manner, than in that of any man I ever saw. The tout ensemble spoke an ever present, deep, but proud and uncomplaining sense of wrong unutterable and irreparable. His figure, except on horseback, was awkward and ungainly. He was very old, and moved with difficulty. His short legs and arms, his broad bony hands, and his huge Roman nose, reminded me always of the legs, claws, and beak of a paroquet. His features, however, were not bad, though harsh. A deep-set dark grey eye surmounted by a shaggy brow, and a mouth firmly compressed and flat, were in perfect keeping with the rest of his face, and in character with the man. His dress was uniformly a blue cotton hunting shirt and trowsers, with moccasins on his feet, and a blue cotton handkerchief tied on his head in what is called the French fashion, with the ends hanging far down his back. In this garb his centaur figure, mounted on the back of a wild horse, was certainly one of the most picturesque I ever saw.

I once drew from him a sort of sketch of his life. It was little more than a confirmation of what I had heard from others. This I have already mentioned. But his manner, and the ideas which escaped from him, gave me more insight into his character. His was the first example I had ever seen of loyalty, not originating in personal attachment, wholly uninfluenced by personal considerations, adopted as a principle, but cherished into a passion. I doubt if he knew whether the king he served was king of France or of Spain, and am very sure that he knew no difference between Charles 3d, Charles 4th, and Ferdinand. Whoever he was, he was "Le Roi mon maitre." As such he always spoke of him to the last, owning no other allegiance, acknowledging no other political obligation but the will and pleasure of the "king his master." Was he therefore malcontent?—just the reverse. "The king my master laid his commands upon me, to deliver up the post which he had done me the honor to place under my authority, to an officer appointed to receive it on behalf of the government of the United States; and I obeyed him. He gave me to understand at the same time that it was his pleasure that I and my people should submit to the authority of the United States, and conform to their laws, and I have obeyed him. You see me quietly acquiescing in the new order of things, and endeavoring in all things to regulate myself by your laws; and I do so, because the king my master has commanded it."

There was nothing in his manner of saying this, betokening that restiveness with which men submit to what they cannot help. He seemed merely to find a satisfaction in rehearsing the principles by which he had always professed to be governed, and contemplating the conformity between these and his actions.

At the time of the cession of Louisiana to the United States, the old man was in comfortable circumstances. The best house in the village was his, and he had slaves and several arpens in the common field.1 But he had now fallen on evil days. He scorned to acquire any knowledge of the language, laws, and customs of the new masters of the country, and desired only to live in retirement and obscurity. But he could not help having some dealings with the world, and the management of these he committed to an only son, who had acquired a considerable proficiency both in our language and laws.

1 An arpen is the French acre. In the sense in which the word is here used, it means an allotment of land, in the common field of a village, of an arpen in breadth, and usually forty arpens in length. Three or four of these contiguous to each other, enclosed by the common ring fence, and brought under the plough, were sufficient to supply as much of the necessaries and comforts of life as the simple peasantry of that country had any idea of.

But if Master Louis excelled his father in these things, he was as much his inferior in every honorable and manly virtue. In short, a greater knave never breathed, as soon appeared by his so managing the old man's affairs as to reduce him to want. At the same time his craft, though sufficient to defraud his father, was no defence against the superior art of the adventurers who flocked to the country. He too was reduced to poverty, and spurned by his father, detested by his countrymen, and despised by the Anglo-Americans, his name was a by-word of scorn. But he still bustled about, trafficking in every thing he could lay his hands upon, negotiating bargains between new comers and the old inhabitants, and cheating both as often as he could. But the profits of his villainy were small, for he was too cautious to venture on any bold measure.

At length, however, the fiend he served seemed to have betrayed him into the hands of his enemies. At the opening of one of the terms of St. Charles' Court, I found his name on the criminal docket. I looked for the charge, and found it to be for stealing a slave. This was a capital offence, and I at once concluded that Louis' time was come. He had not a friend on earth. No witness could be expected to soften a word of testimony; no juror would do violence to his conscience for his sake, and he had therefore no hope but in innocence; and nothing could be more improbable than that.

The trial came on. In a corner of the room I observed a cluster of the poor peasantry of the village huddled together with looks of concern and awe, occasionally muttering in low and earnest tones. They are a good-natured people, and I was not surprised to see, as I supposed, some tokens of relenting toward poor Louis. But I was soon led to put a different construction on their manner, when I caught a glimpse of a figure sitting with the head bowed between the knees, which I at once recognized as that of the culprit's father.

As the cause proceeded, the excited interest of the old man came in aid of his pride, and he at length raised himself; made signs to those around him to stand aside, and thus sat full before me. He was pale and ghastly, and his eye was sunken, fixed, and rayless. With a countenance betokening stupor, like that of one just recovering from a stunning blow, he appeared to look on without seeing, and to listen without hearing.

It turned out that Louis' case was not so bad as I had apprehended. The prosecution was conceived in folly or malice, for the slave had been taken on a claim of property, by the advice of a lawyer. Of course I had but to say a few words to the jury, and he was acquitted.

This turn of the case was so sudden, that the poor Frenchmen, who understood only a word here and there, were unprepared for it, and began among themselves an eager jabbering, which at length awakened the faculties of the old man. He caught a few words, and then seemed, for the first time, to listen understandingly to what he heard. But whatever emotion he felt was either repressed by self-command, or buried in the depth of conscious abasement. He soon rose, and left the room, followed by the little party that had surrounded him.

The next morning I happened to be passing through the bar-room of the house I lodged in, and as I entered the door, I heard the bar-keeper say, "Here he is." I looked up. There was only one other person present, and his back was to me. Turning at the moment, I saw that it was old Charlot. I immediately approached him, accosting him with marked courtesy. He seemed not to hear me, but tottered toward me, looking up in my face with a dim lack-lustre eye, as if endeavoring to distinguish who I was. As I accosted him, extending my hand, he laid hold of it and drew himself forward, still gazing on me with the same fixed inquiring look. "C'est Monsieur le Juge?" asked he, in a subdued and tremulous voice. At the moment his eye found the answer to his question, and, before I could speak, he had fallen on his knees, and my hand was pressed to his lips, and bathed in tears which rained from his wintry eyes. I was inexpressibly shocked, and more humbled in his humiliation than at any other moment of my life.

I raised him with difficulty, and in a voice choked by tears, he tried to speak. I knew what he would say, and replied to his meaning. "You have no cause to thank me," said I. "Your son had done nothing for which he could lawfully be punished; his acquittal was inevitable, and he has merely received sheer justice at my hands." While I spoke, he recovered himself enough to speak. "Ah! Monsieur," said he, "that is true. But in the case of a poor wretch, hated and despised by all, who neither has, nor deserves to have a friend on earth, is not mere justice something to be thankful for? Bad as he is, he is my only son, and I must have leave to thank you."

I led the poor old man to a seat, and tried as soon as possible to change the conversation, and lead his mind to the topics on which I had before heard him dwell with pleasure. A question about his friend and comrade, the famous Philip Nolan, effected my object. His dim eye for a moment flashed up like the last flickering of an expiring lamp, and he became eloquent in praise of the companion of his youth, his fellow in arms, and partner in innumerable dangers. The excitement soon died away, but it subsided into calmness and self-possession. He rose, and took his leave with recovered dignity of manner. He tottered to the door, and to his horse, a half-broken colt, which he mounted with difficulty. As he touched the saddle, he became a new creature. His infirmities had disappeared, and he was now a part of the vigorous and fiery animal he bestrode. There he sat, swaying with every motion of the prancing horse, restraining his impatience with a skill and grace too habitual to forsake him, and with an air which betokened a momentary flush of pride. He was like Conrad restored to the deck of his own ship. I could not see his face, but I had pleasure in thinking that the excitation of the moment might operate as a cordial to his drooping spirit. I looked after him as he passed up the street in a curvetting gallop, with his head-gear streaming on the wind, and bethought me that I might never see him again.

I was not mistaken. The blow that brought him to his knees before any but his God, or "the king his master," had crushed his heart. He never held up his head again, and was soon at rest. The prevalence of the Catholic religion among the French has preserved one spot sacred to the men and customs of other days, and there he lies.

LINNÆUS AND WILSON.

Fisher Ames has remarked, that it is as difficult to compare great men, as great rivers. He might have found a happier illustration; but the meaning is obvious, that whilst distinguished men bear to each other some points of resemblance, they are remarkable for points of discrepancy. Johnson traced lines of analogy and contrast between Dryden and Pope, whilst Playfair did the same between Newton and Leibnitz. Plutarch led the way in this kind of writing, but his parallels were occasionally more fanciful than true.

In many things antiquity has excelled; but in natural science and in works of fiction, the palm is due to modern times. Cuvier and Pliny, could not be impartially measured, without giving to the former a decided advantage. The light which fell on the latter was dim, in comparison with that by which the philosopher of France was guided in his researches. Persian monarchs might formerly have been amused by the tales which adulation told in their presence; but Sir Walter Scott has redeemed fiction from many of the purposes to which it has been applied.

Among the scores of men who have devoted their talents to natural science, Linnæus and Wilson are not the least conspicuous, and they bore a likeness to each other in the obscurity of their origin. The first was the son of a Pastor, who lived in a village of Sweden, and partly sustained his family by cultivating a few beds of earth. The manse (to use a word familiar in Scotland,) has more than once been the birth place of genius, as Thomson, Armstrong, and the translator of the Lusiad could have testified. The latter was descended of a line of peasantry—but they both evinced that science has palms to bestow, on all by whom they shall be nobly attempted and fairly won, whilst she leaves it to kings to adorn the undeserving with hereditary titles.

They both appear to have lived for a time out of their element, for the one had well nigh been sent to the awl, whilst the other was a weaver in Paisley. But the taste of Linnæus was early formed, whilst that of the ornithologist was not developed, until comparatively late in life. The biography of the Swede is full of incidents to show that his passion for plants took its rise in infancy, and grew with his years. The circumstances of his father being unexpectedly improved, the new residence of the Pastor was embellished by a garden, and though gardening had been his business, it now became an amusement. When the parent was employed among his plants, the son was seen by his side, drawing from paternal instruction, the elements of that science in which he was destined to excel. But the Ornithologist betrayed no early predilection for the branch of knowledge to which he subsequently became devoted. It was not until he had expatriated himself, and killed for his own sustenance, one of our forest birds—that the high resolve was formed of consecrating himself to the investigation of the feathered tribes. There is something striking in this event. An exile from Scotland, driven by poverty to seek an asylum on our shores, not knowing to what destiny his steps were tending, is reminded by an incident of the claims of science on his personal services. He had seen the birds of his own country, which Grahame had celebrated in one of his poems; but it is probable that the dishevelled plumage of the one alluded to deeply affected his mind. To an accident we owe a series of galvanic experiments, and the discovery of the law of gravitation; and if this be so, it is not to be wondered at, that to an event seemingly unimportant we should owe the enlargement of Ornithology.

Linnæus and Wilson made but small attainments in any other branch than the department in which each of them became eminent. The first was conspicuous in his medical profession, but this was the result of adventitious circumstances. He gained some acquaintance with Mineralogy, and even explored the province of Dalecarlia as a kind of Peripatetic Lecturer—but this branch belongs to Natural Science. He was sent in youth to an academy, with a view to prepare for the sacred office; but his habits, though marked by innocence, unfitted him for its duties. He appears to have been deficient in what Phrenologists call the organ of language, and especially in the acquisition of the modern tongues; but whilst others were becoming familiar with words, he was ruminating by Lake Helga, and stripping Lake Wetter of its plants, that the tribes of the North might learn to speak in flowers, and thereby resemble in traits of sentiment and imagination the caravans of the East. The attainments of the Ornithologist were from his circumstances necessarily limited. Confusion is generally consequent on education which has not discipline for its basis. Before Wilson left Scotland he attempted poetry, and some of his productions were attributed to Burns; but this kind of mistake is frequently made by the partiality of friends. The poetical productions of the Ornithologist are not entitled to much consideration; at least his temperament in this respect was more vividly displayed in action than in verbal expression. Both possessed remarkable powers of analysis, and in each the elements of taste were mingled in such a way as to turn the scale in favor of science rather than of imagination. The genius of both moved in a limited but perfect circle. That filled by the Botanist was stocked with herbs and the foliage of the Zones, surmounted by the golden flowers of the Line—and all held together by a diamond chain, whilst the choice assemblage was enlivened by the hum of the insect tribes. The other filled by the Ornithologist, was supplied from the air, and he crowded within its circumference birds of emerald and ruby grain, in the centre of which the Eagle was poised, whilst his ear was regaled by the song chanted at intervals from the curling vines of the Tropics, or the volume of melody from the woodlands of his adopted country. Each of them eventually insulated his mind to his vocation, and this is better than dispersing mental power over various pursuits. They thus reduced their genius to something of an integral kind, without the appendage of fractional parts.

Linnæus was not without decided advantages in those opportunities which foster intellect, promote emulation, and give impulse to genius. Hannah More has remarked that the best kind of education is drawn from the conversation of well-informed parents. It has been stated that the Botanist enjoyed this privilege in an eminent degree. His father took unusual pains to mature his mind, and though subjected to occasional disappointments, he met with friends even in Professors, who had sagacity to discern the sphere which he was one day to occupy. He found his way to the University of Lund, and subsequently to the one at Upsal, where lectures were delivered on his favorite science, and botanical gardens were open to his inspection. We are at a loss to imagine in what circumstances more delightful a scholar could have been placed, than those in which Linnæus was placed when he took up his abode at Hartecamp, the villa of his friend Cliffort, near Haerlem. Here he found books of science, and works of taste, exotic shrubs mingled with indigenous plants, museums filled with gems from the mines of Golconda, and cabinets full of shells culled from the grottos of the sea, and from the beaches of distant oceans. But truth constrains us to place the Ornithologist in the back ground of this picture. We find him struggling with penury from the beginning, and even traversing the moors of Scotland in search of a precarious subsistence. No university opened to him its ancient gates and cloistered cells. No man of wealth placed aviaries under his superintendence, and decoyed for his use speckled birds into the captivity of some sylvan Paradise. After his removal to this country he met with friends, but like himself, they were for the most part penniless. Among them, Joseph Dennie is worthy of mention—a man prompt to encourage every good design. He was at that time editor of the Port Folio, and through the medium of that work he served the cause of Ornithology. Dennie was the pioneer of literature in this country, and he is to be measured by the quality rather than the quantity of his works. He wrote no brilliant poems or ingenious tales, no dissertations in which philosophy led the way, and no historical works in which imposing events were arranged for the eye of posterity; but his Lay Preacher will always bear witness to the graceful structure of his mind.

Linnæus and Wilson both encountered hardships in the attainment of their purpose. Scotland treated the one, and Sweden the other, with unfeeling neglect; but the Botanist seems to have suffered most from the jealousy of rival Professors. It is singular that envy should so often disturb the quiet of men devoted to liberal pursuits; but Newton permitted some of his works to lie by him unpublished for years, because he dreaded critical attacks; and the quarrels of Addison and Pope were the subject of merriment to the people of their day. The toils of the Botanist introduced him to the perils of the Lulean desart. This rugged district was faithfully explored by the Swede; and in performing this journey, he drew subsistence from the milk of the reindeer, reconnoitered the hills and dells of Lapland, adventurously gathered moss from the brow of the precipice, and filled his herbarium with plants that rose among the rocks of the waterfall. He descended dangerous rivers in his boat; but this was the only journey in which Linnæus appears to have suffered much personal inconvenience. His subsequent tours through France, Germany and England, were excursions of pleasure, on which he went to enjoy the triumphs awarded to genius. But rugged as was the Lapland desart, the Ornithologist traversed desarts more extensive. Though poverty forbade the attempt to explore our forests, he disregarded its monitions, and we find him passing through the vale of Wyoming, and encircling the Lakes that indent the interior of New York, and then standing by those inland seas that roll on our northern borders. He descended the Ohio in his lonely skiff—he searched the islands which picture its waves—he paused in sight of smoke curling from the wigwam—he drew the chain of science around the copse, and slept in the green saloons of our wilderness. He was a Stoic of the woods as to personal suffering, but a Platonist at the same time in the mellow sensibilities of his nature.

They were both instructors of youth, but under circumstances widely different. The one was a preceptor of youth in the sequestered nooks of Pennsylvania; the other became the dignified lecturer from beneath a canopy spread over him by regal munificence. The one taught the elements of Education—the other enlarged on the lore of Science. As an instructor, Linnæus was the more successful. He resembled in some measure the Greek philosophers who taught in the suburbs of Athens, and he made Hammarby a kind of Swedish Lyceum. He possessed a remarkable talent for waking into action the latent enthusiasm of his pupils. What custom could have been more inspiring than the one he introduced at Upsal, of dividing his pupils into bands, and enjoining it on the leader of each to sound a horn when a plant should be discovered, never before seen by the fervid eye of science. This enthusiasm accounts for the fact, that his pupils subsequently explored so many countries, and investigated their floral kingdoms, whilst one of them accompanied Sir Joseph Banks round the world, and sounded his bugle among the islands of the Pacific.

They both enlarged the limits of Science. Before the time of the Swedish philosopher, Botanists had arisen in different countries; and from the earliest periods, studies based on the objects of nature must have drawn attention both for ornament and use. Lord Bacon, from the elevation which he occupied above the rest of his species, looked far into the wonders of Natural History; but Linnæus took entire possession of the green and flowery land, and led in the tribes of men to enjoy its fragrance and pluck its fruit. The poetical affections have from the infancy of time been associated with vernal buds and flowers. Poetry, when it assumes the form of language, is the melody which the mind makes when the imagination is excited by objects in the frame-work of nature, or by events susceptible of picturesque representation. In the floral games men were acting from ideal impulses, and they were doing the same through the ages of chivalry. They thus furnished materials out of which Tasso reared his immortal work. But it is one thing to look at objects as they sparkle through the medium of the imagination, and another to open on the same objects the eye of science. Many have celebrated the loves of the Shells who have not understood Conchology, and Darwin understood Plants scientifically without comprehending them poetically. But Linnæus possessed astonishing invention, and he easily detected the errors of ancient systems, and convinced mankind of the superiority of that system which bore the seal of his own imperishable mind. In like manner the Ornithologist did not strike out into ways entirely novel, but he extended paths on which men had hitherto gone for the acquisition of knowledge. He has greatly enlarged our views of the history and habits of the feathered race. From the mountain's height, as well as in the deepest recesses of the wilderness, he stretched out his hand and clasped the blue and purple bird, that our intellectual pleasures might be augmented.

Of these distinguished men, the success of Linnæus in life was by far the more conspicuous. He eventually reached every desire which he could at any time have cherished. His Professorship at Upsal yielded him a revenue equivalent to his wants. He thrust forth from thence pupils in successive companies; but distance did not diminish the veneration in which they held his person. Foreign countries sent him the symbols of admiration—literary associations vied with each other in doing him honor—and kings bestowed on him the title of nobility. But it is probable that the rural life of Tully and Pliny strongly impressed his imagination, for his highest ambition was to possess a villa. He purchased Hammarby, which, under his direction, became stocked with the productions of every clime. Here he held a kind of rural court, and, to use his own language, was happier than any Eastern Sultan. Kings and nobles sent presents to his villa, whilst pilgrim students detached for his use twigs from the Sabine farm, and leaves from the tomb of Pausilippo. The Celtic flower and the Turkish vine met in his green-house, and the bird marked by the hues of the Tropics, found a home on his lawn. But there is a contrast to this in the circumstances of the Ornithologist too painful to be distinctly traced; and he was one of the few who have lived for that gratitude which reaches its object only in the grave.

In that piety due from a creature to his Maker, Linnæus appears to have surpassed the Ornithologist. The Swedish naturalist was remarkable for his gratitude, and he often mentioned in glowing words the way in which he had been led to results and discoveries so important. He felt his dependence when buried in the solitude of the desart—nor did he forget to rear an altar at Hammarby. But the Ornithologist probably excelled him in some moral qualities, and among them was disinterestedness. The love of money was a passion too strong with Linnæus, and too feeble for his own comfort with Wilson—and neither of them, in this particular, struck the golden medium. The sensibility of the Ornithologist was likewise more refined than that of the Botanist. Linnæus was buried in the Cathedral of Upsal, with a pomp which kings alone could bestow; but Wilson was not indifferent to the spot in which he should repose. In going into battle an Admiral once thought of a tomb in Westminster Abbey—and Napoleon wished to lie on the Seine, among the French people whom he had loved so well; but the Ornithologist desired to be buried where the birds could find access to his grave.

Each of these distinguished men created an æra in Natural History. Some philosophers have associated their names with the heavenly bodies, and we are reminded of them whenever we lift our thoughts to the milky way, or to the planets as they turn in on their bright pilgrimage to share the evening repose of our world. Of some we are reminded by the balmy air, or by the insects which make it vocal; and we call others to remembrance when we look on the Peruvian Lama, or the stately Lion: but so long as the earth shall evolve its Plants, the Swedish sage cannot be forgotten—and so long as the birds can chant a note, the Druid of Ornithology shall not want a requiem.

LOVE AND POETRY.

They bid me Poetry resign—the mandate I obey:
Farewell, forever then farewell, to the inspiring lay.
I go to other happiness—in a bright and sunny clime
I'll rove amid the orange groves, the olive, and the vine.

I'll sing and dance to merry strains of some Italian band—
I'll dream no more of Poetry, nor of "my native land;"
And as the gondolier doth guide me home from mirth and song,
My thoughts shall with the gondola glide undisturbed along.

I'll live for fêtes and operas—I'll haunt the masquerade,
And all sweet visions of the Lyre shall from my memory fade;
And Love—(for that were Poetry)—I must resign: apart
The Lyre and Love can ne'er exist within the human heart.

And now once more I bid adieu to all thy tender joys
Sweet Muse, and fly to festive scenes—to folly, mirth and noise;
But ne'er amid these labyrinths, do I expect to find
A solace for the loss of Love and Poetry combined.

A FAIRY TALE.

Down in a deep recess of the loveliest valley upon the face of the earth there was a tiny grotto cut in the solid crystal. The few rays of light that penetrated through its deep shade, fixed in its vaulted roof an unfading rainbow. Its floor was inlaid with many colored pebbles of the smallest size, which Fairy hands had brought from the neighboring stream. Its sides were hung with tapestry wrought by the same delicate fingers, and in colors more vivid than ever dyed a painter's brush, representing the benevolent deeds of the fairest and kindest of their race. Here might be seen one of those beneficent little creatures replacing, for the weary bee, the load of wax he had lost in his flight; and another busied in scattering again, on the wing of the restless butterfly, the golden dust which the gay flutterer had brushed off by a too close contact with his own favorite flower; and yet a third, unallured by beauty, but urged by kindness, exerting all the energies of her delicate frame to assist the industrious ant home with her heavy burthen. Within the grotto was a couch formed by the bright feathers of the hummingbird; and, above it, hung a canopy of film spun by Fairy hands before the first beams of the morning sun could dissolve their work, and while yet every thread was strung with pearls. But what was the beauty of the spot compared with the excelling loveliness of her that dwelt within? She belonged to the most fragile of all the race, one of those who are fabled to have sunk beneath the weight of a single grain of wheat. The pencil of no mortal artist would be delicate enough to trace her features, and human language is too imperfect to describe the surpassing loveliness of this ethereal being. The gossamer strung with tiny pearls, and floating on the herbage of an autumnal morning, surpassed not in lightness the ringlets on her shoulder; and her footstep could only be traced by its displacing the golden dust from the flower, as she tripped from petal to petal, giving them their colors with a brush steeped in the dyes of Fairy-land. For her ministry was amidst the brightest part of creation, and her happiness to do offices of love—to raise the drooping head of the thirsty flower-cup, and bring it the freshest dew-drop of the morning. To be prepared for her ministry she had been placed by Titania upon this lower earth—but she was first bathed in the fountain of Oblivion, and thus separated from her former existence. Yet there still remained in her soul some faint recollections of the land of her home, falling upon her spirit sweet as the dying strains of music sometimes wafted to the wanderer from his native shore when he is leaving it forever. Still there was a void left in the soul of this Fairy inhabitant of earth. The yearnings of her heart told her she was an exile, though she knew not the land whence she came. Her Queen, in pity to her loneliness, formed for her a being suited to her love. On awakening one morning she beheld at the door of her grotto the loveliest object upon which her eyes had ever rested. It was that brightest of flowers, the Lily of the Valley—but such a one as never before sprung from the dark bosom of the earth. The dazzling purity of its blossoms seemed to mingle like moonbeams with the twilight of the morning, and its delicate green stem bent gently towards her as if seeking her affection. When the rising rays of the sun pierced even the depths of this shadowy valley, the soft green leaves of the Lily shaded the grotto from their influence.

It would be impossible to describe the love that filled the heart of our little Fairy for the beautiful flower—for we have not yet known what it is to be alone in a strange world without a kindred tie, or any thing to which the heart can cling, and which it may claim for its own. Now this was the Fairy's flower. She had not gone to seek it, but it had sprung up on her own threshold. All the day long was now bright to her. Her first thoughts, when she awoke, were to see if her Lily still stood in its loveliness before her, and then she moistened her lips with the dew that hung ever freshly from its silvery bells. The days rolled on, and our little Fairy heeded not their course. She knew not that they were bearing with them the brightness of Spring—for her existence had known no Winter. But heeded or unheeded, the days rolled on. Spring and Summer were gone, and Autumn was fading into Winter. The dazzling brightness of the Lily deepened into an unearthly hue, and its head was bowed with more than pensive grace. It was a bright morning, towards the last of Autumn, when our Fairy, awakening, looked towards her lovely favorite. But it was gone. She arose in haste, and beheld only a little heap of dust where her flower once grew. Alas! words cannot describe the anguish of her heart. There was a darkness—a mystery—in the fate of her beloved, which she could not unravel, and it fell so coldly upon her spirit, that she believed Winter was enclosing her heart also in its frost-work, and she wept for another home, where winter should come no more. But at length the destroyer passed away, and the bright things of the earth shot up again to meet the joyous Springtime. The voice of gladness was heard once more from the lofty mountain to the humble valley. Our little Fairy felt its influence—she felt the frost-work melt from her heart, and she wondered if she could love any flower again as she had loved her departed Lily.

And again, almost in the same spot, there sprung up a Heart's Ease, so bright and glowing that it seemed the very offspring of Joy. At first our Fairy would not trust herself to love it. She remembered that Winter would come again, and she thought, too, the new flower wanted the loveliness of her Lily. But invariably her heart smiled beneath its influence, and there was Springtime once more in her soul. The recollection of Winter passed from her mind, as the ice before the sun. But again Summer ripened into Autumn, and that, in its turn, was changed into Winter, and again the little Fairy was left alone. She beheld one morning her bright little gem of a flower set in the brilliants of frost, and sparkling as gaily as if the light still came from within. She hastened to dissolve with her breath the diamond fetters of her favorite, but alas! their weight had been too heavy for the little creature, and it fell with them to rise no more.

The Fairy wept—but not so bitterly as erewhile. She knew the Spring would come again with fresh flowers; and when it did come she beheld a sweet Mignonette spring up on her threshold, but so different in beauty from her former favorites that she turned from it in disappointment. Yet when the humble flower filled her grotto with fragrance, and insensibly its sweetness stole into her heart, and possessed it with a delightful tranquillity she had never experienced before, her soul fainted within her when she remembered that Winter would snatch away from her this loved one as it had done her other loved ones before. And in truth, but a few brief months, and the blast had swept over this fragile flower, leaving no trace of its existence but the perfume it exhaled with its last breath, on the gale that bore it into eternity.

Now it was that our poor little Fairy felt a dreariness, not to be shaken off, fall heavily upon her spirits. She wished no longer for Spring. She wished never again to fix her heart upon the perishing flowers of Earth. The shadow of mortality seemed to have fallen even upon her bright little grotto, and she sighed for another home.

And now the time of her sojourn was over. Lying down upon her downy couch she slept. After a while, opening her eyes, she found herself in Fairy-land, and her heart told her that this was indeed her home. Those dim recollections of a former existence that had formerly floated in her mind, now revived with all the vividness of reality; and what she had believed to be but ideal forms of beauty, she now found to be the images of things familiar in a previous state of being. Even her beloved Lily, so fair yet so fleeting, was but the type of one that grew in Fairy-land in glorious and imperishable beauty. She saw here, too, thousands of her own race busied in gathering up the evanescent sweets of earthly flowers to embody them in forms of divine loveliness, unchangeable by the frosts of Winter, and springing up forever in sempiternal beauty. And now our Fairy was, for the first time, a happy Fairy. The longings of her heart were satisfied. She was an exile no more. She had found a home utterly free from the chilling shadows of mortality.

THE WAGONER.

I've often thought if I were asked
Whose lot I envied most—
What one, I thought most lightly tasked
Of man's unnumber'd host—
I'd say, I'd be a mountain boy,
And drive a noble team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry,
And lightly fly
Into my saddle seat;
My rein I'd slack—
My whip I'd crack—
What music is so sweet?

Six blacks I'd drive, of ample chest,
All carrying high the head;
All harness'd tight, and gaily drest
In winkers tipp'd with red—
Oh yes, I'd be a mountain boy
And such a team I'd drive, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry,
The lint should fly—
Wo, hoy! you Dobbin! Ball!
Their feet should ring
And I would sing,
I'd sing my fal de rol.

My bells would tingle, tingle ling,
Beneath each bear-skin cap;
And as I saw them swing and swing,
I'd be the merriest chap—
Yes, then I'd be a mountain boy
And drive a jingling team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry—
My words should fly,
Each horse would prick his ear;
With tighten'd chain
My lumbering wain
Would move in its career.

The golden sparks, you'd see them spring
Beneath my horse's tread;
Each tail, I'd braid it up with string
Of blue, or flaunting red;
So does, you know, the mountain boy
Who drives a dashing team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry
Each horse's eye
With fire would seem to burn;
With lifted head
And nostril spread
They'd seem the earth to spurn.

They'd champ the bit, and fling the foam,
As on they dragged my load;
And I would think of distant home,
And whistle upon the road—
Oh would I were a mountain boy—
I'd drive a six-horse team, Wo, hoy!
Wo, hoy! I'd cry—
Now by yon sky,
I'd sooner drive those steeds
Than win renown,
Or wear a crown
Won by victorious deeds!

For crowns oft press the languid head,
And health the wearer shuns,
And Victory, trampling on the dead,
May do for Goths and Huns—
Seek them who will, they have no joys
For mountain lads, and Wagon-boys.

SACRED MELODY.

By the rivers of Babel we flung
Ourselves on the earth in despair—
Our harps on the willow-trees hung,
And wept for thee, Zion, afar.

For those who had made us their prey,
And bore us as captives along,
Then proudly demanded a lay—
To sing them, oh! Zion, thy song!

But the spoiler shall ask it in vain:
We will not this triumph accord—
He never shall list to the strain
That wafted the praise of the Lord.

For perish the hand that would string
The harp, unremembering thy woe,
And cursed be the tongue that would sing,
Oh! Zion, thy songs for the foe.

SENSIBILITY.

"Still in tears!" said Margarette Claremont, as she entered the parlor after a walk. "Which is it now, my dear Alice, Werther or Madam de Stael's Corinna?"

"Neither," answered Alice. Margarette looked over her shoulder, and saw that the book her cousin held was a volume of Kotzebue's plays, and that "Self-Immolation" was the one that engrossed her attention.

"How prodigal you are of your tears, dear cousin!" said Margarette,—"and how you waste your sensibilities on these high-wrought, and ultra-sentimental fictions! Will not your health be impaired, and your mind enervated by such excess of indulgence?"

"I fear no such results," said Alice,—"and should blush at the obduracy of my heart, should it fail of being moved when reading works in which such deep feeling is portrayed."

"Weep as much for legitimate sorrow as you will, Alice—even when portrayed in fictitious narrative, but do not expend your sympathies on scenes such as never did, and never will occur in the world." Alice made no reply, as Margarette turned and ran up stairs, but the thought of her heart was—"I am thankful I am not a stoic! thankful that my feelings are not congealed."

Alice Lansdale and Margarette Claremont were both orphan nieces of the wealthy bachelor Mr. Claremont, with whom they resided. The former was the daughter of his only sister. Her parents died when she was quite young, and consigned her, destitute of property, to the care of her uncle, with whom she had now resided several years. Margarette was the daughter of his only brother. She had been an orphan but few months, during which period she had been domesticated in the family of Mr. Claremont, to whom had been committed the guardianship of herself, and her ample fortune.

"Have you nearly got through with your play, Alice?" said Margarette, as she re-entered the parlor. Alice made no answer, as she sat with her head leaning on one hand, her book spread on the table before her,—while the other hand held a handkerchief that was ever and anon applied to her eyes. Margarette advanced, and leaned on the back of her chair.

"How much longer are you going to read, Alice?" asked Margarette.

"Why can't you be quiet, and leave me undisturbed?" said Alice.

"Because I have something to tell you," answered Margarette.

"About goody Mason's lame finger, I suppose," said Alice.

"No—about two elegant looking young men I saw in the street an hour since,"—said Margarette.

"Who were they?" enquired Alice, without raising her eyes from her book.

"I do not know,—but from your description, I conjectured them to be your cousin Hubert and the Black Prince, as you call him."

"Why did not you tell me this before?" said Alice, springing on her feet. "They will be here immediately; cousin Hubert at least,—and here I am, looking like a fright, with eyes as red as a toper's! Why could you not have told me when you first came in?"

"I had been talking with Susan Hall, and forgot it," said Margarette. "And after all, perhaps it is not them."

"O, I know it is!—they were expected very soon. But tell me how the one you took to be the Black Prince looked, and I shall know at once if it was him."

"Tall—yet hardly as tall as his companion—with black hair, black eyes, and an acre of black whiskers; and—pardon me—a dash of impudence in his expression—at least I thought so, as I passed him."

"O, it must be him," said Alice, "though if it be, the latter part of your description is only your own imagination. But why do I linger here, when I must try to make myself look decent to see them? for cousin Hubert, at least, will come,"—and she left the room with a sigh.

Scarcely half an hour had passed ere Alice was summoned, according to her expectations, to meet her cousin, and Mr. Gordon, the Black Prince.

The young men made a long call,—for Alice had much to ask them of what they had seen and learned, during their absence; and they had much that was interesting to communicate. They had scarcely closed the door behind them, after taking leave, ere Alice exclaimed—

"Is he not a divine creature, cousin Margarette?"

"Which of them?" asked Margarette.

"Which! you stupid creature!—as if you knew not which I meant!—But which of them do you like best?"

"I was most pleased with your cousin's conversation," Margarette replied.

"Why?" asked Alice. "I am sure Gordon converses elegantly."

"He has words enough at command," said Margarette,—"but a scarcity of ideas; and those he has are not weighty. While listening to him I could not help thinking it was like dressing a little four-penny doll, in a large robe of silver tissue. Mr. Montague's conversation was really entertaining and instructive."

"I expected you to be severe, of course," said Alice, "yet I think you can find no fault with his manners."

"He is quite at his ease, and appears a gentleman, certainly," said Margarette, "yet his manners did not please me. There was too much show—he was too easy—has too much manner; and, if I may judge from one interview, he is not at all wanting in self-complacency."

"Cousin Hubert's quiet way suited your singular taste better, I dare say," said Alice.

"It certainly did—for he did not appear to be thinking of himself. His manners to-day were truly polished and refined; and if they arise from his heart, as I hope they did, I should judge very favorably of the man."

"I suppose you think him best looking, too!" said Alice—"best dressed and all!"

"In person they are both elegant young men," said Margarette, "but Mr. Montague's dress certainly suited me best,—as I doubt whether to be comfortable is not his first object in the choice of his apparel. As for Mr. Gordon, he must make dress a study. You see, Alice, as I had nothing to do but look and listen, I could learn a good deal of them in the hour and a half that they were here."

"Well, as you studied them, do let me know what you think of their faces."

"I have told you enough for once," said Margarette, "wait for the remainder till I see them again—perhaps I may change my opinion."

"No, no," said Alice,—"let me have it now—When you change your opinion, you can let me know it.—What of their faces?"

"Mr. Gordon, then," said Margarette, "knows that he is handsome,—and he has studied the exterior of his head so much, that I should fear he has somewhat neglected the interior."

"And what of cousin Hubert's?"

"I think his head very fine—very classical. His face is decidedly intellectual—his eyes uncommonly good."

"And what of his mouth and teeth?" said Alice.

"Peculiarly handsome," said Margarette. "And now, as you can possibly have no more questions to ask, pray let me know your opinion."

"You must have known that a long time. Cousin Hubert is—I can't say what he is—but just what I approve; and as for Gordon, he is the divinest creature alive!"

While this conversation was going on in Mr. Claremont's parlor, one not dissimilar was carried on in the street betwixt the gentlemen, Montague and Gordon.

"Who is this new cousin of yours, Montague?" asked Gordon.

"I cannot claim her as a relation," said Montague. "She is cousin to my cousin only, and a perfect stranger to me."

"N'importe," said Gordon. "But what do you think of her?"

"I have not had time to form an opinion," said Montague.

"You received some kind of impression, necessarily," said Gordon. "No one can be almost alone with a stranger for an hour or more, and not form some idea of what the character may be."

"She is certainly very silent and reserved," said Montague. "Her countenance denotes intellect,—but she appears cold, and has a loftiness that is repelling.—I fear she may prove wanting in that sensibility, of which cousin Alice has so abundant a share."

"O, she is a block of marble—a bank of snow—a statue of ice," said Gordon. "There would be infinite amusement in trying whether the marble would yield! the snow melt! the ice thaw!—She is a new variety of the species. I have seen nothing like her!"

"You admire her," said Montague. "I do exceedingly," said Gordon.

"Your taste has much changed," observed Montague. "It is but a short time since you were in raptures about my cousin, and they appear to be exceedingly unlike."

"True,—and Miss Claremont therefore excites the deeper interest. She will require some labor, some ingenuity to make her dissolve. Alice, pardon me, is always melted."

"Alice has strong sensibilities," said Montague, "and is as unsophisticated as a child. She hides none of her feelings."

"Did you notice Miss Claremont's smile," asked Gordon.

"I did, and confess it was very beautiful. Her whole face smiled, and seemed to beam with delight. But it was so evanescent, I scarcely caught it, ere it was gone."

"A slight shade of sadness was the prevailing cast of her countenance," said Gordon.

"She has recently lost a most excellent father," said Montague. "You noticed she was in mourning."

"Could an unfeeling heart lodge beneath that smile?" asked Gordon.

"The source of the smile might be the head—not the heart," answered Montague.

"I will never believe it—at least not till I try whether she has a heart or not," said Gordon.

"Very well," said Montague. "I told you in the beginning, I had not had time to form an opinion."

Between the two young men who held this conversation, there was as strong a contrast as could be between a noble-minded, well-educated, well-principled young man, and an exquisite of the first water. Gordon was quite free from all gross irregularities, but he had no principle of action; no motive beyond present gratification. The Bible was Montague's counsellor and guide; and he was endeavoring so to live on earth, as to live forever in Heaven. The young men had been much together in boyhood, and afterwards at the university; and though the difference in their characters grew broader, and more strongly marked every day, yet their intimacy in some degree continued. Montague was interested in the welfare of his early associate; and Gordon, though often angry at the warnings, exhortations, and reproofs of his friend, could not endure the idea of relinquishing his friendship. He really had a kind of affection for Montague; and he felt that it gave him additional consequence to be permitted to call such a man friend. Some months previous to the period now spoken of, Montague had been called on business to a distant part of the country; and Gordon, having nothing to do, offered to accompany him, and they had now just returned, after an absence of half a year. Montague had his fortune to make; Gordon inherited one from his father.

One morning about a week after his return, Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, where he was a frequent visiter. He was not quite as cheerful and conversable as usual, and after trying a long time to draw him out, Alice said—

"You are depressed this morning, Hubert. What is the matter?"

"I have just witnessed a scene of distress, that I cannot get out of my mind," said Montague.

"What was that?" asked Alice.

"It was an Irish family that occupy a hovel about half a mile from hence. The family consists of the father, Patrick Delanty, his wife and six children, the eldest a daughter, not more than thirteen years of age. They have been but few weeks in town, and are wretchedly poor. The wife is ill of a raging fever, and the two youngest children of measles, from which the others are but just recovered. Delanty is obliged to be out at day-labor, to keep his family from starvation; so that all the care and labor of nursing the sick, and looking after the other children, devolve on the eldest daughter, and a boy, two or three years younger.— Such poverty—such squalid and complicated misery, I have never before witnessed."

"Poor creatures!" said Alice. "But why will they leave their native land, and come here among strangers, where no one cares for them, to endure such misery?"

"To get rid of greater misery at home, cousin Alice!" said Montague.

"O, they are much to be pitied, poor creatures!"—said Alice; "but there are such hordes of them, that it is impossible to afford them effectual relief."

Montague said no more, as he found that the sympathetic cord in his cousin's heart was not touched. He just cast his eyes on Margarette, who was sitting, busily at work, in a recess at the opposite end of the room, to see if her compassion was awakened: but she was diligently plying her needle,—and but for the motion of her hand, he thought she looked exceedingly as if she were made of stone! "Heartless! unfeeling!" he thought, and almost murmured, as he arose and precipitately took leave.

The day next but one, Montague was again at Mr. Claremont's. Neither of the young ladies mentioned the Delantys; for Alice was wholly engrossed in a new novel,—and Montague concluded that Margarette had not even heard that there were any such people. But his own heart was too full of them, not to speak of their situation.

"Cousin Alice," said he, "you are so compassionate that I wonder you do not ask after the welfare of the poor Irish family."

"O, poor creatures! how are they? I have thought of them several times since you were here, and wished they had stayed in their own country, among their own friends, that they might be properly looked after. Have you seen them since you were here last, cousin Hubert?"

"Yes—yesterday, and again this morning."

"And how are they?"

"The children are somewhat better, but the mother still very ill. The family, however, together, are more comfortable than when I first saw them. Some young lady has kindly visited them, and not only in some measure relieved their pressing necessities, but given judicious and salutary advice to the daughter about the management of their affairs. When they described her to me, I felt a hope that it was you, cousin Alice."

"O no, Hubert, I could not go—such a scene of suffering would have shaken me all to pieces. Really I do not think I could bear it! But how did they describe the young lady?"

"As neither tall nor short, with a beautiful face, and a 'raal Irish heart'—kind as an angel!" said Hubert,—and he glanced his eyes toward Margarette, to ascertain if there were any look of consciousness in the expression of her face; but she was looking over the morning paper, and at that moment exclaimed—

"Dunlap and Miss Reed are married, Alice."

"How could I, even for a moment, suspect it might be her?" thought Montague. "She cares no more for them than if they were reptiles!"

"Who could it be, cousin Hubert?" asked Alice. "Did you not ask them if they knew her name?"

"I did—but they knew nothing of her but her kindness, of which they could not say enough. She even made the bed, with her own hands, and put fresh linen upon it, which she brought with her for the purpose, for the sick mother, who told me of it with tears of gratitude in her eyes."

"Well indeed she might!" cried Alice. "Think of what an office for a young lady!—such a combination of disease and filthiness! If I hear of any young lady in town, sick of a fever, I shall at once know who was Mrs. Delanty's nurse."

"May Heaven preserve her health," said Montague with fervor. "Persons of less active kindness could much better be spared; and the community would suffer little loss, were they laid on a bed of sickness."

"Very true," said Alice. "Yet there are very few, who can with propriety be called young ladies, who are capable of rendering such services. One might be ready to relieve suffering if it existed under less disgusting circumstances; but for a delicate female to encounter such dirt, and disease, and poverty at once, is too much!"

"Firm principle, a truly feeling heart, and a self-denying spirit, could alone enable a delicate woman to do it," said Montague,—"and these could!" He looked around to ascertain whether Margarette had really left the room, and then added—"And pardon me, my dearest cousin, if I suggest to you, that would you strive to conquer that extreme sensibility, which makes you shrink from scenes of suffering, and constrain yourself to witness and relieve distress, in your own person, you would render yourself, at once, far more happy and useful, if not more interesting. Active benevolence is one great secret of happiness." At this moment Mr. Claremont entered the room; the conversation turned to other subjects, and Montague soon took leave.

Mr. Gordon had not kept himself aloof from Mr. Claremont's, during this period; on the contrary, he had called frequently—as frequently as he dared, and reconnoitred to the best of his ability to ascertain the vulnerable part of Margarette's character, while he had brought all his small arms into successive requisition. His first and most natural effort was by flattery,—by which it is said all women may be subdued; and perhaps they may, and all men too, provided it be of the right kind, and administered in the right manner. But here Mr. Gordon completely failed. He was too gross; his colors were too glaring; there was no soft shading away,—nothing to touch the heart, through the medium of a refined taste; and Gordon found, though he knew not why, that he excited disgust instead of pleasure. He wondered that what he had ever found so efficacious with other young ladies—what would have caused the cheek of Alice to glow, and her eye to sparkle, was so powerless here. "I said she was a new variety of the species," thought he, "and I must try again." And he did try again—first by doing her silent homage,—breathing near her ear the deep-drawn sigh, and casting upon her the look of warm admiration and deep interest. But he soon closed his pantomime, as Margarette heeded not, even if she heard his sighs; and his impassioned glances were completely thrown away, as they rarely met her eye,—and when they did, seemed not to be understood. The next attempt was to aid in gratifying her in her favorite recreations, and in the indulgence of her taste. "Was Miss Claremont fond of prints?" "Particularly so." "He was very happy! He had a choice collection—and would fetch over his portfolio for her examination." "Was there any book in his library that Miss Claremont would like to read? He had the most approved editions of all modern authors, and it would afford him great pleasure if Miss Claremont would make a selection from among them, of any thing new to her." "He was very obliging—but her uncle's library was large, and well selected, affording sufficient intellectual nourishment for years—beside that he purchased every new work of merit." "Miss Claremont was an equestrian. He had a palfrey that would rival Margaret of Cranstoun's, which was entirely at her service." "He was exceedingly kind—but Mr. Claremont had one that was at once so spirited and gentle, that on his back she felt entirely at ease." Poor Gordon knew not what next to do. He had racked his invention to render himself agreeable and necessary—not only in the ways above enumerated—but by being always observing, and ready to perform any little personal service that might be requisite, such as handing a glass of lemonade, fetching a fan, picking up a stray glove, or placing a chair in a more desirable situation. He had actually labored hard, and had not advanced one step; and the only gratification that attended his exertions, was the obvious uneasiness of Alice, who pined under the loss of his attentions. A half suppressed sigh often struck on his ear; and a tear, as he thought, filled her eye, as she witnessed his marked devotion to Margarette. But for this sweet incense to his vanity, and his own boasting to Montague, that he was resolved not to be defeated, he would have relinquished so hopeless a pursuit. But pride and vanity impelled him onward; and although he could devise no new mode of attack, he determined to watch opportunities, and avail himself of any circumstance that might occur in favor of his design. As the heart of Mr. Gordon was a thing entirely out of the question, except as it occasionally fluttered with gratified vanity, or was momentarily depressed with mortification at want of success, his head was entirely free to devise plans in the best manner his abilities would allow, and watch opportunities with the most perfect coolness.

Mr. Montague had by degrees become interested in watching the result of Gordon's various modes of attack; and notwithstanding he had been rather displeased with the apparent coldness of Margarette's character, he felt gratified that she did not yield to the arts of Gordon. Not that he was in the least jealous of his friend's general success with women; nor that he had any personal wishes relative to Margarette; but he did wish to see one woman who was not to be won by mere external graces and accomplishments, and the little arts and blandishments that are usually so successful. His interest in Gordon's progress, led him to notice Margarette more particularly than he would, perhaps, otherwise have done. Gradually, and unconsciously, he was taking her up as a study; and the more he observed her, the more interesting did the study become. "She is a perfect enigma!" thought he. "I can never decide whether the variations in her countenance have their origin in the head or the heart. Her smile is the brightest—the most joyous—the most beautiful I ever beheld! and yet there is something in it that leads me to fear that it is like the brilliancy of the diamond—cold, while it dazzles! She seems not easily moved; and yet, while silently engaged in her work, I have seen her color fluctuate, while others have been discussing an interesting subject. She knows, at least, how to appreciate true greatness, for I have seen her eyes speak volumes when a magnanimous action has been mentioned before her. And, at any rate, I admire the firmness with which she repels that small artillery that is so generally successful, when levelled against her sex!"

One evening quite a circle of friends collected at Mr. Claremont's, among whom were both Montague and Gordon. Gordon secured a seat between Alice and Margarette, while Montague stood apart from them, listening to the general conversation, but now and then casting a glance at the trio, in which he took so much interest. The conversation at length fell on reading. Some expressed a preference for one class of reading, some for another; but a large majority of the company decided that biography was the most instructive, interesting, and entertaining. This resulted in a discussion of whose biography was most valuable, when a gentleman remarked, "that the life of Lord Nelson was the most interesting work he had ever read."

"Is it the book or the man, you so much admire?" asked one of the company.

"O, both—but the man particularly. His heroism charmed me."

"O do not name him," said Mr. Claremont. "I sicken with disgust when I read the fulsome panegyrics bestowed on him; and the numberless monuments raised to his memory in Great Britain."

"He was a most noble creature!" said Gordon, in a rather low tone to Margarette. She cast on him a look of the most withering coldness, not unmingled with contempt, but made no reply, as she listened to learn what further her uncle would say.

"No wonder they are proud of him, and raise monuments to his memory," said the gentleman who had first spoken of Nelson. "He secured more honor to the British navy than any hero from the reign of Elizabeth to the present time."

"Talk not of his heroism, or the glory he acquired for Britain," said Mr. Claremont. "Devoured by ambition, did he fight for the good of his country? or to attain individual honor? Was he not continually whining and complaining that his services were not sufficiently requited? Depend on it, he would not have thought the crown of England an unreasonable reward! And in his character as a hero, lies all the honor he can claim. As a private man, he was despicable. Though he could conquer the enemies of his country, he resigned himself without resistance to the dominion of the basest passions, and was guilty of that, which in unrefined New England, would have caused him to be hooted from society. Perfidious! hypocritical! base!—his character was stained with vices of the deepest dye,—and my astonishment can only be exceeded by my indignation, when in English publications I see him spoken of, and that by pious persons—Madam More, for one—as the "immortal Nelson!"—a being to be looked up to with admiration!"

"You are warm, Mr. Claremont," observed one of his friends.

"Perhaps I am, sir; and on this subject I wish others were as warm as myself. To eulogize such men as Lord Nelson, and hold them up to youth as fit objects for admiration and imitation, is laying the axe at the root of all morality. It is not, indeed, going softly to work, like a Rousseau, or Voltaire, to undermine the foundation of their virtue, but demolishes the whole fabric at once, by telling them, that if capable of performing a few brilliant actions, such a halo will shine around them, as will entirely conceal from the eyes of every beholder their want of sincerity, truth, fidelity, or moral honor. Wo to my country, when the public sentiment shall be so far corrupted, as to think that heroism, and what is known by the name of glory, can compensate for the want of true, consistent, undying virtue!"

Montague chanced to be looking at Margarette when Mr. Claremont began to speak, and the look she gave Mr. Gordon fixed his attention upon her, though he heard not the remark that called it forth. He watched her countenance with deep interest, as it gradually lighted up to a glow of admiring approbation, strangely intermingled with a shade of sadness. "I will have her opinion on this subject from her own lips," thought he; and placing himself near her, he said—

"What is your opinion of Lord Nelson, Miss Claremont?"

"O, exactly the same as my uncle's," said Margarette. "And how could it be otherwise? when I have so often heard my dear father express sentiments exactly similar. He very carefully taught me, never to let any external glory, any meretricious glare, blind me to real defects, or to the want of intrinsic and solid excellence." Her eye, as she finished speaking, sparkled through a tear, which was not unobserved by either Montague or Gordon.

"There is, then, a fountain of feeling within," thought Montague, as he still looked upon her—"A fountain of deep, pure, noble feeling!"

"By Jupiter, there is a tear!" thought Gordon—"and Montague has had the good fortune to call it forth. Who would have thought, that to talk of Lord Nelson, was the way to touch her heart? I would have given a thousand dollars, rather than he should have had this triumph!"

One morning Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, but found that both the young ladies were out. Mr. Claremont, however, was in the parlor, and he and Montague had passed a very pleasant half hour, ere Alice and Margarette came in. Margarette bade Montague 'good morning'—but Alice just nodded at him, and hastened to her uncle, and seating herself on his knee, exclaimed—

"Dear uncle, I am so glad you are in! I want to ask a great favor of you."

"What is that, my dear?" said Mr. Claremont.

"I am half afraid to tell," said Alice, "you will think me so extravagant. But, dear uncle, Margarette and I have seen the two most beautiful pearl necklaces at Wendall's, you ever beheld!"

"And you want them?"

"O, I do, most sadly," said Alice.

"And do you, Margarette?"

"I think not, sir," said Margarette—while Alice at the same moment cried—

"O, Margarette can have whatever she wants, she is so rich!—not a poor beggar like your own Alice, dependent on the bounty of another for every thing"—and bursting into tears, she hid her face on her uncle's shoulder.

"Sweet sensibility, O, la!
I heard a little lamb cry, bah!"

said Mr. Claremont. "Come, Alice, don't cry about it, but tell me the price of the necklaces."

"How can I," said the sobbing Alice, "when you make such cruel sport of my feelings? Indeed, uncle, it is cruel!"

"I never make sport of your feelings, my dear, when there is any thing that ought to awaken them," said Mr. Claremont. "But come, tell me the price of the pearl necklaces."

"They are fifty dollars apiece."

"Whew!" said Mr. Claremont. "And so I must spend a hundred dollars to adorn the necks of my nieces?"

"O, Margarette can buy her own, you know uncle, and so you will have to give away but fifty."

"I hold Miss Claremont's purse-strings, you know," said Mr. Claremont, "and I shall serve you both alike. Margarette's, as well as yours, must be the gift of her uncle."

"I do not wish for one, my dear sir," said Margarette, but Mr. Claremont heeded her not, and opening his pocket book, gave them fifty dollars each. Alice loaded her uncle with kisses and thanks, while it was with evident reluctance that Margarette took hers in her hand. But as some ladies at that instant entered the room, without saying more, she put it in her purse. As soon as the visiters had withdrawn Alice went to her chamber, and Margarette seized the opportunity of being alone with Mr. Claremont, to restore to him the fifty dollars.

"My dear sir," said she, "I cannot accept this money, and should have declined it at the moment, only I could not explain before strangers. You will relieve me greatly by taking it again."

"By no means, my dear—I should be much pleased that you and Alice should have necklaces alike."

"But I do not want a necklace, sir, and should feel very badly to spend fifty dollars on a useless ornament."

"Then purchase something else with it, Margarette."

"I am in want of nothing, sir, and had much rather restore it to you."

"Can you find no use for it, my dear?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"O yes, sir—I could find enough to do with this, and ten times more. But perhaps you would think it injudiciously expended."

"What should you do with it, Margarette?" asked Mr. Claremont.

"Give every cent of it away, sir," Margarette replied.

"Very well," said Mr. Claremont. "It is yours, my dear, to throw at the birds, if you please. I can depend on your judgment and principles, that it will not go to indulge idleness or vice."

"O, I thank you most sincerely, my dear uncle," said Margarette with warmth—"in behalf of those who are suffering from want. It will give me great delight to be your almoner."

There was a very narrow lane ran past the foot of Mr. Claremont's garden, in which stood a little hut, occupied by a poor, but pious old man, who earned a scanty livelihood by gardening. He was known all ever the town by the title of Commodore, merely because in his youth he had commanded a fishing-smack. Montague had one evening walked some way out of town; and on his return, intending to pass an hour at Mr. Claremont's, he passed through this lane as the shortest way to his house. In passing the Commodore's domicil, which stood on the lower side of the lane, he cast his eyes in at the window, which had neither shutter nor curtain, and by a glimmering fire-light saw the old man sitting in his arm chair by the fire, while a female sat on a low stool beside him, who seemed to be doing something to his foot, which lay across her lap. Montague halted an instant, for there was something about the female figure, although enveloped in a large shawl and hood, that reminded him of Margarette. But her back was toward him, and the fire-light was so dim, that he remained in doubt whether or not it was she. "If it is her," thought he, as he walked on—"If it is her, performing such an office for the poor old Commodore, it may, after all, be her who visits the Delantys." As he came out of the lane, he met an acquaintance, with whom he conversed a minute or two, and then proceeded to Mr. Claremont's.

On entering the parlor, he found the little domestic circle complete. Mr. Claremont was engaged in a volume of Brewster's Encyclopedia; Alice with Malvina, over which she was shedding a torrent of tears,—and Margarette with her knitting work. "It was not her, after all," thought Montague; "but who could it be? she had not the air of a rustic!" After receiving Mr. Claremont's cordial welcome, he advanced toward his cousin, and closing her book with gentle violence, said—

"If you sustain no other injury, my dear Alice, you will inevitably ruin your eyes by reading while you weep so profusely. I wish you would relinquish novels as I fear they do you little good. Their general tendency is to enervate rather than strengthen the character." "I wish you could persuade her to relinquish them, Mr. Montague," said Mr. Claremont. "I am satisfied that that class of reading, only increases in Alice that sensitiveness which is already too strong. It will degenerate into weakness, and I know of few things more to be dreaded than a sickly sensibility."

"Why should you suppose that the reading of novels would produce that effect, more than the scenes of real life?" said Alice, "when it is universally conceded, that no genius can ever reach the truth."

"I can tell you why, Alice," said Montague. "In reading works of the imagination, persons of feeling unconsciously identify themselves with the favorite character; and then in a day or two, and sometimes in a few hours, their feelings are taxed with those scenes of sorrow and excitement, which in real life are scattered through months, or perhaps years. The greater part of life is made up of comparative trifles, which make little demand on the feelings, and scenes of sorrow and excitement are 'few and far between,' like the convulsions of the elements—which, though often distressing, and sometimes disastrous, are, on the whole, highly beneficial. But were the elements always at war, nature would soon sink to dissolution; and so if the mind and the heart were constantly raised to a state of high excitement, their energies would soon be exhausted, and the corporeal part would soon sink in the conflict. Do you read novels, Miss Claremont?" inquired Montague.

"Sometimes, but not often," Margarette replied.

"And do they affect you as they do cousin Alice?"

"Affect her?" cried Alice—"no, indeed! I never saw her moved to tears, by reading, but once in my life."

"And pray what was she then reading?" asked Montague, with a smile.

"A little penny tract, called 'Old Sarah, the Indian Woman'"—said Alice. "Over that she actually wept!"

"Did you read the tract, cousin Alice?"

"Yes—from mere curiosity, after witnessing the wonderful effect it produced."

"And did it call forth your tears?"

"No, certainly not!—Sarah was a good old creature, to be sure, but there was nothing in the tract to touch one's sensibility; and I could never conceive what there was in it, that so moved Margarette."

"Pho, pho, Alice," said Mr. Claremont, "Margarette is not the Stoic you represent her. I caught her no longer ago than this very morning, with a tear in her eye, while reading."

"My dear uncle," said Margarette, in a supplicating tone, while the pure blood in her cheeks rushed to her temples.

"What was she reading, uncle?" cried Alice.

"None of your lackadaisical nonsense, you may be certain, Alice," said Mr. Claremont. "She was reading a newspaper."

Alice laughed outright.

"Not so laughable an affair, neither, my dear," said Mr. Claremont, "as she was reading of the bravery and sufferings of the poor unfortunate"——

"Dear uncle!" again ejaculated Margarette.

"Poles," added Mr. Claremont, without noticing the interruption.

"The Poles? O yes," said Alice. "There was 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'—he was a divine creature! Well might one weep at the recital of his sufferings!"

"Doubtless, my dear—but Margarette's sympathies were moved by sufferings of a more recent date than his—by the narrative of bravery and suffering in all their nakedness—unadorned with the romance and poetry that Miss Porter has thrown around her hero. And to tell you the plain truth, Alice—I do like that sensibility better, that sympathizes with the actual miseries of our fellow creatures, even though there be nothing elegant, or poetic about them, than that which has tears only for some high-wrought tale of fictitious woe—the afflictions of some fallen prince, or the sorrows of some love-stricken swain, or lovelorn damsel."

"That, dear uncle, is as much as to say," said Alice, while her voice was choked with rising emotion—"that I can feel for sorrows of no other kind, and that you like Margarette's sensibility better than you do mine! I suppose you love her, too, more than you do your own poor, lone Alice! I feel that she is stealing every one's affection from me, though I love with so much more ardor than she does!" and she burst into tears.

All present felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and Margarette, who was really distressed, resolved to give a new turn to the conversation. Alice had seated herself on Mr. Claremont's knee, and thrown both her arms around his neck—so leaving him to soothe her wounded feelings in his own way, Margarette asked Montague some question, as foreign as possible to their recent conversation. The effort succeeded—the tears of Alice were soon dried, and the remainder of the evening passed very pleasantly.

One evening Montague and Gordon met the Claremont family, with a small select party, at the house of a friend. Gordon, as usual, secured a seat next Margarette, who was also attended by Alice, who had learned that to be near her, was the surest way to be near the idol of her imagination, the Black Prince. Montague likewise stood near them; for he was beginning to find, that there was something extremely attractive, even in Margarette's apparent coldness; or rather, that it was peculiarly interesting to observe marks of deep feeling, under so calm, so placid an exterior. Gordon recollected the conversation concerning Lord Nelson, and the effect produced on Margarette; and resolving in his turn to find a passage to her sensibilities, led the conversation to heroes and great men. He made some very eloquent remarks, as he apprehended, on heroism and greatness, which had previously been arranged with great care.

"Whom do you consider truly great men, Mr. Gordon?" asked Alice.

"Alexander—Louis the Fourteenth—Napoleon—Voltaire and Lord Byron," said Gordon. "Each in his turn, and in his own way, has dazzled the whole world!"

"Dazzled, but not enlightened!" said Montague.

Margarette looked up with one of her brightest smiles, and Montague felt, at the bottom of his heart, that it was warm, as well as brilliant.

"By Vesta," thought Gordon, "she has rewarded him for those two words, with that smile, which I have made such useless efforts to obtain! and he has made no effort at all!—I abandon her!"

"Whom do you esteem great men, Mr. Montague?" inquired Margarette.

"O, there have been hosts of them in the world," answered Montague; "but perhaps it would be better to tell you what I call true greatness, than to name those whom I esteem great. True greatness, I apprehend, consists in conquering or in duly restraining the ruling passion; in forgiving an injury, when we have fair opportunity for avenging ourselves; in sacrificing our own feelings and interests for the good of others; in that benevolence that leads to a forgetfulness of self, in efforts to promote the happiness and welfare of mankind."

"The world will hardly subscribe to your explanation of greatness," said Gordon, with something like a sneer, "and few are great!"

"Few are—but many might be," said Montague. "Every one who foregoes his own personal good, for the good of others; who forgets his own happiness, in efforts to promote the happiness of those around him, and who will not be turned aside from his purpose by the obstacles, or the unkindness, or the ridicule with which he meets, is great."

"Who sees such greatness?" asked Gordon.

"It has sometimes been conspicuous on earth, as in the case of Howard, Peter the Great of Russia, Wilberforce, Clarkson, Mrs. Fry, and multitudes of others," said Montague. "But no matter whether it is seen by the world or not, provided its influence be felt. And there is no one, capable of moral action, who has not almost daily opportunities for exercising true greatness and magnanimity of soul; and should every one improve the opportunity, the wilderness of this world would soon be like Eden, and her deserts like the garden of the Lord!'"

Margarette's countenance again beamed with pleasure and approbation, as she said—"Moral grandeur, would then be your definition of greatness, Mr. Montague?"

"It would."

"And the only true one, according to my apprehension," said Margarette, "and I have often had the pleasure of seeing it exemplified. And this moral greatness leads to sublimity of thought," she added. "It expands the soul, and elevates the conception. As an instance: I once attended a prayer meeting, where was a man who had no more than ordinary capacity, and who knew nothing beyond the cultivation of his little farm, and the path to heaven. He could scarcely read intelligibly. Being called on to lead in the devotions of the evening, he knelt down, and began in this manner—'O, thou, who lightest up heaven!' To me, it was like a shock of electricity! I have thought of it a thousand times since, and doubt whether Byron, with all his genius, in his happiest moment of poetic inspiration, ever had so sublime a conception."

"Would you like to examine the prints on the centre table, Miss Lansdale?" asked Gordon, rising, and offering her his arm. With a heart buoyant as the thistle's down, Alice accepted the proffered arm, and Montague secured the seat she vacated.

"There is nothing here that you have not seen a hundred times," said Gordon—"but I panted to get into a warmer latitude. The north pole has few charms for me, notwithstanding its brilliant corruscations. By the way, is this cousin of yours ever warmer than the summit of Mont Blanc?"

"Why ask me such a question?" said Alice.

"Because I thought you would be likely to know," answered Gordon.

"She is much admired and beloved," said Alice, with a sigh. "I wish I had her power over the heart!"

"Admired she may be—but beloved is she?" said Gordon.

"You surprise me, Mr. Gordon," said Alice. "I thought—I feared—I mean I conjectured"—and she stopt short.

"What did you think, fear, or conjecture, Miss Lansdale?" asked Gordon.

"O nothing—nothing of any consequence," said she, with real or assumed embarrassment.

"Now be frank, sweetest Alice," said Gordon, tenderly pressing her arm, which was still locked in his, to his side—"be frank, and tell me kindly what you thought."

"Why I knew that you admired my cousin, and I feared—pshaw—I mean that I thought you loved her," and she sighed again.

"O no, I could never love a block of marble, even if moulded into a Venus," said Gordon. "Believe me, sweet Alice, there must be some signs of sensibility—some little warmth of feeling, to awaken the affections of my heart. I could never love the twin-sister to the snow, and such I take Miss Claremont to be."

"So you are going to take an airing this morning, Commodore!" said Montague, as he saw the old man getting into a wagon in the street.

"Yes, Squire; you see I am taken from my work"—holding out a lame foot—"and so I am going on some business into the country."

"How long have you been lame? and what is the matter with your foot?" asked Montague.

"I sprained it a fortnight ago, sir—and it is almost the same as well now—only Miss Margarette made me promise not to try to use it too soon."

"Miss Margarette?—Margarette Claremont?" said Montague. "Does she advise you about your lameness?"

"Yes, and more than that, Mr. Montague, for, under Providence, she has cured it. There hasn't been a day since I hurt it, in which she has not come and tended it herself, bathing it with her own little hands, in a medicine she brought a-purpose. I couldn't put her off, Mr. Montague! And when she has so patiently and kindly sat, with the old man's foot in her lap, I'll tell you what I thought; I thought—here is the very spirit of Him who said—'If I, then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, ye ought also to wash one another's feet'—and the tears ran down my old cheeks whether I would or no."

There was a slight rising in Montague's throat, but he checked it, and inquired—"How far the Commodore was going."

"I don't know exactly, Squire, as I am going to buy a cow, and want to hunt up a pretty good one."

"A cow!" said Montague—"What in the world can you do with a cow?"

"Why, she isn't for my own use, Mr. Montague, though she is to be kind o' mine—but that's neither here nor there, and I must be going, as I want to get back in good season. Good day, Squire," and the Commodore drove off.

A few days after this, when Montague was one morning at Mr. Claremont's, it came into Alice's mind to inquire after his protégés, the Delanty's.

"O, they are all well, and in comparatively comfortable circumstances," said Montague. "They have found a very kind friend, who has furnished them with comfortable clothing, besides lending them a cow. Should they be the survivors, I think they would canonize her," added he, smiling.

"Her!" said Alice. "Is it a lady, then?"

"Yes, the same young lady that I told you assisted in nursing the mother. I wish you could hear them express their gratitude, in their own emphatic dialect, with their strong Irish feelings?"

"It is strange who it can be," said Alice. "Have they not yet found out?"

"It seems she has been very careful to conceal her name," said Montague, "as they have not yet learned it. But yesterday I was there, and they pointed her out to me, as she at that moment chanced to pass by."

"And did you know her, Hubert?" eagerly inquired Alice.

"I did,"—said Montague, "but I did not tell them, as she seems so desirous to 'do good by stealth,' and would doubtless 'blush to find it fame'—and neither will I tell you, cousin Alice,"—he added, as Margarette cast on him a look of mingled distress and supplication.

"Now that is the most provoking thing I ever knew you do, cousin Hubert!" said Alice. "But I will find out, if I go to Delanty's on purpose!"

"But I tell you they do not know, Alice; and beside, if a motive of benevolence would not draw you to them, when they were in distress, pray do not let so poor a one as curiosity procure them a visit, now that they are comparatively happy."

Margarette stayed by most perseveringly this morning. She would have given almost any thing would Alice have left the room, if only for one minute. Great was her satisfaction when her cousin hastily rose, saying—"I entirely forgot to send Mrs. Frost the pattern of my new pelerine. I must do it this moment."

She had scarcely closed the door, ere Margarette said, "I must do away the mistake under which you labor, Mr. Montague. The Delantys are indebted to my uncle, and not to me. I was only the channel through which his bounty flowed."

"Mr. Claremont was then Mrs. Delanty's nurse!" said Montague, smiling.

"O no, not that—but the clothing and the cow were purchased with his money."

"I understand it perfectly," said Montague. "I have seen my cousin's neck, encircled by a pearl-necklace; but Miss Claremont preferred relieving the sufferings of a poor Irish family, to adorning her own person."

"But Mr. Montague!" said Margarette.

"But Miss Claremont!" said Montague, laughing.

"Very well," said Margarette, in great perplexity what to say,—"you must think as you will."

"I will think as I must," said Montague,—"and bid you good morning."

A few weeks after the above conversation took place, Mr. Claremont, on returning from a morning's ride, was thrown from his horse, a few rods from his own door, and was brought in, apparently lifeless. At the appalling spectacle, both his nieces obeyed the impulse of nature, and turned to fly. But Margarette had scarcely begun her retreat, ere she returned. "I must face it," thought she, "however dreadful! kind heaven sustain me!" Without much apparent agitation, she gave directions, and assisted in conveying her uncle to his room; and before medical aid could arrive, employed herself in examining his limbs, to ascertain whether they were broken, and then in chafing his hands and head, to produce, if possible, some signs of life. All beside herself, seemed nearly delirious from fright.

The news of the accident flew like wild-fire, and in twenty minutes Montague was at the house. He found Alice in the parlor, walking the floor, and wringing her hands, in an agony of distress, constantly exclaiming—"my dear uncle!"—"my poor, dear uncle." In answer to Montague's hasty inquiries, she exclaimed—

"O, he is dead!—my dear, dear uncle!—and what will become of his own poor Alice?—doubly—doubly an orphan?"

Montague hastened to Mr. Claremont's room, hopeless of learning any thing of his situation from his cousin. The physician and surgeon were both there, and there was Margarette—pale as a statue, and apparently as firm, supporting her uncle's head on her bosom. There was a deathlike silence in the room, while the medical gentlemen were endeavoring to restore animation; while all feared that their endeavors would prove useless. A groan at length announced that the vital spark was not extinguished, and Mr. Claremont opened his eyes on his niece.

"Dear uncle," said Margarette, "do you know me?"

"Margarette!" murmured Mr. Claremont.

"Away with her, Mr. Montague," said the physician—"she is gone!"

Montague clasped her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, while a servant hastened after with restoratives. "She must be mine!" thought Montague, as he supported her lifeless frame, while the servant resorted to the usual means of restoration,—"she must be mine! Such benevolence without ostentation,—such firmness and deep feeling,—such exalted worth and true humility, are a rare combination! She must be my own!"

Mr. Claremont was scarcely able to leave his room, to which he was confined several weeks, ere Montague asked him, if he would bestow upon him his niece.

"Yes, take her Montague," said Mr. Claremont,—"take her as the choicest treasure one man ever bestowed on another. I know no man but yourself, worthy of her hand and heart."

An almost convulsive pressure of the hand, was the only sign of gratitude Montague could give.

Well, who was at the wedding?—and when did it take place?—It took place in a few months, and a large company was assembled,—for Mr. Claremont hated a private wedding. The Black Prince was one of the guests.

"Are they not a beautiful—a fine-looking couple, Mr. Gordon?" said Alice, after the great cake was cut, and the congratulations were over.

"O, yes"—said Gordon—"as fine pieces of statuary as one could wish to look upon! Montague, indeed, has fire enough—the more fortunate for him, for a deal it must have taken to thaw the ice of your cousin!"

"They are both a little singular," said Alice, "yet they love each other tenderly. How happy they will be! How sweet life must be, when congenial hearts are thus united forever!"

"Yes,—perhaps so—but after all, sweet Alice, it is better to do, as you and I do—love each other, and still be free!—I would not link my fate with that of any woman in the world. I am quite sure, that I should hate even you, sweetest,—angel as you are, could you call me husband. O, there is something killing to all romance, in the very sound of that word!—Do you not agree with me, dearest?"

Alice could not utter a syllable—but cast on him a heart-rending look of mingled disappointment, mortification and astonishment!—"False!—ungrateful! cruel!"—at length she murmured—and hastened to her chamber, at once to indulge and conceal the bitterness of her feelings.

"Alice is mourning herself to death, for that worthless, heartless Gordon," said Margarette to Montague, some time after their marriage.

"She is doing what she has ever done," said Montague—"thinking only of herself, and cherishing feelings that are totally destructive of all that is valuable in character."

"She has keen sensibility," said Margarette.

"But it is all expended on herself," said Montague. "Her sensibility results in good to no one, for she has no sympathy. Her character used to interest me, until I saw it contrasted with one so much more valuable—so much more exalted!—It was you, my dearest wife, who first taught me the strong distinction betwixt sympathy and sensibility,—and how utterly useless the latter is, when unaccompanied by the former. With Alice, it is not love for Gordon, but self-love that is the cause of her thus pining. Let some other romantic looking knight appear, and sue for her hand, and her affections would be at once transformed. Should no such one appear, she will by degrees degenerate into a peevish, useless, discontented, burdensome old maid. And the best advice I could give to any young lady of great sensibility, and who would be either useful or happy, is—That she should strive to forget her own sorrows, whether real or imaginary, and expend her sympathies on the afflictions and distresses of her fellow-creatures. By so doing, the benevolence of her heart would be constantly expanding, until she would on earth approximate to the character of an angel,—and when the summons came, would drop the garment of mortality, and shine a seraph in eternal day."

S. H.

There is little merit in the following lines besides that rare merit in poetry, their truth. They were written in the place of the writer's nativity, where he had at length settled down, after an absence of thirty years. They were written in a house just purchased, and from which the former owner had not yet removed his family, and were inserted in the Album of his daughter. She was young, beautiful, accomplished, newly married, and wealthy. Though confined to her room by bad health, she was preparing for a voyage to Europe, since happily accomplished.

TO ———.

We met as strangers, Lady, tho' the scenes
On which thine eyes first opened, were the same
To which the sports of childhood, and the hopes
Of Manhood's flattering dawn, had bound my heart
With cords of filial love indissoluble.
We part as strangers, tho' the self-same roof
So long has sheltered both. I hear thy voice—
I hear thy fairy step—and trace the print
Of the soft kiss, with which thy lip has prest
My infant's cheek; and see her little hands
Rich with the gifts thy kindness has bestowed.
And this is all: but there is more than this
That with a link of sympathy connects
My heart with thee, as if some common lot,
Some common spell of destiny had bound
Our fates in one. And we have much in common.
The hope that guides thy steps to distant lands,
In quest of pleasures, such as boundless wealth,
And friends, and youth, and peerless beauty promise—
How much unlike the stern necessity,
Which drove me forth to roam thro' desarts wild,
And on the confines of society,
Where the fierce savage whets the vengeful knife
'Gainst cultivated brutes more fierce than he,
Through hardship, toil and strife, to win my bread!
But O! to leave the scenes of happy youth—
The Father's sheltering roof, the Mother's care,
The blithe play-fellows of our childish sports,
The gay companions of our gladsome hours,
The cherished friend, whose sympathy consoled
The petty griefs, that, like a fleecy cloud,
But dimmed the sunshine of our spring of life,
And, having shed its freshness on the heart,
Melted away, leaving the scene more fair;—
To lose all these!—what is it but the type
Of that last fatal wrench, that tears the heart
At once from all we love; and in one doom,
One common bond of sympathy, unites
The unnumbered victims, who in every rank,
Through every walk, throng to the gates of Death?
May we not deem that the fond Mother's heart,
Though couched in bliss celestial, yet will yearn
To her deserted Child? And will not thine,
Where'er thy steps may roam, true to the pole
Of all thy young affections, point thy thoughts
To the fair scenes, clothed by thy fairy hand
With every charm of hue, and scent, and shade,
Thyself the brightest ornament? O yes!
From the rich isle, where science, art and wealth
Have crowded every joy, the ravished sense,
And heart, and mind can covet; from the plains
Of France the beauteous; from the vine-crowned hills
That in the glassy bosom of the Rhine
Their blushing fruitages reflected see;
From classic Italy, the "marble waste"
Of desecrated fane, and ruined tower,
And silent palaces, where once the doom
Of empires was decreed, the heart will turn
To Home. The trackless wild, where foot of man
Has never broke the silence with its tread,
Is not more lonely than the thronging scene,
The "peopled solitude," where jostling crowds
Elbow their way, regardless that we look
Upon their strife—unconscious that we live.
The moss-grown rock, that in the savage dell
Has frowned for ages on the silent scene,
In its drear loneliness reflects our own,
And seems to give a kind of sympathy;
But stony hearts have none.
Known! yet unknown!
There is a strange mysterious interest
Follows the form, that flitting through the gloom
Of twilight, half concealed, and half disclosed,
Glides silently away; and such a spell
Upon my memory, thy shadowy image
In traces faint but indestructible
Has sketched. And I would be remembered too,
Not as I am, for thou hast never known me,
But as I fain would have thee fancy me.
And I shall be remembered—for the scenes
On which thy memory will love to dwell,
Are now my care. 'Tis mine to dress the vine
Which trained by thee its graceful foliage,
Gratefully spread to shelter thee: The flower
That mourns thy absence, watered by my hand,
Shall lift its drooping head and smile; and thou
In fancy shalt behold its blue eye glistening
Brighter through tears; and, with an answering smile,
And answering tear, thine own bright eye will bless me.
Then mayst thou think how I, my wanderings o'er,
Have found my way back to my native bowers,
Among the few whom Time and Fate have left
Of early friends, to render up my breath,
And lay my bones beneath the turf, where once
My musing childhood strayed. And thou wilt think,
That fortune yet may have in store for thee,
Like destiny. For who so well may claim
To rest beneath the shade, to pluck the rose,
Or, on the mossy bank reclined, inhale
The violet's balmy breath? And trust me, Lady,
Should clouds o'ercast the sunny sky that shines
So bright above thee; should a stormy fate,
Whelming thy hopes, cast thee a shipwrecked wanderer,
Wounded and bleeding, on thy native shore,
These are the scenes in which thy heart will seek
And find its consolation. Where besides
Is Sympathy so tender—Love so kind—
Religion so sincere? Where else has Hope
So learned to look, with cheerful confidence,
On worlds beyond the grave? Where else does Faith
So show its Love to God by Love to Man?

B. T.

POPULAR EDUCATION.

Towards the close of the sixteenth century, Galileo, while seated in the Cathedral of Pisa, had his attention attracted by the swinging of a lamp suspended from the ceiling. Observing that it performed its vibrations apparently in equal times, whether moving over small or great arcs, he was led to the investigation of the laws of its oscillation, and thus called the attention of philosophers to an instrument, which in the multiplicity of its applications has since proved of incalculable benefit to mankind.

It seems strange that a motion so familiar as the vibration of a suspended body had never before attracted the notice of observing minds; and still more strange would it seem, if, after its laws had been discovered, and its important practical applications ascertained, it had never been applied to its useful purposes. Yet has mankind very generally down to the present day, thus neglected an instrument of more extensive application than the pendulum. I allude to Popular Education, an agent certainly the most important of any that can be applied to the melioration of the condition of the human race. That knowledge is power, stands in no need of proof or formal illustration. It may be assumed as axiomatic. But if we reason from the conduct of mankind, we shall be led to the conclusion that the aphorism applies only when society is viewed in its constituent parts, and not when the whole mass is regarded. Still speculatively it is allowed to be of general application. How is this inconsistency to be reconciled? Has the importance of Education become one of those propositions which from being universally admitted, have ceased to interest the curiosity or engage the attention of mankind? Has the policy of former ages of keeping in ignorance the great body of the people, in order that they might be the more readily oppressed by the enlightened few, who held the reins of government, grown into a custom too inveterate for the more enlarged speculations of modern times to remove? These inquiries we will not pursue, but will proceed to offer some observations on the advantages of Popular Education.

Under Popular Education may be included an acquaintance with Reading, Writing, English Grammar, Geography, and the leading principles of Science; such information in fact as would enable the people to avail themselves of the lessons contained in books, and to discharge with ease and propriety the various avocations of common life. The advantages of Popular Education as thus defined are so diversified and so connected with the whole intertexture of society, as to render it impracticable on the present occasion to trace them out fully. Only some of its most striking effects on the condition of the people can be noticed. My purpose however will be effected, if I shall succeed in directing the attention of my young friends, many of whom will shortly engage in the busy scenes of life, to a subject fraught with interest to our common country, to a cause which, in the various stages they may occupy in society, will demand their liberal, zealous and patriotic support.

By the general diffusion of information, superstition will be banished from amongst the people. Superstition has been defined, "the error of those, who in their opinion of the causes on which the fate of men depends, believe or disbelieve without judgment or knowledge." It is a compound of the credulity and fears of men—a monster truly of frightful mien—destructive of the happiness of individuals, by continually presenting to the mind imaginary causes of terror, and associating with the most common occurrences of life, the dread of impending calamity—no less destructive of the welfare of nations, by affording an agent which designing men will ever be ready to employ in effectuating their schemes of oppression. It is indeed the fulcrum on which ambition may gain a leverage for moving the moral world. The feelings to which it gives rise are of a uniform character, and when they pervade a whole people, to address them effectually no great diversity of means are required. Hence the important part it has played in the subversion of kingdoms and revolutions of empires. Examples need not be adduced to illustrate its pernicious influence on individual and national happiness. It stands in bold relief on almost every page of history; three-fourths of the habitable globe are at this day living monuments of its power. The rest is still marked by the traces of its slow retreat.

The only effectual barrier to the desolating influence of superstition is to be found in the diffusion of Popular Education. Teach men that a sequitur is not necessarily an effect, and they will cease to regard many of the ordinary occurrences of life as portentous because they have once been accidentally conjoined with misfortunes. They will cease to regard those phenomena of the material world which present nature in aspects awful and sublime, as ominous of convulsions in the moral or political world.

The influence of the enlightened few will never be able to banish superstition from the unenlightened multitude. To eradicate it the torch of knowledge must be lit in every mind. So far from superstitious prejudices being removed by the authority of philosophers, they are contracted by them from the illiterate, through the influence of early education, and are persisted in through a disposition in the human mind to regard with some degree of favor that which has been believed in all ages, however absurd in reason. Addison affords a remarkable instance of the influence of popular belief over a philosophic mind. We learn from the Spectator^1 that he did not entirely refuse his assent to the existence of ghosts, apparitions and witchcraft. In the time of this eminent writer, a period distinguished in the history of English Literature, there was scarce a village in England in which witchcraft was not accredited; so little authority did the great men of that age, who by their writings have had an acknowledged influence on the moral improvement of the nation, exert in eradicating superstition from the minds of the unenlightened common people.

1 Nos. 110 and 117.

Education exerts a negative agency in promoting human happiness by removing superstition, one of its greatest enemies. But by expanding the mind to more enlarged conceptions of the order and beauty of the universe, it makes a real addition to the sum of human enjoyments. Our capacities are at best but extremely limited. It has been permitted to us however, to explore the threshold of the labyrinth of nature. Our discoveries present us at every step with ends wisely and beneficently planned, and means adapted with the most admirable simplicity and economy to the production of those ends. No human investigation has ever advanced so far as to point out aught of error in the arrangement of the system of things around us. Every thing, whose purpose we can understand, bears the impress of wisdom. How elevating to the mind of man to rise from the contemplation of this visible order, to a Being on whom we can rely with the utmost surety as having arranged every thing, not only in our small planet but in the whole immensity of creation, with the same admirable wisdom and economy which our limited faculties enable us to trace in the small part which falls under our immediate inspection! Yet to the vulgar mind is denied this ennobling feeling. The ignorant man

"marks not the mighty hand
That ever-busy wheels the silent spheres;
Works in the secret deep; shoots, streaming, thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring:
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day;
Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth;
And as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life."

It is true, all people, all nations have acknowledged a Supreme Being. But wherever the human mind has been enthralled by ignorance, he has been acknowledged rather as a being of Terror than as a being of Benevolence. 'Tis Education that endues men's minds with a just sense of the attributes of the Supreme Being, and brings them acquainted with their own high destiny, and is in truth, as it has been defined to be, the "handmaid of Religion."

Among an educated people morality and private virtue must flourish. For in the language of Lord Bacon, "learning disposeth the constitution of the mind not to be fixed in the defects thereof, but still to be susceptible of growth and improvement." The human mind is endowed with a variety of passions, implanted in it for the wisest purposes, but requiring the control of reason not to run into excesses destructive of individual happiness and the peace of society. A cultivated mind not only controls the impetuosity of those passions which hurry onward into crime and misery, but peculiarly encourages the growth of those benevolent affections whose gratification rests on prospective good. In the constitution of the mind experience shows the striking fact (and it pleads forcibly in favor of the general diffusion of Education among the people) that the growth of the malevolent affections is nurtured by ignorance, and that of the benevolent by knowledge. The former are more truly the instinctive affections and generally operate under immediate stimuli. The latter may be termed the rational affections, for their stimuli are often remote and chiefly felt by the mind, which traces the relations of things and sees the intimate connexion of virtue with individual and general happiness.

The diffusion of Education will heighten and extend the pleasures of social intercourse, pleasures which truly "exalt, embellish, and render life delightful." Regard for a moment the condition of the savage in that intercourse with his fellows, where sensual indulgences and rude exultation in the slaughter of his enemies, constitute the chief of that happiness which their society affords. Think of the aged and infirm parent falling under the parricidal hand, because forsooth his limbs are no longer active in the chase, his arm no longer nerved to deal the deadly blow to an insulting adversary. Think of the sick and afflicted, deserted in their last moments and left to expire without the hand of friendship to close the dying eye. Think of woman, formed to soothe, to polish and refine our ruder natures, doomed to a degrading servitude, and thought worthy only to minister to the passions of their haughty lords. From this rude society turn to that of civilized life. Benevolence spreads her arms to embrace the human race. Sympathy awakens at the notes of woe. Charity forgets not her work of love, but visits the habitation of poverty and wretchedness, and with a generous hand relieves want and soothes the wounds of adversity. Filial piety softens the pillow of declining age. Whilst friendship and affection wait upon the couch of sickness, forgetful of fatigue, contagion and death. In scenes of health and prosperity, peace and joy reign—mutual confidence and endearment characterize domestic life—rational enjoyment marks the social circle, nurturing feelings which strengthen the bonds imposed upon mankind by mutual wants and mutual dependance. Lovely woman holds her just ascendancy—shines alike in every relation of life—a voluntary homage paid to her charms—her smile encouraging to virtuous enterprise and noble achievement—her frown chilling the ardor of even hardy insolence and impious daring. Does this contrast result from difference in mental cultivation? History presents it as the primary cause. Ignorance and barbarism, as applied to nations, may in fact be considered as convertible terms. But if in reference to social intercourse, such effects as those which civilized society presents, are the results of the increase and diffusion of knowledge among the comparatively small portion of mankind who enjoy its immediate advantages, what might we not expect from the general spread of information among the whole body of the people?

Turning from society to the individual in his solitary moments, knowledge is no less the friend of human happiness. It affords materials from which the activity of the mind weaves a pleasing entertainment, when friends are no longer present to cheer with their social converse, and when the appetites revolt by reason of satiety from sensual indulgences. A book may beguile the tedium of a gloomy day, draw the mind abroad, and prevent its dwelling on imaginary ills that more truly destroy happiness than real misfortunes. The mind must have its excitement; and if it is not endued with that degree of knowledge necessary to stimulate inquiry, and afford a relish for books, it is liable to seek for this excitement in the brutalizing indulgences of the sensual appetites or in the uncontrolled movements of the passions. By furnishing the minds of the people with the due degree of elementary instruction, the best security will be afforded of their minds being usefully or innocently employed, instead of being perverted to their own misery and the disturbance of the public tranquillity.

Such are some of the moral effects of Education. Its diffusion among the people tends to improve their individual and social happiness. It is likewise the great instrument of improvement in the arts and sciences. Discoveries and inventions are said to be the product of the age in which they are made, rather than of the individuals who are immediately instrumental in bringing them forward. But are they not dependant more on the spread of knowledge among the people at large, than on any unusual advancement in learning among philosophers themselves? Speculative philosophy has done much in promoting useful inventions and discoveries. But on the other hand, how much that is really useful do we not owe to the active minds of those engaged in the ordinary vocations of life, and who never had the advantages of instruction in the higher branches of science? It would be a curious and interesting inquiry to trace out the numerous improvements in the arts and sciences, for which we are indebted to geniuses rising superior to the disadvantages of fortune and early education. The list of such names as Ferguson, Watt, Scheele, would be found to swell the catalogue of those whose exertions have contributed to enlarge the field of science, and extend the power of man over the physical creation. Genius is confined to no rank—it is to be found in all the grades of society. Spread elementary instruction among the people, extend to them the means of improvement, and superior minds wherever fortune may have placed them, will not long remain in obscurity. Their inherent vigor will break through difficulties, surmount obstacles, and supply the deficiences occasioned by the want of a collegiate education. In order too that profit be derived from the improvements of scientific men, the minds of the people must be sufficiently imbued with information to appreciate their labors, and to throw off prejudices and break through established customs so far as to adopt in practice what speculation teaches will be useful. Many important discoveries made in preceding ages, when the mass of the people were sunk in ignorance, have been lost to us, because there was not that diffusion of information necessary for preserving and handing them down. It may be said that science has nothing to fear from such a state of things for the future, since the press and other means of diffusing information preclude all danger of any of its discoveries being lost. We readily admit the great advantages afforded by the press and the extensive intercourse between different parts of the world in preserving and transmitting knowledge. But how many discoveries which contained the germs of future sciences have been made and neglected for the want of a proper depository in a cultivated and enlightened community? Scarcely a branch of science can be mentioned, in tracing the history of which, we cannot refer back to some neglected discovery which was its real origin. But neglect has not been the only impediment to the progress of science. The difficulties which the fathers of science had to contend with, in the prejudices of the people, at the revival of letters, are familiar to all. The propagation of the true doctrine of the solar system exposed Galileo to the persecution of the age in which he lived. Yes—not the illiterate only—the learned Cardinals of the seventeenth century (if they deserve the title of learned) compelled him, under pain of the awful terrors of the Inquisition, to abjure his conviction of the most sublime truth in science. And while Philosophy must drop a tear over this weakness in one of her most distinguished promoters, every friend of human happiness must regret that ignorance, or execrate that bigotry which could impose such degradation on one of the greatest geniuses of any age.

Inventions and discoveries owe their origin to chance, or some happy idea suddenly striking the mind, or to patient reflection and experiment. Those accidents that lead to them are as liable to occur to one individual as another. But to the uncultivated mind they occur and pass away without exciting one profitable reflection, without drawing the attention to those relations of cause and effect, which being pursued under different circumstances might lead to important discoveries in the arts and sciences. Accidents however occurring to individuals of cultivated minds, have led not only to important solitary discoveries, but to the origin of new sciences, and the formation of new systems of existing sciences. The origin of the science of Galvanism is too familiar to be repeated. It is well known that it was owing to accident. Accident likewise suggested to Haüy his beautiful system of Crystalography. It is said that whilst examining a collection of minerals, he dropped a beautiful specimen of calcareous spar crystalized in prisms, which was broken by the fall. He observed with astonishment that the fragments had the smooth regular forms of the rhomboid crystals of Iceland spar. "I have found it all he exclaimed:" for at this moment he conceived the fundamental idea of his new system. Thus, an accident which to ordinary minds would have been productive only of regret for the destruction of a beautiful specimen in mineralogy, was to the philosophic mind of Haüy the occasion of the most real delight; for it led him to a discovery which he saw was to be of importance to science. The circumstances of the early life of Haüy enforce strongly the importance of diffusing information among the people, sufficient to afford them the means of advancing in improvement, and to enable them to turn the accidents that are continually occurring in life, to the benefit of mankind. He was born in obscurity, the son of a poor weaver, and we are indebted to the primary schools in Germany for the evolution of his genius, and the valuable contributions made by him to science.

The diffusion of information among the people will be favorable, not only to the progress of discovery, but also to excellency in the mechanic arts. It is maintained by many that the practical artist does not require the aid of science. Manual dexterity indeed can be acquired by practice only, but yet a moderate share of scientific information will render skill more available. Every artist in fact, by experience, acquires that portion of science which is necessary for excellence in his art; but it is at the expense of much time and many failures. By the diffusion of Popular Education, this information would become a standing fund upon which artists could draw in pursuing their different occupations, without having to derive it from the slow lessons of experience.

By raising the standard of education among the people, the standard would be raised among the learned also; for what is termed learning is only a relative quality. The whole extent of human knowledge is insignificant in comparison with the infinity of truths which remain undiscovered or unobserved. The heights and depths of science, which in our pride we fondly imagine we have explored, only strike us with astonishment because we compare them with that even surface along which ignorance plods. As the progress of information advances, the greater is that portion of knowledge which becomes the heritage of the people. By the mere intercourse of society, much knowledge is diffused, independently of that which is spread by the regular institutions for learning; and the quantum of this erratic knowledge rises in a greater ratio than the general intelligence of the people. In this country a century back, the assertion that the sun remains stationary, or nearly so, and the earth by its revolutions gives occasion to day and night, and the rotation of the seasons, would probably have been heard with astonishment, and received with incredulity by the mass of the people; because their senses, and the common use and acceptation of language led them to believe the reverse. Yet what novice at the present day, enlightened in comparison with a period of one hundred years back, would require to be informed of a truth so well known? This important truth has, like many other scientific truths, become familiar to every member of society. The information thus diffused, would be increased by raising the standard of education among the people. Much of that knowledge which before constituted a part of the stock peculiar to the learned, would become the common property of the people at large. The former would necessarily conform to a higher standard of acquirements. The plan of instruction in colleges and universities would become more liberal and extensive: for on this condition would depend the distinction of their alumni from the uninitiated.

The education of the people presents itself in an interesting light, when viewed in connexion with our political institutions. The study of history and mankind shows the essential connexion of light and liberty. Wherever solid learning has prevailed, governments have been best administered, and the people have been most happy. And on the other hand the most barbarous, rude and uncultivated nations have been most subject to tumults, seditions and changes. In all governments learning exerts a most favorable influence, by impressing on the minds of rulers the true character of their station, and on the minds of the people a just sense as well of their rights, as of their duties towards the established authority. But in our government the intelligence of the people is the very soul of its existence. There are here no distinctions of rank—no great interests artificially balanced against each other, to keep the body politic in equilibrio. Our government recognizes but one class—the people; and but one interest—the interest of the people. To the good of the people the exertions of all must be directed; and this end, to be clearly discerned, and steadily pursued, requires the public mind to be enlightened. The constitutional distribution of the powers of government, constitutes the basis of a political system the most admirable which human wisdom has yet devised—a system which, duly administered in its several parts, tends more than any other to maintain the natural equality and liberty of man, and to promote the welfare and happiness of the people. But the just operation of our political system requires that the powers distributed to the several departments be kept within their proper sphere of action. Experience shows that written constitutions are in themselves an insufficient barrier to the encroachments of men in power. Ambition and interest can easily, by construction and implication, from the most limited grants of power, derive authority for the most arbitrary and oppressive acts. This evil has been provided against as far as practicable, in the separation of the powers, and the organization of the different departments of the government. But another check which our system contemplates, and certainly one of the most effectual in its operation, is to be found in the intelligence and vigilance of the people. Sovereignty residing with them, it is their opinion which must in all cases determine finally, what and how much power has been delegated, and to which government, and which department of government it has been committed. Measures affecting deeply the public interests must often be decided by a few voices in the state and national legislatures. Over these decisions the people exert a controlling influence. How important then is it that they be sufficiently enlightened to discern their true interests—to distinguish between sectional and general good—and with that spirit of liberality which free institutions engender, to submit to temporary and local evil, in consideration of permanent and general advantage!

But it may be asked, has not experience shown that a very moderate share of intelligence, in the great mass of the people, is sufficient for the harmonious and beneficial operation of our republican system? Have not the people, as they have advanced in intelligence, shown themselves less capable of self-government than their predecessors? To these questions it may be answered, that no precise degree of general intelligence can be marked as the point at which the people become capable of self-government; but the very nature of a republican government supposes them to be enlightened, and common sense dictates that by extending the breadth of that foundation on which the whole fabric rests, the best security is obtained for its permanency. Let us dismiss the narrow notion that degeneracy is the necessary accompaniment of learning and refinement. It is true, the boasted republics of antiquity, at the golden period of their literature, sunk into servitude. But their degeneracy and their overthrow were not the effects of their literature; they were only accidental concomitants. They were either overwhelmed by external force, or sunk at length the victims of their own policy. Rome, by her policy of subjecting all nations to her sway, neglected the sources of prosperity contained within her own bosom. By the spoils of foreign conquest the city became enriched—rapine became honorable—the provinces were plundered—wealth was acquired without labor—luxury and licentiousness prevailed—useful employments were neglected, (for the poor subsisted by the largesses of the ambitious great)—every thing was venal. The morality of the state became rotten to the core. Ambitious demagogues, with their mercenary followers, overturned the institutions of their country. Rome sunk—yes, even in spite of her refinement.

But no just comparison can be instituted between ancient republics and our own, in relation to the causes which produced the overthrow of the former, and those which may endanger the permanency of the latter. The theories of ancient and modern republics are essentially different. The science of government has become better understood than formerly, and a more liberal policy marks the practice of rulers. Statesmen have discovered that the prosperity of nations is dependant on the wise administration of their internal concerns. Wars have become less frequent and less dangerous to the existence of nations. And the modern mode of warfare has given to cultivated infinitely the superiority over rude and uncultivated nations. With these advantages, the fruits of science in our favor, we need not dread the fate of bygone republics; we need not fear that the progress of intelligence and refinement will occasion that degeneracy which has been falsely attributed to them on a superficial view of the history of ancient nations. The passions of men will indeed continue to operate as they ever have done: but the diffusion of information among the people will be the surest means of counteracting their evil tendency, or directing them to proper objects.

Late events in the history of our republic have indeed shaken the faith of some in regard to the permanency of our institutions. At its origin, we were united by external dangers and the common defence of our liberties. At a later period, the adjustment of foreign relations, and the development of our system of government, interested the attention of rulers and people. But now we have been for some time at peace with foreign nations—our national character has been established abroad—and the settlement of most subjects in controversy with other countries, together with the gradual extinction of the national debt, have given place to a more immediate attention to our internal concerns. Legislation on sectional interests has brought the public sentiment of the North and South into conflict. Organized opposition to the exercise of powers claimed by congress, has threatened the very permanency of the Union. But the patriotism which directed the councils of our fathers is not yet fled. The wisdom of our legislators, aided by an enlightened public sentiment, has happily averted the danger. Let us not rest in security however. The diversified interests of our wide-spread country will continue to give rise to legislation which will excite popular discontents, and conflicts of public opinion, in relation to the delegated powers of the federal government. A grievous evil confined to one portion of the Union, threatens at no distant day to test the strength of the bonds which bind us together. The tendency of the feelings beginning to be developed among our northern brethren, cannot be mistaken. Free from slavery themselves, the relations in which it stands to our citizens and our government cannot be rightly estimated by them. Abstract speculation, mistaken philanthropy, fanatic zeal in the cause of freedom, may exclaim—the rights of man must be vindicated—the crusade must be commenced against the violators of humanity—opposition must be borne down by the strong arm of government. But let the day come when a northern majority shall in madness interfere in this delicate subject, and our union as freemen is gone forever. Civil war and bloodshed will deface and destroy the beautiful proportions of the temple of freedom. The Cæsar of America will arise to bind together the disjointed fragments of the edifice with the chain of Despotism.

Means for averting these ills are to be sought. Where shall we look for them except in the general diffusion of intelligence among the people? Spread knowledge among the people, and their minds will be awakened to a due sense of the value of our free institutions. They will be quick to detect ambition, aiming under a false pretence of public utility, at private aggrandizement. They will be ready in discerning the true interests of the nation, however designing men may endeavor to blind their perception. They will cultivate that liberal, compromising spirit, which submits to partial evil for the general good. Yea, they will cherish that patriotism which in the hour of danger will stand by the republic, and seal with the blood of freemen the "esto perpetua" of the Union.

TRANSLATION.

There are few exercises of poetical talent more frequent than translations of the Odes of Horace; and there is perhaps none of these on which more men have tried their pens, than the 22d of the first book. Of all that we have ever met with, we think none superior to the following. Were it even inferior to the best efforts of the well trained pupils of Eton or Westminster, it would be interesting as the production of a Virginian. It was written some sixty years ago, as a school exercise by a pupil in the grammar school of William and Mary. We find it in the hand writing of J. Randolph of Roanoke, on the blank leaves of an old copy of Horace, where it is recorded that the age of the writer was fourteen. Comparing it with the early compositions of Pope or Byron, the reader will be apt to ask, "What became of the author?" The answer will be found in the history of the Polish wars, in which he acted a conspicuous part. Late in life he returned to his native country, and lived and died in voluntary obscurity. It is believed that few men possessed more of the confidence and esteem of the unfortunate monarch to whom he devoted his services than General Lewis Littlepage.

We have no reason to believe that these lines were ever published. They are all that remain of an extraordinary man, and we are pleased to think that by giving them a place in the Messenger, they may be preserved.

Fuscus, the Man, whose quiet heart
No conscious crimes molest,
Needs not the Moor's envenomed dart,
To guard his guiltless breast.

Safe he may range Getulia's sands,
Virtue and Peace his guides,
Or where the desart Garma stands,
Or famed Hydaspes glides.

Late, as I ranged the Sabine Grove,
Beyond my usual bounds,
And, void of care, I sang my Love,
In soft melodious sounds,

Sudden I met, without defence,
A Wolf in fierceness bred;
But, awed by peaceful innocence,
The savage monster fled.

Not scorched Numidia's thirsty fields,
Where tawny Lions feed,
Nor warlike Daunia's dreary wilds,
So dire a monster breed.

Remove me far from cheerful day,
To night and endless shades,
Where not a bright celestial ray
The awful gloom pervades:

Or place me near the solar blaze,
Beneath the burning Zone,
Where no refreshing breeze allays
The influence of the Sun.

Still shall the memory of my Love,
Her soft enchanting smile,
Her charming voice, my woes remove,
And all my cares beguile.

VERSES.

Written during an Excursion among the Alleghany Mountains.

How calm and glorious is the hour of night
In these uncultured solitary wilds,
When o'er each lowly vale and lofty height
The full-orb'd moon in cloudless lustre smiles.

Those lofty mountains with their forest green
And craggy summits tow'ring to the sky—
How proudly do they rise o'er all the scene,
And lift the thoughts from earth to muse on high!

And yon pure rivulet that pours along,
Playing and sparkling in the moon-beams clear—
How sweet the music of its vesper song
In tuneful cadence falls upon the ear!

And hark! the roar of these far spreading woods,
Sinking or rising as the winds sweep by!
Myriads of voices fill these solitudes,
And send the notes of melody on high.

While all his works with one accord rejoice,
And pour forth praises to the Great Supreme,
Shall man unmoved withhold his nobler voice
Nor glow with raptures on the glorious theme?

His bounteous goodness all creation fills,—
Even these wild woods where solitude prevails;
He sends his dews upon the untrodden hills,
And flowers he scatters o'er the lonely vales.

Scenes unfrequented by the feet of men
Display his goodness, and proclaim his might:
He feeds the wild deer in the secret glen,
And the young eagles on the craggy height.

His mighty arm the vivid lightning speeds,
And bursts the clouds that o'er the hills impend:
The mountain stream through distant lands he leads
And Joy and Melody his steps attend.

To trace his wonders through each varying clime,
And all his mercies to the sons of men,
Fills the rapt soul with ecstacy sublime
Beyond the effort of the poet's pen.

O Solitude! how blissful are the hours
Among thy shades in heavenly musing past,
When Nature leads us through her secret bowers,
And Contemplation spreads the rich repast.

Among the haunts of men the thoughtful mind
That fain would rise above the things of earth,
Finds its bold flights on every hand confined,
By care distracted, and seduced by mirth.

But in the deep and solemn hour of night
The soul luxuriates in a scene like this:
From cliff to cliff she wings her daring flight
O'er foaming cataract or dark abyss.

Or else, uplifted o'er the things of time,
By heavenly Faith from all her bonds set free,
Among the fields of ether soars sublime,
And holds communion with the Deity.

Oh! how transporting is the glorious thought
That He whose power controls yon worlds above,
Is ever nigh—and ever found when sought
To save and bless us with a father's love.

Even his chastisements are with mercy fraught,
And seal instruction on the attentive mind.
Driven by disease these distant shades I sought,
And all the fruitless cares of life resigned:

'Twas there He met me, and in mercy healed
The raging fevers that my strength deprest,
His love paternal to my soul revealed,
And swell'd the tide of rapture in my breast.

Oh! then, my heart, may'st thou continual turn
To Him whose power alone can guide thy ways:
May love divine upon thine altar burn,
And every thought and feeling speak His praise.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. VII.

He was too good for war, and ought to be
As far from danger, as from fear he's free.—Cowley.

"You are an accomplished Lovelace, Lionel!" said one of a merry throng, collected around a wine table. "Poor Miss Ellen Pilton is now fondly trusting to your mellow song of flattery and promise. Here's to her health! and to that of every pretty woman with a silly heart, and a credulous ear."

"'Tis pledged," cried I, forgetting every feeling of honor in the incense offered to my vanity, "and may each of you be equally successful."

The words were scarcely uttered by me, nor had the glass touched my lips, ere I received a violent blow in the face, which sent me reeling to the extremity of the room. Rising with shame from my debasing posture, I encountered the eye of Pilton, fixed on me with a firm, cool, and deliberate gaze, and in an instant, my dirk was pointed to his heart. I looked in his face with a stern, malignant, and merciless triumph, yet his color neither blanched—nor did his countenance quail. "Let him alone!" cried twenty voices, "he is unarmed, give him fair play;" and I thank God, that in the tempest of my rage I was sufficiently alive to this appeal to my manhood, suddenly to throw the vulgar weapon away.

"Base coward!" cried I, "I will not assassinate you—but remember that your blood alone, can cleanse this foul and dastardly assault."

"You have insulted my sister," he replied, "and I have punished your falsehood. I fear neither your attempt at assassination—nor the resentment of that baseness which can trample on unprotected innocence. Remember, Mr. Granby, that the blow which you received was from a brother's hand! and if you be a gentleman, your infamy will be deepened by the seething recollections of your own conscience."

"You have done wrong Lionel!" said many voices, "tell him, that you did not see him enter the room when the toast was offered, or you would not have wounded his feelings."

"Who dictates to me?" said I,—"who measures my honor? who controls my revenge? for whoever dare treat me with such impertinent freedom, I will hold as an enemy, whom I will pursue to the grave. As for you, Mr. Pilton—you will understand——to-morrow."

My couch that night was one of utter wretchedness, and my revenge was lashed into bitterness, by the whip of sleepless conscience. That I should in a moment of folly have committed an act disgraceful to a gentleman—that I should, under the excitement of puerile vanity, have offered myself to the just resentment of my enemy—that I should thus foolishly lose the "vantage ground," which I had long and anxiously sought—that I should be stung and tortured by a consciousness of impropriety—and that I should bear on my proud cheek, the scorching blush of a public insult, were feelings which conspired to humble and cheapen me to the lowest point of mental and personal degradation.

Where duelling is a passion—and where public opinion calls it chivalry, it is easy to procure a second, and I was saved the trouble of seeking one by the voluntary offer of the young man who had given the offensive toast to my vanity. Early on the next morning, the warlike missive, graced with the usual courtesies, was sent to Pilton, and in a short time I received the following answer—a brief, though comprehensive commentary on the truisms and philosophy of cowardice.

Sir—I cannot—I will not fight a duel. I owe duties to my country, my God, and my family, dependent on a life which none but a fool would idly risk. I am not sufficiently base to murder you—nor am I silly enough to offer my life to your malignant revenge. I have no right to kill you—therefore, I shall not attempt it. I chastised you, as I shall do every man, who acts in a similar manner, for an insult to the reputation of a sister. Sustained by an approving conscience—and a mind honestly alive to a sense of its own dignity, I am prepared to defend myself from every attack of brutality and malice.

Your ob't servant,
EDMUND PILTON.

Lionel Granby, Esq.

"Why did you suffer Pilton to refuse the challenge? Was it not delivered in proper form? and did you not assure him that there was no alternative?"

"It was with difficulty," replied my second, "that I could induce him to receive your note, and when he informed me of his refusal to fight, I called him a coward, and threw a glass of water into his face. Provoked to some spirit by the grossness of my insult, he struck me with a cane; I aimed a pistol at his bosom which unfortunately flashed; and he terminated my visit, by caning and kicking me down stairs. I am more deeply insulted than you are. What shall I do? How shall I act to obtain satisfaction?"

My second's reception added more gall to my wounded pride, and I resolved to coerce Pilton into a fight, by attacking him, whenever we should meet. I crushed his letter with my heel, and, throwing it into the fire, I watched it twisting and crackling amid the blaze. Ere it had wasted itself into ashes, Arthur Ludwell, almost breathless, entered my room.

"I feel deeply, dear Lionel," said he taking my hand, "for your situation, and regret that you have not sent for me, and demanded my assistance. I have waited on Pilton, who declares that he will make an apology for his blow, if you will say that you were ignorant of his presence in the room, when the toast was pledged. All who have heard of the affray know very well, that this was the fact; for you would not wantonly wound that exquisite sensibility which a brother alone can feel. It would be honorable on your part to express the truth, and it is magnanimous in Pilton to offer his reconciliation."

"And am I then so degraded, so contemptible, and so humble, that you can thus cruelly taunt me, and, with the harlotry of insidious friendship, counsel me to vilify my name, and commit a debasing suicide on my own character? Must I make an apology to a brute—one who is a disgrace to manhood's spirit—and who has rotted into life, on the dunghill of selfishness? Must I succumb to him, whom I have hated with long, unbroken, and relentless abhorrence? Must I be deaf to that fearful curse with which his malice blighted the freshness of my boyhood—which burnt on the tablet of memory, and graven in letters of blood, now agonizes my brain, and swells through my heart? Must I be recreant to my name, and family—forget that blow which will ever tingle on my cheek, and basely creep through life a reptile coward? Take back your treacherous friendship, if this be its infamy, and remember, Mr. Ludwell, that in one moment you have crushed every feeling of affection, and on its ruins, have arisen an eternal contempt for your duplicity, and a damning scorn for your character."

"Hear me, dear Lionel!" said he, bursting into tears, "and forgive that advice which sprung from a heart tenderly alive to every thing connected with your interest. Control your rage, and listen to the voice of that friend who will sacrifice life, and surrender every thing he has on earth, for your reputation. Pardon the intrusion of my counsel, and I will forgive your suspicions. Come, give me your hand, and let me not believe that you have a bad heart."

"What right sir! have you to allude to my heart, whatever it may be?—no imputation shall be cast on it, by a weeping coward. I shall hold you answerable," said I quitting the room—"for the baseness of your insinuation, and I can assure you that an ocean of hypocritical tears will not protect you."

So soon as I could procure a pen, I addressed a cruel and fiend-like letter to Arthur, demanding an humble apology—and an explicit disavowal of his insult, and in the event of his refusal, my second was authorised to make a speedy arrangement. "Let him not (concluded my letter) see your womanly accomplishments, for he is prepared to scorn the weakness, and loathe the duplicity of your tears."

The same second whom Pilton's attack had maddened into a demoniac rage for blood, bore my challenge to Arthur; and when he returned, I saw his eye kindled into animation at the hope of a certain fight. "Here is a letter for you! Ludwell is true game. You cannot retract your challenge, and he will be forced to meet you! I will clean the pistols, while you write family letters and starve; for the odds are against you, if you dine or eat any thing." While he busied himself in searching for the pistols, I opened and read with feelings of stern contempt, the letter of Arthur.

My dear Lionel,—Take back your challenge, and do not force me to meet you in combat. I cannot refuse it, for I have not firmness of mind to do an act which my reason suggests, and my heart approves. I am afraid of that public opinion which would execrate me as a coward, and trample me into infamy, ere I had stept into manhood. In spite of your unkind letter, I still love you with the candor and truth of a boy's heart, and I think now more deeply of the innocent hours of our early days, when friendship united us, and sincerity hallowed the union. You know that I cannot make an apology under a threat. Retract it, and I will humble myself, if by such means I can regain your wonted affection.

Your friend,
ARTHUR LUDWELL.

"Return!" said I to my second, "and inform Mr. Ludwell that if he do not consent to fight, I will proclaim him as a coward, and publish his whining letter to the world. He, with every other man who dare sustain Pilton, is my enemy."

We met! 'Twas a mild and peaceful evening when we approached the field, and the setting sun was rejoicing like a bridegroom in the blushing embrace of the trembling horizon. Its quivering rays were reflected in shadowy lines, through the foliage of the forest, while the scarlet fruit of two old holly trees—the mute records of many a duel—lent the only cheering aspect to the frightful solitude of the scene. Our seconds having retired a short distance, for the purpose of arranging the usual ceremonies, we were left standing near each other. I was proud and inflexible, yet I felt my heart throbbing with anguish, and long-prized friendship, and when I looked on his serene and dignified countenance, the jeweled days of our childhood flashed before me—when I was untainted by revenge—and uncursed by hatred,—when I was lifted above the darkness of human passion—when hope illuminated the airy future, and pleasure grasped the unalloyed fruition of reality. I thought not of my own death—of that dreamless and sodden sleep, from whose ghastly phantasm wisdom sinks into horror—of that dark insensibility to warm and mantling life—to light, hope, and love—a shadowless, impenetrable and boundless desart. Could I destroy the life of him, who with tireless truth had ever joyed in my joys—and sorrowed in my sorrows? Could I crush and scatter into nothingness, the full harvest which his ambition had garnered—the gems of mind—the sparkling thoughts of genius—the rich treasures of learning—and bankrupt the accumulated spoils of wisdom? Could I seize from the fœtid riot of the grave the animated countenance, the brave, generous and affectionate heart, or call back from the eternal prison of death, the gifted mind, and the eloquent brow? I reasoned with a memory which could not be recreant, and of the result of that duel my heart is guiltless?

Our seconds, having finished their conversation, now approached, and placed the pistols in our hands, Arthur holding his in a perpendicular position, and mine according to the latest improvement, and the repeated suggestions of my second, being directed to the earth.

"I cannot consent to fire?" said I, "while Mr. Ludwell stands directly in the line of that tree, it gives me a great advantage!"

"It makes no difference, Lionel!—Mr. Granby," said Arthur, suddenly correcting himself, "I care not in what posture, or situation I stand." His second now advanced and placed him in a position, the advantage of which did not escape the keen eye of my friend, who turned me around twice, before he confessed himself satisfied with my attitude. The word "fire" was now given, and almost at the same moment our pistols were discharged, Arthur having fired his into the air, while I in raising mine, had involuntarily aimed it directly at my antagonist. The ball struck him I know not where, but I saw him reel backwards, stagger, and laying hold of a bush near him, stumble, and fall to the earth.

"I demand another fire," said his friend, "he is able to stand, and I claim the privilege." "Mr. Ludwell cannot fire again," replied my second, "for he has thrown away his shot."

"I resign my right," interrupted Arthur! "and Lionel, I forgive you. If I recover, I will forget all—and dying, you have my unalloyed friendship. Leave this frightful place as soon as possible, for you may be arrested; and do not fear, for I shall yet recover, and we will be friends again." These words were uttered by him in a faint, though distinct voice; his features were nerved with his usual lofty dignity of countenance, yet his eye quivered with a flitting light, and a dark and unearthly color fell, like a wintry cloud, over the radiance of his brow. I could not so far divest myself of pride, as to confess in presence of our seconds that my fire had been accidental, nor could I, even at that trying moment, reconcile it to myself to be an exception to that general rule, which requires that a challenger shall never throw away his fire. Motioning to our friends to retire, I approached Arthur, and leaning over him, I whispered the simple truth. A momentary smile flashed over his pallid countenance, and grasping my hand in an ecstacy of delight, he said, "I knew it! I believe you! I was confident that you did not fire intentionally!" He was here interrupted by my second who exclaimed "the civil authorities!" I looked round, and through the dim twilight, I saw a crowd of ill-dressed people rapidly approaching us. I knelt down, and asking forgiveness once more from my injured friend, fled with the burning brand of Cain on my forehead—an humbled and heart-broken man!

UNKNOWN FLOWERS.

"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen."

Oh! many are the unknown flowers,
By human eyes unseen,
That bloom in nature's woodland bowers,
Of bright and changeless green.
The brightest flowers earth ever knew,
Of lovely breath, and brilliant hue,
Are sparkling there with morning dew,
Or bright with summer showers—
Above them tower the forest trees,
And o'er them blows the gentle breeze,
And by them many a mountain stream
Runs eddying thro' its banks of green,
And to each bud that o'er it bends
A drop of pearly radiance lends,
Dashes its sides with snowy spray,
Then hurries on its course away—
The wood-bee revels on their sweets,
And 'neath their leaves the bright Fay sleeps;
And by them bounds the gentle deer
So full of life, so full of fear:
And lovely birds, whose brilliant wings
Are bright with hues of brighter things,
Make music in those woodland bowers,
Those Edens of the unknown flowers.

MORNA.

SONNET TO ********.

BY ALEXANDER LACY BEARD, M.D.

I will not leave thee! no by heaven I swear,
Although thy soul be stained with guilt and shame,
I will not leave thee! for by me it came—
Then cheer up, sweet one, shudder not with fear;
From my own side, thy form they shall not tear;
I will not leave thee! one undying flame
Burns in my breast!—will ever burn the same,
'Mid sorrow's storm, and darkest hour of care.

O that some far off, dark, and desart isle,
To man a stranger and his heartless pride,
Would take us to its bosom lone and wild,
Where I, unwatched, could wander by thy side,
Soothed by thy voice and gladden'd by thy smile,
Rich in thy love so long and deeply tried.

A. W. Schlegel says, that in a German drama is the following stage direction. "He flashes lightning at him with his eyes, and exit." (Er blitzt ihn mit den augen an.)

METZENGERSTEIN.

A TALE IN IMITATION OF THE GERMAN.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

Pestis eram vivus—moriens tua mors ero.
Martin Luther.

Horror and Fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why then give a date to the story I have to tell? I will not. Besides, I have other reasons for concealment. Let it suffice to say, that at the period of which I speak, there existed, in the interior of Hungary, a settled although hidden belief in the doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines themselves—that is, of their falsity, or of their probability—I say nothing. I assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyére says of all our unhappiness—"vient de ne pouvoir etre seuls."

But there were some points in the Hungarian superstition which were fast verging to absurdity. They—the Hungarians—differed very essentially from their Eastern authorities. For example. "The soul," said the former—I give the words of an acute and intelligent Parisian—"ne demeure qu'un seul fois dans un corps sensible: au reste—un cheval, un chien, un homme même n' est que la ressemblance peu tangible de ces animaux."

*              *               *               *               *

The families of Berlifitzing and Metzengerstein had been at variance for centuries. Never before were two houses so illustrious mutually embittered by hostility so deadly. Indeed, at the era of this history, it was observed by an old crone of haggard and sinister appearance, that "fire and water might sooner mingle than a Berlifitzing clasp the hand of a Metzengerstein." The origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of an ancient prophecy—"A lofty name shall have a fearful fall when, like the rider over his horse, the mortality of Metzengerstein shall triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing."

To be sure the words themselves had little or no meaning. But more trivial causes have given rise—and that no long while ago—to consequences equally eventful. Besides, the estates, which were contiguous, had long exercised a rival influence in the affairs of a busy government. Moreover, near neighbors are seldom friends—and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might look, from their lofty buttresses, into the very windows of the Chateau Metzengerstein. Least of all was the more than feudal magnificence thus discovered calculated to allay the irritable feelings of the less ancient and less wealthy Berlifitzings. What wonder, then, that the words, however silly, of that prediction, should have succeeded in setting and keeping at variance two families already predisposed to quarrel by every instigation of hereditary jealousy? The prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied any thing—a final triumph on the part of the already more powerful house; and was of course remembered with the more bitter animosity on the side of the weaker and less influential.

*              *               *               *               *

Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although honorably and loftily descended, was, at the epoch of this narrative, an infirm and doting old man, remarkable for nothing but an inordinate and inveterate personal antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love of horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily infirmity, great age, nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the dangers of the chase.

Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet of age. His father, the Minister G——, died young. His mother, the Lady Mary, followed quickly after. Frederick was, at that time, in his fifteenth year. In a city fifteen years are no long period—a child may be still a child in his third lustrum: but in a wilderness—in so magnificent a wilderness as that old principality, fifteen years have a far deeper meaning.

The beautiful Lady Mary! How could she die?—and of consumption! But it is a path I have prayed to follow. I would wish all I love to perish of that gentle disease. How glorious! to depart in the hey-day of the young blood—the heart all passion—the imagination all fire—amid the remembrances of happier days—in the fall of the year—and so be buried up forever in the gorgeous autumnal leaves!

Thus died the Lady Mary. The young Baron Frederick stood without a living relative by the coffin of his dead mother. He placed his hand upon her placid forehead. No shudder came over his delicate frame—no sigh from his flinty bosom. Heartless, self-willed, and impetuous from his childhood, he had reached the age of which I speak through a career of unfeeling, wanton, and reckless dissipation; and a barrier had long since arisen in the channel of all holy thoughts and gentle recollections.

*              *               *               *               *

From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of his father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former, entered immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were seldom held before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were without number—of these the chief in point of splendor and extent was the "Chateau Metzengerstein." The boundary line of his dominions was never clearly defined—but his principal park embraced a circuit of fifty miles.

Upon the succession of a proprietor so young—with a character so well known—to a fortune so unparalleled—little speculation was afloat in regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed, for the space of three days the behavior of the heir out-heroded Herod, and fairly surpassed the expectations of his most enthusiastic admirers. Shameful debaucheries—flagrant treacheries—unheard-of atrocities—gave his trembling vassals quickly to understand that no servile submission on their part—no punctilios of conscience on his own—were thenceforward to prove any security against the remorseless and bloody fangs of a petty Caligula. On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the Castle Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire: and the unanimous opinion of the neighborhood instantaneously added the crime of the incendiary to the already hideous list of the Baron's misdemeanors and enormities.

But during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young nobleman himself sat, apparently buried in meditation, in a vast and desolate upper apartment of the family palace of Metzengerstein. The rich although faded tapestry-hangings which swung gloomily upon the walls, represented the shadowy and majestic forms of a thousand illustrious ancestors. Here, rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries, familiarly seated with the autocrat and the sovereign, put a veto on the wishes of a temporal king—or restrained with the fiat of papal supremacy the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-Enemy. There, the dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their muscular war-coursers plunging over the carcass of a fallen foe—startled the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression: and here, again, the voluptuous and swan-like figures of the dames of days gone by, floated away in the mazes of an unreal dance to the strains of imaginary melody.

But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen to the gradually increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or perhaps pondered upon some more novel—some more decided act of audacity—his eyes became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an enormous, and unnaturally colored horse, represented in the tapestry as belonging to a Saracen ancestor of the family of his rival. The horse itself, in the foreground of the design, stood motionless and statue-like—while farther back its discomfitted rider perished by the dagger of a Metzengerstein.

On Frederick's lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became aware of the direction his glance had, without his consciousness, assumed. Yet he did not remove it. On the contrary he could by no means account for the singular, intense, and overwhelming anxiety which appeared falling like a shroud upon his senses. It was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent feelings with the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed, the more absorbing became the spell—the more impossible did it appear that he could ever withdraw his glance from the fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming suddenly more violent, with a kind of compulsory and desperate exertion he diverted his attention to the glare of ruddy light thrown full by the flaming stables upon the windows of the apartment.

The action, however, was but momentary—his gaze returned mechanically to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment the head of the gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its position. The neck of the animal, before arched, as if in compassion, over the prostrate body of its lord, was now extended, at full length, in the direction of the Baron. The eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic and human expression, while they gleamed with a fiery and unusual red: and the distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full view his sepulchral and disgusting teeth.

Stupified with terror the young nobleman tottered to the door. As he threw it open, a flash of red light streaming far into the chamber, flung his shadow with a clear outline against the quivering tapestry; and he shuddered to perceive that shadow—as he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming the exact position, and precisely filling up the contour of the relentless and triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.

To lighten the depression of his spirits the Baron hurried into the open air. At the principal gate of the Chateau he encountered three equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril of their lives, they were restraining the unnatural and convulsive plunges of a gigantic and fiery-colored horse.

"Whose horse? Where did you get him?" demanded the youth in a querulous and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware that the mysterious steed in the tapestried chamber was the very counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.

"He is your own property, Sire"—replied one of the equerries—"at least he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him flying, all smoking and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of the Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the old Count's stud of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray. But the grooms there disclaim any title to the creature—which is strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow escape from the flames."

"The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his forehead"—interrupted a second equerry—"I supposed them, of course, to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at the Castle are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse."

"Extremely singular!" said the young Baron, with a musing air, and apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words—"He is, as you say, a remarkable horse—a prodigious horse! although, as you very justly observe, of a suspicious and untractable character——Let him be mine, however," he added, after a pause—"perhaps a rider like Frederick of Metzengerstein, may tame even the devil from the stables of Berlifitzing."

"You are mistaken, my lord—the horse, as I think we mentioned, is not from the stables of the Count. If such were the case, we know our duty better than to bring him into the presence of a noble of your family."

"True!" observed the Baron drily—and at that instant a page of the bed chamber came from the Chateau with a heightened color, and precipitate step. He whispered into his master's ear an account of the miraculous and sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry, in an apartment which he designated: entering, at the same time, into particulars of a minute and circumstantial character—but from the low tone of voice in which these latter were communicated, nothing escaped to gratify the excited curiosity of the equerries.

The young Frederick, during the conference, seemed agitated by a variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure, and an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his countenance, as he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber should be immediately locked up, and the key placed in his own possession.

*              *               *               *               *

"Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter Berlifitzing?" said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after the affair of the page, the huge and mysterious steed which that nobleman had adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled and supernatural fury, down the long avenue which extended from the Chateau to the stables of Metzengerstein.

"No!"—said the Baron, turning abruptly towards the speaker—"dead! say you?"

"It is indeed true, my lord—and, to a noble of your name, will be, I imagine, no unwelcome intelligence."

A rapid smile of a peculiar and unintelligible meaning shot over the beautiful countenance of the listener—"How died he?"

"In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite portion of his hunting stud, he has himself perished miserably in the flames."

"I—n—d—e—e—d—!"—ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea.

"Indeed"—repeated the vassal.

"Shocking!" said the youth calmly, and turned quietly into the Chateau.

*              *               *               *               *

From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward demeanor of the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von Metzengerstein. Indeed his behaviour disappointed every expectation, and proved little in accordance with the views of many a manœuvering mamma—while his habits and manners, still less than formerly, offered any thing congenial with those of the neighboring aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and social world, was utterly companionless—unless, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous, and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward continually bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his friend.

Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long time, however, periodically came in—"Will the Baron honor our festivals with his presence?" "Will the Baron join us in a hunting of the boar?" "Metzengerstein does not hunt"—"Metzengerstein will not attend"—were the haughty and laconic answers.

These repeated insults were not to be endured by an imperious nobility. Such invitations became less cordial—less frequent—in time they ceased altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count Berlifitzing, was even heard to express a hope—"that the Baron might be at home when he did not wish to be at home, since he disdained the company of his equals: and ride when he did not wish to ride, since he preferred the society of a horse." This to be sure was a very silly explosion of hereditary pique; and merely proved how singularly unmeaning our sayings are apt to become, when we desire to be unusually energetic.

The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the conduct of the young nobleman to the natural sorrow of a son for the untimely loss of his parents—forgetting, however, his atrocious and reckless behavior during the short period immediately succeeding that bereavement. Some there were, indeed, who suggested a too haughty idea of self-consequence and dignity. Others again—among whom may be mentioned the family physician—did not hesitate in speaking of morbid melancholy, and hereditary ill-heath: while dark hints, of a more equivocal nature, were current among the multitude.

Indeed the Baron's perverse attachment to his lately-acquired charger—an attachment which seemed to attain new strength from every fresh example of the animal's ferocious and demonlike propensities—at length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men, a hideous and unnatural fervor. In the glare of noon—at the dead hour of night—in sickness or in health—in calm or in tempest—in moonlight or in shadow—the young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded with the spirit of his own.

There were circumstances, moreover, which, coupled with late events, gave an unearthly and portentous character to the mania of the rider, and to the capabilities of the steed. The space passed over in a single leap had been accurately measured, and was found to exceed by an astounding difference, the wildest expectations of the most imaginative. The Baron, besides, had no particular name for the animal, although all the rest in his extensive collection were distinguished by characteristic appellations. His stable, too, was appointed at a distance from the rest; and with regard to grooming and other necessary offices, none but the owner in person had ventured to officiate, or even to enter the enclosure of that particular stall. It was also to be observed, that although the three grooms, who had caught the horse as he fled from the conflagration at Berlifitzing, had succeeded in arresting his course, by means of a chain-bridle and noose—yet no one of the three could with any certainty affirm that he had, during that dangerous struggle, or at any period thereafter, actually placed his hand upon the body of the beast. Instances of peculiar intelligence in the demeanor of a noble and high spirited steed are not to be supposed capable of exciting unreasonable attention—especially among men who, daily trained to the labors of the chase, might appear well acquainted with the sagacity of a horse—but there were certain circumstances which intruded themselves per force, upon the most skeptical and phlegmatic—and it is said there were times when this singular and mysterious animal, caused the gaping crowd who stood around to recoil in silent horror from the deep and impressive meaning of his terrible stamp—times when the young Metzengerstein turned pale and shrunk away from the rapid and searching expression of his intense and human-looking eye.

Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to doubt the ardor of that extraordinary affection which existed on the part of the young nobleman for the fiery qualities of his horse—at least, none but an insignificant and misshapen little page, whose deformities were in every body's way, and whose opinions were of the least possible importance. He—if his ideas are worth mentioning at all—had the effrontery to assert that his master never vaulted into the saddle, without an unaccountable and almost imperceptible shudder—and that, upon his return from every long-continued and habitual ride, an expression of triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his countenance.

One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awaking from a heavy and oppressive slumber, descended like a maniac from his chamber, and mounting in great haste, bounded away into the mazes of the forest. An occurrence so common attracted no particular attention—but his return was looked for with intense anxiety on the part of his domestics, when, after some hour's absence, the stupendous and magnificent battlements of the Chateau Metzengerstein, were discovered crackling and rocking to their very foundation, under the influence of a dense and livid mass of ungovernable fire.

As the flames, when first seen, had already made so terrible a progress that all efforts to save any portion of the building were evidently futile, the astonished neighborhood stood idly around in silent and apathetic wonder. But a new and fearful object soon rivetted the attention of the multitude, and proved how much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought about by the most appalling spectacles of inanimate matter.

Up the long avenue of aged oaks which led from the forest to the main entrance of the Chateau Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an impetuosity which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest, and extorted from every stupified beholder the ejaculation—"horrible!"

The career of the horseman was indisputably, on his own part, uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance—the convulsive struggle of his frame—gave evidence of superhuman exertion: but no sound, save a solitary shriek, escaped from his lacerated lips, which were bitten through and through in the intensity of terror. One instant, and the clattering of hoofs resounded sharply and shrilly above the roaring of the flames and the shrieking of the winds—another, and, clearing at a single plunge the gateway and the moat, the steed bounded far up the tottering stair-cases of the Palace, and, with its rider, disappeared amid the whirlwind of chaotic fire.

The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm sullenly succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building like a shroud, and, streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere, shot forth a glare of preternatural light; while a cloud of smoke settled heavily over the battlements in the distinct collossal figure of—a horse.

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

[From a Philadelphia Journal.]

A PRIZE POEM—BY A VIRGINIAN.

'Twas no longer day
In an isle that lay
Distant o'er ocean—far
Beyond the western star,
Under a sky unknown,
All beautiful and lone.

It was a fairy isle,
Where summer's golden smile
Shines on forever unchangingly,
O'er its glittering vine-clad hills,
Green valleys and cold limpid rills,
And the encircling emerald sea.
Oh! there are spirits that dwell
In every wizard dell—
Sweet forms that haunt each grottoed fount,
Each fragrant vale and sunlit mount,
And voices that whisper at even-tide,
On the silver sands by the lone sea side.

There came a youth to the shore alone,
His step was light—his air was free,
And his glittering eye flashed joyously—
He knelt him down on the printless sand,
And in the hollow of his hand,
Dipped the clear waves, and o'er a stone,
A curious greyish stone, that stood
Just on the margin of the flood,
He sprinkled the drops, and half-sung, half-spoke,
In a low faint tone, that scarcely broke
The hush that hung round that wild shore,
The waters were silently creeping o'er—

"Stars are weeping
O'er the waves,
Winds are sleeping
In their caves—
'Tis the hour,
Then come to me,
By love's power
I conjure thee—
Quickly come
Unto me,
From thy coral home
Under the sea."

"Beautiful spirit,
Hear my call—
Ocean! bear it
To her hall
Where she twines
Her yellow hair
By light that shines
From diamonds there!
Bid her come
Unto me,
From her coral home
Under the sea."

*              *               *               *               *

"Does she wait to deck
With gems her hair?
Tell her I nothing reck
Of jewels rare,
Other than those eyes
So wildly bright—
They dim the starred skies
With their purer light.
Ocean Spirit come—
Oh! come to me,
From thy coral home
Beneath the sea."
He paused, and silent stood
In listening attitude—
His head bent forward, and his eye
Gazing with fixed intensity;
A low sad tone
Came o'er the wave
Like the wind's faint moan
In a hollow cave,
Throughout the echoing archways sighing,
Then in mysterious whispers dying—
And all was calm and still again,
So still—the place might seem to be
The grave of sound.—Oh! mournfully
From the noiseless sands the youth turned then,
And slowly upward from the shore
His step retraced, with a heavy heart,
And dimming eye, as those who part
With something much loved and cherished of yore.

Now at the foot of a mountain
In the silence and shadow he stood,
By the brink of the charmed fountain
Whose dark and sullen flood
Doth bring forgetfulness to those
Who drink its wave, of all their woes.
For thence he took
The magic flower,
And three times shook
Its leaves of power,
And muttered the word
Which in our clime
Hath not been heard
Since the birth of Time—
This done, 'tis said,
If the youth or the maid
Of thy heart be untrue,
The leaves will fade
And fall where they grew;
Alas! he knew
By this same never-erring token,
That the faith of his ocean-love was broken.

In mute surprise and grief the youth remained,
Gazing upon the stalk unleaved and bare,
Which still his hand unconsciously retained,
Then proudly tossed it on the green sward there—
"Thus," said he, "from my heart, false one, I cast
The memory of thee and of the past."

Now o'er the fountain's brim he stooped to lave
His eager lip in the oblivious wave;
But ere he had approached so near, his breath
Might break the mirror sleeping calm beneath,
Her image, in the beauty of a dream,
Between him and the waters seemed to swim,
And memories which his heart unconsciously
Had garnered up, came o'er him hurriedly,
In sweet succession, 'till his soul of feeling
Thrilled like harp-strings o'er which the winds are stealing.
He drew back, undecided—in dismay,
And as, whene'er he strove, the vision smiled,
So was he ever baffled and beguiled,
Until at last he rose and went his way—
Unhappy howsoe'er, he fancied yet
Nought could so joyless be as to forget.

MORAL

There must be something beautiful in wo
That springs from love, else what is it that makes
The heart, cling to its veriest sorrows so,
And will not part with them until it breaks?
Indeed love's pleasure with its pain so blends
Like the warm sunset glow, and 'mid heaven's blue,
We cannot tell where one begins or ends,
Tho' each so totally unlike in hue.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAPTER III.

My task has been in part a task of selection. Many of the old Poets whose frequent beauties I have acknowledged, (at no time more than when occupied in the compilation of these papers,) have been passed over in silence. Herrick, the "honey-bee of letters"—Rare Drummond, hight "of Hawthornden"—Lovelace, whose Althea will live with Surry's Geraldine—and many other "names noble and bright" have met with bare mention. It cannot be expected then that I should rake up from the dung-hill of the day the Tennysons, the Montgomeries, the Blessingtons, etc. etc. with whose writings magazine readers are so conversant. These are "bad bardlings." But many will be passed by for whom I entertain much respect, and more love. Mrs. Norton, the elder Montgomery, Miss Landon, gentle and sad Grahame, are lights of no mean magnitude. But "in looking upon the moon the dimmer orbs are forgotten." I avail myself of this introductory paragraph to say, that this paper will be unlike those which have preceded it. Accurate research, and close examination into points of literary history, although necessary in treating of English Poetry in its earlier stages, are scarcely so in treating of the same subject in its later. The reason of this is evident. I shall therefore content myself with brief critical remarks, (too brief, perhaps, to excite interest) and as a matter of less importance than in my former papers—with snatches of biography. This being the case, I fear that these papers will be thought trivial.

My last chapter ended with Pope. Passing over Swift and a few others, we come at once upon a worthy name.

I. James Thomson, the author of the Seasons and other Poems of merit, was born in Roxburgshire, Scotland, in September, 1700. His father, a clergyman of small estate, died while the Poet was yet a boy; and, after a few years spent in obscurity, the son went to London as a literary adventurer. "By what gradation of indigence he became reduced to a Poet it would be vain to inquire." He did become "reduced to a Poet," however, and, after a season of want, he succeeded in selling his "Winter." Mr. Wheatley and Aaron Hill took active parts in his advancement, and Thomson was so blinded by gratitude for the kindness of the latter gentleman, that he flattered him without stint,—for which our poet no doubt underwent the repentance of Caliban on discovering the earthly quality of Stephano.

—————"What a thrice double ass
Was I to take the drunkard for a God,
And worship this dull fool."

His "Winter" was dedicated to Sir Spencer Compton, afterwards Viscount Pevensey—and twenty guineas were the price of the compliment. This poem soon became popular; so much so, that he was induced to publish his "Summer"—after which, "Spring" and "Autumn" followed in the order in which I write them. In 1727 he wrote "Britannia," a satirical poem, and "Sophonisba," a tragedy.1 Other plays followed, several of which were suppressed by the licenser. Then came "Liberty," an elaborate and heavy poem. Thomson, at this stage of his affairs, was without funds or patronage. The Prince of Wales, however, having reduced his own fortunes to a condition almost as desperate as the Poet's, either from sympathy or from a supposition that the patronage of literature would be one means of gaining popular favor, employed Mr. Lyttleton to enlist Thomson. Our Poet, when the Prince on his first introduction familiarly inquired into his affairs, answered that 'they were in a more poetical posture than formerly'—whereupon he was presented with a yearly pension of 100l. After this he produced Agamemnon, a tragedy—Edward and Eleonora, a tragedy—Alfred, a mask—and the tragedy of Tancred and Sigismunda. Mr. Lyttleton having come into office, appointed him surveyor general of the Leeward Islands. The salary appertaining to this office was something more than 300l., and then it was that, unharassed by petty troubles, he finished his "Castle of Indolence."

1 Now only remembered from a rough parody on one of its verses. The play had excited high expectation, and was well received; but when the actor came to repeat—"O, Sophonisba, Sophonisba, O," a voice from the audience chimed in—"O, Jemmie Thomson, Jemmie Thomson, O," which for a time was a mouth-verse throughout the city.

To this Poem I will confine myself in treating hurriedly of the writings of Thomson. His Seasons are too well known to call for comment—and his other works are (perhaps deservedly) out of the public recollection. The "Castle of Indolence" then, is a renewal of Spenser's best pictures—a renewal not only in its dreamy voluptuousness of character, but in its stanzaic peculiarities. It has been said that no other writers ever succeeded in acquiring the peculiar flow of Milton's blank verse, or the singular play of Spenser's old time rhythm. This is true with an exception. One half of the Castle of Indolence, if a little more antiquated, might be inserted among the cantos of the Faery Queene without detection. And this I hold to be no slight compliment to the later poet.

The Castle of Indolence was the work in which the idle Thomson gave words to his individual mood. A sluggard, he had a sluggard's visions. His visions of nature were of nature lulled into quietude. His landscapes sleep under quiet skies—his winds come from "the land of Drowsy Head." He reared shadowy battlements, and planted "sleep-soothing groves," under which lay

"Idlesse in her dreaming mood."

And in such pictures the Poet rejoiced. But with this drowsy enchantment he mingled all the freshness of that age which, from its far distance in the past, takes upon itself the hue of far clouds—becoming in the eyes of men an age of gold. The freshness of which I speak is of the patriarchal age—

"What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land,
And pastured on from verdant stage to stage,
Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage."

And this freshness retrieves the swooning and too sickly tone of a poem, all in all, inimitable.

If, reader, you wish an hour of forgetfulness, go to some quiet hollow, in the pleasant summer time, and after working thought and heart into the mood which can

"Pour all the Arabian heaven upon our nights,"

hum such sleep-begetting verses as these:

"Joined to the prattle of the purling rills
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks were bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep:
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.

*              *               *               *               *

And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror thro' the blood;
And where this valley winded out below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.
A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever flushing round a summer sky:
There, eke the soft delights that witchingly
Instill a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh."

Such soporific verses are of more worth than all the narcotics ever squeezed from the pores of the poppy. They sound like the trickle of rain from the eaves, or like the hum of bees about a tulip-tree in early summer.

Thomson died in August 1748, and was buried in the church of Richmond.

He is said to have been above the middle stature; somewhat corpulent; of a stupid look and repulsive appearance; taciturn in strange company, but sociable among his intimate friends; fixed in his attachments, and fervid in his benevolence. But he was too fat to be active; and often failed to bestow as well as obtain a favor through mere indolence. We have already seen that he wrote one poem on this vice; and reflecting upon its effects in his own affairs, he is said to have designed an eastern tale 'of the man who loved to be in distress.'

He has a cenotaph in Westminster Abbey.

II. The father of Edward Young was chaplain to William and Mary, and afterwards to Queen Anne—the latter of whom, when Princess royal, stood godmother to the Poet. Young, early in life, lost his father, and having fallen in with the wild Duke of Wharton, went with him to Ireland, where he remained long enough to acquire many of that young nobleman's dissipated habits. The impressions however of his childhood still had influence upon him, and in his worst hours he defended the Christian belief against the atheistical Tindall, and his cavilling companions.

In the least religious years of his life, he wrote a poem called "The Last Day." Indeed his mind was at all times rather dark and visionary. It is told of him that "while a mere boy, at Oxford, he would close his windows at mid-day, and compose by lamp light,"—with a skull upon his table.

Not lingering upon his many minor works—works now of no interest to the reader—we will pass on to his three greater ones—"Revenge," a tragedy—the "Night Thoughts"—and "Love of Fame," a series of satirical poems. Of the first it will be unnecessary to say more than that it still keeps possession of the stage. Of the "Night Thoughts," Blair and Johnson have both spoken in high terms. These, say they, are great poems, abounding with "rich and fervid thought expressed in a manner seldom turgid—often noble." And with this very brief notice, mindful of the long path before me, I will content myself and proceed to his satires. These, it strikes me, perhaps singularly, are our poet's best works. Swift has said of them that they should have been either "more merry or more severe," and the sententious brevity of this criticism has made it a popular one. Boileau sacrificed Tasso to an antithesis; wits suffer an epigrammatic point to outweigh real merit. We must make allowance therefore for the Dean's professional indifference to truth of criticism. Young's satires were much labored. They show it,—ars NON celat artem; but this in satire is hardly a fault. We distrust the severity which we believe born of the hour's anger: we say the poet will repent of this hollow and unmerited invective when cool. But when a work bears about it the mark of labor, we hold it to be the offspring of a judicious and settled hatred of all that it castigates. Such a work oftenest has truth upon its face. This exposure of the laboring hand, then, is a merit in the satires before us. Of their epigrammatic sententiousness, the reader may judge from a distich or two which I mean now to select from an indifferent page. Speaking of noblemen:

"These stand for fame on their forefathers' feet,
By heraldry proved valiant or discreet."

*              *               *               *               *

"Men should press forward in fame's glorious chase—
Nobles look backward, and so lose the race."

*              *               *               *               *

"Titles are marks of honest men and wise—
The fool or knave that wears a title lies."

*              *               *               *               *

"They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge."

These are perhaps too frigid and naked. They have the cold insulation of the blocks in Mosaic. This in satire may be called "the being meritorious to a fault."

Young was something of an improvisatore, and almost the prettiest thing that I remember is a little sketch of a garden-scene during his courtship. One of the ladies referred to was Elizabeth, daughter of Lee, Earl of Litchfield; she afterwards became his wife.

"Sometime before his marriage, the poet walking in his garden at Welwyn, with his lady and another, a servant brought him word that a great person wished to speak with him. 'Tell him,' said the doctor, 'I am too happily engaged to change my situation.' The ladies insisted he should go, as his visitor was a man of rank, his patron and his friend; and as persuasion had no effect on him, they took him, one by the right hand, the other by the left, and led him to the garden gate. He then laid his hand upon his heart, and in the expressive manner for which he was so remarkable, uttered the following lines:

"Thus Adam looked when from the garden driven,
And thus disputed orders sent from heaven;
Like him I go, but yet to go am loth—
Like him I go, for angels drove us both.
Hard was his fate, but mine still more unkind—
His Eve went with him, but mine stays behind."

Passages occurred between our Poet and Voltaire while the latter was in England, and in these his powers of improvisation stood him in good stead. I will not quote instances.

Dr. Young has been reckoned an example of primeval piety, but gloom was mingled with it. When at his house in the country, he spent many hours among the tombs of his own churchyard. I have noticed his mode of study while at Oxford. These peculiarities betokened gloominess of temper, in spite of his occasional fondness for hunting and the bowling-green. "His wit was" more crushing than "poignant"—his poetic faculties were rather strong than beautiful.—Indeed his works often display a dark, stern roughness. In a word, he was a writer of a vast and sombre imagination—full of metaphor—rather metaphysical—sometimes obscure, and this rather from idea than expression; for his diction (as that of most great writers is,) was simple and healthy. He had the force of the later Pollock, without his extravagance—the melancholy of Kirke White, without his proneness to inane complaint; and in a word, possessed many merits with few failings.

Edward Young died in April, 1765, aged eighty-four years, and was buried beside his wife under the altarpiece of the church at Welwyn.

III. William Shenstone, of the Leasowes, in Hales Owen, a detached portion of Shropshire, was born in November, 1714. In early youth he manifested a great fondness for books—a fondness which increased upon him with years.

Shenstone did not write from necessity; and until summoned by the death, in 1745, of Mr. Dolman—a gentleman who appears to have been in loco parentis—to the management of his own estate, he lived "a restless life, flying to places of fashionable resort, and from one to another of these."

Four years before the death of Mr. Dolman, he had published two poems—The Judgment of Hercules, and The Schoolmistress—the latter of considerable merit. After retiring to his estate in Hales Owen, he wrote his elegies, odes, ballads, levities, &c. &c, the first of which have, more than any thing else, gained him his renown as a poet.

Shenstone passed many years of his life in embellishing his grounds at the Leasowes. Improving on the admirable lessons of Lord Bacon, he formed an Utopia at the foot of the Wrekin, and "became famous even on the continent for his taste in gardening." But with Shenstone as a gardener I have nothing to do. Of his poems, the Schoolmistress is the most amiable and natural. We find the simplicity of this combined with a querulous tenderness in his elegies. I scarcely know of any thing in the elegiac order so pretty and touching as the little poem in which he refers to the murder of Kenelm the Saxon boy, by a sister who had been his nurse, and who had doted on him—until an ambitious yearning after the crown of Mercia, and the words of a paramour, made her, while hunting among the Clent hills, "do murder on him"—on him whom an old chronicler has quaintly yet touchingly styled "the sunnye hayred brotherr of her hearte."

Shenstone was a poet of refined tastes. His fancy was polished, and he had trained himself well in the art of expression—if expression can be called an art. Like his brother poets, he worshipped at the shrine of love—often mingling the myrtle with the cypress. His Delia was no creature of the imagination. And like the Althea of Lovelace—like the nameless bringer of "wilde unrest" to Shakspeare—like her who was as a long-toothed viper at the heart of poor Lope de Vega; in fine, without multiplying "likes," Delia, if we are to judge from the poet's tone and life, did not love where she was best loved. Alas! when was woman as the rose which the nightingale serenades? When opened she her heart to song? Dante sung to Beatrice—Tasso made the name of Leonora D'Este famous on earth—Petrarch spun his heart into melody, and immortalized his Laura—Wyatt rhymed to Anne Boleyn. And how ended their wooings? Some worse—none better than that of Shenstone.

The letters of our author were thought by himself his best writings. Those to his friend Mr. Whistler, which he wrote with most care, were (to the poet's bitter regret) destroyed by Whistler's brother, "a Goth of a fellow."

William Shenstone died in February, 1763.

He is said to have been a man above the middle stature; somewhat clumsy in his appearance; careless in his dress, "as in every thing else but his grounds and his hair," which latter he adjusted in a particular manner in defiance of fashion; kind to his domestics; generous to strangers; slow to take offence, and slow to forgive it.

His tomb is in the churchyard of Hales Owen.

IV. "Thomas Gray, eminent for a few poems that he has left, was born in London in 1716, and died in 1771. He was perhaps the most learned man in Europe, equally acquainted with the elegant and profound parts of science. A new arrangement of his poems, with notes and additions, was made and printed in 8vo. in 1799."

V. I pass over several great names, and come to one whose life was too short for the attainment of the fame to which nature gave him a title. Thomas Chatterton, "the marvellous boy," realized the fable of the nightingale, and sang with his breast against a thorn; but he grew weary of the world at eighteen, and removed himself from it. And we can hardly wonder that he should have done so, when we remember the sad end to which his boyish dreamings came among the garrets and filthy alleys of London. To fall at once from the high atmosphere, whither a poet's early longings draw him as with a golden chain—to find one's castles in air tumbling about one's ears—to feel the veins ache for want of a little bread—to be driven by that ache to the very cellars and stews of literature—to rake from some foul corner wherewithal to support life—are enough to break a spirit stouter even than that of Chatterton. It did break his spirit, and subvert the pure principles with which he began life. What stronger proof do we need of this, than that most amusing yet villainous instance of his calculating powers, in which he feels "thirteen shillings and sixpence worth of joy at the Lord Mayor's death?" A charity student in Bristol; an apprentice sleeping up in an attic with a foot-boy—"the marvellous youth" had dreams, and adventured to London in search of their fulfilment. Here he published a volume of poems purporting to be the remains of "one Rowley." These were full of crabbed spelling and black-letter phrases, and had so much the appearance of genuine antiquity, that the world was long divided upon the question of their origin. These poems are certainly known at the present day to have been forgeries by Chatterton. He wrote many other poems, chiefly characterized by a reckless and fiery tone of feeling—by a restless yearning after "a something to fill the void of a hurt spirit withal"—and by a dark melancholy, only at rare times lighted up by a gleam of his wild heart's yet wilder hopes. In London he entered upon the field of politics, and soon became a caterer for a party newspaper. Then followed the grinding meanness of booksellers and editors; and maddened by the consciousness that his genius was poured out only as water on the dust—that the exertions which he had trusted would make him great among men, did not suffice to clothe him and allay hunger,—maddened with the knowledge of these sad truths, are we to marvel that poor Chatterton should "have done his own death?"

Chatterton was not unlike Byron. The morbid misanthropy hanging unfixedly about the former—fully developed in the latter—was in both but a retort upon their fellows. Both had hearts which only detraction or cold neglect could harden into a hatred of humanity. Both threw out venom against their enemies. But whence came this venom? The affections of both were at one time as pure as the sap of the fabled honey-tree. It was only by a fermentation produced by the hot atmosphere of hostility or cruel slight, that the sap, once blander than honey, became a bitter poison.

Chatterton was like Byron too in many other respects,—in his hunger after immortality—in his alternations of excess and abstinence—in his self-consciousness of genius—and in the most dark and deistic views of death. Need I, after all that I have said of his ambition, his struggles, and his most reckless tone of writing, say that Chatterton's was a fiery and determined spirit? "His affections were subordinate to the sterner leanings of the brain. He had the stout soul and the tender heart of the old-time troubabour; but his heart was less tender than his soul was stout."

Chatterton could never have been happy. The presence of ambition—that brain-ache—would have made him miserable, had he lived beyond the green season of youth even to its gratification. But why do I say that he could have never been happy? There are surely more kinds of happiness than the one quiet kind of which Darby and Joan are a fit instance. Is there not a thunder-storm kind? The mysterious joy which we see thrown from the heart to the face in the picture of "Byron on the sea-shore," is surely a species of happiness. Chatterton, with hope to support him, might have been happy in the darkest struggles of a dark career. With hope to support him! But "that was the misery." Despair came to him and he died, (not out of his boyhood) with no thought of future renown—with no thought but of present obscurity and present wretchedness.

But although he committed suicide with "no thought of future renown," he had scarcely been buried in a shell in the burying-ground of Shoe-lane Workhouse, before "honors began to gather about his memory." The famous Tyrwhitt published his poems, with a preface, introduction and glossary; a few years after, a very splendid edition was published by Dr. Mills, Dean of Exeter, with a dissertation and commentary; more lately, Southey, the best biographer of the age, has collected his works and written his life—and incidental tributes, without number, have been offered by great names at the pauper-shrine of "the boy of Bristol." There are some verses of his minstrel's song in "Ella," which may be considered as a personal elegy.

"O sing unto my roundelay—
O drop the briny tears with me;
Dance no more at holiday—
Like a running river be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.

Black his hair as the summer night,
White his brow as the winter snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in the dance as thought can be—
Deft his tabor—cudgel stout—
O he lies by the willow tree.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.

Hist, the raven flaps his wing
To the night-mares as they go,
And the death-owl hoarse doth sing,
From the briared dell below.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree."

I have little or no more to say of Thomas Chatterton; I have already said too much. But the heart rules the head when we look upon the wretched career—least wretched in its wretched end—of one fitted for the loftiest achievements. A rocket with "the wide sky" before it—the blaze and the flight of his genius was scarcely beyond the fogs that lie near earth. It fell, blackened, and scorched, and lightless, to the dust. Had "the marvellous boy" feared death more than he had been taught to fear life, the rocket would have been in "the wide sky," not in the dust—the wonder of men, not their pity.

Thomas Chatterton died in 1770, aged seventeen years and nine months.

VI. From the days of old Thomas the Rhymer the barren glens and bleak hills of Scotland have been holy earth. An essence strong and mystic, an invisible presence, a something undefined, but powerful, hangs above and rests upon them. "The mantle of historic poetry is upon her soil!" and the floating and fragmentary images on this mantle—in their influence, like those upon the Arras tapestry in the haunted chamber of Monkbarns—fashion the dreams of one looking upon it rarely. The dreamer dreams of Wallace wight, and of the deeds of the Bruce—of Douglas "tender and true," and of the hardy feats of the moss troopers, whose homes were from Inck Colm to the Solway.

But the mantle of a milder poesy is too upon the Scottish valleys and hills! Shepherds have tuned the pipe to love among the hollows of Ettrick Wood—on the levels beside Yarrow—down by the shores of Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine, Loch Leven and Loch —— Apollo knows what! A poet has sat on Eildon hill, and forgotten the hand of Michael the conjurer in a vision of love. Move where you may you will see the marks of these. Their songs ring in your ears, as the voices of the musical doves of the Bahamas haunt him who visits their pebbly islets. I have now to speak of one who wound these two mantles together:—mingling the spirit of martial frolic^2 with the softer one of Eros.

2 There is a dash of merry rattlingsomeness in the old Scottish spirit—that spirit which carried the Kerr and the Scott into the cattle lands South of the Tweed—rendering it a spirit rather of martial frolic than of chivalry.

Most readers are familiar with the life as well as poetry of Robert Burns. The son of a gardener—brought up to "the plough, scythe and reap-hook"—his mind took upon itself the sturdy simplicity of his occupation. Scarcely a moderate English scholar, unversed in "lore of books," he won himself a place as an author among the greatest men of his time. Burns, like Scott, was much indebted to the nursery tales of his childhood for his success in after life. The oak springs from an acorn—and an old crone's vagaries had a great share in making our ploughman a poet. "She had," he tells us in his brief autobiography, "the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kedyers, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery."

The earliest composition that he read with pleasure was the Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning

"How are thy servants blest, O Lord."

These he met with in Mason's English Collection, one of his school-books. He next read the Life of Hannibal, which taught him to strut after the recruiting drum and bagpipe; and the Life of Wallace, which made "his veins boil with a Scottish prejudice." From fourteen to sixteen he lived after a most wretched fashion—toiling at the plough, and oppressed by poverty.

At sixteen he fell in love, and his own description of the affair is so characteristic that I will quote it. "In my sixteenth autumn, my partner (in the harvest field) was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. She was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she, altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me into that delicious passion, which in spite of acid disappointments, gin-horn prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be first of human joys—our dearest blessing here below. How she caught the contagion I cannot tell. Yet medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c.; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her when returning in the evening from our labors; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an Æolian harp; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick out the cruel nettle stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly—and it was her favorite reel which I attempted giving an imbodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin: but my girl sung a song which was said to be composed by a country laird's son on one of his father's maids with whom he was in love; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he—for excepting he could shear sheep and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. Thus with me began love and poetry, which at times have been my only, and till within the last twelve months my highest enjoyment."

His nineteenth summer was spent on a smuggling coast, where he learned "mensuration, surveying, dialling," &c. and improved in his knowledge of love and whiskey-drinking. "Yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept him for several years afterward rather within the line of innocence," notwithstanding that Vive l'Amour et Vive la Bagatelle was his sole principle of action.

Harassed at length by pecuniary difficulties, and driven to the border of despair, Burns determined on running off to Jamaica to avoid "the horrors of a jail." Before putting this resolve into execution, he published a small edition of his poems by subscription. He cleared by this 20l. and gained some reputation. This sum came very seasonably, as without it he would have been compelled to indent himself for want of money to pay his passage. He had taken his place in a ship about to sail from the Clyde, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, by "opening new prospects to his poetic ambition," overthrew his runaway schemes, and led him to Edinburgh. There the Earl of Glencairn became his patron. His after life is well known.

Burns died in July 1796, and was buried with much state in the southern church yard of Dumfries.

The great misfortune of our poet's life was to want an aim. Without this, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity as from a pride of observation and remark, a constitutional melancholy or hypochondriasm made him shun solitude. Add to these incentives to social life, a reputation for bookish knowledge, (comparatively) a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought something like the rudiments of good sense, and it will seem no great wonder that "he was ever one in each companie where jollity and pleasaunce were held in esteeme."

Burns was full of a seeming independence of spirit. He breaks out into the most fiery expressions of contempt for the rich and the great. But we recognize in these rather the man of genius than the man of real independence. If in his real feelings he had been independent of the rich and the great, they might have gone their way and he would have gone his, we should have heard nothing of his scorn and disdain. These were dictated, not as they professed to be, by a spirit of independence, but by that which, wherever it exists, comes in abatement of independence—by pride.3

3 "A keen desire of aggrandizement in the eyes of others, a sensitive apprehension of humiliation in their eyes are the constituents of pride."

Scotland has had an Allan Ramsay to revive the pastoral visions of Colin Clout—an earlier Drummond to transmit to posterity the fresh philosophy of the olden time—a Leyden to haunt the "far east countries" with the pleasant traditions of Teviotdale—an Allan Cunningham to embody the spirit of the ancient Scottish romaunt in the sturdiest language of our own day—a Hogg to fill the Ettrick valleys with the echoes of his "trueful song"—a Scott to restore to the hills of Moffat and to the banks of the Annan the lance and the eye-haunting plume—a Scott to restore knight and monk, to castle and abbey, from the Skye to Melrose—a Scott to tell of old-time woes by Gallawater and by Yarrow—but Robert Burns has no master among these. The "Robin of Ayr had the richest song of them all."

SCENES FROM AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

I.

ROME. A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione.

Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione.

Castiglione. Sad!—not I.
Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome,
A few days more thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!

Alless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
Thy happiness!—what ails thee, cousin of mine?
Why didst thou sigh so deeply?

Cas. Did I sigh?
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly—a most silly fashion I have
When I am very happy. Did I sigh?        (sighing.)

Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these
Will ruin thee! thou art already altered—
Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.

Cas. (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not ev'n deep sorrow—
Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.

Aless. Do it. I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company too—fellows low born!
Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir
And Alessandra's husband.

Cas. I will drop them.

Aless. Thou must. Attend thou also more
To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain
For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends
Upon appearances.

Cas. I'll see to it.

Aless. Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,
To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest
In dignity.

Cas. Much, much, oh much I want
In proper dignity.

Aless. (haughtily.) Thou mockest me, sir!

Cas. (abstractedly.) Sweet, gentle Lalage!

Aless. Heard I aright?
I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage!
Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming? he's not well!
What ails thee, sir?

Cas. (starting.) Cousin! fair cousin!—madam!
I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!

Enter Di Broglio.

Di Broglio. My son, I've news for thee!—hey?—what's the matter? (observing Alessandra.)
I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
You dog! and make it up I say this minute!
I've news for you both. Politian is expected
Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester!
We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
To the imperial city.

Aless. What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?

Di Brog. The same, my love.
We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.

Aless. I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile, and giddy—is he not?
And little given to thinking.

Di Brog. Far from it love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it,
Learned as few are learned.

Aless. 'Tis very strange,
I have known men have seen Politian
And sought his company. They speak of him
As of one who entered madly into life,
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.

Cas. Ridiculous! Now, I have seen Politian
And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he.
He is a dreamer and a man shut out
From common passions.

Di Brog. Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a melancholy man?        (exeunt.)

II.

The suburbs. Politian alone.

This weakness grows upon me. I am faint
And much I fear me ill—it will not do
To die ere I have lived!—Stay—stay thy hand
O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!
O pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my hopes—give me to live,
Give me to live yet—yet a little while:
'Tis I who pray for life—I who so late
Demanded but to die!—what sayeth the Count?

Enter Baldazzar.

Bal. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
Between the Earl Politian and himself,
He doth decline your cartel.

Pol. What didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen!—what said the Count?

Bal. That he, Castiglione, not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
Cannot accept the challenge.

Pol. It is most true—
All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say?

Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir,
The Count Castiglione will not fight,
Having no cause for quarrel.

Pol. Now this is true—
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
And I have not forgotten it—thou'lt do me
A piece of service? wilt thou go back and say
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain—thus much, I prythee, say
Unto the Count—it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.

Bal. My lord!—my friend!———

Pol. (aside.) 'Tis he—he comes himself! (aloud.) thou reasonest well.
I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message—
Well!—I will think of it—I will not send it.
Now prythee, leave me—hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.

Bal. I go—to-morrow we meet,
Do we not?—at the Vatican.

Pol. At the Vatican.        (exit Bal.)
If that we meet at all, it were as well
That I should meet him in the Vatican—
In the Vatican—within the holy walls
Of the Vatican.        (Enter Castiglione.)

Cas. The Earl of Leicester here!

Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not? that I am here.

Cas. My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake—misunderstanding—
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione, the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am I right?
'Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we all
Do err at times.

Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!

Cas. Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee—have at thee then,
Proud Earl!        (draws.)

Pol. (drawing.) Thus to th' expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!

Cas. (dropping his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the stage.)
Of Lalage!
Hold off—hold off thy hand!—Avaunt I say!
Avaunt—I will not fight thee—I dare not—dare not.

Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus?—now this is well,
Exceeding well!—thou darest not fight with me?
Didst say thou darest not? Ha!

Cas. I dare not—dare not—
Hold off thy hand—with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—
I cannot—dare not.

Pol. Now by my halidom
I do believe thee!—Coward! I do believe thee!
Thou darest not!

Cas. Ha!—coward!—this may not be!
(clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of the Earl.)
Alas! alas!
It is—it is—most true. In such a cause
I am—I am—a coward. O pity me!

Pol. (greatly softened.) Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee.

Cas. And Lalage———

Pol. Scoundrel!—arise and die!

Cas. It needeth not be—thus—thus—O let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home—
(baring his bosom.)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—
Strike home. I will not fight thee.

Pol. Now s'Death and Hell!
Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir!
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets—before
The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee—
Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest—
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,—I'll taunt thee,
Dost hear? with cowardice—thou wilt not fight me?
By God! thou shalt!        (exit.)

Cas. Now this—now this is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

VIRGINIA.

Extracts from an unpublished Abridgment of the History of Virginia.

BARTHOLOMEW GOSNOLD.

This man's memory is closely identified with the history of this country, and his death was a sensible shock to the struggling destinies of Virginia. In the language of one of the historians, "Virginia had its origin in the zeal and exertions of Bartholomew Gosnold." He had early patronised the settlement of the Colony, while it was yet in embryo. He possessed a knowledge of the country not exceeded by any man of his time, which had been acquired by actual voyages to that region; and on his return, to the accuracy of his details of its real advantages, and to the ardor of his speculations upon its brilliant perspective, is mainly to be attributed the revival of the enterprise which had drooped with the misfortunes of Raleigh. The importance of the services of a man like Smith had not escaped his penetration, and he enlisted him in the expedition, by means most likely to engage the attention of an ardent and adventurous mind like Smith's—by opening to him schemes full of enterprise and danger, but full also of the promise of lasting fame. He had been the steadfast friend of Smith in all his persecutions before the Council; and although unable entirely to protect him, his known high standing with the company in England, to which they were all responsible, joined to his moderation and firmness on the spot, contributed much to assuage their dissensions, and operated as a partial check to the reckless depravity of Wingfield and his creatures.

SIR T. DALE.

Upon the whole this man's government in the colony, will rather be tolerated upon considerations of its expediency and utility, than applauded for its moderation and justice—impartiality will assent to the wisdom of his economy, illustrated by his subversion of the system of common stock, by which, without diminishing the amount of contribution exacted from the idle, he offered inducements and encouragements to the diligent, and thus effected the assurance of ample provision, independent of the natives—but aggressions upon the chartered and natural rights of mankind, find willing apologists enough among the sycophants and satellites of power, without receiving the sanction of history; and however his conduct may be extenuated by the admission that his office was rather one of ministry than authority, and that the forbidden power was precedent in the colony, that he rarely resorted to it, and only in extreme instances, there yet remains much to condemn in the adoption of martial law, and much to deplore in the fate of Abbot.

CAPTIVITY OF POCAHONTAS.

Pocahontas was among this people, (the Potommacks;) the reason of her absence from her father's court, is imperfectly afforded by the early historians. Stith conjectures "it was to withdraw herself from being a witness to the frequent butcheries of the English, whose folly and rashness after Smith's departure put it out of her power to save them." Probably she had been exiled by the displeasure of her father, for her partiality to the English; or he had confided her to the protection of the neighboring king, to secure her from the dangers of the war in which he was involved with the whites.

The temptation of possessing such an hostage as the princess, was too powerful to be restrained, by the few scruples of conscience that arise in the breast of a rude English sailor. Argall seduced Jappassas, by a paltry bribe, and Pocahontas was betrayed by her perfidious host into the hands of the English, to be led into captivity. Power was never yet at a loss for plausible pretexts to palliate its outrage on virtue: policy, expediency, necessity, are the hackneyed themes resorted to, to mitigate the merited reprobation; but the human heart will not be answered so. Insulted, not convinced, by the proffered palliative, it recoils from the false and unnatural subterfuge, and true to its connate susceptibilities, entertains forever the same sentiment of instinctive abhorrence. As long as the memory of the compassionate Pocahontas shall be cherished by a remote and admiring posterity in Virginia, so long will the unhallowed names of Argall and Jappassas be associated with deep and bitter execrations.

DEATH AND MEMORY OF POCAHONTAS.

The Princess died at Gravesend, on the eve of her departure for Virginia. The office of her panegyrist is confined to the merest details. The simplest narrative of her life, is the profoundest eulogy to her memory. Born in an age too rude to afford her the precepts and the instructions of virtue, while the condition of her sex seemingly precluded her from opportunities for the display of shining merit, she has yet left examples so signal, that after-times will best evince their progress to refinement, by their successful emulation of her mercy, redeeming and saving from captivity and death—and of her capacious charity, feeding a famished people from her hand—and that people a stranger and an enemy. The eye and the bosom of beauty suffused, and throbbing under the compassionate influence of pity—the prostrate attitude—the dishevelled hair—and the impassioned gaze of Pocahontas suing for the life of Smith at the feet of Powhatan—the timid and delicate maiden, heedless of the wonted terrors of her sex, rushing to save, through darkness and danger—Pocahontas at Ratcliffe's massacre, sheltering in her bosom the head of the boy Spillman, and warding with her naked hands the glancing tomahawks; these are passages of her eventful life, beyond the efforts of the pencil or the pen; and, without the aid of any coloring in the representation, melt the coldest hearts into acknowledgments of their moral influence and beauty.

JOHN SMITH.

History is replete with examples of the vulgar great who have obtained high consideration in the world, by their lucky association with moving incidents, and who, without any intrinsic impulse, have tamely lent themselves to the current of swelling events; nor are the instances rare, although rarely appreciated, of great virtue and capacity struggling in the tide of adversity, and sinking, not from any defect of their own resources, but by the depression of their fortune, and who have thus forfeited the world's applause, which awaits rather the prosperous than the deserving. But such is not the estimate of men and events which history owes to posterity; and in transmitting worth to fame, she should pay no adulation to fortune. In her discriminating page the character of John Smith will stand conspicuous, unclouded by the obscurity of the times, and the adversity of the events in which he acted and suffered—conspicuous for a constellation of high and shining attributes, such as at once inspire their possessor with the conception of great designs, and qualify him for their consummation. And his claims to reputation will not be tested merely by his achievements, when it is considered that his destinies confined him to a range of action too narrow for his capacity. How unjust to circumscribe his fame to the limits of a colony, whose faculties were capable to remove and extend the confines of empires! His glory dilates itself beyond the sphere to which it had been assigned by circumstances, and lays claim to the merit of any achievement possible to the greatest virtue.

CAPTIVITY OF SMITH.

Captain Smith was not aware of the stealthy approach of the Indians; a slight wound by an arrow was the first intimation he had of their presence.

In this peril, of a nature to quell the greatest courage, because its exercise must be hopeless, his energies did not desert him; seizing his Indian guide, he constrained him to serve as a shield against the missiles of the assailants—and interposing the Indian's person between himself and his enemies, he commenced his retreat in the direction of the canoe; but being obliged to make face to the Indians, his progress was consequently retrograde, and thus not being able to pick his way, he sunk through the ice to the waist in a morass. Here, embarrassed as he was, he slew with his musket three of the Indians, and for several hours kept the others at a distance, until fatigued with his fruitless efforts to extricate himself from the morass, and benumbed by the cold, he desisted from the idle contest. The Indians dared not yet approach him, until he had thrown his arms to a distance from him, when they raised him and carried him to a fire at the canoe, near which lay the dead bodies of his companions.

Smith, with the vague intention of gaining time, and of making a favorable impression upon his captors, endeavored to establish a communication with their chief, whom he propitiated by the offering of his pocket compass. The curiosity of the savage was forcibly roused by the apparent life in the vibrations of the needle, the motions of which were visible through the crystal, although it eluded his touch; but when the prisoner, by signs, and so much of their language as he had acquired, engaged his attention to the description of its properties and uses—how, by its indication alone, the solitary hunter could track his pathless way, in darkness, through the deepest forests, and direct his canoe through the expanse of waters to its destined point, and this by mysterious and inscrutable influence between the heavenly bodies and the little talisman he held in his hands, the Indian's faculties were absorbed in the recital, and he remained fixed in an attitude of mute and vague wonder.

*              *               *               *               *

LADY LEONORE AND HER LOVER.

FYTTE I.

Leonore. Why art thou sad?

Lover.                                    Sweet Leonore
Come hither and list! On their golden shore
Yon waters sing. The winds are nigh;
They have swept all cloud from the starry sky;
And a rare song-woof their fingers weave
On earth—in air. 'Tis a pleasant eve!
A magic is in wind, moon and star—
A magic that winneth hearts afar
To the days that are past. Come, best beloved,
Look forth from this lattice: own the spell
Which hath moved a spirit long unmoved—
While I tell thee a tale I love to tell.

Leon. A tale thou lovest!

Lover.                                Aye, by my word!
As her wail is dear to the shadow bird,
Whose haunt is low in yon Linden glen,
I love the tale of my grievous pain.
The bird of the shadow will wail her wail—
Come hither, sweet Lady, and list my tale;
No word of my lip shall wound thine ear.

Leon. I will list thy story—but O, not here!
This lattice!—Hast thou——

Lover.                                      Forgotten?—no.
Here—erst—when the moon—a bended bow—
Rained its ray-arrows on wave and air,
And their jewelled points illumed thy hair,
I saw thy lips part, and heard thee say,
Thou wouldst love me well till thy dying day.
I am happy!—But Lady, thou wilt not blame
This lip that sad words—sad words—brim o'er
At thought of one whom I may not name.
Wilt thou list my dark story, sweet Leonore?

Leon. I hear thee.

Lover.           The stars and the white-armed moon
Are bright in heaven; and the breath of June
In the faint wind liveth. On such a night,
With the sky as blue, with the moon as bright,
I roved with one by a lonely shore;
I have loved another, sweet Leonore!

Leon. I hear thee!

Lover.           Wan were the brow and cheek
Of her whose name I may not speak;
And gentle the flow of her long fair hair;
And her azure eye had a beauty rare.
I won that girl to my doting heart:
But a rival came, and his fiendish art
Fell witheringly—as falls the dew
On Brandon night. Her kinsman knew
That 'twas a sinful and deadly stain—
This last wild love—so not again
Met they—the lovers—in peace or pain!
—He who had won by his fiendish art
Died mad; and she of a broken heart.
They made her a grave by our love's lone shore,
And I laughed in strange mirth, sweet Leonore.

Leon. Alas!

Lover.           Yet a burning and restless pain
Lived evermo' at my heart and brain.
What balm sought I?—Forgetfulness,
Ah!—wo is me! I had none to bless
My desolate heart: no soothing tone
To cheer my spirit seared and lone:
No hand of love to clasp mine own.
And anguish—great anguish dogged my step,
Till I did swear me that a fiend
Spake in mine ear with a hissing lip.
I bared my brow to the haunted wind
On wintry hills; and then in fear
Would seek my couch most lone and drear,
And mutter a name for the dead to hear.
And in my mad dreams, sweet Leonore,
I shuddered and moaned—"Pain evermore!"

Leon. Alas!

Lover.           But time wore fleetly on,
And the lines were less deep on my forehead wan.
I sought to bury my wrongs in wine;
And I sought in the crowd where star-eyes shine
For my thwarted heart a second shrine:—
Yet this in vain! I found it not,
For naught from the book of Time mote blot
The one black page, and Memory ever
Dwelt, till my temples throbbed with fever,
On that stained page and its letters wild.

Leon. And yet thou lovedst!

Lover.                        A dream beguiled
My life from anguish. Leonore!
Canst thou unlock the mystic lore
Of sleep and its visions dim and bright?
I slumbered—in pain: the lingering blight
Still lay on my spirit. I dreamed a dream!
Like motes on the swell of a noonday beam,
A thousand vague forms passed me by,
Wheeling and circling hurriedly.
These passed, and methought a lady bright
Leant on my arm, and clasped my hand:
Her chiselled temples were high and white;
But her life did seem as a name in sand,
With the waters near:—For her eyes were wild,
And her long teeth glittered as she smiled,
And her cheek was sunken. I ne'er had seen
That lofty brow with its lily sheen,
In my waking hours, and ne'er till then
Had I heard what I yearned to hear again—
That lady's voice!—Sweet Leonore,
'Twas a gentle joy to linger o'er
That dying one so fair and meek.
While I gazed in love on her faded cheek,
She shuddered and—died! I sprang, aghast,
From my couch, and moaned.
The strange dream passed—
Passed from its seat on my troubled brain.
I awoke to the forms of earth again.
Time flew his soar, as Time aye flies;
And I basked in the light of earthly eyes,
Till, joyous of heart, and light of mood,
I fled from naught save solitude.
I laughed, and many a hoary head
Shook thoughtfully, and wise men said—
As stole vague fears of a stormy morrow—
"Naught knoweth yon gallant yet of sorrow."
In a crowded hall, on a festive night—
Aloof from the fears of dotard eld—
I spake in the ear of a Lady bright,
Whom—awake—I had ne'er, till then, beheld.
Thine was that ear: and much it moved
The chords of my spirit, best beloved,
To gaze on the peerless Leonore.
Thou—thou wast the Lady of the dream;
And I unriddled the mystic lore
Which mortal men a madness deem,
And said, while my heart leapt joyously,
"The dream was the voice of destiny.
Kind Heaven hath sent this gentle one—
This being of beauty—of beauty to atone
For the viper's tooth: and she will be
Through sorrow and joy, mine faithfully,
Till the days of her life on earth are o'er"—
And I wooed and won thee, Leonore.

He ceased. The Lady turned her head,
Her soft cheek flushed with a ruby fever—
But she gazed in his face and meekly said,
"As I love thee now will I love thee ever."

Then passion came to the Lover's eye,
And as he bowed him, tenderly,
To kiss the brow of his Leonore,
These words spake he—"Bliss evermore!"

But constancy dwelleth not on earth,
And this world's joy is of little worth,
For we know that ere the birth of morrow,
The cup may be changed for one of sorrow.
This is a truth my heart hath learned,
From one who loved, and then falsely spurned:
This is a truth which all must know
Whose lots are cast in this world of wo.

A poet's thanks for thy courtesy,
Thou gentle one, whose step with me
Hath kindly been!

One fytte is done—
Yet sith thus far we twain have gone,
I'll "ply my wrest,"1 then tell thee more
Of the loves of the Lady Leonore.

L. L.

1 Wrest was the name of the key used in tuning his harp by the ancient Songleur or minstrel. "Ply my wrest" is an expression to be met with frequently in the early English poets.

ENGLISH LANGUAGE IN AMERICA.

The preservation of a pure English diction is not sufficiently aimed at in America. Some are so entirely Britannic, as to receive every thing for legal tender in letters, which comes across the water. This is thenceforward duly 'marqué au coin.' Others are so patriotically republican, as to set about the task of nursing the countless brood of cis-Atlantic words, into literary respectability. Both are in error. It is not enough to avoid Amercanisms; nor is it expedient to manufacture a pye-bald dialect, of vulgarisms and provincialisms, for the mere satisfaction of calling it our own. In England, no less than here, the language is growing to an unhealthy exuberance, and many of the words which are fathered on the poor Americans, are distempered excrescences of the overgrown British trunk. Nothing but the appeal to a standard of former golden days of literature and classic taste, can save the noble tongue of freemen from becoming an unwieldy, cacophonious, inconsistent mass of crudities. How much more is there danger, lest the other party, by encouraging unauthorized and American inventions in language, lay the foundation for provincial dialects, which shall hopelessly diverge from one another, until the Mississippian and the Virginian shall be as diverse as were the Athenian and the Macedonian. What this difference was, may be seen at a glance even in Demosthenes on the crown; where the orator blunders in Attic, while he reads in the same breath a decree of the Byzantes in broad-mouthed Doric.

To some minds this may seem a trifling subject; like the countryman's nightingale in Catullus, 'vox et praeterea nihil.' But, as Mirabeau said, Words are things. Language and thought act reciprocally. Unity of speech presupposes unity of thinking; but it also propagates it. Where provincial dialects begin to grow into languages, there is a corresponding divergence of national feeling. In our boundless country, after all our attempts to the contrary, this diversity of language will take place. It is now taking place. We begin to distinguish by his idiom and his pronunciation, the New Englander, the Southron, and the native of the great Western Valley. And there is no possibility of avoiding a separation of greater moment, without some common and acknowledged standard to which the appeal may be made; a standard not fabricated, but adopted—which shall be maintained by men of letters, in opposition to the immensely varying license of the illiterate mass in the respective districts of America.

Such a standard exists in the authorized classics of Great Britain. If we depart from this, we not only fall to pieces at home, but eventually sever our literature from that of the mother country; a mishap to be deprecated by every man who wishes his posterity to drink at "the well-spring of English, pure and undefiled," or who desires our American authors to be honored in Great Britain. We would not be such purists in language, as to stigmatize every word not found in Johnson. There is a fastidiousness on one side, as evil as the recklessness on the other. Fox rejected all words not found in Dryden, and Bulwer speaks of one so addicted to the Saxon element of our tongue, that his English stalks abroad "as naked as a Pict." New objects are discovered in nature, new distinctions are taken in science, new relations are discerned in ancient truths, and all these justify new words. But we are not in danger of pruning too close in this land of universal license. The purity and melody of our language are threatened from the side of indiscriminate adoption of needless words and phrases. The basest provincialisms begin to install themselves in works of reputed elegance; and grammatical solecisms are daily "being engrafted" on our stock. The last phrase is here inserted as a specimen, with our challenge to all the sciolists and misses who use it, to furnish an instance of a similar construction, in any writer of merit, from Robert of Gloucester to Sir James Mackintosh.

Provincialisms are cited abroad as Americanisms. Though "I guess" is often used by Locke in the Yankee acceptation, yet even in America it is confined to a particular region, where un-English phraseology is rife. So the sad abuse of that poetical word evening to mean afternoon—an abuse which makes mere prose of such a verse as

"Like a bright exhalation in the evening,"

is confined to a 'section' of our states. Mutual recrimination and banter tend to rub off these points of vulgarity, which show themselves most in such as move in narrow circles. No one State or District can justifiably throw stones, for we all live in glass houses. We have known a New Englander laugh at the Southern use of the word clever; ignorant utterly that the latter is the only English acceptation. And in like manner we knew a vagrant word-catcher to have in his list of Virginianisms Good bye t' ye, a phrase purely Shakspearian. The Philadelphian calls a certain savoury bird a Quail; according to Wilson, he is right, and the Marylander wrong in calling it a Partridge. But the Southron makes reprisals in the case of another sort of game, for he rightly calls that a Hare which the North-man eats under the title of Rabbit. To speak of pronunciation would be endless. That of the South accords with England's best orators and dictionaries in all such words as tutor vice tootor—path, wrath, carpet, garden, &c. Yet many sedulous students of Walker never find this out. Dr. Noah Webster would fain have us believe that orthoepy demands such sounds as natur, featur, creatur. We rejoice that even in Connecticut this barbarism is growing into discredit. The learned Doctor would also improve English so as to write Savior for Saviour, Bridegoom for Bridegroom, Duelist for Duellist, and the like. We humbly crave leave to wait until any one English work can be produced in which these elegancies shall appear. It is an English, not an American language which we are called upon to nurture and perfect. Let no scholar deem it beneath his dignity to aid in the work. Then we shall no longer see such a term as firstly in a work on metaphysics, nor hear such a double adverb as illy on the floor of Congress—no longer hear of an event's transpiring, before it has become public, nor of an argument being predicated on such and such facts.

BOREALIS.

TO THE WOODNYMPHS.

Ye Nymphs of the woodlands!
I come to your bowers,
Where the wild roses grow
And the eglantine flowers:
Where the trees and wild vines
In their spring-dress arrayed,
Entwine their green foliage
And weave the cool shade.
Oh! I come o'er the hills
By the moon's dewy light—
I come where the waters
Gush sparkling and bright—
Where the green woods are fresh,
And the cool valleys cheered
With the sweet mellow strains
Of the wild forest bird.
I come where the fountains
Their freshness diffuse,
And the flowers smile the sweetest,
Impearled with the dews.
In thy wild forest home,
Oh! I come to inhale
The pure balmy air
And the health-breathing gale.
Ye Nymphs of the woodlands!
Then dress your green bowers:
Bid vines spread their foliage,
And Spring wake her flowers.
Oh! bid your bright waters
Gush sparkling along,
And the wild forest bird
Charm the valleys with song;
For I come o'er the hills
To thy cool shady courts,
To quaff at thy fountains
And join in thy sports.

CRITICAL NOTICES.

MRS. SIGOURNEY—MISS GOULD—MRS. ELLET.

Zinzendorff, and other Poems. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, New York: Published by Leavitt, Lord & Co. 1836.

Poems—By Miss H. F. Gould, Third Edition. Boston: Hilliard, Gray & Co. 1835.

Poems; Translated and Original. By Mrs. E. F. Ellet. Philadelphia: Key and Biddle. 1835.

Mrs. Sigourney has been long known as an author. Her earliest publication was reviewed about twenty years ago, in the North American. She was then Miss Huntley. The fame which she has since acquired is extensive; and we, who so much admire her virtues and her talents, and who have so frequently expressed our admiration of both in this Journal—we, of all persons—are the least inclined to call in question the justice or the accuracy of the public opinion, by which has been adjudged to her so high a station among the literati of our land. Some things, however, we cannot pass over in silence. There are two kinds of popular reputation,—or rather there are two roads by which such reputation may be attained: and it appears to us an idiosyncrasy which distinguishes mere fame from most, or perhaps from all other human ends, that, in regarding the intrinsic value of the object, we must not fail to introduce, as a portion of our estimate, the means by which the object is acquired. To speak less abstractedly. Let us suppose two writers having a reputation apparently equal—that is to say, their names being equally in the mouths of the people—for we take this to be the most practicable test of what we choose to term apparent popular reputation. Their names then are equally in the mouths of the people. The one has written a great work—let it be either an Epic of high rank, or something which, although of seeming littleness in itself, is yet, like the Christabelle of Coleridge, entitled to be called great from its power of creating intense emotion in the minds of great men. And let us imagine that, by this single effort, the author has attained a certain quantum of reputation. We know it to be possible that another writer of very moderate powers may build up for himself, little by little, a reputation equally great—and this, too, merely by keeping continually in the eye, or by appealing continually with little things, to the ear, of that great, overgrown, and majestical gander, the critical and bibliographical rabble.

It would be an easy, although perhaps a somewhat disagreeable task, to point out several of the most popular writers in America—popular in the above mentioned sense—who have manufactured for themselves a celebrity by the very questionable means, and in the very questionable manner, to which we have alluded. But it must not be thought that we wish to include Mrs. Sigourney in the number. By no means. She has trod, however, upon the confines of their circle. She does not owe her reputation to the chicanery we mention, but it cannot be denied that it has been thereby greatly assisted. In a word—no single piece which she has written, and not even her collected works as we behold them in the present volume, and in the one published some years ago, would fairly entitle her to that exalted rank which she actually enjoys as the authoress, time after time, of her numerous, and, in most instances, very creditable compositions. The validity of our objections to this adventitious notoriety we must be allowed to consider unshaken, until it can be proved that any multiplication of zeros will eventuate in the production of a unit.

We have watched, too, with a species of anxiety and vexation brought about altogether by the sincere interest we take in Mrs. Sigourney, the progressive steps by which she has at length acquired the title of the "American Hemans." Mrs. S. cannot conceal from her own discernment that she has acquired this title solely by imitation. The very phrase "American Hemans" speaks loudly in accusation: and we are grieved that what by the over-zealous has been intended as complimentary should fall with so ill-omened a sound into the ears of the judicious. We will briefly point out those particulars in which Mrs. Sigourney stands palpably convicted of that sin which in poetry is not to be forgiven.

And first, in the character of her subjects. Every unprejudiced observer must be aware of the almost identity between the subjects of Mrs. Hemans and the subjects of Mrs. Sigourney. The themes of the former lady are the unobtrusive happiness, the sweet images, the cares, the sorrows, the gentle affections, of the domestic hearth—these too are the themes of the latter. The Englishwoman has dwelt upon all the "tender and true" chivalries of passion—and the American has dwelt as unequivocally upon the same. Mrs. Hemans has delighted in the radiance of a pure and humble faith—she has looked upon nature with a speculative attention—she has "watched the golden array of sunset clouds, with an eye looking beyond them to the habitations of the disembodied spirit"—she has poured all over her verses the most glorious and lofty aspirations of a redeeming Christianity, and in all this she is herself glorious and lofty. And all this too has Mrs. Sigourney not only attempted, but accomplished—yet in all this she is but, alas!—an imitator.

And secondly—in points more directly tangible than the one just mentioned, and therefore more easily appreciated by the generality of readers, is Mrs. Sigourney again open to the charge we have adduced. We mean in the structure of her versification—in the peculiar turns of her phraseology—in certain habitual expressions (principally interjectional,) such as yea! alas! and many others, so frequent upon the lips of Mrs. Hemans as to give an almost ludicrous air of similitude to all articles of her composition—in an invincible inclination to apostrophize every object, in both moral and physical existence—and more particularly in those mottos or quotations, sometimes of considerable extent, prefixed to nearly every poem, not as a text for discussion, nor even as an intimation of what is to follow, but as the actual subject matter itself, and of which the verses ensuing are, in most instances, merely a paraphrase. These were all, in Mrs. Hemans, mannerisms of a gross and inartificial nature; but, in Mrs. Sigourney, they are mannerisms of the most inadmissible kind—the mannerisms of imitation.

In respect to the use of the quotations, we cannot conceive how the fine taste of Mrs. Hemans could have admitted the practice, or how the good sense of Mrs. Sigourney could have thought it for a single moment worthy of her own adoption. In poems of magnitude the mind of the reader is not, at all times, enabled to include in one comprehensive survey the proportions and proper adjustment of the whole. He is pleased—if at all—with particular passages; and the sum of his pleasure is compounded of the sums of the pleasurable sensations inspired by these individual passages during the progress of perusal. But in pieces of less extent—like the poems of Mrs. Sigourney—the pleasure is unique, in the proper acceptation of that term—the understanding is employed, without difficulty, in the contemplation of the picture as a whole—and thus its effect will depend, in a very great degree, upon the perfection of its finish, upon the nice adaptation of its constituent parts, and especially upon what is rightly termed by Schlegel, the unity or totality of interest. Now it will readily be seen, that the practice we have mentioned as habitual with Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Sigourney is utterly at variance with this unity. By the initial motto—often a very long one—we are either put in possession of the subject of the poem; or some hint, historic fact, or suggestion is thereby afforded, not included in the body of the article, which, without the suggestion, would be utterly incomprehensible. In the latter case, while perusing the poem, the reader must revert, in mind at least, to the motto for the necessary explanation. In the former, the poem being a mere paraphrase of the motto, the interest is divided between the motto and the paraphrase. In either instance the totality of effect is annihilated.

Having expressed ourselves thus far in terms of nearly unmitigated censure, it may appear in us somewhat equivocal to say that, as Americans, we are proud—very proud of the talents of Mrs. Sigourney. Yet such is the fact. The faults which we have already pointed out, and some others which we will point out hereafter, are but dust in the balance, when weighed against her very many and distinguishing excellences. Among those high qualities which give her, beyond doubt, a title to the sacred name of poet are an acute sensibility to natural loveliness—a quick and perfectly just conception of the moral and physical sublime—a calm and unostentatious vigor of thought—a mingled delicacy and strength of expression—and above all, a mind nobly and exquisitely attuned to all the gentle charities and lofty pieties of life.

The volume whose title forms the heading of this article embraces one hundred and seventy-three poems. The longest, but not the best, of these is Zinzendorff. "It owes its existence," says the author, "to a recent opportunity of personal intercourse with that sect of Christians who acknowledge Zinzendorff as their founder; and who, in their labors of self-denying benevolence, and their avoidance of the slight, yet bitter causes of controversy, have well preserved that sacred test of discipleship 'to love one another.'" Most of the other pieces were "suggested by the passing and common incidents of life,"—and we confess that we find no fault, with their "deficiency in the wonderful and wild." Not in these mountainous and stormy regions—but in the holy and quiet valley of the beautiful, must forever consent to dwell the genius of Mrs. Sigourney.

The poem of Zinzendorff includes five hundred and eighty lines. It relates, in a simple manner, some adventures of that man of God. Many passages are very noble, and breathe the truest spirit of the Muse. At page 14, for example.

———————The high arch
Of the cloud-sweeping forest proudly cast (casts)
A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe
Had taught the monarch Oak dire principles
Of Revolution, or brought down the Pine
Like haughty baron from his castled height.
Thus dwelt the kings of Europe—ere the voice
Of the crusading monk, with whirlwind tone
Did root them from their base, with all their hosts,
Tossing the red-cross banner to the sky.

Again at page 21, we have something equally beautiful, in a very different way. The passage is however much injured by the occurrence of the word 'that' at the commencement of both the sixth and seventh line.

———Now the infant morning raised
Her rosy eyelids. But no soft breeze moved
The forest lords to shake the dews of sleep
From their green coronals. The curtaining mist
Hung o'er the quiet river, and it seemed
That Nature found the summer night so sweet
That 'mid the stillness of her deep repose
She shunned the wakening of the king of day.

All this is exquisite, and in Zinzendorff there are many passages of a like kind. The poem, however, is by no means free from faults. In the first paragraph we have the following:

———Through the breast
Of that fair vale the Susquehannah roam'd,
Wearing its robe of silver like a bride.
Now with a noiseless current gliding slow,
Mid the rich velvet of its curtaining banks
It seemed to sleep.

To suppose the Susquehannah roaming through the breast of any thing—even of a valley—is an incongruity: and to say that such false images are common, is to say very little in their defence. But when the noble river is bedizzened out in robes of silver, and made to wash with its bright waters nothing better than curtains of velvet, we feel a very sensible and a very righteous indignation. We might have expected such language from an upholsterer, or a marchande des modes, but it is utterly out of place upon the lips of Mrs. Sigourney. To liken the glorious objects of natural loveliness to the trappings and tinsel of artificiality, is one of the lowest, and at the same time, one of the most ordinary exemplifications of the bathos. At page 21, these verses occur:

No word was spoke,
As when the friends of desolated Job,
Finding the line of language all too short
To fathom woe like his, sublimely paid
That highest homage at the throne of grief,
Deep silence.

The image here italicized is striking, but faulty. It is deduced not from any analogy between actual existences—between woe on the one hand, and the sea on the other—but from the identity of epithet (deep) frequently applied to both. We say the "deep sea," and the expression "deep woe" is certainly familiar. But in the first case the sea is actually deep; in the second, woe is but metaphorically so. Sound, therefore—not sense, is the basis of the analogy, and the image is consequently incorrect.

Some faults of a minor kind we may also discover in Zinzendorff. We dislike the use made by the poetess of antique modes of expression—here most unequivocally out of place. For example.

Where the red council-fire
Disturbed the trance of midnight, long they sate.

What time, with hatred fierce and unsubdued,
The woad-stained Briton, in his wattled boat,
Quailed 'neath the glance of Rome.

The versification of Zinzendorff is particularly good—always sweet—occasionally energetic. We are enabled to point out only one defective line in the poem, and in this the defect has arisen from an attempt to contract enthusiasm into a word of three syllables.

He who found
This blest enthusiasm nerve his weary heart.

There are, however, some errors of accentuation—for example:

So strong in that misanthrope's bosom wrought
A frenzied malice.

Again—

He would have made himself
A green oasis mid the strife of tongues.

We observe too that Mrs. Sigourney places the accent in Wyoming on the second syllable.

'Twas summer in Wyoming. Through the breast,
&c.

———And the lore
Of sad Wyoming's chivalry, a part
Of classic song.

But we have no right to quarrel with her for this. The word is so pronounced by those who should know best. Campbell, however, places the accent on the first syllable.

On Susquehannah's banks, fair Wyoming!

We will conclude our remarks upon Zinzendorff with a passage of surpassing beauty, energy, and poetic power. Why cannot Mrs. Sigourney write always thus?

———Not a breath
Disturbed the tide of eloquence. So fixed
Were that rude auditory, it would seem
Almost as if a nation had become
Bronzed into statues. Now and then a sigh,
The unbidden messenger of thought profound,
Parted the lip; or some barbarian brow
Contracted closer in a haughty frown,
As scowled the cynic, 'mid his idol fanes,
When on Mars-Hill the inspired Apostle preached
Jesus of Nazareth.

These lines are glowing all over with the true radiance of poetry. The image in italics is perfect. Of the versification, it is not too much to say that it reminds us of Miltonic power. The slight roughness in the line commencing "When on Mars-Hill," and the discord introduced at the word "inspired," evince an ear attuned to the delicacies of melody, and form an appropriate introduction to the sonorous and emphatic closing—Jesus of Nazareth.

Of the minor poems in the volume before us, we must be pardoned for speaking in a cursory manner. Of course they include many degrees of excellence. Their beauties and their faults are, generally, the beauties and the faults of Zinzendorff. We will particularize a few of each.

On page 67, in a poem entitled Female Education, occur the following lines:

——Break Oblivion's sleep,
And toil with florist's art
To plant the scenes of virtue deep
In childhood's fruitful heart!
To thee the babe is given,
Fair from its glorious Sire;
Go—nurse it for the King of Heaven,
And He will pay the hire.

The conclusion of this is bathetic to a degree bordering upon the grotesque.

At page 160 is an error in metre—of course an oversight. We point it out merely because, did we write ourselves, we should like to be treated in a similar manner. For 'centred' we should probably read 'concentred.'

The wealth of every age
Thou hast centered here,
The ancient tome, the classic page,
The wit, the poet, and the sage,
All at thy nod appear.

At page 233, line 10, the expression "Thou wert their friend," although many precedents may be found to justify it—is nevertheless not English. The same error occurs frequently in the volume.

The poem entitled The Pholas, at page 105, has the following introductory prose sentence: "It is a fact familiar to Conchologists, that the genus Pholas possesses the property of phosphorescence. It has been asserted that this may be restored, even when the animal is in a dried state, by the application of water, but is extinguished by the least quantity of brandy." This odd fact in Natural History is precisely what Cowley would have seized with avidity for the purpose of preaching therefrom a poetical homily on Temperance. But that Mrs. Sigourney should have thought herself justifiable in using it for such purpose, is what we cannot understand. What business has her good taste with so palpable and so ludicrous a conceit? Let us now turn to a more pleasing task.

In the Friends of Man, (a poem originally published in our own Messenger,) the versification throughout is of the first order of excellence. We select an example.

The youth at midnight sought his bed,
But ere he closed his eyes,
Two forms drew near with gentle tread,
In meek and saintly guise;
One struck a lyre of wondrous power,
With thrilling music fraught,
That chained the flying summer hour,
And charmed the listener's thought—
For still would its tender cadence be
Follow me! follow me!
And every morn a smile shall bring,
Sweet as the merry lay I sing.

The lines entitled Filial Grief, at page 199, are worthy of high praise. Their commencement is chaste, simple, and altogether exquisite. The verse italicized contains an unjust metaphor, but we are forced to pardon it for the sonorous beauty of its expression.

The love that blest our infant dream,
That dried our earliest tear,
The tender voice, the winning smile,
That made our home so dear,
The hand that urged our youthful thought
O'er low delights to soar,
Whose pencil wrote upon our souls,
Alas, is ours no more.

We will conclude our extracts with "Poetry" from page 57. The burden of the song finds a ready echo in our bosoms.

Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
Enchantment led the hour,
And Mirth and Music drank the dews
That freshened Beauty's flower—
Then from her bower of deep delight
I heard a young girl sing,
"Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing!"

The sun in noon-day heat rose high,
And on with heaving breast
I saw a weary pilgrim toil,
Unpitied and unblest—
Yet still in trembling measures flow'd
Forth from a broken string,
"Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing!"

'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
Home to a glorious sphere—
Yet still it sighed, even when was spread
The waiting Angel's wing,
"Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing!"

We now bid adieu to Mrs. Sigourney—yet we trust only for a time. We shall behold her again. When that period arrives, having thrown aside the petty shackles which have hitherto enchained her, she will assume, at once, that highest station among the poets of our land which her noble talents so well qualify her for attaining.

The remarks which we made in the beginning of our critique on Mrs. Sigourney, will apply, in an equal degree, to Miss Gould. Her reputation has been greatly assisted by the frequency of her appeals to the attention of the public. The poems (one hundred and seventeen in number,) included in the volume now before us have all, we believe, appeared, from time to time, in the periodicals of the day. Yet in no other point of view, can we trace the remotest similarity between the two poetesses. We have already pointed out the prevailing characteristics of Mrs. Sigourney. In Miss Gould we recognize, first, a disposition, like that of Wordsworth, to seek beauty where it is not usually sought—in the homelinesses (if we may be permitted the word,) and in the most familiar realities of existence—secondly abandon of manner—thirdly a phraseology sparkling with antithesis, yet, strange to say, perfectly simple and unaffected.

Without Mrs. Sigourney's high reach of thought, Miss Gould surpasses her rival in the mere vehicle of thought—expression. "Words, words, words," are the true secret of her strength. Words are her kingdom—and in the realm of language, she rules with equal despotism and nonchalance. Yet we do not mean to deny her abilities of a higher order than any which a mere logocracy can imply. Her powers of imagination are great, and she has a faculty of inestimable worth, when considered in relation to effect—the faculty of holding ordinary ideas in so novel, and sometimes in so fantastic a light, as to give them all of the appearance, and much of the value, of originality. Miss Gould will, of course, be the favorite with the multitude—Mrs. Sigourney with the few.

We can think of no better manner of exemplifying these few observations, than by extracting part of Miss G's little poem, The Great Refiner.

'Tis sweet to feel that he, who tries
The silver, takes his seat
Beside the fire that purifies;
Lest too intense a heat,
Raised to consume the base alloy,
The precious metal too destroy.

'Tis good to think how well he knows
The silver's power to bear
The ordeal to which it goes;
And that with skill and care,
He'll take it from the fire, when fit
For his own hand to polish it.

'Tis blessedness to know that he
The piece he has begun
Will not forsake, till he can see,
To prove the work well done,
An image by its brightness shown
The perfect likeness of his own.

The mind which could conceive the subject of this poem, and find poetic appropriateness in a forced analogy between a refiner of silver, over his crucible, and the Great Father of all things, occupied in the mysteries of redeeming Grace, we cannot believe a mind adapted to the loftier breathings of the lyre. On the other hand, the delicate finish of the illustration, the perfect fitness of one portion for another, the epigrammatic nicety and point of the language, give evidence of a taste exquisitely alive to the prettinesses of the Muse. It is possible that Miss Gould has been led astray in her conception of this poem by the scriptural expression, "He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver."

From the apparently harsh strictures we have thought it our duty to make upon the poetry of Miss Gould, must be excepted one exquisite little morceau at page 59 of the volume now under review. It is entitled The Dying Storm. We will quote it in full.

I am feeble, pale and weary,
And my wings are nearly furled;
I have caused a scene so dreary,
I am glad to quit the world!
With bitterness I'm thinking
On the evil I have done,
And to my caverns sinking
From the coming of the sun.

The heart of man will sicken
In that pure and holy light,
When he feels the hopes I've stricken
With an everlasting blight!
For widely, in my madness,
Have I poured abroad my wrath,
And changing joy to sadness,
Scattered ruin on my path.

Earth shuddered at my motion,
And my power in silence owns;
But the deep and troubled ocean
O'er my deeds of horror moans!
I have sunk the brightest treasure—
I've destroyed the fairest form—
I have sadly filled my measure,
And am now a dying storm.

We have much difficulty in recognizing these verses as from the pen of Miss Gould. They do not contain a single trace of her manner, and still less of the prevailing features of her thought. Setting aside the flippancy of the metre, ill adapted to the sense, we have no fault to find. All is full, forcible, and free from artificiality. The personification of the storm, in its perfect simplicity, is of a high order of poetic excellence—the images contained in the lines italicized, all of the very highest.

Many but not all of the poems in Mrs. Ellet's volume, likewise, have been printed before—appearing, within the last two years, in different periodicals. The whole number of pieces now published is fifty-seven. Of these thirty-nine are original. The rest are translations from the French of Alphonse de Lamartine and Beranger—from the Spanish of Quevedo and Yriarte—from the Italian of Ugo Foscolo, Alfieri, Fulvio Testi, Pindemonte, and Saverio Bettinelli,—and from the German of Schiller. As evidences of the lady's acquaintance with the modern languages, these translations are very creditable to her. Where we have had opportunities of testing the fidelity of her versions by reference to the originals, we have always found reason to be satisfied with her performances. A too scrupulous adherence to the text is certainly not one of her faults—nor can we yet justly call her, in regard to the spirit of her authors, a latitudinarian. We wish, however, to say that, in fully developing the meaning of her originals, she has too frequently neglected their poetical characters. Let us refer to the lady's translation of the Swallows. We have no hesitation in saying, that not the slightest conception of Pierre Jean de Beranger, can be obtained by the perusal of the lines at page 112, of the volume now before us.

Bring me, I pray—an exile sad—
Some token of that valley bright,
Where in my sheltered childhood glad,
The future was a dream of light.
Beside the gentle stream, where swell
Its waves beneath the lilac tree,
Ye saw the cot I love so well—
And speak ye of that home to me?

We have no fault to find with these verses in themselves—as specimens of the manner of the French chansonnier, we have no patience with them. What we have quoted, is the second stanza of the song. Our remarks, here, with some little modification, would apply to the Sepulchres of Foscolo, especially to the passage commencing

Yes—Pindemonte!
The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds
By great men's monuments, &c.

They would apply, also, with somewhat less force, to Lamartine's Loss of the Anio, in the original of which by the way, we cannot perceive the lines answering to Mrs. E's verses

All that obscures thy sovereign majesty
Degrades our glory in degrading thee.

Quevedo's Sonnet Rome in Ruins, we happen to have by us at this moment. The translation in this instance is faultless, and combines, happily, a close approximation to the meaning of the original, with its quaint air and pompous rhythm. The Sonnet itself is a plagiarism entire, from Girolamo Preti. The opening lines of Quevedo,

Pilgrim! in vain thou seekest in Rome for Rome!
Alas! the Queen of nations is no more!
Dust are her towers, that proudly frowned of yore,
And her stern hills themselves have built their tomb,

are little else than the

Roma in Roma non è
In se stessa cadeo morta e sepolta, &c.

of Girolamo. But this is no concern of Mrs. Ellet's.

Of the original poems, which form the greater part of the volume, we have hardly been able to form an opinion, during the cursory perusal we have given them. Some of them have merit. Some we think unworthy of the talents which their author has undoubtedly displayed. The epigram, for example, at page 102 is rather a silly joke upon a threadbare theme, and, however well it might have suited Mrs. Ellet's purpose to indite it, she should have had more discretion than to give it permanency in a collection of her poems.

Echo was once a love sick maid
They say: the tale is no deceiver.
Howe'er a woman's form might fade
Her voice would be the last to leave her!

The tragedy (Teresa Contarini) at the end of the volume, "is founded," says the authoress, "upon an incident well known in the history of Venice, which has formed the material for various works of fiction." Mrs. E. has availed herself of a drama of Nicolini's in part of the first scene of the first act, and in the commencement of the fifth act. The resemblance between the two plays is, however, very slight. In plot—in the spirit of the dialogue—and in the range of incidents they differ altogether. Teresa Contarini was received with approbation at the Park Theatre in March 1835,—Miss Philips performing the heroine. We must confine ourselves to the simple remark, that the drama appears to us better suited to the closet than the stage.

In evidence that Mrs. Ellet is a poetess of no ordinary rank, we extract, from page 51 of her volume, a little poem rich in vigorous expression, and full of solemn thought. Its chief merits, however, are condensation and energy.

Hark—to the midnight bell!
The solemn peal rolls on
That tells us, with an iron tongue,
Another year is gone!
Gone with its hopes, its mockeries, and its fears,
To the dim rest which wraps our former years.

Gray pilgrim to the past!
We will not bid thee stay;
For joys of youth and passion's plaint
Thou bear'st alike away.
Alike the tones of mirth, and sorrow's swell
Gather to hymn thy parting.—Fare thee well!

Fill high the cup—and drink
To Time's unwearied sweep!
He claims a parting pledge from us—
And let the draught be deep!
We may not shadow moments fleet as this,
With tales of baffled hopes, or vanished bliss.

No comrade's voice is here,
That could not tell of grief—
Fill up!—We know that friendship's hours,
Like their own joys—are brief.
Drink to their brightness while they yet may last,
And drown in song the memory of the past!

The winter's leafless bough
In sunshine yet shall bloom;
And hearts that sink in sadness now
Ere long dismiss their gloom.
Peace to the sorrowing! Let our goblets flow,
In red wine mantling, for the tears of wo!

Once more! A welcoming strain!
A solemn sound—yet sweet!
While life is ours, Time's onward steps
In gladness will we greet!
Fill high the cup! What prophet lips may tell
Where we shall bid another year farewell!

With this extract, we close our observations on the writings of Mrs. Ellet—of Miss Gould—and of Mrs. Sigourney. The time may never arrive again, when we shall be called upon, by the circumstances of publication, to speak of them in connexion with one another.

THE PARTISAN.

The Partisan: A Tale of the Revolution. By the author of "The Yemassee," "Guy Rivers," &c. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers.

Mr. Simms has written, heretofore, "Atalantis, a Story of the Sea"—"Martin Faber, the Story of a Criminal"—"Guy Rivers, a Tale of Georgia," and "The Yemassee, a Romance of Carolina." Of these works, Martin Faber passed to a second edition—"Guy Rivers," and "The Yemassee" each to a third. With these evidences before us of our author's long acquaintance with the Muse, we must be pardoned if, in reviewing the volumes now upon our table, we make no allowances whatever on the score of a deficient experience. Mr. Simms either writes very well, or it is high time that he should.

"The Partisan" is inscribed to Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. of South Carolina; and the terms in which the compliment is conveyed, while attempting to avoid Scylla, have blundered upon Charybdis. The cant of verbiage is bad enough—but the cant of laconism is equally as bad. Let us transcribe the Dedication.

TO RICHARD YEADON, JR. ESQ.
Of South Carolina.

Dear Sir,

My earliest, and, perhaps, most pleasant rambles in the fields of literature, were taken in your company—permit me to remind you of that period by inscribing the present volumes with your name.

THE AUTHOR.

Barnwell, South Carolina.
July 1, 1835.

This is, indeed, the quintessence of brevity. At all events it is meant to be something better than such things usually are. It aims at point. It affects excessive terseness, excessive appropriateness, and excessive gentility. One might almost picture to the mind's eye the exact air and attitude of the writer as he indited the whole thing. Probably he compressed his lips—possibly he ran his fingers through his hair. Now a letter, generally, we may consider as the substitute for certain oral communications which the writer of the letter would deliver in person were an opportunity afforded. Let us then imagine the author of "The Partisan" presenting a copy of that work to "Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. of South Carolina," and let us, from the indications afforded by the printed Dedication, endeavor to form some idea of the author's demeanor upon an occasion so highly interesting. We may suppose Mr. Yeadon, in South Carolina, at home, and in his study. By and bye with a solemn step, downcast eyes, and impressive earnestness of manner, enters the author of "The Yemassee." He advances towards Mr. Yeadon, and, without uttering a syllable, takes that gentleman affectionately, but firmly, by the hand. Mr. Y. has his suspicions, as well he may have, but says nothing. Mr. S. commences as above. "Dear Sir," (here follows a pause, indicated by the comma after the word "Sir"—see Dedication. Mr. Y. very much puzzled what to make of it.) Mr. S. proceeds, "My earliest," (pause the second, indicated by comma the second,) "and," (pause the third, in accordance with comma the third,) "perhaps," (pause the fourth, as shewn by comma the fourth. Mr. Y. exceedingly mystified,) "most pleasant rambles in the fields of literature," (pause fifth) "were taken in your company" (pause sixth, to agree with the dash after 'company.' Mr. Y.'s hair begins to stand on end, and he looks occasionally towards the door,) "permit me to remind you of that period by inscribing the present volumes with your name." At the conclusion of the sentence, Mr. S. with a smile and a bow of mingled benignity and grace, turns slowly from Mr. Y. and advances to a table in the centre of the room. Pens and ink are there at his service. Drawing from the pocket of his surtout a pacquet carefully done up in silver paper, he unfolds it, and produces the two volumes of "The Partisan." With ineffable ease, and with an air of exquisite haut ton, he proceeds to inscribe in the title pages of each tome the name of Richard Yeadon, Jr. Esq. The scene, however, is interrupted. Mr. Y. feels it his duty to kick the author of "The Yemassee" down stairs.

Now, in this, all the actual burlesque consists in merely substituting things for words. There are many of our readers who will recognize in this imaginary interview between Mr. Yeadon and Mr. Simms, at least a family likeness to the written Dedication of the latter. This Dedication is, nevertheless, quite as good as one half the antique and lackadaisical courtesies with which we daily see the initial leaves of our best publications disfigured.

"The Partisan," as we are informed by Mr. Simms in his Advertisement, (Preface?) was originally contemplated as one novel of a series to be devoted to our war of Independence. "With this object," says the author, "I laid the foundation more broadly and deeply than I should have done, had I purposed merely the single work. Several of the persons employed were destined to be the property of the series—that part of it at least which belonged to the locality. Three of these works were to have been devoted to South Carolina, and to comprise three distinct periods of the war of the Revolution in that State. One, and the first of these, is the story now submitted to the reader. I know not that I shall complete, or even continue the series." Upon the whole we think that he had better not.

There is very little plot or connexion in the book before us; and Mr. Simms has evidently aimed at neither. Indeed we hardly know what to think of the work at all. Perhaps, with some hesitation, we may call it an historical novel. The narrative begins in South Carolina, during the summer of 1780, and comprises the leading events of the Revolution from the fall of Charleston, to the close of that year. We have the author's own words for it that his object has been principally to give a fair picture of the province—its condition, resources, and prospects—during the struggle between Gates and Cornwallis, and the period immediately subsequent to the close of the campaign in the defeat of the Southern defending army. Mr. S. assures us that the histories of the time have been continually before him in the prosecution of this object, and that, where written records were found wanting, their places have been supplied by local chronicles and tradition. Whether the idea ever entered the mind of Mr. Simms that his very laudable design, as here detailed, might have been better carried into effect by a work of a character purely historical, we, of course, have no opportunity of deciding. To ourselves, every succeeding page of "The Partisan" rendered the supposition more plausible. The interweaving fact with fiction is at all times hazardous, and presupposes on the part of general readers that degree of intimate acquaintance with fact which should never be presupposed. In the present instance, the author has failed, so we think, in confining either his truth or his fable within its legitimate, individual domain. Nor do we at all wonder at his failure in performing what no novelist whatever has hitherto performed.

Some pains have been taken in the preface of "The Partisan," to bespeak the reader's favorable decision in regard to certain historical facts—or rather in regard to the coloring given them by Mr. Simms. We refer particularly to the conduct of General Gates in South Carolina. We would, generally, prefer reading an author's book, to reading his criticism upon it. But letting this matter pass, we do not think Mr. S. has erred in attributing gross negligence, headstrong obstinacy, and overweening self-conceit to the conqueror at Saratoga. These charges are sustained by the best authorities—by Lee, by Johnson, by Otho Williams, and by all the histories of the day. No apology is needed for stating the truth. In regard to the "propriety of insisting upon the faults and foibles of a man conspicuous in our history," Mr. Simms should give himself little uneasiness. It is precisely because the man is conspicuous in our history, that we should have no hesitation in condemning his errors.

With the events which are a portion of our chronicles, the novelist has interwoven such fictitious incidents and characters as might enable him to bind up his book in two volumes duodecimo, and call it "The Partisan." The Partisan himself, and the hero of the novel, is a Major Robert Singleton. His first introduction to the reader is as follows. "It was on a pleasant afternoon in June, that a tall, well-made youth, probably twenty-four or five years of age, rode up to the door of the 'George,' (in the village of Dorchester,) and throwing his bridle to a servant, entered the hotel. His person had been observed, and his appearance duly remarked upon, by several persons already assembled in the hall which he now approached. The new comer, indeed, was not one to pass unnoticed. His person was symmetry itself, and the ease with which he managed his steed, and the"————but we spare our readers any farther details in relation to either the tall, well-made youth, or his steed, which latter they may take for granted was quite as tall, and equally well made. We cut the passage short with the less hesitation, inasmuch as a perfect fac-simile of it may be found near the commencement of every fashionable novel since the flood. Singleton is a partisan in the service of Marion, whose disposition, habits, and character are well painted, and well preserved, throughout the Tale. A Mr. Walton is the uncle of Singleton, and has been induced, after the surrender of Charleston (spelt Charlestown) to accept of a British protection, the price of which is neutrality. This course he has been led to adopt, principally on account of his daughter Katharine, who would lose her all in the confiscation of her father's property—a confiscation to be avoided by no other means than those of the protection. Singleton's sister resides with Col. Walton's family, at "The Oaks," near Dorchester, where the British Col. Proctor is in command. At the instigation of Singleton, who has an eye to the daughter of Col. Walton, that gentleman is induced to tear up the disgraceful protection, and levy a troop, with which he finally reaches the army of Gates. Most of the book is occupied with the ambuscades, bush fighting, and swamp adventures of partisan warfare in South Carolina. These passages are all highly interesting—but as they have little connexion with one another, we must dismiss them en masse. The history of the march of Gates' army, his fool-hardiness, and consequent humiliating discomfiture by Cornwallis, are as well told as any details of a like nature can be told, in language exceedingly confused, ill-arranged, and ungrammatical. This defeat hastens the dénouement, or rather the leading incident, of the novel. Col. Walton is made prisoner, and condemned to be hung, as a rebel taken in arms. He is sent to Dorchester for the fulfilment of the sentence. Singleton, urged by his own affection, as well as by the passionate exhortations of his cousin Katharine, determines upon the rescue of his uncle at all hazards. A plot is arranged for this purpose. On the morning appointed for execution, a troop of horse is concealed in some underwood near the scaffold. Bella Humphries, the daughter of an avowed tory, but a whig at heart, is stationed in the belfry of the village church, and her father himself is occupied in arranging materials for setting Dorchester on fire upon a given signal. This signal (the violent ringing of the church bell by Bella) is given at the moment when Col. Walton arrives in a cart at the foot of the gallows. Great confusion ensues among those not in the secret—a confusion heightened no little by the sudden conflagration of the village. During the hubbub the troop concealed in the thicket rush upon the British guard in attendance. The latter are beaten down, and Walton is carried off in triumph by Singleton. The hand of Miss Katharine is, as a matter of course, the reward of the Major's gallantry.

Of the numerous personages who figure in the book, some are really excellent—some horrible. The historical characters are, without exception, well drawn. The portraits of Cornwallis, Gates, and Marion, are vivid realities—those of De Kalb and the Claverhouse-like Tarleton positively unsurpassed by any similar delineations within our knowledge. The fictitious existences in "The Partisan" will not bear examination. Singleton is about as much of a non-entity as most other heroes of our acquaintance. His uncle is no better. Proctor, the British Colonel, is cut out in buckram. Sergeant Hastings, the tory, is badly drawn from a bad model. Young Humphries is a braggadocio—Lance Frampton is an idiot—and Doctor Oakenburg is an ass. Goggle is another miserable addition to the list of those anomalies so swarming in fiction, who are represented as having vicious principles, for no other reason than because they have ugly faces. Of the females we can hardly speak in a more favorable manner. Bella, the innkeeper's daughter is, we suppose, very much like an innkeeper's daughter. Mrs. Blonay, Goggle's mother, is a hag worth hanging. Emily, Singleton's sister, is not what we would wish her. Too much stress is laid upon the interesting features of the consumption which destroys her; and the whole chapter of abrupt sentimentality, in which we are introduced to her sepulchre before having notice of her death, is in the very worst style of times un peu passés. Katharine Walton is somewhat better than either of the ladies above mentioned. In the beginning of the book, however, we are disgusted with that excessive prudishness which will not admit of a lover's hand resting for a moment upon her own—in the conclusion, we are provoked to a smile when she throws herself into the arms of the same lover, without even waiting for his consent.

One personage, a Mr. Porgy, we have not mentioned in his proper place among the dramatis personæ, because we think he deserves a separate paragraph of animadversion. This man is a most insufferable bore; and had we, by accident, opened the book when about to read it for the first time, at any one of his manifold absurdities, we should most probably have thrown aside "The Partisan" in disgust. Porgy is a backwoods imitation of Sir Somebody Guloseton, the epicure, in one of the Pelham novels. He is a very silly compound of gluttony, slang, belly, and balderdash philosophy, never opening his mouth for a single minute at a time, without making us feel miserable all over. The rude and unqualified oaths with which he seasons his language deserve to be seriously reprehended. There is positively neither wit nor humor in an oath of any kind—but the oaths of this Porgy are abominable. Let us see how one or two of them will look in our columns. Page 174, vol. ii—"Then there was no tricking a fellow—persuading him to put his head into a rope without showing him first how d——d strong it was." Page 169, vol. ii—"Tom, old boy, why d——n it, that fellow's bloodied your nose." Page 167, vol. ii—"I am a pacific man, and my temper is not ungentle; but to disturb my slumbers which are so necessary to the digestive organs—stop, I say—d——n!—don't pull so!" Page 164, vol. ii—"Well, Tom, considering how d——d bad those perch were fried, I must confess I enjoyed them." Page 164, vol. ii—"Such spice is a d——d bad dish for us when lacking cayenne." Page 163, vol. ii—"Dr. Oakenburg, your d——d hatchet hip is digging into my side." Page 162, vol. ii—"The summer duck, with its glorious plumage, skims along the same muddy lake, on the edge of which the d——d bodiless crane screams and crouches." In all these handsome passages Porgy loquitur, and it will be perceived that they are all to be found within a few pages of each other—such attempts to render profanity less despicable by rendering it amusing, should be frowned down indignantly by the public. Of Porgy's philosophy we subjoin a specimen from page 89, vol. ii. "A dinner once lost is never recovered. The stomach loses a day, and regrets are not only idle to recall it, but subtract largely from the appetite the day ensuing. Tears can only fall from a member that lacks teeth; the mouth now is never seen weeping. It is the eye only; and, as it lacks tongue, teeth, and taste alike, by Jupiter, it seems to me that tears should be its proper business." How Mr. Simms should ever have fallen into the error of imagining such horrible nonsense as that in Italics, to be either witty or wise, is to us a mystery of mysteries. Yet Porgy is evidently a favorite with the author.

Some two or three paragraphs above we made use of these expressions. "The history of the march of Gates' army, his fool-hardiness, &c. are as well told as any details of a like nature can be told in language exceedingly confused, ill-arranged, and ungrammatical." Mr. Simms' English is bad—shockingly bad. This is no mere assertion on our parts—we proceed to prove it. "Guilt," says our author, (see page 98, vol. i.) "must always despair its charm in the presence of the true avenger"—what is the meaning of this sentence?—after much reflection we are unable to determine. At page 115, vol. i, we have these words. "He was under the guidance of an elderly, drinking sort of person—one of the fat, beefy class, whose worship of the belly-god has given an unhappy distension to that ambitious, though most erring member." By the 'most erring member' Mr. S. means to say the belly—but the sentence implies the belly-god. Again, at page 126, vol. i. "It was for the purpose of imparting to Col. Walton the contents of that not yet notorious proclamation of Sir Henry Clinton, with which he demanded the performance of military duty from the persons who had been paroled; and by means of which, on departing from the province, he planted the seeds of that revolting patriotism which finally overthrew his authority." It is unnecessary to comment on the unauthorized use here, of the word 'revolting.' In the very next sentence we see the following. "Colonel Walton received his guests with his accustomed urbanity: he received them alone." This language implies that Colonel Walton received those particular guests and no others, and should be read with an emphasis on the word 'them'—but Mr. Simms' meaning is very different. He wishes to say that Col. Walton was alone when his guests were ushered into his presence. At page 136, vol. i, the hero, Singleton, concludes a soliloquy with the ungrammatical phrase, "And yet none love her like me!" At page 143, vol. i, we read—"'That need not surprise you, Miss Walton; you remember that ours are British soldiers'—smiling, and with a bow was the response of the Colonel." We have no great difficulty herein guessing what Mr. Simms wishes to say—his actual words convey no meaning whatever. The present participle 'smiling' has no substantive to keep it company; and the 'bow,' as far as regards its syntactical disposition, may be referred with equal plausibility to the Colonel, to Miss Walton, to the British soldiers, or to the author of "The Partisan." At page 147, vol. i, we are told—"She breathed more freely released from his embrace, and he then gazed upon her with a painful sort of pleasure, her look was so clear, so dazzling, so spiritual, so unnaturally life-like." The attempt at paradox has here led Mr. Simms into error. The painful sort of pleasure we may suffer to pass; but life is the most natural thing in the world, and to call any object unnaturally life-like is as much a bull proper as to style it artificially natural. At page 148, we hear "that the disease had not yet shown upon her system." Shown is here used as a neuter verb—shown itself Mr. S. meant to say. We are at a loss, too, to understand what is intended, at page 149, vol. i, by "a look so pure, so bright, so fond, so becoming of heaven, yet so hopeless of earth." Becoming heaven, not of heaven, we presume should be the phrase—but even thus the sentence is unintelligible. At page 156, vol. i, a countryman "loves war to the knife better than degradation to the chain." This is a pitiable antithesis. In the first clause, the expression 'to the knife' is idiomatic; in the second, the words 'to the chain' have a literal meaning. At page 88, vol. i, we read—"The half-military eye would have studiously avoided the ridge," &c. The epithet "half-military" does not convey the author's meaning. At page 204, vol. i. Mrs. Blonay is represented as striding across the floor "with a rapid movement hostile to the enfeebled appearance of her frame." Here the forcing "hostile" to mean not in accordance with, is unjustifiable. At page 14, vol. ii, these words occur. "Cheerless quite, bald of home and habitation, they saw nothing throughout the melancholy waste more imposing than the plodding negro." The "cheerless quite" and the "bald of home and habitation" would refer in strict grammatical construction to the pronoun "they"—but the writer means them to agree with "melancholy waste." At page 224, vol. i, we find the following. "The moon, obscured during the early part of the night, had now sunk westering so far," &c. At page 194, vol. ii, we are informed that "General Gates deigned no general consultation." At page 13, vol. ii. "Major Singleton bids the boy Lance Frampton in attendance"—and at page 95, vol. ii, we have the singular phenomenon of "an infant yet unborn adding its prayer to that of its mother for the vengeance to which he has devoted himself"—a sentence which we defy his Satanic Majesty to translate.

Mr. Simms has one or two pet words which he never fails introducing every now and then, with or without an opportunity. One of these is "coil"—another, "hug"—another, and a still greater favorite, is the compound "old-time." Let us see how many instances of the latter we can discover in looking over the volumes at random. Page 7, vol. i—"And with the revival of many old-time feelings, I strolled through the solemn ruins." Page 13, vol. i—"The cattle graze along the clustering bricks that distinguish the old-time chimney places." Page 20, vol. i—"He simply cocked his hat at the old-time customer." Page 121, vol. i—"The Oaks was one of those old-time residences." Page 148, vol. i—"I only wish for mommer as we wish for an old-time prospect." Page 3, vol. ii—

"Unfold—unfold—the day is going fast,
And I would know this old-time history."

Page 5, vol. ii—"The Carolinian well knows these old-time places." Page 98, vol. ii—"Look, before we shall have gone too far to return to them, upon these old-time tombs of Dorchester." Here are eight old-times discovered in a cursory glance over "The Partisan"—we believe there are ten times as many interspersed throughout the work. The coils are equally abundant, and the hugs innumerable.

One or two other faults we are forced to find. The old affectation of beginning a chapter abruptly has been held worthy of adoption by our novelist. He has even thought himself justifiable in imitating this silly practice in its most reprehensible form—we mean the form habitual with Bulwer and D'Israeli, and which not even their undoubted and indubitable genius could render any thing but despicable—that of commencing with an "And," a "But," or some other conjunction—thus rendering the initial sentence of the chapter in question, a continuation of the final sentence of the chapter preceding. We have an instance of this folly at page 102, vol. ii, where Chapter XII commences as follows: "But, though we turn aside from the highway to plant or to pluck the flower, we may not linger there idly or long." Again, at page 50 of the same volume, Chapter VII begins—"And two opposing and mighty principles were at fearful strife in that chamber." This piece of frippery need only be pointed out to be despised.

Instances of bad taste—villainously bad taste—occur frequently in the book. Of these the most reprehensible are to be found in a love for that mere physique of the horrible which has obtained for some Parisian novelists the title of the "French convulsives." At page 97, vol. ii, we are entertained with the minutest details of a murder committed by a maniac, Frampton, on the person of Sergeant Hastings. The madman suffocates the soldier by thrusting his head in the mud of a morass—and the yells of the murderer, and the kicks of the sufferer, are dwelt upon by Mr. Simms with that species of delight with which we have seen many a ragged urchin spin a cockchafer upon a needle. At page 120, vol. i, another murder is perpetrated by the same maniac in a manner too shockingly horrible to mention. The victim in this case is a poor tory, one Clough. At page 217, vol. i, the booby Goggle receives a flogging for desertion, and Mr. S. endeavors to interest us in the screeches of the wretch—in the cries of his mother—in the cracking of the whip—in the number of the lashes—in the depth, and length, and color of the wounds. At page 105, vol. ii, our friend Porgy has caught a terrapin, and the author of "The Yemassee" luxuriates in the manner of torturing the poor reptile to death, and more particularly in the writhings and spasms of the head, which he assures us with a smile "will gasp and jerk long after we have done eating the body."

One or two words more. Each chapter in "The Partisan" is introduced (we suppose in accordance with the good old fashion) by a brief poetical passage. Our author, however, has been wiser than his neighbors in the art of the initial motto. While others have been at the trouble of extracting, from popular works, quotations adapted to the subject-matter of their chapters, he has manufactured his own headings. We find no fault with him for so doing. The manufactured mottos of Mr. Simms are, perhaps, quite as convenient as the extracted mottos of his cotemporaries. All, we think, are abominable. As regards the fact of the manufacture there can be no doubt. None of the verses have we ever met with before—and they are altogether too full of coils, hugs, and old-times, to have any other parent than the author of "The Yemassee."

In spite, however, of its manifest and manifold blunders and impertinences, "The Partisan" is no ordinary work. Its historical details are replete with interest. The concluding scenes are well drawn. Some passages descriptive of swamp scenery are exquisite. Mr. Simms has evidently the eye of a painter. Perhaps, in sober truth, he would succeed better in sketching a landscape than he has done in writing a novel.

LATROBE'S RAMBLER.

The Rambler in North America, 1832-33. By Charles Joseph Latrobe, Author of "The Alpenstock," &c. New York; Harper and Brothers.

Mr. Latrobe is connected with a lineage of missionaries. He belongs to an English family long and honorably distinguished by their exertions in the cause of Christianity. His former work, "The Alpenstock," we have not seen—but the London Quarterly Review calls it "a pleasing and useful manual for travellers in Switzerland." The present volumes (dedicated to Washington Irving, whom Mr. L. accompanied in a late tour through the Prairies,) consist of thirty-seven letters addressed to F. B. Latrobe, a younger brother of the author. They form, upon the whole, one of the most instructive and amusing books we have perused for years.

By no means blind to our faults, to our foibles, or to our political difficulties, Mr. Latrobe has travelled from Dan to Beersheba without finding all barren. His observations are not confined to some one or two subjects, engrossing his attention to the exclusion, or to the imperfect examination, of all others. His wanderings among us have been apparently guided by a spirit of frank and liberal curiosity; and he deserves the good will of all Americans, (as he has most assuredly secured their esteem) by viewing us, not with a merely English eye, but with the comprehensive glance of a citizen of the world.

To speak in detail of a work so subdivided as "The Rambler in North America," would occupy too much of our time. We can, of course, only touch, in general terms, upon its merits and demerits. The latter, we can assure our readers, are few indeed. One instance, nevertheless, of what must be considered false inference from data undeniably correct, is brought to bear so pointedly against our social and political principles, and is, at the same time, so plausible in itself, and so convincingly worded, as to demand a sentence or two of comment. We quote the passage in full, the more willingly, as we perceive it dwelt upon with much emphasis, by the London Quarterly Review.

"There are certain signs, perhaps it might be said of the times, rather than of their peculiar political arrangements, which should make men pause in their judgment of the social state in America. The people are emancipated from the thraldom of mind and body which they consider consequent upon upholding the divine right of kings. They are all politically equal. All claim to place, patronage, or respect, for the bearer of a great name is disowned. Every man must stand or fall by himself alone, and must make or mar his fortune. Each is gratified in believing that he has his share in the government of the Union. You speak against the insane anxiety of the people to govern—of authority being detrimental to the minds of men raised from insignificance—of the essential vulgarity of minds which can attend to nothing but matter of fact and pecuniary interest—of the possibility of the existence of civilization without cultivation,—and you are not understood! I have said it may be the spirit of the times, for we see signs of it, alas, in Old England; but there must be something in the political atmosphere of America, which is more than ordinarily congenial to that decline of just and necessary subordination, which God has both permitted by the natural impulses of the human mind, and ordered in His word; and to me the looseness of the tie generally observable in many parts of the United States between the master and servant—the child and the parent—the scholar and the master—the governor and the governed—in brief the decay of loyal feeling in all the relations of life, was the worst sign of the times. Who shall say but that if these bonds are distorted and set aside, the first and the greatest—which binds us in subjection to the law of God—will not also be weakened, if not broken? This, and this alone, short-sighted as I am, would cause me to pause in predicting the future grandeur of America under its present system of government and structure of society."

In the sentence beginning, "I have said it may be the spirit of the times, for we see signs of it, alas, in Old England, but there must be something," &c. Mr. Latrobe has involved himself in a contradiction. By the words, "but there must be something in the political atmosphere of America which is more than ordinarily congenial to" insubordination, he implies (although unintentionally) that our natural impulses lead us in this direction—and that these natural impulses are permitted by God, we, at all events, are not permitted to doubt. In the words immediately succeeding those just quoted, he maintains (what is very true) that "subordination was both permitted by God in the natural impulses of the human mind, and ordered in His word." The question thus resolves itself into a matter of then and now—of times past and times present—of the days of the patriarchs and of the days of widely disseminated knowledge. The infallibility of the instinct of those natural impulses which led men to obey in the infancy of all things, we have no intention of denying—we must demand the same grace for those natural impulses which prompt men to govern themselves in the senectitude of the world. In the sentence, "Who shall say but that if these bonds are distorted and set aside, the first and the greatest—which binds us in subjection to the law of God—will not also be weakened, if not broken?" the sophistry is evident; and we have only a few words to say in reply. In the first place, the writer has assumed that those bonds are "distorted" and "set aside" which are merely slackened to an endurable degree. In the second place, the "setting aside" these bonds, (granting them to be set aside) so far from tending to weaken our subjection to the law of God, will the more readily confirm that subjection, inasmuch as our responsibilities to man have been denied, through the conviction of our responsibilities to God, and—to God alone.

We recommend "The Rambler" to the earnest attention of our readers. It is the best work on America yet published. Mr. Latrobe is a scholar, a man of intellect and a gentleman.

THE SOUTH-WEST.

The South-West. By a Yankee. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers.

This work, from the pen of Professor Ingraham, rivals the book of which we have just been speaking, in degree—although not in quality—of interest. Mr. Latrobe has proved himself a man of the world, an able teacher, and a philosopher. Professor Ingraham is an amusing traveller, full of fun, gossip, and shrewd remark. In all that relates to the "Mechanics of book-writing," the Englishman is immeasurably the superior.

Mr. I. in his "Introduction," informs us that his work "grew out of a private correspondence, which the author, at the solicitation of his friends, has been led to throw into the present form, modifying in a great measure the epistolary vein, and excluding, so far as possible, such portions of the original papers as were of too personal a nature to be intruded upon the majesty of the public—while he has embodied, so far as was compatible with the new arrangement, every thing likely to interest the general reader." The aim of the writer, we are also told, has been to present the result of his experience and observations during a residence of several years in that district of our country which gives the title to the work. It is, indeed, a matter for wonder that a similar object has never been carried into execution before. The South-West, embracing an extensive and highly interesting portion of the United States, is completely caviare to the multitude. Very little information, upon whose accuracy reliance may be placed, has been hitherto made public concerning these regions of Eldorado—and were the volumes of Professor Ingraham absolutely worthless in every other respect, we should still be inclined to do them all possible honor for their originality in subject matter. But the "South-West" is very far from worthless. In spite of a multitude of faults which the eye of rigid criticism might easily detect—in spite of some inaccuracies in point of fact, many premature opinions, and an inveterate habit of writing what neither is, nor should be English, the Professor has succeeded in making a book, whose abiding interest, coming home to the bosoms and occupations of men, will cause any future productions of the same author to be looked for with anxiety.

The "Yankee," in travelling Southward, has evidently laid aside the general prejudices of a Yankee—and, viewing the book of Professor Ingraham, as representing, in its very liberal opinions, those of a great majority of well educated Northern gentlemen, we are inclined to believe it will render essential services in the way of smoothing down a vast deal of jealousy and misconception. The traveller from the North has evinced no disposition to look with a jaundiced eye upon the South—to pervert its misfortunes into crimes—or distort its necessities into sins of volition. He has spoken of slavery as he found it—and it is almost needless to say that he found it a very different thing from the paintings he had seen of it in red ochre. He has discovered, in a word, that while the physical condition of the slave is not what it has been represented, the slave himself is utterly incompetent to feel the moral galling of his chain. Indeed, we cordially agree with a distinguished Northern contemporary and friend, that the Professor's strict honesty, impartiality, and unprejudiced common sense, on the trying subject which has so long agitated our community, is the distinguishing and the most praiseworthy feature of his book. Yet it has other excellences, and excellences of a high character. As a specimen of the picturesque, we extract a passage beginning at page 27, vol. i.

"'Keep away a little, or you'll run that fellow down,' suddenly shouted the captain to the helmsman; and the next moment the little fishing vessel shot swiftly under our stern, just barely clearing the spanker boom, whirling and bouncing about in the wild swirl of the ship's wake like a 'Masallah boat' in the surf of Madras.

"There were on board of her four persons, including the steersman—a tall, gaunt old man, whose uncovered gray locks streamed in the wind as he stooped to his little rudder to luff up across our wake. The lower extremities of a loose pair of tar-coated duck trowsers, which he wore, were incased, including the best part of his legs, in a pair of fisherman's boots, made of leather, which would flatten a rifle ball. His red flannel shirt left his hairy breast exposed to the icy winds, and a huge pea-jacket, thrown, Spanish fashion, over his shoulders, was fastened at the throat by a single button. His tarpaulin—a little narrow-brimmed hat of the pot-lid tribe, secured by a ropeyarn—had probably been thrown off in the moment of danger, and now hung swinging by a lanyard from the lower button-hole of his jacket.

"As his little vessel struggled like a drowning man in the yawning concave made by the ship, he stood with one hand firmly grasping his low, crooked rudder, and with the other held the main sheet, which alone he tended. A short pipe protruded from his mouth, at which he puffed away incessantly; one eye was tightly closed, and the other was so contracted in a network of wrinkles, that I could just discern the twinkle of a gray pupil, as he cocked it up at our quarter-deck, and took in with it the noble size, bearing, and apparel of our fine ship.

"A duplicate of the old helmsman, though less battered by storms and time, wearing upon his chalky locks a red, woollen, conical cap, was 'easing off' the foresheet as the little boat passed; and a third was stretching his neck up the companion ladder, to stare at the 'big ship,' while the little carroty-headed imp, who was just the old skipper razeed, was performing the culinary operations of his little kitchen under cover of the heavens."

The portions of the book immediately relating to New Orleans—its odd buildings—its motley assemblage of inhabitants—their manners and free habitudes, have especially delighted us; and cannot fail, of delighting, in general, all lovers of the stirring and life-like. A novelist of talent would find New Orleans the place of all places for the localities of a romance—and in such case he might derive important aid from the "South-West" of Professor Ingraham. At page 140, vol. i, we were much interested in the following account of a fire.

"As I gained the front of this mass of human beings, that activity which most men possess, who are not modelled after 'fat Jack,' enabled me to gain an elevation whence I had an unobstructed view of the whole scene of conflagration. The steamers were lying side by side at the Levée, and one of them was enveloped in wreaths of flame, bursting from a thousand cotton bales, which were piled, tier above tier, upon her decks. The inside boat, though having no cotton on board, was rapidly consuming, as the huge streams of fire lapped and twined around her. The night was perfectly calm, but a strong whirlwind had been created by the action of the heat upon the atmosphere, and now and then it swept down in its invisible power, with the 'noise of a rushing mighty wind,' and as the huge serpentine flames darted upward, the solid cotton bales would be borne round the tremendous vortex like feathers, and then—hurled away into the air, blazing like giant meteors—would descend heavily and rapidly into the dark bosom of the river. The next moment they would rise and float upon the surface, black unshapely masses of tinder. As tier after tier, bursting with fire, fell in upon the burning decks, the sweltering flames, for a moment smothered, preceded by a volcanic discharge of ashes, which fell in showers upon the gaping spectators, would break from their confinement, and darting upward with multitudinous large wads of cotton, shoot them away through the air, filling the sky for a moment with a host of flaming balls. Some of them were borne a great distance through the air, and falling lightly upon the surface of the water, floated, from their buoyancy, a long time unextinguished. The river became studded with fire, and as far as the eye could reach below the city, it presented one of the most magnificent, yet awful spectacles, I had ever beheld or imagined. Literally spangled with flame, those burning fragments in the distance being diminished to specks of light, it had the appearance, though far more dazzling and brilliant, of the starry firmament. There were but two miserable engines to play with this gambolling monster, which, one moment lifting itself to a great height in the air, in huge spiral wreaths, like some immense snake, at the next would contract itself within its glowing furnace, or coil and dart along the decks like troops of fiery serpents, and with the roaring noise of a volcano."

Having spoken thus far of the "South-West," in terms of commendation, we must now be allowed to assert, in plain words, what we have before only partially hinted, that the Professor is indebted, generally, for his success, more to the innate interest of his subject matter, than to his manner of handling it. Numerous instances of bad taste occur throughout the volumes. The constant straining after wit and vivacity is a great blemish. Faulty constructions of style force themselves upon one's attention at every page. Gross blunders in syntax abound. The Professor does not appear to understand French. This is no sin in itself—but to quote what one does not understand is a folly. Turks' Heads à la Grec, for example, is ridiculous—see page 34, vol. i. Bulls too are occasionally met with—which are none the better for being classical bulls. We cannot bear to hear of Boreas blowing Zephyrs.

POETRY OF LIFE.

The Poetry of Life. By Sarah Stickney, Author of "Pictures of Private Life." Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.

These two volumes are subdivided as follows. Characteristics of Poetry—Why certain objects are, or are not poetical—Individual Associations—General Associations—The Poetry of Flowers—The Poetry of Trees—The Poetry of Animals—The Poetry of Evening—The Poetry of the Moon—The Poetry of Rural Life—The Poetry of Painting—The Poetry of Sound—The Poetry of Language—The Poetry of Love—The Poetry of Grief—The Poetry of Woman—The Poetry of the Bible—The Poetry of Religion—Impression—Imagination—Power—Taste—Conclusion.

In a Preface remarkable for neatness of style and precision of thought, Miss Stickney has very properly circumscribed within definite limits the design of her work—whose title, without such explanation, might have led us to expect too much at her hands. It would have been better, however, had the fair authoress, by means of a different title, which her habits of accurate thinking might have easily suggested, rendered this explanation unnecessary. Except in some very rare instances, where a context may be tolerated, if not altogether justified, a work, either of the pen or the pencil, should contain within itself every thing requisite for its own comprehension. "The design of the present volumes," says Miss Stickney, "is to treat of poetic feeling, rather than poetry; and this feeling I have endeavored to describe as the great connecting link between our intellects and our affections; while the customs of society, as well as the license of modern literature, afford me sufficient authority for the use of the word life in its widely extended sense, as comprehending all the functions, attributes, and capabilities peculiar to sentient beings."

We remember having read the "Pictures of Private Life" with interest of no common kind, and with a corresponding anxiety to know something more of the author. In them were apparent the calm enthusiasm, and the analytical love of beauty, which are now the distinguishing features of the volumes before us. We have perused the "Poetry of Life" with an earnestness of attention, and a degree of real pleasure very seldom excited in our minds. It is a work giving evidence of more profundity than discrimination—with no ordinary quantum of either. What is said, if not always indisputable, is said with a simplicity, and a scrupulous accuracy which leave us, not for one moment, in doubt of what is intended, and impress us, at the same time, with a high opinion of the author's ability. Miss Stickney's manner is very good—her English pure, harmonious, in every respect unexceptionable. With a strong understanding, and withal a keen relish for the minor forms of poetic excellence—a strictness of conception which will ever prevent her from running into gross error—she is still, we think, insufficiently alive to the delicacies of the beautiful—unable fully to appreciate the energies of the sublime.

We were forcibly impressed with these opinions, in looking over, for the second time, the chapter of our fair authoress, "On the Poetry of Language." What we have just said in relation to her accuracy of thought and expression, and her appreciation of the minor forms of poetic excellence, will be exemplified in the passage we now quote, beginning at page 187, vol. i.

"There can scarcely be a more beautiful and appropriate arrangement of words, than in the following stanza from Childe Harold:

The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew,
As glad to waft him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
And then it may be of his wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

"Without committing a crime so heinous as that of entirely spoiling this verse, it is easy to alter it so as to bring it down to the level of ordinary composition; and thus we may illustrate the essential difference between poetry and mere versification.

The sails were trimm'd and fair the light winds blew,
As glad to force him from his native home,
And fast the white rocks vanish'd from his view,
And soon were lost amid the circling foam:
And then, perchance, of his fond wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The wish, nor from his silent lips did come
One mournful word, whilst others sat and wept,
And to the heedless breeze their fruitless moaning kept.

"It is impossible not to be struck with the harmony of the original words as they are placed in this stanza. The very sound is graceful, as well as musical; like the motion of the winds and waves, blended with the majestic movement of a gallant ship. 'The sails were filled' conveys no association with the work of man; but substitute the word trimmed, and you see the busy sailors at once. The word 'waft' follows in perfect unison with the whole of the preceding line, and maintains the invisible agency of the 'light winds;' while the word 'glad' before it, gives an idea of their power as an unseen intelligence. 'Fading' is also a happy expression, to denote the gradual obscurity and disappearing of the 'white rocks;' but the 'circumambient foam' is perhaps the most poetical expression of the whole, and such as could scarcely have proceeded from a low or ordinary mind."

All this is well—but what follows is not so. "It may be amusing"—says Miss Stickney, at page 189, "to see how a poet, and that of no mean order, can undesignedly murder his own offspring"—and she proceeds to extract, from Shelley, in illustration, some passages, of whose exquisite beauty she has evidently not the slightest comprehension. She commences with

"Music, when soft voices die
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken."

"Sicken" is here italicized; and the author of the "Poetry of Life" thinks the word so undeniably offensive as to render a farther allusion to it unnecessary. A few lines below, she quotes, in the same tone of criticism, the terrific image in the Ode to Naples.

"Naples!—thou heart of men, which ever pantest
Naked, beneath the lidless eye of Heaven!"

And again, on the next page, from the same author—

"Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all
We can desire, O Love!"

Miss Stickney should immediately burn her copy of Shelley—it is to her capacities a sealed book.

MISS SEDGWICK'S SKETCHES.

Tales and Sketches. By Miss Sedgwick, Author of "The Linwoods," "Hope Leslie," &c. &c. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.

This volume includes—A Reminiscence of Federalism—The Catholic Iroquois—The Country Cousin—Old Maids—The Chivalric Sailor—Mary Dyre—Cacoëthes Scribendi—The Eldest Sister—St. Catharine's Eve—Romance in Real Life—and the Canary Family.

All of these pieces, we believe, have been published before. Of most of them we can speak with certainty—for having, in earlier days, been enamored of their pervading spirit of mingled chivalry and pathos, we cannot now forget them even in their new habiliments. Old Maids—The Country Cousin—and one or two others, we have read before—and should be willing to read again. These, our ancient friends, are worthy of the pen which wrote "Hope Leslie" and "The Linwoods." "Old Maids," in spite of the equivocal nature of its title, is full of noble and tender feeling—a specimen of fine writing, involving in its melancholy details what we must consider the beau-ideal of feminine disinterestedness—the ne plus ultra of sisterly devotion. The "Country Cousin" possesses all the peculiar features of the tale just spoken of, with something more of serious and even solemn thought. The "Chivalric Sailor" is full of a very different, and of a more exciting, although less painful interest. We remember its original appearance under the title of "Modern Chivalry." The "Romance of Real Life" we now read for the first time—it is a tale of striking vicissitudes, but not the best thing we have seen from the pen of Miss Sedgwick—that a story is "founded on fact," is very seldom a recommendation. "The Catholic Iroquois" is also new to us—a stirring history of Christian faith and martyrdom. The "Reminiscence of Federalism" relates to a period of thirty years ago in New England—is a mingled web of merriment and gloom—and replete with engrossing interest. "Mary Dyre" is a veracious sketch of certain horrible and bloody facts which are a portion of the History of Fanaticism. Mary is slightly mentioned by Sewal, the annalist of "the people called Quakers," to which sect the maiden belonged. She died in vindicating the rights of conscience. This piece originally appeared in one of our Souvenirs. "St. Catherine's Eve" is "une histoire touchante qui montre à quel point l'enseignement religieux pouvoit étre perverti, et combien le Clergé étoit loin d'etre le gardien des mœurs publiques"—the tale appertains to the thirteenth century. "Cacoëthes Scribendi" is told with equal grace and vivacity. "The Canary Family" is a tale for the young—brief, pointed and quaint. But the best of the series, in every respect, is the sweet and simple history of "The Eldest Sister."

While we rejoice that Miss Sedgwick has thought proper to condense into their present form these evidences of her genius which have been so long floating at random before the eye of the world—still we think her rash in having risked the publication so immediately after "The Linwoods." None of these "Sketches" have the merit of an equal number of pages in that very fine novel—and the descent from good to inferior (although the inferior be very far from bad) is most generally detrimental to literary fame. Facilis descensus Averni.

REMINISCENCES OF NIEBUHR.

Reminiscences of an Intercourse with Mr. Niebuhr, the Historian, during a Residence with him in Rome, in the years 1822 and 1823. By Francis Lieber, Professor of History and Political Economy in South Carolina College. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.

Mr. Niebuhr has exercised a very powerful influence on the spirit of his age. One of the most important branches of human science has received, not only additional light, but an entirely novel interest and character from his exertions. Those historiographers of Rome who wrote before him, were either men of insufficient talents, or, possessing talents, were not practical statesmen. Niebuhr is the only writer of Roman history who unites intellect of a high order with the indispensable knowledge of what may be termed the art, in contradistinction to the science, of government. While, then, we read with avidity even common-place memorials of common-place men, (a fact strikingly characteristic of a period not inaptly denominated by the Germans "the age of wigs,") it cannot be supposed that a book like the one now before us, will fail to make a deep impression upon the mind of the public.

Beyond his Roman History, our acquaintance extends to only one or two of Mr. Niebuhr's publications. We remember the Life of his Father, of which an English translation was printed some time ago, in one of the tracts of the Library of Useful Knowledge, issued under the direction of the Society for the diffusion of Useful Knowledge—and, we have seen The Description of the City of Rome (one volume of it) which appeared in 1829 or '30, professedly by Bunsen and Platner, but in the getting up of which there can be no doubt of Mr. Niebuhr's having had the greater share. The Representation of the Internal Government of Great Britain, by Baron Von Vincke, Berlin, 1815, was also written, most probably, by Mr. N. who, however, announced himself as editor alone. "I published," says he, in the Reminiscences we are now reviewing, "I published the work on Great Britain after that unfortunate time when a foreign people ruled over us (Germans) with a cruel sword, and a heartless bureaucracy, in order to show what liberty is. Those who oppressed us called themselves all the time the harbingers of liberty, at the very moment they sucked the heart blood of our people; and we wanted to show what liberty in reality is." A translation of an Essay on the Allegory in the first canto of Dante, written by our historian during his perusal of the poet, and intended to be read, or perhaps actually read, in one of the learned societies of Rome, is appended to the present volume. Mr. L. copied it, by permission of the author, from the original in Italian, which was found in a copy of Dante belonging to Mr. Niebuhr. This Essay, we think, will prove of deeper interest to readers of Italian than even Mr. Lieber has anticipated. Its opinions differ singularly from those of all the commentators on Dante—the most of whom maintain that the wood (la selva) in this famous Allegory, should be understood as the condition of the human soul, shrouded in vice; the hill (il colle) encircled by light, but difficult of access, as virtue; and the furious beasts (il fere) which attack the poet in his attempt at ascending, as carnal sins—an interpretation, always putting us in mind of the monk in the Gesta Romanorum, who, speaking of the characters in the Iliad, says—"My beloved, Ulysses is Christ, and Achilles the Holy Ghost: Helen represents the Human Soul—Troy is Hell—and Paris the Devil."

Dr. Francis Lieber himself is well known to the American public as the editor of the Encyclopædia Americana, in which compilation he was assisted by Edward Wigglesworth, and T. G. Bradford, Esqrs. The first original work of our author, we believe, was called Journal of my Residence in Greece, and was issued at Leipzig in 1823. This book was written at the instigation of Mr. Niebuhr, who personally superintended the whole; Mr. L. reading to the historian and his wife, every morning at breakfast, what had been completed in the preceding afternoon. Since that period we have seen, from the same pen, only The Stranger in America, in two volumes, full of interest and extensively circulated—and the book whose title forms the heading of this article.

Not the least striking portion of this latter work, is its Preface, embracing forty-five pages. Niebuhr's noble nature is, herein, rendered hardly more apparent than the mingled simplicity and enthusiasm of his biographer. The account given by Mr. L. of his first introduction to the Prussian minister—of the perplexing circumstances which led to that introduction—of his invitation to dinner, and consequent embarrassment on account of his scanty nether habiliments—of his final domestication in the house of his patron, and of the great advantages accruing to himself therefrom—are all related without the slightest attempt at prevarication, and in a style of irresistibly captivating bonhommie and naïveté.

Mr. Lieber went, in 1821, to Greece—led, as he himself relates, "by youthful ardor, to assist the oppressed and struggling descendants of that people, whom all civilized nations love and admire." With a thousand others, he was disappointed in the hope of rendering any assistance to the objects of his sympathy. He found it impossible either to fight, or to get a dinner—either to live or to die. In 1822, therefore he resolved, with many other Philhellenes, to return. Money, however, was scarce, and the adventurer had sold nearly every thing he possessed—but to remain longer was to starve. He accordingly "bargained with a Greek," and took passage at Missolonghi (Messalunghi) in a small vessel bound for Ancona. After a rough passage, during which the "tartan" was forced to seek shelter in the bay of Gorzola, the wished-for port was finally reached. Here, being altogether without money, Mr. Lieber wrote to a friend in Rome, enclosing the letter to an eminent artist. "My friend," says Mr. L. "happened to be at Rome, and to have money, and with the promptness of a German student, sent me all he possessed at the time." This assistance came very seasonably. It enabled the Philhellenist to defray the expenses of his quarantine at Ancona. Had he failed in paying them, the Captain would have been bound for the sum, and Mr. L. would have been obliged finally to discharge the debt, by serving as a sailor on board the Greek vessel.

Having, at length, obtained his pratica, he determined upon visiting Rome; and the anxiety with which he appears to have contemplated the defeat of his hopes in this respect is strikingly characteristic of the man. His passport was in bad order, and provisional, and he had to make his way with it through the police office at Ancona. He was informed too, that orders had been received from Rome forbidding the signature of passports in the possession of persons coming from Greece, except for a direct journey home. "You are a Prussian," said the officer, "and I must direct your passport home to Germany. I will direct it to Florence: your minister there may direct it back to Rome. Or I will direct it to any place in Tuscany which you may choose; for through Tuscany you must travel in order to reach Germany." Mr. L. assures us he never felt more wretched than on hearing this announcement. He had made his way round Rome without seeing the Eternal City. The examination of a map of Italy, however, gave him new hope. It pointed out to him how near the south-western frontier line of Tuscany approaches to Rome. The road from Ancona to Orbitello, he thought, was nearly the same as that to the object of his desires, and he therefore requested the officer to direct his passport to Orbitello. "Italians generally," says Mr. Lieber, "are exceedingly poor geographers." The gentleman whom he addressed, inquired of another in the adjoining room, whether Orbitello was in Tuscany, or belonged to the Papal territory. Mr. L. pointed out the place on the map: it was situated just within the colors which distinguished Tuscany from the other states of Italy. This satisfied the police, and the passport was made out.

Having hired a vetturino our traveller proceeded towards Orbitello. A few miles beyond Nepi, at the Colonneta, the road divides, and the coachman was desired to pursue the path leading to Rome. A bribe silenced all objections, and when near the city, Mr. L. jumped out of the carriage, and entered the Porta del Populo.

But it was impossible to dwell in Rome without the sanction of the police, and this sanction could not be obtained without a certificate from the Prussian minister that our friend's passport was in order. Mr. Lieber therefore "hoping that a scholar who had written the history of Rome could not be so cruel as to drive away thence a pilgrim without allowing him time to see and study it," resolved on disclosing his situation frankly to Mr. Niebuhr.

The Prussian minister resided at the Palazzo Orsini—he was engaged and could not be seen—but the secretary of the legation received the visiter kindly, and having learned his story, retired to an inner apartment. Soon afterwards he returned with a paper written in Mr. Niebuhr's own hand. It was the necessary permission to reside in Rome. A sum of money was at the same time presented to Mr. L. which the secretary assured him was part of a sum Prince Henry (brother to the reigning king,) had placed at the minister's disposal for the assistance of gentlemen who might return from Greece. Mr. L. was informed also that Niebuhr would see him on the following day. The result of the interview we must give in the words of our author.

When I went the next morning at the appointed time, as I thought, Mr. Niebuhr met me on the stairs, being on the point of going out. He received me with kindness and affability, returned with me to his room, made me relate my whole story, and appeared much pleased that I could give him some information respecting Greece, which seemed to be not void of interest to him. Our conversation lasted several hours, when he broke off, asking me to return to dinner. I hesitated in accepting the invitation, which he seemed unable to understand. He probably thought that a person in my situation ought to be glad to receive an invitation of this kind; and, in fact any one might feel gratified in being asked to dine with him, especially in Rome. When I saw that my motive for declining so flattering an invitation was not understood, I said, throwing a glance at my dress, "Really, sir, I am not in a state to dine with an excellency." He stamped with his foot, and said with some animation, "Are diplomatists always believed to be so cold-hearted! I am the same that I was in Berlin when I delivered my lectures: your remark was wrong."1 No argument could be urged against such reasons.

1 Das war Kleinlich were his words.

I recollect that dinner with delight. His conversation, abounding in rich and various knowledge and striking observations; his great kindness; the acquaintance I made with Mrs. Niebuhr; his lovely children, who were so beautiful, that when, at a later period, I used to walk with them, the women would exclaim, "Ma guardate, guardate, che angeli!"—a good dinner (which I had not enjoyed for a long time) in a high vaulted room, the ceiling of which was painted in the style of Italian palaces; a picture by the mild Francia close by; the sound of the murmuring fountain in the garden, and the refreshing beverages in coolers, which I had seen, but the day before, represented in some of the most masterly pictures of the Italian schools;—in short, my consciousness of being at dinner with Niebuhr in his house in Rome—and all this in so bold relief to my late and not unfrequently disgusting sufferings, would have rendered the moment one of almost perfect enjoyment and happiness, had it not been for an annoyance which, I have no doubt, will appear here a mere trifle. However, reality often widely differs from its description on paper. Objects of great effect for the moment become light as air, and others, shadows and vapors in reality, swell into matters of weighty consideration when subjected to the recording pen;—a truth, by the way, which applies to our daily life, as well as to transactions of powerful effect;—and it is, therefore, the sifting tact which constitutes one of the most necessary, yet difficult, requisites for a sound historian.

My dress consisted as yet of nothing better than a pair of unblacked shoes, such as are not unfrequently worn in the Levant; a pair of socks of coarse Greek wool; the brownish pantaloons frequently worn by sea-captains in the Mediterranean; and a blue frock-coat, through which two balls had passed—a fate to which the blue cloth cap had likewise been exposed. The socks were exceedingly short, hardly covering my ankles, and so indeed were the pantaloons; so that, when I was in a sitting position, they refused me the charity of meeting, with an obstinacy which reminded me of the irreconcileable temper of the two brothers in Schiller's Bride of Messina. There happened to dine with Mr. Niebuhr another lady besides Mrs. Niebuhr; and my embarrassment was not small when, towards the conclusion of the dinner, the children rose and played about on the ground, and I saw my poor extremities exposed to all the frank remarks of quick-sighted childhood; fearing as I did, at the same time, the still more trying moments after dinner, when I should be obliged to take coffee near the ladies, unprotected by the kindly shelter of the table. Mr. Niebuhr observed, perhaps, that something embarrassed me, and he redoubled, if possible, his kindness.

After dinner he proposed a walk, and asked the ladies to accompany us. I pitied them; but as a gentleman of their acquaintance had dropped in by this time, who gladly accepted the offer to walk with us, they were spared the mortification of taking my arm. Mr. Niebuhr, probably remembering what I had said of my own appearance in the morning, put his arm under mine, and thus walked with me for a long time. After our return, when I intended to take leave, he asked me whether I wished for any thing. I said I should like to borrow his History. He had but one copy, to which he had added notes, and which he did not wish, therefore, to lend out of his house; but he said he would get a copy for me. As to his other books, he gave me the key of his library to take whatever I liked. He laughed when I returned laden with books, and dismissed me in the kindest manner.

Mr. Lieber became the constant companion of Niebuhr in his daily walks after dinner, during one of which the proposition was discussed to which we have formerly referred—that of our author's writing an account of his journey in Greece. In March 1823, the minister quitted Rome, and took Mr. Lieber with him to Naples. By way of Florence, Pisa, and Bologna, they afterwards went to the Tyrol—and in Inspruck they parted. A correspondence of the most familiar and friendly nature was, however, kept up, with little intermission, until the death of the historian in 1831.

Mr. Lieber disclaims the design of any thing like a complete record of all the interesting or important sentiments of Niebuhr during his own residence with him. He does not profess to give even all the most important facts or opinions. He observes, with great apparent justice, that he lived in too constant a state of excitement to record regularly all he saw or heard. His papers too were seized by the police—and have undergone its criticism. Some have been lost by this process, and others in a subsequent life of wandering. Still we can assure our readers that those presented to us in the present volume, are of the greatest interest. They enable us to form a more accurate idea of the truly great man to whom they relate than we have hitherto entertained, and have moreover, not unfrequently, an interest altogether their own.

YOUNG WIFE'S BOOK.

The Young Wife's Book; A Manual of Moral, Religious, and Domestic Duties. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.

We can conscientiously recommend this little book, not only to that particular class of our fair friends for whom it is most obviously intended, but, in general, to all lovers of good reading. We had expected to find in it a series of mere homilies on the Duties of a Wife, but were agreeably disappointed. Such things are, no doubt, excellent in their way, but unhappily are rarely of much service, for the simple reason that they are rarely read. Unless strikingly novel, and well written, they are too apt to be disregarded. The present volume is made up of mingled amusement and instruction. Short and pithy Lessons on Moral Duties, on the Minor Obligations of Married Life, on Manners, on Fashion, on Dress—Dialogues, and Anecdotes connected with subjects of a similar nature—form the basis of the book.

In one respect we must quarrel with the publication. Neither the title page, nor the Preface, gives us any information in regard to the biblical history of the work. It may be taken for granted that every reader, in perusing a book, feels some solicitude to know, for example, who wrote it; or (if this information be not attainable,) at least where it was written—whether in his native country, or in a foreign land—whether it be original or a compilation—whether it be a new publication or a re-publication of old matter—whether we are indebted for it to one author, or to more than one—in short, all those indispensable details which appertain to a book considered merely as a book. The habit of neglecting these things, is becoming very prevalent in America. Works are daily re-published, from foreign copies, without any primâ facie evidence by which we may distinguish them from original publications; and many a reader, of light literature especially, finds himself in the dilemma of praising or condemning unjustly as American, what, most assuredly, he has no good reason for supposing to be English.

In the Young Wife's Book now before us, are seventy-three articles. Of these, one is credited to the thirty-first chapter of Proverbs—nine to Standford's Lady's Gift—and two to an Old English Divine. Some four or five belong to the Spectator. Seven or eight we recognize as old acquaintances without being able to call to mind where we have seen them; and about fifteen or twenty bear internal evidence of a foreign origin. Of the balance we know nothing whatever beyond their intrinsic merit, which is, in all instances, very great. Judgment and fine taste have been employed, undoubtedly, in the book. As a whole it is excellent—but, for all we know to the contrary, it may have been originally written, translated, or compiled, in Philadelphia, in London, or in Timbuctoo.

ROBINSON CRUSOE.

The Life and Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner: with a Biographical Account of Defoe. Illustrated with Fifty Characteristic Cuts, from Drawings by William Harvey, Esq. and engraved by Adams. New York: Published by Harper and Brothers.

This publication is worthy of the Harpers. It is an honor to the country—not more in the fine taste displayed in its getting up, than as evincing a just appreciation of an invaluable work. How fondly do we recur, in memory, to those enchanted days of our boyhood when we first learned to grow serious over Robinson Crusoe!—when we first found the spirit of wild adventure enkindling within us, as, by the dim fire light, we labored out, line by line, the marvellous import of those pages, and hung breathless and trembling with eagerness over their absorbing—over their enchaining interest! Alas! the days of desolate islands are no more! "Nothing farther," as Vapid says, "can be done in that line." Wo, henceforward, to the Defoe who shall prate to us of "undiscovered bournes." There is positively not a square inch of new ground for any future Selkirk. Neither in the Indian, in the Pacific, nor in the Atlantic, has he a shadow of hope. The Southern Ocean has been incontinently ransacked, and in the North—Scoresby, Franklin, Parry, Ross, Ross & Co. have been little better than so many salt water Paul Prys.

While Defoe would have been fairly entitled to immortality had he never written Robinson Crusoe, yet his many other very excellent writings have nearly faded from our attention, in the superior lustre of the Adventures of the Mariner of York. What better possible species of reputation could the author have desired for that book than the species which it has so long enjoyed? It has become a household thing in nearly every family in Christendom? Yet never was admiration of any work—universal admiration—more indiscriminately or more inappropriately bestowed. Not one person in ten—nay, not one person in five hundred, has, during the perusal of Robinson Crusoe, the most remote conception that any particle of genius, or even of common talent, has been employed in its creation! Men do not look upon it in the light of a literary performance. Defoe has none of their thoughts—Robinson all. The powers which have wrought the wonder have been thrown into obscurity by the very stupendousness of the wonder they have wrought! We read, and become perfect abstractions in the intensity of our interest—we close the book, and are quite satisfied that we could have written as well ourselves? All this is effected by the potent magic of verisimilitude. Indeed the author of Crusoe must have possessed, above all other faculties, what has been termed the faculty of identification—that dominion exercised by volition over imagination which enables the mind to lose its own, in a fictitious, individuality. This includes, in a very great degree, the power of abstraction; and with these keys we may partially unlock the mystery of that spell which has so long invested the volume before us. But a complete analysis of our interest in it cannot be thus afforded. Defoe is largely indebted to his subject. The idea of man in a state of perfect isolation, although often entertained, was never before so comprehensively carried out. Indeed the frequency of its occurrence to the thoughts of mankind argued the extent of its influence on their sympathies, while the fact of no attempt having been made to give an embodied form to the conception, went to prove the difficulty of the undertaking. But the true narrative of Selkirk in 1711, with the powerful impression it then made upon the public mind, sufficed to inspire Defoe with both the necessary courage for his work, and entire confidence in its success. How wonderful has been the result!

Besides Robinson Crusoe, Defoe wrote no less than two hundred and eight works. The chief of these are the Speculum Crape-Gownorum, a reply to Roger L'Estrange, and characterized principally by intemperate abuse—a Treatise against the Turks, written for the purpose of showing England "that if it was the interest of Protestantism not to increase the influence of a Catholic power, it was infinitely more so to oppose a Mohammedan one"—an Essay on Projects, displaying great ingenuity, and mentioned in terms of high approbation by our own Franklin—the Poor Man's Plea, a satire levelled against the extravagances of the upper ranks of British society—the Trueborn Englishman, composed with a view of defending the king from the abuse heaped upon him as a foreigner—the Shortest Way with the Dissenters, a work which created strong excitement, and for which the author suffered in the pillory—the Reformation of Manners, a satirical poem, containing passages of uncommon force, that is to say, uncommon for Defoe, who was no poet—More Reformation, a continuation of the above—Giving Alms no Charity, an excellent treatise—a Preface to a translation of Drelincourt on Death, in which is contained the "true narrative" of Mrs. Veal's apparition—the History of the Union, a publication of much celebrity in the days of its author, and even now justly considered as placing him among the "soundest historians of his time"—the Family Instructor, "one of the most valuable systems of practical morality in the language"—the History of Moll Flanders, including some striking but coarsely executed paintings of low life—the Life of Colonel Jaque, in which an account is given of the hero's residence in Virginia—the Memoirs of a Cavalier, a book belonging more properly to History than to Fictitious Biography, and which has been often mistaken for a true narrative of the civil wars in England and Germany—the History of the Plague, which Dr. Mead considered an authentic record—and Religious Courtship, which acquired an extensive popularity, and ran through innumerable editions. In the multiplicity of his other publications, and amid a life of perpetual activity, Defoe found time, likewise, to edit his Review, which existed for more than nine years, commencing in February 1704, and ending in May 1713. This periodical is justly entitled to be considered the original of the Tatlers and Spectators, which were afterwards so fashionable. Political intelligence, however, constituted the greater portion of its materiel.

The Edition of Robinson Crusoe now before us is worthy of all praise. We have seldom seen a more beautiful book. It is an octavo of 470 pages. The fifty wood cuts with which it is ornamented are, for the most part, admirable. We may instance, as particularly good, those on pages 6, 27, 39, 49, 87, 88, 92, 137, 146, 256, and 396. The design on the title page is superlative. In regard to the paper, typography, and binding of the work, that taste must be fastidious indeed which can find any fault with either.

CHRISTIAN FLORIST.

The Christian Florist; containing the English and Botanical Names of different Plants, with their Properties briefly delineated and explained. Illustrated by Texts of Scripture, and accompanied with Poetical Extracts from various Authors. First American, from the Second London Edition. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

The title, which our readers will perceive is a long one, sufficiently explains the nature and design of this little book. It is very well adapted for a Christmas present, to those especially whose minds are imbued at the same time with a love of flowers—and of him who is a God of flowers, as well as of mightier things. The mechanical execution of the volume is unexceptionable, and the rich colors of the Dahlia show to no little advantage in the frontispiece. The poetical selections are, for the most part, excellently chosen, and the prose commentaries on each article in good taste, and often of great interest.

Speaking of alterations made in the Second London Edition, the Authors of the work say in their Preface "We believe it will be found that most of those suggested have been adopted, with the exception of one, which proposed the rejection of the first piece of Poetry attached to the Sun Flower." These words excited our curiosity, and turning to page 42, we found six lines from Moore. It seems these had been objected to, not on account of any thing intrinsically belonging to the verses themselves, (what fault indeed could be found there?) but (will it be believed?) on account of the author who wrote them. The Christian Florist deserves the good will of all sensible persons, if for nothing else—for the spirit with which its authors have disregarded a bigotry so despicable.

SUPPLEMENT

TO THE
SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.

We are very proud in being able to afford our friends so many and so great evidences of the Messenger's popularity, as are contained in the following Notices.1 From all quarters we have received encouragement—in the approval of our past labors, and in prophecies of our future success. We desire to call the attention of all who are interested in the advancement of Southern Literature, to the matter, the manner, and the source, especially, of the Extracts subjoined. We hazard little in saying, that never before in America has any Journal called forth so unanimously, testimonials so unequivocally flattering, as the First Number of the Second Volume of our "Southern Literary Messenger."

1 The Notices here appended, are very far from all we have received. Many are omitted for want of room. All those left out, are unexceptionably flattering to ourselves.

From the Richmond Whig.

The Literary Messenger.—Nothing is more repulsive to our taste, than puffing—one of the artifices of book-making and book-selling, reduced in this our time, to a science. It is dishonest, for its object is gain at the expense of truth, and its means are imposition on those who are not familiar with the tricks of trade. It is unjust, for modest and unobtrusive merit is often compelled to languish, from the rival advantage given to mediocrity or worthlessness, by the meretricious puff direct. It is injurious and disgraceful to Literature, and for ourselves, we feel a repugnance to whatever we see puffed, by which we mean praise disproportioned to merit, and praise administered by the shovel full, without the administerer being possibly able or pretending to assign a cause or to point out a beauty to justify his rapture.

Mr. White's Literary Messenger is either the most transcendantly able periodical in the United States, or its proprietor has been most particularly successful in eliciting the puff—for it attracts more of the notice of the Press, and is more uniformly admired and praised upon the appearance of its successive numbers, than all the Literary Periodicals in the United States put together. The North American, Quarterly, &c. are comparatively lost sight of. It is universally noticed—not only in the newspaper press of the great towns and cities, but in the obscurest village sheet throughout the land. As Virginians and Southrons, solicitous for the honor of Southern Literature, we are proud to believe that this extensive favor bestowed upon the Messenger, flows from its deserts, an opinion confirmed by our personal knowledge of its enterprising, esteemed and modest proprietor.

The last No. of the Messenger (for December) which commences the 2d volume, is most emphatically admired and extensively complimented by the American Press, and we have read portions of it with much satisfaction. Among the rest, our friend Noah expresses his pleasure, and any dealer in Literary wares may be happy to receive the countenance of so fine a genius as the Major. We are no critics, and beg leave to adopt his review with some qualification. We would praise the Barbary Sketches more, for we really view them as the very best specimens of History by any American. We will not subscribe to the sentence against "Eliza of Richmond;" and the Major must look over the "Broken Heart" again, and the next time wipe the moisture from his specs.

The Critical Notices are much to our taste—decided in their character, correct (as we think) in judgment, and lashing dullness, as it always deserves to be lashed, with a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Major Noah says—

The Southern Literary Messenger for December. Richmond, Va.: T. W. White, Proprietor. We have repeatedly called the attention of our literary friends to this excellent periodical, now commencing the second volume, and sustaining its deservedly acquired reputation. It is not only the neatest in typographical execution—in whiteness of paper and elegance of type, of any American publication of the kind, but contains also a greater amount of useful and entertaining original matter, both in prose and poetry—especially the latter, which, taken en masse, is quite different from the namby-pamby trash that is spreading like an epidemic over the republic of letters—choking and smothering with its noxious weeds those gems and flowers of purer mould, which are the offspring and inspiration of nature and of genius. The "Sketches of the Barbary States," are written by an able pen, and are full of valuable historical details. The lines to "October," by Eliza, of Maine, possess the vein of true poetry; the tenderness and the luxuriant imagery of some of Mrs. Hemans'. How rich the pageantry of some of the author's thoughts when describing the gorgeous tints of an autumnal foliage:

"And the rays of glorious sunshine there in saddening lustre fall—
'Tis the funeral pageant of a king with his gold and crimson pall."

The "Broken Heart," by Eliza, of Richmond, is a failure. She must not attempt blank verse for common-place subjects. The verses on "Halley's Comet" are smooth and passable. The "Reminiscences of Mexico" might as well have been omitted. These diaries and guide books, are "stale, flat, and unprofitable." If the writer had given us some insight into the mysterious ruins and antiquities of Mexico—its romantic traditions—we would have thanked him. The theme is exciting and absorbing, and would have been new, and a glorious prize for immortality. Mr. Poe's "Unpublished Drama" does not suit our taste. Why eternally ring the changes on those everlasting and hackneyed Venetian Doges and Italian Counts—latticed balconies, and verandas—time out of mind exhausted? The "Address on Education" is puerile, crude, and common-place. We cannot discover its "brilliant eloquence" nor "impressive energy," spoken of in the critical notice. The object of it was well enough. The "Wissahiccon," properly handled, might have been wrought into a stirring historical portrait. The lines to "Memory," are pretty. Those entitled "Macedoine," have much fire and power. But "Lionel Granby," is a redeeming chapter worth all the foregoing. Why not give one-third the magazine to so accomplished a writer, so original a thinker? The "Dream," is good poetry, for blank verse, which is saying much. But the "Sketch," by A. L. Beard, M.D. is superlatively beautiful in melody of rhythm and truth to nature. Thus:

"The red-breast, mounted on some tow'ring tree,
Is chanting loud his merry, mirthful strain;
And the sweet lark's melodious notes of glee,
Are softly floating o'er the dewy plain.
From the broad fields which wave with golden grain,
Echoes the whistle of the timid quail;
And the loud laughter of the reaper train
Sweeps wildly by, borne on the passing gale
O'er woodland hill afar, and flowery-vested vale."

The lines to "Mira" are smooth and full of tender feeling. The Critical Notices are full as they should be on American productions, and written with uncommon spirit. The decisions are generally correct, and we are glad to see the censures so unsparingly, but judiciously directed against the mawkish style and matter of those ephemeral productions with which, under the name of chef-d'œuvres in novel writing, the poor humbugged public are so unmercifully gagged and bamboozled.

From the Petersburg Intelligencer.

The Southern Literary Messenger.—We have to acknowledge the receipt of the first No. of the second volume of the Southern Literary Messenger, published at Richmond, by T. W. WHITE, and beg to call the attention of the public to this highly valuable and now well established periodical. The enterprising and indefatigable proprietor, has overcome the obstacles which have generally, hitherto, thwarted the efforts of those who have attempted to rear up a respectable Literary Journal in the South, and has the proud satisfaction of being hailed as the founder of a work, which is admitted by the Press, on every hand, to be one of the most agreeable and interesting in the Union. He has evidently spared no expense in carrying out his design of making the "Messenger" worthy of the reputation of the "Old Dominion," and the number before us, is, in all respects, unquestionably one of the most beautiful specimens of the art of printing we have ever witnessed. So much for the mere medium, or vehicle, by which mind is made to commune with mind. Those who would wish to form a just estimate of the merits of this work, must look beyond its beautiful and delicate outward garb, into the rich and varied contents of its pages. The Editor has certainly drawn to his aid some of the finest pens in the State; and although the real authors are not given, yet we are convinced, that conclusively as many of the articles "speak for themselves," if names were added, they would lose none of their interest, from the known paternity of distinguished writers.

We wish, heartily, that our numerous engagements would allow us to notice more in detail the several articles which have struck us as peculiarly meritorious. But we have no leisure for more than to call attention to the publication, nothing doubting, that whosoever shall open these attractive pages, will not quit them until he has fully exhausted their sweets. The article on Mexico, at this time, will prove very acceptable, and not less so will be the continuation of the "Sketches of the History and Present Condition of Tripoli and the other Barbary Powers," which, since the French have planted themselves at Algiers, we hope may, at no distant day, be brought within the pale of "Christendom." To the lovers of the picturesque, we recommend the article "Wissahiccon" as a charming description of wild, romantic, American scenery.

The Editorial criticisms are generally just.—Whilst they "nothing extenuate," and refuse to deal out indiscriminate compliment and unremitted praise, they yet are free from even the semblance of that illiberal spirit which delights rather to triumph in the detection of an error than in the generous acknowledgment and commendation of a beauty. They embrace reviews of many new and popular works, which have lately issued from the Press; among which is the Life of Washington, written in Latin, and said to be a production of extraordinary merit. In short, we earnestly advise every person of taste, who is either desirous of amusement or instruction, to look through this last number of the "Messenger" and judge for himself as to its merits. The graver subjects are interspersed with beautiful scraps of poetry, and we scarcely know which most to admire, the sparkling gem, or the solid and useful body in which it is set.—We were especially struck with "The Broken Heart," and often as this pathetic subject has been touched by poets, we doubt whether a more simple, natural and affecting version of it is to be found. Witness this extract:

"And though she shrunk not from the love of those
Who were around her, and was never found
In fretful mood—yet did they soon discover
The rosy tinge upon her youthful cheek
Concentrate all its radiance into one
Untimely spot, and her too delicate frame
Wither away beneath the false one's power."

Whilst paying this just tribute to the merits of the article above referred to, we feel disposed to award even higher praise to "Marcelia." We feel no hesitation in saying that this is "the gem" of the present number. It is imbued with the real spirit of poetry—without any false glitter or tinselled ornament, it presents one of the most interesting pictures which fancy could portray. As we read the description of "poor Marcelia's death-bed," we seem to hear

"Low prayers come moaning thro' the leaves,"

asking at once, pity for her sad fate and forgiveness of her crime.

"The Sonnet," at page 38, deserves more than a passing notice. The truth and pathos of the scene represented, can scarcely fail to be recognized by every heart that has had occasion to feel or sympathise with the anguish of a parent deprived of one of the cherished objects of his dearest affection.

Before closing these hasty remarks, we beg leave to press on the attention of our readers the fact, that so much intellectual gratification cannot be afforded for nothing. Without a liberal and generous support from the public, such a journal cannot be sustained. Even the late "Southern Review," with a towering reputation and splendid abilities, was forced to close its career, solely from the negligence of the public in offering that patronage which many would gladly have tendered after it was too late. Patronage, then—patronage tor the Messenger, and it will be perpetuated, as an honor to Virginia, and a reward to its enterprising proprietor.

From the New York Courier and Enquirer.

Southern Literary Messenger, for December 1835.—There is no one of the many periodicals of our country, to the reception of which we look forward with a greater certainty of satisfaction than to this young, but already more than adolescent magazine. It is always above par, always distinguishable for correct style and pure English—for neatness and elegance—rather perhaps than vigor, or decided strength of original thought—the absence of which quality is perhaps sufficient to constitute a weak point, in what would otherwise be almost faultless. In the department of criticism, however, this remark does not apply so fully—for the notice of new works, in the Southern Messenger, are, we have no hesitation in saying it, the boldest, the most independent, and unflinching, of all that appears in the periodical world. This is as it should be—over-levity towards rising writers is a more real sin than over-sternness; and we are sorry to say, it is a sin, into which most of our magazines are wont to fall. This number is one of more than average power, and the critiques on The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow—the Linwoods—and Norman Leslie we especially recommend to notice. They are evidently all written with equal sincerity, and force of true opinion, and as such command respect even where we differ from them in judgment. That on Dr. Bird's new book, for instance, is too favorable; and indeed we think that this gentleman is always overrated—that on "the Linwoods" is superlative, in truth, style, and taste; while that on Norman Leslie is severe to a fault; inasmuch as the criticism, though we cannot deny the truth of the greater portion of it, is paralyzed by the strong symptoms of personal hostility not to Mr. Fay only, but to all who may be supposed to favor or admire him.

From the National Intelligencer.

Southern Literary Messenger.—This journal has, very unexpectedly, left its Northern competitors behind in the race for fame, and assumed all at once a pre-eminent rank among American periodicals. We have just received the first number of the second volume, and find it superior, in every respect, to any of the preceding ones. It contains 68 pages of closely printed matter, in double columns. Besides the 68 pages of text, it has a double cover of 8 pages, containing matters relating to its own peculiar interests—thus avoiding the necessity of intruding such subjects in the text. Its paper is excellent, its type new, and its entire mechanical execution superior to that of any Magazine with which we are acquainted. The South has thus far every reason to be proud of the extraordinary success which has attended the Messenger.

The first article in the present number is Chapter IX of the Tripolitan Sketches, by Mr. R. Greenhow, of this city, a series of papers which, of themselves, would have been sufficient to stamp the Messenger with a character of no ordinary kind. The Extracts from My Mexican Journal are excellent papers, on a subject of untiring interest. The Address of Lucian Minor, on Education, is likely to do much good, by attracting the attention of Virginians to the important subject it discusses—the organization of District Schools. The Wissahiccon is a wishy-washy affair, and deserves no praise whatever. Lionel Granby, Chapter VI., is full of fine thought, shrewdness, and originality. The Specimens of Love Letters are curious and entertaining—but the old English Magazines are full of similar articles, and the Messenger should have nothing to do with them. The MS. found in a Bottle is from the pen of Edgar A. Poe. The Critical Notices occupy more than one half of the number, and form the fullest Review in the country—embracing criticisms, at length, of nearly every work lately published in America, besides a great number of English publications. A compendious digest of the principal reviews, English and American, is included. The tone of the criticisms differs widely from puffery, and is perfectly independent.

The Poetry is, for the most part excellent. Scenes from Politian, an unpublished Drama, by Edgar A. Poe, occupy about three pages. A little piece signed Eliza is very good; also, A Sketch, by Alex. Lacey Beard, Marcelia, Ruins, A Sonnet to an infant dying, Lines to Mira, and a Translation. The covers contain compliments of the highest order paid the Messenger by many of the first papers in the Union. Among them we may mention the New York Courier and Enquirer, the Portland Advertiser, the Georgetown Metropolitan, the New England Galaxy, (all of which place the Messenger decidedly at the head of American Magazines,) Norfolk Herald, Richmond Compiler, Baltimore Patriot, Augusta Chronicle, and a host of others. We are truly glad to see these flattering testimonials in behalf of Southern literature. We wish the Messenger every possible success.

From the Pennsylvanian.

The December number of the Southern Literary Messenger has been received. The contributions appear to be of an excellent kind; at least, those from Mr. Poe and others, whose reputations attracted our notice. The most striking feature of the number, however, is the critical department. Eschewing all species of puffery, the Messenger goes to work upon several of the most popular novels of the day, and hacks and hews with a remorselessness and an evident enjoyment of the business, which is as rare as it is amusing, in an indigenous periodical. Of the justice of the criticisms, we have not qualified ourselves to judge; but their severity is manifest enough; and that is such a relief to the dull monotony of praise which rolls smooth in the wake of every new book, that a roughness which savors of honesty and independence is welcome.

From the Globe.

We have read the first number of the second volume of the Southern Literary Messenger. It is highly spoken of, and deservedly so we think. The continued and rapid improvement of this work justifies the zeal with which the proprietor intends prosecuting his labors. They will ultimately be crowned with distinguished success. That region abounds in native talent, which, when diverted into that channel, will reflect the same honor, upon the literature of our country, which it has claimed for the bar, the bench, the legislative halls, and every other pursuit to which it has been devoted.

From the Alexandria Gazette.

Southern Literary Messenger.—The December number, being the first of the second volume of this periodical, has come to hand, and we are prepared to welcome its appearance with cordial approbation.

No Magazine in this country or elsewhere now excels it in the beauty of its typography.—It is printed in the neatest manner, with the handsomest type, on the best paper.

We perceive a considerable improvement in the editorial department, under which are contained several well written and judicious critical notices of new works.

Some of the Poetry in this number is excellent—a few of the articles only so-so.

We recommend the Messenger anew to all our readers, as a publication worthy to be supported for the credit of the South—for its own intrinsic merits and for the enterprising spirit of Mr. White, its worthy proprietor.

From the Norfolk Herald.

Southern Literary Messenger.—The first number of Vol. 2 of this Magazine has come to hand, greatly improved in outward appearance, as well as in literary merit. No Journal of this kind in the country has experienced so rapid, so extensive, and so unequivocal a success as the Southern Literary Messenger. It is now, whether we consider the extent of its patronage, the great beauty of its mechanical appearance, or the lustre of the names of its regular contributors, the first Monthly Magazine in America. In the variety, and more especially in the originality of its articles it has no equal; and among other things we must not forget that the author of the Lunar Hoax is indebted to the Hans Phaal of Mr. Poe (a regular contributor to the Messenger) for the conception and in a great measure for the execution of his discoveries. Indeed several passages in the two are nearly identical. As regards the amount of absolute matter contained in a number of the Messenger, we cannot be far wrong in stating that it is equal to that of any two monthly Journals in the country—with the exception perhaps of Littell's Museum, which is made up altogether of selections from foreign Magazines.

The present No. (No. 1. Vol. 2,) is by far the best yet issued. In the first place we have a continuation of the History and present condition of Tripoli, with some account of the other Barbary Powers. These sketches, from the pen of Robert Greenhow of Washington, have acquired an extensive reputation, and the present chapter is equal to any of the series. By the bye, the last number of Harper's Family Library contains the "History and present condition of the Barbary States," by the Rev. Dr. Russell. Here is surely a great similarity in the titles—more than we can suppose to be accidental. We know that the sketches in the Messenger commenced nine months ago. The Extracts from my Mexican Journal are highly interesting, but would be better were they more modern. The date of the last Extract is 1827. Minor's Address on Education is one of the finest things of the kind we have ever perused, and we should not wonder if it drew public attention to the subject it discusses—the establishment of District Schools throughout Virginia upon a plan similar to that in New England. The Wissahiccon is not very creditable to the Magazine—it might, however be considered as tolerable elsewhere. Lionel Granby is evidently written by a man of genius. The present Chapter is the seventh. The MS. found in a Bottle is extracted from The Gift, Miss Leslie's beautiful Annual. It is from the pen of Edgar A. Poe, "whose eccentric genius," says the Charleston Courier, "delights in the creation of strange possibilities, and in investing the most intangible romances in an air of perfect verisimilitude." We have heard the MS. found in a Bottle, called the best of his Tales—but prefer his Lionizing and Morella.—The highest praise, however, and from the very highest quarters, has been awarded to all he has written. The Specimens of Love Letters in the reign of Edward IV. is an excellent article. The Editorial department, under the modest head of Critical Notices, embraces no less than 56 columns of liberal and well-digested Reviews of new publications. Among these, are Notices of Dr. Bird's last novel—Miss Sedgwick's Linwoods—Glass' Life of Washington—The Edinburgh, London Quarterly, Westminster, and N. American Reviews—The Crayon Miscellany—Godwin's Necromancy—Legends of a Log Cabin—Mrs. Hale's traits of American Life—Hall's Western Sketches—Clinton Bradshaw—and many others—not forgetting Norman Leslie, which is utterly torn to pieces in a long and detailed Review of the most bitter and unsparing sarcasm. These Reviews speak well for the future prosperity of the Messenger. Let its Editor aim at making the Magazine a vehicle for liberal and independent criticisms, and he will not fail to receive a proper encouragement from every lover of literature.

The poetry is very excellent. October by Eliza is beautiful—and also some lines upon the same page by the same writer. Among other things we must particularly mention Marcelia—A Sonnet, and another Sonnet, entitled Ruins, just above it. The Lines on the Blank Leaf—and the Scenes from an unpublished Drama by Edgar A. Poe.

From the Charlottesville Jeffersonian.

The Southern Literary Messenger.—We have been favored by the politeness of Mr. White, with the first number of the second volume of this interesting periodical, and take pleasure in adding our mite to the many well merited praises which his work has already received from other journals; and we agree with Mr. White in his bright anticipations of the future. This periodical must be sustained for the literary credit of the Old Dominion and the honor of the South. Some of our Northern cotemporaries have already declared it the best literary periodical in America, and we deem this praise not so high as when they say it is decidedly good. This number contains sufficient variety to gratify diversity of taste.

The MS. found in a bottle. By Edgar A. Poe, is good,—it is original and well told. Its wild impossibilities are pictured to the imagination with all the detail of circumstances, which truth and the fearful reality might be supposed to present. Whilst we do not agree to the justness of the praise which has been bestowed upon some of Mr. Poe's pieces, we concur in the general commendation which he has received as a writer of great originality, and one who promises well.

The prose article which most pleases us in this number, is Mr. Minor's Address on Education. It is too valuable and upon a subject of too much importance to the State, to be passed with this cursory notice of the Messenger; we shall recur to the subject again and again. We perceive that the Georgetown Metropolitan has censured the Messenger, for publishing Mr. Garnett's Introductory Lecture on the subject of Education, thinking it unsuitable to the Magazine. Mr. White acted properly in disregarding such an objection. Variety is the very life of a literary periodical, and it is never less agreeable for being useful.

There is a pretty thought in the following lines—written on one of the blank leaves of a book sent to a friend in England.

As he who sails afar on southern seas,
Catches rich odor on the evening breeze,
Turns to the shore whence comes the perfumed air,
And knows, though all unseen, some flower is there—
Thus when o'er ocean's wave these pages greet
Thine eye, with many a line from minstrel sweet,
Think of Virginia's clime far off and fair,
And know, though all unseen, a friend is there.—Imogene.

The editorial criticisms are many, and in the right vein. They are caustic but just. The Review of Mr. Fay's novel Norman Leslie, is amusing and will be read, though we think some passages in it are in bad taste. The author is flayed, or to use a term more congenial with his taste, and with the Reviewer's article—blistered.

Halley's Comet—1760. By Miss E. Draper. This poem gives a good account of the great ones of our planet, at the last visit of the messenger of the spheres. The versification too is easy, and the contrasts striking. The same pen has written before, and ought to write again.

From the Washington Telegraph.

The Southern Literary Messenger.—In glancing our eyes over the numerous papers which are daily laid before us, in quest of matter appropriate to our own, they frequently light on notices of this periodical. To such things our peculiar avocations do not often afford us time to attend. We have only indulged our curiosity so far as to see that they are all commendatory; and we have laid aside the papers with nothing more than a passing sense of pleasure at praises which indirectly redound to the honor of the honored home of our fathers. Of late, such notices have so frequently engaged our attention, that we at last determined, for once, to play the truant, and give an attentive perusal to the next number. We have just laid down that for December, 1835, after experiencing a pleasure in the perusal, for which we feel inclined to make such poor return as we can.

In our judgment this number deserves all the praise that has been bestowed upon the work; and this remark we particularly apply to certain "continued" articles, of which we are constrained to judge by the specimens here given. We speak of the "Tripoline Sketches," and "Lionel Granby." If the preceding parts of these works are of equal merit with those before us, they have not been praised too highly. We are sorry that we cannot exactly include the "Mexican Journal" in the same category. It is well enough.

The Address of Mr. Lucian Minor before the Institute of Education of Hampden Sidney College, is a paper of very great merit. We confess that we have not full faith in the efficacy of Mr. M.'s panacea for the distempers of the State; partly because we are afraid the patient cannot be got to take enough of it to do him good; and partly because we are not sure it would not meet with somewhat in his stomach of what medical men call "incompatible substances," which might neutralise or decompose it, or turn it to poison. But we leave these things to the political doctors; and are content to record our praise and thanks for the strong sense and manly frankness displayed by Mr. M. in calling boldly on the people to secure and deserve the blessings of freedom by qualifying themselves for self-government.

The literary notices in this number are highly piquant and amusing. We do not agree with the reviewer in condemning every thing under the name of a "Review," to which that name, in its strictest sense, does not properly apply. He who under this name gives an essay on the subject of the article professed to be reviewed, does not break faith with the public, because, for more than thirty years, the word has been understood to include such essays. Now he who gives a good essay, gives a good thing; and when he does this, still keeping within the spirit and meaning of his engagement, we have no right, nor mind to complain.

There is an occasional severity in some of these strictures which we highly approve. Not that we presume to decide on the justice of the judgments pronounced. We have not read the works; but judgment must be followed by execution; and the critic in his own executioner. The self sufficiency of authors cares nothing for praise. They rarely receive so much as comes up to their own estimate of their merits. To make them value it, they should be put in fear of censure. The number of works reviewed in this monthly periodical, shows how much the cacoethes scribendi needs to be restrained. We dare not flatter ourselves that even half the praise bestowed is due, except according to a very low standard of excellence. When a very high place in the scale is awarded to a "bad imitation" of Walter Scott's "worst manner," the scale cannot be graduated very far above "temperate." There can be no such thing as blood heat, or fever heat, upon it.

The longest of the metrical pieces, indeed, deserves less lenient treatment, and we shall do Mr. White a service, by defending him from the future contributions of one whom he may not choose to offend. We mean the author of "The Dream." In this, there is no one poetical thought, at first, or second hand. The verse is smooth, for the writer has a good ear; but the ideas are dull prose. To make the matter worse, it is a palpable imitation; not larcenous, indeed; for there is no attempt at concealment; so that it is more of the nature of a mere trespass. But it is an undisguised imitation of Byron! and what is worse, of Byron's most wonderful poem "The Dream!!!" It is such an imitation as a boy would make who should paint a rose with pokeberry-juice.

We were disappointed in a "Dramatic Extract" from the pen of Mr. Edgar A. Poe. He had taught us to expect much, for his prose is very often high wrought poetry; but his poetry is prose, not in thought, but in measure. This is a defect of ear alone, which can only be corrected by more study than the thing is worth. As he has a large interest in all the praise that we have bestowed on the Messenger, we hope he will take this slight hint as kindly as it is meant.

From the Richmond Religious Herald.

Southern Literary Messenger.—The publication of the second volume of this work commences with the present number for December. The work was commenced as an experiment to test the practicability of sustaining a literary work in the South. The experiment has been successful. The Messenger has taken a high stand as one of the first literary publications in our country. It has called into existence several gifted pens. It is now established on a permanent basis, and commences its second year with increasing prospects of success, and we hope will yield a fair remuneration to its enterprizing and worthy proprietor. In point of typographical execution it is unequalled by any similar work in the United States.

From the Boon's Lick Democrat.

We have received the Southern Literary Messenger, published monthly at Richmond, Virginia, by Mr. Thomas W. White. It sustains well the high character of its previous numbers—and contains much valuable and entertaining matter. This periodical, the only successful Literary enterprise, we believe, in which southern genius is enlisted, has received showers of applause from all quarters—and indeed it richly merits them all. We recommend those of our friends, who are fond of this species of reading, to try the Messenger—they will find it better—far better than the trash that is circulated in most of the literary periodicals of the day.

From the Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post.

The Southern Literary Messenger.—We have been furnished with the December number of this periodical, issued as the first number of the second volume. In typographical appearance it is neat and beautiful, and respecting the interesting character of its contents, it will not suffer by a comparison with any literary publication in the country. The leading original prose articles are, Sketches of the History and Condition of Tripoli, Extracts from my Mexican Journal, An Address on Education, The Wissahiccon, Lionel Granby, &c. The poetic articles are numerous, diversified and highly creditable to the talent of the South; and the editorial criticisms and reviews appear to be written in a spirit of candor quite unusual for the American Press. We commend the whole number to the attention of our literary friends, as possessing unusual interest.

From the Baltimore Atheneum.

The Southern Literary Messenger, for December, which is the first number of the second volume, has already made its appearance. We have scarcely had time to read the title of each article in it, and to glance hastily over one or two of them: but it appears to be not a whit behind the other numbers which we have seen. It is pleasing to observe that the prospects for the permanency and success of this Magazine are very encouraging. The South can, and we are sure will support liberally, both in contributions and subscriptions, a monthly literary periodical, and the Messenger is, in every way, worthy of that patronage. The number before us, and one or two others which we have had the pleasure of seeing, strike us as not containing quite enough of those lighter articles which relieve the mind of the reader, and give a pleasing variety to a work of this kind. The papers are nearly all too good, if we may be allowed to say so, of too sterling and weighty a character. We do not mean that such should be excluded by any means—these are the articles which give character to a Magazine; we only mean that they should be tempered by something lighter and more fanciful.

From the Grand Gulf Advertiser.

Southern Literary Messenger.—We are much gratified to state, that this invaluable Southern publication, is rapidly increasing in the good graces of our literary friends. The Messenger, has a good circulation now, and evinces strong claims for the enlistment of a few more subscribers. We hail the increase as an auspicious event, as it certainly indicates a proportionate exertion of talent and industry on the part of its publisher, to secure the support and approbation of its numerous friends and advocates. Such a work as the Messenger, chaste and refined, pure and exalted in its character, should receive the liberal and unanimous support of every man south of the Potomac. We cheerfully recommend it to all, and it shall be a pleasure to us, to be the means of forwarding its interest. Specimen numbers can be seen at this office, and the work ordered for those who may desire it.

From the Georgetown Metropolitan.

The Southern Literary Messenger for December, 1835.—Many improvements have been made, in this favorite magazine which will greatly enhance its value for the future. Among these, not the least will be the advantage to its subscribers of an early issue: the present number reached us in the latter days of November,—and Maine will be served in future almost as soon as Richmond, a matter of no small consequence to a magazine, and, of great merit in the Messenger, as contrasted with its dilatory cotemporaries.

The present number keeps up the character of the series.

The talent and variety, of the original papers is quite as striking, as the editorial department is decidedly better attended to than in any other magazine of the country. We have not scant notices of two or three volumes, which favor or accident have directed to the editor's notice,—but a comprehensive survey, and analysis of our recent literature.

The books are taken up in a business-like manner, as the cases on a calendar are called over for trial; and the merits or demerits of each are discussed with great ability, fairness, and acumen. A department so well conducted as this, and of such essential utility, should alone, in the general and culpable inattention of our periodicals to it, secure for the Messenger, general support. Of the articles in the present number, the 'Sketches of Tripoli' maintain their value—We should like to see these papers collected in a volume: they really do their author great credit. We won't quarrel with the poetry headed "Mother and Child," because we like the pretty name of Imogene which is signed to it, but it is marvellously like Mrs. Hemans. The Broken Heart is blank verse of great promise, touching, alike, in subject and execution. Rumor assigns them to an accomplished young lady of Richmond, whose name cannot be concealed long from the public.

The "Mexican Journal" is quite as good as such journals usually are; and the unpublished drama by Poe, though crude, has both original thoughts, incidents, and situations.

The Address on Education has in it many forcible truths, correctly and eloquently told. "The Dream" we skip, having already read a better version of it in Lord Byron, and, as we said before, wish cordially that the bottle, with that confounded manuscript, had never been uncorked. "Marcelia" is fine, and the finer Macedoine our readers will recollect in our last. We are always glad to see the full page of payments in the Southern Literary Messenger, and have no doubt but that, under its enterprising and industrious proprietor, it will continue to go on prospering and to prosper.

From the Baltimore American.

We condemned a day or two ago the tone of the notice of the North American Review in the Southern Literary Messenger for December. This number is strong in notices of new works, and we like the severity of some of them: there is much matter for "cutting up." But the cutter up must do his task like a neat carver, without smearing his own fingers. Our friend Mr. White and his editor should keep the tone and bearing of the Messenger elevated and cavalier-like. The higher the critic places himself, the more fatal will be his blows downwards.

This number of the Messenger well supports its rapidly earned reputation. Among its articles may be particularised Mr. Minor's "Address on Education, as connected with the permanence of our Republican Institutions," and the "scenes from Politian, an unpublished Drama" by Edgar A. Poe.

From the Charleston Courier.

The Southern Literary Messenger.—After an interval of several months, a species of literary interdict by the way which we did not much relish, we are able to announce the welcome reception of the December number of this excellent and eminently successful periodical, commencing its second volume and the second year of its bright and promising existence. The State of Virginia has reason to be proud of it, as a valuable exhibition of her mental prowess—it has gathered the stars of her intellectual firmament into close and brilliant constellation, and with their blended light burnished her literary fame. But while collecting into a focus the rays of Southern mind, the Aurora Borealis of genius has been no stranger to its pages, and its intellectual gems have been freely gathered from other portions of the republic of letters. Among its contributors, EDGAR A. POE, equally ripe in graphic humor and various lore, seems by common consent to have been awarded the laurel, and in the number before us fully sustaining the reputation of its predecessors, will be found proofs of his distinguished merit.

From the Richmond Whig.

The Literary Messenger.—The high reputation of this periodical is acknowledged by others besides ourselves, and much more competent judges. The Lynchburg Virginian says:

"The Messenger, upon the whole, reflects credit upon Virginia and the entire South. Indeed, several distinguished Northern Journals place it at the head of periodical literature in the United States—a most enviable distinction when we recollect the eminent names that figure in our Monthlies, both as editors and contributors. Mr. White deserves the thanks of the people of the South for his untiring perseverance and industry, and we are glad to hear that he is receiving them in the most substantial form—to wit, paying subscribers."

And Mr. Paulding in a letter to the proprietor says:

"P. S.—Your publication is decidedly superior to any Periodical in the United States, and Mr. Poe as decidedly the best of all our young writers; I don't know but I might add all our old ones, with one or two exceptions, among which I assure you I don't include myself."

From the New York Spirit of the Times.

The Southern Literary Messenger.—This is the earliest magazine of the month, and we are as pleased to see it as an old favorite after a long absence, and welcome it accordingly.

Some change has taken place since last we saw it, in the editorial department, but it affects not at all the interest of the magazine; and we think the critical notices of this number, whether written by the old or new editor, more elevated in their tone than previously. There is a slight taint of pedantry about them, perhaps; and in one instance undue severity is shown towards a clever young author: yet they are, in the main, clever and just. But, as we have before said, we prize a magazine for other qualities than mere deserts in criticism; therefore turn we to the articles.

The first one is a continuation of "Sketches of the History, &c. of Tripoli." These sketches are from an unknown hand, which has access to original documents from which to draw his facts, and the author seems familiar with the writings of the French historians on the subject. So wofully ignorant are we of the history of the Barbary Powers, that we are unable to judge of the accuracy of these sketches: but we may safely say, that the narrative is lucid and interesting, and evinces an intimate acquaintance with the subject; and that it has a peculiar interest for American readers just now, as the French system of Finance and Diplomacy are constantly illustrated in their negotiations with the Deys. We can scarcely read with patience the narrative of the duplicity of the French Government towards these piratical states; with them, as with us, knavishly objecting to the allowance of a claim because of its absoluteness, or its negotiation; and skulking from the payment of an honest and acknowledged debt with an infinite deal of balderdash about French honor insulted, or French dignity offended. French honor and dignity!! Bah!

The next prose article consists of "Extracts from my Mexican Journal." We have been so tired of late with this subject, in the American Monthly, that for the life of us we cannot screw our courage up to the reading point.

The poetry of this number is of superior quality. This is peculiarly the ladies' department, and of course we may not deny that they sustain it perfectly. One little gem in this number is the "Broken Heart," by a Virginia lady—of rare simplicity of thought and purpose, and most touchingly executed. Our readers shall see it anon, and learn somewhat further our ideas of the poetical excellence of this capital magazine.

Mr. Edgar A. Poe, a writer of much versatility of talent has contributed much to this number. He is a magazinist somewhat in the style of Willis: he needs condensation of thought. But this is too flippant criticism for us, and we will read him more. Although the earliest out, we have not had time to complete this magazine.

From the Norfolk Beacon.

The first number of the second volume of the Southern Literary Messenger contains several articles of solid worth. The "Tripoli Sketches" retain their spirit and fidelity. Mr. Minor's Address is a patriotic and practical production. The common school system of the state demands the public attention. No voter should let his representatives alone, until such a system shall have been established as will insure to the child of every honest man in the commonwealth a thorough elementary education. Mr. Minor quotes his statistics concerning Russia from the Edinburgh Review, but he would have found a more full examination of the Prussian system in a late number of the Foreign Quarterly. We were pleased that Mr. Minor handsomely recognized the services of the late Mr. Fitzhugh of Fairfax in the cause of education. We well remember his speech on the occasion alluded to, and know that the seeming defect in his scheme alluded to by Mr. Minor, was in truth the result of design. It was the main argument with which Mr. Fitzhugh met the opponents of his favorite scheme. Were Fitzhugh now living, he would win enduring laurels in the cause of general education in the commonwealth. The present address of Mr. Minor has also appeared in pamphlet from the press of Mr. White, and we have marked one or two striking passages for our columns. "Lionel Granby" is continued, and we have a very amusing letter from the uncle. But he has fallen into the error not uncommon, of imputing to York Town the honor of giving birth to Bishop Beilby Porteus. The Bishop, we believe, was born in York, but in England, and not in Virginia. The parents of the Bishop removed from Gloucester to England some years before his birth. Had he been born in Virginia, he would, it is probable, have bequeathed to William and Mary some of the fat legacies which were shared by sundry institutions in Great Britain.

The Critical Notices in the present number of the Messenger, particularly of the North American and the British Reviews are in bad taste. The review of Glass's Life of Washington is altogether unique. Some of the reviews are nevertheless good, and more than outweigh those that are bad.

One word more, and we have done with the present number. We are more and more convinced every passing hour of the importance to the South of an able periodical journal devoted to literary and other topics that know no party. However well conducted a political journal may be, it never will penetrate generally to the firesides of the South. And it is clear that the general mind cannot be reached through such an avenue. Now this important office literature can perform. There are, too, many opinions which are peculiar to the South, to the whole South, and to the South only. There should be a channel of communication on these subjects, and such a means the Messenger, if liberally supported by the pens of the able, and the purses of the patriotic, may readily become. It rests with our community to make the first movement in the cause, and we trust that our citizens will not be found wanting, when the South—the whole South—appeals to their liberality.

From the Lynchburg Virginian.

Southern Literary Messenger.—The 1st No. of the 2d volume of this periodical, in its typographical department, exhibits a decided improvement upon its predecessors, although on this score its subscribers have never had reasonable cause of complaint. Its literary reputation is fully maintained.

The 9th No. of the Sketches of the Barbary States, written by Mr. Robert Greenhow, Jr. formerly of Richmond, and now engaged in the Department of State, is, like the preceding Nos. highly creditable to that gentleman, betokening research, genius and taste. His style is admirably adapted to his theme.

The continuation of Extracts from a Mexican Journal are highly interesting—containing graphic descriptions of the manners, customs, &c. of a country, which, although on our own continent, is, to the great mass of our people, a terra incognita.

The most valuable article in the December No. of the Messenger, however, is the Address delivered by Lucian Minor, Esq. before the Institute of Education of Hampden Sidney College, at its late anniversary. He urges upon our Legislators, with earnestness and eloquence, the importance of enlightening the people, by a well digested system of primary instruction—based on the models which are presented to us in several of our sister States, in Scotland and in Prussia. This is a vitally important subject, and we sincerely hope it will attract the serious attention of the Legislature, during its present session.

"Lionel Granby" contributes largely to the interest of the Messenger. We hope he will diminish the intervals of his appearance on the stage.

Several of the poetical pieces are beautiful—others, mediocre. "October," "Marcelia," "Mother and Child," may be classed among the former; "A Sketch" among the latter. "Scenes from Politian," like the prose productions from the same pen (Mr. Poe) evince great powers, wasted on trifles. Why, (to adopt the catechetical style of his own criticisms,) why does Mr. Poe throw away his strength on shafts and columns, instead of building a temple to his fame? Can he not execute as well as design? No one can doubt it who is conversant with his writings. Eschew affectation, Mr. Poe. It is a blot upon genius as well as upon beauty. "A Broken Heart" contains several tender and pathetic passages, but is deficient as a whole. Ex gr.:

"Friends and physicians
Exert their skill most faithfully,"

is not poetry—but plain, unsophisticated prose.

Too much space is allotted to "Critical Notices" in the December No. of the Messenger—and several of the Notices themselves are too dogmatical and flippant. This department of a periodical, on the plan of the Messenger, is necessarily of restricted interest, and should consequently be of proportionate limits, except in extraordinary cases. It certainly should not be occupied by reviews of Reviews—a dish of hash newly warmed, and served up, in all its insipidity, to an already palled appetite. Such reviews as that of Mr. Fay's "Norman Leslie" will be read. Men—and Women likewise—will always be attracted in crowds to behold an infliction of the Russian knout or to see a fellow-creature flayed alive. And Mr. Fay—who, by the way, is a great favorite with us—fully deserves a "blistering" for putting forth such a book as Norman Leslie.

The "Messenger," upon the whole, reflects credit upon Virginia and the entire South. Indeed, several distinguished Northern journals place it at the head of periodical literature in the U. States; a most enviable distinction, when we recollect the eminent names that figure in our Monthlies, both as editors and contributors. Mr. White deserves the thanks of the people of the South for his untiring perseverance and industry, and we are glad to hear that he is receiving them in the most substantial form—to wit, paying subscribers. We hope his list will continue to augment, not only because his enterprise deserves remuneration, but because every additional subscriber enables him to make additional exertions to enhance the value of his agreeable and instructive "Messenger."

From the New Yorker.

The Southern Literary Messenger—We have long meditated a more extended notice of this elegant periodical, than we have hitherto found leisure to give—not more on account of our numerous Southern friends—with whom it must necessarily be a favorite, than of our literature generally, to which the Messenger forms a very creditable addition. And notwithstanding that our columns for this week are mainly bespoken, we must not allow the current number—being the first of a new volume—to pass from our table without a brief glance over its contents.

"Sketches of the History and Present Condition of Tripoli, with some account of the other Barbary States," is the opening paper, written by one evidently conversant with his subject, and whose chapters are calculated to add materially to the meager stock of popular information hitherto possessed with regard to the history and present condition of the Barbary powers.

"Scraps from an Unpublished Drama, by Edgar A. Poe," contains one or two stirring and many beautiful passages—but we are not partial to dramatic poetry.

Speaking of poetry, we find some that is commendable, and much that we deem, with all deference, well nigh execrable. Of the former class is "October."

Of the otherwise, nearly all that is intended for blank verse may serve as a specimen. It is singular that people will continue, in the face of good advice, to break up sober prose into unequal and most inharmonious lines, and then attempt to pass it off for verse, which it very remotely resembles. The following is extracted from an article which really contains poetry.

"The story goes, that a
Neglected girl (an orphan whom the world
Frowned upon) once strayed thither, and 't was thought
Did cast her in the stream."

"An Address on Education," by Lucian Minor, is among the best articles in the Messenger. It were well if such a startling exhibition of facts, such an array Of cogent reasonings, were presented to every influential citizen of our vast Union.

"Extracts from my Mexican Journal" are judicious and replete with information. We remark that, since recent occurrences have rendered Mexico an object of interest in this country, the observations of tourists and men of business who have lately visited that country, are very liberally drawn upon by our Monthlies.

"The Wissahiccon," and its romantic scenery, is made the subject of enthusiastic description—by a Philadelphian, of course. Well, truth to say, there are some enchanting spots out of Philadelphia, to say nothing of those within it. If we could only bring her self-satisfied citizens to admit that a civilized person may while away a season in New York, without positive privation of all quiet, cleanliness, and comfort, why then we might in turn regard the Quaker capital as a very tolerable, inoffensive, well-behaved city. As it is, we must think of it, and hope that time will take the conceit out of her.

"Lionel Granby" is the title of a series of odd, pedantic, yet humorous and characteristic papers, which we are tempted to consider the best light reading in the Messenger. To an old-school Virginian, they must be delightful.

The critical department of the Messenger is managed with great candor, consideration and ability. We place the qualifications in this order, not that the ability is less prominent, but because it is perhaps of the three least enviable in a reviewer. The Editor examines with impartiality, judges with fairness, commends with evident pleasure, and condemns with moderation. May he live a thousand years!—or at least to have five thousand gratified, substantial and 'available' patrons.

From the Baltimore Gazette.

The Southern Literary Messenger.—A little more than a year has elapsed since Mr. White commenced, in Richmond, Virginia, the publication of a Monthly Literary Journal. At that time an experiment of the kind, south of Mason and Dixon's line, was considered a novel one, but the ability with which it has been conducted, and the wide circulation it has obtained, have fully demonstrated that it required but talent and persevering energy on the one part, and a liberal co-operation on the other, to impart to it a reputation equal to that enjoyed by any other of our Monthlies. We have now before us the first number of the second volume, whose pages we find diversified with a variety of entertaining and excellent matter. The publisher has secured the assistance of a gentleman of eminent literary talents, with whose aid it may fairly be inferred that the Messenger will not only sustain but increase its already extensive and deserved popularity. The literary notices contained in this number are written with great ability, but in our opinion rather too great a space has been devoted to this subject. The old adage—ne quid nimis—is applicable not less to a literary undertaking than to the general pursuits of life.

From the Petersburg Constellation.

The Southern Literary Messenger.—We have received the first number of the second volume of Mr. White's popular and valuable Literary Messenger. We bid it a more cordial welcome to our table, admiring in proportion to their relative merits, the unrivalled professional skill with which its typographical dress is adjusted, and the rich and attractive guise which wit, genius and learning have combined to throw over the pages of what must now be acknowledged as the first monthly magazine in this country. The contributions, prose and poetical, are of a high grade of excellence; and the critiques are now precisely what they should be in such a work—faithful mirrors, reflecting in miniature the book reviewed, and exposing alike its beauties and deformities without favor or affection. We have rarely read a review more caustic or more called for than the flaying which the new editor of the Messenger has so judiciously given Mr. Fay's "bepuffed, beplastered and be-Mirrored" novel of "Norman Leslie."

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER, VOL. II., NO. 2, JANUARY, 1836 ***

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Table of Contents

- SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

- EVERY DEPARTMENT OF

- LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

- CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 2

- SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

- SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

- A PÆAN.

- CHARLOT TAYON.

- LINNÆUS AND WILSON.

- LOVE AND POETRY.

- A FAIRY TALE.

- THE WAGONER.

- SACRED MELODY.

- SENSIBILITY.

- TO ———.

- POPULAR EDUCATION.

- TRANSLATION.

- VERSES.

- LIONEL GRANBY.

- UNKNOWN FLOWERS.

- SONNET TO ********.

- METZENGERSTEIN.

- THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

- ENGLISH POETRY.

- SCENES FROM AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.

- VIRGINIA.

- LADY LEONORE AND HER LOVER.

- ENGLISH LANGUAGE IN AMERICA.

- TO THE WOODNYMPHS.

- CRITICAL NOTICES.

- SUPPLEMENT

- PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE