Introductory material (continued 3)

"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 frolic² 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.