THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 G-
 
 u.s 
 
 av
 
 AMID) 
 
 Dum petit infirmis nhnium sublhnia pennia 
 Icarus, Icariis nomina fecit aquis. 
 
 Ovid's Tristia. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 RUSSELL, SHATTUCK AND CO. 
 
 1836.
 
 ENTERED according to Act of Congress in the year of our Lord 1336, by 
 
 RUSSELL, SHATTUCK AND CO. 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 PRINTED BY JUSTIN JONES.
 
 TO 
 
 JOSEPH HARRINGTON, JUN., 
 
 as ft slight evidence of a Friendship, which it will ever be my pride to acknowl 
 edge, 1 dedicate this work. 
 
 ISAAC CLARKE PRAY, JUN. 
 
 us, 
 
 717

 
 PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 THE PLEDGE. 
 
 * 
 
 A LEGEND OP THE RHINE. 
 
 Would that I were 
 
 Up yonder in the glow and whirling smoke, 
 * * * * there might I solve 
 A riddle that torments me ! 
 
 Seest thou not a pale 
 Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away 1 <f. 
 
 " 
 Oh, too true ! 
 
 Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse 
 Which no beloved hand has closed, alas ! 
 
 GOETHE. 
 
 ABOUT a half an hour's ride toward the south from the 
 town of Bonn in Germany, is a deep, thickly-set covert 
 of full-grown trees. Within their enclosure, the traveller 
 may see the ruins of a habitation. On that spot, lived 
 not quite an hundred years since, a very singular and 
 mysterious being. With only two persons did he associate ; 
 one was a man of similar character with himself, 
 the other, was an only daughter. 
 
 Albert Von Stautnan, with an enterprising persever 
 ance, had sought for those unrevealed things, which are 
 1*
 
 (i 
 
 THE PLEDGE. 
 
 in the depths of darkness and obscurity. His thoughts 
 and his beliefs were his mind's communion spirits, and it 
 is no hap-hazard presumption to suppose that his approach 
 to the veil, which separates the mortal from the spiritual 
 world, was so near that, through the interstices for the 
 veil is not so closely knit as some imagine he beheld 
 some of those sights which flesh is not commonly heir to ! 
 Gustavus Kutzen, his friend, who, like Von Stautnan, 
 often analyzed the mysteries of the mind, and who studied 
 to detect the gossamer threads of the intricately woven 
 garb of nature, had been to him the sun of his happiness, 
 and the mutual thoughts, which their souls made known 
 to them, were as stars in the zone of their destined and 
 endless existences. They poured out their minds to each 
 other, as if they had but one being : their hearts, too, 
 grew together, 
 
 Like violet-bells upon the self-same stem, 
 Pouring the dewy odors of life's spring 
 Into each other's bosom 
 
 and year after year they lived on ' giving and taking 
 strength reciprocal ! ' 
 
 Von Stautnan had no love for the world its follies, or 
 vexations nor did he court the applause of its thronging 
 multitude. Nevertheless, his daughter was a being, whom 
 he loved with an affection pure and priceless ! Through 
 sunshine and storm, he hung over her with a paternal 
 fondness, and his prayers secret and ceaseless, were, that 
 
 they might mftt after death in the pflaradise of spirits, 
 
 there to be joined by a mother, of whom she was the 
 accurate 'presentment,' and whom Von Stautnan had 
 formerly cherished, as the breath of his life. Whether in 
 philosophical reflections, or examining the closely twisted 
 threads of mystery, his daughter still remained to him
 
 THE PLEDGE. 7 
 
 the same, remembered and beloved. Never did any 
 coldness gather on his brow on account of her, either in 
 her presence or absence. She was the pride of his heart: 
 and, indeed, was not altogether uninstructed in that 
 finer knowledge, which exposes the mysteries of life. 
 Von Stautnan himself often gathered from her lips a 
 thought, which sent his soul into the innermost recesses 
 of reflection. 
 
 Gustavus Kutzen, also, had considerable regard for the 
 daughter of his friend; and though he seemed to have no 
 peculiar love for her, yet his heart often yearned over her 
 in silence. What was extremely marvellous, his gaze 
 upon her was remarkable for its fixedness ! But it was 
 no gaze of love. He knew what no other mortal knew 
 her destiny ! Nay, he oftentimes appeared to be very 
 desirous of communicating to her father something inti 
 mately relating to her. This he finally promised to do, 
 so far as he was able, when the time should have arrived 
 for his departure for a far distant land: a departure 
 which it was impracticable to delay, bound as he was, on 
 the one hand, to reveal all things of importance to his 
 friend, and on the other, by a superior power to whom he 
 had promised that Von Stautnan should not be made 
 acquainted with the mysteries of which he was master, 
 while there was a probability of their meeting on earth. 
 
 It was about a year before the time set for this departure 
 of Gustavus, that he entered the study of his friend. 
 Hour after hour passed away until midnight, during which 
 time they discoursed upon the hidden and mystic secrets, 
 which ear hath seldom heard, and which it hath seldom 
 entered into the heart of man to conceive. When the 
 old clock chimed out with a melancholy tone the midnight 
 hour, they passed out of the house then, crossed the 
 garden, and entered a grove on the banks of the Rhine,
 
 o THE PLEDGE. 
 
 2ML 
 
 *" 
 
 which had often been the scene of their meetings. There, 
 before an altar, which had been previously erected, they 
 knelt together ! Each gazing upon the other's face, they 
 pledged themselves that the one whose death first came, 
 should, if possible, burst from the fetters of spirituality, 
 and revisit his friend. It was a solemn promise not an 
 half-hearted pledge ! It was almost unearthly almost 
 spiritual. As the dark eye of Kutzen flashed the meaning 
 and earnestness of his soul into that of the equally earnest 
 eye of Von Stautnan as each grasped the firmly -set and 
 nerved hand of his companion as the tears moistened 
 their eyes, while they gave that mutual and daring pledge, 
 the whole face of nature was suddenly becalmed, and the 
 Rhine itself, whose waters, a moment before, plashed on 
 its banks, was silent and pulseless, as if to hear and ratify 
 the promise. Ah ! and does it not seem to be the case 
 that nature has her invisible and watchful spirits, who are 
 ever hanging over those who are pleased with her, and 
 who delight to seek out her character? Is it not the case, 
 that those spirits will bend their listening ears to hear any 
 thing which is kindred to their being ? Oh ! there have 
 been those there are those, whose cup is not of this 
 world, who would grasp that of another, and who are not 
 contented with their searchings, till that other is pressed 
 to their lips. Such beings were Von Stautnan, and 
 Gustavus Kutzen ! 
 
 ##**###** 
 
 On a fine autumnal evening, two forms were beheld 
 coming forth from the grove, on the banks of the Rhine. 
 The arm of the one was entwined around the neck of the 
 other, and their right hands were clasped with a heart 
 felt fervency. Their conversation, at first, was in an 
 under-tone, and they seemed to be engaged in it, as if 
 the time allotted to them was short like that, which is
 
 THE PL EDGE. 9 
 
 held between two persons, whose spirits are about soaring 
 into their destined worlds ! They had in a few moments 
 arrived at a spot, where an old larch broke the smoothness 
 of a verdant lawn, when Von Stautnan, who was bursting 
 with anxiety for the secret, which Kutzen had promised 
 to impart, suddenly exclaimed : 
 
 ' What ! Dost thou believe the stars are revealers of 
 the destinies of mortals ? ' 
 
 Kutzen permitted the hand of Von Stautnan to fall, 
 and raising his own, pointed with his finger to the sky, 
 and inquired : ' Von Stautnan, dost thou not believe in 
 the influence of that star, which blazes on the right "of 
 the galaxy? ' 
 
 ' Its influence cannot be questioned,' answered Von 
 Stautnan. ' But the stars are not types, that we may 
 read in them our destinies ! If so, the world would be 
 mad to read them.' 
 
 ' Not so ! ' replied his friend, c The stars are types, on 
 which are graven the past, the present, and the future, 
 but all cannot must not read their language. To thee 
 and me alone is it given to understand their mysteries ! ' 
 
 Von Stautnan now asked his friend, whence he had 
 derived this knowledge ; but all inquiries were useless. 
 The only answer was that it had been given to him by a 
 superior power ! 
 
 ' Canst thou then, reveal the language of the stars ? ' 
 asked Von Stautnan. 
 
 ' To a certain extent, I can,' responded Kutzen. 
 
 ' Then, as far as thou art able, reveal ! ' ejaculated Von 
 Stautnan. 
 
 c I will,' murmured his friend. And taking five, small, 
 round ivory sticks, each about a foot in length, from under 
 his cloak, he laid them on the ground, in the figure of a 
 pentagon : then, looking up into the face of his friend,
 
 JO THE PLEDGE. 
 
 who was watching him with a gaze of steadfastness and 
 awe, he continued : 
 
 ' Albert, these are the wands of revelation ! Thou 
 must place them thus if thou wouldst know thy destiny: 
 but according as thy knowledge of this book is, so shall 
 thy power be, over the mysteries of creation ! ' 
 
 As he spoke, he threw within the pentagon, a small, 
 black book with golden clasps. Von Stautnan seized it, 
 and opened to its pages, but could not discover the 
 characters the moon was at that moment concealed by 
 a passing cloud ! 
 
 Von Stautnan proceeded : ' What is the secret res 
 pecting my daughter ? ' 
 
 * Thy daughter ? ' answered Kutzen. ' Look to her 
 quickly ! Oh! fool that I am, why have I thus delayed? 
 Interrupt me not, Albert, with questions. I have done 
 all that could be done for a friend so, do not blame me 
 hereafter! Farewell, forever ! ' 
 
 Half unconscious, and bewildered, Von Stautnan was 
 harassed by many difficulties. He did not feel as if he 
 could yet part from his friend ; and, rising, what was his 
 astonishment to behold the dim form of Kutzen in the 
 darkness, moving swiftly away ! Thus was Von Stautnan 
 left alone in doubt and perplexity but not in despair. 
 Hastily, he placed the ivory sticks under his cloak, and 
 firmly clasping the book in his hands, he sought his house. 
 The import of the caution, that he should look to his 
 daughter Kutzen's exclamation of remorse, because he 
 had delayed, were certainly mysterious and the cause 
 of his sudden departure was only solved, by the thought 
 that the demands of a superior power beckoned him 
 away ? 
 
 Von Stautnan had now arrived at his house. His mind 
 was wholly concentrated in his daughter ; but alas ! she
 
 THE PLEDGE. H 
 
 was not to be found. In vain did he search throughout 
 the habitation ; she had gone, and as he supposed, 
 forever ! Then did Von Stautnan seek his study, and 
 strange thoughts and lurking suspicions came gloomily 
 upon his mind. So steadfast, however, was his friendship 
 for Kutzen, that the belief in the purity and constancy of 
 his affections was little changed. Still, hour after hour, 
 thoughts flitted in swift transition from his brain. At 
 length, he ventured to unclasp the mysterious book. 
 Mysterious truly ! for the first words which caught his 
 attention were, 
 
 C/ee-fc nere MM/ Q^auanter. 
 
 / / 
 
 After penetrating many of its singularities, wearied and 
 perplexed, he laid it aside, and threw himself on his couch 
 in order to refresh his disquieted and worried frame. 
 
 The morning, was just dawning, as sleep stole upon 
 him. A flood of delicious sun-light came pouring in 
 through the broad window of Von Stautnan's study, 
 which overlooked the coursing waters of the Rhine 
 the pride of Germany ! But Von Stautnan slept. The 
 black, matted locks were turned over his broad, dark 
 temples, and the lashes laid over his eyes, as though 
 death had sealed them. He awoke not until the evening. 
 Oh ! wild indeed, were his thoughts, at that moment. 
 What had passed seemed a dream ; and he was not 
 persuaded of its reality, till he discovered the book, and 
 the ivory wands, in his wardrobe. He would have sought 
 his daughter, but he knew it was in vain, and he contented 
 himself with reading the book of mysteries. Each day, 
 that book was the object of his undivided attention, and 
 as he mastered its intricacies, he fhade many curious 
 discoveries but alas ! he learned nothing respecting his 
 daughter.
 
 12 THE PLEDGE. 
 
 The neighbors, by this time, were interested in his 
 history. They had found that he was alone ; and wild 
 stories were circulating in the hamlets. It was said that 
 he communed with the spirits of darkness ; that there 
 were strange voices heard, and flitting lights seen at night 
 around his dwelling, and among the yews and firs of the 
 neighboring Glen. But these were false rumors. The 
 only extraordinary noise was on the night of Kutzen's 
 departure. It was the cry of the daughter of Von 
 Stautnan. 
 
 After an application of three years to this mystic book 
 even then, Von Stautnan had not unravelled all he 
 desired. The stars he could partially read at times, 
 and they were his companions. But he had not yet 
 endeavored to raise departed spirits ; nor had he applied 
 his knowledge, when his wands were in their proper 
 situation. He had, however, determined to make trial of 
 them, and accordingly one night with this intent, he pro 
 ceeded to the Glen of the Bridge. 
 
 It was winter. Where a huge crag lifted its snow-clad 
 and shining sides, apparently supported by the giant 
 boughs of several larches, mingled with a thicket of 
 shaggy fir-trees a cataract poured its ceaseless and 
 thundering current into the boiling abyss below, whence 
 flashing water-drops were sent darting into the air. A 
 rude bridge was thrown over it, supported on either side 
 by ice-girt rocks. The bridge, itself, seemed too weak 
 to bear the pressure of a human foot and its moss- 
 covered timbers, though now partially clothed with ice, 
 told that its day of use had long before been fanned away 
 by the wings of Dgcay. The cataract, which partially 
 formed the Glen, was so situated that its waters were 
 tributary to the Rhine, whose black waves were now 
 rushing by with a voice awfully monotonous, their
 
 THE PLEDGE. J3 
 
 invisible pulses beating vigorously, swollen with the 
 many streams which poured from the surrounding hills. 
 
 The clear, round moon was diffusing its loveliness 
 over the .waters and icy peaks, with peculiar magic ; 
 the clouds slept far away beyond the horizon ; the ' in 
 exorable tooth ' of the frost was snapping in the still 
 ness with a tinkling echo, and the air was motionless, 
 undisturbed by a breath, or a sound of wind. To this 
 Glen, and near to the cataract, had the zealous Von 
 Stautnan penetrated, to prove the potency of magic. 
 His cap hung loosely over one side of his face, and his 
 black cloak was fastened around his throat. The only 
 assistants, beside him, were his wands. The book he had 
 left at his study ; but he was too well read in its language 
 to forget the version of its incantations. In a deep, 
 solemn, ponderous, commanding tone, he repeated the 
 star-interpreting words ! Then for the first time in his 
 life did Von Stautnan bend in awe ! Owing to the 
 brilliancy of the moon-light, there were but few stars to 
 be discovered, and those, one after another, vanished, 
 except seven, which stood immediately over the cataract. 
 Out of them, Von Stautnan learned that seven months 
 would intervene before his knowledge could be perfect ; 
 and he also read that his daughter was murdered by the 
 hand of a Boatman, to whom she had given some slight 
 offence. During her father's absence with Kutzen on 
 the night of his departure, he had seized her, and carrying 
 her out on the Rhine in his boat, had strangled her bv 
 pressing her head under the water. Then retaking her 
 body he had buried it beside his hut ! 
 
 As soon as this discovery was made, Von Stautnan 
 formed a scheme for the destruction of the Boatman, 
 whose rough cabin was situated, on a hanging cliff, near 
 the cataract. The accomplishment of this scheme was
 
 14 THE PLEDGE. 
 
 destined for the morrow ; and Von Stautnan sought his 
 study for rest his mind filled with fantasies, and burning 
 for revenge. 
 
 The sun came up over the Rhine, the next morning, 
 gilding all things that it looked upon even the habitation 
 of the murderer ! There it stood, a hut formed of several 
 slabs and mats. A rude door, bleached by storms, faced 
 the pathway, and a solitary casement was cut on the side 
 of it, out of which the Boatman could look down on the 
 Rhine; the roof was very conveniently formed of an old, 
 time-worn boat, with its keel upward. At this hut Von 
 Stautnan had arrived at sunrise, and striking violently on 
 the door, he called aloud on the Boatman. A rude 
 black-browed visage protruded from the casement, mut 
 tering in harsh language anathemas on the disturber of 
 his slumbers ! 
 
 'Come forth!' cried Von Stautnan. The Boatman 
 closed the casement in wrath, and then came out into the 
 pathway. He knew it was Von Stautnan, but he little 
 supposed that the murder could have been detected, after 
 a lapse of three years; and he approached, sullenly, yet 
 without hesitation. ' Murderer! ' exclaimed Von Stautnan, 
 clenching him on the throat. The Boatman struggled, 
 gnashed his teeth, and in turn seized his antagonist. They 
 moved on, writhing together. The face of Von Stautnan 
 blackened, as the Boatman with demon violence endeav 
 ored to tear away his cheek, at the same time holding him 
 with one hand by the throat, while he vainly endeavored 
 to grasp the Boatman, who seemed to be desirous of 
 throwing him from the precipice, near the edge of which 
 they had now arrived. The struggle was nearly equal, 
 but the Boatman evidently the [stronger, had gained the 
 ascendancy, and was about to swing Von Stautnan over, 
 when his foot slipped, and both fell to the ground. After
 
 THE PLEDGE. j^ 
 
 much struggling they sprang to their feet. The Boatman 
 was injured ; but the tender frame of Von Stautnan was 
 moved with giant strength and giving a sudden jerk, 
 he hurled the Boatman headlong, over the crags until, 
 finally striking on a rough icy peak, he was dashed to 
 pieces. It was an awful death ! It would have curdled 
 the blood at your heart to behold the mangled body, and 
 the shining ice which coated the crags, covered with 
 crimson gore, but it did not move the heart of Von 
 Stautnan ! Revenge is at all times sweet and it was 
 thrice sweet to his soul. 
 
 But it might be supposed that this singular being, 
 whose knowledge was already beyond that of most mor 
 tals, would have been contented. But ah ! how aspiring 
 is the mind. It would soar above the heights it would 
 dive below the depths would seek the stars, ay, grasp 
 the sun, and yet not then, be satisfied ! Yes ! It would 
 move on, conquering, and to conquer unconscious of 
 anything, but its searchings ; unconscious, though hell 
 itself a gulf of fire and blackness, below should be 
 gaping to receive it, when its wings should be melted 
 away and made powerless, by its too near approach to 
 that, whose nature is in rebellion with its existence ! It 
 need not be said, that such a mind was wrapt within Von 
 Stautnan, when it is recollected that he perused, again, 
 that secret book, until the seven months had passed, 
 almost unheeded, away; that he braced and riveted his 
 soul with the determination to receive the perfection of 
 knowledge, at the expiration of that time ; and that 
 the form of incantation had been so studied, in letter and 
 spirit, as to become almost a part of his very soul. 
 
 Night had gathered her sombre drapery around her. 
 Hushed were the stars, and their still, soft, unchanging 
 light threw its dim lustre over the earth. The birds had
 
 16 THE PLEDGE. 
 
 gained their coverts, and were voiceless. The hum of 
 insects had ceased, and only the dull song of the cicada 
 was heard above the continuous murmurings of the waters. 
 The fire-flies were flitting hither and thither, over and 
 through the grass and shrubs, and the perfume of the 
 field-flowers was fragrant to the sense. The month of 
 June had just set in, gladdening the earth with its myriad 
 glories. The cataract, which rushed down with a mad 
 and tremendous impulse, when visited by Von Stautnan 
 in the winter, now poured over with a low, brawling, 
 monotonous music. The Glen was still a lonesome place, 
 dark with shading yews and ragged firs, which seemed 
 like hags, standing in the blackness; and the rough rocks 
 shooting up, stood hanging, as on the air. The wavelets, 
 escaping from the whirlpool beneath the cataract, were 
 joyously caught by the waters of the Rhine, which coursed 
 peacefully by. The moon soon wheeled above the hills. 
 The stars unbedimmed by a single cloud, vanished into 
 the distance, as the powerful light of the moon threw a 
 veil of richer lustre over all things. 
 
 Under the cataract stood Von Stautnan his soul 
 entranced with the splendor of the scene, and his eye 
 alternately watching the Rhine, the cataract, and the 
 stars. His wands were laid at the foot of an old, withered 
 tree. Bowing before the rising moon, he buried his face 
 in his hands, then rising, he repeated the incantation. 
 
 Deep repository 
 Of the future and the past, 
 
 Give a mortal glory ! 
 Even though it be his last. 
 Reveal ! reveal all truths to him, who now 
 Dares down before yon rising moon to bow 1 
 Who calls on the unseen deep 
 Where Past and Future sleep 
 To open and to show,
 
 THE PLEDGE. J7 
 
 What mortals seldom know. 
 
 Open ! Open ! Open ! 
 Though gulf of blackness roll beneath, 
 Though poison flow, 
 For mortal's woe, 
 
 Open ! Open ! Open ! 
 Though in that deep, all passions seethe, 
 Though serpents wreath 
 
 Open ! Open ! Open ! 
 Give up all! Give up all! 
 Be heedful of the call! 
 Give up all ! Give up all ! 
 I call! I call! 
 Open ! Open ! 
 Open ! 
 
 The place of death could not be more silent, than was 
 the Glen, while these words were uttered in. the fervid 
 tones of enthusiasm. Von Stautnan had bowed to the 
 earth, and again had hid the moonlight from his eyes. 
 A dark, purple cloud, which had been sleeping in the 
 west, came peering up, over the top of the Glen grad 
 ually darkening, with its shade, every thing over which it 
 hung. The Rhine was veiled from the light and the 
 moon, which had risen not far above the horizon, was 
 soon concealed by the thick purple of the cloud, which 
 moving swiftly onward, spread its full, ponderous folds 
 around now deprived of light, and exchanging its pur 
 ple, for ebon blackness. The air was cooled; the birds 
 sent out a complaining cry; the wind, gathering from 
 every point, stirred the trees, and increasing, as the cloud 
 came over, waved the saplings to and fro with its over 
 powering force. The .sleeping thunder, now awake, 
 roared in the distance, and rolling on, broke over head 
 with a report, as if the portals of wrath had been opened. 
 
 The large rain-drops pattered down, and the lightning 
 
 2*
 
 13 THE PLEDGE. 
 
 gleamed with a darting quickness through its dazzling 
 pathways. The storm was terrible ! Successive flashes 
 lighted the sky, and another peal of thunder, louder than 
 the former, broke over the head of Von Stautnan who 
 sprang upon his feet. Anon ! the vivid red-streaks of light 
 shot wildly down the deep, dark cloud, throwing a livid hue 
 over the waters. Von Stautnan staggered with awe and 
 wonder. The wands which had been laid by his side, at 
 the root of an old, withered tree, were only to be seen by 
 the lightning-fires of the storm. The thunder above 
 rolled again the lightning flashed at the same instant 
 and as swiftly descended, with a tremendous crash, 
 cleaving the tree asunder ! 
 
 ' Gracious Spirits ! ' exclaimed Von Stautnan as a 
 gaunt skeleton arose between the cleft sides of the tree 
 from its root; and he fell on his knees. Slowly it changed 
 its appearance and the form of Gustavus Kutzen 
 stood before him ! 
 
 ' Spirit of my friend ! ' continued Von Stautnan, ' where 
 hast thou been, since thy departure ? ' 
 
 ' In the deep mine, which has not been opened to the 
 light ! ' replied the spirit. 
 
 ' And where is my daughter ? ' rejoined Von Stautnan. 
 
 ' She dwells within that mine, among comitless millions! 
 Wouldst thou see her, Albert Von Stautnan ? ' 
 
 ' I would ! ' answered he, as he bowed his head in 
 trepidation. 
 
 ' Behold, then, yon point of light, far, far over on the 
 Rhine and watch its coming ! ' 
 
 The light gradually grew to a shining shape. As it 
 approached the cataract Von Stautnan grasped a tall 
 sapling, for support. His voice forsook him for on him 
 shone the blazing eyes of a noble, pale-white horse 
 whose thick white mane floated over his neck, with a
 
 THE PLEDGE. J9 
 
 banner-like beauty, and whose silver-shod hoofs beat the 
 sparkling, yesty foam, on either side of his broad, shining 
 breast, while the waving veil which covered the daugh 
 ter of Von Stautnan, who rested on his back was seen 
 at every flash of the lightning, rising on the air. 
 
 The thunder again muttered in the distance the 
 lightning flashed and a shining bolt went rushing down 
 the sky. The cloud broke away in the heavens, and 
 through the rift, the stars shone brilliantly then passing 
 on, the moon stole out, chasing the darkness from the 
 earth. The sapling to which Von Stautnan clung, on 
 the approach of the horse, was blackened, and all that 
 remained at its root, was the tattered cloak of the romantic 
 and aspiring student.
 
 20 
 
 ONTARVVA. 
 
 In Leyden, Massachusetts, is a singularly romantic spot. It is an 
 almost unknown Glen, where the fancy may picture innumerable 
 sights ; and where the artist's pencil could be engaged upon land 
 scapes of unsurpassed interest and magnificence. Its rocks, hanging 
 as on the air, stand out, and arouse the spectator by the substantial 
 sublimity which they create. MS. 
 
 THERE is a Glen mid rocks and hills, 
 
 Where oft in youth I 've silent stood, 
 My heart's-blood kindling with keen thrills 
 
 'T is Nature's form-filled Solitude, 
 And if the world should seem to scorn, 
 
 There is the spot where I would choose 
 To stand, and see my young hopes dawn, 
 
 And set my wearied spirit loose ; 
 For there it seems a soul can be 
 Blest with a world as rich and free 
 As e'er within the mind arose, 
 For a broken spirit's soft repose. 
 
 It is a place for legends wild, 
 
 Which on the memory are piled 
 
 Like those dark rocks which, jutting, shoot 
 
 Up and up ! from a sourceless root 
 
 While out each chink bright flowerets bloom 
 
 O 
 
 And fill the air with sweet perfume. 
 Some shrivelled up, their leaves appear, 
 Yellow and red, decaved and sear ;
 
 O N T A R W A . 21 
 
 There, one with crimson-spotted bells, 
 A tale of bloody pastime tells, 
 Another, drooping with the dew, 
 A tale of sorrow will renew ; 
 While violet-cups divinely bright, 
 Reveal some maiden's love to light, 
 And each thing there or flower, or stone 
 Repeats a legend of its own. 
 
 But now my mind once more is led, 
 
 To where yon crag lifts up its head 
 
 And seems to stand in grief's dark shroud, 
 
 Kissed gently by the morning cloud, 
 
 Which as the sun comes up to view, 
 
 Mounts, soaring to its heaven of blue, 
 
 Like a fond sister, when she breaks 
 
 From the embrace her deep love makes, 
 
 And onward to some viewless shore 
 
 Departs remembering evermore 
 
 The last sad time she pressed the hand 
 
 Of one, who will forever stand 
 
 A precious monument to mark 
 
 The heaven-created, kindling spark 
 
 Of that affection, which first sprung 
 
 Where Eden's vine-wrought bowers hung. 
 
 A crag ! whose form recalls to mind 
 
 A scene which long has been enshrined 
 
 Within that temple of the brain, 
 
 Which all past feelings can retain, 
 
 And in its magic store-house keep, 
 
 Held down in oft-awakened sleep. 
 
 That scene oh how its forms now pass ! 
 Bright as some field, whose waving grass
 
 22 O X T A R W A . 
 
 Is flashing in its every blade, 
 
 With diamond-gems which Night has made. 
 
 Before the Pilgrims of our West 
 
 Their march of conquest here begun, 
 When no war-whoop disturbed their rest 
 
 Beneath the Indian's cheerful sun, 
 A Sachem of an Indian band, 
 Who dearly loved his native land, 
 And most of all this beauteous spot, 
 Which from his youth had been his lot 
 To gaze upon with welcome eye, 
 As the blest place where he should die. 
 Once roving with a careless pace, 
 
 At twilight's hour stood on yon height, 
 And gazing round, he seemed to trace 
 
 The clouds, that blazed with golden light 
 Far over in the glowing west, 
 Where, bright, the sun had gone to rest. 
 While thus Ontarwa stood in thought, 
 As though some hidden thing he sought, 
 But firm and silent as the oak, 
 Which does not feel the light wind's stroke ; 
 Before his sight a vision blazed ! 
 He marked it well, and while he gazed, 
 A strange canoe, with wings outspread, 
 Seemed skimming o'er the ocean's bed, 
 And turning to the Indian's shore 
 AVhose waves dashed up with deafening roar. 
 Which seemed to speak and murmur there, 
 As if that coming spoke despair 
 It ceased to make its bird-like springs, 
 And softly gathered up its wings ; 
 While from it came a pale-faced band,
 
 O N T A R W A . 03 
 
 Planting their feet upon the land, 
 And the poor Indians flying west 
 Sought in the wild a place of rest ; 
 But as they swiftly moved in flight, 
 A cloud spread out before his sight, 
 And all the scene was lost in night. 
 
 He leaves the craggy steep, whose base 
 The gurgling rills with waves inlace, 
 And though he seeks his peaceful cot, 
 The saddening vision leaves him not ; 
 But day by day he thinks it o'er, 
 Until the May-Flower greets the shore. 
 Then to the Sachem some are sent 
 To learn of him his tribe's intent. 
 He, quick, calls forth each aged sire, 
 And near the glimmering council fire 
 They talk and each declares in turn, 
 The feelings which within him burn ; 
 And brave Ontarwa, when they cease, 
 Says to the strangers, ' Be there Peace ! ' 
 Ere many moons had passed away, 
 The strangers joined in hostile fray, 
 The battle-cry and shout were where 
 Once, all was still as breezeless air ; 
 And every silver stream and flood, 
 Was reddened with the Indian's blood. 
 Ontarwa's own bright, sunny seat 
 Not e'en escaped the battle's heat, 
 But smoke went steaming up the hill, 
 Mingled with mists from rock and rill, 
 While the bright hut he loved so well, 
 Before the Pale-face, prostrate fell ; 
 Nor wife, nor children, could he find
 
 24 ONTARWA. 
 
 To cheer the sadness of his mind ; 
 But pent by foes upon that height, 
 Where once the vision met his sight, 
 Raging with hate he knit his brow, 
 And uttered there a vengeful vow. 
 
 ' Off to another land I go ! 
 
 Whence eyes shall ever on ye gaze, 
 And ye shall ever be a foe, 
 
 While yon bright sun shall keep its blaze. 
 And ye shall feel, when strong winds shake 
 Your stolen homes they come to break 
 Upon you, swift, as that red fire, 
 Now sweeping onward with your ire. 
 And ye shall never sleep in peace, 
 
 While one lone Indian has a breath, 
 And never shall your torments cease, 
 
 Till ye and yours shall come to death ! 
 And now I go to yon bright land, 
 
 Where my brave fathers press the chase, 
 E'en they the mighty of that band, 
 
 With hate-glazed eyes your paths shall trace, 
 And to the utmost send their power, 
 
 To make the hail of vengeance shower.' 
 
 This said, he threw him from the height, 
 
 And on a rock which stood beneath, 
 A bloody form a dreadful sight, 
 
 Ontarwa yielded up his breath ! 
 And from that rough, high rock has sprung 
 
 A tree, the fatal spot to mark, 
 And when the rill, at morn, has flung 
 
 Pale mists around the summit dark, 
 Its leaves will shake, and quiver, till
 
 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 5 
 
 The mists cease rising from the rill ; 
 And when the storm-wind passes by, 
 
 With fire-red lightning, it will gleam, 
 And from its lofty summit high, 
 
 The eyes of spirits gazing, seem 
 To curse the sons of those, who came 
 
 And in the Indian land upreared 
 A mighty nation, and a name 
 
 By every other land revered. 
 
 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 UvainarU. 
 
 BRAINARD'S productions have become very popular ; 
 not for any displays of remarkable genius, but for their 
 sort of 'thrown off' easiness, and unstudied grace, and 
 delicacy of sentiment. They seem to rise, like the fabled 
 goddess, who was born of the ocean foam. They are 
 gentle in their excitements like the Sowings of the 
 under-currents of some small lake, where the surface is a 
 quiet mirror, only broken, at times, by the skimming 1 beak 
 of some domesticated, golden-pinioned songster. 
 
 His poetry is not of a lofty order. It contains not the 
 strong, wild breathings of a soul, whose poetic ardor is 
 like tameless fire. We love his little pieces. They are 
 the companions, whom we would keep by us on the bank 
 of a small stream, in an afternoon of June, when all is 
 quiet, except the low, dull singing of the hidden insects, 
 and the slight shiver of the tree-lops. 
 3
 
 26 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 He has no great claims to the regard of posterity ; yet 
 we would not be deprived of his works, for they impart, 
 better than the productions of any other American poet, 
 that soothing and holy influence, to the ocean-like mind, 
 which comes gratefully and pleasantly at all seasons, and 
 especially, at that time, when we feel injured and forgot 
 ten by those ruling powers, which grasp, with blind igno 
 rance of our nature, our unyielding and uncomplaining 
 spirits. 
 
 38rjant. 
 
 HE has been ranked by some, as the first of our poets ; 
 but the number is small, who think that he merits such 
 rank. More poetical master-spirits are on the north and 
 south of him. His flights are like those of the swallow, 
 seldom resembling the fearless darings of the eagle. He 
 gives much beauty to his productions the offspring of 
 care; he has much correctness the emanant of taste ; 
 he writes but short articles, thereby displaying the weak 
 ness of his genius, and the fear of losing his reputation. 
 
 The poetry of his blank verse is more exalted than that 
 of his rhyme, and he owns some of the richest and most 
 unique specimens of that kind of writing, which can be 
 found in modern poetry. 
 
 It is well known, that the little Nautilus lives in the 
 depths of the waters, and in fair weather mounts to the 
 surface, throws up its gossamer sail, and is wafted 
 along in perfect safety; but in prospect of a storm, furls 
 its sail, and sinks to the bottom. So it is with Bryant. 
 He comes slowly to his task trusts not to his powers 
 to bear against a sea of criticism, but makes safety even 
 before danger, and is contented to live in his little sonnets 
 and occasional verses.
 
 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. O? 
 
 His claim is small on us, and to rank him too near the 
 first poet is doing him too much injustice. He can no 
 more stand, by the side of some of his contemparies, 
 than the Nautilus can be said to equal the majestic and 
 storm-braving ship. 
 
 JUana. 
 
 WE are disposed to be favorable to Dana, but yet we 
 will not esteem him as many do, the best of our poets. In 
 sooth, we cannot tell who holds, or who is likely to hold 
 such a situation. We can see no reasons for giving Dana 
 the place, and we should, if it was demanded of us to 
 decide, hand over our vote to that effect. 
 
 His productions resemble, more than any thing we 
 think of, some of those dark, old paintings of the early 
 masters. There is a blackness without a gloom scattered 
 over them, and you will often discover a slight dash, 
 which will be brilliant, or a rich coloring, whose beauty 
 will hide the surrounding darkness. 
 
 We esteem ' The Buccaneer ' one of the best modern 
 poems that has been published. It is full of power, and is 
 remarkably concise. It works on our emotions with tre 
 mendous force, and excites in ine mind some or th kst 
 feelings. 
 
 As to the prose of this writer, it may be said to be full 
 of poetry, which is quiet and still, unbroken by harsh 
 nesses, and only at times awakens us by some sudden 
 gorgeousness or dazzling splendor. 
 
 Dana resembles Wordsworth, in many respects. He 
 exhibits much love for the nature of man, and would 
 awake in the mind of others that respect for the soul 
 which leads it on to discover the joys of its contemplation, 
 and the ennobling principles which it excites when under 
 proper observation.
 
 Og SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 JFatvfieltt. 
 
 WE have wondered considerably, that the poems of this 
 author are so little known, and that their merits are so 
 little appreciated. We turned into Cheever's Place-Book 
 to find some of his pieces, and not a verse was there. 
 We said to ourself, here is a determined blindness, and 
 threw down the book, disgusted with its plan. 
 
 Fairfield exhibited his poetical mind in his early pro 
 ductions. There was great poetic rashness in them ; but 
 now that age has mellowed, in some degree, his taste, he 
 writes better, and with more power. He has improved 
 much ; and this is saying what can be said of but very 
 few. 
 
 He ascends the ' spirit's ladder ' ' even to the starry 
 world,' and fearlessly presses toward the portals of the 
 temple of poetry. He is encinctured by more of the 
 hallowed fire, than any of his associates, excepting Per- 
 cival, and his soul leads him on with such ardor, that he 
 has not time for perfection. His mind is wrapt up in the 
 enthusiastic love of his art. 
 
 He has a good portion of the spirit of ancient poetry, 
 ami witli a little more simplicity, his writings would 
 become still more popular, than they are at present. 
 
 His genius is real. It is wild to extravagance often 
 times. Like a powerful spirit, he will carry us away to 
 sights of frightful sublimity, or will lead us through scenes 
 of quietness and joy ; but too often to the former. The 
 progress of his genius may be likened to the broad stream 
 of Niagara, pouring over into the abyss which it is 
 bewildering to behold ; but where, is sent up a bright 
 and beautiful mist, converted into a bow of beauty, and 
 glory, and magnificence. 
 
 He is becoming daily better known, and is yet to reap
 
 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. Og 
 
 the laurels of fame. The work in which he is now 
 engaged, will be to him as precious incense ; and if he 
 continue to progress in the paths of justice and indepen 
 dence, a coronet of stars will mark his brow through 
 future ages. 
 
 THIS writer has very little of what may be called Mil- 
 tonic fire; and since we have but one notion in respect to 
 genuine poetry, we class him among those poets, whose 
 only endeavors are to please. Compared with Milton, 
 what is he ? Compared with Byron, what ? Place him 
 with Burns, is he equal. How does he appear with 
 Coleridge, or Wordsworth, or Cowper, or Wilson, or 
 Moir, or Hogg ? With Percival how does he compare ? 
 Is the construction of his mind as poetical as that of 
 Dana ? 
 
 In comparison with these, he is insignificant, and yet 
 only in comparison with these can his merits as a true 
 poet be tested. If you place him with those, who, for 
 amusement, write poetry occasionally, he towers above 
 them he stands high ; but whether he will be esteemed 
 highly by posterity, is a question easily answered. 
 
 He has, like others of the New York phalanx, written 
 
 *a very little ; and that little has been well finished, so 
 
 that we are pleased with his writings. We would com 
 
 mend them as pearls of value ; but we cannot compare 
 
 them with the gems of greater worth. 
 
 There is nothing which can so well give a notion of his 
 powers, as the reading of his ' Alnwick Castle.' He is 
 in it, throughout the whole. Indeed, it strikes us now, 
 that his poetry resembles a castle, not as we might imag 
 ine it to have been in the days of romance and chivalry ; 
 but as the time-worn, moss-covered relic of departed 
 3*
 
 30 SKETCHES OF AM ERIC AN POETS. 
 
 glory, glorious only in reality, as it is filled with the 
 trophies and equipments of former times, and surrounded 
 by beautiful objects, which are associated with many 
 things which all love and admire. 
 
 WHATEVER this person has done in poetry, has been 
 correctly and well executed. His taste is of the nicest 
 and most chastened species. His works are pages of 
 beauty and propriety, and of rich, exalted poetry. He 
 has not thrown out upon the world, like as many feathers, 
 fugitive pieces, which light on one newspaper to be puffed 
 off by another ; but his works are full, finished poems, 
 like those productions of the great masters who 
 
 wrote whilome in Albion happy isla ! 
 
 This author is scarcely seen in his works; and we only 
 think of him, after we have come away from his writings. 
 
 There is a reason for this. Of his three principal pro 
 ductions, two of them and of these ' Hadad' is the best 
 are written in the dramatic form, which precludes the 
 author's appearance ; he is not present, as Gower, to 
 give us description of minutiae matters, but his creations 
 pass before us like the picture of a dream, or as imaginings 
 of our own fancy. As to the dramatic form of composi 
 tion, we think it is the best mode for the poet to give out 
 his feelings, since he is lost for a time, while the charac 
 ters he has created sustain the whole business, and free 
 him from much with which he might be charged, and 
 which might be some detriment to his reputation. The 
 ancient poets had this secret to their own perfection. 
 
 Hillhouse is remarkable for his confined brevity : for 
 his perfectness and delicacy. His productions resembl 
 angels of beautiful forms, whose appearance stands out
 
 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. gj 
 
 before us in just symmetry, their wings poised with majes 
 tic grace, and altogether free from impurities; so well 
 proportioned are they, that nothing could be imagined, 
 which placed by them could add to their glory or perfection. 
 This author's works, like those of others who are of 
 great merit, are only in the memory of a few. But the 
 praise of the few is far preferable to the acclamations of 
 a thoughtless mob; and to be held in estimation by them is 
 an earnest of that glory, which time places on the grow 
 ing, budding, and imperishable crown of the true poet. 
 
 Hongfelloto. 
 
 This poet has not written a great quantity ; and that 
 which he has written, although it defies criticism, does 
 not, in our estimation, render him what some would wish 
 him to be, one of the first poets in this country. 
 
 We hold it a good truth, that a fair reputation among 
 our acquaintances is not glory with posterity; and this is 
 exactly what we believe that Longfellow possesses. We 
 judge that if posterity calls his name, as a poet, it will be 
 only to remark, that in viewing American scenery his 
 poetical eye is an exact and perfect mirror. 
 
 As a descriptive poet Longfellow stands in an elevated 
 station and we would be pleased, as well as others of 
 his friends, if he would deliver over to the press, more of 
 his productions. We know of very few productions, in 
 the summer months or in the close room in winter, which 
 read and please so well as his especially, when they 
 are most descriptive. 
 
 Longfellow is a capital painter of all that is beautiful. 
 We have not in our mind a single startling picture which 
 he has created. Any writhings of agony any passionate 
 exclamations, except such as have been refined by the
 
 3<2 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 contemplative soul, we have never beheld. His pictures 
 are all soft-hued. He paints, to use his own words, 
 
 The sylvan pomp of woods the golden sun 
 The flowers the leaves the river on its way 
 Blue skies and silver clouds 
 
 ****** 
 
 Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in 
 Mountain and shattered cliff and sunny vale 
 The distant lake fountains and mighty trees 
 In many a lazy syllable - 
 
 There is very little running, apposite sentiment inter 
 woven with his descriptions. He does not seem to see, 
 when he is describing a scene, anything palpable, corres 
 ponding to it, in the mind. What, it occurs to us, makes 
 descriptive poetry of real moral utility, is to have every 
 scene with its shadow of sentiment or thought, not con 
 fused and thrown up in a mass, at the end, but distinct 
 and defined, and attached to its proper object, so that the 
 soul may catch it, at once, and be hallowed by its power. 
 
 THERE has been very little calm, devotional poetry 
 written in America. We wonder that there is not more 
 of it; because we have so many divines, whose pens flow 
 with remarkable ease and grace. Every one knows the 
 fact that the mind loves religious musings; and, that it is 
 equally pleased with poetry, founded on the same spirit, 
 cannot be questioned. 
 
 Peabody has admirably succeeded in this department. 
 A silvery line of pure religion, fresh from the heart, 
 vibrates throughout, and girds all his pieces. His wri 
 tings are the repositories of holiness and goodness 
 having a pervading spirit which turns man to the contem 
 plation of himself and his God.
 
 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 33 
 
 Yet Peabody has no lofty genius. He is tame, except 
 so far as his subject is concerned. There are no wild, 
 brilliant flashings of inherent poetry, which display an 
 imagination wholly and deeply poetical. They are quiet 
 musings, freely and pleasantly written, but remarkable 
 for nothing but the true fervor of religion. 
 
 There is a class of readers, however, to whom he is 
 peculiarly acceptable they are not those who make nice 
 demands for genuine poetry but such as love religion, 
 as it exists in the mind, without the instructions of revela 
 tion. 
 
 There is nothing very original in his productions. An 
 acquaintance with the best writers has purified his taste, 
 and has given a poetical cast to his thoughts. Yet his 
 productions are worthy of repeated perusal, and his repu 
 tation has been well acquired. May he live to write more 
 and to enjoy his reputation, unmolested by satire or cal 
 umny. 
 
 PERCIVAL is the most learned poet of America; indeed, 
 it may be doubted whether there can be found in the 
 world, a more learned man, whose poetical rank is as 
 high. Of that vast number whose names are, and have 
 been, before the public, no one will be held perhaps, in 
 higher estimation by posterity, than this writer; and to 
 whomsoever shall fall the task of recording this man's 
 character, there will on him rest a responsibility, such as 
 has fallen, hitherto, upon no American biographer. 
 
 Percival's productions are so numerous, that to mention 
 his particular character as a poet, is almost impossible. 
 One of his great characteristics is power. This is in and 
 throughout all his works. His imagination is free, almost 
 unbounded ; and he seems to soar with enthusiasm amid
 
 34 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 the elements of poetry; not totally heedless whither he 
 goes, but hazarding too much, sometimes, by boldness. 
 His descriptive verse is generally rich and delightful 
 always American where it is not too imaginative, and his 
 perception of the beauties of nature is great greater 
 than that of any one of our poets who has gone before 
 him, or who is contemporary with him. 
 
 His sentimental poetry, though less evident in some 
 pieces than others, is often simple and dignified, though 
 sometimes morose and solitary in its principle. 
 
 We are unable to tell to what PercivaPs poetry can be 
 likened. Perhaps, though old, the best thing which can 
 shadow out its character, is a river one of whose sources 
 is a brook, over which willows hang silently, but which as 
 we move downward and onward spreads out into a stream 
 of brightness and beauty, till at last it empties itself into 
 the ocean. 
 
 THIS writer we do not place among the chief poets of 
 America, because he is what we call a true po^t, hut 
 because he is a better poet of his order, than any one who 
 can be found in this country. We mean the couplet-wri 
 ters, or those followers of the school of Pope, whose 
 writings are, generally, sensible prose pieces dressed up 
 in rhyme. 
 
 Pierpont does not belong to this school entirely. He 
 has some better qualities than most of its writers. He is 
 concise in his poems, and has considerable strength ; and 
 merits, as he receives, the commendation of the public. 
 
 It is, however, owing to his occasional pieces that he is 
 popular. He has written the best specimens of odes, that 
 have appeared in America. These will stand in compari-
 
 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 35 
 
 son by the side of the compositions of the best ode-wri 
 ters of England. 
 
 He is American in spirit. His odes are so also ; and 
 no person who can read his verses will deny to him praise 
 for the correctness of his style, and for the spirit which 
 breathes and burns through his writings. 
 
 ' The Airs of Palestine,' is the poem by which he first 
 distinguished himself. This is a pretty production, and 
 falls upon us like a strain of music when twilight is gath 
 ering her shades; we have read it often with great 
 pleasure, and hope always to have it by us through the 
 summer evenings, to cheer us at our open window. 
 
 WE may be excused some time or other, if not now, for 
 introducing a name which in all probability has been, like 
 the writings of this author, but very little circulated. 
 
 Pike has a poetical mind of lofty order his writings 
 are free out-pourings of a glowing imagination, and the 
 fault with him is, he does not labor any in revising his 
 productions. 
 
 That readers may judge for themselves for we do 
 not wish thus early, to make many remarks we give an 
 article of his, which has been seen but by a very few 
 persons and which will be read with much interest. 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 O THOU delicious Spring ! 
 Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers, 
 
 Which fall from clouds that lift their snowy wing, 
 From odorous beds of light-infolded flowers, 
 
 And from enmassed bowers, 
 That over grassy walks their greenness fling, 
 Come, gentle Spring !
 
 36 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 Thou lover of young wind, 
 That cometh from the invisible upper sea 
 
 Beneath the sky, which clouds, in white foam, bind ; 
 And settling in the trees deliciously 
 
 Makes young leaves dance with glee, 
 Even in the teeth of that old sober hind, 
 Winter unkind ; 
 
 Come to us for thou art 
 Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring ! 
 Touching the sacred feelings of the heart, 
 Or like a virgin's pleasant welcoming'; 
 
 And thou dost ever bring 
 A tide of gentle but resistless art 
 Upon the heart. 
 
 Red Autumn from the south 
 Contends with thee alas ! what may he show 1 
 
 What is his purple-stained and rosy mouth, 
 And browned cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow, 
 
 And timid, pleasant glow 
 
 Giving earth-piercing flowers their primal growth, 
 And greenest youth 7 
 
 Gray summer conquers thee 
 And yet he has no beauty such as thine: 
 What is his ever-streaming, fiery sea, 
 To the pure glory that with thee doth shine 7 
 
 Thou season most divine, 
 What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy 
 Compare with thee 1 
 
 Come, sit upon the hills, 
 And bid the waking streams leap down their side. 
 
 And green the vales with their slight-sounding rills; 
 And when the stars upon the sky shall glide, 
 
 And crescent Dian ride, 
 I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills, 
 On grassy hills.
 
 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 37 
 
 Alas ! bright Spring not long 
 Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence ; 
 
 For thou shall die the Summer heat among, 
 Sublimed to vapor in his fire intense ; 
 
 And gone forever hence, 
 Exist no more no more to earth belong, 
 Except in song. 
 
 So I who sing shall die. 
 Worn unto death perchance by care and sorrow ; 
 
 And, fainting thus with an unconscious sigh, 
 Bid unto this poor body a good morrow, 
 Which now sometime I borrow, 
 And breathe of joyance keener and more high, 
 Ceasing to sigh ! 
 
 WE suppose that there are many who esteem this writer 
 one of the best bards in the American band of verse- 
 makers ; and fearing that we shall not be understood in 
 our remarks as we are not likely to be, where taste is 
 not very discriminate we will remark, that Sprague is 
 our favorite ; or, in other words, that we like his writings. 
 But, we do not like them as real, genuine, untrammelled 
 poetry ! Poetry ' is a graduated thing ; ' and we always 
 judge it by comparison, believing that 
 
 there is writ 
 Gradation, in its hidden characters. 
 
 As there are between the highest archangel and the 
 lowest mind, different orders of intellect, so the World of 
 poetry has her ministers for their various offices, each 
 differing in capacity. 
 
 We do not think that Sprague is on the lowest round of 
 the ' Spirit's ladder; ' on the contrary, we believe that he 
 is not far below mid-way, and at a height where he need 
 not blush to stand. 
 4
 
 38 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 In warm and vivid fancy Sprague is wanting, yet his 
 works are generally well polished and beautiful specimens 
 of art the creations of refined taste ; not covered 
 with varnish-polish which is sometimes given to beautiful 
 minerals, but made valuable by the more elaborated and 
 permanent polish, which it requires great pains and labor 
 to gain. 
 
 His poetry is for the city and for the parlor, not intended 
 for the soul which is heedful of scenery, or in contempla 
 tion of its own mystery. It resembles a delicate piece of 
 statuary, seeming to have life ; but, on inspection, 
 proving to be the work of a cultivated taste and of great 
 art. 
 
 Yet what we have just now said, will not apply to all of 
 his compositions. There are works, and many passages, 
 of striking poetry, of soothing philosophy, and of finely 
 wrought musical language by which the most ardent student 
 of poetry would be profited, if taught to admire. 
 
 We wish that all poetry were as well finished, and as 
 scrupulously scanned as Sprague's ; it would save 
 many a man of genius much severe criticism, and would 
 render him far more agreeable to general readers. 
 
 THIS author's writings, by all lovers of poetry, we 
 believe are much admired and applauded. With the 
 emotions and passions of the mind, he seems to be engaged, 
 for the most part and seeks not for wild conceits, 
 ' beautiful, when detected. ' His versification is vigorous 
 excessively, and his conceptions are animated, and graphic, 
 and full of deep interest. He does not strive to obtain 
 words of beauty and ornament, but transcribes his feelings, 
 or the pictures of his imagination in correct and fresh 
 language.
 
 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 39 
 
 His eye is open on nature and her forms; and the 
 whole broad scene, which he may be creating, rises 
 before him peculiarly definite not distant and dim, but 
 near to his organ of vision each portion bright and full, 
 even to truth, as if drawn up by the power of a telescope. 
 
 There is a tendency in this accomplished writer, we 
 perceive, to picture out, after the manner of Crabbe, 
 some of the darker feelings of the human heart. The 
 sunlight of his genius does not always silver over, and 
 shoot through the cloud, in his mental vision, lighting it 
 up into pleasing brightness ; but leaves some parts of it 
 dark and shaded, so that the scene which is rising, 
 becomes deeply shadowed and loaded with a heaviness, 
 which casts a gloom on the gazing soul. We trust that 
 this tendency will be checked, as much as possible; or, 
 at the least, that this poet will not hazard such picturings, 
 for the sake of displaying a power, which he, doubtless, 
 possesses. 
 
 It is to Whittier, in our opinion, that the American 
 public ought to look for a long and elaborate poem, which 
 may redeem the poetical profligacy of our poets ; and we 
 trust that he will be induced to commence one, for we 
 believe that there is no one and we except not the poets 
 of high name among us who would succeed so well. 
 
 8901(0. 
 
 WILLIS has had much to encounter, since he com 
 menced as a public writer and among other things, as 
 much of malignity as one could be reasonably supposed 
 to be able to endure. When he first came out as a writer, 
 he received much praise; and though he has had his little 
 ' dalliances,' yet we think that it is not our business, or 
 that of the public, to meddle with his notions, and, least
 
 40 SKETCHES OF AMERICAN POETS. 
 
 of anything, to enter his toilet-room, and give him advice 
 on the tie of his cravat, and such other matters. 
 
 Willis is evidently a careful writer. His pieces are 
 faultless in versification; and they exhibit a close com 
 munion with the old masters, who appear to have mel 
 lowed his taste to an excessive degree of refinement. 
 For nice and delicate descriptions for giving the ex 
 pressions of those feelings which are hardly to be des 
 cribed, and for giving the philosophy of what he describes, 
 he is unrivalled. 
 
 His style is rather peculiar. He has, sometimes, too 
 much of the glitter and show of verse; yet much that he 
 has written is perfect in its kind, and is more chaste and 
 correct than the poetry of most of those, in whose school 
 he is ranked. 
 
 There is an intellectual character about his works, 
 which will ever render him a beloved poet; and, however 
 he may write, be it better or worse, he will still be res 
 pected for what he has executed, and his genius will be 
 extolled, in a degree, for what it was able to accomplish. 
 
 The poetry of Willis is always pleasant reading; but 
 there is so much of it, and it has so many characteristics 
 that it is hard to express its quality by any figure it is 
 a combination of lilies, pearls, diamonds, and fire.
 
 41 
 
 THE OATH. 
 
 FROM A BEQUEATHED MANUSCRIPT. 
 
 DARK and gloomy was the hour of my birth. I entered 
 the world a misanthrope. Many were the disappointments 
 of my childhood, and many the blasted hopes of my 
 maturer years. Ambition was my god, and I worshipped 
 him in adoration. But fraught as my boyhood had been 
 with vexations and troubles, cursed as I had always been 
 with the frowns of misfortune, I was successful in one 
 thing; I gained one object, and became an author of 
 much renown. The first production of my pen was well 
 received by the great and learned, and considered a 
 master-piece of genius and erudition. Every one pur 
 chased the book, every one read it. I had lived a seclu 
 ded life, and was never known as the author of the work; 
 the praises of the critics therefore were constantly in my 
 ears, the flattering reviews in the journals of the day con 
 tinually before my eyes. I grew wild in my superiority 
 to others; I felt that my mind was of a higher order than 
 the generality of intellects, and it seemed as if I were 
 dashing like a vision upon the world a bright, attractive, 
 glorious, enduring vision. I looked upon most other men 
 as fools, as brutes, mere exercisers of instinct. I hated 
 the world more than ever, and was more than ever wrapt 
 up in the gloom of my own reflections. But I was not 
 happy, or contented ; I felt that there was something 
 wanting in the solitude I had already begun to love ; 
 there was a void, a blank spot to be filled. It was a part 
 ner I wanted, to whom I might pour out the emotions 
 4*
 
 42 T H E O A T H . 
 
 which leaped up continually in my bosom. Misanthrope 
 as I was, I longed for society I burned for a being 
 whom I had formed in imagination one who possessed 
 intellect, genius, accomplishments, and with these, beau 
 ty ; one who could relish my pursuits, and soothe me in 
 my arduous labors. 
 
 On a solemn night, dark and sullen as the gloomy 
 imaginings of my own brain, I sat surrounded by my 
 books, and wrapped in close reflection ; my brain was 
 wrought up to a feverish excitement by a clustering crowd 
 of thoughts and fantasies ; I began to trace out the fea 
 tures of the being I had desired. I formed her in imag 
 ination, viewed her well, and knew from the thoughts that 
 had been rolling over my mind, that such a one I could 
 and would find. I felt more determined than ever that 
 the void which so affected me, should affect me no longer. 
 Ambition and Happiness struggled for supremacy in my 
 breast, as Death and Life have often since done. But 
 Ambition conquered ay ! conquered and in an evil 
 hour. 
 
 I swore swore by the fellest oath that ever came from 
 the lips of mortal, by a rash, wicked vow that the 
 woman whom I should join to me, should be such a one 
 as I had pictured in imagination. I lifted my hands up to 
 God with the most solemn determination, and vowed 
 that vow ! oh ! let me not breathe it into a mortal ear ; 
 let it not be shown that ambition conquered intellect; ay! 
 that it is stronger ; even as the dashing waves are migh 
 tier than the gentle ripples. What did I do ? Oh ! rash 
 fool that I was, to conceive happiness to emanate from 
 being associated to such a one one formed in fancy's 
 mould. 
 
 The vow was made I sprang upon my feet, like a 
 ti<*er in the wild-wood, when hunger wakes his frame, and
 
 THE OATH. 43 
 
 makes him swell with strength. I smiled in ecstacy of 
 joy, to think an oath was on my head which promised 
 happiness to my solitary life. Yes, I smiled I laughed 
 laughed with a demoniac, guttural laugh. I joyed, 
 but it was a maniac's joy. Again I was silent, and gazed 
 upon my books awhile and thought, and thought, till a 
 dim, unconscious, all-forgetting, death-like stupor folded 
 over me. For a time I was as if annihilated. Oh ! 
 would to God I had been ! But when I came to feel 
 again, to know that I was that I existed I found 
 myself prostrate, my face upon the earth; my eyes were 
 closed, but yet I saw, ay, saw such such things as I may 
 not tell. The oath in burning letters blazed on the sky 
 - I saw them although I looked down deep, deep into the 
 earth. I arose and felt that I was a miserable outcast 
 from society. 
 
 I went forth into the world ambitious fool ! and 
 mingled with the beings who encompassed me. I was a 
 singular weed in a garden of innumerable flowers, and it 
 seemed that I could distil a poison if I willed, and blight 
 them all; but no, I would not, for there was one I des 
 tined for myself, and I feared lest I should destroy it. I 
 sought that being I had wished, long and patiently, and 
 could not find her. 
 
 The oath blazed ever before me ; its characters shone 
 more brilliant than the ever-burning sun, and pointed roe 
 onward like a supernatural finger ! I tried to forget it, but 
 it gave forth, as it were, a sound indefinite, yet sure and 
 dreadful; it told me to proceed. I did; and when a period 
 of pain had gone, I found a being whom I fancied the one 
 I had sought. She was ' indifferent as the breeze,' and 
 ravished me with a bewitching smile. That woman 
 fastened a potent charm around me, around my very heart. 
 She fixed herself there, and I thought she would dwell
 
 44 T H E O A T II . 
 
 forever. I strove to wrench her from me, but I could not 
 she was too lovely. Were it not for her levity, I might 
 have hated her. But I could not tear her from me. I 
 thought, and was really persuaded, that she was the one 
 with whom I had determined to associate. I saw in her, 
 intellect, genius every thing I desired. I loved her 
 she was one who seemed fitted to change a dungeon to a 
 paradise. She was all but immortal to the sight, and all 
 but a fairy in her joyousness. She met me with her love ; 
 and as the tender vine clings to the dark and stately tree, 
 so did she cling to my bosom, and place her hopes in my 
 affections. But though we embraced each other with all 
 the ardor of affection, how different to each other in 
 constitution ! 
 
 Before I took her wholly to myself, I waited for the 
 assurance that she was in reality what I wished her. I 
 looked carefully found her intellectual, and was satis 
 fied. I loved her, and I feared I was deceived into this 
 belief ; and I alternately distrusted and believed, until I 
 was fully satisfied that she would be a blessing to me, 
 and then she became the partner of my solitude ! 
 
 My books were now the chief objects of attention, for 
 the vow did not once recur to me ; I thought myself free 
 from its obligation I had accomplished what I deter 
 mined, and having much to do with a great work I was 
 planning, she was driven almost from my thoughts: amid 
 my many schemes of ambition she was placed, but was a 
 dim star in comparison to others which attracted me. I 
 gradually became forgetful of her, for ambition was dis 
 playing its great and rare sights to its proud votary. I was 
 conceiving ideas to accomplish the work I had planned. 
 I determined to forget her, and bade her remain in the 
 precincts of her own apartment, till the business in which 
 I was engaged should be completed. Obedient as she
 
 THE OATH. 45 
 
 always had been, she loved me too well to heed my com 
 mand, but continued by my side, bestowing those little 
 attentions which she so much delighted to administer. 
 But during the time I had forsaken and neglected her, 
 she had faded much ; her look was consumptive ; the 
 symmetry of her form and the buoyancy of her spirits had 
 vanished ; and when my work was nearly finished, and I 
 returned to her society, I noticed the change, and op 
 pressed with grief returned to my study, when another 
 sight appeared the blazing characters the oath oh, 
 let me not think of it ! But, no, I cannot forget it. 
 Eternity itself will never obliterate from my mind the 
 unwonted, the dazzling brilliancy of those fated charac 
 ters. The cloud which had hitherto involved my reason, 
 was dispelled. The force of my obligation returned 
 and I determined to obey its mandate though now too 
 late. With a mind fully resolved to put in execution its 
 fell purpose, I entered the apartment which I had just 
 left. My eager eye was fixed on my wife, as she sat in 
 all the loveliness of grief I scanned every feature 
 and methought I penetrated to the very sanctuary of her 
 heart. But still my opinion was unchanged. I still 
 thought that she was the same lovely, intellectual being I 
 had first supposed her. I looked again oh, that look, 
 that piercing, searching look then it was that I doubt 
 ed; another look again I doubted doubted, and saw 
 nothing but a woman ! ' Oh God,' was rny passionate 
 exclamation, ' would that the oath had never been regis 
 tered in heaven's chancery ! would that I could die ! 
 But ah ! ambition thou idol of my soul, I cannot give thee 
 up ; where is my fame ? the world does not know me 
 I must not die ! ' The oath tormented me, and I was 
 obliged to put in execution its demands. I called my 
 wife; she answered me in her endearing accents, and I
 
 46 MORNING. 
 
 continued: ' Ambition is a demon Beauty a cloak to 
 foolishness Happiness a tantalizer Life a curse 
 Death a blessing ! ' She spoke not a word. 
 
 I took the opiate I had prepared, and gave it to her ; 
 she slept like one dead. I opened a vein in her arm, and 
 she bled bled to death ! My vow was finished, and I 
 buried her in the cold, damp earth. The characters of 
 the oath have vanished, and I still live to hate the world, 
 and be tormented, forever gazing on those other bloody 
 characters which have taken their place those hated 
 two Ambition Murder ! 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 MORNING ! sweet is thy music to my ear, 
 
 While small birds carol on the green leafed trees. 
 Or press with gentle breasts the stirring breeze, 
 
 As they move onward in their wild career. 
 
 O ! I could walk forever in this shade, 
 
 And listen to sweet Nature's charming song, 
 But Life is short, and Time itself not long, 
 
 And every thing on earth must quickly fade. 
 
 Then should we think how soon we all must part, 
 And quit this world where Pleasure seems to reign, 
 But only seems for life, all life is vain, 
 
 Unless we have a holy, feeling heart ; 
 
 Possessing this, to heaven we turn our eyes, 
 And view a glorious life beyond the azure skies !
 
 47 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 THE moon was up in its arch of blue, 
 And the evening star was bright ; 
 
 And a thought came o'er my soul anew, 
 As a star upon the night. 
 
 I gazed on that evening star awhile, 
 
 And it bound me like a spell ; 
 And upon my brow was throned a smile, 
 
 Till into my breast it fell. 
 
 That evening star stood over the moon, 
 
 Like a king upon his throne ; 
 I thought a creed would resemble soon, 
 
 The vision I saw alone. 
 
 I gazed the crescent sank in the wave, 
 
 And the star was far on high ; 
 I thought that the flood that shape would lave 
 
 As it left the smiling sky. 
 
 The moral came ; Mahmud's creed will be 
 Like that crescent in the wave ; 
 
 It will sink away and men will see 
 That Bethlehem's star must save.
 
 48 
 
 THE WILLOW AND THE STREAM. 
 
 A WILLOW hung with its silver, tassel-like leaves, over 
 a beautiful stream that mirrored it with accuracy and 
 distinctness. ' Ho ! ho ! ' said the stream one morning, 
 ' you need not throw your tassels in my face there is 
 no demand for them, I can assure you.' ' You need not 
 be alarmed,' said the willow, 'you must bear them now ; 
 but by and bye I shall have none to annoy you with.' ' I 
 wish you had not now,' said the stream, ' I detest your 
 practices.' 'I do not complain,' said the willow, ' when 
 your face is ruffled so that I cannot see myself. I 
 acknowledge and reverence the wind-god, whose power 
 both plucks the tassels from my arms and wrinkles your 
 face, and I am willing to have my pleasure taken from 
 me when it does not appear to be done by you, but by the 
 powerful wind-god.' The stream aware that it was not 
 the willow's fault, but that the inconvenience was caused 
 by a power whom they both obeyed, murmured no 
 more. 
 
 Man is too apt to blame his neighbor for doing that 
 which is the work of a superior existence, and by whose 
 power he himself is controlled, but he will not always, 
 like the stream cease to murmur and complain he feels 
 wiser than the Power which sustains and protects his 
 life.
 
 49 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MISS J. E. VAIL. 
 
 THIS is a simple tribute to the memory of a young lady, formerly a 
 member of the Female Seminary, at Troy, N. Y. An obituary 
 eulogium on her character and virtues, may be found in Mrs. E. 
 Willard's ' Appeal in favor of Female Education.' 
 
 THE pall has wrapped the dead, 
 
 The beautiful and gay, 
 The heart we loved, has fled 
 
 From each of us, away ! 
 The sorrowing tear must fall, 
 
 The gay of earth must mourn, 
 When yon green mound seems all 
 
 To which a friend can turn. 
 
 Like to the budding rose, 
 
 Whose petals when they 're blown, 
 Seek on the earth repose, 
 
 The perfume upward flown ; 
 Thus, has the loved one gone, 
 
 Up to the realms of God, 
 Whose mind too brightly shone 
 
 To dwell on Earth's dull sod. 
 
 She has not fled. She 's here 
 
 Still folded in each breast, 
 Though hymning in God's sphere, 
 
 Among the immortal blest 
 
 5
 
 50 EVENING. 
 
 The blest who have passed away 
 From this low, syren earth, 
 
 Each soul, like some bright day, 
 Fled almost at its birth. 
 
 As on her upward flight, 
 
 To that bright land above, 
 Where all is shadowless light, 
 
 And all unwavering love, 
 She passed her spirit said 
 
 To each of us, ' Prepare ! ' 
 And now that she has fled, 
 
 Her mantle who shall wear ? 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 O ! WHAT a wakefulness an eve like this, 
 
 Brings to my senses ! hallowing each thought. 
 
 As from an angel's ruby lip 't were caught, 
 Whispering the soul a secret of its bliss : 
 Bestowing joy which few below can know, 
 
 Like some clear vision in a pleasant dream. 
 
 Which comes upon the mind quick as a gleam, 
 Yon bargemen lightly from each oar-blade throw. 
 Sweet, is the eve, when sinks the moon so fair, 
 
 And banner-like is spread the pall of night, 
 
 Gathering each floating ray of wandering light, 
 As earth the dews now hovering in the air. 
 
 On such an eve can man but holy be, 
 
 When from this earth, great GOD, he looks to thee ?
 
 51 
 
 EPISODE 
 
 OF THE SECOND BOOK OF OSSIAN'S FIN GAL 
 
 TURNED INTO IRREGULAR VERSE. 
 
 WHERE drank the deer of a thousand streams, 
 Whose waters sparkled with silvery gleams; 
 Where a hundred hills, now far, now near, 
 Echoed with a thousand voices clear, 
 When the chase-dogs freely roved about, 
 And up through the hills their cries sent out, 
 Comal dwelt, whose soft eye was like dew, 
 While youthful mildness his face shone through ; 
 Whose hand was love to a maiden's hand, 
 But death in fight when he seized the brand. 
 
 One maid was his love, and she was fair, 
 With a native beauty rich and rare ; 
 Like a sunbeam did each feature illume, 
 Her hair was black as the raven's plume 
 On Comal her soul was fixed intent, 
 And their mutual eyes in love were blent. 
 Her bow-string hummed beneath the sun, 
 Their course in the chase was ever one, 
 And the quiver that hung at Comal's back, 
 Rattled as he gave the dogs his track 
 But Comal, chief of a hundred hills, 
 Encircled by a thousand leaping rills,
 
 52 EPISODE. 
 
 Was foe to Grumal, who sought the maid, 
 Grumal, the dark chief of Ardven's grade ; 
 Grumal, who watched on each hill and plain, 
 The love of Galbina's soul to gain ! 
 
 When the mists, one day, had hid the band, 
 Which roamed the hills at Comal's command, 
 Galbina and Comal met in the cave, 
 Whose entrance was washed by Ronan's wave 
 Its sides with glittering arms were hung, 
 And when winds blew, with a din they rung, 
 And a hundred shields of thongs were there, 
 And a hundred helms with crests of hair, 
 And the sounding steel of the helms, shone 
 Like inlaid silver on every stone. 
 
 ' Rest here,' said Comal, ' till I throw 
 That deer adown from Mora's brow. 
 
 Rest here ! thou light of Ronan's cave, 
 No one will here such danger brave, 
 I go but I will soon return.' 
 ' I fear,' she said, ' with fear I burn, 
 But I will rest among these arms, 
 And hush all unprovoked alarms, 
 But soon return, my love, to me ! 
 For Grumal haunts each grove and tree.' 
 He went for the deer on Mora's brow 
 Ah, what is the maiden doing now ? 
 Her form is pressed by an armor bright, 
 She strides from the cave her heart is light, 
 For her Comal's faith she e'en would try, 
 Would see the glance of her lover's eye ! 
 Comal beheld, and thought her his foe 
 The arrow flew as he drew the bow, 
 Galbina fell in her purple gore,
 
 EPISODE. 53 
 
 She fell on the shining, sounding shore. 
 Wild with joy, Comal ran to the cave, 
 And called for the maid he tried to save. 
 
 ' Where art thou, oh my love, oh where ? ' 
 And Echo only answered him there. 
 He fled the cave, and at length he found, 
 Her breast was beating the arrow round. 
 ' Oh Galbina, and was it thou 
 The arrow struck from Mora's brow ? ' 
 Down on the sand he fell by her side, 
 Her life had gone with the purple tide, 
 The hunters returned and found them there 
 Comal weeping with tears of despair. 
 But soon the fleet of the ocean came, 
 They fought and the strangers fell in shame, 
 And no one could slay the strong of hand, 
 Comal, chief of the hundred-hilled land. 
 Then he hurled his dark brown shield away, 
 And his dart found through his breast its way ; 
 Now with his love on the sounding shore. 
 Lies Comal near to the surges roar ; 
 And sailors for two green graves look forth, 
 When they bound on the rolling waves of the north.
 
 54 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS. 
 
 Samuel STsglor 
 
 THERE is no one of the English Bards, if we except 
 Southey, who makes us wonder so much, or one who 
 stands out in so conspicuous a light, as the author of 
 Genevieve, Christabel, and the Ancient Mariner. It has 
 been the fortune, or rather misfortune of Coleridge, that 
 he has turned his attention to politics. In his earlier 
 years, he was an enthusiast in the Utopian schemes of 
 his brother ' Lakers,' and nothing had a charm which did 
 not associate itself with the woods of America, happiness 
 and liberty. Soon, however, the bright bubble, in which 
 was painted every thing poetical and romantic, burst, and 
 the scheme was abandoned as useless and visionary. It 
 was at this time, that Coleridge paid much attention to 
 poetry, besides writing much political matter. 
 
 He has written several prose works of rare merit, and 
 his ' Aids to Reflection,' and ' The Friend,' are works 
 which every student should have on his table. He has 
 also written much in the political newspapers, but which 
 no one thinks of but himself, and it is said, he considers 
 those ephemera the best portion of his works. 
 
 The sentiments of Coleridge are mixed, and somewhat 
 indefinite ; and with his theology, politics and poetry, he 
 may be considered the most remarkable genius of the 
 age. His conversational powers are said to be the great 
 est of any man in England, and to this acquirement he
 
 BARDS. 55 
 
 has sacrificed much, which would have been more lasting 
 to his reputation. 
 
 His greatest friend is Wordsworth, on the merits of 
 whose writings he loves to dwell. Wordsworth in many 
 respects is like him ; but Coleridge is more wild, and his 
 thoughts more eagle like and untamed; still he can des 
 cribe the most pathetic sentiments, and in his own words, 
 can fasten our attention, 
 
 E'en like some sweet, beguiling melody, 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it. 
 
 Or he can make us shudder and tremble, in describing 
 the terrific scenes in his Ancient Mariner. 
 
 Coleridge is now [1832] fifty-nine years old, and his 
 hair is white ; in body he is large ; his face is full, and 
 lighted up by an exquisite black eye. He is now living 
 in the family of Mr Gilman, of Highgate, England, to 
 whom his ' Friend ' is dedicated ; ' a friendly family,' 
 says one of his contemporaries, ' who have sense and 
 kindness enough to know that they do themselves an 
 honor by looking after the comfort of such a man. His 
 room looks upon a delicious prospect of wood and mead 
 ow, with colored gardens under the window, like an 
 embroidery to the mantle. Here he cultivates his flowers, 
 and has a set of birds for his pensioners, who come to 
 breakfast with him. He may be seen taking his daily 
 stroll up and down, with his black coat and white locks, 
 and a book in his hand. His main occupation is reading.' 
 
 We have said that Coleridge is a wonderful genius. 
 He is whether we observe him as a mere man, or 
 whether we look upon him as a literary character. His 
 mind is great and capacious, and though he has been 
 censured for his indolence it can only be indolence as 
 respects his physical powers. His mind forms a perpetual
 
 ENGLISH BARDS. 
 
 motion of thought; sleeping or waking, it is exercised, 
 and he has actually composed a poem while sleeping, a 
 part of which he was able to transcribe. It is to be 
 lamented, that one who could take his place in the highest 
 hierarchy of poets, should content himself with scribbling 
 opinions on the unsettled notions of politics should 
 degrade his genius for poetry, and deprive the world of 
 the conceptions of a mind which might have been and 
 may still be, the admiration of future ages. 
 
 JWMliam 
 
 The machinery of a watch, without a dial-plate, is of 
 little value ; and so also, is an article on Wordsworth's 
 writings, which is destitute of an explanation or definition 
 of the term Lake Poetry. What poetry is, all know or 
 pretend to know; but to be ignorant of the true meaning 
 of Lake Poetry, exhibits to most men no great deficiency 
 of discrimination. They who have often made use of 
 the word, show their ignorance of its meaning. Our 
 definition of the term is, that it is the style of poetry 
 which necessarily followed a new versification; for all its 
 characteristics seem to arise from this fact, and not from 
 any affected love either of solitude or of nature, in the 
 authors. The versification of the Lakers is not very reg 
 ular, and permits one line to run into another, thus giv 
 ing thought an untrammeled freedom. The frequent use 
 of blank verse and banishment of rhyme, assist much the 
 power of expression. They take not two lines to express 
 what might be expressed in one. Their verses are not 
 mechanical. This new style of poetry has not only 
 threatened to put out of existence the polished lines of 
 Pope, but has partly put the threat into execution. Such 
 men as Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey who, by
 
 ENGLISH BARDS. 57 
 
 the way, were the founders of the school, and delighted 
 to dwell near the lakes of Cumberland, whence the epi 
 thet Lake foresaw the evils which was about to result, 
 and observing the fetters which had often bound the wings 
 of genius, with a laudable energy broke the bands of cus 
 tom, and rose against all barriers with an irresistible 
 power. 
 
 Wordsworth has been accused of an affected love of 
 nature. This we believe to be an unfounded accusation. 
 His writings teach us otherwise; and the assertion came 
 from those who with one breath declare they have no 
 relish for his poetry, and in the next pour forth an analysis 
 of his writings ! Any person who may read his works, 
 will readily discover the falsity of the assertion. His 
 love of nature is an intense and burning passion it 
 carries him along with it, and he is so far from being 
 affected himself, that he never describes any thing affected 
 by others. ' Passages come to view on every page in his 
 volumes, of which the spirit goes down into the stillest 
 depths of the soul ; and touches of exquisite tenderness 
 are scattered abundantly with such simplicity and free 
 dom, that they seem as if they had dropped unconsciously 
 from the author in the pursuit of his silent musings.' 
 
 From Wordsworth we expect not the same style, the 
 same subject or the same usage of a subject, that we 
 should from a practical man. If he were a banker like 
 Rogers, an enterprising editor like Campbell, or a man of 
 the world, a street-walker in London, we might reasona 
 bly expect that he should write differently; but never 
 while in retirement, while his mind is looking alternately 
 upon itself and the objects of nature. 
 
 The influence of his writings is of the purest and most 
 touching kind. It is not the poetry of sounds, of mellow 
 verse merely, but that of sentiment. It does not rouse
 
 58 ENGLISH BARDS. 
 
 us like the energetic war strains of Campbell, nor does it 
 throw a veil of melancholy over us; but it steals with an 
 imperceptible movement to the heart, not only charming 
 us, but improving our natures, raising us by its descrip 
 tions of truth to the contemplation of ourselves as moral 
 and intellectual beings beings but little lower than the 
 angels. With the feelings of his own heart, and the 
 emotions of his own mind, he clothes the object of his 
 perception. To ordinary observers he appears a lover 
 of mysticisms ; but to one who studies him, a spirit of 
 grace, and beauty and purity. A congenial reader is to 
 his poetry what fire is to the taper it lights it up and 
 shows its power and worth. To a man of no thought, he 
 is a stumbling block ; but to one who is pleased to analyze 
 the mind, and looks below the surface of things, he is the 
 charming and divine poet of the age. His writings, 
 judged by a comparison with Pope's, are nonsense and 
 mysticism; but judged by one whose mind is somewhat 
 constituted like his own, they not only appear, but in 
 reality are, the divine essence of poetry. By great 
 study a man of ordinary capacity could make himself equal 
 to Pope ; but a man must be of superior intellect and 
 untiring exertion who would write like Wordsworth. The 
 description of surfaces of manners and fashions, is not 
 the true creating spirit of poetry; and although we may 
 admire the smooth verses of the French school, at the 
 same time the mind is not satisfied; we receive pleasure, 
 it is true, but it is a pleasure without any real enjoyment. 
 Wordsworth understands how to excite the sympathies of 
 man; he knows that every breast is affected by certain 
 objects; he knows how to paint those objects, and how to 
 give them motion, and life and power. 
 
 His longest and one of his most exquisite poems is The 
 Excursion, which has met with much unmerited censure.
 
 ENGLISH BARDS. 59 
 
 It has faults we are aware, as well as many other of his 
 pieces; but as a whole it is one of the finest poems which 
 the age has produced. Concerning the faults of Words 
 worth's poetry, we have said nothing. He has had much 
 to contend against, and critics in general are more prone 
 to look to his faults than to his beauties and perfections. 
 For this simple reason we shall be silent on the subject. 
 And in this place we hesitate not to say to him who has no 
 relish for poetry in general, that if he will peruse a few of 
 the smaller poems of this author, even carelessly, he will 
 find that they will afford a freshness of desire for reading 
 poetry, which no other author's writings create. There is 
 in his poetry so much affectionate simplicity, he is so 
 unaffected, so true to nature and his own feelings, that 
 we are compelled, though we would not, to love and even 
 to wonder and adore. 
 
 Wordsworth has given a new power to poetry, and has 
 struck into a region untraversed and hitherto disregarded. 
 He has opened to the view new scenes, given a new 
 power to association, and bound us by a charm to his 
 bosom. Much he has had to contend with, but he has 
 defended himself, although he once came near being a 
 martyr to his cause. But he lives, and will live in the 
 hearts not only of his countrymen, but in those of the 
 world. His name blazes now, however, with but little 
 of that brilliancy which is hereafter to make him conspic 
 uous, which will shine in the zenith ef the literary world 
 with that other constellation which every one knows to 
 bear the name of Shakspeare.
 
 60 ENGLISH BARDS. 
 
 3Xobert Soutjjej, 
 
 THE laureate of England, Robert Southey, by his 
 poetical writings, has obtained a considerable degree of 
 praise as a man of genius ; and for his political conduct 
 and opinions, a more than equivalent quantity of censure. 
 His political tenets we shall dismiss from consideration, 
 by remarking, that at the commencement of his career, 
 he was a stern and powerful advocate for the principles of 
 unlimited freedom, and was the leader of those visionaries 
 who formed an imaginary state in America, planned on 
 these principles. For several years past, however, he has 
 proceeded on his course, entirely contrary to those opin 
 ions in which he was formerly a mad enthusiast. Whether 
 this most remarkable abandonment has resulted from 
 discouragement, or from a candid belief of the futility of 
 such doctrines, we cannot pretend to decide ; nor would 
 it be our province to do so, if we were able. 
 
 In our notice of Coleridge, we said, that there is no one 
 who stands out in so conspicuous a light as he, Southey 
 excepted. In making that remark, we did not intend even 
 to hint that there is a similarity in the construction of their 
 minds. Coleridge is conspicuous for his singularity and 
 boldness of thought, for the deep working of his mind, 
 and for his metaphysical subleties ; Southey, on the other 
 hand, is conspicuous for boldness of fancy, both in con 
 ceiving and describing. He reminds us of an old master 
 of painting, with a brilliant imagination, placing on the 
 canvas, fresh, vivid and glowing colors; striving not 
 solely to represent scenes as found in nature, but endeav 
 oring to create something prettier, or more attractive, or 
 if possible, more startling; occasionally, however, pro 
 ducing scenes which exhibit much truth in the delineation.
 
 ENGLISH BAUDS. gj 
 
 He struggles for boldness and originality, but often rises 
 into extravagance ; like an ambitious, though ignorant 
 actor, who strives to explain anew, or impress upon the 
 mind more powerfully, some favorite passage in an old 
 dramatist. The mass of readers, Southey can never 
 please. He is too turgid and bombastic ; and we may 
 perhaps be allowed to say that he uses too many hard 
 words. We have heard of some persons studying the 
 lexicon for such knowledge, and we should suppose South 
 ey one of these very same expert dictionary-hunters. 
 There is a vast deal in his poetical compositions, which is 
 nothing but sound mere rhetoric, sometimes so artfully 
 interwoven, that one at first might suppose he discovers 
 gems, when he sees nothing but polished glass. His 
 poetical writings, in invention and description, are essen 
 tially dramatic. Tinsel; rough paintings, looking well at 
 a distance; the wild and wonderful; lurid and vivid flames; 
 bustle and incident, are the most striking characteristics 
 of the larger pieces of his composition. 
 
 He is evidently a great admirer of Milton. In some 
 passages and descriptions, he has attempted by an unlucky 
 ambition, to describe, with that felicity which so charac 
 terizes the writings of the immortal bard, the appearance 
 of the World of Woe. These descriptions, however, do 
 not rise into that grandeur which pervades the conceptions 
 and delineations of Milton , they are palpably affected 
 and catachrestical. One great, and indeed the greatest 
 fault the foundation of a multitude of others is the 
 apparent desire to combine fancy, sublimity, and other 
 powerful qualities, in one poem; thereby rendering it, as 
 a whole, exceedingly mixed, confused, and repulsive. He 
 is the only living poet, of the present age, to whose eye 
 may emphatically be applied the sentiment, glancing from 
 heaven to earth, from earth to heaven. He grasps at 
 6
 
 62 ENGLISH BARDS. 
 
 every thing which tends to allure, and, in spite of reality, 
 creates startling and even painful pictures. Yet, with all 
 his extravagancies, with all his wildness of thought, and 
 wonder-working invention, he never forgets intention 
 ally at least that the great object of poetry is to impress 
 on the attention of readers the pleasures and benefits of 
 morality and religion. Concerning the prose works of 
 Southey we have little to say, except that they exhibit 
 splendid specimens of English composition. Taking his 
 prose and poetry together, we find that he has endeavored 
 to do too much; on this account he has heaped before 
 the public a mass of matter,"which is little better than 
 useless lumber. He forgets, as it seems, that a man is 
 generally best known by a single work, and that too by a 
 very short one. He seems to imagine that he will be im 
 mortal on account of his size not for his peculiar excel 
 lence. How disappointed must he be even now, in his 
 expectations ! There is not one of his poems, which is 
 noted more than another ; and although he is so excess 
 ively voluminous, there are many persons of tolerable 
 information, who, if asked, could not tell whether he 
 writes most like himself, or like Pope. 
 
 We have thus far considered Southey's writings, judg 
 ing , from prominent faults. Were we to dismiss this 
 article without giving him some credit, it might appear 
 that we write with prejudice. Not so ; on the contrary 
 we have often regretted, and very seriously too, that one 
 who has displayed such remarkable powers of invention 
 should be so deficient in other most important requisites. 
 In picturing the severer passions, he displays an inti 
 mate knowledge of the heart. Descriptions are intro 
 duced in his poem of ' Roderick,' which of themselves 
 would stamp him as the master genius of the age. The 
 conflicting passions their power and effect are thrown
 
 ENGLISH BARDS. (53 
 
 into a seeming existence, and the most intense interest 
 often enchains one for a comparatively long time. Still 
 the poem is unequal, and unfitted for readers in general. 
 The passages, as passages, and choice extracts, are often 
 eminently elegant and sublime ; but there is not one 
 person in a thousand who would read through the poem 
 these passages, therefore, are not discovered; conse 
 quently his fame as a poet must be much restricted. 
 Perhaps if he had written only the stanzas ' To the Holly 
 Tree' about fifty lines he would have acquired as 
 much real fame as he has from writing half a million of 
 verses. 
 
 The c Curse of Kehama ' is a work of considerable 
 power, arising perhaps principally from the interest exist 
 ing in respect to all mythology, and particularly to that 
 singular system peculiar to the Hindoos. This poem, if 
 we recollect aright, is in rhyme, and the measure is simi 
 lar to the studied Pindarics of Cowley. It contains pas 
 sages which would be extremely beautiful, finished and 
 elegant, were it not that something or other arises, in the 
 shape of a note, three or four pages in length, by way of 
 explanation. The ' Curse of Kehama ' is replete with 
 the usual extravagancies of the author; indeed, the foun 
 dation of the poem, the Hindoo mythology, is all extrav 
 agance. These extravagances, however, are not quite 
 so ridiculous as many which may be found in that most 
 ridiculous of all poems of the present age, namely, ' The 
 Vision of Judgment.' ' Madoc ' is another tremendous 
 poem, full of human adventures and natural difficulties. 
 This poem, too, has its machinery, and on the whole is 
 superior to the ' Kehama ' and that, perhaps, is not 
 saying a great deal. ' Joan of Arc,' in respect to its 
 machinery, is preferable to the last mentioned ; but we
 
 64 ENGLISH BARDS. 
 
 should very much question whether it cost half the labor 
 of either of the other two. 
 
 Several other poetical works ought perhaps to be par 
 ticularly noticed here; but we forbear, and would refer 
 our readers who are desirous of obtaining a more discrim 
 inate knowledge of his works, to them, and also to the 
 British Reviews. Nevertheless, it may be well to caution 
 every one against trusting too much to the reviews in the 
 London Quarterly. The articles which there notice 
 Southey's works, are the most uncritical and flattering 
 notices we ever perused ; and the smooth, unbroken vein 
 of adulation coursing through nearly all of them, disgrace 
 the Review, their authors, and the laureate himself. 
 
 Southey has been classed among the Lake Poets, and 
 rightly, too; indeed, he was at the head of them in the 
 dream, called ' Pantisocracy ' that famous scheme for 
 political regeneration. However, his writings prove that 
 which we asserted in our notice of Wordsworth, namely, 
 that Lake Poetry does not consist so much in the matter 
 as in the manner. Metaphysical subtlety is not the foun 
 dation of it ; if so, Southey should never have been 
 classed among the Lakers, for he does not meddle with 
 the operations of the mind, but with the virtues of the 
 heart. Southey, as a poet, can never be immortal, but 
 will be known best by the place he fills in the library. 
 His talents may be acknowledged; but it will be mere 
 passive praise which speaks of him ; he will live perhaps 
 for a while, but will be esteemed rather as a man of effort, 
 than of genius.
 
 65 
 
 HOURS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 ACCORDING TO THE THEORY OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE hours of childhood ! where are they ? 
 
 Gone! like the gleams of light, 
 Or, as the stars that shoot away, 
 
 Down through the deep of night ; 
 Yes, they have fledj yet ever seem, 
 
 When memory leads us back, 
 The recollections of a dream, 
 
 Like sparks in a meteor's track. 
 
 How many things we used to do ! 
 
 Upon the ice we slid, 
 And scratched it with the bright nailed shoe 
 
 When we to school were bid. 
 We made the snow-ball round and nice, 
 
 And hurled it at our friend, 
 Or threw him down upon the ice 
 
 Which 'neath our feet did bend. 
 
 We laughed outright upon our mate, 
 
 When on the ice he came ! 
 And smiled to see him rub his pate, 
 
 Or limp a little lame. 
 Fine sports were these in Winter, too, 
 
 When snow was on the ground, 
 And cold winds o'er the country blew, 
 
 With drear and moaning sound. 
 6*
 
 66 HOURS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 In Spring, forth to the woods we went, 
 
 And watched the small-birds build, 
 And gazed with little minds intent, 
 
 Till with ambition filled. 
 Once looking with a gentle stare, 
 
 Into our playmate's eye, 
 We laughed to see so painted there 
 
 Our own identity. 
 
 When summer came with breezes fair, 
 
 We made our paper kite, 
 And strove to raise it in the air, 
 
 Its monstrous weight in spite; 
 We tumbled down upon the ground, 
 
 And struck our little knee 
 Though pained we jumped up safe and sound, 
 
 And danced right merrily. 
 
 When Autumn came, with cheek quite brown, 
 
 Upon the boughs we sat, 
 And threw the good red apples down 
 
 Into our comrade's hat; 
 And as we tried adown to come, 
 
 Out of the apple tree, 
 Our little limbs did tremble some, 
 
 With all our bravery. 
 
 The hours of childhood now have fled, 
 
 As bright stars erst they came, 
 And round our younger years they shed 
 
 A pure and holy flame. 
 But they must pass, as all must know ; 
 
 Their joys are sweet, yet weak, 
 They come as quick, as quick they go, 
 
 As dimples on the cheek.
 
 67 
 
 FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 REASONS FOR DRINKING. 
 
 THE black earth, often drinks, you know, 
 And all the pretty streams below, 
 The seas, too, drink from little streams, 
 The sun from seas with his bright beams ; 
 The moon drinks light from off the sun, 
 And all things drink we look upon, 
 Then, friends, why should you thus contend, 
 Because I wish to be their friend ? 
 
 REASONS FOR KISSING. 
 
 IMITATION. 
 
 THE breezes kiss the fragrant flowers, 
 The flowers kiss the fragrant wind ; 
 
 The vines, too, kiss the loveliest bowers, 
 And bowers kiss the vines which bind. 
 
 The mountains kiss the silver sky, 
 Clouds of silver kiss the mounts; 
 
 The fountains kiss the waters nigh, 
 Waters kiss the lovely founts. 
 
 If Sara's lip I dare to kiss, 
 Lovely Sara dares kiss mine; 
 
 Is there no reason, friends, for this, 
 When for kisses all things pine ?
 
 68 
 
 PORTRAIT PAINTING. 
 
 IT is a consolingly beautiful reflection that though 
 there are many casualties and chances which separate our 
 friends from us, and bear them away from the scenes in 
 which they have been accustomed to mingle, man has 
 been provided by the beneficent hand of his Creator, 
 with a power of talent and genius to animate the marble 
 and the canvas, and to present upon them those fine, and 
 divine, and magical marks which cause to rise before us 
 the appearances of the forms, and the semblances of the 
 features of our friends and relatives ; at the same time 
 awakening that spirit association whose ministry is 
 to summon before us, in the most perfected attitudes of 
 beauty, all those sympathies, and charities, and kind 
 nesses, and beloved traits in the character, which fasten 
 us to our fellow men, by the strongest and yet the most 
 tender bonds of attachment. In vain, the misfortunes 
 incident to our existence tear away from our bosoms the 
 young, and the loved, and the beautiful. In vain, the 
 grinding hand of stern Poverty wears down and removes 
 out of our presence the struggling yet the industrious 
 and the respected. In vain, Disease and the wasting 
 Consumption lead down through the chambers of the 
 Future whence there are no tidings in this life, those 
 who have nursed us in our infancy, and supported us 
 through the dangers of our youth, and watched over us 
 with paternal anxiety in the opening days of our manhood. 
 This divinely bestowed power of talent and genius 
 shrivels the distances of Time into a point and triumphs 
 over Death itself !
 
 PORT?, AIT PAINTING. gg 
 
 What an important consideration is it then that this 
 power should be cultivated that its cultivators should 
 be encouraged and that their encouragement should be 
 commensurate with the degree of their talent,, and the 
 steadiness of their application. Who that prizes the 
 company of a friend would not wish, before it is too late, 
 before sickness has changed the features from their 
 accustomed loveliness, to have the face of that friend 
 transferred to the canvas ? What parent would not de 
 sire, knowing, as we all must know, that the ills and acci 
 dents of life are many, to behold the features of his 
 beloved children fixed on a durable and almost unchange 
 able material ? What son or what daughter suspecting, 
 as it is our lot, and as a reasonable inference leads us to 
 suspect, that parents cannot long linger in this world, 
 would not desire to own the accurate presentments of 
 those earthly guardians of his existence ! Nay, what 
 son or what daughter is there, who should not be fearful, 
 lest the disabled frame and the silver-haired head, of hia 
 departed parents, uncopied and needlessly neglected, be 
 laid, coffined and hidden, in the dust ? Does any one 
 think that he will retain the countenances of his friends 
 in his memory ? Let those who have cherished the same 
 thought, and who have seen and repented of their neg 
 lect at too late a period, give back an answer of caution. 
 Let the preciousness which portraits possess, and the 
 esteem with which they are preserved, tell how extensive, 
 and enduring, and many are the sources of enjoyment, 
 derived from a correct representation of a friend, of a 
 relative, of a brother, or sister, or of a parent; and let 
 all profit by their knowledge, and secure to themselves 
 the benefit the immeasurable benefit, to be derived 
 from a single piece of the heavenly art of portrait paint 
 ing.
 
 70 
 
 MALEENA. 
 
 A STORY OF THE INDIANS. 
 
 THE light of the Great Spirit was retiring to rest be 
 neath the waves. The red man beheld the lustre that 
 played over the foliage of the forest trees, and joy arose 
 in his heart, for he was happy. He had not then been 
 duped by the hypocritic smiles of the pale faces, nor had 
 his ear been pierced by the thunder of their fire-weapons. 
 By no heartlessness and treachery, had the wigwam been 
 burned; by no inhuman recklessness had his wife and 
 children been murdered. The land of his fathers descend 
 ed to him by the right of nature, and he worshipped the 
 Great Spirit without fear or molestation. The fire in the 
 eyes of the red man had not then been extinguished ; hig 
 limbs were not enfeebled by the fire-water of the white 
 man ; his heart was not sick with sad and continual 
 remembrances of his wrongs. It was the Unknown Land 
 in which he dwelt, and even tradition had not informed 
 him of other men and other countries. 
 
 It was twilight, and darkness was chasing the particles 
 of light that lingered over the Indian village to their thou 
 sand homes the stars ! On a mat before the wigwam, 
 sat Ontwa; his dark-eyed sister, beside him, orna 
 mented with shells, a deer-skin moccasin; and the father, 
 Ruchanah, gazed with the thoughtfulness of age on the 
 sunset scene. The spirit of silence succeeded the de 
 parture of the sun, and the village was scarcely disturbed 
 by a murmur. Each Indian courted the breeze before
 
 MALEENA. 71 
 
 his cabin, or approached his neighbor with the smile of 
 peace on his lip. The hunters who had departed a few 
 days before in search of buffaloes, had not yet come back, 
 and the old chiefs and daughters were waiting anxiously 
 their return, for the morrow was to' bring a festival. 
 
 The maidens were now looking toward the mountains 
 for the signal blaze ; but it was not until the anxious eyes 
 had some of them drooped, that the fire was kindled. 
 The light was intensely brilliant, and the maidens looked 
 inquiringly for those who most concerned their feelings; 
 and when the blaze on the mountain flickered, the song 
 of joy was commenced, and continued for a long time, 
 At length, a shout announced the arrival of the hunters 
 at the village grounds. Various demonstrations of joy 
 were visible among the fairer inhabitants, as the young 
 men approached; and the old men with that stoical indif 
 ference which is so marked a feature in the Indian char 
 acter, listened to the account of the captures, and, though 
 betraying not the least emotion, were no doubt exceed 
 ingly gratified at the result of the expedition. 
 
 The hunters soon deposited the captured buffaloes in 
 secure places, and then departed to their respective wig 
 wams. By this time the moon had made considerable 
 progress in her course up the unclouded sky, and lighted 
 the village so that every movement could distinctly be 
 discovered. The young men having taken their evening 
 meal, with their pipes smoking, could be seen advancing 
 one after another to the wigwams which contained the 
 fair ones of their choice. Ontwa left his sister and 
 departed to see his chosen one, and Taroonah, an adopted 
 son of the chief of the tribe, entered the cabin as Ontwa 
 departed. In a village never beheld by any beings but 
 red men in a hut formed and fashioned by the savage 
 in a wilderness, where no ray of the divine light of civili-
 
 72 MALEENA. 
 
 zation ever entered, imagine a young girl of seventeen 
 summers ! Her eyes, full, free and enchanting, her fea 
 tures regular, and her whole appearance as exquisite and 
 beautiful as the pencil of imagination can picture. Her 
 education bestowed upon her by custom and nature ; her 
 only knowledge to love and obey the lord of creation; 
 her God the great and invisible spirit, whose eye unseen, 
 sees; whose ear hears all things uttered ; whose hand 
 directs her feet in their every movement, and whose 
 power destroys the workings of the evil one. Imagine a 
 being, too, with a heart as susceptible of hope and fear, 
 of love and pain, and one withal as pure and unpolluted, 
 as a being could be whose heart had loved only one ob 
 ject, and whose soul had worshipped only the guardian 
 God of the Indians. 
 
 Maleena was seated on a mat in the wigwam, and as 
 Taroonah entered he noticed a gloomy countenance 
 where he expected to find a cheerful one. He wondered 
 much that she did not do more than extinguish the fire in 
 his pipe the customary Indian method of introducing a 
 warm and social talk he wondered, too, at the loss of 
 her wonted gaiety and sprightliness, and painful emotions 
 harassed the breast of Taroonah, and he was obliged to 
 give his deep feelings utterance. 
 
 ' Why does the shadow of the dark hemlock fall over 
 Taroonah's love ? Is the heart of Maleena sad ? Ma 
 leena is not forgetful of the Black Plume ? ' 
 
 At this last inquiry, Maleena started, and pressing 
 back with her hands the long hair which partially veiled 
 her face, she looked seriously upon her lover ; for she 
 well remembered that the black plume had been given to 
 him for his bravery, when he was adopted son of the chief, 
 and she was far from wishing to look gloomy when she 
 remembered the bravest youth of the tribe was with her.
 
 M A L E E N A . 
 
 73 
 
 ' Hast heard the wolf howl to-night ? ' inquired Ma- 
 leena. 
 
 ' No ! love,' answered he, ' what shakes the faith of 
 the maiden ? ' It was now that Maleena was still more 
 sensibly awakened to her situation, and she told what 
 pressed so heavily upon her spirits. 
 
 ' Taroonah ! the dark spirit of my dreams has haunted 
 here to-night. The departed, traitorous rival, Sakamas, 
 has been in my presence like a dream; his face has 
 been skulking into the cabin, and a cloud has passed over 
 the sun of Maleena's words, for she has heard the step of 
 some one near the hut she has listened to the rattling 
 of a quiver, and a serpent lies in the path of Taroonah 
 and his love.' 
 
 ' Child ! fear not. The strong arm of Taroonah will 
 strike away the arrow of harm ! Fear not ! Taroonah 
 sits by the side of his Maleena, and the serpent dare not 
 hiss before his feet, for fear.' 
 
 The conversation continued for some time without 
 much incident, when Taroonah, observing that Ontwa 
 was returning from a distant part of the village, departed, 
 after bidding farewell to Maleena. He had not gone far 
 on his way, however, before a shrill cry of distress turned 
 him back to the hut which he had just left. Quick as a 
 bird flies to the nest of her young, when their cry is 
 heard, so quick did Taroonah approach the wigwam of 
 his love. As he entered, an Indian hurried out. Taroo 
 nah struck at him with a knife, but slipping on the damp 
 grass, he fell, and was only able to wound the Indian on 
 the ancle, which injured him so slightly that he was able 
 to escape. 
 
 Taroonah was raising his betrothed, whose neck exhib 
 ited the marks of a villain's hand, ' when Ontwa rushed 
 in, having heard the shriek, and with the fury of a tiger
 
 74 MALEENA. 
 
 seized on Taroonah, who was perfectly silent; while the 
 old man who had been awakened by the noise, summoning 
 all his strength, approached the scene confused and dis 
 concerted a scene, the whole of which transpired in a 
 single moment. Maleena, with earnest ejaculations im 
 plored her brother to release her lover. No entreaties, 
 however, prevailed, he had received intimations that 
 Taroonah had devised a hellish plot of wickedness, but 
 till then he had given it no credence. Now, he was sat 
 isfied that the information, though mysteriously sent, was 
 true ; and Taroonah was taken into custody by several 
 Indians who had hastened to the spot, and was to wait till 
 the morrow for the sequel of his fortune. 
 
 As soon as Taroonah was taken away, Maleena en 
 deavored to explain the mystery; but it was all in vain, 
 her brother resolved to appeal to the Council; this was 
 all that could satisfy the ardent temperament of a being 
 whose love for his sister was intense, and who well knew 
 the power of her beauty. In vain did she plead in the 
 unsophisticated language of nature in vain she endeav 
 ored to free the mind of Ontwa from the suspicion that 
 Taroonah had formed the plot. It was all in vain, and 
 the weeping Maleena waited anxiously for the dawn of 
 the morrow. 
 
 The gray light of the morning had given way to the 
 bright light of the sun, when Ontwa called the Council, 
 to decide upon the affair of the preceding night. The 
 venerable old men heard all parties speak. Ontwa de 
 clared the situation in which he" found his sister, and told 
 of the information he had received. Ruchanah declared 
 what he saw, and corroborated the statement of Ontwa ; 
 and Maleena implored the Council to be lenient, alledging 
 many reasons to defeat an unfavorable decision. Taroo 
 nah told the facts but all was not sufficient for his
 
 MALEENA. 75 
 
 acquittal ; he was condemned to be shot by six Indians. 
 Thus was the bridal day to be converted into one of 
 sorrow and disappointment. Maleena implored for a 
 mitigation of the punishment, but the council had decided 
 their decision was imperative. 
 
 Taroonah said nothing in extenuation, nothing in his own 
 behalf. He felt that glow of pride and manliness which 
 innocence ver feels when about to suffer ; and which 
 with the Indians, in whatever circumstances, whether 
 suffering under guilt or innocence, is ever considered 
 daring and noble. The time for his execution had arrived ; 
 the executioners were ready, and many of the tribe were 
 present. The Chief, who had adopted Taroonah, bowed 
 down his head and his eyes closed with a consciousness of 
 disgrace received. All blushed to think that the youth of 
 the Black Plume was transformed into a base assassin. 
 The arrows were chosen ; Maleena stood near the tree 
 to which her lover was bound ; she believed him innocent, 
 and was watching every movement of the executioners, 
 and when they raised their bows, a shrill whoop rose be 
 yond the wigwams, and two or three Indians dragged 
 forward the old rival Sakamas., who had traitorously 
 deserted his tribe, and who had come the night before the 
 festival, for the express purpose of murdering Maleena. 
 His ancle was bound up with leaves, and thus was the 
 whole affair illuminated. Instead of the noble Taroonah, 
 Sakamas was bound to the tree, and suffered that punish 
 ment which had well nigh been the destruction of an 
 innocent and brave youth. The festival was thus rendered 
 happy to the Indian, and many a bridal-song was chaunted 
 by the maidens, nor was that of Maleena and Taroonah 
 Jess rapturously, for the circumstances which had preceded.
 
 76 
 
 PAINTING, SCULPTURE AND POETRY. 
 
 PAINTER. 
 
 You spoke to me a few days since, my friend, when we 
 were interrupted, of the superiority of Sculpture over 
 Painting, and of the greater estimation in which it is held 
 by the world in general. I was at that time speaking of 
 the advantages of Painting over Sculpture, insomuch as 
 figures can be executed more rapidly, and consequently in 
 greater numbers. Besides, the various colors used by 
 the painter have the power of giving the subject the 
 appearance of nature, when in fact it is the mere creation 
 of history or fancy. 
 
 SCULPTOR. 
 
 True. But then these creations have not that power 
 over the beholder possessed by Sculpture. And why ? 
 the person who looks at a painting, immediately declares 
 in ecstacies his admiration ; his eyes light up perhaps, 
 with a glow of feeling, and he is inclined to break forth 
 in the highest praises : but when he gazes upon the 
 productions of the chisel he is struck dumb, he looks long 
 and steadily upon the work, he scarcely conceives it to be 
 the production of a mortal, and as he turns away he feels 
 that he has not gazed upon it long enough to satisfy his 
 desires. Besides, marble, when hewn into the human 
 form, has an intense and holy power ; it bears with it 
 sublimity, awe and reverence. I well remember the 
 views expressed to me by a friend concerning the superi 
 ority of the art of sculpture over painting. On behold-
 
 PAINTING, SCULPTURE, AND POETRY. 77 
 
 tng, said this person, the statue of Washington, emotions 
 were raised in my mind, not so much from the contempla 
 tion of the art, as by the massiveness, stateliness and 
 dignity of the material : so far as the statue was a picture, 
 no emotion ensued; but as substance standing before me, 
 it awakened a thousand associations. Often had I looked 
 upon the canvas where the godlike person was portrayed 
 in the military equipage: but the trappings there displayed 
 turned away the mind from the man, and did not awaken 
 ideas of a great mind. It brought the feelings to bear 
 upon the dangers and privations encountered and suffered 
 in war; not that nobleness of the soul, that spiritual exis 
 tence, which breathes a holiness of divinity. And indeed 
 wherever colors are used, it seems as if there were a 
 lightness and a gaudy garniture ; the canvas seems rather 
 variegated to give pleasure than to excite feelings of 
 nobleness and magnanimity. The canvas generally dis 
 plays the mutability of earthly things; marble, the depth 
 and worth of that which is truly immortal. The fact that 
 a greater number of figures can be produced by the pen 
 cil than the chisel in the same length of time, shows that 
 the art is not so nice, nor yet so difficult in the acquisi 
 tion. But I own I have been heard with much deference; 
 now let us hear the Poet decide. 
 
 I shall not pretend, my friends, to decide between the 
 comparative merits of those arts in which you are res 
 pectively engaged. Both, I must confess, are in them 
 selves beautiful and worthy to be possessed ; neither of 
 them in the abstract, however, possess the charms, the 
 beauty, the celebrity, or the immortality of Poetry. Po 
 etry surpasses Painting, insomuch as it not only describes 
 7*
 
 78 PAINTING, SCULPTURE, AND POETRY. 
 
 the outer and physical appearance of man, but those more 
 exalted and sublime qualities which exist in the soul. It 
 affords to the painter, pictures; and all his paintings are 
 the creations of the poet and the historian. 
 
 PAINTER. 
 
 But, friend, what a common art is Poetry ! Does not 
 every person write poetry ? and is not this a proof that it 
 is simple and easily acquired ? And is it not more com 
 mon to find more persons gifted as poets, than as paint- 
 
 Ah ! you are sadly mistaken, dear sir. That every 
 person should become a poet, or that even every thou 
 sandth one should, is impossible. If I should say to you 
 that every person now-a-days could paint the side of a 
 house, it would be no proof that every person could rep 
 resent the agonies and sufferings of a dying martyr. 
 True poets are scarce. There are those indeed, who by 
 their drapery of writing perhaps, may display some resem 
 blance to Poetry, but yet they are not gifted with the 
 noble sentiments, the sublime imagery, the brilliant exe 
 cution which bards of genius possess. A chrystal can 
 be compared to a diamond, yet not possess its beauties or 
 other transcendant qualities. 
 
 SCULPTOR, 
 
 But does not Sculpture hold a higher rank than Poetry ? 
 Do not statues stand protected are not productions of 
 the chisel sought after eagerly and are not the sums of 
 money laid out for them immense ? And why do not peo-
 
 PAINTING, SCULPTURE, AND POETRY. 79 
 
 pie purchase poems concerning heroes instead of pay 
 ing such enormous sums ? Does it not show the superi 
 ority of the art of Sculpture ? 
 
 By no means. The intention of people in purchasing 
 a costly statue, is not so much to describe the qualities 
 of the person represented, as to erect a monument to his 
 memory, or to pay the debt of gratitude to his services 
 and virtues; or perhaps to imitate in a degree the example 
 of ancient nations. People do purchase poems, and 
 always would, in preference to statues, if such poems 
 described faithfully the heroes of the country. But per 
 haps that genius does not exist who can produce such a 
 poem, and therefore the sculptor and the painter are 
 called to perform the work. Another advantage of Poetry 
 over the arts of Painting and Sculpture is, that a greater 
 number of copies may be circulated ; there can be but 
 one of marble, and that liable to crumble under the dilap 
 idating hand of time, or to be erased by the ruin of revo 
 lutions. Poetry is that which exists in the mind ; Paint 
 ing and Sculpture in the organs of vision and feeling. 
 The forms created in painting are often the result of 
 imagination, and a painter must necessarily be a poet, if 
 he would produce any lively and original picture. Poetry 
 can scarcely be defined. When genius truly exists, then 
 Poetry is at its summit ; then expect ardor, intensity and 
 fire then see the passions rise the intellect expand 
 he mind rush on its heavenward flight, and the whole 
 soul, concentrated in thought, burst forth in spontaneous 
 action.
 
 80 
 
 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 How joyously, my Ellen, do the waves 
 
 Plash on those moon-gilt rocks, which shine afar ! 
 
 How softly curl the eddies round their tops ! 
 
 But ah, they shine not now as they were wont, 
 
 When in the evenings of my boyish days, 
 
 From home I strolled not heeding time listening 
 
 To forest birds, whose wild, complaining notes 
 
 Held with my thoughts a sweet acquaintanceship. 
 
 Then through the weft of these low-whispering boughs, 
 
 Which now the cool breeze haunts, would I look out 
 
 Upon the silver sea, to catch the gleams 
 
 Of yon low moon, disporting on the waves. 
 
 I knew nor pain, nor grief, nor sorrow, then ! 
 
 The stars shone out and vivified my soul ; 
 
 The music of the winds stole on my ear 
 
 With dallying sweetness; and e'en Nature's self, 
 
 Far lovelier than the cloistered walls of home, 
 
 Seemed to invite me to her holy shrines. 
 
 But time and absence, sorrow and the world 
 
 Have chilled my feelings since we parted last ; 
 
 These scenes, unchanged themselves, are changed to me, 
 
 And all is wrapped in solemn shades of gloom. 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 Oh ! Julian, yield not thus to gloomy thoughts. 
 See ! how the clouds are gilded by the moon,
 
 THE IDIOT BOY. gj 
 
 Which sails in silence through the blue profound. 
 
 That boatman's silvery oar-blade flashing out, 
 
 Reminds me of a tale, told long ago 
 
 By an old man, whose heart, indeed, was kind. 
 
 It is a tale I had well-nigh forgot ; 
 
 But list ! I '11 tell it thee. Dispel thy grief. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 I will not grieve ! but since my late return, 
 Memory has been too busy with her scenes, 
 Casting dim phantoms on the mind's frail glass, 
 Already darkened by the thronging crowd 
 Which grey Experience has summoned there. 
 Go on, sweet Ellen tell the tale ! Go on ! 
 And I will lend a close, attentive ear 
 To what thou may'st relate. 
 
 Well, well then 
 
 I will relate the tale as it was told, 
 Although I shall not give such feelings forth 
 As that old man whose heart it strangely moved ; 
 For he well knew and dearly loved the boy 
 Yes, loved him as a parent does his child. 
 The youth of whom I speak an idiot born 
 Was in the city nurtured, mid the noise, 
 And pomp, and bustle of the gay and proud. 
 In early childhood, often would he walk 
 Hour after hour, the clattering streets along, 
 And gather out with wanton industry 
 The shining pebbles from the stone-paved streets : 
 And these he placed within a little pouch 
 Suspended on his breast. Such was the task
 
 82 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 Which daily he pursued; and when the rain 
 Ceased pouring down, aside the stony street, 
 In some slant groove where clear the waters passed, 
 With joyous wonder he would bathe his feet, 
 And smiling, gaze upon the leaping rill. 
 And sometimes, too, he would retreat away 
 In gentle haste, to shun the careless wheel 
 Which swiftly passed close by his little feet, 
 Then turn again unto his former place 
 Mocking the pigeons whom he so much loved, 
 And whom he often fed with liberal hand. 
 Oft too the scoffs of thoughtless men and boys 
 Drove him away, in tears to weep alone. 
 
 JULIAN. 
 
 Had he no friends, to shield him from such fate ? 
 No help-mate in his woe ? no hand of love, 
 To free him from such boyish wantonness ? 
 
 An aged mother was his broken staff, 
 And she was daily moving toward the grave. 
 'T is said, that when she died, he sat two nights 
 And days, foodless, and watching by her side ; 
 And when they buried her, he moaned in grief, 
 And with his slender hands concealed his eyes, - 
 Then to the country he was sent away 
 By one who pitied him. And when, at first, 
 He looked upon the woods and cottages, 
 He wildly ran about ; and quick his eyes 
 Sought out each simple thing with eagerness. 
 But soon all mystery seemed cleared to him, 
 So that he walked the beach to gather out
 
 THE IDIOT BOY. 83 
 
 As was his habit in the city's streets, 
 
 The polished shells and pebbles from the sand ; 
 
 And sometimes on the pale, blue, watery deep 
 
 He paddled in a miserable skiff. 
 
 One night, when yon round moon had chased away 
 
 All heaven's most beautiful stars, save one alone 
 
 That one, the evening star, thrice beautiful ! 
 
 He sat, at rest upon his oar, and there gazed down 
 
 Into the silent, chrystal deep below. 
 
 Voiceless, awhile he gazed, as though he saw 
 
 A brilliant gem, deep deep, far down the sea. 
 
 He plunged ! the waters rippled o'er his head, 
 
 And all who ever knew the idiot boy, 
 
 Say, that he saw reflected from the sky 
 
 The Evening Star, and thought to grasp its form ! 
 
 Perchance 'twas so : to such it may be given 
 
 After their death in that bright orb to dwell ! 
 
 J V L I A K. 
 
 Yes ! it were not strange that it should be so ! 
 Perhaps each mind is destined for some star ; 
 For they are worlds that swing in boundless space 
 Unreachable, but through the gate of death. 
 So thought philosophers in ages past, 
 So may they think in ages yet to come ! 
 But let that pass. It is a mystery 
 Sealed from the eyes of mortals here below. 
 
 Oh, Julian, stars will one day fall from heaven ! 
 Ah ! who will dwell in those ill-fated stars ?
 
 84 
 
 TO CONNECTICUT RIVER. 
 
 NOT that thy banks are with rich verdure clad, 
 Not that thy face inmirrors landscapes grand, 
 Not that thou art the glory of the land, 
 
 Not that thou kindlest eyes, too often sad, 
 
 And givest emotions to the soul of him 
 Who often wanders on thy sedgy side 
 To mark the morals of thy life-like tide ! 
 
 Or bright-winged birds who through the blue sky skim 
 
 Above thee .far, as those freed souls which leave 
 Their journeyings on the changeful stream of life, 
 Soaring ! away from low, mean toils and strife, 
 
 Their songs of freedom and of joy to weave, 
 
 No ! not for these I love thee, but that thou 
 Declarest God ! before whom, and whose works, I bow. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 As on a bed of flowers I lay 
 
 I seemed to hear the Tean say, 
 
 ' Sleep on, my boy ! sleep on my boy ! 
 
 Nor wake thee from thy dreams of joy.' 
 
 Ah ! then I saw him, and I ran 
 
 Up to the old but lovely man. 
 
 About his neck, my arms I threw, 
 
 And then my eyes met his pleased view 
 
 I kissed his lips, all damp with wine, 
 
 And he, the bard, in turn kissed mine.
 
 TOEARTH. 85 
 
 And from his brow a wreath he took, 
 And gave to me with flattering look 
 And I a foolish, sporting boy, 
 Was full of vanity and joy 
 And when I took the gift I said, 
 * I '11 place this wreath upon my head.' 
 I did and ever since 't was mine 
 I 've loved my life, and love, and wine. 
 
 TO EARTH. 
 
 BEAUTEOUS Earth how green and rich thy glories are! 
 I love to gaze upon thy fair and awful forms, 
 
 Or mid the shine of sun or lightning-flash of storms, 
 Or gleams that on thee fall from many a twinkling star. 
 No less I love thee, Earth, when high, the pale-orbed 
 moon 
 
 Is gilding o'er thy mountains, streamlets, groves, and 
 trees, 
 
 Or imaging her golden form beneath thy silver seas, 
 That happy emblem of man's last, divinestboon 
 To leave his form below, while soars his soul in heaven. 
 
 Not much I wonder, Earth, that mortals love thee well ! 
 
 For oft my soul has wished on some bright orb to dwell 
 Where all things shining, seem as for God's angels given; 
 Yet could it mount, heaven-winged, up to some realm afar 
 
 1 know that thence thou too must seem, O Earth, as pure 
 
 a star. 
 8
 
 86 
 
 COURTSHIP. 
 
 A FABLE 
 
 As in a garden once I strayed, 
 
 I saw a blushing rose, 
 Bending its head as if afraid 
 
 As if it wished to close. 
 
 Around I looked the cause to find, 
 
 And saw a butterfly ; 
 I heard him tell the rose his mind, 
 
 As gently he did sigh. 
 
 Both talked and thus the rose did say, 
 
 ' Nay, painted thing, I ween 
 Thou art an insect of a day, 
 
 With thee, should I be seen ? ' 
 
 Quickly the insect made reply, 
 
 ' Why I, Miss Rose, am made, 
 To live me through the summer dry, 
 
 But you may sooner fade ! ' 
 
 And thus they talked a long, long time, 
 
 Yet each did each admire ; 
 But while they talked, how they might chime, 
 
 I saw them both expire !
 
 87 
 
 CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 A FABLE of the ingenious fabulist, Fontaine, states that 
 the wolves after more than a thousand years' war against 
 the sheep, joined with them in a treaty of peace. The 
 young of both parties were permitted to intermingle, and 
 mutual friendship apparently existed. The wolves, how 
 ever, perceiving their own power arid the unconscious 
 credulity of their companions, loosed their savage dispo 
 sitions, and began to devour the lambs. 
 
 Hence we learn, that for the happiness of society it is 
 absolutely necessary that a perpetual war should exist 
 against those passions which tend to degrade the nature 
 and dignity of man. Hence, too, we learn, that our 
 weaker faculties are justified as it were, in obtaining for 
 eign aid to crush those passions which have ever been 
 striving to gain the ascendency in men's minds. Nor is 
 this all. It teaches us to remember that while we appear 
 to enjoy the blessings and benefits of morality and re 
 ligion, even then our purity may be fast degenerating. 
 It reminds us also to consider the effect of every contem 
 plated innovation, and encourages us to strive for the 
 detection of that corruption which ever steals, when 
 unguarded, into the bosom of society. 
 
 If we examine closely, we may readily perceive that 
 the greatest strength of a community will not be derived 
 from the cultivation of the abstruse sciences, nor from a 
 general and severe application to books. Indeed, it is
 
 88 CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 impossible for a people to be affected by these in such a 
 manner as to increase their glory. For mankind feels 
 that 
 
 The earthly god-fathers of Heaven's lights, 
 Who give a name to every fixed star, 
 Have no more profit of their shining nights, 
 Than those that walk, and wot not what they are 
 
 and we may be assured that those objects only will engage 
 the attention of the many which strike the mind plainly, 
 and which of themselves affect it. The reason is, that 
 men, for the most part, though formed for attention and 
 thought, are too indolent, or too practical, to make rigor 
 ous application. There are only a few minds which delight 
 in deep and abstruse science. It will be found, as a gen 
 eral truth, that greater pleasure arises from the observa 
 tion of those things with which the mind is delighted, than 
 from the contemplation of the manner in which it is de 
 lighted. 
 
 Thus far we have considered it as a fixed law, that in 
 society the passions of men cannot be checked, unless by 
 external or foreign aid acting on the heart. This, too, we 
 have said, the whole mass of people must be capable of 
 understanding ; it must be something which tends to 
 please the minds of all ; it must be something which will 
 work on those social affections with which man is nat 
 urally gifted, but which, when uncultivated, are almost 
 crowded out of place, and indeed, out of existence. In 
 order, therefore, that those vices which are apt ta be 
 prevalent in society, may be discarded, there must be a 
 radical smothering of the passions ; and this can only be 
 effected by changing the tastes of individuals, and of the 
 people in general. This change cannot be accomplished 
 by any direct attack upon gaming houses, or other equally
 
 CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. Q9 
 
 vile places, but must be effected by a gradual insinuation 
 of those amusements into society which tend to soften the 
 wildness and bind the strength of the passions. And for 
 this, there are no other more efficient powers than those 
 which exist in the Fine Arts, if we except those which 
 may be unfolded in our social disposition. 
 
 The human heart is most forcibly affected by those 
 objects which approach it through the eye and the ear ; 
 for this reason, therefore, the Fine Arts should be care 
 fully cultivated, as there are no other powers which so 
 happily operate on those senses. In the Fine Arts exist 
 principles common to our nature, and which always excite 
 our sensibilities. By some it has been asserted that they 
 cause licentiousness, and degrade the character of a peo 
 ple. This assertion is one which often has been ad 
 vanced, but has little soundness ; many facts in the his 
 tory of nations prove entirely the contrary. Education 
 even is rendered much more pleasing and beneficial by 
 their introduction. What joyous sensations thrill through 
 us on hearing an exquisite swell of music, or in gazing 
 upon a noble display of architecture ! Even in childhood 
 how many have been excited by beholding that famous 
 frontispiece in the primer, where 
 
 Fame's proud temple shines on high ! 
 
 And to what will every one who has thus been moved, 
 attribute the excitement ? Will it not be to some myste 
 rious spell that is thrown around that temple perhaps to 
 the thought that intense gratification would ensue from 
 passing through a real temple of the kind, where all that 
 is beautiful and enchanting would be exhibited ? Here 
 we leave this part of the subject, believing that no one will 
 deny that the Arts have a powerful influence over the 
 sensitive parts of our nature. 
 8*
 
 90 CULTIVATION OF THE PINE ARTS. 
 
 We might speak of the moral influence of the Fine Arts 
 on a community, and of the power of a correct taste in 
 removing from us disgusting objects; thereby freeing us 
 from the thraldom of those harsh passions and vices with 
 which man is continually beset. The power of the Arts 
 in fitting the mind for intellectual exertion might also be 
 noticed, together with the pleasure and benefit derived 
 from their influence in refining the grosser parts of our 
 being. 
 
 Thus observing the utility, as well as pleasure derived 
 from the cultivation of the Fine Arts, what a desire should 
 arise in the bosom of each one who believes he has a god 
 like mind to attend particularly to their cultivation ! The 
 rich, by expending their wealth for the purpose of impro 
 ving themselves and their country, would cause their 
 inferiors not only to respect them, but they would be highly 
 esteemed as men of lofty souls, who prefer intellectual 
 pleasure to mere sensual gratifications ; and would exhibit 
 that great truth, that man has a capacity for an intellec 
 tual being. 
 
 The introduction of the Fine Arts into any nation, of 
 whatever government, is of the greatest utility. There 
 is no validity in that complaint against them, namely, that 
 they have been used by monarchs to lull the people into a 
 state of security. It is merely an argument to prove their 
 power. They have flourished most in republican govern 
 ments; they have often kindled the flame of liberty. The 
 Romans, the Greeks, and the Italians, excelled in the 
 Fine Arts when the governments were the most nearly 
 republican. And in the time of the Commonwealth, 
 when the order was given for the destruction of the royal 
 paintings, so great was the enthusiasm of the Protector 
 for liberty, that he forgot for a while their power; but when
 
 CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. gj 
 
 he reflected a moment, how suddenly was the order re 
 voked ! Cromwell understood the principles of republican 
 government, and was always quick in discovering what 
 ever tended to sustain them. Other instances might be 
 adduced to strengthen the argument. It is, however, 
 sufficient to say, that those nations only have enjoyed 
 happiness, which have strenuously cherished painting, 
 sculpture, music and architecture; and that those, which, 
 having once cherished these, afterward have neglected 
 them, have, as if by a certain fatality, fallen into licen 
 tiousness. 
 
 There are some citizens in republics who will not 
 countenance the introduction of the Fine Arts. There is 
 something in them, say they, which militates against the 
 principles of liberty. Whether such persons are true 
 patriots, or what is more, true republicans, is no very 
 hard matter to solve. These persons fear a powerful 
 argument and truth, which is, that the cultivation of the 
 Arts serves to distribute the wealth of a nation equally, 
 thereby enervating that aristocracy which is always on 
 the alert to raise its head in a republic. 
 
 The first desire of a republic should be to acquire 
 wealth. This is the talisman of power and influence. 
 As soon, however, as the republic and its citizens shall 
 receive an income, just so soon should the Fine Arts be 
 introduced. A standard of taste should be formed, by 
 observing the models afforded by other nations ; and it 
 should be the duty of government, as well as of individu 
 als, to encourage men of talent to supervise the different 
 Arts. Those nations whose only aim is after wealth, will 
 be found barbarous and savage ; and even those who have 
 introduced the Fine Arts, but who have neglected their 
 careful cultivation and patronage, have sunk into the pit-
 
 92 CULTIVATION OF THE FINE ARTS. 
 
 falls of vice, and eventually have become degraded and 
 slavish. Society is necessarily divided into different 
 ranks ; some persons must labor more than others ; 
 those of superior minds, of course, will cultivate intellec 
 tual pleasures, and the farther such a desire for the culti 
 vation of the mind is extended through a community, by 
 so much is that community benefited both as to morals 
 and wealth. For if the desire of a people be only to 
 gratify their appetites, then wealth is a most pernicious 
 possession. 
 
 There are many more reasons which might be adduced, 
 if space and time would permit ; but we must conclude 
 with saying, that those who themselves practice the Arts, 
 should remember that much also depends upon their 
 taste. They should not prostitute their talents and genius 
 merely to gratify the ' many vulgar.' They should strive 
 to create new forms, and to exhibit new conceptions to 
 hold a high place among those who become immortal ; 
 and they will find no one at this day, who, like Clemens 
 of Alexandria, will think it presumption for painters and 
 sculptors to practice their arts, and rank them among rob 
 bers and cut throats, because it seems wrong to produce 
 creatures after the example of Almighty, who alone has 
 the right of creation !
 
 93 
 
 THE VOYAGE BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 IT was at the setting of the sun, when the clouds far 
 over in the west were fringed with alternate and changing 
 hues of gold, and crimson, and purple. The many 
 colored forest trees were casting their shades to the 
 earth, as if desirous of embracing the soft petaled flowers 
 which enriched it, like pearls scattered over the green 
 garbs of the elfin band. The fairy queen had assembled 
 the light footed and light hearted companions of her 
 island, to consider the expediency and pleasure to be 
 derived from a visit to the land of poets and poesy. 
 
 The court was filled with bright eyed sylphs, sportive 
 fairies, mystic elves, and the fair haired sea nymphs. All 
 were charmingly attentive to the suggestions of their 
 queen, and with one harmonious shout they agreed to 
 embark on an expedition to the land of which they had 
 conceived a delightful opinion. That evening was fixed 
 upon for the visit, and they were to sail by the magic of 
 moonlight. Accordingly, a deputation was sent to the 
 inhabitants of the moon to request their assistance, which 
 was favorably received, and which returned a favorable 
 answer. 
 
 The elves, the sylphs, and the fairies had spread wide 
 their rustling wings, and the water nymphs had unfurled 
 the silken sails of their vessel to the breezes and all 
 seemed ready for their embarkation. The silver moon, 
 as its inhabitants hung lamps at every palace window and
 
 94 THE VOYAGE BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 in every garden, now coated the entire welkin with a 
 silvery light, and the sportive creatures were gathering 
 flowers to deck their vessel, and to weave garlands for 
 their queen. The queen stepped into the mirador of the 
 ship and was followed by her smiling companions. All, 
 save one, had entered. That little sylph remained to 
 unfasten the gossamer cable which was attached to the 
 beautiful flower Althaea. As the tiny ship swung away 
 from the shore, the little sylph disappeared among the 
 flowers which were profusely scattered around. The 
 voyagers waited some length of time, but she did not 
 appear, and they proceeded on their way. As soon as 
 the ship seemed like an isolate star on the verge of the 
 horizon, forth tripped the roguish sylph. Around her 
 neck were entwined roses; and her arms were laden with 
 chaplets. She was decorated, around the waist, with a 
 band of flowers tinged with every hue of the rainbow. 
 She cast her sparkling eye toward the shallop, and stood, 
 with a single thought in her breast ; and that was, she 
 must be with her companions. Lo ! she is flying and the 
 flowers drop into the waves, as she shakes them off with 
 her glassy pinions. She has reached the brightly painted 
 ship, and the laughing crew kiss their hands, as she 
 throws her wreaths upon the velvet deck. The moon is 
 silently shining very beautiful ! while the laughing 
 shouts of that fairy crew ring out in silver tones upon the 
 air. The ship glides swiftly, and the waters sparkle in 
 her track like the meteor in the heavens. 
 
 They arrive at the destined land. They gaze with 
 eyes of rapture on the bright scenes of the land of poesy, 
 and deem it a place nearly equal to their own. As they 
 gather the flowers, and sip their sweets, they observe at 
 a distance, the poet reclining on a bank beside a gently
 
 THE VOYAGE BY MOONLIGHT. 95 
 
 murmuring rivulet. They advance, and with magical 
 voices, cause a trance to close his eyelids. Having 
 bound him with their wreaths, they gently bear him to 
 their ship, and place him on a downy couch. The bright 
 est scenes pass before him. He hears the aerial whis 
 pers and the melting music ; and he beholds the tremb 
 ling moonbeams upon the waters ; and, while the spell is 
 upon him, he is conscious he is among their enchanting 
 scenes, and awaking, finds 
 
 THE SYLPH. 
 
 BUT see how gently glides from yon dark cave 
 
 That mirthful sylph, with light, elastic foot ! 
 Now trips she near the shore where curls the wave 
 
 Scarce crushing to a fold the flowery root. 
 
 Her voice is sweeter music than the lute 
 By lovers tuned when thrills the heart with love, 
 
 Piping at night when all things else are mute ; 
 Yes, sweet as harmony from harps above 
 The music of that voice where'er she wills to rove. 
 
 Her eyes are beauteous bright, alluring, too ! 
 
 Like richest diamonds, in the depth of night, 
 On pearly billows of the purest hue : 
 
 Ay, brilliantly they shine, intensely bright, 
 
 Gleaming with fire that very soul of light ! 
 Her eyelids like small curtain's shade 
 
 Those Spirits fine, which in her airy flight, 
 Peep out from their white palaces afraid, 
 Yet still inclined, to see the effect that they have made.
 
 9$ THE POOL AND CASCADE. 
 
 How fair that face, ay, how divinely fair ! 
 
 How that arch smile now gently o'er it creeps, 
 Now the light clusters of rich, golden hair, 
 
 Dance o'er her eyes as o'er the lawn she leaps, 
 
 Now through them laughing, winningly she peeps, 
 Now cast them back, her small hands, fair and white, 
 
 And while the poet on the green bank sleeps, 
 She lifts her pliant, glassy wing of light, 
 And gazes through it coyly with intense delight. 
 
 Her form, too, bright as Ocean's silver queen, 
 Seems made of gossamer her little hand, 
 
 Through that transparent wing so clearly seen, 
 Holds up on high a slender, silvery wand 
 While wind her wings about her as a band. 
 
 Creation fine ! by Poesy made fair, 
 
 O, dwell for aye on her enchanting land, 
 
 Or in her purple clouds which sail the air, 
 Or in her gardens bland, laugh mid the roses there. 
 
 THE POOL AND CASCADE. 
 
 ' WHAT makes you shiver so ? ' said a bright little cas 
 cade, that was leaping and dancing in the air, ' Your 
 form is all wrinkled, and the wind moves you at its will. 
 As for me, I am so strong that its efforts are powerless ! ' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' doubtingly answered the pool. ' I know that 
 I am liable to be affected by the other more powerful min 
 isters of earth ; I am confident that I cannot always be a
 
 LINES. 97 
 
 mirror in which you can behold yourself. I know that I 
 am changeable, but there are those who love to see my 
 changes ; and do you think that I must always be below 
 you here, to give you beauty ! No ! our mother earth 
 sends forth the wind upon me, to break the mirror in 
 which you are reflected ; and when it comes, it may be a 
 punishment for your haughtiness. I do not feel injured ; 
 I do not complain it is you, babbling cascade ! ' 
 
 The little cascade shrank a little toward the earth, as if 
 abashed by the reproof, and again having recovered its 
 haughtiness, danced and sparkled about as if nothing had 
 happened. 
 
 Though we suppose our rivals may be receiving an 
 injury, and are inclined to boast of our own strength, and 
 to taunt others with weakness, yet it may often be dis 
 covered that, in fact, we are the persons who have the 
 most reason to complain. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON NAMES WRITTEN ON THE CUPOLA OF THE MAVERICK HOUSE. 
 
 MEN thought them fools but had no proof 
 Until they mounted to the roof, 
 And saw each name, with special care, 
 By Folly's hand recorded there !
 
 98 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 THE last rays of the setting sun yet gilded the moun 
 tains which rise so beautifully in the vicinity of Naples, 
 The banditti were carousing on the side of the mountain, 
 when the report of a carbine gave notice to the revellers 
 that a party was near. In a moment the banditti dis 
 persed, and the space before the entrance of the cave, by 
 the work of the fair daughters of the brigands, was 
 cleared of the panniers, wine flasks, and other articles, 
 which had rendered the scene a few minutes before all 
 bustle and confusion. 
 
 Zareo, to whom Zitella, the fairest and most sylphlike 
 of the Brigands was ardently attached, at such times as 
 these, when the party had gone abroad, was accustomed to 
 meet and converse with her, contrary to the laws of the 
 band, instead of lying in ambush to surprise or shoot down 
 the traveller. While they were thus conversing, Cusay, 
 the rival or rather the enemy of Zareo, had returned 
 under pretence of obtaining ammunition, when in fact the 
 real object was to discover them together. On discover 
 ing them, his countenance was lighted up with a smile of 
 secret self-satisfaction, and as he entered the cell, turning 
 to Zareo, he muttered, ' Time might be more usefully, at 
 least more honorably employed.' Zareo colored with 
 indignation, and having kissed the hand of his beautiful 
 companion hurried down the mountain. 
 
 Cusay was an ambitious and selfish being, ever on the
 
 THE BRIGAND. 99 
 
 watch to find out some method of injuring Zareo in the 
 estimation of his associates; often hinting that his joining 
 the band was mysterious ; that mysterious characters 
 should be looked after and that the countenance of 
 Zareo was not the newest, if it was the latest among 
 them. Such speeches, indeed, did not injure the popu 
 larity of Zareo, although his companions looked upon him 
 with eyes more scrupulous, and some were persuaded that 
 they had seen the man before his joining the band. He 
 had come no one knew whence ; and had joined the band, 
 for what they could not tell for he did not seem inclined 
 to rob, although no one could be said to be more bold and 
 daring. 
 
 Zitella, fearing the effect of the laws and anger of her 
 father, who was captain of the banditti, should Cusay 
 inform of what he had seen, besought him in the most ten 
 der manner, that he would not make it known. But 
 Cusay was steeled by hatred, and chiding her, said, 
 ' Think you, girl, that your father's band is to be com 
 posed of white-hearted, sonnet-making lovers ? Tomor 
 row he dies if the laws of the rock of Carthanaro are put 
 in execution.' 'Say not so he cannot, must not die. 
 
 Spare him, oh ! spare him ! ' 'I will provided ' 
 
 ' Provided what ? ' interrupted the young girl. ' You 
 become the bride of Cusay.' ' Never ! ' ' Then his fate 
 is decided ! ' Immediately Cusay returned to the band ; 
 and Zitella fainted and fell to the earth. Soon the girls 
 came to her assistance and succeeded in restoring her to 
 herself. 
 
 The sun had now sunk in_the wave, and the reports of 
 the carbines had died away among the mountains. It 
 was to the brigand the eve of a delightful day; twilight 
 had enveloped every object in a veil of delightful dim 
 ness; and the appearance of the banditti, as they ascend-
 
 |00 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 ed the mountain, was truly imposing. Zitella was now 
 looking down the mountain in search of her lover, but she 
 did not perceive him, as was usual, among the foremost. 
 The wounded were now brought up the mountain, and 
 among them was borne the noble Zareo. In a moment 
 Zitella was at his side, and having bound his arm with her 
 scarf, and given him some wine from a flask she had 
 brought from the cave, he was soon able to move without 
 assistance. Having dismissed those who accompanied 
 him, with Zitella he ascended the steep. As they were 
 about to enter the cave they espied Cusay and the Cap 
 tain in earnest conversation. Zitella feared, knowing that 
 the conversation related to the late discovery. 
 
 Already had the sentinels been placed, and the wound 
 ed laid on their couches, when the voice of the Captain 
 was heard without, saying, that the Council of Ten 
 would meet at the second watch. Zitella was then sit 
 ting by the side of Zareo; and as the Captain spoke, the 
 vesper bell tolled. A solemn stillness, which seemed like 
 midnight, reigned throughout the cave; all who were a 
 moment before engaged in talking of adventures, or look 
 ing over the spoils taken in the late engagement, were 
 now gazing on the crucifix or telling their beads. Instead 
 of a cave of robbers, it had the appearance of the holy 
 chapel of a monastery. Zitella was kneeling, clothed in 
 a beautiful Brigand dress, and her head dress gave her 
 the look of a Madonna, as she alternately cast her eyes 
 on the crucifix and upward. An inexpressible delicacy of 
 lustre played upon her features, and her eyes beamed with 
 a quiet meekness of adoration, which told that the heart 
 was moved by an almost angel-like sensibility. Awe, love 
 and submission to the will of the Divine Spirit seemed the 
 characteristics of her heart's devotion, and the hour of 
 vespers, when all bowed in the same attitude of prayer.
 
 THE BRIGAND. JQJ 
 
 gave the scene an almost ideal and romantic cast. Even 
 the robbers seemed to have forgotten their recklessness 
 and to have assumed the garb of virtue and honesty. 
 Zitella dropped a tear as she cast her eyes on Zareo, and 
 her bosom struggled with deep emotion, for she loved 
 she intensely loved the romantic Zareo. Again all was 
 bustle. Zitella still gazed on the face of her lover, who 
 had now sunk into a deep sleep. Her eye was soon at 
 tracted by a ribband which, placed around his neck, had 
 something attached to it. Curious to know what it might 
 be, she ventured to draw it from his bosom. It was the 
 miniature of an elderly looking lady, clad superbly her 
 head dress adorned with the most precious jewels. The 
 case was of pure gold, studded with the most precious 
 diamonds. She concluded that he must be the descendant 
 of some great family; and having carefully replaced it, 
 taking her guitar, she sang this song adapted to a beauti 
 ful Italian air: 
 
 Through the cave of the bandit, 
 
 The light zephyrs blow ; 
 The summoning mandate 
 
 Wakes brave Zareo. 
 
 duick he springs from his soft bed, 
 
 To join the brave band, 
 By the brave and bold led 
 
 The active Brigand. 
 
 His Zitella he meets then, 
 
 In front of the cell 
 And hoping to meet again, 
 
 Bids her farewell. 
 
 Farewell, then Zitella sighs, 
 
 Since you must go, 
 I'll follow with watchful eyes, 
 
 My brave Zareo. 
 
 9*
 
 |Q(2 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 The sentinels of the second watch were now posted, 
 and the Council of Ten had gone to the inner hall of the 
 rock. 
 
 Zareo had awoke as Zitella sang the last stanza, and 
 heard the door close as the Ten went in. But the sound 
 was not unpleasant to his ear, although his companion was 
 much agitated. Long after midnight did the Council de 
 bate on the subject well known to the lovers, although not 
 to the banditti. It was a glorious night, and the beautiful 
 Italian sky was bespangled by myriads of stars. The 
 lovers departed from the cave; as they walked along, 
 Zitella expressed her fears that his death would take place 
 in the morning. Zareo fearing, too, that her feelings might 
 cause her injury, thought best to discover himself. 
 'Doubtless,' said he, 'you remember a person who some 
 time ago was confined in the Doom dungeon, and whom 
 you, by your intercessions, released. He was the Prince 
 of Naples, who is now before you.' Zitella would have 
 been thunderstruck, had she not been thinking of the 
 miniature, and about to ask who the lady was she had 
 seen. ' Now,' resumed the Prince, ' may I hope to gain 
 you for my wife, and may that Cusay, who would have 
 caused my death, be punished as he deserves.' ' How 
 can he be punished? ' asked Zitella; ' if one of the band 
 be punished, the rest will rise.' ' Fear not,' he answered, 
 ' the dawn will bring every thing aright.' They then re 
 turned to the cave, and entering, beheld the band sitting 
 in solemn silence. The Prince was regardless of it, how 
 ever; for he well knew the cause. It would have made 
 the heart of the stoutest sink, to hear the Captain pro 
 nounce the sentence; 'Death to Zareo, at sunrise!' 
 Every one retired to his couch melancholy, except Zitella, 
 who smiled, enraptured with joy at the thought that Zareo 
 would not suffer.
 
 
 THE BRIGAND. 
 
 The morning was one of uncommon splendor. The 
 band had assembled to witness the execution. The sol 
 emn look and trembling step of those who were destined 
 to take the life of one of their associates, spread a gloom 
 over the scene. The Prince came last, with a firm and 
 manly step, and Zitella at his side. A smile illumined his 
 countenance, and standing before the band, he uttered 
 these words: 
 
 'Friends! beware of treachery. You may well re 
 member that the King of Naples offered a large sum of 
 money for the head of your Captain. Let me tell you, 
 the King of Naples has been promised your Captain's 
 head.' The attention of all was rivetted to the spot where 
 the Captain stood, for he had pressed back the cock of his 
 gun with his foot, and was about to take it up, when the 
 Prince cried out, c Cusay is the traitor, and I the Prince 
 of Naples! ' Scarcely had he spoken when the contents 
 of the Captain's piece entered the breast of the traitor, 
 and he fell headlong over the precipice. The Prince ad 
 vanced toward the Captain, and grasping his hand said: 
 ' I promise to intercede with my father for the band and 
 you ; and I know, as Zitella interceded once for me, and 
 gave me liberty, so will my intercessions save your life.' 
 
 The sudden change of character in Zareo, astonished 
 the whole band, and with seeming reluctance they laid 
 down their carbines, for they could hardly realize that 
 they were about to enter on a new life. The Prince suc 
 ceeded in his intercessions, and was soon after married to 
 Zitella. 
 
 Some of the banditti are still remaining in the village 
 of V - , and often tell this story for the amusement of 
 their friends.
 
 104 
 
 TO OCEAN. 
 
 CHANGELESS, yet changeful Ocean! thine are power and 
 
 Majesty! 
 
 And Beauty oft doth enter in thy palace-gates and walls, 
 And Light flies down, and gilds thy gem and greenweed 
 
 sprinkled halls, 
 Where Terror, Death, and Darkness dwell, and ever love 
 
 to be! 
 
 Where are the blackest and the brighest forms mon 
 sters, and things 
 Which mortal man may ne'er behold, and thenceforth, 
 
 be secure, 
 Ray-darting gems, bright gold, rich merchandize, and 
 
 pearls sky-pure, 
 Broad trees, deep coral groves, and pliant leaves, like 
 
 fairies' wings ! 
 Whence are thy waters, and thy living depths, O 
 
 Ocean? whence ? 
 Whence the clustering congregations of all past time, 
 
 which shroud 
 Thy form, or sleep within thee, an unforgotten, silent 
 
 crowd 
 The bones, the wrecks, the arms of war, so palpable 
 
 and dense ? 
 Whence thy black, eternal columns, 'neath which man 
 
 never trod? 
 Who gave thyself, and to thee, these? the utterance of 
 
 thy voice is GOD.
 
 105 
 
 A ROUNDELAY. 
 
 FROM THE SPA.NISH. 
 
 LET not my tender, youthful face 
 
 Move you my song to scorn, 
 Since love dwells in thy every grace, 
 
 Who from a smile was born; 
 Bowing before whose melting sway, 
 Proud kings and shepherds all obey; 
 For whom the lyre has oft been strung, 
 Though weak as I, and full as young. 
 
 Cowards beneath his shadowy wings 
 
 In dauntless bravery stand, 
 Captive the savage heart he brings s 
 
 Bound by his silken band; 
 The wise are left no longer free 
 Yet gain a sweeter liberty; 
 This king of wise men and of strong 
 Is weak as I, and full as young. 
 
 The soul of every living thing 
 
 Is, neath his banner furled, 
 He tunes the birds' soft caroling, 
 
 And twines in love the world. 
 Air and heaven, the sea and land 
 Yield obedience to his hand; 
 This king of nature lord of song, 
 Is weak as I, and full as young.
 
 106 TO A RIVER. 
 
 His gifts, 't is said, are ever fraught 
 
 With woe, and pains, and grief; 
 By him are mortals ever taught 
 
 To find a false relief 
 In Hope's seductive, artful wiles, 
 Which flatter with deceitful smiles: 
 Love's magic chains are round us flung, 
 Though weak as I, and full as young. 
 
 At the roseate dawn, we know, 
 
 The sun will quickly rise ; 
 So Estella's features show 
 
 Love's image in her eyes; 
 And her drooping lashes seem 
 Like a diamond's brilliant gleam! 
 Ah! Love, who rules the Gods among, 
 Is weak as I, and full as young. 
 
 TO A RIVER. 
 
 O GLORIOUS River, gleaming through green vales, 
 Where zephyrs move thy hright blue, burnished scales, 
 
 I love, at noon, to mark thee run, 
 
 Sporting beneath the radiant sun. 
 
 Smooth is thy face mid banks of glittering sand, 
 Dazzling the eye, like a brilliant sapphire band: 
 
 Thou movest as the fish that gleam 
 
 Like living silver in thy stream!
 
 TO A UIVER. 107 
 
 Now gently gliding with a wavy pace, 
 Now smoothly coursing with thy mirror face, 
 Now curling, leaping in bright shapes 
 To catch the juice of golden grapes 
 
 That hang in rich, round clusters from the trees 
 And scatter fragrance on the gentle breeze, 
 Bending down, as it were to sip 
 The ruby brightness from thy lip 
 
 Now tinkling o'er yon rock that in thy way, 
 Seems, an imperious thing, to mock thy play, 
 But only makes thee play the more, 
 And laugh, and dance away to shore ! 
 
 A thousand metaphors from a poet's brain 
 Might not express the various tints that stain 
 Thy waters, which, like colored glass 
 O'er a bed of diamonds pass. 
 
 Thou art to man a book of heavenly things, 
 Even in the wildest of his imaginings; 
 He looks at thee, a spirit there 
 Bows down his soul in humble prayer!
 
 108 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 AUTUMN ! rich Autumn ! decked with crimson robes, 
 
 Gathered in knots made fast with pliant vines, 
 
 There is fruition in thy playful smiles 
 
 And cheek sun-scorched, and flushed with shooting hues. 
 
 The olive-branch hangs down about thy neck, 
 
 And swollen wheat bends nodding o'er thy brow 
 
 In softest dalliance with thy dimpling cheeks ! 
 
 Thy mirthful shouts of laughter oft ring out 
 
 Upon the hills, and echo mocks them there J 
 
 The drooping corn with joy lifts up its head, 
 
 And listens to the oft re-echoed laugh : 
 
 The birds, above thee, sing with mellow throats, 
 
 And fly around thee, while the golden corn 
 
 Those fruits of industry, more rich to man 
 
 Than solid wedges from the miser's chest 
 
 Thou closely crowdest in thy twisted horn. 
 
 Oh ! Autumn, blessed Autumn, still dwell here : 
 
 For sweet it is, thy quick unheeding dance 
 
 To see, amid the oaks and mazy groves ! 
 
 A joy transcendant rises in my breast, 
 
 To look upon the branches of the trees, 
 
 Where hanging o'er the surface of the brook, 
 
 Thou gatherest up the grapes, out-bursting, full 
 
 With luscious juice made richer by the sun ! 
 
 Smile on ! thou laughing girl ! with plenty smile ! 
 And on the floor, amid the heaped up wheat,
 
 THE OLD DRAMATISTS. J 
 
 Lie down, and with thy fairy hands unlock 
 
 The full, ripe kernels of the silk-bound corn, 
 
 And scatter them in rich profusion round. 
 
 Autumn ! thou giver of substantial gifts, 
 
 The time must come for thee to move away, 
 
 And smile on hills afar in other climes ; 
 
 But never shall thy votary here forget 
 
 The bounteous stores thou gavest to his home. 
 
 Welcome ! thrice welcome when thou dost return 
 
 To guard the wholesome fruit upon our hills, 
 
 And to our garners bring the yellow corn. 
 
 Farewell till then ! oh, wheat-crowned girl, farewell ! 
 
 THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 
 
 THAT is an exceedingly interesting page of the past, 
 which reveals to us any great change in the moral condi 
 tion of the human race ; and, of the several periods which 
 are celebrated by the present generation, perhaps, none 
 is more prominent, than that which dawned upon the 
 world, at the expiration of the middle ages. The canopy 
 of fame which hangs over the cradle of the infancy of 
 English literature is decked with stars, brilliant with a 
 light peculiar and striking ; the character of that light, 
 too, but little known and little regarded. Although dra 
 matic writing is the most difficult pursuit which can engage 
 the intellect ; although it was the pursuit in which very 
 
 many of the men of genius engaged on the revival of 
 10
 
 HO THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 
 
 letters ; although it was a pursuit which when rightly 
 followed, served to elevate the moral and intellectual 
 standard of action, above that which existed in the era of 
 darkness, yet succeeding generations have permitted near 
 ly all the dramatic works of merit, produced in the six 
 teenth century, to be neglected. 
 
 We love to dwell on the genius of such men as Shaks- 
 peare, Massinger, Ford, Fletcher, Jonson, Shirley and 
 others, who though not properly esteemed even in their 
 own age, because they were in advance of it, still deserve 
 to have their names graven on the pillar of fame, in char 
 acters brilliant and imperishable ; men whose minds were 
 concentrated on a high and glorious object an object 
 which was, in effect, that of meliorating the condition of 
 society, making the lives of men purer and better, driving 
 from the heart all the remaining dregs of barbarian super 
 stition, giving light to the simple, and raising, and exalting 
 society that society, which, even in its best state, was 
 tinctured with the miserable, though engaging and much 
 admired romance of the preceding age an age, crowd 
 ed with pageants and wickedness, sentiments and mur-. 
 ders, titles and slaves ! 
 
 The regular drama had its origin in the religious exhi 
 bitions which were customary in Europe, during the dark 
 ages. John Rastel, the brother-in-law of Sir Thomas 
 More, was the first person who conceived the idea of 
 imparting instruction, in respect to science and philosophy, 
 through this medium. He was followed by Gascoigne 
 and Marlowe, and subsequently by Shakspeare and it 
 is to Shakspeare, that the greatest improvement in dra 
 matic poetry is to be attributed ; and it is to him that 
 posterity has given the crown of unfading and perennial 
 laurels. Such is the peculiarity and versatility of his 
 dramatic genius so great are his claims to immortality
 
 THE OLD DRAMATISTS. jjj 
 
 we behold his contemporaries, many of whom oftentimes 
 display equal powers, with a species of jealousy or dis 
 trust, we are not willing to believe that that age could 
 have been glorified by so many choice spirits : nor are we 
 willing to believe that the first period of modern history 
 was an age wonderful for the progress of literature. We 
 look to that age, as upon the heavens at night ; we behold 
 the stars which cluster near the zenith, but those which 
 blaze near the horizon are only detected by the most pen 
 etrating vision. We do not mark that age as we should, 
 as one of master-spirits, as the court of genius, the acad 
 emy of poetry, the temple of literature, the arena of 
 mighty and gigantic intellects. 
 
 It was the Drama which gave instruction. Here the 
 common people received their knowledge of history, and 
 the court detected the nice shades of character. Here 
 all learned moral lessons. Here was the past in actual 
 existence, and it is for this reason, that the historical 
 plays of that age have little unity rhetorical rules van 
 ish, and give place to truth. Nor was this all the instruc 
 tion that the drama imparted. Throughout the plays of 
 Shakspeare and his contemporaries, life in its various forms 
 was exhibited, illustrated and made known. Here could 
 the passions be studied; here were the deceptions of men 
 unmasked; here was pride prostrated ; here was virtuous 
 ambition upheld; here was mercy inculcated, and chanty, 
 and love, and friendship, and affection, and all things 
 truly pleasant and profitable in life. 
 
 Beside, there is a rich moral philosophy scattered 
 through their pages. It is a philosophy which the gen 
 iuses of our times have in some measure despised. Those 
 men did not turn skeptics to be singular, nor atheists to 
 be examined and studied. They were men who acknowl 
 edged that a divine Providence ruled the world, and they
 
 112 THE OLD DRAMATISTS. 
 
 pointed with a steady finger to virtue and religion as con 
 solations to wearied spirits. They told to their country 
 men truths of highest import, and they moralized not with 
 the tongue of cant, but with the voice of conscience. It 
 is for this, aside from other considerations, that their works 
 claim the attention of the present and each succeeding 
 generation and it is for this that they should rank among 
 the standard authors of the day. 
 
 The high and powerful imaginations, which could com 
 bine some of the qualities of several minds into one, 
 forming a character interesting in the extreme, whose 
 every action, and whose fate the beholder is compelled to 
 notice, truly merit our highest admiration. How far 
 superior are they to those writers of our own time, who 
 in their attempts to create personages of similar interest 
 have failed, not merely by presenting distorted and ex 
 tremely unnatural characters, but those, the tendency of 
 whose actions and fate, if not bearing immoral effect, 
 certainly are somewhat doubtful. 
 
 The genuine spirit of their poetry has another claim 
 upon us. The poetry which they revelled in, was that of 
 feeling combined with true fancy. The smoothness arid 
 beauty of sentiment which characterizes Fletcher ; the 
 gay and fascinating elegance of description which immor 
 talizes Ford ; the nervous diction and delicately-shaded 
 delineations of the passions which render Massinger 
 almost equal to Shakspeare, are qualities which should 
 inspire us with a soul-thirsting desire for their perusal. 
 In fine, every kind of poetry which is pleasant to the heart, 
 the ear, or the understanding, will be found in the works 
 of these neglected masters. There is little of the namby- 
 pamby thought of the nineteenth century to be found in 
 their plays ; but it is that thought and expression which 
 some of the best poets of latter days have not feared to 
 borrow, to gild their own oftentimes elegant structures.
 
 REPUTATION. J jg 
 
 The lover of literature, then, if he would give a polish 
 to language, and a richness to the expression of thought; 
 if he would know the revealings of nature, or would be 
 bound by all that is enchanting, he must launch forth upon 
 the broad surface before him there may he collect the 
 lilies which expand in copious profusion, sparkling with 
 their thousand glories : nay more, not confining himself 
 to those riches above the surface, he may dive down into 
 the pregnant depths, and bring up pearl after pearl at ev 
 ery successive visitation. 
 
 REPUTATION. 
 
 THE man who wishes to be judged impartially, will 
 prefer that posterity should decide whether he has any 
 claim to future renown. But he who desires contempora 
 ries or friends to decide upon his character and actions, 
 would be a selfish being, and could not possibly have any 
 very considerable claim to distinction. Neither would he 
 be a true genius, or profound scholar, who should crawl, 
 like a guilty thing, away from the scrutinizing and search 
 ing eye of unbiassed judgment. The unprincipled person, 
 who builds up his own reputation by destroying that of 
 others, is the most despicable character in creation ; and 
 he is the very person who would, most likely, desire to be 
 judged by a party over whom he had exerted an influence 
 
 favorable to himself, and obtained by crafty cunning and 
 10*
 
 114 REPUTATION. 
 
 smiling deceit. Fortitude to endure the blazing eye of 
 truth, is only possessed by those who deserve to be truly 
 celebrated ; or, in more concise terms, to be truly great, 
 we must be morally fearless. 
 
 All factions must have leaders, whose merits each fac 
 tion will emblazon beyond truth, and who will, by their 
 clamorous shouts raise an excitement which will smother 
 every dissenting voice. But faction must finally be des 
 troyed, and these leaders will sink into the grave ; and 
 posterity will remove their crowns of fame to the heads 
 which most merit such honors; to such heads, perhaps, 
 as, in modest seclusion, have kept back from the world 
 the productions of their studious hours, but who have at 
 length been ushered into the world, to receive the immortal 
 honor due to them. Specific cases might be mentioned ; 
 but what need is there, since every one and any one, by 
 casting a single glance around, can discover numberless 
 illustrative instances. 
 
 Let not any man, therefore, who wishes to be celebra 
 ted for his genius, his virtues, or any other qualities, act 
 according to the taste of his contemporaries, or court their 
 favor, by indulging their appetites ; for such taste, is gen 
 erally depraved, and the results of such indulgence far 
 from being immutable. That which is admired in our 
 age, may, with great justice, be ridiculed in the next. 
 And, through whatever sphere a man wishes to move 
 be it in the deep, abstruse speculations of science, in the 
 changing, unsettled notions of politics, or in the more 
 easy and pleasant pursuits of polite literature he cannot 
 but find that he who has catered entirely for the taste of 
 the age in which he has lived, has been wafted, by allur 
 ing and fascinating breezes, into the waters of oblivion. 
 The greatest philosophers have been covered with the 
 shafts of satire in one age, and their learning and talents
 
 REPUTATION. J J5 
 
 extolled in the next. The greatest statesmen have been 
 found to be so, only when their posthumous productions 
 have been brought into light. The greatest poets have 
 been ridiculed while living, and, by the dash of a pen, 
 raised to immortality by posterity. On the other hand, a 
 mere novice in philosophy has been raised to an elevated 
 distinction among contemporaries, which he has lost with 
 posterity. More striking cases may be seen among poli 
 ticians, and still more striking examples are visible where 
 persons have obtained, with contemporaries, a good repu 
 tation as men of nice literary taste and judgment, but 
 whose characters, when weighed in the balances of truth, 
 have been ascertained, and their lustre dimmed by the 
 shining of some brighter constellation. 
 
 Indeed, it may be said, Time is the cupel of reputation, 
 in which Posterity, the careful alchymist, examines atten 
 tively, and tries fully, the characters of those men who 
 have lived in previous ages. It is the refiner, who, with 
 the equitable and discriminating eye of perseverance, 
 separates the base alloy which has gathered on the char 
 acter, and brings forth, in all its purity, the rich and sunny 
 gold, claimed by study and genius. Posterity has no sin 
 ister motives can have none; no envy, no prejudice, 
 but judges, and must judge with a discrimination the most 
 accurate, and a taste the most correct. All the mists that 
 descend from the firmament of antiquity upon the garden 
 of posterity, are separated from their impurities, and distil 
 into dewdrops of truth. If the mind be desirous to be 
 judged by posterity, then the inward ambition is awa 
 kened : genius, real genius, if it exist, will blaze on the 
 altar of independence, and the mind will have an imagin-r 
 ary foretaste of the joys which will result from the decis 
 ions of Truth, that offspring of old, gray-haired Time. It 
 will look with a careless eye on the opinions of those
 
 jjg REPUTATION. 
 
 biassed by envy and servitude, and will move on, with a 
 free spirit, to accomplish its lofty and original concep 
 tions. Like that of Milton, it will be all devotion to the 
 subject ; it will move eagle like, soaring upward and 
 onward to the sun, and, far from the gaze of the multi 
 tude, it will career alone, basking in the sunshine of glory 
 to be seen only by the admiring eyes of future genera 
 tions. 
 
 Whereas the mind that enslaves itself, by catering for 
 the taste or madness of a faction or party that brings its 
 standard down to the depraved, and, it may be, demoral 
 izing taste of the public can give but a black impres 
 sion, though the types be of silver. Its strength will be 
 prostrated, and, like the fallen oak, all its majesty will 
 vanish, and its once green boughs will wither. This 
 slavishness, visible in those desiring present popularity, 
 is a dire plague spot on the fair bodies of science and 
 literature. This deadening of the finer faculties of gen 
 ius, this chaining and fettering of the intellect, should be 
 discontinued, and the mind should be permitted to take 
 its free and heavenward course. 
 
 Let us, then, have an ambition not to tantalize our 
 naturally good natures, by harboring fiendish envy, which 
 we cannot but do if we would be first to court the ap 
 plause of our contemporaries but to pass over the paths 
 of life without crushing the flowers which embellish them, 
 and aiming to make ourselves useful to our natures, 
 act up to the spirit of independence which has been 
 implanted in our bosoms.
 
 117 
 
 LOW CHIMING BELLS. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BT OEO. KINGSLET. 
 
 Low chiming bells, low chiming bells, 
 The Past their deep vibration knells ; 
 And memory views, while veiled in tears, 
 The spectre-pageant of dead years. 
 
 Dear mournful bells ! dear mournful bells ! 
 Within their chime a charm there dwells, 
 That shows a scene in which appears 
 A throng of forms to join the Years. 
 
 Chime, pleasant bells ! chime, pleasant bells ! 
 Your cadence cheers the mounts and dells ; 
 And while 1 hear and love your chime, 
 I deem you Magi over Time. 
 
 Sweet speaking bells ! sweet speaking bells ! 
 Like streams from founts your music wells ; 
 And men like you shall pass their time, 
 Be mournful, joyful cease to chime.
 
 118 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 TO THE COMMON PLACE BOOK OF MISS S. F. A. 
 
 TIRELESS and iron wings hath Time ; his flight 
 
 Is o'er a current smooth and beautiful ; 
 
 But not to all. Some find a being there 
 
 Whose quick eyes wakeful are and watchful ever ; 
 
 And some dark cloud, or storm, or gulf of fire 
 
 In fancy, or reality, they see, 
 
 To make them curse the stream on which their barks 
 
 Are launched ; and dull and dark they call the stream 
 
 Its waters bitter are of trouble full ! 
 
 Lady, with thee it is not thus. Calm Hope 
 Stands at the prow of thy joy-freighted bark, 
 Upon her anchor leaning patiently ; 
 And Prudence, at the helm, with eye most keen, 
 Resolved and prescient sits, gazing before. 
 And in my vision now a prophet's sight ? 
 Thy bark I see, fanned on by Time's broad wings, 
 Whose waving makes the breeze upon that stream, 
 While heaven-winged Blessings hover o'er thy head ; 
 Thyself with this same book beloved in hand, 
 O'er its rich writings turning; and I see, 
 As thou dost scan its thought, much lovelier things; 
 Back on the stream clusters of friends arise, 
 Whose names and thoughts are treasured on each page 
 And as thou gazest on them, thou dost feel 
 As if they all were present with thee there !
 
 THE HOMELESS YOUTH. 
 
 The stream is Life thy bark, the tenement, 
 
 In which the beacon-spirit burns to guide, 
 
 To watch, to ward, and thou mayst look before, 
 
 Or after, on the holiest scenes of life, 
 
 And see, so strangely magical is mind, 
 
 All that is loved. 
 
 Lady, remember this ! 
 Remember, too, that stream flows ever on, 
 And launches thee upon a boundless sea ! 
 Bid Hope and Prudence, therefore, watch for thee, 
 And seek thyself a star that hangs aloft, 
 And finding, study well its mystery; 
 Thee will it guide, solace, preserve forever; 
 It is the Eternal STAR of Bethlehem ! 
 
 THE HOMELESS YOUTH. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR MUSIO. 
 
 ' AWAY from my home I heedlessly stray, 
 
 No care for my lot is there ; 
 But my heart will find a flowery way 
 
 For I heed not thy shades Despair ! ' 
 Thus sang a poor youth, in the summer time, 
 
 As near the dark sea he strayed, 
 While his eye lighted up at the scene sublime, 
 
 And the winds with his bright locks played.
 
 120 TOALADY. 
 
 ' I fly from this shore to thee I now come ! 
 
 Ye winds waft my bark away 
 O dull is the path that leads toward home, 
 
 And before is a flowery way ! ' 
 He bade the seamen the light bark unmoor, 
 
 While winds mid the sails did sigh, 
 And he thought not that Winter on Ocean's floor 
 
 Would see him and his proud bark lie. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 UTTERING A SLANDEROUS WORD. 
 
 LADY, look up, and in the air 
 
 Behold yon wandering thistle-beard ; 
 Ay ! mark each bright, gossamer spear 
 
 Around its little centre reared. 
 How swiftly sails it on and on, 
 
 Carried by every breeze astray, 
 Now mounting to the brilliant sun 
 
 Now sinking through the air away 
 Oh soon that giddy thing will fall 
 
 And silently will take its rest, 
 But still will sow a poisonous thorn 
 
 Within earth's calm and placid breast. 
 
 Dost mark the moral, lady fair ? 
 
 A careless word may move around, 
 Chased onward by a thousand tongues 
 
 Which echo every sound;
 
 TEARS. 
 
 And when it finds its final rest 
 
 'T will sow a seed of care, 
 And bring forth thorns within the breast 
 
 To grow and flourish there. 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 I wished but for a single tear, 
 
 As something welcome, new, and dear. 
 
 WHAT makes life so remarkably precious to man, is not 
 his love for a single pleasure or beauty, but the enjoyment 
 which is received from the many influences of a vast num 
 ber of comparatively little benefactors, for whom he has 
 very firm attachments. The spirit is encircled and en 
 chained by a wreath braided with numberless flowers, 
 congregated together with curious, and entertaining, and 
 attractive workmanship. This wreath is seldom broken 
 asunder, but the spirit, when the moment arrives for its 
 departure, soars upward to its own secret element, like 
 the perfume of the flowers by which it is surrounded. 
 Truly our imagination, at sundry times, magnifies the 
 wreath, and by our fancies, the various strands of its 
 braid are often multiplied, and by many tints and hues it 
 is rendered more fascinating. Nevertheless, imposing 
 and lovely are its realities, and we fix upon them with a 
 nice knowledge of their strength and richness, We feel 
 11
 
 122 TEARS. 
 
 that they are exceedingly productive to our mind of pleas 
 ure and profit, and to our heart peculiarly soothing and 
 delightful. And it does not now occur to us, that there 
 is any thing more beautiful amid these animating, yet in 
 animate benefactors, than those mysterious ministers 
 tears ; nothing which takes such deep hold on the inner 
 man, the sympathies, and our holier nature. 
 
 Tears are the companions of our existence. With the 
 meek little sufferer, they enter upon the intricate and by- 
 crossing path-ways of this wonderful, yet gradually open 
 ing world, and they do not leave him, until all mystery 
 has passed away until the variously shifting scenes 
 have all been exhibited, and the curtain of death has shut 
 him out from whatever of joy or of sorrow, of pleasure or 
 of pain, he may have experienced. 
 
 Tears accompany our hopes they mingle with our 
 sorrows they bind and strengthen with our penitence 
 they have a flow with our afflictions they mark our 
 pity they speak in our gratitude they chasten our 
 love they arise with our joyousness they are among 
 our divinest inheritances ! Deprived of them, our mis 
 fortunes and troubles would alike be aggravated, our 
 sympathies would be examined with distrust, and heart 
 would not speak unto heart, as it now does, with its irre- 
 sistable and revivifying language. The true state of our 
 characters would be hidden under the mists of an unwel 
 come hypocrisy, and every man might assume a charac 
 ter for every change of scene, if better feelings did not 
 step in before the desires for one's own interest. 
 
 But we are now looking at the scenes of real life. 
 There, across that street, hobbles a poor, lame and 
 wretchedly miserable mendicant. For his head, there is 
 no pillow for his body, no food for his protection, no 
 home. Now, an individual passes him, and now turns
 
 TEARS. J23 
 
 back. See ! he places in his hand a mere coin ! The 
 mendicant's eyes are suffused, and a tear has fallen. It 
 is the tear of gratitude ! It is directly from the heart ! 
 Oh who would not wish to give, and give, to be thus re 
 warded ! 
 
 Just lock yonder ! There sits a person, of great moral 
 purity and worth, in anguish of soul. He has fallen from 
 his high eminence, by some fault incident to our common 
 nature. But a friend is near, sympathizing with him, and 
 in tears too ! What savory balm for woe ! What oil of 
 gladness for the Spirit ! 
 
 And so we might pass on through the world, and be 
 hold many similar scenes, whose tendency would be to 
 elevate our opinion of the sanctity and preciousness of 
 those little heralds of our feelings, who start forth from 
 the soul in a moment, unrestrained, and even before we 
 are aware of it ; mounting into the world through that 
 transparent veil of the heart the eye ! hanging like 
 water-drops on the satin leaf of a lily, or like a rain-drop 
 on a withered oak-leaf of Autumn, or perchance like a 
 dew-drop in the delicate eye of a violet. Or, we might 
 behold them in other situations delightfully pleasing to the 
 mind ; perhaps in some of those situations, in which they 
 have a remarkable influence upon our social passions, sit 
 uations in which these angels of light move on healing 
 wings, that rustle by us, and fan our hearts into flames as 
 unquenchable, as the affections are untameable, which 
 awake them. 
 
 There are some persons, who are ashamed to have it 
 known that they have been in tears. This arises from a 
 foolish delicacy ; and although the spirit receives the most 
 enjoyment from those which are shed in solitude, yet to 
 let it be known, at least, not to deny such a fact, is com 
 mendable, and will never cause any one to think less of
 
 124 TEARS. 
 
 us. Besides, tears are, doubtless, in all cases, the pure 
 offspring of the feelings ; and we are not of those that 
 can believe that they can be used when wanted. There 
 are some persons who assert this, and who would have 
 human-kind believe it ; but it will not, it cannot be be 
 lieved. Man is too fond of the poetry of life, to let the 
 smallest portion of it slip away from him ; and least of 
 all, these his richest and most beloved treasures, without 
 which, there would be nothing to express, with truth, the 
 features of the soul. For we find that men of kindli 
 ness are able to shed tears ; because they are excited 
 by that divine sympathy, which is a mysterious and per 
 petual flow of electricity, shooting through the whole 
 chain of society, animating it, and making every particu 
 lar part to vibrate with feeling. And who is there, that 
 would willingly deprive himself of this unforbidden luxu 
 ry ? who is there that would case in his heart against 
 these talismans ' polished by the hand divine ? ' Who is 
 there, that would not desire to shed at least one tear, 
 which is the most sacred of all ; before which, even the 
 gates of heaven open the tear of penitence ! 
 
 To the purpose of poetry, the description of tears has 
 been applied with great power. We love the author who 
 uses them ; and when they are introduced, we are imme 
 diately interested. The heart is all engaged. His de 
 scriptions fall upon it, like the continual dropping from an 
 overflowing fountain, wearing off all roughness, and giv 
 ing smoothness to the affections. We are enlivened, or 
 saddened, as the author pleases. In his descriptions, we 
 are, let their characters be what they may, irresistibly, 
 and in spite of ourselves, borne along. If the author be 
 
 Watering the roses of a healthful cheek 
 With dews of silver, 
 
 we are pleased ; or, if he describe the silver-haired vet-
 
 HYMEN. 125 
 
 eran of four score years and ten, weeping, our sympathies 
 are drawn in, and we discover that 
 
 It is a moving thing to see the teares 
 
 Wrung out from an aged eye ; 
 Seldom and slowe, lyke the scantye droppes 
 
 Of a fountain that 's near a drye ! 
 
 We know that there are those in the world, who despise 
 the sight of tears, and who are totally beyond their pow 
 er ; but far the greater part of them are men who have 
 lost all the social feelings, and who do not have any 
 claims upon their fellows ; who should not mingle with 
 the world, because they are not constituted to make those 
 around them either happier or better. But our opinion 
 should not be changed on this ground. We should re 
 member that they are peculiarly the gift of mortals ; that 
 even the angels are cut off from the happiness arising 
 from them, and that they were given to us by God. 
 
 HYMEN. 
 
 YOUNG Hymen is painted in prints much admired, 
 
 With a torch that burns brightly as a flame from the sun ; 
 
 But much truer to truth our artists would paint, 
 If flames from two torches were twined into one. 
 
 11*
 
 126 
 
 THE WINTER HEARTH FIRE. 
 
 THE winter hearth fire is the grand awakener and en- 
 livener of the household affections. When the family- 
 circle is around it, a chain of indissoluble hearts is formed. 
 The holy feelings which relationship cherishes gush 
 out in the calm flashes from the glowing eye, and move 
 and play tremulously, like a succession of floating pulse- 
 beatings, throughout the bosom. The cheerful blaze 
 the soft light of the shaded lamp the warm, close room 
 the shut-out world, and the singleness of the scene, 
 make the situation of any individual in the group, delight 
 fully pleasant. It is a place like no other like a para 
 dise like a heaven, but different ! It is there only that 
 heart speaks unto heart, each with its most kindly in 
 fluence. It is there only that the ties of kindred are dis 
 played in all their strength, It is there only that we 
 perceive the purity, and the fulness, and the loveliness of 
 those affections which are among the divinest heritages of 
 our existence. It is there only that all we love, and all 
 we would wish to love forever, come home upon the soul 
 with all that is powerful, and make us to feel and be aware 
 of the goodliness and worth of much that tends to benefit 
 us, and render us happy throughout our earthly condition.
 
 127 
 
 GRAMMAR, RHETORIC AND LOGIC. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 THESE three elegant, ornamental and much admired 
 arts, upon which many of the most learned, profound and 
 eloquent writers have treated, although not immediately 
 connected, have a visible and essential intercourse with 
 each other. One very peculiar circumstance in regard to 
 these arts is, that while they treat of different things, all 
 have one common point to which they tend ; and all 
 beautifully assist and harmonize with each other : so that 
 they may, with a considerable degree of propriety, be 
 styled the Graces. Under the allegory of their con 
 structing a building, or temple, which is Language, we 
 shall attempt to introduce some of their qualifications. 
 
 Grammar, although not habited in so fascinating a 
 costume as the other two sister Graces, possesses yet the 
 most desirable and essential qualities ; and her aid lost, 
 the very symmetry of the building would be destroyed, 
 and the labor of Rhetoric and Logic would be useless. It 
 is she that gives the delicate, well-proportioned and beau 
 tiful appearance to the fabric. True, she is not the 
 disposer of these elegancies: but she is apparently for 
 by her rules the sisters are guided. Whatever they per 
 form, brings into operation some of her rules, and they 
 are always under her direction, or her power and influ 
 ence. She teaches the connection between the various 
 parts, but especially the more minute and delicate. She 
 is not the despiser of what is gay and fanciful ; still she
 
 128 GRAMMAR, RHETORIC AND LOGIC. 
 
 delights in plainness and propriety, and is willing that the 
 other more beautiful ornaments be added by her sisters. 
 
 It is the province of that bold, commanding and coy 
 sister, who delights in the most intricate parts, to afford 
 much of the material for construction, at least the most 
 solid part of it. The cement, that is, reason the raft 
 ers and supporters, which are the powers and operations 
 of reasoning form the greatest part of the temple ; and 
 they are applied by such nice and exact rules, that she 
 alone presides over that part of the work. She gives 
 strength and permanency to the building, and adds such 
 qualities that men are persuaded she is one of the most 
 valuable and learned architects. She has not the imme 
 diate power of feasting the eye, but she has the power of 
 pleasing the thinking mind. Her portion of the fabric 
 would appear very stiff, unless the ornaments of Rhetoric 
 were often seen giving elegance and dignity to the struc 
 ture. 
 
 Rhetoric is the slightest, most fascinating, and the most 
 beautifully attired of the Graces. She does not dwell 
 upon the solid material, except to bring it to a certain 
 exquisite smoothness. Into her hands, the temple is last 
 committed, and it is her chief care to give it a beautiful 
 polish, and to fashion it correctly ; and in fashioning it 
 correctly, she is always assisted by her sister Grammar ; 
 and they often act in concert ; while Logic, who delights 
 to meditate, steals as unobserved away, to think in silent 
 solitude. Rhetoric charms the eye and allures the imag 
 ination ; she ornaments the work with all those things 
 which will give it neatness, and sometimes adds very gaudy 
 garniture. She binds us to her by an irresistible attrac 
 tion ; she persuades us of the beauty and harmony of the 
 Structure, and steals unawares over the senses. She is 
 the most charming of this beautiful trio.
 
 129 
 
 A FACT TOLD IN RHYME. 
 
 SOME time ago, perhaps twelve years or so, 
 One Byron wrote his ' Beppo' in a verse, 
 
 Which seems, some think, spontaneously to flow 
 And though spontaneously, not much the worse ; 
 
 Some say they like it others say 't is low, 
 And some have on it fixed their direst curse, 
 
 But I do n't care about that poem now, 
 
 My stanza 's like it and I make my bow. 
 
 Reader, you '11 wish the incident just here, 
 
 You '11 wish to know, too, what this tale contains ; 
 
 But I can say there 's nothing in it queer, 
 Nor aught to cost the trial of your brains 
 
 And for your censure, much I shall not fear, 
 Since not a person now 'days takes the pains 
 
 To read a rambling poet's studied rhymes, 
 
 Unless he give some ' touches at the times.' 
 
 But ah, my hero ! what shall be his name ? 
 
 Name ? Ay, name ! he has one, has he not ? 
 Well truly, I can't say it 's ' Pudding Tame,' 
 
 Or what 's more accidental, namely Lot 
 That rhyme, I think, exceeding easy came, 
 
 From Walker it did not borrow e'en a jot : 
 But what 's all this to do with my grand hero ? 
 May-be his name is Captain Jacob Nero !
 
 130 A FACT TOLD IN RHYME. 
 
 It is his name, and so I write it down, 
 
 A shoemaker was Captain Jacob Nero ; 
 He lived upon the outskirts of the town 
 
 Indeed, I think, this line should end with hero. 
 My hero's face was dark complexion brown, 
 
 Which, when he laughed, made him look quite queer-o ; 
 But as you know what dark complexion is, 
 You must have formed conceptions of his phiz ! 
 
 And now no more digression once he went 
 
 Into the mart to buy a piece of meat, 
 And while he looked about with eyes intent, 
 
 A butcher followed at this hero's feet, 
 And to him said : ' Please go where I am bent, 
 
 And from my cellar lift into the street' 
 To find out what, the reader must read on, 
 And if he does, he will discover soon. 
 
 Nero consented at the butcher's will ! 
 
 Just fancy, reader, that he 's at the work, 
 That now he pulls that now again he 's still 
 
 That now he lifts the barrel of salt pork ! 
 And all this, too, for Rum a half a gill 
 
 That now he wishes he had been a Turk ; 
 For all well know that Turks pork never touch 
 And therefore was it, Nero wished him such. 
 
 For when he raised the barrel to its place, 
 A sound within his bosom made him fear ; 
 
 His limbs all trembled blood forsook his face, 
 And e'en his eye discharged the briny tear. 
 
 'Alas !' he cried, 'good sir, I die apace, 
 That noise proceeded from my bosom here !
 
 A FACT TOLD IN RHi 7 ME. 13 j 
 
 I 've broke a blood-vessel !' he ceased to talk, 
 And fainting quickly, fell upon the walk. 
 
 Straitway, a crowd did gather round the man ; 
 
 Straitway, a doctor came unto the place ; 
 Straitway, he ordered one to bring a fan ; 
 
 Straitway, himself he looked upon his face 
 His pulse he felt, and did as any body can 
 
 Across the walk in pensive study pace, 
 Thinking, no doubt, he'd make him run a bill, 
 If he could rouse him so 's to take a pill. 
 
 To cut the matter short, our hero lay 
 
 Sick ; for the thought of death was truly sad : 
 
 Conserve-of-roses did he eat all day, 
 
 Which being very sweet made Jacob glad ; 
 
 But sometimes, reader, he would even pray, 
 For mending soles had made him very bad. 
 
 And although a skeleton almost, and pale, 
 
 After one month he waxed again, quite hale. 
 
 Of Captain Nero, now, I take my leave ; 
 
 But stay, I have not yet quite told my story ; 
 You see, while gazing with his eyes of grief, 
 
 He saw his watch, in which was half his glory, 
 And so he tried to wind it up in brief 
 
 The chain was snapped : that made his bosom gory ; 
 And so to him it seemed the chain whizzed round, 
 And made what he supposed the bosom sound ! 
 
 Q 
 
 P. S. It was the chain's whiz, so our rhymer tells, 
 Which made this poor shoemaker sick so long ; 
 
 For when the chain broke, bound by mystic spells, 
 He thought him hurt but he was in the wrong !
 
 132 DIARY OF THE ABUSED. 
 
 I think, in rhyming nicely Q excels ; 
 
 But why not give this moral to his song ? 
 When pains seize you almost anywhere, don't follow a 
 Common rule and call it genuine Cholera ! 
 
 DIARY OF THE ABUSED. 
 
 A BEQUEATHED MANUSCRIPT. 
 
 Pupil. He knits his forehead oft, and mutters ' Death' 
 And sits alone all day, by some rude brake, 
 And weeps : they say, because his father's stern, 
 And with a thong doth stripe his naked limbs. 
 
 Master. That father, then, must be one of the old school, 
 Who whip and scold with indignation mad, 
 And beat the body to perfect the mind. NEW PLAT. 
 
 THE paternal rod is either a demon, or a deity. It is a 
 chastener of the passions, else the goad and incentive to 
 deeds of criminality and wickedness. Its power over 
 the mind is great it is almost inconceivable. If often 
 times used, its affect upon that sensitive string, which 
 binds the feelings of our nature together, is so powerful, 
 that it acts on it, as did the spikes upon the body of that 
 Roman who was placed alive in a chest, through the 
 bottom and sides of which were driven those goads which 
 spurred him on to death. How shallow-brained are those 
 rigid beings who countenance and applaud flagellation ! 
 Is it possible, though they be ever so inconsistent, that 
 they should think themselves justified by the passage in 
 Proverbs * He that spareth the rod, hateth his son : he
 
 DIARY OF THE ABUSED. 133 
 
 that loveth him, chasteneth him betimes !' Solomon was 
 a wise man, and wisely hath he said, ' chasteneth betimes' 
 
 an expression, the force of which is that the child 
 should be chastised on the first appearance of the evil 
 passions, not after it is discovered that the rod is of no 
 service. It would be best that the rod be never used, 
 unless a father understands well the nature of his son's 
 feelings, or be as wise as Solomon. 
 
 In some instances the rod uplifted may have conquered ; 
 but the rod applied may have often excited in the breast 
 the most demoniacal feelings. Who is it that takes the 
 rod in his hand to chastise ? Is he not a frail mortal ? 
 Was he not born a child, and did he himself never wander 
 from the path of rectitude ? Who is it that dares to take 
 the lash in one hand, and the reins in the other, and say, 
 ' It is for me to curb the passions ?' Wonderful assumo- 
 tion of power ? A frail mortal guiding a frail mortal. At 
 best, the blind leading the blind. 
 
 There are some sons, perhaps, who might be scolded 
 and lashed, and still not be affected in their feelings ; 
 but there are others, who having a spirit of pride in them 
 
 noble, manly pride would be the worse for it. All 
 cannot bear scourging ; and it was a noble spirit the 
 Romans had, which prompted them to look upon the pun 
 ishment by the lash as most debasing and disgraceful. 
 Indeed, what is there more mournful to a man of noble 
 sentiments than to know that he is receiving the same 
 treatment as the beasts ! 
 
 I had a friend, the entire tone of whose feelings was 
 produced mainly by the circumstance of his father's 
 severity. To say that he had a mind capable of great 
 effort, is useless since no grand effort was made. How 
 ever, be it remembered that the love of books was one 
 consoling object amid his bitter moments ; and to his 
 12
 
 134 DIARY OF THE ABUSED. 
 
 books he always retreated when the press of reflections 
 and anxieties crowded in upon his mind. In these he was 
 able to drown his cares, and to these he appeared to pour 
 forth every lingering particle of love that remained in his 
 bosom. From some little memoranda, expressing his 
 feelings, and some incidents of his life, I extract the sub 
 joined. 
 
 ********** 
 
 This day has been a day of passionate feelings, and of 
 passionate exclamation ! The pressed spirit has had no 
 soothing moments to ease itself with a divine philosophy 
 
 and as the gripe of the assassin around the throat per 
 mits only a few incoherent bursts of distress to escape 
 from the assailed, even so my spirit has to-day eased itself 
 by its mere exclamations. It is night, and it suits my 
 feelings ; it soothes my spirit, and it renders tranquil the 
 waves of passion. Thought is more divine, when the 
 stars are seemingly sympathizing with our natures, and 
 looking down upon us with their steady and enchanting 
 light. The moon seems a guardian ; and we may not 
 walk toward the cataract with a disgust for life, without 
 her following cautiously, and carefully hanging over us. 
 
 It was some time since, that I did some little inconsid 
 erate thing, of no more consequence to me nor would 
 it have been to any person of a feeling above earth 
 than the idle words of the ignorant. The affair had passed 
 away silently for an hour, and, as I supposed, into Lethean 
 forgetfulness but not so; my father discovered that I 
 was the author of the mischief, and ordered me to my 
 bedroom, without food, without a companion, there to re 
 main till the next morning. Fear of a severer punishment 
 made me obey it was not from reverential or holy feel 
 ings. Long since has all reverence for my father ceased 
 
 long since has the fountain of holier emotions become
 
 DIARY OF THE ABUSED. J35 
 
 dry, and the seal of indifference is set upon my heart 
 immoveable, never to be broken ! 
 
 I entered my apartment like a felon, but yet uncon 
 scious of crime. I was proud in my suffering ; and when 
 the bolt closed me in, with stoical fortitude did I endure 
 the agony of grief. I lay upon my bed, thinking of the 
 cruelty of my father, when I was aroused by the eager 
 shouts and merry voices of my playmates, who were 
 breathing the free air of liberty. I saw them and I 
 know not why, but I could not long gaze on them. I 
 closed my window and shut out the songs of the birds and 
 the shouts of my companions, and again did J throw my 
 self upon my bed ; and although miserable in spirits, yet 
 I felt so proud in innocence that it was pleasant. Feel 
 ings ! such feelings as a despairing innocent is possessed 
 of, rushed in continual and successive crowds over me ; 
 and with haughtiness did I now look upon the comforts, 
 even, which were furnished by my father's goodness 
 that goodness which seemed to me but the cold, heartless 
 bestowment of duty of duty which seemed to be the 
 only all, that saved me from being sent forth into the 
 world naked, penniless, and destitute. Meditating on my 
 situation, I felt that life was a troublesome and useless ex 
 istence. This, thence, was the only thought which was 
 present with me till I left my prison. When that moment 
 arrived I walked forth. A philosopher never was calmer 
 or more serene, in such a situation. A boy of eleven 
 winters, I felt myself a Socrates. 
 
 I went from the house. I wandered far from home ; 
 and when the sun was resting on the western hills, I bent 
 down to the limpid pool to refresh my parched tongue. 
 As my lips drew in the cooling draught, I discovered my 
 face and form in the water, and my feelings reverted to 
 the mirror that hung in our withdrawing-room this
 
 136 THE ICEBERG. 
 
 brought to mind my home. My treatment there, and its 
 effect upon me, I well considered. I could not elope for 
 ever undiscovered, and live there was but one way to 
 be happy. The stream, that gradually rolled on beneath, 
 I thought would carry me to my last happy home, and I 
 resolved to plunge over the precipice. The thought of 
 death was pleasant. The bright lights in the azure can 
 opy of heaven, the moon in her silent watchfulness, and 
 the glory of the scene changed my determination. Still, 
 I involuntarily wandered through a narrow pathway into 
 a deep glen, which seemed hallowed by nature in all her 
 purity. Here the feelings of pride roused me to a sense 
 of my situation. ' What ! ' said I, ' shall a father's sever 
 ity be the cause of my destruction ? No ! Judgment, 
 let me lean on thy strong arm dispel the tangling meshes 
 of those passions which the rod has created in my bosom; 
 and then, O ! Divine Patience, with thy gracious smiles, 
 encourage and cheer me onward, and amid all my fa 
 ther's tyrannical severity, may I remember that he is still 
 my father ! ' 
 
 THE ICEBERG. 
 
 A STATELY ship is sailing out 
 
 Upon our bright, blue, lovely bay, 
 And round it, waves, with tiny shout, 
 
 Like fairies dance, then leap away ! 
 Her sails are white before the breeze, 
 
 And many a watcher on the shore, 
 With tearful eyes, the proud ship sees, 
 
 Uttering his ' farewell ' o'er and o'er.
 
 THE ICEBERG. 137 
 
 That ship glides on and merrily 
 
 The passengers begin to sport, 
 And there are smiles, though hearts there be 
 
 Sunless and sad as fades the port. 
 The light-house, isle, and tower, and dome, 
 
 Kindred and friends a mingled mass 
 And distant roof of ' happy home ' 
 
 Dwindling, just spied, within the glass. 
 
 High hopes of a return arise, 
 
 In hearts on shore in hearts at sea ; 
 Anticipation marks far-distant skies, 
 
 And makes the Future present be ; 
 While sky above and sea below 
 
 Like friends their arms of love unite, 
 And waves and clouds, like sisters, go 
 
 Amid a world of silver light. 
 
 That ship is in the ocean-world 
 
 A world to mariners alone, 
 Who love to find their sails unfurled 
 
 Upon the centre of its zone. 
 And now she gaily sails along 
 
 But three days has she been at sea, 
 But three nights has the wind-god's song 
 
 Moaned through her cordage dismally. 
 
 The fourth morn breaks the golden sun 
 
 His bright beams sheds from out the east, 
 And gilds the waves, whose bright forms run 
 
 Like crowds of fairies to a feast ; 
 And purple clouds are growing light 
 
 Far over on the eastern sky, 
 Nor longer take strange shapes to fright 
 
 Nor longer vex the helmsman's eye. 
 12*
 
 J38 THE ICEBERG. 
 
 The twilight of the fourth night came, 
 
 And vanished when the burning moon 
 Went up the sky with reddening flame 
 
 And vanished, oh, alas ! too soon. 
 For sleep deep sleep soon bound the crew, 
 
 While onward sailed the ship so fast, 
 Above her prow the spray she threw 
 
 A silver bow around her mast. 
 
 No fear was at the helmsman's heart, 
 
 No form he saw upon the main, 
 He mused, as one who did depart, 
 
 In fancy, from his home again. 
 One moment ! and strange fear arose, 
 
 Hope changed to dark and wild despair, 
 O'er the proud ship the waters close 
 
 An Iceberg whelmed each mortal there ? 
 
 Then southward moved it calmly on, 
 
 Its peaks translucent and like gold 
 Amid a bed of jewels shone 
 
 Its ribs of ice of height untold. 
 Ah ! Hope shall look for many a day, 
 
 Waiting to see that proud ship's sail, 
 And friends shall for its safety pray 
 
 But hope and prayer will not avail !
 
 139 
 
 VENETIAN BALCONY SONG. 
 
 MUSIC BY E. E. M A K C Y . 
 
 I see I see a bright bright star 
 
 Upon the moon-lit sea 
 Oh no ! it is the gondola 
 
 Which brings my love to me ; 
 For gaily gaily now it flies, 
 
 Nor heeds it yon deep sea, 
 While notes of love with richness rise, 
 
 Those notes how dear to me. 
 
 Ah me ah me ! no brighter star 
 
 Could in my vision be 
 Than my own love's light gondola 
 
 Upon the moonlit sea, 
 Where brightly brightly gleams each oar 
 
 The rippling waves among, 
 While turn the boatmen to the shore, 
 
 And sounds my lover's song. 
 
 Those notes those notes are dearer far 
 
 Now floating o'er the sea, 
 Than beams from off 1 the pilot-star 
 
 To mariners can be. 
 But gaily gaily comes my star, 
 
 My lover's form I see 
 How sweetly sounds his light guitar ! 
 
 * I come my love to thee. '
 
 140 
 
 VARIETIES OF SCENERY AND OF LIFE. 
 
 WISDOM and spirit of the Universe! 
 
 Thou soul that art the eternity of thought! 
 
 And givest to forms and images a breath 
 
 An everlasting motion ! not in vain, 
 
 By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 
 
 Of childhood, didst thou intertwine for me 
 
 The passions that build up our human soul, 
 
 Nor with the mean and vulgar works of man : 
 
 But with high objects, with enduring things, 
 
 With Life and Nature. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 AN author of some note has remarked, that ' the in 
 equalities of nature may not be more pleasing to the eye, 
 than are the varieties of life to form and strengthen the 
 character. ' The variety in the character, and conse 
 quently in the business of men, is admirably calculated 
 to give the mind many teachings. To observe, and to 
 form judgments by our observations, is a great pleasure 
 nay, it is a benefit ; and to have many objects on 
 which to make our observations, is equally pleasurable 
 and beneficial. Man is by nature endowed with an in 
 quisitive spirit, and is gifted with the blessing of an insa 
 tiable curiosity ; a question it may be, whether it be a 
 blessing, but we think if carefully and properly managed, 
 it will always prove such ; yet we cannot wonder at its 
 rendering its possessor an object of disgust, when it is 
 applied improperly. If used without consideration and 
 carelessly, it cannot proceed from its nobler powers, but 
 must be mingled with little, mean impertinences and de 
 sires. Emulous of high rank both of mind and fortune, 
 we see persons agitating under the brow of thought, ques-
 
 VARIETIES OF SCENERY AND OF LIFE- J4J 
 
 tions of utility and interest, scrutinizing with an almost 
 godlike gaze, and judging with an almost godlike judg 
 ment, the motives and actions of human beings ; piling, 
 with an assiduous industry, reason on reason, fact on 
 fact, and motive on motive, to prove a fixed law, and 
 after proving a fixed law, governing themselves accord 
 ingly. Thus it is with the study of character a study 
 not uninteresting, a study whose utility need not be 
 demonstrated by logical reasoning, but by the fact that 
 men generally, perhaps we may say without exception, 
 are students in its exalted and ennobling range. Certainly 
 all study it, except such as live without any exercise of 
 reason, as to the manner in which they should live ; we 
 mean, such as pass their lives, as it were like dumb ani 
 mals, exercising only the faculty of instinct. 
 
 If all men should pursue the same sort of business, if 
 differences could not be seen in the characters of men, 
 life would be a dull and useless round of monotony ; or, 
 there would be no such thing as life. To form and 
 strengthen the character, nothing is, or can be more ben 
 eficial, than the multiplicity of incidents in the scenes of 
 life. Man is taught by experience, gradually, the man 
 ner in which he is to form his character. He comes into 
 the world, an entire stranger to its manners and customs 
 he is soon able, by an almost intuitive ability, to distin 
 guish between the principles of right and wrong. He 
 will shun the path where the wicked walk, for scarcely 
 ever will he fail to find that a lamentable end is their lot 
 and his observations will teach him much, and more than 
 all the truths placed in his books. He can admire the 
 path the virtuous have trodden, and he will himself strive 
 to be as good in greatness, as great in goodness. By tak 
 ing notice of the strength necessary to sustain one, in 
 any particular branch of business, he can judge of his
 
 142 VARIETIES OF SCENERY AND OF LIFE. 
 
 own capability to do the same ; he may read in every ac 
 tion a lesson, and in every being a character. If he add 
 to perseverance the all-powerful force of habit, then he 
 will have taken to himself the noble laws of nature, mak 
 ing it almost as certain for him to continue in his course, 
 as it is that the sun should rise. 
 
 Since our first parents, who in Eden pressed the heaven- 
 created flowers with their unpolluted feet, degenerated 
 from their original purity and holiness, the earth is sup 
 posed by many, in some degree to have altered from its 
 primeval external appearance. The garden of Eden was 
 doubtless the world. It was a paradise where the mind 
 and body existed with equal purity, where no violent pas 
 sions excited the maddening brain to deeds of wicked 
 ness, but where all was harmonious, and pure, and beau 
 tiful ; where the innumerable choirs of birds chanted the 
 most delicious notes, and the scenes presented were such 
 as that mind alone which was created for such scenes, can 
 think of and enjoy. We have said, that the world by many 
 is supposed to have been in some degree changed we 
 think they have some reason for the hypothesis, beside 
 that of the mere change of the face of the globe. We 
 cannot believe that the pure mind could be at rest among 
 horrible scenes ; nor, on the other hand, do we believe 
 that the wicked mind could exist in a pure place. The 
 huge and lofty mountains, the grim, murky, and deformed 
 parts of nature, are only suited to passions of the most vir 
 ulent stamp passions which can no easier be checked 
 or chained, than the tremendous cataract can be stiffened 
 by the cold. The remark we have quoted seems to imply 
 that the eye only is pleased, and that the mind is not 
 affected by the scenes of nature. We think otherwise, 
 and believe that the providence of the Deity did so create 
 the scenes in nature, that they should be adapted to the
 
 VARIETIES OF SCENERY AND OF LIFE. 143 
 
 different minds of individuals. For, as ho made one ani 
 mal for one part of creation, and another for another part, 
 so also did he create various objects; suited to the minds 
 of different men. 
 
 We will endeavor to illustrate this remark. The mind 
 of Byron stood fixed on a rock, like a wild and sullen 
 spirit, unhurt or unintimidated by the thunders and light 
 nings of the skies. It was pleased to revel and play in 
 the rugged storms and dreadful dashings of the ocean, or 
 delighted to roam in the darkest, blackest, dreariest, and 
 most hideous paths of creation. The mind of Wordsworth 
 like a gentle spirit, sits, as it were, with its wings folded 
 softly on its bosom, gazing on and admiring the simplest 
 scenes, marking the gentle murmurings of the brooks, or 
 the exquisite tinges of the sunset sky, or listening to the 
 hum of an insect. And will any one pretend to say, when 
 he plainly sees these differently constituted minds, thus 
 seeking their favorite scenes, that the Creator had no de 
 sign to adapt the objects in nature to the impulses of the 
 mind ? That not only the eye is pleased, but that the 
 mind is strengthened by the contemplation of the works of 
 creation, may be proved by the fact, that those individu 
 als who have been brought up in the nursery, and who 
 have never been permitted to roam abroad, are least cap 
 able of mingling with the world. How weak, how effem 
 inate, how totally unacquainted with the feelings of man 
 is such a one ! Again, how strong, how vivacious and 
 intelligent, is that person, whose mind has been awakened 
 to a sense of its mighty powers, by viewing the scenes of 
 nature and life, while travelling over a great extent of his 
 own country, or in visiting foreign lands ! 
 
 We deem it best not to take any more time, in consid 
 ering separately each side of the subject about which we 
 are writing, but will for a moment consider them collec-
 
 144 SONNET. 
 
 tively. What a powerful influence do the scenes of na 
 ture and the varieties of life, combined, have upon man ! 
 What is, what can be more powerful ! The contempla 
 tion of character gives the mind knowledge, while the 
 scenes of nature strengthen and fix it in the memory. 
 Acting together they exert the very highest influence, and 
 while man admires the beauties of the one, and the diver 
 sities of the other, his feelings are elevated ; he begins to 
 feel, nay, he begins to know that his mind is immortal, and 
 that the earth was created to cherish the powerful shades 
 of sensibility which the Creator has bestowed upon him. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TURNER'S FALLS, MONTAGUE, BY MOON-LIGHT. 
 
 How still the scene ! save where the waters pour 
 Broad, massy sheets of silver far below, 
 Amid the gulf whence circling eddies flow 
 
 And revel with a wild, eternal roar ! 
 
 Swift dash the impetuous torrents o'er the rocks 
 Continuous clouds of foam like war-steeds rise, 
 And leaping up beneath the stately skies, 
 
 Then plunge and toss on high their necks' white locks. 
 
 Along the marge where turn the waters o'er, 
 And at the base where raving billows rush 
 Headlong, with mad, interminable gush, 
 
 The mist ascends and strives for heaven to soar. 
 
 Faint star-light gleams flash on the glorious scene, 
 
 And deck a grand pavillion for night's advancing queen I
 
 145 
 
 TEN PARAGRAPHS. 
 
 NUMBER I. 
 
 No MAN need to be unhappy who wills to be other 
 wise. Reflection and a little caution are the wings 
 which bear us to the realms of happiness. The pursuit 
 of happiness is not vain. People have tried to make it 
 so, but they cannot. Every man is happy who has a re 
 solute determination, and whose practice is, to act ac 
 cording to the decisions of his master Conscience. 
 This master is a most fruitful friend a kind adviser. 
 He is the archimage, who will not only show us, but will 
 place us in a world of joys and delights, if we act at his 
 bidding. 
 
 II. 
 
 IN the paths of many men there are obstacles ; but 
 these obstacles, if it is so willed, are as mere phantasms. 
 As you have seen the sun, in a morning of Spring, rising 
 up over the mountains, with an undazzling yet golden 
 splendor, like that of the moon, seemingly wrestling with 
 dark, rough, purple clouds which would obscure it, and 
 in a little while freeing itself, and passing upward with a 
 dazzling brilliancy into a cloudless sky even so will 
 you sometimes observe a man, of determined mind and 
 moral strength, who will, though he at first exhibit but 
 little lustre, make all obstacles vanish before him, and 
 will pass on through the world, with a glory so brilliant 
 that men cannot gaze upon him to find imperfections. 
 13
 
 146 TEN PARAGRAPHS. 
 
 III. 
 
 MEN are deceitful. There are but few who will not 
 help themselves before they do their neighbors. Friend 
 ship is rare between men. They who are friends out 
 wardly, often have malice in the heart. Some men, for 
 their own ends, may be found clinging to a person 
 whose power and influence is great, but when the hour of 
 adversity comes, there will be a desertion as you, per 
 chance, may have seen men gazing on a dial-plate when 
 the sun was shining, but who have turned away when the 
 clouds have shut from it the sun-light. 
 
 IV. 
 
 MEN sometimes deceive themselves. They are apt to 
 turn the bright side toward them. Some look upon their 
 own matters selfishly. You have perceived, sometimes, 
 a man looking at the flame in his lantern, instead of turn 
 ing the light from him, upon his pathway. It is best to 
 throw the light on your path ; occasionally, however, it 
 may be well to see that the wick is in good order. 
 
 V. 
 
 MEN magnify themselves often. They will make every 
 thing appear well that is their own they forget that they 
 ' measure by their morning shadows. ' 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE consequence of a knowledge of little matters is 
 wonderful. Even the smallest facts and truths, are of 
 great importance to a person who does not observe them, 
 and treasure them in his memory. Little things are 
 great, till they are known ; as we become acquainted 
 with them, they lose their greatness, though not their 
 worth. What an ill-judging race is ours ! There is no-
 
 TEN PARAGRAPHS. 147 
 
 thing which passes before us, of which we, at first, have 
 correct notions. The actions of men, the motives of their 
 minds, and their rule of conduct, are many times falsely 
 estimated, both to their and our detriment. Whether the 
 world will ever be happier in this respect than it now is, 
 may be doubted. How much better would men appear, 
 if, throwing aside their prejudices, they would ever speak 
 according to the dictates of reason ! Nothing, perhaps, 
 will be found more disgusting, than to see a man governed 
 by prejudices. We always hate this in others, why may 
 we not rid ourselves of its loathsomeness ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 REPUTATION is easily acquired. A thousand things will 
 help to obtain it bad means, as well as good. You may 
 find friends who will bestow it upon you, and there are 
 those, not friends, whom you may hire to sound your name 
 abroad. Reputation is worth nothing to a man, unless he 
 is truly great. There is a glory, beyond mere reputation, 
 which, when it encircles a name, hallows it and preserves 
 it through all future time. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THERE are those, indeed, whom the world calls vain, 
 who are not so. There is a desire in some men to have 
 their real characters known, and therefore speak for them 
 selves, and with no more than perfect justice. Vanity, 
 and a spirit so sensitive as to fear, lest merit or good feel 
 ings should go neglected, are two different things. 
 
 IX. 
 
 POSTERITY looks with far different eyes on the actions 
 of men, than do the people who live in the same age. 
 Great and good men receive their right distinction after 
 death, though they may have been calumniated while
 
 148 TEN PARAGRAPHS. 
 
 living and bad men, who have received undue praise 
 while living, come down to their true level after death. 
 A bad man's good reputation is, therefore, good for no 
 thing. What is nobility ? It is that greatness of the 
 soul that sensibility of moral feeling that honesty of 
 principle that ascendency over weakness of mind, 
 which exalts the man ; and not the trappings which 
 cover the material body. To be truly noble, we must be 
 truly honest ; we must not boast of the deeds of our an 
 cestors as reflecting any credit on ourselves, but by every 
 laudable exertion strive to rise above the vanity and low 
 ambition which are the guides of millions ; we must put 
 no dependence in hereditary titles, but if it should happen 
 that we should possess these, let us not fall short of that 
 degree of nobility which we seem to inherit, but rather 
 add to our talent, instead of hiding it as in a napkin. 
 That man must possess a weak mind who thinks that he 
 is superior to his neighbor, because his ancestors were 
 celebrated. These distinctions of pedigree will do well 
 enough for beasts, but for rational creatures there should 
 be no such degrees ; every man should be judged accord 
 ing to his deeds. 
 
 X. 
 
 CARE and Imprudence are two opposites. In the world 
 we are placed above a cataract. With care, we may sus 
 tain ourselves with pleasure and safety, on the stream 
 above it, upon which it is the lot of all to sail, but if im 
 prudent, we may be dashed, ere we are aware, and before 
 there is time to escape, into the abyss from which there 
 is no returning.
 
 149 
 
 O MY HEART ! ALL THY GLADNESS. 
 
 MY Heart ! all thy gladness 
 Springs from pain that has fled, 
 
 As the Day dawns from darkness, 
 When the Night has far sped : 
 
 But sweet Joy shall no longer 
 Be a phantom-like fay 
 
 It shall dwell with me ever, 
 As the Light with the Day. 
 
 1 will make myself happy ! 
 Through the Day and the Night, 
 
 The bright eyes of sweet Pleasure 
 Shall be gladdening my sight ; 
 
 And my deeds shall no longer 
 By a thraldom be bound 
 
 In my mind's own deep gladness 
 My light heart shall be found ! 
 
 13*
 
 150 
 
 THE DEATH UNTO THE WORLD. 
 
 IT is a pleasant thing to die and feel 
 Our last wild pulses throbbing, while no seal 
 Of Death is placed upon our placid brow ; 
 The soul in quiet looks within itself, 
 And, as within a mirror, sees the shapes 
 Some dim, some palpable with steady light 
 That stand like statues in the vista there. 
 The world where Art and Genius long have made 
 Their beauteous congregations please the mind, 
 Where coldness, villainy, deceit and wrong 
 Triumphant in exemption yet uncloyed, 
 Lie like a brood from hell, and laugh and shriek 
 O'er shattered urns where once pure minds have dwelt, 
 Is not seen there. Its forms are all concealed ; 
 And not a thought is mirrored in that face 
 Which is not stamped with more of heaven than earth. 
 
 And thus, it is a pleasant thing to die ; 
 For countless shades pass o'er that mirror's face ; 
 And if man's spirit deign to gaze on that 
 Which ever will delight the object stands, 
 While rushes through the soul a secret joy. 
 Oh, I have gazed and with unwearied eyes 
 More heavenly perfect never were my joys ! 
 And that which most I love and ever shall 
 The mind of one as fair as heaven's own sky 
 With mine seemed looking for another world, 
 A purer dwelling place above the earth.
 
 THE DEATH UNTO THE WORLD. JgJ 
 
 In vain, mid mortals, can we find a home 
 
 Save in the savage wilderness beyond 
 
 The dark broad mountains, where the waters clash 
 
 And rave amid a dreary solitude. 
 
 'T is true that sometimes here, when twilight hues 
 
 Or ruddy morn have shed their glories round, 
 
 Within the shadow of some broad, dark tree, 
 
 We 've sat and contemplated there the heaven 
 
 On earth which minds can sometimes find but like 
 
 The passing of a silver cloud at night, 
 
 Or apparition of the glorious sun 
 
 When all the sky is black with thunder clouds, 
 
 That heaven has vanished from our sight, and we 
 
 Have wept to think how very brief that death 
 
 Is, which is called The Death unto the World. 
 
 It is it is a pleasant thing to die, 
 To cast away the mortal forms and thoughts, 
 Which cluster round man here and cramp his soul, 
 To look behind the veil of mortal woe, 
 To leave the world forgotten and shut out, 
 To gaze on perfectness and truth, and see 
 And love a place more fitted for the mind, 
 A heavenly garden where the soul can bloom 
 In endless freshness and in quiet bliss.
 
 152 
 
 SONG. 
 
 WRITTEN after reading Bernardin St Pierre's charming story of Paul 
 aud Virginia. It has been an endeavor to shadow forth the senti 
 ments, which may be supposed to have glowed in the bosoms of that 
 interesting and unfortunate couple whose happiness was perfect 
 while they were ignorant of the world, and whose misery came 
 with the attainment of its knowledge. 
 
 FAR away let us fly to the shore of the ocean. 
 
 Where the sea-gulls skim through the warm summer air, 
 
 Where the billows are rolling in mingled commotion 
 O'er diamonds and pearls which are under them there. 
 
 Let us roam o'er the beach where the sea shells are mocking 
 With mimicking murmurs the voice of the sea 
 
 Let us sit under trees, whose high branches are rocking 
 The cradled young eagles so loved by the free. 
 
 Let us sail on the lake when the morning is breaking 
 And throwing its splendor o'er sky and o'er hill, 
 
 When the keel of our boat a soft music is making, 
 With wavelets as tinkling as those of the rill. 
 
 Let us walk near the hills, where the cloud-shade o'erflushes 
 The bright silver streamlet which bends like a zone, 
 
 Where the green, mossy fount with bright crystal outgushes, 
 Displaying a beauty it ever must own. 
 
 Let us stand, while the Evening in Day's embrace lingers, 
 
 And fondly and solemnly bids it adieu, 
 Oh ! then I will twine thy curling locks in my fingers, 
 
 And tell that my heart will forever be true.
 
 FOUR SCENES. 153 
 
 And wherever we be, or in sorrow or pleasure, 
 Thy hand shall be pressed with affection in mine, 
 
 And wherever we be, and whatever our treasure, 
 Our souls shall be twined, like the oak and the vine. 
 
 FOUR SCENES. 
 
 DARK clouds are clustering, 
 Rain-drops are mustering, 
 Wild torrents are flowing, 
 Strong storm-winds are blowing ; 
 Now all is over and gone ! 
 
 The sun-light is shining, 
 All objects entwining, 
 The Rain-bow is bending, 
 Sweet Hope is descending 
 To guide us heavenward on ! 
 
 The sun is declining, 
 The pale moon is shining, 
 Broad rivers are gleaming, 
 In white moon light streaming ; 
 Such evenings seldom have been ! 
 
 The moon is declining, 
 Now rich stars are shining, 
 Dark willows are weeping, 
 O'er spangled lakes sleeping 
 'T is Night ! a beautiful scene !
 
 154 
 
 TO MY SISTER, 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF OUR MOTHER. 
 
 SISTER, weep not ! let not thy tears 
 
 Reveal thy soul's deep anguish ; 
 But smile with hope that ever cheers 
 
 Let not thy fond heart languish ! 
 Though be severed the silken chain 
 
 That bound us to our mother, 
 Yet weep not ! all our tears are vain ; 
 
 Sister, believe thy brother. 
 
 Sister, weep not ! for tears are vain 
 
 They cannot soothe thy sorrow ; 
 They are falling as falls the rain, 
 
 Unheeded as the morrow. 
 Though the silver cord be twain, 
 
 Though the golden bowl be broken 
 Sister, weep not ! each tear is vain, 
 
 Each is but sorrow's token. 
 
 Sister, weep not ! let not thine eyes 
 
 In fruitless tears be shrouded ; 
 Oh, weep not, though within thee lies 
 
 A heart with sadness clouded. 
 Nay, weep not, Sister, though thy tears 
 
 Reveal thy soul's deep anguish ; 
 But smile with hope that ever cheers 
 
 Let not thy fond heart languish !
 
 155 
 
 THE PRISONER. 
 
 IN a deep dungeon, near the Bridge of Sighs, 
 Where the dark towers of fallen Venice rise, 
 A noble youth, two hundred years ago, 
 Began to count his days till, white as snow, 
 His hair hung long and loose upon his breast, 
 And hid his eyes, already dim with rest ; 
 For sixty years had passed, and not a ray 
 Of cheering light had fallen in his way. 
 All objects were the same, but still he made 
 A thousand objects by his fancy's aid. 
 The little pitcher standing on the floor ; 
 The shaded bolt-heads shining on the door ; 
 The- little stand where food was sometimes found ; 
 The hinges huge which seldom gave a sound ; 
 The massive bars, the iron gratings high, 
 Where air came in, but never brought the sky ; 
 The low, straw bed ; the hard, ill-shapen chair, 
 Were all the objects, though a thousand there ! 
 And here he sate, all silent and unknown, 
 His memory living, but his hopes all flown, 
 Till, by sweet justice, he was one day free, 
 And breathed again the air of liberty. 
 
 He left the prison-door, he sought the street, 
 But vainly sought a relative to meet. 
 No one he knew, no face his eye could cheer, 
 No voice could play upon his long shut ear. 
 Again he sought the prison's cheerless room, 
 And joys remembered rose amid its gloom ;
 
 156 THE PRISONER. 
 
 Those thousand sights again he painted there, 
 Vainly those objects he had sought elsewhere. 
 Suggestion's power revealed the hallowed train, 
 And made his heart with hope to leap again. 
 There in that cell he sate, and calmly gazed, 
 Till thought his aged brain had almost crazed ; 
 Visions of by-gone years before him came, 
 Girt with the light of fancy's purest flame. 
 Nor from that spot could all entreaty raise 
 The poor old man, to quit the prison's maze : 
 Though urged to go, he still would captive dwell, 
 Contented to remain within his narrow cell. 
 By day he strove to purify his mind, 
 By night he dreamed of pleasure all refined ; 
 Turned, too, his thoughts beyond the sphere of time, 
 And gazed on things eternally sublime. 
 He lived, until a few more suns had shone, 
 When life and reason, each, had left its throne. 
 Before he died a heavenly hope was fired 
 In hope he looked to GOD, in hope expired '
 
 157 
 
 TIMOTHY SNAFFLETON. 
 
 TIMOTHY SNAFFLETON was one of your moderns ; the 
 son of whom, nobody knew or cared, except a few inquis 
 itive women, who wished to satisfy their curiosity. His 
 dress was a sufficient passport to any place, and on that 
 he chiefly relied. He might have been taken for a law 
 yer or a doctor ; for he had just Latin and Greek enough 
 to pass for ' something. ' He might be often seen lean 
 ing back in a chair, in some fashionable bookstore, or 
 perched in the stage box at the performace of a new 
 piece. He wore whiskers, and of course attracted the 
 attention of the ladies and they thought him a mighty 
 one : but they were mistaken ; he had sense, but was 
 an idler and an ' odd man ' a lounger with a memory 
 strong enough to hold a few dozen common-place notions 
 gathered from the sentimentalists, and he never repeated 
 the same idea to the same person oflener than three times 
 a week. He had a tolerable fund of words, which, by 
 the way, every fool possesses now-a-days, that served to 
 make people think him wise. When any important lec 
 ture on law, medicine, or the like, was to be given, and 
 those who were students at these branches were admitted, 
 he would march up to the door with the confidence of 
 Arion in the Brazen Mask, and, if asked if he was a 
 
 student at , would reply that he was attending to 
 
 that study and then push into the middle of the as 
 sembly, to the no little astonishment of the audience. 
 In a word, Tim was desirous of being considered ' some 
 thing ' the very reason why he should not have been 
 considered anything. 
 14
 
 158 TIMOTHY SNAFFLETON. 
 
 It was the last summer that I saw him at the gallery 
 of paintings ; and it was said he was then an altered 
 man ; but even at that time such was his impudence, that 
 he would speak to a stranger with as much familiarity as 
 he would to a particular acquaintance. I was sitting on 
 one of the settees. He watched me, and I him. Pres 
 ently he introduced himself, and handing me his card of 
 address, invited me to call and see him. 
 
 I did not hear of the man for a long time after this. A 
 few months since, he sent for me. Taking his card, 
 which I had preserved, after winding round many cor 
 ners, I arrived at his dwelling. Imagine a building 
 which years ago might have been painted yellow, with a 
 gate in front, the upper part of which is railed in such a 
 manner, that within you can descry a plank walk, with 
 grass growing in unmolested beauty on either side a 
 front door, the knocker of which, formerly of shining 
 brass, now presents a more bronze-like appearance a 
 house of the old style, with garret windows. I entered 
 the gate, and after knocking some time, the door was 
 opened by an old man who stared me in the face, and 
 asked me if I was the gentleman his master had sent for. 
 Replying in the affirmative, I was directed to his room. 
 I knocked at the door, and a hollow voice within bade me 
 enter. On a couch before the fire, lay the victim of 
 sickness. I advanced toward him, took him by the hand, 
 and inquired about his condition. 
 
 ' Poorly, poorly, ' said he, f I am not far from the 
 grave. I have ever been a silly fellow been deceiving 
 myself ; I have sought for friends, but have found none. 
 When one looks back upon his past life, and sees how he 
 has fooled away his precious time, it is dreadful ! I sent 
 
 for you, Mr S , to give you the care of my concerns. 
 
 I have some property, which you will dispose of accord-
 
 WRITTEN IN DEJECTION. 159 
 
 ing to my will. Open that closet door, if you please, and 
 take that desk out. That desk and its contents I give to 
 you ; but do not open it till after I am dead. ' 
 
 I saw plainly that he would live but a few days. I 
 thanked him for the gift, and promised him all the assist 
 ance I was able to render. I visited him every day till 
 his death. 
 
 On opening the desk which was given me, I found a 
 sum- of money and some papers. Among the manuscripts 
 I found one paper with this docket : ' Confession of a 
 Murder ! ' I was shocked but opened the sheet and 
 read as follows : 
 
 ' The worst of murders have I committed. I have 
 been a murderer early and late. Let the heir of this tell 
 how wretchedly I lived, how wretchedly I died. Oh ! 
 my murder is terrible ! I have killed killed let 
 every one take warning I have killed, often killed 
 Time ! ' 
 
 WRITTEN IN DEJECTION. 
 
 THE heart that trusts to Life's delusive bark, 
 Or thinks to feed on some delicious joy, 
 
 May picture in Hope's glass some kindling spark 
 Which clearly burns : it burns but to destroy. 
 
 Hope is the tyrant Tantalus of mind, 
 Whose golden chalice wearies aye the lip ; 
 
 It holds but painted nectar and we find 
 'T is mockery, when we the most would sip.
 
 160 
 
 SONG OF THE LIGHT. 
 
 I CAME from that God, whose creating nod 
 
 Brought forth the heavens and earth, 
 And old Darkness fled from his chaos bed, 
 
 As I came with silent mirth ; 
 And then there was lent to the firmament, 
 
 And to each created thing, 
 That white, brilliant shade, which is ever made 
 
 By my waving, silver wing. 
 
 I first saw the feature of each living creature, 
 
 And beheld each form arise, 
 I first saw the moon, and the sun at noon, 
 
 Pass over upon the skies ; 
 And all things were dark, till an expansive spark 
 
 Rolled off from my tireless pinion, 
 Displaying the world, as its lustre unfurled, 
 
 Till it shone a breathing dominion. 
 
 I fled from the cloud which on Sinai bowed, 
 
 When the Lord from heaven came, 
 And each Israelite stood mute 'at the sight, 
 
 When I gleamed within the flame 
 Which rose in the smoke, when the thunder broke, 
 
 Like chariot sounds from afar, 
 And with lightning flew through the sky's dark blue, 
 
 More swift than a falling star ! 
 
 I went on before, when on Jordan's shore 
 The sons of the prophets stood,
 
 SONG OF THE LIGHT. 161 
 
 And my wings did float when Elijah smote 
 
 The bright and sundering flood. 
 And I shone afar, when Elijah's car 
 
 And horses of fire flew, 
 Which were darkly rolled in the whirlwind's fold, 
 
 Till Light from my wings I threw. 
 
 When Belshazzar's lords, o'er his banquet boards, 
 
 Drank from Judah's cups divine, 
 I touched every face with a glowing grace, 
 
 And lit up the sparkling wine. 
 Then across the wall of that banquet hall, 
 
 While quivered Belshazzar's lip, 
 I flew with the light which dazzled his sight, 
 
 And wrote with my pinion's tip. 
 
 I went through the air, when the star was there, 
 
 Which shone when Jesus was born, 
 I stood o'er the place, while the Savior's face 
 
 Beamed forth on that hallowed morn ; 
 And I rose in view, and soft radiance threw 
 
 O'er that low but holy place, 
 When the shepherd band, at an angel's command, 
 
 Bowed over his infant face. 
 
 When wild, wanton Mirth came over the earth, 
 
 And the Son of God was slain, 
 While the startled sky as it rolled on high, 
 
 Seemed dissevering with its pain ; 
 And Darkness came out, and breathed round about, 
 
 With black and shame bearing mien, 
 I fled far away, encompassed by Day, 
 
 And left the hideous scene. 
 *14
 
 162 A FABLE. 
 
 I flit o'er the bow, with a golden glow, 
 
 When the rain pours down with power, 
 And my wing shines under the storm-howling thunder, 
 
 And gleams in each cloud-built bower ; 
 At the Morn's soft dawn, I dance o'er each lawn, 
 
 And the sky with purple clouded, 
 Diffusing rich gold as my wings unfold, 
 
 Which Darkness and Night have shrouded. 
 
 My pinions I sweep far down in the deep, 
 
 And silver the Ocean's floor, 
 Strewn o'er with men's bones and with precious stones - 
 
 Then upward to heaven I soar ! 
 Then down on bright streams, with beautiful gleams, 
 
 And o'er the soft flowing fountains, 
 I lift my bright wing, and gild every thing 
 
 Trees, hills, lakes, rivers, and mountains. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 THE SUUIRREI, AND HIS MORNING VISITOR. 
 
 ONE glorious morning in Spring as I stood upon the 
 summit of a high hill that commanded a view of the sur 
 rounding country, I heard at a little distance from me the 
 chirp of a squirrel ; and on examination discovered that 
 this companion and brother of the grey gentle folks of the 
 wood was in close conversation with an animal which, 
 after observation considerably minute, proved to be a 
 woodchuck. 
 
 ' Wisp wisp, ' squealed the squirrel, ' thou clumsy 
 woodchuck come not here to disturb me when I am dis-
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 163 
 
 posing of my breakfast. Hie thee old fellow to yon 
 turnip-field or cabbage-yard, and stir thy lazy self before 
 the farmer is up to shoot thee. Begone ! thy room is 
 better than thy company ! ' 
 
 ' Crag-ag, crag-ag, ' growled the woodchuck, ' thou 
 shouldst not talk to thy betters, thus : safer would it be 
 for thee to hold thy tongue. Instead of sitting so erect 
 and wise upon that tree, thou shouldst come down and 
 place thyself in the shade the sunshine may make thee 
 a victim. ' 
 
 ' Begone ! I say, ' ejaculated the squirrel, ' thinkest 
 thou that I am to lose the good of this sunshine while 
 thou keepest thyself there in thy hole afraid to put thy 
 head out through fear ? No ! silly woodchuck I shall 
 keep in the sunshine as long as I please ; and thcu vag 
 abond mayest go down into thy hole. ' At this speech 
 the woodchuck drew in his head and left the squirrel to 
 his breakfasting. 
 
 Presently I saw the farmer's son, stealing along the 
 hedge, and up the hill, and soon the report of his gun 
 brought me where he stood. He was turning over the 
 squirrel in his hands, whose blood poured out from the 
 shot wounds over his silver-grey skin, and white breast ; 
 and in his d( ath struggle he shut his teeth together on the 
 utterance ' Fool ' which he applied to himself. 
 
 I passed on, and said to myself, ' how many there are 
 that are ruined forever by proudly pressing whenever an 
 opportunity occurs, into the sunshine. Let me, at least, 
 live in the shade. '
 
 164 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 FROM 'RALPH, THE WANDERER.' 
 
 O STRANGE is love ! Like Earth's broad ocean 
 
 It has its deep, dark mysteries 
 Its heaving under-wave emotion ; 
 
 And only he that dwells there sees 
 What are the courses of the forms 
 
 That swarm amid its changeful scenes 
 'T is he alone that knows the storms 
 
 That threaten or the calm that weans 
 The dwellers in its kingdom forth 
 From the cold regions of the north 
 Or south, to that warm current, where 
 Blessed groves and palaces appear. 
 
 O strange is love ! Like the deep ocean 
 It has its monsters things that seem 
 
 What they are not ; and whose commotion, 
 Strife and stern contentions teem 
 
 With evils such as make the place 
 
 That should be fair a ground to race 
 
 And wrestle in a gloomy hall, 
 
 Arena broad, whose blood must pall 
 
 The senses of the delicate, 
 
 Who should alone go through its gate. 
 
 O strange is love ! Like the bright ocean 
 Its has its children those that know
 
 LOVE. 165 
 
 And trust its depths, and love the motion 
 
 Of its tossing waters ! which flow 
 Onward bearing their barks away 
 To the calm quiet of some bay 
 Within whose confines they may spend 
 
 A life of peace and pleasantness, 
 And sweet companionship there lend 
 
 To that they must delight to bless. 
 
 O strange is love ! Like the wide ocean 
 
 It has its wild adventurers 
 Who love it not but in devotion 
 
 To wealth, which all their heart's blood stirs. 
 They, pilgrim-like, pass o'er the waste 
 
 And fondly trust to win its gold, 
 To sip its nectar, and to taste 
 
 The spices o'er its bosom rolled, 
 And heed not gales nor tempests though 
 
 Along the shore proud wrecks be cast, 
 And winds and waves above them flow 
 
 Their first their best friends and their last !
 
 166 
 
 THE DYING YEAR'S ADDRESS TO THE SOUL. 
 
 LOOK back into the Past, O Soul, look back ! 
 What hast thou seen within its black, or dim, 
 Or gleaming ocean-depths, through which thy wing 
 Hath raised thee up ? O Soul, why hast thou now 
 Come up to hear the midnight knell of Time 
 Dim sounding o'er the solitary waste ? 
 Why art thou thus foredoomed to know a pause 
 Like this, and hear the knell of moments past 
 Of hours, days, months, and years, perchance misspent ? 
 Is it a type of Resurrection, Soul ? 
 Why when the year has circled out its course 
 Why dost thou stand above the crowded Past, 
 And toward the Future strain thy sightless eyes ? 
 Why on the waveless sea, around thee spread, 
 Lookst thou abroad to catch some wavering form, 
 Or raise a silvery wave to glad thy sight ? 
 Why think to find a haven above the flood, 
 That is the treasure-house of all the Past, 
 And fear to gaze down through the depths below ? 
 
 O Soul ! look back into the Past, look back ! 
 Down through its dreary charnel chambers, look ! 
 What thing of real good, which thou didst make 
 Is treasured there ? Since thy young thought first knew 
 Thy being's act, what hast thou done of good ? 
 Nought nought ! O Soul, I counsel thee afresh. 
 Be thou, henceforth, aware of ill ! Be good, 
 And let thy good go forth for humankind ; 
 So when thy wing hath passed this orbit's verge 
 Thy pale flesh-covering fallen off, all dust, 
 Thou shalt anew, ay, and for ever, take 
 Another orbit, and awake, in strains 
 Sublime, the praise of thy Creator GOD !
 
 167 
 
 THE NIGHTMAIR. 
 
 THOU hateful mocker of my sleep ! 
 
 Who art engaged in making 
 The ugliest phantoms near me creep 
 
 Which ever keep me waking : 
 Thou horrid monster goggle eye ! 
 
 W r ith arms that with their binding 
 Keep me, athirst, from waters nigh, 
 
 The while thy tushes grinding : 
 Thou squalid crook-back ! black and foul, 
 
 That on my bosom dancing, 
 Seemest a black or gray screech-owl, 
 
 Or like a demon prancing ; 
 I curse thee curse thee, day and night 
 
 Curse thee when I'm not sleeping, 
 Curse thee, detester of the light, 
 
 On thee be curses heaping : 
 And with thy curses, may swift pains 
 
 And fire without cessation, 
 Burn liquid hot throughout thy veins, 
 
 A horrible vexation ! 
 
 Thy murders long and bloody are, 
 
 I call but am not calling : 
 Or when thou dost the shutter bar, 
 
 I fall but am not falling ; 
 Thou makest tigers leap and chase, 
 
 And while they near are chasing, 
 I 'm kept upon the shortest pace, 
 
 While thou run'st backward, facing :
 
 168 THE NIGHTMAIR. 
 
 Thou makest gold around to shine 
 And on the ground to glitter, 
 
 And when I think it all is mine, 
 Thou turnest it to litter. 
 
 Ever tormenting demon, hence ! 
 
 Hence, ever never destroying, 
 Hence thou god of malice prepense, 
 
 Which thou art ever employing. 
 Sweet Sleep doth hate thy squalid form, 
 
 For thou art ever throwing, 
 Some direful scene or direful storm 
 
 Or something else bestowing. 
 Thou often under the eyelids peep 
 
 Of me, the bewildered poet, 
 But I think I no more will sleep 
 
 That is, if I but know it ! 

 
 169 
 
 LADY 'S SOIREE. 
 
 NO. I. 
 
 REPORTED CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 NEVER did Lady 's Rot>ms hold a better congregation 
 
 of the fashionables and literati. Never before was present 
 such an array at one meeting. It was a gloiious sight 
 that ! The shaded lamps flung a rich, soft light over ev 
 ery object. It was paradisiacal, indeed, there, in those 
 Rooms ! whether the visitors stood, or walked, or were 
 seated. Those elegant carpets it was like promenading 
 on a grassy terrace in the mid summer, to move upon them ! 
 Those cushioned chairs it was like resting on a cloud 
 of rose leaves, to lounge on one ! Those lofty and spacious 
 rooms it was like roaming through the aisles of Elysi 
 um, to saunter there those lamps were so imitative of a 
 delicate moonlight those walls were so like to the ' em 
 bowering trees ' those ceilings so resembled the blue 
 arch of heaven and those canary-birds' voices were so 
 wandering in their echo-chases. It was like being out in 
 the wide fields on a balmy night, with choice spirits for 
 companions, so truly imitative had our Lady caused her 
 Rooms to be made, of ' out of doors' scenery.' 
 
 Philip Rodney was there, and Charles Wanshaw, and 
 T. S. Parnoe, and O. O. Carteno, and Dr. T. N. Om- 
 rest, and J. M. Sterne, and many other gentlemen whose 
 names will be introduced in the ' course of time.' 
 
 Mrs. Robert T. Maydon, and Mrs. Washington I. 
 Ranton, and Mrs. Ph. Rodney, and Mrs. O. O. Carteno, 
 and Mrs. R. R. Sharnon, and Mrs. L. R. Laning, and 
 the two Misses Laning, and their cousin, Miss Maria 
 Ashton, and Miss Amelia Lownd, and Miss Matilda 
 15
 
 J70 LADY 'S SOIREE. 
 
 Madeline Theresa Thornton, and many other ladies, mar 
 ried and single, whose superb criticisms, remarks and 
 theories, will introduce them into the world with ' due 
 ceremony.' It may be as well to remark that Mrs. Robt. 
 T. Maydon's precocious son, Charles Carolinius Carrol 
 Maydon with many other young Masters and Misses were 
 present to add to the felicitous passing off of the evening. 
 
 But our limits will not permit us to mention the thou 
 sand things that were there, for the corporeal natures of 
 the visitors. At present, we must content ourself and 
 our readers with the description of the intellectual treats 
 presented, and received, and treasured up. 
 
 Our Lady, with her characteristic grace and dignity of 
 manner as dressed in a beautiful, sky-colored satin 
 frock she advanced to the centre table which reflected 
 in its polished top the Annuals American and English, 
 for the last and present seasons addressed the bystand 
 ers, and requested them to endeavor to amuse themselves 
 by turning over the plates and books, with which the table 
 abounded. 
 
 Mr. Sterne, Dr. Omrest and Mr. Carteno, having re 
 tired into a corner of one of the rooms, out of the way of 
 the jam, were discoursing eloquently. 
 
 Mr. Sterne, it should be understood, is a lover of large 
 words ; of course, if he use some improperly, it is noth 
 ing more than is to be expected, and it is no fault of the 
 reporter. Mr. Sterne's portrait full length is after 
 this flourish. Five feet, six inches high face resembling 
 J. Q. A's, once a President of the U.S., but his nose rather 
 more inclined to redness. Rather corpulent and impor 
 tant. His mind as big as the eye of a clever sized needle, 
 and his knowledge so extensive that it can be compressed 
 into a thimble. His eye for he has but one in the 
 mention of another, should not be forgotten. It is a little
 
 LADY 'S SOIREE. J7J 
 
 twinkler set in an eyebrow arched sometimes, but gene 
 rally still and uncurved. 
 
 { It is becoming quite literary,' said Dr. Omrest, and 
 he was speaking of the Pearl the jewel ! 
 
 ' Ay, ay, the Editor must look forward through the vis- 
 tee that is before him with the pleasures of retrospection. 
 So magnificent a display of litery attainmunt will meet 
 
 with, posthumous patronage . Lady exhibits choice 
 
 predilections in displaying its elegant topography on her 
 table. All ladies of extinction place it on their tables ; 
 and its music is always an accompaniment to the Piano 
 Forte,' said Mr. Sterne. 
 
 This great speech so replete with sound sense, although 
 rather extravagant in style, caused some inward laugh 
 ter ; but Dr. Omrest and Mr. Carteno knew their con 
 versationist too well, and had heard too many of his blun 
 ders before, to laugh outright. 
 
 ' You are right Mr. Sterne,' said the Doctor, 'a paper 
 published among us like the Pearl should be patronized, 
 especially when its proprietor is expending a great deal 
 of money to make it worthy of the city.' Mr. Carteno 
 joined with the Doctor. He said, a paper which has been 
 so established, and which has obtained so many encomi 
 ums abroad, should not be forgotten at home. For my 
 part, I shall hereafter ask for the Pearl in every house 
 where I visit ; and if I find it not, I shall strongly suspect 
 the family to be a patron of the Penny Magazine.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! quite severe ! The vile Republican de 
 serves it however. It is strange that any person of sense 
 subscribes for that costly, petty, penny picture book. If 
 Americans must support picture books, let them support 
 those made by their countrymen, and not the stuff that is 
 served up for them from the English Press. 
 
 ' There are some pretty, pictoral embellishments in
 
 172 LADY : S SOIREE. 
 
 those works ; but I do not think that any confabulator can 
 justify the readin,' said Mr. Sterne. 
 
 ' Well, well, I hope that our PEARL will always shine 
 as it does now,' answered Mr. Carteno. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Here we were obliged, as several ladies advanced near 
 us, to step back ' a couple or two,' and we could not hear 
 the remainder of the conversation ; but we were equally 
 delighted, and in a moment equally attentive to the re 
 marks of Miss Ashton and Mr. Wanshavv, who were very 
 earnestly engaged upon their subject. 
 
 'Mr. Benjamin,' said Miss Ashton, 'has a mind of high 
 order of high cultivation. He looks on every thing 
 with a poet's soul, and has a strong reverence tor genius. 
 I am very glad that he is interested in the German lan 
 guage in good earnest. To superintend such works as 
 the Life of Schiller, which he has so happily done, re 
 quires acute perception and steady industry, and I am 
 quite glad that so correct a scholar as Mr. Benjamin, is 
 engaged in such good business.' 
 
 ' So am I,' said Mr. Wanshaw, who, though not very 
 well versed in literature, had confidence enough to make 
 up for defects of any kind ; and who turned the point at 
 which Miss Ashton was aiming, by saying ' Mr. Benja 
 min has written some very fine verses very fine. I ad 
 mire his poetry !' Miss Ashton's criticism was quite op 
 posite in its character to that of Wanshaw. His was like 
 the dipping in of a sea-bird for food Miss Ashton's was 
 like that of the pearl-diver, going to the very depths and 
 wrestling for the beautiful and treasure-worthy. 
 
 ' His poetry is indeed of a lofty character,' said Miss 
 Ashton, ' I have always admired the freshness of his epi 
 thets, the high polish of his verse. Do you not, Mr. 
 Wanshaw, think that his poetry is singularly distinct in its
 
 LADY 'S SOIREE. 173 
 
 colorings ? I can think of nothing its inward character 
 resembles so much as the clear, defined sound of a tuning 
 fork !' 
 
 ' It has somewhat of that character,' said Wanshaw, 
 endeavoring to exhibit some taste for the resemblance 
 which Miss Ashton had metaphysically detected. 
 
 ' Have you seen the Life of Schiller ?' asked Miss 
 Ashton. 
 
 ' I have not heard of it,' exclaimed Wanshaw. 
 
 ' Have not heard of it ?' ejaculated Miss Ashton in 
 surprise, ' why, I thought that it had been purchased by 
 every literary gentleman before this time ! ' 
 
 Wanshaw was slightly confused, but said, ' the work 
 must be very interesting ! ' 
 
 ' Interesting ! ' ejaculated the lady, ' it is quite inter 
 esting, I assure you ; and I advise you to read it. It is a 
 delightful work !' 
 
 A loud buzzing, and some sprightly tones the echoes 
 of youthful voices broke the spell that bound us to this 
 last conversation ; and we made bold with a friend to 
 promenade into another part of the assembly. Whom 
 we saw there the dresses they wore and what was 
 said, will be disclosed as felicitously as possible at our 
 next meeting. Gentle, kind, courteous, indulgent, im 
 partial reader, this may be in our next paper by the 
 way, it is the only work which we* shall ever patronize or 
 make reports for, as long as gentlemen cultivate whiskers, 
 or ladies take literary papers, or persons borrow newspa 
 pers, or subscribers never pay. 
 
 * These sketches were originally published under a fictitious 
 name which will account for this apparently unfixed declaration. 
 15*
 
 J74 LADY 'S SOIREE. 
 
 NO. II. 
 
 THERE stood in surpassed dignity and unsurpassable 
 confidence, a conspicuously, prominent figure, a youth, 
 whose height was about three feet ! But his intellectual 
 stature was much greater. At least, he was, in his vain 
 mother's opinion a mental pyramid! a mental Him- 
 melaya ! His conversation was such as no one of the last 
 generation would dare to use. His words were of the 
 lofty order. His ideas were derived ' from the schools ;' 
 and his dress was such as would become a man of twenty- 
 five ! No one would have thought that this seven-year- 
 old boy could have conversed as he did, had not Infant 
 Schools been established for several years. This conspicu 
 ous and important youth was Charles Carolinius Carrol 
 Maydon a son, as was remarked in a former number, of 
 Mrs. Robert T. Maydon. 
 
 There, too, stood in woman-like dignity, a young miss 
 of seven or eight years, whose physical and intellectual 
 statures were but a very little below if in the least 
 those of Master Maydon. It was a daughter of Mrs. R. 
 R. Sharnon. 
 
 It was said in the last number that the echoes of youth 
 ful voices were heard. It may be well to present the 
 main part of the conversation as it was taken down at the 
 time. 
 
 ' Do you so cogitate, Miss Sharnon ? My mental per 
 ception is at variance with yours. An atom is not so con 
 sidered generally by philosophers. Throughout the infi 
 nite aggregations of thought, it was never so esteemed. 
 Multiply multiplicities of authorities, and never will there 
 be detected in all the congestions of hypotheses or con 
 glomerations of theories, an author who maintains that an 
 atom is anything else than the least divisible portion of 
 matter.'
 
 LADY 'S SOIREE. 175 
 
 ' Your perception is not transparent, Mr. Maydon. 
 Examination will produce conviction. Authorities autho 
 rise me in declaring that an atom is, what I stated it to be. 
 Forsaking, however, that part of the subject ; how mag 
 nificently, yet how simply is the world arranged ! How 
 very curious ! The rotatory ball on whose surface we 
 are puffed hither and thither, is constructed of amassed 
 atoms atom on atom rising to a world ; as I have seen 
 bee on bee rising into a swarm ! ' 
 
 Such was the style of conversation. The fluency of 
 the speakers was so great that it was entirely impossible 
 to copy all that was said. Not far distant from this group, 
 stood Mr. Carteno, Mr. Lawton, and Mr. Bathune. 
 They were much interested in their subject a subject 
 which parents, in the plenitude of their vanity, have flat 
 tered to the very detriment of their children. Let the 
 conversation which follows serve to kindle thought and re 
 flection and the result is not to be doubted. 
 
 ' Infant Schools are,' said Mr. Lawton, 'in my opinion, 
 the very scourge of the rising generation. I know of no 
 thing that is so decidedly deleterious to a child, as taxing 
 its powers, and making attempts to bring out, as it is 
 termed, the intellect.' 
 
 'It seems to me,' said Mr. Carteno, ' that it is very 
 much like picking a piece of machinery to pieces, to dis 
 cover its manner of movement.' 
 
 ' It is so,' said Mr. Lawton. ' There is as much rea 
 son in tearing open the unexpanded bud, with clumsy fin 
 gers, to find out in what manner it will grow, as there is 
 in tasking a child's mind, to make it know something in 
 its childhood. We believe that the bud has all the essen 
 tials to make a perfect and beautiful rose we believe 
 that the child has within it the requisites to make a 
 scholar but why hasten the process which nature so
 
 176 LADY '3 SOIREE. 
 
 fitly and so happily carries on ? Why strain the bow be 
 fore it is seasoned ! ' 
 
 ' It is doubtless owing to the curiosity and vanity of pa 
 rents,' said Mr. Carteno. ' There is perhaps no stronger 
 desire in the minds of most parents, than that of having 
 their children intellectual. But how very foolish I 
 should say, how very wicked to plant the seed of death in 
 a child to blast its physical powers and stature, for the 
 sake of being pleased with precocity with pretty speech 
 es and remarkable sayings.' 
 
 ' If,' said Mr. Bathune, 'great attention is paid, and 
 great care is taken, children may doubtless be made bet 
 ter. A proper system of education may do much good. 
 But it is so often the case that ignorant teachers are 
 placed over children, the result is unhappy. I believe 
 that Infant Schools, properly managed, may be of use 
 but there is, too often, too much tasking of the intellect 
 too much of dull study !' 
 
 ' Be so good,' said Mr. Lawton, ' as to observe Mrs. 
 Maydon's son, and the daughter of Mrs. Sharnon. There 
 you may observe two children almost, if not quite, ruined, 
 by two ambitious and vain mothers, who think their chil 
 dren prodigies !' 
 
 ' It is, indeed, pitiful,' said Mr. Carteno, ' that such 
 pretty children should be spoiled by the indiscriminate 
 praises and caresses of their mothers. They are now un 
 ruly, headstrong and self-willed. Their mothers have no 
 authority over them and they are emphatically spoiled 
 children.' 
 
 Mr. Bathune was pleased with the remarks which the 
 gentleman had made ; but he was one of those men, who 
 never think but move on with the current of popular 
 opinion. He said that it was of course, sometimes, the 
 case that people educated their children without reflec-
 
 LADY 'SSOIREE. J77 
 
 tion ; but he was disposed to believe that Infant Schools 
 were profitable to children. 
 
 Mr. Lawton was entirely of opinion that Infant Schools, 
 one and all, were but poor things. He agreed that they 
 might be good, if conducted well ; but it was so often the 
 case that they were conducted badly, he was decidedly 
 and wholly opposed to them. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Mr. Rodney and Dr. Omrest were now discoursing 
 with our Lady. ' I admire Bryant's poetry. It is so sim 
 ple so quiet so musical, yet it is not monotonous,' 
 said Mr. Rodney. 
 
 Dr. Omrest was a greater critic. 'His poetry I esteem 
 highly,' said he; ' Do you think,' he continued, turning to 
 our Lady, ' that Bryant writes so perfectly, so faultlessly 
 as has been declared by some ?' 
 
 ' I do not,' said our Lady. ' In my opinion he writes 
 not so correctly as some he is by no means so original 
 as many and he does not handle his subjects in so mas 
 terly a manner as some. A poet of high order is one who 
 sees with a poet's eye who feels with a poet's soul. 
 One who is not oblige to hammer out his poetry. To 
 write a few pieces to ornament a few sentiments with 
 the figures of rhetoric, and the rules of poetry is what ve 
 ry very many may accomplish, and in good style too ; 
 but to strike on a great subjeet to execute it even in 
 tolerable style, are greater proofs of genius. They show 
 that the stamina of poetry exist. For my part, Dr. Om 
 rest, I think I am justified in doubting the capability of a 
 poet who, by dint of hammering, writes out three or four 
 pieces in the course of a year. I cannot certainly pro 
 nounce such a one the first American poet.' 
 
 ' Neither can I,' said the Doctor. ' I esteem that man 
 the greatest in any profession, who accomplishes the
 
 178 LADY 'S SOIREE. 
 
 greatest quantity in the best style. Bryant is a sweet 
 poet. I love his writings ; but I cannot admire the adula 
 tion which is heaped upon him. It is truly ridiculous. 
 As a poet, Dana is his equal as a writer, I esteem him 
 superior.' 
 
 ' Dana is without doubt his superior as a poet, 'said our 
 Lady. But do you not consider Percival entitled to be 
 called the first poet of our country ?' 
 
 ' I esteem Percival,' said Dr. Omrest, ' by far, the man 
 worthiest of being called the first poet. It is true that 
 Dana and Bryant have given us productions of much value ; 
 but where can be found a poet whose knowledge, whose 
 genius is so remarkable. It is, indeed, lamentable that so 
 fine a spirit should be condemned to live unhonored by 
 his countrymen. 
 
 ' It is lamentable,' said our Lady. ' But there will be 
 a time, I cannot but believe, when America will pay more 
 attention to Poetry and the Fine Arts and those among 
 us who are now gloomy and desponding and whose pro 
 ductions are rarely known, will be sought for, honored 
 and even venerated.' 
 
 ' That day may come,' said the Doctor, ' but I fear it is 
 far distant. The productions of genius and talent are but 
 little regarded. Wealth is the great goal to which the 
 thoughts of our countrymen are turned, and I suspect that 
 years will fly away before the creations of genius will be 
 properly appreciated.' 
 
 NO. III. 
 
 OUR LADY to whom we are indebted for our invita 
 tion and attentions, was full of spirit, and whether she con 
 versed on literary, scientific or fashionable subjects, was 
 equally at home in all. We were interested much in her
 
 LADV 'S SOIREE. J79 
 
 remarks upon periodical publications, and her opinions 
 were full of sound sense and very patriotic. She said that 
 she could not believe that the public would long sustain so 
 many truly English republications. It needed a very lit 
 tle time more to decide their fates. She wished ear 
 nestly wished, that American publishers were obliged to 
 pay for the works they print. She knew that here was 
 much talent and genius falling into nought in the country, 
 because there was so little high spirit abroad so little 
 determined opposition to republications which are sent 
 forth for American patronage, to the detriment of Ameri 
 can literature. She believed that as it was to be ruled by 
 fashion there would be some effect. Many people had 
 set their faces against, and kept their purse-strings closed 
 against republications ; and she was glad very glad that 
 it was the case. She knew that many would not permit 
 the common English reprints to be circulated in their fam 
 ilies ; and hoped that it would be the rule of all to give 
 them no favor. 
 
 Mrs. Robert T. Maydon and Mrs. Washington I. Ran- 
 ton were chatting with all the loveliness imaginable. The 
 former was dressed in a light brown ' gros de Swiss.' A 
 broad lace cap was turned off of either shoulder, which 
 was in fine keeping with her neatly crimped lace cap 
 which fell over her forehead, a la Mary Queen of Scots. 
 The latter was habited in a rich, white satin frock, which 
 was of the most exquisite make and finish. Her head 
 dress was the theme of conversation for half of the eve 
 ning. It consisted of a very delicate, peach blossom col 
 or, crape turban, ornamented with golden wheat and 
 spun glass. 
 
 ' My son is very industrious in his studies. He is pe 
 culiarly attentive I assure you to mathematics, and is al 
 ways enamored with poetry. He has been reading Per-
 
 180 LADY 'S SOIREE. 
 
 cival's Prometheus to me lately, and I have been exceed 
 ingly pleased with the production,' said Mrs. Maydon. 
 ' You find it very pleasant, I have no doubt, in hearing 
 your son read I think it is delightful to hear a good 
 reader, engaged upon a good production.' 'The time pas 
 ses away pleasantly and with some profit,' answered Mrs. 
 Ranton. 
 
 Here, our conversationists were interrupted by the ap 
 pearance of a gentleman, well dressed and white-gloved, 
 who bowed and scraped himself into the presence of the la 
 dies, and then commenced a talk. He is well known as 
 Tiresome CallofFen. ' Ladies,' said Tiresome, ' it is a 
 delightful evening. Is it not ? It is quite pleasant, after 
 the labors of the day, to dismiss my school, and come to 
 such a soiree as this. To be sure, some ignorant fellows 
 will creep in here ; but some pretty respectable talents 
 may be found. There are, however, more tares than 
 wheat, I believe. For my part, I should like to have a 
 company composed entirely of the literati. Then subjects 
 of importance and interest could be considered and com 
 mented upon, and much useful knowledge could be circu 
 lated. Should 'nt you like such parties, ladies ?' 
 
 ' I think,' said Mrs. Maydon, ' that it is quite useless 
 to break up all social relations for the sake of dissemin 
 ating knowledge among the literati. We shall, I suspect, 
 never have any such parties unless there are more like 
 yourself, Mr. Calloffen.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Mrs. Ranton, ' a clever company of 
 schoolmasters would suit you. But I si ppose there are 
 many in the profession, who think they know every thing 
 when they know nothing.' 
 
 ' Oh, I hope you do not insinuate any thing against the 
 profession,' said Mr Calloffen, ' That would be hard.' 
 
 ' Yes, I do,' said Mrs. Ranton, ' I think there are very 
 many ignorant pedagogues.'
 
 LADY 'S SOIREE. jgj 
 
 ' Well, it may be,' said Calloffen, ' but I never have 
 seen them.' 
 
 ' It is because he has not looked on the glass,' said 
 Mrs. Ranton to Mrs. Maydon in an under tone, as Cal 
 loffen excused himself, and turned toward another part of 
 the room. 
 
 ' Oh what has that soft creature been talking about ?' 
 said Miss Waynim, as she advanced gaily forward to the 
 ladies. ' Is he not the greatest egotist you ever saw ? 
 Did you ever meet with such a chaotic mass before ? I 
 declare he is the grandest specimen of the pedagogue ge 
 nus that I ever beheld. His white gloves are in fine 
 keeping with his dress.' 
 
 ' Do not talk of him,' said Mrs. Ranton, ' He is such a 
 compound of stupidity and softness that he ought to be 
 ejected from society.' 
 
 ' He has been turned out of two or three houses for his 
 officiousness and frequent comings, and if he would take 
 all the hints that are sent to his ears, he would not find his 
 way into any dwelling. He has come here to-night with 
 out an invitation, I understand.' 
 
 ' I declare the stories told about him are really amu 
 sing ; and then he pretends to be such an odd character. 
 He affects oddity I believe ; and if he does not, he should 
 be put at the Insane retreat ; or have a guardian to su 
 perintend his affairs. It would be for his benefit,' said 
 Miss Waynim. 
 
 Here it was discovered that the party was thinning out, 
 and breaking up. The piano was silent, and pair after pair 
 of married and single couples took their leave of OUR LADY. 
 Bachelor as we was, alone, we made our bow and retired. 
 What a scene of confusion was there at the door ! Bon 
 nets, calashes, and cloaks flying hats jammed up 
 overshoes kicked about, and timorous rivals with their 
 16
 
 Jg2 CONFLAGRATION IN BOSTON HARBOR. 
 
 hearts trembling like aspen leaves, and waiting, with hat in 
 hand, for the presence and arm of their lady. It was pe 
 culiarly amusing to see one poor fellow, who was stand 
 ing on the tip-toe of expectation for the presence of Miss 
 
 who had escaped his notice and slipped out of the 
 
 door with another gentleman. I verily believe he waited 
 there a half an hour, while I was looking for my hat which 
 some one I suppose took by mistake, as I have not yet 
 found it. 
 
 CONFLAGRATION IN BOSTON HARBOR. 
 
 BOSTON can boast of the possession of one of the lov- 
 liest harbors in the world. The islands which stand like 
 sentinels within it, or which girdle it like a zone of emer 
 alds connected by a silver chain, impart a beauty, and, as 
 it were, a finish to it, which can never fail to charm the 
 eye that looks down upon its waters. A fine landscape 
 you are beholding, if, from some elevated situation, it is 
 your fortune to look over and through its glittering path 
 ways; and its loveliness, always truly enchanting by sun 
 light, is increased, ay! and becomes almost like what might 
 be imagined an ideal creation, when decorated by the 
 ' magic of moonlight.' 
 
 In sunlight or moonlight, however, we never saw its face 
 glow with such splendor and gorgeousness as when at mid 
 night, years agone, a vessel was burning above its depths. 
 The flames, as they flashed towaid the sky and illumined 
 the waveless waters, making crimson the atmosphere and 
 every object which their light rested upon, produced a
 
 CONFLAGRATION IN BOSTON HARBOR. 133 
 
 scene terribly grand and beautiful. The richness of col 
 oring could scarcely have been more vividly represented 
 by the imagination of Milton. We doubt, indeed, whether 
 the light of his Pandsemonium revealed to him objects so 
 awfully and impressively colored as those which, on the 
 night alluded to, seemed to attract every eye and touch 
 every heart. From beneath and around the tongues of 
 fire thai licked the air, poured forth volumes of cloud 
 which rolled onward and upward to the zenith and the 
 floating hull resembled some chained monster writhing in 
 combat or maddened into fury by the agonies of death. 
 
 The scene is now palpably before us. Far away, the 
 islands, their white walls and towers plainly visible, seem 
 to tremble at the presence of the blazing form which has 
 thus unexpectedly torn the shroud of darkness from their 
 bosoms. They seem, alternately, to rise toward and shrink 
 back from the emblazoned clouds that wave their golden 
 wings above they would escape from the wrathful pre 
 sence which they are compelled to look upon but the 
 clouds fly on; and the islands, again and again, recoil, as it 
 were, in despair. Hope, again and again, is kindled in them 
 they flutter as if about to soar, but only remain to tremble 
 at the singular visitation. The clouds, too, move on and 
 away, seeking the darkness in the East, or, perhaps, voyag 
 ing for the bright king who is wont to smile upon them, and 
 invest them with the splendor of his court. Men, too, in 
 crowds gather to watch the flaming form, and are full of the 
 excitement of the scene until Neptune, that useful and 
 ancient ' Captain of the Sea ' raises his head above and 
 shakes his locks over the monster who has thus unlawfully 
 invaded his realm. Now all is peace, and on the face of 
 the deep is darkness.
 
 184 
 
 CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 
 
 A PICTURE OF MEMORY. 
 
 WHERE yon two tall elms raise high their heads, 
 
 Over which the sun its lustre sheds, 
 
 Where with age is bowed that time-worn fence, 
 
 And above it waves the shrubbery dense, 
 
 A cottage stands, and it now decays: 
 
 This was the home of my early days ! 
 
 Amid those high hills the waters lie, 
 And beneath above is cloudless sky; 
 And an isle floats there like fairy land, 
 Begirt with a zone of diamond sand; 
 And 't will flash, as waves kiss it, and blaze: 
 There did I sport in my early days! 
 
 Where the willows bend down from the hill 
 Thc.ir tassels of silver, bright and still, 
 And above the stream, whose music seems 
 But murmurs of love in happy dreams, 
 Or the notes which flit from harps of fays 
 There did I muse in my early days.
 
 185 
 
 PICTURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD. 
 I. 
 
 THE roof is old. The moss-tufts green 
 Cover each crevice, and their sheen 
 
 Is diamond-gemmed with dew : 
 A rosy girl of summers five, 
 
 Her features fair and glowing, 
 Plays in the sun, so all-alive, 
 
 Her locks so light and flowing, 
 She seems a fairy-child a sprite, 
 Just born to gratify the light 
 
 A vision sweet and new. 
 
 II. 
 
 A laughing boy, above a well, 
 Is peeping down. He cannot tell 
 
 What spirit is below. 
 He wonders if he sees an elf ; 
 
 It laughs when he is laughing. 
 Is it the semblance of himself, 
 
 Or someone water quaffing ? 
 To find the truth, he calls aloud. 
 Echo but mocks. The boy is proud, 
 
 And chiding says ' I know.'
 
 186 THE HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 III. 
 
 Within a porch, upon a chair 
 Time-worn, and rich with carving rare, 
 
 Supported by a staff, 
 A grandfather, with wrinkled face 
 
 And grey eyes dimly sparkling, 
 Is watching some far distant place, 
 
 As twilight there is darkling, 
 With anxious mind, till down a steep 
 A boy and girl like light fawns leap, 
 
 Spring to his knee arid laugh. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A grave-yard walk ! Amid its glooms 
 Two marble slabs denote the tombs 
 
 Of two, with whom decayed 
 The grace of life and beauty's power 
 
 Whose primal virtues burning 
 Were not the shadows of an hour, 
 
 But winged doves heavenward turning ! 
 Joined in their lives, in death they sleep, 
 And ever more for them will weep 
 
 That orphan boy and maid.
 
 Page. 
 
 The Pledge. A Legend of the Rhine, - 5 
 
 Sketches of American Poets, - - - 20 
 
 The Oath. From a Bequeathed Manuscript, 41 
 
 The Willow and the Stream, - 48 
 
 English Bards. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 54 
 
 William Wordsworth, - - 56 
 
 Robert Southey, - 60 
 
 Portrait Painting, * 68 
 
 Maleena. A Story of the Indians, 70 
 
 Painting, Sculpture and Poetry, - - - 76 
 
 Cultivation of the Fine Arts, 87 
 
 The Voyage by Moonlight, - 93 
 
 The Pool and Cascade, - 96 
 
 The Brigand, - - 98 
 
 The Old Dramatists, - - 109 
 Reputation, - ... H3 
 
 Tears, 121 
 
 The Winter Hearth-Fire, - 126 
 
 Grammar, Rhetoric and Logic. An Allegory, - 127 
 
 Diary of the Abused. A Bequeathed Manuscript, - - 132 
 
 Varieties of Scenery and of Life, ... J40 
 Ten Paragraphs, .... 147 
 
 Timothy Snaffleton, - - 155 
 
 A Fable. The Squirrel and his Morning Visitor, - - 162 
 
 Lady - 's Soiree. No. 1. Reported Conversations, - 169 
 
 " " No. 2. - - 174 
 
 " " No. 3. - - '''.'; 178 
 
 Conflagration in Boston Harbor, - . IQf/ 
 
 Ontarwa, - - - * 20 
 
 Morning, - . - 46 
 
 A Vision, - - ,-. :., > 47
 
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 Pictures of Memory, The Household, 
 
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