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[The Publisher of the Craftsman, Rochester, (N. Y.) offered a number of Prizes for essays, tales and poetry. We copy the Poem to which the first prize was awarded.]

LEXINGTON.

[By Prosper M. Wetmore, Esq. New York.] "It was a scene of strange and thrilling interest-they stood there to oppose an authority which they had been taught to fear, if not to venerate. Many were armed but with their wrongs, others had caught up with haste the rude weapons of the chase; but there was determination in every look. Well did the assailants rue their assault upon that little band of patriots. Long and well shall the doings of that day be remembered. It was the opening scene of a glorious drama."

THERE was a fearful gathering scene,

On that eventful day;

And men were there who ne'er had been
The movers in a fray:

The peaceful and the silent came,

With darkling brows and flashing eyes; And breasts that bore a smothered flame, Were there for sacrifice!

No pomp of march-no proud array-
No brazen trumpet's sound-

As solemnly they took their way,
Unto that conflict ground:

Sadly, as if some tie were broken

But firm, and with a brow severe

Dark glances pass'd, and words were spoken,
As men will look and speak in fear;
Yet coursed no coward's blood
Where that lone phalanx stood,

Rock-like, but spirit-wrought

A strange, unwonted feeling crept
Within their breasts-all memories slept
Save one consuming thought,

To live a fettered slave,

Or die in freedom's grave!
Though many an arm hung weaponless,

The clenched fingers spake full well
The stern resolve, the fearlessness,

That danger could not quell;

Yet, some with hasty hand
The rust-incumbered brand,

Had snatched from its peaceful sleep,
And held it now with a grasp that told
A freeman's life should be dearly sold-

'Twas a courage stern and deep!

Proudly as conquerors come

From a field their arms have won, With bugle-blast and beat of drum

The Briton host came on, Their banners unfurled and gaily streamingTheir burnished arms in the sunlight gleaming; Fearless of foe, and of valour high, With a joyous glee they were idly dreaming Of a bloodless triumph nigh: The heavy tread of the war-horse prancingThe lightning gleam of the sabres glancing

Broke on the ear, and flashed on the eye, As the columned foe in his strength advancing,

Pealed his war-notes to the echoing sky! 'Twas a gallant band that marshalled there, With the dragon-flag upborne in air; For England gathered then her pride,

The bravest spirits of her land; Names to heroic deeds allied,

The strong of heart and hand: They came in their panoplied might,

In the pride of their chivalrous fameThey came as the warrior comes to the fight To win him a wreath for his name: They came as the ocean-wave comes in its wrath,

When the storm-spirit frowns on the deep;

They came as the mountain-wind comes in its path,

When the tempest hath roused it from sleep:

They were met as "the rock meets the wave," And dashes its fury to air;

They were met as the foe should be met by the brave, [despair! With hearts for the conflict, but not for

What power hath stayed that wild career? Not pity's voice-nor a thrill of fear; 'Tis the dread recoil of the dooming wave, Ere it sweeps the bark to its yawning grave"Tis the fearful hour of the brooding storm,

Ere the lightning-bolt hath sped; The shock hath come! and the life-blood warm, Congeals on the breast of the dead! The strife-and the taunt—and the death-cry loud

Are

pealing high through the sulphurous cloud!

'Twas a day of changeful fate,

For the foe of the bannered-line; And the host that came at morn in state, Were a broken throng ere the sun's decline:

And many a warrior's heart was cold,

And many a noble spirit crushedWhere the crimson tide of battle rolled,

And the avenging legions rushed! Wo! for the land thou tramplest o'er,

Death-dealing fiend of war! Thy battle-hoofs are dyed in gore,

Red havock drives thy car: Wo! for the dark and desolate,

Down crushed beneath thy treadThy frown hath been as a withering fate, To the mourning and the dead! Wo! for the pleasant cottage-home,

The love-throng at the door; Vainly they think his step will comeTheir cherished comes no more: Wo! for the broken-hearted,

The lone-one by the hearthWo! for the bliss departed,

Forever gone from earth!
Wreaths for the living conqueror!

And glory's meed for the perished!
No trophied stone may their deeds restore,
But the hero names are cherished;
They bared them to the sabre-stroke,
Nor quailed an eye when the fury broke;

They fought like men who dared to

die

For "freedom" was their battle-cryAnd loud it rung through conflict-smoke! Up with a nation's banners! let them fly With an eagle-flight,

To the far blue sky

'Tis a glorious sight,

As they float abroad in the azure And their fame shall never die!

But now, alas! those visions fled,
Bleak Nature has no joys for me,
For me the rose no fragrance yields,
The wild bird has no minstrelsie.
This sullen reckless bosom can

By nought to Pleasure's bower be woo'd,
Man's mirth to me is discord-nay,

E'en Woman's gentle voice sounds rude. V.

THE HARP-STRING.
THOU tell'st me, when entranced I stand,
To hear thy harp's sweet tones awake,
It little matters if thy hand

With hurried touch a string should break; Since thou canst readily restore

With practised skill the severed tie,
And rouse the world of sound once more
To all its former harmony.
Oh! versed in Music's magic art,

Yet little versed in Feeling's thrill,
Say, didst thou deem the human heart
Could thus be play'd on at thy will?
Mine with thy harshness learn'd to bear,
But thou hast rent the chords in twain,
And now thy life's long toil can ne'er
Repair the shatter'd strings again!

M. A.

Argumentative.-While an old farmer in Connecticut was flogging one of his graceless sons, a pumpkin-headed fellow about eighteen, an idea all of a sudden entered the head of young Jonathan, and he sung out—“ stop dad let's argue."

Rapid Travelling.-A traveller on a miserably lean steed, was hailed by a Yankee, who was hoeing his pumpkins by the roadside,"Hallo! friend," said the farmer, "where are you bound?" "I'm going out to settle in the western country," replied the other. "Well get off and straddle this here pumpkin-vine, it will grow and carry you faster than that-ere beast."

The Woman who went abroad.-A lady who was in the habit of spending most of her time in the society of her neighbours, happened one day to be taken suddenly ill; and sent her husband, in great haste for the physician. The husband ran a few rods, but soon returned, exclaiming, "My dear, where shall I find you when I get back?"

The colonel of a regiment of militia was inlight-formed lately that one of his men had run his sword through his body. On inquiry he found that he had sold his sword to buy liquor.

When nations search their brightest page, For deeds that gild the olden age,

And shine, the meteor lights of story
Britain, with swelling pride shall hear
Of Cressy's field, and old Poictiers,

And deathless Agincourt;
Fair Gallia, point with a kindling eye
To the days of her belted chivalry!
And her gallant Troubadour;
Old Scotia, too, with joy shall turn
Where lives the fight of Bannockburn,
And Falkirk's field of glory!
Land of the free! though young in fame,
Earth may not boast a nobler name,
Platea's splendour is not thine-

Leuctra, nor Marathon;
Yet look where lives in glory's line,
The day of Lexington!

STANZAS.

OH! would that I could think and feel
As I have thought and felt before;
But that sweet season's pass'd away,

And life's delusions charm no more!
Oh! would that I could now renew

The sunny dreams of former years, When Hope forbade the heart to grieve, And kissed away the falling tears: When Inspiration sketch'd the scene, And Fancy with cold Reason strove, When the young soul, with pulse unquench'd, Could burn to fame, or throb to love.

Wet Feet-We are often asked to speak a word of remonstrance to our ladies; who, in the present condition of the streets, "neither sea nor good dry land," are seen perambulating in prunelle shoes, in despite both of the "Journal of Health" and the suggestions of good taste. We do not like to take the place of papa or the doctor; but we can say that this enormous sacrifice to vanity does not even answer its end. There is nothing agreeable suggested to the imagination by wet shoes and soiled hose, nor by seeing a fairy foot tripping it daintily in a kennel.-Baltimore American.

THE LITERARY PORT FOLIO. It is intended that this journal shall contain such a variety of matter as may make it acceptable to ladies as well as to gentlemen; to the young as well as to the old. While we shall take care that nothing be admitted which would render the work unfit for any of these classes, we shall endeavour to procure for it sufficient ability to entitle it to the attention of all of them. To these ends we have secured an abundant supply of all foreign and domestic journals and new books-and we ask the assistance of all who are qualified to instruet or amuse the public. Upon this assistance we depend in a great de gree for our hopes of success, for however the abundant stores to which we have access, may enable us to supply matter highly interesting to our readers, we think it of even more importance to give them something peculiarly adapted to the present time and circumstances; some. thing from home.

Communications should be addressed to "E. Littell for the Literary Port Folio,"-and subscriptions will be thankfully received by E. Littell & Brother, corner of Chestnut and Seventh streets, Philadelphia. Subscriptions are also received by Thomas C. Clarke, S. W. corner of Chestnut and Seventh streets.

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Wanted to solicit subscriptions for this work, a suitable person. Apply to E. Listell & Brother,

No. 10.

PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, MARCH 11,

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THE PRIDE OF WOODBURN.

A SIMPLE TALE.

his head, and therefore did not scruple on all
special occasions afterwards to declare Robert
Howell second in learning only to the Parson
himself.

1830.

well knowing, that to endeavour to thwart the inclinations of a headstrong youth in an affair of this nature, would be as fruitless as an attempt to stop the flowing of the mountain torrent; he therefore considered it more prudent to give a passive assent to the match; consoling himself with the hope that, as Alice was an active, careful, managing girl, she might eventually prove a greater treasure to his son than if she had really brought him a dowry.

It was on the eve preceding Whit-Monday when the village hum had ceased, the young

But it is time we should introduce our heroine, the black-eyed, rosy-cheeked, ravenhaired, Alice Twyford, more generally called the "Pride of Woodburn." She was a little turned of one-and-twenty-her person was not remarkable for any distinguishing traits of beauty, but might safely be pronounced pretty, and her whole appearance interesting.peasants had returned from their rambles, and Indeed she was just such a girl as you might the older ones had quitted their rude seats bereasonably hope to meet with two or three neath the row of elms that skirts the top of the (certainly not more) similar ones amongst the green, and retired to their respective homes, group of cherry-cheeked lasses at any well at- that the two lovers wandered forth to tread tended country fair. Though of a gay and once more their favourite walk on the banks lively disposition, there was none of that wild of the silvery Dee, to devise little projects for rompishness about her for which many vil- the regulation of their future domestic econolage girls of the same age are often remarkamy, and to indulge in the bright anticipations ble. Kind and affectionate to her acquaint- of future happiness, of which, in the plenitude ance and friends, warm and unaffected in her of their joy, they conceived the morrow was to attachmentsbe but the commencement. It was a lovely eve! all Nature lay hushed in breathless silence, save the wakeful nightingale, that at intervals poured forth its plaintive melodies from the recesses of the neighbouring wood; and the gushing of the little rivulet that falls from an adjoining eminence, and mingles with the waters of the placid Dee.

"Tender and deep in her excess of love," she seemed to have been born for domestic en

NEVER did the beautiful and romantic village of Woodburn wear so gay, so animated an appearance, as on last Whit-Monday twelvemouth, on the occasion of the intended wedding of Robert Howell, the eldest son of the principal farmer in that neighbourhood, to Alice Twyford, the daughter of a poor, but honest and intelligent labourer in the village. Under any circumstances a wedding at Woodburn was as interesting an occurrence to the villagers as any thing that could hap. pen, and was sure to create a certain degree of bustle and excitement, particularly amongst the young people, who were themselves anxiously looking forward to so happy a termina-joyments, and (if blest with the man of her tion of their respective courtships, while to the elder ones, especially the females, it afforded an almost inexhaustible fund of tea-table gossip, inasmuch as it brought back to their memories the by-gone days in which they themselves had stood in the same situation as the enviable couple: but on the present occasion there was not an individual in the whole village, from the oldest to the youngest, who did not feel an interest in the approaching nuptials, and who did not rejoice in the prospect of the happiness which seemed in store for the deserving pair.

If Robert Howell had possessed no other distinguishing quality than that of his being the son of the wealthiest man in the village, that circumstance alone would, perhaps, have rendered his marriage an affair of more interest to his neighbours than if he had been their equal or inferior; but the attention given to him on this occasion was not the sort of homage usually paid to riches-it was the spontaneous respect which he had won to himself by his kind and conciliating behaviour, the honesty and uprightness of his conduct, and the benevolence of his heart. He had just entered his twenty-fourth year, was tall, and exceedingly well proportioned, and his countenance was of that open, manly description, which, when possessed by one in whom is united a kind generous hearted frankness of manner, as was the case with him, seldom fails, at first sight, to excite a prepossession in his favour, and open, as if by a spell, the way to the affections of all with whom he may have intercourse. Though his education had been but of a very limited and humble character, it was far superior to that of any of his as sociates, so that, excepting the Parson and the Exciseman, he was looked up to as the greatest scholar in that part of the country; indeed, it was even doubted whether he did not take precedence of the latter, as he had been frequently known when quite a boy to puzzle him exceedingly by his arithmetical questions (which, by the bye, never stepped beyond the Golden Rule of Three"), and on one occasion he so fairly perplexed him that he was compelled, after muddling his pericranium for some time, to acknowledge his inability to give the solution. This great achievement was soon buzzed about the village, and tended to advance considerably our hero's reputation as a scholar, and, as many of the villagers looked upon the exciseman as an intruder apon their community, they were glad of an

choice,) to render a cottage home a little
earthly paradise; in short, she was a

"Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,-
For transient sorrows, simple wiles."

No wonder then that Alice Twyford had
gained the appellation of the "Pride of Wood-
burn;" and as little wonder that she was the
bride elect of Robert Howell. They had been
playmates from their earliest infancy, and so
warm was their attachment even during their
childhood, that neither of them was ever hap-
py apart from the other's society. As they
grew up this feeling gradually ripened into
one of a more tender and refined nature. They
loved, and it needed no formal declaration on
the part of either to satisfy the other that such
was the case; the language of nature was suf-
ficiently intelligible to both; for love being the
most exalted natural feeling of which the hu-
man heart is susceptible, whenever it has fairly
fixed its empire there, reigns paramount of
every other emotion, and moulds and renders
them subservient to its being-it therefore
needs not the aid of words, of declarations, of
vows, and protestations, to reveal itself to the
being whose bosom cherishes a reciprocal pas-
sion; a glance of the eye, a blush, the heav
ing of the bosom, a sigh, a tear, the tremor of
the proffered hand, all, all speak a language
more clear, more cogent, more eloquent, than
the most powerful combination of words. So
it was with the subjects of our present story;
they had long loved ardently, sincerely loved,
yet neither of them ever thought of declaring
their passion; and when at last Robert pressed
Alice to consent to their union, he did it with-
out confusion, and she listened to him without
surprise.

There was but one person in the village who did not approve of the connexion, and that was the father of our hero; nor did his opposition arise from any fault which he had to find with the character or conduct of the girl, for slander had never dared to breathe a whisper tending to sully her reputation-it was because he thought his son might have selected for a partner one who would have brought him something towards setting up in housekeeping, and stocking a farm; or, to use his own mode of expressing it," one that would have brought some grist to the mill."

Finding that all his hints on the subject were disregarded, he had too much good sense to attempt to exercise any harsher authority,

Not a cloud stained the purity of the dark, blue ether, where, surrounded by myriads of minor constellations, the mild queen of night, in "full orbed glory," smiled benignantly upon the earth, and threw o'er its varied landscapes the mellowness of her own chastened radiance. The calm serenity of the evening, combined with the consciousness of his coming bliss, seemed to have infused into Robert a new soul, he was so gay, so cheerful, so enthusias tic; but on Alice it had quite a different effect; a weight oppressed her spirits, a gloomy presentiment of something, she knew not what, floated across her mind; and, while she leaned upon the arm of her lover, her eyes were bent upon the ground, and she replied to his remarks only in monosyllables. Robert could not avoid noticing her dejection, and when he asked her of the cause, she looked fondly in his face and replied" I do not know what ails me; perhaps I am too happy just now to be merry." The time had now arrived for them to separate; it was late, and they had just reached the cottage home of Alice. The depression of her spirits seemed increasing, for when her lover bid her "good night," promising to be with her at eight o'clock the next morning, she could scarcely articulate a reply; and when he impressed a parting kiss on her trembling lips the tears gushed into her eyes, and she hastened to her humble pillow-she knew not why-sad and dejected.

At length the long-talked of day dawned; all was bustle and preparation at the cottage of old Twyford; the wedding guests began to arrive one after another, and, long before the appointed hour, there was but one person wanting to complete the party. All was gaiety and hilarity, and happy faces, and holiday finery. Alice Twyford, arrayed in a plain muslin dress of snowy whiteness, never seem. ed more deserving of the name of the "Pride of Woodburn" than at that moment, when sur. rounded by all the beauty of the village, she shone forth in the charms of unadorned loveliness the loveliest of them all.

The clock had struck eight, the breakfast was prepared, but the bridegroom had not yet arrived; another half hour elapsed, and still he did not make his appearance. Symptoms of impatience began to manifest themselves amongst the visiters; the conversation which had hitherto been general, now subsided into

almost a total silence; strange conjectures | were formed in the minds of some of the party, as to the cause of this delay in the arrival of the bridegroom; and, as his father was known to be averse to the match, they did not hesitate to whisper to each other, that some change had taken place in the sentiments of the young lover. These whispers did not escape the attentive ear of Alice Twyford, who, from the moment that the time had elapsed at which her lover had promised to be with her, had gradually begun to feel more and more uneasy at the delay; but, when she heard the surmises advanced by those around her, a dark thought crossed her mind; she recollected the unaccountable dejection which had possessed her during their walk the preceding evening, and, regarding it as ominous of some portending evil, almost fainted amidst the strife of contending emotions which agitated her bosom. "Could Robert mean to deceive her?" (she mentally inquired) he, who had ever been so kind, so affectionate, so devoted; no, no, that was not, could not, be the cause of his absence, and the recreant thought was instantly expelled from her mind. At length it was proposed that some of the young men of the party should repair to his father's house, and require an explanation of his conduct; this project was immediately resolved upon, but, just as they were about to leave the cottage, the young bridegroom was observed advancing in a quick and hurried manner towards them. Immediately, the gaiety and hilarity of the whole party returned; the blooming bride resumed her wonted smiles, and our hero was saluted at his entrance with the cordial gratulations of the whole company.

Hastily apologizing for his want of punctu ality, which he affirmed had been caused by his having overslept himself (would, alas, that this had been the truth;) he took a seat beside the object of his affections, and strove, by his assiduous attention to his guests, to make them forget the chagrin which his absence had occasioned. But it was evident he was labouring under some bodily ailment; the healthy glow of his countenance had given place to a sickly paleness, and though he strove to appear cheerful, it was plain that it cost him great exertions to do so. The fact was, on retiring to rest the preceding evening, he felt himself suddenly much indisposed, and he had lain all the night on his bed, tossing to and fro, unable, even for a moment, to close his eyes in slumber, and it was with great pain and difficulty, that he had accomplished the journey from his father's house to the cottage of his bride.

The breakfast was finished, and the wedding cavalcade set out for the church. All the vil lage was in motion; every cottage was emp. tied of its inmates, which, arrayed in their holiday dresses, joined the jovial party all eager to be present at the union of the happy pair.

They had now reached the village church, and the affianced pair stood before the altar. The marriage ceremony was proceeding, and, already had the bridegroom placed the ring upon the finger of his bride, and pronounced the words With this ring, I thee wed," when suddenly he dropped her hand, and his own fell powerless on his side; a livid paleness overspread his countenance; cold drops of perspiration hung upon his forehead; a film came over his eyes; he staggered, and sank lifeless on the steps of the altar!

A shriek of despair burst from the lips of the agonized Alice; she fell senseless into the arms of one of her companions, and was borne away from the altar to her cottage home, a bride and a widow.

The deceased bridegroom was conveyed on a litter to his father's house, and in the same week was interred in Woodburn churchyard. His funeral was attended by all the villagers, who, but so short a time before, had assembled around him with light hearts, and cheerful faces, to witness him the chief actor in a far

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different ceremony. Alas! what sad reflections did that funeral scene awaken in the bosoms of the sorrowing assembly. Oh! it was a sight with which the hardest heart must have been moved, to witness the old and the young of both sexes, standing in melancholy dejection around the grave of the deceased, and mourning his loss as though he had been allied to each of them by the closest ties of affinity and affection.

As for poor Alice, the shock had well nigh proved too much for her constitution; she was seized with a dangerous illness, from which, at one time, there seemed but faint hopes of her recovery. She did, however, at length, in some degree, recover her health, but her spirits were broken; her every hope of earthly happiness had fled for ever.

She still lives, though but the shattered wreck of the being she so lately appeared. She has lost all taste for her former enjoy ments; pleasure is to her a frozen fountain, and she feels, aye, bitterly feels, that

"Gone are love's wild visions, leaving Tears and weight of earth behind." Her only delight is in the daily visits which she pays to the grave of her departed lover. There she will sit for hours, gazing in silent melancholy on the mound of earth that separates her from the all of his mortal remains, while she seems to gather a mournful consolation from the consciousness that her own sojourn in this "wide wilderness of wo," will soon be terminated, and, that then, she shall be reunited to him whom she prized most upon earth, in a land where pains, and disappointments, and bereavements, are unknown, and where the hand of death cannot prevail.

Deeply do the neighbouring villagers sympathize in her sorrows. Her appearance never fails to bring back to their minds, even in their brightest moments of light-hearted gaiety, a train of sad remembrances, and while they look upon her wasted form, her pale sunken cheeks, her lustreless eyes, and the deep, the irremediable dejection imprinted upon her countenance, they can scarcely help repining at the hardness of that fate which enables sorrow and decay to march more rapidly than the steps of time," and hurry the brightest and loveliest of earth to a premature dissolution.

66

The very children seem to have caught the general feeling of commiseration for the hopeless mourner, for whenever she approaches, their sports are immediately suspended, as if they were afraid that their noisy mirth would interrupt the deep thought in which she is absorbed; and, as she slowly passes by them, they almost involuntarily lisp" poor Alice"

W. H.

DR. CHANNING-C. B. BROWN. [The following notices of American writers are selected from a late article in the Museum, copied from the Edinburgh Review.]

Or the later American writers, who, besides Dr. Channing, have acquired some reputation in England, we can only recollect Mr. Washington Irving, Mr. Brown, and Mr. Cooper. To the first of these we formerly paid an ample tribute of respect; nor do we wish to retract a tittle of what we said on that occasion, or of the praise due to him for brilliancy, ease, and a faultless equability of style. Throughout his polished pages, no thought shocks by its extravagance, no word offends by vulgarity or affectation. All is gay, but guarded-heedless, but sensitive of the smallest blemish. We cannot deny it-nor can we concea! it from ourselves or the world, if we would-that he is, at the same time, deficient in nerve and originality. Almost all his sketches are like patterns taken in silk paper from our classic writers;-the traditional manners of the last age are still kept up (stuffed in glass cases) in Mr. Irving's modern version of them. The only variation is in the transposition of dates; and herein the author is chargeable with a

fond and amiable anachronism. He takes old England for granted as he finds it described in our stock books of a century ago-gives us a Sir Roger de Coverley in the year 1819, instead of the year 1709; and supposes old English hospitality and manners, relegated from the metropolis, to have taken refuge somewhere in Yorkshire, or the fens of Lincolnshire. In some sequestered spot or green savannah, we can conceive Mr. Irving enchanted with the style of the wits of Queen Anne; -in the bare, broad, straight, mathematical streets of his native city, his busy fancy wandered through the blind alleys and huddled zig-zag sinuosities of London, and the signs of Lothbury and East-Cheap swung and creaked in his delighted ears. The air of his own country was too poor and thin to satisfy the pantings of youthful ambition-he gasped for British popularity, he came, and found it. He was received, caressed, applauded, made giddy: the national politeness owed him some return, for he imitated, admired, deferred to us; and, if his notions were sometimes wrong, yet it was plain he thought of nothing else, and was ready to sacrifice every thing to obtain a smile or a look of approbation. It is true, he brought no new earth, no sprig of laurel gathered in the wilderness, no red bird's wing, no gleam from crystal lake or new discovered fountain (neither grace nor grandeur plucked from the bosom of this Eden state like that which belongs to cradled infancy); but he brought us rifacimentos of our own thoughts -copies of our favourite authors: we saw our self-admiration reflected in an accomplished stranger's eyes; and the lover received from his mistress, the British public, her most envied favours.

Mr. Brown, who preceded him, and was the author of several novels which made some noise in this country, was a writer of a different stamp. Instead of hesitating before a scruple, and aspiring to avoid a fault, he braved criticism, and aimed only at effect. He was an inventor, but without materials. His strength and his efforts are convulsive throes

his works are a banquet of horrors. The hint of some of them is taken from Caleb Williams and St. Leon, but infinitely exaggerated, and carried to disgust and outrage. They are full (to disease) of imagination.-but it is forced, violent, and shocking. This is to be expected, we apprehend, in attempts of this kind in a country like America, where there is, generally speaking, no natural imagination. The mind must be excited by overstraining, by pulleys and levers. Mr. Brown was a man of genius, of strong passion, and active fancy; but his genius was not seconded by early habit, or by surrounding sympathy. His story and bis interests are not wrought out, therefore, in the ordinary course of nature; but are, like the monster in Frankenstein, a man made by art and determined will. For instance, it may be said of him, as of Gawin Douglas, "Of Brownies and Bogilis full is his Buik." But no ghost, we will venture to say, was ever seen in North America. They do not walk in broad day; and the night of ignorance and superstition which favours their appearance, was long past before the United States lifted up their head beyond the Atlantic wave. The inspired poet's tongue must have an echo in the state of public feeling, or of involuntary belief, or it soon grows harsh or mute. In America, they are "so well policied," so exempt from the knowledge of fraud or force, so free from the assaults of the flesh and the devil, that in pure hardness of belief they hoot the Beggar's Opera from the stage: with them, poverty and crime, pickpockets and highwaymen, the lock-up-house, and the gallows, are things incredible to sense! In this orderly and undramatic state of security and freedom from natural foes, Mr. Brown has provided one of his heroes with a demon to torment him, and fixed him at his back;-but what is to keep him there? Not any prejudice or lurking su perstition on the part of the American reader

for the lack of such, the writer is obliged to make up by incessant rodomontade, and facemaking. The want of genuine imagination is always proved by caricature: monsters are the growth, not of passion, but of the attempt for cibly to stimulate it. In our own unrivalled novelist, and the great exemplar of this kind of writing, we see how ease and strength are united. Tradition and invention meet half way; and nature scarce knows how to distinguish them. The reason is, there is here an old and solid ground in previous manners and opinion for imagination to rest upon. The air of this bleak northern clime is filled with legendary lore: not a castle without the stain of blood upon its floor or winding steps: not a glen without its ambush or its feat of arms: not a lake without its lady! But the map of America is not historical; and, therefore, works of fiction do not take root in it; for the fiction, to be good for any thing, must not be in the author's mind, but belong to the age or country in which he lives. The genius of America is essentially mechanical and modern.

shed,

Where old Dobbin hangs his disconsolate head;
Shrill whistles the wind through each cranny,

the trees

In vain rear their shelterless boughs to the breeze.

A step is approaching, sly Tray on the floor Starts up from his slumber and smells to the door;

To the threshold the game-leaving innocents flee,

materials. In Richardson it was excusable, | The chickens are roosted within the thatch'd
where all was studied and artificial; but a few
dashes of red ochre are sufficient to paint the
body of a savage chieftain; nor should his sud-
den and frantic stride on his prey be treated
with the precision and punctiliousness of a
piece of still life. There are other American
writers, (such as the historiographer of Brother
Jonathan,) who carry this love of veracity to a
pitch of the marvellous. They run riot in an
account of the dishes at a boarding-house, as
if it were a banquet of the gods; and recount
the overturning of a travelling-stage-wagon
with as much impetuosity, turbulence, and ex-
aggerated enthusiasm, as if it were the fall of
Photon. In the absence of subjects of real in-
terest, men make themselves an interest out of
nothing, and magnify mole-hills into moun-
tains. This is not the fault of Mr. Cooper:
He is always true, though sometimes tedious;
and correct at the expense of being insipid.
His Pilot is the best of his works; and truth
to say, we think it a master-piece in its kind.
It has great unity of purpose and feeling.
Every thing in it may be said

"To suffer a sea-change

rable episode of Tom Coffin, and his long
figure coiled up like a rope in the bottom of
the boat. The rest is common-place; but then
it is American common-place. We thank Mr.
Cooper he does not take every thing from us,
and therefore we can learn something from
him. He has the saving grace of originality.
We wish we could impress it," line upon line,
and precept upon precept," especially upon our
American brethren, how precious, how inva-
luable that is. In art, in literature, in science,
the least bit of nature is worth all the plagia-
rism in the world. The great secret of Sir
Walter Scott's enviable, but unenvied success,
lies in his transcribing from nature instead of
transcribing from books.

THE SNOW DRIFT.

Mr. Cooper describes things to the life, but he puts no motion into them. While he is insisting on the minutest details, and explainInto something new and strange." ing all the accompaniments of an incident, the story stands still. The elaborate accumu- His Pilot never appears but when the occasion lation of particulars serves not to embody his is worthy of him; and when he appears, the reimagery, but to distract and impede the mind. sult is sure. The description of his guiding He is not so much the master of his materials the vessel through the narrow strait left for as their drudge: he labours under an epilepsy of her escape, the sea-fight, and the incident of the fancy. He thinks himself bound in his the white topsail of the English man-of-war character of novelist to tell the truth, the appearing above the fog, where it is first miswhole truth, and nothing but the truth. Thus, taken for a cloud, are of the first order of graif two men are struggling on the edge of aphic composition; to say nothing of the admiprecipice for life or death, he goes not merely into the vicissitudes of action and passion as the chances of the combat vary; but stops to take an inventory of the geography of the place, the shape of the rock, the precise attitude and display of the limbs and muscles, with the eye and habits of a sculptor. Mr. Cooper does not seem to be aware of the infinite divisibility of mind and matter; and that an "abridgment" is all that is possible or desirable in the most individual representation. A person who is so determined, may write volumes on a grain of sand or an insect's wing. Why describe the dress and appearance of an Indian chief, down to his tobacco-stopper and button-holes? It is mistaking the province of the artist for that of the historian; and it is this very obligation of painting and statuary to fill up all the details, that renders them incapable of telling a story, or of expressing more than a single moment, group, or figure. Poetry or romance does not descend into the particulars, but atones for it by a more rapid march and an intuitive glance at the more striking results. By considering truth or matter-of-fact as the sole element of popular fiction, our author fails in massing and in impulse. In the midst of great vividness and fidelity of description, both of nature and manners, there is a sense of jejuneness,-for half of what is described is insignificant and indifferent; there is a hard outline,—a little manner; and his most striking situations do not tell as they might and ought, from his seeming more anxious about the mode and circumstances than the catastrophe. In short, he anatomizes his subjects; and his characters bear the same relation to living beings that the botanic specimens collected in a port-folio do to the living plant or trec. The sap does not circulate kindly; nor does the breath of heaven visit, or its dews moisten them. Or, if Mr. Cooper gets hold of an appalling circum stance, he, from the same tenacity and thraldom to outward impressions, never lets it go: he repeats it without end. Thus, if he once hits upon the supposition of a wild Indian's eyes glaring through a thicket, every bush is from that time forward furnished with a pair; the page is studded with them, and you can no longer look about you at ease or in safety. The high finishing we have spoken of is particularly at variance with the rudeness of the

BY DELTA.

ON raves the hurricane, down floods the snow,
Hills whiten, the forests are groaning below;
The river, choked up, rushes dark o'er its bed,
And the wild common crisps at the traveller's
tread.

Day dies, night approaches-the common is
wide,

The traveller toils on with no pathway to
guide;

His rough russet doublet with snow-flakes is
white,

And the shower in its drifting deprives him of
sight.

Say, where shall he rest from the rave of the

storm,

From the night and the pitiless tempest his
form?

The shelterless desert-no cottage is near.
All grim is the scowl of the sky, and all drear
Far, far o'er the moor, by the hearth's ruddy
glow,

With her younkers around, safe from storm
and from snow,

Poor Ellen sits pensive, caressing a child,
The image of him who now travels the wild.
With grief at her heart, and a tear in her eye,
She opens her lattice, and looks at the sky;
"Tis a desolate prospect, above and below,
Is the darkness of night or the paleness of

snow.

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To learn with their dog what the matter can be.

Lo! enters a tall shape, o'ermantled with snow, And the dame rushes forward, impatient to know;

Ah! the look that he casts and the word that he speaks

Bring relief to her heart and the blood to her

cheeks.

"Haste, spread be the board"-soon the sup per is set,

Round a hearth-stone of rapture the family are met;

The winds they may rave, and the snows they may beat,

But they smile at them both from their cozy

retreat.

THE CHILD'S LAMENT.
BY MARY HOWITT.

I LIKE it not-this noisy street,

I never liked, nor can I now-
I love to feel the pleasant breeze
On the free hills, and see the trees
With birds upon the bough!
Oh, I remember long ago,

My home was on a green hill side,
So long ago, 'tis like a dream,
My flowery meadows, still and wide,
'Mong trees, and by a stream.
Three happy brothers I had then,

I've look'd and look'd through street and square,
My merry playmates every day-
But never chanced I, anywhere,

To see such boys as they.
We all had gardens of our own—
Four little gardens in a row-
And there we set our twining peas,
And rows of cress, and real trees,
And real flowers to grow.

My father I remember too,

And even now his face can see,
And the very horse he used to ride,
And the old dog that at his side

Went barking joyfully.

He used to fly my brothers' kites,

And build with them their men of snow,
And sail their boat, and with them race,
And carry me from place to place,
Just as I liked to go.

He was, I know, a pleasant man,

And people must have loved him well-
Oh, I remember that sad day
When they bore him in a hearse away,
And toll'd the funeral bell.

Thy mother comes each night to kiss
Thee, in thy little quiet bed-

So did my mother years ago,
And I loved her-oh! I loved her so,
'Twas joy to hear her tread.

I'm sure it must be many years

Since then, and yet I can recall
Her very tone-her look-her dress,
Her pleasant smiles, and gentleness,
That had kind words for all.
She told us tales, and sung us songs,
And in our pastimes took delight,
And join'd us in our summer glee,
And sat beneath our broad green tree,
Nor wearied of our company

Whole days, from morn to night.

Alas! I know that she is dead,

And in the cold-cold grave is hid,
For I saw her in her coffin lie,
With the grim mourners standing by,
And silent people, solemnly,

Close down the coffin lid.

My brothers were not there-ah me!

I know not where they went; some said With a rich man beyond the sea, That they were dwelling pleasantlyAnd some that they were dead.

I cannot think that it is so,

I never saw them pale and thin, And the last time their voice I heard, Merry they were as a summer bird,

Singing its bower within.

I wish that I could see their faces,
Or know at least that they were near;
Ah! gladly would I cross the sea,
So that with them I might but be,
For now my days pass wearily,
And all are strangers here.

ROBINSON CRUSO.

WHY is the Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, the Mariner of York, the most delightful and interesting of books? In what does the pleasure of the reader consist: whence is it derived? How is it that the various members of the busy world, high and low, young and old, feel so intense a sympathy in the fortunes of the shipwrecked sailor in his utter solitude? It cannot be said that it is the spirit of adventure which enchains the attention of the anxious reader, for adventure chiefly ceases with his shipwreck when the true interest of the story commences: it is when he is alone that our imagination is with him: in his cave, in the chase of his goats, in his primitive contrivances of necessary utensils, in his solitary visits to the wreck, in his wandering on the shore. His register of simple notch and pole, though it only reckons the days of a poor mariner's sojourn in a desert island "placed far amid the melancholy main," is reflected upon with even a more lively interest than that other Register termed Annual, of paper and print, which in this country records all the great yearly transactions of the entire world. Such is the intensity of individual sympathy.

There are few things more flattering to mankind than to be shown by a practical example the fertility of human resources: it is a noble spectacle for us to watch an individual turning all nature to his uses, forcing her bounties where she does not yield them spontaneously, and by the arts of civilization, diverting them into the channels best adapted to administer to his wants: the struggle is noble, and no small source of the interest we take in such narratives as those of Robinson Crusoe. There is moreover a pleasing perplexity in suddenly discovering the extent of our dependence in a state of civilization upon persons and objects to whose aid we have been so long habituated, that we absolutely forget the necessity of their mediation. When we behold a being accidentally placed out of the reach of all civilized subsidia: seeking his fire in the recesses of nature, moulding his own pottery; and stripping his clothing from the beasts of the field, we are excited to a sudden and lively impression of the advantages by which we are surrounded: our porcelain, our plate, and our stores of shining steel, our weil-compacted dress, and all the accessories of civilized life assume a distinct existence. A pair of gloves becomes a chapter of thought, and we become alive to all the complicated machinery of artificial life. These are some of the pleasures derived from the perusal of such works, and thus they are combined with all the hopes and fears which spring from the common source of sympathy with one who is placed in circumstances of extreme trial.

FROZEN PIGS.

Mr. Head, with some objects in view which he does not explain, disembarked at Halifax, the capital of Nova Scotia, after a rough passage from Falmouth, in the month of November: the St. Lawrence was already closed for the winter; consequently our voyager had to make his way to the Canadas over land, an enterprise of some difficulty and hardship. A journey in this country, in winter, is only practicable after the snow has fallen in quantities sufficient to bear the sleigh; and as the snow had not yet come down, Mr. Head was delayed in Halifax until the roads were in order for travelling. The moment of the descent of the snow is the signal of gaiety in Halifax. The sleigh is put in immediate requisition, the fur cloaks are assumed, and all the world is in motion, for business or pleasure: the fall of the snow is a manner of breaking the ice in Nova Scotia. Merchandise of all descriptions begins to arrive, and not the least singular in appearance are the wagon-loads of frozen pigs. These are exposed for sale, quite hard and stiff, and in a fit state to keep till the spring. They had an unusually uncouth appearance; for their mouths were generally open, and the last services seemed never to have been properly paid to the defunct. Their limbs were not arranged with decent regularity, and they appeared to have given up the ghost in the act of squalling and at full gallop. Some were placed standing at the doors in the streets like rocking-horses before a toy-shop, upon their four legs, as if they had been alive. This mode of keeping a pig for a winter without giving him a grain of any thing to eat, or being subject to his noisy unmannerly conduct-nay, to be enabled to eat him piece-meal, is indisputably one advantage of a cold climate. But frozen meat, on the other hand, disappoints the epicure, being always tasteless and bad."

Dr. Granville, in his description of St. Petersburg, tells us of markets piled with frozen provisions, and of housekeepers who store their winter's provision in cellars as we do coals; he, however, if we remember right, differs from Mr. Head in his estimation of frozen viands. In all probability the Russians understand the art of thawing better than the North Americans, and it may be owing to this that the latter find their provisions "tasteless and bad."

CANADIAN TAVERNS.

66

On the 8th December, Mr. Head left Halifax in a sleigh, which he had engaged to take him to Annapolis, a distance of one hundred and thirty-two miles, for which he was to pay £20, a tolerable proof of the difficulty of the roads. The Canadians and the other Colonists in that quarter seem to share the identical manners of the Yankees themselves; not only as we have them painted in the elaborate pages of Captain Basil Hall, but even as Matthews himself has sketched them before the admiring audiences of our countrymen. The reception Mr. Head met with at the different inns on his route is truly American. "The people," says he of an inn on the road to Annapolis, were not at all uncivil; they allowed me to shake the snow off my clothes in the passage, and proceed unmolested as far as the parlour, but nobody seemed at all inclined to stir, till, in answer to my repeated entreaties, "Mother," said the great girl of the house, in a fretful tone, "Mother, don't you hear how the man is calling for something to eat: and then the mo ther did begin to move herself, and presently a heavy pile of toast and butter was placed before me, together with tea and beaf-steaks." The fact is, that the landlords of the inns are mostly holders of land, and independent of the profits arising from their hostelry; they are moreover thinly scattered, and consequently, the Boniface of Canada, as well as of many parts of the United States, considers that the obligation between the traveller and himself,

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"The house we were now in for the night was very particularly dirty and comfortless. There were two beds in the room, one for the host, his wife, and four children, (the youngest of which was not more than a few weeks old,) The and the other was appropriated to me. driver and my servant lay on the boards before the stove, which was a Canada one, and too powerful for the size of the room. heat all night was quite suffocating, though the weather certainly was not warmer than 20° of Fahrenheit. The bed I slept in had green stuff curtains, full of dust; and the sheets were of some soft spongy material, which, if clean, at least felt otherwise, and for the first time since I had been in the country, I was tormented with fleas. It was impossible to get a wink of sleep; for, besides my own grievances, there were other causes of disturbance. The child cried incessantly in spite of all the woman could do to pacify it. It had, I believe, nothing at all the matter with it, but seemed, from sheer frowardness, to imagine that the little world of our miserable apartment was made for itself. Sometimes the good wife sat up in her bed with the little animal hugged up between her chin and her elbows, hushing and rocking herself and it; then she patted its back, and still it cried. Then ten times (1 dare say) in the course of the night, out of bed got the poor husband, and stood for several minutes at the stove, with a pair of lean bare legs, and an extremely short shirt, stirring something in a saucepan with the broken stump of an iron spoon. A picture of obedience and misery! Then he got into bed again. Then came a long consultation, and almost a quarrel, about what was best to be done. Then the grand specific was administered, but all without effect. At last the other children awoke, and the youngest of these began to cry too: and the mother said it was the big one's fault, and beat her. So off she went, and we had a loud concert, till, what with the noise of the children, and the heat, and the dirt, and the fleas, I felt ready to rush out of doors, and roll myself in the snow. But every thing must have an end, and so at last the children became all tired out, and by degrees grew quiet; and in the morning I found I had been asleep, and got out of bed determined to be off as soon as I possibly could."-p. 78-80.

The death of M. Perrier, of the Royal Academy of Science, at Paris, occasioned a strange mistake. The Secretary of the Royal Society of Science happened also to be named Perrier. At a meeting of the latter body, a chevalier entered, and with a countenance woe begone, took his place among his brethren, then soleinnly arose, and drew from his pocket a manuscript, and with a faltering voice, and a look of the deepest sorrow, began a funeral oration " upon his deceased friend." What was his surprise, when his "deceased friend" stood up from the president's chair, which he filled (the panegyrist being so blinded with tears as not to observe him sooner), declined the honour about to be conferred upon him, thanked his friend in the warmest terms, and proposed amidst roars of laughter, to adjourn the roading of the oration sine die!

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