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letters, which open to us, with the most obvious and unsuspecting frankness, his opinions, his feelings, his whims, bis history, and his whole heart. All his writings indeed speak of their author. He is identified with them. They disclose his features on every page. The poet and the man are one, and are seen to be one. This is one cause of the interest with which his works are read, as if they were a collection of anecdotes respecting the man's feelings and the operation of his mind, a sort of autobiography. This imparts to his verse the charm of truth and personality, which belongs to his letters, and again throws over his letters the fascinating beauty of poetry. They are but different modes of expressing the same soul; and while the language lasts they will be read with similar interest and delight, as twin productions of the same mind.

5.-Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years since. 12mo. pp. 278.

0. D. I'ooke and Sons. Hartford. 1824. The great and incurable fault of this novel is the want of a story. The incidents are neither few nor badly conceived, but they are hung together so loosely and disjointedly, that he must be a patriotic lover of Connecticut and its scenery, of its rocky shores and proverbial habits, who can go resolutely through the whole volume without misgiving or weariness. With the best disposition to be pleased, and no common feelings of attachment to a part of the country, which no one can once have known without desiring always to cherish the remembrance of its peculiarities, we confess that we have found the entire perusal of the book by no means a lightsome task. And yet there are good things, and these not a few; but they are too often crudely imagined, and unskilfully assorted.

It does not seem to us, that the author's descriptions apply to Connecticut forty years ago, any more than at present. The scene of some of the tales of war and woe are laid back at that time, but everything which impresses the characteristic features of a people bears the stamp of a more modern date. The sailor's wife, Mrs Rawson, and Farmer Larkin, are the best drawn characters, and give the truest representation of the humbler classes of society in Connecticut. The episodes about Arnold and Champé want the indispensable requisite of novelty to give them interest. They are common events of history, and better told in other places. There is much value in the author's remarks on the now scattered tribe of the Mohegan Indians, which have the air of historical accuracy, and which communicate a melancholy pleasure to the mind, whose musings are on the mutability of the human condition, and the fragile thread by which are sustained the power, and fortunes, and

VOL. XIX.-N0. 45.


hopes of man. The greatest defect of this performance is in its closing chapters. The whole story of Oriana is a failure, insipid in its details, and pointless in its aims. In short, we may end as we began, by saying, that the attractions, which the work might otherwise possess, are lost by the immethodical and incongruous manner in which the materials are thrown together. It is not without animated descriptions, and occasional touches of pathos and nature, which indicate talents and observation, nor without beautiful specimens of poetical thought and imagery, which show a lively and ready fancy ; but it is to be feared, that the redeeming power of these excellences will hardly overbalance, in the minds of most leaders, the prominent and pervading defects.

6.The Vision of Liberty ; recited before the Phi Beta Kappa

Society of Harvard University, August 27, 1824. By
HENRY WARE, JR. Published by Request. 8vo. pp. 12.

Boston. Oliver Everett. 1824. We understand that this poem was the hasty effusion of a spirit, glowing with admiration of the great moral beauty of an event, glorious and singular in its nature, and honorable alike to our country and the illustrious guest, whose virtues and services possess such claims on her affections and gratitude. We say that we understand it was written hastily, in consequence of the unexpected absence of the appointed poet of the day. We know not that we should have discovered the brief date of its composition, for if it has not the polish of a finished production, it possesses many and great beauties, is evidently the work of a mind filled with poetical imagery and poetical fire, roused to exertion by the inspiring occasion, and deeply impressed with the majesty of the scene before it. We of course allude to the recent visit of General La Fayette, and his presence at the annual exercises of the Phi Beta Kappa Society.

• The matter of this poem, as the author himself says, 'is not a poetical invention, but a versification of two dreams, which occurred in 1794 to two individuals in Massachusetts. These remarkable visitations of Queen Mab, the poet has associated, and with great delicacy and taste woven into a beautiful tribute of respect to his distinguished hearer ; and a delightful testimony it is of the "holy inspiration' caught from the most animating spectacle, which we have ever witnessed, that of the voluntary and heartfelt homage of a free people to the friend of their helplessness and infancy, their benefactor and their fellow soldier.

The first dream presents us with the vision of a massive castle, proud in its strength and years,' and defying human power, which is suddenly illumined by an internal flame, spreading through its towers and arches, and at length destroying it. The whole of the description is fine ; and instead of selecting a few lines from it, here and there, we shall better consult the gratification of our readers by commencing our extract with the spreading of the blaze, and giving the remainder of the dream together with its interpretation.

But soon it spread-
Waving, rushing, fierce, and red,
From wall to wall, from tower to tower,

Raging with resistless power;
Till every fervent pillar glow'd,

And every stone seem'd burning coal,
Instinct with living heat, that flow'd
Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole.

Beautiful, fearful, grand,
Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand.

At length a crackling sound began ;
From side to side throughout the pile it ran;

And louder yet, and louder grew,
Till now in rattling thunder peals it flew.
Huge shiver'd fragments from the pillars broke,
Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke.
The shatter'd walls were rent and riven,

And piecemeal driven
Like blazing comets through the troubled sky.

'Tis done; what centuries had rear'd

In quick explosion disappear’d,
Nor even its ruins met my wond'ring eye.

But in their place,
Bright with more than human grace,

Robed in more than mortal seeming,
Radiant glory in her face,

And eyes with heaven's own brightness beaming;
Rose a fair majestic form,
As the mild rainbow from the storm.
I mark'd her smile, I knew her eye;
And when, with gesture of command,

She waved aloft the cap-crown'd wand,
My slumbers fled mid shouts of LIBERTY!'

Read ye the dream ? and know ye not
How truly it unlock'd the word of fate?

Went not the flame from this illustrious spot,
And spreads it not and burns in every state?

And when their old and cumbrous walls,

Fill'd with this spirit, glow intense,
Vainly they rear their impotent defence,

The fabric falls !

That fervent energy must spread,
Till Despotism's Towers be overthrown;

And in their stead,

Liberty stand alone!

The poet dreams again, and on the spot where stood the former structure, he sees another, not dark and frowning like that,

No arms, no guards, no dungeons deep and closed,

But open, free-like God's free day, That shines and smiles on all with heaven descended ray. Delighted with its noble and fair appearance he advances to enter and explore it, when suddenly he hears a loud peal of magic music issuing from its dome, the sound of which we are afraid we should convert into discord, if we did not sing it in the poet's words.

That strange mysterious sound,
Soft as the mellow horn's most gentle note,
Seem'd lightly on the buoyant winds to float,
And spread through all the world around

O'er the mountain and the plain,
Beyond the desert and the main,

Wherever man is found,
Went forth that winning sound,
And breathed its summons in his raptured car.

The tone went home to every beart;
It bade the thrilling tears of Freedom start,

And rausom'd nations in her halls appear. We conclude our extracts from this spirited performance with the two next stanzas.

My cager cyes I upward threw,

The wondrous instrument to view,
In which such piercing power and ravishing sweetness met ;

Aud on its splendid form behold,

Inscribed in living light and gold,
That all mankind might read—thy honored name, FAYETTI'

O for a tongue of fire, to tell
How gloriously the vision was fulfillid!
How at the touch of Liberty's sweet bell

The hearts of countless myriads have thrill'd,
And Destiny her brightest page unfurld,
Roused by the spirit that had waked the world.

7.-Substance of a Discourse delivered before the Hibernian

Society of the City of Savannah, in the Church of St John
the Baptist, in that City, on the Festival of St Patrick,
March 17, 1824. By the Right Reverend John ENGLAND,
D. D. Bishop of Charleston. 8vo. pp. 64. C. C. Sebring.

Charleston, S. C. 1824.
On the occasion of this grand national festival of the Sons of
Erin, it is usual for the orator to dwell on the life and labors of the
patron Saint, whose name and deeds the day is intended to celebrate.
Bishop England does not waive this topic, but connects with it a

brief outline of the antiquities, early history, and recent fortunes of Ireland. He traces the first settlers of the Emerald Isle to a Phænician origin, and states that they migrated first from Tyre to Carthage, then to Spain, and last of all to Hibernia. Milesius was founder of the first settlement. These historical facts are not deciphered on scraps of frail and perishing parchment, but have their record in monuments of a more imposing durability. Various implements of warfare have been dug up in the boys of Ireland, which resemble not the arms of Rome or of northern Europe, but are the same in figure, device, and substance, as those which fell from the dying warriors of Carthage at Cannæ. This is an evidence that they, who wielded these weapons, came from the shores of Africa, and were descendants of the colonists, who accompanied Queen Dido from Phænicia. This point the author strengthens by referring to the ancient Irish mythology, which resembled that of the same eastern country. The early Irish written character also bore a close similitude to that of the Greeks, and this proves, that they came from the same fountain, namely, the Phænician. Ireland, says the author, “could not have procured the Saxon, or the Celtic, or the Runic character, before that character was known. It was not known in Europe until after the period of Christianity. Ireland upon her receiving this religion, had books written in her own character during ages, which books the first Missionaries saw, and many of which regarding her mythology, they destroyed; and when she received Roman literature, a curious circunstance, singular, too, I believe, presents itself to our view ; her predilection for her own letters was such, that she wrote the Latin language in the Irish character. The individual who has the honor of addressing you, speaks from what he has seen and known.'p. 18. The orator next illustrates his subject from the early laws and customs of Ireland, and from the circumstances attending the first establislıment of Christianity in that country. These are dark points, and we forbear to comment on them, leaving the whole matter to Bishop England and our readers.

The following brief sketch acquaints us with all the important particulars concerning the birth, life, and apostleship of the patron Saint of Ireland. We come now to the era of St Patrick. I cannot say with precision what was the place of his birth. He is claimed as a child of Scotland, he is also claimed by Gaul. We cannot decide, where we do not find sufficient evidence. His father's name was Calphurnius; from this it is probable he was of noble Roman extraction, for the wife of Julius Cæsar was of this family. His mother's name was Conchessa ; she was niece to the celebrated St Martin, the Bishop of Tours. This would render it likely that the claim of France is not unfounded; but the parents might have settled in North Britain. Their son Maun was born

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