NEW YORK, MAY, 1843. NAMOUNA. Yet, on her smiles a sadness hung, She herself, describes the time, in which the Poet introduces her upon his beautiful stage:— ""Tis the hour That scatters spells on herb and flower." "Now, too, a chaplet might be wreathed THROWING aside the gorgeous but often unwieldy, and sometimes immoral, machinery of ancient poets, our modern bards have conjured up, from the radiant clime of the Ideal, Spirits, which, if they possess not the terrible power and shadowy magnificence of the olden time, have much more grace, and beam with a more natural splendor. Who would exchange the Fairies of Spencer and Shakspeare, as we see them throned upon the "Now, too," she says, gem-like dew-peeping from the delicate lattice of green leaves, and feeling for the woes of humanity, although their joyous hearts have never been tortured and stained with the passions of humanity,-for the jealous, wayward, and changeable Deities, that mingled in the dramas, or controlled the destinies of nations? The reign of the former may be compared to a beantiful rainbow of peace, hope and love, spanning the troubled waters of life, while the sceptre of the latter was accompanied by the dark cloud, || Namouna grants the request of "THE LIGHT OF THE and the angry lightning, with but an occasional glimpse of quiet, holy, and heart-soothing star-light. If the poet wishes to ascend higher than the leafy spot-where he holds sweet dalliance with the forest-sprites, whom his imagination invests with the tenderest emotions and the most delicate tastes-the Mythology of Palestine, (if we can use such a phrase) as it has been sublimated by One— "Who walked on the sod Made bright by the feet of the angels of God," "For me, for me, Cried Nourmahal, impatiently- HAREM," between whom and her lord, Selim, exists one "The Enchantress now begins her spell," will give him ample scope, and place in his hand an in-between Nourmahal and the monarch-lover is affected strument with which he can produce the grandest results; as the muses of Milton, Milman and Tasso bear splendid testimony. "Namouna," of whom we present our readers an exquisite engraving, is one of those gentle creations of the modern muse, which make us look upon the vast, but, as we have said, too often immoral, imagery of the past, with comparative indifference, while we repose in the angellike beauty and benevolent splendor of that which belongs to the present. Namouna appears in that Paradise of Ideality, Lallah Rookh—whose only fault is found in an oppressive richness of imagery, and versification, from which the ardent poet affords the reader no relief. Fed, himself, on roses, and illuminated by suns, he has become too acclimated to suffer either himself or his hearer to escape into a less voluptuous realm, or behold the page of life by a less dazzing light. "Namouna" is an Enchantress, dwelling amid flowers, and -the charm is wrought- As on his arm her head reposes, "Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!" " chantress. Namouna, are exquisitely beautiful. They are the very "There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, With heart never changing and love never cold One hour of a passion so sacred, is worth Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; It is this! It is this!" Original. A CHAPTER ON IDLENESS. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. I PITY the being who is always busy-whose life passes in a perpetual buzz of activity, like that of a blue-bottle fly in a sunshiny windowpane. I pity the man or woman whose days are consumed in a continual round of tasks-an unbroken series of employments, even though they be self-imposed, and apparently fully rewarded by the self-complacent vanity of the busy-body. I look upon the true enjoyment of an hour of idleness as an especial gift-a talent bestowed by nature, and as impossible to be acquired from habit or education as the dreamy fancy of the poet, or the graphic power of the painter. Wealth may purchase immunity from labor,the minion of luxury, like the voluptuous Hindoo, may be borne over life's dusty pathway so gently, that not even a crumpled roseleaf mars his profound repose, but he cannot taste the true delights of an hour of idleness. Like all the other best blessings of earth, it is only to be bought at the expense of toil. We must have spent hours in labor,-the heart must have been fully occupied, the mind tasked to its utmost,and the body must have been the efficient minister to both, ere we can know the inestimable pleasure of perfect idleness. Then must come the entire cessation of fatigue-the gradual consciousness of repose-the sensation of perfect rest which precedes, and finally lose itself in the dreamy delight of reverie. There is yet another requisite to the full enjoyment of idleness. The idler must possess that poetic fancy which can people the void air with images of beauty;-he must be able to find pictures in the changing clouds, music in the viewless wind, and harmony in all material things. He must have learned to bring up from the past its treasures, to look on the present with a loving eye, to gaze far out into the dim future with a hopeful spirit. He must be awake to the sweet influences of nature, he must be alive to the high and holy impulses of humanity, he must have power to silence the demons of distrust and selfishness which haunt even the heart of manhe must forget the frailties and the follies, the vices and the weaknesses of his kind, and remember only that they are his brethren. With such a man let us spend, in fancy, an hour of idleness. Where shall we go to shun the tumult of the world which comes with harsh tumult to the ear of the dreamer? Let us enter an artist's studio-the abode of personified dreams, -fitting place for pleasant meditation. How does the din of business die upon the ear as we approach this noble gothic pile! We ascend the quaint oaken staircase-we tread the cloistered galleries, while our light footsteps are echoed with that peculiar clearness of sound, never heard save "I' the vaulted cell, where silence loves to reign." A door opens, and suddenly,-as if the curtain which divides the material from the invisible world had been lifted-we find ourselves in the midst of images of beauty. Now seat thee, gentle idler, in that rich and cunningly-wrought chair, carved with a skill but rarely practised in modern days,-its armorial crest graven deep in the costly wood, will tell thee whence it came, for even as it now appears, so did it once grace the banquet hall of a stately castle in sunny France,-seat thyself in that old chair, and then thou wilt be, not only surrounded, but literally embraced by associations of the past. How does every turbulent thought grow still, as we gaze around this peopled apartment! Seen in the cool, dim, religious light which is diffused around, the pictures would seem like beings of living and breathing loveliness, save that they wake not the vague, wild wishes which, in the presence of beauty, ever stir and trouble the human heart. Mark the noble face which bends from yonder canvass,-that bright and flashing eye has gazed upon the mysterious pyramids of Egypt,-that delicate hand has drawn bridle-rein on the plains of Palestine,-that fair cheek has been kissed by the same sun which once awakened the music of Memnon's harp. Look, too, upon that portraiture of earnest and gracious womanhood, which appears half withdrawing from our gaze :-the deep-set, intellectual eyes would seem to disclaim the playfulness which lurks upon the lips, did not an indescribable expression of impulsive sympathy pervade the whole countenance, and harmonize its mirthfulness and thought. It is the faithful semblance of one on whom Heaven has bestowed high and holy gifts,-of one, whom "the strong necessity of utterance," (to use her own beautiful phrase,) has urged to lay many a rich and acceptable offering on the altar of Fame. And lo! another, whose youthful beauty might look like that of opening girlhood, did not those sweet eyes, and the gentle curve of the rosy mouth betray the exquisite tenderness of nature which only belongs to the happy wife and mother:-observe those golden curls dropping over the delicately-tinted cheek, and tell me if Fancy does not image, under such a form, the || amid a world of falsehood, has ever been true to holy and sinless mother, to whom "It would not be idolatry to kneel;" while we thank the giver of all good that such blessed and passionless creatures are sometimes allowed to dwell upon this blighted and blasted earth. Far off, amid the dusky shadows, gleam out the features of one early numbered with the dead-he died, and left no trace, but memory's haunted cell, gave out his semblance to the eye of friendship, and again he lives in the bright colors of unfading youth. We see the eagle eye which once flashed with the soul's lightnings,the passsion-moulded lips which were once eloquent with the genius and the fire of that land whence he drew his birthright of intellect. Alas! his life was one of toil and weariness and heaviness of spirit, until by the wayside he fell, and perished ere the goal of his hopes was won. Behold the face of him whom America is. proud to claim as her first of philosophic poets! The world has traced stern characters on his brow, but here, as if his soul had felt the influences of the place, his eye is lighted up with the rich ray of intellect, and he looks as one might fancy he must appear, when, in his seclusion, he calls up those glorious thoughts and noble images of moral and natural beauty which are ever embodied in his verse. He is here the Poet, not the Partisan-the Tyrtæus, inspiring men to lofty deeds by the solemn music of his hymns, not the Demosthenes, arousing their passions by the thunder of his philippics. Beside him, and in most strange contrast to the calm immobility of that mind-fraught face, beam forth the features of one who has peopled the forest and the prairie with images of beauty. Well does that noble and spirited portrait depict the beautiful blending of the genial and intellectual, which is as visible in the countenance, as it is remarkable in the character of him, whose exquisite songs have given to Anacreon Moore the only rival worthy to dispute with him the palm of lyric excellence. Does not a sad and solemn earnestness fill our hearts as we gaze on the lustrous and spiritual eyes which seem to follow us from yonder canvass? Such eyes never belonged to one whose thoughts dwelt amid outward things, their light is but the reflex of the flame kindled by God himself within the soul. How characteristic,ay, even to the delicate beauty of the hand which has penned so many pure and beautiful thoughts, -is that pictured semblance of him who has "kept the whiteness of his soul," and, untainted the Heaven-born instincts of his nature. Art thou weary, friend, of the mere shadow of reality wouldst thou leave the images of actual life for the creatures of Fancy's realm? then turn to the inspired Sybil-a poet's fancy traced by a painter's hand;-gaze with me upon yon star-crowned Beatrice-the cherished idol of Dante's haunted heart;-or watch the flashing yet tearful eye of Darthula, as she presses onward to avenge her lover's fall. Hast thou not now drunk deeply of the joy of idleness?* It may be that thy spirit pants for larger freedom;-it may be that only under the open heaven thou canst feel the full enjoyment of thine idle hour. Then hie thee to that sweet spot where King Death, laying aside his insignia of terror, reigns as a sylvan monarch over a domain of beauty. Wander through the winding walks of Greenwood, until the influences of the place have chastened thy feelings into quietude, then cast thyself on yonder knoll, and look upon the scene beneath. Nay, do not turn thy steps to the silver lake, that mirror set with emeralds ;it is beautiful, I grant, but coarser minds have learned to appreciate its loveliness, and, anon, the tramp of prancing horses, or the tread of will echo from its oozy margin. busy feet,-mayhap the idle jest and merry laugh, Lie upon the grassy knoll that overhangs the path;-the clear water, reflecting every bird that skims the surface, is before you, while the monumental stones which mark the last resting-place of mortality shine out from the rich shrubbery beyond. The air is redolent of music and fragrance-the breath of the scented clover fills the gale-the song of the bird, and the hum of the bee, swell upon the breeze,―the tremble of so many myriads of leaflets around, is as audible as the hum of insect life. With the soft and velvet greensward for thy couch,—the blue summer sky smiling above thy head,-the whisper of the refreshing south wind lulling thee to sweet repose, and all this wondrous wealth of nature spread before thy half-shut eye,—then yield thyself to the enjoyment of thine hour of idleness, Alone,-alone with thy God,—alone in the garden of Death, with trophies of his power gleaming from every thicket,-thou mayst "commune with thine own heart, and be still." Wilt thou not rise from such fellowship a wiser and a better Thompson, at the New York University, will have no difficulty in discovering from what source was derived the materials for the foregoing imperfect sketch, of one of the most noblypeopled apartments that the writer ever entered. *Those who have recently visited the studio of Mr. C. G. man? will not thy hour of idleness be one of art and nature which surrounded him in his good, likewise? Wilt thou not return to the abasement? world saddened and purified in spirit, and with a Let not the cold utilitarian who measures the faith, which all the weary tasks of this working-value of a man as he would that of a beast of day world can neither weaken nor discourage? In our country, where every thing is to be obtained by industry, and nothing can be won without it, we are apt to become mere operatives. So much may be gained by toil that we learn to despise those amenities of life which interfere with the rough task-work we have prescribed to ourselves. Unlike the inhabitants of other climes who only work to live, we seem to live only to work, and, while we despise the ill-fed, ill-clad lazzaroni, who lounges on the steps of some ducal palace, enjoying the idleness which is to him far more essential than the gratification of his appetite, we forget that, between the indolence which casts its mildew over every energy of the soul, and the untiring activity which wears out the springs of life by over-toil, lies the true medium. Yet, how much of picturesque and poetic beauty surrounds the daily walks of that contemned son of the sweet south! From his very infancy the Italian beggar has been familiar with images of loveliness. A master-hand has depicted the personification of holy womanhood in the sweet Madonna, to whom his prayers are addressed, the old cathedral, at whose shrine he prostrates himself, is filled with treasures of sculpture and painting, such as wake the wildest enthusiasm even in those who, "cold in clime are cold in blood." The ancient glories of his country are still seen in the wonders of architectural grandeur on which his eye ever rests with pride and pleasure,-and over all these riches of art,-over all these magnificent remains of genius and of power, bends a sky of such transparent purity, that simple lifemere breath,-in such an atmosphere is happiness. He has dwelt amid such things until their shadow has fallen upon him, and in his chiselled features, his lofty bearing, his graceful dignity of mien, we recognize none of the sordid poverty which is his only birth-right. Give to such a being his dish of macaroni, his pure draught of aqua fresca, and the shady side of some antique column, or a cool retreat beside some gushing fountain, where he may enjoy the 'dolce far niente,' which makes up his sum of human happiness, and he asks no richer boon. Who will say that the gift of comforts and riches and honors would not overcloud his life with misery, if with them was linked the stern necessity of labor, and banishment from the beauty of burden, by his capacity for toil,-let him not sneer at the luxurious enjoyment which may be tasted by a beggar. Compare the condition of this idle, reckless, useless being with the honest and hard-working laborer of that land, which in the old times of serfdom and feudal slavery was called (and justly too,) merry England. Look at the stultified countenance, the bowed frame, the broken health, the crushed spirit of him who has known nothing but toil;-of him, who only exchanged an infancy of hardship for a manhood of labor and privation and profligacy;-of him who has been trained up to become but a part, a single part, of the vast machine which the wealth of the few has framed at the expense of the many ;-of him, whom long-continued taskwork has reduced to the condition of a mere animal,-who drags through a miserable existence, only diversified by the debauch, and relieved by the unrefreshing slumber of intemperance or exhaustion. Look at the condition of him whose powers of endurance are made subjects of medical investigation, in order that not one iota of his physical strength shall be unemployed,-whose thews and sinews are tried by the test of selfish cupidity, until the last ounceweight crushes the sinking frame ;-whose mind is slowly but surely darkened over by the mists of ignorance and vice, until each lingering trace of the image of God is shut out for ever;-of him, whose life is one long pang, and whose death is what we shudder to contemplate. You may say the English operative is the more useful member of society. In one sense he is;-he is more useful to his task-master,he performs more actual service, even as the horse or the ox, who patiently treads the stubble and drags the plough. But is this all that is required? Were men sent into the world to live at another's bidding ?-to delve the mine, and die within its poisonous vapors that a more successful brother may inhale the balmy airs of Fortune's fair domain? Can the soul, which is thus trampled under foot of the oppressor, retain one spark of the etherial fire which was breathed into it by the benificent Creator? Is not the sentiment of religion which fills the mind of the indolent, and, it may be, bigoted beggar, who feels the bounty of Heaven in the genial breeze which chills not his unsheltered form,-who beholds its power in the miracles of nature, and who sees its glories in the visible objects of his |