world, into the museum; into the very place which, next to the chapel and oratory, should be our sanctuary, and secure place of refuge; offers abominations on the altar of the Muses, and makes its sacred paling the very circle in which he conjures up the lying and profane spirit. MODERN SATIRISTS. In this age of personality-this age of literary and political gossiping, the meanest insects are worshipped with a sort of Egyptian superstition, if only the brainless head be atoned for by the sting of personal malignity in the tail. The most vapid satires have become the objects of a keen public interest, purely from the number of contemporary characters named in the patchwork notes (which possess, however, the comparative merit of being more poetical than the text), and because, to increase the stimulus, the author has sagaciously left his own name for whispers and conjectures. MATERIALS OF POETRY. Good sense is the body of poetic genius, fancy its drapery, motion its life, and imagination the soul that is everywhere, and in each; and forms all into one graceful and intelligent whole. ADVICE TO LITERARY ASPIRANTS. With no other privilege than that of sympathy and sincere good wishes, I would address an affectionate exhortation to youthful literati, grounded on my own experience. It will be but short, for the beginning, middle, and end converge to one charge: never pursue literature as a trade. With the exception of one extraordinary man, I have never known an individual, least of all an individual of genius, healthy or happy without a profession, i.e. some regular employment which does not depend on the will of the moment; and which can be carried on so far mechanically, that an average quantum only of health, spirits, and intellectual exertion are requisite to its faithful discharge. Three hours of leisure, unannoyed by an alien anxiety, and looked forward to with delight, as a charge and recreation, will suffice to realize in literature a larger product of what is truly genial, than weeks of compulsion. Money and immediate repu tation form only an arbitrary and accidental end of literary labour. The hope of increasing them by any given exertion will often prove a stimulant to industry; but the necessity of acquiring them will, in all works of genius, convert the stimulant into a narcotic. ILL-DESERVED COMMENDATION. Praises of the unworthy are felt by ardent minds as robberies of the deserving. SHAKSPEARE AND MILTON. Shakspeare, no mere child of nature-no automaton of genius-no passive vehicle of inspiration, possessed by the spirit, not possessing it, first studied patiently, meditated deeply, understood minutely, till knowledge became habitual and intuitive, wedded itself to his habitual feelings, and at length gave birth to that stupendous power by which he stands alone, with no equal or second in his own class -to that power which seated him on one of the two glory-smitten summits of the poetic mountain, with Milton as his compeer, not rival. While the former darts himself forth, and passes into all the forms of human character and passion,-the one Proteus of the fire and the flood; the other attracts all forms and things to himself, into the unity of his own ideal. SHADOW. It falls before, it follows behind, Darkest still when the day is bright; No light without the shadow we find, And never shadow without the light. From our shadow we cannot flee away; It walks when we walk, it runs when we run; But it tells which way to look for the sun; We may turn our backs on it any day. Ever mingle the light and shade That make this human world so dear; Sorrow of joy is ever made, And what were a hope without a fear? A morning shadow o'er youth is cast, Warning from pleasure's dazzling snare; A shadow lengthening across the past, Fixes our fondest memories there. One shadow there is, so dark, so drear, So broad we see not the brightness round it; Yet 'tis but the dark side of the sphere Moving into the light unbounded. ISA CRAIG-KNOX. A WISH.1 I ask not that my bed of death From bands of greedy heirs be free; For these besiege the latest breath Of fortune's favour'd sons, not me. I ask not each kind soul to keep Tearless, when of my death he hears; Let those who will, if any, weep! There are worse plagues on earth than tears. I ask but that my death may find Spare me the whispering, crowded room, Nor bring, to see me cease to live, Nor fetch, to take the accustom'd toll The future and its viewless things- Bring none of these! but let me be, Bathed in the sacred dews of morn Which never was the friend of one, Of a sick room, a mortal strife, The pure eternal course of life, 1 From The Dramatic and Lyric Poems of Matthew Arnold. London: Macmillan & Co. Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow Composed, refresh'd, ennobled, clear; Then willing let my spirit go To work or wait elsewhere or here! MATTHEW ARNOLD. PREJUDICE. Among the hardy pioneers who first settled along the borders of the Ohio, was an Englishman, with two sons. These were twins, and his only children. He was half husbandman and half hunter, and the two boys followed his double vocation. They were seldom separated, and never seemed happy but in each other's society. If one was engaged in any employment, the other must share it. If one took his rifle and plunged into the forest in pursuit of the wild deer, the other, as a matter of course, took his, and became his companion. Thus they grew up together, participating in each other's pleasures and fatigues and dangers. They were therefore united, not only by the ties of kindred and a common home, but by a thousand recollections of sylvan sports, and wild adventures, and hair-breadth escapes, enjoyed or experienced in each other's company. About the time that these brothers were entering upon manhood, the French and Indian war broke out along our western frontier. In one of the bloody skirmishes that soon followed the father and the two sons were engaged. The former was killed, and one of the twins, being taken by the French troops, was carried away. The youth that remained returned after the fight to his father's home; but it was to him a disconsolate and desolate spot. His mother had been dead for years; his father was slain: and his only brother, he that was bound to him by a thousand ties, was taken by the enemy and carried away, he knew not whither. But it seemed that he could not live in separation from him. Accordingly, he determined to visit Montreal, where he understood his brother had been taken; but about this time he was toli that he had died of wounds received in the skirmish which had proved fatal to the father and brought captivity to the son. The young man, therefore, for a time aban doned himself to grief; but at last he went to Marietta, and after a few years was married, and became the father of several children. But the habits and tastes of his early life were still upon him, and after some years he migrated farther into the wilderness, and settled down upon the banks of the Sandusky river. Here he began to fell the trees and clear the ground, and had soon a farm of cultivated land sufficient for all his wants. But the forester was still a moody and discontented man. His heart was indeed full of kindness to his family; but the death of his brother had left a blank in his bosom, which nothing seemed to fill. Time, it is true, gradually threw its veil over early memories, and softened the poignancy of regret for the loss of a brother who had seemed a part of himself, and whose happiness was dearer than his own. But still, that separation had given a bias to his mind, and a cast to his character, which no subsequent event or course of circumstances could change; he was at heart a solitary man, yearning indeed for the pleasure of society, yet always keeping himself aloof from mankind. He had planted himself in the wilderness, far from any other settlement, as if purposely burying himself in the tomb of the forest. There was one trait which strongly marked the character of this man; and that was a detestation of everything French. This, doubtless, originated in the fact that his brother's captivity and death were chargeable to the French army, and he naturally enough learned to detest everything that could be associated with the cause of that event which darkened his whole existence. A striking evidence of this deep and bitter prejudice was furnished by the manner in which the forester treated a Frenchman who lived on the opposite side of the Sandusky river, and who was, in fact, the only person that could be esteemed his neighbour. Being divided by a considerable river, the two men were not likely to meet except by design; and as the Frenchman was advised of the prejudice of his neighbour against his countrymen, there was no personal intercourse between them. as they knew, had never met, and had never seen each other; but that strange feeling of the human breast, that judges without evidence, and decides without consulting truth or reason, parted them like a brazen wall. Under circumstances when everything around might seem to enforce kindness upon the heart; even here, amid the majesty of nature's primeval forest, and away from the ferment of passions engendered amid towns and villages; to this lone spot the tempter had also migrated, and put into the bosom of man the serpent of an evil passion. Thus things passed till the two men had numbered nearly eighty years. At last the rumour came to the farmer that the Frenchman was dying, and it was remarked that a smile, as of pleasure, passed over his furrowed face. Soon after, a messenger came, saying that the dying Frenchman wished to see his neighbour, and begging him, in the name of Heaven, to comply with his request. Thus urged, the old man took his staff, proceeded to the river, and being set across in a boat, advanced toward the Frenchman's cabin. As he approached it he saw the aged man reclining upon a bed of bear-skins, beneath a group of trees, near his house. By his side were his children, consisting of several grown-up men and women. They were kneeling, and in tears, but as the farmer approached they rose, and at a sign from their dying father stood a little apart, while the stranger approached. The Frenchman held out his hand, and said in a feeble voice, "Brother, I am dying-let us part in peace.' Our old farmer took the cold hand, and tears, unwonted tears, coursed down his cheeks. For a moment he could not speak. But at last he said, "My friend, you speak English, and you call me brother. I thought you was a Frenchman, and I have ever esteemed a Frenchman as an enemy. And God knows I have cause, for I had once a brother, indeed. He came into life at the same hour as myself, for we were twins; and all our early days were passed Thus they lived for many years, their families sometimes meeting; but quarrel and altercation almost invariably ensued upon such occasions. In all these cases it was the custom of the farmer to indulge in harsh reflections upon the French character, and each action of his neighbour was commented upon with bitter-in undivided companionship. Our hearts were one, for we had no hopes or fears, no wants or wishes, no pleasures or pastimes, that were not mutually shared. But in an evil hour I was robbed of that brother by the French army. My father fell in the fight, and since that dark day my life has been shadowed with sorrow." A convulsion seemed to shake the emaciated form of the sick old man, and for a time he could not speak. At last he faltered forth, "Have you never seen your brother since that day?" "Never," said the other. 66 Then you see him, here!" said the Frenchman, and falling backward upon his couch of skins, a slight tremor ran over his frame, and he was no more. The explanation of the scene was this. The lifeless man was indeed the brother of the farmer. After being taken by the French troops, as has been related, he was conducted to Montreal, where he was detained for nearly two years. After his release he retraced his steps to his former home, on the banks of the Ohio, but found his birth-place deserted; he also learned the death of his father and the departure of his brother. For years he sought the latter in vain, and at last returned to Montreal. Here he married, and after some years removed, with a numerous family, to the borders of the Sandusky. He at length discovered that his nearest neighbour was his brother; but having found himself repulsed as a Frenchman, and treated rather like a robber than a friend, a feeling of injury and dislike had arisen in his breast, and therefore he kept the secret in his bosom till it was spoken in the last moments of existence. Thus it happened, in the tale we have told, that prejudice, obstinately indulged, prevented the discovery of an important truth, and kept the mind that was the subject of it wrapped in gloom and sorrow for years, which might otherwise have been blessed by the realizing of its fondest hopes. And thus prejudice often prevents a man from discovering that the object of his dislike, could he see and know him as he is, is indeed a man, and, as such, a brother. SAMUEL G. GOODRICH (PETER PARLEY). SONNET COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. Earth has not anything to show more fair; AN ESSAY ON MAN. [Alexander Pope, born in Broad Street, London, d May, 1688; died at Twickenham, 30th May, 1744. "la the eighteenth century," said Professor Wilson, "the reputation of Pope may be called the most dazzling in English literature." He was famous as a poet, as a translator, and as a letter-writer. The Quarterly Recice thus sums up his claims to the regard of posterity:"Pope is the poet of common life; and keeping this in our recollection, if we are to decide by the quantity and variety of pleasure afforded, by the value of the knowledge imparted, or the sound morality inculcated, alone? In what other poet's works can we find, with whom should we place before him but Shakspeare so little intermixture of what is base and corrupt, so many, such various, and such copious sources of delight and improvement?" Of his numerous works it is only necessary to mention the following in the order of their publication: Pastorals; Essay on Criticism; The Rape Translation of Homer; The Dunciad, a heroic poem; Au of the Lock; Windsor Forest; The Temple of Fame: Essay on Man, from which our extracts are taken. In connection with this poem it will be interesting to read the observation of a recent critic in the British Quarterly Review: "Pope is not the exponent of the higher range of religious and philosophical ideas, but he is in a peculiar degree the mirror of the social passions and sentiments, the modes and tone of his day."] MAN'S DUTY. The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? If nature thunder'd in his opening ears, From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew! What thin partitions sense from thought divide! See through this air, this ocean, and this earth, Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd: What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Cease, then, nor order imperfection name; Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. Submit. In this or any other sphere, Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear; Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, Or in the natal or the mortal hour. All nature is but art unknown to thee; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good: And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, LIFE'S COMPENSATION. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where. Virtuous and vicious every man must be, But Heaven's great view is one, and that the whole: Heaven forming each on other to depend, |