Newspaper Page Text
I* O E T R Y.
LINES
from t. moore's new melodies.
If thou would'st have me sing and play
As once I played and sung.
First take this time worn lute away,
And bring one freshly strung. *
Call back the time w hen Pleasure’s sigh
First brea hed among the s’rings;
And time himself, in flitting by,
Made music with his wings.
Take, take the worn out lute away,
And bring one newly strung,
If thou would’st have me sing and play
As once I played and sung.
But how is this ? though new the lute,
And shining fresh the chords,
Beneath this hand they slumber mute,
Or speak but dreamy words.
In vain I seek the soul that dwelt,
Within that once sweet shell,
Which told so warmly what it felt,
And felt, w hat nought could tell.
Oh ask not then, for passion’s lay
From lute so coldly strung ;
With this I ne’r can sing or play
As once I played and sung.
No! bring that long loved lute again,
Though chilled by years it be,
If thou wilt call the slumbering strain
’Twill wake again for thee.
Though time have frozen the tuneful stream
Os thoughts that gush along,
One look from thee, like summer's beam,
Will thaw them into song.
Then give, oh give that wakening ray,
And, once more blithe and young,
Thy bard again will sing and play
As once he played and sung.
From the New-Yorker.
I’D DIE ’MID SOFT MUSIC.
words to von weber’s last waltz.
I’d die 'mid soft music; and whispering the lay,
I’d breathe, in sweet singing, my spirit away.
Bend o’er me, though weeping, thou beautiful one,
With thy long flowing tresses, till sinks my life’s sun ;
Then round me, ye lonely, sigh sad to the lute.
And warble your sorrow, whilst breathes the soft flute.
I'd die 'mid soft music, Ac.
I’ve lived 'mid the lovely, and, dying, I'd hear
The voice of the lovely sound last on mine ear !
In life and in blooming I’ve loved the soft lyre,
And't is meet it should sooth me till faint I expire :
Till Earth’s music failing, I join as I rise,
The far fading echoes that float from the skies.
I'd die 'mid soft music, Ac.
MIS CEIsL AN Y .
Front Backwood’s Magazine.
POCOCURANTE.
I do not care a farthing about any man, wo
man, or child, in the world. You think that
lam joking, Jemmy; but you are mistaken.
Waal! you look at me again with those hon
est eyes of yours staring with wonder, and ma
king ademi-puthetic, deminngry appeal lor an
exception in your favor. Well. Jemmy, Ido
cure about you, my honest fellow, so uncork
the other bottle.
Did you ever see me out of humor in your
Ife for the tenth part of a second ? Never, so
1 alp me, heaven ! Did you ever hear me speak
i! of another ? I might, perhaps, have crack
cla joke—indeed, 1 have cracked a good tnti
i y such in my time—at a man’s expense be
h ad his back ; but never have I said any tiling
which 1 would not say to his face, or what I
w mid not take f.omhim with treble hardness
of receil, if it so pleated him to return it; hut
nil bona file evil-spcaking was never uttered
by me. 1 never quarreled with tiny one. You
are going to put me in mind of my duel With
Captain Maxwell. 1 acknowledge 1 fought
it, and fired three shots. What then ? Could
1 avoid it? 1 was no more angry with him,
when I sent the message, than I was at the mo
ment of my birth. Duelling is an absurd cus
tom of the country, wliicli I must comply with
wh n occasion requires. The occasion had
turned up, and 1 fougat of course. Never was
1 happier than wnen I felt tae blood trickling
over my shoulders—for the wise laws ofhonor
were satisfied, and I was rid of die cuised
lrouble. I was sick of the puppyism of punc
tilio, and the booby legislation of the seconds,
and was glad to escape from it by a scratch.
I made tup with Muvwell, who was an hon> st.
though a not-Ileaded and obstinate man—and
you know I wasexei utorto his will. Indeed,
he dined with me the very day-week idler the
duel. Yet, spite of this equanimity, I rcqieiit
it, that I do not cate tor any human being on
earth, (the present company always being ex.
copied,) more than I care tor one of those til
berts wnich you are cracking with sucii lauda
ble assiduity.
Ye—it is true—l have borne myself to
wards my family ouexccptioriably, as tiie world
has it. I married oir my sisters, sent my
brot erstothe colleges, and did what was fair
for my mother. Bui I shall not be hypocrite
enougii to pretend to high motives for so doing.
My lather’s death left tliein entirely to me, and
wlia! could Ido with them ? Turn them out ?
Tnat would be absurd, and just as altsurd to re
tain them at home without treating them prop
erly. They were mv family. My ow n com
forts would have been materially invaded by
any ot'ner line of conduct. 1 therefore cxecu
ted tlie filial and fraternal affections in a man
ner which will be a fine topic of panegvri*
for my obituary. Heaven help the idiots win
write such things ! Tliey, to talk of motives
and feelings, and the impulses that sway th.
human heart! They, whose highest ambit io;
it is to furnish provender, at so much a lira
for magazine or newspaper. Yet from the
, 6hai! 1-receive tl»e tribute of a tear. The wor
shall be unformed in due time, and 1 care n«,
how soon, that “ Died at his house, etc. etc
a gentleman, exemplary in every relation ■ f
life, wlietlier we consider him as a son, a brott
er, a friend, or a citizen. His lieart,” ands
on to the end of tlie fiddle fuddle. The win*
ing up of my fhrnily affairs, you know, is, th
I Usve (rot rid of them all; that I pay tlie goo_
people a visit once a month, and ask them to
a humdrum dinner on my birth day, which
you are per.taps aware occurs but once a year.
lam alone. 1 feel that lam alone.
Mv politics—what then ? I am, externally
at least, a tory. a toute out ranee, because my
father and my grandfather (and I cannot trace
my genealogy any higher) were so be lb re me.
Resides, I think every gentleman should be a
tory; there is an easiness, a suavity of mind,
i engendered by toryism, which it is vain for
yon -to expect from fretful whiggery, or bawi
fng radicalism, and such should lie. a strong
distinctive feature in evCi'v* gs fitlefhari’s Char
acter. -And I ajdniit, that in my youth 1 did
i many queer tin igs, and said many violent and
nonsensical matters. But taut fervor is gone.
I tun still outside the same ; hut inside how
different ! I laugh to scorn the nonsense 1
hear vented about me in the clubs wlnch I fre
quent. The zeal about nothings, the bustle
about stuff, the fears and tlie precautions a
gaiusl fancied dangers, tlie indignation against
writings which no decent man thinks of read
ing. or against speeclies which are but the es
sence of stupidity ; in short, the whole tempest
in a tea-pot ap|»ears to me to be ineffably lu
dicrous, I join now and then, nay very often,
in these discussions; why should not I ? Am
I no' possessed of the undoubted liberties of a
Briton, inves.ed with the full privilege of talk
ing nonsense ? And if any of my associates
laugh inside at me, why, I think them quite
right.
But I have dirtied my fingers with ink, you
say, and daubed other people’s fiices witlrthem.
I admit it. My pen has been guilty of various
political jeux d'esprit, but let me whisper it,
Jemmy, on both sides. Don’t start, it is not
worth while. My tory quizzes lam suspect
ed of; suspected I say, for I am not such a
goose as to let them beany more than mere
matters of suspicion ; but of quizzes against
tories I am no more tluaught guilty than lam
of petty larceny. YSsuch is the case. I
write with no ill fee^Bf; public men or people
who thrust thenisCTTOs before the public in
any way. I just look on as phantoms of the
imagination, as tilings to throw off common
places about. You know bow l assassinated
Jack ****, j>i the song winch you transcribed
for me ; how it spread in thousands, to his
great annoyance. Well, on Wednesday last,
he and I supped tete-a-tete, and a jocular fel
low he is. It was an accidental rencounter—
he was sulky at first, but I laughed mid sung
him into good humor. W hen the second bot
tle Imd loosened his tongue, he looked at me
most sympathetically, and said, “ May I ask
you a question?” “A thousand,” I replied.
“ provided you do not expect me to answer
them.” “ Ah,” lie cried, “it was a sh: me for
you to abuse me the way you did, and all for
nothing ; but, hang it, let bygones be bygones
—you are too pleasant a fellow to quarrel
with.” 1 told him he appeared to lie under a
mistake—tie shook his head—emptied his bot
tle, mid we staggered home in gient concord.
In point off ict, men of sense think not ofsuch
things, and mingle freely in society as if they
never occurred. Why, then, should Ibe sup
posed to have any feeling whatever, whether of
anger or pleasure about them ?
My friends ! Where are they ? Ay. Jem
my, I do understand what that pressure of my
hand means. Bat where is the other ? No.
wh re! Acquaintances I have in hundreds
—boon companions in dozens—fellows to
whom I make myself as agreeable as I can,
and whose sue ety gives me pleasure. There’s
Jack Meggot—the best joker in the world—
Will Thompson—an unexceptionable ten-bot
tle-man— John Mortimer, a.singer of most re
nowned social qualities—there’s—but what
need I enlarge the catalogue ? You know the
men I mean. I live witn them, and that right
gaily, but Would on of them crack a joke tlie
less, drink a lass tlie less, sing a song the
less, if I died before morning ? Not one—nor
do I blame them. for. if they were ingulfed in
Tartarus, I should just go through my usually
daily round—ke p moving in tlie suite mono
tonous tread-mill of life, with other compan
ions to help me through, as steadily as l do
now. The friends of my boyhood are gone—
ay—all—all gone! I have lost the old familiar
laces, and shall not try for others to replace
them. I am now happy v ith a mail-coach
compan on, whom I icver saw before, and ne
ver will see again. My cronies come like
shadows, to depart. Do you remember tlie
‘tory of Abon Hassnn, in someoftlie Oriental
tiles? lie was squandering a fine property
on some hollow friends, when he was advised
to try their friendship by pretending poverty,
and asking their assistance. It was refused,
and he determined in ver to see them more—
never to make a friend—n ly, not even an ac
quniutancc ; lint to sit, according to the cus
tom of the East, by the way-side, and inv;te
to his board the three first p tssers-by, with
whom lie spent the night in festive debauchery.
making it a rule never to ask the same per
sons a second time. My life is almost the
same—true it is that I know the exterior eo -
foi mation. and the peculiar habits of those with
whom I associate, hut our hearts are ignorant
of one another. They vibrate not together ;
they are ready to enter into the same commu
nication, with any passer-by. Nay, perhaps,
Ilassan’s plan was more social. He was re
lieved from inquiries as to the character of his
table-mates. Be they fair, be they foul, they
were nothing to him. lam tormented out of
my life by such punctilios as 1 daily must sub
mit to. “ I wonder you keep company” says
a friend—friend! well, no matter—“ wi'h R.
He is a scoundrel—he is suspected of having
cheated fifteen years ago at play, he drinks ale
le fought shy in a duel business, he is a whig
—a radical, a muggletonian, a jumper, a mod
rate man, a jacobin ; he asked twice for soup
e wrote a liiiel, his fattier was a low attorney
obody knows him in good society, ” etc. etc.
Why, what is it to me ? I care not whcthei
>e broke every commandment in the deca
■igue. provided he lie a pleasant fellow, am
nit lam not mixed up with his offences. Bn
le world will so mix me up in spite of myself,
i surns used to say, tlie best company he was
j >er ill, was the company of professed black
uards. Perhaps lie was right. I dare no
r y.
My early companions I did care for an
here are they ? Poor Tom Benson, he wa
v' class-fellow at scliool; we occupied tin
me rooms in college, we shared our s'udie-,
! jar amusements, our flirtations, our follies, oui
TIIE SOUTHERN POST.
dissipations together. A more honorable or
upright creature never existed. Well, sir, lie
had an uncle, lieutenant-colonel of a cavalry
regiment, and at his request Tom bought a
cornetcy in tlie corps. I remember the grand
looking fellow strutting about in the full splen
dor of his yet unspotted regimentals, the cyn
osureof the bright eyes of tlie country town in
winch he resided. He came to Loudon, nnd
then joined his regiment. All was well for a
while ; but lie had always an unfortunate ilch
for play. In on little circle it did him no
great harm ; but his new companions played
high, and far too skilfully for Tom—perhaps
there was roguery, or perhaps there was not —
I never inquired. At all events, he lost all
his ready money. He then drew liberally on
his family ; lie lost that too ; in short, poor
Tom at last staked his commission, and lost it
with the re.-t. This, of course, could not be
concealed from the uncle, who gave him a se
vere lecture, hut procured him a commission
in an infantry regiment destined for Spain.
He was to join it without delay ; but the in
fatuated fellow again risked himself, and lost
the infantry commission also. He now was
ashamed or afraid to face his uncle, and enlist
ed (for he was a splendid looking young man,
and was instantly accepted,) as a private sol
dier in the twenty-sixth foot. I suppose that
he found his habits were too refined and too
firmly fixed to allow him to be satisfied with
the scanty pay, and coarse food, and low com
pany, of an infantry soldier. It is certain, that
fie deserted in a fortnight after enlistment.—
The measure of poor Tom’s degradation was
not yet fil ed up. He had not a farthing when
he left the twenty-sixth. He went to his un
cle’s at an hour when he knew that he would
not be at home, and was with difficulty admit
ted by the servant, who recognised him. He
persuaded him a* last that he meant to throw
himself on tlie mercy of his uncle, and the
man, who loved him—every bodv of all de
grees wiio knew him loved Inm —consented to
his admission. I am almost ashamed to go
on. He broke open his uncle’sescritoir, and
took from it vvliatever money it contained—a
bundled pounds or thereabouts—and slunk out
of the house. Heavens! what were ny feel
ings when I heard this—when I saw him pro
claimed in the newspapers as a desertei, and ;
a thief! A thief! Tom Benson a thief! I
, could not credit the intelligence of my eyes or
my ears. He whom I knew only five months
' before, for so brief had his career been, would
have turn and with scorn and disgust from any
action deviating a hair’s-breadth from the high
est honor. How he spent the next six mouths
of his life, 1 know not; but about the end of
that period a letter was left at my door by a
messenger, who immediately disappeared. It
was from him. It was couched in terms of
the most abject self-condemnation, and the bit
terest remorse. He declared tie was a ruined
may in character, in fortune, in happiness, in
every thing, and conjured me, for tha sake of j
former friendship, to let him have five guineas, |
which he said would take him to a place of j
safety. Prom the description of the messen
ger, who, Tom told me in his note, would re
turn in an hour, I guessed it was himself.—
When the time came, which he had put off to
a moment of almost complete darkness. I
opened the door to his fearful rap. It was he,
1 knew him at a glance, as the lamp flashed
over his face, and, uncertain as was the light,
it was bright enough to let me see that lie was
| squalid,and in rags; that a fearful and fero
cious suspicion, which spoke volumes, as to tlie
life he had lately led, lurked in his side-looking
eyes ; those eyes that a year before spoke no
thing but joy and courage, and that a prema
ture gruyness had covered with pie-bald patch
es the once glossy black locks which straggled
over his unwashed face, or through his tatter
ed hat.
I had that he asked, perhaps more, in a pa
per in my hand. I put it into his. I had
barely time to say “ O Tom !” when he caught
my hand, kissed it with burning lips, exclaim-!
ed, “ Don’t speak to me, I am a wretch !” and,
bursting from the grasp with which I wished to
detain him, fled with the speed of an arrow
down the street, and vanished into a lane.
Pursuit was hopeless. Many years elapsed,
and I heard not of him, no one heard of him.
But about two years ago, I was at a coffee
; house in the Strand, when an officer of what
tl ey called the Patriots of South America,
staggered into the room. lie was very drunk.
Ilis tawdry and tarnished uniform proclaimed
the service to which he belonged, and all doubt
on the subject was removed by his conversa
tion. It was nothing but a tissue of curses on
Bolivar and his associates, who, he asserted,
had seduced him from his country, ruined his
prospects, robbed him, cheated him, and insult
ed him. How true these reproaches might
have been 1 knew not, nor do I care, but a
thought struck me that Tom might have been
of this army, and I inquired, as, indeed, I did
of everybody coming from a foreign country,
if he knew any thing of a man of the name of
Benson. “Do you ?” stammered out the
drunken patriot, “ I do,” was mv reply. “Do
vou care about him ?” again asked the officer.
“ I did, I do.” again I retorted. “ Why then,”
said he “ take a short stick in your hand, nnd
step across to Valparaiso, tliere you will find
him two feet under ground, strongly wrapi ed
up in a blanket. 1 was his sexton myself, and
bad no time to dig him a deeper grave, and no
way ofgetting a stou’er coffin. It will just
do all as well. Poor fellow, it was all the
clothes he had for many a day before.” I was
shocked at the recital, but Holmes was too
much intoxicated to pursue the subject anv far
ther. I called on him in the morning, and
learned that Benson had joined as a private
soldier in this desperate service, under the name
of Maberly, that he speedily rose to a com
mand, was distinguished for doing desperate
ictions, in which he seemed quite reckless of
ife, had, however, been treated with consider
thle ingratitude, never was paid a dollar, had
ost his baggage, was compelled to part wit!
dniost all his wearing apparel for subsistence
! aid had just made his way to the sea-side
•imposing to escape to Jamaica, when he sunk
ivercome by hunger and fatigue. He kept tin
ecret of his name till the last moment, who
•e confided it, and a part of his unhappy his
i ory, to Holmes. Such was the end of Ben
<in, a man born to high expectations, of culti
ited mind, considerable genius, generou
e.srt, qnri honorable purposes.
Jack Dallas I became acquainted with at
Brazen Nose. There waa a time that I tho’t
I would have died for him. and, I believe, that
his feelings towards me were equally warm.
Ten tearsngo we were tlie Damon and Pyth.
ias, the Pylades and tlie Orestes of our day.
Y'et I lost him by a jest. He was wooing
most desperately a very pretty girl, equal to
him in rank, but ratlier meagre in tlie purse.
He kept it, however, a profound secret from
his friends. By accident I found it out, and
when 1 next saw him, 1 began to quiz him.
He was surprised at the discovery, and very
sore at the quizzing. He answered so testi
ly, that I proceeded to annoy him. He be
came mote and more sour, I more and more
vexatious in my jokes. It was quite wrong on
my part; but heaven knows 1 meant nothing
by it. I did not know that he had just part
ed with his father, who bad refused all consent
to the match, adding injurious insinuations a
bout the mercenary motives of the young lady.
Dallas Imd been defending her, but in vain ; and
then, while in this mood, did I choose him as
the butt of my silly witticisms. At last some
thing I said, some mere pieces of nonsense,
nettled him so much, that he made a blow at
me. I arrested his arm, and cried, “Jack,
you would linvj been vi ry sorry had you put
your intentions into effect.” He colored as if
ashamed of his violence, but remained -alien
and silent fora moment, and then left the room. 1
W e never have spoke since. He shortly after
went abroad, and we were thus kept from
meeting and explaining. On his return, we
joined different coteries, and were of different
j sides in politics. In fact, I did not see him for
nearly seven years until last Monday, when lie j
passed me, with his wife—a different jierson
I from his early passion, the girl on account of!
whom we quarreled, on his arm. I
looked at him, bui he bent down bis eyes, pre- j
tending to speak to Mrs. Dallas. So lie it.
Then there was my brother—my own poor
brother, one year younger than myself. The!
verdict, commonly a matter of course, must
have been true in bis case. What an inward
revolution that must have been, which could j
have lient that gav and free spirit, that joyous
and buoyant soul, to think of self-destruction.
But I c nnot speak of poor Arthur. These l
were my chief friends, and I lost the last of
them about ten year- ago ; and since that time
I know no one, the present company excepted,
for whom 1 care a farthing. Perhaps, if they
had lived with me as well as my other compan
ions, I would have been as careless about them,
as lam about Will Thomson, Jack Megget,
or my younger brothers. lam often inclined
to think, that my feelings towards them are
hut wanned by the remember* and fervor of boy
hood, and made romantic by distance of time.
lain pretty sure, indeed, that it is so. And,
if we could call up Benson innocent from the
mould of South America, could restore poor,
dear Arthur, make Dallas forget his folly, and
let them live together again in my society, I
should be speedily indifferent about them too.
My mind is as if slumbering, quite wrapped up
in itself, and never wakes but to act a part.
I rise in the moreing, to eat, drink, talk, to say
whai I do not think, to advocate questions
wliic i I care not for, to join companions whom j
I value not, to indulge in sensual pleasures
which I despise, to waste my hours in trifling I
j amusements, or more trifling business, and to
retire to my bed perfectly in ifferent as to
whether I am ever again to see the shining of
the sun. Yet, is my outside gay, and my cor.
! versation sprightly. Within I generally stag
: nate, but sometimes there comes a twinge
short indeed, but bitter. Then it is that I
|am, to all appearance, most volatile, most ea
ger in dissipation ; but could you lift thecov
eriug which shrouds the secrets of my bosom,
you would see that, like the inmates of the hid
jof r.blis, my very heart was fire.
Ha—ha—ha ! say it again, Jemmy—say it
ag tin. man—do not be afraid. Ha —ha—ha!
too good—too good, upon honor. I wascros. i
sell in love! lin love. Y'ou make me laugh
—excuse my rude ess—lia—ha—ha! No
no, thank heaven, though 1 committed follies
of various kinds, I escaped that foolery. I
see my prosing has infected you, lias made
you dull. Quick, umvire tlie champagne—let
us drive spirits into us by its generous tide.
!We are growing muddy over the claret. I
in love! Ba fish all gloomy thoughts,
“ A light heart and a thin pair of breeches
Goes through the world, my brave boys.”
What say you to that ? We should drown all
care in the bowl—fie on the plebeian world,
we should dispel it by the sparkling bubbles of
wine, fit to be drai k by the gods ; that is y. >ur
only true philosophy.
“ Let us drink and lie merry,
Dance, laugh and rejoice,
With claret and sherry,
Theorbo and voice.
This changeable world
To our joys is unjust;
All pleasure's uncertain,
So down with your dust.
In pleasure dispose
Your pounds, shillings, and pence,
For we all shall be nothing
A hundred years hence.”
What, not another ? Only one more !
Do not be so obstinate. Well, if you must,
why, all 1 can say is, good night. *******
He is gone. A kind animal, but a fool; ex
actly what is called the best creature in tiie
world. I have that affection for him that I
have for old Towler, and I believe his feelings
towards me are like Towler’s, an animal love
of one whom he looks up to. An eating,
drinking, good-humored, good-natured v.irlet,
who laughs at my jokes, when I tell him they
are to lie laughed at, sees things exactly in the
ight that I see them in, backs me in my as
sertions, and bets on meat whist. I had rath
er than ten thousand pounds be in singleness
•if soul, in thoughtlessness of brain, in honesty
if intention, in solid contented ignorance, such
is Jemmy Musgravc. That 1 cannot be
N'imparte.
Booby as he is. he did hit a string which I
nought had lost its vibration, had become in
'urate like all my other feelings. Pish ! It
s well that lam alone. Surely the claret has
nade me maudlin, and the wine is oozing out
tmy eyes. Pish! What nonsense. Ay,
Margaret, it is exactly ten years ago. I was
•en twenty, and a fool. No. not a fool for
oving you. By heavens, I have lost my wits
.o talk this stuff! the wine has done its office,
and lam maundering. Wh, did I love you ?
It was all my own jierverse stupidity. I W as,
am. and ever will be, a blockhead, an idiot of
tiie first water. And such a match for her to
be driven into. Site certainly should have let
me know more of her intentions than she did.
Indeed ! Way should site ? Was she to ca
per after my whims, to sacrifice her h ippiucss
to my caprices, to my devotions of to-day, and i
my sulkinesses, or. still worse, my-levities of
to-merrow ? No, no, Margaret: never—ne
ver—never, even in thought, let me accuse
you, model of gentleness, of kindness, of good
ness, as well as of lien ity. 1 am to blame
myself, and myself alone.
I can see her now, can talk to her without
passion, can put up with her husband,anil lon
dle her children. I have repressed that emo
tion, and, in doing so. all others. With that
tkrob lost, went all the rest. lam now a mere
card in the pack, shuffled about eternally with
the set. but passive and senseless. I care no
more for my neighbor, than the king ofdia-i
mi nds cares for him of clubs. Dear, dear
Margaret, there is a lock of your hair enclosed
unknown to you inn little ease which lies over
my heart. I seldom dare look at it. Let me
kiss its auburn folds once more, and remember
the evening I took it. But lam growing more
and more absurd. I drink your health then,
and retire.
Here’s a health to thee, Margaret,
Here’s a health to thee ;
The drinkers are gone,
And I am alone,
So here’s a healih to thee.
Dear, dear Margaret.
NIAGARA.
The correspondent of the New.York Ex
press in his “Journal of a Tour to the West,”
lias the following notice of the cataract of
Niagara:
Alone at midnight I have returned to mv
hotel, from a lonely and solemn walk along the
shores of Niagara. From my window, by the
pale light of tiie stars, I can almost see the
foam that whitens tlie rocky shores beneath
me. The roar of the cataract is still ringing
in my ears. All else is hushed in midnight
sleep. The earth has veiled the sun in its
mantle of darkness, and the moon sheds not
now even its dimmest lustre upon the little
speck of earth we inhabit. Tlie stars alone
mingle their feeble rays of light with the thick
dampness of night. Ali is still, solemn, and
awful, save, perhaps, the active sense if man
and the power of conscience. In such a place
as this, at such an hour as this, why may not
the living have communion with tlie dead—we
who people the earth with tlie angelic hosts
who dwell in the heavens above us ? Life here
at such a time seems but
“ a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage.
And then is heard no more; as a ta'e
Told by an idiot; full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
So majestic is Nature, and so homeless does
man now seem compared with Natun. both
in the over-banging firmament above, “ fretted
witn golden fire ;” and in the deep beneath,
rumbling unceasing thundcs, that liciea man,
hi spite efhimself, must forget himself-—all that
le lias been, all that he is, and all that he hopes.
Ilis nothingness seems written as with a pen
if iron upon all around him, and if ever a feel,
mg of humility bowed him to the dust, it will he
it a place and at a time like this. Thought is
ict've and becomes as food and raiment lor
ne body. Fancy, contemplation, solicitude,
■t”re, reflection, so to speak, every fibre of
thought, becomes a living and an active princi
ple. Sublimity is here felt and realized by the
fullest man, who has lever before opened his
eves to see, or his ears to hear, of tlie wonders
of Nature. Before him, and all around him.
s a fit and striking emblem of eternity. Un
ceasingly since the seven days wnen tlie Great
Je.ovah “divided the waters which were un
fertile firmament,” the same omnipotent pow
er lias poured out, as from tlie palms of His
minis, seas upon seas, and oceans upon oceans,
without the least diminution of power.
1 know not, hut as I read, wlmt have been
the conceptions of others as for the first time
t iey have gazed upon a scene like this. In
truth and sotierness, I hardly know my own
feelings, for all that I see here is unlike all that
I have seen elsewhere. There is but one
Niagara upon tlie broad surface of the crea
ted world ! No man wiio has seen this will
question either its unity or its power. The
waterfall here speaks in tones of thunder, and
its voice night nor day is hushed. In the
storm there is but one Niagara In the beau
ty of the sunshine arched with rainbows that
charm tiie eye and take captive the imagina
tion, there is but one Niagara. In the still
ness ot nigiit, when the heavens are clothed
with darkness, tliere is but one Niagara. In
the morning, at noon, or at eventide, at sun
rise, at twilight, or in the bustle of mid-day,
there is but one Niagara. I shall not, for I
cannot even attempt a descri, tion of the Fulls
of Niagara. In the almost overpowering re
flections that take possession of tiie visiter and
carry away captive Ins judgement, you may
form some faint idea of ttie grandeur nnd pow
er of this waterfall. Stand at the foot of Etna
or Vesuvius, with the earth trembling beneath
your feet, and the crater of the volcano aboxe
you polling forth its smoke and fire, burying
the villages bei eath in ashes and ruins, and
you see a sight less grand and imposing than
Niagara. Stand upon one of the vast prairies
of ttie West, and there look upward and see
the wi idows of heaven rolling down as in
floods rivers of water from the height abo e,
and even then you paint but a poor picture o!
the I" alls of Niagara. As soon almost would
I assume the attitude of the inspired prophets
and, like St. John of old, draw a likeness o
the new heaven and the new earth of the celes
tial city.
He who attempts such likeness mars the
beauty of the great original. True, I migli'
perhaps give some faint likeness of some few
of the many beauties ot this striking repre
sentation of the power of Deity. But to real
ize the scene presented to the visiter, it mus
lie seen and heard and felt. Reflection, too
must do its part to contribute to tlie naturtd
effect of a piece of work like this. Here
“ deep callcth unto deep,” nnd, in gazing ujku
the faint picture now, with midnight before mi
and in hearing the waves
“ That break and whisper of their Maker’s might -••
I am with Brainard, ready to apostrophe
Niagara, and say, with him, it seems
“ As if God p Hir’d thee from his hollow hand,
And hung His bow upon ihy awful front.
And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to hi*
Who dwelt in Patinos for his Saviour's sake '
‘The sound of many waters ;’ and had bade
The flood to chronicle the ages back.
And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks.”
1 am inclined, deai reader, to serve vou •
a guide-book, should you ever visit the Seventh
wonder of the world, t 0 take you hy the hand
cross from the American shore to Goat or'
Iris Island, covered with tall trees and hu«e
rocks, notched w ith the initials of the names
of millions of visitors, and scattered over with
a rich variety of flowers, and from this f ar
fumed spot, which gives you a magnificent
view of the Rapids of both Falls, go with V0l)
to the numerous places of attraction upon
both sides of the river. My mind is made up
again to weary you. patience. Adieu, there,
sere for tlie present.
MODERN POETS.
Wordsworth. Wordsworth, if he stood
alone, would vindicate the imn ortality of his
art. He has, in his works, built up a'leck of
defence for his species, which will resist the
mightiest tides of demoralizing luxury. Set.
ting aside the varied and majestic harmony of
his verse—the freshness and the grandeur of
his descriptions—the exquisite softness of his
delineations of character, and the high and
rapturous spirit of his choral songs—we may
produce his ‘divine philosophy’ as unequalled
by any preceding bard. And surely it is no
small proof of the infinity of the resources of
genius, that, in this late age of the world, the
first of all philosophic poets should have arisen,
to open anew vein of sentiment and thou»htj
< cejier and richer than yet had b en laid bare
to mortal eyes. His rural pictures are as fresh
and as lively as those of Cowper, yet how
much lovelier is the pi-etic light which is shed
over them! His exhibition of gentle pecu.
liurities ol character, and dear immunities of
heart, is is true and as genial as that of Gold,
smith, yet how much is its interest heightened
by its intimate connection, as by golden
chords, with the noblest and most universal
truths! His little pieces of tranquil beauty
are as holy and as sweet as those of Collins,
and yet, while we feel the calm of the elder
poet gliding into our souls, we catch farther
glimpses through the luxuriant boughs into
‘tlie highest heaven of invention.’ His soul
mantles as high w ith love and joy, as that of
Burns, but yet ‘ how bright, how solemn, how
serene,’ is the brinn mg and lucid stream! Ilis
poetry not only and scovers, within the heart,
new faculties, hut awakens within its untried
powers, to comprehend and to enjoy its beau
ty and its wisdom.
Coleridge. —Coleridge, by a strange error,
has been usually regarded ns belo ging to the
ame school with Wordsworth, partaking of
the same peculiarities, and upholding the
same doctrines. Instead, like Wordsworth,of
seeking the sources of sublimity and of lieauty
m the simplest elements of humanity, he
ranges through nil history and science, inves
tigating all that has really existed, and all that
really existed, and all that Isas had foundation
only in the strongest and wildest minds, com.
hitting, condensing, developing, and multiply
ing the rich products of his research with mar
vellous facility and skill; now pondering fond
ly over some piece of exquisite loveliness,
brought from a wild and unknown recess;
now tracing out the hidden germ of the eldest
and most barbaric theories; and now calling
fantastic spirits from the vasty deep, where
they have slept since the dawn of reason. The
term, ‘myriad-minded,’ which lie has happily
applied to Shukspeare, is truly descriptive of
himself. He is not one, hut Legion—‘rich
with the spoils of time,’ richer in his own glo
rious imagination and sportive fantasy. There
is nothing more wonderful than the facile ma
jesty of his images, or rather, of his world of
imagery, which, even in bis poetry or his
prose, start up before us self raised and all
perfect, like the palace of \ laddin. Ile ascends
to the sublimest truths, by a winding track of
of sparkling glory, which can only be des
cribed in bis own language—
“ The spirit’s ladder,
That from this gross and visible world of du«t,
Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds
Builds itself up; on which the unseen powers
Move up and down on heavenly ministries —
The circles in the circles, that approach
The central sun, with ever-narrowing orbit.”
In various beauty of versification, he has
never licen exceeded. Sliakspeare, doubtless
has surpassed him in linked sweetness and ex
quisite continuity, and Milton in pure majesty
and classic grace—but this is in ones: ecies
of verse only—and, taking all his trials of va
rious metres, the swelling harmony of his
blank verse, the sweet breathing of his gentler
otles, and the sybil-hke flutter alternate with
the murmuring charm of his wizard spells,
we doubt if even those great masters have so
f.dly developed the music of * the English
tongue.
Lamb. —Charles Lamb is as original as
Wordsworth or Coleridge, within the smaller
circle which he has chosen. We know not
of any writer, living or dead, to whom we
can fitly liken him. The exceeding delicacy
of his fancy, the keenness of his perceptions
of truth and beauty, the sweetness and the
wisdom of his hum< r, and the fine interchange
and sportive combination of all these, so fre
quent in his works, are entirely and peculiarly
his own. As it has been said of Swift, that
his better genius was his spleen, it may be as
serted of Lamb, that his kindliness is his in
spiration. With how nice an eye does he de
tect the least hitherto unnoticed indication of
goodness, and with how true and gentle a
touch does he bring it out to do good to our
natures! How new and strange do some of
his more fantastical ebullities seem, yet how
invariably do they come home to the very
core, and smile at the heart ? He makes the
majesties of imagination seem familiar, and
gives to familiar things a pathetic beauty* ora
venerable air. Instead of finding that every
thing in his writings is made the most of, we
always feel that the tide of sentiment and of
thought is pent in, and that the airy and