Private Library of A, E. KIRK Collector of Rare and Antiquarian Books Long Beach, California J- Nereiliadmr si^t aj>p \ None other 5 0viii5 so r'uct , He would stiolte The >«ad of modest and tn jenuous wona That l>l\is^*d at its owrt piaise. THE PREMIUM; A PRESENT FOR ALL SEASONS; CO:«SISTING OF ELEGANT SELECTIONS FROH BRITISH AND AMERICAN WRITERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. PHILADELPHIA- CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD. 1836. Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1833, by Carey, Lea & Blanchard, in the Clerk's OfFice of the District Court of the Eastern Dis- trict of Pennsylvania. PREFACE. Of the many books which are now used as presents to the young, there is a large proportion whose contents are rather of a light and frivo- lous character ; and very few of which the com- position maybe regarded as truly classical. The editor of the Premium, having frequent occasion to present books to those who are under his care, has learnt that it is no easy matter always to find such a volume as is exactly suited to his purpose. He deems it important that a premium should contain solid matter — such as may be read fre- quently without losing its interest — matter which may serve to form the taste, aid the reader in the art of composition, at the same time that it furnishes valuable information ; and precepts for 2u73&79 IV PREFACE. the conduct of life. In short, that the volume may be fit to preserve and peruse in mature life. If the production now oflfered to the public shall be considered as having in any good de- gree maintained this character, the editor's de- sign will have been fully accomplished. CONTENTS. Page Advantages of a well-cultivated Mind 1 Nature and Art 5 Flowers 6 To the Evening Wind 8 Description of a Roman Entertainment 9 The Evening Cloud 12 Solitude ib. The Tizer's Cave 14 Holy Flowers 21 How to become a Naturalist 23 The Homes of England 24 The Clemencv of Luitprand 25 The Torch of Liberty 28 An English Spring Morning 30 Autumn 32 Th.3 Fall of the Leaf. 33 Ode 39 The Pleasures of Botany 41 What 's Hallowed Ground 44 The Venetian Bridals 47 Sonnet 51 Mountains ib. Weep not for the Youthful Dead 56 The Rainy Sunday 58 To Nature 62 The Perfection of Nature 64 The Museum of Nature 66 The New Moon 68 Joanna Baiilie 69 The Lily 72 English Authors 73 A Highland Anecdote 74 The Bell of St. Regis 77 Nature's Gift 84 The Beacon-Light 85 Early Life of Audubon ib. The Brook... 88 The World to Come 92 Future Increase of Knowledge 93 The dying Father and liis Daughter 97 V VI CONTEXTS. Fjge The Winter Night 1,)4 Rebellion in the State Prison 105 The Hurricane Ill Hymn of Nature 115 The Prairie Il6 The Snow Flake 122 Description of Niagara Falls 124 Song to the Evening Star 126 The Genius of Death 127 The Harvest Moon 128 Spri ng 129 Extract ib. Tlie Spanish Brigand 130 Arts and Sciences mutually dependent 135 The Progress of Life 140 Woman ib. The Character of Oliver Cromwell 141 Haunt for a Summer Noon 146 The Landscape ib. A Wood Scene 147 American Deer-hunt 148 The Spirit of Beauty 151 Extract from Mr. Brougham's Defence of J. A. Wil- liams, for a Libel on the Clergy of Durham 152 Right of Free Discussion asserted 154 The Declaration of Independence compared with Magna Charta 155 Character of Michael Angelo 156 Connecticut River 158 Lord Thurlow 162 Sicilian Scene 164 Morning Twilight 165 May you die among your Kindred ib. The Siars 166 Crater of Kirauea in Hawaii ib. The Green Linnet 170 The Human Voice ib. Blindness of Milton 174 The Unknown Isles 176 A Mother 177 Modesty ib. Authorship 178 My Sister 181 Beauty of Flowers and Shells 182 August 185 Value of Classical Learning 186 The ivy 188 Lines written on a Blank Leaf of La Perouse'B Voyages 190 COXTESTS. Vll *, Page Reception of Columbus on his Return to Spain ]9-2 The Star 195 Extract 196 Death ib. Character of the Roman Dominion ib. On seeinj,' in a List of Music the "Waterloo Waltz'. 199 Trust in Providence 200 What then? 201 Parental Affection 203 The Chase 204 dualities of a well-regulated Mind 208 To an Infant 212 Parallel between Leibnitz and Newton 213 The Lost Darling 216 Improxisatori 217 Midnight at Corinth 220 True Greatness 221 The Grandame 222 Ancient Nations 224 Titus before Jerusalem 225 Uses of Water 226 The Butterfly 229 Night ib. Pursuits of Cowper 231 The English Church Service 233 Passage of the Red Sea 234 Extract 236 English Customs ib. The Sea-shell 240 The Sense of Duty 241 Effect of the Death of Nelson 243 The Plavthings 244 To a Child 245 The Dead Soldier 246 Character of the Puritans 248 Stanzas 251 Thoughts at Midnight 252 Characteristics of Poetry 253 The Wounded Eagle 256 The Adventure of the Mason 257 The Dying Girl's Lament 2G1 The Illustrious Dead 263 Belshazzar 264 On Vanity 266 The Sabbath Bell 270 The Dangers of a Military Spirit 272 Cemeteries and Rites of Burial in Turkey 274 The Mother's Injunction, on preeenting her Son with a Bible 2~6 VIU CONTEXTS. Pace History , 277 1 see thee slill 282 Beauty and Force of the English Language 283 Shakspeare 285 To Intellectual Beauty 28G The Garden of Plants 288 Character of Sophocles 2113 Modern Greece 295 Remarks on Shakspeare 296 The Sabbath 303 Youth and Age 3()5 Marco Bozzaris 30(5 Battle of Waterloo 308 S^fie iDrrmium* ADVANTAGES OF A WELL-CULTIVATED MIND. It is not without reason that those, who have tasted the pleasures afforded by philosophy and literature, have lavished upon them the greatest eulogiuras. The benefits they produce are too many to enumerate, valuable beyond estimation, and various as the scenes of human life. The man who has a knowledge of the works of God, in the creation of the universe, and his providen- tial government of the immense system of the material and intellectual world, can never be without a copious fund of the most agreeable amusement. He can never be solitary ; for in the most lonely solitude he is not destitute of company and conversation: his own ideas are his companions, and he can always converse with his own mind. How much soever a person may he engaged in pleasures, or encumbered with business, he will certainly have some moments to spare for thought and reflection. No one, who has observed how heavily the vacuities of time hang upon minds unfurnished with images and unaccustomed to think, will be at a loss to make a just estimate of the advaoitages of possessing a copious stock of ideas, of which the combinations may take a multiplicity of forms, and may be varied to in- finity. Mental occupations are a pleasing reUef from bodily exertions, and that perpetual hurry and A 1 2 THE PREMIUM. wearisome attention, which, in most of the em- ployments of life, must be given to objects which are no otherwise interesting than as they are ne- cessary. The mind in an hour of leisure, obtain- ing a short vacation from the perplexing cares of the world, tinds, in its own contemplations, b source of amusement, of solace and pleasure. The tiresome attention that must be given to an infinite number of things, which, singly and separately taken, are of little moment, but col- lectively considered, form an important aggregate, requires to be sometimes relaxed by thoughts and reflections of a more general and extensive na- ture, and directed to objects of which the exami- nation may open a more spacious field of exercise to the mind, give scope to its exertions, expand its ideas, present new combinations, and exhibit to the intellectual eye, images new, various, sub- lime, or beautiful. The time of action will not always continue. The young ought ever to have this consideration present to their mind, that they must grow old, unless prematurely cut oflf by sickness or acci- dent. They ought to contemplate the certain approach of age and decrepitude, and consider that all temporal happiness is of uncertain acqui- sition, mixed with a variety of alloy, and, in whatever degree attained, only of a short and precarious duration. Every day brings some dis- appointment, some diminution of pleasure, or some frustration of hope ; and every moment brings us nearer to that period, when the present scenes shall recede from the view, and future prospects cannot be formed. This consideration displays, in a very interest- ing point of view, the beneficial effects of fur THE vnti>ttvyt. 3 hishing the mind with* a stock of ideas that may ftrause it in leisure, accompany it in solitude, dispel the gloom of melancholy, lighten the pressure of misfortune, dissipate the vexations arising from baffled projects or disappointed hopes, and relieve the tedium of that season of life, when new acqui- sitions can no more be made, and the world can no longer flatter and delude us with its illusory hopes and promises. When life begins, like a distant landscape, gra- dually to disappear, the mind can receive no solace but from its own ideas and reflections. Philosophy and Uterature will then furnish us with an inex- haustible source of the most agreeable amusements, as religion will afford its substantial consolation. A well-spent youth is the only sure foundation of a happy old age : no axiom of the mathematics is more true, or more easily demonstrated. Old age, like death, comes unexpectedly on the unthinking and unprepared, although its approach be visible, and its arrival certain. Those who have, in the earlier part of life, neglected to furnish their minds with ideas, to fortify them by contem- plation, and regulate them by reflection, seeing the season of youth and vigour irrecoverably past, its pleasing scenes annihilated, and its brilliant pros- pects left far behind, without the possibility of return, and feeUng, at the same time, the irresisti- ble encroachments of age, with its disagreeable appendages, are surprised and disconcerted by a change scarcely expected, or for which, at least, they had made no preparations. A person in this predicament, finding himself no longer capable of taking, as formerly, a part in the busy walks of life, of enjoying its active pleasures, and sharing its arduous enterprises, becomes peevish and uneasy. 4 THE pni:y.iu>r. troublesome to others, and burdensome to himself. Destitute of the resources of philosophy, and a stranger to the amusing pursuits of literature, he is unacquainted with any agreeable method of till- ing up the vacuity left in his mind by liis neces- sary recess from the active scenes of hfe. All tliis is the consequence of squandering away the days of youth and vigour without acquiring the habit of thinking. The period of human life, short as it is, is of sufiicient length for the acquisi- tion of a considerable stock of useful and agreeable knowledge ; and the circumstances of the world alTord a superabundance of subjects for contempla- tion and inquiry. The various phenomena of the moral as well as physical world, the investigation of sciences, and the information communicated by literature, are calculated to attract attention, exer- cise thought, excite reflection, and replenish the mind with an infinite variety of ideas. The man of letters, when compared with one that is ilUterate, exhibits nearly the same contrast as that which exists between a blind man and one that can see ; and if we consider how much litera- ture enlarges the mind, and how much it multipUes, adjusts, rectifies, and arranges the ideas, it may well be reckoned equivalent to an additional sense. It atfords pleasures which wealth cannot procure, and which poverty cannot entirely take away. A well cultivated mind places its possessor beyond the reach of those trifling vexations and disquietudes, which continually harass and perplex those who have no resomxes within themselves ; and, in some measure, elevates him above the smiles and frowns of fortune. biglaxd. THE PRE?.IIU3f. NATURE AND ART. It may be a trite observation, but it is at the same time a true one, that " there is neither waste nor ruin in nature," When the productions of human art fall into decay, they are gone ; and if the artist does not replace them by new formations, the species is gone also ; but the works of nature are their own repairers and continuers, and that which we are accustomed to look upon as destruc- tion and putrefaction, is a step in the progress of new being and life. This is the grand distinction between the productions of nature and those of art ; those in which the same power finds both the materials and the form, and those in which the form is merely impressed upon previously exist- ing materials. The substances in nature, are in themselves en- dowed with faculties, unseen and inscrutable by man in anything but their results, which produce all the varied forms of inorganic and organic be- ing, of which the solid earth, the liquid sea, and the fluid air, are formed, and by which they are inhabited. The fabrications of man are, on the other hand, in a state of commenced decay the in- stant that they are made ; and without the constant labour of repair, and replacing, they would perish altogether. The most extensive cities, and the strongest fortifications, after man abandons them to their fate, fade and moulder away, so that the people of after-ages dispute, not merely about the places where they were situated, but about the very fact of their existence. It is true, that when man. takes any of nature's productions out of the place or circumstances for which nature has fitted them, and supports them by artificial means, they can- 6 THE PREMIUM. not continue to exist after those means are with- drawn, any more than a roof can remain suspend- ed in the air, after the walls or parts that supported it are withdrawn ; or, a cork will remain at the bottom of a basin of water, after the weight that kept it fi-om rising to the surface has been removed. If man will have artificial shelter and food, he must keep in repair the house that he has built, trim the garden he has planted, and plough and sow the field from which he is to obtain his artificial crop ; but if he would content himself with that which is produced without importation, and artificial cul- ture, no planting, sowing, or culture, is necessary ; for whether it be in the warm regions, or in the cold, in the sheltered valley, or upon the storm- beaten hill, in the close forest, or upon the open down, nature does her part without intermission or error ; and while the results are so many and so beautiful, the causes are those qualities with which the fiat of the Almighty endowed the elements, when it was his pleasure to speak the whole into existence. British xaturalist. FLOWERS. The return of May, brings over us a Uving sense of the loveliness and dehghtfulness of flowers. Of all the minor creations of God, they seem to be most completely the effusions of his love of beauty, grace and joy. Of all the natural objects which surround us, they are the least connected with our absolute necessities. Vegetation might proceed, the earth might be clothed with a sober green ; all the processes of fructification might be perfected without being attended by the glory with which the THE PREMIUM. 7 flower is crowned ; but beauty and fragrance are poured abroad over the earth in blossoms of endless varieties, radiant evidences of the boundless benevo- lence of the Deity. They are made solely to glad- den the heart of man, for a light to his eyes, for a living inspiration of grace to his spirit, for a perpe- tual admiration. And accordingly, they seize on our affections the first moment that we behold them. With what eagerness do very infants grasp at flow- ers ! As they become older they would live for- ever amongst them. They bound about in the flowery meadows like young fawns; they gather all they come near ; they collect heaps ; they sit among them, and sort them, and sing over them, and caress them, till they perish in their grasp. This sweet May morning, The children are pulling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide Fresh flowers. WORDSWORTH. We see them coming wearily into the towns and villages, with their pinafores full, and posies half as large as themselves. We trace them in shady lanes, in the grass of far-off fields, by the treasures they have gathered and have left behind, lured on by others still brighter. As they grow up to matu- rity, they assume, in their eyes, new characters and beauties. Then they are strewn around them, the poetry of the earth. They become invested by a multitude of associations with innumerable spells of power over the human heart ; they are to us me- morials of the joys, sorrows, hopes, and triumphs of our forefathers : they are, to all nations, the em- blems of youth in its loveliness and purity. 9- THE PBE3IIUM. TO THE EVENIXG W^^'D. Spirit, that breathest through my lattice, thoa That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy fi-eshness round my brow ; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their prests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! Nor I alone— a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest. Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast ; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep And they, who stand about the sick man's bed. Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. THE PRE3IIU.Tr. 9 Go — ^but the circle of eternal change, That is the Ufe of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range. Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more ; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; And listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rusthng leaf and running stream. BRTAST. DESCRIPTION OF A ROMAN ENTERTAINMENT. If an ancient Roman could start from his slum- ber into the midst of European life, he must look with scorn on its absence of grace, elegance, and fancy. But it is in its festivities, and, most of all in its banquets, that he would feel the incurable barbarism of the Gothic blood. Contrasted with the fine displays that made the table of the Roman noble a picture, and threw over the indulgence of appetite the colours of the imagination ; with what eyes must he contemplate the tasteless and common- place dress, the coarse attendants, the meagre orna- ment, the want of mirth, music, and intellectual in- terest — the whole heavy machineiy that converts the feast into the mere drudgery of devouring ! The guests before me were fifty or sixty, splen- didly dressed men, attended by a crowd of domes- tics attired with scarcely less splendour ; for no man thought of coming to the banquet in the robes of ordinary life. The embroidered couch, itself a striking object, allowed the ease of position, at once delightful in the relaxing climates of the south, and capable of combining with every grace of the hu- man figure. At a shght distance, the table, loaded 10 THE PRE^riUM. with plate glittering under the blaze of a profusion of lamps, and surrounded by couches thus covered with rich draperies, was like a central source of light, radiating in broad shafts of every brilliant hue. All that belonged to the ornament of the board was superb. The wealth of the patricians, and their perpetual intercourse with Greece, made them mas- ters of the finest performances of the arts. The sums expended on plate were enormous. But its taste and beauty were essential to the refined en- joyment of the banquet. Copies of the most famous statues and groups of sculpture in the precious me- tals ; trophies of the victories of the Greek and Ro- man ; models of the celebrated temples ; were min- gled with the vases of flowers and hghted perfumes ; and covering and colouring all, was a vast scarlet canopy which combined the groups beneath the eye, and threw the whole into the form that a pain- ter would love. But the true skill was shown in the constant prevention of that want of topic, which turns con- versation into weariness. There was a perpetual succession of new objects and excitements. Even the common changes of the table were made to as- sist this purpose. The coming in of each course was announced by music, and the attendants were preceded by a procession of minstrels dancing, chaplet-crowned, and playing popular melodies. Between the courses, a higher entertainment was offered in the recitations, pleasantries read or acted by a class of professional satirists of the absurdities of the day. It is easy to imagine how fertile a source of in- terest this nmst have been made by the subtle and splenetic ItaUan, moving through Roman life, the most various, animating, and fantastic scene, in THE PREMIUM. 11 which society ever shone. The recitations were always looked to as the charm of the feast. They were often severe ; but their severity was reserved for public men and matters. The court supplied the most tempting and popular ridicule : but the re- citer was a privileged person, and all the better hu- moured Caesars bore the castigation without a mur- mur. No man in the empire was more laughed at than Vespasian, and no man oftener joined in the laugh. One of his morning's sports was to collect the burlesques of the night before, give them new pungency by a touch of the imperial pen, and then despatch them to make their way through the world. The strong-headed sovereign knew the value of an organ of public opinion, and used to call their pe- rusal, " sitting for his picture." The picture was sometimes so strong, that the courtiers trembled. But the veteran who had borne thirty years of bat- tle, laid it up among " his portraits," laughed the insult away ; and repeated his popular saying, "that when he was old enough to come to years of discre- tion, and give up the emperor, he should become reciter himself, and have his turn with the world." The recitations again were varied, by a sportive lottery in which the guests drew prizes ; sometimes of value, gems and plate ; sometimes merely an epigram, or a caricature. The banquet generally closed with a theatric dance by the chief pubhc per- formers of the day ; and the finest forms and most delicate art of Greece and Iberia displayed — the story of Theseus and Ariadne ; the flight of Jason ; the fate of Semele, or some other of the brilliant fictions of their poetry. In the presence of this vivid scene, sat tempering its wildness by the ma- jesty of religion, the three great tutelar idols of Rome, Jove, Juno, and Minerva, of colossal height. 12 THE PHEMIU.M. throned at the head of the hall ; completing, false as they were, the most singular and dazzUng com- bination that man ever saw, of the dehght of the senses with the dehght of the mind. cEOLr. THE EVENING CLOUD. A cLorr lay cradled near the setting sun — A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ; Long had I watched the glory moving on, O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow ; E'en in its very motion there was rest, Vv'hile every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west — Emblem, methought, of the departed soul. To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven ; Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. WILSOJT, SOLITUDE. 'Tis night when meditation bids us feel We once have loved, though love is at an end ; The heart, lone mourner of its baifled zeal. Though friendless now, will deem it had a friend. Who with the weight of years would wish to bend. When youth itself survives young love and joy ] Alas when mingling souls forget to blend, THE PKEMrUM. 13 Death has but little left him to destroy ! Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy ? Thus, bending o'er the vessel's laying side, To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed A thought, and claims the homage of a tear — A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heaNy heart divest. To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell. And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain ail unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold : Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; — This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled. But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen. With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less, Of all that flattered, followed, sought and sued ; — This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 14 THE rREMIUM. THE TIGERS CAVE. Ox leaving the Indian village, we continued to wind round Chimborazo's wide base ; but its snow- crowned head no longer shone above us in clear brilliancy, for a dense fog was gathering gradually around it. Our guides looked anxiously towards it, and announced their apprehensions of a violent storm. We soon found that their fears were well founded. The thunder began to roll, and resound- ed through the mountainous passes with the most terrific grandeur. Then came the vivid lightning; flash following flash — above, around, beneath — everywhere a sea of fire. We sought a momenta- r}' shelter in a cleft of the rocks, whilst one of our guides hastened forward to seek a more secure asy- lum. In a short time, he returned, and informed us that he had discovered a spacious cavern, which would aflbrd us sufficient protection from the ele- ments. We proceeded tliither immediately, and, with great difficulty, and not a little danger, at last got into it. When the storm had somewhat abated, our guides ventured out in order to ascertain if it were possible to continue our journey. The cave in which we had taken refuge, was so extremely dark, that, if we moved a few paces from the entrance, we could not see an inch before us ; and we were debating as to the propriety of leaving it, even be- fore the Inclians came back, when we suddenly heard a singular groaning or growling in the far- ther end of the cavern, which instantly fixed all our attention. W barton and myself listened anx- iously ; but our daring and inconsiderate young friend Lincoln, together with my huntsman, crept about upon their hands and knees, and endeavoured THE PREMlOr. 15 to discover, by groping, from whence the sound proceeded. They had not advanced far into the cavern, be- fore we heard them utter an exclamation of sur- prise ; and they returned to us, each carrj-ing in his arms an animal singularly marked, and about the size of a cat, seemingly of great strength and pow- er, and furnished with immense fangs. The eyes were of a green colour ; strong claws were upon their feet ; and a blood-red tongue hung out of their mouths. Wharton had scarcely glanced at them, when he exclaimed in consternation, " We have come into the den of a — " He was interrupted by a fearful cry of dismay from our guides, who came rushing precipitately towards us, calling out, " A tiger ! a tiger !" and at the same time, with ex- traordinary rapidity, they climbed up a cedar tree, which stood at the entrance of the cave, and hid themselves among the branches. After the first sensation of horror and surprise, which rendered me motionless for a moment, had subsided, I grasped my fire-arms. Wharton had already regained his composure and self-possession ; and he called to us to assist him instantly in block- ing up the mouth of the cave vrith an immense stone, which fortunately lay near it. The sense ol approaching danger augmented our strength; for we now distinctly heard the growl of the ferocious animal, and we were lost beyond redemption if he reached the entrance before we could get it closed. Ere this was done, we could distinctly see the tiger bounding towards the spot, and stooping in order to creep into his den by the narrow opening. At this fearful moment, our exertions were successful, and the great stone kept the wild beast at bay. There was a small open space, however, left be- 16 THE PRE3nrM:, tween the top of the entrance and the stone, through which we could see the head of the animal, illumi- nated by his glowing eyes, which he rolled glaringly with fury upon us. His frightful roaring, too, pene- trated to the depths of the cavern, and was an- swered by the hoarse growling of the cubs. Our ferocious enemy attempted first to remove the stone with his powerful claws, and then to push it with his head from its place ; and these efibrts, proving abortive, served only to increase his wrath. He uttered a tremendous heart-piercing howl, and his flammg eyes darted light into the darkness of our retreat. < " Now is the time to fire at him," said Wharton, with his usual calmness ; " aim at his eyes, the ball will go through his brain, and we shall then have a chance to get rid of him." Frank seized his double-barrelled gun, and Lin- coln his pistols. The former placed the muzzle within a few inches of the tiger, and Lincoln did the same. At Wharton's command, they both drew the triggers at the same moment ; but no shot fol- lowed. The tiger, who seemed aware that the flash indicated an attack upon him, sprang growl- ing from the entrance, but, feeling himself unhurt, immediately turned back again, and stationed him- self in his former place. The powder in botli pie- ces was wet. " All is now over," said Wharton ; " we have only now to choose whether we shall die of hunger, together with these animals who are shut up along with us, or open the entrance to the blood-thirsty monster without, and so make a quicker end of the matter." So saying he placed himself close beside the stone, which, for the moment, defended us, and THE PREMIUM. 17 looked undauntedly upon the lightning eyes of the tiger. Lincoln raved, and Frank took a piece of strong cord from his pocket, and hastened to the farther end of the cave ; I knew not with what design. We soon, however, heard a low, stifled groaning ; and the tiger which had heard it also, became more restless and disturbed than ever. He went backwards and forwards before the entrance of the cave, in the most wild and impetuous man- ner ; then stood still, and, stretching out his neck in the direction of the forest, broke forth in a deaf- ening howl. Our two Indian guides took advantage of this opportunity, to discharge several arrows from the tree. He was struck more than once ; but the light weapons bounded back harmless from his thick skin. At length, however, one of them struck hira near the eye, and the arrow remained sticking in the woinid. He now broke anew into the wildest fury, sprang at the tree, and tore it with his claws, as if he would have dragged it to the ground. But having, at length, succeeded in getting rid of the ar- row, he became more calm, and laid himself down, as before, in front of the cave. Frank now returned from the lower end of the den, and a glance showed us what he had been doing. In each hand, and dangling from the end of the string, were the two cubs. He had strangled them ; and, before we were aware what he intend- ed, he threw them through the opening to the ti- ger. No sooner did the animal perceive them, than he gazed earnestly upon them, and began to exa- mine them closely, turning them cautiously from side to side. As soon as he became aware that they were dead, he uttered so piercing a howl of sorrow, that we were obliged to put our hands to our ears. B 18 THE PREMIUM. The thunder had now ceased, and the storm had sunk to a gentle gale ; the songs of birds were again heard in the neighbouring forest, and the sunbeams sparkled in the drops that hung from the leaves, We saw, through the aperture, how all nature waa reviving, after the wild war of elements, which had so recently taken place ; but the contrast only made our situation the more horrible. We were in a grave, from which there was no deliverance ; and a monster worse than the fabled Cerberus, kept watch over us. The tiger had laid himself down beside liis whelps. He was a beautiful animal, of great size and strength; and his limbs, being stretched out at their full length, displayed his im- mense power of muscle. A double row of great teeth stood far enough apart to show his large red tongue, from which the white foam fell in largo drops. All at once, another roar was heard at a distance, and the tiger immediately rose and an- swered it v.'ith a mournful howl. At the same instant, our Indians uttered a shriek, which an- nounced that some new danger threatened us. A few moments confirmed our worst fears ; for ano- ther tiger, not quite so large as the former, came rapidly towards the spot where we were. The howls which the tigress gave, when she had examined the bodies of her cubs, surpassed every- thing horrible that we had yet heard ; and the tiger mingled his mournful cries with hers. Suddenly her roaring was lowered to a hoarse growling, and we saw her anxiously stretch out her head, extend her wide and smoking nostrils, and look as if she were determined to discover immediately the mur- derers of her young. Her eyes quickly fell upon us, and she made a spring forward, with the inten- tion of penetrating to our place of refuge. Perhaps THE PHEMtrTtf. 19 she might have been enabled by her immense strength, to push away the stone, had we not, with all our united power, held it against her. When she found that all her efforts were fruitless, she approached the tiger, who lay stretched out beside his cubs, and he rose and joined in her hollow roar- ings. They stood together for a few moments, as if in consultation, then suddenly went off at a rapid pace, and disappeared from our sight. Their howling died away in the distance, and then entire- ly ceased. Our Indians descended from their tree, and called upon us to seize the only possibility of our yet sa- ving ourselves, by instant flight ; for that the tigers had only gone round the height to seek another in- let to the cave, with which they were, no doubt, acquainted. In the greatest haste tlie stone was pushed aside, and we stept forth from what we had considered a living grave. We now heard once more the roaring of the tigers, though at a distance ; and, following the example of our guides, we pre- cipitately struck into a side path. From the num- ber of roots and branches of trees, with which the storm had strewed our way, and the slipperiness of the road, our flight was slow and difficult. We had proceeded thus for about a quarter of an hour, when we found that our way led along the edge of a rocky cliff, with innumerable fissures. We had just entered upon it, when suddenly the Indians, who were before us, uttered one of their piercing shrieks, and we immediately became aware that the tigers were in pursuit of us. Urged by despair, we rushed towards one of the breaks, or gulfs, in our way, over which was thrown a bridge of reeds, that sprang up and down at every step, and could be trod with safety by the light foot of 20 THE PKEMIUM. the Indians alone. Deep in the hollow below rushed an impetuous stream, and a thousand point- ed and jagged rocks threatened destruction on every side. Lincoln, my huntsman, and myself, passed over the chasm in safety ; but Wharton was still in the middle of the wa%'ing bridge, and endeavouring to steady himself, when both the tigers were seen to issue from the adjoining forest ; and the moment they descried us, they bounded towards us with dreadful roarings. Meanwhile, Wharton had nearly gained the safe side of the gulf, and we were all clambering up the rocky cliff except Lincoln, who remained at the reedy bridge to assist his friend to step upon firm ground. Wharton, though the ferocious animals were close upon him, never lost his courage or presence of mind. As soon as he had gained the edge of the cliff, he knelt down, and with his sword divided the fastenings by which the bridge was attached to the rock. He expected that an effectual barrier would thus be put to the farther progress of our pursuers ; but he was mistaken ; for he had scarcely accomplished his task, when the tigress, without a moment's pause, rushed towards the chasm, and attempted to bound over it. It was a fearful sight to see the mighty animal suspended, for a moment, in the air above the abyss ; but the scene passed like a flash ol hghtning. Her strength was not equal to the dis- tance : she fell into the gulf, and, before she reached the bottom, she was torn into a thousand pieces by the jagged points of the rocks. Her fate did not in the least dismay her companion; he followed her with an immense spring, and reached the op- posite side, but only with his fore claws ; and Uius he clung to the edge of the precipice, endeavour- THE PHEMIL'M. 21 ing to gain a footing. The Indians again uttered a wild shriek, as if all hope had been lost. But Wharton, who was nearest the edge of the rock, advanced courageously towards the tiger, and struck his sword into the animal's breast. Enraged beyond all measure, the wild beast collected all his strength, and, with a violent effort, fixing one of his hind legs upon the edge of the cliff, he seized Wharton by the thigh. That heroic man still pre- served his fortitude ; he grasped the trunk of a tree with his left hand, while, with his right, he wrenched and violently tvimed the sword that was still in the breast of the tiger. All this was the work of an instant. The Indians, Frank, and myself, hastened to his assistance ; but Lincoln, who was already at his side, had seized Wharton's gun, which lay near upon the ground, and struck so powerful a blow with the butt end upon the head of the tiger, that the animal, stunned and overpowered, let go his hold, and fell back into the abyss. EDIS^BCRG LITERARY JOUHXAL. HOLY FLOWERS. Wo 's me — how knowledge makes forlorn ; The forest and the field are shorn Of their old growth, the holy flowers ; — Or if they spring, they are not ours. In ancient days the peasant saw Them growing in the woodland shaw, And bending to his daily toil, Beheld them deck the leafy soil ; They sprang around his cottage door ; He saw them on the heathy moor ; 22 THE PHEMIUX. Within the forest's twilight glade, Where the wild-deer its covert made ; In the green vale remote and still, And gleaming on the ancient hill. The days are distant now, gone by With the old times of minstrelsy, When all unblest with written lore, Were treasured up traditions hoar ; And each still lake and mountain lone Had a wild legend of its own ; And hall, and cot, and valley-stream Were hallowed by the minstrel's dream. Then musing in the woodland nook, Each flower was as a written-book, RecalUng, by memorial quaint, The holy deed of martyred saint ; The patient faith, which, unsubdued, Grew mightier through fire and blood. One blossom, 'mid its leafy shade The virgin's purity pourtrayed; And one with cup all crimson dyed. Spoke of a Saviour crucified : And rich the store of holy thought That little forest-flower brought. Doctrine and miracle, whate'er We draw from books was treasured there. Faith in the wild-wood's tangled bound A blessed heritage had found ; And Charity and Hope were seen In the lone isle and wild ravine. Then Pilgrims in the forest brown Slow wandering on from town to town, Halting 'mid mosses green and dank. Breathed each a prayer before they drank From waters by the pathway side. Then duly mom and even-tide, THE PTIEMIUX. 23 Before those ancient crosses gray, Now mouldering silently away, Aged and young devoutly bent In simple prayer, how eloquent ! For each good gift man then possessed Demanded blessing and was blest. What though in our pride's selfish mood, "We hold those times as dark as rude, Yet give we, from our wealth of mind, FeeUng more grateful or refined ] And yield we unto nature aught Of loftier, or of holier thought. Than they, who gave sublimest power To the small spring and simple flower 1 MAHY HOWITT. HOW TO BECOME A NATURALIST. The only sure way to become naturalists, in the most pleasing sense of the term, is to observe the habits of the plants and animals that we see around us, not so much with a view of finding out what is uncommon, as of being well acquainted with that which is of every day occurrence. Nor is this a task of difficult^', or one of dull routine. Every change of elevation or exposure, is accom- panied by a variation both in plants and in ani- mals ; and every season and week, nay almost every day, brings sometliing new ; so that while the book of nature is more accessible and more easily read, than the books of the library, it is, at the same time, more varied. In whatever place or at whatever time one may be disposed to take a walk, — in the most sublime scenes, or on the bleak- est wastes,^-on arid downs, or by the margins of 24 THE PREMIUM. rivers or lakes, — inland, or by the sea-shore, — in the wild or on the cultivated ground, — and m all kinds of weather and all seasons of the year, — nature is open to our inquiry. The sky over us, the earth beneath our feet, the scenery around, the animals that gambol in the open spaces, those that hide themselves in coverts, the birds that twitter on the wing, sing in the grove, ride upon the wave, or float along the sky, with the fishes that tenant the waters, the insects that make the summer air alive, — all that God has made, is to us for know- ledge and pleasure, and usefulness and health; and when we have studied and known the won- ders of his workmanship, we have made one im- portant step toward the adoration of His omnipo- tence, and obedience to His will. axon. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand ! Amidst their tall ancestral trees. O'er all the pleasant land. The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam. And the swan glides past them with a sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England ! Around their hearths by night. What gladsome looks of household love Meet, in the ruddy Ught ! There woman's voice flows forth in song. Or childhood's tale is told, THE PREMIUM. Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed Homes of England ! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness, That breathes from Sabbath-hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-beH's chime Floats through their woods at mom ; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The Cottage Homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet-fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there they lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair Homes of England ! Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared, To guard each hallowed wall ! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God ! MRS. HEMANS. THE CLEMENCY OF LUITPRAND. The Lombards, or " long beards," who fought under Alboin, are thus described by Gibbon : — " Their heads were shaven behind, but the shaggy 26 THE PREMirX. locks hung over their eyes and mouth ; and a long beard represented the name and character of the nation. Their dress consisted of loose linen gar- ments, after the fashion of the Anglo-Saxons, which were decorated, in their opinion, with broad stripes of various colours. The legs and feet were clothed in long ho.se and open sandals ; and even in the security of peace, a trusty sword was girt to their side. Yet this strange apparel and horrid aspect often concealed a gentle and generous disposition ; and as soon as the rage of battle had subsided, the captives and subjects were sometimes surprised by the humanity of the \dctor." The Lombards so rapidly improved in civiliza" tion, that two or three hundred years after the establishment of their kingdom, they viewed with surprise and dislike the savage portraits of their forefathers. They had become le?s addicted to war, and fonder of the gentler pursuits of hunting and falconry. The Italians could not at first suf- ficiently express their astonishment at beholding hawks trained to obey the voice of a master, and bring down his prey at the word of command. Twenty-one Lombard kings successively mounted the throne. Their reigns are distinguished by few events of interest, and the Lombard power gradually decayed till it was finally extinguished by Charle- magne. Of Luitprand, the seventeenth king of Lombardy, the following interesting anecdote is related. Information was brought to him that two of his courtiers, in whom he reposed particular confidence, had conspired agamst his life. As the proofs of their guilty design were too strong to admit of doubt, he resolved to speak to them openly on the subject, and summoned them into his presence. THE PKEMIUX. 27 On their appearing before him, he asked them, with some gravit\', whether they had not always found him a kind friend. They answ ered that they had. He then inquired of them whether he had not always consulted them on all occasions, and confided to them his most secret thoughts and in- tentions. They replied in the affirmative. " Then," demanded Luitprand, mildly, " how comes it that you could find it in your hearts to conspire against the life of so kind a friend 1 What advantage could you hope to enjoy, if purchased with my death ] Should you be likely to find as gentle a master in my successor ? Were you so bUnd as to imagine that you would be permitted to share a throne rendered vacant by so perfidious an act 1 Even should you have obtained it, metliinks its possession would have been imbittered by the me- mory of your treachery, and your constant sus- picions and jealousy of each other. You now per- ceive that the most secret thoughts of your bosoms have been as open to my eyes, as mine ever have been to yours. How can you answer for your- selves 1" The guilty courtiers, filled with the most lively terror at this appeal, were unable to conceal their dismay, and fell, pale and trembling, at their master's feet. " Rise, my friends," said Luitprand, with gentleness, " I am con%-inced that whatever your past intentions may have been, you will henceforth be my most zealous and faithful ser- vants. I restore you to my full atiection and con- fidence, and trust I shall never find occasion to say that it has been misplaced." The monarch's clemency filled the two courtiers with contrition, and their after conduct gave him no reason to repent its exercise. ma>>'Ixg. 5RJ THE PBEXIUM. THE TORCH OF LIBERTY. I SAW it all in Fancy's glass — Herself, the fair, the wild magician, That bid this splendid day-dream pass And named each gliding apparition. 'Twas like a torch race — such as they Of Greece performed, in ages gone, When the fleet youths, in long array, Passed the bright torch triumphant on. I saw the expectant nations stand, To catch the coming flame in turn — I saw, from ready hand to hand, The clear, but struggling glory burn. And, oh, their joy, as it came near, 'Tw^s, in itself, a joy to see — While Fancy whispered in my ear, 'That torch they pass is Liberty !' And each, as she received the flame. Lighted her altar with its ray ; Then, smiling, to the next who came, Speeded it on its sparkling way. From Albion first, whose ancient shrine Was furnished with the fire already, Columbia caught the spark divine. And lit a flame like Albion's, steady. The splendid gift then Gallia took. And, like a wild Bacchante, raising The brand aloft, its sparkles shook, As she would set the world a-blazing ! And, when she fired her altar, high It flashed into the reddening air, So fierce, that Albion, who stood nigh, Shrunk, almost blinded by the glare ! THE PKKMIUM. 29 Next, Spain, so new was light to her, Leaped at the torch — but, ere the spark She flung upon her shrine could stir, 'T was quenched — and all again was dark. Yet, no — not quenched — a treasure worth — So much to mortals, rarely dies — Again her living light looked forth, And shone, a beacon, in all eyes ! "Who next received the flame ] alas ! Unworthy Naples. — Sbame of shames That ever through such hands should pass That brightest of all earthly flames ! Scarce had her fingers touched the torch, When frighted by the sparks it shed, Nor waiting e'en to feel the scorch, She dropped it to the earth — and fled. And fallen it might have long remained ; But Greece who saw her moment now, Caught up the prize, though prostrate stained, And waved it round her beauteous brow. And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er Her altar, as its flame ascended, Fair laureled spirits seemed to soar. Who thus in song their voices blended : — * Shine, shine forever, glorious flame, Divinest gift of Gods, to men ! From Greece thy earliest splendour came, To Greece thy ray returns again. * Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round ; When dimmed, re\ive, when lost return, Till not a shrine through earth be found, On which thy glories shall not bum !' T. MOORS 30 THE PRE^riOI. AX ENGLISH SPRING MORNING. TflEiiE are frequently mornings in March, when a lover of nature may enjoy, in a stroll, sensations not to be exceeded, or perhaps equalled by anything which the full glory of summer can awaken :— mornings which tempt us to cast the memory of winter, or the fear of its return, out of our thoughts. The air is mild and balmy, with now and then, a cool gush by no means unpleasant, but on the con- trary, contributing towards that cheering and pecu- liar feeUng which we experience only in spring. The sky is clear ; the sun flings abroad not only a gladdening splendour, but an almost summer glow. The world seems suddenly aroused to hope and enjoyment. The fields are assuming a vernal greenness — the buds are swelling in the hedges — the banks are displaying amidst the brown remsuns of last year's vegetation, the luxuriant weeds of this. There are arums, ground-ivy, chervil, the glaucus leaves, and burnished flowers of the pile- woit, The first gilt thine That wears the trembling pearls of spring : and many other fresh and early bursts of greenery. All unexpectedly, too, in some embowered lane, you are arrested by the delicious odour of violets, those sweetest of Flora's children, which have fur- nished so many pretty allusions to the poets, and which are not yet exhausted : they are like true friends, we do not know half their sweetness till they have felt the sunshine of our kindness : and again, they are like the pleasures of our childhood, the earliest and the most beautiful. Now, however, they are to be seen in all their glor}- — blue and white — modestly peering through their thick, clustering leaves. The lark is carolling in the blue fields THE PttE:.Iir3r. 81 of air ; the blackbird and thrash are again shout- ing and replying to each other, from the tops of the highest trees. As you pass cottages, they have caught the happy infection : there are windows thrown open, and doors standing ajar. The inha- bitants are in their gardens, some clearing away rubbish, some turning up the light and fresh-smell- ing soil amongst the tufts of snow-drops and rows of bright yellow crocuses, which every where abound ; and the children, ten to one, are peeping into the first bird's-nest of the season — the hedge- sparrow's, with its four sea-green eggs snugly but unwisely built in the pile of old pea-rods. In the fields labourers are plashing and trimming the hedges, and in all directions are teams at plough. You smell the wholesome, and, I may truly say, aromatic soil, as it is turned up to the sun, brown and rich, the whole country over. It is deUghtful, as you pass along deep hollow lanes, or are hidden in copses, to hear the tinkling gears of the horses, and the clear voices of the lads calling to them. It is not less pleasant to catch the busy caw of the rookery, and the first meek cry of the young lambs. The hares are hopping about the fields, the excitement of the season overcoming their habitual timidity. The bees are revelling in the yellovp catkins of the sallow. The harmless English snake is seen again curled up, hke a coil of rope, wnth its head in the centre, on sunny, green banks. The woods, though yet unadorned with their leafy garniture, are beau- tiful to look on ; — they seem flushed with life. Their boughs are of a clear and glossy lead colour, and the treetops are rich with the vigorous hues of brown, red, and purple ; and, if you plunge into their solitudes, there are symptoms of revivification under your feet — the springing mercury' and green 32 THE PREMIUM. blades of the blue-bells — and perhaps above you, the early nest of the missel-thrush, perched between the boughs of a young oak, to tinge your thoughts with the anticipation of summer. These are morn- ings not to be neglected by the lover of nature, and if not neglected, then not forgotten : for they w^ill stir the springs of memory, and make us live over again, times and seasons that we cannot, for the pleasure and purity of our spirits, live over too much. HOWITT. AUTUMN. Oh ! there 's a beauty in the dying year ! 'T is sweet, at quiet eventide, to gaze Upon the fading hills, when the dun haze Hangs like a pall above old Autumn's bier. These ancient woods ! how beautiful in death ! For, see, the vivid green hath left the leaf, And brighter hues are there ; yet they are brief,— Their pomp will vanish at the cold wind's breath. There is a breeze amid the leaves ! it swells, Far in the solemn wood-paths, like the peals Of music o'er the waters. Hark ! it steals, Sweet, as the distant sound of evening bells. It is the voice of Autumn ! — the low dirge Sung mournfully within its ruined halls. It stirs the fallen leaves, and sadly falls On tlie hushed air, like whispers from the surge. The summer-birds have sought a sunnier shore ; — They lingered till the cold, cold wind went in And withered their green homes, — their merry din Is mingling with the rivulet's song no more. THK PIIEMIUM. 33 Rich flowers have perished on the silent earth Blossoms of valley and of wood, that gave A fragrance to tlie wind, have found a grave Upon the scentless turf that gave them birth. Pale, faded year ! thy dying hour hath come ! Oh ! there are crowds, that with a joyous brow Welcomed thy birth, whose mirthful voices now Are hushed in the long silence of the tomb ! THE FALL OF THE LEAF. There is no vice that causes more calamities in human life, than the int-emperate passion for gam- bling. How many noble and ingenuous persons it hath reduced from wealth unto poverty ; nay, from honesty to dishonour, and by still descending steps, into the gulf of perdition. And yet how prevalent it is in all capital cities, where many of our chiefest merchants, and courtiers especially, are mere pitiful slaves of fortune, toiling like so many abject turn- spits in her ignoble wheel. Such a man is worse off than a poor borrower, for he is at the moment- ary call of imperative chance ; or rather he is more wretched than a very beggar, being mocked with an appearance of wealth, but as deceitful as if it turned, like the monies in the old Arabian story, into decaying leaves. In our parent city of Rome, to aggravate her mo- dern disgraces, this pestilent vice has lately fixed her abode, and has inflicted many deep wounds on the fame and fortune of her proudest families. A number of noble youths have been sucked into the ruinous vortex, some of them being degraded at last into humble retainers upon rich men, but the most C 34 TH£ JPRLMIUJI. part perishing by an unnatural catastrophe ; and if the same fate did not befall the young Marquis dc Malaspini, it was only by favour of a circumstance which is not likely to happen a second time for any gamester. This gentleman came into a handsome re\'enue at the death of his parents, whereupon, to diisipate his regrets, he travelled abroad, and his graceful manners procured him a distinguished reception at several courts. After two years spent in this man- ner, he returned to Rome, where he had a magnill- cent palace on the baiiks of the Tiber, and which he further enriched with some valuable paintings and sculptures from abroarl. His taste in these works was much admired ; and his friends re- marked with still greater satisfaction, that he was untainted by the courtly vices which lie must have witnessed in his travels. It only remained to com- plete their wishes, that he should fonn a matrimo- nial alliance that should be worthy of himself, and he Ecemcd likely to fuUU this ho[)e in attaching himself to the beautiful Countess of jTaraviglia. She was herself the heiress of an ancient and ho- nourable house ; so that the match was regarded with satisfaction by the relations on both sides, and espe- cially as the young pair were mobt tenderly in love with each other. For certain reasons, however, the nuptials were defened for a time, thus affording leisure for the crafty machinations of the devil, who delights, above all things, to cross a virtuous and happy marriage. Accordingly, he did not fail to make use of this ju- dicious opportunity, but chose for his instrument the lady's own brother, a very profligate, and a game- ster, who soon fastened, like an evil genius, on the unlucky Malaspini. It was a dismal shock to the l-.idy, when she learned the nature of this connexion, which Malas- pini himself discovered to her, by incautiously drop- ping a die from his pocket in her presence. Slie immediately endeavoured, with all her influence, to reclaim him from the dreadful passion for play, which had now crept over him like a moral cancer, and already disputed the sovereignty of love ; nei- ther was it without some dreadful struggles of re- morse on his own part, and soma usele^js victories, that he at last gave himself to such desperate habits, but the power of his Mepliistophiles prevailed, and the visits ofMalaspini to the lady of his affections, became still less frequent ; he repairing instead to those nightly resorts, where the greater portion of his estates was already forfeited. At length, when the lady had not seen him for some days, and in the very last week before that which had been appointed for her marriage, she re- ceived a desperate letter from Malaspini, declaring that he was a ruined man, in fortune and hope ; and that at the cost of his life, even, he must re- nounce her hand for ever. He added, that if his pride would let him even propose himself, a beggar as he was, for her acceptance, he should yet despair too much of her pardon to make such an offer ; whereas, if he 'could have read the heart of the unhappy lady, he would have seen that she still preferred the beggar Malaspini, to the richest no- bleman in the popedom. With abundance of tears and sighs perusing his letter, her first impulse was to assure him of that loving truth ; and to offer her- self with her estates to him, in compensation of the spites of fortune ; but the wretched Malaspi- ni had withdrawn himself no one knew whither, and fche was constrained to content hereelf with 36 THE PREMIUM. grieving over his misfortunes, and purchasing such parts of his property as were exposed to sale by his plunderers. And now it became apparent what a villanous part his betrayer had taken ; for having thus stripped the unfortunate gentleman, he now aimed to rob him of his life also, that his treacheries might remain undiscovered. To this end he feigned a most vehement indignation at Ma- laspini's neglect, and bad faith, as he termed it, to- wards his sister ; protesting that it was an insult to be only washed out with his blood ; and with these expressions he sought to kill him at any advantage. And no doubt he would have become a murderer, as well as a dishonest gamester, if Malaspini's shame and anguish, had not drawn him out of the way ; for he had hired a mean lodging in the suburbs, from which he never issued but at dusk, and then only to wander in the most unfrequented places. It was now in the wane of Autumn, when some of the days are fine, and gorgeously decorated at morn and eve by the rich sun's embroideries; but others are dewy and dull, with cold nipping winds, inspir- ing comfortless fancies and thoughts of melancholy in every bosom. In such a dreary hour, Malaspini happened to walk abroad, and avoiding his own squandered estates, which it was not easy to do by reason of their extent, he wandered into a bye-place in the neighbourhood. The place was very lonely and desolate, and without any near habitation ; its main feature especially being a large tree, now stripped bare of its vernal honours, excepting one dry, yellow leaf, which was shaking on a topmost bough to the cold evening wind, and threatening at every moment to fall to the damp, dewy earth. Ma- laspini stopped some time in contemplation, com- menting to himself the desolate tree, and drawing THE premium:. 37 many apt comparisons between its nakedness and his own beggarly condition. " Alas! poor bankrupt," says he, "thou hast been plucked too, like me ; but yet not so basely. Thou hast but showered thy green leaves on the grateful earth, which in another season will repay thee with sap and sustenance ; but those whom I have fattened will not as much as lend again to my living. Thou wilt thus regain all thy green summer wealth, which I shall never do ; and besides, thou art still better oif than I am, with that one golden leaf to cheer thee, whereas, I have been stripped even of my last ducat !" With these and many more similar fancies he continued to aggi'ieve himself, till at last, being more sad than usual, his thoughts tended unto death, and he resolved, still watching that yellow leaf, to take its flight, as the signal for his own de- parture. " Chance," said he, " hath been my temporal ruin, and so let it now determine for me, in my last cast between hfe and death, which is all that its malice hath left me." Thus, in his extremity he still risked somewhat upon fortune ; and verj' shortly the leaf being torn away by a sudden blast, it made two or three flut- terings to and fro, and at last settled on the earth, at about a hundred paces from the tree. Malaspini interpreted this as an omen that he ought to die ; and following the leaf till it alighted, he fell to work on the same spot with his sword, intending to scoop himself a sort of rude hollow for a grave. He found a strange gloomy pleasure in this fanciful design, that made him labour very earnestly : and the soil besides being loose and sandy, he had soon cleared away about a foot below the surface. The earth 38 THE PRF.MIU:«:. then l)ccame suddenly more obstinate, and trj-ing it here and there with his sword, it struck against some very hard substance ; whereupon, digging a little further down, he discovered a considerable treasure. There were coins of various nations, but all gold- en, in this petty mine ; and in such quantity as made Malaspini doubt, for a moment, if it were not the mere mintage of his fancy. Assuring liimself, how- ever, that it was no dream, he gave many thanks to God for this timely providence ; notwithstanding, he hesitated for a moment, to deliberate whether it was honest to avail himself of the money ; but be- lieving, as was most probable, that it was the plun- der of some banditti, he was reconciled to the ap- propriation of it to his own necessities. Loading himself, therefore, with as much gold as he could conveniently carry, he hastened with it to his humble quarters ; and by making two or three more trips in the course of the night, he made himself master of the whole treasure. It was sufScient, on being reckoned, to maintain him in comfort for the rest of his hfe ; but not being able to enjoy it in the scene of his humiliations, he resolved to reside abroad ; and embarking in an English vessel at Naples, he was carried over safely to London. It is held a deep disgrace amongst our Italian nobility, for a gentleman to meddle with either trade or commerce ; and yet, as we behold, they will con- descend to retail their own produce, and wine espe- cially, — yea, marry, and with an empty barrel, like any vintner's sign, hung out at their stately palaces. Malaspini perhaps disdained from the first these il- liberal prejudices ; or else he was taught to renounce them, by the example of the London merchants, whom he saw in that great mart of the world, en- THE PHEMIUX. 3V grossing the universal seas, and enjoying tlie power and importance of princes, merely from the fmits of their traffic. At any rate, he emharked what mo- ney he possessed in various mercantile adventures, which ended so profitably, that in three years he had regained almost as large a fortune as he had formerly inherited. He then speedily returned to his native country, and redeeming his paternal es- tates, he was soon in a worthy condition to present himself to liis beloved countess, who was still single, and cherished him with all a woman's devotedness in her constant ati'ection. They were, therefore, be- fore long united, to the contentment of all Rome; her wicked relation having been slain some time before, in a brawl with his associates. As for the fortunate wind-fall, which had so be- friended him, Malaspini founded with it a noble hospital for orphans ; and for this reason, that it belonged formerly to some fatherless children, from whom it had been vdthheld by their unnatural guardian. This wicked man it was who had binied the money in the sand : but when he found that his treasure was stolen, he went and hanged himself on the ver}' tree that had caused its discovery. HOOD. ODE. melancholy moon, Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away Far in the dusky west to vanish soon Under the hills that catch thy waning ray, Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres, The friend of griefi and confidant of tears 40 THK pRE^rirjr. Mine earliest friend wert thou : My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under The locust tree, and, through the checker'd bough, Watch thy far pathway in the clouds, and won- der At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be The nearest star, to roam the heavens with thee. Youth grew ; but as it came, And sadne^ with it, still, with joy, I stole To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the name That was the early music of my soul, — And seem'd upon thy pictured disk to trace Remeraber'd features of a radiant face. And manhood, though it bring A winter to my bosom, cannot turn Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness ; still spring My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stem Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill — The boyish yearning to be with thee still. Would it were so ; for earth Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail ; And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to mirth Turn to a moody melody of wail And through her stony throngs I go alone, Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone. Would it were so ; for still Thou art mine only counsellor, with whom Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill. Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom Of solitude, wliich is so sad and sore, Weighing like lead upon my bosom's coie. THE PKEMICM. 41 A boyish thought, and weak ; — shall look up to thee from the deep sea, And in the land of palms, and on the peak Of her wild hills, still turn mine eyes to thee ; And then perhaps lie down in solemn rest, With naught but thy pale beams upon my breast. Let it be so indeed — Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone : And let me perish where no heart shall bleed, And naught, save passing winds, shall make my moan ; No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine, And watching o'er me, no pale face but thine. DR. BinD. THE PLEASURES OF BOTANY. CoxsiDERi>-G the beauty and the usefulness of trees and other vegetables, it is, at first sight, rather singular that so little should be known about their physiology. One cause is, no doubt, the difficulty of the subject itself; and another is the disposition that we have to localize the principle of life, by ac- counting some parts vital and others not. There are great difTerences of plants ; but in the active parts they are vital all over, and admit of much more division without the loss of vitality, than even those animals that have the least resemblance to man. Thus we have far more command over them, and can turn their energies more to our wish. We can make them produce leaves, or wood, or fruit, or seeds, according as we consider these to be useful or ornamental. We can regulate their place, and form, and magnitude ; we can so far blend their colours and qualities; and it is in their changes and varieties that we find the grand characteristics of 45 THE PHE>IIU>f. the year. The song:s of the birds, the i>povtijigs of the quadrupeds, and all the other phenomena of animated nature, have their attractions ; but the vegetable tribes form the grand kalendar of nature. The green sward with its spottings of early flowers, the orchard with its mantle of soft pink and virgin white, the wood, the coppice, and the hedge, all coming into leaf; these are the charms of the spring, — the greenness, the vernaUty, is the very livery of life, the colour which always pleases and never fatigues the eye. Among the animals, too, we meet with what we consider as instances of cruelty ; one race preys upon another, and many are canni- bals ; but we meet with nothing of the kind among plants. The earth and the air, the rain and the dew, are all that they require : and they yield up a portion of their substance everj^ year for the fer- tilizing of the soil, at the same time that they feed the whole of animated nature, directly, or through the medium of some other part of itself. As subjects for study, we have nothing equal to them. The animals, when in a state of nature, flee at our approach ; we see them only by snatches, and therefore, have not the means of getting a con- tinuous history of them. But the plant stands still, and we can examine it ; can watch it from the mo- ment that it is a seed, till its energy be exhausted in the productions of milhons ; and though the man- ner in which it performs its functions has hitherto defied our philosophy, we have still enough to oc- cupy our attention, and excite our admiration. One of the most valuable properties of vegetables is their inflammability ; and to man, in a savage state, they are at once the fuel and the fire ; furnish him witli that which is his pecuUar characteristic, and pro- tect liim from the inclemency of the weather, and THE pnE>iiu3r. 43 fhe night-attacks of those animals for which, in strength and swiftness, he is no match. He col- lects a bundle of sticks, rubs one against another till it be ignited, the whole are soon in a blaze, and the result is both light and safety. Then the wonder- ful durability of some of the species. Vv'e read of beams that are undecayed, though they have been in the service of man for more than a thousaiid years ; and the great chestnut tree at Tamworth, in Staffordshire, is reported to have stood from the year 800, to the year 17G2, and to have produced perfect fruit in 1759, — a duration, compared to which, that of any animal is but as a span. Vegetables have this further advantage, that they are found everj'where, and at all seasons ; and therefore, those who stud}^ them may have constant mental occupation ; nor is there any one capable of observing at all, that m.ay not, by that study, add something to the common stock of knowledge. To what an extent that may be done, can be so far un- derstood when it is borne in mind, that the cultiva- tion of vegetables reaches beyond the record even of the ancient nations, and that the invention is always attributed to the gods ; but yet while there is this remote antiquity, the field for study must be more wide and productive than in any other portion of human knowledge, inasmuch as the study and culture of plants have received more improvement in very recent times than any other branch of hu- man occupation ; and that within the last fifty years, more has been added to our knowledge of plants than to any other branch of our knowledge. There is tliLs farther advantage, that the love of plants calls us into the fields, leads us to the place where every one may study ; and then when we have wearied ourselves with the scene, \^'e can turn 44 THE PREMILX. to the inhabitants ; when we have made ourselves masters of all that can be known about the tree — its historj', its age, its uses, we are still able, nay better prepared, for knowing what are the living things to which it gives food and shelter ; and there is not a plant which does not aftbrd this variety of nutrition ; the flower has its industrious bees, and its fluttering butterflies ; the bud its canker worm ; the root its grub ; aphides load the twigs, and pro- ducing their singular races, race after race, all fe- males, till the close of the season, absolutely cover the tender extremities of the twigs, glaze the leaves over with their honey dew, and by the rapidity of their increase, defy the host of spoilers to which they are exposed, and without which, small as they are, they would destroy the whole vegetation of the year ; even the soUtary bush has its bird, and the poor solitary in the remote \'illage, finds com- panionship in nature. ajjok. WHAT S HALLOWED GROUND. What 's hallowed ground 1 Hath earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee ] That's hallowed ground — where, mourned and missed. The lips repose our love has kissed ; — But where 's their memory's mansion 1 Is 't Yon churchyard's bowers 1 No ! in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours. THE pREjrirx. 45 A kiss can consecrate the ground Where mated hearts are mutual bound : The spot where love's first links were wound, That ne'er are riven, Is hallowed, down to earth's profound, And up to heaven ! For time makes all but true love old ; The burning thoughts that then were told Run molten still in memory's mould, And will not cool Until the heart itself be cold In Lethe's pool. What hallows ground where heroes sleep 1 'T is not the sculptured piles you heap : In dews that heavens far distant weep Their turf may bloom ; Or Genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb. But strew his ashes to the wind, Whose sword or voice has saved mankind — And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high 1 To live in hearts we leave behind. Is not to die. Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right 1 He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! And murder suUies, in Heaven's sight, The sword he draws : — What can alone ennoble fight 1 A noble cause ! Give that : and welcome War to brace Her drums ! and rend heaven's reeking spac« 46 THK PHilMlUM. The colours planted face to face, The charging cheer. Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, Sliall still be dear. And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven ! — But Heaven rebukes my zeal: The cause of truth and human weal, O God above ! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To peace and love ! Peace, Love — the cherubim that join Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine — Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine. When they are not ; The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot, To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august ! See mouldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt, That men can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant. The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ; But there 's a dome of nobler span, A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — Its space is heaven ! Its roof star-pictured, Nature's ceiling, W'here trancing the rapt spirit's feeling. And God himself to man revealing, The harmonious spheres Make music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears. Fail" Stars ! are not your beinj^s pure ? Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure 1 Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above ? Ye must be heavens that make us sure Of heavenly love ! And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time ; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn. What 's hallowed ground ] 'Tis what gives biith To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! Peace ! Independence ! Truth! go forth ^ Earth's compass round ; And your high-priesthood shall make earth All hallowed ground ! ca:mpbell. THE VENETIAN BRIDALS. Venice, like the fabled goddess of beauty, had spnmg from the sea ; and from being at first a mere aiiscmblage of fishennen's huts, at last appeared more like one of the sparkling and fantastic fabrics which we read of in books of chivalrv^ as created by the waving of a m.agician's wand, than a real sub- stantial dwelling for ordinar}- inhabitants. If the eye was gratified by the various styles of architecture — the many-storied houses, with their gay awnings and verandahs — the marble churches, bridges, and palaces — the ear was no less surprised to miss the usual noises of a great city. No streets cchoctIUM. cealed till the procession had landed at the church of OHvolo ; when suddenly darting from their am- bush, they tore the shrieking brides from their lovers, seized on the rich presents, and put to sea with their captives and booty ere the bewildered Venetians could persuade themselves that the whole was not a dream. The enraged lovers and fathers had no sooner collected their scattered senses than they flew to the doge, who had been an amazed spectator of the whole transaction, and with frantic energy besought him to allow them to pursue the corsairs. Candiano not only gave his immediate consent, but prepared to put himself at their head. Then there was *' arming in hot haste," — mothers and wives carry- ing weapons to and fro, and with tears urging their sons and husbands to the pursuit. Little time was necessary for their equipment, when all were ani- mated by one common purpose : they threw them- selves into their vessels, crowded sail, and overtook the pirates in the lagunes of Caorlo. A dreadful contest ensued between those who were fighting for all that was to them most valuable in life, and opponents who could expect no mercy. The pirates were completely defeated, and the victorious Vene- tians returned in triumph with their brides. Such a wedding-day was not likely to be ever forgotten by those who had been concerned in it ; and it made so deep an impression on the minds of the Venetian ladies, that from that time forth they celebrated its anniversary by a solemn procession to the church of Olivolo. MAXXi:yG. SOXXET. AYE.lhou art wt?k:ome — heaven's cautiful arc thoae lights b'Z TUE PREVIt,.5r. and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, transpa- rent haze which is diiiused over the valleys and lower slopes, as over a vast, inimitable picture. At this season of the year the ascents of our own mountains are become most practicable. The heat of sumnier has dried up the moisture with which winter rains saturate the spongy turf of the hol- lows ; and the atmosphere, clear and settled, admits of the most extensive prospects. Whoever has not ascended our mountains, knows little of the beau- ties of this beautiful island. Whoever has not cUmbed their long and heathy ascents, and seen the trembling mountain-flowers, the glowing mosg, the richly-tintod lichens at his feet; and scented the fresh arona of the uncultivated sod, and of the spicy shrubs ; and heard the bieat of the Hock across their solitary expanses, and the wild cry of the moun- tain-plover, the raven, or the eagle ; and seen the rich and russet hues of distant slopes and eminences, the livid gashes of ra^-ine3 and precipices, the white glittering line of falling waters, and the cloud tu- muUuously whirling round the lofty summit ; and then stood panting on that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately gather and break over a thou- sand giant peaks and ridges of eAery varied hue, — but all silent as images of eternity ; and cast big gaze over lakes and forests, and smoking towns, and wide lands to the ver\- ocean, in all their gleam- ing and reposing beauty, knows noliiing of the treasures of pictorial wealth wliich his own country possesses. But when we let loose the imagination from even these splendid scenes, and give it fi-ee charter to range through the far more glorious ridges of con- tinental mountains, through Alps, Apennines, or Andes, how is it poss^ssctl and absorbed by all the THK PUEVaCM. o3 awfi;! magnificence of llieir scenery and character ! The sky-ward and maccessible pinnacles, the Palaces where nature thrones Sublimity in icy halls! the dark Alpine forests, the savage rocks and preci- pices, the fearful and unfathomable chasms filled with tile sound of ever-precipitaling waters ; the cloud, the silence, the avalanche, the cavernous gloom, the terrible visitations of heaven's concen- trated lightning, darkness and thunder ; or the sweeter features of living, rushing streams, spicy odours of flower and shrub, fre.sh spirit-elating bree- zes sounding through the dark pine grove ; the ever- varying lights and shadows, and ajrial hues ; the wide prospects, and, above all, the simple inhabi- tants. We delight to think of the people of mountain- ous regions ; we please our imaginations w ith their picturesque and quirt abodes ; with their peaceful, secluded lives, striking and unvarying costumes, and piimitive manners. Vv'e invo- luntarily give to the mountaineer heroic and ele- vated qualities. He lives amongst nol>le objects, and must imbibe some of their nobility ; he lives amongst the elements of poetry, and must be po- etical ; he lives where his fellow-beings are far, far separated from their kind, and surrounded hy the sternness and the perils of savage nature ; his social aucctions must, therefore, be proportionately concentrated, his hometies lively and strong ; but more than all, he lives within the barriers, the strongholds* the very last refuge which Nature her- self has reared to preser\'e alive liberty in the earth, to preserve to man his highest hopes, his noblest emotions, his dearest treasures, his faith, his free- 54 THK I'HEMU >r. dom, his hearth, and home. How glorious do those inountain-ridgcs appear when we look upon them as the unconqueral)le abodes of free hearts ; as the stern, heaven-built walls from which the few, the feeble, the persecuted, the despised, the helpless child, the delicate w^oman, have from age to age, in their last perils, in all their weaknesses and emer- gencies, when power and cruelty were ready to swallow them up, looked down, and beheld the million waves of despotism break at their feet : — have seen the rage of murderous armies, and ty- rants, the blasting spirit of ambition, fanaticism^ and crushing domination recoil from their bases in despair. " Thanks be to God for mountains !" is often the exclamation of my heart, as I trace the History of the World. From age to age, they have been the last friends of man. In a thousand ex- tremities they have saved him. AVhat great hearts have throbbed in their defiles from the days of Leonidas to those of Andreas Hofer ! What lofty souls, what tender hearts, what poor and perse- cuted creatures have they sheltered in their stony bosoms from the weapons and tortures of their fel- low men, Avenge, O Lord, thy slau^hteretl saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ! was the burning exclamation of Milton's agonized and inflignant spirit, as he beheld those sacred bul- warks of freedom for once violated by the disturb- ing demons of the earth ; and the sound of his fiery and lamenting appeal to Heaven will be echoed in every generous soul to the end of time. Thanks be to God for mountains! The variety which they impart to the glorious bosom of our planet were no small advantage ; the beauty which THE PUKMIUM. 55 they spread out to our vision in their woods and waters ; their crags and slopes, their clouds and at- mospheric hues were a splendid gift ; the sublimity which they pour into our deepest souls from their majestic aspects; the poetr}- which breathes from their streams, and dells, and airy heights, from the sweet abodes, the garbs and manners of their inha- bitants, the songs and legends which have awoke in them, were a proud heritage to imaginative minds ; but what are all these when the thought comes, that without mountains the spirit of man must have bowed to the brutal and the base, and probably have sunk to the monotonous level of the unvaried plain. When I turn my eyes upon the map of the world, and behold how wonderfully the countries where our fdith was nurtured, where our liberties were generated, where our philosophy and literature, the fountains of our intellectual grace and beauty sprang up, were as distinctly walled out by God's hand with mountain ramparts from the eruptions and in- terruptions of barbarism, as if at the especial pi^ayer of the early fathers of man's destinies, I am lost in an exulting admiration. Look at the bold barriers of Palestine ! see how the infant liberties of Greece were sheltered from the vast tribes of the uncivil- ized north by the heights of Hsemus and Rhodope ! behold how the Alps describe their magnificent crescent inclining their opposite extremities to the Adriatic and Tyrrhine Seas, locldng up Italy from the Gallic and Teutonic hordes till the power and spirit of Rome had reached their maturity, and she had opened the wide forest of Europe to the light, spread far her laws and language, and planted the seeds of many mighty nations ! Thanks to God for mountains ! Their colossal 56 THE ruE?iiu->r. firmness seems almost to break the cuvient of time itself; the Geologist in them searches for traces of the earlier world, and it is there too that man, re- sisting the revolutions of lower regions, retains, through hmumcrable years, his habits and his rights. While a multitude of changes has remould- ed the people of Europe, while languages and laws and dynasties, and creeds, have passed over it like shadows over the landscape, the children of the Celt and the Goth, who fled to the mountains a thousand years ago, are found there now, and show us in face and figure, in language and garb, what their fathers were ; show us a fine contrast with the modern tribes dwelling below and around them ; and show us, moreover, how adverse is the spirit of the mountain to mutability, and tliat there the fiery heart of Freedom is found for ever. HO WITT. WEEP NOT FOR THE YOUTHFUL DEAD. Weep not for the youthful dead, Resting in their peaceful bed ! They are happier than we, Howsoever blest we be. They have left a doubtful scene, While their hearts were young and green, Ere the stain of guilt was deep ; — Wherefore, wherefore do ye weep] They have never known the stings, Which dissevered fiiendship brings ; Envy, Hatred, Passion, Pride, All lie buried at their side. THE PKEMlUjr. 57 Far across the slaipwreck foam, They have found a peaceful home, Where the blessed spirits keep ; — V/herefore, wherefore should ye weep 1 'T is, ye say, a hea\-y pain, Preying on the heart iii vain, Thus to see the green bud froze, When just opening to a rose. Yet shall Consolation come. Stooping from her starry home, Bringing dew upon her wings, From the deep, eternal springs. He had just begun to climb Up the weary mount of Time , V/eep not his untimely end. If he sunk, 't was to ascend. She was young, and soft, and fair, So her sister seraphs are ! "Wherefore, then, should Sorrow bow? She is with the seraphs now. Happy they who die in youth. Ere the fountain springs of truth Have been suUied by the rains, Lea^■ing dark and deadly stains. Their renown is with the brave. All their faults are in the grave, And the flowers, that round them bloom. Chase the darkness, — liide the gloom. AXOX. 58 THE pnEMiu>r. THE RAIXY SUNDAY. It was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy month of November. I had been detained, in the course of a journey by a sUght indisposition, from which I was recovering ; but I was still feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn — whoever has had the luck to experi- ence one can alone judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements ; the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest of something to amuse the eye ; but it seemed as if I had been placed com- pletely out of the reach of all amusement. The windows of my bed-room looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of rny sit- ting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world, than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with straw, that had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys. In one comer was a stagnant pool of water surrounding an island of muck ; there were several half-drowned fowls, crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable crest-fallen cock, drenched out of all life and spirit, his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back ; near the cart was a half dozing cow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapour rising from her reeking hide ; a wall eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hard by, uttered something every now and then be- THE PREMIVM. 59 tween a bark and a yelp ; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; everything, in short, was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and making a riotous noise over their liquor. I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. My room soon became insupportable ; I abandoned it, and sought what is technically called the travel- lers' room. This is a public room set apart at most inns for the accommodation of a class of wayfarers, called travellers, or riders, — a kind of commercial knights-errant, who are incessantly scouring the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They are the only successors that I know of, at the present day, to the knights-errant of yore. They lead the same kind of roving, adventurous life, only chang- ing the lance for a driving-whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead of vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about, spreading the fame and standing of some substantinl tradesman or manufacturer, and are ready at any time to bargain in his name ; it being the fashion now-a- days to trade instead of fight with one another. As the room of the hostel, in the good old fighting times, would be hung round at night with the ar- mour of way-worn warriors — such as coats of mail, falchions and yawTiing helmets ; so the travellers' room is garnished with the harnessing of their suc- cessors, — with box-coats, whips of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth covered hats. I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk with, but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two or three in the room ; but I could make 60 THK PHKMJIM. nothing of thern. One was just finishing his break- fast, quaiTslling vrith his bread and butter, and huf- Ihig the waiter ; another buttoned on a pair of gai- ters, with many execrations at Boot:? for not having cleaned his shoes well ; a third sat drumming on the table with his fingers, and looking at the rain as it streamed down the window-glass ; they ail appear- ed infected with the weather, and disappeared, one after the other, without exchanging a word. I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people picking their way to church, with clothes hoisted mid-leg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to toll, and the streets becanie silent. I then amused myself with watching the daugh- ters of a tradesman opposite, who, being confined to the house for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played olT their charms at the front windows to fas- cinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length were sunmioned away by a Wgilant, vuiegar- faccd mother, and I had nothiiig further from with- out to amuse me. What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day ? I was. sadly nervous and lonely ; and every- thing about an inn seems calculated to make a dull day ten times duller : old newspapers, smelling ol beer and tobacco smoke, and which I had already read half a dozen times ; good-for-nothing books, that were worse than rainy weather. I bored my- self to death with an old volume of the Lady's Ma- gazine. I read all the common-place names of am- bitious travellers scrawled on the panes of glass ; the eternal families of the Smiths, and the Browns, and the Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and all the other sons ; and I decyphered several scraps of fa- tiguing inn-window poetry, which I have met with in ail parts of tlie world. THE PllEMlUM. 61 The clay continued lowering and gloomy ; the slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along ; there was no variety even in the rain ; it was one dull, continued, monotonous patter — patter —patter, except that now and then I v.-as enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella. It was quite relVesliing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed phrase of the day) when, in the course of the morning, a horn blew, and a stagrj-coacli whirled through the street, with outside pai?sengers stuck all over it, cowerinj under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and reeking with the steams of wet box-coat>, and upper Bt-njainins. The round brought out from their lurking-places a crew of va- gabond boys, and vagabond dogs, and the carrosy- headed hostler, and that non-descript animal ycle])t Boots, and all the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn ; but the bustle was transient, the coach again whirled on its way, and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes ; the sti'cet again became silent, and the rain continued to rain on. In fact there was no hope of its clearing up ; the barometer pointed to rainy weather ; mine hostess' tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing her paws over her ears ; and on referring to the almanac, I found a direful prediction stretching from the top of the page to the bottom, thiough the whole month, " Ex pect — much — rain — about — this — time." I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would never creep by. The very ticking of the clock became irksome. invi^iG. 62 THt TREMIUM. TO IVATURE. " Rura mihi, el rigui placeant in vallibus amnc8 ; Flumina amem, sylvasque, inglorius!" Great daughter of the Sire Supreme ! In whose reflective charms we see, Unscathed, the mitigated beam Of viewless Deity. O, lead me, Nature, to thy shade ! Far fiom Ufe's varsing cares and fears *, Atfections spum'd and hopes betray'd, And naught unchanged, but tears : And guide me on, through sun and storm, With thine immortal steps to range ; In variation, uniform ; Immutable in change. Oh ! teach me, on the sea-beat liill, Or by the mountain torrent's roar, Or in the midnight forest still. Thy great and awful lore ! Nor less, beside the calm clear sea, Or, in the leafy cool reclined, With thine own greenwood minstrelsy Restore a wearied mind :— And grant my soul a bliss to own Beyond earth's mightiest to bestow, Which love himself might give alone, If love be yet below. Oh ! I have loved thee from a child And sure, on childhood's rapturous hour, Thine eye of loveliness hath smiled, With most approving power ; — THK PRE311L'M. For in that season bright and sweet Roams the blest spirit pure and free, Ere woman's art, or man's deceit, Hath stol'n a thought from thee. And I would be thy child again. Careless, and innocent, and still : Oh ! snatch me from mine own wild reign To heed a holier will ! Oh ! sadly is the soul unblest, That ne'er the sacred joys hath known, Of those who in thy temple rest Majestically lone ! And smit with a celestial love, In secresy converse with thee. And hear thee bring them from above Thy wondrous history ! How, when the great Omnific word Through the far halls of Chaos rang, And life the dark cold billows stirr'd, Thy charms to order sprang — Forth danced, thy genial steps beneath, Herbage and flower ; to weave thy pall, Campania brought her painted wreath ; Her roseate treasures, Gaul. Recount thy Sire's unbounded power, Recount his unexhausted love, Who sent thee, from this cloudy hour, The shadows to remove — And teach me, in thy still recess. To search a clearer page than thine. Where Mercy, Wisdom, Faithfulness, Illumine every line ! 64 TUK puE-Mir^r. So when I cease on thee to gaze, May I thine Author's glor}' sec, In realms whose voice shall chant his praise. When thou no more shalt be ! AJfOy. THE PERFECTION OF NATURE. We boast of our manufactories and their produc- tions : of our rocks flowing in streams of iron and brass ; our aged mountains ground into porcelain ; the sea-weed and the sand of our shores becoming glass ; our dust and rubbish being molten into stone : we boast of these and very many operations. And, comparing them with the labours of other men, we may boast of them ; they are unrivalled under the circumstances, under any circumstances : but when we compare these processes and productions with those of nature, they are really nothing in compari- son ; and the machine or implement, to the contri- ver of which we erect a statue, is a mere bungle compared with the least and simplest of these. In the very best machines of art there is always a weak part, one that is loaded with the rest, and wears out long before them ; but there is nothing of the kind in nature, for every organ that we find in her pro- ductions is, when we understand it, the very best for the accomplishment of the pui-pose that it serves: there is nothing bungUng or unskilful, and nothing defective or redundant. Each comes, unseen and unbidden, in the very form, of the very consistency, and at the very time that it is wanted ; and when the use of it ceases, it decays ; but even in its decay it is not lost, for the moment that it has answered its purpose as part of one production, it is changed THE PREMIUM. 65 and decomposed by a new power and becomes part of another. Size or shape is no obstacle, and that which to our art w^ould be a physical impossibility, hinders not a jot the operations of nature. Gravitation is nothing, and within those limits which are found in the average of natural circumstances, heat is no- thing. If it be necessary that a plant should grow upwards, or that an animal should run with its back downwards, there is instantly an apparatus by which that is accomplished. It is the same with regard to the media in which they exist. One walks on the surface of the earth and browzes the herb- age under it ; and where that is the case we find the neck, head, and mouth the way best constructed for answering these purposes. Another roams in places where there is no vegetation upon the ground, and in it we find as perfect an adaptation for finding its food above it. A third courses its prey along the earth, and we find it endowed with all the appara- tus of rapid and prolonged motion. A fourth feeds upon creatures that can escape from it, either by flying into the air or creeping into holes in the earth, and it is so constructed that it can steal softly onward till it be near its prey, and then spring upon it with so much force as to cripple it by the blow. It would be easy to continue this enumeration through many volumes, for there is not a situation or a purpose that the most fertile or the most fan- tastic imagination can picture, that has not an adapt- ation or an instrument in nature ; and all art is merely imitation, and very clumsy imitation, of that which nature effects as an effortless and natu- ral consequence of the previous states of those sub- stances upon or among which the phenomena take P'^-^®« BRITISH NATURALIST, E 66 THE rUEMiXjM, THE MUSEUM OF NATURE. We go to museums and bazaars, and we WOTi^eT at their contents } and that man should be so formed as to understand and construct those things, is the grand marvel, the glory of natural history ; but the blade of grass on which we tread, the worm on which we trample, or the little fly that annoys us with his buzzing sound and its tickling proboscis, is infi- nitely more curious, far more fraught with informa- tion, than all the museums of art that ever were collected. Creation is a self-operating, a self-con- structing, and in so far as man is concerned, a self- contem"plating museum. Other museums, however numerous, and ingenious, and rare may be the sub- jects collected, have no mutual relation, — the one contributes in no degree to the other ^ but in the museum of nature, though the parts be innumera- ble, the machine is but one, and ccrntaining or con- tained, there is such a mutual relation and depen- dence that, if one is destroyed, others Tmist perish along with it ; and, if a new one appears, it comes not alone. Depress but a mountain for a few yards, and you lose some Alpine plant, possibly too small for tlie microscope ; turn but the course of a river, and many nations perish in the dried channel j empty even a small lake, and more life is lost than in the wars of a Gengis Khan, or a Napoleon ; roof out a tree, and you destroy myriads ; pull but a leaf, and there may be on it the gernis of ten thou- sand lives, all of which would be active and on the wing before the season were over : touch but a bit of rotten wood or a heap of dust, and the chance is that you disturb the habitation of something that is alive. On the other hand, form a pond of the most limpid water, and one annual visit of the sun will stock it with aquatic plants and aquatic animals ; THE FREMILM. 67 SOW but an unwonted plant and you xvlll find it taken possession of by an unwonted inhabitant. Thus the grand principle to which all the glo-^ ries of the summer are owing, literally, and in its material substance, " walketh in darkness." And how can it be otherwise ] Those glories that are around us in all the luxuriance of the summer beauty, are the museum of " the living God ;" ex- tended and free as that beneficence with which he breathed into man the breath of life — of contem* plation, and reflection, and sent him into the midst of this mighty and marvellous creation, to learn to wonder and to worship. And who, to whom thought is given, would so contemn his Maker, or so injure himself, as to be amid all this, and yet let the summer sun go down upon him in a state of ignorance ! aye, who would not spring to it at the gray dawn of the summer morning, while the grass on the hedge is all in gems, and the mountain is veiled in its fleecy man- lie ! Who would not hasten to witness an awa* king world, to see all nature coming forth from her slumber, and joying to meet the vicegerent of her Maker ! And just at that time — just in the wane of that momentary repose which, in a northern country, one cannot call night — you may witness some creatures upon which the sun never shines, some tiny flies coming out of their pupar cases, which are all destined to die before the sun, which is now dissolving the ascending clouds over you, appears in the horizon. By the pool or the Ijrook, too, you will find the gnat, having forgotten her song with which she wearied the night, and her thirst for blood, Vv^hich is probably given to her as a stimulant for the last and grand eflbrt of her life, perched on a floating straw, or leaf, or a bit of 68 THE pnEjiiL>r. duckweed, and playing the boat builder with un- taught, and, therefore, inimitable skill, and a perse- verance even to the death. That little colony which she commits to the waters, and which is a true life boat, as it is full of life, and yet will neither sink nor be wetted, is at once her legacy and her monu- ment ; and when it is completed, she merely flut- ters through the air for a few feet, drops lifeless upon the water, and unites with that mass of mat- ter out of which germs arc to elaborate their com- ing forms. It is a singular fact in the natural his- tory of insects, and it seems so common to them all, and so restricted to them and those plants that we call annual, that one reproduction should be the whole purpose of their lives ; and that if this be prevented, their Uves may be prolonged indefinitely, and greatly beyond the natural period. So that, in the most trifling things, we see that it is an ema- nation of Almighty power by which creation works ; and that, for the accomplishment of her end, she can, in that which as a whole, is but as a grain of dust, contend with time as determinedly as if it were of giant Uneaments. BHITISU KATtTRALIST. THE NEW MOON. Whex, as the garish day is done, Heaven burns with the descended sun, 'Tis passing s%veet to mark, Amid the flush of crimson hght, The new moon's modest bow grow bright As earth and sky grow dark. Few are the hearts too cold to feel A thrill of gladness o'er them steal, TH£ PKEMIUX. 69 When first the wandering eye Sees faintly, in the evening blaze, That glimmering curve of tender rays Just planted in the sky. The sight of that young crescent brings Thoughts of all fair and youthful things — The hopes of early years ; And childhood's purity and grace, And joys that, like a rainbow, chase The passing shower of tears. The captive yields him to the dream Of freedom, when that virgin beam Comes out upon the air ; And painfully the sick man tries To fix his dim and burning eyes On the soft promise there. Most welcome to the lover's sight Glitters that pure, emerging light ; For prattling poets say. That sweetest is the lovers' walk, And tenderest is their murmured talk. Beneath its gentle ray. And there do graver men behold A type of errors, loved of old. Forsaken and forgiven ; And thoughts and wishes not of earth, Just opening in their early birth, Like that new light in heaven. BHTAIfT. JOANNA BAILLIE. JoAXXA Baillie holds that rank amongst our elder modern authors, and her poetry is so con- 70 THE PREMIUM. nected with that reawakening of our Uterature which took place about the commencement of the present century, that whatever she writes, how- ever sUght, or however unequal to the works which made her fame, has a peculiar claim to respectful attention. Of Joanna Baillie's intellectual strength, of her profound knowledge of the vi'orkings of passion, rendered more extraordinary'- by the pla- cidity with which she herself delineates them — of Joanna Baillie's genius and language, which are both so essentially old-English, deep, sound, vigour- ous, unfeigned, and unadulterated — we are proud to express our admiration. It would afford a sub- ject for a long and not uninteresting disquisition, to point out the striking difterence in the mind and writings of the literary women of thirty and forty years ago, and the literary women of the present time : those who have not perused their writings in connection, will hardly believe how great is the difference ; what a commentary the perusal affords on the entire change that has ob- tained in habits, manners, feelings, education, tastes, and hfe ! Amongst the elders — with Joanna Baillie at their head, as regards mind — the dis- tinguishing features are nerve, simplicity, vigour, continuity, unambitious earnestness, and good English, We find also elaborate and skilfully- developed plots. Amongst our distinguished wo- men of later date, we find accomplishment, grace, brilliancy, sentiment, scenery poetically sketched, and character ably handled ; talent in all shapes and ways, but not so much that can claim the name of genius. There is nothing of what we have called continuity. Writing Uttle but detached tales or novels, which, however clever, are only volumes of episodes, separate scenes, and strik- THE TTL'Z-ytrVTt, 71 iug characters, most of them unconnected with the main business of the book — it is as sketchers, whether for vivacity or pathos, nature or art; as eketchej's, whether of the country, the town, or the heart, of hfe or of manners, that our gifted women are now chiefly distinguished. In the female poetry too of the present day, fascinating tenderness, brilUancy of fancy, and beauty of feel ing, stand in the place of sustained loftiness of imagination, and compact artist-like diction. Our elder literary women were, in the spirit of their intellect, more essentially masculine; our younger ones are integrally feminine — women of fashion- able as well as studious life, women generally, who not only vsTite books but abound in elegant accom- plishments. We have not, and are not likely to have at present, another Mary Wolstencroft, (we merely speak of her as having exhibited grasp of mind,) another Mrs. Inchbald, another Mrs. Radcliffe — Joanna Bail lie is their only representative; adding, to the power of mind which they possessed, th^ dignified play of fancy, that amphtude of calm, bold thought, and that " accomplishment of verse** which they possessed not. Modern imaginative literature in England owes much to her " Plays on the Passions ;" perhaps more than to any other publication except " Percy's Reliques ;" at all events, our greatest poets, who were young when her plays appeared, have nearly all borne testimo- ny to the advantage and delight with which they perused them. With all this, the name of Joanna Baillie is not buzzed and blazoned about as very inferior names are; her works do not attain the honour of calf and gold in libraries where inferior works shine ; poetical readers of strong sensibility 73 THE PXlEMlU^r- and uncultivated taste do not dote upon " Basil," or quote from " Ethwald ;" and we never, by any chance, saw a line of hers transcribed in an album I One or two of her Shaksperian snatches of song have been set to music ; but, (to quote the words of an able critic,) "The celebrity of Joanna Baillie has been of a most peculiar nature ; her fame has had about it a peculiar puritj\ It has been the unparticipated treasure of the world of taste and intellect." We know that with this illustnous authoress there is a noble carelessness of praise, partly consequent on her years, her standing in society, and her having simply written at the instigation of her own genius ; obeying the voice from the shrine, and not the command of the outer-court worshippers : but still, ive feel vexed to see women of later date, and, however gifted, every way inferior to Joanna Baillie, written about' and likenessed, and lithographed, before her— the senior and superior of all. ssov. THE LILY. [Addressed to a Young Lady on her entrance into life] Floweh of light ! forget thy birth, Daughter of the sordid earth Lift the beauty of thine eye To the blue etherial sky. While thy graceful buds unfold Silver petals starred with gold, Let the bee among thy bells Rifle their ambrosial cells, And the nimble pinioned air Waft thy breath to heaven, like prayer ; THE PBE3HUM. 73 Cloud and sun alternate shed Gloom or glory round thy head ; Morn impearl thy leaves with dews, Evening lend them rosy hues, Morn with snow-white splendour bless, Night with glowwonn jewels dress ; Thus fulfil thy summer-day, Spring and flourish and decay ; Live a life of fragrance — then Disappear — to rise again, When thy sisters of the vale Welcome back the nightingale. So may she whose name I write. Be herself a flower of light, Live a life of innocence, Die, — to be transported hence To that Garden in the skies, Where the Lily never dies. JAMES MOSTGOMERT. ENGLISH AUTHORS. It is amusing to imagine what a host of pens are at this moment in motion, in sundry places of this little island ! In splendid Ubraries, furnished with every bodily comfort, and everj^ Uterary and scientific resource, where the noble or popular au- thor fills the sheet which the smile of the bibUopole and reader awaits, and almost anticipates ; in naked and ghastly garrets where the " poor-de\-il-author" scrawls with numbed fingers and a shivering frame, what will be coldly received, and as quickly for- gotten as himself ; in pleasant boudoirs, at rosewood desks, where lady-fingers pen lady-lays ; in ten thousand nooks and recesses the pile of books is 74 THE PREMirM. growing, under which, shelves, booksellers and rea- ders, shall groan, ere many months elapse. Ano- ther season shall come round, and all these leaves, like those of the forest, shall be swept away, leaving only those of a few hardy laurels untouched. But let no one lament them, or think that all this " la- bour under the sun," has been in vain. Literary tradesmen have been indulged in speculation ; critics have been employed ; and authors have enjoyed the excitement of hope, the enthusiasm of composition, the glow of fancied achievement And all is not lost ; The following year another race supplies, They fall successive, and successive rise. HO WITT. A HIGHLAND ANECDOTE. The same course of reflection which led me to transmit to you the account of the death of an an- cient borderer, induces me to add the particulars of a singular incident, aiTording a point which seems highly qualified to be illustrated by the pencil. It was suggested by the spirited engra\-ing of the Gored Huntsman, which adorned the first number of your work,* and perhaps bears too close a resem- blance to the character of that print to admit of your choosing it as a subject for another. Of this you are the only competent judge. The story is an old, but not an ancient one ; the actor and sufferer was not a very aged man, when I heard the anecdote in my early youth. Duncan, for so I shall call him, had been engaged in the aflfair of 1746, with others of his class, and was supposed, by many, to have been an accomplice, if not the principal actor in a certain tragic affair, which made * This article was written for the Keepsake. THE PHEXirM. 75 much noise a good many years after the rebeUion. I am content with indicating this, in order to give some idea of the man's character, which was bold, fierce, and enterprising. Traces of this natural dis- position still remained in Duncan's very good fea- tures, and in his keen gray eye. But the limbs, like those of the aged borderer in my former tale, had become unable to serve the purposes and obey the dictates of his inclination. On the one side of his body he retained the proportions and firmness of an active mountaineer ; on the other he was a disabled cripple, scarcely able to limp along the streets. The cause which reduced him to this state of infirmity was singular. Twenty years or more before I knew Duncan, he assisted his brothers in forming a large grazing in the Highlands, comprehending an extensive range of mountain and forest land, morass, lake and pre- cipice. It chanced that a sheep or goat was missed from the flocks, and Duncan, not satisfied with des- patching his shepherds in one direction, went him- self in quest of the fugitive in another. In the course of his researches, he was induced to ascend a small and narrow path, leading to the top of a high precipice. Dangerous as it was at first, the road became doubly so as he advanced. It was not much more than two feet broad, so rugged and difficult, and at the same time so terrible, that it would have been impracticable to any but the light step and steady brain of a Highlander. The precipice on the right rose hke a w^all, and on the left sunk to a depth which it was giddy to look down upon ; but Duncan passed cheerfully on, now whistUng the Gathering of his Clan, now taking heed to his footsteps, when the difliculties of the path required caution. 76 THE rREMIU.-M. In this manner he had more than half ascended the precipice, when in midway, and it might almost be said, in middle air, he encountered a buck of the red-deer species, running down the clifi' by the same path in an opposite direction. If Duncan had had a gun, no rencontre could have been more agreeable ; but as he had not this advantage over the denizen of the wilderness, the meeting was in the highest degree unwelcome. Neither party had the power of retreating, for the stag had not room to turn himself in the narrow path, and if Duncan had turned his back to go down, he knew enough of the creature's habits to be certain that he would "Vush upon him while engaged in the difficulty of the retreat. They stood, therefore, perfectly still, and looked at each other in mutual embarrassment for some space. At length the deer, which was of the largest size, began to lower his antlers, as they do when they are brought to bay, and are preparing to rush upon hound and huntsman. Duncan saw the danger of a conflict in which he must probably come by the worst, and as a last resource stretched himself on the little ledge of rock which he occupied, and thus awaited the resolution which the deer should take, not making the least motion, for fear of alarm- ing the wild and suspicious animal. They re- mained in this posture for three or four hours, in the midst of a rock which would have suited the pencil of Salvator, and which afforded barely room enough for the man and the stag, opposed to each other in this extraordinary manner. At length the buck seemed to take the resolution of passing over the obstacles which lay in his path, and with this purpose approached towards Duncan very slowly, and with excessive caution. When THE PREMICX. 77 he came close to the Highlander, he stooped down as if to examine him more closely, when the untameable love of sport, peculiar to his country, began to overcome Duncan's fears. Seeing the animal proceed so gently, he totally forgot the dangers of his position, and with one hand seized the deer's horns, whilst with the other he drew his dirk. But in the same instant the buck bounded over the precipice, canying the Highlander along with him. They went thus down upwards of a hundred feet, and were found the next morning in the spot where they fell. Fortune, who does not always regard retributive justice in her dispensa- tions, ordered that the deer should fall underneath, and be killed upon the spot, while Duncan escaped with his life, but with the fracture of a leg, an arm, and three ribs. In this state he was lying on the carcass of the deer, and the injuries which he had received rendered him for the remainder of his life the cripple I have described. I never could approve of Duncan's conduct towards the deer in a moral point of view, (although, as the man in the play said, he was my friend) but the temptation of a hart of grease, offering as it were, his throat to the knife, would have subdued the virtue of almost any deer stalker. Whether the anecdote is worth recording, or deserving of illustration, remains for your con- sideration. I have given you the story exactly as I recollect it. scott. THE BELL OF ST. REGIS. Whex Canada was in possession of the French, a Catholic priest named Father Nicholas, having assembled a considerable number of the Indians whom he had converted, settled them in the village Y8 tllE Plt£MlttM. which is now called St. Regis, on the banks of the St. Lawrence. The situation is one of the most beautiful on that noble river, and the village at thid day the most picturesque in the country. The houses, high roof and of a French appearance, are scattered round the semicircle of a little bay, and on a projecting headland stands the church, with it3 steeple glittering with a vivacity inconceivable by those who have not seen the brilliancy of the tin roofs of Canada contrasted in the sunshine with the dark woods. This little church is celebrated for the legend of its bell. When it was erected, and the steeple completed, father Nicholas took occasion, in one of his ser- mons, to inform his simple flock that a bell was as necessary to a steeple as a priest is to a church, and exhorted them, therefore, to collect as many furs as would enable him to procure one from France. The Indians were not sloths in the per- formance of this pious duty. Two bales were speedi- ly collected and shipped for Havre de Grace, and in due time the worthy ecclesiastic was informed that the bell was purchased and put on board the Grafid j\fonarque, bound for Quebec. It happened that this took place during one of those wars which the French and English are na- turally in the habit of waging against one another, and the Grand J\ionarque, in consequence, never reached her destination. She was taken by a New- England privateer and carried into Salem, where the ship and cargo were condemned as prize, and sold for the captors. The bell was bought for the town of Deerfield oh the Connecticut river, where a church had been recently built, to which that great preacher, the Rev. John Williams, was appointed. THE Ptt£5flt/3t* 79 With much labour, it was carried to the village; and duly elevated in the belfry. When Father Nicholas heard of this misfortune, he called his flock together and told them of the purgatorial condition of the bell in the hands of the heretics, and what a laudable enterprise it would be to redeem it. This preaching was, within its sphere, as inspir- ing as that of the hermit Peter. The Indians lament" ed to one another the deplorable unbaptized state of the bell. Of the bell itself they had no very clear idea ; but they knew that Father Nicholas said mass and preached in the church, and they under- stood the bell was to perform some analogous ser- vice in the steeple. Their wonted activity in the chase was at an end; they sat in groups on the margin of the river, communing on the calamity which had befallen the bell ; and some of thera roamed alone, ruminating on the means of rescuing it. The squaws, who had been informed that its voice would be heard farther than the roaring of the rapids, and that it was more musical than the call of the whip-poor-will in the evening, moved about in silence and dejection. All were melan- choly, and finely touched with a holy enthusiasm ; many fasted, and some voluntarily subjected them- selves to severe penances, to procure relief for the captive, or mitigation of its sufferings. At last the day of deHverance drew near- The Marquis de Vaudrieul, the governor of Cana- da, resolved to send an expedition against the Bri- tish colonies of Massachusetts and New Hampshire : the command was given to Major Hertel de Rou- ville : and one of the priests belonging to the Je- suit's College at Quebec informed Father Nicholas, by a pious voyageur, of the proposed incursion. 80 TttK PREMIUM. The Indians were imnaediately assembled in the church ; the voyageur was elevated in the midst of the congregation, and Father Nicholas, in a solemn speech, pointed him out to their veneration as a messenger of glad tidings. He then told them of the warlike preparations at Quebec, and urged them to join the expedition. At the conclusion, the whole audience rose, giving the weir- whoop ; then simulta- neously retiring to their houses, they began to paint themselves with their most terrible colours for battle, and, as if animated by one will at their council fire, they resolved to join the expedition. It was in the depth of winter when they set out to unite themselves with De Rouville's party at the fort of Chambly. Father Nicholas, with a tall staff and a cross on the top of it, headed them ; and, as they marched oil, their wives and children, in imiiu- tion of the h^mns vihich animated the; departures of the first crusaders imder the command of Godfrey de Boulogne, chanted a sacred song which the holy father had especially taught them for the occasion. They arrived at Chambly, after a journey of in- credible fatigue, as the French soldiers were mount- ing their sleighs to proceed to Lake Champlain. The Indians followed in the track of the sleighs, with the perseverance peculiar to their character. Father Ni- cholas, to be the more able to do his duty when it might be required, rode on a sleigh with De Rouville. In this order and array, the Indians, far behind, followed in silence, until the whole part}- had ren- dezvoused on the borders of Lake Champlain, which, being frozen, and the snow but thinly upon it, was chosen for their route. Warmed in their imagina- tions with the unhappy captivity of the bell, the In- dians plodded solemnly their weary way ; no symp- tom of regret, of fatigue, or of apprehension, relaxed TBE PnEMltJM. 81 their steady countenances ; they saw with equal in- difference the black and white interminalde forest on the shore, on the one hand, and the dread and dreary desert of the snov/y ice of the lake, on the other. The French soldiers began to suffer extremely from the toil of wading through the snow, and beheld with admiration and envy the facility with which the Indians, in their snow shoes, moved over the surface. No contrast could be greater than the patience of Father Nicholas's proselytes and the ir- ritability of the Frenchmen. When they reached the spot on which the lively and pretty town of Burlington now stands, a general halt was ordered, that the necessary arrangements might be made to penetrate the forest towards the settled parts of Massachusetts. In starting from this point, Father Nicholas was left to bring up Ids division, and De Rouville led his own with a com- pass in his hand, taking the direction of Deerfield. Nothing that had been yet suffered was equal to the hardships endured in that march. Day after day the Frenchmen went forward with indefatigable bravery, — a heroic contrast to the panics of their countrymen in the Russian snow-storms of latter times. But they were loquacious; and the rough- ness of their course and the entangling molestation which they encountered from the underwood, pro- voked their maledictions and excited their gesticula- tions. The conduct of the Indians was far different : animated with holy zeal, their constitutional taci- turnity had something dignified — even sublime, in its sternness. No murmur escaped them ; their knowledge of travelling the woods instructed them to avoid many of the annoyances which called forth the pestes and sacres of their not less brave but more vociferous companions. F 83 THE PREMIUM. Long before the party had reached their destina- tion, Father Nicholas was sick of his crusade ; the labour of threading the forest had lacerated his feet, and the recoiling boughs had, from time to time, by his own inadvertency in following too closely behind his companions, sorely blained, even to excoriation, his cheeks. Still he felt that he was engaged in a sanctified adventure ; he recalled to mind the mar- tyrdoms of the saints and the persecutions of the fa- thers, and the glory that would redound to himself in all after ages, from the redemption of the bell. On the evening of the 29th of February, 1704, the expedition arrived within two miles of Deerfield, without having been discovered. De Eouville or- dered his men to halt, rest, and refresh themselves until midnight, at which hour he gave orders that the village should be attacked. The surface of the snow was frozen and crackled beneath the tread. With great sagacity, to deceive the English garrison, De Rouville directed, that in advancing to the assault, his men should frequently pause, and then rush for a short time rapidly forward. By this ingenious precaution, the sentinels in the town were led to imagine that the sound came from the irregular rustle of the wmd through the laden branches of the snowy forest ; but an alarm was at last given, and a terrible conflict took place in the streets. The French fought with their accustomed spirit, and the Indians with their characteristic for- titude. The garrison was dispersed, the town was taken, and the buildings set on lire. At daybreak all the Indians, although greatly exhausted by the fatigue of the night, waited in a body, and requested the holy father to conduct them to the bell, that they might perform their homages and testify their veneration for it. Father IVicholas THE PRE>»irM, 83 was not a little disconcerted at this solemn request, and De Rouville, with many of the Frenchmen, who were witnesses, laughed at it most unright- eously. But the father was not entirely discomtited. As the Indians had never heard a bell before, he obtained one of the soldiers from De Rouville, and despatched him to ring it. The sound, in the si- lence of the frosty dawn and the still woods, rose loud and deep ; it was, to the simple ears of the Indians, as the voice of an oracle ; they trembled, and were filled with wonder and awe. The bell was then taken from the belfn,^, and fastened to a beam with a cross-bar at each end, to enable it to be carried by four men. In this way the Indians proceeded with it homewards, exulting in the deliverance of the "miraculous organ." But it was soon found too heavy for the uneven track they had to retrace, and, in consequence, when they reached their starting point, on the shore of Lake Ohamplain, they buried it, with many benedictions from Father iS'icholas, until they could come with proper means to carry it away. As soon as the ice was broken up. Father Nicho- las assembled them again in the church, and, having prdcured a yoke of oxen, they proceeded to bring in the bell. In the meantime all the squaws and pa- pooses had been informed of its marvellous powers and capacities, and the arrival of it was looked to as one of the greatest events " in the womb of time.'' jVor did it prove far short of their anticipations. One evening, while they were talking and commun- ing together, a mighty sound was heard approach- ing in the woods ; it rose louder and louder ; they listened, they wondered, and began to shout and cry, " It is the bell." It was so. Presently the oxen, surrounded by the S4 THE PREMir:tf, Indians, were seen advancing from the woods ; the heam was laid across their shoulders, and, as the hell swung between them, it sounded wide and far^ On the top of the beam a rude seat was erected, on which sat Father Nicholas, the most triumphant of mortal men, adorned with a wreath round liis tem- ples ; the oxen, too, were ornamented with garlands of flowers. In this triumphal array, in the calm of a beautiful evening, when the leaves were still and green, and while the roar of Le longue Saulte rapids softened by distance, rose like the hum of a pagan multitude rejoicing in the restoration of an idol, they approached the village. The bell, in due season, was elevated to its place in the steeple, and, at the wonted hours of matins and vespers, it still cheers with its clear and swell- ing voice the solemn woods and the majestic St, Lawrence. galt. NATURE'S GIFTS. I CA2T find comfort in the words and looks Of simple hearts and gentle souls ; and I Can find companionship in ancient books, When lonely on the grassy hills I lie, Uivler the shadow of the tranquil sky ; I can find music in the rushing brooks. Or in the songs which dwell among the trees. And come in snatches on the summer breeze. I can find treasure in the leafy showers Which in the merry autumn-time will fall ; And I can find strong love in buds and flowers, And beauty in the moonlight's silent hours. There 's nothing nature gives can fail to please. For there 's a common joy pervading all. THE PRE.WICM. 85 THE BEACON- LIGHT. Daiik:5'ess was deep'ning o'er the seas. And still the hulk drove on ; No sail to answer to the breeze, Her masts and cordage gone : Gloomy and drear her course of fear. Each looked but for a grave, When full in sight, the beacon-light Came streaming o'er the wave ! Then wildly rose the gladd'ning shout Of all that hardy crew — Boldly they put the helm about. And through the surf they flew ; Storm was forgot, toil heeded not. And loud the cheer they gave, As full in sight, the beacon-Ught Came streaming o'er the wave ! And gaily oft the tale they told, When they were safe on shore, How hearts had sunk, and hope grown cold, Amid the billows' roar ; That not a star had shone afar By its pale beam to save, When full in sight, the beacon-light Came streaming o'er the wave ! AXON. EARLY LIFE OF AUDUBON. [Described by himself] " I RECEIVED Ufe and hght in the New World. When I had hardly yet learned to walk, and to ar- ticulate those first words always so endearuig to parents, the productions of Nature that lay spread 86 THE rREMIUJr. all around, were constantly pointed cut to me. They soon became my playmates ; and before my ideas were sufficiently formed to enable me to esti- mate the dillerence between the azure tints of the sky, and the emerald hue of the bright foliage, I felt that an intimacy with them, not consisting of friendship merely, but bordering on frenzy, must accompany my steps through life ; — and now, more than ever, am I persuaded of the power of those early impressions. They laid such hold upon me, that, when removed from the woods, the prairies, and the brooks, or shut up from the view of the wide Atlantic, I experienced none of those plea- sures most congenial to my mind. None but aerial companions suited my fancy. No roof seemed so secure to me as that formed of the dense foUage under which the feathered tribes were seen to re- sort, or the caves and fissures of the massy rocks, to which the dark-winged cormorant and the curlew retired to rest, or to protect themselves from the fury of the tempest. My father generally accom- panied my steps — procured birds and flowers for me with great eagerness — pointed out the elegant movements of the former, the beauty and softness of their plumage, the manifestations of their pleasure or sense of danger — and the always perfect forms and splendid attire of the latter. My valued pre- ceptor would then speak of the departure and re- turn of birds with the seasons, would describe their haunts, and, more wonderful than all, their change of livery ; thus exciting me to study them, and to raise my mind toward their Creator. " A vivid pleasure shone upon those days of my early youth, attended with a calmness of feeling, that seldom failed to rivet my attention for hours, whilst I gazed in ecstasy upon the pearly and shining eggs, THE pnEMiu:>r. 87 35 they lay imbedded in the softest down, or among dried leaves and twigs, or exposed upon the burn- ing sand or weather-beaten rock, of our Atlantic shores. I was taught to look upon them as flowers yet in the bud. I watched their opening, to see how Nature had provided each dilfercnt species with eyes, either open at birth, or closed for some time after ; to trace the slow progress of the young birds toward perfection, or admire the celerity with which some of them, while yet unfledged, removed themselves from danger to security, " I grew up, and my wishes grew with my form. These wishes, kind reader, were for the entire pos- session of all that I saw. I was fervently desirous of becoming acquainted with Nature. For many years, however, I was sadly disappointed, and for ever, doubtless, must I have desires that cannot be gratified. The moment a bird was dead, however beautiful it had been when in life, the pleasure arising from the possession of it became blunted : and although the greatest cares were bestowed on endeavours to preserve the appearance of nature, I looked upon its vesture as more than sullied, as requiring constant attention and repeated mendings, while, after all, it could no longer be said to be fresh from the hands of its Maker. I wished to possess all the productions of Nature, but I wished life with them. This was impossible. Then what was to be done 1 I turned to my father, and made known to him my disappointment and anxiety. He produced a book of Illustrations. A new life ran in my veins. I turned over the leaves with avidity ; and although what I saw was not what I longed for, it gave me a desire to copy Nature. To Nature T went, and tried to imitate her, as in the days of my childhood I had tried to raise myself 88 THE PREMIU:^r. from the ground and stand erect, before Nature had imparted the vigour necessary for the success pf such an undertaking. "How sorely disappointed did I feel for many years, when I saw that my productions were worse than those which I ventured (perhaps in silence) to regard as bad, in the book given me by my father ! My pencil gave birth to a family of cripples. So maimed were most of them, that they resembled the mangled corpses on a field of battle, compared with the integrity of living men. These difficulties and disappointments irritated me, but never for a mo- ment destroyed the desire of obtaining perfect repre- sentations of Nature. The worse my drawings were, the more beautiful did I see the originals. To have been torn from the study, would have been as death to me. My time was entirely occupied with it. I produced hundreds of these rude sketxihes annually ; and for a long time, at my request, they made bon- fires on the anniversaries of my birth-day." THE BROOK. Of those scenes which are alike calculated to bring us down from over excitement, or rouse us from the exhaustion of lassitude, none is better than the margin of a brook. There is not an indi- cation of anything either disposed or fitted to destroy : those elevated banks, with their alternat- ing glades and coppices, forbid the action of such winds as sweep the hill-side and the heath, lash the shore in sounds like thunder, make the lake curl its white crusted billows, and even the river run foaming to the sea. That small and gentle stream, now stealing unseen under beds of the THK PHEJIIUjr. 89 sweetest wild flowers, which, Uke a kind, modest friend, it nourishes in secret and in silence, — now curling round the large pebble, as if it would not disturb the repose of even a stone, — then gliding away into some stagnant angle, where it woos the wild plants to come and quench their thirst, and seems more a garden of herbs, than even an appendage of running water ; and yet again, as if it would not derange the little bank of gravel which has found a resting-place in its bed, it broadens out into a little pool where the gentle water-fowl may swim in safety, the songsters of the neighbouring trees perform their ablutions, the small quadrupeds drink, and the insect tribes spend their brief hours in joy ; — that gentle stream is the cause of no inundation, tears up no soil, and hardly bends a rush or drowns a fly. There is no din of wings, no shadow of the eagle, no rushing of the hawk, not a death-doer, or a death- cry, from all unreasoning nature in this little place ; and if man come not in with his snare, or his weapon, he may make it, or rather have it, the very Eden of innocence. How easily can we trace it upward to the fountains, or downward to the point in which it blends its waters, and loses its name in the river. The well under the haw- thorn, by the base of the rock, the depth of whose sources defy the heat of summer and the cold of winter, and which, for virtues more valuable than those for which modem idols are worshipped, the simple people called by the name of their favourite saint ; and, for the health that the draught of liquid diamond had given them, hung with garlands and other votive oflferings, as they hymned him in their grateful hearts; — that shining and sainted well is the farthest source of our little brook- And though 90 THE PKEMIUM. the brook apparently loves to linger in the shade of its little grove — where the willows, whose rough stems are the parents of fifty generations of osier twigs, and are as likely as ever to enrich the pea- sants with fifty more, stand rooted in the water among lofty reeds and glowing iris, and sport the soft glory of their green and silver in the wave- less pool ; — where, too, the alder and the elm blend their passage, and all is so still that the fluttering leaves of the aspen, ever in motion in other places, are here still — as if the zephyrs themselves had forgotten to breathe. — Though it thus lingers and broadens, the fountain is not at the distance of an hour's walk ; and that walk is across little swells, fragrant with the vernal grass, the white blossom of the creeping trefoil, the wafted sweets of the wild hyacinth, or the more powerful perfume of the bean-blossom, according to the season. And the inhabitants of those little cottages, as one passes along to the foot of the mountain, and which are so pleasingly simple, with their thatch and their white walls, and their trailing briars and their clus- tering roses, with here and there a poeony or a tulip — when the horticultural skill and pride are more than common — they are as innocent as they look. They are in happy ignorance, both of the grandeur of the world and of its grievances. The storm that unroofs the cottage, or sends the swathes of hay or the Fheaves of com coursing each other over the field — the fine day that follows, and per- mits all to be recovered and safe — the revolving year — the sun, the moon, and the stars in their courses — the weekly prayer and the weekly sermon — the noise of the mill, and the noise of the " smithy" — these are the world to them ; and to their minds and their desires, they are more than THE PREMIC.H. 91 the conquest from Rhodope to the Indus was to the monarch of Macedon. Those who have not visited such scenes, and known such people, have something yet to learn — something which is one of the most dehghtful parts of natural history. Simple as those people are, there are in them the germs of all the arts and sciences, and fineries and blandishments of life. The gold is there, and we want only the coiner with his stamp, to make them pass current among those whose superior value in exchange depends far more upon the impress than upon the bullion. The human heart is as warm there, and the feelings are as true, as where every sentence is " cut to model," and every attitude ordered by the posture-master. The evening walks of lovers are as enchanting there as the evening medleys in the fashionable world : eyes are as bright, when the star of eve or the moon of night is their only rival, as when they have to contend with the glitter of jewels, and the glare of angular crystal and coloured glass. Neither is the music less fasci- nating, or less in melody with all around, that it comes without purchase from the feathered tribes, than if it warbled in all the wild meanders of German harmony. All are well in their own places ; and the nuptial songs of the birds are just as much in accordance with the plans of those rustic youths and maidens, who have chiefly to consider how they shall best construct their nests and rear their broods, as the exhibitions of splen- dour are to those of whom spendour is the idol and the joy. There is something about a brook which leada one more insensibly, but more irresistibly, to the 92 THE PREMIUM. contemplation of rustic life, than anything else in rustic scener}^ It is not gerraain to wildness and desolation, and it is no kin to greatness. There is life and productiveness about it ; but it is life which is simple and unexpanded — a shelter and repose from the sweep of the elements and of time. Everything in the place itself, and in all the accompaniments of the place, proclaims that here is a fulness of life, and of life that knows no enemy, unless when man steps in to play the fowler. But when we come to examine it, we find that it is only the exuberance of production; for Nature is everywhere true to her economy, and the consumption of life is the means of life as much on the margin of a peaceful brook as in the haunts of the most formidable destroyers. Still all is redolent of life, and it is of little con- sequence whether you turn your attention to the air, the earth, or the sky. axon. THE WORLD TO COME. If all our hopes and all our fears Were prisoned in life's narrow bound ; If, travellers through this vale of tears, We saw no better world beyond ; Oh ! what could check the rising sigh ? What earthly thing could pleasure give ? Oh ! who would venture then, to die — Or who would venture then to live ? Were life a dark and desert moor. Where mists and clouds eternal spread Their gloomy veil behind, before, And tempests thunder overhead ; THE pRExtr^r. 93 Where not a sunbeam breaks the gloom, And not a floweret smiles beneath. "Who would exist in such a tomb — Who dwell in darkness and in death 1 And such were hfe without the ray Of our divine religion given ; 'T is this that makes our darkness day, 'T is this that makes our earth a heaven ! Bright is the golden sun above. And beautiful the flowers that bloom, And all is joy, and all is love, Reflected from the world to come ! BOWHIJTG, FUTURE INCREASE OF KNOWLEDGE. What are great and beneficial discoveries, in their origin ] W'hat is the process which has led to them 1 They are the work of rational man, operating upon the materials existing in nature, and observing the laws and properties of the phy- sical world. The Creator of the universe has fur- nished us the material ; it is all around us, above us, and beneath us ; in the ground under our feet ; the air we breathe ; the waters of the ocean and of the fountains of the earth ; in the various sub- jects of the kingdoms of nature. We cannot open our eyes, nor stretch out our hands, nor take a step, but we see, and handle, and tread upon the things, from which the most wonderful and useful dis- coveries and inventions have been deduced. W hat is gunpowder, which has changed the character of modern warfare 1 It is the mechanical mix- ture of some of the most common and least costly substances. What is the art of printing 1 A S4 THE PllEMtCM. contrivance less curious, as a piece of mechanism, than a musical box. What is the steam-engine 1 An apparatus for applying the vapour of boilinjj water. What is vaccination 1 A trifling ail, communicated by a scratch of the lancet, and capable of protecting human life against one of the m.ost dreadful maladies to which it is exposed. And are the properties of matter all discovered 1 its laws all found out 1 the uses to which they may be applied all detected 1 I cannot believe it. We cannot doubt, that truths now unknown are in reserve, to reward the patience and the labours of future lovers of truth, which will go as far be- yond the brilliant discoveries of the last genera- tion, as these do beyond all that was known to the ancient world. The pages are infinite in that great volume, which w*as written by the hand di- vine, and they are to be gradually turned, perused, and announced, to benefited and grateful genera- tions, by genius and patience ; and especially by patience ; by untiring, enthusiastic, self-devoting patience. The progress which has been made in art and science is indeed vast. We are ready to think a pause must follow ; that the goal must be at hand. But there is no goal; and there can be no pause ; for art and science are in themselves progressive. They are moving powers, animated principles : they are instinct with life ; they are themselves the intellectual life of man. Nothing can arrest them, which does not plunge the entire order of society into barbarism. There is no end to truth, no bound to its discovery and application ; and a man might as well think to build a tower, from the top of which he could grasp Sirius in his hand, as prescribe a limit to discovery and inven- tion. Never do we more evince our arrogant igno' ranee, than when we boast our knowledge. True Science is modest ; for her keen, sagacious eye discerns that there are deep, undeveloped mysteries where the vain sciolist sees all plain. We call this an age of improvement, as it is. But the Italians, in the age of Leo X. and with great rea- son, said the same of their age ; the Romans, in the time of Cicero, the same of theirs ; the Greeks, in the time of Pericles, the same of theirs ; and the Assyrians and Egyptians, in the flourishing periods of their ancient monarchies, the same of theirs. In passing from one of these periods to another, prodigious strides are often made ; and the vanity of the present age is apt to flatter itself, that it has cUmbed to the very summit of invention and skill. A wiser posterity at length finds out, that the discovery of one truth, the investigation of one law of nature, the contrivance of one ma- chine, the perfection of one art, instead of narrow- ing, has widened the field of knowledge still to be acquired, and given, to those who came after, £in ampler space, more numerous data, better instru- ments, a higher point of observation, and the en- couragement of living and acting in the presence of a more intelligent age. It is not a centurj' since the number of fixed stars was estimated at about three thousand. Newton had counted no more. When Pr. Herschel had completed his great tele- scope, and turned it to the heavens, he calculated that two hundred and fifty thousand stars passed through its field in a quarter of an hour ! It may not irreverently be conjectured to be the harmonious plan of the universe, that its two grand elements of mind and matter should be accurately adjusted to each other ; that there should be full 96 THE PIlE:MlrK. occupation in the physical worlJ, in its laws and properties, and in the moral and social relations connected with it, for the contemplative and active powers of every created intellect. The imperfec- tion of human institutions has, as far as man is concerned, disturbed the pure harmony of this great system. On the one hand, much truth, dis- coverable even at the present stage of human im- provement, as we have every reason to think, re- mains undiscovered. On the other hand, thousands and millions of rational minds, for want of educa- tion, opportunity and encouragement, have remain- ed dormant and inactive, though surrounded on every side by those qualities of things, whose ac- tion and combination, no doubt, still conceal the sublimest and most beneficial mysteries. But a portion of the intellect, which has been placed on this goodly theatre, is wisely, intently, and successfully active ; ripening, even on earth, into no mean similitude of higher natures. From time to time, a chosen hand, sometimes directed by chance, but more commonly guided by reflec- tion, experiment, and research, touches, as it were, a spring till then unperceived ; and, through what seemed a blank and impenetrable wall, — the barrier to all farther progress, — a door is thrown open into some before unexplored hall in the sacred temple of truth. The multitude rushes in, and wonders that the portals could have remained concealed so long. When a brilliant discovery or invention is proclaimed, men are astonished to think how long they had lived on its confines, without penetrating its nature. e. eterett. THE pre:mium. 97 THE DYING FATHER AND HIS DAUGHTER. Wheels o'er the pavement rolled, and a light form. Just in the bud of blushing womanhood, Stood at the parent's door. Stern midnight frowned Upon the muffled stars, and the rich curLs Of that fair creature, damp and heavy, hung Around her brow. No mother's tender hand Dried the wet tresses, or with warm caress, Restored the weary spirit, for that hand Lay with the cold, dull earth-worm. Gray and sad. The tottering nurse rose up ; and that old man, The soldier-servant, who had trained the steeds Of her slain brothers for the battle field. Bowed low^ to point her to that couch of pain Where the sick father pined. Oft had he yearned For her sweet presence ; oft, through night's long watch. Mused of his daughter's smiie, till dreams restored The ardent pressure of her ruby lip, Dispelling every wo. Yet, far away. She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks. And all unconscious of a father's grief, Toiled for those fruits of knowledge which he willed Her to possess, still ever keeping bright The image of her home, and his dear smile, To cheer her labours. But a summons came Of sorrowful surprise, and on the wing Of filial love she hasted. 'T Was too late ! The lamp of life still burned, yet 't was too late ! The mind had passed away, and who should call Its wing from out the sky 1 For the embrace Of warm idolatry, was the fixed glare Of the dull, glassy eye. Disease had dealt G §S rtfE ptifstitfM, A fell assassin's blo^?^. Oh God ! the hiighi That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vaifl The withered hand was grasped, and the wide hali Echoed to • Father I Father V Through the sh?idea Of that long, stilly night, she, skepless, bent, Bathing with tireless hand the parching brow And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair roorri Came with its rose-tint up, she, shrieking, clasped Her hands with joy, for its reviving flftsh Traced that wan brow as if with one brief smile; Of wakened intellect. *T was seeming all { And Hope^s fond visions faded, as the day Rode on in glory* Night her curtains drew, And found that pale and beautiful watcher there, 8till unreposing. Restless on his couch Tossed the sick man. Cold Lethargy had steeped The last pale poppy in his heart's red stream, And Agony was stirring Nature up To cope with her destroyer. ' Oh, my God ! Would he could sleep !' sighed a low, silver voice, And then she ran to hush the measured tick Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl, Which clinging to the casement, hoarsely poured His boding note* But ah ! from that wan breast Thick-coming groans announced the foe who strike* But once, 'iliey bear the fainting child away, And, paler than that ashen corse, hei face Drooped o'er the old nuree^s shoulder, while a flood Of ebon tresses in their richness veiled Her marble bosom. ^T was a fearful sight To see a young heart bursting, while the old Went to its rest* There came another change. The muffled bell tolled out the funeral hour. THE PREJtirSt. 99 And many a foot the silent threshold pressed. Friendship was there, with its full, heavy heart, Keen curiosity, intent to scan The lordly mansion, and gaunt Worldliness Even o'er the coffin and the warning shroud, Revolving its own schemes. And one was there. To whom this world could render nothing back Like that pale piece of clay. Calmly she stood, Even as a statue. The old house-dog came, And pressed his rough head to her snowy palm, All unreproved of her. He for his master mourned, And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft His shaggy length through many a fire-side hour Stretched at her father's feet, and round his bed Of death had watched, with wondering, wishful eye, In fear and sympathy 1 No ! on his neck Her orphan tear had fallen, and by her side His noble front he reared, as proud to guard The last, loved relic of his master's house. There was a calmness on that mourner's brow, III understood by many an eager glance Which settled on her. Of her sire they spake, Who suffered scarce the breath of heaven to lift The tresses of his darling, and who deemed In the deep passion of his heart's sole love, She was too good for earth ; and then they gazed Indignant on her tearless eye, and said * Hoxv strange that he should be so lightly moiirjied* Oh woman, oft misconstrued ! — the pure pearls Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well, For the unpausing, or impatient hand To win them forth. Yet in that maiden's breast Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down. While the meek lip breathed out no boisterous plaint Of common, funeral grief. sigoxtrket. 100 THE PREMIUM. FALTERO'S CONSriRACY. Ix the early times of Venice, the government was possessed by the doge, unfettered by the inter- ference of counsels, though he sometimes volunta- rily solicited the advice of the chief citizens. There were also, on remarkable emergencies, general as- semblies of the people. But the defects of such a government were perceived, and a Grand Council established, with the consent of the people, con- sisting of four hundred and eighty metnbers, all men of high birth. The grand council soon proceeded to limit the prerogatives of the doge, and appointed a second council, of forty, to administer criminal justice. A council of sixty assisted the doge in all domestic and foreign business ; and the famous council of ten exercised supreme power over the other coun- cils, and privately investigated and punished all state crimes. The doge was bound to have no private correspondence with foreign states, to ac- quire no property beyond the Venetian dominions, to interfere in no judicial process, and to permit no citizen to use tokens of subjection in saluting him. Thus stripped of power, it might truly be said, '■' Doo-e3 had but their titles for their glories. All outward honour for an inward toil." They were forced to be content with the chief rank among their republican countrj'men ; and might, as citizens, feel pride that they had no more authority as princes. Unsuccessful attempts against power only have the effect of increasing its strength ; and the failure of Marino Fahero's conspiracy against the senate rivetted those chains which he wished to destroy. THE PREMIUM. 101 His story is too remarkable to "be passed over, and is best told by Marino Sanuto, who relates it nearly to the following effect. Marino Faliero was a wealthy Venetian noble- man, who, before he was chosen doge, was podesta or chief magistrate of Treviso. Now he was of so very proud and wrathful a temper, that one day, when a procession was to take place, the bishop, delaying to come as soon as he should have done to administer the sacrament, no sooner made his appearance, than Faliero, angry at being kept waiting, buffeted him with such violence that he nearly fell to the ground. This action appeared so profane in the eyes of the Italians that they believed that heaven, therefore, allowed Marino to go out of his right senses, in order that he might bring himself to an evil death. In 1354, Faliero, being then an old man, was elected doge of Venice. The same year, having given a feast to all his nobles, he observed a young knight. Sir Michael Steno, behaving himself in an unseemly manner; and, with his usual hastiness, commanded that he should be thrown off the raised pavement on which he was standing. Sir Michael was accordingly pushed down the steps ; which affront, in the presence of so many ladies and gen- tlemen of distinction, violently incensed him ; and passing from the banquet room into the hall of audience, he there, in the heat of his anger, wrote some satirical lines on the doge's chair. The next day, when the verses were seen, the doge consi- dered the insult to be unpardonable, and on making strict inquiry for the offender, discovered him to be the Michael Steno whom he had lately disgraced in the presence of his court. In great anger he caused him to be arrested by the council of forty, 102 THE pnE3riu>r. hoping that they would sentence him to some severe punishment. But the council, taking into consi- deration Steno's youth and the provocation he had received, thought they were sufficiently severe in sentencing him to two months' imprisonment, and afterwards a year's banishment from Venice. When Faliero heard their decision, he became exceedingly angry, saying, that Michael Steno ought to have been hanged, or, at the least, banish- ed for life. While he was brooding over this matter, an ad- miral hastily came to him, indignantly complaining of the wrong he had received from a gentleman vi'ith whom he had quarrelled, who had struck him so that his face was yet bleeding. " What can 1 do for thee V said the doge : " think of the shame- ful insult which I have received, and see how the council pass it over." The admiral, perceiving Faliero's vexation, immediately began to throw out hints that they might both revenge themselves on the senate if they proceeded resolutely and cau- tiously. Faliero pondered on what he said, and at length consented to the enterprise. Having taken council between themselves, they admitted Faliero's nephew, a seaman named Calendaro, and several others into the plot, and met nightly in the doge's palace till they had concerted their schemes. Their intention was to assemble in different parts of the city on the 15th of April, and to make dis- turbances among themselves and the townspeople, that the doge might have a pretext for ringing the great bell of St. Mark, which was only done on occasions of especial danger. This was to be the signal for a general muster of the conspirators ; and when the members of the council should hasten from their houses to know the cause of the uproar, THE PKEMIUM. 103 tKcy were to be immediately cut in pieces, and Marino Faliero proclaimed sovereign lord of Ve- nice. This dangerous conspiracy was discovered by nearly the same means as the gunpowder plot One of the confederates, named Beltram, had a great affection for Ser Niccolo Lioni, one of the council, and could not bear the thoughts of his falling in the general massacre. After much trou- ble of mind as to what he should do, his affection conquered ; he went to Lioni, and earnestly en- treated him not to leave his house on the 15th of April. Lioni, alarmed at his mysterious manner, endeavoured to sift the truth from him, and at length obtained the full particulars of the conspi- racy. He had no sooner heard him out, than he ran from the room, and turned the key on the terrified Beltram ; then hastened to one of his feliow-senators, on whose judgment he could rely, and told him all that he had just heard. They went together to Lioni's house, and closely ex- amined Beltram, who, though greatly alarmed at the betrayal of his secret, did not deny the truth. He was then examined at a private meeting of the whole council, who took such measures as to pre- vent the execution of the plot They forbade the tolling of the great bell, seized the conspirators, tried and condemned the doge, and caused the sen- tence to be executed on him the following day. He was beheaded on the landing-place of the stone staircase of the palace; and one of the council, taking the bloody sword from the executioner, went to a balcony and showed it to all the people, cry- ing — " The terrible doom hath fallen on the trai- tor !" This dreadful example filled the people with an awful sense of the power and authority 104 THE PREXir^f. of the council, which thenceforth met with aa opposition to its decrees. THE WINTER NIGHT. 'T IS the high festival of night ! The earth is radiant with delight ; And, fast as weary day retires, The heaven unfolds its secret fires, Bright, — as when first the firmament Around the new made world was bent. And infant seraphs pierced the blue, Till rays of heaven came shining through. And mark the heaven's reflected glow On many an icy plain below ; And where the streams with tinkling cla^ Against their frozen barriers dash, Like fairy lances fleetly cast The glittering ripples hurry past. And floating sparkles glance afar Like rivals of some upper star. And see, beyond, how sweetly still The snowy moou light wraps the hill. And many an aged pine receives The steady brightness on its leaves. Contrasting with those giant forms Which, rifled by the winter storms, "With naked branches broad and high. Are darkly painted on the sky. From every mountain's towering head A white and glistening robe is spread. As if a melted silver tide Were gushing down its lofty side ; THE piiE:Mif3r. 105 The clear cold lustre of the moon Is purer than the burning noon, And day hath never known the charm That dwells amid this evening calm. The idler on his silken bed May talk of nature cold and dead ; But we will gaze upon this scene, Where some transcendeht power hath been. And made these streams of beauty flow In gladness on the world below, Till nature breathes from every part The rapture of her mighty heart. PEABODT. REBELLION IN THE STATE PRISON. A MORE impressive exhibition of moral courage, opposed to the wildest ferocity, under the most appalling circumstances, was never seen, than that which was witnessed, by the officers of the Mas- sachusetts State Prison in the rebellion which occurred about five years since. Three convicts had been sentenced under the rules of the prison to be whipped in the yard, and by some effort of one of the other prisoners, a door had been opened at midday, communicating with the great dining hall, and through the warden's lodge with the street. The dining hall is long, dark and damp, from its situation near the surface of the ground, and in this all the prisoners assembled, with clubs and such tools as they could seize in passing through the work-shops. Knives, hammers, and chisels, with every variety of such weapons, were in the hands of the fero- cious spirits, who are drawn away from their en- 106 THE PREMIUX. croachments on society, forming a congregation of strength, vileness, and talent, that can hardly be equalled on earth, even among the famed bri- gands of Italy. Men of all ages and characters, guilty of every variety of infamous crimes, dressed in the motley and peculiar garb of the institution, and displaying the wild and demoniac appearance that always pertains to imprisoned wretches, were gathered together for the single purpose of pre- venting the punishment which was to be inflicted on the morrow, upon their comrades. The warden, the surgeon, and some jather officers of the prison were there at the time, and were alarmed at the consequences, likely to ensue from the conflict necessary to restore order. They hud- dled together and could scarcely be said to consult, as the stoutest among them lost all presence of mind in overwhelming fear. The news rapidly spread through the town, and a subordinate officer of most mild and kind disposition, hurried to the scene, and came calm and collected into the midst of the officers. The most equable tempered and the mildest man in the government was in this hour of peril the firmest. He instantly despatched a request to Major Wainwright, commander of the marines stationed at the navy yard, for assistance, and declared his purpose to enter into the hall and try the force of firm demeanor and persuasion upon the enraged multitude. All his brethren exclaimed against an attempt so full of hazard ; but in vain. They offered him arms, a sword and pistols, but he re- fused them, and said, that he had no fear, and in case of danger arms would do him no service ; and alone, with only a little rattan, which was his usual walking stick, he advanced into the hall, to hold THE piiEMrrjr. 107 parley with the selected, congregated, and em aged villains of the whole commonwealth. He demanded their purpose, in thus coming to- gether with arras, in violation of the prison laws. They replied that they were determined to obtain the remission of the punishment of their three com- rades. He said, it was impossible ; the rules of the prison must be obeyed, and they must submit. At the hint of submission, they drew a little nearer to- gether, prepared their weapons for service, and, as they were dimly seen in the farther end of the hall, by those who observed, from the gratings that open- ed up to the day, a more appalling sight cannot be conceived, nor one of more moral grandeur, than that of the single man, standing within their grasp and exposed to be torn limb from limb instantly, if a word or look should add to the already intense excitement. That excitement, too, was of a most dangerous kind. It broke not forth in noise and imprecations, but was seen only in the dark looks and the strain- ed nerves, that showed a deep determination. The officer expostulated. He reminded them of the hopelessness of escape ; that the town was alarmed, and that the government of the prison would sub- mit to nothing but unconditional surrender. He said that all those who would go quietly away, should be forgiven for this ofTence; but that if every prisoner was killed in the contest, power enough would be obtained to enforce the regulations of the prison. They replied that they expected that some would be killed, that death would be better than such im- prisonment, and wath that look and tone, which bespeaks an indomitable purpose, they declared, that not a man should leave the hall alive, till the lOS THE PHEMITJM. flogging was remitted. At this period of the dis- cussion their e%il passions seemed to be more in- flamed, and one or two oft'ered to destroy the officer, who still stood firmer, and with a more temperate pulse, than did his triends who saw from above, but could not avert the danger that threatened him. Just at this moment, and in about fifteen minutes from the commencement of the tumult, the officer saw the feet of the marines, whose presence alone he relied on for succour, filing by the small upper lights. Without any apparent anxiety he had re- peatedly turned his attention to their approach, and now he knew that it was his only time to escape, before a conflict for life became as was expected, one of the most dark and dreadful in the world. He stepped slowly backwards, still urging them to depart, before the officers v^'cre driven to use the last resort of firearms. When within three or four feet of the door, it was opened, and closed instantly again, as he sprang through, and was so unexpect- edly restored to his friends. Major Wainwright was requested to order his men to fire down upon the convicts through the little windows, first with powder and then with ball, till they were willing to retreat; but he took a wiser as well as a bolder course, relymg upon the effect which firm determination would have upon men so critically situated. He ordered the door to be again opened, and marched in at the head of twenty or thirty men, who filed through the passage and form- ed at the end of the hall opposite to the crowd of criminals huddled together at the other. He stated that he was impowered to quell the rebellion, that he wished to avoid shedding blood, but that he should not quit that hall alive, till every con\ict had returned to his duty. They seemed THE PREMIU.M. 109 balancing the strength of the two parties ; and re- plied that some of them were ready to die, and only- waited for an attack to see who was most powerful, swearing that they would fight to the last, unless the flogging was remitted, for they would not sub- mit to any such punishment in the prison. Major Wainwright ordered his marines to load their pieces, and, that they might not be suspected of trifling, each man was made to hold up to view the bullet which he afterwards put in his gun. This only caused a growl of determination, and no one blenched or seemed disposed to shrink from the foremost exposme. They knew that their number would enable them to bear down and destroy the handful of marines, after the first discharge, and before their pieces could be reloaded. Again they were ordered to retire ; but they answered with more ferocity than ever. The marines were ordered to take their aim so as to be sure to Idll as many as possible — their guns were presented — but not a prisoner stirred, except to grasp more firmly his weapon. Still desirous to avoid such a tremendous slaughter as must have followed the discharge of a single gun. Major Wainwright advanced a step or two, and spoke even more firmly than before, urging them to depart. Again, and while looking directly into the muzzles of the guns, which they had seen loaded with ball, they declared their intention ' to fight it out.' This intrepid officer then took out his watch, and told his men to hold their pieces aimed at the convicts, but not fire till they had orders ; then turn- ing to the prisoners he said, 'you must leave this hall — I give you three minutes to decide — if at the end of that time a man remains, he shall be shot dead.' 1 10 t'A-E PllKMltT^t. No situation of greater interest than this can be conceived. At one end of the hall a fearful multi* tude of the most desperate and powerful men in creation, waiting for the assault — at the other, a little band of disciplined men, waiting with arms presented, and ready, upon the least motion or sign, to begin the carnage — and their tall and imposing commander, holding up his watch to count the lapse of three minutes, given as the reprieve to the lives of numbers. No poet or painter Can conceive of a spectacle of more dark and terrible sublimity — no human heart can conceive a situation of more ap- palling suspense. For two minutes not a person or a muscle was moved, not a sound was heard in the unwonted stillness of the prison, except the laboured breathings of the infuriated wretches, as they began to pant, between fear and revenge — at the expiration of two minutes, during which they had faced the ministers of death, with unblenching eyes, two or three of those in the rear and nearest to the further entrance went slowly out — a few more followed the example, dropping out quietly and deliberately, and before half of the last minute had gone, every man was struck by the panic and crowded for an exit ; and the hall was cleared as if by magic. Thus the steady firmness of moral force, and the strong effect of determination, acting deliberately, awed the most savage men, and suppressed a scene of carnage, which would have instantly followed the least pre- cipitancy or exertion of physical force. BUCKIXGHAH. THE fEEStlf 3r, 111 THE HtfRKFCAlVU. Vlttto'us portions of our country have at different periods, suffered severely from the influence of vio- lent storms of wind, some of which have been known to traverse nearly the whole extent of the United States, and to leave such deep impressions in their Wake as will not easily be forgotten. Having witness- ed one of these awfiil phenomena, in all its grandeur, I shall attempt to describe it for your sake, kind read- er, and for your sake only, the recollection of that astonishing revolution of the ethereal element, even now bringing with it so disagreeable a sensation, that I feel as if about to be affected by a sudden stoppage of the circulation of my blood. I had left the village of Shawaney, situated on the banks of the Ohio, on my return from Hender- son, which is also seated on the banks of the same beautiful stream. The weather was pleasant, and I thought not warmer than usual at that season. My horse was jogging quietly along, and my thoughts were, for once at least in the course of my life, entirely engaged in commercial speculations. I had forded Highland Creek, and was on the eve of entering a tract of bottom land or valley that lay between it and Canoe Creek, when, on a sudden, I remarked a great difference in the aspect of the heavens. A hazy thickness had overspread the country, and I for sometime expected an earthquake, but my horse exhibited no propensity to stop and prepare for such an occurrence. I had nearly arriv- ed at the verge of the valley, when I thought fit to stop near a brook, and dismount to quench the thirst which had come upon me. I was leaning on my knees with my lips about 113 THE PHEMirX. to touch the water, when, from my proximity to the earth, I heard a distant murmuring sound of an ex- traordinary nature. I drank, however, and as I rose on my feet, looked toward the southwest, where I observed a yellowish oval spot, the appearance of which was quite new to me. Little time was left me for consideration, as the next moment a smart breeze began to agitate the taller trees. It increased to an unexpected height, and already the smaller branches and twigs were seen falling in a slanting direction towards the ground. Two minutes had scarcely elapsed, when the whole forest before me was in fearful motion. Here and there, where one tree pressed against another, a creaking noise was produced, similar to that occasioned by the violent gusts which sometimes sweep over the country. Turning instinctively towards the direction from which the wind blew, I saw, to my great astonish- ment, that the noblest trees of the forest bent their lofty heads for a while, and unable to stand against the blast, were falling into pieces. First, the branch- es were broken ofi' with a crackling noise ; then went the upper part of the massy trunks : and in many places whole trees of gigantic size were fall- ing entire to the ground. So rapid was the progress of the storm, that before I could think of taking measures to ensure my safety, the hurricane was passing opposite the place where I stood. Never can I forget the scene which at that moment pre- sented itself. The tops of the trees were seen moving in the strangest manner, in the central current of the tempest, which carried along with it a mingled mass of twigs and foliage, that complete- ly obscured the view. Some of the largest trees were seen bending and writhing under the gale ; others suddenly snapped across ; and many', after a THE PnE.MITj'M. 113 momentary resistance, fell uprooted to the earth. The mass of branches, twigs, foliage, and dust that moved through the air, was whirled onwards like a cloud of feathers, and on passing, disclosed a wide space filled with fallen trees, naked stumps, and heaps of shapeless ruins, which marked the path of the tem.pest. This space was about a fourth of a mile in breadth, and to my imagination resembled the dried up bed of the Mississippi, with its thousands of planters and sawyers, strewed in the sand, and inclined in various degrees. The horrible noise resembled that of the great cataracts of Niagara, and as it howled along the track of the desolating tem- pest, produced a feeling in my rahid wtiich it were impossible to describe. The principal force of the hurricane was now over, although millions of twigs and small branches, that had been brought from a great distance, were seen following the blast, as if drawn onwards by some mysterious power. They even floated in the air for some hours after, as if supported by the thick mass of dust that rose high above the ground. I'he sky had now a greenish lurid hue, and an extremely disagreeable sulphureous odour was diffused in the atmosphere. I waited in amazement, having sus- tained no material injui-y, until nature at length re- sumed her wonted aspect. For some moments, I felt undetermined whether I should return to Mor- gantown, or attempt to force my way through the wrecks of the tempest. My business, however, be- ing of an urgent nature, I ventured into the path of the storm, and after encountering innumerable difficulties, succeeded in crossing it. I was obliged to lead my horse by the bridle, to enable him to leap over the fallen trees, whilst I scrambled over or unJer them in the best way I could, at times so li 114 THE PntMIUM. hemmed in by the broken tops and tangled branch" es, as almost to become desperate. On arriving at my house, I gave an account of what I had seen, \vhen, to my surprise, I was told that there had been very Uttle wind in the neighbourhood, al- though in the streets and gardens many branches and twigs had fallen in a manner which excited great surprise. Many wondrous accounts of the devastating effects of this hurricane were circulated in the country after its occurrence. Some loghouses, we W'cre told, had been overturned, and their inmates destroyed. One person informed me that a wire-sifter had been conveyed by the gust to a distance of many miles. Another had found a cow lodged in the fork of a large half-broken tree. But, as I am disposed to relate only w^hat I have myself seen, I shall not lead you into the region of romance, but shall content myself with saying that much damage was done by this awful visitation. The valley is yet a desolate place, overgrown with briers and bushes, thickly entangled amidst the tops and trunks of the fallen trees, and is the resort of ravenous animals, to which they betake themselves when pursued by man, or after they have committed their depreda- tions, on the farms of the surrounding districts. I have crossed the path of the storm, at a distance of a hundred miles from the spot where I witnessed its fury, and, again, four hundred miles farther off, in the state of Ohio. Lastly, I observed traces of its ravages on the summits of the mountains con- nected with the Great Pine Forest of Pennsylvania, three hundred miles beyond the place last mentioned. In all these different parts, it appeared to me not to have exceeded a quarter of mile in breadth. AUDUBOK. THE PRE>tIUM» 116 HYMN OF NATURE. God of the earth's extended plains ! The dark green fields contented lie : The mountains rise like holy towers, Where man might commune with the sky : The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams, With joyous music in their flow» God of the dark and heavy deep ! The waves lie sleeping on the sands. Till the fierce trumpet of the slorm Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. God of the forest's solemn shade ! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, liifts up admiring eyes to thee ; But more majestic far they stand. When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air ! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might. The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; All — from the evening's plaintive sigh. That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — Breathe forth the language of thy power. 116 TiiE piii;Miir>f, God of the fair and open sky ! How gloriously above us spriugs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings ; Each brilliant star, that sparkles throngliy Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee. God of the rolling orbs above ! Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze, Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun, And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven. Were kindled at thy burning tluone, God of the world ! the hour must come. And natvire's self to dust return ! Her crumbling altars must decay ! Her incense fire shall cease to burn r But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow ; For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below, PRABODT, THE PRAIRIE. Os my return from the Upper Mississippi, I found myself obliged to cross one of the wide prai- ries, which, in that portion of the United States, vary the appearance of the country. The weather was fine, all around me was as fresh and as bloom- ing as if it had just issued from the bosom of na- THE PREXITTM^. 117 tore. My knapsack, my gun, and my dog. were all I had for baggage and company. But, although well moccasined, I moved slowly along, attracted by the brilliancy of the flowers, and the gambols of the fawns around their dams, to all appearance as thoughtless of danger, as I felt myself. My march was of long duration ; I saw the sun sinking beneath the horizon long before I could perceive any appearance of woodland, and nothing in the shape of man had I met with that day. The track which I followed was only an old Indian trace, and as darkness overshaded the prairie, I felt .some desire to reach at least a copse, in which I might lie down to rest. The night-hawks were skimming over and around me, attracted by the buzzing wings of the beetles which form their food, and the distant howling of wolves gave me some hope that I should soon arrive at the skirts of some woodland. I did so, and almost at the same instant a fire- light attracted my eye. I moved towards it, full of confidence that it proceeded from the camp of some wandering Indians. I was mistaken : — I discovered by its glare that it was from the hearth of a small log cabin, and that a tall figure passed and repassed between it and me, as if busily engaged in Ixouse- hold arrangements. I reached the spot, and presenting myself at the door, asked the tall figure, which proved to be a woman, if I might take shelter under her roof for the night. Her voice was gruff, and her attire negligently thrown about her. She answered in the affirmative. I walked in, took a wooden stool, and quietly seated myself by the fire. The next object that attracted my notice, was a finely formed young Indian, resting his head between his hands, with 118 THE pRE>nr.>r. his elbows on his knees. A long bow rested against the log wall near him, while a quantity of arrows and two or three racoon skins lay at his feet. He moved not; he apparently breathed not. Accus- tomed to the habits of the Indians, and knowing that they pay little attention to the approach of civilized strangers, (a circumstance which in some countries is considered as evincing the apathy of their character,) I addressed him in French, a language not unfrequently partially known to the people in that neighbourhood. He raised his head, pointed to one of his eyes with his finger, and gave me a significant glance with the other. His face was covered with blood. The fact was, that an hour before this, as he was in the act of discharging an arrow at a racoon in the top of a tree, the arrow had spht upon the cord, and sprung back with such violence into his right eye as to destroy it for ever. Feeling hungry, I inquired what sort of fare I might expect. Such a thing as a bed was not to be seen, but many large untanned bear and buffalo hides lay piled in a corner. I drew a fine time- piece fi-om my breast, and told the woman that it was late, and that I was fatigued. She had espied my watch, the richness of which seemed to operate upon her feelings with electric quickness. She told me that there was plenty of venison and jerked buf- falo meat, and that on removing the ashes I should find a cake. But my watch had struck her fancy, and her curiosity had to be gratified by an immediate sight of it I took off the gold chain that secured it fi"om around my neck, and presented it to her. She was all ecstacy, spoke of its beauty, asked me its value, and put the chain around her brawny neck, saying how happy the possession of such a watch THE PaF.MIUM. 119 would make her. Thoughtless, and as I fancied myself, in so retired a sj)ot, secure, I paid little at- tention to her talk or her movements. I helped my dog to a good supper of venison, and was not long in satisfying the demands of my own appetite. The Indian rose from his seat, as if in extreme suffering. He passed and repassed me several times, and once pinched uie on the side so violently, that the pain nearly brought forth an exclamation of anger. I looked at him. His eye met mine ; but his look was so forbidding, that it struck a chill into the more nervous part of my system. He again seated himself, drew his butcher-knife from its greasy- scabbard, examined its edge, as I would do that of a razor suspected dull, replaced it, and again taking his tomahawk from his back, filled the pipe of it with tobacco, and sent me expressive glances when- ever our hostess chanced to have her back toward us. Never until that moment had my senses been wakened to the danger which I now suspected to be about me. I returned glance for glance to my com- panion, and rested well assured that, whatever ene- mies I might have, he was not of their number. I asked the woman for my watch, wound it up, and under pretence of wishing to see how the weather might probably be on the morrow, took up my gun, and walked out of the cabin. I slipped a ball into each barrel, scraped the edges of my flints, renewed the primings, and returning to the hut, gave a favourable account of my observations. I took a few bear-skins, made a pallet of them, and calling my faithful dog to my side, lay down, with my gun close to my body, and in a few minutes was, to all appearance, fast asleep. A short time had elapsed, when some voices were 120 THE PRE3IIU5I. heard, and from the comer of my eyes I saw two athletic youths making their entrance, bearing a dead stag on a pole. They disposed of their burden, and asking for whiskey, helped themselves freely to it. Observing me and the wounded Indian, they asked who I was, and why the devil that rascal (meaning the Indian, who, they knew, understood not a word of English) was in the house. The mother — for so she proved to be, bade them speak less loudly, made mention of my watch, and took them to a corner, where a conversation took place, the purport of which it required little shrewdness in me to guess. I tapped my dog gently. He moved his tail, and with indescribable pleasure I saw his fine eye alternately fixed on me and raised towards the trio in the comer. \ felt that he per- ceived danger in my situation. The Indian ex- changed a last glance with me. The lads had eaten and drunk themselves into such condition, that I already looked upon them as hors de combat ; and the frequent visits of the whiskey bottle to the ugly mouth of their dam, I hoped would soon reduce her to a like state. Judge of my astonishment, reader, when I saw this incar- nate fiend take a large carving-knife, and go to a grindstone to whet its edge. I saw her pour the water on the turning machine, and watched her working away with the dangerous instrument, until the cold sweat covered every part of my body, in spite of my determination to defend myself to the last. Her task finished, she walked to her reeling sons, and sjiid, • There, that'll soon settle him ! Boys, kill yon ■. and then for the watch.' I turned, cocked my gun-locks silently, touched my faithful companion, and lay ready to start up and shoot the first who might attempt my life. THE PHErillUM. 121 The moment was fast approaching, and that might have been my last in this world, had not Providence made preparations for my rescue. All was ready. The infernal hag was advancing slowly, probably contemplating the best way of despatching me, whilst her sons should be engaged with the Indian. I was several times on the eve of rising, and shoot- ing her on the spot : — but she was not to be punish- ed thus. The door was suddenly opened, and there entered two stout travellers, each with a long rifle on his shoulder. I bounded upon my feet, and mak- ing them most heartily welcome, told them how well it was for me that they should have, arrived at that moment. The tale was told in a minute. The drunken sons were secured, and the woman, in spite of her defence and vociferations, shared the same fate. The Indian fairly danced with joy, and gave us to understand that, as he could not sleep for pain, he would watch over us. You may suppose we slept much less than we talked. The two stran- gers gave me an account of their once having been themselves in a somewhat similar situation. Day came, fair and rosy, and with it the punishment of our captives. They were not quite sobered. Their feet were unbound, but their arms were still securely tied. We marched them into the woods off the road, and having used them as Regulators were wont to use such delinquents, we set fire to the cabin, gave all the skins and implements to the young Indian war- rior, and proceeded, well pleased, towards the settle- ments. During upwards of twenty-five years, when my wanderings extended to all parts of our country, this was the only time at which my life was in danger from my fellow-creatures. Indeed, so little risk do 122 THE PBEMIUM. travellers run in the United States, that no one born there ever dreams of any to be encountered on the road ; and I can only account for this occurrence by supposing that the inhabitants of the cabin were not Americans. Will you believe, good-natured reader, that not many miles from the place vphere this adventure happened, and where, fifteen years ago, no habita- tion belonging to civilized man was expected, and very few ever seen, large roads are now laid oat, cultivation has converted the woods into fertile fields, taverns have been erected, and much of what we Americans call comfort, is to be met with 1 So fast does improvement proceed in our abundant and free country. acdubox. THE SNOW FLAKE. ' Now if I fall, will it be my lot To be cast in some lone and lowly spot — To melt, and to sink unseen or forgot ; And there w^ill my course be ended V 'T was thus a feathery Snow Flake said, As down through measureless space it strayed, Or, as half in daUiance, half afraid, It seemed in mid air suspended. ' Oh ! no,' said the Earth, ' thou shalt not lie, Neglected and alone on my lap to die. Thou pure and delicate child of the sky ! For thou shalt be safe in my keeping. But then I must give thee a lovelier form ; Thou 'It not be a part of the wintry storm — But revive when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, And the flowers from my bosom are peeping ! THE PREMIUM. 123 'And then, thou shalt have thy choice, to be Restored in the Uly that decks the lea — In the jessamine bloom, the anemone, Or aught of thy spotless whiteness : — To melt, and be cast, in a glittering bead, With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead. In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed, Regaining thy dazzling brightness ; — *To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep, When Viola's mild, blue eye shall weep, In a tremulous tear, or, a diamond leaf, In a drop from the unlocked fountain ; — Or, leaving the valley, the meadow and heath, The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath. To go and be w^ove in the silvery wreath Encirchng the brow of the mountain ! * Or, wouldst thou return to a home on the skies^ To shine in the Iris I '11 let thee arise. And appear in the many and glorious dyes A pencil of sunbeams blending ! But, true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, I '11 give thee a new, and a vernal birth. When thou shalt recover thy primal worth. And never regret descending !' ' Then, I will drop,' said the trusting Flake, But bear it in mind that the choice I make Is not in the flowers, nor the dew to awake, Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning. For, things of thyself, they expire with thee ; But those that are lent from on high, like me, — They rise, and will live from thy dust set free, To the regions above returning. 124 THE PREMIUM. *If true to thy word, and just thou art, Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart. And return to my native heaven. For I would be placed in the beautiful bow, From time to time, in thy sight to glow, So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow By the Promise that God hath given I' MISS GOULD. DESCRIPTION OF NIAGARA FALLS. At the point, where this river issues from lake Erie, it assumes the name of Niagara. It is some- thing more than three-quarters of a mile in width, and the broad and powerful current embosoms two islands ; one of them, Grand Isle, containing eleven thousand acres, and the other Navy island, opposite to the British village of Chippeway. Below this island the river again becomes an unbroken sheet, a mile in width. For a half a mile below, it seems to be waxing in wrath and power. Were this rapid in any other place, itself would be noted, as one of the sublimest features of river scenery. Along this rapid, the broad and irresistible mass of rolling waters is not entirely whitened, for it is too deep to become so. But it has something of that curling and angry aspect, which the sea exhibits, when swept by the first bursts of a tempest. The momentum may be conceived, when we are instruct- ed, that in half a mile the river has a descent of fifty feet. A column of water, a mile broad, twenty-five feet deep, and propelled onward by the weight of the surplus waters of the whole prodigious basin of the lakes, rolling down this rapid declivity, at length THE PHEMlOr, 125 pours over the cataract, as if falling to the central depths of the earth. Instead of sublimity, the first feeling excited by this stupendous cataract is amazement. The mind accustomed only to ordinary phenomena and common exhibitions of power, feels a revulsion and recoil from the new train of thought and feeling forced in an instant upon it. There is hardly suffi- cient coolness for distinct impressions; much less for calculations. We witness the white and terrific sheets — for an island on the veiy verge of the cata- ract, divides the fall — descending more than one hundred and fifty feet into the abyss below. We feel the earth trembUng under our feet. The deaf- ening roar fills our ears. The spray, painted with rainbows, envelopes us. We imagine the fathomless caverns, which such an impetus, continued for ages, has worn. Nature arrays herself before us, in this spectacle, as an angry and irresistible power, that has broken away from the beneficent control of Providence. When we have gazed upon the spectacle and heard the roar until the mind has recovered from its amazement, we believe the first obvious thought in most minds is a shrmking comparison of the little- ness and helplessness of man, and the insignificance of his pigmy efforts, when measuring strength with nature. Take it all in all, it is one of the most sublime and astonishing spectacles, seen on our globe. The eye distinctly measures the amount of the mass, and we can hardly avoid thinking with the peasant, that the waters of the upper world must shortly be drained down the cataract. But the stream continues to pour down, and this concentrated and impressive symbol of the power of Omnipotence 126 THE PllEMtUM. Jiroclaims his majesty through the forest from age to age. An earthquake, the eruption of a volcanic moun» tain, the conflagration of a city, are all spectacles, in which terror is the first and predominant emo- tion. The most impressive exertion of human power is only seen in the murderous and sickening horrors of a conflict between two mighty armies. These, too, are transient and contingent exhibitions of sublimity. But after we have stood an hour at the foot of these falls, after the eye has been accus- toQied to look upon them without blenching, after the ear has become familiarized with the deafening and incessant roar, when the mind begins to calcu- late the grandeur of the scale of operations upon which nature acts, then it is that the entire and iinmingled feeling of sublimity rushes upon it, and this is, probably, the place on the whole globe, where it is felt in its most unmixed simplicityi flint. SONG JO THE EVENING STAR. Star that bringest home the bee, And selt'st the weary labourer free ! If any star shed peace, 'tis thou That send' St it from above ; Appearing when heaven's breath and broW Are sweet as her we love. Come to the luxuriant skies Whilst the landscape's odours rise, Whilst far-oflT lowing herds are heard, And songs, when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd Curls yellow in the sun. TUE rttEMlOI. 127 Star of love's soft intemews, Parted lovers on thee muse, Their remembrancer in heaven Of thriihng vows, thou art, Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart. CAMPBELL, THE GENIUS OF DEATH. What is death ? 'Tis to be free ! No more to love, or hope, or fear ; To join the great equality ; All alike are humbled there ! The mighty grave Wraps lord and slave ; Nor pride nor poverty dares come Within that refuge-house, the tomb ! Spirit with the drooping wing. And the ever weeping eye, Thou of all earth's kings art king ! Empires at thy footstool lie ! Beneath thee stfewed Their multitude Sink, like waves upon the shore ; Storm shall never rouse them more ! What 's the grandeur of the earth To the grandeur round thy throne 1 Riches, glory, beauty, birth. To thy kingdom all have gone. Before thee stand The wondrous band ; Bards, heroes, sages, side by side, Who darkened nations when they died ! 128 THE PREMtUX. Earth has hosts ; but thou canst show Many a milUon for her one ; Through thy gates the mortal flow Has for countless years rolled on. Back fioni the tomb No step has come ; There fixed, till the last thunder's sound Shall bid thy prisoner be unbound ! CROZT. THE HARVEST MOON. I MUST not omit to notice the splendid appearance of the Harvest Moox. The circumstance of this moon rising several nights successively almost at the same time, immediately after sunset, has given it an importance in the eyes of farmers ; but it is not the less remarkable for its singular and splendid beauty. No moon during the year can bear any comparison writh it. At its rising it has a character so pecuUarly its own, that the more a person is ac- customed to expect and to observe it, the more it strikes him with astonishment. I would advise every one who can go out in the country, to make a practice of watching for its rising. The warmth and the dryness of the earth, the clearness and balmy serenity of the atmosphere at that season, the sounds of voices borne from distant fields, the freshness which comes from the evening, combine to make the twilight walk delicious ; and scarcely has the sun departed in the west, when the moon in the east rises from beyond some solitary hill, or from behind the dark rich foliage of trees, and sails up into the still and transparent air in the full mag- nificence of a world. It comes not as in common, a THE PREMIUM. 129 fair but flat disc on the face of the sky, — we behold it suspended in the crystal air in its greatness and ^otu^^dity; we perceive the distance beyond it as sensibly as that before it; and its apparent size is magnificent. In a short time, however, it has ac- quired a considerable altitude — its apparent bulk is diminished — its majestic grandeur has waned, and it sails on its way calmly beautiful, but in nothing differing from its usual character. howitt. SPRING. How beautiful the pastime of the spring ! Lo ! newly waking from its wintry dream, She, like a smiling infant, timid plays On the green margin of the sunny lake, Fearing by starts, the little breaking waves, (If riplings, rather known by sound than sight, May haply so be named,) that in the grass Soon fade in murmuring mirth. EXTRACT. ** Oh, what regards it if a blind man lie On a green lawn or on a steamy moor What heeds it to the dead and withered heart, Whose faculty of rapture is grown sere. Hath lost distinction between foul and fair, Whether it house in gorgeous palaces, Or mid wan graves and haggard signs of care ! Oh, there 's a grief, so with the threads of being Ravelled and twined, it sickens every sense : 130 THE PHEMItTM. Then is the swinging and monotonous bell Musical as the rich harp heard by moonhght J Then are the Umbs insensible if they rest On the coarse pallet or the pulpy down." MILMAN. THE SPANISH BRIGAND. A SHORT time after the French war, and the res- toration of Ferdinand VII., whose conduct made many of the loose guerilla parties continue out in the country as brigands, an English merchant ar- rived one evening at a small mean town, at the foot of the Sierra Morena. In the posada of the place where he took up his lodgings for the night, he met a Spaniard of a commanding figure, and of a sharp, intelligent, but amiable countenance. Much struck with his appearance, the Englishman entered into conversation with hirn, and was still more de- lighted l)y his frank, spirited style of addrer-s and talking. Before supper was ready, the two had established that sort of traveller-intimacy which is not perhaps the less delightful because it must finish in a few hours, and the parties, in all probability never meet again ; and when the meal was served, they sat down to it together, each, apparently, anx- ious to know more of the other. I'hey conversed together during the progress of the supper, and long after it was over, until the sinking and flickering lamps on the table warned the Englishman it must be time to retire to rest. As he rose to do so, the Spaniard, with all his former frankness and gentle- manly manner, asked him which way his road lay on the morrow. The English merchant replied. THE PREMirHT. 131 across the Sierra Morena, and indicated the road he meant to take. The Spaniard, shaking his head, eaid he was sorry for this, as he had reasons to sus- pect tliat that very road at that very moment was beset by robbers, from whose numbers and activity there was no escape. The Enghshraan confessed that this was unpleasant news, particularly as the affairs that called him towards Madrid were urgent. 'But cannot you stay v/here you are a day or two!' re- plied the Spaniard ; ' by that time they may have shifted their ground, and you may pass the moun- tains without m.eeting them.' The Englishman repeated that his business was urgent, said he was no coward, that he had hitherto travelled in Spain without any misadventure, and hoped still to do so. ' But my good Senor,' replied the Spaniard, ' you will not cross the mountains to-morrow without being robbeJ, take my word for that !' '' Well, if it must be so, let them rob me,' said the English merchant ; * I have little money to lose, and they will hardly take the life of an unarmed and irresisting man !' * They have never been accustomed so to act — let it be said to the honour of the band, they are not such cowardly assassins,' replied the Spaniard, who was then silent, and seemed to be musing to himself. The Englishman was beginning to call up one of the servants of the posada, to shcvv^ him to his rest- ing-place, when his companion, raising his hand, said, ' Not yet, Senor, not yet ! listen !' and he continued in an under-tone, ' It was my fortune, some time since to have to cross the Sien-a Morena alone, like you ; it was occupied then, as now, by the Saltea- dores ; but I met a man, also alone, as you have met me, who said he had rendered the captain of the band some service, and that he could give me a pass which would cause my person and my property 132 TBfi PttEMItTM. to be respected by the robbers, and enable me to cross the mountains witli perfect safety.' 'A much better thin^ this than a king's passport,' said the astonished Englishman. ' I'ray what was it 1 and did it succeed ]' ' It was only a button,' replied the Spaniard ; ' it did all that had been promised, and perhaps it has not yet lost its charm — I will give it you, here it is !' After searching in his pocket, the Spaniard produced a curiously filagreed silver but- ton, and placed it in the hands of the Englishman, begging him to be careful of it, and to present it to any robbers that might attack him in the Sierra. *But were you really attacked on your journey?* inquired the merchant. ' The button was respected by all the robbers I met, and I believe I saw them all,' ijaid the iSpiuiiard ; ' but ask no more questions, and take care of the button ! to-morrow you will see whether it has lost its charm.' With many thanks, the Englishman took his leave, and went to bed. On the following morning, when he continued his journey, the silver button ran in his head for some time. But it was not until noon, as he wa3 toiling up one of the most rugged of the mountain paths, that he had the opportunity of trying its vir- tue. There his guide, who rode before him, wag suddenly knocked off his mule by a blow from the butt-end of a musket, and the next instant three other guns were levelled at the Englishman's breast, by men who stepped from behind a rock. The at- tack was so sudden, that his ideas and recollection were disturbed, and he put his hand into his pocket, brought out his purse, and delivered it to the robbers, who were calling him all sorts of oj)prol)rious names, before he thought of his silver button. But when the recollection came to his mind and he produced it, much doubting of its eflicacy, the oaths of the TUE PEEXIU.M. 133 Salteadores were stopped at once, as though a sa- cred relic had been held before their eves; thev returned him his purse, earnestly entreating his pardon for all that had happened, and informed him that it was their bounden duty to see the bearer of that button safe across the mountains. Accordingly, on went the merchant with the brigands for liis guard, he blessing the silver button, and they show- ing him evciy possible attention and respect. On their way they met with other robbers, which prov- ed how formidable was the band, and how impossi- ble it would have been to escape them without the charmed button. At length they came to a low, soU- tary house in a wild dell, far away from the beaten path across the Sierra, which they had abandoned for rocks that seemed never to have been trodden. Here the merchant was told he might stop and refresh him- self. Nothing loath, he dismounted, and turned to the door, when his companion at the posada of the preceding evening — the donor of the magical but- ton, met him on the threshold, with the words and gestures of an hospitable welcome. His dress was changed — he now wore a splendid kind of uniform, the jacket of which was of velvet, embroidered with gold; but the Englishman recognized his command- ing figure and impressive countenance in an instant, and gave him his hand as a friend. ' I got here be- fore you,' said the captain of the banditti, for such in fact was the donor of the button, ' and have pre- pared a good dinner for you, being very certain, that Vfhat I gave you last night would bring you in safety under my roof.' The Englishman expressed his gratitude, and they sat down to dine. The bandit's dishes were savoury and good, and his wine was better. As the wine warmed the En- glishman, he again expressed his gratitude, and 134 THE PKExir^r. then ventured to say how astonished he was that 3 person of his host's manners, and one capable of such kind and generous feelings and actions, could lead such a kind of life. The robber drew his hand across his dark brow and fiery eyes, and said, ' These are times when thieves and traitors thrive in the royal court and the offices of government, and honest patriots are driven to the highway. As a guerilla, I shed my blood for my country ; for my king, who, when he returned, would have left me to starve or to beg! But no matter — this is no business of yours. I met 3-ou, liked your manners, and have saved you ! — that is enough ! say no more !' The Englishman of course desisted, and soon after rose to take his leave. The captain, who recovered his good humour, told him he should have an escort yet a little farther, and be put in the route he wished to follow. The merchant would then have returned the silver button, but the rob- ber insisted on his keeping it. ' You, or some friend of yours, may have to pass this way again,* said he, 'and whoever has the button to produce, will be respected as you have been respected ! Go with God ! and say notliing as to what has hap- pened between you and me and mine ! Adios !' The merchant's farewell was an earnest and cordial one. Guided by the brigands, he soon reached the beaten road on the opposite side of the mountains, and would there have given them some money for the trouble he had caused them. They said they had their captain's strict commands against this — they would not accept a real, but left him, wishing him a happy journey. Some time — I believe some years after this adventure — the English merchant heard with deep regret that the Spanish robber- chief, whom he described as being one of the hand- THE PREMIUM. 135 somest men he ever beheld, had been betrayed into the hands of government, and put to a cruel and ignominious death. brockedo>'. ARTS AND SCIENCES MUTUALLY DEPENDENT. We may remark the beautiful process, by which Providence has so interlaced and wrought up to- gether the pursuits, interests, and wants of our na- ture, that the philosopher, whose home seems less on earth than among the stars, requires, for the prosecution of his studies, the aid of numerous arti- ficers in various branches of mechanical industry ; and, in return, furnishes the most important facili- ties to the humblest branches of manual labour. Let us take, as a single instance, that of astronomical science. It may be safely said, that the wonderful discoveries of modern astronomy, and the philoso- phical system depending upon them, could not have existed, but for the telescope. The want of the telescope kept astronomical science in its in- fancy among the ancients. Although Pythagoras, one of the earliest Greek philosophers, by a fortu- nate exercise of sagacity, conceived the elements of the Copernican system, yet we find no general and practical improvement resulting from it. It was only from the period of the discoveries made by the telescope, that the science advanced, with sure and rapid progress. Now the astrono- mer does not make telescopes. I presume it would be impossible for a person, who employed in the abstract study of astronomical science, time enough to comprehend its profound investigations, to learn and practise the trade of making glass. It is men- tioned, as a remarkable versatility of talent in one 136 THE PREMIUM. or two eminent observers, that they have superin- tended the cutting and polishing of the glasses of their own telescopes. But I presume if there ne- ver had been a telescope, till some scientific astro- nomer had learned to mix, melt, and mould glass, such a thing would never have been heard of. It is not less true, that those employed in making the glass could not, in the nature of things, be expected to acquire the scientific knowledge, requisite for carrying on those arduous calculations, applied to bring into a system the discoveries made by the magnifying power of the telescope. I might extend the same remark to the other materials, of which a telescope consists. It cannot be used to any pur- pose of nice observation, without being very care- fully mounted, on a frame of strong metal ; which depends on the united labours of the mathematical instrument-maker and the brass-founder. Here then, in taking but one single step out of the philosopher's obsen-atory, we find he needs an instrument, to be produced by the united labours of the mathematical instrument-maker, the brass-foun- der, the glass polisher, and the maker of glass, four trades. He must also have an astronomical clock, and it would be easy to count up half a dozen trades, which directly or indirectly are connected in making a clock. But let us go back to the object-glass of the telescope. A glassfactory requires a building and furnaces. The man who makes the glass, does not make the building. But the stone and brick- mason, the carpenter, and the blacksmith must fur- nish the greater part of the labour and skill, re- quired to construct the building. When it is built, a large quantity of fuel, wood and wood-coal, or mineral coal of various kinds, or all together, must be provided ; and then the materials of which the glass THE PREMIUM. 137 is made, and with which it is coloured, some of which are furnished by commerce from different and distant regions, and must be brought in ships across the sea. We cannot take up any one of these trades, with- out immediately finding that it connects itself with numerous others. Take, for instance, the mason who builds the furnace. He does not make his own bricks, nor burn his own lime ; in common cases, the bricks come from one place, the lime from another, the sand from another. The brick- maker does not cut down his own wood. It is carted or brought in boats to his yard. The man who carts it does not make his own wagon ; nor does the person who brings it in boats, build his own boat. The man who makes the wagon, does not make its tire. The blacksmith, who makes the tire, does not smelt the ore ; and the forgeman who smelts the ore, does not build his own furnace, (and there we get back to the point whence we started,) nor dig his own mine. The man who digs the mine, does not make the pick-axe with which he digs it ; nor the pump with which he keeps out the water. The man who makes the pump, did not discover the principle of atmosplieric pres- sure, which led to pump-making : that was done by a mathematician at Florence, experimenting in his chamber, on a glass tube. And here we come back again to our glass ; and to an instance of the close connexion of scientific research with practical art. It is plain, that this enumeration might be pursued till every art and every science were shown to run into every other. No one can doubt this, who will go over the subject in his own mind, beginning with any one of the processes of mining and working metals, of ship-building, and navigation, and the 138 THE PREMIUK. Other branches of art and industry, pursued in civi- lized communities. If then, on the one hand, the astronomer de- pends fur his telescope on the uhimate product of so many arts ; in return, his observations are the basis of an astronomical system and of calcu- lations of the movements of the heavenly bodies, which furnish the mariner with his best guide across the ocean. The prudent ship-master would no more think of sailing for India, without his Bowditch's Practical JS'avigator, than he would without his compass ; and this Navigator contains tables, drawn from the highest walks of astronomi- cal science. Every first, mate of a vessel, who works a lunar observation, to ascertain the ship's longitude, employs tables, in which the most won- derful discoveries and calculations of La Place, and Newton, and Bowditch, are interwoven. I mention this as but one of the cases, in which as- tronomical science promotes the service and conve- nience of common life ; and perhaps, when we con- sider the degree to which the modern extension of navigation connects itself with industry in all its branches, this may be thought sufficient. I will only add that the cheap convenience of an almanac, which enters into the comforts of every fireside in the country, could not be enjoyed, but for the la- bours and studies of the profoundest philosophers. Not that great learning or talent is now required to execute the astronomical calculations of an al- manac, although no inconsiderable share of each is needed for this purpose ; but because, even to perform these calculations requires the aid of tables, w^hich have been gradually formed on the basis of the profoundest investigations of the long line of philosophers, who have devoted themselves to this THE PREMirjr. 139 branch of science. For, as we observed on the mechanical side of the illustration, it was not one trade alone, which was required to furnish the phi- losopher with his instrument, but a great variety ; so, on the other hand, it is not the philosopher in one department, who creates a science out of no- thing. The obsers^ing astronomer furnishes mate- rials to the calculating astronomer, and the calcula- tor derives methods from the pure mathematician : and a long succession of each for ages must unite their labours, in a great result. Without the geo- metry of the Greeks, and the algebra of the Arabs, the infinitesimal analysis of JVewton and Leibnitz would never have been invented. Examples and illustrations equally instructive might be found in every other branch of industry. The man, who will go into a cotton-mill, and con- template it from the great water-wheel, that gives the first movement, (and still more from the steam- engine, should that be the moving power,) who will obsers'e the parts of the machinery, and the various processes of the fabric, till he reaches the hydraulic press with which it is made into a bale, and the canal or rail-road by which it is sent to market, may find every branch of trade and every depart- ment of science literally crossed, intertwined, inter- woven with every other, like the woof and the warp of the article manufactured. Not a little of the spinning machinery is constructed on principles drawn from the demonstrations of transcendental mathematics ; and the processes of bleaching and dy- ing, now practised, are the results of the most pro found researches of modern chemistry. And if this does not satisfy the inquirer, let him trace the cotton to the plantation, where it grew, in Georgia or Alabama ; the indigo to Bengal ; the 140 THE PREMIUM. oil to the olive-gardens of Italy, or the fishing- grounds of the Pacific Ocean; let him consider Whitney's cotton-gin ; Whittemore's carding-ma- chine; the power-loom ; and the spinning appara- tus ; and all the arts, trades, and sciences, directly or indirectly connected with these ; and I believe he will soon agree, that one might start from a yard of coarse printed cotton, which costs ten cents, and prove out of it, as out of a text, that every art and science under heaven had been concerned in its fabric. e, everett. THE PROGRESS OF LIFE. I DREAMED — T saw a little rosy child, With flaxen ringlets in a garden playing ; Now stopping here, and then afar oflf straying, As flower or butterfly his feet beguiled. 'Twas changed. One summer's day I stepped aside. To let him pass ; his face had manhood's seeming. And that full eye of blue was fondly beaming On a fair maiden whom he called " his Bride !" Once more; 'twas autumn, and the cheerful fire I saw a group of youthful forms surrounding. The room with harmless pleasantry resounding, And in the midst I marked the smiling Sire. The heavens were clouded ! — and I heard the tone Of a slow moving bell — the white haired man was gone. axox. WOMAN. Ye are stars of the night, ye are gems of the mom, Ye are dew-drops, whose lustre illumines the thorn ; THE PRE3IltT». 141 And rayless that night is, that morning unblest, When no beam in your eye lights up peace in the breast, And the sharp thorn of sorrow sinks deep in the heart, Till the sweet lip of woman assuages the smart ; 'Tis hers o'er the couch of misfortune to bend, In fondness a lover, in firmness a friend ; And prosperity's hour, be it ever confest, From woman receives both refinement and zest ; And adorned by the bays, or enwreathed with the willow, Her smile is our meed, and her bosom our pillow. ASOX. THE CHARACTER OF OLIVER CROMWELL. There are two things that to a marvellous degree bring people under subjection — moral and corporeal fear. The most dissolute are held in restraint by the influence of moral worth, and there are few who would engage in a quarrel if they were certain that defeat or death would be the consequence. Crom- well obtained, and we may add, maintained his ascendency over the people of England, by his earnest and continually directed eflforts towards these two important ends. His court was a rare example of irreproachable conduct, from which all debauchery and immorality were banished ; while such was his deep and intimate, though mysterious acquaintance with every occurrence throughout the commonwealth, its subjects had the certainty of knowing that, sooner or later, whatever crimes they committed would of a surety reach the ear of the protector. His natural abiUties must always have 142 THE PRE3ilUM. been of the highest order, though in the early part pf his career, he discovered none of those extraor- dinary talents that afterwards gained him so much applause, and worked so upon the allections of the hearers and standers-by. His mmd may he com- pared to one of those valuable manuscripts that had long been rolled up and kept hidden from vulgar e3-es, but which exhibits some new proof of wisdom at each unfolding. It has been well said by a philosopher, w^hose equal the world has not known since his day, ' that a place showeth the man.' Of a certainty, Cromwell had no sooner possessed the opportunity so to do, than he showed to the whole world that he was destined to govern. * Some men achieve greatness, some men are bom to greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.' With Cromwell greatness was achieved. He was the architect of his own fortunes, owing little to what is called ' chance,' less to patronage, and still less to crime, if we except the one sad blot upon the {)age of his own historj', as connected with that of lis countiy. There appears in his character but a small portion of that which is evil, blended with much that is undoubtedly good. Although his public speeches were, for the most part, ambiguous — leaving others to pick out his meaning — or more frequently still, having no meaning to pick out, be- ing words, words, words — strung of mouldy sen- tences, Scriptural phrases, foolish exclamations, and such-hke ; yet when necessary, he showed that he could sufhciently command his style, delivering himself with so much energ)-, pith, propriety, and strength of expression, that it was commonly said of him under such circumstances, ' every word he spoke was a thing.' But the strongest indication of his vast abilities was, the extraorcinary tact with THE PttEMItTM, 143 which he entered into, dissected, and scrutinised the nature of human kind. No man ever dived into the manners and minds of those around him with greater penetration, or more rapidly discovered their natural talents and tempers. If he chanced to hear of a person fit for his purpose, whether as a minister, a soldier, an artisan, a preacher, or a spy, no matter howr previously obscure, he sent for hira forthwith, and employed him in the way in which he could be made most useful, and answer best the purpose of his employer. Upon this most admira- ble system (a system in which, unhappily, he has had but few imitators among modern statesmen,) depended in a great degree his success. His devo- tion has been sneered at; but it has never been proved to have been insincere. With how much more show of justice may we consider it to have been founded upon a solid and upright basis, when we recollect that his whole outward deportment spoke its truth ! Those who decry him as a fanatic, ought to bethink themselves that religion was the chivalry of the age in which he lived. Had Crom- well been born a few centuries earlier, he would have headed the crusades, with as much bravery, and far better results than our noble-hearted, but wrong-headed, Coeur de liion. It was no great compliment that was passed on him by the French minister, when he called the protector ' the first cap- tain of the age.' His courage and conduct in the field were undoubtedly admirable : he had a dignity of soul which the greatest dangers aud diificulties rather animated than discouraged, and his discipline and government of the army, in all respects, was the wonder of the world. It was no diminution of this part of his character, that he was wary in his conJuct, and that, after he was declared protector 144 Tttfi FHEMltTM. he wore a coat of mail concealed beneath his dress. Less caution than he made use of, in the place he held, and surrounded as he was by secret and open enemies, would have deserved the name of negli- gence. As to his political sincerity, which many think had nothing to do with his religious opinions, he was, to the full, as honest as the first or second Charles. Of a truth, that same sincerity, it would appear, is no kingly virtue ! Cromwell loved jus- tice as he loved his own life, and wherever he was compelled to be arbitrary, it was only were his au- thority was controverted, which, as things then were, it was not only right to establish for his own sake, but for the peace and security of the country over whose proud destinies he had been called to govern. * The dignity of the crown,' to quote his own words, ' was upon the account of the nation, of which the king was only the representative head, and therefore, the nation being still the same, he would have the same respect paid to his ministers as if Le had been a king.' England ought to write the name of Cromwell in letters of gold, when she remembers that, within a space of four or five years, he avenged all the insults that had been lavishly flung upon her by every country in Europe, throughout a long, disastrous, and most perplexing civil war. Gloriously did he retrieve the credit that had been mouldering and decaying during two weak and dis- creditable reigns of nearly fifty years' continuance — gloriously did he establish and extend his country's authority and influence in remote nations — glorious- ly acquire the real mastery of the British Channel — gloriously send forth fleets that went and con- quered, and never sullied the union flag by an act of dishonour or dissimulation. Not a single Briton, during the protectorate, but could demand and re- THE PHEMIUM. 145 ceive either reparation or revenge for injury, whether it came from France, from Spain, from any open foe or treacherous ally ; not an oppressed foreigner claimed his protection, but it was immediately and effectually granted. Were things to be compared to this in the reign of either Charles 1 England may blush at the remembrance of the insults she sustained during the reigns of the first most amia- ble, yet most weak — of the second most admired, yet most contemptible — of these legal kings. What must she think of the treatment of the elector pala- tine, though he was son-in-law to King James 1 And let her ask herself how the Duke of Rohan was assisted in the Protestant war at Rochelle, notwithstanding the solemn engagement of King Charles under his own hand ! Alas ! alas ! the page of history is but a sad one ; and the Stuarts and the Cromv/ells, the roundheads and the cava- liers, the pennons and the drums, are but part and parcel of the same dust — the dust we, who are made of dust animated for a time by a living spirit, now tread upon ! Their words, that wrestled witla the winds and mounted on the air, have left no trace along that air whereon they sported: — the clouds in all their beauty cap our isle with their magnificence, a-s in those by -gone days ; the rivera are as blue, the seas as salt; the flowers, those sweet things ! remain fresh within our fields, a3 when God called them into existence in Paradise, and are bright as ever. But the change is over us, as it has been over them: we, too, are passing. O England ! what should this teach 1 Even three things — wisdom, justice, and mercy. •' Wisdom to watch ourselves, and then our rulers, so that we nei- ther do nor suffer wrong ; justice to the memory of the mighty dead, whether born to thrones or foot- K 146 THB tHEMlUM. Stools ; mercy inasmuch as we shall deeply need it from our successors. ajtox. HAUNT FOR A SUMMER NOON. There is a cave, All overgrown with trailing odorous plants, Which curtain out the day with leaves and flowers, And paved with veined emerald, and a fountain Leaps in the midst with an awakening sound. From its curved roof the mountain's frozen tears, Like snow, or silver, or long diamond spires. Hang downward, raining forth a doubtful light ; And there is heard the ever-moving air, Whispering without from tree to tree, and birds, And bees ; and all around are mossy seats, And the rough walls are clothed with long soft grass} A simple dwelling, which shall be our own ; Where we will sit and talk of time and change, As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves unchanged. SHELLET. THE LANDSCAPE. Be^jeath is a wide plain of billowy mist, As a lake, paving in the morning sky. With azure waves which burst in silver light, Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on Under the curdling winds, an-d islanding The peak whereon we stand, midway, around Encinctured by the dark and blooming forests. Dim twilight lawns, and stream-illumined caves, And wind-enchanted shapes of wandering mist; And far on high the keen sky-cleaving mountains From icy spires of sun-like radiance fling fBE PREMIUM. 147 The dawn, as lifted ocean's dazzling spray, From some Atlantic islet scattered up, Spangles the wind with lamp-like water-drops. The vale is girdled with their walls, a howl Of cataracts from their thaw-cloven ravines Satiates the listening wind, continuous, vast, Awful as silence. Hark ! the rushing snow ! The sun-awakened avalanche I whose mass, Thrice sifted by the storm, had gathered there Flake after flake, in world-defying minds As thought by thought is piled, till some great truth Is loosened, and the nations echo round, Shaken to their roots, as do the mountains now. SHELLST. A WOOD SCENE. The oak, Expanding its immeasurable arms, Embraces the light beach. The pyramids Of the tali cedar, overarching, frame Most solemn domes within, and far below, Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, The ash and the acacia floating hang Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed In rainbow and in fire, the parasites, Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around The gay trunks, and as gamesome infant's eyes. With gentle meanings and most innocent wiles. Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love, These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs, Uniting their close union ; the woven leaves Make net-work of the dark blue light of day. And the night's noontide clearness, mutable As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns 148 TBE PREMIUM. Beneath these canopies extend their swells, Fragi-ant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine, A soul-dissolving odour, to invite To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell, Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep Their noonday watch, and sail among ihe shades Like vaporous shapes half seen ; beyond, a well, Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave Images all the woven boughs above. And each depending leaf, and eveiy speck Of azure sky, darting between their chasms ; Nor aught else in the liquid niiiTor laves Its portraiture, but some inconstant star Between one foliaged lattice tvvinkling fair, Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon. Or gorgeous insect floating motionless. Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon. SHELLET. AMERICAN DEER-HUNT. DuRi^TG a week's rest at a retired village, I casu- ally mentioned that I had never seen a deer-hunt. A party was immediately formed ; and the next morning, after an early breakfast, we set out under a perfectly cloudless sky, and through these immense woods, whose dying leaves, betraying the touch of the au- tumn frosts, covered the whole face of nature as Avith a mantle of the most brilliant and opposite colours. Here a tree, with foliage of the brightest orange, mingled its branches with one of the deep- THE PREMIUM!. 149 est gory red ; while among the oaks, which dis- played all the various shades of the rainbow, here and there towered the erect and lofty pine, with its deep, dark, and unfading green. This tract of land was but a few years ago ow^ned and occupied by the Indians, who, in order to facilitate their hunt- ing by clearing the ground, were accustomed to set on fire what they term the iinder-briish. The pine-trees frequently suffered in the operation ; and their burnt and blasted stumps are often discerned by the solitary traveller, Uke the frowning ghosts of that high-spirited and ruined race, lingering among the places, hallowed by habit and tradition, where the ashes of the heroic fathers sleep. In the summer they contrast strangely with the bright and tender green, the delicate sweet flowers which spring up around their root, and the fresh and feininine loveliness of the vines, which sometimes cling with living tendrils to their scathed, dead trunks. At a large and commodious dwelling, although construct- ed of logs, and by its appearance fully entitled to the appellation of hut, we found a good-natured, hospitable old gentleman, with horns, guns, and hounds. A dozen of the latter were assembled in the road before the house, fully prepared to enter into the spirit of the sport. No one could compre- hend what was going on more clearly than these worthy, impatient gentlemen. They were fine ani- mals, with fine names, and in their eagerness and joy frequently drew upon them the rebuke of the old man. Scarcely any brute creature expresses his sensations with more manifest meaning than a dog. * * * It is necessary that a hunting party should consist of at least six or seven. One or two, termed drivers, with horns, horses, and hounds, ride to the grounds frequented by the deer, and the dogs 150 THE PREMItrX. soon catch the scent. There are certain knoAvn passages of the forest through which the timid ani- mals, when affrighted, generally attempt to escape. One individual of the party is stationed at each of these ; and in such an opening I found myself that bright morning, alone in the midst of these hushed and pathless forests, lurking, I almost thought, like a murderer, with my loaded piece, till the defence- less flying creature should spring upon his death. The silence around me was perfectly delightful. I could hear nothing — not even the warbling of a bird — not the murmuring of the rill, for the stream by my side, instead of brawling and bubbUng over its channel, had spread itself out into unbroken transparency. Across its bank, and accidentally answering the purposes of a bridge, a fallen tree was lying. Sometimes a playful fish leaped up from the brook, or glistened near the surface, as it turned its silver side to the sun ; and sometimes a leaf, loosened from its branch, fell, and floated slow- ly to the ground in silence. I was thinking how many millions of my fellow-creatures drop off even thus in the shadowy places of life, and go down to the church-yard with as little notice or interruption to the general business and joy and beauty of na- ture, — when the barking and yelping of the hounds came faintly through the distance, then nearer and nearer, till the whole chorus swelled on the breeze, and rung through the quiet wood, breaking strange- ly in upon its impressive stillness with discordant sounds of riot and death. You cannot conceive, unless you have experienced a similar moment, the almost painful eagerness and anxiety with which I watched to behold the victim appear through the trees. I heard a rustling among the dried leaves, and with desperate speed, and the whole bloody THE PREMIVX. 151 pack close at lier heels, a large doe broke from the thicket, and passed near the place where I stood. Fleet as the wind she was springing by, when I gave a low whistle ; on a sudden she stopped, and the fatal ball lodged in her shoulder ; another and another stretched her on the ground. She was a most lovely and feminine creature. Notliing could exceed the grace, cleanliness, and beauty of her form and Umbs. The dark silky brown of her back, the snowy whiteness of her neck, throat, and chest, and the almost human intelligence of her face, struck me with a strange feeling, of which those more familiar with the sight can form no idea. I confess, however unmanly it may have been, that a momentary horror ran through my frame, as the long lids, with their long lashes, fell over those large, dark, and beautiful eyes, while the swarthy huntsmen, with rough grasp and merry jokes, bound together her slender, tapering limbs, and one drew his long and gUttering knife across her throat. FAT. THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. The Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light, And wheels her course in a joyous flight; I know her track through the b', that we held OLir rights, as we hold our existence, by no charter, except from the Kixg of Kings. It vindicated the dignity of our nature. It rested upon this ' one in- extinguishable truth, which never has been, and never can be, wholly eradicated from the human heart, placed as it is, in the very core and centre of it by its Maker, that man was not made the property of man — that human power is a trust for human benefit, and that when it is abused, resistance be- comes justice and duty.' sprague of .xai>'e. CHARACTER OF MICHAEL ANGELO. SuBEiMiTT of conception, grandeur of form, and breadth of manner, are the elements of Michael An- gelo's style. By these principles he selected or re- jected the objects of imitation. As painter, as sculp- THE pnE3riu3r. 157 tor, as architect, he attempted, and above any other man succeeded, in uniting magnificence of plan and endless variety of subordinate parts with the utmost simphcity and breadth. His line is uniformly grand. Character and beauty were admitted only as far as they could be made subservient to grandeur. The child, the fe- male, meanness, deformity, were by him indiscrimi- nately stamped with grandeur. A beggar rose from his hand the patriarch of poverty ; the hump of hig dwarf is impressed with dignity ; his infants teem with the man ; his men are a race of giants. To give the appearance of perfect ease to the most perplexing difficulty, was the exclusive power of Michael Angelo. He is the inventor of epic painting, in that sublime circle of the Sistine Cha- pel, which exhibits the origin, the progress, and the final dispensations of theocracy. He has personi- fied motion in the groups of the cartoon of Pisa ; embodied sentim.ent on the monuments of St. Lo- renzo, unravelled the features of meditation in the prophets and sybils of the chapel of Sixtus ; and, in the last judgment, with every attitude that varies the human body, traced the master trait of every passion that sways the human heart. Though as sculptor, he expressed the character of flesh more perfectly than all who went before or came after him, yet he never submitted to copy an individual, Julio the second, only excepted ; and in him he represented the reigning passion rather than the man. In painting, he contented himself with a nega- tive colour, and, as the painter of mankind, rejected all meretricious ornament. The fabric of St. Peter, scattered into infinity of janing parts by Bramante and his successors, he concentrated ; suspended the loS THE PREMtr^r. cupola, and to the most complex, gave the air of the most simple of edifices. Such was Michael Angelo, the salt of art ; some- times he, no doubt, had his moments of dereliction, deviated into manner, or perplexed the grandeur of his forms with futile and ostentatious anatomy. These faults met with armies of copyists, whilst his grandeur had go rival. fuseli. CONNECTICUT RIVER. Fro:m that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain That links the mountain to the mighty main, Fresh from the rock, and welhng by the tree, Rushing to meet, and dare, and breast the sea — Fair, noble, glorious river ! in thy wave The sunniest slopes and sw^eetest pastures lave ; The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar. Springs from its home and leaps upon thy shore ; The promontories love thee — and for this Turn their rough cheeks, and stay thee for thy kiss. The blasts have rocked thy cradle, and in stf)rm Covered thy couch, and swathed in snow thy form. Yet, blessed by all the elements that sweep The clouds above, or the unfathomed deep, The purest breezes scent thy blooming hills, The gentlest dews drop in thy eddying rills ; By the mossed bank, and by the aged tree, The silver streamlet smoothest glides to thee. The young oak greets thee at the water's edge, M'et by the wave, though anchored in the ledge. — 'Tis there the otter dives, the beaver feeds, \Miere pensive oziers dip their willowy weeds ; And there the wild cat purrs amid her brood, And trains them in the sylvan solitude, THE PttEMlU.-\t. 159 To watch the squirrel's leap, or mark the mink Paddling the water by thy quiet brink ; Or to out-gaze the gray owl in the dark, Or hear the young fox practising to bark. Bark as the frost*nipped leaves that strewed the ground, The Indian hunter here his shelter found ; Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true, Here built his wigwam, and his bark canoe. Speared the quick sahnon leaping up the fall, And slew the deer without the rifle ball. Here his young squaw her cradling tree would choose. Singing her chant, to hush her swart pappoose ; Here stain her quills, and string her trinkets rude, And weave her warrior's wampum in the wood. No more shall they thy welcome waters bless, No more their forms thy moonlit banks shall press, No more be heard, from mountain or from grove, His whoop of slaughter, or her song of love. ************* Down sweeps the torrent ice — it may not stay By rock or bridge, in narrow or in bay — Swift, swifter to the heaving sea it goes. And leaves thee dimpling in thy sweet repose. ■ — Yet as the unharmed swallow skims his way, And lightly drops his pinions in thy spray, So the swift sail shall seek thy inland seas, And swell and whiten in thy purer breeze, New paddies dip thy waters, and strange oars Feather thy wave, and touch thy noble shores. Thy noble shores ! where the tall steeple shines, At mid-day higher than thy mountain pines. 160 THE PKEMir:^f. Where the white schoolhouse with its daily drill Of sunburnt children smiles upon the hill ; Where the neat Aillage grows upon the eye, Decked forth in nature's sweet simplicity — Where hard-won competence, the farmer's wealth, Gains merit honour, and gives labour health ; Where Goldsmitli's self might send his exiled band, To find a new " Sweet Auburn" in our land. W*liat Art can execute, or Taste devise, Decks thy fair course, and gladdens in thine eyes, As broader sweep the bendings of thy stream. To meet the southern sun's more constant beam. Here cities rise, and sea-washed commerce hails Thy shores, and winds with all her flapping sails From tropic isles, or from the torrid main, Where grows the grape, or sprouts the sugarcane ; Or from the haunts where the striped haddock play, By each cold northern bank and frozen bay. Here, safe returned from every stormy sea, Waves the striped flag, the mantle of the free ; — That star-lit flag, by all the breezes curl'd, Of yon vast deep, whose waters grasp the world. In what Arcadian, what Utopian ground, Are warmer hearts or manlier feelings found ; More hospitable welcome, or more zeal To make the curious " tarrying" stranger feel That, next to home, here best may he abide, To rest and cheer him by the chimney side ; Drink the hale farmer's cider, as he hears From the gray dame the tales of other years. Cracking his shag-barks as the aged crone. Mixes the true and doubtful into one. Tells how the Indian scalped the helpless child. And bore its shrieking mother to the wild. THE premiitm:. 161 Butcher'd the father hast'ning to his home, Seeking his cottage — finding but his tomb. How drums and flags and troops were seen on high, Wheeling and charging in the northern sky. And that she knew what these wild tokens meant, When to the Old French War her husband went. How, by the thunder-blasted tree was hid The golden spoils of far-famed Robert Kid ; And then the chubby grandchild wants to know About the ghosts and witches long ago. That haunted the old swamp. The clock strikes ten — The prayer is offered, nor forgotten then The stranger in their grates : — a decent rule Of Elders in thy puritanic school. When the fresh morning wakes him from his dream. And daylight smiles on rock, and slope, and stream, Are there not glossy curls, and sunny eyes As brightly lit and bluer than thy skies, Voices, as gentle as an echoed call. And sweeter than the soften'd waterfall, And lovely forms, as graceful and as gay As wild-brier budding in an April day — — How like the leaves — the fragrant leaves it bears. Their sinless purposes, and simple cares. Stream of my sleeping fathers ! when the sound Of coming war echoed thy hills around. How did thy sons start forth from every glade. Snatching the musket where they left the spade ! How did their mothers m-ge them to the fight, Their sisters tell them to defend the right ; L 162 TUE PBE3I1ITM. How bravely did they stand, how nobly fall, The earth their coffin, and the turf their pall ; How did the aged pastor Ught his eye. When, to his flock, he read the purpose high, And stern resolve, whate'er the toil might be, To pledge life, name, fame, all — for Liberty. Bold river ! better suited are they waves To nurse the laurels clustering round their graves ; Then many a distant stream, that soaks the mud Where thy brave sons have shed their gallant blood. And felt, beyond all other mortal pain. They ne'er should see their happy home again. BBAIKERI). LORD THURLOW. At times, lord Thurlow was superlatively great. It was the good fortune of the Reminiscent, to hear his celebrated reply to the duke of Grafton, during the inquiry into lord Sandwich's administration of Greenwich hospital. His grace's action and de- livery, when he addressed the house, were singu- larly dignified and graceful ; but his matter was not equal to his maimer. He reproached lord Thurlow with his plebeian extraction, and his recent admis- sion into the peerage. Particular circumstances caused lord Thurlow's reply to make a deep impres- sion on the Reminiscent. His lordship had spoken too often, and began to be heard vpith a civil but vi- sible impatience. Under these circumstances, he was attacked in the manner we have mentioned. He rose from the woolsack, and advanced slowly lo the place from which the chancellor generally ad- dresses the house ; then, fixing on the duke the lo(^ THE VRZ^tlVTit, 163 of Jove, when he has grasped the thunder ;— ' I am amazed,' he said, in a level tone of voice, ' at the at- tack which the noble duke has made on me. Yes^ my lords,' considerably raising his voice, ' I am amazed at his grace's speech. I'he noble duke can- not look before him, behind him, or on either side of him, without seeing some noble peer, who owe3 his seat in this house to his successful exertions in the profession to which I belong. Does he not feel that it is as honourable to owe it to these, as to be- ing the accident of an accident 1 — To all these no- ble lords, the language of the noble duke is as appli- cable and as insulting as it is to myself. But I don't fear to meet it single and alone. No one venerates the peerage more than I do, — but, my lords, I must Bay that the peerage solicited me, — not I the peerage. Nay more, I can say and will say, that, as a peer of parliament, — as speaker of this right honourable house, as keeper of the great seal, — as guardian of his majesty's conscience, — as lord high chancellor of England, nay, even in that character alone, in which the noble duke would think it an affront to be considered, — 'but which character none can deny me, — as a max, I am at this moment as respectable ; ■ — I beg leave to add, — I am at this time, as much respected as the proudest peer I now look down upon.' The effect of this speech, both within the walls of parliament and out of them, was prodigious. It gave lord Thurlow an ascendancy in the house, which no chancellor had ever possessed ; it invested him, in public opinion, with a character of indepen- dence and honour ; and this, although he w^as ever on the unpopular side of politics, made him always popular with the people. BUTLEU'S REMiyiSCEXCES. 164 THE PHEMirJr. SICILIAN SCEXE. OvE night a masque was held within the walla Of a Sicilian palace ; the gayest flowers Cast life and beauty o'er the marble halls, And, in remoter spots, fresh water-falls That 'rose half hidden by sweet lemon bowers, A low and silver-voiced music made : And there the frail perfuming woodbine strayed. Winding its slight arms 'round the cypress bough, And as in female trust seem'd there to grow, Like woman's love midst sorrow flourishing : And every odorous plant and brighter thing Bom of the sunny skies and weeping rain, That from the bosom of the spring 8tarts into Ufa and beauty once again, Blossom'd ; and there in walks of evergreen Gay cavahers and dames high-born and fair, Wearing that rich and melancholy smile That can so well beguile The human heart from its recess, were seen. And lovers full of love or studious Qare, Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air, And spirits that never till the morning sleep. And, far away, the mountain ^tna flung Eternally its pyramid of flame High as the heavens, while from its heart there came Hollow and subterranean noises deep. And all around the constellations hung Their starry lamps, lighting the midnight sky. As to do honour to that revelry. COKJfWALt. THE PHE3IIUM. 165 MORNIXG TWILIGHT. The mountains are blue with the morning air, And the woods are sparkhng with dewy light ; The winds, as they wind through the hollows, hear The breath of the blossoms that wake by night ; Wide o'er the bending meadows roll The mists, like a lightly moving sea ; The sun is not risen — and over the whole There hovers a silent mystery. The pure blue sky is in calm repose ; The pillowy clouds are sleeping there ; So stilly the brook in its covert flows. You would think its murmur a breath of air. The water that floats in the glassy pool. Half hid by the willows that line its brink, In its deep recess has a look so cool, One would worship its nymph, as he bent to drink. Pure and beautiful thoughts, at this early hour, Go off to the home of the bright and blessed ; They steal on the heart with an unseen power, And its passionate throbbings are laid at rest : O ! who would not catch, from the quiet sky And the mountains that soar in the hazy air. When his harbinger tells that the sun is nigh, The visions of bliss that are floating there. PERCITAL. MAY YOU DIE AMOxVG YOUR KIIVDRED. It is a sad thing to feel that we must die away from our home. Tell not the invalid who is yearn- ing after his distant country, that the atmosphere around him is soft ; that the gales are filled with 166 THE PnEMItTM. balm, and the flowers are springing from the green earth ; — he knows that the softest air to his heart would be the air which hangs over his native land ; that more grateful than all the gales of the south, would breathe the low whispers of anxious aflection ; that the very icicles clinging to liis own eaves, and the snow beating against his own windows, would be far more pleasant to nis eyes, than the bloom and verdure which only more forcibly remind him how far he is from that one spot which is dearer to him than the world beside. He may, indeed, find estimable friends who will do all in their power to promote his comfort and assuage his pains ; but tbey cannot supply the place of the' long known and long loved ; they cannot read as in a book the mute language of his face ; they have not learned to wait upon his habits, and anticipate his wants, and he has not learned to communicate, without hesitation, all his wishes, impressions, and thoughts to them. He feels that he is a stranger ; and a more desolate feeling than that could not visit his soul. — How much is expressed by that form of oriental benediction, ./lioj/ you die among your kin- dred. GREENWOOD. THE STAKS. Ye stars, bright legions, that, before all time, Camped on yon plain of sapphire, what shall tell Your burning myriads, but the eye of Him Who bade through heaven your golden chariots wheel 1 Yet who, earthboin, can see your hosts, nor feel Immortal impulses. Eternity ! What wonder if the o'erwrought soul shall reel THE pnE>riu>r. 167 With its own weight of thought, and the wild eye See fate within your tracks of sleepless glory lie ] For ye behold the mightiest. From that steep What ages have ye worshipped round your King! Ye heard his trumpet sounded o'er the sleep Of earth ; ye heard the morning angels sing. Upon that orb, now o'er me quivering, The gaze of Adam fixed from paradise ; The wanderers of the deluge saw it spring Above the mountain surge, and hailed its rise, Lighting their lonely track with hope's celestial dyes. CRATER OF KIRAUEA IN HAWAII. We travelled on, clearing every ohelo bush that grew near our path, till about two, p. m. when the crater of Kirauea suddenly burst upon our view. We expected to have seen a mountain, with a broad base, and rough, indented sides, composed of loose slags or hardened streams of lava, and whose sum- mit would have presented a rugged wall of scoria, forming the rim of a mighty caldron. But, instead of this, we found ourselves on the edge of a steep precipice, with a vast plain before us, fifteen or six- teen miles in circumference, and sunk from two hundred to four hundred feet below its original level. The surface of this plain was uneven, and strowed over with large stones and volcanic rocks, and in the centre of it was the great crater, at the distance of a mile and a half from the precipice on which we were standing. Our guides led us round towards the north end of the ridge, in order to find 168 THE PREMIUJr. a place by which we might descend to the plain below. As we passed along, we observed the na- tives, who had hitherto refused to touch any of the ohelo benies, now gather several bunches, and, after offering a part to one of their gods, Pele, eat them very freely. They did not use much ceremony in their acknowledgment ; but when they had plucked a branch containing several clusters of berries, they turned their faces towards the place whence the great- est quantity of smoke and vapour issued, and, break- ing the branch they held in their hand in two, they threw one part down the precipice. We walked on to the north end of the ridge, where, the precipice being less steep, a descent to the plain below seemed practicable. It required, however, the greatest caution, as the stones and fragments of rock frequently gave way under our feet, and rolled down from above ; but, with all our care, we did not reach the bottom without several falls and slight bruises. The steep which we had descended was formed of volcanic matter, apparently a light red and gray kind of lava, vesicular, and lying in horizontal strata, varying in thickness from one to forty feet. In a small number of places, the different strata of lava were also rent in perpendicular or obUque directions, from the top to the bottom, either by earthquakes or other violent convulsions of the ground, connected with the action of the adjacent volcano. After walking some distance over the sunken plain which in several places sounded hollow under our feet, we at length came to the edge of the great crater, where a spectacle subhme and even appalUng, presented itself before us — " We stopped, and trembled." THE pue:>iium. 169 Astonishment and awe for some moments ren- dered us mute, and, like statues, we stood fixed to the spot, with our eyes riveted on the abyss below. Immediately before us yawned an immense gulf, in the form of a crescent, about two miles in length, from north-east to south-west, nearly a mile in width, and apparently eight hundred feet deep. The bottom was covered with lava, and the south- west and northern parts of it were one vast flood of burning matter, in a state of terrific ebulition, rolling to and fro its " fiery surge" and flaming billows. Fifty-one conical islands, of varied form and size, containing as many craters, rose either round the edge or from the surface of the burning lake. Twenty-two constantly emitted columns of gray smoke, or pyramids of brilliant flame ; and several of these at the same time vomited from their ignited mouths streams of lava, which rolled in blazing tor- rents down their black, indented sides into the boil- ing mass below. The existence of these conical craters led us to conclude, that the boiling caldron of lava before us did not form the focus of the volcano ; that this mass of melted lava was comparatively shallow ; and that the basin in which it was contained was separated, by a stratum of solid matter, from the great volcanic abyss, which constantly poured out its melted con- tents through these numerous craters into this re- servoir. We were farther inclined to this opinion, from the vast columns of vapour continually ascend- ing from the chasms in the vicinity of tire sulphur banks and pools of water, for they must have been produced by other fire than that which caused the ebulition in the lava at the bottom of the great cra- ter ; and also by noticing a great number of small craters, in vigorous action, situated high up the sides 170 THE PREMfUlM. of the great gulf, and apparently quite detached trom it. The streams of lava which they emitted rolled down into the lake, and mingled with the melted mass, which, though thrown up by different aper- tures, had, perhaps, been originally fused in one vast furnace. The sides of the gulf before us, although compos- ed of different strata of ancient lava, were perpen- dicular for about four hundred feet, and rose from a wide horizontal ledge of sohd black lava of irregular breadth, but extended completely round. Beneath this ledge the sides sloped gradually towards the burning lake, which was, as nearly as we could judge, three or four hundred feet lower. It was evident that the large crater had been "recently filled with liquid lava up to this black ledge, and had, by some subterranean canal, emptied itself into the sea, or upon the low land on the shore ; and in all probability this evacuation had caused the inundation of the Kapapala coast, which took place, as we after- wards learned, about three weeks prior to our visit. The gray, and in some places apparently calcined, sides of the great crater before us ; the fissures which intersected the surface of the plain on which we were standing ; the long banks of sulphur on the opposite side of the abyss ; the vigorous action of the numerous small craters on its borders ; the dense columns of vapour and smoke that rose at the north and south end of the plain ; together with the ridge of steep rocks by which it was surrounded, rising probably, in some places, three or four hundred feet ,in perpendicular height, — presented an immense volcanic panorama, the effect of which was greatly augmented by the constant roaring of the vast fiar- riaces below. After the first feelings of astonishment had subsid- THE PREMIUM. 171 ed, we remained a considerable time contemplating a scene, which it is impossible to describe, and which filled us with wonder and admiration at the almost overwhelming manifestation it affords of the power of that dread Being who created the world, and who has declared that by fire he will one day destroy it. We then walked ■ along the west side of the crater, and in half an hour reached the north end. ELLIS. THE GREEN LINNET. Upo3f yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstacies, Yet seeming still to hover ; There ! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over. While thus before my eyes he gleams, A brother of the leaves he seems. When in a moment forth he teems His little song in gushes: As1f4t pleased him to disdain The voiceless form he chose to feign. While he was dancing with the train, Of leaves among the bushes. WORDSWORTH. THE HUMAN VOICE. We are all sensible of the varieties of the hu- man voice ; we distinguish our acquaintances by its 172 THE PBEMimr. tones, as unerringly as by the features of the face ; and in speaking of each other we refer to its quaUties as constituting a most essential point in our descriptions. Yet how few of us have any distinct consciousness of the immense influence which the tones of the voice exercise ; not only in quaUfying the import of our words, but in com- municating, almost independent of them, the most deUcate sensations, as well as the most violent emo- tions, and in disclosing the deepest and most hidden traits of the " concealed heart." Every one feels how many phisiognomical pecu- liarities are indissolubly connected with certain moral and intellectual qualities ; but this connex- ion is far less extensive and fixed, than that be- tween peculiar tones and these qualities. From the first to the last breath of our existence, the voice takes its character from the mind and the heart. Education, as it modifies our other attri- butes, may modify this, and even bestow command over some of its powers ; still its tones will remain the true index of the soul. The various changes, from the angelic innocence of the httle child, through the joys of childhood, the hopes of youth, and the designs of maturity, down to the indiffer- ence of old age, continually produce their corres- ponding changes in the tones of the voice. What description of the purity, the innocence, the helplessness of an infant, could move our hearts towards the little being like its sweet and wordless tones ; what call of distress so irresistibly draws as- sistance, as the cries of its wants and pains. Na- ture has given to these tones a pecuUar power com- mensurate with its entire dependence upon us, and we are its servators. Then is there on earth any thing like the playful THE PHEMItrif. 173 and joyous tones through which after-childhood pours out its unchained spirit ? Nothing — no wit, no humour, no exhilaration of the mature man has power over our sympathies like the bursts from the spotless hearts of laughing children. In youth, that state between the artless child and artful adult, when the bosom is in perpetual com- motion, its hopes and its passions assuming new positions and new combinations, kaleidoscope hke, at every new incident that agitates the mind — how impotent are mere words — how meagre would be the pictures of the heart, without the tones of the voice peculiar to that age. In manhood, when the mind directs every act and every speech according to design, good or bad, and attempts to bend every incident to its purposes, we acquire the art of appearing what we wish to be thought instead of what we really are, for " All the world's a stasre, And all the men and women merely players." Every thing that is of us yields to the cunning devices of the mind except the voice. The tones which belong to particular emotions cannot be alto- gether suppressed, nor can the most consummate hy- pocrisy perfectly imitate those tones where the emo- tions do not exist. Hence it is that the pure, the simple, the upright, the sincere, need no vouchers ; they have only to speak, and the tones of their voice beget at once implicit faith. Deception may practise her wiles in every other way; she may force the eye to weep, the lips to smile, the tongue to utter false words, but she essays in vain to sub- due entirely the tones of the voice. At every mo- ment they rebel in favour of truth. From old age we need no declarations of decayed 174 THE PREMIUM. sensiljilities, of indifference to the excitements of tha younger world, of loved repose ; — this stage of mor- tality has its own tones, which convey the sad truth of decay, in despite of all the treasured phraises of former and more vigorous habits. Between friends, lovers, parents, and children in all the dearer relationships of life, mere words are " as the idle wind," that passes unheeded by ; it is to the tones of the voice that they Usten — those ever true messengers between mind and mind and heart and heart. Even in our slighter intercourse with the world, the attractions and aversions which we feel towards particular persons depend, more than upon any tiling else, perhaps, on the impres- sions received from the tones of the voice. That eloquence which rivets every eye of an im- mense assembly on the speaker, and makes every bosom swell with his own ; — that acting which hushes an audience into death-like silence, and bathes every eye in tears, does not depend upon the mere words, the attitudes and gesticulations, — but upon the voice. These are the mere outlines ; the orator's and the actor's impassioned tones perfect the figures, put on the colouring and shadow, and give the picture its Ufe and beauty. At every stage of life, — under the influence of every passion, — amidst all the various scenes of bu- siness, of love, of hate, of enjoyment, and of misery, the tones of the voice, and they only, denote us truly. DB. J. H. BLACK. BLINDNESS OF MILTON. There lived a divine old man, whose everlasting remains we have all admired, whose memory is the THE PREMIUM. 175 pride of England and of nature. His youth was distinguished by a happier lot than perhaps genius has often enjoyed at the commencement of its ca- reer ; he was enabled, by the liberality of Providence, tcdedicate his soul to the cultivation of those clas- sical accomplishments, in which almost his infancy delighted ; he had attracted admiration at the pe- riod when it is most exquisitely felt ; he stood forth the literary and political champion of republican England ; and Europe acknowledged him the con- queror. But the storm arose ; his fortune sank with the republic which he had defended ; the name which future ages have consecrated was forgotten ; and neglect was embittered by remembered celebrity. Age was advancing. Health was retreating. Na- ture hid her face from him forever ; for never more to him returned " Day, or tlio sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks or herds, or human face divine." What was the refuge of the deserted veteran from penury — from neglect — from infamy — from dark- ness 1 Not in a querulous and peevish despondency ; not in an unmanly recantation of principles, erroneous but unchanged ; not in the tremendous renunciation of what Heaven has given, and Heaven alone should take away ; but he turned from a distracted country and a voluptuous court ; he turned from triumphant enemies and inefficient friends; he turned from a world, that to him was a universal blank, to the muse that sits among the cherubim, and she caught him into heaven ! — The clouds that obscured his visions upon earth, instanteously va- nished before the blaze of celestial etlulgence, and his eyes opened at once upon all the glories and ter- rors of the Almighty, the seats of eternal beatitude 176 THE PHEMIITM. and bottomless perdition. What though to look upon the face of this earth was still denied ] what was it to him, that one of the outcast atoms of crea- tion was concealed from his view, when the Deity permitted the muse to unlock his mysteries, and disclose to the poet the recesses of the universe — ■ when she bade its soul expand into its immensity, and enjoy as well its horrors as its magnificence 1 what was it to him that he had " fallen upon evil days and evil tongues'!" for the muse could trans- plant his spirit into the bowers of Eden, where the frown of fortune was disregarded, and the weight of incumbent infirmity forgotten, in the smile that beamed on primeval innocence, and the tear that was consecrated to man's first disobedience. THE UNKNOWN ISLES. Oh ! many are the beauteous isles Unknown to human eye. That, sleeping 'mid the ocean smiles, In happy silence lie. The ship may pass them in the night, Nor the sailors know what a lovely sight Is resting on the main ; Some wandering ship who hath lost her way, And never, or by night or day, Shall pass these isles again. There, groves that bloom in endless spring Are rustling to the radiant wing Of birds in various jjlumage bright, As rainbow hues, or dawning light. Soft falling showers of blossoms fair, Float ever on the fragrant air, THE PREMIUM 177 Like showers of vernal snow , And from the fruit-tree spreading tall, The richly ripened clusters fall Oft as sea-breezes blow. The sun and clouds alone possess The joy of all that loveUness ; And sweetly to each other smile The live-long day — sun, cloud, and isle. How silent lies each shattered bay ! No other visitors have they To their shores of silvery sand, Than the waves that, murmuring in their glee, All hurrying in a joyful band, Come dancinff from the sea. wiison. A MOTHER. Who should it be 1 — Where shouldst thou look for kindness, When we are sick, where can we turn for succour 1 When we are wretched, where can we complain ] And when the world looks cold and surly on us, W'here can we go to meet a warmer eye. With such sure confidence as to a mother 1 JOANXA BAILLIE. MODESTY. A vioiET by a mossy stone. Half hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. wounswoRTH, M 178 THE tnfiMlTJltf. AUTHORSHIP. It was a favourite remark of the late Mr. Whit- bread, that no man does anything from a single motive. The separate motives, or, rather, moods of mind, which produced the preceding reflections and anecdotes have been laid open to the reader in each separate instance. But, an interest in the welfare of those who, at the present time, may be in cir- cumstances not dissimilar to my own at my first en- trance into life, has been the constant accompani- ment, and, (as it were,) the under-song of all my feelings. Whitehead, exerting the prerogative of his laureateship, addressed to youthful poets a po- etic CHARGE, which is perhaps the best, and certainly the most interesting of his works* With no other" privilege than that of sympathy and sincere good wishes, I would address an affectionate exhortaion to the youthful literati, grounded on my own expe- rience. It will be but short ; for the beginning, mid- dle, and end, converge to one charge : >'^EVEn pur- sue LITERATURE AS A TRADE. With the excep- tion 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 regndar 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 requi- site to its faithful discharge. Three hours of lei- sure, unannoyedby any alien anxiety, and looked forward to with delight as a change and recreation, will suffice to realize in literature a larger product of what is truly genial, than weeks of compulsion. Money and immediate reputation, form only an ar- bitrary and accidental end of hterary labour. The trtE PllEMtU3t. 179 hnpe of increasing them by any given exertion, will often prove a stimulant to industry ; but the neces* sity of acquiring them, will, in all works of genius, convert the stimulant into a narcotic. Motives by ex- cess reverse their very nature, and instead of excit" ing, stun and stupify the mind. For it is one con- tradistinction of genius from talent, that its predo- ininant end is always comprised in the means ; and this is one of the many points which establish an analogy between genius and virtue. Now, though talents may exist without genius, yet as genius can- not exist, certainly not manifest itself, without ta- lents, I would advise every scholar who feels the geni- al power working within him, so far to make a divi- sion between the two, as that he should devote his talents to the acquirement of competence in some known trade or profession, and his genius to objects of his tranquil and unbiased choice ; while the con- sciousness of being actuated in both aUke by the sin- cere desire to perform his duty, will alike ennoble both. My dear young friend, (I would say,) " sup- pose yourself established in any honourable occupa- tion. From the manufactory, or counting-house, from the law court, or from having visited your last patient, you return at evening, " Dear tranquil lime when the sweet sense of home Is sweetest ^" to your family, prepared for its social enjoyments, with the very Countenances of your wife and chil- dren brightened, and their voice of welcome, made doubly welcome by the knowledge that, as far as theij are concerned, you have satisfied the demands of the day by the labour of the day. Then, when you retire into your study, in the books on your shelves, you revisit so many venerable friends with 180 TH£ FREHIUM. whom you can converse. Your own spirit, scarcely less free from personal anxieties than the great minds that, in those books, are still living for you ! Even your writing desk with its blank paper, and all its other implements, will appear as a chain of flowers, capable of linking your feelings, as well as thoughts, to events and characters past or to come ; not a chain of iron, which binds you down to think of the future and the remote, by recalling the claims and feelings of the peremptory present. But why should I say retire ? The habits of active life and daily intercourse with the stir of the world, will tend to give you such self-command, that the pre- sence of your family will be no interruption. Nay, the social silence or undisturbing voices of a wife or sister, will be like a restorative atmosphere, or soft music, which moulds a dream without becoming its object. If facts are required to prove the possibility of combining v«?eighty performances in literature with full and independent employment, the works of Ci- cero and Xenophon among the ancients, of sir Tho- mas Moore, Bacon, Baxter, or, to refer, at once, to later and contemporary instances, Darwix and Ros- COE, are at once decisive of the question. Whatever be the profession or trade chosen, the advantages are many and important, compared with the state of a mere literary man, who, in any degree depends on the sale of his works for the necessaries and comforts of life. In the former a man lives in sympathy with the world in which he lives. At least he acquires a better and quicker tact for ths knowledge of that with which men in general can sympathise. He learns to manage his genius more prudently and efficaciously. His powers and acquire- ments gain him likewise more real admiration, for they surpass the legitimate expectations of others.— THE PnEMI'JM. 181 He is something besides an author, and is not there- fore considered merely as an author. The hearts of men are open to him as to one of their own class ; and whether he exerts himself or not in the conversation- al circles of his acquaintance, his silence is not attri- buted to pride, nor his communicativeness to vanity. To these advantages I will venture to add a superior chance of happiness in domestic life, were it only that it is as natural for the man to be out of the circle of his household during the day, as it is meritorious for the woman to remain for the most part within it. But this subject involves points of consideration so nu- merous and so delicate, and would not only permit, but require such ample documents from the biogra- phy of literary men, that I now merely allude to it in transitu. When the same circumstance has occur- red at very different times to very different persons, all of whom have some one thing in common, there is reason to suppose that such circumstance is not merely attributable to the persons concerned, but is, in some measure, occasioned by the one point in common to them all. Instead of the vehement and almost slanderous dehortation from marriage, which the J[fisogyne, in Boccaccio, addresses to literary men, I would substitute the simple advice : be not merely a man of letters ! Let literature be an ho- nourable augmentation to your arms, but not consti- tute the coat, or fill the escutcheon ! coleuidge. MY SISTER. MiBTE eyes have seen the beautiful, Mine ears have heard their thrilling voice, My heart has felt their potent rule — The fears of hope, the hope of joys — 182 THE PHEMITTlff. But never has my sight approved A fairer than my sister — no I None other sound so much hath moved As her " dear brother" spoken low. AXOJf. BEAUTY OF FLOWERS AND SHELLS. Why, for example, are flowers in general so ex- quisitely beautiful as we find them, if it be not to exhibit to us the hand of God, and to afford us, even in the colouring of a blossom, a manifestation of himself, and a rational cause for turning our thoughts towards him 1 Look with a magnifier at the flower of London pride, or of Forget me not, and inquire of yourself why these minute objects are so lovely, why scarcely any of the larger flowers excel, and not many equal them ; extend your ob- servation to some of the minute insects, and reflect why they are dressed in colours as brilliant as those of the peacock ; magnify a gnat, and consider the superb feathered antennse which grace its head, exa- mine its whole structure, see the wonderful mechan- ism which is in every part, the minute perfection, the elaborate finishing of this little being ; remember that, in addition to the structure, there are its appe- tites and functions, its organs of breathing, its mus- cles of motion, its several senses, and perhaps its passions. Think on these, but not uith the transi- tory admiration which we often obser\'e in persons who for a first or second time see objects in a mi- croscope. Be not content with the cold acknow- ledgment that it is one of the wonderful woiks of nature, and then let it slip from your memory. I tell you it is the work of God ; and I believe that the too liberal use of the term nature, has given THE PREMir?!. 183 rise to much of the apathy with which the ob- jects of the creation are regarded. It is verj- true, indeed, that when we say nature produces a plant, or an animal, the true meaning is that God does so, nature here being used as a synonymous term ; but still the word has so many applications, and it is employed in such a variety of ways, that we insensibly get into the habit of using it, in natu- ral history and other sciences, as if it were some in- ferior power, or agent, acting by itself; and we talk, of the works of nature without any impression being on our minds at the time, that they are in truth the works of the Deity himself. To prove that we often find the greatest beauty where we might least expect it, let us examine a fine collection of shells. The animals which form and inhabit them, generally reside in situations where it is almost impossible for us to learn anythmg of their history : but see what compensation we have for that. The skin of a quadruped, or a bird, will soon perish unless the greatest pains have been taken to preserve it by some antiseptic wash or pow- der ; and if it be stuffed, every care is required to keep it from damp and insects. But if it be difficult to preserve a quadruped or bird, we have opportu- nities of recording its history, of observing its ha- bits, and of adding to our knowledge of it, in its living state. In the inhabitant of the shell, that is next to impossible ; we cannot reside with it at the bottom of the sea. We cannot study its manners, habits, and modes of working, as we can those of a bee. But of all objects for forming a beautiful and permanent collection, the coverings in which the animals reside, are perhaps the best. These co- verings, or shells, are infinitely varied ; some are marked with the most rich and beautiful colours, and 184 , THE PREMIUM. with the greatest variety of penciling ; their forms are endless. " What," says PHny, " can be more gratifying than to view nature in all her irregu- larities, and sporting in her variety of shells ! such a ditference of colour do they exhibit ! such a differ- ence of figure ! flat, concave, long, lineated, drawn round in a circle, the orbit cut in two ! Some are seen with a rising on the back, some smooth, some wrinkled, toothed, streaked, the point variously in- torted, the mouth pointing like a dagger, folded back, bent inward ; all these variations, and many more, furnish at once novelty, elegance and specu- lation." There is no trouble in preserving them, there is no fear of their decaying by time, they will be the same in fifty years as they are to-day ; and hence if there be almost insuperable difficulties in getting a know- ledge of the inhabitants, there is the greatest faci- lity of becoming acquainted with the habitations. Many, indeed, object to conchology, because we cannot learn the history of the animals themselves ; but though we may regret that circumstance, we should not, therefore, disdain giving our sanction to the science ; for, though we cannot become acquaint- ed \Vith the architect, that should be no reason for withholding our admiration of the architecture, and our gratitude should be raised towards the Supreme Builder of all, when we consider that he has so or- dered that innumerable gelatinous animals, having perhaps little beauty themselves, should, at the bot- tom of the ocean, be invested with such elegant coverings as those shells are which our cabinets ex- hibit. Many shell-fish, I must however observe, inhabit the sands and rocks of the shores, and the history and structure of some of them have been tole- rably well ascertained. dkxjmmoxd. THE PREMIUM. 185 AUGUST. The quiet August noon is come : A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb. In glassy sleep the waters lie. O, how unlike those merry hours In sunny June, when earth laughs out ; "When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing, and waters shout ! — When in the grass sweet waters talk. And strains of tiny music swell From every moss-cup of the rock, From every nameless blossom's bell ! But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens, and wraps the ground — The blessing of supreme repose. Away ! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care ; Away from desk and dust away I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meaning of the heart. One day amid the woods with thee. From men and all their cares apart ; And where, upon the meadow's breast, The shadow of the thicket lies. The blue wild flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. Come — and when 'mid the calm profound, I turn those gentle eyes to seek, 186 THE PREMITTM. They, like the lovely landscape round, Of innocence and peace shall speak. Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, And on the silent valleys gaze. Winding and widening till they fade In yon soft ring of summer haze. The village trees their summits rear Still as its spire : and yonder flock, At rest in those calm fields appear As chiselled from the lifeless rock. One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks, Where the hushed winds their Sabbath keep, While a near hum from bees and brooks, Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. Well might the gazer deem, that when, Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the sons of men, The good forsake the scenes of life, — Like the deep quiet, that awhile Lingers the lovely landscape o'er. Shall be the peace whose holy smile Welcomes them to a happier shore. BHTAXT. VALUE OF CLASSICAL LEARNING. Ix our opinion there are many and great advan- tages to be derived from a study of the classics. It must be allowed, that even the commentators have not been without their use ; they have often thrown much light upon history, as well as their author ; and afforded great faciUties to those who would seek, with higher views, what is really valuable in the productions of Greece and Rome. At that early THE PREMIU>r. 187 period of life, when the languages of these nations are usually learned, their study affords a useful dis- cipline to the mind, which could not, perhaps, at that age, be so well derived from any other source. In discovering the meaning of a passage, there is not only a vigorous exercise of the powers of inven- tion and comprehension, but in that grammatical analysis of each sentence, which is necessary for this purpose, a constant process of reasoning is car- ried on. By translation, a youth, while he acquires that copiousness of expression so much insisted on by QuinctiUan, forms, at the same time, the habit of nicely discriminating the import of words, and perceiving their minutest shades of diifiference, and this much more from the dead than living languages, because their idiom and modes of combination vary more from our own. The importance of the early formation of this habit will be obvious to those who consider that language is not only the vehicle of our thoughts, when we im- part them to others, but the very body in which they appear to ourselves. We think in propositions, and in proportion to the propriety and definiteness of our words, will be those of our ideas. It is true that, during the period we have mentioned, many facts in geography, civil and even natural history, might be stored in the memory. But, not to mention that, especially with the children of the wealthy, there is time enough for all these, we hold it to be a maxim, that discipline, rather than knowledge, should be the object of education. We do not consider that youth as best taught who has read or knows the most, but him who carries into the world an understanding formed successfully to grapple with whatever subject may be proposed, and most able, in whatever situation he may be 188 THE PREMilUM. placed, to think and act with sagacity, with truth and eftect The languages of the classics, once ac- quired, open to the maturer taste and judgment all the stores of ancient wisdom, poetry and eloquence. Nor is it a slight knowledge of the character and manners of a people, their habit of thinking and feeling, their progress in philosophy and morals, which may be obtained from the mere vocabulary and peculiar modes of expression prevalent among them. To be convinced of this, we have but to recollect how many ideas in intellectual and moral science, and even more in the relations, duties and endearments of domestic Ufe, are, with their appro- priate terms, common among us, which cannot be expressed in the language of the Romans. FttlSBIE. THE IVY. Wht is it that every one is pleased with the com- mon ivy 1 There is a charm about that plant which all feel, but none can tell why. Observe it hanging from the arch of some old bridge, and consider the degree of interest it gives to that object. The bridge itself may be beautifully situated ; the stream pass- ing through its arches clear and copious ; but still it is the ivy which gives the finish and picturesque effect. Mouldering towers, and castles, and ruined cloisters, interest our feelings in a degree more or less by the circumstance of their being covered or not by the ivy. Precipices, which else would exhi- bit only their naked, barren walls, are clothed by it in a rich and beautiful vesture.. Old trees, whose trunks it surrounds, assume a great variety of as- pect ; and, indeed, it is a most important agent m, TBE PHEMIUM, 189 forming the beauty and variety of rural landscape. It is also as useful as it is beautiful ; and among its uses I would include the very thing of which I am now speaking, for I have no idea that the forms and colours in nature please the eye by a sort of chance. If I admire the ivy clinging to and surmounting some time-worn tower, and the various tints that diversify the parts of the ruin not hidden by it, I can only refer the pleasure I experience to the na- tural construction of the human mind, which the Almighty has formed to feel a pleasure in contem- plating the external world around it. Who is in- sensible to the beauties of nature at the rising and setting of the summer's sun 1 Who can behold the moonbeams reflected from some silent river, lake, or sea, and not feel happy in the sight 1 None, I believe, in early life. When hardened in the ways of men — when the chief good pursued is the accu- mulation of wealth, the acquisition of power, or the pursuit of pleasure, so called, — then manldnd lose a sense of the beauties of nature ; but never, per- haps, till then. A love for them is inherent in the mind, and almost always shows itself in youth ; and if cherished at that period, by education, would seldom be destroyed or become dormant in after life, as it now so generally is. The ivy is of vast advantage to the smaller birds, as it affords them shelter in winter, and a retreat for building their nests in spring and summer. It is in fructification in October and November, and the sweet juice which its flowers exude supports an in- finity of insects in autumn, while its berries are a store of nutriment for many birds in early spring. BRUMMOXD. 190 THE PREMIUM. LINES WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF LA PS- ROUSE'S VOYAGES. Loved Voyager ! whose pages had a zest More sweet than fiction to ray wand'ring breast, When, tapt in fancy, many a boyish day I track'd his wanderings o'er the watery way, Roam'd round the Aleutian isles in waking dream8> Or pluck'd the^fleur-de-Iys by Jesso's streams-— Or gladly leap'd on that far Tartar strand, When Europe's anchor ne'er had bit the sand, Where scarce a roving wild tribe cross'd the plain, Or human voice broke nature's silent reign ; But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear, And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter's snare. Such young delight his real records brought, His truth so touch'd romantic springs of thought, That all my after-life— his fate and fame, Entwined romance with La Perouse's name. — Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews, — • And glorious was the emprise of La Perouse, Humanely glorious ! Men will weep for him, When many a guilty martial fame is dim : He plough'd the deep to bind no captive's chain- Pursued no rapine — strew'd no wreck with slain ; And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, His heroes pluck'd no wreath from human woe. 'Twas his the earth's remotest bounds to scan, Conciliating with gifts barbaric man-— Enrich the world's contemporaneous mind, And ampUfy the picture of mankind. Far on the vast Pacific — midst those isles, O'er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles, He sounded and gave charts to many a shore And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore ; THE PREMIUM. 191 Yet he that led discovery o'er the wave, Still fills himself an undiscovered grave. He came not back, — Conjecture's cheek grew pale, Year after year — in no propitious gale, His lilied banner held its homeward way, And science saddened at her marty'rs stay An age elapsed — no wreck told where or when The chief went down with all his gallant men, Or whether by the storm or wild sea flood He perished, or by wilder men of blood — The shudd'ring Fancy only guessed his doom, And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom. An age elapsed — when men were dead or gray, Whose hearts had mourned him in their youthful day; Fame traced on Mannicolo's shore at last, The boiling surge had mounted o'er his mast. The islesmen told of some survi^^ng men. But Christian eyes beheld them ne'er again. Sad bourne of all his toils — with all his band- To sleep, wreck'd, shroudless, on a savage strand. Yet what is all that fires a hero's scorn Of death ] — the hope to live in hearts unborn Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath, But worth — foretasting fame that follows death. That worth had La Perouse — that meed he won i He sleeps — his hfe's long stormy watch is done. In the great deep, whose boundaries and space He measured. Fate ordained his resting-place ; But bade his fame, like the Ocean rolling o'er His relics — visit every earthly shore. Fair Science on that Ocean's azure robe, Still writes his name in picturing the globe, And painst — (what fairer wreath could glory twine!) His watery course — a world-encircUng line. CAMFH£LIm 198 THE PREMIU3I. RECEPTION OF COLUMBUS ON HIS RETURN TO SPAIN. The fame of his discovery bad resounded through- out the nation, and as his route lay through several of the finest and most populous provinces of Spain, his journey appeared like the progress of a sove- reign. Wherever he passed, the surrounding coun- try poured forth its inhabitants, who lined the road and thronged the N'illages. In the large towns, the streets, windows, and balconies, were filled with eager spectators, who rent the air with acclama- tions. His journey^ was continually impeded by the multitude pressing to gain a sight of him, and of the Indians, who were regarded with as much admiration as if they had been natives of another planet. It was impossible to satisfy the craving curiosity which assailed himself and his attendants, at every stage, with innumerable questions: popular rumour, as usual, had exaggerated the truth, and had filled the newly-found country with all kinds of wonders. It was about the middle of April, that Columbus arrived at Barcelona, where every preparation had been made to give him a solemn and magnificent reception. The beauty and serenity of the weather, in that genial season and favoured climate, contri- buted to give splendour to this memorable ceremony. As he drew near the place, many of the more youth- ful courtiers, and hidalgos of gallant bearing, to- gether with a vast concourse of the populace, came forth to meet and welcome him. His entrance into this noble city has been compared to one of those triumphs which the Romans were accustomed to de- cree to conquerors. First were paraded the Indians, painted according to their savage fashion, and deco- THE PREMIUM. 193 rated with tropical feathers, and with their national ornaments of gold ; after these were borne various kinds of live parrots, together with stuffed birds and animals of unknown species, and rare plants, sup- posed to be of precious qualities : while great care was taken to make a conspicuous display of Indian coronets, bracelets, and other decorations of gold, which might give an idea of the wealth of the newly- discovered regions. After these followed Columbus, on horseback, surrounded by a brilliant cavalcade of Spanish chivalry. The streets were almost im- passable from the countless multitude ; the windows and balconies were crowded with the fair; the very roofs were covered with spectators. It seemed as if the public eye could not be sated with gazing on these trophies of an unknown world, or on the remarkable man by whom it had been discovered. There was a sublimity in this event that mingled a solemn feeling with the public joy. It was looked upon as a vast and signal dispensation of Providence in reward for the piety of the monarchs ; and the ma- jestic and venerable appearance of the discoverer, so different from the youth and buoyancy that are generally expected from roving enterprise, seemed in harmony with the grandeur and dignity of his achievement To receive him with suitable pomp and distinc- tion, the sovereigns had ordered their throne to be placed in public, under a rich canopy of brocade of gold, in a vast and splendid saloon. Here the king and queen awaited his arrival, seated in state with the prince Juan beside them, and attended by the dignitaries of their court, and the principal nobility of Castile, Valentia, Catalonia, and Arragon, all impatient to behold the man who had conferred so incalculable a benefit upon the nation. At N 194 THK pnEMItJM. length Columbus entered the hall, surrounded by a brilliant crowd of cavaliers, among whom, says Las Casas, he was conspicuous for his stately and commanding person, which, with his countenance rendered venerable by his gray hairs, gave him the august appearance of a senator of Rome. A modest smile lighted up his features, showing that he en- joyed the state and glory in which he came ; and certainly nothing could be more deeply moving, to a mind inflamed by noble ambition, and conscious of having greatly deserved, than these testimonials of the admiration and gratitude of a nation, or ra- ther of a "world. As Columbus approached, the sovereigns rose, as if receiving a person of the highest rank. Bending his knees, he requested to kiss their hands ; but there was some hesitation on the part of their majesties to permit this act of vas- salage. Raising him in the most gracious manner, they ordered him to seat himself in their presence; a rare honour in this proud and punctilious court. At the request of their majesties, Columbus now gave an account of the most striking events of his voyage, and a description of the islands which he had discovered. He displayed the specimens he had brought of unknown birds and other animals ; of rare plants, of medicinal and aromatic virtue ; of native gold, in dust, in crude masses, or laboured into barbaric ornaments ; and, above all, the natives of these countries, who were objects of intense and inexhaustible interest; since there is nothing to man so curious as the varieties of his own species. All these he pronounced mere harbingers of greater discoveries he had yet to make, which would add realms of incalculable wealth to the dominions of their majesties, and whole nations of proselytes to the true faith. TH£ PREMltM. 195 The words of Columbus were listened to with profound emotion by the sovereigr.s. When he had finished, they sunk on their knees, and raising their clasped hands to heaven, their eyes filled with tears of joy and gratitude, they poured forth thanks and praises to God for so great a providence ; all present followed their example ; a deep and solemn enthusiasm pervaded that splendid assembly, and prevented all common acclamations of triumph. The anthem of Te Deum laiidaimis, chanted bj- the choir of the royal chapel, with the melodious ac- companiments of the instruments, rose up from the midst, in a full body of sacred harmony, bearing up, as it were, the feelings and thoughts of the auditors to heaven, " so that," says the venerable Las Casas, " it seemed as if in that hour they communicated with celestial deUghts." 8uch was the solemn and pious manner in which the brilliant court of Spain, celebrated this subUme event : offering up a grateful tribute of melody and praise ; and giving glory to God for the discovery of another world. When Columbus retired from the royal presence, he was attended to his residence by all the court, and followed by the shouting populace. For many days he was the object of universal curiosity, and wherever he appeared, he was surrounded by an admiring multitude. w. irtixg. THE STAR. A SINGLE star Is rising in the east, and fi-om afar Sheds a most tremulous lustre : silent night Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow ; But see ! it motions with its lovely light, 196 THE premium;. Onwards and onwards through those depths of blue, To its appointed course steadfast and true. BAHRY CORNWALL. EXTRACT. " Feelixgs, of unremembered pleasures ; such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love." wordswohth. " Death, father, death is comfortless and cold ! Aye me ! when maiden dies, the smiling mom, The wild birds singing on the twinkling spray, Wake her no more ; the summer wind breathes soft. Waving the fresh grass o'er her narrow bed, Gladdening to all but her. Senseless and cold She lies : while all she loved, unheard, unseen, Mouni round her." MiL:MAir. CHARACTER OF THE ROMAN DOMINION. The general principles of Rome, in the govern- ment of her conquest, were manly and wise. When the soldier had done his work; and it was done vigorously, yet with but little violence beyond that which was essential for complete subjugation ; the sword slept as an instrument of evil, and awoke only as an instrument of justice. I'he Roman supremacy extinguished the innu- THE PRE3IIUM. 197 merable and harassing mischiefs of minor hostility. If neighbour kingdoms quarrelled, a legion marched across the border, and brought the belligerents to sudden reason; dismissed the armies to their hearths and altars, and sent the angry chiefs to reconcile their claims in an Italian dungeon-. If a disputed succession threatened to embroil the general peace, the proconsul ordered the royal competitors to embark for Rome, and there settle the right before the senate. The barbaric invasions, which had periodically ravaged the Eastern empires, even in their day of power, were repelled with a terrible vigour. The legions left the desert covered with the tribe, for the food of the vulture ; and showed to Europe the haughty leaders of the Tartar, Gothic and Arab myriads in fetters, dragging wains, digging in mines, or sweeping the highways. If peace could be an equivalent for freedom, the equivalent was never so amply secured. The world within this iron boundary flourished ; the activity and talent of man were urged to the highest pitch : the conquered countries were turned from wastes and forests into fertility : ports were dug upon na- ked shores ; cities swelled from villages ; population spread over the soil once pestilential and breeding only the poisonous weed and the serpent. The sea was covered with trade ; the pirate and the maraud- er were unheard of, or hunted down. Commercial enterprise shot its lines and communications over the map of the earth ; and regions were then fami- liar, which even the activity of the revived ages of Europe had scarcely made known. Those were the wonders of great power steadily directed to a great purpose. General coercion was the simple principle ; and the only talisman of a Roman 198 THE PREMIUM. Emperor was the chain, but where it was casually commuted for the sword : yet the universality of the compression atoned for half its evil. The natural impulse of man is to improvement ; he requires only security from rapine. The Roman supremacy rais- ed round him an impregnable wall. It was the true government for an era when the habits of reason had not penetrated the general human mind. Its chief evil was in its restraint of those nobler and loftier aspirations of genius and the heart, which from time to time raise the general scale of mankind. Nothing is more observable than the decay of origi- nal literature, of the finer architecture, and of philo- sophical invention, under the empire. Even military genius, the natural product of a system that lived but on military fame, disappeared ; the brilliant di- versity of warlike talent, that shone on the very verge of the succession of the Caesars, sank, like falling stars, to rise no more. No captain was again to display the splendid conceptions of Pompey's bound- less campaigns ; the lavish heroism and inexhausti- ble resource of Antony ; or the mixture of undaunt- ed personal enterprise and profound tactic, the statesman-like thought, irrestrainable ambition, and high-minded forgiveness, that made Caesar the very emblem of Rome. But the Imperial power had the operation of one of those great laws of nature, which through partial evil sustain the earth — a gravitating principle, which, if it checked the ascent of some gifted Beings beyond the dull level of life, yet kept the infinite multitude of men and things from flying loose beyond all litility and all control. CROLX. THE PBEMIUM. !99 ON SEEING IN A LIST OF MUSIC THE " WATER. LOO WALTZ." A MOMEXT, pause, ye British fair, While pleasure's phantom ye pursue, And say if sprightly dance or Em- Suit with the name of " Waterloo 1" Awful was the victory, Chasten'd should the triumph be ; Amidst the laurels nobly won Britain mourns for many a son. Veil'd in clouds the morning rose ; Nature seem'd to mourn the day Which consign'd, before its close, Thousands to their kindred clay. How unfit for courtly ball, Or the giddy festival, Was the grim and ghastly view. Ere evening closed on Waterloo ! See the highland warrior rushing, Firm in danger, on the foe. Till the life-blood, warmly gushing, Lays the plaided hero low ! His native pipes' accustomed sound, 'Mid war's infernal concert drown'd, Cannot soothe the last adieu, Or wake his sleep on Waterloo. Chasing o'er the cuirassier. See the foaming charger flying, Trampling in his wild career, All alike, the dead and dying. Sec the bullets through his side Answer'd by the spouting tide ; Helmet, horse, and rider too, Roll on bloody Waterloo ! 200 THE PREMIUM. Shall scenes like these the dance Inspire, Or wake the enlivening notes of mirth 1 No ! shiver'd be the recreant lyre That gave this dark idea birth. Other sounds I ween were there. Other music rent the air, Other waltz the warriors knew, When they closed on Waterloo ! , Forbear, till time, with lenient hand. Has sooth'd the pangs of recent sorrow, And let the picture distant stand, The softening hue of years to borrow. When our race have passed away, Hands unborn may wake the lay, And give to joy alone the view Of Britons' deeds at Waterloo ! ASOTX, TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. ' How beautiful this dome of sky. And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed At thy command, how awful ! Shall the Soul, Human and rational, report of Thee Even less than these 1 — Be mute, who will, who can, Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice : My Ups, that may forget thee in the crowd. Cannot forget thee here ; where Thou hast built, For thy own glory in the wilderness ! Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine, In such a temple as we now behold Reared for thy presence ; therefore am I bound To worship, here, and everywhere — as One Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread. THE PREMIUM!. 201 From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; From unreflecting ignorance preserved, And from debasement rescued. By thy grace The particle di\'ine remained unquenched ; And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers, From Paradise transplanted. Wintry age Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart ; And, if they wither, I am worse than dead ! — Come labour, when the worn-out frame requires Perpetual Sabbath ; come disease and want : And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; But leave me unabated trust in Thee — And let thy favour, to the end of life, Inspire me with abiUty to seek Repose and hope among eternal things — Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich And will possess my portion in content ! WORDSWOHTH. WHAT THEN ? OiTE orator exhorts the people to refuse payment of the taxes ; another recommends that the national debt should be extinguished by a vote of parliament — parliament of course being previously reformed, so that it may consist of representatives who will not scruple at passing such a vote ; a third, advises that the tithes be sold, and the produce funded ; a fourth, demands universal suffrage ; — and some of these united politicians engage never to cease their exertions, till they shall have obtained what they call speedy, radical, and effectual reform ; — patient endurance, they tell us, shall not be their fate, they will not be still, their cry shall be too general to be 202 THE pnEMiu>r. mistaken, and too powerful to be resisted. Were there any limits to human folly and human wicked- ness, it would be incredible that there should be men erroneous enough, and criminal enough — with with the example of France before their eyes (fresh and reeking as those horrors are !) to hold forth language like this, and exert themselves zeal- ously and perseveringly to convince the mob that the physical force is in their hands, and that it is their own fault if they submit longer to be governed by the educated and intellectual part of their coun- trymen. Have these persons ever asked themselves what would be the consequence of the measures which they advise ] — if universal suffrage were es- tablished, whether it would afford universal employ- ment for the quiet and industrious part of the peo- ple, as surely as it would for the worthless, the tur- bulent, the mischievous, and the wicked 1 — if the church property were seized, whether the title-deeds of the landholder would long be considered as giving him an indefeasible right to his estates 1 — if the national debt were extinguished, whether the public would be benefited by the ruin of the funded pro- prietors, that is, whether the body would derive ad- vantage from having one of the limbs paralysed] and whether national prosperity be the natural and necessary consequence of national bankruptcy, the breach of national faith, and the loss of national character ? — finally, if the people, according to the advice of one of these popular representatives, were to refuse payment of the taxes — What thej^ 1 Let these men suppose themselves successful in their projects, and following in imagination the career of their ambition, ask themselves this question at every step — WHAT THEX 1 If they should succeed in in- stigating the people to resistance, to rebellion, to THE PREMIUM. 203 civil war, to revolution, what then 1 What might be the consequences to this great, this glorious, this venerable countr}^ He alone can tell without whose inscrutable will no calamity can befall us ; but the consequences to themselves may be foretold with perfect certainty — guilt, insecurity, fear, misery, ruin, unavailing repentance, violent death, and in- famy everlasting. It was remarked, by one of the numerous French demagogues who fell into the pit which they had digged, that revolutions were like Saturn, and devoured their own children. ' Should there be a revolution in the other world,' said Dan- ton, to one of his friends, when on their way to the guillotine — ' take my advice and have nothing to do with it !' Danton asked pardon of God and man for having instituted the Revolutionary Tribu- nal : it was only on the tirst anniversary of its institu- tion that he was carried before it to receive sentence himself — so short is the reign of a revolutionist ! SOUTHET. PARENTAL AFFECTION. Thet sin who tell us Love can die ! With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; Earthly these passions of the earth, They perish where they have their birth. But Love is indestructible, Its holy flame forever bumeth, From heaven it came, to heaven retumeth Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times opprest, 204 THE PREMIUM. It here is tried and purified, Then hath in heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest time of love is there. Oh ! when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of wo, the watchful night, For all her sorrows, all her tears, An over payment of delight 1 southet. THE CHASE. The stag at eve had drunk his fill When danced the moon on Monan's rill, And deep his midnight lair had made In lone Glenartney's hazel shade; But, when the sun his beacon red Had kindled on Benvoirhch s head. The deep-mouthed blood-hound's heavy bi Resounded up the rocky way. And faint, from farther distance borne, Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. As chief who hears his warder call, * To arms ! the foemen storm the wall,' — The antlered monarch of the waste Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. But, ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook: Like crested leader proud and high. Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky : A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale, A moment Ustened to the cry. That thickened as the chase drew nigh ; THE PHEMirar. 205 Then, as the headmost, foes appeared, With one brave bound the copse he cleared, And stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. Yelled on the view the opening pack, Rock, glen and cavern paid them back ; To many a mingled sound at once The awakened mountain gave response. An hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, Clattered an hundred steeds along. Their peal the merry horns rung out, An hundred voices joined the shout : With hark and whoop and wild halloo No rest Benvoirlich's echo knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe, Close in the covert cowered the doe. The falcon from her earn on high, Cast on the rout a wondering eye. Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen. Faint and more faint, its failing din Returned from cavern, cliif and linn, And silence settled wide and still, On the lone wood and mighty hill. Less loud the sounds of sylvan war Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, And roused the cavern, where 'tis told A giant made his den of old ; For ere that steep ascent was won, High in his path-way hung the sun, And many a gallant, stayed per-force, Was fain to breathe his faltering horse : And of the trackers of the deer. Scarce half the lessening pack was near ; 206 THE PHEMIUM. So shrewilly on the mountain side, Had the bold burst their mettle tried* The noble stag was pausing now Upon the mountain's southern brow ', Where broad extended far beneath, The varied realms of fair Monteith. With anxious eye he wandered o'er Mountain and meadow, moss and moor. And pondered refuge fi'om his toil, By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. But nearer was the copse-wood gray, That waved and wept on Loch Achray, And mingled with the pine trees blue, On the bold clifts of Ben-venue. Fresh vigour with the hope returned. With flying foot the heath he spurned Held westward with unwearied race, And left behind the panting chase. 'T were long to tell what steeds gave o'er, As s\\'ept the hunt through C ambus-more ; What reins were tightened in despair, When rose Benledi's ridge in air; Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith.— For twice, that day, from shore to shore, The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. Few were the stragglers, following far, That reached the lake of Vennachar : And when the brigg of Turk was won, The headmost horseman rode alone. Alone, but with unbated zeal. That horseman plied the scourge and steel : For, jaded now, and spent with toil. Embossed with foam, and dark with soil, THE PUEMIU^r. 207 While every gasp with sobs he drew, The labouring stag strained full in view. Two dogs of black St. Hubert's breed, Unmatched for courage, breath and speed, Fast on his flying traces came, And all but won that desperate game ; For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch, Vindictive toiled the blood-hounds stanch ; Nor nearer might the dogs attain. Nor farther might the quarry strain. Thus up the margin of the lake. Between the precipice and brake, O'er stock and rock their race they take. The hunter marked that mountain high, The lone lake's western boundary. And deemed the stag must turn to bay, Where that huge rampart barred the way ; Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes ; For the death-wound and death halloo. Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew ; But, thundering as he came prepared, With ready arm and weapon bared, The wily quarry shunned the shock. And turned him from the opposing rock ; Then, dashing down a darksome glen. Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken. In the deep Trosach's wildest nook His solitary refuge took. There, while close couched, the thicket shed. Cold dews and wild flowers on his head, He heard the baffled dogs in vain Rave through the hollow pass amain, Chiding the rocks that yelled again. 208 THE PREMIUM. But stumbling in the rugged dell, The gallant horse exhausted fell. The impatient rider strove in vain To rouse him with the spur and rein. For the good steed, his labours o'er, Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more Then touched with pity and remorse, He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. ' I little thought when first thy rein I slacked upon the banks of Seine, That highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my gallant steed ! Wo worth the chase, wo worth the day, That cost thy life, my gallant gray !' QUALITIES OF A WELL REGULATED MIND. I. The cultivation of a habit of steady and con- tinuous attention ; or of properly dnecting the mind to any subject which is before it, so as fully to contemplate its elements and relations. This is necessary for the due exercise of every other men- tal process, and is the foundation of all improve- ment of character, both intellectual and moral. We shall afterward have occasion to remark, how often sophistical opinions and various distortions of cha- racter may be traced to errors in this first act of the mind, or to a misdirection and want of due regula- tion of the attention. There is, indeed, every rea- son to believe, that the diversities in the power of judging, in different individuals, are much less than we are apt to imagine : and that the remarkable dif- ferences observed in the act of judging are rather to THE PREMIUM. 209 be ascribed to the manner in which the mind is pre- viously directed to the facts on which the judgment is afterwards to be exercised. It is related of Sir Isaac Newton, that, when he was questioned respect- ing the mental qualities which form.ed the pecu- liarity of his character, he referred it entirely to the power which he had acquired of coniinuous atten- tion. II. Nearly connected with the former, and of equal importance, is a careful regulation and con- trol of the succession of our thoughts. This re- markable faculty is very much under the influence of cultivation ; and on the power so acquired de- pends the important habit of regular and connect- ed thinking. It is primarily a voluntary act ; and in the exercise of it in different mdividuals there are the most remarkable differences. Iir some, the thoughts are allowed to wander at large without any regulation, or are devoted only to frivolous and tran- sient objects ; while others habitually exercise over them a stern control, directing them to subjects of real importance, and prosecuting these in a regular and connected manner. This important habit gains strength by exercise ; and nothing, certainly, has a greater influence in giving tone and consistency to the whole character. It may not, indeed, be going too far, to assert, that our condition, in the scale both of moral and intellectual beings, is in a great measure "determined by the control which we have acquired over the succession of our thoughts, and by the subjects on which they are habitually exer- cised. III. The cultivation of an active, inquiring state of mind, which seeks for information from every source that comes within its reach, whether in read- ing, conversation, or personal observation. With O 210 THE PREMirjr. this state of mental activity ought to be closely con- nected attention to the anthenticity of facts so re- ceived ; avoiding the two extremes of credulity and scepticism. IV. The habit of correct association ; that is, connecting facts in the mind according to their true relations, and to the manner in which they tend to illustrate each other. This, as we have formerly seen, is one of the principal means of improving the memory ; particularly of the kind of memory which is an essential quality of a cultivated mind ; namely, that which is founded, not upon incidental connec- tions, but on true and important relations Nearly allied to this, is the habit of reflection, or of tracing carefully the relations of facts, and the conclusions and principles which arise out of them. It is in this manner, as was formerly mentioned, that the philosophical mind often traces remarkable relations, and deduces important conclusions ; while to the common understanding the facts appear to be very remote or entirely unconnected. V. A careful selection of the subjects to which the mind ought to be directed. These are, in some respects, different in different persons, according to their situations in life ; but there are certain objects of attention which are peculiarly adapted to each individual, and there are some which are equally interesting to all. In regard to the latter, an ap propriate degree of attention is the part of every wise man ; in regard to the former, a proper selec- tion is the foundation of excellence. One indi vidual may waste his powers in that desultory ap- pUcation of them which leads to an imperfect ac- quaintance with a variety of subjects ; while another allows his Ufe to steal over him in listless inactivity, or application to trifling pursuits. It is equally THr, PREMIUM. 211 naelancholy to see high powers devoted to unworthy objects ; such as the contests of party on matters in- volving no important principle, or the subtleties of sophistical controversy. For rising to eminence in any intellectual pursuit, there is not a rule. of more essential importance than that of doing one thing at a time ; avoiding distracting and desultory occu- pations; and keeping a leading object habitually before the mind, as one in which it can at all times find an interesting resource when necessary' avoca- tions allow the thoughts to recur to it. A subject which is cultivated in this manner, not by regular periods of study merely, but as an habitual object of thought, rises up and expands before the mind in a manner which is altogether astonishing. If along with this habit there be cultivated the prac- tice of constantly writing such views as arise, we perhaps describe that state of mental discipline by which talents of a very moderate order may be ap- plied in a conspicuous and useful manner to any subject to which they are devoted. Such writmg need not be made at first with any great attention to method, but merely put aside for future conside- ration; and in this manner the ditferent departments of a subject will develope and arrange tbe^nselves as they advance in a manner equally pleasing and wonderful. VI. A due regulation and proper control of the imagination ; that is, restricting its range to objects which harmonize with truth, and are adapted to the real state of things with which the individual is or may be connected. We have seen how much the character is influenced by this exercise of the mind ; that it may be turned to purposes of the greatest moment, both in the pursuits of science and in the cultivation of benevolence and virtue ; but that, 212 THE PKEXIVX- on the other hand, it may be so employed as to de- base both the moral and intellectual character. VII. The cultivation of calm and correct judg- ment — applicable alike to the formation of opinions and the regulation of conduct. This is founded, as we have seen, upon the habit of directing the attention distinctly and steadily to all the facts and considerations bearing upon a subject ; and it con- sists in contemplating them in their true relations, and assigning to each the degree of importance of which it is worthy. This mental habit tends to guard us against forming conclusions, either with listless inattention to the views by which we ought to be influenced, — or with attention directed to some of those, while we neglect others of equal or greater importance. It is, therefore, opposed to the influence of prejudice and passion, — to the formation of so- phistical opmions — to party spirit, — and to every propensity which leads to the adoption of principles on any other ground than calm and candid exami- nation, guided by sincere desire to discover the truth. abehcrombie. TO AN INFANT. Ah, cease thy tears and sobs, my little life ! I did but snatch away the unclasped knife. Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye, And to quick laughter change this pee-vish cry. Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of wo, Tutored by pain each source of pain to know I Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ; Alike the good, the ill offend thy sight, And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright ! THE PREMIUM. 213 Untaught, yet wise, 'mid all thy brief alanns Thou closely cUngest to thy mother's arms, • Nestling thy little face in that fond breast Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest ! Man's breathing miniature ! thou mak'st me sigh~ A babe art thou, and such a thing am I ! To anger rapid, and as soon appeased — For trifles mourning, and by trifles pleased — Break friendship's mirror with a peevish blow, Yet snatch what coals of fire on pleasure's altar glow ! O thou that rearest, with celestial aim. The future seraph in my mortal frame, Thrice holy faith ! whatever thorns I meet. As on I totter with unpractised feet, Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy C01EB.IDGE. PARALLEL BETWEEN LEIBNITZ AND NEWTON. For the variety of his genius, and the extent of his research, Leibnitz is, perhaps, altogether un- rivalled. A lawyer, a historian, an antiquary, a poet, and a philologist, — a mathematician, a meta- physician, a theologian, and, I will add, a geologist, — he has in all these characters produced works of great merit, and, in some of them, of the highest excellence. It is rare that original genius has so lit- tle of a pecuUar direction, or is disposed to scatter its eflforts over so wide a field. Though a man of great inventive powers, he occupied much of his time in works of mere labour and erudition, where there was nothing to invent, and not much of importance to discover. Newton did not aim at so wide a range. Fortu- 814 THX PRE>ai-M. nately for liimself anJ lor the world, his genius was iliore determined to a particular point, and its effects were more concentrated. Their direction was to the accurate sciences, and they soon proved equally inventive in the pure and the niixcd mathematics. Newton knew how to transfer the truths of abstract science to the study of things actually existing, and by returning in the opposite direction, to enrich the former by ideas derived from the latter. In ex- perimental and inductive investigation, he was as great as in the pure mathematics, and his discoveries were as distinguished in the one as in the other. In this double claim to renown, Xewton stands yet tmrivalled ; and though, in the pure mathematics, equals may. perhaps, be found, no one. I believe, will come forward as his rival both in that science and in the philosophy of nature. His caution in adopting general principles ; hi» dislike to what was vague or cbscm^ ; his rejection of all theories from which precise conclusions can- not be deduced; and his readiness to relinquish those that depart in any degree from the truth, are throughout, the characters of his philosophy, and distinguish it very essentially from the philosophy of Leibnitz. The characters now enumerated are most of them negative, but without the principles on which they are founded, invention can hardly be kept in the right course. The German philosopher was not furnished with them in the same degree as the Enghsh, and hence his great talents have run very frequently to waste. It may be doubted, also, whether Leibnitz's great metaphysical acuteness did not sometimes mislead him in the study of nature, by inclining him to those reasonings which proceed, or affect to proceed continually from the cause to the effect. The at« THE PRE3Iir?.T. 215 tributes of the Deity were the axioms of his philo- sophy ; and he did not reflect that this foundation, excellent in itself, lies much too deep for a struc- ture that is to be raised by so feeble an architect as man ; or that an argument, which sets out with the most profound respect to the Supreme Being, usually terminates in the most unwarrantable pre- sumption. His reasoning from the first causes are always ingenious ; but nothing can prevent the substitution of such causes for those that are physi- cal and efficient, from being one of the worst and most fatal errors in philosophy. As an interpreter of nature, therefore, Leibnitz stands in no comparison with Newton. As to who benefited human knowledge most, no question can arise ; and if genius is to be weighed in this balance, it is evident which scale must preponderate. Ex- cept in the pure mathematics, Leibnitz, with all his talents, made no material or permanent addition to the sciences. Newton, to equal inventions in mathe- matics, added the gi-eatest discoveries in the philo- sophy of nature ; and, in passing through his hands, mechanics, optics, and astronomy were not merely improved, but renovated. No one ever left knowledge in a state so dilTerent from that in which he found it. Men were instructed not only in new truths, but in new methods of discovering truths. They were made acquainted with the great princi- ple which connects together the most distant re- gions of space, as well as the most remote periods of duration ; and which was to lead to future dis» coveries, far beyond what the wisest or most san- guine could anticipate. playfaib. 216 TUE PREMIUM. THE LOST DARLING. She was my idol. Night and day to scan The fine expansion of her form, and mark The unfolding mind like vernal rose-buds start To sudden beauty, was my chief deUght. To find her fairy footsteps following me, — Her hand upon my garments, — or her lip Long seal'd to mine, — and in the watch of night The quiet breath of innocence to feel Soft on my cheek, — was such a full content Of happiness, as none but mothers know. Her voice was like some tiny harp that yields To the sUght-finger'd breeze, — and as it held Long converse wiih her doll, or kindly soothed Her moaning kitten, or with patient care Conn'd o'er the alphabet, — ^but most of all Its tender cadence in her evening prayer, Thrill'd on the ear like some ethereal tone, Heard in sweet dreams. — — But now I sit alone, Musing of her, — and dew with mournful tears The little robes that once with woman's pride I wrought, as if there were a need to deck What God had made so beautiful. I start, — Half fancying from her empty crib there comes A restless sound, — and breathe the accustom'd word * Hush, hush, Louisa, dearest.' — Then I weep, As though it were a sin to speak to one Whose home is with the angels. — — Gone to God ! And yet I wish I had not seen the pang That vtnrung her features, nor the ghastly white Settling around her lips. I would that Heaven Had taken its own like some transplanted flower, Blooming in allits freshness. — THE PREMIUM. 217 — Gone to God ! Be still, my heart ! — what could a mother's prayer, In all its wildest ecstasy of hope, Ask for its darling like the bliss of heaven ? MRS. SIGOUaXET. IMPROVISATORS About sixty years ago Benjamin West, a na- tive of America, went to Rome to study the art of painting. His biographer, Mr. Gait, relates the manner in which this celebrated artist was once entertained by an improvisatore, one of the extem- poraneous Italian poets. One night, soon after his arrival in Rome, Mr. Ga- vin Hamilton, the painter to whom he had been in- troduced by Mr. Robinson, took him to a coffee- house, the usual resort of the British travellers. While they were sitting at one of the tables, a vene- rable old man, with a guitar suspended from his shoulder, entered the room, and coming immediately to their table, Mr. Hamilton addressed him by the name of Homer. He was the most celebrated im- provisatore in all Italy, and the richness of expression, and nobleness of conception which he displayed in his effusions, had obtained for him that distinguish- ed name. Those who once heard his poetry, never ceased to lament that it was lost in the same moment, affirming that it often was so regular and dignified, as to equal the finest compositions of Tasso and Ariosto. It will, perhaps, afford some gratification to the admirers of native genius to learn, that this old man, though led by the fine frenzy of his imagination to prefer a wild and wandering life to 218 THE PBEMIU3f. the offer of a settled independence, which had been made him in his youth, enjoyed in his old age, by the liberality of several Englishmen, who had raised a subscription for the purpose, a small pension, suffi- cient to keep him comfortable, in his own way, when he became incapable of amusing the public. After some conversation, Homer requested Mr. Hamilton to give him a subject for a poem. In the meantime, a number of Italians had gathered round them to look at West, who they had heard was an American, and whom, hke cardinal Albani,* they imagined to be an Indian. Some of them, on hear- ing Homer's request, observed, that he had exhaust- ed his vein, and had already said and sung every subject over and over. Mr. Hamilton, however, re- marked that he thought he could propose something new to the bard, and pointing to Mr. West, said, that he was an American come to study the fine arts in Rome ; and that such an event furnished a new and magnificent theme. Homer took possession of the thought with the ardour of inspiration. He immediately unslung his guitar, and began to draw his fingers rapidly over the strings, swinging his body from side to side, and striking fine and impressive chords. When he had thus brought his motions and his feelings into unison with the instrument, he began an extempo- raneous ode in a maiiner so dignified, so pathetic, and so enthusiastic, that Mr. West was scarcely less interested by his appearance than those who enjoyed the subject and melody of his numbers. He sung the darkness which for so many ages veiled America from the eyes of science. He do- * A Spanish cardinal, who presumed that American sig- lified Indian. THE PIlEMIUir. 219 scribed the fulness of time, when the purposes for which it had been raised from the deep were to be raanifested. He painted the seraph of knowledge descending from heaven, and directing Columbus to undertake the discovery ; and he related the lead- ing incidents of the voyage. He invoked the fancy of the auditors to contemplate the wild magnificence of mountain, lake, and wood, in the new world ; and he raised, as it were, in vivid perspective, the Indians in the chase, and at their horrible sacrifices. ' But,' he continued, ' the beneficent spirit of im- provement is ever on the wing, and like the ray firom the throne of God, it has descended on this youth, and the hope which ushered in its new mira- cle, like the star that gvdded the magi to Bethlehem, has led him to Rome. * Methinks I behold in him an instrument chosen by Heaven, to raise in America the taste for those arts which elevate the nature of man — an assurance that his country will afford a refuge to science and knowledge, when in the old age of Europe they shall have forsaken her shores. But all things of heavenly origin, like the glorious sun, move west- ward; and truth and art have their periods of shin- ing, and of night. Rejoice then, venerable Rome, in thy divine destiny; for though darkness over- shadow thy seats, and though thy mitred head must descend into the dust, as deep as the earth that now rovers thy ancient helmet and imperial diadem^ thy spirit, immortal and undecayed, already reaches to- wards a new world, where, like the soul of man in paradise, it will be perfected in virtue and beauty more and more.' The highest efforts of the greatest actors, even of Garrick himself delivering the poetry of Shakspeare, never produced a more immediate and inspiring »»0 THK PREXIUM. effect than this rapid burst of genius. When the applause had abated, Mr. West, being the stranger, and the party addressed, according to the common practice, made the bard a present. Mr. Hamilton explained the subject of the ode : though with the weakness of a verbal translation, and the imperfec- tion of an indistinct echo, it was so connected with the appearance which the author made in the recital, that the incident was never obliterated from Mr. West's recollection. anox. MIDNIGHT AT CORINTH. 'Tis midnight ; on the mountains brown The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; Blue roll the waters, blue the sky Spreads like an ocean hung on high, Bespangled with those isles of light, So wildly, spiritually bright ; Who ever gazed upon them shining. And turned to earth without repining. Nor wished for wings to flee away. And mix with their eternal ray 1 The waves on either shore lay there Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, But murmured meekly as the brook. The winds were pillowed on the waves ; The banners drooped along their staves, And, as they fell around them furling, Above them shone the crescent curling And that deep silence was unbroke, Save where the watch his signal spoke, Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill, And echo answered from the hill. THE FREJIIUM. 221 And the v/ild hum of that wild host Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, As rose the Muezzin's voice in air In midnight called to wonted prayer. BXKOir. TRUE GREATNESS. " The greatness of the warrior," is poor and low compared with the magnanimity of virtue. It va- nishes before the greatness of principle. The martyr to humanity, to freedom, or religion ; the unshrink- ing adherent of despised and deserted truth ; who alone, unsupported, and scorned, with no crowd to infuse into him courage, no variety of objects to draw his thoughts from himself, no opportunity of effort or resistance to rouse and nourish energy, still yields himself calmly, resolutely, with invincible philanthropy, to bear prolonged and exquisite suffer- ing, which one retracting word might remove ; such a man is as superior to the warrior, as the tranquil and boundless heavens above us, to the low earth we tread beneath our feet. Great generals away from the camp, are common- ly no greater men that the mechanician taken from his workshop. In conversation they are often dull. Works of profound thinking on general and great topics they cannot comprehend. The conqueror of Napoleon, the hero of Waterloo, undoubtedly possesses great military talents ; but we have never heard of his eloquence in the senate, or of his sa- gacity in the cabinet ; and we venture to say, that he will leave the world, without adding one new thought on the great themes, on which the genius of philosophy and legislature has meditated for ages. We will not go down for illustration to such men as 232 THK PHEMIU.V. Nelson, a man great on the deck, but debased by gross vices, and who never pretended to enlargement of intellect. To institute a comparison in point of talent and genius between such men and MiUon, Bacon, and Shakspeare, is almost an insult on these illustrious names. Who can think of these truly great intelligences ; of the range of their minds through heaven and earth ; of their deep intuition into the soul ; of their new and glowing combinations of thought ; of the energy with which they grasped and subjected to their main purpose, the infinite materials of illus- tration which nature and life afford, who can think of the forms of transcendent beauty and grandeur which they created, or which were rather emana- tions of their own minds ; of the calm wisdom and fervid impetuous imagination which they conjoined ; of the dominion which they have exerted over so many generations, and which time only extends and makes sure ; of the voice of power, in which, though dead, they still speak to nations, and awaken intel- lect, sensibility, and genius in both hemispheres ; who can think of such men, and not feel the im- mense inferiority of the most gifted warrior, whose elements of thought are physical forces and physi- cal obstructions, and whose employment is the com- bination of the lowest class of objects, on which a powerful mirid can be employed. cha>*xixg. THE GRANDAME. Oy the green hill top. Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, And not distinguished from its neighbour bam. Save by a slender tapering length of spire, THE PREMirX. 223 The grandame sleeps. A plain stone l)arely tells The name and date to the chance passenger. For lowly born was she, and long had ate, Well earned, the bread of service : — hers was else A mounting spirit, one that entertained Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable, Or aught unseemly. I remember well Her reverend image : I remember, too, "With what a zeal she served her master's house And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age Dehghted to recount the oft-told tale Of anecdote domestic. Wise she was, And wondrous skilled in genealogies, And could, in apt and voluble terms discourse Of births, of titles, and alliances ; Of marriages and intermarriages ; Relationship remote or near of kin ; Of friends offended, family disgraced — Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying Parental strict injunction, and, regardless Of unmixed blood, and ancestry remote. Stooping to wed with one of low degree. But these are not thy praises ; and I wrong Thy honoured memory, recording chiefly Things hght or trivial. Better 'twere to tell How, with a nobler zeal and warmer love, She served her heavenly Master. I have seen That reverend form bent down with age, and pain. And rankling malady. Yet not for this Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew Her trust in him, her faith, and humble hope — 80 meekly had she learned to bear her cross ; For she had studied patience in the school Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived, And was a follower of the Nazarene. lamb. 224 THE PRKMIUM, AXCIENT NATIOXS. If we go back to any of the nations of antiquity — to those which surpassed all their contemporaries as much as did Egypt and Babylon — what notion does history warrant us in forming of the intellec- tual state of the mass of the people ] We think of them as growing up on the soil veiy much as do the vegetables around them ; with no fostering care put forth to encourage and guide them ; with no streams of knowledge winding their way to every hamlet, gratifying an eager curiosity, and furnishing nutriment for growing minds ; with no eye to look out on the widely-extended and varied scenes of the world ; and no public spirit to feel an interest in the concerns of their fellow men. They grew up on the spot, obtained a hard-earned subsistence for a few years, never roused from their stupidity, but to repel an invasion, to ravage a state, or to build a city — and they died on the spot, their life no be- nefit to the world of men around them, and their death no loss. We often read of the splendid achievements of ancient ai-mies. But what idea are we warranted in forming of the multitudes of human beings con- gregated in these armies 1 They were brave, but their bravery was insensibility. They were power- ful, but their power was mere brute force, having not many more marks of intelligence in it than were in the pbwer of their battering engines. They ac- complished the will of a more thinking leader, but their obedience was an almost instinctive recogni tion of a master. Think of the five milUons whom Xerxes is said to have led into Greece, — five mil- lions of human beings, made to think and act, and to take on themselves an individual responsibility, TEE premii/m:. 225 and at last to render an account for their thoughts and actions ! But how many minds do you suppose there were in this moving nation, in which j^ou could have found traces of intelligence much beyond common animal instinct and mere contrivance to exist] The proud and unhappy monarch looked over this vast assemblage, and, with a sickening and gloomy sensibility, wept to think that all the indi- viduals of it would . be dead in less than a hundred years. But what if they did die ] What effect could their death have upon the world ! They had done nothing for it. They v/ere capable of doing nothing for it. Excepting that the physical strength of the empire would be somewhat diminished, the world V7ould be no more affected by their death, than by the felling of so many trees in the forests of Scythia. They might have gone with the ar- mies of locusts, and perished on the shores of the Levant, the existence and the movements of the one as well as the other, ha^^ng been Itnown to the world only by tlie desolations that marked their progress. e. everett. TITUS BEFORE JERUSALEM. It must be ! And yet it moves me, Romans ! it confounds The counsel of my firm philosophy. That ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er. And baxTcn salt be sowed on yon proud city. As on our olive-crowned hill we stand, Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion, As through a valley sacred to sweet peace, How boldly doth it front us ! how majestically ! P 226 THE PIlEMIUSf. Like a luxurious vineyard, the hill side Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, Terrace o'er terrace, nearei: still, and nearer To the blue heavens. Here bright and sumptuous palaces, With cool and verdant gardens interspers'd ; Here towers of war, that frown in massy strength; While over all hangs the rich purple eve, As conscious of its being her last farewell Of light and glory to that faded city. And, as our clouds of battle dust, and smoke Are melted into air, behold the temple, In undisturb'd and lone serenity, Finding itself a solemn sanctuary In the profound of heaven ! It stands before us A mount of snow fretted with golden pinnacles ! The very sun, as though he worshipp'd there, Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs : And down the long and branching porticoes, On every flowing-sculptur'd capital. Glitters the homage of his parting beams. By Hercules ! the sight might almost win The ofiended majesty of Rome to mercy. USES OF WATER. How common, and yet how beautiful and how pure, is a drop of water ! See it, as it issues from the rock to supply the spring and the stream below. See how its meanderings through the plains, and its torrents over the clifls, add to the richness and the beauty of the landscape. Look into a factory stand- ing by a waterfall, in which every drop is faitiiful TUE PREMIUM. 22t to perform its part, and hear the groaning and rust* ling of the wheels, the clattering of shuttles, and the buzz of spindles, which, under the direction of their /air attendants, are supplying myriads of fair purchasers with fabrics from the cotton-plant, the sheep, and the silk-worm. Is any one so stupid as not to admire the splen- dour of the rainbow, or so ignorant as not to know that it is produced by drops of water, as they break away from the clouds which had confined them, and are making a quick visit to our earth to renew its verdure and increase its animation 1 How use- ful is the gentle dew, in its nightly visits, to allay the scorching heat of a summer's sun ! And the autumn's frost, how beautifully it bedecks the trees, the shrubs and the grass ; though it strips them of their summer's verdure, and warns them that they must soon receive the butfetings of the winter's tempest ! This is but water, which has given up its transparency for its beautiful whiteness and its elegant crystals. The snow, too — what is that but these same pure drops thrown into crystals by win- ter's icy hand 1 and does not the first summer's sun return them to the same limpid drops 1 The majestic river, and the boundless ocean, what are they 1 Are they not made of drops of water 1 How the river steadily pursues its course from the mountain's top, down the declivity, over the cliff, and through the plain, taking with it every thing in its course ! How many mighty ships does the ocean float upon its bosom ! How many fishes sport in its waters ! How does it form a lodging- place for the Amazon, the Mississippi, the Danube, the Rhine, the Ganges, the Lena, and the Hoang Ho! How piercing are these pure limpid drops ! How S28 THE PttEMIUSr. do they find their way into the depths of the earth, and even the solid rock ? How many thousand streams, hidden from our view by mountain masses, are steadily pursuing their courses, deep from the surface which forms our standing-place for a few short days ! In the air, too, how it ditfuses itself ! Where can a particle of air be found which does not contain an atom of water ] How much would a famishing man give for a few of these pure, limpid drops of water ! And where do we use it in our daily sustenance 1 or ra- ther, where do we not use it 1 Which portion of the food that we have taken during our lives did not contain it? What part of our body, which limb, which organ, is not moistened with this same faithful servant ] How is our blood, that free li- quid, to circtlate through our veins without it ] How gladly does the faithful horse, or the patient ox, in his toilsome journey, arrive at the water's brink ! And the faithful dog, patiently following his master's track — how eagerly does he lap the water from the clear fountain he meets in his way ! The feathered tribe, also— how far and how quick their flight, that they may exchange the northern ice for the same common comfort rendered liquid and limpid by a southern sun ! Whose heart ought not to overflow with grati- tude to the abundant Giver of this pure liquid, which his o\\ti hand has deposited in the deep, and diffused through the floating air and the solid earth ? Is it the farmer, whose fields, by the gentle dew and the abundant rain, bring forth fatness 1 Is it the mechanic, whose saw, lathe, spindle and shuttle are moved by this faithful servant 1 Is it the merchant, on his return from the noise and the perplexities of business, to the table of his family, richly sup- THE PREMIUM. 229 plied with the varieties and the luxuries of the four quarters of the globe, produced by the abundant rain, and transported across the mighty but yielding ocean 1 Is it the physician, on his administering to his patient some gentle beverage, or a more active healer of the disease which threatens ] Is it the clergyman, whose profession it is to make others feel — and that by feeling himself that the slightest favour and the richest blessing are from the same source, and from the same abundant and constant Giver 1 Who, that still has a glass of water and a crumb of bread, is not ungrateful to complain 1 AXOK. THE BUTTERFLY. Child of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light ; And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold, There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut in silent ecstasy. Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb, and slept; And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. BOGEBS. NIGHT. Night is the time for rest How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose : 230 THE PHEMIUM. Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed ! Night is the time for dreams ; The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems^ Blend in fantastic strife ; Ah ! visions less beguiUng far Than waking dreams by daylight are ! Night is the time for toil ; To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield ; Till all is ours that sages taught. That poets sang, or heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep ; To wet with imseen tears Those graves of memory where sleep The joys of other years ; Hopes that were Angels in their birth, But perish'd young, like things of earth ! Night is the time to watch ; On the ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind. All we have loved and left behind. Night is the time for care ; Brooding on hours mispent, To see the spectre of despair Come to ovur lonely tent ; Like Brutus 'midst his slumbering host> Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost. THE PRExru:\r. 231 JJlght is the lirae to muse ; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views Beyond the starry pole, Describes athwart the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated Ught Night is the time to pray ; Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away, So will his followers do ; Steal from their throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God. Night is the time for death : When all around is peace. Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease ; Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends ; — such death be mine ! MONTGOMERT. PURSUITS OF COWPER. [Described in a letter to Mrs. King.] You are perfectly secure from all danger of being overwhelmed with presents from me. It is not much that a poet can possibly have it in his power to give. When he has presented his own works, he may be supposed to have exhausted all means of donation. They are his only superfluity. There was a time — ^but that time was before I commenced writer for the press — when I amused myself in a way somewhat similar to yours ; allowing, I mean, for the difference between masculine and female operations. The scissors and the needle are your 232 THK PREMIUM. chief implements ; mine were the chisel and the saw. In those days, you might have been in some danger of too plentiful a return for your favours. Tables, such as they were, and joint-stools, such as never were, might have travelled to Perton-hall in most inconvenient abundance. But I have long since discontinued this practice, and many others which I found it necessary to adopt, that I might escape the wdrst of all e\nls, both in itself and in its conse- quences — an idle life. Many arts I have exercised with this view, for which nature never designed me ; though among them were some in which I ar- rived at considerable proficiency, by mere dint of the most heroic perseverance. There is not a 'squire in all this country who can boast of having made better squirrel houses, hutches for rabbits, or bird-cages, than myself; and in the article of cab- bage-nets I had no superior. I even had the hardi- ness to take in hand the pencil, and studied a whole year the art of drawing. Many figures were the fruit of my labours, which had, at least, the merit of being unparalleled by any production either of art or nature. But before the year was ended, I had occasion to wonder at the progress tliat may be made, in despite of natural deficiency, by dint alone of practice ; for I actually produced three landscapes, which a lady thought worthy to be framed and glazed. I then judged it high time to exchange this occupation for another, lest, by any subsequent pro- ductions of inferior merit, I should forfeit the ho- nour I had so fortunately acquired. But gardening was, of all employments, that in which I succeeded best ; though, even in this, I did not suddenly at- tain perfection. I began \vith lettuces and cauli- flowers : firom them I proceeded to cucumbers ; next to melons. I then purchased an orange tree, to THE PKEJIIOr. 233 which, in due time, I added two or three myrtles, These served me, day and night, with employment during a whole severe winter. To defend them from the frost, in a situation that exposed them to its severity, cost me much ingenuity and much attendance. I contrived to give them a fireheat; and have waded night after night, through the Know, with the bellows under my arm, just be- fore going to bed, to give the " latest possible puff to the embers, lest the frost should seize them be- fore morning. Very minute beginnings have some- times important consequences. From nursing two or three little evergreens, I became ambitious of a green-house, and accordingly built one ; which, verse excepted, afforded me amusement for a longer time than any expedient of all the many to which I have fled for refuge from the misery of ha\-ing no- thing to do. When I left Olney for Weston, I could no longer have a green-house of my own ; but in a neighbour's garden I find a better, of which the sole management is consigned to me. THE ENGLISH CHURCH SERVICE. Nor would I leave unsung The lofty ritual of our sister land : In vestment white, the minister of God Opens the book, and reverentially The stated portion reads. A pause ensues. The organ breathes its distant thunder ; notes Then swell into a diapason full ;* The people, rising, sing, with harp, with harp And voice of psalms ; harmoniously attuned, The various voices blend ; the long-drawn aisles, * Diapason, a musical term. 234 THE PREMIUM. At every close, the lingering strain prolong. And now the tubes a mellowed stop controls ; In softer harmony the people join, While liquid whispers from yon orphan band Recall the soul from adoration's trance, And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears. Again the organ peal, loud rolling, meets The hallelujahs of the choir. Sublime, - A thousand notes symphoniously ascend, i As if the whole were one, suspended high In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float, Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch : Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close, Yet tliinks he hears it still ; his heart is cheered ; He smiles on death ; but, ah ! a wish will rise — " Would I were now beneath that echoing roof! No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow, My heart would sing : and, many a Sabbath-day, My steps should thither turn ; or, wandering far In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow, There would I bless His name who led me forth From death's dark vale, to walk amid these sweets ; Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye." GRAHAME. PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 'Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, Nor bath'd a fetlock in the nauseous flood — He comes — their leader comes ! — the man of God O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod, And onward treads — The circling waves retreat, In hoarse, deep murmurs, from his holy feet ; And the chas'd surges, inly roaring, show The hard wet sand and coral hills below. THE PRE^rirM. 235 With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, Down, down they pass — a steep and slippery dell Around thein rise, in pristine chaos hurl'd The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world ; And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green, And caves, the sea-calves' low-roof 'd haunt, are seen. Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread ; The beetling waters storm above their head : While far beliind retires the sinking day, And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, Or dark to them, or cheerless came the night, Still in their van, along that dreadful road, Blaz'd broad and fierce, the brandish'd torch of God. Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave On the long mirror of the rosy wave : While its blest beams a sunUke heat supply Warm every cheek and dance in every eye — To them alone — for Misraim's wizard train Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain : Clouds heap'd on clouds their struggling sight confine. And tenfold darkness broods above their line. Yet on they fare by reckless vengeance led, And range unconscious through the ocean's bed. Till midway now — that strange and fiery form Show'd his dread visage lightening through the storm ; With withering splendour blasted all their might, And brake their chariot-wheels, and marred their coursers' flight. " Fly, Misraim, fly !" — The ravenous floods they see, And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. (' Fly, Misraim, fly !" — From Edom's coral strand Again the prophet stretch'd his dreadful wand : — 236 THE PBEXIUM. With one wild crash the thundering waters sweep, And all is waves — a dark and lonely deep^ Yet o'er these lonely waves such murmurs past, As mortal wailing swell'd the nightly blast : And strange and sad the whispering breezes bore The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. H£B£R. EXTRACT. Who, when nought is heard around But the great ocean's solemn sound, Feels not as if the eternal God Were speaking in that dread abode, An answering voice seems kindly given, From the multitude of stars in heaven: And oft a smile of moonlight fair To perfect peace has changed despair. Low as we are, we blend our fate With things so beautifully great; And though opprest with heaviest grief From nature's bliss we draw rehef, Assured that God's most gracious eye Beholds us in our misery, And sends mild sound and lovely sight, To change that misery to deUght wiLsoir. ENGLISH CUSTOMS. The dress of Englishmen* wants that variety which renders the figures of our scenery so picturesque. * These remarks are extracted from certain pretended Letters of a Spanish gentleman named Espriella, residing in England. THE PREMIUM. 237 You might think, from walking the streets of Lon- don, that there were no ministers of religion in the comitry ; J smiled at the remark, and told me that some of the dignified clergy wore silk aprons ; but these are rarely seen, and they are nore gene- rally known by a huge and hideous wig, once con- sidered to be as necessary a covering for a learned head as an ivy bush is for an owl, but which even physicians have now discarded, and left only to schoolmasters and doctors in "divinity. There is, too, this remarkable difference between the costume of England and of Spain, that here the national dress is altogether devoid of grace, and it is only modem fashions which have improved it; in Spain. on the contrary, nothing can be more graceful than the dresses both of the clergy and peasantry, which have from time immemorial remained unchanged ; while our better ranks clothe themselves in a worse taste, because they imitate the apery of other na- tions. What I say of their costume applies wholly to that of the men ; the dr^ss of English women is perfect, as far as it goes ; it leaves notliing to be wished, — except that there should be a little more of it. The most singular figures in the streets of this metropoUs are the men who are employed in carry- ing the earth-coal, which they remove from the barge to the wagon, and again from the wagon to the house, upon their backs. The back of the coat, therefore, is as well quilted as the cotton breastplate of our soldiers in America in old times : and to pro- tect it still more, the broad flap of the hat lies flat upon the shoulders. The head consequently seems to bend unusually forward, and the whole figure has the appearance of having been bowed beneath habi- tual burdens. The lower classes, with this exception, 5538 THE PH2Mtl'3t. if they do not wear the cast clothes of the liigber ranks, have them in the same form. The post-men all wear the royal livery, which is scarlet and gold ; they hurry through the streets, and cross from side to side with indefatigable rapidity. The English doors have knockers instead of bells, and there is an advantage in this which you would not immediately perceive. The bell, by whomsoever it be pulled, must always give the same sound ; but the knock- er may be so handled as to explain who plays upon it, and accordingly it has its systematic set of sig- nals. The post-man comes with two loud and rapid raps, such as no person but himself ever gives. One very loud one marks the news-man. A single knock of less vehemence denotes a servant or other messenger. Visitors give three or four. Footmen or coachmen always more than their masters ; and the master of every family has usually his particu- lar touch, which is immediately recognised. Every shop has an inscription above it expressing the name of its owner, 4Uid that of his predecessor, if the business has been so long established as to derive a certain degree of respectabiUty from time. Cheap warehouse is sometimes added ; and if the tradesman has the honour to serve any one of the royal family, this is also mentioned, and the royal arms in a style of expensive carving are affixed over the door. These inscriptions in large gilt letters, shaped with the greatest nicety, form a peculiar feature in the streets of London. In former times all the shops had large signs suspended before them, such as are still used at inns in the country ; these have long since disappeared ; but in a few instances, where the shop is of such long standing that it is still known by the name of its old insignia, a small THE PBEMlUsr. 239 picture still preserves the sign, placed instead of one ♦f the window panes. If I were to pass the remainder of my life in Lon- don, I think the shops would always continue to amuse me. Something extraordinary or beautiful is for ever to be seen in them. I saw, the other day, a sturgeon, above two varus in length, hang- ing at a fishmonger's. In one window you see the most exquisite lamps of alabaster, to shed a pearly light in the bed-chamber ; or formed of cut glass, to ghtter like diamonds in the drawing-room ; in another, a convex mirror reflects the whole picture of the street, with all its moving swarms, or you start from your own face magnified to the propor- tions of a giant's. At one door stands a little Scotch- man taking snuff, — in one window a Httle gentleman with his coat puckered up in folds, and the folds filled with water to show that it is proof against wet. Here you have cages full of birds of every kind, and on the upper story live peacocks are spreading their fans ; another window displays the rarest birds and beasts stuffed, and in glass cases ; in another you have every sort of artificial fly for the angler, and another is full of busts painted to the life, with glass eyes, and dressed in full fashion to exhibit the wigs which are made within, in the very newest and most approved taste. And thus is there a per- petual exhibition of whatever is curious in nature or art, exquisite in workmanship, or singular in cos- tume ; and the display is perpetually varying, as the ingenuity of trade, and the absurdity of fashion, are ever producing something new. SOUTHET. 240 THE pHEMirsr. THE SEASHELL. Upon- a rock's extremest verge, Round which the foaming billows beat, I sat and listen'd to the surge Which threw its white spray o'er my feet. Long, long I linger'd, lost in thought, Still gazing on the boundless sea, In whose unceasing flow is wrought An emblem of eternity. I gather'd from the pebbled shore A shell, with rainbow beauties tinged ; And home my ocean-prize I bore With many-colour'd sea-weed fringed. As to my listening ear I held The shining gem the billows gave, Within its fairy cavern swell'd The mimic murmur of the wave. Though distant far my footsteps stray'd Through shady grove or sunny plain, Still, still its fairy cadence made An echo of the roaring main. 'Tis thus the aged seaman dreams. When anchor'd in his tranquil home ; In wand'ring fancy still he seems Through dark and stormy seas to roam. He slumbers in a land of peace ; He hears no more the waters' strife ; But faithful memory still will trace The dangers of his early life. akox- TEE PREMIUM. 241 THE SENSE OF DUTY. Theue is one principle of the soul, which makes all men essentially equal, which places all on a level as to means of happiness, which may place in the first rank of human beings those who are the most depressed in worldly condition, and which, therefore, gives the most depressed a title to interest and respect. I refer to the sense of duty, to the power of discerning and doing right, to the moral and religious principle, to the inward monitor which speaks in the name of God, to the capacity of virtue or excellence. This is the gi*eat gift of God. We can conceive no greater. In seraph and archangel, we can con- ceive no higher energy than the power of virtue; or the power of forming themselves after the will and moral perfections of God. This power breaks down all barriers between the seraph and the lowest human being ; it makes them brethren. Whoever has derived from God this per- ception and capacity of rectitude, has a bond of union with the spiritual world, stronger than all the ties of nature. He possesses a principle, which, if he is faithful to it, must cany him forward for ever, and ensures to him the improvement and happiness of the highest order of beings. It is this moral power, which makes all men es- sentially equal, which annihilates all the distinctions of this world. Through this, the ignorant and the poor may become the greatest of the race ; for the greatest is he who is most true to the principle of duty. It is not improbable, that the noblest human beings are to be found in the least favoured conditions of society, among those whose names are never utter- Q B4» THE phemium. ed beyond the narrow circle in which they toil and suffer, who have but "two mites" to give away, who have perhaps not even that, but who " desire to be fed with the crumbs which fall from the rich man's table," for in this class may be found those, who have withstood the severest temptation, who have practised the most arduous duties, who have confided in God under the heaviest trials, who have been most wronged and have forgiven most ; and these are the great, the exalted. It matters nothing, what the particular duties are to which the indivi- dual is called, — how minute or obscure in their out- Ward form. Greatness in God's sight lies, not in the extent of the sphere which is filled, or of the effect which is produced, but altogether in the power of virtue in the soul, in the energy with which God's will is chosen, with which trial is borne, and good- ness loved and pursued. The sense of duty is the greatest gift of God. The idea of right is the primary and the highest revelation of God to the human mind, and all out- ward revelations are founded on and addressed to it. All mysteries of science and theology fade away before the grandeur of the simple perception of duty, which dawns on the mind of the little child. That perception brings him into the moral kingdom of God. That lays on him an everlasting bond. He, in whom the conviction of duty is unfolded, be- comes subject from that moment to a law, which no power in the universe can abrogate. He forms a new and indissoluble connexion with God, that of an accountable being. He begins to stand before an inward tribunal, on the decisions of which his whole happiness rests ; he hears a voice, wliich if faithfully followed, will guide him to per- THE rttfi.MioMv 243 fection> and in neglecting wliich he brings upon himself inevitable misery. We little understand the solemnity of the moral principle in every human mind. We think not howr aw^ful are its functions. We forget that it is the germ of immortality. Did we understand it, we should look with a feeUng of reverence on every being to whom it is given* channinot. EFFECT OF THE DEATH OF NELSON. The death of Nelson was felt in England as some*. Ihing more than a public calamity ; men started at the intelligence, and turned pale; as if they had heard of the loss of a dear friend. An object of our admiration and affection, of our pride and of our hopes, W2LS suddenly taken from us ; and it seemed as if we had never, till then, known how deeply we ioved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero — the greatest of our own, and of all former times, was scarcely taken into the account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he per- formed his part, that the maritime war, after the battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an end : the fleets of the enemy not merely defeated, but destroyed : new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for them, before the possibility of their invad- ing our shores could again be contemplated. It was not, therefore, from any selfish reflection upon the magnitude of our loss that we mourned for him : the general sorrow was of a higher character. The people of England grieved that funeral ceremonies, and public monuments, and posthumous rewards were all which they could now bestow upon him, whom the king, the legislature, and the n*tion, 244 THE FKEMirH. would have alike delighted to honour ; whom every tongue would have blessed ; whose presence in every village through whic.U he might have passed would have wakened the church bells, have given schoolboys a holyday, have drawn children from their sports to gaze upon him, and " old men fiom the chimney corner," to look upon Nelson ere they died. The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms of rejoicing, but they were without joy : for such already was the glory of the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing ge- nius, that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from the most signal victory that ever was achieved upon the seas ; and the destruction of this mighty fleet, by wliich all the maritime schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared to add to our security or strength ; for, while Nelson was living, to watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as secure as now, when they were no longer in existence. southet. THE PLAYTHINGS. Oh ! mother, here 's the very top That brother used to spin ; The vase with seeds I 've seen him drop To call our robin in ; The line that held his pretty kite, His bow. Ins cup and ball, The slate on which he learned to write. His feather, cap, and all ! My dear, I 'd put the things away Just where they were before : Go, Anna, take him out to play, , And shut the closet door THE PREMIUM, 245 Sweet innocent ! he little thinks The slightest thought expressed Of him that 's lost, how deep it sinks Within a mother's breast ! 2CISS GOULD* TO A CHILD. A VIOLET springing in the shade, A tone of music waking From the leaf d bough, or grassy blade, In the soft breezes shaking ; A ray of starlight trembling o'er The dusk face of a sleeping sea — What, of such mild dehghts, can more Sweetest of sweets, resemble thee 1 Art not thyself a violet 1 Is not the breezy music thine 1 Or ever in ether glimmer'd yet A star more pure or more divine 1 Thou steal'st upon my heart, as steals A shadow on the plain, And my heart darkens, but it feels A saddening joy, not pain ; Sadness, to think a world of wo For such a spirit is spread around. And joy, in such a world, to know A spirit so heavenly is found, — A cherub for a moment given, To teach weak man what being's worth ; Ever to keep his thoughts on heaven. Yet smooth the chain that binds to earth. Be happy, for thou mak'st us so — It Is enough to see The radiance of thy face, to know A pure felicity ; 246 THE PREMIUM. The sight of innocence and love, Gavb'd in the light of childish yeais. This is the better spell to prove An antidote to tears. Wend through the world, nor fear its cares Thy path with flowers sliall shine, For men will steal the sweets from theirs To strew them over thine. THE DEAD SOLDIER. Thiite was the death that many meet. That many deem the best ; To lay them down at glory^s feet To their eternal rest — For glory's glittering toy to rave, And find the bauble m the grave I What 'vails it where we barter life 1 Whether upon the plain, Amid the spirit-stirring strife Or on the stormy main 1 On land or sea, it is the same ; We die ; and what to us is fame ! Why liest thou stiff and idle there. Thy hand upon thy sword, While rapine shouts upon the air His fearful signal word 1 Up, up ! and join the gathering clan Of human fiends that prey on man. Up and and away J the squadron'd horse Approach in fierce array ; THE PUEMIUM. 247 They '11 mar thy poor dishonoured corse And tread thy form away : Madly o'er faint and dead they pour, And hoof and fetlock smoke with gore. Thou heed'st me not ; thou hearest not The trumpet echoing near ; And even the roaring cannon-shot Fhes soundless by thine ear, Thy leader shouts — away, away ! Ah, soldier ! thou canst not obey ! An hour ago thou wert all Ufe, With fiery soul and eye, Rushing amid the kindling strife, To do thy best, and die — And now a gory mass of clay Is stretch'd upon the warrior's way, W hy are those trappings on thy form 1 The harness could not shield Thy bosom from the iron storm, That hurtled o'er the field. Men fled the terrors of thy brow — The vulture does not fear thee now ! A thousand like thyself, ah me ! Are stretched upon the ground ; While the glad trump of victory Is pealing round and round : Hark, how the victors shout and cheer ! It matters not — the dead are here ! Arise ! the paean rings aloud, The battle field is won ; Up, up ! and join the eager crowd. Before the booty's done : 248 THE PREJIIUM. "What — wilt not take the meed of toil, Thy share of glory and of spoil 1 Silent, and grim, and sad to view, Thou liest upon the plain ; To bleach or fester in the dew, The sun, the winds, the rain : What art thou now, poor luckless tool ? A murderer's mark, a tyrant's fool. H. D. BIKD. CHARACTER OF THE PURITAXS. The Puritans were men whose minds had de- rived a peculiar character from the daily contempla- tion of superior beings and eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an over-ruling Providence, they habitually ascribed ever^ event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power nothing was too vast, for whose in- spection nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with con- tempt the ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. In- stead of catching occasional ghmpses of the Deity" through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on the intolerable brightness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The dilference between the greatest and meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when compared with the boundless interval which separated the whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. They re- cognised no title to superiority but his favour ; and, confident of that favour, they despised all the ac- TUB PRE:.riuM. 249 complishments and all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of phi- losophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they felt assured that they were recorded in the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of me- nials, legions of ministering angels had charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands ; their diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away ! On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with con- tempt : for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sub- lime language, nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance be- longed — on whose shghtcst action the Spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious interest, who had been destined, before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should con- tinue when heaven and earth should have passed away. Events which short-sighted pohticians as- cribed to earthly causes had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the evange- list, and the harp of the prophet. He had been rescued by no common deliverer from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had arisen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of hor expiring God ! 250 THE PREMIUM. Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, the one self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion; the other proud, cahn, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker ; but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In kis devotional retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans, and tears. He was half maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels, or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. But, when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword of war, these tempestuous work- ings of the soul had left no perceptible trace behind them. People who saw nothing of the godly, but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their w^hining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of de- bate, or in the field of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and military aifairs, a coolness of judgment, and an immutabiUty of purpose which some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal, but which were in fact the necessary effects of it. The intensity of their feelings on one subject made them tranquil in every other. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors, and pleasure its charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but not for things of this world. Enthusiasm had made them Stoics, had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion and prejudice, and raised them THE PRE3IIUM. 251 above the influence of clanger and of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to pursue unwise ends, but never to choose unwise means. They went through the world like Sir Artegale's iron man Talus with his flail, crushing and trampling down oppressors, mingling with human beings, but having neither part nor lot in human infirmities ; insensible to fatigue, to pleasure, and to pain ; not to be pierced by any weapon, not to be withstood by any barrier. Such we beheve to have been the character of the Puritans. We perceive the absurdity of their manners. We dislike the sullen gloom of their do- mestic habits. We acknowledge that the tone of their minds was often injured by straining after things too high for mortal reach : and we know that, in spite of their hatred of Popery, they too often fell into the worst vices of that bad system, intolerance and extravagant austerity, — that they had their anchorites and their crusades, their Dun- stans and their De Montforts, their Dominies and their Escobars. Yet, when all circumstances are taken into consideration, we do not hesitate to pro- nounce them a brave, a wise, an honest and an use- ful body. EDINBURGH KEVIEW. STANZAS. When- you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes. That have seen the last sunset of hope pass away, On some bright orb, that seems, through the still sapphire sky, In beauty and splendour, to roll on its way : Oh remember, this earth, if beheld from afar, Would seera wrapt in a halo as clear and as bright 252 THE puEMiu^r. As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star, Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night. And at this very moment, perhaps, some poor heart, That is aching and breaking in that distant sphere. Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart From its own dismal home, to a brighter one here. MISS KEMBLE. THOUGHTS AT MIDXIGHT. Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought ! My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, And in far other scenes ! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores, And mountain crags ; so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sound intelligible Of that eternal language which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould Thy spirit, and, by giving, make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing THE PREMHT^r. 253 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall, Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon. colehidge. CHARACTERISTICS OF POETRY. Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind, if any thing which gives so much pleasure ought to be called unsoundness. By poetry we mean, not of course all writing in verse, nor even all good writing in verse. Our definition cxcludea many metrical compositions, which, on other grounds, deserve the highest praise. By poetry, we mean the art of employing words in such a manner as to pro- duce an illusion on the imagination, the art of do- ing by means of words what the painter does by means of colours. Thus the greatest of poets has described it, in lines universally admired for the vigour and felicity of their diction, and still more valuable on account of the just notion which they convey of the art in which he excelled. 'As imagination bodies forth Tlip forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.' These arc the fruits of the * fine frenzy' whichr he ascribes to the poet, — a fine frenzy, doubtless, but still a frenzy. Truth indeed, is essential to poetry; 854 THE PREMltJM. but it is the truth of madness. The reasonings arS just ; but the premises are false. After the first Suppositions have been made, every thing ought to be consistent ; but those first suppositions require a degree of creduhty which almost amounts to a par- tial and temporary derangement of the intellect. Hence of all people children are the most imagi- native. They abandon themselves without reserve to every illusion. Every image which is strongly presented to their mental eye produces on them the effect of reality. No man, whatever his sensibility may be, is ever affected by Hamlet or Lear, as a little girl is affected by the story of poor Red Riding- hood. She knows that it is all false, that wolves cannot speak, that there are no wolves in England. Yet in spite of her knowledge she believes ; she Weeps, she trembles ; she dares not go into a dark room lest she should feel the teeth of the monster at her throat. Such is the despotism of the imagi- nation over uncultivated minds. In a rude state of society men are children with a greater variety of ideas. It is therefore in such a state of society that we may expect to find the poeti- cal temperament in its highest perfection. In an en- lightened age there will be much intelligence, much science, much philosophy, abundance of just classifi- cation and subtle analysis, abundance of wit and elo- quence, abundance of verses, and even of good ones, — but little poetry. Men will judge and compare ; but they will not create. They will talk about the old poets, and comment on them, and to a certain degree enjoy them. But they will scarcely be able to conceive the effect which poetry produced on their ruder ancestors, the agony, the ecstasy, the plenitude of belief. The Greek Rhapsodists, ac- cording to Plato, could not recite Homer without THE f nEMltJ3I. 359 almost fallitig into convulsions** The Mohawk hard* ly feels the scalping- knife while he shouts his death- song. The power which the ancient bards of Wales and Germany exercised over their auditors seems to modern readers almost miraculous. Such feehngg are very rare in a civiUzed community, and most rare among those who participate most in its im- provements. They Hnger longest among the pea- santry. Poetry produces an illusion on the eye of the mind, as a magic lantern produces an illusion on the eye of the body. And, as the magic lantern acts best in a dark room, poetry effects its purpose most completely in a dark age. As the light of knowledge breaks in upon its exhibitions, as the outlines of certainty become more and more definite, and the shades of probability more and more dis- tinct, the hues and lineaments of the phantoms which it calls up grow fainter and fainter. We cannot unite the incompatible advantages of reality and deception, the clear discernment of truth and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. He who, in an enfightened and literary society, aspires to be a great poet, must first become a little child. He must take to pieces the whole web of his mind. He must unlearn much of that know- ledge which has perhaps constituted hitherto his chief title to superiority. His very talents will be a hinderance to him. His difficulties will be propor- tioned to his proficiency in the pursuits which are fashionable among his contemporaries ; and that proficiency will in general be proportioned to the vigour and activity of his mind. And it is well, if, after all his sacrifices and exertions, his works do not * See the Dialogue between Socrates and lo. 256 THE Pr.E3IIU.M. resemble a lisping man, or a modem ruin. We have seen in our own time great talents, intense la- bour, and long meditation, employed in this strug- gle against the spirit of the age ; and employed, we will not say absolutely m vain, but with dubious success and feeble applause. EDIXBURSH BEYISW. THE WOUNDED EAGLE. Eagle ! this is not thy sphere ! Warrior-bird, what seekest thou here ? Wherefore by the fountain's brink Doth thy royal pinion sink ? Wherefore on the violet's bed Layst thou thus thy drooping head 1 Thou that holdst the blast in scorn, Thou, that wearst the wings of mom ! Eagle ! wilt thou not arise 1 Look upon thine own bright skies ! Lift thy glance ! — the fiery sun There his pride of place hath won, And the mountain lark is there ; And sweet sound hath fiU'd the air. Hast thou left tbat realm on high 1 — Oh it can be but to die ! Eagle, eagle ! thou hast bow'd From thuie empire o'er the cloud ! Thou that hadst ethereal birth : Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth. And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, And the toils of death have bound thee ! Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, Creature of a kingly race ^ THE PREMIUM. 257 Wert thou weary of thy throne t Was the sky's dominion lone 1 Chill and lone it well might be, Yet that mighty wing was free ! Now the chain is o'er it cast, From thy heart the blood flows fast Wo for gifted souls and high ! Is not such their destiny 1 MRS. HEHAKS. THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASO^. There was once upon a time a poor mason, or bricklayer in Granada, who kept all the saints' days and holydays, and saint Monday into the bargain, and yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer and poorer, and could scarcely earn bread for his nu- merous family. One night he was roused from his first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it, and beheld before him a tall, meagre, cadaverous looking priest. " Hark ye, honest friend," said the stranger, " I have observed that you are a good Christian, and one to be trusted ; will you under- take a job this very night 1" " With all my heart, Senor Padre, on condition tliat I am paid accordingly." " That you shall be, but you must sufler yourself to be bUndfolded." To this the mason made no objection ; so being hoodwinked, he was led by the priest through va- rious rough lanes and winding passages until they stopped before the portal of a house. The priest then applied a key, turned a creaking lock, and opened what sounded like a ponderous door. They entered, the door was closed and bolted, and the R S58 TaE FREMIUM* mason was conducted through an echoing corridor and spacious hall, to an interior part of the build- ing. Here the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he found himself in a patio, or court dimly lighted by a single lamp. In the centre was the dry basin of an old Moor- ish fountain, under which the priest requested him to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being at hand for the purpose. He accordingly worked all night, but without finishing the job. Just before daybreak the priest put a piece of gold into his hand, and having again blindfolded him, conducted him back to his dwelling, " Axe you willing," said he, "to return and com- plete your workl" " Gladly, Senor Padre, provided I am as welJ paid." " Well then, to-morrow at midnight I will call again." He did so, and the vault was completed. " Now," said the priest, " yo'i must help me to bring forth the bodies that are to be buried in this vault." The poor mason's hair rose on his head at these words: he followed the priest with trembling steps, into a retired cha.-nber of the mansion, expecting to behold some ghastly spectacle of death, but v^'as relieved, on perceiving three or four portly jars standing in one corner. They were evidently full of money, and it was v/ith great labour that he and the priest carried them forth and consigned them to their tomb. The vault was then closetl, the pave- ment replaced and all traces of the work obliter- ated. The mason was again hoodwinked and led forth by a route different from that by which he had come. After they had wandered for a long time THE PREMIUM. 269 througli a perplexed maze of lanes and alleys, they halted. The priest then put two pieces of gold into his hand. " Wait here," said he, " until you hear the cathedral bell toll for matins. If you presume to uncover your eyes before tliat time, evil will befall you." So saying he departed. The mason waited faithfully, amusing himself by weighing the gold pieces in his hand and clinking thein against each other. The moment the cathe- dral bell rung its matin peal, he uncovered his eyes and found himself on the banks of the Xenil ; from whence he made the best of his way home, and revelled with his family for a whole fortnight on the profits of his two nights' work, after which he was as poor as ever. He continued to work a little and pray a good deal, and keep holydays and saints' days from year to year, while his family grew up as gaunt and rag- ged as a crew of gypsies. As he was sealed one morning at the door of his hovel, he was accosted by a rich old curmudgeon who was noted for owning many houses and being a griping landlord. The man of money eyed him for a moment, from beneath a pair of shagged eyebrows. " I am told, friend, that you are very poor." " There is no denyhig the fact, Senor ; it speaks for itself." ♦* I presume, then, you will be glad of a job, and will work cheap." " As cheap, my master, as any mason in Granada." " That's what I want. I have an old house fall- en to decay, that costs me more money than it is worth to keep it in repair, for nobody will live in it; so I must contrive to patch it up and keep it to- gether at as small expense as possible." 860 TUB phemium. The mason was accordingly conducted to a huge deserted house that seemed going to ruin. Passing through several em})ty halls and chambers, he en- tered an inner court where his eye was caught by an old Moorish fountain. He paused for a moment. *' It seems," said he, ** as if I had been in this place before ; but it is like a dream — Pray who occupied this house for- merly!" "A pest upon him!" cried the landlord. "It was an old miserly priest, who cared for nobody but himself. He was said to be immensely rich, and, having no relations, it was thought he would leave all his treasure to the church. He died sud- denly, and the priests and friars thronged to take possession of his wealth, but nothing could they find but a few ducats in a leathern purse. The worst luck has fallen on me ; for since his death, the old fellow continues to occupy my house without paying rent, and there's no taking the law of a dead man. The people pretend to hear at night the clinking of gold all night long in the chamber where the old priest slept, as if he were counting over his money, and sometimes a groaning and moaning about the court. Whether true or false, these stories have brought a bad name on my house, and not a tenant will re- main in it." " Enough," said the mason, sturdily — " Let me live in your house rent free until some better te- nant presents, and I will engage to put it in repair and quiet the troubled spirits that disturb it. I am a good Christian and a poor man, and am not to be daunted by the devil himself, even though he come in the shape of a big bag of money." The ofler of the honest mason was gladly accept- ed ; he moved with liis family into the house, and THE ?RE-MIU>r. 261 fiilfilled all his engagements. By little and little he restored it ro its former state. I'he clinking of gold ■was no longer heard at night in the chamber of the defunct priest, but began to be heard by day in the pocket of the Uving mason. In a word, he increas- ed rapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his neighbours, and became one of the richest men in Granada. He gave large sums to the church, by way, no doubt, of satisfying his conscience, and never revealed the secret of the wealth until on his death-bed, to his son and heir. irvixg. THE DYIXG GIRL'S LAMENT. Wax does my mother steal away To hide her strugghng tears'? Her trembling touch betrays uncheck'd The secret of her fears ; My father gazes on my face With yearning, earnest eye ; — And yet, there 's none among them all, To tell me I must die ! My little sisters press around My sleepless couch, and bring With eager hands, their garden gift, The first sweet buds of spring ! I wish they'd lay me where those flowers Might lure them to my bed. When other springs and summers bloom, And / am with the dead. The sunshine quivers on my cheek, Glitt'ring, and gay, and fair. As if it knew my hand too weak To shade me from its glare ! THE PIIEMIUM. How soon 'twill fall unheeded on This death-dew'd glassy eye ! Why do they fear to tell me so 1 I knoxo that I must die ! The summer winds breathe softly through My lone, still, dreary room, A lonelier and a stiller one Awaits me in the tomb ! But no soft breeze will whisper there, No mother hold my head ! It is a fearful thing to be A dweller with the dead ! Eve after eve the sun prolongs His hour of parting light, And seems to make my farewell hours Too fair, too heavenly bright! I know the loveliness of earth, 1 love the evening sky. And yet I should not murmur, if They told me I must die. My playmates turn aside their heads When parting with me now, The nurse that tended me a babe. Now soothes my aching brow. Ah! why are those sweet cradled-hours Of joy and fondhng fled 1 Not e'en my parents' kisses now Could keep me from the dead ! Our pastor kneels beside me oft, And talks to me of heaven ; But with a holier vision still. My soul in dreams hath striven : THE PRExir:?r. 263 Fve seen a beckoning hand that call'J My faltering steps en high I've heard a voice that, trumpet-tongued, Bade me prepare to die ! MRS. C. GORE. THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEAD. If the reputation of the living w^ere the only fiource from which the honour of our race is derived, the death of an emment man would be a subject of immitigable grief. It is the lot of few to attain great distinction, before death has placed them above the distorting medium, through which men are seen by their contemporaries. It is the lot of still fewer to attain it by qualities which exalt the character of our species. Envy denies the capacity of some, slander stigmatizes the principles of others, fashion gives an occasional currency to false preten- sions, and the men by whom the age is hereafter to be known, are often too much in advance of it to be discernible by the common eye. All these causes combine to reduce the stock of living reputation as much below the real merits of the age, as it is be- low the proper dignity of man ; and he who should wish to elevate his spirit by great examples of wis- dom, of genius, and of patriotism, if he could not derive them from the illustrious dead, would have better reason than the son of Philip to weep at the limits which confined him. To part with the great and good from a world which thus wants them, and not to receive thereafter the refreshing influence of their purified and exalted fame, would be to make death almost the master of our virtue, as he appears to be of our perishable bodies. 264 TUS FBBMIUM. The living and the dead are, however, but one family, and the moral and intellectual affluence of those who have gone before, remains to enrich their posterity. The great fountain of human character lies beyond the confines of life, where the passions cannot invade it. It is in that region, that among innumerable proofs of man's nothingness, are pre- served the records of liis immortal descent and des- tiny. It is there the spirits of all ages, after their sun is set, are gathered into one firmament, to shed their unquenchable light upon us. It is in the great assembly of the dead, that the philosopher and the patriot, who have passed from hfe, complete their benefaction to mankind, by becoming imperishable examples of virtue. Beyond the circle of those private affections which cannot choose but shrink from the inroads of death, there is no grief then for the departure of the emi- nently good and wise. No tears but those of grati- tude should fall into the graves of such as are gather- ed in honour to their forefathers. By their now un- envied virtues and talents, they have become a new possession to their posterity, and when we comme- morate them, and pay the debt which is their due, we increase and confirm our own inheritance. BELSHAZZAR. HocB of an empire's overthrow ! The princes from the feast were gone — The idle flame was burning low — 'Twas midnight upon Babylon. That night the feast was wild and high ; That night was Zion's God profaned ; THE ra£MIU5I. The seal was set to blasphemy ; The last deep cup of wrath was drained. 'Mid jewelled roof and silken pall, Belshazzar on his couch was flung ; — A burst of thunder shook the hall — He heard — but 'twas no mortal tongue ! " King of the east ! the trumpet calls, That calls thee to a tyrant's grave ; A curse is on thy palace walls — A curse is on thy guardian wave. "A surge is in Euphrates bed, That never fiU'd its bed before ; — A surge that, e'er the morn be red, Shall load with death its haughty shore. " Behold a tide of Persian steel — A torrent of the Median car ; — Like flame their gory banners wheel ; — Rise, king, and arm thee for the war !" Belshazzar gazed — the voice was past — The lofty chamber fiU'd with gloom — But echoed on the sudden blast The rushing of a mighty plume. He listened — all again was still ; He heard no clarion's iron clang ; He heard the fountain's gushing rill — The breeze that through the roses sang. He slept ; — in sleep wild murmurs came — A visioned splendour fired the sky ; He heard Belshazzar's taunted name — He heard again the prophet cry — 265 266 THE PHEMIlT?.r. " Sleep, Sultan ! 'tis thy final sleep ; Or wake, or sleep the guilty dies ; The wrongs of those who watch and weep, Around thee and thy nation, rise." He started: — 'mid the battle's yell, • He saw the Persian rushing on ; — - He saw the flames around him swell ; Thou'rt ashes, King of Babylon ! ON VANITY. Those vices are not always the most dangerous which are the most rapid of operation ; but as effects strike the senses most, where they follow imme- diately from their causes, such vices have been more accurately observed, and more clearly explained, than any others. In the meantime, there are many habits of thought little noticed, and little feared, which pollute, no less effectually, the springs of the heart, and destroy the purity of reUgion. We shud- der at falsehood, at ingratitude, at neglect of serious duties, at hardness of heart ; we look at vanity with a smile of contempt — at the vanity of the young, and gay, with a smile of indulgence : it seems, to our improvident view, a harmless plant, that has got up in the luxuriant soil of youth, and will quick- ly wither away in more mature age ; in the mean- time, up it climbs, and strangles in its grasp the towering and lordly passions of the soul. I mean by vanity, the excessive love of praise ; and I call it excessive, whenever it becomes a mo- tive to action ; for to make men indifferent to the praise of their fellow-creatures, as a consequence of their actions, is not, that I know of, any where en- THE PUEMICM. 267 joined by our sacred religion, nor would it be wise, if it were possible. It is curious to observe this versatile passion of vanity, in all the forms under which it loves to ex- ist ; every shape, every colour, every a-ttitude be- come it alike ; sometimes it is a virtue, sometimes a decency, and sometimes a vice ; it gives birth to the man of refined manners, the profligate, the saint, and the hero ; it plays with the toy of the child ; it totters on the crutch of age ; it lingers on the bed of sickness, and gathers up its last strength to die with decent effect amidst the plaudits of the world. The fall of great cities, the waste of beautiful pro- vinces, the captivity of nations, the groans and bleedings of the earth — whence have they sprung "? That folly might worship, that fame might record, that the world might look on, and wonder ; for these feelings men have imbittered life, accelerated death, and abjured eternity. But with these vast scenes, I have nothing to do here ; to common life, and ordinary occasions, I must at present confine myself. One of the gi-eat evils of vanity is. that it induces hardness of heart. Compassion must have exercise, or it will cease to exist ; the mind cannot be en- grossed at once by two opposite systems of hopes, and fears. If we are occupied by the consideration of what the world vrill think on every occasion, there is no leisure for reflection on those solemn duties which we owe to our fellow-creatures; duties which God has not trusted to reason only, but to- wards which he has warned us by compassion, and inward feeling. These feelings soon cease to ad- monish, when they are unheeded, and the voice of humanity, when it has often spoke in vain, speaks no more. Soon the cry of him who wants bread 268 TH£ PREMIUM. will come up no longer to your ear ; soon you will turn from the sad aspect of age, and your heart will become shut to the miseries of man, never again to be opened. The havock which vanity makes on the social feelings is as conspicuous as that which it exercises on those of compassion. One of the most painful symptoms it produces, is an impatience of home. The vain man has no new triumphs to make over his family, or his kindred ; their society becomes tedious and insupportable to him ; he flies to every public circle for relief, where the hopes of being ad- mired lightens up in him that gaiety which never beams on those who ought to be the nearest to his heart. Thus it is, that the lives of many in great cities are passed in crowds, and frittered away in a constant recurrence of the same frivolous amuse- ments ; after the poignant gratifications of vanity, every other species of sensation becomes insipid : the mind shrinks from duty, and from improvement, and the whole character becomes trifling, and de- graded. It is easy to misrepresent these observa- tions, by supposing them to be levelled against pleasure and amusement in general ; whereas, it is not only lawful to enjoy the innocent pleasures of society in moderation ; but it is unwise not to enjoy them. That pleasure only is to be censured which becomes a business, and corrupts the heart instead of exhilarating the spirits. Dignity of character is a very subtle thing, and, as the guardian of many virtues, should be carefully preserved ; but if there be any fault, which extinguishes amiable and pious sentiment, hardens the heart, destroys delicacy of manners, and wipes off all bloom and freshness from the mind, it is constant, and eternal dissipation. The very essence of pleasure is rarity ; admiration, too THE PREMtrM. 269 eagerly pursued, leads infallibly to contempt ; and the qualities which produce the greatest effect, are always those of which the possessor is the most profoundly ignorant. Vanity is not only a dangerous passion, but it is an absurd passion ; as it does not in general attain the end it proposes to itself. The way to gain ■wealth is to seek it. Learning is only acquired by constant and eager labour ; but to gain praise, you must be indifferent to it ; for the rule of commenda- tion is, and ought to be, the very reverse of the rule of charity ; to give most to those who want it least, and thus by ill success to teach a better motive to action. Vanity is every day detected and disgraced ; we know men who beUeve themselves to be objects of universal admiration, while, in fact, they are ob- jects of universal contempt ; we see how difficult it is to conceal the passion, or prevent the ridicule consequent upon it ; yet we are vain, and believe that acute malice will be blind for us alone. This love of praise, so strongly intixed in our na- ture, it is rather our duty to direct, than to extin- guish. The excellence which requires neither to be encouraged nor corrected, exists not in the world ; the commendation, or censure of enlightened men, is, perhaps, the best test here below, of the purity and wisdom of what we intend, and the propriety and success of what we do ; and a wise man will al- ways make this use of the decisions of the world ; when he is blamed, he will listen with sacred mo- desty to the collected wisdom of many men, he will measure back his footsteps on the path of Ufe, and whichever way he decides, he will know, that he has either obtained success, o^- deserved it ; he will receive praise as a probable, not as a certain evi- dence that he is right ; nay, he will do more, he 270 THE PHEMIUM. will rejoice in tJie approbation of his fellow-crea- tures ; every feeling of his heart will expand ; it will cheer him in his long struggle, and dissipate that melanchcly which the best sometirues feel at the triumph of folly, and tlie fortune of vice. Be it your care to watch its baneful influence, and to live from nobler motives. If you wish for the praise of man, cease to pursue it ; live that life which, sooner or later, leads to honour in this world, and to eternity in the next ; be just, be modest, be charitable ; love dearly your fellow-creatures, and number your days by the miseries you have lessen- ed, and the blessings you have diffused. Study your own heart with the patience of a Christian ; coolly mark, and steadily resist the tendency to wrong. Let wisdom ever increase with decay ; and the soul gather new light as its covering crumbles into dust; this is the life which will more eifectually secure to you the sweets of praise, than all the toils, and all the vexations of vanity ; y^-JU will reign in the hearts of men, and move amongst them, like the angel of wisdom and peace ; and when, in the fulness of years, and in the fulness of honours, you rest for the short sabbath of the tomb, the cold, dull earth which falls upon your bier, shall be a cruel sound to the wretch- ed, and the good ; a whole city shall gather around your grave, and weep over their guide, their father, and their friend. Sydney sarixa. THE SABBATH BELL. Pilgrim, that hast meekly home All the cold world's bitter scorn, Journeying through this vale of tears, Till the promised land appears, THE PREMlUJr. 271 Where the pure in heart shall dwell — Thou dost bless the Sabbath bell ! Idler, following fashion's toys, Seeking, 'mid its empty joys, Pleasure that must end in pain ; Sunshine that will turn to rain ; What does whisp'ring conscience tell, When thou hear'st the Sabbath bell 1 Poet, dreaming o'er thy lyre, Wasting health and youthful fire ; Wooing still the phantom fame, For, at best, a fleeting name ; Burst the chains of Fancy's spell- Listen ! — 'tis the Sabbath bell ! Monarch, on thy regal throne ; Ruler, whom the nations own ; Captive, at thy prison grate, Sad in heart and desolate ; Bid earth's mijior cares farewell- Hark ! it is the Sabbath bell ! Statesman, toiling in the mart, Where Ambition plays his part; Peasant, bronzing 'neath the sun, Till thy six days' work are done; Ev'ry thought of bus'ness quell, When ye hear the Sabbath bell ! Maiden, with thy brow so fair, Blushing cheek, and shining hair ; Child, with bright and laughing eye, Chasing the wing'd butterfly ; Hasten, when o'er vale and dell, Sounds the gathering Sabbath bell ! 373 THE PREMIUM. Trav'ler, thou whom gain or taste, Speedeth through earth's weary waste ; Wand'rer from thy native land, Rest thy steed and slack thy hand, When the seventh day's sun-beams tell : There they wake the Sabbath bell ! Soldier, who, on battle-plain, Soon may 'st mingle with the slain ; Sailor, on the dark blue sea As thy bark rides gallantly ; Prayer and praise become ye well, Though ye hear no Sabbath bell ! Mother, that with tearful eye Stand'st to watch thy first-bom die, Bending o'er his cradle-bed, Till the last pure breath has fled ; What to thee of hope can tell Like the solemn Sabbath bell ! " Mourner," thus it seems to say ; " Weeping o'er this fragile clay, Lift from earth thy streaming eyes, Seek thy treasure in the skies ; Where the strains of angels swell One eternal Sabbath bell !" MBS. CORNWALL BAROJf WILS03T. THE DANGERS OF A MILITARY SPIRIT. The dangers which our country may apprehend from the encouragement of a military spirit in our people, have been eloquently portrayed. It is un- doubtedly true that a strong disposition of this sort has been manifested and was rapidly rising, in the THE PREMIUM. 273 people of the United States ; and a greater evil could hardly befall us than the consummation of its ascen- dency. There is something so infatuating in the pomp and triumphs of war, that a young and brave people, who have known but little of its destructive miseries, may require to be guarded against falling into the snare, and led to direct their energies to other and better objects. It is worthy of remark that, in the various ways in which the genius and powers of men display themselves, the military course is the only one eminently dangerous to his species. Genius, in eveiy other department, how^ever dazzling and powerful, is never hurtful, and is generally a blessing to the vporld. The stupendous genius of Newton elevated the diignity of man, and brought him nearer to his God ; it gave him a path to walk in the firmament, and knowledge to hold converse with the stars. The erratic comet cannot elude his vigilance ; nor the powerful sun disappoint his calculations. Yet this genius, so mighty in the production of good, was harmless of evil as a child It never inflicted injury or pain on any thing that Uves or feels. Shakspeare prepared an inexhaustible feast of in- struction and delight, for his own age, and the ages to come ; but he brought no tears into the world, but those of fictitious wo, which the other end of his wand was always ready to cure. It is military genius alone, that must be nourished with blood, and can find employment only in inflicting misery and death upon man. hopkixsox. 874 THE phemicm. CEMETERIES AND RITES OF BURIAL IN TURKEY Ix Turkey, the places and rites of sepulture have an affecting prominence and solemnity connected with them, scarcely equalled in Christendom. In general, the dead are interred in veiy spacious ce- meteries, contiguous to towns and villages. There appear to be two cities placed side by side — the city of the Uving, and the city of the dead ; and the popu- lation of the city of the dead far exceeds that of the city of the living. The Jews have covered the face of a very large hill, rising above the city of Smyrna, with the stones which note the place where the earthly remains of their deceased countrjunen are deposited. There is a desolation and forlorn appear- ance presented by this spot, unsheltered as it is by a single tree, which is in striking contrast with the thick shade and beautiful order of the Turkish places of burial. It shows that, even in death, the Jew is not exempt from the contempt and oppression of which he could not divest liimself whilst living. The interment of a corpse according to the ritual of the English church had always, to my mind, a striking solemnity in Turkey. On passing through the streets to the place of burial, innumerable eyes of strangers, of a diversity of nations, gaze fixedly upon the scene. All is still. The pursuits of busi- ness are suspended ; a lucid interval appears to be imparted to the delirium of folly and sin : and, when the mutHed drum, and martial step, which accompa ny to the dust the body of an English sailor, add their interest to the procession, the feelings of spec tators are wrought up to no common pitch of ex citeraent. During the reading of the burial service, more especially at Constantinople, where the Eng- lish burial-ground is in a place exceedingly public, TH£ PBEMIUM. 275 e solemn attention arrests all present, even though to few the language is mtelUgible. Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Jews, and Christians, appear to have forgotten their animosities, and, at the grave of death, to have recollected that a common fate awaits them all. However distinct they may be from each otlier in the enjoyments and attainments of life, and, how- ever they may differ in what is much more momen- tous — the prospects of immortality — still is there an awful uniformity, which unites in one insepara- ble communion the men of all ranks, of jiU ages, and of all religions : — Dust thou art, and unto dust shall thou return. Very frequently, whilst you are silently engaged in your apartment, the stillness of a Turkish town, where no rumbling of wheels is ever heard, is inter- rupted by the distant sound of the funeral chant of the Greek priests. As the voices grow more loud, you hasten to the window to behold the procession. The priests move first, bearing their burning tapers, and, by their dark and flowing robes, give an idea of mourning in harmony with the occasion. The corpse is always exhibited to full view. It is fJaced upon a bier, which is borne aloft upon the shoulders, and is dressed in the best and gayest garments pos- sessed by the deceased. I have sometimes seen a young female, who had departed in the bloom of life and beauty, adorned rather as a bride to meet the bridegroom, than as one who was to be the te- nant of the chamlier of corruption. The young man at Nain, who was restored to life by the command of our Saviour, was doubtless carried on a bier of this kind. When our Lord intimated the design of interposing in lus favour, they that bare him stood still. And" when the miraculous energy was exerted, he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. I 276 THE PREMIUM. believe it is unusual for any of the Orientals to be buried in coffins. The closing part of the Greek burial service, com- mencing vrith the words, " Come and impart the last embrace," is very affecting. The friends of the de- parted press fonvard from every part of the church, and kiss his cold and pallid lips, and weep over him. It is considered a very pecuhar mark of disrespect to neglect tliis last office of affection. HAHTLET. THE MOTHER'S INJUNCTION. ON PRESENTING HER SON WITH A BIBLE. Remembek, love, who gave thee this, When other days shall come : When she, who had thy earliest kiss. Sleeps in her narrow home. Remember 'twas a mother gave The gift to one she'd die to save. That mother sought a pledge of love, The holiest for her son ; And from the gifts of God above, She chose a goodly one. She chose, for her beloved boy, The source of light, and life, and joy. And bade him keep the gift, — that, when The parting hour would come, They might have hope to meet again. In an eternal home. She said his faith in that would be Sweet incense to her memory. And should the scoffer in his pride. Laugh that fond faith to scorn. THE PUEMICM. 277 And bid him cast the pledge aside, That he from youth had borne ; She bade him pause, and ask his breast, If he, or she, had loved him best 1 A parent's blessing on her son Goes with this holy thing ; The love that would retain the one Must to the other cling. Remember ! 'tis no idle toy, A mother's gift — Remember, boy ! KEXJTEDT. HISTORY. The perfect historian is he in whose work the character and spirit of an age is exhibited in minia- ture. He relates no fact, he attributes no expres- sion to his characters which is not authenticated by sufficient testimony. But by judicious selection, rejection, and arrangement, he gives to truth those attractions which have been usurped by fiction. In his narrative a due subordination is observed ; some transactions are prominent, others retire. But the scale on which he represents them, is increased or diminished, not according to the dignity of the per- sons concerned in them, but according to the degree in which they elucidate the condition of society and the nature of man. He shows us the court, the camp, and the senate. But he shows us also the nation. He considers no anecdote, no peculiarity of manner, no famiUar saying, as too insignificant for his notice, which is not too insignificant to illustrate the opera- tions of laws, of religion, and of education, and to mark the progress of the human mind. Men will not merely be described, but will be made intimate- 278 THE pnE3iiC3r. ly known to us. The changes of manners will be indicated, not merely by a few general plirases, or a few extracts from statistical documents, but by ap- propriate images presented in every line. If a man, such as we are supposing, should write the history of England, he would assuredly not omit the battles, the sieges, the negotiations, the seditions, the ministerial changes. But with these he would intersperse the details which are the charm of his- torical romances. At Lincoln Cathedral there is a beautiful painted window, which was made by an apprentice, out of the pieces of glass which had been rejected by his master. It is so far superior to every other in the church, that, according to tradition, the vanquished artist killed himself from mortification. Sir Walter Scott, in the same manner, has used those fragments of truth which historians have scornfully thrown behind them, in a manner which may well excite their envy. He has constructed out of their gleanings, works which, even con- sidered as histories, are scarcely less valuable than theirs. But a truly great historian would reclaim those materials which the novelist has appropriated. The history of the government, and the history of the people, would be exhibited in that mode in which alone they can be exhibited justly, in insepa- rable conjunction and intermixture. We should not then have to look for the wars and votes of the Puritans in Clarendon, and for their phraseology in Old Mortality ; for one half of King James in Hume, and for the other half in the Fortunes of Nigel. The early part of our imaginary history, would be rich with colouring from romance, ballad, and chronicle. We should find ourselves in the com- pany of knights such as those of Froissart, and of TIIK PREMIUM. 279 pilgrims such as those who rode with Chaucer from the Tabard. Society would be shown from the high- est to the lowest, — from the royal cloth of state to the den of the outlaw ; from the throne of the Le- gate, to the chimney-comer where the begging friar regaled himself. Palmers, minstrels, crusaders, — the stately monastery, with the good cheer in its refectory, and the high mass in its chapel, — the ma- nor house, with its hunting and hawking, — the tournament, with the heralds and ladies, the trum- pets and the cloth of gold, — would give truth and life to the representation. We should perceive, in a thousand slight touches, the importance of the privileged burgher, and the fierce and haughty spirit which swelled under the collar of the degraded vil- lain. The revival of letters would not merely be described in a few magnificent periods. V/e should discern, in innumerable particulars, the fermentation of mind, the eager appetite for knowledge, which distinguished the sixteenth from the fifteenth cen- tury. In the reformation we should see, not merely a schism which changed the ecclesiastical constitu- tion of England, and the mutual relations of Euro- pean powers, but a moral war which raged in every family, which set the father against the son, and the son against the father, the mother against the daughter, and the daughter against the mother. Henry would be painted with the skill of Tacitus. We should have the change of his character from his profuse and joyous youth, to his savage and imperious old age. We should perceive the gradual ^progress of selfish and tyrannical passions, in a mind not naturally insensible or ungenerous; and to the last we should detect some remains of that open and noble temper which endeared him to a people whom he oppressed, struggling with the 280 THE PREMIUM. hardness of despotism, and the irritabiUty of disease. We should see Elizabeth in all her weakness, and in all her strength, surrounded by the handsome fa- vourites whom she never trusted, and the wise old statesmen, whom she never dismissed, uniting in herself the most contradictory qualities of both her parents, — the coquetry, the caprice, the petty malice of Anne, — the haughty and resolute spirit of Henry. We have no hesitation in saying, that a great artist might produce a portrait of this remarkable woman, at least as striking as that in the novel of Kenil- worth, without employing a single trait not authen- ticated by ample testimony. In the meantime, we should see arts cultivated, wealth accumulated, the conveniences of life improved. We should see the keeps, where nobles, insecure themselves, spread insecurity around them, graduall}- giving place to the halls of peaceful opulence, to the oriels of Lon- gleat, and the stately pinnacles of Burleigh. We should see towns extended, deserts cultivated, the hamlets of fishermen turned into wealthy havens, the meal of the peasant improved, and his hut more commodiously furnished. We should see those opinions and feeUngs which produced the great struggle against the house of Stuart slowly growing up in the bosom of private families, before they manifested themselves in ParUamentary debates. Then would come the Civil War. Those skirmishes, on which Clarendon dwells so minutely, would be told, as Thucydides would have told them, with perspicuous conciseness. They are merely connect- ing links. But the great characteristics of the age, the loyal enthusiasm of the brave English gentry, the fierce licentiousness of the swearing, dicing, drunken reprobates, whose excesses disgraced the royal cause, — the austerity of the Presbyterian Sab- THE PRE311UM. 281 baths in the city, the extravagance of the indepen- dent preachers in the camp, the precise garb, the severe countenance, the petty scruples, the affected accent, the absurd names and phrases which mark- ed the Puritans, — the valour, the policy, the public spirit, which lurked beneath these ungraceful dis- guises, the dreams of the raving Fifth-monarchy- man, the dreams, scarcely less wild, of the philoso- phic repubUcan, — all these would enter into repre- sentation, and render it at once more exact and more striking. The instruction derived from history thus written, would be of a vivid and practical character. It would be received by the imagination as well as by the reason. It would be not merely traced on the mind, but branded into it. Many truths, too, would be learned, which can be learned in no other man- ner. As the history of states is generally written, the greatest and most momentous revolutions seem to come upon them hke supernatural inflictions, without warning or cause. But the fact is, that such revolutions are almost always the consequence of moral changes, which have gradually passed on the mass of the community, and which ordinarily proceed far, before their progress is indicated by any public measure. An intimate knowledge of the do- mestic history of nations, is therefore absolutely necessary to the prognosis of political events. A narrative, defective in this respect, is as useless as a medical treatise, which should pass by all symptoms attendant on the early stage of a disease, and men- tion only what occurs when the patient is beyond the reach of remedies. edinbukgh review. 282 THB PREMIUM. I SEE TFIEE STILL. " I rocked her in her cradle, And laid her in the tomb. She was the youngest. What fireside circle hath not felt the charm Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne'er grow old. The fond endearments of our earlier days We keep alive in them, and when they die. Our youthful joys we bury with them." I SEE thee still ; Remembrance, faithful to her trust, Calls thee in beauty from the dust ; Thou comest in the morning light, Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night; In dreams I meet thee as of old. Then thy soft arms my neck enfold, And thy sweet voice is in my ear. In every scene to memory dear, I see thee still. I see thee still. In every hallowed token round : This little ring thy finger bound, This lock of hair thy forehead shaded. This silken chain by thee was braided, These flowers, all withered, now, like thee. Sweet Sister, thou didst cull for me ; This book was thine, here thou didst read ; This picture, ah ! yes, here, indeed, I see thee still. I see thee still, Here was thy summer noon's retreat. Here was thy favourite fireside seat ; This was thy chamber, here, each day, I sat and watched thy sad decay, THE PKEMIU.W. 283 Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie, Here, on this pillow — thou didst die ; Dark hour ! once more its woes unfold ; And then I saw thee, pale and cold, I see thee still. I see thee still : Thou art not in thy grave confined. Death cannot chain the immortal mind ; Let earth close o'er its sacred trust, But goodness dies not in the dust ; Thee, O my Sister, 'tis not thee, Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; Thou to a fairer land art gone ; There, let me hope, my journey done, To see thee still. ANOX. BEAUTY AND FORCE OF THE ENGLISH LAN- GUAGE. Among the languages of Modern Europe, specious but subordinate pretensions have been advanced to cadence, terseness, or dexterous ambiguity of insi- nuation ; while the sober majesty of the English tongue stood aloof, and disdained a competition on the ground of such inferior particularities. I even think that we have erred with regard to Greek and Latin. Our sense of the inestimable benefit we have reaped from the treasures of taste and science, which they have handed down to us, had led us into an extravagance of reverence for them. They have high intrinsic merit, without doubt ; but it is a bigot- ed gratitude and an unweighed admiration, which induce us to prostrate the English tongue before theii 284 THE PREMIUM. altar. Every language can furnish to genius, casu- ally, a forcible expression ; and a thousand turns of neatness and delicacy may be found in most of them ; but I will confidently assert, that, in that which should be the first object in all language, j&re- cision, the English tongue surpasses them all ; while in richness of colouring and extent of power, it is exceeded by none, if equalled by any. What sub- ject is there within the boundless range of imagina- tion, which some British author has not clothed in EngUsh phrase, with a nicety of definition, doa. accu- racy of portraiture, a brilliancy of tint, a deUcacy of discrimination, and a force of expression, which must be sterling, because every other nation in Europe, as well as our own, admits their perfection with en- thusiasm. Are the fibres of the heart to be made to tremble with anxiety, — to glow with animation, — to thrill with horror, — to startle with amaze, — to shrink with awe, — to throb with pity, — or to vibrate in sympa- thy with the tone of pictured love ; — know ye not the mighty magicians of our country, whose potent spell has commanded, and continues irresistibly to command, those varied impulses] Was it a puny engine, a feeble art, that achieved such wondrous workings 1 What was the sorcery 1 Justly con- ceived collocation of -words is the whole secret of this witchery ; a charm within the reach of any of you. Possess yourselves of the necessary energies, and be assured you will find the language exube- rant beyond the demand of your intensest thought. How many positions are there which form the basis of ever}' day's reflections, the matter for the ordinary operation of our minds, which were toiled after, per- haps for ages, before they were seized and rendered comprehensible! How many subjects are there THE PREMIUM. 285 which we ourselves have grasped at, as if we saw them floating in an atmosphere just above us, and found the arm of our intellect but just too short to reach them : and then comes a happier genius, who, in a fortunate moment, and from some vantage ground, arrests the meteor in its flight ; and grasping the floating phantom, drags it from the skies to the earth ; condenses that which was but an impalpable coruscation of spirit ; fetters that which was but the lightning glance of thought ; and having so mas- tered it, bestows it as a perpetual possession and heritage to mankind. MARavis of hasti>gs. SHAKSPEARE. Shakspeahe was a man of universal genius ; and from a period soon after his own era to the present day, he has been universally idolized. When I come to his honoured name, I am like the sick man who hung up his crutches at the shrine, and was obUged to confess that he did walk better than be- fore. The only one to whom I can at all compare him, is the wonderful Arabian dervise, who dived into the body of each, and in that way became familiar with the thoughts and secrets of their hearts. He was a man of obscure origin, and as a player, limit- ed in his acquirements. But he was born evidently with a universal genius. His eyes glanced at all the varied aspects of life, and his fancy portrayed with equal talents the king on the throne, and the clown who cracks his chestnuts at a Christmas fire. Whatever note he takes, he strikes it just and true, and awakens a corresponding chord in our own bo- som. SCOTT. 806 THE PHEMIUM. TO IVTELLECTUAL BEAUTV. The awful shadow of some unseen power, Floats, though unseen, among us. — It visits with inconstant glance, Each human heart and countenance ; — Like clouds in starlight widely spread, Like memory of music fled. Like aught that for its grace may be Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. Spirit of beauty, — Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, This dim ^*ast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ? Ask why the sunlight, not forever, Weaves rainbows o'er yon momitain river, Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown, Why fear, and dream, and death, and birth. Cast on the daylight of this earth Such gloom ; why man has such a scope For love and hate, despondency and hope ? IS'o voice from some subluner world has ever To sage or poet tliese responses given; Therefore, the name of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavour ; Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail to sever From all wc hear, and all we see. Doubt, chance, and mutabihty. Thy light alone — Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin. And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing TUE PREMIUM. 287 Hopes of high talk with the departed dead, I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed; I was not heard ; I saw them not ; When musing deeply on the lot Of Ufe, at that sweet time when birds are wooing ; All vital things that wake to bring News of birds and blossoming, Sudden thy shadow fell on me ; I shrieked, and clasped ray hands in ecstasy ! I vowed that I would dedicate my powers To thee and thine ; have I not kept the vow 1 With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours Each from his voiceless grave ; they have in visioned bowers Of studious zeal or love's delight, Outwatch'd with me the envious night ; They know that never joy illumed my brow, Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free This world from its dark slavery. The day becomes more solemn and serene When mom is past ; there is a harmony In autumn, and a lustre in the sky, Which through the summer is not heard nor seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been. Thus let thy power, wliich like the truth Of nature on my passive youth. Descended, to my onward life supply Its calm, to one who worships thee, And every form containing thee, Whom, spirit fair, thy spells did bind To fear himself, and love all human kind. 888 Tat PREMir^f. THE GARDEN OF PLANTS The Garden of Plants dates its origin as far back as 1640, during the reign of Louis XIII. In 1665, it bore the title of Hortus Regius, and exhibited a catalogue of four thousand plants. From that period it made but slow progress, until Louis XV. placed it under the direction of Buflbn, the celebra- ted naturalist, to whose anxious care and indefati- gable exertions, it owes its present extent and mag- nificence. It is now under the immediate patronage of the government, and superintended by twelve professors, each of whom regulates, exclusively, whatever appertains to the department of science which he is selected to teach. This institution comprises, 1st. A botanical garden and numerous hot-houses admirably disposed, and stocked with the most various and abundant collection of plants in the universe. There is scarcely a member of the vegetable tribe belonging to the known parts of the globe, of which it cannot furnish a specimen. 2d. An extensive chemical laboratory. 3d. A cabinet of comparative anatomy, with which nothing of the kind to be found elsewhere can sustain a parallel. 4th. A valuable cabinet of preparations in anatomy and natural history. 5th. A large library, consisting principally of works relating to natural history, and possessing some very curious drawings. 6th. A mu- seum of natural history, confessedly unequalled, in point of variety and distribution. 7th. A menage- rie, well stocked, which has this peculiarity, that the animals, &c., are distributed in various parts of the garden, in appropriate inclosures and habitations which, being embellished with great taste and judg- ment, produce a very striking and fanciful effect. The edifices in which the cabinets are deposited. THE PKEMIUM. Xb^ and the professors lodged, arc convenient and spa- cious. A beautiful little structure, entitled the am- phitheatre, is appropriated to the delivery of the lec- tures. During the summer season, public and gratuitous courses of lectures are given, in mineralogy, geo- logy, chemistry, botany, ornithology, osteology, ico- nography, simple and comparative anatomy, &c. Among the professors at the period of my visit, were, Hauy, Jussieu, Fourcroy, Cuvier, Lacepede, and Portal, names of the highest eminence in science. The museum, library, &c., are open every day to students, and tw^ice a week to casual visiters. The latter, however, must be supplied with tickets of ad- mission, by the annual director, from whom they are obtained without difficulty. This precaution answers a necessary purpose of discrimination. The garden itself is open to all persons, without distinction. The remoteness of its situation, aloof from the bustle and throng of the capital, serves to protect it from the incursion of the rabble, and of the world of fashion. Its walks are, therefore, fre- quented chiefly by those who are prompted, either by the impulse of curiosity, or the love of know- ledge. In good weather, the professors of botany give their peripatetic lessons to a numerous train of disciples, without fear of molestation or interruption from idle loiterers, and oftentimes with no other au- ditors or spectators, than the former. The most habitual loungers in the Garden of Plants, as well as in that of Luxemberg, are decayed emigrants, and other persons impoverished by the revolution, who find a cheap lodging in the suburbs, and dedi- cate most of their time to solitary exercise or medi- tation, in these retreats. This institution unites all that the imagination of T 290 THE PREMIUM. a pastoral poet, or the curiosity of a naturalist could demand. It combines whatever can solace the sense, or amuse the fancy, or gratify a scientific inquirer. With regard to the animal and vegetable king- doms, it is a kind of microcosm. The vegetation of every clime, including the loftiest as well as the most beautiful and odoriferous, is offered to the in- spection of the studious and inquisitive, and spread over a vast surface, embellished by all that art can furnish to nature, or taste yield to art. The trees and plants of exotic growth, their variegated ver- dure, the magnificent avenues, the thick groves and silent arbours, the diversified and fanciful scenery produced by the mounds and inclosurcs, remind you of the island which Johnson allots to Seged, and which he describes as cultivated only for pleasure — as "planted with every flower that spreads its co- lours to the sun, and every shrub that sheds fragrance in the air." In one part of the botanical garden, there is an eminence which you ascend by a spiral path, and from the summit of which, you contem- plate one of the most noble prospects that I have ever beheld. PVom the pavilion on the top, you survey at your leisure, the architectural monuments of the capital, the Seine in some part of its course, the irregular hills of the vicinity covered with ver- dure, the cultivated meadows which spread them- ^ selves along the banks of the river ; and immediately below, the garden itself, in all its variety of hues and ymmetry of arrangement. When I have been seated at noon, on a fine day, in the month of August, or in the commencement of May, under one of the majestic ash of the garden of plants, with this Elysian scene before me, in the midst of a most profound silence, and of a solitude uiterrupted only by the occasional appearance of the THE PUKMIUM. 291 professor of botany and his pupils, I have almost fancied myself among the groves of the Athenian academy, and could imagine that I heard the lessons of the " divine" Plato. Here, as well as in the spa- cious and noble walks and gardens of Oxford, Avhicli are so admirably calculated for the exercise both of the mind and body, the fancy takes wing, and rea- dily transports the student of antiquity, to those venerable seats of knowledge, where the sublime philosophy of the Greeks was taught, and " the masters of human reason" displayed their incompa- rable eloquence : — " The ^rpcn retreats Of Acaclpmu?, and the tliymy vale. Where oft enclmnted with Socratic sounds, Dyssiis pure devolved his tuneful stream In gentle niurniurs." I could, with my fancy roused by the prospect be* fore me, and heated by the recollection of the glory and the benetit which the human race has derived from the school of Athens, anticipate the day, when similar institutions would flourish in our own coun- try, and, like them, " pour forth a colony" of pro- found statesmen, legislators, and philosophers, who might shed a permanent radiance over the American name, and open new sources of instruction and happiness, not only to us, but to all mankind. I reflected upon the aptitude of a popular state for the most noble pursuits of active and speculative life : upon the elective aflTection, which the studies of philosophy and eloquence may be said to entertain for a political system that encourages an unlimited freedom of inquiry into eveiy branch of human knowledge ; which asserts the exclusive dominion of just and etjual laws ; which lays open the offices of public trust and honour to all clasbcs of citizens ; 2D2 THE PnEMIUM. under which the oratorical art is a powerful engine both of patriotism and ambition, and the spirit of enterprise the main spring of efforts and improve- ments, that know no bounds but those which Provi- dence has assigned to the human faculties eitlier of moral happiness or of intellectual perfection. I re- flected upon the height to which we are already raised by the labours and discoveries of the nations of the other hemisphere ; upon the singular and pe- culiar fitness of our federative system for the excite- ment of that generous and stimulating emulation, which conduces so efficaciously to the complete de- velopement and culture of the human powers. I called to mind what Gibbon has said of the states of Greece, the remembrance of whose institutions had awakened the glowing expectations in which my imagination rioted, and was prompted to con- gratulate myself, not only on the striking resem- blance between our position and the picture he draws, but on the obvious advantage we enjoy in the comparison. *' The cities of ancient Greece," says the historian, " were cast in the happy mixture of union and independence, which is repeated on a larger scale, but in a looser form, by the nations of modern Europe ; the union of language, rehgion, and manne^-s, which renders them the spectators and judges of each other's merit ; the independence of government and interest, which asserts their sepa- rate freedom, and excites them to strive for pre-emi- nence in the career of glory." walsh. THE PREMIUM. 293 CHARACTER OF SOPHOCLES. The birth-year of Sophocles, was nearly at an equal distance between that of his predecessor and of Euripides, so that he was about half a hfetime from each : in this all the accounts are found to co- incide. He was, however, during the greatest part of his life the contemporary of both. He frequently contended for the tragic garland with ^'Eschylus, and he outlived Euripides, who himself attained a good age. If I may speak in the spirit of the ancient religion, it seems that a beneficent Providence wished. to evince to the human race, in the instance of this individual, the dignity and fehcity of their lot, as he was endowed with every divine gift, with all that can adorn and elevate the mind and the heart, and crowned with every blessing imaginable in this life. Descended from rich and honoured parents, and born a free citizen of the most cultivated state of Greece, such were the advantages with which he entered the world. Beauty of body and of soul, and the uninterrupted enjoyment of both in the ut- most perfection, till the extreme limits of human existence ; an education the most extensive, yet select, in gymnastics and music, the former so im- portant in the developement of the bodily powers, and the latter in the communication of harmony ; the sweet blossom of youth, and the ripe fruit of age ; the possession and continued enjoyment of poetry and art, and the exercise of serene wisdom ; love and respect among his fellow-citizens, fame in other countries, and the countenance and favour of the gods : these are the general features of the life of this pious and virtuous poet. It would seem as if the gods, in return for his dedicating himself at an early age to Bacchus, as the giver of all joy, and 294 THE PTinMirx. the author of the cultivation of the hujuan race, bv the representation of tragical dramasfor his festivals, had wished to confer immortality on him, so long did tlaey delay the hour of his death ; but as this was impossible, they extinguished his life at least as gently a^ possible, that he might imperceptibly change one immortality for another, the long du.a- ration of his earthly existence for an imperishable name. Wlien a youth of sixteen, he was selected, on account of his beauty, to play on the lyre, and to dance in the Greek, manner before the chorus of youths who. afier the battle of Salamis in which .Eschylus fought, and v.hich he has so nobly de- scribed) executed the Paean round the trophy erected on that occasion ; so that the fairest developement of his youtlifal beauty coincided with the moment when the Athenian people had attained the epoch of their highest glory. He held the rank of gene- ral along with Pericles and Thucydides, and, when arrived at a more advanced age, the priesthood of a native hero. In his twenty-titth year he beg-an to represent tragedies ; twenty times he was victorious ; he often gained the second place, and he never was ranked in the third. In his career he proceeded with increasing success till he exceeded his ninetieth year ; and some of his greatest works were even the fruit of a still later period. There is a story of an accusation brought against him by one or more of his elder sons, of having become childish from age, because he was too fond of a grandchild by. a second wife, and of being no longer in a condition to ma- nage his own affairs. In his defence he merely read to his judges hisCEdipus in Colonos, which he had then composed in honour of Colonos. his birth-place, and the astonished judges, without farther consultii- tion, conducted him m triumph to liis house. If it be THE phemium. 295 true that the second (Edipus was written at so late an age, as from its mature serenity and total freedom from the impetuosity and violence of youth we have good reason to conclude that it actually was, it af- fords us at once a pleasing picture of the delight and reverence which attended his concluding years. Al- though the various accounts of his death appear fa- bulous, they all coincide in this, that he departed without a struggle, while employed in his art, or something connected with it, and that, like an old swan of Apollo, he breathed out his life in song. I consider also, the story of the Lacedemonian gene- ral who had fortified the burying-ground of his fa- thers, and who, twice exhorted by Bacchus in a vision to allow Sophocles to be there interred, des- patched a herald to the Athenians on the subject, with a numberof other circumstances, as the strong- est possible proof of the established reverence in which his name was .held. In caUing him virtuous and pious, I spoke in the true sense of the words ; for although his works breathe the real character of ancient grandeur, sweetness, and simplicity, of all the Grecian poets he is also the individual whose feelings bear the strongest affinity to the spirit of our religion. schlegel. MODERN GREECE. He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before decay's effacing fingers Have swept tiie liiie where beauty lingers,) 296 THE PREMIUM. And marked the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that 's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, And but for that chill changeless brow, Where cold obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it would impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed ! Such is the aspect of this shore ; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Her's is the loveUness in death. That parts not quite with parting breath But beauty with that fearful bloom. That line which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of feeling past away ! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth ! btron. REMARKS ON SHAKSPEARE. To me Shakspeare appears a profound artist, and not a blind and wildly luxuriant genius. I consider, THE PREMIUM. 297 generally speaking, all that has been said on this subject as a mere fabulous story, a blind and ex- travagant error. In other arts the assertion refutes itself; for in them acquired knowledge is an indis- pensable condition before any thing can be perform- ed. But even in such poets, as are usually given out for careless pupils of nature, without any art or school discipline, I have always found, on a near- er consideration, when they have really produced works of excellence, a distinguished cultivation of tire mental powers, practice in art, and views wor- thy in themselves and maturely considered. This applies to Homer as well as Dante. The activity of genius is, it is true, natural to it, and in a ceitain sense unconscious ; and consequently the person who possesses it is not always at the moment able to render an account of the course which he may have pursued ; but it by no means follows that the thinking power had not a great share in it. It is from the very rapidity and certainty of the mental [)rocess, from the utmost clearness of understanding, that thinking in a poet is not perceived as some- thing abstracted, does not wear the appearance of meditation (after thought). That idea of poetical inspiration, which many lyrical poets have brought into circulation, as if they were not in their senses, and hke Pythia, when possessed by the diviuity, delivered oracles unintelligible to themselves (a mere lyrical invention), is least of all applicable to dramatic composition, one of the productions of the human mind which requires the greatest exercise of thought. It is admitted that Shakspcare has re- llectcd, and deeply reflected, on character and pas- sion, on the progress of events and human destinies, on the human constitution, on all the things and relations of the world ; this is an admission which 298 THE P7iE:^riu>r. must be maJe, for one alone of thousands of his maxims would be a sufficient refutation of whoever should attempt to deny it. So that it was only then respecting the structure of his own pieces that he had no thought to spare 1 This he left to the do- minion of chance, which blew together the atoms of Epicurus ] But supposing that he had, without the higher ambition of acquiring the approbation of judicious critics and posterity, without the love of art which aims at self-satisfaction in a perfect work, merely laboured to please the unlettered crowd; this very object alone and the theatrical effect, would have led him to bestow attention to the conduct of his pieces. For does not the impression of a drama depend in an especial manner on the relation of the parts to each other ? And however beautiful a scene may be in itself, will it not be at once reprobated by spectators merely possessed of plain sense who give themselves up to nature, whenever it is at variance with what they are led to expect at that particular place, and destroys the interest which they have al- ready begun to take 1 The comic intermixtures may he considered as a sort of interlude, for the purpose of refreshing the spectators after the straining of their minds in following the more serious parts, if no better purpose can be found for them ; but in the jjro* gress of the main action, in the concatenation of the events, the poet must, if possible, display even more superiority of understanding than in the composi- tion of individual character and situations, otherwise he would be like the conductor of a puppet-show who has confused the wire, so that the puppets, from their mechanism, undergo quite different move- ments from those which he actually intended. The English critics are unanimous in their praise of the truth and uniform consistency of his charac- THE PREMIUM. 299 tors, of his heart-rending pathos, and his comic wit- Moreover, they extol the beauty and subhraity of his separate descriptions, images, and expressions. This last is the most superficial and cheap mode of criticising works of art. Johnson compares him^ who should endeavour to recommend this poet by passages unconnectcdly torn from his works, to the pedant in Hierocles, who exhibited a brick as a sam- ple of his house. And yet he himself speaks so little, and so very unsatisfactorily, of the pieces con- sidered as a whole ! Let any man, for instance, bring together the short characters which he gives at the close of each play, and see if the aggregate will amount to that sum of admiration which he himself, at his outset, has stated as the correct standard for the appreciation of the poet. It was, generally speaking, the prevaiHng tendency of the time which preceded our own; a tendency disfjlayed also in physical science, to consider wdiat is possessed of life as a mere accumulation of dead parts, to separate what exists only in connexion and cannot otherwise be conceived, instead of penetrating to the central point and viewing all the parts as so many irradia- tions from it. Hence nothing is so rare as a critic who can elevate iiimself to the contemplation of an extensive work of art. Shakspeare's com.positions, from the very depth of purpose displayed in them, have been exposed to the misfortune of being mis- understood. Besides, this prosaical species of criti- cism applies always the poetical form to the details of execution ; but in so far as the plan of the piece is concerned, it never looks for more than the logi» cal connexion of causes and effects, or some partial and trivial moral by way of application; and all that cannot be reconciled to this is declared a super- fluous, or even a detrimental, addition. On these 300 THE FBEMIUM. principles we must in like manner strike out most of the cliHjral songs of the Greek tragedies, which also contribute nothing to the developement of the action, but are merely an harmonious echo of the impres- sions aimed at by the poet. In this they altogether mistake the rights of poetry and the nature of the romantic drama, wliich, for the very reason that it Ls and ought to be picturesque, requires richer accom- paniments and contrasts for its main groups. In all art and poetry, but more especially in the romantic, the fancy lays claims to be considered as an inde- pendent mental power governed according to its own laws. Shakspeare's knowledge of mankind has become proverbial ; in this his superiority is so great, that he has justly been called the master of the human heart. A readiness in remarking even the nicer involuntary demonstrations of the mind, and ex- pressing with certainty and meaning these signs acquired from experience and reflection, constitutes the observer of men; acuteness in drawing stUl farther conclusions from them, and in arranging the separate observations according to grounds of probability in a connected manner, may be said to be knowing men. The distinguishing property of the dramatic poet who is great in characteriza- tion is something altogether different from this, which either, take it which way we will, includes in it this readiness, and this acuteness, or dispenses with both. It is the capabiht}' of transporting him- self so completely into every situation, even the most unusual, that he is enabled, as plenipotentiary of the whole human race, without particular instruc- tions for each separate case, to act and speak in the name of every individual. It is the power of endow- ing the creatures of his imagination with such self- THE PREHirM:. 301 existent energy, that they afterwards act in each conjuncture according to general laws of nature : the poet, in his dreams, institutes as it were experi- ments which are received with as much authority as if they had been made on real objects. The in- conceivable in this, and what never can be learned, is, that the characters appear neither to do nor to say any thing on account of the spectator : and yet that the poet, by means of the exhibition itself with- out any subsidiary explanation, communicates the gift of looking into the inmost recesses of their minds. Hence Goethe has ingeniously compared Shakspeare's characters to watches with chrystalline plates and cases, which, while they point out the hours as correctly as other watches, enable us at the same time to perceive the inv/ard springs whereby all this is accomplished. Nothing, however, is more foreign to Shakspeare, than a certain dissecting mode of composition, which laboriously enumerates to us all the motives by which a man is determined to act in this or that particular manner. This way of accounting for mo- tives, the rage of many of the modem historians, might be carried at length to an extent which would abohsh every thing like individuality, and resolve all character into nothing but the effect of foreign or external mfluences, while we know that it frequently announces itself in the most decided manner in the earliest infancy. After all, a man acts so because he is so. And how each man is constituted, Shak- speare reveals to us in the most immediate manner : he demands and obtEiins our belief, even for what is singular, anvl deviates from the ordinary course of nature. Never perhaps was there so comprehensive a talent for characterization as Shakspeare. It not only grasps the diversities of rank, sex, and age, 302 THE PREMIUM. down to the dawning of infancy ; not only do the Idng and the beggar, the hero and the pickpocket, the sage and the idiot, speak and act with equal truth ; not only does he transport himself to distant ages and foreign nations, and pourtray in the most accurate manner, with only a few apparent viola- tions of costume, the spirit of the ancient Romans, of the French in their wars with the English, of the English themselves during a great part of their his- tory, of the Southern Europeans (in the serious part of many comedies), the cultivated society of tliat time, and the former rude and barbarous state of the North ; his human characters have not only such depth and precision that they cannot be ar- ranged under classes, and are inexhaustible even in conception: no, this Prometheus not merely forms men, he opens the gates of the magical world of spirits, calls up the midnight ghosts, exhibits before us his witches amidst their unhallowed mysteries, peoples the air with sportive fairies and sylphs : and the>e beings existing only in imagination possess such truth and consistency, that even when deform- ed monsters Uke Cahban, he extorts the assenting conviction, that if there should be such beings they would so conduct themselves. In a word, as he carries with him the most fruitful and daring fancy into the kingdom of nature, on the other hand, he carries nature into the regions of fancy, lying be- yond the confines of reahty. We are lost in asto- nishment at seeing the extraordinary, the wonderful, and the uiiheard of, in such intimate nearness. SCHL£S£L. THE PREMIUM. 303 THE SABBATH. How stiU the morning of the hallowed day ! Mute is the voice of rural lal^our, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. Tlie scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester mom bloomed waving in the breeze The faintest sounds attract the ear, — the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. Calmness seems thron'd on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland lea-s. The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale, And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heav'n-tun'd song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen ; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'er mounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods : The dizzing mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din Has ceas'd ; all, all around is quietness, Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe ; — the toil-worn horse set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large. And, as his stiff unwielded bulk he rolls, \ His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray But, chiefly, Man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbatu! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days, the man of toil is doom'd To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground Both seat and board, — screen'd from the winter's cold, 304 THE JIlEMirX. And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosom'd in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God, — not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe 1'he morning air, pure from the city's smoke, As wandering slowly up the rivers bank. He meditates on Him whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around the roots ; and while he thus siuveys With elevated joy each rural charm, He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,) That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. But now his steps a welcome sound recalls : Solemn, the knell from yonder ancient pile Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe ; The throng moves slowly o'er the tomb-pav'd ground : The aged man, the bowed down, the blind, ] jcd by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well- pleas'd ; These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach The house of God : these, spite of all their ills, A glow of gladness prove: with silent praise They enter in : a placid stillness reigns ; Until the man of God, worthy the name, Opens the book, and, with impressive voice, The weekly portion reads. ghauame. THE PREMIUM. 305 YOUTH AND AGE. Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding like a bee — Both were mine ! Life went a maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young ! When I was young ! ah, woeful when ! Ah for the change 'twixt now and then ! This breathing house not built with hands, This body, that does me grievous wrong, O'er air}'' cliffs and glittering sands How hghtly then it flashed along ! Like those trim skitls, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide ; That ask no aid of sail or oar. That fear no spite of wind or tide ! Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When youth and I lived in 't together ! Flowers are lovely, Love is flower-like. Friendship is a sheltering tree, — O the joys, that came dov/n shower-like. Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old ! Ere I was old ! ah mournful ere, Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here ! Youth ! for years so many and sweet 'Tis known that thou and I Vfcxe one, I'll think it but a fond conceit ; It cannot be that thou art gone ! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled ; And thou wert aye, a masker bold — What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe that thou art gone ] 1 see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size ; U 306 THE PREMIUM. But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! Life is but Thought ! so think I will, That Youth and I are house-mates still ! S. T. COLERIDGE. MARCO BOZZARIS. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour, When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; In dreams, his song of triumph heard ; Then wore his monarch's signet ring ; Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king ; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Plataea's day ; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires, who conquered there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on — the Turk awoke — That bright dream was his last ; He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, *' To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !'* THE piie:miu:ji. 307 He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, And death-shots faUing thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band : " Strike ! till the last armed foe expires ; Strike ! for your altars and your fires : Strike ! for the green graves of your sires; God — and your native land !" They fought, like brave men, long and well ; They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose. Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! Come to the mother when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath ; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in consumption's ghastly form. The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine — And thou art terrible : the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. 308 THE PREMLIUM But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds Uke a prophet's word ; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Bozzaris, with the storied brave, Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee — there is no prouder grave Even in her ovm proud clime. We tell thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's — One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. halleck. BATTLE OF WATERLOO. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivah-y, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; But hush ! hark ! — a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it 1 — No ; 'twas but the wind. Or the car rattling o'er the stony street : On with the dance ! let joy be unconfin'd ; No sleep till mom, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet — But, hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more. As if the clouds its echo would repeat. And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! ^irm ! arm ! it is — it is — the canno7i'& opening roar ! THE PREMIUuM. 309 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and trembhngs of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their o\\ti loveliness : And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs "Which ne'er might be repeated — who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 8ince upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ] And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war, And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar ; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips — " 'I'he foe ! They come! they come !" And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unretumLng brave, — alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass. Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe. And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty Ufe, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay. The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The mom, the marshalhng in arms, — the day. Battle's magnificently stern array ! 310 THE PRKMICJr. The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent. The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! byhon. B 000 003 193