through. I passed swiftly onward among the Ah! I can never forget my holy and humble trees, and soon entered a little verdant plain, partly Gertrude. I had long ceased to pray for myself, overshadowed by lofty trees. The moonshine then but when I beheld my young and timid wife alone made the spot almost as light as it was during the in a strange land with a husband who was too vile day. A considerable part of this little plain was to be allowed even a corner of this fallen world; fully revealed, and I saw that the herbage beneath when I beheld her perfect and confiding faith in my feet had been crushed down, apparently by the me, I shuddered at her danger-I prayed for her, weight of some burden which had been dragged though I did not then dare to pray for myself. with difficulty over it. Years seemed to fly back, have lain prostrate on the ground in prayer for her, and to restore a time which it tortured my soul to heart-broken and speechless, for I seldom presumed remember. I stopped again, and would have turned to address with words the Being whom I had forback, when the shrieks, which had ceased for a lit-saken. I could not weep for myself, but for her tle while, burst out again close to me; and amid ny eyes would become rivers of tears Her calm them I could distinguish the sound of my own name. unsuspecting affection, the mild humility, the simple I turned-ah! how can I describe the scene! A truth of her character, the heart that was so evident tall man stood before me-he looked round on me in all her conduct, endeared her to me-I had never with a horrid glance, as if furious at the interrup- met with such a person before--yet from the motion of my presence-I saw my own face-I saw ment that I called her mine, one thought had been my own arm raised, a hunting-knife was clasped in present with me-that I should lose her. Graduthe hand, reeking and dripping ith blood-a young ally, every power within me had been drawn over girl was struggling at the knees of the phantom, to this thought, and hung riveted upon it. The clinging to him with frantic gestures, and gasping nourishment of every hope I cherished was drawn and shrieking by turns, as she strove to restrain or from the presence of my wife with me For a tine to avoid the forceful gashes of the gory knife.-II almost forgot the phantom. Had he appeared, I sprang forward-I flung myself upon the murder- sometimes thought I should have scarcely needed ing fiend-with all the strength of my powerful him. The dreaded time drew nigh: my wife was limbs I tore him from his victim-I wrenched the about to become a mother. I seldom quitted her knife from his hand-but I-I myself was in his side, and if I saw her cheek change colour, if I place--Christina was really struggling with me.-I perceived a slight expression of pain on her lip, 1 felt the knife in my own hand, I felt her soft hands was wretched. How often would she take my striving with me; and her wild frantic shrieks were fevered hands in her own, and look up in my face only less appalling than the laugh of the fiend, with her calm sweet smiles, and tell me not to fear which I heard behind me. All this lasted but a for her! Her look, her words, were but another few moments-I had fled away--But ere I had left pang for me. I could only see in her a victim, a the plain, the shrieks had stopped me again-What fair innocent lamb about to be sacrificed. On the could I do but turn back? The same bloody slaugh- evening before the birth of my child, I was, as ter met my sight: I rushed forward again, and again usual, in the apartment of my wife. She had never found myself in the place of the fiend, with Christina appeared to me so cheerful, so healthful, so entirely dying beneath my hands. I tried to escape again, but a creature of hope. I could not help frequently I strove in vain. I was forced, by some irresistible gazing on her, and saying to myself, It is impospower, to stand close to the murderer, who once sible that she can be suddenly taken from me. It turned round, looked full on me, and said very will need months to break up, to disunite all that calmly, We are one.' I was forced to see myself intermingled life of mind and body.'-My Gertrude commit over again the horrid murder which I had seemed on that evening to open all her heart to me in fact perpetrated seven years before, at that very With modest and confiding tenderness, she spoke spot, on a wretched girl, whose fidelity to my illicit of her plans for her child. She told me how she passion I had suspected. I would not willingly longed to go with her husband and his child, to dwell on such disgustingly dreadful details, but I her own green, happy England. She spoke of the will conceal nothing from you.--All that in the days of her childhood. All her conversation seemed blind, mad fury of my rage, I had before scarcely to breathe of hope, till suddenly observing my grave perceived, all that I remembered not till I beheld it countenance, she stopped, and the tears rose into repeated, every look, every gesture of my fury did her eyes. She wept very quietly for a few minutes, 1 behold acted over again by that form which was and then said in a softer and sweeter voice, without indeed mine-but I saw it all in cool blood-I stood raising up her meek head, 'Do not think, dearest, almost as a calm spectator beside Christina and her that I have forgotten the blight which may fall upon murderer. I saw her white rounded shoulders all my earthly hopes. I do not think a day has passed gashed with wounds--I saw one of her small hands since I first looked forward to the time which is split, literally split up from the fingers to the slender now so near, no, not a single day in which I have wrist, as she struggled to keep back the knife--I not prayed fervently to be prepared for a sudden saw her flashing eyes shrink and close beneath the call to another world. I think my prayers have smoking blade; and the dark gore bubble out over been heard, for I only prayed that God's will might her bosom; and her long hair cling dabbled together be done with me, and I prayed in His name by in the pool of blood. I saw-No, no-I can write whom alone we can come into the presence of Our no more of it--And all the while the eye of Him Father. Nay, my own husband, you must not be who died upon the cross to save my soul, was fixed thus agitated! Indeed. I am never less melancholy upon me--O! as I write I can scarcely believe that than when I speak of my religion, my hope, my I have been what I was! O my friend, if your feel- peace I should call it. All my cheerfulness flows ings are now frozen with horror, if my own soul is from that one purest source.—I am rather wearied now stupified within me at the recollection of my now,' she added, and would sleep a little while in infernal guilt, what must that forgiving Saviour your arms; but first,' she said solemn.y, dear have felt, who is of purer eyes than to behold Lorenzo, do kneel down beside me, as I cannot now iniquity! O branded and miserable Cain, my fel-kneel myself, and offer up a short prayer for me. I lowship is with thee! shall be calmer and happier, as I hear your voice,' I could not reply to this entreaty. I was silent, and my wife said timidly, I fear my request has displeased you, but I thought you would forgive it. I have never breathed the wish till now.' I felt my heart melt with tenderness and shame, as I silently pressed my cheek to that of my gentle Gertrude, and then knelt down close beside her. Had I been alone, I think I could have prayed without difficulty for her; but I now was as one deprived of speech, I could only cover my face with my hands and weep like an infant. Nay, my beloved Lorenzo,' exclaimed my sweet wife, and stooping down, she kissed my forehead, I was wrong to distress you thus. Rise up: your tears will ascend to heaven When my wife opened her eyes, she beheld me still sitting near the open lattice, with the volume of Ariosto in my hand; but dark clouds had gathered over the moon, and my features were not visible. I believe that my gentle wife never discovered the cause of my wretchedness Her health was so extremely delicate, that the bare idea of her being acquainted with the state of my heart was anguish to me. Had she known that the stem round which she had entwined so closely, to which she clung with every fibre of her devoted affection; had she known how deadly, how cankered that stem was, surely she would have withered there at once! for me: they have a better eloquence with God than the best words. Oh! my Heavenly Father,' -as she spake she raised her soft eyes towards heaven, What a happy wife I am!' I rose up, humbled in my soul, humbled to the dust, feeling the deep bitterness of my own heart, my face all crimsoned with shame. I felt then ashamed of even the height of my figure. I felt that my head was too near the throne of Him whom I had insulted and despised. I heard something move behind me in the dead silence-I looked round-The fresh evening breeze had merely overset a crystal vase too full of flowers. Again I started, for I thought I could distinguish the phantom approaching from the farther end of the chamber-I gazed steadily--I had merely seen my own shadow on the wall. My wife slept for some hours very calmly; but before she awoke, I observed her whole countenance change, and at last she started from her sleep, and cried out with the pangs which had already overtaken her. I called hastily to some of her attendants who were in the antechamber; and resigning my place to her nurse, I stole softly from her room. Hour after hour passed away, and I was at times obliged almost to rush from the antechamber, to conceal from my wife the bursts of passionate grief which overwhelmed me. At last I heard them move about quickly in the chamber: I distinguished low and shivering groans; once I heard the voice of my wife: Oh, do not think of me,' she cried faintly, 'save my child!' Think only of your lady-of saving my wife! I called out with a low but firm voice. At that moment a piercing shriek thrilled through my whole frame: I heard onlyShe is safe,' and rushed wild with joy from the room. I soon returned again, I stole on tiptoe into my wife's chamber, she seemed asleep, her face was turned towards me. The nurse looked at me, and raised her hands, as if to say, 'There is now no hope.' I gazed again on the pallid and exhausted sleeper; once or twice she attempted to open her eyes, but she was too feeble. I whispered who was near her, and something like a smile faintly flickered over her features, and disturbed their fixed repose. I whispered to her again. I laid my face close to the pillow. On my knees I remained I know not how long, watching for a stirring of life upon her face. Sometimes I thought I could perceive a light breathing between her lips, a twinkling in the lustre of her half-closed eyes. At last I touched her lips with mine, they were cold and stiff. My child had lived only a few minutes. Many days had passed over me before I awoke from this last affliction; awoke in soul, I should say, for to all appearance I suffered little. I gave orders for the funeral of my wife and child with a calmness that astonished those about me; I followed their lifeless bodies to the grave; I gave directions to an artist of great celebrity for their monument. I sketched the figures which I determined should be placed over the tomb; my wife in almost the same simple attitude as when I first beheld her sitting in the portico of my palace, except that her little infant was lying in her arms. I paid an inmense price to the artist on the condition that the monument should be erected in a few weeks. I saw the tomb finished, and placed above the bodies just as I had directed, with the few words, Thy will be done,' graven deeply into the cold hard marble, and I was satisfied. I then determined to leave Italy. I gave a general order that my palace in Naples and all my other property should be sold. I had locked up the chamber of my wife as soon as they had removed her beloved corpse; and having arranged every thing for my departure, I resolved to spend my last evening in that apartment; I or dered that every visiter should be refused admittance to me, and I then entered that dear chamber: the very air within it seemed still to breathe of her presence, it seemed yet fragrant with that delicate purity which had been as peculiar to her person as to her mind. The loose dress of white muslin, which she had last worn, lay as when it had been carelessly thrown off, on a low sofa. I remembered that she had been sitting on that same sofa the evening before her death: that she had risen from it as I appeared. I sat down there and wept, for the first time since I had lost her. My tears seemed to freshen the feelings of my grief; every little circumstance which had been half-obscured, halfforgotten, in the late dull and stupified state of my mind, now came forth in vivid colouring. I continued to weep, and to press the light dress which my Gertrude had last worn, to stop my ears. While sitting there, I discovered a small volume lying beneath one of the cushions of the sofa, and I recollected that I had often seen it in the hands of my wife. The book was lying open, as if it had been just laid down. I was struck by the peculiar richness of the binding: the sides and back were covered with green velvet, thickly bossed with pearls and rubies, and its clasps, of pale virgin gold, were also studded with valuable gems. I expected to find some rare and richly ornamented manuscript, some painted missal: I was disappointed, for the volume was a small plainly printed English Bible. I hastily turned over the leaves: on the title page my wife had written with an unsteady hand these wordsMy last prayer will be that my husband may regard this book as his best treasure-it has been ever mine. From the grave, from another world, As to this recent publication, we do not think it will increase the fame of Campbell; neither do we think it will shake his well established reputation. It comes too late to effect this; but had it appeared immediately after "The Pleasures of Hope," it would have needed something better than "Gertrude of Wyoming," highly polished as that is, to have placed him on his former level in public estimation. been opened. No man can now elevate | great men found it expedient to vary from himself by the most elaborate imitations, their predecessors. Indeed we do not reco!and Mr Campbell unhappily belongs to the lect a single great poet who has not a verclass of imitators. We do not know but sification peculiarly his own. Byron, in we may shock the prejudices of some of our his dedication of the "Corsair," talks about readers by this assertion, nor do we mean his having attempted "the good, old, and now to make it without some qualification. His neglected heroic couplet;" but the couplyric poetry is his own, pure and unming- lets of the "Corsair" are no more like the led, and noble; but his longer works-those couplets of Dryden, or of Pope, or of Goldto which his odes are but appendages-all smith, than they are like the couplets of discover mannerism and imitation strongly Chaucer, or than the blank verse of Thommarked. This will not do now, and cannot son is like the blank verse of Milton or do hereafter. The master poets of the age Young. It is curious to see that in the have broken down the barriers of preju- lyric poetry of Campbell,-that part of his dice; they have moulded anew the public works on which his fame must ultimately taste, and stamped it with an original im- rest,-he has invented new measures of press. No revival of an obsolete school of verse. poetry, no direct imitation of a new one, can now win the applause of the public, though it may exact the approval of critics. I beseech him to search this message of God him- Campbell was happy in the time at which self. O let him not dispute over this sacred volume, "The Pleasures of Hope" was published; but pray in a childlike and teachable spirit for the a few years later, and it would been praisknowledge of himself, of the truth, of eternal happied by critics and neglected by readers, if ness! For your sake, my blessed love,' I exclaimed fervently, I will read this little volume! It shall indeed his good sense would not then have lie next to my heart, which your image shall never entirely suppressed it. Brown's "Paradise leave.' At that moment the phantom stood before of Coquettes" and "Bower of Spring" me, and the book dropped from my hand. were praised in the Edinburgh Review; All about me seemed to undergo a gradual change, but we may retort on the critics their own and the presence of the phantom is no longer dreadful to me. He still appeareth often, but not to ter-words, "Who reads them?" They slumber rify, not to wither my heart within me. I have with Hayley's "Triumphs of Temper." learned to bless his appearance, for he now cometh Truly the Scottish critics have been very rather as a friendly monitor. In the hour of danger, unhappy in their remarks on poetry, in the of temptation, of trial, I see his look of agonized subjects which they have selected either entreaty, I hear his solemn voice of warning, deploring my past guilt, and pointing to those mercies for praise or blame. They seemed to have which have blotted out the sentence of condemna- put down Wordsworth for a time; they tion pronounced against all sinners. His form I ridiculed Byron and Coleridge; they becan still recognise, but it seemeth like one that is stowed mingled praise and censure on transfigured, and the garments that he wears are Southey;-look at the result! Those pas white and glistening. sages of Southey which they condemned are admired, and the judges are condemned for those which they absolved. Coleridge is now confessedly a singularly wild and beautiful” poet, the most original perhaps that ever wrote.* The superior excellence of some of Byron's later performances are thought by good judges to be due to his having been "dosed with Wordsworth." And, in Wordsworth's own language, who does not observe to what a degree the poetry of the Island has been coloured by his works? Here I conclude You say that you must return to England. My true friend, I would go thither also. I would no longer defer my departure from Naples for whither thou goest I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge: Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Theodric; a Domestic Tale; and Other New Poems. By Thomas Campbell. York. 1825. 18mo. pp. 116. MR CAMPBELL's fortune as a poet has been singular. The fame of other poets fluctuated during their whole lives, and their niches in the Temple were assigned to them by posterity; but he seems many years ago to have attained a station, from which no subsequent performances have removed him; and he is now arrived at an age which renders it improbable that he will produce any work to alter the judgment of the public. He has always been, and from the nature of things always must be, a popular poet, but, as it has been decided, a poet of the second class. There are passages in all his works which appeal directly to feelings inherent in human nature,-passages which will awaken responses in the breast of every reader. His first work, "The Pleasures of Hope," was, according to the notions of the leaders of the public taste in its day, a work of high promise. But better and more exalted views of poetical excellence have since 66 Theodric is a short tale, and, as it seems to us, carelessly told. It opens with a description of Alpine scenery, conveyed from Wordsworth, and sadly marred in the transversion. The poet imagines himself standing by the tomb of a Swiss maiden, whose story is told him by his companion: that she fell in love with a colonel in the Austrian army from the enthusiastic descriptions of her brother, who was a cornet in his troop; and learning that he was about to marry another woman, she died of love; that the colonel having one day scolded a little, because his wife stayed too long on a visit, she died of grief thereupon just about the same time. What became of the colonel and cornet afterwards, our author says not. Now any man who is conversant with the Lake poets, must know, that a fine superstructure of poetry might have been built on such a plan as this. We ourselves, admirers as we are of another school than his, did believe that Mr Campbell could have worked up this simple tale powerfully; but he has failed. The style is a strange medley-some passages are of the versification of Mr Campbell's earlier works, some of that of Lord Byron's, and now and then a dash of Crabbe's; and we could not feel affected by the incidents, however much we tried. We quote the opening lines. For one who loves literature well enough to trace its history in its minuter points, it is interesting to notice the changes in the versification of our language since the days of Queen Elizabeth, from the ruggedness of Donne and Cowley, through the affected airiness of Waller, the stateliness of 'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, Dryden, and the flippancy of Pope, to the And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung, smooth flow of Goldsmith and his followers; That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, and then to turn to the rich and varied har-And tinged the lakes like molten gold below. mony that wells forth from the pages of Walter Scott and of Byron, and the poets of the Lake school. We have not adverted to the less marked differences which may be found in some of the intermediate poets; but we have cited enough to show, that, even in the trivial point of form, these Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm, roared, From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin; tween, green. Some of our readers may not have had an opportunity of seeing the original of those lines; and to such of them as have seen it, 'Tis storm, and hid in mist from hour to hour, There is another passage of English and to know her well 'His ecstacy, it may be guessed, was much.' Of the smaller poems contained in this love of ordinary mortals, than that which is SONG MEN OF ENGLAND.' Rights that cost your sires their blood! Has been proved on land and flood!- Glow not in your hearts the same. Where no public virtues bloom? Bared in Freedom's holy cause. Worth a hundred Agincourts! For their birthrights-so will we! THE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, I saw a vision in my sleep, I saw the last of human mould, In plague and famine some! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, What though beneat His pomp, his prid And arts that made f The vassals of his Yet mourn not I thy Thou dim discrowne For all those troph And triumphs that be Healed not a passion Entailed on human Go, let oblivion's cur Upon the stage of Nor with thy rising t Life's tragedy agai Its piteous pageants Nor waken flesh u Of pain anew to w Stretched in disease' Or mown in battle by Like grass beneath Even I am weary in To watch thy fadi Test of all sumless a Behold not me ex My lips that speak t Their rounded gasp a To see thou shalt The eclipse of Natur The majesty of Dark Receive my partin This spirit shall retu That gave its heav Yet think not, Sun, i When thou thyself No! it shall live aga In bliss unknown to By Him recalled t Who captive led cap Who robbed the gra And took the sting Go, Sun, while Merc On Nature's awful To drink this last an Of grief that man s Go, tell that night th Thou saw'st the last On Earth's sepulch The dark'ning univer To quench his Immo Or shake his trust A Comparative View talozzi and Lanca delivered before the of the City of New Brown, A. M. Ne pp. 24. THE title of this pan terest to a high degre little disappointed on to the seventeenth p the subject again allu ing part consists of ju the importance of edu of good instructers. observations occur on The difference betwee Pestalozzi and Lancaster, greater, perhaps, than we imagine. In the one, [tha multitude of words are rea ted to memory by the pup upon books in elementary instruction, will be little better than a nostrum of paper and of ink. In the other system, on the contrary, where books are introduced only to embody the elements of science, and where able teachers are employed to illustrate, to amplify, to infer; to elicit thought and excite reflection; to encourage inquiry and engage curiosity; to teach practice, and explode theory, either things themselves are presented directly to the senses, or their appropriate ideas are excited in the mind, by the aid of analogous images already there, and the mere words which signify the one and the other, follow of necessity. In this case we secure the reality, instead of the transient shadow which flits across the mind only to leave it in greater darkness and more deplorable sterility. In short: the one system imparts IDEAS, and the other WORDS. In the statement of the difference between the two methods of teaching, the author is perfectly correct; but we regret that he did not exclude less important matter, and give a more full exposition of the Pestalozzian system. We know of no other subject so important to all who have any concern with the business of instruction-from the mother who sows the seed, to the instructer of ripening youth, who aids in the expansion of the branches, the leaves, and the flowers, and prepares the tree to bring forth fruit. We do not ascribe to Pestalozzi the sole merit of reviving the system of analytical instruction. It is a striking characteristic of the present age, that men are unwilling to believe any thing on authority; it must be explained and illustrated so that it can be understood. The mind revolts from a dogmatical mode of teaching. We love to feel that we are free and rational agents, as well while acquiring, as while using, knowledge. a degree of disgust which proves a great im- the developement of the mental powers. East. He re pediment to the acquisition of knowledge inflected, that in those ancient days, the art of print- The acquisition of knowledge is not in itself unpleasant to any mind. A love of knowing, a pleasure in receiving information, is proper to the nature of all children; and there is always something which is precisely adapted to the capacity of every child, and in which he will feel a strong interest when it is presented to his mind. To obtain what is now suited to the state and powers of the intellect, will infallibly prepare the way for the truth next in order; and the mind may advance by this regular gradation towards the illimitable measures of eternity. We know that this theory, when presented definitely, still appears to most persons wild and extravagant. The truth is, we can form no idea of this orderly, analytical arrangement of the facts or truths in science, because we were not thus instructed. All our knowledge consists of truths obtained with little regard to method, and stored in the mind with almost no reference to orderly arrangement. The greatest difficulty which this system presents, is that of determining the proper arrangement of the several sciences. Probably it should be different with different scholars. In any single science, there is no great difficulty in arranging the truths analytically. We mention, as examples, Euclid's Elements in Geometry and Colburn's First Lessons in Arithmetic. Upon some other occasion, we may endeavour to show, that the same system of arrangement can easily be applied to the other sciences; and shall conclude this notice with an extract from the Address of Mr Brown, which contains some just observations respecting the systems he is comparing. All the causes which have combined to produce this character in the present age, have tended equally to introduce that method of instruction which Pestalozzi has done so much to illustrate and recommend. The Reformation, the works of Bacon, of Newton, of Franklin, and many others, and all that has been done to encourage and cultivate experimental science, have contributed to the same end. The tendency of the whole, is to abolish the system of dogmatical teaching, and to substitute for it a system of learning, a system by which the scholar shall, at all times, have that presented to his mind which he is capable of comprehending, and of applying to some use. This is the way in which all real knowledge is obtained, and it is because our elementary books and our common modes of instruction are so imperfect, that so very little is done at school to improve any other faculty of the mind than the memory. The memory is continually stuffed with natural images, while the affections are uninterested in them, and the understanding takes no cognizance of their application or Pestalozzi seems to have reverted his eye upon use. Foreign motives-as fear of punish and, after admiring the perfection of the respective the brightest pages of Grecian and Roman history, ment and hope of reward-must be contin-languages of these two august nations, to have inually urged in order to encourage the mind to this almost useless mode of acquiring knowledge. We call this species of knowledge almost useless, because it proves of comparatively little practical advantage, and the acquirement of it is accompanied by the best method of inculcation, those of Pestalozzi and Lancaster, have secured the greatest share of public consideration. But while each has found its advocates, no two systems are more diametrically opposed. Among the variety of suggestions in relation to quired into the causes of their literary and intellectual greatness. By a natural mode of argument, from effect to cause, he was led to suspect, that the eminent historians and poets, orators and statesmen, military chieftains and scientific artists of those states, must have acquired the first rudiments of the sciences under circumstances peculiarly adapted to pher, after comparing all the data derived from The comprehensive mind of the Swiss philosohistory, resulted in the conclusion, that the great diversity of elementary books employed in the schools of modern times, is destructive of the best interests of early education; especially when those books are voluminous and prolix-calculated to enlighten, and expand the mind. burden, perplex, and stupify, rather than exhilarate, The character of those elementary treatises which were employed by ancient instructers, he was enabled to infer from a single splendid example which had survived the conflagration of the library of barians in the Western Empire. This was the Alexandria, and all the ravages of the Gothic barGeometry of Euclid, the preceptor of the Ptolemies:-a book which has been found so complete in itself; so free from redundancy and defect; so perfectly inclusive and exclusive, that no geometriwithout creating an evident imperfection. Such cian in any age, has been able to add or diminish, only are the books which Pestalozzi and his followers believe to be suited to the minds of youth. But this philosopher ventured even farther, and suffered himself to conjecture what was the character of those instructors to whom the Egyptians, their children. He was able to demonstrate, beGreeks, and Romans, intrusted the education of yond contradiction, that many of the first names which history has transmitted. were teachers of the youth of their country: and he found no trifling number of examples of a fact still more to his purcountries to be taught by these great masters. pose; that young men were sent from remote Hence he very logically inferred, that the most approved instructors were MEN of learning, experience, and character. By this process of investigation, corroborated by tradition among the descendants of these two nations, resident in the mountains of his country, Pestalozzi gathered all the assistance which antiquity could supply, and reduced to practice in his native Switzerland, the result of his inquiries. His plan has been successfully pursued in Europe and America; and the institution of Fellemburgh in Switzerland, and the Polytechnic school of France, have given celebrity to his principles. These principles are at once natural and simple, and in perfect harmony with the philosophy of Franklin,-to practise much, and trust little to theory.' The simple elements of science are presented to the learner, and he is led to all the minute particulars, as if by actual discovery. In this mantenacity of memory, but to repose with all its powers ner the pupil is induced to confide little in a mere on the decisions of an active understanding. Lancaster, on the other hand, was desirous of hazarding a mere experiment, without the least authority from the practice of any age or nation. A philanthropist, no doubt, he desired a more of the poorer classes of the community, in every general diffusion of knowledge than the condition country, had hitherto admitted. By a sole reliance on books, with the bare rehearsal of lessons to those who were ignorant of their meaning, he hoped that such children as were deprived of higher advantages, might receive, at least, tolerable instruction. In England, where this system received at first considerable patronage, it has sunk into general neglect; and in these States, where Lancaster travelled long, and laboured with indefatigable industry to impress the public mind with the sense of the importance of his new discovery, the schools established on this plan have gradually dwindled, and must eventually share the fate of their predecessors across the Atlantic. I have witnessed the living pranks of very few of these monsters; but I of its nearest approximations. Theirs has they have detected m have attended during the funeral obsequies of sev-been a study of human experience in its men have only been t eral, in different states, and have seen their remains, varieties and causes. The distinctions they duct. They thus take unattended by a solitary mourner, committed to have made, have proceeded out of the ac- the deep springs of hum everlasting forgetfulness. tual differences of things. What such men to us all its sources, w were or thought years ago, or yesterday, in pure, however wickedly regard to the great questions of human con- ably disinterested. The cern, they would be, or think to-day. They for they are eminently 1 have taught us what, and how they are; they have written, the and if they have seemed different beings to thing which it had not us at any time, the change has most proba- rare men. Ages have bly belonged to our own minds, not to them. When they ha theirs. been sometimes acciden MISCELLANY. AUTHORS AND WRITERS. AUTHORS never die. The good and the evil they do, alike live after them. The body may be dead, but the mind lives; on earth too; and will live. Men's minds, as others know them, are known by what they say, do, and write. We have had men amongst us who never wrote any thing, but who, nevertheless, acted widely upon others by conversation alone. They thought as deeply, and as accurately, and talked with the same precision and order, as if they were thinking for writing, or were actually writing. Their opinions were sought for, where they might be useful, and were as accessible as if they were on the bookseller's counter, or in the library. These were strictly authors. They are, however, necessarily short-lived. Their records are not permanent. They are not the property of the whole, and which the whole will find a common pride and interest to preserve, and to preserve unadulterated. They are the property of a few, which the few will appropriate, and may alter and deform without mercy, and without fear. It is melancholy to see the mind thus dying to its own age, and to the future. If we have felt safer while such a mind was with us and near us, when danger was abroad, or anticipated, we have lost much when we have lost it. We have acquired a habit of dependence, and have felt it to be the direct and useful product of the greater and better power of another. It has been a useful dependence, for its quality has been to make our own minds stronger and better. There has been an advantage to us, perhaps, that these men have not written. Their honest and sound views have not been submitted either to vulgar impertinence, or party malevolence. The sharp, and sometimes effective, criticism of lesser minds, or the encounter of as strong, differently, and, it may be, less prudently directed, has not hurt our faith, or diminished our confidence. We have reposed delightedly and usefully beneath the protection of a fine mind, and, it may be, for the time, have not been disquieted, that we have had so few with us. The influence that has been so limited and personal, however, might have been felt every where. In its degree perhaps less vividly, but in its amount far greater. Above all, if these men had written, they would have survived the grave. Men are known, it was said, by what they do. The men about whom we have written, were known in this way, and a wide and useful influence was exerted by their actions. It is a property of such minds to be consistent with themselves. They have Such men are inestimably valuable at all times, and in all ages. They are especially so to our own. We are in a stirring world, and are for turning it upside down. The change, even for the worse, is not altogether the matter of doubtful choice it was once thought to be; or we are willing to change what is well, for the chances of the better. Some of our most gifted talkers have taken the word of the time, or put it into the time's mouth, and little now is, but what is not. In the men of whom we write, there was a saving leaven of human prudence. They had learned caution in the experience of every hour. They had learned it as well in the slow and wise progress of nature, as in their profound observance of human conduct. They talked deliberately, as if in harmony with this progress. I have known instances of peculiar melody of voice among these men, as if moral beauty, and a fine intellect, gave character to their expression. If these were in any degree taught caution and wisdom from nature, by the operation of its ordinary progress upon their minds, they were especially taught the self-same by its occasional deviations. They had seen ruin in the track of the storm, and in the flood of intolerable light from the clouds of heaven. They had seen the fair face of earth smiling in the calm sunshine, and its best fruits in the safe shower. But these men have not written. They gave their minds to perishing records, the memories of men. A few years, and it will be difficult to remember their faces. If we remember their thoughts, it may not be to better our own, or to act by them. has not known its own no other reward but one, which a fine mind ways must have, in th its own thoughts. The have been a legacy to how sacred has been th ful have we been of the jealous lest its fame property of another. Men, in the third place, are known by what they write. This remark wants large qualification. Writers are authors by emphasis, in common speaking. But all who write are not so. Few men give us what others have not given us before. Other men's thoughts have passed through their minds, it is true, but they have come out as as they went in. It is rare that they get even a new costume, and if they do, how frequently are they only deformed by it. These are writers. An author is one whose mind has not been the highway of other men's thoughts, but a soil into which they have been cast, like seed into the good ground, and where they have died in the upspringings and full harvest of higher and brighter thoughts. The observation of men and of nature has done the same thing. An affinity, if the term be allowed, has, in The authors of who repeat themselves. L cidents be as numerous individuality is preserv constantly perceive th created are conscious and act in consequenc distinctions between t rally to this conscious same thing in actual pre-eminent in this authorship. His dead, never appear again w them, either to push jostle us in our way appears indeed to the of his own Macbeth; being to Shakspeare's it had to the vision When Hostess Quick! is dead, and how he d the winding-sheet, the the grave, is inevital look for his return on should for an acquain neighbour, after he is Some writers who nal, seem to have fal first fine conception, for it as for a first love be intended to be neve ages, and temperamer we always detect some some peculiarity of th fused into all its suc are like the philosop is touched becomes g Great authors have their own minds, whic Other men, and their and all external natur effects upon them. too, and in virtue of these over others, br strictly original char bined suggestions, an all the matters of me Writers have beer |