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The purely imaginative, and the satirists too, have not unfrequently been the faithfulest authors, and the truest historians. Who reads Hume, Gibbon, or Robertson for a true history? Nobody. But who does not read Shakspeare with a saving and a safe faith. He wrote truly of all ages, for he wrote truly of his own, and knew what was in man. To be honest, was not the less unwise in his time, in the construction of a villain, than it is now.

in this, and while the future continues in futurity, we would class ourselves among the faithful.

Sometimes, however, this vast and remote future seems to approach nearer than it should upon the borders of the present, and sometimes our writers and talkers seem to think, and to feel, that it has actually reached us, and that we are now what a few centuries may make us. In this there may be great evil. If our legislators get it, they may legislate for what is not; changing and overturning what belongs to us, to make way for what belongs to nobody. Our financiers may get it, and we may be taxed in advance, and be called wealthy, because every body may be hereafter. It would sometimes seem that the inspiration of our writers was getting transfused into the mass, and that we are living in the future, whether we will or no. We are getting at last at abuses, which have been the protection and happiness of our fathers and ourselves, but which will never be tolerated in the times to come. A strange sort of benefaction is thus to be substituted for present good, the incalculable good of a vast future.

There is another class we mean to glance | one original character, developed and varied at. This embraces writers who are honest, by the operation of a very few agencies. It and writers who are not. We have no con- is a mind, however, of vast capacity, and cern with the purposes or motives of men the causes which are brought to operate when they write or print, for a bad book upon it are of great power. We are not may not have proceeded from a bad motive, surprised to find this character at times a or a useful one from the best. Honest au- wandering misanthrope, feeling deeply the thors are not so to themselves only, but to power of nature, and of man as he now is, their age, and to their country. There is a and man as he has been, in the remote and real weakness in a written hypocrisy. A strange times of antiquity. It is not strange man may walk before us, and talk before us to us that he should now appear deep in the too, and be nothing he seems. But the mind toils of love; now recklessly cruel, and now and the heart of the whole community stir ardently attached. We do not wonder to at the false historics of the writing author. find him grossly licentious and ingenious And this they do, whether the falsehood be in his ribaldry; now discoursing about found in the glozing of sin, in excessive moral distinctions, and now losing or depanegyric, or in caricature vice. spising the whole of them. At one moment he spurns our sympathy, and in the next we should be ashamed of his company. This character has been pronounced to be his own, at least in an early period of its his tory. This, however, he has denied. But if it be in any measure so, his works to that extent at least are autobiographical, and will go down to succeeding ages for their verisimilitude alone. They are not histories of his time, for they do not give us what an age, especially his own, makes of the mass If this be in any measure true, if we are of men, with whom he was born. They are to realize prophecies, or are realizing them strictly individual, for they all tell us about already, we should look to it, and very sethe same being. Give these works any riously. Human life is getting longer, it is other character, admit for a moment that said, than it used to be, but it will hardly they were intended by the author as a true carry us as far as our writers are disposed history, or a dramatic sketch of his times, to do. We may be losers in the bargain, and and he becomes at once the veriest and what is thus lost to us, will be lost to our vulgarist libeller. As it is, he is the most successors, however remote, or however nuremarkable egotist, if one at all, that has merous. They were safe prophets in the ever lived. He industriously brings to the British parliament, who foretold the liberty surface, and keeps there, what other men and prosperity of America, for we had one more industriously have hidden in the deep- of these already, and could not long want est recesses of their own hearts. This sin- the other. Prophets are not safe now howgle fact explains a thousand anomalies in ever, our prophetic writers; for we have his works; and among these, the strange both liberty and prosperity, and it is for selfishness which could love deeply the in- these, and for these alone, we should give dividual and hate the species; or regard the our minds in the fulness of their best powwhole with one sweeping abhorrence, dis-ers; and if we are true to our best interests, gust, and contempt.

Pope was no traducer of his species as he found it. His age made him, as the age makes every body. His harmonious, and, not unfrequently, grossly indelicate satire, has its quality from his time. It was the current selfishness which made its passage through his heart, and a fine intellect followed in its tide. Pope, however, is tem porary and local, for he is confined, and hemmed in by an artificial society both of fashion and letters. We have dispensed with the hoop-petticoat, and pretty much with the heroic couplet. But he is true to what he saw and felt, or to his age, and is so far no libeller.

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Byron is still more local than Pope. He is almost individual. His variety is more in name than in thing. His writings seem to be the efforts of a very few agencies upon his own vast mind. A review of some of We have spoken of authors who have his poems, which by his own title of them, been true to their own character, to their really belong to his infancy, was one, and age, and to the world. There are other probably the earliest of these. This review classes; we have room to speak of but one annoyed him dreadfully. He did not conmore. This class is peculiar to our own sider that he had strayed from his nobility country. It has in a measure been made into the republic of letters, and was igno- by the country, its institutions, and prosrant that the constitution of this wide re pects, and deserves to be named. It bepublic, guarantees to all its citizens the longs to us; and however little we have privilege of abusing, as well as praising been allowed to appropriate of letters, each other. His nobility went in company we may safely claim this. If we should with his genius, a legitimate association name it, we should call it the prophetic class enough in his case, and they were equally of authors. This will serve to distinguish annoyed by the reception they met. Disgust them at once from all writers within a to the whole British empire soon followed, reasonable antiquity, and will surely distinand the Curse of Minerva appeared a few guish them from all the moderns. Our wriyears after English Bards and Scottish Re-ters, whether imaginative or historical, are viewers. A still more personal annoyance prophetic. They go habitually before the at length drove his lordship from England forever, and then we had Don Juan, or, with other things, English manners, and English society, under the similitude of Eastern sensuality.

As an author, and it is in this character Lord Byron now lives, his lordship is almost entirely exclusive. He has given us but

time. They live in the future of their own
minds. They are with a population which
cannot be numbered. The blessings of our
institutions are upon all. A mass of intel-
lectual power and physical strength occu-
pies the distance, to a degree at times al-
most oppressive to us, who are comparatively
few and powerless. Now there is no harm

those which have been long proved, and found so, our posterity will be blessed without prophesy.

THE LAY MONASTERY.

No. I.

The Author.
Me dulcis saturet quies.
Obscuro positus loco,
Leni perfruar otio.

Chorus ex Thyeste.

I AM a wayfaring man in the literary world, and in humour and out of humour with its inhabitants, have come and gone from place to place, and as yet have left no memory behind me. I have always shunned ostentation, even in the vehicle that has carried me, and turning aside from the busier marts of literature, have loitered in its green alleys and silent avenues. To men in the higher walks of letters nature has made known the warm intellectual springs, whence issue those vast conceptions, that are too wide for the embrace of inferior minds-and we of humbler birti

are content to sit by their distant waters, and beneath the shadows of their branches. Many are journeying on in the literary highways, and hurry from stage to stage without once pausing to look upon the beautiful scenery that invites them to linger on their way; but we, who choose the rambling vehicle of the essay, turn off into the by-ways, and enjoy the irregular interchange of woods, and waters, and green valleys.

he will find them there. If the world cen-
sure him, its chidings will be lost amid their
consoling voices,-if the world's friendship
has been sterile, he will see no barrenness
in theirs, and if the world has been un-
kind and malevolent, he will find nothing
there of its stern austerity.

ter he kept himself close to his harbour. He is now a septuagenary, a sprightly, hale old man; and though he feels the tide of life beating within him less vigorously day alter day, yet having enjoyed the green and flourishing spring of life, and the lustibood of its summer, he sits quietly down in the cheerfulness of its autumn, like one that rejoices in the full fruits of early toil.

When I was a boy, my earliest attention was excited by the brass clasps of an antiquated, worm-eaten tome, that an old uncle of mine, sadly given to antiquarian re- When my uncle beheld my childish adFrom my youth up, my life has been a search, had left upon my mother's table. miration for his venerable black-letter kind of vagrant existence, and I have al- No sooner was the event of my birth, which tome, he fondly thought that he beheld the ways been fond of rambling about in the forms an epoch in our family history, an- germ of an antique genius already shooting woods and quiet fields of the country. Inounced, than the kind-hearted old man out within my mind, and from that day I have been a truant from society, and have came posting down from his country resi- became with him as a favoured vine. Time turned from the troubled world of realities dence. He was a virtuoso in thought, has been long on the wing, and his affecto an ideal world of mine own; and yet in word, and deed. He was a rusty old fei- tion for me grew in strength as I in years; retirement, and amid the pleasant woods low, and, like one of his own coin, had the until at length he has bequeathed to me that had become home to me, I never look- features of antiquity indelibly stamped up- the peculiar care of his library, which coned for solitude, and never found it. There on bim; and the gradual wastes of time, sists of a multitude of huge old volumes, was a spirit there that communed with my by rendering the relievo less distinct, placed and some ancient and modern manuscripts. own. The earth was peopled with imagi- the antiquity beyond a doubt. His counte- The apartment which contains this treas nary forms, and in the sound of the river. nance very much resembled that of Cosmo, ure is the cloister of my frequent and studi and of winds that fanned its bosom and on the medallions of the Medici; and ous musings. It is a curious little chamber, made the tall reeds bend, I heard the voice though the severity of his eye indicated in a remote corner of the house, finished of humanity distinct, and to my intellectual deep thought, yet there was something all round with painted pannelings, and ear articulate. Thus I became the child about the mouth that declared his subtle boasting but one tall, narrow Venetian winof wayward fancy, and nature touched vein of shrewdness and grotesque humour. dow, that lets in upon my studies a "dim, within me that chord of simple poetic feel- He was deeply versed in alchemy and old-religious light," which is quite appropriate ing, which has not yet ceased to vibrate. school chemistry, and very vain of his to them. I am melancholy, but studious thought has knowledge;—if I borrow a simile from his made me so, and not those cares which pursuits, he thought that the halo of his tire men of the world. It is a melancholy own glory was increasing like the circular of that kind which has nothing of malevo- corona of vapour that arose from a certain lence or austerity about it;-it is but that chemical combination of his, which, as it espensive shade, which, to him who loves to caped from his alembic, widened and widenmuse, gently mellows down the hard feat- ed whilst ascending; but, unfortunately for ures of society, and gives a still-life se- him, his fame, like that vapour, grew thinrenity to a bustling world. As I sit in ner and thinner, and at length lost itself in my silent cloister, surrounded by a multi- air. He was an inveterate old bachelor;| tude of books-mute but eloquent compan- but kind-hearted and extremely benevoions, and look out upon mankind as they lent; and charity, which was written upon toil on in the thoroughfares of life, the calm his countenance, was written more deeply and quiet feeling of my retirement becomes upon his heart. I have heard it whispered spiritualized from self-enjoyment to a glow in the family,-but very cautiously, for the ing philanthropy. The world is full of suf- old man's teelings are sensitive upon the fering, and I feel a charity for those who subject,-that, like sundry other good old have known that misery which I have not bachelors, he had been in his younger days known; and I endeavour to remember how a chevalier d'amour; but shivering long in ineffectual that charity is, which begins and the frowns of unrelenting beauty, he grew ends in feeling! desperately cold towards the whole female My retirement to this solitary place arose sex,-as slighted woers sometimes will, from a love of seclusion, and was not, as and even in the heyday of life forgot retirement often is, a desperate after-game "love's charming cares." A few days ago, in the affairs of life. A strong attachment as I was turning over some neglected pa- to a still and quiet existence has brought pers in his library, I found several desper-me here;-and if I seem to have slighted ate looking love verses, and a French Valentine on gilt-edged paper, with altars and torches in the corners, which go far to corroborate the oral tradition of his early love. This is indeed exactly what I should have expected from his sanguine temperament; and time never effaced every vestige of this gallant feeling; on great occasions he was apt to wear a highly ornamented broach of amber, containing in its centre a little animal that strikingly resembles a lady-bug; and sometimes figured in a brocade vest of faded damask, with large sprigs and roses. One serious love adventure of this kind was enough for him; he was lost on a sea of troubles in his first voyage, and ever af

As the hand of time is continually chang ing the scenes of the world's vast theatre, I cannot help observing how grotesquely mingled in the romance of life are its tragic and comic acts. But to a solitary being like myself, departing years bring but little change. Time's gradual current steals peacefully away, the seasons of life slowly succeed each other,—and day after day thought ripens and ripens to its maturity;-but still my pursuits and occupations are the same, and the same communion and fellowship and good feeling exist between myself and any books. It is very silly perhaps to prate now-a-days about the tranquil delight which books assume to him who is happy enough to love them, but I speak from the heart. If any man is sick and tired of the world, and would find those friends who are silent or garrulous, as he is melancholy or cheerful, let him retire to his library, and

Every thing about the apartment is old and decaying. The table, of oak inlaid with maple, is worm-eaten and somewhat loose in the joints; the chairs are massive and curiously carved, but the sharper edges of the figures are breaking away; and the solemn line of portraits, that cover the walls, hang faded from black, melancholy frames, and declare their intention of soon leaving them forever. In a deep niche stands a heavy iron clock, that rings the hours with a hoarse and sullen voice; and opposite, in a similar niche, is deposited a gloomy figure in antique bronze. A recess, curtained with a tapestry of faded green, has become the cemetery of departed genios, and, gathered in the embrace of this little sepulchre, the works of good and great men of ancient days are gradually mouldering away to dust again.

the world too soon, I can urge in my own defence, that I am one of those, who may depart from society whenever they will, and none ask-Where are they? I would not forget the world, and would not be forgot ten by it; but I would live in the hearts of men as well as in their memories, and leave that quiet recollection behind me, which mankind will cherish for its very gentle ness. And yet, whilst, like a timid bark, I woo the breath of others to give me motion on fame's still waters, my chief joy is in seclusion and solitary musing; though I would live in part for others, yet I would not in so doing become a stranger to my own thoughts.

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Having been thus minute in delineating my own character, let me put on my masking-habit, and, as the Lay Monk, speak a few words to the reader in reference to my proposed writings. The severer studies which are proper to manhood, leave me sufficient leisure for that frequent reverie and rambling thought which are well suited to miscellaneous essays; and in all my papers I shall claim the customary privileges of essayists, and note down my loose thoughts without regularity or any certain order. In the choice of subjects for my speculations, I shall be guided by my own fancy; and that no one may accuse me of failing in what I have never attempted, I would be explicit in stating, that my aim is rather to amuse the courteous reader and help him pass away a tedious hour, than eloquently to instruct him by deep thought or high philosophy.

THE LAY MONK.

POETRY.

SONG OF THE STARS.

When the radiant morn of creation broke,
And the world in the smile of God awoke,
And the empty realms of darkness and death

Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath,

And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame,
From the void abyss, by myriads came,
In the joy of youth, as they darted away,
Through the widening wastes of space to play,
Their silver voices in chorus rung,

And this was the song the bright ones sung.

Away, away, through the wide, wide sky,
The fair blue fields that before us lie:
Each sun with the worlds that round us roll,
Each planet poised on her turning pole,
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white,
And her waters that lie like fluid light.

For the source of glory uncovers his face,
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space;
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides;
Lo, yonder the living splendors play!
Away, on our joyous path away!

Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar,
In the infinite azure, star after star,

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass!
How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass!
And the path of the gentle winds is seen,
Where the small waves dance, and the young
woods lean.

And see, where the brighter day-beams pour,
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower;
And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues,
Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews;
And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground,
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round.

Away, away!-in our blossoming bowers,
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours,
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,
See, love is brooding, and life is born,
And breathing myriads are breaking from night,
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light.

Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres!
To weave the dance that measures the years.

Glide on in the glory and gladness sent
To the farthest wall of the firmament,
The boundless visible smile of him
To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim.

FAREWELL TO CASTLES IN THE AIR.

Farewell, my Castles raised so high,
Farewell, ye bowers of beauty,-
From your enchantment I must fly,
To sober paths of duty.
O many an hour could I employ,
These lovely bowers adorning,
Till every airy hall of joy
Should seem a star of morning.
But go, vain dreams, depart,
Though fondly loved; I feel it,
That, while you sooth the heart,
From better things you steal it.

When rose the storms of grief and care,
On life's uncertain billow,

I sought my Castles in the Air,
And found a ready pillow;
Here joys to come were always shown,
The present grief dispelling,
For future woe is all unknown
In my aerial dwelling.

The lesson thus was lost,

For which the storm was given,
To show the tempest-tost
A refuge sure in Heaven.

B.

Here Hope, though cheated o'er and o'er,
I thought would well securest,

And deemed, of all her various store,
Such gift the best and surest.

While Fancy strove, with magic glass,
To raise the scene ideal,

Still whispered Hope, though this may pass,
The next will sure be real.
Thus many a daring theme
Was forming and undoing,
And still some brighter dream
Arose upon their ruin.

Thus, in the fields of wild romance,
I tarried for a season,

But still, at every change and chance,
I heard the voice of Reason:
"Oh, at some holier, happier shrine,
Devote thy thoughts so ranging;
Whose base is truth and love divine,
The fabric never changing.
Thy hopes from youth to age,
If thou wilt hither guide them,
Though tempests rise and rage,
Securely may abide them."

I raised my eyes from all beneath,
And Hope stood in the portal,
She held an amaranthine wreath,
And promised life immortal.
I felt the scene before my view
Was more then idle seeming,
And wish and strive to bid adieu
To all my days of dreaming.
Then go, vain dreams, depart,
Though fondly loved; I feel it,
That, while you soothe the heart,
From better things you steal it.

SUMMER MUSINGS.

A. C. H.

When a languor soft the sense invades,
I stroll alone to the woodland glades,
And linger in coverts cool and green,
Beneath the poplars' beautiful screen.
Then I watch the wavelet that hastens by
To the sea, as time to eternity;
And I muse like Jaques, and moralise
On themes that the silent scene supplies.

I think, as the river glides away Though banks of wild flowers woo its stay,

349

So life is passing, though pleasure's dream
Enliven its course, as the flowers the stream.
This violet low that shines in dew
Like eyes I love, and almost as blue,
Tomorrow will wither, and fade, and die,
And waken no sigh of sympathy.

That aged beech-where I carved a name
Dearer to me than riches or fame-
With its trunk, shall cumber the spot it shaces,
For strength must perish, as beauty fades.

And I, when a few short summers are o'er, Shall muse in these lonely scenes no more;— Yet when i pass to eternity

May virtue my strength and beauty be-
My spirit rise to the blessed Giver,
And my body rest by the Silent River.

INTELLIGENCE.

SOUTHEY AND BYRON.

S. H.

The following is the conclusion of Mr Southey's late letter on Lord Byron.

"It was because Lord Byron had brought a stigma upon English literature, that I accused him; because he had perverted great talents to the worst purposes; because he had set up for pander-general to the youth of Great Britain, as long as his writings should endure; because he had committed a high crime and misdemeanor against society, by sending forth a work, in which mockery was mingled with horrors, filth with impiety, profligacy with sedition and slander. For these offences, I came forward to arraign him. The accusation was not made darkly; it was not insinuated; it was not advanced under the cover of a review. I attacked him openly in my own name, and only not by his, because he had not then publicly avowed the flagitious production, by which he will be remembered for lasting infamy. He replied in a manner altogether worthy of himself and his cause. Contention with a generous and honourable opponent leads naturally to esteem, and probably to friendship; but next to such an antagonist, an enemy like Lord Byron is to be desired; one who by his conduct in the contest, divests himself of every claim to respect; one whose baseness is such as to sanctify the vindictive feeling it provokes; and upon whom the act of taking vengeance is that of administering justice. I answered him as he deserved to be answered, and the effect which that answer produced upon his lordship, has been described by his faithful chronicler, Captain Medwin. This is the real history of what the purveyors of scandal for the public, are pleased sometimes to announce in their advertisements, as "Byron's Controversy with Southey.' What there was dark or devilish in it belongs to his lordship; and had I been compelled to resume it during his life, he, who played the monster in literature, and aimed his blows at women, should have been treated accordingly. The republican trio,' says Lord Byron, when they began to publish in common, were to have had a community of all things, like the ancient Britons-to have lived in a state of nature, like savages-and peopled some island of the blest, with children in common, like

A

Here I dismiss the subject. It might have been thought that Lord Byron had attained the last degree of disgrace, when his head was set up for a sign at one of those preparatory schools for the brothel and the gallows, where obscenity, sedition, and blasphemy are retailed in drams for the vulgar. There remained one further shame there remained this exposure of his private conversations, which has compelled his lordship's friends, in their own defence, to compare his oral declarations with his written words, and thereby demonstrate that he was as regardless of truth as he was incapable of sustaining those feelings suited to his birth, station, and high endowments, which Sometimes came across his better mind. ROBERT SOUTHEY."

1824."

CONTINUATION OF LAPLA
CELESTE

Those who have read

very pretty Arcadian nation!' I may be domes; the magnificent Wladimir, the luxu- John Quin; seven hanks excused for wishing that Lord Byron had rious Bojars, the valiant heroes, and the erty of the widow Scott; published this himself; but though he is re- bards of those times. The subject of the and one apron, the prope sponsible for the atrocious falsehood, he is poem, in six cantos, is the carrying off of Gallagher, seized under not for its posthumous publication. I shall the princess Ljudmilla by the magician levying warrant, for tith only observe, therefore, that the slander is Tschernomor, and her deliverance to her John Usher. Dated this as worthy of his lordship as the scheme it- husband Russlau, a valiant knight. The self would have been. Nor would I have plan is admirable, the execution masterly, condescended to notice it even thus, were and, notwithstanding the numerous characit not to show how little this calumniator ters introduced, and the episodes and events knew concerning the objects of his uneasy which cross each other, the narrative is and restless hatred. Mr Wordsworth and I rapid, the characters well drawn, the dewere strangers to each other, even by name, scriptions animated, and the language ex- Céleste, are aware, that when he represents us as engaged in a sa- cellent. Russlau was soon succeeded by ty years ago M. Laplace tanic confederacy, and we never published" Kaw Koskoi Plennik," a smalier, though minate this great work b any thing in common. not less excellent, poem; which describes labours of geometers on the rude manners of the banditti of Cauca- world, and by assigning sus, their mode of life, and the peculiarity which he had contributed of the country and its inhabitants, in the ing its wonderful mecha most lively colours. This poem is gener-ful execution of this tas ally known to the German public, through posed on the illustrious a masterly translation by M. Wulfert, canique Céleste, the ne which is inferior to the original only in very ample acknowledgn the inimitable melody of the Russian lan- and it would almost app guage. pugnance arising out of t retarded the completion labours. The name of L once in the second editio Analytique, a circumsta to intimate, that Lagra displeasure at the unach priation of his investiga ries. M Laplace is, h slowly redeeming his p volume of his work, whic publication. The thirt has recently appeared, t most difficult problems i my, that of the oscilla which cover the planets. contains a rapid sketch views and discoveries of theory of the tides, fro place. No branch of the presents more interest, the progress of mathen one of the greatest qu philosophy. It is the p the inventors of the pr show their origin, thei their most important f cient geometry has tran ing more exact and bea words by which Archim

RUSSIAN POETRY.

IRELAND.

Puschkin's new poem, "The Fountain of Baktschissarai," is in many respects superior to his former productions. The subject is very simple: Ghiräj, Khan of the Crimea, in one of his predatory excursions, takes prisoner a Polish princess, Maria. She is in his harem; the charms of the beautiful christian make a deep impression upon the heart of the rude monarch. He forsakes his former favourite, Sarema, a passionate Georgian; she knows indeed that Maria The young poet Puschkin, has completed persists in rejecting his love, but, tormented a new production, which, though of no great by jealousy, she murders her innocent rival. extent, surpasses, in the unanimous opinion Ghiraj, inconsolable, sentences the Georgian of the critics, all his former productions. to death; and dedicates to the memory of The title is, "The Fountain of Baktschis-Maria, in a solitary part of his garden, a sarai;" and Mr Ponamarew, a bookseller fountain, the cold drops of which, falling, of Moscow, has given him three thousand even to this day, into the marble bason, reroubles for the copy-right. The poem con- mind feeling hearts of Maria's innocence tains about six hundred lines, so that five and Ghiraj's grief, and the young girls in roubles per line have been paid for it, a the neighbourhood still call it the fountain thing quite unheard of in Russia. Puschkin of tears! is a literary phenomenon, endowed by nature with all the qualifications of an excellent poet; he has begun his career in a It appears, by a late census of the popumanner in which many would be happy to lation of Ireland, that the number of males conclude. In his thirteenth year, when he is 3,341,926-of females 3,459,901. Those was still a pupil in the Lyceum at Zarskoe-employed in agriculture are 1,138,069,Selo, he composed his first distinguished in trades, manufactures, or handicraft, poem, "Wospominanie O Zarskom Selo," 1,170,044. Dublin is supposed to contain Remembrances of Zarskoe-Selo; this piece 227,335. The state of the whole country was, perhaps, too loudly and generally ad- is represented as very precarious. There mired; the boy aimed henceforward only at are now public theological disputations, in the Muses' wreath, and neglected the more which the zeal on each side is quite equal serious studies which are essential to the to the christianity displayed. No doubt, if poet. However, up to this time, when he each party could for a season enjoy the is about twenty-five years of age, he has pure, unmixed ascendancy of the primitive composed, besides a number of charming times, neither would want a fine crop of little pieces, which have been received with martyrs. The following document is an great approbation by the literary journals, amusing instance of real distress; and inthree more considerable poems, which are dicates pretty well the degree of probabili-house inhabited by Napo real ornaments of the Russian Parnassus; ty which exists for an amelioration in the is now converted into a t and what is a particular merit in these days state of feeling upon the subject of re- is actually a threshing ma of translation, they are quite original. ligion. ber in which he breathe "To be sold by public cant, in the town this residence, so much of Ballymore, on Saturday, the 16th instant, and Co., could not have b |one cow, the property of James Scully; one | if it is thus considered fit

The first of them is “Russlau and Ljudmilla," which carries us back into the ancient days of chivalry and fable in Russia,

his works.

ENGLISH B

The number of works the month of December was sixty-three. The volumes, eighty-one.

LONGWO

A late visitor at St He

INDUSTRY OF THE BEAVER.

The Darien (Geo.) Gazette gives the following account of some specimens of the ingenuity and industry of the beaver, which are in the possession of the editor.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM
WORDSWORTH.

JUST PUBLISHED,

BY CUMMINGS, HILLIARD, & Co., and for sale at their Bookstore, No. 1, Cornhill, Elements of Astronomy, illustrated with

JUST published, the Poetical Works of Plates, for the use of Schools and Acade-
mies, with questions. By John H. Wil-
William Wordsworth, complete in four
kins, A. M. Third Edition.
volumes.

This edition is beautifully and correctly printed, and afforded at less than half the price of the London copy.

"Roswell King, jr. Esq. has politely sent us a few specimens of the beaver's ingenuity, perseverance, and wonderful powers of architecture. These specimens consist in several logs of hard wood, cut by the beaver for the construction of a house: one of these logs measures two feet in length, girts six- Extract from the North American Review. teen inches, and weighs fourteen pounds; "THE great distinction and glory of this was one of the side logs of the house; Wordsworth's Poetry is the intimate conanother of the same girt, is half the length verse which it holds with nature. He sees of the former, and was one of the end logs her face to face; he is her friend, her conof the building; the others are smaller, and tidential counsellor, her high priest; and were used as rafters. It is evident from the he comes from her inmost temple to reveal marks at the ends of them, that they have all to us her mysteries, and unravel those sebeen cut through with the teeth; and cut cret influences which he had always felt, in a manner so as to lock, when laid upon but hardly understood. It is not merely each other, the same as logs formed by hu- that he admires her beauties with enthusiman industry for the construction of log- asm, and describes them with the nicest houses, so often met with in this state. But accuracy, but he gives them voice, lanwhere these animals found strength, or how guage, passion, power, sympathy; he causes they raised purchase to lift the logs, is a them to live, breathe, feel. We acknowlquestion that we cannot solve. The house edge that even this has been done by gifted being two stories high, each story being bards before him; but never so thoroughly eighteen inches, must have cost no little laas by him; they lifted up corners of the bour to the architects in placing these heavy veil, and he has drawn it aside; he has logs one upon the other. The logs may be established new relationships, and detected seen at this office." hitherto unexplored affinities, and made the connexion still closer than ever between this goodly universe and the heart of man. Every person of susceptibility has been affected with more or less distinctness, by the various forms of natural beauty, and the associations and remembrances connected with them by the progress of a storm, the expanse of ocean, the gladness of a sunny field,

PERKINS' STEAM ENGINE. The New York Daily Advertiser contains a short description of a steam-boat, constructed by Mr Perkins, to exhibit the powers of his engine. This description was furnished by a gentleman, lately arrived from England, who was a witness of the first experiment early in November last.

Its form is long and narrow, to accommodate it to the Regent's Canal, where it is kept and frequently worked for exhibition. It is seventy-one feet in length, seven feet in breadth, and carries twenty-two tons; it has an iron paddle at the stern, seven feet in diameter, with wings eighteen inches broad at the ends; the generator contains three gallons of water, and the furnace half a bushel of coal; the heat is usually raised in fifteen minutes; the piston has thirteen inches stroke, and the whole engine occupies only one-fifth of the space of one of Watt and Bolton's, and weighs only one-fifth as much. With the temperature raised to only one half the proper number of atmospheres,

it moved at the rate of six miles an hour.

All publishers of books throughout the United States, are very earnestly requested to forward to us, regularly and seasonably, the names of all works of every kind, preparing for publication, in the press, or recently published. As they will be inserted in the Gazette, it is particularly desired that the exact titles be stated at length. **The proprietors of Newspapers, for which this Gazette is exchanged, and of which the price is less than that of the Gazette, are expected to pay the differC. H. & Co.

ence.

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Messrs Cummings, Hilliard, & Co.

The silence that is in the starry sky, Having been partially engaged in giving The sleep that is among the lonely hills. instruction to youth, for the last fifteen Wordsworth has taught these sentiments years, it has been necessary for me to exand impulses a language, and has given amine all the treatises on education which them a law and a rule. Our intercourse came within my reach. Among other treawith nature becomes permanent; we ac- tises examined, there have been several on quire a habit of transferring human feel- astronomy. Of these, the "Elements of Asings to the growth of earth, the elements, tronomy, by John H. Wilkins, A. M.," rethe lights of heaven, and a capacity of re-cently published by you, is, in my opinion, ceiving rich modifications and improve- decidedly the best. I have accordingly inments of those feelings in return. We are troduced it into my Seminary, and find it convinced that there is more mind, more well calculated to answer its intended pursoul about us, wherever we look, and wher- pose, by plain illustrations to lead young ever we move; and there is-for we have persons to a knowledge of that most interestimparted both to the material world; there ing science. J. L. BLAKE, is no longer any dullness or death in our

habitation; but a sweet music, and an in-
telligent voice, are forever speaking to our
secret ear, and the beauty of all visible
things becomes their joy, and we partake
in it, and gather from the confiding grati-
tude of surrounding objects, fresh cause of
praise to the Maker of them all."

Principal of Lit. Sem. for Young Ladies. Boston, Jan. 5, 1825.

ENGLISH TEACHER AND EXER-
CISES.

CUMMINGS, HILLIARD, & Co. No. 134 Wash-
ington street [No. 1 Cornhill], have for
sale, new editions of these neat and valua-
ble School Books.

For sale by Cummings, Hilliard, & Co.
Boston; William Hilliard, Cambridge;
Gray, Childs, & Co. and J. W. Foster, The English Teacher contains all the
Portsmouth; B. Perkins, Hanover; W. Rules, Notes, and important Observations
Hyde, Portland; Bliss & White, and Car-in Murray's large Grammar, which are in-
vill, New York; A. Small, and Cary & troduced in their proper places, and united
Lea, Philadelphia; E. Mickle, Baltimore; with the Exercises and Key in perpendicu-
Pishey Thompson, Washington; and S. lar collateral columns, which show intui-
Babcock & Co., Charleston, S. C.
tively both the errors and corrections

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