Once, once I was a boy,

And then I never wished that life should last; For every season as it past

The Summer's zephyr and the Winter's blast-
Brought me but joy-

The happiness of heart that knoweth no alloy.
When ended Winter's elemental strife,
And Nature basked again in the sun's beam,
I'd lay me down beside the frozen stream,
And watch it melt, and melt, and pass away,
A little every day—

Then lift my voice and join again in play,
Nor ever thought that it was like to life.
And in the Summer, from the thunder storm
When I sat down beneath the spreading tree,
Oft would I spy a leaf on which the worm
Was working silently;

For that the Summer's sun, the Summer's rain,
"The gentle dew from heaven," were all, all vain,
It withered, and still withered hour by hour,
Till by and by, in the years' veriest pride,
All vanquished by a slow, resistless power;
It passed away and died.

I gazed upon the innocent and fair

Joyed in their presence, sunned me in their smile,
Leapt at their voices; but ne'er thought the while
To read a lesson there.

But now, in every whisper of the wind
That bows the cedars upon yon far hill,
That ruffles now the lake, so calm, so still;
In every lily, every daffodil,

I read a ruling Mind.

I read it in the budding of the flower

I read it in the glimmering of the star—
I read it in the fever's fearful power-

In pestilence, in misery, in war—

In the slave's fetter, and the conqueror's car;

I read it in each lineament and line

Of the fair face that I have called divine

Divine-ay, and it is to me,

For written in those features I may see

The germ and promise of divinity;

But Mary, I was never worthy thee,

And I may ne'er be thine.

May He go with thee, fair one, He whose hand
Guideth the swallows flight from land to land;
May He so guide thee through life's dangerous way,
And bring thee scathless, stainless, to that shore
Where we shall meet in everlasting day,

To sin and weep no more.

March 6, 1830.

VOL. II.....NO. VIII.

69

P.

MY BOOKS AND MY OPINIONS.....No. I.

I AM One of those, Mr. Editor, who always read with their pencil in their hands; now, marking passages for quotation; now, selecting page after page for their scrap-books; and now, writing down their opinions of the merits or demerits of the author, or the work they may chance to be perusing. This has become so fastly fixed a habit with me now, that few of my friends will lend me books, because, they say, I am apt to scribble upon their margins, and thus deface them forever, as if a little caoutchouc would not remove the temporary mark. The keepers of the Circulating Libraries complain, too, bitterly; and, having the reputation of a scribbler in this way, I am forced at length to bear the blame of all this sort of sin, be it in reality perpetrated by whomsoever it may, within the reach of the aforesaid Libraries' influence. Still, the habit is unconquerable; and as I never shall, inasmuch as I never wish nor intend to overcome it, there may as well be an end at once of all further remonstrance or complaint; and you, my worthy friend, shall occasionally have the benefit of this propensity, as far as the passages I select are worthy of your notice, or the works extracted from, of your perusal.

I have many of these scribblings lying at loose ends in my port-folio, and out of the accumulated mass, I select two or three as a specimen of the rest. If you like them, so—and if not, why, 'so,' again!

AMBROSIO, OR THE MONK. By Mr. G. Lewis. This book of horrors I read from curiosity. It excited much remark when it appeared. It discovers great perversion of considerable fancy; but the thickening plots, loathsome, ghastly, supernatural appearances, and an interest resting entirely on those who are distinguished for vices, at least ;-the flimsiness, German affectation, and slovenliness of the style, make it a book which few could read with safety, and none without disgust. Lady Macbeth's single midnight walk is worth a thousand mawkish tales like this. Yet I do not pretend that there are no traces of genius in Ambrosio himself. Indeed, that conception of character is worth a more favorable notice. And the plot is curiously interwoven, without being intolerably perplexed. (1827.)

MELMOTH, THE WANDERER. By Maturin. Full of most eloquent descriptions of passion, tremendous exhibitions of vice, and intensely horrible throughout. There are incidents borrowed from the "Monk," or resemblances to it; but the

language and eloquence could not be borrowed-for our literature has none like it to lend. It is the most miraculous effort of the wildest fiction of any age; and sustained, from beginning to end, with equal beauty and force. (1825.)

MAN OF FEELING. By McKenzie. A soothing work of considerable genius. I think I was the better, I know I was the wiser for reading it; and I am equally sure that I was made happier by its perusal. The style is graceful and simple, but not always correct and perspicuous. (1829.)

MARINO FALIERO. Byron. A most dull, prosaic thing, unworthy, I think, of his genius. (1828.)

TRAVELS OF LEMUEL GULLIVER. By Dean Swift. These are monuments of great invention, but of greater judgment and art. Swift is the only successful writer, among those I have read who attempt to narrate impossibilities in the language, and to gain the credit of truth. Nothing but an impossibility of the facts narrated, (in every place, and purposely and absolutely called before the mind,) could prevent the highest degree of credibility from being attached to a narrative, with every other character of excellence consistent throughout. If the story were this side of impossibility, the style would gain them credence. The humor consists in this admirably sustained, contrast; and into the plan of the story the most ludicrous circumstances are woven with the greatest adroitness. It was surely no small effort of genius to transfer one's self, and to become so domesticated, into worlds of such proportions, hiding all feeling of the ludicrousness of the circumstances; or, at least, affecting the downright nonchalant manner of conscientious writing, which is never thrown off its guard. In Lilliput, I cannot think that Swift aimed chiefly at satire. Amusement is most plainly the end, and to have completely effected it by such an effort, is no small praise. I do not mean by this, that amusement which it gave me as a child, but that afforded by applying a telescope inverted to manners as well as figures, and keeping the proportions with that wonderful exactness. The same is true of Brobdingnag, the satirical part of which, to my view, is but secondary. But in Laputa are the finest caricatures of speculative wisdom in opposition to plain sense, which the language can boast. And in the Houhynmhns, the severity and truth (although the somewhat disgusting indecency) of the satire-the wise views of governments, customs and professions-the developement of all that acts behind all human scenes—and of the sources and effects of all sorts of human weakness and vice, present Swift to my mind, as the very Juvenal of our language, to whom the

poetical brethren who followed him cannot, in a single point, be honorably compared. It is in vain to reduce Swift to the level of ordinary writers. He is occasionally lamentably gross, or is pitiably true; but he unites more striking excellencies of art and genius, than any writer of his time, (as far as I can pretend to be a judge,) even if compared with Bolingbroke, Pope and Addison. (1830.)

MARRIAGE a Novel. Anonymous. A book read upon the recommendation of the author of Waverley, at the close of one of his early novels, I forget which. It contains a great variety of female portraits, the names of some of which are peculiarly euphonous; ex. gr. Misses Grizzy, Jacky and Nicky Douglass, &c. &c. It is written chastely, and with spirit, holding up a mirror in which many every-day characters are faithfully reflected, and at the same time illustrating a very fine moral. Undoubtedly (judging by the style) the author is a woman. (1829.)

LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW, 182-[I have forgotten the number in which was contained the following memorandum, or rather from which I must have obtained the material therefor. I therefore give it as it stands among my scraps.] It seems from this well written article upon O'Meara, that the aspersion upon the character of Maria Antoinette, given by O'M. on the alleged authority of Bonaparte, who is said to have received it from Mad. Campan, is absolutely false. The reviewers mention several facts diminishing very much the worth of this witness. They also insist that Bonaparte was, in reality, born in 1765, and pretended to have been born in 1769, because in the last named year Corsica was annexed to France. The character of Napoleon, in this Review, is sketched with great severity. (1827.)

LAS CASAS' JOURNAL. I allude to this work only to note a curious discrepancy between the statements said to have been made by Napoleon concerning the poisoning of the. invalid soldiers at Jaffa, and the author of the book above named. [I had to pay almost the price of the book at the Library, as penalty for marking passages in it for selection. mem.] It has been charged upon Napoleon that at Jaffa he poisoned sixty invalids, by way of ridding himself of these useless cumberers of his march. Marshal Betrand believed it, says Las Casas, up to the time of his residence at St. Helena. Bonaparte declares that the invalids who were infected with the plague were only seven in number. Entirely disagreeing with this is what Las Casas alleges to have been ascertained on his return, by himself, who asserts that they were twenty.