This shall end them! His soul is sanguine; his grief evanescent; the clouds that darkened the horizon of life, give way in succession to sun-shine and a clear sky; his mind recovers its elasticity, and finally it triumphs.

The old lady at the boarding-house, informed me that she hardly knew what to make of Mr. George; sometimes he would be sociable, and chat round the parlour fire with the rest of her boarders; but that oftener he shut himself in his chamber, and pored over an outlandish book; or, wandering alone in the woods, was overheard talking to himself. Alas! for the simplicity of the woman! She little knew the enjoyments of a cultivated mind, or the delight a poet felt in courting the silence of solitude, and muttering his wayward fancies as he roved through the fields.

It, however, appeared to me, that Mr. George was not so enamoured of the Muses, but that he had an eye for a fair creature, who lived within a few doors of his lodgings. He manifested, I thought, strong symptoms of being in love. He delighted in the perusal of the Sorrows of Werter, perfumed his handkerchief with lavender, brushed his hat of a morning, and went every Sunday to church.

Mr. George had a supreme contempt for American genius and American literature. In a sportive mood, he would ask me whether I did not think that it was some physical cause in

the air, which denied existence to a poet on American ground. No snake, said he, exists in Ireland, and no poet can be found in America.*

You are too severe, said I, in your strictures. This country, as a native author observes, can furnish her quota of poets.

Name, will you, one?

Is not Dwight, a candidate for the epic crown? Is he, Sir, not a poet?

I think not. He wants imagination, and he also wants judgment; Sir, he makes the shield of Joshua to mock the rising sun.

Is not Barlow a poet? Is not his Vision of Columbus a fine poem?

The opening is elevated; the rest is read without emotion.

What think you of Freneau?

Freneau has one good ode: Happy the Man who safe on shore! But he is voluminous; and this ode may be likened to the grain in the bushel of chaff.

[* Dr. Schoepf, a very discriminating traveller and a man of high accomplishments, remarks, Vol. I, p. 128,-" Amerika hat seine Genies, so gut wie die alte Welt; in seiner bisherigen Lage und Verfassung aber, da Handel und Ackerbau ein leichteres und reichlicheres Auskommen gewährten, blieben sie unerkannt und unentwickelt." Vol. II, p. 332, “Der nun eben geendigte Krieg hat bereits verschiedene Männer von Wichtigkeit, und von so entschiedenen Talenten, in Thätigkeit gesezet dass America gewissermassen auch von der Seite der Gelehrsamkeit gewonnen hat." Vol. II, p. 336, "Genies sind in Amerika so gut zu Hause, als in der alten Welt, und sie werden mit der Zeit sich gegen jene messen."]

What is your opinion of Trumbull?

He can only claim the merit of being a skilful imitator.

Well, what think you of Humphreys?

Sir, his mind is neither ductile to sentiment, nor is his ear susceptible to harmony. What opinion do you entertain of Honeywood?*

I have read some of his wretched rhymes, The bees, as is fabled of Pindar, never sucked honey from his lips.

Of the existence of an American poet, I perceive, Sir, your mind is rather skeptical. But, I hope, you will allow that America abounds with good prose.

Yes, sir; but, then, mind me, it is imported from the shores of Great Britain.

Oh! monstrous! Is not Dennie a good prose-writer?

Sir, the pleasure that otherwise I should find in Dennie, is soon accompanied with satiety by his unexampled quaintness.

Of Brown, Sir, what is your opinion?

The style of Brown, Sir, is chastised, and he is scrupulously pure. But nature has utterly disqualified him for subjects of humour. Whenever he endeavours to bring forth hu

[The poets by the classicist dismissed are,-President Dwight (1752-1817), Joel Barlow (1755-1812), Philip Freneau, (1752-1832), Col. David Humphreys, (1753-1818), St. John Honeywood (1764-1798); notices of whose work are to be found in the first volume of Duyckinck's Cyclopædia.]

mour, the offspring of his throes are weakness and deformity. Whenever he attempts humour, he inspires the benevolent with pity, and fills the morose with indignation.

What think you of the style of Johnson, the Reviewer?

It is not English that he writes, Sir; it is American. His periods are accompanied by a yell, that is scarcely less dismal than the warhoop of a Mohawk.

George-Town is built on the South bank of Sampit river; the houses are handsome, and the little streets intersect each other at right angles. But so lovely are the women, that, had this place existed in an age of antiquity, it would not have been said that Venus fixed her abode at Cytherea.

The academy at George-Town is under the direction of Mr. Spierin, an Irish clergyman of the episcopal persuasion; a man profoundly versed in the languages of Greece and Rome, not unconversant with the delicacies of the English, and a powerful preacher.

I was delighted with Mr. Spierin's eldest boy. This little fellow, always followed his cousin (Mr. George) to his room, and took more pleasure in hearing the bard repeat to him his compositions than in listening to the talk of the boarders, whose topic was either horse-racing, cock-fighting, or gunning.

I make the same use of this boy, said Mr.

George to me, that Moliere did of his old house-keeper. His feelings are not perverted by the subtilties of criticism; his mind so tender, has acquired no fastidiousness from cultivation; and what charms the boy will charm also the multitude.

I wish, cousin, said the boy, you would read me that poem again about Papa and Doctor who went over to Waccamaw to a ball, and, when they got there, found they could not dance.

What, George, said I, have you been satirizing your uncle! the most learned of the Professors! and has not Doctor escaped your lash; the man who instituted and supports your academy!

Sir, said my friend, whatever may be their attributes, they ruined our dance; nor could the laughter they provoked atone for the time they made us lose.

Do, cousin, said the boy, let me read the poem to this gentleman. It is so funny!-My friend put his manuscript into the boy's hand, who read it aloud.

THE DANCING PHILOSOPHERS.
WHAT dire events from trivial causes rise,
Mirth to the gay, but satire to the wise.

I sing, two chiefs, who lately pass'd the floods,
To Waccamaw's wide wastes and piney woods;
Invited to partake the soft delight

Of festive dance, and hymeneal rite;