his fellow men. Vanity and self-contempt are, we think, alike unnatural. They are the extremes into which diffidence and self-respect are liable to lead us. We praise or condemn the efforts of other persons according as they exceed or fall below this supposed level of our own equality. But in cases in which we can have had no experience of a similar kind, although we may undoubtedly form a private opinion, yet we should not take it upon us to give a public decision. It so happens however, that in these days of enlightening, there are few persons who do not consider themselves entitled to a place on the roll of the brethren of the quill, and this is their defence, their apology for attacking each other; and, setting envy out of the question, they will judge according to the above mentioned principles of human nature. They will consider in the discussion of new publications, whether it would have been a matter of ease or difficulty to have accomplished any work of a similar sort. They will examine whether such numbers would have flowed easily or labored sluggishly from their own train, and accordingly will be their sentence. They will of course leave out of the question the different power of mind between themselves and the object of their examination. They will perhaps be candid enough to admit that the difference exists, but console their pride by saying that it is in degree only, and not in kind. And they are right. He who has gained the summit of Parnassus is warmed by the same sun of genius that sheds its rays upon his humbler brother who is toiling at its first ascent. The only inequality consists in the varied power which the genial ray will have upon him who, standing in the higher and purer atmosphere, feels its full influence, and upon him whom it can only reach after passing through the obscurity of the clouds and mists which encircle and darken this nether earth. But with all these differences of situation, the two extremes of dulness and intellect are sometimes brought to a fancied level. Every man who ever pretended to the name of "scholar," however Boeotian may have been his intellect, has at times poured something from his thoughts currente calamo; and the most brilliant minds are sometimes compelled to ponder for hours over a pamphlet intended but to apply to the fleeting passions and prejudices of the day. The resemblance too between the effusions of talent and the dross of stupidity may be striking; as strong points of similarity may frequently be found between the most contemptible and the most exalted objects in existence. Such are the materials and such the causes of most of the newspaper censures on modern literature.

Ill-natured criticism however will not do much harm. If worth noticing at all, it will attract public attention to the object of its malignity, and the truth will become more certain. There is not that barrenness in modern literature which paragraph-mongers would

have us to suppose. The poetry, the song of the present day is not unworthy of the times or the pens of our fathers in literature. The spirit of Apollo is still a quickening one among us. The mind of man is a soil as productive of the noble and beautiful as ever-perhaps more so. It has been improved by the experience of past ages, and if fault there be, it is owing to its increasing fertility, rather than to its barrenness, that luxuriant weeds and inferior vegetation have sprung up and covered from the view of superficial observers the gay flowers and rich harvest which lie beneath them.

K. K.

66

SUGGESTED BY FISHER'S PICTURE OF THE OUTLET."

THE Painter slumber'd with a summer wind
Blowing upon his cheek, and in his ear

The lulling changes of a running brook,
That from his feet crept glidingly away.

By him the loose leaves lay whereon were dash'd
His rapid pencillings, for he had been
Looking on nature with his earnest eye,
Since the first blush of daylight, and her spells
Had wiled him on unconsciously till noon
Came stealing on his weariness with sleep.
"Twas but to dream. The waking ravishment
Of form and color with a looser chain
Lay on his slumber, and the beautiful things,
Ever the same upon the waking eye,
Changed in the phantom likenesses of sleep,
And, with the grace of fancy, into fair
Sweet pictures of his own creation fell.

They were all scenes of summer.

One was there

Rich in the fullness of the leafy June.

The mountains in the distance caught the light

With a voluptuous mellowness shed down

Through the cleft openings of a sky of cloud,

And, in a lap of a delicious green,

Water, bright water, like a mirror lay,
Spreading its silver bosom to the hills,
And mocking like reality the slopes
Upon its edges, and the indolent curl

Of smoke, ascending from the hunter's fire.
Declivities luxuriant with all

The summer's wealth on either side arose,
And, in the midst, reposing in a soft

And delicate light, a nearer landscape lay,
Drawn with the witchery of a master skill.

A stream cours'd through it rapidly, whose banks
Clusters of maples shadow'd, and the cool,
Living transparence of its troubled wave
Fell with a sense of bathing on the eye.

A group of girls upon its margent stood,
Startled by passing hunters, and the dogs

Cours'd through the emerald grass, and the tall trees
Lifted their massy foliage to the sky,

And every leaf look'd stirring, and the dash
Of the swift waves was almost audible.
And so the dream departed, and a smile
Stole o'er the painter's countenance, and then
He settled to his rest and dream'd again.

THE EXILE.

"I will a round unvarnished tale deliver."

THE French Revolution threw upon our shores many interesting varieties of the French character. Equality of rights seemed, in those times, to have produced nothing but an equality of wrongs. Emigration was the only remedy that offered to the possessors of light heels and heavy hearts, and, while the train of exiles was swelled by dukes and princes of the blood, it was often marshalled along by valets and dancing masters. Nor was this medley unnatural. The efforts of the agitators were directed to the prostration of the old system, whether upheld in the drawing rooms of Versailles, or suspected in the coffee houses of Paris. Thus it often happened, that the humblest citizens, whose opinions were favorable to the ancient state of things, became, from that circumstance, the objects of proscription. A breath, a whisper for the royal cause, turned the scales of the French goddess, while the disturber of their equipoise felt at the same instant the point of her sword pressing rudely against his breast. A thoughtless expression, often gave a man the most fatal celebrity. The mouth that one moment was stretched with laughter, at the next, 'grinned horribly' upon the bloody pike. Flight was therefore the only security left the unfortunate, and the asylum of the oppressed' received its due proportion of the unhappy. Once safe however, and those who had escaped the scene of tragedy, were soon figuring in broad farce or pleasant comedy. The valet who found that our sympathy was graduated by the scale of rank, assumed the name and bearing of his master. His master often finding it impossible to establish his own identity, quietly took up with his own family name, abandoned its

titles, and retreated from further observation. Many ludicrous scenes, many pathetic incidents attended this bouleversement. When, as we sometimes thought, our tears were flowing for the last of a noble line, we afterwards discovered that they had fallen for the woes of a wandering fiddler; and, on the other hand, while we were undergoing the process of a course of French lessons, it was perhaps an Orleans or Dubreisl who was teaching us the story of Telemachus. The lovely Charlotte Le Blanc had well nigh given her hand and fortune to a well dressed lacquey; and our unfortunate friend Count Fortbien, sans credit at his lodging house, accepted with gratitude the heart and home of a rustic heiress.

The incidents we are about to relate are rather of a simpler character than usual, and yet they may amuse those readers, even in this age of startling romance, who retain some quiet corner of their hearts for sympathy and feeling.

As is well known, the Oneida lake was in the direct route of communication between Schenectada and the western waters. The adoption of the policy of the immortal Clinton, and the substitution of a safe and artificial navigation, have almost effaced the recollection of the former tedious mode of travelling. It was a great relief however to the boatmen, when the sinuosities of Wood Creek were safely threaded, and the Lake opened upon their view. All was pleasure, when the merry breeze relieved the crews from labor, and carried them cheerily along the verdant shores and beautiful islands of the Oneida.

At the time of our tale, a neat cabin had risen as if by magic upon one of these oases of the watery waste. Its inmates became at once the objects of speculation and curiosity. A light canoe always lying at the water's edge indicated the fact that its owner was in correspondence with the inhabitants of the main shore, and the shrill voice of a hound was often heard, waking the sleeping echoes in the distant woodlands. Some navigators had sailed, accidentally or designedly, we know not which, so near the island as to have observed much more. They had seen a young woman of surpassing beauty, and habited in a foreign garb, laboring with her own hands, in a little garden. They also reported that the lively notes of a violin were not unfrequently heard by those who had passed by at the hour of nightfall. These circumstances came to the knowledge of a gentleman whose business had called him in that direction, and by their singularity they induced him to pay the island an immediate visit. Motives, honorable to his heart, prompted him to offer his services to its occupants, if upon examination he should find that they were worthy of that attention. Leaving his batteau in a neighboring cove, he went off alone in a skiff, and landed at a short distance from the door of the cabin. The faithful

hound gave tongue as he approached, and, as he pleasantly described it-" with a foreign accent." In an instant, a youthful looking man, came out with a fusee in his hand, surprise painted on every feature. A female more beautiful than words can describe, rushed after him and caught his arm. "Oh," said the islander, scanning his visitor

from head to foot-"Mille pardons! Monsieur, nos malheurs, ils nous ont rendus craintifs."—" En verite," added the lady, with a smile playing about her mouth, "c'est ma faute Monsieur. Je suis sa gardienne ""Gardienne tutelaire! Madame !" replied the stranger, "And I must beg pardon," he continued, in French, "for interrupting the quiet of your charming retreat. I am fearful, removed as you are from the comforts and enjoyments of social life, that you have sometimes regretted the pleasures of former days. Can I be of any service to you? I am Mr. L of C and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be useful to you. Would to God, I could be as fortunate in tracing the footsteps of one family who since their arrival in America, have completely evaded my pursuit. But pray, whom have I the honor of addressing?" The young man seized his hand, and with the air of one accustomed to courts, presented him gaily to the lady, as, "La Dame du Lac, mais autrefois, la Comtesse Genevieve St. Hilary !" "Heavens!" cried the stranger, 66 can it be possible? Do I indeed behold the daughter of Clairmont? Is it in the wilds of America, that the Belle of the Quartier St. Germain holds her levée? The lady and her husband looked astonished. "Do you not remember me?" said the gentleman; "have you forgotten the Champs Elysées and the fête given in honor of your birth day in which I participated so largely as your father's American friend. Thank Heaven I have found you at last, and yet how strange are the circumstances that have brought me hither."

The lady seemed awakened from a dream, but instead of returning the cordial pressure of the stranger's hand, threw herself upon her husband's arm and wept. "Ah mes amis !" cried she, "Ah chere France! Adieu, Je ne te reverai jamais—tout est perdu-tout est perdu!" The husband while he endeavored to soothe her distress, overwhelmed the stranger with his thanks, and the latter "albeit unused to the melting mood," found the plaintive tones of her voice, and the unaffected expressions of her grief followed in spite of himself by some natural tears. At this moment the awkwardness of the scene was relieved by the young man's entreaties, that he would accompany them to the hut. As they moved onward, the stranger intimated as delicately as possible his plan for their immediate removal. He enlarged upon his obligations of gratitude to the father of the fair Genevieve, at the same time representing the necessity of their accepting his offers, as a matter not admitting even a discussion. The conversation was for a time interrupted as they reached the door of the cabin.

The Countess, stepping lightly before, received them as they entered. "I am ashamed," said she, "to have behaved so rudely; but here I throw away my griefs, to play the lady mistress of this hotel. You are welcome, my dear friend, although our mansion is somewhat straightened since you were last a guest of the family. But sit down, and give me an account of the strange occurrence which brings you to the Island. Quel miracle vous amène donc ici, Monsieur."