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When look, emotion, tone, are all combined-
When the whole man is eloquent with mind-
A power that comes not to the call or quest,
But from the gifted soul, and the deep feeling breast.

Poor Logan had it, when he mourned that none
Were left to mourn for him;-'twas his who swayed
The Roman Senate by a look or tone;

'Twas the Athenian's, when his foes, dismayed,
Shrunk from the earthquake of his trumpet call;
'Twas Chathams, strong as either, or as all;
'Twas Henry's holiest, when his spirit woke
Our patriot fathers' zeal to burst the British yoke.'

Perhaps the following is the best extract, of equal length, that could be made from the pamphlet; and with this we will take leave of it.

66 EARLY TIMES IN THE WEST.".

Here once Boone trod the hardy Pioneer-
The only white man in the wilderness:
Oh! how he loved, alone, to hunt the deer,
Alone at eve, his simple meal to dress:
No mark upon the. tree, nor print, nor track,
To lead him forward, or to guide him back:
He roved the forest, king by main and might,
And looked up to the sky and shaped his course aright.

That mountain, there, that lifts its bald high head.
Above the forest, was, perchance, his throne;
There has he stood and marked the woods out spread,
Like a great kingdom, that was all his own;
In hunting shirt and moccasins arrayed,

With bear-skin cap, and pouch, and needful blade.
How carelessly he leaned upon his gun!

That sceptre of the wild, that had so often won.

Those western Pioneers an impulse felt,
Which their less hardy sons scarce comprehend;
Alone, in Nature's wildest scenes they dwelt;
Where crag, and precipice, and torrent blend,
And stretched around the wilderness, as rude
As the red rovers of its solitude,

Who watched their coming with a hate profound,
And fought with deadly strife for every inch of ground.

To shun a greater ill sought they the wild?
No, they left happier lands behind them far,
And brought the nursing mother and her child
To share the dangers of the border war;

The log-built cabin from the Indian barred,
Their little boy, perchance, kept watch and ward,
While Father ploughed with rifle at his back,

Or sought the glutted foe through many a devious track,

How cautiously, yet fearlessly, that boy

Would search the forest for the wild beast's lair,
And lift his rifle with a hurried joy,

If chance he spied the Indian lurking there:
And should they bear him prisoner from the fight,
While they are sleeping, in the dead midnight,
He slips the thongs that bind him to the tree,
And leaving death with them, bounds home right happily.

Before the mother, bursting through the door,
The redman rushes where her infants rest;

Oh God! he hurls them on the cabin floor!

While she, down kneeling, clasps them to her breast.
How he exults and revels in her woe,

And lifts the weapon, yet delays the blow;
Ha! that report! behold! he reels! he dies!
And quickly to her arms the husband-father-flies.

In the long winter eve, their cabin fast,
The big logs blazing in the chimney wide-
They'd hear the Indian howling, or the blast,
And deem themselves in castellated pride;
Then would the fearless warrior disclose
Most strange adventures with his sylvan foes,
Of how his arts did over their's prevail,
And how he followed far upon their bloody trail.

Several of Mr. Thomas' shorter poems, are very beautiful; and we recollect to have frequently admired one or two of his songs, which have been set to music, as we heard them from the sweet lips of a fair pianist. We present the following stanzas, as a favorable specimen of his miscellaneous pieces.

STANZAS.

I've thought in many a dreaming hour,
If I could win the voice of fame-
The wreath without a fading flower,
That gathers round a glorious name:
That come what might I should be blest,
The gay, the fair, might take the rest.

That woman's smile should but attract,
Like music at the gorgeous play-
Given between each passing act,
To wile the tedious time away-

That when the scene employed my care,
I'd heed not how she went, or where.

E'en as the boy who takes the bird;
And loves to mark its panting breast,
And breathes it many a pretty word,
And gives it all that birds love best,-
With woman thus I thought to play,
Then wearied, let her flee away.

That wish for fame, is but a dream,
Which only in my dreams can live,
And could I realize the theme!

What could its frail possession give?
The bird! alas! her notes I've heard-
Oh that I now, could win the bird.

She should my every thought engage-
"Twould be my joy to hear her sing-
And keep her in a willing cage,

And of my heart, I'd make the string,-
Then Lady bird we could not part,

But with a seared and broken heart.

ART. VIII.-WESTERN PREACHERS.-No. I.

HENRY B. BASCOM.

Acquaintances with individual characters are formed very much as their owners are pleased to reveal themselves to us. We seem to penetrate the remotest arcana of some natures with a glance; while others are shrouded from our observations in doubts and mysteries. But wherever there is any very striking peculiarity about an individual, it becomes part and parcel of his nature, and his hypocrisy must indeed be consummate, if he can veil it from our view. The prominences of human character, like the prominences of a landscape, are discovered immediately, while the more retired and less distinct portions, require a closer observation.

We have made these remarks in advance, for the purpose of parrying the charge of presumption which may be brought against us, for forming an opinion of an individual, anterior to the establishment of a familiar acquaintance with him.

We

have heard Mr. Bascom but on two occasions, yet we fancy ourselves as competent to form an estimate of his powers, as though we had listened to him full two score times. Now, be it understood that Mr. Bascom has many striking points about him which present themselves immediately to the eye of the spectator, and from these we judge. And, farther, Mr. Bascom is in the habit of making efforts to exhibit his energies, and it must be acknowledged, that he is eminently successful in making a complete revelation of all the mysteries of his mind and heart, on such occasions.

Sabbath eve is down upon the earth, and the bells are calling the worshippers to their several temples. The streets in the vicinity of the Methodist Church, on Fifth street, display eager throngs, for it has been announced that a gentleman of celebrity is to preach in that church, on this evening. Mr. Bascom is always greeted by a numerous auditory, when it is know that he is to hold forth in Cincinnati. The hurry with which the multitude presses forward, is an evidence of an intense desire to hear him, whose reputation for oratorical power, stands high with the majority of our citizens. We have now arrived at the church-we are fortunate in getting a seat for although the hour is early, nearly every seat within this spacious building has a tenant. Crowds throng the aisles, and hundreds return home, not being able to get even a sight of the man whom they desire to hear.

He prays. We do not like his manner in prayer; and his voice lacks that deep pathos which siezes hold of the heart, and wraps about it the fervor of devotional feeling. He tosses his head backwards and forwards with an incessant sawing, which, but for the occasion, would partake more of the ludicrous, than of solemnity. He speaks too rapidly, his tones are too conversational,-for a service of such deep concern as prayer and it is evident that the feelings of his brethren are not so thoroughly wrought upon, as when listening to inferior preachers, for they respond but coldly to his most impassioned intonations.

He reads a hymn with an unconcerned manner, and a careless tone. He is as bad a reader of other men's poetry, as Corneille was of his own.

Again he rises. With a white kerchief he brushes his brow, and now places the cambric on the pulpit beside the bible. Hark! he pronounces his text. His exordium, though moulded on a good model, is not particularly striking. He divides his sermon into three heads-three doses after the prescription of Doctor Blair, with a manner which promises

to expurgate sin. He repeats his first proposition, and proceeds hastily to his comments. His first remark is a profound truth, well expressed. He waxes warm, and now his gestures and manner. concentrate the attention of the audience. Every sound is hushed, save the voice of the speaker. Sentence follows sentence in rapid succession. Occasionally there is a break in his fluency, which is very unhappy-a stream, which after leaping headlong from rock to rock, is suddenly impeded, and for a minute progresses lazily along.But he regains his fluency, and hurries onward. His body is thrown into a variety of the most commanding attitudes, and his arms have a gracefulness of action, but rarely surpassed. Now his fancy is fog-wrapped, and an image shows but dimly through the mists-again he threads the mazes of the metaphysical subtleties of the schools-and now he presents a metaphor warm, shining, beautiful and appropriate.

So much for the outline of his manner, and now for the matter of his discourse. The fault of his style is its exceeding bombast, as his manner sometimes partakes of pomposity. "Words of learned length and thundering sound," abound-a sin in the estimation of classical elegance and criticism.Many of his ideas seem to shrink to pigmy-like proportions, as if in awe of the thundering sounds' which roll around them. His metaphors frequently appear mere tinsel, because of glittering words which were meant for ornaments. ranges above the tasteful mien of intelligent conversation, in the choice of his language, and therein sins against the canons of good taste, and common sense.. There is too much soaring pride, manifested in his references to authorities, and quotations-and when thus engaged, he reminds us of that. unfortunate person, whom the Roman emperor consigned to death, because he had a pedantic expression of face.

He

But his discourse is not merely noticeable from its errors; for in it are deep philosophy, potent argument, felicitous illustration, and brilliant metaphors in abundance. Mr. Bascom's mind is rather remarkable for the elegance of its associations, than for original opulence; and if he would scrupulously avoid the too frequent repetition of such words as 'constellation' spangled' 'effulgence' magnificence,' and everything else which rhymes with grandiloquence, he would win more admiration from cultivated understandings. Some of his metaphors manifest an almost unlimited faculty of combination, which under a discriminating eye, might be rendered highly effective: as it is, there is a prodigality of splendor lavished, to the confounding of his meaning. His imagin