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Bear the inmates-hope is riven;—

But the sybil now is sailing On the fire flashing wings of the merciless storm, Though gale and surge are wildly wailing The last dirge of Arva, of the paragon form; And the beauty's golden tresses

Mark her form on the phosphoric billows of night, And, anon, a father blesses

His relic of pleasure, and her guardian bright. From some transitory gleams, a sort of twilight of cominon sense, which glimmered in three or four pieces in the "Poems," it seemed possible that Mr Fairfield, whose zeal was very apparent, might in time come to write tolerable poetry. On the sight of the "Lays of Melpomene," we abandoned this supposition; the sucking butterflies, spoken of in the following extract quite overcame us, and we cordially joined the author in the exclamation at the close.

To gain a name, and be the thing the world
Mimics and mocks, delights in and deludes,
Dooms to despair, and destines for the fane
Of fame; to feel the butterflies of earth
Sucking the essence of almighty thought
To sate and gorge themselves withal;-to be
The vassal camel of a mental waste
Toiling for things detestable, who love
To goad with gilded lances creatures formed
To elevate their honour, and to hear

Groans wrung from bleeding hearts:-to toil and sigh

'Mid vigils of strained thought, and feel the breath Of waking nature stealing o'er the fires

Of the hot brain, and hear the morning air
Chant matin minstrelsy to hopeless woe,
Mocking the spirit's ear; to look abroad
O'er earth and heaven, and weave in sunny web
Thoughts pure and delicate, conceptions high,
Creations glorious, and fancies rich,

Threads spun in paradise and knit and linked
By magic skill of mighty intellect;

To think, toil, fancy thus, and yet to know That we but frame an Eden for base worms, Serpents of venom, reptiles foul, and things Beneath all name-'tis vile, oh, very vile! In many passages of this work we have been reminded of two noted productions; to wit, Nat. Lee's elegiac verses, which he used to recite with much pomp of enunciation in Bedlam, and the Dirge of Drury, by Laura Matilda, in the "Rejected Addresses." We have been at the pains to mark a few parallel passages for the satisfaction of our readers. Lee's verses, if we remember rightly, began something in this wise;

Percy's Reliques; but comparing it with the
others around, we are compelled to believe
that Mr Fairfield wrote it in sad and sober
earnest mistaking rant for sublimity.
have not space for the whole, but assure
our readers that it is all alike.

Night, ebon night, veils every scene
Where oft we met and mingled souls-
Oh, that thy smiles had never been!
My pulse throbs wild, my mad brain rolls.
A burst of moonlight feeling gleams

O'er my fond heart's magnolia bower,
But niemory 'mid the bright flowers screams,
While Love weeps o'er the parting hour.
O'er life's perspective, dim and dun,

No gilding rays of orient glow,
My soul's gem-star, my fancy's sun,
Burns lurid in the vaults of woe.

Down-winged sylphs no longer dye

The pale dead rose of buried love; The air-wove forms of transport's eye Float not o'er sorrow's cypress grove.

Upon cerulean pinions borne,

'Mid opal waves of spheral light, O'er my dark spirit, lost, forlorn,

Comes one dear shade of dead delight.


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A kiss that dooms the soul to death?
The anguish of illuding guile?
The nectar upas of the breath?
Lays of Melpomene, p. 40.
Where is Cupid's crimson motion?
Billowy ecstacy of wo?
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow!
Drury's Dirge.
We must necessarily be short in our no-
tice of the "Sisters of St Clara." Such of
And Mr Fairfield, in more passages than our readers as have read the " Blank Book

Oh that my lungs would bleat like buttered peas,
And e'en with frequent bleatings burn and itch,
And grow as turbid as the irish seas,
To engender whirlwinds for a working witch!

we have room for, writes thus,

Methinks there is a mighty power within
My spirit, that I feel such glorious thoughts
Roll like sun-billows o'er my swelling brain,
The World, unthinking things, would call me mad!

* * * *

But Night, at man's unholy madness wroth,
And startled at his wassailry, arose
From her dark couch and shrieked so fearfully
To heaven that angels on each other gazed
In deep astonishment.

Had we met with the poem from page 36, to p. 40, of the Lays of Melpomene, any where else, we should have thought it to be an imitation of some of the mad-songs in

We now proceed to pluck a few flowers of poetry from this last production of Mr Fairfield; the first savours strongly of Laura Matilda.

The sun's last beam of purple light
Emblazons Calpe's castle height,
And over Lusitania's sea
Looks with a smile of melody.

Now we beg our readers to look at this, and consider it well.

The last beam of the sun's purple light looks with a smile of melody over Lusita nia's sea. What in the name of nonsense is "looking with a smile of melody?

And many a strain is heard from far
Of wandering lover's sweet guitar,
And in the songs he fondly sings
His glowing heart finds rainbow wings,
Which bear his soul's devoted love

To her who would his honour prove.

This we presume is highly metaphorical, but its meaning is too deep for us to fathom.

Within whose solitary cells

Tearless despair forever dwells,
And sin, beneath devotion's name,

Reposes in its sacred shame,

While deeds unweened by him of hell
Are done in murder's fatal cell.

This doubtless means that worse things were done in the convent than the devil ever thought of.

Feelings suppressed and thoughts untold
Flowed silently, like liquid gold,
O'er her fond heart, while virtue's sun
Threw glory o'er them as they run.

* * *

Oh, spirits that sail on the moonlight sea
Should have thoughts as vast as eternity,
And feelings as pure and happy as those
Rainbow-winged birds who can dwell in a rose,
For hearts full of grief, oh, never can be
Fond of sailing alone on a moonlight sea.

We are not so well acquainted with natural history as Mr Fairfield, but we believe we have seen these birds;-we always called them rose-bugs; but though their wings be streaked, it would require very poetical fancy to see the hues of the rainbow upon them.

Twas soft Campania's evening hour,
And earth and heaven were seas of light,
And Zulma in her rose-wove bower

Sate gazing on the horizon bright,

Where white clouds float and turn to gold,
Like garments in campeachy rolled,
And fancy pictures angel pinions

Far waving o'er those high dominions. Here again we are surpassed in chemical knowledge, as in other branches of science, by Mr Fairfield. We thought at first that as logwood was brought from Campeachy, and logwood made a blackish dye, it was an oversight of our author, and the lines should


Like garments in Brazil wood rolled;

of a Small Colleger," of which we gave a
notice a few numbers back, may remember
a story told there of two Portuguese Nuns.
We did not think that the best story in the
book, nor the best told. Such as it is, how-run thus,
ever, Mr Fairfield has thought fit to do it
into verse, by which process, it is absolute-
ly undone. The story is a short one; two
nuns attempted to elope from a convent-
one succeeded and the other was taken.
One was killed for the breach of her vow,
and her lover kills himself on the occasion;
and the other dies of grief because her lover
would not marry her, and he dies of grief
because she died.

Like clothes in Nicaragua rolled; but upon reflection, we concluded not to offer our emendation, lest we should have the mortification of hearing that Mr Fairfield had a patent for extracting yellow from a preparation of Campeachy wood.

lished variations of the verbs of that lan-, tion. Every auxiliary does it in the same
degree. Some of them require the omission
of the particle to, but it is still understood
or implied in the sense of the verb, whether
expressed or not.

Our grammars inform us, that "Mood is a particular form of the verb, showing the manner in which the being, action, or passion is represented." Mr Murray attempts to explain the nature of a mood, by saying, that it consists in the change which the verb undergoes, to signify the various intentions of the mind, and various modifications and circumstances of action."

We must stop here, pressed both by time space. It is with feelings of regret that we have thus performed our duty to the public in exposing the waste of time, paper, and printers' ink, consumed in these works. It is with feelings the reverse of aught unfriendly, that we beseech Mr Fairfield to write no more verses. Can it be probable, that he will ever gain fame by it, and is it not squandering what little talent he may possess in a pursuit worse than vain? If there be any thing that he can do of use to himself and society, let him turn himself to that ere it be too late; a poet, we may surely say, without exposing ourselves to a charge of presumptuous prophecy, he will never be, until his intellectual nature bemit of scarcely any change. To save the wholly changed. trouble of proving this, we request those who are interested in the inquiry, to go through the conjugation of a regular verb, In the next place. we say, that modes of and to mark all the changes which it admits. action are not denoted by the five moods of In naming the second person singular, we the verb. I walk, walk, I may walk, if I recommend that the familiar style be sub- walk, to walk, express no modes of the acstituted for the solemn, or Quaker style. tion of walking. This is so plainly a matter be called a mood, is in the termination of The "modifications and circumstances of acThe only variation which has any claim to of fact, that every grammarian must see it. the third person singular of the indicative tion" are commonly expressed by adverbs, present; where we say, he loveth or loves, or by nouns and prepositions: as I walk instead of love. Let the abettors of the fast, I walk with rapidity; he speaks fluentpresent system make the most of this soli-ly, he speaks with energy; he lives in a very tary variation; it will furnish them but an unhappy situation. incompetent and ludicrous reason for all their display of the conjugation of the verb through five moods.

Now it is certain that the above examples and a great number of others, do not come under the definition of any of the five moods; and yet they are as distinct in their character as important in their signification, and of as frequent occurrence, as those which A moment's consideration will show any are included under the common enumeration grammarian, that English verbs are not va- of moods. If the reader will pursue this inried to express these varieties of intention quiry, he will find that the five moods defined and action. The verbs of many other lan- in our grammars, do not express half of the guages are varied. but in English, they ad-"various intentions of the mind," and he cannot fail of remarking, that the verb undergoes little or no change in expressing any of them.


IN the first column of the article upon Buchanan's Sketches of the North American Indians, in our last number but one, the word "Miltiades" is printed for "Mithridates." We may mention, as an amusing coincidence, that precisely the same mistake occurs on the 66th page of the American edition of Medwin's Conversations of Lord Byron. In that instance, Byron is supposed to be speaking of the individuals, and converts the Athenian commander into the Pontic monarch, by the same error, which, in our review, miscalls Professor Adelung's great


We would also notice the omission of the proper signature, “j," to "The Gladiator,"

in the same number.


No. IV.

In a previous number, we promised to resume the subject of moods and tenses. It was our intention to offer some criticisms on the systems advanced in our grammars, encyclopædias, and philosophical treatises; but a critical examination of them, which we made some time ago, afforded so little useful information, and so few principles which we could esteem as correct, that our Jabour of reading was followed by a degree of disgust which we know not how to overcome; and we feel incapable of repeating the drudgery with any advantage to our selves or others. The most, therefore, that we shall attempt, will be to illustrate and apply the principle which we formerly stated, that the number of moods and tenses which should be recognised in the grammar of any language, is so many as are expressed by the regular and estab.

If it were true that the five moods, as formed with the help of auxiliaries, express all "the various intentions of the mind," and all the various modifications and circumstances of action;" or if they expressed nearly all these circumstances of intention and action, leaving only trifling exceptions; we should then admit that they ought to be retained in treatises on philosophical grammar. But the more we seek for any ground in the philosophy of language for this division into moods, the more apparent it will be, that no such ground exists. If the reader will be patient enough to follow us in the inquiry, we shall endeavour to show that very few of the common modes of intention and action are definitely expressed by what are termed the five moods of verbs; and that those modes of intention and action which either of the several moods of verbs is supposed to denote, are very frequently expressed by the other moods with equal precision. In the first place, let us inquire, whether the various intentions of the mind are designated by the several moods of verbs. Take, for example, the verb walk. By which of the moods are the following dispositions of the mind expressed? I desire to walk; I expect to walk; I am afraid to walk; I think of walking; I hope to walk. These are particular affections, dispositions, and intentions of the mind, in relation to the action, signified by the term walk; and they are distinctly expressed by the aid of auxiliaries. In the first example, for instance, the verb desire is the auxiliary; and why is it not as suitable an auxiliary as can or may? It may be said, that desire changes the verb to the infinitive mood. But this is a mere decep

Our last assertion was, that the changes and modifications of being, intention, and action, supposed to be expressed by either of the five moods, as formed by the common auxiliaries, are frequently expressed by the other moods with equal precision. We might add, that they are still more frequently denoted by other forms of expression, which do not come under the definition of either of the moods.

Take, for example, the following sentence. I think that I shall walk. This is in the indicative mood; but it is equally well expressed by the infinitive, I expect to walk, or I purpose to walk, or I intend to walk. So the imperative, walk, is expressed by the indicative, you shall walk; by the infinitive, I command you to walk; and by the potential, you must walk instantly. These examples might be multiplied indefinitely. In like manner, I can walk signifies no more nor less than, I have the ability to walk; the verb is the same in both cases; and can it be pretended, that the use of different auxiliaries changes the mood, while the sense and form of the verb remain the same? If so, what is the meaning of mood?

We do not see that any thing needs to be added against the common division and definition of English moods; for, if we mistake not, we have analyzed them fairly, and shown, that English verbs have no moods in form, that is, by variations of the verb, and that the ideas and intentions which verbs express, have an almost infinite number of modes, which are not comprehended under the definition of any of the five moods. We shall leave the subject here, till we learn some good reason for resuming it ;reserving our remarks on tenses for another number.



No. VI.
Edinburgh, November 8, 18-.


the unlucky village which had hitherto
eluded our researches, as it was very doubt-
ful whether we could obtain lodgings there.
We therefore once more wheeled about,
resolved to take up our quarters at the inn
which we had lately left. Ill fortune, how-
ever, had not done with us yet. When we
reached it the waiter informed us, that,
while we were tramping about after that
Will o' the wisp, Middleton, some gentle-
men had arrived and secured all the beds.
So we were once more turned adrift in the
mud, rain, and darkness, to seek for a house
about a mile distant, where there was a
possibility of some accommodation. This
we discovered between six and seven
o'clock, and were agreeably disappointed
to find it quite a tolerable place, where a
good fire and supper soon consoled us for
all our disasters-but whether Middleton
be an actually existing village, or not, we
are uncertain.

pile of picturesque ruins, where all around is still as the graves of the mighty, who slumber beneath, except from the occasional cawing of the rooks, that have fixed their residence about its buttresses and spires, and resent the intrusion of strangers into the precincts of their" ancient, solita ry reign." "We sat us down on a marble stone," with the monk of St Mary's aisle and William of Deloraine, and, as far as bodily vigor is concerned, B- is no bad resemblance of the knight, though the parallel would scarce hold, in regard to their respective companions.

The pillared arches were over our heads,
And beneath our feet were the bones of the dead,
while grotesque figures of all descriptions
grinned or frowned from every corbell and
projection around us.

formed us, that we had, by missing the miles further, on the banks of the Tweed, road, past the object of our pursuit. The and near the base of the Eildon hills, stand question which naturally arose in this the ruins of the lordly monastery of St case, was, whether to remain where we Mary; at the sight of which we forgot were, or to retrace our steps in search of alike the mist, the mud, and the pickled On leaving Dr Hope's room, after Middleton; the appearance of the house herrings, and hastened on to obtain a nearhis introductory lecture on Wedneday last, decided us in favour of the latter course, er view of this magnificent object. I was agreeably surprised to hear the mono- and we turned back accordingly. After We employed several hours in examinsyllabic agnomen by which I have been floundering in the mud for about a mile, we ing the remains of the abbey, which are usually designated, pronounced by a voice became sensible, from a sort of splashing worth a voyage across the Atlantic, were from among the crowd of students,-I turn-in our vicinity, that we were passing a mov-there nothing else to be seen in Britain. I ed, and exchanged greetings with B- -,ing object of some kind. It proved to be had never before conceived of the effect who had lately arrived from London. The a man, who advised us not to proceed to produced on the mind by such an immense pleasure I enjoyed at this encounter can only be conceived by those who have met, at an unexpected moment, with a familiar face in a strange land. As the lectures were, soon after their commencement, to be interrupted by the season of Holy Fair, we agreed to improve the opportunity for a pedestrian excursion to Melrose, which is about thirty-five miles to the southward. In pursuance of this plan we left Edinburgh last Thursday by the way of Salisbury Crags, and directed our course towards Libberton, a village which you will recollect as the residence of Reuben Butler. The preceding day had been rainy, the aspect of the present one was threatening, and the roads were vilely muddy; but we were not to be discouraged by such trifles as mud and rain. Our route, after passing Libberton kirk, which is about three miles distant from the city, lay by the Pentland, Braid, and Blackford hills; and our progress was but indifferent for some hours, for Bis a botanist, and was continually arrested by some weed or moss, which he was pleased to think interesting. Moreover, we wandered out of the direct road into the village of Lonehead, of which I know nothing remarkable, except that Baron courts are held there, or at least were so in the days of Bartoline Saddletree. From thence, by a cross road, we came to Laswade, where are the remains of an old kirk, of a very interesting appearance, but we could learn nothing of its history. Just beyond, we crossed the North Esk, and enjoyed some very picturesque views-one in particular of Melville Castle. Further on was Newbottle Abbey, the seat of the Marquis of Lothian, and here we passsed over another beautiful river, the South Esk. By this time it was past four o'clock, and, as the days are now very short, it began to grow dark. We had determined, at the outset, to stop for the night at Middleton, about twelve miles from Edinburgh,--and we had yet hardly accomplished ten. We turned our attention therefore from flowers and views, and pushed on as well as we might; which was not very well, as it soon became dark as Egypt, and miry as the Slough of Despond. We were not fated to reach Middleton that night, for my travels, like those of Johnie Hielandman from Crieff to London, are full of small adventures, and if there is a bad road, or a wrong road, I am pretty sure to happen upon it.

The aspect of the following morning was inauspicious. It rained violently, and there was every prospect of its continuing to do

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But the changeable nature of Scotch weather was now a point in our favour. It ceased to rain about eleven, and heroically determining to pursue our original plan, in defiance of mire, we sallied forth and soon reached the Galla-water (or river.) Our road lay along its banks, and was sufficiently solitary. We scarcely saw a house, or a human being, but there were many picturesque views and some interesting plants. The Galla is a pretty river, or, as we should call it, brook, which flows into the Tweed a few miles below Melrose. The weather was misty and the walking horrible; but B- was sure that he had met with a road, somewhere in the state of New York, that was quite as bad, which was very consolatory.

Nothwithstanding the experience of the former day, we loitered considerably, and were consequently again benighted, at some distance from our proposed resting place; but, on this occasion, we were less fortunate than before, for our accommodation for the night was very indifferent.

Our route on Saturday morning was comparatively pleasant, for, though the weather was cloudy, it did not rain, and to the mud we had become accustomed. Continuing along the banks of the Galla, about four miles, we reached Galashiels, a tolerable place, where we breakfasted, in a After groping along for more than an very satisfactory manner, by the assistance hour, we reached a house, which proved to of a few boiled pickled herrings, which are be a sort of inn, the tenant of which in-among the delicacies of this land. Three

I do not intend to attempt a particular description of St Mary's Abbey, for many reasons. Suffice it, that we saw the tombs of kings, prelates, and warriors; the wizard's grave, the stone on which "the moon through the east oriel shone;" the sepulchre of Douglas, who fell at Otterburn, &c. &c. Not the least among the beauties of Melrose is the east oriel, or window, itself, with its

"Slender shafts of shapely stone,

By foliage tracery combined: Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand, "Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand,

In many a freakish knot, had twined; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow-wreaths to stone." But as I can neither talk of Melrose without spouting Scott's verses, nor write about it without quoting them, I think it best to leave it for the present, only pausing to copy, for you, the following inscription from an old tomb-stone in the church-yard: "The Earth goeth on the Earth glist'ring like gold; The Earth goes to the Earth sooner than it wold; The Earth builds on the Earth castles and towers; The Earth says to the Earth, All shall be ours;" and to observe, that I should think I had not come to Scotland in vain, were it only for the feelings with which I surveyed these magnificent remains, and those which will forever be associated with Scott's inimitable description of them.

Leaving "St David's ruined pile" about two o'clock, we passed through Newstead, crossed the Tweed by an ancient and beautiful stone bridge, from which we enjoyed some delightful views; cast a lingering look at the abbey, and then pursued our route towards Auld Reekie, along the banks of the Leeder. Just below Melrose,

the rivers Ettrick and Yarrow unite with the Tweed, and in the vicinity is the seat of Sir Walter Scott. Further on we entered the district or earldom of Lauderdale, passed near Cowden-knows, and plucked some of the bonny broom, which was then in flower; beyond this was Earlstone, or Ercildoune tower, the birthplace of Thomas the Rhymer, who figures in the "Scottish Chiefs."

There were so many beautiful scenes in our route, that we were unable to divest ourselves of our incorrigible habit of loitering, and were, the third time, delivered over to the power of darkness, with its usual and very agreeable concomitants, mud and rain. We reached Lauder, however, in pretty good time, and with as little difficulty as was to have been expected. Lauder is a burgh of barony, the meaning of which designation I do not know. It interested me principally as the place where Archibald Bell-the-Cat hanged Cochran. It is ten miles distant from Melrose, so that we did pretty well this day, having walked seventeen miles, besides standing some hours in and about the abbey.

Although this day was Sunday, we could not think of spending twenty-four hours in Lauder, and accordingly departed at nine o'clock. Near the village is Thirlestane castle, the seat of the Earl of Lauderdale, an ancient and odd-looking edifice, built, some five centuries ago, by Edward Longshanks. From thence we proceeded four miles, through rather an uninteresting country, still by the banks of the Leeder, here reduced to a very small stream, to Carfrae Mill.

Leaving the Mill, we began to ascend the Lammermoor hills to Channelkirk, and from thence passed over the hills and a dreary, heathy waste, which extended, on each side of the road, as far as the eye could see in misty weather. Eight miles from Lauder brought us to the county of Mid Lothian. Here we began to descend and the country presented a more agreeable aspect, but the weather assumed a very different one.

Excepting the village of Fala, which is the neatest that I have noticed in Scotland, we observed nothing remarkable for the next nine miles. Here we recrossed the Esk rivers, which are particularly beautiful at this point, and passed through Dalkeith, which is a considerable town. Near it stands Dalkeith castle, the seat of the Duke of Buccleugh, who is said to be the richest nobleman in Scotland. Six miles from Dalkeith, by Duddingstone, brought us to Edinburgh, which we entered exactly at six o'clock, having walked twentyfive miles in nine hours, including stoppages. The road, during the last fourteen or fifteen miles, had been quite good, com. pared with what we had experienced before, so that we were very slightly fatigued, though pretty well wet, and our garments somewhat the worse for the "samples of the soil," with which they had been adorned, in the various stages of our progress. Farewell.


THE LAPSE OF TIME. Lament who will, in fruitless tears, The speed with which our moments fly : I sigh not over vanished years,

But watch the years that hasten by.

See how they come, a mingled crowd

Of bright and dark, but rapid days;Beneath them, like a summer cloud,

The wide world changes as I gaze.

What! grieve that time has brought so soon
The sober age of manhood on!
As idly should I weep at noon,

To see the blush of morning gone.
Could I forego the hopes that glow
In prospect, like Elysian isles?
And let the charming future go,

With all her promises and smiles? The future!-cruel were the power

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Now we raise our glad voices-in gratitude raise,
And we waft on the beams of the morning our

We thank thee for golden grain gathered in shock,
And the milk of the kine, and the fleece of the flock

Whose doom would tear thee from my heart. And we thank thee for limbs moving light to the

Thou sweetener of the present hour!
We cannot-no--we will not part.
Ob, leave me, still, the rapid flight

That makes the changing seasons gay,
The grateful speed that brings the night,
The swift and glad return of day;

The months that touch with lovelier grace
This little prattler at my knee,
In whose arch eye and speaking face
New meaning every hour I see;

The years that o'er each sister land

Shall lift the country of my birth, And nurse her strength, till she shall stand The pride and pattern of the earth; Till younger commonwealths, for aid, Shall cling about her ample robe, And, from her frown, shall shrink, afraid, The crowned oppressors of the globe. True-time will seam and blanch my browWell-I shall sit with aged men, And my good glass will tell me how A grisly beard becomes me then. And should no foul dishonour lie

Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love yet may search my fading eye,

And smooth the path of my decay.
Then haste thee, time,-'tis kindness all
That speeds thy winged feet so fast;
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou fliest, and bear'st away our woes;
And, as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.


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And the reaper, as nimbly he felled the proud grain,
Was blither than those who wear sceptres and

And the wheat blade was tall, and the full, golden ear
Proclaimed that the months of rejoicing were near;


For hearts beating high, though unwarmed of the flask.

Fill us, Lord, with just sense of thy bounty, and give Health to us, and to all in the land where we live. J.

NIGHT.-A POEM. [Continued.]

Oh why doth the spirit thus love to roam,
From its wonted rest in its quiet home?
Is it that fairy spirits fly

Around the orb of the sleeping eye

Recalling the scenes that had gone forever,

The friends from whom we were doomed to sever,

The smiling lip, and the sparkling eye,

The bosom on which we were wont to lie,
The voice whose accents calmed our fears,
The hand that dried our falling tears:
All we love, and all we dread,
The absent living, and the dead,-
As if to mock the power of night,
By bringing the forms of death to light?
Or is it, that while the frame is still,*
And the thoughts no longer obey the will,
That Fancy, escaping from Reason's sway,
Leaves her to slumber-and flies away;
Poising her fickle and downy wing,
O er bowers of Joy, where pleasures spring,
Or wandering drearily 'mid the shade
Of ruined prospects, that guilt hath made?
Enough to learn, as we mark the feeling
Within a slumbering bosom stealing,
While it dwells on the pictures of joy or pain
Which Fancy's pencil hath touched again,-
That there dwells in that frail abode of clay,
A being, whose home is far away;

There is something there no power can bind,

A living soul an immortal mind!

A prisoner there-which waits the hour,
When Death, destroying Nature's power,
Shall free it from the thrall of Time,
And let it seek its native clime,-
Which, trying its powers in sleep, would seem
To ise on the wing of a midnight dream,
And struggle to lift the veil that 's thrown
Between it and the world unknown ;
That world, where its being shall still endure
In joy or in sorrow-defiled or pure,
While ages roll-through time's extent,
Eternally living-but still unspent!

Oh night! thou emblem of death's long sleep,
How many poor wretches thy vigils keep,
On the stormy wave, where the winds are high,
And the lightnings flash from an angry sky;
How many, worn out by thy terrors, pray
For the blessed beams of another day,

*See Stewart's Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind, vol. I, chapter v, section 5.

Yet, ere that day in its joy shall shine,
Their prayer is hushed in the foaming brine!
So man on the ocean of life, is met,

By an angry storm, when his sails are set-
And the night of death, with its murky clouds,
The bark of his fairest hopes enshrouds-
And he prays for light but to reach that shore,
Where his bark must land-to return no more:
Yet ob, how oft doth he sink to rest,
Without such heavenly guidance blest!
For when skies were fair, he had wandered far
From the light of that only unaltering star,
Which alone can guide, o'er life's rough sea,
To the peaceful shore of eternity!
Oh, life is a dangerous sea to them,
Who find not the "Star of Bethlehem!"

(To be continued.)



which are attendant on public and private education; to collect the means, which should be brought to bear upon a large number of boys, and yet to maintain the exactness and the watchfulness, which may exist in a private family.

subject, and having with him a son of a
professor of Cambridge University, whom
he was to place at a Gymnasium, he avail-
ed himself of this circumstance to become
acquainted with most of the best teachers
in the North of Germany. Education is
there taught as a science; and he had the In the attempt to form the characters of
advantage of personal intercourse with pupils, they endeavour on the one hand to
Niemeyer, the chancellor of the University prevent any perverse tendencies, and to
of Halle, and the most practical man of correct natural faults; but to leave to indi-
our day in the matters relating to schools, vidual character a free opportunity of being
and also of hearing public lectures deliver developed in a natural manner. They val-
ed at Berlin, on the science of education, ue accuracy of knowledge more than vari-
by one of the most able and eloquent men ety; and esteem it better to convey a few
of the age. During his residence in Ger- ideas distinctly, than many in a vague and
many he witnessed the effects of the various indefinite manner. In selecting objects of
systems of education as exhibited in prac-pursuit, they hold it to be the first duty, to
tice; and, at different times and in different cultivate and bring forth all natural capac-
places, made himself an inmate of their ities, to confirm talents into powers, to give
Gymnasia for the purpose of more accurate to the individual skill in the management
and extended observations.
of all which he has received from Provi-
dence. Of course they do not seek to make
bright scholars of very dull boys, nor to
impart, but only to cultivate, faculties.
This first and most important point, the
general improvement of the mind, being /
settled, they aim at uniting those studies
which are best calculated to unfold the
powers, and give elegance to taste, and the
habits of thought with those which are of
direct practical utility in the busy world.
There is time enough for both, where edu-
cation is begun at an early age; and, sure-
ly, a man may be of good thrift in busi-
ness, or patient application in his profession,
even after having cultivated a general
love of knowledge, of intellectual improve-
ment and pleasure. On the subject of
classical learning while they are true to the
faith which holds the ancients to be our
models in literature, they concede that
they are not indispensable to those, whose
business will call them to the exchange or
the forum; and, while full testimony is
borne to their superiority, and endeavours
are made to awaken a love for them, they
do not insist on their being pursued in op-
position to the wishes of parents and the
inclinations of pupils.

Immediately on his return, the plan of a school was proposed and discussed. Many parts of the outline presented gave satisfaction. It was no small subject of mutual satisfaction to both of these gentlemen, that nearly the same course of observation should have led them to nearly the same results. As a harmony existed in their opinions, they were soon led to take their measures jointly; and as the situation which they filled at the University, did not seem to them to offer the best sphere for exertion, they determined to try the experiment of what they could themselves

THE SCHOOL AT NORTHAMPTON. WE consider it to be one of our duties to furnish the public with whatever information we can procure, respecting the means of education existing among us. This subject, at all times and every where interesting, is peculiarly so, now and here. It is not of new books only, that we would speak, but of all new things, which have any relation to the discipline and culture of youthful minds. We cannot pretend, nor can it be desired, that we should state opinions so much as facts. Let the public know what means and facilities for education are put into operation, and there is little reason to doubt that a correct judgment will be form-accomplish. ed of their wisdom and efficiency, and a It was a deep conviction of the imperfect right and adequate use made of them. condition of the means of liberal education Many of our readers must be aware that Mr in our country, which led them to engage Cogswell and Mr Bancroft, both of whom in this arduous business. They saw that recently held official situations in the Uni- our colleges needed a reform; and as they versity at Cambridge, have opened a school could not accomplish that, they held it a in Northampton, which they profess to con- worthy object to attempt the establishment duct upon new principles and in a new of a good school. The evils, which most manner. The establishment of this novel justly excite complaint in many of our ininstitution has awakened some interest in stitutions, are well known. A want of inthis vicinity, and, we believe, elsewhere; spection leads the pupil into mischief and it seems to us a circumstance worthy of vice by entrusting him to himself before he notice and attention, from its connexion knows how to take care of, or to value, his with the literature of our country; and, not own moral character. Mr Cogswell and Mr doubting that a portion of our readers-to Bancroft established for their first principle, say no more-would thank us for our that the discipline should be of a precautiontrouble, we have enabled ourselves to ac-ary nature; they would not so much punish quaint them with the views and purposes of these gentlemen, and with their riles and processes in the discipline of the school.

Considering a knowledge of the modern languages valuable to every body, to the scholar, the merchant, the lawyer, and the man, they at once engaged Mr Hentz, an instructer of established reputation in the French language and literature. He was educated at the University of Paris, and is Several years ago, before Mr Cogswell's a scholar, an upright man, and a faithful residence in Europe, he had been engaged teacher. They have since written to their in instruction at Cambridge, and in that friends in Germany for one, who to a thorsituation had a favourable opportunity of ough knowledge of his own language might becoming acquainted with the condition and add an intimate acquaintance with ancient character of the principal schools in this literature. Through the attention of Heersection of the country. His thoughts were en, the eminent historian, the friend and fordirected to the subject of education, and, merly the instructer of Mr Bancroft, they during the years which he spent abroad, he have engaged a young man, Dr Bode, alhad every opportunity of inspecting the ready known to the public by a dissertation best institutions in Great Britain and on on the Orphic poetry (one of the most diffithe continent. Mr Bancroft completed his cult subjects in ancient literature), for which education at European Universities; and he gained the highest prize of the faculty at it was his particular object, in going thither, Göttingen. He is expected early in the to qualify himself as an instructer. During with good order. spring, and there is every reason for hophis residence in Germany, he repeatedly | In this way they endeavour to connecting to find in him an important acquisition. received letters, calling his attention to the the advantages, and avoid the disadvantages, Very recently a master of Spanish, whe

faults committed, as labour to prevent the
commission of them; they would hold their
pupils in the right course, not so much by
punishing them, if they went wrong, as by
giving them no chance of getting out of
the right road. Connected with this, they
endeavour to assume the parental relation
towards their pupils; that is to say, they un-
dertake to provide, as far as in them lies, for
their happiness, and at the same time claim
the authority and rights of parents in regu-
lating their concerns. Pocket money is
no tolerated by them. They are ready to
supply all reasonable wants, and some in-
dulgence is shown to childish desires; but
money, given for the express purpose of
being wasted, seems to them inconsistent

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