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out-a prevailing philosophy, viz: that fiction is the only sugar-plum that can tempt children over the barriers to mental exertion, was to be discarded.

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My father saved the life of a red man, and now you will kill his son. If it will make an Indian chief happy to spill the blood of one who saved a red man's life, then kill me— I am ready to die.

"And my soul will go to the Great Spirit, and will say to Him, My father was a benefactor to the red man, and they murdered his son!" "

"Speak," said the Chief, "Where did your father live?" "In Boston," said I.

Nor is this all. The mind and character of childhood, was to be thoroughly understood. That subtlest of all philosophy, the taste, aptitude and capacity of the waking spirit, was to be mastered; and beyond this, the art of dealing with it, was to be possessed. This latter power, the power of communicating a great variety of ideas by the simple and stinted vocabulary of words understood by children-the power of rejecting idiomatic expressions and forms of speech not likely to be under-know you. You were the boy who came to my wigwam at Holyoke. You were the boy who went with me to the stood, and of selecting those only which would be Great Falls. It was your father who saved my life! And comprehended, was alike indispensable, and of rare shall I suffer his son to die?

Occurrence.

"And who was the Indian whose life he saved?"
"His name was Wampum," I replied.
"White man," said he, "look at me, I am Wampum! I

"Brethren," said Wampum, speaking to the Indians, “I was a stranger in a distant city of the white men--I drank their fire-water, and it made me wild—

The Indians answered by untying my hands and feetthat the red men will not forget kindness. "Go," said Wampum, "go to your friends and tell them

"Tell them that we will repay to the children the good deeds of their fathers. We war only with the wicked; we seek only the blood of our enemies."

In all these qualities, necessary to success in dealing with childhood, Mr. Goodrich excels. He "I struck a sailor, and he was angry. He came upon me has, therefore, furnished an example of style, which with twelve men. They beat me down, and trampled on has now become a sort of standard in juvenile lite-me. They would have killed me, but a white man with rature. He has as many imitators on both sides a strong arm, beat them off. The friend of the red mea of the Atlantic, as ever followed in the wake of saved my life. Here is his son-shall he die?" Scott or Byron. But this is not the only point in which he is qualified for the task of the reform upon which he entered, and which he has so well accomplished. He possesses a dramatic talent and power of description, which have largely entered into the secret of his success. The character of It will be perceived, that here is not only simPeter Parley is drawn with a verisimilitude, quite equal to that of Robinson Crusoe. The real exis-plicity, but force of thought; the power of putting tence of such a person, has fastened itself upon the such thought into the minds of children, and, at the readers of the books issued under his name, with a same time, of furnishing it, constitutes talent of a firmness of conviction that can hardly be shaken high order. off. At the same time, the cheerfulness, benevolence, condescension and piety of the good old inan, have given him grace in the eyes of all; and many an eye has glistened, many a lip quivered in believing sympathy with his pains and pleasures. In illustration of the dramatic and descriptive talent displayed in these works, we will make an extract from Parley's Tales about America:

"At length the morning came, and the chief of the tribe

power

We have said, that Mr. Goodrich had taught the lesson that truth may be made attractive to youth; yet it is to be remarked, that he has by no means discarded the use of imagination as an instrument for teaching and training the understanding. It is by the power of imagination, indeed, that he is in a great degree indebted for his success. The character of Parley is a fiction, yet the inculcation of truth is the object and result of the whole. The of rendering fiction subservient to truth-of using the fancy in such a manner as to make it the servant, and not the master, of the understanding— is Mr. Goodrich's highest qualification. As an illustration of this, we quote the following lines, and close our review with the general remark, that were then the red man's, and then he was rich and happy. while his works for children are the best that have "At length, the white men, thy fathers, came. The red been produced, the perusal of them has still given men bade them welcome. But they were ungrateful and great pleasure to minds of the highest grade, both treacherous. When they grew strong, they drove the red for natural endowment and cultivation. The same men over the mountains, and took their lands-and I was talent devoted to these, exerted in a higher sphere

arrived, with several other Indians. He was an old man, but still strong and active. The Indians told him of my capture, and attempt to escape, and asked him what should be my fate. Having heard the story, he came near to me, and in a stern voice, he spoke as follows:

"White man, listen to me! Once the red man was king

over these woods and waters. The mountains and rivers

still the white man's friend.

"But see here," said he, pointing to a scar on his breast, of literature, had insured success to the possessor:

"this is the mark of a white man's bullet. I had harmed him not-I had lived among the white men, and served them. But they shot at me as if I were a wild-cat.

"White man," said he, "listen! I was once the white man's friend-I am now his enemy. Think no more of escape. This hour you shall die."

THE SAGE AND LINNET: A FABLE.
A wise old man, one Summer's day,
Was walking in a lonely wood-
And there, upon a leafless spray,
A linnet sang in solitude.

The old man spoke-" Come, pretty thing,
Pray tell me why you nestle here—
And why so cheerly do you sing,

When all around is dark and drear?
"Why spurn the meadow and the field,
Where blushing flowers invite thy stay-
And many a raptured bird would yield
Its willing praises to thy lay?"
The linnet answered--"Hath a sage

Come here to learn of me the truth?
And must I tell to hoary age,

A lesson fit for blooming youth?
"Of all the gifts that Heaven doth mete
In mercy to its creatures dear,

There's none to me so pure, so sweet,

As peace and sage, I find it here!

:

"Mid garnished fields and meadows gay,
There's many a falcon, many a snare;

I shun them all,-and far away

Poor, yet content, my lot I share.
"The listening of my gentle mate,
Repays me for my happiest song,
And oft, from dawn to evening late,

I sing, nor find the hours too long.
"Yon rippling stream my cup supplies;

The wild-flowers yield for me their seed;
This bowering fir from Winter's skies,
Is all the shelter that I need.
"Then do not scorn my humble lot,

Nor deem that wealth alone is bliss;
For peace within the humblest cot,
With calm content is happiness."

YOUNG.

BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.

Other poets have sung with spontaneous joy of the loveliness of earth and the sweetness of affection, and seem to have found in their fresh hearts, an antidote for outward evil. This man gathers up the shadows, and seldom inweaves amid them, either sunbeams or starlight. Other bards have first struck the lyre to celebrate the merits of one beloved, or reflect scenes of natural beauty; this one, chose for his first theme, "The Last Day." Life, with its mysterious experience, its stirring incidents, its warm hopes and lofty aspirations, has inspired the early efforts of most poets; but to Young, death was a subject more congenial and attractive. The burden of his lays is contempt of earthly grandeur, and yet he sought preferment all his life. His poems advocate a competency, as the only just desire of a reasonable being, in this world; but he has left behind him a reputation for parsimony. No one has set forth in stronger language the dangers of social life; yet in his retirement, the gloomy bard pined at the world's neglect, and welcomed every stray visitor, in such a manner as to belie his recorded opinions of human nature. He counselled Lorenzo in strains of solemn warning against Court subserviency; while every book of the poem is dedicated to some noble friend, and the sage counsellor was indebted to patronage for his chief privileges, and would fain have increased the obligations!

The true office of the minstrel is to cheer. We do not turn to poetry to aggravate, but to lighten the sorrows of our lot. Its office should be consoling. The genuine poet is an optimist. He instinctively seizes the redeeming feature in a landscape, a circumstance or a face. He fondly dwells

on better moments. He loves to reconcile man to

The associations connected with Young, are quite incongruous. His very name is out of place as applied to his productions; it would be difficult to discover an equal quantity of verse less co-life. The blessing and not the bane, gives excitelored and warmed by genuine youthful feeling. We can hardly realize that Young was ever young Where, we are ready to ask, is that confidence in good, that buoyant hope, that ardent recognition of the true delights of being, which throw such a charm around the effusions of youth?

Nor does the discrepancy end here. Two of the best known anecdotes of Young, are in direct contradiction to the spirit of his muse. The first is that gallant reply to two ladies, who forced him to leave them in a garden, to receive a visitor :

Thus Adam looked when from the garden driven, And thus disputed orders sent from Heaven; Like him I go, but yet to go am loth, Like him I go, for angels drove us both; Hard was his fate, but mine still more unkind, His Eve went with him, but mine stays behind. The other incident occurred while he was with a gay party in a pleasure-boat. A gentleman rather pertinaciously insisted that he should play on his flute, and to revenge himself, Young is said to have challenged him, and then with a pistol aimed at his head, forced him to dance a hornpipe by way of retaliation.

gists call ideality, appears to be a quality benefi-
ment to his thoughts. Indeed, what the phrenolo-
cently provided, for the very purpose of meliorating
the aspects of existence to the consciousness of
man. Hence the unclouded brightness of many a
reminiscence, and the joyous excitement of many
times rise to the fancy, in which the shades of life
a hope. Hence those blended pictures which some-
only serve to illustrate its sunny portions. Poetry
should not haunt the unwholesome mind, unless
with a safety-lamp of sunshine. It is her vocation
to collect to a focus, the scattered rays of happi-
ness; to gather the flowers in our path; and twine
them into wreaths to deck the brow of care; to
lead us beside waters that "go softly," and not to
the barren shores of the Dead Sea; to lift our
gaze to the mountains and the stars; and waft to
our ears," the music of humanity," rather than her
groans. Let every man beware how he gives ex-
pression in verse or prose, to morbid feeling. Let
him suffer in silence. If he have nothing hopeful
to communicate, let him hold his peace.
We see
and hear and feel enough of gloomy import, for all

purposes of discipline. If any one strike the lyre, we pray it be to a strain which shall elevate us above" the smoke and stir of the dust of this dim spot." Let the problem of human suffering be approached only by those, who carry balm for the wounded, and solace for the mourner.

Like birds, whose beauties languish half-concealed,
Till mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes
Expanded, shine with azure, green and gold;
So blessings brighten as they take their flight.

The nameless He whose nod is nature's birth,
And nature's shield the shadow of his hand;
Her dissolution, his suspended smile.

Young did not thus regard the art he cultivated. His early life is said to have been rather unprinciBut as a whole, as a book to grow familiar with, pled. Perhaps he drank so intemperately of the it is in no small degree false to the true ends of cup of pleasure while a youth, that little but the poetry. The morality is too often little better than dregs remained for after life. Certain it is, that he mere prudence. One of his arguments for piety took no little satisfaction in setting forth the mise-is, "tis highly prudent to make one sure friend." ries of life in gloomy array; and no discriminating His personification is frequently bombastic. His mind can fail to perceive, that the "Complaint" is language sometimes becomes common-place and turinfinitely more effective than the "Consolation." gid; and we are obliged to confess that in this, as The former appears to have been written con in almost all other long poems, the design is too amore; the latter has a forced and formal air. As extended, and the real gold beaten out to an extent a picture of life, Young's Night Thoughts are par-perfectly unwarrantable. The first books are untial and morbid. Their poetry consists in so mel-doubtedly the best. They were inspired by perancholy a concatenation of ideas, as occasionally sonal grief, and therefore have a force and effect, to afford a sublime sensation. We can readily be- which gradually disappear as we proceed. From lieve, that the bard was accustomed to write by the a poet, the mourner became a theologian, a croaklight of a candle stuck in a human skull. This er, a reasoner and a prosy sermonizer. There are species of poetic sadness has a foundation in our leagues of desert, and only here and there an oasis. nature. At certain periods, every man of a reflec-In portraying his domestic afflictions, Young is tive cast and strong imagination, takes a kind of truly eloquent, and we feel with him and for him. melancholy pleasure in musing among the tombs, In estimating life, satirizing the love of fame or of confronting the effigies of mortality, and giving his pleasure, and decrying the world, there is somethoughts free range amid the associations of death. thing too professional, labored and partial in his In Egypt, we are told, sepulchral monuments often style, to produce effect. We involuntarily think outvie the dwellings of the living, both in number of the disappointed churchman, and fancy that, and magnificence; and we can easily fancy the in his dreams, whatever were his night-thoughts, sad interest of the traveller as he marks the sculp-Queen Mab visited him with visions of "another tured tombs, and hears, along the banks of the so-benefice." There are some clever lines in his lemn Nile, the wailing over an Arab's corse. But satires. His tragedy-"The Revenge," has been there is a limit, beyond which, such contemplations famous, but the reader is so constantly reminded of transcend the bounds both of true poetry and health-Othello, that its merits are quite lost in the rememful moral impression. No one can discover any brance of that sublime drama. superior sanctity among the Capuchins of Italy, I remember stopping at a book-stall in Florence, because of their vigils in catacombs, or of their familiarity with the ghastly remains of their departed brethren. And it is precisely here that Young has "o'erstepped the modesty of nature." His portraiture of death and human ills, is too unrelieved for wholesome effect. To realize how uniform are his notes of woe, let any one read, or attempt to read, the Night Thoughts, consecutively. There are powerful passages, ingenious figures, terse and vivid expressions; and, in certain moods, fragments of this elaborate poem, cannot but afford pleasure

and awaken admiration.

There is a very striking metaphor comparing pleasure to quicksilver; and the following are fair examples of his impressive figures:

hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where passed the shaft, no trace is found,
As from the wing no scar the sky retains ;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;

So dies, in human hearts, the thought of death.

in company with a young Italian of strong poeti cal sympathies. He pointed, with a visible shudder, to a translation of "Young's Night Thoughts," and asked me, who but a Briton could ever read that epitome of English gloom. The idea of this poem being read at a dinner, or in the garden of a villa, to a party of ladies and knights, after the manner of Tasso and Ariosto, is certainly amusing. Yet there is a peculiar charm to Northern imaginations, in some of Young's dark pencillings. The people of high latitudes, are subject to moods of reflection in which such serious recognition of sad truths is genial, and even fascinating; and at such moments, they prefer Ecclesiastes to Solomon's Song-the dark grove of pines to the bower of vine-leaves, and Dr. Young to Thomas Moore. Accordingly, many lines of the former have passed into proverbs; and among the good dames and thoughtful gentlemen of the past generation, well-thumbed copy of the Night Thoughts often attested the veneration they inspired. The point

of just sympathy with our author is, however, con- | expansive benevolence and a sunny temper had fined to his personal afflictions. We recognize the made him more alive to the good, the beautiful excellence of Narcissa, who "sparkled, was ex- and the true, he would have suffered some mishaled, and went to heaven," and follow the poet with givings, in thus libelling this poor world, and extender reverence, as he bears her body, to that so-aggerating the trials of life. Instead of lamenting litary garden in Montpelier, where with "pious our "short correspondence with the sun," he would sacrilege a grave he stole." We echo the touch- have rejoiced in its beams while he could. Ining inquiry which so many hearts have addressed stead of declaring the "clime of human life incleto Death;ment," he would have done his best to warm it with the glow of social sympathy and cheerful gratitude. Instead of finding "human happiness" a sad sight," he would have been exhilarated at its presence, however transient; and felt thankful, that, with all their troubles, it is still given to frail mortals,

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice?

It is only when Young elaborates his theme, and attempts to throw a pall over the universe, to collect the shadows of life into a portentous array, to brood over and magnify evil, that we feel that his influence is ungrateful, and perceive that spleen, rather than philosophy, guides his pen. Let us bring together a few of his gloomy truisms, and see if their contemplation be calculated to make our actual lot any happier and more improving: -sleep

Swift on her downy pinions flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

All on earth is shadow, all beyond

Is substance.

The spider's most attenuated thread
Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie
On earthly bliss.

War, famine, pest, volcano, storm and fire,
Intestine broils, oppression, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brass, besiege mankind.

Our very wishes give us not our wish.

The smoothest course of Nature has its pain,
And truest friends, through error, wound our rest.

Loud sorrows howl, envenomed passions bite,
Ravenous calamities our vitals seize.

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.

Life is war,

Eternal war with woe.

Fresh hopes are hourly sown

In furrowed brows.

How swift the shuttle flies that weaves thy shroud!

Fondness for fame is avarice of air.

Death loves a shining mark.

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"To drink the golden spirit of the day,
And triumph in existence."

Young's command of language is remarkable, and many of his comparisons ingenious. We are surprised to encounter in the midst of some of his loftiest flights, an image borrowed from familiar and common life. Perhaps it is this mingling of the well-known and the lofty, that makes him a favorite with a certain class of readers. To this attraction must be added his evangelical character and the religious tone he assumes, which invest his poems with no little authority, in the view of those who profess similar tenets. But while in justice we allow him occasional felicity and impressiveness of thought and grandeur of style, we cannot but agree with Dr. Johnson, that it is very difficult to assign any general character to him as a poet. He has no fair claim to be considered emphatically the minstrel of the tomb, or the bard of sorrow. The mournful aspects of human life and destiny can be set forth in a far nobler manAround the memories of the departed, poetry has scattered far richer flowers than can be found in the Night Thoughts. The sorrows of humanity have been sung in sweeter strains. Lessons of courage and hope, emotions of patient tenderness, sentiments of magnanimity and trust have been inspired, when bards of more simplicity and love have struck the lyre. Poetry can make even the thought of death beautiful, and the sadness of bereavement not without a certain pleasure. Great poets have elicited from the sternest suffering, a principle of enjoyment. Sublime faith and earnest love can conjure spirits the most lovely from the darkest abyss. By exhibiting human energy in conflict with adversity, by giving free scope to the eloquence of sorrow, by invoking the spirit of hope, the muse often weaves a rainbow over the valley of

ner.

There's not a day, but, to the man of thought Betrays some secret, that throws new reproach On life, and makes him sick of seeing man. Doubtless there is more or less truth in these tears. Who pities Hamlet? Who does not recogand a thousand other similar phrases of Young; | nize a profound interest in the workings of his delibut let it be remembered, that they are not the whole cate soul, surpassing and illuming the darkness truth; and, if they were, the truth is not to be spo- of his lot? Who is not soothed instead of sadken at all times. If the courteous and christian, dened by true elegiac poetry-the tender strains, though worldly-minded doctor, had imbibed a more for instance, of such a bard as Hervey? Night, cheerful theology; if he had walked less in grave-even to the mourner, brings not, ever or often, such yards and more among his fellow-creatures; if an unalloyed bitterness as Young portrays. To Schil

ler and Thomson it was the brightest season. To the genuine poetical soul its silence and shadows, its moaning breeze and countless stars, its mystery and beautiful repose, brings a solemn happiness. We may, indeed, then "keep assignation with our wo;" but in such peaceful and lovely hours, how often does anguish melt in tears and wild grief become sad musing! How often by some invisible influence, do we grow reconciled and hopeful! How often do "stars look down as they were angel's eyes!" Many of the sentiments, and most of the spirit of Young's Night Thoughts, is false to the true inspiration and the holy effulgence of that sacred season. To one of our own poets it has spoken in a higher and more blessed strain. He makes us feel that there are "Voices of the Night" which cheer, elevate, and console :

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.

O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died.

The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,

And calm, and self-possessed.

O fear not in a world like this,

And thou shalt know ere long, Know, how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

From the New World. GREENOUGH'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

[The figure is colossal and in a sitting posture. The left hand rests upon a sheathed sword, the right is pointed upward. It is to be placed in the centre of the rotunda of the Capitol.]

The quarry whence thy form majestic sprung,
Has peopled earth with grace,

Heroes and gods that elder bards have sung,
A bright and peerless race;

But from its sleeping veins, ne'er rose before,
A shape of loftier name,

Than his, who Glory's wreath with meekness wore,

The noblest son of Fame.

Sheathed is the sword that Passion never stained, His gaze around is cast,

As if the joys of Freedom, newly-gained,

Before his vision passed;

As if a nation's shout of love and pride
With music filled the air,

And his calm soul was lifted on the tide
Of deep and grateful prayer;

As if the crystal mirror of his life To fancy sweetly came,

With scenes of patient toil and noble strife
Undimmed by doubt or shame;
As if the lofty purpose of his soul

Expression would betray

The high resolve, Ambition to control,
And thrust her crown away!

Oh! it was well, in marble firm and white,
To carve our hero's form,

Whose angel guidance was our strength in fight,
Our star amid the storm!

Whose matchless truth has made his name divine, And human freedom sure,

His country great, his tomb earth's dearest shrine,
While man and time endure !

And it is well to place his image there,
Beneath the dome he blest;

Let meaner spirits, who its councils share,
Revere that silent guest!

Let us go up with high and sacred love
To look on his pure brow,

And, as with solemn grace, he points above,
Renew the patriot's vow!

Boston, August 8, 1841.

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.

A DICTIONARY OF COMMERCE AND COMMERCIAL NAVIGATION, by J. R. McCulloch, Esq. Edited by Heary Vethake, L. L. D. Thomas Wardle: Philadelphia-1839. This is a reprint, and one of the most valuable works on commercial affairs, any where to be found. It contains in the most convenient form just such information as the prac tical man requires, whether he be merchant, banker, poluician, or political economist. A full and satisfactory ac count is given of every article of commerce, of the place and manner of production, etc.; also of commercial cities, their harbors, and port regulations, trade, etc. It treats also of duties, insurance, exchanges, and currency; and has embodied, as to these subjects, a mass of information of the most valuable and satisfactory kind. No reading man should be without this book in his library-he will find cause of constant reference to it. To the young man who is sweeping about for general information, it should be a complete vade mecum. To the young Lawyer too, who aspires to any thing beyond his fifteen shilling fee, McCulloch's Dictionary will prove of great assistance. And though last, not least, we take particular pleasure in recommending thes work to the young men of our stores and counting-houses. They should have it near their desks, and an occasional reference to it will be more improving to them, than all the Novels and other light reading with which they now beguile away their time. The information which they will derive from it, is exactly of that kind which tends to make good merchants of them. It is seldom we take as much pleasure in commending a work to the notice of our readers. It may be had in a cheap and convenient form, at the Bookstore of Messrs. Smith, Drinker & Morris.

THE DEERSLAYER, OR THE FIRST WAR-PATH. A Tale by the author of the Last of the Mohicans, etc. Lea & Blanchard: Philadelphia-1841.

Like many others, Cooper has "written himself out." This is the las tflicker of the expiring taper. Mr. Cooper gets half through with this Novel the early history of old "Leather Stocking" and resolves to burn the M. S.;-and, mirabile dictu-he receives from England an anonymous letterevidently "written by a lady," urging him to take up the

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