show immediately that several of the poets among them, and to the poets we shall at present limit our observations, possess merit of a highly respectable kind. They are destined, no doubt, to be succeeded by bards of a higher stamp; but they deserve commemoration, as being among the first to wake, although with uncertain fingers, the music of their country's lyre.

The four poets of greatest eminence which America at present possesses, are Percival, Bryant, Paulding, and Halleck.

James G. Percival was born in the state of Connecticut, in the year 1795. From his father, who was a respectable physician, he inherited a small patrimony. He was educated under Dr Dwight, at Yale College, a seminary of much reputation, in his native state. He studied medicine, and, as soon as he was of age, he graduated with much eclat. At college he was remarkable for retired habits, for being a romantic lover of nature, for extreme sensibility, and an early developement of genius in two

Of lonely sorrow, and of thy disdaining
And half-averted glances, till the bowers
Are pregnant with the hymn, and every rose
With fresher dew, as if in weeping, flows,
And every lily seems to wear a hue
Of paler tenderness, and deeper glows
The pink's carnation, and a purer hue
Tints the modest rosemary, the wind
Whispers a sweeter echo, and the stream
Spouts stiller from its well; while, from behind
The snow-clad Alpine summit, rolls the moon,
Careering onward to her cloudless noon,
In fullest orb of silver, and her beam
Casts o'er the vale long shadows from the pine,
The rock, the spire, the castle; and away
Beyond thy towers, Avignon! proudly shine
The broad Rhone's foaming channels, in their play
Through green and willow'd islands, while they sweep,
Descending on their bold resistless way,
And heaving high their crest in wild array,
With all a torrent's grandeur, to the deep.'

We find a still more recent specimen of Percival's abi

which celebrates very beautifully some of the scenery of his own county. We can give only its commencement, but hope for an opportunity soon of speaking of Percival again :

SENECA LAKE.

By James G. Percival.

"One evening in the pleasant month of May,
On a green hillock swelling from the shore,
Above thy emerald wave, when the clear west
Was all one sheet of light, I sat me down,
Wearied, yet happy. I had wander'd long
That bright, fair day; and all the way my path
Was tended by a warm and soothing air,
That breathed like bliss; and round me all the woods
Open'd their yellow buds, and every cottage
Was bower'd in blossoms, for the orchard trees
Were all in flower. I came at close of day
Down to thy brink, and it was pleasure there
To bathe my dripping forehead in thy cool
Transparent waters. I refresh'd me long

pursuits which do not very often go hand in hand-poe-lities in the Atlantic Souvenir for 1829. It is a poem, try and mathematics. "In 1820," says a short biographical notice, prefixed to the edition of his poems published in London, "he went to Charleston, South Carolina, with the intention of following his profession; but happening to insert some fugitive pieces of poetry of extraordinary beauty in one of the gazettes, he was soon called forth as a poet, and the following summer, having returned to his native village, where he still resides, he published a collection of his early compositions, which met with the most flattering reception. Being now roused to the cultivation of his poetical powers, which he had hitherto exercised only in fugitive pieces, he soon produced and published several other works." Without possessing a mind of the very highest order, Percival's poetry is nevertheless of that kind which cannot fail to attract and please. He often thinks deeply, and always feels acutely; he has an intense perception of the beautiful-more than of the sublime in nature; and his style is a sort of compound of that of Shelley and Wordsworth,-the latter of which poets, we may remark in passing, seems to be a decided favourite with the Americans. On the whole, we cannot help thinking Percival infinitely superior to the great crowd of poetasters with which this country is at present infested, and are surprised that his works are not better known among us. His two longer poems are entitled "The Wreck" and "Prometheus ;" the first in blank verse, which is his favourite measure, and the latter in the Spenserian stanza. There are many beautiful passages in both. Of his miscellaneous productions, almost all those in blank verse possess great beauty, whilst his lyrical productions are decidedly inferior. We have room for only two short specimens, and these by no means do the poet justice. The first is entitled

VAUCLUSE.

By James G. Percival.

"The laurel throws its locks around the grave
As freshly, as when erst thou linger'd there,
And pluck'd the early flowers to crown thy hair,
Or gather'd cresses from the glassy wave,
That winds through hills of olive, vine, and grain,
Stealing away from Vaucluse' lonely dell,
Now murmuring scantily, now in the swell
Of April foaming onward to the plain-
Laura! Thy consecrated bough is bright,
As when thy Petrarch tuned his soft lute by,
And lit his torch in that dissolving light,
Which darted from his only sun-thine eye;
Thy leaf is still as green, thy flower as gay,
Thy berry of as deep a tint, as when
Thou moved a Goddess in the walks of men,
And o'er thy Poet held unbounded sway.
Methinks I hear, as from the hills descend
The deepening shadows, and the blue smoke curls,
And waving forests with the light winds bend,
And flows the brook in softer leaps and whirls-
Methinks I hear that voice of love complaining,
In faint and broken accents, of his hours

With the bright sparkling stream; and from the pebbles
That bedded all thy margin, singled out
Rare casts of unknown shells, from off thy cliffs
Broken by wintry surges. Thou wert calm,
Even as an infant calm, that gentle evening;
And one could hardly dream thou'dst ever met
And wrestled with the storm. A breath of air,
Felt only in its coolness, from the west
Stole over thee, and stirr'd thy golden mirror
Into long waves that only show'd themselves
In ripples on thy shore-far distant ripples,
Breaking the silence with their quiet kisses,
And softly murmuring peace. Up the green hillock
I mounted languidly, and at the summit
On the new grass reposed, and saw that evening
Fade sweetly over thee."

Bryant, though wanting perhaps the acute sensibility of Percival, is on the whole his superior in vigour and originality. He is much esteemed in his own country, and in the North American Review, which is now very ably conducted, his talents have more than once received the praise to which they are entitled. Bryant is a strong, bold thinker, and evidently indulges the poet's best ambition-the wish to be more distinguished for his conceptions than his execution. The poem which first brought him into notice is entitled "The Ages," and is a spirited sketch in the Spenserian stanza. Several of his minor pieces, such as his "Lines to a Waterfowl," and others, have found their way into English collections of fugitive poetry, and have been justly admired. His poem entitled "Green River" is exceedingly beautiful, but we refrain from quoting it to give a place to one in a still higher strain, the intellectual beauty of which would not have disgraced Byron ;

THANATOPSIS.

By W. Bryant.

"To him who, in the love of nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

The hunter's rifle deadlier than the shafts

From the slight bow that pleased my infancy.
Alas! the green tree at my cabin door,
The huge growth of a century! it lies

On the smooth turf it overhung so long;

The flowers are gone from the broad garden walks,
And the fair trees are dead! The sycamore,
Clothed like a prince in scarlet, the pale birch,
A tall and silvery spire, the hoary beech,
And the dark, solemn cypress, lie o'erthrown
In ruin, and rank weeds rejoice above.

"The cottage door is broken! its thatch'd roof
Lies on the quench'd and long-deserted hearth,
And the dark wall is settling to the ground!
The red-stemm'd honeysuckle, that once clasp'd
Closely the latticed casement, and bloom'd thick,
No more gives out the known delicious smell.
The drowsy brook that whisper'd by the door
A low strain of unbroken music, plays
By some far lovelier bank; it long hath shrunk
And wander'd from its weed-choked channel here.
My brethren come not at my call; the song
My mother sang at twilight is not heard
By the still threshold, and the passing wind
Sighs o'er my father's grave; this lonely place
Hath lost its charm-I leave it to its dead!"

one.

And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight

Of my low monument,―

I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

"I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I loved should come to weep,

They might not haste to go;

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them ling'ring by my tomb.

"These to their soften'd hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,

And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills

Is, that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice,
To hear again his living voice."

This article has run to a much greater length than we
originally intended; but if it has partially introduced our
readers to a new set of acquaintances, whom it is right
that they should know, we do not regret the space it oc-
cupies.
We shall consider it our duty frequently to re-
turn to a subject which we have now only broached, but
which cannot fail to be regarded as a highly interesting
"We are not inclined," says the North American
Review for April last," nor, if we were, would we in-
dulge the inclination, to clamber to the dizzy top of pro-
phecy, and point to the little golden specks which are just
glimmering above the horizon, as the twilight dawn of
American literature. Still less are we disposed to get us
upon the mount of retrospect, and counting over, as we
too easily could, the scant and thinly scattered productions
of our past years, to add these as fresh specimens of a vain
and vaunting littleness." There is sound philosophy in
this. America must not be too much hurried. The
laissez aller is the only prescription which should be at

There is Mr J. G. Brooks, too, of New York, who, if he is the author of "Fanny, an American Tale," in the "Beppo" style, is a very clever fellow. This is by far the best specimen of humour in verse which America has yet produced, and combines the gay, the grave, the severe, and the pathetic, in a very felicitous manner. Some poetesses have also made their appearance among the Jonathans. They have a lady, in particular, who calls herself “Ianthe," who is not much inferior to our own L. E. L., and writes a good deal after the same fashion. There are some modest people, too, scattered over the land, who, like little flowers or Indian fire-flies, give their odours and their light to the world without name or signature at all. Among these, the discriminating eye may every now and then discover the true germ of genius, "lurking lowly unseen." In one of the Atlantic Annuals for 1826 we lighted upon the following stanzas, which, though anonymous, we do ourselves a happiness in trans-present administered by her best lovers. Let them have ferring to our pages:

"A cell within a frozen mould,

A coffin borne through sleet,

And icy clods upon it roll'd,

While fierce the tempests beat-
Away! I will not think of these-
Blue be the sky, and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mould gently prest
Into my narrow place of rest.

"There, through the long, long summer hours,
The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by;
The oriole should build, and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife bee and humming bird.

"And what if cheerful shouts at noon
Come from the village sent,
Or songs of maids beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent;

no fears for future celebrity. She is destined to produce hundreds, thousands of human beings, worthy of the mountains, the lakes, and the forests, among which they are to be reared.

A Treatise on Philosophical and Theological Sects, &c.
By the Rev. William Meek, Minister of Dunsyre.
Edinburgh. John Anderson. 1829.

Or all controversies, religious controversy is undoubtedly the most unprofitable. But this observation can only attach to such disputes as are purely and exclusively religious And it has so happened, that in point of fact a purely religious controversy has seldom existed. Man is so decidedly imbued with religious sentiments, that whatever interests him deeply and permanently, is sure to mix itself, in a closer or more imperfect degree, with religion. His progress in science and philosophy, and, above all, his political sentiments, have from age to age been advanced or retarded, or materially influenced, by his religious opinions; so that the study of what is termed Divinity, is in reality rooted and established amidst the sentiments and avowals of ages in philosophy and the art of government. As surely as Christianity perverted did model and influence the government of papal Rome, -as its partial purification has been partially beneficial amidst the German states, and the more thorough reformation of Scotland has associated itself with freedom and political advantages of a high character and value,—— so surely will the student of divinity, who contents himself with a history of sects, sermons, councils, and opinions merely, fail of acquiring that knowledge which

A GLANCE at the catalogue of periodicals, standing at the head of this notice like the muster-roll of a regiment, will satisfy our readers that the labourers in this department are not idle. The active share taken of late years in these publications, by some of our most eminent literary characters, has given them a higher rank in literature than they held in our younger days. Honest Cave-the original Sylvanus Urban,-whose first half-century of volumes ornament that lower shelf on our right hand, would find, were he to rise from the dead, and attempt to re-assume his place in the trade, that his eighteenpenny brochures, with their stiff, ill-designed, and worse executed frontispieces; their antiquarian descriptions of old halfpence, found in the ruins of some antediluvian baker's oven; their biographies of eminent characters, whom no one ever heard of; and their criticisms of stupid books, as old as the hills, were worthless and insipid to the taste of a public accustomed to more highly-spiced dishes. Even La Belle Assemblée aspires now-a-days to a higher intellectual character than belonged to its predecessorthe Ladies' Magazine of Fashion, which (not to speak it profanely) always appeared to us to be conducted by a posse of decent elderly matrons in that nondescript rank of life which visits, and is visited, by some of the small noblesse, yet is on terms of intimacy with the cits. Two of these good old souls, retailing over their pot of tea the small talk of their illustrious seventeenth cousins; canvassing the merits of the silks, gauzes, and feathers which some

"discourse most excellent music" to them.-Were Mr
Buckingham with us just now" were the graced pre-
sence of our Banquo here"-we would hand him these
"Traveller's Tales." They would be capital sauce to the
fish he caught in the Egyptian lakes, or the pigeons of
the neighbouring province.-Dr Redgill, broiled salmon
is rather a heavy dish to supper. Had not you better
apply to that case of Sharpe's sauces? The sauce à l'Edi-
teur is the most piquant of the batch; but they are all
good, especially Captain Hall's American sauce, prepared,
unless we are very much mistaken, by Gray, a celebrated
traiteur from Oxford.* The side-table, which seems to
engross the attention of the ladies and gentlemen at the
other end of the room, is a fac-simile of the fare to which
the editor of the Monthly Magazine has been in the habit
of treating his friends once a-month, since his hopes at
St James's were blasted. Its chief recommendation is
plenty and cheapness. There is a great variety, from
Irish stew of Clare mutton, to yams dressed with Ja-
maica pepper.
The characteristic of his cookery is high
spicing. The cook was brought up by Salathiel, under
whose tuition he began by roasting Salamanders in Mount
Vesuvius. Nothing but brandy allowed to drink.-Ah! |
Peterkin, are you there with the good old lady, the Scots
Magazine Rediviva, hanging on your arm in her new
buff gown? We hope that under your superintendence
she will give up her old habit of prating of matters that
no one cares about. Your young American friend on
your right hand has made a fair and manly rally at Cap-
tain Hall. We thank you for your fragments of Rit-
son's and Pinkerton's Correspondence—the former is
quite characteristic.-If, after so much intellectual food,
there is still any body a little hungry, here is something
from the Scots Law Chronicle Office, which will put a
stop to his appetite.

Three Years in Canada. An account of the Actual State of the Country in 1826-7-8. Comprehending its Resources, Productions, Improvements, and Capabilities; and including Sketches of the State of Society, Advice to Emigrants, &c. By John Mactaggart, Civil Engineer in the Service of the British Government. Two vols. London. Henry Colburn. 1829.

MR MACTAGGART is a shrewd, sensible, rather vulgar, patriotic, and somewhat prejudiced writer. He observes acutely, and thinks independently; but we question whether he was exactly in the best position for comprehensive observation, and we suspect that early habits and preconceived opinions too easily disposed his mind to take views of various subjects not exactly in accordance with those which a more unbiassed judgment would have dictated. The situation which Mr Mactaggart held in Canada, and to which he was appointed in the year 1826, was that of Clerk of Works to the Rideau Canal, then about to be commenced, and to extend between the Ottawa River and Lake Ontario, a distance of one hundred and sixty miles, through an uncleared wilderness. He was thus prevented from mingling so much as he otherwise might have done with Canadian society, and he had fewer opportunities of judging of the inhabitants than of the geographical and physical condition of the country. It is also very evident, in the course of his work, that Mr Mactaggart thought it incumbent on the part of a - "civil engineer in the service of the British government," to hate the Americans with a perfect hate. He never

We avail ourselves of a note here-not, like Dr Southey, lest the text should be otherwise unintelligible, but simply because we wish to recommend to our readers' notice the beautiful line-engraved landscape which accompanies the August number of "Sharpe's London Magazine" Both in regard to composition as a painting, and masterly execution as an engraving, it is one of the most exquisite gems we have seen. We take this opportunity, also, to notice with approbation an engraving from a portrait of the Viscountess Eastnor, by that able artist Mrs Carpenter, in this month's number of "La Belle Assemblée."

allows any occasion to pass in which he may indulge in a hit at Jonathan without laying it in con amore, and in a style which would do no discredit to old Spring himself. This is not exactly fair, and will at all events entitle our Yankee friends to dispute his right to the name of "civil engineer."

Mr Mactaggart, however, was three years in Canada, which is a great blessing, considering that many of our modern travellers look upon themselves as authorised to publish huge books after having been only three weeks in a country. Our worthy Gallovidian took his time to his two volumes; and, knowing the great and growing interests which attach themselves to the Canadas, he very prudently resolved not to speak too rashly or hastily of their internal resources, productions, and capabilities. His book, as we have already said, is more valuable for the information it conveys upon these subjects than for its pictures of men and manners. Mr Mactaggart seems to have extended his researches through very considerable districts, especially in Upper Canada, where little more than the borders of some of the great lakes have been yet explored, and where the inexhaustible resources of the interminable forests are but very imperfectly known. He of course enters at considerable length upon his own immediate subject, that of canal-making; and, connected with it, gives much information of a local character which must be valuable, and which may be turned to good account hereafter in the formation of canals in various parts of Canada. Upon this matter, however, it is unnecessary for us to enter. Neither shall we attempt any abstract of an important part of the work which describes the progress that has been made by the Canada Company, and which talks in the highest terms of the advantages likely to accrue to this country and to the Canadas from its exertions. The statements are distinct and straightforward, yet we are disposed to take them cum grano salis; for Mr Mactaggart appears to be on terms of intimacy both with Mr Galt, the late secretary to the Company, and Dr Dunlop, the warden of their woods and forests, and is not therefore very likely to say any thing that might be displeasing to these gentlemen. At the same time, we mean not for a moment to deny, that the Company has put facilities in the way of emigrants which they never before enjoyed, and which reflect credit upon the enlightened and truly British principles by which it is actuated.

These two subjects apart, the rest of Mr Mactaggart's work might be more appropriately entitled "Notes on He observes no particular Canada" than any thing else. arrangement; and though he classes his remarks under separate heads, these follow each other just as they appear to have presented themselves in his portfolio. This being the case, we conceive we shall both do him most justice, and give our readers most satisfaction, by selecting from the two volumes such passages as appear to us most worthy of observation, either from the facts they contain, or the amusing anecdotes they relate. It is of little consequence in what order they are read; we begin with the following:

LIFE IN CANADA.-"You are quite a townsman, my dear fellow; so it is needless for me to bore you about lakes, snows, serpents, &c. The inhabitants are tolerably civil. In a common tavern, your food and bed will ease your pocket of a dollar a-day; if in an hotel, half as much more, exclusive of wines, which are so so-no great shakes, a dollar abottle-and grogs in proportion. The fashionable young fellows follow a good deal the manners of the Americansdrink gin sling, sangaree, and lemonade; smoke cigars, and in the morning take bitters, cocktail, and soda water. The theatres are not open very often, unless some of your stars get erratic, and come over the water. I have seen Kean at his old Richard here: he is ruffed much, and I daresay deserves it ;-as for me, I never ruff any body, but keep quiet. They have their parties and their scandal through all the towns, the same as at home. You are well off, who are not bothered with these things in London; it is the only place in Britain where pride and presumption dare never