dually declining on one side, while on the other it de- | several authors and professional brethren, who all bore scends abruptly to a wood-fringed rivulet, whose pre-high and touching testimony to his genius and merits. sence is revealed by one unvaried sound of plain- The spectacle was truly French, yet it was imposing, tive murmur, that seems the natural voice of solitude- and I confess that I caught no small portion of the com. where sleep the forefathers, simple but not rude, of mon enthusiasm. It was, indeed, a solemn scenic rethe hamlet, their modest tombs almost hid by tufted presentation, and was an appropriate termination of the grass and creeping wild-flower, are scattered in grace- career of this unrivalled master of the tragic art. ful disorder to the edge of a dense grove of cedars, whose solemn foliage harmonizes well with the scene and the emotions which it awakens.

A pillar'd shade,

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perenially, beneath whose sable roof

Of boughs ***** ghostly shapes

Might meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight-Death the skeleton

And Time the shadow-there to celebrate

As in a natural temple, scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship.

I must now exercise my rambling privilege, by taking the reader, if he will accompany me, to Rome, where I witnessed a funeral ceremony equally curious, though very different from the one which has just been described. Strolling one afternoon through the streets of the ancient capital of the world, without any object save the gratification of a vague curiosity, the shades of evening began to fall while I was yet distant from the quarter where I lodged. Just as I was about to turn my steps homeward, my ear was saluted by a strange, wailing sound, which seemed to proceed from afar. It approached, however, rapidly, and I had not waited long before a singular procession emerged from an adjoining street. A coffin, borne on the shoulders of men who had ad

As an interesting incident illustrative of French enthusiasm, connected with my recollections of Père La-vanced with a rapid step, was followed by a long train of chaise, it may not be inappropriate to introduce a monks, cowled to the chin, with apertures for breath short account of the obsequies of the celebrated Talma, and sight. Each held aloft a torch, which flared wildwhich I witnessed. The great tragedian had refused, ly as they went, uttering a muffled, melancholy chant. during his last illness, to receive the visits of the arch- Their dark livery, masked visages, hurried gait, glarbishop of Paris, who was anxious that he should die ing torches, and wailing, lugubrious tones, combined to reconciled with the church-and, with that view, made impress me with a feeling bordering on fear. It was a the most strenuous and persevering efforts. In explana- scene worthy of the pen of Goethe, or the pencil of tion, however, it must be observed, that it was necessa- Reitsch. The witches in Macbeth could not have prery Talma should make a solemn renunciation of a pro-sented a more fiendish aspect upon their barren heath, fession which is without the pale of catholic communion. or dancing around their cauldron of hell-broth. I alTalma refused, as he declared, to stigmatize, by the last most imagined, that a troop of howling demons were act of his life, his professional brethren and the art dragging some miserable victim to the black abyss. Imwhich had bestowed upon him fortune and renown.pelled, however, by a feeling stronger than mere curiosi This courageous resolution, at a moment when forti- | ty, I followed the ghostly procession until we entered totude is most difficult, endeared him the more to a peo-gether an old church in the neighborhood of the Parts ple who were at that time animated against the church | del Popolo. Here the monks performed a brief service, with all the fervor of political zeal. The rites of reli- in the same hurried manner and muttering tones. They gion being withheld from his obsequies, it was accord- then retired, leaving the coffin in the hands of the officers ingly determined to indemnify his memory, by a splen- of the church, who, carrying it into an adjoining apartdid popular pageant. Thousands followed, with un-ment, lifted a stone trap from the floor, and plunged it covered heads and in solemn silence, the nodding plumes of the magnificent hearse, as it wended slowly along the extended line of the boulevards. The coffin was covered by a rich pall, upon which were placed, as emblems of his art and fame, the toga, the poniard and the laurel crown. Never did I witness in a crowd such solemnity and reverence. Had the air been rent by thousand acclamations, they could not have equalled the enthusiasm of the profound stillness which prevailed. It was like the march of an army without banner, trump or drum. As the procession advanced, its numbers constantly augmented, until, far as the eye could reach, stretched one dense, moving mass. Upon reaching the gate of the cemetery, the coffin was taken from the car, and borne, as in triumph, to the spot prepared for its re-interest, yet calm and subdued. Immediately below ception. The spectacle resembled an apotheosis rather spreads the mighty city, with its lofty domes, crownthan a funeral. The contiguous ground was occupied by ing towers, piercing spires, splendid palaces, dense a multitude anxious to do reverence to the remains of streets and spacious gardens. Its discordant sounds the great tragedian, the pride of France, who was and multitudinous voices are all lost in one low muffled mourned as a national loss. Talma had been the cadence, heard remote like the murmur of a distant friend and the favorite of Napoleon, and the recollec-ocean. There stands the living, here the dead city. tions of the glories of the empire were associated with What an epitome of human fortune is comprised the scene. Orations were delivered at the grave by within those ample walls! What a mass of being,

headlong into the yawning vault. A loud crash, followed by a hollow, rumbling sound, was scarcely heard when the stone was replaced, and I came away with feelings which I shall not attempt to describe.

The summit of Père Lachaise affords, perhaps, the finest prospect of Paris, and the surrounding country. Far as the eye can reach, it wanders over a spacious plain, covered with towns and villages, crowned by the towers of St. Denis, and the battlements of Vincennes, and presenting a distant view of the ancient castle and forest of St. Germain, with other objects almost equally striking. At intervals, the winding Seine is behold, like a silver band stretched loosely across the landscape. The prospect is pregnant with life, beauty and

what a current of life, what a stream of passion, is ever | These denizens of nature have had birth, pouring through those populous streets! What a fever In fragrance and in simple elegance, of existence, what a ferment of vitality! Opulence and So have the virtues of thy guileless mind misery, splendor and deformity, virtue and crime, in- Been trained in grace by gentle influences ;nocence and corruption, age and infancy, strength and See in their purity and sweet adornment weakness, all mingle in discordant harmony.* There the A proper emblem of thy beauteous self!— loud laugh drowns the aching sigh; here imprecations Ever as this thy recreations be! mingle with the voice of benediction; there the rich Let the bland lessons from the natural world man riots in superfluous wealth; here the squalid child Be teachers of your heart! Let music's spell of poverty perishes with hunger. The monarch sits en- Waken the tender chords of sympathy, throned in his palace; the magistrate takes his place And elevate the mind to noble thoughts! on the judgment seat; the criminal, crouching in his And when you thus transcribe the living flowers, dungeon, awaits the hour of his doom; the bride arrays Making them glow in freshness on your page, herself for the altar; the poverty-stricken mother sheds Forget not Him, who gave the Lily grace, bitter tears over her pining little ones; vice spreads lures The Violet perfume, and the Rose its charms; for the destruction of innocence; the gamester stakes his Forget not Him who formed thy gentle heart life upon a cast of the die. Love glows, avarice watches, To understand--to feel--to love--to praise ;— ambition fires, revenge burns, labor toils, luxury riots. And should, amid the throng of holier thoughts, Soon the fever will subside, the tumult be hushed, the Some earthly memories steal upon your sense, eventful drama be brought to a close. The myriads that I would you think of him who penn'd these simple lines. crowd those thronged streets shall, one by one, be brought hither and laid in the dust, whose every particle will, ere long, be a fragment of mortality. The river of life which flows through those countless channels, is slowly and silently uniting its agitated currents, to lose itself forever in this vast reservoir of death! Such were the solemn reflections which stirred my spirit while gazing upon the magnificent prospect that stretches beneath and around Père Lachaise

And such thy graceful idleness!-Since last
We met, this book of varied flowers hath grown
Beneath thy magic pencil. Nature's gems,
In many a tasteful wreath, are imaged forth
With all their brilliant loveliness;-I gaze
Upon the rare and bright conceptions which
Have vied in doing justice to their types,
And see in all the beauties glowing there
Fit emblems of thy gentleness and truth.
I seek no strained analogies ;--I take
No definitions from the hackneyed books
That youthful misses dream on dotingly,
And say, that this means Hope-the other, Love-
A third bud Constancy-Beauty a fourth-
And so, till all the floral jewelry

Of nature be exhausted. Such task for those
Who deal in trite, unmeaning common-places!--

Yet if you wish to have an emblem here,
Be it of thee;-and view in all the rare
Similitudes of beauty pictured forth-
Grace unadorned, and native modesty-

That as by spring showers and the sunbeams bright,

Discors Concordia.--Orid.

NEW WORKS.

Viator; or a Peep into my Note Book. By the author of A
Grumbler's 'Miscellaneous Thoughts,' &c. New York; S.
Colman-1839.

It is with extreme pleasure that we notice another
literary work, from the pen of the gifted author of
Hoffman's "Legal Outlines," and "Course of Legal
Study."

It is already well known, that this gentleman has made his bow to the literary public, by the issue of "A Grumbler's Miscellaneous Thoughts;" a work which it is not our present purpose to speak of; but which, it may be said in passing, has made morality lovelydrawn knowledge from her hiding place, and reduced wisdom to apopthegms.

Viator, or a Peep into my Note Book, is a volume which is vastly more meritorious in its pages, than pretending in its title. It consists of notes on miscellaneous subjects, and deals sometimes in fact, sometimes in fiction-sometimes in didactic reflection, sometimes in fanciful conceit-has here a touching incident, and there a reminiscence of vertu―a graceful description in this chapter, and a metaphysical disquisition in that. It is one of the few books which, touching on many subjects, is successful in all. For in the hands of Mr. Hoffman, whatever the theme,

"Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave," the interest is undivided, and the charm unbroken; and so much are we delighted with its perusal, that not until it is laid aside, do we discover how greatly we have been instructed. The inexhaustible fullness of Mr. Hoffman's mind, his stores of knowledge, and "wisdom hived with many a studious year"-are here familiarly and beautifully seen, and gem his teeming page, with sparkling thoughts, instructive allusions, and felicitous illustrations.

The world is becoming more liberal, as it becomes more enlightened, and is manifesting every day, a greater willingness to admit, what hitherto has with jealousy and reluctance been conceded-that to possess rare qualities of one kind, is no bar to the possession of qualities equally rare, of a different kind.

To the meed of this praise, no one can lay higher

claim than the distinguished subject of the present no- | ted to us interferes with our kind wishes in his behalf tice. For almost in the midst of his legal lucubrations, to make it complete. The description and reflections and at a time when the reputation of the jurist seems which follow, are taken from the note entitled “Public at its height, the public is presented with the present, and Cemeteries," the result of a visit by the author to Laurel former volume, from which it appears that, whilst learn- Hill Cemetery, in the vicinity of Philadelphia. p. 184. ing is still faithful to her favorite, the muses also have "Not all the marble magnificence of the proud city in whose wooed his acquaintance. The mantle of the poet is environs it is situate--her Banks and her Exchanges, nor yet the cast gracefully upon the shoulders of the sage; and splendor of her ornate Churches, nor yet those monuments of erudition, relieved of its nakedness, is warmed into new her benevolence, her Colleges, and her Hospitals, nor her farand glowing life, by the soul-giving fervor of imagination, or enlarge my soul with a tythe of the salutary train of famed Water-works, could fill my mind with half the admiration. Who to read the following highly wrought and thoughts, as the moral beauty, the classic embellishments, and poetical passage, would ever suppose that its author had the sacred purposes of this delightful Repository of the Dead! been as devotedly affianced to the "Lady Common This spot is forever dedicated to the uses of a public Cemetery, Law," as was ever Sir Edward Coke himself, the so-in which are to repose the wise, the good and the powerful-and lemn godfather, and apostolical propounder of her doc-possibly the simple-headed, the mere worldling, the recluse, and trines! p. 168.

the half-forgotten, who are living-to be born; and to die in this now powerful and growing metropolis. It consists of an enclosed space of about thirty acres, comprising every variety of scenery, elevated in situation, and, in all respects of a proper soil. It is distant some three miles from the city, upon a wide avenue, known as the Ridge road; and in approaching it the visiter passes the Girard College, and, by a slight deflection may stop at Fairmount, the Prison, &c. &c.

"The entrance to the cemetery is by an arched portal, passing through a building of great architectural beauty, and which at once strikes the beholder as peculiarly appropriate in style and

"How many latent and refined beauties--discoverable alone to the eye of taste-are spread over this land [Italy] of the clear blue empyrean; over this land of mountain snows and flowery vales; this land of the vine, the orange, the fig, and the olive! How much is the soul excited in this dominion of lavas and of subterranean fires, in this land of ancient ruins and of modern luxury, of priestly superstitions, and of classical and moral associations-the land of painters, of poets, of musicians, of architects, and of sculptors; the land of the witcheries of fancy, and the sublimities of varied genius; a land full of cas-embellishment. In the front it presents an imposing colonnade cades, of grottoes, of the reminiscences of sybils, of dryads, and of nymphs; the region of the 'fell Charybdis and the how ling Scylla'; a land where the sunbeams repose on the distant hills, reflecting their varied and gorgeous lights from the win-way a funeral urn, appropriate in its design, and beautiful as an dows of a thousand habitations, fantastically perched on almost inaccessible cliffs, and where the twilight lingers on among the green valleys, as if reluctant to part with so much beauty, or to cloud them in the shades of night!

'Fair Italy,

Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree,
Even in thy desert what is like to thee?
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other clime's fertility;
Thy wreck of glory, and thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.'"

Or the following upon the same subject, to which the author clings with all the affectionate admiration and sorrowing sympathy of a poet. p. 41.

"All who have visited that country must, I think, have experienced the like alternations of feeling-for beauty and deformity; wealth and poverty; magnificence and meanness; ado. ration and profanity; piety and superstition; ignorance and learning; cleanliness and beastiality; genial sunny skies and gloomy chilling blasts; lovely women and loathsome hags, are all more strangely blended, and more frequently witnessed there, than, perhaps, in any other land!

"Italy is truly a country greatly blessed of God, and cursed of man; one to be loved and hated; sought and avoided ; prais.

ed and blamed; a country that all must desire to visit, few to live and die in; a land of numerous reminiscences, quite as full of pain, as of pleasure; a land where civilized man was never

greater, and yet where civilized man was never more debased; a land, in fine, where may be culled all that ennobles, and all that dishonors our species!"

But to the fine taste, and graceful fancy, thus beautifully disclosed, is superadded, whenever the subject admits of it, a fullness, a faithfulness, and a warmth, in his descriptions of material nature, which make it plainly apparent that only the attempt is wanting, to enable him to rival with his own, the productions of even the immortal Sir Walter himself.

of eight columns of the Roman Doric order, surmounted by a correspondent entablature; this, again, supports a ballustrade, and the whole is finished by placing immediately over the gate.

ornament. In the portico, upon each side of the gateway, is a niche for the reception of emblematic statuary, and the whole effect of the entrance-building is made still more grand and imposing, by a continuation upon each flank of a series of lesser columns, forming a colonnade in the same general style as the building itself, and which apparently much magnifies its extent. Once inducted through this chaste and imposing portal, and pursuing his walk but a few steps, the visiter finds himself in the midst of a scene of surpassing natural beauty. Lawns of velvet turf, gravel walks stretching off every where, seemingly into the entanglements of a labyrinth; deep and impenetrable shades from lofty oaks; the tristful grace of bending willows; the perfumes of many flowers; and the melody of birds, all unite in forming a scene as truly delightful to the senses, as it is genial to those sweet tempers of the mind, which are so apt to manifest themselves in these abodes of the lamented and honored dead.

"Upon the west side of the enclosure the scene becomes in. describably beautiful. The spectator approaches over grounds nearly level, until he stands upon a bank whose precipitous sides are covered with massive rocks, time worn and mossgrown; whilst, here and there, are seen some hardy evergreens which have thrust their roots within the clefts, and drawing thence their slender sustenance, expand above in shady trees, or in more humble shrubs. Here the kalmia delights to expand its showy blossoms, and the hemlocks, pines and spruces blend their foliages with the broader leaves of numerous other trees--whilst every little tuft of earth hanging loosely on the rocks, is garnished with flowers of various hues.

"At the foot of the precipice glides the placid Schuylkill, here widened to the dimensions of a lake, whose unruffled bosom sends back to the eye of the beholder, the reflected image of the beauties which encompass him. The whole is expressive of deep repose, rather heightened than dispelled, by the distant view of commercial activity on the opposite banks, where the passage to and fro of the canal boats gives animation to the landscapes, whilst intervening distance lends enchantment to the view,' by taking from the busy stir its noise and grossness. It is this rocky hill side with its trees, its shubbery, its nume. rous flowers, vines and tendrils--all of nature's own planting, that to me was the most enchanting --there, on a tiny peninsula, Where one is disposed to quote a great deal, it is a jutting somewhat into the river, I mused for a while, and thought that even a grave, nestled in so recluse a spot, had hard thing to select a little; but we will not refuse our many charms: this, of all the rest, seemed to me the most atreaders a partial gratification, because the space allot-tractive for a burial place; and indeed the whole hill-side seems

Own

"Land of the forest and the rock,
Of dark blue lake and mighty river"?

destined, at no remote day, to be the favorite spot-and, like the spirit of poetry should kindle so naturally as in our the banks of the Nile, will spread its monuments and tombs from the water's edge to the very summits of these rocks." But it is the rare and peculiar merit of the observant and philosophical author of Viator, to have adapted his writings with singular felicity to the taste of the The lyre hangs shattered amid the desolate temples reading public; for, the rage for novelty, so charac. of Greece, and gray ruin has defaced column, shaft and teristic of the age, has affected the reading world in architrave, in Rome; and where now, we ask, should common with others. And with this trait Mr. Hoff-poetry so naturally flow forth and become classic, as in man shows himself to be well aware. For whilst it is plain that he is determined to instruct, it is at the same time equally apparent that, he is constantly and carefully conscious, how important, and even necessary, it is that he should please. The result is that his volume abounds with such a judicious and wholesome variety, that the interest is maintained even about subtle points of criticism, or cunning speculation; and the reader pursues his employment with pleasure, and is made wiser without being weary.

Commending Viator once more to the reader, and hoping that the present brief introduction may induce him to prosecute further the acquaintance of its author, we respectfully give him good bye.

this land where mind is free-where the shrines of her inspiration are the unpolluted and majestic monuments of nature, the streams that mirror heaven and its stars, the sweet, fair vallies, the eternal mountains and the rain. bow-girdled cataracts? And we have produced poetry, if not of the highest order, yet of so much excellence in a brief lapse of time, that we are proud of it, and will if we go on thus, anon, have green trophies won in the fields of literature, to hang beside "the bruised arms" and the memorial marbles that are piled above the bones of our ancestors.

But we have touched upon a lofty theme, and have thus been led to indulge in a strain of remark upon which we cannot dwell, and to which, perhaps, we should not in this place have diverged. We commend

The Poets of America, illustrated by one of her Painters. New the book before us to the patronage of our countrymen.

York: S. Colman. 1839.

We commend the custom, which is prevailing to some extent, of republishing productions of merit in the form of gift-books or annuals. It is a splendid mode of enshrining the works of genius and of giving them a circulation which, in many instances perhaps, despite their intrinsic excellence, they never would have obtained. There should be something beside tinsel and beauty and articles "got up" for the occasion, to recommend the Tokens and Souvenirs of the season.

In point of elegance it is well fitted to adorn a centre table, or grace a boudoir; while, containing specimens of the productions of Drake, Halleck, Sprague, Bryant, Percival, Benjamin, Sigourney, Gould, and a host of others, each in himself a host, it will form a noble addition to the library of taste and intellect. It, by no means, contains all the flowers of American poesy. We assure the reader, in the words of the editor, that "ample materials, untouched in the present work, are at hand," and we sincerely hope, with him, that " an opThe utile should be blended with the "dulci;" at least, portunity of presenting specimens from the pens of many the elegance of binding, and the splendor of paper, print writers not represented in the present collection," will and engraving, should be combined with productions soon occur. He promises us, "should the reception of really meritorious and worthy of preservation. While this volume be such as may reasonably be anticipated," we are willing to acknowledge that our annuals proba- " to issue another similar in character and style." We bly contain many pieces of this kind, and while we have trust that his reasonable anticipations will not be disno particular objection to seeing them, from year to appointed. year, issuing from the press, yet we think that standard and well-known works will afford a more ample and suitable opportunity for the display of taste and talent in the style, binding, illustrations, &c., than any that can be framed and moulded expressly for that pur

pose.

We have before us a combination of this kind-a union of taste and genius-a cluster of rich intellectual gems set in a splendid material casket. "The Poets of America," is a book beautiful and unique enough to be an importation from fairy land. Nay, were it not for its name, we should be uncertain now, whether it has not come to cheer an idle hour of dark November days, or amid the bleak winter, from the realm of bright winged genii, where the dreams of poesy are embodied, where the waters gush out beneath blue skies from fonts of crystal, and the trees drop pearls enwreathed with "dark and glossy leaves." But it is enstamped with our country's own proud armorial bearings, and is let. tered with a title which thrills a peculiar nerve of the heart. "The Poets of America!" She has her poets, There blooms many a flower in her green free woodlands, and many a gem sparkles by her rushing waters. And what land is there, on all this broad earth, where

It would be superfluous for us to enter into special criticisms here. At least whether it would be so or not, we do not intend to do so. The poems are generally, we presume, well known and well liked. Well known and well liked as they are, however, we must transfer one or two to our columns, and we wish that we could transfer, with those we select, the beautiful etchings with which they are intermingled and surrounded in the work from which we copy them.

Here is Willis's Annoyer; or Love's "jottings" up and down in ocean, earth and air.

Love knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky

Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.

He peeps into the warrior's heart,

From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears and the many men
May not deny him room.
He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream;