tell their pupils to be sublime. "I call you the friend of Alexander !— I never called you the friend of Alexander!-Athenians! is he not the hireling of Alexander ?* You hear the answer!" What rules, we would ask, could have taught this to Demosthenes? What critical canon could have prompted it? What else but intense passion and contempt for his adversary, as well as an unbounded confidence in his own innocence? It is from the same cause that we admire his firm boldness when, in the passage praised by Longinus, he halts in the middle of his argument, and pours a broadside into Aristogiton. We are always affected by real passion; on the contrary, mock passion rarely escapes ridicule. The first requisite of greatness is a capacity of powerful emotion, and violent passions generally accompany strong intellects. Burke used to say, in extenuation of the faults of genius, that it was as difficult to find powerful minds without strong passions, as a great fire without great heat. Newton himself, who is absurdly quoted as an exception to this rule, is a striking instance of it. It is plain from his letter apologising to Locke for having wished his death, that he was a man of violent temperament; and Locke's letter to his cousin shows most sensibly the difficulty of dealing with him. In proportion also to the strength of passion will be in general the fertility and liveliness of illustration; analogies and contrasts, as Locke happily expresses it, "being tumbled out of their dark cells into open daylight by turbulent and tempestuous affections, our affections bringing ideas to our memory that would otherwise have lain quite unregarded." Another quality which we naturally admire, is the tenacious pursuit of an object, and the selection of an analogy from circumstances least likely to afford one. The African poet, quoted in Denham's Travels, says of the generous Boo Khaloom, "His heart was as large as the Desert." An ordinary person would have shrunk from illustrating liberality by the Desert; but surely the nobleness of the idea is set off in no light degree by the unexpected boldness which drew so forcible a simile from the strongest contrast in nature. One of our fashionable poets would be shocked at comparing the breast of a beautiful young woman to "two unripe apples," or her nose to the Tower of Damascus facing Lebanon. "The huge beard of the flame" would appear to be the expression of a savage; but Solomon, Æschylus, and Ariosto, justly felt that the mind would only turn the more strongly from the simile to all the beauty and tenderness of the first object, * Some of the commentators of Demosthenes remark, most absurdly, on this passage, that the orator, in order to secure the apparent condemnation of his rival, practised a ruse to effect it. He well knew the delicacy of ear that characterised an Athenian audience; and in pronouncing the word uiolwros, he strongly accentuated the first syllable instead of the second, which provoked the audience to shout aloud polaros, and so Demosthenes says, "You hear their answer.' This extravagant nonsense is only worthy of critics. It is quite clear that if Demosthenes had taken the votes of the assembly after the exordium alone, without going into his case, Ctesiphon would have been acquitted, so plausibly and beautifully was it contrived. From the commencement he carried the feeling and sympathy of the audience with him; and it is not to be wondered at, when he called on the Athenians, who had so often witnessed his exertions against Philip, and were too acute not to be sensible of the treachery of Eschines, that they simultaneously responded to his call, and declared him, what in truth he ་་ was, a perfidious hireling." to the exquisite symmetry of the second, and the terrible grandeur of the third. In short, it would be impossible to enumerate all the points in which style and mental power touch each other. Enough, however, it is hoped, has been stated to show that the universal prejudice of the world in favour of style is perfectly just, and that the latter is either thought itself, or the direct result and consequence of thought. CUPID AND THE HARP. BY WASHINGTON BROWNE. THE harp, on which Apollo played, Whilst he reclined; And through it in soft eddies strayed Young Love came there by chance, and saw, Again advanced, and smiled: And looking on the poet-king, As, grown more bold, he touched the string, There was a tempest in his blood: But now the boy, for very joy, He waked it-till he wept. He smiled like heaven-and like its rain Then first 'twas his true power to know- Away in scorn his bow he threw, Trembling with bliss: He felt his own song's empire wide, New York, 1838. FATHER-LOVE.1 BY THE O'HARA FAMILY. CHAPTER III. WE turn to "the old baronet," of whom the cousins have so often spoken, in order to give our own impression of him. It is no defamation, unless indeed the truth be a libel in story-telling as well as in law, to say that, about forty years ago, there were a good many Irish gentlemen, so called at least, in Ireland, who lacked some prominent features of the character to which they pretended. Squires, baronets, nay, lords, might at that time have been found in that country, whose education was imperfect, whose mental habits and tastes were common-place, if not coarse, whose brows were aristocratic chiefly by the assumption of a vulgar frown, whose manners, when they would be dignified, were only overbearing, and whose earthly glory seemed limited to the achievement of spending in inelegant dissipation double (treble, quadruple, if they could) the amount of their rent-rolls. And if no highly-titled individuals exist around us while we write, as instances of the wretchedness which such characteristic and rude habits sooner or later entail, generally speaking, upon their possessors, yet can we at this moment fix our eye upon more than one or two miserable beings of the stamp alluded to, who once lived in splendour, partly borrowed, to be sure, on credit, in fine patrimonial houses, tended by crowds of servants, and flattered by crowds of admirers; but who now possess, in their unhonoured old age, nor roof to cover them, nor menial to obey them, nor former equal and companion, still more mean, to give them a night's lodging, a meal of food, a secondhand coat, or even a second-hand look, as they creep, in all but rags, about the roads of their once-hereditary grounds, paupers on the charity of the cabin peasant, or as they skulk through the streets of their native city, to lay out to the best advantage, in the purchase of some offal victuals, their rare stock of a few chance halfpence. With men like these, however, we have at present very little to do. We speak of them indeed only for the purpose of saying that the Irish gentleman now before us was one of a very different class; and in consequence of some unfavourable allusions made to him in our previous pages by his son, and his nephew, it is additionally our duty to place Sir Miles Hutchinson as he ought to stand in the reader's estimation. He was, then, a true Irish gentleman of the old school-lettered, lofty, and graceful in his bearing; and though wise in his generation, as regarded politeness of manner, still of a shade too punctilious for the kind of poodle-coated taste of the present day. In face and in person, nature, by making him fine-featured, tall, and well proportioned, gave him the exterior means of well expressing these attributes. She had done more for him; she had endowed him with a clear mind, a good heart, and well-balanced dispositions. If he had an obvious Continued from p. 16. Oct. 1838.-VOL. XXIII.NO. XC. K fault, it was love of predominance in his own family, though in this his philosophical and religious notions concurred to fix him; and then his affections and his graciousness were always at hand to qualify or to make amends for any over-rigid exercise of parental authority. His nephew has truly said that he unexpectedly inherited the considerable property of which his father was the sole creator, to the prejudice of an elder brother, who, by the way, James Hutchinson did not add, had during his life proved himself unworthy of becoming the representative of his energetic and moral parent. But the circumstance of the younger son having been his father's heir only a few months before the old man's death, afforded to Miles Hutchinson opportunities for taking possession of great wealth, and eventually of a title, with a superiorly gifted mind. Early led to contemplate the building up of his own fortunes by his own almost unassisted endeavours, he had in fact studiously devoted himself, after a full collegiate course of honours, to a learned profession, from direct practice in which the unlooked-for event alluded to eventually called him. Not being a tasteless spendthrift, like the other specimens of Irish grandeeism we have noticed, and having been charged with miserly dispositions by James and by William Hutchinson, it may be inferred that he really had a touch of " the old gentlemanly vice." Such, however, was not the fact, and this his nephew, at least, knew perfectly well. Liberal almost to excess he had been to his ill-starred son William ; nor did he hold his hand until the extravagance of the silly and criminal prodigal, involving the interests of himself, his wife, his father, and his expected posterity, became boundless, and not to be calculated in its effects. We will enter Sir Miles's house upon the evening, and at about the hour, that James and William Hutchinson conversed together near Essex Bridge, Dublin. We find him sitting on a chair in the middle of a spacious dining apartment, his whole manner and expression abstracted and sad. Tables are laid, as if for an expected supper-party, which had not arrived in time; and chandeliers and lamps that had been lighted hours before are burning untrimmed and unheeded. At the back of his chair stands an old respectable-looking man, full dressed in black, and his features also are stamped with sorrow and depressionhe is Sir Miles's faithful serving-man. "Bear up, Sir Miles, bear up awhile, and all will be well and happy yet," said this person. "I cannot, Martin-I cannot. I will say to your gray hairs, and in recollection of your long and honest services, what I would not say to the world—my heart must perish at last under the load of grief, ay, and of shame, heaped upon it by that wicked and sinful son. "Ah, my dear master!" sighed the old man. "For, to that world itself that prying, pitiless world-I have other words; he will mend, I say; or perhaps I try to laugh lightly, and seem to make little of his crimes. But most to his wife-his poor young wife-the flower he has cropped and cast away-to her, Martin, in particular, I wear a smiling face; and yet her tears drop on my very heart. She is good-so feminine-so woman-like in every thing a woman ought to be-so loving, so trusting, so forgiving, and so wretched-God knows I could almost sit down and cry with her, if I durst do so, in preference." "My own old eyes run over when I look at her, sir," said the attendant. "And affliction does not now come to us single-handed, Martin. The present prop of our house shakes to its very base; and amid our utter fear and trembling for it, the future hope—the new-born one— the child of hours-is doomed to die, as you see, Martin, before we can say it lives." "No, my dear master, do not say that; I have told you that there is some chance for the infant yet;-the Dublin doctor says so." 66 Well, at all events, to provide against the worst, we will change our mind, Martin, and give it a hasty christening; and then the few late guests who live too far away to have been put off, and who, you inform me, are kind enough to wait the chances of this sad night above stairs, can sit down to supper here. I have strayed into the room, indeed, to see, with your help, if, amid our confusion, the tables were as they should be. Poor child! poor child! we can afford you but a cold and mournful merry-making. But see to it, Martin. Ånd above all, my good Martin, until all these untoward things are over one way or another, I charge you to look happier in her presence. Let us show her smiles, poor young thing, while we bless her firstborn; though, indeed, we might more fitly baptize in tears the gasping issue of a family upon all of whose children the hand of grief, or of shame, or of death, lies heavily. Need I ask it?-you got no tidings of my unhappy son in Dublin yonder ?" "No, Sir Miles; I asked after him at his usual haunts and lodgings, but could hear nothing of him.” “Well, Heaven's watch is over him. Let your young mistress be informed I wish to see her here, to lead her to the drawing-room to our friends-hush-I think I hear her gentle, small foot coming this way,-yes-you may leave me, Martin.” As the old man respectfully retired through one door, Fanny rapidly and nervously, and yet softly and gracefully, entered at another. She was a very pretty, slight young creature, fully realising in her appearance the description her father-in-law had just given of her; and the attire that she now wore, that of the undress of a youthful nursingmatron-loose flowing robes of white gauzy muslin-was much in character with her whole expression. The moment she saw Sir Miles, her handkerchief was held to her eyes. 66 Blessings and happiness," he said, extending his hands towards her, and leading her to a chair-"blessings and happiness, as thick as the flowers in the spring, fall on you and around you, my own good, dear girl!-Now, now-what is this?-showers still? Come, your pretty urchin is thriving again; he will soon make a holiday round about him, in which nothing gloomy can or shall be permitted. Shame on you, Fanny, that are the happy mother of that fine imp, and—but do tell me why is this?—not a smile, not even a word yet, for the old grandfather, growing garrulous just to make you look cheerful?" "Oh, dear father!" she sobbed on his shoulder. "He'll mend, my child,”—he tried to smile-" our scapegrace will |