Bint. Her cow, her calves, her pigs, her bees, her poultry, have each, in their several ways, thriven and prospered. She has even brought Watch to like buttermilk, as well as strong beer, and has nearly persuaded her father (to whose wants and wishes she is most anxiously attentive) to accept of milk as a substitute for gin. Not but Hannah hath had her enemies as well as her betters. Why should she not? The old woman at the lodge, who always piqued herself on being spiteful, and crying down new ways, foretold, from the first, that she would come to no good, and could not forgive her for falsifying her prediction; and Betty Barnes, the flattering widow of a tippling farmer, who rented a field, and set up a cow herself, and was universally discarded for insufferable dirt, said all that the wit of an envious woman could devise against Hannah and her Alderney; nay, even Ned Miles, the keeper, her next neighbor, who had, whilom held entire sway over the Shaw common, as well as its coppices, grumbled as much as so good-natured and genial a person could grumble, when he found a little girl sharing his dominion, a cow grazing beside his pony, and vulgar cocks and hens hovering around the buck wheat destined to feed his noble pheasants. Nobody that had been accustomed to see that paragon of keepers, so tall and manly, and pleasant looking, with his merry eye, and his knowing smile, striding gaily along, in his green coat, and his gold laced hat, with his noble Newfoundland dog, (a retriever is the sporting word,) and his beautiful spaniel flirt at his at his heels, could conceive how askew he looked, when he first found Hannah and Watch holding equal reign over his old territory, the Shaw com mon. Yes! Hannah hath had her enemies; but they are passing away. The old woman at the lodge is dead, poor creature; and Betty Barnes, having herself taken to tippling, has lost the few friends she once possessed, and looks, luckless wretch, as if she would soon die too!-and the keeper?—why, he is not dead, or like to die; but the change that has taken place there is the most astonishing of all-except, perhaps, the change in Hannah herself. Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were less pretty than Hannah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, thin in face, sharp in feature, with a muddled complexion, wild sun-burnt hair, and eyes, whose very brightness had in them something startling, over-informed, super-subtle, too clever for her age. At twelve years old she had quite the air of a little old fairy. Now, at seventeen, matters are mended. Her complexion has cleared her countenance, her figure, has shot up into height and lightness, and a sort of rustic grace; her bright, acute eye is softened and sweetened by the womanly wish to please; her hair is trimmed, and curled, and brushed, with exquisite neatness; and her whole dress arranged with that nice attention to the becoming, the suitable both in form and texture, which would be called the highest degree of coquetry, if it did not deserve the better name of propriety. Never was such a transmogrification beheld. The lass is really pretty, and Ned Miles has discovered that she is so. There he stands, the rogue, close at her side (for he hath joined her whilst we have been telling her little story, and the milking is over!)-there he standsholding her milk pail in one hand, and stroking Watch with the other; whilst she is returning the compliment, by patting Neptune's magnificent head. There they stand, as much like lovers as may be ; he smiling, and she blushing-he never looking so handsome, nor she so pretty, in all their lives. There they stand, in blessed forgetfulness of all except each other; as happy a couple as ever trod the earth. There they stand, and one would not disturb them for all the milk and butter in Christendom. I should not wonder if they were fixing the wedding day. THE EVIL EYE. AMONG the qualities attributed to the Notwithstanding this sovereign mode eye in some persons, and once universally credited, was the power of working evil and enchantment by its glances. The operation of the "evil eye," (once so denominated,) upon mankind, as being a pretty general belief in past times, has been recorded by many writers. Bacon says that its effects have, according to some historians, been so powerful as to affect the mind of the individual upon whom they fell; that even after "triumphs, the triumphants" have been made sick in spirit by the evil eyes of lookers on. In most modern European nations, in their earlier ages, the fear of the fascination of children by an "evil eye," made nurses very careful how they permitted strangers to look upon them. In Spain it was called mal de ojos, and any one who was suspected of having an "evil eye," while regarding a child, was forced to say, while observing the infant, "God bless it." This notion, however, is far more ancient than the name of England. The Greeks and Romans gave credit to it, when they were in their high career of glory. We find, in many ancient writers, allusions to the malicious influence of what they call the "vicious" or "evil eye." Theocritus, Horace, Persius, Juvenal, and others, allude to it in a way not to be mistaken in its alliance with the later superstition. I have never heard what charms were used by our forefathers or the ancients against the influence of the "evil eye :" of guarding against an "evil tongue," the evil eye seems to have been as much proof against the wisdom of our forefathers as against our own. It would therefore, in the language of the olden time, be an "insult to Providence," if, after the experience of our ancestors in such matters, we presumed to attempt the discovery of an efficient antidote. In our times the "evil eye" still survives, though its operations may not be so much a matter of general attention as formerly, It works still, in a manner equally as injurious as when the "irradiations" of the visual orb were supposed to be solely confined to the subtle operations of magic. The "evil eye," in modern days, is observed to be not less dangerous in its consequences to its possessor, than to those whom it fixes upon as victims of its malignity. He smarts in heartconsuming anguish while he regards the happiness of a neighbor, the success of an acquaintance in an honorable calling, or the hard struggle and merited reward of literary assiduity. No rank of life is beyond the glance of the "evil eye;" no talent mailed against its deadly malignity; no robe of innocence so pure as to conceal the wearer from its blighting observation. The sensibilities of genius, with whatever art or science they may be linked, are too often scorched by its fatal gaze. It blanches the cheek of beauty, dries up the springs of charity, extinguishes the noblest ardors, withers the fairest blossoms of the soul, and almost renders indifferent the glorious triumphs of virtuous age, by blasting the honors due to its protracted perseverance in goodness. The subjects of Vathek, in the terrible ball of Eblis, had a heart of selfwasting fire, which was disclosed on The man with putting aside the vest. the "evil eye" exhibits the burning heart through the organ of vision. His glances explain what is passing within, as well as if the ribs and pericardium were pellucid crystal, or the transparent summer atmosphere. The man with the evil eye" always looks obliquely at society. His tongue may be silvery smooth, tipped with velvet, dropping honey, like Nestor's, though blackness be beneath. He cannot conceal the glances that shoot insidiously towards the objects of his hatred-glances, that, were they rays of a pestilence, (as he would they were,) must make perish all against whom they are directed. No glance from the basilisk could be more fatal in reality than his glance, had he his wish. To provoke the latent vengeance of the "evil eye,” it is a sufficient offence to be fortunate; success is a brand on the forehead of another in its sight. The specious Iago of the "evil eye" may have four senses of the five such as the best might select for themselves; but with him, these only administer to the sovereign lord of vision, and exist subordinate to the "aspect malign.' The man of the "evil eye" finds his heart ignite with tenfold violence when excellence of any kind meets due reward. Who but the man of the "evil eye," has, in his own opinion, a right to be fortunate in industry?-who but he has a lawful claim to the suffrages of society and the crown of reward? The bonds of friendship are melted before him; human sympathies dried into dust; envy and selfishness furnish fuel to the heart, and malignant flames rush from the evil eye" with terrible intensity. Lord of the ascendant, the evil eye" makes reason its vassal, and never allows the claims of self or self-interest to be balanced against common sense or obligation. Is the object regarded an artist? he may be a far superior one to him of the "evil eye;" is he an orator? he may far excel him; or, is he an author, possessing genius and learning, and patronized by the public? it mat ters not; the baser passions have put down reason, and drowned even a fool's degree of reflection. The "evil eye" can see nothing but what is tinged with its own green hue, and no longer discriminates color or form. The result is a consequence mathematically correct-true to the very point: envy and hatred become the guiding star of the soul. Does he pester society with his diatribes ?-he mingles in them, to second the desires of his heart, the venom of the snake, with the stratagem of the fox, and the reasoning of the ostrich, which hides its head alone from the hunter and fancies itself unseen. He has no sight but for the objects of his malice, and loses the view of his own interest in the eagerness of ocular vengeance. Is the owner of the "evil eye" a trader! he looks fatal things to his industrious neighbor's credit; is the owner a female ?-she glances away her friend's virtue. Lastly, the owner of the "evil eye" is a universal enemy, whom man cannot trust, time marks out for retribution, and fiends alone can envy. If society still hold one man to whom this alleged power, anciently attributed to the organ of vision, remains in action, let him be watched. The "evil eye" cannot be mistaken: unsteady as the ocean waves, it rolls around and about in fevered restlessness; now extended, it exhibits its orb clear of the lid, surrounded by the white, in angry convulsion-now half closed, it questions with wariness and shallow cunning-now calm and dead as Lethe, it represses the pale beam of its malice, and with saintly bearing seems piety itself, the herald of cordiality, the star of friendship and rectitude. But it is all the charmed disguise of the magician, that he may make his spells the surer. The "evil eye" is still the same; its Tophetic beams are less visible, only from the hope that they may more effectually operate on the objects of their malignity. THE WANDERER'S LEGACY.* THERE has been no remarkable absence of decent poems lately; but we have met with none for a long time which has given us so much pleasure as this volume of Mrs. Godwin. This lady is, we understand, the younger daughter of the late Dr. Garnett, the author of "Zoonomia," "Observations on a Tour through the Highlands of Scotland," &c. Dr. Garnett left two orphan children, for Mrs. Garnett had died a few years before. They were entrusted to the care of a kind and attached female friend, who retired with them to their father's native place, Barbon, a secluded little village, near Kirby-Lonsdale, in Westmoreland. In this village they both continued to reside till they had attained to womanhood, and it is still the home of Mrs. Godwin. It is not surprising that in so beautiful and romantic a country, and surrounded by every circumstance calcu-. lated to operate powerfully upon the youthful fancy, the germ of poetical genius, which disclosed itself early in the life of the fair author of the poems now under our notice, should have gradually expanded, until it arrived at a rich and luxuriant maturity. Her first publication, "The Night before the Bridal, Sappho, and other Poems," received, soon after its appearance, the praise which it deserved. Her present work raises Mrs. Godwin still more in our estimation. In addition to splendor of imagination, copiousness of diction, beauty and variety of imagery, and rare facility and harmony of versification, the volume is embued with a depth of thought, and a strength of feeling, which indicate a mind of a very superior order, —a mind capable of producing "what the world will not willingly let die." The volume opens with an "Invocation." It is a noble and enthusiastic little composition; and as it affords a fair specimen of Mrs. Godwin's powers, we will give nearly the whole of it. "Beautiful Spirit! that didst guard of eld The song-inspiring fount of CastalieThou, unto whom supremacy is given Light of the lonely, solace of the sage, And sway o'er realms of boundless intellect ; Beneath whose influence e'en the dungeon smiles, And earth's worst desert fair as Eden blooms; To whom are offered pure the unchained thoughts, Warm aspirations, and the rare first-fruits Born of young Genius, when her spring-tide teems With rich imaginings-To whom belongs close Their golden gates, and all their wealth disCall, from the depths of ocean and of earth, And from the blue ethereal element, Enchantress Queen! call up thy mighty spells! If on some silver-crested wave thou float'st, List'ning the genii secrets murmured low Beneath the surges;-or if yet thou hold'st Thy moonlight vigils midst the laurel groves Girding the Delphian mount ;—or if on wing, All redolent of heaven's immortal breeze, And radiant as the Iris' hucs, thou glidest Among the stars, winning new splendor thence, Or heavenward, earthward bent, my vows re By Catherine The Wanderer's Legacy; a Collection of Poems on various Subjects. Grace Godwin, (late Catherine Grace Garnett.) Post 8vo. pp. 277. London, 1829. who had journeyed over many parts of the earth; had seen men, manners, and nature, and who had been fond of embodying his observations and experience in verse. To the romantic scene, the home of his youthful days, this "gray-haired wanderer" returns. His reflections, as he gazes at the well-known objects around him, are full of beauty, and of patriotic feeling. "Land of my sires! oh, with what chasten'd love My soul, unwarp'd, dispassionate, and free, Guided by some kind angel from above, Returns with filial gratitude to thee! Here would I wait my Maker's great decree, Walk these wild hills whereon my fathers trod, And, as the leaf beside the parent tree Lays its pale form, so nigh yon house of God Would I repose beneath the hallow'd sod. And well may life moor here her shatter'd bark, From hence she sail'd when youth was at the prow; The dove sought shelter in the sacred Ark, Scared by the perils she had view'd below. Within these glens the citron's golden glow Crests not the grove by southern breezes fann'd, Yet would I challenge earth's wide realms to show A spot that bears the stamp of Beauty's hand More deep than thine, my own, my native land! And thou art free-the gilded orient wave, Albeit perfumed by India's spicy gales, Floats round the country of the crouching slave, Where rapine prowls, and tyranny prevails : But here, in Albion's green and peaceful vales, Man with his fellow mortal proudly copes; No despot's will the peasant's home assails, Nor stalks th' oppressor o'er its pastoral slopes, Nor reaps the stranger's hand the harvest of his hopes." Finding that the lapse of years has deprived him of all his kindred and friends, he retires to a peaceful hermitage, where he passes "the quiet autumn of his age In such pursuits as whiled the hours away: From Wanderer grown to Anchorite and Sage; A moonlight eve closed manhood's chequer'd day." In his cell, after his death, are discovered his tablets, on which are inscribed "The Wanderer's early Recollections;" forming the third and longest poem of the volume. The earlier portion of these Recollections, is the dent but uninformed mind, conscious admirably detailed history of an arof the existence of unattained knowledge, and panting for its acquisition. We can quote only a few short and detached passages. "My youth hath been in quiet musings spent, My very childhood garb'd itself in thoughts That were of riper years. My whole life since Hath been a maze of marvel, and delight In all the gifts wherewith the hand divine Hath deck'd this mortal dwelling-place of man. I well remember me, ere language flow'd In unison with the mind's eloquence, How my heart, laboring with its feelings deep, Seeking in words some utterance of its joy, Rejected alway with a vexed disdain The guise uncouth in which the precious are Was issued from the mine; for harmony, Though unattained, was in my heart instinct: I felt her presence in the haunts I lovedShe floated round me in the summer's gales; I saw her impress on the mountain peaks; The groves, the glades, with her voice resonant, Whisper'd her accents to the murmuring brooks. The poetry of Nature then was felt, Albeit not yet distinctly understood. I only knew that my aspirings soar'd That my conceptions were beyond the scope Far, far above this earth's corporeal things: Of my untaught and wild philosophy. All, all was mystery; mine own sense of beingThe restless, the resistless tide of thought Was an enigma I could not resolve. That roll'd forever through my inmost soul, From me the book Of lore was long withheld. At length 'twas oped; The tide roll'd freely o'er my thirsty soul, Athwart my path a ray of sunlight fell. Of England's gifted bards; to whose sweet songs My mind, affrighted at severer lore, * * When spake from out the brown autumnal woods The solemn voice of the expiring year, |