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than it bad left me on the preceding well conceived of the night-hag. Byday. Then I was dying ; now the the-by, the good old creature, halfdangerous crisis was past. Then I laughing, ball-crying, reproached me had neither eyes, nor ears, nor indeed with having beaten her in my deliri any other sense, for pleasure ; now um. This, if true-and I much fear the sight of the blue sky alone, seen it was-must have been when she through the window as I lay in bed, brought me the inedicine, and my overwas a source of infinite delight. wrought fancy represented her as conEven the poor old nurse, who, in the spiring to poison me. Nor have I the hours of the night, had been so hate- least doubt, if it were worth while, ful to me, was, in my altered niood, a that all my visions might in the same kind, officious creature, whoso happy way be traced to some existing or face had in it as little as could be foregone reality.
ON A MUSICAL SNUFF-BOX.
Poor little sprite, in that dark narrow cell Of all that lives, save that which is not free? Caged by the law of man's resistless might, Oh if thou canst, and we could hear thy With thy sweet liquid tones, by some strong
How would thy little voice beseeching cry Compelled to minister to his delight, For one short draught of the sweet morning Whence, what art thou ? Art thou a fairy air, wight
For one short glimpse of the clear azure Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell, sky! Where thou hadst crept to rock in the moon- Perchance thou sing'st in hopes thou shalt
be free, And drink the starry dew-drops as they Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling, fell ?
While thy sad thoughts are wandering with Say, dost thou think sometimes, when thou the bee art singing,
To every bud with honey-dew distilling. Ofthy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow, That hope is vain, for even couldst thou Where thou wert wont to list the heath
wing beli's ringing,
Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood And sail upon the sunset's amber glow ? When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme,
Thou Ast' be a shunned and a forsaken Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly thing, stream,
'Mongst the companions of thy happier day: Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play, For fairy sprites, like many other creatures, Dancing in circles by the pale moon-beam, Have fleeting memories that come and go, Hiding in blossoms from the sun's fierce Nor can they oft recall familiar features, gleam,
By absence touched, or clouded o'er with Whilst thou in darkness sing'st thy life woe. away?
Then rest content with sorrow, for there be And canst thou feel when the spring-time Many that must that lesson learn with thee, returns,
And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully, Filling the earth with fragrance and with Till when thy tiny voice begins to fail,
For thy past bliss sing but one parting wail, When in the wide creation nothing mourns Poor little sprite, and then sleep peacefully!
NOTES FROM THE NOCTES.
PERIODICAL LITERATURE. and fortunate that it is so both for Shepherd.—This seems to ine to be taste and genius. It is poured daily, the only age of the world, sir, in which weekly, monthly, quarterly, into the poetry and creetishism ever gaed, like veins of the people, mixing with their sisters, hand in hand, encircled wi' a very heart-blood. Nay, it is like the wreath o' flowers.
very air they breathe. North.-Now-all our philosophical Shepherd.-Do you mean to say, criticism-or nearly all-is periodical; “ if they have it not, they die"?
44 ATHENEUM, vol. 2, 3d series.
North.-Were it withheld from them of criticism, than ever was said before now, their souls would die or become since the reign of Cadmus, ten thoustultified. Formerly, when such dis- sand times over,—not in long, dull, quisitions were confined to quarto or heavy, formal, prosy theories,-but octavo volumes, in which there was flung off hand, out of the glowing nothing else, the author made one mint-a coinage of the purest oregreat effort, and died in book-birth- and stamped with the ineffaceble inhis offspring sharing often the doom of press of genius. Who so elevated in its unhappy parent. If it lived, it intellectual rank as to be entitled to was forthwith immured in a prison despise such a Periodical Literature ! called a library-an uncirculating li- Shepherd.-Nae leevin' man-nor brary-and was heard no more of in yet dead ane. this world, but by certain worms. North.—The whole surface of so
Shepherd.A' the warld's hotchin' ciety, James, is thus irrigated by a wi' authors noo, like a pond wi' pow- thousand streams ; some deep-some heads. Out sallies Christopher North shallowfrae amang the reeds, like a pike, and Shepherd. And the shallow are sufcrunches them in thousands.
ficient for the purpose o' irrigation. North.-Our current periodical li- Water three inches deep, skilfully and terature teems with thought and feel- timeously conducted owre a flat o' fifing, James,—with passion and imagi- ty or a hunder acres, wull change arid nation. There was Gifford, and there sterility, on which half-a-score sheep are Jeffrey, and Southey, and Camp- would be starved in a month intil skebell, and Moore, and Bowles,* and Sirletons, intil a flush o’ flowery berWalter, and Lockhart, and Lamb, bage that will feed and satten a baill and Wilson, and De Quincy,t and the score o'kye. You'll see a proof of four Coleridges, S. T. C., John Hart- this when you come out to Mont Benley, and Derwent, and Croly, and Ma- ger. But no to dwall on ae imagegion, and Mackintosh, and Cunning- let me say that millions are thus ham, and Kennedy, and Stebbings, pleased and instructed, who otherwise and St. Ledger, and Knight, and would go dull and ignorant to their Praed, and Lord Dudley and Ward, graves. and Lord L. Gower, and Charles North.-Every month adds to the Grant, and Hobhouse, and Blunt, and number of these admirable works; Milman, and Carlyle, and Macauley, and from the conflict of parties, poliand the two Moirs, and Jerdan, and tical, poetical, and philosophical, Talfour, and Bowring, and North, and emerges in all her brightness the form Hogg, and Tickler, and twenty-forty of Truth. -fifty-other crack contributors to the Reviews, Magazines and Gazettes, AN OCTOGENARIAN IN LOVE. who have said more tender, and true, Shepherd.—I'll tell you a secret, sir and fine, and deep things in the way and yet it's nae great secret either;
* Miss Caroline Bowles, authoress of “ Ellen Fitzarthur," " Widow's Tale," “ Solitary Hours,” &c. was the writer of “ Andrew Cleaves," a story of deep and fearful interest, which many of our readers will recollect was published in the Atheneum a year or two since; and also of “ The Grave of the Broken Heart," in our present volume. These, with other highly interesting sketches which have been for several years favorites in Blackwood's Magazine under the title of “ Chapters on Churchyards,” and some of which have appeared in previous volumes of the Atheneum, have been recently published in Edinburgh in a connected form, making two charming little 12mo, volumes.-Robert Southey's last volume of poems is dedicated to Miss Bowles, to whose genius and worth he expresses his happiness in bearing witness.
+ The paper on Rhetoric, from which were abridged the first article in the last number, and the one entitled “ French Rhetoric” in the number for May 15, of the Atheneum, is attributed to the pen of Mr. De Quincy. « There is no other person in Great Britain," says a London editor, “ with the exception of Mr. Coleridge, capable of writing it. To scholars, for its learn. ing,--to general readers, for its extraordinary eloquence,-and to all who are scientifically employed in making their minds clearer and stronger, for its vigor and comprehensiveness, we recommend the study of this article."
for I'm o opinion that we a' ken our as it is called, has no terrors to me, ain hearts, only we dinna ken what's my dear Jamesbest for them,-you're in love Shepherd.-Nane whatever-I weel wi' Mrs. Gentle. Na, na-dinna ken that; and I think I see you sithang down your head, and blush in tin' wi' your poothered head, aside that gate ; there's nae harm in't-nae her in the chay drawn by four blood sin-only you should marry her, sir; horses, cavin their heads till the foam for I never saw a woman sae in love Aies owre the hedges, a' adorned wi' wi' a man, in a' my born days. white ribbons, and the postilions wi'
North.--I cannot bring myself to great braid favors on their breasts like think so, my dear James.
roses or stars, smackin' their whups, Shepherd.-Tuts. You canna at while the crood huzzaws you aff to tempt to walk across the room, that your honeymoon amang the mounher twa een are no followin' you on tainsyour crutch, wi' a mixed expression North. I will pop the question, o' love, and fear lest you should fa' this very evening. and dislocate your knee-pan, or
Shepherd. Just tak it for granted North.–Crutch! Why, you know, that the marriage is to be as sune as Jannes, well enough, that for the last the settlements can be drawn uptwelvemonth I have worn it, not for look to her, and speak to her, and use, but ornament. I am thinking of press her haun, whenever she puts her laying it aside entirely.
arm intil yours, as if it was a' fixedShepherd.—' And capering nimbly and she'll sune return a bit wee in a lady's chamber!” Be persuaded saft uncertain squeeze--and then by by me, sir, and attempt nae sic thing. and by Naebody supposes that your constitu- North.—I'll begin this very evetion's broken in upon, sir, or that ning you're subject to a general frailty o' Shepherd.-Saftly - saftly — modenatur. The gout's a local complaint rate your transports. You maun bewi' you—and what the waur is a man gin by degrees, and no be owre tenfor haein' an occasional pain in his der upon her a' at ance, or she'll tae ? Besides, sir, there's a great wunner what's the maitter wi' youdeal in habit—and Mrs. Gentle has suspeck that you're inad, or hae been been sae lang accustomed to look at takin' a drap drink-and are only you on the crutch, that there's nae makin' a fule o' hersayin' hoo it micht be, were you to North.-Ha! yonder she is, James. gie owre that captivatin' hobble, and Gentle by name, and gentle by nafigure on the floor like a dancing mas- ture! To her delicate touch the ter. At your time o' life, you cud door seems to open as of itself, and never howp to be an extremely—an to turn on its hingesuncommonly active man on your legs Shepherd.-As if they were iled. --and therefore it's better, it's wiser, Wait a wee, and may be you'll hear and it's safer, to continue a sort of her bang't after her like a clap o' lameter, and keep to the crutch. thunder.
North.—But does she absolutely North.-Hush ! impious man. How follow me with her eyes?
meekly the most loveable matron rings Shepherd.—She just reminds me, the door-bell! What can that lazy sir, when you're in the room wi' her, fellow, John, be about, that he does o' a bit image o' a duck soomin' about not fly to let the angel in ? in a bowl o’ water at the command o' Shepherd. Perhaps cleanin' the a loadstane. She's really a bonny shoon, or the knives and forks. Noo body—and no sae auld either. Nae- mind you, behave yousell. Come awa’: body 'll lauch at the marriage--and I (The SHEPHERD takes the crutch, and shouldna be surprised if you had - Mr. North walks towards the
North.-" The world's dread laugh," Lodge as fresh as a five-year-old.)
GENIUS NO APOLOGY FOR VICE must veil her radiant forehead before
* * * * * that idol! How the whole world Shepherd.-Confound me if I can speaks out her ceaseless sympathy tell whether you're speakin' sense or with the woes of Genius! How sinonsense-truth or havers; or whe- lent as frost, when Virtue pines ! ther you be serious, or only playin' aff Let a young poet poison hiunself in upon me some o' your Mephistophiles wrathful despair-and all the muses tricks. I aften think you're an evil weep over his unhallowed bier. Let speerit in disguise, and that your a young Christian die under the visigreatest delight is in confounding tation of God, who weeps ! No eye truth and falsehood.
but his mother's. We know that North.-My dear James, erery such deaths are every day-every word I have now uttered may be mere hour-but the thougbt affects us not nonsense. I cannot tell. But do you - we have no thought-and heap alsee my drift ?
ter heap is added, unbewailed, to city Shepherd.-Na. I see you like a or country churchyard. But let a veshel tryin' to beat up against a poet, forsooth, die in youth-pay the strong wund and a strong tide, and debt of nature early-and nature herdriftin' awa' to leeward, till it's close self, throughout her elements, must in in upon the shore, and about to gang her turn pay tribute to his shade. stern foremost in amang the rocks and Shepherd. -Dinna mak me unbappy, the breakers. Sae far I see your sir-dinna mak me sae very unhappy, drift, and nae farther. You'll soon sir, I beseech you—try and explain fa' ower on your beam ends, and be awa what you hae said, to the satiscome a total wreck.
faction o' our hearts and understandNorth. -Well, then, mark my drist, ins. James. We idolize Genius, to the North.—Impossible. We are base neglect of the worship of Virtue. To idolaters, 'Tis infatuation—not reour thoughts, Genius is all in all- ligion. Is it Genius, or is it VirVirtue absolutely nothing. Human tue, that shall send a soul to heaven! nature seems to be glorified in Shak Shepherd.- Virtue, there's nae despeare, because his intellect was vari nying that ;-virtue, sir-virtue. ous and vast, and because it compre- North.-Let us then feel, think, hended a knowledge of all the work- speak, and act, as if we so believed. Is ings, perhaps, of human being. But poetry necessary to our salvation ? Is if there be truth in that faith to which Paradise Lost better than the New the Christian world is bound, how Testament ? dare we, on that ground, to look on Shepherd.-Oh! dipna mak me unShakspeare as almost greater and bet, happy, Say again that Poetry is reter than Man? Why, to criticise one ligion, of his works poorly, or badly, or in- North.-Religion bas in it the finest solently, is it held to be blaspheiny! and truest spirit of poetry, and the Why? Is Genius so sacred, so holy finest and truest spirit of poetry has a thing, per se, and apart from Virtue ? in it the spirit of religion. ButFolly all ! One truly good action Shepherd.-Say nae mair-say nae performed is worth all that ever mair. I'm satisfied wi' that Shakspeare wrote. Who is the Swan North.-Oh! James, it makes my of Avon in comparison to the humblest very soul sick within me to hear the being that ever purified his spirit in puny whinings poured by philosophithe waters of eternal life?
cal sentimentalists over the sailingsShepherd.-Speak awa! I'll no in- the errors—the vices of genius ! terrupt you—but whether I agree wi' There has been, I fear, too much of you or no's anither question.
that traitorous dereliction of the only North.-Only listen, James, to our true faith, even in some eloquent eu. eulogies on genius. How virtue logies on the dead, which I have been
the means of giving to the world. done by those offences themselves ; Have you not often felt that, when for Burns bitterly repented what they reading what has been said about our almost canonized; and the evil pracown immortal Burns ? .
tice of one man can never do so much Shepherd. I have in my calmer injury to society, as the evil theory of moments.
a thousand. Burns erred greatly and North.—While the hypocritical and grievously; and since the world knows the base exaggerated all that illus- that he did, as well from friends as trious man's aberrations from the right from foes, let us be lenient and mercipath, nor had the heart to acknow- ful to him, whose worth was great ; ledge the manifold temptations strew. but just and faithful to that law of ed around his feet, -the enthusiastic right, which must on no consideration and the generous ran into the other be violated by our judgments, but extreme, and weakly-I must not say which must maintain and exercise its wickedly-strove to extenuate them severe and sovereign power over all into mere trifles—in too many in- transgressions, and more especially stances to deny them altogether; and over the transgressions of those to when too flagrant to be denied, whom nature has granted endowments dared to declare that we were that night have been, had their posbound to forget and forgive them on sessors nobly willed it, the ininisters the score of the poet's genius—as if of unmingled good to theinselves and genius, the guardian of virtue, could the whole human race. ever be regarded as the pandar to Shepherd.--You've written better vice, and the slave of sin. Thus about Burns yoursell, sir, nor ony they were willing to sacrifice morality body else breathin': That you hae rather than that the idol set up before baith better and aftener-and af their imagination should be degraded; friends of the poet ought to be grateand did far worse injury, and offered ful to Christopher North. far worse insult, to Virtue and Reli- North.—That is true praise coming gion, by thus slurring over the offences from any Shepherd. But I have fallof Burns against both, than ever was en into the error I now reprehended.
RELICS. BEFORE the holy martyr's shrine
The page o'er which her eye has glanced The wearied pilgrim lowly bows,
Then turn'd on his its soften'd beans, There bids the costly jewels shine, Has be not o'er it hung entranced, The rich oblation of his vows;
Whilst back return'd young Passion's
dream! Then joyfu! seeks his distant bome, Though half his wealth he leave be- E'en though the tomb may o'er her close, hind;
The tress, that round her brows could Whether he brave the ocean's foam,
twine, Or meet the desert's fiery wind.
Is left to soothe his bosom's throes,
The relic of its inmost shrine. What has the wanderer's sighs suppress'd ? What can euch lengthend toil re- Though his be manhood's sterner age, pay?
Its pomps, its joys, its toils, its care; He bears, close cherish'd in his breast, Though tossd by its fierce tempest's rage, A relic from the shrine away.
He still may some loved relic wear. Yet smile not thou, nor deem him weak, Though yon proud mansion be his lot,
Though more enlighten'd be thy mind; Why turn his eyes with pepsive gaze In thy heart's hidden treasure scek, To yon sequester'd humble cot,
Thou many a relic there may'st find. Where pass’d his jocund holidays ? The rose that faded on the breast,
Why do that gallant veteran's eyes The youthful lover deen’d most fair, Fill, as the glittering sword he draws ? Was it not cherish'd, loved, caressid, The friend who gave it lowly lies With more than all a miser's care?
A martyr to his country's cause !