upon the beautiful and amiable woman, whose affection gladdened his life. The head-quarters at Cambridge, remind us that the strife already registers Lexington, Concord, and Bunker-Hill; the house is still shaded by the elm trees which then flourished there, and daily meets the eye of Mr. SPARKS, whose abode is not far distant. A medal presented on the evacuation of Boston, commemorates this great event, and the head-quarters at Morristown, remind us of the brilliant victories at Trenton and Princeton, which so gallantly retrieved the laurels fortune refused us at Long-Island. On viewing the sketch of the humble abode which held the commander-in-chief at Newburgh, one shudders for humanity's sake, for a tragedy has been enacted there, and a proud name stained with treachery; and at the same time, we cannot help rejoicing for America, and for freedom, which escaped such peril.

It is 1785; peace has been two years in force, and an interesting drawing exhibits the outline of those farms on which our Cincinnatus would fain have spent the remainder of his days. Hondon's bust testifies to the gratitude of his native state, which thus followed him to his retreat, and the portrait of MARTHA WASHINGTON, by Stuart, displays the serene countenance of its charming mistress. There is something touching in the comparison one involuntarily makes between the young wife just released from her weeds, with a smile dwelling among the rounded outlines of blooming womanhood; and the calm expression which interprets the devotion of a heart given, and never withdrawn. Her life must have been one of privations and of proud sacrifices. How could it be otherwise with the partner of him who freely offered his best years and hopes to his country?

Behold the wise and placid civil magistrate; the first and greatest President. Again have domestic joys been relinquished, and the helm of state is now grasped by the firm hand which so ably wielded the sword. WASHINGTON'S star glows with the same silver radiance; a cloud veils it for a moment from certain eyes; and the discussions stirred up by Mr. JAY's treaty, embroil the national councils. But the chief remains immoveable, and the circumstances which could not influence him, await their turn until the day when JEFFERSON was carried up on the wheel of fortune to the presidential chair.

And we are through the volume, so sadly terminated by the death of the patriot, the soldier, the statesman, with a feeling that a part of his glory is our glory, nor all of it his country's, for, such a being ennobles humanity, and will be handed down with Timoleon and Cincinnatus, through all time.

WINTER STUDIES AND SUMMER RAMBLES IN CANADA, BY MRS. JAMESON, Author of Characteristics of Women,' etc. In two volumes. pp. 680. New-York: WILEY AND PUTNAM.

WE had liberally pencilled an early copy of these admirable volumes, received at a late hour, for our last number, but were reluctantly compelled to postpone the notice. Since then, every one of our marked extracts have been given to the public by the tasteful critics of the daily and weekly press; indeed we fancy that quite twothirds of the work have already appeared in the journals of the day. Reserving the volumes, therefore, for incidental retrospective review, we shall content ourselves, for the present, with commending them warmly to our readers, assuring them that purer sentiments, more beautiful criticism, vivid descriptions of scenery, pleasing incident, and acute observation, we have not found in any modern work that has come under our observation. The kind and flattering opinions, therefore, which Mrs. JAMESON expresses of this Magazine, are far more than reciprocated, by the high estimate we have ever placed upon all the efforts of her fine and well-balanced intellect. 34

VOL. XIII.

ANNIVERSARY POEM, DELIVERED BEFORE THE MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION Of Boston, September 13, 1838. By JAMES T. FIELDS, Member of the Association. Boston: WILLIAM D. TICKNOR.

THIS poem, delivered before the Mercantile Library Association of Boston, at the conclusion of the noble address by GOVERNOR EVERETT, which we have already noticed, is a production of no common merit. The versification is smooth and flowing; the subjects embraced are appropriate; and taken as an earnest of what the author may accomplish, when time and experience shall have given his young muse a stronger and a bolder wing, we look upon it as well worthy of cordial praise. The modesty with which it is introduced to the public, so different from the pompous style in which the labors of some of our half-fledged and unfledged bardlings are buoyed up in their brief hoverings over the gulf of oblivion, is no less worthy of commendation. The author says, in reply to a flattering letter from the committee of arrangements, requesting a copy of the poem for publication, that he 'is sensible his production is quite unworthy to appear in print, and that he should certainly withold the manuscript from the press, were he not satisfied that youth and inexperience would form a sufficient apology for its defects of style, and errors of judgment.' Ushered before the public eye in this simple and unpretending manner, we have such poetry as that annexed. Our extracts, limited to those not already quoted in the public journals, are necessarily brief; but we greatly err in judgment, if our readers do not find in those we are enabled to present, a dignity of thought and clearness of expression, which should at least place them far above the unassuming estimate of the author:

'Look to the West-the Elysian borders view!
See where from Palos speeds yon wearied crew:
Haste, ere the vision to your eye grows dim!
O'er rock and forest comes the Mayflower's hymn:
Fleet as the night-star fades in brightening day,
That exiled pilgrim-band has passed away;
But where their anchors marked a dreary shore,
When first thanksgivings rose for perils o'er,
A nation's banner fills the murmuring air,
And freedom's ensign wantons gaily there.

'Oh, glorious stripes! no stain your honor mars,
Wave! ever wave! our country's flag of stars!
Float till old Time shall shroud the sun in gloom,
And this proud empire seeks its laurelled tomb.

Trace we the exile from his mother's arms,
Through traffic's din, its mazes and alarms;
And as remembrance paints his swift career,
From the rocked cradle to the noiseless bier;
A lesson learn that life's divinest gem

Is not wealth's boon or glory's diadem.

The following is an eloquent tribute to one whose name and works are familiar to the 'sons of ocean,' in every civilized land:

'And shall we leave unsung his honored name,
Whose memory gilds his country's rising fame?
Shall not one strain in grateful homage rise,
To wreathe his tomb who read yon vaulted skies?
Shall we forget this joyous eve to gaze
On that far pathway, lit with wisdom's rays?
Bright guide to Commerce! though, alas! no more
Thy buoyant footsteps mark earth's narrow shore,
Though not for thee yon glistening pleiads burn,
Though not for thee heaven's wheeling orbs return,
Though from this spot no longer looks thine eye
As once, to scan the countless worlds on high-
In every age, through every sea and clime,
The name of BOWDITCH triumphs over time.'

The external execution of the poem is well worthy the preeminent repute of the Boston press.

AN ADDRESS DELIVERED BEFORE THE ERODELPHIAN SOCIETY OF MIAMI UNIVERSITY, at its Thirteenth Annual Celebration, in August, 1839. By F. W. THOMAS. pp. 22. Oxford: W. W. BISHOP.

THIS, of its species, is a performance of the first file. The arguments of the writer are sound and clear, and are enforced by felicitous language, and the most apposite illustrations; the combined result of various reading, the suggestions of active original thought, and unexceptionable taste. We shall content ourselves with this general praise, while we proceed to fortify it by one or two striking extracts. The following is but too true a picture, as many a reader can verify, from his own observation. I do not think, says a learned writer, in substance, that there is any thing more interesting on this globe, than a boy of genius, in humble life; generous, elevated, virtuous; resisting the allurements of pleasure; with a scanty education, no director of his studies, few books, and those frequently ill-chosen; overlooked by the rich, worn out by toil, and sometimes dissuaded from his pursuits by a weak adviser; ever sifting, doubting, and comparing, and often puzzled, it may be, with difficult passages in an obscure author. It is to such, we may believe, that our orator alludes below. A correspondent who treats of phrenology elsewhere in the present number, would indicate a remedy for the sin of ignorance, in parents and guardians, hinted at in the close of the extract:

'It has been the misfortune of a great many young men of talents, over whom the dark cloud lowered in their younger years, to be placed among those who did not understand their characters or their merits, and who would rather crush than assist them. And there is a passion in this world called envy :

"That fiend that haunts the great and good,
Not Cato shunned, nor Hercules subdued;'

that ill-omened bird, that like the raven o'er the haunted house, is always croaking evil; that will tower at the highest names, and burrow for the lowest; that twin sister of jealousy, which has so many buts and ifs to throw, like stumbling-blocks, in the way of rising talent. At that time, too, when the cheering voice of a friend falls upon the ear like a blessing; when darkness and doubt are before the aspirant, and behind him all the ills of life,

'Despair, and fell disease, and ghastly poverty,'

like blood-hounds let loose from the slip. Then it is that envy goes forth, like the assassin at night, with the felonious intent hot at heart against the youthful and aspiring genius. How easily, like the chameleon, she can change her color, and fawn the parasite of the successful I remember once hearing a sycophantic hanger-on at the skirts of the bar, who was neither here nor there, one thing nor the other, but between the two, like Mahomet's coffin, compliment the late William Wirt on an effort which that gentleman had then just made, and which was certainly not one of his best. 'Sir,' said Wirt, in a deep tone which came from the bottom of his heart, when a youth, in Virginia, in a little debating society, to an audience of six, and one tallow candle, about fourteen to the pound, I have made a better speech than that, when there was no one to discover the inerit of it, and none to say, 'God speed you!"

'Doctor Parr, the celebrated teacher, who used to boast that he had flogged all the bishops in the kingdom, and who, whenever it was said that such and such a person had talents, would exclaim: 'Yes Sir, yes Sir, there's no doubt of it; I have flogged him often, and I never threw a flogging away; this reverend gentleman was remarkable for discovering the hidden talents of his pupils. He was the first who discovered Sheridan's. He says: 'I saw it in his eye, and in the vivacity of his manner, though as a boy, Sheridan was quite careless of literary fame.' Afterward, when Richard felt ambitious of such honors, he was thrown, as Dr. Parr says,' upon the town,' without resources, and left to his own wild impulses. This, no doubt, was the cause of many of Sheridan's errors and wanderings, which chequered the whole of his splendid but wayward career. A teacher, wanting the observation of Doctor Parr, might have concluded, that because Sheridan would not study, and no inducements could make him apply himself, he wanted capacity. This was the case with Doctor Wythe, his first teacher, who did not distinguish between the want of capacity and the want of industry.'

The subjoined will afford the reader a favorable idea of the aptness of illustration, of which we have spoken:

'The mind, its purposes and impulses, previous to receiving its bias, is in the state of a mass of water that has been diked in, and which, when it forces its way, rolls an irresistible flood, hearing on the bosom of its onward wave every leaf and stem, so naturally, that in contemplating it, either of us would say, nature surely formed that channel. See how beautifully the willow bends over it, how gracefully it winds around the hill, expanding with such ample volume as it stretches through the plain! Surely it must have rolled there when time was young. No, not so; if it had found vent in another place, that willow would not have grown there; there would have been no flower at the foot of the hill, and that fertile plain would now be a barren waste, herbless, fruitless, treeless. Thus it is with the mind. Corregio, no doubt, felt many stirrings of ambition very different from an artist's, previous to becoming a painter; but when he saw the painting which struck him more than any thing he had ever seen before, the whole tide of his feelings burst forth, and starting back, he exclaimed with enthusiasm, 'And I also am a painter!' devoted himself to the art, and became one of the greatest painters that ever lived. Where a man has talents, and firmly applies himself, he must be great. * * It is deep, heartfelt enthusiasm, and farreaching aspiration, and high hope, that make the great man. As soon as his mind has received its bias, and he has determined his particular pursuit, with a devotion that falters not; with a toil that never tires; with a singleness of love that nothing woos him from winning, he pursues his purposes; and is it to be wondered that he gains his point?'

*

We are sorry to remark, that the printer and proof-reader have here and there sadly disfigured this excellent address with stupid blunders. Worse, for example, than the misprint of 'freshly-blown noses' for 'freshly blown roses,' is the error in the quotation of Cassius' boast to Brutus :

'I can endure the winter's heat
As well as he!'

'Cold his feelings, cold the weather!' could scarcely be written of such a man, in such a winter,

MEMOIRS OF CHARLES MATHEWS, COMEDIAN. BY MRS. MATHEWS. In two volumes. pp. 536. Philadelphia: LEA AND BLANCHARD.

'MANY and many a time,' since the death of this admirable mime, while sitting alone in our apartment, or walking in the streets, have his face, voice, and gait, been before us, as if palpable to the senses; but the volume under notice, with these recollections of the past, make the illusion complete and irresistible. There is much, it is true, of uninteresting detail, and mere twaddle, in these pages; much of irrelevant and episodical ineident, in the lives of sundry of the theatrical profession; that

'Sad, happy race, soon raised and soon depressed,
Whose days are passed in jeopardy and jest;
Poor without prudence, with affliction vain,
Not warned by misery, nor enriched by gain;'

yet is there more that is instructive, entertaining, and humorous. Mr. MATHEWS moved in the best society, and was the boon companion of some of the finest minds of his age; while his professional career, and particular rôle, gave him ample opportunities, and an acuteness of observation, which he turned to the best advantage, both on the stage, and in the convivial circles of private life. But who does not know CHARLES MATHEWS, and to what end are we enlarging upon his 'points?' Let us to his 'Memoirs,' for one or two characteristic extracts. The annexed anecdote of GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE is a rich morceau. It should be premised, that the great actor has exceeded even O'Flannigan's 'drop in moderation,' and that he has just resisted MATHEWS' attempt to flit, for fear of still greater excess :

I have much more to say to you, my dear boy. Sit down. 'You don't know me.

The world do n't know me. Many an hour that they suppose I have wasted in drinking, I have devoted to the study of my profession; the passions, and all their variations; their nice and imperceptible gradations. You shall see me delineate the passions of the human mind.' The power of the whiskey punch, however, acted in diametric opposition to the intent on his strong and flexible features, and only produced contortions and distortions, of which he was unconscious. He, nevertheless, endeavored to illustrate the passions, while his visiter was to guess them.

"What's the meaning of that, eh?' said the tragedian, with a most inexplicable twist of his face. 'Sir!' said the timid spectator, puzzled what to call it. Cooke reiterated, 'What's the meaning of that? What passion does it express? Does it not strike you at once? There! What's that? While he to whom he appealed could only say, 'Very fine, Sir!' 'But,' persisted Cooke, 'what is it?' He was then answered, 'Oh! 'I see, Sir; anger! to be sure!' To be sure you 're a blockhead!' said Cooke, showing him the genuine expression of what he imputed to him before. Fear, Sir! it was fear! Now, then, what is that?' 'Oh, Sir, that, I think, is meant for jealousy. Again the passionate man declared that the guesser was wrong. Jealousy! Pooh, man! Sympathy! You're very dull, Sir. Now I will express a passion that you can't mistake. There! what's that?'

Fearing to increase Cooke's anger by another misconception,the young man apologized, blamed the portion he had swallowed of the punch; declared that it had stolen away his brains, and left him unfit to judge of Cooke's representations. But Cooke was not in a humor to be so put off. Look again, Sir!' 'Look again, Sir!' he exclaimed, in a terrific voice; and he then made up a hideous face, compounded of malignity and the leering of a drunken satyr, which he insisted upon being guessed; and his visiter, trembling for the consequences of another mistake, hesitatingly pronounced it to be, 'Revenge! Despite o'erwhelm thee!' cried Cooke, in his most tragic rage. Revenge! Curse your stupidity! That was Love! Love, you insensible idiot! Can't you see it is love?' Here he attempted the same expression, in order to strike conviction of its truth; when a mixture of comicality with the first effect so surprised the risible muscles of the young man, that he laughed outright.'

6

We should like to have heard MATHEWS relate the following occurrence, which happened on board a vessel in the Irish channel, and in which a dandy friend incurred the displeasure of an 'old salt,' by what the latter seems to have deemed an effeminate luxury, out-Brummelling Brummell, if not a sacrilegious innovation:

'Indeed, it was plain that they leered at him from time to time with ill-disguised contempt, if not aversion. One morning, while pursuing his elaborate toilette, a noise on deck attracted his attention, and running up with his tooth-brush in his hand, he inquired the cause of such unusual sounds, which being simply explained as arising from some necessary process in the ship, he remained looking on at what had drawn him upon deck, resuming the action of brushing, which had been interrupted. One of the men, an old, gruff sailor, looking askance at Talbot, with an expression of ineffable astonishment in his face, inquired of Mr. Mathews, who stood at some distance from his friend, 'What his companion there was about?' 'About!' asked Mr. M., not quite comprehending the question. Ay,' pursued the inquirer,' what is he at, with that thing in his mouth? Oh!' replied Mr. M., he is cleaning his teeth.' 'What! cleaning his teeth!' thundered out the man: 'Well, it's the first time I ever heard of such a d-d nasty trick as that! Cleaning his teeth!!! the milksop!' and away he rolled, putting a quid of tobacco in his mouth, by way, as it seemed, of compensation for the disgust he had felt, and which, if possible, appeared to exceed even his wonder. When the alarm was afterward given of the ship's danger, and the captain with clasped hands in the agony of despair declared that he knew no more where they were than Tom the devil,' the old sailor, who had remarked so pointedly upon Talbot and that thing in his mouth,' exclaimed aloud with an oath, I knew we should have no luck, when I saw that lubber cleaning his teeth!

Inexorable space compels us to confine our remarks and extracts to the above 'little measure.' Small as it is, however, it will afford our readers a foretaste of what may be expected from the volumes themselves; and to these we commend them, anticipating thanks for an acceptable service.