Their little society increased in number both by births and incidental additions; and many interesting circumstances took place, which our limits prevent us from enumerating, until in the twenty-seventh year of his residence on the coast, Penrose died of a lingering disease occasioned by fish poison.

Having given this brief sketch of the Journal, we shall not attempt to decide whether it be a real or a supposititious narrative, further than to observe that a letter from a Mr. Paul Taylor, dated New York, May 2, 1783, states his having received this Journal from the mate of a Spanish sloop, at the Havannah in 1776, who said he had it from two Indians, one of whom said the whole was written by his father except a small part that had been added by himself; and that it was his father's dying request that his son should commit the papers, with a reward, into the hands of some person who would undertake to convey them to his native country. Mr. Taylor also states his having had the old papers copied at Charlestown "without the smallest alteration whatever," and his having sent them to England with the letter. The name and residence of the person to whom the letter was addressed, however, are wanting. An advertisement prefixed to the work, and signed John Eagles, appears to ascribe this Journal to a Mr. Williams, who had lived many years among the Indians, and from whom Mr. West imbibed his first ideas of painting at Philadelphia. This Williams said he had been at a school at Bristol, in which he acquired his taste for painting. But, whoever may have been the real author, it is an interesting work, written with much perspicuity, and in some places, with a touching simplicity every way characteristic of truth; and enlivened with descriptions of many curious subjects of natural history. We consider it, therefore, as highly worthy of the extensive circulation it has already obtained; and as one that may be safely recommended to youth, as being well adapted to afford them both amusement and instruction, without either contaminating the heart by any thing low and debasing, or exciting false ideas by too highly colored pictures of human life: on the contrary, such an air of good sense and resignation runs through the whole, and such marks of real contrition are visible whenever feelings of an opposite nature have gained the ascendency, that an attentive perusal can scarcely fail of diffusing at least a momentary tint of the same kind over the mind of the youthful reader.

We shall now conclude our observations with a few short extracts, the first of which we beg to press upon the attention of our young friends.

"Here let me pause for a few moments, and acknowledge with sincere contrition and many tears, the anguish of mind which the recollection of this step [leaving home without the consent of his mother] has occasioned me in many subsequent periods of my life. The distress which my disobedience inflicted on a kind and tender 'mother, sunk deep into my heart; it has haunted me at all times, and in every situation; it has damped my joys; it has aggravated my sorrows; it has made me consider the many evils which have befallen me as the just visitations of heaven on filial ingratitude. I write this as a warning to others, to avoid the sorrows, the compunctions I have experienced; and to assure them, that even in this world the contempt of parental authority does not go without severe and exemplary punishment."-Vol. i. p. 6.

The following reflections on his seeing the first ship, after he had spent about three years in his solitary situation are so natural, and shew the workings of the human mind under extraordinary circumstances so powerfully, that we transcribe them.

"One day as I was fishing, I discovered a sail in the north-east quarter. She came away large, and in about an hour I could perceive it to be a small sloop; but she kept a great offing, and stood away to the southward; yet I kept my eyes on her as long as I could distinguish her, until she ran the horizon down. This sight, so new to me, introduced a train of melancholy reflections. I longed to be again with my fellow men; it occasioned a painful retrospect of my past life. I looked back with regret, and forward almost without hope. There is, however, a principle in the hu man mind which will not suffer it to yield entire possession to des pair; it will always suggest some alleviation to present misery; some effort that may be made to render our condition better; to throw off the superflux of wretchedness with which it is loaded; and, with a pliancy suited to the occasion, will accommodate its powers to the trials to which we are exposed. I began to reflect, that most probably this sloop belonged to the Spaniards; and, however forlorn my situation might be, a visit from them would certainly not improve it. The possibility of being sent to work in the mines, made my present condition comparatively a happy one. Subdued by these reflections, my discontents vanished, and I became reconciled to a mode of life which at least promised me liberty and security." Vol.i. p. 107.

The following description of the family group at the entrance of their castle, raised without the assistance of human agency, may afford amusement to some of our readers, and would furnish an interesting scene if faithfully transferred to the

canvas.

"As I was one day leaning against the rock, near the entrance of our dwelling, I could not help contemplating the scene before

me, with a degree of complacency that soothed and exhilarated my spirits. I beheld it with a painter's eye, and would willingly have transformed to canvas the picture before me, but the materials were want ing. The reader will therefore accept of my description, and such a rude sketch as my poor ability can furnish him with. First, was to be seen the mouth of a large cavern, somewhat resembling the lofty doorway to an old Gothic cathedral, except that the arch was much wider. On the right was my wife Betty, with Patty sitting behind her, braiding her long black hair. A little without the entrance was young Owen taking aim at his uncle Harry, who stood on the other side of the entrance, with his back against the rock as a kind of butt for him, and catching the arrows as they came in his hand. Somer sitting against the side of the rock within, with his red pipe in his mouth, tailoring, with an old red Dutch cap faced with fur on his head. Eva was receiving a bowl of stewed fish from Jessy before the entrance. About the centre within was my writing table covered with a piece of sail-cloth, at which I considered myself placed, with my pen in my hand, and surveying the scene around me. The two dogs and cat before the door-way basking; the parrot's cage on one side of the cave, with the bird on the top of it, the cage an oblong square. From a crevice in the rock pro jected a long stick, on which Moggy the Macaw was to be seen. Over the cavern an immense rock overhung with trees, except towards the top where stood our flag-staff; the flag was about seven feet long, and five deep, consisting of only two stripes, the upper blue and the under white.

N. B. We wore but little clothing when within doors. The women seldom more than a striped cloth about the middle, and indeed this was almost the only article of dress that distinguished my whole family." vol. ii. p. 116.

The preceding description which relates to the tenth year of his residence on this desert coast, deserves to be accompanied by the following statement, written about eight years afterwards, and with which we shall close this article.

"Thus our time passed away happily in love and friendship; it is true, that we were confined to a solitary shore, but we were un molested in our retreat, and enjoyed a constant round of tranquillity; we had no wants but what we could well supply, and must have been the most ungrateful of mortals, if we did not thank God for his blessings, and learn to be content with our lot. I could not help frequently looking back to the forlorn situation in which I was first cast upon this shore, without fire, food, or raiment, to comfort, support or to cover me, exposed to the scorching rays of the sun by day, and to the heavy dews by night. Yet had God spread a table for me in the wilderness; he had comforted, fed, and clothed me; he had changed my solitary life to the pleasures of society; he had given

me friends, relations, children; beyond the simple necessaries of life, we were surrounded with conveniences, with comforts, I might almost say with luxuries. This was the state of my outward condition, but my mind had undergone a still greater revolution. When I was thrown upon the coast, I was an idle, thoughtless, dissolute being, with passions raging in my bosom, over which I exercised no control, and which in their gratification might have led me to an early grave; the obligations of society sat loosely on me, more from want of reflection than from any radical depravity; I was not void of principle, but my irregular appetites and the bad example of others, which I had not fortitude to resist, prevailed over my best resolutions. In fact, I was hardly to be looked upon as a thinking being. That circumstance of my life which I considered as the greatest calamity that could happen to any human being, (so little do we know of the designs of Providence,) turned out to be the most fortunate; for to that accident which separated me from my disorderly companions, and left me naked, as it were, on this shore, I owe not only all the happiness I at present enjoy, but the assurance of a still greater portion hereafter. My solitary situation restored me to myself; my almost miraculous preservation taught me to reflect; reflection brought to my view the errors of my past life, my ingratitude to God, and my disobedience to my earthly parent. I became another creature; my very soul seemed to be purified; God gave me strength and fortitude to bear my sufferings with an equal, with a contented mind. I trusted in him and he delivered me.' p. 189.

ART. VIII. De Rance. A Poem. By J. W. CUNNINGHAM, A. M. Vicar of Harrow. London; Cadell and Davies. 1815. pp. 142.

MR. Cunningham shews no disposition to slumber on his Velvet Cushion. On the contrary, the popularity of that ingenious work, instead of disposing him to rest, seems to stimulate to still greater exertions. His speedy re-appearance before the public will be hailed by many with pleasure, and he himself considered as an accession to the number of those honored bards who dedicate their talents to virtue and piety. True religion is, in itself, sufficiently amiable; but the practice of it may, by efforts like these, be rendered easier than it is, and the aspect of it still more attractive.

The performance before us is preceded by a very well written preface, the object of which is to shew that religion is a legitimate subject of poetry. But that poetry had its origin amid altars and temples-and that its most striking beauties and most potent machinery are supernatural, no

judicious reader can doubt. There is scarcely a poet, however profane and sceptical, who has not, on some occasion, employed the doctrines of religion as engines either of delight or of terror. The contemplation of the worlds which are above and beneath us, fills the soul with mysterious sublimities. Even the description of external nature derives more than half its effect from associating with it the idea of the hand that made and preserves this fair creation; and the serenity which pervades the face of nature diffuses a soothing calm over the mind, because it presents an image of that uninterrupted tranquility which the good shall enjoy hereafter.

These principles are well enforced and successfully exemplified by Mr. Cunningham. And if any remain unconvinced by the arguments he uses in his preface, none, we apprehend, will withhold assent after reading his poem. In it heart-felt piety and genuine poetry shine forth together, the one consecrating the theme which the other ennobles. To smooth and elegant versification, is added a train of sentiment warm and manly-with a playfulness of fancy which wins us to instruction. The character of the hero, in his earlier days, marked by bold atheism and fitful remorse, is drawn by the hand of a master. We have of late seen fine delineations of dark and terrible beings, and of throbbing bosoms laid open to view: but no alleviating touch-no redeeming change-no quiet after the tumult of the passions-no cheering sunshine after the darkness. But here we have solemnity of coloring, and awfulness of guilt so managed, as to serve, in the end, as means of consolation and harbingers of joy. Those forbidding objects form but the back ground on which the bright and unfading effects of heavenly mercy are displayed. If we are appalled at the commencement, we are melted before the conclusion.

The story on which the poem before us is founded, may be seen in the Nouveau Dictionnaire Historique from whence it is quoted in the appendix: As there stated it is exceedingly simple. The Abbot De Rancè was born of one of the noblest families in Brittany on the 9th of January 1626;—at ten years of age unfortunately was left the eldest of his race, and more unfortunately still entered the ecclesiastical profession. Possessed of sparkling talents and a considerable fortune, he sunk into dissipation, and intrigued with a lady of high rank, at whose death he became remorse-stricken and disconsolate. He then bestowed all his fortune upon charities, gave up the richest of his preferments, and retired to the solitary Abbey of La Trappe where he revived the austerities of St. Benedict,