of Genius, so far from being grieved at the wickedness of their fellow-men, have themselves been the foremost in the career of lust and crime. But that was not in consequence of their Genius.

The foregoing considerations may serve to account for the Melancholy which, it must be granted, haunts many minds of a superior order. But they ought not to induce a man to seclude himself from the world, to withdraw from his fellow-men his affections and society. Is he conscious of his own great endowments? and does he lament the want of congenial associates? Why was he gifted with nobler capacities than his neighbor? Was it not that he might use those powers, make their influence felt, and serve as a light to others? Does he mourn over the ignorance, vice, and misery which pervade the earth? Let him exert his noble energies to scatter the darkness and alleviate suffering; not spend his time in fruitlessly bewailing those evils which it is in his power to allay. Or does he complain that his efforts are not appreciated? If fame be the object of his desire, let him be assured that when envy and jealousy have subsided, when selfishness has no further interests to promote, future ages shall award him his due meed of praise. Above all, let him consider that if his Genius be employed in advancing the cause of virtue and religion,-if, like the inspired Isaiah, or the sweet psalmist of Israel, like Milton or Pollok, he seeks to justify the ways of God to man," he shall join them in a glorious anthem, and strike a golden harp to an immortal

strain.

66

TEARS.

"A TIME TO WEEP."

TEARS there are for those who weep,
Where the tranquil waters sleep;
Where Judea's maids have hung
Harps to mournful numbers strung,
On the bending willow tree,
Ever weeping silently.

Tears for those whose hearts are broken,
Trusting vows in lightness spoken;
Youthful hopes as beauty bright,
Vanish'd in a cheerless night;
On whose cheek the fading bloom
Speaketh of an early tomb.

Tears there are for those who go
Where the stormy tempests blow;
Leaving love and quiet home,
Battling with the ocean's foam;
Launching on the threat'ning wave,
Finding there a nameless grave.

Tears for those who seek to drink
Only from Castalia's brink;
Passing by Siloah's stream,
Where the crystal waters gleam,
Giving joy, imparting light,
When the spirit takes its flight.

Tears for those who dwell below,
In a world of sin and woe,-
Joyless days of care and sorrow,
Never boast a brighter morrow;
Ties of holy love are broken,
Long farewells in sadness spoken.

But no tears for those whom Love
Taketh to a home above,-
Where no beauty shall decay,
Tears of sorrow pass'd away,
Where no breast shall ever swell
With the ling'ring word, farewell.

F.

BRITISH REVIEWS.

ENGLISH Literature has long been established on a permanent basis. The names of Bacon, Shakspeare, and Milton, have formed a nucleus around which have clustered stars of a magnitude hardly inferior, until one of the most brilliant constellations has been formed in the literary hemisphere, which the world has ever witnessed.

It would be an interesting and not unprofitable task, to trace the progress of English Literature during the last four or five centuries. For a long time it was confined to the simple ballad alone. Through this medium were national events perpetuated and individual exploits commemorated. The progress of society gradually abolished this species of writing, and introduced the nervous, though obscure style of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. This style is but little adapted to modern taste. It requires too much labor to separate the dross from the pure ore. And yet, some of the richest additions to English Literature were made by writers of that age. But this period, which may not unaptly be called the iron age of English Literature, passed away, and was succeeded by that which has produced the most elegant and classic writers of the English language. Although additions have constantly been making to the general stock of Literature, but little has been gained since the eighteenth century in respect to purity of language or beauty of style. Some of the writers of that age have justly been considered as models, which have rarely been equaled, and never surpassed, by any who have succeeded them. The British Magazines and Reviews occupy the most important position in the English Literature of the present day. For more than half a century several of them have been constantly increasing in public favor. They are the medium through which the most powerful intellects of our father land communicate with the public. With such contributors as Macauley, Brougham, Wilson, Dickens, and Ainsworth, they cannot be otherwise than popular. Nor is their popularity confined to England alone.

VOL. VIII.

In our own country their circulation is already extensive and rapidly increasing. They are found upon the tables of all who wish to keep pace with the progress of English Literature, and enjoy the most finished productions of the ablest English writers. We cannot, as many have done, see cause for regret that such periodicals are becoming better known among us. There is no just ground for apprehension that they will have a tendency to limit the circulation of American works of a similar character. We think their effect will be directly the opposite.

A taste will be formed for Literature of a more solid kind than that which at present exists, which will call into exercise talents of a higher order, to supply the demand. We have at present no periodicals which will rank with the leading English Reviews. The reason is not so much the want of the requisite talent, as the difficulty of engaging that talent in the object.

In this country, wealth and distinction may be attained far easier than through the toilsome career of authorship. It is not then surprising that men of the most distinguished talents should devote themselves to those pursuits in which they are more certain of reaping a richer, speedier harvest.

The leading English Reviews do not occupy the neutral ground of Literature only, but have ever borne a conspicuous part in national politics. The most distinguished statesmen of the present day, are found among their contributors. They form the political sentiments of the higher class of English society, and give tone to the publications which circulate among the middle and lower ranks. The violent party spirit, and bitter invective which characterizes many of the articles which appear in these Reviews, far exceeds that manifested by the most respectable political journals of our own country. Two or three at least of the leading Reviews, have taken a decided stand against the Whigs, and the measures they are endeavoring to carry out. "The Devil," says Johnson, “was the first Whig" a sentiment which the Edinburgh fully endor"That Whigism should ever have been suffered to subsist in a great, honest, and truth-loving country, is among the problems of human things," says Blackwood.

The Quarterly, if not so violent, uses language much in the same strain. And yet they are not so much opposing parties as principles. They stand forth the bold, unblushing advocates of monarchical governments,-the most bitter enemies of republican institutions. Did this fierce hostility to the advance of liberal principles, direct its attacks against their internal progress alone, we should have little to say. But it is far otherwise. Not content with crushing the poor Chartist at home,

they would fain destroy his only hope of refuge abroad. Their oft-repeated attacks against our own political institutions, are known to all. They have not yet learned to bear with composure the loss of this "brightest jewel in the British crown." We are not unwilling, nay, we are very anxious that foreigners should thoroughly investigate our form of government, and the condition of our people. We do not complain, even, that our enemies should expose the imperfections of that government to the world, and show, if they can, that it is not adapted to the genius of the people.

We know that, after all they can say, we are immeasurably in advance of any government that has yet existed. But when periodicals enter the lists, occupying as high ground as do the leading English Reviews, we might reasonably expect to be treated with some degree of candor and justice. We might expect that the language of hot-headed denunciation and open abuse would be laid aside, and that of calm, dispassionate reasoning adopted in its stead. In this we have been too often disappointed. The deep-settled hatred which exists among a large portion of the British Aristocracy against our free institutions, and their envy of our unexampled success and brilliant career, has led even some of their most distinguished writers, to express themselves in language and sentiments which deserve the most severe censure. But they are not satisfied with attacking republican principles in the abstract, or in their application to our form of government. They descend to personal abuse. They even violate the sanctity of the grave. They would brand with infamy names against which calumny nor envy dare utter a syllable of reproach. The last December No. of Blackwood's Magazine, proves that that periodical has the will, did it possess the power, to tarnish even the name of Washington himself. To all attacks upon such names, from whatever quarter they may come, silence is the most appropriate answer; and we can but wonder, that a periodical of as high standing as the Southern Literary Messenger, should have condescended to answer the article to which we have referred.

But whatever may be the tone or temper manifested in many of the political articles which appear in these Reviews, it would be idle to deny that, in general, they display much ability, and an intimate acquaintance with internal politics. It could not, indeed, be otherwise, when men like Brougham, Peel, and Macintosh enter the lists. But the greater the talent exhibited, the more cause have we to lament that it should so often be prostituted to such unworthy purposes and debasing ends.

Turn we from the consideration of the political, to that of the literary character of these Reviews.

Regarded as the representatives of the popular English Lit

erature of the present day, they occupy a high position. By comparing them with periodicals of a similar character which existed a quarter of a century since, we are forcibly struck with the advance of popular literature during that period. What was then considered excellent, would now scarcely be endured. The writers who at present sustain the literary department of these Reviews, are chiefly those of established reputation. First stands the name of T. B. Macauley. As a professed critic and reviewer, he has not a rival. In this art he has completely distanced all competitors. To use his own language, "Eclipse is first, the rest nowhere." Indeed, on every subject which engages his attention, he wields the pen with a master hand. He gives the most common theme an interest which chains the attention of all; and never fails to instruct as well as please. Whoever once peruses one of his articles, can never afterward mistake them. They are all characterized by that perspicuity, force, and elegance, which no other writer has been able to equal. Possessed of a boundless stock of general knowledge, he completely exhausts every subject upon which he treats, and often gives us a far better idea of the subject, than we could gain from the original work itself. With the same unflagging interest with which we would peruse some delightful romance, we follow him page after page on subjects which, in other hands, would not receive a moment's attention, and never lay him aside without feeling that we are wiser and better, from our communion with him. In the language of Horace,

"Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem cogitat."

As a critic, he is distinguished not less for his impartiality and just views, than (where the case demands) severe stricture and withering sarcasm. Woe to the luckless author whom he stoops to attack. No armor is proof against his well-directed blows, no defense can shield from his polished, penetrating shafts. He who has passed unscathed beneath his withering criticism, will well deserve the prize, if he shall "lay his victorious hand on the literary Amreta, and taste the precious elixir of immortality." Take, as an example, his review of Croker's edition of Boswell's life of Johnson. With what inimitable ease does he give poor Croker his quietus, and in a few brief pages destroy the labor of long years of severe toil! With what a masterly hand does he sketch the character of Boswell, the prince of biographers-the most insignificant of men! From the remainder of the article, short as it is, we gain a more correct idea of the character of the great moralist himself, than we could from scores of such volumes as Croker has left us. In short, the writings of Macauley constitute some of the finest portions of English Literature. In the language of another, "He who has