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country are most frequently to be found writing for them-is no common praise.

He remains editor of that paper to this day. His literary works are, (other than a world of miscellany, to be found in the journals and newspapers,) a poem, called Noah; a History of the American Revolution, of which he wrote nothing but the preface, which, I am certain, does not exceed three pages; Lewis and Clarke's Tour, (a compilation)-andnothing more. Yet Mr. Jefferson has placed him at the head of the American literati.

Mr. Allen is a showy, eloquent prose-writer-who never thinks, and, if he can help it, never reasons. His language is often surprisingly beautiful, and as often surprisingly low and common-place, without significance. He has been somehow or other made sensible of the prodigious power in a colloquial style-a familiar, frank, bold, off-hand way of saying things; and he is continually balancing between his natural style, which is rich, harmonious, lofty, and full of picture -and this of the powerful, simple, and unpretending kind, for which he is utterly disqualified-until the most ludicrous combinations are perpetually occurring to startle or provoke the

reader.

Mr. Allen is a man of uncommon genius-but no industry (except that of a steam engine, or a newspaper editor) and little reflection, else he might have been one of the first writers, I will not say merely of his country, but of the age. His prose is full of poetry-his poetry miserably full of prose. His thoughts, which in prose are burning and bright, undergo so many revolutions and eclipses in poetry, as to appear no longer the same. Yet he has the material for a great poet. But the time of achievement has gone by now-he will live and die nothing better than a clever newspaper editor, somewhat given to cant. Lewis and Clarke's Tour is nothing remarkable. The style has no particular attraction-nobody_can remember anything about it. But queremay not that be the highest praise?

It has been said of a fine woman, that nobody could ever recollect how she was dressed; and provided that our author can manage to fill our mind with his thoughts, facts, or doctrine, most of us will consent, perhaps, to forego the words.

His Noah is a sad mixture of affected simplicity-boyish combinationsoutrageous poetry-and real genius. A short specimen will show his whole character, and conclude our sketch:

He is describing Noah's Vision:(From Elisha, in 2d Kings.)

"Scarce had he spoke, when, with a sudden start, And wild, unusual throbbings of the heart,

He turn'd around him oft a fearful gaze,
Like one bewilder'd in a dread amaze :

'What mean,' he cried, 'these sharpen'd points of flame,

That move in rapid circles round my frame ?

Now, they extend, a line of lengthen❜d light;

And now-they flash promiscuous on the sight! What mean those nodding plumes, that round me

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and lo! the Zodiac rings With the loud clanguor of descending wings."

BOZMAN.-This author we only know from one work, a book purporting to be a History of Maryland; and which but for the fact that there is no other history of Maryland, would not be worth mentioning. General Winder, a celebrated advocate of Baltimore, once undertook to supply the deficiency, in Allen's Journal of The Times: but the manuscript was bad and the printing worse, so that the plan was given up. Since then, another attempt has been made by a Mr. Griffith, but the history of Maryland yet remains to be written.

BRECKENRIDGE, HENRY M.--A Pennsylvanian, a lawyer, and son of

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Judge Breckenridge, who was alike distinguished as a humourist, a storyteller, and a judge. Mr. B., the son, is the author of Views in Louisiana, a respectable book, made up from personal knowledge of the country, during a long residence, after Louisiana was purchased by the United States, and while Mr. B. was traversing it in every direction as a circuit judge. It may be depended upon, so far as it goes. He also wrote a history of the American war (the last) with Great Britain, in which he has faithfully preserved the newspaper accounts of the day, as given by the Americans themselves. It is a work of no merit, either in a literary or political view. It can do no good, and may do much harm, to perpetuate the thousand-and-one lies of the American press, during the unhappy season of warfare, and furious political strife. It can do no good, even for purposes of amusement, and must be exceedingly mischievous, when they are put into a popular shape, as this "History of the War" is, and sent abroad through all the "western country" as a sort of school book. I have not forgotten Dr. Franklin's newspaper lie (since acknowledged by himself in his own Memoirs) about the "bales of human scalps, marked and numbered," which were supposed to have been forwarded by the Colonial Government of America to this, in the old American war. It was only got up for the day, but has outlived the rancour of many generations, and, spite of the doctor's own confession, stands now upon grave record in one of the most able journals of the United States, (Niles's Register)—a journal remarkable for integrity and plain truth -as an historical fact; and, what is worse yet, is actually believed in America by a large portion of the people. Nobody can think more highly of Dr. Franklin's virtues than we do, but we should be sorry to have all the consequences of such a wicked political trick upon our shoulders.

Mr. B. is the author of a work upon South America--political, commercial, and statistical, which is highly creditable to him. It is the fruit of his own personal observation during a

secret mission thither, under the authority of the United States Government, in company with two commissioners, (Mr. Justice Bland, now a district judge of the United States courts, and Mr. Rodney,) neither of whom will soon be forgotten by the Spanish Americans. Judge Bland understood no language but his own, not one word of Spanish or French; Mr. Rodney nothing of Spanish, and, I believe, little or nothing of French; and Mr. Breckenridge, their interpreter, secretary, and companion, though he spoke French pretty well, made sad work with Spanish. Yet these were the secret ambassadors of a wise government, in a season of great political anxiety.

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN.-This gentleman's poetry has found its way, piece-meal, into England, and having met with a little of our newspaper praise, which has been repeated with great emphasis in America,is now set up among his associates for a poet of extraordinary promise, on the ground of having produced, within the course of several years, about fifty duodecimo pages of poetry, such as we shall give a specimen of. Mr. B. is not, and never will be, a great poet. He wants fire-he wants the very rashness of a poet-the prodigality and fervour of those, who are overflowing with inspiration. Mr. B., in fact, is a sensible young man, of a thrifty disposition, who knows how to manage a few plain ideas in a very handsome way. It is a bad thing for a poet, or for one whom his friends believe to be a poet, ever to spend a long time about the manufacture of musical prose, in imitation of anybody,-as Mr. Bryant and Mr. Percival both do of Milman, who has quite set the fashion in America for blank verse. Some lines, (about fifteen or twenty,) to a "waterfowl," which are very beautiful, to be sure, but with no more poetry in them than there is in the Sermon on the Mount, are supposed, by his country. men, "to be well known in Europe." The following is taken from his poem, "The Ages."

"Has Nature, in her calm majestic march,

Faltered with age at last? does the bright sun

Grow dim in heaven? or, in their far blue arch,
Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done,
Less brightly? when the dew-lipped Spring comes
on,

Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky
With flowers less fair, than when her reign begun?
Does prodigal Autumn to our age deny
The plenty that once swell'd beneath his sober
eye ?"

BUCKMINSTER.- A clergyman of Boston, remarkable for his pathetic style of eloquence, and singular piety. After his death, two or three volumes of manuscript sermons were published by some of his friends-(who had not, perhaps, been much acquainted with any sermons but his)-for the sermons of Mr. Buckminster. Unluckily, however, a part of them appear to have been printed before. Some of his own are very beautiful; and those that were not his own, of course, would never have appeared as his with his own con

sent.

CHANNING-Clergyman of Boston. This gentleman, without any question, may rank among the first sermonisers that ever lived. Such of his writings as have been published are remarkable for simplicity, clearness, and power. The diction is of the heart-not of the

schools. It is, as it were, a language of his own a visible thought.

-

CHANNING-Professor of Rhetoric and Belles-lettres at Harvard, a brother of the last, a lawyer, and the Editor of the North American Review before Mr. Everett. There is nothing extraordinary about this man; but the little that he wrote for the North American was highly respectable, without having any particular or peculiar character of its own. He should have nothing to do with rhetoric or belleslettres, except in the way of a concordance, or an index. He has no sense of either, but might get up a good history of the country, which is wanted now at every turn by those who care to know the truth of America.

We have now done for the present: another paper of the same length, perhaps, will enable us to finish the whole alphabet of American writers in the same way; when our countrymen will judge for themselves concerning the truth of what we have said, and the course of policy which we have recommended in the outset. London, Sept. 4, 1824.

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ON DYING FOR LOVE.

To turn stark fools, and subjects fit
For sport of boys and rabble-wit-Hudibras.

DYING for love is a very silly thing. It answers no one good end whatsoever. It is poetical, romantic, perhaps immortalizing; but nevertheless it is silly, and oftentimes exceedingly inconvenient. I have been pretty near it myself six or seven times, but thanks to my obstinacy! (for which, indeed, I ought to be thankful, seeing I possess a very considerable portion of that unyielding essence,) I have contrived to keep Death from the door, and Despair from the sanctuary of my thoughts. I cannot, in fact, believe that half of those who have the credit (I should say discredit) of dying for love have really deserved it. A man fixes his affections on a piece of cold beauty-a morsel of stony perfection-or on one far above him in rank or fortune-or on an equal, who has unfortunately a lover whom she prefers. Well! he becomes melancholy, takes cold upon it, and dies. But this proves nothing; he might have died if his passion had been returned, or if he had never loved at all. The fate of my friend Ris a case in point. He was deeply enamoured of a very beautiful but adamantine lady, and, as a matter of course, grew very low-spirited and very miserable. He did not long survive; and, as another matter of course, it was given out that he died for love.

As the world seemed to think it sounded better than saying, that his death was occasioned by drinking cold water immediately after walking ten miles under a burning sun, I did not contradict the report, although I had good grounds for so doing, and it be came very generally believed. Some aver that Leander died of love," because," say they, "if Hero had not been on the other side of the Hellespont he would not have been drowned -argal, he died for love. These are your primary-cause-men! your wholesale deduction mongers! Now

* See As you like it. Act iv. S. 1.

I am a plain-spoken fellow, and am more apt to draw conclusions-argal, I say he died of the cramp, or from being carried away by the rapidity of the stream: although, I know at the same time that this is not the current opinion. I am no poet, and therefore take no poetic licences: the romantic do; and I am quite willing to let Common Sense decide between us. Let me, however, not be misunderstood; I argue not on the impossibility, but on the folly and inconsistency of dying for love.

That it has occasionally happened I am well aware. I remember Marian T- when she was as lovely and lively a girl as ever laid a blushing cheek on a snowy pillow, and sank into dreams of innocence and joy. I remember her, too, when the rose was fading from her cheek, and solace and happiness had vanished for ever from her forsaken heart. There was the impress of blighted hope upon her brow-the record of a villain's faithlessness upon her sunken cheek. Her eye told of long suffering, and her constant but melancholy smile evinced how patiently she endured it. Day by day the hue of mortality waxed fainter; her beautiful form wasted away, and she became at last like a spirit of heaven dwelling among, but scarcely holding communion with, the sons and daughters of the earth. The latter part of her life seemed an abstraction—a dream—an unconsciousness of what was passing around her. The sister of SS who had broken the vows that were pledged with such seeming fidelity to Marian) abhorred her brother's perfidy, and was fonder than ever of the poor heart-broken girl. She sincerely pitied her―

-For pitee renneth sone in gentil herte ;

(of

and sought by every means in her power to revive her past energies, and recall her to lost happiness and peace. But it was too late; although

she complained not, her spirit was broken for ever; and in the effort of raising herself to give a last kiss to her friend, she sunk back and died without a struggle or a sigh. There were some lines in a periodical work, shortly after her death, evidently written by a person acquainted with the parties, which, I think may not improperly be inserted here.

To G-S-.

There's a stain on thee that can never fade,
Tho' bathed in the mists of future years,
And this world will be but a world of shade,
Of sorrow, and anguish, and bitter tears.
Thou hast seen a flow'ret pine away,

That, lov'd by thee, would have blossom'd fair, And thou shalt meet with a worse decay,

And wither and die in thy soul's despair. Like the Summer's breath was the gentle tale With which thou told'st of thy love und truth, But thy falsehood came, like the wintry gale, And blighted the flow'ret in its youth. It has sunk to earth, but nor tear nor sigh Has e'er betray'd thy bosom's pain, Yet a day will come when thou would'st die To call it back from the grave again.

Had'st thou cherish'd it with the smile that won Its fadeless love in Spring's blooming hour; Had thy love beam'd o'er it like the sun,

Whose rays are life to the drooping flow'r ;
It had still been fair, and thou had'st pow
Been calm as the lake that sleeps in rest;
But the ray of Joy shall near light thy brow,
Nor pleasure dwell in thy lonely breast.

For the lovely one whom thou left'st forlorn,
A deep deep lament shall be ;

But no heart will sigh, aud no bosom mourn, And no eye e'er weep for thee.

Thou wilt pass away to the realms of death In solitude and gloom;

And a curse will cling to thy parting breath, As awful as thy doom.

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But this, and a few other extreme cases, I consider as mere exceptions to my general rule. Now, supposing, as I have said before, that a man dotes upon a beauty without a heart: What, in the name of reason, should induce him to die for one who does not care a rush for him? There may be others who would have more feeling, and less coquetry, with quite as many personal charms. Or supposing that he is attached to one far above him, either in fortune or rank, or in both. What then! Must he therefore waste away, and become the mere shadow of himself? A child

may long to catch a star as he does a butterfly, or to turn the sun round as he is accustomed to turn his hoop, but his non-success would not, as nurses call it, "be the death of him." Again: let us imagine that a man places his affections on an equal, and that she has a stronger yearning to wards another. Still, I say, there is no harm done. Let him think (as I should do) that there may be other females with quite as many outward attractions, and more discernment. I have no notion of dying to please any one. I have had too much trouble to support existence to think of laying it down upon such grounds. I should deem it quite enough to perish for the sake of one who really loved me: for one who did not, I should be șorry to suffer a single twinge of the rheumatism, or the lumbago. I have read of a man who actually fancied he was fading away- a victim to the tender passion ;"-but who afterwards discovered that his complaint was caused by abstaining too long from his necessary food. This was a sad fall from the drawing-room window of romance into the area of common sense and real life; but he was forced to make the best of it; so he took his meals oftener and thought no more about it. He afterwards actually became a suitor to another, was married, and now, I have no doubt, thinks just as I do on the subject of dying for love.

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Ere I part with you "my readers all!" take notice of these my last words, and farewell directions, which 1 give in sincerity of heart, and out of anxiety for your welfare. Ye who have never been in love, but who are approaching insensibly towards it -Corydons of sixteen! Appolines imberbes" come home for the holidays! take heed! Ye are entering on a little unknown and perilous sea. Look to your bark lest she founder. Bring her head round, and scud away before the wind into the port of Indifference. There is danger in the very serenity that sleeps upon the waves: there is faithlessness in the lightest breath that curls them. Ye who are in love-ye who are already

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