character to him as a poet. He has no fair claim to be considered emphatically the minstrel of the tomb, or the bard of sorrow. The mournful aspects of human life and destiny can be set forth in a far nobler manner. A round the memories of the departed, poetry has scattered far richer flowers than can be found in the Night Thoughts. The sorrows of humanity have been sung in sweeter strains. Lessons of courage and hope, emotions of patient tenderness, sentiments of magnanimity and trust have been inspired, when bards of more simplicity and love have struck the lyre. Poetry can make even the thought of death beautiful, and the sadness of bereavement not without a certain pleasure. Great poets have elicited from the sternest suffering, a principle of enjoyment. Sublime faith and earnest love can conjure spirits the most lovely from the darkest abyss. By exhibiting human energy in conflict with adversity, by giving free scope to the eloquence of sorrow, by invoking the spirit of hope, the muse often weaves a rainbow over the valley of tears. Who pities Hamlet? Who does not recognize a profound interest in the workings of his delicate soul, surpassing and illuming the darkness of his lot? Who is not soothed instead of saddened by true elegiac poetry-the tender strains, for instance, of such a bard as Hervey? Night, even to the mourner, brings not, ever or often, such unalloyed bitterness as Young portrays. To Schiller and Thomson it was the brightest season. Το the genuine poetical soul its silence and shadows, its moaning breeze and countless stars, its mystery and beautiful repose, bring a solemn happiness. We may, indeed, then "keep assignation with our woe;" but in such peaceful and lovely hours, how often does anguish melt in tears and wild grief become sad musing! How often by some invisible influence, do we grow reconciled and hopeful' How often do "stars look down as they were

angel's eyes!" Many of the sentiments, and most of the spirit of Young's Night Thoughts, is false to the true inspiration and the holy effulgence of that sacred season. To one of our own poets it has spoken in a higher and more blessed strain. He makes us feel that there are "Voices of the Night" which cheer, elevate, and console: O holy night! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died.

The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possessed.

O fear not, in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know, how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

ALFIERI.

PERHAPS there is no character in modern literary history who so strikingly illustrates the power of will as Victor Alfieri. Irresolution is one of the most common infirmities of poetic genius. In practical pursuits firmness of purpose is so essential to success that the want of it very soon leads to fatal consequences. Intellectual effort, on the contrary, is so much more dependant for its power and felicity upon peculiar moods of feeling and combinations of circumstances, that we scarcely expect a continuous regularity in its exercise. Hence we speak of a writer's happy moments, of being in the vein for a particular subject, and of the ebb and flow of that mysterious tide of inspiration which bears into light the creations of thought. Imaginative men are confessedly more variable, capricious, and undeterminate than others. Their memoirs usually exhibit the utmost want of method and continuity as regards the time and progress of their labours. Individuals of strong sense and calm temperament can discern no law governing the mental existence of poetical beings. There is so much that is apparently wayward and disorderly in the application of their gifts, that ill success in life is proverbially their lot, and common prejudice deems all genius erratic. Probably no single fact relative to Scott has excited greater surprise than his habitual and regular industry. Social and local influences, personal circumstances, the state of the health,

and even of the weather-and far more, the mood of mind, are supposed to absolve poets from the obligation of firmness. Victor Alfieri demonstrated the immense efficacy of this single quality. We are almost tempted, as we contemplate his career, to rank powerful volition with genius itself. For by virtue of his force of purpose he overcame the formidable obstacles of a most unpropitious education, long habits of indulgence and an undisciplined mind. Upon the most unpromising basis he reared a splendid intellectual fabric. Amid the most enervating influences he displayed extraordinary strength. With scarcely any external encouragement he wrought out in his own nature a stupendous revolution. His example is a most eloquent appeal in favour of human versatility. Disposition, habit, the want of knowledge, he conquered by moral determination. As Napoleon cut the Simplon through the rocks and snow of the Alps, Alfieri shaped his lonely way to the temple of fame over mountains of difficulty and amid the barren wastes of ignorance. This strength of purpose did not appear in his childhood except in one or two instances of juvenile obstinacy, by no means rare at that age. Another characteristic, perhaps inseparable from great decision, was much more manifest. From his earliest years it is evident he felt profoundly. Mortification of any kind sank deeply into his soul. The novices who officiated at church won his young affections, though he only beheld them in attendance at the altar. In that spontaneous and almost ideal love, we recognise the germs of the passion that in after life fired his heart. There is a vividness in his reminiscences of infancy which proves that his very earliest experience was intense.

Alfieri complains that he was born in an amphibious country. And certainly there is no section of Italy where the national characteristics are more invaded than

Piedmont. The soil is Italian, the government Austrian, the language of society French. Hence manners, opinions, customs, and much of the aspect of the capital, present to the stranger an incongruous mixture. The anomalous influences of his birth-place seem to have extended to his destiny. The picture he has left of what was called his education, is one of the most alarming commentaries upon a despotic government that ever was written. Pedantry instead of truth, verbal memory instead of ideas, antiquated Latin instead of his native literature, and formal dogmas instead of interesting facts, were the fruit of his academic course. To this evil is to be added that of absence from all maternal or domestic influences at an infantile age, the tyranny of a dissipated valet, of a powerful, stupid fellow-student and injudicious professors, ill health, unjust restraint and ill-chosen companions. During these perverted years, how slept that energetic mind! Occasionally music, some verses of Metastasio or of Ariosto read by stealth, an hour of tears with his sister at the convent grate, a ride into the environs, or a holiday dinner with an uncle-breaks in like a stray gleam of sunshine upon the wasting and monotonous life of the neglected boy. But as a whole, the dawn of his being, to a reflective mind, is inexpressibly sad. Rich and nobly born, yet confined to a useless and depressing routine, with his wild Piedmontese blood, his thirsting heart, his despairing temperament-not a healthful conviction, not a lofty hope, not an ennobling aim grew up in the rich soil of that young soul-thus training under royal authority. And yet but a short distance without those college walls rise in freedom and majesty the snow-covered mountains, upon which the rosy sunlight lingers, like the altars of liberty warmed by the smile of heaven. If any agency redeemed and preserved the unconscious youth of Alfieri, it was that of Nature;