eral, with remarks on the different classes, such as the languishing Circassian, the lively Swiss, and the intellectual Italian. And perhaps also to discuss the superiority of dark over golden locks, and of black eyes over blue ones. But there is a confusion of bright images-a perfect chaos of brilliancy in my mind, when I attempt to think of the subject; so that I am entirely unable to frame my sensations into thoughts-my thoughts into language and my language into sentences with the proper divisions of commas, colons and periods. One can look on the heavens on a starry evening and feel that he gazes on a grand and glorious object. He can sit down afterwards cooly in his study, and meditate a long time on what his feelings ought to have been. He can think calmly and write, and blot,—and condense, and amplify, and arrange-till at last he makes something, which he supposes will convey to the minds of others an idea of the thoughts which agitated him. But no one can look on the skies lit by a thousand worlds of light--on the sea lying gloriously in a calm, or wrought to yesty madnesson the dark forest waving in leafy magnificence, and feel a poem. Thoughts rush upon thoughts with the rapidity of lightning-they come quickly and as quickly pass away, and to attempt collecting and preserving them would be as difficult as to chain the winds, or gather a vase of sunbeams. So it is in gazing on female loveliness. One is excited by emotions which he cannot express, and feelings which it is impossible for him to arHe can at leisure write proper reflections on the subject, but at the moment he is gazing, or at any future time, he cannot tell what it was that enraptured him. Was it the jetty eye with its silken lashes? He has seen other eyes of darker hue, and lashes of a more delicate texture. Was it the rosy cheek and ruby lip? He has seen cheeks that might put to shame the rose and lips that would more than vie with the ruby ;-but he felt not the same emotions at the sight of them. It is the nameless indescribable something, whether of complexion, grace or expression he knows not and cannot conceive,-that makes him feel unutterable things. But it is when we relapse from this excitement, and come down to the cold reality of pen ink and paper, that we perceive our utter inadequateness to do justice to the task, and that all our splendid mass of sentiment, feeling, and poetry has vanished.

rest.

But an end must come to all things; and I, after filling two as good sheets of paper as ever were manufactured,-and worn my pen to a stump, and my brains to the consistency of a sucked orange, as some one or other observes,-am obliged to come

to a regular conclusion. Now if I were a parson of the old school, having exhausted the numerous divisions of my subject, I could end my discourse with an improvement. If I were a moral essayist I could end with some wise reflection or sage apothegm. But nondescript as I am, I hardly know how to bring my je ne szais quoi to a close. I can end abruptly with a dash, thus or with a row of asterisks in this manner,

No doubt

and it may pass off as if there were something "cursedly witty" in it; as ignota pro magnificis, all the world over. what was left out would be the most popular part. But instead of finding my essay-if you please-on the point of ending, it is accumulating fast on my hands, so I'll e'en end as it is,not exactly taking French leave, but merely a hasty 'Au revoir.'

THE RETRIBUTION.

She was all youth and beauty and seem'd form'd
By Nature to combine the softest grace,
Of woman's gentle being, with the firm
And higher intellectual faculties,
With such a soft and unassuming air,
As ne'er had put to shame a village girl.

Her form was such as marks the fairest mould
Of female beauty-and her forehead high,
And ivory-like, was such as Raphael chose
To crown the faculties of his mild Madonna-
And there were seated eyes-I can't compare
Such azure beauties, such bright images
Of matter immaterial, to any thing,
Unless it be to the smooth, limpid brook,
Blue with the smile of heaven-for they seem'd,
To one who gaz'd on them, to liquify
And undulate with the full tide of love.
Yet was she born to mock Lavater's art,
Bright as the queen of heaven, and Oh, like her,
Cold, tho' her beauty had the glow of warmth,
For there was one who lov'd her, deeply lov'd,
But nurs'd the secret passion in his breast,
"Till ripen'd for confession-for he chose
Like the unchristian Indian, to bow down
And worship his divinity afar.

But love so fervent, pure and innocent,
Could thinly veil itself-she saw the flame
Irradiate his visage, when her eye

By accident met his-she watch'd
With secret satisfaction how abrupt

His glance was then averted, and she heard,
Or fancied that she heard, the smother'd sigh
And knew herself the object-she was young
And confident of beauty, and delighted
To feel the homage that her beauty claim'd.
She smil'd upon him, not as all may smile,
With general benevolence and kindness;
But, with the smile that skilful coquetry
Delights to barter for a broken heart.
She smil'd upon him, and to him she gave
Her hand, while others were denied, and show'd
Such evidence of delicate attachment,

That one more vers'd in woman's artifice,
Had bless'd a bright'ning prospect-till at last,
With hope elated and with wishes warm,
Impell'd by all the purity of thought,
And flush'd with a security of joy,
He told to her his love, and open'd wide
The shrine of sensibility and gave

In declaration, what was hers before.
At first she listen'd with a pensiveness,
A downcast, thoughtful, seeming pensiveness,
As if to give a promptness to his tongue
By gentle feeling-but her bosom swell'd
With flatter'd vanity and gross delight.
He ended and 'twas then he saw the rock,
The dire Charybdis, and the syren sneer,
That laugh'd its helpless victims into madness.

He travell'd where the lime and citron bloom,
And bask'd in tropic sunshine-for to him
The world was cheerless, and its pageant train
Of bright and silvery vanities, had long
Disgusted him;-but when remembrance brought
A clue to guide him from a crowd of dreams-
A mental labyrinth of strange perplexities,
It only woke a sigh that pass'd unheeded.
Ten summers flew and with them flew his cares;
For though susceptible and warm of nature,
He was of manly firmness and they pass'd.
He bent once more his homeward way-again
He saw the cottage and the green grass-plat,
Where he had chas'd the phantom happiness.
But ere he ask'd the blessing of his sire

Or mother, whose kind prayers were living for him,
He sought the welfare of his once belov❜d,
The traitress beauty whom he could not hate.

He found her dwelling-place-but the rank weeds
Disturb'd the passenger, while o'er its walls,
Ruin had hung her mantle, and the wind
Moan'd comfortless among the ivy leaves.
His heart grew sick within him, as he gaz'd
Silently, upon the birth place of his love,

Not reft of all inhabitants, as seem'd

By the dull wreath that curl'd among the trees.
He enter'd-and upon a wretched bed,
Scarce good enough for prison inmates, lay
The object of his passion- but so chang'd,
Alas! so alter'd from the one of old,

That truth scarce brought conviction, as he saw
Her spirit kindling through the wre k of beauty.
She was fast dying, and the flame of life
Was flickering in the socket-upon him,
As slowly he approach'd, she fix'd a look
Deep and all scrutinizing, that might search
The soul of him who stood there, gave a shriek
Of desolating anguish and expir'd.

He learn'd with sorrow that her turn had come
To feel the sting of passion-was it love?
Alas! her lover vow'd, and she was ruin'd.
Shame drove her to distraction, and she fled
And liv'd in infamy-until the hand,

The taming hand of death was cold upon her;
And then with strong but coward penitence
She sought her parents' cot-but they had died,
Long since of sorrow-and the only one,
Who then remain'd of all the family,
Was a poor recluse woman, and she took
The dying penitent.-But yesterday,

She came there, and the sand was falling fast,
The sand of life-she sigh'd but utter'd little.
Once-a few hours before she wish'd to see
Him she had injur'd and to ask forgiveness,
But for her wretched self-alas! she knew not,
Yet hop'd forgiveness from a pitying God.
The sight of him who lov'd her was too much,
He whose kind heart had lighten'd every wo!
Her spirit s'rain'd for utterance-but her heart
Broke with its burden and she sunk in death.
He wept at the recital of her woes,
Gaz'd with a mournful sigh intently on her,
Wept and departed.

R. D.

THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW.

"Thou art too apt to lie for thy relations."

Our Chronicle of '26.

The world of intellect and knowledge, has been often set forth under the fiction of a Republic of Letters. These terms. are chosen to convey the idea that literary men, of every kindred and tongue, are associated under a government which ac

knowledges no hereditary sovreignty of mind, no privileged orders, no hireling judges, no priestly inquisition, no, fetters, no dungeons, no oppression. They are the subjects of a reign of equity; where wealth, birth and pretence are unavailing; the favoured inhabitants of a realm, over which truth sends its glorious day, and where justice presides with an impartial balance. Such we suppose is the idea of a Republic of Letters. But alas! it is a dream, and all a dream. The "Quarrels of Authors" display as much bitterness as any other quarrels, and the competitions of literary men, exhibit as little regard for truth and fairness, as military or political strife. To bring no other instance, let us consider a moment the known use and operation, of one of the long established institutions of the Republic of Letters-we mean a Literary Review. This, pretends indeed, to be a tribunal whose office it is, to examine the various candidates for public favor, by the canons of criticism. It claims to be a holy mount, whence the law is delivered; a bench of justice, where the voice of equity alone is heard. Such is the original idea of a Review, and in this high character it arrogates to itself an amount and variety of power, which belong to no despot in Christendom. In the first place, it enacts, modifies, and annuls the law at pleasure, and then it is a sheriff, an attorney, an advocate, a judge, a jury, and when it chooses, an executioner also.

Now such an institution we admit may be made subservient to the cause of truth. Despotic power, perchance, may not be abused, and if directed by wisdom and justice it will promote the good of its subjects. But let it fall into the hands of one whose love of truth is lost in love of self-one whose regard for justice is merged in a superior regard for a party-or, one who has sold himself to some narrow and sinister cause, then only, will its mischiefs be limited by its extent. Were it necessary we could show that what we state hypothetically, is matter of notorious fact. But the world well understands that in general, a Review, be it annual, quarterly, or monthly, and coming forth with what pretence it may, is still the instrument of some party in politics, or some sect in religion; the organ of some interested individuals, or class of individuals, or perhaps the convenient drudge of a bookseller. Accordingly the Review is degraded from the high station which it once occupied ;—it is no longer looked to, as a preacher of truth, but is regarded, only as the engine of particular interests, the ex parte pleader of some questionable cause.