Our limits, not our inclination, restrain us to but one extract more: it is the fine conclusion of this fine poem.

She should have died hereafter! no, not now,
Not thus have dash'd our proudest cup with wo!
The holy cause had triumph'd,-England's car
Came, rich with trophies of her mightiest war,
Monarchs were in her train; above her van
Blaz'd the deliver'd cross, the ark of man;
And she stood forth, first, fairest stood, to hail
That day; at once the victor's cheek was pale,
The triumph was eclipsed; was she the price?
The daughter vow'd? the bright, sad sacrifice?
Ev'n in the hour when England's parent eye
Turn'd from its glory on her,-must she die!

Having adduced such potent proofs in support of our opinion upon the merits of this production, we leave it to the public taste. Could we feel disposed to very minute criticism, we might state that several of the rhymes are scarcely legitimate; but there is a soul in the whole composition which seems to brook no rules, and we are swept away in the flood of mind, regardless as itself of the few little inequalities which are here and there observable.

ANGER.

THE maxim which Periander, of Corinth, one of the seven sages of Greece, left as a memorial of his knowledge and benevolence, was, " Be master of your anger." He considered anger as the great disturber of human life: the chief enemy both of public happiness and private tranquillity, and thought he could not lay on posterity a stronger obligation to reverence his memory, than by leaving them a salutary caution against this outrageous passion. Pride is undoubtedly the origin of anger; but pride, like every other passion, if it once breaks loose from reason, counteracts its own purposes. A passionate man, upon the review of his day, will have very few gratifications to offer to his pride, when he has considered how his outrages were caused; why they were borne, and in what they are likely to end at last.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.-THE EDINBURGH REVIEW.

MR. OLDSCHOOL,

I HAVE pleasure in transcribing for insertion in the Port Folio, the following extract of a letter lately received from a correspondent, in Scotland. As it pronounces with a degree of confidence, upon some facts interesting to the literary public, and which to a portion of your readers may seem to require other support than an anonymous declaration, it gives me satisfaction to add, that the writer not only enjoys from the circumstance of residence every facility of information, but has personally obtained great celebrity, by the composition of various popular works, which have been published in Great Britain, and reprinted in this country. Yours, respectfully,

Extract of a letter to

MY DEAR SIR,

Massachusetts:-dated Edinburgh, November, 1818.

I WISH I could give a vision of the Carlton Hill, which has been so changed and improved since you were here, that it is now the wonder of all beholders. I saw it on Saturday after two months absence, and was tempted to think that the fairies had been assisting, in the solid yet airy looking fabrics which in that short space have risen to adorn this Hill of Prospect. The Waterloo bridge, the Regent's, I should say, with the Waterloo Hotel, on one side, of unequalled size and magnificence; and the beginning of several public edifices, on the other;-the triumphal arches; and above all the new observatory surrounded on the four sides by porticos and pillars, astonish every one who considers their solid materials and their sudden rise. The prisons of Saxon architecture, with towers and gate-ways like a noble castle, overlook the town and adorn the prospect.

There is, however, another fine edifice, which has been a great though somewhat meretricious ornament to the good town which seems hastening to decay; not from the attacks of time but from the assaults of unseen enemies. It is the Edinburgh Review;

the very basis of which seems in danger of being undermined by these invisible opponents. My classical recollections grow very faint; yet I think it was Eneas to whom his mother or some other celestial relation, showed the hostile gods, invisible to others, shaking the foundations of the Trojan towers, and hastening their fall-for the purpose, I think, of making him give up vain attempts at defence. Such a vision has been vouchsafed to me, though not for the same purpose; for although I see the opponents through the cloud which envelopes them, I have not the power nor even the will to save the fabric they are about to demolish;-I should rather say, which they wish to demolish, for their power is very doubtful as yet. They have certainly a fund of talent among them; but their extreme petulance and frequent personality lowers the value of those truths which they seem inclined to support; and the extravagant sports of wanton wit, in which they indulge their fancy, seem in some degree incompati ble with those weightier matters of the law which in their sober moods they profess to defend. The vehicle through which this melange of local satire, sportive humour and sober argument is given to the public is Blackwood's Magazine, which one would think quite incomprehensible beyond the bounds of Edinburgh; yet it has a rapid sale in London, which surprises me not a little. I think it can scarce have reached Boston, and would be unintelligible if it did. This little secret synod of critics have produced such a fermentation among the Plutonians, as seems to have destroyed that respectable forbearance which made people of different parties live so amicably together here to the great credit of the place, and the no less comfort of strangers, who did not find their cordial reception in one circle, impede their being admitted with equal kindness to another of opposite opinions. The truths told by these new champions of religion and good government, are so forcible that the Plutonians cannot openly dispute them. They rest their defence, (if blaming their opponents can be so called,) on the indirect motives to which they impute this ebullition of zeal, in a set of gay young men, no way strict or exemplary in other respects. Pamphlets have been flying about full of virulence, against these new reformers, which have provoked two of them to avow themselves as concerned in this publication,

and offer a challenge to their concealed adversary. These are John Wilson, author of the Isle of Palms, and City of the Plague; and John Lockhart, the son of a worthy and pious clergyman in Glasgow. John Wilson's writings all breathe of religion. But it is more picturesque and pathetic, than spiritual; and one is tempted by the form in which it appears to suppose that it is in some measure brought forward

"To point a moral or adorn a tale."

Yet we are to think kindly of even good-will to the great cause, always remembering that the great author of our faith has declared, "He that is not against us, is with us." It has been well said that the poetry and fiction, most in vogue do not lead, but follow and reflect the prevailing taste of the time; when they are produced. Judging by this criterion, there is reason to hope that the interests of religion are considerably upon the advance; as no work of fiction of late years, has obtained any popularity, which does not express or imply a reverence for things sacred. Lord Byron's works are, like himself, anomalous in this respect, and even his tone is somewhat softened in the last canto. As a model of chaste and beautiful composition, where the soundest sense and most upright principle, are clothed in peculiar felicity of expression, I recommend to your particular attention the critique on said canto in the Quarterly Review. It is written by Walter Scott, and marked with his good sense, and good temper.

Now you must not think I have much leisure, though I have written so much. I will not express the fear of tiring you, common on such occasions; because the very consciousness that you will not be tired, when another might, carries me on; and a letter which has three thousand miles to travel, should have a little ballast for the voyage.

Edinburgh is full to overflowing; though there are many new erections every year.

I remain, &c.

Virtue is undoubtedly, most laudable in that state which makes it most difficult.

Letter from a lover of Quality, to his Mistress in the 17th cen tury, with the Lady's answer.

FOR MY LADY MARGARET MONTGOMERIE.

MADAM-The continuance of my misfortune, in not being yett able to wait upon your Ladyship, is beyond expression vexing; and the more I ponder my unspeakable loss, my anxietie is the greater, and cannot but continou so till this sadde and dark cloud be over; and then the beames of your presence and favour will elevat the now perplexed heart of, Madam, your Ladyship's most affectionate and humble servant,

London, 5 Sept. 1666.

FOR THE EARL OF LOUDON.

LOUDON

MY LORD, To give a return suitabell to anie of yours, is above what I am capabell of, they so far exceed both the capacity and desert of, my Lord, your Lordship's humble servant,

Caniget, 25 Nov. 1666.

MARGARET MONTGOMERIE.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

THE AMERICAN CHARACTER.

Defence of the American character, or an essay on wealth as an object of cupidity or the means of distinction in the United States.

THAT the people of the United States, are peculiarly actuated by the love of money, and that it is among them, in a peculiar degree, the cause of distinction, is an opinion almost universally entertained by foreigners, and too often sanctioned even by natives. We are not disposed to deny the power of Plutus in tem