LINES OF MADAME D'HAUTELOT.

We could never admire that species of love which is purely and unmixedly sentimental, nor yet that in which there is no mixture of sentiment. The one appears of too mental, the other of too sensual a character; and we find ourselves so mysteriously composed, that our pleasures run highest when they are excited by mixed influences, that is, influences partly sensitive and partly intellectual. Where all is mental, the influence is too refined for us: we cannot grasp it, or identify ourselves with its nature. Hence, though we admire the "Paradise Lost," we cannot love it. Its characters are beings with whom we possess no common sympathies. Even Adam and Eve, who might be supposed beings of the same nature with ourselves, have not a particle of nature in them as they are described by Milton. Like all other sinners, they have nothing but religion and morality in their mouths, and we heartily hate all those who make a trade of moralizing. They are too evangelical for us. "There is a time to laugh, and a time to cry," but these gentlemen are always crying over the sins of others. We like to laugh when the time for laughing comes, and therefore we cannot relish those who are always in a contrary mood. On the other hand, where all is sensual, the influence is too gross for us; and we cannot feel satisfied with ourselves in either loving or admiring any thing proceeding from the pen of a writer professedly sensual. Thus do we find ourselves "fearfully and wonderfully made," incapable of relishing any thing that is purely intellectual or purely sensual. We give, therefore, the following lines of Madame D' Houtelot not because they express any feelings congenial with our own, but because they will be pleasing to such readers as are fond of sentimental poetry. They of

fend, at the same time, no rule of good taste or criticism which we can at this moment recollect. We agree indeed with Catullus, that

Difficile est longum subito deponere amorem ; and therefore think it very natural that this good lady should continue to love in her old age; but she does not tell us who she is in love with ;-on the contrary, so far from appearing to be in love with any person, she appears only to be in love with the idea of being in love; or, as Bruyere expresses it, she appears to be one of those "who wish to be in love but find they cannot." This is not love, but a chimera of the mind in which real passion has no part whatever, and whoever can relish it, much good may it do to him; but for our own part, we can never sympathize with such unreal, unsubstantial, and visionary affections, or rather phantasies, of the understanding; or, indeed, with affections of any sort that have not their original residence in the heart. We therefore admire the following sentiment, which the reader will find in one of our poetical extracts.

And vain has been each studied art,
And futile every cold endeavour,
The light that comes not from the heart;
A moment shines then fades for ever.

ED.

Jeune Jaimai. Le temps de mon bel age,
Ce temps si court, l'amour seul le remplit:
Quand j'atteignis la saison d'être sage,
Toujours j'aimai, la raison me le dit,
Mais l'âge vient, et le plaisir s'envole;
Mais mon bonheur ne s'envole aujourd'hui,
Car j'aime encore, et l'amour me console;
Rien n'aurait pu me consoler de lui,

When young, I loved, at that delicious age
So sweet, so short, love was my sole delight;
And when I reached the season to be sage,
Still I loved on, for reason gave me right.

Age comes at length, and livelier joys depart,
Yet gentle ones still kiss these eyelids dim;
For still I love, and love consoles my heart;
What could console me for the loss of him?

THE LIBERAL.

ROUSSEAU'S RETREAT.

Moore's damning sin, according to the critics, is levity; but surely if he were even cursed or blessed with greater frailties and weaknesses than other men, the following lines should be more than a sufficient atonement for all his transgressions. We have no hesitation to say, that the sentiments are conceived with a delicacy of feeling and a chastity of imagination, and that the terms of the language in which they are expressed, are selected with a nicety and accuracy of discrimination, which not only places the poet beyond the vulgar bounds of the critic, but to the beauties, of which no critic can do adequate justice. There is a beauty in sentiment and fine feeling, which can neither be analysed nor explained, while the faults of writers lie always on the surface, and consequently can be laid hold on, and held up to public derision. Deformity is always a protuberance which lies on the exterior of bodies, but beauty is a gem which retires from the public gaze, and modestly conceals itself from the stupid stare of those who can neither discriminate its perceptions, nor become sensible of its charms. No wonder, then, that critics should eternally dwell on the faults of writers, and be eternally blind to their re

deeming beauties, because the former are gross and palpable, the latter visible only to the eye of genius. The Edinburgh Review professed, at its commencement, to review only works of merit; and yet who could imagine from its system of reviewing, that a work of merit ever fell into the hands of its conductor?.-ED.

"I may be cold-may want that glow

Of high romance, which bards should know,
That holy homage, which is felt

In treading where the great have dwelt-
This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,

I fear, I feel, I have it not,
For here, at this still hour, to me

The charms of this delightful spot--
Its calm seclusion from the throng,
From all the heart would fain forget,
This narrow valley, and the song,
Of its small murmuring rivulet--
The flitting, to and fro, of birds,

Tranquil and tame as they were once
In Eden, ere the startling words
Of man disturbed their orisons!
Those little, shadowy paths that wind
Up the hill side, with fruit trees lined,
And lighted only by the breaks

The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas, here and there, that ope

Through weeping willows like the snatches
Of far off scenes of light, which hope

Ev'n through the shade of sadness catches!—

All this, which could I once but lose
The memory of those vulgar ties,
Whose grossness, all the heavenliest hues
Of genius, can no more disguise,
Than the sun's beams can do away

With filth of fens o'er which they play-
This scene which would have filled my heart
With thoughts of all that happiest is-

Of love, where self hath only part,

As echoing back another's bliss,
Of solitude, secure and sweet,
Beneath whose shade the virtues meet;
Which while it shelters, never chills
Our sympathies with human woe,
But keeps them, like sequestered rills,
Purer and fresher in their flow-
Of happy days, that share their beams

Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ-
Of tranquil nights, that give, in dreams,
The moonlight of the morning's joy!
All this my heart could dwell on here,

But for those hateful memories near, Those sordid truths, that cross the track Of each sweet thought, and drive them back Full into all the mire and strife,

And vanities of that man's life,

Who more than all that e'er have glow'd,

With fancy's flame (and it was his,

If ever given to mortal) show'd

What an imposter genius is