object, on one side, another gradually opens, in a different direction; and this continual change is the parent of endless diversity. From the mountains, whence you can see as far almost, as the eye can extend, you descend into little narrow glens, hemmed in, on either side, by lofty bluffs, above which you catch the clouds passing, like shadows, no sooner seen than lost. Through these glens, invariably winds a brook, or river, stealing or rushing from side to side, striking first the foot of one mountain, and rebounding back to the other, in regular meanders. The sides of these are sometimes skirted with narrow strips of meadow; and, when this is the case, you may be pretty certain somebody lives near. The traces of impetuous torrents, now dry, or only displaying here and there a pool of clear water, among the rocks, occur frequently, and sometimes form the road over which you travel. Little is seen of the traces of man, except the tracks of the road, or occasionally a column of smoke rising at a distance, which gives token of his being near, but which not seldom turns out to proceed from the unextinguished fire of a west country wagoner, who has, perhaps, encamped there the night before, or stopped to cook his supper.

Of living objects, we sometimes saw a covey of partridges, a cock of the woods, or a ground squirrel, whose tameness convinced us they were little acquainted with man; whose acquaintance, instead of ripening into familiarity, produces nothing but fear. Occasionally Occasionally we saw a litter of swine, half wild, which always snorted violently, and scampered into the woods as we approached; which convinced me they had some knowledge of our race, else they would not have been so frightened. In some few instances we came suddenly upon a brace of wood-cutters, with a couple of hounds, which were occasionally employed in scouring the forest, while their masters were felling trees. In the solemn repose of the woods, we could hear the echoings of every stroke of their axes, at a great distance. They sometimes condescended to stop a moment to look at us; but often continued their work without deigning us that attention; for there is a pride in these people that prevents them from doing strangers the honour to gape at them, as our fashionable well-bred people do. It sometimes happened that we found it expedient to inquire of them our way, when they always answered very civilly, and with much intelligence. In many places the only traces of human agency, are the incisions of the sugar maple, and the little troughs at the foot of the tree turned upside down, to wait the flowing of the sap in the spring. Where these

trees are plenty in the mountains, a family will sometimes build a hut, and remain till the season of sap is over, to make sugar; which they do by simply boiling the sap in a common kettle. When the sap flows no longer, they return home. It is in this mountainous region, that the Great and Little Bull, Cow, and Calf Pasture rivers, and indeed almost all the streams rise, that find a common centre in James' River; whose various veins pervade almost one half of Virginia.

To one accustomed, so many years as I have been, to the racket of noisy towns, and to the bustle of business, of which I partook in no part of the profits, and consequently felt no interest; who basked in no shades but the shady side of the street, and only remembered at long distance, the deep repose of nature, even the novelty of this scenery was delightful. To every being not bereft entirely of his soul's regalia, I should think it might afford a pure and salutary enjoyment. If he looks round, he will see many objects he has never seen before, or perceive the absence of many with which he has long been familiar. If he be one of those to whom objects of sense, are only springs to awaken the higher powers of the mind, he will feel and think, as he has never done before. He will be led into reflections, that, if they do not awaken his mind to the comprehension of new truths, will most likely open new and purer sources of pleasure, and more lofty subjects of contemplation. Activity and noise remind us only of this world; but silence and repose lead us to a world to come. Farewell.

ART. VIII.-The Poetic Mirror; or the Living Bards of Britain. Edinburgh and Philadelphia. 1817.

THE

HE most admirable performance in this volume, is the Advertisement. We had thought, that no man could write three decent paragraphs of falsehood, without betraying himself, in some way or other; but, so faithfully is truth reflected in this mirror of introductions, that, if one did not look any farther, he would certainly take it for the very truth itself. We shall therefore begin our extracts from this point; only assuring our readers, again, that the subjoined prose sentences are the most favourable specimens of the Poetic Mirror.

The Editor claims no merit in the following work, save that of having procured from the Authors the various Poems of which the volume is composed; for, as to the arrangement, it is casual, and simply as the pieces came to hand.

'A number of years have now elapsed since he first conceived the idea of procuring something original from each of the principal living Bards of Britain, and publishing those together, judging

that such a work, however small, could not fail of forming a curiosity in literature. On applying to them all personally, or by letter, he found that the greater part of them entered into his views with more cordiality than he had reason to expect; and, after many delays and disappointments, he is at last enabled to give this volume to the public. He regrets that there are many of the living Poets, whom he highly esteems, that have not yet complied with his request; but as he is almost certain of something from each of them being forthcoming, he hopes, at no distant period, to be able to lay before the world another volume, at least more diversified than the present.

With respect to those who have already so kindly supported him in the present undertaking, it behoves him to say nothing. The pages which follow will show how well they have kept their words, and he takes this public opportunity of thanking them most cordially for their liberal assistance, to which he is conscious that his merits have in no degree entitled him.

The Guerilla, in imitation of Lord Byron, comes no where near this; and is, indeed, a flat, spiritless thing enough. The Epistle to R. S.*****, by Walter Scott, is very nearly in the same predicament; nor is Wat o' the Cleugh, by the same hand, in a much better strain; though there is now and then a passage which is by no means contemptible. Take, for instance, the fourth stanza of Canto I. Said Wat o' the Cleugh is a dark, reckless border'-a giant in strength, and, as we have it below, more than the devil in wickedness. He starts on a foray.

'As downward they past by the Jed and the Roule,
The monk took his crozier, his cord, and his cowl,
And kneel'd to the Virgin with book and with bead,
And said Ave-Maria, and mutter'd his creed,

And loudly invoked, as he clasped the rood,

Saint Withold, Saint Waldave, Saint Clare, and Saint Jude!
He dreaded the Devil, to give him his due,

But held him as nothing to Wat o' the Cleugh.'

This, we think, is a fair hit upon Mr. Scott's occasional attempts at solemnity; and the following stanzas, too, are not a bad parody on his peculiar way of apostrophizing. Wat has occasion to get mad; and, throwing up his visor and his helm to boot,' he draws out his mighty two-hand sword.' 'What frame might brook that weapon's fall!

For though the chief like oak was tall,

It reach'd so high, it swung so low,

It gall'd his shoulder and his toe;
And when that giant sword he drew
His arm was bent around his brow;

When forth it came, the sooth to say,
It came with such resistless sway,
Wo to the wight stood in its way!
And flicker'd in the light of heaven
Like streamer of the burning levin.”

'Wat drew that sword, I said before,
He gave it one brandish and no more;
It was enough--quick might you see
Each monk, each friar, on his knee,
Kissing the cross, and calling loud,
O mercy! mercy! spare our blood,
For sake of him that died on rood!'

These are the best parts of Wat o' the Cleugh; which occupies more than one fourth of the volume, and is, in general, but a tame and frigid poem.

We have been the most pleased with the parodies on Mr. Wadsworth's poetry. Indeed, that gentleman's own song little better than a parody on Miltonian verse; and it requires only a slight caricaturing, therefore, to turn it into downright burlesque. A man who sees occasion for moralizing on every little circumstance about him, and then adopts, for the communication of his rhapsodies, that kind of poetry, which has only sounded in our ears along with the sublimest thoughts cannot help making himself ridiculous. The parodist before us has taken advantage of this circumstance very skilfully; and has contrived to wrap up little things in great phraseology much better, we imagine, than the author could himself. The first poem is called the Stranger. A traveller comes along, on a tall steed, and alights by the side of Mr. Wadsworth's lake. And

A boy came from the mountains, tripping light
With basket on his arm-and it appear'd
That there was butter there, for the white cloth
That over it was spread, not unobserved,

In tiny ridges gently rose and fell

my steed

Like graves of children covered o'er with snow;
And by one clumsy fold the traveller spied
One roll of yellow treasure, all as pure
As primrose bud reflected in the lake.
'Boy,' said the stranger, wilt thou hold
6
Till I walk round the corner of that mere?
When I return I will repay thee well.'
The boy consented--touched his slouching, hat
Of broad unequal brim with ready hand,
And set his basket down upon the sward.

Whereupon the stranger went his way; and the little boy' was obliged to stand by the side of his horse all the day long. He

' Cast many many a wistful look-his mind was mazed
Like as a brook that travels through the glade,

By complicated tanglement involved,

Not knowing where to run.'

At length he heard

A voice rise from the bosom of the hill,
Or from the heart of that small peaceful lake,
He knew not which-it broke along the air
That wandered o'er that slumbering solitude
With such a solemn and impressive tone,
That not though heaven in distant thunder had
Spoke words of human breath, could these so much
The heart of man have shook, and all his powers
So utterly astounded.-On it came

With gathering boom-loud and more loud it came
And passing, died upon the trembling wind
Or crept into the silence of the hill,

Like startled spirit, and was heard no more!
It was a beetle-somewhere it had been
At elvish carol on that mountain's breast,
Or haply dancing with the daffodils,
Upon the margin of that lovely lake

Ycleped a tarn or water-or mayhap

From dwelling 'mid the maze of glow-worm lamps
That with faint radiance gild the earthly woods,
When dews fall soft and nature lies reposed,
Proud of the rayless halo round them shed,
Which only lights that one particular leaf
On which the parent hangs, like a small gem
Upon the lap of night. The boy held in
His breath for full five seconds-then again
Pour'd forth the bray of agony'-

The horse became impatient; and going round
‹ And round, and round; and pulling in his head
To his fore-pastern, upward made it spring

So forcibly, the poor boy's feeble arm
Was paralyzed-his hold he lost-and off
Like lightning flew the steed, that never more
Was in these regions seen!'

'No more the poor boy cried--he lifted up
His basket from the earth into the air,
That unviewed element that circumfolds
The earth within its bosom, there he felt
With his left hand how it affected was
By the long day and burning sun of heaven.