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It was quite touching to see how solemnly the old soldiers listened, when this was being read to them; and when I came to the lines-

"I feel as if something had got in my throat,
And was choking against the strap"-

Ivanhoe looked up with questioning eyes, as if he would have said, "how did know that?"



It is surprising how soon childrenall children-begin to love poetry. That dear old lady-Mother Goose! what would childhood be without her? Let old Mother Goose pack up her satchel and begone, and a dreary world this would be for babies! No more "Pata-cake baker's man ;" no more "Here sits the Lord Mayor;" no more "This little pig went to market;" no more 'Jack and Jill," going up the hill after that unfortunate pail of water; no more "One, two, buckle my shoe;" and "Old Mother Hubbard," who had such an uncommonly brilliant dog; and "Simple Simon," who was not quite so simple as the pieman thought he was; and Jacky Horner, whose thumb stands out in childhood's memory like Trajan's legended pillar; and the royal architecture of "King Boggin ;" and the peep into court life derived from the wonderful "Song of Sixpence :"-what would that dear little half-price world do without them? Sometimes, too, the melodious precepts of that kind old lady save a host of rigid moral lessons"Tell tale tit" and "Cross-patch, draw the latch" are better than twenty household sermons. And then those golden legends: "Bobby Shaftoe went to sea;" and "Little Miss Muffitt, who sat on a tuffit;" and the charming moon-story of Little Bo Peep with her shadowless sheep; and the capital match Jack Sprat made, when he got his wife; and the wisdom of that great maxim of Mother Goose

"Birds of a feather flock together."

What could replace these, should the priceless volume be closed upon childhood forever?

poor miserable show it makes beside little Posterity, with its toils and pleasures; its satchel, and scraps of song, sitting by its slender pathway, and watching with great eyes the dazzling pageant passing by. Little Posterity! Sitting in judgment by the wayside, and only waiting for a few years to close, before it brings in its solemn verdict.

When we think of the great world, and its elaborate amusements-its balls, and its concerts; its theatres and its opera-houses; its costly dinners, and toilsome grand parties; its clanging pianos, and its roaring convivial songs; its carved furniture, splendid diamonds, rouge, and gilding; its hollow etiquette, and its sickly sentimentalities, what a

What delicate perceptions children have, lively sympathies, quick-eyed penetration. How they shrink from hypocrisy, let it speak with never so soft a voice; and open their little chubby arms, when goodness steps into the room. What a sad-faced group it was that stood upon our bank, the day little Tommy was drowned.

There is a smooth sand beach in front of our house, a small dock, and a boathouse. The rail-road track is laid between the bank and the beach, so that you can look out of the car-windows and see the river, and the palisades, the sloops, the beach, and the boat-house. One summer afternoon, as the train flew by the cottage, (for the station is beyond it a short walk), I observed quite a concourse of people on one side the track-on the dock-and down by the water's edge. So when the cars stopped, I hurried back over the ground I had just passed, and on my way met a man who told me a little boy was drowned in the water in front of my house. What a desperate race Sparrowgrass ran that day, with the image of each of his children successively drowned, passing through his mind with the rapidity of lightning flashes! When I got in the crowd of people, I saw a poor woman lying lifeless in the arms of two other women; some were bathing her forehead, some were chafing her hands, and just then I heard some one say, It is his mother, poor thing." How cruel it was in me, to whisper "Thank God!" but could I help it? To rush up the bank, to get the boat-house key, to throw open the outside doors, and swing out the davits, was but an instant's work; and then down went the boat from the blocks, and a volunteer crew had pushed her off in a moment. Then they slowly rowed her down the river, close in shore; for the tide was falling, and every now and then the iron boat-hook sank under the water on


its errand of mercy. Meanwhile we
lashed hooks to other poles, and along

the beach, and on the dock, a number of men were busy searching for the body. At last there was a subdued shout-it came from the river, a little south of the boat-house-and the men dropped the poles on the dock, and on the beach, and ran down that way, and we saw a little white object glisten in the arms of the boat-men, and then it was laid, tenderly, face downward, on the grass that grew on the parapet of the rail-way. Poor little fellow! He had been bathing on the beach, and had ventured out beyond his depth in the river. It was too late to recall that little spirit-the slender breath had bubbled up through the water half an hour before. The poor people wrapped up the tiny white death in a warm shawl; and one stout fellow took it in his arms,

and carried it softly along the iron road, followed by the concourse of people.

When I came up on the bank again, I thanked God, for the group of small, sad faces I found there-partly for their safety-partly for their sympathy. And we observed that afternoon, how quiet and orderly the young ones were; although the sun went down in splendid clouds, and the river was flushed with crimson, and the birds sang as they were wont to sing, and the dogs sported across the grass, and all nature seemed to be unconsciously gay over the melancholy casualty; yet our little ones were true to themselves, and to humanity. They had turned over an important page in life, and they were profiting by the lesson.



IFE, my darling, close the doors, Draw the curtains, see, the fire, Ever the louder the rain storm roars, Rises happier, brighter, higher.

There, on the ottoman, nearer still,
Lay thy head on my loving breast-
Stay-another-that ringlet will

Take his kisses, and all the rest!

Toss him back from thy delicate brow,

Lift the light of thy laughing eyes— Laughing tenderly-tell me now,

Which was foolish, and which was wise?

Ah! when we walked, that summer eve, Hushed, on the shore of the sounding sea, Was it not heaven made us believe

This was waiting for thee and me?

Was it not heaven? A single star

Shook in the sky-again and again A white sail glimmered, faint and far,

Trembling away to the shadowy main;

Thou, with thy gaze on the vanishing ships;
I that watched for the star to appear
Nay! not my hand, love! Speak to my lips!
Every hope had its harbor-here!


literature has found a

complete and felicitous chronicle in these volumes. The editors have brought to its preparation an enlightened love of letters, rare personal accomplishments, a genial antiquarian enthusiasm, and untiring fidelity and patience of research. The plan of their work would seem to have been suggested by Chambers's "Cyclopædia of English Literature," to which, however, it is unquestionably superior in the character of its execution, if not in the interest of its contents. It is remarkable for the compactness with which it crowds the different epochs of our literature into a comprehensive space, without falling into a meagre and unfruitful brevity. In turning over its leaves, we are often tempted to stop and admire the ingenuity of the editors, who have been able to impart such a rich variety of incidental literary information, besides the leading notices which appropriately introduce the selections from various authors.

Tracing the progress of intellectual culture in this country from the first dawn of literature among the Puritan exiles to the latest productions of the present day, it exhibits a complete map, or rather a finished miniature sketch of the development and performances of American talent in the field of letters. The Pilgrims brought the love of learning, with their household treasures, to the promised land of religion and freedom. Many of the early pioneers had received the choicest education of the English universities. They blended generous studies with the cultivation of the field, and the practice of arms. They handled the pen with no less facility than the axe and the musket. Several curious specimens of their literary tastes are preserved in these volumes. For the most part they are quaint, rugged, erratic compositions, more remarkable for their earnestness of thought than their graces of style, and showing that strong sense of personality which prompted their writers to leave the sweet and delicate refinements of their English homes, for the sake of elbow-room in the free wilder

ness. Among the primitive worthies, from whose remains we have more or less numerous fragments, are the famous New England divines, and Cotton, Norton, Hooker, Roger Williams, the two Mathers, the excellent John Winthrop, first Governor of Massachusetts, Governor Bradford, John Eliot, the devoted apostle to the Indians, and Peter Folger, the maternal grandfather of Dr. Franklin.

One of the most interesting sketches in this portion of the work is devoted to Roger Williams-a man who, in many respects, may be regarded as a type of the best elements in the Puritan character. Without a certain spice of fanaticism, he could scarcely have been deemed a true Pilgrim. Earnest religious convictions imply an exclusiveness and zeal which must always appear fanatical to those by whom they are not fully shared. But Roger Williams had no sourness or austerity in his religious composition. In this sense, he could not justly be called a fanatic. Rather was it true, that his nature was softened by a lambent enthusiasm. Hating error much, he loved truth more. His mind expanded in visions of Gospel freedom. He cherished a pervading sense of the infinite and unutterable sweetness of divine things. To his soul, God was not the echo of a tradition, nor the logical product of a syllogism; but a living and present reality. He thus dwelt in the sphere of universal ideas. His convictions were absolute and allembracing; not relative and limited. Hence, by a natural and invincible necessity, he became the champion of religious freedom, for which he is justly, and not too warmly eulogized by the editors of this work. As they justly remark, with him, "the right divine of conscience was not simply having his own way, while he checked other people's. He did not fly from persecution to persecute." He founded the rights of conscience, not on prescription or privilege, but on the autocracy of the human soul, subject to no authority but the law of God, as written in its own nature. This must ever be the glorious distinction of Roger Wil

Cyclopædia of American Literature. By EVERT A. DUYCKINCK and GEORGE L. DUYCKINCK. 2 vols. Charles Scribner.

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words have not yet ceased to find a powerful echo; Berkeley, the philosophic enthusiast, who watched, "in solemn vision," the course of empire on its western way; and Jonathan Edwards, the first metaphysician of his day, and endowed with the acutest intellect that ever drew its nutriment and inspiration from New England training.

The Revolutionary period was also fertile in literary productions, in spite of the troubled character of the times. Among the writers of that day, there was the patriotic Livingston of New Jersey; James Otis, under whose impassioned eloquence "American Independence was born;" the fiery-hearted John Adams; the masters of humor, Francis Hopkinson, and John Trumbull; the two Bartrams, father and son, each a devotee of natural science; Jefferson, Madison, Hamilton, and Jay, the leading political philosophers of their day, whose profound reasonings aided to embody freedom in constitutional forms; the sage Witherspoon; the genial satirist, Hugh Breckenridge; and to name no others, the trio of Connecticut bards, Timothy Dwight, David Humphreys, and Joel Barlow.

Of the Revolutionary writers, none receives a more elaborate notice than Philip Freneau, whose memory the edi-. tors labor, with pious assiduity, to redeem from certain prevalent misapprehensions. Although sometimes careless in their execution, his verses, they maintain, are not destitute of genuine poetic fire, and, both on account of their intrinsic merit and their historical relations, are worthy of more attention than they have generally received. Freneau was born in New York, in 1752. His ancestors were among the French emigrants, who were driven to this country by the revocation of the edict of Nantes. Having graduated at the college of New Jersey, where he had Madison for a class-mate and intimate friend, he soon took an active part in political affairs. While the British troops were in possession of New York, he was arrested as a rebel, and thrown into the infamous prison-ship, which at that time was the receptacle of the Revolutionary victims. He did not fail to celebrate the torments of this place in a pungent poem. The first edition of his political writings was published in 1786 in a single duodecimo volume. This was followed, in a year or two, by an.

other volume, containing further specimens of his poetry, and several prose compositions of a miscellaneous character. A more complete collection of his writings was published in 1795, containing some three hundred poetical pieces, including specimens of descriptive composition, with a due proportion of song, story, satire, and epigram. Freneau's prose writings are marked by the same general characteristics as his poetry. Playful and humorous in their tone, bold and original in thought, and of a polished style, they may be regarded as the first fruits of that kind of literature, which, in the hands of Paulding, Irving, and others, has gained such popular eclat among all classes of readers. Freneau was an active politician, during his whole life; and for a large portion of it was connected with the newspaper press. At that time journalism had not assumed the rank which it now holds, as a vehicle of intelligence. Still it presented sufficient scope for the exercise of talent. With a far less systematic organization than at the present day, it perhaps afforded a more congenial field for original fancies and personal humor. Freneau was a bitter partisan. He stamped his own mind on whatever he wrote. He had an evident genius for newspapers, although he continued to indulge in the composition of poetry. Upon retiring from public life, he passed the remainder of his days in New Jersey, but continuing his habits of intimate social intercourse with a large circle of prominent NewYorkers. According to Dr. Francis, whose personal reminiscences of Freneau are embodied in the sketch by the Messrs. Duyckinck, he was a man of kindly disposition, courteous manners, and highly agreeable conversation. Upon his visits to the metropolis, he was sure of a cordial welcome from many eminent citizens. Governor George Clinton was one of his warmest friends. He found a genial associate in the learned Provoost, the first Episcopal Bishop in this country, who had himself shouldered a musket in the war of Independence. With Gates, Freneau was on intimate terms; and they often compared together the achievements of Monmouth with those of Saratoga. With Colonel Fish he reviewed the capture of Yorktown; discussed the sufferings of the prison-ship, the charms

of Italian poetry, and the piscatory eclogues of Sannazarius, with the omnivorous Dr. Mitchell; supplied Dr. Dewitt with materials for his eulogy on the American martyrs; criticized Horace and Paul Jones with Pintard; descanted on the chivalrous virtues of Baron Steuben with Major Fairlie; reveled in the day-dream of an ideal democracy with Thomas Paine; and debated the projects of internal improvement and artificial navigation with Dewitt Clinton and Cadwallader D. Colden.

When Dr. Francis first made the acquintance of Freneau, he was about seventy-six years old. Rather below the middle height, with a thin, but muscular figure, slightly stooping from age, though with firm step, his careworn countenance was lighted up with intelligence, and he spoke with a clear and impressive enunciation. He had an elevated forehead, dark gray eyes, and an expression of habitual pensiveness. His iron-gray hair retained the traces of its early beauty. He had no love of display. His simple dress might have been taken for that of a farmer. His favorite theme in conversation was New York-the city of his birth; and next in interest was his collegiate career with Madison. In spite of the neglect of many years, he preserved the attainments of his classical studies to a remarkable degree. His death took place in 1832.

Dipping at random into these tempting pages, we often light upon passages worthy of note for some merit of expression or thought, independent of their connection with the general course of the narrative. Thus, apropos of Chief Justice Marshall's early tuition by a Scotch clergyman, we have some interesting statements in regard to the influence of the clergy in educating the youth of this country. "This is one of many instances in which the great minds of America received their first discipline at the hands of the clergy. At a somewhat later day, in Virginia, William Wirt, another legal eminence, received his first culture and generous love of learning at the hands of a clergyman—the Rev. James Hunt from Princeton. James Madison was educated by a clergyman, and also Legaré. Hamilton, in the West Indies, was taught, and sent to New York by a clergyman, Dr. Knox, at Santa Cruz;

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