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poems is an entire want of interest. We doze over the Vision of Columbus, and if we are kept awake in perusing the Conquest of Canaan, we are indebted to the thunder and lightning, that roars and flashes in every page, and which, like another JUPITER TONANS, the poet discharges in perpetual rumble and corruscation; so that,as a wit once observed, it is scarcely safe to read this poem without a conductor.

Humphreys will be considered a great poet, when the merit of a work shall be determined by its dimensions. But if we can say little in favour of his poetry, and still less of his prose, we may justly praise the type and paper with which they are ornamented; and the striking likeness of the author, which forms the frontispiece of the volume, must be peculiarly interesting to his friends and admirers. We doubt not that his generosity will amply compensate Messrs. Gilbert & Dean for the loss they have sustained by their good nature in undertaking the disposal of so unsaleable an article.

Other poets amongst us, who have not yet risen to the dignity of a volume, have displayed, in some instances, no inconsiderable genius. But they seem to have forgotten, or never known, that genius without judgment is useless or ridiculous, and that there can be no good poetry where there is not good sense. Broken

metaphors, gorgeous epithets, and forced thoughts are the artificial flowers that adorn their gaudy parterres, and are substituted for the simplicity of nature and the justness of truth.

Nor are our prose writers entirely free from these defects. From want of true taste, and a misconception. of real elegance, they are forever torturing their faculties for novel expressions, and newly-invented combinations; so that the dictionary of Webster will be absolutely necessary for the understanding of our own productions. We shall derive however this advantage from these fopperies that our literary goods will be in no danger of exportation in foreign bottoms, and, by debasing our currency, we shall be sure of retaining it in our own country.

Let us, then, follow the advice in the motto of this paper, and endeavour to know ourselves. In the aggregate we are better informed, perhaps, than any nation on earth, and unquestionably possess men, in the science of government, and in the transaction of political affairs, not inferiour to the great statesmen of Europe. But in literature we are yet in our infancy; and to compare our authors, whether in prose or poetry, to those of the old world, can proceed only from the grossest ignorance, or the most insufferable vanity.

A.

ORIGINAL LETTERS.

No. 4.

Sienna, Jan. 5, 1805. DEAR FRIEND,

I RECEIVED your letter from Holland, and should have answered it in Paris, had I any thing material to say, or had I not feared that you would have sailed for America before it could have reached you. Agreeably to our arrangement, we left Paris on the 21st of September. Little of consequence occurred until we arrived at a small village near the Pont du Rhone, where our carriage broke down. We lodged that night at what they called an inn; but we were convinced be fore morning it was nothing better than a stable. The next day we arrived at Geneva, where we remained a week; during which we visited Ferney, and went to see the house in which Rousseau was born. Voltaire's place is beautifully situated, and commands a fine view of Geneva. We were shewn his bed-room and study, where every thing remains in state he left them. We also saw his cook, who told us, that during the latter part of his life he usually composed in bed, and dictated to an amanuensis. Rousseau's house is still occupied by a shoemaker, and is not remarkable, except as being an excellent nursery for one of his gloomy and suspicious temper.

The country about Geneva is highly picturesque, and must certainly be interesting to all who are unaccustomed to similar scenes. But it has one disadvantage, which would render a long residence there wearisome; the

being so entirely surrounded by hills. I would sooner be limited in the exercise of any other sense than that of vision, but the eye here can never enjoy the horizon without straining over mountains that bound it on every quarter; it will never be relieved by the grateful contemplation of successive objects, or the mysterious pleasure of journeying in imagination over distant countries, and tracing their boundaries from shade to shade until they vanish into space.

Now I am of

The lake of Geneva has been greatly admired. But I have known many, who admired a hill, only because it was a hill, and a piece of water, because it was a piece of water. opinion that a lake may be very large, and a mountain very high, and yet they neither shall excite an emotion in the most ardent admirer of nature. They may be common-place, they may be without peculiarity, or so uniform as even to produce weariness. There is a certain expression among inanimate objects, which is analagous to that of the human countenance, and which, however produced, is always sure to captivate the beholder. But whether this expression arise from a certain disposition of the lines of the face, or from the particular combination of objects in a valley or a mountain, it is very certain that it is not a quality which is pos sessed in common by all of the same species. I have been led to this observation in consequence of my disappointment on seeing

this celebrated lake. It by no means deserves the commendations bestowed on it by travellers. The scenery on its shores is common and monotonous; and the lake itself, except at certain periods, has the comfortless appearance of a winter's sky reversed.

peared to be only a continuation of the same mountain.

Here, alas, we found that we were travellers. Overcome with fatigue, we sought relief in our beds; but neither our clothes, which we prudently suffered to remain on us, nor the careful addition of our gloves and nightcaps, could secure us from the sensation of the numbing cold, or the dreadful apprehension of an Alfine itch. We were fortunate however, not to have realised the latter.

Not so is the lake of the Four Cantons. As it opened upon us from Lucerne, we seemed to have emerged from darkness, and to have entered into the sanctuary of nature; bounded on all sides by lofty mountains, sometimes gradually sloping to its margin, It is impossible to describe my or abruptly precipitated into its sensations as we ascended St. waters, it exhibited the appear- Gothard. Cox considers it as the ance of an extensive liquid plain, highest of all the Swiss Alps ; surrounded by gigantick pyra- but a later computation has dismids, successively rising one acovered it to be considerably inbove the other, until they were feriour both to St. Bernard and either enveloped in clouds, or on- Mont Blanc: It is nevertheless ly to be distinguished in the mist an object of admiration, and preof distance by the partial illumin- sents to the traveller an idea of ation of their snowy summits. terror, solitude, and grandeur, Surely no scene was ever so cal- which could not be extended by We met culated to possess the imagina- any scene in nature. tion of the poet, or to purify the with snow soon after we began to mind for the sublimest feelings ascend, and arrived at the sumof devotion. mit about noon. The day was unusually serene; not a cloud was to be seen, except those at our feet; the air was dry and the sky blue, but of a depth so profound that, without the sun, we might have mistaken it for moonlight.

Our next stage was at the town of Altorf, an insignificant village, which is, however, the capital of Uri. On the third day we proceeded towards St.Gothard. The valley of Schoellenan, which lies between them, is generally considered as the most romantick spot in Switzerland. It is finely varied with rocks, woods, and cataracts, and every way deserving of all its eulogies. The same day we crossed the Devil's bridge and arrived at Urscren. This village is situated on a small plain, which is called the foot of St. Gothard; but I know not why, as the whole country from Altorf ap

A palpable silence seemed to envelope our senses; not a breeze was to be felt; all motion was suspended. The sun alone seemed to animate this region; but his power was perceptible only to the ear, as it could now and then distinguish the broken murmurs of rivulets, which, halfcongealed, scantily trickled from the snow. Never was the sublime more awfully exemplified; the

objects were few, simple, and vast. I felt the sensations attributed to the ancient Pythia. All nature seemed to be absorbed in but one idea, and that idea in the scene before me. My heart swelled; my frame underwent an imaginary distension. But it was momentary; for the sublime is exhausting. I again descended to terrestrial objects, and devoted my thoughts to the memory of my friends. I was not unmindful of you; for I would not descend until I had offered a segar to the spirit of our friendship.

In three days we arrived at a small town called Bellinzona, which terminates the base of St.. Gothard on the Italian side. Here we waited until the arrival of our carriage, which was obliged to be transported part of the way by men; the road being so steep in many places, that we ourselves were forced to dismount and follow our mules on foot. If there were any satisfaction in raking up past evils, I might easily fill a page in descanting on the hor, rors of Bellinzona. It is the den of spleen, and, to use the quaint phrase of Spenser, appeared to be the native receptacle of "nastiness and spight." We staid there only two days; but they were like two years. From this place we proceeded to Magadina, where we embarked, and crossing the lake Maggiore, landed the next morning at Sesto. The day after we arrived at Milan.

I shall say nothing of Milan, as it must be well known to you. From Milan we went to Piacenza; thence to Parma, Modena, and Bologna. We stopt, however, to

visit Lodi, and saw the bridge which has been rendered so famous by the passage of Bonaparte. At Bologna we remained some time, indeed much longer than we intended; but I did not regret it, as it still possesses many things well worthy the attention of an artist. There is a statue here, by John of Bologna, that would not have disgraced Michael Angelo. The publick buildings also have many pictures that are worth seeing; particularly the Institute, and the Palazzo Sampieri. In the former is an admirable ceiling by Pellegini Tibaldi; it is painted in fresco, and represents the stories of Polyphemus and Eolus. The figure of Polyphemus is most poetically beastly; his one-eye looks like a lamp gleaming through the ragged jaws of a sepulchre. But. nothing can exceed the conception of Eolus. His attitude is that of a being unused to the tread of earth; he seems to have always been in motion, or, if ever he rested, to have rested only on the top of Hecla, while he overlooked the winds that swept the regions of the pole.

By the date of this, you perceive that I have passed Florence, I staid there a month; but shall reserve what I have to say on it for my next. You may be sur prised that I have proceeded no farther; but your surprise cannot be equal to my disappoint, ment. The fact is, we have been detained in Tuscany nearly two months, in consequence of a cordon which the Romans have drawn, to prevent any communi cation between their state and this, which they affect to believe

infected with the yellow fever. There was a fever, supposed to be contagious, in Leghorn; but that has disappeared, and the city is at present perfectly restored.

The cordon however is not yet removed; and until it is, I can not get to Rome. SMELFUNGUS,

SILVA.

Silva rerum et sententiarum comparanda est.....Cic.

I KNOW not who in these disjointed paragraphs, I please or displease; but I certainly try to please myself. That is to say, I consult my own fancy. I sometimes record an anecdote, and sometimes a bon mot. Some times an extract from a sensible author, and sometimes an historical fact; sometimes I stay a floating thought, which was hurrying down the stream of forgetfulness, and sometimes give colouring to a trait of political character, which the wasteful hand of time was blurring forever. But in all these fugitive efforts of my lounging hours I confess myself more anxious to please than instruct, more desirous of being read than remembered. I reserve this task for those moments of sauntering, when I read as well as write nothing which does not please me. It is then that I banish from my sight those crispy writers, whose sentences, abrupt as broken pipes, grate as you pronounce them harshly on your teeth. It is then I seek the author, who can feel and describe the honours of chivalry; who, though a worshipper of truth, is yet not insensible to the graces of fiction; who can persuade me to believe, that Pactolus once rolled his golden sands along the shores of Sardis, and that on all

No. 10,

sides of Parnassus one might pluck a thousand little beauteous flowers. It is then I love geography, but it is that of a country every where fertile and florid, every where embellished with trees of a luxuriant growth and fine foliage and affluent in means of subsistence for millions of happy inhabitants; or it is that which abounds in terrible description, which paints such falls as are the boast of Niagara, or reports the tremendous roarings of Catophasi and Vesuvius. It is then I love to read of battles, but it is of those, in which Joan of Arc was an actress; and of characters, but it is those, whose eloquence like Chatham's, whose benevo lence like Howard's, and whose conduct like Washington's has made an impression on the age, and given a bias to the customs of the world.

VIRGIL.

Mr. Burton has remarked, that the faults of Virgil are like the blemishes of a fixed star: if they exist, they are beyond the reach of human observation.

POETA NASCITUR, ORATOR FIT.

Poetry is the frolick of invention, the dame of words, and the harmony of sounds. Oratory consists in a judicious disposition

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