would have felled him to the earth, had not some of the company interposed.

Bruce's powers seemed paralyzed by the suddenness of the assault, and the almost unearthly rage of his adversary. He sat pale and mute as a statue, and sustained a torrent of abuse, and a hurricane of curses, such as had never lighted on the head of man before. Gladding, after he had exhausted every epithet that would cut and gall to the core, sat and gazed at him, in the sublimity of his anger, as if daring reply ; then with a look of ineffable contempt, and a smile of triumph, he wheeled his horse and departed as rapidly as he came. Bruce still sat like one stupified.

"If Mr. Bruce is satisfied, I am," at length said a voice near him. He started as from a trance, and saw the two last of the company moving off the field, and regarding him over their shoulders with a look of no doubtful meaning. Like a wound which at first benumbs sensation, the barb of this public disgrace at length began to rankle. The sneer of scorn was visible before him, and the accent, the laugh of derision, rung in his ear. He dashed the spurs furiously into his horse's sides, and took the road to Lewellyn. He arrived there, pale as death, and with foam upon his lips. He then sent for Mr. Bailey, of Glenallan, and they spent the night together.

The next day, there was riding to and fro between Glenallan and the bay, and long conferences between Mr. Bailey and Captain Milne. The day however passed off calmly. I spent it at Frontier, and never had I seen its master do the honors of elegant hospitality with more grace. He was calm and cheerful, without being gay. The storm of passion had passed, without leaving any of that listlessness and exhaustion which generally follow paroxysms of the kind; and a calm, like that which prevails in nature after an elemental conflict, had settled on his spirit. After dinner we took a ride over his beautiful domain. He had made it a paradise. Nature had gratefully seconded the improvements of art, for never were her energies developed and guided by a more skilful hand. We rode through fields of cane, separated by hedges of lime and lemon, with their white flowers and golden fruit; we visited the sugar works, where the mill was going to the cheerful song of the negroes, and the juices of the cane flowing in rivulets to the boiling house; we looked in upon the several processes of boiling, cooling, and crystallization; in a word, he led me over the whole estate with a minuteness that surprised me, for I had seen it all before.

We had returned through the garden where were collected all the luxuries and rarities of this wonderful climate, and were standing on the steps of an alcove, overgrown with the luxuriant vines of a blossoming grenadilla. Here Gladding paused and looked around with an expression which I shall never forget. It was not sorrow, and yet his eye was moist; nor was it joy.

"It is a pretty estate," said he, with a sigh, "but man must leave all, and who knows the hour?"

tuition, it was known that Gladding had fallen in an affair of honor with Wentworth Bruce. His own pistol was clenched in his right hand, and not discharged. But I would have appealed to all then present, and confident am I, that not one, but would have united with me in execrating the wicked practice. Not one, but, over that bleeding body, would have forsworn it, and forever. We may sit by our firesides, and prose upon duelling as we may. But come and look at

it upon the field of blood; let the victim be the brave, the good, and the friend of your heart-the life-stay of beauty and innocence ;— view it as I viewed it on Dover Beach, and it comes home! and if you are not ready to embark on a crusade for its extirpation, then have I mistaken my fellow creatures!

The law of the land made it necessary to hold an inquest over the body. They came, with all the formality of the law; they examined the case with the profoundest sagacity, and the verdict was rendered with a gravity befitting the occasion, and in a tone like an oracle, "That Henry Gladding, of Frontier, came to his death by being shot by some person or persons unknown!" There was not a man in the two parishes of Saint Margaret's and Saint Mark's but knew that Gladding was shot by Bruce; but none could swear to it, for none had been present at the duel but the seconds, and two black boys, servants of the principals; and there was not a man of them that did not know that Robert Milne and Francis Bailey were seconds in the affair; but, again, no man could take his oath on it, and the boys were slaves and could not swear.

Such is the mockery that is made of law, in the face of reason; a cloak to shield the vices of society, under which the unprincipled may stab with impunity at the happiness of domestic life.-I said that the people came; they wept; but their tears were dried with the dew of that fatal morning, and their wounded hearts soon closed. But there were tears that ceased not to flow, till their fountain was exhausted; and a heart, whose wounds could not be bound up, for it was crushed, and bled inwardly. But I forbear. In a grove of oranges, at Frontier, stand two marble monuments; and the last tear I shed in my country, fell upon the grave of Harriet Gladding.

S. H.

"I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAYS."

Weep not that death draws nigh!

Oh! the spirit is faint with its feverish strife,
And waits for the fall of the twilight of life,
With joy in its upward eye.

Earth is its rayless cell

But then, as a bird soars home to the shade
Of the beautiful wood, where its nest was made,
In bonds no more to dwell;-

So will its weary wing

Be spread for the skies when its toil is done-
And its breath flow free, as a bird's, in the sun
And the soft, fresh gales of spring.

Oh! not more sweet the tears

Of the dewy eve on the violet shed,

Than the dews of age on the 'hoary head,'
When it enters the eve of years.

Nor dearer mid the foam

Of the far-off sea, and its stormy roar,

Is a breath of balm from the unseen shore,
To him that weeps for home.

Bangor.

Travels in the North of GerMANY, IN THE YEARS 1825 AND 1826. By Henry E. Dwight, A. M. New-York: G. & C. & H. Carvill. 1829. pp. 454.

THERE are few tasks which require such varied talent and accomplishment as first rate travel-writing. This peculiar department of the craft of letters has been so overrun and attempted by all sorts of locomotive people, that its original and proper standard has in a measure become debased. The interest we feel, not only in the chance information which any traveller may gather by mere contact with another nation, but always in that species of personal adventure which has the semblance of truth in proportion to the simplicity and want of refinement with which it is told, reconciles us to anything in the shape of a book of travels; and in this way, many narratives have sold largely, and become, to a degree, authentic references, whose authors are about as worthy of credit, and as limited in their knowledge, as a nearsighted soldier on a field of battle. We have only to imagine the author a stranger in our own country and our own city, to understand the qualifications necessary to acquire liberal information. There are as many different topics upon which investigation would be useful and interesting, as there are classes in society, or extended pursuits. He should be a scholar, to gain admittance to the haunts of literature, and appreciate its state of advancement. He should be a practical man, of sufficient general knowledge to compare the agriculture and rude arts of the country with his own; a connoisseur, to estimate its pro

gress in works of taste; a good observer, to judge of general manners, and separate national from individual peculiarities; a man of liberal and unprejudiced mind, to see and represent with fairness; and, above all, a gentleman, and of good address, to gain admittance to society, and form a fair opinion of its refinement and general tone.

With such a standard, it is not remarkable that a first rate book of travels is a rare thing. We know of no such by a stranger upon our own country, and but one among those of our own countrymen. Cooper's "Bachelor" is generally, we think, an enlightened and candid portrait of us, though we might concede to its objectors that it gives our best look. We have had but few Englishmen among us capable of appreciating either our manners or institutions, and never yet an author of an English book with any approach to candor. Most of those we see are entitled to anything but a place in society. We are willing to allow to England a superior degree of general refinement in manners and breeding;-but, in doing so, we condemn ninety-nine out of a hundred of those who come among us. Our own gentlemen, in the mass, are infinitely better bred, and better educated; and the exceptions to this remark, for the last six years, may be reckoned upon our fingers. We really believe the higher class of English gentlemen (the French obsequious politeness notwithstanding) to be the best bred class of men in the world; but, with the half dozen exceptions now within our recollection, the representatives of that country who have been among us, are, of all strangers, the most illiberal and ignorant of the common forms of society. Captain Hall has had, perhaps, the fairest opportunity of seeing us as we are. He was received into the very bosom of every polite circle in the United States. He was admitted to every institution, and furnished with every information necessary and desirable. He was treated with a hospitable and generous attention, which, if gratitude could do it, would blind his eyes even to our defects; but we shall be very-very wide of our mark, if his forth-coming book of travels do not prove the most specious and crafty injustice ever done our infant republic. He is not, if his deportment in this country is any criterion, the man to see anything without prejudice. His breeding upon the quarter-deck has brought with it none of the professional candor. He is, if we have not totally mistaken his character, a cold, shrewd, conceited man-brave, doubtless, and a good seaman-but no more fitted to judge of the refinements of society, and no more ready to suffer America to compare, however the truth may be, with England, than the bravest and dullest

"Yankee

main-top-man who still turns his quid with a curse upon lubbers." We have no personal or national animosities against Englishmen. We have seen and known from that country some of the most enlightened and polished men it has been our happiness to meet -but the inducements to travel in this country are of so little force with our misrepresented character abroad, that it is rare for any other inducement than gain that we are visited; and we are, of course, overrun by English clerks and factors, men who are distinct from every other class in the world for their entire confinement to their own business and branch of business, and who, lifted, they scarce know how, to a sudden consideration as strangers, assume a rank they never pretended to in their own country, and give our honest citizens sufficiently edifying specimens of high life in England.

We have digressed somewhat from our original subject, but the impatience shewn by many who did not personally know the author, for the book of Captain Hall, and the general falsification of English travellers, have made us somewhat testy whenever the subject approaches us, and we beg indulgence. We have no fear for the effect of the books of ordinary travellers. But the representations of an officer high in the British service, and the author of a previous book, which has obtained some credit, will be believed by all who are not enlightened upon the character of the writer.

To return to our first topic. In a book of travels, it is not enough to have accurate information merely. The measurements of churches and ruins, the population, size, and external features of cities, the extent of libraries and the progress of the Arts are all well in their places, though too great minuteness in these things is a common and wearisome fault. The feeling toward the author of a personal narrative, is somewhat peculiar. Our feelings are interested for himself. We read his book as if we knew him and was listening to a friend's description. We enter at once into his sympathies. We like those who impress him favorably, and dislike those who are rude or disagreeable to him. We are as interested for the favorable conclusion of an adventure as himself, and adopt his partialities and his aversions, both personal and local, with readiness and ardor. These feelings have, or ought to have, a natural bearing on the style of such books. They should be written in such a manner as to engage and interest these kindly sympathies. The author should not confine himself to things about him. He should give us the impressions they make upon himself. We are with him there, by the old ruin or in the mighty cathedral, and we would have him tell us his sensations, and