levelled in the dust,-in those tumultuous ages of her democratic existence, the fire of her creative genius never smouldered. She matured and perfected the art of historical composition, of political and forensic eloquence, of popular legislation, of lyric and dramatic poetry, of music, painting, architecture, and sculpture; she unfolded the mathematics, theoretically and practically and clothed the moral and metaphysical sciences in the brief sententious wisdom of the myriad-minded Aristotle, and the honeyed eloquence of Plato. Rome overran the world with her arms, and though she did not always spare the subject, she beat down the proud, and laid her laws upon the prostrate nations. Greece fell before the universal victor, but she still asserted her intellectual supremacy, and, as even the Roman poet confessed, the conquered became the teacher and guide of the conqueror. At the present moment, the intellectual dominion of Greece-or rather of Athens, the school of Greece-is more absolute than ever. Her Plato is still the unsurpassed teacher of moral wisdom; her Aristotle has not been excelled as a philosophic observer; her Eschylus and Sophocles have been equalled only by Shakespeare. On the field of Marathon, we call up the shock of battle and the defeat of the Barbarian host; but with deeper interest still we remember that the great dramatic poet fought for his country's freedom in that brave muster. As we gaze over the blue waters of Salamis, we think not only of the clash of triremes, the shout of the onset, the pean of victory; bat of the magnificent lyrical drama in which the martial poet worthily commemorated the naval triumph which he had worthily helped to achieve.

fear of falling overboard before morning. The states of Greece were of insignificant extent. On the map of the world they fill a scarcely visible space, and Attica is a microscopic dot. From the heights of Parnassus, from the Acrocorinthos, the eye ranges over the whole land, which has filled the universe with the renown of its mighty names. From the Acropolis of Athens we trace the scenes where Socrates conversed, and taught, and died; where Demosthenes breathed deliberate valor into the despairing hearts of his countrymen; where the dramatists exhibited their matchless tragedy and comedy; where Plato charmed the hearers of the Academy with the divinest teaching of Philosophy, while the Cephissus murmured by under the shadow of immemorial olive groves; where St. Paul taught the wondering but respectful sages of the Agora, and the Hill of Mars, the knowledge of the living God, and the resurrection to life eternal. There stand the ruins of the Parthenon, saluted and transfigured by the rising and the setting sun, or the unspeakable loveliness of the Grecian night,-beautiful, solemn, pathetic. In that focus of an hour's easy walk, the lights of ancient culture condensed their burning rays; and from this centre they have lighted all time and the whole world.

ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER.

ELIZABETH MARGARET, the daughter of Thomas Chandler, a Quaker farmer in easy circumstances, was born at Centre, near Wilmington, Delaware, December 24, 1807. She was educated at the Friends' schools in Philadelphia, and at an early age commenced writing verses. At eighteen she wrote a poem, The Slave Ship, which gained a prize offered by the Casket, a monthly magazine. She next became a contributor to the Genius of Universal Emancipation, an anti-slavery periodical of Philadelphia, in which most of her subsequent productions appeared.

ease, which must in time lay it prostrate in the dust; its foundations are as immovable as virtue, and its structure as imperishable as the heavens. If we must add province to province, let us add realm to realm in our intellectual march. If we must enlarge our territory till the continent can no longer contain us, let us not forget to enlarge with equal step the boundaries of science and the triumphs of art. I confess I would rather, for human progress, that the poet of America gave a new charm to the incanta tions of the Muse; that the orator of America spoke in new and loftier tones of civic and philosophic eloquence; that the artist of America overmatched the godlike forms, whose placid beauty looks out upon us from the great past,--than annex to a country, already overgrown, every acre of desert land, from ocean to ocean and from pole to pole. If we combine the Roman character with the Greek, the Roman has had its sway long enough, and it is time the Greek should take its turn. Vast extent is something, but not everything. The magnificent civilization of England, and her imperial sway over the minds of men, are the trophies of a realm, geographically considered, but a satellite to the continent of Europe, which you can traverse in a single day. An American in London pithily expressed the feeling naturally excited in one familiar with our magnificent spaces and distances, when he told an English friend he dared not go to bed at night, for VOL. II.--30

In 1830, Miss Chandler removed with her aunt and brother (he had been left an orphan at an early age) to the territory of Michigan. The fa

wee county, on the river Raisin; the name of Hazlebank being given to their farm by the poetess.. She continued her contributions from this place in prose and verse on the topic of Slavery until she was attacked in the spring of 1834 by a remittent fever; under the influence of which she gradually sank until her death on the twentysecond of November of the same year.

In 1836, a collection of The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler, with a Memoir of her Life and Character, by Benjamin Lundy, the editor of the journal with which she was connected, appeared at Philadelphia. The volume also contains a number of Essays, Philanthropical and Moral, from the author's pen.

Miss Chandler's poems are on a variety of subjects; but whatever the theme, it is in almost every instance brought to bear on the topic of Slavery. Her compositions are marked by spirit, fluency, and feeling.

JOHN WOOLMAN.

Meek, humble, sinless as a very child,

Such wert thou,-and, though unbeheld, I seem. Oft-times to gaze upon thy features mild,

Thy grave, yet gentle lip, and the soft beam Of that kind eye, that knew not how to shed A glance of aught save love, on any human head.

Servant of Jesus! Christian! not alone

In name and creed, with practice differing wide, Thou didst not in thy conduct fear to own

His self-denying precepts for thy guide. Stern only to thyself, all others felt

Thy strong rebuke was love, not meant to crush, but melt.

Thou, who didst pour o'er all the human kind
The gushing fervor of thy sympathy!
E'en the unreasoning brute failed not to find
A pleader for his happiness in thee.

Thy heart was moved for every breathing thing,
By careless man exposed to needless suffering.
But most the wrongs and sufferings of the slave,
Stirred the deep fountain of thy pitying heart;
And still thy hand was stretched to aid and save,
Until it seemed that thou hadst taken a part
In their existence, and couldst hold no more
A separate life from them, as thou hadst done before.

How the sweet pathos of thy eloquence,

Beautiful in its simplicity, went forth
Entreating for them! that this vile offence,
So unbeseeming of our country's worth,
Might be removed before the threatening cloud,
Thou saw'st o'erhanging it, should burst in storm and
blood.

So may thy name be reverenced,-thou wert one
Of those whose virtues link us to our kind,
By our best sympathies; thy day is done,
But its twilight lingers still behind,
In thy pure memory; and we bless thee yet,
For the example fair thou hast before us set.

LAUGHTON OSBORNE.

THE only account which we have met with of this gentleman, a member of a New York family, is in the late Mr. Poe's "Sketches of the Literati," and that furnishes little more than a recognition of the genius of the author, which is in some respects akin to that of his critic. Mr. Osborne has published anonymously, and all of his books have been of a character to excite attention. They are bold, discursive, play some tricks with good taste and propriety; and upon the whole are not less remarkable for their keenness of perception than for their want of judg ment in its display. With more skill and a just proportion, the writer's powers would have made a deeper impression on the public. As it is, he has rather added to the curiosities of literature than to the familiar companions of the library. Mr. Osborne was a graduate of Columbia College, of the class of 1827.

Langhons Abro

His first book, Sixty Years of the Life of Jeremy Levis, was published in New York in 1831, in two stout duodecimo volumes. It is a rambling Shandean autobiography; grotesque, humorous, sentimental, and satirical, though too crude and unfinished to hold a high rank for any of those qualities.

Mr. Poe mentions its successor, The Dream of Alla-ad-Deen, from the Romance of Anastasia, by Charles Erskine White, D.D., a pamphlet of thirty

two small pages, the design of which he states to be, "to reconcile us to death and evil on the somewhat unphilosophical ground that comparatively we are of little importance in the scale of creation."

The Confessions of a Poet appeared in Philadelphia in 1835. Its prefatory chapter, announcing the immediate suicide of the Nero, prepares the reader for the passionate romance of the intense school which follows.

The

In 1838 a curious anomalous satire was published at Boston, in a full-sized octavo volume, of noticeable typographical excellence, The Vision of Rubeta, an Epic Story of the Island of Manhattan, with Illustrations done on Stone. În the relation of text and notes, and a certain air of learning, it bore a general resemblance to Mathias's "Pursuits of Literature." The labor was out of all proportion to the material. The particular game appeared to be the late Col. Stone, and his paper the Commercial Advertiser. contributors to the New York American, the New York Review, and other periodicals of the time, also came in for notice; but the jest was a dull one, and the book failed to be read, notwithstanding its personalities. Among its other humors was a rabid attack on Wordsworth, the question of whose genius had by that time been settled for the rest of the world; and something of this was resumed in the author's subsequent volume, in 1841, published by the Appletons, entitled Arthur Carryl, a Novel by the Author of the Vision of Rubeia, Cantos first and second. Odes; Epistles to Milton, Pope, Juvenal, and the Devil; Epigrams; Parodies of Horace; England as she is; and other minor Poems, by the same. This is, upon the whole, the author's bet volume. The critical prefaces exhibit his scholarship to advantage; the Odes, martial and amatory, are ardent and novel in expression; the Epistles to Milton, Pope, Juvenal-severally initations of the blank verse, the couplet, and the hexameters of the originals-are skilful exercises; while the chief piece, Arthur Carryl, a poem of the Don Juan class, has many felicitous passages of personal description, particularly of female beauty.

The next production of Mr. Osborne, indicative of the author's study and accomplishments as an artist, was of a somewhat different character, being an elaborate didactic Treatise on Oil Painting, which was published by Wiley and Putnam. It was remarkable for its care and exactness, and was received as a useful manual to the profession.

The author's notes and illustrations exhibit his acquaintance with art, and show him to be a traveller, "a picked man of countries." From a poetic fragment, entitled "England as she is," he appears to have been a resident of that country in 1833. His permanent home is, we believe, New York.

Lord of the iron harp' thou master of diction satiric,

Who, with the scourge of song, lashed vices in monarch and people,

And to the scoff of the age, and the scorn of all ages succeeding,

Bared the rank ulcers of sin in the loins of the Mistress of Nations!

I, who have touched the same chords, but with an Indifferent finger,

Claim to belong to the quire, at whose head thou art seated supernal.

More, I have read thee all through, from the first to the ultimate spondec,

Therefore am somewhat acquaint with thy spirit and manner of thinking.

Knowing thee, then, I presume to address without more introduction

Part of this packet to thee, and, out of respect to thy manes,

Owing not less unto thine than I rendered to Pope's and to Milton's,

Whirl my brisk thoughts o'er the leaf, on the wheels of thy spondees and dactyls.

Doubtless, by this time at least, thou art fully con versant with English;

But, shouldst thou stumble at all, lo! Pope close at hand to assist thee.

Last of the poets of Rome! thou never wouldst dream from what region

Cometh this greeting to thee; no bard of thy kind hath yet mounted

Up to the stars of the wise, from the bounds of the Ocean Atlantic.

Green yet the world of the West, how should it yield matter for satire?

Hither no doubt, from thy Latium, the stone-eating husband of Rhen

Fled from the vices of men, as thou in thy turn, rather later,

Went to Pentapolis. Here, the Saturnian age is restored:

Witness Astræa's own form on the dome of the palace of justice!

Here, in his snug little cot, lives each one content with his neighbor,

Envy, nor Hatred, nor Lust, nor any bad passion, triumphant;

Avarice known not in name,-for devil a soul hath a stiver.

How then, you ask, do we live? O, nothing on earth is more simple!

A. has no coat to his back; or B. is deficient in breeches;

C. makes them both without charge, and comes upon A. for his slippers,

While for his shelterless head B. gratefully shapes

him a beaver,

T is the perfection of peace! social union most fully accomplished!

Man is a brother to min, not a rival, or slave, or oppressor.

Nay, in the compact of love, all creatures are joyful partakers.

THE DEATH OF GENERAL PIKE

"Twas on the glorious day

When our valiant triple band* Drove the British troops away From their strong and chosen stand; When the city York was taken,

And the Bloody Cross hauled down From the walls of the town Its defenders had forsaken. The gallant Pike had moved A hurt foe to a spot

A little more removed

From the death-shower of the shot; And he himself was seated

On the fragment of an oak,
And to a captive spoke,
Of the troops he had defeated.
He was seated in a place,

Not to shun the leaden ram
He had been the first to face,
And now burned to brave again,
But had chosen that position

Till the officer's return

The truth who 'd gone to learn
Of the garrison's condition.
When suddenly the ground

With a dread convulsion shook,
And arose a frightful sound,

And the sun was hid in smoke;
And huge stones and rafters, driven
Athwart the heavy rack.
Fell, fatal on their track

As the thunderbolt of Heaven.
Then two hundred men and more,
Of our bravest and our best,
Lay all ghastly in their gore,

And the hero with the rest.
On their folded arms they laid him;
But he raised his dying breath:
"On, men, avenge the death
Of your general!" They obeyed him.
They obeyed. Three cheers they gave,
Closed their scattered ranks, and on.
Though their leader found a grave,

Yet the hostile town was won.

To a vessel straight they bore him
Of the gallant Chauncey's fleet,
And, the conquest complete,
Spread the British flag before him.
O'er his eyes the long, last night

Was already falling fast;
But came back again the light

For a moment, 't was the last. With a victor's joy they fired,

'Neath his head by signs he bade The trophy should be laid; And, thus pillowed, Pike expired.

EDWARD S. GOULD. EDWARD S. GOULD, a merchant of New York, whose occasional literary publications belong to several departments of literature, is a son of the late Judge Gould† of Connecticut, and was born at

The troops that landed to the attack were in three divi

sions.

+ James Gould (1770-1888) was the descendant of an English family which early settled in America. He was educated at Yale studied with Judge Reeve at the law school at Litchfield; and on his admission to the bar, became associated with him in the conduct of that institution. The school becamo highly distinguished by the acumen and ability of its chief instructors and the many distinguished pupils who went forth

Litchfield in that state May 11, 1808. As a writer of Tales and Sketches,he was one of the early contributors to the Knickerbocker Magazine, and has since frequently employed his pen in the newspaper and periodical literature of the times; in Mr. Charles King's American in its latter days, where his signature of "Cassio" was well known; in the New World, the Mirror, the Literary World, and other journals. In 1836, he delivered a lecture before the Mercantile Library Association of New York, "American Criticism on American Literature," in which he opposed the prevalent spirit of ultra-laudation as injurious to the interests of the country. In 1839, he published a translation of Dumas's travels in Egypt and Arabia Petra; in 1841, the Progress of Democracy by the same author; and in 1842-3, he published through the enterprising New World press, Translations of Dumas's Impressions of Travel in Switzerland; Balzac's Eugenie Grandet and Father Goriot; Vietor Hugo's Handsome Pecopin and A. Royer's Charles de Bourbon.

In 1843, he also published The Sleep Rider, or the Old Boy in the Omnibus, by the Man in the Claret-Colored Coat; a designation which grew out of an incident at the City Arsenal during the exciting election times of 1834. A riot occurred in the sixth ward, which the police failed to suppress, and certain citizens volunteered to put it down. They took forcible possession of the Arsenal and supplied themselves with arms against the opposition of Gen. Arcularius, the keeper. Gen. A. made a notable report of the assault to the legislature, in which an unknown individual in a claret-colored coat was the hero: and the term, the man in the claret-colored coat, immediately became a by-word. Mr.Gould wrote for the Mirror a parody on the report, purporting to come from the celebrated "Man in Claret," which made a great hit in literary circles. The Sleep Rider is a clever book of Sketches, a series of dramatic and colloquial Essays, presented after the runaway fashion of Sterne.

As a specimen of its peculiar manner, we may cite a brief chapter, which has a glance at the novelist.

fiction. MUNCHAUSEN.

I have ever sympathized deeply with the writer of fiction; the novelist, that is, et id genus omne.

He sustains a heavier load of responsibilityI beg pardon, my dear sir. I know you are nice in the matter of language; and that word was not English when the noblest works in English literature were written. But sir, though I dread the principle of innovation, I do feel that " "responsibility" is indispensable at the present day: it saves a circumlocution, in expressing a common thought, and there is no other word that performs its exact duty. Besides, did not the immortal Jackson use it and take it?

I say, then, He sustains a heavier load of respon

from it, including John C. Calhoun, John M. Clayton, John Y. Mason, Levi Woodbury, Francis L. Hawks, Judge Theron Metcalf, James G. King, Daniel Lord, William C. Wetmore, and George Griffin, of the bar of New York, In 1816, Mr. Gould was appointed Judge of the Superior Court and Supreme Court of Errors of Connecticut. His legal reputation survives in his well known law book, Treatise on the Principles of Fleading in Ciril Actions,

There is a memoir of Judge Gould in the second volume of Mr. G. H. Hollister's History of Connecticut, 1855.

sibility than any other man. First of all, he must invent his plot a task which, at this time of the world, and after the libraries that have been written, is no trifle. Then, he must create a certain number of characters for whose principles, conduct, and fate, he becomes answerable. He must employ them ju diciously; he must make them all-from a cabinboy to a King-speak French and utter profound wisdom on every imaginable and unimaginable subject-taking special care that no one of them, by any chance, shall feel, think, act, or speak as any human being, in real life, ever did or would or could feel, think, act, or speak; and in the meantime, and during all time, he must, by a process at once natural, dexterous, and superhuman, relieve these people from all embarrassments and quandaries into which, in his moments of fervid inspiration, he has inadvertently thrown them.

Now, my dear sir, when you come to reflect on it this is a serious business.

The historian, on the other hand, has a simple task to perform. His duty is light. He has merely to tell the truth. His wisdom, his invention, his dexte rity, all go for nothing. I grant you, some historians have gained a sort of reputation-but how can they deserve it when all that is true in their books is borrowed; and all that is original, is probably

false?

I was led into this train of reflection-which, in good sooth, is not very profound, though perhaps not the less useful on that account-while mending my pen: and I felicitated myself that I was no dealer in fiction. For, said I, had Ì invented this narrative and rashly put nine people into a magnetic slumber in an omnibus, how should I ever get them out again?

Fortunately, I stand on smooth ground here. I am telling the truth. I am relating events as they occurred. I am telling you, my dear sir, what actually took place in this omnibus, and I hope to inform you, ere long, what took place out of it. In short, I am a historian, whose simple duty is to proceed in a direct line.

And now, having mended my pen, I will get on aš fast as the weather and the state of the roads permit.

The same year Mr. Gould published an Abridg ment of Alison's Il story of Europe in a single octavo volume,* which from the labor and care bestowed upon it has claims of its own to consideration. The entire work of Alison was condensed from the author's ten volumes, and entirely re-written, every material fact being preserved while errors were corrected; a work the more desirable in consequence of the diffuse style and occasional negligence of the original author. The numerous editions which the book has since passed through, afford best proof of its utility and faithful execution.

In 1850, Mr. Gould published The Very Age† a comedy written for the stage. The plot turns on distinctions of fashionable life, and the as

History of Europe, from the Commencement of the French Revolution in 17-9 to the restoration of the Bourbons in 1915, by Archibald Alison, F.R.S.E., Advocate, abridged trom the last London edition, for the use of general readers, colleges, academies, and other seminaries of learning, by Edward S. Gould. 4th ed. New York. A. S. Barnes & Co. 1845. 8vo. pp. 582.

"The Very Age," a comedy in five acts to hold as 'twere the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure."-Hamlet. By Edward S. Gould. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 1850. 18mo. pp. 159.

sumption by one of the characters of the favorable position in the intrigue of a foreign Count; while a serious element is introduced in the female revenge of a West Indian, who had been betrayed in her youth by the millionaire of the piece.

JOHN W. GOULD, a brother of the preceding, was born at Litchfield, Conn., Nov. 14, 1814. He was a very successful writer of tales and sketches of the sea; his fine talents having been directed to that department of literature by one or more long voyages undertaken for the benefit of his health. He died of consumption, at sea, in the twenty-fourth year of his age, Oct. 1, 1838.

His writings were originally published in detached numbers of the New York Mirror and the Knickerbocker Magazine in the years 1834-5; and after his death, in 1838, were collected in a handsome volume, containing also a biographical sketch and his private journal of the Voyage on which he died. This volume was issued by his brothers for private circulation only. The tales and sketches of the volume, under the title of Forecastle Yarns, were published by the New World press in 1843, and in a new edition by Stringer & Townsend, New York, 1854.

An unfinished story found among his papers after his death, will convey a correct impression of Mr. Gould's descriptive powers. The fragment is entitled

MAN OVERBOARD.

"Meet her, quartermaster!" hailed the officer of the deck; "hold on, everybody!"

Torn from my grasp upon the capstan by a mountain-wave which swept us in its power, I was borne over the lee-bulwarks; and a rope which I grasped in my passage, not being belayed, unrove in my hands, and I was buried in the sea.

66

Man overboard! rang along the decks. "Cut away the life-buoy!

Stunned and strangling, I rose to the surface, and instinctively struck out for the ship; while, clear above the roar of the storm and the dash of the cold, terrible sea, the loud thunder of the trumpet came full on my ear:

"Man the weather main and maintop-sail braces; slack the lee ones; round in; stand by to lower away the lee-quarter boat!"

My first plunge for the ship, whose dim outline I could scarcely perceive in the almost pitchy darkness of the night, most fortunately brought me within reach of the life-buoy grating. Climbing upon this, I used the faithless rope, still in my hand, to lash myself fast; and, thus freed from the fear of immediate drowning, I could more quietly watch and wait for rescue.

The ship was now hidden from my sight; but, being to leeward, I could with considerable distinctness make out her whereabout, and judge of the motions on board. Directly, a signal-lantern glanced at her peak; and oh! how brightly shone that solitary beam on my straining eye!-for, though rescued from immediate peril, what other succor could I look for, during that fearful swell, on which no boat could live a moment? What could I expect save a lingering, horrid death ?

John W. Gould's Private Journal of a Voyage from Now York to Rio Janeiro; together with a brief sketch of his life, aud his Occasional Writings, edited by his brothers. Printed for private circulation only. New York. 1839. 8vo. pp. 207.

Within a cable's length, lay my floating home, where, ten minutes before, not a lighter heart than mine was inclosed by her frowning bulwarks; and, though so near that I could hear the rattling of her cordage and the rustling thunder of her canvas, I could also hear those orders from her trumpet which extinguished hope.

46

Belay all with that boat!" said a voice that I knew right well; "she can't live a minute!"

My heart died within me, and I closed my eyes in despair. Next fell upon my ear the rapid notes of the drum beating to quarters, with all the clash, and tramp, and roar of a night alarm; while I could also faintly hear the mustering of the divisions, which was done to ascertain who was missing. Then came the hissing of a rocket, which, bright and clear, soared to heaven; and again falling, its momentary glare was quenched in the waves.

Drifting from the ship, the hum died away: but see-that sheet of flame!-the thunder of a gun boomed over the stormy sea. Now the blaze of a blue-light illumines the darkness, revealing the tall spars and white canvass of the ship, still near me!

"Maintop there!" came the hail again, “do you see him to leeward?"

No, sir!" was the chill reply.

The ship now remained stationary, with her light aloft; but I could perceive nothing more for some minutes; they have given me up for lost.

That I could see the ship, those on board well knew, provided I had gained the buoy: but their object was to discover me, and now several bluelights were burned at once on various parts of the rigging. How plainly could I see her rolling in the swell!-at one moment engulfed, and in the next rising clear above the wave, her bright masts and white sails glancing, the mirror of hope, in this fearful illumination; while I, covered with the breaking surge, was tossed wildly about, now on the crest, now in the trough of the sea.

"There he is, Sir! right abeam!" shouted twenty voices, as I rose upon a wave.

Man the braces!" was the quick, clear, and joyous reply of the trumpet: while, to cheer the forlorn heart of the drowning seaman, the martial tones of the bugle rung out, "Boarders, away!" and the shrill call of the boatswain piped, "Haul taut and belay!" and the noble ship, blazing with light, fell off before the wind.

A new danger now awaited me; for the immense hull of the sloop-of-war came plunging around, bearing directly down upon me; while her increased proximity enabled me to discern all the minutiae of the ship, and even to recognise the face of the first lieute ant, as, trumpet in hand, he stood on the forecastle.

Nearer yet she came, while I could move only as the wave tossed me; and now, the end of her flyingjib-boom is almost over my head!

64

· Hard a-port!" hailed the trumpet at this critical moment; "round in weather main-braces; right the helm!"

The spray from the bows of the ship, as she came up, dashed over me, and the increased swell buried me for an instant under a mountain-wave; emerging from which, there lay my ship, hove-to, not her length to windward!