And marble Cupids to their Psyches cling,
Without a sigh.

In grottoes, see the hair of Venus creep
Round dripping stones,.

Or thread the endless catacombs where sleep
Old martyrs' bones.

Upon this esplanade is basking now

A son of toil,

But not a thought rests on his swarthy brow
Of Time's vast spoil.

His massive limbs with noblest sculptures vie,
Devoid of care

Behold him on the sunny terrace lie,
And drink the air!

With gestures free and looks of eager life,
Tones deep and mild,

Intent he plies the finger's harmless strife
A gleesome child!

The shaggy Calabrese, who lingers near,
At Christmas comes to play
His reeds before Madonna every year,
Then hastes away.

Now mark the rustic pair who dance apart;
What gay surprise!

Her clipsome bodice holds the Roman heart That lights her eyes:

His rapid steps are timed by native zeal;

The manly chest

Demurely nigh;

A Saxon boy with nurse upon his track,

Bounds laughing by.

Still o'er the relics of the Past around

The Day-beams pour,

And winds awake the same continuous sound
They woke of yore.

Thus Nature takes to her embrace serene
What Age has clad,

And all who on her gentle bosom lean
She maketh glad.

reason.

viron humanity too subtle for the dissecting knife of In our better moments we are clearly conscious of their presence, and if there is any barrier to their blessed agency, it is a formalized intellect. Enthusiasm, too, is the very life of gifted spirits. Ponder the lives of the glorious in art or literature through all ages. What are they but records of toils and sacrifices supported by the earnest hearts of their votaries? Dante composed his immortal poem amid exile and suffering, prompted by the noble ambition of vindicating himself to posterity; and the sweetest angel of his paradise is the object of his early love. The best countenances the old painters have bequeathed to us are those of cherished objects intimately associated with their fame. The face of Raphael's mother blends with the angelic beauty of all his Madonnas. Titian's daughter and the wife of Corregio again and again meet in their works. Well does Foscolo call the fine arts the children of Love. The deep interest with which the Italians hail gifted men, inspires them to the mightiest efforts. National enthusiasm is the great nursery of genius. When Cellini's statue of Perseus was first exhibited on the Piazza at Florence, it was surrounded for days by an admiring throng, and hundreds of tributary sonnets were placed upon its pedestal. Petrarch was crowned with laurel at Rome for his poetical labors, and crowds of the unlettered may still be seen on the Mole at Naples, listening to a reader of Tasso. Reason is not the only interpreter of life. The fountain of action is in the feelings. Religion itself is but a state of the affections. I once met a beautiful peasant woman in the valley of the Arno, and asked the number of her children. "I have three here and two in paradise," she calmly replied, with a tone and manner of touching and grave simplicity. Her faith was of the heart. Constituted as human nature is, it is in the highest degree natural that rare powers should be excited by voluntary and spontaneous appreciation. Who would not feel urged to high achievement, if he knew that every beauty his canvas displayed, or every perfect note he breathed, or every true inspiration of his lyre, would find an instant response in a thousand breasts? Lord Brougham calls the word "impossible" the mother-tongue of little souls. What, I ask, can counteract self-distrust, and sustain the higher efforts of our nature, but enthusiasm? More of this element would call forth the genius, and gladden the life of New England. While the mere intellectual man speculates, and the mere man of acquisition cites authority, the man of feeling acts, realizes, puts forth his complete energies. His earnest and strong heart will not let his mind rest; he is urged by an inward impulse to embody his thought; he must have sympathy, he must have results. And nature yields to the magician, acknowledging him as her child. The noble statue comes forth from the marble, the speaking figure stands out from the canvas, the electric chain is struck in the bosoms of his fellows. They receive his ideas, respond to his appeal, and reciprocate his love.

THE HOME OF The poet rogers—from a month IN ENGLAND.

The aquatic birds in St. James's Park, with their variegated plumage, may well detain loiterers of maturer years than the chuckling infants who feed them with crumbs, oblivious of the policeman's eye, and the nurse's expostulations; to see an American wild duck swim to the edge of the lake, and open its glossy bill with the familiar airs of a pet canary, is doubtless a most agreeable surprise; nor can an artistic eye fail to note the diverse and picturesque forms of the many noble trees, that even when leafless, yield a rural charm to this glorious promenade (the elms are praised by Evelyn); but these wood

land amenities, if they cause one often to linger on his way to the Duke of Sunderland's and Buckingham palace; and if the thought, that it was here, while taking his usual daily walk, that Charles received the first intimation of the Popish plot, lure him into an historical reverie, neither will long withdraw the attention of the literary enthusiast from the bit of green sward before the window of Rogers, which, every spring morning, until the venerable poet's health sent him into suburban exile, was covered with sparrows expectant of their banquet from his aged yet kindly hand. The view of the park from this drawing-room bow-window instantly disenchants the sight of all town associations. The room where this vista of nature in her genuine English aspect opens, is the same so memorable for the breakfasts, for many years, enjoyed by the hospitable bard and his fortunate guests. An air of sadness pervaded the apartment in the absence of him, whose taste and urbanity were yet apparent in every object around. The wintry sun threw a gleam mellow as the light of the fond reminiscence he so gracefully sung, upon the Turkey carpet, and veined mahogany. It fell, as if in pensive greeting, on the famous Titian, lit up the cool tints of Watteau, and made the bust found in the sea near Pozzuoli wear a creamy hue. When the old housekeeper left the room, and I glanced from the priceless canvas or classic urn, to the twinkling turf, all warmed by the casual sunshine, the sensation of comfort never so completely realized as in a genuine London breakfast-room, was touched to finer issues by the atmosphere of beauty and the memory of genius. The groups of poets, artists, and wits, whose commune had filled this room with the electric glow of intellectual life, with gems of art, glimpses of nature, and the charm of intelligent hospitality, to evoke all that was most gifted and cordial, reassembled once more. I could not but appreciate the suggestive character of every ornament. There was a Murillo to inspire the Spanish traveller with half-forgotten anecdotes, a fine Reynolds to whisper of the literary dinner where Garrick and Burke discussed the theatre and the senate; Milton's agreement for the sale of "Paradise Lost," emphatic symbol of the uncertainty of fame; a sketch of Stonehenge by Turner, provocative of endless discussion to artist and antiquary; bronzes, medals, and choice volumes, whose very names would inspire an affluent talker in this most charming imaginable nook, for a morning colloquy and a social breakfast. I noticed in a glass vase over the fireplace, numerous sprigs of orange blossoms in every grade of decay, some crumbling to dust, and others but partially faded. These, it appeared, were all plucked from bridal wreaths, the gift of their fair wearers, on the wedding-day, to the good old poetfriend; and he, in his bacheloric fantasy, thus preserved the withered trophies. They spoke at once of sentiment and of solitude.

CHARLES T. BROOKS. CHARLES T. BROOKS was born at Salem, Mass., June 20, 1813. At Harvard, which he entered in 1828, a sensitive and studious youth, he obtained his introduction, through Dr. Follen, to the world of German poetry and prose, with which his literary labors have been since so prominently identified. Schiller's song of Mary Stuart on a temporary release from captivity, was one of the earliest, as it has been one of the latest poems which he has attempted.

The subject of his valedictory at Cambridge was, The Love of Truth, a Practical Principle."

66

Three years afterwards, on completing his studies at the Theological school, he read a dissertation on "the old Syriac version of the New Testament,” and shortly after, on taking his second degree at the University, delivered an oration on " Decision of character, as demanded in our day and country." He began his career as a preacher at Nahant, in the summer of 1835. After officiating in different parts of New England, chiefly in Bangor, Augusta, and Windsor, Vt., he was settled in Newport, Rhode Island, in January, 1837, where he has since continued in charge of the congregation worshipping in the church in which Channing held the dedication service in 1836. Channing also preached the sermon at his ordination in June, 1837, the one published in his works, as afterwards repeated to Mr. Dwight at Northampton. In October of the same year, Mr. Brooks was married to Harriet, second daughter of the late Benjamin Hazard, lawyer and legislator of Rhode Island.

His course as an author began in the year 1838 with a translation of Schiller's William Tell, which was published anonymously at Providence. The year or two following, he translated from the same author, the dramas of Mary Stuart and the Maid of Oleans, which yet (1855) remain unpublished. In 1840 he translated the Titan of Jean Paul Richter, a work of great labor and rare delicacy, which is also unpublished. In 1842 a volume of his miscellaneous specimens of German song was published as one of Mr. Ripley's* series of Foreign Literature, by

*Mr. George Ripley, to whom scholars are under obligations for this series of "Specimens of Foreign Standard Literature." published in fifteen volumes, between the years 1888 and 1845, is the present accomplished literary editor and critic of the New York Tribune, a work to which he brings rare tact and philosophical acumen. He was the chief manager of the Brook Farm Association, with which his friend and associate in the Tribune, Mr. Charles A. Dana, a good scholar, a forcible writer and effective speaker, was also connected. Mr. Ripley's services to literature are important in numerous journals. In 1840 he published in Boston an essay "On the Latest Form of Infidelity."

Munroe & Co., of Boston. In 1845 he published an article on Poetry in the Christian Examiner, The same year he delivered the Phi Beta Kappa poem at Cambridge. In 1847, Munroe & Co. published his translation of Schiller's Homage of the Arts, with Miscellaneous Pieces from Ruckert, Freiligrath, and other German Poets. In this year, too, he recited a poem entitled Aquidneck, upon the hundredth anniversary of the Redwood Library at Newport. This was published next year by Burnet at Providence, in a little volume containing several other commemorative pieces. In 1851, Mr. Brooks published at Newport a pamphlet, The Controversy touching the Old Stone Mill, in the town of Newport, Rhode Island, with Remarks Introductory and Conclusive a pleasant dissection of the subject, calculated to set entirely at rest any pretensions of the Northman to an antiquarian property in that curious though sufficiently simple structure.

In June, 1853, Ticknor & Co. published his German Lyrics, containing specimens of Anastasius Grun, and others of the living poets of Germany, selected from a mass of translations in part previously printed in the Literary World, and in part in manuscript. He has since published a little collection named Songs of Field and Flood, printed by John Wilson at Boston.

In 1853, Mr. Brooks made a voyage to India for his health, the incidents and sensations of which he has embodied in a narrative entitled, Eght Months on the Ocean, and Eight Weeks in India, which is still in MS. Among other unpublished writings by Mr. Brooks, is a choice translation of the humorous poem of the German University students, The Life, Opinions, Actions, and Fate of Hieronimus Jobs the Candidate, of which he has printed several chapters in the Literary World, and which has been further made familiar to the public, by the exhibition in Mr. Boker's Gallery of German Painting in New York, of the exquisite paintings by Hasenclever, of scenes from its pages.

Mr. Brooks is also, besides his quaint and felicitous translations from the minor German poets, the author of numerous occasional verses-a series of Festival, New Year, and Anniversary addresses, all ready and genial, with a frequent infusion of a humorous spirit.

NEWPORT FROM AQUIDNECK.

Hail, island-home of Peace and Liberty! Hail, breezy cliff, grey rock, majestic sea! Here man should walk with heavenward lifted

eye,

Free as the winds, and open as the sky!

O thou who here hast had thy childhood's home,
And ye who one brief hour of summer roam
These winding shores to breathe the bracing breeze,
And feel the freedom of the skies and seas,
Think what exalted, sainted minds once found
The sod, the sand ye tread on, holy ground!
Think how an Allston's soul-enkindled eye
Drank in the glories of our sunset-sky!
Think how a Berkeley's genius haunts the air,
And makes our crags and waters doubly fair?
Think how a Channing, "musing by the sea,"
Burned with the quenchless love of liberty!
What work God witnessed, and that lonely shore,

Nos. 245, 253.

The Father reigneth, let the Earth rejoice And tremble!"-there he lifted up his voice In praise amid the tempest-softened there By nature's beauty rose the lowly prayer. There as, in reverential sympathy,

He watched the heavings of the giant sen,
Stirred by the Power that ruled that glorious din,
Woke the dread consciousness of power within!

They are gone hence-the large and lofty souls;
And still the rock abides-the ocean rolls;
And still where Reason rears its beacon-rock,
The Powers of Darkness dash with angry shock.
In many an anxious vigil, pondering o'er
Man's destiny on this our western shore,
Genius of Berkeley! to thy morning-height
We lift the piercing prayer-" What of the night?"
And this thy Muse, responsive, seems to say:

Not yet is closed the Drama or the Day:

Act well thy part, how small soe'er it be,
Look not to Heaven alone-Heaven looks to thee!
Spirit of Channing! to thy calm abode,
We, doubtful plodders of this lowly road,

Call:

see,

From thy watch-tower say, for thou canst

How fares the wavering strife of liberty?"
And the still air replies, and the green sod,
By thee beneath these shades, in musing, trod,-
And these then lonely wal's, where oft was caught
The electric spark of high, heroic thought,-
And yonder page that keeps for ever bright,
Of that great thought the burning shining light,-
All these, with voice of power-of God,-to-day
Come to the soul, and calmly, strongly say:
"Be faithful unto death in Freedom's strife,
And on thy head shall rest the crown of life."

LINES ON HEARING MENDELSSOHN'S MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
PERFORMED BY THE GERMANIANS AT NEWPORT.

It haunts me still-I hear, see, once more
That moonlight dance of fairies on the shore.
I hear the skipping of those airy feet;
I see the mazy twinkling, light and fleet.
The sly sharp banter of the violin
Wakes in the elfin folk a merry din;
And now it dies away, and all is still;
The silver moon-beam sleeps upon the hill;
The flute's sweet wail, a heavenly music, floats,
And like bright dew-drops fall the oboe's notes.
And hark; again that light and graceful beat
Steals on the ear, of trooping, tiny feet,-
While, heard by fits across the watery floor,
The muffled surf-drum booms from some far shore
And now the fairy world is lost once more
In the grand swell of ocean's organ-roar,—
And all is still again;-again the dance
Of sparkling feet reflects the moon-beam's glance;
Puck plays his antics in the o'erhanging trees,-
Music like Ariel's floats on every breeze.—
Thus is the Midsummer Night's Dream to me,
Pictured by music and by memory,

A long midsummer day's reality.

THE SABBATH-FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER.
The Sabbath is here!

Like a dove out of heaven descending,
Toil and turmoil suspending,

Comes in the glad morn!
It smiles on the highway,
And down the green by-way,
'Mong fields of ripe corn.

No clank of the plough-chain we hear, now,No lash, far or near, now,

No creaking of wheels.

With million low voices
The harvest rejoices

All over the fields.

The Sabbath is here!

The seed we in faith and hope planted;
God's blessing was granted;"

It sprang to the light,
We gaze now, and listen
Where fields wave and glisten,
With grateful delight.

The Sabbath is here!

Give praise to the Father, whose blessing The fields are confessing!

Soon the reapers will come,

With rustling and ringing
Of sickles, and bringing
The yellow sheaves home.

The Sabbath is here!

The seed we in fond hope are sowing
Will one day rise, glowing

In the smile of God's love.
In dust though we leave it,
We trust to receive it
In glory above!

SYLVESTER JUDD,

THE author of Margaret, and a clergyman of the Unitarian Church, of a marked individuality of opinion and an earnest spiritual and moral life, was born at Westhampton, Hampshire county, Mass., July 23, 1813. His grandfather, Sylvester Judd, a man of character and influence in his day, was one of the first settlers of the place and the son of the Rev. Jonathan Judd, the first clergyman of Southampton, and for sixty years pastor of that flock. The father of our author, also Sylvester Judd, though engaged in trade in the country at Westhampton, applied himself so vigorously to study that he attained a considerable knowledge of Greek, Latin, and French; worked his way through a course of the higher mathematics, and became generally conversant with polite literature. He married a daughter of Aaron Hall, of Norwich, a man of good repute in the Revolutionary era.

The young Sylvester Judd, the third of the name in the direct line, passed his early years at Westhampton, under the usual earnest influences of the old New England Puritan homes. At the age of nine years, his father having become unfortunate in business, and his habits of study having got the better of his pursuit of trade, he removed to Northampton, to become proprietor and editor of the Hampshire Gazette, with which a younger brother, then recently deceased, had been connected. At this spot the boyhood and youth of Sylvester were passed; a period of religious influence which was marked by his conversion during a revival. Then came a struggle

between devotion to trade, to which the slender fortunes of his father invited him, and a natural tendency to an educated life. It ended in his entry at Yale College, where he received his degree in 1836. The picture of his college life, as published by Miss Arethusa Hall, shows an earnest, devotional spirit. After leaving Yale, he took charge of a private school at Templeton, Mass. "There, for the first time," says his biographer, "he began to have intercourse with that denomination of Christians termed Unitarians, and came to understand more fully their distinguishing views. Previously, he had been very little acquainted with Unitarian works or Unitarian preaching; but he now perceived that the deductions of his own unbiassed mind, and the conclusions towards which he found it verging, were much in harmony with those received by this body of Christians." As his old opinions changed, a social struggle occurred with his family, friends, and supporters. He felt that he was out of place with these former associations, and declined the offer of a professorship in Miami College, Ohio. "Feeling and thinking thus," he writes to his brother, "you see I could not become connected with an Old School Presbyterian College." A record of his conflict is preserved in a manuscript which he prepared for the private use of his father's family, entitled "Cardiagraphy," an exposition of his theological difficulties and conclusions, which is published in his biography. It was now evident to his family that they must resign all hope of the Calvinistic minister. The issue had been made in all conscientiousness, and Mr. Judd choosing another path, entered the Divinity School at Harvard in 1837. At the completion of his course, in 1840, he became engaged to supply the pulpit of the Unitarian church in Augusta, Maine, and was

In 1843 he seems first to have turned his atten- | tion to authorship. His Margaret, a Tale of the Real and Ideal; including Sketches of a Place not before described, called Mons Christi, was commenced at that time and reached the public in 1845. A second revised and improved edition appeared in two volumes in 1851.

As the best account of the scope of this work, we may cite the remarks of its author on the subject from a letter to a brother clergyman:

"The book designs to promote the cause of liberal Christianity, or, in other words, of a pure Christianity: it would give body and soul to the divine elements of the gospel. It aims to subject bigotry, cant, pharisaism, and all intolerance. Its basis is Christ: him it would restore to the church, him it would develop in the soul, him it would enthrone in the world. It designs also, in judicious and healthful ways, to aid the cause of peace, temperance, and universal freedom. In its retrospective aspect, it seeks to preserve some reminiscences of the age of our immediate fathers, thereby describing a period of which we have no enduring monuments, and one the traces of which are fast evanescing. The book makes a large account of nature, the birds and flowers, for the sake of giving greater individuality to, and bringing into stronger relief, that which the religious mind passes over too loosely and vaguely. It is a New England book, and is designed to embody the features and improve the character of our own favored region.

"But more particularly, let me say, the book seems fitted partially to fill up a gap long left open in Unitarian literature,-that of imaginative writings. The Orthodox enjoy the works of Bunyan, Hannah More, Charlotte Elizabeth, the Abbotts, &c., &c. But what have we in their place? The original design of the book was almost solely to occupy this niche; although, I fancy, you may think it has somewhat passed these limits. It seems to me, that this book is fitted for a pretty general Unitarian circulation; that it might be of some use in the hands of the clergy, in our families, Sunday-school libraries, &c. My own personal education in, and acquaintance with, Orthodoxy,' as well as my idea of the prevalent errors of the age, lead me to think such a book is needed."

The above will sufficiently explain its theological bearings. As a novel or romance, in the ordinary sense, it is crudely expressed and inartistic; as a vigorous sketch of old New England life and character, of fresh, vivid portraiture and detail, and particularly in its descriptive passages of nature, for the minute study of which in plants, birds, and other accessories, the author had an especial fondness, it is a production of marked merit. Of the several criticisms passed upon it, the most complimentary must be considered, the admirable series of drawings made from its pages by the artist Mr. F. O. C. Darley, whose pencil has brought out with extraordinary beauty and effect the varieties of character of the book, and its occasional dramatic and picturesque scenes. These sketches are now being prepared for publication, and when issued, by their delicacy and vigor of expression, will form ready interpreters no less of the genius of the artist than the author to the public.

In 1850 Mr. Judd published Philo, an Evangeliad, a didactic poen in blank verse. It was rude and imperfect in execution. Again resorting to the author for an elucidation of its design, we find the following expression in a characteristic letter to a friend ::

TO THE REV. E. E. H.

Augusta, Dec. 21, 1849. My dear Sir, Will you accept a copy of "Philo,” and a brief claviary?

attempt."

First, the book is an
Second, it is an epical or heroic attempt.

Third, it would see if in liberal and rational

Christianity, and there is no other, and that is Unitarianism, are epic and heroic elements.

Fourth, it remembers that Calvinism has its "Course of Time;" and it asks if Unitarianism, that is, the innermost of reason and divinity, will have any thing; or rather, approaching, humbly, of course, the altar of Great Thought and Feeling, it would like to know if it would be agreeable to that altar to receive a little gift, a turtle-dove and a small pigeon, of Unitarian faith and hope.

Fifth, and correlatively, it asks if, in this very sensible and sound age of ours, imagination must needs be inactive, and awed by philosophy, utility,

steam.

Sixth, and more especially, if any of the foregoing points are admitted, the book seeks through the medium of poetry to interpret prophecy. It is conceived that prophecy, the Apocalypse for example, was once poetry; and moreover that we shall fail to understand prophecy until it is recast in its original form.

This observation applies particularly to that most interesting, yet most enigmatical matter, the second coming of Christ, &c., &c.

What may be the fortune of " Philo," I am neither prophet nor poet enough to tell.

I am not a beggar of applause, as I would not be the pensioner of dulness.

With sincere regards, I am yours, &c. SYLVESTER JUDD.

In the same year with the publication of Philo appeared Richard Edney and the Governor's Family, a Rus-Urban Tale, simple and popular, yet cultured and noble, of Morals, Sentiment, and Life, practically treated and pleasantly illustrated; containing also Hints on Being Good and Doing Good. It was intended by the author as a modern companion to Margaret, introducing the career of a young man among the rural and town incidents of New England life. The incidents at a sawmill, and other descriptions, point out the local studies of the author in Maine. Like the author's previous books, as a purely literary production, it was "caviare to the general; as an expression of the writer's peculiar mood and opinions in a certain unfettered, individual essay style, its perusal will well reward curiosity. A description of a snow-storm was one of the felicities of Margaret; Richard Edney opens with another in the same vivid, minutely truthful manner.

In addition to these published writings of Mr. Judd, he completed a dramatic production in five acts--The White Hills, an American Tragedy, which remains in manuscript. An analysis of it, with several passages, is given in the biography of the author, where it is stated to be chiefly moral in its aim-" its object being to mirror the