weak the insinuation! Can any affront be trifling, which seeks to tarnish that diamond, honor? She, incoercible, as the subtle gas of fermentation, is no more restrained in her career by the torpid hand of reason, than the bursting volcano is extinguished by the trickling tears of the dismayed inhabitants around its mouth. She has nobler feelings; she burns with an ardor far above the elevation of that dull, phlegmatic preacher. Reason pretend to circumscribe the impulses of honor? As well might we attempt in the famed bag of Ulysses to confine the wild, impetuous whirls of Euroclydon. Let the whole herd of reasoning mopes know once for all, that the duellist lives above their atmosphere. While they, mere earth worms, crawl after the ignis fatuus of reason and the aqua fatua of revelation, he soars into the airy region, where the goddess honor holds her throne, and sheds pure ether for the nourishment of her votaries. With painful emotions he laments, that his body is like that of others, who are incapable of feeling the glow of his sentiments. But, possessed of a principle so sublime, and which elevates him so far above their level, he submits to the humiliating circumstance. For even a man of honor bows the knee to necessity. But let it be remembered to his praise, that he bows the knee to nothing else in heaven or on earth ; for the goddess, he adores, dwells in the region between them both. Too subtle for earth, and too proud for heaven, she fills that point in air, where the celestial and terrestrial attrac tions, exactly counterpoised, insure a moveless throne.

Some caviller may perhaps demand the import of that word, honor, so frequently on the tongue, and so dear to the heart of the duellist. Strange demand! Who pretends to ask a difinition of sound, of color, of sweetness? The difinition is felt, but defies expression. Pride and shame are her noble parents; revenge her darling offspring; nemo me impunè lacessit her glorious motto. Fiction wants images, painting is void of colors, and poetry sighs in vain for figures, fitted to form a faint description of her beauty. Silence is Vol. II. No. 4.

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most expressive, and the true sublime of her charms can be understood only by the hearts of her votaries.

Some persons, slaves to vulgar prejudices and a weak set of nerves, accuse her of involving in distress perhaps whole families by the execution of her mandates. Perhaps a husband falls in the field of combat; a father, a brother; perhaps a son, on whom an aged parent was dependent for sup port, protection, and comfort. How often must the current of my eulogy be diverted from its easy channel by such paltry obstacles? Have these puny souls so soon forgotten, that honor is a goddess? And must the happiness or misery of mortals, children of an hour, influence the operation of her laws?

The duellist rests his cause, not on the slender reeds of patronage, but on the broad basis of authority. Did not Cain, the very firstborn of men, by sacrificing to the voice of envy his own, his only, his amiable brother, deify the passions, and thus institute the illustrious order of duellists? The birth of man, of thee, great CAIN, was the Lucifer of duelling. What custom, what practice, what sect, or society can boast an origin at once so ancient, yet so clear? While myriads in every age sacrifice their lives on the altar of that most capricious, ever varying goddess, fashion, and countless selfdevoted victims to pleasure daily throng her courts, who forbids the son of Cain to offer one, two, or a thousand on the altar of his far more exalted divinity, HONOR ?

I should now resume the silken thread of panegyric, did I not observe still another captious fellow gaping with an objection, and in pain to be delivered. How animating the consolation, that they are all mere cobwebs ! And pray, what is it? The object of the duellist is satisfaction. Now what great satisfaction does he derive from the death of his adver sary, who, with his expiring breath, adds fresh reproaches to the original affront, which excited the combat?

Here the objector fancies himself strongly entrenched. But mark the force of my artillery against him. The duellist has convinced the world, that he is a votary of honor, a

man of spirit; and has besides disenabled his adversary from ever disturbing or affronting him in future. And his pride must receive fresh gratification from the idea, that his opponent is no mean trophy; since he was, like himself, a votary of honor, a man of spirit. All duellists are actuated by the same high impulses. A butcher feels not half the pleasure in knocking down the fattened ox, because he is a brute; because no resentment impels his arm, and no revenge keens his relish for destruction.

But to such a feast of vengeance can remorse succeed? Here is another whisper from some tenderhearted stripling. No, nothing like it. The duellist sometimes has sensations after killing a man similar to those, which for a moment Hector felt, when embracing Andromache and his child, before he left them to join the army. Parting was painful. But when his country's call touched his recollection, the quick impulses of martial glory swelled high his throbbing bosom; his soul was on fire; he burst from the close embrace, and Andromache and Astyanax were forgotten. So the duellist regrets the loss of his friend, who had afforded him many a pleasing hour; but, when the vindication of his bonor, which occasioned the deadly fight, comes up in contrast, every painful emotion is absorbed in the glory of the

sacrifice.

Having now completely demolished every possible objection, raised against my hero, with what ardent impatience do I again launch into the ocean of panegyric! What conscious pride swells my bosom, while I present him to your admiring view! See him encircled with the dazzling rays of honor; his head disburdened of the lumber of reason and religion; antiquated names! His heart absorbing and expanding with the rays, which surround him; his tongue chanting praises to his goddess, and his mouth breathing the sweet accents of revenge. Behold the man. What exalted gratitude is due for his sublime achievements in the field of philosophy and religion! Directed by the pure light of the divinity, he adores, he surveys the multifarious systems of each,

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smiles at their absurdity, and, with an inspired breath, puffs them into annihilation. Animated by her smile, he suffers no remorse, though to thousands he occasions the heaving breast, the bursting heart, and the tear filled eye.

When shall the era dawn, which shall give to his sublime philosophy universal propagation? A philosophy as far transcending any system, yet discovered, as its author and its object are more etherial, and more glorious. Its author, the mighty prince of the power of the air, its object the acquisition of subjects to his vast dominion.

At present, alas! the beauteous effects of this noble system are but imperfectly and partially realized. Like every science of human cultivation, its steps are but slowly progressive. Old customs and opinions, antiquated superstitions, and blind prejudices form an obstinate mound against its glorious influence. A childish good humor cramps the freedom of its operations. Now many, ah too many little offences, as they are called, which occur among friends in common conversation, are disregarded, or passed off with jockular railery. But, when the true spirit of duelling shall animate every human breast, then no offence can be small. Not a disrespectful eye, not a word misplaced shall then enjoy impunity. Then shall the glorious millennium of the duellist be introduced. All nature shall be in a grand, a mighty fermentation. Then shall the ancient prophecy, that every man shall be an Ishmael, receive a new fulfilment, and the earth be transformed into a theatre of duels. How much the prospect swells the laboring breast. What grandeur clothes the distant, ah too distant scene. Expression is overwhelmed in the vast profound of amazement. Fancy, oppressed by the dazzling glories crowding on her sight, drops her pencil, and with delightful terror shrinks from the gaze into the bosom of repose.

Not a Cæsar nor an Alexander shall then monopolize destruction; every son of Adam shall be an Alexander, and a Cæsar shall live in every human heart. To slay and be slain shall constitute the grand business and sublime glory of the

world. And, when the ennobling principle of duelling shall have produced its universal effect, the end shall come. Pandemonium with shouts shall welcome to her courts the countJess multitude of duellists. There shall they reap the lau

rels, their loyalty has meritted. There, how august the conception! revenge shall have unbounded range. Pride shall swell with ceaseless expansion every bosom. Honor shall fire with immortal enmity every spirit. Each sublimated denizen of this vast empire shall enjoy the rapturous delight of inflicting on his enemies, not a transient pain, not a shortlived anguish, but torment everliving.

PRESENT STATE OF ENGLISH POETRY.

THE present state of English poetry has few claims

to applause. The days of Cowper are past, and no brother bard has great pretensions to excellence. The cause of degeneracy is difficult to be ascertained, unless it is that books and reasoning have driven fancy and feeling into exile. But wherever the muses may be, in London, or on the Highlands, in distant retreat, or in crowded companies, they have discreet worshippers, who would probably search for their residence with more ardor, than the Swiss huntsmen for the craggy jut of the chamois. I am unwilling to believe, that England cannot produce poets. The land of Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Thompson, and Gray, has not grown sterile. There are scenes still to be described as prodigious, as the cliff of Dover, which Shakespeare has painted true to nature; and hills as beautiful, as that of Richmond, kissed continually by the Thames, only want the verses of Thompson to make them visited and admired. The spring is still lovely. The cuckoo is yet heard in the gardens, and the hawthorn hedge has not ceased to bud, and the horizon continues to be lovely, and the early roses are still wetted with the dew drops of the morning. But the English poets seem not to be anima