himself a husband and a father; having "put love riance of reverential faith. But the waters of the in bondage," as he says, only out of respect for Mediterranean closed over him at the age of thirty, public opinion, while yet in his minority. Here was when perhaps his best existence seemed about a boy, with the experience of a life, persecution-if to commence. He died, leaving his name to be a so pleased to call it-estranged affections, love, wonder and a sorrowing upon the earth. Let us and responsibility. do homage to the god-like stamp of genius, the image and superscription thereof, but weep that one thus endowed should have failed to render unto God the things that are God's.

Hitherto he can scarcely be said to have acted upon the principles he had embraced. The results were yet to be developed. Accordingly, we find him in all the anxiety and trepidation of an We cannot claim for Shelley the most enlarged elopement with Mary Godwin, the daughter of and comprehensive order of intellect; he was too Mary Woolstoncraft; leaving his wife and child fond of theory and regardless of consequences. desolate, and one ere long to behold the light but He might have speculated for himself, but he was never a father's face. Broken-hearted and des- unfit to teach others. We have seen that his own pairing, his poor wife commits suicide. We are pure intellect was insufficient to protect him from told this circumstance affected Shelley most pain- the evils of his own system, and he ought thence fully, and he regretted he had not chosen a woman to have inferred what its effect would be upon of higher intellect, who could better appreciate others less gifted. But he lacked that high power one constituted as he was. Is not this the very of analysis and combination, that might have enarefinement of cruelty and cold-hearted selfishness? Intellect to appreciate him! and where was she, the deserted and broken hearted, to find a solace for her own outraged affections! He reproaches not his own turpitude, but the helpless victim whose heart had been garnered up in him for a want of intellect.

Here is the comment. Such were the carrying out of his doctrines in his own life, with all his vaunted intellect and love for the elevated and beautiful. If such are to be the results in one case only, should not a close observer of human nature, a far-seeing spectator of principles and actions, be led to ponder well the premises that lead to conclusions so appalling? Will not the truly wise reflect that it is easier to detect an evil than to apply the remedy? That when we enter the precincts of truth, it should be with uncovered head and the shoes from off our feet, that the dust of error may not be brought therein? It is easy to pull down, but difficult worthily to build up. It is easier to teach men to cavil than to think. should stretch out the hand to lay it upon the of human law with fear and trembling.

We

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bled him to see things in all their bearings and probable results. He failed to perceive that in setting man free from human institutions, still more from Divine, he gave him over to the more degrading bondage of human passions.

Perhaps we should add, that however superabounding might have been Shelley's mind originally, the narrow views he took of society, the course of reading and thinking so long adhered to, where everything was brought to establish a theory, had disqualified him for the calm and rational investigation of truth-had obscured his mental vision, and prepared him to behold all objects through the medium he had himself created.

We should be the last to justify that species of persecution to which Shelley was subjected, both in his collegiate studies and in after life—it must have served still more to bewilder a young mind already groping in its own mazes. It most likely compelled him to associate the injustice of individuals and their blind and ill-directed zeal, with those sacred truths they professed to defend—and the action of those laws that forcibly deprived him of his children, he would be likely, in the excitement of outraged feelings, to condemn in toto, as burdensome and subversive of human liberty. We must regret every atom of error infused in a cup already filled to the brim. We regret, but in vain, that no hand was ready to guide his inexperienced feet calmly along the rugged yet pleasant paths of truth and duty, to smooth the beautiful and perplexed brow, and point out the simplicity as well as the mystery of truth. With his exquisite sense of the beautiful, his affluence of imagination and Shelley was benevolent and forgiving; could he splendor of diction, Shelley might have trod where be otherwise, who took the Holy Saviour for the others fear to look; he might have been like the model of his conduct? He acknowledged the city set on a hill, that cannot be hid; a light to beauty of his precepts, though he denied their Di- warn and incite others to the same high destiny; vine original. And in this acknowledgment we while now he but reminds us of the light that detect the germ of truth that might, had his life flickers over the charnel-house or the treacherous been spared, have expanded into the green luxu-morass. No one would have obeyed more nobly

If Shelley suffered wrong from society, it was but the natural reaction of the wrong he inflicted. He was melancholy, and sometimes desponding; he imputed this to the injuries inflicted by others. It was but the wrong he was doing his own nature. It was the hungering and thirsting of his own immortal spirit, crying out for its appropriate aliment-its bread of life. He was weighed down by his own brooding immortality, which he was trampling in the dust.

the dictates of duty, could he have felt the omnipo- | household! may not a single cloud darken the clear sky of tence and divinity of that your dreams this night.

"Stern daughter of the voice of God."
In contemplating his genius, his errors and his
sorrows, we could even weep over him, and in the
silence of our own spirits hear the pathetic lan-
guage of truth, uttering—“ how often would I have
gathered him under my wing, but he would not!"
We regret that his cold intellect had never been
warmed into a spirit-demanding piety. That he
could not submit to that bondage, which is still
freedom-the holy control of duty-and exclaim
with Wordsworth,

Me, this unchartered freedom tires,
I feel the weight of chance desires.

My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
His ashes repose amid the ruins of the Eternal
City-fit resting for one whose daring hand would
help to pluck down the fair fabric of human society.
Peace be unto him. Let us utter a sad farewell,
in the melody of his own words over the grave of
his friend Keats, who slumbers beside him.

A grave among the eternal-come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet, his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewey sleep he lay;
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

AN EVENING WALK IN THE CITY.

BY CHARLES LANMAN.

But I must away. Beloved reader, I desire you to take my arm, and in imagination accompany me in my walk. By this means I shall be enabled to express to you my

thoughts in the most familiar way.

Well, then, here we are in the principal street of the city. The lamps which line its sides extend farther than the eye can reach, throwing upon the pavements a flood of dazzling light. What an immense concourse of people are passing to and fro, from all nations and kindred and tongues! The first impression of a stranger at such a sight is, "where are they from?-where are they going?" Alas! the answers to those questions are to be found only in the Book of Life. Thoughtless indeed may be the man who first asked them, but that he did so proves him to be a philosopher.

Do you see that old fruit-woman, seated in a kind of box at the corner of yonder street? Let me tell you a little of her history-for she is a good woman, and one whom I number among my friends. Her name is Susan Gray, and ber age is threescore years and five. This ancient looking dwelling on our right is the same where she was born, and where she spent her girlhood, loving and beloved. That whole block was once the property of her father, who was a man of wealth; but owing to some misfortune he became reduced, and this so affected his health that he died. In a

few months after this his wife was also called away, and the daughter was left an orphan, though the consort of a poor but industrious mechanic. In process of time it so happened that he also died, leaving behind him his widow and an only child. About twenty years ago the few ac quaintances that Susan had, went away in different parts, and she was left poor and friendless in the world, with nothing to cheer her pathway, save her religion and beauti ful daughter. It so chanced in one of her rambles, that se determined to occupy this corner-for here the rent was free-and, if possible, gain a livelihood by following the humble employment of a fruit-woman. Success crowned her efforts until she became comfortably situated in a smal secluded house. Think of it. Old Susan has been the occupant of that corner for twenty years! through the heat and cold of summer and winter. She has been as constant in her employment as the church-clock above her head. which has not failed during that period to warn the city of the fleetness of Time. How varied are the characters which she has seen pass by!-many of whom are perhaps dwel ing in the uttermost parts of the earth. In her we behold a noble example of perseverance, which deserves universal

Ever since I came to the city to reside, it has been my custom to devote one evening of every week to the express purpose of walking the streets. I generally disguise myself in the habit of a mendicant, so that I can pass through the crowd without being observed-for, as is well known, poverty is a sure passport throughout the world. The incidents which I have witnessed, and the wisdom thus col-applause. lected, would be sufficient to make an interesting book. But the history of one of those evenings alone it is my present purpose to relate.

Eighteen years ago, at the close of a lovely summer's day, a poor orphan boy was seen seated on a marble stoop, the very street where we now stand. Without a single friend to advise and cheer his drooping spirits, he had came to the metropolis to seek his fortune. The opulent merchant passed by him without even deigning to bestow a smile: and this neglect almost made the heart of that pale beautiful boy break with sorrow. That night no doway pillow received his aching head; but in its stead the stony threshold was his resting-place. On an evening follow this boy stopped at the fruit-stand of Susan Gray, arde fered her his three last pennies for something to satisfy th cravings of hunger. The tears that dimmed his eye wors the introduction to many inquiries, which at length resudut in her asking him to come and make her house his home.

It is the middle month of Autumn. The twilight shadows have fallen upon the city, and the moon is just rising beyond the distant steeples. The hum of business has died away. The wealthy merchant is returning home to spend the evening in reviewing the profits of the day, or perhaps the whole night in dissipation. The poor mechanic is also returning to his home, after a day of toil. How different will be his reception from that of the rich and worldly man! I can almost fancy with what gladness little Mary runs to her father's arms, telling him how good a girl she has been to-day, and how far she has advanced in the spelling-book. I behold the placid and contented smile of that fond mother, as she leaves her sewing to prepare the evening meal. I hear the loud talking of little Griswould, as he relates his One, two, and three years were fled. It would be a pe advancement in geography, or his exploits in playing mar-sant task to dwell long and particularly on the enjoyints% bles or the ball, during the "recess." In an hour's time I of that obscure family-and also on the simple scetes see that family upon their knees at prayer: an hour more enacted beneath that roof; but when I say that religion had and they have all retired, and the house is still. Happy a part in all, the man who is familiar with the Christan

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I am alone and seated without a light at the window of my room. The angel of slumber is not near me, for my Hark! to that dreadful fire-bell! How dismal does it mind is confused. I will compose myself by a few serious sound as its tones sweep through the air! See the signal | thoughts and then retire.

on the City-Hall pointing to the direction of the fire! The Alone, did I say? That cannot be. The bride of the sun

But enough. Reader-if you are not already asleep, one thing is certain, you ought to be. I bid you therefore a heartfelt good night, hoping that your dreams will be not of King Death, but of a land where his jurisdiction does not come, and that is-Heaven.

and a countless number of bright stars are my companions. | complished; and whom all the world have flattered thou Is it not a strange truth, that the moon has nightly performed alone hast despised: thou hast drawn together all the farher circuit in heaven for six thousand years? When the stretched greatness, all the pride and cruelty of man, and morning stars sang together with joy at the birth of creation, covered it all over with these two words-hic jacet.” she ascended her cerulean throne, and has reigned the queen of night ever since. She was there when Nineveh the great was humbled. She saw all the cities of old, when they were drunken with excess of pleasure and pride; and she looked upon them and smiled when their glorious erests were in the dust. Kingdoms and nations have risen and departed, yet she has remained unchanged. When her sister, the Star of Bethlehem, led the way to the birth-place of our Saviour, she heard the song of gladness which Angels and Archangels sung in the presence of God.

How fitting an hour this is to muse upon the littleness of man! What is human life? That bubble on the oceanwave is its emblem. As I look forward through the gloom of years, which of the world's best gifts shall I strive to win? Shall it be fame? No! the applause of men will neither clothe nor give me sustenance. Shall I be the slave of my fellows merely to be the possessor of gold?-for that wealth, which, as soon as I am gone, will be divided among those who despised me while living? I had rather be a beggar than become rich by the base means of flattery and hypocrisy. Shall I endeavor to become powerful? Why, I am but a worm. No, no! none of these things do 1 desire.

When I am summoned to the grave, I only wish a few dear friends to remember me, until they in their turn shall follow me, as one who loved his fellow-men. I desire the wealth and peace of a contented mind; and the power to rule as a responsible governor the citadel of my heart.

A star has just fallen from heaven. As it went down into the abyss of darkness, so does man fall from the zenith of his glory into the grave. How beautiful are the passages in Scripture which allude to the uncertainty of life! Who does not remember the parable of the ten virgins? "And at midnight there was a cry made: behold the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him." How few of this slumbering multitude have their lamps trimmed and burning! How great would be the confusion, were the voice of the bridegroom (death) to enter all these dwellings! The miser, roused from his couch of straw, would press his gold to his bosom with a convulsive grasp, while a fiendish smile would pass across his haggard brow. The sinner would awake trembling at the sight of hell-for even then its realities would rush upon his mind. The Christian, with the calmness of conscious rectitude, would deck himself, and go into the street to meet the bridegroom. There too is that beautiful 66 Vision of Mirza," which also illustrates the shortness of life. The great bridge which he saw is still in existence; and it is sad to think of the thousands that have fallen through unprepared into the dark waters beneath. have as yet passed on in safety, but many of my travelling companions are gone. May it be they have been thrown on some hospitable shore. The beautiful islands which Mirza saw far beyond the bridge and deep valley are still attainable but we must first live a virtuous life, and pass through the portals of the grave. Yes! these bodies must first say to corruption, "thou art my mother; and to the worm, thou art my brother and sister." How powerful is death! Who can resist his chilly hand, or refuse to quaff the cup of "coal black wine" when it is held forth by him? "It is death alone that can make man to know himself. He tells the proud and insolent that they are but abjects, and humbles them at the instant. He takes the account of the rich man and proves him a beggar. He holds a glass before the eyes of the beautiful and makes them see therein their own deformity, and they acknowledge it. O! eloquent, just, and mighty death! whom none could advise thou hast persuaded; what none have dared thou hast ac

"Good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, I could say good night till it be morrow." New York, September, 1840.

THOUGHTS.

O why should man alone be cheerless,
When Nature smiles so gay around him?
O why should all save man be tearless,
When sorrow's shadowy spell has bound him?
The sun shines fair on grove and hill,

But not on me can fall its brightness:
My hopes are dark-my heart is chill,
And beats without its wonted lightness.
On Pleasure's stream I cast my boat-
The swelling sails by Folly driven :
But soon the bark, too frail to float,
Was shatter'd by the storms of heaven.
And I must mourn o'er wasted time,

And hours to roving fancies given-
Hours pass'd in folly-not in crime,-

The slighted, fleeting gifts of heaven.
And now that time and chance have flown,

And clouds and darkness gather o'er me;
And friends I vainly deem'd my own
Have melted like yon mist before me;
And one more lov'd than all the rest,

To whom my very thoughts were known,
Who shar'd each secret of my breast

As freely as it were her own-
She too has fled. Is all then lost?

O no! some hearts on earth remain,
As changeless as the sainted host
That heaven's high palaces contain.
My mother-dost thou love me yet,
As erst in childhood's spotless bow'rs?
O mother-canst thou e'er forget
The weakness of my wayward hours?
My mother-I have lov'd thee well-
My mother, I do love thee still:
And in my bosom oft doth swell
The thought that I have done thee ill.
Mother-I know thou wilt forgive

The follies of thine erring child:
In his own mem'ry will they live
To sting him; ev'n when thou hast smil'd.
And thou too, Mary: in thy dreams-
While angels round thy pillow hover-
O do their fitful, changing themes

Recall at times thy wand'ring lover?
Thou art the star, whose guiding light
Thro' passion's rocks has steer'd my way:
The idol of my dreams at night—
The beacon of my thoughts by day.

And

yet what boots it thou should'st love me,
While fortune frowns upon my path-
While earth around, and heav'n above me
Seem scowling on, as if in wrath?

Away! Away! such thoughts as these;
Tis worse than idle to repine:
Should life look dark, and fancy freeze,
While youth-gay, glorious youth is mine?
I'll rouse me from this darksome mood:
Hope cheers me onward like a fairy;
While love and honor point the road:

Then be my motto-Hope and Mary.

AUTUMN.

BY CHARLES LANMAN.

CARL.

Is lying.

frugal table at noon. Would that I could be with them! Listen to the sweet words of sweet Mary Howitt.

There's merry laughter in the field,

And harmless jest and frolic rout;
And the last harvest-wain goes by,
With its rustling load so pleasantly,

To the glad and clamorous harvest shout.
There are busy gleaners in the field-

The old, whose work is never done,
And eager, laughing, childish bands
Rubbing the ears in their little hands,

And singing 'neath the Autumn sun.
There are peasants in the hamlets low,

Busied among their orchard-trees,
Where the pleasant apples are red and gold,
Like token fruits of those of old

In the gardens of the Hesperides.

And boys are busy in the woods,

Gathering the ripe nuts, bright and brown;

In shady lawns the children stray

Looking for blackberries through the day,
Those berries of such old renown.

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This last stanza carries me right back to the dear little vilI have come forth under the blue canopy of Heaven, to lis-lage where I was born. I am a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, ten to the admonitions of the dying year, and to enjoy the laughing boy again. It is Saturday afternoon. The sun is A party of us chilpensive pleasure which the present aspect of nature inspires. shining brightly but not very warm. "chesnut gathering excursion" over I am alone-and on the hills. Faint and more faint, and dren are going on a We are a dozen, thoughtless, less varied, are becoming the melodies of Summer. Of all the fields and in the woods. * It is evening. the seasons, this is the one I love most tenderly, for it re- innocent, and happy boys and girls. minds me of a bright futurity. It is but a few days since We are at home, and each relating to our fond parents the the lily bloomed in the valley; the place where it burst into deeds and pleasures of the long and pleasant Saturday afternoon. O Time! thou ruthless tyrant! why dost thou life and wasted its fragrance and beauty, is hid from human observation-for the leaves of Autumn are thick above take from us the joys of childhood, so soon after we have grave. Is it not an emblem of the loved and beautiful clasped them in a fond embrace? I forget,—thou art the of the earth? I do not weep, but alas! such was the fate of appointed minister of the great Creator. In deep humility, I bow my head to the dust. a much-loved and only sister. An hundred years would not obliterate the memory of that grief. They told me she was dead, and I went trembling to the room of sorrow. There she lay, beautiful as an angel. Closed were her dark blue eyes, and the impress of her parting smile was still upon her cheek, but her spirit was fled. For sixteen summers, she had been the joy of many hearts. Her innocence was like the lily, and her beauty like the budding rose. Her present and future home is the bosom of God.

its

What a harmony there is in Autumn, what a lustre in its sky!

"Which through the summer is not heard nor seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been!" Now it is a luxury to be upon the mountains at the hour of noon. Look-the beautiful clouds are floating just above our heads-"how silently!" Far beneath is a majestic river, winding away among the distant hills, on whose banks What has become of the rose and the daisy, the butter- repose in beauty cities, towns, villages, and the humble cup and violet, that were lately smiling so sweetly in yon-abodes of poor but contented peasants. From the deep boder garden? The breath of Autumn passed over them, and they fell trembling to the earth. Where lately we beheld the red-breast, the blue-bird, the thrush, the lark, the wren, the fly-catcher and humming-bird, fluttering from tree to bush and then to flower; no sounds do we now hear, save the dropping seeds, and the murmuring wind among dry leaves. Ah yes, the music is around me which attends the return of the old pilgrim Autumn. As he came over the northern hills, he sent before him a chilly wind, as his mes-"still small voice" of nature makes us thoughtful; and senger, to warn Summer of his approach. Suddenly she seems to invite us to think upon the swiftness with which paused-listened and sighed—and, gathering up her flowing our days are passing away. How often at such an hour, robe of green, she departed for the south; the laughing have I been startled by the beating of my own heart! And zephyrs of the valleys, the woods and the hills were her the sunsets of Autumn-are they not gorgeous beyond decompanions. The swallow has gone, but we know not scription? more so than the brightest dreams of poetry? where; the bee is preparing her little cottage to shield her- How true it is, that whenever we look upon the face of self from the severities of the long Winter. The wood-nature, we behold emblems of man's condition, and of huhouse of the farmer is almost full. The wife, with the man life? In Spring every thing is full of promise; then it boys and girls, are in the orchard, gathering the mellow is we are buoyed up with the hope that the harvests will fruit. The husband is in the open field, ploughing and sow-be abundant, and that our land will teem with plenty. The ing his wheat. The great screw of the cider-press has resumed its annual duty. How will each member of the family enjoy this domestic wine, when gathered around the

som of the valley is borne upward a variety of sounds, more pleasing than the murmur of the ocean-tide. Is not that a picture drawn by the finger of the Eternal One? When we go forth in the morning of this season, we find the ground wetted with frost and mist, instead of the pearly dew. The transparent haze which rests upon the mountain-top at noon-the calmness in the air, and the clearness of the sky, now have a most mysterious influence upon the heart. The

child sporting upon the lawn, and the season, sympathize together, and nature rejoices in her virgin loveliness. We look again; and behold the cattle upon the hills and in the