of hidden meanings, or for the destruction of shams; who would spoil the natural beauty of a landscape, for the sake of bringing to light some blasted tree or dismal cavern; and who proclaim their devotion to the worship of Truth, by showing her naked before a whole rabble of satyrs and bacchanals. We confess to no sympathy for any thing of this kind. We would shield the objects of our veneration and regard from such signal notoriety; and particularly those exalted characters, who having passed through the fiery ordeal, are now stamped as sterling by the general approbation of mankind. The nature of all poetry is essentially the same. It is impossible to define it in special terms. It is equally impossible to lay down any particular rules for its execution as an art, or to measure either its progress or decline by laws similar to those which regulate the different branches of physical and moral science. Seeing is said to be believing. But in poetry, something more is required. A certain degree of faith must be given to the created deceptions of the mind, before the im agination can embody those creations in such a form as to be at once recognized as the breath and spirit or inspiration of all natural acquirements. Then it is, that a man becomes a poet. Then it is, that he loses all knowledge of poetry as an art, by losing himself in the art itself. If he can not keep up this deception, he degenerates into a connoisseur or a critic. We apply these remarks to Wordsworth in qualified terms; in fact, their application must always be qualified, as they are but general approximations towards the expression of a felt and pervading influence. The idea of being a poet by profession, is ordinarily hooted at and ridiculed as something absurd and incongruous. The generality of mankind believe in natural inspiration, precisely as they believe in cardinal virtues. They think that in all the other pursuits of life, including those which come under the description of the fine arts, education, and industry, and perseverance are all necessary to secure a lasting name; in the province of poetry alone-whose universality extends over all knowledge, whose impassioned feelings are uttered in every language, and whose silent impressions have been felt in bringing back things gone out of mind, and in restoring or renewing things destroyed--do they think that some species of involuntary enthusiasm, that sees shapes in the clouds, and hears voices in the winds, is to take the place of that information and experience, without which no imitator of nature can convey to others a just and corresponding idea of his own impressions? Like painting and sculpture, poetry is a copy from nature. The execution of the former indeed, is confined more strictly within certain mechanical limits. All of them imply skill and design. The boy who carves his boat, and fits it completely with sails and rigging, and the man who sketches a house, with every door and window perfect in it, are neither of them necessarily sculptors or painters. They imitate exactly what they undertake; and when they have done this, they have done all. And yet this is a part-and a very large part, tooof the profession of those arts. The painter must learn the use of the pencil, and the sculptor must understand the use of the chisel. Without them, they would both remain mute and inglorious. If we now turn to a sister art, we shall probably find all that seems to be wanting here. Any man who by nature understands the power of music, or even he who has heard of the extraordinary effects produced by this mysterious agency, will be at no lóss to comprehend what is that spirit, or breathing, which is the life and beauty of every thing in nature, and whose expression must be represented, in some degree at least, by every design of genius, and every labor of art. In these, natural taste is the foundation of all proficiency. The first attempts are, and most generally will be, feeble and unsatisfactory. The greatest masters have risen by slow degrees. The true artist will persevere from one degree of progress to another; from the bending shrub to the lofty tree; from sea to land; from earth to heaven; from the inanimate body to the human form divine,-everywhere and all the time growing in grace and expression, and for ever approaching, but never reaching, the full fruition of all his hopes, and the overflowing fountain of all his labors. If he be inspired, it will be the inspiration of love, and not the rapture of fanaticism. We shall continue in our next the more particular examination of the poetry of Wordsworth. THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. ACT. (TO-MORROW.) No. 2. TO-MORROW! Wherefore not to-day? Thing unbegun Is never done; Ready Act alone is "Yea." To-Morrow! Wherefore not to-day? Good-will in need Is prompt of deed; To-Morrow! Wherefore not to-day? The yet to wait Comes still too late; Done at once alone is "Yea." FATE. (CIRCUMSTANCE AND CHANCE.) No. 3. CIRCUMSTANCE and chance will die, Change or pass, Like the wind, the cloud in sky, Leaf or grass. Chance and circumstance must take What thou willest, they must make, Circumstance and chance will end Soon or late Break them to thy will, or bend Self is Fate. ROSENBERG. THE CHRONICLES OF PERSEPOLIS; OR, FIVE YEARS IN THE LIFE OF A GENTLEMAN-FARMER IN THE KINGDOM OF NEW-JERSEY. BY MR. QUIGG. CHAPTER SEVENTH. MISS WADDLE'S "BEAU IDEAL." SHORTLY after our tea-party in honor of Mr. Jones Cartwright, we were invited to a little party at Miss Waddle's. Before relating the events of that evening, and their consequences, we must introduce the reader to Miss Waddle, and the most distinguished "personages" of that "ilk," who adorned "good society" in Persepolis. Miss Waddle was the only daughter of a widowed mother. An early inclination for literary pursuits had led her to the circulating library of the village in which they lived, and the circulating library had led her quite away from the village, into a pleasant little land of her own, situated in a very remote and impossible country, where she had built herself a castle of the fashion called "Spanish." The lord of this country was an interesting young gentleman, of acute sensibilities and large moustache; between whom and herself, at some indefi nite period of time, a matrimonial alliance, she felt assured, was destined to take place. Her native village, and all which it inherited, fell, therefore, into great contempt with her, and she turned up her nose continually at the "nice young gentlemen" who measured tape in its stores, or the sturdy young farmers who, upon festival occasions, were the ornaments of its ball-room. In short, her distaste for what delighted her more unsophisticated friends became so notorious, that no one felt any surprise at seeing her sitting alone at all such merrymakings, taking no part in the festivities, but looking rather as if she were mentally rehearsing the favorite ballad of "My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here," and waiting with great patience and resignation for the advent of the distinguished stranger, who was winning a large degree of glory in foreign countries, solely for the purpose of coming back with a star shining upon his breast"-to say, "Adorable Anna Maria, behold me at your feet. I oft have heard that you were fair, but report has done you injustice. You are loveliest of the lovely. I have culled in other lands, these many sultry suns, a bouquet of unfading glory-take it, my Anna Maria She always closed her eyes, heaved a fluttered sigh, pressed her hand upon her throbbing breast when the ideal stranger "said he loved," and, rising, left the place, with swimming, Juno gait. So that in a little while the vil lage belles, heartless wretches that they were, said as she left"Anny Maria has gone to look for her beau ideal." Wait awhile, ladies. Every dog has his day, and every pussy-cat two afternoons and Anna Maria Waddle's sun is not yet set. She is still upon the sunny side of thirty. Indeed she was so short and plump, and had such rosy cheeks and curly hair, and such a love of a little "nez retroussé," that time shook hands with her without leaving the prints of his fingers anywhere upon her firm and glistening flesh; and if she were single until thirty it would be greatly to her credit and the credit of her constancy for waiting till that age for the return of her beau ideal from other lands, and entirely scorning the temptations held out by the periodical offers of the village schoolmaster, and the "rising young lawyer" of the next town. It is, perhaps, useless to mention that Miss Waddle was possessed, in her own right, of a snug little farm in the vicinity, and ten thousand dollars in United States sixes. Neither of these things ever entered the minds either of the schoolmaster or the lawyer, as a matter of course. The village of Persepolis, like all the other godchildren of |