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that, except as to matters the demonstration whereof is tangible to the senses, men do not see the reality of any thing; but look at all truths through the medium of their passions and prejudices, their notions and habits of thinking; so that thinking they see the thing itself, they see in fact only a colored and distorted image thereof. Why is not another man, who totally disagrees with me on any question, say of politics, as likely to be right as I am? I think, nay I feel sure, I am right, and cannot understand how any man can help but think as I do. And equally sure is he that he is right. Is there any particular reason, in such case, why I should beyond dispute be in the right, and he beyond dispute be in the wrong?

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WITH what a charitable and generous conclusion 'Sir Iohn Maundeville, Kt.' winds up his Voiage and Travaile, translated out of Latyn into Frensche, and azen out of Frensche into Englyssche, for Lordes and Knyghtes, and other noble and worthi men, that conne Latyn but litylle!'

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Wherefore,' says he, I preye to alle the Rederes and Hereres of of this Boke, zif it plese hem, that thei wolde preyen to God for me; and I shalle preye for hem. And alle tho that seyn for me a Pater Noster, with an Ave Maria, that God forzeve me my Synnes, I make hem Parteneres, and graunte hem part of alle the gode Pilgrymages and of alle the gode Dedes that I have don, zif any be to his pleasaunce: and noghte only of tho, but of alle that evere I shalle do unto my lyfe's ende. And I beseeche Almighty God, fro whom alle Godenesse and Grace comethe fro, that he vouchesaf, of his excellent Mercy and habundant Grace, to fulle fille hire soules with inspiracioun of the Holy Gost, in makynge defence of alle hire gostly Enemyes here on Erthe, to hire Salvacioun, bothe of Body and Soule; to worschipe and thankynge of Him, that is three and on, withouten begynnynge and withouten endynge; that is, withouten qualitee good, and without quantytee gret; that in alle places is present, and alle things conteynynge; the whiche that no goodnesse may amende, ne nor evelle empeyre; that in perfeyte Trynytee lyvethe and regnethe GOD, be alle worldes and be alle tymes. Amen! Amen! Amen!'

A solemn peroration. The old Knight obviously thought he had a large stock of 'gode dedes,' the which to share with the needy, inasmuch as he offers to divide them and his 'gode pilgrimages' with every one that would say for him a Pater Noster and Ave Maria. Without feeling certain as to his solvency in that particular, or sure of the promised compensation, I will at least wish him forgiveness for his sins lies included.

A traveller, to write a readable book, should be essentially given to gossipry. A stiff stateliness is no where so much out of place. Nay, even in history and biography, the lapse of time generally establishes the gossipry of the book as its only valuable feature. Who reads Boswell's Life of Johnson for aught beside? It is the great charm of Froissart and De Comines, and makes the writings of

Montaigne inimitable. Homer rather indulges in it; and we have learned at last, that Aristophanes and Terence are more valuable to one who desires to gain an insight into the spirit of Grecian and Roman life, than Thucydides or Livy. No book, after Montaigne and Elia, is so delightful to me as a genuine old traveller like Maundeville. History too generally shows us merely the husk and shell of past ages; but gossip, the same in all times, makes us feel that those who have lived before us were truly our brethren in thought and feeling. Nor need we always turn our eyes toward antiquity, to discover excellence. Eöthen and the Crescent and Cross are the two most delightful books that have for many a week fallen within the circle of my reading. And there is a countryman of ours, who in his earlier books of 'travaille' afforded me some very pleasant hours. Amid the old ruins of Yucatan he seems to think it his privilege to be dull.

I wonder if it is not quite as pleasant to sit, of a cold clear winter evening here in the south, growing more and more pensive and selfcontented under the soothing influences of a glowing fire of coal and a shaded lamp, with the kettle, punch-promising, murmuring and whispering before the grate; and dreamingly to travel, step by step, with the writer whose book is at your elbow or on your knee, through Araby and Ind, with him to sail upon the Golden Horn, or scale the Himalaya, as it was in reality for him to do the travelling so glowingly related? One has the enjoyment without the hardship, and can be at home again whenever he pleases, by merely giving his nose a gentle tweak, and so awaking from his dreams. Tom, you dog, the hot water!

I have travelled somewhat in my time, and can conscientiously avouch that the principal pleasure thereof has been in the anticipation and recollection. Indeed, the time of actual travel was chiefly valuable, like a post-obit bond, for the future. Three months on prairie and mountain without bread or salt, are probably not quite so pleasant, however, as scampering on horseback through sunny Spain and flowery Syria, to say nothing of Italy and Greece.

In the mean time, while I cannot travel myself, I will not omit to express my gratitude to those who so generously, by pleasant and readable books, share with us the delight which they have experienced in journeying and voyaging. Indeed I think that even for a dull book we ought to be grateful, and to take it as a favor that the author confers upon us, unless it be totally and irredeemably stupid. It is a rare thing to meet a book in which if one searches diligently, he may not find some grains of gold among the dull dry sand, some sprinkling of white wheat among the chaff. I thank the writer, at any rate, for his good intentions, and his willingness to afford me enjoyment. One must be a churl indeed, to whom if a peasant offers even a cup of sour milk, with a kind word and liberal look, he rejects the kindly-offered gift with a snarl of discontent. Critics in general seem to look on books as an imposition upon the world. I do not regard them in that light; but as gifts, kindly intended, even if they are valueless. Nor are they without value.

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Never. The intimate thoughts of any man living, if he can and will communicate them to me, are of value to me. Therefore do I especially feel a hot anger at the currish growlings and snarlings which often greet a young poet upon the birth of his first book. How deeply an ill-natured criticism wounds, the world does not guess, nor, I think, the critic imagine. For few men are cruel by nature; and surely, if many of those who write so trenchantly and truculently upon the faults of some first book of poems, could but know how acutely the author feels the harsh rebuke or bitter jeer, their better feelings would counsel the substitution of mild and friendly advice for sneering scorn and biting ridicule. Most critics perhaps feel that they have that singular advantage mentioned by Sir Thomas More, in his letter to Peter Giles, prefatory to the Utopia. Some,' says he,' when they meet in taverns, take upon them among their cups to pass censures very freely upon all writers; and, with a supercilious liberty, to condemn every thing they do not like in which they have the advantage that a bald man has, who can catch hold of another by the hair, while the other cannot return the like upon him. They are safe as it were of gun-shot, since there is nothing in them considerable enough to be taken hold of. And some are so unthankful, that even when they are well pleased with a book, yet they think they owe nothing to the author; and are like those rude guests, who, after they have been well entertained at a good dinner, go away when they have glutted their appetites, without so much as thanking him that treated them. But who would put himself to the charge of making a feast for men of such nice palates, and so different tastes, who are so forgetful of the civilities that are due?' And this last suggestion is worthy to be considered. If the critic does not like the dinner that is set before him, he is not compelled to eat it; and no one but he who pays for his dinner has a right to damn it.

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THOU lone and friendless little one' my heart is sad for thee,
For ne'er by doating father thou wert dandled on his knee;

And e'er thy lisping lips had learned with half-formed words to play,
Thy mother, by remorseless Death, was torn from thee away!

Thou, like a bird of unfledged wing, exposed to every blast,
Upon life's stormy wilderness from cradle-dreams wert cast,
To bide the rains of cold neglect, the tender heart that chill,
And early learn in sorrow's tones thy tiny harp to trill.

But HE who silence keeps in heaven to hear the raven's cry,
Has never turned from thee His mild and ever-open eye;
For though a thousand birds of sin are hovering o'er thy way,
Thine innocence to wiles of none has fallen yet a prey.

Beneath the wings of Heavenly Trust a shelter early seek,
Then, though thy home on this cold earth may be on mountains bleak;
Though storms should make thee shrink at times, and notes of sorrow pour,
Yet doubly sweet will be thy song, when life's brief years are o'er.

VOL. XXVII.

31

J. CLEMENT.

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BLOWN DOWN AT BURLINGTON, VERMONT, IN THE GALE OF THE FOURTH OF APRIL LAST.

BY JOHN H RHEYN.

I.

WITH royal form and changeless verdure graced,
Through ages long this lofty Pine hath stood.
What though the soil were rude,

A hill of solid stone?

By patient toil his gnarled roots embraced
A sterner strength to reinforce their own;
Twisted round the stubborn rocks,
They have laughed at tempest-shocks,
When all the tender nurslings of the vale
Bowed down before the gale.

11.

Here, through the winters long, his tufted head,
Serene and cheerful, o'er the dreary scene
Raised its perennial green;

And when 'neath summer's glow
The sultry earth grew faint, his arms outspread
Their shade paternal o'er the vale below;
High among his branches here,

Birds have nestled year by year,

Here fledged their broods, and carolled loud and long
Their morn and even song.

III.

Now fondly round his fallen trunk we stand,
Lamenting o'er the storm whose cruel rage
Spared not his green old age;
The little birds that come

On wing unwearying from a warmer land
To hail with rapturous song their northern home,
Pause, as round and round they sail,
Trilling forth a plaintive wail;

And all with sorrow say, with pity see:

'Here lies a noble tree!'

IV.

Thus, gentle reader, though thy portion stands
Mid rugged scenes whose rough and barren soil
Demands unceasing toil,

Wing not thy lazy flight

To far-off fields and softer, sunnier lands;
See how the Pine uprears his lordly height
Where his sturdy sires had grown,
Planted deep on hills of stone;

While thistle-seeds go flaunting to and fro

On all the winds that blow.

Strike deep thy roots, clasp firm the stubborn rocks,
By patience turn thy weakness into strength,
And thus shalt thou at length

See round thee, far and near,

Transplanted nurslings torn by tempest-shocks
Which thou canst laugh to scorn; while year by year,
Broad thy friendly shade shall grow,
Sheltering all the vale below;

And thy loved brood, secure from hostile harms,
Shall nestle in thine arms.

VI.

Thus shall thy branch be strong, thy head be high;
And when, in green old age, thy stately form
Bends to the rising storm,

And falls to rise no more,

Soft on thy native soil thy limbs shall lie,
Not tossed, like drift-wood, on a stranger shore;
Round thy fallen trunk shall stand
Friends and sons, a loving band,

Whose tongues shall say, whose weeping eyes shall see:
'Here lies a noble Tree!'

Burlington, Vermont, Jan. 13, 1846.

THE

SAINT

LEGER

PAPERS.

NUMBER NINE.

OUR Voyage was full of those incidents which youth most love; exciting incidents, quickly succeeding each other, of novel character, quite out of the common course; healthful, heart-stirring incidents, serving to break up old associations, causing the mind to form new estimates of every thing; in short, effecting such an essential change in all the feelings, that it seemed an entire change of being. The strange appearance of things in the different islands at which we touched; the singular manners and customs of the inhabitants; their isolated position with respect to all the world, and our own isolated position with respect to them, gave an additional interest to our voyage. Then came the storm and the hurricane, (for it rarely only stormed there,) around those bleak, wild, surf-beaten land-marks, where tempests prevailed continually.

But as I am not writing a book of travels, or a geographical history, or a 'tour' of any sort, I shall not depart from the plan I have adopted, although I might devote many pages to a description of all that we saw and heard in the Hebrides. Possessing in my eyes, as I have before mentioned, so much of interest, it is with the more difficulty that I repress the desire to copy from my journal a full history of this voyage. But I will repress it; for if I allow myself to deviate from my course at this stage of the narrative, I shall find more abundant excuse for a like deviation at every succeeding stage.

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