the execution of a task, by nature rendered impracticable. A latitude is therefore not only allowed, but rendered necessary. It must be left to the imagination to perform the office of the pencil, and to give the finishing touches. This very latitude admits of that species of exaggeration, or heightening which the pencil dares not aspire after. When Milton says that the stature of Satan reached the sky, it strikes us with an awful sublimity; but let this be represented on canvass, and it sinks into burlesque. As painting cannot, for the cause abovementioned, take the latitude of poetry, so neither can poetry, from the same cause, adopt the precision of the pencil. Dr. Darwin always offends against this rule, and is nothing more than a painter in words. Every appearance is drawn out with such minutiæ of detail, that nothing is left for the fancy of the reader to complete; and this, instead of exciting pleasure, creates disgust. For instance, when Cupid is represented by him as snatching the thunderbolt from Jove, we are told, he

"Grasp'd with illumin'd hands each flaming shaft

His tingling fingers shook, he stamp'd and laugh'd.”

Here to represent the hand of Cupid illuminated by the thunderbolt, while in the attitude of breaking it, would be a delightful exercise for the pencil; but when we employ words, the figure is too precise to excite pleasure. In the volume before us, when Mr. Shee wishes to produce a reverance for the art of the painter, without condescending to particulars, he constantly avails himself of that generality of expression which poetry admits.

"Whether on Titian's golden pinions borne,

Bath'd in the bloom of Heav'n's immortal morn,
Thou sunward take thy sympathetic flight,

To sport amidst the progeny of light."

A reader of this passage would conclude, that Milton was the personage alluded to; but, we find him, on further reading, to be Sir Joshua Reynolds: that Titian was remarkable for the brilliancy of his colouring; that his exhibitions consisted of angelic subjects, and that Sir Joshua Reynolds followed his example. So, on the other hand, when poetry aims at distinctness of

impression, Shee calls the pencil in aid of the lyre. For instance, when Mr. Shee laments, as a poet, the death of Gainsborough, an excellent artist, he applies to one of his own pictures to excite our sensibility in his behalf.

"Sad o'er his grave, regardless of the storm,

The weeping woodman bends his toil-worn form;
His dog half conscious hears his master's mourn,
Looks in his furrowed face and whines forlorn."

All this is painting in the outline in its plainest sense, and is precise as it can be without weakening the impression. Had he gone on to have told us the colour of the dog-his attitude, the drapery of the woodman, we should have rewarded his labours with a smile, different from that of approbation. We learn, that the woodman was, by his grief, rendered unconscious of the storm-that his dog participated in his master's grief, and this is all the precision it is in the power of poetry to bestow. The poet refers us to a picture drawn by the hand of Gainsborough, gives us the outline of the figure, and leaves the disposition of the drapery and attitude to our fancy to fill up. As Mr. Shee has published another volume, we shall probably have, hereafter, occasion to notice it; and not to trespess on the reader's patience, we conclude for the present.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO-MY GARDEN, NO. I.

HEIGHO! methinks I hear some of your readers exclaim, what, more periodical works? The remark is certainly founded on experience. The multitude of similar publications, which have been protruded on the notice of the public, in the literary meridian of Europe, since the days of the Tattler and Spectator, has nearly precluded novelty. Scarce a single magazine appears, without being sufficiently filled with weak Monitors, or trifling Recorders; and that country has become almost saturated with their eternal sameness. In this western quarter of the world, they have much more the appearance of an innova

tion. But I thought I could discern new scenes which had not yet flashed upon the imagination, novel subjects of disquisition which had never employed the pen of authors in the eastern hemisphere. It is also highly reasonable, that this country, a combination of extravasated portions from all the nations of Europe, contains very original and eccentric characters. Such then, are my reasons for writing. A youthful author is naturally diffident, on appearing before the criticising eye of the public; therefore, the brilliant, yet nervous luxuriance of Burke, the sublime, the solemn energy of Dr. Johnson, or the matchless elegance of Addison, is not to be expected. Nor does the author, though gifted with much of that ardent ambition, which distinguishes youth, ever expect to soar so high: if he can afford some variety to the sameness of a dull hour, his intention is fulfilled; whether his means are adequate to those ends, the world must determine.

The pleasure which a tasteful garden affords, every admirer of nature has experienced. The regular insipidity of a common garden, I would not here be supposed to advocate. No! the great irregular wildness or the sweet simplicity of nature is also my garden. Whether she present the proud sublimity of the "cloud capt" mountain, over savage rocks the hoarse dashing of the cataract, or the mazy wanderings of some sweet stream, now "lost in shade, now shining in the sun." These are scenes which ever delight me, which have ever pleased the world; for how long have we listened to the same rural themes though sung by different poets, with apparent ecstasy.

The analogy which a garden bears to the world, and to literature, is in some instances obvious. How often do we see flowers glittering in all the splendour of colour, whose real worth is trifling, when minutely examined. How often do we see pride dressed in the most gaudy magnificence; sustained by immense riches, and commanding the respect of the world; yet how little valuable would we find an analyzation. We discover plants, though possessing a very disgusting appearance, yet containing medical or alimentary qualities highly beneficial to mankind. Frequently persons whose outward forms are of the coarsest mould, and who are dressed in the

roughest habit, possess those great requisites of genius, ardency of fancy, and majesty of soul. Spots of land which possess the most desolate appearance, when they experience the care of the discerning gardener, are soon clothed with all the luxuriance of vegetation; so the darkest subjects when illuminated by the piercing soul of genius, dart on the mind with the greatest truth and lustre. Having thus traced some similarity between my title, and the world, I here enter on my new situation, as a gardener of literature.

My garden is my scene of reflection, and of rational amusement. If I wish to indulge myself in that pleasing melancholy, which is sometimes so grateful to the imagination, I repair to my garden; when the brilliant west glows in the setting sun, or more beautiful, when the purple tints of evening linger in the darkening vale. Here to view the rose, which in the morning bloomed with all the freshness of a virgin, now faded, all that beauty fled. Who has not observed persons in the bloom of youth, with talents that would render them worthy of any situation, involved in the giddy vortex of dissipation; there whirled from folly to vice, with such rapidity, that they are soon rendered callous to every sensation of virtue or honor, and end in torment a despicable life. Others, like the modest violet, depressed by the cold hand of poverty, or scorn of pride, fly with pleasure from an unhappy world; yes, doubly miserable to the exquisite feelings of neglected talents. Such thoughts as these always humble my pride, they teach me the vanity of human expectations, and learn me to consider as a fairy dream, the hope that real happiness is to be found in the present world.

It is not to be expected, that such a youthful cultivator of literature, should present a perfect garden; but if I should collect a chaplet, that will afford any pleasure to my readers, I shall expect the praises due. After the manner of the World No. 1, I hereby declare no person shall be called witty, who calls my garden a dull garden, a tasteless, a gloomy garden, a weedy garden, &c.

THE PLANETARY SYSTEM OF THE HEART.

BY AUGUSTUS VON KOtzebue.

A STUDIOUS astronomer was taking great pains to instruct a lady in the system of Descartes, according to which, the groups of heavenly bodies consist only of vortices, and those bodies are mutually attracted by nothing but vortices. "My head turns round already," said the fair scholar. "Whether this system is adapted to the heavens, I have not the least desire to know, but I am pleased with it, because in the same manner you may explain the system of the human heart, and that is my world." The astronomer looked at her with astonishment. He had studied the heavens a great deal, but he knew nothing at all concerning the human heart.

"Hear," continued the lady, "how I represent the matter to myself. Every person is such a Cartesian vortex. We constantly require an æther to float in; this æther is Vanity, as the fundamental principle of all our motions; the Heart, the centre of the vortex, is the sun around which the Passions revolve as planets. Each planet has its moons; round Love, for instance, revolves Jealousy. They mutually illumine each other by reAlexion; but all their light is borrowed from the heart, whose second planet, Ambition, is not so near to it as love, and therefore receives from it a less degree of warmth. Ambition has likewise its moons, many of which shine extremely bright; for instance, Bravery, Magnanimity; while others reflect but a dismal light, as Haughtiness, Arrogance, Flattery. The largest planet in this system, the Jupiter of the human heart, is Selfinterest, which has numberless satellites. Reason has also a little corner; she is our Saturn, who steals away thirty years before we can perceive that she has made one revolution. The comets in my system are no other than, Meditations, Reflections; which, after many aberrations, get, in a short time, into the vortex of the passions. Experience has taught us, that they have neither a pernicious nor a beneficial influence; they excite in us a little fear, and that is all: the vortex continues its course as before."