A man of letters by profession, he was totally free from literary jealousy; but, severe only to himself, and apparently unconscious of his own superiority, he gave to every one the fullest measure of applause. On his own high and scrupulous honour, his life was a practical commentary. His religious convictions were steadfast and uniform. His faith equally removed from intolerance and levity, was of that amiable cast which renders religion the guide of prosperity, and the solace of misfortune, and on his own death bed he derived from it those consolations which his writings have so often taught they were capable of imparting. To his private virtues let those who have long known himlet that wide circle of whom he was the delight and the orna⚫ment, bear testimony. So full of urbanity and gentleness were his manners—so amiable his deportment, that none could approach, without loving a man from whom there never escaped an unkind expression-who, in his graver mood, was an instructive friend; and in his social hours, a most gay, and captivating companion. However, therefore, his writings may be received by the world, or with whatever harshness its colder eye may regard the weaknesses incident to his nature, there are many who will long see with affectionate regret, the tomb which incloses a being once distinguished by all that can endear our sympathies, or excite our admiration. convey but faintly the feelThey do not aspire to decommitted to abler hands; These hasty and imperfect lines ings which his death has suggested. lineate his character. That task is nor would the writer have permitted himself even this melancholy indulgence, were it not necessary in some way to introduce a topic, on which he could neither be silent with propriety, nor trust his feelings with safety. Σ MONODY ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH DENNIE, ESQ. MYSTERIOUS Nature, at whose shrine I bow, And bath'd the landscape with a silver shower. Delighted with a prospect so serene, I stood and gaz'd on night's majestic queen; Sudden methought in tones distinct and clear, Behold! how beautiful the moonbeams break At such an hour, the spirit stirring Muse Lo, ev'ry gentle spirit is awake! Beside the margin of this peaceful lake. They call thy footsteps, from that tree of death, Lo! Friendship calls, in sorrow and dismay, Come then, my friend, O! wander forth with me, * The amiable traits in the character of the late editor of The Fort Folie are not probably so generally known as his genius. This hour has sainted Melancholy blest, To taste those joys so holy and so dear. 'Tis his alone, to relish with delight This shade affords thee no such hallow'd spell, Does Contemplation bid thy soul expand, And kindles rapture in a soul like thine.* Here Madness raves, Despair and every sprite, That haunt the sober quietude of night. Chill hang the dews upon the cypress leaves, He came how chang'd was DENNIE to my sight! * It is unnecessary to dwell on the popularity of Mr. Dennie's Lay Preacher. I turn'd again-the cold, ungenial shade, A. TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. THOUGH afflicted and embarrassed by the lamented death of the late editor of this Journal, his successors are not unmindful of the duties of their station. In all its difficulties, whether assailed by enemies, or occasionally weakened by the relaxing diligence of friends, The Port Folio has been cordially greeted by the distinct and audible voice of public approbation. To a kindness at once so indulgent and flattering, it were worse than ingratitude to be insensible. An union has therefore been formed, among some of the oldest and most steadfast contributors to this Journal, who have determined that no exertion shall be omitted, no assistance in their power withheld to support the literary reputation of The Port Folio. Unwilling to rely on the casual aid of strangers, their association is strengthened by a direct and immediate interest in the success of their own labours, the safest pledge of their sincerity and diligence. Of their own pretensions to the public favour it is not for them to speak, nor will they tempt the unwary by splendid promises which may hereafter reproach their negligence. But animated as they are, by all the motives which can stimulate the exertions of men-a zealous care that an establishment which they have so long cherished, shall not be suffered to decay-an ardent desire of literary distinction, and the impulse of interest, they may venture to hope that those who have been accustomed to look to this Journal for |