The irregularities of the muse of M. are remarkably characteristic, but our friend need not be surprised at this wildness, for without it the Wit were nothing.

Need I to thee, dear C-n, tell?

He loves the license all too well,

In sound, now lowly, and now strong,

To raise THE DESULTORY SONG.

The versatility of B. is like that of Sir Sidney Smith,

Alike to him the sea, the shore,

The sword, the bridle, or the oar.

The character of a British officer reminds us of a pictureque pas age in Marmion:

Although with men of high degree

The proudest of the proud was he,
Yet, train❜d to camps, he knew the art
To win the soldier's hardy heart.
They love a captain to obey

Boistrous as March, yet fresh as May,

With open hand and brow as free,
Lover of wine and minstrelsy,
Ever the first to scale a tower,
As virtuous in a lady's bower;

Such buxom chief shall lead his host

From India's fires to Zembla's frost.

It affords the Editor the most signal satisfaction to have an opportunity of applying, with a few variations, the following spirited passage from the works of SIR WILLIAM JONES, when speaking of the early efforts of a literary society in Asia. What he said, with so much pertinence in the East, will, we ardently hope, be fully realized in the West.

When I consider, with pain, that, in this fluctuating, imperfect, and limited condition of life, such inquiries and improvements can only be made by the UNITED EFFORTS OF MANY, who are not easily brought, without some pressing inducement, or strong impulse, to coNVERGE IN A COMMON POINT, I console myself with the hope, founded on opinions, which it may have the appearance of flattery to mention, that if such a union can be effected, it must be in the capital of my country, among gentlemen and scholars with whom I have the pleasure of being intimately acquainted.

This hope has been already realized. The individuals alluded to, have with admirable alacrity and spirit, laid the foundations of a society for purposes the

most liberal. I may, perhaps, confidently foretell that an institution, so likely to afford entertainment and convey knowledge to mankind, will advance to maturity by slow, yet certain degrees; as the Royal Society, which, at first, was only a meeting of a few literary friends at Oxford, rose gradually to that SPLENDID ZENITH, at which a Halley was their Secretary and a Newton their President.

"A Medical Student," who proposes to discuss in an inaugural dissértion the properties of Opium, has done us the honour to task our memory for an appropriate motto from some classical writer, which should indicate the tranquilizing power of the blest nepenthe of the Turks. We at first thought of the dulce lenimen laborum of HORACE; but, on reflection, that very terse and beautiful phrase did not appear sufficiently comprehensive; the Faculty of remembrance then instantly flew to VIRGIL'S

Omnis curæ casusque levamen ;

as we are persuaded that this is a just eulogium of the virtues of the poppy, we offer it to our docile correspondent, and let the critics amend if they can.

We are not ignorant of the remarkable ingenuousness, not only of countenance but of character, to which our correspondent alludes. Dryden has described such a youth incomparably well:

Nature too has nobly done her part,

Infus'd into his soul a noble grace,

And blush'd a modest blood into his face.

Mira" is a perfect jilt, and the creature is aptly described, by one well acquainted with such an arrant coquet:

Her comet eyes she darts on every grace,

And takes a liking to each stripling's face.

The talents of Z. are too imperfect to accomplish the work he has designed. His poetry is something like prose, and his prose is engaged in a very criminal alliance with poetry. His composition is not only careless, but his manner is rude.

Heedless of verse, and hopeless of the crown,

Scarce half a wit, and more than half a clown.

To our great mortification and discontent, the myriad of bad poets is continually advancing, and they threaten to overrun all the territories of good sense. Against these vandals we are obliged to set in array

all the light troops of ridicule. A friend at our elbow reminds us of the self-sufficiency of these witlings in the following couplet:

Pyes, crows, and daws, poetic presents bring,

You say they squeak; but they will swear they sing.

After carefully sorting and inspecting our files of literary and scientific papers, we find a great proportion of them which is of a very meritorious character. The instant insertion of many essays, even of this description, we are often reluctantly compelled to postpone. We would, however, by way of balm and consolation to the impatience of the irritable poet, and the anxious author, suggest, that mere postponement is one thing, and absolute rejection another. In the fulness of time, certain of our correspondents will perceive that we have not wantonly, or injuriously neglected them. Men should reflect that we have many claims to adjust, many departments to fill, many tastes to please, and many criticisms to deprecate. We may not, blamelessly overload any one title in The Port Folio with superfluous matter, however wise, or elegant, however sublime, or beautiful. Besides, such is too frequently the indolence of men of letters in America, that they delay the transmission of a communication to the last moment, and then, most unreasonably, expect that, in perfect mockery of all the rules of business, and to the utter confusion of the printer, the darling essay should ap

pear immediately!

Thus far, with all possible gentleness, have we made our valid apology to others. Sed paulo majora canamus. We must now speak in somewhat of a higher mood of our own rights and duty.

An Editor of a Journal, of a plan so liberal and comprehensive as The Port Folio, is placed in an exceedingly critical, delicate, and responsible situation. If, with the pliability of the yielding CASSIO, he has not the fortitude often to say no, if not sturdily, at least resolutely, he may possibly for a season, please very young boys, or very old women, but we would not give a pin's fee for the reputation of his labours in the opinion of any man of common sense, or critical discernment. An Editor of a periodical work, which aspires to any consideration in the republic of letters, is commonly elected to his place, by the good opinion of his fellow-citizens, who have some confidence in his experience, judgment, and general powers. Inducted into his office, he must be the sole executive, and though he must never be a despot, yet the general good requires him not only to act with energy, but with a lofty sense of the vastness of his trust. The casting vote is often his, and he

must

often determine, and pretty absolutely too, in the last resort.

Without this sort of power, and this right of judgment, any man, however endowed, is but the outside, the outline, the shadow, the mockery

of an Editor. In short, though an individual, thus circumstanced, should never absurdly and arrogantly use the language of the classical boaster, Stat, pro ratione voluntas, yet the Sic volo, sic jubeo of Juvenal, must be his general motto.

Many beautiful pieces of poetry will presently sparkle like so many gems in the eyes of many a literary virtuoso. The exhibition of these rarities is merely delayed, not forgotten.

Our patrons must not reproach us too sharply for the paucity of original pieces in this miscellany, nor acrimoniously revile the Club for lack of Genius, or lack of Learning. It must be constantly remembered that in America, the legitimate family of literature is extremely small; and we may, with a few variations, apply to our own country, what SIR WILLIAM JONES once said of another:

A mere man of letters, retired from the world, and allotting his whole time to philosophical and literary pursuits, is a character almost wholly unknown in the United States of America, where every individual is a man of business, and constantly occupied either in the affairs of government, in the administration of justice, in some departments of revenue or commerce, or in one of the liberal professions; very few hours, therefore, in the day or night, can be reserved for any study, THAT HAS NO IMMEDIATE CONNEXION WITH BUSINESS AND GAIN, even by those, who are most habituated to mental application. All employments, however, in all countries, afford some intervals of leisure; and there is an active spirit in some minds, which no climate or situation in life can wholly repress, which justifies the ancient notion that a change of toil is a species of repose, and which seems to consider nothing done or learned, while any thing remains unperformed, or unknown.

The price of The Port Folio is six dollars per annum.

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