tailed; but we shall transcribe it at full length from the original edition of 1781, as singularly characteristic of this powerful poet. FRANCIS and DANIEL. Daniel. [brings in a light.] Sir. Francis. No, I do not tremble-it was but a dream. The dead are not risingyet, at least. I am very well. Daniel. You are as pale as death, your voice faulters. Francis. I have something of fever. When the pastor comes, say that I am in a fever, and am to be bled to-morrow. Daniel. Shall I drop you a few drops of cordial upon some sugar. Francis. Yes, on sugar. The pastor will not be here yet. My voice is not quite returned. Get the cordial. Daniel. Give me then the key of the cupboard in the other room. Francis. No, stay; or I'll go with you. I cannot bear to be alone. I might faint if I was left alone. Daniel. You are really ill. Francis. Yes-in fact-that's all. Sickness racks the brain, and breeds wild dreams. Dreams portend nothing, do they, Daniel? They arise from the stomach, and mean nothing. I had just now a ridiculous dream.-[He faints away.] Daniel. Jesus Christ! what is the matter? Conrade, Martin, help here! [shaking his master.] Recover yourself. Holy Mary save us; it will be thought I have murdered him. Lord have mercy upon me! Francis. [confused.] Away, loathsome skeleton, why dost thou grapple me-do the dead rise? Daniel. He is out of his head. Francis. [recovering] Where am I? Daniel, what did I say? Do not heed it: 'twas false, whatever it was.-Help me up -this is only a fit of vertigo-because, I did not rest quiet. Daniel. Let me go, and call Conrade, and send for a physician-you want support. Francis. Stay-put me on the sofa-and sit down by me. You are a discreet man, and I must tell you Daniel. Better not now-take your rest, first. Francis. No: I beg you to hear all-and laugh me in the face aloud. I thought I had been feasting like a prince, my heart was full of good things, and I laid me down in high glee on one of the grass-banks in the castle garden, when on a sudden-it was about noon- on a sudden; but do laugh at my absurdity. Daniel. On a sudden-what? Francis. On a sudden a monstrous clap of thunder burst on my slumbering ear. I got on my feet staggering and trembling. When lo! the whole horizon seemed to beMONTHLY MAG. No. 359. come one sheet of fire. Mountains, towns, and forests melted like wax in a furnace. Howling winds arose which swept heaven, earth, and sea. Then resounded as from brazen trumpets : "Earth give up thy dead, thy dead, o' sea." And the naked ground began to crack, and to cast up skulls, skeletons, and bones, which clustered into human shapes, and streamed in immense throngs, a living deluge. looked up, and saw myself at the foot of a thundering Sinai, toward which the crowds above and behind me were pressing; and on the summit of the mountain, on three smoaking eminences, sat three persons, from whose countenances every created being must shudder back with awe. Daniel. This was the last judgment. I Francis. Ay--is it not absurd enough? Then came forward one, whose countenance was as the stars, who had in his hand an iron seal, which he held between the east and the west, saying: "Eternal, Holy, Just, Immutable, there is but One Truth and One Virtue, wo to the doubting worm. Then stepped forward a second, who held in his hand a mirror, which he spread between the east and the west; and I was affrighted, and all the people; for we saw ourselves reflected in it, as snakes, and tigers, and leopards. Then stepped forward a third, who lifted a brazen balance, and said: "Come hither ye children of Adam, I weigh your thoughts in the balance of my wrath, and your works with the weights of my anger." Daniel. God have mercy upon me. Francis. Pale as snow we all stood; and anxious expectation throbbed in, our bosoms. And I thought I heard my name named first from the thunders of the mountain; my teeth chattered, and my inmost marrow froze. Now the balance began to ring, and the rock to thunder; and the hours flew past one after another, and each dropped into the left hand scale of the balance a deadly sin. Daniel. The Lord forgive you. Francis. He did not forgive me. The scale swelled to a mountain and for a while the precious blood of redemption flowed into the other, and kept it even. At last came an old man,* bent down with sorrow, who had bitten the flesh from his own arm with raging hunger, and all eyes turned away with horror. I knew the man. He plucked a grey lock from his temples, and cast it into the scale of guilt, which at once sunk to the abyss: and the other kicked the beam, and scattered in the air the squandered blood of redemption. Then I heard a voice issue from the smoke of the *It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say that this figure represents his father, whom he supposes he had starved to death. 2 F mountain: mountain: "Mercy and forgiveness to all the sinners of the earth, thou only art re jected."--[after a long pause.] Why don't you laugh? Daniel. Dreams come from God. Had Francis dreamt all this, he would have hesitated to relate it, and would only, in his first terror, have let escape the critical confession; still the entire passage is conceived with colossal boldness and extent of fancy; it is worthy of the author of the Apocalypse; and is perhaps better fitted for epic than dramatic use, as the excess of detail clogs that rapid march of emotion which scenic dialogue requires. The χαλκοπες Εριννυς is there, who can imprint her tread in a heart of marble; but the horror exceeds the limits of welcome excitement. It is nobler, however, so to err with Schiller than to be correctly right in the lamer forms of Lessing. Young, in his Revenge, has given to our country a specimen of this class of drama, in which the style, the sentiments, the personages, are alike hy; perbolic, and therefore in keeping; and he wisely preferred to prose a metrical diction, as more akin to bombast. But Schiller's force is decidedly greater than that of Young; although it was at this period less curtailed and pruned by taste and judgment. (To be continued.) For the Monthly Magazine. NEWS FROM PARNASSUS. No. X. THE BACKWOODSMAN, A POEM; by J. K. PAULDING, Philadelphia. A mention of which, some years MERICAN literature, the very since, would have drawn forth a with-. ering smile of contempt from the selfsufficient critics of our own country, and opened a boundless field for the display of their captious and fastidious powers, is daily becoming, by its rapid and marked improvement, an object of increasing interest and attraction, both to the scholar and the philanthropist. The former has already been indebted to it, for many a welcome addition to his intellectual banquet; and to the latter, its acknowledged progress is a source of the most pleasurable feelings, because it affords the strongest proof that can be adduced of the growth of the human mind, and the advancement of the best interests of social life among our Trans-atlantic brethren. The style of their state papers has long exhibited a model of accuracy and clearness in that department of composition; and many of their recent prose publications, both on serious and entertaining subjects, may fairly dispute the palm with most European productions. But it is in the greatly increased demand for works of poetry, that we perceive the most striking indication of the rapid strides that refinement and cultivation are making in the United States. Poetry, if not a mental superfluity, is, at least, a mental luxury; and an appetite for it is seldom felt among any nation, till an adequate supply of what is necessary and indispensable has been first obtained. Indeed, the existence of such an appetite warrants the presumption, that, as far as the possession of the useful and requisite arts of life are concerned, they have already acquired what Lord Bacon calls," the habit of being happy." Under the influence of these opinions, it has afforded us no small pleasure to observe the awakened sensibility to the "magic power of song," which has long been strengthening with the American public; and we feel considerable gratification in introducing the present poem to the notice of our readers, both because the author has presented no unworthy or unacceptable tribute to the wreath of the Columbian muse, and because his work is an additional evidence, that the eager demand of his countrymen for poetical literature, may meet with an adequate supply in the resources of native genius, without the humbling consciousness of being wholly or constantly dependent on foreign talent for their intellectual entertainment. The tale of the poem is extremely simple, indeed, we almost think, too much so. It is the narrative of Basil, an industrious labourer, near the Hudson river, who imprudently marrying very early in life, and having a numerous infant family to provide for, is exposed, for some years, to the united evils of hard labour and severe poverty. At length, in a very cold winter, he is deprived by sickness of the use of his limbs for a considerable time, and, on his recovery, having no prospect before him, in his present situation, but a recurrence of the same sufferings which he has already experienced, he resolves, undismayed by the appalling accounts given by his neighbours, of the dangers and privations to which he is about to expose himself, and their earnest at tempts tempts to dissuade him from his project, to emigrate further west, and join the settlers, in the Back woods, where he is informed that the means not only of procuring a comfortable subsistence, but of realizing an ample competence, are attainable by active and persevering industry. The poem proceeds to give an account of Basil's journey, his settling, and his gradual prosperity. It then relates the interruption of the peace of the settlers by the attack of the Indian tribes in their vicinity, led on by an enthusiast among them, who imagines himself a prophet, and by a European renegade. With the defeat of the savages, and a patriotic apostrophe to the writer's native country, the poem rather abruptly concludes. Our readers will probably agree with us in opinion, that these are rather jejune materials for a poem of six cantos. The tale, however, is well told; the interest is sustained throughout, and is much stronger than would be imagined from reading a mere sketch of the narrative. The incidents and characters, particularly the latter, do great credit to the author's powers of conception. The pictures of the renegade, and of the enthusiast savage, are admirably drawn. We have seldom seen a more vigorous and just description than that of the operation of deep rooted revenge, in the mind of the vindictive fanatic, till it creates that mixture of superstition and cunning, which, alternately the deceiver and the deceived has so often rendered subservient to its own purposes, the ignorance and credulity of mankind. The interest attached to the delineating of local scenery, must certainly be more fully felt by us than by those who are familiar with the scenes described: but they are marked by what may be termed internal evidences of fidelity, and are in general richly poetical. It is probably as an apology for the paucity of events in the tale, that the author tells us in the preface, that the story was merely assumed, as affording an easy and natural way of introducing a greater variety of scenery, as well as more diversity of character. Indeed were the tale much more meagre than it is, we should feel grateful to the writer for having made it the vehicle of poetry abounding with the beauties of the art, and in many instances of the highest order. But it is high time to terminate these prefatory remarks, and enable our readers, by extracts from the work itself, to judge of the merits of the poet, particularly as we feel assured that they will be productive of more entertainment than any criticisms of ours. The following passages are no unfavourable specimens of descriptive talent: the first two will probably suggest to most who read them the recollection of a very popular poet of our own country. "The moon, high wheel'd the distant hills When flowers put forth, and sprightly song- He is no honest son of mother earth, We are her children; and when forth she Dress'd in her wedding suit of varied dyes, And love to nestle in her blooming arms. . leave. Never did brighter glories meet the eye, Like golden islets, scatter'd far and wide, In the following simile, there is a pathetic and natural sweetness too rarely found in poetry : "So when the wand'ring grandsire of our On Ararat had found a resting-place, Mingling on ev'ry side with one blue sky. Then the round hillocks, and the meadows Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are In ling'ring hope, somewhere perchance to spy, Within the silent world, some living thing, Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing, Or man or beast:-alas! was neither there? Nothing that breath'd of life in earth or air. 'Twas a vast silent mansion, rich and gay, Whose occupant was drown'd the other day; A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom Amid the melancholy of the tomb; A charnel house, where all the human race Had pil'd their bones in one wide restingplace, Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of woe, And sadly sought the lifeless world below!" In the portrait of the renegade, we have an excellent description of mere personal courage, unconsecrated by any virtuous feeling: "One sole and lonely virtue still he had, That only made the villain doubly bad, "Twas courage, not that virtue of the brave That lives on fame, and conquers still to save Thoughts that of love and Heaven alike partake. While all its newly-waken'd feelings prove That Love is Heaven, and God the soul of Love! The lines which follow appear to have been suggested by a well-known passage in Lord Byron's "Giaour," but the imitation is certainly no servile one: "The Pagan Indian, and his Christian foe, Slayer and slain, slept peaceably below; And arms that erst in bloody tug had join'd, In loving fellowship now lay entwin'dThe great peace-maker, Death, makes all men friends, The league he signs and sanctions never ends!" The writer is not devoid of satirical talent, as his ridicule of the profound researches of Virtuosi, concerning antiques, which we possess in a very 66 questionable shape" will evince: "Some mutilated trunk, decay'd and worn, of head bereft, of legs and arms all shorn; Worthless, except to puzzle learned brains, And cause a world of most laborious To find if this same headless, limbless pains, thing, But a blood-thirsty instinct, wild and rude, Perhaps the whole poem contains nothing superior in effect to the following passage: it is one to which we think the epithet of sublime, so often perverted, may with strict justice be plied: ap "In such a scene, the soul oft walks abroad, For silence is the energy of God! Not in the blackest tempest's midnight scowl, The earthquake's rocking, or the whirlwind's howl; Not from the crashing thunder-rifted cloud, Does his immortal mandate speak so loud, As when the silent night around her throws Her star-bespangled mantle of repose; Thunder and whirlwind, and the earth's dread shake, The selfish thought of man alone awake; His lips may prate of Heaven, but all his fears Are for himself, though pious he appears. But, when all nature sleeps in tranquil smiles, What sweet, yet lofty thought, the soul beguiles! There's not an object 'neath the moon's bright beam, There's not a shadow dark'ning in the stream, There's not a star that jewels yonder skies, Whose bright reflexion on the water lies, That does noti nt he lifted mind awake worthless godhead was, or worthless king." In the interview between the Savage prophet and Christian missionary, the author has introduced a trait in the discriminative exercise of the "tender mercies" of war, equally novel and affecting: "The prophet gaz'd upon the bloodless sage, Were he an infant, still his blood should And rev'renc'd the divinity of age. flow, For helpless babes to sturdy warriors grow; But time can ne'er the old man's strength restore, ton, during the late war, is more than once alluded to in the poem, with severe, but we must admit, with merited reprehension. Indeed, throughout the work, the writer betrays an asperity of feeling towards England which we cannot altogether approve. Perhaps, too, in strict impartiality, his eulogiums on the present prosperity of his own country, must be censured as somewhat extravagant, and his predictions of her future greatness be regarded as rather too sanguine. But the patriotic sentiments which have given birth to these errors, though pushed, perhaps, to an excess, are at least honourable in themselves. The writer evidently loves his country, not only as his birth-place, but for the liberty she enjoys, and the independence to be found in her: and we should find it difficult to condemn the exuberance of feelings, which have prompted such strains as the following: “Ö, Independence! man's bright mental In taking our leave of this poem, we cannot refrain from expressing our wish that the author may pursue the career he has so successfully begun. His versification is occasionally harsh, and sometimes, though rarely, feeble: but there is a vigour, and what in wines, we should call a raciness, in his verse, that marks him for the accomplishment of greater things. We repeat our heartfelt satisfaction at the progress of poetry in America. She is the land of freedom and she should be the land of song. Liberty ever has been, and ever will be, the fostering nurse of the muses. We are aware, that there are those who will cant about Mecenas, and the Augustan age, as proofs of the beneficial influence of princely patronage upon literature; but they should remember, that Mecenas only cherished the talent he could not have created, and that the era of Augustus was the infancy of Roman despotism. The genius, which in its maturity prostituted itself to decorate the nascent triumphs of imperial power, was cradled in the lap of republicanism, and finally expired beneath despotic influence, by a gradual but sure decay. For the Monthly Magazine. NEW RUSSIAN VOYAGE of DISCOVERY. als announced an expedition fitARLY last year, the foreign jourting out by the Russian government to and to get further information of three explore the coasts of Siberia and Asia, newly discovered islands in the Glacial Ocean. These islands lie opposite the mouth of the river Jana, and have received the collective name of New Siberia. A letter from Dr. Erdmann, professor in the University of Dorpt, communicates some details relative to this enterprise. * It has long been known to the neighbouring inhabitants, and the hunters of terra firma, who had made excursions in that quarter, that there existed an unknown country which had been noticed in several maps, but its extent remained unknown, till an inhabitant of Irkutsk named Hedenstrom, undertook a voyage to it in 1809 and 1810. He found three inhabited islands, wherein were mountains and rivers which abounded with curious objects, and from the report he made of it, Geotook a similar voyage in 1811. On his meter Pschienizin, of Irkutsk, underreturn, he prepared a chart, which however has not yet been published, and in which these islands have been designated, the eastern most, as New Siberia, the central one, Island Fadeecoskisch, and the westerly one, Island Kessel. Recently, two expeditions have been fitted out for a more minute examination of these islands. They proceed * Accounts from Captain Billinghausen, commander in the Russian Voyage of Discovery in the Antartic seas, (as received at Petersburgh from Botany Bay his letter dated May 1820.) report that he had disco vered three islands covered with snow and ice, on one of which was a volcano, lat. 560 south. He announces that there is no southern continent, or should there be one, it must be inaccessible from being covered with perpetual snows, ice, &c. at |