precipitated ourselves not long ago,* by supplying our omissions, and correcting our errors-(a subject upon which the less we say, the better,) without making any fuss about them. We have high authority for this(when they venture upon such a thing as the voluntary correction of a blunder-or a-we won't say what) -in our brethren of the Quarterly and Edinburgh Reviews.

ADAMS, HANNAH. This lady, if we are not mistaken, is a sister of John Adams, late President of the United States. John Quincy Adams, of whom we have already spoken, is, of course, a nephew of hers. Women, we look upon as a privileged class; but some of their amusements, it cannot be denied, are of a serious turn, -and some of their graver studies, rather amusing. This lady, for example, has written a large book--and a very useful book, too, for the laity-which is called, A DICTIONARY OF RELIGIONS. We know nothing else of her as a writer: nor as a woman, except, perhaps, that she was one of the most benevolent of human creatures. We remember a little anecdote of her. She was remarkably absent. She set off one day, a-foot and alone, to hear a celebrated preacher passed by the very door of the "meeting-house," within reach of his voice: made her way through the crowd assembled in the road; and held on her way, until the strange, wild appearance of the road made A traveller overtook her. She inquired her way to the "meeting-house" expressed her astonishment, when she learnt the truth: and returned upon her steps,-passing by the door, as before, through the same crowd,—and returned, as she went, without having heard the preacher.

her stop.

ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY. In speaking of this writer, lately, we said that he had written only one book. The "Letters from Silesia," which were made into a book here, without authority, by a London bookseller, were mere newspaper scribbling.The correspondence of Mr Adams,

as a negotiator-a minister abroad, and Secretary of State at home, has not been collected. It may be found in the "American State Papers;" is always able, and sometimes masterly.

ALSTON, WASHINGTON-the painter. This fine artist has written some poetry; and, we are sorry to say, one poem-called the "Paint King." There are, certainly, two or three fine passages in it; but we never knew whether Mr Alston is making fun of M. G. Lewis, or imitating him; whether he is caricaturing the extravagance of another, or playing off his own-under cover; whether he is in earnest or not. As a painter, he knows very well that any such equivocal disclosures of intention, or design, would be the death of an artist, whatever were his merit, in other matters. Nobody can mistake the purpose of the following lines; wherefore every body enjoys them : "His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match;

And over his horse's left eye was a patch, To keep it from burning the manger.

*

*

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should try

To play the piano with thimbles."_ A touch, by the way, quite Shakspearean; as, where the bard says

"The poor beetle that we tread upon, As when a giant dies." In coporeal sufferance finds a pang as great

No doubt: but quere-how great a pang does the poor beetle find, when a giant dies?

Let us return. Caricature M. G. Lewis, if you will; burlesque anybody's poetry, and welcome: turn what you please into ridicule ; but— in mercy to us-in mercy to yourself-let your purpose be unequivocal. We may laugh in the wrong place, else; and mistake your poetry for nonsense.

The truth may be, perhaps, that Mr Alston ran ashore, like many a good fellow before him, while trying to steer two courses at once. Per

haps he began, with a serious design to manufacture some 66 god-like poetry;" pushed on, with tolerable success, until he took fire; when, afraid of being laughed at, he put himself out. We have known many such catastrophes. People begin seriously say something, by and by; or do something very extravagant-just on the confines of the ridiculous-just balancing between sublimity and burlesque when, afraid of having it caricatured, or misrepresented, or mistaken-or tilted over, into the gulf, by another, they even tilt it over themselves, and have the credit of it like smugglers, who, when the duties are high, and the informer is well paid, inform against themselves, and make money by the job; or, perhaps, Mr Alston began the poem in a frolic; worked away, helter-skelter, until he had written something more serious than he desired, and much better than he wished; when, like many a living author, whom we could namee-without patience or self-denial enough to preserve the idea, till it would come in play-discretion enough to throw it aside altogether; or dexterity enough to interweave it, without spoiling the whole piece-he lugs it in, to the ruin of his original plan. Some poets, afraid of being caricatured by others, take the trouble to caricature themselves. If they run their head against a post, they always begin the laugh. If they do any thing very foolish, they know well enough, that if they don't tell of it, somebody else will. Thus Homer, after his absurd comparison of armies to bees, protected himself by his frogs and mice. Thus Cowper, in his "Task," and “Gilpin,” laid an anchor to windward. Thus M. G. Lewis, in his "Giles Jollop the grave, and the Brown Sally Green," secured himself, and all his admirers, forever, from eternal ridicule.-It reminds us of a friend's advice" If you ever offer yourself to a woman," said he, "do it so, that if she refuse you, she herself shall never be able to tell whether you were in earnest or not." So, too, with Lord Byron, What is

Beppo-what is Don Juan, but a caricature of Childe Harold ?—the very point on which that incoherent poem was most vulnerable. And Mr Moore's criticisms on his Lalla Rookh, put into the mouth of Fadladeen-what was that, but offering himself in such a way, that, if he were rejected, we should never know whether he were serious or not?You are surprised. We could mention fifty more of these contrivances, to escape accountability and ridicule. Point us out a single writer, of any age-if you can-who has not been guilty of them; or one, who has not been diverted from his original design, by accidental thoughts, rhymes, or mistaken scratches of a pen; like a painter, by a blot; a captain, or a chess-player, by an accidental move. Point us out a single one, who, when he is waggishly disposed, can bear to lose an eloquent or affecting passage, if it pop into his head; or one, who, when he is running before the wind-with absolute poetry, every sail set-has enough self-denial to hold on his way, in spite of a joke; one who-if it be good for anything, will not find a place for it sooner or later as he would, in chase, for a man overboard-for drift wood, with great carbuncles growing to it-or for a dolphin tumbling in his wake.

Long after the appearance of the "Paint King," Mr Alston wrote some lines upon the Peak of Chimborazo, in which was one passage of extraordinary power. He describes it, after night-fall,-overtopping the other mountains-rejoicing in the sun-set-and luminous with royalty. "Thou of the purple robe and diadem of gold!"

he says:—a line worth his "Paint King,"-the whole of it forty timeş over. Let no man venture to pronounce positively upon the first movements of genius. It is very painful to us, of course, to allude again to the Edinburgh castigation of Lord Byron, (a castigation, by the way, that made Lord Byron; but for that, he would, probably, have lived, and been forgotten that stung him into "convulsive life;") but we would

THE HE imagination of a youthful poet could scarcely picture a more lovely spot than that chosen for the cottage of old Richard Alleyn. It was bosomed in one of the wildest and most romantic vallies of North Wales on each side rose high and lofty mountains, some with dark, barren surfaces, others clothed with beautiful and luxuriant verdure, while on the one immediately before the cottage dashed a swift and wide torrent, which, like the energies of an ambitious man, seemed to regard no obstacle, but carried every thing triumphantly before it. The valley itself was the picture of primitive simplicity, and the cottage was one which a spirit were he exiled in this under world from the realms of the blest, might have chosen for his home. So simple, so unadorned, except by the lavish hand of nature, it greeted the traveller's eye; and afforded to it a most pleasing relief after gazing on the rapid torrent before the dwelling, which resembled too closely the never-ceasing anxiety and bustle of the world; while the still and quiet habitation seemed the home of happiness and peace, and all the kindlier affections of our nature.

Those whose travels have been confined to the city which gave them birth, are too apt to imagine that the pictures of rural beauty and simplicity which we meet with in poetry and romance are not to be found in the

2 ATHENEUM, VOL. 3. 2d series.

T. K. HERVEY.

paths of reality, and are merely fra though beautiful creations of the poet's or describer's mind. Those who have taken a more extended view of human nature, will draw a line between those two extremes. If they have read the book of life as attentively as the narrator, they will agree with him that there are many parts of the south and west of England, where the primitive simplicity and open frankness that early distinguished its inhabitants above the rude barbarians of the north, are yet to be found, though not perhaps blooming as untarnished as before the innovations and luxuries of foreign manners crept in and laid the foundation to the gradual decay of its national character. Had the cynical traveller beheld the cottage of Alleyn in the spring time of the year, when the damask roses were hiding with their blushing heads its humble exterior; when the eglantine and jessamine strove to surpass in luxuriance if they could not in beauty, their queen-like sister; he would have paused ere he asserted that deceit and treachery could exist in a home which seemed the dwelling-place of the best fruits of the heart. It appeared as if nature pitied the neglects of fortune, and gave to the possessor those gifts around his dwelling which the richest inhabitant of the proudest city might envy, but which all his wealth could not obtain.

If all seemed peace, happiness and love without, it was but a just emblem of the interior of the cottage. Its inhabitants consisted of the aged possessor and his daughter, his only child. Ellen was the beloved of his heart, for she was the surviving pledge of a hapless, though romantic affection, which, though it gilded his maturer years with the sunshine of contentment, yet destroyed those visionary hopes which the hey-day of youth had created. The story of Alleyn may be related in a few words: he was one of those fortunate beings who are said (by way of excellence) to have married for love; in the eyes of the world, a most ridiculous sacrifice, but to those who have studied the human heart more attentively, a better and surer security of happiness than any road the finger-post of highly excited youth and hope could point out. To marry for love, signifies to marry for no other consideration whatever. Where neither rank, titles, wealth, the influence of family connexions, and, in short, no selfish feeling can have any command; but an interchange of affection, a sacrifice to the opinion of the world; a determination to make up in the society of the object of thei affections, all those enjoyments and expectations they have resigned to obtain the wishes of their heart.

Novelists would fain make us imagine that love is to be found only in the regions of Grosvenor and Portman squares, that it must be fostered in the lap of affluence, and rocked in the cradle of splendor. They know not that it is independent of geography; it palpitates as deeply beneath the russet gown of the hardy cottager, as in the bosom of the sickly votary of fashion, whose brow is clasped by a coronet. But love is a flower which must have the free and balmy air of retirement and seclusion, where its fragile tendrils may acquire strength and vigour to cling with permanency. In the forced air of palaces and draw ing rooms, it is like an exotic whose beauty and novelty delights its owner for a while, but from the ungenerous

nature of its clime, or the want of proper nourishment, it gradually decays and enjoys a sweet but ephemeral existence.

It was in the same cottage that Alleyn and the partner of his felicity gave up the tumultuous cares and heartless enjoyments of the world for the calm and quiet seclusion of domestic life. Ellen was their only child, she was the child of their hope and their affections, and the harbinger of happiness their declining years were continually pointing at. She was to them the solace of the past, the joy of the present, and the hope of the future. How can the enfeebled narrator relate the delicious transports of the parents, as with silent delight they watched over their daughter as she increased equally in beauty and in age. Each day brought to them a dearer joy, for it brought to light some new charm or grace that before she was not possessed of, or hidden from their admiring sight. The mother of Ellen was a most accomplished woman, and though it was impossible that her daughter could receive all the advantages of education she herself possessed, yet she imparted to her sufficient to keep her mental charms iu keeping with her personal endowments. In this delightful task, this amiable woman was called from the arms of her doating husband and child, to that heaven, which alone was superior to the one she already had enjoyed. The fostering of Ellen, the bringing her up in those paths which his deceased wife so eminently graced, had now become the only consolation her loss had left the afflicted widower.

Years passed away and left with the old man resignation and contentment. The virtues of his departed wife rendered her always alive in his memory, and his soul was too much devoted to Providence to repine at his decrees Ellen had now attained her seventeenth year, and with it all the beauty and grace that could possibly adorn that delightful period of life. The reader may reconcile this to his mind as the usual description