write poetry, who is no poet, however paradoxical the assertion may seem. He may work his mind up into such a state of excitement as to feel for a time the true poetical estus, and a great deal of respectable poetry has been written in this way. But it is not so with Mr. Bryant. The natural habit of his mind is a poetical one, and it wears the trammels of verse as a man wears his ordinary garments. He could no more help being a poet than the violet seed can help bearing violets; and, in being a political editor, he does the same violence to his nature, that his coadjutor of the Washington Globe would do if he should take it into his head to write a copy of verses to a water-fowl or the evening wind. To borrow a quaint idea from one of Coleridge's early poems, the Muses dipped him, at his birth, into the "fount of Castalie,"

"But with forgetful hand,

Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son,
And with those recreant, unbaptized heels
He's flying from his bounden mysteries."

It would be doing Mr. Bryant injustice not to speak of the elevated tone of moral feeling, which runs through all his productions. He has never written a line which the most rigid virtue could wish to blot. He never forces our moral nature to enter its protest against the admiration which Genius, however exerted and however attended, must and will extort. We give our sensibilities unreservedly into his hands, for we know that he will not enlist them in any unholy cause. He appeals to those principles in man which are pure, spiritual and heavenly, and disdains any alliance with those which are of the earth, earthy. He never approaches the soul through the avenue of the senses. The tenderness and depth of feeling, the purity, the healthy tone of sentiment, and the strong and cheerful religious views, which pervade his writings, show him to be a man of an undiseased and uncorrupted moral nature and a heart sound to the core-to whom Nature has been a mirror, reflecting the countenance of its great Author. If he contemplate a landscape in the budding luxuriance of Spring, or the deeper glow of Summer, it is with a throb of gratitude to Him who has poured out all this beauty to gladden the eyes and the hearts of men. The woods of Autumn, while they fill him with thoughts as lovely as their own hues, teach him to prepare for the great change that is to come over the bloom and greenness of life. Even the blustering winds of March are welcome to him, because they are the heralds of better things. Much of his great popularity is owing to these excellencies. How many throbs of delight have they called forth from readers, to whom the poetry, as such, was quite a secondary affair, and perhaps even unfelt by them. He not only does not make us any worse, but he makes us better; he purifies and refines us,-spreads through us a sunset calm, and bids the waves of passion be still. We feel, after reading him, as if we had been walking through some beautiful and majestic scenery; we are soothed and elevated; the "eating cares" of life have an interval of rest; we are more in unison with the Spirit of the Universe; we feel a warmer glow of benevolence playing about our hearts, and the fire of devotion mounts into a purer and higher flame. We cannot but think it highly creditable to our countrymen, that they have received, with so much favor, the productions of one who has

never furnished any stimulants to the passions and appetites of men, but who has constantly addressed their understanding and their moral nature in the language of Truth, Philosophy and Religion.

Mr. Bryant is as skilful in the practice of his art as he is profoundly versed in its deepest mysteries. He writes pure and vigorous English, and never indulges himself in any freaks of style. He never seeks to attract attention by labored inversions or affected phrases, nor does he rashly attempt to elevate into poetic dignity, words which belong to the kitchen and the barn-yard. His style is simple and translucent, and his meaning shines through, like light through glass. He is remarkably free from the common fault of verboseness; we never see, in his pages, a poor little idea buried and smothered beneath a crowd of words, like the Roman virgin beneath the shields of the Sabines. He regards language merely as an instrument for transmitting thought, and employs it for nothing more. His versification has the ease and gracefulness, that are the result of care and attention, and of these only. It is free from disagreeable and cloying monotony; the pauses and cadences do not recur continually at the same intervals; and it adapts itself with easy flexibility to the subject he is discussing.

As we have hinted before, Mr. Bryant has very little versatility of mind. We do not know that he has ever attempted any thing in the humorous or satirical line, and, if he should, he would not probably succeed very well. The serious and somewhat pensive turn of his mind prevents his seeing objects in ludicrous combinations. His Muse is a matron form, whose pale brow of contemplation, and deep, soullighted eyes, reconcile us to the absence of the "wreathed smiles of Hebe's cheek," to which they would be so ill suited.

"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies:
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies."

He is not only entirely and exclusively a poet, but he has confined himself to one department of poetry. His writings breathe a philosophic and reflective strain, and are the emanations of a mind in that calm and meditative mood, in which it best communes with itself and with Nature. There is a deep repose brooding over them, like the stillness of a summer noon. His thoughts have been born and nursed in solitude. His mind is like an unruffled fountain, in whose glassy depths, the trees, the mountains, and the clouds are imaged. He has never written any thing to kindle and excite-nothing to "stir the blood like the sound of a trumpet." He has none of that versified eloquence, which is often mistaken for Poetry, but which is no more like it, than Champagne is like the water of Helicon, or exhilarating gas like common air. He soars on the wing of the "Cherub Contemplation." He has none of that glow, fervidness and rapidity, which are the result of ardor of temperament, rather than of vividness of poetic feeling. He does not possess the power of concentrating the whole mind into one intense and burning point of passion, and making every thought and image supply fuel to the flame. He converses with Nature as Numa with Egeria; in solitude and darkness, by the side of

babbling fountains, and in the shades of the over-arching forest; and the lessons he learns are those of the highest wisdom and the purest reason. We have heard it objected to him as a fault, that he was deficient in fire. It is not his fault, but his peculiarity. His mind is as Nature made it, and some of its finest properties are owing, perhaps, to this very want, and those who make the objection are as unphilosophical as the boy who wanted to eat his cake and have it. Where there is much fire, there is also apt to be much smoke, and we will readily give up the "splendid conflagration," for the sake of clearness of thought and distinctness of expression.

Mr. Bryant is one of the very few poets, who have laid no offerings upon the altar of Love. The myrtle of Venus is almost always found growing by the laurels of Apollo, and the connexion between poetical genius and a peculiar sensibility to female charms seems so obvious, that he, who has the former, appears to be hardly worthy of his trust, unless he makes it the means of expressing his admiration of the latter. It is certainly not for want of subjects, for he may find among his own hills, (haud inexperti loquimur) maidens lovely as his own loveliest dreams, and amply deserving an immortality in verse. Nor is it from a want of tenderness and sensibility, and an indifference to those pure and lasting pleasures, which man derives from the exercise of his social and sympathetic nature; for his poetry exalts the common affections of life into their proper rank, and shows the power they have "to soothe and elevate and bless." We presume he was a bashful boy, and made love to the trees and flowers, and viewed young ladies as so many "bright_particular stars," that were to be worshiped and not wooed. But be the cause what it may, we do not in the least regret it, living as we do, in an age, in which every eyebrow has a ballad made for it, and young gentlemen amuse themselves with versifying and publishing their flirtations.

It is very hard to point out any faults in Mr. Bryant's poetry. It would be very easy to make a list of gifts and powers of mind which he has not, but then he does not pretend to have them, and he claims to be judged by what he has done, not by what he has not. There are many poets on record who have more faults than he, but who are also men of more genius. He has never tried to climb to the "highest heaven of invention;" but, knowing perfectly the extent of his powers, he has attempted nothing beyond them, and has succeeded perfectly in every instance. There are a very few poets that are like eagles and can fly any where, into the very lap of the sun, but the wings of most of them are constructed on a principle something like those of Icarus, in the old fable, and will melt if they approach too near the god of day. Mr. Bryant has had the sense never to fly too high. He has so much taste and judgement, and writes in such temperate blood, that he runs no risk of running into the obvious faults of poetical style. There are many of his productions, in which, as it seems to us, it would be impossible to alter a word for the better.

We cannot close this notice without again expressing our sorrow at the nature of Mr. Bryant's present occupation, and that a man capable of writing poetry to make so many hearts throb, and so many eyes glisten with delight, should be lending himself to an employment, in which the greater the success, the more occasion there is for regret; for it

must arise from the exertion of those very qualities which we are least willing that a poet should possess. ""T is strange, 't is passing strange, 't is pitiful," that he should hang up his own cunning harp upon the willows, and take to blowing a brazen and discordant trumpet in the ranks of faction. He may plead the plea of necessity, and, sure enough, a poet must live; and Parnassus never bore any thing_but barren laurels. Before he went to New-York, he was a practising lawyer in Great-Barrington, if we mistake not, in this state, and was "making a decent living" by his profession, and we will leave it to an impartial jury, whether the "thorny path of jurisprudence" be not as pleasant a road to walk in, as the high-way of party politics, and a great deal cleaner. At any rate he was secure of the advantage of living in the country, and in communion with the fair forms of the outward world, which are at once the sources of his inspiration, and its most appropriate subjects. We have great faith in the influence of external objects upon the mind, and it may be mentioned in proof of it, that he has written but little poetry since he began to "coop himself in cities," and that little has not been equal to his former productions. If he keep on, we fear he will die as prosaic as an alderman. We will take leave of him, with a word of advice from a kindred spirit.

"Come forth into the light of things;

Let Nature be your teacher."

"She has a world of ready wealth,

Our hearts and minds to bless

Spontaneous Wisdom breathed by Health,

Truth breathed by Cheerfulness."

MEMORANDA, BY A MAN OF LETTERS.

NO. I.

THE LEGENDARY BEECH.

AT the head of a narrow bay on the sea-coast of New-England, stands the town of East-Timothy. The harbor, though inconsiderable in point of size, is good, and is well sheltered by ranges of small, abrupt, rocky hills, which bound it on either side. The town, which lies concealed in a romantic valley, has a charming appearance of seclusion, while the coolness and rural beauty of its situation, render it peculiarly attractive in the season's verdure. It was a place of some consequence before the revolution, having several stores, and half a dozen large schooners in the West-Indian trade; but independence seems to have agreed with it rather indifferently,-for it has been dwindling, ever since its inhabitants began to inhale the air of liberty -a fact which some attribute to the loss of certain trading privileges enjoyed under the crown, but which I am rather inclined to lay to the account of the march of intellect. Indeed the harbor of East-Timothy, fair as it is to the eye, affords no scope to the enlarged enterprise of

the present age. At this time it contains only a few aged couples, who cling tenaciously to the soil of their birth; and a small but choice lot of blooming maidens, who would flit at a moment's warning, if proper company, and a sufficient inducement, should offer.

I remember it, however, before its humiliation was consummated, and while its inhabitants were still numerous and enterprising. Where there is business, there is always cheerfulness and plenty, and our village, when in its pride, was both gay and hospitable. A current opinion of the salubrity of its situation, induced many persons from the southern states to visit it for their health, in the summer months-a circumstance, which added to the prosperity of the place, and to the polish of the inhabitants.

In the neighborhood of the town stands a spreading Beech, which has always been held in great estimation, and is now one of the most venerable monuments of the olden time. As the ancients had groves dedicated to religious purposes, so have we an ancient tree, sacred to the mysteries of love and courtship, whose rites are celebrated, not by withered priestesses or druids, but by manly youth and gentle maidens. It is situated at the head of a beautiful glen, in a picturesque amphitheatre, formed by high hills, shadowed by forest trees and vines. Beneath its ample shade is a large flat rock, from whose base issues a clear fountain; and the little plane of table-land covered with short grass, by which it is surrounded, is as smooth and firm as if it had been trodden for ages; but whether it was made so by the feet of mammoths, or of fairies, our best antiquarians cannot ascertain. The spot is as lovely and romantic as lover's heart could desire; and on a summer's afternoon, when the trees are loaded with foliage, and the dense shadows fall from the western hills, there is a coolness and fragrance in the atmosphere, highly propitious to the nurture of the tender passion.

Here we have been in the habit of assembling to celebrate our rural festivals, or to indulge our patriotism on the national anniversary. But lest the reader should suspect, that upon such occasions as the latter, these silent haunts have been disturbed by bacchanalian orgies, it is fit to inform him, that we have heretofore protected them from this evil, by committing the management of our festivities to the ladies, who, with a taste and ingenuity which does them infinite honor, had ordained that tea should be the only beverage used in these celebrations. As our sturdy ancestors at Boston, brought these colonies into hot water by throwing tea into the ocean, our patriotic females deemed it proper to exhibit a symbol of the event, by steeping the obnoxious plant in the boiling element; and, as some barbarians are said to devour their enemies, so we revel upon the juices of this offensive plant. A city wag, who was invited to one of our parties, called it a tea deum, to which one of our belles retorted by attributing the tedium to the gentleman's own feelings. Several other witticisms, equally clever, have arisen out of this custom of ours, which will one day or other, when they shall be published, entitle us to be considered as public benefactors, inasmuch as we shall, while enjoying ourselves, have contributed something to the national stock of merriment.

In the fine summer evenings this is the favorite promenade of the youthful part of the community. A galaxy of gay looks and bright