ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE ATHENEUM GAL

LERY.

The characteristics of this little collection of poetry are, a quiet kind of contemplation, an easy flow of rich and delicate language, and a frequent breaking out of the living fire of genius The trammels of rhyme and measure seem to impede the movements of our author in a very slight degree, and though the whole work betrays the haste of its accomplishment, and evinces the want of the

last touches which give the finish of grace and beauty, yet we are much mistaken if these emanations are not those of a healthy and vig. orous imagination.

The sombre colouring thrown over all the fanciful images which the author has conjured up, does not please us. The midnight depths of the forest, the lonely cloisters of the ruined abbey, and the unbroken stillness of the sepulchre, leave, it is true, powerful impressions upon the mind; but we want, sometimes, to catch a glimpse of the clear blue sky, and listen to the joyful music of the murmuring brook, and mingle in the busy stir of human life, for it is in contrast with these that the mysterious twilight and silence and solitude of other scenes have their attraction. We wish that more vivacity and animation had been given to some of these poems, by way of relief. The "Love Letter," for instance, might have been rendered particularly pleasing had it been written in the true spirit of the picture. But in transforming the honest Dutch kitchen wench,—for such she appears on the canvass,―into a being

-fair

And pure and lovely as a thing of air." and in giving her gratis "the envenom'd adder," the "madden'd brain" and the "broken heart" the author has only exposed the awful solemnity of his poem to ridicule.

The stanzas on "The Boy with the golden locks" we do not comprehend,-but as a specimen of the grace and elegance which abound in these illustrations, we subjoin the following very beautiful extract ;

"I stood upon the green hill-side,
Where life's first golden hours began,
The wreck of youth's and boyhood's pride,
A grey-haired, sorrow stricken man.
"The ruin on the mountain height,
Still frowned as proudly o'er the lake,
As when in fancy's boyish flight,
I loved its slumbering notes to wake.

"The careless fisher on the bank,
Still sported with the shining train :-
The wild deer of its waters drank,
Then bounded lightly o'er the plain.
"The light bark flitted o'er the wave,
As swift as when impelled by me :-
And every grove its echo gave,
To the sweet song of bird and bee.
"All were the same :-the sunbeams played
As brightly over hill and glen,
Through the same bowers the breezes strayed
And breathed the same wild notes again.

And I, the only one of all

That met me in my wanderings, Had seen affliction's shadowy pall Thrown o'er this fair world's brightest things.

"Why should I fondly linger there,

A truant from the gay world's train?
I did but come to breathe one prayer,—
Then back to busy life again.
«Sleep on in all thy quietness,

Sweet home of peace!-an angel care
Shall hover over thee, and bless

The heart that bleeds in sadness there."

OUR CHRONICLES OF 26. This poem is written in the loose, rambling, incoherent style of Byron's Beppo and Don Juan, though without their spirit and raciness. The air of the satire is at all and singular-the noted ones of our land from General Jackson, Mr Webster and Judge Story, down to Edmund Kean and Col Pluck, forgetting neither the stately North American, that mammoth of our literature, nor the heavier and less dignified United States Literary. How happens it that Orator Emmons has escaped the notice of this

"Chiel" so accurate in his "takin' notes?" The good natured tone and easy manners of a Horace are maintained throughout this little affair, no attempt being made at the resistless severity of a Juvenal or the keen-edged sar

casm of a Persius. The writer seems to be

testing his skill with the weapon he has taken up, rather than employing it for any serious

purpose, and though he manages it like one who is only amusing himself in a pleasant game with the foils, yet he occasionally makes a home thrust that evinces quickness of perception and neatness of execution. He is guilty of an oversight, however, in commencing his jereed warfare against the critics. By throwing down his gauntlet of defiance at them, he, in reality, enlists in the ranks of those very "boys in breeches" whom he seems to hold in utter contempt. There are some flashes of wit occasionally breaking in

An effort like this soi disant satire is not to be measured by the rule and square of that ninuter criticism which can find fault with Vines that make no pretences to rhythm and harmony, and cavil at passages where the author's meaning glimmers faintly through a mist of obscurity, or we should perhaps quote several objectionable stanzas.

The allusion to the deaths of Adams and Jef. ferson is in the genuine language of feeling, and is he choicest morceau we can select from the production.

"But as we stand upon the towering hills O'er the wild landscape steals the note of sad

ness,

BROWN'S NOVELS. The fate of Charles Brockden Brown, though in general similar to that of other men in this country whose lives are wholly devoted to literature, that is to say, very miserable, has nevertheless been remarkable. It is a singular circumstance that the memory of a man, whose name during his life was unknown except in the limited circle of his intimate acquaintance, and whose talents as a writer were acknowledged only within the confines of his native city, should be revived and cherished after he himself bas been laid in the cold and narrow house. Such, how ever, has been the apotheosis of Brown. During his life unknown, after his death forgotten, and by a succeeding generation inshrined for immortality. Yet how many are there, even now, of those who are loudest in his praise, who know any thing of him or his writings? To our shame as a nation be it said that the name and reputation of our foremost adventurer in the paths of romance,-of him whose productions, in their own peculiar line, are at this day unrivalled among us, were rescued

works of Brown were scattered about our country by piecemeal, a disjointed member in one place, and a rude fragment in another, till, by the enterprize or cupidity-it matters little which-of an English bookseller, they were collected and shown to the world in a decent shape. The books were read and praised, and after being thoroughly reviewed, and becoming almost naturalized under a strange sky, they then, for the first time, received some attentions from the editors of the great review which had assumed to itself the title of a guardian of our literature. The novels were wel. comed in the pages of the North American as if they were newly born into the world of literature, and the earnest inquiry, who is Charles Brockden Brown?' seemed, for a season, to afford ample material for discussion and controversy.

It is not to be expected that we should enter into an analysis of the several tales; our object in this notice is principally to call the attention of the public to Mr Goodrich's recent undertaking, in committing them to the press, and to record the fact that they may now be obtained in an uniform American edition of

seven volumes.

Brown, it is well known, was of Godwin's school, though by no means a servile imitator. In his narratives you are surprised at the startling distinctness with which the incidents are brought before you, rather than at the incidents themselves, and can almost realize the action of a drama in your presence. In his plots you discover much carelessness, a fre quent departure from probability, and a constant want of unity of design His characters are not ably delineated, and his sketches of scenery but indifferently drawn, and yet he is a great novelist. His peculiarities are the capability he possesses of entrancing the reader, heart and soul, and making him a participant in the events that are transacted; a mild, though an earnest thoughtfulness in his moral reflections which delight us by their beauty and delicacy; a power of awakening the feeling without producing an intoxicating delirium, and an entire absence of any disgusting tawdriness in his diction. He affects none of the solemn pomposity of Johnson, or the musically measured cadences of Addison, but tells his tale in a plain unsophisticated and forcible language that has all the charms of nature without the gorgeous finery of art.