A person conversant with the writings of GRAY, might fancy a kind of plagiarism here, from the following lines in the Ode to Eton College, where, speaking of school-boys, he sings:

"still as they run, they look behindThey hear a voice in every wind," &c.

But we will be merciful. The similitude is merely one of the thousand and nine strange coincidences with common English authors, in which all the verses of this very original writer abound. In this particular instance he was excusable for imagining that he heard a voice in the wind, and for saying so in his rhymes, since his stolen relaxation was very suspicious. He went, he says, to meet a young woman,

"with charms divine, that first could move,
And fire my youthful soul to love,
And show the hawthorn in the mead
To whose well-known, concealing shade
In evenings cool we oft would stray."

He remarks, also, that being thus cosily situated, under the hawthorn aforesaid, they concluded "to bring the vale to witness their tale," and that "she was kind, and he was blest." Particulars are omitted. It is possible that this is the same maid whom he immortalizes in another production, and to whom comfort is administered, just as the twain are leaving Ireland for Philadelphia, in the following affectionate and hopeful lines:

"We need not grieve now, our friends to leave now,
For Erin's fields we again shall see;

But first a lady, in Pennsylvania,

My dear, remember thou art to be!"

Here, capricious in luxury, we must pause, and turn to another department in which our critic has excelled-namely, in the Drama.

His first tragedy was called "The Usurper," and although it was a most deplorable failure, yet the author strenuously contended that it was no fault of his. Every thing that benevolence could suggest was done to make it live, and to resuscitate it after death-but in vain. Prometheus himself could not have revived it, with all the authentic fire of Jove. To herald its advent, every possible exertion was made in the newspapers, under the immediate direction of the author. How many were the free admissions-how numberless the antecedent puffs which he caused to be manufactured, or else produced himself!—all setting forth, in sugared phraseology, that "our gifted fellow-townsman, Dr. McH***y" would appear as a dramatist on such a night! It was even publicly hinted, by a friendly journalist, at our author's special solicitation, that "it was understood that the seats were nearly all taken, and that all who desired to witness its first representation, must make immediate application at the box-office!" But alas! the tragedy was inflicted but twice upon an exceedingly sparse audience, and then expired. The cause of its untimely demise was explained at length to the public at the time, by the author, and proved to be, that the actors were jealous of the writer's reputation! "Sir," said he to an unfortunate

gentleman whom he held by the button in Chestnut-street-"the decline of this production was principally owing to one of the supernumeraries. He was despatched to secure a distinguished prisoner, one of the heroes of the play. When he returned without him, he should have replied thus to the question, Where's your prisoner?'

'My lord, we caught him, and we held him long,-
But as d- -d fate decreed, he 'scaped our grasp,
And fled.'

Now, sir, this is poetry; it stirs the blood, and makes an audience feel very uneasy. And how do you think that elegant passage was spoken? Why, it was done in this wise:

That very passage, my friend, together with the pre-disposed stupidity of the audience, ruined my tragedy, and it is lost to the stage."

But these reverses did not damp the vanity of our author. Though the public condemned and laughed, yet his familiar friends looked upon all the works that he had made, and pronounced them good. Thus, the Usurper, though dead and buried, was duly glorified in the American Quarterly Review. A labored analysis of its incomprehensible plot was given, and "its sweetness, tenderness, and simplicity," set forth by extracts!

So he
One

Animated by these partial plaudits, our dramatist turned his attention to comedy. Feeling indignant at the unbending Mordecais of the critical world, he determined to crucify them all, emblematically. wrote a piece called "Love and Poetry." This lived two nights. passage only is preserved in the memory of the hearers. The hero, a poet, was made to commit a highway robbery; and his poor old father, lamenting the infatuated criminality of his boy, exclaims, in a burst of parental anguish

"Alas! my brain is wild-my heart is sad-
And, as 'tis troublesome to tarry here,
Where every thing reminds me of my son,
I think, upon reflection, I will go,

And live in the Western Country!"

On the second representation, at the theatre in Walnut-street, the quondam Circus, there were about a dozen persons in the boxes,-perhaps twenty in the pit-and one enterprising Cyprian in the third tier. The piece was listened to with great solemnity. It was written for amusement, but the author had the fun all to himself. So irresistibly comic was it, that there was scarcely a smile during the whole performThe friends of the writer, unwilling to be "in at the death" of his comedy, had staid away. They knew it would be dismal to look upon the bantling of a fellow-townsman, in articulo mortis, and they spared themselves the trial. The curtain descended, and sundry peanut-eating pitlings, (who lay along on several benches, each occupying

ance.

two or three,) made an unanimous call for the author. He arose from his solitude in the second box, second tier, where he had ensconced himself, and said—

"Ladies and Gentlemen,-I thank you for this triumphant mark of esteem and honor. It is not on account of pecuniary considerations that I thank you, for I perceive by a glance at the house, that the avails will not be extensive; but, ladies and gentlemen, I am thankful for the glory," (and here he smote his breast with sonorous emphasis)-"the undying glory which I feel at this moment. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all.”

This was the last of our critic's dramatic productions. He has since attended to the linen trade, and occupied the stool of poetical criticism in the American Quarterly Review. All the long, dull articles in that periodical, from first to last, on the subject of American poetry, have been from his pen. The drift of them generally is, to show that there is not and cannot be such a thing as American verse, and that in this particular the only way to succeed, is to abandon the idea of any independent literature of our own, and trust for that commodity to trans-atlantic producers.

We cannot enumerate the various critiques in which this same sweet bard has destroyed all the chief minstrels of the land; but the ideas of the American Quarterly with respect to the merits of Bryant, are too peculiar to be lost. It is true, that they differ in the matter from the recorded opinions of every eminent Review in Europe, but then taste is taste, and there is no accounting for it. The productions of Bryant are esteemed, by this Philadelphia quarterly, as utterly devoid of any qualities to excite the reader's curiosity or interest his heart. "Page after page," it says, "may be perused, if the reader has sufficient patience, with dull placidity, or rather perfect unconcern, so that the book shall be laid aside without a single passage having been impressed upon the mind as worthy of recollection."

Now, when opinions like these are advanced, in utter opposition to the whole world of letters-in defiance of taste and sense-the question naturally arises, Who judges thus foolishly? This, as far as the American Quarterly Review is concerned, we have endeavored to show in the foregoing pages, and in so doing, have set down nought in malice. The choice morsels of biography that we have presented, are inseparable from the works of our author; they are, moreover, notorious. The moral of all is, that our literature has been long enough degraded by alien intruders, who have neither learning nor genius, and by those enemies of the most dignified interests of the country, who have aided and abetted their shallow pretensions. Were it likely that a discontinuance of the evil is at hand, we might be content to let such literary empirics make themselves as ridiculous as they please. But when, because anonymous, their bad taste infects even a limited number of readers, their influence becomes offensive. The divine Plato, in his immortal dialogue of Protagoras, tells us, that in the arts, it is only the opinions of those who are themselves gifted and skilful, that ought to be respected. And what kind of skill, by our present unbiassed showing, has been evinced by this Critic? He is a walking synonym for a failure, in eve

ry thing. We are told on good authority, though the work has not yet reached us,* that in the last number of the American Quarterly, our Aristarchus is at his work again. He confesses the general popularity of several American poets, but lays the blame on the press and the public. He thinks that both should be slow to commend, and be careful not to be gulled. Such advice comes with miserable grace from the author. His insatiate hunger for praise, and his continual supplications for it, of the editorial fraternity of Philadelphia, are proverbial. And, as to deceiving the public, we place him at our bar, and ask him to establish his own innocence. Did he not once determine to take the general applause by storm, and on the publication of one of his unhappy novels, repeatedly stop the press, and cause second, third, and fourth editions to be inserted in the title-page of the same impression? Was not the third edition for sale at the book-stores before the first was bound? Was not the same system adopted with several of his other works, the plagiarized "Pleasures of Friendship," especially? Any Philadelphia bookseller can answer these queries, much more readily than our critic would like to admit them. It is only by such modes of grasping at ephemeral praise, through trickery, coupled with advance eulogies and surmises in

newspapers:

"e l'augurio, a la bugia, E chiromanti, ed ogni fallace arte, Sorte, indovini, e falsa profezia,"

that this critic has ever been honored, even with ridicule. All his articles have proceeded from the ignoblest private motives, either of hope or of retaliation. Thus, the argument spoken of as contained in his last Review-namely, that we have yet no great, long poem,-no big book of American metre, and that there is now a want of it-is only to herald a manuscript volume of his, in some nineteen books, which he has just been obliged to send to London, because the publishers on this side of the water cannot see its merits. It has been shown about very generally, and we learn, is similar to Emmons' Fredoniad,-only of greater length. It is y'clept "The Antediluvians ;" and we venture to say, if any hapless London bookseller is seduced into its publication, that the first copy which reaches America will be lauded in a certain quarter,— under the author's immediate supervision,-as a work, "unparalleled, unpaired,"-equal to Klopstock or Milton in sublimity-superior to Pope in harmony, and a touch beyond any thing ever produced in the United States, for "sweetness, tenderness, and simplicity!" We wait patiently for its coming.

*Since the foregoing paper was placed in type, the American Quarterly Review has been received. A notice of its contents will be found in its appropriate place.

O'Halloran, the Insurgent Chief.

A CHAPTER ON SOCIETY.

It is an interesting and useful exercise, to observe the peculiar features of any age, or the character of any people. Its value is chiefly to be estimated, not by the mere gratification it affords to a curious and inquiring mind, but by the lesson it teaches, for the improvement of the character, and the proper selection of the means of attaining immediate happiness, and ultimate good. This is the great end of History,-which has well been called" Philosophy teaching by Example." We shall read History to but little advantage, if we do not gather philosophy from these examples. Of how little moment is it to the purposes of knowledge, to be acquainted with the exploits or the statistics of a nation! We are most interested in learning the character of the people; and as retributive justice is often administered in this world, to the clear perception of mankind, in ascertaining how far the fate of the nation may have been determined by its character.

But it is of much greater importance to gain a correct idea of the character of our own age, and particularly of the condition of our own country. And without being too philosophical, we propose to survey the world around us, glancing at the most prominent features of the age and of the society in which we live and move; pointing out defects, not for the purpose of finding fault, but to show what we are, that each may judge for himself what we should be.

It is very common to boast of the superiority of our own age; and veneration for antiquity is fast giving place to a complacent regard for that which we see, and part of which we are. This is very excusable, if it be well grounded. Human nature has, certainly, made great progress towards its destined perfection, and the times demand the utmost vigilance, lest the spirit that is now awake be suffered to languish, or to lead in a wrong direction. We may be permitted to rejoice in the assurance, that our lot has been cast in times of peculiar prosperity, and "that our lines have fallen in pleasant places." If we look around us, we shall find much that is good, though blended, perhaps, with much that is evil.

Among the principal features of the present age, there is one which distinguishes it as the age of Books and of Reading-a feature which indicates the increased employment of the intellectual faculties, even if they be not directed to the most useful objects of attention. Intellectual education has, comparatively, become an object of general and intense interest, and intellectual pursuits are fast taking precedence of all others. The gladiatorial shows of the ancients, and the tournaments of a later period, were not conducted with more spirit and interest, than are the more human and exalting contests in the arena of mental strife, which occupy the attention of our own times. This is the era of the triumph of mind. The political errors of the old world, which debased the character and enslaved the minds of the people, are yielding to the steady and irresistible influence of the spirit of intelligence, which is the