FOR THE NEW-YORK LITERARY GAZETTE. TALES FROM CROSSBASKET. THE BRIDAL EVE. [Continued.] MEN often in the hour of peril, when one moment of self-possession would save from ruin, lose themselves, while some women act with such coolness and deliberation, as would awe the most heroic: but when the evil hour is passed, they fall senseless at the recollection of what was. It was so with Helen; in a moment she regained her speech and courage-even questioned the dumb animal. On being spoken to, Towler rose up, exultingly lapped Helen's feet, looked to the door, then turned wistfully to her again and again; at length ran to the threshold, and looked back once more. Helen read his mute eloquence, and advanced to the faithful dog, while her parents were left fixed to the spot, like two mute and lifeless statues. With hurried pace, Helen followed the noble Towler, and passed amid the darkness, fleet as Camilla, over the pebbly shore and rough rocks, which at other times she had looked on and deemed impassable. The wild storm without was not equal to that within her bosom, and so eagerly she followed her mute guide, that she scarcely knew if it were rain or shine. callous to all, lay exposed till morning on the barren rock. "Twas a melancholy Bridal-bed. We left Helen's parents in their cottage when she hurried from it. It was long before they could move from their stupor, but when aroused, they felt some dreadful end was come to Donald, and in hopes of rescue, apprised the whole village of all they knew, and all their fears. There was not a heart but loved the hapless two; the villagers were touched with pity at the mournful story, and in a moment the voice of one spoke the feelings and desire of all-to make instant search. But where? They scoured the whole shore, some one way, and some another, but all in vain. At length, as morning approached, the storm gradually abated, and the first dawning of light found the white haired Duncan Campbell, Helen's disconsolate father, at the base of the rock on which the two lovers had passed their BRIDAL EVE. Towler, who still watched over them with angel care, descried, and guided up the cliff the comfortless old man ; he climbed with tottering steps and thunder-speaking fears, but before he had time to think what might be, the first objects which caught his eye, were his beloved daughter, and his son who should that day have been. He wept not, he spoke not: his grief was too deep for words of sorrow, or unavailing tears. They were in a sitting posture, in each other's arms, their heads resting on a projecting cliff; they seemed not dead, but their pale and placid features looked like a master-piece of sculpture. Neither moved a muscle when the old man At length, more than a mile from her cot- approached: then, in bitterness of heart, tage, she reached a high craggy rock, which he ejaculated—“ My children! Oh, my extended its barren arm far into the sea, up hapless children!" Donald's eyes opened which the dog nimbly climbed, and she, not the fixed glazedness told that death had A slight moveless active, was in a moment after him. stamped his impress there. The wild waves dashed against it, seeming- ment of the lips was seen, but silence ly angry that it had usurped part of their reigned supreme; the gentlest sound was proper domain; but Helen, heedless of all not heard. His hand motioned towards the impediments, approached its utmost verge, fragments of his wherry, which were strewwhere, as a bright flash of lightning lit up ed on the rock; his eyes turned to his faiththe appalling scene, she saw a figure stretch-ful dog-they never moved again; a gentle ed upon the hard rock, and apparently as insensible. She uttered a loud, piercing shriek, which was heard even above the tempest-and, good heaven! she sunk upon the prostrate form of her lover, He spoke not, moved not: then her heart's forebodings told the dreadful tale, that hope and her Donald both were dead. She could not longer command her feelings; her lover's bark was overwhelmed by the raging winds and angry flood; her energy of mind was wrecked by the storm within her breast, not less wild than that without, and she swooned away. The lightning showed that night to the contending elements, two of the purest and most faithful hearts that ever beat in unison, while they, sigh was heard, soft as the sound when the dew-drop falls-it was his last. No motion was seen in Helen's face; her hair hung dishevelled over it, like the willow boughs -the same loveliness of feature, the same serenity of aspect, all was there as in life, save the sparkle of the eye, and the balmy breath. It seemed as if death had feared to sit on such a beauteous face, but sent his gentle sister sleep. Yet, she was dead! The old father fell upon his knees, with hands uplifted, and eyes heavenward turned, breathed rest for their souls-he could not ask a blessing! The villagers soon found out the spot of the melancholy catastrophe, and assembled on the rock. They bore the lifeless lovers to the village, and conducted the parents | middle course, between the simple and overthither, who were, "in all, save breath, charged; that is the great merit of an author." already dead." Helen and Donald were buried in the same grave, in the village church-yard; a stone of white gypsum was placed over their heads, and on it was written this epitaph. Beneath this stone, repose who untimely perished upon on their BRIDAL EVE. Mr. Pomposity drew his chair forward, raised his head like one in authority, and with the confidence of an egotist spoke. "Gentlemen, you are both erroneous in your judgments: it is a good tale, neither possessing generous faults, nor transcendant beauties; it wants, however, the polished language of a scholar, and the interesting plot of a man of imagination. When I come to speak my tale, I shall by example show you the true style, pure English, and matured plot." "Gentlemen," said the author, "go on "I do opine," said the minister, "that with your remarks, do not fear I shall be your tale deserves a better fate than mere-offended; if my tale has no redeeming qualily to be repeated at our bacchanal meeting. ties, I myself, at least, have one merit, I can It is told in simple yet feeling language, listen to your censure without murmuring." and though more prolix than it might have been, yet being called on so unpreparedly, perhaps you had not time to curtail think both yourself and your story deserve immortality." I "Hang immortality," said the author. "To have your caricature dangling at the sign-post of every country tavern, or shining on the face of every Dutch looking-glass, is no ambition I aim at; that is the summit of immortality now-a-days. Give me good friends, good wine, and in short, good quarters for my body in this world, the devil may take immortality when I am in the next; I'll none of it." "Tis an excellent tale," repeated the minister. cal." "It might be invidious in me," said the host, "to draw any comparison between the two tales told, yet, if I were asked which were the best, I should certainly give the preference to the latter; and, as the first, to me at least, was not an uninteresting one, in saying this. I give it no small praise." "If worse than Henry Birkenshaw,” said the austere critic, "it would scarcely be worth the breath Mr. Auldlochtan spent upon it; the romantic Henry was an egregious fool. What do we care about a silly girl of eighteen, jilting an intonsus? Yet, had it been told in strong and powerful language, it might have been almost tolerable to men of sense; but as it is, it is too poor for a love-sick girl. “Go on,” said the author of Henry Birkenshaw; "go on, Mr. Critic." "Then, if you will know the rest," said he, "there is no precision of style in your tale, nor the least ingenuity of plot." "I am of a different opinion," said Mr. Rowardson. The story is well enough, nothing, however, else than common-place; the diction is inflated, and the descriptions generally exaggerated, even to bombast. You do not, Mr. Pulpitwise, look on things "Your turn is coming," said the host; with the severe eye of a critic; you are not 'perhaps, as you can censure so unreservlike lago, you are something, if not criti-edly, you will submit to criticism yourself; though it is not those who give the most, "I would not say 1 doubt your judg- who will bear the most." ment," replied the godly man; "but as it "Mr. Rowardson," said the narrator of the first tale, "if my story was silly, and met your disapprobation, blame not me: I give it in the identical words in which I heard it; the story made an indelible impression on me, and I recollect it well, perhaps, because I felt deeply for my friend." is at variance with mine own, I will not yield too readily to it: I know there are men, who cannot themselves write two paragraphs consistently, censure with all the asperity of a Zeno, the writings of others. You must allow, that the passage where Donald asks Helen's heart, and the scene where her mother questions her, are told in simple and natural language; in such, as people in their stations might be presumed to use." "It is simple enough, I will confess," said the critic; "but as to natural, that is a question; yet even allowing it is, the nice observer of nature does not in his tales, sketch simple events because they are natural, but with the eye of discrimination chooses a "Pardon me," replied our critic. "Ido not mean to slight your talents; we all know, on most undoubted proof, that they are respectable; but let me inform you, they do not lie in story-telling." "I thank you for this good character. I never lied in a story in my life." The host seemed not to like the vein into which the conversation was now running, and to change it, turned to Mr. Auldloch tan, and, jocosely asked, "how do you like the claret ?" "Well, I thank ye, it is excellent." "Madeira and Champagne are too strong for you, if you introduce daylight into the bottles, they always make your head light." "I wish in mercy," said our severe critic, "they had done as much for his tale, it was as heavy as his thunder." "Come, come, Mr. Rowardson," said the guest; you should not be so severe, we tell not our tales for hire, so do not censure; we speak them unprepared, so make due considerations." THE GREEN ISLES OF THE OCEAN.* Where are they, those Green Fairy Islands, reposing In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast? What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing, Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest? Oh! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages, The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith, But the land bath been sad for her warriors and sages, For the guide to those relms of the blessed-is death! Where are they, the high-minded children of glory, Who steer'd to those distant green spots on the wave? To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story, In the fields of their country they found not a grave! Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze gathers, From the flowers of each vale. Immortality's breath; But their steps shali be ne'er on the hills of their fathers, For the guide to those realms of the blessed-is death! FELICIA HEMANS, The "Green Islands of the Ocean," or "Green Spots of the Floods, called in the Triads, Gwerddonau Lion," (respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not enter the Christian Heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this paradise of their own Gafran, a distinguished British Chieftain of the 5th century, went on a voyage, with his family, to discover these islands, but they were never heard of afterwards This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys. with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madog, were called the Three Losses, by disappearance of the Island of Britain. Vide W. O. Pughe's Cambrian Biography Also Cambro Briton, vol. 1. p 124. TO THE EVENING STAR. O fair and goodly star, Upon the brow of night, That from thy silver car Alas! it may not be For mortal fetters bind The prison'd essence of th' immortal mind; Then let my course below Amidst the pompous pageant of the scene; Within those verdant bounds, The current of my days shall murmur by Not doom'd to roll o'er passion's rocky bed, Like the dull pools in stagnant marshes bred, TO THE SPIRIT OF POESY. A person may not merit favour, as that is only the claim of man, but can never demerit charity, for that is the command of God. In Sophocles, Jocasta prays to the Lycian Apollo, and says, "That she came to his temple, because it was the nearest." This was but a sorry compliment to his godship. It is the same, however, that people gene Shoot'st on the darken'd world thy friendly light! rally pay to religion; who abide by the doc Thy course is calm and bright O'er the smooth azure of the starry way; Thou see'st how systems rise and pass away- trines and faith they have been bred up in, merely to save themselves the trouble of seeking further. The confinement of the unity of time, in the drama, forces the poet often to violate nature, in compliment merely to the appearance of truth. For he must be obliged to compass actions within the compass of three hours, which, in the ordinary course of things, would require the leisure of as many days, perhaps, to bring to pass. Titles of honour are like the impressions on coin-which add no value to gold and silver, but only render brass current. New-York Literary Gazette. denying virtue," and that his heart was depraved. Sir W. Scott says, "The errors THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW AND of Lord Byron arose neither from depravity LORD BYRON. of heart-for nature had not committed the anomaly of uniting to such extraordinary talents an imperfect moral sense-nor from feelings dead to the admiration of virtue.No man had a kinder heart for sympathy, or a more open hand for the relief of distress, and no mind was ever more formed for the enthusiastic admiration of noble actions, pro "Eternity and space are before me ; but on this subject, thank God, I am happy and at ease. The thought of living eternally, of again reviving, is a great pleasure. Christianity is the purest and most liberal religion in the world; but the numerous teachers who are continually worrying mankind with their denunciations and their doctrines, are the greatest enemies to religion. I have read, with more attention than half of them, the book of Christianity, and I admire the liberal and truly charitable principles which Christ has laid down. There are questions connected with this sub-viding he was convinced that the actors had ject, which none but Almighty God can solve. Time proceeded on disinterested principles.” We and space, who can conceive! None but God: on him I rely." THUS spoke Byron during his last illness, to Captain Parry. If a man ever speaks the truth, he does it on his death-bed; and we feel more disposed to believe the professions of the dying Byron, than the assertion of the critic in the North American, that his lordship "was without religious faith, regarding himself and others as mere beings of this world." At page 304 of the North American, the critic says, "At the University he fell, according to every account, including his own, into a course of reckless profligacy!" On this subject, Sir Cosmo Gordon says, (1824) "The enemies of Lord Byron have never ventured to hint that he was in his boyhood more wild than his fellows; all that they have ever laid to his charge is, that in his freaks there was a little more originality; and if this be a stain, it is one which his memory can well bear." We side with Sir Cosmo Gordon. The North American critic alludes to Capt. Medwin's book, and considers it in the main as a credible narrative, (although it is to be appealed to with caution) and says, "The temper [of Byron] discovered is characteristic he is represented as talking much of himself and his works, as full of spleen towards others."-Sir Walter Scott says, (1824)" Lord Byron was totally free from the curse and degradation of literature, its jealousies and its envy." We believe Sir Walter Scott. The North American critic says that Byron" denied the existence of all disinterested feeling," that "he felt no enthusiasm in ontemplating the energy of high and self believe Sir Walter. The North American critic says, "no one, we suppose, imagines that he rendered or was capable of rendering any important services to the cause" of Greece. Indeed! Let us probe this sapient, this oracular supposition. Prince Maurocordato in a letter to Mr. Bowring (Missolonghi, April 20th, 1824) says, "Our loss [of Byron] is irreparable, and it is with justice that we abandon ourselves to inconsolable sorrow. I shall attempt to perform my duty towards this great man: the eternal gratitude of my country will perhaps be the only true tribute to his memory." "Lord, what fools these" Grecians be," to mourn the loss of Byron, to cherish his memory with eternal gratitude, when the critic of the North American, who undoubtedly is a better judge of Lord Byron's services to Greece than the Prince Maurocordato, (who does not live in Boston, and of course knows nothing about the state of affairs in Greece) tells them the unquestionable truth that Lord Byron never did render and never could render them any important services !—" Cedite Graii !" acknowledge your stupidity; and bow thyself in deference, Prince Maurocordato! to the Calchas of the North American-and let the tears which you shed for Byron be tears of joy-exult that he is in his grave, for the critic says, "If the Greeks are, as we hope, to recover their freedom, it may be well for their posterity that he [Byron] had not the power" to render them any important services. What matchless wisdom! what tender-hearted consideration for struggling Greece ! We now come to one of the most novel remarkably young nor particularly original. We have seen again and again the same idea expressed by all the hackneyed scribblers that have harped on Byron's poetry.— They have repeatedly detected the real Lord Byron in all his heroes. According to their notions Childe Harold's Pilgrimage should have been entitled "The Pilgrimage of George, Lord of Byron"-the Giaour should have been the "George Gordon"-the Cor inethods of creating a poet, that we ever wished them to entertain." The opinions heard mentioned. Our wonder has been advanced in the above extract, are neither rising step by step, as we have travelled along this article of the North American on Byron; but we are now on the top of the ladder, and the elevation is so great that we fear a vertigo. Let our readers be on their guard, or the next quotation may make sad work with their brains. Here it is-"The energy of his passions and his intense egotism made him a poet." Here is a recipe for making a poet with fewer ingredients than it takes to make a pudding! We doubt sair should have been "The lord of Newnot that it will be copied into every "Cook's Oracle" and receipt book in the world, between the recipes for making apple-pie and apple dumplings, duly entitled "How to make a poet." stead Abbey" and "Cain, a mystery," should have been the "Conversations of Lord Byron and Old Nick." Who presumes to doubt that Lord Byron was sketching his own character in Manfred, Conrad, Alp and Sardanapalus ? And on equally tenable ceive that Milton's devil in Paradise Lost is a shadowing forth of his own personal character-that the goblin page of Scott is the real Sir Walter in a pair of seven-league boots-and that the foul and monstrous veil Tom Moore-who is so blunt as not to discover the personal character of poets in the productions of their imagination? Caliban and Nick Bottom are unquestionably portraits of "sweet Willy Shakspeare," and Joan of Arc is Doctor Southey in petticoats! Simpletons that we have heretofore been! We had hitherto imagined that intense ego-ground, who is so very a dunce as not to pertism would only render a man a great fool, and a great bore; now the scales have fallen from our mental vision-blessed be our critic for removing them! and now we see that intense egotism is either father or mother (we are not quite certain which) to poeti-ed prophet of Khorassan is neither more nor cal genius. Henceforth every self-impor- less than the bright-eyed and light-hearted tant and self-conceited coxcomb may exclaim, "Et me fecere poetam ;" he cannot add "Pierides," but must take for the subjects to "fecere" passions and egotism. Until now, we have always thought that a man was a poet through the influence of generous feeling, sublime passion, and moral power; that the mighty creations of the bard were the workings of strong imagination, and of a high capacity for whatever is grand, or pathetic, or beautiful in nature—that he poured forth his soul in song under inspiration which he could not resist; we had attributed the origin of Byron's poetry to all these causes; but now we see how widely we have erred, and in humility and sadness we bow to the Oracle whose sayings are quite as lucid as ever were those of the Pythian priestess, and admit that Lord Byron's intense egotism and strong passions alone made him a poet! "Throughout the whole of his poetry," says our critic, "there is an exhibition direct or indirect, of his personal feelings and character, either such as they really were, or most commonly modified in such a manner as seemed to him best adapted to give others that conception of him which he We must now rap our critic upon those bumps below his eyes, which craniologists term the organs of language. Lord Byron in his Manfred, compares the water-fall of the Alps to "The pale courser's tail, The giant steed to be bestrode by Death." Our critic puts on his spectacles here, and discovers false grammar; he kindly corrects it thus "The pale courser's tail The giant steed's to be bestrode by Death." In this amendment, steed's is in the posses sive case, and must necessarily be in apposition with courser's, and must further be governed by tail; thus the meaning of the sentence is, that the cataract is like the pale courser's tail, the giant steed's tail to be bestrode by Death! Now, if Death chooses to ride on the tail of his own horse, it is not our business to question his right so to do, little as we may admire his taste; one thing |