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greater has been our pleasure; even as a child whose eye tracks the sun-set across the sea, and believes that the trailing pathway of gold ends only on the threshold of heaven.

"The solemn woods have to us seemed like the great cathedrals which God himself had erected, as if a holier religion reigned there than was ever found beneath the towering fabrics erected by the hand of man. The deep roaring of the winds had a sound to us unlike aught earthly; the rustling of the leaves in gentler gales, awoke the heart unaware to prayer; we felt not the same while in the midst of such shadowy scenery. The pillars hewn and carved, and upreared by mortal hands, look not so grand and reverential as an aisle of ancient oaks, tossing their gnarled boughs above our heads, and admitting through the massy roof partial openings of the sky. The organ never fell upon our ears with the same solemnity as the roar of the ocean, beating upon a solitary shore. Between the walls of high and lofty mountains we have felt an inward awe, which the vaulted abbey could never awaken; for over the one hung the great image of the Creator, above the other, the builder man. "Ruins only approach the sublime when they are gray and vast, and time has erased their history. To us the Pyramids would not convey such images of mysterious and melancholy grandeur as the naked and rugged pile of Stonehenge. The untraceable Past having long since claimed it for his own, and handed it to Eternity, it seems tinged with the first sunshine which broke upon the world, and may catch the last ray which may settle down upon the earth, ere the night of eternal silence and darkness descends upon it."

Some of Miller's glowing descriptions of scenery, of rustic and hearty characters, his admiration

"Of their old piety and of their glee," (KEATS,)

remind us at times of Rousseau. The wanderings of St. Preux in the Pays de Vaud, as described in the twenty-third letter of the New Héloïse, are delicious. We behold him at one time enveloped in a drizzling cloud arising from a torrent thundering against the rocks at his feet; we gaze on yawning abysses, gloomy woods, suddenly opening on flowery plains,-a blending of the wild and cultivated,-horrid caverns, vineyards and cornfields among cliffs and precipices,-where are united almost all seasons in the same instant, every climate in the same spot; the tops of the mountains are variously illuminated, a mixture of light and shade,-the thunder storms far below him,-the purity of

the air, producing tranquillity of soul,joined with the pleasure of looking on new scenes, plants, and birds. The disinterested zeal and humanity of the inhabitants are eloquently described. When St. Preux approaches any hamlet towards evening, the inhabitants are eager to entertain and lodge him in their houses, and he to whom the preference is given was always well pleased. They would receive no pay, and were offended when it was proffered. "The same simplicity exists among themselves: when the children are once arrived at maturity, all distinction between them and their parents seems to have ceased; their domestics are seated at the same table with their masters; the same liberty reigns in the cottage as in the republic, and each family is an Ils en usent entre epitome of the state." eux avec la même simplicité : les enfants en âge de raison sont les égaux de leurs pères : les domestiques s'asseyent à table avec leur maitres; la mème liberté regne dans les maisons et dans la republique, et la famille est No wonder that Julia in l'image de l'état.' her reply to this eloquent epistle exclaims: "La relation de votre voyage est charmante; elle me feroit aimer celui qui l'a écrite quand bien même je ne le connoitrois pas.'

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There is also a beautiful picture of a fine breathing landscape, and the portrait of a happy man, where Werter is represented sitting beneath some lime trees, which spread their branches over a little green in front of a church, where he has a fine view of the country, and is surrounded by cottages and barns, and an old woman lives close by, who sells wine, coffee and

cakes. Here Werter sits and reads Homer.*

*It is rather strange that we have no version, in English, of the "Sorrows of Werter," direct from the German. The English one, in common use, is a translation from the French. We have now before us a French translation printed at Maestricht in 1776. It contains two pictures; one represents Charlotte cutting off slices of bread and butter for the children, and the other is a view of Werter's room. In the last letter of this work occurs the following affecting passage. We copy from the French: "Quand dans une belle soirée d'été, tu te promeneras vers la montagne, ressouviens toi de moi; rappelle toi comme tu m'as vu souvent monter de la vallée; leve les yeux vers la cimetière qui renferme ma tombe, et vois aux derniers rayons du soleil comme le vent du soir fait ondoyer l'herbe haute qui la couvre. J'étois tranquille en commençant ma lettre, mais en me retraçant vivement tous ces objets, voilà que je pleure comme un enfant." Now for the English: "When in a fine evening of summer you walk towards the mountains, think of me;

Rural Sketches, with twenty-three illus- | to make several extracts, but must content trations, was published in London by Van Voorst in 1839. We wish that we had room

recollect the times you have so often seen me come up from the valley; raise your eyes to the churchyard which contains my grave; and by the light of the departing sun, see how the evening breeze waves over the high grass which grows over me! I was calm when I began my letter; but the recollection of these scenes makes me weep like a child."

A word or two about another translation. Leigh Hunt in the Indicator, in some remarks on Lazarillo de Tormes, observes that the English version of the work is done with great tact and spirit, he knows not by whom, but that it is worthy of De Foe. Lazarillo serves a blind beggar, who, to keep his mug of common Spanish wine safe from the inroads of Lazarillo, holds it in his own hands; but this avails him nothing, for the cunning Lazarillo contrives to suck out some with a reed; the beggar then, to prevent this, places his hand over it. Upon this his antagonist makes a hole near the bottom of the mug, and fills it up with wax, and then taps it gently when he feels thirsty. Lazarillo tells his adventures himself.

ENGLISH VERSION.

"You won't accuse me any more I hope (cried I) of drinking your wine, after all the fine precautions you have taken to prevent it. To that he said not a word; but feeling all about the pot, he at last unluckily discovered the hole, which cunningly dissembling at the time, he let me alone till next day at dinner, not dreaming, God knows, of the old man's malicious intention, but getting in between his legs, according to my wonted custom, receiving into my mouth the distilling dew, and pleasing myself with the success of my own ingenuity, my eyes upward, but half shut, the furious tyrant taking up the hard but sweet pot with both his hands flung it down again with all his force upon my face; by the violence of which blow, imagining the house had fallen upon my head, I lay sprawling without any sentiment or judgment, my forehead, nose and mouth gushing out with blood, and the latter full of broken teeth and broken pieces of the can.'

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We think that the above translation is from the

French. We have an old translation with the title page as follows: "Lazarillo de Tormes. Traduction Nouvelle. A Paris, chez Claude Barbin au

Palais, sur le Perron de la sainte Chapelle. M.D.C.L.XXVIII. Avec Privilege due Roy." "Vous ne m'accuserés pas maintenant de vous avoir bù vostre vin, lui desois-je. Vous y avés mis bon ordre, Dieu merci. Il ne me dit mot, mais il tourna tant le pot de tous côtés il le tastonna si bien par tout, qu'il trouva malheureusement le trou. Il n'en fit pas semblant sur l'heure: mais le lendemain sans le porter plus loin, comme j'eus ainsté mon pot, ne pensant à rien moins qu'à ce que le malicieux aveugle me gardoit, ie me mis entre ses jambes comme j'avois accoustumé. Tandis que ie beuvois, le visage en haut, et les yeux à demi fermés, l'aveugle enragé prit son tems pour se vanger de moi, et levant à deux mains ce doux et cruel pot de terre, il me le déchargea sur le visage de toute sa force. En vérité le pauvre Lazare, qui ne s'y attendoit pas, et que le plaisir de boire tenoit comme ravi, s'imagina dans ce moment que le plancher lui tomboit sur le tête. Le coup de pot fut si bien assené, que j'en perdis connoissance: le pot se mit en mille pièces; il m'en entra quelquesunes bien avant dans le visage, qui me le balafrèrent en plu

sieurs endroits, et me cassèrent les dents, qui me manquent encore auiourd'hui."

ourselves with one. In commenting on Browne's Britannia's Pastorals, in a most genial manner, he makes use of the following remarks, which form a just criticism on his own writings:

"There is a green look about his pages; he carries with him the true aroma of the green forests; his lines are mottled with rich mosses, and there is a gnarled ruggedness upon the stems of his trees. His waters have a fresh look and a flashing sound about them, and you feel the fresh air play around you while you read. His birds are the free denizens of the fields, and they send their songs so life-like through the covert that their music rings upon the ear, and you are carried away with their sweet pipings. He heard the sky-lark sing in the blue dome of heaven before he transferred its warblings to his pages, and inhaled the perfume of the flowers he described; the roaring of the trees was to him an old familiar sound; his soul was a rich storehouse for all that is beautiful in Nature."

We find a pleasantly written account of Miller in a late English work, and transcribe it for the gratification of the reader :

my

"I had read with considerable interest a work entitled, A Day in the Woods,' by Thomas Miller, basket-maker,' and felt not a little delighted with his vivid and graphic descriptions of rural and forest scenery. Nothing so natural and fresh had appeared in our literature. Even Bloomfield failed to convey so happy an idea of country life as Miller. One morning I inquired his address, and determined to call on Mr. Miller, trusting to the frankness and amiability which pervaded every page of his book, for his excuse of introducing myself to him. I had a long walk down St. George's road, Southwark, on a dismal, drizzling November day-and that was no joke, as any one familiar with a foggy day, at that time of the year, in London, can testify. After much inquiry I found out Elliot's Row, to which place I had been directed, and when I had ascertained the group of houses in one of which the poet resided, I had great difficulty in finding out the exact dwelling. The very people who lived next door to Miller did not know of such a person-although half of literary London was ringing with his praises, and crying him up as a newly found genius. Such is fame in the mighty metropolis!

"At length, on inquiring at an humble, but neat looking domicile, I was told by an interesting looking little girl, that her father (the poet) resided there. I entered, asked to see him, and presently he came down stairs. I introduced myself, told him I had read his works, which had delighted me by their truthfulness, and much desired to see him before I left town. He very kindly shook me by the hand, and after some agreeable chat, we made an appointment to dine with each other, at a chop house in the Strand, the next day. The story of his life which he told me on the latter occasion was to the following

effect:

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found him out after much labor, and asked him to write a poem for the forthcoming volume of the Offering. Miller told me that he was so poor then that he had not pen, ink or paper; so he got some whitey brown paper, in which sugar had been wrapped, mixed up some soot with water for his ink, and then sat down—the back of a bellows serving for a desk—and wrote his well-known lines on an "Old Fountain." These beautiful verses being completed, he sealed his letter with some moistened bread for a wafer and forwarded them, with many hopes and fears, to the editor. They were immediately accepted, and Mr. Harrison forwarded the poet two guineas "He was born on the borders of Sher- for them. I never had been so rich bewood Forest, where Robin Hood and his fore in my life,' said the basket-maker to merry men flourished in times of old. me. 'I fancied some one might hear of From childhood (he was then about five my fortune and try to rob me of it; so, at or six and twenty) he had loved to wander night, I barred the door and went to bed, in the green woods and lanes, and uncon- but did not sleep all night from delight and sciously his poetic sensibilities were thus fear.' Miller still, to his honor, continued fostered. His station in life was very hum- the certain occupation of basket-making, ble, and at an early age he learned basket- but he was noticed by many-among othmaking, by which occupation he earned a ers, by Lady Blessington, who sent for him, bare subsistence. He married early, and recommended his book, and did him subthe increasing wants of a family led him stantial service. Often,' said Miller, to try the experiment of publishing some have I been sitting in Lady Blessington's poems and sketches, but owing to want splendid drawing-room in the morning, of patronage, no benefit resulted to him. talking and laughing as familiarly as in the He at last determined to go to London- old house at home, and, on the same eventhat fancied paradise of young authors-ing, I might have been seen standing on that great reservoir of talent-too often the grave of genius.. Thither he went, leaving for the present his family behind, and, alighting from the stage-coach, found himself in the Strand-a stranger among thousands, with just seven shillings and sixpence in his pocket. He soon made the melancholy discovery that a stranger Jordan took him by the hand, and in London, however great may be his tal- he contributed a good deal to the Literary ents, stands but a poor chance of getting Gazette. He is, at the time I write, himon without the assistance of some helping self a publisher in Newgate street, London. hand; so, to keep body and soul together, Miller is rather below the middle height, he set to work making baskets. In this his face is round and rosy looking, and he occupation he continued some time, occa- wears a profusion of light hair. He has a sionally sending some little contribution to strong Nottinghamshire dialect, and posthe periodicals. At length, fortune smiled sesses little or none of the awkwardness of on her patient wooer. One day, while he a countryman." was engaged in bending osiers, he was surprised by a visit from Mr. W. H. Harrison, Editor of the Friendship's Offering, an English Annual. That gentleman had seen one or two pieces of Miller's, and had been much struck with their originality. He

Westminster bridge, between an applevender and a baked-potato merchant, vending my baskets.' Miller now tried his hand at a novel, Royston Gower, which succeeded well, and then another, Fair Rosamond. He read diligently at the British Museum, and was perseveringly industrious.

In a future number we shall have something to say of Royston Gower, Henry II., Godfrey Malvern, Jane Grey, etc.-Reader, we have endeavored to give thee some idea (however faint) of the genius of Thomas Miller. We think that no one has written

better on rural life and customs, and it was | They cause us to love the lasting and true,

not till lately, with but few exceptions, that this class of writings has been much culti vated. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, and Walton's Angler, had much of the spirit of the green fields and woods. Then we had Thomson, Cowper, Burns, and Wordsworth, and Keats. Leigh Hunt in all his books, especially "The Months," Miss Mitford's "Our Village," and "Belford Regis," come over the mind like summer air filled with perfume, and the sweet music of country sounds gladdening to the heart and filled with a cordial and cheerful spirit. One can scarcely judge of the influence authors like these exercise with their healthy, sweet, and innocent strains. They see "religious meanings in the forms of nature,"

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in preference to that which is fleeting and
false. They walk the fields musing praise,
and find food for gratitude and admiration,
from "the cedar to the hyssop on the
wall." Their love is sincere. "This green
flowery rock-built earth, the trees, the
mountains, rivers, many surrounding seas;
that great, deep sea of azure that swims
overhead, the winds sweeping through it
-the black cloud fashioning itself togeth-
er-now pouring out fire, now hail and
rain," have from boyhood been viewed by
Thomas Miller with wonder and delight,
and deeply has he studied them. Many
of the oppressions of the English law he
has attacked with "a free and wholesome
sharpness," and his bold and independent
nature shines brightly through all his
writings. He is a noble instructor

"In the great church of Nature
Where God himself is Priest."

DE BENEFICIIS.

SCIENCE of a generous mind,
Precious use in thee I find:
Use, to show what honor feels,
And to hide what love conceals;
Use, to show the charm of living
And the joy of boundless giving,
Leaving givers doubly blest,
And receivers unoppressed;
Opening fountains in the heart,
Healing anger's jealous smart.
Let me, though in humble speech,
Thy refined maxims teach.

Honor's every gift should be
Proof of Love's equality.-
Haughty givers most oppress

When they most intend to bless,-

Vested gifts are made in vain,

They reap a curse who give to gain.—

Spirits grave and bosoms kind

Greatest joy in giving find,

When the gift is heart, or mind.
These thy founded maxims be,
Test of Love's equality.

G. F. D.

COLONEL SETH POMEROY.

THE scenes and actors in the war of our Revolution have been familiar to us from boyhood. Bunker Hill, Lexington, Saratoga, and Valley Forge, are names which convey distinct ideas to us of the heroic achievements of our immediate ancestors; while Gates, Schuyler, Putnam, Greene, and a host of others no less patriotic, are well known to us as household friends. We have been acquainted with them long; we have seen the stage upon which they acted their parts nobly; we ourselves, in the sense that they lived for posterity, have witnessed the characters which they assumed, and have pronounced our verdict upon them. Though much is still to be written, and doubtless well written, of the war of our Revolution, and of those who achieved our independence, the day will never come in which we or our children will better know those great souls, or more truly honor their imperishable renown.

But there are other pages of our history with which we are less acquainted. Back of those days when we first emerged into the world of nations, while we were but "in the gristle of our youth," and not yet hardened into the bone of manhood, we, of the present age, seldom look. Content that we achieved all that we demanded when the days of our majority came, and that not even the strength or discipline of our natural mother could hold us in dishonorable tutelage, we forget the early culture which fitted us for mature action, and the occasions which opened to us in our minority the secret of our strength. We honor those who made us freemen, but forget those who taught us to be men. Like the Olympian victor, we count our years from the first crown we won, overlooking those which witnessed the frequent defeats, the constant struggles, the undismayed reverses, and the unmitigated toil, which prepared us for the conflict, and finally gave us the victory.

The history of New England, in the mind of the great mass of the present generation, dates little farther back than

the days of the opposition to the Stamp Act; and yet, for long years prior to that, the character of her population was developing, under the wise but severe dispensation of an overruling Providence, to that very point when it would successfully resist that tyrannous enactment. The threeand-thirty years which preceded the outbreak of 1774, were occupied by a generation worthy to be the fathers of those who achieved our independence. They were the years of toil, of suffering, of undismayed effort, of manly counsel, and fervent prayer, which made the men of the Revolution what they were. Patiently, but with a firm resolution, ever planting itself deeper in the soul, the fathers had eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth were set on edge." And it was not the Stamp Act, nor the Boston Port Bill, nor the levies of foreign troops, nor the haughty bearing of colonial governors, but the long and steady purpose of the British Parliament, manifested in the oppressive measures of forty years, which gave strength to the arm and indomitable purpose to the effort, which contended for and won our independence.

From among these fathers of the Revolution, the names of a few have descended to our own day, while those of others, no less true-hearted, earnest and patriotic, have been well nigh lost in the crowded current of subsequeut events. Of these latter, Col. Seth Pomeroy, whose name stands at the head of this article, was no mean representative. Fortuitously gaining possession of his manuscript writings, a very small portion of which have ever seen the light, it has appeared to us not undesirable to select a few of such as elucidate contemporaneous and doubtful events, and introducing them by a slight notice of the writer, and the scenes which they chronicle, to usher them in this way before the public.

Col. Pomeroy was a native and a resident of Northampton, in Massachusetts Bay. He was descended from one of the

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