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other the right of forming and holding an opinion either in morals, politics, religion, or taste, is the most ignorant and diabolical. Were it not for the fatal effects of such arrogance,

it would be too ludicrous for anything save contempt; but it unfortunately happens that the innate love of cruelty which so marks man from the rest of the brute creation, is enabled, by appealing to this egotism, to select some of the noblest of God's creatures for victims. Man is cruel by nature ; it is reflection that modifies him into humanity. A modern poet, in some verses, has made a parallel between a cruel boy and the grown-up world. Alluding to the favorite pastime of youth to impale an insect on a pin, and then enjoy its flutterings, he


“ I hardly know, dear reader, which is safer,
To be a genius or a cockchafer !"

The slightest reflection must convince the most bigoted person that it is the height of profanity and danger to deny to any man his birthright of thought. In the first place, who gave the bigot a patent to act the Omniscient on earth ? He is as likely to be wrong as his fellow-man! For every one is equally certain that he is right! It is dangerous, for the bigot becomes responsible for the faith of the man he coerces ! It is profane, because the bigot usurps the throne of God, to whom we are alone responsible for our conscience! We shall not dwell on this point, for those who refuse assent to the first article of freedom, will not be persuaded though“ one rise from the dead !" We cannot, however, help one closing remark that of all nations the American ought to be the most tolerant

since it owes its existence to those noble-minded men who fled from persecution to find freedom and toleration in the New World; and who, in after years, when tyranny followed them to their new home, went forth to battle, and with the pebble of Truth in the sling of Freedom laid low at their feet the giant Goliah of the world.

We conclude our notice of Miss Fuller by confessing that she is one of those few authors who have written too little. We hope to read more of her prose, so thoughtful and vigorous ; and of her poetry, at once so graceful, yet so strong and simple.

We regret that the scope of this volume will not allow us to consider her as a politician. In this character, however, she is familiar to all those who read the “ Tribune”—a journal which has of late sullied its high reputation for dignity and forbearance by indulging in personal attacks, and suffering itself to be converted from a great organ of truth to a vehicle of individual malignity.


AMERICA has produced few women superior to the authoress of “ Western Clearings,” “A New Home, Who'll Follow?" “Forest Life," and " Holidays Abroad." There is a clear, bright intellect displayed in her writings generally, which inevitably compels us to respect her conclusions, however much we may differ from them. This we do in many points, and in some to a great extent.

We shall commence with her last work, Holidays Abroad,” and present to our readers those parts which seem to illustrate most pointedly those peculiarities which constitute the individuality of Mrs. Kirkland.

Nature seems to possess the faculty of the kaleidoscope in never producing the same aspect twice. However much men and women may appear to resemble each other, the difference is as distinct as though they belonged to separate races.

This is a conclusive reason why. a man of intellect never despises the lowest of his fellow creatures. Every one is an undiscovered world, infinitely more wonderful than a new planet. When we remember into how few elements human nature is resolved, the imagination is not capable of realizing the countless variety of

individuals produced by a different combination of the passions. We may illustrate this in a faint degree by observing that out of twenty-five letters Shakspeare and the poets have produced all those marvellous creations which constitute the realm of thought.

When we take into account the variety of human passions, the senses, the modifications of climate, the different ages of the world, the disturbing influences of creeds, whether of religion, politics, or taste, and then multiply all these by the countless accidents of circumstances, we shall find a numerous alphabet of creative facts and elements, out of which nature can form that great dictionary of men -the human race--that wonderful language of which every word is a living and immortal being.

We met with some verses lately in a manuscript poem, which reverse this illustration. Without vouching for the philosophy they embody, we quote them :

6 • Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,' this knells

The common lot; but it is ink to ink,
Paper to paper, pen to pen, which tells

The fate of those who sing, and those who think.
The poet moulders into syllables,
And from his tomb of Russia, silk, or calf,
Still makes all human nature weep or laugh.”

Mrs. Kirkland is one of the few travellers who have avoided the old stereotyped plan of diluting the “Guide Book," and plagiarizing the “ Catalogues of Art." In her preface she says: “ I was obliged to make a compromise with modesty, by secretly vowing to resist all temptations to put anything in my book

which could be suspected of an intent to convey information, properly so called ! A faithful reading of Murray's Guide Books will give more of that than one can use."

This is the avowal of a woman of a superior intellect, a scorner of the commonplace; and it is infinitely preferable to have the impressions left on such a mind by the new aspects continually presented to her by foreign countries, than a tedious detail of the statistics of the places she has visited.

Our fair traveller's enthusiasm is very creditable to her feelings, but we are too frequently reminded by the largeness of her admiration, that she is expressing her astonishment rather than her critical opinion.

She is certainly one of the warmest admirers of England that it has been our fortune to meet. How truly the impulsive woman's nature is shown in the following apostrophe!

“ Who shall describe the exquisite delight with which the land is welcomed at the termination of a first voyage across the ocean! To see mere earth, though it were but a handful, enough to smell and to feel, were something! but to see land, and know that it is the land towards which your curiosity, gratitude, and affections, your nursery songs, your school stories, your academic education, your studies in history, your whole literary experience, have been directing and drawing you from your cradle; to see before you the shores of “merry England,' the country of Alfred, and old Canute, and Robin Hood, and Mother Goose—the land whose Christmas and Twelfth-night revels Washington Irving made so unspeakably fascinating to our imagination—the land of Shakspeare, and of Shakspeare's creatures—the only Englishmen of the ages gone as much alive now as they ever were; England ! the country to which appertain the glorious ages of Anne and Elizabeth, and the splendid

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