I was sitting one day before the fire, on my little stool gazing on the coloured tiles, and delighting myself with the smiling visions of childhood, when she said to me: (I wish I could describe the sweet expressions of her countenance when she spoke) "My dear I have a curiosity for you. Among the apples that were bought to day for the use of the house, was one of so singular a colour and form that I put it in my library closet to preserve it for you." With that she rose from her arm chair and laying down her nitting, opened the closet door to get the fruit, when turning round to me she said while a smile eradiated her countenance. The mice have been before you, see, (holding up the shell of an apple,) but I cannot blame them, for the demands of nature must be satisfied. The little animals require food as well as we. They shall not be harmed; here my child, take this away (giving me the skin of the apple) and bring me two or three apples from the other closet." I did as I was commanded. She put the apples, where she had before placed the eaten one, saying; "Poor things, I will not trouble you; enough you shall have to eat, but do not injure my books. I cannot discover (continued my Grandmother as she closed the closet door and resumed her seat and nitting) for what mice were intended." Probably her pious soul reproved her for what she hal uttered, for she immediately added, "I am wrong, very wrong in saying so; the Great Creator never formed any thing but for some wise purpose." She ceased nitting, and sank into a re verie, doubtless ruminating upon the aberrance she had commited. "Grandma," said I involuntary, after I had been gazing on her countenance for some time "did you ever sin?" "Sin, my boy!" returned she, we all sin, my boy, either in word, thought, or deed, each hour." "Oh yes, I understand you, dear Grandma, but I mean I- what was the greatest sin you ever committed, I would say." “I will tell you, my lamb, for it was a great sin." "You, my dear Grandma, commit a great sin!" cried I, astonished, springing off my stool and pressing up against the side of her arm chair. "Listen, then my child, and you shall hear." Here my Grandmother commenced the following recital:-I wish I could give it to the reader, in the same simplicity of style as I heard it; but as I cannot, I will in words as near to her's as I can recollect. "My parents, my dear boy, as I have often told you, early impressed upon my mind the duty of obedience, and the great crime of-lying. Often would they say to me, Mary, never stoop to such a degrading littleness. Fear not to speak the truth. When openness and sincerity are ba nished from the breast, and we fear not to make use of a falsehood to conceal any fault we may have committed, believe us when we tell you, it will not be long before we have few, if any scra

ples whatever, in committing the worst of crimes. Such words as these did I constantly hear. Never, as long as the Almighty continues to me the blessing of memory, shall I forget my first deviation from the path of rectitude. It was on a clear frosty winter evening, that my mother bade my sister, and myself go into the yard, and bring in some article that had been unintentionally left there; at the same time bidding us take care not to step on a sheet of ice before the door, least we should fall and be injured. I charge you concluded she as we left the room, not to venture on it-if you do I shall be angry, exceedingly angry. We promised to obey strictly her commands, and went into the yard.

"The crescent moon, and the twinkling stars shone clear and bright, and distinctly showed to our view a lubric piece of ice. "Mary," said my sister, "let us take a slide." "I started from her side shocked and amazed at her making such a proposal; but she disregarding my movement, continued: "Come, come, but one slide, neither father nor mother will know of it"--" But HE who notices the actions of all his creatures will, returned I quickly." “Pooh, pooh, Mary; come, come, this is babyish-foolish; surely there can be no harm in taking a slide!" "Not in the action itself. I know; but then, think of the enormity of the crime of disobeying our parents, and descending to a LIE, for we prom ised our parents not to venture on the ice." "Now this is nonsense, Mary; come, but one, only one slide, sister; only see how beautifully the moon shines upon the ice. In truth. Mary, I can't resist the temptation; I will have one slide." She slid-I know not how it was, but irresistibly to me, I was carried forward; im mediately I followed her, and I-fell. In falling, my back struck against the stump of a tree, and I received a considerable hurt. I sprang to my feet, though lacerated and bleeding. I minded not the pain of the body, for all within was torture and agony. Never shall I forget what I then internally felt. It was the greatest crime I had ever committed, and I thought myself more culpable than the veriest felon that had ever paid the forfeit of his ill spent life, upon the gallows. There was but one way to alleviate this tumult. I flew to my parents, flung myself at their feet, confessed my crime; and asked, entreated, prayed and cried for forgiveness. They bade me rise, and oh! how sweet did it sound to me when they said: "Mary, you have done right to confess your fault, the stings of your conscience will be a sufficient punishment to you, and we shall not this time take cognizance of your error -we forgive you. Now go to your chamber; but ere you lie down to rest, remember there is ONE, the LORD over ALL, whom you have highly offended, and of whom you must ask forgiveness; good night." I ran to my chamber, I fell on my

knees, and with clasped hands, extended upwards, I poured forth the fulness of my heart and prayed forgiveness of the Almighty. I was calm when I laid my head on my pillow; and when I awoke in the morning, I felt I was forgiven by my Creator, and -I was happy.”

If, thought I, as my Grandmother concluded, an artist who portrays angelic forms could only now behold her placid features he would say that her countenance was more celestial than any thing his fancy had ever conceived. E.R.

A REVIEW

OF

THE MOUNTAIN MUSE.

A Poem, by Daniel Bryan, Printed in Harrisonburg, Va. by Davidson and Bourne, 1813.

Since the commencement of our editorial labours, the chief object of our criticisms has been to convince American writers, that in order to succeed, it is necessary to exercise judgment and taste, as well as imagination and fancy, to adhere to the rules of consistency and good sense, as well as to indulge in deep feeling and ardent enthusiasm. We have held out clearness of thought and purity of language, as the most valuable and most attractive requisites in all kinds of composition; and with respect to poetical composition, we have endeavoured to show that it cannot even exist without such an arrangement of words and syllables as will produce harmony.

For deficiency in the last particular, we have refused to acknowledge Lord Byron as a good poet; and for the same reason, as well as for his frequent impenetrable cloudiness of both thought and language, we have denied to Percival that character, and yet we have unreservedly expressed our conviction that these are men of extraordinary genius. That we have found the greater portion of their works disagreeable, and some parts of them altogether unreadable, does not, therefore, arise from our supposing them to be written without genius, according to the common ac

ceptation of the term, but because they are written without judgment and taste, and because, as works of literature, they are frequently destitute of that precision calculated to impress them on the mind, and, as poetical works, almost always devoid of that which is the true soul of song, harmony of versification.

To show, however, that strenuous as we are in support of the doctrine that "Good versification is essential to good poetry," we are not of the opinion that it is all that is essential, we have selected for the subject of our present remarks, the well-versified poem, whose title is at the head of this article. In the general structure of its numbers, notwithstanding some hobbling lines, this poem is as harmonious as the most fastidious ear could wish; yet we must pronounce it a bad poem, because it is neither planned with judgment nor executed with taste. It is a long performance, manifesting immense genius, if by genius be meant the faculty of inventing incidents, and delineating nature. In these respects, Mr. Bryan is, at least, equal to either Percival or Byron, while in the tuneful movement of his strains, is much their superior. We do not believe that lines of equal tenderness and melody with the following, ever came from the pen of either of the last named authors.

The lonesome Solitudes had now to him
The enlivening charms of sweet society.
Benignant Love breathed balmy blessings round:
And fair Eliza's Beauty seemed to bloom
In every flower and blossom of the Wild;
And every tuneful note that sweetly thrill'd
From the harmonious Warblers of the Groves,
Seemed but the echo of her flowing Voice!

The following passage also affords a good specimen of Mr. Bryan's talent for constructing blank verse.

Now in convivial converse, now in songs
Of tenderest melody. Their interview,
On either side, confusion mark'd; but most
His agitated mein and downcast eye,

Th' unnerving power of timid love betrayed.

The description of the morning at the commencement of the third book, is highly poetical, and like many other detached passages in the poem, prove that the author is not only gifted with a musical ear, but with a lively fancy, to which if he could only add judgment and good taste, we think he would be able to produce a better poem, than any we have yet seen written on this side of the Atlantic. The description to which we allude, is not too long, and is, therefore, free from a fault exceedingly prevalent in other parts of this work, the fault of prolixity. We shall here extract it.

The Queen of morn, in crimson robes array'd,
The shadow-woven curtains now withdrew
From round her roseate couch, and lifting high
Above the Orient God her blushing cheek,

Soft, amorous smiles, upon him cast, and woo'd
Him from his blazing chamber.

As the quantity of other matter intended for this number, com pels us to brevity in our present review, we can afford no more space for eulogy on this poem, if we even thought it deserved more; but we have in reality, we believe, gone over all the topics for which we can afford to praise it. The disagreeable task of censure now becomes our duty; and if we were inclined to severity, and had leisure and space to indulge it, we should here meet with ample materials on which to exercise it. We believe, however, that the author was young when he permitted his Muse to plunge into the absurdities, and commit the extravagancies that constitute so large a portion of this production, and what tends still more to molify our critical wrath, is the information we have received that he has long since become conscious of the errors of his youthful and hair-brained Muse, and is now heartily sorry for the presumption with which in her first efforts, she so daringly overleaped the bounds of proper discretion and sound sense. He has, we are told, endeavoured to chasten his taste, and improve his judgment. He no longer