mistakes bombast for sublimity, nor pedantry for elegance, and we dare say, that, if he had this poem to write now, he would not bring the Seraphs of Heaven down to the top of the Allegany Mountain, there to sit in "colloquy sublime," to determine on the best method of persuading James Boone to ramble into the forests of Kentucky, and spy out the land. The greater part of the first book, which consists of between nine and ten hundred lines is occupied with an extravagant account of this Seraphic conclave, or caucus, as is now the popular term. We can scarcely imagine a more perfect instance of the bathos, than representing an enterprise so manifestly of human suggestion, and arising from the impulse of human curiosity, as that of a forest hunter traversing mountains and penetrating into adjoining wilds, to be the result of a grave and formal consultation of celestial spirits, who not only take the trouble of descending from Heaven to earth, but of erecting a most extraordinary fabric, a Firmamental Hall, on the top of the Allegany mountain, in which to hold their conference on the subject. Perhaps we could not select from the work a better specimen of the false sublime with which it abounds, than the description of this absurd edifice, and of the materials with which it was composed. Our readers will also find in it a fair proportion of those pedantic and jaw-fracturing words, for which the poetry of Joel Barlow has been celebrated; but against the very sound of which the tuneful Nine have such an inveterate antipathy, that they have vowed never to acknowledge any production that happens to be defiled with any of them, as proceeding from their inspiration, nor to admit its guilty author, unless he repents and makes proper atonement for his crime, into the regions of Parnassus. We wish the passage were shorter, but in order that our readers may thoroughly understand its absurdity, long as it is, we must give it entire.

Meanwhile command

Was given th' etherial Guardians to prepare,
High o'er the Alleganian Mountain-Heights,
For the Divan, a FIRMAMENTAL HALL.

Anon, obedient to the high behest,
The mighty Spirit of the welkin deeps
Bade convoluted winds, with furious flight

And curvilinear sweep, encompass all
The Atmospheric bounds; and dash and roll
To the appointed place of Rendezvous,
With all their fulminating Magazines,

Th' encircled Regiments of mingled clouds !
The gloomy Vast, impetuous howlings pierce;
The Northern Gates, tempestuous Whirlwinds burst;
And Mountain-caverns wide-expanded, vent
Their hissing blasts. Against impinging clouds,
With driving strength, th' encircling Tempests rush
And from their boundary's wide circumference roll
Converging, the dark billowy-mixing mass.
From cloud to cloud, in blazing torrents stream
Th' awaken'd fires electric; flashing flames
In forky grandeur with etherial light,
Projected peaks of rolling vapour crown;
And all the nubilous involutions paint
With intermitting Lightning's vivid tints;
While glancing scintillations spangle thick
With dancing lustre all the clouded gloom;
And angry meteors, flaming as they fly,
With burning paths their ragged way emblaze.
From ridge to ridge of the big Mountain-Mass,
Dark sullen thunders by the conflicts wak'd,
Their sky-convulsing detonations pour.

Their destin'd point, th' embattled volumes reach;
And rest. The grand, the wondrous Edifice,
The great, th' ethereal Architect begins.
Wide over Allegany's summit spread,

Of close impacted, squarred and polish'd clouds
Constructed, the extended base appears;
And of the same compressed material form'd,
Octagonal the burnish'd walls ascend,

Sublimely towering through the midway skies!
Broad sheets of lightning constitute the roof,

Whose flashing splendors flood with day the Heavens,
When Night spreads o'er the sun her darkling wings.
Reflected from the Fabric's upright squares,
Prismatic tinctures paint the fragment-clouds,
Which float unused in widening fleeces round.
Its myriad windows and its thousand gates
Were all of pure translucent ether wrought,
And all with bright festoons superbly hung
Of pansied clouds and wreathed lightnings made.
Both North snd South of the magnific dome,
In grand Corinthian style and towering state,

On Meteor-Pillars rear'd, refulgent shone
Its roomy porticos. Innumerous seats,

Of downy clouds composed, and white and soft
As Cygnet plumes, in graceful circles ranged;
Around the interior of the shining hall,
All ready for the Angel host appear'd.
A canopy of Rainbows intertwined
In spiral union, forming in the whole,
A beauteous arch of intermingled hues
As rich as Fancy's pencil can portray;
And variegated as the tints of light
In all their gayly blended forms can be,
High o'er each line of dazzling sofas bends.

On reading this magnificent description, this "much ado about nothing," to a female friend who had recently crossed the Alle gany Mountain, she was so struck with the sense of the ludicrous it excited, that she observed that "the angels had put themselves to a great deal of unnecessary trouble, considering all they had to accomplish-for she thought that when they condescended to deliberate so solemnly on the sending of James Boone to Kentucky, they might have been content with a decent apartment in Stottler's Tavern, as it would have been sufficiently respectable for the purpose." The fair critic, however, was wrong in assuming the existence of "Stottler's Tavern," at the time this conference was held.

Our readers will now have a tolerable idea of both the beau ties and the blemishes that we consider characteristic of this poem. Its subject is the adventures of Colonel Boone in the Western country, a subject in itself sufficiently interesting and susceptible of romantic embellishment, to form the basis of a poetical tale, if constructed with judgment, and narrated with taste. We think it a subject in every respect as well suited for poesy as any of the Scottish Border occurrences, which Scott or Hogg have made the themes of their song. Had our author followed their example, and attempted nothing but what was natural to his subject, we are seriously of opinion that he would have produced as pleasing a poetical romance, as any of theirs. But he committed the fault to which young writers are peculiarly prone, that of overdoing his task. No matter how simple and naturař VOL. 1.-No. IV.

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may be their topic, they imagine that they can never do enough to render it grand and elevated. They are perpetually straining to be sublime, when they should only endeavour to be beautiful. A mistaken opinion of what will produce an effect, is the cause of this. It requires some experience in life to convince them that unnatural elevation and pomp are not so efficient for this purpose, as ease, gracefulness and propriety.

If Mr. Bryan be now aware of this, and still retains the ardent feeling and tuneful taste, with which he wrote some parts of the Mountain Muse, we should be glad soon to see another of his productions on our table; for we should, indeed, be much deceived,* if with his acquired judgment, and his inherent talents, he did not produce a work as much deserving of praise as the present is of censure.

FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

Annals of the Late War.

Talk in the tongue of things gone by.

BATTLE OF BALTIMORE.

The voice of battle's on the breeze,
Arouse ye one and all..... War Song..... Scott.

-no time for sorrow,

To horse, to horse! A day of blood to-morrow!

One parting pang, and then-and then I fly,

Fly to the field, to triumph—or to die '..... HUMAN LIFE.....S. Rogers.

Who'll dispute my choice?.... Old Ballad.

In the Summer of 1806, a female, whose carriage and demeanor were those of a person above the ordinary class of society, with a little curly, flaxen-haired boy of about nine or ten years of age, came to the village of miles from Baltimore, and engaged a small neat habitation. This circumstance was a subject of great wonder, speculation, and conjecture among the villagers. That she is a lady," (said they)

"is most certain, and beyond doubt she is from the city: for what then did she come among them?" The poisonous tongue of slander was put in motion, and whispers, innuendos, cruel and vituperating reflections, were circulated about the hamlet. At length, Mistress Charity Bluegarter, a worthy spinster advanced somewhat beyond the prime of life, and one of those harmless creatures ever to be found in a village, (and by the way every where else) who are never so happy as when prying and busying themselves about other people's concerns; suggested the propriety of seeing into it," as she expressed herself, "not that it was any concern of hers-oh, no: but that she could not but think it just and proper, that the standing, and condition of their new inhabitant should be known. For her part, although she did not like to be hasty in drawing inferences, she must say, that it looked very suspicious. If the woman had been unfortunate, if she had committed any indiscretion, and had been obliged to leave her home, she was possessed of enough of the milk of human kindness, thank Heaven, to pity, but she could not think of countenancing her. Her character was as yet pure and unsullied, and as youthful artlessness like hers was never secure from the attacks of calumny, she was determined not to hold any conversation with "the woman" until she knew more respecting her."

Accordingly Mistress Bluegarter commenced operations, and in time, by various ways and means. assisted by impudence and impertinence, she received the wished for intelligence. Mrs. Montfort (for so I shall call her) had resided in Baltimore; but her husband who held an office under government dying, she was left a widow, with no more for the support of herself and son, than a small patrimony, which being inadequate to the expenses of a city life, she retired to the country, where by rigid economy she hoped to be able to live comparatively comfortable and above dependence. Mrs. Montfort and her son Edmund soon won the esteem of all the villagers except Mistress Charity Bluegarter, who was jealous of the praise lavished upon them: indeed, she went so far as to predict that Edmund, whom she styled "a good-for-nothing wretch," would some day come to a bad end. The reason of her hatred to him was known to the whole hamlet. Young Montfort, had once stood by and laughed at Mistress Charity, as she fell off a narrow board into a ditch-an unpardonable offence in her eyes. Contiguous to Mrs. Montfort's residence, lived an old revolutionary soldier, and his daughter, a sweet girl, counting nearly the same number of years as Edmund. Edmund, and Miriam, were not long in becoming acquainted, and soon a strong and unalienable friendship commenced between them. Together they would listen to

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