out one thought that beneath her mental wealth are affections in proportionate strength, which gush up at the call of sympathy, and tinge the mind with hues of beauty, as the sun forms a rainbow by weaving its light among the water-drops of a summer shower. Deep and sensitive feelings alone give that delicacy and pathos which will ever distinguish the creations of a truly feminine author from those of men. The very word genius comprehends all that makes the loveliness of woman. It signifies but the power to feel, deeply combined with an intellect capable of embodying feelings into language, and of conveying images of truth and beauty from the heart of the writer to the heart of the reader.

Why then should you refuse to gather the mantle of domestic love about the woman of genius?

Ambitious, are they? Else, why do they write-why publish?

Why do they write? Why does the bird sing but that its little heart is gushing over with melody? Why does the flower blossom but that it has been drenched with dew, and kindled up by the sunshine, till its perfume bursts the petals and lavishes its sweetness on the air? Why does the artist become restless with a yearning want as the creatures of his fancy spring to life beneath his pencil? When his ideal has taken to itself a form of beauty, does he rest till some kindred eye has gazed with his upon the living canvass? His heart is full of a strange joy, and he would impart something of that joy to another. Is this vanity? No, it is a beautiful desire for sympathy. The feeling may partake of a love of praise, but it is one which would be degraded by the title of ambition.

Ask any woman of genius why she writes, and she will tell you it is because she cannot help it; that there are times when a power which she can neither comprehend nor resist, impels her to the sweet exercise of her intellect; that at such moments, there is happiness in the very exertion-a thrilling excitement which makes the action of thought "its own exceeding reward;" that her heart is crowded with feelings which pant for language and for sympathy, and that ideas gush up from the mind unsought and uncalled for, as waters leap from their fount when the earth is deluged with moisture. I am almost certain that the most beautiful things that enrich our literature, have sprung to life from the sweet, irresistible impulse for creation, which pervaded the heart of the author without motive and without aim.

The motives which urge literary women to publish, are probably as various as those which lead persons to any other calling. Many may place themselves before the world

from a natural and strictly feminine thirst for sympathy; from the same feeling which prompts a generous boy to call his compar ions when he has found a robin's nest hid among the blossoming boughs of an old apple-tree, or a bed of ripe strawberries melting in their own ruby light through the grass, on a hill side. The discovery would be almost valueless could he find none to gaze on the blue eggs exposed in the bottom of the nest, or to revel with him in the luscious treasure of the strawberry-bed; so the enjoyment of a mental discovery is enhanced by companionship and appreciation.

That women sometimes publish, from the impulses of vanity, it were useless to deny ; but, in such cases, the effort is usually worthy of the motive: it touches no heart, because it emanates from none; it kindles no pure imagination-it excites no holy impulsesbecause, the impulse from which it originated, is neither lofty nor worthy. It may be safely asserted, that no woman, who has written or published, from the promptings of ambition or vanity, alone, was ever successful, or ever will be. She may gain notoriety, but that is a consequence of authorship, which must ever be painful to a woman of true genius, unless is added to it that public respect and private affection, which can never be secured by one who writes from a wish to shine, and from that wish alone.

Literature is an honourable profession, and, that women devote a portion of their time to it, requires neither excuse nor palliation, so long as they preserve the delicacy and gentleness which are the attributes of their sex. It would be folly to assert that there is any thing in the nature of genius, which incapacitates its possessor for usefulness, or that a literary woman may not be, in the strictest sense of the word, a domestic

ore.

That the distinguished women of America are remarkable for domestic qualities, admits of proof, from many brilliant examples. Most of those who stand foremost in our world of letters, perform the duties of wives, mothers, and housekeepers, in connexion with the pursuits of mind. It is a mistaken idea, that literature must engross the entire time or attention, even of those who make authorship a profession. It is to be doubted if the most industrious female writer among us spends more hours out of the twenty-four, at her desk, than the fashionable belle devotes to the adornment of her person.

There are few American women, except those who labour for their daily bread, who, by a systematic arrangement of time, cannot command three or four hours out of each day, without encroaching on her household duties, the claims of society, or the little season of domestic enjoyment, when her household seeks companionship and relaxation at home.

These hours devoted to authorship, at a moderate computation, would produce four duodecimo volumes a year. Thus, by a judicious management of time, she has produced a property more or less valuable, enriched aud strengthened her own mind, carried the sunshine of thought to thousands, and all without necessarily sacrificing one domestic duty-without the least degree of personal publicity, which need shock the most fastidious delicacy.

Cast not a shadow, even, of implied reproach on a class of women, who are quietly and steadily exerting a healthy influence in domestic life; rather let men of power-and, in America, there is no power like that of intellect extend to them such aid and encouragement, as will best preserve the purity of female literature. So long as the dignity and delicacy of sex is preserved, there can be no competition between men and women of genius. In literature, as in every thing else, the true woman will feel how much bet ter it is to owe something to the protection, generosity, and forbearance of the stronger and sterner sex, than to enter into an unnatural strife in the broad arena which men claim for the trial of masculine intellect. Open the fountains of domestic love to her, and there is little danger that her genius will stray from the sunny nooks of literature, or that she will forsake the pure wells of affection, to leap into the high road of politics-to lose her identity in the smoke of a battle-field, or to gather up popular applause and unsatisfactory admiration, in place of tenderness, and all those home comforts which cling so naturally around the feminine heart.

It has been beautifully said, that the heart is woman's dominion. Cast her not forth, then, from the little kingdom which she may do so much to purify and embellish. Her gentle culture has kept many of those rugged passes green, where sterner labourers might have left them sterile and blossomless.

If you would cultivate genius aright, cherish it among the most holy of your household gods. Make it a domestic plant. Let its roots strike deep in your home, nor care that its perfume floats to a thousand casements besides your own, so long as its greenness and its blossoms are for you. Flowers

of the sweetest breath give their perfume most lavishly to the breeze, and yet, without exhausting their own delicate urns.

LYDIA.*

BY THE REV. JOHN PIERPONT.

I SAW her mother's eye of love as gently on her rest, As falls the light of evening's sun upon a lily's breast;

These lines were suggested by the death of Miss Lydia Biddle Gates, only daughter of Colonel William Gates of the Army, who died at Fort Columbus, Governor's Island, in March, 1839, aged 19.

And the daughter to her mother raised her salms and loving eye, .

As a lake, among its sheltering hills, looks upward to the sky.

I've seen a swelling rose-bud hang upon its parent stem,

Just opening to the light, and graced with many a dewy gem.

And ere that bud had spread its leaves and thrown its fragrance round,

I've seen it perish on its stem, and drop upon the ground.

So, in her yet unfolding bloom, hath Lydia felt the blasts:

A worm unseen hath done its work-to earth the bud is cast:

And on her lowly resting-place, as on the rose.bud's bed,

Drops from the parent tree are showered, her parent's tears are shed.

And other eyes there are that loved upon that bud to rest,

There's one who long had hoped to wear the rose upon his breast;

Who'd watched and waited lovingly till it was fully blown,

And who had e'en put forth his hand to pluck it for his own.

A stronger hand than his that flower hath gathered from its tree!

And borne it hence, in paradise to bloom immortally!

And all that breathe the fragrance there, that its young leaves exhale,

It shall remind of Sharon's rose-the lily of the vale. The soldier father have I seen suppress a struggling sigh,

And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her, stood trembling in his eye:

No other daughter in his bosom ere had slept, a child,

No other daughter on his knee had ever sat and smiled.

And he was far away from her, but for her had his fears,

And anxious thoughts upon his brow had left the stamp of years;

And now the grave hath, from his hand, removed its sacred trust,

And father's, mother's, lover's tears, have mingled with the dust.

Peace to that dust! for, surely, peace her gentle spirit knows.—

Around her narrow house on earth the night-wind sadly blows,

But heavenly airs, that through the trees of life for ever play,

Are breathing on her spirit's brow, to dry her tears away.

IMMORTALITY,
BY DANA.

O, listen, man!

A voice within us speaks that startling word, "Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls according harps,

By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars

Of morning sang together, sound forth still

The song of our great immortality;

Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, The tall dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn universal song.

O, listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in

From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight;
"Tis floating 'midst day's setting glories: Night,
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears:
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse
As one vast mystic instrument, ere touched
By an unseen, living hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

THE LAST MOMENTS OF EMINENT MEN.

[CONCLUDED.]

It is a common remark that the ruling passion displays itself in the last hour. The flickering lamp blazes with unusual brightness, just as it expires. "The fit gives vigour, as it destroys." He, who has but a moment remaining, is released from the common motives for dissimulation; and time, that lays his hand on every thing else, destroying beauty, undermining health, and wasting the powers of life, spares the ruling passion, which is connected with the soul itself. That passion sticks to our last sand.

Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honest nature ends as she begins. Napoleon expired during the raging of a whirlwind, and his last words showed that his thoughts were in the battle-field. The meritorious author of the Memoir of Cabot, a work which in accuracy and in extensive research is very far superior to most of the late treatises on maritime discovery, tells us, that the discoverer of our continent, in a halluciation before his death, believed himself again on the ocean, and once more steering in quest of adventure over the waves, which knew him as the steed knows its rider. How many a gentle eye has been dimmed with tears, as it read the fabled fate of Fergus MacIvor! Not inferior to the admirable hero of the romance, was the Marquis of Montrose. He had fought for the Stuarts, and he fell into the hands of the Presbyterians. He was condemned to die; his head and his limbs were ordered to be severed from his body, and to be hanged on the Tolbooth in Edinburgh, and in other public towns of the kingdom. He listened to the sentence with the pride of loyalty and the fierce anger of a generous defiance. wish," he exclaimed, "I had flesh enough to be sent to every city in Christendom, as a testimony to the cause for which I suffer."

"I

But let us take an example of sublimer

virtue. Let us look for a man, who lived without a stain from youth to age, and displayed an unwavering consistency to the last; a man who was in some degree our own. The age of unlimited monarchy has passed; and the period of popular sovereignty has begun to dawn. It is one of the worst features of the Tory party, which was so long in the ascendant, that self-defence required it to pursue, with relentless censure, the men who fell as victims to its licentious ambition. Wat Tyler struck down an officer, who attempted an insult on the chastity of his daughter. There is not a father in New England, who who would not have applauded the blow. And when he was invited to a peaceful conference with the king, he was basely assassinated in the royal presence. Yet an English poet was obliged to retract the defence of the reputation of Wat Tyler. A very similar incident in Swiss history has been embalmed in the verse of one of the finest poets, who have ever awakened a nation's sympathies by the power of genius. It becomes America to rescue from undeserved censure the names and the memory of the men, who have fallen victims to their unconquerable love of republican liberty.

Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old,
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled
The fierce Epirot, and the African bold,
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow states, hard to be spelled,
Then to advise, how war may, best upheld,
Move by her two great nerves, iron and gold,

In all her equipage: besides to know
Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,
What severs each, thou'st learned, which few have
done.

The bounds of either sword to thee we owe;
Therefore, on thy firm hand religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

He, that would discern the difference between a powerful mind and a shallow wit, may compare this splendid eulogy of Milton with the superficial levity in the commentary of Warton. It is a sort of fashion to call Sir Henry Vane a fanatic. And what is fanaticism? True, he was a rigid Calvinist. True, he has written an obscure book on the mystery of godliness, of which all that we understand is excellent, and we may, therefore, infer that the vein of the rest is good. But does this prove him a fanatic? If to be the uncompromising defender of civil and religious liberty be fanaticism; if to forgive injuries be be fanaticism; if to believe that the mercy of God extends to all his creatures, and may reach even the angels of darkness, be fanaticism; if to have earnestly supported in the Long Parliament the freedom of conscience, -if to have repeatedly, boldly, and zealously interposed to check the persecution of Roman Catholics, if to have laboured that the sect

which he least approved, should enjoy their property in security, and be safe from all penal enactments for non-conformity,-if in his public life to have pursued a career of firm, conscientious, disinterested consistency, like La Fayette, never wavering, never trimming, never changing,-if all this be fanaticism, then was Sir Harry Vane a fanatic. Not otherwise. The people of Massachusetts declined to continue him in office; and when his power in England was great, he requited the colony with the benefits of his favouring influence. He opposed the tyranny of Charles I. without becoming one of his judges. He opposed the tyranny of Cromwell. When

that extraordinary man entered the House of Commons to break up the Parliament, which was about to pass laws that would have endangered his supremacy, Vane rebuked him for his treason. When the musketeers entered the hall of parliament, if others were silent, Vane exclaimed to the most powerful man in Europe, "This is not honest, against morality and common honesty." Well might Cromwell, since his designs were criminal, reply, "Sir Henry Vane! Sir Henry Vane! The Lord deliver me from Sir Henry Vane."

It is

Though Vane suffered from the usurpation of Cromwell, he lived to see the Restoration. He was then, in the ascendancy of the Stuarts, like La Fayette among the Bourbons, equally the stanch enemy of tyranny. The austere man, whom Cromwell had feared, now struck terror into the hearts of a corrupt and licentious court. It was resolved to destroy him. In a different age or country the poisoned cup, or the knife of the assassin, might have been used; in that age of corrupt faction, a judicial murder was resolved upon. His death was a deliberate crime, contrary to the royal promise, contrary to the express vote of "the healing parliament;" contrary to law, to equity, to the evidence. But it suited the designs of a monarch, who feared to be questioned by a statesman of incorruptible elevation of character. And now it is, that we behold Sir Henry Vane in the season of death. The night before his execution, he enjoyed the society of his family; time passed as if he had been reposing in his own mansion. The next morning he was beheaded. The least concession would have saved him. Would he have denied the supremacy of parliament, would he have betrayed the constitution of England, the king would have restrained the malignity of his hatred. "Ten thousand deaths for me," exclaimed Vane, "ere I will stain the purity of my conscience." Historians describe him as fond of life: he submitted to his end with the firmness of a patriot, the serenity of a Christian.

"I give and I devise, (Old Euclid said,

And sighed,) my lands and tenements to Ned."

Your Money, sir?" My money, sir! what ail?
Why, if I must,-(then wept,) I give it Paul."
The manor, sir?" The manor ! hold," he cried,
"Not that, I cannot part with that," and died.

Lorenzo de Medici, upon his death-bed, sent for Savonarola to receive his confession and grant him absolution. The severe anchorite questioned the dying sinner with unsparing rigour. "Do you believe entirely in the mercy of God?" Yes, I feel it in my heart." "Are you ready to restore all the possessions and estates, which you have unjustly acquired?" The dying Duke hesitated; he counted up in his mind the sums which he had hoarded; delusion whispered that nearly all were the acquisition of honest inventions; self-love suggested that the sternest censor would take but little from his opulence. The pains of hell were threatened if he denied; and he gathered courage to reply, that he was ready to make restitution. Once more the unyielding priest resumed his inquisition. "Will you resign the sovereignty of Florence, and restore the democracy of the republic?" Lorenzo, like Macbeth, had acquired a crown; but, unlike Macbeth, he saw sons of his own, about to become his successors. He gloried in the hope of being the father of princes, the founder of a line of hereditary sovereigns. Should he resign this brilliant hope? Should he be dismayed by the wild words of a visionary? Should he tremble at the threats of a confessor? Should he stoop to die as a merchant, when he had reigned as a monarch? No! though hell itself were opening beneath his bed. "Not that! I cannot part with that." Savonarola left his bedside with indignation, and Lorenzo died without shrift.

And you, brave Cobham, to the latest breath,
Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death,
Such in those moments as in all the past,-
"Oh ! save my country, Heaven!" shall be your last.

Such was the exclamation of the worthy Quincy, whose virtues have been fitly commemorated by the pious reverence of his son. The celebrated Admiral Blake breathed his last, as he came in sight of England, happy in at least descrying the land, of which he had advanced the glory by his brilliant victories. Quincy died, as he came in sight of Massachusetts. He loved his family; but his last words were for his country. that I might live,"-it was his dying wish,"to render to my country one last service."

"Oh

The coward dies panic-stricken; the superstitious man dies with visions of terror floating before his fancy. We knew an instance of a man, who was so terrified by the apprehension of eternal woe, that he hurried as if to meet it, and in his despair cut his throat. The phenomenon was strange; but the fact is unquestionable. The giddy, that are near a precipice, totter towards the brink which they would shun. Every body remembers the atheism and bald sensuality of the sep

tuagenarian Alexander VI. History hides her face as she relates his detestable and scandalous vices; she hides her face that her blushes for humanity may not be visible. And the name of his natural son, Cesar Borgia, is a proverb; a synonym for the most vicious incarnation of unqualified selfishness. Now learn from one story the infinite baseness of a cowardly nature. Borgia had, by the most solemn oaths, induced the Duke of Gravina, Oliverotto, Vitellozzo Vitelli, and another, to meet him in Senigaglia, for the purpose of forming a treaty. The truth of the tale is attested by Macchiavelli. Treachery was prepared, the order was issued for the massacre of Oliverotto and Vitelli. Will it be believed? Vitelli, as he expired, begged of the infamous Borgia, his assassin, to obtain of Alexander a dispensation for his omissions; a release from purgatory. Can there be a greater human weakness?

Yet the death-bed of Cromwell himself was not free from superstition. He asked, when near his end, if the elect could never fall. "Never," replied Goodwin the preacher. "Then am I safe," said the man, whose last years had been stained by cruelty and tyranny; "then am I safe, for I am sure I was once in a state of grace."

Ximenes, to the last, languished from disappointment at the loss of power and the want of royal favour. A smile from Louis would have cheered the death-bed of Racine. They were the victims of a weak passion, which was not gratified, and which they could not subdue.

In a brave mind the love of honour endures to the last. "Don't give up the ship," cried Lawrence, as his life-blood flowed in torrents. Abimelech groaned that he fell ignobly by the hand of a woman. We knew a mau, who expressed in his last moments more apprehension, lest his fortune should not be enough to pay his debts, than sympathy for the approaching poverty of his family. The sense of honour was piqued: he feared his good name would suffer among those, whose confidence in him had exceeded his ability of requital. We have ever admired the gallant death of Sir Richard Grenville, who, in a single ship, encountered a numerous fleet; and when mortally wounded, husbanded his strength, till he could summon his victors to bear testimony to his courage and his patriotism. "Here die I, Richard Grenville, with a joyous and quiet mind, for that I have ended my life as a true soldier ought to do, fighting for his country, queen, religion, and honour."

The public of Boston and its vicinity have been recently instructed in the details of the treason of Benedict Arnold, by an inquirer, who has compassed earth and sea in search of historic truth, and has merited the applause of his country, not less for candour and judg

The

He pro

ment, than for diligence and ability. victim of the treason was Andre. tested against the manner of his death; and not against dying. He dreaded the gallows, -not the loss of life. The sentiment in his breast was one of honest pride. His mind repelled the service of treachery; and holding a stain upon his honour to be worse than a sentence of death, his feelings were those of poignant bitterness, in the fear lest the manner of his execution should be taken as evidence that the hangman closed for him a career of ignominy. He felt the sense of honour, the rising emotions of pride, the same sentiment which filled the breast of Lawrence, of Nelson, and of Wolfe; a keen sense, which to the latter rendered death easy and triumphant, because it was attended by victory; but in the case of Andrè, added new bitterness to the cup of affliction, by menacing opprobrium as a necessary consequence of a disgraceful execution.

66

Finally: a well-balanced mind meets death with calmness, resignation, and hope. Saint Louis died among the ruins of Carthage; a Christian king, labouring in vain to expel the religion of Mahomet from the spot, where Dido had planted the gods of Syria. My friends," said he, "I have finished my course. Do not mourn for me. It is natural that I, as your chief and leader, should go before you. You must follow me. Keep yourselves in readiness for the journey." Then giving his son his blessing, and the kindest and best advice, he received the sacrament, closed his eyes, and died, as he repeated from the Psalms, "I will come into thy house; I will worship in thy holy temple."

The curate of St. Sulpice asked the confessor, who had shrived Montesquieu on his death-bed, if the penitent had given satisfaction. "Yes," replied father Roust, "like a man of genius." The curate was dissatisfied; he was unwilling to leave to the dying man a moment of tranquillity; and he addressed him, 'Sir, are you truly conscious of the greatness of God?" "Yes," said the departing philosopher," and of the littleness of man."

How calm were the last moments of Cuvier! What benevolence of feeling and self-pos. session diffused serenity round his departure! Confident that the hand of death was upon him, he submitted to the application of remedies, that he might gratify his friends, who still hoped to preserve his life. They had recourse to leeches; and with delightful simplicity the great naturalist observed, that it was he who had discovered that leeches possess red blood. The discovery was one, which he had made in his youth, and which was com municated to the public in one of the early memoirs that first made him known. The thoughts of the dying naturalist recurred to the scenes of his early life, to the coast of Normandy, where, in the solitude of conscious genius, he had roamed by the side of the