For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MR. WHITE,—The following sketch was given me by one of those mail stage story-tellers, who abound on our roads, and enliven the drowsy passengers by their narratives. It is founded on fact, and may not be unacceptable to such of your readers as are fond of the delineation of human character in all its variety of phases.
NUGATOR.
A horseman passed us at full speed, whose wild and haggard look arrested the attention of my friend. In the name of all that is singular, said he, who can that be, and whither is he posting with such rapidity? His garb seems of the last century, and his grizzled locks stream on the wind like those of some ancient bard.
That man, replied I, is a lover, and is hurrying away to pay his devoirs to his mistress, who married another, and has been dead for many years.
Indeed! you surprize me, he rejoined. He has, it is true, the "lean look" of Shakspeare's lover; the "blue eye and sunken;" the "unquestionable spirit," and "every thing about him demonstrates a careless desolation"—yet I should have imagined, that the snows of so many winters had extinguished all the fires of that frosty carcase; but tell me who he is, and what is his story.
His name is Wilson; and that of the lady whom he loved, was Sally Singleton. I would that I had the graphic power of Scott to sketch a tale of so much interest. If Sir Walter has immortalized an old man, mounted on his white pony, and going in quest of the tombstomes, how much is it to be regretted that the same master hand cannot be employed to perpetuate the memory of yonder eccentric being, whose love lives on, after the lapse of twenty years, in spite of the marriage and death of his mistress—in spite of the evidence of his own senses, and notwithstanding every human effort to dispel his delusion. Regularly every morning, for the last twenty years, no matter what the state of the weather, (alike to him the hail, the rain, and the sunshine,) has he mounted his horse, and travelled a distance of ten miles, to see his beloved Sally Singleton. His custom is, to ride directly up to the window of her former apartment, and in a courteous manner, to bow to his mistress in token of his continued attachment. Having performed this act of gallantry, he waves with his hand a fond adieu, and immediately gallops back with a triumphant air, as if perfectly satisfied with having set his enemies at defiance. "The course of true love never did run smooth," and in this case, whether "misgrafted in respect of years," or "different in blood," or "standing on the choice of friends," is not exactly known; but the lady was wedded to another, and died soon after. Her lover would never believe in her marriage or her death. His mind unhinged by the severity of his disappointment, seems to have retained nothing but the single image of her he loved, shut up in that apartment; and he resolved to brave every difficulty, to testify his unchanging devotion. Obstacles were purposely built across his path—the bridges were broken down—the idle boys would gather around him, and assail him in their cruel folly—guns even, were fired at him,—all in vain! The elements could not quench the fervor of his love—obstacles were overleaped—he swam the rivers—the boys were disregarded—balls could not harm him. He held a charmed life; like young Lochinvar,
but dashed onward to his beloved window, and then, contented with this public attestation of his unalterable love, returned with a look of triumphant satisfaction, to his joyless home. As a last effort to remove the veil from his eyes, a suit was instituted, in which he was made a party, and proof of the lady's marriage and death was purposely introduced to undeceive him. He listened with cold incredulity to the witnesses; smiled derisively at that part of their testimony which regarded her marriage and death; and the next morning was seen mounted as usual, and bowing beneath the window of his adored Sally Singleton.
From the Petersburg Intelligencer.
THAT NEVER WILL BE PUBLISHED.
THAT NEVER WILL BE PUBLISHED.
We had all assembled round the cheerful fire, that cracked and blazed in the wide old-fashioned hearth. The labor of the day was over. My father, snugly placed in his great easy chair, with his spectacles on his nose, had been for some time studying the last long winded and very patriotic speech of our representative in Congress, until his senses, gradually yielding to its soothing eloquence, had sunk into a calm slumber.—My mother sat in the corner knitting with all her might, and every now and then expressing her wonder (for she always wondered) how Patsy Woods could marry such a lazy, poor, good-for-nothing fellow as Henry Pate. Sister was leaning with both elbows on the table, devouring, as she termed it, the last most exquisite romance. Puss was squatted on Mother's cricket, licking her paws with indefatigable industry; and old Carlo, the pointer, lay grunting on the hearth rug, sadly incommoded by the heat of the fire, but much too lazy to remove from before it. And where was I? Oh! there was another corner to the fire place. In its extremest nook sat cousin Caroline, and next to her,—always next to her when I could get there, was I. Now this was what I call a right comfortable family party; and not the least comfortable of that party was myself. Cousin Caroline; dear, dear cousin! Many a year has rolled over me since the scene I describe; many a cold blast of the world's breath has blown on my heart and chilled, one by one, the spring flowers of hope that grew there; but the blossoms of love thy image nurtured, were gathered into a garland to hang on thy tomb, and the tears of memory have preserved its freshness. Cousin Caroline!—she was the loveliest creature on whom beauty ever set its seal. Reader, my feeling towards her was not what is called love; at least, not what I have since felt for another. My judgment of her excellence was not biassed by passion. She was most beautiful. I cannot describe her.
It were vain to talk of her "hyacinthine curls," her "ruby lips," her "pearly teeth," her "gazelle eye." These, and all the etceteras of description, define not beauty. It belongs to the pencil and not to the pen, to give us a faint idea of its living richness. But had your eyes glanced round a crowded room, crowded with beauty too, they would have rested in amazement there; amazement, that one so lovely should be on earth, and breathe among the creatures of common clay. Alas! it could not be so long. No, I did not love her in manhood's sense of love; for, at the time I speak of, I was but fourteen, and Caroline was in her eighteenth year; but I loved her as all created things that could love, loved her; from the highest to the lowest, she was the darling of the household. The servants, indoor and outdoor, young and old, and the crossest of the old, loved her. None so crabbed her smile would not soften; none so stern her mildness would not subdue. Oh, what a creature she was. I never saw Caroline angry, though I have seen her repel, with dignity, intrusion or impertinence. I never saw her cross. But this theme will lead me too far; and, perhaps the reader thinks I might sum up my estimate of her qualities in one word—perfection. Not so; but as near to it as the Creator ever suffered his creature to attain. Well, we were sitting round the fire in the manner I have described. Caroline was amusing me with a description of the pleasures of the town, for she had just returned from a visit to a relation residing in the city of ——, when the sound was heard of a carriage coming up the avenue. What a bustle! Father bounced up, dropping the paper and his spectacles; Mother stopped wondering about Patsy Woods, to wonder still more who this could be. Pussy remained quiet, but Carlo prevailed upon himself to stretch and yawn, and totter to the door, to satisfy his curiosity. Sister looked up. Caroline looked down; and then sister looked at her very archly, though I could not tell why, and said, "go brother Harry, ask the gentleman in."
"Why do you know who it is, my dear, that is coming to see us at this late hour?" said my father. It was but eight o'clock; but remember we were in the country. I went out of the room, and did not hear the answer. I was met at the hall door by a gentleman, whom I ushered in. My father accosted him, and was very proud and very happy to see Col. H——d. He was then introduced to the members of the family; "and this lady I think you are already acquainted with," continued my father, as he presented cousin Caroline, who had hung back. The Colonel smiled,—Caroline blushed, but she smiled too. What is all this about, thought I. "Come, sir, be seated," quoth my father. The Colonel bowed, thanked him, and placed himself forthwith in my chair, right beside Caroline. Now it is true Caroline had two sides, and her left side was as dear to me as her right; but then that side was next to the wall, and she sat so near to it that there was no edging a chair in without incommoding her. So I was fain to look out for other quarters, and found them next to my mother, whence I looked the colonel right in the face. He was not a handsome man, but a very noble looking one. He was rather above the common height, somewhat thin, but his carriage very erect. His complexion was dark, but ruddy dark, the hue of health and manliness; his forehead broad; so much so as to make the lower part of his visage appear contracted, and rather long. The expression of his features when at rest, was stern, and even haughty; perhaps from the habit of command, for hishadbeen a soldier's life, and his title was won on the battle field; but when in conversation, there was an air of great good nature over his whole countenance, and his smile was very winning. Cousin Caroline thought it so.
"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the satisfactory assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the opposite direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I set out betimes, it was thus late before I reached here."
"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother.
"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my father. "My dear"—
"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble on my account. I assure you"—
"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the former rose to urge his remonstrance.—"Sit still, sir; trouble indeed; we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a little myself."
So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned to the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it, and so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and of such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very forehead.
A week passed away, and colonel H——d remained a constant guest at my father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning than he posted himself next to her; and then they took such long walks together, and would spend so many hours in riding about the country, and they never asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as well have been in town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing with her. The result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader; and it was soon formally announced that on the third day of the succeeding month Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and gallant Colonel H——d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant home, for his residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter tears, and sobbed as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in my bed that night on which this latter piece of intelligence had been communicated by my father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched, extended to me the bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who invented sleep," says friend Sancho—blessings, aye blessings indeed, on all bountiful nature who, while she gives rest to the wearied body bestows consolation on the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the storm of the passions, plucks from power its ability and even its wish to oppress, and hushes in poverty the sense of its weakness and its degradation. My fate has not been more adverse than that of the generality of men, but "take it all in all," the happiest portion of my existence has been spent in sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I loved best on earth was about to be wedded to the worthy object of her choice,—a choice that affection sanctioned and reason might well approve; and even to my young observation it was apparent that while she gave, she was enjoying happiness. There was pleasure in the beaming of her sparkling eyes, there was joy in the dimples of her rosy smile. The very earth on which she trod seemed springing to her step, and the air she breathed to be pure and balmy. Could she be happy and I feel miserable? and that misery growing too, out of the very source of her happiness. Yes; even so unmixed, so absorbing was my selfishness.Myselfishness! the selfishness of humanity; for even as the rest of my fellow men so was, and so am I. I thought of the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in her presence, of the thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her hand. She alone was wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize with my boyish griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the fear of her censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was to pass away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my heart to drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her soft voice breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer in her thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her memory. Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind.
I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously, and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end; but patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate, that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary excitement, on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed "the grief of years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my pilgrimage through this weary world, and some grievous enough to sustain; time and occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed remedy, and scars only are left to mark where the wounds have been. But this, though inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering now; aye now, when the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the winter of age is congealing the sources of feeling and of life.
The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H——d, as hour after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that lay betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we are, whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment, ever deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the desert of life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn, we sink into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified. One little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a moment is fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with tightened cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the glittering spray as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the breeze; cheerful faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from a distant land; and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has pierced her side, the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The warrior has charged and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in his ears, and fancy twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery lurks in his armed array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note of defeat. The mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble palaces, and its crowded marts, over which ages have urged their onward flight, and still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the earthquake's shock. Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous lake are left to mark the spot where once its "splendors shone." And the heart, the human heart, with its high aspirations, and its treacherous whisperings of unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in coming events, its strange forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its sunny morning of boundless hope, its stormy night of dark despair.
My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was composed of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed forth gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their moss-covered branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and stifling embrace by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of a preadamate world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of underwood, that hid from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very margin he might be unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran parallel to the course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the rear of the dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very bad order, very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit of using for the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path that ran along and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice, but which had been travelled so long and so often without accident, that we had ceased to think of even the possibility of any occurring. It was a bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with those massy rolling clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief to the fleecy white, and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand resemblances; ancient castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships resting beneath their crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a poet's soul would delight to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose undreamt of depths the pent up spirits of the damned might be "imagined howling." Pardon, pardon! but sea and sky have always set me raving. It was at the breakfast table that I informed my father I would ride over to aunt Diana's and see if they were all well.—"The weather is so fine, and I have not seen our good aunt for some time. I will ride with you; that is, if you'll let me, cousin Harry," said Caroline, as if it were not a delight to me to have her company. The colonel, too, proposed to join us, and we went to get ourselves in readiness. We were soon on the road, and away we cantered, full of health and youth and spirits. The breeze came fresh and soft from the surface of the waters, and played among Caroline's curls and revelled on her cheek, as if to gather the odors of the rose, where its beauteous hue was so richly spread. We paid our visit, partook of aunt Diana's good things, and set off on our return, amid her protestations against our hurry. Caroline was riding on a nice little mare that had been bred on the farm, and had always been the pet of the family; as gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at the same time full of spirit. We had arrived at a part of the road where the precipice (now on our right hand) was highest. I was in front, Caroline next to and behind me; a hare crossed my path: "take care my boy," cried Colonel H——d, "that, you know, is said to be a bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken when my horse started, and wheeled short round; the mare partook of his fright, swerved half to the left, and reared bolt upright. "Slack your rein and seize the mane, Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was too late; the mare struggled, and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a rushing sound
* * * * *
* * * * *
I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the scattered herbs—and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a form—the form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My father came in; he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed the sheet from the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a conqueror!
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA.
WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA.
* * *
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA.
WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA.
* * *
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
E. A. S.
Lombardy, Va.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MUSINGS II—By the Author of Vyvyan.
MUSINGS II—By the Author of Vyvyan.
1The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a range of statues.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
C.
1Mrs. Hemans.
2The Natural Bridge.
3Harper's Ferry.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
L. H. S.
Hartford, Con. Sept. 10, 1834.
AMIRKHAN,AND OTHER POEMS: the remains of Lucretia Maria Davidson, who died at Plattsburg, N. Y. August 27, 1825, aged 16 years and 11 months. With a Biographical Sketch, by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M.New York: G. & C. & H. Carvill—1829.
We believe that this little volume, although published several years since, has but recently found its way to this side of the Potomac. Our attention has been attracted towards it by some notice of its contents in the Richmond Enquirer, whose principal editor we will do him the justice to say, has always manifested a lively interest in the productions of American genius. Mr. Ritchie is entitled to the more praise for his efforts in behalf of domestic literature, not only on account of his active and absorbing labors as a political writer, but because, also, we are sorry to add, the subject is one in which southern taste and intelligence have, for the most part, evinced but little concern. It is but too common for our leading men, professional as well as others, to affect something like a sneer at every native attempt in the walks of polite literature. Their example, we fear, has imparted a tone to the reading circles generally, and has served to beget that inordinate appetite for every thingforeignwhich has either obtained a fashionable currency abroad—or occasioned someexcitementin that busy, noisy, gossipping class of society, whose merit is so vastly disproportioned to its influence. We have often known the sentimental trash and profane ribaldry of some popular Englishman eagerly sought after, and as eagerly devoured, whilst the pure and genuine productions of native genius have remained neglected on the bookseller's shelf, and quietly surrendered to oblivion. That this does, in some measure, proceed from an unenlightened and uncultivated public taste, we do not doubt; but it is much more the fruit of a slavish and inglorious dependence upon accidental circumstances,—a spiritless, and we might add, a cowardly apprehension of appearingsingular—that is, of not chiming in with the shallow, vain and heartless tittle-tattle of the self-styledbeau mondeandcorps eliteof society. It is not the fault of the bookseller. The undertaker, who prepares the coffin and shroud, has as little participation in the death of the person for whom they are intended. The bookseller is but the caterer of the public palate; and if that palate is diseased, he is no more answerable for it, than the milliners and mantuamakers who are busily occupied in deforming the fairest part of creation, are censurable for the false taste of their customers.
We did not intend by the foregoing observations, to bespeak any extraordinary share of public favor towards the poems of Miss Davidson. What we have said in relation to the neglect of American talent, was designed to have a general and not particular application. Notwithstanding we hear that the poems before us have been extravagantly praised beyond the Atlantic, we are not so intoxicated by a little foreign flattery as to believe that they are destined to immortality. Some may console themselves, if they please, for the whole ocean of obloquy and contempt cast upon us from the British press, by regarding with favorable eyes this little rivulet of praise bestowed upon the juvenile efforts of a lovely and interesting girl. We are not of that number; we shall endeavor to decide upon the work before us, unbiassed by trans-atlantic opinion—and we shall render precisely that judgment which we would have done if that opinion had been pronounced in the usual tone of British arrogance and contumely.
Regarding the volume before us as a literary production merely, and supposing it to have been the offspring of a matured mind, we do not think that it possesses any considerable merit. Estimating its contents, however, as the first lispings of a child of genius,—as furnishing proofs of the existence of that ethereal spark which, under favorable circumstances, might have been kindled into a brilliant flame, we do consider it as altogether extraordinary. We do not say that these poems are equal to the early productions of Chatterton, Henry Kirke White, or Dermody, those prodigies of precocious talent,—but we entertain not a shadow of doubt if Miss Davidson had lived, that she would have ranked among the highest of her own sex in poetical excellence. In forming a correct judgment upon the offspring of her muse, her youth is not alone to be considered. She had also to contend with those remorseless enemies of mental effort,—poverty, sorrow, and ill health; and it is, perhaps, a circumstance in her history not unworthy of notice, that possessing a high degree of personal beauty, and being on that account the object of much admiration and attention, she did not suffer herself to be withdrawn from the purer sources of intellectual enjoyment. Love indeed, seems to have found no permanent lodgment in her heart. It might have stolen to the threshold and infused some of its gentle influences, but she seems to have been resolved to cast off the silken cord before it was too firmly bound around her. Thus in the piece which bears the title ofCupid's Bower, written in her fifteenth year.
The longest, most elaborate, and perhaps best of her poems, is that which gives the principal title to the volume.Amir Khanis a simple oriental tale, written in her sixteenth year, and is worked up with surprising power of imagery for one so young. The most fastidious and critical reader could not fail to be struck with its resemblance to the gorgeous magnificence of Lalla Rookh; a resemblance, to be sure, which no more implies equality of merit than does the brilliancy of the mock diamond establish its value with that of the real gem. We give the opening passage from the poem as a fair specimen of the rest, and from which the reader may form a correct opinion of the style and composition.
We venture to assert that if Thomas Moore had written Amir Khan at the age of sixteen, there are thousands by whom it would be read and admired who would hardly condescend to open Miss Davidson's volume; and that too, without being able to assign any other or better reason than that Moore is a distinguished and popular British bard, whereas the other was an obscure country girl, who lived and died in the state of New York.
The lines to the memory of Henry Kirk White, which were composed at thirteen, are much superior to many elegiac stanzas written by poets of some reputation at twenty-five or thirty. Of all her minor pieces however, those which were written at fifteen seem to us to possess the greatest merit, if we except theCoquette, a very spirited production in imitation of the Scottish dialect, composed in her fourteenth year. The following are the two first stanzas:
The image of the snowy neck and flaxen hair of the beautiful but unkind fair one, presented so strongly to the rejected lover, as to prevent his performing his daily work, strikes us as highly poetical and true to nature, as we doubt not all genuine lovers will testify. Burns wrote many, very many verses, which were much superior, but Burns wrote some also, which were not so good.Ruth's answer to Naomi, must be allowed, we think, to be a good paraphrase of that most affecting passage of scripture. We must give the whole to the reader.
[1We subjoin the passage of scripture paraphrased by Miss Davidson, and also another paraphrase which has been ascribed to the Hon. R. H. Wilde of Georgia. Our readers can compare and decide between them.
"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried."
We present an extract from a piece called "Woman's Love," as a specimen of Miss Davidson's management of blank verse, a form of poetic diction which Montgomery thinks the most unmanageable of any. The fair authoress might not herself have experienced that holy passion, but she certainly knew how deep and imperishable it is when once planted in the female bosom.
We have italicised such of the lines as we think breathe the air and spirit of genuine poetry. The snow flake has often been used as the emblem of purity; but the snow flake reposing on beds of vernal blossoms, is to us original as well as highly poetical. The "cave-locked fountain" too, with its lone, deep, and quiet waters, seems to us to express with force that profound and melancholy sentiment which the writer intended to illustrate.
We shall conclude our selections with the one addressedto a lady whose singing resembled that of an absent sister.
We beg the reader to bear it in mind that these are the productions of a young, inexperienced, and almost uneducated girl, and that they are not to be tried by the tests which are usually applied to more matured efforts. In conclusion, we will say in the language of Dr. Morse, her biographer, "that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention, and keeping it alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to the sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden change of sentiment, in wild and romantic description, and in the congruity of the accompaniments to her characters, all conceived with great purity and delicacy, she will be allowed to have discovered uncommon maturity of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high expectations of her future distinction."
We are pleased to learn that it is in contemplation by Miss Davidson's friends, to publish a new and improved edition of her works, with various additions from her unpublished manuscripts.