hurry of business to reply to your two last kind letters, | something to approve, although much to condemn. which were received simultaneously; but, for what His "Recantation," an ironical taking back of what reason I know not, they came to hand nearly a month he said in his "Quacks of Helicon," is decidedly the after date. Your beautiful and truly poetic verses best work of the two. His "Preferment" I have were in type in less than two hours after their recep- never seen-yet I have been advised that it is a poem tion, and were published in the next issue of our paper, of singular ability and power. a copy of which I caused to be mailed to your address. Mr. Andrews, the publisher of the Express, requests just from the press of one of the Philadelphia publishers. It is a [Note by the Editor.-Somnia, a poem by L. A. Wilmer, is me to add his thanks to mine for the contribution. singular work, and in many respects an original one. It disI believe the tightness of the times and the uncer- dains the incorporation in its pages of any of the flowers that tain state of the currency have prevented Poe's Maga-bloom on earth, or of the stars that blossom in the heavens. deals altogether in the monstrosities of nature-in its hobgoblins, zine enterprise and my own,-at least for the present. especially those that frequent charnel houses, and have lost their I have never been able to get a sight of your critique heads in the last war,] on the Q. of H. in the Guardian. The copy you sent fell into the hands of Poe, who lost or mislaid it before I could set eyes on it. I was vexed at this circumstance, as I intended to have the article copied into some of our city papers. I would have applied to the agents of the Guardian in this city, but I could not ascertain their location.

It

The chirography of Mr. Wilmer is very beautiful,— having a print-like and most delicate appearance which his autograph fails to give. Circumstances no doubt have modified his hand-writing, and what seems in it idiosyncratic is nothing more than a modification, by some peculiar circumstance, of the impulsive powers of the mind. His hand does not seem to vacillateSince I wrote to you last, I have completed a new there is no trembling there, no half-formed letters,— poem of some 250 lines, called "Recantation," being and the last one being as well formed as the first, an ironical retraction of the opinions set forth in the evinces the unrelaxing vigor, and the indomitable courQuacks of Helicon. As a testimony of my esteem age of his mind. Under a better regulated order, for and friendship, I would dedicate this new effort to the government of letters, in any department of literayourself, if I thought the compliment would be accept- ture, Mr. Wilmer would have succeeded better than able. You will remember that the "Quacks of Heli- what he has already done. Instead of making the con" is addressed to Dr. Olney, who is a particular laws over which the muses preside to control and refriend of mine. If you like the idea, please let me strain the mind within the boundaries of its jurisdicknow. If you think it might excite enmity towards tion, he has given himself a license to riot in the fields yourself, by having your name in any manner connect- of others, and under a foreign jurisdiction has suced with a satirical effusion of the kind, it may be cumbed to the influences of certain prejudices that better for me to take some other opportunity for giving have completely warped his judgment from the legitiyou such a demonstration of good feeling as I would mate object of its pursuit. The little petty prejudices wish. Do not hesitate to write candidly to me on this of our small literatteurs, instead of confining their subject. Meanwhile the new poem is ready for the pernicious influences to their own fraternity, have compress, and though considerably shorter than its prede-menced their ravages upon a better order of beings, cessor, I have no doubt that it will make some sensa- which, if not stopped, will sap the very foundation of the republic of letters. If not entirely, partially Mr. Wilmer has given himself up to this junto, both soul and body-not voluntarily, but with the proviso, that so soon as he demolishes a certain high clique in Authordom, he will cut the acquaintance of the tom-tits the platform of his own genius. and take his stand, as nature originally designed, on

tion when it comes out.

You may rely upon it that Peterson is a most odious and contemptible character, and I have lately put him to the rack in such a way as made him a whining supplicant for mercy. I now consider him beneath

my resentment.

Write to me whenever you can find leisure, and

believe me

most sincerely yours

LA. Wilmer

[Note by the Editor.-Whatever may have been Mr. Wilmer's faults, or are now, the charge of bending himself servilely to the small fry in literature for the purpose of dethroning the giants in these fields, is not sustained in the premises by any thing he has done. Mr. Wilmer is an independent voter, and if it was necessary to carry out his own peculiar views, or rather prejudices, he high-born author,—both of whom he most cordially hates.] would vote for the devil, in spite of the opinion of either low or

The muse of Mr. Wilmer is a good one, and if courted in a proper spirit, might be made to yield something honorable to himself, as well as creditable In breaking the seal of the other letter-the one to the literature of his country. This thing of "run- | marked “Ship,” New York, I was forcibly struck with ning a muck" to English, as well as American letters, its unique and neat appearance. It was done up in an has done more mischief than every thing else put to-envelope, the underside having black borders engraved, gether. Since the appearance of the "English Bards" of a certein pet Poet of England, every pen that can string a couple of lines together has perpetrated some lines, which, for want of a better name, they dub at once a Satire. God, as well as men, knows that they have no reason for doing it, yet they do it in spite of all the admonitions of past knowledge, and in defiance of common sense. These remarks are not addressed directly to Mr. Wilmer, nor do they apply in their full force to his poem, the "Quacks of Helicon," for, with all of his injustice to particular individuals, there is

forming a cross where the seal was placed, surmounted by a head of the unicorn resting on a rock in the ocean, every thing about it being so neat, that I was at once impressed with the belief that the writer was a person of exquisite taste. None other, I thought, than one having a highly cultivated mind, classically imbued, would have formed the conception of the thing above described. In opening the letter I found it was trom Sergeant Talfourd of London, a distinguished Barrister and celebrated Poet. The letter was as follows:

SERJEANT'S INN, LONDON, 11th August, 1841. MY DEAR SIR,-Having been on the circuit at the time when your very kind and flattering letter arrived, I only received it on my return yesterday evening. Accept my heartiest thanks for the very great pleasure which it has afforded me. Although I cannot recognize in my own writings any merits which would seem to me to be capable of exciting such feelings as you have expressed, I am assured by that expression that there is in them something of good, which, however humble in itself, is capable of attracting the sympathies of the good, and inducing them to fancy they perceive excellencies which are only reflected from their own affections. It is, indeed, an unspeakable satisfaction to find that I have been the means of lightening, in any degree, the long and weary hours which you must spend in the deep solitude of your home ;-yet perhaps your life, associated with great and silent objects, is sometimes more favorable to generous thoughts and unselfish wishes than that which I lead in the midst of excitements and struggles. I wish I could increase my interest in your partial regard by conveying to you any production of mine which you may not possess ;-but I am not aware of any channel of conveyance which would not be more costly than the gift would deserve. I transcribe my last effusion-on an occasion very dear to me—in the hope that it may not diminish the kind interest you take in my welfare.

Believe me, my dear sir, yours faithfully and thankfully,

TR Falfound

SONNET.

is no cant in his writings,-no opinions formed for opinion's sake,-but he looks into his subject, fully intent on grasping it, confident in his own powers of analysis, he separates, and when all is clear in his vision he generalises, and each separate part is brought together so dove-tailed that the beholder gazes on the fabric in wonder and astonishment at the completeness of its finish. There is no effort there,-no straining after an effect, no meretricious embellishments, but all is simple, grand and eloquent. He erects no Gothic towers, with unquarried marble from the mines, of huge misshapen blocks, but with his chisel he squares the blocks, and builds beautiful Grecian temples. He has looked into his own heart, and from its fullness he has written. He goes to work with a hearty good will,-there is no shuffling in any thing he does,

all is straight-forward, and knowing his duty he dares to perform it. Such is the character of Thomas Noon Talfourd, the author of "Ion."

The chirography of Mr. Talfourd is unformed in a certain degree, but in another respect it is quite picturesque. There is much slope in the characters and but little depth, which, if it proves any thing, proves that he has more imagination than reason. His MS. has all of the appearance of a lawyer's,-a thousand of which I have seen, to the casual glance resembles it. The letters are often half-formed, hurried, as if the impetuosity of his thoughts were out-speeding the tardiness of his fingers. His y's and his g's end like the twirl of a pig's tail-and his a's, n's and u's are all alike. His t's are not crossed, his i's are not dotted, and his h's and I's seem as if they were twinbrothers. The chief characteristics of his mind, to be drawn from his chirography, are a nice discrimination in the beautiful, and its adaptedness to the highest

COMPOSED IN VIEW OF ETON COLLEGE AFTER LEAVING MY purposes of art. The signature fails entirely to give

ELDEST SON THERE FOR THE FIRST TIME.

How often have I fix'd a stranger's gaze

On yonder turrets, clad in light as fair
As this soft sunset lends, pleas'd to drink air
Of learning that from calm of ancient days
Breathes round them ever;-now to me they wear
Hues ting'd of dearer thought; the radiant haze
That crowns them thickens as with fonder care,
And, by its flickering sparkles, sense conveys
Of youth's first triumphs,-for amid their seats
One little student's heart impatient beats
With blood of mine ;-O God! vouchsafe him power,
When I am dust, to stand on this sweet place,
And, through the vista of long years, embrace
Without a blush, this first Etonian hour!

T. N. TALFOURD.

If Thomas Noon Talfourd is not the first of living poets, I know of none that can take precedence over him. His taste is more critically severe than any known author. With an imagination subdued,-never suffering it to run wild in the luxuriance of its visions, -he always enters upon his subject deliberately calm, but never failing to grasp it with the strength of a giant. Always comprehending what he is about, he unravels so closely the entangled threads in his subject that the most obtuse in vision can clearly see for himself, and the dullest in comprehension understand.There are no mysticisms in his writings,-no sentences involved, but in a chaste style, the meaning of his mind flows in one gushing stream, on the unwritten page. He has a ONENESS in his meaning, and in the SINGLENESS of its purpose the unwritten thoughts embody themselves on the TABLET of his mind in characters as clear as the rays of a noon-tide sun. There

any thing like a general character of his chirography.

[Note by the Editor.-Sergeant Talfourd's defence of Moxon, in his prosecution by the Queen for the publication of Shelley's Works, is one of the most lucid and triumphant vindications of injured innocence that it has ever been our good lot to read. The indictment against Mr. Moxon charged that he "being an evildisposed and wicked person, disregarding the laws and religion of this realm, and wickedly and profanely devising and intending to bring the Holy Scriptures and the Christian Religion into disbelief and contempt, unlawfully and wickedly, did falsely and maliciously publish a scandalous, profane and malicious libel of, and concerning, the Christian Religion, and of, and concerning, the Holy Scriptures, and of, and concerning, the Almighty God,' &c., in which certain passages were contained, and charged as blasphemous and profane. These passages were all in the poem of "Queen Mab," and being torn from their context, were adduced as sufficient evidence against the defendant for a libel.The vindication of Talfourd against the aspersions of a certain clique of Religionists on the writings of Shelley was a triumphant one. I have ever been inclined to believe that the shafts of an infidel's wit have been directed more against the immoralities of the followers of the Christian Religion than against the religion itself. Thomas Noon Talfourd has not been a voluminous writer, the duties of his profession have engaged nearly the whole of his time, and what he has written has been executed more as a But what relaxation from his arduous duties than any thing else. he has done in a literary way has been well done, which speaks whole volumes in his favor. He has written three tragedies"Ion," "The Athenian Captive," and "Glencoe." Besides these works, I know of nothing else which he have written, with tion of Charles Lamb's Letters. Had he never had written any the exception, however, of writing a "Preface" to the publicathing more than "Ion," that single work would have been enough to have placed him beside the old masters in literature. Sergeant mind is well balanced, and the affections are not suffered to run Talfourd is one of those happy instances of humanity, where the riot in the excess of their luxuriance.]

The reception of these letters afforded only a momentary relief to the mind,—and so soon as the novelty

of their contents had faded from the vision, I relapsed | being speedily revenged on Henry Leneau for the ininto my wonted apathy and gloom. Delia completely sult offered my sainted Delia. I gloated on this, it absorbed every other subject,-she being the subject was my food by day, and my slumbers by night. I of my dreams by night, and was ever with me in the felt almost glad that he had done it-rejoiced that day. I was not prepared to receive her death, and there was something to which the mind could direct the tidings came upon me like the bursting over my itself, some object that had the power to relax the head of a thunder cloud in a clear day. I felt as if heart from the iron grasp of grief. I speculated on there was nothing beyond for which I did live-nothing the different ways of being revenged-and exulted to inspire a hope for the future. The world seemed a when my thought hit upon a plan that would give blank to me, in which there were many moving crea- the most excruciating pain. I wished him to die by tures, with whom I had no sympathy, and no feeling piece-meals-to be pierced by resinous splinters of in common. Day and night were alike to me, for I wood, and burnt slowly. I wished the slimy serpent slept not, and yet was never awake,only to the inten- coiled around his neck, and his forked tongue kisssity of one burning thought. The weight of Atlas ing his lips. Like Tantalus of old, I wished him in was on my shoulders, and the eternal vulture was a river where he could not drink, with food around gnawing at my liver. Wo was on my heart, for I which he could not eat. O how I sighed for the infelt its leaden weight pressing it down. vention of a new pain, so that I might inflict it upon TO BE CONTINUED.)

The only relief which I had, was in the prospect of him.

Surely we need, subsistence. Among these people the monk wandered, seeking good for his hands to do.

"Are you mad? Our orders are to stop every man upon this path and bring him before the chief. And if you had been with us a little longer, you would have known better than even to think of disobeying Vocolli's lightest word."

"But we can gain nothing from him. He is only a poor monk from a little Suliote monastery, wandering now through Albania to preach where there are no regular priests. 1 have often seen him in Suli, and remember him perfectly. He is a holy man."

"You are a fool! Vocolli hates all men, but he abhors these monks: I have never known him to spare one of them. But that is none of our business: we have our orders."

The other klepht said no more, and the two lay silently in their ambush, watching the traveler as he slowly advanced towards them by the aid of his staff. There was a majestic solemnity in his appearance that might well command awe even from the rude Suliotes in those troublous times. When the tyrant of Joannina had at last conquered that lofty race, and scattered them far from their mountain homes, he showed no indulgence to the monasteries and the bold priests, who had incited and even led their people to battle. Then the monk became a wandering minister of good to the destitute and half-infidel population of Albania. Those rocky mountain passes and rugged defiles were the homes of more rugged and barbarous klephts. The peaceful traveler sought a safer thoroughfare wherever it could be found, and left the robbers of Albania to prey upon miserable villagers for

In a few moments he reached the place where they awaited him. The klephts sprung up together, and one of them placed his hand roughly on the monk's shoulder, exclaiming

"Come with us."

He pointed significantly to his yataghan.

The monk looked at him steadily for an instant, "Go on then, I will follow you."

"And leave us too, when you find an opportunity," said the klepht sneeringly.

No, I do not wish to escape from you. Even if I could, are your limbs so weak that you could not overtake an old man?"

Half ashamed of his useless taunt, the klepht led the way without another word, and in a few moments they reached the retreat of the famous Vocolli. They ushered him into a large room, where a dozen of the band were lounging and drinking in careless idleness. Among them was one man, about sixty years of age, whose harshly marked and hardened face, deepened in expression by a cold, cruel eye, at once announced the chieftain. He rose slowly from his seat as the captive entered, but when he remarked the priestly dress, his hard eye changed its expression into a sudden burning glance of revengeful triumph. Yet a cool sneer was upon his face as he said,

Holy father, your presence is welcome." "And I, too," said the monk, " rejoice to meet you, especially in this place."

Vocolli looked at him again with a sudden interest not unmingled with astonishment and admiration.

If you know what you are saying, you are bolder than most who wear that garb. But understand the matter. We are no miserable village lambs to need tending from you. I am Vocolli; these are my klephts."

"Then it is Vocolli and his klephts whom I would see. I am an under-servant of the Great Shepherd, and wander through these troubled fields to watch over his peaceful lambs. But, alas! I am too weak to protect them from the herd of wolves that preys upon them continually. Then, under my commission from the Master of all, I would fain soften the hearts of these enemies. Therefore, I come into this band cheerfully, and pray you, in God's name, to hear my words."

Well,-1 did love once. It was in my youth, too, when I was more easily maddened. She was fair and pure, but without any strength of character; and now I wonder how I ever could have loved so slight a thing. She, too, in all her cold holiness of heart, loved-but not me. It was no man with whom she could live through this life in quiet happiness.gether.

TALKS WITH YOU-ABOUT HEART-TREASURES.

BY EVANGELINE SCROGGS.

[ORIGINAL.J

LET me tell you to-day, dear friend reader, a sad | smile almost of scorn sometimes was visible on her and an "o'er true tale." What I would relate is no pale lips, as she passed through the groups of scholars concoction of my own brain, perhaps it will not there- when the hours of study were over, and went in lonefore be the less interesting. When I speak of heart-liness to her own room. "But she did not go there fo treasures I know your thoughts will speedily direct to weep over her loneliness, nor to sigh because, of all the some dear face, around which glows the halo of your many happy creatures there, she had no friend. But love. It is a living, breathing, rejoicing spirit to to bend, hour after hour, over her books, and to drink whose care you have given your happiness and your yet more deeply of the fountains of knowledge. hopes; or it is a tenant of yonder burial ground that I was many years older than Clara, and I, with you have shrined in days gone by within your inner many others, had thoughtlessly occupied my leisure life, that you have made the dearest and the holiest with those who could conduce to my enjoymenttreasure of your heart. I tell you this story to-day in careless of the pale-faced, silent girl, unknowing the thought that there is not one listening to it who whether the demon, home-sickness, was devouring carries not about with him one of the fairest blossoms her and spreading such a deathly hue over her face, from the tree of existence,-not one who knows not or intense application to her books gave such a carewell what constitutes the glory and the brightness of worn look to the features of her countenance. life-not one but might speak with a trembling lip and an aching heart of that great treasure-house, the grave -where every being who walks this earth might recognize some gem he once prized high as the gift of life.

While I was at school in one of the chief cities of a `neighboring state, there came from a little village that lay quite hid amid the mountains of Vermont from the great world, a young girl whose name was Clara Hamilton. She was quite young, and I have not often chanced to see one so singularly unprepossessing in personal appearance as she. But nature is not niggard in her gifts. A person destitute of all visible attractions usually has qualities of the mind and heart that more than atone for the want of the poor but highprized gift of beauty.

Clara was tall, and her form was slightly bent, not, however, as it seemed, by the spirit of servility, or natural debility, but as though a load of care had been laid upon her, which it was hard for her to bear. Her face also gave unmistakable evidence that she was a child of sorrow, and acquainted with grief. It was very pale, but yet one desirous of discovering any beauty therein, would have found it full of expression; and in her dark eyes, when they were raised from habitual drooping, one could see great depth of thought and tenderness, and also the "slumbering fires of genius." Her mental acquirements on examination were found to be far beyond the usual attainments of pupils of her age, and this, together with her manner, which was distant at all times, and even somewhat repelling, soon came to make the young stranger no great favorite with her classmates, and they who by age were fitted to be her companions. And somehow, before she had been long among us, it came to be known that she was a charity scholar. It was all over then. Some, who had been drawn towards her by her really extraordinary talents, were so overcharged with a false and contemptible pride, that when they learned the poverty of their classmate, they "forsook her and

fled."

But one day, when I was passing by her room, I heard her repeating passages in the Italian of the "Divina Comedia." I paused, entranced by the smooth and musical cadence of her voice; it had never before touched me as being so singularly sweet and full of melody. When she had finished the quotation I did. not pass on. I thought to myself, a spirit that gives utterance to such sweet sounds, must, in itself, be a harmonious spirit-one well worth finding out. There must be something lovely beneath that cold and repelling exterior.

So strong was this conviction-and it was mingled with a little curiosity I confess that I determined to make the acquaintance of the "neglected child." So I went at once into the room. Clara Hamilton was seated by an opened window-a pile of books lay on the floor beside her, and an unfinished letter was upon the table, which was drawn towards her.

She looked up, as I thought, with astonishment, as I entered her chamber, and with some confusion I began to apologize for appearing so abruptly; saying that if she was then engaged, I would come some other time to see her.

"No," said she, coming towards me, and leading me to a seat beside her own, "no-stay with me now. Let me think for a moment that, of all this crowd of young people who seem to be so happy, there is at least one who cares a little for me. I am so lonely."

"Why then don't you come more among us?" I asked, though I blushed as I spoke-for I knew she had been repelled and excluded from every "set."

"Because," she answered, “I am proud, though only a poor charity scholar! I know that I have capacities for accomplishing great things, and I cannot force myself among those, who will, I feel convinced, be some day proud to say they have known me."

I could not even smile as she spoke thus neither attribute her words to wounded vanity. There was such an apparent conviction with her of the truth of the words she spoke-such a sudden outpouring of the thoughts of her inner heart, which had been pent up for weeks, for there was no friendly ear to listen to her, that I could not regard those rapidly spoken words leven as an idle prophecy.