itself, does that sight call to mind." Again he sighed, and his convulsing sobs drew from his guest not merely a tear of sympathy, but sigh called unto sigh, and my bosom heaved the throes of love-brought anguish; when he thus again proceeded: "Ah! young friend, the time has been when I was as you are; once I could rove my native wilds for pleasure, and when the dews of evening gathered thick, there was my father's splendid mansion where I could resort, and where I could find protection from the chilly night winds that blow over the Scottish highlands. There too I had my downy couch, with every thing that heart could wish, where I could slumber in luxury, and dream the dreams of idleness, youth and bliss. Wealth I looked upon as a plaything, and as for condition, I could wish none higher. My friends were numerous; my gay disposition made me joyous, and the tender affection of a female bosom was not wanting to cheer and gladden when listless melancholy would sometimes cloud my brow; and in the high flush of spirits to make my hours pass, like time spent within the retreats of a paradise. But ah! how changed since those happy days!"

Here the heavy sobbings of his bosom choked his utterance, and we walked on in silence. As I saw him dry the tears that filled his sunken eyes, with a tattered black silk handkerchief, which from appearance had well nigh served its last duty-and when I reflected upon his first appearance, and the impression I had received, I could not but inwardly exclaim, with astonishment, how habits alter nature! Buried in a wilderness, and surrounded by the most ignorant of beings, apathy had by degrees clenched her deadening claws upon the vitals of his soul, and it was only such stimulants as these that could break its grasp, and bring forth the true nature of the man. I had at first discerned that he was in some degree a lover of the wild and picturesque, and of some education, but was far from conjecturing that he had ever possessed such feelings. As the words which he had spoken rushed through my mind, and I contrasted his present condition with what it must once have been, my curiosity was highly excited, and I was unable to restrain myself from making an inquiry about the manner of his life, touching as was the circumstance. When I broke the silence, by asking some indirect questions concerning the cause and manner of his leaving his own country and fixing his abode in these dreary regions, he seemed perfectly collected, and replied that the story of his life was short and easily told, though he had never seen the person before to whom he wished to communicate it.

His father was

He was a native of Scotland; he then related. one of the wealthiest landholders in his section of the country. When young he was placed in Edinburgh at school, his father having intended him for the ministry; but fond of drawing, and

nearly the sole master of his time, he there neglected his studies, and did but little else than rove through the adjacent country. When he had remained in Edinburgh near two years, from frequent exposure at night, he was taken sick, and compelled to return home. By the assiduous attention of a kind parent he was soon restored, and afterwards prosecuted his studies at home under a private instructor for about four years. At the expiration of this time, an uncle and several friends were about to undertake a voyage to America. The pride of the whole family, he could not be suffered to miss the enjoyment; and by their persuasion his indulgent guardian consented to part with him. Here he sighed deeply-"And alas! poor old man, have I thus laden your age with sorrow, and returned your kindness with grief and misery!" His utterance ceased, and he wiped away the tear of repentance. After a short interval, he thus continued-"When I arrived in America, I had just completed my eighteenth year. Buoyant of spirits, and of a roving disposition, I soon tore myself from my friend, who intended residing for some time in the city of New York, and started on a journey to the west, in order to see the country and the North American Indians, of whom I had heard so much, in my native land. When I had gone as far as Nashville, Tenn. by public conveyance, I purchased a horse, that I might take my leisure during the rest of the way. After two days' stay, I left Nashville, in company with two men, whom from their appearance I took to be gentlemen, and fellow travelers. We soon arrived, without accident, at Memphis. By this time, as boon companions, we had become quite intimate. After tea the card table was on the floor, and we sat down, as I then thought, like jovial friends. I was a tyro at the game, but by my companions' assistance was soon enabled to handle my cards with considerable dexterity. At first we played for amusement, but soon to add interest we staked our small wagers. In the beginning I was constant winner, but ere long the scene was changed, and, becoming more and more excited, I continued playing, unconscious of the characters of the men with whom I was dealing, until I threw my last crown upon the table. Soon that was gone,

and my companions refused to play. I told them it was my last, and they must either play or return it. Surprised at its being my last, they returned it, with assurances that I should have an opportunity of gaining the rest of what I had lost on the succeeding evening.

"I rose from the table and sought my host, with the intention of leaving the place immediately. It was just dawning, and I found no one awake but the old hostler. By a present of my knife, I obtained from him my horse, and a promise of his silence, in regard to my leaving, and found to my astonishment that the men with whom I had played had just left, and had taken the

road we came. At first I determined to take the same road, and seek my friend in New York, but wounded pride and mortified disgust checked my course; and without knowing or caring whither I went, I turned toward the north, and about noon I met with a company of settlers, who were going beyond the Mississippi. With these I joined; and here at last I wandered some fifteen years since, to drag out my life in obscurity."

He finished, and we walked on in silence. In a few minutes we reached the settlement, which was alive with its inhabitants, who had just returned from their labor in the fields. Many were lounging about the door, waiting for their evening dram—they were my landlord's regular customers. He soon supplied their wants, from a large jug. Our supper was waiting, and we sat down to a large baked opossum, warm corn bread, and milk. After feasting most plenteously, we resumed our pipes.

A dear lover of hunting, I had soon made an agreement with "Jemes," my landlord's son, that we should take a hunt on the next evening. After another pipe with my landlord, I retired to rest on the pliant couch in the adjacent room, that I have already described, with my holsters wrapped in my cloak for a pillow.

VIATOR.

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.

BOOK II-ODE XIV.

Alas! how glide our fleeting years away,
Postumius; nor will piety delay

The wrinkled furrows of advancing age,
And Death's invincible, remorseless rage;
Though with three hecatombs you daily strive
To move stern Hades' god to let you live.

Tityus and tri-formed Geryon are confined,
Where Acheron's sad waters darkly wind;
Which all must pass, who are of mortal birth,
And live upon the bounty of the earth,

Whether they're kings, and wear the regal crown,
Or poor and lowly as the rustic clown.

Vainly we keep aloof from bloody war
And the hoarse Hadriatic's broken roar;
Vainly through autumn fear the chilling blast:
Cocytus' dark, dull river must be passed;
We must behold the wicked Danian race,
And Sisyphus, whose toil may never cease.

Yes, thou must leave the earth, thy house and wise,
Whose pleasing graces cheer thy weary life,

And of these trees, which by thy culture bloom,
Not one shall follow to the silent tomb

Its short-lived master, hastening thither, save
The mournful cypress bending o'er thy grave.

Then shall thine heir, far worthier of thy wine,
Drink the rich juice of the Cæcubian vine,
Which thou beneath a hundred keys dost store;
Profuse, he'll wet thy tessellated floor

Of costly stone, with wine of richer taste,
Than ever yet a pontiff's banquet graced.

Xx.

REVIEW.

POEMS, BY WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON.

To those who consider the mighty influence which poetry exerts on national character, the question, "What shall be the popular poetry of the age?" is one of infinite importance. The muse, though long since freed from the shackles of heathen mythology, has been clogged by an union with degraded human nature. There have been poets gifted with gigantic powers, who have so misspent their energies, and misimproved their knowledge, that their genius but "leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind." melancholy the contemplation of talents perverted, and influence misused! We shall not dwell upon the awful responsibility which rests on him, who, having poisoned the fountains of literature, then bids the eager populace to slake their thirst.

"Among the saddest in the den of woe,

Thou saw'st him saddest, 'mong the damned, most damned."

How

Yet such poets have lived, whose writings have been too well suited to the popular taste, which they have tended so much to vitiate and degrade. So artfully have they interwoven false sentiments with pretty verse, that the heart imbibes the one as eagerly as the ear drinks in the other. True, they often portray with a master hand the passions of our nature-no very moral exhibition-yet they as often mingle their infidel philosophy with their poetry, or array vice in the garb of virtue. In this they exercise consummate skill; so that the unwary are often seduced by them from virtue, and made familiar with vicious or licentious thoughts. Indeed, the subjects of many writers of this class, both prose and poetical, are gratifying to the baser feelings of the heart;

and hence men are easily enticed along the flowery path, that leads to the sepulchre which is "filled with all manner of uncleanness." The amount of immoral poetry in the English language now extant, is truly appalling; the flood-gates have been opened, and few can stem the torrent of corruption.

The great moral poets, Milton, Young, and Pollok, have exerted themselves to raise the muses from their degradation. They have shown that the highest sublimity and beauty are accompanied by the deepest-toned morality; yet their poems are not read by the mass of the people. These are pleased with the lighter style of composition, where the muse trips gaily on; and hence we must have poetry which is light, beautiful, and moral. But where can this be found? In nature. It breathes in all around us; and he who copies nature best, will give the poetry we need. Pure philosophy must be combined with poetry; right moral sentiments must mingle with the flowing verse; and this must be done withal in a style so simple and beautiful as to reach and captivate the heart. The holy effusions of Cowper, the natural loveliness of Wordsworth, must supplant the song of the infidel and the bacchanal. Minds untrammeled by philosophical speculations-souls that are alive to the beauties of nature, and that reverence nature's God-these must turn the current of popular feeling, purify the popular taste, and elevate the standard of poetic literature. As the merits of the school of nature are beginning to be acknowledged, it is important to observe what stand modern and especially American poets will take. A great revolution is nigh at hand; a bloodless strife, yet one whose result may be no less disastrous to the morals of the people, than the invasion of an enemy might be to their possessions. In this contest each poet is a man of influence; and it is a serious question whether he will enlist in the cause of truth or of error. Whether he will court

"The muse, that soft and sickly wooes the ear

Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme

Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale

Not overfraught with sense;"

or, whether bursting from the enthralment of false philosophy, he will dare

"To strike the lyre, but seldom struck, to notes
Harmonious with the morning stars, and pure
As those by sainted bards and angels sung,
Which wake the echoes of eternity."

With such reflections, we sat down to a perusal of the Poems of William Thompson Bacon. Many reviews of this neat little volume have already appeared; but as the author is a graduate of this Institution, we feel called upon to add one to the number.