your unwarrantable interference; and your pity for the negro and regret for the one dark spot, are but the hypocritical sympathies of a false and treacherous foe.

We have seen man's social condition barbarous and degraded; by the renovating influence of truth elevated and refined. No vassals now follow their liege lords to the fields of Palestine as of yore, when the ponderous battle-axe of Richard of the Lion Heart cleaved the infidel on the plains of Palestine. Compared with his liege lord five hundred years ago, the vassal of modern times would rauk as a statesman and sage in his knowledge of the true principles of human government. This condition is still improving and advancing, and the truth is tramping onward with the steps of a genii, crushing before it the sore abuses of ignorance and power, and raising prostrate man to the dignity of his nature. Its force is resistless, and though serried ranks may be arrayed against it, and leagued kings unite in holy alliance for its suppression, it will trample on their crowns and scoff at their efforts. The millions who may yet die in her behalf will be but propitiatory sacrifices. But at last she will reveal herself bright and pure as a heavenly divinity, and with radiant smile look upon the altars consecrated to her worship by an emancipated world. Let not then the philanthropists despair, for the faults and follies of the present are but trifles compared with the gross errors of the past. And while protected by the principles of civil liberty our republic reposes in calm security, let us think of the time when barons bold

"Carved at their meal in gloves of steel,

And drank the red wine through their helmets barred."

JOHN KEATS.

WE Confess we have no great love for modern poetry. We rather affect that which comes down to us mellowed by the lapse of years, and dignified by the august air of antiquity. We prefer the poetry of past ages where, perhaps, something of mystery hangs over the life and fortunes of the bard-where the imagination has "ample room and verge enough" to coin material for romance, mirthful or melancholy, gloomy or gay.

But not unfrequently the lives of contemporary poets abound in passages of intense interest, stimulating our deepest sympathy, and giving to their history all the excitement of fiction.

Such a poet was John Keats. He forced himself into notice not by any physical or determined power, not by any brawny might defying disdain, but by the modest, winning beauties of his muse. His spirit seemed too etherial for earth. His sensitive nature shrunk from contact with supercilious patronage or merciless criticism. Too retiring to court the favor of the fickle public, too conscious of his own powers to accept the miserable strictures of his enemies, and too delicately moulded to turn with proud and superior contempt from the attacks of the press, the deadly wound rankled in secret, his gentle spirit passed away in early manhood, and his native isle lost one of her most promising poets.

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever." A single line may embody more of delicate and exquisite grace than a whole canto of commonplace and threadbare sentiment. A single thought, instinct with elegance, and stamped with the indelible impress of highly gifted genius, has often conferred upon its author a deathless fame.

If Milton had rested his claim to immortality on his" Comus ;" if Goldsmith had written nothing but his ballad of the "Hermit;" if Cowper had only penned his "Lines on Seeing his Mother's Picture;" if Gray had given nothing to the world but his Elegy in a Country Church-yard;" if Campbell's muse had only wailed the death of O'Connor's child; if Coleridge had only sung the praises of his Maker, in the "Hymu before Sunrise in the valley of Chamouni;" if the sole evidence of Keats' poetical inspiration had been his " Eve of Saint Agnes,"

"They would have

Deposited upon the silent shore

Of memory, images and noble thoughts,

Which cannot die, and will not be destroyed."

Oblivion cannot hide their worth, time cannot detract aught from their excellence.

Keats will be known to posterity more by isolated and individual beauties of verse, than by any continuous and powerful effort. It must be confessed that his poetry has all the extravagancies and errors of youth. It sometimes utters the soft languishments of love, and not unfrequently indulges in what calculating critics would term-mawkish sentimentalism.

His sense of beauty has been aptly called a disease. He intensified and spiritualized his conceptions of grace, until none but a mind as delicate as his own can fully appreciate their loveliness.

He seemed to detect, as by the action of a microscope, all the hidden and minute beauties of nature, and he transferred them to his canvass with all the ardor and enthusiasm of an artist. The warmth of his early affections had not yet been chilled by the cold, selfish teachings of world wisdom. He painted every thing couleur de rose. His rich and prolific fancy transformed all surrounding objects into gold. His poetry is of that kind, which, in the beautiful language of Washington Irving, "Hallows every place in which it moves; which breathes around nature an odor more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and sheds over it a tint more magical than the blush of the morning."

Little did our young poet dream of the cool, deliberate, philosophical skill, with which reviewers would dissect and anatomise his glowing and gorgeous imagery. Little did he anticipate the quiet, passionless air of self-possession, with which the world would receive his enthusiastic devotion to his muse, or the crushing contempt and malicious mockery with which heartless critics would wound his shrinking and sensitive spirit.

Perhaps the whole history of literary criticism does not contain an instance of more gross and manifest injustice, than the atrocious and savage assault upon Keats by the Quarterly Review. He was young and poor-he had presumed to write poetry, and this poetry had been praised by a Whig Periodical. This was sufficient to expose him to the unrelenting persecution of the opposite party..

Men of taste and refinement were astonished, when Jeffrey commen. ced his review of Wordsworth's Excursion with the contemptuous sentence, "This will not do;" when he attacked the Lake School with all bis powers of ridicule and sarcasm, and strove to excite the laughter of a

nation against this new order of poetical aspirants. But who could conceal his indignation, when Gifford selected the young and timid Keats, as the victim of his blind and brutal hatred? Who could look on unmoved, when this minion of court favor, this mouth-piece of lordly insolence, exhausted his stores of invective and abuse upon a poor apothecary's boy?

Did he forget that his own origin was no less obscure, and that he had raised himself to his present position only by a mean subservience to the will of his superiors, and a slavish obedience to the dictates of his party? The editor of the Quarterly had himself courted the Muse of Song, but she had scorned his weak and worthless worship. One line of Keats contains more of the essence and soul of true poetry than all the schoolboy effusions of this egotistical and illiberal critic.

We would ask, then, what element in the poems of Keats prompted or provoked this rude attack? Not their irreligion, for they breathe throughout a spirit of pure and holy devotion-not their misanthropy, for his love of his race was warm and glowing-not their arrogance and assumption, for he was weak and modest as a maiden.

The truth was, he could be assailed with impunity. He was poor, friendless, unprotected. He bad expected no such assault, and he was unprepared to meet it. He read the fatal Review, as we are told, again and again, bending over its pages as if fascinated, and drinking in every drop of the deadly poison.

Consumption, meanwhile, was wasting away his weakened frame, and now his cup of bitterness was full. He pined, sickened, and died. He had given bright promise of superior poetical powers, but withered before his prime, like

"A bud, bit by an envious worm,

Ere it can spread its sweet leaves to the air,

Or dedicate its beauty to the sun."

THE TWO BEGGARS.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY "JUVENIS."

Ox a rainy evening in the month of November, there was a large and joyous company at the tavern "Great Frederick," situated in one of the streets of Amsterdam. It was the rendezvous of the most famous of the herring-fishers who came there to regale themselves with a pot of beer and to smoke their pipe, as only a phlegmatic Dutchman can. The "host," strong in the renown which he had long since obtained, and which was due by reason of the excellence of his beer and smoked herrings, did not attach much importance to luxurious accommodations; the tables were constructed of rough planks well worm-eaten, placed upon some old casks, giving an equilibrium which had more than once proved fatal to the comfort of those drinkers who, not content with their beer, indulged themselves with some glasses of schnapps. But what cared our brave host, Maître Peters, for a few falls-the victims of alcohol

could sleep as well at the foot of his casks, on the floor, as in their own beds. What importance was it to him, to wake up the next morning with five or six drunken fellows buried up among the rubbish; it was no great matter, and the repairs did not cost much. In less than half an hour the tables were again put up, and the drunkards thrown out with the dirt by the strong arm of the robust Gertrude. The plate consisted of some vases, goblets, and plates of pewter well bruised. The walls, which had for fifty years been exposed to the atmosphere of smoke, were as dingy as the pipe of the oldest visitor of the inn, and here and there were seen "charcoal sketches" of the most grotesque figures, all furnished with long pipes. All this proved Maître Peters to be a man of sense; for finding his tavern drew plenty of good customers as it was, he could well dispense with all matters of elegance. The evening of which we write, the naturally jolly figure of Peters seemed more radiant than ordinary; his rubicund nose, his sparkling eyes, his legs crossed, his hands joined together on his stomach, while his thumbs were chasing each other with great velocity, all attested a state of profound happi

ness.

Never did hotel-keeper project with more majesty, or at longer intervals, the smoke of his pipe; he scanned the hall with the look of an emperor, and he gazed at the hasty movements of Gertrude with pleasure, as she put forth all her force to supply the demands of the consumers, flying wherever she was called by the thundering knock of a goblet or pot against the table. There were two reasons for this great concourse of drinkers; the first was, it had been a feast day, and the next place, the weather was such as to give a delicious taste to the happiness of a warm and closed room, for outside the wind was blowing furiously, and the rain falling in torrents. A philosopher would have amused himself by listening to the extravagant bellowings raised by the tempest; he would have meditated with delicious horror in the midst of the great fracas of nature; but not so our brave Hollanders; they seemed to be determined to drown the voice of nature, and the hardness common to their language assisted them marvellously in their intentions; they cared but little to admire the beauty of a storm, and it was only occasionally, when a blast of wind more fierce than another struck the door or howled about the window, that a moment's silence was observed within. Then the conversation, or the clatter rather, re-commenced; and the oldest would take occasion to relate the dangers they had run in the course of life.

Soon the cards were called for, and the interest of the play absorbing all their faculties, they became more silent, and one could distinguish the noise made by their lips in opening them, to emit the thick volumes of smoke. The conversation soon began again, silence being quite impossible.

"Holoa! big Peters," said one joyous compeer, "where is thy old owl? we have not seen him to-night."

"Faith, if he finds himself well where he is, it will afford me much pleas ure to have him remain there. Every evening he costs me a piece of bread with a good herring and nourishing pot of beer; but I must be charitable." Here Peters removed his pipe, that he might draw a deep sigh more at his ease. He is good for nothing, that beggar; and if it were not for his poor little girl, whose look makes me sad, I would have sent him off long ago."

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"The fact is, that with his long beard, his sombre air and sunken eyes, he always makes me feel in my conscience as dark as the cards you have given us."

"My cards! my cards!" muttered Peters, whose lips bespoke a repartee, but which he dropped, fearing lest he should by it wound the pride of his guests, "be he what he may, I look upon him as sent from the devil, and I always tremble in his presence for fear of some quarrel or misfortune."

"Because this poor old man wears ragged clothes and has hollow cheeks, must he be for that either a murderer or a robber?" said old Gertrude, who had stopped with a pot of beer in hand, when she heard them speak of the old beggar and his daughter.

"Hush!" replied Peters, offended at the interruption of his servant; "you have a long and foolish tongue to-day. Instead of wasting your pity on an idle rogue, you will do better to carry the beer to Tony, who is almost dead with thirst down there, clacking his palate as though he had eaten a ton of salt pork; and then, to refresh yourself, you will go and unhinge my sign and bring it in here, because this rascally wind that I hear blowing in my chimney will throw down my Grand Frederick.'" The conversation now grew very animated, when there was heard a knocking at the door, and a low, trembling voice praying for entrance. "Hum!" said Peters, raising his head, "my two good customers have arrived; the wind has not blown strong enough to carry them off; I wish the devil would take them back. Run, Gertrude, do you not hear your protégés outside? Make way-make way, you there, all of you, for the old fox shakes himself when he comes in, like a dog who has been thrown in the water."

Gertrude did not wait for her master to repeat the order; and hardly had she opened the door, before the old beggar threw himself into the hall, followed by his daughter. We must render justice to the brave fishermen, who, notwithstanding their prejudices, immediately moved to give room at the fire to the new comers; and really they were a sad spectacle. The water was running from the old man's hat as from a gutter; its shape was entirely gone; the rim, instead of being raised, was clapped on his cheeks, looking like a part of his thick whiskers. His cloak was in as bad condition, and his shoes, full of water, clattered on the floor at each step. His poor child was in a still more pitiable state; her little frail frame seemed scarcely able to support the weight of water with which her old black clothes were charged. The good Gertrude took within her hard hands the icy fingers of the little unfortunate, and endeavored to impart some warmth to them.

The old man crouched down by the fire, and thrust his hands almost into the flame. He looked around upon the guests and the tables, while his purple lips moved as though trying to utter something, but it was only an indistinct murmur. Through the care of Gertrude the girl was partly restored, and she attempted to reach a little wooden stool near her father, that she might sit by him; but her strength gave way, and she fell between his knees. "Poor Therese!" cried he, "hunger is killing her; we have neither of us tasted a morsel since this morning."

These words, though uttered in bad German, were understood by Peters, in whom avarice and compassion seemed to be struggling each for the mastery; the latter finally triumphed, and some black bread and one of the driest herrings was given to the beggars, Therese in the meanwhile had recovered her senses, and the old man fell with avidity upon the meagre repast offered him, while Therese swallowed some soup prepared for her by Gertrude. Peters remained near the fire, opposite the old man, fixing in his mind the best way to tell him the immutable