Richard Henry Dana was born at Cambridge, November 15, 1787. His early years were passed at Newport, in the midst of the associations of the Revolution and the enjoyments of the fine sea views and atmosphere of the spot. He entered Harvard, which he left in 1807. He studied law in the office of his cousin Francis Dana Channing, the eldest brother of Dr. Channing. After admission to the Boston bar he spent about three months in the office of Robert Goodloe Harper at Baltimore, where he was admitted to practice. He returned home in 1811 and became a member of the legislature, where he found a better field for the exercise of his federal politics and opinions. His first literary public appearance was as an orator on the Fourth of July celebration of 1814. The North American Review was commenced in 1815. It grew out of an association of literary gentlemen composing the Anthology Club who for eight years, from 1803 to 1811, had published the miscellany entitled The Monthly Anthology. Dana was a member of the club. The first editor of the Review was William Tudor, from whose hands it soon passed to the care of Willard Phillips, and then to the charge of an association of gentlemen for whom Mr. Sparks was the active editor. In 1818 Edward T. Channing became editor of the Review, and associated with him his cousin Richard H. Dana, who had left the law for the more congenial pursuits of literature.* When Channing was made Boylston professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard he resigned the editorship of the Review, and Dana, who was considered too unpopular to succeed him, left the club. Dana wrote in the period of two years five papers, one an essay on "Old Times," the others on literary topics, chiefly poetical. In 1824 Dana began the publication of The Idle Man, a periodical in which he communicated to the public his Tales and Essays. Six numbers of it were issued when it was discontinued; the author acquiring the experience hitherto not uncommon in the higher American literature, that if he would write as a poet and philosopher, and publish as a gentleman, he must pay as well as compose. Bryant, with whom Dana had become acquainted in the conduct of the North American Review, was a contributor of several poems to the Idle Man; and when this publication was discontinued Dana wrote for his journal, the New York Review of 1825, and afterwards the United States Review of 1826-7. In the latter he published ar ances, were committed to them. This was not confessedly, but pretty nearly in fact, their idea of their position and its consequent responsibilities." Edward Tyrrel Channing was Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory in Harvard College from 1819 to 1851, where the exactness of his instruction, his cultivated taste and highly disciplined mental powers gave him an eminent reputation with his pupils. His editorship of the North American Review extended over the seventh, eighth, and ninth volumes in 1818 and 1819. The following are among his articles in the Review: On Thomas Moore and Lalla Rookh, vol. vi.: Rob Roy, vol. vii.; Charles Brockden Browne's Life and Writings, vol. ix.; Southey's Life of Cooper, vol. xliv.; Prior's Life of Goldsmith, vol. xlv.; Sir Richard Steele's Life and Writings, vol. xlvi.; Lord Chesterfield's Letters to his Son, vol. 1. These papers show the author's refined culture and vigorous pen. Professor Channing also wrote the life of his grandfather, William Ellery, in Sparks's American Biography, First Series, vol. vi. It is understood that he is about sending to the press a volume of Lectures read to the classes in Cambridge. They were "Old Times," 1817. Allston's Sylph of the SeaSons, 1817. Edgeworth's Readings on Poetry, 1818. Hazlitt's English Poets, 1819. The Sketch Book, 1819. ticles on Mrs. Radcliffe and the novels of Brockden Brown. From 1828 to 1831 he contributed four papers to The Spirit of the Pilgrims.* An Essay on The Past and the Present in the American Quarterly Observer for 1833; and another on Law as suited to Man, in the Biblical Repository for 1835, conclude the list of our author's contributions to periodical literature. The first volume of Dana's Poems, containing The Buccaneer, was published in 1827. In 1833 he published at Boston a volume of Poems and Prose Writings, reprinting his first volume with additions, and including his papers in the Idle Man. In 1839 he delivered a course of eight lectures on Shakespeare at Boston and New York, which he has subsequently repeated in those cities and delivered at Philadelphia and elsewhere. In 1850 he published an edition of his writings in two volumes at New York, adding several essays and his review articles, with the exception of a notice of the historical romance of Yorktown, in Bryant's United States Review, and the paper on Religious Controversy in the Spirit of the Pilgrims. These are the last public incidents of Mr. Dana's literary career; but in private the influence of his tastes, conversation, and choice literary correspondence, embraces a liberal field of activity. He passes his time between his town residence at Boston and his country retirement at Cape Ann, where he enjoys a roof of his own in a neat marine villa, pleasantly situated in a niche of the rocky coast. Constant to the untiring love of nature, he is one of the first to seek this haunt in spring and the last to leave it in autumn. His writings possess kindred qualities in prose and verse; thought and rhythm, speculation and imagination being borrowed by each from the other. The Buccaneer is a philosophical poem; a tale of the heart and the conscience. The villany of the hero, though in remote perspective to the imagination, appeals on that account the more powerfully to our own consciousness. His remorse is touched with consummate art as the rude hard earthy nature steps into the region of the supernatural, and with unchanged rigidity embraces its new terrors. The machinery is at once objective and spiritual in the vision of the horse. The story is opened by glimpses to the reader in the only way in which modern art can attain, with cultivated minds, the effect of the old ballad directness. The visionary horror is relieved by simple touches of human feeling and sweet images, as in the opening, of the lovely, peaceful scenes of nature. The remaining poems are divided between the description of nature and a certain philosophical vein of thought which rises into the loftiest speculative region of religion, and is never long without indications of a pathetic sense of human life. The prose of Dana has similar characteristics to his verse. It is close, elaborate, truthful in etymology; and, with a seening plainness, musical in its expression. There is a rare use of figures, but when they occur they will be found inwrought with the life of the text; no sham or filigree work. In the tales of Tom Thornton and Paul Felton there is much imaginative power in placing the mind on the extreme limits of sanity, under the influence of painful and engrossing passion. The story of the lovers, Edward and Mary, has its idyllic graces of the affections. In these writings the genius of our author is essentially dramatic. The critical and philosophical essays, embracing the subtle and elaborate studies of human life in Shakespeare, show great skill in discrimination, guided by a certain logic of the heart and life, and not by mere artificial dialectics. They are not so much literary exercises as revelations of, and guides to character. This character is founded on calm reverence, a sleepless love of truth, a high sense of honor, and of individual worth. With these conditions are allied strong imagination, reaching to the ideal in art and virtue, and a corresponding sympathy with the humanity which falls short of it in life. And do our loves all perish with our frames? And make it send forth winning harmonies,- O, listen, man! Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, -O, listen ye, our spirits; drink it in Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, THE BUCCANEER. Boy with thy blac berd, I rede that thou blin, Ze met with the merchandes It es gude reason and right For when ze stode in sowre strenkith, Ze war all to stout. LAURENCE MINOT. The island lies nine leagues away. Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, But when the light winds lie at rest, The black duck, with her glossy breast, How beautiful! no ripples break the reach, And inland rests the green, warm dell; Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat, In former days within the vale; Curses were on the gale; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men ; Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. But calm, low voices, words of grace, Each motion gentle; all is kindly done.- Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light broke Cruel of heart, and strong of arm, Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were; Amid the uproar of the storm, And by the lightning's sharp, red glare, Whose corpse at morn lies swinging in the sedge? "Ask him who floats there; let him tell; I make the brute, not man, my mark. Who walks the cliffs, needs heed him well! Think ye the lashing waves will spare or feel? He wiped his axe; and turning round, Or give him Christian burial on the strand? Lee's waste was greater than his gain. 'I'll try the merchant's trade," he thought, But, then, to circumvent them at their arts!" 'Tis fearful, on the broad-backed waves, Yet 'mid this solemn world what deeds are done! And wanton talk, and laughter heard, "Leave prayers to priests," cries Lee: "I'm ruler here! The ship works hard; the seas run high; A wild and shifting light. "Hard at the pumps !-The leak is gaining fast! Lighten the ship!-The devil rode that blast!" Ocean has swallowed for its food Spoils thou didst gain in murderous glee; It had been well for thee. Crime fits for crime. And no repentant tear The sea has like a plaything tost Torn spars and sails,-her lading in the deep,- Within a Spanish port she rides. Angry and soured, Lee walks her deck. Ill luck in change!-Ho! cheer ye up, my men! Whirling and dark comes roaring down On field and vineyard, thick and red it stood; And wrath and terror shake the land: Awake ye, Merlin! Hear the shout from Spain ! Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride! He cannot hear thy wail, Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound He fell for Spain,—her Spain no more; And wait amid her sorrows till the day Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low, He meekly, smoothly said. With wealth and servants she is soon aboard, The sun goes down upon the sea; My home, how like a tomb! O, blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his hend! And now the stars are burning bright; Sleep, sleep, thou sad one on the sea! His arm no more will pillow thee, He is not near, to hush thee, or to save. The moon comes up; the night goes on. When told the hardships thou hadst borne, He looks out on the sea that sleeps in light, He sleeps; but dreams of massy gold Her breath comes deathly cold upon his cheek; He wakes!-But no relentings wake Thy merchant trade had nigh unmanned thee, lad! He cannot look on her mild eye; His speech is short; he wears a surly brow. There's none will hear the shriek. What fear ye now? The workings of the soul ye fear; Ye fear the power that goodness hath; From out the silent void there comes a cry,Vengeance is mine! Thou, murderer, too, shalt die!" Nor dread of ever-during woe, Nor the sea's awful solitude, Can make thee, wretch, thy crime forego. The scud is driving wildly overhead; Moan for the living; moan our sins,- The crew glide down like shadows. Eye and hand They're gone.-The helmsman stands alone; Still as a tomb the ship keeps on; Hush, hark! as from the centre of the deep, Shrieks, fiendish yells! They stab them in their sleep! The scream of rage, the groan, the strife, The blow, the gasp, the horrid cry, The panting throttled prayer for life, The dying's heaving sigh, The murderer's curse, the dead man's fixed, still On pale, dead men, on burning cheek, Lee looked. said, "They sleep so sound," he laughing, "They'll scarcely wake for mistress or for maid." A crash! They force the door,-and then One long, long, shrill, and piercing scream Comes thrilling 'bove the growl of men. "Tis hers! O God, redeem From worse than death thy suffering, helpless child! It ceased. With speed o' th' lightning's flash, The waves have swept away the bubbling tide. She's sleeping in her silent cave, Nor hears the loud, stern roar above, She soon has reached! Fair, unpolluted thing! O no! To live when joy was dead, O, this was bitterness! Death came and pressed Why look ye on each other so, And speak no word?-Ay, shake the head! They tell no tales; and ye are all true men ;- 'Tis on your souls; it will not out! I mind not blood.-But she,-I cannot tell! "And when it passed there was no tread! Went down these depths? How dark they look, and And then the ribald laughed. The jest, Though old and foul, loud laughter drew; And fouler yet came from the rest Of that infernal crew. Note, Heaven, their blasphemy, their broken trust! Lust panders murder: murder panders lust! Now slowly up they bring the dead Cries Lee, "We must not be betrayed; Strange words, we're told, an ass once brayed: Out! throw him on the waves alive!-he'll swim; Such sound to mortal ear ne'er came It shook with fear the stoutest frame: As the waves leave, or lift him up, his cry And through the swift waves' yesty crown And fear seems wrath. He now sinks down, Then drifts away; and through the night they hear O, hadst thou known what deeds were done, The good are in their graves; thou canst not cheer "The deed's complete! The gold is ours! Pray, who'd refuse what fortune showers? Must fairly share, you know, what's fairly got? There's song, and oath, and gaming deep, "Lee cheats!" cried Jack. Lee struck him to the heart. "That's foul!" one muttered.-"Fool! you take your part! "The fewer heirs, the richer, man! Hold forth your palm, and keep your prate! What matters soon or late?" And when on shore, and asked, Did many die? "Near half my crew, poor lads!" he'd say, and sigh. Within the bay, one stormy night, When hailed, the rowing stopped, and all was dark. Ha! lantern-work!-We'll home! They're playing shark!" Next day at noon, within the town, All stare and wonder much to see "Thy ship, good Lee?" "Not many leagues from shore Our ship by chance took fire."-They learned no more. He and his crew were flush of gold. Remorse and fear he drowns in drink. Save those who dipped their hands in blood with him; Save those who laughed to see the white horse swim. "To-night's our anniversary; And, mind me, lads, we have it kept Their sleep that night would he be now, who slinks! Mere mortal man, forbear to seek The secrets of that hell! Their shouts grow loud. 'Tis near mid-hour of night! Not bigger than a star it seems. A ship! and all on fire!-hull, yard, and mast、 All breathes of terror! men, in dumb amaze, It scares the sea-birds from their nests; Fair Light, thy looks strange alteration wear;- And what comes up above the wave, The waking dead!) There, on the sea he stands,— And on he speeds! His ghostly sides His path is shining like a swift ship's wake. The revel now is high within; |