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of Scio; and on his homeward voyage, captured a large Tripoline frigate, having on board three hundred Mahommedan seamen, and seventy-seven Christian slaves. These last, when liberated from their chains, he employed in navigating his prize to Malta.

De Vignacourt did not live to hear of his admiral's success. Worn out with bodily infirmities, he breathed his last on the "4th of February, 1697," in the seventh year of his reign," and ninetyseventh of his age." His venerable corse was entombed in the Chapel of the French Language, in St. John's church; and over it, a monument still remains to his memory.

*The Venetians, desirous of retaining Scio under their rule, left a governor and garrison to defend it. But the Sultan, enraged by his loss of an island, which was, of all others in the Grecian Archipelago, the most productive in its soil, the most picturesque in its appearance, and the most important in its revenue, sent Mustapha Pasha, to drive the Christians out of its fortresses, and bring it again under the jurisdiction of his crown. The Turks were victorious, when most of the Venetians were slain; and the few who survived, made an honorable capitulation, and returned in their galleys to Venice. Scio has from that day to the present, if we except a brief period during the Greek revolution, been a dependency of the Ottoman Empire. McFarlane thus feelingly describes the appearance of its capital on his visit in 1828. It was written shortly after its reduction by the Capudan Pasha, who was sent by the Sultan to quell the rebellion-and who by fire, the sword and slaughter, so readily and effectually performed his diabolical task:

"We walked," says this writer, "through long streets "that contained nothing but ragged skeletons of houses and "heaps of fallen masonry; grass, weeds, and nettles, were "growing in the crevices of the marble halls, in the ruined "churches, in the but lately busy streets; and, to give an "idea of the utter desolation, we started a covey of par"tridges in the Strada dei Primati, or principal street."

We visited Scio in the spring of 1833, and wherever we went, found only desolation and ruin in its towns, and poverty and despair depicted in the appearance of its miserable population.

This unsubstantial, beauteous vision shines,
In form unreal 'mid ethereal sky.
Thus unsubstantial, yet withal eterne;—
Enduring, as the word of HIM who gave
Its radiant hues upon the cloud to burn,
Lighting, for Faith, the world beyond the grave.

And is there not an Iris of the soul,-
Which morning's hope, or Memory's evening rays,
Upon the clouds of Life can bright unroll
To cheer Imagination's earnest gaze ?
And must it prove unreal and untrue,

Because from MIND it catches all its grace?-
"Tis MIND alone sustains the worlds we view
Suspended baseless in unbounded space!
And not presumptuous, thus the mind to call
A power sustaining all the eye beholds;-
That Mind Eternal, which created all,

By mental power the mighty whole upholds.
And as all light is borrowed from the Sun,

And all is glorious, pure, and dazzling fair,
All Mind is kindled from the wondrous ONE,
And in its wondrous nature claims a share.

Since Mind ourselves created and our Earth,
We bow before Imagination's shrine,
And own a being of celestial birth;
Its bright creations,-like itself,-Divine.
Genius embodies in undying tones

These bright creations of celestial power:-
No light more REAL than such beauty owns,
Shines in the bow or blushes in the flower!

THE FRENCH DRAMATISTS.

CORNEILLE.

Jamais nous ne goûtous de parfaite alégresse; Nos plus heureux succès sout mêlés de tristesse. Toujours quelques soucis, en ces événemens, Troublent la pureté de nos contentemens.-Corneille. There is no style of literature more completely indicative of national taste and character, than the dramatic, and the assertion of Lord Bacon with regard to the proverbs of a country, is still more applicable to their theatrical compositions; that they evince at once, the genius, wit, and spirit of a nation. They are the living and moving por

REALITY OF THE MIND'S CREATIONS. traits of the mental tendencies of the age in which

BY ROBERT HOWE GOULD.

they spring; the history of a people's mind, made

Addressed to a contemner of the "cloud-capped towers and poetry. In all other methods of composing, the

gorgeous palaces" of the world of imagination.

Is nought then "real" but the firm-set earth;—
The rocks and hills immovable and fixed?
Can mind to no realities give birth,

Unless with things corporeal grossly mixed?
What is the charm of Music's witching tone?
Unreal sound, in half unreal air!
What is the storm-cloud's matchless rainbow-zone?
A thing unreal;-yet how sweetly fair!
The Rainbow,-child of vapor and of light,
Two things intangible :-yet not the less
Its splendors press on our enraptured sight
All that we know or dream of loveliness.
Fair, as the wreath, which Beauty's brow entwines,
-Woven of flowers that spring beneath your eye,-

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writer obeys more exclusively the bent and impulse of his individual genius, especially in his earliest efforts. He composes at first, without forethought, from the strong necessity' of writing, and because his heart and intellect are full to overflowing with bewildering, perplexing dreams, and visions which find no relief, but in expression. A little later, and the yearning for sympathy is aroused, and the exciting desire for praise dawns on the poet's life. It is not enough for him then, to feel his power, to know his strength, his innate conviction ceases to satisfy; he must have that power acknowledged, that strength bowed down to, and he pines with the first wild, irrepressible enthusiasm of newly awa

kened ambition, for the applause, the wonder, the visible and rapturous admiration of the crowd.

man must be a second rate genius, at least as respects all utilitarian and instructive results, when As this wish, at first indistinct and visionary, his views and theories are so far beyond his times, becomes decided and confirmed, the author writes as to contain nothing practically to affect his fellow more carefully. He still looks into his own heart pilgrims. It is, however, a pleasant belief to a for inspiration, but he looks with altered, and more writer, the conviction that he is not appreciated, timid gaze; for, the love of approval has taught because he has wandered too far onward, for uninhim to dread censure. The fever-thirst for appro- spired eyes to follow his movements, and slightly bation deepens to a prevailing passion; the merely founded as such a comfort frequently may be, it is intuitive perception, and involuntary exercise of one whose private consolation gives it something his gifts, are elevated into a settled knowledge of of a claim to public leniency. But it is difficult to the responsibility they confer, and a conscientious conceive, there ever can be an era suited to many avowal and employment of the master-spirit within. of the minds now abroad in the wide realm of liteThe selfish aspiration for personal distinction is rature; and it requires more brilliancy of imaginamerged in the nobler solicitude, to benefit, though tion than distinguishes the generality of readers, he scarcely knows how, his fellow men. A change to fancy an age when Carlylism will be the prehas come over his views and aims. His ruling vailing diction, and Transcendentalism, no longer desire is no longer a vague aspiring for sympathy; mystifying indisputable truths, by viewing them as he does not seek to meet personal appreciation, but through a glass darkly, shall be to common people, to enforce extended conviction; he ceases to con- a common faith. Certain it is, that the intellects sult exclusively his individual promptings, and with whose splendor has lived on, changeless, amid all his rapidly growing hope of the world's praise, changes, were those, in character, a portion of their comes also greater respect, in seeming at least, own times, the lofty representatives of their genefor the criticizing jury whose verdict he awaits. ration, and however superior in themselves, still He considers, with politic foresight, their tastes and imbued in some degree with the universal spirit of prejudices, and without relinquishing independence, the mass around them. Genius, in its separate, or sacrificing originality, he endeavors to mould his mysterious existence, is ever apart and lonely;' but works to suit the general character of the tribunal, in its effect on others, it is universal, for it works before which his recorded genius is to stand. by appealing to those emotions and illusions, which act upon every thoughtful and feeling being.

Henceforth, his compositions, though original in matter, are nevertheless influenced and colored The dramatic writings of the French, scarcely by popular opinion, and therefore display at the deserve that name, till the presiding genius of Corsame time, the peculiar intellectual attributes of neille, and shortly afterwards, that of Racine, gave the writer, and the prevailing characteristics of the form and regularity to this branch of literature. judges whose favorable sentence he strives to ob- Under their guiding and superintending influence, tain. In dramatic literature, this double nature is it arose to maturity, and to that perfection which most visibly evinced; for, the drama is necessarily its originally artificial character is capable of acan appeal to the mass of men, to be decided on by quiring. It is eloquent with the tone of the sothe feelings and sympathies of the many, not the ciety in whose midst its progress commenced, and criticism or judgment of the few. To be suc- full of the impressions spreading far and wide cessful in his labors, the poet must turn from his around its votaries. The reverence for religion, own dream-world, to the less glowing and restless as yet untainted by the skeptical philosophy of the one, of active life; he must draw from familiar ob- succeeding generation, the profound and respectful jects and universal associations, the hidden spirit devotion to all that time had handed down, and halof poetry; he must write for men as they are, be-lowed, and that regard for outward propriety almost fore their final decision will make him what he forgotten in later productions, give to the dramas would be. He may lay his scenes in other lands; of that period, with some few exceptions, a style he may portray and recall the actors of other times, of dignified and simple purity, which has only too but he must blend with the heroes of the shadowy soon passed away. past, something of the true and living present; else, would the very oracles of old be uttered to careless listeners. And at last, it is no such difficult thing, though somewhat a rare one in these days, for an author who can write well at all, to compose he laid down certain regulations for its governintelligibly to the comprehension of the throng; ment, which are still adhered to, by his dramatic for human thought, with all its apparent variety successors in popular favor. The traits of his own and fickleness, moves and acts in a circle, and the intellect, bold, imaginative and manly, were calcuheart is ever consistent in its inconsistencies. lated to trace a decisive and permanent impression on all which yielded to their influence, and he could not fail to produce improvement in the literature of

It has been remarked, that a great mind is one in advance of the era in which it appears; but

a

Corneille was the founder and perfector of a new school, based on higher and nobler principles, than any which had preceeded it: the drama assumed under his control, a finished and original style, and

his country, when with all his strong intellectual the charms of sentiment; to a people, whose emocapabilities, was blended an intense love for the tions are easily awakened, and whose sympathies art, whose cause he strove to advance. His heart in favor of the beautiful passion, are almost a porwas with his labors, and its untiring zeal brought tion of their religion, and respond with earnest ensuccess to his efforts. He worshipped the majes- thusiasm to the awakening touch of a master hand, tic in all its forms; his taste tended to whatever we acknowledge that he had studied well the minds was lofty in virtue, and glorious in history. His of the many around him, and his final recompense heroes were the mighty ones of the earth, illustrious in themselves, and rendered yet more so, by the gorgeous drapery his genius spread around their deeds.

showed how truly he had learned to read the human heart, and to frame his appeals to its decisions. This tone in his compositions may probably be ascribed to the lasting influence of early impressions, Perhaps no author ever wrought so complete and to the unconscious lingering of the one dream, sudden a change in the literary state of his coun- which "dies never wholly." Corneille, in his trymen, as that produced by the brilliancy, and the young years, had been disappointed in an affaire energetic mind of Corneille. Yet was his onward du cœur, and though the first vividness of his repathway not unmolested; the pilgrim-staff he car-gret was soon subdued into calmness, we trace, in ried, was often heavy, and hard to bear. He en- his after productions, the strength of his youthful countered difficulties and obstacles, to surmount convictions, and the remaining recollection of that which might well have arrested a spirit less deter- earliest love which so long haunts the memory with mined; he had to combat with firmly established visionary beauty, when the lovelier reality had prejudices, with personal enemies, and with the passed away. long train of enviers and detractors, which reform- Like most writers, and like all poets, Corneille ing and arbitrary genius is ever destined to meet is unequal in his style, and several of his producin its upward and thorn-strewn career. He was tions would materially have injured a reputation greeted with the derisive mockery of inferior but less securely founded. There is no mediocrity in rival writers: he met the harsh disapproval of the his compositions; he could not dwell amid the academy whose fiat had hitherto been unquestioned common places of le juste milieu, and whatever is literary law, and he also incurred the unsparing not greatly excellent in his pages, is execrably bad. criticism and censure of the Cardinal de Richelieu. La Bruyére, in his miscellaneous writings, speaks A feebler intellect, or a more irresolute will, thus of Corneille: "Il est simple et timide, d'une would have shrunk dismayed, or fallen powerless, ennuyeuse conversation. Il prend un mot pour before impediments so manifold and startling; but un autre, et il ne juge de la bonté de ses pièces, que Corneille did neither. He felt his might, and he par l'argent qui lui en reviennent. Il ne sait pas les proudly toiled and struggled and resisted, until réciter, ni lire son écriture. Laissez-le s'éléver par others felt it too, and acknowledged its strength. la composition. Il est roi, il est grand roi. Il est He reared an altar to higher divinities, than those politique. Il est philosophe. Il entreprend de the crowd about him had long so blindly and igno- faire parler des héros, de les faire agir. Il peint les rantly deified. He stood in the temple, the priest romains, ils sout plus grands, et plus romains dans of a new faith, the expounder of a better creed; ses vers, que dans leur histoire." His gaucherie in he called from their undisturbed slumbers of ages, society must have been remarkable, for we find it the classic influences of the olden time,-and he noticed and commented on, in all the published guided, with the far-seeing wisdom of a prophet, sketches of his life. He was fully conscious of and the self-confidence of one inspired,' the fal- his deficiency in polish, and his want of tering footsteps of returning beauty. He had his reward. Gradually the scales of delusion fell from the critics' eyes; those who had listened to censure, spoke to praise and the enthusiastic voice of a people hailed his triumph, and confessed his victory.

"That grace and ease,

Which mark security to please."

It has been said, that he could not, even in common conversation, speak his own language correctly; and he used to observe in reply to the accusation, "C'est vrai, mais je n'en suis pas moins pour cela, Pierre Corneille!"

It has been advanced as an objection to the writings of Corneille, that he introduces too con- It is difficult, when an author has composed so stantly as the ruling and prominent characteristic much, and so successfully, to determine which of of his dramas, the passion of love, that he makes his works stands the best representative of the every other emotion subservient to the spell of this, whole. Perhaps the most deserving of admiraand frequently injures the unity and plot of his tion, among his dramas, is that of Le Cid, and plays, by this prevailing trait. To consider his probably few productions of the kind have encounworks as mere specimens of art, this is undoubtedly tered and vanquished so much severe criticism and true, and must be deemed a defect; but when we active persecution. Even the companions and remember that he wrote for a nation prone to ex-personal friends of the writer, condemned the play aggerated feeling, and particularly susceptible to on its first appearance; the Academy pronounced

VOL. VIII-97

it worse than indifferent; and Cardinal Richelieu Corneille's reverence for religion was one of the acknowledged the plot and design were good, but most strongly marked traits in his nature, and the declared the style to be mediocre, and requiring artificial life he led, appeared only to increase and “quelques poignées de fleurs." The composition confirm a faith, which to his mind, had no shadow was submitted to several men of letters, high in of doubt. It is somewhat remarkable, that his station, the alleged fault amended, and the play almost child-like confidence and credulity should once again placed before the Cardinal. But his Eminence was on this occasion more than commonly fastidious, and avowed the defect had been altered, not remedied, and that the "poignées de fleurs," were now scattered with too lavish profusion. But the patience of the Dramatist, was by this time exhausted; he resolved to await public decision, and, notwithstanding the sentences of the best authorities, the people were independent enough to attend the performance of the drama, and to applaud the poet. Despreux alludes to the excitement called forth by vehement criticism on the one side, and ardent admiration on the other.

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have continued unchanged amid a society so prone to skeptical philosophy and plausible sophistry. There is high moral beauty in this view of a lofty spirit mingling so constantly with opposing and corrupting influences, yet preserving holy and unsullied, the loveliness of its higher and better nature. It is one of the great disadvantages of the drama that it is liable to introduce a vein of skepticism, and to teach its votaries that common and unprofitable wisdom, which begins and ends in doubt. It is nearly impossible for one continually accustomed to the deceiving pomp and circumstance of a theatre, habituated to spend day after day in pampering "En vain contre le cid un Ministre se ligue the public taste with illusions, and wearing away Tout Paris pour chimère a les yeux de Rodrigue existence, to produce a false, yet perfect represenL'Académie en corps a bean le censurer, tation of life-it is nearly impossible for such an one Le public revolté s'obstine à l'admirer." to retain, unsoiled by the systematic deception he But a vague idea of Corneille's personal cha- studies as an art, the freshness of his holier and racter, is to be gathered from his literary records, truer thoughts. His very success prompts him to for his common existence, was, from his intellec-question all things, and insensibly he acquires the tual hours, 66 a thing apart." A poet's pilgrimage painful and inevitable knowledge, how easily truth is always two-fold. He leads a double life, one of may be imitated, and how totally what seems, may the world and of men, the other of mind, essen- be unlike what is. He turns from the gorgeous tially immortal.' With some writers these vary- trappings, the passionate delusions of the stage, ing and separate experiences are somewhat blended, and actual life wearies with its sameness, and palls and the ideal mingles with reality. Though still with its calmer and less visible emotions. He has distinct, the two yet harmonize, and the visionary become familiar with enthusiastic demonstrations brightens and adorns the actual, as the moonlight, of feeling, and quiet grief appeals in vain to his though far above the earth, yet shines on it in sympathies; he has looked on the wildness of ficbeauty. But it was not thus with Corneille. His titious despair, till he has lost all faith in the voicegenius was exacting and exclusive, and had no less sorrows of breaking hearts. He has heard share nor portion in active exertions or daily em- holy things spoken of lightly, and religion irreverployments. It even rendered him unfit for neces-ently named, till it requires a firmness of moral sary, common-place duties, by destroying his inte- principle rarely met with among men, to resist the rest in their progress. He was liable to moods of melancholy depression, and the energy distinguishing his merely intellectual labors, was wholly forgotten in his intercourse with real, and less imaginative cares. His feelings were ardent and susceptible, but not generally enthusiastic; his opinions lofty and fearless, and far too independent to be politic. His self-reliance, at times so unswerving, occasionally deserted him beneath the influence of the merest trifles; and sources of disquietude or anxiety, which in one frame of mind he would pass unnoticed, at other periods, would render him wretched almost to desperation. He was completely destitute of idle vanity, and received gratefully, but proudly, the tribute of praise his countrymen united to proffer him. He possessed in an eminent degree the qualities to win fame, and to lose his daily bread, faculties "qui l'a rendu très-propre à peindre la vertu romaine, et très-peu propre à faire sa fortune."

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fatal power of such continually recurring and fascinating impressions. This spirit, Corneille seems to have possessed in an eminent degree, and amid all the pride of confessed and commanding intellect, he retained, unspotted from the world,' his humility and purity of heart. He is a lofty example of that natural piety, which one of his most brilliantly gifted countrywomen has asserted to be the inseperable attendant of true genius, however rarely it may be evinced in the usual display of talent. "L'hommage de la poésie est religieux, et les ailes de la pensée servent á se rapprocher de ciel."

"I know but too beautiful things in the universe," said a German philosopher, "the starry heavens over our heads, and the sentiment of right in our hearts;" may not the poet's mission blend the two, and his genius be the mysterious and musical mingling of the heart with heaven? Washington City.

J. T. L.

THE FATE OF A RAIN-DROP.

Its home was the breast of a beautiful cloud,
That brilliantly curtained the sky,

And caught from the sun the rich color that glowed,
In the light of his glorious eye.

The rain-drop was gazing on all that was spread
Beneath, like a magical scene;

Till it pined to repose on a canopied bed,

Of lovely and delicate green.

A zephyr came roving in idleness by,

And down on its gossamer wing,

The tremulous rain-drop sprang, eager to try
A flight on so viewless a thing.

The zephyr careered through the mid-summer air.
And just at the eventide close,
Laid gently the delicate burden it bare,
In the innermost cell of a rose.

The wanderer gazed in a transport of bliss,
At the crimson-wrought tapestries hung
So gorgeously round it;-and fragrance like this
O'er its bosom had never been flung.

"Twas the joy of a moment. A beautiful girl
While straying through garden and bower,
Paused lightly to show her companion the pearl,
That lay on the breast of the flower.

""Tis a chalice containing an exquisite draught, Which Emily only shall sip,"

He said as he gathered the rose-bud-she quaffed, And the pearl was dissolved on her lip!

EXTRACTS

M. J.

manners having long estranged his messmates. His paroxysms were so frequent and so violent, that he required unceasing and vigilant superintendance. We had no hospital whither to send him, and the persons usually employed as nurses in the town, absolutely refused to take charge of him. He was therefore solely dependant on the humanity of others.

Hearing, one afternoon, how much he was unavoidably neglected, and how he had, the night before, seriously injured himself, I volunteered to sit up with him that night. I knew not the hazard I encountered, and those who were better informed were too interested to enlighten me.

About 8 P. M., I entered his room and found him sitting on the side of his bed, furiously biting his nails, which, as well as his mouth, were stained with blood. His beard was long and clotted, and his hair matted and dangling over his red and swollen eyes. An old negro woman was in vain endeavoring to persuade him to partake of food which she held before him. When he saw me, he became outrageous; and, gnashing his teeth, strove to rise from the bed, while the woman resisted him. A severe fit followed, after which he was comparatively calm.

Inquiring of the woman how long he had been without food, she told me nearly two days, and that he refused to eat, because he thought that every thing was poisoned. At the last word he became again excited, and said that they were all trying to poison him. I had heard, that when practicable, it was better to humor than oppose the fancies of a maniac. "You are right," I said to him; "the cook did try to poison you, but the doctor found

FROM THE JOURNAL OF AN AMERICAN NAVAL OFFICER. her out and sent her to jail, and this food I know

[Continued.]

Returning to the United States after two years' service in the West Indies, the vessel was laid up for repairs the men were discharged, and the officers detached.

to be good."

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I told him that she could never get out. "Give me give me!" he cried, pointing to the food, which he clutched eagerly and devoured with voraciousness. After his meal, he slept for upwards of an hour. When he awoke, the first thing

Homeless, and, beyond the sphere of my profession, nearly friendless, I soon tired of the shore, and my heart yearned for the sea, its associations, which caught his eye, was a fly sleeping on the and its sympathies. Long before the expiration of wall above him. my leave of absence, I was an applicant for service, and my application met with immediate suc

cess.

I was detailed for the Hornet, the symmetrical, the beautiful Hornet! endeared by the achievement of two glorious victories.

We fitted out at Norfolk, and before we were ready for sea, one of our oldest Midshipmen,* who was, in fact, a man of mature years, was taken seriously ill. At length, his life was despaired of; but he lingered long, a perfect maniac. He had no friends; his dissipated habits and his

Reference is here made to date of warrant, unquestionably the most advanced in years.

"See that fly!" he called out. "Look at him, how he swells! He is as big as an elephant. 0, my God! my God! he will crush me!" and he struggled desperately, as if to free himself from an overwhelming pressure.

Again he became quiet; and I supposed he was sleeping; but after sometime he started up, and I sprung forward to hold him. Beckoning to me to keep quiet, with a mischievous glance, he pointed to the old woman. She was fast asleep, nodding in her chair. Perceiving from his countenance rude that he had nothing malicious in view, I suffered him to proceed. Stealthily as a cat, he slowly approached her. When he gained her side, he sud

He was

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