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HENRY MACKENZIE.

"The places which I revisit, and the books I read over again, still smile upon me with a fresh novelty."-MONTAIGNE.

AFTER the lapse of many years, I have again been reading Mackenzie's novels, the "Man of Feeling," the "Man of the World," and "Julia de Roubigné." The first of these, the "Man of Feeling," brought to mind many delightful enjoyments of by-gone days:

"It opened all the cells Where memory slept."

summers;

CowPER.

ever ornamented with mignonette, and other sweet-scented herbs and flowers, elegantly planted in china vases, as were other parts of his room; and that Cowper had always been fond of plants, and when he lived in the Temple used every year to purchase myrtles in Covent Garden. And I found other lovers of flowers and gardens, Cowley, Evelyn, Temple, Shakspeare, Milton, Thomson. Listen to Cowley:

"God the first garden made, and the first city, Cain."

"Who, that has reason, and his smell,

Would not among roses and jasmin dwell, Rather than all his spirits choke With exhalations of dirt and smoke, And all th' uncleanness which does drown In pestilential clouds a populous town?” There is a fine description of flowers in "A Winter's Tale," and in "Lycidas." Thomson has elegantly pictured forth the beauties of flowers, and his lines seem to possess a fragrance in this lovely month of May:

I saw again the old stone house in the country, where I passed so many pleasant the garden, more beautiful to my eyes than any other which has since greeted them, with its marygolds, ladyslippers, violets, roses, lilies, its hop-vines at the end of the walks, beautiful and graceful; the magnificent elm trees at the foot of the garden, on the banks of a stream, where I have fished so many hours; the old open garret, with its perfume from dried herbs, which hung from every beam; the pleasant twittering of the martins on the roofs, during the early fragrant morning hours, again sounds in my ear. I had no care or anxiety but "At length the finish'd garden to the view the sole one, to discover how to cram the Its vistas opens, and its alleys green. greatest amount of enjoyment into each pass-Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first ; Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace; ing day. How delicious were the bread The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, and butter, and milk, and vegetables. And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes; Flowers were always placed on the break- The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron brown, fast and tea table-a refined practice. The And lavish stock that scents the garden round; hour of tea-time was delightful. How often From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, Anemones; auriculas, enrich'd have I looked out on the garden and trees, With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves; and seen the sun set in all its glory, irradiat- And full ranunculas of glowing red. ing the hills across the stream, Then comes the tulip-race, where Beauty plays Her idle freaks; from family diffused To family, as flies the father dust,

"While admiration feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene." That was the period of life when the heart promised what the fancy drew. The rainy days were generally spent in reading some old novel, the effects of which I have never forgotten, but even now most gratefully remember. From the custom of placing flowers on the table arose my early love for them, a love which has increased with time. And I felt proud when in after years I read that Gray's chamber windows were

The varied colors run; and while they break
On the charm'd eye, the exulting florist marks
With secret pride the wonders of his hand.
No gradual bloom is wanting, from the bud,
First born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes;
Low bent, and blushing inwards; nor jonquilles,
Nor byacinths of purest virgin white,
Of potent fragrance; nor narcissus fair,
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still
Nor broad carnations, nor gay spotted pinks,
Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask rose.
Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,
With hues on hues expression cannot paint,
The breath of nature, and her endless bloom."

It has been beautifully said, put but a rose, or a lily, or a violet on your table, and you and Lord Bacon have a custom in common; for that great and wise man was in the habit of having the flowers in season set upon his table, morning, we believe, noon and night; that is to say, all his meals, for dinner in his time was taken at noon; and why should he not have flowers at all his meals, seeing that they were growing all day? Now here is a fashion that shall last you for ever, if you please, never changing with silks and velvets and silver forks, nor depending upon the caprice of fine gentlemen or ladies, who have nothing but caprice and change to give them importance and a sensation. Does any reader misgive himself, and fancy that to help himself to such comforts as these would be trifling. Then was Bacon a trifler, then was the great Condé a trifler, and the old republican Ludlow, and all the great and good spirits that have loved flowers, and Milton's Adam himself; nay, Heaven itself, for Heaven made these harmless elegances, and blessed them with the universal good-will of the wise and innocent. The same mighty energy which whirls the earth round the sun, and crashes the heaven with thunderbolts, produces the lilies of the valley, and the dew-drops that keep them fair. I can truly say:

"All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams

Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, Like Banquo's offspring; floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine. I care not, 'tis a glimpse of ‘auld lang syne.'” BYRON.

The style of Mackenzie's novels (a blending of Addison and Sterne) is sweet in the extreme. It glides along like a beautiful stream through a picturesque country, among fruitful meadows, pleasant woods, mirroring the blue sky and floating clouds. Nothing can be more unpretending than the plot of the "Man of Feeling," and the adventures which happen to Harley are likely to happen to any man. He departs from home to visit London; on the road he meets a beggar and his dog; the beggar relates some incidents of his life. In London Harley falls among sharpers; one of them, a young man, voluble and plausible, converses with him about the play-house, opera, occurrences in high life, the reigning beauties; another of them is an old man, with a vener

able countenance, and Harley, who prided himself in his skill in physognomy, becomes interested with him, although he sees him refuse to give money to a beggar, under the plea that he had no change, but when they adjourn to a neighboring inn, and play cards, the benevolent old man produces ten shillings for markers for his score; to the surprise of no one Harley is fleeced. We afterwards see the brave, affectionate man, listening to the sad story of Miss Atkins. He visits Bedlam, and sees a poor crazed thing lamenting the loss of her lover.

Separate from the rest stood one, whose appearance had something of superior dignity. Her face, though pale and wasted, was less squalid of that decent kind which moves our pity unthan those of the others, and showed a dejection mixed with horror; upon her, therefore, the eyes of all were immediately turned. The keeper, who accompanied them, observed it. This, said he, is a young lady, who was born to ride in her coach heard is true, by a young gentleman, her equal in and six. She was beloved, if the story I have birth, though by no means her match in fortune; but love, they say. is blind, and so she fancied him as much as he did her. Her father, it seems, would not hear of their marriage, and threatened to turn her out of doors, if ever she saw him again. Upon this the young gentleman took a voyage to the West Indies, in hopes of bettering his fortune and obtaining his mistress; but he was scarce landed when he was seized with one of the fevers

which are common in those islands, and died in a few days, lamented by every one that knew him. This news soon reached his mistress, who was at the same time pressed by her father to marry a rich miserly fellow, who was old enough to be her grandfather. The death of her lover had no effect on her inhuman parent; he was only the more earnest for her marriage with the man he had provided for her, and what between her despair at the death of the one, and her aversion to the other, the poor young lady was reduced to the condition you see her in. But God would not after went to wreck, and he died almost a beggar. prosper such cruelty; her father's affairs soon Though the story was told in very plain language, it had particularly attracted Harley's notice; he had given it the tribute of some tears. The unfortunate young lady had till now seemed engarnet ring she wore on her finger; she turned tranced in thought, with her eyes fixed on a little them now on Harley. My Billy is no more! do you weep for my Billy Blessings on your tears!

would weep too, but my brain is dry; and it Harley. Be comforted, young lady,' said he, your burns, it burns, it burns! She drew nearer to Billy is in heaven. Is he, indeed? and shall we meet again? and shall that frightful man (pointAlas! I am ing to the keeper) not be there? grown naughty of late! I have almost forgotten can, I pray; and sometimes I sing; when I am to think of heaven, yet I pray sometimes; when I saddest, I sing: you shall hear me-hush!

Light be the earth on Billy's breast, And green the sod that wraps his grave.' "There was a plaintive wildness in the air not to be withstood; and except the keeper's there was not an unmoistened eye around her. 'Do you weep again?' said she; I would not have you weep: you are like my Billy; you are, believe me; just so he looked when he gave me this ring; poor Billy! 'twas the last time ever we met!

'Twas when the seas were roaring.'

I love you for resembling my Billy; I shall never love any man like him.' She stretched out her hand to Harley; he pressed it between both of his, and bathed it with his tears. Nay, that is Billy's ring,' said she, 'you cannot have it, indeed; but here is another, look here, which I plaited today of some gold thread from this bit of stuff; will you keep it for my sake? I am a strange girl; but my heart is harmless: my poor heart! it will burst some day: feel how it beats!' She pressed his hand to her bosom, then holding her head in the attitude of listening: 'Hark! one, two, three! be quiet, thou little trembler; my Billy is cold! but I had forgotten the ring.' She put it on his finger. Farewell! I must leave you now.' She would have withdrawn her hand; Harley held it to his lips. I dare not stay longer; my head throbs sadly; farewell!' She walked with a hurried step to a little apartment at some distance. Harley stood fixed in astonishment and pity; his friend gave money to the keeper. Harley looked on his ring. He put a couple of guineas into the man's hand. Be kind to that unfortunate.' He burst into tears, and left them."

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The narrative of the veteran Edwards has likewise drawn tears from many an eye. But the most interesting part of the work is the account of Harley's distant, respectful and sincere love for Miss Walton. Harley's ideas of the beautiful were not always to be defined, nor indeed such as the world would always assent to. A blush, a phrase of affability to an inferior, a tear at a moving tale, were to him like the cestus of Cytherea. To be near Miss Walton, to walk about the grounds surrounding her mansion, sufficed for the ideal love of Harley.

"The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all.”

A few mornings ago I rose about daybreak. The air was soft and pleasant, and the young grass and leaves were of a moist bright green. On looking upward, I saw one star shining mildly through the branches of a tree; it was fair, distant, pure. I looked at it with admiration, with a subdued joy; such as was my admiration for that star, so it seems to me was Harley's love for Miss Walton. I have often thought, too, that

our ignorance of her christian name adds some indefinable charm to the interest we take in Miss Walton. His slight feelings of jealousy and unhappiness when he hears she is to be married to Sir Harry Benson, are natural and exquisitely described. He walks out, he sits down on a little seat which commands an extensive prospect around the house. He leans on his hand, and scores the ground with his stick. "Miss Walton married!" says he; "but what is that to me? May she be happy; her virtues deserve it; to me her marriage is otherwise indifferent. I had romantic dreams! They are fled! it is perfectly indifferent." Poor, diffident, true-hearted Harley; death gradually, step by step, wooes him to the silent grave. He feelingly says:—

"There is a certain dignity in retiring from life at a time when the infirmities of age have not sapped our faculties. This world, my dear Charles, was a scene in which I never much delighted. I was not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the dissipation of the gay; a thousand things occurred where I blushed for the impropriety of my conduct when I thought on the world, though my reason told me I should have blushed to have done otherwise. It was a scene of dissimulation, of restraint, of disappointment. I leave it to enter on that state which I have learned to believe is replete with the genuine happiness attendant upon virtue. I look back on the tenor of my life with the consciousness of few great offenses to account for. There are blemishes I confess, which deform in some degree the picture; but I know the benignity of the Supreme Being, and rejoice at the thoughts of its exertion in my favor. My mind expands at the thought. I shall enter into the society of the blessed, wise as angels, with the simplicity of children.' He had by this time clasped my hand, and found it wet by a tear which had just fallen upon it. His eye began to moisten too; we sat for some time silent. At last, with an attempt at a look of more composure: There are are some remembrances,' said Harley, which rise involuntarily on my heart, and make me almost wish to live. I have been blessed with a few friends, who redeem my opinion of mankind. I recollect with the tenderest emotion the scenes of pleasure I have passed among them; but we shall meet again, my friend, never to be separated. There are some feelings which perhaps are too tender to be suffered by the world. The world is in general selfish, interested, and unthinking, and throws the imputation of romance or melancholy on every temper more susceptible than its own.

I cannot think but in those regions which I contemplate, if there is any thing of mortality left about us, that these feelings will subsist; they are called-perhaps they areweaknesses here; but there may be some better modifications of them in heaven, which may deserve last words. He had scarcely finished them when the names of virtues.' He sighed as he spoke these the door opened, and his aunt appeared leading in

HAZLITT, in one of his essays, observes: "Of the 'Man of the World' I cannot think so favorably as some others; nor shall I dwell on the picturesque and romantic beauties of Julia de Roubigné, the early favorite of the author of Rosamond Gray; but of the Man of Feeling I would speak with grateful recollections: nor is it possible to forget the sensitive, irresolute, interesting Harley; and that lone figure of Miss Walton in it, that floats in the horizon, dim and ethereal, the day-dream of her lover's youthful fancybetter, far better than all the realities of life."

Miss Walton. My dear,' says she, 'here is Miss, the wind; he waved his hand as if he mimicked its Walton, who has been so kind as to come and in- motion. There was something predictive in his quire for you herself. He rose from his seat. If look! Perhaps it is foolish to remark it, but there to know Miss Walton's goodness,' said he, 'be a are times and places when I am a child at those title to deserve it, I have some claim.' She begged things. I sometimes visit his grave; I sit in the him to resume his seat, and placed herself on the hollow of the tree. It is worth a thousand homisofa beside him. I took my leave. Miss Margery lies; every noble feeling rises within me! every accompanied me to the door. He was left with beat of my heart awakens a virtue! But it will Miss Walton alone. She inquired anxiously about make you hate the world. No; there is such an his health. I believe,' said he, from the accounts air of gentleness around, that I can hate nothing; which my physicians unwillingly give me, that but as to the world, I pity the men of it." they have no great hopes of my recovery.' She started as he spoke; but recollecting herself immediately, endeavored to flatter him into a belief that his apprehensions were groundless. 'I know,' said he, that it is usual with persons at my time of life to have these hopes, which your kindness suggests; but I would not wish to be deceived. To meet death as becomes a man is a privilege bestowed on few. I would endeavor to make it mine; nor do I think I can ever be better prepared for it than now: it is that chiefly which determines the fitness of its approach. Those sentiments, answered Miss Walton, are just; but your good sense, Mr. Harley, will own, that life has its proper value. As the province of virtue, life is ennobled; as such it is to be desired. To virtue has the Supreme Director of all things assigned rewards enough even here to fix its attachment.' The subject began to overpower her. Harley lifted his eyes from the ground. There are,' said he, in a very low voice, there are attachments, Miss Walton.' His glance met hers. They both betrayed a confusion, and were both instantly withdrawn. He paused some moments. I am in such a state as calls for sincerity; let that also excuse it. It is perhaps the last time we shall ever meet. I feel something particularly solemn in the acknowledgment; yet my heart swells to make it, awed as it is by a sense of my presumption, by a sense of your perfections.' He paused again. Let it not offend you, to know their power over one so unworthy. It will, I believe, soon cease to beat, even with that feeling which it shall lose the latest. To love Miss Walton could not be a crime; if to declare it is one, the expiation will be made.' Her tears were now flowing without control. 'Let me entreat you,' said she, 'to have better hopes. Let not life be so indifferent to you; if my wishes can put any value on it-I will not pretend to misunderstand I know your worth-I have known it long-I have esteemed it-what would you have me say? have loved it as it deserved.' He seized her hand; a languid color reddened his cheek; a smile brightened faintly in his eye. As he gazed on her it grew dim, it fixed, it closed. He sighed, and fell back on his seat. Miss Walton screamed at the sight. His aunt and the servants rushed into the room; they found them lying motionless together. His physician happened to call at that instant. Every art was tried to recover them. With Miss Walton they succeeded; but Harley was gone He was buried in the place he had desired. It was shaded by an old tree, the only one in the churchyard, in which was a cavity worn by time. I have sat with him in it, and counted the tombs. The last time we passed there, methought he looked wistfully on the tree: there was a branch of it that bent toward us, waving in

ever.

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you

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and material age of ours, have neither time A great many readers, in this artificial nor taste to study the minute and refined beauties of a genius like Mackenzie. His colors are too delicately laid on, the shading too exquisitely clear, to please a vitiated or uneducated taste, which must be startled into admiration by something far-fetched, violent, and exaggerated. The more fantastical and unlike to real life a story, and the characters described in it, are drawn, the more sure they are to please the public. A monster whom the world ne'er saw, combining genius and virtue, ignorance and unmitigated depravity, love and fiendishness, be nevolence and meanness, a character which in modern works of fiction, is

often
loudly praised.

appears

"These are the volumes that enrich the shops; These pass with admiration through the world." ROSCOMMON.

Though I doubt if they will bring their authors to immortal fame. There is no strength in this, but on the contrary it shows great weakness, an absence of power and imagination. It is like stage thunder and lightning compared with "Heaven's artillery "when it "comes rattling on over the Caspian." The one is genuine, the other a sickly imitation. An author must attentive ly peruse the red-leaved tablets of the heart, must wisely attend to the throbbings of his

own bosom; then with a learned spirit, he will appeal with a lasting effect to the human mind and its eternal sympathies. We need the harmonious and true, not the coarse and unreal; by the former the intellect is enlarged, the heart softened; the latter display the foul depths of leprous sin, gloat on deformity, degrade the intellect, harden the heart, and encompass us in a miasma which poisons the springs of life. Many parents are fearful that by reading novels their children will become sentimental and romantic. There is no danger of that. Mammon is the only god worshipped in America with a burning zeal.

"Mammon led them on;
Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell
From heaven; for ev'n in heaven his looks and
thoughts

Were always downward bent; admiring more
The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden gold,
Than aught divine or holy else enjoy'd

In vision beatific; by him first
Men also, and by his suggestion taught,
Ransack'd the centre, and with impious hands
Rifled the bowels of their mother earth
For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew
Open'd into the hill a spacious wound,
And digg'd out ribs of gold. Let none admire
That riches grow in hell; that soil may best
Deserve the precious bane."
MILTON.

The "Man of the World" appears to me to be greatly inferior to the Man of Feeling. Sir Thomas Sindall is a vulgar Lovelace, possessing neither the gayety nor spirit of his famous prototype, and using the same means to accomplish his purposes of seduction as Lovelace used to accomplish the ruin of Clarissa. And his attempt upon Lucy Annesly, after a lapse of some twenty years, is revolting and unnatural. The story of the fall of young Annesly is affecting, and described in a masterly manner. Richard Annesly, the parson, gains our entire esteem, by his simplicity and kind nature. It is a portrait equal to Goldsmith's village minister, or the one drawn by Chaucer. Rawlinson is likewise a beautiful character, one of God Almighty's gentlemen. The growth of Lucy and Bolton's mutual flame is truly and gracefully written :

"The state of the mind may be often disguised even from the owner, when he means to inquire into it; but a very trifle will throw it from its guard, and betray its situation, when a formal examination has failed to discover it. Bolton would often catch himself sighing when Miss Sindall was

absent, and feel his cheeks glow at her approach; he wondered what it was, that made him sigh and blush. He would sometimes take solitary walks, without knowing why he wandered out alone: he found something that pleased him in the melan choly of lonely recesses and half-worn paths; and his day-dreams commonly ended in some idea of think of such an object. He had strayed in one Miss Sindall, though he meant nothing less than to of these excursions about half a mile from the house, through a copse at the corner of the park, which opened into a little green amphitheatre; in the middle of which was a pool of water, formed by a rivulet that crept through the matted grass, till it fell into this basin by a gentle cascade. The sun was gleaming through the trees, which were pictured on the surface of the pool beneath; and the silence of the scene was only interrupted by the murmurs of the water-fall, sometimes accompanied by the querulous note of the woodpigeons who inhabited the neighboring copse. Bolton seated himself on the bank, and listened to their dirge. It ceased; for he had disturbed the sacred, solitary haunt. I will give you some music in return,' said he, and drew from his pocket a small piped flute, which he frequently carried with him in his evening walks, and serenaded the lonely shepherd returning from his field. He played a little pensive air, which himself bad composed. He thought he had played it by chance, but Miss Sindall had commended it the day before; the recollection of Miss Sindall accompanied the sound, and he had drawn her portrait listening to its close. She was, indeed, listening to its close, for accident had pointed her walk in the very same direction with Bolton's. She was just coming out of the wood, when she heard the soft notes of his flute. They had something of fairy music in them, that suited the scene; and she was irresist ibly drawn nearer the place where he sat; though some wayward feeling arose, and whispered that she should not approach it. Her feet were approaching it, whether she would or no; and she stood close by his side, while the last cadence was melting from his pipe. She repeated it after him with her voice. "Miss Sindall!" cried he, starting up with some emotion. 'I here; but I was enchanted hither by the sound of know,' said she, you will be surprised to find me your flute. Pray, touch that little melancholy tune again.' He began, but he played very ill. You blow it,' said she, 'not so sweetly as before; let me try what tone I can give it.' She put it to voice. There cannot be much art in it-she her mouth; but she wanted the skill to give it tried it again-and yet it will not speak at my bidding! She looked steadfastly on the flute, holding her fingers on the stops; her lips were red from the pressure, and her figure altogether so pastoral and innocent, that I do not believe the kisses, with which the poets make Diana greet her sister-huntresses, were ever more chaste than that which Bolton now stole from her by surprise. Her cheeks were crimson at this little violence of Harry's. What do you mean, Mr. Bolton?' said she, dropping the flute to the ground. Twas a forfeiture, he replied, stammering and blushing excessively, 'for attempting to blow my flute.

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