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plication to one of the officers, and he soon got me a 'chance to kiss the book,' and I was soon in a soldier's coat. I presently became a frequent visitor at the sutler's shop and guard-house, for one seemed naturally to lead to the other. It seldom failed, when I had got a taste of rum, that I did not find my way to the guard-house when sober. I could write a good hand, and I was therefore kept in the office much of my time writing for the quarter-master. I found him a gentleman in all things. He frequently told me what would be my fate if I persisted in my career of drunkenness. I took occasion one day to say to the surgeon that I wished he would cure me of my besetting sin. He said that if I would come to him when I felt the desire to drink, he would prepare a nauseating drug, and administer it to me in different kinds of liquor, which might give me a dislike for them all. I found little benefit from the medicine; but having made up my mind to resist the inclination, and when I did drink to take a dose that was sure to sicken me, I got so that I could live without it.

I was now a general favorite; was made a corporal, and soon after, a sergeant. With my new honors, came reflection. I began to think of my conduct toward her who had left friends and all for me. I wrote to an acquaintance in New-York, and got him to ascertain what had become of the parson's daughter. I had fortunately recollected the name of the vessel she came out in, the time of her arrival, and the names of the firm to whom she was consigned. From these circumstances he was enabled to learn the names of the passengers, and as there was but one family among them, he soon found the residence of the parson's daughter. He gained an introduction; spoke of me as having been a fellow-clerk with him; and related to her as much of my history as was contained in my letter. The angel, for I must call her so, was still true to her old affection. She told him that she could take care of herself until some turn in my affairs should enable me to take care of her; she begged him to inform me that while life lasted she should prove herself worthy of the character her parents had given her; that her affections were unalterably mine; that the country which held me would always hold her also; and that if at any time I thought proper to claim her, I might do so, however degraded I might be in my own eyes; for that I was the only man she ever had loved or ever could love. She told my friend to tell me to write to her direct - that I required no agent. This latter expression convinced me that she thought I had doubted whether her affection would stand the test of change in my circumstances.

I

Immediately on the receipt of this letter, I wrote to her, and told her the whole truth, and of my fixed determination to drink no more. also stated that more than one of my three years was already gone; and that at the expiration of my enlistment, I should have means to come to New-York and seek honorable employment. I had never written my parents, and but for her sake I never should. I would now defer it until we met. My regiment was under orders for the frontier of Texas, and I could hardly refrain from telling my story to my captain, and begging him to intercede for my discharge. But I thought it better to continue a little longer under the restraint which my appoint

ment imposed upon me. No material change took place until I was ordered to Florida. When I arrived at New-Orleans, I met with an English ship-captain from my own town. Nothing had been heard of me since I left my studies, and it was generally believed that I had gone to the Indies, that being the common receptacle for young adven

turers.

I have been in Florida since my regiment first entered it. I was slightly wounded at the battle of Oakacholee, but would not report it, fearing lest a list of the wounded might be published. I saw the noble Thompson when he fell, and Vonswearingen, Brooke, and Center: the brave little Walker was covered with wounds, and yet survived. I was also with Major Noel when he was wounded by his own pistol. I am now on my last month; my lady-love is still living; and I am determined, as soon as I am discharged, to be off' for New-York. I have sent already and procured a citizen's suit. My settlement with the pay-master will give me two hundred dollars or more; beside, I have entirely overcome drunkenness, which is of more value to me than 'much fine gold.' I expect to learn from St. Marks when a vessel will sail, and I can get my furlough at any time I ask for it. I am well satisfied with the service, and can only say that if no one but myself was concerned in my fate, I would risk my preferment, as I believe every young man of education and steady habits may be brought forward.

JOHN JOHNSON obtained his furlough and sailed for New-York. He repaired at once to his lady-love, who greeted him with tears of joy. She had written to her father, and he had written to Johnson. They had all agreed, that if ever he reformed and married, they would joy. fully receive them home. John's two hundred dollars were added to the money saved by the frugality of the parson's daughter; and this paid the passage back of the happiest couple that ever graced a British steam-packet. A letter was written to his company, describing the manner in which they were received. Many a tear of congratulation was shed, when their parents received their truant children. The veteran parson was heard to say, that good example had done much for his daughter, and that her undeviating virtue and love had reclaimed the Yankee soldier. He believed their trip to America would be of service to them; he enjoined on them the strongest principles of temperance and frugality, and set forth the blessings, here and hereafter, of true piety. John Johnson cast off his assumed name, resumed his own, and endeavored by all proper means to compensate the parson's daughter for her well-tried affection.

ROPER.

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LITERARY NOTICES.

ENGLISH POETRY AND POETS OF THE PRESENT DAY. POEMS BY ALFRED TENNYSON, MISS ELIZABETH Barrett BarreTT, COVENTRY PATMORE, R. H. HORNE, and ROBERT BROWNING: London: MILLER, Oxford-street.

WHEN We consider the matter-of-fact character of the present age, a period in which no great questions, such as moved the minds of men and nations during the half-century preceding it, are agitated; when it also occurs to us that national minds, at least in any one department of genius, seem to require a certain time to lie fallow after being worked to their utmost; these reflections will be fully sufficient to account for the recent dearth of good poetry in England. At one time it appeared as if, while the great masters of the last generation were successively dropping away, there was no likelihood of their places being filled. Though this fear is far from being entirely removed, no small part of it has been dissipated by the actual performance of some of the new school, and the promise already given by others.

First on our list, very far first, stands ALFRED TENNYSON. It is unfortunate for him that he has no better men to contend with, for the inferiority of his contemporaries naturally leads your careless readers and talkers to say, 'To be sure TENNYSON is the best poet we have, but then who else is there?" Now this is not a fair way to speak of the author of Mariana' and Morte d'Arthur.' He is not a poet comparative, but a poet positive. Place him in any age, among any men, he would still be a great poet. To explain and vindicate our assertion, it will be necessary to examine the circumstances under which TENNYSON'S poetry grew up, and his points of resemblance to, or difference from, his predecessors. The BYRONIC School — that of unmixed passion-carried every thing before it for a time. Like other manias, it had its day. SHELLEY the English ÆSCHYLUS, made a slight diversion, but he was not easy to comprehend fully, much less imitate; and the public, when sated with the purely sensuous, naturally betook itself to the opposite extreme, the purely intellectual poetry of WORDSWORTH, which in its turn fairly displaced the other, and became the model for juvenile rhymesters and the ideal of newly-fledged critics. Still there was a large class who, while they admitted WORDSWORTH's claims as a poet, could not help also perceiving that he was as deficient in some qualities of a great poet as BYRON had been in others, and who rather admired his verses as works of art than felt them as poems. Now TENNYSON precisely supplies this deficiency in the intellectual school, or to speak more accurately, he has brought about the proper union of the two schools. He was the only man who could do it. HENRY TAYLOR had no lack of dash and spirit, with wonderful power of portraying character; but

τουτόν τὸν ἄνδρα βιβλίον διέφθορεν.

WORDSWORTH's unfortunate theory of poetry has -not spoiled him, for he is not a man

to be spoiled, but prevented him from doing much that he might have done. He censures SHELLEY on principle, not because his poetry wants grandeur or sublimity, but because it does not leave a sufficiently real impression on the mind. His own energy he seems to regard as a fault, and seeks to tame down. But in TENNYSON we find the various aspects of the poetic mind duly exhibited. There is epic narration and deep philosophy, picturesque description and voluptuous painting, each in its place. Unlike WORDSWORTH, he has passion; unlike TAYLOR, he is not afraid of showing his passion; unlike BYRON, he is never passion's slave. Even in that bitter and despairing retrospect of a life, Locksley Hall, the intellectual and moral nature of the meditative Caucasian ever asserts its supremacy amid the wild outpourings of soul of the ruined man and disappointed lover.

Thus far TENNYSON has been considered merely as an eclectic, a combiner of the excellencies of those who preceded him. But to stop here would be doing him injustice. There are some striking peculiarities of his poetry which can scarcely escape the most superficial reader. The first is the wonderful melody of his versification. This is displayed as well in the more ordinary poetic metres, as in those which he has himself invented. Of his blank verse it is not too much to say that it is the most harmonious in the language. And to prove our assertion, we refer to those master-pieces, Enone' and 'Morte d'Arthur.' Even where the syllables are redundant, the melody is unimpaired, and what is usually a blemish, becomes an additional beauty. We allude to such lines

as

'Beautiful PARIS, evil-hearted PARIS,
Came up from reedy Simois all alone.'

The metre of The Palace of Art' is a marvellous combination. It will be observed that the whole weight of each verse is thrown upon the emphatic short line at the close. We really consider it the most artfully-modulated in any language with which we are acquainted, except perhaps the Alcaic stanza of HORACE. Great as TENNYSON's art is, this harmonious conjunction must be attributed to his genius rather than to any elaboration. That the metre of itself has no innate capability, is shown by MONKTON MILNES' Palm Leaves' where it is imitated, together with several others of the TENNYSONIAN stanzas. The contrast is lamentable; there is the same numerical structure, the same amount of syllables, but the verse is lifeless, the melodious flow is utterly wanting.*

This then, the first peculiar excellence of TENNYSON, we ascribe to his original genius. The second is undoubtedly the work of art, of much painful study and repeated polish. We refer of course to his felicity of language, and particularly of epithet. In this point of view, TENNYSON's expressions are best described by one of his own lines:

The words where each one tells.'

Especially we say is this applicable to his adjectives, the management of which is so great a test of the poet and artist. They are never otiose, and we frequently meet with a long succession of lines in which every epithet is a picture. Even when they are heaped profusely together, each individual one helps to give life and color: E. G.

And

'WHERE with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew
His wreathed bugle-horn :'

'I WOULD the white cold heavy-plunging foam
Whirl'd by the wind, had rolled me deep below.'

This precision and elegance is the result of much correction and study, as a comparison of the first and second editions will show. For much of this we are no doubt indebted to the savage review of said first edition in the Quarterly. It was exactly the same sort of

* THERE is one solitary and striking exception to the perfection of TENNYSON's rhythm; the frequent use of 'flower' as a dissyllable, which sadly enfeebles the lines in which it occurs. 69

VOL. XXV.

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