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plicity and meekness of heart. These are qualities which can be more easily met with in London and Paris than on the prairies of the Mississippi. Among the Americans the very lads seem to have eaten of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and the whole nation bears traces of premature ripeness and the wrinkles of age upon its youthful brow. It is doubtful whether a rejuvenescence of the mind, a renaissance, such as has frequently appeared in the history of every European nation, can take place here. Will the current that has now assailed them bear them to this desirable change, or will they become perfectly savage?

One of the most material demands for the cohesion of human society is a certain traditional reverence for merit, talent, age, past times—in a word, for everything that appears reverend to a modest mind, which is conscious of its own individual insignificance. Of this feeling, which in Europe is the cement of family life, the Americans have unfortunately retained extremely little.

When they separated from the Old World, towards the close of the last century, and gave their mother country a repulse which it may, perhaps, have deserved to some extent, the Americans themselves received such an impulse in the contrary direction, that they at length went beyond all bounds. They yielded so insanely to their fear and hatred of England, that even long after they had become powerful and independent, a feeling of reverence for the fine old land of their fathers did not return, and a great portion of their patriotism even at the present day consists in dislike and jealousy of England, and suspicion of her motives. They were, at the same time, actuated by a feverish repugnance to all that was old or past, against everything connected with history and tradition, and the words, so frequently heard in their country, "We want no past," became their favourite phrase. They went much further in this respect than was necessary and good, and are now penetrated by a most anti-historic temper, which is a great misfortune for any and every nation. For, after all, we must repose once in the arms of history, and no nation can try to tear itself from its maternal arms without incurring punishment.

Through these historic events, through casting off the old European authority, and eventually all authority, an impulse was given to that contumely for old age generally, which is so remarkable a trait in the private life of the Americans. The men who no longer respected the land and traditions of their fathers, must in the end suffer the fate of being thrust on one side by their sons. To this, of course, was added the circumstance that in a country where so much that was new had to be created, where rude nature had to be overcome, and where even yet so rich a reward awaits the energetic and enterprising man, who lightly throws everything into the scale, the strong and daring youth of the land must take the first rank, and the weak, more cautious, and timid elders, retire and fall into miscredit. The influence of these relations is specially noticeable in the western districts and in the bran-new states, where the youths are the dominant party, and the population consists almost exclusively of young men. But much of this has adhered to the whole nation. Young unmarried girls play the chief part in the house and in society; young men on 'Change and at public meetings. The youth of America exercise a species of terrorism, and the parents and grandfathers are attacked by an extraordinary cowardice. Even in the paternal house this terrorism is employed by the little boys, whom their father can no longer manage,

and from whom he at times flies to a remote chamber in passive resignation. When the lads grow up, they soon liberate themselves entirely from paternal control, do as they think proper, set up in business, marry, or go on their travels, just as they think proper.

Many of these growing lads, even among the better classes, terrorise society in the character of "rowdies." These fellows have their fraternities or bands, exercise Lynch law in the west, take the first place in elections, and fight the partisans of the opposing party in the public streets, hurling stones and brickbats at each other, and firing at each other with Derringers and pistols. Recklessness at length becomes so incorporated in these lads, that it degenerates into an irresistible fury for destruction. Hence they break the lamps without any political motive, or set fire at night to houses just for the sake of fun, fire a pistol in passing down a dark street to terrify peaceful citizens, or force their way into flowershows and upset everything, and nobody attempts to keep them in order or punish them. They even undertake robberies, partly through a mere spirit of enterprise, partly because they like to have their pockets full of money, in order to make a grand show. At Baltimore there existed for a time a band of robbers recruited among the better classes, who attacked and plundered a mail-coach on the public highway.

We fear that when this paper is read in America a howl of indignation will be raised, but we have nothing extenuated, nor aught set down in malice. With all their faults-and we have not mentioned one tithe of them-the Americans are a great nation, and though they are at present under a cloud, we doubt not that reverses will tend to bring out their good qualities. Having enjoyed an unparalleled career of success, they believed in its durability, and the storm that has burst over them has found them all unprepared for the disaster. At present they have only been enabled to rig jury-masts, and naturally sail along very insecurely, but we believe that the good ship will ere long be fully rigged and ready for sea. Our readers must not be led astray by the transient successes of the South; nor should they yield to the dislike of the Northerners, fairly enough generated by insane bluster and a protectionist tariff. Though neither side deserves much sympathy from English readers, our feelings ought to be enlisted on the side of the North, for, try to disguise it how they may, the Southerners are fighting for the maintenance of an execrable system, which all civilised nations are agreed in condemning. The North is slow and cumbrous in its action, and has to contend with traitors of every hue, while the South has been preparing for years for the inevitable struggle. In spite of the transient successes of Bull's Run and Springfield, we are of opinion that the North has only to put forth its power to crush the South, and has hitherto refrained from doing so, partly from a lurking desire to effect a compromise, partly from unreadiness. But the expedition to Hatteras Creek is an important move, and shows that the Washington cabinet have at length thrown away the scabbard, while the remarkable proclamation of General Fremont, a man who is not to be trifled with, evidences a marked line of policy, which the North has so long required. Henceforth, President Lincoln will have to stand or fall by his acts, and it needs but very slight knowledge of human nature to predict that if the nation show itself to be in earnest, the present denizen of the White House will be only too ready to dance to the popular whistle.


MR. BLIGHT is no common man, and his book is no common production. It is so good in itself that it would be almost an insult to the author to class it among guide-books; and yet it has the great merit of being the most satisfactory and trustworthy guide that a pilgrim could take with him to the dim and distant region, where

-all day long the noise of the battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea,
Till all King Arthur's table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonesse around their Lord.

Even those who cannot travel may, in their own homes, enjoy, in Mr. Blight's company, many of the sweets of travel, and learn many of its lessons, so thoroughly does he reproduce for us in his little volume the glorious scenes of the land of his birth which he knows and loves so well.

We have said that our author is no common man, and, indeed, there are few in the ranks of bookmakers who can illustrate as freely with the pencil and the graving-tool as with the pen. The great charm of "A Week at the Land's End" is, that nearly every page is enriched by a really beautiful woodcut, each the work of the writer. Rocks and caves, Churches and ancient houses, Christian remains and remains Druidical, mosses and ferns, rare plants and rare birds, are brought before the reader at every turn. We seem, as we read, to pass by and examine for ourselves the places we read of, to hear the soughing of the trees and the sighing of the waves, and to worship with our reverential guide among the hallowed stones reared by Celtic saints of old, who

-had their lodges in the wilderness,

Or built them cells beside the shadowy sea,-
And there they dwelt with angels, like a dream!

Mr. Blight commences his description with Penzance; and, having especial regard to the fine coast scenery, yet not forgetting the scarcely less interesting space between, he carries us around the toe of the Cornish Boot, by the Land's End itself, Tol Pedn, and Cape Cornwall, to St. Ives (where the southern channel nearly meets the Severn sea), narrating every legend of the olden time belonging to the district, and illustrating the scenes of each-their weird and savage mystery, their true and tender beauty.

There still hangs over this whole district a strange and solemn atmosphere, telling of days of old and of older men: it is not an outlandish, out-of-the-world place, as the Londoners think, inhabited by a semibarbarous tribe, neither is it a rude, inhospitable shore now, whatever it may have been in times past. On the contrary, the land floweth with milk and honey in the valleys, and on the heights its "stones are iron, and out of its hills men dig brass." And its natives are shrewd beyond their fellows, and excel their neighbours of that lovely "garden of England," Devonshire, as the men of stern and rugged Attica excelled the

• A Week at the Land's End. By J. T. Blight. London: Longmans. 1861.


sleepy tillers of the rich soil of Boeotia, in the arts of war and peace. regiment of hardy, broad-shouldered Cornish miners covers more ground than any other; and Mr. Blight himself has shown us that in the gentle art of Bewick the self-taught genius of the Far West can rival the studied labours of the Eastern sages.

And yet, with all this, the face of Old Cornwall in Western Penwith is weird and haggard; the people are primitive; and nature, for once, seems stronger than man-stronger with a might which the continual inhabitant of a crowded city could never be made to understand, though no other could feel it so powerfully. Weird and haggard, yet is this its chiefest charm all is solemn, nothing is dull; we feel sobered and quiet, but we do not feel chilled or melancholy. The hard, machine-like man of business traverses its rocks and stone-hedged lanes "in a trance, but having his eyes open." The dim cathedral is but a half way house, in the gradual solemnisation of his feelings, between his counting-house and this hallowed ground. A sign-post we once came upon near St. Levan Church, has a carefully-drawn hand upon it, with all the nails neatly affixed to the inside of the fingers. A clerical companion, rich in the solemn splendour of broadcloth, thinking that the post was painted, clambered up to inscribe under the hand an impertinent criticism. The post was whitewashed, and so was our friend's waistcoat when he descended. The affair would have been a good joke anywhere in the midland counties, but near the Holy Well of Old St. Levan, the laugh it caused rang out like laughter in a church. It was sacrilege. We voted the finger-post"Nehushtan," and wandered away to dream ourselves into a Land's End frame of mind again.

It is difficult to quote from such a book as "A Week at the Land's End." Our readers will not blame us for recommending them to get it for themselves, if, indeed, they have not already done so; for the work is deservedly popular, and a second edition is, we understand, about to be called for immediately. Let Mr. Blight include St. Ives, instead of stopping short at it, and devote a few pages to its fine old church and to the lovely scenery of its noble bay, which have never been properly illustrated.



RELUCTANT, slow, and one by one the stars
Are shutting up their windows in the west,
Glancing once more, pale nuns, behind their bars,
Ere they retire to rest.

The mists of Night are sinking, valeward sinking,
Leaving the mountain's mighty forehead bare;
The rocks of hoar eternity are drinking

The sharp, pure, vigorous air.

A glow scarce seen, so faint and tremulous, spreads
O'er the grey infinite of eastern sky,
Uncertain as the light that memory sheds
On joys long glided by.

But soon upon the horizon's far-stretched brim
A blush comes up-a something there uncloses
Of faintest red, as if, amid the dim,

Bloomed million pale-leaved roses.

The delicate flowers are growing to an arch
Of living coral; in the widening light
The eye can trace the river's misty march,

Lake, vale, and lesser height.

Still change-advancing, Night the foe pursued,
Day shoots a shaft of ruby up the sky;
Wider each moment now, and deeper hued,
The burning arrows fly.

He comes-up-springing from the depths, the sun
Lifts his hot forehead, blinding as I gaze;
Along the earth the slanting glories run,

And heaven is all a-blaze.

He comes-the mists, like ghosts, away are fleeting;
Dead Night is burning on her funeral pyre;
Snowdon, with all his rocks, returns Day's greeting
With a glad smile of fire.

Far to the west the level ocean lies,
A tesselated floor of green and gold,
And Scotia's distant hills like ramparts rise-
Wide is earth's map unrolled.

I gaze from these high crags; the world below
Seems all rejoicing. Hail! thou King of Day!
That comest with thy crown of rosy glow,

Health, life, in each warm ray.

Thou comest like an angel with spread wings,

Winnowing gold beams, by time nor bowed, nor hoary; The thankful heart of all created things

Boundeth to meet thy glory.

Grand orb! with thine intolerable blaze,

Thou beauteous mystery! thou glorious fear!

Shining through an eternity of days,

Dazzling our vision here:

Thou art but shade to Him who hung thy globe,
Ponderous, encased in fire, in lighted space;
Darkness is only shaken from thy robe

Beside His dwelling-place.

O Mountain where I stand-O sun that now
Fillest with lustre all that late was dim!
Expand my heart-exalt me while I bow-
Lift my rapt soul to Him.

Oct.-VOL. CXXIII. NO. CCccxc.


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