mastery of that potent mind, raised there the wild tempest from the crest of whose billows, his genius, like a sea-bird spurning the warring elements, spreading its strong wings, rose up to heaven. To love he gave, first, his whole soul; but, not meeting on earth the idol of his fancy, he, like the Statuary of old, moulded one out of all his imaginings, and breathed into the nymph his own life and being.

Music too, the innocuous syren, bid him stay and listen, in the groves of Clarence, amidst the rocks of Meillerie, to her soft melodies. Nay! she disclosed to him the art of making sounds visible to the eye, as promptly as the lips give them to the ear. But the voice of a sterner muse called him to Paris. There, behold the lover of Julia, the future author of Emilius, a secretary to Madame Dupin, and writing under her dictation! La Harpe has recorded that on the day of the week when the most distinguished wits of France met at the table of that lady, the humble Secretary was given to understand, that he would be expected to dine out. "The pride of Rousseau," adds La Harpe, "never forgot, or forgave this exclusion; and when, soon after, he forced his way, a dictator, into the republic of letters, he came there, like Marius returned to Rome from banishment, with a mind ulcerated by the remembrance of the defilements of Minturnæ."

We write not the biography of Rousseau-(who will ever dare to write it, with the "Confessions" under his eyes admonishing him of the rashness of the attempt?) It is not our task to say how the mighty spirit, forty-five years panting for birth, disenthralled at last, burst forth with sudden and effulgent brightness. Our theme claims only the most beauteous of fictions, or rather, the embodyment of all the imaginings of genius-la Nouvelle Heloise! In Julia live all the illusions which, during half a century (for Rousseau had no childhood) kept him in a delirium, so intense, that it was not until age had assuaged this fever of the heart, that he found words to impart them-words that have form, color, nay! wings of fire. In Julia live all the exuberant feelings, the buoyant aspirings of a being of the skies chained to earth, where the vultures of the passions prey on his vitals. In Julia lives Woman, such as the poet fan

cies her in rapturous visions, such as she reveals herself to the painter in dreams of ideal beauty. Woman! such as she would delight to see herself mirrored in the heart where she dwells. As to the style-the words burn on the lips that utter them, like the kisses of love; their sound falls on the ear soft as the sighs of the evening breeze, when it perfumes the air with odors it has inhaled from fields of roses and hyacinths.

The "Nouvelle Heloise," though its success was immediate, and never contested, was received with divided feelings. All admired; but among the young, the imaginative, the enthusiastic, it was the book sacred to beauty and sensibility. The silken leaves were turned by rosy taper fingers, trembling with the emotions of the heart; and over the glowing page, often pressed on the panting bosom of blushing maids, fell profuse the mingled tears of love and pity. If the Emilius, and the "Contrat Social" prepared, the first a total change of the system of education in France, and the last, a subversion of the political organization of Europe, the Julia effected at once a revolution in all the feelings of the heart.

We were tempted to include the "Confessions" among works of fiction; not intending an epigram, pointed at the veracity of the author, of which we harbor not the least suspicion; but that we view them as the records (setting aside facts) of the loveliest illusions that ever enchanted the human mind!

After speaking of Rousseau, we are led, by associations which will for ever connect his name with that of Voltaire, to allude to that great writer; intending, however, neither to echo the panegyrics of his sectarians, the philosophers of the eighteenth century, nor to swell the anathema thundered against his memory, both by Rome and by Geneva. Aware that the exaggerated praises of contemporaries are often followed by posthumous detractions not less exaggerated, we will endeavor, in the glance our subject requires us to throw on his "Romans Philosophiques," to examine "Candide," in a spirit unbiassed by a blind admiration for matchless wit, and free from all malignity towards the memory of that wonderful man.

Although Rousseau, in youth, had admired the genius of Voltaire, in the productions with which his prolific fancy delighted both France and Europe

in rapid succession,-there were no feelings of sympathies to unite, by friendship, those two celebrated writers, after they became personally acquainted. Voltaire was not free from that jealousy of absolute sway, the concomitant of all despotic authority, whether exercised through moral or material action. It was this which induced him to consider every work that withdrew from himself public attention, as trespassing on his exclusive dominion.

Three of Rousseau's productions were precisely of the cast which Voltaire had the consciousness that his peculiar talents disqualified him to compete with. The "Emile," treating of education, examined the human mind, from its earliest germinating to its complete unfolding-a subject unsuited to the character of Voltaire's genius. The "Contrat Social" inquired boldly into the origin of all social organization, and pointed out fearlessly both the end and the limits of all human authority, whether assumed or delegated; subjects which Voltaire had carefully avoided, looking on them as avenues to the "Bastile," of which he retained a strong remembrance, though he had visited it only once, in his youth, and made there but a brief stay. The "Nouvelle Heloise" was a book of which he could not, with all his powers of style and arts of composition, have written one single page!

Voltaire, who had only sneered at the two first, as idle abstractions, to vent his rage at the unprecedented success of the "Julie," as if intent on blasting fiction herself, and love, too, her dearest offspring, the inspirer and the theme of his rival's enchanting creations-Voltaire dipped his pen in viper's venom, and wrote "Candide." Instead of analysing the book, a process to which it were unjust to submit a production into which its author has thrown the lighter graces of his style, and all his arts of narration, we prefer recalling to memory the effect it produced, when, before the age of fifteen, we read it for the first time. We felt, after reading the first pages, like the traveller in the western prairies, whose footsteps are preceded, as he advances, by a belt of fire, devouring the verdure ere he can tread upon it. The air we inhaled burnt our lungs-the bright forms which, like sylphs, had danced in the sunbeams of our fancy, had fled, before hideous imps; to the

soft harmonies of the winds, and of the distant waters, had succeeded the shrieks and moans of frightful spectres. We would fain have thrown away the book, but a weird force made the fingers to grasp it, while a resistless spell kept the fascinated eyes fixed on the dread pages. All around us seemed vague and fantastic.-We felt, as in those torturing dreams, where we see a detested witch, squatting on our breast, pressing down our lungs, panting for air. There was the vampire drinking our blood! and yet, with guilty pleasure we enjoyed the freshness its breath softly blew over the wounds of the lacerated bosom !

Zadig the Princess of Babylon, &c. &c. &c.-in short, all the other-the tales bearing the title, "Romans de Voltaire," resemble "Candide," the first hatched of the Viper's brood. They kill all the feelings that should livethey pamper all the passions that should die!

The most beautiful region of the earth had never yet been described to the inhabitants of Europe. The luxuriant landscape of African isles had found no Ruysdael to mirror them. Their fair maids, born of French parents, had bloomed, and faded, like the flowers that adorned their raven locks, unsung on the lyre: when a young officer (Bernardin de St. Pierre), in sight of the Indian and African Oceans, whose billows ceaselessly lash the coral rocks of the Isle of France, wrote "Paul et Virginie." The scene of the drama—a small island rising out of a boundless sea, like the pyramids out of the sands of the desert-the one to proclaim, in smiling loveliness, the sway of God over the rebellious elements, the others to testify of the genius of man-the actors, two friendless widows, with each an only child; an old negro man and his wife, and an aged planter; at the same time the spectator and narrator of the mournful event. And yet, what scenes of innocent loves (loves of angels straying awhile on earth) were ever sent into the heart with greater power to penetrate, fill, and enthrall it? What poet, of ancient or modern times, ever made tears of deeper sorrow to flow, for real or imaginary woes, than those shed by two generations at the parting of Virginia from her two mothers, and from Paul, whom she still thought that she loved only with a sister's affection? She is gone-a waste of waters roll between

the two lovers-how we pity the poor child, now immured within the gloom of a convent; imprisoned, too, in forms, rules, austerities uncongenial to her nature! Oh that we could, through some potent spell, lead by the hand, the pining maid to her native land; give her again to the endearments of maternal love, to the enraptured caresses of the aged servants who fostered her infancy; and seat her by the side of Paul, under the shade of the twin palm-trees, planted as memorials of their birth-day! Letters from France have reached the lone island-Virginia writes that she will soon return-the vessel by which the letter came had a long passage only a few days had elapsed after its arrival, when, lo! the ship that brings back to her green island, the long absent maid, is in sight-the pilot is already on board-in less than an hour it will be safely anchored within the port-but the wind had died away-the sea is smooth like glass; and yet, at long intervals from the far west, unbroken waves are seen advancing, which, as they slowly lift the ship on their tops, make it to strain its cable as if it already rode in a storm-a rumbling noise, distant and vague, like that which precedes an earthquake-a solemn, fearful stillness -dark, heavy clouds, which no breath of air gives motion to-the flight, too, of flocks of sea-birds, even of those with strong pinions, the unwearied journeyers over the ocean, all hurrying in wild flight, and with plaintive shrieks, to their nests, built in the deep fissures of the towering cliffs which wall the island-these dread omens of a fast coming tempest, had brought to the beach, soon after the sun had set in vapors as red as its orb, a crowd of tumultuous and alarmed spectators; and among them Paul, with his friend the aged planter, who sought to inspire him with hopes which his own experience taught him were illusive. Minute guns, the well known announcement of perils near at hand, added to the appalling horrors of that fatal night.

We dare not to bring a daguerreotype to reflect, on this page, the shadows only of the sublime picture, where a great master has made both the scene and the actors visible to all, as they were to him, when evoked by his fancy. A loud clap of thunder seemed to have suddenly unshackled the infuriated winds.-They

VOL. XVI. NO. LXXXI.

come, after careering long unresisted over a waste of water,--they come! madly driving before them mountain waves to overwhelm the stately ship, proudly floating, as in defiance of their sway over the sea-now battering its solid bow with broken, severed surges in rapid succession-and now, assailing its swelling sides with the giant strength of mighty billows, gathered from afar. Paul, round whose body his friend has fastened a strong rope, dashes in every receding wave, with the hope of being carried by it towards the ship, still held fast to its mooring by the strong cables; but every time, another wave throws him back on the beach, bruised and bleeding-Virginia is seen, through the glare of the red lightning, on the deck of the St. Geran, clad in a white robe, with her eyes raised up to heaven, like a martyr waiting for a celestial crown. At that moment, a bold sailor kneels before the maid: he entreats her to throw off her encumbering vestments, and trust for safety in his courage and strength. The chaste virgin gently repels him when he attempts to take her in his arms. But, lo! a dark, swift wave rolls on.

The experienced eye

of the sailor has marked its course. It is the coming fate! Reluctant, he dashes, alone, into the sea. The resistless billow rushes against the ship, impetuous bounds over it, but breaking as it falls, opens under it a bottomless abyss. All eyes are directed to where the St. Geran floated a moment before--no vestige is seen of the noble structuredarkness descends, like a curtain, over the scene!

We had intended, in this article, to portray fiction, from the early bloom of her lovely infancy, in Greece, Rome and Arabia, to the period of her exuberant beauty in Spain, France, Germany, and the British Isles; but, in counting the sheets over which we have already spread these pencillings, we are admonished, that we had inaccurately computed our power of condensing the subjects of our theme, within the space allotted for their examination. Perhaps at some other time, we may bring together before our readers, the female novelists, from Lafayette, an ancestress of the friend of America, to our own Sedgwick-(a wreath of flowers of brightest hues and sweetest perfume), and speak of the masters of the Roman20

tic School. We are aware that St. Pierre might well have been classed among these; but we confess that we were impatient to offer him a tribute of gratitude, in fond remembrance of the pleasurable sorrows" the yearly perusal of his poem has given us.

They crowd around us, as if unwilling we should part so soon, these shadowy creations of genius! Here, Caleb Williams spies our gestures, watches our looks-nay! questions our silence with those glances of insane curiosity that hunted to the scaffold his kind and highminded patron. There, stands before us, wild and restless, the mysterious being whose steps print, sometimes on polar snow, sometimes on the damp soil of Indian jungles, the revered sign of man's salvation-to him alone, the doomed wanderer, the badge of eternal woes. Now, borne on fancy's pinions to the solitudes of Louisiana's forests, we hear the solemn notes of sacred hymns, like incense burnt on the altar, rising from earth, and wafting to the skies the pure spirit which, for seventeen springs, dwelt in the beauteous form by whose side kneel and pray, a venerable priest, and an Indian chief. Then, sitting, with René, on the bow of a bark canoe, swiftly gliding on the turbid waters of

the Mississippi, we listen to a tale of guilty love, confided, in the stillness of a starry night, to the spirits of the wilderness, and to the ear of an old Choctaw warrior; and, again, still under the sway of wild imaginings, we are by the side of the Red Rover, on the deck of that dread ship where Cooper has laid the scenes of his most thrilling drama. With parental solicitude, we watch the Angel-sleep of that lovely child whom Eugene Sue found, soiled and defiled, like a pearl when taken out of a putrid shell-fish, whom he cleansed in the fount of repentance, and made again pure and lustrous. She is not a stranger to us, that black-eyed virgin, whom the long-unknown enchanter, whose wand ruled the tribe of obedient genii, called into existence, and named Rebecca! Thy Alice too, Bulwer, we descry, though she timidly avoids our eyes! In her we hail all that the heart of man ever desired, pictured, and worshipped in woman. But, lo! Esmeralda smiles; and, while she beckons to us to listen to her song, mirthful, she spreads her green scarf to the breeze of the morning. Wait a while, fair inspirer of deathless imaginings! soon will we return, bringing to wreathe thy beauteous head, garlands of violets and roses!

THE four men who, in turn, have been called to the highest place in the Land of the Lone Star, are as diverse as men can well be in mind and linea ments, but they are agreed on three points-in their strong love for Texasin a devout faith in the glories of her future destiny-and in the extraordinary littleness of their faith in each other. This is a Texian characteristic, and, when we consider the circumstances, no cause of marvel.

The population of "the youngest-born of nations" is a recent conglomeration of all manner of material from all manner of sources. It is a mingled but rich débris of genius, enterprise, worth and crime; detached by an infinite variety of causes from the well-stratified society of the older states, and hurried in restless confusion to the genial and

all-embracing Texas, where-though still undulating and in attrition-the varied mass is gradually subsiding into order and coherence. A true Texian is fearless, witty and affable, open of speech, and prompt in generous deeds, but he is slow of confidence in the integrity of others, and has a quick relish for scandal. He has a profound and abiding distrust of human nature; and while he presses the kindest hospitalities on the stranger, he is speculating in his heart on the probable nature and magnitude of the crimes which have driven the wanderer to Texas. He will beard the lion in his den, and outgossip an army of old women, yet he is kind and liberal to his friend, and steadfast in his loyalty to the home of his choice. With all their inconsistencies, the Texians are faithful and brave, their

country one of the loveliest beneath the sun, and her chief, magistrates such men as would make themselves of note anywhere.

DAVID G. BURNET, a gifted and honorable man, the first and "provisional President of Texas, was invited to the executive seat in the darkest hour of her revolutionary struggle. He is a son of earnest, unflinching New Jersey, and while he held the reins of authority, proved himself the lawful inheritor of her stubborn patriotism.

The year 1835, the "year of victory," had made Texas, in effect, a free state, though her independence was not declared in form. Mexico, at war with herself, and rent by unceasing convulsions, had made shipwreck of the Constitution of 1824, under which the Anglo-American settlers of Texas had been lured from their law-protected homes, to conquer the wilderness. The constitution of '24 had guaranteed to them, in due time, a state organization, and, meanwhile, a fair representation in the Legislature of Coahuila. Santa Ana had broken off the confederation of the States, and with a strong hand centralized the government into a military despotism. In this process he invaded the Legislature of the associated states of Coahuila and Texas, in the midst of its deliberations, and put an end to its existence. He ordered some of the most refractory of its members to be imprisoned, annulled its acts, and declared the country under martial law. Could the children of the Declaration of Independence hear all this calmly? No! It was easier to die by their hearths than see them thus trampled under the rule of a licentious soldiery. One thought pervaded the land-Texas must know and maintain her rightsthey should be clearly defined, distinctly admitted, and strictly respected by Mexico-or Texas should be independent. No dissenting voice was raised against this ultimatum, even when the sanguinary Cos was thundering at the Western gates of Texas. Freemen born would as soon resign the air of heaven as liberty of conscience, trial by jury, freedom of the press, and the supremacy of the law. Mexico had denied all this to her own vassal citizens, and was pressing upon Texas with a strong military array, with the avowed intention of compelling her to a like submission. Compromise was out of the

question. The Texians flew to arms. Some few thought to take a middle course, and hold fast to their allegiance to Mexico, while they stood resolutely against her in defence of a State government and the Constitution of '24. Mexico, or rather the army of Mexico, had repudiated both and would hear no terms. The government of the United States kept aloof, but the people, whom the government could not restrain, heard the call of their brethren for aid, and sent forth a cheering cry of response. Provisions, ammunition, money-and more than money's worth, hardy, intrepid men, came at demand to help out the noble quarrel. This was wrong in citizens of a nation in amity with Mexico, but right in men whose creed is liberty. Those who can must settle accurately this question of conscience. The friends of Texas said the cause of all mankind was paramount to the institutions of any country, and went openly to the battle.

Thus strengthened by sympathy and succor from the mother-land, the Texians met the invader at the threshold. Gcliad and the Alamo, the last strongholds of Mexican power, were wrested from her, and Texas ended a chain of brilliant achievements, such as the history of despotism cannot parallel, by the total expulsion of Cos and his army from the soil. The year 1835 closed upon Texas with a doubled territory and unstained honor. Sadly different was the history of 1836-the year of blood and shame. It dawned upon irresolution, faithlessness, and base ingratitude; it set on vain-glorious imbecility. That Goliad and Alamo, so gaily and so gallantly won but a few months before, were, with five hundred brave lives, heartlessly sacrificed through the indecision and cowardice of Texas, or of her chosen general, is a bitter and ineffaceable truth. The sin lies between them, and they must answer for it to the judgment of all honest men. Houston attributes the disgraceful lapse to the panic insubordination of the Texians they impute it to his unmilitary neglect. The subsequent elevation of Gen. Houston seems to justify his position, but it must be said in extenuation of the Texians, that it was only under his command they brought upon themselves the derision of the world.

It was at this crisis of humiliation that three men, born to lead in camp