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of poverty, and at last, in despair, resorted to marriage as the only alternative of destitution.

Gregoire, who derived his information from M. Giraud, the French consul at Boston, states that her husband, in the superiority of his understanding to that of other negroes, was also a kind of phenomenon; that he "became a lawyer, under the name of Doctor Peters, and plead before the tribunals the cause of the blacks;" and that "the reputation he enjoyed procured him a fortune." But a later biographer of Phillis declares that Peters "kept a grocery in Court Street, and was a man of handsome person and manners, wearing a wig, carrying a cane, and quite acting the gentleman; that he proved utterly unworthy of the distinguished woman who honored him with her alliance; that he was unsuccessful in business, failing soon after their marriage, and was too proud and too indolent to apply himself to any occupation below his fancied dignity."

Whether Peters practiced physic and law or not, it appears pretty certain that he did not make a fortune, and that the match was a very unhappy one, though we think the author last quoted-who is one of the family shows an undue partiality for his maternal ancestor. Peters, in his adversity, was not very unreasonable in demanding that his wife should attend to domestic affairs that she should cook his breakfast and darn his stockings; but she too had certain notions of "dignity," and regarded as beneath her such unpoetical occupations. During the war they lived at Wilmington, in the interior of Massachusetts, and in this period Phillis became the mother of three children. After the peace they returned to Boston and continued to live there, most of the time in wretched poverty, till the death of Phillis on December 5, 1794.

The intellectual character of Phillis Wheatley Peters has been much discussed, but chiefly by partisans. On the one hand, Mr. Jefferson declares that "the pieces published under her name are below the dignity of criticism," and that "the heroes of the Dunciad are to her as Hercules to the author of that poem;" and on the other hand, the Abbé Grégoire, Mr. Clarkson, and

many more, see in her works the signs of a genuine poetical inspiration. They seem to me to be quite equal to much of the contemporary verse that is admitted to be poetry by Phillis's severest judges. Though her odes, elegies, and other compositions are but harmonious commonplaces, it would be difficult to find in the productions of American women, for the hundred and fifty years that had elapsed since the death of Mrs. Bradstreet, anything superior in sentiment, fancy, or diction.- Female Poets of America.

ROSSI, TOMMASO, an Italian novelist and poet; born at Bellano, January 20, 1791; died at Milan, December 10, 1853. After studying law at the University of Pavia, he took up his residence at Milan, where he early began to write stories in verse which became very popular. His "great poem," as the Italians style it, The Lombards in the First Crusade, in fifteen cantos, was pronounced to be the finest poem which Italy had produced since Tasso. His historical novel, Marco Visconti, published in 1835, established his literary reputation. Other works which met with success are Ildegonda (1820), and G. Maria Visconti, a tragedy.

THE FAIR PRISONER TO THE SWALLOWS.

Pilgrim swallow! pilgrim swallow !
On my grated window sill,
Singing, as the mornings follow,

Quaint and pensive ditties still,
What wouldst thou tell me in thy lay?
Prithee, pilgrim swallow, say!

All forgotten, com'st thou hither
Of thy tender spouse forlorn,
That we two may grieve together,
Little widow, sorrow-worn?
Grieve then, weep then, in thy lay!
Pilgrim swallow, grieve away!

Yet a lighter woe thou weepest:
Thou at least art free of wing,

And while land and sea thou sweepest,
May'st make Heaven with sorrow ring,
Calling his dear name alway,

Pilgrim swallow, in thy lay.

Could I too, that am forbidden

By this low and narrow cell,

Whence the sun's fair light is hidden,

Whence thou scarce can'st hear me tell

Sorrows that I pipe alway,

While thou pip'st thy plaintive lay.

Ah! September quickly coming
Thou shalt take farewell of me,
And, to other Summers roaming,
Other hills and waters see-
Greeting them with songs more gay,
Pilgrim swallow, far away.

Still with every hopeless morrow
While I ope my eyes in tears,
Sweetly through my brooding sorrow

Thy dear song shall reach mine ears—
Pitying me, though far away,

Pilgrim swallow, in thy lay,

Thou, when thou and Spring together
Here return, a cross shalt see-
In the pleasant evening weather
Wheel and pipe, here over me!
Peace and peace; the coming May
Sing me in thy roundelay!

Translation of W. D. HOWELLY

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