Up beauteous Nautilus! Away! Heaven grant that she through life's wild flow And homeward turned like thee may find Sure refuge from the wave and wind. TO MY HOME. Yon old gray wall, whose gable high O'er arch and mullion twine It is indeed a holy place; For God Himself hath deigned to grace And thoughts of Him are blended fair The one best friend whose modest worth The babe whose soul is budding forth And prattling still the sturdy boy Who climbs my knee with heart of joy Their looks of love how can I see Nor think, great Sire of Love, on Thee ? Pride enters not yon peaceful room; An household bard is found To raise Thy throne, and offer there Within all studies end in Thee; And when abroad I rove, There's not an herb, a flower, a tree, That hath not words to prove How like would be my restless lot, Oh! look upon yon glorious scene, Mark every path where God hath been For me I daily come to bless, And dare not turn away, Till I have spoken the Psalmist's line, "These gracious works, dread Lord, are Thine!" My Home! my Home! I've paused awhile In many a stranger land, And seen in all born nature smile, Beneath her Maker's hand; But never since calm Reason took Till here the blessed scene I laid, My Home! my Home! oh! ever dear My spirit clings to thee. I deem my home an emblem meet Of that enduring last retreat From pain and passion free, Where peace shall fix her bright abode To Mr. Barnard, also, I was personally a stranger. So I was to the excellent friend and delightful correspondent, Mr. Archdeacon Wrangham, to whose kindness I owe the possession of his poems. Twice I was about to visit the Archdeacon, and twice Death came between. The first time he invited me to his prebendal residence at Chester, to meet another dear and most valued correspondent and friend, Mrs. Hemans; he even proposed to come as far as Oxford to fetch me. But my mother was already seized by the illness from which she never recovered; and the three friends, of whom I am the only survivor, and of whom none was then old, said all-Another time! None of us foresaw how soon the youngest and most gifted of the three should die in her Irish home; and the two who remained had little heart to plan Y* joyous meetings. But nine years ago, when my dear father was also taken from me, the good Archdeacon mixed with his condolences an invitation to visit him at Hunmanby. The letter was singularly interesting, telling of his own father's death just after his early Cambridge triumphs, and of the strange and solemn mixture of that great grief with his joy. Singularly enough, with that kind and gracious invitation to the vicarage at Hunmanby, came one equally gracious and kind from the head of my own family, Admiral Osbaliston Mitford, to visit him and Mrs. Mitford at Hunmanby Hall. I answered both letters by return of post; and before that to my venerable friend reached its destination, he too was dead. Let me add a less gloomy recollection of this accomplished scholar, who was an eminent book collector. About thirty years ago, one of the cleverest writers of the day having published (as sometimes happens) a very silly book, the Archdeacon hastened to secure it for his library. What could induce you to purchase that nonsense?" inquired a friend. "Because it is so bad that it is sure to become scarce," was the reply. The prediction has been verified to the letter. I should not wonder if that copy were an unique. XXXIX. AMERICAN PROSE WRITERS. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. In spite of her apparent barrenness at the late Exhibition, a barrenness which probably resulted mainly from the actual riches of that vast country, its prodigious territory, and its still growing youth; in spite of our susceptibilities; and in spite of her own, America is a great nation, and the Americans are a great people; and if that Fair of the World had been a book fair, as at Leipsic, I suspect that we should have seen our kinsfolk over the water cutting a very good figure with their literary ware. Certain it is, that when a people hardly seventy years old, who have still living among them men that remember when their republic was a province, can claim for themselves such a divine as Dr. Channing, and my friend Professor Norton, the friend of Mrs. Hemans; such an historian as Mr. Prescott; and such an orator as Daniel Webster, they have good right to be proud of their sons of the soil. To say nothing of these ornaments of our common language, or of the naturalists Wilson and Anderton—are they American? they are worth fighting for; or of the travelers, Dana, Stephens, and Willis, who are certainly transatlantic; or of the fair writers, Mrs. Sigourney and Miss Sedgwick, both my friends; or of the poor Margaret Fuller, drowned so deplorably only the other day, with her husband and her infant, on her own shores; her Italian husband said only the day before leaving Florence, that it had been predicted to him that he should die at sea; or of the great historian of Spanish literature, Mr. Ticknor (another friend!); or of a class of writers in which New England is rich-orator-writers, whose eloquence, first addressed to large audiences, is at once diffused and preserved by the press-witness the orations of Mi Sumner, and the lectures of Mr. Whipple and Mr Giles; to say nothing of these volumes, which will bear a competition with any of their class in the elder country, let us look at the living novelists, and see if they be of any ordinary stamp. The author of the "Sketch-book" is almost as much a classic with us as in his own country. That book, indeed, and one or two that succeeded it, were so purely English in style and feeling, that when their success-their immense and deserved success-induced the reprint of some drolleries which had for subject New York in its Dutch state, it was difficult to believe that they were by the same author. Since then, Mr. Washington Irving, having happily for literature filled a diplomatic post in Spain, has put forth other works, half Spanish, half Moorish, equally full of local color and local history, books as good as history, that almost make us live in the Alhambra, and increase our sympathy with the tasteful and chivalrous people who planned its halls and gardens. Then he returned home; and there he has done for the backwoods and the prairies what he before did for the manor-house of England and the palace of Granada. Few, very few, can show a long succession of volumes, so pure, so graceful, and so varied as Mr. Irving. To my poor cottage, rich only in printed paper, people often come to borrow books for themselves or their children. Sometimes they make their own selection; sometimes, much against my will, they leave the choice to me; and in either case I know no works that are oftener lent than those that bear the pseudonym of Geoffrey Crayon. Then Mr. Cooper! original and natural as his own Pioneers; adventurous as Paul Jones; hardy as Long Tom; persevering and indomitable as that Leather-stocking whom he has conducted through fifteen volumes without once varying from the admirable portrait which he originally designed. They say that he does not value our praise—that he has no appreciation for his appreciators. But I do not choose to believe such a scandal. It can only be a they say." He is too richly gifted to be wanting in sympathy even with his own admirers; and if he have an odd manner of showing that sympathy, why it must pass as "Pretty Fanny's way." Since these light words were written, I grieve to say that Mr. Cooper is dead. I trust his gifted daughter will become his biographer. Few lives would be more interesting. 66 Next comes one with whom my saucy pen must take no free |