of the Review, when we may have more space than we can spare in this, when we shall have had time to possess ourselves more fully of all the facts in the case, by a further examination of interesting documents, and when we shall have given to the subject all that deliberation which so grave a matter demands, we may, perhaps, undertake to speak at length on these topics, and to place the responsibility of this war just where it belongs.

We may say in advance, however, that we believe this war might and should have been avoided: that it would have been avoided if Mr. Clay had been President of the United States instead of Mr. Polk, without any sacrifice of national interests or national honor, whether annexation had taken place or not; and that it is emphatically an Executive war, and brought about, however just and necessary as against Mexico, by a series of the most flagrant and alarming Executive usurpations on the Constitution of the country. These things we may attempt to show hereafter; when we may take occasion also to speak of the objects to be attained in the prosecution of the war, since we are in it, and the manner in which it should be prosecuted. We protest beforehand against every idea of carrying this war into Mexico, if that were ever so easy, with any view to the making of permanent conquests. When our brave soldiers must fight, we shall pray that they may win victories always, and everywhere-but we want no conquests-no new acquisitions of territory acquired by arms, and least of all in that quarter.

We are not of the number of those who indulge in anxieties lest their patriotism and love of country, in a case like this, should be suspected. Nevertheless, we deem it right to say, that when our country is at war, her enemy is our enemy, whatever we may think about the origin or causes of the rupture. When a war exists between us and another people, it is enough to know that our own country is one party to it; and there can be but one other, and that is the enemy. As between the two, it would seem as if no citizen who knows what the duty of allegiance means, or is capable of feeling the sacred sentiment of patriotism, could hesitate about his proper position. It would be difficult to find a spot to rest upon anywhere between the support of our country in the war, and

moral treason. At all times, we hold the duty of respectful obedience to government to be one of paramount Christian obligation, so long as it does not become unendurable in its oppressions. This obligation is all the stronger in our case, since we have so much to do with making the government, and providing an administration for it; and it is never so strong, in any case, with us or with any people, as when the country is at war. The putting the country at war is infinitely the most solemn and responsible of all the acts which government is ever called on to perform. It is their act, and not ours. As citizens, we are placed, by those who have a right to command us, in the relation of enemies to the people of another nation; and as between our own country and the common enemy, there can be no room for choice. We are committed from the beginning; and, for ourselves, we should not care to come into the councils of those who should even think it a point to be argued about. Nations go to war because there is no other mode of settling their disputes, when all peaceful means of adjustment have failed; just as two individuals might think themselves compelled to come to a trial of personal strength to end their disputes, if we could suppose them existing in what is called a "state of nature," and having no civil tribunals to which they might appeal. The appeal of two nations at war is to the ordeal of battle; and every citizen and member of each, on the one side and the other, is a party to the conflict and trial of strength. The part of patriotism in such a case is too plain to be mistaken. Besides; we do not hesitate to affirm in this case, that our country is not without good grounds of complaint against Mexico, of long standing; sufficient, if we had chosen so to consider them, according to abundant precedents among civilized nations, to justify reprisals and even war, if not otherwise redressed. And, though we should have been far from advocating a declaration of war by Congress for these causes, (the President could not make such a war at all without rank treason to the Constitution,) certainly until all peaceful measures for reparation had been tried; yet, since we are at war, and though it was not undertaken for these causes, Mexico has nothing to complain of, if we now count her our enemy till these injuries are redressed, or atoned for. Besides all this too; hostilities have been begun, and the sword of battle

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where, in the one column quoted, the word "mighty"-a word of peculiar force and meaning-occurs four or five times; and in the chapter on Bonaparte, the expressive term "vast energies," and the very peculiar phrase "slain armies," “ slain children,” “slain thousand," &c., is used six or seven times in quick succession. So with "earth-fast rocks," &c. Fragments of argument too, and similar thoughts and assertions are repeated in different parts of the volume. It is unquestionable, that this is a fault which greatly injures the effect of good writing. Mr. Headley is also somewhat too ungraceful, if not ungrammatical, at times, in the construction of sentences. Thus, speaking of Soult and Wellington :"The French Marshal showed himself a match for him at any time; nay, beat him oftener and longer than the latter did him." So with the poor particle made to do such heavy duty in a short beat :-He was so confident that he usually knew more than all around him, that he in time became so self-opinionated that he could not brook advice that clashed with his views." And again an occasional incongruous image, as when he speaks of victory perching on the French eagles" Too many such things might be noted. The book, indeed, like some other writings of Mr. Headley, bears the marks of having gone through the press too hastily-a fault quite evident in most American publications. These, however, are small matters, compared with the merits of the work. Mr. Headley could, doubtless have made a better book, but we know of no other writer among us who could produce one, of its kind, at all equal to it. There are, in this volume, nine sketches of Marshals, two of which, Macdonald and Lannes, appeared in our pages. The rest, embracing Berthier, Augereau, Davoust, St. Cyr, Moncey, Mortier and Soult, are entirely new. They contain many splendid descriptions of battles, especially of the battles of Arcola, Auerstadt, Dresden, Dirnstein and Austerlitz, the charge at Eylau, cavalry action at Eckmuhl, and the storming of Oporto, with other scenes new to our readers. Some of these we designed to extract, but shall be obliged to defer them to the appearance of the second volume. We close, however, with one-the Burning of Moscow." We have nowhere seen a finer description of its kind. Croly's picture, in " Salathiel," of the conflagration of Rome under Ne

ro is very splendid; but it does not wear the evident reality of this, nor has it half the condensed narrative power.

"At length Moscow, with its domes and towers, and palaces, appeared in sight; and Napoleon, who had joined the advanced guard, gazed long and thoughtfully on that goal of his wishes. Murat went forward and entered the gates with his splendid cavalry; but as he passed through the streets, he was struck by the solitude that surrounded him. Nothing was heard but the heavy tramp of his squadrons as he passed along, for a deserted and abandoned city was the meager prize for which such unparalleled efforts had been made. As night drew its curtain over the splendid capitol, Napoleon entered the gates and immediately appointed Mortier governor. In his directions he commanded him to ab

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stain from all pillage. "For this," said he, Defend Moscow against all, whether friend you shall be answerable with your life.

or foe.

"The bright moon rose over the mighty city, tipping with silver the domes of more than two hundred churches, and pouring a flood of light over a thousand palaces, and the dwellings of three hundred thousand inhabitants. The weary army sunk to rest; but there was no sleep for Mortier's eyes. Not the gorgeous and variegated palaces and their rich ornaments-nor the parks and gardens, and Oriental magnificence that wakeful, but the ominous foreboding that everywhere surrounded him, kept him some dire calamity was hanging over the silent capital. When he entered it, scarcely a living soul met his gaze as he looked down the long streets; and when he broke open the buildings, he found parlors and bedrooms and chambers all furnished and in order, but no occupants. This sudden abandonment of their homes betokened some secret purpose yet to be fulfilled. The midnight moon was sailing over the city, when the cry of "fire !" reached the ears of Mortier; and the first light over Napoleon's falling empire was kindled, and that most wondrous scene of modern time commenced,

THE BURNING OF MOSCOW.

"Mortier, as governor of the city, immediately issued his orders and was putting forth every exertion, when at daylight Napoleon hastened to him. Affecting to disbelieve the reports that the inhabitants were firing their own city, he put more rigid commands on Mortier, to keep the soldiers from the work of destruction. The Marshal simply pointed to some iron-covered houses that had not yet been opened, from every crevice of which smoke was issuing like steam from the sides of a pentup volcano. Sad and thoughtful, Napoleon turned towards the Kremlin, the ancient

palace of the Czars, whose huge structure rose high above the surrounding edifices. "In the morning, Mortier by great exertions, was enabled to subdue the fire. But the next night, Sept. 15th, at midnight, the sentinels on watch upon the lofty Kremlin, saw below them the flames bursting through the houses and palaces, and the cry of" fire! fire!" passed through the city. The dread scene had now fairly opened. Fiery balloons were seen dropping from the air and lighting upon the houses-dull explosions were heard on every side from the shut up dwellings, and the next moment a bright light burst forth, and the flames were raging through the apartments. All was uproar and confusion. The serene air and moonlight of the night before had given way to driving clouds, and a wild tempest that swept with the roar of the sea over the city. Flames arose on every side, blazing and crackling in the storm, while clouds of smoke and sparks in an incessant shower went driving towards the Kremlin. The clouds themselves seemed turned into fire, rolling in wrath over devoted Moscow. Mortier, crushed with the responsibility thus thrown upon his shoulders, moved with his Young Guard amid this desolation, blowing up the houses and facing the tempest and the flames-struggling nobly to arrest the conflagration.

"He hastened from place to place amid the blazing ruins, his face blackened with the smoke and his hair and eye-brows singed with the fierce heat. At length the day dawned, a day of tempest and of flame; and Mortier, who had strained every nerve for thirty-six hours, entered a palace and dropped down from fatigue. The manly form and stalwort arm that had so often carried death into the ranks of the enemy, at length gave way, and the gloomy Marshal lay and panted in utter exhaustion. But the night of tempests had been succeeded by a day of tempests; and when night again enveloped the city, it was one broad flame, wavering to and fro in the blast. The wind had increased to a perfect hurricane, and shifted from quarter to quarter as if on purpose to swell the sea of fire and extinguish the last hope. The fire was approaching the Kremlin, and already the roar of the flames and the crash of falling houses, and the crackling of burning timbers were borne to the ears of the startled Emperor. He arose and walked to and fro, stopping convulsively and gazing on the terrific scene. Murat, Eugene, aud Berthier rushed into his presence, and on their knees besought him to flee; but he still clung to that haughty palace, as if it were his Empire.

"But at length the shout, "The Krem lin is on fire!" was heard above the roar of the conflagration, and Napoleon reluctantly consented to leave. He descended into the streets with his staff, and looked about for

a way of egress, but the flames blocked every passage. At length they discovered a postern gate, leading to the Moskwa, and entered it, but they had only entered still farther into the danger. As Napoleon cast his eye around the open space, girdled and arched with fire, smoke and cinders, he saw one single street yet open, but all on fire. Into this he rushed, and amid the crash of falling houses, and raging of the flames-over burning ruins, through clouds of rolling smoke, and between walls of fire he pressed on; and at length, half suffocated, emerged in safety from the blazing city, and took up his quarters in the imperial palace of Petrowsky, nearly three miles distant. Mortier, relieved from his anxiety for the Emperor, redoubled his efforts to arrest the conflagration. His men cheerfully rushed into every danger. Breathing nothing but smoke and ashes-canopied by flame, and smoke and cinders-surrounded by walls of fire that rocked to and fro and fell with a crash amid the blazing ruins, carrying down with them red-hot roofs of iron; he struggled against an enemy that no boldness could awe, or courage overcome. Those brave troops had heard the tramp of thousands of cavalry sweeping to battle without fear; but now they stood in still terror before the march of the conflagration, under whose burning footsteps was heard the incessant crash of falling houses, and palaces and churches. The continuous roar of the raging hurricane, mingled with that of the flames, was more terrible than the thunder of artillery; and before this new foe, in the midst of this battle of the elements, the awe-struck army stood powerless and affrighted.

"When night again descended on the city, it presented a spectacle the like of which was never seen before, and which baffles all description. The streets were streets of fire-the heavens a canopy of fire, and the entire body of the city a mass of fire, fed by a hurricane that whirled the blazing fragments in a constant stream through the air. Incessant explosions from the blowing up of stores of oil, and tar, and spirits, shook the very foundations of the city, and sent vast volumes of smoke rolling furiously towards the sky. Huge sheets of canvas on fire came floating like messengers of death through the flames-the towers and domes of the churches and palaces glowed with a red-hot heat over the wild sea below, then tottering a moment on their basis were hurled by the tempest into the common ruin. Thousands of wretches, before unseen, were driven by the heat from the cellars and hovels, and streamed in an incessant throng through the streets. Children were seen carrying their parents-the strong, the weak; while thousands more were staggering under the loads of plunder they had snatched from the flames. This,

ignorance. They desire nothing new, good or bad.

The influence of this spirit on criticism in the present century, has been incalculable. In those cases where personal and partisan feelings have not converted literary judgments into puffs or libels, the analytical and unsympathizing mode in which critical inquiries have been prosecuted has been unjust to original genius. Poets have been tried by tests which their writings were never intended to meet. Where a work is a mere collection of parts, loosely strung together, and animated by no central principle of vitality, analysis has only to cut the string to destroy its rickety appearance of life. As a large majority of productions, purporting to come from the human mind, are heterogeneous, not homogeneous; mechanical, not organic;-the works of what Fichte calls the hodmen of letters the course pursued by the critic, at least exposes deception. But the process by which imposture may be exposed, is not necessarily that by which truth can be evolved. A life spent in merely examining deceptions and quackeries, produces little fruit. A well-trained power to discern excellence, would include all the negative advantages of the other, and end also in the positive benefit of mental enlargement and elevation. Reading and judgment result in nothing but barrenness, when they simply confirm the critic's opinion of himself. The mind is enriched only by assimilation, and true intellectual independence comes not from the complacent dullness of the egotist. The mind that would be monarchial should not be content with a petty domain, but have whole provinces of thought for its dependencies. To comprehend another mind, we must first be tolerant to its peculiarities, and place ourselves in the attitude of learners. After that our judgment will be of value. The thing itself must be known, before its excellence can be estimated, and it must be reproduced before it can be known. By contemplation rather than analysis, by self-forgetfulness rather than self-confidence, does the elusive and ethereal life of genius yield itself to the mind of the critic.

If we examine the writings of some of the most popular critics of the present century, we shall find continual proofs of the narrowness to which we have referred. In a vast majority of cases, the criticism is merely the grating of one individual mind against another. The

critic understands little but himself, and his skill consists in a dexterous substitution of his own peculiarities for the laws of taste and beauty, or in sneeringly alluding to the difference between the work he is reviewing and works of established fame. Lord Jeffrey is an instance. The position in which he was placed, as editor of the most influential Review ever published, was one requiring the most comprehensive thought and the most various attainments. At the period the Edinburgh Review was started, the literary republic swarmed with a host of vain and feeble poetasters, whose worthlessness invited destruction; but in the midst of these there were others, the exponents of a new and original school of poetry, whose genius required interpretation. Now the test to be applied to a critic, under such circumstances, is plain. Was his taste catholic? Did he perceive and elucidate excellence, as well as detect and punish pretension? Did he see the dawn on the mountain tops, as well as the will-o'-the-wisps, in the bogs beneath? Did he have any principles on which to ground his judgments, apart from the impertinences of his personality? We think not. Not in his writings are we to look for a philosophy of criticism. He could see that the consumptive hectic on the cheek of mediocrity was not the ruddy glow of genius. He could torture feebleness and folly on the rack of his ridicule. He could demonstrate that Mr. William Hayley and Mr. Robert Merry were poor successors of Pope and Dryden. But when he came to consider men like Wordsworth and Coleridge, we find the nimble-witted critic to be, after all, blind in one eye. Here were authors destined to work a great poetical revolution, to give a peculiar character to the literature of a generation, to have followers even among men of genius. In their earlier efforts, doubtless grave faults might have been discovered. Their thoughts were often vitiated by mental bombast; their expression, by simplicity that bordered on silliness, by obscurity that sometimes tumbled into the void inane. But amidst all their errors, indications were continually given of the vital powers of genius; of minds which, to the mere forms and colors of nature, could

"Add the gleam, The light that never was on sea or land, The consecration and the poet's dream."