instant dissolution. But one fearful convulsion was soon to animate the whole.

Activity is the life of the human soul, and better is the vigor of a living nature, though working evil for a season, than the senseless torpor of inaction. Hence was the savage and desolating ferocity of the northern tribes let loose upon the voluptuous plains of Italy, like the tornado which dispels the malaria of the valley.

When civilization, whose proper office is to refine and elevate the minds of men, descends to corrupting their vigor and weakening the springs of their energy, its time is past and barbarism is preferable to its prolonged existence. We believe that the fearful remedy which Heaven in mercy applied to the Roman world, was the best preparative for the light of a purer civilization.

THE INWARD MONITOR.

The following lines are intended to set forth the surmises of a Heathen, balancing in his mind between right and wrong, and urged to the right by only such motives as Heathenism can present. The actor and the scene will explain themselves. The idea of two or three lines is due to Shakspeare, though I have forgotten to what Play.

My time has come, and Destiny unfolds
Her sacred mysteries in plainer view.
So Cæsar then was born to rule the world!
My way is plain. But first the tow'ring crest
Of this great monster Rome, that sternly frowns,
Like the great solemn Alps, above my head,
Must bend its haughtiness and humbly bow
To be the throne whereon I'll rule the world.
I'll rule the world! O, what a noble thought!
How doth it deeply stir the eager soul
And marshal all its giant energies

To one decisive conflict! Rome must fall;
The small extent of this sublunar world
Is not a stage of length and breadth enough
For Rome and Cæsar both to play together.
But can I meet the universal scorn

That casts its blight upon the trait'rous head?
Ah, how the coward spirit shrinks and quails,
And turns upon itself! Mysterious dread!
What secret power is this within the soul,

That curbs it by the narrow bounds of right?

What then is right? what wrong? what changeless law

Hath everlasting Justice e'er decreed,

By which I am forbid to war on Rome?

Oft have my conquering legions ravaged Gaul;

And oft have Rome's great leaders drenched
The world in human blood; and often set
Their heels upon the necks of vanquished kings.
For this the Fathers have as oft decreed

Great thanks and general off'rings to the Gods.

Why should not Rome, that long hath ruled the world, Yield in her turn? Cæsar hath fought for Rome;

Why not now fight against her? While I led

Her legions forth against barbarian hordes,
And taught her eagles how to soar and make
Their eyries on the everlasting Alps,
Where now they're fixed impregnably; e'en then
Was Rome confounding with my wily foe,
To strip me of my hard-contested laurels.
When in the coalition, who bore sway?
Why, the great Pompey must, forsooth, remain
At Rome, and kindly guard its helplessness,
While Cæsar fights for Rome on British shores,
And Cæsar dyes the Gallic snows with blood.

The subtile lines of philosophic cant
And delicate differences of right and wrong
Were never drawn for rude untutor❜d men,

Of whom am I. Why not then roll again

On Rome the oppressive weight of grievous wrong?
For, to the gall and wormwood of my soul
Revenge would be a sweet, a soothing cordial.
But there's a voice, a silent, solemn voice,
Within my breast, and whisp'ring to my heart,
That, with an awful emphasis, forbids.

O Powers above, that rule the steadfast earth,
That make the storms your trusty messengers,
And still them with a word, is it your voice,
Which in this inward tempest orders calm?
In vain the surges of this heaving sea
Will rave and burst, despite the voice of Jove!
Yet, once again, who is this monitor,

Sternly forbidding me to war on Rome?

Why should the soul rebel against the will?

Where hath she learned this moveless obstinacy,
Which stubbornly delays, and must be driven,
While all my nature's other elements
Are swift to do my bidding?

Has she then while I slumbered wandered forth,
Forth from her proper seat, while reason slept,
Neglectful porter at the open gate?

To what mysterious regions hath she strayed

To learn these paltry doubts and hesitancy?
Is there then One who guides her devious course?
There is; she oft proclaims it earnestly.

Not only in sleep, but often in the light

Of day, through darkness of the mind, this soul
Hath left the wranglings of mine other powers,
Debating of their Maker, and set forth

In search adventurous of the great First Cause.
But ever wearily she doth return,

O'ercome with doubt and awe. She ne'er hath reached

His awful presence-chamber, nor beheld

Its utmost verge; but ever tells of vague

Suggestions of an unknown Deity.

Yet, even so, with pride of high descent
Inflated, in her little sphere she scorns

To do my bidding. Who, then, is

This Sovereign Sire of whom my soul makes boast ?

I know him not; nor can I, for he deigns

No revelation of his majesty.

Henceforth I'll know no ruling Deity

But mine own will. I crave the world; the world
And Rome that rules it then, I'll rule.

HEADLEY'S NAPOLEON AND HIS MARSHALS

Belcox

Ir is a great misfortune of American literature that we have, apparently, no literary class, no tribunal of letters, which might adjudge to every candidate for an enduring reputation, his fair and equitable rank. Our neighbors, on the other side of the Atlantic, are more happy in this respect. They have a few self-appointed but discriminating guardians of the public taste, constituting a court whose jurisdiction extends to every aspirant after literary fame, and from whose decision there is no appeal. The consequence is, that most writers are soon elevated or depressed to their proper level. Whoever rises by the puffing eulogies of senseless admirers to an undeserved reputation, rises at his own peril. The higher the pinnacle to which he is thus exalted, the deeper and more ruinous is the fall which awaits him.

To the infancy of our nation, and the formidable obstacles with which it has thus far been obliged to contend, must be attributed our present deficiency of such a regulator upon our literature. Nor till a considerable portion of our countrymen shall be relieved by a liberal competency from the sterner duties of practical life; till the extension of the privilege of literary leisure shall induce a more general and refined cultivation of letters, can there be any hope for the erection of

such a tribunal, worthy of our character as a nation, and of the noble language which we inherit.

Were a tribunal of this sort established, our literature might be, in part at least, purged from the miserable empiricism which now disgraces it. The people might be delivered from the imposition to which they are now continually subjected. Ranters in doggerel would not be palmed off as great poets, nor violators alike of sense and English as great writers. The book before us, instead of being trumpeted about as a paragon of its kind, would have been still-born into the world, and its author would not be left to wait for the next generation to consign him to oblivion.

We have no private motives, whatever, for disliking Mr. Headley. But it is hard for a well-wisher to the literature of his country, to look on with patience and see a book, whose principal recommendation is such furious rodomontade as might have made Macpherson shudder, bandied about as a model for our youth, while Europeans are at liberty to deride a literary taste which can be so completely hoodwinked. We know very little about this gentleman, except from his writings. He is said to have been, some years since, a Presbyterian clergyman. But having traveled extensively abroad (as he takes care to inform us in his books) he has returned to our shores, and, rejecting the clerical title from his name, writes in the volumes before us, on such subjects, and in such a strain, that we cannot but commend his discretion in abandoning the profession of Divinity.* We have often noticed, with pain, the course pursued by some individuals of that class of clergymen, who, for various reasons, turn from their sacred office to secular employments. If the failure of health drives them from the pulpit, we might naturally expect them to adopt some profession as nearly as may be allied to their holy vocation. When a sentinel is driven from his post, he may be naturally expected to remain as near it as possible, and not to retire in hot haste to the greatest distance, as if glad of the relief. There are some, whose examples in this respect we cannot but admire. Forced to resign their more arduous public services, they yet labor with the pen or otherwise, as faithfully and often as successfully as before. The attachment with which they linger about their sacred profession, reminds us of the inextinguishable devotion of those of old, whose exertions were as strenuous in the midst of obscurity and reproach, as before assemblies of applauding hearers. We read of one, who, restrained from his public ministrations, preached with his pen to the Hebrews; of another, who labored in his " Patmos," in the heart of Germany, to deliver his countrymen from the spiritual tyranny of Rome; of a third, who, in Bedford jail, described the Pilgrim's Progress from this World to that which is to Come; and we, honor them; for their invincible devotion to their good work, in the

*We have heard it urged, in defence of Mr. Headley, that he writes "not as a Christian, but as a man of letters," which reminds us of the apology of the profane archbishop, who was also a prince; "I swear, not as an archbishop, but as a prince." "But, my lord," said a peasant standing by, "when the devil gets the prince, what will become of the archbishop?"

midst of privation, is the strongest possible testimony to their love of it. But what shall we say for those who descend from the noblest and most august profession known among men, to dabble in party politics, or to cater to a taste for savage excitement, which it is the business of every man, who loves his country, especially at present, to discourage? We have in mind one clergyman, who, discarding his profession, assumed the control of a political newspaper, which has become as much more bitter in its spirit than it ever was before, as he might have been expected to render it less so; and next comes Mr. Headley, who doubles the dose, and gives us, in terrorem, to keep us quiet, instead of orthodox sermons and spiritual exhortations, Marshal Victor advancing with the "terrible regiment," or Murat charging, " like a thunder-bolt," at the head of twenty thousand cavalry.

We make no complaint that Mr. Headley has left the ministry. He may have lost his voice, or become otherwise indisposed, for aught we know. But could he in no way contrive to serve the cause of religion better than by trumpeting about the bloody affrays of some score of ferocious chieftains, raging (to use his own expression) "with the fury of a demon," in the midst of slaughter? We do not blame him for not writing another Pilgrim's Progress. He has a valid excuse from all undertakings of that sort, an excuse which will readily suggest itself to our readers. But there are fields of Christian enterprise adapted to the abilities of every laborer. By a diligent study of English grammar, he might have qualified himself for usefulness as a writer for the Sunday School Union; and, with a large share, more than he appears to possess, of the sense and piety of Mrs. Charlotte Elizabeth, he might have followed with credit in the path of that amiable writer. But on the principle of Milton's lost archangel, with regard to reigning and serving, it is better, in this writer's judgment, we suppose, to pamper a morbid appetite for excitement with scenes of blood, and take in pay for his loathsome service, the ephemeral reputation of a clever writer, than to labor in the capacity of a Christian philanthropist, with no better reward than the silent praises of conscience, the commendations of all good men, and the approving smiles of Heaven.

In the work which he undertakes in the book before us, piety is not peculiarly requisite. Some knowledge of grammar, a little good taste, and a little acquaintance with certain rudimental principles of composition, are, however, very desirable. Mr. Headley's excellence in these qualifications, is of a sort entirely unique and peculiar to himself. His grammar, especially, is an anomaly of the most marvelous description. His rules, if he had any, would be like nothing in the heavens above or the earth beneath. Phrases, which Mr. Dickens would hesitate to put into the mouth of a London vagabond, figure extensively in what the puffers call the "finest passages in Headley." It is not the first time, however, that we have found truth stranger than romance, and been led to exclaim, with honest Fabian, "if this were played upon a stage now, I should condemn it as an improbable fiction." But it is a consoling reflection, that genius makes rules for it