is no appeal, and all future efforts of the same author are blasted with the reproach of dulness, and almost deprived of the utter possibility of a retrieval. Now, when we reflect upon the ordinary progress of authorship, this will appear manifestly unjust. There are scarcely any instances of an author having met with brilliant success in his first attempt. Voltaire, Pope, Byron, and a number of others, who afterwards reached the highest distinction, met at first with disheartening failures; and had they been crushed in the bud, had excessive severity succeeded in discouraging them from all future efforts, I will not now say what a loss to mankind! but what a shameful injustice to the youthful aspirants!

It is time now to draw this essay to a conclusion; and I will only recapitulate by saying, that I do not mean to object to candid and rigid criticism; but only to the manifestations of ill-nature, cruelty, and a partisan spirit, when the task is executed. I maintain that justice should be done to the merits of the weakest writer whenever his productions are noticed at all; and that bitter and sweeping condemnations of the whole of a candidate's productions are just as unsuitable to the true character of criticism as those nauseous and inflated panegyrics, which we occasionally find inserted in the daily sheets, to aid in the circulation of trash and mawkishness. Dulness and imbecility should undoubtedly be discouraged from wasting their own time and that of the public; but the censure should be founded upon the real merits of the case, and not depend upon political partisanship, the wishes of a bookseller, or the personal dislikes of an editor. And above all things, critics, in the utmost severity of their indignation, should never forget that they are bound as much as any other mortals by the common rules of humanity and politeness,

THE GENIUS OF POETRY.

BY T. H. STOCKTON.

GENIUS of Poetry! thou noblest born!
Thy themes are as thy joys-rich and sublime!
Creation is thy range; where'er a star

Sends forth a ray, thy wing is wont to fly.
And oft, where never rolled an orb, away
In solitary, unillumined gloom,

Thou holdest high communion with thy God.
His omnipresent pow'r and tender love
Delight thy musing moments, and thy harp
Is richest and most eloquent in praise,
Thy quick perception gladdens in events,
To others hid; thou knowest sounds and views
Unheard, unnoticed by the grosser-born.
Where'er thy pinions wave, new pleasures rise
Sweet in thy breast, and eye and ear, and all
Thy ravish'd senses wonder and admire.
The music of the spheres is heard by thee,
And angels ne'er may know its richest tones,
Delighting thee;-thou see'st a purer light
In ev'ry beam, than falls on other eyes;
Colours have finer shades than others see,
By thee perceived--and when the thunder speaks
Loud from his midnight throne, thou dost discern
An import and a tone none else may know;
And in the lightning flash thou see'st a glance,
That else who once beholds shall surely die!

Does grandeur call thee? Lo! the boundless scene
Glows with a living spirit; and thy heart
Swells with expanding rapture, high and wild,
And unexpress'd, save in thy thrilling song.
The aged forest bows his hoary head,
In reverence, and waves his trembling arms
On high, to hail thy coming to his shades.
The mountains loftier lift their lofty heads,
And stand like giants guarding the sweet vales
Of humble peace, from the demoniac storm.
The seas explain to thee their mysteries;
For thee the blue heavens cast their veil aside,
And sun, and moon, and stars come near, and show
Unto thy favour'd eye their wondrous things.
Does novelty attract thee? things more strange
Appear in things the strangest, and a power
Alike peculiar, wonders in thy sight.

The clouds assume all hostile forms, and wage
Celestial warfare; meteors on swift wing
Bear to the Prince of Hell tidings of earth;
And comets, issuing from the eternal throne
To see if earth's iniquity is full,

Wave wide the threat'ning sword-the startled sky
Shrinks from the horrid light, and pales with fear.
Earth listens, motionless, expecting still

The thunder of Destruction's chariot wheels

And Time throws down his scythe, crushes his glass, And, trembling, waits th' archangel's dooming voice!

THE WISSAHICCON.

BY B. MATTHIAS.

"Its bounding crystal frolicked in the ray,

And gushed from cleft to crag with saltless spray."-Byron.

It is probable there are but few individuals residing in the vicinity of Philadelphia, who have not heard, during some interval of business engagements, of Wissahiccon creek, a beautiful and romantic stream that falls into the no less romantic Schuylkill, about five miles above the city. The stream is visited, statedly, by but a small number of persons, but as it is neither found on any map, nor marked in any gazetteer that I have ever examined, there may be some apology offered for the indifference to its magnificent scenery, manifested by hundreds and thousands of our citizens, who, though domiciled in its immediate vicinity, have never deemed it worthy of a visit. So true it is, that there is a proneness in human nature to undervalue the gifts of Providence which are placed within our reach, and to admire and covet those which are located at a distance. Were a fatiguing journey of several hundred miles necessary, in order to enjoy a ramble along the banks of the Wissahiccon, we should then, without doubt, view its placid waters, its sluggish meandering course, its richly covered banks, and its imposing precipices, with the admiration and enthusiasm which scenes of this character never fail to inspire in the minds of those who passionately love the untouched works of

the hand of Nature. But the delightful little stream courses along within a few miles of our doors, and a ride to its most picturesque views, is but an hour's excursion; hence, except to a few whose researches have discovered, and whose good taste enabled them to appreciate, the beauty, sublimity, and majesty of this stream, it is almost unknown.

But there are persons who have not been thus negligent of nature's treasures in this vicinity, and to these a visit to the fascinating Wissahiccon, calls up remembrances and associations of the most delightful character. To those who enjoy Nature in her majesty-free, uncontrolled, undespoiled of her beauty by the effacing efforts of human skill-there is no spot, within a circle of many miles, so rich in imagery, so imposing in appearance, so fascinating in attraction, as the banks of the Wissahiccon. The stream takes its rise from several springs in the upper part of Montgomery county, and flows, for a short distance, through a limestone country, remarkable for fertility and a high state of cultivation.-Thence it passes, southwesterly, "a sweet smiling stream sleeping on the green sward," into more undulating land, until it reaches the Chestnut ridge, from which it progresses, at times indolently, and at times with an impetuous current, through a narrow valley, hedged in on either side by high hills, steep and craggy cliffs and precipitous mountains, until it strikes the Schuylkill, about a mile above the falls. Along its whole course the scenery of the Wissahiccon is beautiful, but it is the portion lying within four or five miles of its mouth, that is generally regarded as the most attractive, as it exhibits, in bolder relief than any other portion, the peculiar sublimity and grandeur of the stream, and the imposing and majestic ledge of rock work through which it passes. It is along this dis