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Her ladyship, contrary, no doubt, to the wishes of the great Italian bard, left, at her death, Alfieri's library, manuscripts, and all her own books to M. Fabre, who, proud of such rich spoils, left Italy, his adopted country, where he had learned to hold the crayon, and to wield the brush, whose very sky, and the air he breathed, had inspired him with the feelings of a painter, to return to Montpellier, to the authorities of which city he presented his booty, books, manuscripts, pictures, and all, as well as a valuable collection of pictures, collected by himself, and works of his own pencil. So exasperated am I at the Countess of Albany, for thus disposing of the library of the Italian bard, who is the very type of the present age, that, were she alive, I could travel a thousand leagues to unfold my mind, and display the utmost degradation of a degraded dynasty. May she meet forever, hereafter, the just punishment of this black and treacherous deed, the piercing and reproachful looks of the disembodied spirit, who, had he thought for a moment that his books, which he so dearly loved, would ultimately have this Gallic destination, would, certainly, have ordered them to be burnt; to such a degree did he detest the French, as a nation, although Fabre, a renegado, was united to him in friendship. Among other things in the Musée Fabre, as it is called, there is an excellent bust in marble of Alfieri, and a portrait, by Fabre himself, of the same poet, both very good. The portrait is the original, copied to make that fine engraving, which we see at the head of the finest Florentine edition of his works. There is also a very good portrait of Antonio Canova, the sculptor, by Fabre. In conclusion, there is, at Montpellier, in the university, another interesting production of the arts, stolen from Italy; I mean the antique bust, in bronze, of the old and renowned Hippocrates.
BY W. B. TAPPAN.
NEW JERSEY! thy blue hills are fair to the vision,
How pleasant to wander where nought but old ocean
Sweet innocence, beauty and fashion uniting,
How tranquil the scene, when Atlantic's proud billow
When deep calls to deep and the surge mocks the mountain,
Though thy blue hills, New JERSEY! are fair to the vision,
BY B. H. COATES.
I CONFES I am disgusted with the ferocious and malignant style in which much of the criticism of the day deals with those unfortunate individuals who attempt to amuse the public with their efforts at poetry. In handling the works of those whose reputation is already established, we observe something like attention to the rules of ancient criticism and modern politeness; but when the reviewer gets hold of an obscure writer or one whom he chooses to consider as a dunce, those principles of conduct by which we are taught as a duty to avoid unnecessarily wounding the feelings of our neighbour, seem to be entirely dismissed from the mind, and the unfortunate author is handed over to bull dogs to be baited, with às little remorse, as if, instead of being a harmless proser, he were a high offender against the peace and welfare of the community. He seems to be, habitually and as a thing of course, regarded as a criminal. “Judex damnatur cum nocens absolvitur,” is a motto which has not adorned the front of a celebrated journal without a clear application and a steady, unsparing enforcement. The unlucky wretch who is guilty of dulness, or, what is the same thing, who belongs to a different political party, or has given private offence to one of the leading reviewers, is not even held entitled to the refinements of modern penal jurisprudence. Unlike the murderer, the offend
ing scribbler, thus tried and condemned without a jury of his peers, is subjected not only to execution but to the torture; the utmost ingenuity of authorship being tasked to inflict the rack more severely, and to awaken the feelings of the lacerated sufferer to the utmost pitch of torment.
Of this it would not be difficult to cite abundant instances. I shall not, however, occupy time with quoting what is so very familiar. It is still harder, that the unfortunate writer has to submit not only to the stings of wit and genius, but to the coarse and blundering assaults of rival dulness. It is some satisfaction to have it said, “ Ænææ magni dextrâ cadis.” The pangs of the wound are greatly softened by the fine edge and delicate polish of the weapon; and even the sufferer, if nature and education have endowed him with taste, can occasionally derive some pleasure from the grace and dexterity with which it has been wielded. Of this he is deprived when the attack is made by an inferior hand and with an imperfect instrument. Thus the rusty, jagged and shapeless blade of the Malay kreese, roughly hammered out of soft iron, inflicts an incomparably more painful and rankling wound than the finest scimitar of Damascus. A tolerable example of the temper with which one unsuccessful writer occasionally views his fellows, may be found in the verses I have appropriated as a motto. They are selected from a recent production which has lately fallen under my eye, not certainly from their intrinsic poetical beauty, or their grammatical correctness, but from their affording a fair specimen of the virulent style, and sufficient to exemplify what I have in view. What can there be in the transitory poetry of the day to justify the expression of such emotions? Is it possible, that the mere faet of having written a number of poet.