novelists, but diseased with false sentiment and sensibility, and rotten to the core. In America it has touched much that Hawthorne has written, and breathes through nearly all the poems and tales of Poe. Since his death it has fastened upon our younger authors, the ladies especially for instance, Alice Carey and Caroline Cheesebro, both of whose last books are decidedly unhealthy; the one regularly kills her characters at the end of the story, the other reduces them to mere abstractions in her metaphysical peine forte et dure. The tendency of this literature-we might call it the dyspeptic school-is to make its readers unhealthy and unhappy. It mercilessly exposes the depths and secrets of the heart, laying bare to the eyes of all what but few are strong enough to survey unharmed-the black gulfs and chasms of our spiritual nature. It confuses the boundaries of right and wrong, removes the ancient landmarks of faith and morality, and leagues itself with darkness generally, reversing the very life and mission of all literature and art, viz.: the promotion of joy and gladness, and undying faith in the good and beautiful. What we want is not darkness, but light; not thorns in our path, but roses, and everywhere dew and freshness. The literature which does not give us this, and does not make us happier and better is not true and good, but, in spite of its beauty and sublimity, false and pernicious. แ "By their fruits ye

shall know them."

For Poe-to come back to the subject again—let us finish this paper by a copy of verses which we wrote upon hearing of his death. Faulty they certainly are, but they say what should be said on such an occasion:

MISERRIMUS.

He has pass'd away

From a world of strife,

Fighting the wars of Time and Life;

The leaves will fall when the winds are loud,

L

He glimmer'd apart
In solemn gloom,

Like a dying lamp in a haunted tomb:
He touch'd his lute with a magic spell,
But all its melodies breathed of hell,
Raising the afrits and the ghouls,
And the pallid ghosts

Of the damned souls!

But he lies in dust,

And the stone is roll'd

Over his sepulcher dark and cold;
He has cancel'd all he has done, or said,
And gone to the dear and holy dead!
Let us forget the path he trod,
And leave him now,

With his Maker-God!

THE LIPS.

EIGH HUNT says, of those who have thin lips, and are not shrews or niggards-"I must give here as my firm opinion, founded on what I have observed, that lips become more or less contracted in the course of years, in proportion as they are accustomed to express good humor and generosity, or peevishness and a contracted mind. Remark the effect which a moment of ill-humor and grudgingness has upon the lips, and judge what may be expected from an habitual series of such moments. Remark the reverse, and make a similar judgment. The mouth is the frankest part of the face; it can the least conceal its sensations. We can hide neither il temper with it, nor good; we may affect what we please, but affectation will not help us. In a wrong cause it will only make our observers resent the endeavor to impose upon them. The mouth is the seat of one class of emotions, as the eyes are of another; or, rather, it expresses the same emotions but in greater detail, and with a more irrepressible tendency to be in motion. It is the region of smiles and dimples, and of trembling tenderness; of a sharp sorrow, of a full-breathing joy, of candor, of reserve, of a carking care, of a liberal sympathy. The mouth, out of its many sensibilities, may be fancied throwing up one great expression in the eyes-as

But he will never, ah never know

into the heavens. On the other hand, the eyes may be supposed the chief movers, influencing the smaller details of their companion, as heaven influences earth. The first cause is both internal and deep-seated."

HARSH WORDS are like hailstones in summer, which, if melted, would fertilize the tender plant they batter down.

and events, and the little quaint and quiet town of Chertsey could tell of the gorgeous and gloomy past as much as many of its ancient neighbors within a day's drive of London. Had its old abbey stones but tongues, how they could discourse of years when a visit to Chertsey was an undertaking, though now the distance is but half an hour.

Nowhere within twenty miles of London does the Thames appear more queenly, or sweep with greater grace through its fertile dominions, than it does at Chertsey. It is, indeed, delightful to stand on the bridge in the glowing sunset of a summer evening, and, turning from the refreshing green of the Shepperton Range, look into the deep clear blue of the flowing river, while the murmur of the waters rushing through Laleham Lock gives a sort of spirit-music to the scene. On the right, as you leave Chertsey, the river bends gracefully toward the double bridge of Walton; and to the left it undulates smoothly along, having passed Runnymede and Staines, while the almost conical hill of St. Anne's attracts attention by

SHRINES.

its abrupt and singular form when viewed

There is nowhere a more delightful road than that which leads from the "Golden Grove," rendered picturesque by its old tree-the plantations of Monksgrove on one side, and those of the once residence of Charles James Fox on the other. The road is perfectly embowered, and so close is the foliage that you have no idea of the beautiful view which awaits you until, leaving the statesman's house on the left, you pass through a sort of wicket gate on the right, and follow a foot-path to where two magnificent trees crown the hill. It is wisest to wait until, passing along the level ridge, you arrive at the "view-point," and there, spread around you, is such a panorama as England only can show, and show against the world for its extreme richness. On the left is Cooper's Hill, which Denham, that high-priest of "local poetry," long ago made famous; in the bend, just where it meets the plain, you see the towers of Windsor Castle; there is Harrow Hill, the sun shining brightly on its tall church; a deep pall hovers over London, but you can see the dome of St. Paul's looming through the mist; nay, we

have heard of those who have told the hour of the day upon its broad-faced clock with the assistance of a good glass. How beautifully the Thames winds! Ay! there is the grand stand at Epsom; and there Twickenham, delicious, soft, balmy Twickenham; and Richmond Hill-a very queen of beauty!

But we have not yet explored the beauties of this our own hill of Chertsey; truly, to do so would take a day as long as that of its own black-cherry fair.

A path to the left, among the fern and heather, leads to a well, famed for its healing properties-it is called the Nun's Well; even now, the peasants believe that its waters are a cure for diseases of the eye; the path is steep and dangerous, and it is far pleasanter to walk round the brow of the hill and overlook the dense wood which conceals the well, fringing the meadows of Thorpe, than to seek its tangled hidingplace in the dell. The monks of old would be sorely perplexed, if they could arise, to account for the long line of smoke which marks the passage of the different trains along their railroads. But we turn from them to enjoy a ramble round the brow of St. Anne's Hill; the coppice which clothes the descent into the valley is so thick, that, though it is intersected by many paths, you might lose yourself halfa-dozen times within an hour; if it be evening, the nightingales in the thickets of Monksgrove have commenced their chorus, and the town of Chertsey, down below, is seen to its full extent, its church tower toned into beauty by the rich light of the setting sun, while through the trees and holly thickets you obtain glimpses of the Guildford and Leatherhead hills, so softly blue that they meet and mingle with the sky.

Those who feel no interest in monkish chronicles may reverence St. Anne's Hill, because of its having been the favorite residence of Charles James Fox, the cotemporary of Pitt and Burke and Sheridan and Grattan, at a period when men felt strongly and spoke eloquently. The site of the house, on the south-eastern side of the hill, is extremely beautiful, and it is much regretted in the neighborhood that it finds so little favor in the heart of its present noble proprietor. The grounds are laid out with much taste; there is a noble cedar, planted by Mrs. Fox when only the size of a wand. The statesman's

widow survived her husband more than thirty-six years, but never outlived her friends or her faculties. There is a temple dedicated to Friendship, which was erected to perpetuate the coming of age of one of the late Lords Holland; on a pedestal, ornamented by a vase, are inscribed some verses by General Fitzpatrick; another, placed by Mrs. Fox to mark a favorite spot where Mr. Fox loved to muse, is enriched by a quotation from the "Flower and the Leaf," concluded by two graceful stanzas :

"Cheerful in this sequester'd bower,

From all the storms of life removed, Here Fox enjoy'd his evening hour,

In converse with the friends he loved. And here these lines he oft would quote, Pleased, from his favorite poet's lay; When challenged by the warbler's note,

That breathed a song from every spray."

At St. Anne's Hill he enjoyed as many intervals of repose and tranquillity as could fall to a statesman's lot; in the time of wars and tumults, how he must have luxuriated in its delicious quiet, surrounded by friends who dearly loved him, and swayed only for good by the wife who, (although it is known that her early intimacy with him was such as prevented her general recognition in society,) according to the evidence of all who knew her, was the minister only to his better thoughts and nobler ambitions, and who weaned him from nearly all the follies and vices which stained his youth and earlier manhood. Various causes led to his death, before age had added infirmities to disease. He died at Chiswick House, and his last words, addressed to Mrs. Fox, were, "I die happy.' ." It is said he wished to be buried at Chertsey, but his remains were interred in Westminster Abbey.

There is an imaginary pleasure in turning from the wearing-out turmoil of a statesman's life, to what the world believes the tranquil dreams of a poet's existence; but there are few things the worldling so little understands as literary industry, or so little sympathizes with as literary care. We have no inclination to overrate either its toils or its pleasures, and perhaps no life is more abundantly supplied with both. Its toils must be evident to any who have noted the increasing literary labor which is necessary to produce the ordinary sources of comforts, but its high and holy enjoyments are not so apparent;

they are so different from those of almost all others as not to be easily explained or understood; but above all other gifts, the marvelous gift of poesy is a distinction conferred by the Almighty, and should be acknowledged and treasured as such. We know little of a poet's studies except by their imperishable produce, and it is a common but ill-founded prejudice to imagine regularity or diligence incompatible with high genius. Genius is neither above law, nor opposed to it; but as many have a poetic taste and temperament without the inspiration, the world is apt to mistake the eccentricity of the pretender for the outward and visible sign of genius. Whether or not the poet of the Porch-house of Chertsey had the actual poetic fire, we do not venture to determine. Abraham Cowley takes a prominent position among the poets of our land; and the eventful times in which he lived, and his participation in their tumults, give him additional interest in all the relations of his anxious and not over-happy life. It is recorded of him that he became a poet in consequence of reading the Faerie Queene, which chance threw in his way while yet a child. In allusion to this, Dr. Johnson gave his wellknown definition of genius: "A mind of large general powers, accidentally determined to some particular direction." We had almost dared to say this is rather the definition of a philosopher than of one who comprehended the spirituality of a marvelous gift.

COWLEY.

Abraham Cowley, the posthumous son of a London grocer, owed much to his mother. She, by her exertions, procured him a classical education at Westminster

school.

She lived to see him loved, honored, and great; and, what was better still, and more uncommon, grateful. At the age of fifteen he published a volume called "Poetic Blossoms," which he afterward described as "commendable extravagancies in a boy." He obtained a scholarship in Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1636, and there took his degree; but was ejected by the Parliament, and thence removed to Oxford. Shortly after he followed the queen (Henrietta) to Paris, as secretary to the Earl of St. Albans, and was employed in the court of the exiles in the most confidential capacity. In 1656 he returned to England, and was immediately arrested as a suspected spy. He submitted quietly-the royalists thought too quietly-to the dominion of the Protector, but his whole life proved that he was no traitor. At the Restoration, that great national disappointment, his claims upon the ungrateful monarch were met by a taunt and a false insinuation-he was told that his pardon was his reward! Wood said, "He lost his place by certain enemies of the Muses;" certain "friends of the Muses," however, procured for him the lease of the Porch-house and farm at Chertsey, held under the queen, and the great desire of his life-solitude-was obtained.

66

The place still seems a meet dwelling for a poet. The porch, which caused his residence to be called "The Porch-house," was taken down during the last century by the father of its present proprietor, the Rev. John Crosby Clarke, and the house is now known as Cowley House."* It is situated near the bridge which crosses a narrow and rapid stream, in a lonely part of Guildford-street; a latticed window, which overhangs the road, is the window of the room in which the poet expired; on the outside wall Mr. Clarke has recorded his reason for removing the porch. "The porch of this house, which projected ten feet into the highway, was taken down in

The large outer porch of Cowley's house had chambers above it, and beneath the window in front a tablet was affixed, upon which was inscribed the epitaph "upon the living author" which Cowley had written for himself whilst living in retirement here, commencing

"Hic, O Viator, sub lare parvulo,
Couleius hic est conditus hic jacet."

It is represented in its original condition in the two views we have engraved.

The appearance of the house from Guildford-street is no index to its size or conveniences.* You enter by a side gate, and the new front of the dwelling is that of a comfortable and gentlemanly home; the old part, it is said, was built in the reign of James the First, and what remains is sufficiently quaint to bear out the legend; the old and new are much mingled, and the modern part consists of one or two bed-rooms, a large diningroom, and a drawing-room, commanding a delicious garden view, the meanderings of the stream, and a long tract of luxuriant meadows, terminated by the high and richly-timbered ground of St. Anne's Hill. A portion of the old stairway is preserved; the wood is not, as has been stated, oak, but sweet chestnut. One of the rooms is paneled with oak, and Cowley's study is a small closet-like chamber, the window looking toward St. Anne's Hill. It is never difficult to imagine a poet in a small chamber, particularly when his mind may imbibe inspiration from so rich and lovely a landscape. Besides the group of trees, beneath whose shadow the poet frequently sat, there is a horse-chestnut of such exceeding size and beauty that it is worthy of pilgrimage, and no lover of nature could look upon it without mingled feelings of reverence and affection.

Here, then, amid such tranquil scenes

Some additional rooms have been added to

the house by the same occupant, who has, however, religiously preserved all the old rooms, which still exhibit the "fittings" that existed in Cowley's time. The bed-chambers are wainscoted with oaken panels. The staircase is a very solid structure, with ornamental balusters, leading toward the small study in which the poet wrote,-a little back room, about five feet wide, looking upon the garden. It may be distinguished in our back view of the house by a figure placed at the window. Cowley ended his life in this house at the early age of forty

nine.

STAIRCASE COWLEY'S HOUSE.

poets and men of letters of his troubled day, who found the disappointments of courtly life more than their philosophy could endure. Here his friendly biographer, Doctor Spratt, cheered his lonely hours.

Cowley was one of those fortunate bards who obtain fame and honor during life. His learning was deep, his reading extensive, his acquaintance with mankind large. "To him," says Denham in his famous elegy,

"To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own."

His biographer adds, "There was nothing affected or singular in his habit, or person, or gesture; he understood the forms of good breeding enough to practice them without burdening himself or others." This, indeed, is the perfection of good breeding and good sense.