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tures, in the centre of which upon a gentle elevation stood ranges of low but extensive buildings, which I needed not my uncle's exclamations to assure me were the dwelling of Onias. A few lofty palms, and a single terebinth of a great size were the only trees immediately near it, as, except that for a considerable space in every direction there stretched out a smooth and verdant floor of turf, the grounds on all sides were usefully devoted to gardens and vineyards. Over and beyond the fields and buildings of the prince of these regions,' were visible the walls and towers of Beth-Harem, giving me to see that while it was not a place of the largest size, neither was it insignificant either for its extent, or the structures, whose outlines could be distinctly discerned, gilded as they now were with the last warm rays of the declining sun. Quickening our pace, we soon threaded the winding way which led from the public road to the house. As we rapidly approached, Judith, followed by her maids, hastened to meet us. Onias, springing from his horse, tenderly embraced and kissed her, asking a thousand questions of her welfare, and of that of all the household. Then, turning to me, he said, and here is thy half-gentile cousin of Rome, with his gentile name, Julian, the son of Naomi; he is now thy charge. Let him have no reason to say, that the barns and store-houses of Onias resused to open for him their best treasures.' · For his mother's sake, and his own,' replied the daughter, he is welcome; his Roman name shall not deprive him of Jewish hospitality.' Onias then leading the way, we entered the house.
“ The refreshment of the bath, in which, and in other forms of washing, the Jews of Palestine indulge yet more than we of Rome, soon restored me to myself after the heat and fatigue of our long journey. The household of Onias I soon found to be numerous; composed, however, not of his own descendants, as Judith is his only child, — but of members of our large family from every part of the world, where he gathers round him, even as a patriarch of old, exercising over them a sort of lower providence. When we had eaten, we ascended to the spacious roof, to pass the evening hours. A broad tent was here spread to defend from the dews which at this time of the year begin to fall, and from the cool breezes which sometimes spring up in the night, even after the day has been oppressive through its heat. Here we either sat and conversed, or else walking about, I learned from the mouth of Judith the names and di
rections of the principal objects in the scene, being lighted up by a brighter moon than it is ever our fortune to behold in Rome.
“ Onias seemed little disposed to join our discourse, yet, whatever was his preference for a close communion with himself alone, he never refused to lend his ear when Judith spoke. We had been talking of Rome, Cæsarea, Philip and Anna, of Pilate and Herod, to all which Onias had given but little attention, when Judith turned to him, and said ;
“I hope, father, that now these long expeditions will cease; or if they must still be undertaken, that you will be persuaded to send our new cousin in thy stead, who has not as yet seen that region. But what of so great moment can a vine-dresser, here on the banks of the Jordan, have to do with princes ? '
My daughter,' replied Onias, seek not to know what may not be revealed; at least, not as yet, nor to woman's Let this suffice thee, - that the vine-dresser of Beth-Harem is not leagued with princes for any end which his daughter could not approve, or Jehovah smile upon.'
Judith, who had evidently spoken in a sportful manner, seemed grieved by the grave reply of her father, and hastened to say, that she doubted not her father; yet, could she not but apprehend possible evil, when he was departing so far from his wonted manner of life, and binding himself to associates so different from his former ones, as Herod of Galilee. “Onias rose and walked to and fro upon the roof.
Presently he asked if any had been impatient to see him while absent. Judith replied, none, save a messenger from Machærus. Had he brought letters ? asked Onias. No; his communication must be with Onias himself.
“ He, then, kissing his daughter, and commending her to her bed, and me early repose after the toil of our journey, descended to his apartment; we following him, and resorting also to ours.
30 s. VOL. X. NO. II.
Art. IX. — Voices of The Night. By HENRY WADS
WORTH LONGFELLOW. Cambridge: 1839. There is a period in the life of most men, when they are addicted, with more or less earnestness, to what is called wooing the muse. In our condition of society, this task is commonly begun and ended in about the same space of time, that is alloted to wooing of a less ethereal kind; or, in general, between the age of sixteen and the important period of twentyone. Then, it is admitted to be necessary for the temporary bard to lay aside such vanities, and stretch to his oar on the perilous voyage before him. Strange thoughts, we imagine, must occasionally spring up in the mind of the veteran lawyer or the prosperous merchant of threescore, when either, in a moment of leisure from the importunate claims of invoices or briefs, accidentally lays his hand on one of the desperately ardent outpourings of his youthful inspiration ; into the feelings of which neither could now more easily enter, than he could interpret the characters on the Dighton Rock. Poetry has as little chance to be heard amidst these stern realities of life, as a whisper in the din of a cotton factory. But there is, nevertheless, here and there an individual, very happily born or circumstanced, in whom the fire continues to burn, after its first wild blaze has gone down; and of this fortunate class, and high in its scale, is Mr. Longfellow. He has been for some years very favorably known to the public, not by any poetical work of great extent or labor ; but by productions of taste and talent, indicating little ambition for display, but rich with all the promise which a delicate observation of nature, polished versification, and pure and elevated thought can give.
Apart from the merits which most commonly attract attention, one of the characteristics of the poetry of Mr. Longfellow, is its tone of sincerity and manliness. Some may regard this as faint praise; but if the end of the art be to improve and elevate as well as please, it should surely be regarded as the greatest praise of all. When it was said of old, that only a good man could be an orator, it was doubtless meant, that as the mouth speaketh out of the abundance of the heart, all noble sentiments must fall powerless from the lips of the unprincipled and base; not simply because the audience would be struck with the difference between an elevated thought and the character of him who uttered it, but because he could not utter it with the warm, glowing, manly confidence of truth. Let any one reflect to what extent the opposite quality has prevailed of late, and he will be satisfied that we do not overvalue this sincerity, in calling it one of the brightest jewels in the diadem of a distinguished writer. Young men, whose knowledge of life is scarcely equal to that which an India merchant has of the interior of China, put on the beautiful garments of rhyme, and harangue with the majesty of King Solomon, on the vanity of earthly things ; there is a desperate calmness on their brow, but all within is weariness and sorrow;
affections have all run to waste ; they have no longer any sympathies with the living herd around them, and are doomed to wander during the remainder of their pilgrimage, in solitary sadness. Young ladies are struck with awe at this dark and alarming experience of nineteen, and wonder at the genius that sets it forth so solemnly and so well. They, too, have their no less sad experiences; their literary effusions are very apt to be tinctured by a deep and tender melancholy, which might befit an anchorite, “ wearing out life's evening gray ” in pensive solitude. Presently, however, the despised world summons them to the discharge of its stern duties, and the voice of poetic wailing is soon as still as the notes of the piano-forte a few years after marriage. Like the accomplishments of modern education, the poetical garment is thrown aside as a parade dress, by no means suited to the fatigue duty of life. The error of all this is, that it is wholly unnatural, it is as if Aladdin, on entering the cavern of gold and jewels, should lament its want of brilliancy, or the traveller complain of barrenness in the rich and bending harvests between Beersheba and Dan. But it is not without the authority and example of one, whose genius was of a cast, that required no such aid to make it shine gloriously among the lights of the world. Lord Byron was, like Hamlet, the glass of fashion and the mould of form ; but, in his poetical character, the want of sincerity and manliness was his too easily besetting sin; and while the fancy painted him as a man of deep and awful mystery, he was, peradventure, boxing, or drinking from a skull with his riotous companions at Newstead, idling with Captain Medwin, or playing with the tangles of Neæra's hair in Italy. To the valet de chambre, it is nearly as hard to be a poet as a hero. We now see that this man of melancholy, filled with utter contempt of the world and all that is therein, was nearly as anxious as the well known African potentate to learn what was said of him in England. Very different were the feelings with which he, and another, whose sufferings were never meant for show, looked at the great Babel through the loop-hole of retreat. From the one, the young can learn no generous purpose, no spirit for the stern battle with evil, nothing of that high and holy enthusiasm, which forgets self, and lifts the soul above all low ambition, and all sordid things; but is rather filled with shame and sorrow, that a being, with powers like those of angels, should employ them for any purpose but that for which they were given by their author. Cowper's poetry, on the other hand, was the living portrait of his own heart; as lofty and inspiring, as it was earnest and sincere; its elevation was the consequence of its unaffected truth. We trust that this quality will become more fashionable than it has been; poets will certainly do well to cultivate it, if it can animate them with the same spirit that breathes through these lines of Mr. Longfellow.
“A PSALM OF LIFE.
" What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist.
Life is but an empty dream !
And things are not what they seem.
- Life is real ! life is earnest;
And the grave is not its goal ;
Was not spoken of the soul.
“ Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
Find us farther than to-day.
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the bivouac of life,