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in idiocy, or rolled about unobserving of all land maidens that danced on the greenswards objects living or dead. To him all weather among the blooming heather on the mountains seemed the same, and if suffered, he would of Glenetive-who so fair as Flora, the only have lain down like a creature void of under- daughter of the King's Forester, and grandstanding, in rain or on snow, nor been able to child to the Bard famous for his songs of Faifind his way back for many paces from the hut. ries in the Hill of Peace, and the MermaidAs all thought and feeling had left him, so had Queen in her Palace of Emerald floating far speech, all but a moaning as of pain or wo, down beneath the foam-waves of the sea ? which none but a mother could bear to hear And who, among all the Highland youth that without shuddering—but she heard it during went abroad to the bloody wars from the base night as well as day, and only sometimes lifted of Benevis, to compare with Ranald of the Redup her eyes as in prayer to God. An offer was Cliff, whose sires had been soldiers for centu. made to send him to a place where the afflicted ries, in the days of the dagger and Lochaber were taken care of; but she beseeched charity axe-stately in his strength amid the battle as for the first time for such alms as would enable the oak in a storm, but gentle in peace as the her, along with the earnings of her wheel, to birch-tree, that whispers with all its leaves to keep her son in the shieling; and the means the slightest summer-breath? If their love was were given her from many quarters to do so great when often fed at the light of each other's decently, and with all the comforts that other eyes, what was it when Ranald was far off eyes observed, but of which the poor object him- among the sands of Egypt, and Flora left an self was insensible and unconscious. Hence- orphan to pine away in her native glen ? Be. forth, it may almost be said, she never more neath the shadow of the Pyramids he dreamt saw the sun, nor heard the torrents roar. She of Dalness and the deer forest, that was the went not to the kirk, but kept her Sabbath dwelling of his love-and she, as she stood by where the paralytic lay-and there she sung the murmurs of that sea-loch, longed for the the lonely psalm, and said the lonely prayer, wings of the osprey, that she might flee away unheard in Heaven as many repining spirits to the war-tents beyond the ocean, and be at would have thought-but it was not so; for in rest! two years there came a meaning to his eyes, But years—a few years—long and lingering and he found a few words of imperfect speech, as they might seem to loving hearts separated among which was that of “ Mother.” Oh! how by the roar of seas-yet all too, too short when her heart burned within her, to know that her 'tis thought how small a number lead from the face was at last recognised! To feel that her cradle to the grave-brought Ranald and Flora kiss was returned, and to see the first tear that once more into each other's arms. Alas! for trickled from eyes that long had ceased to the poor soldier! for never more was he to weep! Day after day, the darkness that co- behold that face from which he kissed the vered his brain grew less and less deep-to trickling tears. Like many another gallant her that bewilderment gave the blessedness of youth, he had lost his eyesight from the sharp hope; for her son now knew that he had an burning sand--and was led to the shieling of immortal soul, and in the evening joined faintly his love like a wandering mendicant who and feebly and erringly in prayer. For weeks obeys the hand of a child. Nor did his face afterwards he remembered only events and bear that smile of resignation usually so affectscenes long past and distant--and believed ing on the calm countenances of the blind. that his father, and all his brothers and sisters, Seldom did he speak-and his sighs were were yet alive. He called upon them by their deeper, longer, and more disturbed than those names to come and kiss him on them, who which almost any sorrow ever wrings from had all long been buried in the dust. But his the young. Could it be that he groaned in soul struggled itself into reason and remem- remorse over some secret crime? brance--and he at last said, “Mother! did some Happy—completely happy, would Flora have accident befall me yesterday at my work down been to have tended him like a sister all his the glen ?-I feel weak, and about to die!" The dark life long, or, like a daughter, to have sat shadows of death were indeed around him; but beside the bed of one whose hair was getting he lived to be told much of what had hap- fast gray, long before its time. Almost all her pened-and rendered up a perfectly unclouded relations were dead, and almost all her friends spirit into the mercy of his Saviour. His away to other glens. But he had returned, mother felt that all her prayers had been and blindness, for which there was no hope, granted in that one boon--and, when the coffin must bind his steps for ever within little room. was borne away from the shieling, she re- But they had been betrothed almost from her mained in it with a friend, assured that in this childhood, and would she-if he desired itworld there could for her be no more grief. fear to become his wife now, shrouded as he And there in that same shieling, now that years was, now and for ever in the helpless dark ? have gone by, she still lingers, visited as often From his lips, however, her maidenly modesty as she wishes by her poor neighbours-for to required that the words should come, the poor sorrow is a sacred thing-who, by could she sometimes help wondering, in halfturns, send one of their daughters to stay with upbraiding sorrow, that Ranald joyed not in her, and cheer a life that cannot be long, but his great affliction to claim her for his wife. that, end when it may, will be laid down with Poor were they to be suremyet not so poor as out one impious misgiving, and in the humility to leave life without its comforts; and in every of a Christian's faith.
glen of her native Highlands, were there nc The scene shifts of itself, and we are at the worthy families far poorer than they? Bu: head of Glenetive. Who among all the High- / weeks, months, passed on, and Ranaldra
mained in a neighbouring hut, shunning the same vision yawned before him-an open sunshine, and moaning, it was said, when he grave in the corner of the hill burial-ground thought none were near, both night and day. without any kirk. Sometimes he had been overheard muttering Flora knew that his days were indeed numto himself lamentable words-and, blind as his bered; for when had he ever been afraid of eyes were to all the objects of the real world, death-and could his spirit have quailed thus it was rumoured up and down the glen, that under a mere common dream? Soon was she he saw visions of woful events about to befall to be all alone in this world ; yet when Ranald one whom he loved.
should die, she felt that her own days would One midnight he found his way, unguided, not be many, and there was sudden and strong like a man walking in his sleep--but although comfort in the belief that they would be buried in a hideous trance, he was yet broad awake-- in one grave. to the hut where Flora dwelt, and called on Such were her words to the dying man; and her, in a dirge-like voice, to speak a few words all at once he took her in his arms, and asked with him ere he died. They sat down together her “ If she had no fears of the narrow house?” among the heather, on the very spot where the His whole nature seemed to undergo a change farewell einbrace had been given the morning under the calm voice of her reply; and he he went away to the wars; and Flora's heart said, “ Dost thou fear not then, my Flora, to died within her, when he told her that the hear the words of doom ?” “Blessed will they Curse under which his forefathers had suffer- be, if in death we be not disunited.” “ Thou ed, had fallen upon him; and that he had seen too, my wife--for my wife thou now art on his wraith pass by in a shroud, and heard a earth, and mayest be so in heaven-thou too, voice whisper the very day he was to die. Flora, wert seen shrouded in that apparition.”
And was it Ranald of the Red-Cliff, the It was a gentle and gracious summer nightbravest of the brave, that thus shuddered in so clear, that the shepherds on the hills were he fear of death like a felon at the tolling of scarcely sensible of the morning's dawn. And he great prison-bell? Ay, death is dreadful there, at earliest daylight, were Ranald and when foreseen by a ghastly superstition. He Flora found, on the greensward, among the tall felt the shroud already bound round his limbs heather, lying side by side, with their calm and body with gentle folds, beyond the power faces up to heaven, and never more to smile of a giant to burst; and day and night the or weep in this mortal world.
AN HOUR’S TALK ABOUT POETRY.
Ours is a poetical age; but has it produced | --hold up the product of his loom between one Great Poem? Not one.
your eye and the light, and it glows and glimJust look at them for a moment. There is mers like the peacock's back or the breast of the Pleasures of Memory--an elegant, grace the rainbow. Sometimes it seems to be but ful, beautiful, pensive, and pathetic poem, of the “ hodden gray;" when sunbeam which it does one's eyes good to gaze on-shadow smites it, and lo! it is burnished like one's ears good to listen to-one's very fingers the regal purple. But did the Boroughmonger good to touch, so smooth is the versification ever produce a Great Poem? You might as and the wire-wove paper.
Never will the well ask if he built St. Paul's. Pleasures of Memory be forgotten till the Breathes not the man with a more poetical world is in its dotage. But is it a Great temperament than Bowles. No wonder that Poem ? About as much so as an ant-hill, his old eyes are still so lustrous; for they prettily grass-grown and leaf-strewn, is a moun possess the sacred gift of beautifying creation, tain purple with heather and golden with woods. by shedding over it the charm of melancholy. It is a symmetrical erection in the shape of " Pleasant but mournful to the soul is the mea cone--and the apex points heavenwards; mory of joys that are past”--is the text we but 'tis not a sky-piercer. You take it at a should choose were we about to preach on his nop--and pursue your journey. Yet it en- genius. No vain repinings, no idle regrets, dures. For the rains and the dews, and the does his spirit now breathe over the still reairs, and the sunshine, love the fairy knoll, ceding Past. But time-sanctified are all the and there it greens and blossoms delicately and shows that arise before his pensive imagina. delightfully; you hardly know whether a work tion; and the common light of day, once gone, of art or a work of nature.
in his poetry seems to shine as if it had all Then, there is the poetry of Crabbe. We been dying sunset or moonlight, or the newhear it is not very popular. If so, then neither born dawn. His human sensibilities are so is human life. For of all our poets, he' has fine as to be in themselves poetical; and his most skilfully woven the web and woven the poetical aspirations so delicate as to be felt woof of all his compositions with the materials always human. Hence his Sonnets have been of human life-homespun indeed; but though dear to poets--haying in them “more than often coarse, always strong and though set meets the ear”---spiritual reathings that hang lo plain patterns, yet not unfrequently exceed- around the words like light around fair flowers; ing fine is the old weaver's workmanship. Ay and hence, too, have they been beloved by ají natural hearts who, having not the “faculty hymn-and now it dies away elegiac-like, as divine,” have yet the “vision”-that is, the if mourning over a tomb. Vague, indefinite, power of seeing and of hearing the sights and uncertain, dream-like, and visionary all; but the sounds which genius alone can awaken, never else than beautiful; and ever and anon, bringing them from afar out of the dust and we know not why, sublime. It ceases in the dimness of evanishment.
hush of night-and we awaken as if from a Mr. Bowles has been a poet for good fifty dream. Is it not even so ?-In his youth years; and if his genius do not burn quite so Campbell lived where “distant isles could bright as it did some lustres bygone--yet we hear the loud Corbrechtan roar;" and somedo not say there is any abatement even of its times his poetry is like that whirlpool-the brightness: it shines with a mellower and sound as of the wheels of many chariots. Yes, also with a more cheerful light. Long ago, he happy was it for him that he had liberty to was perhaps rather too pensive-too melan- roam along the many-based, hollow-rumbling choly--too pathetic—too wo-begone-in too western coast of that unaccountable county great bereavement. Like the nightingale, he Argyleshire. The sea-roar cultivated his natusung with a thorn at his breast-from which rally fine musical ear, and it sank too into his one wondered the point had not been broken heart. Hence is his prime Poem bright with off by perpetual pressure. Yet, though rather hope as is the sunny sea when sailor's sweetmonotonous, his strains were most musical as hearts on the shore are looking out for ships; well as melancholy; feeling was often re- and from a foreign station down comes the lieved by fancy; and one dreamed, in listening fleet before the wind, and the very shells beto his elegies, and hymns, and sonnets, of neath their footsteps seem to sing for joy. As moonlit rivers flowing through hoary woods, for Gertrude of Wyoming, we love her as if and of the yellow sands of dim-imaged seas she were our own only daughter-filling our murmuring round" the shores of old Ro- life with bliss, and then leaving it desolate. mance.” A fine enthusiasm too was his—in Even now we see her ghost gliding through those youthful years—inspired by the poetry those giant woods! As for Lochiel's Warnof Greece and Rome; and in some of his hap-ing, there was heard the voice of the Last of piest inspirations there was a delightful and the Seers. The Second Sight is now extinoriginal union--to be found nowhere else that guished in the Highland glooms-the Lament we can remember of the spirit of that an- wails no more, cient song—the pure classical spirit that mur- “That man may not hide what God would reveal!" mured by the banks of the Eurotas and Ilissus The Navy owes much to “ Ye mariners of with that of our own poetry, that like a noble England.” Sheer hulks often seemed ships Naiad dwells in the “clear well of English un- till that strain arose—but ever since in our defiled.” In almost all his strains you felt the imagination have they brightened the roaring scholar; but his was no affected or pedantic ocean. And dare we say, after that, that Campscholarship-intrusive most when least re- bell has never written a Great Poem? Yes-quired; but the growth of a consummate clas- in the face even of the Metropolitan ! sical education, of which the career was not It was said many long years ago in the inglorious among the towers of Oxford. Bowles Edinburgh Review, that none but maudlin was a pupil of the Wartons-Joe and Tom- milliners and sentimental ensigns supposed God bless their souls !--and his name may be that James Montgomery was a poet. Then is joined, not unworthily, with theirs and with Maga a maudlin milliner-and Christopher Mason's, and Gray's, and Collins's--academics North a sentimental ensign. We once called all; the works of them all showing a delicate Montgomery a Moravian; and though he as. and exquisite colouring of classical art, enrich- sures us that we were mistaken, yet having ing their own English nature. Bowles's muse is made an assertion, we always stick to it, and always loath to forget--wherever she roam or therefore he must remain a Moravian, if not in linger-Winchester and Oxford—the Itchin his own belief, yet in ours. Of all religious and the Isis. None educated in those delight-sects, the Moravians are the most simpleful and divine haunts will ever forget them, minded, pure-hearted, and high-souled-and who can read Homer and Pindar, and Sopho- these qualities shine serenely in the Pelican cles, and Theocritus, and Bion, and Moschus, Island. In earnestness and fervour, that poem in the original; Rhedicyna's ungrateful or is hy few or none excelled; it is embalmed in renegade sons are those alone who pursued sincerity, and therefore shall fade not away; their poetical studies--in translations. They neither shall it moulder-not even although never knew the nature of the true old Greek exposed to the air, and blow the air ever so are.
rudely through time's mutations. Not that it But has Bowles written a Great Poem? If is a mummy. Say rather a fair form laid he has, publish it, and we shall make him a asleep in immortality--its face wearing, day Bishop.
and night, summer and winter, look at it when What shall we say of the Pleasures of you will, a saintly--a celestial smile. That is Hope ? That the harp from which that music a true image; but is the Pelican Island a Great breathed, was an Æolian harp placed in the Poem? We pause not for a reply. window of a high hall, to catch airs from Lyrical Poetry,we opine, hath many branches heaven when heaven was glad, as well she -and one of them “beautiful exceedingly” might be with such moon and such stars, and with bud, blossom, and fruit of balm and brightstreamering half the region with a magnificent ness, round which is ever heard the murmur aurora borealis. Now the music deepens into of bees and of birds, hangs trailingly along a majestic march—now it swells into a holy the mossy greensward when the air is calm,
and ever and anon, when blow the fitful breezes, What has been the result? Seven volumes it is uplifted in the sunshine, and glows wav- (oh! why not seven more?) of poetry, as ingly aloft, as if it belonged even to the loftiest beautiful as ever charmed the ears of Pan and region of the Tree which is Amaranth. That of Apollo. The earth-the middle air--the sky is a fanciful, perhaps foolish form of expres- the heaven-the heart, mind, and soul of sion, employed at present to signify Song-writ-man-are “the-haunt and main region of his ing. Now, of all the song-writers that ever song.” In describing external nature as she is, warbled, or chanted, or sung, the best, in our no poet perhaps has excelled Wordsworthestimation, is verily none other than Thomas not even Thomson; in embuing her and makMoore. True that Robert Burns has indited ing her pregnant with spiritualities, till the many songs that slip into the heart, just like mighty mother teems with “beauty far more light, no one knows how, filling its chambers beauteous” than she had ever rejoiced in till sweetly and silently, and leaving it nothing such communion-he excels all the brothermore to desire for perfect contentment. Or hood.
Or hood. Therein lies his special glory, and let us say, sometimes when he sings, it is like therein the immortal evidences of the might listening to a linnet in the broom, a blackbird of his creative imagination. All men at times in the brake, a laverock in the sky. They sing “muse on nature with a poet's eye,”—but in the fulness of their joy, as nature teaches Wordsworth ever-and his soul has grown them-and so did he; and the man, woman, or more and more religious from such worship. child, who is delighted not with such singing, Every rock is an altar-every grove a shrine. be their virtues what they may, must never We fear that there will be sectarians even in hope to be in Heaven. Gracious Providence this Natural Religion till the end of time. placed Burns in the midst of the sources of But he is the High Priest of Nature—or, to use Lyrical Poetry-when he was born a Scottish his own words, or nearly so, he is the High peasant. Now, Moore is an Irishman, and Priest “in the metropolitan temple built in the was born in Dublin. Moore is a Greek scholar, heart of mighty poets.” But has he-even he and translated after a fashion-Anacreon. -ever written a Great Poem? If he has-it And Moore has lived much in towns and cities is not the Excursion. Nay, the Excursion is --and in that society whch will'suffer none not a Poem. It is a Series of Poems, all else to be called good. Some advantages he swimming in the light of poetry; some of has enjoyed which Burns never did--but then them sweet and simple, some elegant and how many disadvantages has he undergone, graceful, some beautiful and most lovely, some from which the Ayrshire Ploughman, in the of “strength and state, some majestic, some bondage of his poverty, was free! You see magnificent, some sublime. But though it all that at a single glance into their poetry. has an opening, it has no beginning; you can But all in humble life is not high-all in high discover the middle only by the numerals on life is not low; and there is as much to guard the page ; and the most serious apprehensions against in hovel as in hall-in “auld clay have been very generally entertained that it bigging'' as in marble palace. Burns some has no end. While Pedlar, Poet, and Solitary times wrote like a mere boor-Moore has too breathe the vital air, may the Excursion, stop often written like a mere man of fashion. But where it will, be renewed ; and as in its pretake them both at their best and both are ini- sent shape it comprehends but a Three Days' mitable. Both are national poets—and who Walk, we have but to think of an Excursion ::hall say, that if Moore had been born and of three weeks, three months, or three years, bred a peasant, as Burns was, and if Ireland to have some idea of Eternity. Then the life had been such a land of knowledge, and virtue, of man is not always limited to the term of and religion as Scotland is—and surely, with threescore and ten years. What a Journal out offence, we may say that it never was, and might it prove at last! Poetry in profusion never will bethough we love the Green till the land overflowed; but whether in one Island well—that with his fine fancy, warm volume, as now, or in fifty, in future, not a heart, and exquisite sensibilities, he might not Great Poem-nay, not a Poem at all-nor ever have been as natural a lyrist as Burns; while, to be so esteemed, till the principles on which take him as he is, who can deny that in rich- Great Poets build the lofty rhyme are exploded, ness, in variety, in grace, and in the power of and the very names of Art and Science smoth. art, he is superior to the ploughman. Of Lal- ered and lost in the bosom of Nature from lah Rookh and the Loves of the Angels, we which they arose. defy you to read a page without admiration; Let the dullest clod that ever vegetated, probut the question recurs, and it is easily an- vided only he be alive and hear, be shut
in swered, we need not say in the negative, did a room with Coleridge, or in a wood, and sub Moore ever write a Great Poem ?
jected for a few minutes to the ethereal influ. Let us make a tour of the Lakes. Rydalence of that wonderful man's monologue, and Mount! Wordsworth! The Bard! Here is he will begin to believe himself a Poet. The the man who has devoted his whole life to barren wilderness may not blossom like the poetry. It is his profession. He is a poet rose, but it will seem, or rather feel to do so, unjust as his brother is a clergyman. He is the der the lustre of an imagination exhaustless as Ilead of the Lake School, just as his brother the sun. You may have seen perhaps rocks is Master of Trinity. Nothing in this life and suddenly so glorified by sunlight with colours in this world has he had to do, beneath sun, manifold, that the bees seek them, deluded by moori and stars, but
the show of flowers. The sun, you know, does
not always show his orb even in the daytime " To murmur by the living brooks A music sweeter than their own."
and people are often ignorant of his place in
Whatever stirs this mortal frame
And feed his sacred flame!'
the firmament. But he keeps shining away at on "honey-dew," and by lips that have “breathhis leisure, as you would know were he to suf-ed the air of Paradise," and learned a seraphic fer eclipse. Perhaps he--the sun is at no language, which, all ihe while that it is Éngother time a more delightful luminary than lish, is as grand as Greek and as soft as when he is pleased to dispense his influence Italian. We only know this, that Coleridge is through a general haze, or mist--softening all the alchymist that in his crucible melts down the day till meridian is almost like the after-hours to moments and lo! diamonds sprinkled noon, and the grove, anticipating gloaming, on a plate of gold. bursts into “ dance and minstrelsy” ere the god What a world would this be were all its ingo down into the sea. Clouds too become him habitants to fiddle like Paganini, ride like Duwell-whether thin and fleecy and braided, or crow, discourse like Coleridge, and do every piled up all round about him castle-wise and thing else in a style of equal perfection! But cathedral-fashion, to say nothing of temples and pray, how does a man write poetry with a pen other metropolitan structures; nor is it rea- upon paper, who thus is perpetually pouring sonable to find fault with him, when, as naked it from his inspired lips? Read the Ancient as the hour he was born,“ he flames on the Mariner, the Nightingale, and Genevieve. In forehead of the morning sky.” The grandeur the first, you shudder at the superstition of the too of his appearance on setting, has become seam-in the second, you thrill with the meloquite proverbial. Now in all this he resem- dies of the woods--in the third; earth is like bles Coleridge. It is easy to talk--not very heaven ;-for you are made to feel that difficult to speechify-hard to speak; but to
“ All thoughts, all passions, all delights, "discourse” is a gift rarely bestowed by Heaven on mortal man. Coleridge has it in perfection. While he is discoursing, the world loses all its commonplaces, and you and your Has Coleridge, then, ever written a Great wife imagine yourself Adam and Eve listening Poem ? No; for besides the Regions of the to the affable archangel Raphael in the Gar- Fair, the Wild, and the Wonderful, there is den of Eden. You would no more dream of another up to which his wing might not soar; wishing him to be mute for awhile, than you though the plumes are strong as soft. But would a river that “imposes silence with a stil- why should. he who loveth to take “ the wings ly sound.” Whether you understand two con- of a dove that he may flee away” to the bosecutive sentences, we shall not stop too curi- som of beauty, though there never for a moously to inquire ; but you do something better, ment to be at rest--why should he, like an you feel the whole just like any other divine eagle, soar into the storms that roll above this music. And 'tis your own fault if you do not visible diurnal sphere in peals of perpetual
“A wiser and a better man arise to-morrow's morn." thunder? Reason is said to be one faculty, and Imagina- Wordsworth, somewhere or other, remontion another-but there cannot be a grosser strates, rather angrily, with the Public, against mistake; they are one and indivisible; only in her obstinate ignorance shown in persisting to most cases they live like cat and dog, in mutual put into one class, himself, Coleridge, and worrying, or haply sue for a divorce; whereas Southey, as birds of a feather, that not only in the case of Coleridge they are one spirit as flock together but warble the same sort of well as one flesh, and keep billing and cooing song. But he elsewhere tells us that he and in a perpetual honey-moon. Then his mind is Coleridge hold the same principles in the Art learned in all the learning of the Egyptians, as Poetical; and among his Lyrical Ballads he well as the Greeks and Romans; and though admitted the three finest compositions of his we have heard simpletons say that he knows illustrious Compeer. The Public, therefore, nothing of science, we have heard him on is not to blame in taking him at his word, even chemistry puzzle Sir Humphrey Davy-and if she had discerned no family likeness in prove to his own entire satisfaction, that Leib- their genius. Southey certainly resembles nitz and Newton, though good men, were but Wordsworth less than Coleridge does; but he indifferent astronomers. Besides, he thinks | lives at Keswick, which is but some dozen nothing of inventing a new science, with a miles from Rydal, and perhaps with an unphicomplete nomenclature, in a twinkling and losophical though pensive Public that link of should you seem sluggish of apprehension, he connection should be allowed to be sufficient, endows you with an additional sense or two, even were there no other less patent and maover and above the usual seven, till you are noterial than the Macadamized turnpike road. longer at a loss, be it even to scent the music But true it is and of verity, that Southey, of fragrance, or to hear the smell of a balmy among our living Poets, stands aloof and “alone piece of poetry. All the faculties, both of soul in his glory;" for he alone of them all has adand sense, seem amicably to interchange their ventured to illustrate, in Poems of magnitude, functions and their provinces; and you fear the different characters, customs, and manners not that the dream may dissolve, persuaded of nations. Joan of Arc is an English and that you are in a future state of permanent French story--Thalaba, Arabian-Kehama, Inenjoyment. Nor are we now using any exag- dian--Madoc, Welsh and American and Ro geration ; for if you will but think how unut- derick, Spanish and Moorish; nor would it be ierably dull are all the ordinary sayings and easy to say (setting aside the first, which was doings of this life, spent as it is with ordinary a very youthful work) in which of these noble people, you may imagine how in sweet deliri- Poems Mr. Southey has most successfully perum you may be robbed of yourself by a se- formed an achievement entirely beyond the raphic tongue that has fed since first it lisped power of any but the highest genius. In Ma