excitement. Hot-beds and glasses are used for plants which can only acquire strength in the shade; and they are drenched with instruction, which ought to drop as the rain and distil as the dew-as the small rain upon the tender herb, and as the shower upon the grass.'

It is to be wished that Mr. Morse had inserted part of her letters in these Remains, and to be hoped that he will do so in a future edition. During the vacation, in which she returned home, she had a serious illness, which left her feeble and more sensitive than ever. On her recovery she was placed at the school of Miss Gilbert, in Albany; and there, in a short time, a more alarming illness brought her to the very borders of the grave. Before she entered upon her intemperate course of application at Troy, her verses show that she felt a want of joyous and healthy feeling-a sense of decay. Thus she wrote to a friend, who had not seen her since her childhood::

• And thou hast mark'd in childhood's hour
The fearless boundings of my breast,
When fresh as summer's opening flower,
I freely frolick'd and was blest.

Oh say, was not this eye more bright?

Were not these lips more wont to smile?
Methinks that then my heart was light,

And I a fearless, joyous child.

And thou didst mark me gay and wild,
My careless, reckless laugh of mirth;
The simple pleasures of a child,

The holiday of man on earth.

Then thou hast seen me in that hour,
When every nerve of life was new,
When pleasures fann'd youth's infant flower,
And Hope her witcheries round it threw.
That hour is fading; it has fled;
And I am left in darkness now,
A wanderer tow'rds a lowly bed,

The grave, that home of all below.'

Young poets often affect a melancholy strain, and none more frequently put on a sad and sentimental mood in verse than those who are as happy as an utter want of feeling for any body but themselves can make them. But in these verses the feeling was sincere and ominous. Miss Davidson recovered from her illness at Albany so far only as to be able to perform the journey back to Plattsburgh, under her poor mother's care. The hectic flush of her cheek told but too plainly that a fatal disease had fastened upon her constitution, and must ere long inevitably triumph.' She

however

however dreaded something worse than death, and while confined
to her bed, wrote these unfinished lines, the last that were ever
traced by her indefatigable hand, expressing her fear of madness.
"There is a something which I dread,
It is a dark, a fearful thing;
It steals along with withering tread,
Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.
That thought comes o'er me in the hour
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness;
"Tis not the dread of death,―tis more,
It is the dread of madness.

Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause
Forgetful of their feverish course;
May this hot brain, which burning, glows
With all a fiery whirlpool's force,

Be cold, and motionless, and still
A tenant of its lowly bed;
But let not dark delirium steal-

Into the *Alic of

'head.

The stanzas with which Kirke White's fragment of the Christiad' concludes, are not so painful as these lines. Had this however been more than a transient feeling, it would have produced the calamity which it dreaded: it is likely, indeed, that her early death was a dispensation of mercy, and saved her from the severest of all earthly inflictions; and that same merciful Providence which removed her to a better state of existence, made these apprehensions give way to a hope and expectation of recovery, which, vain as it was, cheered some of her last hours. When she was forbidden to read it was a pleasure to her to handle the books which composed her little library, and which she loved so dearly. She frequently took them up and kissed them; and at length requested them to be placed at the foot of her bed, where she might constantly see them,' and anticipating a revival which was not to be, of the delight she should feel in re-perusing them, she said often to her mother, 'what a feast I shall have by-and-bye.' How these words must have gone to that poor mother's heart they only can understand who have heard such like anticipations of recovery from a dear child, and not been able, even whilst hoping against hope, to partake them.

When sensible at length of her approaching dissolution, she looked forward to it without alarm; not alone in that peaceful state of mind which is the proper reward of innocence, but in reliance on the divine promises, and in hope of salvation through the merits of our blessed Lord and Saviour. The last name which she pronounced was that of the gentleman whose bounty she had experienced,

experienced, and towards whom she always felt the utmost gratitude. Gradually sinking under her malady, she passed away on the 27th of August 1825, before she had completed her seventeenth year. Her person was singularly beautiful; she had a high, open forehead, a soft black eye, perfect symmetry of features, a fair complexion, and luxuriant dark hair. The prevailing expression of her face was melancholy. Although, because of her beauty as well as of her mental endowments, she was the object of much admiration and attention, yet she shunned observation, and often sought relief from the pain it seemed to inflict upon her, by retiring from the company.'

That she should have written so voluminously as has been ascertained,' says the editor of these remains, is almost incredible. Her poetical writings which have been collected, amount in all to two hundred and seventy-eight pieces of various length; when it is considered that among these are at least five regular poems of several cantos each, some estimate may be formed of her poetical labours. Besides there were twenty-four school exercises, three unfinished romances, a complete tragedy, written at thirteen years of age, and about forty letters, in a few months, to her mother alone. To this statement should also be appended the fact, that a great portion of her writings she destroyed. Her mother observes, "I think I am justified in saying that she destroyed at least one-third of all she wrote."

Of the literary character of her writings,' says the editor, 'it does not, perhaps, become me largely to speak; yet I must hazard the remark, that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth and inexperience, while in invention, and in that mysterious power of exciting deep interest, of enchaining the attention and keeping it alive to the end of the story; in that adaptation of the measure to the sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit a sudden change of sentiment; a wild and romantic description; and in the congruity of the accompaniment to her characters, all conceived with great purity and delicacy,-she will be allowed to have discovered uncommon maturity of mind, and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high expectations of her future distinction.'

This may seem high praise: yet in these immature buds, and blossoms shaken from the tree, and green fruit,' there was as fair a promise of future excellence as ever genius put forth. But it is not from the intrinsic value of these poor remains that the interest arises with which this little volume cannot but be perused. We have entered into no account of the longer poems which it contains, nor selected from the smaller pieces any except a few of those which are transcripts of the authoress's individual feelings; for youthful poetry must always be imitative, and that which is least faulty is far from being the most hopeful. Indeed, wherever imitative talent exists in the highest degree creative genius has

rarely,

rarely, if ever, been found to co-exist. In these poems there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power, to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patron, and the friends, and parents of the deceased could have formed; nor can any person rise from the perusal of such a volume without feeling the vanity of human hopes. But those hopes are not vain which look beyond this world for their fulfilment. Knowing, as we know, that not a particle of matter can be destroyed, how surely, then, may we conclude that this which is demonstrated in material existencies is true of spiritual things; that love, and generous feelings, and noble thoughts, and holy desires, are not put off when we put off mortality; but that, inhering in our immortal nature, they partake its immortality, and constitute in their fruition a part of that happiness which our Almighty and Allmerciful Father has appointed for all his creatures who do not wilfully renounce their birthright! This is a consolation which reason suggests, which philosophy approves, which scripture warrants, and on which the understanding and the heart may rest.

To those parents who may have the fearful charge of a child like Lucretia Davidson, these memoirs will have a deep and painful interest. They clearly indicate the danger, but afford no clue to the means of averting it. It is as perilous to repress the ardour of such a mind as to encourage it. The Quaker discipline, which, for the majority of women, is the best of which experience has ever been made, produces deplorable effects upon those whose constitution of mind is too sensitive. The difficulty is to indulge such a mind without pampering it; to regulate it, without forcing it from its natural and proper bent. The first step toward this is, that we should ourselves estimate mental endowments not too highly, but at their just worth; and then teach others, in whom the dawn of genius appears, that the gift is not so rare as it has been deemed to be: that it is becoming less so in every generation, because wherever it exists it is now called forth by the wide extension of education (such as it is), and by the general diffusion of books; and that as it becomes common the conventional value which it has hitherto borne will, like that of precious stones, be necessarily abated. This may be a humiliating lesson, but it is a wholesome one; and many there are for whom it will be well if they receive it, and lay it to heart in time.

ART.

ART. II.-On Systems and Methods in Natural History. By J. E. Bicheno, Esq. 1829. (Linn. Trans., xv., part 2.) Al' no time could the philosophy of Natural History, in refer

ence to classification, occupy the attention of the cultivators of the science with so much advantage as the present. Many individuals, distinguished not less for their high attainments than for their zeal, are occupied in extending our acquaintance with inorganic and organized beings; while, among the educated classes of the community, an anxiety to become acquainted with the history of nature is very generally exhibited. These circumstances seem calculated to encourage us to entertain the highest expectations concerning the future progress of the science in this country, and to hope that the period will soon be forgotten, when, in ordinary conversation, the terms 'naturalist' and 'natural' were employed as synonymous.

When we direct our attention to the manner in which natural history has been studied in this country, and to the character of those works which have been offered to the public for their edification, we may readily discover the causes which have brought the science into discredit, and thus become prepared for securing When the arrival a greater permanency to our present successes. of the valuable cabinet of Linnæus enabled the naturalists of this country to ascertain the species which the illustrious Swede had described in his Systema Naturæ,' that important work became their guide in identifying objects previously known, and the model for delineating the characters of those which industry was daily adding to the stock. In following the example of Linnæus, so far, our naturalists acted wisely; but, unfortunately, they stopped short at that very point where the most valuable part of their labours should have commenced; and where, had they been intelligent followers of their master, they would have put forth all their strength.

In order to comprehend the true value of the Systema Naturæ' of Linnæus, we must view it as a well-arranged table of contents of the book of Nature, where the student will find that every entry refers to a species, and gives a brief exposition of the contents of the page where its history is intended to be recorded. Every species in this work has a trivial name bestowed on it, followed by a description of its appearance, limited to twelve words, a reference to authors who have elucidated its history, and a few brief notices respecting its place of residence and the form and structure of some of its remarkable parts. This was considered by Linnæus as the entry in the table of contents; but where, it may be asked, was the volume, with its

page ?