Pictures from English literature . the greatLondon belle—years afterwards, when old David Deans is dead—seeks themanse of Mrs. Butler, are finely told and full of true feeling. There is poeticjustice, too, in the fate of Sir George Staunton, who meets his death from thehand of that son who he learned had not been murdered and for whom hewas at the time seeking. And Effie sought the convent abroad where shehad been educated, and lived and died in seclusion. How can we conclude our paper in more fitting words than those withwhich the author concludes his delightful romance ? Reader,—This tale wi
Pictures from English literature . the greatLondon belle—years afterwards, when old David Deans is dead—seeks themanse of Mrs. Butler, are finely told and full of true feeling. There is poeticjustice, too, in the fate of Sir George Staunton, who meets his death from thehand of that son who he learned had not been murdered and for whom hewas at the time seeking. And Effie sought the convent abroad where shehad been educated, and lived and died in seclusion. How can we conclude our paper in more fitting words than those withwhich the author concludes his delightful romance ? Reader,—This tale will not be told in vain if it shall be found to illustrate the greattruth that guilt, though it may attain temporal splendour, can never confer real happiness ;that the evil consequences of our crimes long survive their commission, and, like the ghostsof the murdered, for ever haunt the steps of the malefactor ; and that the paths of virtue,though seldom those of worldly greatness, are always those of pleasantness and THE ANCIENT MARINER. Our literature contains nothing to surpass, in its own way, Coleridges Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Tales of the wild and wonderful we havein abundance, but in none of them, that we remember, is the vision andfaculty divine, as Coleridge himself phrases poetry, so powerfully faculty in him, as in De Quincy and in Poe, by nature deeply im-planted, was preternaturally stimulated till it became diseased. And ineach of them we have, alas! not far to look for the cause. Imagine it,restless and unregulated, wasting itself in a perpetual strain, till, weakenedwith a spiritual hunger, it sought for a temporary reinvigoration in thestimulant of opium or alcohol. In this poem we have all those terrors,purely spiritual, which, though our soberer reason rejects, still appeal toa deeper and more mysterious sense, anterior even to reason itself, andwhose origin is hidden in the unsearchable depths of our being. Superstition,the wor
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