Pellico does not want energy, but he lacks that concentration of sentiment and passion which is one of the greatest merits in dramatic poetry. His style is too diffuse; his eloquence, though graceful, often devoid of boldness and vehemence. No striking imagery is to be found in his pages, though such is the genuine and universal language of emotion. He never labors to produce effect by a single sentence. Yet he excels his contemporaries and most of his predecessors in the delineation of feeling, and in the interest imparted to his dramas; especially in the expression of tender emotions. All with him is unaffected and simple; and his faults are rather deficiencies than offences against nature and taste. Had he studied to give a local interest to his pieces, and appreciated the advantages of a knowledge of the scene and times, his success might have been unbounded. Man may be man when stripped of costume, but he is not man as we know him and as he moves in the world; nor is any thing gained by removing from our view those external circumstances which so universally influence his character and actions. Sir John Hill, who passed for the translator of Swammerdam’s work on insects, understood not a word of Dutch. He was to receive 50 guineas for the translation, and bargained with another translator for 25—this other being in a like predicament paid a third person 12 pounds for the job. {780} MONODY On the Death of Mrs. Susan G. Blanchard, wife of Lieut. A. G. Blanchard, of the United States Army, and only Sister of the Author. Sister! they’ve laid thee in the silent earth! Thy spirit’s free! And many suns have set upon thy grave— Unknown to me! I was not there—to catch thy parting breath! When thou didst die— Yet Sister! I shall weep, till grief will dim Thy Brother’s eye! Mem’ry shall haunt thee! wheresoe’er I go— Breaking my heart! And thy pure sainted image shall be mine Till life depart! I would my weary spirit were with thine Triumphant borne— For Susan! I shall cling to life, no more— Now thou art gone! Perchance that angel spirit hovers nigh This lonely spot! And on the wintry air whispers—that I Am not forgot! Weeping, I grasp at this ephem’ral dream, Though vain it be! And dedicate my breaking heart, oh Grief! Through life, to thee! A CONTRAST, BY PAULINA.