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poetry consists in its exuberant freshness both in thought, expression, and music. His religious and philosophical views cannot be easily gathered from his poems. On the whole, however, we should be inclined to call him an Epicurean and a Broad Churchman; but his Epicureanism is tinged with melancholy, and he at times approaches sacred subjects with, to say the least of it, the most transatlantic daring.

sex.

Mr. Miller is far from chivalrous in his general treatment of the fair Three of his heroines have to suffer for the selfishness or spleen of his heroes, and the others make away with themselves whilst their lovers escape to tell the tale. We have a similar fault to find with Mr. Miller's last published poem, which appeared in the Dark Blue for July. We have already noticed as excellences of Mr. Miller's the strong living humanity with which his poems are impregnated, and also his admirable appreciation of Nature; not but that he does not occasionally trip when he describes scenes in which he is not quite at home. A distinguished compatriot of Burns has called our attention to Mr. Miller's introduction of 'Trailing vines' upon the braes of Doon, and insists that the 'black swift swallow' does not 'gather moss.'

These are, however, inaccuracies that we are sure Mr. Miller will guard against for the future. Clearness of thought and expression, in an age whose customary song out-Delphis Delphi, is a feature in Mr. Miller's Muse as grateful as it is unusual. We only trust that, now that she is amongst us, her vision may continue to keep clear of the infectious befogment of our modern mysticism.

Mr. Miller is at times affected, for all his simplicity. This affectation is, however, chiefly observable in a straining after a species of verbal assonance peculiar to himself. There

is, for example, too much self-consciousness in these otherwise beautiful lines:

And the strained heart-strings wear bare

and brittle,

And the fond hope dieth, so long deferr'd,
And the fair hope lieth in the heart interr'd,
Stiff and cold in its coffin of lead;
For you promise so great and you gain so
little;

For you promise so great of glory and gold,
And gain so little that the hands grow cold;
And for gold and glory you gain instead
A fond heart sicken'd and a fair hope dead.

The ripen'd fruit a fragrance shed
And hung in hand-reach overhead,
In nest of blossoms on the shoot,
The bending shoot that bore the fruit.

Elsewhere this iteration of sound is no doubt introduced with the finest effect, and indeed constitutes one of the chief graces of Mr. Miller's rhythm.

Mr. Miller, too, although he is in command of fresh and strong English, occasionally offends, at least against British notions of good grammar; and indulges himself, moreover, in such American slang words as 'brick' and 'cuss.'

We trust that the influence observable in the present volume of another school of poetry will not gain strength. The finish and cadence of expression for which that school is so remarkable have done much for Mr. Miller's verse; still we trust that the poet will not succumb to the seduction of its spirit. We are not, however, apprehensive that this will happen.

But Mr. Miller must not believe his work to be more than well begun. His philosophy is still crude, his dramatic power ill-disciplined, his poetic expression unequal, his rhythm irregular; above all, he has as yet only pleased, it remains to be proved whether he can elevate, us. Yet, even if he fails to fulfil this, the poet's highest mission, we cannot but pronounce him to be, with all his shortcomings, the most remarkable narrative poet that America has yet produced.

NOT

A SKETCH FROM PORTUGAL AND ARAGON.

Where is the summer
With her golden sun?

OT very far away, if we can resolve upon a journey of a few days to seek it, though if we wait for it here at home, perhaps it may never come. There is no imaginary transformation in Eastern fable more pleasant and surprising than the almost sudden transition which it is in our power actually to effect, from the chilling winds and disappointments of an English Spring, to the cloudless sunshine of Southern Spain. Though we have not yet succeeded in annihilating time and space for travellers, as we have for messages; though days and nights must be endured in the process of arriving at the sunny shores, yet the change comes upon us by surprise. There is nothing during the voyage to mark and graduate its progress. Clouds and storms probably accompany the traveller across the bay, and confine him to his berth; till in calm waters, under the lee of Algeçiras he wakes apparently in another world. The balmy air; the scent of orange gardens; the gaily-coloured flowers; the brilliant sky, not lowering down upon the head within reach of a walkingstick, but infinite in azure space; while the lungs inhale fresh life with the warm and soothing breeze; -all this appears in magic contrast with the cold and gloomy scene where his feet last trod the shore : where Winter, cheating the promise of the Spring, sheds unseasonable frosts, full in 'the fresh lap of the crimson rose.' Why any who have means and leisure remain to suffer, when they might with so little trouble live to enjoy, is a mystery resolvable, perhaps, into a mere animal love for home, such as the poor dog retains for his dilapidated kennel.

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Or if five days of possible suffering on the voyage seem to be too great a risk, there is Summer almost as early, and within easier reach. A shorter passage to Lisbon, and a few hours' ride, will transport us to the cork woods, mountain flowers, vineyards, and orange groves of Cintra. Here every charm that nature and art bring together combine to make one forget mortality, and, in the enjoyment of every passing hour, fancy that lost Paradise has been regained. The beauty of this region is no new theme. The fastidious Beckford found in its valleys and rocks a charmed retreat from the ceremony of the Court, and the festivities of monastic palaces. Poets have sung its praises; but the Muse herself can do no more than describe what the great Poet of all has created, beyond the power of language to embellish. Childe Harold literally paints the scene:

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned,

The cork trees hoar, that clothe the shaggy steep,

The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned,

The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs

must weep,

The tender azure of the unruffled deep,
The orange tints that gild the greenest

bough,

The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,

The vine on high, the willow branch below,
Mixed in one scene with varied beauty
glow.

Yet if the poet had lived to revisit
the scene at the present day, he
must have perfected his description
by additions which his imagination
never dreamed of, but modern
science and skill have realised.
is a tempting spot, suggesting to
luxuriant fancy the means of en-

It

riching the simple decorations of nature; and clothing her in her own varied productions, borrowed from every quarter of the globe.

At a short distance from Cintra lies Beckford's favourite spot, Montserrat one of the many picturesque situations so named from the serrated peaks on which the hermit loved to form his solitary cell in olden times, when romance cast its fairy spell about religion, and superstition consecrated every mossy spring and mountain crag. For many years it lay neglected and in ruins, the grounds relapsing into savage wildness, till the present owner, a countryman of Beckford, discerning its capabilities, converted it into one of the wonders of the world. On the ruins of the old mansion rose an Oriental palace. The approach to it is through lofty plane trees, and sweet-scented exotics, into shaded terraces, that invite the ocean breeze; long marble corridors lead under Moorish archways into lofty rooms, closed with rich curtains; a splashing fountain, and the perforated trellis-work of the arched doorways, secure a free current of air to cool the summer heat. The whole is in accordance, not only with the climate, and the Oriental flora of the surrounding gardens, but with the historical traditions of the country, where the Moors have left many memorials of their possession in the towers that crown the heights, the names of places, the language and customs of the people. It is remarkable that the designs for the building, so admirably suited to its peculiar position, were prepared in England by an architect who had never visited the place. Nothing can be more perfect than the architectural construction of the house for a Southern residence.

The arrangement of the grounds is due to the taste of the owner himself, who has known how to

take advantage of what Nature has prepared, without destroying the charm of lavish carelessness with which she flings abroad her gifts. If here and there rocks have been removed, or pitched one upon another to break the falling cascade or intercept the view, to open it again upon some unexpected scene, it is only what Nature herself has done among the surrounding mountains; poising masses of granite upon one another with slender hold, which seems to threaten a crashing fall upon the slightest disturbance of its equilibrium.

One wonders how such huge fragments ever got into their perilous positions, hanging upon a narrow ledge or balanced upright, sometimes with deep rents out of which spring the ilex, the fir tree, the cistus, or myrtle. If there ever was any soil on these rugged rocks it has been washed down into the hollows and lower grounds, producing there an extraordinary fertility, and at the same time a pleasing contrast between the barren background and the rich vegetation, which fades away gradually into a deep sand as it approaches the sea-shore. Let us climb one of the mountain peaks, a couple of hours' easy exertion, and revel in the glorious view that stretches far on every side till the horizon meets the sky. From the Moorish castle, or from the royal residence higher up, there is no loftier eminence to intercept the sight. On the north lies the double circle of the memorable hills of Torres Vedras; there the roofs and towers of 'prodigious' Mafra break the line; southward flows the Tagus, at whose mouth its yellow sands are reflecting the golden sun; to the westward the blue Atlantic is spread around, its white foam breaking in the bays; its bosom dotted here and there

with sails or the smoke of a steamer on its way home from the tropics,

having left in the port mysterious rumours of yellow fever and luckless passengers in quarantine. As the sun goes down the mountains put on a rich purple hue, a few fleecy clouds glow for a while in gold and crimson, but the sea grows dark, save where a horizontal beam falls in lines of light upon a breaking wave. Night already rests upon the deep ravine seven or eight hundred feet below, whose sides are clothed with knotted cork trees in the brown foliage of their spring shoots. No convent-bell calls the wanderer now to hospitable shelter, or invites the world without to evening prayer; needy and reckless revolutionists have suppressed religious houses and confiscated their property; possibly in the process something better than superstition, something richer than worldly wealth, may have been crushed and lost.

Scarcely discordant, because perfectly natural, and after a while an expected ingredient in the scene, comes the answering bray of donkeys, a comical race of sturdy little animals, upon whose backs all the riding and much of the carrying trade of the country is performed; the climate and the hills perhaps develope the vocal powers, for never did donkeys bray like these. Nor is the sound of running water absent, though less abundant than in the Alps or Pyrenees, where the frequent streams add so greatly to the charm of stillness, while they break it gently to the ear. But the sun is nearly down, the chill of falling dew begins to make the blood run cold, lizards even avoid it as if their bloodless constitutions feared the evening air; it is time to seek protection from the dangerous halfhour of sunset, when agues and fevers creep into the veins of incredulous young people, who laugh at fogie's' fears and pronounce it 'delicious.' In an hour the perilous change has passed; we may walk

in safety in the scented air upon the terrace and watch the moon rising behind the Penha and projecting its pinnacles, so large and near, it seems to rest upon the mountain. We need no glass to discern Dr. Johnson's melancholy face in its mountains and shadowed vales. It is set in a sky neither black nor misty, but of a clear blue sapphire, whose deep background gives an unusual brilliancy to the silver orb. We go to rest reluctantly, but with the pleasant assurance of opening our eyes upon the same glowing sky; the festal glory hath not passed from earth,' it will return again for weeks, perhaps for months, uninterruptedly.

For the great charm of all, that without which all the rest would be in vain, is the equableness of the climate; tempered always at its greatest heat by a refreshing breeze, and never so cold as to require covering even for tropical plants. At such an elevation, where the house stands, warmer clothing, and even fires, are at times indispensable; but the variations of temperature are so moderate that while the flora of northern latitudes flourish in full vigour, the tenderest plants from warmer regions grow unsheltered except by the natural protection of rocks and hollows. This peculiar advantage of its position suggested to the proprietor the magnificent idea of assembling within the circle of the Montserrat estate specimens of the flora of various climes, adding greater variety to the charms which Nature has already bestowed, and twofold interest for the scientific investigator of her works. Here on one favourable spot every sense is entranced by such a bed of roses as one only imagined to exist in Persian romance; and, as poetic roses should be, they are free from the blight and mildew that vex our gardens at home. Cloth of Gold and Marshal Niel run in luxuriant

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festoons from tree to tree-a chain of golden blossoms filling the air with its odour, till a passing breeze supplants it with a fresh perfume. One wanders onward, varying sight and scent at every change of level, as each has been chosen with consummate skill for its appropriate culture. The intervals are screened and the transitions broken by trees and shrubs from different latitudes: cypress and fir from south and north equally flourishing in a climate neither too hot for the one nor too cold for the other. Near at hand a bright cascade falls from the height in roughly broken stages,. supplying nourishment for water plants of the Nile and Indian reeds. Here the bamboo shoots up its feathering stems; there a display of rhododendrons claims a Himalayan parentage. Among the corks upon the mountain side, upon the lawn, anywhere and everywhere, the barkless stem and polished leaves of the New Zealand gum tree vary the foliage, while it is unsurpassed in usefulness and rapidity of growth. Trees that are now forty feet in height were planted as saplings little more than ten years ago, and are already serviceable as building timber. We pass the screen of these magnificent plantations, among which the Californian pine threatens to usurp a giant's share of space, and, crossing the valley, find ourselves in a new region, among palms and tree ferns, denizens of the tropics. Instinctively we look up for the protecting roof of glass, as we are reminded of Kew Gardens and the crystal dome; but no dome is here except the vault of heaven. No such palms and ferns were ever grown by artificial culture: fine branching foliage upon lofty stems, healthy and vigorous; the cactus tribe in the eccentric forms of growth in which Nature revels, where light and heat lend her sufficient aid. It would be too long to tell of all the wonders concentrated

here. If anywhere in the world the same capabilities in point of situation may be found, yet nowhere probably have so much skill and perseverance, commanded by an unsparing liberality, combined to bring together within so small a compass and in such perfection so many and such heterogeneous elements of curiosity, science, and taste. Even the universal defect of southern gardening, the velvet lawn of genuine English green, is here supplied: a system of irrigation spreads a stream from the mountain over the steep declivity from the platform on which the house stands down into the deep vale below, and keeps the turf in astonishing freshness of colour and growth. Here bright lizards a foot or more in length flit rapidly from bush to bush; harmless snakes glide glistening into thickets, and green frogs at sunset unite in a chorus which resembles the spinning wheels of a vast factory insufficiently greased, rather than the product of any animal organs. Nightingales abound; so unwearied is their power of song that 'tired Nature's sweet restorer' is sometimes unpleasantly baffled by the ceaseless notes. If the intense calmness of a summer's noon seem almost too still, while the trees droop and all animal life slumbers, one need only turn one's eyes from the terrace across the plain, where the restless ocean will remind us, if we please, of the turmoil of human life, and chime in with the humour of an unquiet spirit. We can see the long dark line of the Atlantic wave rolling slowly onward till it breaks in dashing foam upon the rocky shore, and sends into the air the snowy spray, visible at a distance of four miles in the transparent atmosphere.

It is a property of creative ability that it delights in communicating pleasure. On this principle these splendid fruits of so much labour, cost, and skill are open to the enjoy

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