pluck with which both winner and loser seemed to start afresh ; while redoubled cries of "Now for it, Merton!" "Well done, Corpus!" and even "Go it, again!"-which I had supposed an Americanism,-were vociferated from the banks. All at once"a bump" and the defeated boat fell aside, while the victors pressed on amid roars of applause. The chief interest, however, was, of course, concentrated about "Wadham," the leader, now evidently gained upon by "Balliol." It was indeed most exciting to watch the half-inch losses which the former was experiencing at every stroke. The goal was near; but the plucky Balliol crew was not to be distanced. A stroke or two of fresh animation and energy sends their bow an arm's-length forward. "Hurrah, Balliol!"—"Once more !"-"A bump!"-" Hurrah-ah-ah !”—and a general cheer from all lungs, with hands waving and caps tossing, and every thing betokening the wildest excitement of spirits, closed the contest; while amid the uproar the string of flags came down from the tall staff, and soon went up again, with several transpositions of the showy colors,-Wadham's little streamer now fluttering paulo-post, but victorious Balliol flaunting proudly over all. It was growing dark; and it was surprising how speedily the crowd dispersed, and how soon all that frenzy of excitement had vanished like the bubbles on the river. Impressions of England. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. THIS distinguished poet and essayist, the son of Rev. Charles Lowell, D.D., for nearly fifty years pastor of the West Church, Boston, was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the 22d of February, 1819. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1838, and, after studying law, opened an office in Boston. But he soon found the profession not congenial to his tastes; and, as he was not compelled by necessity to pursue it as a means of living, he returned to his books and trees at his father's residence, Elmwood, near Mount Auburn, determined on making literature his reliance for fame and fortune. In 1841 appeared a collection of his poems, entitled A Year's Life, which gave great promise of future excellence. In 1843, in conjunction with his friend Robert Carter, he commenced the publication of a monthly magazine, called "The Pioneer;" but only three numbers were published. Soon after this, he was married to Miss Maria White, of Watertown,-a lady of a highly-cultivated mind, of congenial literary tastes, and adorned with every womanly grace and accomplishment. In 1844 appeared the Legend of Brittany, Prometheus, and Miscellaneous Poems and Sonnets, which secured the general consent to his admission into the company of men of genius. In 1845, he published his Conversations on some of the Old Poets; and in 1848, another volume of Poems; The Vision of Sir Launfal; and that unique and remarkable book, A Fable for Critics, containing por traits of eminent contemporaries, most faithfully and exquisitely drawn. The same year, he gave to the world, from his prolific and caustic pen, The Bigelow Papers, written in the broad Yankee dialect, no little characterized. It is keen and well-merited political satire against our Mexican war, and the ascendency so long maintained in our Government by the slave-power.3 Since 1848, Mr. Lowell has published no volume, but has written for many reviews and magazines ;5 and-whatever the publishers may say-common fame will make him the editor of the ablest magazine ever published on this side the water,-"The Atlantic Monthly." THE HERITAGE. The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft, white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 1 The fine lines under Washington Irving, page 274, will show what the book is, more effectually than any criticism. The rhymes are as startling and felicitous as any in Hudibras, and the quaint drollery of the illustrations is in admirable keeping with the whole character of the forlorn recruit from Massachusetts."-North American Review, lxviii. 187. 3 "All at once we have a batch of small satirists-Mr. Bailey at their head-in England, and one really powerful satirist in America,-namely, Mr. J. R. Lowell, -whose Bigelow Papers we most gladly welcome as being not only the best volume of satires since the Anti-Jacobin, but also the first work of real and efficient poetical genius which has reached us from the United States. We have been under the necessity of telling some unpleasant truths about American literature from time to time; and it is with hearty pleasure that we are now able to own that the Britishers have been, for the present, utterly and apparently hopelessly beaten by a Yankee in one important department of poetry. In the United States, social and political evils have a breadth and tangibility which are not at present to be found in the condition of any other civilized country. The 'peculiar domestic institution,' the fillibustering tendencies of the nation, the tyranny of a vulgar 'public opinion,' and the charlatanism which is the price of political power, are butts for the shafts of the satirist which European poets may well envy Mr. Lowell. We do not pretend to affirm that the evils of European society may not be as great, in their own way, as those which afflict the credit of the United States, with the exception, of course, of slavery, which makes American freedom' deservedly the laughing-stock of the world; but what we do say is, that the evils in point have a boldness and simplicity about them which our more sophisticated follies have not, and that, a hundred years hence, Mr. Lowell's Yankee satires will be perfectly intelligible to every one."-North British Review. + In 1857, Ticknor & Fields issued a beautiful edition of all his poems, in two volumes. 5 His reviews and essays have appeared in the "North American Review," "Southern Literary Messenger," Knickerbocker," "Democratic Review," "Graham's Magazine," "Putnam's Magazine," "Boston Miscellany," and "National Anti-Slavery Standard." The rich man's son inherits cares: The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? A heritage, it seems to me, What doth the poor man's son inherit? A heritage, it seems to me, What doth the poor man's son inherit? To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. O rich man's son! there is a toil, But only whiten, soft, white hands,- O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; In merely being rich and great; Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, ABOVE AND BELOW. I. O dwellers in the valley-land, Who in deep twilight grope and cower, Till the slow mountain's dial-hand Shortens to noon's triumphal hour,— While ye sit idle, do ye think The Lord's great work sits idle too? That light dare not o'erleap the brink Of morn, because 'tis dark with you? Though yet your valleys skulk in night, In God's ripe fields the day is cried, And reapers, with their sickles bright, Troop, singing, down the mountain-side: Come up, and feel what health there is In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes, As, bending with a pitying kiss, The night-shed tears of Earth she dries! The Lord wants reapers: Oh, mount up Before night comes, and says, "Too late!" Stay not for taking scrip or cup, The Master hungers while ye wait: 'Tis from these heights alone your eyes II. Lone watcher on the mountain-height! The first long surf of climbing light But we, who in the shadow sit, Know also when the day is nigh, Thou hast thine office; we have ours; To pierce the shield of error through. But not the less do thou aspire Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech; ACT FOR TRUTH. The busy world shoves angrily aside And he who waits to have his task mark'd out Though with no better sickles than our swords. Where outworn creeds, like Rome's gray senate, quake, That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. |