fore merit, in that defiance. He is a Quaker, too, inheriting all the sterling, blunt directness of the men and women who were hung for their testimonies to the life and power of truth; their quaint, courageous freedom of speech, and their ardent sympathy with strongenduring and long-suffering patience under persecution. And he never forgets that it is a part of his duty, and his particular daily business, as a poet and a lover of mankind, to right wrongs wherever found; or, at least, to attempt that work with his might and energy, and to call upon all within the hearing of his voice, to come to the assistance of those thus endangered by the oppressions of the heartless and the cruel. He is not a Feeble Mind, who, as Bunyan tells, in passing the caves of Giants Pope and Pagan, was content to tremble by, on the further side of the wide road, with bowed head, abject body, averted eyes, and palsied tongue, thankful, both to the giants and his Maker, for the blessed privilege of peace in the enjoyment of the rights of the way. He is a Greatheart; and if he sees any of these giants who are wont to affright timid women, or disturb conscientious pilgrims, be they strong or weak, old, decrepit, and defenseless, or rugged and armed to the teeth, blocking up the way, or sitting by the roadside to utter harmless taunts and blasphemies, he sounds the bugle notes of his resolute defiance at once; and the road must be cleared. When such monsters appear, he knows no law of reciprocity, and he will enjoy no divided immunities. He will have the whole of the broad road or a battle. And if old Giant Despair has set up a castle in the adjacent fields, though not always in sight of the pathway, it is made his business to pull it down about his ears. He is not content to find a clear way for the strong man by accident, and to walk noiselessly in it. He must make that road safe by right, and beyond the misfortune of a chance, not only for the stout-hearted, ready-willed, double-fisted, but safe also for the feebled-souled man, the delicate woman, the tender child, the ignorant, the weak, and the oppressed, the peeled, the bleeding, and the fainting; and so safe, too, and so certainly belonging to them in their own right, that they may walk its whole length, singing or shouting forth their great songs of praise and adoration, without the fear of even momentary and distant interruption.

While Whittier sings his songs in this spirit, and for this noble end, he does it with a sweet simplicity of words, and a clear, perspicuous, direct arrangement of sentences, which makes the sense easy to be understood and very forcible. His English is singularly pure, hardly one word in twenty that is not of old Anglo-Saxon origin, and all Latinity and French barbarisms are conscientiously excluded. The words are short, simple, unequivocal, plain in sense,

and sharp in tone, and they ring like the twang of bowstrings in battle. No other words but English could be so used, and they only by a master who knows how potent are those old household names, when used in right good earnest, either for overawing the bad or cheering the good. He chooses these words well, and he marshals them in such order that their array is invincible, and they go sweeping down on what he would annihilate, like the squadrons of Murat's cavalry in the battles of Napoleon. And yet they bear along with them such a deep sympathy with man and his sufferings, and such a holy charity for the erring and the evil even, hoping all things and still enduring all things, as shall make his verses strangely potential. These virtues or graces are always essential elements of true poetry, and where they also make up a large share of the poet's nature, he will sing beautifully and pleasingly. The essence of poetry is love, and hate is as foreign to its nature as it would be to that of an angel. And this divine fullness of love overflows in all these poems. There may be gibes, and taunts, and fierce denunciations, in many places; but these are not uttered for their own sake, but only in tender love. and pity, both for the persons or things to which they are applied, and those who are made to suffer by the wrongs denounced. It is this ardent and hopeful affection in the breast of the poet that causes him to sing so sweetly, for it is with him and his pen, as another of our poets has said:

"Ah, how skillful grows the hand
That obeyeth Love's command!
It is the heart and not the brain
That to the highest doth attain,
And he who followeth Love's behest,
Far exceedeth all the rest!"

And in the midst of Whittier's almost insane anger, there are notes of pity and songs of sweet sympathy; tender appeals and solemn words of fervent, forgiving prayer, that would subdue and soothe even demoniac rage and unthinking cruelty. How sweetly does he express this power of tender, patient love, and steady trust, even when most deeply wronged and slighted, in this fine passage from "The New Wife and the Old:"

"And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,
Lifting from those dark, still places,
Sweet and sad remember'd faces,

O'er the guilty hearts behind

An unwitting triumph find.”—Vol. i, p. 113.

The same trustful spirit finds voice in the "Chapel of the Her

mits," and thus also speaks in the opening lines of "Questions of Life:"

"A bending staff I would not break,
A feeble faith I would not shake,
Nor even rashly pluck away

The error which some truth might stay,
Whose loss might leave the soul without

A shield against the shafts of doubt.”—Vol. ii, p. 131.

What a rebuke to that little, unloving wisdom that would at once, and irremediably, reform the world of all its hoary practices! While, therefore, in conclusion, it may be said that many of these poems are too long, or too fierce, or of only temporary importance, it must also be said, with equal truth, and with more distinguishing emphasis, that no one has written in more stirring strains, or with a more loving heart; that no one is more in request in times demanding earnest, truthful action; and certainly no American poet has been more powerful to lead men away from the love of evil to the admiration of truth and right than he. The mission of poetry has always been one of vast importance. It is the earliest form of literature in which a nation or an individual takes delight; and it is certainly the last to lose its hold on the human heart. Whenever men are to be moved, it is called for; and not music herself, with all her fabled charms, even when Orpheus leads the chorus, has such a sublime power to elevate the courage, to exalt the hopes, to fill the soul, and strengthen the whole man, as the thrilling melody and measured march of wellchosen, orderly-marshaled words, moving in a phalanx to the rhythm of charity-breathing, truth-inspired song. To masses of men such songs are like a cloud, charged with the accumulated moisture and electricity of the whole broad ocean, driven with the breath of the fragrant southwest wind upon a thirsty continent, pouring out a flood of healing waters and reviving influences that make even deserts blossom as the rose. Such, in some measure, has been the influence and effect of these poems by Whittier. May they still continue to be admired, and may they more and more contribute to rightly instruct and greatly strengthen the heart of humanity!

ART. V.-THE PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY OF THE SEA.

The Physical Geography of the Sea, by M. F. MAURY, LL.D., U. S. N.; Superintendent of the National Observatory. An entirely new edition, with addenda. New-York: Harper & Brothers, 1857.

TWENTY years ago the individual who would have written a work on geographical science, with an expectation that the public would appreciate and reward his labors, would either have been set down as a man of remarkable courage and prominent hope, or, what is more likely, been considered a dreamer, more worthy the strait jacket than our credence.

The present may be considered pre-eminently the age of practical science. At the announcement of each scientific discovery and isolated fact the world is ever ready to ask, " Cui bono?" Franklin replied to some of his questioners by asking, "What is the use of a new-born babe?" So with an isolated fact. Standing alone, when first discovered, having had no time to grow, and without the benefit of association with other kindred facts, it is like the helpless infant. If a savage, on the island of Madagascar, should find the piston-rod from the engine of a wrecked steamship, or the driving-wheel of a locomotive that had been thrown overboard from a vessel bound to Australia, he would gaze in wonder at their singular form, and remain in total ignorance of their utility. But let him see an engine tunneling a hole through a mountain, or a locomotive drawing a train of cars the whole length of his island, as rapidly as he would send an arrow at a bird, and he would at once see the value of mechanical genius and appreciate the fruits of exact science.

We are eminently a commercial and utilitarian people. When the calculations at the National Observatory had reached that point that by the "sailing directions" furnished to navigators the voyages round Cape Horn could be shortened fifty or sixty days, or more than one third of their duration, merchants and nautical men were startled at the results, and at once appreciated the value of this field of scientific research and well-directed industry. Statisticians have calculated the saving to the maritime interests of Great Britain and the United States at more than six million dollars per annum. Here is a practical result which all can appreciate, and in the advantages of which all will share. Scientific men will be as much interested and instructed by the labors of Dr. Maury, in a scientific point of view, as merchants and mariners are at the pecuniary benefits. Humboldt. Berghans, Ehrenberg, Admiral Smyth, and Professor Forbes.

have all contributed to our knowledge of the "Physical Geography of the Sea," but it is not going too far to say that in practical results the labors of Lieutenaut Maury surpass them all. As long ago as twelve or fifteen years the attention of merchants and men of science was now and then drawn to a magazine article, or an occasional address from the pen of our quiet naval lieutenant, the present distinguished superintendent of the National Observatory at Washington. The fruits of extensive combined efforts, and the advantages of scientific vision, assisted by ten thousand pairs of eyes, all recorded in the log-books of as many practical navigators, and collated and arranged by Mr. Maury and his able staff of assistants, have given to the world practical fruits that are appreciated and known in every port where commerce finds a cargo, and on every sea that is whitened by a sail.

When the deep-sea soundings were first attempted few could appreciate their utility. Many doubted the success of the attempts; "and if successful," said they," of what use can they be?" Dr. Maury says:

"Every physical fact, every expression of nature, every feature of the earth, the work of any and all of those agents which make the face of the world what it is, and as we see it, is interesting and instructive. Until we get hold of a group of physical facts, we do not know what practical bearings they may have, though right-minded men know that they contain many precious jewels, which science, or the expert hand of philosophy, will not fail to bring out, polished and bright, and beautifully adapted to man's purposes."

That very experiment of deep-sea soundings has at once shown, what has long been a desideratum, the practicability of a sub-marine telegraph across the Atlantic. The depth of the sea ascertained, we find a remarkable steppe across the ocean, between Cape Race in Newfoundland and Cape Clear in Ireland; and this is known as the "telegraphic plateau." The width at this place is not over sixteen hundred miles, and the greatest depth not over ten thousand feet. Before another year has elapsed we hope, in spite of past disaster, to have intelligence flashed along the wires as they rest securely on this "plateau," beneath the billows of the mighty Atlantic.

As the bottom of the sea shelves off toward the south, the plan is to lay the telegraphic wires just below the highest or shallowest part; and this will forever guard against the lodgment and grinding force of large icebergs that may become stranded on the banks as they move toward the equator. To a common observer a bit of mud from the bottom of the sea would be of no interest, and possess no practical value; it would be a bit of mud, and nothing more. In the hands of Professor Bailey, of West Point, some mud from the