principal dialects of Greece in the construction of his imperishable Iliad, he would not, as the elegant Coleridge asserts, have acted, either absurdly or injudiciously. The overflowing fullness of our pugnacious propensities, from a sheer love of mischief, would, however, sufficiently account for our contradiction of these giants in literature. Like dolphins in a storm, our supreme delight is a well-fought literary melée: hard knocks and no quarters. Ennobling to the soul is the conflict of minds," as the Ascrean bard somewhere sings. We shall conclude these preliminary observations on early Greek Literature, by a few words on the Digamma. The discussion of the Digamma has been so frequently obtruded on public notice, as well by advocates as opponents, that any mention of it in these pages, may seem to partake, in some measure, both of pedantry and irrelevancy. But, as, in any sketch, however hasty, in any treatise, however laboured, connected with Greek Literature, some notice of this much-abused letter has hitherto been deemed indispensible, so we, in our small way, dare not depart from a custom, sanctioned by names, so eminent in philology. Notwithstanding the very specious theory and dogmatic assertions of Dunbar, we must still cling to an opinion, most unmercifully flogged into our cranium-adeo in teneris consuescere multum est--some tedious winters since, by a rigid disciplinarian from "Old Trinity," and scholar of the House; viz. "that the Digamma did exist in the time of Homer, but only in the pronunciation or reciting of his poems; while its unworthy, croaking, cawing representative, the aspirate, or some sneaking subaltern, was afterwards introduced, and foisted into its room, in the writing or transcribing of the same poems." And, indeed, from the comparative ignorance of the art of writing at this early period, confined to a favoured few, it can easily be supposed, that the Digamma was, at first, in general use; but that, according as the knowledge of writing became more universally, diffused, the Aspirate, or written character got into more general practice; while its sonorous euphonic prototype fell gradually into decay, until, at last, it totally disappeared. This insensible disuse of the Digamma has, in fact, constituted much of the difficulty experienced by commentators on Homer; but which it would be foreign to our present purpose to explain. We shall merely observe, that, allowing the disuse to have begun even during the composition of the Iliad and Odyssey, we have, at once, a plausible reason for the omission of the Digamma before some words, and its insertion before others; sometimes without any apparent analogy. That the use and indiscriminate insertion of this much contested character have been, not unfrequently, pushed beyond all bounds of moderation or decency, by some slashing critics, who furnish us with catalogues of words, each a yard long, in which the Digamma is to be most scrupulously preserved, we are free to admit; but we feel no hesitation in asserting, that every good Grecian, accustomed to read the old Mœonian bard, with a full, loud-sounding #0λv@2015ß010-ore-rotundo-ish manner, would be highly scandalized, nay, absolutely shocked at its omission, before a very respectable list of words. For our own parts, we should as soon hear Mozart's celestial Requiem, murdered by some of the miserable musicians, that disgrace our churches, as to hear ovos, ava, oixos, oida, and a few other pet words, pronounced without the honey-excelling, sweetly-flowing axaλaggeirao-nic W prefixed. We could find in our hearts, although not naturally cruel--quis enim nobis mitior?--to send any Vandal, who would thus murder the beautiful sonorous Greek, so barbarously, to work, for one lunar month, as a common felon, regaled with nightly serenades from a thousand bull-frogs on Blackwell's Island, In good sooth, the far-famed professor in the Northern Athens would appear to have no music in his soul-we wonder could he play the Jews' harp-for, he represents the Digamma, (if it ever existed,) to be always, and "in every case," equivalent to a consonant? The learned lecturer having probably, in his school-boy days, conned over some grammaticaster's definition of W and Y; viz. that they are always CC consonants when they precede a vowel heard in the same syllable," naturally enough concluded that W, the representative of the Digamma, when sounded before the Greek words quoted above, must be invariably a consonant. Now we, who are harmony itself, in the plenitude of our Magazineship, opine, that W or Y at the beginning of words, has generally a vowel sound: Ex. Gr. Youth must be pronounced Euooth or Uth, with the u sounded long, as in tube; wine must be sounded Uine or Ooine, &c. &c. ergo, Dunbar is incorrect in saying that the Digamma or W is, in every case, a consonant. It is of no consequence whether or not the professor confined his observation to the power, and not the sound of the letter: we don't mind trifles-mera nuga-particularly when an opponent is three or four thousand miles off, and no danger of exposure or reply. We trust this will prove a solemn warning to all unmusical professors, who, not having the fear of Payne Knight, or of our noble selves of the Knickerbocker before their eyes, will daringly venture to violate all rules of poetic rythm and melody. But the limits of our paper, and the patience of our reader, warn us to withdraw. We are gone-until next muster-day, when we shall make our obeisance with the divine THE UNFORGIVEN. BY WILLIAM M'ARTHUR. Her morn of life, unclouded, rose, That each succeeding day would close That world she tried-youth's witchery, Hope's fairy spells were gone, And all the stern reality Of earthly cares came on ; Visions that shone in childhood's eye Delusive past away, As twilight's shadowy phantoms fly Before the blaze of day. Friend after friend around her dropped, Joy after joy decayed; Till all she loved, and all she hoped, In the cold earth were laid. And in the gloom of nature's strife, The boast of man-the soul of life- Ah! 'twas a piteous sight to gaze Blushed with the rose's streak ; To meet the glances of that eye, And in its phrenzied glare, Read hope's expiring agony, The triumph of despair. For hers was not a flickering grief, Of thrilling anguish rose, "Oh, mine are griefs that never die, Poor maniac! thy unhappy fate From those with whom thou first didst set The proud, they marked the generous glow They, weeping, gaze upon thee now, The wreck of what thou wert. But cease, afflicted one, to think Though it has been thy lot to drink Life's bitterest cup unmix'd. He marks thy tears, He hears thy prayer, And, maniac, o'er thy sorrowing soul The writer of the above verses, can never forget the circumstance which occasioned them. He was riding one day along a secluded road, when his attention was attracted by a young female, of a highly interesting and even beautiful appearance, who was sitting upon a stone, weeping bitterly. Upon his inquiring the cause of her grief, she looked at him for a moment with a glare in which madness was strongly perceptible, and exclaiming, with a shriek which sunk deep upon his heart, "I am unforgiven-my soul is lost forever," she rushed into the fields, and disappeared. He afterwards learned that her prospects in life were, at one time, brilliant, but that, like the poet Cowper's, her reason had fled, in the withering belief that the Almighty had irrevocably doomed her to perdition. MY FIRST DINNER OUT. BY R. M'PHERSON, ESQ. "So may ye gain to your full great renowme Of whom ye seek to be most magnifyde."-Faery Queene. On looking over some old papers, a few days since, my attention was arrested by a nicely folded note, gilt-edged, and bearing upon its broken seal the remnant of a most sentimental motto. On opening the paper its contents recalled to mind a scene that neither time nor circumstance can entirely eradicate from my memory. The note was a mere card of invitation to dinner: it had lain, undisturbed, among a host of other interesting documents for years, but no sooner did my eyes glance over it than the recollection of circumstances connected therewith, came upon me with all the freshness of reality, and an involuntary cacchination burst from my lips at the remembrance. At the time this note was received, I was a student, residing, for the time being, in Branton. There was one great man in this village, at that time-one man, I mean, especially great-a candidate for a seat in the State Legislature! He was, moreover, a colonel of militia,— owned large tracts of land somewhere between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains; and possessed, withal, a considerable estate-the homestead of his family, where he then resided. This gentleman was a sort of "lord of the manor" with the villagers; he had a warm heart; was a man of a kind, liberal disposition; and if he had a fault it was one possessed by greater men than Colonel Bronson. He was ambitious,-so was Julius Cæsar. He wished to represent the "free and independent electors" of Branton, in their state assembly, and he would stop at nothing fair and honourable to accomplish his object. Party spirit ran high at this time, and the "free and independent electors" of Branton were divided in their opinions. The opponent of the Colonel in this political strife, was a blacksmith, a most worthy man; true and firm as the steel he hammered, and about as easy to bend. This man was a federalist of the old school,—so was not Colonel Bronson. The smith was on the point of success, in consequence of a flaming speech that "went home to men's business and bosoms," and was sent there by a certain lawyer, who had an eye to the smith's daughter, and over her shoulder to a fair proportion of the smith's goods and chattels. I know not how it was, whether influenced by that "cacoethes scribendi," which, since my first graceless efforts at school, has |