of Scotland, the tattered lazzaroni of Italy, and the sun-burnt gipsey of
Austria. He has made deep and laborious researches into history,
into the chronicles of long-forgotten dynasties, and the capacious re-
cesses of his mind are the archives of Europe. Nor with the super-
ficial eye of a casual observer has he regarded the present generation.
He has made mankind the study of his life. He possesses a univer-
sality of genius, capable of attempting any thing in this department;
and this unbounded knowledge secures its accomplishment. Under
the power of his creative imagination, history itself is transformed to
romance; its mighty events in his hands become the scenes of a great
drama, of which even the subaltern characters are drawn with the
most surprising accuracy. He has embellished the sober detail of
events with the charms of fiction. In the haughty, overbearing aristo-
crat, and the stern, unyielding republican; in the subtle courtier full
of chicanery and intrigue, and the free open-hearted warrior; in the
infuriated zealot, the bigoted Papist, and the cold-hearted infidel; in
the chimeras of the alchymist, and the charlatanry of the juggler, he
has drawn vivid portraitures of distinguished historical personages.
The hardened ferocity of the ruffian, the dogged obstinacy of the man
of guilt, the listless apathy of idiocy, the counterfeited stupidity of
cunning, the keen glance of intelligence,-" all passions of all men,'
he has read and portrayed them all with the hand of a master. He
transports us, on a wing that never tires, through the rugged fastnesses
of the Highlands and the spice-bearing groves of India, through the
merry inn, the gorgeous palace," the mouldering tower and donjon
keep," and the long antiquated hall with its rustling tapestry and colored,
lanceolated windows, the gloomy cathedral and the gloomier convent,
and exhibits to us the long trains of lords and vassals, kings, queens
and knights, with their appropriate character and costume, till we are
involved in a bewildered maze. His is the graphic pen to portray
the sublime and the beautiful of nature, the glories of the day-dawn
and the sombre beauty of evening, with its deep stillness broken only
by the low moanings of affliction, or the wild warblings of the love-lorn
maniac, or ever and anon by fitful peals from the losal song of the
bandit at his midnight carousal.

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But after all it may reasonably be asked, Of what serious benefit have these writings been to mankind? They may, indeed, have no very immoral tendency, no sly insinuation of poisonous principles. His aim seems to have been to "hold as it were the mirror up to Nature, to shew Virtue her own image, Scorn her own likeness," and to exhibit base-born profligacy and vice in their naked deformity. But what have doughty champions and weird beldames to do with the sober realites of life, or this working up of the passions with the "prize of the high calling" of our existence? It is to the mind what a stimulation of animal spirits is to the body,-a momentary gratification, an unnatural excitement, which leaves it impotent, exhausted, and unfitted for manly effort. It is also followed by that diseased craving after novelty which, like the perpetual longing of the wretched victim of his appetite, is satisfied only with the cause of his ruin. Nor is it upon the elder part of the present generation that the deleterious influence is chiefly exerted; it is the young, and particularly the student, who are most endangered by the fatal fascination. How many a romantic young man, as he lin

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gered to cast a last glance on the walls of his Alma Mater, has seen the brightest visions of the past darkened by the shade of many a misspent hour as it "flitted palpably before him,"-hours, which this magical writer has stolen from Homer, from Demosthenes, from Quintillian and from Euclid, and which have rendered a midnight vigil over the sober page of Enfield and of Paley a vexation and a weariness. It is often a matter of great difficulty with the literary tyro to restrict himself to that modicum of light reading, which may serve as a healthful relaxation to the mind in its tension over the more severe studies; and it is with this view that the rigid disciplinarian has prohibited all works of fiction with a sweeping denunciation. There is no denying, that, to the natural man, a page of Ivanhoe affords more entertainment than a page of the Calculus. The extreme lies on either hand; and has not he a vitiated taste, who buries himself forever in the more abstruse studies in which scarcely one in a thousand shall ever follow him, and whose profound researches have little more intrinsic value than those of the ancient alchymist? Such an one delves, like the blind mole, with no eye for the beautiful and the sublime, and, as a preparatory step, divests himself of all communion with the belle lettres at once. We are to be amused as well as instructed, and works of the imagination will be read while there are listless hours of a long summer's afternoon, or the solitary companionship of books of a blustering winter's eve. The successful author is assimilated with his readers by no ordinary tie, and those, who have accompanied the writer of the Waverly Novels from the threshold of his literary career to the scene of his last labors, will pray for a renewal of the veteran pilgrim's age during his sojourn in the land of the olive and the vine. C. S. M.

THE FAREWELL.

FAREWELL and if ever unbidden shall start
One thought to awake the remembrance of me,
Dismiss it, false maiden, at once from thy heart,
As freely as mine does its passion for thee.

I do not upbraid thee, I breathe no regret,

I scorn that a tear-drop should blister my line;

I can truly forgive, and I gladly forget

That the love I recall for a moment was thine.

To the eye there are fruits that are goodly, indeed,

But ashes and bitterness lurk at the core;

And he, who has leaned on a treacherous reed,

That has broken or pierced him, should trust it no more.

At Fashion's cold altar I bend not the knee,
My spirit must bow at a holier shrine;
Yield thou, if thou wilt, to her hollow decree,
And the sacred delights of affection resign.

I shall envy no rival the prize he may gain;-
The many-hued bow is transportingly fair;
But he who pursues it will find to his pain,

He has worshiped a cloud and grasped nothing but air.

OUR VILLAGE POET.

OUR village is the very place where the muse of lyric poetry should take up her abode; it is so quiet and green. The natives believe there is not so lonely a spot under the blue heavens; but strangers say, there is nothing particularly beautiful in the town, excepting, always, the graceful rounding of the hills, and the easy meandering of its little river. The poetry, inspired by our verdant scenery, is full of a serene and affectionate spirit. We have no rushing cataracts, skywrapped mountains, gloomy caverns, and sea-beaten cliffs, to awaken bold and startling thoughts. Byron's muse would have died of inanition if she had been exiled to our village.

Most of our school-girls were scribblers. Our very best poet was Donald McAllister, one of our school-boys, who perished among the "coral rocks in Madagascar seas." There was one remarkably dull boy in our parish. His parents died when he was about fourteen years old, leaving him nothing except a small poorly-furnished house and a few ragged books. The boy lived there all alone, gathering for fuel the decayed leaves and branches which were profusely scattered in the forest where his hut was situated, going every day to labor for his bread at Doctor Johnson's farm, and, at his leisure hours, poring over those ancient books.

Sometimes a wealthy, generous-minded lady would bestow on him a worn-out coat, after heedfully cutting off the buttons and depositing them in her own work-box, or a hat and shoes, from which parts of the rim and soles had been abstracted. Sometimes he carried about coarse willow baskets which he had made in the long winter evenings by the light of a pitch-pine knot. He was considered dull, because be never played at ball, or hide-and-seek, with other boys. He could not understand a jest, even if he was himself the object of it, and, if it was more bluntly repeated, he did not return it, but the tear would glisten in his eyes, which some said, was "mighty babyish for a great boy like him." If a school-mate struck him, instead of resenting the affront, he would treat the offender with kindness. A few supposed he was a coward, but a greater number believed it was because the Bible, his chosen book, commanded us "not to avenge ourselves, but to return good for evil." He could not have been a coward, for he used to walk through the burying-ground to visit the graves of his parents, every moonlight evening. If he was ever questioned upon any subject, he only replied, "No," "Yes," or "I can't tell;" this was the most he was ever heard to say. But, although he was called stupid, he was very amiable, respectful to his superiors, and obliging to all. No one could accuse him of a wicked action, or of neglecting to attend church. So he lived until he was eighteen years old, when an event occurred which tended to bring him greatly into notice.

There was a pretty girl, named Sarah Cross, who lived about a mile from his cottage, to whom he had been accustomed to carry the first blown roses, and the finest peaches from his little garden. That was all. He never saw her more than twice a year, excepting at church

and singing-meetings in the school-house, and never said ten words to her in his life, perhaps. One day she was merrily skipping across the frozen mill-pond, when the ice suddenly gave way, and she sunk under the water. The miller saw her fall in, and came to her assistance, but she was entirely lifeless before he succeeded in getting her out. Many sad lamentations were sent up by old and young, and they were mingled with heart-felt gratitude, for many of the school-children had passed over the pond that very morning in perfect safety. Harry Brown attended her funeral, as all the parish did, and when he came to look at the corpse, he burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. From this time there was a visible change in his appearance. He was not so steady at his work as usual. He visited the burying-ground, morning and night, and planted a willow over Sarah's grave, where he used to sit reading his old books. He was always moving his lips as if whispering, besides which he purchased, at the store, quill after quill, and sheet after sheet of paper, until all were in the fidgets to know what he could find to do with it. At last it came out. He was turning poet.

The first poem he wrote was a lament for Sarah Cross, a most heartmelting thing. The next was an elegy for Tim Jeremy's little girl. It also contained a notice of the kindness of Eleanor Wakefield, now Mrs. George Graves, who used to watch by its sick cradle. It was very much admired by Eleanor, to whom it was first shown. She handed it about to every body, and every body praised it and begged a copy. The third was on the death of Mrs. Deacon Haskell, who was beloved by every one for her benevolence and piety. And, as Ensign Jewett observed, now he had once set a-going, there was no stopping him." He expatiated in rhyme upon the stars, the pretty girls, the trees and birds, night and morning, the meeting-house, and all nature besides-generously enriching his poems with apposite quotations from Milton, Shakspeare, Homer and Virgil. A spirit of humble devotion to God, and sincere love to man, were diffused in all his writings. The lines were usually a little irregular, and the style sometimes rough. He had never conversed, and was only beginning to write, consequently he found himself greatly in want of words. He applied to his dictionary, which, indeed, furnished him with an abundance, but unfortunately he often selected those which were obsolete or unusual. Our minister, however, took occasion to hand him some well-written modern works, the style of which he seemed greatly to admire and endeavored to imitate. What a change had taken place in this young man's prospects within a year! From a lonely, retiring boy, he had suddenly shot up into a man-a poet-all in a moment. He bethought himself that his costume was not quite befitting his new character, and forthwith he diligently went to work for Deacon Haskell until his means were sufficient to procure himself a complete suit of iron-gray, with a scarlet-and-green plaid cloak. When he " came out," he was quite a noticeable figure in our singing-seats. He was elegantly tall and slender. His head was covered with heavy, brightyellow natural curls. His light gray eyes were rather dull, unless he was in a revery, or animated by music, when the pupil of the eye would so dilate, that you would fancy the whole eye was black, and so sparkling one could hardly look at him. "T was a pity he could

not converse. The language of the pen, and the unspeakable eloquence of the eye, were all he could boast.

When Squire Newell's eldest daughter, Fanny, died, Harry Brown composed so pathetic an elegy upon her death, that her father gave him a flute, and her brother John offered to teach him to play it. It thrills my heart at this distance of time to remember how meltingly in the summer evening came the notes of Bonnie Doon and Auld Robin Gray across the little river, from the thick forest in which the poet's cot was hidden-Oh, it was the soul of melody-and the deep quiet of our green valley was in perfect unison with its sweet pensiveness. One Monday morning, Harry, as usual, hung out his iron-grays, and his green-and-scarlet cloak to air, while he was reading his chapter in the Bible. Very few mischievous and light-fingered people are there in our village, but there is no place entirely without them, and when the poet had replaced his Bible upon the shelf, covered his fire, swept the hearth, and gone out to look to his Sunday garment, he discovered that the green-and-scarlet cloak had mysteriously disappeared. He went back in great consternation to his arm-chair, and resting his head on his hands, pondered gloomily the abduction of his raiment. "It cannot have gone away without help, and therefore somebody must have helped it away," reasoned he; but who? There was no trace of the thief, and the poet would not allow himself to suspect any one of the larceny. "One thing I can do," thought he, and after pacing the room awhile, he sat down to write an advertisement directed "to the person who took away a green-and-red cloak belonging to Harry Brown." In this document he meekly set forth that the person had injured him without a cause, but he freely forgave him, and would use no means to bring him to justice. He, however, besought him to remember that he had been guilty of a great sin—a sin that would shut him out of heaven if he did not repent of it-that he might suddenly die, and find no space for repentance. At any rate, if he should persist in the evil course he had begun, it must inevitably bring him to the gallows. He was willing to allow him the use of the cloak until Saturday night, when he begged him to return it, as he could not otherwise attend church." It was winter, and we had then no stoves in our church.

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One copy of this advertisement, he nailed up on the door of the church, another on the store, and another on the central school-house. All that week, groups of men, or girls, or school-children, might be seen clustered around the notices, and one young man who had been reading them, was seen to retire in evident and irrepressible agitation. On Friday evening, the poet heard an inexplicable rustling among the bushes at his door, and, on opening it, he discovered his cloak upon the door-stone. He examined the pocket to see if the hymn-book was gone. It was there, in company with some silver pieces, which the penitent offender had offered as an atonement for his theft. Harry deposited them in the charity-box, as a thank-offering for the restoration of his cloak.

This short-lived affliction served, on the whole, to do him good. It reminded him of the necessity of providing for a time of want or of losses, and he became more industrious, and began to lay up a portion of his small earnings.