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BY C. R, HANLEITER.
__ [POIETCT.
“ Much yet remains unsung.”
JTHE VEILED ALTAR, or the POET'S DREAM.
BY MRS- R. S. NICHOLS.
1 bent me o’er him- as he lay upon his couch,
Deep sleep weighed down the curtains of his eyes,
Forever and anon the seraph seemed to touch
His dreaming soul with radiance of the skies !
I bent me o’er him then, for mighty thoughts did seem
To pant for utterance, as he sighed for breath,
And strove tospeak—for in that dark and fearful dream
He passed the portals of the phantom Death !
The chains that clogged my spirit’s pinions roll
Powerless back to earth —a vain, base clod,
And awe-inspiring thoughts brood o'er my soul,
As angels hover round the ark of God !
I see before me in the distance far
A mystic altar veiled, and part concealed
Amid the tresses of a burning star,
Whose mysteries from earth are ever scaled !
“It gleams—that fountain of mysterious light
At holy eve, far in the western sky.
And angels smile, when man ascends by night
To read in it his puny destiny!
A something bears me onward towards the throne
With speed which mocks tlie winged lightning's
glance !
And here, amid the stars’ eternal homo
I stand, with senses steeped as in a trance !
“ I feel a power, a might within my soul
That I could wrest from angels, themes for song !
My earth-freed spirit soars and spurns control,
While deep and chainless thoughts around me throng!
I know the veil is pierced—the altar gained—
I bend me lowly at its foot sublime ;
Yet false inspirers, who on earth have feigned
The God, depart from this eternal clime !”
He woke—and swift unto the land of misty sleep
His dreams rolled back, and left him still on earth,
But ever after did the Poet’s spirit keep
This deep, unchanging, mystic, second birth!
EMI D®©'n LILA MYp
From Graham's Magazine.
THE ROMAN BRIDE.
A TALI. OF TIIE WESTERN EMPIRE.
The might and glory which had of yore
reared the imperial city to its throne of uni
versal domination, had long ago departed
from the degenerate and weak posterity of
the world’s conquerors! The name of Ro
man was but the lucid meteor of the charnel
imparting a faint lustre to corruption and
decay ! The bold hordes of the hardy north
had oftentimes already avenged the wrongs
done by the elder Caesar, while the frail
silken puppets, who had succeeded to his
style and station, trembled iu the unguard
ed capital at every rumor from beyond the
Danube. For, to the limits of that fairy
river had they extended, years before the
time of which we write, their arms, their
arts, their sciences, and their religion—the
pure and holy doctrines of the crucified
Redeemer. All the Dalmatian coast of the
bright gulf of Venice, now little more known
than the wilds of central Asia, was studded
with fair towns, and gorgeous palaces, and
gay suburban villas ; and all the wide spread
plains of Thrace and Thessaly, now forest
clad and pathless, save to the untamed klepht
or barbarous taitar, waved white with crops
of grain, and blushed with teeming vine
yards, and nurtured a dense happy popula
tion. At times indeed the overwhelming
deluge of barbarian warfare had burst upon
those fertile regions ; and, wheresoever it
burst,
“ With sweepy sway
Their arms, their arts, their gods were whirled away—”
yet ever, when the refluent billows ebbed,
the grass had sprung up green and copious
even in the horse tramps of the innumera
ble cavalry that swelled the armies of the
north, and the succeeding summer had smil
ed on meads and vineyards abundant as be
fore, and on a population careless and free
and jocund,
But now a mightier nanfe WD9 on tlie
i ° . 1 Attil-’
wmu —a wilder terror was abroau
—Attila—the dread Hun! Still all as yet
Was peace; and, although rumors were
Abroad of meetings beyond the Danube ;
•of the bent bow—emblem of instant war
fare—sent with the speed of horse o’er
Tnoor, morass, and mountain—although the
’tribute, paid yearly by the degenerate Cae
sars, had been refused indignantly by the
hotel Marcian—bold and wise, and worthy
: the best days of the republic ! although
from all these tokens prudent men had fore
seen the wrath to come, and brave men
armed to meet it, and cowards fled before it;
■still careless and improvident the crowd
maintained their usual demeanor, and toiled,
and laughed, and bought, and sold, and
feasted, and slept sound o’ nights, as though
Ihcre were no such things on eailh as rapine,
and revenge, and merciless unmitigated
war.
It was as sweet and beautiful an evening
In the early autumn as ever looked down
with bright and cheerful smile from the
calm heavens upon man’s hour of rest, what
time the labor and the burthen of the day
all past and over, he gathers round him his
blythc household, and no more dreaming of
anxiety or toil or sorrow, looks confidently
for /ard to a secure night and happy mor
row, And never did the eye of day, rising
or sitting, look down from his height upon
a brighter or a happier assemblage than
was gathered on that evening in a sweet
rural villa, scarce a mile distant from the
gates of Singidurum one of the frontier
towns of Masia on the Danube.
It was a wedding eve—the wedding of
two beings both young and beautiful and
loving. Julia, the fairest of the province,
the bright and noble daughter of its grave
Eroconsul, famed for her charms, her ails,
er wit and elegance, even in the great
Rome itself before her father had taker, on
himself—alas ! in an evil hour—the duties
and the honors of that remote provincial
government —and brave Aurelius, the pa
trician—Aurelius, who, though not yet had
lie reached his thirtieth summer, had fought
in nine pitched battles, besides affairs of
posts and skirmishes past counting—won no
less than five civic crowns, for the lives sav
ed of Romans on the field, and collars, and
horse trappings, and gold bracelets, as nu
merous as were awarded to the deeds of
Marius, when valor was a common virtue in
Rome’s martial offspring.
They were a noble pair, and beautiful, as
noble—well-matched—she, light as the
summer cloud and airy as its zephyr and
graceful as the vine that waves at every
breath—he vigormutand tall as the young
oak before the blignr of eld has knarled one
giant limb or scathed one wreath of its dark
foliage.
Delicate, fair, and slender and tall beyond
the middle height of woman with a waist
‘shaped to love’s wish,’and every graceful
outline full of richsounded symmetry, young
Julia was a thing to dream of as the inhabi
tant of some far bright Elysian, rather thau
to behold as an inmate of the rude heartless
world. It seemed as though it were a sin
that the sun’s ardent kiss should visit her
transparent cheek too warmly, that any
breath but that of the softest summer gale
should wanton in the luxuriant ringlets of
her long silky auburn hair—her eyes were
blue and clear as the bosom of some pure
moonlit fountain, and there was in them a
wild, yet not unquiet gaze, half languor and
half tenderness. She was indeed a crea
ture but little fitted to battle with the cares
and sorrows of this pilgrimage, and as she
leaned on the stalwart arm of her warrier
lover, hanging upon Lihi as if confident In
lilS vast strength and relying absolutely on
his protection, and fixing the soft yearning
gaze of those blue eyes full on his broad
brow and expressive lineaments, no one
could doubt that she had chosen well the
partner who should support aifd guide her
through this vale of tears and sin and sor
row'.
But who thought then of tears —who ev
er dreamed of sorrow 1 The day had been
passed happily—alas! how happily ! in in
nocent and pure festivity—the blytlie dance
on the velvet greensward, the joyous ram
ble amid the trelliced vines, the shadowy cy
presses, the laurelled mazes of the garden ;
with lyre and lute and song, and rich peals
of the mellow flute and melancholy horn
blent with the livelier clashing of the cym
bals, waking at intervals thefar and slumber
ing echoes of the dark wilderness beyond
the Danube. Oh ! had they but known what
ears were listening to their mirthful music,
what eyes were gloating with the fierce lust
of barbarous anticipation on their fair forms
and radiant faces, what hearts were panting
amid tlie dense and tangled forests for the
approaching nightfall—how would their
careless mirth have been converted into des
pair and dread and anguish, their languish
ing and graceful gait iuto precipitate and
breathless flight—those blythe light hearted
beings!
The sun set glowing in the west —glow-
ing with the bright promise of a lovely mor
row, an many an eye dwelt on his waning
glories, and drew bright augeries from the
rich flood of lustre, which streamed in hues
of varying rose and gold up to the purpled
zenith ; while on the opposite verge of heav
en, the full orbed moon had hung already
her broad shield of virgin silver, with Luci
fer the star of love kindling his diamond
lamp beside her.
“Farewell, ereat sun, and blessing? be
upon thy course,” whispered Aurelius to his
lovely bride, as hanging fondly on his arm,
she watched from the lonic porticoes of
spotless Farian marble, the last sun of her
maiden days, “ that thou hast set so calm and
bright, and with such promise of a glorious
future—Hail, Julia, Hail with me the hap
py omen!”
“ To-morrow,” she replied in tones of
eloquent music, half blushing as she spoke
even at the intensity of her own feelings,
“ To-morrow, my Aurelius, I shall be thine,
all thine!”
“ And art thou not all mine, even now,
beloved—by the bright heavens above us,
for long, long years ! my heart with all its
hopes and fears and aspirations, my life
with its whole crime and purpose —my soul
with its very essence and existence have
been thine—all ! all thine, my Julia, and
art not thou mine, now! why what save
death should sever us V’
“ Talk not of death !” she answerod with
a slight shiver running through all her frame,
“ Talk not of death, Aurelius, I feel even
now as if his icy breath was blowing on
my spirit, his dim and awful shadow reflect
ing darkpess on my every thought; dost thou
believe, Aurelius, that passing shades like
these, which will at times sadden and chill
the soul, are true presentiments of coming
evil 1”
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MAY 21, 1842.
“That do I not, sweet love,” he answered,
“ that do I not believe ; when by chance or
some strain of highly wrought and thrilling
sentiment the heartstrings of us mortals are
attuned too high beyond their wont, like
harp chords, they will harmonize to any
sound or sentiment that accords to their own
spirit pitch ; and, neither sad nor joyous in
themselves, will respond readily to either
grief or sorrow: that, feeling no cause for
mirtli or gloom, we fancy them prophetic
feelings, when they are but reflected tones,
and so disquiet ourselves often with a vain
shadow !”
“Well,” she replied, still sadly, “ I wish
it may be so, as I suppose it is. Yet, yet —
I wish it was to-morrow!”
“ Come, come ! I must not have thee
thus sad on an eve like this, my Julia, lo !
they have lighted up the hall, and the ban
quet is spread, and the wine* poured—the
queen of the feast must not be absent!”
And shaking off the gloom which had,
she knew not why, oppressed her, she turn
ed with one long lingering last glance to the
sun as he disappeared behind the dark
tree tops which seemed to swallow him
up in an unnatural gloom, and entered the
vast hall which, hung with tapestries of silk
and gold, and garlanded with wreaths of
choice flowers, and reeking with unnumber
ed perfumes, lighted with lamps of gold
pouring their soft illumination over the gor
geous boards, shewed like a very palace of
the senses.
The bridal strains burst forth harmonious
at the first, and slow and solemn, hut quick
ening and thrilling as they rose, till every
ear that heard them responded to their en
livening impulse, and every bosom glowed
and planted to their expressive cadences.
Tlie wine went round, and laughter circled
with it, and many a tender glance was inter
changed, and many a whisper that called up
burning blushes, and many a pressure of
young hands betwixt those, who hoped that
as this night to Julia and Aurelius, so should
one be for them at no far distant! and ma
ny prayed that such might be their lot, and
many envied them ! Oh God, what blinded
worms we be, when left to our own gui
dance!
HiO bridal feast was over—the bridal
hymns were hushed—the banquet hall was
left deserted—for in an inner chamber all
hung with spotless white at a smaller altar
placed beneath a cross gorgeous with gold
and jewels stood Julia and Aurelius—the
tender and solicitous mother and the gray
headed noble father at her side—the priest
of God before them, and all the joyous com
pany hushed in mute awe, that arose not
from fear, and the faith of that bright pair
was plighted, and the gold ling set on the
slender finger, and the last blessing was pro
nounced, and they two were made one.
Just in that breathless pause as the words
of the priest ceased to sound, although their
cadences were still ringing in the ears of all
who heard them, there was a sudden rustle
heard without, and a dead cry, “ The city !
thecity! Singidurum !” So piercing was the
cry, that no one of all those who heard it,
but felt that something dreadful was in pro
gress ; in an instant the whole company
rushed out into the portico, and lo ! one
flood of crimson flame was soaring up the
sky from what an hour before had been a
beauteous and a happy town, and a confus
ed din of roars and howls burst with the
shrill yells of despairing women, the clash
of arms, and the thundering downfall of
towns, palaces, and temples, filled the whole
atmosphere with fiendish uproar. Scarce
had they time to mark, or comprehend what
they beheld, before, aboutthem, and around,
on every side came the thick beating hoofs,
and in another moment they might see the
myriads of the Hunisli horsemen circling
them in on every side, and cutting off all
hope of flight or rescue with a dark living
rampart. “ Romans,” Aurelius shouted,
“ Romans to arms—for life, and liberty, and
vengeance!”
His words were obeyed instantly, for all
perceived their truth, but what availed it I
To hew down a dozen trees and batter down
the village gates was but a moment’s work
for the blood-thirsty hordes who swarmed
around the building. The outer gate was
shattered in a moment —the inner, frailer
yet, gave at the first assault, now no
bulwark was left any longer to the Romans
save their own good swords and stalwart
sinews ! Bravely they fought—aye, despe
rately——heaping the marble floors with man
gled carcasses, and dying, each man where
lie stood, where the sword smote or javelin
pierced him, dauntless and undismayed.
Long they fought, for each Roman slain cut
ting down ten barbarians ; but by degrees
they were l>orne back—back at the sword’s
point, foot by foot, and marking every step
by theii own streaming gore. At the hour’s
end but five were left—five, and all wound
ed, and one old : the father of the wretch
ed Julia, Aurelius and his brother, and two
young nobles of the province. Retreating
step by step, they were at last driven hack
into the bridal chamber, the altar stood there
yet, and the great cross above it, and the
priest clinging to the cross, and at his feet
the bride, with her fair tresses all dishevel
led and all her lovely comrades prostrate up
on the ground around her. The door was
barred within, brief respite, no defence, and
the strong men leaned upon their weapons
in despair and gazed on ono another, and
then from one another to the women. It
was a sad and awful scene. A rush of hea-
vy feet was heard without—a halt, and then
a rustling sound, with now a clang of steel
and now the clatter of a grounded spear, as
if the multitude was getting silently into
array and order—a pause, and a loud cry !
“Attila! Attila! the king!”
Then came a slow and measured footstep
striding up to the door—one short and hea
vy blow upon the pannel, as with a sword’s
hilt, and a stern, grave voice exclaimed,
“ Open !”
“] will,” answered Aurelius, “they would
destroy it in an instant—it is but one chance
in a myriad, but best trust to liis mercy.”
With the words he drew back bar after bar,
and threw the door wide open, and there !
there on the very threshold, with his swart
cicatrized features, and short, square, ath
letic form, sheathed in scale armor of a
strange device, with the hideous Charntean
head gleaming out grim and awful from his
breastplate, and the strange sword, all iron,
hilt and blade, and guard and scabbard—his
weapon and his God, firmly grasped in his
right hand, but as yet bloodless, there stood
the dreadful Hun !
“ Death,” he exclaimed, “ Death to all
who resist,” in tones singularly deep and
stern and solemn, “ Mercy to those who
yield them!”
“ Do with us as thou wilt, great king,”
returned Aurelius steadily, lowering as he
spoke his sword’s point, “but spare our wo
men’s honor!”
“ Down with thy weapon, or die, Roman!”
thundered the monarch, striding forward as
he spoke and raising his sword high.
“ The terms, great Attila ?”
“ Death for resistance ! Mercy for sur
render ! A king’s love for fair women !”
shouted the Hun, enraged at finding oppo
sition where he dreamed not of meeting any,
and his blood fired almost beyond endurance
by the exquisite charms of the women,
whom he could clearly see beyond their few
defenders.
“ Then die, Aurelius! die as becomes a
Roman, and by the heavens above us both,
I will die with you,” exclaimed Julia, nerv
ed by despair to'courage.
“Ha! wilt thou 1” exclaimed Attila;
“ Or.Cg'isus, reserve that girl who spoke so
boldly, and that black-haired maid with the
jewelled collar, for the king’s pleasure !
Make in, Huns,” he added in an appalling
shout, “ kill, win, enjoy, but leave this dog
to me!” and with the word he assailed,
sword in hand, the new-made husband. One
deadly close charge, and the four defenders
were hewn down—yea ! hewn limb from
limb, by a hundred weapons, and then what
followed was tooterriblefor words—enough!
and violation, in their worst, most accursed
shapes, reigned there and revelled fiends
incarnate.
Onegisus had seized the bride and the
other wretched girl indicated by the king,
and they were for the moment safe among
the tumult, and still Aurelius and Attila
fought hand to hand, unwounded, and well
paired, a perilous and deadly duel. And
ever as she stood there, unconscious of the
hellish deeds that were in progress round
her, she gazed with a calm, fearless eye up
on her bridegroom. Onegisus liau her
grasped firmly by the left arm, and as she
neither strove, nor shrieked, nor struggled,
but stood still as a marble statue, he thought
no more about it, but gazed himself with all
his eyes upon the combat. At last, as if by
mutual consent, the champions paused for
breath.
“ Thou art brave, Roman,” said the Hun,
in his deep, stern, low tones, not seeming
in the least degree disturbed or out of wind,
“ Attila loves the bravo ! Live and be free!”
“Her honor, mighty Attila—my young
bride’s honor, be merciful and generous as
thou art brave and noble.”
“Choose, fool!” the king exclaimed in a
voice resembling more the growl of a fam
ished tiger than any human sound, “ choose
between life or death !”
“ Death or her honor !”
“ Then die, idiot, Roman !” sneered the
other, and with a fearful cry, grinding his
teeth till the foam flew from them as from
the tusks of a hunted boar, he leaped upon
Aurelius. Three deadly blows were inter
changed, and at each blow a wound, but at
the fourth, Attila’s sword descending like a
thunderbolt, shivered the Roman’s blade in
to a thousand pieces, and, glancing from
his helmet, alighted on his shoulder, and clove
deep into his chest! he staggered forward,
and at the next instant met the sword’s
ooint, driven home by a tremendous thrust
into his very vitals. Headlong he fell back
ward ; but, as he fell, his glazing eyes turn
ed fearfully toward his loved Julia—they
glazed fast, but he saw', and smiled in dying,
and died happy ! For, as the last blow fell,
she saw the fight was over, and by a sud
den movement, the less expected from her
complete and passive quietude, she snatch
ed a knife from the girdle of Onegisus, and
•before he well knew what she had done,
much less had time to prevent it, had stab
bed herself three times—-each time mortal
ly—-into her virgin bosom.
“ Husband,” she cried, “ I come 1 true to
my word—Aurelius—l am thine now—all
thine !” and, as the horror-stricken Hun re
leased his hold upon her arm, she darted
forward, and threw herself upon the bosom
of her bravo lord. Convulsively, in the
death spasm, bis arms closed about her,
, And in that act
And agony her happy spirit fled.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
What is so beautiful as childhood 1 Where
can we find such purity and frankness, such
an absence of all selfishness, as in the love
of children 1 And where does that love
exist, deeper or sweeter or more like that
of heaven than when between a brother and
a sister 1
Brother and sister! what a spell in the
very words! How they bring up to our
mind visions of days long past, and such,
alas! as we shall never see again ; when,
with that dear one who is now in heaven,
singing among the white-robed choir around
the throne of God, we wandered over hill
and dale, through fields of waving corn and
meadows of the freshest grass—and all the
while drinking into our souls sensations we
could not then understand, but which we
now know sprung from that sympathy which
exists between us and every beautiful thing
in nature, and which, beginning at the hum
blest flower, links together all inanimate
and animate creation, ascending step by step
from tree to breathing thing, from breath
ing thing to man, from man to the angels,
and so through cherubim and seraphim and
archangel, up to the highest intelligence who
veils his face before the effulgence of the
great I .am. We little knew the reason
then, but we felt how sweet it was to wan
der thus—often from morning until night—
threading tlie old wood, or gathering flowers
on the lea, or playing merrily beneath some
shady grove, or loitering perchance at noon
day beside the stream, to gaze'at the silvery
trout glancing far down in the cool depths,
or hanging like a motionless statue close
under the mossy rocky caves that skirted she
banks. Oh ! those were delicious hours.
Arm in arm would we sit, scarce speaking
word for hours, but with a thousand sweet
though indescribable emotions at our hearts,
until a dreamy quiet would creep over our
souls like that which lapped the poet into
Elysium. The very sighing of the wind
among the trees would become lower and
softer, until it died away with a tone as mel
low as that of a flute at midnight. The
current would sweep noiselessly at our feet,
save when it whirled by 6ome projecting
rock, or babbled over a pebbly bar on the
bosom of t.he stream. Now the whirr of a
woodcock might be heard,®- and now the
whistle of a wild pigeon broke clear and
silvery on the silence. Often the long tresses
of the overhanging willows drooped down
around us until they slept upon the waters,
while ever and anon the noon-tide breeze
would rustle the neighboring trees, and a
sound would go up like the whispers of a
company of angels. How often have we
thought that in these low mysterious tones
might exist a meaning of which we little
dream, a language as full of adoration as it
is of harmony. But be that as it may, is
not all nature an instrument from which the
fingers of God are drawing perpetual mu
sic 1 The roar of the surf, the whisper of
tlie zephyr, the rustling of the forest, the
gurgling of the stream, the song of the bird,
the low of the kine, the rain gently patter
ing among the forest leaves, and the thunder
wheeling and rattling among the hills, are
nil notes in that great anthem of praise
which continually goes up from earth —an
anthem which is swelled by the music of
satellites and worlds, aye ! of a revolving
universe, sweeping sphere on sphere be
yond the ken of man. All creation is but
one vast whole, engaged day and night in
hymning Jehovah’s praise.
Brother and sister! Alas! we are alone.
Manhood has left us of that, happy time on
ly these emotions—first felt in the compan
ionship of that now sainted being. But nev
er shall we forget those days. They are
linked in with our very being. How many
sweet emotions, how many lasting impres
sions, how many glimpses of the beautiful
and true were drawn into our souls in that
joyous time of innocence and youth. And
how all seem the sweeter, and holier, and
more enduring from the associations con
nected with them. Oh! tell us not of oth
er’s love, it cannot surpass-that of a sister.
What can be purer than lier little caresses,
what can be more heavenly than her smile 1
Years have passed since the days when we
thus wandered together, and the cares of
the world had eaten like a canker into our
heart, but the memory of that sister’s kind
ness and the consciousness of her affection,
have been a balm to our hearts in every ill.
They have cheered us in sickness, and sor
row, and absence ; they have been to us
beacons of hope and happiness. And they
will continue with us, thank God ! until we
too shall have done with the toils of life.
Cupid Gambling. —This pretty song is by
John Lyly, born in theyear 1533, the author
of many excellent tragedies and comedies.
Capid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses, Cupidpaid ;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows ;
His mother's doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too, then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on’s cheek (but none knows hdw)
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin ;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes, <
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has site done this to thee 7
What,shall alas ! become of me 7
“ Why do you persist, Tom, in using thut
vile and filthy tobacco !” “ Because I chews,
Dick.”
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 8,
ON LITERARY PURSUITS AND
BUSINESS HABITS,
There have been few opinions more Un
favorable to happiness than that which rep
resents the pleasures of literature as total
ly incompatible with the avocasions of trade,
We readily confess, that the man who de
votes Jiis days to the labors of the shop, of
of the counting-house, must not expect trt
acquire the profound learning of Porson, or
to rival the critical acumen of Johnson. It
is also equally certain, that he who frotil
small beginnings has resolved to accumu
late one hundred thousand’pounds, because’
he thinks that
“ Gold, the sovereign of the world below,-
Friends, honor, birth, and beauty can bestow,”
should give his days and his nights to ther
drudgery of acquiring wealth, and he Wifi
almost infallibly die rich.
Between these different pursuits of life,
however, there are obviously varied grada
tions ; and it is more than propable that in
this, as in many other cases, happiness Will
be found to be equally removed from each
extreme.
Among the faculties of the humai) mind,
the power by which it contracts and expands,
to suit itself to surrounding circumstances,
deserves more practical attention that! it
has hitherto received. Let it also be remefh
bered, that this power universally acts by
the impulse of a necessity either real or im
aginary. Few minds possess sufficient en
ergy to submit to toil from the mere love tof
labor. The majority of mankind, therefore,
satisfy themselves with performing all that
may be exquisite, rather than by attempting
to accomplish all that may be possible. This,
at length, becomes a habit, and forms the
character of the mind ; its faculties grade- 1
ally contract, till, at length, by impercepti
ble degrees, the little intellectual exertion
which necessity has demanded, is all that
the mind has the capacity to perform; Iu
this case, rust has corroded powers which
exercise would not only have preserved
bright and elastic,-but have increased M
an illimitable ext^t.
The pleasures of literature have fefCf’
been represented as the highest of which tbo
mind is susceptible. They have becii pro
nounced to be of all times and of all places,
equally the solace of age as the ornament Os
youth. It will, however, admit of dotibt
whether he to whom literature is the relaxa
tion, rather than the business of life, tfoee
not enjoy those pleasures in the most exqui
site degree.
Better would it have been for hundreds,
who have made literature their means of
subsistence, if they had only partially relied
up-m it for the wants of the hour. The fee
bleness of much of the literatore of the pre
sent day may be, and no doubt is, in a great
measure, owing to the circumstances which
sui round many of our authors by
He is placed under similar circumstances to
the actor, who, however unfitted by indis
position or domestic sorrow, must tulU his
mind to tlie sickening duty he has to per
form. Generally speaking, occupation in
beneficial in diverting the attention and with
drawing the mind from an over indulgence
in grief, but tlie case appears to ua Widely
different in such instances as-these. Bread
must be procured, and the penis the billy
means or earning it. Whether the mibd is
in a fit frame or not—whether the subject
has or has not been studied, is too often nev
er taken into account by our periodical Wrfcf
ters. The spirit of imitation takes place of
originality. How much better would K he,
if in the hours of relaxation from business,
the subjects which are written on were well
considered in all their bearings, with no
stern necessity at the elbow to urge the pen
onward.
A great many writers now-a-days, instead
of thus studying, as they ought to do, if they
wish to produce anything which may out
live them, are compelled by the circum
stances I have named, to send forth huttied
f reductions to the world, which are soon
ost and forgotten. Literature has beeoEne
a profess on chiefly followed by its revenue
of present profit and present praise. Asa
body, our young writers are brilliant, hut
fragmentary—showy, but crude—deter,
but with small depth either of soil or root.
Nearly all begin too early, and so are Deter
more than clever; while as their numbers
increase, there is a growing similarity in
their productions, both in style and in worth
Many a young man enters on a literary ca
reer, with the idea that it does not, like •
business, require a certain time to be devot
ed to acquiring a knowledge of it. This is
a fallacy. There is great heed of intellec
tual training, before encountering literary
enterprise, but this need is little recognised
and rarely acted upon.
These remarks may be considered by
some as irrelevant to our subject, it may be
that they are so, but we could not resist the
opportunity of making them in this place ;
let us, however, proceed to the subject more
immediately under our consideration.
The most laborious life must have ita
hours of leisure; Let that leisure be gene
rally consecrated to literature. Where can
he who retires to his fireside harassed with
business, find a resource equally soothing
with that furnished by books 1 and bow
much better is it to possess a well-stored
mind, and by conversation to delight and
amuse others, than to bo continually em
ployed in writing trifles, which scarcely sur
vive the week in which they are born.
We haw known men of business habits,