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Southern miscellany. (Madison, Ga.) 1842-1849, May 21, 1842, Image 1

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JFwU : ©rtootclr to mttvatuvt, Me &rta, Science, agriculture, 3Kecft*ufco, Education, jForelflii smr domestic SnteUiflcnce, Rumour, fcc. 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,