That he had his inspirations of religious truth, which are common to all men, one may read abudantly in his works, especially in "Childe Harold." Poor Byron seemed to grow sober and reflective, as the last Canto waned away. He could see the Almighty's form glassed in the tempest, calm or coovulsed; in its never-ending oscillation, the image of Eternity; in its incomprehensibility, "the throne of the Invisible." The first time (how melancholy to him must have been the feeling!) that he ever longed to be associated with exalted womanly virtue, was, when in the CXVII. stanza-he breaks forth: "Ye elements!-in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted-can ye not Accord me such a being ?"" man, no matter how low his capacity, something | romance, character, all are truthfully told in that one good, something useful is expected; and he who stanza. 'Tis useless to dwell upon it. meets not this natural, this rational expectation, merits the stigma of littleness of character. To some men are given high conceptions, deep penetration, exalted feelings and impulses, and energy of mind: yet, if they meet not the rational expectation of greater good, greater utility than is the average offspring of lowlier men, they merit the stigma of littleness of character; and if they produce no good at all, they are doubly little. If not only this, but they positively pervert those gifts to the detriment of others, they are trebly little. Nay, more-a man's littleness, if he pervert his gifts, does not increase in direct ratio with his relative capacities; but I feel that I am justified in applying here the mathematical law of gravitation, and in saying that his littlenessmeasured on God's measure of mankind—increases as the square of his distance above the average capacity of his race. How much, then, must the great. est admirers of Lord Byron; those who seem struck with awe before the mountain of his stupendous power, despise, in their inmost heart, his utter, utter littleness! Truly may we comprise him in the Latin poet's pithy words-" Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus." No man is great who has not the strength of mind to work utility from vast resources, and is able, besides, to appreciate the necessity of working that utility, in spite of whim, humor, flattery, success or misfortune: yet not one sentiment, of benefit to mankind or individual, amongst those now ministering upon this earth of trial, of suffering, and of temptation, can claim paternity in Lord Byron. As his poetry is a poetry of passion unregulated by principle, so was the life of his feelings and his intellect, a life of unbridled license. Let no one put forth, in extenuation, that he often meant well; and that his venom, when he spat it, was the secretion of unhappiness and misfortune; for we have no proof, no reason to believe that he ever meant well, but his own assertionwhich is singular when contrasted with his life and his writings; and as to his sufferings, he courted, nursed suffering as the theme of all his writings. How strangely does the assertion of his moral intent, in his farewell to the "Childe," contrast with the confession of the truth which a moment of intoxication beguiled from him in the II. Canto of Don Juan! In the one we read "Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain, If such there were-with you, the moral of this strain." In the other, where his true character speaks "As for the ladies I have nought to say, A wanderer from the British world of fashion, And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on, And how unmistakably does he not confess himself a stranger to it, as he continues "Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.". Frequently the circumstance of association seemed to be the channel through which the rejected grace of faith was poured upon his soul. As he enters the portals of the church of churches, the mansoleum of the prince of the apostles, his gifted light shines forth "But thou, of temples old or altars new, Standest alone-with nothing like to theeWorthiest of God, the holy and the true." This last line seems to belie the opinion that Byron never saw any thing in religion but the poetry of it: it sounds like an involuntary revelation of interior conviction. Again -the mind Has grown colossal, and can only find How ground. It well nigh makes one weep to hear his "Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! reeds." "Poor child of doubt and death" we will then term thee, Byron; we will grieve over thy sorrows and thy wrongs, pitying thee: we will melt over thy gushing tenderness which, ever and anon, pleads with so soft a feeling, so sweet a melody, that every warm heart feels drawn toward thee in sympathy: we will mourn with thy desponding; and over thy wavering and despair we will drop a tear; and so pass thee on to the mysterious judgments of thy God, where thou art gone! I cannot dismiss this subject without a word in regard to the influence of Lord Byron's writings on the minds of readers. To the reader whose principles and faith are fixed, defined, there are few dangers; for there is scarcely any attempt in all Byron's works, at either philosophy or sophistry: but to one whose tone of sentiment and feeling is to be moulded, or can, to any extent, be moulded, there is most pernicious danger, ruin. There is an irresistible charm and brilliancy that enchant; for, all veneration Byron cast aside, and he touches, handles the most sublime with an audacious boldness that dazzles him who does not tremble. This infatuating allurement seems to me to consist principally in the contrastive. The poetry of harmony and law had little affinity with Byron's wayward fancy; and there is more of that eclat in the contrasts of nature physical and metaphysical, which astonishes, which raises emotions in us with infinitely less labor to ourselves, than through the process of analysis or progressive contemplation. As a jeu de mot sparkles and delights by the approximation, through mere fancy, of things essentially opposite-and the more diametrically opposite, the greater the pleasurable surpriseso is it in poetry: the poetry of harmony raises and refines by softening, expanding the mind, whilst the poetry of contrast but dazzles without leaving an impress; it runs together colors before unassociated, that play and flash, like fire-works, around each other with the centripetal force of fancied homogeneousness, and the centrifugal power of real dissimilitude, astonishing with novelty; or, through the same power of fancy, heap together heterogeneous ideas in fantastic association, that surprise us by their fictitious harmony. One poetry is that of truth, the other that of fancy. The poetry of truth and real affinity is God's own beauty: through the poetic harmony and relationship that reigns throughout the universe, can we arrive at the knowledge of God; through that do we see him in his works, and through that do we gradually rise to the homage of veneration: whilst the poetry of only fancy prompts us to create our own beauty, despising the guidance of veneration; to overlook the divine intellect in its works, and to accustom ourselves to the neglect of religion and principle, in our contemplations. Whoever has read Byron cannot but remember how often he has been dazzled by the boldness of the poet's flights of contrast; and upon reflection, will confess that he has seen in them, most apparently, the giddy raving of utter moral recklessness. He will confess that he perceives the intellectual epicure delivered, in self-abandonment, a prey to his fevered imagination; his accursed appetite ever on edge, at the scent of strife, and blood, and tumult, and black passion, and pride, and soft voluptuousness. He will confess that when the poor, sated mortal yearned for rest, it was not the rest of peace; but retirement in a far-off nook, apart from the society of men, wherein he could pass his hours in greater unreserve, to chew the cud of gorged passion, or hide his childish tears of self-earned melancholy. Let no one then pour his sentiment into the mould of Lord Byron's recklessness; for that would be destruction; and in this, it seems to me, lies the only danger. Yet there is a pervading, seductive beauty that might thrill an angel's bosom, in a moment of forgetfulness; and there are few conceptions, no matter from what inspired source they may spring, which, in their decided earthly limitation, the powers of darkness could not with malignant meaning consistently en core. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOARDING-HOUSE. BY CORNELIA CAROLLA. valuable) preferring a more fashionable neighborhood. At last, a speculator bought me, and built a long row of additional rooms on the large lot which had been my garden, and refitting the inside throughout, leased me for a boarding-house. LIKE most old things, I have "seen better days;" | me (for the ground where I stood had become very but I am strong and firm as in my youth. The misfortune that reduced me to "taking boarders," was a change in the fashion. When I was built, the part of the town which I inhabit, was the residence of the "ton"-emphatically the West End! But as the city enlarged its limits, they gradually deserted my neighborhood, and removed to more remote situations. Besides, the large, airy houses of the past generation do not suit the degenerate taste of the present day. The exquisitely carved wood-work, so much admired in my youth, is sneered at by those whose brains can neither design, nor fingers execute, such beautiful devices. Such things have grown old-fashioned! And the mantle-pieces, with their elaborate ships under sail, and figures of the ancient gods; their satyrs, dryads, fauns and nymphs; their wreaths, doves, Hymens and Cupids, are torn away, and replaced by plain, smooth, black, funereal-looking marble, brought over seas from Alexandria, in degraded Egypt. I had once a beautiful garden; but it has been destroyed. The tall, straight poplar, the trembling aspen, the delicate, lace-like fringe-tree, the majestic oak and unchanging cedar, have all fallen under the merciless hand of modern improvement. The sweet flowers have ceased to shed their grateful perfume on the air. The evergreen box no longer relieves the cheerless expanse of winter's snow. The moon looks not on the maiden's blushing face as she listens, in the garden-walk, to the welcome words of love, and tears the unoffending rose, lest it should breathe the tale. The musical laugh of little children echoes no more through blooming alcoves. The black Hamburgh grape, with its purple clusters of pulpy fruit, has ceased to shade the thoughtful old man from the noonday sun, or shield him in the enjoyment of his after-dinner nap. The apricot, trained, espalierfashion, along the walls, has vanished, with its crimson fruit. The burning-bush and holly no longer retain their glowing berries and green leaves, through December storms, or adorn the Christmas board. The crocus, violet and daffodil have failed to herald the approach of spring. All, all are gone; my garden has disappeared. A little square, paven yard is the only trace of it which remains. A small border, a few inches wide, containing a weak, sickly rose, a few hardy hollyhocks, and an attenuated dahlia, betrays the extent of my landlady's meagre devotion at the shrine of Flora. A few unfortunate flowers have been brought occasionally within my walls, but some unlucky chambermaid invariably tilted them out of the window. I said that my old inhabitants deserted me for more quiet parts of the city, and I remained vacant for some time; those who were wealthy enough to own I was, of course, very indignant at being degraded in my old age, for I still retained my primitive love of quiet; but I was a powerless instrument in the hands of my tormentors, and was compelled to submit. I, however, became somewhat comforted. when I thought of the multiplicity of events that would occur within my walls, and that all would be known to me. I have a love of gossip, and I promised myself much pleasure in studying the charaeters, and learning the histories, of the many inhabitants who would fill my rooms. Nor was I disappointed, for could I tell gracefully all that I have seen, I should relate, as good Sir Philip Sidney would say, 'many tales that would hold children from their play, and old men from the chimney-corner." But I am old and forgetful, and a novice in literary matters. Still, I cannot abandon my cherished idea of attempting the recital of some of the things that I have witnessed and heard. I give them without reference to date, for my mind is somewhat confused with the numerous events and characters that press forward like half-starved ghosts, each anxious to take the first place at my table. I am indulgent toward them, and hold them somewhat excusable for their rudeness, when I reflect that they passed their lives in boarding-houses, where each one must, perforce, take a selfish care of himself, with little heed of his neighbors. But I must first recall my keepers. There was Mrs. Albertson, a lady of good family in reduced circumstances. She had the misfortune to be poor and the folly to be proud, and was ashamed of honest labor. She tried every means to prevent the fact of her taking boarders from becoming known. The ladies were not allowed to sit near the windows unless the blinds were down, "because," she said, "it made the establishment look like a boardinghouse." Her family lived in the front part of the adjoining dwelling, which she also occupied, and all their visitors were instructed to call at that door. She received the contempt she so richly merited; and her two daughters, who were really pretty, became old maids, simply because sensible men would not marry women who thought honest poverty a disgrace; and the young ladies were too intelligent to become the wives of the senseless puppies who sought them. Mrs. Wentworth furnished her house in the most exquisite style, although she kept her boarders on remarkably low diet. A piece of beef was placed on the table as long as any fragments of meat clung | professed to love so deeply. Here a wife, who heedto the bones, which were afterward served up in less of matronly dignity, flirts with every brainless soup. The bread was generally so stale as to endan- fop, with the careless gayety of a school-girl. There ger the teeth, and it was difficult to distinguish coffee a blushing bride, dreaming only of a blissful future, from tea, or tea from coffee. Mrs. Wentworth could while vis a vis with a constituent, a politician disnot imagine why her boarders left her so soon; and cusses the probable results of the next election, and no one had sufficient courage to brave her anger and beholds the profitable office he toils for within his tell her the truth. A year after her house was opened, grasp. Near him sits a poet, with pale, intellectual her furniture was sold to pay the rent. brow, revolving in his mind the dazzling thoughts that shall live hereafter on the "deathless page," while his nearest neighbor, an anxious merchant, hastily swallows his food, to return to his toil before the shrine of Mammon. There an uxorious old man watches, with jealous eyes, the words and smiles of his giddy young bride. Here an old woman disfigures the beauty of age, and turns the reverence it Mrs. Gleason fell into the opposite extreme: Her table was excellent; but her prices not sufficient to support the expenditure, and those who profited by her loss were too selfish to acquaint her with the cause. youth which she can never recall. Her shriveled neck covered with thin gauze, the glittering jewels on her bony hands, the rouge on her wrinkled and sunken cheeks, the gay silks that mock the silvery hairs that peep from beneath the ebon colored wig, betray the paltry vanity of a weak mind, and make me sigh to see age deform itself in such a masquerade. Even so might I proceed through the whole list on my landlady's books; but I must cease mere speculation, for I promised to relate some of the incidents that have occurred within my walls-such histories as I have heard. Mrs. Holden had kept a quiet, comfortable house, where the boarders were like a private family. In an evil hour, however, she resolved to attempt "get-excites to ridicule, by aping in dress and manner the ting into society," as the increase of great acquaintances is now called, and took me, and furnished me in fine style, in order to attract a "higher class" of persons than she had hitherto been accustomed to meet, hoping to live on the same terms with them that she had previously done with her more sensible and familiar boarders. But she soon found out her mistake. Most of the inmates of fashionable boardinghouses look on the mistress of the house as their natural enemy, and, although Mrs. Holden was really a good, clever woman in her way, she found herself treated by her new boarders rather as their servant than their companion. She often sighed for her happy little home; but it was too late for repentance, and she consoled herself with the thought, that she made more money in her new house. Mrs. Hall kept a showy establishment, hoping to find a rich husband for her pretty daughter. The young lady was much admired, and attracted many gentlemen to the house, who, of course, paid pretty well for the pleasure of residing under the same roof with so beautiful a girl. Most of them, however, vacated the premises, unwilling to trust their hearts in the neighborhood of beauty, when they found the mind destitute of cultivation, and, indeed, wanting in natural strength. She was accomplished-that was all. She could talk nonsense; but whenever conversation took a more sensible turn she was silent. She found a rich husband, however, possessed of the same grade of intellect as herself, and they live contentedly in their little world of trivial events. A school has been called a miniature world; a boarding-house is much more truly entitled so, since within its walls rage all the passions, the joys and sorrows, the hopes and fears, that rack humanity. Glance along the table when its inmates are assembled. How many virtues and vices are reflected in the different countenances that meet the eye! There is an old man, happy in the knowledge of a wellspent life; seated next him, may be seen one of half his years, already bowed by sorrows which his own vices have occasioned. Near him an innocent girl, shrinking involuntarily from her neighbor, with the instinctive antipathy of virtue for vice. Next to her a widow, who, before her mourning weeds are thrown aside, forgets the departed one she had once Often has the caution that "walls have ears" been uttered, timidly and shrinkingly, in my rooms; but the speakers little dreamed that those walls were then using their "ears," and to good purpose. I seek not to betray confidences: I have none: I was never willingly trusted! No one but the actors in the scenes that I am about to relate (if they are still alive) will recognize the facts; and if they choose to publish their part in the transactions, they must take the responsibility. But this can never be; their mortal remains have reposed for many a year in the silent embrace of the grave, and "God have mercy on their souls!" Some of my characters may also be mistaken for portraits of those who frequent other walls than mine; but if any one recognizes his own faults, let him remember, that life is the same in all situations, and that at my age I need scarcely descend to the Present when my sympathies dwell with the Past. But where shall 1 commence my stories? As I said before, characters and incidents press so rudely forward that I am at a loss which to select; but there is one who stands aside from the crowd, whose deep, unearthly eyes haunt me; whose shadowy hand is upraised as though in solemn warning; around whose pale lips seems to hover a tale of sin and suffering. His story is a sad one, and I will take for SKETCH-No. 1, REMORSE. In the quiet depth of night the desolate silence which reigned throughout the house was frequently broken by the hasty step of Paul Weldon, as he paced the long passages. At first it startled the in- | ward: must I not awake to judgment and to punishment? Remorse-remorse! how shall I destroy thy fangs? How shall I hide me from that fearful vision?" mates from repose, but they soon became accustomed to the sound and ceased to note it, or, if they heard it, merely muttering, "It is only poor Weldon," settled themselves again to sleep. Night after night, like an unquiet spirit, he walked up and down the corridors, across the long dining-room, through the wide hall and parlor, until the approaching day brought with it signs of life. He then returned to his apartments. Some thought him mad, and whispered of a crazed mother and hereditary insanity, trembling, at times, at the wild lustre of his eyes; another suggested deep study of dark, forbidden things, and hinted that older and wiser men had bartered their souls before for such knowledge. A horror-loving youth insinuated that some dark crime had been committed, while all shrank, involuntarily, from contact with the unfortunate Weldon. He was gentle, yet children clung to their mothers when he approached; there was something so fearful in the glance of his large, sunken eyes. Without seeming to shun companionship, he stood apart from all. Indeed, sometimes he forced himself to seek society, and, apparently, would fain have found friends had not every one avoided him. No matter how gay the conversation might be when he entered the public drawing-room, it immediately languished and ceased at his appearance: there was a strange charm about him which cast a gloom over all. The giddiest were subdued by it; the gravest felt its me lancholy influence. All eyed him askance, and whenever his pale lips moved they unconsciously nerved themselves for some terrible tale. From his wild self-accusations I learned his history. It was a sad one. The effects of his youthful vices had awakened in his heart that sleepless demon, remorse, which acting on his sensitive, imaginative mind, made life a curse where it might have been a blessing. He was an only son-the idol of parents too indul gent for his good. When will parents learn to temper kindness with prudence? Daily is the lesson of their complicated duties taught them by the fate of those who fall victims to their careless teachings. Here, one is ruined by over indulgence; there, another is embittered and hardened by undue rigor; here, genius is crushed by ridicule; there, stupidity is rendered vain by undeserved praise. How rarely is the onerous office of a parent properly fulfilled! Weldon's early training left him quite unfitted to resist temptation in any form. Impulse, not principle, was the law of his actions. At college he formed an intimacy with some dissipated young men. As the wine circulated they boasted of their licen tiousness, until Paul Weldon's better feelings were crushed, and he thought with them, that the ruin of the peace of the innocent and happy was a feat to be proud of. Under such guidance he followed them to their haunts of dissipation: he was initiated into their orgies, and soon became the boon companion of the Perhaps he felt his fearful power, since he soon vilest of the vile-of a set of villains who wore the ceased to seek companionship, and confined himself semblance of gentlemen, and yet, at heart, were as almost exclusively to his apartments. He seemed deeply dyed with crime as the wretch who expiates to have neither friends, occupation, nor home. The his guilt on the gallows. Strange that society present looked cheerless to him; the future, hope-banishes from its temples those who break the laws less he dwelt only in the dreadful memories of the of men, yet welcomes with open arms the offender past. against the laws of God and the dictates of natural justice. His agonies in seclusion were terrible. Sometimes he threw himself on a chair and moved his body to and fro, moaning as if in suffering; now he started up and walked the floor; then seated himself and strove to read, evidently utterly incapable of confining his attention to any single subject. Book after book was opened and thrown aside. At last, seizing his hat, he rushed into the street, where his rapid walk and abstracted manner excited astonishment but too visible to his sensitive mind. At length he ceased to quit the house, and hiding himself in his apartments, ventured from them only in the darkness, silence, and solitude of night. He apparently struggled against this strange restlessness, for he would lie down on his bed and strive to sleep; but when repose came it brought with it such fearful dreams that he soon awoke, and sprang from his, to him, accursed couch. "O, no, I cannot-cannot sleep!" exclaimed he; "there is no rest for me, nor will there be until I find it in the grave. Ah, might I indeed, find repose in its embrace, how soon would I seek its icy portals; but no, I cannot, for even there crime finds its re We will not follow Weldon through his downward path. At first conscience restrained him, but the ridicule of his associates soon drowned her warning voice, and he hurried on in his reckless course until he became a leader among his former teachers in vice. Thus passed his college life, and when he returned to his home it was with feelings dulled and seared by crime. Paul Weldon's father was a country gentleman of the old school. His mother, the proud daughter of a poor earl, had been a belle, and had married, partly for love, partly for money. Preferring to be "first in a province rather than second in a city," when her charms waned she retired to her husband's fine old country-house, where she assumed the airs of a queen regnant over the neighboring provincials. In the outskirts of the village, however, was one who neither courted nor fawned upon her. This was Mrs. White, the widow of a gallant officer who fell bravely fighting for his country, bequeathing to his young wife's guardianship his only child—a daughter, then an in |