And an unfathom'd calm, that seem'd to lie In the grave sweetness of the illumined eye, Told of the gulfs between our being set, And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met, Made my soul faint with fear?—Oh! not with fear!

With the sick feeling that in his far sphere My love could be as nothing!—but he spoke

How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill In that low voice whose breezy tones could fill

My bosom's infinite?—O, friend, I woke Then first to heavenly life!-soft, solemn, clear,

Breathed the mysterious accents on mine

ear,

Yet strangely seem'd as if the while they

rose

From depths of distance o'er the wide repose

Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells Of mountains, hollow with sweet echocells;

But, as they murmur'd on, the mortal chill Pass'd from me like a mist before the morn, And, to that glorious intercourse upborne, By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still Possess'd my frame ;-I sought that light

ed eye

From its intense and searching purity
I drank in soul! I question'd of the dead-
Of the hush'd, starry shores their footsteps
tread-

And I was answer'd:-if remembrance there,

With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air;

If thought here piled from many a jewelheap,

Be treasure in that pensive land to keep; If love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, and blast,

Find there the music of his home at last;
I ask'd, and I was answer'd:-Full and high
Was that communion with eternity,
Too rich for aught so fleeting!-Like a knell
Swept o'er my sense its closing words-
Farewell,

On earth we meet no more!-and all was gone

The pale bright settled brow-the thrilling

tone

The still and shining eye!-and never more May twilight gloom or midnight hush re

store

That radiant guest!—One full-fraught hour of Heaven,

To earthly passion's wild implorings given, Was made my own-the ethereal fire hath shiver'd

The fragile censer in whose mould it quiver'd,

Brightly, consumingly !-What now is left?

A faded world, of glory's hues bereftA void, a chain !-I dwell, 'midst throngs, apart,

In the cold silence of the stranger's heart! A fix'd, immortal shadow stands between

I was sitting at the window musing upon the sublime mysteries of the weather, and impatiently longing, on a July evening, for the approach of summer, when the entrance of a stranger interrupted the vote of censure which I was passing upon the weather, and terminated a reflection upon the intense and increasing attraction that subsists between Englishmen and umbrellas.

There was nothing very remarkable in the figure of my visiter-as far, at least, as it met my view through the folds of a cloak, which the dampness of the evening rendered not unseasonable. His features, however, were characterized by an air of frankness and intelligence that would have interested a physiognomist; and his manner might be said to indicate at once the modern follower of fashion, and the disciple of philosophy. Over all was cast an expression of ear nestness, and perhaps of enthusiasm, that gave somewhat of a romantic interest to his demeanor, and excited in no slight degree my

curiosity respecting the motive of his visit.

Before I had time to inquire what this motive was, the stranger, bowing with the air of a man from whom an explanation is expected, addressed me.

"Mr. Smith, I believe?"

I bowed in my turn-with the air of one who cannot deny a proposition.

"Mr. John Smith?" pursued the stranger in an inquiring tone, and with suitable emphasis; as though his knowledge of mankind had led him to suspect that there might be more Smiths than one in the world.

This point being settled, he proceeded.

"In the year 18-, you were, if I am not mistaken, a student of -?""

I replied that I was, and begged him to be seated.

The stranger declined the proffered chair, and, carelessly resting one arm upon the back of it, resumed his notes of interrogation.

"You were, if I recollect rightly, a pupil of Mr. -? I was at that time a fellow-student of yours; but fate has since compelled me to abandon the field of my youthful labors, and forbidden me to culture the hopes and promises that were then and there planted. Raphael is now no more to me than Shakspeare-I should as soon think of following Milton as Michael Angelo. Art is only interesting to me as a representation of nature-she had attractions of her own once. But I am forgetting the object of my visit."

I again asked him to take a chair. In the autumn of the year I have mentioned," continued my visiter, without noticing the invitation -"it is a long time ago, and circumstances may have driven such an event from your memory-but, about the autumn of that year, you lost-"

"I did," said I, interrupting him; "you are perfectly right; I am far from forgetting it. But it was a distant relation. Her property has been nearly swallowed up by a raging law-suit. You bring me, perhaps, intelligence upon this subject?" and I once more pointed to the vacant chair, and fancied that I recollected having seen his face before in the three per cents. office.

He smiled, and shook his head gently. It was not exactly like Lord Burleigh's shake; but it plainly intimated that I was mistaken in my surmises.

"The loss which has at length procured me the pleasure of this interview is not of so important a nature as you seem to anticipate. Indeed, among the events you refer to, it is more than probable that you have entirely forgotten it. This prologue may appear ridiculous, because the circumstance I am about to mention is trifling; but trifles are of importance when identified with principles. About the · period stated, then, in one of the rooms in Somerset House, you left

or in plainer language lost-did you not an umbrella?" "An umbrella!"

"Yes, Sir-a green umbrella?" "It is possible," I replied, somewhat disappointed, "that I may at some time or other have sustained such a loss; but whether in the Strand or at the Pyramids, is a mystery which it would be difficult to unravel."

"Not at all," answered the stranger; "the umbrella that I allude to was yours; your name was engraved upon the ivory handle."

Two or three minutes' meditation sufficed to call to mind some recollection of the occurrence; and I confessed therefore without affectation to the loss.

"I have been," resumed the stranger, (without stating why the eventful umbrella was detained in the first instance, but leaving me to infer that it fell into his hands)"I have been in ill health, and was for some years absent from England. This must be my excuse to you for not waiting on you before. I do so now for the purpose of requesting that you will state what you conceive to be the value of the umbrella, and that you will allow me to pay you for what was unquestionably yours.'

I was so startled by this proposal that I made no immediate reply to it; and before I could pronounce my resolution not to hear of such an arrangement, my inquisitor had made another attack upon my memory, by asking whether the umbrella was a cotton or a silk one.

Here a little difficulty arose. If I described it as a silk one (which I was certain it must have been, as I always detested those of a contrary quality), it was increasing its value, and might look like a desire for remuneration: to confess on the other hand to cotton, would have been a triumph over pride too philosophic for my spirit. I saved my decision by pleading shortness of memory.

This forgetfulness, however, was

by no means satisfactory to my conscientious fellow student. I could only reply to his urgent offers of indemnification, by assuring him that, as I had never wanted what was lost, I considered upon Othello's principle that I had not lost anything-that having once forgotten the circumstance, I could not think of receiving a recompense for recollecting it-that I had purchased several umbrellas since, in place of the absentee; and lastly, that I considered myself fortunate in the loss, as it had obtained me an introduction to one who had evinced so fine a perception of the distinction between meum and tuum.

My arguments were without avail; he persisted and I declined. The contest might have lasted until this moment, had not the stranger, finding my negatives invincible, thrown upon my table a piece of gold, and, scarcely allowing himself time to articulate a hope that the amount would repay me for the loss, darted suddenly down stairs.

on which we cannot speculate too deeply: though we gain nothing by the throw of the dice, we may at least make sure of the pleasure of the game. We would give something to hear Mr. Coleridge romance and reason upon this matter. How would he opine and conjecture concerning the umbrella! and how would that faithful accompaniment of the four seasons expand above his mounting imagination, and descend again to the earth like a parachute ! His mind would suggest a thousand reasons for its detention at first by the party finding it; and would resolve within itself whether it was taken by mistake or by design. He would enlarge upon the similitude, in age, color, and appearance, of one umbrella to another, glancing at the same time at the infirmity of human vision, and thus demonstrate the possibility of mistake. He would then enter upon a speculation concerning the health and habits of the supposed finder; he would settle the point whether he was laboring at the time under a rheumatism or a new coat

The stranger had vanished.

The reader will hardly know whether to regard this story as a piece of fact or fiction. If he considers it to be fabulous, he will marvel at its want of interest; if he has faith in its verity (as it is certainly true), he will recognise the action of a principle, as profound as midnight and as old as the stars. One or two points, we think, may be found in it that would furnish a chapter for a metaphysical inquiry. The mysteries of human nature, the motives that govern us, are subjects

are affected by a shower of rain; and then, with a moral reflection upon the selfishness of our nature, and its openness to temptation, he would point out the probability of design. But this would be done "in conscience and tender heart;" mildness of philanthropy would be made to temper the majesty of philosophy.

the

He would then proceed to paint the effects which attended the finding, or making free with, an umbrella that had its owner's name on the handle. The feverish regret of a sensitive mind, the unavailing wish that it had been returned the next morning with compliments and thanks, are poetically pictured. A being is described flying from towns and cities, where every shower only presents painful reminiscences, and re-awakens remorse; yet beholding in the green fields, where he seeks repose, the color of the object that

torments him. He is haunted by an umbrella. He explores the region of art but in the sunny landscapes of Claude, in the mighty shadows of Rembrandt, he can find but one figure, one hue. The very dome of St. Paul's begets in him only an enlarged idea of an umbrella; he contemplates the oak, and fancies that umbrellas grow. He flies to the Alps-the phantom flies with him the magnificent forms about him, the face of nature, sun, moon, and stars, are all obscured in a circle of green silk. Years roll on thus; he returns home; picks out a John Smith; pays for the unreturned umbrella of days that are goneand is as free as air.

Our philosopher would next trace the whereabout of the umbrella itself; wonder whether it was worn out or made over to the new umbrella-lending company; wish that Mr. Wordsworth would write a ballad upon its history; and finally shed, in imagination, a shower of sympathetic tears over an object, whose fate it is to be cast aside, and forgotten in the sunshine, and only made use of in the season of gloom and calamity. Here would be matériel for a sonnet.

This may be called trifling-building palaces of cards; and we may be censured for supposing, even "in jest," that a man of genius would waste the brilliant light of his imagination upon so blank and barren a theme. In celebrating our fanciful revels, however, we sometimes stumble accidentally upon some subtile truth that had previously escaped our search. It was only by laying down straws that the renowned hero of our early veneration caught his giants.

How would our story bear the analytical attack of another order of intellect? We will consider it as it stands, divested of that glow of coloring and grace of drapery which at once adorn and disguise it. Let us contemplate the subject for itself. An umbrella is lost-we will not stay to consider the heedlessless of

It

human nature-but state simply that it was lost. All hope of recovering it had passed away, all remembrance of it had ceased. It had dissolved, like a cloud-capt tower or a gorgeous palace. No vestige of it remained for the moralist to muse upon, and say, "this was once an umbrella!" Its bones were re-united in dust to the whale that supplied them; not a trace of its existence could be found; and the amount of the reward offered for it, if any, had ceased to have a place in the memory of man. It had been swallowed up as by an earthquake. It was an umbrella formed upon Bishop Berkeley's system-it was nothing. was like the air-drawn dagger of Shakspeare an umbrella of the mind. Thus far all is common-place. But after a lapse of many years, when the unsuspecting world lies wrapped in the shadows of evening, and the chill shower descends, a being suddenly appears, whose mind, regardless of the thousand expanded umbrellas around him, is occupied by one only-the identical one that had disappeared like a dream so long before. Weary and wet, but firm of purpose, he finds out its owner, enters upon an explanation, insists upon paying for it, and vanishes as mysteriously as the object of his interest had done before him. This is briefly the case; and here, we think, a rich field is thrown open for moral research. If the tale begins with the superficial, it terminates with the profound. It will slip through your fingers, perhaps, at first, but you will find the Gordian knot at the end.

Man is a mistaking animal; the loss is therefore easily accounted for. To take, is human; to return, is hard. He is, also, a forgetting creature-the victim of a short memory. His mind is not a memorandum-book. His faculties are not calculated for accounts; his desires are not regulated by dates. He has something else to do than to travel through life, taking notes and copying inscriptions. His ambition