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else-are no the "cement" merely o' domestic life, but they are its Sowle, its Essence, its Being, Itsell! Cement's a sort o' lime or slime

North.-I should not quarrel with the words, James, if their meaning

Shepherd.-But I do quarrel wi the words, sir, and they deserve to hae their noses pou'd for leears. I recolleck the passage perfeckly weel, and its as easy to rend it inti flinders, as to tear to rags a rotten blanket left by some gypsy on a, nyeuck by the roadside. Tak you the byeuck, sir-for you're amaist as gude an elecutionist as Mr. Knowles himsell. You're twa natural readers-wi' a' your art therein you're aboot equal--but in action and gesture, sir, he beats you sair.

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North. "However delightful may be the spectacle of a man of genius, tamed and domesticated in society, taking docilely upon him the yoke of the social ties, and enlightening, without disturbing, the sphere in which he moves, we must, nevertheless, in the midst of our admiration, bear in mind that it is not thus smoothly or amiably immortality has been ever struggled for, or won. The poet thus circumstanced, may be popular, be loved; for the happiness of himself, and those linked with him, he is in the right road-but not for greatness. The marks by which Fame has always separated her great martyrs from the rest of mankind, are not upon him, and the crown cannot be his. He may dazzle, may captivate the circle, and even the times in which he lives, but he is not for hereafter!"

Shepherd.-What infernal folly's that ye're taukin', sir? I wuss ye, mayna hae been drinkin' in the forenoon owre mony o' thae wicked wee glasses o' noyau, or sherry brandy, or ither leecures in confectionary shops, and that's the effecks o't breakin' out upon you the noo, sae sune after supper, in a heap

o' havers, just like a verra rash on the face o' a patient in the measles. Eh? North. -The words are Mr. Moore's. My memory, James, is far from being tenacious, yet sentences of extreme absurdity will stick to it an

Shepherd.-Like plaguy burrs to the tails o' a body's coat walkin' through a spring wood, alive wi' sweet-singing birds, and sweetsmelling flowers, whase balm and beauty's amaist a' forgotten as sune's he comes out again into the open every-day warld, and appear faint and far off, like an unassured dream, while thae confounded realities, the burrs, are stickin' as if they had been shued on by the tailor, or rather incorporated by the wicked weaver wi' the verra original wab o' the claeth, sae that ye canna get rid o' the inextricable cleggs, without clipping the bit oot wi' the shears, or ruggin' them aff angrily wi' baith hauns, as if they were sae mony waur than useless buttons.

North.-An apt and a picturesque illustration. When Mr. Moore speaks of the spectacle of a man of genius "tamed and domesticated in society," he must have been thinking

na.

Shepherd.-O' the lauchin' bye

North. No, James, not the laughing hyena, for he adds, “taking docilely upon him the yoke of the social ties;" and, I believe, neither the laughing nor the weeping hyena-neither the Democritus nor the Heraclitus of the tribe-Fras ever been made to submit his shoulders to the yoke-nor, indeed, have I ever heard of any attempt having been made to put him into harness.

Shepherd. Mr. Muir's been thinkin' o' the Zebra, or the Quagga, sir.

North.-But then, James, he goes on to say forthwith, "and enlightening, without disturbing, the sphere in which he moves."

Shepherd.-Ay, there Mr. Muir forgets the kind o' animal he set oot

wi', and whether he was a lauching hyena, as I first surmeesed, or a zebra, or quagga, why, by a slip o' the memory or the imagination, he's transmogrified either intil a star or a watchman, "enlightening, without disturbing, the sphere in which he moves," maist probably a star; for a watchman does disturb "the sphere in which he moves," by ever and anon crawin' oot something about the hour-at least folk hae telt me that it's about the hour, and the divisions o' the hour, that the unhappy somnambulists are scrauching;-whereas, as to enlightening the sphere which he disturbs, what can you expeck, sir, frae a fawrthin cawnle? It maun be a star, sir, that Mr. Muir means. Tak ma word for't, sir, it's a star.

North. But, James, Mr. Moore adds, "that it is not thus smoothly or amiably immortality has been ever struggled for or won."

Shepherd.-There again, sir, you see the same sort o' slip o' the memory or the imagination; sae that, no to be severe, the haill sentence is mair like the maunderin' o' an auld wife, sittin' half asleep and half paraleetic, and aiblins rather a bit wee fou frae a chance drappie, at the ingle-cheek, lecturin' the weans how to behave theirsells.

North.-I fear, James, the star won't do either. For Mr. Moore inditeth, that "for the happiness of himself [the Poet aforesaid] and those linked with him, he is on the right road," which is not the language men use in speaking of a star, or even a constellation. And in the sentence that follows, he is again a good Christian; but not one of "the great martyrs separated by Fame from the rest of mankind," as may be known from her "marks not being to be found upon him," (he is no witch, James,) and from the want of a crown on his temples. Still, whether a laughing hyena, a zebra, a quagga, a star, or a watchman, he " may dazzle," Mr. Moore tells (6 us, may captivate the circle, and even the TIMES in

which he lives, [Mr. Moore bimself, I believe, does so,] but he is not for hereafter;" and this, James, is a specimen of fine writing in the philosophy of human life!

Shepherd.-O hoch! hoch! hoch! O hoch! hoch! hoch! North.-You are not ill, my dear James?

a wee

Shepherd. Just rather a quawmish, sir. I can stammach as strange nonsense as maist men ; but then there's a peculiar sort o' wersh fuzionless nonsense that's gotten a sweaty sweetishness aboot it, no unlike the taste o' the puirest imaginable frost-bitten parsnip eaten alang wi' yesterday's sowens, to some dregs dribbled oot o' an auld treackle bottle that has been staunnin' a' the season on the windowsole catchin' flees,-that I confess does mak me fin' as gin I was gaun to bock. That sentence is a sample o't.

North.-Besides, James, how can Mr. Moore pretend to lay down an essential distinction between the character of those men of genius, who are born to delight the circle in which they move, and to be at once good authors and good men, delightful poets and admirable husbands, and those who are born to win a crown of immortality as bards, and as Benedicts to go to the devil ? According to this creed, Poets born to delight their circles must always be trembling on the brink of marriage misery.

Shepherd.-And mony o' them tumble ower, even according to Mr. Muir's ain theorem. For the difference-if there be ony-can only be a difference o' degree-Sae wha's safe?

North.-Pope, it seems, once said, that to follow poetry, as one ought, "one must forget father and mother, and cleave to it alone." This was not very reverent in Pope, perhaps a little impious or so-at all events not a little self-conceited; but while it might be permitted to pass without blame, or even notice, among the many clever things so

assiduously set down in Pope's letters, it must be treated otherwise when brought forward formally by a brother bard to corroborate a weak and worthless argument on the nature of genius and virtue, by which he would endeavor to prove that they are hostile and repugnant.

Shepherd.-I aye pity Pop.

North. In these few words are pointed out, says Mr. Moore," the sole path that leads genius to greatness. On such terms alone are the high places of fame to be wonnothing less than the sacrifice of the entire man can achieve them!

Shepherd.-Sae to be a great poet, a man maun forget-bonny feedy forget-mind no in the scriptural sense, for o' that neither Pop nor Muir seem to hae had ony recollection, or aiblins they would hae qualified the observe, or omitted it -father and mother, sisters and brothers, freens and sweethearts, wife and weans, and then, after havin' obleeterated their verra names frae the tablets o' his memory, he is to set down and write a poem worthy an immortal crown! Oh the sinner! the puir, paltry, pitifu', contemptible, weak, worthless, shamefu', sowleless, heartless, unprincipled, and impious atheist o' a sinner, for to pretend, for the length o' time necessar to the mendin' the slit in the neb o' his pen, to forget a' that-and be a-POET.

haun' intil the fire, sir, than to claught a single ane o' the creturs in ma neeve, as ane might a butterfly wi' its beautifu' wings expanded, wavering or steadfast in the air or on a flower, and crush his mealy mottledness inti annihilation. Na -na-let the bit variegated ephemeral dance his day his hourshining in his ain colors sae multifarious and so bonny blent, as if he had dropped doon alang wi' the laverock frae the rainbow.

North-What? Thomas Moore! Shepherd. I'm no speakin' the noo o' Tammas Muir-except by anither kind o'implication. Sin. I wudna harm a hair on the gaudy wings o' an ephemeral, surely I wudna pu' a feather frae them o' ane o' the Immortals.

North.-Beautiful-James.

Shepherd-Mr. Muir's a true poet, sir. But true poet though he be, he maunna be alloo'd to publish pernicious nonsense in prose about Poets and Poetry, without gettin't across the knuckles till baith his twa hauns be as numb as lead. you and me convict him o' nonsense by the Socratic method. Begin the Sorites, sir.

Let

North.-The Sorites, James! A good Poet must be a good man-a great Poet must be a great man.

Shepherd. Is the law universal in nature?

North. It is, and without excepNorth.--James-James-James tion. But sin steals or storms its

-be moderate

Shepherd.-I'll no be moderate, sir. A' sorts o moderation hae lang been ma abhorrence. I hate the verra word—and, for the year being, I aye dislike the menister that's the Moderator o' the General Assembly.

North. But be merciful on Mr. Moore, James. Do not extinguish altogether the author of Lalla Rookh.

Shepherd. I wadna extinguish, sir, the maist minute cretur in the shape o' a poet, that ever twinkled, like a wee bit tiny inseck in the summer sun. I wad rather put ma 50 ATHENEUM, VOL. 5, 3d series.

way into all human hearts-and then farewell to the grander achievements either of genius or virtue.

Shepherd.-A man canna imagine a' the highest and holiest affections o' the heart, without having felt them in the core-can he, sir? North. No.

Shepherd.-A man, therefore, maun hae felt a' that man ought to feel, afore he

the

North.-Yes.
Shepherd. Can what?
North.-Can be enrolled among

"Phabo digna locuti !"

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Shepherd.-But can a man who has ance enjoyed the holiest affections o' natur, in his ain heart, ever cease to cherish them in its inmost recesses ?

North.-Never.

Shepherd.-But is it possible to cherish them far apart, and aloof frae their natural objects? North.-Impossible.

Shepherd. But can they be cherished, even amang their natural objects, without being brocht into active movement towards them, without cleaving to them, as you may see bees cleaving to the flowers as they keep sook, sookin' intil their verra hearts ?

North. They cannot.

Shepherd. Then Mr. Muir's dished. For colleck a' thae premises, inferences, conclusions, admissions, axioms, propositions, co

rollaries, maxims, and apothegms intil ae GREAT TRUTH, and in it, beside a thousan' ithers, will be found this ane

North." The sacrifice o' the entire man is the sacrifice o' the entire poet.".

Shepherd.-Or, in other words, the man withouten a human heart, humanly warmed by the human affections, may as weel think o' becoming a poet, as a docken a sunflower. Mr. Muir's dished.

North. Mr. Moore forgets, that without the practice of virtue, virtue

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THE BANK OF HAPPINESS. BY MRS. HENRY ROLLS.

You say, my friend, throughout the year
Something still seems my heart to cheer,
That, though beneath misfortune's stroke,
More like the willow than the oak,
It oft has been my lot to bend,
Yet, should one cheering beam descend,
Unharm'd again I raise my head,
And round a soothing shadow spread;
That, though in deep retirement placed,
With but few marks of fashion graced,
Content is there-my house looks gay,
And those who call incline to stay!

The source of this, I now confess,
Is a rich treasure I possess ;
Say-do you wish to own the prize?
Seems it of value in your eyes?
Behold the plan you must pursue-
Study-and if you please-review!
Whilst still a child, a thought arose,
That Sorrow and Mankind were foes!
And so, her influence to repress,
I oped a Bank of Happiness!

For Happiness?-the thought was strange!
Did any there their draughts exchange?
The plan, no doubt, was new and rare-
Did any place their treasure there?

Yes!-there was treasure-ample store,
Placed by the wealthy and the poor;
The king has sent it from his throne,
The beggar made it more my own;
The dog, the bird, the wandering bee,
The blossoms blushing on the tree,
The sportive lambs, which gaily play'd

The dams reposing 'neath the shade, The foal that midst the daisies lies, The sportive dance of summer flies, The milky mothers," standing cool 'Mid the o'ershaded crystal pool,

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The laboring steeds, turn'd out to graze,
The feather'd choirs' melodious lays,
The jocund sound of harvest horn,
As in is borne the ripen'd corn;
The loaded groups of gleaners gay,
At eve pursuing home their way;

And when frost's influence keen was found,
And snow lay deep and thick around,
The shelter'd homestead snug and warm,
Fill'd with the tenants of the farm;
The sprightly robin's lively note,
Which swell'd in gratitude his throat;
The genial hearth's enlivening blaze,
The oft told tales of ancient days,
The deep discourse of lofty minds,
The thoughts which music's spell unbinds,
Wealth's costly sports, its pleasures gay,
The peasant's rustic holiday,
The placid brow of reverend age,
As bending o'er the sacred page;
The hopes of manhood-its success,
Its plans, its hazards, its address;
The glowing thoughts of early youth,
Its feelings warm, its artless truth;
And childhood's prattle wild and free,
Its guileless sports, its harmless glee-
From all that's good or fair or kind,
All that could bliss or pleasure find—
From all-where aid I could bestow
To those who pain or suffering know,

In the rich treasure seem'd to flow..
Treasure?-yes, treasure most refined,
Joy to the heart-balm to the mind,
That bade the throb of sorrow cease,
And fill'd my soul with hope and peace.
Learn but of everything below
To shun the joy, relieve the woe

Then shall the simplest scene have power
To give to thee a pleasant hour;
All that thou see'st of good be thine,
For thee Earth's fairest beauties shine;
And to the realms of endless day
Thou this rich treasure may'st convey,
Where all may join, crown'd with success,
In one vast Bank of Happiness.

A TALE OF MARVELS.

WHOEVER professes to love nature for her own sake-for the sake of that surpassing loveliness which, in claiming the full homage of its votary, confers a delight so pure, so unalloyed, as to leave no after-regrets -whoever would seek her in her own sacred haunts of mountain, lake, and valley, must spare no toil, halt not for privation; he must, in a word, devote himself wholly to a pursuit which amply rewards the genuine, unfaltering aspirant. The impression seems to be gaining ground that to effect this asks those means only which nature hath herself provided, namely, a stout untir ing pair of legs, as her "greenest spots" not unfrequently bar the approach of a wheel-carriage, and even of a solitary horse. This doctrine, inasmuch as it places the man of little wealth on a footing with the inheritor of broad lands, or broad pieces, may be termed of a leveling kind; but it is at least too harmless to call for any more serious reprobation than a shrug or a frown, from rich and titled tourists, when they are elbowed by their less fortunate, but perhaps not less gifted, brethren (we speak of taste only)-those who, in their fervor of enthusiasm, laugh over the misadventures which become a subject of serious grieve ance to their more affluent compa

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one who, somewhat fastidious in his tastes, exulted in the absence of those tourists, who, with a sketchbook in one hand and a commonplace book in the other, are perpetually on the watch to appropriate the wonders of animate or inanimate nature. In a word, it was not a show-country, and the comparative loneliness of its silent grandeur, a loneliness unbroken save by the peasantry of the district, or those denizens of the field and forest that harmonize so beautifully with their native scenery, more than atoned to our wanderer for the privations inseparable from a long sojourn where inns by courtesy so called-are "few and far between." Nature, however, among other excellences, numbers that of conferring on her votaries a keen appetite, which, though awhile postponed, becomes but the mere urgent at last; and such an appetite did our traveller possess at the close of a very fine day, when the gathering shades of evening formed an additional inoentive to sharpen his exploratory facul ties. Long did he looks, and anxiously, through the clear blue ether, for that lovely object to more than one sense, the curling vapor that rises from wood-fire, an object which at this moment would have seemed the loveliest feature of the landscape. It appeared at last: backed by a mountain half covered with fern, now brightened by autumn into leaves of gold, it rose, as clear and silvery a vapor as ever gladdened the gaze of a foot-sore and hungry pedestrian. A grotesque sign of a sow discoursing music, sweet or otherwise, on the bagpipes,

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