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See, what a grace was seated on this brow :
Hyperion curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars to threaten and command, &c.

There are many other passages that recal the great dramatic poet.

Thy cruel augury
Wounds me at heart ; can thy art cure that wound?
Sylvanus? No, no medicine can be found
In human skill to cure that tender part.
When the soul's pained, it finds no belp of art.

This must bring to the reader's recollection a sentiment in Macbeth.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased ? &c.

There is a passage in Lear, not unlike the following:

But how he might secure his Florimel,
That thought most troubled him; he knew full well
She was the white was aimed at.

Thealma and Clearchus.

See better, Lear : and let me still remain
The true blank of thine eye.

King Lear.

The commentators explain that the word blank here is a term borrowed from archery; the white of a target is that part of it which the arrow is chiefly aimed at. The same expression is used in the Taming of the Shrew. The following lines are very similar to a passage in Shakspeare.

At the sight
She frowned upon him, and with angry look,
A title that but ill became the book

Wherein her milder thoughts were writ. The passage I allude to is the following, which occurs in the second part of Henry The Fourth.

Yea, this man's brow, like to a title leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.

The poem of Thealma and Clearchus breaks off very abruptly, and I shall follow its example by bringing this article to an immediate close. At the end of the fragment (for such it is, though a very long one) honest Izaac Walton, with the quaintness and simplicity in keeping with his character, appends the following note :

“ And here the author died, and I hope the reader will be sorry.”


The sun is up-but feebly still

He throws his yellow beam ;

mist shrouds the distant hill,
And floats along the stream.

The Auttering lark hangs on the air,

And pours his matin lay,
While Mirth and rosy Health repair

To greet the rising day.

The forest branches slowly wave

Where sport the zephyrs coy,
And Echo, from her hollow cave,

Repeats each note of joy.

The light airs cool my fevered brow,

And pain and care depart,
For Nature's holy radiance now

Hath flashed upon my heart !



Could beauty's early bloom return, and boyhood's voice of mirth, Like floral hues and songs of birds when Spring revives the earth ; Though forms should fade—and hearts grow cold-and life's fair

flowers decay, 'Twere sweet to know that wintry spell ere long might pass away!


But when life's fleeting seasons fail, they leave the soul forlorn ;
E'en Hope is silent at their close, of all her magic shorn ;
Her brief successive lights but lead the pilgrim to his doom-
The cold and dreamless sleep of death-the dungeon of the tomb.


The green earth glitters in the sun

n—the skylark bathes in lightRich odours float upon the breeze from vernal blossoms brightA busy hum of insect joy the cheerful valley fills, And wandering Echo's shout is heard, like laughter, in the hills !


Such sights and sounds and charms we leave, and, dearer far

than all, The faces that we loved in youth-the tones that yet enthral ;Oh! when the thought of that dark hour o'ershades each bliss

below, How quails the horror-stricken heart—how voiceless is the woe!


Yet when the solemn mandate comes that bids the doomed prepare, To change for death's dark stifling cell the free and pleasant air, Can no sweet sound the prisoner cheer-no hope-rekindling ray? Ah, yes !--the voice that frees the soul—the light of endless day!


Without good company, indeed, all dainties
Lose their true relish, and, like painted grapes,
Are only seen, not tasted.

Massinger. "By the use of the tongue, God hath distinguished us from beasts ; and by the well or ill using it we are distinguished from one another; and therefore though silence be innocent as death, harmless as a rose's breath to a distant passenger, yet, it is rather the state of death than life; and therefore when the Egyptians sacrificed to Harpocrates, their God of silence, in the midst of their rites they cried out, “The tongue is an angel ; good or bad, that is as it happens,"

Jeremy Taylor.

“CONVERSATION,” says Seneca, “ forms a large portion of the comfort of human life.” This commendation, however, is not to be applied to ordinary discourse. “The best conversation,” says the same moralist, “ that we can ever have, is with philosophers; I mean such as teach matter, not words ; that preach up to us necessary things, and engage us to practise them." The ancients appear to have turned conversation to nobler purposes than the moderns ; for not possessing those ready means of circulating knowledge through the medium of printed books and papers, which have been rendered so effective in the present age, they were compelled to trust for much of their fame and influence to oral communications. The original mode of multiplying manuscripts was tedious and unsatisfactory, compared to the admirable process by which thought is now circulated with an almost electrical rapidity through all quarters of the globe. A man of superior sense and genius, unable to do justice to his own talents in social intercourse, may now console himself with the assurance that he has other and more powerful means of pouring out his soul, and of arousing the sympathy and attention of his fellow.

creatures. If the impression produced by his printed labours be less vivid and immediate than the effect of graceful and impassioned conversation, it is at all events far more permanent and extensive. Men of genius, who are conscious of their influence as authors, are often indifferent to the honours and advantages of colloquial eloquence, and indeed are too apt to associate their ideas of wisdom and ability with books alone. Confined to their silent cells they look not abroad upon the living world, but upon the world of letters; and in proportion to their real ignorance of life is their contempt for the general mass of their fellow-men. Those writers who have taken a more enlarged and philosophical view of human nature, have acknowledged the innumerable benefits to be derived from a free and cordial personal intercourse with society. The eccentricity, the dogmatism, the self-conceit and the visionary character of the literary recluse, would be greatly checked by an interchange of sentiments and opinions with men of less genius, but greater knowledge of life and of mankind. He would see subjects, which he had been accustomed to study from one point only, in an infinite variety of lights, and his mind would be stirred by fresh ideas and new suggestions. The learned and judicious Locke did not scorn the opinions of men in common life, and well knew the good that was to be gathered from a variety of counsel. The vulgar saying, that two heads are more than equal to one, is full of truth. “ We see" (says the great writer just mentioned) “ but in part, and therefore it is no wonder we conclude not right from our partial views. This might instruct the proudest esteemer of his own parts, how useful it is to talk and consult with others, even such as come short of him in capacity, quickness and penetration ; for since no one sees all, and we generally have different prospects of the same thing according to our different positions, it is not incongruous to think, nor beneath any man to try, whether another may not have notions of things which have escaped him,

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